Mrs Forrester cried out in indignation as her son battered her hand against the floor until she dropped the gun. She punched and bit as he strove to pin her arms. It took both of us to get his Hiatt cuffs on her. By then the old house crashed like the final movement of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture. A timber vaulted to the floor and I looked around wildly. Holmes had Aubrey’s head in his lap, wrapping his handkerchief around it.
“I’ve got her,” Forrester grunted. “See to Aubrey.”
I joined Holmes. Aubrey’s eyes fluttered. I checked him over quickly. The head wound was the worst, but he had a broken arm and a few cracked ribs as well. Behind us, a desk dropped through the ceiling, its heavy crash shooting splinters. Holmes and I carried Aubrey while Forrester wrestled his mother out into the ditch. Holmes scaled the wall and helped lift Aubrey onto the grass, then did the same for Meg Forrester, holding her grimly by the arms while she writhed and tried to knock him into the ditch. Forrester and I climbed out and reclaimed our charges. The three of us navigated the steep stone steps up the hillside. We paused to look back as the roar rose to a crescendo with the thunder of weakened walls following the floor and pulling down more roof. At last the house settled into itself with a clatter and cloud of dust.
Forrester bent over Aubrey. Tears tracked his stern face. He groaned, “Mother, what have you done?”
She said, “I can’t believe I ever felt sorry for him – an orphan! You were as straight and true as your father until Aubrey Syms-Caton got his hands on you! I knew something was wrong when you’d say, ‘It’s late, Mother, why don’t you go to bed?’ – but it was half the night before you came upstairs, and you with work in the morning!” Tears wet her rugged cheeks as she stood over Forrester’s bent form. “You were all I had, boy! Everything! My hope and joy, the only remnant left of your father! If you don’t have children, I’ll lose you both!”
Holmes said, “That was a handy revolver, Mrs Forrester. Belgian, if I’m not mistaken.”
She turned to him with pride, despite his tight grip on her arm. “My husband bought that for me on one of his voyages.” Her voice quavered. “He wanted me to be able to protect our family while he was gone.”
Forrester took Aubrey’s shoulders now, and Holmes propelled Mrs Forrester up the lane. “So you lured Aubrey here with a forged note.”
“I’ve saved every message my boy ever wrote me. The look of his writing has been graven on my heart since he was a little lad.”
“You timed your ruse perfectly.”
“With all the commotion up at the hall, I thought no one would miss him! Not till I’d done with him.”
Forrester said heavily, “What did you intend to do with him?” His deep voice sounded so tired.
She said evasively, “Once I’d captured him, there were endless possibilities. He’d poisoned my only son and broken my heart in that place. I figured if he met his end there, it would have been what he’d call ‘poetic justice,’” she finished with heavy sarcasm.
Holmes said, “When did you mail the packet, Mrs Forrester?”
“As soon as I left yesterday afternoon – when you arrived! We knew time was short with Sir Hugh, and we couldn’t keep the papers at the hall, with you prowling around. I wanted to keep my eye on you, but that meant they weren’t safe at home either. What better place than Sir Hugh’s lap!”
“So you never intended to let the young Syms-Catons follow your instructions.”
She snorted and turned her head. “That wasn’t my idea.”
“Who is your confederate? It may go easier if you tell us now,” Holmes urged.
She laughed scornfully. “When I finally read one of those letters Bob’s always getting, I thought Edmund Percivale was behind it. I confronted Lady Hilda and demanded she dismiss him for corrupting my boy. She wouldn’t hear of it. She wanted proof. When I showed her the letter, she recognized Aubrey’s handwriting. I told her she had to send him away or I’d tell Sir Hugh. Naturally she didn’t want anyone disturbing her husband in his precarious state. It was her idea to steal the manuscripts and type those notes. She had plenty of opportunities while Aubrey and Kate sat with their uncle. She said they’d do anything for love of him, and we’d both be satisfied. But that very night – even before you got here, Mr Holmes – Aubrey was seducing my boy, while his uncle lay at death’s door. Even the loss of his precious poems didn’t stop him. I knew then that no matter what Lady Hilda said, he’d never leave.”
When we reached the hall, Forrester sent one of Sir Hugh’s grooms to the police station for officers and a wagon. While I revived Aubrey and cleaned him up, explaining the situation, Forrester locked his mother in the pantry with a footman to guard the door. On the second floor, we propped Aubrey in one of his uncle’s Bath chairs. Forrester wheeled him into the inner chamber past a procession of local families, villagers, and servants who’d come to express their fondness for Sir Hugh. Lady Hilda must have sent out word soon after he collapsed. Sir Hugh gasped for breath, sometimes managing to murmur their names or squeeze their hands, sometimes simply acknowledging their sentiments with his eyes.
They parted for Aubrey. Tears stood on Sir Hugh’s cheeks as Forrester wheeled him to the bed. Aubrey bowed over his uncle’s hand. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Uncle. I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you. I never meant to deceive you, but I didn’t think you’d understand. I’ve been so worried it would do you more harm than good –” His voice broke. Sir Hugh reached out one trembling, featherweight hand to touch his hair, light as a leaf, his blessing. I caught my breath. Sir Hugh’s trembling lips formed the words, “I love you, son.” His eyes moved from Aubrey to Forrester. “Take care of my boy,” he whispered.
Lady Hilda had been standing at the foot of the bed with her hand on Edmund’s shoulder. “My darling, won’t you please consider Edmund’s future, before it’s too late?”
Sir Hugh sent a faint smile to Kate where she stood by Edmund’s side. Out of sight of Lady Hilda, they were holding hands. Sir Hugh murmured, “I think Kate has something to say about that, don’t you, Katie?” Kate blushed, and the quick glance she exchanged with Edmund showed they’d been fond of each other for some time.
When at last Lady Hilda stepped out of the room, Holmes took her aside. “Your grandmother’s name was Percivale, was it not? Pray, don’t deny it. I recognized the arms on your pendant, and it’s quite clear in the family files.”
She nodded stiffly, her hands knotting in front of her.
Holmes said, “I’m not here to expose your connection. I promised Sir Hugh I wouldn’t even tell Edmund. He said there was only one person who had the right to divulge that secret, and I agree. However, I advise that you do so quickly, before he loses his chance to talk to Sir Hugh without any confusion about his parentage. He looks up to your husband as to a father. I believe it would mean a lot to him to know where he stands.”
Under the strain, she looked ill and old. “Hugh wouldn’t adopt my boy unless I told, and I didn’t want him to be ashamed of me. I thought adoption would provide us a new beginning – a chance to have a valid family connection without ever having to admit my sin. But Hugh feared it would displace his brother’s children,” she finished with a trace of bitterness.
“You must forget that now. Some things are more important than pride.”
She nodded quickly, as if afraid her resolution would run away from her if she didn’t act at once. We watched as she told Edmund. Hope rose up through his face like the sun. As he listened, he unconsciously straightened. Then he rushed back in to Sir Hugh, his face glowing.
We stayed for the funeral. In the end, Aubrey and Kate decided not to press charges against Lady Hilda for the theft. The secret was still more important than punishment. But Forrester had glumly followed justice to the letter with regard to the attempt on Aubrey’s life. He said he had all the more reason to remain staunch to the law, now that his own mother had crossed that unforgivable line. Despite their grief and anger toward one another, he knew
his mother wouldn’t divulge her reasons: Mrs Forrester wouldn’t publicly besmirch her son’s name even to hurt Aubrey Syms-Caton.
We were glad to get back to Baker Street and rest. Holmes sighed wearily, leaning back in his armchair. “I’m so utterly sick of secrets, Watson.” He laid his head on the back of the chair and shut his eyes while the calabash smouldered in his hand.
I fumbled for the words that might finally air the truth between us. I’m not sure I would have been able to speak if Holmes had his eyes on me in that moment. “Holmes, that night at Forrester’s house – what he thought about you – is it true?”
Without opening his eyes, Holmes said, “Does it matter? I can’t allow love to interfere with the pure science of reason. Having a friend like you is as close as I dare come.”
I knew how much he hated to make a false step. For Holmes to even raise a point, he must already be certain of the answer. I had to be clear. “I’m touched, Holmes. Believe me. Your friendship means more than I can say. But I’m not sure I can live this way forever. I’m the sort of man who needs a companion of the heart, not just the mind.”
“I’ll say this only once, my dear Watson. If there were anyone, it would be you. I’ve never found a better companion. Probably I never shall. But there are barriers that I cannot cross. I must bend my entire self to my will, to maintain absolute control.” In a rare gesture of affection, he touched my hand. “If this were a battlefield, I would give my life for yours. But I do not expect you to give up your life to share the loneliness of mine. Go out into the world, Watson, and find the love you need.”
There was such sadness in his eyes, such intensity. We both knew it, then – soon I would leave, so that we might continue as friends. Already I saw these moments with the painful pinch of something fleeting. In the very moment that I recognized our golden age, I knew that it was over. I told myself I was only setting aside those hopes which might have hampered our accord. Now that we had got such questions out of the way, we could concentrate on our partnership, professional and friendly. But I always wondered what mansions might have waited for us down that hidden lane.
An egomaniacal serial murderer who would have proven a challenge for Holmes is at the centre of this story. Though the great detective is mentioned, he does not appear in this tale. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Holmes’s creator, does have a connection to the killer and plays a part. Doyle is also influenced by the ego-driven criminal in a surprising way. Reading the tale one wishes Holmes were present to bring this butcher to justice. The tale, narrated by the killer, is a fascinating expedition into the labyrinthine mind of an unbalanced, highly intelligent felon.
Whom God Destroys
by Ruth Sims
Part One
23 September 1902, 9:00 P.M.
Ruins of Greystone Young Men’s Preparatory School
Founded 1845, Burned, Closed and Abandoned, 1894
I began this missive some days ago, in an attempt to explain why I have done what I have done, and why I am going to do what I plan to do in only a few hours. A dozen dead bodies, including some which the authorities have counted as accidents or suicides, require some explanation and a chronology of sorts. I do want proper credit for my accomplishments!
I will inevitably be compared to The Ripper. That will be an egregious error because whoever and wherever Jack is these days, he’s highly overrated. Old Jack may have killed five; he may have killed eleven; he may have killed more. He gets no special marks from me for it: they were women. They were physically weaker and smaller. How difficult is it to overpower a woman? How much finesse did it take? He was a fake and a fraud and a coward.
When I decided that my career would be as the greatest murderer of the new century, I set certain standards, considerably higher than his. I kill only men, and only the type of men most often described with admiration as manly, the sort of prey who have to be outwitted – though, regrettably, most of them are so stupid a clod of dirt could outwit them.
Was it Euripides who said something to the effect that “whom God wishes to destroy he first makes mad?” I don’t believe in God so he therefore cannot destroy me. Nor am I mad. A killer, yes. A very, very good one who will erase the name of Jack the Ripper from the memory of man. But not mad.
Nor am I a coward. At a time of my choosing I will reveal my identity and not, like dear Jack, hide for eternity behind a nickname, like a slinking rat in the darkness. When I am hanged, they will know who it is they are hanging. It is pointless to be everyone’s superior if no one knows of it!
I must apologize to future readers for my less than stellar hand. I have turned down the wick of my lamp to preserve the fuel, making it a bit difficult for me to write in my journal, or read what I have previously written. A bit of moonlight slides its way through the windows, which are empty of glass except for the few thickly grimed shards that remain in the frames and look like the razor sharp teeth of panthers. Otherwise, it is dark with night.
Greystone in its salad days was an expensive school for the sons of the upper stratum of the professional class: lawyers, doctors, surgeons, military officers and the like. My father, at present a Colonel with the 11th Hussars in India, was a seldom seen presence in my life, usually being in some other country serving the old Queen. The few times he did set eyes on me, he expressed displeasure that I looked like a girl and was not growing up to be “manly.”
I should mention that my mother died giving me birth. I was raised by Nanny Julia. More correctly, I was raised by myself, for Nanny Julia spent more time cradling a bottle of Irish comfort than she did cradling me. My father felt I needed to be toughened, being too stupid to realize that Nanny Julia and her bottle toughened me beyond anything he imagined.
When I was fifteen, my father took a delayed interest in my education and decreed that I should go to Greystone. I would have preferred to continue as I had always done, educating myself from the enormous library at the house. So to school I went. I hated it. I attracted bullies the way a magnet attracts iron.
It was during my second fortnight there that I first saw Michael’s blond beauty. We were the same age, but he looked at least two years older, handsome and strong, a living Adonis, a good student, good at sports. Everything I was not. He had attended Greystone several years, and was one of the most popular boys there. The moment I saw him I stopped resenting my enforced education.
In my dreams he was my brother, my friend; I had never had either one. I would have been happy just to have him say my name, but he did not know I existed.
One morning, while I was, as usual, being tormented in the dark beneath the stairs, I broke down in sobs that would do justice to a girl. That made them taunt more, laugh more, and shove me about faster and rougher. All of a sudden a voice demanded, “Leave off! What do you lot think you’re up to?” They stopped so quickly I stumbled and fell to the floor, ringed about by trouser legs and shoes.
I looked up, expecting to see one of the masters or the Head Prefect. Instead I saw my Adonis, who was glowering at my tormentors. “Play fair,” he said. “The little chap is half your size. Have a go at me, if you like.” When we were alone, he helped me to my feet, brushed me off and asked me my name. As I gave him my name, I gave him my heart. Not long afterward I worked up the courage to speak to him and was devastated to discover that he didn’t remember my name. He might as well have rescued a stray dog.
David Neesom arrived at Greystone a few months afterward. He was a dark-haired version of Michael, and he, too, was everything I was not. He at once became Michael’s best mate and the object of my hatred. Without proof, I convinced myself that they were soon shagging in the quiet, dark corners of the school. I knew what went on in those corners of the library and in the bogs when everyone was supposed to be asleep. I knew because I spied. Though I saw many others, I never actually saw Michael and David in flagrante delicto. No matter. I knew what I knew; I didn’t need proof.
My years at Greystone were not a complete loss since I wa
s likely the brightest student who ever walked their halls. I won academic medals in every subject. I was even honoured for my beautiful handwriting. I was also, according to the fey music master, gifted with the voice of an angel; my girlish face and red curls added to the effect. But the only award that would have meant something to me was a smile of genuine affection from Michael Browne, and that award remained out of my reach. Meanwhile, he and David Neesom could not keep their eyes from one another. In secret I tormented myself by imagining them doing all the disgusting things I had seen others do. David Neesom had stolen my only friend. Soon I hated them equally. I could have borne it if Michael had treated me badly. But he ignored me as if I were of no consequence. His indifference ignited a fire in me that can only be quenched by his death.
The year I was seventeen, three Greystone students lost their lives. One of them drowned in the river behind the school. With a bit of assistance. The second fell from a window. Also with a bit of assistance. A fortnight after the second death, the dormitory mysteriously caught fire in the middle of the night and burned to the ground. It was called a “miracle” that only one boy was killed in the fire. Miracle? It was blind luck. My plan to roast them all was foiled by the insomniac housemaster who raised the alarm and got everyone else out. The dormitory was not rebuilt and the school closed soon afterward. I disappeared; as far as I know no one ever looked for me.
A Study in Lavender: Queering Sherlock Holmes Page 22
