A Knife in the Fog Read online

  Published 2018 by Seventh Street Books®, an imprint of Prometheus Books

  A Knife in the Fog. Copyright © 2018 by Bradley Harper. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Cover design by Jacqueline Nasso Cooke

  Cover image © Silas Manhood

  Cover design © Prometheus Books

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, organizations, products, locales, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  John Tenniel, “The Nemesis of Neglect,” published in Punch, or the London Charivari, September 29, 1888.

  William Henley, “Invictus,” written in 1875, published in Book of Verses, 1888.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Harper, Bradley, 1951- author.

  Title: A knife in the fog : a mystery featuring Margaret Harkness and Arthur Conan Doyle / by Bradley Harper.

  Description: Amherst, NY : Seventh Street Books, 2018.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018016936 (print) | LCCN 2018019554 (ebook) | ISBN 9781633884878 (ebook) | ISBN 9781633884861 (paperback)

  Subjects: LCSH: Doyle, Arthur Conan, 1859-1930—Fiction. | Jack, the Ripper—Fiction. | Physicians—Fiction. | Serial murderers—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Historical. | FICTION / Historical. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3608.A77227 (ebook) | LCC PS3608.A77227 K58 2018 (print) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018016936

  Printed in the United States of America

  To Chere,

  “The Woman,” in my life’s story.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title page

  Copyright page

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Map

  The Box

  Chapter One: The Courier

  Chapter Two: First Impressions

  Chapter Three: Pockets

  Chapter Four: Welcome to the East End

  Chapter Five: Reinforcements

  Chapter Six: An Uneasy Alliance

  Chapter Seven: A Cool Reception

  Chapter Eight: The Thespian

  Chapter Nine: Legion

  Chapter Ten: Faces of Death

  Chapter Eleven: I Acquire a New Name

  Chapter Twelve: A Well-Dressed Young Gentleman

  Chapter Thirteen: Corpses . . .

  Chapter Fourteen: . . . and Cricket

  Chapter Fifteen: House Calls

  Chapter Sixteen: Dear Boss

  Chapter Seventeen: The Laundress

  Chapter Eighteen: The Calm Before the Storms

  Chapter Nineteen: A Poetry Reading

  Chapter Twenty: A Bloody Night

  Chapter Twenty-One: A Grisly Correspondence

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Diplomacy

  Chapter Twenty-Three: A Prophesy Fulfilled

  Chapter Twenty-Four: A Life Spared

  Chapter Twenty-Five: The Ripper Is Born

  Chapter Twenty-Six: The Death of Leather Apron

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Homicide, Interrupted

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Jacky Speaks Again

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: My Shadow’s Reflection

  Chapter Thirty: The Brass Ring

  Chapter Thirty-One: A Summons to Edinburgh

  Chapter Thirty-Two: A Merited Rebuke

  Chapter Thirty-Three: Odds and Ends

  Chapter Thirty-Four: The Hunt Resumes

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Abberline Relents

  Chapter Thirty-Six: The Goalkeeper

  Chapter Thirty-Seven: Standing Watch

  Chapter Thirty-Eight: An Acquaintance, Revisited

  Chapter Thirty-Nine: This Place of Wrath and Tears

  Chapter Forty: Hannibal’s Son

  Chapter Forty-One: The Terrier

  Chapter Forty-Two: Bloodlines

  Chapter Forty-Three: A Musketeer, Transformed

  Chapter Forty-Four: All for One

  Chapter Forty-Five: A Knife in the Fog

  Chapter Forty-Six: Danse Macabre

  Chapter Forty-Seven: A Train to Catch

  Chapter Forty-Eight: A Final Vow

  Chapter Forty-Nine: Journey’s End

  The Letter

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The period of the Ripper murders in 1888 was an interesting one for Arthur Conan Doyle, both as a writer and a physician. He had a successful practice as a general practitioner in Portsmouth, and some small pieces of historical fiction accepted by minor publications, but nothing that had attracted much notice. His first Holmes work, A Study in Scarlet, completed in April of 1886, was his largest and most ambitious work to date. He sent it to various publishers and was hurt by what he described as the “circular tour” of his manuscript. Fortunately, Jeannie Bettany, wife of the editor in chief for Beeton’s Christmas Annual, plucked it from the slush pile in her husband’s office and convinced him to buy it. They offered Doyle twenty-five pounds, which he found insulting, as they also demanded full copyright, but he ultimately agreed. For the remainder of his life, Doyle never failed to mention that those twenty-five pounds were all he ever received for his introduction to the world of his most enduring character.

  In July of 1887 he began a historical novel entitled Micah Clarke about the English Civil War. When Scarlet came out in the Christmas Annual it was an instant success, selling out within two weeks after a positive review from the Times. Doyle, embittered by his meager pay for the story, labored on finalizing Clarke, which occupied him for the next year. The second Holmes novel, The Sign of Four, was not published until February 1890, roughly fifteen months after the Ripper’s last victim, and nearly four years since Scarlet. The Ripper murders therefore took place in the interim between Scarlet and Sign.

  All the Ripper murders occurred in 1888, but there is still debate as to which women slain that year could be attributed to him. There are five all experts agree on, however, beginning on the thirty-first of August 1888, and the final “canonical” victim on the ninth of November. These five murders, over seventy days within the narrow confines of London’s East End, were so brutal that they made Jack the Ripper into an immortal figure of savagery and fear.

  There is in every one of us a deeply seated love of cruelty for its own sake, although the refined only show it by stinging words and cutting remarks. So let no one think the scum worse than the rest. The scum is brutal, the refined is vicious.

  —Margaret Harkness, In Darkest London, 1890

  THE BOX

  January 1, 1924, Windlesham

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

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

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

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE COURIER

  Thursday, September 20, 1888

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

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

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

  Dear Doctor Doyle,

  Please consider this letter an offer of employment for a period of up to one month as a consultant. The nature of the task I request of you is best discussed in person. As a gesture of good faith, I have enclosed a ten-pound payment that would be yours for traveling to London to hear my proposal. Should you decline my offer, the payment would be yours to keep. If accepted, it would be deducted from future reimbursements.

  The courier has no knowledge of the matter but merely requires your response. If you accept, he will telegraph my office with the date and time of your arrival and I will ensure a member of my staff is there to meet you.

  I strongly urge you to accept my invitation, sir, as many lives may lie upon its balance.

  Respectfully,

  William Gladstone

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

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

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

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

  I arrived at Waterloo Station punctually at one o’clock, relieved that someone would be meeting me, as at the time I was only vaguely familiar with London. Indeed, for many years I kept a simple post-office map of the city posted above my desk as a reference when writing my Holmes stories. I carried it with me now, and it would become well-worn over the next six weeks.

  I noted a pale, well-dressed gentleman of slightly less than average height and in his early twenties who was plainly searching for someone among the disembarking passengers. I opened my overcoat to display my checked vest, and his face brightened when he noticed me.

  “Doctor Doyle?” he enquired, with a vague continental accent.

  “Indeed,” I replied, extending my hand. “Can you tell me what this is all about?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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