The Ripper Legacy

by David Stuart Davies

  An hour later, I was beginning to feel more like my old self. The cobwebs in my brain and the fatigue in my limbs were fading and I was able to sit up with a cigarette and a glass of brandy. Holmes, puffing on his old cherrywood pipe, had recounted all that had happened during my enforced absence and I had related my miserable adventures in return.

  ‘Despite all the drama,’ I said, ‘we do not seem to be much further along with this investigation.’

  ‘Indeed, everything is tenuous. There is very little one can actually get hold of, to grasp to one’s bosom as proof or progress. Certainly we have lifted the stone and found insects beneath. Gaunt has been exposed for the traitorous villain that he is.’

  ‘It is such a pity that he managed to escape.’

  ‘My incompetence, I am afraid. I should not have let it happen.’

  ‘It was not your fault, Holmes,’ I said briefly. I knew that his attention and concerns were for my safety and it was this focus that had allowed Gaunt to make his escape. I was aware that Holmes would not welcome me airing such thoughts and so I moved the conversation on.

  ‘How on earth did you discover where I was being kept prisoner?’

  ‘By simply following Gaunt. I never liked the man. When he first came to Baker Street, I saw that there was something arrogant and false about him. It was clear to me that he was lying about how your watch had come into his possession. He had obviously concocted the tale, saying a packet had been delivered but with no evidence of the wrapping. Then there was the note on Yard paper written with that iodine-coloured ink that Lestrade and his cronies use. There was something about his whole demeanour that was suspicious. That’s why I followed him. He led me to the house, Greenway, where you were being kept. I observed the barred upper window and the flickering gaslight. An ideal location to secrete a prisoner.’ Holmes laughed. ‘I knew I was taking a risk, but I was prepared to do it. I made my way to the rear of the building and managed to shin up a drainpipe to the second floor. With care and as silently as I could I broke a pane of glass in the window on the landing and let myself into the house. I pulled the curtain across the window so that anyone passing inside the house would not see the damage. Then I heard voices coming up the stairs – Gaunt and his henchman. They mentioned your name and so I knew that indeed I was on the right track.’

  ‘Are you any clearer as to what these people are after and why they have kidnapped the child?’

  Holmes shrugged. ‘Nothing is clear yet. Obviously they wish to have power over the government, maybe even the throne, but I am not sure what they want. It cannot be long before they reveal their demands. The only comforting fact in all this business is their determination to destroy me. They obviously see me as a threat and I suspect despite their failure in this department, they will now be making plans to bring this venture to a successful conclusion.’

  ‘At least you have unmasked one of the gang: that devil Gaunt.’

  Holmes nodded. ‘His involvement in this matter reveals how wide these villains have spread their net: into Scotland Yard and possibly beyond. It alerts one to the fact that you should trust no one, no matter their status. Gaunt seems to have fooled even my brother.’

  ‘Your brother? Mycroft?’

  ‘Indeed. I have received orders from on high to solve this case. We have been retained by the British government.’

  ‘Great heavens. The case grows in its enormity moment by moment. What is your next move?’

  For a moment Holmes paused before replying, puffing on his pipe with such force that his features were shrouded in grey smoke. ‘Follow up the trail left by Gaunt,’ he said at length. ‘I doubt if he has left us many – if any – clues in his wake, but perhaps he wasn’t reckoning on such a sleuth-hound as myself to be so close on his tail. I need to examine his office at the Yard and his home, wherever that may be. We should be able to find something, one little something that will take us one or two steps further down the road to clearing up this murky business.’

  * * *

  And so it was very early the next morning, we found ourselves in the office of Detective Inspector Gaunt at Scotland Yard, accompanied by our old friend, Inspector Giles Lestrade. Holmes had told him a discreet and highly edited version of our involvement in the Temple kidnapping case, enough to satisfy his curiosity and allow him to be of use to us. After a good night’s sleep and one of Mrs Hudson’s hearty breakfasts, I was feeling my old self again and content to be accompanying Holmes on the case once more.

  ‘I never liked Gaunt, Mr Holmes,’ Lestrade was saying as Holmes examined the contents of the wastepaper basket. ‘He was too cocky by half. Typical of the new breed of inspectors they are training up. None of them seem to fully comprehend the nature of this job. You need to serve your time on the beat to get to know how a villain’s mind works. Yes, never took to him, but I must say I am shocked to hear that he is a wrong ’un.’

  ‘“Wrong ’un” aptly describes the fellow,’ smiled Holmes, replacing the wastepaper basket. We watched as he opened each drawer of the desk and sifted meticulously through the contents. ‘It is as I thought,’ he murmured at one juncture, more to himself rather than to Lestrade or me. ‘Gaunt has covered his tracks well. There is nothing here but trivial official papers and notes. Nothing relating to the Temple kidnapping in any way.’

  Then Holmes encountered a locked drawer. He flashed a knowing look at me as he retrieved the letter opener from the desk and attacked the lock. After a short time, he was able to wrench the drawer open. Lestrade and I gathered round, as Holmes withdrew a cardboard file from within. He laid it on the desk and opened it out. Within were two photographs and what appeared to be a set of letters. One photograph was of William Temple, a cabinet portrait taken in a studio, as was the other photograph, which was of Mr and Mrs Temple. On the reverse of each of these photographs was the name of a photography studio, situated on the Strand.

  ‘No doubt Gaunt had no difficulty obtaining these. They would be used to allow his kidnappers to familiarise themselves with their targets.’

  ‘What about the letters, Mr Holmes?’ asked Lestrade, leaning over the desk and peering at the sheets of paper.

  Holmes did not reply immediately, but examined two of the missives in great detail.

  ‘They are letters addressed to “Dear G” and signed “J”.’

  ‘G would be Gaunt,’ said Lestrade.

  ‘Well done, Lestrade. I think you have it,’ said Holmes, allowing a brief smile to touch his lips. ‘But can you tell me who “J” is?’

  The policeman shook his head.

  ‘Neither can I, but from the tone of the letters, he seems to be Gaunt’s superior; the captain of the ship, if you will. Take this letter for instance.’

  Holmes spread it out on the desk so that we could peruse it.

  Dear G

  All is in place. We are ready to receive the packet. Suggest that it arrives on Tuesday after dusk. Pay off the grotesques. We shall not require their services again.

  I look forward to being in your company again.

  J

  ‘I assume that “the packet” refers to the boy, William,’ I said.

  ‘That is how I read it also.’

  ‘What about “the grotesques”?’ asked Lestrade.

  Holmes frowned. ‘From the tone of the document, the quality of the paper and the florid handwriting, I would deduce that the author is an educated man of some wealth and power. As such he would regard those who work for him in low esteem. I should say that the grotesques are hired hands who have been involved in this venture but are really of no great consequence. Maybe they were the actual kidnappers. Certainly the description of them given to us by Mrs Temple and her nurse clearly indicated that they were no beauties: grotesques, in fact.’

  ‘The question remains as to where the package was delivered.’

  ‘Quite so, Watson. Maybe we shall get further clues from the other letters. If you gentlemen will take a seat, I will study them to see what fresh
information they present.’

  We did as we were asked, or at least I took a chair by the door while Lestrade stood by the window gazing out over the rooftops as he fiddled absentmindedly with his watch chain.

  Holmes was seated at the desk, his magnifying lens roving slowly over the letters. From time to time he uttered brief inarticulate noises, which gave no indication as to whether they were utterances of pleasure or disappointment.

  At last, he stood up, slipping his lens back in his inner coat pocket. ‘These letters do not tell us much, but they do tell us something.’

  ‘What exactly?’ asked Lestrade gruffly.

  ‘The correspondent is a man of wealth, as I said. The paper is of highest quality and of a particular hue and so was no doubt a special order. It may be possible to trace him through stationers. My first port of call would be Woodall and Brough on Jermyn Street. The handwriting with its broad strokes and artistic curlicues suggests an extravagant and emotional nature. However, the tone is very much of one in control. The letters are peppered with phrases like “you must”, “it is imperative that you” and “do not, under any circumstances”. Nevertheless the writer is cunning enough never to refer to anything specifically, as with the reference to “the packet” when it no doubt referred to the abducted child.’

  ‘Not a lot to go on there then,’ sniffed the policeman, dismissively.

  ‘Indeed, I said as much. There is one other point, however: in one of the letters he says that he is “looking forward to you coming down”. “Coming down” is a phrase used by those who live out of London, in the country, which suggests this fellow has a house in the country.’

  ‘Well, there are hundreds of those,’ growled Lestrade.

  Holmes pursed his lips, a gesture completely missed by the inspector.

  ‘I will leave the letters here for you to study further, Lestrade,’ said Holmes briskly. ‘We have work to do elsewhere.’

  ‘Do you wish for my assistance?’

  ‘No, no. I think you might be better employed informing your superiors concerning Inspector Gaunt and trying to track him down. My inquiries will lead me elsewhere.’

  * * *

  ‘The fool!’ cried Holmes sharply, as we settled back in the hansom cab after leaving Scotland Yard. We were on our way to Streatham to the home of Dominic Gaunt in search of further clues. ‘Despite all the years we have been associated with Lestrade, he seems to have learned nothing about the subtleties of detective work. He wants his clues presented to him gift-wrapped. He seems incapable of realising that small indications can lead to large outcomes. There is nothing so important as trifles in an investigation.’

  ‘You can lead a horse to water, eh, Holmes?’

  My friend chuckled. ‘That’s one way of looking at it. No doubt the bird will have flown his coop and taken much evidence with him, but he will, by necessity, have had to act in haste. He knew we would be close on his heels. And in that haste he may well have been careless. We can but hope.’

  Gaunt lived down a tidy little street of terraced houses, respectable without being grand. There was a small garden with a privet hedge leading to a porch and a brightly painted front door.

  ‘I am afraid we shall have to become unlawful intruders once again,’ Holmes announced glibly as he retrieved a small thin metal object from the inside pocket of his coat, which he applied to the lock on the front door. ‘You know, Watson, if my predilections had not led me down the righteous path to solving crimes and misdemeanours, I think I could have made a healthy living as a thief.’

  In less than a minute there was a satisfying click from the lock and Holmes was able to turn the handle and open the door. We made our way inside and into a sitting room. It was well-ordered and Spartan but the drawers of the desk in one corner and the cupboard doors of a sideboard in the other were both open, revealing that they were empty. Holmes knelt by the grate and gazed at the pile of ashes there. Slipping off his gloves, he dipped his fingers into them. ‘Still warm. He made a little bonfire of any evidence that may have been of use to us.’

  Methodically, we searched every room, but it was clear that Gaunt had done a thorough job of removing or destroying any clues. In his bedroom, his wardrobe was empty apart from a few shirts and one old suit: neither bore the maker’s name.

  Holmes sighed heavily. ‘I think we have gleaned as much as we can here,’ he observed gloomily, ‘which is nothing.’ He was about to leave the room when he stopped suddenly, his attention caught by an etching hanging on the wall. It was of a large manor house set in extensive grounds.

  ‘That’s strange,’ he murmured, moving to take a closer look at the picture.

  ‘What is strange?’ I asked.

  ‘Did you not notice that Gaunt had a similar drawing, maybe the same one, in his office at Scotland Yard?’

  I confessed that I had not observed it.

  ‘I wonder where this is. There is no title and the artist has not signed it. To have two pictures of the same house is most suggestive.’

  ‘In what way?’ I asked, unable to follow Holmes’s train of thought.

  ‘Well, the house must have some special significance for him to have a representation of it in both his place of work and at home. Remember that phrase from the letter: “coming down”. Maybe this is the property that was indirectly referred to.’

  ‘By Jove, yes, that may indeed be the case.’ I nodded in agreement.

  Holmes took the picture down from the wall and prised open the back of the frame to retrieve the print. ‘Let’s call this a promising souvenir,’ he said, rolling up the drawing and slipping it into his inside pocket. ‘Well,’ he sighed, glancing around the room once more, ‘I believe we have squeezed this particular lemon dry, Watson. I think it’s time to return to Baker Street and draw up our battle plans.’

  We left the house and walked down the path. ‘We will have to make our way to the main road in order to summon a cab,’ observed Holmes, and then as if on cue a hansom appeared at the end of the road. I stepped out onto the pavement ready to wave it down, but Holmes pulled me back.

  ‘I don’t like the look of this one,’ he muttered, staring at the cab, which I now saw was racing at quite a speed down the empty street.

  I gazed at the driver’s face, which was muffled by a scarf, but his eyes, wild and protuberant, were fixed on us. Then I saw a movement at the window of the cab. Before I had time to react, Holmes had dragged me backwards into the garden and pulled me to the ground behind the straggly privet hedge. As he did so, a gunshot rang out, the bullet whizzing over our heads. We heard the cab rattle past and by the time we had regained our footing, it had disappeared around the corner at the end of the road.

  ‘Friends of Gaunt,’ I observed, brushing myself down.

  ‘Undoubtedly. You’ve got to give it to them, they are a very efficient organisation.’

  ‘Not too efficient,’ I smiled bleakly, ‘or neither you nor I would be alive.’

  ‘Let’s hope it stays that way, Watson.’

  * * *

  When we returned to Baker Street there was a telegram waiting for Holmes from his brother Mycroft. Holmes read it quickly and tossed it over to me.

  COME TO THE DIOGENES CLUB AT ONCE.

  DEVELOPMENTS. M.

  ‘What developments?’

  ‘There are several possibilities, but rather than pontificate on them now, I suggest we heed Mycroft’s summons. He will tell us what we need to know.’

  * * *

  Holmes once described the Diogenes Club to me as ‘the queerest club in London’. It is the refuge of those men who for various reasons have no wish for the company of their fellows, yet these individuals are not averse to comfortable chairs and the latest periodicals in pleasant surroundings. It is for the convenience of these that the Diogenes Club was founded on Pall Mall, just down from the Carlton, and it now contains the most unsociable and unclubbable men in London. No member is permitted to take the least notice of any other. No talking is al
lowed under any circumstances on the premises save in the Stranger’s Room.

  As we mounted the steps to the front door, Holmes pressed his forefinger to his lips, indicating that I should remain silent. He then led the way into the hall. Through the glass panelling I caught a glimpse of a large and luxurious room, in which a considerable number of men were sitting about and reading papers or dozing, each in his own little nook. Holmes showed me into a small chamber, which looked out into Pall Mall, and handed a note to a passing servant.

  Five minutes later Mycroft Holmes appeared. We had met several times before, but I always found it remarkable that he was so different from his brother in appearance. He was a much larger and stouter man than Sherlock. His body was corpulent, but his face, though massive, had preserved something of the sharpness of expression that was so remarkable in that of his brother. His eyes, which were of a peculiarly light, watery grey, seemed to always retain a faraway, introspective look.

  ‘I have been waiting hours for you, Sherlock, where have you been?’ he said without any preamble and with some irritation.

  ‘Out investigating and getting shot at,’ responded Holmes blithely.

  Mycroft took a step back and surveyed his brother. ‘Well, they obviously missed.’

  ‘This time, yes. Your telegram mentioned developments. They have made their request?’

  ‘Indeed they have.’ Mycroft shook his head sadly. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a sheet of blue paper, which he passed to Holmes. With cool, calm consideration, his face an emotionless mask, my friend read the missive and then handed the paper to me, on which was a typewritten message:

  To the British Government

  To preserve you and the Royal Family from the ramifications of a national scandal and a crisis that would no doubt bring ruin to both institutions, we are prepared to suppress the information that the son of a whore has claims upon the throne for certain considerations. Think what anarchy would erupt if such information were spoken abroad. The Fenians, the anarchists and republicans who have been waiting hungrily in the wings for years would fall on this with relish. Civil conflict would most certainly result.