An Excerpt from “Sherlock Holmes & the Season of Terror”

By Bob Byrne

 

Later that day, we were comfortably ensconced in our Baker Street lodgings. Holmes was perusing the local papers for the third time since our return. The drapes were open and a bright sun warmed the room. “Bah Watson! Nothing of use here. Sensational claptrap. I believe the purpose of the local press is to scare the populace rather than provide news of the actual events.” With that, he tossed the papers onto the floor.

 

I knew my friend was frustrated at his inability to make any progress towards catching the killer. “They print what sells, Holmes. Little more, and certainly no less.” This comment earned me a disapproving stare. I was about to expound on the current state of London’s news purveyors when Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door and entered. She handed Holmes a card and waited for instructions.

 

Holmes took the card languidly, but his back straightened as he read it. “My, my, this is an unexpected surprise. Watson, we are about to have a very special visitor. I daresay there is no other like him in all of Europe.  Mrs. Hudson, have him wait one minute, then please show him up.”

 

With that she left the room. “Quickly Watson, get your service revolver and then sit on the sofa. There is no time to lose.” Startled by Holmes’ quick change of manner, I did as he bade, hurrying upstairs, grabbing my trusty gun and returning to the room. “Follow my lead Watson. I do not expect you to need your sidearm, but if I refer to you as John, you are to shoot our visitor. Do not hesitate. I assure you there is no more powerful criminal in London than he.”

 

I was now totally uneasy about this meeting. However, there was nothing to do but follow Holmes’ lead as I heard our visitor’s footsteps upon the stairs. My friend seemed completely calm, and I tried to reassure myself that he was in control of the situation. I strove to appear at ease as the door opened and a man entered the room.

 

He was tall and thin, but had stooped shoulders. It gave him a sinister appearance, as did his domed forehead. He was clean-shaven and wore a black suit, complete with top hat, which he held in both hands. I had the impression of an academic man who had spent much time in poorly lit, dusty rooms, which was further enhanced by his pale complexion. He noticed me but dismissed me immediately and focused on Holmes. His diction was clear and his voice soft, though a bit reedy.

 

“Sherlock Holmes, you know who I am?” I was almost mesmerized by the motion of our guest’s head. It slowly oscillated back and forth, never quite stopping. It was like watching one of the great reptiles of Madagascar. It seemed to have no effect on my friend.

 

“Yes, I do. Your treatise on the Binomial Theorem is considered a minor classic.” Holmes’ expression had remained stoic and his voice was devoid of emotion. I seemed to be absent as far as the two men were concerned. Nonetheless, my hand remained in my pocket, resting upon my revolver.

 

The stranger gave a small smile at Holmes’ reply. “I’m sure you know of my Dynamics of an Asteroid as well. But I’m not here to see you as a professor of mathematics.”

 

Holmes interrupted him. “Former professor of mathematics,” he said, with the emphasis on former.

 

He continued on as if Holmes had not spoken. “I have other interests throughout London which you are doubtless aware of. Betsy Smith was killed this past April. She was working for me. Her murderers were, shall we say, dealt with.”

 

I confess I didn’t quite understand what he meant. My apprehension was fading away as I focused on trying to grasp what was being discussed. Holmes showed no response yet.

 

“Martha Tabram, Mary Nichols and Annie Chapman were likewise in my employ. Mister Holmes, you know I am not without my resources.” Holmes seemed to take this as a personal insult and shifted in his chair.

 

“Yes, you have a growing organization that I will likely look into at some point in the future.” Now he stood up and walked over to the windows, looking down into the street. “What brings you to my residence, professor? Why this visit?”

 

  I kept my eyes on this man, who was at one time a professor of math. Perhaps Holmes had something to do with causing him to leave that position. I continued to watch his head, slowly moving back and forth like a pendulum. 

 

“Your successes have not gone unnoticed by me,” he said to Holmes. “In fact, your services to Lord Blackwater caused me a minor inconvenience. And your arrest of John Clay was actually annoying.” He grimaced slightly as he said the last, and Holmes permitted himself a slight upturn of his lips at the admission.

 

“However, a much more serious matter is before us. I want you to use your abilities to find this man who is killing my women.”

 

Holmes clapped his hands and returned to his chair. “As you say, you are not without resources. Why do you seek my assistance?”

 

I found I was hardly breathing during this exchange. It was as if they were playing a game of chess, each man making a cautious move and waiting for the other to respond.

 

“I assure you Sherlock Holmes, I have many people out looking for this villain. He will be found. And he should pray to his God that it is not my people who find him.” This chilling pronouncement was made with the same passionless certainty that I had often heard in Holmes’ voice. It caused me to shiver involuntarily. His voice resumed a more normal timbre. “However, I have been unable to discover him. I cannot move in the forefront of things, as you well know. My agents are capable, but as of yet, the killer has eluded them. I’m sure you appreciate his talents if he can move outside of my circle.”

 

“Professor, surely you know that I have no desire to help you in any way.” Holmes was leaning forward and had locked his gaze onto our visitor. Neither man seemed to be blinking.

 

This elicited a response from the tall stranger. He rose to his feet and his eyes blazed angrily. “Don’t patronize me. I assure you I am not a fool. You would no more help me than I assist you in one of your little investigations.” He calmed down then, though he did not resume his seat. “This madman is systematically butchering whores. Would you let your dislike of me keep you from seeing justice served? Would you let more east end unfortunates be mutilated because you disapprove of what I am?”

 

I knew this man had assessed Holmes correctly. He would not let innocents die if he could prevent it.

 

“You must keep better control of your emotions, professor,” Holmes said, looking up at him. I realized my hand had tightened upon the trigger of my revolver, fearing our visitor had planned some offensive action. However, he seemed to be in control of himself again. Holmes continued.

 

“As you know, I am assisting the Yard in this investigation. It is an affront for this man to think he can indiscriminately kill women whilst I reside here. Your entreaty will make me work no harder nor any less to bring this savage to justice. Your visit serves no purpose.”

 

The professor now gave a genuine smile and picked up his top hat. “I wanted you to know that this is none of my doing and I am as determined to see the killer apprehended as you are.” Here, he paused. “Though I imagine we have different ends in mind. My agents will not impede your investigation and will offer assistance if it should prove beneficial to me.”

 

Now, a look of malignance came over his face and his voice lowered an octave. “However, I warn you Holmes, do not use this investigation as an excuse to pry into my affairs. We have largely avoided each other so far, and I would keep it that way. However, if you attempt to threaten myself or my organization, I will turn against you, and I fear the good doctor will have no more tales to write of for your adoring fans.”

 

Upon uttering this last, he turned to face me and said, “I leave in peace, Doctor Watson. You may take your hand off the revolver in your pocket. I give you no occasion to use it.”  With that, he turned his back on us and left. I was taken aback at this ending to his visit and looked at Holmes.

 

He was staring at the closed door with a serious expression upon his face. “Who was that, Holmes!?” I exclaimed. I had never seen anyone so arrogant towards my friend.

 

Holmes had steepled his fingers together and leaned back in his chair. “Ah Watson, that is a man whose genius, I fear, may equal my own. Our orbits have remained separate, but soon they must intersect. And at that time, I will be tested to my limits to remove him from London society. I will not tell you his name now. The less you know of him, the safer you will be. Would that he would leave England and take his evil elsewhere. But he shall not, and the two of us will face off in a duel of wits that, should I survive, will be the greatest achievement of my career.”

 

I was amazed to hear such an admission from my friend, whose vanity rarely acknowledged that others moved in his lofty intellectual sphere. “But Holmes, what if he is the killer, or knows who it is? Couldn’t his visit be a trick to throw you off his track? He told you not to look into his affairs. What better way to cover his own doings?”

 

“No Watson, I think not. He would not try such a direct subterfuge. If he were behind the killings, he would not have come here. I knew that the last two women murdered were employees of the professor. If he wished to dispose of them, he would certainly not have chosen the manner used. I believe he is sincere in wanting the killer caught, but also wanted to ensure I did not meddle with his affairs in my efforts to do so.”

 

“Come Watson, let us dine out this evening. I find our lodgings have become tainted with the after presence of the professor. Let us open the windows and seek a repast elsewhere.”