The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors (32 page)

Watson thought about the import of Holmes’s statement and scowled. “It is so very... so very un-British!” he said finally, unable to come up with a term that could better describe his feelings. “One expects that sort of thing from an Arab or Turk, but an Englishman!”

Holmes considered him with a look of sardonic amusement. “From what I have heard, it has been a practice on the lower decks of the Royal Navy from time immemorial, and even the implementation of the death penalty has been unable to put a stop to it. Sea stories being your favorite reading matter, surely you would know that.”

Watson frowned. “It is hardly something one would expect to find broached in the pages of a Clark Russell saga or
Mister Midshipman Easy.”

“Is the subject totally ignored by the authors who grind out that stuff? If so, they ignore reality. More than one jolly jack tar has been discovered in a shipmate’s hammock, and it cannot come as a shock to you.”

“No, it doesn’t. But those are men of the lowest order, not gentlemen of the type you observed.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow. “My dear Watson, you cannot be unaware of what goes on behind the cloistered gates of some of our very best public boarding schools. I seem to recall a rather torrid scandal not too long ago involving several young lads, including the son of a viscount, at one of the more fashionable schools. The housemaster was implicated, I believe.”

“Yes, but that sort of thing is an aberration. Are you suggesting it is rampant?”

Holmes shrugged. “When I observe two peers of the realm and a judge of the court of assizes, among others, frequenting a known house of ill repute specializing in young boys, what else am I to think?”

“Good Lord!”

Holmes’s eyes danced mischievously. “They were lords, to be sure, but good? There would be more than one vacancy in the Upper House should their escapades ever be made public.”

Watson looked decidedly uncomfortable. “Surely this is not a fit subject for conversation, Holmes, and hardly one for jest. I find it most disagreeable.”

“Under the circumstances, it is not a subject that can be ignored. And there is humor of a sort in it, after all. One of the peers in question was an ardent, one might even say vociferous, supporter of the public morals bill that was debated so hotly a year or so ago. Lucky for him I harbor no propensity for blackmail.” Holmes rose from his chair and stretched. “Well, me for bed. We shall see what tomorrow brings.”

Tomorrow brought the eagerly awaited cable from Frankfurt. To Watson’s intense annoyance, it sat unopened on the breakfast table, waiting for Holmes to finish his last morsel of toast and final sip of coffee. Watson knew that Holmes was doing it purposely to taunt him.

Finally, with an amused glance in Watson’s direction, Holmes took up the flimsy envelope and with studied nonchalance slit the flap with his bread knife. It took only an instant for him to absorb the contents. He knit his brow and wordlessly passed the cable to Watson, who all but snatched it from his hand.

“The prince? They were made for the prince?” Watson stared at the brief printed message, reading it several times over before finally looking up to observe Holmes’s reaction.

“You will recall Thicke’s observation that the design on the sleeve link looked to him like a fleur-de-lis. In actuality it is the three-feathered heraldic symbol of Wales — more precisely, the Prince of Wales and those of his immediate family. The two devices are not wholly dissimilar.”

Holmes rose from his chair and took a cigarette from the silver box on the side table. “It would seem,” he continued, “that Prince Albert Victor of Wales had a large quantity of these particular sleeve links made to his special order for the purpose of handing them around as gifts to favored friends both here in England and abroad. No doubt he had stopped by Kock’s while passing through Frankfurt during one or more visits to one or more of his German relatives.”

Watson nodded. As was well known, the British royal family had many close relations among the royal families of the various German states (by one count, there were twenty-two separate dynasties, including, of course, the Hohenzollerns of Prussia, whose new young king, Wilhelm II, was another one of Queen Victoria’s grandsons). The English and German royals were so intertwined by generations of intermarriage that there was an almost constant flow of visits back and forth, the Germans being as much in evidence at Windsor, Sandringham, and Osborne as their English cousins were in the castles and hunting lodges of Brandenburg, Bavaria, and the Schwarzwald.

Holmes was leaning back in his chair, gazing up at the ceiling, smoke curling from his cigarette. “As you no doubt know, it is common practice for members of the royal family to distribute little personal gifts from time to time, the value of which varies according to the recipient and the occasion. A royal grandson or nephew may be handed a knighthood, a favored servant a tortoiseshell hairbrush, a personal friend or acquaintance something in between. It would seem that our Prince Eddy presents certain members of his circle with sleeve links of blue enamel and gold.”

Watson digested this information. “So it could be almost anyone. The prince could have handed out many pairs of these sleeve links over a period of time.”

Holmes nodded his agreement. “It could be dozens.”

“Then it doesn’t get us very far along, does it?”

“No, not in itself. But then, there is the little matter of the cigarette.”

Watson looked up sharply.

“You will recall that after the Hanbury Street murder, when I discovered that first cigarette in the passageway leading to the yard where the victim was found, I visited several tobacconists and was soon able to ascertain its place of manufacture.”

Watson reached for his pipe and began to fill it. “It was Grover’s, as I remember.”

“Yes. Grover’s recognized it as one of their own right off. They didn’t even have to consult their records. The blend of tobacco and the cigarette paper were so distinctive, it was identified immediately. This particular cigarette is made for one client and one client only.”

Holmes got up from his chair and began to pace the room. “At the time I declined to share with you the identity of that client. And when you touched on the question again whilst we were on the train returning from Devon the other day, I dismissed the matter out of hand.”

Watson nodded wordlessly.

“I did so not out of a lack of trust in you, or in your discretion, old friend, but out of a lack of trust in my own findings.”

Holmes stopped pacing and turned to look at him. “I learned at Grover’s that the tobacco in question was blended exclusively for a member of the royal household, namely young Prince Eddy.”

Watson gasped.

Holmes raised a hand to forestall Watson’s reaction. “Yes, yes, I know: Unthinkable. Totally unthinkable. That he or anyone close to him be involved in this sordid business is simply beyond belief, not even worthy of consideration, so I refused to credit it. The evidence of the cigarette, after all, was merely circumstantial. It could have been there by sheer happenstance, and to place too much importance upon it
without corroborating evidence would be foolhardy.

“Then came the night of the double murder, and once again that very same brand of cigarette was found. Coincidence it was not, that much was apparent. But still I resisted accepting the obvious. There had to be some other explanation to account for its presence, some rational explanation that, for the moment, remained hidden to me. You know my ways: To jump to a conclusion is, twelve times out of ten, to jump to a false conclusion.”

Holmes resumed his pacing, hands clasped behind him, chin on chest.

“I continued to seek another answer, any one of a number of which readily presented themselves: It could have been a servant who had access to the cigarettes — it is not unknown, after all, for domestics to filch from their masters’ larder on occasion. Or it is possible that a supply of these particular cigarettes came into some other hands before even reaching the prince, unlikely as that may be, for Grover’s, of course, would take special pains to prevent that from happening. Even so, parcels do go awry, shipments do fall off the backs of delivery wagons, things do get lost in the mails.” Holmes formed a fist. “There just had to be another explanation, and I racked my brain to find one, for I continued to believe that the single explanation that persisted had to be erroneous. Had to be! Someone else had to have access to those cigarettes, either at one of the royal residences — a valet, a footman, a maid (yes, I even considered the possibility it was a woman) — or at Grover’s, their place of origin. Or, failing those, at some point in between.”

Holmes paused and massaged the back of his neck. “I was able to quickly satisfy myself that it was not Grover’s. Their records are most meticulous, and the few employees who have anything to do with the actual blending of the tobaccos or the packing of the tins, or who even
have access to the areas where these tasks are performed, have been associated with the firm for several years at least and are well trusted. Grover’s is able to account for every single tin. The tobacco, once blended, is kept under lock and key, as is the supply of special cigarette paper. Only a certain set quantity of the cigarettes are rolled at any one time — just enough to meet the prince’s regular needs. And that supply is immediately shipped off to him by one secure means or another on a biweekly basis. None of it is kept on hand, and there is no indication of any single shipment going awry.”

Holmes shook his head. “It is definitely not Grover’s.”

Watson spread his hands. “The palace, then? One of the royal servants?”

Holmes shrugged. “Possible, of course, but unlikely. The servants at each of the royal residences are carefully selected, as you might imagine, their backgrounds thoroughly checked. Most of them are employees of long standing, many of them children of retired employees, members of families that have served the royal family for generations. Their loyalty is unquestioned, their honesty above reproach. Besides, none would risk it. They have reached the very height of their profession. To be dismissed from royal service would be ruinous, for they would never be able to obtain another situation in any household of prominence and would most certainly be ostracized by their fellows. The English domestic servant belongs to a proud, noble class with a code as rigid as any of his betters, standards of behavior that are far higher, and a nature that is no less unforgiving. No, for the moment I think we can rule that out as a possibility.”

Watson stared at him. “You suspect someone close to the prince, don’t you? A companion or a friend: A member of his entourage?”

Holmes did not reply directly. “As I said, in going over the possibilities, the obvious inference was unthinkable. There had to be
some other explanation; that was my only thought. The cable from Kock’s regarding the sleeve link of course makes that less likely.”

Holmes returned to his chair and tented his hands in front of him, lost in thought.

“To be sure,” he said after a brief while, “the sleeve link, too, is circumstantial. In and of itself its presence among the effects of Catherine Eddowes in Mitre Square is certainly of extreme interest but hardly conclusive. The object could have been something she picked up off the street, despite my passionate rejection of that possibility at the time.”

Holmes continued. “But when you have the presence of two pieces of circumstantial evidence, one would have to be ingenuous indeed not to raise an eyebrow. Is it a mere coincidence that this particular sleeve link happened to be found on her person? It is possible. Is it a mere coincidence that a particular and exclusive brand of cigarette happened to be found near the scene of her murder? I suppose that, too, is possible, but it does stretch credulity to the breaking point. And what are we to think of these two coincidences combined, one on top of the other?”

His eyes sparkled. “It may be mere coincidence should your knife appear at my throat the very instant that you ask if I have the time, but I hope you won’t think ill of me if I wonder perhaps whether you don’t have designs on my watch.” Holmes shook his head from side to side. “No, Watson, one would have to be more than simply ingenuous; one would have to be non compos mentis.”

He reached for the coffeepot and poured himself a cup, his tone becoming reflective once again. “While surely we do not have the truth of the matter as of yet — not by any means — what we do have can no longer be denied.”

Watson looked at him in disbelief. “Holmes, this cannot be connected to the palace. It is impossible!”

Instead of replying directly, Holmes reached into the breast pocket of his frock coat and took out his wallet, extracting something from its folds, a small white object in a glassine envelope.

“I picked this up from the street last night. It was dropped on the pavement by one of the prince’s companions,” he said casually.

Holmes placed the object onto the tablecloth in front of his plate, and Watson leaned over to see what it was. His eyes went wide and he gasped. It was a half-smoked cigarette with a thin band of gold near its tip.

“Impossible!” he repeated, this time in a whisper.

Holmes shook his head and looked down at his hands, the skin stretched taut over his sunken cheeks. When he looked up again his gray eyes were deeply troubled. “No, not impossible,” he said quietly. “Improbable, but not impossible.”

P
ART
T
HREE

WHITECHAPEL

ANOTHER CRIME BY THE

MURDERER MANIAC

More Revolting Than Ever

This Demoniacal Deed Done in a House

A WOMAN Is Found in a House

on Dorset Street with Her Body Mutilated in a

Manner That Passes Description

The Star:
Special Edition

Friday, November 9, 1888