“Yes, he is, but there is a coroner here in London, and if there are suspicious circumstances surrounding this man’s death, he will summon a jury and investigate how the deceased died. He will interview members of the family and there will be an inquest and-”
“Oh, but you know how the people of this city are; they love a spectacle.”
I had to admit that was true. Coroner’s inquests were frequently held in public houses or in the open air; rumours quickly spread through the excited crowds who clamoured for a verdict, even if it was not substantiated by any evidence.
“Lestrade wants to keep this quiet. But soon it will be public knowledge. Did you read the article in the newspaper as I requested?”
“No, but Oscar told me about it when we had lunch today.”
“How is Oscar?” he asked, but his attention was fixed upon the corpse. He held a magnifying glass over the men’s fingernails and studied them.
“He seems well. He’s trying hard to rid himself of his Irish accent. He seems desperate to be a true Londoner.”
“Hmm,” he responded. Sherlock cared little for trivial facts that might clutter his brain.
“I’m a bit worried about him. He seems enamoured with Lillie Langtry.”
“The actress?”
“Yes, who also happens to be the mistress to our Prince.”
He murmured, “Hmm” again.
“It could do Oscar harm, Sherlock.”
“I agree Oscar should not interfere with the Prince’s affairs. Mr. Brown, the apothecary here, was saying the other day that Bertie is building a retreat for their trysts.”
“Yes, Oscar mentioned that.”
“Now where did I put my notes?” he asked himself. Picking up a notebook near the foot of the gurney, he said, “Here they are.” He clearly was disinterested in gossip and wished to proceed with his investigation. “It could be a serial killer, Poppy.”
“A what?”
“The person who killed this young man. This is not the first victim near the museum. It is the fifth such corpse in as many weeks. I think we have a serial killer on the loose.”
“A what?”
“A serial killer. A situation where several murders can be tied together.”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing. Would you count the baby farmers as a series?”
“I would not. They were committed as separate events by many so-called Angel Makers with no specific time between them. Only the motivation to murder the children was the same - to make room for more out of greed. That is really the common denominator - the desire for profit.”
I looked down. “Yes, that’s true, of course. So these victims are not chosen at random?”
“No, Poppy, this was not some random spree. This is a series of murders and I believe they are linked, for several reasons, the first being that a small statue of Buddha and a dead bird were found next to each corpse, and the bodies were arranged in precisely the same manner. A murderer who chooses victims in a deliberate series or sequence, generally engaging in the same rituals or mode, is nothing new, of course. When I was investigating our prior case, I read about a French nobleman named Gilles de Rais in the fifteenth century who attacked children. He raped, tortured and killed them very methodically.”
“How many?”
“The estimate is over eight hundred.”
“Did you say eight hundred?”
Sherlock nodded. “And this murderer who is on the loose is likely not London’s first nor will he be our fair city’s last. Some of the boroughs breed crime, Poppy. Cheapside, Whitechapel, for example, where some of my young sleuths hail from. They are filled with prostitutes, the destitute, and demented individuals. Who knows what fate might befall them if someone takes it into his mind to rid the city of those he considers wicked or immoral or useless, a drain on society? I fear such places are ripe hunting grounds for someone who seeks out his prey where the lawful do not venture and a criminal may go unseen and slip away in the fog.”
All at once, the air felt heavy. It was almost like Sherlock had acquired Effie’s psychic gift. There would come a day in the not-so-distant future when I would recall those prescient remarks because just such a serial killer would roam the eerie streets of Whitechapel and become known to the world as Jack the Ripper.
Exasperated, Sherlock stomped around the room. “I am baffled and I do not like it. So, who is able to find these men and who has the power to overcome without striking a blow? I have checked this man’s hands and fingernails. There is no sign of a struggle or defensive wounds. And it is a ritual of sorts.” He paused a moment, then said, “I suspect our killer is a man, of course.”
“Why is that? Do you not consider a woman capable of such cunning?”
“You would be intelligent enough. But most women I know would not be and women are by nature nurturers. They grasp at hope when none exists. Men do not.
“Now, most men in this city are Caucasian so the balance of probabilities suggests that is the race of our killer, yet the Buddha is intriguing.”
His face turned, as if shaded by a darkened sun.
“Transient or geographically stable?” he asked himself.
“Stable,” I answered, “given they were all found here.”
“Yes, London is his fertile hunting ground. For now, at least. But motive,” he muttered. “Does he enjoy killing? There is no sign of torture,” he added, his voice drifting to a whisper. “Is he delusional? Playing out some fantasy? Or have the men wronged him or his religion in some way and he seeks revenge?”
“The ultimate revenge,” I added.
“The murders follow a regular pattern, a very specific pattern, and the bird and the statue are part of the ritual. I’ve read of cases in Africa
