THE BOX January 1, 1924, Windlesham

The small cardboard box arrived from Florence last month and sat unopened on my desk until today. Knowing this contains my last com¬munication from one with whom I faced great danger, and who earned my enduring affection, I have been reluctant to confront this final farewell. Foolish of me perhaps, but I can pretend she is still alive as long as the box remains closed. It is as though by opening it now I am consigning her to her grave, though it has already been occupied these past several months.

It is human nature to reflect upon one’s life journey when those dear to you pass away, to recount shared experiences, and to contem¬plate the road ahead without them. While I have never considered myself an introspective man, I find with the passage of time this ten¬dency becomes more pronounced. The comrades to whom I swore an oath of silence regarding the events I am relating here have now, with her death, all crossed over, and I believe when we meet again they shall forgive my desire to recount their courage and nobility of spirit.

My soon-to-be published memoir, Memories and Adventures, con¬tains no reference to my involvement in the Ripper investigation, or how it is that I alone now know why he ended his wanton killing of the “unfortunate” women of London as suddenly as he began. I am of two minds as to whether this account shall ever be released, but the arrival of this box has spurred me into recording my memories while I still can. Perhaps, in the end, I shall leave it to my dear wife, Jean, to decide this memoir’s fate once I have joined my companions on the other side.

CHAPTER ONE: THE COURIER

Thursday, September 20, 1888

It began in September of 1888, the month hastening into autumn. I was closing my clinic in Portsmouth for the day when a stranger arrived without an appointment. I asked the nature of his ailment, and he surprised me by responding that he was not there for a medical con¬sultation but was serving as a messenger, handing me his card, which identified him as Sergeant Major (Retired) Henry Chambers, courier.

His erect carriage and regulation grooming were in character with his previous occupation and rank, as were his clothes, which were well-made but unobtrusive. When I requested the nature of his message, he handed over a thick envelope addressed to me.

Within I found a ten-pound note and a letter written on thick bond paper bearing the letterhead of former prime minister William Gladstone.

Dear Doctor Doyle,

Please consider this letter an offer of employment for a period of up to one month as a consultant. The nature of the task I request of you is best discussed in person. As a gesture of good faith, I have enclosed a ten-pound payment that would be yours for traveling to London to hear my proposal. Should you decline my offer, the payment would be yours to keep. If accepted, it would be deducted from future reimbursements. The courier has no knowledge of the matter but merely requires your response. If you accept, he will telegraph my office with the date and time of your arrival and I will ensure a member of my staff is there to meet you. I strongly urge you to accept my invitation, sir, as many lives may lie upon its balance.

Respectfully,

William Gladstone

I could not explain how Mr. Gladstone should know of me, or why he would seek me out. I considered myself a capable general practitioner, but gamely admitted there was an abundance of physicians at least as competent as—and certainly more experienced than—myself readily available throughout London. While I was hardly destitute, the promised sum of ten pounds for a journey I could easily make and return from in a single day was enticing. As my wife, Louise, was pregnant with our first child, the funds would be welcome.

After a moment’s reflection I agreed, perhaps as much influenced by my curiosity as the ten-pound note, which exceeded a fortnight’s income at the time. Besides, a brief holiday from the daily labors of managing my practice would be invigorating.

The courier had a copy of the train schedule, so I selected the train arriving at Waterloo Station at one o’clock in two days. I informed him I would be wearing an oiled canvas coat over a checked vest so that I could be easily identified upon arrival.

I notified Louise of my impending absence, posted a sign announcing the closure of the clinic in two days’ time, and arranged for colleagues to see my patients during my absence. Had I known at the time the nature of the request, I cannot say to this day if I would have accepted the invitation. Though my purse would profit signifi¬cantly, many of my preconceptions regarding humanity and society (humanity writ large), would be lost. What else I may have gained I leave to you, Dear Reader, to conclude at the end of my tale.

I arrived at Waterloo Station punctually at one o’clock, relieved that someone would be meeting me, as at the time I was only vaguely familiar with London. Indeed, for many years I kept a simple post-office map of the city posted above my desk as a reference when writing my Holmes stories. I carried it with me now, and it would become well-worn over the next six weeks. I noted a pale, well-dressed gentleman of slightly less than average height and in his early twenties who was plainly searching for someone among the disembarking passengers. I opened my overcoat to display my checked vest, and his face brightened when he noticed me.

“Doctor Doyle?” he enquired, with a vague continental accent. “Indeed,” I replied, extending my hand. “Can you tell me what this is all about?”

“I see you are a straightforward man, sir,” he responded, grasping my hand a tad over-enthusiastically. “Mr. Gladstone has empowered me to act as his agent in this matter. My name, sir, is Wilkins. Jonathan Wilkins. I am Mr. Gladstone’s personal secretary.”

“So, Mr. Gladstone is not the patient?” I asked, puzzled by his use of the word “agent.”

“I apologize for the vagueness of our correspondence, Doctor Doyle, but it is not in a medical capacity that Mr. Gladstone seeks your assistance.”

“Then why in heaven’s name am I here?” I asked, irritated by the vagueness of his reply.

Mr. Wilkins looked about, then hoarsely whispered in my ear, “Murder, Doctor Doyle. Or rather, murders . . . the Whitechapel homi¬cides.” Then in a normal tone he added, “But I request we delay further discussion until we reach Mr. Gladstone’s club, where you shall find the lodgings most agreeable and paid in full.”

I walked along in a daze as Mr. Wilkins took my bag and guided me to a waiting hansom. While Portsmouth is not the heart of the British Empire, our local papers had related the grisly doings of the madman at the time called “Leather Apron.” It had not occurred to me that I should be asked to assume the role of my fictional character, Sherlock Holmes, as a consulting detective. I resolved to hear Mr. Wilkins out, politely decline, and return home on the next available train. For ten pounds I could certainly give him an audience of a few minutes.

We passed the journey to the club in silence, for which I was grateful, as I was busy mentally composing my eloquent refusal of Wilkins’s pending request.

The Marlborough Club was indeed quite comfortable, conve¬niently located at No. 52 Pall Mall and aptly fulfilling its stated goal of being “a convenient and agreeable place of meeting for a society of gentlemen.” Its members consisted primarily of affluent barristers and members of the Stock Exchange. My traveling clothes, when contrasted with their well-tailored suits, seemed shabby. I insisted Wilkins state his proposal before I unpacked, should that prove unnecessary. He escorted me to the reading room, then poured us each a glass of water from a crystal decanter before beginning.

“Very well,” said Wilkins. “I could tell by your reaction that you know of the gruesome murders that have occurred within Whitechapel this past month. Three women, Martha Tabram on August the seventh, Mary Ann Nichols on the thirty-first, and a fortnight ago Annie Chapman on September the eighth. All three slain within yards of resi¬dents asleep in their beds.”

Mr. Wilkins shivered slightly and sipped from his glass before continuing.

“Mr. Gladstone has always been charitable to the community of fallen women in Whitechapel, and a delegation of these ladies approached him with a request for his assistance to end this reign of terror.”

“How does this involve me ?” I asked, hoping to bring him to the point.

“I read with great interest your story A Study in Scarlet published this past December,” he continued, not to be deterred. “The use of sci¬entific methods of analysis to deduce the murderer seemed quite sound to me, so I convinced Mr. Gladstone to summon you to serve as our own consulting detective. Your task would be to review the work of the police and propose avenues of investigation they have overlooked.”

He took a deep breath and, before giving me a chance to respond, concluded his apparently well-rehearsed offer. “The pay is three pounds per day, lodgings provided here in the club, and any reasonable expenses reimbursed. Do you accept this commission, Doctor Doyle? It grants you an opportunity to test your theories as to the role science could play in combatting crime. The pay is not unsubstantial, and the experi¬ence may well guide you in future stories. What say you, sir ?”

I sat there stunned, overwhelmed by the scope of the task laid at my feet. I have always seen myself as a champion of justice, but I did not wish to assume a competence beyond my abilities. Were I to fail, as was most likely, my reputation would suffer and my clumsy efforts might impede the work of others more capable than myself. I saw no reason to accept this strange commission, and several to refuse.

“I am sorry, Mr. Wilkins. Your cause is just, but I am not Sher¬lock Holmes,” I replied. “He is a fictional character, with knowledge and skills I do not possess. My inspiration for this person is my old professor of surgery, Joseph Bell. Although I carefully studied his tech¬niques, I lack his keen intellect and ability to deduce the great from the small. I recommend you contact him, though I doubt he will leave his practice in Edinburgh for such a quixotic quest.”

Mr. Wilkins leaned back in the comfortable leather chair and pon¬dered my words with a worried frown on his face. I confidently awaited my dismissal, when his reply caught me off guard.

“Very well, sir. Knowing how keen Mr. Gladstone is to resolve this matter, I extend the same offer to Professor Bell. Please understand, I am offering this to the both of you as a team. Professor Bell may have the deductive skills, but you are his voice. I will only accept the pro¬fessor if you agree to work alongside him. Having a colleague to discuss his findings may make a team that is stronger than the sum of its parts. Is that agreeable?”

I recall my thoughts quite clearly at that moment: Surely Professor Bell would never agree to this; thus, I would be excused from taking it on myself, allowing me to walk away ten pounds richer without angering a powerful man. I had to suppress a smile while congratulating myself on my clever escape.

“Agreed,” I said with false heartiness. “I shall telegram Professor Bell at once. As today is Saturday, I do not expect a response before tomorrow, or perhaps not until Monday. The lodgings are quite accept¬able; I assume the daily stipend begins now?”

“It does,” replied Wilkins.

“Then I have a telegram to compose and bags to unpack. How shall I contact you when I receive the professor’s answer?”

“The doorman of the club has three street Arabs he uses as cou¬riers; he will ensure any messages for me are sent straight away. Mr. Gladstone prefers not to meet with you until this matter is concluded. Please understand, his enemies have already made far too much of his Christian charity toward these women over the years, and he does not desire to detract from the current investigation by drawing attention to you.”

“Very well then,” I replied. “Expect my message within the next forty-eight hours.”

Wilkins departed, and I applied myself to the wording of my tele¬gram to Bell. I finally settled on the following:

GREETINGS FROM LONDON STOP IMMEDIATE CON¬SULTING OPPORTUNITY THREE POUNDS PER DAY STOP UNABLE TO DISCLOSE DETAILS HERE BUT OPPORTUNITY TO SAVE SEVERAL LIVES AND SERVE JUSTICE STOP REPLY SOONEST WITH RESPONSE AND ARRIVAL TIME AND PLACE IF AGREED STOP DOYLE

I felt as though I had been sufficiently faithful toward my potential new employer, and with a clear conscience I spent the remainder of the day walking through London’s buffet of sights and sounds. Although in later years I found the great metropolis wearisome, on that day I agreed with Doctor Samuel Johnson that when a man is tired of London he is tired of life. Thus it was with a light heart that I returned to the club in time for dinner, to be stopped at the door with a reply from Bell:

INTRIGUED STOP MUST WIND DOWN MATTERS HERE STOP ARRIVING MONDAY THREE O’CLOCK KINGS CROSS STATION STOP BELL

I read this several times, brief as it was. No matter how I analyzed it, there was only one possible explanation: Bell was coming. I was in for it now!

I reluctantly sent a message to Wilkins that Bell had agreed, ate a dinner I do not recall in the slightest, and went to my room. Shortly before retiring I received Wilkins’s reply:

Excellent! Will meet with you for breakfast at eight tomorrow to help you begin your investigation. J Wilkins.

I feared I would have little appetite for whatever breakfast had to offer, and I spent a restless night pondering how fate and a single flight of fiction had led me to this moment.