Dr. Balfour nodded. “Yes, of course. I was just sorting through Dr. Seward’s mail, separating the private correspondence from asylum business. I would be happy to take you to poor Renfield. Joe, could you stay with Dr. Watson and Miss—the young miss here, in case they need anything?”
“As you wish,” said Joe, sounding none too pleased to be left out of the action.
As Mary passed Diana, following Dr. Balfour and the other men, she whispered, “Behave yourself!”
“Not likely!” came the whisper back.
Ah well, she had done what she could. Dr. Watson would have to handle Diana.
The lunatic was housed another flight up, on the third floor. As they approached his room, Dr. Balfour told them his history.
“Dr. Hennessey could tell you more, of course—but he’s returned to Ireland, and I don’t happen to have a forwarding address. Based on his files, Renfield has been an inmate here these twenty years. It’s a pity that a respectable gentleman, a man of science, should fall into madness. He took ill on a trip abroad—in Austria or Romania, one of those Mittel-European countries—and returned a broken man. His family confined him to this asylum, and he has lived here peacefully since. Oh, he runs away once in a while, but from what Joe tells me, there’s never been trouble like this! When you see him, you’ll find it as difficult as I do to believe he committed these dreadful crimes. And yet—well, here we are, and you can hear it from his own lips.”
In front of the door stood another attendant, a strapping young fellow who looked as though he could subdue a bull. “We didn’t used to have a guard on him, never thinking he’d do any harm,” said Dr. Balfour, “but he’s been watched since he returned yesterday.” At the assistant director’s request, the attendant unlocked the door and let them in.
The room was very plain—white walls, a narrow iron bed with white linens, a table under the window on which were set a basin and ewer. Across the window were iron bars. The only sources of color were a blue bowl on the table and the man who sat on the bed. Like the other inmates, he was dressed in blue serge, but his uniform was streaked and stained with dirt. On the shirt, there were several large red splotches, now dried. He sat hunched forward, his shoulders rounded, head hanging down.
“Renfield,” said Dr. Balfour, “here are some gentlemen to see you.”
He did not look up.
“This is Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard, and Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
At the detective’s name, Renfield gave them a sideways, almost surreptitious glance. He was a small man, with hair that had gone prematurely white, and large, somewhat protuberant eyes. Indeed, he looked as though he would not hurt a fly.
Just then, a fly flew into the room through the window. It circled around the table. The room was so quiet that Mary could hear it buzz. Renfield’s attention was immediately on it: he watched as it settled on the rim of the blue bowl. In a moment, he was across the room, the fly in his cupped hand, the cupped hand at his mouth. With a triumphant expression, he opened his hand: it was empty. He had swallowed the fly!
Mary could not help shivering. His movements had been so quick!
“Stop that!” said Dr. Balfour. “Didn’t I tell you, no more flies? Who put that bowl of sugar water in the room?”
“No, don’t take it away!” said Renfield. His voice was highly pitched, and piteous. “Dr. Seward always allowed me to have the flies, and spiders too! Without the flies, how will I live? How will I live forever?”
“This is his mania,” said Dr. Balfour. “He collects flies and eats them. He believes they sustain his life.”
“They do, they do!” said Renfield. “So big and juicy! There’s nothing like a big fat fly, unless it’s a big fat spider! If only I could have a spider!”
“I don’t know why Dr. Seward allowed him to feed this mania,” said Dr. Balfour to them. Then he turned and said to the lunatic, “No flies, nor spiders either. These gentlemen are here to ask you about the murders.”
“Oh yes, the murders.” Renfield sat back down on the bed, his shoulders once again hunched. He seemed uninterested in the murders.
“Come, we were told you had confessed,” said Lestrade. “Did you commit these murders or not?”
“Oh yes,” said Renfield, still looking at the floor. “Tuesday was the day I ran away, that was very wrong of me. Thursday evening I found Sally Hayward and chopped her legs off at the knees. Friday was Anna Pettingill, I took her arms. Pauline Delacroix, that was on Monday, because I wouldn’t kill on a Sunday, not me! Or God would smite me for sure. I took her head that time. Right pretty she was! Then Molly Keane on Tuesday, that was brains. I killed them in Whitechapel. I killed them, and I deserve to be punished.” He looked up again. “Will it hurt very much, being punished?”
“Why, man,” said Lestrade “the penalty for murder is being hanged by the neck until you are dead.”
“But it won’t hurt, will it?” said Renfield. “And then I’ll have eternal life.”
“Burning in hellfire, he will,” said Sergeant Evans under his breath.
“Well, I think that’s all we need,” said Lestrade. “He knows the dates and times of the murders. He’s confessed to them, and there’s the blood, right on his shirt. Doctor, thank you for your promptness in contacting us. You will no doubt be called upon as a witness at trial. As soon as the wagon from Newgate arrives, we’ll take him off your hands, which I’m sure will be a relief to you.”
“As the wagon has not yet arrived, there are a few questions I would like to ask Mr. Renfield,” said Holmes.
The lunatic looked up again and watched the detective warily.
“Certainly,” said Dr. Balfour.
“If you must,” said Lestrade.
Mary waited, curious. What would he ask? The case seemed so very open and shut, now that Renfield had named the women. How else could he have known their names or when they had died? He must, after all, be the murderer.
“Where did you stay while you were in London?” Holmes asked.
“Where did I stay?” Renfield looked puzzled. “Where did I . . .”
“Why does this matter, Holmes?” asked Lestrade. “Surely he stayed wherever he could—under bridges, in doorways!”
“Yes—yes,” said Renfield. “The inspector is right. I slept under bridges. And—in doorways.”
“What did you eat?” asked Holmes.
“What did I—oh, rubbish. Whatever I could, on the streets, you know. What people threw away.”
“Did you have any help in committing these crimes? Did you have a confederate to assist you?”
“No!” said Renfield. “No, I did it all by myself.”
“Did you? And what weapon did you use to cut those women in two?”
“A knife. Yes, I used a knife.”
“And where is it now?”
“I threw it into the Thames!” Renfield said this with glee, as though he had scored a point against the detective.
“But Molly Keane’s neck was snapped. How did you manage to do that? You don’t look particularly strong, if you don’t mind my saying so.”