The Adventure of Mr White and Mr Black

Part One

Harriet had been beaten before and would be again, she knew. But she'd never grovel and scrape the way the other girls did. She knew what she did for a living, knew how her parents would feel if they knew, but she hadn't lost all her pride, not completely.

"Yer don't 'ave to take it all!" She yelled. "I need some for meself!"

The big man backhanded her across the face.

"'Old yer tongue, girl!" He growled. "What do yer need 'cept thruppence fer lodgin' an' tuppence fer gin? The rest belongs to me fer lookin' after yer!"

"Lookin after me?" She spat.

"Bloody right!" He pushed his jowly, unshaven face close to hers -she could smell the gin on his breath. "You pay me, an' I makes sure that pretty face o' yours don't get cut!"

He shoved her to the ground and stood over her. A knife glittered in the gaslight.

"I get any more of your gob, girl, an' I'll cut yer an extra one! See 'ow much yer can earn then!"

"Leave her!" A new voice. Flat, monotone, hollow. Like a corpse speaking.

The pimp spun round to face the speaker -middle height, gaunt, wearing a dark ulster and a slouch hat.

"You mind yer own business, mate, or it'll be the worse for yer!" He snarled.

"My business." The newcomer said. He stepped forward into the lamplight and Harriet gasped. For a moment, she thought the man had no face. Then she saw it was a white mask, with black blotches on it that shifted and changed shape as he spoke.. "If not mine, who else? Leave her."

Harriet winced as the pimp roared and went for the masked man. The pimp was a big man -run to fat but still strong, and twice the size of his opponent, and he had a knife. There was a whirl of motion; the knife flew away and clattered on the pavement; there was a sickening, crunching snap and the pimp went down. Harriet knew he was dead – nobody could live with their head at that angle. She pulled herself to her feet, feeling at the side of her face -she'd have a proper shiner there tomorrow.

The masked man – not even a little out of breath -studied her.

"Why?" He asked.

"Why what?" She countered.

"Why this life?" He asked. "Plenty of other work here."

"Other work!" She sneered. "What? Sew until me fingers bleed and be scolded by bitches with soft 'ands and 'ard faces? Go into a factory and get cut up by some bloody machine, or end up coughin' me lungs out from the dust or gettin' me face eaten off with phossie jaw? Go into service where some gentleman can shag me for free while 'is missus 'as tea in the parlour?

"At least on the street I get paid for openin' me legs!"

"Different answer." The man said. "No self-pity. Not a good answer. No good answers here.

"Come with me!"

"Where?" She wanted to know.

"Somewhere safe." He told her.

Harriet shrugged and followed him. As long as he paid, what did she care? His ulster looked good quality, perhaps he could afford more than most. She also had a passing curiosity as to what might be behind the mask.

He led her though dark, twisting, empty ways until they came to an area where the buildings were different. Not ramshackle lodging houses interspersed with gin palaces and poky shops squeezed between factories and warehouses. These were solid houses. Not big, not fancy, and some of them had shops on the ground floor. The homes, Harriet guessed, of people lucky, determined or sober enough to get themselves permanent work.

They went down a side-alley into a passage that ran behind the houses, then stopped in front of a sturdy gate set into the brick wall. There was a man standing beside the gate, wearing rough clothes and apparently loafing, but he had become alert as they approached and now he studied them. Apparently satisfied, he touched his cap respectfully.

"Evenin' Mr White. Evenin' Miss." He said.

White nodded and led Harriet through the gate, across a small, neat garden to the kitchen door, where he rapped sharply. It was opened at once by a trim-looking housemaid, who looked them up and down, then smiled.

"Good evening Mr White. Will you and the lady step inside?"

The kitchen was warm and full of the smells of cooking. The maid carried on. "I'll go and fetch Madame at once. Are you hungry or thirsty, Miss?"

Harriet allowed that she was, and the maid grinned at her. "I thought so! Sit yourself down at the table. Liza! Get the lady a cup of tea and a slice of bread and butter. You won't be taking anything, Mr White? Of course. Excuse me."

Harriet had thought she might be being taken to some kind of mission, but now as she sat at the well-scrubbed deal table, she realised she'd been wrong. The easy and cheerful way in which the rosy-cheeked young kitchen-maid came over and plonked a mug of tea and a plate down in front of her gave the lie to that supposition. This place was warm and cheerful, far from the austerity and gravity of the missions. Harriet tasted the tea; strong, hot and sweet -the tea of working people. The thick slice of bread on the plate was generously spread with butter that was already beginning to melt.

"Fresh out of the oven, Miss!" The kitchen-maid told her, then bobbed a curtsey and went back to her work, bantering back and forth with the matronly cook.

Harriets' rescuer, Mr White, stood in the corner near the door. He had not removed his hat, his hands were in the pockets of his ulster and his head was down. He radiated discomfort and impatience.

A few minutes later, the housemaid returned with someone who was clearly the mistress of the house. A tall woman in a simple but elegant green gown, flame-red hair in a stylish coiffure, a sensual oval face, pale skin and piercing green eyes that were at once stern and kind.

"Mr White," the voice was low-pitched and slightly husky, "I see you've brought us another foundling? Should we expect any… difficulty?"

"No." White replied.

"I thought not." Madame replied. "I don't suppose I could tempt you to stay a while? Some of our ladies have expressed a wish to meet you."

"Things to do." White said, then nodded once and left.

"He has few manners and less small-talk," Madame opined, "but a good heart makes up for so much. I suspect his mother might have been in the trade. It would explain a good deal.

"Now, my dear, let me look at you. My, you are pretty, but so thin! What's your name?"

"Harriet, m'm." Harriet was feeling more than a little abashed – this woman had so much presence.

"Call me Madame." She was told. "In the French manner. It impresses the guests, though I'm no more French than I am a Hottentot!

"Now finish your supper, dear, then Margaret will take you upstairs. A nice hot bath, a clean nightgown and a good nights' sleep for a start. We will talk tomorrow, you and I."

"What will I have to do, Madame?" Harriet asked.

"You don't have to do anything, my dear." Madame replied. "We will talk about what you want to do. There is no place in the trade for those who don't enjoy the work."

Major Beaumont left the club late, as he always did, his lodgings were only a short walk away and despite the amount of drink he had consumed, his head was as clear as ever. Tonight had been profitable, in its' way. As usual, his young quarry had won enough at first to keep him interested, then lost enough to make him anxious to win it back. In the end, Beaumont had called a halt, as was his custom, but by then the boy owed enough to be uncomfortable, but not enough to be disastrous.

Unlike some of his breed, Beaumont took care never to ruin his victims – he had wider aims. He was not, after all, a professional gambler, though he possessed many of the necessary skills. The Major was in fact a blackmailer of sorts. Selecting the sons of men who had made their fortunes in trade, and bought their way into Society by marrying the daughters of impecunious noblemen, he made sure he took just enough to give him ascendancy over his debtor. Such men usually worked in their fathers' businesses, in a position that gave them access to certain information. A promise to remit or reduce the debt in return for the answers to a few questions was usually enough. The sale of this information to rival companies brought much larger rewards than gambling ever could.

Beaumont had learned the hard way that attempts to blackmail aristocrats in this way were doomed to failure. Debts of honour were always paid, one way or the other, and any attempt to exert leverage tended to be met with a thrashing at the hands of several hefty footmen. The sons of the parvenu, however, regarded debt as more shameful, while their hard-headed and often pious fathers were unlikely to bail them out.

He was actually inside the apartment when he realised something wasn't right. The door to his study was open, and a soft light showed that the desk-lamp was lit. Moving quickly and quietly, he went to the doorway. He could see his desk – it was covered with neat stacks of paper. Someone had come in and taken all the letters, documents, notes of hand – the meticulous records of transactions that he kept in his safe. His entire criminal history stacked up in the open. Why? Who? Where were they?

Then a curl of smoke wafted up from among the documents. Instinctively, Beaumont darted to the desk, ready to quench the fire, only to find himself staring at a harmless cylinder, emitting a little smoke without a flame. A toy. The kind of thing a mischievous schoolboy might place in a classroom wastebasket to unnerve a teacher.

Then the door closed behind him with a soft click, and he spun round. He knew the man by reputation -specifically the black and white mask.

"Mr Black." Beaumont drawled. "Your methods are more juvenile than I have been led to believe."

"Smoke Joke." Black replied. "Joke's on you."

"Is it?" Beaumont said. "You could have taken me from behind, you know. Now we are both in equal danger, are we not?"

"Just you." Was the answer.

The Major was impressed by the mans' coolness, and was trying hard to match it. "From what I hear of you, sir, I would not have thought that a man who merely takes advantage of foolish wealthy young men would draw your notice?"

"James and Eleanor Ashleigh." Black replied. "Remember them?"

A chill swept through Beaumont. He had never expected to hear those names again. James Ashleigh, the only son of Lord Ashleigh, the shipping magnate, had been the ideal victim for Beaumont, but then the Major had seen his twin sister, Eleanor, and from that moment had not been able to think of anything else. Discarding his usual restraint, he had driven the boy to the edge of ruin, then offered to write off the entire debt in exchange for an evening of Eleanors' company.

Naïve, and devoted to her brother, the young woman had come to his lodgings as arranged. When Beaumont had made clear the full extent and nature of the 'company' he sought, she had consented and permitted him to have his way. Then she had left his house and thrown herself into the Thames. When her body was finally found, James went home and blew out his brains. The Organisation had acted quickly to erase any but the most superficial links between Beaumont and the Ashleighs, and the last he had heard had been a stiff letter from Lord Ashleigh, accompanied by a cheque for five pounds 'in settlement of my sons' debts of honour'.

"An over-indulgence on my part." Beaumont allowed. "You must believe that I did not intend the outcome. I treated Eleanor with consideration, she had given her consent, after all. I ensured that there would be no issue, and took care not to hurt her."

"Not her body." Black said. "But her mind?"

"How could I know she would be so frail?" The Major protested. "There have been others, and they went on with their lives. Why should I think Eleanor any different?"

"Others?" Black said. "Worse than I thought."

He is as foolish as he is mad. Beaumont was thinking. His speeches had been only to conceal a series of small movements that had brought him into prime position. Black had kept his hands in his pockets, no doubt on at least one weapon. Beaumont had his own revolver on him, but a shot would bring neighbours and with them the police. He would have neither the time nor the opportunity to secrete the damning documents again. But his pistol was not his only weapon.

During the conversation he had quietly loosened the handle of his cane, now he dropped the outer casing and lunged at Black with the blade that had been hidden within it. He heard an odd popping sound and a cold pain seared into his chest. Everything blurred, and then he was lying on the floor. Above him, the blade stuck quivering in the panelled wall his target had been standing in front of. Where did he go? It was his last thought.

The man known to some as Mr White and to others as Mr Black left Beaumont's body where it lay and left the building unseen and unheard. It was late, but tomorrow was Sunday, so there would be no work – his employer was a strict Sabbatarian who closed the office on the Lords' Day. It was a restriction on his real work that Black accepted.

As it often did in the aftermath of a job, his mind went back to the old question.

Did he mean to do it? He wondered. If he'd meant to kill me, I'd be dead. Did he mean to send me here? Or just away? Worst place. Best place. Long ago. Far away. Needed here. Did he know?

From the Diary of John H Watson, MD

Frustration is at some time the lot of all men, and my friend Mr Sherlock Holmes was no exception. As well as the many cases he had brought to a successful conclusion, there were a few where matters had ended less well. In the case documented as The Valley of Fear, for instance, the agents of the late Professor Moriarty had succeeded in ending the life of John Douglas. Also in the case of the Five Orange Pips, justice had been thwarted by the forces of Nature herself.

On this particular morning, the living room of our Baker Street quarters was strewn with documents, scrapbooks and other records. Holmes had finally decided to look over and set in order the records of the years before his disappearance and supposed death.

"Please remember that the state of this room is entirely your fault, Watson!" He said, not entirely seriously.

"Why mine, Holmes?" I asked.

"Your stories, of course, my dear fellow!" He answered genially. "I have often commented adversely upon their scientific merit, as you know. That said, you have a clear ability to untangle the human stories behind the cases, whereas I view each one as simply an intellectual challenge. Your work has enhanced my reputation and brought both of us into our current state of financial independence.

"But you will allow that they are not, in any sense, works of instruction and science?"

"Most certainly." I replied. "Nor are they intended as such, but merely accounts of extraordinary events, presented for the interest of the public. I do not presume to the skills needed to write a work such as you describe."

"Quite so!" Holmes said. "But as the years pass, and my inevitable retirement from work looms, I would wish to leave behind something that will allow the principles and practices I have spent my life developing to be utilised by those who might follow me."

"A splendid Idea!" I said. "One I hoped you would eventually come to. Is there any way in which I can assist you?"

"My thanks, old fellow." He said. "It would help if you could look through those books of Press cuttings. Separate our cases out from the other stuff?"

The task was a congenial one, but as I proceeded through, I came across a slender book filled with cuttings concerning only one case. I could not help but shake my head and sigh, whereupon Holmes came over and looked at what I held.

"Ah!" He said. "The Whitechapel Murders! I share your feelings, Watson!"

"It is a mystery to me why you were never consulted on the case." I remarked.

"Turn to the back of the book." Holmes told me.

I did so, finding in the back cover a short letter on the paper of the Metropolitan Police.

Dear Mr Holmes,

I have been urged by my colleagues Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson to consult with you on the matter of the recent murders in Whitechapel.

I am aware, Sir, of your reputation in resolving tangled cases and have every respect for your powers. However, I am also aware that you are a private practitioner who has had clients at the very highest level of Society.

It is my feeling that to involve you in the very brutal but regrettably commonplace murders of these unfortunate women would be to do you a disservice in the eyes of your distinguished clientele.

May I also say, with all due respect to yourself and those of my colleagues who have worked with you, that to bring a private detective into such a public case would be in some measure detrimental to the reputation of the Force I serve in.

I must therefore ask you to stay out of this case, not to comment to the Press in any way and not to undertake any private commissions connected with this case.

I am, Sir,

Yours very sincerely

Frederick G Abberline (Inspector)

"Mr Abberline was, and is, a thoroughly professional, careful and knowledgeable policeman." Holmes remarked. "But he lacks a certain flair, a touch of imagination, I fear."

"As well as being too stiff-necked to ask for help!" I pointed out.

"Perhaps." Holmes settled back into his chair and took up a pipe. "Nevertheless I am grateful to him."

"How so?" I asked.

"Initially, I was, like yourself, frustrated at not being consulted. Indeed I was rather put out by being warned off, however courteously. But as the case progressed, I came to see that it was, to all intents and purposes, insoluble. I would have risked, and lost, much of my reputation -a reputation, I admit, owed in no small part to your efforts, Watson – had I become involved and not reached a conclusion."

"You say that you could not have found the Ripper?" I was astounded at such an admission, I knew my friends' faith in his methods.

Holme shook his head. "You are a military man, Watson, you have seen the battlefield. Could you, employing my methods, trace the death of any individual soldier on that battlefield to the man who killed him?"

I considered the matter. "The aftermath of battle is chaotic." I admitted. "Bodies lie where they fell, or where they were pushed aside by retreating or advancing men, or thrown by exploding shells, or even in the places they crawled to after a mortal wound. The ground is churned and littered with debris. The carrion birds and the rats descend on the bodies even as the fight rages.

"By comparison, the scenes of murders we have seen, Holmes, are clean and tidy."

"Precisely, Watson." Holmes agreed. "My methods resolve around the ability to see what does not belong. A footprint on a chair-seat, a chip in stonework, a scratch on a table, an ornament out of place. From these small things, I can build a picture of events.

"But Whitechapel, Watson, is a daily battlefield. Throngs of people pass through all these places, day and night. Refuse is strewn incontinently into streets, alleys and yards. People shift and wander, rarely staying in the same place for more than a few months. They wear what they can find, the cast-offs of the more fortunate. Clothing, personal effects, are passed from hand to hand in return for food or drink. Among all that chaos, even I would be unable to unearth any sign that might point me to my man.

"Many of these people work only as much as they need to. As soon as they earn enough for drink and a nights' lodging, they are off. When there is no work, they will steal, or the women will sell themselves. Violent death is a daily occurrence, and were it not for the singular brutality of the killings and mutilations, the Whitechapel Murders might have been lost among all the others that pass unremarked there."

"Surely the very nature of the killings is in itself a clue?" I asked.

"Is it?" Holmes raised an eyebrow. "The killer was described at various times as having the skills of a doctor, a butcher or even a huntsman. He was said to have been a Jew, a Freemason or a nihilist. Some say he had syphilis, others that he was a nobleman or even a Prince of the Realm!

"They say he was mad, but if he was, he was a singularly clever and careful madman!"

"Was?" I questioned. "You think him dead, then?"

Holmes nodded. "With the death of Mary Kelly, he had achieved his greatest triumph. He had had the time and leisure to accomplish all he wished. Having once tasted such glory, he had no reason to stop, but he did. I surmise that at some point soon after, he met his end either from sickness, accident, or at the hands of one of his own kind. I doubt his true identity will ever be known."

It was at that point that Mrs Hudson entered.

"Here's a letter for you, Mr Holmes!" She said. "Delivered by hand a moment ago."

"Ah!" Holmes rose at once. "Could this be a case, I wonder?"

He perused the letter quickly, then passed it to me.

Dear Mr Holmes,

A matter has come to my notice which requires your particular skills and known discretion. If you and your colleague Dr Watson would be so kind as to call upon me this afternoon at half-past two, I will place the business before you for your consideration. The address is on the enclosed card.

I am aware that cupidity is not among your vices, but be assured that all your expenses will be covered, and that a substantial fee will be paid for a successful conclusion.

Believe me, Sir

Dr James Noel.

"What do you think, Watson?" Holmes asked.

"It does indeed sound like a case." I said. "I also glean that this Dr Noel is acting as an agent for someone else. From which I infer that the real client is someone with a reputation to protect?"

"Bravo, Watson! You make progress!" Holmes cried. "Of course, it is also possible that the client wishes to remain unknown for more sinister reasons. Or even that this Dr Noel is merely a nom de guerre and that he is actually the client. This handwriting is clearly disguised in some fashion. Both it and the style are vaguely familiar to me, but I cannot place them."

"In which case," I warned, "it might well be a trap! We have made our share of enemies, Holmes."

"So we have, so we have!" He agreed. "So I think we shall both take our revolvers along, old fellow. It is always good to have an argument to hand, if the debate becomes heated, don't you think?"

Sycamore Lodge, as the house was called, was within sight of Hampstead Heath. A substantial Georgian edifice, set back from the road in its' own grounds.

"It seems our Dr Noel is no ordinary practitioner." Holmes noted. "Even when you had a thriving practice, Watson, such an abode would have been beyond your means."

Our ring was answered by an imposing and laconic footman, who seemed to recognise us.

"The Doctor is in his study." He said. "Follow me."

The rooms we were led through were bright and tastefully furnished.

"So our host is a married man." Holmes observed quietly. "It is not beyond the capacity of a bachelor to choose decent furnishings and paintings, but such small touches as fresh-cut flowers and lace doilies speak of a womans' hand."

The study itself was, in the Georgian style, a well-proportioned room lit by two large windows. There was a heavy oak desk, with chair in front, but none behind. In one corner was a large globe, in another a small table holding a tantalus, a soda syphon and glasses. The walls were lined with bookshelves.

But our attention was taken by the figure seated in a wheelchair by the windows. As the footman announced us, he turned the chair with some dexterity and came forward.

Though he no longer stood tall, he was still thin, the shoulders still rounded. The highly-domed forehead, sunken eyes in a pale, ascetic, beardless face and the constant slow oscillating movement of the head were all as Holmes had described them to me many years ago.

"Mr Holmes." The voice was soft and measured. "It is surprisingly pleasant to see you again. Dr Watson, I have not previously had the honour, but I have often envied my old adversary such a stalwart companion!"

For the first time since I had known him, Holmes seemed utterly bewildered.

"Professor Moriarty?" He said.