The Ripper Legacy
Page 1
Contents
Cover
Available Now from Titan Books
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
About the Author
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
AVAILABLE NOW FROM TITAN BOOKS THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES SERIES:
THE DEVIL’S PROMISE
David Stuart Davies
THE VEILED DETECTIVE
David Stuart Davies
THE SCROLL OF THE DEAD
David Stuart Davies
THE WHITE WORM
Sam Siciliano
THE ANGEL OF THE OPERA
Sam Siciliano
THE WEB WEAVER
Sam Siciliano
THE GRIMSWELL CURSE
Sam Siciliano
THE ALBINO’S TREASURE
Stuart Douglas
THE COUNTERFEIT DETECTIVE (October 2016)
Stuart Douglas
MURDER AT SORROW’S CROWN (September 2016)
Steven Savile & Robert Greenberger
THE ECTOPLASMIC MAN
Daniel Stashower
THE WAR OF THE WORLDS
Manly Wade Wellman & Wade Wellman
THE SEVENTH BULLET
Daniel D. Victor
DR JEKYLL AND MR HOLMES
Loren D. Estleman
THE PEERLESS PEER
Philip José Farmer
THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES:
THE RIPPER LEGACY
Print edition ISBN: 9781783296590
E-book edition ISBN: 9781783296606
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
First edition: July 2016
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.
© 2016 David Stuart Davies
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
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To Mark Gatiss, a great fan of the Baker Street boy, who helps to
keep the Sherlockian flame burning brightly.
One
Dr Watson’s Journal
I was not blessed with children. It was one of the great sadnesses of my life, but Fate decreed that I should never become a parent. When I married my beloved Mary, we both thought that in time we would have a baby. Ideally I wanted a boy and a girl. The girl would possess all the qualities of my intelligent and beautiful wife, and the boy would carry on the name of Watson with what I hoped would be distinction and honour. But it was not to be.
Both Mary and I were of the mind that the first few years of our married life should be devoted to one another. We thought that there would be plenty of time to introduce little strangers into our domestic situation later on. But in the fourth year of our marriage, Mary fell victim to a series of illnesses that in themselves were not life threatening but in combination seriously weakened her constitution. When she caught diphtheria in that cursed winter of 1892, she had little reserve to fight it. She was brave to the end, but nothing that I or my colleagues administered could prevent her from succumbing. Towards the end, I saw her gradually fading before my eyes, slowly evolving into a ghost.
Mary died in my arms.
I not only lost my wife that terrible day but so many of my dreams and, if I’m truthful, I do believe that I was never quite the same man again.
When Mary died I was already suffering a loss – one, however, that proved not to be permanent. My friend, Sherlock Holmes, the best and wisest man I knew, had disappeared from my life in 1891. I believed that he had tumbled into the roaring torrent of the Reichenbach Falls, in a death tussle with Professor James Moriarty. As I learned later, this was not the case. Moriarty had perished, but Holmes had escaped the same watery fate and effectively absented himself from public life for the next three years. I knew nothing of his remarkable escape and when he eventually returned to London after a time travelling on the continent and beyond, and walked back into my lonely life, I was so overjoyed to see him that any resentment that may have flamed in my breast at his deception was doused in the joy of the reunion.
Within a short time of his reappearance I had returned to our rooms in Baker Street and resumed my station in the armchair by the fire opposite my friend. ‘It is quite like the old days,’ he observed, one evening shortly after my reinstatement, as he idly plucked the strings of his violin.
I nodded and gave him a brief smile. But, in truth, it was not like the old days. We were both slightly damaged, different men from those two young fellows who first began sharing rooms together many years ago. Life certainly had taken its toll on me. I had loved and lost. There would always be an empty dark corner in my life now. In those idle moments that come upon one unexpectedly, I found my mind going back to my days with Mary: our courtship, our marriage, and those quiet evenings together. All gone.
Often I would see a lady in the street with her children and felt a physical pain of regret and longing. Of course, I would never reveal these feelings to Sherlock Holmes. He had little time for emotion and the world of domestic happiness was alien to him and held no interest for his clinical and oh so rational mind.
These were my secret thoughts and feelings, as I’m sure Holmes had his own, and we guarded them cautiously lest we reveal any inkling of their content. My friend, too, had suffered the slings and arrows of capricious fortune and his brush with death had brought intimations of his own mortality into his purview. He was still the enigmatic fellow I had first encountered, the brilliant thinker and detective, but somehow he was also a sadder man. Like the old days? In so many ways, yes. On the surface at least. But in other ways, no. Life had bruised us.
* * *
I have long resisted recounting the dark and dramatic details of the Temple kidnapping case for many reasons; some of them political, but mainly because it involved the loss of a child, something that had such a
strong effect upon me emotionally. I have to confess I am not sure I know why I have decided to do so now, unless it is to ease the disquiet I feel when I recall this investigation and that the act of putting the details down on paper will be some kind of catharsis. Who can say?
* * *
It was a very wet day in the March of 1895. A net of rain held the capital in its thrall. As evening approached the leaden skies gave no hope of relief. I had returned to Baker Street after spending a desultory afternoon at my club. I had intended to have a game of billiards with my usual partner, Thurston, but he was not around so, after taking a light lunch, I mooched in the reading room perusing the papers, allowing boredom to take hold. I would have walked home had it not been for the rain, so instead resorted to the comfort and convenience of a cab.
As I entered our sitting room, shaking off my wet coat, I saw that Holmes had a visitor, a dark-suited young man, who sat opposite my friend in my armchair. He was leaning forward almost in a pose of supplication and, to my surprise, he seemed to be crying. His eyes were moist and his cheeks were damp. As I moved further into the room, he turned his face from me.
‘Ah,’ said Holmes briskly. ‘Here is my friend and associate, Dr Watson. Returned early from his club without the pleasure of his usual game of billiards, I see.’
‘How did…’ I stopped and gave a wry grin. I was used to this kind of recital by now, but that did not prevent me from being surprised by the accuracy of Holmes’s deduction.
‘No billiard chalk in your sleeve as there usually is and no pencil marks on your cuff where you make your calculations,’ Holmes responded, answering my half-formed question, before throwing a languid arm in the direction of our visitor. ‘Let me introduce you to Mr Ronald Temple, who has brought a little puzzle to our door for us to solve.’ Apparently unperturbed by the young man’s distress, Holmes turned to him with a cold smile. ‘Dr Watson is an invaluable aid to my detective work. I would like him to hear your story also. I trust that is agreeable?’
Ronald Temple did not seem capable of a verbal response and just nodded his head. Holmes glanced at me, his expression revealing that he realised perhaps he had been too brusque and businesslike in his treatment of our potential client. ‘I think perhaps Mr Temple could do with a brandy to steel him for the task of repeating his sad tale. If you would be so kind, Watson…’
Without a word I poured Mr Temple a brandy and slipped the glass between his nervous fingers. I was struck by how pale and cold they were. Indeed, the fellow was so inanimate and unresponsive that he appeared to be in some kind of trance. He was a tall, good-looking fellow, somewhere in his mid-thirties, with strong, intelligent features. His neat blonde hair was anointed with pomade, which shone in the firelight rather like some artificial halo. His clothes, although somewhat crumpled, were well cut and expensive. Dark circles beneath his eyes bore witness to several sleepless nights. Whatever problem he had brought to the door of Sherlock Holmes, his features reflected the anguish that it caused.
‘Do take a drink,’ said Holmes. ‘It will help to fortify you.’
Like a child, Mr Temple did as he was told. I pulled up a chair and waited.
‘Now,’ said Holmes, more gently, ‘if you’ll begin again, Mr Temple.’
We waited a few moments for our visitor to respond to Holmes’s request. He seemed distracted and weighed down with a disabling soulful burden, but at length he spoke. The words emerged as a hoarse whisper, flat and unemotional, belying the tortured expression on his face.
‘He’s been taken. William. He’s been kidnapped. Stolen from us.’
‘And William is…’ prompted my friend gently.
‘My son. William. He is eight years of age. He has been kidnapped. Taken.’
‘The police know of this?’ I asked gently, my heart going out to the distressed fellow.
He nodded and for the first time turned to me as though he had just become aware of my presence. ‘They have found nothing. They are lost. Just as we are.’
Holmes leaned forward and addressed Temple in a quiet, soothing manner.
‘Please, Mr Temple, give us the relevant facts and pray be precise as to detail. We need to know your whole story before we can assess the situation.’
Temple took a sip of brandy and began.
‘I am a stockbroker in the city and even if I say so myself, I am very successful in my profession. As a result I live a very comfortable life with a pleasant house in Cricklewood. I am married to my childhood sweetheart, Charlotte, and we have the happiest of marriages. Our happiness was increased when eight years ago our son William was born. He is a bright, intelligent fellow and…’ Temple paused, his voice cracking, and he gazed down unseeingly into the brandy glass.
Holmes and I remained silent and waited for him to regain his composure, which he did after another sip of brandy.
‘Six days ago, he travelled up to town with my wife and his nanny, Mrs Susan Gordon, a widowed lady who has been in her post since William was a baby. They visited the Natural History Museum – William is currently fascinated by dinosaurs – and then went for a stroll in Kensington Gardens. They walked by the lake, William rushing ahead as young boys do. For a brief moment Charlotte and Mrs Gordon lost sight of him in the crowd. At first they weren’t concerned. William is a good lad and they knew he would come back to them in time. And then… and then…’ Temple shook his head as though in denial, not wanting to reveal the next part of his narrative. ‘And then, they saw William in the company of two men, each holding him firmly by the hands, virtually dragging him away from the lake towards the entrance of the park. William seemed distressed and appeared to be struggling to be free of their hold, but to no avail. The brutes had him firmly in their grasp. My wife and Mrs Gordon were momentarily frozen with shock and horror at what they saw and then when the full realisation of what was happening dawned on them, they gave chase. They were hindered in their pursuit by the crowds and at one point a woman with a perambulator crashed into Charlotte, knocking her down. When they were able to resume their chase, William and the two men had… disappeared. Gone. There was no sign of them anywhere. The poor boy had been snatched from us.’
With these words he slumped back in his chair, the strain of recounting this haunting incident etched deep in his pale features.
‘What happened next?’ prompted Holmes after a pause.
‘We contacted the police and a search was instigated, but nothing was found. They seem at a loss at what to do other than wait to see if the boy turns up. That is hardly likely.’
‘Has there been a ransom note?’ I asked.
Temple shook his head. ‘We’ve heard nothing.’
Holmes steepled his fingers and gazed directly at Temple. ‘Can you think of any reason why your son was taken?’
‘None. He’s just an ordinary little boy. I am comfortably off but I am not rich.’
‘What about the two men who abducted William? Could your wife describe them?’
‘Only in the vaguest terms. She never really saw their faces – just from the side. They were tall, muscular men, probably middle-aged, and dressed in dark clothing. We are in a deep, dark fog, Mr Holmes. I come to you in desperation. Can you find our boy? Can you return him to us?’
Holmes’s features, lit by the firelight, looked grim as he replied. ‘I do not know. It would be wrong of me to give you false hope. There is very little to grasp in this case. Strangers snatch your son and disappear. There seems to be no motive other than the possession of a young boy.’
‘Then we are lost. Lost.’ Temple ran his fingers across his brow in a distracted fashion, his eyes moistening with tears once more.
‘Not quite, I hope. Indeed, hope is all I can offer you at present,’ said Holmes. ‘But beware, for it is only a slender hope. I just need the thinnest of threads so I can begin to ravel it slowly towards a solution. But there has to be that thread. I will look into the matter and see what I can do.’
This news brightened the fac
e of our visitor and his features briefly fashioned themselves into a ghost of a smile. ‘Bless you, sir. Bless you.’
‘Please remember I can promise no miracles. One cannot make bricks without clay. It is essential I gain as much information about the kidnapping as possible. Therefore the first thing we should do is accompany you to your home so that I can talk with your wife and the nanny, Mrs Gordon. As they were major players in this drama, what they have to say may be of great use.’
* * *
Our journey to Cricklewood by hansom cab was carried out in silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts. No doubt Holmes was weighing up the meagre facts in his mind and contemplating the various scenarios that could result from them. His brows were contracted and those steely eyes had a faraway look, but it was the thin lips compressed and turned down that told me of his deep unease. By contrast Temple’s face was a blank. He was obviously exhausted and the strain of his situation had drained him of all emotion and thought for the moment.
Cedar Lodge was a smart Georgian villa set in its own grounds, approached by a curving tree-lined drive. The door was opened to us by a tall stately woman with strong aquiline features, emphasised by the fact that her straw-coloured hair was pulled back in a severe bun. She greeted Temple with a chaste kiss on the cheek.
‘This is my sister-in-law, Hilda Bennett. Mr Holmes and Dr Watson.’
We shook hands and exchanged muted pleasantries.
‘Charlotte is resting. I’ll let her know that you have returned,’ Miss Bennett said.
Temple nodded. ‘Please do. Mr Holmes would like to have words with her.’
With a brief nod, and a rustle of her skirt, she disappeared into the recesses of the house.
We were taken into a large, pleasant drawing room with French windows, which gave a view of a lawn and shrubbery beyond. A fire crackled and flickered in the hearth.
‘Please make yourself at home, gentlemen. I will arrange for some tea,’ said our host.
Without another word he left us. This was the first occasion that Holmes and I had been alone together since we had heard Temple’s sad story.
‘Well, Holmes,’ I said quietly, ‘what do you make of it?’