Sherlock Holmes: The Dark Reckoning

by Ian Wright

  Holmes reached his apartment door and went to open it, but instead paused. He smiled to himself and knocked sharply on the door and waited for it to be opened.

  Dr. John H. Watson sat dosing in an armchair. He had a fairly stout build with a round face and stood 5’9” tall. He was 38 years of age and had a thick brown moustache, which matched the colour of his hair. His hair was wavy and parted on the left side. Bushy eyebrows framed his blue eyes.

  A loud knock on the door awoke him with a start. He stretched, stood up and lazily moved towards the door and opened it.

  “Ah! Watson, you will never guess how eventful my journey home was!”

  Watson observed the figure filling the doorframe. A tall man with a deerstalker in his hand and shiny jet-black hair, oiled and combed straight back over his head. The man had a glint of excitement in his eyes as he stared directly at Watson.

  Watson yawned and stretched his arms. “What happened, Holmes?”

  Holmes began to recount all that he had seen on his way home. He told Watson of the headless corpse, the man who had said ‘The game’s a head, Mr. Holmes’ and of the man who stepped in the horse manure.

  When Watson had finished laughing about the man who ‘bore the aroma of a soiled stable’, as Holmes had described it, he prompted Holmes to continue, by asking, “What do you make of it all, old fellow?”

  “Well,” Holmes paused, relishing the curiosity evident in Watson’s gaze. “My initial observations and deductions are as follows. Firstly, the man who spoke the words ‘the game’s a head, Mr. Holmes’ appears to have been waiting for me to pass. He probably knew when I would happen past the side road in which he concealed himself. Furthermore, this man recognised me. Since his voice and accent both sounded disguised, it is possible that I may know this man, and he was attempting to conceal his identity from me. The words he spoke suggest that he knew about the murder in Hyde Park and, also, that I would be there!” There was a sudden increase in the tone of Holmes’ voice as his mind made a connection between what had seemed to be two entirely unrelated events. “I’m being carefully led into a trap, Watson!” he blasted with a curiously joyous excitement.

  Watson’s shock and confusion were immediately apparent on his face as he questioned, “Well, go on Holmes. How did you arrive at that conclusion?”

  Holmes crossed the room to the table where he had cast his cloak upon his entrance, burying a pile of books, drugs and hypodermic syringes that had been left scattered there. He picked up the cloak and reached into a pocket and pulled his hand back out. His eyes shone with excitement as he showed what he was holding to Watson.

  “This, Watson! This is how I arrived at my conclusion!”

  “A piece of paper?” queried Watson, sitting back down in his chair. “I don’t understand.”

  There was a knock on the door, followed by the familiar voice of Mrs. Hudson as she said, “Your supper’s ready, Mr. Holmes.”

  Holmes went to the door, dropping the piece of paper in Watson’s lap. “Read it,” he said as he opened the door. “Thank you Mrs. Hudson. Ah! Shepherd’s pie. Splendid! Please do not disturb us again this evening, Mrs. Hudson.”

  “But, what about your plate, Mr…”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson!” interjected Holmes, shutting the door. He turned to Watson, his thin lips breaking into a smile. “Well, what do you make of it, old man?” he asked, as he sat at the table and began to eat.

  “Erm, well I don’t know. It just reads, ‘Be at Prince of Wales Gate, Hyde Park at 4:00pm on Wednesday 7th December 1881’. Today’s date. So what?”

  “Don’t you see, Man?! Look at the handwriting. Notice how each letter has been carefully written in a different style. Also, notice the smudging of the ink from left to right. This, together with the lack of uniformity in the pressure used by the author to hold the pen, leads me to one obvious conclusion. The person who wrote it used their left hand, but is, by nature, right-handed. Furthermore, but of course you do not know this, I arrived at the Prince of Wales Gate at 3:55pm this afternoon and waited until a quarter past four. During that time, nobody approached me. It may be a coincidence, but I think that the person who wrote this note, in handwriting clearly disguised, knew that a murder would take place. By inviting me to a false appointment, the writer manipulated me into discovering the body. I believe that my adversary is known to me; hence the disguised handwriting. If the man in the side street, who said ‘the game’s a head’, is also the author of this note, then I am doubly sure that he knows me. I wonder whether the person, or people, expected me to deduce this much, or perceive me as somewhat more asinine,” ventured Holmes, thoughtfully.

  “Why do you suppose the author of the note included the year? That seems a little fastidious to me” asked Watson.

  “I thought the same, my friend. It looks as though we are dealing with a particularly meticulous character. Or, at least, that is the impression being conveyed.”

  “Well, that is quite a comprehensive scenario, old chap,” commented Watson.

  “Yes, isn’t it?” asked Holmes, rhetorically, as his mind considered the events, trying to make more sense of everything.

  Chapter 2

  The room was laden with books; books on criminology, criminal psychology and reference books on a wide variety of subjects. There were scientific books, and approximately two hundred files containing newspaper articles with details of crimes committed throughout many years. Yet more files contained notes and documents relating to criminal cases.

  A small table in the corner of the room was littered with beakers and conical flasks, all evidence of time consuming experiments that had been carried out. A tall cabinet, with glass doors, contained sealed bottles of chemicals, all of which should have appeared out of place within a living room. Contrary to that, these items added a certain character to the room that, somehow, suited its occupier.

  The furniture, although not extravagant, was tasteful and of high quality, comprising of two high backed armchairs and a three seater sofa. There was a dining table with four chairs. Upon the table was a dirty plate with a knife and fork. Most of the table was buried under a large pile of books and, in one corner, there was a small box containing drugs and hypodermic needles.

  A dark grey cloak was draped across the back of one of the dining chairs, left where its owner had thrown it upon his arrival the previous evening.

  The fireplace had an ornamental mantel, upon which stood an old pendulum clock, surrounded by a number of artefacts collected from around the World. The coal fire was being stoked up by Mrs. Hudson, whilst Holmes, wearing a red smoking jacket and supporting a pipe between his lips, drew the curtains back. The morning sunlight flooded in through the east facing window bringing a cheerful brightness to the room. Having successfully started the fire, Mrs. Hudson smiled at Holmes and left the room, taking the dirty plate with her.

  The apartment consisted of this room, two bedrooms and a bathroom; the kitchen being downstairs in the main house, which was occupied by Mrs. Hudson.

  “Good morning, Holmes. Did you have a good night’s sleep?” enquired Watson, as he entered the room.

  “Yes, thank you, old fellow. Mrs. Hudson should return presently with the breakfast and the morning papers. I wish to ascertain all I can of the murder victim from yesterday before we go.”

  “Go? Go where?”

  “We are going to the morgue, Watson. I wish to take a closer look at the corpse. The light was beginning to fade when I looked yesterday, so I may have missed certain details.”

  Watson broke wind just as the door opened and Mrs. Hudson entered, carrying a large tray with the breakfast. She gave Watson a disapproving stare, but chose not to say anything.

  “Really, Watson!” exclaimed Holmes, “I do apologise about Watson, Mrs. Hudson. Do you have the morning papers?”

  “I’ll bring them shortly, along with a pot of tea, Mr. Holmes” replied Mrs. Hudson, as she and the detective exchanged a smile, caused by Watson’s increasi
ng embarrassment.

  “Shall I open a window, Mr. Holmes?” asked Mrs. Hudson, still smiling. Holmes shook his head so she left, returning a few moments later with the tea and papers. Holmes read through the papers as he ate. He did not discover a great deal, except that the head had not been found.

  “Come along, Watson!” insisted Holmes, having barely finished his breakfast.

  “But Holmes, I haven’t finished my breakfast!”

  “Well, hurry up then!”

  Watson mumbled under his breath as he forced the last mouthful of toast down.

  Out in the street, the sun shone brightly and the air was crisp and cold. Patches of frost glistened in the morning sunshine, not yet melted by its weak heat. Holmes and Watson joined the crowds of people walking along Baker Street. Several of the men, including Holmes, were attired in double-breasted coats, top hats and gloves. Watson preferred a tweed coat and bowler hat. The women mainly wore cloaks over their colourful dresses. Most wore bonnets and gloves, some of which were too thin to offer much protection against the cold. Some also carried small umbrellas to shield themselves from the bright sunlight.

  It was an invigorating morning, so Holmes and Watson travelled at a lively pace to keep warm. The streets were full of horse-drawn carriages, conveying passengers to their destinations. The buildings rising high above the street were of various architectural styles, ranging from the very old to more recent.

  The two men continued along Baker Street and into Orchard Street. When they reached the end, they turned left into Oxford Street and then right into Regent Street. After a short walk along Regent Street, they turned into the maze of tiny side streets. As they navigated their way through the back streets, Holmes noticed the transition in the area. Here, the buildings were old slums, decaying remnants of an age gone by. The two men walked through narrow passageways where the buildings loomed overhead, creating an oppressive atmosphere. The buildings prevented much sunlight reaching the passages, which made it feel much colder, and more depressing. This was where many of the poorer inhabitants of the city lived, discreetly hidden from view, so as to make it easier for the wealthy to forget about.

  The contrast between this and the busy, bustling streets they had just left was alarming. Although most people avoided these streets, and spent little time even acknowledging them, such areas existed all over London, serving as a sad indictment of a ruling class that didn’t care. The buildings sagged under their own weight, once proud roofs now drooped between their supports. Missing slates allowed rain to enter and rot the timbers inside. Broken drainpipes hung precariously above. Many windows were either boarded up or cracked, and most were too grimy to see through, thus providing an effective barrier to keep the poverty within out of sight.

  Holmes knew this type of area well, as it attracted so much crime. Theft, extortion, prostitution and murder were all commonplace. So many crimes went unnoticed, simply because the authorities decided that the victims didn’t matter enough to bother about. Useless wretches choked on their own vomit as they lay oblivious to the World in opium dens; pathetic carcasses believing they had nothing to live for.

  Some of the alleys in this area were only a few feet wide, with buildings looming up on either side. Holmes thought that these buildings somehow mimicked the ruling classes with their ability to suppress those unfortunate enough to dwell within.

  Ahead of the two men, a small group of children were playing in an alley by skidding across a patch of ice. Their clothes were little more than dirty rags, but their faces were smiling, until they noticed the two well-dressed gentlemen approaching. The children stopped playing and eyed the two men with suspicion. Holmes approached them and offered each a farthing. He knew that if he gave them any more, it would probably be stolen from them and they may get hurt in the process. They all smiled up at him with appreciation, though their happy dirty faces could not conceal the sad, sunken eyes and gaunt, pale features.

  “Why did we have to come this way, Holmes?” asked Watson with compassion, although he already knew the answer.

  “Is it not obvious, Watson?” Holmes replied, sadly, “These people should not have to live like this. The abject poverty in this area is overwhelming, and I find it utterly abhorrent. How many of those children that we just passed by will die before reaching adulthood? I can already see the effects of living in such disease-ridden squalor in their young, tainted eyes. How many of those children will end up lying dead in the arms of their weeping mothers? What crime did these children commit to deserve such a miserable existence? They committed no crime.”

  Holmes became silent as he surveyed the area. The two men had stopped walking as Holmes looked around, slowly shaking his head.

  He turned to Watson and continued, “I feel as though all the people who end up here indirectly pay, in suffering, the price required to keep the privileged few on their luxurious pedestals. There is so much crime here, but it’s mostly committed out of sheer desperation; mothers turning to prostitution and fathers stealing whatever they can just to provide their children with a few scraps of food. It’s all so ugly, Watson, and I cannot abide the society that allows it to continue.”

  The two men continued their journey through the grimy alleys and under derelict arches in silence. The dark brown brickwork, covered in grime, seemed to reflect the dark mood Holmes found himself in.

  Eventually, they arrived in Haymarket, the pleasant environment a complete contrast to the squalor they had left behind. They turned into Pall Mall, and continued on to Trafalgar Square, and then, Whitehall. They passed by Scotland Yard and, a short distance later, arrived at the morgue.

  Inside, they were greeted by a very tall, thin man with grey hair. His skin was wrinkled and there was a slight grey pallor to his complexion. His cheeks were sunken, giving the impression that his skin had been stretched over his cheek bones. His dark brown eyes were set back in his head and looked dull. He was wearing a blood stained overall that had, originally, been white.

  Upon seeing Holmes and Watson enter, he smiled and said, “Good morning, Gentlemen.”

  “Good morning, Dr. Death,” replied Holmes.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Have you received the body found in Hyde Park yesterday afternoon, Doctor?”

  “Yes, he’s over there,” replied Death, pointing to a covered body upon one of the examination tables. The doctor walked over to the table, followed by Holmes and Watson. Holmes looked around the morgue and noticed what a strange place it was. The walls were whitewashed brickwork that hadn’t been painted for several years. There were a few small windows set high in the walls, each of which had green painted frames. The ground was cobbled stone that had been covered with sawdust.

  Upon reaching the body, Dr. Death lowered the shroud down to the waist of the headless figure. The blue-white skin showed signs of bruising around the shoulders and chest.

  Holmes couldn’t help noticing the similarity between the smell of the morgue and that of a butcher’s shop. In addition to the familiar smell of a butcher’s shop, there was also a strong smell of antiseptic.

  “What can you tell me about the victim, Death?” asked Holmes, unable to resist smiling at his use of the word ‘death’.

  “Well, his head has been removed,” smiled the doctor, in reply. “Judging by the bruises on his shoulders and, more especially, the chest, I would say that he was held down whilst lying on his back during the attack. The last thing he possibly saw was the murder weapon speeding towards him.”

  Dr. Death paused shaking his head. Despite his many years in this profession, he still found the evidence of human cruelty hard to accept.

  He then continued, “I would estimate that death occurred approximately 36 to 48 hours ago. Judging from the cuts on his neck it’s probable that he was struck with…”

  “A meat cleaver, yes I know,” interjected Holmes. “I briefly examined the body yesterday afternoon. Has the head been found?”

  “No, M
r. Holmes,” replied Dr. Death.

  “My I take a closer look at the wounds on the neck, Dr. Death?” asked Holmes.

  “Of course you can. If you look, you can see that it took two blows of the weapon to reach the spine. The spine, itself, appears to have been struck several times. I can’t tell you much more until I perform an autopsy.”

  Holmes looked closely at the wounds, specifically interested in the angle and depth of the cut lines.

  “Look here, Watson,” he said over his shoulder. Watson approached and looked at where Holmes was pointing.

  “What is it, old fellow?” he asked.

  “Judging by the bruising on the chest and the angle of these cut lines, it is probable that the murderer is right-handed and, possibly, quite tall.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “From where we are standing, on the victim’s left hand side, the lines caused by the blade slant downwards towards the opposite side of the neck, as I told you yesterday after I had first seen the body. Also, notice that each cut appears to go more deeply into the neck the further down you look. This is consistent of the arc the blade would travel if wielded by a right-handed person. I would further venture that the bruising on the chest was caused by the murderer’s left hand pressing the victim down whilst he started to cut his head off.”

  “That makes good sense, Holmes” replied Watson, carefully examining the wounds. “You mentioned that the spine had been snapped. How can you be sure?”

  “If you look here, you can see several marks in the spine made by the blade. The deepest penetration occurs at this point,” explained Holmes, indicating the mark on the spine. “Below this, there is no such marking. It’s simply a clean fracture that’s far more likely to have been caused by the head being snapped off. Furthermore, the skin at the back of the neck appears to have been torn, rather than cut.”