The Ripper Legacy

by David Stuart Davies

  All this can be avoided for a one-off payment of one million pounds. A small amount to ensure peace and the status quo. No doubt you will require time to discuss this and arrange payment. We shall be in touch again in forty-eight hours.

  Prince William sends his regards.

  ‘Elegantly written,’ observed Holmes almost absent-mindedly, his eyes hooded in thought.

  ‘The missive was accompanied by a photograph of the boy.’

  ‘A recent one?’

  ‘Taken yesterday,’ affirmed Mycroft.

  ‘How can you be certain?’

  ‘The child was holding a copy of yesterday’s Times.’

  Holmes pursed his lips. ‘Clever. Well, at least now we know what they are after.’

  ‘One million pounds,’ I cried. ‘That’s outrageous!’

  ‘Indeed. But they can afford to be audacious when they seem to hold all the cards.’

  ‘What is more pertinent is whether you can pay the price of their silence,’ said Holmes.

  ‘Of course the British government can. But the problem with all blackmail threats is that one never knows when they will end. A million pounds this week… and next week? You have to do something, Sherlock.’

  ‘How did this message arrive?’

  ‘By post. It was addressed to the Prime Minister, personal and urgent. They are a very confident bunch, I will give them that, but there must be a chink in their armour.’

  ‘If only we could find it,’ observed Holmes dourly.

  Twenty-Two

  The tall man could not help but smile when Gaunt had relayed his various adventures concerning himself and Sherlock Holmes.

  ‘That fellow is as slippery as a varnished eel. He seems able to ease his way out of every tight spot.’ The tall man laughed. ‘Although I damn him to hell, I must admit I admire his tenacity and panache.’

  Gaunt was not amused. ‘It might seem comic to an outsider,’ he said, ‘but he still remains a threat.’

  The man placed an avuncular arm on Gaunt’s shoulders. ‘Not a really serious one, Dom. It seems that Mr Holmes’s brilliance has gone off the boil somewhat. Despite all his efforts he is no nearer to finding us than he was at the beginning. He may have a facility for escaping, but he is still as much in the dark as he ever was and, I believe, ever will be.’

  ‘I wish I had your confidence.’

  ‘I am sensible enough to know that nothing is infallible, but our organisation is strong and powerful, with a veritable wizard at the helm. As you know, this project has been many months in the planning and arranging. We are certainly not going to be beaten by one man, even if that man is Sherlock Holmes. He has proved to be a nuisance, but we must consider him no longer so – unless, that is, he comes too close. Our focus must now return to our own machinations, not his. I am echoing the words of our master. You understand?’

  Gaunt nodded gravely. ‘I understand.’

  ‘And so we have put the final stage of our plan into operation. M arranged it yesterday evening.’

  ‘Really?’ Gaunt said with a mixture of surprise and dismay. He had expected to be party to any sudden changes of strategy. After all he was one of the main players in the organisation. He believed that he would be consulted about such important decisions. But it seemed not.

  The tall man sensed Gaunt’s feelings. ‘We really could not wait any longer. We had delayed things long enough because of Holmes. Especially now we have lost you as our mole at the Yard we need to press on. The authorities are redoubling their efforts to track us down. Army espionage agents have already been engaged to seek us out.’

  ‘What is the current situation?’

  ‘The Prime Minister received a communication this morning with our demand. We have given them forty-eight hours to consider it and raise the funds. In the meantime, I intend to return to London to our headquarters.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I have been called back and anyway I need to be on hand as things progress. It is imperative that I am at the centre of things.’

  ‘What about the boy?’

  ‘I shall take him with me. M wants him close at hand for the final sequence of the game.’

  ‘What about me? I can’t go home.’

  The tall man stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Yes. Well, we cannot risk you accompanying me – now that you are a fugitive from justice you cannot remain in this house as I’m closing it down while I’m in London. I’ve released most of the servants already. You’ll certainly need to lie low. Every bobby on the beat will have an eye out for you now. I suggest you camp out at the Grimes’s place as a temporary measure. They have the room.’

  Gaunt curled his lip. ‘Those dregs of humanity!’

  The tall man smiled indulgently. ‘It’s only for a few days. Beggars can’t be choosers – and after those few days you will no longer be a beggar. With a smart new set of clothes and a small fortune you will be all set to cross the Channel and start a new life as a wealthy monsieur.’

  Gaunt liked the image that this description brought to his mind and he found that he was smiling too.

  ‘We’ll keep in touch in the usual fashion. No doubt when the forty-eight hours are up, things will move quickly. The fuse has been lit.’

  ‘Where is M now?’

  ‘Watching us all, no doubt. I spoke to him by telephone from my office yesterday. Now if you will excuse me, I must make arrangements for the journey. Stay awhile if you wish. Help yourself to brandy and then off you go to reacquaint yourself with the Grimeses.’

  * * *

  In London, down in his underground lair, the mastermind behind the plot was smoking a cigar and smiling. It all seemed to be going smoothly, despite the interference of Mr Sherlock Holmes, who it seemed on his present performance was losing his grip. At this thought, M emitted a dry chuckle. It was so good to combine two operations in one: draining the government’s coffers of one million pounds and showing up Sherlock Holmes as a failed master detective. If he could have raised himself out of the wheelchair, M would have done a jig of triumph. The smile faded as he was reminded that his dancing days – indeed his walking days – were over. And he knew who he had to thank for that.

  Twenty-Three

  Dr Watson’s Journal

  Sherlock Holmes was silent in the cab on our way back to Baker Street after the meeting with Mycroft. Our parting had been a glum one. This was understandable for as far as I could see there were few glimmers of sunlight piercing through the dark clouds that loured over our heads. I gazed at my friend’s face partly masked by the shadows, but I could see that he was deep in thought: his brows were contracted and the eyes hooded, the lips tightly drawn. However, it was more than serious contemplation that gave my friend this dark and sombre expression. I could also tell that he was very worried.

  Evening was drawing in as we climbed up the stairs to our chambers. I lit the gas as Holmes retreated to his bedroom, emerging some minutes later with three large volumes, which he placed on the table in the centre of the sitting room. Straining my eyes I noted that they were some kind of gazetteer.

  He lit his pipe and without a word to me began poring over them, rippling the pages with a speedy regularity. What he was seeking, I could not tell, but I had no doubt he would confide in me in due course when his search was over.

  I ordered tea and sandwiches from Mrs Hudson, but Holmes refused any refreshment and merely refilled his pipe, polluting our room with a thick vapour. After devouring the ham sandwiches and tea, I began to feel drowsy. The warmth of the fire and rigours of the last twenty-four hours lulled me towards sleep. I was just on the verge of nodding off when a sharp cry of exultation from Holmes brought me back from the edge of slumber with a start.

  Holmes slapped his palm down hard on the page he had been studying. ‘I’ve got it, my boy. I’ve got it.’

  ‘What on earth is it?’ I said, rousing myself and moving over to the table.

  ‘Look, look,’ he said with some excitement, his elegant bony f
inger pointing to an illustration on the page. It was a line drawing of a fine manor house in extensive grounds. I felt a tingle of excitement as I gazed at it.

  ‘Why, that’s the house in the picture we saw in Gaunt’s office and at his home.’

  ‘Indeed it is,’ replied my friend, and in the manner of a stage magician, he produced the drawing from his inside pocket and laid it flat on the table next to the book. There was no doubt about it: they were both the same property.

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘It is Galworth Hall, near Richmond. A fine dwelling, built in the time of George IV for the Duke of Dartington. This volume informs me that after the duke’s death in 1805, it remained untenanted for some twenty years and then was bought for a pittance by the Coates family who have owned it ever since. Currently it is the home of Sir Jasper Coates.’

  ‘I know that name.’

  ‘Indeed you do. He is one of the undersecretaries to the Home Secretary.’

  ‘A member of the government!’

  ‘Intriguing, eh? Also remember those letters we discovered in Gaunt’s desk at Scotland Yard.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘They were signed…’

  ‘Of course, with the letter “J”. Jasper.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘So what is Gaunt’s connection with Sir Jasper Coates?’

  ‘A very pertinent question, Watson. And I fully intend to discover the answer. Grab your revolver and your overcoat; we have a lengthy journey in prospect.’

  ‘You intend to go to Galworth Hall tonight?’

  ‘Yes. I will arrange to hire John’s dog cart again.’

  I nodded, remembering the business with Neville St Clair some years previously. ‘But can’t it wait till morning?’

  ‘No, Watson. Time is of the essence.’

  * * *

  ‘There is obviously some connection between Sir Jasper Coates of Galworth Hall and Inspector Gaunt. Have you any notion what it might be?’

  It was some thirty minutes later and we were rattling along on our way towards Richmond, which is southwest of the city in the county of Surrey. Holmes had estimated that our drive was about twelve miles. I had kept my own counsel for some time as we had dashed through the streets, which gradually widened until we were flying across a broad balustrade bridge, with the murky Thames flowing sluggishly beneath. We had driven several miles, and were beginning to reach the fringe of the belt of suburban villas, when I sensed that my companion had relaxed somewhat now that we had left the metropolis behind. This allowed me to ask the question that had been on the tip of my tongue since he had proposed this nocturnal adventure.

  ‘There are several possibilities, but I am not in possession of sufficient data to be certain which is the most likely. However, it is remarkably suggestive that the owner of Galworth Hall is a member of Her Majesty’s government. It is clear that it would be most beneficial to the organisation that we are dealing with if they had an agent close to the heart of the matter. They had one in Scotland Yard, after all.’

  ‘You are saying that Sir Jasper Coates is a traitor.’

  ‘Not quite, but I am saying that it is possible.’

  ‘What do you intend to do?’

  ‘The time for subtle actions is over, I’m afraid. I am left with little alternative but to beard the fellow in his den. It should be clear very quickly whether he is an innocent in this matter or…’ He paused and flashed me a troubled glance. ‘Or not,’ he concluded.

  We continued in silence as we drove along country roads, through scattered villages until we reached the outskirts of the small town of Richmond. Holmes reined in the horse and, lighting a dark lantern, withdrew a map from his coat pocket. He unfolded it, and we leaned over it together, his gloved finger tracing the route to our destination.

  ‘We pass through the town and then three miles further on the road forks, you see? We take the left fork – it looks no more than a cart track up to the gates of Galworth Hall.’

  Dousing the lantern we continued our journey. Holmes directed the cart as the map had indicated and in fifteen minutes we approached the great gateposts of the Hall. It was a bright, cloudless, moonlit night and we could see past the gateposts down a gently curving drive to the spectral silhouette of the house itself. Shimmering in the ghostly moonlight, it did indeed look insubstantial and dreamlike. As far as I could see there were no lights on in any of the windows.

  ‘It looks like they are all abed,’ I muttered.

  ‘If that is the case, we shall have to wake them,’ said Holmes, urging the horse forward.

  We pulled up outside the house and Holmes leapt to the ground and approached the front door, leaving me to tether the horse. As I did so, he swung the large knocker vigorously on the great oak door, the sound echoing around us on the still night air.

  I consulted my pocket watch. It was only a little after ten, rather early for the whole household to be asleep, but there did not seem to be any signs of life from within. Holmes continued swinging the knocker against the door. After what seemed an age, we heard a movement on the other side and then the grating of the lock. The door opened slowly to reveal a man in butler’s livery, carrying an oil lamp. His back was bent with age and service and his sallow ancient features were scored with many wrinkles. His expression was a mixture of apprehension and surprise. He seemed unsure how to address us. Holmes saved him the bother.

  ‘I am Sherlock Holmes and I am here to see your master,’ he snapped, stepping forward forcefully, causing the lackey to retreat into the hallway.

  ‘I am afraid Sir Jasper is away at the moment. He is in London for a lengthy period. All the other servants have been dismissed. There is no one else in residence. I am the sole occupant at present.’

  ‘Has he taken the child with him?’

  The butler frowned. In the dim light it was difficult to determine his real emotions. Was he shocked that Holmes knew of a child or was the man merely puzzled by Holmes’s query?

  ‘What child?’ he replied after a pause.

  ‘The little boy that Sir Jasper has been keeping here.’

  The butler shook his head. ‘I know of no child, sir.’

  ‘I see,’ said Holmes, revealing his pistol from the folds of his coat. ‘Then we shall have to see for ourselves. Come, Watson.’

  Snatching up a lighted candelabra from the hall table, Holmes strode past the bewildered butler and headed for the staircase. I followed suit. ‘If the boy was kept prisoner here, it would no doubt be in one of the bedrooms,’ said Holmes in hushed tones. ‘Even if he has been taken there will be signs that he has been here. That will secure the link between Sir Jasper and the kidnappers.’

  As swiftly and efficiently as we could, in turn we entered all the bedrooms on the first floor. Most seemed as though they had not been occupied for some time, except one that was obviously Sir Jasper’s but offered up no apparent clues. We moved upstairs to the top floor of the house. There were several servants’ rooms – all empty – and a large attic bedroom. An inspection of this chamber certainly bore fruit.

  ‘The boy has been here,’ cried Holmes, holding up a sheaf of childish drawings that had been strewn on the bed. He moved to the bedside cabinet and took up an empty glass that was resting there and raised it to his nose and sniffed. ‘Morphine. The boy was sedated, probably in preparation for his journey.’

  ‘Where have they taken him?’

  Holmes shrugged. ‘Probably not Sir Jasper’s townhouse. That would be too dangerous.’

  ‘Do you think the servant will know?’

  ‘No. It is clear to me that he has no knowledge of this affair. From his response to my queries, it seems unlikely that he was even aware that there was a young boy on the premises. It would be easy to keep him in the dark.’

  ‘So we are no further in our investigations.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I think we can be a little more sanguine, old fellow. Sir Jasper is obviously a key player in the conspiracy and it shou
ld not be too difficult to track him down. But first I think a thorough search of Sir Jasper’s private quarters before we return to London.’

  In his meticulous and remarkably thorough fashion, Sherlock Holmes examined Sir Jasper’s chamber, a large well-furnished apartment used, it seemed to me, as a business office. The butler, still bewildered by our presence, confirmed that this was the room Sir Jasper used when working on government matters. With magnifying glass in hand, Holmes ranged around the room in search of clues, even crawling about on the carpet when he seemed to have noticed something of interest. He was completely absorbed and did not utter a word to me as he carried out his investigations. The main focus of his search was the rather elegant escritoire situated by the window. The drawers were locked and Holmes had to force them open. However, while they contained many private papers, they mostly dealt with estate business, minor government matters and there were a few tailor’s bills and a wine merchant’s account. ‘Nothing here concerning the boy or his cohorts in the kidnapping,’ growled Holmes, disappointment etched on his face.

  ‘Maybe he kept all that material in his townhouse.’

  ‘I suspect you are right. That must be our next port of call but, before we depart, I’d like a further word with our butler friend.’

  The servant was greatly perturbed by our visit and somewhat disorientated. Holmes leaned close to me and whispered, ‘Poor devil. He’s more in the dark about things than we are.’

  The old fellow virtually stood to attention as we approached, his ancient features contorted with apprehension.

  ‘What is your name?’ asked Holmes, not unkindly.

  ‘Barrow, sir.’

  ‘I have just a few questions to ask you, Barrow, and then we shall be on our way.’

  Barrow blinked like a frightened owl.

  ‘Your master has many visitors?’

  ‘No, not many, sir. He entertains little here. Most of his social engagements are in London.’