Not often did it snow heavily in the heart of London, but when it did so, all evidence of Nature's presence was hastily trodden underfoot by the continual ebb and flow of cabs and the great swarming crowds all rushing to go about their commonplace daily lives. This winter, though, we were not afforded with the visually unappealing slush. Rather, as the city was pummeled for nearly a fortnight with a succession of blizzards the likes of which had not been seen in many a year, my faithful chronicler and I were forced to trudge our way through shin deep drifts of snow in the seediest alleys of the Whitechapel district. It was within one of these dilapidated row houses of overgrown gnarled and withered vines that I felt we had the greatest chance of verifying the only palpable clue in our possession thus far.
As we turned onto Montague Street -- well, more accurately, as I turned onto Montague Street, as being entirely more active than Watson, I was far more capable of manouevering in the wintry conditions than he -- I barked out a cry of triumph. For at last I sound that which brought us out on so inhospitable a night. Scrawled on a bronze plaque that barely clung to the door by one rusted nail were the nearly illegible words corroded by decades of weather erosion:
'Madame Morgana's Séance's & Psychic Readings.'
"Upon my word, old fellow," Watson panted as he caught up to me. "You lived here?"
"Well, not in this particular establishment, no" said I, pounding upon the rusted knocker of No. 113, hoping the infernal thing would refrain from crumbling to dust in my hand. "But, yes, this is where I resided when I first came up to London. If the blasted light here were better you might be able to discern my old lodgings towards the far end of the street."
He pulled in closer and took my arm, shivering almost imperceptibly, though I suspected it had little to do with the cold. While I cannot be sure, I believed I heard him whisper something by the way of "Thank Heavens for Stamford …"
Thank Heavens, indeed.
"I still say this could have waited until morning," he mumbled. The doctor has, thus far, failed to grasp the concept of urgency during the throes of an investigation.
"My dear fellow, we mustn't remain idle while our best leads go cold."
"Yes, but how can you possibly know that this is where all those tarot cards originated from? Surely, you don't mean to search them all. There must be nigh on a dozen in Whitechapel alone!"
"Obviously. Yet how many fortune tellers are a five minute stroll away from the scene of each murder? Three of them, including the first and last, were found along Whitechapel Road, if you recall, which conveniently intersects with Madame Morgana's humble little abode. Even Lestrade could grasp the implications of that."
Of course, he could not deny my logic, yet I suspect he remained nettled upon the subject of lingering upon doorsteps in the small hours of the morning when one's time may be better occupied snuggled in bed by a roaring fire.
We stood waiting for several long minutes on the deserted street, I myself finding ever more appeal in returning home at some decent hour.
"Holmes, it appears that no one is home." He was unable to fully hide the trace of a smile forming at the corner of his lips.
As if in answer, the door abruptly swung open, revealing a rather fetching* young red haired woman in a dark fringe skirt and un-tucked blouse patterned with elaborate Celtic knots, her feet bare. Despite the hour being an unconventional one to go calling on strangers, she appeared as alert and refreshed as she might have been at three o' clock in the afternoon. Not at all did she give the impression of someone who had just been roused from their bed.
"Madame Morgana?" I inquired, to which she nodded in accordance.
"Ah, the great detective himself. I've been expecting you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Come in out of the cold, and the doctor, as well, of course. Step right this way," said she with a flourish of her hand, stepping aside to grant us passage.
How she ever knew of our identities, I am uncertain, though I saw straight through her rather thinly veiled parlor trick meant to impress us with the sense she was a genuine soothsayer. I was having none of it. I've played some meretricious parlor tricks of my own for the sole benefit of my clients, I must admit, therefore I was adept at recognizing her deception for what it was. This agency, as I have said oft before, lies flat footed on the ground and foolish superstition holds no sway with us.
Without another word, the gypsy woman led us down a narrow hallway of peeling green wallpaper, lit up only by a double candle sconce on either side. We passed through a curtain of multi-colored crystal beads into a spacious, yet poorly lit parlor adorned with potted jungle ferns in every available crevice, bookshelves cluttered with glass jars containing all manner of curiosities from dried flowers to murky liquids, replication skulls (or one would be hopeful these things were in fact replicas of the genuine article), rolled up scrolls, loose candles and a dozen other oddities that were more numerous than the actual volumes. A long table in the center, dressed with a black lace skirt and a threadbare crimson settee underneath a filth encrusted window comprised the sum of furniture in the room. The only source of light was a partially guttered candle on the table, which the gypsy picked up as she led us to an antechamber with a beckoning finger. Watson, being his usual overly practical self, clutched me by the wrist as I entered the threshold, urging me not to follow.
"You know I have never been the sort who gives himself over to fanciful thinking, but I've a terrible feeling about this case, that woman, this forsaken house; everything. I don't like any of it."
"I'm not about to drop a case on a whim of yours, my boy."
"I am well aware of that, nor do I expect you to. Only, it's just that you can be so damnably careless sometimes. If I'd not brought my old service revolver we'd be unarmed about now, in this vile place in the dead of night." His voice broke into a whisper, "Please. Be on your guard, then."
"I shall." But I did not mean it and though he let the subject rest, I knew I hadn't deceived him. He has a remarkable capacity for reading me, which I have never learned to guard myself against. Perhaps, I do not even care to.
Being windowless, the antechamber was cast in near total darkness. The gypsy's face glowed in the flicker of the candle she held as she bade us follow her up a rickety staircase appearing to lead to the garret. Apparently, she believed us to be two occultists come for some impromptu palm reading.
"Madame, you must be confused. We are here on official business, specifically to make inquiries on a deck of very singular tarot cards I believe you peddle."
"Your business is no concern of mine, but your fate -- Ah! That is another matter entirely."
"It surely will concern you if I report your unwillingness to cooperate with a murder investigation to the Constabulary."
"Yes, Mr. Holmes. 'Murder most foul.' And closer to home than you expect," said she, turning back to with a wry smile.
"I promise you, madame, if that is a threat, you will come to regret it dearly."
I've often told Watson not even the best of women can be trusted, and this lady -- whom I only refer to as such for lack of a word which will not offend the sensibilities of my readers -- was proof incarnate of my theory. She actually had the impudence to let out a high pitched cackle that induced the hairs on the back of my neck to rise.
This does not often occur.
"You are in no position to say such things to me, for mark my words, it will be you who comes begging to me like a dog if you choose not to heed my advice! Instead of whining, why do you not simply accept what assistance I can offer?"
I do not appreciate being addressed in such a churlish manner by anyone, and it was especially intolerable from this petulant gypsy woman who fairly well may have had some not insignificant involvement in these ghastly crimes. With pride, I can boast that I do not fall victim to a woman's charms, nor am I swayed by their emotive fits of temper designed to strike fear into a man's breast. Well, this had no effect upon me, and in no uncertain terms I made this known to her.
She grinned so wide I was tempted, for the sole instance in my life, to strike a woman.
"Rest assured, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, far be it from me to captivate you with my 'charms'. I can see that would not be effective …" after a measured pause she added "On such a reasoning machine as yourself. Now, you've come to me for a purpose, I suppose? Then, pray, do not the both of you continue to stand there like two idle loafers and do step this way, gentleman."
Without so much as waiting for a response, the gypsy turned her back on us and mounted the narrow, creaking staircase.
"I suppose we don't have much of a choice, do we? No, no Holmes," he held up a warning hand as I was about to protest, "I find it makes life so much easier when one lets a woman have her way. There is no arguing with the fair sex. They're always in the right, especially when they're not." He didn't even linger to hear the response on my lips, was following after her before his words registered in my brain.
It seemed, as we ascended the cobweb laden stairway, I was hopelessly outnumbered ...
My assumption that we were headed towards the garret proved to be an accurate one. Unfortunately for me, it was hardly more than a glorified crawl space no more than twelve feet in length and approximately half that in width, with a pitched roof so low I was forced to hunch over. At the far end was a circular stained glass window, along with the mere stump of a candle resting on a tiny round table covered with a dark tassel fringed cloth, was our only source of illumination. On the centre of this table was a large silver bowl filled to the brim with water, its rim embedded with what appeared to be decent sized emeralds, the sides embossed with the depiction of a tree whose roots intertwined into each other not unlike the pattern of knots she wore on her clothing. The place was thick with the unmistakable scent of burning incense; sage, if my nose did not deceive me.
The gypsy was already seated when we made our way inside, stirring the water in a counterclockwise fashion with a jagged twig, no less. She motioned for us to take our seats at this table, and, pulling up two wooden crates, we did so. Laying her stick down, she clasped the sides of the bowl and proceeded to stare intently into the thing.
"What the deuce?" My chronicler wanted to know. For once, I dare say our thoughts were perfectly paralelled.
"Hush!"
We cast each other an amused glance as I leaned back to enjoy the show. This promised to be quite singular, if naught else. This spectacle of gazing into the still waters of her bowl continued for the next several minutes, until I could stand the nonsensical proceedings no longer.
"Madame, we really must get on with --"
"SILENCE!"
Upon my word.
If she gave the appearance of eccentricity before, once she commenced humming over the confounded thing, I became veritably convinced we were in the presence of a Bedlamite. Truly, if it were not for her sporadic remonstrances at our most inappropriate snickering, one would wonder if she had even recalled our presence in the room, so engrossed was she in staring into the clear water of the bowl.
Watson has often mentioned that the stage lost a great actor when I gave my life over to the profession of private consulting detective. One could also argue that the stage suffered a similar blow the day our Madame Morgana picked up her crystal ball. At random intervals, the gypsy let out an affected gasp, moan, or in one memorable instance, a fit akin to an attack of brain fever. For all his effort in attempting to tend to her during the latter performance, the good doctor, whom I do not believe was duped by her display but nonetheless could not stand idly by with all his medical instincts in a flutter, was batted away with some force for his efforts.
Once she quit her sound effects, she began to set her bowl to quivering, causing the water to slosh about messily. I observed the woman for any telltale signs of how this deception was carried out, but with her feet flat on the floor and her hands twined in her fiery hair, all I could perceive was perhaps there was some sort of motorized contraption built into the table.
The crowning achievement of her performance came when she thrust her face into the bowl, flailing her arms wildly as though she wished us to believe she was actually being drowned in a glorified wash basin not of her own volition. I resisted the urge to applause.
Rattled by this display, however, my Watson again rushed in to help the woman, grasping her arms and heaving her weight towards him with a great effort. One would find themselves hard pressed to put up a successful struggle against my old campaigner friend, despite his various war injuries, yet this frail woman was trying the limits of his strength. The amusement instantly vanished from the situation when his face contorted in pain as she writhed frantically in his arms, undoubtedly having struck the proper nerve in his bad shoulder.
I rushed to his aid, and it was only with a concerted effort betwixt the two of us that we were able to finally extricate the gypsy from the suctioning force that was inexplicably drowning her in mere inches of water. And were met with blatant ingratitude for our efforts.
"Sit back down!" she snarled as she righted her chair that had been overturned in the struggle and resumed her seat as if nothing untoward had just occurred. Her lips, I could not help but notice, were tinged blue. Taking things just a bit too far for her elaborate charade, I'd say.
With hardly an upwards glance at us, she began to speak, her tone so desultory it gave one the impression of multiple voices speaking through her.
Both of us complied with her wishes and again took our seats, more out of curiosity than in the hopes of prying any useful information from her. It was clear we were not dealing with a woman who held a tight grasp on her mental faculties, and with that revelation came the realization my most promising clue had slipped through my fingers. Short of ransacking the entirety of her quarters, our presence here was becoming increasingly useless with each passing tick of the clock.
With glassy eyes that, I must confess, cut through the darkened room quite eerily, sending a shiver up my spine, Madame Morgan looked straight through us, her eyes fixed on our own yet it seemed she saw us not at all. Though judging from the way he shifted in his chair, I presume this had the same effect upon Watson.
"Back out of this case now," said the gypsy, resuming her normal low, sonorous voice, "or I warn you, only suffering can be wrought from your continued meddling."
"Seriously, madame!" This was really too amusing.
"Revenge."
"I beg your pardon?"
"These are crimes of revenge."
Her breathing came in heavy, agitated gasps. "He can taste the sweetness of it on his lips. So long, waiting, biding his time … his day is coming at last."
"Madame, if you know something, do cut out this ostentatious display and get on with it!"
"He has a message for the Great Detective -- 'catch me if you can'."
I bolted upright, pointing my finger at the gypsy. "You know him, then? Out with it!"
"Holmes, calm yourself, old fellow. Look at her eyes. She's in some sort of hypnotic trance. It's not unheard of for some of the most well respected alienists to give credence to this peculiar behavior of the entranced mind."
"Rubbish. It is as I suspected; she has firsthand knowledge of these crimes, and best make a full confession of it or -- Jove! -- I'll do something drastic!"
"You'll do nothing of the sort," the doctor warned me. "You may inadvertently bring her to harm if you rouse her from this state. Besides, this really is too intriguing an example of self hypnosis! You know of my interest in obscure nervous diseases."
I assented, but only reluctantly, mind you.
More groanings from our thespian gypsy. "He seeks to bring about your destruction. He shall take what is precious to you, then watch as you suffer, deliciously slowly, see the torment in your eyes before he thrusts his final blow. His coup de grâce. Your undoing."
* I must needs mention this is only included at the behest of the doctor. Completely extraneous information.