"However, tonight matters have reached a point where I can no longer act alone. For some years you three have known of my ongoing feud with Sherlock Holmes. More times than I care to remember, this Napoleon of Crime has managed to elude the net that I have cast for him. Tonight he made a move in a plan that will involve the escape of Jack the Ripper."
The silence that fell over the room with his words was a familiar one to me. I had known it on those occasions when it had been necessary to break the news to a patient's family that they had lost a loved one.
"You are certain of this?" said Prince Albert. At that moment he seemed twenty years older than when I had come into the room.
"Yes, and moreover, I believe that events will come to a head within the next several days. In three days' time it will be the anniversary of the first of the Ripper murders. It would suit Holmes's sense of humor to see the man walking free again on that day."
The silent man picked up his pen and began to write. A moment later the sheet was passed to Prince Edward. The younger man's cigar sat untouched in the ashtray in front of him, a gray pile of ash below it.
"You have guaranteed the silence of your companions, Professor. Very well, let both men understand that what they are about to hear may be the most dangerous secret in the entirety of the British Empire. What do you gentlemen know concerning the Ripper murders?" asked the Heir Apparent.
"Only what was in the newspapers," Murray said.
Holmes had, in fact, been called into the case, but had never confided any of the details, saying that it was a tale better left untold. I recalled the multitude of rumors that had echoed from every pub and street corner regarding the Ripper during those dark days.
"Six years ago Murray was in America handling the matter of the May Surveillance for me. Dr. Watson was also out of the country."
"Very well. As you gentlemen know, for some six months in 1888, London was frightened to its core by the series of murders committed in the Whitechapel district by the person who came to be known as Jack the Ripper.
"So far as the public knows, the Ripper was never brought to book for the crime. Some of the far more speculative journals have hinted that he may still be prowling the streets of London to this day. That has not been true for more than six years.
"Thanks to the untiring efforts of Professor Moriarty, Scotland Yard, and the late Inspector Allard, in early July of that year the Ripper was captured," said Prince Edward.
"Then why was the public never told of this?" asked Murray.
"Because of the identity of the Ripper. I still remember the night I was summoned to Scotland Yard. When I learned who the Ripper actually was I knew that it would be impossible for that knowledge to be made public," said Prince Albert, his voice shaky.
"Impossible," said his son picking up the narrative. "Because Jack the Ripper was none other than the Duke of Clarence, third in line to the throne of England; Albert Victor, my own flesh and blood, my son."
There had been rumors, of course, regarding the Queen's grandson. Like many others, I had heard them and just credited them to a frightened, overactive public's imagination.
"He was insane, of course, a mental disorder combined with syphilis. You both will understand the dilemma that we faced," said Moriarty.
"My grandson had to be cut out of the line of succession. The very idea that the heir to the throne was a murderer would have shaken the very foundations of this monarchy and our empire. So, like a mad dog, he was, in a manner of speaking, put down. With the cooperation of certain highly placed officials, we faked his death.
"For the last few years, Albert Victor, under the name Victor Wednesday, has been a patient at Druid's Hill Asylum. Not even my beloved Victoria knows the truth in this matter," said Prince Albert.
"You may rest assured, Your Royal Highness, that no one shall hear of this from either Murray or myself," I said.
"Thank you, Doctor." This was no monarch who spoke now, but a grieving grandfather.
The third man again took pen in hand. This time the paper went directly to Prince Albert.
The old man read it and nodded. "I cannot agree with you more."
"Professor, I am going to place the entire matter into your hands. You will have at your disposal all the resources of the government if you need them.
The Prince Consort scribbled a few lines on a sheet of paper, added hot wax to the bottom, and his signet ring into it. His son looked at the result, signed it and added his own signet's impression to the wax.
"This will not only gain you admittance to the asylum, but gives you full authority to act as you see fit concerning the inmate known as Victor Wednesday," said Prince Edward.
"Full authority?"
I arched an eyebrow at those words. To me that meant the power of life and death. I suspected it meant the same to Moriarty
"Full authority," the Heir Apparent repeated.
"I understand. I will attempt to exercise it with extreme discretion."
"I didn't doubt that for one minute," said the older man, quietly.
Moriarty had decided that it would be best for Murray to remain in London while the Professor and I would pay a visit to Druid's Hill. We, however, did not travel alone.
At the insistence of Prince Edward, we were accompanied by Mary Morstan.
"I think that she would be of very great help to you in this enterprise," Prince Edward had said.
I was the first to raise objection, fearing for her safety. I also found myself wondering if in this world Mary were one of the many "close friends" that Bertie was known to have in mind.
"Before you object, Doctor," she said. "Let me enlighten you to a few things. I am also a physician, fully board-certified and a graduate of Queen's College. I have been a practicing doctor for some time. My specialty these last several years has been the study of criminal insanity."
Mary had always exhibited a healthy interest in my work, but I had never considered that it had gone that far. To say I was astonished was to put the situation mildly. I had heard of women doctors, but had never encountered one before.
"What is the Prince's condition?" I asked.
"Slowly deteriorating. He has periods of lucidity, but they don't last long anymore. Like many patients suffering from syphilis, his thoughts are confused and at times make little or no sense. There are moments when he can fly into a total murderous rage at the mention of certain subjects. In the case of the Prince, it is mention of the Queen, his grandmother. Only three weeks ago he nearly killed one of the other doctors who made an offhand remark," she said.
"You understand the danger that you are placing yourself in tonight?" I asked, realizing as I did that I was speaking to the woman who had spent considerable time in the company of Jack The Ripper these past few years and lived to tell about it.
"Yes, Dr. Watson," she said. "But thank you for taking time to worry."
"If I may ask a question, Professor?" I said.
"Certainly. Given the current set of circumstances, I would imagine that you have quite a few of them."
"That rather thin gentleman back there at Cudugin Square, the one who never spoke. Who was he? He certainly seemed to have the Prince's ear."
"Indeed he does. His name is Holmes."
"Holmes? Mycroft Holmes?"
"That is exactly who he is, Watson. I take it you know him?"
"Yes. What does he do for the Prince?"
"I'm not sure, but I think that he is the head of the secret service."
"You think?"
"That's how secret it is." At least some things were the same in this world as the one I had come from.
I shook my head and turned toward Mary.
We departed Victoria Station the next morning. During the trip I found it remarkably easy to speak with Mary, she was so like the woman I had fallen in love with, and yet as different as night and day.
Druid's Hill Asylum. The name suggested a far more sinister-appearing place than the rather palatial-looking c
ountry estate we found ourselves approaching that evening. The house itself was more than three hundred years old; its basements had been built deep into solid bedrock. A fence, hidden in places by carefully placed hedges and trees, surrounded the grounds. The ornamental grating on the windows was actually reinforced iron.
"Definitely a fortress," I said.
"It will be difficult for Holmes to penetrate these grounds," Mary observed.
"Dr. Morstan, I appreciate the fact that you did not claim it impossible. Nothing is impossible," Moriarty said. "In just the journey here I have conceived of some five methods that would work. It is the sort of challenge that Holmes has always accepted in the past."
The director of Druid's Hill was a burly man with mutton-chop side whiskers named Throckmorton, Dr. R. A. Throckmorton. He seemed a self-important fellow who had found his niche and intended to protect it.
"See here, I will not have you interrupting the routine of this establishment. Barging in here in the middle of the night is the sort of thing that could destroy months and months of work with these patients. We walk a delicate balance with some of them. Dr. Morstan, I'm totally astonished that you would associate yourself with these . . . common adventurers."
Moriarty rose in his chair at those words, but settled back. His face was washed of emotion, his eyes two cutting gray lights starring at Dr. Throckmorton. I heard a tiny click, click, click sound, of metal hitting metal, and noticed Moriarty had the three metal balls in his hand and was rolling them back and forth.
"You have seen our authorization."
"Indeed I have. That piece of paper leads me to suspect that the dementia that afflicts Victor Wednesday may be only partially caused by the disease that he suffers from, and more from his ancestry," Throckmorton said.
"That statement borders on treason, Doctor," I said.
"It borders on the rights of a free-born Englishman to speak his mind, sir," replied Throckmorton. "A right that we all posses, republican and royalist alike."
"Dr. Throckmorton, this is not Hyde Park. You know my authority, where it comes from and the range of it. You know my personal credentials. My companions are physicians who will certainly see to the health of the patient. Will you permit me access to him?" said Moriarty.
"Yes," he said finally.
Albert Victor, Duke of Clarence, third in line for the throne of Great Britain, AKA Victor Wednesday, was awake. He was sitting on his bed staring at a small painting of a landscape hanging on the opposite wall.
The cell that they kept him in was on the lowest level of Druid's Hill, nearly thirty feet under ground. According to Mary, he was allowed out only under the most strictly controlled conditions. This section of the asylum was reserved for the most dangerous and psychotic cases. As we had made our way through the halls, I heard screams of pain and anger that cut into the very stones of the building.
"I've seen him sit for days just like that, not sleeping, just staring at it, absorbing every little nuance of it. Perhaps for him it is an escape," Mary said. "Other times he raves on every subject imaginable, making little or no sense. On rarer and rarer occasions he is coherent and seemingly aware of what he has done and what is happening to him."
We had been there an hour, and never once in that time had the Prince responded to any questions, or even so much as acknowledged our presence. He just sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the painting. I could see enough of his face to recognize the family features, echoes of those two faces that I had seen only a few hours before. He had lost weight, but no matter what name he officially bore at Druid's Hill, there was no mistaking that face.
"I wonder if he knows of the plan to free him," I asked.
"I would not put it past Holmes to have contacted him. Whether he did, it is questionable whether Victor would even remember it," said Moriarty. "At his stage of the disease, a syphilitic's memory is not reliable."
In the meantime the Prince had risen and walked across his cell to make a slight adjustment to the picture. Then he began to pace back and forth, in slow, measured steps along the length of the cell, holding himself with the dignified carriage and air that one would expect of a member of the royal family.
He stopped for a moment, looked toward us, gave a slight nod in Mary's direction and continued pacing.
"I do not expect the attack to be direct," I told Moriarty.
"Perhaps," he said.
"Sometimes a frontal assault is exactly the sort of strategy that works the best," someone said from behind us.
We turned to find Director Throckmorton standing in the door that led to the upper levels of the asylum. The voice belonged to a big bear of a man standing directly behind him, his arm around Throckmorton's neck, a pistol pressed to the doctor's temple.
"If you gentlemen and the lady would be so good as to step back against the far wall it would make things a great deal easier for the lot of us."
"Please do as he says! He's already shot two of my orderlies and who knows how many other people," pleaded the director in a whiny high-pitched voice.
"Colonel Moran, I presume?" I said.
"Indeed I am, and who might you be, sir? I know Moriarty and this girl, but you are a stranger to me."
"I am Colonel Doctor John Watson, late of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. You may be more then a bit familiar with my old regiment." I elected to use the unaccustomed rank, hoping that it just might give me a tiny bit of equality in Moran's mind.
"A fine outfit. Now Colonel, if you don't get yourself up against that wall I will shoot you and then Director Throckmorton, in that order," he said.
So much for the idea of impressing him. "Oh really, Mr. Holmes," said Moriarty, shaking his head. "I do think that it would be a bit more comfortable for you if Colonel Moran would take the gun out of your ear."
For the briefest moment I wondered what kind of game he was playing. Then I saw a change come over the asylum director. Moran did indeed free him, stepping back several paces. An obviously padded jacket slipped off Throckmorton's shoulder, followed by a shirt pillow and the shock of unruly red hair and mutton-chop sideburns.
Sherlock Holmes stood stretching himself to his full height. The face was the same as that of my friend, but the lines around his eyes were harder and crueler.
"There, that is much better. The disguise was not all that difficult a thing to do, but the man has such an insufferable attitude I wonder how anyone can stand to be around him for any length of time. Tell me, Professor, when did you know it was I?"
"Not immediately. Only when I noticed that one of your sideburns was not quite glued down completely did I suspect that I was not talking to the genuine Dr. Throckmorton. Your acting was excellent. I have no doubt you would have done well treading the boards," said Moriarty.
"My thanks, Professor. Like many, I have always harbored dreams of theater. Perhaps if my life had gone down a different path. That however, is neither here nor there. Your sudden arrival has forced me to accelerate my plans."
Holmes's slim fingers reached into his vest pocket and produced a long gray key. He fitted it into the lock, swinging open the cell door with a flourish.
"Your Highness, if you would come with me."
Victor Wednesday continued to walk back and forth, ignoring Holmes's action. When he did stop, he didn't look at Sherlock Holmes, or even the open cell door, but stared at the painting.
"Is this real or but another of these endless nightmares given form?" he whispered.
"Oh, very real, Your Highness, very real. The only nightmare invoked this night will be for those who locked you away," said Holmes.
"Good," he said.
For the first time, Victor Wednesday seemed to pass away and Prince Albert Victor took his place. As he headed for the door he casually said, "It would please us greatly if you would accompany us on our journey, Dr. Morstan."
The thought of Mary in the hands of Holmes and this man who was Jack the Ripper was more than I could stand. Without a thought as
to consequences, I charged at Holmes, screaming at the top of my lungs. Unfortunately, I did not get close enough to my old friend's double because a mountain stepped between us. Moran grabbed me by the lapels and slammed me hard against the cell bars.
The last thing that I recall before I blacked out was Mary calling my name.
It was at least several eternities before the darkness opened up for me. I struggled to say something, but lost the words echoing through the pounding in my head, which could very easily have been the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace. I tried to rise up, but a wave of dizziness sent me rolling back onto the floor.
The Improbable Adventures of Sherlock Holmes Page 13
