Taking the corner of Marylebone Road and Baker
Street at speed, the hansom cab bounced on the cobblestones, throwing me
sideways against the door. Moments later, the cab halted outside 221B. Tossing
coins towards the driver, I shouted my thanks.
Inside the building, I took the stairs two at
a time, passing a startled Mrs Hudson on the landing. A pile of dirty cups and
plates rattled on tray she was carrying.
Throwing open Sherlock Holmes’ door, I dropped
my medical bag and rushed towards the body slumped in a high-backed chair near the
fireplace. His skin was cold to the touch but there was a faint pulse in his
bony wrist.
“What on Earth are you playing at, Watson?”
Startled, I jumped back. Holmes stretched, yawned
and stared down at my bag. “Excellent. We’ll need that.”
“But, but,” I spluttered. “Thirty minutes ago
one of the Baker Street Irregulars came hammering on my surgery door claiming
you’d been poisoned. The boy was obviously terrified.”
“Or a wonderful actor. I’d given the urchin a
halfpenny and told him if you were here within the hour, I’d give him another.”
“You do realise I’m busy with my practice?”
“Precisely, Watson. Why else would I bother
with the theatrics? I need your help with a rather interesting case.” He
gestured towards the bag. “But first I would like you to inject me with cocaine
– a seven percent solution.”
I refused. If a patient required it, I was
willing to give them cocaine to dull pain or improve mental function but Holmes
had neither need.
“Perhaps later,” said Holmes. Languidly, he
reached across to a side table and used his thumb and forefinger to lift up what
appeared to be a piece of thickish paper with a red wax seal in the bottom
corner and, across the front, a single paragraph written with neat penmanship.
“The lad would’ve been more accurate if he’d said ‘almost poisoned’. Before
that jezail bullet at the Battle of Maiwand cut short your army career, you’d
made quite a study of Afghan and Indian poisons. So, please smell this.”
I leant towards the dangled item, noticing for
the first time it was more like parchment, some sort of pale animal skin. A
disagreeable aroma arose from the ink. “Strychnos
nux-vomica from the strychnine tree.”
“What a gift you have, Watson. In seconds,
you’ve confirmed findings that took me an hour of tests. Strychnine at such
strength that one touch means death. Earlier today, there’d been a knock on the
front door. When Mrs Hudson opened it, this roll of parchment lay on the mat,
the deliverer gone. The roll had been left by a blousy woman in a red and black
brocade dress, ornate hat, elbow-length gloves and walking with a slight limp.”
I clapped my hands. “Holmes, it’s my turn to
be astounded. Your powers of deduction are extraordinary.”
“Actually, I saw her through the window while
playing my violin. Nevertheless, when Mrs Hudson handed me the roll I was
tempted to immediately open it. But curiosity got the better of my curiosity,
if you follow me. As I held it close to examine the seal, I smelt the foul
odour. That saved my life.”
Buttoning his smoking jacket, he carried the letter
to his workbench at the far end of the room. On the crowded benchtop, a Bunsen
burner flame flickered beneath a large glass pot of pale green liquid. Picking
up various objects, he managed to hold down the edges of the parchment so we
could read the schoolboy standard writing:
“I am down
on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the
last job was. You got no chance of nicking me Shylock.”
I was puzzled. “That phrasing sounds …”
“Artificial,” Holmes cut in. “An educated
person attempting to appear less so. The writing itself is stylised as if done
in a classroom. As for the instrument used to write it, well, fortunately I
recently completed a monograph on the history of quills. This note was written
with a metal nibbed quill by a tall, left handed person by candlelight.”
Tentatively I thumbed what felt like Vellum.
“And this?”
Using a pipette, Holms drew up green liquid
from the bowl and let drops fall on the parchment. It sizzled. “Human skin, Watson. Our letter
writer has gone to some lengths to ensure this untanned skin has been scraped
or dried under tension, giving it a medieval look.”
“Shylock? A misspelling?”
“A Shakespearean allusion, I’d hazard. As in the
Bard’s ‘If you prick us, do we not bleed?’ A threat, indeed, from Jack the
Ripper. To quote Henry V: ‘The game's afoot.’”
The horse pulling our cab seemed possessed. We
sped through the dusk, avoiding crowded streets. Holmes had no need of diluted cocaine.
This was the excitement he craved.
“There’s only one pen shop in London still
selling quills with metal nibs – Wellings of Whitechapel,” he said as we raced
down Commercial Road. “We must get there before it closes.”
Holmes was out of the cab and into the shop
before I’d finished paying the driver. When I entered, Holmes was standing in
front of a glass-topped display counter, admiring ranks of pens inside. The
golden glow from tall candles on the counter set off the pens’ polished
barrels. “Exquisite,” he said.
On the other side of the counter, a waistcoated
man in late middle age, almost as tall and thin as Holmes, was slipping pound
notes into a cash register drawer while carefully writing details on a nearby
pad. Pushing the drawer shut, he gave a small smile. “Can I be of assistance?”
“Actually, I’ve found just what I was looking
for, Mr Wellings, or should I say ‘Mr Ripper’?”
The smile broadened. “Without doubt, Mr Holmes,
you’re the world’s greatest consulting detective.”
Holmes took a step back, keeping his eyes on
the man’s hands. “Why bother to poison me?”
“The Peelers are fools. They’ll never catch
me. But I knew one day, in some way, you’d get involved. I decided to act
first.”
“I assume the woman who left the parchment was
a Working Girl you hired.”
“Lots around these parts, willing to do anything
for a few pence. What gave me away?”
“That unique quill you used led us here. And
there you were, writing with your left hand in that overly neat script, each
stroke bringing you closer to the hangman’s noose. Plus the droplets of candle
wax – on your countertop and on the parchment you sent me.”
It was the Ripper’s turn to step backwards. “Purely
circumstantial evidence, and I have alibis for the night of each of the Ripper’s
five romps. As I said, Ladies of the Night will do or say anything for a
handful of coins, even lie.”
Calmly, Holmes drew an ageing service pistol
from his pocket. “Regrettably, you’re probably correct. You could indeed escape
the gallows. Therefore, it’s fortunate for society you were the victim this
evening of what the broadsheets may call ‘a robbery gone wrong’.”
He pulled the trigger. “Case solved, I’d
venture, eh, Watson?”
# # #
Once again - apologies to Arthur Conan Doyle
Copyright 2019 GREG FLYNN
