SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE AUTUMN OF TERROR, by J.G. Grimmer

31 October, 1888: 221B Baker Street

It was the worst year for my friend and me. The unspeakable acts committed by the Whitechapel butcher now known as “Jack the Ripper” were the news of the day.

“Watson, I’ve reread the letter the Ripper sent to The Times and believe that I’ve deduced an insight,” Sherlock Holmes said.

I emptied my pipe into the ashtray and squinted through the haze produced by the copious amount of smoke made by our pipes. “Oh? What is that, Holmes? Have you discovered the lunatic’s identity?”

My friend took a long draw from his pipe and blew out a noxious cloud created by shag tobacco when ignited by flame, a grin on his face. “Hardly—no, the insight points to character type.”

“Oh,” I replied.

Holmes stood at the window looking at the hustle and bustle of Baker Street, so lost in his thoughts that he forgot we were having a conversation, or so I thought.

“And?” I prompted him.

“Forgive me, dear fellow,” he said contritely. “Yes, the writing suggests a crude intellect, but I believe it is a mask concealing something more.”

“What?”

“The truth—a truth I fear is far more terrible than can be imagined.”

I raised my eyebrows. “I repeat, what is that?”

“I fear that the Ripper is not the madman he is made out to be.”

Holmes annoyed me to no end when he did this. And he knew it. I was about to tell him so when there was a knock at the door. I rose and opened it to reveal Holmes’s older brother Mycroft.

“Doctor,” he grumbled perfunctorily and waddled toward his brother. “I cannot imagine what could keep you so occupied that you would allow this wholesale slaughter to continue.”

Holmes put his pipe on the mantel without emptying it only to pick up a cigar and light it. “Mycroft, that is sheer nonsense! I’ve offered my help to the Yard, and it was rejected by everyone from Inspector Lestrade to Sir Charles Warren himself.”

I nodded my assent as Mycroft settled his large frame on the leather chair. “That may well be,” he said, “and yet I am offering you the opportunity to put this ghastly business to an end.”

“Indeed?” Holmes said. “On whose authority am I presented with this opportunity?”

Mycroft shifted in the chair. “I cannot say.”

“Cannot or will not?”

“That is irrelevant. Do you accept?”

“Of course. Who shall I report to?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Me.”

Sherlock smiled. “Of course.”

Mycroft rose from the chair. “I shall be expecting a report soon—might I suggest tomorrow?”

“You will have it, “Holmes replied. “Will you receive it here?”

Mycroft exhaled sharply. “Certainly not!” he exclaimed. “At the Diogenes Club. Until tomorrow.”

I opened the door for him.

“Thank you, Doctor,” he said cordially and departed.

Holmes returned to the window and watched Mycroft’s carriage make its way down Baker Street. “What do you make of this?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “It must be of great importance to your brother. He rarely leaves his club.”

“Agreed,” Holmes said, removing his smoking jacket. “Time to go to work.”

Before I could speak, he disappeared into the room that served as his laboratory, which was filled with vials, tubes, and beakers from which emanated the vilest odors that gave our landlady, Mrs Hudson, fits. I shrugged my shoulders, knowing that once that door was shut, Holmes would be as isolated as any cloister. So I picked up a copy of The Times, sat down, and commenced to read.

Sometime later, a knock on the door woke me. Groggily I made my way to it. “Holmes?” I said.

“No, it’s me,” Mrs Hudson said from the other side. “I thought you two would like something to eat.”

I opened the door and in bustled Mrs Hudson carrying a tray. She set it down, wiped her hands on her apron, and looked around.

“Where’s Mr Holmes?” she asked.

I went to the door to the laboratory. “Holmes?” I called and knocked, then opened it only to find the room empty. “Did you see him, Mrs Hudson?”

“No, there hasn’t been a sound since his brother left hours ago. Well, you’d better eat, Doctor. Shepherd’s Pie cools quickly enough, and who knows where Mr Holmes has got to.” She took one of the covered plates and left.

“Thank you.” I called after her and closed the door. Yes indeed, I thought while eating—where are you Holmes?

31 October, 1888, Eleven p.m., Whitechapel:

Holmes assumed the appearance and dress of a common labourer and would have been unidentifiable, even by his own brother. The thread-bare clothes, the grime under his fingernails, the dirt on his face, and the appearance of teeth uncared for for years were the perfect camouflage—and would have to be if he were to be accepted by the slum denizens as one of their own.

He began his reconnaissance in the area of Berner Street and Mitre Square where the infamous “double event” occurred on 30 September, with the murders of Elizabeth “Long Liz” Stride and Catherine Eddowes. Even at this late hour, the streets were alive with labourers going to and from the factories, and rich young men in top hats and tails cruising to sample the forbidden pleasures offered by women undeterred by morality. These unfortunates were driven not by lust, but by the simple desire to have enough money for a bed and perhaps food at some dilapidated lodging house.

From the lurid accounts of the murders in the press, Holmes surmised that the Ripper struck between the hours of midnight and six a.m. From that it followed that this area would be familiar to the killer, who might well be somewhere here now seeking out his next unfortunate victim.

Holmes leaned against a grimy, soot-covered wall, filled a clay pipe, lit it, and surveyed the pathetic people passing before him. Poor devils, he thought, yet always mindful that these were human beings who loved and laughed, whose children played, all trying to go through their lives as best they could despite the cruel trick Fate or Providence played on them.

The hours passed and except for a drunken brawl, the sounds of domestic strife, and children crying, nothing happened as the sky began to brighten.

1 November, 1888, seven a.m., 221 B Baker Street:

Holmes entered his rooms without waking anyone and fell gratefully into bed.

* * * *

I rose at eight a.m. and was relieved to see that the door to Holmes’ room was closed. I could only imagine where he’d been the entire evening—Whitechapel obviously—and whatever he discovered would be related to me at his leisure. Before breakfast I dressed and set out for my morning walk. When I returned at nine a.m., Mrs Hudson informed me that Holmes had left, “without so much as a morsel,” she said.

When I inquired if he had told her where he was going, she replied, “his brother’s club.” I ate breakfast alone and read to pass the time as I had no patients to see. Holmes arrived at midday with a bundle of folders under his arm.

“Sorry to wake you, Watson.”

“What? I wasn’t sleeping,” I replied indignantly. “You startled me, coming and going at all hours.”

He set the stack down on the table. “My apologies, dear fellow.”

I straightened in my chair. “Where have you been?”

“You mean this morning?”

“You know very well I mean this morning and last evening.”

Holmes sat down and opened a folder. “I was in Whitechapel until six this morning. I returned by seven, slept until eight-thirty, and left for Mycroft’s club at eight-forty-five, just missing your arrival. I was at the Diogenes Club until my return a few moments ago.”

“I noticed that the folders you have there have H-Division written on them—would that be the Yard’s homicide detectives?”

Holmes clapped his hands. “Well done, Watson.”

“Elementary,” I replied. “Have you discovered anything?”

“About the Ripper, I’m afraid not, however I did witness the most appalling squalor in Whitechapel, Watson. Something must be done to improve the lot of those poor souls, especially the children.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more. The Charity Hospitals I’ve visited there are a step in the right direction, providing excellent care to the people who are in need.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Holmes said. “By the way, next time you go to one could you discreetly inquire among your colleagues if they’ve treated any women who may have heard anything?”

“Of course.”

Holmes nodded. “Could you also measure how your colleagues respond?”

“Why? You don’t suspect a doctor is responsible—do you?”

Holmes filled a pipe, a straight, short-stemmed affair. “I’m terribly sorry to tread upon the conventions of your profession, dear fellow, but I suspect everyone. Yes, even a physician may be capable of these deeds, ghastly as they are. Don’t forget, Watson, the mark of Cain is upon us all.”

“Very well,” I consented, “However, I find it highly improbable that any man who swore the Hippocratic Oath could possibly be the Ripper.”

Holmes made no reply. Instead he puffed on his pipe and turned his attention to the open folder on his lap.

The very idea, I thought as I picked up the latest edition of the Medical Journal and ignited the tobacco in my pipe.

“Watson?”

I looked up. “Yes, Holmes?”

“Shouldn’t you be going?”

“Now?”

“Certainly, there’s no time to lose. We must catch this killer. If you leave now, you’ll be back in time for supper.”

I put down the journal, sighed, got up and took my coat and hat from the rack and opened the door. “You’re right. What are you going to do?”

Holmes looked down at the stack of folders at his feet. “I have these police reports to go through, and then I’ll have some tea and lunch and perhaps take a nap before supper.”

“Oh,” I replied, looked twice at him, and then left. On the street I hailed a hansom cab.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

“The Charity Hospital in Whitechapel, my good man. And hurry, please.”

The driver doffed his cap. “Right you are, sir. I’ll have you there in good time.”

It was a bleak, cold grey afternoon. I shivered and drew my coat tightly around me. As we drove through the streets of the West End a sudden change came over the cityscape; the carefully maintained and elegant offices, residences, church edifices, and swept streets gave way to desolate fallow fields, and huddled-close-together filthy tenement buildings—many with broken windows which were covered by burlap sacks, or whatever the occupants could find to keep the cold air, wind, and rain out. The cab drove through steam rising out of open gutters and by the workhouses where so many who have no trade, profession, or social standing must nonetheless provide lodging and food for themselves and their children. Their only other choice is to beg on the streets for their daily bread and live in some alley.

Her Majesty is a kind, compassionate monarch. Surely she is told that such squalid conditions exist. And if not, I thought as the cab bucked and swayed over the neglected pavement—why not? The cab halted abruptly in front of the hospital.

“Whitechapel Charity Hospital,” the driver announced, opening the door for me.

I stepped down and placed the fare in his dirty hand, which remained open.

He cleared his throat. “Didn’t I say I’d get ya here in good time?”

My watch was in my waistcoat pocket, and I wasn’t about to expose myself to the wintry conditions—besides, I didn’t time the trip in any event. “So you did,” I replied and swiftly went up the stairs to the entrance. As I reached the doors, I heard him mumble.

“Bloody doctors, they’re all alike.”

I turned and cast a disapprovingly raised eyebrow at him, but he was already driving away. Bloody hansom drivers, I thought watching him. You put yourself in their hands, and they shake you as if you’re a salt shaker, and then they have the audacity to expect you to tip them! “Hmmmp!” I said, irritated, and entered the hospital. It was organized by a consortium of physicians who donated their time and gifts to heal those who could not pay.

I talked to several colleagues and gleaned very little, other than quotes such as “bloody business,” and “the man should be locked away in Bedlam,” but as to treating the Ripper’s victims or any of their friends—nothing. Naturally they treated prostitutes, but did not engage such persons in idle conversation. An altogether proper attitude to be sure, but not much help in a murder investigation.

As I made my way toward the exit, the door opened and in walked Inspectors Abberline and Lestrade, no doubt pursuing the same line of reasoning. Fortunately, I recognized them before they recognized me, and swiftly turned my back to them to consult the clock. I did not know Inspector Frederick Abberline beyond what was reported in the press and that he was in charge of the Ripper investigation. If recognized by Lestrade, I would have been hard pressed to explain my presence, since he knows that my practice is private.

Without looking back, I made my way out and hailed the first hansom that came by. I returned to our lodgings just before three, and found Holmes seated, fingers steepled, eyes closed, and the stack of police reports on the floor to the right of his chair. I hung up my hat, scarf, and coat and sat in the chair facing him. I knew that my friend was deep in thought, that amazing mind sifting through every detail that was found in those reports. As I settled in, his eyes opened.

“Ah, Watson. What did you learn?”

“Very little, I’m afraid.”

He nodded. “Just as I suspected. I on the other hand have learned a very great deal.”

I let his sarcastic aside pass. “Do tell.”

“The police have eight suspects who couldn’t be more disparate; everyone from John Netley, a carriage driver, and Aaron Kosminsky, a Polish Jew—to the likes of Doctor Sir William Gull, the Queen’s physician, and His Royal Highness Prince Albert Victor Christian Edward, or ‘Eddy’ as Her Majesty’s grandson is known.”

“Really?” I exclaimed. “Good God!”

“That’s not all,” Holmes said. “The list is rounded off by an American actor, Richard Mansfield, a clairvoyant named Robert James Lees, Doctor Montague John Druitt, Doctor Gull’s son-in-law, and finally Michael Ostrong, a Russian doctor and convict.”

“Which of them is the Ripper?”

“None.”

“None?”

“That’s right, old friend. The police have pursued nearly every conceivable theory no matter how remote, or in some cases, utterly ludicrous it may be. As a result, the Ripper is still free.”

I thought about this for a moment. “What are we to do?”

“Precisely what we are doing, Watson. We must make haste, though; I do not believe we have much time before the Ripper disappears forever.”

There was a knock at the door. I rose from my chair. Holmes did as well, evidence that he did not know who it was. I opened the door, and to my horror in walked Inspector Lestrade, who nodded at Holmes.

“Ah, Lestrade,” Holmes said, “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing, Mr Holmes,” Lestrade replied, and I felt a chill at the back of my neck. “Actually, I’m here to ask Doctor Watson some questions.”

“Watson?” Holmes asked.

“Yes,” Lestrade said, “I saw him at the Charity Hospital this afternoon. Inspector Abberline and I went there to question the doctors and their patients in connection with this bloody business.”

“Indeed?” Holmes asked.

“Yes, Doctor Watson turned his back to us as we walked in, apparently to look at the time, but obviously in an effort to evade us. Now then, Doctor, I did not mention that I knew you to Inspector Abberline, but since I know that your practice is strictly private I was wondering why were you there?”

I was keenly aware that both men were looking at me intently. “Well, I…”

Lestrade waved his hand. “No need, Doctor, it is obvious why you were there.” He turned his policeman’s gaze on Holmes. “I believe that you were told you were not needed on this case.”

Unperturbed, Holmes replied. “Someone wants my services, Lestrade.”

“Who?” Lestrade asked, through squinted eyes.

“Sorry, I am not at liberty to say.” Holmes replied, discreetly positioning himself to block the stack of reports from Lestrade’s view.

“I see,” Lestrade said, turned and made his way to the door. “Well, I’ll be on my way.”

“Goodbye, Inspector,” Holmes called after him.

Lestrade nodded to us both and left.

“He gave up rather easily, didn’t he?” I asked.

Holmes shook his head. “Lestrade’s enough of an investigator to know that I’ve been retained by someone in authority, and that he should not press the issue.”

“I see,” I said, although I really didn’t.

We spent the remainder of the afternoon, including supper in the privacy of our own thoughts. Afterward, Holmes announced that he was going to Mycroft’s club, and not to expect him home until morning. For the next seven weeks, every evening Holmes would persevere in his vigil among the denizens of Whitechapel, interacting with them in a variety of disguises: from a dock worker to a common labourer, from a slaughterhouse butcher to a pimp. Although they accepted him as one of their own, he was no closer to solving the Ripper murders. The fact that no murders occurred in that time was little consolation to my friend, who, exhausted and demoralized, wanted to bring this killer to justice to the point of obsession that rivaled his pursuit of Moriarty.

9 November, 1888

Disguised as a workhouse labourer, Holmes left our lodgings for Whitechapel, just as he had all the evenings previously. He took up position in an alley near Dorset Street in Miller’s Court, a grimy cul-de-sac containing small threadbare apartments. At approximately two a.m. he observed a man and woman entering the cul-de-sac as had others earlier; however, there was something inexplicably odd about the man who, unlike the others, was well dressed in black evening clothes with a top hat, and he carried a walking stick with a large heavy handle that looked like silver.

Although his face was in shadow, Holmes sensed a disfigurement of the features that caused the hair on the back of his neck to stand on end. At three a.m. Holmes heard a woman’s cry, but he had heard many cries, along with shouting, and babies wailing throughout the night. At four-fifteen a.m. he heard a door open close by, and footsteps as the well-dressed man emerged.

Holmes watched him as he walked to the corner and stopped.

The man turned suddenly to face in Holmes’s direction, as if aware that he was being watched. Even though his face was still hidden by shadow, Holmes knew that the man was looking directly at him. The hair on the back of Holmes’s neck stood up again when the strange man pointed his stick at him.

The woman! Holmes impulsively ran into the cul-de-sac, his eyes sweeping the windows of each apartment. They were all dark, except one which was lit by the glow from what Holmes surmised to be a fireplace. He rushed to it and peered inside. What he saw looked like the anteroom to Hell. Lit by the flickering yellow light from the fireplace was the horribly butchered body of a woman, mutilated nearly beyond recognition. Sickened and horrified, Holmes desperately wanted to look away, and although this took but a few seconds it seemed to Holmes an eternity.

Finally he turned away, making note of the address—26 Dorset—and saw the strange man still standing at the corner. The two stared at each other, then the man tipped his hat, and in a flash of his cloak turned and disappeared into the fog.

“Stop!” Holmes shouted, and bolted after him.

The man Holmes now knew to be the Ripper was swift and agile, but his gait seemed simian in nature, as if he were not a man but some great ape. They rounded a corner approaching the affluent West End when the Ripper collided with a patrolman sending both hard to the pavement. The Ripper growled, and as he rolled to get up Holmes was on top of him, locking one arm behind his back.

“There’s no escape,” Holmes said.

The Ripper turned to him and Holmes’s face went white as he beheld the distorted countenance. The eyes were wild and red-rimmed, yet there was considerable intelligence behind them. The Ripper smiled—a smile that was pure evil. “Ah, but there is,” he said, and despite the hold on him threw Holmes off with astonishing ease and was running once again.

The patrolman was regaining consciousness as Holmes got to his feet and disappeared into the mist. Holmes caught sight of the Ripper just as he turned onto a side street, and followed him. Holmes watched in fascination as the small man leapt over a low brick wall and down into a stairwell, and was down the stairs just as the door slammed in front of him. Holmes went around the block to the front entrance and after a moment to compose himself, he knocked at the door again and again until it opened revealing a haggard looking butler.

“I’m Sherlock Holmes, is your master at home?”

“Do you know what time it is, sir? Of course he is!”

“Wake him please, I just witnessed a man breaking in the rear entrance, and believe you are all in danger.”

The poor man sighed, his shoulders sank.

“May I come in?”

“Oh, forgive me, sir, of course.” The butler led Holmes in and shut the door.

“We must wake your master and call the police.”

“One moment, sir,” the butler replied and rushed up the stairs. He returned a few moments later. “He’s not here, Mr Holmes, but he’s been keeping very odd hours of late.”

“Show me to that back room. If your master’s there, he is in grave danger.”

They arrived at the door only to find it locked. From within they were startled to hear what sounded like animal noises and glass breaking. The frail-looking butler threw himself against the door.

“I’ll take care of this,” Holmes said. “Call the police.”

“Yes, sir,” the butler replied, and walked away rubbing his shoulder.

Holmes was about to break the door down when the noises from inside abruptly stopped, then the doorknob turned and the door swung open revealing a disheveled-looking man wearing a white coat much like the kind doctors wear.

“Who are you?” he asked in a quiet voice.

“Sherlock Holmes. Are you all right?”

The man ran fingers through his hair. “Yes, yes I think so.”

“Where is the other man?”

“Gone.”

“Gone?”

“Yes, when he heard you at the door he simply left.”

Holmes regarded the pale man closely; both he and the room appeared to have been through a struggle that left a lot of glass broken and furniture turned over, and there was something very disturbing about his eyes—something familiar.

By this time, the butler returned with a patrolman.

“Oh, Doctor, I am ever so glad to see you! Are you all right?” the butler said.

“Yes, Poole, I was working late.”

“What’s going on here?” the patrolman asked.

“There’s been a break-in, officer,” the butler said. “Mr Holmes here witnessed the crime.”

“Mr Holmes, eh?” the officer asked, squinting.

“Yes, I’m Sherlock Holmes, but I wasn’t pursuing a burglar, I was pursuing the Ripper.”

“The Ripper?” the patrolman asked. “Are you certain, Mr Holmes?”

“I am.”

“Where is he, then?” the patrolman asked, looking around the damaged room.

“He escaped,” the doctor replied.

“Which way did he go?” the patrolman inquired.

“Out the back door,” the doctor replied.

“Well then, we’re wasting valuable time,” the patrolman said, starting for the door.

“Hold on a moment,” Holmes said, intently searching the doctor’s eyes.

“Why?” the patrolman asked.

“I don’t know how you did this, Doctor, but we both know where the Ripper went,” Holmes said, and by the doctor’s expression he knew he was right.

“What are you talking about, Mr Holmes?” the patrolman asked. “I know this man—he’s Doctor Henry Jekyll.”

“Indeed he is,” the butler added.

“That may well be, gentlemen, but this is our man. They say the eyes are the mirror of the soul, Doctor Jekyll. I never subscribed to that notion until tonight. Also you’re still wearing the same boots and trousers as the murderer; obviously you did not have time to change them.”

Jekyll looked squarely at Holmes. “Poole, get Mr Holmes a brandy. He obviously is not feeling well.”

“No, thank you,” Holmes said. “Officer, I know how this appears, but this man is the Ripper.”

“I’ve read some of your exploits in the Strand, Mr Holmes, and admired your use of deductive logic and reasoning—but this. Evidently your chronicler has exaggerated somewhat,” Jekyll said.

“Come along now, Mr Holmes,” the patrolman said.

“Tell them, Jekyll. For the sake of your soul tell them what you’ve done.”

“I’ve done nothing,” Jekyll said. “I’m Doctor Henry Jekyll—I am Doctor Henry Jekyll.”

While he was speaking, what best could be described as a shadow crossed Jekyll’s face, and his brow thickened. Another shadow swept across leaving in its wake more grotesque changes, as the eyebrows became so prodigious that they met over the nose which broadened, the nostrils flaring. A final shadow darkened Jekyll’s distorted countenance, and when it passed they were astonished to behold a completely different man—with a widow’s peak, a brow that hung over wild, red-rimmed eyes, and teeth which had been enlarged and stretched the lips and mouth into a cruel perpetual grin.

“Jekyll,” Holmes whispered.

“Jekyll’s dead—I’m Hyde.” This statement, more than the metamorphosis, chilled all who heard it to the core. With a growl Hyde lunged at Holmes, his oversized hands closed quickly around my friend’s throat. A shot rang out. Then another, and another, and Hyde slumped to the floor where he breathed his last in two sharp gasps.

Holmes gasped, pocketing his revolver.

Poole crossed himself, and Holmes regarded Hyde, whose contorted features remained—a testament to the evil life to which Jekyll had succumbed.

221 B Baker Street, London. Epilogue:

A complete report of these events was made to Mycroft, which were then burned along with all of Jekyll’s notes that detailed his vile experiments.

The body of Hyde was cremated, the ashes carried by the four winds into oblivion. It was decided at the highest levels that the identity of “Jack the Ripper” would never be known. If the truth of Jekyll’s experiments into the darkness of Man were ever revealed—what would become of us?

“As if we could rid ourselves of Hyde that easily,” Holmes observed.