A Study in Terror

Chapter X The Tiger of the Angel and Crown

“I earnestly hope, my dear fellow, that you will accept my apology.”

These words from Holmes were the most welcome I had ever received. We were back in the street, pushing along through the fog, as there were no hansoms cruising Whitechapel that night.

“You were totally justified, Holmes.”

“To the contrary. I displayed a childish petulance that ill becomes a grown man. Blaming others for one’s own mistakes is indefensible. The information, which you so readily extracted from the girl Polly, I should have had the intelligence to come by long ago. You actually proved an ability to do my work far better than I have done it myself.”

All of which was specious; but Holmes’s praise salved my pride, nonetheless.

“I cannot accept the accolade, Holmes,” I protested. “It did not occur to me that Klein was indicated as your missing link.”

“That,” said Holmes, still over-generous, “was because you neglected to turn your perceptions in the proper direction. We were looking for a strong man, a man brutal and remorseless. Klein, from what you told me, filled that bill; also, from what I myself observed in the pub. Others in Whitechapel would qualify as equally vicious, although it is true that the other bit of information points directly to Klein.”

“His recent purchase of the pub? When you explain, it becomes quite simple.”

“What happened is now predictable, with only the smallest percentage in favour of error. Klein saw an opportunity in the person of Michael Osbourne. Both Michael and, beyond all doubt, the prostitute Angela, of whom Michael became enamoured, were weak individuals, easily controlled by this cruelly dominating man. It was Klein who engineered the infamous marriage that ruined Michael Osbourne.”

“But to what purpose?”

“Blackmail, Watson! The plan failed when Michael stood upon his better nature and refused his cooperation. The plot was saved by Klein only through sheer luck, I am certain. Thus he was able to extort enough money to buy The Angel and Crown, and has no doubt further feathered his noisome nest since.”

“But so much is still unanswered, Holmes. Michael―reduced to a state of imbecility. His wife Angela―whom, I remind you, we have yet to locate―hideously scarred.”

“In good time, Watson, in good time.”

My confusion was the more compounded by Holmes’s tone of confidence.

“Their present plight, you may be sure, is the result of Klein’s rage at being thwarted by Mi-chad’s refusal to be a party to the blackmail scheme. No doubt it was Klein who administered that brutal beating to Michael which brought on his imbecility. How Angela became disfigured is not so evident, but I suggest that she went to Michael’s defence.”

At this moment, we walked out of the fog into a pocket of visibility, and saw the gate to the mortuary. I shuddered. “And now, Holmes, you plan to transport the body of that poor girl to The Angel and Crown?”

“Hardly, Watson,” said he, absently.

“But you mentioned confronting Klein with his handiwork.”

“That we shall do, I promise you.”

Shaking my head, I followed Holmes through the mortuary into the hostel, where we found Dr. Murray ministering to the blackened eye of a man who had probably imbibed violence with his pint in some pub.

“Is Michael Osbourne on the premises?” demanded Holmes.

Dr. Murray was haggard. Over-work, and the thankless task of caring for the uncared-for, were taking their toll. Said he, “A short time ago, I would not have recognised that name―”

“Please,” interrupted Holmes. “Time is paramount, Dr. Murray. I must take him away with us.”

“To-night? Now?”

“There have been certain developments, Doctor. Before dawn, the Ripper will have been run to earth. The account must be settled with the beast responsible for Whitechapel’s bloodbath.”

Dr. Murray was as bewildered as I. “I do not understand. Do you mean, sir, that the Ripper is a creature of an even greater villain?”

“In a sense. Have you seen Inspector Lestrade lately?”

“He was here an hour ago. He is undoubtedly out in the fog somewhere.”

“Tell him, should he return, to follow me to The Angel and Crown.”

“But why are you taking Michael Osbourne with you?”

“To confront his wife,” said Holmes, impatiently. “Where is he, man? We waste precious time!”

“You will find him in the small room off this end of the mortuary. That is where he sleeps.”

We found the imbecile there, and Holmes shook him gently awake. “Angela is waiting for you,” said he.

There was no flicker of understanding in the vacant eyes; but, with the trust of a child, he accompanied us into the fog. It was now so thick that we depended completely upon Holmes’s hound-like senses to keep us on our course. And, so sinister was the atmosphere of London that night, I half-expected to feel the bite of a blade between my ribs at any moment.

But my curiosity was strong. I ventured a query. “Holmes, I assume that you expect to find Angela Osbourne at The Angel and Crown.”

“I am certain of it.”

“But what purpose is served by facing her with Michael?”

“The woman may be reluctant to speak. There will be a certain shock-value in suddenly confronting her with her husband.”

“I see,” said I, although I did not, quite; and lapsed back into silence.

At last there was the sound of a hand tapping upon wood, and I heard Holmes say, “This is it, Watson. Now we search.”

A faintly-glowing window indicated that it was a domicile of some sort. Said I, “Was that the front door you tapped upon?”

“It was, but we must find another. I wish to reach the upper rooms unseen.”

We pawed along the wall and around a corner. Then a breeze stirred the fog, thinning it.

Holmes had thought to borrow a dark lantern during our visit to the hostel, although he had not used it during our journey. It might well have brought us to the unwelcome attention of foot-pads. It now served us in good stead, outlining a rear door, apparently used for the delivery of beer-kegs and spirits. Holmes pushed the panel open and reached inside. “The hasp has been recently broken,” said he; and we went through stealthily.

We were in a store-room. I could hear the muffled noise from the public-room, but it appeared that our presence had gone undetected. Holmes quickly found a laddered ascent to the upper storey. We climbed it with caution, crept through a trap-door, and found ourselves at the end of a dimly-lit corridor.

“Wait here with Michael,” whispered Holmes. He soon returned. “Come!”

We followed him to a closed door; a line of light shone upon our boot-tips. Holmes pressed us back against the wall and tapped upon the panel. There was quick movement inside. The door opened, and a female voice queried, “Tommy?”

Holmes’s hand was in like a snake and locked over a shadowed face. “Do not scream, Madam,” said he, in a commanding whisper. “We mean you no harm. But we must speak to you.”

Holmes warily relaxed the pressure of his hand. The woman’s voice asked, “Who are you?” in understandable fear.

“I am Sherlock Holmes. I have brought your husband.”

I heard a gasp. “You have brought Michael―here? In God’s name, why?”

“It was the prudent thing to do.”

Holmes entered the room and nodded to me to follow. Grasping Michael’s arm, I did so.

Two oil-lamps were burning, and in their light I saw a woman, wearing a veil whose gauzy texture did not quite conceal a hideous scar. It was undoubtedly Angela Osbourne.

At the sight of the imbecile―her husband―she grasped the arms of the chair in which she sat, and half-arose. But then she sank back and sat with the rigidity of a corpse, her hands gripped together.

“He does not recognise me,” she murmured in despair.

Michael Osbourne stood silently by me, regarding her with his empty eyes.

“As well you know, Madam,” said Holmes. “But the time is short. You must speak. We know that Klein is responsible for both your husband’s condition and your disfigurement. Tell me about the interlude in Paris.”

The woman wrung her hands. “I will not waste time making excuses for myself, sir. There are none. As you can perhaps see, I am not like those poor girls downstairs who fell into their shameful calling through poverty and ignorance. I am what I have become because of that beast, Max Klein.

“You wish to know about Paris. I went there because Max had arranged an assignation for me with a wealthy French merchant. Whilst this was taking place, I met Michael Osbourne, and he was taken with me. Believe me, sir, I had no intention of shaming him; but when Max Klein arrived in Paris, he saw an opportunity to use the smitten youth for his own ends. Our marriage was the first step in his plan, and he compelled me to use my wiles. Michael and I were married, despite my tearful protestations to Max.

“Then, with Michael safely in his clutch, Max sprang his trap. It was the most blatant blackmail, Mr. Holmes. He would acquaint the Duke of Shires with the facts, said he, and threaten to reveal his son’s wife for what I was, parading me before all the world, unless his Grace paid.”

“But this never came about,” said Holmes, eyes gleaming.

“No. Michael had more spine than Max had anticipated. He threatened to kill Max, even made the attempt. It was a dreadful scene! Michael stood no chance before Max’s brute strength. He felled Michael with a blow. But then Max’s temper, his sheer savagery of nature, seized him, and he administered the terrible beating that resulted in Michael’s present condition. Indeed, the beating would have ended in Michael’s death, had I not intervened. Whereupon Max plucked a knife from the table, and rendered me as you see. His rage left him in the nick of time, averting a double murder.”

“His beating of Michael and mutilation of you did not make him abandon his plan?”

“No, Mr. Holmes. Had it done so, I am sure Max would have left us in Paris. Instead, using the considerable sum of money he took from Michael, he brought us back to Whitechapel and purchased this public-house.”

“That money was not gained through blackmail, then?”

“No. The Duke of Shires was generous with Michael until he disowned him. Max stripped Michael of every penny he had. Then he imprisoned us here, in The Angel and Crown, plotting, no doubt, to go on with whatever infamous plan he had in mind.”

“You said he brought you back to Whitechapel, Mrs. Osbourne,” said Holmes. “Is this Klein’s habitat?”

“Oh, yes, he was born here. He knows its every street and alley. He is greatly feared in this district. There are few who dare cross him.”

“What was his plan? Do you know?”

“Blackmail, I am sure. But something happened to balk him; I never discovered what it was. Then Max came to me one morning, fiercely elated. He said that his fortune was made, that he needed Michael no longer, and planned to murder him. I pleaded with him. Perhaps I was able to touch off a spark of humanity in his heart; in any case, he humoured me, as he put it, and delivered Michael to Dr. Murray’s hostel, knowing his memory was gone.”

“The good fortune that elated Klein, Mrs. Osbourne. What was its nature?”

“I never learned. I did ask him if the Duke of Shires had agreed to pay him a large sum of money. He slapped me and told me to mind my affairs.”

“Since that time you have been a prisoner in this place?”

“A willing one, Mr. Holmes. Max has forbidden me to leave this room, it is true, but my mutilated face is my true gaoler.” The woman bowed her veiled head. “That is all I can tell you, sir.”

“Not quite, Madam!”

“What else?” said she, head rising.

“There is the matter of the surgeon’s-case. Also, of an unsigned note informing Lord Carfax of his brother Michael’s whereabouts.”

“I have no idea, sir―” she began.

“Pray do not evade me, Madam. I must know everything.”

“There seems to be no way of keeping a secret from you!” cried Angela Osbourne. “What are you, man or devil? If Max were to get wind of this, he would surely kill me!”

“We are your friends, Madam. He will not hear it from us. How did you discover that the case had been pledged with Joseph Beck?”

“I have a friend. He comes here at the risk of his life, to talk to me and do my errands.”

“No doubt the ‘Tommy’ you expected when I knocked upon your door?”

“Please do not involve him, Mr. Holmes, I beg of you!”

“I see no reason to involve him. But I wish to know more about him.”

“Tommy helps out at times at the Montague Street Hostel.”

“You sent him there originally?”

“Yes, for news of Michael. After Max delivered him to the hostel, I slipped out one night, at great risk to myself, and posted the note you refer to. I felt I owed Michael at least that. I was sure Max would never find out, because I could see no way in which Lord Carfax might trace us, with Michael’s memory gone.”

“And the surgeon’s-case?”

“Tommy overheard Sally Young discuss with Dr. Murray the possibility of pawning it. It occurred to me that it might be a means of interesting you to turn your talents, Mr. Holmes, to the apprehension of Jack the Ripper. Again I slipped out, redeemed the case, and posted it to you.”

“Removing the post-mortem scalpel was deliberate?”

“Yes. I was sure you would understand. Then, when I heard no word of your entrance into the case, I became desperate, and I sent the missing scalpel to you.”

Holmes leaned forward, his hawk’s-face keen. “Madam, when did you decide that Max Klein is the Ripper?”

Angela Osbourne put her hands to her veil, and moaned. “Oh, I don’t know, I don’t know!”

“What made you decide he was the monster?” asked Holmes, inexorably.

“The nature of the crimes! I can conceive of no one save Max as being capable of such atrocities. His maniacal temper. His dreadful rages…”

We were not destined to hear any more from Angela Osbourne. The door burst open, and Max Klein sprang into the room. His face was contorted by an unholy passion that he was just able, it appeared, to hold in leash. He had a cocked pistol in his hand.

“If either of you moves so much as a finger,” cried he, “I’ll blow you both to Hell!”

There could be little doubt that he meant it.