The House at Baker Street (15 page)

This man liked power. Well, who did not? But for this man, it was not the power to create or protect. No, he liked the power to control, to destroy. Not quickly, as a murderer would, but slowly,
painfully, infinitesimally taking apart a life, bit by bit, whisper by whisper, blow by blow.

I wondered if he had ever killed. I was certain he could. He had almost killed both Mr Shirley and Wiggins. I was certain now that man was him, not some sort of lackey. That moment of Mr
Shirley’s capitulation would have been a crowning moment. I was certain he would not have delegated that. Besides, Wiggins seemed to hint that he had taken some joy in the act of almost
killing both him and Mr Shirley. No, I felt it in my bones, that man had been him.

Although murder seemed to run contrary to the cold creature of control whom I envisaged. Perhaps that control was beginning to slip. Perhaps the urges and desires that had led him to this life
were beginning to break free of his grip. In that case, who next? Would he slip into some sort of madness? Would he control himself, or just kill and kill again?

Perhaps he had killed before, and then forced himself to stop. Perhaps he had found the destruction of body less satisfying than the slow, merciless destruction of mind and spirit.

Why women? I said to myself, as I sipped a rare cup of coffee. The pungent odour swirled through the kitchen, lending an unaccustomed sharpness to the air. All his plans, his hate, his ire was
directed towards women. Men had suffered, but only as an adjunct to the destruction of a woman. A man’s suicide, his ruin, his rejection would be a way to hurt her more. So why only
women?

Was it because we were the supposed weaker sex? Or because we were deemed the fairer sex? Had a woman rejected him? Although his actions seemed an egregiously over-the-top reaction to
rejection.

Was it not just one woman? Had he been unsuccessful with all women? Could he only find satisfaction – of a sort – in hurting and hating women? Was it merely because women were more
easily destroyed by secrets and lies than men?

My suspects:

Sir George Burnwell. A rake (to use my mother’s term), a bully (to use Irene’s term). A man who used and abused women, and yet was very attractive to them. According to Langdale
Pike, he was very good at tempting women, and wheedling secrets out of them. Would he go so far as to blackmail them to destruction?

The Ordinary Man. He followed us, all the way from Whitechapel. At the moment he was just a face in the background. I wouldn’t recognize him if it wasn’t for the stain on his jacket.
Although I think I was beginning to recognize an occasional feature, from time to time. I was observing, and noticing, and remembering. Why didn’t he get rid of the jacket? Could he not
afford to, or did he not realize that the mark was enough to distinguish him?

The reporter Patrick West. A gatherer of secrets, certainly; it was his job. He seemed to take pleasure in telling those secrets to the world, hinting at far worse. But all we knew of him was a
name.

Someone else entirely? An utterly unknown quantity? Some link we had not found? Someone who was down on women, yet kept hidden? Had I already met this man, this monster? Perhaps I had passed him
on the street, nodded good morning to him, even spoken to him.

A sudden thought struck me. Another possibility. Someone who had certainly hated women, had hurt them. He had made every woman in London afraid. His victims had once been respectable women who
had fallen. He had sent letters, like my suspect. He had taunted and threatened and boasted. Perhaps he had learnt to enjoy the fear far more than the act. Perhaps he had moved from physical hate
to emotional hate.

Slowly, hardly believing I was writing this, I wrote down the name of my final suspect.

The room felt suddenly cold. I almost glanced over my shoulder, convinced someone stood there.

Then, taking a sharp breath and shaking myself, I firmly crossed out the name. It was a silly idea! What a ridiculous, pointless thought! What a far-fetched thought!

What a terrifying thought.

I told myself I was being a fool, and yet that crossed-out name haunted me all day.

Jack the Ripper.

It wasn’t that I believed it was really him – really Jack. But in my mind, our blackmailer was becoming a bogeyman as big as Jack, as terrifying. And after all, that case had never
been solved.

Mary arrived in the early afternoon to find me scrubbing down my kitchen table. My daily help had cleaned the rest of the house that day, but I always cleaned the table and my
pots and pans myself. I needed to be sure they were perfect. My notes were now neatly tidied away in the dresser drawer.

Before we could even draw breath to greet each other, Billy burst in.

‘He’s coming! The ditherer, he’s crossing the road!’

‘It’s a man who keeps coming to see Mr Holmes,’ I said, in response to Mary’s puzzled look. ‘But he never quite makes it through the door. What’s important is
that Billy saw him with Mr Shirley – they seemed to be friends.’

Mary’s eyes widened.

‘Is Sherlock here?’ she asked. I shook my head. ‘Good, it’s still our case. Billy, when he gets here, don’t tell him Sherlock is out, just show him up to his
rooms.’

The bell rang, and Billy ran for it, buttoning up his uniform.

‘Do you have scones?’ Mary asked. ‘If we give him hot tea and scones he’s less likely to up and leave.’

‘I do, and the kettle is hot,’ I told her. I could hear Billy guide him up the stairs to Mr Holmes’ rooms, and say that someone would see him presently. ‘Mary, are you
actually going to question him?’

‘If I can,’ Mary said breathlessly, arranging a cloth on a tray. ‘I hope I can. It’s worth a try.’

She swept up the stairs, shoulders back. I followed her, carrying the tea tray piled high with fragrant tea and my best scones. Mary walked into Mr Holmes’ rooms with barely a
hesitation.

‘Mr Holmes is presently absent,’ she said, in her most charming voice. ‘But we expect him back at any moment. In the meantime, may I offer you tea, Mr . . . ?’

‘Ballant,’ he said unhappily. In the rooms he seemed even taller, towering over Mary. He had strong shoulders stretching the expensive material of his grey suit, and the sun glinted
off his fair hair. He was a very handsome man, with a very fine moustache, and he seemed to be quite aware of the fact. He kept stroking his moustache with his right hand.

‘Will Mr Holmes be long?’ he asked, still standing. ‘I have a letter I need him to see. It is of utmost importance.’

‘Barely any time at all,’ Mary told him in her most honeyed voice. She gestured towards the sofa as I poured the tea. ‘Please, sit, have some tea. I am Mrs Watson, by the
way.’

It would have been impolite to refuse, and I felt this was a man who lived his life by the strictest of proprieties. He sat down, and told me how he liked his tea. I handed it to him, with a
scone.

‘Mrs Watson?’ he asked, as he sipped the tea. ‘Dr Watson’s wife?’

‘Indeed,’ Mary said. ‘In fact, since my marriage I too have worked with Mr Holmes. In a strictly information-gathering capacity, of course.’

‘Of course,’ he said, biting into the scone. My scones are divine, if I say so myself, and he relaxed slightly as he savoured the taste.

‘In fact,’ Mary said, ‘I often take notes of cases before Mr Holmes sees his clients, to save time, in strictest confidence.’

‘Do you?’ he said, surprised. He glanced up at me. Taking the hint, I left the room – but went no further than the corridor outside the open door, where I found Billy also
shamelessly eavesdropping.

‘Mr Holmes likes me to draw all the facts from the clients, and then arrange them in a logical order to present to him,’ Mary told him, managing to sound both meek and competent at
the same time. This was not a man who liked his women strong. ‘Perhaps I could take a few details from you?’

I heard him shift in his chair.

‘It is not a subject suitable for a woman,’ he objected.

‘Alas, very few of Mr Holmes’ cases are,’ she said gently. ‘Do not think of me as a woman. Think of me as a recording device.’

‘I have heard Mr Holmes can be difficult,’ he admitted. I wonder where he had heard that from?

‘He can,’ Mary agreed. ‘That is why I help him, to smooth the path. Please, Mr Ballant, you must have come so far, it would be a pity to leave now. You may leave the facts with
me, and I can pass the case to Mr Holmes.’

I heard the man stand and start to stride around. He was so tall, he could not stride far in that rather small room, and I could hear every word he spoke.

‘You must understand, I work for the government,’ he told Mary. ‘It is a highly trusted position, and there is a great degree of confidential work that passes across my desk.
You understand, therefore, that I am reluctant to involve the police.’

‘Mr Holmes has dealt with the highest echelons of government most discreetly,’ Mary murmured. She was laying it on thick!

‘Yes, I suppose he has,’ Mr Ballant continued. ‘The point is, my position makes me open to . . . well, to . . .’

‘Blackmail?’ Mary finished. She was getting impatient. I heard him take a deep breath.

‘Yes, blackmail. And the worst of it is, I haven’t even done anything! The blackguard makes all kinds of insinuations based on the flimsiest of evidence! Disgusting
insinuations!’

‘May I see the letter?’ Mary asked. ‘I will give it to Mr Holmes sealed.’

I heard the rustle of paper as something was handed over.

‘I take it this man has not asked for anything as yet,’ Mary queried, sounding considerably less meek and far more competent than earlier.

‘No. But when he does – my God, the things I could tell him! It could bring the government down!’

‘Then you shall not tell him,’ Mary said, and she stood. ‘You are not the only person to have received these letters, and Mr Holmes is already working on the case.’

‘Who else?’ he demanded. ‘No, of course, I suppose you can’t tell me. But can I ask – was it Shirley?’

‘It was,’ Mary confirmed. Well, it had been Mrs Shirley, and Mr Ballant meant Mr Shirley, but this was at least confirmation that Mr Shirley had been a victim too.

I heard Mr Ballant thank Mary and give her his address, allowing me just enough time to nip round the corner and out of sight before he left. Billy appeared to show him down the stairs and out
of the door. As soon as the door was closed, Mary came out onto the landing, clutching a letter.

‘Another victim,’ I said to her.

‘Yes,’ she said, musing. She ripped open the letter and read it through.

‘Well?’ I asked. She glanced at Billy, watching us from the stairs, and frowned. He left, unwillingly creeping into the kitchen.

‘Mr Ballant is accused of unnatural acts,’ she told me. ‘With Mr Shirley.’

‘I see,’ I said. I was not shocked, and neither was she – a soldier’s wife and a doctor’s wife already knew far more than most women. But it carried a taint a man
could not scrub off. It would need more than a whisper, but the libel itself had been enough to bring down some very powerful men, and ruin a few more careers very quietly.

‘So the only two men in the case share a secret,’ I said.

‘Strange, isn’t it?’ Mary replied.

‘What?’

‘Most of the victims are women. Just two are men – Mr Shirley and Mr Ballant.’

‘You think that makes him a suspicious character?’

‘You know what Sherlock says,’ Mary said. ‘Suspect everyone.’

So I did. I set the Irregulars to follow Mr Ballant. They sent Jake, a thin, though tall, boy, who had a reputation for never being seen by his quarry. He was the best. And so,
he was very annoyed when he lost Mr Ballant.

‘Lost him?’ I asked, incredulous. Jake was still getting his reward of crumpets and lemonade, but he picked at the crumpet reluctantly, as if he felt he didn’t deserve it.
‘Did he see you?’

‘Could ’ave sworn he didn’t,’ Jake said disconsolately, sitting at my kitchen table. ‘Followed ’im all the way down Oxford Street, and on the omnibus,
’im striding along bold as brass, never trying to lose me, and then, he just disappears.’

‘Do you think he did it deliberately?’ I asked. Jake nodded, eager to absolve himself.

‘Yeah, I think he did, laid me a pretty trail and then just when I was too confident, he slipped away. And I tell you what – you don’t just know how to do that. Someone’s
trained him.’

Trained him? Who would know how to do that? I could see why Adam Ballant might be suspicious of someone following him, but he would have to be very good to have seen Jake. It had taken some
skill to evade him.

‘Where did you lose his trail?’ I asked.

‘Whitechapel,’ Jake answered, his mouth full of crumpet.

Billy had not been idle as we worked. He had tasks of his own. Billy had done his research diligently. He had read many of Patrick West’s articles. He had researched the
women Mr West had written of. He had drawn up complicated diagrams showing the connections between Mr West and possible victims. Then, after a few days, he had actually stationed himself outside Mr
West’s pleasant home in Kensal Rise – to observe only, he assured us. Now Billy sat at my kitchen table, sipping tea, and refusing cake. That wasn’t a good sign.

‘I waited there a whole day,’ Billy said to Mary and me. ‘I know no one saw me, but no one came out. In the end, I got talking to the policeman who walks that
street.’

‘And?’ Mary pressed.

Billy took a deep breath, and continued.

‘Patrick West is eighty-four, cannot walk without a stick and is completely blind,’ Billy said dejectedly. ‘He has a few apprentices who gather his information, and take down
his dictation – and they’re all young women. It’s a complete dead end.’

Mary smiled, and turned away so Billy couldn’t see.

‘So, not our man, then,’ I said softly. ‘Sorry, Billy.’ The poor boy had worked so hard on this, so proud to have a suspect of his own.

‘I should have checked!’ Billy cried out. ‘I did all that work and it was all useless!’

‘Not useless,’ I reassured him. ‘Not completely. At least it’s another name crossed off the list.’