The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors (51 page)

He took another swift turn around the room, the skirts of his dressing gown billowing about his legs as he paced, chin on chest, hands clasped tightly behind him. Watson looked on in confusion and concern.

“The whole matter was mishandled from the start!” Holmes cried, pivoting around. “And I am to blame! I never should have permitted myself to become involved in the filthy business to begin with!
Never!
Mycroft and his infernal palace intrigues! And —
and
— I should have caught that fiend,” he said, banging fist into palm. “I should have gotten him!”

Watson’s expression turned to one of astonishment. “Holmes, whatever are you talking about? You did catch him!” He lowered his voice to what amounted to a conspiratorial whisper: “It was the prince!”

Holmes shot him a scornful look. “The prince? You think so?”

Watson was rendered almost speechless. “But... whatever do you mean? What is it you are saying?”

Holmes, a man who rarely revealed his emotions, had become so distraught he could respond only with a savage gesture and a noise of exasperation. Furiously, he made another circuit of the room while Watson sat there in bewilderment. Bewilderment and considerable trepidation, for in all the years he had known Holmes, he had never seen him in such a state.

It took several minutes before the detective was able to calm himself sufficiently to return to his chair, and another moment or two for him to put his thoughts in order. He then undertook to explain:

“The prince had nothing to do with the murders, Watson — nothing whatsoever. The business involving Prince Eddy was altogether separate and apart from the murders. Something else entirely. He had to be attended to because he could no longer be trusted on his own. He was no longer a responsible individual. The weakness of intellect which he was born with, coupled with the syphilis that was attacking his brain, his increasingly bizarre behavior, embarrassing to say the least, his unnatural sexual proclivities, and the danger of it all being publicly revealed: These were the reasons why he had to be, er...
sequestered, as he was. Clearly, in time, had no measures been taken, his true character would have become common knowledge. He would have been revealed for what he was and a scandal of catastrophic proportions would have ensued. All of this was made abundantly obvious when he was caught up in that notorious police raid on the male brothel in Cleveland Street.”
¹¹³

Watson’s eyes went wide. “He was involved in
that
?”

“Naturally, it was all hushed up. But it was a close thing. It almost got out that he was implicated. One of the more scatological scandal sheets somehow got hold of it, and only a good deal of scurrying about and the personal intervention of Lord Salisbury prevented him from being named. The fine hand of Mycroft could also be detected there, of course. Had it been disclosed, given the climate of the times, the monarchy would have undoubtedly suffered a telling blow. It was clear now — to all concerned — that he was not fit to rule and that steps had to be taken to remove him from the succession.”

“Good Lord!”

“And of course there was the other factor, one that was of even more immediate concern: He could not be permitted to father a child, could not be permitted to breed.”

Watson’s eyes went even wider.

Holmes sighed deeply. Dredging up these memories was clearly painful to him. “The prince, you will recall, had just recently become engaged to be married, an engagement arranged by his mother, the Princess of Wales, with the concurrence and connivance of the Queen. Both of them felt marriage would do him good — a misconception all mothers have in common, it would seem. Neither of them was aware of his incurable disease or of his deviant behavior, of course, that being kept from them to spare their sensibilities.”

Holmes’s brows came together. He fiddled nervously with his
pipe. “Well, it was quickly decided by... by the powers that be that this marriage had to be prevented at all cost. It was feared in certain quarters that any offspring he would sire would be born not only with his weakness of brain, but with the vile infection he now carried in his blood. Consider the ramifications, Watson! The English royal line is already plagued by hemophilia, as is well known, and there is the fear that through intermarriage that affliction could be spread to other reigning families of Europe, particularly those of Imperial Russia and Germany, which are both tied to our royal family by marriage. To permit a new indisposition to be introduced into the royal bloodline — and one as virulent as a venereal disease — well, it could mean an end to monarchies everywhere, including that of England, of course.
Especially
that of England.”

His tone became biting: “Prince Eddy was put away for these reasons and these reasons alone, because it was expedient to do so. Because the future of England’s throne depended upon it. Because our entire social structure was in jeopardy. Because if the monarchy was at risk, our ruling class was at risk, along with all of its titles and perquisites and pretensions and wealth. In other words — in other
noble
words — it was all for the good of England and the Empire.” Holmes’s eyes hardened. “So they tell me.”

Watson was clearly taken aback. “And all this time I thought...”

Holmes arched an eyebrow. “That an heir to the throne was guilty of... violent murder?”

Watson nodded mutely.

Holmes sniffed. “Surely it must have occurred to you that that poor, simple-minded creature was not up to the task.”

“Well, of course it had,” he said hurriedly. “Still...” His voice trailed off.

Holmes threw him a look of wry amusement.

Watson rubbed his jaw to cover his confusion. “But however was it managed? I mean, he was constantly in the public eye, attending official functions and cutting ribbons and so forth — almost right up to the time of his death!”

“Just so.”

“He was in custody all that time?”

“Most of it.”

“How could it be? This is quite impossible, Holmes.”

“Unlikely, yes, but not impossible.”

Watson was stunned. Clearly he found it all too difficult to absorb. “But he was seen in public. He was in the newspapers constantly!”

Holmes shrugged. “It was
reported
he was seen in public. That part of it was not all that difficult to arrange.”

“Not difficult!” Watson looked at him open-mouthed.

“Surprisingly simple, actually. At first, all that was required was to keep a close watch on him, round the clock — to promenade him about like a lapdog on a tether. A small coterie of hand-picked royal equerries saw to that. But as his condition deteriorated, as his mental state became more erratic and his appearance more sickly, he had to be confined. It then became a matter of informing the public that he was where he wasn’t. A schedule of activities was put out by the Palace every day as usual, and everything was made to look as normal as possible. In retrospect, it succeeded quite well, I must say.”

“Do you mean to tell me that it was all a tissue of lies?”

Holmes smiled humorlessly. “What I mean to tell you is that brother Mycroft has a rich and creative imagination when it comes to the finer points of dissembling.”

“Mycroft arranged it?”

“None other.”

“It was all his doing?”

“Waaal... not
quite
all.”

“But
The Times
,
The Daily Mail
,
The Telegraph
! They all carried accounts of the prince’s activities. Almost daily!”

“Just so.”

“Mycroft arranged that too?”

“Mycroft, among his other talents, is most adroit at conveying artful prevarications to the press when he finds it... convenient for his purposes. In the national interest, so to speak.”

Watson gaped at him.

“The papers can be quite gullible, you know,” Holmes continued. “They are well accustomed to printing what the Palace tells them, and without question. No journalist is ever permitted to get too close, after all, so it is either print what they are given, or nothing.”

“But for all that time, Holmes! Why, it must have been several months!”

“Well, not
several
months. He was in close confinement for less time than that — only a relatively brief period of time, actually. But even so, Mycroft’s ingenuity
was
becoming rather strained near the end. He was growing bored by it all, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“Close confinement, you say. He was actually incarcerated? A prince of the realm? Good Lord, where?”

Holmes made an impatient gesture. “An isolated royal hunting lodge. Let us just say that it was somewhere out of the way, safe and secure — abroad, on the Continent.”

Watson gave him a look. “So that is where you really were all that time.”

Holmes said nothing.

Watson, still finding it all difficult to believe, lapsed into thought. After a while he said: “Holmes — do you mean to say that everything the newspapers printed was false, that
none
of it was true?”

“Oh, some of it was, I dare say.”

“And Prince Eddy’s death? That was false too?”

“Oh, no. He died, all right. I can testify to that.”

Watson glanced at him sharply. In making his reply, Holmes’s voice had taken on a certain acerbic edge. What was it — sarcasm, scorn, self-contempt? Watson shook his head.

“What I meant was the
cause
of his death. It was reported that he died of pneumonia brought on by influenza. Was that not true?”

Holmes examined his fingernails.

“Holmes?”

Holmes looked away, his eyes expressionless.

“Good Lord!” Watson seemed to shrink in his chair.
¹¹⁴

M
ONDAY
, J
ANUARY
28, 1895

“Some facts should be suppressed, or, at least, a sense of proportion should be observed in treating them.”

—
The Sign of the Four

“These are the sacrifices one makes for one’s country, Watson.”

—
His Last Bow

I
t was some little while before they spoke again. The two of them sat in labored, awkward silence for the longest time — an indeterminate period, really — avoiding each other’s eyes, preoccupied with their own separate thoughts.

In actuality, Watson found it impossible to think, to focus his concentration, to make sense of what Holmes had told him — to make sense of what he had
not
told him, for it was obvious much was missing. It was such a hopeless muddle in his mind, a jumble of several jigsaw puzzles stirred up and combined, and he struggled pathetically to fit all the pieces together.

The silence in the room had become oppressive, intolerable. It was Watson, with a conscious effort, who broke it finally.

“It is the missing pieces that I don’t understand,” he said, shifting in his chair to face Holmes. “Where do all those clues fit in — the sleeve link you found among Catherine Eddowes’s effects and those gold-tipped cigarette ends scattered all about. And where does J. K. Stephen, the prince’s friend, tie into all of this? I never really understood why you ruled him out as a suspect when you did.”

Holmes’s brows came together. “Oh, it could never have been Stephen. I was able to dismiss him from my mind early on. He was simply incapable of murder. Just not the type. He was far too timorous a beastie, far too fainthearted — for all the influence he exercised over the prince. He hated women with a passion, there was no question about that, and he certainly was mentally unstable — indeed, in time he became incurably insane and was institutionalized — but he could never have carried off the murders. And besides, he was out of London on the night of at least one of them — that much Captain Burton-FitzHerbert was able to ascertain during the course of his inquiries at the Palace. Stephen was but a minor player. I was merely using him as a ploy to gather intelligence about the prince’s comings and goings, not wishing it to be known that it was
he
I suspected. That would never have done.” Holmes shook his head. “No, it was not Stephen. He was insane, but was not capable of taking a life. Except his own, lamentably.”
¹¹⁵

Watson looked at him intently. “But that sleeve link, Holmes. And all those ubiquitous cigarette ends? Where did they fit in?”

Holmes gazed up at the ceiling. He seemed to take an inordinate amount of time to respond. When he did finally, his manner was too matter-of-fact, his words too carefully, too evenly cadenced.

“Don’t allow yourself to be drawn into the pit of meaningless minutiae, Watson. Those were inconsequential details, nothing more.
Merely annoying little distractions; most diverting at the time, but of no practical value, of no... consequence, as I said.”

Watson’s brow rose in surprise.

Holmes’s face took on a remote cast, his eyes curiously empty and cold. Yet, he could not repress a slight telltale flutter of his eyelids. “I foolishly permitted myself to become preoccupied with them at the time, but I know better now.” He waved his hand deprecatingly. “Meaningless minutiae,” he repeated, “totally meaningless.” He gazed off into space, lapsing into an uneasy silence.