A Study in Terror

Chapter XII The End of Jack the Ripper

The first face I beheld was that of Rudyard, the friend who had taken over my practice as locum tenens. I was in my room at Baker Street.

“A near thing, Watson,” said he, as he felt my pulse.

Awareness came flooding back to me. “How long have I slept, Rudyard?”

“Some twelve hours. I gave you a sedative when they carried you here.”

“My condition?”

“A most salutary one, under the circumstances. A broken ankle; a sprained wrist; burns no doubt painful, but superficial.”

“Holmes. Where is he? Has he been―?” Rudyard gestured. There was Holmes, seated grave-faced, at the opposite side of my bed. He was pale, but appeared otherwise unharmed. Thankfulness welled up in me.

“Well, I must be off,” said Rudyard. To Holmes he said, “See that he doesn’t talk too long, Mr. Holmes.”

Rudyard departed, saying that he would be back to dress my burns, and warning me again not to tax my strength. But, even through my pain and discomfort, I could not restrain my curiosity. Holmes, I fear, was in no better case, despite his concern for my condition. So I soon found myself relating what had occurred in poor Angela Osbourne’s room after Klein had forced him from it.

Holmes nodded, but I could see that he was struggling with a decision. Finally, he said to me, “I fear, old friend, that we have gone through our last adventure together.”

“Why do you say that?” asked I, overwhelmed with dismay.

“Because your good wife will never again entrust your welfare to my bungling hands.”

“Holmes!” cried I. “I am not a child!”

He shook his head. “You must go back to sleep.”

“You know that cannot be until you tell me how you managed to escape from Klein. In a dream, after my sedation, I saw your mangled remains…”

I shuddered, and he placed his hand upon mine in a rare display of affection. “My opportunity arose when the staircase burst into flames,” said Holmes. “Klein had glutted himself with gloating over me, and he was just raising his weapon when the flames swept down. He and his henchman died in the fire as the structure went up like tinder. The Angel and Crown is now a roofless ruin.”

“But you, Holmes! How―?”

Holmes smiled, and shrugged his shoulders. “There was never a doubt but that I could slip my bonds,” said he. “You know my dexterity. All that lacked was the chance, and the fire provided it. Unhappily, I was unable to save Michael Osbourne. He seemed to welcome death, poor fellow, and resisted my efforts to drag him out; indeed, he threw himself into the flames, and I was compelled to abandon his body to save my life.”

“A blessing in disguise,” I muttered. “And that infamous beast, Jack the Ripper?”

Holmes’s grey eyes were clouded with sadness; his thoughts appeared to be elsewhere. “Lord Carfax died also. And also from choice, I am certain, like his brother.”

“Naturally. He preferred death by fiery immolation to the hangman’s noose.”

Holmes seemed elsewhere still. In the gravest of voices, he murmured, “Watson, let us respect the decision of an honourable man.”

“Honourable man! Surely you are jesting? Oh, I see. You refer to his lucid moments. And the Duke of Shires?”

Holmes’s chin was sunken upon his chest. “I am a bearer of dire news about the Duke, too. He has taken his life.”

“I see. He could not bear the awful revelation of his first son’s crimes. How did you learn this, Holmes?”

“I proceeded directly from the fire to his Berkeley Square residence. Lestrade accompanied me. We were too late. He had already had the news of Lord Carfax. Whereupon he had fallen upon the sword he kept concealed in his stick.”

“A true nobleman’s death!”

I fancied Holmes nodded; it was the merest inclination of his head. He seemed deeply depressed.

“An unsatisfactory case, Watson, most unsatisfactory,” said he. And he fell silent.

I sensed his wish to conclude the conversation, but I would not have it so. I had forgotten all about my broken ankle and the pain of my burns.

“I do not see why, Holmes. The Ripper is dead.”

“Yes,” said he. “Really, Watson, you must rest now.” He made as if to rise.

“I cannot rest,” said I, artfully, “until all the pieces are in place.” He sank back with resignation. “Even I am able to follow the sequence of those last events that lead up to the fire. The maniacal Ripper, functioning from behind his philanthropic fagade as Lord Carfax, did not know the identity or the whereabouts of Angela Osbourne or Max Klein. Am I correct?”

Holmes did not reply.

“When you found his lair,” I pressed on, “I am sure you knew also who he was?”

Here Holmes nodded.

“Then we went to the hostel, and although we did not see him there, he saw and heard us―that, or he came shortly thereafter and learned of The Angel and Crown from Dr.

Murray, who would have had no reason to withhold the information. Lord Carfax followed us and discovered the beer-keg entrance, as we did.”

“Lord Carfax preceded us,” said Holmes, abruptly. “You will recall that we found the hasp recently broken.”

“Amended. He must have been able to move through the foggy streets more surely than we. No doubt we interrupted his stalking of Angela Osbourne, who was slated to be his next victim. He must have been lying in wait in a corridor-doorway whilst we entered Mrs. Osbourne’s room.”

Holmes did not contest this.

“Then, realising you had run him to earth, he determined to conclude his infamous career in the blaze of mad defiance that his monstrous ego dictated. His final words to me were, ‘Carry the message, Dr. Watson! Tell them that Lord Carfax is Jack the Ripper!’ Only an egomaniac would have said that.”

Holmes came to his feet with finality. “At any rate, Watson, Jack the Ripper will prowl no more. And now we have defied your doctor’s orders long enough. I insist that you sleep.”

With that, he left me.