Sherlock Holmes: The Dark Reckoning (3 page)

“That’s quite alright, Dr Watson.  No damage has been done,
and I don’t think the victim has any modesty left in her,” answered the doctor,
still smiling.

“Why is this young woman so decomposed?” asked Holmes.

“It is suspected that she was a prostitute, murdered in Soho.  Nobody found her body until almost two weeks after she died,” explained the doctor.

Watson, feeling somewhat embarrassed by his reaction to
seeing the body, attempted to change the subject by asking, “What made you go
into this particular line of medicine, Doctor?”

“Well, with a name like mine, I would never inspire a great
deal of confidence in living patients,” smiled Death.

Holmes and Watson left the morgue and returned to Baker Street.  Upon their arrival, Holmes went to his desk and wrote a cheque instructing
his bank to pay five pounds to the Salvation Army to help the poorer
inhabitants of the city.

Watson stood, looking out of the window and suddenly
announced, “Holmes, it looks as if Lestrade is going to pay us a visit.”

“Yes, I rather thought he might.”

“What makes you say that, old fellow?”

“I believe he is coming to tell us that the murder weapon
has been found.”

“Holmes!  That’s incredible!  You can’t
possibly
know
that – it’s impossible!  In fact, I’ll wager five shillings that you’re wrong!”

Holmes looked up at Watson and flashed a quick smile.  “I suggest
you refrain from gambling your money, Watson.  Why not give it to a charity
instead?”

“Very well, if you are right about what Lestrade will tell
us, I will give one crown to the Salvation Army!”

“Very well,” laughed Holmes, finding humour in Watson’s
compulsion to gamble, even when the benefactor was a charity.

There was a loud knock on the door.  “Come in, it’s not
locked,” called out Watson.  The door swung open and Mrs. Hudson entered announcing
Inspector Lestrade.

Holmes stood from the desk at which he had been sitting. 
“Come in, Lestrade,” he said, as he walked across the room and shook the
inspector’s hand.  He then went on, “Mrs. Hudson, would you be so kind as to
make us a pot of tea?”

Mrs. Hudson nodded approvingly and left to make the tea.  Holmes
turned back to Lestrade and said, “Take your coat off and have a seat,
Lestrade.”

Lestrade sat on the sofa, whilst Holmes returned to the desk
seat he had been occupying a few moments earlier, and turned it to face
Lestrade.  Watson sat in his favourite chair, keen to find out the purpose of
Lestrade’s visit.

The inspector gave a sigh of relief as he sat, since this
was the first time he had done so all day, and it was now approaching 2:20pm,
according to the clock on the mantle piece.  Lestrade noticed that there was a
peaceful atmosphere to the room; a halcyon tranquillity that he found most
welcoming.  He looked around and noted that it hadn’t changed much since his
last visit.  Books were still scattered everywhere.  Despite that, the overall
appearance of the room was tidy – probably due to Mrs. Hudson’s constant
attempts to tidy up after Holmes.

“What can the good doctor and I do for you, Lestrade?” asked
Holmes.

“Well, Holmes…”

There was a rap on the door, so Watson went and opened it.  Mrs.
Hudson was standing outside with a tray.  She smiled at the doctor, as he
thanked her for the tea and took the tray she was carrying.  She closed the
door as Watson set the tray down on the table, poured three cups of tea and
handed them out.

“Please, go on Lestrade.  You were about to tell us
something,” said Watson, returning to his chair.

“We believe we’ve found the murder weapon!”  There was a
triumphant tone evident in the inspector’s voice.

“Really!” exclaimed Holmes, smiling mockingly at Watson, who
sat looking both confused and amazed that Holmes had known this was going to
happen.

Watson turned to the inspector and asked, “Where was it,
Lestrade?”

“We found it in Hyde Park, in some bushes about 50 yards
from where the body was discovered.”

“Is the weapon a meat cleaver, as suspected?” added Watson

“Yes, it’s a meat cleaver alright.  It looks to be new, or
very nearly new.”

A sudden idea came to Watson, prompting him to ask another
question, “Are you able to say where this meat cleaver was purchased?”

“Yes, it was sold by a shop called Smiths, located in Coventry Street.  It’s still got the price label on it.  We’ve asked the staff at Smiths if
anyone could remember who it was sold to.  Nobody was sure, but one of them,
remembered a man with dark hair, who was tall and of medium build, that
purchased a cleaver last week.  There was something about this man that seemed
a bit sinister, apparently.  Oh, and he had a Cockney accent.  I don’t think
this information will be of much use to us as…”

“May we see it now, Lestrade?” interjected Holmes.

“How do you know I have it here?”

“The way in which you have been fiddling with that box
suggests you are keen to display its contents to us.”

Lestrade opened the box to reveal the blood-stained
instrument.

“May I?” asked Holmes, indicating that he wished to handle
the weapon.

“By all means, Holmes,” replied the inspector.

Holmes took the weapon and looked at the blood, now dried,
on the blade.  Two very faint lines of dried blood were visible, confirming
that two cuts had occurred, each having travelled further into the neck.  The
edge of the blade was blunted and deformed, possibly where it had struck the
spine several times.  There was also blood on the handle, which could have belonged
to the murderer, as it was close to a splinter in the wood.

“I find it odd that the price label was left on the weapon,”
remarked Holmes, thoughtfully, as he continued to examine the meat cleaver.  “Our
murderer may have a cut and, possibly, a splinter in the palm of his right
hand,” stated Holmes, still looking closely at the weapon. 

“How do you know that?” questioned Lestrade.

“If you look here, Inspector, you will see blood around this
splinter.  Furthermore, a fragment of the splinter is missing.”

“I see,” acknowledged Lestrade, whilst examining the
handle.  After they had finished examining the meat cleaver, Holmes told
Lestrade everything he knew of the case.  Although Lestrade tried to
reciprocate, Holmes and Watson learned very little from the inspector.  One
thing he did add, was that the wife of Sir Charles Grey had confirmed the
belongings found on the body were those of her husband.  She had also confirmed
that a birth mark found on the body matched her husband’s.

After the inspector had left, Watson asked, “Who do you
think is behind all this, Holmes?”

“It is impossible to say at present, old fellow, but I am
sure that I have been manipulated into becoming involved.  Somebody wants me to
investigate, perhaps a villain reaping his, or her, revenge.  In any case, we
are currently left with little choice but to find out more about the murderer. 
So, let us go to Smiths and see if we are able to secure a more accurate
description of the person that they thought sinister.”

As the two men left the apartment, Watson asked, “You indicated
that the murderer might be a woman or a man, Holmes.  I thought we had already
established that it
must
be a man due to the strength needed to carry
out the attack.  Why have you not ruled a woman out?”

“It was most likely a man that actually committed the murder,
due to the strength required to produce such deep cuts with the meat cleaver. 
However, we do not yet know who is orchestrating everything we have seen thus
far.  For all we know, somebody else could be behind all of this, Watson.  The actual
murderer may be nothing more than a henchman.”

Upon arrival at Smiths, Holmes and Watson found the man
behind the counter reluctant to speak about the mysterious man who had
purchased a meat cleaver the previous week.  A shilling soon loosened his
tongue, however.  He told them the man was not local – at least not known by
anyone in the shop.  He was clean-shaven, tidily dressed, although not very
smartly, and his cockney accent had sounded false.

The two men returned to Baker Street.  Watson, looking very perplexed,
suddenly turned to Holmes and said, “I cannot wait any longer Holmes!  How did
you know that Lestrade had come to inform us that the murder weapon had been
found?”

“Elementary, my dear Watson,” smiled Holmes, “I saw
something in the bushes in Hyde Park yesterday that I reported to a nearby
officer.  The police recovered it and found it to be the murder weapon.  I
arranged with Lestrade to bring it here today so that I could examine it.  I
realise that I omitted to reveal these details to you, but I thought it would
be more fun this way.”

“Well confound it, Holmes!” shouted Watson, his face looking
red and angry.  “How could you let me bet on something that you already knew the
outcome of?  It’s just
not
on, old chap!”

Holmes laughed and replied, “Come now, Watson.  I did not
take your bet but, instead, suggested you make a donation to charity.”

The fog slowly swirled around the streets of London.

A note was delivered…

v

A clock struck eleven times, its sound muffled in the fog,
as a subdued figure stepped out of a carriage.  The figure walked along
Haymarket, turned into a side turning and disappeared into the night.

v

She smiled, as she bid her colleagues goodnight and walked
towards the exit.  She liked working at The Theatre Royal, Haymarket and,
although she only played a minor role, she knew that, one day, she would be a
star.  At twenty-one years of age, her youthful enthusiasm and pretty
appearance stood her in good stead to realise that ambition.

The light above the exit illuminated her attractive face. 
Her skin was silky smooth and her eyes were deep blue and bright.  She had full
lips, a small nose and long blonde hair.  She attracted many suitors, due to
her natural beauty.  Her hair cascaded over her shoulders and swung freely as
she hurriedly walked away from the theatre.  The sound of her footsteps cut
through the fog and, from a distance, was the only evidence of her presence.

She looked behind her to confirm a suspicion that, in this haze,
she would no longer be able to see the theatre; normally perfectly clear from
this distance.  All she could now discern of the theatre were diffused lights.

She passed under a streetlight, its glow illuminating the mist
surrounding it.  A shadow crossed her face as she passed under the light.  She
noticed that everything seemed so quiet within veil of fog surrounding her – as
though nothing existed beyond the fifty, or so, yards that she could see.

The fog enhanced a feeling of mystery within her, an
atmospheric dreamland in her heightened imagination.  In this fantasy a great
adventure, fraught with danger and excitement was about to take place, in which
she played the principal role.  She imagined herself in peril and being rescued
by a handsome hero.  A passing carriage, pulled by two horses, brought her
abruptly back to reality; thus shattering the romantic mystery.

She continued along her usual route to Charing Cross Road by
turning right into Orange Street, which served as a shortcut.  This narrow
street was cobbled with a small pavement on each side.  The cobbles were
uneven, an interminable mass of raised stones interspersed with mud filled pot
holes.  A row of buildings ran down both sides of the road, their rooftops
barely visible in the freezing foggy air.

She turned left into Whitcomb Street, which disappeared into
a misty oblivion, prompting a memory deep in the girl’s subconscious to be
recalled.  It was so long ago, when she was just a young girl, but old enough
to understand the horror before her eyes.  Perhaps the atmosphere created by
the fog was similar to that from the night of this memory.  She shuddered at
the recollection of the unclear images of her nightmares.  ‘Why should I
remember now the evil I’ve fought so hard to forget?’ she thought to herself. 
She shuddered as she recalled strange, distorted memories from the night she
witnessed a man kill another.

She knew the killer to be dead, having been hanged for the
murder she had witnessed.  It was her evidence that condemned him to his fate,
so she
knew
he was dead.  Even so, she suddenly felt uneasy about what
may lurk ahead in the eerie gloom.  Her trepidation caused her to momentarily slow
down.  She inwardly laughed her unfounded fear away and continued her journey,
albeit with a little more stealth in her step.

v

The flare of a match, as it lit a cigarette, briefly illuminated
a man’s pitted face, revealing a small scar on the right cheek.  He rubbed his
hands together in a futile attempt to defeat the cold night air.  The man
waited in a side street between Haymarket and Shaftesbury Avenue, drawing hard
on his cigarette to calm his nerves.

In the distance he heard something…  He strained his ears. 
Someone was approaching.  He took the cigarette from his mouth, dropped it on
the pavement and stepped on it.  He held his breath in order to listen more
closely.  Someone
was
approaching.  He found a house with no lights showing
from within and crept into the small front garden.  He squatted down behind the
garden’s wall and hid…

v

Holmes searched through file after file, read newspaper
articles and accounts of old cases painstakingly written by Watson, several of
which were somewhat embellished.  His search became increasingly more frantic
as his frustration grew.

“What does it mean?” he growled to himself.  ‘The answer
must lie somewhere within these files,’ he thought.  He continued searching,
scattering papers all over the room, becoming more agitated as he did so.  Something
within him knew that he held the answer he was so desperate to find, but he
just could not find it.  He searched through everything, but to no avail.  He
threw the last file across the room in anger.  His gaze fell upon a small bottle
and a syringe on the desk…

v

The girl continued along Whitcomb Street and then turned
right into Lisle Street, which was silent and deserted.  The only evidence of
any people were the faint lights emanating from the windows of houses running along
each side of the road.  The gas streetlights lit areas along the street, whilst
leaving other areas in impenetrable darkness.  She walked into a dark shadow
and then into the pale light offered by a streetlight.

She heard a sound come from a side street, as she passed
by.  She turned to face the direction of the sound, but could see only fog
hanging densely in the night air.  ‘Must have been a cat, or something,’ she
reassuringly thought to herself; but the sound had unnerved her.  Her heart
beat faster than usual for a short while as she continued walking, nervously
listening for any sounds coming from behind.  Everything was silent, except for
the distant sounds from the busier streets, so she breathed a sigh of relief.

The silence was suddenly broken and her heart began to pound
in her chest once more, as a fresh feeling of fear gripped her.  There were
footsteps behind her where, moments before, there had been silence.  She tried
to calm herself by thinking, ‘It doesn’t matter that someone is walking
behind.  It’s probably somebody that has come out of a house’.  The pace of the
footsteps quickened and she began to panic, finding it hard to breathe
continuously.  The footsteps drew nearer and nearer until they sounded as
though they were only a few yards behind her.

Her pace quickened in an attempt to evade whoever was
following her.  The footsteps behind did not increase in speed and, to her
relief, she gained some distance between herself and those menacing footsteps. 
The street seemed much longer than usual to her.  Why was there nobody else
about?  She thought of knocking on the front door of one of the houses to seek
refuge, but dismissed the idea as foolish.

The footsteps seemed further back now.  Her heart began to
beat a little more easily and her breathing had returned to normal.  She
wondered why she had been so frightened, as she wasn’t, by nature, easily
scared.  Perhaps it was the atmosphere created by the fog that reminded her of
that terrible night, so many years ago.

Ahead, she could begin to make out the hazy lights in Charing
Cross Road.  There would be more people there, so she would be safe.  Those
lights looked so welcoming and she felt a great deal of relief as she
approached them.  But then the footsteps behind started to get closer again...

The pursuer rapidly gained on her.  The thought occurred to
the girl that it could be someone who had just realised they were late for an
appointment. Perhaps the person would speedily pass her in a few moments.

She wanted to turn and confront her pursuer, but was too
frightened and could not will herself to look behind.  Something seemed wrong
about the sound of these footsteps.  The street became a sinister place,
beckoning all of her deepest fears; just like that dreadful night so long ago. 
Her mouth was dry and she found it hard to swallow as, still, the footsteps drew
nearer.  She began to feel sick and felt her back and neck tingle as she sensed
someone very close behind.  Her heart was pounding heavily once again.  She walked
as quickly as she was able, perhaps trying to escape the feeling of impending
danger, as well as whoever was so close behind.

Each step thundered in her ears.  She wanted to run, but
reasoned that the person would soon pass her by.  She felt the person’s
presence only a few feet away from her.  Her body was shaking violently, as
every nerve sensed something evil behind her.  Her breathing was fast and
shivering, along with the rest of her body.  No matter how much she tried to
reason with herself, she could not overcome the feeling that she was in real
danger.  She
knew
something was very wrong.

A few steps later, she felt the front of a shoe catch her
heel.  Panic overwhelmed her frightened soul, and she was about to scream and
run when she heard a brief rustle of clothing followed by a deafening crash
upon the top of her head, accompanied by an excruciating pain.  Her head was
forced violently down into her neck and she heard an ear-splitting whistle.

Her world became unreal; the street lights started to swirl
around her and the buildings began to spin uncontrollably.  She tried to scream
but her voice seemed to be trapped inside her throat.  She wanted to run, but
her legs would not move.  Instead they seemed to buckle and twist under the
weight of her body and she just swayed to and fro.

A further flash of agonising pain forced her delirious body
downwards.  She saw the edge of the pavement rushing towards her and was aware
of a loud snapping sound as her face smashed into the edge of the kerb.  Her
dazed vision saw blood upon the stony ground.  The ground felt icy cold on her
face as she lay, unable to move.  The blood she could see around her began to
seem further away and she no longer noticed the coldness.  She didn’t feel
frightened anymore.  Instead, she felt tranquil and serene as her fears
vanished and her world gradually dissolved into blackness.

v

The man looked down at the girl laying half on the pavement
and half in the gutter.  Her body twitched as he looked at it.  The wild
excitement he felt showed in his crazed eyes, as he stood over his victim.  A
drop of blood fell from the head of the hammer he held, loosely, in his right
hand.

He stood motionless, transfixed by the twitching body at his
feet, until her heard a carriage approaching.  He ran between two buildings,
concealing himself in the shadows, as the sound of the horses hooves became louder.

The carriage came to a halt adjacent to the girl, who was no
longer twitching.  The man, upon recognising the four-wheeled Clarence carriage,
came out of his hiding place and walked towards it.  The driver stepped onto
the pavement and opened the door.  The two men then lifted the girl inside.  The
taller of the men, who had attacked the girl, climbed into the driver’s seat,
whilst the other got inside with the girl.  The driver beckoned the horses to
move and drove the carriage in the direction of Scotland Yard.

Inside the carriage, the man began to undress the girl. 
When she was naked, he took a saw and began to cut through her left arm, at the
shoulder.  The girl was lying on her back.  The man noticed her distorted face
as the carriage stopped under a streetlight.  The force with which she had
struck the kerb had broken her nose and jaw, and her skin was grazed and
spattered with blood.  Her bruised mouth was misaligned, with the bottom part
of her jaw about an inch to the left of the top part.  Her nose, dribbling
blood, had been forced over to the left side of her face.  There was a deep red
mark running down the right side of her face that extended down over her right
breast, where she had hit the edge of the kerb when she fell.

He continued sawing her left arm off, when her eyes suddenly
opened and her right arm lashed out at him, badly scratching his face.  He
recoiled violently at the shock and pain of the sudden attack.  In response, he
stood and stamped on her throat.  Her mouth opened and emitted a faint gurgle,
but her eyes remained open, staring at him.

He took his walking cane and, still with his foot on her
throat, thrust the pointed end into her left eye, forcing the eyeball to move
sideways in its socket.  He pulled the cane out and then thrust it down once
more into her eye.  This time the end of the cane tore into her brain, damaging
it too much to support life.  Her body jerked and twitched for a few moments
and then became perfectly still.  As he removed his boot from her throat, a gush
of blood spewed from her lifeless lips.  He completed the task of cutting off
her left arm, and then dressed her.

The carriage continued on its journey to Whitehall, and drew
to a halt in amongst some shadows, near to Scotland Yard.  The two men waited
until the street was quiet, and then quickly dragged the dead body of the girl
from the carriage and left her under an archway.

The larger of the men walked off, whilst the other returned
to the carriage and began to consider his next move.  He smiled, inwardly, with
the knowledge that others were finally starting to pay for what they had done.

He climbed into the driver’s seat and beckoned the horses to
move.  The carriage vanished into the night, merging with the darkness, as the
fog slowly swirled around the streets of London.