But at the time, as far as the press and a frightened public were concerned, the killer had once again emerged and was at large. There was the outcry to be expected from an aroused citizenry: Demands for more patrols in the streets, for better lighting, for an increased allocation of funds, for modernization of the detective branch, for greater zeal on the part of the government. And from some quarters — a scant few — there was even a call for compassion. Compassion for the poor “unfortunates” who were the targeted victims.
“I can’t help but wonder if we are not all ‘unfortunates’,” Lord Randolph Churchill commented to Holmes and Watson after they had been ushered into his presence in the study of his Mayfair town house. “All unfortunates and all victims,” he lamented. Dejectedly, he tossed aside the newspaper he had been perusing, its lead editorial attributing the Whitechapel outrages to “the moral failures of a flagitious and decadent society.” The idea seemed to hold some fascination for him. “Are we to believe that what we are witnessing is some sort of twisted, obscene morality play? Is that what it is?” He shook his head slowly from side to side. “I find the very thought depressing. The Almighty may have a bizarre sense of the theatrical, as has been shown time and time again in the course of man’s paltry affairs, but surely he is a better dramatist than all that.”
Watson looked at Churchill with some alarm, and not because he was shocked by what others might consider blasphemous thoughts. The man’s hands were shaking, almost uncontrollably. His eyes, red-lined and feverish, were deeply shadowed, his complexion unnaturally sallow. He sat huddled in his chair by the fireplace, looking small and sickly.
Watson went to his side instantly. “You are ill, Lord Randolph!”
Churchill waved him away. “It is nothing. It comes and goes. Merely a bad spell, is all.”
“You must allow me to examine you!”
“Thank you for your concern, but it is not necessary.” He jerked his arm away from Watson, who was trying to take his pulse. “I am under the care of Sir William Gull.”
Watson raised an eyebrow at that, though he was hardly surprised. Gull, one of the foremost medical practitioners in the country, was the personal physician to the royal family. He was highly fashionable among the gentry, as was to be expected, but Watson had heard that he himself had lately been ill and was no longer seeing patients.106
“He has prescribed for you, then? You have seen him recently?”
Churchill shook his head. “It is nothing, I tell you. Do be seated, Doctor. You can do nothing for me.”
There was such resignation in his voice, such a note of melancholy acceptance that it brought Watson up short, causing him to search Churchill’s eyes, as if for more information. But there was none forthcoming; the man’s jaw was set. Reluctantly Watson backed away; having no other recourse, he took the chair that was indicated. Holmes, who had in the meantime quietly taken up a position by the fireplace, was studying Churchill intently. He, of course, had not missed a thing.
“I am sorry we find you unwell, Lord Randolph,” he said softly. There was great kindness in his voice, tenderness even. “I trust you will forgive us for calling at what must be an inopportune time.”
Churchill waved aside his apologies feebly. “I take it you are not here on merely a social call. What news do you bring? Do you have fresh leads in the latest killing, is that it?” He leaned forward in his chair expectantly. His sad, tired eyes had enlivened with sudden interest, becoming bright with intensity.
Holmes gave him a hard, shrewd look. His manner, when he spoke again, was brusque, even harsh, in sharp contrast to the considerate tone he used only an instant earlier.
“I shall get directly to the point, Lord Randolph. I should like to know why you have gone to such great lengths to convince me that you are the Whitechapel murderer? It won’t do, you know. It won’t do at all.”
Churchill gave a little cry and slumped back into his chair, throwing his hands up in a gesture of helplessness.
Holmes and Watson were on the earliest train to the old market town of King’s Lynn early the following morning, and within a short while they were passing through the bare sepia countryside of Norfolk, the landscape appearing flat and lifeless beneath the low November skies. The train arrived at its destination agreeably close to the time Holmes’s Bradshaw said it should. The sky had cleared a little by then, and a pallid sun appeared diffidently through the low clouds to greet them as they stepped onto the platform, the brackish scent of the nearby North Sea in their nostrils. It was a wan and cheerless sun, Watson thought, as devoid of welcome as it was of warmth. A waiting trap carried them the final eight miles to Sandringham, arriving in ample time for them to freshen up before luncheon.
The manor house, of orange brick and white stone, was a large, architecturally unpretentious structure in an attractive wooded setting, with a deer park located conveniently nearby. It was designed as a casual weekend and holiday retreat, purely for comfort, and as such had no pretenses about it. There was no need for pomp or ceremony here.
The Prince of Wales, dressed in comfortable tweeds, turned from the large bay window with its view of the Norfolk countryside and forced his gaze to rest on Sherlock Holmes. Watson was also present in the room, as was Sir Francis Knollys, the prince’s private secretary, the two of them subdued, even anxious, both exhibiting great concern on their faces. But the prince did not spare them a glance. He had eyes only for Holmes, glaring at him with a look approaching malevolence, the expression on his face clearly communicating the hostility that he felt.
He took the cigar from his mouth; it tasted bitter to him. He moved over to the table, placed it in a silver ashtray, and turned back to the window. Finally, he turned to face Holmes once again and, scowling fiercely, addressed him in guttural tones: “I need not ask whether you are certain of your facts.”
Holmes met his gaze. “Regrettably, sir, I am most certain.”
“How came you by this information?”
“Much of it has been the result of personal investigation and observation over a period of some time, Your Highness. As to the young prince’s unfortunate malady, that was confirmed by Sir William Gull, the royal physician.”
“You questioned him! By what right?”
“By the right Your Royal Highness gave me. You will recall, sir, that you gave me carte blanche.”
“And Gull told you that the boy — my son! — was a syphilitic!”
“Not in so many words, sir. That much was deduced from the symptoms he described. What Sir William told me, in the strictest of confidence, of course, was that His Highness appeared to be suffering from a softening of the brain brought on by an undiagnosed complaint. It was his opinion, sir, and as you know he is a specialist in disorders of the brain, that the young prince, as a result of this ailment, is... forgive me, sir... growing increasingly unbalanced.”
“Unbalanced! What means this, this... unbalanced?”
Watson touched Holmes’s arm. “By Your Royal Highness’s leave, perhaps as a physician I might be permitted to explain.”
The prince nodded.
“It is clear from all of the medical evidence that your son contracted a venereal disease sometime in the past, perhaps whilst out of the country visiting abroad, and that the infection has been permitted to go without treatment. As a result, it has run its inevitable course, and has caused... irreparable brain damage. I am so sorry to have to tell you this, sir, but the young prince is very ill and is no longer responsible for his actions.”
The prince stood there, popeyed. “Irreparable? You mean there is no cure?”
Watson looked down at his feet. “No, sir. None. The disease at this stage is quite irreversible, I am sorry to have to tell you.”
“And it’s because the damn boy has got the clap!”
Watson flinched. “Apparently he has been afflicted with it for some time, sir.”
“Vell, for God’s sake, it’s only a simple matter of some sulfur and molasses or somes
ing. Half the army has got it, and probably two-thirds of the Royal Navy. And I vould vager that a goodly portion of the House of goddamn Lords has got it too! You don’t have to be a bloody doctor to know how to deal vith that!”
“Unfortunately, sir, it is not as simple as all that. His case, from what I understand, is far advanced. It is too far along to be cured by such means. His brain has been affected, sir. He is no longer in control of his faculties. He is, from what I gather, no longer... mentally capable. Of course, I have not personally examined the young man, so I cannot certify as to all of this, but...” His voice trailed off.
The prince, very pale, was shaking his head disbelievingly. Unconsciously, he unfastened the belt of his Norfolk jacket and undid several of the buttons of his waistcoat. His chest felt constricted, as if a band were being tightened around it. He breathed deeply.
Holmes spoke: “You will recall, sir, that when we first acquainted you with this matter, the possibility was raised by my brother that unusually strong measures — extraordinary measures — might have to be taken to prevent the royal family from being associated with a scandal from which it could not recover.”
The prince nodded feebly.
“That it might be necessary, in order to guarantee the security of the throne, to resort to means that under any other circumstances would be... would be unthinkable.”
The prince merely stared into space.
Holmes looked down at his feet. The skin was drawn unnaturally tight across his cheekbones. “I have to tell you, sir... I have to tell you that the time has come.”
There was a heavy silence in the room. The prince continued to stare off into space, his usual florid features deathly pale, an expression of disbelief on his face, an expression which, as realization came to him, transformed itself into one of extreme anguish and bottomless pain. He shuddered and sighed heavily.
“Ja, well, then,” he said quietly, his voice barely audible. He turned back to Holmes. “Vat is to be done?”
Holmes did not hesitate in his reply, but the expression on his face was one of great sympathy and his tone was now gentle and kind. “Clearly, sir, the young man — His Royal Highness — must be confined.”
Anger flashed in the prince’s eyes. “Confined? Must be confined?”
Holmes stood his ground. “It is advisable, sir. For the young man’s sake, as much as anything. For his own protection, if for no other reason.”
The prince’s face reddened alarmingly. He spat out his words between clenched teeth, his accent highly pronounced. “Must I remind you that you speak of your future king! You would confine an heir to the throne?”
Even now he did not fully understand.
Holmes and Knollys exchanged meaningful glances. Then Holmes bowed solemnly. “No more willingly, sir, than I would confine simply your son, if that is all he was to the world.” He spread his arms. “If it were in my power to make it otherwise, I would do so. This is the most painful duty I have ever performed, Your Highness, and I curse the day it fell to my lot to perform it. But you must understand that it is not my decision to make, one way or the other.” He raised a cautionary finger. “Nor, in all due respect, Your Highness, is it yours.”
The prince’s eyes widened.
Sir Francis Knollys, who had been sitting quietly, rose to his feet. “By your leave, sir, might I speak?”
Knollys was a tall, handsome man of noble bearing, noted as much for his intelligence and common sense as he was for his extraordinary patience and powers of diplomacy and, most of all, for his unquestioning loyalty to the prince and the royal family. It was well known that the prince valued his judgment above all others and was greatly dependent upon him.
Knollys’s even features showed the pain he felt, and it was clear that he spoke reluctantly. “Mr. Holmes is quite correct in every respect. Unhappily, there seems to be no alternative to what he has suggested. I must inform you that the matter has been taken up with the Marquess of Salisbury, who has met with the cabinet in secret emergency session and has the advice and consent of the other ministers. I have been in communication with him this morning, sir. Sadly, he fully concurs with Mr. Holmes’s view, as does Mycroft Holmes as well.”
“Emergency session? The cabinet?” The prince looked shocked.
“That is correct, sir.”107
“Good God! Can it be so? It has gone this far?” He turned back to the window, his shoulders bowed. Full awareness of the matter had finally come to him, and the gravity of it all — the gravity and the utter hopelessness of it — had fully struck home. It was a matter of state now, no longer simply a family affair. It was out of his hands. He was powerless. All he could do was acquiesce. He, above all people, knew the weakness of his position, knew that despite his exalted status, with all of his titles and all of his privileges, he was merely an instrument of national policy.
“And you, Francis?” he asked with his back still toward them, his voice sounding strained and muffled. “Is it also your opinion?”
Knollys bowed to the prince’s back. He was crestfallen. His heart went out to the man he had served so loyally for so long. He faltered when he spoke, and his tone was hardly above a whisper. “You will forgive me, sir. I say this with the greatest personal pain and sadness, but I do not believe there is any choice. It can be no other way. Above all — first and foremost — we must consider the family’s welfare, and the country’s.”
Knollys, who knew the Prince of Wales better than any man living, his great strengths as well as his weaknesses, his great sense of duty as well as his petty and frivolous ways, knew that it was not necessary to remind him where his responsibilities now lay. But he also knew that as a man, as a father, the prince was being called upon to do the unthinkable and that he desperately needed confirmation from someone whose judgment he valued that the sacrifice was unavoidable, inescapable.
The prince shook his head from side to side. He seemed to have shrunk in size. His shoulders were bowed and his eyes were moist as, once again, he turned away from the window to face them, bearing the look of a man who had been beaten down and utterly defeated. But, that notwithstanding, there was something else: A quiet dignity. “How is the matter to be handled?” he asked weakly.
Holmes said quietly: “It would be best if you were to leave that to me, sir.”
The prince thought about it. “He must be... confronted in my presence.”
Holmes considered the question, then shook his head. “That, sir, would not be advisable. Not at all advisable.”
“Nevertheless, I desire it.”
“I must take strong exception, sir.”
The prince stamped his foot. “Damn your impudence! I desire it, and that is an end to the matter! And damn you, sir!”
Knollys cleared his throat delicately. The prince’s eyes turned immediately toward him. Others might enjoy a closer relationship with the Prince of Wales, others might claim his personal friendship, but as his private secretary and a trusted aide for more than eighteen years, Knollys knew best — better than anyone — how to manage things, how to do away with vexing problems, how to make everything right. His whole manner, his mere presence, was a calming influence upon the prince.
Knollys raised his hand in a simple, quiet gesture — almost as if in benediction. “Your Royal Highness...” he said softly.
The Prince of Wales looked at him imploringly, the tears welling up in his eyes. “Francis,” he said. “Please... please.”
EDITOR’S NOTE
Yet another gap appears in Watson’s chronicle at this point; several additional pages of his notes are inexplicably missing. Precisely how many, it is impossible to tell, for the pages were not always consecutively numbered or even in sequence. As before, one can only speculate as to whether the absence of this material is due to mischance or design, and if the latter, who was responsible for its removal. Surely suspicion is not unwarranted, for the interruption comes at what is unquestionably a crucial juncture in this account of the W
hitechapel murders. And, as we know from other Watson chronicles, during part of the period presumably covered by the missing pages, Sherlock Holmes was also missing. He was absent from London for almost three years, absent and believed dead.108
Twenty-Six
MONDAY, JANUARY 28, 1895
“Once or twice in my career I feel that I have done more real harm by my discovery of the criminal than ever he had done by his crime. I have learned caution by now, and I had rather play tricks with the law of England than with my own conscience.”
— The Abbey Grange
The news was in all the papers, of course; detailed accounts were to be found on the front pages of every journal in the country. The death four days earlier of Lord Randolph Henry Spencer Churchill, at the age of forty-six, was front-page news indeed, as was only to be expected of the man who some considered “the greatest elemental force in English politics since Cromwell.”109
Churchill’s funeral in Bladon churchyard the previous day, and the memorial service that followed in Westminster Abbey, were attended by the highest in the land: By members of the royal family and representatives of the major noble houses of Britain; by cabinet ministers, leaders of both Houses of Parliament, and backbenchers of every political persuasion; by former friends and colleagues and by former enemies from across the aisle as well.
But Sherlock Holmes remained insensible to all of that. The man’s political importance and his position in society were of no more than incidental interest to him. His preoccupation with Lord Randolph Churchill was for other reasons entirely, reasons that would never appear in an obituary or future biography.
And so it was that when Watson came upon him, the detective was deep in the folds of one of his characteristic brown studies, downcast and contemplative. The good doctor had, by chance, found himself in the vicinity of Baker Street while making his rounds late that cold, gray, drizzly morning, and with an hour or so to spare between patients decided to stop by his old quarters for an unannounced visit. It had been some little while since Watson had last seen Holmes, their relationship having been reduced to infrequent encounters, and though he was a bit concerned to find him appearing drawn and somewhat haggard, he seemed otherwise well and reasonably fit. Aside from a few deeper lines around the eyes and mouth, Watson could detect no appreciable differences in his friend’s outward appearance, joyless countenance notwithstanding. Middle age had chosen to make its initial forays upon Holmes with gentleness and uncommon solicitude, leaving him thus far unscathed and little altered. There was still the same tall, spare frame, the same noble brow and sharp, gaunt visage, the same deceptively languorous manner and antipathetic intensity of gaze and, of course, beneath it all the same keen intellect and restless, probing mind.
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors Page 37
