Instead, something made me run. Loyalty to my old friend was a small part of it, but there was fear as well. I knew even then that things were not always as they seemed. Holmes had told me that countless times before, and I kept thinking, Impossible, impossible as I replayed the scene in my mind. But I trusted my eyes, I knew what I had seen. And in my mind’s eye, Holmes was still grinning manically . . . at me.
With each impact of my feet upon the pavement, the fear grew.
Holmes was the most brilliant man I had ever known. And even in his obvious madness, I knew that he was too far beyond and above the ordinary ever to be outsmarted, outwitted, or tracked down. If his spree is to continue, I prayed, please God don’t let him decide to visit an old friend.
I need not have worried about informing the police of the murder. They knew already.
The day following my terrible experience I begged sick, remaining at home in bed, close to tears on occasion as I tried to find room in my life for what I had seen. My thoughts were very selfish, I admit that, because I had effectively lost my very best friend to a horrendous madness. I could never have him back. My mind wandered much that day, going back to the times we had spent together and forward to the barren desert of existence which I faced without him. I enjoyed my life . . . but there was a terrible blandness about things without the promise of Holmes being a part of it.
I mourned, conscious all the time of the shape of my army revolver beneath my pillow.
Mixed in with this was the conviction that I should tell the police of what I had seen. But then the evening papers came, and somehow, impossibly, the terrible became even worse.
There had been a further six murders in the London streets the previous night, all very similar in execution and level of violence. In each case, organs had been removed from the bodies, though not always the same ones. The heart from one, lungs from another, and a dead lady in Wimbledon had lost her brain to the fiend.
In four cases—including the murder I had witnessed—the stolen organs had been found somewhere in the surrounding areas. Sliced, laid out on the ground in very neat order, the sections sorted perfectly by size and thickness. Sometimes masticated gobs of the tissue were found as well, as if bitten off, chewed, and spat out. Tasted. Tested.
And there were witnesses. Not to every murder, but to enough of them to make me believe that the murderer—Holmes, I kept telling myself, Holmes—wanted to be seen. Though here lay a further mystery: each witness saw someone different. One saw a tall, fat man, heavily furred with facial hair, dressed scruffy and grim. Another described a shorter man with decent clothes, a light cloak in one hand and a sword in the other. The third witness talked of the murderous lady he had seen . . . the lady with great strength, for she had stood her victim against a wall and wrenched out the unfortunate’s guts.
A mystery, yes, but only for a moment. Only until my knowledge of Holmes’s penchant for disguise crept in, instantly clothing my memory of him from the previous night in grubby clothes, light cloak, and then a lady’s dress.
“Oh, dear God,” I muttered. “Dear God, Holmes, what is it, my old friend? The cocaine? Did the stress finally break you? The strain of having a mind that cannot rest, working with such evil and criminal matters?”
The more I dwelled upon it the worse it all became. I could not doubt what I had seen, even though all logic, all good sense, forbade it. I tried reason and deduction, as Holmes would have done, attempting to ignore the horrors of the case in order to pare it down to its bare bones, setting out the facts and trying to fill in the missing pieces. But memory was disruptive; I could not help visualizing my friend hunkered down over the body, hacking at first and then moving instantly into a careful slicing of the dead man’s chest. The blood. The strange smell in the air, like sweet honey (and a clue there, perhaps, though I could do nothing with it).
Holmes’s terrible, awful smile when he saw me.
Perhaps that was the worst. The fact that he seemed to be gloating.
I may well have remained that way for days, my feigned sickness becoming something real as my soul was torn to shreds by the truth. But on the evening of that first day following the crimes, I received a visit that spurred me to tell the truth.
Detective Inspector Jones, of Scotland Yard, came to my door looking for Holmes.
“It is a dreadful case,” he said to me. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” His face was pale with the memory of the corpses he must have been viewing that day. “Different witnesses saw different people, all across the south end of London. One man told me the murderer was his brother. And a woman, witness to another murder, was definitely withholding something personal to her. The murders themselves are so similar as to be almost identical in execution. The killing, then the extraction of an organ.”
“It sounds terrible,” I said lamely, because the truth was pressing to be spoken.
“It was.” Jones nodded. Then he looked at me intently. “The papers did not say that at least three of the victims were alive when the organs were removed, and that was the method of their death.”
“What times?” I asked.
“There was maybe an hour between the killings, from what we can work out. And yet different murderers in each case. And murderers who, I’m sure it will be revealed eventually, were all known to those bearing witness. Strange. Strange! Dr. Watson, we’ve worked together before; you know of my determination. But this . . . this fills me with dread. I fear the sun setting tonight in case we have another slew of killings, maybe worse. How many nights of this will it take until London is in a panic? One more? Two? And I haven’t a clue as to what it’s all about. A sect, I suspect, made up of many members and needing these organs for some nefarious purpose. But how to find them? I haven’t a clue. Not a clue! And I’m sure, I’m certain, that your friend Sherlock Holmes will be fascinated with such a case.”
Jones shook his head and slumped back in the armchair. He looked defeated already, I thought. I wondered what the truth would do to him. And yet I had to bear it myself, so I thought it only right to share. To tell. Holmes, my old friend . . . I thought fondly, and then I told Jones what I had seen.
He did not talk for several minutes. The shock on his face hid his thoughts. He stared into the fire as if seeking some alternate truth in there, but my words hung heavy, and my demeanor must have been proof enough to him that I did not lie.
“The different descriptions . . .” he said quietly, but I could sense that he had already worked that out.
“Disguises. Holmes is a master.”
“Should I hunt Holmes? Seek him through the London he knows so well?”
“I do not see how,” I said, because truly I thought ourselves totally out of control. Holmes would play whatever game he chose until its closure, and the resolution would be of his choosing. “He knows every street, every alley, shop to shop and door to door. In many cases he knows of who lives where, where they work, and whom they associate with. He can walk along a street and tell me stories of every house, if he so chooses. He carries his card index in his brain, as well as boxed away at Baker Street. His mind . . . you know his mind, Mr. Jones. It is endless.”
“And you’re sure, Dr. Watson. Your illness has not blinded you, you haven’t had hallucinations—”
“I am merely sick to the soul with what I have witnessed,” I said. “I was fit and well yesterday evening.”
“Then I must search him out,” Jones said, but the desperation, the hopelessness in his voice told me that he had already given up. He stared into the fire some more and then stood, brushed himself down, a man of business again.