Chapter 3
Moments later, we turned off Montague Street, heading back onto the Whitechapel Road; my companion markedly unnerved by, yet I intrigued with our first foray into the realm of psychic investigations. A fair load of codswallop to be sure, but that did nothing to hamper my interest. In fact, as the case grew increasingly murky, it served only to further pique any enthusiasm. If nothing else, this did promise to be a significant challenge.
As we advanced northeast up Whitechapel Road, the vaguest outline of a plan was turning over in my brain -- but even if what I meant to do ended favorably, I should still be left with another skein to untangle. The outcome would not provide a solution, only one more crevice in which to search for said solution. If it ended poorly … ah! It was a poor habit indeed to ruminate on such things. Infinitely better for the nerves, and entirely more useful in keeping unfounded theories at bay.
In retrospect, however, I begin to wonder if being kicked from there to Charring Cross was a fitting means to compel the return of my common sense; considering what consequences were tied to my ensuing imprudent actions. Yet, one must admit it best not think overly much about what did occur when my plans came to fruitition, for there will be time enough during the penning of this tale to brood over and deservedly castigate myself for what became the crowning jewel of all those not inconsiderable transgressions committed in my life. I must needs follow my own advice and not jump ahead of the tale.
I see I've also taken to the interminable habit of introspection, and this will not do …
A renewed tempest was raging about us as we turned up Brady Street, wind plowing the long fallen snow now indistinguishable from any other London muck. It had long since lost that visual appeal those who are inclined towards dramatic prose will oft apply to this wintry precipitation. The streets were deserted at this hour in conjunction with the cabbie's understandable aversion to braving this weather. Certainly, we'd not espy one even under normal conditions on this ominous road lit only by a solitary gas lamp flickering up ahead, signaling the entrance to the old burial grounds. As a rule, I do not dwell on such things during a case, but my companion's old leg wound, I knew, gave him a foul time in such inclement conditions, and it promised to be a weary trudge back.
"What a peculiar choice of words, Watson," I mused aloud, for after all, Watson does an excellent sounding board make.
"What's that?"
"Precious. Why that, when she might have said valuable?"
"To throw us off the scent?"
"Perhaps. It's a trifle, Watson. A simple word, yet it worries at my brain. There's an implication in it, but what can it mean? Logic is what I am able to grasp, not these inane riddles our gypsy friend has presented us with. For now, you can write me up as an ass, for it does appear insoluble to me."
"It would be to anyone. Have you not said yourself it's impossible to theorize with insufficient data? Considering we've learned nothing tonight, you can hardly be expected to solve the thing before the break of dawn."
"Oh, I shouldn't say that! We know for certain now we are in pursuit of the right track -- and what's more, have we not learned the layout of her humble residence?"
"I don't care for the implications of that."
"Very likely not."
"Holmes!"
I strategically changed the subject. It is one of my more superficial, though oft a most highly useful skill.
"I do hold fast to the belief our gypsy is somehow intimately connected with these crimes, and I do mean to learn more after tonight. But we shall dwell on that another time. I need the opportunity to think on the thing, to put my thoughts in order. And, at present, we have a more pressing matter that must be attended to, if it is cold, hard facts we seek."
"What do you propose to do?"
"To have a chat with our dear Inspector Cartwright. He commonly makes his rounds through these very side streets during the proverbial graveyard shift, accounting for how he was first on the scene of no less than three of the of the Buck's Row victims."
"Then, are we not heading a bit too near the murder scenes?"
"Hmph! With any luck, we may run into the man himself. Wouldn't that be terribly gratifying?"
"No, I cannot say it holds much appeal."
"You are, of course, free to return to Baker Street, if only you should be so kind as to slip your revolver into my coat pocket before you leave."
"You're an awful shot, my dear fellow."
"Yes, I suppose I am," said I, smiling at him. "Well, well; it is unreasonable to expect a single mortal to be adept at everything."
Despite his misgivings, my companion never refused the chance to run his head into danger, especially on my account, no matter how poorly the odds were stacked against us or how perilous the situation. Nor, it can be argued, how fatuous were more of my schemes than I care to admit. Not for a fleeting second did it occur to me that my companion would abandon me tonight. The man can be reliable to a fault.
A conviction which proved true as we passed through a particularly darkened stretch bordered on either side by abandoned warehouses interspersed only with even darker side alleys. It was from one such alley, the one closest to us on our left to be precise, that I registered the faintest footfall crunch down upon the hard packed snow. Watson's battle ready reflexes hastened into action, for his revolver was already out of his pocket and cocked, while the man himself was more than willing to head down that alley without so much as a second thought. Not the wisest move considering this was not the hour of morning that inherently attracted virtuous folk. I stretched my arm out in front of him and placed a gloved finger over my lip before he went and did something courageous or stupid -- or both, simultaneously.
Still holding out my arm, I silently manoeuvered us against the crumbling brick wall, our figures obscured within the shadows. There in the darkness we stilled our breath, waiting with that invigorating apprehension that so often grips me in its thrall at the promise of imminent danger.
Yet none came, for the footsteps suddenly halted.
Our man was clever, leaving us in a position where our only option appeared to be walking straight down that alley, and in so doing, play directly into his hands. Armed we may have been, but generally it is a helpful thing to have a clear vision of one's target upon firing. No, no. If we followed our natural impulse to inspect that alley, we should find ourselves vulnerable to his designs.
With a silent gesture, I bade Watson remain on his guard whilst I started for the ground floor window of the brick workshop behind us. It was a simple thing to thrust my thin fingers through a jagged aperture in the glass and slide the lock soundlessly enough to climb in without rousing the suspicions of our friend in the alley. My intentions were to simply locate an alternate exit and take him from behind, yet just as my feet hit the dusty stone floors within, the glint of a highly polished blade flashed out of the corner of my eye, and before I had the chance to gather my senses, a dark figure mingling with the shadows themselves, sprang upon me from behind.
He was a bear of a man, arms locked round my throat, effectively muting my cries. I pushed back against him in attempt to throw off his balance and gain the upper hand in this struggle. As I am positive my dear Watson has had occasion to mention my strength is not insubstantial, it shames me to admit how sorely my baritsu skills failed me, even against so innately capable an opponent. All my struggling and attempts to dislodge myself from my attacker's clutches served only to infuriate him further, and in so doing, tightened his already unyielding hold upon my person.
That the brute was dragging me backwards with such a sheer force, the likes of which were unmatched by my most worthy fisticuff opponents.
Not only was he familiar with this particular workshop, I'd wager a month's rent this little rendezvous was a prearranged one, though this conjecture served naught but the unveiling of an entirely new line of inquiry. If this were so, then all my current surmises were most aggravatingly rearranged; for that my assailant moved with a purpose was no great deduction, as he deflected what should have been numerous collisions with stacked crates only just discernable in this palpable absence of light.
When he thrust through a back door leading into an enclosed yard reeking of quite the distinctive fetor which was effectively masked by the more pungent stench of rotting fish, my previous assessment became an explicit certainty.
" 'Ere now," the fiend drawled in a most affected accent "Why, it be Meester Sherlock 'Olmes 'imself. Fancy that."
With a flick of the wrist, my assailant managed to momentarily turn me towards him, and a well placed blow to the soft underside of my jaw coupled with a kick strong as a mule's own that had me doubled over forthwith, the breath thoroughly knocked out of me.
Utilizing his temporary advantage, he bore down on the small of my back with a clenched fist, resultantly sending me face first onto the cobbles. And as I writhed like a great imbecile clutching the ribs that, in all probability, were cracked in this one sided tussle, the blackguard's boot collided with the side of my skull.
In my defense, it was not as though I made no attempts at rallying myself, though I must needs impress how an immobilizing wave of nausea washed over me by the mere act of lifting my head.
Rolling me over onto my back, I felt rather than saw the razor sharp blade graze the sensitive flesh of my throat. Try as I may, it proved near impossible to determine where he ended and shadows began. He was the dark, and the dark was part of him.
As it was becoming rather a chore simply to will myself to focus, I was unable to properly judge where this phantom of a man stood, as even in my precarious state I saw fit to chance a well place kick to the knee caps -- yet to do so, one must be aware of where these alleged kneecaps are located in relation to himself. Despite this minor hindrance, some instinct deep within rallied for me to act, for undoubtedly this was our man, the Buck's Row Butcher himself. I'd stake my life on it. And here I was, at the mercy of this dastardly fellow, whiling the time away flat on my back.
This was deucedly inconvenient.
From the crinkle of his attire behind my ears, it was now evident he was crouching at the back of my head, cleverly positioning himself in such a manner as to avoid any pummelings I might inflict upon his personage -- that was, should the ringing in my ears ever adequately stifle itself, enabling me to gather bearings enough to do the man harm. I cursed myself then and at this very moment for having no alternative but to remain where I had fallen, essentially subjugated to his murderous whims.
Pressing the blade down with undue force, his hot breath grazing my ear, he spoke barely over a whisper, nearly inaudible to me despite the close proximity. His speech no longer disguised; all the same it would prove impossible to recognize any incriminating inflections should the need arise. I have, you see, made something of a trifling study of the use of voice inflection, and have since penned quite the authoritative monograph upon the subject. Yet, that is neither here nor there.
"I trust, Mr. Holmes, you have a fair conception of the situation?"
I refrained from interjecting with a reply, as a knife pressed into one's throat with enough force tends to effectually render one speechless.
"Admittedly, I am rather surprised so lengthy a period has passed, so many needless victims tasted death, before you were summoned. Yes, such a pity, but why lament on the past? I myself would rather execute -- pardon the pun, if you will -- retribution than brood over the thing. Far more fulfilling a pastime, do you not agree?"
By now, I had regained sufficient coherency to make some attempt at thrashing the man, a pathetic flailing of my arms which served only to have both my hands restrained by his free one, and the blade embedded so deep the rise and fall of my windpipe was impeded, my flesh tearing as a stream of blood trickled down to my collar.
Even so, I continued to writhe under his grasp.
"With they way you carry on so, one might think you were not glad our game has, at long last, begun. Now, if you agree to settle yourself down a bit, we can proceed like gentlemen. There, that is so much better, Mr. Holmes.
"I do admit to having made numerous attempts to exact my vengeance upon you for a matter between us which came perilously near to ensuring my arrest -- and surely would have meant the gallows -- yet, you have been too skilled an opponent to match me thus far. I pride myself on being cunning enough to rival the devil's own wit. That, and a fair dash of creativity, as I am sure you will soon agree, I possess in abundance. There are but my assets in this life.
"Do you realize that I have devised a way to finally lay down my blow without so much as laying a finger on you? Congratulate me on my adroit undertakings! What's that? Such a contemptuous glare does not bode well on you Mr. Holmes! This game of mine promises to be so exquisitely enjoyable, for myself anyhow.
"You have always insisted there was nothing you so lived for as that mental exultation which stems from a particularly trying puzzle to solve. Well, I shall give you one, and good luck to you in solving it before the final murder! Oh yes, regrettably, there is to be only one more. And, seeing as I am a sporting fellow, I will even give you a heads up, as it were. Is that not generous of me?
"For each week that passes without that almighty brain deducing my identity, one more victim meets their end. Regrettably, as in the fashion of all good things, this must come to an end. In one month's time, that is, if you manage to remain standing on the game board for such a length, my final victim will be chosen -- has already been chosen. If we are still engaged in our battle of wits at the closing of the month, I will do the honorable thing and bow out. After my final victim is taken, of course. Either way, I emerge victorious."
He began to lift the knife from my throat when he thought better of it, and pressed his lips back to my ear. "By the by, I am not who you must believe me to be. No, no. Please, do not associate me with that blundering amateur! His role in all this is complete, his task admirably, though sloppily done. I, Mr. Holmes, am Jack The Ripper.
"Good night, Mr. Holmes. Sleep well." Chuckling like the depraved lunatic he was, left his parting words ringing in my ear. "And pray, give my regards to your Doctor."
The knife blade was blessedly pried from my parched and burning throat only for me to be presented with another sensation, a sharp flash of pain throbbing within my skull. I fought the wave of dizziness but it fought back, until the silence and the dark were all encompassing. There was nothing now, not even the familiar constant buzzing in my brain from the rapidity of my thoughts …
~ooOoo~
I was not confident of what my own eyes were surveying. The fog was beginning to clear, objects and colors and textures taking more definitive shapes, yet it meant nothing, collectively, for my mind failed to register what these things were. A vague awareness of the ground rocking beneath me and the hollow, remote clicking of boot heels smacking stone, … someone running, I deduced.
Hmph. Deduce. Peculiar word, that. I wonder what it could mean.
The cold compression of a narrow, solid object against my temple, an echoing voice, my arm veritably wrenched from it's socket. Was I mistaken, or was I truly being ordered to rise on my feet? How very queer. Surely, I stood upright already?
"What's this, then? The lass fought back now, didn't she, you dirty dog?"
A shrill whistle resounding behind my eyes, the piercing nature of it inducing a ferocious pounding in the general area of my skull. It was enough to rouse me further into consciousness, the shapes swirling about me solidifying into something more recognizable. The blasting in my brain may have been made infinitely more tolerable if whatever had a hold of me would kindly cease this infernal tugging of my arm. This was entirely intolerable!
The sudden halting of those frantic footfalls, the subsequent crashing of a blasted heavy door being slammed shut.
"Drop your pistol, Cartwright -- drop it, I say, or I'll shoot your damn hand off!"
That voice seemed to compel my thoughts into taking form, lifted the haze, shook me into reality.
"Watson?" If I spoke this aloud, I cannot rightly say, although I have the distinct recollection of my lips moving, and breath passing betwixt them. My gaze locked onto the man, and I must have made some insensible groan, for those cerulean eyes of his flashed down upon me, going wide with concern, taking in the woeful sight I must surely have presented.
In an instant, he was kneeling at my side, calling out my name and shaking me into attentiveness. All the while, pointing his old service revolver at the source of whatever -- whomever -- was jostling my arm in so vicious a manner.
"There will be no finagling his way out of this one, doctor. Your cronies at the Yard may turn a blind eye to his housebreaking but surely even Sherlock Holmes is not so above the law that a charge of murder can be so easily shaken off."
Murder, you say?
"You see here, Cartwright," Watson admonished "You know as well as I that no sane man would believe Holmes to be capable of this deplorable crime you accuse him of."
"Truly, doctor?" I may have been in a stupor, but so dense was the malevolence lacing his words that it was not lost on me. "Just you take a look at that --"
Here, my companion gave a startled gasp.
"Then you go on and tell me that a man covered in blood, who has been well out of your sight for nigh on ten minutes, and discovered unconscious, with the marks of defense upon him, in such close proximity to the victim … Go on. Do your best to convince me of his innocence. I always took the man to be a miserable, spurious charlatan, I did; now that has been proved true."
"I've no desire to convince you of anything. His innocence could not possibly be clearer to me."
"Be that as it may, Doctor," Another ear piercing scream of what I perceived to be a whistle, though its effect upon my state was much less profound this time around.
A whistle. That would mean hee was sending for backup. "It's gaol that waits for him now; no two ways about that."
Steady hands were beneath me, lifting me as a renewed current of sickness washed over me. "Easy, old fellow, I've got you."
Twining his arm through my own, my knees straightening not of their own accord, the flood of sensations that came with standing upright was far too overwhelming. Just as the blackness overtook me once more, I felt myself go limp against my Watson whilst the sharp clang of metal hitting the ground sounded somewhere by my feet.
"Ah, you see, Doctor. The murder weapon …"