When the Devil Drives

“You have brought detection as near an exact science as it ever will be brought in this world.’ My companion flushed up with pleasure at my words, and the earnest way in which I uttered them. I had already observed that he was as sensitive to flattery on the score of his art as any girl could be of her beauty.”

—Dr. John H. Watson, A Study in Scarlet.

It was a cold, fair spring Wednesday and my wounds were glad of it. I glanced at Holmes over the top of my Morning Post. He lounged in his chair over breakfast coffee, in the remembered posture of my old bohemian friend. I knew how grateful to him I was for this new life. Yes, he occasionally questioned my writing, yet it was how I returned his gift and balanced legal scales with literary justice. His natural humility would, of course, rankle at this show of hero-worship on my part. Before he had occasion to read my mind, I changed the subject, “Where did Rachel run off to?”

He held his pipe from his mouth, “York Place, the Bedford College School, a liberal, non-sectarian preparatory school for young women.”

“It’s down Baker Street on York? It will take some effort on their part to keep that mind occupied.”

Holmes chuckled.

The ringing of the Baker Street doorbell jarred us from our comfortable morning. We listened like hounds as someone pushed his way past Mrs. Hudson, “Mr. Holmes doesn’t see anyone without an appointment!” Slow, heavy footfalls as our large mystery ascended the stairs. We quickly looked to each other, I grabbed the poker, and Holmes palmed his derringer. In stepped Sir Borradaile Savory, St. Bartholomew the Greater Priory Church Rector. He had gasped and panted his way to the top step. I poked at the fire and replaced the poker, stood, shook his hand and steered him to the settee.

“Welcome, Sir Borradaile, this is my friend and colleague, Doctor Watson.”

I put a cup of tea into the rector’s hands while Holmes turned his back and deftly shelved his gun. Facing the window, he began his analysis of the rector’s appearance and state of mind.

“I see you have started your day in some haste, as your left ear still has soap from shaving, your clerical collar is sideways, and your waistcoat ill-buttoned.” He turned to face Savory and glanced at his attire. “From the mortar on the soles, and the lime dusting the tops of your boots, you must have travelled through the construction in the church to avoid those who would shout their curses in Cloth Fair Street. I would also deduce that your wife is away, but this last has nothing to do with why you are here.” He put a match to his cold pipe.

Savory adjusted his collar and re-buttoned, looking at my friend with astonishment. “Yes, Mr. Holmes, I was awakened this morning by dreadful howls from outside the Church. I may tell you, such bloodthirsty shrieks are no way to arise. I left through the cemetery gate and thankfully caught a cab. The Catholics want to reclaim it. Others demand its closing. The Restoration Committee is up in arms! It’s cursed, you know.” He wrung his hands. “This is catastrophe! Our beautiful reconstruction ruined by this ghoulish mess! You must solve it! It is the only way the public will be appeased.

“I was overjoyed when Inspector Lestrade told me you were back in London. I had read a small advertisement and hoped it was truth. Solving this mystery would be your perfect re-entry. The Priory Church must be saved, Mr. Holmes. Since the 11th century, it has survived war, famine, fire, flood, and the Puritans. Surely it will survive this, too. It’s stood for eight centuries—eight centuries— and now during my time, this divine piece of English history is ruined in an afternoon, I can’t allow it.” His hands shook as he held the cup and whispered. “I won’t allow it!” He blew on his tea, and cautiously sipped.

“Rumour is a corrosive, Rector. It can decimate the loftiest towers. To neutralize this trend compose yourself and tell me the facts from the beginning.”

“Mr. Holmes, the papers have it right. I don’t know how but the Lady Chapel bled, or at least its ghastly footprints did.” He opened his snuffbox, took a pinch, and sighed. “It was unstable. We have secured the walls, the ceiling, and begun to re-glaze the windows. It was a labour of love for our architect. The first aspect of both the chapel’s and the crypt’s reconstruction is about to be completed.

“On Sunday, I unveiled our work as proof the chapel could be brought right and now this. It represented the whole devotional aspect of this reconstruction project.” He rubbed his hand across his forehead.

Holmes waved him on.

“A fortnight ago, I realized the committee would be able to view it before the official opening with no sign of calamity during that time. Then we lit the lamps and candelabras during the small unveiling. We found fresh, bloody footprints across the floor and now this lurid mess is in every paper. The church is doomed, Mr. Holmes!”

“Calm yourself, Savory. Why did you wait two days to call me in?”

“The press, Mr. Holmes! Scotland Yard assured me they would quell their howls. But as you see—” He picked up the paper from the floor.

“What day did the construction end? When was your unveiling?”

“Mr. Holmes, chapel construction work paused on Friday at 4 p.m. The unveiling was Sunday at 12.”

“You saw nothing amiss in those forty-four hours? Not until, noon of Sunday, last? I presume you chanced to inspect it through the weekend?”

“Yes, I admired it every day and found nothing wrong.”

“What time was your last survey? The men who carried out the reconstruction were of good character?”

“Saturday 12 p.m., yes, of course, everything was handled professionally. The builders were overseen by our architect, Sir Aston Webb. And all were members of the appropriate guilds. At the end of the day, I had them move their unfinished materials to the western wall to create a space for the event. The cleaners came in and arranged chairs for our visitors. I set up an altar. All was in readiness. A stage set for triumph instead became a horrible tragedy.”

“Watson, would you be so kind as to get your coat and find us a cab? Sir Borradaile, I will just change out of my dressing gown.” He entered his bedroom and I did as he asked. Holmes and the rector stepped out to the waiting carriage. He extended his hand in that protective honouring of those in your charge, and swept the rector into the cab.

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes.” We stepped in and travelled to the church. Many years ago, our mutual friend, Stamford, introduced two men destined to find an incomparable partner in one another at nearby St. Bart’s Hospital.

Holmes read my mind, “Watson, we are going down memory lane.”

I patted his knee.

Outside the walls and churchyard there was a group of angry, chanting protesters. I wondered what this meant to the hospital. To avoid the crowd, the rector and I marched in through the Western Gate and through the cemetery. Holmes parted the crowd, ran under the Henry VIII Arch, and dashed into the open church. He pointed his walking stick. “The Lady Chapel is this way?”

He charged through to the chapel, dropped his coat and hat on a sarcophagus next to the entrance, and pointed out marks on the floor then entered the chapel. Here the darkness was total. Every window blocked from the elements while new ones were constructed at the Guild house.

The Lady Chapel was at the farthest point from the nave entrance and Savory was out of breath as he walked in. Holmes struck a match to his pocket torch and shined it on the grisly scene, the odour of decaying blood its most apparent aspect.

“Rector, dispel this darkness!”

Savory ordered workmen to bring tall candelabras and we placed them to light the space. Each candle lit illuminated more of the disaster. I righted and set ablaze additional candelabras which had splashed wax where they had fallen. It looked like the aftermath of a brawl. An altar and tall cross had crashed to the floor. Holmes held candelabra aloft, as he bent to it. His light revealed two pairs of bloody footprints beginning at the eastern end on the southern side of the chapel, through the length and to the outer side door at the western end. They led out and not in.

Homes swiftly examined the footprints’ end point. The door showed recent signs of use, opened easily, and led directly outside. We stepped out, took some clean, free breaths and searched for further prints in the dry ground.

We re-entered, determined to solve this putrid puzzle. Holmes moved systematically through the space. I knew he was mapping out the chapel in his mind. There were piles of ancient brick and dry mortar everywhere. He put out his arm. “Keep back, Watson.” I was grateful to stand at the open door where daylight streamed and the air was clear. He measured the bloody footmarks. They began dramatically, as if their makers had been dropped there.

“Do you have lanterns, Rector?”

“Yes, I think so.” Sir Borradaile left.

“Watson, this conundrum is one of the darkest we have ever examined, and I’m certain that before we are through it promises to become unspeakably darker.”

“I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face,” I said as I walked up to him, my candlelight joining with his.

Holmes turned to me, “How could Savory see any blood or changes during his inspections? Watson, from these footprints, one was probably medium height and wore square-toed boots, unusual in the city. The other wore very singular boots, size ten or eleven.” He paced next to the foot marks. “By the length of his stride, he was close to my height.”

The Rector returned with two lanterns, he handed one to each of us.

“Savory, had the candles shown recent use at the time you lit them on Sunday?”

“Now that you mention it, yes, curious.”

“There is a crypt under this chapel?”

Sir Borradaile righted the cross. “Yes, Mr. Holmes.”

“If one examines the singular behaviour of the footprints it is clear that this is an entranceway. Come, Watson.”

He held a lantern aloft, looked into the crypt, grimaced, and moving sequentially from left to right he shone it across the chasm. Ghastly shadows staggered across the walls and vaulted roof. I held my lantern while he gingerly stepped next to the bloody footprints which climbed away from the grisly scene below. At the bottom of five stone stairs we found two young women tied up to heavy iron stanchions at the southern windows. They had been severely beaten. Shafts of sunlight burnished their bruised skin and shimmered in the blood at their feet. We stood in silence for a moment in horror and honour of the dead and began what has always been our way to justice.

“The monsters left the mothers behind, Watson.” He called me to examine them, and asked for my thoughts. He held his lantern aloft as we scrutinized the women’s bodies for clues.

I placed my lantern on the altar and pulled the blood-soaked clothing away from the hideously bruised skin. “Holmes, it is clear they were both pregnant, and the babes taken. What fiends!”

“Watson, what do you find?” He inspected their hands and used a pen knife to retrieve what was under their nails which he put in an envelope.

I pointed out to him. “Strangulation marks on necks, bruises on faces, arms, upper torso, and rope marks where they had been tied.”

“Many of those marks occurred after death.”

“How the deuce do you know that, Holmes?”

“Cast your mind back to our inaugural meeting, dear Doctor. When do you surmise the deaths occurred?”

“They were killed, most likely the morning of Savory’s event, or the night before, Holmes. Possibly both killed on the same day.”

“And probably within the same hour, eh, Doctor?”

I shook my head.

“Do you have an idea as to the cause of death?”

“Not in the same hour, no, this one was beaten to death and the other one suffocated somehow. Holmes, I’m not sure they were killed here. The babes were taken here.” I whispered, “Take a syringe and stoppered bottle from my bag and sample what’s in this one’s lungs.”

Holmes jammed the syringe into the woman’s back, then drew out the fluid, bottled it and dropped them into my bag in seconds.

Holmes’ never flagging interest in the crime scene had gotten us through worse conditions. Yet, I knew from his silence in the face of it that he was touched by the scene and the amount of blood these young women had shed during their final moments. I witnessed his unvoiced resolve to bring justice to their plight.

“Shine your light here, Doctor!” I did as he ordered whilst his gloves became increasingly blood-soaked as he investigated the incomprehensibly mutilated women.

We climbed out of the close and foetid space. “I’m afraid, Rector that it is time to contact Scotland Yard.”

“Mr. Holmes that will bring more newspaper reports, the crypt is not for the public gaze!”

“We have bodies, Savory. If St. Bart’s is to continue its progression through history—call Lestrade, now!”

We again descended into the crypt. He examined the women’s clothes. “Doctor, this one wears suffragist bloomers.”

“Holmes, the hidden crypt and the rubble above it make it rather convenient for someone to hide bodies here.”

“Indeed, Watson. Ah, how fortuitous, the illustrious Lestrade approaches.”

From outside we heard, “What’s this then? Disperse! This is a hospital! Go home before I arrest you all for disturbing the peace!” He set guards who broke up the rest of the crowd. He had answered Savory’s earlier call to clear the street. Lestrade walked in like a hero with Savory. “Thank you, Inspector, they started at dawn.”

Lestrade nodded as Holmes leapt out of the crypt. “Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson!”

“Thank you, Lestrade. That was giving me a headache, Holmes said. “There are two dead bodies hidden in the crypt, women strangled and beaten to death. I call your attention to the facts that they were both pregnant and the infants taken. One was dressed in bloomers worn by the braver suffragists and largely in Paris by bicyclists. I have completed my inspection, you may take the bodies.

Lestrade said, “This is the cause of the bloody mess in the chapel.” He called in his men and set to extracting the cadavers. “What are women’s fashions to me, Mr. Holmes?” He ordered his men to wrap and stretcher the bodies into their growler. “Make sure those left in the street don’t get a look!” He barked at them.

A young inspector turned his dark, handsome, lean face and perceptive eyes to the body on the stretcher. “Who fashions this type of clothing? Surely it is made privately. What dressmaker has sewn them?”

“Precisely, Inspector, when you find the answers to your inquiries please contact me,” said Holmes.

Lestrade introduced him, “Inspector Chanda Das is from the Benares Constabulary. He’s been sent here to study the superior ways of Scotland Yard,” he said with pride.

We discarded our gloves. Holmes held out his hand. “Welcome to London, Inspector Das. This is my friend and colleague, Doctor Watson.” I shook his hand heartily.

“Doctor Watson, Mr. Holmes, it is a great pleasure to meet you.”

Lestrade said, “Mr. Holmes what happened to your hand?”

“It’s nothing, just a tussle on the ship over.”

“How is your time spent at the Yard, Inspector Das?” I asked.

“So far, very interesting research, but I am accompanying Inspector Lestrade on his investigations.”

Holmes said, “I see before me a man who well knows his field. Who though young, has been honoured more than once for his service to the Crown. I am pleased to be working with you, Inspector Das.”

The young man put his hands together and half bowed, and Holmes reciprocated.

He then held the lantern and surveyed Savory, “Rector, you may raise your cleaning crew to exculpate this evil. We are concluded here.”

As the police left the building, we returned to Baker Street.

“Watson, do you see it?”

“Holmes, I saw a scene of indescribable horror, the same one you saw, nothing more.”

“There are similarities to the Ripper killings. Female bodies, some pregnant, the murderer left the bodies behind, but first dissected them with a doctor’s skill, whole parts and organs removed. Though detaching a pregnant uterus doesn’t require much skill if the child and mother are deceased. Judging by all the blood, not even that level of skill was apparent. Am I correct, Doctor?”

“Yes, Holmes, it’s a simple procedure, even in life, but how could it be the Ripper?”

“The Ripper is dead, but there are features of interest shared by both cases. And a peculiar form of masquerade the Ripper might have availed himself of.”

“What is that, Holmes?”

“The means of these murders, Watson, are also their masking. These women were beaten to death, or immediately afterwards. It is an appallingly personal way to die. Unless the killer wore a signet ring, there is no way to mark him. The resulting bruises cover over any clue which might impress itself on the livid skin.”

Mrs. Hudson brought up the quail she had prepared for our simple meal with turnips, potatoes, and greens. Holmes enjoyed wild fowl and this even more so as we had missed lunch and tea.

Before he allowed himself the comfort of a pipe at the fire, he tested the fluid he had taken from the unfortunate woman’s lungs. He set half of it to his distiller and tried various chemicals on the balance. After a quarter-hour of this, he stood up with a look of conquest on his features.

“Watson, this woman had fresh water in her lungs! Was she drowned? Does this fit with your diagnosis?”

“Yes, death from drowning can happen after the initial drowning incident. But fresh water, not salt?”

“Below London Bridge, the River Thames is brackish, a mixture of sea and fresh water. But above it is fresh or as clear as the sewer our river has become. A scientific expert would be able to pinpoint the exact spot where she drowned with the knowledge of what poison filled that section of river. The church is half a mile inland which saves me a lengthy analysis. Thank you for your astute observation, Watson.” He turned off his equipment and cleaned up.

“Holmes, if she were in the river and escaped, and then travelled that half mile herself, it’s doubtful she could survive the night,” I said.

“She had lost too much body heat in the water?” I nodded. “The other woman was beaten to death, died of her ordeal, and her bruises were concurrent with her death. Did you notice that there were no bruises near her abdomen, but her body was covered with them? And there were some unusual marks. The woman who was drowned was marked and bruised after death. Hers were smaller in size than her sister’s. It takes considerable strength to inflict post mortem bruises. The killers strangled, tied and hung them up to extract the infants. Then the bodies were left in haste. The cause of that haste may lead us further in our investigation. We must get on the main scent with a careful assessing, plus a search for new data. Except for the crushed larynx, it is not the Ripper, something else, but what? I suggest that tomorrow we visit Scotland Yard.”

Rachel joined us, “How can I help?”

“There are decidedly points of interest, child. If I may, I would invite you to do a little quiet surveying amongst your suffragist friends.” He raised his clay pipe from the mantelpiece and packed it. “There are two points that need clearing up: One: Forgive me, but detectives must not allow the commandments of polite society to stand in the way of the truth. Would there be a group that wore bloomers as their own personal symbol or is it an individual choice? Two: Who in London sews them?” He lit his pipe and drew the smoke.

“The victims wore bloomers? Then they were suffragists! How awful. But, Papa, you alone could do justice to this case. Yes, I will gladly discuss this with my friends.”

“Discreetly, child, it is research only. This is not the time to bring others in. Promise me, you will not act on it yourself, but will return the information to me and Doctor Watson. There is danger here of a kind for which you are not yet prepared. Promise me!”

“I promise, Papa.” She crossed her heart.

Holmes laughed and shook her hand. “But your expression is languorous. Get ready for bed, I’ll meet you there.”

He tuned his violin and improvised a short lullaby.

“I know you’ll get it Papa, goodnight.”