Ellery Queen: A Study in Terror

On Holmes’s side, these consisted of what he mistakenly termed “impositions upon your hospitality,” when he required my services as an assistant or a confidant. “You have such a patient ear, my dear fellow,” he would say, a preamble which always brought me pleasure, because it meant that I might again be privileged to share in the danger and excitement of another chase. Thus, the thread of my friendship with the great detective remained intact.

My wife, the most understanding of women, accepted this situation like Griselda. Those who have been so constant to my inadequate accounts of Mr. Sherlock Holmes’s cases of detection will remember her as Mary Morstan, whom I providentially met while I was involved, with Holmes, in the case I have entitled The Sign of Four. As devoted a wife as any man could boast, she had patiently left me to my own devices on too many long evenings, whilst I perused my notes on Holmes’s old cases.

One morning at breakfast, Mary said, “This letter is from Aunt Agatha.”

I laid down my newspaper. “From Cornwall?”

“Yes, the poor dear. Spinsterhood has made her life a lonely one. Now her doctor has ordered her to bed.”

“Nothing serious, I trust.”

“She gave no such indication. But she is in her late seventies, and one never knows.”

“Is she completely alone?”

“No. She has Beth, my old nanny, with her, and a man to tend the premises.”

“A visit from her favourite niece would certainly do her more good than all the medicine in the world.”

“The letter does include an invitation―a plea, really―but I hesitated…”

“I think you should go, Mary. A fortnight in Cornwall would benefit you also. You have been a little pale lately.”

This statement of mine was entirely sincere; but another thought, a far darker one, coloured it. I venture to say that, upon that morning in 1888, every responsible man in London would have sent his wife or sister, or sweetheart, away, had the opportunity presented itself. This, for a single, all-encompassing reason. Jack the Ripper prowled the night-streets and dark alleys of the city.

Although our quiet home in Paddington was distant in many ways from the Whitechapel haunts of the maniac, who could be certain? Logic went by the boards where the dreadful monster was concerned.

Mary was thoughtfully folding the envelope. “I don’t like to leave you here alone, John.”

“I assure you I’ll be quite all right.”

“But a change would do you good, too, and there seems to be a lull in your practise.”

“Are you suggesting that I accompany you?”

Mary laughed. “Good heavens, no! Cornwall would bore you to tears. Rather that you pack a bag and visit your friend Sherlock Holmes. You have a standing invitation at Baker Street, as well I know.”

I am afraid my objections were feeble. Her suggestion was a most alluring one. So, with Mary off to Cornwall and arrangements relative to my practise quickly made, the transition was achieved; to Holmes’s satisfaction, I flatter myself in saying, as well as to my own.

It was surprising how easily we fell into the well-remembered routine. Even though I knew I could never again be satisfied with the old life, my renewed proximity to Holmes was delightful. Which brings me, in somewhat circuitous fashion, back to Holmes’s remark out of the blue. He went on, “The possibility of a female monster cannot by any means be ignored.”

It was the same old cryptic business, and I must confess that I was slightly annoyed. “Holmes! In the name of all that’s holy, I gave no indication whatever that such a thought was passing through my mind.”

Holmes smiled, enjoying the game. “Ah, but confess, Watson. It was.”

“Very well. But―”

“And you are quite wrong in saying that you gave no indication of your trend of thought.”

“But I was sitting here quietly―motionless, in fact!―reading my Times. ”

“Your eyes and your head were far from motionless, Watson. As you read, your eyes were trained on the extreme left-hand column of the newspaper, that which contains an account of Jack the Ripper’s latest atrocity. After a time, you turned your gaze away from the story, frowning in anger. The thought that such a monster should be able to roam London’s streets with impunity was clearly evident.”

“That is quite true.”

“Then, my dear fellow, your eyes, seeking a resting-place, fell upon that copy of the Strand Magazine lying beside your chair. It happens to be open to an advertisement in which Beldell’s is offering ladies’ evening gowns at what they purport to be a bargain-price. One of the gowns in the advertisement is displayed upon a model. Instantly, your expression changed; it became reflective. An idea had dawned upon you. The expression persisted as you raised your head and re-directed your gaze towards the portrait of her Majesty which hangs beside the fireplace. After a moment, your expression cleared, and you nodded to yourself. You had become satisfied with the idea that had come to you. At which point, I agreed. The Ripper could well be a female.”

“But, Holmes―”

“Come, now, Watson. Your retirement from the lists has dulled your perceptions.”

“But when I glanced at the Strand advertisement, I could have had any of a dozen thoughts!”

“I disagree. Your mind was totally occupied with the story of the Ripper, and surely the advertisement concerning ladies’ evening gowns was too far afield from your ordinary interests to divert your thoughts. Therefore, the idea that came to you had to be adjunct to your ponderings upon the monster. You verified this by raising your eyes to the Queen’s portrait upon the wall.”

“May I ask how that indicated my thought?” asked I, tartly.

“Watson! You certainly saw neither the model nor our gracious Queen as suspects. Therefore, you were scrutinising them as women.”

“Granted,” I retorted, “but would I not have been more likely to regard them as victims?”

“In that case, your expression would have reflected compassion, rather than that of a bloodhound come suddenly upon the scent.”

I was forced to confess defeat. “Holmes, again you destroy yourself by your own volubility.”

Holmes’s heavy brows drew together. “I do not follow.”

“Imagine what an image you would create were you to refuse all explanation of your amazing deductions!”

“But at what expense,” said he, drily, “to your melodramatic accounts of my trifling adventures.”

I threw up my hands in surrender; and Holmes, who rarely indulged in more than a smile, on this occasion echoed my hearty laughter.

“So long as the subject of Jack the Ripper has arisen,” said I, “allow me a further question. Why have you not interested yourself in the grisly affair, Holmes? If for no other reason, it would be a signal service to the people of London.”

Holmes’s long, thin fingers made an impatient gesture. “I have been busy. As you know, I returned from the Continent only recently, where the mayor of a certain city retained me to solve a most curious riddle. Knowing your turn of mind, I presume you would call it The Case of the Legless Cyclist. One day I shall give you the details for your files.”

“I shall be delighted to get them! But you are back in London, Holmes, and this monster is terrorising the city. I should think you would feel obligated―” Holmes scowled. “I am obligated to no one.”

“Pray do not misunderstand me―”

“I’m sorry, my dear Watson, but you should know me well enough to assume my total indifference towards such a case.”

“At the risk of appearing more dense than most of my neighbours―”