The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: Dr Jekyll & Mr Holmes (27 page)

My first agent, the late Ray Puechner, bore the brunt of these associations, and confided to me that he had never come closer to quitting Alcoholics Anonymous than he did during and after conferences attendant to receiving permission to publish
Sherlock Holmes vs. Dracula
. The opinions of the editors at Doubleday were similar. Cathleen Jordan wrote me that when all the feathers had settled and then
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Holmes
landed on her desk, with its promise of more confrontations to come, she had to go out for a long walk before she could bring herself to read the manuscript. She liked it enough to join hands once again with Ray and walk back into the Valley of Fear.

My next project was
Motor City Blue
, the first Amos Walker mystery, but I would not tell Ray what it was about. In those days I didn’t discuss ongoing work, believing that a negative comment would halt my momentum. After the trouble with the guardians of Conan Doyle’s characters, however, I felt compelled to assure him it was not a story involving Sherlock Holmes or Dr. Watson or Professor Moriarty or any of that lot. Ray’s reply: “If the new one is a Professor Challenger story, I’ll kill you.”

Afterword first published in the 2001 edition.

JOHN. H. WATSON, M.D., M.B., B.S., M.R.C.S., was born in England in 1852, and was friend, confidant, and chronicler of the great detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, whose exploits have served to inspire generations of amateur sleuths around the world since its first publication in the
Strand
magazine in the late 1890s. In 1878 he took his medical degree at the University of London and shortly after served as assistant surgeon with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers in Afghanistan. There he transferred to the Berkshires, and was severely wounded in the Battle of Maiwand, after which he left the service and returned to London. While there, he began his long association with Sherlock Holmes, who became the subject of his more than sixty published books and articles. Dr. Watson died in 1940.

LOREN D. ESTLEMAN is a graduate of Eastern Michigan University and a veteran police-court journalist. Since the publication of his first novel in 1976, he has established himself as a leading writer of both mystery and western fiction. His western novels include Golden Spur Award winner
Aces and Eights
,
Mister St. John
,
The Stranglers
, and
Gun Man.
His Amos Walker, Private Eye series includes
Motor City Blue
,
Angel Eyes
,
The Midnight Man
,
The Glass Highway
, Shamus Awardwinner
Sugartown
,
Every Brilliant Eye
,
Lady Yesterday
,
Downriver
, and
A Smile on the Face of the Tiger
. Mr. Estleman lives in Michigan with his wife, Deborah, who writes under the name Deborah Morgan.

The further adventures of

SHERLOCK HOLMES

THE WHITECHAPEL HORRORS

by

EDWARD B. HANNA

S
ATURDAY
, S
EPTEMBER
1, 1888

“It is not really difficult to construct a series of inferences, each dependent upon its predecessor and each simple in itself.”

— The Adventure of the Dancing Men

“
A
perfectly marvelous, gruesome experience,” observed Sherlock Holmes brightly as he and Watson wended their way through the crowds streaming out of the theater into the gaiety and glare of the gaslit Strand. “I cannot thank you enough for insisting that I accompany you this evening, Watson. Rarely have I been witness to a more dramatic transformation of good to evil, either onstage or off, than our American friend has so ably portrayed for us.”

He pondered for a while as they walked, his sharp profile silhouetted against the glow of light. It was the first of September, the night was warm and clinging, the myriad smells of the city an almost palpable presence. London, noisy, noisome, nattering London: aged, ageless, dignified, eccentric in her ways — seat of Empire, capital of all the world; that indomitable gray lady of drab aspect but sparkling personality— was at her very, very best and most radiant. And Holmes, ebullient and uncommonly chatty, was in a mood to match.

“I have no doubt the author was telling us,” he said after a time, “that we are all capable of such a transformation. Or, should I say transmogrification? — such a wonderful word, don’t you think? — capable of it even without the benefit of a remarkable chemical potion; that we all, each and every one of us, have the capacity for good and evil — the capability of performing both good works and ill — and precious little indeed is required to lead us down one path or the other. While hardly an original thought, it is sobering nonetheless.”

But if he found the notion sobering, it was not for very long. He was in particularly buoyant spirits, having just the previous day brought about a successful conclusion to the amusing affair concerning Mrs. Cecil Forrester. And if his hawklike features seemed even sharper than usual, the cheekbones more pronounced, the piercing eyes the more deepset, it was due to an unusually busy period for him, one of the busiest of his career, when case seemed to follow demanding case, one on top of the other, with hardly a day between that was free from tension and strenuous mental effort. Though the pace had taken its toll insofar as his physical appearance was concerned — he was even thinner, more gaunt than ever, and his complexion a shade or two paler — it did nothing to sap his energy or weaken his powers. It was obvious to those who knew him — Watson in particular, who knew him best — that he not only thrived on the activity, but positively reveled in it, was invigorated by it. As nature abhorred a vacuum, he was fond of saying, he could not tolerate inactivity.

Still, Watson was glad to have been able to entice him away from Baker Street for a few hours of diversion and relaxation. Left to his own devices, Holmes would have been content to remain behind, indeed would have preferred it, cloistered like a hermit amid his index books and papers and chemical paraphernalia, the violin his only diversion, cherrywood and shag his only solace.

Several theaters seemed to be emptying out at once along the Strand, and the street was rapidly filling with even greater throngs of gentlemen in crisp evening dress and fashionably gowned women, their laughter and chatter vying with the entreaties of the flower girls and the urgent cries of the newsboys working the crowd.

“‘Ave a flower for yer button’ole, guv? ‘Ave a loverly flower?”

“Murder! Another foul murder in the East End! ‘Ere, read the latest!”

“Nice button’ole, sir? Take some nice daffs ‘ome for the missus?”

Holmes and Watson elbowed their way through the crowd with increasing difficulty, conversation made impossible by the press and clamor around them.

“Here, Watson, we will never get a cab in all this. Let us make our way to Simpson’s and wait for the crowds to dissipate.”

“Capital idea, I’m famished,” Watson shot back, dodging a pinched-faced little girl with a huge flower basket crooked in her arm.

Holmes led the way, stopping momentarily to snatch up a selection of evening newspapers from grimy hands. Then the pair of them, holding on to their silk hats against the crush, forced their way through to the curb and navigated the short distance to the restaurant, gratefully entering through etched-glass doors into an oasis of potted palms and marble columns, ordered, calm, genteel murmurings, and starched white napery.

It was not long before they were ushered to a table, despite several parties of late diners waiting to be seated; for the eminent Mr. Holmes and his companion were not unknown to the manager, Mr. Crathie, who ruled his domain with a majesty and manner the czar himself would have envied. Shortly after taking their places, they were served a light supper of smoked salmon and capers, accompanied by a frosty bottle of hock.

Conversation between the two old friends was minimal, even monosyllabic, but there was nothing awkward about it or strained, merely a comfortable absence of talk. Small talk was anathema to Holmes in any case, but the two had known each other for so long, and were so accustomed to each other’s company, the mere physical presence of the other was enough to satisfy any need for human companionship. Communication between them was all but superfluous in any case, their respective opinions on almost any subject being well known to the other. And besides, throughout most of the meal Holmes had his face buried in one or the other of his precious newspapers, punctuating the columns of type as he scanned them with assorted sniffs and grunts and other sounds of disparagement occasionally interspersed with such muttered editorial comments as “Rubbish!” “What nonsense!” and, for variety’s sake, an occasional cryptic and explosive “
Hah!
”

Watson, well used to Holmes’s eccentric ways, resolutely ignored him, content to occupy his time by idly observing the passing scene. The captain and waiters, on the other hand, could not ignore him: An untidy pile of discarded newspapers was piling up at his feet, and they were in somewhat of a quandary over what to do about it. Holmes, of course, was totally oblivious to it all.

“It would seem,” he said finally, laying aside the last of the journals with a final grunt of annoyance as their coffee was served — “It would seem that our friends at Scotland Yard have their work cut out for them.”

“Oh?” responded Watson with an air of disinterest. “What are they up to now?”

Holmes looked at him quizzically from across the table, an amused smile on his thin lips. “Murder! Murder most foul! Really, Watson! Surely you are not so completely unobservant that you failed to take note of the cries of the news vendors as we left the theater. The street is fairly ringing with their voices! ‘Orrible murder in Whitechapel,’” he mimicked. “‘Sco’ln’ Yard w’out a clue.’”

Watson made a face. “Well, I hadn’t noticed, actually. But surely, Holmes, neither bit of information is hardly unusual. There must be a dozen murders in that section of the city every week, and few if any are ever solved: You above all people must be aware of that. What makes this one any different?”

“If the popular press are to be believed —” He broke off in midsentence and laughed. “What a silly premise to go on, eh? Still, if there is even a shred of truth to their rather lurid accounts, this particular murder contains features that are not entirely devoid of interest. But what intrigues me more, Watson — what intrigues me infinitely more at the moment — is your astounding ability to filter from your mind even the most obvious and urgent of external stimuli. It’s almost as if you have an insulating wall around you, a magical glass curtain through which you can be seen and heard but out of which you cannot see or hear! Is this a talent you were born with, old chap, or have you cultivated it over the years? Trained yourself through arduous study and painstaking application?”

“Really, Holmes, you exaggerate,” Watson replied defensively. He was both hurt by Holmes’s sarcastic rebuke and just a little annoyed.

“Do I? Do I indeed? Well, let us try a little test, shall we? Take, for example, the couple sitting at the table to my left and slightly behind me. You’ve been eyeing the young lady avidly enough during our meal. I deduce that it is the low cut of her gown that interests you, for her facial beauty is of the kind that comes mostly from the paint pot and is not of the good, simple English variety that usually attracts your attention. What can you tell me about the couple in general?”

Watson glanced over Holmes’s shoulder. “Oh, that pretty little thing with the auburn hair — the one with the stoutish, balding chap, eh?”

“Yaas,” Holmes drawled, the single word heavy with sarcasm. He examined his fingernails. “The wealthy American couple, just come over from Paris on the boat-train without their servants. He’s in railroads, in the western regions of the United States, I believe, but has spent no little time in England. They are waiting — he, rather impatiently, anxiously — for a third party to join them, a business acquaintance, no doubt — one who is beneath their station but of no small importance to them in any event.”