The Scarlet Thread of Murder

A Sherlock Holmes, Martin Hewitt, & D.I. Edmund Reid Mystery

Prologue

I don’t believe that I, Doctor John H. Watson, shall ever run dry of the fantastic tales in which I accompanied my great friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes. We had a remarkable and long lasting career, which began in the late Victorian era and even to this day, in our elder years, is still ongoing. Sherlock Holmes, who now lives in Sussex, is still as sharp as ever. I often look over our old cases and wonder which of our tales I should disclose next. Some I do not believe will ever be released, unless I myself have passed from this life. However, it was on a summer day in June 1920 that I came upon a series of notes that had not been touched since late 1890.

Sherlock Holmes, you see, was not the only detective in London. There were a great number of others. What made Sherlock Holmes unique was his singular position as a consulting detective. There was another in the profession who went by the name of Martin Hewitt. His adventures were chronicled by a journalist named Brett, and though they were not as popular as those adventures I shared with Holmes, Mr Hewitt was a brilliant detective with a powerful mind. Holmes’ client list boasted members of the Yard, his brother, and personages of even higher position, while Hewitt did extremely well amongst the general public, when Holmes was otherwise engaged or unavailable. And while Holmes often scolded the efficiency of Scotland Yard there were some officers who shone bright. One of whom was D.I. Edmund Reid of Whitechapel, one of his most notable tasks being his work on the Ripper Case.

In 1890, these three men found themselves tangled in a web of intrigue. It is important to note that the events that transpire in this narrative are compiled from the notes of myself, the journalist Brett, and D.I. Edmund Reid. They have never shared their stories with the public, but they did share their notes with me, making it my responsibility to disclose the outré events that we endured.

Chapter 1

D.I. Edmund Reid

Disaster in Whitechapel

August 1890

Very few things have so shaken my faculties as the events which began on this late Summer’s day. As Detective Inspector of Whitechapel it creates a certain type of immunity. One feels prepared and braced for horrors, both weird and wild. Whilst I sat at my desk at Leman Street buried in piles of paperwork, I found myself suddenly moved by a heart-stopping boom. The windows shook, and I could hear panicked shouts in the street. It did not take long to realise the cause of the incident; it was an explosion in the underground railway. I jolted from my seat and took my hat as I raced outside. I could see a cloud of smoke rising above the buildings. It was coming from the Whitechapel and Mile End station.

Two officers and myself arrived first on the scene. A terrible sight lay before us. More people than I could count had come to watch as smoke poured out of the station entrance. Survivors were stumbling out of the station: men, women, and children coloured grey and black from the heavy smoke were collapsing upon the street. My men immediately began attending to the fallen. I could hear the choking screams of the people still inside unable to find their way out, I covered my mouth with a kerchief and raced inside to help the desperate. The heat within the station was immense, as if walking through a wall of fire. The smoke blocked my vision making it nigh impossible to quickly assist those in need. I stumbled into someone, a woman; I took her by the arm and led her out. She wrapped her arms around me.

“You are safe now,” I informed the woman. Her skin was darkened by the smoke and dirt. Something fell from her person - a silver oval pendent. It opened upon hitting the ground. Inside I noticed a picture of a crown. She took it and clutched it tightly while she coughed.

“Thank you, thank you!” she gasped. I motioned for an officer to take her, and I went back inside. I found the body of a man on the floor, he did not move. I hauled the corpse outside and laid him upon the ground; to my horror, not only had the body been trampled, and bones protruded from his flesh, but his face was severely burned, the skin charred and peeled back. More officers and the fire-brigade arrived as I looked over the charred body. The smoke began to clear as the fire brigade battled what flames were left. In total, it was over four hours before all the bodies were moved and some form of peace restored.

“Detective Inspector,” called Officer Kipling swiftly approaching me. “We need you to come see something.” I followed him down into the wreckage. Looking over the scene it was clear the train had pulled in on time, while passengers were embarking and disembarking the engine had exploded. The two carriages nearest the engine were affected most by the blast, and were now twisted heaps of metal and charred wood. The remaining carriages had been knocked off the tracks, and were black from the fire. Officer Kipling leapt down into the wreckage and I followed. “You see this?” he said, showing me the epicentre of the destruction. “This was no accident. This was a bomb.”

As I looked up and down the line of carriages, the chain reaction of explosions which had followed was utterly devastating. I found myself drifting, thinking about the innocent that were carelessly slain as I gazed upon the destruction.

“Sir... sir?” Kipling’s voice called me back.

“Yes, an explosion,” I confirmed. “I can see that.”

“Suppose it was Jewish rebels?” Kipling asked. “They’ve caused a lot of trouble lately.”

“It could be the Irish, or Scottish, or Welsh!” I snapped. “For all we know it could be the Americans!”

“Americans, sir?” Kipling questioned.

“My point, Officer, is that we know not who it was. Don’t assume blame upon anyone until you have all the facts.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” Kipling hung his head a moment.

“We need to get this cleaned up... get Mr. White down here first. I want him to take a look before we start removing the scrap,” I ordered,

“Right away, sir.” Kipling darted off out of the abyss.

I continued to look around the dismantled carriages. I observed the bodies that remained. They were horribly charred, unrecognisable. Clothes and flesh ripped open, like a hot knife through butter. A foul stench was trapped in the station, a smell fit only for the seventh circle of hell. The scorched bodies and burning coals stung my sinuses. It would take some time to identify the remains and contact relatives. I thought back on Kipling’s remarks: This could be Jews, or even Irish Rebels. Either way, this was no mistake, the explosion had a purpose not yet known. An extremist at the engine, perhaps?

Whitechapel, these street run wild with moral insanity. Here whores are gutted like pigs, men from the highest ranks of society transform into drunkards and rapists as they indulge in opium and give in to their animalistic urges. It feels as if God himself had turned his face away, leaving me, and a band of men, to battle the devils that haunt this modern Sodom and Gomorrah.

Within the hour, Kipling returned. With him was Mr. Vigo White. A man of average height, with fiery red hair and wild sideburns. He walked towards me, I could see his beady blue eyes surveying the wreckage. He wiped his mouth in amazement at the destruction. Lifting a pair of spectacles from the arch of his pointy nose he rested them atop his head pushing his ginger locks back.

“I found him, Mr. Reid,” Kipling called.

“Thank you for coming,” said I, stretching out my hand towards Mr. White. Setting his case upon the ground, he took my hand.

“Of what service may I be?” Mr. White returned as his observations continued. “Looks like quite the mess.”

“Indeed it is. We found traces of an explosive. I want you to have a look at it and see if we can gather any clues from what is left behind; a maker or seller, perhaps.”

“Don’t you have other people who could do this?” White asked. He took his spectacles into his hands and rubbed them clean with a cloth. He returned the cloth to his grey tweed jacket with exaggerated care. “I don’t even work for the Yard.”

“You don’t work for anyone, you’re a vagabond,” said I.

“I have my experiments and a more than generous lump sum every six months,” said White with a smirk. He enjoyed his anonymity. He lived in the shadows and we left him to it unless his assistance was needed. For all his bizarre behaviour his skills and scientific knowledge was paramount to me.

“You know our resources are limited. None of my men are as skilled as you,” I paused. “Why do you question my call for aid?”

“No reason, I just like hearing that I’m needed.” White grinned, picking up his case. “Show me where this bomb is - or was.”

Setting his case upon the ground, he opened it up. Inside were various scientific tools, bottles with strange solutions, a small burner, and glass tubes for collecting samples. He descended onto the tracks and waded through the wreckage to examine the origin of the explosion and gingerly collect samples. White knelt by the remains of the explosive and begun to examine. The explosive casing was virtually non-existent. Shrapnel was all that remained. Strange burn marks of various colours of red and orange trailed away from the central blast. I watched White drift into his own world, as happened frequently when he made his examinations. He mumbled, sighed, and chuckled as he took samples and packed them into the tubes.

After a few minutes, White shot up like a bullet, and cried: “Sweet Mother Mary!”

“What?” I asked excitedly. “What is it?”

White turned to look at me, stepped over the wreckage, and climbed back on to the platform. His hands were black, but that did not stop him from rubbing his forehand, leaving residue.

He leaned in close to me and whispered, “I’ve seen these types of explosive burn marks before.”

“Where from?”

“You’re not going to like it,” he warned.

“Tell me, White.”

“I knew a chap once, a Jewish mechanic. He had a design for an explosive that was small in size but with a fierce impact. His work always left these kinds of red and orange burns.”

“Who is this mechanic?”

“Look, Reid, I’m not saying he did this. It is possible that someone stole his plans.”

“The name! Tell me his name.”

White hung his head and ran his blackened hand through his red hair. “The man’s name is Abraham Lamech.”

“Lamech, you say? The Jewish anarchist?”

“Say that again?” came an unfamiliar voice. White and I turned to see a man approaching us with a pad and pencil in his hands. He wore a tweed suit in brown and blue checks, an red waistcoat with a gold watch chain, and a brown fedora. “Did you say, Lamech is responsible for this attack?”

“I shan’t be saying anything. Who are you?” I demanded.

“He’s a piss-taker, Mr. Reid. A scribbling monkey for the papers.”

“Care to comment on this attack, Mr. Reid? You suspect Lamech? Will you be arresting him? What is your evidence?”

“Officer Kipling!” I shouted.

“Will you be taking this to Abberline? Or are you afraid of the Jewish threat?” The reporter carried on asking questions.

“Kipling, get down here at once!” I ordered again.

“You are avoiding the question. Why, Inspector Reid? Are you trying to cover something up?”

I gripped the reporter by the collar and pulled his face close to mine. “Now you listen here. I don’t know how you slipped in, but whatever you think you hear or know is all hearsay. I will not have scum like you twisting words and making false reports so that you can sell papers.”

“Still bitter about Ripper getting away, Inspector?” I shoved the reporter back, he nearly fell to the ground. Kipling came towards us.

“Officer, throw this man out of here. And make sure everyone knows his face. I don’t want to see him sniffing around here again!”

Chapter 2

Doctor Watson

The Goblin Man

Autumn 1890

It was a bright and sunny autumn day. The windows of 221B were open, which allowed a pleasant breeze to flow through the rooms. The sound of carts and horses’ hooves banging on the cobbled road filled the background, along with the occasional loud-spoken man or laughing woman. I found myself gazing out our bay window, watching the business below. Holmes was in a dark mood. The previous week he had concluded work on a high profile case for a well-known foreign dignitary, and the case had seen him rise to new heights within his field. As a result, he was flooded with letters from prospective clients far and wide. However, he took little interest in this sudden flurry of requests for his services. With open letters piled high around his chair, all of them please for help, he sat with his chin resting on his knees.

“Watson!” he called. I turned from the window to see him throw his head back and rest it on the back of the chair. His arms hung over each side like an exhausted child, and a deep sigh left his lungs.

“Find something of interest?” I asked.

“Quite the opposite, I’m afraid.” He sighed again. He leapt from his chair and walked over to the mantle. He rested his long thin arm across it and repeatedly tapped his middle finger upon the wood. “Dull, Watson, just dull. All of these letters.” His head turned back and forth as he looked at the pile. “Ah! Take this one.” He walked back to his chair and picked up a note. It ran this way:

Dear Mr Holmes,

I require your services. My wife has left me and has given no indication as to where she has gone.

Help me find her.

Sincerely, George Peabody Jones.

“Is there nothing of interest in this woman’s sudden disappearance?” I asked.

“Women disappear all the time, especially when they have spent time in the company of people like George Peabody Jones.”

“Are you familiar with this man?” I pressed.

“I am, Watson. He’s a fiendish man, a banker. He is unaware of my knowledge of him, but he is a member of a spiritualist club that often partakes in immoral indulgences fit only for the ancient city of Corinth. It is likely his wife left for good reason, probably to escape his lunacy.”

“Well,“ said I, “not all of these letters can be from such indulgent individuals, surely.”

“No, no, they are not.” He threw the letter down and collapsed into his chair. Legs sprawled and finger tips steepled, he continued, “But they are all void of interest. A missing ring here, a problematic will there, men and women wanting to cover their petty scandals. I’m not a repair service, Watson. Give me real problems, give me real work! Don’t hound me with these minuscule problems that Scotland Yard’s most ineffective officer could handle.”

“I’m sure something will crop up. It always does,” I assured him. He nodded and rolled his eyes. Just then, the bell rang.

“Half a second ring!” said Holmes, sitting up straight. He slouched back into his chair. “Probably someone with a missing pet.”

I could hear the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. I walked to the door and opened it before our guest could knock. It was a man around five feet five inches. He had blonde hair and blue eyes, was dressed in a well-pressed black suit and held a top hat in his hand.

“Are you Sherlock Holmes?” asked the man in a thick Scottish accent.

“I am Doctor Watson...”

“Yes, the chronicler!” the Scotsman said with a nod. “Where is Mr. Holmes? I must speak with him.”

“I am right here,” said Holmes, who was now standing with hands clasped behind his back. “Come and have a seat, and do try and calm your nerves, Mr...?”

“David Daniels,” our visitor replied.

“Mr. Daniels,” said Holmes extending his arm, “please, sit.”

I fetched our guest a glass of brandy as he settled on the long couch. Taking it quickly, he downed the liquid and asked for another. After obliging, I replaced the bottle and sat opposite Holmes as our guest dried his mouth with his sleeve. After several deep breaths, the man appeared more composed.

“Now,” Holmes began, “what brings one of London’s most successful business man to our bohemian abode?”

“You know of me, I see,” Mr. Daniels said. “But I would abandon my fortune, my business ventures, all my success to escape this horrific fate that has befallen me.” He took several deep breaths. “Mr. Holmes, I have found myself terrorised by a ghastly creature; a creature known only as The Goblin Man.”

I looked at Holmes, but his expression remained firm.

“Have you heard of him?” Mr Daniels asked.

“The Goblin Man?” Holmes questioned, “Watson, hand me my index, would you?” I did as he asked. Holmes flipped through his papers. “Ah, yes. Reports of a Goblin Man have been present for some time. He is reported to work in dark alleys. He chases his victims, binds them, strips them of their possessions, and leaves them. Reports, though often given by women of questionable nature or drunken men, say he has a large nose...”

“Big green eyes,” interrupted Mr. Daniels, “yellowish skin covered in boils, ratty clothes which consist of a dirty cotton shirt, a red velvet waistcoat, checkered trousers, a long natty jacket, and a battered top hat. His hands are like ice, and his fingernails are long and sharp and black as coal.”

Holmes and I gazed upon our guest. His description of this Goblin Man sent chills down my spine.

“He sounds like the stuff of fairy tales, something the Brothers Grimm might have crafted,” I said breaking the silence.

“You’ve seen this man then, have you?” asked Holmes.

“I have,” Daniels admitted. “He is my tormentor. He is the demon that stalks me in the night, chases me till I can no longer run, but he never hurts me or takes anything from me. He has touched me once, no more. I feel him always behind me. His presence lingers when awake, sleep is a struggle for the Goblin haunts my dreams. Mr. Holmes, I need your help. I need you to stop this Goblin Man.”

“And you believe this Goblin Man to be of supernatural origins? I asked.

“Heavens, no,” replied Daniels, “but he is a foul creature whether birthed in hell or not. He is very real. What I can’t understand is his fascination with me; am I the only one he does this to? What have I done to deserve this torture?” His eyes drifted from Holmes and he stared into the fireplace. “I thought myself an honourable, God-fearing man, maybe I’m not.” Our guest trailed off into silence a moment. “Can you help me?” he asked, looking straight into Holmes’ eyes.

“I’m going to need more details, Mr. Daniels. When did you first encounter this Goblin Man? Tell me everything.“

Mr. Daniels leaned back, his hands in his lap. “It began a fortnight ago. I was returning home after a long evening of drink and gambling at my club. The time was around midnight, if memory serves. A misty fog rolled in the air and the streets were deserted. Moving briskly with my head down and my coat collar turned up to keep dry, I did not pay much attention to my surroundings. Strange chattering and quiet giggles could be heard from behind, but when I turned around, no one could be seen. My first thought was that someone from one of the local public houses was fumbling home. Then a horrendous screech echoed through the air. That’s when I saw it.” Our guest turned pale. “Standing under the yellow glow of a street lamp was the Goblin Man. His shoulders moved up and down as he breathed in and out.

“‘Who are you?’ I called out, but there was no response. Taking a few steps backwards, I turned and quickened my pace. My home, which is on James Street, just off Lancaster Gate, was near. Quick steps followed me. The Goblin was chasing after me. I began to run for fear that this maniac might kill me! My terror was amplified when I realised I was leading this monster to my very doorstep. So I darted down a small path between two rows of houses. Without warning, I found myself flung to the ground. The Goblin pounced on top of me, digging his knee into my back. He wrapped his cold hand around the back of my neck and squeezed tightly.” Daniels placed his hand around his neck as if the mere memory of it caused him to relive the horror of the event. “I lay there motionless for some time.”

“‘What do you want?’ said I. The man suddenly stood up and backed off. I quickly rose to my feet and faced my attacker. It was dark, but I could still see him clearly. He was not... natural looking. His face, that is, was that of a monster. ‘Who are you?’ I stammered. Like a beast, the Goblin flailed his arms and let out a piercing scream. I began to run again, but he did not follow me. When I felt safe, I proceeded home. Nerves shattered, I collapsed the moment I got inside my door. I stayed home the entire next day and attempted to recover. I reported this incident to the authorities, but no other had been reported before mine. In fact the officer said there hadn’t been a Goblin case since a few years back. They stationed a few extra officers within my area and assured me they’d do their best to find this man.” I noticed the slight twitch of a smile upon Holmes’s face at this statement. “Well, nothing happened for a day or two. Then about four days after the first encounter, I stepped into my back garden and was horrified when I saw the Goblin Man sitting upon the stone fence. His hand dangled between his legs and his head was bent down. I raced back inside and grabbed my revolver. When I came back, he was gone!”

“And what time was this?” Holmes asked.

“It was about nine o’clock at night. I sent a wire to the police, but of course they did not prove much help at all.

A week after the first encounter, I found myself back at my club. This time my revolver was with me. I looked constantly behind me during my walk home but saw nothing. It wasn’t until James Street that fear consumed me, and I saw the Goblin Man a short distance ahead. I reached into my pocket, withdrew my revolver and began to fire. Utter panic took me when I realised my revolver was not loaded! I had loaded that gun that very morning, but now it was empty! The Goblin Man held out his hand, and he dropped several small objects on the ground. They pinged as they hit the ground, and I then realised what they were. They were my bullets! How he got them is a mystery. He then chased after me. We ran for what felt like hours. He didn’t appear to wish to catch me this time, as if he derived some kind of enjoyment from the chase alone. I ran, Mr. Holmes, I ran and ran until I could run no more. I fell over with aching legs and a pounding chest. After recovering my strength, I managed to make my way home. My incident was told to the police. They said they would have an officer on my street every night between nine and midnight. Their inability to do anything thus far did not ease my fear, but whom else could I turn to? Thankfully, for the sake of my sanity, the next four days passed uneventfully. On the fifth day, after this third encounter, I had prepared myself for bed, and when I stepped into my room my window, which overlooks the back, was open. A cold wind crept in and rustled the curtains. I walked over to close it but something caught my attention. I turned, and, sitting in the armchair, was the Goblin Man! I dropped my lamp and it shattered on the floor. Thankfully nothing caught fire. There, in the darkened room, the Goblin Man approached me. I could feel his breath on my face. It stank, like the smell of death.

“‘What do you want? Why are you tormenting me?’ I pleaded.

“‘Don’t you know?’ the Goblin Man replied.

“‘No! I don’t know, so tell me, damn it!’ I shouted.

“‘Shouts won’t bring you any aid,’ he said in a slow, serpent-like voice.

“‘Leave me alone! Is it money you want? I’ll pay you, just leave me alone!’ I told him.

“‘Money? I don’t need your money. Just know that I’m always going to be here. You can’t escape me.’ I turned to hit the Goblin Man, but he was too fast. He ducked, missing my swing, and threw one of the bed sheets over my head. By the time I had untangled myself, he had escaped through the window and was gone. I told this to the police, yet again. They found no clues within my room. But I can bear it no more, Mr. Holmes. This man is real and he must be stopped. Can you help me?”

Holmes sat in silence a moment or two. “Have you wronged anyone?”

“Pardon?”

“In your line of work. You have your hands in several operations. You invest in many companies, shipping, manufacturing, a few others. I need to know if you have, in all your business deals, ever wronged someone. It’s better to tell me now than have me discover it later,” said Holmes coolly.

“Oh, well,” stammered Mr. Daniels. “I am an honest and ethical businessman.”

“Then you may very well be the first in history,” Holmes returned.

“Business is not about making friends, Mr. Holmes. It is about making money, and that is something I am particularly good at. But I can say there are no harsh feelings between me and any of my investors.”

“Any business partners?” Holmes asked.

“Well, I lost my most recent partner,” said he.

“How so?” I asked.

“Do you recall that explosion in East London?” Daniels asked. “The one that tore through the station. My partner, Thomas, was on the train that went up. He was a damn good man, a damn good businessman!”

“I’ll take the case, Mr. Daniels,” said Holmes. “As I am sure you are aware, my rates are fixed and Doctor Watson will be accompanying me on my investigation. I will need full access to your house, your room, and I hope that you retained the bullets that this Goblin Man took.”

“Why, yes, of course!”

“Very well, I have some things to take care of and some tidying up to do. We will call upon you tonight, Mr. Daniels.” Holmes stood and walked to the study door, “Good day.”

Mr. Daniels stood and held the rim of his hat with both hands as he passed by Holmes. “Thank you Mr. Holmes, thank you indeed! I will see you later.”

Chapter 3

Martin Hewitt

The Problem At Davenport House

Autumn 1890

This was a singularly unique affair. One that happens once in a lifetime. One autumn evening when Martin Hewitt and I had found ourselves coming home from the public house, The Hare and The Hounds, we were greeted in the street by a stranger. A woman. She was tall and slender, and wore a dark blue dress with a floral design. Her hair, black, was tied up, which accentuated the severity of her face. Her sharp cheekbones, wide green eyes, and pointy nose dazzled us. She looked upon us intensely. I admit that for a moment there was a light feeling of intimidation at the strange beauty that she possessed.

“Are you Martin Hewitt?” she asked in a gentle voice.

“I am,” said Hewitt, stepping forward and extending his hand.

“I need your help,” said the woman, placing her hand into his.

Hewitt brought it to his lips and kissed it. “Well, why don’t we step inside so we may talk? Perhaps, with a warm drink?”

“Very well,” she replied.

She followed us up the stairs and into our chambers. I offered her a seat and quickly took to boiling some water in order to prepare some tea. Hewitt sat with our guest and I observed from a distance.

“Now, what is your name?” Hewitt asked.

“Mrs. Clara Edwards,” she replied.

“Well, Mrs. Edwards, what can I do for you?”

“I am here on a most important request. Someone very dear to me has gone missing. I have no clue where they have gone or why they have just abandoned us. I was hoping that if I gave you enough information you would be able to find my missing associate.”

“Mrs. Edwards, you can drop the act,” Hewitt smirked. His fingertips danced on the armrest of his chair. “I know very well that the person you seek is no associate of yours, but is rather a husband, or a lover.” An expression of complete bewilderment fell upon Hewitt’s client. Her face went flush and she stirred in her seat. Hewitt remained cool and calm as he continued: “I can also see you are around three months with child, and feel it safe to assume this abandoner is the father.”

It started with a quiver of the lower lip, soon a stream of tears flowed liked two great rivers from her green eyes. “How can you possibly know any of this?” she begged an explanation through her sobs.

“Your dress, for one, is bulging ever so slightly around your stomach. You are not a rotund woman, yet I can see swelling in your fingers where your wedding ring has tightened. Furthermore, your fingernails; I can see a brown dust under them, and judging from the aroma obtained when I kissed your hand, you are taking Tabloid Opium for your morning sickness. So the logical explanation would be that you are with child. How do I know that you are looking for the father? Well, you said ‘they abandoned us’ rather than ‘they abandoned me’. You also went out of your way to conceal their gender. So you may drop the act. I will help you but only under the umbrella of complete and total honesty.”

She held her head low. The kettle screamed, I quickly prepared three cups of tea. I brought them in on a tray with a bit of milk and sugar on the side. Mrs. Edwards lifted her head as I approached. With the assurance of the warm drink in her hand she told us her tale.

“His name is Phillias Jackson, a struggling businessman. He has all the charisma one could need, but he lacks the finance to succeed in anything. His profession changes on a weekly basis it feels, he could never keep to one line of work. He has passion though, a raw sort of attitude towards life, which was what attracted me to him.”

“And your wealth attracted him to you?” Hewitt interrupted. “Or your husband’s wealth, I should say.”

“My husband is dead, Mr. Hewitt,” she said with a bite in her voice.

“Yes, but not three months ago.”

“And how do you know?” she demanded.

“Mrs. Edwards, or rather, Mrs. Goodtree, I recognise you from the papers. Your husband, Thomas Goodtree, died in that terrible explosion at the Whitechapel station,” said Hewitt. “Now, it will be much easier if you tell us the truth from the start.”

Her eyes widened. She had a child-like look of surprise upon her face. She was caught out completely with no more places to hide.

“Yes, yes, I can see that. Thomas was a good man, but he was so wrapped up in the shipping business that he paid little attention to me. I never cared to be rich, I simply wanted a happy life. So when I met this passionate man, Phillias, I gave in to my desires. Thomas cared little about what I did or where I went, so he never knew. He spent all this time with his business partner. I tried to get Thomas to take Phillias into their business, and even introduced them. But then I fell pregnant and we discussed what we would do. We agreed that we would run away together with the money we had and start a life somewhere new. Then one day he sent me a note saying he had some other business to take care of out of town and that he’d be back in a week or two. That was two and a half months ago. He never came back, nor have I heard from him. He’s just gone! I’ve lost my uncaring husband and the one man who did care is missing. I don’t want to make a public ordeal of this, Mr. Hewitt. That is why I’ve come to you. More than anything, I need closure. If he’s dead, I need to know.”

“Were there ever any feuds between your husband and Phillias?” Hewitt asked.

“Never. The times I saw them together they acted like gentlemen.”

“And when did you see them together?”

“Not often. But as I said, I introduced Thomas to Phillias and for a while he did do some work for them. Neither man complained about the other, at least not to me. I have no reason to think there was any issue between them at all.”

“Where did he work for them?”

“Thomas and his partner had a factory on Nine Elms. Phillias managed it.”

“Very well. And as you have no idea where he went I think it would be best to look around Mr. Phillias’s home for a clue to his whereabouts. What is his address?”

“I’m not sure. He never disclosed it to me. We only met in hotels.”

“Dear me, Mrs Goodtree, this is quite the mess. At what hotels did you meet?”

“Fashionable ones. The Savoy, most recently. The Langham Hotels and the Midland Grand on St. Pancras.”

“Would you know anyone that might know where he lives?”

“Thomas’s partner, David Daniels, he might know. He lives on James Street by Lancaster Gate.”

“Can you give us a description of Phillias?”

“He is tall, about six feet. He had a lovely face.” Her eyes began to well, but she fought back the tears.

“Please, no romantics,” Hewitt interrupted. “Tell it straight.”

Our guest took the rebuke on the chin. Straightening her posture she continued.

“He is six foot with peppered hair,” she continued, “he has a rugged face, and he rarely shaves, so he usually has a thick layer of stubble. When I last saw him, he had a moustache. I could always find him in a crowd as he wore a bowler hat with a card pinned to it.” She paused a moment, and her lips quivered. “The card was a Queen of Hearts, and on the backside, the side facing the hat, was a photograph of myself. He calls me the queen of his heart, you see.”

“His eyes and face, any unique markings upon them?” Hewitt asked.

“His eyes are a swirl of colour, a brownish green - very earthy and wild. On the left side of his face, just before his ear, is a mole. His frame is thin, but strong. His nose is slightly arched in the middle. He often has bags under his eyes from late nights working, and his cheeks are sunken as he never eats enough. He does have a small scar upon his right hand, and one upon his left index finger. He was cut badly, so the scar is quite visible.”

“What type of dress?”

“Gentlemen’s dress. A blue waistcoat was his favourite. A black frock coat and grey trousers with a green-checked pattern.”

“Very well. Brett, you and I will go see what we can find out from Mr. Daniels. Where can we find you, Mrs. Goodtree?”

“Chester House, Elsworth Road, near Primrose Hill.”

“Ah, yes. I know it.”

Mrs. Goodtree rose, as did we. I walked over and opened the door. She stopped in the doorway and turned back. “Find him, Mr. Hewitt. I can’t bear this child without my sweet Phillias.” With that, she rushed down the stairs and out of sight.

Chapter 4

D.I. Edmund Reid

An Anarchist’s Playground

August 1890

Kipling and I left the Whitechapel and Mile End station and embarked towards Brick Lane where Lamech and his Jewish anarchists were known to make camp. The maria battered along the cobbled streets, the driver shouting abuses at the filth that either stumbled into the road or felt the necessity to stand there. I looked at my watch; the time was near three o’clock. I realised I had not eaten since I left my home and my bride, Emily. By now she would have heard of the explosion and I could only imagine her panic for my wellbeing.

I saw the piercing steeple of Christ Church ahead as we drew nearer and nearer to Lamech’s dwelling. Kipling sat across from me gripping his baton, his knuckles were white, and his face grimaced.

“Steady, Kipling,” said I. He turned his eyes from the cabin floor towards me, and a half smile broke on his face.

“Yes, sir.”

“No need to be. We are simply going to have a conversation with Lamech, not break down his doors... yet.” I grinned in an attempt to ease his tension.

The maria came to a jerking halt, thrusting Kipling and myself backwards and forwards. The driver called that we had arrived. I looked up and down the street. There was an eerie quiet that loomed in the stale air. Our only company was the foul stench of urine and other bodily remains that swam in the gutters. We ducked down an alley and approached a black door. I pounded upon it until it was jerked open. A short man with dark hair and a thick beard answered. His eyes met mine with disapproval and disdain.

“What do you want?” he asked in a thick Polish accent. He raised his arm and leaned on the doorframe, and I saw that his arm was speckled with tattoos. Upon his wrist I noticed a small symbol - the Hebrew Alpha symbol and on the under part, connected by a chain, the Omega symbol.

“I need to see Lamech. I know he’s here,” I demanded.

“This some sort of joke?” the man demanded, his face turning red.

“I’m not joking,” said I. “Now, where is he?”

“Lamech is dead, you bastard!” he shouted. “Don’t act like you don’t know!”

“Dead?” I retorted, taken aback by his news. “What is the cause?”

“You English and your fake ignorance. You can’t pretend you know nothing of this.”

“I assure you we do not.”

“How did he die?” Kipling asked.

“What is this man doing here?” roared a voice from inside. A tall lanky man with wide-set eyes and a large nose sprung towards us. His wrist bore the same tattooed symbol. It was a sign showing which group he belonged to.

“We are here to speak with Lamech, but your friend here tells me that he is dead,” said I.

“I know you, Inspector Reid. You think you can cleanse Whitechapel. Rid it of vermin like us!” shouted the tall man. His hand was jerking and I noticed him playing with a silver ring with the Star of David embedded on it. “I will not have your presence here!”

“I do not need your permission. Now, if there has been a death, I want to know the cause. Should I suspect anything, it will not cost me any great trouble to rally my troops and arrest you all for illegal imports, petty theft, and other random acts of violence.”

“Mr Reid, maybe one day you’ll follow through with your threats of arrest,” the tall man replied. He turned and walked away saying: “Show him in.”

We followed the short man down a dark hallway, and then up a narrow stair and into an attic. The room was covered in Jewish symbols. A desk was piled with newspapers, letters, and several thick Torah scrolls. A strong aroma of incense hung heavy in the room. In the far corner sat two women on the floor, their backs to us. There was a body laid out in front of them. The tall man stood in a corner, smoking a cigarette. The women turned to look at us. One was elderly and frail looking, the other young and fair-skinned.

“They are his mother and sister,” the short man informed us.

“I am Ruth,“ said the young woman. “This is Naomi.” Ruth pointed towards the older woman.

“I am sorry for your loss,” I said removing my hat.

“Can you tell us what happened?” Kipling asked.

“We do not know,” Ruth said. “He was fine until last night. He felt ill, talked lots of nonsense, as though he was dreaming but still awake. Then he fainted.”

“When did he breathe his last?” I asked.

The young woman looked at me sternly. “Is it always straight to business with you, Mr. Reid?”

“May we have a look at him?” Kipling asked softly. I was impressed with Kipling’s tact, and the woman appeared softer towards him. Ruth nodded and we approached.

“He departed from us an hour ago,” Ruth said. I looked upon the face of Abraham Lamech. There was a strange shading under his eyes and a sort of yellowish tint to his skin. His body expelled an aroma that was not one of death. It was something else. A toxin, but I could not be certain of which one.

“Was he with anyone last night?” I pressed.

“Not that we are aware. He went out for a drink.”

“At what time?”

“Haven’t you pressed enough?” the tall man said from his corner, still fiddling with his loose ring. “I think you can leave us now.”

“I think not. His manner of death was no accident. He was poisoned.”

“He went to the Inn round the corner. The White Stag,” Ruth said.

“Quiet, woman!” snapped the tall man.

“They need to know,” she returned softly, but her eyes gave him a piercing stare.

“Do you know who he saw there? Was he meant to be meeting anyone?” I asked. They were unsure. “Has he had any plans to bomb the Whitechapel and Mile End station?”

The women were silent.

“You come here accusing a dead man of this?” the short man said.

“He did it, or someone wants us to think he did. An explosive very much like the ones we know he has used in the past was the cause of the tragedy today. Many are dead. If he had nothing to do with this, it’s important that we learn who did, but it all points here.”

“We know nothing of it,” the tall man said. The short man looked uneasy.

“Cooperation will go a long way,” I returned. The room remained silent.

“We’ll cooperate when swine like Lord Myers stop trying to force the Jews out of the city!” exclaimed the short man. The other shot him a fierce glance.

“I’m not here to discuss matters of prejudice, nor the thoughts and actions of Lord Myers. I am here about the underground station. We will need Lamech’s body for autopsy .”

***

Kipling and I came to an agreement with Ruth and the others regarding Lamech’s body. I sent Kipling back to the station to make arrangements for the body to be retrieved while I carried on to The White Stag. The streets were still quiet as Lamech’s followers mourned his passing in silence. Soon enough the sound of glasses clashing and the murmur of sloshed men could be heard here and there. I approached the public house, the smell of stale beer rushed into my lunges as I set foot inside. Glares of disapproval followed me as I walked up to the bar.

“Your name, sir?” I asked the bartender.

“Jeffry,” the man managed to mumble.

“Lamech was here last night. Who was he with?”

He wiped out a glass with a dirty towel. “Don’t know what you mean guv’ner,” he said, and put the glass onto a shelf.

“Give us some gin,” said a man at the bar. Jeffry grabbed a bottle and glass and filled it for him.

“I know he was here,” said I. “You can either help me or I can have a look at your books. I know you’ve made arrangements with local whores for the use of your rooms.”

“You’d like to know who they bring back. That’d be the real crime.” Jeffry grinned.

“I do not care that others in authority have looked past this. I will not do the same. What I can promise is this: help me, and I will give you time to move your whores before we storm this cesspool!”

Jeffry squinted at me. I glared back at him, unmoving.

“Get us a whiskey!” shouted another man, slapping his open palm onto the bar. Jeffry walked away and I stormed out.

***

I returned, empty-handed, to the station. Lamech’s body was brought in later that night, while White examined the remains of the explosive. Over the next twenty-four hours, the bodies from the explosion were identified. Further aid from other divisions of Scotland Yard stepped in to handle the amount of work. An Inspector Lestrade was put in place to interview survivors and speak with those who had lost loved ones, in the hopes of acquiring any leads.

***

I dozed at my desk. A rattle at my door shook me awake. “Come in,” I called, wiping the sleep from my eyes and seeing the morning sun pour through the windows.

“You look like hell, Reid,” said White. “You’ve got a beautiful wife, go sleep with her rather than at your desk.”

“I’d rather you not speak of me and my wife’s sleeping arrangements,” I said. “Tell me, what have you learnt?” White waved, and I followed him. In his private working chamber, Lamech’s body lay on a table. White had done the autopsy during the night. On a counter lay the remains of the explosive, along with some glass dishes filled with coloured powder, some magnifying instruments, and a few Bunsen burners boiling with strange liquids.

“Well, you were right. Lamech was poisoned,” said White, looking over the dead body. “But not by any poison I’m familiar with. This purple colouring of the skin appears to be a side effect of the poison.”

“A foreign poison.” I said, walking over and looking down at the corpse. “How did it get into his body?”

“It wasn’t injected into his system. There are no signs of a struggle or even so much as a needle prick on him. It was done orally, through food or drink.” White walked over to a scope. I followed. “Have a look.” I put my eyes to the scope and looked at the microorganisms. “His gut and intestines were full of the stuff. I can only imagine that this poison is tasteless and has no aroma, or at least was masked by another taste. He gobbled his food and drink, and by the time he got home the poison had taken effect, and he died.” I raised my eyes from the scope and looked at White. “So, there you have it.”

“It was done through his food,” I said. “The only place he went, or at least the only place his family told me he went, was the public house. I paid them a visit. They were, of course, no help at all. It would seem they have something to hide.”

“Think you ought to pay them another visit. Perhaps a nice little raid is in order?”

“What of the explosive?” I questioned.

“It’s definitely one of Lamech’s designs. I knew that from the beginning,” said White, as he ran his hand through his hair. “It’s the chemicals he uses, they leave those colour marks which were left. The device used an unknown chemical compound that Lamech and his group have never used.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“It’s obvious. Where does an anarchist get a new chemical?”

“From someone like you.”

“Exactly,” White returned with a grin. “You need to find the chemist Lamech was working with.”

“Our best lead is back at the public house. Burst down the doors and chase out the whores until we get answers.”

Kipling burst into the room. “We’ve got a problem sir!” He handed me The Weekly Dispatch. The headline read:

JEWISH ANARCHIST RESPONSIBLE FOR WHITECHAPEL & MILE END BOMBING!

“Story by Eustace Brown? Damn, that reporter!” I shouted, throwing the paper aside. “Bring him in!”

“Another thing, Inspector Reid, Detective Chief Inspector Johnstone is here.”

***

“What the hell, Reid?” shouted DCI Johnstone as I stepped into my office. He was sitting atop my desk. “This is sloppy, very sloppy!”

“The reporter sneaked in, heard whispers and crafted a story. There is no truth to his words!”

“It doesn’t matter. We now have a newspaper all over the city claiming that a Jewish anarchist is blowing up rail stations. Not only will this affect people travelling on the Underground, it’s going to cause unwanted hostilities between the gentiles and the Hebrews!”

Johnstone stood and walked around my desk looking at the map of London that hung on the wall.

“I’ll make him print a retraction, sir,” said I.

“What are you doing about this anarchist?”

“He’s dead. He was at the pub the night before the explosion, came home, ill, and died sometime after the explosion. His body lies here. Mr. White...”

“White is here?” he snapped.

“He is, sir.”

“That man is no doctor, he’s no proper scientist. He should not be getting his hands on police business.”

“He’s a good man, and he’s a hell of a lot better than some of these police surgeons we’ve got wasting time on our payroll.” I composed myself. “Now, I have a dead anarchist, a wrecked rail station, and a journalist I need to deal with. So, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

“See that all this is sorted, Reid. Don’t let this be another Ripper.” Johnstone walked out. I went around my desk and fell into my chair.

Chapter 5

Doctor Watson

A Visit To Mr Daniels

Autumn 1890

“Watson, would you visit Lestrade and see what information they might have on this Goblin Man; and the incident regarding Mr. Daniels?” Holmes asked.

“I’ll leave straight away,” said I. “What are you doing?”

“I will follow another avenue. Meet me at Lancaster Gate at nine o’clock, and from there we’ll go see Daniels.”

I left Holmes and made my way to Scotland Yard. I did not find Lestrade at the Yard upon my arrival, and I waited some time before he appeared.

“Hello Doctor.” Lestrade greeted me with a handshake. I followed him into his small office. “What can I do for you?

“I need to learn what you know about The Goblin Man and his connection to David Daniels,” said I.

Lestrade leaned back in his chair and let out a sigh.

“The Goblin Man,” Lestrade began. “He is a man who dresses up and scares people, but he is slippery as a fish, I tell you. We can’t seem to catch him. His activity quietened down the past few years. I know some people thought he might have been the Ripper because his attacks stopped about six months before the Whitechapel horrors started. Now the Goblin is back, or so we’re meant to believe, and tormenting this man Daniels.” Lestrade leaned forward, placing his elbows on his desk. “We’ve got nothing. Nothing other than Daniels’ statements. Any piece of evidence or any claims, they’ve all been circumstantial.” Lestrade shook his head. “We’ve had more patrols around Daniels’ house, but this Goblin somehow slips through all our nets. He’s just a man, but a bloody sly one, that’s for sure.”

“What about the bullets?” I asked.

“What bullets?” Lestrade questioned.

“The ones Daniels says the Goblin somehow took from his revolver.” Lestrade looked befuddled a moment. “Surely he informed you of this?”

“I can’t say that he did. What did he tell you?”

“He told Holmes and I that he took a revolver with him to the club; on his way home the Goblin was waiting for him. When he tried to fire, he realised the gun was empty and somehow the Goblin had the bullets and dropped them on the ground before him.”

“Well, this is news to me!” Lestrade exclaimed. “I’m going to send someone over to his house right away!”

“Holmes and I are going there tonight,” I said.

“Then find out what game this man is playing. He’s wasted enough of our time. I’m sorry I can’t give you any solid information on this Goblin, sometimes I’m not sure he exists.”

***

I met Holmes at Lancaster Gate at nine o’clock; together we walked towards James Street. I told him all that Lestrade had said and that Daniels never spoke of the bullets to the authorities.

“Why would he tell us and not them?” I asked.

“Time will tell, Watson,” Holmes said sagely.

“Lestrade questioned the very existence of this Goblin Man. Do you think it’s possible that Daniels is... well, maybe he isn’t in his right mind?”

Holmes looked off into the distance a moment. “Lestrade may have a point.”

“Where have you been all day?” I asked.

“Watching Daniels,” Holmes said.

“Did you see anything of interest?”

“I didn’t, no. He’s been holed up in his house all day. No one has been seen coming in or out.”

We stopped when we reached the top of James Street. Holmes motioned to go down an alley. We passed by the back of Daniels’ house but saw nothing of interest. As we walked around the corner, Holmes pulled me back.

“Someone’s there,” Holmes whispered peering around the corner.

My heart pounded:”The Goblin?”

Holmes confirmed it was not with a slight shake of his head. “It’s a woman.”

I looked and saw a tall slender woman standing on the porch of Daniels’ house. The light from inside poured over her, but she was too far away to make out any clear features. Her distinguishing feature was her blazing red hair. The front door was open and she was speaking with someone, presumably Daniels. She was handed a small box, after which she turned and left. Holmes and I hid in the shadows as she walked towards us. As she passed us, she paused and turned her head slightly in our direction. We both stood still in the darkness, hoping she would not see us. Finally, after a few moments, she continued on her way.

“Who is she?” I asked when she had gone.

“A curiosity. Come, Daniels will be waiting for us.”

***

Mr. Daniels greeted us with a look of relief. “Oh Mr. Holmes, I am glad to see you!” He ushered us inside and quickly closed the door. “How has your day been?”

“Informative,” Holmes returned. “Has anything of interest occurred since we last spoke?”

“No, no,” Daniels answered quickly.

“No sign of the Goblin?” I pressed.

“Not tonight.”

“Show us your room,” said Holmes.

We followed Mr Daniels down a hall and up a staircase. We were shown into his room.

“Burn marks on the floor?” Holmes asked in surprised as we stepped through the door.

“Yes, that’s right,” said Daniels admitted, looking at a charred bit of carpet and wood panelling.

“I thought you said when you dropped the lamp, it didn’t catch fire,” said I.

“Did I?” he said with a blank expression. “Uh, no it caught fire a bit. I put the fire out when the Goblin had left.”

“Where was the Goblin when you came in the room?” I asked, looking around the room.

“Right behind you on the...” Mr. Daniels paused. “Uh, he was there behind the door, right behind you, Doctor.”

“Can we get the bullets?” Holmes asked. ”The ones taken from your revolver.” Daniels took us down into the kitchen where six bullets lay on the table. Without touching them directly, Holmes put them into a leather pouch and tucked them away in his coat pocket. “We need nothing more,” said Holmes patting his pocket. Daniels looked surprised.

“You don’t care to see anything else?”

“No, we have all we need. Good day Mr Daniels.”

Chapter 6

Martin Hewitt

The Wrong Room

Autumn 1890

“What do you make of that woman?” Hewitt asked after Mrs. Goodtree had stepped out. He carried on before I could answer. “These games of love, they always appear to lead to crime.” He paused a moment. “Never mind. Let us try and find Mr. Daniels and hope that we can obtain the information we need.”

“Are we to call upon him at home?” I asked.

“Perhaps he could join us for dinner at the Savoy?” Hewitt suggested. “I will send a message requesting his presence.”

***

A few hours after Hewitt had sent his message to Mr. Daniels, we received a reply. Hewitt took it into his hands and puzzled over the words written. With a sigh, he read aloud:

Mr. Hewitt.

I am a busy man - I have no time to meet you nor to discuss any matter relating to Mr. Phillias Jackson.

Sincerely,

David Daniels.

“This is greatly unfortunate,” said he, putting the note down in his lap.

“Surely there is someone else who may aid us, perhaps someone from his previous work place?”

“Yes, Nine Elms. Mrs. Goodtree said he managed the factory there. We might even gather some evidence from the hotels where they would rendezvous. It seems that we have several avenues to take as we cannot obtain a friendly audience with Mr. Daniels.”

***

Our initial line of enquiry was to visit the hotels. We first went to the Savoy. The staff were a little apprehensive towards us, but once we explained ourselves to the management, they eventually allowed us to see their list of guests. A short thin man named Evans took us into a private room where we could look through the names. Hewitt asked which of the names were individuals who returned on a regular basis with a woman. The man pointed out a few names, those being a Walter James, Bryan Potts, and Phil Jacks.

“What do these men look like?” Hewitt asked.

“Mr. James is a red-headed man. Thin and wire-like.”

“Where does Mr. James hale from?”

“Worcestershire, if I’m not mistaken. Has a large mansion there. Comes from a very wealthy family.”

“The others?” Hewitt asked.

“Mr. Potts is also thin, but taller. Dark hair. Moustachioed. A nice man. I’ve had many conversations with him, a very excitable fellow. From south London; Putney, I believe,” Evans said.

“Putney, you say?” Hewitt enquired. “What brought him here so often?”

“He said he works nearby, never said where though. But he likes city life and entertaining his lass.”

“And what of this Phil Jacks?”

“He was a strange man. Didn’t speak much, at least to me. He, too, was dark haired. Always a bit unshaven. He arrived and left at strange hours. He seemed to me like someone who was always looking over his shoulder, if you get me.”

“I think I do.” Hewitt affirmed. “These men haven’t been here in several weeks.”

“Correct,” Evans said with a nod. Hewitt stroked his chin a moment.

“It might be fruitless, but can you show me the rooms they last stayed in?

Evans agreed and took the keys to the last three rooms the men had used. Hewitt was thorough in his examination of each room. Opening anything that’d open and moving anything that’d move. Unfortunately no useful clues had been left behind.

***

Next, we travelled to the Langham. Hewitt had a confidant there who made entry and access to information much easier than it had been at the Savoy. The man’s name was Wilfred Barnaby, an elderly rotund little man with thick sideburns, beady eyes, and fat wet lips. We three sat with him in a room, looking upon the guest list. Mr Barnaby’s chubby fingers scrolled the list while commenting on people he recalled. Most often he commented on the women he remembered.

“Oh yes, Madam Crane. She was a lovely bird,” Barnaby said with his snicker. “Oh! Mhm. Mrs. Jessica Owens. Yes, she was pretty little thing. All the lads fancied popping her corset off, haha.”

“Barnaby, I am grateful for your service. Might you do us one more favour?” Hewitt asked.

“Anything you wish, Mr. Hewitt!” Barnaby exclaimed.

“Fetch us a spot of tea, would you now?”

“Oh of course!” With a smile and shuffle, he left us.

“An excitable fellow, isn’t he?” I commented.

“He is, Brett, he is,” Hewitt said with a eye roll. “He has a one track mind.”

Hewitt’s attention was fixed on the list of names. I found myself in need of a stretch so I stepped outside for a breath of fresh air. The sun had gone in, and a gentle drizzle fell from the sky. Under the illuminations of the street lamps, cabs clattered as fashionable and not so fashionable individuals hustled from one place to another on this chilly and wet night. I smoked a cigarette then returned inside, only to find Hewitt pulling on his coat and ready to leave

“What is it, man?” I demanded.

His eyes were ablaze: “Come now, let us go to St Pancras!”

The light mist had become a heavy rain by the time we arrived at St Pancras. Hewitt and I emerged from our cab with no umbrella, and fumbled our way through a crowd of people into the hotel. The doorman looked upon us with displeasure at our wet state. Hewitt patted the man on the shoulder and told him sardonically not to worry as we proceeded to the front desk.

“How may I help you... gentlemen?” a young-faced woman asked, eyeing us dubiously. Hewitt explained our situation and asked to double-check their records. Her hesitation was minimal, but we did have to explain ourselves to the manager, Mr Hodder, who had some recollection of my friend, before we were allowed access to the information. Luckily for us, Hewitt had made a name for himself in London; while his fame was limited he was nevertheless known by people that needed to know of him. Had it not been for the manager reading about his affair with the Red Circle, I’m not sure how successful we would have been.

Hewitt excitedly perused the records in front of us. The manager hung behind, watching his every action. I detected a glimmer of excitement in his eyes as he watched my friend work. There was a brief interruption when a messenger boy delivered a note us. Hewitt eagerly read it.

“The field is narrowed!” he shouted, leaning back in his chair with tremendous force. The hotel manager and I looked at Hewitt with interest. “The ginger man from Worcester, Walter James is none other than that who he says he is: Walter James.” Confusion befell me a moment. “Phil Jacks and Bryan Potts!” Hewitt said pointing to the ledger excitedly.

“Ah! So these two men are likely to be Phillias?” I asked.

“They are.”

“It seems obvious that Phil Jacks would be Phillias Jackson. Making a deviation of his Christian name to appear as if he’s another man altogether.”

“My good man,” Hewitt said, turning to look at Mr Hodder. “Tell us what Phil Jacks looks like.”

“I can do better than that,” said he. “Mr. Jacks is in the hotel this very night. If he is a villain in some crime, I should like him to be caught sooner rather than later!”

We followed the man to the desk, where he picked up a key and then darted up a flight of stairs. We came to the room of Phil Jacks, and the manager pounded upon it heavily, calling out the man’s name. We then heard the sound of a woman squeal. Terror pulsed through me.

“My God,” the manager whispered and rapped on the door.

“Where is key, man?” Hewitt demanded. We heard a crashing sound. “There is no time!”

The manager looked at us in fright. He forced the key into the slot and swung the door open. He dashed inside, with Hewitt and I following behind, only to find Phil Jacks and a maid in the act of coitus. There was a moment of severe embarrassment for all of us.

Mr. Jacks shouted obscenities as he and the maid covered themselves up with blankets. Turning away we quickly left the room. After a ruckus and further abuse being said, Mr. Jacks opened the door. His face was red with anger and the woman was nowhere to be seen.

“What in the hell is going on here?” Mr. Jacks roared.

“I do apologise, Mr. Jacks. This is Mr. Hewitt, a private detective...” the manager began in a panicked tone.

“I don’t care who this man is! Tell me why you barged into my rooms?” He looked angrily between the three of us. Then I realised something unique. The man was clean-shaven, had no scar upon his index finger, nor a mole on the left side of his face. Phil Jacks this man might be, but Phillias Jackson he was not.

“It is our mistake. We took you for a criminal,” admitted Hewitt. “We were being shown to your rooms in order to apprehend you, but unfortunately you are not the man we seek.”

“Forgive the mistake, Mr. Jacks. I shall make it up to you,” said the manager nervously.

“Indeed you shall! The rest of my stay will be on your tab!” Jacks turned and slammed the door shut, the force of which rustled our hair.

“Let’s discuss this downstairs,” Hewitt whispered. We were taken into a small office where the three of us sat down.

“This is not good. No, not good at all,” murmured the manager.

“What can you tell me of Bryan Potts?” Hewitt asked.

“Potts?” Mr Hodder said, “My mind is too caught up in what just happened. I could very well lose my position here!”

“You will be fine, Mr Hodder. Now, I need you to tell me what you know about Bryan Potts!” Hewitt spoke sternly.

The manager pulled his nerves together at Hewitt’s request: “He is an odd fellow, very loud and presumptuous. He’s stayed here a few times...”

“Four times between March and September, going by your books,” Hewitt added.

“Quite right,” Hodder nodded. “It was rumoured that he was bringing a married woman back to his rooms. But you know how staff gossip, nor was it any of my business what the man does.”

“Tell us of his appearance,” Hewitt pressed.

“He was tall with dark hair. A bit of grey . He often appeared unshaven on his cheeks, not a beard, no, just untidy. He had a thick moustache. He always wore a bowler hat with a playing card tucked into the flap. I assume that he’s a bit of a gambler.”

I passed a glance a Hewitt but he remained fixated upon the manager.

“Your recollection of the man is quite remarkable,” Hewitt admitted

“I possess no remarkable powers of observation or deduction,” affirmed Hodder. “The final time Potts was here, he was most unruly and I banned him from ever returning. The excitement over Jacks caused me to forget about the indecent with Potts.”

“What transpired?”

“He stumbled in to the foyer about seven o’clock in the evening. He was incredibly angry, and ranting about some indiscretion with his lady friend. He held a cloth to his face. It appeared to be blood stained. I asked him to calm down and not to make a scene. He became aggressive, and shoved me. I fell to the floor. I could see, even in his craze, that he regretted it. I told him he was to leave at once and the belongings in his room would be sent to him, otherwise we’d call the police. He gave me his address, and that was the last I saw or heard of him.”

“Did you retain his address?”

“I did.” Hodder searched through his desk and withdrew a book. “The address he gave us, and the one that we sent his belongings too, was Davenport House, Wood Road, Putney.”

Chapter 7

D.I. Edmund Reid

A Silver Lining

August 1890

I departed for The Weekly Dispatch with a couple of officers to accompany me. The day had turned grey and dismal, and a light mist waved through the air as we went the city. Anger burned inside me. Eustace Brown was a foolish journalist. Ever since the Ripper events, journalists had become thirsty for blood to stain their papers, eager to rip at the flesh of a story and display its innards in black and white for the masses to see.

We passed through the doors of the newspaper headquarters. The officers and I walked through, calling out for assistance. No one came, everything was quiet. We looked through open doors into untidy offices, but not a single person was there.

“Inspector Reid!” one of the officers called. I stepped out of an office and into the hallway to see him coming towards me. “We found a body.”

I followed him into another room. There was a man with his head pinned to the desk with a large blade. It was Eustace Brown. The blood that stained his desk was dried and brown. I could see a mark on the back of his neck from where the killer had held him down before ramming the knife through his skull.

I examined the paperwork on his desk: Brown had been in the middle of writing another report regarding the events of the Whitechapel Underground attack, and the effect they would have on London’s growing Jewish population and the anarchists at large. There was an interview with Lord Myers, a member of parliament who made his negative position quite clear on the matters of Jewish immigrants. It seems he, too, was crying out for Jewish blood in light of the Whitechapel explosion.

“This is a mess!” I said, walking over to the door. I leaned against the frame and looked into the room. Nothing appeared out of place. “What happened here?” I asked myself. I looked over to the left and pictured the scene: When Brown walked in, someone could have concealed themselves behind the door waiting for him. I looked behind the open door. When Brown sat down, the perpetrator could have revealed themselves, but whatever he did, Brown did not raise an alarm. The desk was a mess of papers, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary for a writer. The two might have engaged in conversation as the perpetrator walked behind Brown. I followed the trail and stood behind the dead body.

The indentations on the floor, from where Brown habitually scooted his chair, were old not fresh, which meant he didn’t try and thrust his chair back. He just sat there. The perpetrator grabbed him by the back of the neck, shoved him down and killed him. He then, presumably, left by the front door. No, he wouldn’t do that. Anyone who saw him would know he killed Brown.

“Gentlemen, find an open window!” I commanded.

We searched the rooms rapidly. There was nothing on the main floor. I ran up the stairs to the next level. There was a small room with cabinets and papers. At the far end, facing a back alley, was an open window. I looked outside. The drop would result in injury. As I started to pull my head back inside, I looked to the right and noticed something interesting. A copper pipe was within arm’s reach. It was dented and at the top the guttering was bent and broken. The roof above was flat, it would make for a quick and invisible get away. I reached for the copper pipe. I slipped. My heart suddenly raced. I was able to grab the inside of the window frame, stopping myself from falling out. I pulled myself back inside, I suspect the man who pulled this off had aid of a rope and used the pipe and gutter for extra balance.

Around back, there was a metal stair that led to the roof. I left one officer in the room and told the other to look around outside on the ground. I raced up the stair and made my way to the roof. The wind was cold and strong, and the rain was coming down harder. I looked at the area in which the villain had climbed atop the roof. I heard a slam and looked to the adjacent building. A door was swinging open and shut with the wind. I walked over and observed the gap between the buildings. There was a scuff mark and a broken brick on the ledge. The gap was no more than five feet. Someone with the right speed could have jumped it. I walked back over to the bent gutter. A rattling caught my attention. I looked down, and caught on a piece of bent metal, hung a silver ring. I took it into my hand and noticed a Star of David embedded upon the band. Where had I seen this before? It struck me like a brick. The tall man at Lamech’s. He had worn this very ring.

***

I made haste towards Lamech’s lodgings. I tried the door. It was open. I went inside, slowly, and withdrew my revolver. The rooms were amuck. Tables and chairs overturned, shattered glass scattered everywhere, and torn pieces of cloths. Burgled? No, someone left here in a hurry. I went up to the room where Lamech had died. It, too, had been turned to shambles. No one was there. The entire group of anarchists had vanished.

We cleaned up the mess at The Weekly Dispatch and my men scoured Lamech’s old rooms for any clues that might be of use. Nothing turned up. It was as if the entire group had vanished into thin air. It was eleven o’clock at night, and the rain had turned the roads to mush. I sat in my office with the glow of an oil lamp to keep me company as I filed paper work. I was eager for an update regarding the efforts made to speak with survivors of the explosion, and loved ones of those who had lost someone to find any clue as to who planted that explosive.

Who poisoned Lamech, and why did his followers vanish? I reached into my pocket, and withdrew the silver ring with the Star of David on it. The tall man was my lead suspect in the Brown murder, but where was he?

***

“All the bodies have been identified,” said Inspector Lestrade, leaning back comfortably in the chair in front of my desk. “I’ve spoken to some of the families, and I can’t see any connection to this Lamech. No one on that train posed any kind of threat to him or his organisation.”

I buried my face in my palms for a moment. “They may not have posed a threat to him. Was there anyone of interest?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary that I saw. Men and women on their way to work, running errands. It seems a random attack. There’s no motive from Lamech’s end. Other groups in questions have been accounted for that night as well.”

“This can’t be purely random, Lestrade,” I pressed.

“I’ve got the list of the dead here, and the statements.” He slid some papers my way. “Maybe you can find something I missed.” Lestrade rose. ”I heard the anarchists have disappeared.”

“It’s too convenient. I still have a couple other angles I need to check first.”

“Good luck.” Lestrade turned and walked out.

After I read through the statements left by Lestrade, I found Mr White in his chamber at the station. Lamech’s body had been moved to a morgue. White was fast at work trying to figure out the composition of the chemicals used to ignite the explosive.

“Any luck?” said I, standing behind him while he mixed solutions.

“None,” he replied. “Maybe you shouldn’t stand that close while I’m doing this.”

I took a few steps back. “Is there no way to trace the chemicals?” I asked.

“I’ve been trying. I’ve got nothing. Whoever did this is a chemical genius.”

“I need you to find me some answers!”

White put his work down and spun around in his chair to look at me. He removed the protective frames from his face and slid them upon his head. “I know you want answers. I assure you, I’m doing whatever I can to find them. Find out where the train terminates at night. That would be the best place to attach the bomb. Wouldn’t have happened in between stops.”

“Say again?”

“Do I really need to?”

“Explain your logic,” said I.

“Well, the bomb wasn’t inside the carriage, was it? It was underneath,” White said. “Doesn’t seem likely that a bomb would be attached while passengers were boarding. No, it would have been put in place sometime in the night when the train was not in use.”

“And so whoever did it must have had an informant to know which train to put the bomb on to. That is, unless they stole that information.” I paused, captured in thought. This attack was being written off too quickly by the Yard. I needed to find the motive.

“You got it.”

Chapter 8

Doctor Watson

A Swift Drop And Sudden Stop

Autumn 1890

Back at 221B Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes was attempting to gain any clues he could from the bullets Daniels had given him. His attention was so fixated upon his task that he ignored several of my summons for food. For hours, my friend studied each and every bullet. Then, with a bang, he smacked his hand down upon his worktable. I, sitting reading in my chair, jolted and turned to look at him. He sat slouched, with a look of agitation upon his face, rubbing his forehead and quietly mumbling to himself.

“Whatever is the matter, Holmes?” I asked.

“There are no other fingerprints upon these bullets,” he snapped.

“But there are some?”

“Yes, but only Daniels’.”

“The hour is late,” said I. “Start afresh tomorrow, perhaps?”

“Off you go, Watson. I shall remain here a while longer.”

***

I was awoken by a pounding on my door. The sun had not yet risen.

“Watson, wake up. We must go back to Daniels immediately!”

“Good Lord, Holmes. What time is it?” I called back. He opened my door and poked his head in.

“The time is of no importance. We are summoned at once. There was an incident in the night.”

“I’m not sure night-time has passed,” I mumbled tossing my sheets away.

“Hurry, Watson!” said Holmes before dashing away.

I quickly readied myself and found Holmes at the bottom of the stairs. The street lamps were still lit and the sun had yet to rise as we jumped into a cab. Holmes told me that Lestrade had sent an urgent message saying that Mr Daniels had hanged himself and our assistance was needed.

We arrived to find a couple of officers standing near a police maria at the front of Daniels’ house. The morning air was cold, and the freshly rising sun revealed a thin layer of frost upon the ground. Holmes and I were ushered in and greeted by Lestrade.

“Good of you to come so quickly, Mr Holmes,” said Lestrade.

“Tell me what happened,” Holmes said.

“My men saw you leave the house, and they kept a close watch. Everything seemed quiet and normal. About three thirty this morning, they heard a commotion. Daniels was shouting at someone. My officers swear on their lives that no one had entered the house, nor did they witness anyone leave. They heard the breaking of glass and rushed in to find Daniels hanging by the neck.”

“It was self-inflicted, this much I can tell,” said Holmes, looking at Daniels. “Take him down.” I looked around the room: there was a shattered glass bowl upon the floor which looked like Daniels must had kicked it when he took the fatal plunge. As the body was being taken down, Holmes began quietly examining the room, then left us as they laid the body on a table.

While Holmes looked around I examined the corpse of Mr Daniels. I noticed an odd smell upon him, and a strange purple colouring on the flesh around his eyes.

“What do you reckon?” Lestrade asked.”

“I’m not sure entirely,” said I, “but it does look like an effect from substance abuse.”

Just then Holmes returned, glanced at the body, leaned over and deeply inhaled before returning to his full height: “We have all we need. Lestrade, we will be in touch.”

***

In the cab, Holmes turned to me.

“What did you make of the body, Doctor?” he asked.

“The smell and discolouration? If memory serves me right he was poisoned by a rare flower found in Afghanistan...”

“Yes, the fire flowers are known to cause such effects. I’ve some knowledge of it”

“It’s a rare poison, Holmes. If I remember correctly, the petals appear to perspire under certain temperatures. The liquid created has toxic effects if absorbed into the system. It will cause one to be slowly driven mad until death takes them. It leaves behind a terrible smell and the purple colouration around the eyes. During my war days I treated a few men who suffered from this poison.”

“How long does the poison take to kill its victim?”

“A small dose will take upwards of a month.”

“Remind me of the symptoms?”

“Paranoia was common in all of them. It started slowly before manifesting into some kind of physical fear. One soldier attacked a captain whom he had thought disliked him, making the claim the captain was planning to kill him. They also saw things that weren’t there. Some would swear a spider or snake was on them when nothing was there at all. It manifests differently but it’s always a fear come to life.”

“So, who poisoned Daniels, and why?” Holmes asked rhetorically.

“Maybe the Goblin isn’t real?” I questioned.

“There is no such creature; but there is a man.”

“How do you know?”

“Mud, Watson. A trace of it in the hallway from a large boot. Neither police nor anyone else who was frequent at Daniels. I found it near a window in the next room while you were looking over the body. Daniels, certainly, was not alone; he was shouting at someone.”

“What do you plan to do next?”

“You can return to Baker Street. I need to go to the docks.”

Chapter 9

Martin Hewitt

The Mystery At Davenport House

Autumn 1890

Taking the information from the manager, we made our way back to our lodgings. The rain had lightened, but the hour was late, and Hewitt and I agreed we would continue the investigation after a hardy dinner and a good night’s sleep

Early the following morning, Hewitt and I procured a hansom to take us to Putney to Phillias Jackson’s lodging: Davenport House. The autumn air had become bitterly cold through the night but by the time we reached Davenport House, the sun was high in the morning sky and some warmth had returned to the air.

Mr Jackson’s home was a large three floor house. Hanging outside the house was a sign saying: Room for Let. His lodgings were shared, not his own.

“A further touch of the bizarre, Brett,” remarked Hewitt pointed to the sign.

“Not the kind of accommodation I expected from Mr Jackson,” said I with a nod.

“My thought precisely.” Hewitt raised his large fist and banged on the front door. A bespectacled man with bushy sideburns and slicked back hair answered.

“May I help you?” he asked us.

“My name is Martin Hewitt, I’m an investigator. I’m looking into the disappearance of Phillias Jackson.”

“Has he disappeared?” the man asked.

“A concerned party believes him to be missing. What, pray, can you tell us?”

“Do you have any credentials on you?” the man asked suspiciously. “For all I know you could be anyone.”

“Anyone can be anyone, sir,” said Hewitt as he took out his identification with slight annoyance. The man took it into his hands and examined it thoroughly.

“Very well. I am satisfied,” he responded, handing Hewitt’s property back.

“Tell us what you know of Mr. Jackson, while you lead us to his rooms,” Hewitt requested.

The man turned and we followed him inside.

“Mr. Jackson was a businessman, not a very good one, though. He was never too much of a bother to anyone. But he did keep some unruly hours which made some feel uncomfortable.”

“What do you mean by unruly?” I asked as we followed our guide up a narrow staircase.

“Unruly; quite self-explanatory, is it not? Well, that is to say that his work kept him in and out at all hours. In order to not disturb the other lodgers he, for a small fee, did some of his experiments out in the shed.”

“What experiments was he doing in the shed?” Hewitt asked.

“Not entirely sure, tinkerings of some kind.” The man paused. “Mr Jackson said he’d be away some time, so I’m finding it most strange that you are here looking for him.”

The man stopped in front of a door and withdrew some keys. Selecting one, he slid it into the lock. The door opened and we stepped into Mr. Jackson’s living quarters. The room was average in size. There was one single window that faced the back of the house through which one could see the shed. A small bed with a trunk at the end of it; a few stacks of books; a desk, cluttered with papers, a pen, and a jar of ink. There was a cabinet with some clothes, and a small washroom as well. Hewitt spent some time wandering around while our guide and I watched.

“When did you last see Mr. Jackson?” Hewitt asked.

“Oh, he’s been away a short while. He said something about going to the continent for business.”

“How long ago was that?”

“I suppose two months, maybe three?”

“So you haven’t seen him in all that time?” I questioned.

The man shook his head. “But he paid his rent, so I’m not worried as long as he is up-to-date.”

“Did he ever have any visitors here?” Hewitt asked.

The man paused and thought a moment. “A woman,” he said in a low voice. “She’d come around several times a week. I could often hear him speaking to her in his room, but it sounded like they were speaking in foreign gibberish. Is she the one who is worried about him?”

“What can you tell me about her?”

“Oh, not much. I only saw glimpses of her.” He lowered his voice. “But she did stay over with him quite a lot. There’s only one kind of woman who will stay with a man without hesitation or care for decency.”

“So she was a lady of the night?” I asked.

“I’m not one to judge,” said the man. “I did tell Mr. Jackson he needed to think about his actions as this was meant to be a respectable lodging. He assured me that he meant no harm, but did tell me that he and this lass had big plans together.”

“Did he ever tell you what these plans were?”

“Afraid not, no.”

“Might you take us to the shed where you said he did other work... tinkerings as you say.”

We followed the man down the stairs and out into the back garden. The shed was a decent size, ten feet by five feet. The man opened the door and a few gardening tools fell out.

“Will you allow us some privacy while I look around?” Hewitt asked. The man looked somewhat disappointed to be discharged so abruptly but agreed and returned to the house.

“What do you make of it, Brett?” he asked me while he perused the interior of the shed.

“Well, it seems that this Mrs. Edwards, I mean Goodtree, is perhaps unrealistically worried. If his landlord isn’t worried about the length of time he’s been gone, why is she?”

“Perhaps she has some information that she’s not passed over to us. Are you not wondering which woman the landlord saw Jackson with?”

“Ah! So she must know about this other woman? She’s worried he’s run off with her.” said I. “But why didn’t she tell us this?”

“Quite right, why indeed,” mumbled Hewitt. He ran his finger along a table and sniffed it. He knelt down and dabbed something on the floor. Then, with a heave, he withdrew a chest from underneath the table and opened the top. “Hmm, see what we have here, Brett.”

I walked over and looked inside. “These are...”

“Explosives,” said a voice from behind us.

Hewitt and I turned to see two figures standing in the doorway.

“How can you know that?” Hewitt asked, standing up.

“Elementary,” said one of the men, taking a couple of sniffs.

“There is an aroma,” said a moustachioed man who sniffed the air. “Yes, this place has certainly been a storage room for explosive powders.”

“Who are you?” I demanded.

Chapter 10

D.I. Edmund Reid

The Thames Stand Off

August 1890

I looked at my clock. It was nine thirty, and the night air was crisp. The sky was cloudless and the stars shone down like piercing white diamonds in the sky. I wished the peace of the heavens would descend upon us here and now.

“Tonight we go to the White Stag,” I said to my group of officers. “We’re going to raid and impound anyone we find with the whores. I care not who they are or what their rank is.”

“Why are we singling out this whorehouse?” an officer asked.

“One by one I’ll see all these places closed. This particular one has a connection to the Underground explosion a few days ago. A Jewish anarchist, Lamech, was there the night before the explosion.” I pointed to Mr White standing at the back. “Mr White helped to identify the explosive which was attributed to Lamech. Now the Jew is dead, poisoned by the food and drink that he had at the White Stag. The bartender, Mr Jeffry, was warned what would happen without his cooperation. Tonight we return and take his business away.”

My small army of three maria rattled and rushed towards the White Stag. Hooves and wheels battered upon the cobbled roads, creating a sound akin to a war-like charge, which reverberated between the buildings. Two of the maria broke off to surround different exits while mine continued towards the front. My men had arrived and a few were standing watch outside the back doors while I and the rest stormed the front door. The others immediately rushed up the stairs to the rooms. Men shouted abuse as their whorings were interrupted. The women were screaming as they, and their clients, were apprehended.

“Where’s the bartender?” I demanded of one of the staff. The men in the parlour were taken aback by our entrance. Some stared in shock while others jumped and ran towards various exits. I took a man by the collar. “Where is he?”

“He’s out back!” said the man. “Ran like a headless chick.”

I darted behind the bar and pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen area. As I came through, I was greeted with an ear-piercing boom. I ducked at the sound; I was being fired upon. I withdrew my revolver and hid behind a couple of barrels.

“Jeffry!” I shouted. “Stop this now. You knew this was coming.” I peered over the barrel. Another shot was fired. An officer burst through the door and Jeffry fired again. As if everything had slowed down, I saw as the bullet shot right through the air, hitting my man in the chest. I fired two more shots, but I missed him.

“Go on, get out’a here!” I heard Jeffry yell. I looked and to my surprise; It was the tall man from Lamech’s. His clothes were undone and he was struggling to reach the backdoor and escape. Jeffry fired a couple more shots, I took cover. I fired a shot and hit Jeffry in the arm. He cried out in pain as he fell over, nursing his wound. As I ran towards Jeffry Lamech’s associate darted from his hiding place and through the back door. Quickly I grabbed a pair of cuffs and secured Jeffry to a pipe before making chase.

I ran out the door following the tall man go through. It was unmanned! My blood boiled with anger, had my men kept a post at this door he’d be in custody and I’d not be chasing him. I heard shouting down an alley and followed. I could see him struggling to put on a shoe. “Halt!” I cried.

He turned, panicked, and ran. He sprinted away from me and I charged onwards with full strength. He turned a corner and I heard a crash. I was moving too fast; I stumbled and fell over several wooden crates that he had knocked over. When I hit the ground, a sharp pain surged through my shoulder; I rolled and quickly picked myself up and continued the pursuit.

He was not far ahead of me when he leapt into a four wheeler and threw out the driver. He smacked the horses and the carriage charged away down the narrow street. I turned, and saw a hansom not five yards away. I ordered the driver make haste and follow.

We charged down the poorly lit streets causing chaos. Yelps and hollers whizzed passed as people dove out of our way. We were not far from the Thames. My heart raced. I could see the river ahead now, and a small dock. I was not prepared for a water pursuit. I saw him pull his carriage to a fierce stop and leap out. I was jolted when my driver hit a severe hole in the road. A wheel broke and fell off and the cab tipped over. The compartment was dragged some distance before the horse tripped and collapsed. I stumbled out, my driver was pulling himself up, the tall man fiddling inside a small boat. I raced towards him, revolver ready, and yelled at him to stop. He was in the process of untying a small vessel and I fired a shot into the air. He looked at me and stood upright.

“Step out of the boat!” I ordered.

“You can do nothing, Reid,” he said.

“You are under arrest for the murder of Eustace Brown...”

“Me! I did what had to be done. He smeared my family’s name in that paper.”

“Dead or alive, you’re coming with me.” He smiled back. I could see his white teeth under the pale moonlight. “Step out of the boat.” He began to laugh and with a quick move he pulled out a revolver and held it to his head.

“I tell you now, Reid, these are dark times.” He tightened the grip on his revolver. “What will be will be. We fight the good fight.” His hand was shaking. “I did what I did, and I won’t go down for it. Not in an English court!”

“Put the revolver down and we’ll talk,” I said softly. The man started to laugh.

“If only you knew... If only you really knew what was coming, Mr. Reid. This is a dead end for you, but it’s only a beginning for me. God welcomes me home.”

“Where has your clan gone?” I asked.

“On the path of redemption,” he returned. He pulled the trigger and the bullet shot through his head. He fell to the side and into the murky water. I raced over to try and retrieve him, but it was too late. His body was gone. Eventually it would break shore but by then it’d be no use to me.

***

I returned to the station where it was abuzz with the shouts of whores and angry clients. Jeffry was waiting for me in my office, being watched over by Kipling. I took a seat at my desk and looked at him. His arm had been bandaged, but he still held his arms like a pouting child.

“I told you, Jeffry,” I began, “you cooperate or we end your whore business. This is what happens when one does not heed my warning.”

“You’re busy busting those who make money off whores rather than finding the man who guts them like pigs!” Jeffry shouted. My face flashed with heat as my blood boiled at his remark.

“Speak not of what you do not know,” I said sternly. “Now, Lamech was at your establishment the night before the explosion, was he not?”

“He was, yes,” Jeffry reluctantly admitted.

“What did he eat?”

“Can’t remember,” Jeffry shrugged.

“But he ate,”

“Well, yeah. He and that other chap,” Jeffry confirmed.

“What other chap?” I pressed.

“A whiskered man with a cut on his face.”

“Who is he?”

“I don’t rightly know. Never seen him before.”

“Never? What did he look like? Did he engage with any other people?”

“He wore a flat cap that was pulled down low, I remember. So I never got a good look at his face,” said Jeffry.

“What was his and Lamech’s demeanour?” I asked.

“They were quiet, sitting at a table in the corner away from people. Both sat with their backs to the wall. I supposed they wanted to see what people were doing.”

“Did they leave together?”

“No, the other man left first.”

“How did the two depart? Peaceful or agitated?”

“I don’t know. It was a busy night. I didn’t just watch them!” Jeffry was flushed.

“Why were you helping Lamech’s associate escape?”

“What do you mean?”

“We caught him, Jeffry. Don’t treat me as the fool.”

“What did he tell you?” Jeffry squirmed in his chair.

“Who poisoned the food Lamech ate.”

“Poisoned? I don’t know what you’re talking ‘bout.” His eyes shifted and he held his arm a little tighter.

“He told us everything. You’ll do well to tell me the truth.”

“I don’t know what he told you about poison, but we, or I, had nothing to do with that! That wasn’t our plan!”

“What was your plan then?”

“Err, we... we didn’t have a plan.”

“Don’t play games!” I shouted, smacking my fist on the desk.

“I know nothing!” he yelled back.

“Well, you better clear your story then.” Jeffry hung his head. “You’re going away, forever. I’ll make sure you never feel fresh air upon your face again. I’ll make sure you are buried so low sunlight will be nothing but a fairy tale to you.”

“I didn’t poison him! I just helped Jacob, Lamech’s dead lanky associate, get his family out of the city.” I took the name down and looked back at Jeffery. “Why was Jacob at your inn?”

“He was seeing things through. Making sure everyone was gone and there was no trace. If he knew anything about the poisoning, he didn’t tell me. He simply paid me a good sum of money to help get the anarchists out before people like Myers came storming at them.”

“Take him away,” I instructed exhausted.

Kipling grabbed Jeffry and stood him up. I leaned back in my chair and gazed at the ceiling puffing my cheeks out.

***

Kipling and White entered my office an hour later. White took a seat while Kipling remained standing. I leaned forward resting my elbows on my desk.

“What can we do now, Reid?” White asked, crossing his legs and stroking his chin.

“We can only hope some clue crops up where the train was stationed the night before.”

“Otherwise?” Kipling asked.

“Otherwise we’re dead in the water!” I snapped. I paused a moment. Kipling was shocked at my outburst. I allowed myself to calm before I said: “There are no other options. With the tall man, Jacob, dead, and the anarchists vanished, there is little we can now follow.”

“Don’t suppose there’s more the bartender isn’t telling you?” White asked.

“He’s a buffoon. We’ll keep him within arm’s reach for the time, but I cannot say with conviction that he is of aid to us,” I returned.

“I’m sorry I can’t be of more help myself,” admitted White. “The compounds in the explosive and the poison - I wouldn’t even know where to begin looking for them in this city, or any city for that matter.”

“There must be another thread to this mystery... There must be,” I whispered. “Gentlemen, let’s follow the rail tracks.”

***

It was with great disappointment that we returned empty handed from our investigation. We learnt nothing from where the train had been kept overnight. Not a single person had seen anything or was willing to tell us if they had. The whole thing became one of many open investigations that would remain dead in the water.

Over the next few months, Jeffry was locked away in Pentonville. Before his hanging, we attempted to get more information out of him regarding Jacob, but it proved useless. His public house was searched over and over and it, too, yielded no results. We looked far and wide for any sign of the anarchists, but Lamech’s entire tribe had all vanished. Whoever killed Lamech had got away with it. Whoever planted the explosive had also escaped our grasp. DCI Johnstone’s temper burned red when he came to see me on the matter. He showed no mercy on my department and threatened my job on several occasions. I looked for hope, for an answer to the solution that would aid us in solving this problem, but I had nowhere to turn.

Chapter 11

Doctor Watson.

Discovery At Nine Elms

Autumn 1890

“Watson!” echoed Holmes’ voice. I heard the sound of his feet racing up the stairs. I rose from my seat as he burst into the study. “Come, Watson. We’re off to Putney.”

“Are you going to tell me why or where in Putney we are going?”

“Davenport House! Now come, Watson.”

Once we were in a cab, I demanded Holmes tell me what he had learnt.

“First, I know how Daniels was being poisoned.” My interest was piqued. “The mud found in Daniels’ house was telling. We know he hadn’t been anywhere suspicious since we met him. We also know the state of his house upon our visit. There was no mud. Yet, I found some there. Daniels was certainly not alone. He was yelling at someone. I could tell from the mud that it came from a factory by the river; I have narrowed down the mixture of mud and sand to somewhere near Nine Elms. As it happens, Daniels has a small factory just there. So someone from around his factory had come into his house, and mud had fallen from their shoes.”

“That doesn’t explain how he was being poisoned.”

“I ventured into the factory where I was stopped by a warden.

“‘What are you doing sniffing around here?’ he yelled.

“‘I am looking into the death of Mr. Daniels, your employer.’

“The man froze stiff. ‘Dead, you say? What happened?’

“‘Hanged himself,’ I returned. ‘It is most important that I have a look through his offices.’

“‘Now sir, I can’t let you do that.’

“‘I assure you, you can.’ I introduced myself to him, but he was not impressed.

“‘I don’t care who you are, private detective or not. This here is my factory and I can’t let people go sniffing around.’

“‘Every man has his price.’

“He paused a moment and I handed what would have been to him a considerable amount of money. His eyes lit up, and I knew I had him. ‘What can you tell of your employer Mr. Daniels?’

“He slipped the money into his dirty charcoal jacket and said, ‘He was a decent bloke, as far as I could tell. He was always careful about who he put his trust in, and if you ever broke it you’d be gone.’

“‘What do you mean by ‘be gone’?’

“‘Well, if you ever got on his bad side or were just inept he’d cut you loose. Send you packing. That sort of thing.’

“‘When did you see him last?’

“‘I haven’t seen him in some months. He’s only telegrammed. After Thomas was killed in the explosion at Whitechapel Station, he stopped coming into the factory.’

“‘How long have you held this position?’

“‘Oh, only a few months.’

“‘Who was in the role before you?’

“‘A man named Phillias Jackson. Of course he wasn’t here very long.’

“‘Why was that?’

“‘Not quite sure. I remember him coming in with Mr. Daniels and Mr. Thomas and being shown around, then about two weeks later he was made Warden and we were informed of some new business that we’d be doing.’

“‘What kind of business?’

“‘Thomas opened up some trade with India and Afghanistan.’

“‘What kind of trade?’

“‘Nothing important. Some of it was animals, some was fabrics, spices. That sort.’

“‘Back on point, then. Why did Mr. Jackson step down from being Warden?’

“‘Well, not sure. I remember hearing them, Thomas and Daniels, that is, arguing about Jackson. It seemed like Thomas didn’t trust him all that much. Think he wanted too much money for his job. Least that’s the way Daniels put it to me when he gave me the job. See, Jackson was let go but no one really knew why, and all I was told that financially he didn’t agree with them.’

“‘And how long did Jackson work here?’

“‘Probably six months or so.’

“‘You’ve been quite helpful. Now, if you can give me access to the offices, I shouldn’t be long.’

“He quickly showed me to them. I asked for some privacy, which he reluctantly gave. I went through papers and shipment logs. There was nothing much of note. In the office was a safe. I enquired with the warden as to the whereabouts of the key. He said only Daniels had it. I had no time to travel back to Daniels’ and find it, so I managed to pick the lock. Inside, I came across some very telling things. A contract drafted by Phillias Jackson that made him an equal partner in the company. Deep lines of ink were scratched through it. When the Warden thought money was the issue, he was wrong. It wasn’t Jackson’s wage at the factory, it was the fact he wanted to be a partner.” Holmes reached into his jacket pocket. “I also found these, letters between Goodtree and Daniels.

David,

We must remove Jackson.

Goodtree

Thomas,

I agree, but he’s put us in a peculiar situation. This will take a lot of legal action, and probably a hefty sum of money to get rid of him.

Daniels.

David,

Whatever the cost, he needs to be removed from our employ and our lives. We need to rid ourselves of his cunning.

Goodtree.

Thomas,

Meet with me tomorrow, at the club. We can discuss things there.

Daniels.

Thomas,

It’s been done. At what cost, I cannot say. But he has been removed. We can only hope he leaves us in peace.

Daniels.

“These men sounded suspicious of Jackson, as if he had something on them.” Holmes looked at me inquisitively but uttered no response as he trailed off into his thoughts.

“So you think Phillias is behind the poisoning?” I asked.

“During my search there were unmarked shipments labelled private. Some of the shipments were from Burkum and Lynn.”

“The weapons manufacturer?”

“The very one. It was mostly explosive powder, but it vanished after it arrived at the factory. The other shipments were of a vegetated nature from Afghanistan. This is where we were lucky - someone had scribbled down ‘flowers’. It seems no harm to speculate that these flowers were the fire flowers. However, where these shipments went after arriving is a mystery.”

“How does this help us?” I asked.

“It’s quite obvious,” said Holmes with a grin. “All of these shipments stopped once Jackson was fired. Daniels cancelled all shipments post-Jackson.”

“So, Jackson used the trade with Afghanistan to bring in the poisonous flowers while he also acquired powder from Burkum and Lynn. He surely is responsible for poisoning Daniels!” I declared.

“Unfortunately, he’s dead.”

“Dead!” I cried.

“I went to see Inspector Lestrade. I found him sitting in his office going over paperwork. I asked him if they questioned Jackson, or anyone in Daniels’ and Thomas’ employee after Thomas’ death.

“‘Why would we do that?’ Lestrade asked me. My irritation was no secret. ‘Don’t hang your head like a disappointed parent, Holmes!’ he snapped.

“‘It is not your fault,” I comforted the Inspector. “It is reasons like these the Yard comes to me for aid. I have reason to believe he is behind the murder of Daniels and Thomas.’

“‘We’ve no proof that Daniels was murdered,” Lestrade stammered. “He clearly hanged himself, and that Thomas fellow was just on the wrong train at the wrong time. The explosion was caused by a Jewish anarchist. D.I. Reid has been on the case, I’m sure he’ll hunt them down.’

“‘Don’t you see, Lestrade? It’s all there in the shipments.’ I told him of the fire flower and missing powder shipments. ‘Get me a report; the powder from the explosion will be from Burkum and Lynn.’

“‘You’ll have to see Reid about that, Mr. Holmes. I know he’s got a man working on the explosion, and they’ve come up with nothing. You’re just offering a stab in the dark here. Now, I’m knee deep with this Daniels case. I’ll follow up with our surgeon, see if he thinks Daniels was poisoned. But I’m not sure Jackson is your man.’

“‘Why is this?’

‘His body washed up near the Tower of London this morning. His face was severely mutilated, but the mole confirmed it was him, on the right side of his face.’

“‘Where did he live?’

Lestrade gave me the address and I came to collect you before going out there.”

“Could there be a fourth man?” I asked.

“I believe there may be. Daniels, it seems, isn’t a wholly honest man.”

“What else do you know, Holmes?”

He did not respond to my question, and remained quiet for the rest of our journey to Davenport House.

Chapter 12

Doctor Watson

The Detective and the Investigator

Autumn 1890

Holmes and I stepped into the small shed where the landlord had informed us another group of detectives were investigating. Holmes and I were both curious as to who it was that was following a similar trail to us and why. We opened the door to see two men, both fairly tall, one thin, the other slightly older round.

“Who are you?” the thin man pressed.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my friend and colleague Doctor Watson.” Holmes turned and smiled at the round man. “Mr. Hewitt, I should thank you for looking after things while I was in America some time ago.”

“It was my pleasure,” said Hewitt, walking over and shaking Holmes’s hand. “But you really must explain what you are doing here. Did Mrs. Goodtree come and see you as well?”

“Our role in this narrative began when a Mr. David Daniels came to see me about a strange haunting by the ‘Goblin Man’,” said Holmes.

“I thought that goblin fiend had left the city?” Hewitt asked.

“It seems he did not - or someone was posing as the Goblin.” Holmes relayed our entire investigation. Holmes and Hewitt became deeply invested in discussing the poisonous flower used on Daniels. Hewitt’s interest was piqued by Holmes’s accusation of Jackson, the shipped powder and the Whitechapel explosion. Both Hewitt and his associate, Brett, were taken aback when Holmes informed them of the baffling news that Mr. Jackson was dead.

“How can he be dead?” Hewitt asked. Looking back up at Holmes, he asked, “Did you have a chance to examine the body?”

“I have not,” Holmes acknowledged.

“Let us not forget we saw an unknown woman approach Daniels’ door, hand him something, and dash off into the night,” said I.

“An unknown woman?” the thin man questioned. “Any chance it was Mrs. Goodtree?”

“You’ve mentioned this name before. Who is she?” Holmes asked.

“As it happens, we are working for Mrs. Goodtree, the former wife of Mr. Thomas, Daniels’ business partner.” Holmes eyes lit up with realisation. “She and Jackson were having relations. She is with child, and wishes us to find Jackson. If you say he is dead, then we should have a look at the body and have her identify him for us,” said Hewitt. Holmes began looking around the shed, scraping powders and putting them into envelopes while Hewitt carried on. “However, I believe Mrs. Goodtree to be withholding something from us. She told us that she did not know where Jackson lived, but the landlord here informed us earlier that Jackson was prone to having a lady visitor.”

“You suspect Mrs. Goodtree is covering something up?” I asked.

“It’s likely, but what I cannot say. The landlord has no suspicion of Jackson, and informed us that Jackson was off to the continent.”

“The continent?” I asked. “Why would he go there?”

“This might be of interest,” said Holmes. The three of us turned to look at him. He had opened a box, which contained a most interesting assortment of grotesque objects: a strange yellow rubber mask with light-green bulbous lenses in the eye sockets. Two gloves with sharp black fingernails on the tips, some torn up clothes and a battered top hat. It dawned upon me what it was I was seeing.

“My word, Holmes!” said I. “This is surely the Goblin’s outfit!” Hewitt walked over, and the Detective and Investigator examined the findings.

“Could all this be a blind?” Brett asked. “Might Mrs. Goodtree know about all of this and be trying to help Jackson flee the city?”

“You’re jumping ahead, Brett,” said Hewitt. “You forget the corpse.”

“Yes, the corpse,” murmured Holmes as he rifled through the box. Something appeared to catch his attention, and with a sudden jolt he stood up. “These are the facts we know. A: we have a suit that resembles that worn by the Goblin Man. B: we have what appear to be traces of powder and explosive materials. C: we have cause for his death - with Jackson being fired and sleeping with Mrs. Goodtree. What we don’t have yet is proof he was behind any such explosion, or that he was the one in the Goblin suit.”

“Our next course of action,” Hewitt said. „Brett, would you fetch Mrs. Goodtree and bring her to Scotland Yard where we can have Inspector Lestrade show us the body.”

“Watson, Hewitt and I shall go straight to Lestrade. Would you take this envelope and speak with Detective Inspector Reid? Ask him about the findings at Whitechapel. This powder will likely be the same which was in the explosion. If he can spare the time, bring him to us.”

We departed quickly; Holmes and Hewitt took one cab while Brett and I shared the other.

Chapter 13

Doctor Watson

Whitechapel

Autumn 1890

For the sake of speed, Brett and I abandoned the cab at a nearby station and took a train into the city. We came into Victoria Station where we parted company. I took the District Railway east from Victoria. The train shot through the tunnels like a bullet. The roar of the train was in some way soothing: The clicking of the wheels as they clapped over the tracks, the gentle sway of the cabin, and creaking of the wooden doors. The train stopped at Whitechapel Station where I disembarked. I looked at my fob watch upon stepping out into the stale East End air. The time was six o’clock, and the sun had vanished. Within sight stood Saint Paul’s Cathedral. Its towering steeples were erect like sentinels, and atop its dome rested a golden cross. A hopeful reminder to this destitute area of justice and judgement.

I quickly made my way to Leman St and H Division. Having been to Scotland Yard many times and been around the ruffians there, H Division has a unique sense of chaos that other Division lack. The station was alive with the shouting and wailing of inmates and drunkards. A couple of officers were attempting to clap irons on a drunk man who had lunged at a man nearby. A couple of prostitutes were arguing over a fare. One of them spat in the other’s face, and two young officers tried to keep them at bay.

An exhausted looking officer stood behind a desk writing in a book.

“My name is Doctor John Watson. I’m here on an urgent matter. Is D.I. Reid around?” I enquired.

The man looked up.

In a raspy voice, he replied: “He ought to be in his office, sir.” He pointed in the right direction. I nodded and hurried down the corridor till I came upon his office. The door was shut. I knocked. I heard rustling, and the door was flung open. A tall man stood before me with dark bags under his bloodshot eyes, a wild beard, and disheveled clothes. It looked worn and exhausted, a man who has not touched a decent plate of food in several weeks.

“May I help you?” he asked groggily.

“I am Doctor John Watson. Are you D.I. Reid?” I asked. The man nodded. “I am here to speak with you about the explosion at the station a few months back. We might be honing in on the one responsible.”

Reid’s eyes ignited as if he was a prisoner of war, trapped in a dark pit and the light of freedom had fallen upon his face. He motioned me to enter.

***

He asked me to remain in the office while he went to fetch someone. The echoes from the chaos came down the hall as I waited. A few moments later, Reid returned with a bespectacled ginger man.

“This is Doctor Vigo White,” Reid said, taking a seat across from me. “This is Doctor John Watson. He wishes to speak about the explosion. I thought it best if you joined us.”

“I work alongside Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

“The bohemian detective of Baker Street?” White asked.

“The very one,” I returned.

“Aha! So you’re that John Watson!” A grin lit up White’s face.

“I am he.”

“Continue, Doctor,” said Reid.

“A man named David Daniels came to us and told us about a haunting which had befallen him. As Holmes and I looked into the case, Daniels became more panicked, and we eventually found him dead, hanged by his own hand. However, I noticed a purple discolouring upon his skin and, upon closer examination, I discovered that he had been poisoned - Inspector Lestrade is conducting his own examination to be sure, but I know this to be true,”

“A purple discolouring, you say?” White asked.

“Yes. The poison came from a flower found in Afghanistan. We discovered that a man by the name of Phillias Jackson had worked for Mr. Daniels and his partner Thomas Goodtree in their shipping and imports factory over on Nine Elms. It was further discovered by Investigator Martin Hewitt that Jackson was having an affair with Mrs. Goodtree, who is now with Jackson’s child. Before Daniels and Goodtree’s deaths, they fired Jackson from his position over a disagreement in his work contract, so far as we know. Now it seems that Jackson had been importing this deadly flower along with accumulating a large amount of explosive powder from a company called Burkum and Lynn. Inspector Lestrade has informed Mr. Holmes that Jackson’s body washed up by the Tower of London this morning. He and Mr. Hewitt are at the Yard now, looking over the body. Holmes believes Jackson is responsible for the explosion. We have a sample of the powder that was found at Jackson’s lodgings. We need to cross check it against whatever you have.”

“Can I see the sample?” Mr. White asked. I nodded and withdrew the envelope Holmes had given me.

“Mr White, test its value at once,” Reid ordered. White left the room in a rush, and Reid turned to me. “Doctor. Tell me more of this man, Jackson. What does he look like?”

“From what Hewitt was told, he is a tall, dark whiskered man, who is often seen wearing a bowler hat,” said I.

“Many men are seen wearing such hats. I have one behind you on the peg, and I have dark whiskers too. You see the problem?”

“Yes, I do. However, your bowler hat does not have a playing card pinned to it. Jackson’s does.”

“A card pinned to it, you say?” Reid sat back in his chair and stroked his beard. “I know this description. This man was seen with a man called Lamech the night before the Whitechapel explosion. However, the sole difference is that the man was said to have a severe scar upon this face. My man, White, recognised the make of explosive, or at least part of it, which led us to Lamech, a Jewish Anarchist. This man Lamech, as you may have seen in the papers some time ago, was killed. He was poisoned. White did the autopsy, and Lamech’s symptoms were similar to Daniels’; a discolouring of the skin, the appearance of mental illness.” Reid lifted his eyes as Mr White came back through the door.

“No doubt. The powder is the same,” confirmed White. “Could be a coincidence - Burkum and Lynn are very well known.”

“It’s no coincidence,” said Reid.

“A Jewish anarchist who builds bombs dies by the same poison that Daniels dies from. Goodtree dies in an explosion cause by an explosive connected to this anarchist. Connecting all three of these men is this Phillias Jackson who had gone missing and is now dead on a slab at Scotland Yard,” said I.

“And this anarchist was seen in the company of a dark whiskered man in a bowler hat with a card pinned to it the night before he died, which was also the night before the station explosion,” said Reid. He rubbed the sides of his head in annoyance. “Jackson is dead, which means we have another killer and another loose end to this case.”

“Could it be the anarchists?” I asked.

“It’s possible, but they have been out of sight since just after the explosion. They fled the city and haven’t been seen or heard of since.”

“Who else would want to see Jackson dead, if he is the one who killed this man, Lamech?”

“True, but what was Jackson’s motive, though?” Reid questioned. “Why did he kill Daniels and Goodtree? I understand he impregnated Goodtree’s wife, so perhaps he wanted to have her to himself. But why get rid of Daniels, other than payback for firing him?”

“Mr. Holmes has asked that you come and see him right away at the Yard. You can see the body there. There could be lead,” said I.

“No more time shall be wasted here then,” said Reid. White nodded.

Reid and Mr. White gathered themselves, putting on their coats and hats. Reid stuffed a few papers into a case, White had a Gladstone bag in hand, and we hastily took a maria to the Yard.

Chapter 14

Mr. Brett

The Unexpected State of Mrs. Goodtree

Autumn 1890

I departed from Doctor Watson at Victoria Station. I grabbed another cab from outside, and told him to waste no time. The hour was getting late, and I could hear the chime of Big Ben ringing as the clock struck at quarter to six. I made my way past Trafalgar Square and towards Oxford St. turning up Baker Street and then towards Regent’s Park. Following the outer circle, we came to Primrose Hill and quickly upon Elsworth Road. We stopped outside Chester House, and I dashed out.

I rapped upon the door impatiently but no answer came. I pulled my watch and glanced at the time. Thirty minute had passed since I left Victoria. With every tick of the watch I grew impatient. I beat upon the door once more. There was no response. Could she have gone out? I speculated. I gave the door a final pounding.

“Mrs Goodtree?” I shouted as I leaned closer to the door. “It is I, Mr Brett. Investigator Hewitt sent me.”

I pushed the door, but it didn’t budge. I motioned to the cabbie to wait. Four houses up, there was an alley. I walked around and counted the houses back in order to find Mrs. Goodtree’s. A brick wall rose six feet, topped with jagged stones. Climbing was not an option, unless I wished to seriously injure myself. There were, however, wooden doors leading into the back gardens.

I tried the Goodtrees’; it was locked. I raised my leg and thrust it through the door. A shooting pain went straight up my left leg. I bent over in pain, clutching my knee. Despite having a pile of crime and adventure novels at home, I had not realised how painful some of the antics were until I tried them myself. When the pain subsided, I realised that my actions had been a success. The door was swinging open. I limped through the garden to the backdoor. As assumed, it too was locked. There was a window that led into a sitting room of sorts. I put my fingers at the base of the window and lifted. To my relief, the window rose with ease. I painfully climbed in and landed clumsily on the floor.

I walked through the house, looking for any sign of Mrs Goodtree. The kitchen was in a terrible state of disorganisation and untidiness. There were dishes layered in mould, rotting bread, and fruit with swarms of flies. I noticed a thick layer of dust upon the counters and furniture in the other rooms. This was no state for a pregnant woman, or indeed anyone to be living in.

Upstairs, I stepped into a study. I assumed it was Mr Goodtree’s. The room was in a sorry state. Shelves, which I pictured could have been filled with books, were now empty. The floor had become the new resting place of dozens of books. A sitting chair had been knocked over, and the curtains that hung in the window were ripped and hanging loosely. A small table by one of the windows held a few dotted bottles. A crystal bottle had been smashed against the wall, and the aroma of stale alcohol lingered in the air. A desk in the room appeared to have been riffled through. There was a stack of legal papers which, upon examining, I realised pertained to Goodtree and Daniels’ business. I could not be sure what the cause for this mess was. Foul play was certainly an option, or someone on a rampage. I noticed a card for the Peckham Liberal Club. Despite having a fair knowledge of London societies, I could not recall having heard of such a club. Next to the desk was a waste bin filled with papers. A letterhead featured the same design as that upon the liberal club’s card. I picked the letter out of the bin and read:

“Mr. Goodtree,” it began. “The actions of your associate, Mr. Jackson, are beyond repentance. It was our good nature that allowed him into the club. He has in every way disrespected us, and betrayed you. Thus we demand his immediate removal from the club. He has brought insult upon us all. You have one day to respond informing Mr. Brown of Jackson’s demise.”

The letter was signed “Osgen”

I was startled when I heard a rattling. I tucked the letter into my pocket and stepped out into the hall. To my surprised I saw Mrs. Goodtree standing in a doorway. She was dressed in a dark blue sleeping gown; her hair was disheveled and untidy, and there were dark bags under her eyes. One of her sleeves was rolled up, and I noticed red spots on her arm; cocaine. She leaned against the frame with half-open eyes.

“I lost it...” she said in a sober tone, her gaze adrift.

“What have you lost?” I asked her in bewilderment.

“It! I lost it!” she violently yelled back.

She began to sway, and I ran over to her. She collapsed into my arms. She was shaking. How could this be the same woman who had sat in Mr. Hewitt’s chambers just a short time ago? Consciousness was lost to her, so I carried her back into the room. Her body was burning with fever. I picked up a long coat, which had been tossed onto the floor, and wrapped it around her. Her house was in no state for her to remain there. Doctor Watson, I thought, would be the best man to look her over. I carried her down to the cabbie, who looked at me with a mixture of surprise and horror.

“This is not my doing, you fool,” I sneered at him putting her inside. He scowled.

“I’m not having no part of whatever business yer up too,” he said, stepping down from his seat to make a statement.

I could feel Mrs. Goodtree shaking.

“I said, don’t be a fool! I need you to take us to Scotland Yard at once!”

“To the Yard?”

“I suppose you do not wish to take me there?” I returned. “She needs aid, and the one who I need is there!”

The cabbie looked at me a moment and stroked his beard.

“Very well.” He took his seat again.

I situated Mrs Goodtree in the cab and knocked on the roof, telling the driver to go. Mrs Goodtree rested in my arms. Her forehead was dripping with sweat. She began to moan as we raced down the streets. She suddenly woke, screaming in a panic. She swung her arms in a fit. I tried to grab them and hold her down, but took several blows from the hysterical woman.

“All will be well, Mrs Goodtree, it will be.” I tried to assure her, but she was not responsive. She squirmed and struggled before calming down. She was pressed against the other side of the cab. Her chest violently moved up and down as she tried to catch her breath.

“What... what am I doing here?” she mumbled in her delirium. Her eyes were rolling in her head.

“I’m taking you to a doctor, Mrs Goodtree,” I informed her.

“A doctor... they can’t save me... I lost it. I already lost it,” she mumbled. Her head began to bob back and forth. “Oh dear...” Her eyes rolled back as she fainted and fell towards me. I put her back in her seat. The fever had overcome her.

“What are you two doing back there?” the cabbie yelled.

“The woman had a moment of hysteria. Press on to the Yard, make haste!” I shouted back.

Chapter 15

Doctor Watson

The Body of Phillias Jackson

Autumn 1890

“They are in here,” said the officer as he escorted Reid, White, and myself into an examination room. Inside stood Inspector Lestrade, Holmes, and Hewitt. On a table lay a corpse. Holmes leaned against a counter, smoking a pipe. Hewitt was bending over the body, examining it. Lestrade stood at the foot of the examination table. We were greeted as we entered.

“Ah, Mr Reid, good of you to come,” Lestrade said, walking over and shaking his hand. “And who is this?” he asked, referring to the red-headed scientist.

“I am Vigo White, associate of Mr Reid.”

“I asked him to join,” Reid said.

“It seems we all have our associates here, apart from yours, Mr Hewitt,” commented Holmes.

“Brett shouldn’t be long I suspect,” said Hewitt. He pulled his fob watch from his waistcoat and looked at it intensely.

“Mr Holmes, Mr Hewitt,” Reid said with a nod at the other men, “it’s good to make your acquaintance.”

“I take it that Doctor Watson filled you in on all our happenings?” Holmes asked.

“He has, indeed,” Reid affirmed.

“Care to examine the body, Doctor?” Inspector Lestrade asked.

“I would, yes.” I walked over and looked upon the body of Phillias Jackson.

“Mind if I take a look too?” White asked.

“Very well,” said Lestrade, leery.

“Mr Reid, would you tell us your part in this tale?” Hewitt asked.

While I looked over the corpse, Reid recounted his tale from the day of the explosion through to its climactic dead end when one of Lamech’s men committed suicide on the Thames.

“The other murders seemed to feature that poison you spoke of, from the fire-flower. I’m not seeing any similar signs here,” White said as we looked over the body.

“Neither do I, no,” I returned. “But most of the signs are revealed upon the face. This has been quite badly mutilated. As if some beast had its way with him.”

“A hound perhaps?” said White, “I’ve seen mutilations like this before, and I’d say a large dog did this.”

“It’s possible, yes,” I returned with a nod.

“Looks like someone took a blunt instrument to the left side of his head,” said White pointing. “There is quite a severe indentation here. So after the dogs, someone bashed him over the head and threw him in the Thames,” White finished his speculation.

I looked at the wound. His head had certainly taken a tremendous blow.

“But look here,” said I, “these bruises on his shoulders; hand prints. And here, these bruises look like fingerprints at the top of his forehead, just barely visible on his hairline. It suggests he was forcibly drowned. Open the man up, and his lungs will likely reveal that outcome. Why crack someone over the head after drowning them? Or why feed them to a dog?”

“The water has, unfortunately, washed away any evidence,” said Sherlock Holmes, “and one should never theorise without facts.” He, Hewitt, and Reid approached the body.

White withdrew a magnifying glass and examined Jackson’s forehead.

“There are indentation around the fingerprint markings. Sharp fingernails peeled the skin here.”

“From the body’s current state, he must have been in the water for four hours,” said Hewitt.

“Where is the autopsy report, Lestrade?” Reid asked.

“We’ve not done it yet,” he admitted. “Our surgeon has been away on another case.”

“The dazzling ineptitude of Scotland Yard,” tutted Holmes.”Unfortunately, Mr Hewitt, I see another story. I’ll need to be left alone as I gather more data from our cadaver.”

“Holmes, you know I can’t let you do that,” said Lestrade. “This isn’t Bart’s where you can just walk in and take your pick of dead specimens and inflict your own unique scientific experimentation.”

“Then I’ll stay,” said I. “You’ve used my consultations in the past.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes.

“There’s little to be gained from arguing with you.”

The door suddenly burst open.

“I need your help, Doctor Watson!” It was Brett. He was panting. “I’ve got Mrs Goodtree, but she’s in a bad state. Burning with fever and bursting out in fits of hysteria!”

“Carry on, Watson,” said Holmes.

“What about this?” I asked.

“I can help, if the Doctor wishes to say?” offered White.

“I’d rather a proper Doctor,” Brett said with a sharp tone.

“Help Holmes, I’ll go,” said I looking at White. He nodded back at me and Brett hurried me out the room.

***

I could hear Lestrade instructing Holmes and White to be careful and to remember on whose behalf they were working as we ran down the hall.

“Mrs Goodtree is greatly disturbed,” Brett said. “Her house was in utter shambles and her husband’s study a wreck. She kept saying that she “lost it”. I think she went mad and destroyed the study. I was taken aback by her appearance and crazed actions.”

Mrs Goodtree lay on a cot in an empty room. Her forehead was burning, and her body trembled. Her pulse was racing. Brett showed me the marks on her arm. I confirmed it to be from the use of cocaine. I called for some cool water and a towel. Her nightgown was drenched with sweat. I removed it and covered the woman with a coarse grey blanket. Hanging on a chain around her neck was a silver pendent, which I also removed. An officer came in with cool water and a rag, and I laid the soaked rag upon Mrs Goodtree’s head. I left the room to gather some equipment from the police surgeon’s chambers, then returned and continued my examination.

“What can you tell me about this woman?” I asked Brett.

“I know little of her,” he replied.

“She told you nothing of importance when she was with you and Hewitt?” I asked sharply.

Brett’s eyes lit with realisation, but it was too late. I had worked it out already.

“She was...” he began.

“With child,” I finished.

Brett nodded, his face grimaced.

“Has she...”

“Lost it? Yes, she has,” I confirmed. Brett lifted the blanket and we looked at her discoloured stomach. “She’s bleeding from within. She won’t last much longer.”

Lestrade and Reid walked in in time to hear the news. Lestrade put his face in his hands and sighed. Pulling his hands away from his face a look of intrigue fell upon Reid’s face. He walked over to the dying woman and gazed upon her.

“This woman, Mrs Goodtree, I know her,” he said thoughtfully.

“Of course you do. She was in the papers when her husband died. He was a well-known chap,” said Lestrade. “And, as you remember, I questioned her.”

“I knew her name but I never saw her face, Lestrade,” said Reid. “No, I knew her from somewhere else. Somewhere else...” Reid looked at the woman’s clothing. “This was this on her?” he asked, picking up the pendent and opening it.

“It was, yes,” I confirmed.

“Aha! See? A picture of a crown, I thought it most odd when I first saw it. She was one of the many I helped out of the Whitechapel & Mile End station,” said Reid. “This woman embraced me when I led her out and this very pendent fell from her neck.”

“That’s impossible, Reid!” said Lestrade. “I questioned the woman myself. She was at home during the explosion!”

“The man is correct,” came the faint voice of Mrs Goodtree.

“Dear woman, rest,” said I. “Lestrade, take this ruckus elsewhere!”

“No, I need to... I need to speak,” said the dying woman. “I don’t wish to go to hell.” The woman looked upon me with horror.

“Which of us is correct?” Lestrade asked.

“He is,” she returned, looking at Reid. She groaned, her face twitching with pain. “I was there. Jack... Jackson... he promised a better life after it was... over.”

“Was Jackson responsible for the explosion? Can you confirm it was he who planted the bomb?” Reid demanded.

“Thomas and David, they were... vile. We were... we were doing the world a service by being... being rid of them.”

“Who is ‘we’?” Lestrade demanded.

“Mrs Goodtree,” said Brett softly. He walked over and knelt down by her. “What sin is it that you seek repentance for?” She looked at him. Her eyes began to drift shut. “Mrs Goodtree. You came to Hewitt and I to find Phillias Jackson, and we have found him.” Her eyes opened, and a glimpse of life returned to her. “What is your sin?”

“Where is Jackson?” she asked, “I am his... his queen, you know.”

“You are now a queen without a king. Jackson is dead,” Brett informed her.

Tears welled in her eyes. “Dead?” she asked painfully.

“Tell us, Mrs Goodtree, what is your sin?”

“Murder...” She trailed off. Her eyes closed, and her head slumped to one side. I checked her pulse, but it had gone. Mrs Goodtree had died.

Hewitt came into the room and saw the grim scene.

“Oh dear, what a terrible shame,” he said, looking at the lifeless body.

“It is as if the universe is orchestrating against us with this case. A door opens then shuts as we approach!” said Reid bitterly.

“We know all we need to know,” said Lestrade.

Reid looked at him with disdain. He rushed upon the Inspector who backed up against the wall.

“You above all should see your tremendous blunder, Lestrade!” shouted Reid. “It was you who questioned Mrs Goodtree! The rat was in your cage and you let it go!”

“Are you telling me that there was no way someone who was in that explosion could have slipped out? We gathered as many names as we could. We cross-referenced and interrogated dozens and dozens of people! She had a solid story, there was no reason, no link that connected her presence at the explosion!”

“Apart from yours, Mr Reid,” said Brett. Reid turned an angry eye towards Brett.

“At the end of the day,” came the voice of Hewitt. The Investigator stepped into the room. “We could pass blame until we are blue in the face. We must now decide what our next action will be.”

“What of Holmes and White?” I asked.

“They continue their work on the unknown body,” said Hewitt.

“Unknown?” questioned Lestrade.

“Yes, correct, that man on that slab is not Phillias Jackson.”