The Ripper Legacy

by David Stuart Davies

  ‘I am cognisant of the fact,’ he said, ‘that you have been placed in a difficult position. Ordered by your exalted masters to engage my services at all costs. You are not comfortable in the role, particularly as you know how stubborn and obtuse your brother can be.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I am familiar with your intransigence.’

  Holmes laughed. ‘However, on this occasion, I accede to your request, but only on my terms.’

  ‘I was fully expecting such a scenario.’

  ‘Of course you were, brother mine. We can read each other’s thoughts as easily as the agony column of The Times.’

  ‘I never read the agony column of The Times, but I accept your analogy. What are your terms?’

  ‘That I may carry out my investigations in my own fashion without help or hindrance from outside forces. I am an independent investigator, not a member of the constabulary. I must not be put under surveillance or shadowed in any way. You know I will soon very easily detect such a procedure. I will not report back each move I make or each shadow I see. I will only get in touch when a climax is about to be reached. You must wait for me to contact you. Is that understood and agreed?’

  Mycroft opened his mouth to say something and then his eyes flickered with uncertainty. He closed his mouth and nodded his head. ‘If it has to be this way…’ he said at length.

  ‘It does.’

  ‘Very well. I will inform the Prime Minister. But, Sherlock, I need hardly state that this must be dealt with swiftly. Time is of the essence.’

  ‘Indeed, you had no need to state that.’

  Mycroft rose from his chair. ‘I will leave you now, Sherlock. You have work to do.’

  Holmes blew another cloud of smoke from his pipe, obscuring his face once again. ‘Indeed.’

  As Mycroft moved towards the door, he touched his brother’s arm. ‘Take care,’ he said gently and then exited swiftly.

  Holmes slumped down into his chair. Despite the dramatic implications of Mycroft’s visit and the task before him, there was only one thought in the detective’s mind: where on earth was Watson?

  Seventeen

  Dr Watson’s Journal

  I followed the one-eyed man through a maze of back streets, over walls and up narrow alleys. More than once I thought that I had lost him, but luck and my dogged tenacity kept me with him. At last he reached an alley near the Woolwich Road and approached a carriage that appeared to be waiting for him. Throwing his cap down in the gutter, he climbed into the carriage. It was at this point I thought I had lost the game. I was not expecting this development at all. No doubt in a few moments the carriage would set off with the one-eyed man inside and I would lose him. The rest of the thoroughfare was deserted and my chances of finding a cab at this time of night and in this locality in order to give chase were infinitesimal.

  It was while I was considering this knotty problem that I noticed that the carriage had no driver. As I edged nearer, I felt a presence in the shadows behind me and then a sharp prod of something hard in the small of my back.

  ‘It’s loaded,’ said a gruff voice in my ear. ‘Any sudden moves and I will pull the trigger. You’ll be dead in an instant.’

  My heart sank. After all my efforts I had been caught. Deep disappointment rather than fear at my predicament robbed me of speech and I was unable to respond to my captor. He jabbed me with the barrel of the pistol once more. ‘Move towards the carriage. We’re going to take you on a little ride.’

  Reluctantly I obeyed and, as I did so, the carriage door opened and the occupant stepped out. He was still dressed in his decrepit soldier’s greatcoat and old clothes, but he had removed the eye patch and what had obviously been false whiskers and a wig. The fellow had been in disguise! I now gazed at the clear youthful features, unsullied by false accoutrements, and saw a finely chiselled countenance with a pair of bright intelligent eyes.

  He stepped forward and placed his hand on my shoulder. It seemed almost a friendly gesture, especially as it was accompanied by a broad smile, but the cold gleam in those keen eyes told a different story.

  ‘Ah, so it is Watson we have in our net. I had been hoping for your erstwhile companion Holmes.’ He wrinkled his nose in mild annoyance. ‘Not the chief but his deputy then. That is a pity – but…’ Here he removed his hand from my shoulder and tapped me gently on the cheek. ‘…I suppose you’ll do. Get inside and make it sharpish.’

  The fellow behind me jabbed me once more in the ribs with the pistol. I knew for the moment there was nothing I could do but obey their command. As I stepped inside the carriage I received a heavy blow to the head and I fell forward, my mind whirling into unconsciousness.

  * * *

  I was propelled back into the world in a sudden and harsh fashion: doused with ice-cold water, which dragged me fully awake in an instant. I shook my head fiercely, dislodging droplets of water and clearing my vision. I was in a dimly lighted room, strapped securely to a chair and standing before me was the man whom I had followed from the Lord Nelson disguised as an old soldier and another man whose dark saturnine features I recognised immediately; it was Inspector Dominic Gaunt of Scotland Yard. Initially and foolishly, for a split second my heart leapt with joy, for I believed that I had fallen into the hands of the law after all. My brain was still befuddled from the blow, but my senses very quickly righted themselves. I realised that being coshed and bound were signs enough that these men were villains.

  ‘Welcome back, Doctor,’ said Gaunt smoothly. ‘I have to admit that you are something of a disappointment to us. We were fully expecting Mr Holmes himself to be sitting where you are now.’

  ‘You, sir, are the worst kind of malefactor. A policeman who abuses his position.’

  Gaunt laughed loudly. ‘Oh, I’m a malefactor am I? Well, I suppose I am. But, you see, I have always been one. My career in the police force has always been a disguise, a means by which I was able to further my plans and feather my own nest.’

  ‘Then you are more despicable than I thought.’

  Gaunt beamed. ‘Probably. Malefactor and despicable? You see, Henshaw, we are in the company of a literary fellow. Well, maybe, Doctor, I am those things and more besides, but I have to inform you that I have the upper hand and that you are in my power.’

  ‘For the moment perhaps.’

  Gaunt laughed again ‘Not only a medic with literary leanings but also with an absurd touch of bravado. Well, let me bring you down a little, my friend, with some rather brutal home truths. I intend to kill you shortly and I am not sorry to say that I shall have no qualms about it. However, before that eventuality, I shall use you to lure your interfering friend Sherlock Holmes into my clutches and then the two of you can be happily united in death.’

  Fury coursed through my body and I wrestled with my bindings to no avail. I knew words were futile in this situation and I was not about to hurl abuse or curses at the fiend for this would only amuse him further.

  Gaunt turned to his companion. ‘Relieve him of his watch and chain. Trinkets that we’ll use as bait.’

  The man called Henshaw approached me and retrieved my gold watch, one that had belonged to my brother, along with my watch chain and fob, which was in the form of a small silver shield bearing the insignia of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers. He handed them to his confederate who placed them in his jacket pocket.

  ‘We’ll leave you now, Doctor,’ said Gaunt, suavely. ‘As you are no doubt aware, you are securely bound; the room will be locked so there is no point in trying to escape. The best thing you can do is sit quietly and contemplate your imminent demise.’

  He grinned briefly and then turned on his heel and both men left the room, slamming the door behind them. Then I heard the key turn in the lock. I was left in silent semi-darkness. Of course, I tried to wriggle free of my bonds, but they had been secured by an expert. There was no give at all in the cord that held me. I only served to scrape the skin on my wrists the more I struggled.

  My spirits sank. It appear
ed there was nothing I could do to escape the fate that they had ordained for me. For me and Sherlock Holmes.

  Eighteen

  Dawn was breaking as Gaunt approached the big house; its black turrets, stark against the lightening sky, were haloed by the rays of the rising sun. The carriage rattled up the driveway at great speed: the driver knew it was in his best interests to convey his passenger as swiftly as possible. With a crunch and slither of wheels the carriage slewed to a halt by the main entrance. Gaunt jumped out.

  ‘See to the horse,’ he cried to the driver. ‘I shall wish to return in an hour. Be ready.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the man replied, touching his cap.

  Gaunt hurried up the steps to the house and disappeared inside.

  ‘Your master is expecting me,’ Gaunt said gruffly, handing his hat and gloves to a liveried servant.

  ‘Indeed. He awaits you in the drawing room.’

  Without another word, Gaunt strode off down the hall. He was very familiar with the layout of this house, as well he should be: he was a frequent visitor.

  A fire burned brightly in the drawing room, but the curtains were still drawn and the lighting was subdued, filling the chamber with strange shifting shadows. A tall, distinguished-looking man who had been seated by the fire rose at Gaunt’s approach; his face broke into a welcoming smile.

  ‘Dom. Lovely to see you.’

  The two men embraced. ‘I was just about to pour myself a drink. It is early, I know, but I expect you could do with one yourself after the journey and the night’s business,’ said the tall man.

  Gaunt nodded and took a seat by the fire.

  ‘At my age I take no heed of the time or occasion regarding my drinking habits. If I desire a brandy, I pour a brandy,’ said the tall man lightly. ‘So, tell me all.’

  ‘There have been some inconveniences I’m afraid.’

  ‘Explain. I must pass on all the details to make sure our master is in full possession of the facts. It is he who dictates what action we take.’

  Gaunt nodded. ‘I am afraid Holmes has slipped through our net.’

  The man emitted an exasperated groan. ‘That man… I was warned that we would have problems with him once he had taken an interest in our dealings. He is more dangerous to us than all Scotland Yard put together. Blast him to kingdom come.’

  Gaunt smiled. ‘We may be about to do just that. While we may not have ensnared the main irritant, we have been able to snatch his subservient partner.’

  The tall man paused in his task of pouring the drinks and turned to his young companion, a look of mild puzzlement on his face. ‘Subservient partner…? You mean that fellow Watson?’

  ‘The same. Doctor John Watson, Holmes’s companion, biographer and close friend. We have him at Greenway. He will be used as bait to lure Mr Holmes into our clutches.’

  ‘Well, let us hope so. That is encouraging. I will delay passing on the information regarding our little setback for the moment. It will only upset and anger him. Better we come with the news of Holmes’s demise. As things stand now, it would be imprudent to make any move until we are sure that Holmes is out of the way – permanently. This operation is delicate enough without having to deal with his interference as well.’

  The tall man handed Gaunt his drink. ‘Thank you,’ he said, taking a generous gulp. ‘A day, two at the most, and I believe it will all be over. Holmes will be found floating in the Thames with his throat cut. And, let’s face it, a few more days of silence will make the government all the more jittery.’ He chuckled at the thought.

  The tall man stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘I am relying on you, Dom. This matter is crucial.’

  Gaunt leaned forward in his chair and touched the man’s arm. ‘I know,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Good. Would you like to see the child before you go?’

  ‘Indeed, I would.’

  ‘So you shall. I think it is time to take him further down the bumpy road he is travelling. Finish your drink first and then I’ll take you to see him.’

  Ten minutes later the tall man led Gaunt up into the upper reaches of the house. Down a narrow corridor, a stout middle-aged man was sitting guard outside a door, an oil lamp guttering on a small table beside him. On seeing them, the man rose automatically. ‘Sir,’ he said gruffly, in a manner that suggested that his voice was hardly ever used.

  ‘All well, Taylor?’ the tall man asked.

  Taylor raised his hand to his forehead in a rough salute. ‘Nothing to report, sir.’

  The tall man nodded. ‘Good. Open up.’

  Thrusting back the flap of his jacket, Taylor retrieved a key which hung from his belt and used it to unlock the door. Gaunt and his companion entered the room beyond. It was a large chamber, dimly lighted, which contained a capacious bed, a wardrobe and a few chairs. On one of these sat the nurse, who in a similar manner to that of Taylor rose formally as the visitors entered. Sitting cross-legged on the bed was the young boy. He had a sketch pad across his knees and was drawing. He glanced up at the two men.

  ‘Have you come to take me home?’ he cried, disposing of the sketch pad in an instant and jumping off the bed.

  ‘You have been told before that this is your home now. We are your new family,’ said the tall man, not unkindly.

  ‘No you’re not. You are bad men. I hate you.’

  ‘Now, now, Master William,’ said the nurse, ‘you don’t mean that.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I do. I want my mother.’

  The tall man sighed. ‘The woman who claimed to be your mother is dead. And so is the man who pretended to be your father.’

  The boy froze in shock at these words, his face twisted with horror and disbelief. It was clear to Gaunt that his young mind was having difficulty in taking in the full implications of the dreadful news that the two people whom he had regarded as his parents were dead.

  ‘No, no. It isn’t true. You lie,’ cried the boy, tears springing from his eyes. He launched himself at the tall man, beating him with his fists.

  With ease, the man held the boy off. ‘Now why would I lie? What possible reason could I have for making up such a story?’

  Holding the boy by his shoulder, the tall man knelt down so that their faces were on a level.

  ‘Look, William, I know how hard this is for you, but the sooner you accept the fact that you will never see those people again, the better it will be.’

  The boy’s face crumpled and he pulled away and threw himself back on the bed sobbing, his body shuddering. The nurse made a move to comfort him, but the tall man stopped her with an imperious gesture. ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘He must learn to come to terms with this on his own. Sympathy and coddling will only delay the process. Don’t you agree, Dom?’

  Gaunt nodded. It was of no consequence. To him the boy was just a pawn in their game, dispensable when their object had been achieved.

  ‘Time I was returning to the city. I have work to do at the Yard and a trap to set.’

  The tall man smiled. ‘God speed.’

  Nineteen

  Sherlock Holmes returned to Baker Street late that afternoon. He was in disguise once more as a rough sailor. He maintained the hunched shambling gait until he had closed the street door behind him and finally stood erect in the hallway and stretched, easing his body back into its natural shape and height. He didn’t quite know what to make of his afternoon’s expedition, but at least he had discovered a further thread in the mystery. And this had been purely by chance. He had spent some time scouring the streets around the Christopher Docks, even revisiting the Lord Nelson to see if he could catch sight of any of the men who had been involved in last night’s operation – anything that might give him a lead as to where Watson was. His search had been fruitless, as he imagined it would be. He knew that he was grasping at straws. Those felons would be lying low today, especially after the outcome of the previous evening’s debacle. Many would be slumped in their beds nursing their wounds and their pride.

&nbs
p; Reluctantly, Holmes had come to the conclusion that Watson’s absence meant only one thing: the villains had him in their clutches. They had failed in their main aim – getting rid of him – but had succeeded in capturing Watson. He prayed that indeed they were keeping him prisoner somewhere and had not done away with his friend. Waves of guilt crashed over Holmes as he contemplated that particular outcome. Never had he felt as helpless and impotent in an investigation and he was aware that because of Watson’s involvement, he was allowing emotion to interfere with his judgement. Usually, no matter how dramatic or dangerous an investigation, he was able to remain clear-sighted and objective, dealing solely with facts and circumstances in a cold, precise manner. This was not the case now.

  As he was about to ascend the seventeen steps up to his sitting room, Mrs Hudson emerged from her quarters. She was quite used to Holmes appearing in the hallway in all manner of disguises. She had a sharp feminine eye and unlike Watson was rarely fooled by the detective’s theatrics.

  ‘Oh, Mr Holmes,’ she said matter-of-factly as she addressed the old sea dog, ‘you have a visitor. He has been waiting for you some thirty minutes. A gentleman from Scotland Yard.’

  Holmes nodded his thanks and as he made his way up the stairs, he removed much of the facial appendages of his disguise – whiskers, false nose and wig – stuffing them in the pocket of his pea jacket. On entering the sitting room he discovered Inspector Dominic Gaunt standing by the hearth perusing a small booklet. Holmes recognised it as one of his own monographs, which the inspector must have taken from the bookcase to browse while he waited for him.

  Gaunt raised a surprised eyebrow at the detective’s appearance. Despite removing the elements of disguise that concealed his real features, Holmes still appeared out of character in his shabby, disreputable clothes and generally unkempt appearance.

  ‘On a case, I see?’ observed Gaunt wryly.

  Holmes flung off his coat, ignoring the remark. ‘What can I do for you, Inspector? I had not expected to see you again so soon.’ His manner was brusque bordering only slightly on the side of civility.