"I was saddened to see Holmes in one of Those frequent moods of despondency"
It is with a heavy heart that I take up my pen in the sure and certain knowledge that what I write must never be made public, at least not in my lifetime. Why then write it down? Perhaps it is force of habit. I have long grown used to my role as chronicler of the world's greatest detective. Perhaps it is simply vanity on my part or else a compulsion to set down the facts as they occurred. Whatever, if you are reading this then the chief protagonists are long dead and it is for you to decide.
You all know of course of my dear friend Sherlock Holmes? His reputation in the detection of crime is legendary. True I have contributed to this in some small measure but it must be said that my friend's discretion has prevented me from setting down some of the more infamous cases. Several times a grateful government has been prepared to shower him with honours only to be gently rebuffed. Of the few things he craves, anonymity is one of those he considers most precious.
Perhaps more than anonymity there is one thing that Holmes valued above all other - so much so that he considered it central to his very existence. I refer of course to his detective work. It may seem morbid to some but it is only through the investigation of crime that my friend is able to put his wits to their fullest test. Even I, increasingly a man who craves a warm fire and a newspaper, feel stirrings when I see the exultation on his face at the prospect of solving a case. In spite of myself I grow excited as we set off on our nocturnal adventures, he emboldened by the need to solve some great puzzle and I, more cautiously, by the reassuring presence of my old army revolver.
So it was that I was saddened to see Holmes in one of those frequent moods of despondency that so afflicted him when there was nothing suitable to engage his talents. It began that summer in 1888. Truth to tell, in my humble medical opinion, Holmes was exhausted. The notorious affair of Wilson the Runner, which he had so recently resolved, had physically taxed him to breaking point and almost cost him his life.
"When one has a finely tuned violin," he remarked to me on one occasion, "one must be careful not to over tighten the strings lest they break."
Alas if only he had taken his own advice but, for all his intellect, Holmes failed to realise that his activities threatened the balance of his own finely tuned mind."
That summer of '88 was one of the wettest on record and I observed that my friend reacted to it with growing irritation.
"Give me fog Watson. That's what I crave. There is no greater stimulus to the criminal brain than the cloak of a London fog. Under fog, all deeds are hidden and where there is the unseen there is also crime. As for this deluge! I ask you, what sane man..indeed what sane criminal would venture out in it?"
Then he would resume his gloomy contemplation of the downpour, watching the rain skitter off the opposite roof gables onto the streets below. He would stare for hours at the sodden passers by and begin to idly play a game with himself by guessing their trades and providing such details about their lives as he could ascertain. Occasionally he would make these observations known to me.
"What a shame that young woman slipped Watson. Still she preserved her fiancé's letter so I suppose she is content enough. More so than that retired colour sergeant, reduced to selling matches. He must have long regretted his crime."
Normally on these occasions, Holmes would patiently enumerate the logic behind his observations, but his ennui was so strong that he merely shrugged and resumed his vigil at the window.
Sometimes my friend took solace in his violin but it seemed to bring him little comfort. In vain I endeavoured to persuade my companion to take a trip abroad or at least to take a break in the country somewhere, but like a drowning man he resisted and clung all the more firmly to the metropolis.
"Only the engagement of the mind counts Watson," he would say. "Life for me is a battle of wills between the criminal mind and my own. That is what keeps me alive. That is what sustains me. And if, one day, I grow tired of the chase then I shall retire to the Sussex Downs and keep bees."
The summer dragged on until we came to the August Bank Holiday and despite the inclement weather Londoners, sensing perhaps this was their last chance before the onslaught of winter, appeared ready to make the best of things. My wife and I spent a pleasant day, despite the warm drizzle, at the Alexandra Palace watching the daring Professor Baldwin ascend 1000 feet in a balloon and then parachute to the ground. Despite the weather, it was an entertainment not to be missed.
I did not see Holmes for a week after that date. My patients were, at that time keeping me fully occupied. It is always like this when one is establishing a practice. One has to be extra attentive. When I did finally present myself at Baker Street I found him to be in some agitation with newspapers strewn about the study which he kicked as he paced the room.
"God Watson. I shall go mad. It's my punishment, I believe, for having lived too well in a former life. Perhaps I was some fabulous potentate or maybe I have been bewitched by one of those fairy folk you profess to believe in."
I blushed at the mention of this confidence that I had imparted to him one idle evening. Holmes and I disagreed profoundly on matters of the occult and the supernatural. I preferred to keep an open mind whereas he favoured a more rational argument.
"When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth," he would say.
Naturally it was on the notion of what constituted "the impossible" that we disagreed.
"Holmes. You must calm yourself," I said, but he was not to be swayed.
"Here am I," he shouted," the world's foremost detective if I may say so, not without a little modesty and what do I have to occupy my talents but this?"
And with that he kicked a newspaper in my direction. I picked it up. It was an edition of the "Times" August 10th, 1888. The article was this.
"The Murder in Whitechapel"
Yesterday afternoon Mr. G. Collier, Deputy Coroner for the South-Eastern Division of Middlesex, opened an inquiry at the Working Lads' Institute, Whitechapel-Road, respecting the death of the woman who was found on Tuesday last, with 39 stabs on her body, at George-yard-buildings, Whitechapel.
John S. Reeves, of 37, George-yard-buildings, a waterside labourer, said that on Tuesday morning he left home at a quarter to 5 to seek for work. When he reached the first-floor landing he found the deceased lying on her back in a pool of blood. He was frightened, and did not examine her, but at once gave information to the police. He did not know the deceased. The deceased's clothes were disarranged, as though she had had a struggle with some one. Witness saw no footmarks on the staircase, nor did he find a knife or other weapon.
Dr. T.R. Killeen, of 68, Brick-lane, said that he was called to the deceased, and found her dead. She had 39 stabs on the body. She had been dead some three hours. Her age was about 36, and the body was very well nourished. Witness had since made a post mortem examination of the body. The left lung was penetrated in five places, and the right lung was penetrated in two places. The heart was penetrated in one place which would have been sufficient to cause death. The liver was penetrated in five places, the spleen was penetrated in two places, and the stomach was penetrated in six places.
I put the newspaper down, not wishing to read any more.
"There you see Watson. A simple murder, nothing more."
"Surely something more for the poor woman Holmes."
"My dear friend. I stand corrected. Murder is never a pretty thing, especially one as brutal as this one but..here..look at this."
He handed me a piece of paper. It was a request from H Division Whitechapel for help in solving the murder.
"Well..?" I said.
"Well what? What possible assistance can I render the police?"
"Surely the greatest detective in the world can be of some use."
"He smiled.
"Touché Watson. And if they needed any help I would indeed render it. But this is such a simple crime. So simple in fact that even the flatfooted police can solve it in a week."
But the murder remained unsolved and I saw no more of Holmes for several weeks. Mrs Hudson, long used to his nocturnal habits, reported that she did not see him for days on end herself but would then be awoken at some ungodly hour by the sound of his entering his room. And when he did he always kept the door locked. Knowing my friend's fondness for narcotics I suspected that his visits were to the opium dens of Limehouse - a dangerous place for one so dangerously unbalanced.
I began to pray for a miracle and then, God forgive me, I was granted one. I was surprised, one morning, to see Holmes at my house. He was well groomed and there was a familiar gleam in his eye, though I fancy he was paler than normal, a familiar symptom in opium users.
"Quickly Watson. There is little time."
"Time for what Holmes," I blustered. He drew my attention to the morning's "Times" which I had not yet had time to read.
"Another Murder in Whitechapel"
Another murder of the foulest kind was committed in the neighbourhood of Whitechapel in the early hours of yesterday morning, but by whom and with what motive is at present a complete mystery. At a quarter to 4 o'clock Police-constable Neill, 97J, when in Buck's-row, Whitechapel, came upon the body of a woman lying on a part of the footway, and on stooping to raise her up in the belief that she was drunk he discovered that her throat was cut almost from ear to ear. She was dead but still warm. On examination it was discovered that, besides the gash across the throat, the woman had terrible wounds in the abdomen. The body was taken to the mortuary and identified as that of Mary Ann Nicholls, also called "Polly" Nicholls.
The matter is being investigated by Detective-inspector Abberline, of Scotland-yard. The police have no theory with respect to the matter, except that a gang of ruffians exists in the neighbourhood, which, blackmailing women of the "unfortunate" class, takes vengeance on those who do not find money for them. They base that surmise on the fact that within 12 months two other women have been murdered in the district by almost similar means--one as recently as the 6th of August last--and left in the gutter of the street in the early hours of the morning. If the woman was murdered on the spot where the body was found, it is impossible to believe she would not have aroused the neighbourhood by her screams, Bucks-row being a street tenanted all down one side by a respectable class of people, superior to many of the surrounding streets, the other side having a blank wall bounding a warehouse. Dr. Llewellyn has called the attention of the police to the smallness of the quantity of blood on the spot where he saw the body, and yet the gashes in the abdomen laid the body right open. He made a second examination of the body in the mortuary, and on that based his conclusion, but will make no actual post mortem until he receives the Coroner's orders. The inquest is fixed for to-day.
It was frightening to observe the change in my friend. I could almost hear the finely tuned engine beneath his skull. Here at last was work for his keen mind.
"It may interest you to know that I have this very morning received a request for help from the aforementioned Detective Inspector Abberline and this time I have decided to acquiesce. But come, we'll discuss it on the way."
"Way?"
"Yes Watson way," replied Holmes testily, making no attempt to conceal his irritation at my pardonable slowness.
"Way to where?"
"Why to Whitechapel of course."
Holmes practically pushed me into my Ulster and dragged me to the door. Soon we were ensconced in a hansom and rattling along the road towards the East End.
"This Abberline is a fine enough fellow," remarked Holmes cheerily," but like most policemen he is somewhat lacking in imagination. I fear we will have to humour him for the moment Watson since we are in dire need of facts and must tread carefully in out dealings with the constabulary. The main thing is never to let them think that their information can be of the slightest importance to you. Otherwise they will shut up like an oyster All the same the approach of the police to this case has been most woefully poor. Here we live in an age of science, where new inventions spring up every day and the police cannot even be bothered to take photographs of the scene of the crime. Still, never mind," he said rubbing his hands, " where the camera is lacking my eyes will have to do and those, as you know are some of the keenest in London."
I nodded, for though my friend's remarks were immodest they were nevertheless true. And it was good to see him in such fine spirits. He said little on the journey but occasionally he could not restrain his enthusiasm.
"Like old times Watson eh?"
I nodded.
"Back to your bachelor days at 221B. Remember our first case in Whitechapel."
"Indeed I do. It was the Case of the Cursing Carter."
Holmes winced.
"Or so you styled it, in such an alliterative and sensational fashion, in your memoirs."
"But it was the making of you Holmes."
He smiled and said no more until the cab came to a halt at Bucks Row, the scene of the murder.
Considering what had just taken place, I had expected the area to have a sombre and evil atmosphere. Instead I was shocked to discover all manner of peddlers and hawkers selling their wares. Undeterred by the prospect of a murderer on the loose, the pavements were crowded with sightseers who were eagerly listening to local "eyewitnesses" who were relating all they claimed to have seen and heard for a small consideration. Holmes looked at me and smiled grimly.
"A cold trail Watson."
Bucks Row runs from east to west over the London and Northern Railway line. As we stood there I could hear the occasional roar of trains. The eastern end was fairly wide but it then became a narrow, cobbled, mean street, having on one side a row of shabby, dirty little houses of two stories. A three foot pavement separated them from the road. The only illumination was from a single gas lamp at the far end of the street. On the opposite side to the houses were the high walls of warehouses which at night would shadow the dirty street in a deep gloom. Two narrow bridge roads led across the railway to Whitechapel Road. These were Thomas Street and Court Street. I surmised that a murderer could have escaped by either of these.
"That's what it corsts. A shillin'."
I followed Holmes along the road until we came to a gate.
"If I am not mistaken that is the scene of the murder Watson."
"How on earth did you guess that?" I said.
"I leave guesswork to others. See, that is the point where the crowd is at its most dense. You will notice also the rather stout red faced fellow, with a cudgel, who is exacting a commission from the public for the privilege of standing there."
"I do indeed and I must say I don't like the look of him."
If Holmes felt the same he did not say so but I noticed that he approached the man with the peak of his cap turned down.
"Shillin'. " said the man.
"I beg your pardon," said Holmes, his head bowed.
"That's what it corsts. A shillin'."
"Oh I see. Well I must say that it's a little steep to stand in a gateway on a public thoroughfare."
"Like it or lump it. There's plenty who'll pay."
"I daresay but I fear I am not one of them."
"Then 'op it."
"Look here," I interjected. "Do you realise that you are hindering a very important investigation."
"I'll 'inder you in a minit." he said.
Suddenly Holmes thrust himself forward and stared the fellow full in the eye.
"I don't think you will Grappler. You cheated the gallows once but I do not think you will be so fortunate next time."
The man's expression changed instantly as a smile crossed his face.
"Why Mr Holmes. I might have known that you'd be on this one."
"Watson, allow me to introduce you to Grappler Jenkins, one of my earlier successes. He was before you came to live with me. Remind me to tell you sometime about the incident of the Hoxteth Horror. A very interesting case if I remember - dependent on the properties of Potassium Permanganate."
"No, dependent on Mr Holmes," said the brute, as he shook and all but encircled my hand. "If it weren't for 'is intervention an innocent man would have gone to the gallows and..."
"And the ring would have been deprived of a skilled boxer and an excellent sportsman."
The effect of this praise was to render the man tongue tied. No longer did he seem so fearsome where before I had quite supposed that the man was perfectly capable of murder.
"All behind me now Mr Holmes but as I recall you did a bit o' boxing yourself."
"Student stuff in my youth Jenkins, nothing more. I make a better detective."
The man nodded his agreement.
"Sport's loss was my gain," he said.
"How much was it, did you say? A shilling?" asked Holmes.
"Wouldn't hear of it Mr Holmes. Yourself and Dr Watson here are guests."
He ushered us forward then began to push back the crowd, aided by his stick.
"'Ere you lot. Stand back. Give a man room."
By a combination of strength and force of will he got the crowd to give us all the room Holmes needed but he was not a man to neglect an opportunity.
"Roll up, roll up," he bellowed, "only two shillin'. See an investigation as it actually 'appens by Mr Sherlock Holmes, the world's greatest detective, ably assisted by Dr Watson," he said as the scoundrel gave me a wink.
Holmes was unperturbed. He was busy with his tape measure and his glass.
"Little for us here Watson I fancy. What the police failed to destroy, the public finished off. I'll wager there is more evidence on Jenkins' boots than on these cobbles. I should have been called earlier. Still we shall have to make do. Do you notice the blood?"
"It's very faint," I ventured.
"Yes, probably cleaned off by the neighbours. Notice the pattern, how little spread there is?"
"Yes," I replied, "do you suppose that the poor woman was murdered elsewhere."
"We must not discount this possibility but it is too soon too tell. Let's ask around and see if anyone saw or heard anything."
This proved an impossible task as, by now, practically everyone in the neighbourhood professed to know something about the murder. We tried knocking on the doors of the nearby houses but those who answered either appeared annoyed at the notoriety that the murder of a fallen woman had brought upon them or else had heard and seen nothing.
"Well Watson," said Holmes, " we tried. Now, would you like to accompany me to the mortuary or would you rather have something to eat first?"
"I think perhaps the mortuary first, don't you?"
"As you wish."
We stopped along the way to make a report to Detective Inspector Abberline.
"So you saw nothing that would lead you to ascertain the murderer Mr Holmes?"
"There was little enough to see."
"Ah yes, to be sure. Well we have our own methods at H Division and perhaps your services will soon be surplus to our needs."
"Oh so you've got the fellow. Well done inspector," said Holmes, so amiably that Abberline was quite stunned.
"Well no but we have an important lead. You may recall that there have been a number of street gangs terrorising loose women. We have been watching a man notorious for demanding money with menaces. His nickname is "Leather Apron"."
"I see. Well if my services are no longer required."
"Now I didn't say that Mr Holmes.."
"Very well. Would it be possible to interview the constable who found the body?"
"Of course."
Constable Neill was off duty so we made our way to his lodgings. He proved to be diligent for one in his occupation and more than willing to answer Holmes' questions.
"Tell me constable. Did Bucks Row constitute part of your beat?"
"No sir," said Neill," it's on PC Thain's patch."
"And have you spoken to him to compare notes?"
"Why yes sir, he passed down Buck's Row at about quarter past three and saw nothing."
"When did you discover the body?"
"That would be about ten to four. I was approached by two labourers who had found her whilst on their way to work."
"Is see. What did you do then?"
"Well one of the men thought that the woman might still be alive. He thought he felt a pulse. Of course I know now that they were mistaken but at the time I couldn't be sure so I called on Dr. Llewellyn. He thought she had been dead a few minutes."
"Did you or the two men notice anything else?"
"No sir. If I had seen the murderer I should have given the alarm."
"Quite. Well thank you constable. You have been most helpful."
We left the man to his bed, as he was due on the night shift that very evening, and headed towards the mortuary where the post mortem was to take place. Dr. Llewellyn was most accommodating, being an admirer of Holmes' scientific approach to detection and it was good to chat with a fellow professional whilst my friend made his examination. After some time he came towards us.
"There is little blood around the throat wound. What does it suggest to you two gentlemen?"
"That the cut was made after death," I suggested.
"Quite so, I have already mentioned that in my report," said Dr. Llewellyn.
"There is bruising on one side of her face," said Holmes. "Very interesting. It seems that the murderer held a hand across her mouth and forced her to the ground, strangled her, then cut her throat. The bruising on the face suggests that the mouth was covered with the right hand so he must have used the knife with his left. From the look of the wounds I would say he used a moderately short bladed knife, the kind of which can be easily concealed and purchased anywhere. Do you agree doctor?"
"It is consistent with my findings," said Dr. Llewellyn.
"Of course this means that she was murdered at the scene of the crime and not elsewhere. Now as to the mutilations of the abdomen. I find those most interesting. It seems to me he showed some skill in his work?"
"A moderate amount no more," the doctor shrugged.
Holmes turned to me.
"What do you think Watson?"
."Given the mutilation, clearly a madman Holmes."
"Perhaps, perhaps," Holmes nodded, "we shall see. What else?"
"You say the mutilations involved some skill. A butcher perhaps."
"A crazed butcher? Why not a crazed doctor?"
"Certainly not Holmes. I refuse to contemplate such a notion."
"Indeed. It would not do to have many crazed doctors roaming the streets of London would it? Mind you the same could be said for butchers. Besides any fool can learn a little skill with a knife. I have some myself and I am scarce butcher or doctor."
"So what is your opinion?" I said, with just a hint of sarcasm.
He drew himself to his full height before answering, as if savouring a grand performance, which after so many months of idleness, is precisely what he was doing.
"I would say that the murderer is educated, of medium height and a master of disguise. I believe that the disguise he affects is usually that of a humble clerk but depend on it this man is no clerk. He is a professional man."
"How so?"
"Imagination Watson. Any man can carry out a brutal killing but this murder has a certain refinement in the mutilations that have been carried out. They show imagination and intellect at work. A devilish and perverse imagination but an imagination nevertheless."
"But he could simply be a clerk."
"Watson, does a clerk who spends fourteen hours a day copying numbers into ledgers and drafting letters in copperplate have time for imaginative thought? And if he did would he not in time cease to be a clerk and rise above his station to some more appropriate position. Depend on it. Either way I am correct."
"But why the disguise and how do you surmise his height?"
"The matter of the height is simple. The woman was not overly tall and a man naturally tends to select a female who is shorter than he. Since the murderer would not wish to tower above her and attract the attention of possible witnesses he is sure to be of medium height. As to the disguise, how else could he move freely about Whitechapel and yet maintain a semblance of breeding. A clerk is the last person to draw the attentions of the police."
"Neither would a professional man."
"Yes but a professional man might draw the attention and envy of the denizens of Whitechapel. He might be a target for robbery. Worse, he might be remembered. No, the man is a sham. He attracts these women because he does not seem as rough as the normal types they associate with but he also blends into his surroundings. Remember the scene of the crime? He lures the woman to a secluded, ill-lit spot, murders her, then in a flash he disappears down a side street to reappear and mingle with the communality. He probably also maintains lodgings within the Whitechapel area. A man with blood on his hands needs somewhere private to clean it off."
"So what do you intend to do?"
"Do Watson, why catch the fellow before he does it again."
"Again?"
"Oh yes. He will kill again. It is a game to him, a chance to show that he is cleverer than anyone else. He believes his intellect places him above the herd."
"A pretty grim game," I ventured.
"Yes," he said, rubbing his hands together in glee, "but what he doesn't know is that the game now has another player."
I left him that evening in good spirits but just over a week later there was another murder. A more sombre Holmes arrived at my house the following evening. He had decided to go undercover, to trawl through the back alleys and yards of Whitechapel, asking questions here and there, searching for clues as to his opponent's whereabouts.
I suppose that it was then that I felt my first misgivings. For the first time since I had known Holmes I began to suspect a flaw in his reasoning. I had seen enough horrors in Afghanistan to know that all men are capable of torture, mutilation and black hearted murder. In searching for logic, for a rational explanation, Holmes had set his reputation upon his unshakeable belief in his system of detection and the danger was that he would fail horribly.
Weeks went by and still he remained unsuccessful. Would that I had spent more time with him but I could not neglect my practice. I chanced to pass Baker Street one evening and noticing his light on I went inside. As I walked into the living room he was in the act of inserting the hypodermic into his arm.
"Holmes," I said earnestly, "how many times have I warned you to decease from this practice?"
"It relaxes me Watson and allows my contemplative powers full rein."
"As a medical man and indeed as one who considers you to be a good friend I have to warn you that you risk losing those very intellectual powers by which you set so much store to say nothing of the risk to your bodily health."
But as he lapsed into the stupor of opium I realised that my words were useless so I left him and returned home to Mary.
By the end of September there was no further news of Holmes. I went round to Baker Street and spoke to Mrs Hudson who reported that, as in the summer, she often heard him return home at very odd hours then disappear for days on end. It was about this time that the murderer pulled his masterstroke. He committed two murders in the same night. It was as if he was defying Holmes to do his worst. I suppose it was only a matter of time before I took matters into my own hands. Mary had urged me to exercise caution lest I placed Holmes in greater danger by my blundering but a visit from Mycroft settled the matter. Holmes had always maintained that his brother Mycroft was the clever one.
"We are descended from the painter Vernet on my grandmother's side" he would say, "and there is altogether too much of the artist in me. That is why I fritter away my time indulging my whim for crime. Mycroft on the other hand holds high position in the government and weighs the financial affairs of state in his capable hands."
I led Mycroft into the sitting room and offered him a cigar which he accepted gratefully along with a glass of whisky into which he sprayed soda from the gasogene. He is a stout fellow, quite unlike Holmes in appearance except for his hawk like eyes. For a few minutes he sat there puffing contentedly on a Trichinopoly, looking to all the world as if he had not a care in the world and intended to stay in that armchair all night. But this was merely his reserve. What he had to relate was of great import concerning his brother and my friend and not to be hurried.
"You know of course of the Diogenes club?"
I nodded.
"Some of the most eminent men in the land are members of it. It is a haven from the hurly burly of the world and we jealously guard it from outside disturbance. Holmes is a member, of course and has been known to use its facilities on occasion. However I fear that his membership will now be terminated."
"How so?" I enquired.
"As you know we have strict rules. No member is allowed to talk to another. We crave privacy above all else. Two nights ago Holmes burst in, dressed in the most outlandish garb and proceeded to accuse one of the members of being a murderer."
"I see. And what happened then?"
"I was able to prevail upon him to leave the man alone but no sooner had I led him away, intending to take him back to his rooms, when he broke from me and disappeared into the night."
He relapsed into silence and puffed on his cigar meditatively. I was too shocked to say anything. Things were worse than I had imagined. Mycroft began to speak again.
"You are his friend and a medical man. I urge you. Find him before he comes to harm."
The day after Mycroft's visit I resolved to follow Holmes on his nocturnal ramblings. My first task was to procure a suitable disguise, one in which I hoped to fool Holmes. I stepped outside into the street and hailed a cab.
"Drive me down to the East End," I ordered, taking my seat.
`Where, sir?" the cabby demanded with frank surprise.
"To the East End, anywhere. Go on."
"I say," he said, "wot plyce yer wanter go?"
"East End," I repeated. "Nowhere in particular. Just drive me around, anywhere."
"But wot's the haddress, sir?"
"See here!" I thundered. "Drive me down to the East End, and at once!"
It was evident that he did not understand, but he withdrew his head and grumbling started his horse. Nowhere in the streets of London may one escape the sight of abject poverty, while five minutes' walk from almost any point will bring one to a slum; but the region my hansom was now penetrating was one unending slum. The streets were filled with a new and different race of people, short of stature, and of wretched or beer-sodden appearance. We rolled along through miles of bricks and squalor, and from each cross street and alley flashed long vistas of bricks and misery. Here and there lurched a drunken man or woman, and the air was obscene with sounds of jangling and squabbling.
At a market, tottery old men and women were searching in the garbage thrown in the mud for rotten potatoes, beans, and vegetables, while little children clustered like flies around a festering mass of fruit, thrusting their arms to the shoulders into the liquid corruption, and drawing forth morsels, but partially decayed, which they devoured on the spot.
"Here and there lurched a drunken man or woman"
I'll tell you what I want," I said to the cabby. "You drive along and keep your eye out for a shop where old clothes are sold. Now, when you see such a shop, drive right on till you turn the corner, then stop and let me out."
The cabby grumbled but continued for some minutes until quite suddenly the cab lurched and came to a halt.
"S'round the corner has you requested sir," he said.
I got out and walked to the shop. It was an unprepossessing affair but although my skin crawled out the thought of wearing such verminous rags I resolved that this was the only way I could obtain a suitably authentic costume so I went inside. Here the chief difficulty was in making the shop man understand that I really and truly wanted old clothes. But after fruitless attempts to press upon me new coats and trousers, he began to bring to light heaps of old ones, looking mysterious the while and hinting darkly that he considered me a man in trouble, or a high-class criminal. In the end I selected a pair of stout though well-worn trousers, a frayed jacket with one remaining button, a battered coat, a pair of brogans which had plainly seen service where coal was shovelled, a thin leather belt, and a very dirty cloth cap. My underclothing and socks, however, were new and warm. There are limits after all.
The cabby took me back to my house and there I took off my shoes (not without regret for their lightness and comfort), and my soft, grey travelling suit, and, in fact, all my clothing; and proceeded to array myself in my new "old" clothes. Inside my stoker's singlet, in the armpit, I sewed a gold sovereign (an emergency sum of modest proportions); and inside my stoker's singlet I put myself. It was rough and raspy as a hair shirt, and I am confident that the most rigorous of ascetics suffered no more than did I in the ensuing hours.
"But what does this mean John?"
The remainder of my costume was fairly easy to put on, though the brogans, or brogues, were quite a problem. As stiff and hard as if made of wood, it was only after a prolonged pounding of the uppers with my fists that I was able to get my feet into them at all. Then, with a few pennies, a knife, a handkerchief, and some brown papers and flake tobacco stowed away in my pockets, not forgetting my trusty army revolver, I thumped down the stairs. As I passed out the door, I heard a shriek and the clatter of plates. I had neglected to warn Mary. I hastened to reassure her that this was merely a disguise and she soon recovered her composure.
"But what does this mean John?"
"I am on a case with Sherlock Holmes," I said.
I hated using this subterfuge with my wife but I deemed it necessary in the circumstances. We kissed and parted.
No sooner was I out on the streets than I was impressed by the difference in status effected by my clothes. All servility vanished from the demeanour of the common people with whom I came in contact. I had become one of them. The man I passed dressed in corduroy with a dirty neckerchief no longer addressed me as `sir' or `governor.' It was `mate,' now. In my rags and tatters I escaped the pestilence of tipping, and encountered men on a basis of equality. I grew bold in my disguise and was rewarded when a gentleman whose horse I held, dropped a penny into my eager palm.
Other changes I discovered were wrought in my condition by my new garb. In crossing crowded thoroughfares I found I had to be, if anything, more lively in avoiding vehicles, and it was strikingly impressed upon me that my life had cheapened in direct ratio with my clothes. When before, I inquired the way of a policeman, I was usually asked, "Buss or 'ansom, sir?" But now the query became, "Walk or ride?" Also, at the railway stations it was the rule to be asked, "First or second, sir?" Now I was asked nothing, a third-class ticket being shoved out to me as a matter of course.
I made my way to Baker Street and secreted myself in a doorway. Holmes had not been seen at 221B for several days. The flaw in my plan was that there was no guarantee that he would return today at all yet I was resolved to persist in my plan. It appeared that I was in that doorway for hours although I had no idea of the actual time, considering it prudent to leave my pocket watch behind. Despite the chill November air I felt warm, though uncomfortable in my new attire. My greatest fear was that a policeman would happen along and move me on as a vagrant.
But despite my reservations and several suspicious glances no one bothered me. The streets began to thin towards dusk when I noticed a shadowy figure leave 221B. He was of medium height and had a moustache. His clothes were neat although they had seen better days. I began to idly speculate as to what this man's business had been with Holmes when it struck me. This was Holmes. But it was incredible. No matter how I strained I could not recognise him in that shabby figure. Everything - the appearance, the height - suggested a complete stranger. I remembered how he told me that, to a skilled actor it was possible to suggest anything. This man was shorter than Holmes but a change of demeanour, a stoop of the shoulder and a tall man can lose inches from his stature. As for the moustache, a little spirit gum can fix that. It had to be Holmes.
Slowly and with care I began to follow him. This was the most dangerous part of my enterprise. I was attempting to fool a master of disguise. At the same time I was ashamed of this subterfuge but I considered it a necessary evil. I had begun to fear for the sanity of my friend and felt, in part, to blame. It is difficult to imagine the toll that fame takes on a person. My writings had brought Holmes such notoriety. The crown heads of Europe had sent representatives to his door - sometimes they even undertook to come in person. And with each success there was a downward side because it placed the fear of failure on his shoulders. Holmes needed the stimuli of criminal investigation but he would have preferred to do it anonymously. The fact that he was walking ahead of me, in disguise, was proof of the notoriety that I had visited upon his head.
But there was another reason for my misgivings. I personally had experience of the horror of madness. My own father had been committed to a mental asylum and it was my ever-constant fear that such a fate would pass down a generation to myself. As a result I have always been ever vigilant as to my own behaviour and have built up a library of books on the subject in an effort to guard against becoming insane. So to witness the possibility of it happening to my dearest friend was a double burden. I began to curse the day that ever he was invited to investigate the Whitechapel murders and the effect it had upon his fragile intellect.
Suddenly Holmes quickened his pace and broke my train of thought. In an instant I perceived his intention for a hansom stood ready for a fare. What was I to do? Dressed as I was no one would give me a ride and apart from my concealed sovereign I had but little money upon my person. I decided to try a trick that Holmes had often done. I ambled casually up to the cab but as soon as Holmes began to get inside I ran up and jumped onto the back of the it, scarcely in time because the cabby pulled away immediately.
When at last he cab arrived at the East End I jumped off. In my disguise the fear of the crowd no longer haunted me. I had become a part of it. The vast and malodorous sea had welled up and over me, or I had slipped gently into it, and there was nothing fearsome about it. I watched Holmes shuffle off down Commercial Street and began carefully to follow him. He did not appear to notice me. A little way down he stopped and rested against a wall and appeared to be waiting for someone. Presently a young woman came up to him and said something. They conversed for a while then they both walked off together up the street. I followed at a distance until they turned into Dorset Street. There they walked a way until they came to a narrow arched entrance where they turned in.
I hastened along Dorset Street and was just in time to see them enter a side door. I was now in a dilemma. The woman was clearly a valuable informant and I was unwilling to break Holmes' cover yet I was also disturbed. Something was wrong - very wrong. I decided to wait in the street until he emerged from the room and confront him. I waited an hour and noticed with irritation that the cold November air aggravated the old wound which I had sustained in my shoulder from a Jezail bullet. Several times my appearance attracted attention and so I decided that it was better if I moved somewhere more discrete. I walked through the archway until I was opposite the door.
Then some whim made me try the handle. I turned it and opened the door. There was an eerie light in the room cast by a solitary candle and a brightly burning fire. For a second I could see nothing, mesmerised by the light of that fire. But then I saw it - such a sight as I will never forget. There was my friend Sherlock Holmes with a knife in his hand, bent over the now dead and mutilated body of the young girl that he had been speaking too not an hour before. What had once been a sordid dirty lodging was now transformed into a charnel house. As for Holmes, he was quite insane.
What more can be said. I grabbed hold of him and hastened him out of that dread room, leading him through the streets until we were some distance from Dorset Street and I could safely summon a cab. During this time he said nothing nor gave any resistance.
We drove back to Baker Street whereupon I immediately sent an urgent telegram to Mycroft. He arrived within the hour. In one glance he ascertained the situation and proceeded to make arrangements for the removal of Holmes. He suggested a private sanatorium in Switzerland and I signed the necessary papers. By the time the body was discovered Holmes was already on his way to Dover in the care of two discreet nursing attendants.
As for the disappearance of Holmes I found that the only way to cover our tracks was to arrange for his own death. I published a few of his old cases then ended his career with a piece of rank fiction which saw his death over the waterfalls in Switzerland. This would help to explain any sightings of him that were made during his European crossing.
Occasionally I go over there and visit him but he barely recognises me or seems to remember the crime he has committed. I cannot say for certain but I suspect that Holmes did not commit the other murders. I believe it was the strain of investigating them, coupled with his heavy narcotic use that finally unhinged the delicate balance of his mind. As I have said, I blame myself in part for this.
But I have not escaped entirely scot-free. If Holmes does not remember the details of that room I most certainly do. The sight of that mutilated figure on the bed haunts my dreams and twists and distorts my memory of that fateful night. Had I gone into the room earlier I might perhaps have saved her. Sometimes I seem to see her alive, sitting up with her mutilated face, taunting me. Sometimes I dream that we are the only two in the room, that Holmes is a purely a character from one of my stories and that it is I who am the murderer. Sometimes I even believe that I myself am a creature of fiction or else that I have created Watson to mask my own guilt.
It is then that I am reminded of the face of my own father, Richard, raving insanely as they dragged him off to the asylum. That is when I most fear for my own sanity. Often I wake up in the small hours shaking from the vividness of these dreams. Then, usually, I reach out to Mary to provide me with the familiarity of my own existence always fearing that one day she will not be there.