Sherlock Holmes vs. H. H. Holmes – Only One Will Outwit the Other

For the first time, I’m inviting readers of Webber’s Whipping Post to preview my upcoming novel. Below are the first two chapters.

CHAPTER 1

Two weeks earlier – Dr. Watson’s Residence

I was lying in bed contemplating whether to rise to face the day when I heard an extraordinary pounding upon my front door downstairs. Whoever it was they were beating upon the knocker hard enough to wake the dead. I got up, threw on my bathrobe and hurried down the stairs to see who in the blazes was beating on my door so hard it was rattling the house.

I threw open the door, ready to give the insolent visitor a piece of my mind concerning his uncouth manners, when I observed a young man, nor more than in his early teens, standing there. He cowered when he saw me, which caused me to lose my head of steam.

“Forgive me sir, but I was told to deliver this message at once and to make sure I knocked hard and often enough to get your attention.”

“Well, you achieved your mission, boy” said I, pressing a shilling into the lad’s hand. “There you are, my lad.”

“I was told to await your reply, sir” the boy replied.

“I have just been awakened my dear lad. Give me fifteen minutes and come back. Hopefully I will have my reply.”

I removed the missive from the envelope that was obviously addressed by Sherlock Holmes, although I was surprised the boy could read the crude writing manner that was Holmes’ style. I sat down at the kitchen table while my wife made me a cup of tea.

“Watson, pack your bags, kiss your wife, and come to my flat at once. We are off  to Chicago in pursuit of the most vicious murderer I have ever encountered. Bring your revolver. I have an uncomfortable feeling this investigation may prove unusually dangerous.”

“Oh, dear,” I said to my wife. “Holmes wants to drag me to Chicago, in America.”

“America? That is a considerable journey,” she replied. “When will you be leaving?”

“Evidently, immediately.” I replied.

“Mr. Watson,” she said crossly. “He expects you to pack a bag and leave immediately on a trip that will take you away for months?”

“It appears so, my dear,” I replied. “Would you prefer I not go?”

She poured the tea but did not immediately reply. I couldn’t tell if she was cross with me or Holmes.  

“I suppose it is up to you, John.”

It was usually not a good sign when she called me by my given name.

“I’ll send him a missive to say I did not get enough notice and that I can’t leave right away,” I said.

“No,” she replied. “I don’t want to be the one that holds you back. Your friend plainly has need of you, I suppose you should go. You’ll miss your birthday celebration I had planned though.”

“Oh, dear. I’m so sorry. Perhaps I should stay…

“No!” she cried. “Go!”

I wasn’t really sure I wanted to go with so little notice. I also didn’t want to disappoint her plans for my birthday. But Holmes evidently needed me. I was truly in a quandary and didn’t like it that the boy would be back soon with my reply.

“I suppose I shall go, then,” I replied finally. “He is expecting me to help him, or at least chronicle everything he’s doing.”

I wrote a message that I would be there as soon as time would permit.  When I returned to the front door the boy was sitting on the stoop. I handed him the message and he sped off.

I returned to the kitchen for breakfast.

CHAPTER 2

It was nearly two hours before I reached 221B Baker Street. Holmes was pacing in front of the house, his traveling coat buttoned to the neck, and his black bowler on his head. There was a modest Gladstone bag resting on the stairs. A hansom cab stood at the curb, the horse stamping impatiently upon the cobblestones.

Holmes consulted his watch.

“Excellent, Watson. We have allowed ourselves just enough time. Our train departs from Euston within the hour.”

He handed me a ticket.

“I have secured adjoining first-class staterooms aboard the Cunard steamer Campania. She sails from Liverpool tomorrow afternoon.”

I examined the ticket with some surprise.

“A first-class stateroom, Holmes? That is most generous.”

He looked at me as though I had uttered something particularly irrational.

“My dear Watson, would you willingly spend nearly a week crossing the Atlantic in any lesser accommodation?”

“I confess I would not.”

“I thought as much.”

We climbed into the waiting hansom and were soon weaving through the crowded streets of London toward Euston Station. The horse settled into a brisk gallop, eager for his destination. While I appreciated the driver’s haste, every rut in the roadway sent another jolt through the cab, and before long my old Afghan wound had begun to protest.

For several minutes Holmes remained silent, gazing thoughtfully through the cab window. At length he spoke.

“Our quarry sailed from Liverpool three days ago aboard the White Star liner Teutonic.”

“Then we are already at a disadvantage.”

“Not necessarily. The Campania is the faster vessel. Assuming favorable weather, we should reach New York with sufficient time to intercept him before he reaches Chicago.”

“And this fugitive has a name?”

“Thomas Jones.”

“I presume that is not the name upon his baptismal certificate.”

Holmes permitted himself the faintest smile.

“I should be astonished if it were.”

“And why Chicago?”

“Because I believe Mr. Jones intends to join another murderer whose activities have recently come to my attention.”

“And who might that be?”

“A gentleman calling himself H. H. Holmes.”

I could not resist.

“Any relation?”

Holmes ignored the remark and turned back to the window.

Our express train departed Euston precisely on schedule, and after a comfortable journey across the English countryside we arrived beneath the immense iron and glass roof of Liverpool Lime Street Station in the late afternoon.

The hansom had conveyed us through bustling streets toward the waterfront. Long before we caught sight of the River Mersey, we became aware of the docks by their unmistakable sounds and odors. Steam whistles shrieked incessantly above the cries of gulls. Dock laborers shouted to one another while drays loaded with cargo rattled over the stone streets. Coal smoke mingled with the sharp scent of salt water, tar, wet rope, and fish.

Presently we reached the famous Liverpool Landing Stage.

I had never seen its like.

The floating landing stage rose and fell gently with the tide beneath the feet of hundreds of passengers…

Beyond it towered the magnificent Campania…

“It is an astonishing feat of engineering,” I remarked.

“It is a practical necessity,” replied Holmes. “The Mersey’s tides would make a fixed landing wholly inadequate.”

“Business?”

“The Cunard offices, Watson.”

“You intend to investigate before we have even sailed?”

“My dear fellow, the investigation began the moment I accepted the case.”

He disappeared into the evening, leaving me to enjoy a quiet meal and an early retirement.

Our luggage having been delivered to the North Western Hotel, Holmes announced that he had business to attend before supper.

“Business, Holmes?”

“The Cunard offices, Watson.”

“You intend to investigate before we have even sailed?”

“My dear fellow, the investigation began the moment I accepted the case.”

With that he disappeared, leaving me to dine alone in the hotel’s comfortable restaurant. I lingered over a modest supper, read the evening edition of the Liverpool Mercury, and finally retired to my room overlooking Lime Street. Holmes did not return until well after I had gone to bed.

The following morning dawned cool and overcast. I was sitting in the restaurant by myself when Holmes approached.

“You ready to board?” Holmes said impatiently.

“Are you going to have breakfast Holmes?” I replied.

“No time, Watson. I wish to be aboard before the general confusion begins.”

We took a hansom to the Liverpool Landing Stage, where hundreds of passengers had already gathered beneath the great Cunard banners fluttering in the breeze. Porters hurried about with trunks piled precariously upon handcarts while stewards directed first-class passengers toward the gangway.

Once our tickets had been inspected, we were ushered to our adjoining first-class staterooms aboard the Campania. They were comfortably furnished in polished mahogany, with gleaming brass fittings and electric lamps that seemed almost miraculous after the gaslight to which I had become accustomed.

Holmes scarcely glanced around the cabin before reaching for his hat.

“Surely you’re not leaving already?” I asked.

“The Purser has promised me five minutes of his time.”

“Passenger lists?”

Holmes smiled.

“You are improving, Watson.”

The ship cast off shortly after noon to the cheers of those assembled along the docks. It occurred to me some of these people were seeing their loved ones for the last time.

As Liverpool slowly faded into the distance, I searched my medical bag for a small bottle of bromide. My previous sea voyages, particularly my return from Afghanistan aboard the troopship Orontes, had taught me that the Atlantic possessed little regard for the dignity of even physicians.

I swallowed a modest dose while Holmes watched with mild amusement.

“You still anticipate the worst?”

“I merely prefer to prevent misery rather than treat it.”

“A philosophy worthy of your profession.”

That evening Holmes astonished me once again.

Upon entering the first-class dining saloon, I discovered him seated beside Captain Edward Sinclair of the Campania. Opposite them sat the ship’s Purser and Dr. Frederick Blackwell, the vessel’s surgeon.

Holmes motioned for me to join them.

“Watson, permit me to present Captain Sinclair.”

The Captain proved to be a pleasant gentleman of perhaps sixty years, whose weathered face spoke of decades spent upon the Atlantic.

“I understand you served in Afghanistan, Doctor,” he said warmly.

“I did indeed.”

“Then perhaps Dr. Blackwell may persuade you to lend him a hand should the sea prove unkind to our passengers.”

“I shall gladly do whatever I can.”

Dinner passed agreeably.

The Captain spoke of storms upon the Grand Banks, while the Purser related amusing anecdotes concerning absent-minded passengers who had somehow misplaced trunks larger than small cottages.

Holmes spoke very little. His attention remained fixed not upon his companions but upon the dining room itself.

At length he leaned toward me.

“The gentleman three tables distant.”

“What of him?”

“He claims to be an American banker.”

“So?”

“He has never been west of Bristol.”

I stared.

“How on earth can you know that?”

“Elementary. The boots are English, though newly polished. The tan upon his face ends precisely where a high collar would cover it, suggesting recent outdoor labor rather than travel abroad. His watch chain bears the insignia of a Bristol merchant’s guild, while the callus upon his right forefinger belongs to a draftsman rather than a financier.”

“You spoke with him?”

“I have no need to.”

Sure enough, before dinner concluded, the Captain addressed the gentleman as “Mr. Fletcher of Bristol.”

I confess I never ceased to marvel at Holmes’s extraordinary powers.

By the following morning the Atlantic reminded everyone aboard that she answered to no man.

Heavy seas caused the great liner to pitch and roll so violently that much of the first-class dining room stood deserted.

Dr. Blackwell found me after breakfast.

“Doctor Watson, I understand you’ve seen your share of difficult cases.”

“I’ve managed a few.”

“Excellent. I fear I shall require assistance.”

For much of the voyage I accompanied him throughout the ship, treating passengers overcome by violent seasickness. Ginger tea, peppermint water, bromides, and patience became our principal medicines, though none proved entirely effective against the relentless motion of the sea.

One small child, weakened by illness before the voyage began, slipped quietly away despite every effort we could make. The loss cast a somber mood over both crew and passengers. I found the loss deeply affecting. I have never reconciled myself to the death of a child.

Holmes, meanwhile, appeared almost entirely immune to the Atlantic’s displeasure.

Each evening Holmes consumed hearty meals of kidneys, liver, and roast beef while I confined myself to dry biscuits and tea.

“You astonish me,” I remarked.

“My dear Watson,” said he, cutting another piece of liver, “one reasons considerably better upon a full stomach.”

The crossing, ordinarily requiring six days, consumed seven owing to persistent storms.

The additional delay troubled Holmes far more than he cared to admit.

As events soon proved, he had ample reason.