A Study in Terror

Chapter VII The Slayer of Hogs

“What you failed to see, Watson, was the cloaked figure of Joseph Beck leaving the pub, just as the girl gave evidence of her intention to go elsewhere. You had eyes only for me.”

It was dismally evident to me that I had been the culprit, not he, but there was no hint of this in his voice. I attempted to assess the blame, but he cut short my apologies. “No, no,” said he, “it was my stupidity that let the monster slip through our fingers, not yours.”

Chin on breast, Holmes went on. “When I emerged from the pub, the girl was just turning the corner. Beck was nowhere in sight, and I could only assume either that he had made off in the other direction, or was crouched in one of the dark doorways nearby. I chose the latter assumption. I followed the girl around the corner and heard approaching footsteps, catching a glimpse of a caped man entering behind us. Not dreaming that it was you―your figure and Beck’s do not greatly differ, I fear, Watson―I took the skulker to be our pawn-broker. I hid myself in turn, and you passed me. Then I heard the cries, and I thought I had stalked the Ripper successfully. Thereupon I attacked, and discovered my unforgiveable error.”

We had finished our morning tea, and Holmes was pacing his quarters at Baker Street in a fury. I followed his movements sadly, wishing I possessed the power to erase the whole incident from the slate, not only for Polly’s sake, but for my friend’s peace of mind.

“Then,” continued Holmes, savagely, “whilst we were preoccupied with our blunders, the Ripper struck. The arrogance of this fiend!” cried he. “The contempt, the utter self-confidence, with which he perpetrates his outrages! Believe me, Watson, I shall lay the monster by the heels if it is the last act of my life!”

“It would appear,” said I, thinking to divert his bitter thoughts, “that Joseph Beck has been exonerated, at least of last night’s murder.”

“Quite so. Beck could not possibly have reached his quarters, cleansed himself of the blood, undressed, and donned night-clothes before we were upon him.” Holmes seized his cherry-wood, and his Persian slipper, then cast them down in disgust. “Watson,” said he, “all we accomplished last night was to eliminate one suspect from amongst London’s millions. At such a rate, we shall succeed in spotting our quarry some time during the next century!”

I could find nothing to say in refutation. But then Holmes suddenly threw back his spare shoulders and directed a steely glance at me. “But enough of this, Watson! We shall imitate the Phoenix. Get dressed. We are going to pay another visit to Dr. Murray’s mortuary.”

Within the hour, we stood before the Montague Street portal to that gloomy establishment. Holmes glanced up and down the shabby thoroughfare.

“Watson,” said he, “I should like a more detailed picture of this neighbourhood. Whilst I venture inside, will you be good enough to scout the near streets?”

Eager to atone for my bungling of the previous night, I readily agreed.

“When you have finished, you will no doubt find me in the hostel.” Holmes disappeared through the morgue gate.

I found that the vicinity of Montague Street possessed no common commercial establishments. The further side was occupied by a row of warehouses that presented locked entrances and no sign of life.

But when I turned the corner, I came upon a more active scene. I saw a green-grocer’s stall, where a house-wife haggled with the proprietor over the price of a cabbage. The shop next door housed a tobacconist’s. Just beyond, there stood a small, evil-looking public-house with a weathered replica of a hansom cab above the door.

My attention was soon drawn to an open entrance-way on the street’s near side. A great squealing emanated therefrom. It sounded as if a battalion of pigs was being slaughtered. As it turned out, this was precisely the case. I entered through an ancient stone archway, came out into a courtyard, and found myself in an abattoir. Four lean, live hogs were penned in one corner; the butcher, a grossly-muscled youth in a bloody leather apron, was in the act of dragging a fifth toward a suspended hook. In a callous manner, he hoisted the animal, and chained its hind legs to the hook. A rusted pulley creaked as he hauled on the rope. He tied a swift knot, and the hog squealed and thrashed as if it knew its fate.

As I watched in disgust, the butcher’s boy took up a long knife and, without a qualm, plunged it into the hog’s throat. The sounds gurgled away, and the boy stepped back to avoid the gout of dark blood. Then, he walked carelessly into the red pool, and slashed the animal’s throat open. Whereupon the knife swept down, opening the animal from tail to jowls.

It was not the butchery, however, that made me look away. My glance was drawn to what appeared to me even more horrible―the sight of the idiot, the creature whom both Sherlock Holmes and his brother Mycroft had identified as Michael Osbourne. He was crouched in one corner of the abattoir, oblivious of all else but the butcher’s work. The operation seemed to fascinate him. His eyes drank in the bloody carcase of the animal in a manner that I can only describe as obscene.

His preliminary work done, the butcher’s boy stepped back and favoured me with a smile.

“Lookin’ for a bit o’ pork, guv’ner?”

“No, thank you! I was strolling by―”

“An’ you heard the squealin’. Yer has to be a stranger, guv’ner, else you would not o’ bothered. The neighbourhood’s used to their ruddy noise.” He turned cheerfully to Michael Osbourne. “Ain’t that right, dummy?”

The imbecile smiled, and nodded.

“The dummy’s the only one that keeps me comp’ny. I’d be fair lonesome ’thout him.”

“Your work is certainly not carried on under the most cleanly conditions,” said I, distastefully.

“Clean-ly, says ’e,” chuckled the boy. “Guv’ner, folk ’ereabouts’ve got a fat lot more to turn their stomachs than a little dirt on their pork―bloody right they ’ave!” He winked. “The gels, ’specially. They’re too busy o’ nights keepin’ their own ’ides in one piece.”

“You refer to the Ripper?”

“That I do, guy, that I do. ’E’s keepin’ the tarts nervy o’ late.”

“Did you know the girl who was murdered last night?”

“I did. Passed ’er two-and-six t’other night for a quick whack, I did. Poor little tart didn’t ’ave ’er rent, and I’m that gen’rous, I ’ates to see a gel trampin’ the ruddy streets in the fog fer want o’ a bed.”

Some instinct made me pursue the tasteless conversation. “Have you any idea as to the identity of the Ripper?”

“Lord love yer, guv. ’E might just be yer own lordship, now, mightn’t ’e? Yer got to admit, ’e’s prob’ly a toff, don’t yer?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, now, let’s look at it this way. I’m at ’ome with blood in my perfession, cozy with it, yer might say, and so I ’ave to think that way, right?”

“What are you driving at?”

“Guv, the way that Ripper carves ’em up, ’e’s just got to get smeary. But nobody’s never seen a smeared-up bloke runnin’ from one o’ those murders, now, ’ave they?”

“I believe not,” said I, rather startled.

“An’ why not, guv’ner? ’Cause a toff wearin’ a opry cloak over ’is duds could cover up the bloody res-ee-doo, so ter speak! Wouldn’ yer say? Well, I ’ave ter get back to this carcase.”

I fled the stench and gore of the place. But I took an image with me, that of Michael Osbourne squatting in his corner, laying the slaughter with watering eyes. No matter what Holmes had said, the misshapen wreck of humanity remained my principal suspect.

I circumviated the square and made my entrance into the morgue through the Montague Street gate, the adjacent premises fixed in mind. The morgue was untenanted, save for the dead. Traversing its narrow length, I paused near the raised table that was reserved for unwilling guests. A white-sheeted form lay there. I contemplated it for a few moments; then, moved by pity, I drew the sheet back from the face.

Her sufferings past, Polly’s marble features reflected acceptance of whatever she had found beyond the pale. I do not rate myself a sentimental man, but I do believe that there is a dignity in death, however it comes. Nor am I deeply religious. Still, I breathed a small prayer for the salvation of this unhappy child’s spirit. Then I went away.

I found Holmes in the dining-hall of the hostel, in company with Lord Carfax and Miss Sally Young. The latter gave me a smile of welcome. “Dr. Watson, may I fetch you a cup of tea?”

I declined with thanks, and Holmes spoke crisply. “You arrive fortuitously, Watson. Lord Carfax is about to tender some information.” His Lordship looked a trifle dubious. “You may speak before my colleague in complete confidence, your Lordship.”

“Very well. As I was about to relate, Mr. Holmes, Michael left London for Paris some two years ago. I expected him to live a licentious life in that most licentious of cities, but I strove to keep in touch with him, nonetheless; and I was both surprised and gratified to learn that he had entered the Sorbonne to study medicine. We maintained a correspondence, and I became optimistic as to his future. He appeared to have turned a new leaf.” At this point, his Lordship’s eyes lowered, and a great sadness came over his sensitive face. “But then, disaster struck, I was stunned to learn that Michael had married a woman of the streets.”

“Did you meet her, my lord?”

“Never, Mr. Holmes! I frankly admit that I had little stomach for a face-to-face encounter. It is true, however, that I would have confronted the woman, had the opportunity arisen.”

“How, then, do you know she was a prostitute? Your brother would hardly have included such an item in his bill of particulars when he informed you of his marriage.”

“My brother did not inform me. I received the information in a letter from one of his fellow-students, a person I had never met, but whose written word reflected an earnest interest in Michael’s welfare. This gentleman acquainted me with Angela Osbourne’s calling, and suggested that, if I had my brother’s future at heart, I should leave for Paris immediately and try to repair his fortunes before they were irretrievably destroyed.”

“You informed your father of this communication?”

“Indeed I did not!” said Lord Carfax, sharply. “Unhappily, my correspondent saw to that. He had dispatched two letters, in the event one should be ignored, I suppose.”

“How did your father react?”

“You need hardly ask that question, Mr. Holmes.”

“The Duke did not reserve judgement until proof was forthcoming?”

“He did not. The letter was too patently truthful; I did not doubt it myself. As for my father, it was in perfect consonance with what he had always expected of Michael.” Lord Carfax paused, pain invading his face. “I shall not soon forget the renunciation. I suspected that Father had also received a letter, and I rushed to his town-house. He was at his easel when I arrived; as I entered the studio, his model drew a robe over her nudity, and my father laid down his brush and surveyed me calmly. He said, ‘Richard, what brings you here at this time of day?’

“I saw the tell-tale envelope with the French stamp lying by his palette, and I pointed to it. ‘That, your Grace. I presume it is from Paris.’

“ ‘You are correct.’ He picked up the envelope, but did not remove its contents. ‘It is inappropriate. It should have been edged in black.’

“ ‘I do not understand you,’ I replied.

“He laid the letter down, coldly. ‘Should not all announcements of death be thus marked? So far as I am concerned, Richard, this letter informs me of Michael’s demise. In my heart, the service has already been read, and the body is in the earth.’

“His terrible words stunned me. But, knowing that argument was futile, I left.”

“You made no effort to reach Michael?” asked Holmes.

“I did not, sir. To me, he was beyond salvation. Some two months later, however, I received an anonymous note, saying that I would find something of interest if I made a visit to this hostel. I did so. I do not have to tell you what I found.”

“The note. Did you preserve it, your Lordship?”

“No.”

“A pity.”

Lord Carfax appeared to be struggling with a natural reticence. Finally, he burst out, “Mr. Holmes. I cannot express to you my shock at finding Michael in his present condition, the victim of an attack so savage that it had turned him into what you have seen―a misshapen creature with but the merest fragment of his reason left.”

“How did you proceed, if I may ask?”

Lord Carfax shrugged his shoulders. “The hostel seemed as good a place as any for him. So that part of the problem was solved.”

Miss Sally Young had been sitting in amazed silence, her eyes never leaving his Lordship’s face. Lord Carfax took cognizance of this. With a sad smile, he said, “I trust you will forgive me, my dear, for not setting the case before you earlier. But it seemed unnecessary―indeed, imprudent. I wished Michael to remain here; and, in truth, I was not eager to confess his identity to you and your uncle.”

“I understand,” said the girl, quietly. “You were entitled to keep your secret, my lord, if for no other reason than that your support of the hostel has been so generous.”

The nobleman seemed embarrassed. “I should have contributed to the maintenance of the hostel in any event, my dear. However, I do not deny that Michael’s refuge here enhanced my interest. So perhaps my motives have been as selfish as they have been eleemosynary.”

Holmes had been studying Lord Carfax keenly as the story unfolded.

“You made no further efforts in your brother’s behalf?”

“One,” replied his Lordship. “I communicated with the Paris police, as well as with Scotland Yard, inquiring if their records bore any report of an attack such as my brother had suffered. Their records did not reveal one.”

“So you left it there?”

“Yes!” cried the harassed nobleman. “And why not?”

“The felons might have been brought to justice.”

“By what method? Michael had become a hopeless idiot. I doubt if he would have been able to recognise his assailants. Even could he have done so, his testimony in a criminal proceeding would have been valueless.”

“I see,” said Holmes, gravely; but I perceived that he was far from satisfied. “And as to his wife, Angela Osbourne?”

“I never found her.”

“Did you not suspect that she wrote the anonymous note?”

“I assumed that she did.”

Holmes came to his feet. “I wish to thank your Lordship for being so candid under the difficult circumstances.”

This brought a bleak smile. “I assure you, sir, that it has not been through choice. I have no doubt that you would have come by the information through other channels. Now, perhaps, you can let the matter rest.”

“Hardly, I fear.”

Lord Carfax’s face became intense. “I tell you, upon my honour, sir, that Michael has had nothing to do with the horrible murders that have convulsed London!”

“You reassure me,” replied Holmes, “and I promise your Lordship that I will do my utmost to spare you further suffering.”

Lord Carfax bowed, and said nothing more. With that, we took our leave. But as we went out of the hostel, I could see only Michael Osbourne, crouched in that filthy abattoir, enchanted by the blood.