Sherlock Holmes and The Scarlet Thread of Murder (16 page)

We were in the cab for some time; how long I could not tell. By the time we stopped, Lord Myers had lost a fair amount of blood. As we stepped out into the night and the moonlight fell upon us, I could see that he was sickly pale. The Goblin grabbed him and jerked him around. It took me a moment to get my bearings; we were on a bridge with the Thames rushing beneath us. With a revolver in my back, I watched in terror as the Goblin cuffed the lord and attached a long chain to the cuffs before forcing him onto the ledge.

“Do you know the story of Moses and the Pharaoh?” the Goblin asked.

“Wha... what?” returned Myers, whimpering.

“Yes, you see the Pharaoh had oppressed the Jews, turned them into slaves, beat them, killed them, raped the women; all the while he lived high up in his castle.”

Lord Myers wobbled on the ledge while the Goblin paced behind him. I could see the Myers trying to keep an eye on him as he anticipated the inevitable fall.

“What have I ever done to you?” Lord Myers cried.

“What haven't you done?” the Goblin yelled.

He jerked Myers back, causing him to scream. Suddenly I felt the revolver move from my back and heard a strange grunt from behind. I turned to see my captor being held from behind by a mysterious figure. I looked at the Goblin, who was still yelling at his victim, unaware of what was happening. The man fell unconscious, and I looked up to see the face of Sherlock Holmes. He picked up the man's revolver and nodded at me.

“You, Lord Myers! You have oppressed the Jews of London, tried to smoke us out like rats, acted as if we are a poison to your elitist society. My people have wanted your head for many years, and now, now it will be delivered to them; but more than that, the money, all that money, you gave to Wilder - he's a Jew. A Jew will be feeding Britain with a new array of weapons, ones that we will use to hunt scum like you down; and our God, he will crush you. Crush you in the water just as God did to Pharaoh's people as they charged after the freed Jews through the Red Sea.”

Holmes fired a shot. The Goblin leapt back and looked over towards us. The bulbous eyes shone in the moonlight. He grabbed the Lord. “Take one more shot, and he will die.”

“It's over, Goblin,” said Holmes. “Wilder is already arrested. You were the final piece. The game is over, Ruth.”

The Goblin Man stood there, motionless. “It might be over but it doesn't mean our task has failed. The murder of this man will be righteous!”

He pushed the Lord, and we watched him fall. As he plummeted he let out a terrified scream that echoed about us. The chain rattled as it ripped over the edge. Holmes and I charged after the Goblin who ran away laughing.

“Get Myers!” yelled Holmes as he chased the Goblin.

I looked over the edge. Lord Myers was under the water. I pulled the chain as hard as I could. Slowly, but surely, I lifted him from the water. My arms strained as I tugged the chain. It was then that I realised how cold the air was as the metal chain felt like it was burning against my skin. I could hear Lord Myers panting and coughing as he emerged from the waters below.

I could feel my arms weakening. Give me the most strenuous task on the hottest day and I shall not flinch, but ever since my Afghan campaign, the cold has not been something I could handle with ease.

I felt my arms begin to give. The chain nearly left my hand, but Holmes had returned and grabbed it. He and I pulled the Lord to safety. When we pulled him over the edge, he was shivering and going into hypothermia. We put him into the cab and I tore the curtains off in order to keep him warm. Holmes left whilst I saw to the patient, but he came back a moment or two later. He threw the goblin mask into the back of the cab. I looked out and saw Holmes standing there with a woman lying on the ground. It was Ruth Lamech. Holmes had subdued the woman with chloroform.

Thus, the Goblin Man mystery, the disappearance of Phillias Jackson, and the Whitechapel Disaster came to a bitter end on a cold autumn night over the Thames.

***

Meanwhile, back at the Royal Geographical Society, Reid had been approached by an elderly woman. He informed me later that it was none other than Lamech's mother. As I was escorting Lord Myers out, she saw and recognised Reid. She, feeling guilty, told him that Jackson was Lamech's step-brother and was heir to their anarchist throne. She claimed she was too old for any more fighting or revenge.

Wilder was arrested by Reid, and tried before a court for his crimes. He admitted to the use of the fire flower, and the poisoning of Daniels and Lamech with Ruth's help. He also admitted to planting the explosive on the Whitechapel train. Jackson had planned to frame Daniels and Goodtree in order to acquire their business and use it to fund his anarchist schemes. The top of the list was to murder Lord Myers. Doctor Jonqueres came from France per the request of Mr Hewitt to offer his testimony, along with that of Lamech's mother. Jackson's connections to Osgen, the leader of the Peckham Liberal Club, became quite clear. It came out that She, too, was a target of the anarchist group for forcing young Jewish girls into prostitution, and when she learnt who Jackson was she wanted him out of the club and threatened to expose his connection to Lamech. Part of Osgen's blackmailing resulted in Lord Myers being removed from his place in Parliament as photographs of the Lord involving young Jewish girls were found in the Liberal Club. Ruth was further tried for her involvement and for the murder of Mr White and the attempted murder of Lord Myers.

***

The rooms at Baker Street were filled once more with rolling smoke from Holmes's cherrywood pipe. Mrs Hudson had served us warm meats, roast potatoes, gravy, and hot tea. A fire created a soft golden glow in the room. Mr Hewitt and Brett, Inspector Reid, Sherlock Holmes, and I sat smoking and feasting together on the 17
th
of December. A light snow shower had fallen that day, and the roads were white.

“It's all very peaceful in this study of yours, Holmes,” said Hewitt.

“It serves as an epicentre for all things outré in this jungle,” Holmes returned, taking a puff of his pipe.

“It seems, Mr Brett, that you are well on your way to a nice recovery,” said I.

“I am indeed, Doctor. I am only sorry I could not see the case out to the very end.”

“Worry not, my dear Brett,” said Mr Hewitt. “We are glad to have you with us.”

“Though, Mr White, that fiery, ginger Doctor, he will never be forgotten,” Brett said thoughtfully.

“He shall not, indeed,” said Reid. “He was, for all his faults, a good man.”

“I knew him from a past long ago,” said Brett. Reid looked curious. “While I was ill, I wrote up the short story about the events that led me to believe White was a terrible man. But after the events at the Liberal Club, which I haven't the heart to speak aloud yet, I know him to be an honest one.”

We all raised a glass of brandy and toasted White's memory. After much chatter, feasting, and smoking, we wished each other the compliments of the season as our friends and colleagues departed. Before Brett left, he handed me a pile of papers and told me it was his side of the case. After what happened with White, he did not feel it was something he could hold on to, but wanted it in safe hands. I took it and held it with care.

***

A few days later, while Holmes and I sat in the study smoking and reading, I received a package from Inspector Reid containing his notes from the case. The events had a taken their emotional toll upon both Brett and Reid.

“Are you going to compile them?” Holmes asked, setting down the paper he was reading. “With your story included?”

“Our story, Holmes,” said I, flipping through the pages.

“Quite right,” he said with a nod.

“I think I shall. But I won't rewrite any of it. I shall keep their stories intact and not interweave them until our stories become one.”

“Well, Watson. We all share the same interwoven story; simply the characters change as they come and go.”

“You are correct, old man.”

Holmes put his pipe back to his lips and opened the paper and continued reading.

Epilogue

An Article by Mr Brett

This Article was written by my colleague Mr Brett regarding a truth about Mr Vigo White. I have included it an end piece to our narrative as I feel it brings about the final conclusion:

Vigo White of Whitechapel, a man of science with fiery red hair, died at the hands of a brutal murderer in Autumn 1890.

Mr White was in no way a famous man, or one held in high esteem, save by a few within the H Division. He led a long and difficult life, which followed him to the end. What can be attested to, however, is his strength and courage. He was no white knight, but a dark rider. A man with questionable morals, but a good heart nevertheless. He first came to my acquaintance many years ago while he trained to be a doctor in the North of England. His was born in Oldham to a Mr John and Darcy White. His mother was half Italian, and they named their son after her grandfather, Vigo. It was a series of events in December of 18 - that brought our paths together for what I thought would be the only time.

Many will remember the tragic story of Isabella Taylorson, wife to a Mr Archibald Taylorson of Salford. Archibald Taylorson was a wealthy man who built his name within the steam industry. It was December 24
th
18 - when his wife, Isabella, pressed through the busy crowds in Market Street, withdrew a revolver, and shot herself dead. Found on her person was a note from Mr Vigo White, pleading with her to leave her husband.

As a result of the court case it was revealed that Vigo White and Mrs Taylorson had entered into a relationship. Mr Taylorson had forbidden the two to see each other, but Mr White repeatedly tried time and time again coerce Mrs Taylorson to leave her husband. It was said that drugs were used on Mrs Taylorson which effected her mental stability and caused her to end her life in such a dramatic fashion. It was suggested that Mr White was responsible for the death, as he was using experimental medication on her. It was all conjecture, and no solid proof was ever unearthed to pin Mr White to Mrs Taylorson's suicide. As a result of the hearing, Mr White was expelled from his medical training, and withdrew from all social circles.

I was with Mr White before he was viciously killed. A series of strange events brought us together that I can now only see as an act of providence. A final opportunity to clear a man whom I thought was completely guilty from what were false accusations.

It is true that Mr White had entered into a relationship with Mrs Taylorson; it is true that he pleaded with her to run away. What was never revealed during the initial case was his complete motivation for his pleas. It was partly due to a forbidden love between the two, this much we knew; but also his desire to see her in safe hands. Further investigation revealed that Mrs Taylorson had a series of bruises on her body - Mr White was accused of this treatment. The truth is Mr White met Mrs Taylorson at a social gathering. He was a young man, and she was an elegant bride of a rich man. It was at this gathering that White noticed a coldness between Mr and Mrs Taylorson. As Mr White got closer to Mr Taylorson he discovered a dark truth; Mr Taylorson regularly beat his wife, and subjected her to forced sexual encounters. She confided in Mr White and no one else. The two made plans to run away but when Mr Taylorson caught them on a December afternoon, he made sure she was never to see Mr White again. While it was told that she never left the house due to fear of Mr White, the truth was that Mr Taylorson had locked her up in her rooms. Mr White continued to sneak letters to Mrs Taylorson, and they continued to make plans for her escape.

Mrs Taylorson was meant to creep out of the house and take a cab to the city centre of Manchester where she was suppose to find Mr White waiting for her at a small inn. She managed her escape, found her way to the city, and without any warning, shot herself dead. After the case was over and Mr White was released of the charges and forced to stop his medical education, he was visited by Mr Taylorson. Mr Taylorson informed Mr White that he knew all along what was happening. He planned his wife's death around their ‘escape'.

Mr White recalled what Mr Taylorson said to him: “I came up behind her, shot her in the head in front of everyone and no one knew. That, Mr White, isn't luck or chance. That is power. Something you'll never have. If she wasn't going to be mine, she wasn't going to be yours.”

It was March 18 - when Mr Taylorson was found dead in his study. Ha had taken a fatal injection of cocaine. On his writing desk was a note which read: “I, Archibald Taylorson, am the destroyer of lives, including my own.”

On April 18 - Mr White relocated himself to London. Despite having been forced out of professional medical training, he continued to learn medicine, and became of great use for several years to Scotland Yard's H Division. If my younger self had the wisdom I do today, perhaps I could have seen through the cracks in the story when they transpired. Perhaps I could have aided Mr White rather than worked against him with every stroke of my pen. As I said, providence has given me this chance to right a wrong.

Before Mr White's passing we were thrust together for one final adventure. My heart was, at first, cold towards him, as I regarded him as a fiend, a destroyer of things good, and a devil who slipped through the Law's grip. I regret, now, that I'll never get to know him better for who he really was - a good man, a brave man. Moments before a terrible attack befell us he confided the story which I told above, and, while at first I was skeptical, he proved to be this good man by saving my life. He will be remembered.

The End

A Scandal in America

The Letter

To Sherlock Holmes she is always
the
Woman. It was, as I recall, late March of 1888 when a most peculiar case descended upon my friend. The King of Bohemia had sought the aid of Sherlock Holmes when a scandalous photograph of the king and the beautiful Irene Adler had surfaced. The king feared Miss Adler's intentions were to ruin him by exposing this photograph prior to his wedding to the daughter of the King of Scandinavia.

Holmes put his remarkable mental powers to use in order to locate and retrieve this photograph and end the ordeal for the Bohemian king. He was, however, outsmarted by
the
woman, Irene Adler. When he attempted to take the scandalous photograph, Holmes simply found a note from Irene Adler and a photograph of herself. The note stated that she had fled the country with her new husband, Godfrey Norton, a lawyer, and that they would not return. There was, however, no need to chase Irene Adler and Godfrey Norton. It was made clear that she had no intension on using the scandalous photograph, but held it solely for the purpose of her own protection.

My friend had only the greatest respect for Miss Adler. It was common of him to keep small souvenirs from his cases, and in this case he kept the photograph of her. There were very few women that Holmes and I encountered, in our career together, towards whom he showed any signs of ‘attraction'. In fact, Miss Adler was the only woman he admired enough to possess a photograph of. Lastly, Irene Adler was also the only woman for whom he would willingly disregarded his pressing cases to answer her call when she was in great despair.

***

It was, as I look through my notes, the summer of 1890. Between my marriage and practice I hadn't seen Holmes in some time and found myself sitting with him in our old rooms of 221B Baker Street. Holmes, dressed in his mouse-coloured dressing gown, was slouched over in his chair, rummaging through papers, and I, sitting in my former chair, was quietly sipping a warm cup of tea while reading the morning newspaper. Since I had last seen Holmes, he had been engaged on the Katharine Dobbs case, which had recently come to an end. With no warning, Holmes dramatically threw the papers which he had been looking through onto the floor, and shot up from his chair, letting out an exhausted sigh as he stretched.

“Katharine Dobbs, Watson, was a vile woman!” he declared. “Are you aware of the matter, yet?”

“I must say that I am not. You have yet to tell me the ins and outs of the case,” I replied.

“She had become so disgusted with her father's new wife that she attempted to poison her stepmother, Annabelle, who was, in fact, a lovely woman. Had it not been for Katharine's sister Dorothy bringing her concerns to me, their stepmother would be dead this very moment!”

“Thank heavens this Dorothy came to you when she did,” said I. “What has become of Katharine Dobbs?”

“She's dead,” said Holmes coolly.

“Dead!” I cried. “Pray, tell me what happened?”

“When she discovered I was on her trail, primarily by the fact that stains on Katharine's fingernails revealed frequent use of arsenic, she attempted to hurry the matter up and prepared a lethal dose of poison for her stepmother. Her sister, Dorothy, caught her, per my instructions to keep a close eye on her, and Katharine fell victim to her own deadly chemical when the sisters engaged in a brawl.”

“I should like to look over the notes from this case when there is time. I'm sorry that I could not accompany you,” I admitted, envious of my friends on going adventures without me. As much as I enjoyed my medical career, there was nothing quite like the excitement of the chase, which was always the norm in my friend's life.

“I am sorry for that, too, Watson,” said he. “The case has birthed an interesting train of thought. I should like to look deeper into the effects that one's personality may have on their physical appearance.

“Had this case never been brought to me and I happened to pass someone like Katharine Dobbs on the street, I would know at first glance that she possessed no good qualities whatsoever. If ever a morbid personality affected the way in which one was presented, she would have made a fine case study. She had the appearance of a vile witch found in any of the Grimm's tales,” concluded my friend.

“What is the next case which you plan to take up?” I asked.

“As you know, old boy, there are many on-going cases that I am always toiling over. However, let us see what we have.” He picked up a stack of letters from the mantel which had accumulated over the previous weeks. “Fionnula Goggin, Reverend Fitz-Lloyd, Royston Luckinbill, Bill Bramble, Rose Pickles, Wilber Plaskitt.” Holmes smiled, reading out the names written upon the letters. “I say, Watson, what foreigner could read these names and believe the English to be a stiff and somber minded people?”

“Says the great
Sherlock Holmes
, himself,” I replied. “Names are a funny thing...” Our attention was arrested by a gentle tapping on the study door.

“Come in,” said Holmes. The door opened, and there stood a young pageboy. He was somewhere near thirteen years of age, stood roughly five? feet tall, was neatly dressed, and held a small square parcel, no bigger than my palm, under his arm. He rubbed his nose and looked at both Holmes, who was now standing, and myself.

“Mr Holmes?” he asked.

“The one and only,” he returned.

“I have a package for you,” said the young lad as he walked towards Holmes, holding the parcel out.

“You have a curious look upon your face, my boy, what is on your mind?” asked Holmes.

“You see, sir, I mean no disrespect to you at all. I know of you, alright. I've heard lots of your cases and, well, I ain't never seen a picture of you and, that is, I thought you'd be stronger lookin', Mr Holmes,” the boy reluctantly admitted.

I chuckled at the boys comment, Holmes looked over at me; he, too, was amused by this, and a smile graced his face.

“Do you hear that, Dr Watson?” Holmes said, “I'm not very strong looking, it seems.” He motioned for the boy to hold still, and raced over to a pile of old newspapers before withdrawing one and walking back over. “My boy,” continued Holmes, “do not rely on outward appearance to determine strength. The strongest muscle one can exercise is the mind, but I must also defend my honour, as I do not wish for you to go back and tell all your friends that the great Sherlock Holmes is but a weak old man!” As he spoke, he handed the boy the newspaper. “Do you recognise that man in that picture?” he asked, pointing somewhere on the page.

“I do,” acknowledged the boy. “That is Danny, the Steam Engine, Palmer. He's a champion boxer!”

“He
was
a champion boxer,” corrected Holmes. “As you can see from this paper, he was arrested a few years back and sentenced to hang for his involvement in the Fleet Street murders. He acted as the gang's muscle, and was paid a hefty price for his service. The cherished minds of Scotland Yard were having trouble bringing the gang to justice, and sought my aid. As you see from this picture, Danny ‘the Steam Engine' Palmer, was found badly beaten upon his arrest. Who do you think did that?”

The boy looked up at Holmes, his eyes wide and his mouth open. “You?” he asked.

“Indeed!” exclaimed Holmes. “Though I value the constant stimulation and workout of the mind, I am also a very skilled fighter. I have trained both in baritsu and martial arts. However, you don't need to be weighed down with pounds of muscle to be an effective fighter.”

“I never thought of it like that!”

“Now you have something to ponder for the day, my boy,” said Holmes.

The boy smiled at Holmes and nodded. “Good day to you both!” he said, turning and darting out the door.

Holmes, discarded the old newspaper, and reached for the parcel which he had laid down. Taking it into his hands and holding it high in the air, he began to examine it.

“Who is it from?” I pressed.

“No name,” said he, taking a seat in his chair. Holmes tore the paper away, and revealed a small wooden box with a latch on the front. He popped the latch, and as he did so, his eyes widened. “My, my, Watson, this is most engaging,” said he.

He lifted something out of the small parcel. I could hardly believe my eyes when his extended palm revealed the contents. It was a large emerald. Holmes held it up into the light pouring in through the window; it sparkled beautifully.

“My word, Holmes! Is that real? It must be worth a fortune!” I exclaimed.

Holmes stood up and went to his desk, pulling out a pair of jeweller's glasses, and then shot over to our bay window where the sun shone, and studied the emerald.

“It is real, and certainly worth a fortune,” said Holmes after a lengthy examination.

“What are you to do with it?” I asked, standing up and walking towards him.

“Hand me the box it came in.” Holmes took it from my hand and pulled out a small envelope. He opened it, and read the letter concealed inside.

Having seen Holmes read many unusual letters in our time together, none seemed to impact him as this one. This letter was from no ordinary client. His eyes were not lit with excitement from the strange; rather, he was deeply concerned. When finished reading, he held the letter at his side and uttered not a word. He walked past me to his chair, and seated himself once more.

“What is it?” I asked.

His face was turned from me, and he gazed into the fireplace.

“
The
woman,” he returned.

“Irene Adler?”

“Correct.”

“What does she want?”

“She wants us to come to America to investigate the death of her husband, Godfrey Norton,” said he, slowly turning and looking at me.

“Norton is dead! Dear Lord, and she begs audience with you inAmerica?” I questioned.

“Yes, Watson. That is where she and Godfrey relocated to after our incident with the Bohemian King. She looked up operatic roles and has become well settled from what I've read.” He extended his hand and gave me the letter from Irene Adler, which read thus:

My Dear Mr Sherlock Holmes,

I need your assistance. Godfrey, my husband, has been killed. I found him shot dead in his office in Manhattan. It is a murder staged as a suicide. The police have bought into the charade, but I will not. How do I know it wasn't suicide? Three trifles that the police ignore
.

First, the gun was on the left side of the floor, Godfrey is right-handed. Second, there was a unique ash left in the tray. Godfrey, though he occasionally smoked, kept his office clear of any such tobacco use. The ash was not his. Third, lying just by his face was a gold doubloon. Someone was threatening him, this much I am sure. His behaviour was erratic and very unlike himself the week leading up to his death. What secrets Godfrey had, I am not sure, but I am sure he was murdered. Mr Holmes, I can only do so much on my own
. This is still a man's world; women are still awaiting their liberation. I trust this case only to you now.

I have sent this wire with instructions to first obtain the emerald you now hold. I left it in London in case I ever needed a bargaining chip to obtain your services. The selling of the emerald will pay for your and Dr Watson's travel costs, and the remainder will be your payment for the case. If I am correct, you will receive this letter in the late morning five days from my writing it. You will have two hours at most to make arrangements and let Dr Watson persuade his dear wife to let him accompany you before you make the journey to Southampton by the 2pm train where the steamship
The Eagle will be departing at 6pm to carry you both to New York.

Find me at home in Salem in Westchester, at Bell House. Mr Holmes, as you need Watson, so I need you. Please hurry.

Always,

Irene Adler

p.s. I hear you kept my picture.

“What are you to do?” I asked.

“She is not the kind of woman who would simply ask for aid. She is a bright woman, the most savvy of her sex,” said Holmes contemplatively. “Nevertheless, Watson, I will answer her call!”

“You're going to America?”

“No,” he replied, “
we
are going to America. She's called for us both. Now we've already wasted valuable time. Go speak with Mrs Watson and get her permission, and make the necessary arrangements for your practice. Meet me here in an hour's time!” Before I could utter a reply, Holmes threw off his dressing gown and ran out the door to some unknown destination.

***

Taking a hansom, I made haste to my home where I found Mary sitting in the lounge. I told her of the letter and Irene Adler's call for help in this investigation.

“John! This is so sudden!” my wife protested.

“I know it is,” said I. “I would not ask this of you if it was not of great importance.”

“What am I to do? How long will you be gone for?” she asked. I could tell by the look upon her face that she was deeply troubled by my wishing to go away. One of my wife's most admirable traits, however, was her ability to put up with my desire for adventure.

“I am not entirely sure. It would be an adequate assumption, at best, to say a month,” said I reluctantly. “There is no telling how long or short a case will be but considering the distance...” I took Mary into my arms and embraced her.

“John, I want you to be safe,” she replied quietly. “I should not wish to keep you from an adventure, and I know how much excitement you have when you are off with Holmes. You two are like silly school boys exploring in the woods.”

I looked into Mary's eyes, which were very bright as she smiled at me.

“Thank you my dear,” said I and kissed her.

“Come, let me help you pack!” she said, and we darted into the bedroom where I pulled out my brown case.