Ellery Queen - A Study in Terror

“A blessing in disguise,” I muttered. “And that infamous beast, Jack the Ripper?”

Holmes’s grey eyes were clouded with sadness; his thoughts appeared to be elsewhere. “Lord Carfax died also. And also from choice, I am certain, like his brother.”

“Naturally. He preferred death by fiery immolation to the hangman’s noose.”

Holmes seemed elsewhere still. In the gravest of voices, he murmured, “Watson, let us respect the decision of an honourable man.”

“Honourable man! Surely you are jesting? Oh, I see. You refer to his lucid moments. And the Duke of Shires?”

Holmes’s chin was sunken upon his chest. “I am a bearer of dire news about the Duke, too. He has taken his life.”

“I see. He could not bear the awful revelation of his first son’s crimes. How did you learn this, Holmes?”

“I proceeded directly from the fire to his Berkeley Square residence. Lestrade accompanied me. We were too late. He had already had the news of Lord Carfax. Whereupon he had fallen upon the sword he kept concealed in his stick.”

“A true nobleman’s death!”

I fancied Holmes nodded; it was the merest inclination of his head. He seemed deeply depressed.

“An unsatisfactory case, Watson, most unsatisfactory,” said he. And he fell silent.

I sensed his wish to conclude the conversation, but I would not have it so. I had forgotten all about my broken ankle and the pain of my burns.

“I do not see why, Holmes. The Ripper is dead.”

“Yes,” said he. “Really, Watson, you must rest now.” He made as if to rise.

“I cannot rest,” said I, artfully, “until all the pieces are in place.” He sank back with resignation. “Even I am able to follow the sequence of those last events that lead up to the fire. The maniacal Ripper, functioning from behind his philanthropic fagade as Lord Carfax, did not know the identity or the whereabouts of Angela Osbourne or Max Klein. Am I correct?”

Holmes did not reply.

“When you found his lair,” I pressed on, “I am sure you knew also who he was?”

Here Holmes nodded.

“Then we went to the hostel, and although we did not see him there, he saw and heard us―that, or he came shortly thereafter and learned of The Angel and Crown from Dr.

Murray, who would have had no reason to withhold the information. Lord Carfax followed us and discovered the beer-keg entrance, as we did.”

“Lord Carfax preceded us,” said Holmes, abruptly. “You will recall that we found the hasp recently broken.”

“Amended. He must have been able to move through the foggy streets more surely than we. No doubt we interrupted his stalking of Angela Osbourne, who was slated to be his next victim. He must have been lying in wait in a corridor-doorway whilst we entered Mrs. Osbourne’s room.”

Holmes did not contest this.

“Then, realising you had run him to earth, he determined to conclude his infamous career in the blaze of mad defiance that his monstrous ego dictated. His final words to me were, ‘Carry the message, Dr. Watson! Tell them that Lord Carfax is Jack the Ripper!’ Only an egomaniac would have said that.”

Holmes came to his feet with finality. “At any rate, Watson, Jack the Ripper will prowl no more. And now we have defied your doctor’s orders long enough. I insist that you sleep.”

With that, he left me.

Ellery put the Watson manuscript down thoughtfully. He barely heard the click of the lock and the opening and closing of the front door.

He looked up to find his father standing in the study doorway.

“Dad!”

“Hi, son,” said the Inspector with a defiant grin. “I just couldn’t stand it down there any more. So here I am.”

“Welcome home.”

“Then you’re not sore?”

“You stayed longer than I expected.”

The Inspector came in, scaled his hat to the sofa, and turned to regard his son with relief. It soon became concern.

“You look like hell. What’s wrong, Ellery?”

Ellery did not reply.

“How do I look?” asked his father cunningly.

“A damsite better than when I packed you off.”

“You’re sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t give me that. Is your story still sour?”

“No, it’s going fine. Everything’s fine.”

But the old man was not satisfied. He sat down on the sofa and crossed his legs and said, “Tell me all about it.”

Ellery shrugged. “I should never have been born the son of a cop. All right, something’s happened. An interlocking of events, past and present. The loosening of an old knot.”

“Talk English.”

“Grant Ames dropped in on me.”

“You told me that.”

“I got sucked into the manuscript. One thing led to another. And here I am.”

“I don’t get it.”

Ellery sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to tell you all about it.”

And he talked for a long time.

“And that’s where it stands, dad. She believes absolutely in his innocence. She’s nursed it all her life. I suppose she didn’t know what to do about it until, in her old age, she suddenly got this inspiration to drag me into it. Inspiration!”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’d just made up my mind to pay her a visit when you walked in on me.”

“I should think so!” Inspector Queen got up and took the journal from Ellery’s hand. “The way I see it, son, you’ve got absolutely no choice. After all, she’s asked for it.”

Ellery got to his feet. “Why don’t you read the manuscript while I’m gone?”

“That’s just what I’m going to do.”

He drove north into Westchester, taking Route 22 until he came to Somers. He passed the wooden elephant at the main intersection, a reminder that Barnum & Bailey’s Circus had once wintered there. In Putnam County he thought of the Revolutionary heroes, hoping they were all in a hero’s heaven somewhere.

But these were surface thoughts. In depth he was thinking of the old lady he would find at the end of his journey. They were not pleasant thoughts.

He finally turned in at a trim little cottage with a doll’s-house drive, got out, and reluctantly went up to the front door. It opened to his knock immediately, as if she had been lying in wait for him. He had half wished she would not be at home.

“Deborah Osbourne Spain,” he said, looking down at her. “Hello.”

She was very old, of course; she must be in her late 80s, according to his calculations. The manuscript had not given her age on the day Holmes and Watson visited Shires Castle, except in approximate figures. She could be 90.

Like so many very old ladies, especially the tiny plumpish ones, there was a slightly withered-apple look to her, with the bloom still touching her cheeks. Her bosom was large for her size, and fallen, as if tired of its weight. Only her eyes were young. They were bright, and direct, and they twinkled in spite of themselves.

“Do come in, Mr. Queen.”

“Could you make it Ellery, Mrs. Spain?”

“It is something I have never quite become accustomed to,” she said, ushering him into a cozy little parlor, as mid-Victorian as Victoria’s bustle, Ellery thought. It was like stepping into 19th Century England. “I mean, the American habit of instant familiarity. However―take that Morris chair, Ellery―if you wish.”

“I wish.” He sat down and looked about. “I see you’ve kept the faith.”

She seated herself in a ducal chair, in which she looked lost. “What else does an ancient Englishwoman have?” she asked with a faint smile. “I know―I sound disgustingly Anglophilic. But it’s so difficult to get away from one’s beginnings. Actually, I’m quite comfortable here. And a visit to New Rochelle once in a while to see Rachel’s roses rounds out my existence.”