by Kane, Paul
When we arrived, the young prisoner had a haunted look about him. He was staring at the stone wall opposite, and from time to time just shook his head as if he could not comprehend how he had arrived in that dark, dank place.
‘Your cousin Georgia has asked that we speak with you,’ Holmes said after making our introductions, but could elicit no response.
‘She tells us that you deny any wrongdoing in the murder of Miss Judith Hatten,’ said I, at which I did notice a twitch of his eye. Then, suddenly, he was holding his head in his hands, tearing at his hair.
‘I did not murder her,’ he whispered, almost inaudibly, then screamed: ‘I did not murder her!’ Anthony looked across at us, eyes as tearful as his cousin’s were but an hour earlier. ‘P-Please… Please, you have to believe me.’
Holmes stepped closer to the bars. ‘Then tell us who did.’
Anthony shook his head again, but it wasn’t a refusal; it was simply that he had no idea what to say. What could he say, when all the evidence pointed towards him? He would utter nothing more, even when pressed, and we left not long afterwards – Holmes informing the guard on duty that he should be watched.
‘I believe he may try to take his own life,’ Holmes explained to him.
The guard snorted. ‘It’d save us the trouble.’
My friend flashed the guard a threatening look, then turned. ‘Watson, let us take our leave of this place,’ said he.
As we walked out of the prison, and as I was attempting to match Holmes’ stride, I commented, ‘You cannot blame the guard. Miss Cartwright’s cousin offers no defence.’
‘Watson,’ Holmes said, suddenly rounding on me, ‘did you not see it in the man’s eyes? Credit me with having looked enough murderers in the face to recognise one. That man is indeed innocent of this crime.’
‘But how can he be?’ I argued. ‘You’ve heard all the—’
He held up his finger. ‘And still he is innocent. I cannot explain it yet, but that is what I believe. He does not remember committing these acts, but I feel certain he saw them being committed.’
I rubbed my chin. ‘He’s definitely a troubled man, but guilt can block out memories. Or are you perhaps suggesting a split personality?’
Holmes pursed his lips. ‘You are the one with the medical knowledge, Watson.’
‘Well, I’d need to study him more to—’ I was interrupted this second time by the blowing of whistles and policemen running past us. There was something afoot, a crime in progress, and even though we were already committed to this first investigation Holmes is never one to let an opportunity to observe a crime – or to lend assistance with the same – pass him by.
We followed the police to a residence but a few streets away. Holmes completely ignored Lestrade’s warnings to stay back until they could ascertain what had happened and, dashing after my friend, I too witnessed the tail end of what had occurred.
Later, we would discover that the house belonged to Mr and Mrs William Thorpe, an ordinary couple in every single way – Mr Thorpe being a retired schoolteacher.
Screams had been heard emanating from their home; a woman’s screams. As we entered the dining room, Lestrade still attempting to keep us back, we saw that these had indeed originated from Mrs Thorpe, but not because she was being assaulted in any way. No, these were the screams of a woman holding a dinner-knife in her hand, standing staring at the body of her husband, who was lying sprawled out over the dining table. From what I could see, and from later examinations, I can tell you that he was stabbed repeatedly with that instrument. It had been a frenzied attack, redness covering the table and dripping from the tablecloth. However, it would not be the final such scene we would witness during the course of this investigation.
As the police moved in closer, Mrs Thorpe stopped screaming and looked over in our direction. She had that self-same expression on her face that Miss Cartwright’s cousin had back in his jail cell.
One of disbelief.
‘Lestrade!’ cried Holmes, but his warnings came too late. Mrs Thorpe looked at the body of her husband a final time, looked down at the bloodied knife in her hand, then drew the blade across her own throat. A thick jet of blood sprayed across the room.
The police let me through then, but there was nothing that could be done for the poor woman; she had made a very thorough job of cutting through both the jugular and carotid arteries. My attempts to stem the bleeding were in vain, and as Holmes joined me we both heard her final gurgling gasps.
‘I… ack… I didn’t…’ she breathed before dying.
* * *
Though we were fresh to the scene of this incident – able to examine it before Lestrade and his men could contaminate it, as Holmes would say – we found nothing amiss, save for the obvious brutal murder of Mr Thorpe himself.
As you know, I have long been a student of Holmes and his methods, so it was with a heavy heart that I watched him pace the room, sniffing the air, taking out his glass to pay closer scrutiny to a piece of carpet here, the edge of a table there, only for him to concede that – as she must have done – Mrs Thorpe had plunged the knife into her husband during the meal. Holmes pressed a gloved finger to his lips. ‘Ah, but it is the way it happened that is the most curious, Watson,’ said he. ‘Note the way the plates are scattered on the table. The look of shock and surprise on Mr Thorpe’s face. This occurred quickly. As if something unimaginable came over the woman. One moment sat eating dinner together, the next…’ His sentence trailed off.
I nodded. ‘But what could have come over her?’
‘Once again, you are the physician, Watson. I would suggest that you examine the body of not only Mr Thorpe,’ he encouraged, ‘but his wife as well. We shall also be needing access to the body of Miss Judith Hatten.’ Holmes looked over at Lestrade as he said this.
‘I beg your pardon? What has the one thing to do with the other?’ the policeman asked.
‘Oh, come now, Inspector. Surely you can see the connection here?’ The man could not, but I could. Two people murdered by their partners, both surviving halves – though Mrs Thorpe did not survive for long, I grant you – claiming that they did not commit the crime, in spite of all evidence to the contrary. This was turning out to be a case for Holmes, after all, and I could see the recognisable glint in his eye whenever there was a fresh mystery to be solved. Particularly one which would challenge his skills like this.
Lestrade allowed us to examine the body of Miss Hatten anyway, along with the others. But even as Holmes watched my explorations from a distance down in the icy morgue – not far away, yet not too close, either for his comfort or mine – I could offer him no new leads.
‘The causes of death are accurate,’ said I, ‘a head injury in the case of Miss Hatten and repeated stab wounds in the case of Mr Thorpe.’
Holmes looked past me to the grey bodies on the tables, breathing in deeply – something I would not readily advise in such a situation. ‘But what of Mrs Thorpe?’
I shook my head. ‘Nothing that I could see, at any rate. Perhaps an examination of her blood…’
However not even that afforded us an explanation; no abnormalities that would have accounted for sudden changes in personality. Nor did Holmes’ trip to the Hatten residence uncover anything, largely because Judith’s father would not grant us permission to view the crime scene once he learned who had enlisted our help.
‘No matter,’ Holmes said as we climbed back into the cab, heading towards Baker Street once more. ‘After so long, I doubt whether it would have yielded anything of interest.’
While Holmes attempted to make some kind of sense of the incidents thus far – littering his room with everything from articles on insanity to reports alleging bodily possession by demons (‘You cannot seriously be considering that?’ I said to him when I discovered his notes, and he just batted me away his with his hand), playing his violin into the small hours of the morning – more incidents took place.
In Kentish Town an antiques deal
er named Falconbridge used an ornamental sword to disembowel his housekeeper (a woman he’d employed for many years and – it was rumoured – he also had a strong admiration for) then turned the weapon on himself. At Westminster Hospital a middle-aged builder’s merchant called Roberson took it upon himself to secrete a hypodermic needle about his person and inject his elderly mother with an overdose of morphine: a mercy killing, you might assume, but the woman was actually recovering from her malaise and was expected to be discharged within the month. Colleagues of mine who were present informed me that the relative, in a state of confusion and remorse, ran away. His body was later found in the Thames. Finally, passengers on a train bound for Waterloo described hearing piercing screams, only to witness a woman backing out of a carriage covered in blood and holding a fire axe. Her hands were trembling, as she looked left and right, then she dropped the axe and fled, eventually hurling herself from the moving vehicle according to the ticket inspector. Inside the carriage were found the dismembered bodies of her husband and their twelve year-old daughter.
It was the latter, I fear, that had the most telling effect upon Holmes. As we stepped onto that train, Lestrade now very glad of any assistance we could offer, my friend wavered, almost turning back. But he forced himself to look upon those remains. And I swear to you now, that in all my years serving in Afghanistan I had never seen the likes of it before – nor would I care to again.
‘I should have been able to prevent this,’ Holmes said, under his breath, his gaze fixed upon the contents of that carriage.
‘How?’ I asked him, my own mouth dry as sandpaper.
‘There is a pattern to these events. I simply cannot see it yet.’
When we returned to Baker Street that evening, silence prevailing in the cab on the way, Miss Cartwright was waiting for us. She said nothing as Holmes stepped into his chambers, Mrs Hudson having informed us that the lady was waiting upstairs; Miss Cartwright merely strode towards him and slapped his face. Then she departed.
We discovered not long afterwards that Anthony had committed suicide in his cell by swallowing his own tongue. Lestrade said there was nothing that could have been done, but I knew Holmes disagreed.
I did not see him for some time after that. On the single occasion I did knock and enter his chambers, I found the room empty apart from the usual detritus of the case. However, on the table I also spied the means by which he was administering his seven percent solution; a habit I never did manage to free him from.
Holmes staggered from his bedroom then, still in his robe in the middle of the day – which, I have to say, was not that uncommon. He looked drawn and pale, like a ghost of his former self.
‘Holmes, I really must—’ But before I could get out another word, he flew at me, enraged. I thought for a moment he might attack, like the people we had been investigating, but instead he simply shouted:
‘Get out! Get out! Get out!’
I did as instructed, retreating and allowing him to slam the door behind me. I heard a lock being drawn on the other side and considered it was for the best that I should leave him alone, in spite of how terribly worried I was.
An equally concerned Lestrade contacted me several times over the course of those next few weeks, informing me of yet more murders – drownings, beatings, stranglings – as well as suicides, asking if Holmes would be continuing his investigations. I lied and told him that the great detective was looking into several quite promising leads.
In reality, I feared that he had finally met his match. It is a conviction that I still hold to this day.
When I heard Holmes leave 221b Baker Street, it was the middle of the night. He told neither Mrs Hudson nor myself where he was going, but after his tirade I was not at all surprised. When Lestrade actually called at the house, protesting that he was no longer able to prevent the papers from reporting this insanity that seemed to have gripped London, I had to admit that Holmes was not present.
‘Then where is he, Dr Watson? And why aren’t you with him?’
I said again that he was chasing a line of enquiry, but the Inspector’s words struck a nerve with me. It wasn’t the first time Holmes had retreated into himself, nor the first occasion he had vanished without warning – and Heaven knows he had justification this time – but Lestrade was right; I should have been with him. I was deeply distressed about his condition, and if there was a connection between all of these bizarre events then I should be working with Holmes to try and resolve the issue.
I set out to look for my friend, searching all the places I could think of that he might go. I even tried some of the opium dens that he has been known to frequent from time to time, especially if he was looking for someone from the underworld of the crime community. During this pursuit, I discovered that he had indeed been spotted in that area of town – and spotted enjoying some of the more questionable vices it had to offer – but had departed some considerable time ago.
It was not until I had exhausted every single possibility that it struck me where I might find him. My years observing Holmes’ methods has left me with not an inconsiderable degree of aptitude for deduction myself.
When I arrived at my destination, he was indeed present. Standing, staring out into space just as the ‘victims’, those left behind after the murders, were wont to do. He looked no better for his absence – worse in fact than he had in his chambers. I approached cautiously, after my last encounter with him, not knowing what kind of reception I would receive.
‘Ah, Watson,’ said he in a quiet voice. ‘My faithful friend and companion. I knew that you would find me here eventually.’ Holmes looked down at the grave he was standing next to, the one containing the bodies of the family who’d died on the Waterloo train. ‘I am so sorry for my behaviour when last we saw each other. I was…not myself.’ He gave a slight laugh, perhaps realising the significance of his words, but there was no humour to it.
Not far away, I knew, were some of the other final resting places of those who had suffered during these past troubling weeks.
I joined him. ‘What happened was not your fault, you know.’
He shook his head and turned to me. ‘I could not see it until now, but we have been facing my greatest enemy all along.’
‘Not…the Professor?’ I said, struggling to hide the alarm in my voice.
‘I have seen Moriarty, Watson, I will not deny it. My own punishment, perhaps. But no…my efforts at the falls were entirely successful. He remains among the deceased. Although through this experience, I have discovered why the murderers – if one can refer to them as such – are so quick to throw away their lives. I know now what they see…afterwards.’
I frowned, conceding that I had no idea what he was talking about. If Moriarty had not returned from the grave – and the dark humour of my own musings was not lost on me, in light of where we were standing – then who exactly were we up against? I ventured my question out loud.
‘I’ve been a fool, Watson. It has been right in front of my nose all along. Literally! The stench is so distinctive. But, you see, I’ve seen Him before as well, if only briefly. You recall the case of the Devil’s Foot, which you so expertly set down?’
Good Lord, I thought to myself, is Holmes making some kind of veiled reference? Surely we were not facing the Fallen One himself; such a thing would have been even more preposterous than Holmes’ theory about demonic possession. As it transpired, our foe was so much more terrifying, and less discriminating, than that. I nodded, remembering the case all too well.
‘It happened when I subjected us to the burning powder that was used to induce both madness and…death.’
‘Are you saying a similar poison has been employed here to drive people to such acts?’
He shook his head. ‘No, no, Watson. The Radix pedis diaboli has nothing to do with this affair, save for the fact that the one we must stop was present during that investigation also.’
‘I do not follow you.’
‘I have never spoken
about what I witnessed under the influence of that powder, nor have I asked you what you saw.’
‘My dose appeared to be notably smaller than yours,’ I told him, remembering how I shook Holmes out of his hallucinogenic trance.
‘Indeed.’ He looked again at the headstone before him, then cast his eye over the entire graveyard. ‘Consequently, I saw our enemy, Watson. A brief…suggestion, you might call it. But nevertheless it was Him, of that I am certain.’ Was my friend speaking of prophecy now? ‘It was a state I have been attempting to recreate during my absence from Baker Street.’
‘And were you successful in your endeavours?’ asked I, when all I really wanted to do was voice my concern. The state Holmes was talking about almost cost him his sanity, if not his own life.
‘I was indeed. I saw that which I was seeking, and more besides. I finally know what I must do. Actually what you must do, Watson.’ I still wasn’t following his line of reasoning and I told him so. He placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘Right now, I have more need of your skills as a physician than a detective. Do you trust me, old friend?’
‘Of course, Holmes.’
‘Then I would ask you to visit your surgery, with the express intention of collecting the items we shall require for our task, and meet me back here tomorrow at sundown.’
‘Task, Holmes?’ said I, still puzzled.
‘Yes.’ He fixed me with a stare that I have never forgotten from that day to this. Then he said, more serious than I have ever heard him sound, ‘Watson, tomorrow evening I would ask that you kill me.’
* * *
The logistics of Holmes’ plan will soon become apparent, but you can appreciate my asking him to elaborate on his exclamation. However, he would not, merely stating that the following night he would require me to end his life by stopping his heart.
