A/N: This is something of a sequel to my "Friend & Associate" fic, but can be read alone and still (hopefully) be coherent. This is a WIP, however, the first few chapters are complete; though I am in the process of *heavily* editing them. With any luck, I should have the next part up soon.
This is narrated entirely in Holmes' POV, and it is my first attempt to write in his voice. Would appreciate any feedback on whether or not I am pulling that off. It's been a challenge to write in Holmes' voice, to say the least.
Rated for mild violence and descriptions of said violence.
As a side note, this was originally started for NaNoWriMo … until the worst case of writer's block struck. If my writing style is a bit crude, I apologize in advance and blame it all on NaNoWriMo. J
From The Personal Case Files of Sherlock Holmes & Dr. John H. Watson
Released From The Vaults of Cox & Co.
Prologue
After so many years of being subjected to the incessant prompting of my dear Watson to take up my pen, I have, after much consideration, decided the time has come to divulge that case which nearly demolished this singular little occupation of mine. Whilst my name has never before been associated with the investigation, it is one that should be well remembered by the public, despite the passing of long years since its occurrence. It is, by no means, an investigation I was proud of, albeit, the eventual outcome was in my favor.
Nevertheless, it cannot be claimed as one of my great successes.
There was no pervading sense of glory or triumph which normally proceeds the successful conclusion of a case; no satisfaction of having solved the thing. Only great relief that it was finally over, that the perpetrator would trouble us no more.
Under normal circumstances, I pride myself on being a reasonably intelligent man -- fact of the matter is I manage to make a comfortable living entirely off the use of my profound wits. Yet at the crux of this case, I felt at best the most infinitely stupid man in all creation. Here I betrayed all my instincts, disregarded my own common sense and failed to do what I so often accuse others of -- failing to observe the obvious. It remains to be the lowest point of my career, my life.
This seemingly petty little problem began as one of Lestrade's investigations that proved to be so impossibly knotted he eventually conceded that the solving of this singular puzzle was best left in my hands. Even by my standards, I must admit -- for the logician must always be honest with himself and present the facts as they are, not as he wishes them to be -- that this vexing little conundrum seemed to be beyond even my capabilities. It was something I realized would prove to be so profoundly simple once all the skeins were unraveled, but the sheer simplicity of the matter, I am loathe to admit, prevented even me from grasping all the threads. There was one pivotal fact I was missing and no progress would be made on the case until I was able to shed light on this one elusive dark corner.
Approaching three weeks into the oft cold trail, it was Lestrade who eventually advised me to quit the case. If I am to be forthright, for all involved, the aforementioned entreaty may have been the most sensible option, all things considered. The man had never asked such a thing of me, nor had anyone ever implored me to resign my services before, save for Watson -- but even then only halfheartedly or if I was in some severe danger. Yet he had always followed me anyway. I swear to all that is holy the man would follow me through the very gates of hell to protect me, if only such a thing was even possible.
Ah! I see my Boswell's habits are surely rubbing off on me. He has me recounting the story in reverse and inserting far too much romanticizing and introspecting into it even at this early juncture. What I originally sought to pen as an educational instruction to map out the steps which led to my failures in this endeavor, seems to have, of it's own volition, turned into one such romanticized tale. He has informed me that to include such details in this account would not be embellishment, but the stating of facts in a more elaborate fashion.
I cannot argue with such well stated logic, but rest assured, I have not sunk to such levels of poetic twaddle. The dear doctor has acted as my editor in this little literary foray of mine (though I dare say this work did not require one) and thus, he insisted on embellishing the thing before it was submitted for publication. All credit for any flowery prose which may occur goes entirely to my Watson. As such, this is more of a collaborative effort, however, for several reasons, it will be narrated from my perspective.
So, to commence this tale from where it should have properly begun in the first place, "The Case" as I have come to refer to it, was brought to my attention by Inspector Lestrade during the first week of November '97.
Chapter 1
We were already familiarized with the murders, dubbed by the press as the Buck's Row Butcher for the half dozen corpses found within a concentrated few blocks in that very locale of the East End in as many weeks. The likes of it could only be rivaled by those grotesque Jack The Ripper slayings of the previous decade, and at first, it did appear to be the same culprit; or one lunatic individual seeking to continue the work of the original. Even I was inclined to admit it did appear that Scotland Yard's theory of an imitation crime was a valid one, for the first corpse was found within a few feet of where the mutilated corpse of Polly Nichols, a victim of Jack The Ripper, was discovered.
Save for very the act of murder itself, however, these killings lacked the outré depravity of the Ripper slayings -- or more aptly put, the Ripper mutilations. Death had been achieved by strangulation, this fact was blatantly obvious even to the blunderers at Scotland Yard. But, this fellow was not dubbed the Buck's Row Butcher for nothing. The eyes of his victims were gouged out and carved upon the forehead of each victim was a roman numeral corresponding to the order in which they had been slain.
Such were the facts as they were made available to the public.
In my perusal of the reports in The Times, I gathered there was a good deal more being withheld that, for the criminal investigator, would be instrumental to the solving of this thing. Too many loose threads, evasions or outright falsehoods quoted from the official detectives on the case. It gave one the overall appearance of the facts being honeyed over either for the benefit of stifling the mass hysteria that was brewing from the onset or to throw the actual murderer off the Yard's scent in the event he was watching the papers for any slip ups he may have made. The latter seemed a more reasonable theory, yet to assume such is perhaps expecting a bit too much of the capabilities of our official police force.
It was a dreary evening, the first in a succession of blizzards that would strike the city in the ensuing weeks, when Inspector Lestrade came to seek out our unofficial assistance in apprehending the Buck's Row Butcher. Watson and I were scarcely settled in, having returned only a quarter of an hour before from an abysmally long train journey from the continent, fresh from solving a particularly abstruse case whose details, in consideration of the sensitive nature of the thing, I m still obliged to conceal.
Here we sat in our armchairs opposite the fire; I curled up in my purple dressing gown, smoking my black clay pipe, my companion nodding over one of his tawdry sea novels. The chill was only just subsiding from deep within my bones when there came an unduly obstreperous pounding upon our front door.
"Watson, do get the door. There's a good chap."
My companion awoke with a start, swearing oaths as he descended the hall stairs that I shall not, for proprieties sake, repeat here. What one might learn in the army is apparently not confined to military stratagem.
He returned to our rooms in better spirits, not quite delighted to see our old friend at this ungodly hour, though I'm sure he was certainly grateful it was he rather than Stanley Hopkins.
"Ah, come about the Buck's Row case, I suppose?"
"Mr. Holmes! How ever did you guess?"
"Hmph." said I, a bit nettled. "I am not in the habit of guessing, Inspector," I continued as Watson guided him over to the settee. "The reasoning is simplicity itself. I observed from the newspaper accounts of late that you are the leading investigator on this case. What else might it mean then, when you are so preoccupied at the moment with these Buck's Row murders, yet solicit my services nigh on two in the morning in this bedeviling storm? Have a cigar, Lestrade, and pray, give us the details."
As was his wont, Watson sat back down into his own armchair, taking out his notebook to jot down the highlights of the Inspector's narrative. It is primarily from the aforementioned notes I recount the following, as once a case has been laid to rest either by it's solving or other form of resolution, the mental concentration I require for the succeeding investigation inevitably cause the details of others to grow dim in my brain. It has always been a maxim of mine that one's brain attic must remain as free of extraneous clutter as possible, should the logical mind care to operate with utmost efficiency. Therefore I refer to the doctor's notes as well as my own recollection of events. I shall refrain from including anything but the barest of facts, as they were laid out before us.
The Inspector, it seemed, had sought us out after returning from the latest murder, on Whitechapel Road. It was undoubtedly the handiwork of the Buck's Row Butcher -- a strangulated corpse, the roman numeral seven carved into the brow.
"He's taunting us, Mr. Holmes. This is a diabolical business, and after what I have laid my eyes upon tonight, I do believe the official force is in over its head. You would be doing us a great service by assisting our investigation. We bally well don't know what to make of it."
"That seems to me the perpetual state of Scotland Yard," I noted.
"Will you help us, then, Mr. Holmes?"
"Of course he will!" The doctor interjected.
"That settles the matter, then. Do get on with it now, and give me the facts."
"Well, the major points are thus: Seven weeks ago now -- that would be on the night of September 7th -- the first victim met his end. He was an average, middle aged male, which is the general description that can be applied to all the victims. Richard Morris, 41, a fishmonger by trade, oft the bane of the East End constabulary as he was a notorious drunk, and a violent one to boot," Lestrade proceeded to wag his finger at me as if to stress the point. "Eyeballs were gouged out, one positioned in his left hand, the other presumably taken by the killer. The roman numeral one was carved into his brow, and from what we can make of it, he likely met his end by strangulation with some queer object whose exact type we are at a loss to identify. For accuracy's sake, I must mention we found a singular tarot card at every locale, although we are not even certain this holds any validity to the crime, nor have we made this feature available to the public."
"Upon the victim or beside them?"
"On them. Always laid out on them like some vile display."
Here he reached into an inner pocket and presented me with a photograph of the body taken at the morgue. The first victim of this madness.
It was a challenge to discern such details as facial features or hair color, but what I could ascertain was a raw, ugly mark circling the neck of a man who was in a state of partial undress, rivulets of blood dripping into his ears, clinging to his moustache and the lapels of his coat. The scarred brow had bled profusely, then.
Whatever tarot card had been on the victim's person was now removed for the purpose of the photograph.
Seeing the corpse firsthand would have been far preferable, so that I could clearly discern any clues which would not be made implicit by the weak lens of the camera or the grainy quality of the photo. Though it was no great feat to conclude the murder weapon from what I had been provided with.
After a moment of careful scrutiny of the thing, I made presented the baffled Inspector with my deductions.
"Clearly, this man was attacked from behind and strangled with a sizeable metal chain, probably one liberally coated in rust. You will do well to seek out a well muscled man of no inconsiderable size. A peculiarly tall, active man in every way and endowed with the build of an athlete, no doubt. He is a reasonably well educated man whom you should not likely find living in the same area he uses as his hunting grounds. He should be an easy one to distinguish should you happen upon him here, for I suspect his natural accent to be more refined than that of your average East Ender. Although, I am certain he is intimately familiar with the location somehow.
"That he has little knowledge of practical anatomy is grossly apparent, and I am sure you will find he carries about his person or locate amongst his effects, a dull blade pocket knife. These are, of course, only the obvious facts I can deduce from this rather poor photograph."
"My dear Holmes!"
"Oh, come now, Mr. Holmes, this is not the place for jokes at the expense of our investigation. I understand you would conduct the thing so much better than our finest men, but really man! I don't see the humour."
"My dear sir," said I "I do assure you that I am indeed serious, and that my reasoning is perfectly sound. That the murder weapon was a rusted chain and the man was attacked from behind is simplicity itself. See how the bruising around the throat forms a clear impression nearly one full inch in width, with gaps in between the upper and lower regions -- yet we have clear outlines of bruising at exact intervals in between. What else could cause such impressions but an object that is linked, such as a chain? It must be rusted as you can just make out the flecks of said rust clinging to the skin, and also note the minor abrasions made by the chafing of the rust. A smooth chain would not have caused this. We know the murderer must be of an athletic build as this body in the photograph is that of a squarely built, healthy man in the prime of life who surely could fight off a weaker assailant.
"Is it also not apparent that when a man writes in Roman numerals, whilst your average ruffian would barely be literate or able to write, should choose this more elaborate method of enumerating his victims? Bear in mind he is acting out in the open and must make the utmost haste. Would it not be quicker to carve out numbers? Of course it would, to an uneducated man, killing on sheer impulse. But our man is cunning. He has crafted this crime thoroughly and his deeds may not be so random as you believe.
"Furthermore, we know he is intimately familiar with the area as he is so readily able to elude capture. He knows his way in and out, the back alleys, shortcuts, the schedules of the businesses and inhabitants. For not one single witness to have come forward as of yet is strange when there have been so many victims, and all of the Whitechapel district on the alert for his presence. He works here; I believe his presence would not be questioned even if he were to be seen. Which I strongly suspect he has been, although the witnesses do not realize it. File that bit of information in your brain, Watson, for we may find it a useful point in this investigation."
"Well, you reasoned it out beautifully, old fellow, but how do you deduce the killer owns a blunt edged pocket knife?"
"Ah, that is the simplest point of all, my dear Watson. Had he used a long, sharp bladed knife, we should expect to see a clean, fastidious cut used to remove the eyeballs from their sockets. Instead, what we have here is a sloppy, bloody mess in what otherwise should have been an easy job for so savage a killer. The veins and tendons holding the eye in the socket are not cleanly cut, so the knife was dull. The blade we know to be a short one judging from how high up the tendons have been severed. A man plunging in a knife does so nearly to the hilt, therefore, we would see more tendon cut out. Consider that the numerals on the brow are also rather ragged and have bled to an unusual extent; it must have taken our man some effort to carve them. That it is a pocket knife is speculation, I admit, but a very plausible one."
"His lack of knowledge in anatomy, then?"
"The very fact that he ever fancied a human body could be easily sliced with such a tool. It would be no great leap to suppose that those other photographs whose outlines I can just make out in your inner pocket, Lestrade, will show cleaner, more fastidious workmanship in his defacing of the corpses?"
"Good heavens! You are certainly correct! Why, this is genius!" remarked the Inspector.
I waved my hand in dismissal. "Commonplace. But, tell me more of this tarot card found on all the victims."
"Well, there is nothing much to tell of that. In every instance, it's the same thing, a tarot card depicting the Wheel of Fortune, always in the reversed position, tucked neatly into the waist of their trousers. We're sure it must hold no actual significance, a red herring meant to dull the scent of any real clues."
"Oh, yes, a red herring, no doubt. All the same, can you describe these cards, remarkable about them?"
"Now that you mention it, they were common enough in that the designs could be found on most any deck of tarot cards, I suppose, save for one feature."
I leaned forward in my chair, momentarily meeting the gaze of the doctor, and knowing me as he does, caught the slightest spark of excitement in my eyes. "Go on."
"Well, the design, as I mentioned, is nothing special, but they are uncharacteristically well made, likely hand painted, I'd say. The paper was rather thick as well, nothing like the feel of an ordinary deck of cards."
"Is each one identical to the other?"
"Yes, they appear to be exact replicas."
"And always placed in a reversed position, so that the card itself would be upside down?"
"Correct, in all instances it has been such. A strange business, I must say, Mr. Holmes, but it seems to me a great waste of time to place such importance on so trivial a detail."
Which was precisely why our good inspector was at such a loss at solving this little puzzle. I have always contended that there was nothing so important as trifles. To me, this was a telling clue, perhaps the only speck of light in this black tunnel, and I was weaving the threads of my case, already certain where I must begin my inquiries.
"Of course, I should require a visit to the location of the latest crime as soon as possible, granted that nothing has been touched, if I am to learn anything further. But in the meantime, I should like to know who was the constable who discovered the first victim? I have hopes he may be able to shed some light on our man if he was as clumsy as I believe him to have been."
The Inspector's beady, rat-like eyes darted between us. He attempted to speak but choked on the words. The man appeared for all the world as though I'd just struck him a blow.
"What is it, man? Speak up if you know something!"
"It's just that … it … it was … Inspector Cartwright."
I confess it. The very name was enough to evoke a lingering shudder from me.
It wasn't as though I feared the man or had a respectful dislike of him such as I did with the late but not lamented Professor Moriarity. It was simply that the memory of him left a foul taste in my mouth. Some fourteen years had passed since my last encounter with the arrogant little upstart, wherein the course of a heated row I may have pointed a revolver at his head and threatened to secret his body in the cellar of our flat. In my defense, he had stormed into our rooms intent on doing me great bodily harm, where I was in the throes of fever after recovering from a bullet wound I strongly suspected came from a gang he had ties with, though there was never anything so frivolous as proof. I also may have arranged it that certain official evidence was "adjusted" so as to prove their guilt and while there was nothing tangible connecting Cartwright to these thugs, my improvements did make it appear as if he'd been negligent in his duties and overlooked critical evidence. This cost the man a demotion -- a well deserved one, so far as I am concerned. He had, in fact, called my Watson obtuse in front of me, which was not a remarkably intelligent thing to do.
My companion groaned audibly as he rose to pour himself a glass of brandy. "I'm hesitant to admit this, but if it's all the same to you, Holmes, might we not find some way around this?"
"No, no. It's essential I hear his firsthand account."
"He could refuse to speak with us." I'm still uncertain if this was wishful thinking or a statement of practicality on his part.
"We can but try."
"I suppose we have no other choice," Watson stated with a resigned sigh, downing his brandy in one swift gulp.
"Now, Lestrade, there is only one more point I can think of at present which may be of use. You have relayed the major facts of the case but what of the minor ones, no matter how irrelevant they may seem?"
There was scarce details to be had, and even less our friend the Inspector was at liberty to divulge to us. I despise having a mystery on both ends of the case, it is quite distracting with the compounded problem of making an already abstruse problem deucedly tricky to unwravel. Resort to threats as I might, Lestrade, who normally will cave into my demands, would not, for all the world, loosen his tongue on what I believed to be critical details of evidence that might allow me to work out the solution in a more timely manner. He insisted that the details were of no great import to me, only to the constables on the beat so that they may prevent another gruesome act of murder form occurring.
Some sort of description, then. But of whom? Surely not of the murderer, for a highly detailed sketch and written depiction of his dress, age, height, suspected social class and so on were readily available to the public. Obviously, this pertained to the victims, yet why should he be so adamant that I not have this information at my fingertips when he was not in the least hesitant to present me with their photographic replicas? If it was truly of no import to the investigation, what was the harm in allowing me to see a copy of the private reports on the sly, as he had done for me on innumerable occasions?
My desire in taking on this complicated case was too great to turn it down over such a trifle, yet the question of the Inspector's secrecy when I'd been specifically asked to do this as a favor to the Yard, worried at the back of my brain. Something here that I was overlooking or simply not observing. Something profound. Whatever it might have been was not clear to me, not in the least.
