extensive chest injuries during the explosion caused by the sudden movement of the fire from the basement to the ground floor. No doubt he wished to ascertain that his mother was no longer within the deadly structure. It is fervently to be hoped that Mr. Holmes’s recovery is a speedy one, that his energies may be directed once more to that protection and defense of the populace for which he is justly famous.
I threw my head back and laughed heartily at this account, though I was forced to stop when the pain in my ribs grew greater than the joy afforded me. Replacing the page under the bell, I abandoned the bed. Dressing proved such an ordeal that I stopped after my trousers, shirtsleeves, and dressing gown, and thus fractionally clad, I made my way downstairs.
Sherlock Holmes was perched on the edge of his desk, improvising a version of a Paganini air so intricate as to be nearly unidentifiable. When he laid eyes on me, the chords shifted at once to a triumphal ode ending in a dizzyingly quick flourish of exultation as he leapt to his feet.
“Thank heaven. My dear fellow, I am indescribably happy to see you about.”
“No more than I am to see you,” I returned warmly.
“I shall lose no time in sacking the nurse. These two days have been a trial. She drones comforting platitudes and whistles popular music-hall tunes in unlikely keys.”
“Then I am grateful to have only just awoken,” I said with a laugh.
“And some time you have been about it too,” Holmes added severely. “You have a concussion, you know, and Dr. Agar was rather of the opinion your ribs were broken.”
“I am of the same opinion. I read that you were also cruelly injured.” Apart from the deeply furrowed circles beneath his eyes and a small gash on his hand, Holmes appeared the picture of health.
“Oh, so you did see that? Leslie Tavistock has been affecting a sort of servile allegiance, but he has not yet added veracity to his brief list of virtues.”
“No indeed, for he said Edward Bennett was killed by the explosion.”
“That inspired falsehood was Lestrade’s notion, as a matter of fact.”
“Was it?” I murmured.
Holmes’s grey eyes searched my face solicitously. “Here, sit down, my dear fellow. The blast, though it was terribly hard on you, served one higher purpose in the end. Every relic and artifact was burned in the house; I know, for I had searched the other rooms myself, and there was nothing in them.”
“And Mrs. Bennett is dead,” I reflected. “And her son—”
“He is already buried,” my friend said quickly. “Returned to the dust whence he came. There isn’t a trace left of the man we knew as Jack the Ripper.”
“I cannot believe it is over.”
“You must give it a little time. You’ve only been conscious ten minutes.”
“And it seems there are only five people outside the British government who will ever know the truth of the matter.”
Holmes’s eyes had been dancing merrily at me, but at this remark their fires dimmed.
“Just at the moment, there are four people.”
“Four? There are yourself, Lestrade, Dunlevy, Miss Monk, and I. Five.”
My friend suddenly concentrated very hard on the ceiling. His jaw was working, but it was some time before he could bring himself to speak.
“There are four. I am afraid that Miss Monk is not herself.”
“What do you mean?” I cried. “She was alive. She is alive!”
“Calm yourself, my dear Watson.”
“The article said nothing—”
“Bennett drugged her deeply to allow him to spirit her to his mother’s rooms. I believe he found her in a pub, doctored her drink, and, under the pretense that she was intoxicated, made away with her. That opiate dosage, whatever it may have been, in combination with inhalation of the polluted atmosphere and the nervous strain of it all, had a profound effect.”
“Do not tell me she is—”
“Watson, cease overtaxing yourself, I beg of you. She is not mad. Her memory has been affected. There are gaps. She knows many of those around her, and she understands perfectly, but she is very quiet and frequently confused.”
Holmes and I had already suffered too much at the Ripper’s hands. This news, however, struck me as I have hardly ever been struck in my life.
“It is cruel, Holmes,” I whispered through the catch in my throat. “It is far too cruel. Where is she now?”
“She left hospital yesterday and is living with Mr. George Lusk and his family in their spare room.”
“They wished to extend their charity to her?”
“Not at all. I arranged it.”
“You feel responsible,” I said numbly. “I do not blame you.”
To this day, I do not know why I said it. It was an unforgivable remark. My companion did not reply, and I cannot imagine how he could have. He merely steepled his fingers and closed his eyes.
“My dear fellow, forgive me. What you have accomplished is nothing short of miraculous. You could not have—Holmes, don’t look like that, please.” In my confusion, my eyes rested on the side table. A syringe lay where it had dropped from careless fingers, and the bottle of seven-percent cocaine solution, habitually shut in a drawer, sat beside it in plain view and empty. Nearby rested a large, official-looking envelope with a rich seal and embossed coat of arms.
“Who has written you, Holmes?” I asked in an anguish to shift the subject.
“It is nothing. My brother’s whim. He took it into his head that I deserved a knighthood.”
“But that is wonderful!” I gasped. “There is not a man in England who could deserve it more. My deepest congrat—”
“I have refused it.” He rose from his chair to procure his pipe and tobacco.
I stared at him in blank disbelief.
“You refused a knighthood.”
“Don’t be obtuse, my dear fellow. I said I refused it, and that is what I have done. Respectfully, I need hardly add,” he pronounced, stuffing his pipe with shag.
“But in heaven’s name, why? You have single-handedly run to ground the most notorious criminal in modern British history, and no one will ever know of it. At the very least you deserve—”
“If I deserved a knighthood even by the standards of the most vermiculate logic, I would no doubt have accepted it,” he snapped viciously.
Then, more gently, Holmes added, “I told Mycroft you ought to have one. I was rather eloquent upon the subject. But I don’t think he was listening.” He withdrew his watch. “It is now a quarter to one. Miss Monk will arrive two doors down for the first of her continuing sessions with Dr. Agar, at my behest, at half past two this afternoon. He entertains hopes that she will recover. I can think of no reason, if you feel strong enough, you should not walk over to visit her. It would please her, I am certain.”
“I would like nothing better. But surely you will accompany me?”
“Not unless you require my assistance. She doesn’t know me, you see.” He swept the evidence of his drug use into the voluminous pocket of his dressing gown. “Dunlevy will be there, no doubt. He is a most fixated chap— not to say monomaniacal.”
“Most would refer to it as love, Holmes.”
“Your theory is not without merit. But my dear Watson, you must be famished.” He threw open the door and advanced to the top of the stairs. “Mrs. Hudson! A cold luncheon for two and a bottle of claret, if you please!” I heard the distant sound of a joyful exclamation followed quickly by remonstrance. “My dear lady, what is it to me that I have already sent a meal back?” I hid a smile as Mrs. Hudson’s voice rose in conviction and force.
Holmes sighed. “I’ll be back in a moment, Watson. I think in this case capitulation is the better part of valour.”
On an evening flecked with snow some three weeks later, when the groups of crass thrill seekers and vulpine pressmen had disappeared from the former residence of Mary Kelly—the final unfortunate to fall victim to Jack the Ripper—I ambled gingerly down the stairs and out our front door. The air’s bite had scarcely accomplished more
