Ellery Queen - A Study in Terror

“I earnestly hope, my dear fellow, that you will accept my apology.”

These words from Holmes were the most welcome I had ever received. We were back in the street, pushing along through the fog, as there were no hansoms cruising Whitechapel that night.

“You were totally justified, Holmes.”

“To the contrary. I displayed a childish petulance that ill becomes a grown man. Blaming others for one’s own mistakes is indefensible. The information, which you so readily extracted from the girl Polly, I should have had the intelligence to come by long ago. You actually proved an ability to do my work far better than I have done it myself.”

All of which was specious; but Holmes’s praise salved my pride, nonetheless.

“I cannot accept the accolade, Holmes,” I protested. “It did not occur to me that Klein was indicated as your missing link.”

“That,” said Holmes, still over-generous, “was because you neglected to turn your perceptions in the proper direction. We were looking for a strong man, a man brutal and remorseless. Klein, from what you told me, filled that bill; also, from what I myself observed in the pub. Others in Whitechapel would qualify as equally vicious, although it is true that the other bit of information points directly to Klein.”

“His recent purchase of the pub? When you explain, it becomes quite simple.”

“What happened is now predictable, with only the smallest percentage in favour of error. Klein saw an opportunity in the person of Michael Osbourne. Both Michael and, beyond all doubt, the prostitute Angela, of whom Michael became enamoured, were weak individuals, easily controlled by this cruelly dominating man. It was Klein who engineered the infamous marriage that ruined Michael Osbourne.”

“But to what purpose?”

“Blackmail, Watson! The plan failed when Michael stood upon his better nature and refused his cooperation. The plot was saved by Klein only through sheer luck, I am certain. Thus he was able to extort enough money to buy The Angel and Crown, and has no doubt further feathered his noisome nest since.”

“But so much is still unanswered, Holmes. Michael―reduced to a state of imbecility. His wife Angela―whom, I remind you, we have yet to locate―hideously scarred.”

“In good time, Watson, in good time.”

My confusion was the more compounded by Holmes’s tone of confidence.

“Their present plight, you may be sure, is the result of Klein’s rage at being thwarted by Mi-chad’s refusal to be a party to the blackmail scheme. No doubt it was Klein who administered that brutal beating to Michael which brought on his imbecility. How Angela became disfigured is not so evident, but I suggest that she went to Michael’s defence.”

At this moment, we walked out of the fog into a pocket of visibility, and saw the gate to the mortuary. I shuddered. “And now, Holmes, you plan to transport the body of that poor girl to The Angel and Crown?”

“Hardly, Watson,” said he, absently.

“But you mentioned confronting Klein with his handiwork.”

“That we shall do, I promise you.”

Shaking my head, I followed Holmes through the mortuary into the hostel, where we found Dr. Murray ministering to the blackened eye of a man who had probably imbibed violence with his pint in some pub.

“Is Michael Osbourne on the premises?” demanded Holmes.

Dr. Murray was haggard. Over-work, and the thankless task of caring for the uncared-for, were taking their toll. Said he, “A short time ago, I would not have recognised that name―”

“Please,” interrupted Holmes. “Time is paramount, Dr. Murray. I must take him away with us.”

“To-night? Now?”

“There have been certain developments, Doctor. Before dawn, the Ripper will have been run to earth. The account must be settled with the beast responsible for Whitechapel’s bloodbath.”

Dr. Murray was as bewildered as I. “I do not understand. Do you mean, sir, that the Ripper is a creature of an even greater villain?”

“In a sense. Have you seen Inspector Lestrade lately?”

“He was here an hour ago. He is undoubtedly out in the fog somewhere.”

“Tell him, should he return, to follow me to The Angel and Crown.”

“But why are you taking Michael Osbourne with you?”

“To confront his wife,” said Holmes, impatiently. “Where is he, man? We waste precious time!”

“You will find him in the small room off this end of the mortuary. That is where he sleeps.”

We found the imbecile there, and Holmes shook him gently awake. “Angela is waiting for you,” said he.

There was no flicker of understanding in the vacant eyes; but, with the trust of a child, he accompanied us into the fog. It was now so thick that we depended completely upon Holmes’s hound-like senses to keep us on our course. And, so sinister was the atmosphere of London that night, I half-expected to feel the bite of a blade between my ribs at any moment.

But my curiosity was strong. I ventured a query. “Holmes, I assume that you expect to find Angela Osbourne at The Angel and Crown.”

“I am certain of it.”

“But what purpose is served by facing her with Michael?”

“The woman may be reluctant to speak. There will be a certain shock-value in suddenly confronting her with her husband.”

“I see,” said I, although I did not, quite; and lapsed back into silence.

At last there was the sound of a hand tapping upon wood, and I heard Holmes say, “This is it, Watson. Now we search.”

A faintly-glowing window indicated that it was a domicile of some sort. Said I, “Was that the front door you tapped upon?”

“It was, but we must find another. I wish to reach the upper rooms unseen.”

We pawed along the wall and around a corner. Then a breeze stirred the fog, thinning it.

Holmes had thought to borrow a dark lantern during our visit to the hostel, although he had not used it during our journey. It might well have brought us to the unwelcome attention of foot-pads. It now served us in good stead, outlining a rear door, apparently used for the delivery of beer-kegs and spirits. Holmes pushed the panel open and reached inside. “The hasp has been recently broken,” said he; and we went through stealthily.

We were in a store-room. I could hear the muffled noise from the public-room, but it appeared that our presence had gone undetected. Holmes quickly found a laddered ascent to the upper storey. We climbed it with caution, crept through a trap-door, and found ourselves at the end of a dimly-lit corridor.

“Wait here with Michael,” whispered Holmes. He soon returned. “Come!”

We followed him to a closed door; a line of light shone upon our boot-tips. Holmes pressed us back against the wall and tapped upon the panel. There was quick movement inside. The door opened, and a female voice queried, “Tommy?”

Holmes’s hand was in like a snake and locked over a shadowed face. “Do not scream, Madam,” said he, in a commanding whisper. “We mean you no harm. But we must speak to you.”

Holmes warily relaxed the pressure of his hand. The woman’s voice asked, “Who are you?” in understandable fear.

“I am Sherlock Holmes. I have brought your husband.”

I heard a gasp. “You have brought Michael―here? In God’s name, why?”

“It was the prudent thing to do.”

Holmes entered the room and nodded to me to follow. Grasping Michael’s arm, I did so.

Two oil-lamps were burning, and in their light I saw a woman, wearing a veil whose gauzy texture did not quite conceal a hideous scar. It was undoubtedly Angela Osbourne.

At the sight of the imbecile―her husband―she grasped the arms of the chair in which she sat, and half-arose. But then she sank back and sat with the rigidity of a corpse, her hands gripped together.