‘With what fragments of information I managed to glean, I constructed several theories. The key to the murders was the uncovering of the motive. Were we really dealing with a clever madman who, in the popular parlance of the time, “had a grudge against whores”, or was there a more sinister and subtle purpose behind the crimes? The fact that the name of a member of the royal family was even breathed, whispered in connection with the Ripper killings, was remarkable and this intrigued me. I asked myself, why? Although the man himself, Eddy, could not have actually committed the crimes because he had royal engagements on at least two of the nights when the murders took place, it seemed to me that there could be some kind of link between him and the deaths of these unfortunate women.’
‘You never breathed a word to me about this.’
‘There was no point until I had proof. But all my enquiries were met with silence. Well, more than silence. I was warned off by no less a figure than Sir Charles Warren himself. He informed me that if I persisted in that particular line of enquiry, I would be arrested on some trumped-up charge and incarcerated. There was no subtlety or sophistry in this warning. It was an open, clear threat.’
At this statement, I felt my blood run cold. That such a high ranking public figure as Sir Charles Warren could act in such a way was shocking in the extreme. ‘That is outrageous!’ I cried.
‘Outrageous, but informative.’
‘Informative?’
‘Does not his putting a stop to my investigation into the royal connection suggest that there was one? Otherwise, why curtail my activities? He was frightened that I would find out the truth.’
‘And what is the truth?’
‘I didn’t know then, but now recent events have helped to raise one of the veils obscuring the matter. Consider what Alice Sunderland told us. Mary Kelly, the last Ripper victim, entered into some form of marriage with Eddy and bore him a male child. That placed her in a vulnerable position for the baby was heir to the throne of Great Britain, after the Prince of Wales.’
‘My God! A harlot’s child.’
‘It stands to reason that some members of the establishment were charged to get rid of both mother and child. Wipe them from the face of the earth and all those who knew of their secret in order to protect the crown.’
‘It is fantastic. So you think these street women, the victims of the Ripper, were slaughtered because of what they knew?’
Holmes nodded. ‘The knowledge of the marriage and the existence of the boy child. It seems clear that they were using the women to search for Mary Kelly. You may remember that her death, the final killing, was the most vicious and obscene of them all.’
‘Indeed,’ I said. Even as a medical man who had seen the horrors of war and treated the most terrible wounds out in Afghanistan, my stomach had turned when I read the dreadful details of Mary Kelly’s death. Her body had been eviscerated, her face hacked away, and her heart had been ripped from her body and taken away by the killer. Even now as I write about it, my gorge rises at the thought of such a foul deed.
‘Fortunately for the boy, they never made the link between Mary and Alice Sunderland, who had the great presence of mind to get the child away from Whitechapel as soon as possible.’
‘She took him to Chandler’s baby farm where he became just another anonymous unwanted baby.’
Holmes took a large sip of brandy, rolling the liquid around his mouth, before responding. ‘Yes. The mother died, but the baby survived. Somehow, someone has discovered the identity and the whereabouts of the child…’
‘The boy adopted as William Temple.’
‘And so, like the behemoth, the threat to the monarchy has reared its head from the murky waters once more.’
I shook my head sadly. ‘And now they have got him, they will surely have killed him.’
Holmes gazed into the fading embers of our fire with a faraway look in his eyes. ‘It may not be as simple as that, Watson. It all depends on who “they” are and what their motive is. One thing is certain, however: this time I will follow this investigation to the end and nothing – or no one – will stop me.’
Twelve
When William woke up he found he was in a proper bed. His head lay on a soft pillow and cool cotton sheets pressed gently down on him. For one wonderful moment he thought that he was back in his own bed at home. He sat up in some excitement with a grin, but it faded quickly, for as he gazed around him expecting familiar surroundings, he realised that he was in a chamber that he had never seen before. It was well appointed with rich furnishings and a fire burned brightly in the grate. The lights were low and the flames sent sinister shadows dancing across the ornate ceiling. Seated in a chair near his bed was an elderly lady who, until his sudden movement disturbed her, had been knitting quietly. Now she sat forward and turned her attention to him.
‘Master William,’ she said gently. ‘You are awake.’
‘Where am I? I want to go home.’
The lady smiled as she rose and moved to the wall by the bed and tugged at the bell rope. ‘You are home, young sir. Home where you belong,’ she said.
‘This is not my home,’ the boy cried defiantly, throwing back the bedclothes.
‘Now, don’t be troublesome. We don’t want to have to put you to sleep again. Be a good boy and all will be well.’
William’s eyes darted around the room. The door seemed to shimmer and shift in the shadowy firelight like a tempting mirage. To get to it, he would have to pass the old woman. She noticed his frantic darting glances and guessed his intentions. Her body stiffened and her features darkened. Gone was the benign smile and placid demeanour to be replaced by the harsh blinking ferocity of a hawk.
‘Get back into bed, Master William.’ The words emerged in a fierce staccato rhythm.
The boy had no intention of obeying her. However, just as he was about to make a break for freedom, the door of the room opened and a tall man appeared. With swift strides he made his way towards the boy.
‘What’s this?’ the dark man said, not unkindly. ‘Out of bed?’
‘I want to go home,’ cried the boy, his voice cracking and tears starting to trickle down his face. The dark man leaned forward and put his arm around the boy’s shoulder.
‘There,’ he said softly. ‘You cry if you want to. You have had a difficult time. But you are safe now and will be cared for. There is no need to fret. You are in no danger.’
‘I want my mother.’
The man shook his head. ‘That is not possible, William. You are going to have to be strong. I am afraid I have to tell you that you will never see your mother and father again. You know, of course, they were not your real mother and father. They were only looking after you for a time. In preparation for your destiny.’
The boy continued to sob until he slumped to the floor, his emotions having exhausted him.
‘It is my duty to look after you now. You are a very special boy, William. Did you know that?’
He lifted the crying child and laid him on the bed. ‘Sleep now. All will seem so much better in the morning. With some warm food inside you, the world will seem a kinder place.’
‘I want my mother,’ moaned the boy.
The man threw the bedclothes over the child. ‘Call Smithers if there is any trouble,’ he said to the woman. ‘I must get back to London. I have work to do.’
Thirteen
Dr Watson’s Journal
Despite being completely fatigued, I slept badly that night. My mind was crammed with a variety of disparate thoughts about the dangerous affair we were investigating. Memories of the Ripper killings, mingled with images from our previous evening’s adventures, which in turn were mixed up with the contemplations concerning the Duke of Clarence and the kidnapped boy. Dawn was already making its presence felt before I was able to slip into a reasonably untroubled sleep.
As a result of my fitful slumber, I rose late. As I attended to my toilet, I wondered what course of action Holmes intended to take next. H
e had not mentioned his future plans to me as we sat before the dying fire, drinking brandy and discussing the case. On reaching our sitting room I found him at the breakfast table studying a sheet of note paper. He gave me a nod of greeting and passed the sheet to me.
‘This arrived this morning. It was posted through our letter box.’
I KNOW WHERE THE BOY IS. I CAN HELP YOU. MEET ME AT THE LORD NELSON, CHRISTOPHER DOCKS AT TEN THIS EVENING. COME ALONE.
A FRIEND
I gazed at the paper for some moments. ‘Can this be genuine?’ I asked at length.
Holmes chuckled. ‘Genuine bait, I suspect. The spiders are trying to lure the fly.’
‘You will not go.’
‘I must. How can I not?’
‘But you have acknowledged that this is a trap.’
‘A potential trap – if I am foolish enough to fall into it. In many ways this message is encouraging.’
‘In what way?’ I said with surprise.
‘They are worried about my intervention. I pose a threat to them and so they wish to eliminate me.’
‘And that is encouraging?’
‘It means I am getting too close for their comfort. They are worried I will scupper their plans.’
‘But you won’t go tonight.’
‘Oh, yes, I shall. But not without precautions.’
‘What precautions?’
‘I will let you know later. Suffice it to say, if you are willing, you will be part of my arrangements.’
‘I am always willing to help, you know that. But I would advise you not to be reckless enough to respond to this summons. They are obviously cunning creatures.’
‘And so am I. I can count on you then?’
‘Of course.’
Holmes gave me a broad smile and touched my shoulder. ‘In all my investigations, you are the one fixed point, Watson, and for that I am very grateful.’ So saying he rose quickly and without another word disappeared into his bedroom.
He did not emerge for about half an hour. When the door eventually opened, it was no longer my friend Sherlock Holmes who stood on the threshold, but rather an aged, round-shouldered, rough-looking cove in a shabby pea jacket and a peaked sailor’s cap pulled down in a jaunty fashion across his brow. The face was adorned with an explosion of white whiskers and a thin black pipe hung from his mouth. I had ceased being surprised by the way Holmes was able to adopt a disguise, for I had seen him do it many times in the course of our detective work together, but I never lost that sense of wonder at the way he was able to transform himself with such skill and authenticity into a range of characters whose form and persona were so different to his own. Here before me was an aged salt with a slightly bowlegged gait and ruddy complexion bearing no similarity to the lean, ascetic detective whom I had observed not thirty minutes before.
The figure touched his cap in greeting. ‘Able Seaman Bird at your service, sir. Just finished a stretch on the Alexandria: long trip from the Azores. I’m just goin’ to have a shamble around the Christopher Docks to see if there are any bunks agoin’ for my next jaunt.’
I burst out laughing at this stellar performance. ‘You want to be careful, or you may find yourself press-ganged aboard some vessel,’ I grinned.
‘I am always careful,’ said Holmes with some solemnity. ‘Hold yourself in readiness for tonight. I shall return in due course.’
Fourteen
Later that afternoon in an anonymous office in one of the government buildings in Whitehall, Mycroft Holmes, the detective’s brother and lynchpin of the British government, received a very distinguished visitor.
‘You are no doubt aware of the reason for my visit,’ said the Prime Minister, seating himself in the comfortable armchair opposite Mycroft’s desk.
‘I expected you earlier, sir, or at least to be summoned to your presence,’ said the large man, wafting grains of snuff from the folds of his waistcoat. ‘I knew it was a case of Mohammed and the mountain. I was unsure who would visit whom.’
The Prime Minister gave a weary half-smile. ‘Let us dispense with whimsical semantics, Mycroft. This matter is too serious for such niceties.’
Mycroft gave a nod.
‘You know, of course, that your brother Sherlock is now involved in the matter.’
Mycroft sighed. ‘Trust Sherlock to enmesh himself in something like this. He has a talent for it.’
‘There is no doubt that he is a brilliant man and seeing that now our enemies are on his track, it would be politic and beneficial to involve him formally. Of course this will mean he will have to be informed of all the facts at our disposal. It is not an ideal situation, but we cannot expect the man to function effectively if he is ignorant of the relevant details, no matter how sensitive they are. He must be told. That is your task. It is possible that he may be able to shine a light on our difficulties.’
‘I agree up to a point. You will be well aware that my brother does not take kindly to instruction. It is essential to him that he retains his independence at all times.’
‘We can allow him a little rope, but this matter is so delicate that it may well be disastrous to allow him a completely unfettered rein.’
Mycroft rubbed his chin and sighed. ‘Easier to say than to bring into practice.’
‘That is your responsibility, Mycroft. Everything in our power must be done to erase this terrible threat. The monarchy and the government of Great Britain are at risk while this shadow looms over us.’
Mycroft was tempted to chide the Prime Minister for indulging in melodrama, but good sense and discretion prevailed and he said nothing and just delivered the sternest of nods.
‘For the moment, the villains of the piece hold the upper hand, a hand with a royal flush in it, so to speak. I, along with Her Majesty’s Government and indeed Her Majesty herself, are relying on you. Is that understood?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Very well. Keep me informed at all times.’ The Prime Minister rose regally from the chair and made a dignified exit, leaving Mycroft alone.
‘Oh, dear,’ he sighed to himself. ‘Oh, dear.’
Fifteen
Dr Watson’s Journal
Holmes returned just as the lamps were being lit along Baker Street, sending their pale amber beams into the growing evening gloom. Sitting at his chemical bench, a small mirror before him, my friend removed his disguise with speed and efficiency, flinging his false whiskers down with disdain.
‘Argh,’ he cried, ‘spirit gum and horse hair are an excellent combination for irritating the skin. My chin feels like a raw piece of meat. Pour me a brandy, there’s a good fellow. After tramping the streets of Shoreditch for most of the day, I need reviving.’
I did as requested and handed my friend his drink. ‘Have your investigations borne fruit?’ I asked, sitting opposite him by the fire.
‘I’m not altogether sure. The proof will be in tonight’s pudding. Suffice it to say, I have familiarised myself with every dismal nook and dark cranny of the Christopher Docks. There’s not a potential hidey hole that I am not aware of.’
‘How do you think they will strike?’
‘My guess is that there will be a group of them. In the role of a pack of rowdy sailors they will attack the gentleman toff who has had the temerity to enter their territory. Anonymous they will emerge from the darkness and anonymous they will retreat into it.’
‘And how on earth do you intend to foil such an attack?’
Holmes flashed me one of his infuriating smiles. ‘You will have to wait and see.’
‘But if you do not confide in me, how can I help you? Besides, by not revealing your plans you place my life in danger also.’
‘Would I do such a thing, willingly? No, no, Watson, you will be at a safe distance, but you must carry your pistol and be ready to use it should the occasion demand it.’ He drained his glass and rose briskly from the chair. ‘Now I need to get out of these clothes, have a thorough wash, and relieve myself of the last vestiges of this gu
m. In the meantime would you be kind enough to rally Mrs Hudson to provide us with an early supper. A cold pie and meats will suffice. Some hearty vittles will set us both up for the rigours of this night. It is likely to prove both exerting and dangerous.’ With these words, he retired to his room.
* * *
Just before ten o’clock that evening we left our chambers for another night-time adventure. Big Ben was chiming the hour as we hailed a cab. The sombre tones of the great bell booming solemnly on the cool night air seemed to match my mood. I was used to Holmes playing his cards close to his chest, failing to reveal to me the details of his plans. Indeed, I have lost count of the times we have ventured forth from Baker Street on a dangerous mission and I had no idea exactly what to expect. Of course, I trusted my friend implicitly and knew that he would not recklessly place my life or indeed his own in unnecessary danger, but, nonetheless, it was frustrating to be kept in the dark. I could not shrug off the feeling of dark apprehension about this night’s activities.
On Holmes’s instruction, I followed his example and had dressed down. While not quite in disguise, I had worn my oldest suit and a shabby overcoat which I had owned before I served in Afghanistan and had long intended to dispose of. Dressed in this manner, it was hoped that I would not draw attention to myself in the area of the city we were about to visit.
Some thirty minutes later, we alighted from our cab several streets away from the Christopher Docks in a narrow rubbish-strewn thoroughfare lined by a row of down-at-heel houses.
‘Charming area, is it not?’ said Holmes, casting a glance at the shabby domiciles. ‘The Lord Nelson public house is two streets away, parallel to this one. When we arrive, I will enter on my own and you will come in several minutes later. On no account must you acknowledge that you know me.’
The Ripper Legacy Page 6
