“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
Twenty-Seven
MONDAY, JANUARY 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
It 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.
Watson was incredulous. Meaningless minutiae? Inconsequential details? Never before had he heard Holmes refer to tangible clues — vital facts! — in such a manner. Why, his entire investigative method was based on close attention to such details — “founded upon the observation of trifles,” as he said time and time again. How fond he was of saying: “It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important,” and “The gravest issues may depend upon the smallest things.” How often in the past had the successful conclusion to a mystery depended upon such... minutiae.
Watson opened his mouth to protest, to question him further, to challenge him even, but there was something... something in Holmes’s demeanor that told him not to pursue the matter. Something that told him it would not be appreciated by his friend, and would be a useless effort in any event.
Suddenly Watson’s eyes widened in realization. He gasped. “It was Lord Randolph Churchill, then, wasn’t it?” He pointed an accusatory finger. “By God, despite everything, it was him!”
Holmes’s shook his head slowly. His eyes were clouded with sadness. “No, it was not Churchill,” he said. “He tried to make me believe that it was, and at one point nearly succeeded, but I was able to see through him. It was a close thing though. He damn near had me fooled.”
Watson slumped back into his chair. “Holmes, I confess I am totally, hopelessly confused.”
Holmes knocked cold ash from his pipe and reached for a box of vestas. “He thought it was the prince, don’t you see? And he greatly feared the consequences should it ever get out. Rather than permit scandal and dishonor to touch upon the throne, rather than see the government torn apart and perhaps the nation as well, he decided he would bring it all down upon his own head.”
Holmes paused to strike a match and apply it to the bowl of his pipe. “He did everything he could to convince me that it was he and not the prince who was to blame. He knew the young man was weak-minded and impressionable and had become the tool and plaything of undesirable elements. He knew of his sexual aberrations and the fact that he was no stranger to the Whitechapel district and frequented certain low establishments with some regularity.”
Holmes puffed thoughtfully on his pipe. “He probably also knew of the prince’s acute illness. Or guessed at it. After all, he shared the same physician, Sir William Gull. And it no doubt occurred to him that he shared the same horrible, debilitating disease as well. If he did not actually learn it from Gull himself.”
Watson made a face. “I can’t imagine a man of Sir William’s position betraying medical confidences, Holmes. No reputable physician would — particularly where a patient of such prominence was involved.”
Holmes dismissed the objection testily, with an impatient wave of his hand. “Well, then Churchill deduced it. It couldn’t have been all that difficult for him to do. Gull, after all, was not the prince’s regular physician. He was a well-known specialist in mental disorders, specifically those ancillary to syp
hilis. Good Lord, probably half the aristocracy was being treated by him. It would require no great powers of deduction to conclude that the prince was not seeing him for an ingrown toenail!”
Watson sniffed. Then something occurred to him and his face lit up. “So that’s where you bolted off to in such a hurry after Shinwell departed that day! You almost set fire to the place!” He glanced down, noting that the burn in the carpet at the foot of Holmes’s chair was still in evidence. After all those years.
Holmes smiled weakly. “You remember that, do you? Yes, I went off to Gull’s. I was slow in realizing it, but it came to me at last that he, Gull, was the common denominator in all of this. Quite possibly the key to the entire puzzle. He was not only treating his young royal highness and Churchill, but James Stephen as well. And that was just too much of a coincidence. But unfortunately, my visit gained little. Sir William was ill from the effects of a recent stroke. Other than confirming what I already knew or inferred, he was not able to tell me very much at all. His memory had quite left him — not that he necessarily had much to tell, in any event.”
“So you knew Churchill was a patient of Gull’s even before he told us that he was?”
Holmes shrugged. “It followed that a man of Churchill’s position would go to the foremost specialist in the country, so it was hardly a brilliant deduction on my part.” He waved his hand. “But none of that matters. The point I wished to make was that Churchill must have somehow known of the prince’s illness and mental infirmity. With his numerous and well-placed contacts in government and at the Palace, he always managed to keep himself well informed, and was privy to all sorts of goings-on. Knowing what he knew, or what in his troubled mental state he thought he knew, he convinced himself that it was Prince Eddy who was committing the murders. And in an effort to forestall a ruinous scandal, with all of its attendant dangers to the nation, he made the conscious decision — incredibly courageous or hopelessly insane, depending on your point of view — that he would rather bring it all down upon himself.” Holmes paused to reflect. “I suppose he figured that his days were numbered in any event; that this would be a last, final service he could render to Queen and Country: A beau geste, if you will; or a crashing Wagnerian finale — who knows what was going on in his mind? The man was tortured, you know that; his illness had made him unbalanced. And besides, he was ever the lover of high drama. I suppose this appealed to his sense of theater.”
Holmes pondered for a long moment, drawing steadily on his pipe, surrounding himself with angry swirls of smoke. “No. That is unfair,” he said softly. “I never liked him, but I must give credit where credit is due. The man was a patriot, Watson. Say what you will about him, he was a true patriot! Can you imagine? Having accepted the inevitable, he was actually prepared to take the blame for those horrible crimes, to dishonor his own name and that of his heirs — indeed, that of the entire House of Marlborough — rather than allow the throne of England to be compromised.” He hesitated. “Such selflessness is the one aspect of the story that should be made known, but, like the others, unfortunately never can.”
He looked down at his hands and smiled grimly. “He was so damn clever. He thought of everything. And I almost fell for it. He even had the motive, would you believe? And he was cunning enough and subtle enough not to overtly remind me of it, knowing that I was bound to come upon it on my own.”
Watson looked up sharply. “Motive? What motive?”
“Oh, that ridiculous business he was involved in years ago as a young man when he and the Prince of Wales had a falling out over some incriminating letters. The prince accused him of attempting to blackmail him and actually challenged him to a duel over the matter, remember? It was years before things were patched up between them.”
Watson recalled the matter. “Ah, yes. Lord Randolph was exiled to some post in Ireland, was he not? His career in politics almost ruined?” “Just so. And the entire Marlborough clan was banished from court for some period of time as well. The whole family was shut out of the Palace, which meant it was snubbed by all of society, and it was quite a while before things were patched up and they were welcomed back. Churchill counted on me remembering the entire sordid business. He also counted on human nature coming to the fore. He and the Prince of Wales actually became quite close again, but he knew that I, in retrospect, like so many others, would question whether his regard for the prince was truly genuine. He guessed that in casting about for a motive, I would reject it as mere pretense and would come to the false conclusion that he, Churchill, still carried a grudge, still smarted at his treatment after all those years, and was vengeful enough or venal enough to even want to take it out on the prince’s eldest son. And, by God, that is exactly the conclusion I did come to! He played me like a fine instrument. And he had me fooled completely. He even pretended to have prior knowledge of my having received that parcel from the Ripper — that damnable slice of kidney.” Holmes’s eyes shone with respect as he recalled the details of Churchill’s deception. “How very subtle he was about it!” he said admiringly. “How very cunning indeed!”
Watson’s brows came together. “But I don’t understand. You said, pretended to know. He seemed, at the time, to know very much indeed.”
“That’s just it — your word, seemed, is the key one. The fact of the matter is, he came here on that day not only to fish for information, but, like the canny angler that he was, to spread chum in his wake as well — to leave a scent behind. A false scent, naturally. His whole purpose was to arouse my suspicion. And he succeeded admirably. When he entered these rooms, he of course had no way of knowing I had received that parcel from the Ripper. It was I who told him, if you recall, and he had the presence of mind to not look surprised. Ha!” Holmes shook his head from side to side, his eyes gleaming at the memory. “How well he planted the seed of suspicion in my mind! Yet, he did express surprise a minute or two later when I lied and told him that no note accompanied the parcel, remember?”
Watson nodded in dumb silence.
“My immediate reaction to that was further suspicion. I suspected him of knowing that a note had been included. Well, I was wrong. Yes, he was surprised; of course he was surprised! It was a natural reaction on his part, after all. One would expect such a singular offering to be accompanied by a communication of some sort.” He gave a sardonic laugh. “I mean, it just isn’t done to send someone a human organ through Her Majesty’s mails without even a word of explanation!”
Shaking his head again, he put down his pipe. “I was guilty of misreading his reaction. Of seeing in it what I wanted to see. I, in short, was guilty of one of the crimes I am always accusing you of, my dear Watson. Of jumping to conclusions and of allowing preconceived notions to prejudice my thinking. How often have I said to you, ‘There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact?’ Well, I ignored my own maxim.” His tone turned bitter. “And quite rightly, I was made to suffer for it!”
Watson was no longer listening to his friend. He was busy puzzling over another notion. “But, Holmes, I recall at the time that you made a point of mentioning that Lord Randolph also knew the parcel had been delivered by post rather than by messenger. And he even made reference to it being posted from somewhere within London.”
“Yes. And there again I read more into it than I should have. He merely jumped to those conclusions, that’s all. He simply assumed it.” Holmes shook his head ruefully and laughed. “Because it is not something I myself would ever do, I allowed the fact that he was a man of such intellect to mislead me into thinking that the workings of his mind were similar to my own. Since I would never assume anything, I assumed he wouldn’t either. How is that for brilliance?” He laughed again despite himself, but there was no humor in it, only bitterness and self-mockery. “Think of it, Watson!” He slammed a fist down onto the arm of his chair. “Imagine it! I gave him more credit than he was due and simultaneously ascribed knowledge to him that he did not possess. I both underestimated him and overestimated him
at one and the same time. Now, there is genius for you! There is brilliance beyond measure!”
Watson threw up his hands in confusion. “I must say, I don’t know what to make of any of this, Holmes. I’m at a total loss. If the young prince was not the Ripper, and Lord Randolph wasn’t either, who in God’s name was?”
Holmes looked down, a faraway look in his eyes. For a moment Watson thought he had not heard the question. Finally, in a barely audible tone Holmes said: “Who, indeed?”
Watson stared at him.
Holmes looked up at last, his eyes lifeless. He avoided Watson’s gaze. “The world shall never know,” he said. “Nor, to my everlasting chagrin, shall I.”
“What?” Watson gaped at him now in disbelief. He could not possibly have heard him correctly.
Holmes’s eyes met his for just an instant and then quickly looked away again.
“Holmes! You don’t mean to tell me the killer’s identity remains unknown to you!”
Holmes’s response was to spread his arms suddenly and dramatically in an exaggerated gesture of helplessness. He let them drop heavily, as if of their own accord, as if he no longer had the simple strength or the power of will to support their weight. “I haven’t a clue as to who he is,” he said tiredly. “Not a single clue.”
Watson was rendered speechless.
Holmes rubbed his eyes, then put his head back and gazed up at the ceiling. “We have, I fear, one of those occurrences which in fiction is so unacceptable but which in life is so terribly commonplace: A crime without a solution.” He gave a dispirited shrug and smiled faintly — a pathetic little half-smile intended to convey an attitude of philosophical resignation, but of course it did not succeed in fooling Watson.
Holmes was obviously upset, and Watson bit his lip in concern. In all the years he had known him, he had never seen him like this. Generally the most self-contained of men, reserved and inexpressive to the point of coldheartedness, he was a man to whom a display of the slightest emotion was abhorrent. But now, as Watson observed him, his fingers were actually trembling and a vein throbbed at his temple.
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors Page 39
