The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors (34 page)

Churchill took another sip of his drink and turned serious. “I should think that by now, with four murders attributed to this fellow — at least four of which we are certain — someone would have been able to have developed some sort of theory as to his methods and haunts and modus operandi and that sort of thing, and, by doing so, figured out a way to anticipate what he will do next.”

Holmes nodded politely but said nothing.

“For example,” Churchill continued, “I should think that it might be possible to detect certain similarities and patterns in his actions that could assist in his being tracked down and apprehended. This, of course, is more in your line of work than mine, but — well, one wonders at the absence of useful suppositions.”

Holmes smiled. “From what I read in the papers, Lord Randolph, there is no shortage of suppositions. As for their usefulness, that is another question. And this business fairly abounds in patterns and similarities. For example: All of the murders have thus far occurred between the hours of midnight and five A.M. on either the first weekend of the month or the last, and all within the space of a few square acres. All of the victims were drabs of the lowest order, all were alcoholics, all were killed with a sharp blade with a stroke to the throat, and all were, to some extent or another, eviscerated in the foulest manner possible.”
⁷²

Holmes paused. “What do these similarities tell us about the murderer? They tell us that he is as much a creature of habit as he is of bad habits, and that is all they tell us. As to whether this knowledge
will lead to his capture, I cannot say.”

Churchill looked down at his hands. “It has been, what? — almost a month since the fellow last struck. Do you think it possible that he is gone to ground, that he has departed from our midst and we have seen the last of him?”

“As to that, I can give you a more definitive answer.”

He went over to the table and picked up the dish that Watson had covered so hastily with a cloth, carrying it back to where Churchill was seated. “You may be interested in seeing this. It arrived within the hour. I do trust you are not overly squeamish,” he said, whipping away the cloth.

Churchill gazed at the dish’s contents and wrinkled his nose.

“Whatever is it?”

Holmes had the decency to take the dish away and recover it before replying.

“We have reason to believe that at one time it was a personal possession of one Catherine Eddowes, also known as Kate Kelly, also known as Kate Conway.”

It took a moment for Churchill to absorb Holmes’s meaning, and even when the realization came to him, his reaction seemed amazingly controlled. “Is this some sort of joke?” he asked benignly, the expression on his face having turned to one of mild distaste.

Holmes shook his head. “As Watson will no doubt confirm, my sense of humor does on occasion tend toward the unconventional, but never, I hope, toward the grotesque. If you look closely, sir, you will observe that I am not laughing.”

Churchill dabbed his lips with a handkerchief. “However did you come by this... object? Is it indeed from the killer?”

“We believe so, yes.”

“And he sent it through the post, you say? What a curious thing to do. Now, why would he send it to you, do you think?”

“That is an interesting question, is it not?”

“You have no thoughts on the matter?”

“None.”

“Was there no note of explanation accompanying it?”

“None at all.”

Watson, surprised at Holmes’s reply, could not help but notice that Churchill also looked surprised.

“None at all?” he repeated.

“None,” Holmes said again, casting a warning sidelong glance in Watson’s direction.

“How very curious indeed,” said Churchill, his expression one of puzzlement.

Holmes studied his face with interest. “Quite.”

Churchill pondered for a little while. “Well, what is it you intend doing next? Or is that, too, of a confidential nature?”

Holmes gave a fair imitation of a Gaelic shrug. “I have one or two leads to follow that may or may not prove to be fruitful. Beyond that...” He shrugged again.

Churchill rose to his feet. “Well, at least we know the damn fellow has not left London. That is something.”

Holmes stared at him.

Watson went to help him with his hat and coat.

“By the by,” said Churchill, “I have it on good authority that Sir Charles Warren will be submitting his resignation shortly and that it shall be regrettably though promptly accepted by a grateful sovereign.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow.

Churchill shrugged. “Of course, he doesn’t know it yet, but he soon shall. I had hoped and expected he’d be gone before this, but as you know, the wheels of government turn slowly. And he does have a good deal of backing in certain quarters — don’t ask me why — so they
had to find a new spot for him — someplace where he couldn’t do any harm but without it looking like a step down. You know the drill, I’m sure. The question now, of course, is who will we get in his place. I’m pushing for Monro, and I believe the Home Secretary is also.”
⁷³

Watson handed Churchill his hat. “You almost have to feel sorry for the poor devil,” Watson offered. “Given the fact that he was totally in over his head, he probably did the best he could.”

Churchill grunted, and to Watson’s surprise patted him on the arm. “You remind me of the chap who felt guilty toward his mistress because he made love to his wife. One can’t help but wonder if his feelings, while admirable, were not a trifle misplaced.”

Churchill pulled on his gloves and paused at the door, turning one last time to Holmes. “Is there nothing, then, that I may take back to Balmoral to share with the Queen? As you might imagine, she is most disturbed by these murders and has taken a keen personal interest in the investigations. She has been hounding Lord Salisbury and poor Matthews on practically a daily basis. Is there nothing of a positive nature that I may take to her?”
⁷⁴

Holmes thought for a moment. “You may tell her that my inquiries are continuing, that I am presently employed in following leads which I believe to be of a promising nature, and that I expect to be able to report further progress very shortly. You may tell her I am... hopeful.”

Churchill looked at him. “Hopeful?” He sniffed. “May I tell her nothing more than that? Just hopeful?”

Holmes again reflected for a moment, then smiled enigmatically. “You may tell her that I am
very
hopeful.”

Churchill gave him a long, cold look — one that would cause most men to quail — and then departed without another word.

Watson closed the door softly behind him. He did not speak until the sound of Churchill’s footsteps had receded down the stairs and Watson
was certain he was well out of hearing. “He is quite ill, you know,” he said, turning to Holmes. “He may even be fatally ill.”

Holmes did not seem surprised. “And have you diagnosed the nature of his illness, Doctor?”

“Impossible to say without an examination. It could be any one of a number of things.”

“Would it surprise you to learn that he has syphilis?”

Watson shook his head. “It would not shock me. Your brother hinted at it when we first met with him at the Diogenes in September, didn’t he? And there are many of the obvious signs. No, I would not be surprised at all. Indeed, I suspected it, of course, but one doesn’t like to make a diagnosis without having all the facts.”

Holmes nodded. “The nature of his illness is known to very few, for the obvious reasons, of course. From what I gather, it was detected by specialists some time ago. Apparently he contracted the disease while still in his youth, but it remained dormant for many years and it is only recently that it has become evident. That is quite common with this particular disease, is it not?”

“Quite common indeed. This is not my field, but as you might expect, I was called upon to treat several cases when I was with the army, so I know a little about it. Generally, if allowed to run its course, there are four stages to syphilis, and unless the disease is caught very early in the first stage, it invariably runs its course.”

“So I understand. Tell me, what are the effects of the disease in its final stage?”

“Quite horrible, really. Paresis, to begin with: A partial form of paralysis. The brain and spinal cord begin to decay, leading to general bodily dysfunctions manifested in such outward signs as facial tremors, slurred speech, impaired vision, general malaise, moodiness, depression, headaches, and the like. Sometimes even violent rages.” Watson shook his
head. “It is not at all pleasant. Of course, I have no way of knowing how far along Lord Randolph’s case is, but from the outer signs, if what you tell me is correct, it is possible that it is well advanced. Of the four stages, I suspect that he has already reached at least the third, and maybe even the beginnings of the final stage. There is little that can be done for him at this point. The accepted course of treatment, frankly, is of limited value: doses of mercury, potassium iodide, digitalis — that’s the usual medication. Bed rest is normally prescribed, and the patient is cautioned to avoid spirits and tobacco which, as you have no doubt noted, our patient indulges in heavily. It is all quite useless, really. Quite useless. There will be spells of normalcy, leading one to believe that the disease is in remission, but in fact it is irremediable. There is no cure, and that is the sad fact of the matter. Once the disease has reached the quaternary stage, there is an inexorable invasion of the nervous system, and there you have it.”

Holmes, who had been listening thoughtfully, nodded his head. “And ultimately?”

“Ultimately there is a softening of the brain and insanity. If one is fortunate, death will come quickly.” He thought for a moment. “But it seldom does.”

Holmes put a match to his pipe and within minutes was enshrouded in a thick noxious cloud of tobacco smoke, deep in his chair and deep in thought. Watson, recognizing the symptoms, left him alone to his deliberations, expecting the rest of the day to pass before Holmes bestirred himself once more.

He was wrong. Hardly ten minutes had gone by before Holmes, knocking the ashes from his pipe, interrupted Watson’s thoughts.

“You took note of it too.”

“What’s that?”

“Lord Randolph’s bewilderment when I told him that no message accompanied that unspeakable thing on the table over there. He seemed for
the moment to be not merely surprised, but... confused. He even questioned me about it, though of course he tried to affect an offhand manner.”

“Well, I must say that I was confused also. Why did you want to deceive him on that point?”

Holmes waved a hand airily. “Oh, a whim, nothing more.” He stared off into space.

“I was also rather surprised,” Watson mused aloud, “at his
lack
of surprise when you showed him the kidney and told him what it was. You noted that too, of course.”

“Of course.”

“His reaction was... well, I don’t know.”

“Almost no reaction at all?”

“Yes, exactly! It was almost as if he actually expected you to have it, as ridiculous as that sounds. Oh, he made a face and all, but it certainly was not what one might expect. I mean, with most laymen, when you show them a bit of this or that from a cadaver, they bolt for the loo. But not this chap, not him. An odd fish, what?”

“Perhaps odder than we think,” Holmes replied, chin in hand. “Like the fish in the milk.”

“Eh? Why do you say that?”

Holmes waved off the question. “There are two other points that surely you did not fail to notice.”

“Oh?” Watson thought for a moment. “I can’t say that I know what you’re referring to.”

Holmes cast him a look. “I refer, of course, to Lord Randolph’s reference. The one he made to our dish of kidney over there. You will recall that he noted that it had arrived by post.”

“So?”

“How could he know that? I made no mention at all as to how it was delivered. The parcel could have just as easily come by messenger.”

Watson raised an eyebrow. “That is odd, isn’t it?”

“Most certainly odd. Moreover, on parting, he said something to the effect that we at least know that the killer is still in London. What did he base that knowledge on? He never saw the parcel’s outer wrappings, so he could not have known it was stamped with a London postmark. I certainly never gave any hint as to where it came from, or even indicated that I knew.”

Watson’s face took on an expression of bewilderment. “That’s very true. You never did.”

“But putting aside Lord Randolph for the moment, there is an even larger question,” said Holmes. “One that I find most intriguing of all.” He pointed with his chin in the general direction of the table where the kidney sat in its saucer. “Why did the killer send that to me?”

Watson sniffed. “Why, to shock you, I suppose. Or to taunt you.”

Holmes shook his head impatiently. “You miss my meaning. Why to
me?
Why was
I
chosen for the signal honor?”

Watson looked at him blankly, forcing Holmes to explain.

“How did the killer know that I am involved in the investigation at all? There cannot be more than eight or ten individuals who are privy to that knowledge.”

“Good Lord!” Watson’s expression turned to shock. “I don’t understand.”

Holmes cupped his chin in hand. “Hmm. Nor do I.”

Watson got up from his chair and went to the window, his brow furrowed with thought. He turned finally. “What can it mean, do you think?” he asked.

Holmes did not respond right away, but continued looking off into space, chin still in hand. Finally he looked up with a humorless, tight-lipped smile and a strange, almost demonic glint in his eye. “I think that not only is there a fish in the milk, but it is laughing.”