The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors (33 page)

T
HURSDAY
, N
OVEMBER
1, 1888

“Circumstantial evidence is occasionally very convincing, as when you find a trout in the milk, to quote Thoreau’s example.”

—
The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor

T
he parcel arrived in the forenoon post and was brought up with their elevenses, their late morning tea. It was certainly innocent-looking enough: a small pasteboard box wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with string, with nothing at all on the outside to indicate that it contained a portion of a human organ. At the moment, the object in question was resting in the saucer which Holmes had hurriedly removed from beneath his teacup especially to accommodate it, and Watson was subjecting it to a close examination.

Holmes waited patiently until he finished. “Well?”

Watson sat back in his chair and pulled at his chin, considering for a moment. He, like Holmes, had been badly shaken when the parcel had been opened and its contents spilled out, but his professional training had quickly come to the fore. “It is the remains of a kidney,” he said
in a businesslike tone. “A left kidney. It has been preserved in spirits, it has about an inch of renal artery still attached, and it would seem to be from an adult human. Whether it be male or female, I cannot tell.”

“But it is a human organ, of that you’re certain?”

Watson nodded. “Quite certain.”

He was not offended by the question. Holmes in no way meant to impugn his knowledge of human anatomy, and Watson knew it, but certain organs of certain animals, such as sheep and pigs, could bear a striking superficial likeness to corresponding human organs, and more than one unwary lecturer in pathology had been taken in by practical jokesters among his medical students.

“If this organ belonged to an animal,” Watson replied wryly, “it was an exceedingly heavy drinker. This is what is called a ‘ginny kidney.’ Its former owner punished the bottle steadily. It also appears to be in an advanced state of Bright’s disease, a form of nephritis. If we had the liver to go with it, I should not be at all surprised to detect signs of cirrhosis.”

Holmes grunted. “And I should not be at all surprised to find that it belonged, until quite recently, to a Mistress Catherine Eddowes and is one of the organs removed from her body by the Ripper. The final autopsy showed that she, too, suffered from Bright’s disease, did it not? But of course we shall have to send it around to Openshaw, the police pathologist, and have it matched up to be certain.”
⁶⁹

Holmes picked up his lens and walked to the window, the better to examine the note that accompanied the parcel.

It was written in black ink on a sheet of cheap plain white paper, devoid of any distinguishing watermarks.

I write You a letter in black ink Mr. Detecktif Sherlock Holmes as I have no more of the right stuf The Scotland Yd lads cant
catch me You think You r so clevr You catch me if You can. Bloody Jack

There were no dramatic thumbprints in blood this time, no fingerprints of any kind. Yet Holmes was certain the handwriting on this note was the same as the earlier one he had examined.

He put down the piece of paper and picked up the parcel’s wrappings. Here, too, he was unable to detect anything that was not readily apparent to him upon his first examination. The postmark was dated the previous day and was from a post office in the West End of London. Holmes’s name and address were crudely printed in a nondescript handwriting and there were no detectable fingerprints or distinguishing marks of any other kind.

“Well, at least he responded to my advertisement,” he said dryly, adding as an afterthought, “though a letter alone would have sufficed.”

The rattle of a carriage pulling up in the street below caused him to glance out the window. The channel storm that had buffeted London throughout the night had all but flagged itself into exhaustion, giving way to a cold but cleansing rain that flushed the gutters and caused the pavement to glisten. A neat black hansom had just halted at the curb in front of their door, its side windows and highly polished woodwork beaded with the rain. The horse in the traces was not the ill-kempt hack one would ordinarily expect to find harnessed to a hired conveyance, but an unusually handsome animal, perky and well groomed, the leather and metal of its trappings bright and well cared for. As Holmes watched, the hansom’s half doors were thrown back and an umbrella popped open, shielding the occupant from view as he stepped out onto the street.

“We have a visitor, it would seem.”

Watson glanced up. “Oh?”

“A person of consequence, without question, for the carriage is privately owned. That it is a hansom rather than a landau or brougham suggests he is either an uncommonly modest individual not overly concerned with symbols of status, or an eccentric of such sufficient eminence that he doesn’t have to be concerned.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Holmes, do tell me who it is!” Watson demanded.

“Unfortunately, his identity is hidden beneath an umbrella, but if I were to hazard a guess, we are to be graced with the august presence of either the Archbishop of Canterbury or Lord Randolph Spencer Churchill.”

Watson hurriedly draped a cloth over the dish containing the kidney and pushed it to one side, and then bent to straighten up the disarray left over from their late morning tea.

“You hadn’t mentioned you were expecting Lord Randolph, Holmes!” he remonstrated, somewhat put out at not being forewarned.

“For good reason,” replied Holmes, nudging an untidy stack of periodicals out of sight with his foot. “I wasn’t expecting him.”

Watson looked up. “How do you know it is him, then?”

Holmes turned toward the door at the sound of the downstairs bell and smiled sweetly. “Because it could not possibly be the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

It was only a matter of minutes before Lord Randolph (for it was indeed he) was seated in the visitor’s chair in front of the fire, a cigarette in one hand and, despite the early hour, a glass of whisky in the other.

He looked haggard and ill: There was an unhealthy gray tinge to his skin and dark bags under his eyes; his hands shook noticeably.

He had entered the premises with hardly a word of greeting, his melancholy countenance bringing as much cheer to the room as the gray November skies outside the window. Now he sat lethargically in his chair, all but motionless, only his sad, protruding eyes showing
any sign of vitality. They had a strange, disturbing intensity about them — and, behind it all, a faint glint that could best be described as amused tolerance. Ignoring his hosts entirely, he looked around him with considerable interest, an interest that verged on outright rudeness. Accustomed as he was to the tasteful trappings of the upper classes, the eclectic middle-class clutter of the room in which he now found himself was somewhat of a novelty. He took note of the various decorative objects around him and seemed particularly diverted by the presence of Watson’s favorite, the print of General “Chinese” Gordon, the hero of Khartoum, hanging on the wall by the window. It was apparent from his expression that he found the total effect to be terribly... well, bourgeois, for his lips were drawn up into a curl of fastidious distaste.

Holmes, seated with his hands tented in front of him, observed his guest in silence, a thin smile on his lips.

Lord Randolph paused in his visual inspection to take a cautious sip of the whisky, his high, noble brow rising in slight surprise at the discovery that it was eminently potable.

“Teacher’s,” said Holmes.

“Pardon?” said Lord Randolph.

“You were wondering about the whisky. It’s blended by William Teacher & Sons, Glasgow.”

“Oh, yes, I see.”

There was a long, awkward lull. Churchill took another sip from his glass, and Holmes continued to observe him. Watson shifted uneasily in his chair. It creaked with unnatural loudness.

Churchill allowed his gaze to travel from the jackknife sticking out of the mantelpiece to the wall above, where it was impossible not to notice the patriotic sentiment expressed by the series of bullet holes in the plaster. Either a deplorable lack of curiosity on his part or, as was more likely the case, an overabundance of good breeding, kept him
from inquiring as to the reason for its existence or the occasion that prompted it.
⁷⁰

Finally his gaze came to rest upon Holmes, and he subjected him to a brief but unmistakably patronizing scrutiny before finally speaking.

“Now then. What do you have to report to me?”

Holmes did not have to meet Churchill’s gaze. His own had never left it.

“To you, my lord? Nothing.”

A slight furrow developed between Churchill’s eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

“No, it is I who beg yours. I seem to be woefully uninformed. It has not been brought to my attention that I was obligated to report to you.”

Churchill’s eyes took on a noticeable hardness, and there was an edge to his voice when he replied. He was not accustomed to being denied, and most definitely was not accustomed to being met with defiance. “I should have thought, sir, that would have been implicit.”

“Oh?” Holmes replied. He folded his arms across his chest and smiled slightly.

Churchill’s brows knitted together just a little, an expression of mild surprise at Holmes’s effrontery. He dragged deeply on his cigarette and purposefully crushed it out in the ashtray at his side.

“I am not at all certain it is your place to question me, my dear sir,” he said in a slightly bored tone, emitting a stream of smoke through his nostrils. “Or my bona fides.”

Holmes did not reply but continued to gaze at Churchill unblinkingly, the little smile playing on his lips.

A flash of anger appeared in Churchill’s eyes. “Now, see here, fellow —”

Holmes rose abruptly to his feet. Deliberately he turned his back on the peer and went to the window. Churchill, coldly furious, could only sit there, the color rising in his cheeks.

He had made a misjudgment, and he knew it. He had misread his
man. In his arrogance he had appraised him wrongly, a rare lapse on his part, experienced politician and excellent judge of human nature that he was. Middle class this chap may be, but he, Churchill, should have realized that he could not treat him as he would some City merchant or mid-level government official. The damn fellow gave himself airs, deeming himself to be a step above all of that, would you believe? And, to be fair, who could say that he was wrong?

Churchill cleared his throat. “I am here, Mr. Holmes,” he said in a tone that if not apologetic was at least a good deal less condescending (he could not be expected to actually
apologize
) — “I am here to render what assistance I can to Her Majesty, and I must say that your manner is —”

“If my manner offends you, Lord Randolph —” The quick flash in Holmes’s eyes, though almost imperceptible, was as unmistakable as a storm warning.

Churchill raised a hand. “No, no, dear fellow. You misunderstand my meaning completely. I was merely going to say that your manner is somewhat puzzling. I would hope that we can get on together and avoid any, uh — any misunderstandings.”

“That, m’lord, would be up to you. I know of no misunderstanding on my part, but allow me to acquaint you with one that appears to exist on yours. I am a private agent in this matter, m’lord. I am in the employ of no one — not Her Majesty, not the government, and not Scotland Yard. I answer to no one except as I please, and unless I am very much mistaken, m’lord, I am under no obligation to answer to you — may I freshen your drink?”

He favored Churchill with one of his quick, disarming smiles.

Churchill looked up at him, his normally protruding eyes positively bulging with astonishment. It was unlikely that anyone had ever spoken to him in such a manner, and for a moment he seemed to be at a loss as to how to respond. But only for a moment. To his credit he quickly
recovered his poise and responded to Holmes’s smile with one of his own, though one that was unquestionably strained. Without a word he bowed slightly from his seated position and lifted his glass for it to be taken. It was as much of a surrender as any descendant of the great Marlborough could be expected to make.

Watson exhaled audibly.

“The fact of the matter is, Lord Randolph,” said Holmes, busying himself at the tantalus, “there is little of any substance to report. Painfully little, I am sorry to say.”

He returned with Churchill’s drink and resumed his seat. “All I can tell you is that the investigation continues, and while progress is not what I should have wished, there are one or two leads that hold some little promise. Beyond that...” He allowed his voice to trail off and favored Churchill with an apologetic smile. With the change in Churchill’s manner, his, too, had altered considerably. The atmosphere in the room became far more relaxed.

Churchill brushed a nonexistent speck of dust from his trouser knee and crossed one leg over the other.

“No progress is being made anywhere, it would seem,” he said. “The official police, of course, have gotten nowhere. Quite literally, they haven’t a clue: Just a list of suspects that seems to change with the tide. I don’t know where they get their ideas, but many of them are quite novel — inventive, even. And no one seems to be immune from suspicion. Why, I heard just the other day that someone at the Yard undertook an investigation of the actor Richard Mansfield, who, as you no doubt know, is appearing in
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
at the Lyceum. Evidently it was felt that anyone who could assume such an effective disguise and was capable of working himself into such a murderous frenzy onstage was probably capable of committing murder offstage as well. He’s not the only one. Why, even Mr. Gladstone has been named
in certain circles, would you believe?” He smiled faintly. “Given his nocturnal pursuits, I would not be surprised in the least if it did indeed turn out to be him. Nor would I be surprised to learn that it was Her Majesty who was the first to suggest that it was he.”

Holmes smiled and Watson laughed delightedly, taken by the absurdity of the idea.
⁷¹