The New Strand Magazine

Vol. MMI. March 2001 No. 6.

THE REIGN OF TERROR.*

By Blackhood der Kether

* Being an adaptation both of Stephen Knight's investigative book Jack the Ripper: The Final Solution (Grafton, 1977); and John Hopkins' screenplay for Bob Clark's movie Murder By Decree (Avco Embassy, 1979).

CHAPTER XI

FOLLOWED BY THE LEADER.

Hen we finally arrived in London, Sherlock Holmes and I lost no time in making our way to Whitechapel. We called in first at Sickert’s room in Goulston Street; but there was no sign of either him or Kelly. We made immediately for ‘The Britannia’ public house, to see if - as Holmes had recommended to them - they were staying close to public places. As we passed through the rain-drenched Commercial Street, we chanced to meet Inspector Lestrade. The man looked dreadfully white and short of breath as he staggered to meet us. “Did you get my message, Lestrade?” Holmes demanded of him when we had found shelter from the downpour.

After a moment's recuperation, he was able to speak. “I did, sir. I’ve had men looking all over. I tell you, tonight’s been absolute bedlam -”

“We must find them, Inspector!” interrupted Holmes, impatiently. “It is an absolute priority.”

“I have been doing my best,” responded Lestrade, weakly.

“So have we,” I commented.

“It may be that they have decided to both disappear,” commented Holmes, thoughtfully. “They survived many years in this very city without being detected. If it had not been for Kelly’s foolish attempts at blackmail, she would have remained unseen. They might attempt to flee the country together. Sickert has contacts in Dieppe and would undoubtedly call on them, if he has an intention to return.”

“I will have men at all the ports,” said Lestrade, as he turned to go.

“Have some men visit Sickert’s old studio in Cleveland Street, just in case they returned,” Holmes called after him.

“Will do,” responded Lestrade, edging away.

“Just one moment, Inspector,” called Holmes, approaching Lestrade. “Where is Foxborough this evening? Aldgate?”

Lestrade was hesitant in his response. “Not entirely sure. Wouldn’t worry about it, though; he often goes off on his own, without a word as to where he’s been.

“While I remember, I think I aught to tell you about Sir Charles. He’s only chucked in the sponge. Gone home! Would you believe it?”

“Yes, I would believe it,” Holmes snapped. “His failure in his duty reflects as much upon you as on him. You stood by as he erased valuable evidence, piece by piece; and you spoke not a word as he intimidated witnesses into silence. Warren would never have been able to pervert justice had a single one of you stood up against him.”

Lestrade said nothing to this, but stared down at his boots as Holmes and I walked away.

Upon reaching Dorset Street, we called in immediately at ‘The Britannia’. Owing to the weather – and the fact that the morrow was a public holiday – the tavern was more crowded than usual, making our search all the more difficult. We found no trace of them there, nor at ‘The Black Swan’ or ‘The Ten Bells’.

“Were are we to go now?” I asked.

“We search the streets,” Holmes replied with some unease. It was extremely late by now and the normally busy streets had thinned out to become virtually deserted. Owing to this relevant silence – and in spite of the steady rain – I noticed a third set of footfalls accompanying our own. “You are aware that we are being followed,” I informed Holmes in a low voice.

“For some time, I believe,” came his reply. “That is why I’ve been leading us in circles.”

“Do you suppose that whoever is tailing us knows Kelly’s whereabouts?”

“I don’t suppose that; I am absolutely certain of it. Have you your revolver?”

“I do indeed,” I replied, surreptitiously producing it from my coat pocket. “What are you about to suggest?”

“Beyond the sharp bend in front of us, there leads off of the road a narrow alley. When we reach that bend, I want you to hide in that alley with your gun at the ready. I shall walk ahead, so that whoever it is does not grow suspicious.”

As we reached the bend, I did exactly as Holmes requested and waited in the alley. As I heard the steps of our shadow drawing closer, I gradually raised my pistol and held in at head-height. When our follower eventually appeared, he looked straight at me, smiled, and said, “Dr. Watson, what an unexpected pleasure.”

“Foxborough,” I breathed, absolutely stunned. “Where is Mary Kelly?”

“We’re all searching for her. Didn’t Lestrade tell you? We have uniforms inquiring at every house”

“You had her before, Foxborough,” came the dark, accusing voice of Sherlock Holmes as he approached us. “You and Lestrade both had her in Dorset Street weeks ago. As an officer of the law, you had a perfect opportunity to end this nightmare; but you intentionally lost her again, because you couldn’t afford to let the matter rest.

“I am at a loss to understand Lestrade’s motives, though yours are quite plain to me now. Since the Commissioner – by erasing the chalk graffito – averted the anarchy that the double-murder should have produced, you needed Kelly to remain in danger so that your cause would not falter.”

“What on earth are you raving about?” Foxborough growled. His dark expression spoke volumes and his countenance took on a monstrously threatening aspect.

“That’s what I’d like to know,” I said to Holmes, my gun still trained on the Inspector. “And why has he been following us?”

“Watson, would it surprise you to learn that it was Foxborough who was our anonymous adviser?”

I was aghast at this new information. “Not Makins?”

“Makins was just one of his agents; as are Lanyer and Lusk. He merely used those agents to feed us information, steering us in which ever direction suited his purposes.

“How do you suppose he came in possession of the letter and the kidney? You will recall that, when we viewed that particular piece of evidence, even Lestrade – supposedly Foxborough’s supervisor – had not even seen it.”

“You’re insane,” Foxborough hissed, backing away.

“And you are the head of the socialist movement known as the ‘radicals’. Be well assured, I have proof of this. Harbour no delusions that you will be returning to your position in the Police Force tomorrow; for your career there is at an end.”

Foxborough’s eyes shifted and darted like those of a cornered rat. “Surely you don’t want the killer to get away with it. If you don’t move quickly, Mary Kelly will be butchered just like the rest of them.”

“You don’t care a damn for Mary Kelly,” Holmes snarled, circling the insidious radical, “or any of those other pathetic unfortunates.”

I wild look entered Foxborough’s eyes and he became frenzied in his speech. “Of course I don’t care for them, you fool. They serve no real importance other than their representation of the government’s aristocratic contempt for the impoverished people of this country, and how they live in comparison.

“If you, Sherlock Holmes, cannot see their corruption, then perhaps some people do have to die in order to expose it.”

“So you’d let them all die?” Holmes asked, severely. “You’d let Mary Kelly die?”

“By God, yes,” he murmured with evil pride. “But if you can prove to the world that the government of England have concealed evidence, and can successfully expose their lies and megalomaniachal hedonism, then perhaps we can at last bring those decadent pigs to their knees.

“I assure you that if we can succeed, Mary Kelly will not have died in vain. She shall be our most revered martyr; and her own brave struggle to reveal the sordid secrets of that vile, corrupt Monarchy will be her legacy.”

“Nonsense,” Holmes snapped. “Kelly and her friends were blackmailing them for the price of ten pounds; not for any socialist political cause.”

“And who will be writing that in the history books who still has his head?” asked Foxborough with an evil smile.

“He’s out of his senses,” I cut in. “Surely, he doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

Holmes looked at me sadly. “Yes he does, Watson. I’m afraid he knows exactly what he’s saying. Here is a man with no conscience at all, owing allegiance to no one but himself. He does not do these things for the people, but to gain the power he envies in the hierarchy of the present society.

“In using these murders for his own ends, he is no different from the men he intends to overthrow. He doesn’t seem to realise that that makes him as guilty as the murderers themselves.”

Foxborough smiled, grimly. “In many ways, you are right. The murderers, the government, my radicals; we all used you. You’ve done exactly what we wanted you to do. And so now they’ve got her.”

Holmes’ face blazed with hate and fury. “Stay away from me, Foxborough. Do not ever cross my path again.”

“If she’s not already dead then she soon will be,” Foxborough continued, unabated, “and all because she trusted in the impotent powers of the almighty Sherlock Holmes. They’ve got to her and have no doubt already killed her. Congratulations, ‘Consulting Detective’; we have you to thank for that.”

As that loathsome man walked away, I called out to him. “If Mary Kelly does die, and you come under our hands, do not expect any mercy.”

Foxborough turned at these words. “And I would never be fool enough to put myself in such a position. I shall leave that for the amateurs, Doctor.” With that, he disappeared into the shadows.

“A radical in Scotland Yard,” I muttered to myself. “Terrifying.” Holmes and I stood alone in that sodden, empty street. He looked like a man who had lost everything and would not admit it to himself. “Do you think he’ll persist in following us?” I asked.

“There can be little point, Watson. I don’t even know why he did so in the first place, as he is so apparently sure in his course of action. Perhaps it was to keep an eye on us, to ensure we did not interfere.”

“Do you believe what he said about Kelly already being in the killer’s hands?”

Holmes’ face was rigid and expressionless as he stared at the dark void into which Foxborough had vanished. “I’m not sure what to believe. I never told him her whereabouts; nor Lestrade, lest he unwittingly betray her to that devil.”

“That could have been why he was following us,” I suggested. “He must have known that you’d be aware of Kelly’s location.”

“Watson, you are a true inspiration. That is exactly why he was following us.”

“So he may yet follow?”

Holmes looked back to me. “I care little if he does. He has no intention of stopping the killers; and he cannot hope to continue a career that I have ruined for him. So who would he tell?”

“It will take a while for word to spread.”

“And it will take us a while to reach Miller’s Court.”

“Miller’s Court?” I asked.

“Watson, if I’m right, Sickert and Kelly have not yet fled London. I think they might return to her lodgings, take a few possessions, retrieve Alice and then, safely and securely, flee to the continent.”

I was filled with a forlorn hope at these words, but I knew that safety for those three hunted individuals would be tenuous at best. “So you believe they would make for Normandy?” I asked.

“To be sure, Watson. They have both travelled there before and they have friends who would hide them. If I can topple this decadent house of cards towering over and menacing them; if I can expose these killers, then perhaps they need not hide for long.

“I do not believe that the killers would have found her, but I fear it would not take them long if she were to remain in Whitechapel. There is nothing left to keep her here, and I think she has intelligence enough to realise that.”

“Surely,” I remarked, “exposing the guilty party would only serve the radicals in their bloody-minded crusade.”

“No doubt.”

“You know what you risk, Holmes. The ruin of our present society, and the instillation of an anarchistic, socialist substitute.”

Holmes slouched on the damp pavement and toyed with the ends of his Thuggee-scarf. “What do I care for that? They’re all the same to me. Radicals, Freemasons; all of them selfish, corrupt and equally to blame. God knows if I could prove the full extent of their complicity I would not hesitate; but I was never a party to their secret councils. Only they know the full extent of their blame.

“If I could save just one life in this whole ordeal, I feel that our entire efforts would not have been in vain. If I should follow my previous poor examples in this whole affair; I may as well take early retirement.”

Holmes rose and we both made our way to Miller’s Court. Our evasion of Foxborough had taken us as far north as Princelet Street and it was a good fifteen minutes before we once again found the east entrance to Dorset Street.

As we walked through the heavy drizzle up the now deserted street, I stopped Holmes in his tracks. “Look, old man,” I said with great reluctance. “I know your distaste for the use of firearms; but if things get dangerous tonight -” I offered up my service revolver. Holmes looked at it for a few seconds; then, smiling with gratitude, he accepted the gun.

“Prey I do not have cause to use it,” he bade me wish him.

As we continued up the street, I asked Holmes in a low voice, “What did Foxborough mean about the government of England being involved?”

I perceived a bitterness in Holmes’ answer. “I’m afraid Foxborough spoke true in that matter. Please understand that I agree totally with his motives for doing what he is doing. It is the means by which he hopes to achieve his goals that I strongly object to. If it is true democracy he seeks, then he should seek it in a more democratic fashion; not by intrigue, force and bloodshed.

“It is true that the radicals are not the only ones to benefit from these atrocious crimes; the government too have reason to dispose of these poor women.”

“But how high up in government?” I urged. As I asked this, I noticed an unattended hackney parked outside an alleyway. Clearly, Holmes had seen it too, as his pace quickened.

“Perhaps to the throne itself,” muttered Holmes, before he skipped ahead of me. He went around the coach, scrutinising it both inside and out. “This is the very coach that knocked me down just days ago,” he whispered to me. I needed no light to see how alarmed he was by this.

“I take it, no-one is within,” I remarked. Holmes opened the door and scanned the interior.

“There were two men in here recently; one smokes a clay pipe, the other does not smoke at all. I can smell blood in here and I can also see some stains; both seem to have been introduced to the upholstery some four of five weeks ago.” Holmes turned back to me. “The killers are already here, Watson. The alley-way we stand next to is the one leading to Miller’s Court.”

Instantly, Holmes spun around and stealthily entered the Court, with his pistol drawn at the ready. I followed behind and attempted to maintain his cat-like tread, though due to my old war injury I could not match his speed.

When we were in the Court itself, Holmes passed the door and – pressing himself firmly against the wall – peered slowly around the edge. I could tell little from his expression as he re-emerged, and so I rounded the corner myself to see what he had seen.

There were two windows on the perpendicular wall, both with blinds drawn. The right-most pane on the window closest to me was broken and so I was able to witness what Holmes had seen only seconds before.

Looking back to Holmes, I saw him steadily move to the door with the revolver in check. He placed his hand gently on the door-knob. Slowly and silently, he turned it the full way around. He stepped back, looked to me as if for reassurance, then kicked the door in.

He rushed through and I followed him inside, though not as far. From there I saw with greater clarity the scene I had viewed through the window; the grotesque tableau that was N^o. 13 Miller’s Court.

Chapter xii.

the men that will not be blamed for nothing.

The image that greeted us was the most horrific thing that I had ever encountered. Hardly surprisingly, the most noticeable thing in the room would have to have been the butchered body of a woman lying on the bed. It did not at the time occur to me the full extent of her injuries; for, even though the room was scorching hot, the ever-flickering shadows obscured the detail.

Kneeling on the far side of the bed, was Sir William Withey Gull; though it was difficult to recognise him now, for his eyes appeared highly deranged and he was drenched in a vast quantity of blood. Crouching on the side closest to us was undoubtedly that monstrous coachman John Netley.

He lost no time in readying himself for a fight, as he turned to the heavily stoked fire and drew the long poker from the embers; white at its tip due to the intense heat. It is possible that Holmes had gone into a temporary shock; for he did not respond in the way I had expected him to. Before he had had any time to compose himself, the pistol was savagely thrashed out of his hand.

Holmes collapsed to the floor in agony, clutching his burnt and bruised hand. I felt it my duty to continue where Holmes had floundered, and leapt for the cruel coachman. But he was too quick for me and thrust the end of the burning poker onto my chest.

The pain was immense and I had only just enough strength to push him away before I also fell to the floor. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Holmes laboriously lift himself up and remove the Thuggee-scarf from his neck; but Netley was faster than either of us. From our disadvantaged position, we watched helplessly as the coachman dragged the blood-sodden Gull through the doorway and down the passage.

Holmes – a man with greater physical stamina than myself – hastened with surprising speed after them; as I had only strength enough to lean out of the door and observe the scene. In the dim light, I could make out that Holmes had caught up with the pair before they reached the black carriage. He seized Gull from Netley's unsuspecting grip and threw him back down the passage-way.

Netley moved like lightning and before Holmes could turn his attention back to him, he had pulled his sword down from the head seat of the coach and slashed at the great detective. Apparently struck, Holmes fell to the ground. As he lay there, Netley raised his sword for a more lethal strike. I grabbed my pistol from the floor and somehow I found the strength to raise myself to assist my fallen comrade.

Before I had made it half-way to my feet, I perceived the form of Foxborough appearing unexpectedly behind Netley. But that savage creature must have had the instincts of a well-seasoned tiger; for as soon as the disgraced Inspector was within striking distance, Netley had spun around and plunged his weapon clean through the man.

As I rushed out to intervene, I saw Holmes draw up tall and swiped at Netley with his weighted scarf. It wrapped itself rapidly and tightly around his neck. As quickly as he had ensnared the beast, Holmes jerked the scarf back. The force not only spun the coachman from his feet, but also caused him to snap the blade which was still lodged in Foxborough’s thorax.

I felt a moment’s relief, but only a short-lived one; for almost immediately, Netley sprang back to his feet. At first, it appeared as though he was preparing for another attack on Holmes, but as he saw me approaching with my revolver drawn he about-turned and sprinted down Dorset Street. I was already close to the corner, but as I rounded it to shoot him down I found that he had completely disappeared.

Turning back to Foxborough, I saw that the half-dead wretch was stretching his hand out to us. Sherlock Holmes stood still; staring down dispassionately at the accursed traitor. Eventually, he let his arm drop, and died.

With his gloved hand, Holmes picked up a small object that lay next to the dead man. It was the finely polished handle of a walking-cane; but instead of a stick, it tapered into a slender, broken blade.

“This is the same sword-stick that killed Makins,” Holmes remarked, quietly. He closed his eyes and let the handle fall to the ground.

I saw the wound at the side of Holmes’ head and was relieved to see that it was little more than a graze.

In horror, I suddenly realised that not three feet from us sprawled Gull. “Holmes,” said I in a hushed voice. “The butcher still lays here!” Holmes turned his blazing eyes upon the man and with all fury he pulled him up by the lapels and slammed him against the passage wall.

The physician’s face was as haunting a sight as ever I did see. His eyes were wide and glazed; yet he was not in any way near to death. Looking back to Holmes, I saw a man in total shock, beholding an object he could not begin to understand.

Holmes relinquished his grip and Gull, his eyes hooding over as in some drug-induced stupor, slid slowly back to the ground. “Search Foxborough,” intoned Holmes, his voice devoid of any emotion. “Find his cuffs and bind this monster.”

As I set about this gruesome task, Holmes walked back to that grotesque Grand Guignol. When I had secured Gull’s wrists, I heard Holmes call softly back to me. He beckoned me to return to that room with such a familiar air that I knew that he had made a new discovery. I dragged the doctor to his feet and walked him back to the room.

The heat of that infernal hovel was overwhelming, owing to the heavily fuelled fire in the hearth. In the dim, orange light, the room had the appearance of a hellish chamber of torture. On the bed, lying on her back, were presumably the remains of Mary Kelly. Any horrors I had witnessed in Mitre Square paled in comparison to the frenzied butchery visited upon this hapless individual.

Her throat had been deeply cut, and her face shredded beyond recognition. Her legs and chest had been skinned down to the muscle and the severing of her intercostals gave a clear view to the interior of her thorax.

Her left hand had been placed on her chest (in the same fashion as the other victims). Her abdomen had been laid open from chest to groin and her intestines had been removed and placed by her shoulder. Her liver rested between her feet and a large quantity of flesh lay on the bedside table.

I had thrown the chief perpetrator of this savagery down to the floor upon my return and he displayed no inclination to leave the premises. Then I noticed another presence in the room.

Sitting at the foot of the bed was a young man with dark blonde hair. His hands were clasped together as in some silent prayer, and his head was bowed so low that the nape of his neck was visible.

Holmes recognised him instantly and addressed him. “You have betrayed her, Sickert,” he spoke, in a dangerous tone. “I gave her to your care, and you betrayed her.” Walter Sickert barely moved, other than the occasional shudder from his sobs.

“Are you telling me that Sickert was the third man?” I asked, utterly shocked.

“To be sure, Watson,” he replied. “A non-participant would never have been able to acquire the evidence and information with the ease in which he was able to. I should have realised his involvement in these matters from the very first.”

Sickert slowly raised his tear-stained face to meet Holmes’ steely gaze. “You don’t understand, Mr. Holmes.”

“Then I suggest you make me understand,” Holmes coolly replied.

The wretched painter gulped several times as he struggled to form words. “They needed bait for the trap. I was their bait. I was on friendly terms with all of them -”

“But you need not have been a part of it, surely,” I cut in.

“I hadn’t a choice,” hissed Sickert, beating his fists against his forehead. “They wouldn’t have just killed me, but little Alice too.”

“Alice Crook was injured in a road accident,” Holmes stated calmly. “The description of the driver matched Netley.”

An expression of utter horror filled Sickert’s features and more tears welled in his eyes. “Little Alice,” he mumbled. “They still tried to kill little Alice, after all I done to help them.”

Though his face was still taut, I read a growing compassion in Holmes’ countenance. “Do not fear for Alice. She is currently in St. Bartholomew’s, recovering from her injuries. In the meantime, I suggest you do not blame yourself for the actions of John Netley; you have been used, Walter. We have all of us been used. I cannot judge you for the role which was forced upon you.”

“I can,” I angrily declared. “Why didn’t you just take Mary and Alice and flee the country?”

Sickert shook his head sadly. “It wouldn’t have done no good. Freemasons aren’t just confined to England. There isn’t a corner of this planet untainted by their presence.

“But even though I knew this were true, I let Mary believe that we would go abroad. This was some time early yesternight, and I told her to meet me at her place in the small hours. I sent word to Netley; telling him to bring Sir William at round 3 o’clock.

“When I arrived here, a couple of hours ago, she was talking with some fellow. She said she were asking him for money. When I asked why, she smiled at me and said, ‘Travelling expenses.’

“We came in here, and I knew that that bloke was still out there; so I made small talk ‘till I were sure he’d left.

“She poured us both a drink and, while she weren’t looking, I poured a high dose of laudanum in her glass. Pretty soon, she were quite relaxed; and I told her what was going to be done. At first, she begun to panic; and called out, ‘Murder! Murder!’

“When I had calmed her down a bit, I told her it would do us no good running, as they was only going to catch us. I told her I had also taken the poison and that we would die together; that we would spoil their plans by not letting ourselves get murdered by them.

“She cried dreadful bad but thanked me for being so kind as to take her pain and fear away. She said I were a really good friend to her. As she gradually slipped away, I kept her thinking I were dying too; though I really hadn’t swallowed a drop.

“She stopped breathing just before the other two arrived. God forgive me for taking her life, but it were the only way to spare her the pain; ‘cause I knew that Sir William and Netley would have been cruel to her.”

As Sickert concluded his sad tale, Holmes’ face was contorted in bitter defeat. “They’ve escaped, Watson,” said he. “I’m afraid I’ve let the whole side down.”

“Come now, Holmes,” I reassured him. “You’ve already done much more than any other man would have even attempted. And there is still decency in all of this. Kelly sacrificed her life rather than letting herself be tortured to reveal Alice’s whereabouts.

“Even this man here – though plainly floored – made sure that she had a painless death. I can see now that it was not betrayal but an act of contrition.”

Holmes smiled, faintly. “You are right, old friend. There is decency after all; even in the most unexpected of places. And if nowhere else, then at least in that battered breast of yours.” I smiled in gratitude, but winced as I was reminded of the severe burn to my chest.

Straightening up, he addressed Sickert, “You had better leave; and tell no-one of your involvement in this affair.”

As Sickert left, we commenced erasing any trace of our presence there; including the deranged surgeon. Leaving No. 13 Miller’s Court permanently behind us, Holmes locked the door. “The secret location of this object,” Holmes stated, brandishing the front-door key, “was entrusted to me by Mary just days ago.”

Walking around to the window facing into the Court, Holmes slipped the key through the broken pane of glass and pulled the drape to. “Come, now,” he sighed.

We placed Foxborough’s body in the coach with the strangely placid Gull. I watched over them both as Holmes drove us to the Whitechapel Police Station.

A very sober-faced Lestrade was standing outside as though he were expecting us. With great solemnity, Holmes and I removed Foxborough’s body and placed it before him (along with the broken portions of Netley’s instrument of death).

As a steadily increasing group of uniformed Police gathered silently at the door, we escorted the malefactor out of the coach and sat him on the curb.

Not a word was spoken between either party and, leaving the coach behind us, we walked down the Whitechapel Road and hailed a cab for our return to Baker Street.

TO BE CONCLUDED...

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This site has been created and maintained by Lord Blackhood der Kether (BA), Lorraine Kukla & Stef Kukla. Anyone found using any of the Kukla illustrations or Blackhood texts on this web site - WITHOUT the express permission of Lord Blackhood, Ms. Kukla; or Mr Kukla - will be considered in breach of copyright and will be prosecuted accordingly.