All are examples of what I believe could be termed a deeply morbid erotic mania.”
“Your chain of reasoning is rather terrifying, sir,” said Dr. Agar.
“What chain of reasoning, Holmes?” I questioned apprehensively.
“If I can discover a link connecting the victims—shared knowledge of a secret is an excellent example—the hypothesis will, blessedly, shatter,” he returned. “But I have repeated to myself
“The culprit cannot have appeared to be mad,” finished Dr. Agar.
“So I put it to you, Dr. Agar,” Holmes concluded grimly. “Is such a thing possible?”
“It is a very difficult question to answer with any degree of assurance,” he replied carefully. “After all, is mental illness a sickness of the soul, degeneracy of stock, or a defect of the brain? What you propose is an entirely new form of madness—a monomania lurking beneath a rational mind, aiding itself and disguising itself. Your idea comes closer to the classical definition of pure malevolence than any maniac who lashes out with a frenzied knife. You speak of a complete moral degeneracy, assisted by an affable exterior and a shrewd intelligence.”
“Precisely,” said Sherlock Holmes.
“I’m afraid I think it entirely possible,” Dr. Agar replied.
“Then there is nothing for it,” said my friend. “My thanks for your assistance. If you will excuse me, I have a deal of work ahead of me. Payment for your past services is there, on the table.”
Dr. Agar quickly attempted to return the notes. “Mr. Holmes, as your neighbour, I would not dream of exacting payment over an emergency.”
“Then consider it a consulting fee,” my friend smiled. “This way, Watson. We’ll not intrude further upon Dr. Agar’s time.”
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” said the affable young fellow at the door. “If you should feel the need to intrude again, I beg that you will not hesitate! I treated three patients this afternoon—two for insomnia, and one for an ill- disguised preoccupation with opiates. Your visit has quite redeemed the day.”*
We waved to Dr. Agar and strolled the few steps back to our own door.
“You appear disturbed, Dr. Watson,” Holmes remarked.
“I cannot readily believe such men exist outside the realm of fiction designed to horrify the reader,” I admitted, casting about for my key.
“It is difficult to fathom, I know, for I required weeks to even consider such a nightmare possible.”
“And you are sure our man is of a kind?” I persisted as we made our way up the stairs.
“I have no doubt of it.”
“I cannot begin to think what steps you will take. It is a monster you describe, Holmes.”
“He is neither a monster nor a beast, but something far more dangerous. I fear that men, when possessed of both utter depravity and absolute conviction, are far more deadly than either. And I begin to fear that such men are nearly impossible to find. But I’ll do it, Watson. I shall have him. I swear to you it shall be done.” Holmes nodded a good night and then, without another word, vanished into the confines of his room.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN The Problem of Whitechapel
The following morning, I descended from my bedroom to discover Holmes had already finished his breakfast. He had then, I gathered, occupied himself by amassing all our cushions, piling them beneath the settee, supplying himself with an unholy reserve of cigarettes, and then draping himself on the floor with all the incense-shrouded dignity of a heathen god. My greeting went unanswered, so between the hours of eight and nine I devoured an egg and several rashers of bacon over a slow perusal of the
“A word with you, Watson, if you can spare the time,” Holmes called out as he discarded the stub of a cigarette in a teacup situated within easy reach.
“Certainly, Holmes.” I quit the breakfast table and, selecting a cigar from the coal scuttle, settled myself in my armchair.
“I shan’t tax your patience for longer than is necessary, but it is the curse of the solo investigator that he has no confederate to bend an ear when a problem grows too unwieldy for private conjecture. You have surely realized that our case proceeds upon three lines. The primary—and may I say least fruitful—investigation is that surrounding the Ripper’s actual crimes, which have afforded us shockingly little physical evidence. Although our conference with Dr. Agar last night aids us in a general sense, our quarry still has allowed us no details which could possibly lead to a residence, name, or arrest. The next line of inquiry concerns the proposition that Jack the Ripper, whoever he may be, takes a deal of pleasure in tormenting us. This idea is based on the letter I had in February of last year. It seems he takes nearly as much pleasure in penning taunting notes as he does in committing horrific murders; however, this thirst for correspondence may well prove very dangerous for him, for the slightest physical clue could point to a place of origin and thus prove his ultimate undoing. Am I clear thus far?”
“Perfectly.”
“Finally there is the matter of the Martha Tabram murder.”
“You still believe it to have been the work of the Ripper.”
“I do indeed, but there is another puzzle tied to Tabram’s stabbing, and that is this abstruse tale of Stephen Dunlevy and Johnny Blackstone. Miss Monk had barely been in our employ a week when a strange man approached her claiming to know all about Tabram’s death. Granted, Whitechapel is not a large district, although it is densely populated, and thus it is perfectly possible that she should have instantly met a man connected to the Ripper. But is it probable?”
“How do you mean?”
“Is it not odd that within a few days of our forging an association, Miss Monk should discover a colossal lead quite by accident? The circumstance grows even more inexplicable when one takes into account the source, Mr. Dunlevy himself. I must confess to you that our glimpse of him in the pub that terrible night was not the first time I laid eyes on the man, but it has taken me days to place where I’d seen him before. I saw him the very day we met Miss Monk, as we exited Lambeth Workhouse.”
My mouth fell open at this revelation. “You are certain?”
“Entirely. Yet another reason, you see, for Miss Monk to keep a close watch on the fellow.”
Though I had often noted the peculiarly scientific way in which Holmes at times directed people like pieces on a chessboard, custom had not inured me to it. I shrugged coldly, exasperated by his glibness. “Perhaps Dunlevy and Miss Monk are engaged in a conspiracy against you.”
My friend only smiled. “You imagine I had not considered that alternative. Rest assured, Miss Monk is not in his employ, or she was not when I engaged her assistance.”
“Barring any personal bias from the question, how can you be sure?”
“Because of the scuffed new boots which caused such a fracas last night.”
“I do not understand.”
“Her old men’s boots had two small symmetrical holes just in the instep where the foot breaks the arch, an almost unbearable condition at this time of year when the wet and the cold are conjoined against one. And yet she did not, for two weeks after I had been paying her, purchase new boots. No, she presumed I was joking when I took her on as a colleague, and she clearly had no competing source of income from Dunlevy. She imagined if I came to my senses and cut off her payments, she would still be ahead by a pound or two, which is enough to keep out of the workhouse.”
At that moment we detected a slow, lumbering tread upon the staircase. The door swung open to admit the enormous personage of Mycroft Holmes, the elder brother of the great detective, whose high position in government office was as unknown to the public as it was vital to the realm. While his formidable acumen could hardly be exaggerated, neither could his martial adherence to habit, which made sightings of him outside the vicinity of
