by Ian Wright
“Was anyone with you? I shudder to think what may have become of you venturing into such a place on your own, Holmes.”
“You are right, Watson, but that is exactly what I did. There was an oil lamp hanging above the door that burned dimly. I had disguised myself, so I decided to enter. I tried the door, which was not locked, so I opened it and went inside. The pungent aroma from within was overwhelming, Watson. This was the opium den from my dream. As I moved inside, the proprietor looked at me with disdain. I stood just inside the doorway for a moment, looking around the room.”
Watson was shaking his head in disapproval. “Holmes, you could have been killed going to a place like that on your own.”
“I agree that it was a foolish venture. In retrospect, I find it hard to believe I took such a course of action. The room was quite long and narrow. It had a low ceiling with several black support beams running across. There was a small bar to the left of the room, behind which stood the proprietor, still observing me with suspicion. The room was filled with addicts lying on the straw covered stone floor. The smell of vomit and urine was easily detectable, despite the smoky atmosphere. There were four gaslights on the walls, two on each side of the room. The glow emanating from the lights was highly diffused by the thick brown smoke.”
“That sounds absolutely hideous, Holmes,” commented Watson.
“It was, old fellow. It saddens me a great deal to think that those who sell these drugs profit from such suffering. Those poor wretches lying in that den slowly killed themselves as others made money from them. The smoke in the room was a refuge to the ghosts, nightmares and hell seen only through the eyes of those mesmerised souls. They just laid there like zombies, Watson.”
“Why did you go there, Holmes?”
“I had learned that the man I suspected of the murders had been seen in the place on numerous occasions. I hoped to obtain some information about him but, as soon as I saw the place, I knew it was a worthless venture. None of the occupants were going to reveal anything to someone like me. The room was littered with rats, some dead, others scurrying over and around the addicts.”
Holmes became quiet as he thought back to the opium den. He tried to think if he had witnessed something at the time and not realised it, but nothing came to mind.
Watson, seeing the perplexed look on Holmes’ face, asked, “Is there anything else that you can tell me from your dream last night, Holmes?”
“Indeed, Watson. The next extract from my dream is another based on fact. In the dream, I was able to see through the wall at the far end of the opium den. I could see two men dumping a body into the river. What happened, in reality, was that one of the poor wretches had died of an overdose prior to my arrival. His body was being tied up in a sack by two men at the end of the room. The men dragged the dead body through the door and then returned.”
“But you said that, in your dream, you saw them dump the body into the river. Did that not happen in reality?”
“I did not see, Watson. However, I am aware that, in many such establishments, dead bodies are put in weighted down sacks and hidden until after dark. With the cover of nightfall, the bodies are usually loaded into a boat and taken to a quiet location where the river is deep. There, they are tipped out of the boat and into the river, where they sink without a trace.”
“So, your trip to the opium den was a dangerous waste of time,” remarked Watson, somewhat scornfully.
“No, it proved to be very useful. Just after the two men returned, I was about to leave. However, I noticed the suspect exit through the same door that the two men had just entered. I decided to pursue the man and started into the den, stepping over the addicts as I went. Upon witnessing me move so quickly, the proprietor signalled the two men. They began to approach me with the intention of beating me senseless.”
As Holmes paused, he could see the anticipation in Watson’s face. “What happened next, Holmes?”
“I had little time to decide whether to run, or fight. I turned to make a retreat, but there were too many people obstructing my path. So, I turned and faced my opponents, having resolved to fight back, if attacked. Neither of the men attacked, however. Instead, they forced me to the end of the room and shoved me through the very door that I had intended to go through in pursuit of my suspect. This led to a smaller, but wider room that was completely empty, except for the sack containing the dead body. There was a pair of large doors at the end of the room that were slightly ajar, through which the suspect must have made his escape.”
Holmes paused again and took a sip of his water. He beckoned to Watson, as if to ask if he would also like a glass, but Watson declined.
After taking another sip, Holmes continued, “One of the two men grabbed my arms from behind, whilst the other, standing in front of me, clenched his dirty fist. The man behind me managed to clasp my arms tightly behind my back, as the other man drew his fist back. He threw his fist forward with all his might. Somehow, I managed to twist and move my head to the side, so that the fist went crashing into the face of the man behind me.”
Holmes paused again, took another sip of water and then continued, “The man behind me released his grip and fell to the ground, unconscious. The other man was so shocked by what had happened, he froze momentarily, giving me time to bunch my fist and hit his jaw as hard as I could. To my intense relief, he fell to the ground and did not get up. I left the building via the two doors, which opened out onto a small path next to the river. I searched the path in both directions, but found no sign of the suspect.”
“Holmes, you were lucky to get out of there unscathed. You should never take such risks”
“You are quite right, Watson. I was foolish to go into such a place alone. Anyhow, let us continue analysing my dream.”
“Oh yes, of course. What happened next, old fellow?”
Setting his glass down on the table, Holmes thought for a few moments, before proceeding, “The next part of the dream involved a small girl who managed to clip a wing of the man with wings. There were also two policemen who managed to trip him. All these people represent witnesses that I found during the course of my investigation.”
“So, was anything here based on actual events that took place, Holmes?” asked Watson.
“No. The people did exist, but not the events I just described. I believe that each witness I found impaired the ability of my suspect to continue his murders. In the dream, this manifested itself as the witnesses physically impairing the criminal’s progress. In reality, each witness supplied evidence that led to his conviction.”
Watson was sitting on the edge of his seat, his eyes wide as he was unable to resist any longer. Suddenly, he asked, “Well, who was this man, Holmes? I mean the one with wings”
“In a moment, Watson,” replied Holmes, relishing the knowledge that he was making his friend wait for the answer. He then went on, “Before I reveal his identity, there is something else to be learned from my dream. There was a part where you and I gave chase to the man, eventually trapping him in the large net. At this point, his face became clear, which represents me remembering his identity. The final part of the dream showed a judge building the Houses of Parliament. This represents Sir Charles Grey. Although he later went on to become a Member of Parliament, he was originally a judge. In actual fact, he was the judge that convicted the murderer, and sentenced him to death.”
“Do you think that’s why his head was cut off a few days ago, Holmes?”
Holmes nodded in answer to Watson’s question and waited for the next question, which he was sure would be asked soon. He didn’t have to wait long.
“So, who was the criminal, Holmes?”
Holmes smiled and said, “Stanley Wood.”
“Oh yes, I remember that case. But he can’t be killing people as he was hanged.”
“Yes, that is true, Watson. I believe that someone close to him is now avenging his death.”
“But who could it be, Holmes?” asked Watson, desperation
evident in his voice.
“I can’t be sure at this time, Watson, but I suspect that it may be his brother. He went mad when Stanley was arrested for murder and had to be institutionalised. I believe he deteriorated further after Stanley was put to death. We can check to determine whether he is still in the asylum whilst we are at Scotland Yard.”
“I remember reading about him in the newspapers. His name is Stephen. Do you know what he looks like, Holmes?”
“Yes, I interviewed him shortly after he was institutionalised. He stands approximately 5 feet, 9 inches and is of slim build, although it is possible that he has gained weight since I last saw him. His hair is light brown and he has a large, bulbous nose. He has particularly thick lips and his eyes seem too close together. They have a piercing look that clearly hints at his unhinged mind. If it is true that the eyes are the windows to the soul, Watson, then this man’s soul is evil.”
Chapter 6
There was a knock on the door.
“Enter!” called Holmes.
Mrs. Hudson came in and handed Holmes a piece of paper. “This arrived for you yesterday evening, Mr. Holmes,” she said, somewhat nervously. She half expected the delay in bringing the note to annoy Holmes.
Instead, he smiled and, in a calm voice, asked, “Why did you not deliver the note to me yesterday evening, when it arrived?”
“I… I forgot, Sir.”
“Very well, Mrs. Hudson,” responded Holmes. He noticed how nervous the housekeeper appeared, and added, “There is no need to be frightened. I imagine the noise I was making yesterday evening dissuaded you from bringing the note to me at the time.”
“It did, Sir. I could hear lots of noise, and you shouting. I was scared to knock on the door! That’s why I thought it best to say that I forgot to give the note to you.”
“I understand. However, in future please bring all correspondence to me in a timely manner. Do not let us detain you, Mrs. Hudson.” Holmes beckoned to the door, indicating that he wished her to leave. Mrs. Hudson gave a smile and quickly left the room.
Holmes unfolded the piece of paper and exclaimed, “Our messenger has sent us another message, Watson! And this one is somewhat more cryptic.”
“What does it say?” enquired Watson, suddenly interested in the note Holmes was holding.
“It reads as follows. ‘The final curtain falls and law is devoured.’ Somewhat obscure, don’t you think, Watson…” Holmes’ words seemed to trail off and a sudden look of despair adorned his face. He looked down at the floor for a few seconds and then back at Watson and gravely added, “Watson, I fear that three murders may have taken place last night.”
“What do you mean? I don’t understand how you can make such a claim!” replied Watson, clearly shocked and perplexed by what he had just heard.
Holmes found the previous note that had been delivered a few days earlier, and handed both to Watson.
He gestured for Watson to look at the notes, and said, “As you can see, both of these notes were written by the same hand. If you look more closely, you will see that they are both written on the same type of paper. Although the author attempted to use two different forms of handwriting, there are unmistakable consistencies between the handwriting on each of the notes.”
Watson studied both pieces of paper in his hand. “I can see the resemblances that you mention, but I fail to understand how these notes lead you to think that there were three murders committed last night.”
“As we know, the first note was delivered in connection with the murder of Sir Charles Grey. It directed me to go to the Prince of Wales Gate in Hyde Park at 4:00pm on Wednesday 7th December, so that I should happen upon the politician’s dead body.”
“I’m sorry, old fellow, but I don’t follow.”
“You will recall that, when we were discussing the case of Stanley Wood, I mentioned three witnesses. One was a young girl and the other two were policemen. The girl, named Sally Spencer, grew up and became an actress. Does this mean anything to you yet, Watson?”
“Yes, it does!” exclaimed Watson, grimly, a horrified look showing on his face. He then went on, “In the note, ‘the final curtain’ implies that Miss Spencer may be in danger. Furthermore, ‘law is devoured’ can be associated with the two policemen. What were their names, Holmes?”
“I don’t recall.” Holmes thought for a moment and then added, “I may have their names in a file. Hold on a moment, whilst I check.” He searched through a stack of files on the desk and found the one he needed. He flicked through the pages within. “Ah, here we are. Their names are given here as P.C. Roach and P.C. Baxter.”
“Are they still in the Police force, Holmes?”
“I don’t know. We shall ask when we get to Scotland Yard.”
There was a knock on the door. “It’s unlocked, come in,” called Holmes. Mrs. Hudson entered the room, followed by a young woman.
“This young lady wishes to speak with you, Mr. Holmes,” said the housekeeper. “I tried to explain that you might be busy, but…”
“That is quite alright, Mrs. Hudson,” interjected Holmes, having noticed the troubled expression on the girl’s face. Judging by her appearance, Holmes thought her to be no older than about twenty years of age. “Of course I have time. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” he smiled.
Mrs. Hudson left and closed the door behind her. The young lady shifted awkwardly on her feet and stared at the floor, only occasionally glancing up at the two men in the room.
Watson smiled at her when she caught his eye, and asked, “May I take your coat, Miss?” The girl returned his smile, removed her coat and handed it to him. Watson hung it over a hat stand by the door.
“Would you care to sit by the fire and warm yourself?” Holmes asked the girl.
“Thank you, Sir,” she replied, as she sat where Holmes had directed. Holmes sat in a chair opposite the girl, who was now looking around the room. She noticed the pale, delicately patterned wall paper, the pattern of which was only just discernable. She wondered whether this subtlety matched Holmes’ taste, or whether he was not concerned with such matters. Several paintings hung on the walls, mostly small in size. Additionally, there were three swords fixed to one wall, one above another, in succession. Over the fireplace, behind the clock, was a large mirror. A gaslight was positioned on each side of the mirror, as well as another two on the opposite wall. Somehow the décor of the room made the girl feel more at ease.
“How may I be of help?” asked Holmes, looking at the distraught girl. She was very attractive and had smooth pale skin and dark brown hair. Her eyes were deep blue and looked as though she had recently been crying. Holmes guessed who she was, based on her resemblance to a picture of Sally Spencer that he had seen in the Times a few weeks beforehand.
“My name is Susan Spencer, Mr. Holmes. I’ve come to report a missing person, and would ask for your help in finding…”
“Her,” finished Holmes. “You are referring to your sister, Sally Spencer, are you not?” he then asked.
“Well, yes! But how did you know that?”
“I saw a photograph of your sister in the Times a few weeks ago, in a review of the play she is currently appearing in. You have a close resemblance to her.”
Holmes glanced over at Watson, still holding the two notes in his hands, and tried to conceal the awful feeling he had about the fate of the young lady’s sister. He knew that Sally Spencer was the young witness who had helped to secure the conviction of Stanley Wood several years earlier. That, along with the reference to the ‘final curtain’ in the note Watson was holding, led Holmes to believe that Sally was possibly now dead.
Susan Spencer was now warming her delicate, small hands by the fire. She observed Holmes quizzically, waiting for him to respond. He raised his right hand and placed his thumb under his chin and pointed his index finger up the side of his right cheek, as he said, “Tell me why you suspect your sister to be missing, Miss Spencer.”
“She told me that she would visit aft
er her performance had finished last night. Her intention was to stay the night. I didn’t expect her to arrive until after eleven thirty, but she failed to turn up.”
“Where do you live, Miss Spencer?” asked Holmes.
“28 Charing Cross Road, Mr Holmes.”
“Does your sister usually visit you after finishing work at the theatre?” enquired Watson.
“Yes, some evenings she does, and always on Thursdays.”
Holmes confirmed something he already knew, by asking, “In which theatre does your sister currently work?”
“She is working at The Theatre Royal, Haymarket.”
“How does she typically get from the theatre to your place of residence?”
Susan looked down at the floor as if embarrassed to admit what she was about to say, and quietly answered, “She walks, Mr. Holmes.”
“Do you know by which route she travels when she visits you from the theatre, or, indeed, if she always uses the same route?”
“I’m not sure,” replied Susan, shaking her head.
Holmes looked thoughtful, as he gently rubbed his index finger back and forth over his cheek.
After a few moments, he looked directly at Susan and said, “Tell me more about your suspicions, Miss Spencer.”
“Yes, of course, Mr Holmes. As I mentioned, I didn’t expect her to arrive until after eleven thirty. I don’t know why, but I began to feel worried at about a quarter past eleven. I tried to dismiss the feeling as a silly emotion, but it wouldn’t go away. By the time my clock struck twelve, I was very worried.” The girl’s bottom lip began to tremble and her eyes filled with tears, as she relived her anguish.
