The Adventure of the Iron Sole
Despite the reputation of infallibility that has been thrust upon me by my friend Watson, I have never been shy to admit my own erroneous conclusions. I have often criticized his accounts as sensationalist and wholly detracting from facts of the matter. Yet when I am called upon, as I was recently, to recount the details of my cases, I have found his reports to confer more to their audience than my own notebooks. I recall one missive, sent to me by my recent acquaintance Mr. Abraham van Helsing, that thanked me heartily for my reports, as they had cleared up a bout of insomnia that had plagued him for weeks! It was upon this letter that I endeavored to present my cases in a matter more appealing to the reader, if only for the purpose of successfully conveying the information within them. I am often content to leave Watson to this task, but there are some matters, either by virtue of being before his time or of my deliberate concealment from him, that his chronicles have neglected. On these occasions I am forced to put pen to paper myself. Had he been witness to the events I am about to relate, I could not say what tales he might have spun from them. As it is, he was not, and I do not deny being glad of it.
It was the final day of September, 1888. Upon our return from Dartmoor, Watson had left me to call upon his fiancee. My efforts in my previous case had left me quite ignorant of the goings-on in London, and finding myself with an abundance of free time, I had elected to remedy this. It was those newspapers, so dutifully collected for me by Mrs. Hudson, that introduced me to this sordid affair. I had not long to peruse them before I heard the abrupt halt of a hansom cab on the street and the sound of hurried footsteps on the front step. I carefully set down my paper and pulled out my pipe, filling and lighting it, as Inspector Gregson of Scotland Yard entered, quite out of breath and agitated.
“Where the deuce have you been?” he exclaimed with some forcefulness. “We have been calling on you almost constantly this past month now!”
“I have been in Dartmoor, on a case, and just now returned to-day.”
“Surely you have still heard of this Whitechapel business?”
“I have just now finished reading of it in the paper.”
“It’s a terrible business, and no mistake about it. The Yard is at a total loss. We were rather hoping you could take a look at it. Four women have been murdered now, all of them cut apart by some knife-wielding madman. I have no great love of their profession, but they hardly deserved this. I– rather, we would all greatly appreciate it if you could come take a look at it.”
“I assure you, Gregson, that I have no need of urging in this particular affair.”
My response seemed to cause some relief to him. I continued,
“The first was killed about a month ago, if I am correct.”
“Yes, the next one was a bit more than a week after that, and then two more this morning. The club steward of Dutfield’s Yard found the first woman around one in the morning, untouched save for the slashed throat, killed just moments before he had arrived. We searched every foot of that yard and found no sign of the killer. Then, just an hour later, we found the other one in Mitre Square. She was– that body was brutally savaged. Seems the killer was interrupted the first time and took his revenge on that poor woman.”
“Is it certain that it is the work of one man?”
“That’s the thing! We have no way of telling. But all of them were caught out in the open at night, while plying their trade. They all had their throats slit. The coroner down in Whitechapel claims there to be some similarities in the attacks, but I must confess not to have examined it closely myself. I have the photographs of the victims here, should you wish to see them.” He handed them to me, and, quite mistaking my expression, added, “I have the coroner reports as well, should you care to look at them instead.”
“I have no doubt I shall have some need of them. What suspects do you have?”
“None.”
“None! What witnesses, then?”
“None.”
“Relatives of the victims?”
“None that we can find.”
“Evidence?”
“Little more than what you have read for yourself.”
“What of these letters that the newspaper has so imprudently published?”
“Forgeries. We tracked the man down to the Central News agency, but we have nothing to convict him with, and he was with the police in the morning when the murders took place. We have our eye on him, but even if he is guilty of murder, there is still the recent killer on the loose.”
“Few clues, then, to this Jack the Ripper. What a matter this is! We will have to press every advantage we have, Gregson. I would much prefer it if my involvement with this case be kept a secret. If our culprit does not expect me, I may catch him off guard. Have the two scenes from this morning been preserved?”
“The one in Mitre Square has been. Mr. Lestrade had been seeing to that.”
“Lestrade? Oh dear. We had best hurry to it, then.”
Masque of the Red Death: The Adventure of the Iron Sole
The London fog had rolled over the city, dimming the sunlight and painting the streets grey. A slight breeze chilled my neck for a moment as I exited the cab. The flowers of the square, so vibrant earlier in the year, had shriveled and wilted in the cold air. An unnatural stillness seemed to preside over the entire area, and the sounds of the city seemed muted to my ears. Even from the street I could see that the dirty cobblestones had been washed red, and I could read the gruesome memory of that crimson pool in the grim eyes of the constables. Loose dirt and gravel crunched beneath my feet as I strode into the square. The scene had been oft trampled by the coming and going of the police, and the body already moved from where it had lain. I could see the trails on the stones that marked the very path she had been taken, carried away to the cold and silent morgue. Aware of the watchful eyes of the city upon my back, I knelt down, hoping to find some minutia that had not yet been disturbed. I could determine no signs of struggle. Having found nothing of oddity at the immediate scene of the crime, I examined the nearby area and, upon examination of the street surface, I remarked to Gregson,
“This is a strange pattern of droplets left here. What do you make of it?”
“I make little,” he replied. “We could hardly avoid some displacement of blood when we
moved her.”
“The shape and color of the droplets indicate that the blood was fresh when it fell, and this path does not lead to the morgue at Golden-lane.”
“Then it dripped from the murder weapon as the killer fled the scene.”
“To fall in such a pattern, the murderer must have been standing still, but otherwise I believe you correct. Still, there is something about the spread of these droplets. I do not believe them to have come from a knife. I can observe, at least, that our culprit was not so kind as to leave us a trail to follow. Ah! What have we here?”
As I leaned closer to better examine the bloodstain, I spotted a myriad of tiny, rust colored flakes scattered upon the cobblestone. Removing a set of tools from my coat pocket, I set about collecting the substance.
“What is it?” Gregson asked
“Flakes of dried blood, I am certain.”
“Hardly cause for exclamation, at the scene of a murder.”
“Is it not? You can observe from the droplets that the blood of the victim is not so dry as this. No, these flakes are from an older source.”
“Dried blood from the clothing of our murderer, then.”
I had pondered, throughout the exchange with Gregson, of returning to retrieve Watson, but decided in the end to wait on doing so. Should I have found him and parted him from his fiancee, it would undoubtedly have been so late in the day that, had I left him to his own devices, he would have been home of his own accord. Another careful examination of the square left me satisfied that I would find no more answers, and I requested that we move on to the Golden-lane mortuary. I had been prepared as to what to expect by the photographs I had viewed before, but on viewing the body I was relieved I had not returned for my companion. I have no doubts to Watson’s strength, but the grisly remains were enough to move anyone to disgust.
I could tell Gregson to be disturbed by the scene. “Well– what do you think?” he asked me, wringing his hands in a nervous fashion.
“There seems to be little I can argue with your coroner on. There does seem to be some similarity between the victims. The method seems clear enough. She was strangled to unconsciousness, then her throat slit. The wounds were inflicted while she was lying down, but from the marks on the throat, I would estimate our culprit at a height of five feet and eight inches. Right-handed, from the angle of the injuries. These wounds are too clean to be from a commonplace knife. ”
“Yes, so thought our coroner. It looked to him as the mark of a scalpel.”
“Our subject seems to have a passing knowledge of anatomy, at the least. A man of scholarly bent. They are always the worst, when they go bad. And three more women murdered!”
“The other two are long buried, but I can safely tell you that none of the others were as– well, none were so bad as this. The first woman was only missing a few teeth.”
“Teeth! Indeed, we are dealing with a deranged mind here. We will have to use the utmost caution in our dealings with him. Still, if the first two women were killed over a month ago, it will be of little use to investigate there. Where was the third victim found?”
“Surely you do not mean to go there now! It is already dark.”
“The longer I wait, the less I shall find.”
“She was found in Dutfield's Yard, off Berner Street.”
“Very good. Now, I shall not keep you any longer, Gregson. A good night to you.”
The iron gates of the yard were unlocked, and I was able to enter without difficulty. As the heavy doors creaked open, I heard the sound of several small creatures, like mice or other rodents, skittering past me and into the street. The area was poorly lit. Darkness had settled over it like a thick blanket. The brick wall that encompassed the lot had efficiently severed it from the light of the street, and I could move my hand not two feet from my face before I lost sight of it. I was forced to adjourn to the adjoining club, and return only when I had both spoken to the club steward, who had no information to relay to me that I did not already know, and acquired a small lantern for my purposes. The pale light it cast did little to check the darkness. For many hours I examined every brick and cobblestone in the mournful yard, finding only evidence of normal activity. The blood had long been washed away, cleansed from the area when the police had abandoned it.
It was on my intended departure from Dutfield’s Yard that my eyes spotted a singular mark, not more than two inches wide, near the passage through the gates to the street. Some hard substance had skidded with great force upon the cobblestone, roughly scraping the smooth surface. I could see flecks of metal caught within the tiny grooves, engraved into the ground by some unknown force. Something of the shape seemed familiar to me, but I could not seem to place it. It reminded me of nothing more than the mark of a horseshoe, yet no cab-driver in the city could drive his beasts at the speed it required to make such a dent, unless he desired to smash his hansom upon a wall, nor did I know of any English horse with so small a hoof. It was irregular, and thus suspect. I gathered a few flecks of metal and, having completed what investigation I could for the day, returned home. I found no sign of Watson upon my arrival. Turning instead to my chemicals, I analyzed the metal I had retrieved. It was, as my thoughts had first suggested, iron, but no obvious cause revealed itself to me.
I sat down on the couch, filling and lighting my pipe, and stared into the fire, deep in thought. Watson returned home late in the evening, smiling as only one besotted by love can. He did not observe that I had noticed him, and slipped into his chambers without a word.
“This is a strange pattern of droplets left here. What do you make of it?”
“I make little,” he replied. “We could hardly avoid some displacement of blood when we
moved her.”
“The shape and color of the droplets indicate that the blood was fresh when it fell, and this path does not lead to the morgue at Golden-lane.”
“Then it dripped from the murder weapon as the killer fled the scene.”
“To fall in such a pattern, the murderer must have been standing still, but otherwise I believe you correct. Still, there is something about the spread of these droplets. I do not believe them to have come from a knife. I can observe, at least, that our culprit was not so kind as to leave us a trail to follow. Ah! What have we here?”
As I leaned closer to better examine the bloodstain, I spotted a myriad of tiny, rust colored flakes scattered upon the cobblestone. Removing a set of tools from my coat pocket, I set about collecting the substance.
“What is it?” Gregson asked
“Flakes of dried blood, I am certain.”
“Hardly cause for exclamation, at the scene of a murder.”
“Is it not? You can observe from the droplets that the blood of the victim is not so dry as this. No, these flakes are from an older source.”
“Dried blood from the clothing of our murderer, then.”
I had pondered, throughout the exchange with Gregson, of returning to retrieve Watson, but decided in the end to wait on doing so. Should I have found him and parted him from his fiancee, it would undoubtedly have been so late in the day that, had I left him to his own devices, he would have been home of his own accord. Another careful examination of the square left me satisfied that I would find no more answers, and I requested that we move on to the Golden-lane mortuary. I had been prepared as to what to expect by the photographs I had viewed before, but on viewing the body I was relieved I had not returned for my companion. I have no doubts to Watson’s strength, but the grisly remains were enough to move anyone to disgust.
I could tell Gregson to be disturbed by the scene. “Well– what do you think?” he asked me, wringing his hands in a nervous fashion.
“There seems to be little I can argue with your coroner on. There does seem to be some similarity between the victims. The method seems clear enough. She was strangled to unconsciousness, then her throat slit. The wounds were inflicted while she was lying down, but from the marks on the throat, I would estimate our culprit at a height of five feet and eight inches. Right-handed, from the angle of the injuries. These wounds are too clean to be from a commonplace knife. ”
“Yes, so thought our coroner. It looked to him as the mark of a scalpel.”
“Our subject seems to have a passing knowledge of anatomy, at the least. A man of scholarly bent. They are always the worst, when they go bad. And three more women murdered!”
“The other two are long buried, but I can safely tell you that none of the others were as– well, none were so bad as this. The first woman was only missing a few teeth.”
“Teeth! Indeed, we are dealing with a deranged mind here. We will have to use the utmost caution in our dealings with him. Still, if the first two women were killed over a month ago, it will be of little use to investigate there. Where was the third victim found?”
“Surely you do not mean to go there now! It is already dark.”
“The longer I wait, the less I shall find.”
“She was found in Dutfield's Yard, off Berner Street.”
“Very good. Now, I shall not keep you any longer, Gregson. A good night to you.”
The iron gates of the yard were unlocked, and I was able to enter without difficulty. As the heavy doors creaked open, I heard the sound of several small creatures, like mice or other rodents, skittering past me and into the street. The area was poorly lit. Darkness had settled over it like a thick blanket. The brick wall that encompassed the lot had efficiently severed it from the light of the street, and I could move my hand not two feet from my face before I lost sight of it. I was forced to adjourn to the adjoining club, and return only when I had both spoken to the club steward, who had no information to relay to me that I did not already know, and acquired a small lantern for my purposes. The pale light it cast did little to check the darkness. For many hours I examined every brick and cobblestone in the mournful yard, finding only evidence of normal activity. The blood had long been washed away, cleansed from the area when the police had abandoned it.
It was on my intended departure from Dutfield’s Yard that my eyes spotted a singular mark, not more than two inches wide, near the passage through the gates to the street. Some hard substance had skidded with great force upon the cobblestone, roughly scraping the smooth surface. I could see flecks of metal caught within the tiny grooves, engraved into the ground by some unknown force. Something of the shape seemed familiar to me, but I could not seem to place it. It reminded me of nothing more than the mark of a horseshoe, yet no cab-driver in the city could drive his beasts at the speed it required to make such a dent, unless he desired to smash his hansom upon a wall, nor did I know of any English horse with so small a hoof. It was irregular, and thus suspect. I gathered a few flecks of metal and, having completed what investigation I could for the day, returned home. I found no sign of Watson upon my arrival. Turning instead to my chemicals, I analyzed the metal I had retrieved. It was, as my thoughts had first suggested, iron, but no obvious cause revealed itself to me.
I sat down on the couch, filling and lighting my pipe, and stared into the fire, deep in thought. Watson returned home late in the evening, smiling as only one besotted by love can. He did not observe that I had noticed him, and slipped into his chambers without a word.
Last edited by Isabella on Sat Mar 17, 2007 11:21 pm, edited 1 time in total.
A week passed, then another. Watson was frequently absent. Had I but mentioned my involvement with the Ripper murders to him, I have no doubt that an army could not have dragged him from my side, but I had no desire to discuss the case with the little that I had. I spent my time investigating further, which lead me nowhere, and disproving what theories my mind could imagine, of which there were many. No iron ingot, dropped in any fashion, could create such a marking, nor any action of the iron gates. It was only on a rainy evening, when Watson and I were hurrying towards our lodgings and tracking mud on the front step, that my mind suddenly seized upon the connection I had been reaching for. I discreetly called upon my Irregulars and sent them on my errand, determined to test this new theory in full.
It was another week until my summons was answered. It was not an hour after I had breakfasted that I was called upon. The man himself was quite a nervous one, with a sallow face, lacking strength in his personality and voice. He introduced himself as Gregory Thompson. He had black hair, carefully combed without a single loose strand, and meticulously arranged, if unfashionable, clothing. A thin pair of spectacles sat on the bridge of his nose, and he often pause to push them up. I invited him to sit down, and he did so, lighting a cigarette with his trembling hands. I broke the silence by saying to him,
“You are from East End, I observe.”
This seemed to agitate my visitor.
“I was given the impression that you didn’t know of me,” he sputtered.
“Indeed, for I have never seen you before this very moment. But I observed the head of your match to be made of red phosphorus instead of yellow, which has only recently been adopted, and only by the Bryant and May company in East End.”
“I’ve heard rumors of you, and I see that they are well-founded. I would take kindly if you’d refrain from such remarks,” said he. “I have trouble with my nerves, and I don’t wish them startled.”
“They do not affect your trade, I should hope.”
“Certainly not! You’ll find no better cordwainer.”
“And of the matter I asked of you?”
“It’s a very strange matter, and I must admit to being quite surprised when it was brought up again. I can’t think of any way your boy would know to ask about those shoes. No! Don’t explain it, I don’t want to know. It must’ve been three, no, four years ago. A man walked into my shop with a set of precise instructions for a pair of shoes with iron soles. I tried, you must believe, I tried to tell him– it was a terrible idea, trying to cobble iron with such soft leather. But he’d have nothing of it. Demanded them as written. Took me forever. The stuff kept pulling the leather apart with the weight, but I did it in the end. Had to make the iron as thin as paper. If he’d gone to anyone else, they couldn’t have done it.”
“Do you have these instructions still?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Ah! That is unfortunate. Still, I would be in your debt, Mr. Thompson, if you could describe to me those shoes.”
“If you think it’ll do you good. They gave me such troubles that I remember them clearly. They were closer to boots than anything, like a lady’s shoe, if it were wider and without the heels. I know the leather to have been undyed. Most of the material was cheap. I believe the buyer to have had little money, which made the request all the stranger. The measurements were quite odd, quite odd, but they’d be about a size eight or nine shoe. I stitched it together as well as anything. Like I said before, I had to make the metal as thin as anything. I couldn’t tell you why they’d asked for it. It had no purpose at it was such a bother. I had to get a smithy in to lay the copper overtop of it– ”
“Copper!” I interrupted.
“Not so loud, sir! I didn’t understand it either, but it was specifically asked for. A layer of copper overtop, and a thick layer of leather overtop of that. I couldn’t make any sense of it myself. But he paid the price I asked and took them away, without even trying them on. I knew they most certainly wouldn’t fit him. It’s always been a mystery to me.”
“They would not have fit him?”
“I should say not.”
“Then he was likely a messenger. What can you tell me of the handwriting of this letter?”
“The writing? It was a fair hand, and well-written.”
“Someone of scholarly mind, then?”
“I should say so.”
“And he left you no means of locating him?”
“None whatsoever.”
I thanked Mr. Thompson for his immeasurable assistance to me. The case was beginning to take shape in my mind, and I had an uneasy feeling that the confrontation between the culprit and myself would not be an easy one. I returned upstairs and rummaged throughout my library, finally returning with an old tome, covered in dust from many years of neglect. The pages held no new information, but confirmed what I already knew. My theory was, I would have been first to admit, far-fetched and unlikely. Had I lived a different life, I would not have even entertained the notion. It pained me to admit it as a possibility, yet it was the only path that still remained open to me, and I could not rest until I had proved it false by merit of reason, and not of prejudice.
Not two hours after I had opened that book I was on my way out the door. Having borrowed a trick from an old case of mine, I had disguised myself as a common street beggar, so as to observe without being observed in turn. I encountered Watson as I exited my chambers, who started at the sight of me, then broke into a smile.
“Up to your tricks again, Holmes?” he asked.
“Simply indulging a curiosity of mine, Watson. Do tell Mrs. Hudson I shall be gone for a while.”
A distressed expression clouded his face.
“Not too long, I hope,” he said, trying to keep the despair from his voice. “Else you shall miss my wedding, and I will go without a best man.”
“Not too long, rest assured,” I replied. “But I must be off.”
It was another week until my summons was answered. It was not an hour after I had breakfasted that I was called upon. The man himself was quite a nervous one, with a sallow face, lacking strength in his personality and voice. He introduced himself as Gregory Thompson. He had black hair, carefully combed without a single loose strand, and meticulously arranged, if unfashionable, clothing. A thin pair of spectacles sat on the bridge of his nose, and he often pause to push them up. I invited him to sit down, and he did so, lighting a cigarette with his trembling hands. I broke the silence by saying to him,
“You are from East End, I observe.”
This seemed to agitate my visitor.
“I was given the impression that you didn’t know of me,” he sputtered.
“Indeed, for I have never seen you before this very moment. But I observed the head of your match to be made of red phosphorus instead of yellow, which has only recently been adopted, and only by the Bryant and May company in East End.”
“I’ve heard rumors of you, and I see that they are well-founded. I would take kindly if you’d refrain from such remarks,” said he. “I have trouble with my nerves, and I don’t wish them startled.”
“They do not affect your trade, I should hope.”
“Certainly not! You’ll find no better cordwainer.”
“And of the matter I asked of you?”
“It’s a very strange matter, and I must admit to being quite surprised when it was brought up again. I can’t think of any way your boy would know to ask about those shoes. No! Don’t explain it, I don’t want to know. It must’ve been three, no, four years ago. A man walked into my shop with a set of precise instructions for a pair of shoes with iron soles. I tried, you must believe, I tried to tell him– it was a terrible idea, trying to cobble iron with such soft leather. But he’d have nothing of it. Demanded them as written. Took me forever. The stuff kept pulling the leather apart with the weight, but I did it in the end. Had to make the iron as thin as paper. If he’d gone to anyone else, they couldn’t have done it.”
“Do you have these instructions still?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Ah! That is unfortunate. Still, I would be in your debt, Mr. Thompson, if you could describe to me those shoes.”
“If you think it’ll do you good. They gave me such troubles that I remember them clearly. They were closer to boots than anything, like a lady’s shoe, if it were wider and without the heels. I know the leather to have been undyed. Most of the material was cheap. I believe the buyer to have had little money, which made the request all the stranger. The measurements were quite odd, quite odd, but they’d be about a size eight or nine shoe. I stitched it together as well as anything. Like I said before, I had to make the metal as thin as anything. I couldn’t tell you why they’d asked for it. It had no purpose at it was such a bother. I had to get a smithy in to lay the copper overtop of it– ”
“Copper!” I interrupted.
“Not so loud, sir! I didn’t understand it either, but it was specifically asked for. A layer of copper overtop, and a thick layer of leather overtop of that. I couldn’t make any sense of it myself. But he paid the price I asked and took them away, without even trying them on. I knew they most certainly wouldn’t fit him. It’s always been a mystery to me.”
“They would not have fit him?”
“I should say not.”
“Then he was likely a messenger. What can you tell me of the handwriting of this letter?”
“The writing? It was a fair hand, and well-written.”
“Someone of scholarly mind, then?”
“I should say so.”
“And he left you no means of locating him?”
“None whatsoever.”
I thanked Mr. Thompson for his immeasurable assistance to me. The case was beginning to take shape in my mind, and I had an uneasy feeling that the confrontation between the culprit and myself would not be an easy one. I returned upstairs and rummaged throughout my library, finally returning with an old tome, covered in dust from many years of neglect. The pages held no new information, but confirmed what I already knew. My theory was, I would have been first to admit, far-fetched and unlikely. Had I lived a different life, I would not have even entertained the notion. It pained me to admit it as a possibility, yet it was the only path that still remained open to me, and I could not rest until I had proved it false by merit of reason, and not of prejudice.
Not two hours after I had opened that book I was on my way out the door. Having borrowed a trick from an old case of mine, I had disguised myself as a common street beggar, so as to observe without being observed in turn. I encountered Watson as I exited my chambers, who started at the sight of me, then broke into a smile.
“Up to your tricks again, Holmes?” he asked.
“Simply indulging a curiosity of mine, Watson. Do tell Mrs. Hudson I shall be gone for a while.”
A distressed expression clouded his face.
“Not too long, I hope,” he said, trying to keep the despair from his voice. “Else you shall miss my wedding, and I will go without a best man.”
“Not too long, rest assured,” I replied. “But I must be off.”
The building I had abandoned my friend and lodging for had little more than four walls to recommend itself, and an examination of the plaster told me it would soon no longer have that. There were many days in that room that I thought my cave in Dartmoor to have been far more pleasant. But I could not have asked for a better location, for the shoddy hovel placed me in the center of East End, allowing me to absorb the goings on of the city and search for any lead that might deliver the resolution of the case to me. I left only twice, to confer with my brother Mycroft. The rest of my time was spent in pursuit of some means to lure my opponent out. It was a week later when my opportunity finally presented itself. I nudged the drunkard who sat with me upon the streets, pointing him to look at a lady as she entered the public house.
“‘Ere now,” I said, “Izat the lady oo’ve told me ‘bout afore? Thought ‘oo said ‘er ‘air was fairer’n that.”
“Aye, tha’s Mary. Thought i’ was. Must’ve been a trick o’ the light. She works ‘round these parts, though I can’t ‘fford ‘er. She’s a beaut, though.”
The woman in question was quite young, and quite beautiful, despite the poverty that clearly overtaken her. Her eyes were a crystal blue, and her hair was a deep burnished red. I suspected her to have been drinking even before she had entered the pub. I agreed with my beggar companion, then lingered a while before departing, scattering the pigeons that had flocked around me. By the time the lady Mary had exited, the beggar had vanished, and I stood in the guise of a porter. She was singing an Irish song, and swaying heavily as she walked. So inebriated was she that I had no doubt she would not have seen me even had I not concealed myself from her. I followed her back to her lodgings Dorset Street, knowing this to be the golden opportunity I had sought.
I returned at three o’clock in the morning, knowing it to be an hour when ladies of her profession were at work. My disguise had again altered to that of well-dressed business man. It was not difficult to find the lady, for I could hear her singing as I approached. I caught her attention, then struck up a conversation. I have left the domain of women to Watson, but must confess now I was impressed by her. She was very bright, with a knowledge that led me to believe that she had been educated, and despite her conspicuous accent she was possessed of a clarity of speech and very charming demeanor. I could find little fault in the admiration my drunken companion had expressed to me, save the impairment of judgement that such attachments must cause.
In time it became evident that she sought to make a customer of me. I acquiesced, and we returned to her chambers. The room was dirt-stained and sparsely furnished, with only a shabby table and a bed for furniture. A dim lamp was the sole provider of light, casting the flat in darkened shades of orange and yellow. A coat hanging in front of the window served adequately as a curtain, blocking the my view to the street outside. A spare dress, threadbare like her other clothes, lay upon the table in a crumpled pile. The floor was pitted and poorly made. The faint smell of whisky lingered in the air, permeating my clothing and clinging to my skin. Through the thin walls I could hear the faint sounds of other women looking for business. The lady herself was singing an Irish ballad in a clear soprano voice. She continued her song even as a tried to speak to her.
“I wish you to take this seriously,” I tried again. “I know for a fact that your life is in danger.”
“In no more danger than yer own, I’m sure!” she replied, with a slight smile. “In danger from who, may I ask?”
“The fair folk of Wales, for one.”
My response stole the smile from her face. I cast aside my overcoat, pulling out from beneath it an air-gun I had concealed with the virtue of my tall frame, specially ordered and made, for it had the power to fire bullets of cold iron without rendering them useless to my purposes. With a single stride I crossed the room and tugged the dress from the table, revealing a wickedly sharp knife. The hilt was made of steel, but the mild patina on the blade revealed it to be iron.
“Myself, for another,” I said.
“Now really, what can you mean to do by scarin’ a young lady like this? We’ve no quarrel with one another.”
“I do have quarrel with you, and you are no young lady. Four women lie dead at your hands, and likely more should you be left unchecked. Ah, do you still pretend innocence? Your shoes seem heavier than they ought, Miss Mary. My eyes can see traces of blood in your red hair. Perhaps you would care to touch the blade of your knife for me? I shall depart immediately if you do so. No? Even a man of logic and education such as myself has heard tales of redcaps, savage goblins of unmatched speed, that dye their hair with blood and wear iron-shod shoes. I could never understand such tales, for I know the fair folk to despise that metal. And yet I could find no other solution that fit all the facts of the case.”
She shook her head in wonder. “It’s you, ain’t it? It’s the Great Detective. Ye’ve surprised me, certainly. I’d heard of you, but I never believed ye could catch one of us. Ye really are more than human.”
“I assure you, I am not. I merely apply my powers of logic to my observations.”
“Logic has no place for us.”
“Had I been my younger self, I would have agreed with you. But I have encountered your kind before.”
“Ye’ve found me, then, but ye’ll not work your tricks on me. I’ll not tell ye anythin’.”
“I have no need to be told, for I know all. I have taken the trouble of researching your past, poorly documented and clearly fabricated that most of it is. You were born in Ireland, then moved to Wales. In 1879 you were married, and yet there is not a single soul who can testify to your wedding, or your husband, and he died only a few years later. Your landlord swears that your have received regular correspondence from your mother, and yet your friends deny it. You have no mortal family, and your educated mind has been the natural result of your unnatural lifespan. But I will freely admit that mind balked at such an illogical and fanciful solution to the Whitechapel murders. It was only after speaking with you that I have become certain of it.
I know not what you did to offend the fairy folk, but I can think of no other reason one of your kind would willingly live in this massive city, or carry a knife with an iron point on it. You are in hiding from them, and you have hidden from them admirably! I can only attribute the peaceful years you spent in East End to your strong desire not to draw attention to yourself. Yet you could not contain your instinct for murder. I cannot surmise why you chose the victims you did, but I know the rest of your method. You approached those women late at night, and they did not fight back, as they saw no threat in you. Then you strangled them to unconsciousness with your superior strength, and slit their throats. After you had finished your macabre operations upon the bodies, you escaped, by means of your great speed or your stealth, which I know you to also possess in abundance, for your shoes do not click as you walk.
It was the iron-shod shoes that placed me on your trail. Once I began to think of a redcap, all the clues I had gathered came together, and that mindless brutality I had explained by madness began to have purpose. Did you know that of ten people I have asked, no two could agree on your hair color? I had found a small pattern of droplets on the ground, and yet did not know what to make of them at first. Once I recalled my ancient myths and legends, I knew the drops to have come from your hair, when you placed a fresh coat of blood upon it. I found dried flakes of blood as well, from the previous coat of blood. You have managed to conceal it quite well, but I see it upon you now as well, for I knew to look for it, and was not fooled by your faerie glamor.
As for the scuff you left on the cobblestones of Dutfield’s Yard, when I spied the muddy tracks I had left behind while running on a rainy day, I recognized the shape of the mark to have been caused by a shoe. No small force on your part could have caused that mark, else there would have been others like it. When you were interrupted by the coachman on his cart, you ran, knowing that you risked an immediate alarm if you attacked him, and that too much commotion would bring those you hid from down upon your head. In your hurry to flee from that dark yard, you almost hit the iron gates, which I know would have been unpleasant for you. It was in your desperation to stop that you left that scuff mark, and led me straight to you. It was hardly difficult to track the maker of such strange shoes, although do not allow yourself to believe that was my only means of discovering you. I knew you could not handle that metal yourself. You were clever enough to send an unwitting messenger in your place, but you could not send him too far from your own lodging without argument and suspicion. There is no reason to walk further to a cordwainer when a closer one would suffice, and you could not claim quality as an object, for you have little enough money to spend upon a pair of shoes.”
“‘Ere now,” I said, “Izat the lady oo’ve told me ‘bout afore? Thought ‘oo said ‘er ‘air was fairer’n that.”
“Aye, tha’s Mary. Thought i’ was. Must’ve been a trick o’ the light. She works ‘round these parts, though I can’t ‘fford ‘er. She’s a beaut, though.”
The woman in question was quite young, and quite beautiful, despite the poverty that clearly overtaken her. Her eyes were a crystal blue, and her hair was a deep burnished red. I suspected her to have been drinking even before she had entered the pub. I agreed with my beggar companion, then lingered a while before departing, scattering the pigeons that had flocked around me. By the time the lady Mary had exited, the beggar had vanished, and I stood in the guise of a porter. She was singing an Irish song, and swaying heavily as she walked. So inebriated was she that I had no doubt she would not have seen me even had I not concealed myself from her. I followed her back to her lodgings Dorset Street, knowing this to be the golden opportunity I had sought.
I returned at three o’clock in the morning, knowing it to be an hour when ladies of her profession were at work. My disguise had again altered to that of well-dressed business man. It was not difficult to find the lady, for I could hear her singing as I approached. I caught her attention, then struck up a conversation. I have left the domain of women to Watson, but must confess now I was impressed by her. She was very bright, with a knowledge that led me to believe that she had been educated, and despite her conspicuous accent she was possessed of a clarity of speech and very charming demeanor. I could find little fault in the admiration my drunken companion had expressed to me, save the impairment of judgement that such attachments must cause.
In time it became evident that she sought to make a customer of me. I acquiesced, and we returned to her chambers. The room was dirt-stained and sparsely furnished, with only a shabby table and a bed for furniture. A dim lamp was the sole provider of light, casting the flat in darkened shades of orange and yellow. A coat hanging in front of the window served adequately as a curtain, blocking the my view to the street outside. A spare dress, threadbare like her other clothes, lay upon the table in a crumpled pile. The floor was pitted and poorly made. The faint smell of whisky lingered in the air, permeating my clothing and clinging to my skin. Through the thin walls I could hear the faint sounds of other women looking for business. The lady herself was singing an Irish ballad in a clear soprano voice. She continued her song even as a tried to speak to her.
“I wish you to take this seriously,” I tried again. “I know for a fact that your life is in danger.”
“In no more danger than yer own, I’m sure!” she replied, with a slight smile. “In danger from who, may I ask?”
“The fair folk of Wales, for one.”
My response stole the smile from her face. I cast aside my overcoat, pulling out from beneath it an air-gun I had concealed with the virtue of my tall frame, specially ordered and made, for it had the power to fire bullets of cold iron without rendering them useless to my purposes. With a single stride I crossed the room and tugged the dress from the table, revealing a wickedly sharp knife. The hilt was made of steel, but the mild patina on the blade revealed it to be iron.
“Myself, for another,” I said.
“Now really, what can you mean to do by scarin’ a young lady like this? We’ve no quarrel with one another.”
“I do have quarrel with you, and you are no young lady. Four women lie dead at your hands, and likely more should you be left unchecked. Ah, do you still pretend innocence? Your shoes seem heavier than they ought, Miss Mary. My eyes can see traces of blood in your red hair. Perhaps you would care to touch the blade of your knife for me? I shall depart immediately if you do so. No? Even a man of logic and education such as myself has heard tales of redcaps, savage goblins of unmatched speed, that dye their hair with blood and wear iron-shod shoes. I could never understand such tales, for I know the fair folk to despise that metal. And yet I could find no other solution that fit all the facts of the case.”
She shook her head in wonder. “It’s you, ain’t it? It’s the Great Detective. Ye’ve surprised me, certainly. I’d heard of you, but I never believed ye could catch one of us. Ye really are more than human.”
“I assure you, I am not. I merely apply my powers of logic to my observations.”
“Logic has no place for us.”
“Had I been my younger self, I would have agreed with you. But I have encountered your kind before.”
“Ye’ve found me, then, but ye’ll not work your tricks on me. I’ll not tell ye anythin’.”
“I have no need to be told, for I know all. I have taken the trouble of researching your past, poorly documented and clearly fabricated that most of it is. You were born in Ireland, then moved to Wales. In 1879 you were married, and yet there is not a single soul who can testify to your wedding, or your husband, and he died only a few years later. Your landlord swears that your have received regular correspondence from your mother, and yet your friends deny it. You have no mortal family, and your educated mind has been the natural result of your unnatural lifespan. But I will freely admit that mind balked at such an illogical and fanciful solution to the Whitechapel murders. It was only after speaking with you that I have become certain of it.
I know not what you did to offend the fairy folk, but I can think of no other reason one of your kind would willingly live in this massive city, or carry a knife with an iron point on it. You are in hiding from them, and you have hidden from them admirably! I can only attribute the peaceful years you spent in East End to your strong desire not to draw attention to yourself. Yet you could not contain your instinct for murder. I cannot surmise why you chose the victims you did, but I know the rest of your method. You approached those women late at night, and they did not fight back, as they saw no threat in you. Then you strangled them to unconsciousness with your superior strength, and slit their throats. After you had finished your macabre operations upon the bodies, you escaped, by means of your great speed or your stealth, which I know you to also possess in abundance, for your shoes do not click as you walk.
It was the iron-shod shoes that placed me on your trail. Once I began to think of a redcap, all the clues I had gathered came together, and that mindless brutality I had explained by madness began to have purpose. Did you know that of ten people I have asked, no two could agree on your hair color? I had found a small pattern of droplets on the ground, and yet did not know what to make of them at first. Once I recalled my ancient myths and legends, I knew the drops to have come from your hair, when you placed a fresh coat of blood upon it. I found dried flakes of blood as well, from the previous coat of blood. You have managed to conceal it quite well, but I see it upon you now as well, for I knew to look for it, and was not fooled by your faerie glamor.
As for the scuff you left on the cobblestones of Dutfield’s Yard, when I spied the muddy tracks I had left behind while running on a rainy day, I recognized the shape of the mark to have been caused by a shoe. No small force on your part could have caused that mark, else there would have been others like it. When you were interrupted by the coachman on his cart, you ran, knowing that you risked an immediate alarm if you attacked him, and that too much commotion would bring those you hid from down upon your head. In your hurry to flee from that dark yard, you almost hit the iron gates, which I know would have been unpleasant for you. It was in your desperation to stop that you left that scuff mark, and led me straight to you. It was hardly difficult to track the maker of such strange shoes, although do not allow yourself to believe that was my only means of discovering you. I knew you could not handle that metal yourself. You were clever enough to send an unwitting messenger in your place, but you could not send him too far from your own lodging without argument and suspicion. There is no reason to walk further to a cordwainer when a closer one would suffice, and you could not claim quality as an object, for you have little enough money to spend upon a pair of shoes.”
She looked upon me with a genuine admiration that I had rarely seen outside of Watson. “Twas strung together by threads,” she said. “Ye’ll not convince me than anyone but yerself could have caught me. I can see why they want ye now.”
“To whom are you referring?”
“The fair folk. They’ve marked ye for a changelin’, to snatch away yer shadow and make ye one of their own. Ye can’t see it, but I can. First I’ve found in a city like this. That’s why I invited ye inside, to kill ye.”
“Indeed! And may I ask why?”
“Aye, I’ll tell ye my story, if ye’ll answer me a question of my own. I meself am not more than five and twenty. I had a mortal family, one that loved me. Me parents thought I ought to be learned, and spoiled me every whims. They’re gone now, elf-shot. The fey took them from me. Their bodies were still there, but the fey had snatched away their shadows, and their souls had vanished. It made it all the more painful to look at them, day after day, seein’ them move about with no heart behind their actions. I ended their sufferin’, and I decided I’d take back from the fair folk, like they took from me. I found others, like my family, that the fey wanted to turn into changelin’s. I killed ‘em afore the fey could take ‘em. Twas a mercy compared to what was in store for ‘em.
The iron shoes kept the other fey from followin’ my footsteps. I learned that from me mother, and maybe she knew it from the redcaps. After I while, I couldna touch the iron anymore. I had to flee, leavin’ me boots behind. When I came to London, I made meself a new pair. But I couldna help but need the blood, now. I found those poor, helpless women on the streets at night. They were all so beautiful, so lost. Twas a mercy I gave them, with their destitute lives. Just choked them to sleep, for I was much stronger than them. A flick o’ my knife was all it took. The looked so peaceful, then. Might’ve let meself go a bit after they were dead. Then I just walked away. Yer not the only one who wears disguises. T’was easy enough to pose as a midwife. I walked meself back home in broad daylight, and no one batted an eyelash at the blood on me clothing.”
“Ah, I had not thought of that. And your question, Miss?”
“Ye know that I’m going to kill ye. What did ye plan to do to stop me?”
“Unlike your previous victims, I will put up a struggle. The noise, for one, would be dreadful.”
“Ain’t no one that’ll come to help ye. Not here in East End.”
“And I know that I need only quote a passage of the Bible to drive you off. I have heard that redcaps lose a tooth whenever they hear the holy word. I observed that you stole your replacements from your victims.”
Miss Mary smiled at me, revealing a perfect row of teeth. “I can reach ye afore ye could finish the words.”
“I had not intended to try it, Miss Mary. I will only be satisfied with your complete and utter destruction.”
It is at this moment that the absence of my Watson is most keenly felt. The fantastic has always been, and always will be, his realm. I myself do not indulge in flights of fancy. And yet I have no other means to convey the events that followed, when myth clawed itself into reality and the impossible could no longer be eliminated. Even knowing such creatures to be as real as my own self, it is only with an iron certainty in my own soundness of mind that I speak of them now.
I have never allowed passion to overcome my reason, and yet I must confess to some small relief when a sudden transformation overtook the young lady. The flesh on her arms was now pale and gaunt, with a wiry strength I believe more than matched my own. Her fingernails had grown to an inch in length. She smiled at me, revealing an oversized mouth filled with sharpened teeth and signaling an end to her struggle against the monster she had become. I took aim with the air-rifle, knowing her to have no defenses against the cold iron bullets that resided within it. Alas, I had paid little enough heed to the warnings given to me! For the creature moved faster than I could possibly react to it. Violently lunging toward me, it seized the gun in its maw before I could fire. With a single, savage bite it sheared the gun in two, and it was only the fastest of actions on my part that prevented my arm from sharing the same fate. Robbed of my weapon, but not of my senses, I stepped backward and seized the iron knife from its resting place on the table. As the monster sprung at me again, I struck it in the chest with all my might.
I know my grip to have been a sure one. But upon piercing its master the dagger tore itself from my grasp, as though it sought to thrust itself deeper into the flesh of its victim. A great force sprung up, like a fierce whirlwind, that knocked me several feet away. It seemed as if I could make out the forms of the murdered women in the chaos the room had become. For an instant I could see a face, then a hand, then a figure, then many of these at once, until they all coalesced into four distinct forms. With a great cry of “Murderer!”– they sprung forward, snatching the hapless creature into their grasp. It twisted and tried to cry out, but one of the spirits had seized it by the throat. They tore into it, inflicting blow for blow the injuries inflicted upon them, until the vengeance of those four women was sated, and in an instant they departed.
So quickly did this occur that it had ended before I had even regained my footing. Where the creature had been, the young woman Mary now lay in its place, carved and mutilated almost beyond my recognition. The monster had vanished, and I had only my own assurances that it had ever existed. I retrieved the iron knife from the remains, noting that the creature’s heart, where the knife had pierced it, was now missing. I was struck by the irony of how that poor, mad woman had become what she had so hated, and yet, holding that murderous scalpel and standing over the mutilated body of a woman, I was keenly aware of how closely the scene mirrored four others. A sudden feeling of unpleasantness settled over me. I stood now in the place of Jack the Ripper, and it seemed as if I could feel the heavy weight of that bloody mantle upon my shoulders.
I set about removing all evidence of myself from the room. At that time it was not yet dawn, but I could hear the sounds of people going about their daily business. I gathered my own effects into a bundle, and set about fashioning a new disguise to avoid suspicion. I am, as many know, well versed in the art of stage makeup. My gaze alighted on a spare dress, lying beneath the table, and I retrieved it. The woman had been shorter than me, but I have taken more than a foot from my height in the past. A bonnet and a few carefully trimmed locks of hair aided me. Even with more than an hour of effort I cannot claim the disguise to have been satisfactory. To anyone who knew the lady, it would not hold under any examination. Gathering my own effects in my arms, disguising them as a bundle of laundry, I slipped from the room. I allowed no one to see me until I was far from that place.
The murders have ended. I find myself satisfied on that point, at the very least, if not my own conduct resolving the case. I was culpably slow in my search for the killer, and only fortune found me holding that iron knife instead of dying upon it. You will find the knife in the package that I have sent to you, and with it those iron-soled shoes that were so crucial to the matter. I do not believe there will be any more mischief from them. I have made my decision to let this case remain in anonymity, for I can think of no good that can come of it being revealed. Only yourselves and I shall know the full of the story – and, perhaps, those beings our redcap so feared and hated that she carried her own bane as close as a bosom companion. For recently I have seen, out of the corner of my eye, small creatures flitting about my window at night, of no sort that I can readily identify. Undoubtedly it is merely the result of reading too many of Watson’s fantastic accounts. Speaking of my companion, he will soon abandon me for a wife and a practice, leaving me with an abundance of leisure. I believe I shall grant myself a holiday after the wedding, as Watson has so often urged me to do, and travel a fair distance from my native England. The change of scenery will do me some good, I think. Have you any more cases like the one several months ago, do inform me, for I may very well be in the area.
-Sherlock Holmes
“To whom are you referring?”
“The fair folk. They’ve marked ye for a changelin’, to snatch away yer shadow and make ye one of their own. Ye can’t see it, but I can. First I’ve found in a city like this. That’s why I invited ye inside, to kill ye.”
“Indeed! And may I ask why?”
“Aye, I’ll tell ye my story, if ye’ll answer me a question of my own. I meself am not more than five and twenty. I had a mortal family, one that loved me. Me parents thought I ought to be learned, and spoiled me every whims. They’re gone now, elf-shot. The fey took them from me. Their bodies were still there, but the fey had snatched away their shadows, and their souls had vanished. It made it all the more painful to look at them, day after day, seein’ them move about with no heart behind their actions. I ended their sufferin’, and I decided I’d take back from the fair folk, like they took from me. I found others, like my family, that the fey wanted to turn into changelin’s. I killed ‘em afore the fey could take ‘em. Twas a mercy compared to what was in store for ‘em.
The iron shoes kept the other fey from followin’ my footsteps. I learned that from me mother, and maybe she knew it from the redcaps. After I while, I couldna touch the iron anymore. I had to flee, leavin’ me boots behind. When I came to London, I made meself a new pair. But I couldna help but need the blood, now. I found those poor, helpless women on the streets at night. They were all so beautiful, so lost. Twas a mercy I gave them, with their destitute lives. Just choked them to sleep, for I was much stronger than them. A flick o’ my knife was all it took. The looked so peaceful, then. Might’ve let meself go a bit after they were dead. Then I just walked away. Yer not the only one who wears disguises. T’was easy enough to pose as a midwife. I walked meself back home in broad daylight, and no one batted an eyelash at the blood on me clothing.”
“Ah, I had not thought of that. And your question, Miss?”
“Ye know that I’m going to kill ye. What did ye plan to do to stop me?”
“Unlike your previous victims, I will put up a struggle. The noise, for one, would be dreadful.”
“Ain’t no one that’ll come to help ye. Not here in East End.”
“And I know that I need only quote a passage of the Bible to drive you off. I have heard that redcaps lose a tooth whenever they hear the holy word. I observed that you stole your replacements from your victims.”
Miss Mary smiled at me, revealing a perfect row of teeth. “I can reach ye afore ye could finish the words.”
“I had not intended to try it, Miss Mary. I will only be satisfied with your complete and utter destruction.”
It is at this moment that the absence of my Watson is most keenly felt. The fantastic has always been, and always will be, his realm. I myself do not indulge in flights of fancy. And yet I have no other means to convey the events that followed, when myth clawed itself into reality and the impossible could no longer be eliminated. Even knowing such creatures to be as real as my own self, it is only with an iron certainty in my own soundness of mind that I speak of them now.
I have never allowed passion to overcome my reason, and yet I must confess to some small relief when a sudden transformation overtook the young lady. The flesh on her arms was now pale and gaunt, with a wiry strength I believe more than matched my own. Her fingernails had grown to an inch in length. She smiled at me, revealing an oversized mouth filled with sharpened teeth and signaling an end to her struggle against the monster she had become. I took aim with the air-rifle, knowing her to have no defenses against the cold iron bullets that resided within it. Alas, I had paid little enough heed to the warnings given to me! For the creature moved faster than I could possibly react to it. Violently lunging toward me, it seized the gun in its maw before I could fire. With a single, savage bite it sheared the gun in two, and it was only the fastest of actions on my part that prevented my arm from sharing the same fate. Robbed of my weapon, but not of my senses, I stepped backward and seized the iron knife from its resting place on the table. As the monster sprung at me again, I struck it in the chest with all my might.
I know my grip to have been a sure one. But upon piercing its master the dagger tore itself from my grasp, as though it sought to thrust itself deeper into the flesh of its victim. A great force sprung up, like a fierce whirlwind, that knocked me several feet away. It seemed as if I could make out the forms of the murdered women in the chaos the room had become. For an instant I could see a face, then a hand, then a figure, then many of these at once, until they all coalesced into four distinct forms. With a great cry of “Murderer!”– they sprung forward, snatching the hapless creature into their grasp. It twisted and tried to cry out, but one of the spirits had seized it by the throat. They tore into it, inflicting blow for blow the injuries inflicted upon them, until the vengeance of those four women was sated, and in an instant they departed.
So quickly did this occur that it had ended before I had even regained my footing. Where the creature had been, the young woman Mary now lay in its place, carved and mutilated almost beyond my recognition. The monster had vanished, and I had only my own assurances that it had ever existed. I retrieved the iron knife from the remains, noting that the creature’s heart, where the knife had pierced it, was now missing. I was struck by the irony of how that poor, mad woman had become what she had so hated, and yet, holding that murderous scalpel and standing over the mutilated body of a woman, I was keenly aware of how closely the scene mirrored four others. A sudden feeling of unpleasantness settled over me. I stood now in the place of Jack the Ripper, and it seemed as if I could feel the heavy weight of that bloody mantle upon my shoulders.
I set about removing all evidence of myself from the room. At that time it was not yet dawn, but I could hear the sounds of people going about their daily business. I gathered my own effects into a bundle, and set about fashioning a new disguise to avoid suspicion. I am, as many know, well versed in the art of stage makeup. My gaze alighted on a spare dress, lying beneath the table, and I retrieved it. The woman had been shorter than me, but I have taken more than a foot from my height in the past. A bonnet and a few carefully trimmed locks of hair aided me. Even with more than an hour of effort I cannot claim the disguise to have been satisfactory. To anyone who knew the lady, it would not hold under any examination. Gathering my own effects in my arms, disguising them as a bundle of laundry, I slipped from the room. I allowed no one to see me until I was far from that place.
The murders have ended. I find myself satisfied on that point, at the very least, if not my own conduct resolving the case. I was culpably slow in my search for the killer, and only fortune found me holding that iron knife instead of dying upon it. You will find the knife in the package that I have sent to you, and with it those iron-soled shoes that were so crucial to the matter. I do not believe there will be any more mischief from them. I have made my decision to let this case remain in anonymity, for I can think of no good that can come of it being revealed. Only yourselves and I shall know the full of the story – and, perhaps, those beings our redcap so feared and hated that she carried her own bane as close as a bosom companion. For recently I have seen, out of the corner of my eye, small creatures flitting about my window at night, of no sort that I can readily identify. Undoubtedly it is merely the result of reading too many of Watson’s fantastic accounts. Speaking of my companion, he will soon abandon me for a wife and a practice, leaving me with an abundance of leisure. I believe I shall grant myself a holiday after the wedding, as Watson has so often urged me to do, and travel a fair distance from my native England. The change of scenery will do me some good, I think. Have you any more cases like the one several months ago, do inform me, for I may very well be in the area.
-Sherlock Holmes
Last edited by Isabella on Sat Mar 17, 2007 11:16 pm, edited 6 times in total.
Author's Notes:
The story is finished, so there's no need for a seperate comments thread. You can just write them here.
I had started this as just a rogue idea. I wrote it only in support of the the fiction board, and decided to finish what I had when the board went up. It's a story that has probably been told before, and probably better, but I hope it is worth reading.
A few final notes on the story-
You may notice a decided lack of certain names, names that ought to be obvious to anyone who has knowledge of the affairs mentioned. It was done purposefully. I did not feel comfortable, even more so with the ending, to use the whole names of those long dead women. It felt disrespectful to them, in a way, especially given the manner of their deaths, and so I have left their names absent.
I struggled with using Holmes as the narrator, but Watson simply did not fit in to the story I wished to tell. I could have told it in the third person, but I decided on Holmes instead. He has never been one to easily confess to his true mindset, and so a certain amount of reading in between the lines is required. There are several occasions where Holmes does not act logically, and one point where he is downright stupid. Simply chalk it up to our detective being less emotionless than he would like to believe.
I struggled again with the end villian of the story. Jack the Ripper is, after all, the quintessential example of human evil. But in Masque, evil transforms men, and I settled on the redcap, content in the irony that in her quest to harm the fey, she had become one herself.
To those who find Holmes in drag more disturbing than the entire grisly murder affair, I hear you, man.
Personally, I find the stroy to be barely planned, ill concieved, poorly characterized, and badly written. But I hope there are some among you who disagree.
The story is finished, so there's no need for a seperate comments thread. You can just write them here.
I had started this as just a rogue idea. I wrote it only in support of the the fiction board, and decided to finish what I had when the board went up. It's a story that has probably been told before, and probably better, but I hope it is worth reading.
A few final notes on the story-
You may notice a decided lack of certain names, names that ought to be obvious to anyone who has knowledge of the affairs mentioned. It was done purposefully. I did not feel comfortable, even more so with the ending, to use the whole names of those long dead women. It felt disrespectful to them, in a way, especially given the manner of their deaths, and so I have left their names absent.
I struggled with using Holmes as the narrator, but Watson simply did not fit in to the story I wished to tell. I could have told it in the third person, but I decided on Holmes instead. He has never been one to easily confess to his true mindset, and so a certain amount of reading in between the lines is required. There are several occasions where Holmes does not act logically, and one point where he is downright stupid. Simply chalk it up to our detective being less emotionless than he would like to believe.
I struggled again with the end villian of the story. Jack the Ripper is, after all, the quintessential example of human evil. But in Masque, evil transforms men, and I settled on the redcap, content in the irony that in her quest to harm the fey, she had become one herself.
To those who find Holmes in drag more disturbing than the entire grisly murder affair, I hear you, man.
Personally, I find the stroy to be barely planned, ill concieved, poorly characterized, and badly written. But I hope there are some among you who disagree.
"No, but evil is still being — Is having reason — Being reasonable! Mousie understands? Is always being reason. Is punishing world for not being... Like in head. Is always reason. World should be different, is reason."
-
JinnTolser
- Evil Genius
- Posts: 523
- Joined: Wed Dec 03, 2003 10:43 am
- Location: Franklin Park, IL
I think you're being entirely too hard on yourself there. From the moment I figured out that it was Sherlock Holmes, I was riveted (not being familiar with MotRD much at all, I had completely forgotten that Holmes would be part of it). I think you did a superb job of capturing Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's narrative style, especially near the beginning. And the bit about Holmes having to liven up his accounts of his cases after van Helsing fell asleep reading them definitely made me smile.Isabella wrote:Author's Notes:
Personally, I find the stroy to be barely planned, ill concieved, poorly characterized, and badly written. But I hope there are some among you who disagree.
The redcap angle I never saw coming, because I don't know much about them. But when the whole thing is explained at the end, it makes sense in retrospect. The end is the only part that didn't feel like a true Sherlock Holmes story to me, and I think that's mostly due to the supernatural angle of it, which was never present in any of Doyle's stories. Given the nature of the redcap, it makes sense that Holmes would be carrying a gun full of cold iron bullets, despite the fact that I don't recall him ever carrying a weapon other than perhaps a riding crop. It was always Watson who had the gun, but when dealing with something like this, I can see how Holmes would make an exception.
All in all, I don't really see any of the things you criticized about. Where did you feel like you had Holmes acting illogically or stupid?
-
Pamela
- Sorority Shadow
- Posts: 931
- Joined: Tue Sep 13, 2005 3:48 am
- Location: Have gun, will travel
- Contact:
You are being far too harsh on yourself! I really enjoyed the story- and I personally can't stand Sherlock Holmes. I nearly halted reading because of that, but you'd made him likable to me- congratulations. 
The casual acceptance of the fair folk in this world was excellent; your ability to mundane a modern (well, okay, Victorian) approach to the story and the incorporation of the supernatural was admirable. I'm not sure, however, what Arthur Conan Doyle would have felt about your take on his beloved fairies, though...
Please, keep writing!
The casual acceptance of the fair folk in this world was excellent; your ability to mundane a modern (well, okay, Victorian) approach to the story and the incorporation of the supernatural was admirable. I'm not sure, however, what Arthur Conan Doyle would have felt about your take on his beloved fairies, though...
Please, keep writing!
His only real danger is if stupidity is contagious and lethal. In which case, we’re all dead…-Gertrude
Fantastic! Just like a real Holmes story!The redcap angle I never saw coming, because I don't know much about them. But when the whole thing is explained at the end, it makes sense in retrospect.
Ah, I can name two stories off the top of my head - In both the Sign of the Four and the Hound of the Baskervilles both Holmes and Watson had guns.... despite the fact that I don't recall him ever carrying a weapon other than perhaps a riding crop.
Ah well. If you say so. Familiarity breeds contempt, as they say.All in all, I don't really see any of the things you criticized about. Where did you feel like you had Holmes acting illogically or stupid?
Perhaps "stupid" isn't quite the right word. But Holmes' dealing with the redcap was somewhat less than it might have been - he said it best himself when he claimed that only luck had saved him. I know a lot of PCs that would have just shot her. But Holmes didn't, and that's the bit where you have to read into it a bit - he couldn't bring himself to kill her in cold blood without being provoked.
That's how I see it, anyway. But maybe it was just his desire to flaunt his superior intellect.
Last edited by Isabella on Sat Mar 17, 2007 2:32 am, edited 2 times in total.
-
JinnTolser
- Evil Genius
- Posts: 523
- Joined: Wed Dec 03, 2003 10:43 am
- Location: Franklin Park, IL
Well, Holmes must have some distaste for violence. After all, other than those two places you mentioned (it's been several years since I've read them so I'll take your word for it), he usually doesn't carry weapons, and very rarely gets into much of a fight, despite the fact that he's surprisingly strong for his size. His hesitation to outright kill somebody despite the fact that they easily could kill him doesn't seem that out of character to me, even if it's not how a lot of others would have reacted in that same situation.
That's a good point, and one which ironically is very applicable to the Masque setting. As role-players, we're used to a very casual attitude towards violence in-game, but that isn't true of ordinary people, and it especially isn't true in an allegedly "civilized" society. While Holmes is often portrayed as an emotionless calculating machine, that is more what he aspires to be as opposed to what he actually is--and the stories are speckled with examples we moderns overlook of how he is, however remarkable, a product of his times and culture (his casual use of biblical quotations, for example). I cannot see him stepping casually into the room and firing in cold blood; that would have been the sensible approach for an RPG character but not a human being, moreover one who stands for law and order. In a stress situation, when his own life or another's was under attack, yes, but not in cold blood. Add to that the fact that his deductions pointed to a supernatural explanation, and there's a very distinct emotional tension between what the evidence suggests and what his belief and mind-set suggest. As history tells us, mere facts are rarely enough to overcome a person's beliefs.JinnTolser wrote:Well, Holmes must have some distaste for violence.
*snip*
His hesitation to outright kill somebody despite the fact that they easily could kill him doesn't seem that out of character to me, even if it's not how a lot of others would have reacted in that same situation.
In that light, the way he explains his deductions to Mary makes more sense. It struck me as flawed at first--bragging of his intellectual prowess to a multiple murderer, and a supernatural one besides?--the kind of thing best left to a postscript to his anonymous correspondent (instead of Watson). Yet in another way, it makes perfect sense; Holmes is not so much bragging about his deductions but trying to convince himself of the truth. Essentially, this is a way for him to steel himself to take action at the critical point. He's not lecturing to Mary, but to that part of himself which resists believing what he's deduced so that he can take the final step against her.
On other points:
It makes perfect sense to me that in this "dark mirror" of our own world, the fey would likewise be twisted and evil. After all, the fey are inherently magical creatures, and magic has itself been tainted by the Red Death...
A "coroner" isn't the correct term for someone who fulfills the function of a police surgeon. A coroner in English law at the time is essentially the judge who presides at an inquest; the coroner's jury passes the verdict after hearing evidence from police and other witnesses and passes an official cause of death (misadventure, suicide, murder by person or persons unknown, murder by a specific individual, etc.). The function of a coroner was steadily replaced by the office of a medical examiner in most U.S. jurisdictions, coroner's juries were eliminated entirely, etc., so that medical professionals could provide specific, expert judgment on the cause of death. I got a bit long-winded there, but the upshot is that "police surgeon" would be the term Gregson uses.
And Conan Doyle himself has also put Holmes in drag.
The example that comes to mind as I type is "The Adventure of the Mazarin Stone," in which Holmes remarks that he'd assumed the guise of an old woman to gather information on Count Sylvius.I'm of two minds concerning Holmes's comments at the beginning of the story about felicity of style in writing. They're accurate, to the point, and believable. They also don't fit the time of the narration (especially when one considers that the two Holmes-narrated stories, "The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier" and "The Adventure of the Lion's Mane," take place well after this one). But this is a minor quibble best reserved for pedants and nitwits with too much time on their hands (wait a second...I think I just described myself!).
All in all, I found "The Adventure of the Iron Sole" an enjoyable Holmes pastiche and a creepy tale; I was completely surprised by the redcap and yet all the evidence was fairly presented, and the revelation of Mary as being the Ripper herself rather than the fifth victim was a creative twist indeed (and one which takes advantage of the fact that the story is explicitly set in the alternate Gothic Earth universe). So all in all, kudos! I'd certainly like to see more from you.
I'm glad everyone's stepping forward to defend his actions =P That's the point I was trying to make before. The other reason I had considered it a less than optimal performance on Holmes' part (which I didn't explain well because I was tired) is that he had put himself in a terrible situation in the first place - alone, in close quarters, with a creature he knew was faster and stronger than he was. I was merely pointing out that his actions sometimes required a bit more reading into them, since Holmes would never admit to being scared silly or uncertain.Sylaire wrote: In that light, the way he explains his deductions to Mary makes more sense. It struck me as flawed at first--bragging of his intellectual prowess to a multiple murderer, and a supernatural one besides?--the kind of thing best left to a postscript to his anonymous correspondent (instead of Watson). Yet in another way, it makes perfect sense; Holmes is not so much bragging about his deductions but trying to convince himself of the truth. Essentially, this is a way for him to steel himself to take action at the critical point. He's not lecturing to Mary, but to that part of himself which resists believing what he's deduced so that he can take the final step against her.
I can't take credit from that, it's stolen right from Van Richten's Guide to the Shadow Fey. Even the "good" fey see turning a human into a changeling as the highest honor possible. As you might guess, the friends and family of the victim usually don't see it the same way.Sylaire wrote: It makes perfect sense to me that in this "dark mirror" of our own world, the fey would likewise be twisted and evil. After all, the fey are inherently magical creatures, and magic has itself been tainted by the Red Death...
Whoops. I'm sure the story is rife with factual errors. I know it's less than historically correct.Sylaire wrote:I got a bit long-winded there, but the upshot is that "police surgeon" would be the term Gregson uses.
I know. It's still disturbing.Sylaire wrote: And Conan Doyle himself has also put Holmes in drag.
[EDIT] I should probably clarify right now that I generally approve of drag. It's just the thought of a Jeremy Brett-esque style Holmes trying to make himself look like an attractive twenty-something lady that gets me. Especially if its an attractive twenty-something lady he just killed not half an hour ago. Nnnngh.
I actually took my inspiration for the intro from those two adventures. I will explain (read: cover up) the disparity by claiming that this is the time when Holmes changes his writing styles, but he mentions it again in "The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier" because that is the first adventure he writes to the general public.Sylaire wrote:I'm of two minds concerning Holmes's comments at the beginning of the story about felicity of style in writing. They're accurate, to the point, and believable. They also don't fit the time of the narration (especially when one considers that the two Holmes-narrated stories, "The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier" and "The Adventure of the Lion's Mane," take place well after this one).
Thank you kindly to all three of you. I live off praise.Sylaire wrote:All in all, I found "The Adventure of the Iron Sole" an enjoyable Holmes pastiche and a creepy tale.
[EDIT] Now with pictures. Please tell me if you think they detract from the story so that I can take them out.
"No, but evil is still being — Is having reason — Being reasonable! Mousie understands? Is always being reason. Is punishing world for not being... Like in head. Is always reason. World should be different, is reason."
-
Manofevil
- Evil Genius
- Posts: 1687
- Joined: Sat Dec 20, 2003 11:12 pm
- Location: Why should I say? No one ever visits!
Holmes speech to Mary could also be explained as the Redcap using whatever latent powers she has to prevent him from pulling the trigger until she could get the information she wanted out of him. I'd also be very surprised if Holmes was completely certain of her nature before he stepped into the room. Otherwise, why not shoot her coming down the alley?
Great Story, by the way.
Great Story, by the way.
Do us a favor Luv, Stick yer 'ead in a bucket a kick it!
So, gentlemen, that's how it is. Until Grissome.... resurfaces, I'm the acting president, and I say starting with this... anniversary festival, we run this city into the ground! :D
So, gentlemen, that's how it is. Until Grissome.... resurfaces, I'm the acting president, and I say starting with this... anniversary festival, we run this city into the ground! :D
-
NeoTiamat
- Evil Genius
- Posts: 4119
- Joined: Tue Sep 12, 2006 5:00 pm
- Gender: Male
- Location: Boston, Massachusetts, USA
Very clever, and classic Mystery format. We get all the clues, fairly laid out, and then you get the story and you probably haven't figured it out yet.
Redcap was a piece of bloody genius, if you'll pardon the pun. When we reached the iron shoes I thought, "Fey, aha!", but the actual type did not occur to me, although it really should have. Fey in general ought to be more used.
As far as Holmes went, to my utterly uneducated eye it sounded a great deal like Holmes. Granted, I've been of mixed-fondness for him, (heretic, I know), but from what I've seen this looks quite nice.
The fact that *Mary* was the last murderer I'd have never expected.
Redcap was a piece of bloody genius, if you'll pardon the pun. When we reached the iron shoes I thought, "Fey, aha!", but the actual type did not occur to me, although it really should have. Fey in general ought to be more used.
As far as Holmes went, to my utterly uneducated eye it sounded a great deal like Holmes. Granted, I've been of mixed-fondness for him, (heretic, I know), but from what I've seen this looks quite nice.
The fact that *Mary* was the last murderer I'd have never expected.
Ravenloft GM: Eye of Anubis, Shattered City, and Prof. Lupescu's Traveling Ghost Show
Lead Writer & Editor: VRS Files: Doppelgangers; Contributor: QtR #20, #21, #22, #23, #24
Freelance Writer for Paizo Publishing
Lead Writer & Editor: VRS Files: Doppelgangers; Contributor: QtR #20, #21, #22, #23, #24
Freelance Writer for Paizo Publishing