A Study in Terror

Chapter XI Holocaust

I think that Holmes would have braved Klein’s pistol, were it not that the proprietor of The Angel and Crown was immediately followed into Mrs. Osbourne’s room by a man whom I recognised as one of the thugs who had attacked Holmes and me. Under the muzzles of two weapons. Holmes perforce held himself in check.

Max Klein’s rage became evil satisfaction.

“Tie them up,” snarled he, to his confederate. “And the man who tries to resist gets a bullet through his head.”

The thug tore the cords from the window-drapes and swiftly lashed Holmes’s hands behind his back, whilst I stood helplessly by. He thereupon treated me in like manner, going even further under Klein’s command.

“Shove our good doctor into that chair and lash his ankles to its legs.” Why Klein should have considered me a greater threat than Holmes, I did not understand. What courage I possess is thoroughly tempered, I fear, with a great desire to live out the years allotted me by the Almighty.

As his creature did his bidding, Klein turned on Holmes. “Did you think you could walk into my place undetected, Mr. Holmes?”

Replied Holmes, quietly, “I am curious to know how our entrance was discovered.”

Klein laughed, a brutal sound. “One of my men had to roll some empty kegs out. Not spectacular, I grant you, Mr. Holmes. But I’ve got you just the same.”

“Getting me, as you phrase it,” said Holmes, “and keeping me, Klein, may be a steed of a different colour.”

It was evident to me that Holmes was attempting to gain time. But it was to no avail. Klein surveyed my bonds, found them to his liking, and said, “You will come with me, Mr. Holmes. I shall deal with you in private. And if you expect help from below, you will be disappointed. I have cleared the place; it is closed and locked.”

The thug indicated Angela Osbourne with a worried glance. “Is it safe leavin’ this cull with ’er? She might loose ’im.”

“She would not dare,” Klein laughed again. “Not if she knows what’s good for her. She still values her miserable life.”

This proved depressingly true. After Holmes and Michael Osbourne were dragged away, Angela Osbourne was impervious to all persuasion. I spoke with as urgent eloquence as I could command, but she only stared at me in despair, moaning, “Oh, I dare not, I dare not.”

Thus passed several of the longest minutes of my life, as I struggled against my bonds, telling myself that Holmes would yet save the day.

Then came the most dreadful moment of all.

The door opened.

The chair in which I sat trussed was so situated that, when I heard the panel swing inwards, I was unable to see who stood there. Angela Osbourne, however, sat in view of the doorway. I could only look in her direction for a clew.

She arose from her chair. Somehow the veil slipped aside, and I saw that hideously-scarred face clearly. Every fibre of my being shrank at the unspeakable mutilation which Klein had visited upon her; but it was made even more repulsive by the wild expression with which she regarded the intruder in the doorway. Then she spoke. “The Ripper! Oh, God in Heaven! It is Jack the Ripper!”

I confess with shame that my first reaction was relief. The man advanced within my sight, and when I beheld the slim, aristocratic figure, clad in top-hat, perfectly-fitting evening-clothes, and opera cape, I cried thankfully, “Lord Carfax! You have come providentially!”

The ghastly truth dawned upon me an instant later, when I espied the glittering knife in his hand. He glanced my way, but only for a moment, and with no sign of recognition. And I beheld the madness in that noble face, a hungry, wild-beast’s urge to destroy.

Angela Osbourne was incapable of further outcry. She sat in frozen terror as the lordly Ripper rushed upon her and in a trice tore away her upper clothing. She could only mumble a prayer before Lord Carfax plunged the weapon into her uncovered breast. His clumsy efforts at dissection are best not described; suffice it to say that they did not approach the skill of his earlier mutilations, undoubtedly because he felt pressed for time.

As the body of Angela Osbourne fell to the floor in a welter of blood, the madman seized upon one of the oil-lamps and extinguished the flame. Unscrewing the wick-holder, he proceeded to pour out the oil. His intent was all too clear. Around the room he dashed, like some demon out of Hell, leaving oil in his wake; and then out into the corridor, from whence he returned soon with an empty lamp, which he flung to the floor in a shower of glass.

And then he seized the other lamp, and with it ignited the pool of oil at his feet.

Strangely, he did not flee; even at that worst moment of my life, I wondered why. As it developed, his maniacal ego proved my salvation and his destruction. As the flames mounted, following the river of oil into the corridor, he rushed at me. I closed my eyes and consigned my soul to its Maker. To my stupefaction, instead of slaying me, he slashed my bonds.

With dilated eyes, he hauled me upright and dragged me through the flames towards the nearest window. I sought to struggle with him, but with his maniac’s strength he threw me savagely against the window, and the glass shattered.

It was then that he uttered the cry that has echoed through my nightmares ever since.

“Carry the message, Dr. Watson!” he screamed. “Tell them that Lord Carfax is Jack the Ripper!”

With that, he thrust me through the window. Flames had caught my clothing; and I remember that, ludicrously, I slapped at them as I fell the one storey to the street. Then there was a stunning impact with the stones below, I thought I heard running footsteps, and unconsciousness mercifully gripped me.

I knew no more.