Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul (10 page)

The bedraggled woman, Catharine Eddowes, hazel eyes and dark auburn hair, glibly comments, “The problem ain’t ’er feet, sir, it’s ’er bleedin’ arm, innit?”

Watson turns to Catharine, “I would have you know, madam, I am a doctor and that her malady has not escaped my attention.”

Feeling scolded, Catharine haughtily adjusts her black straw bonnet, “Well, when yer finished wiv ’er, yer can take a look at me, can’t yer?”

Watson slowly crouches before Emma and, gazing at her dirty face, smiles, “With your permission, I would like to take a look at your arm.”

Unsure how to respond to Watson and with a fretful expression, Emma looks pleadingly to Catharine for support.

Catharine responds dismissively, “I ain’t yer bleedin’ mother. Go on, let ’im ’ave a
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butchers, says ’e’s a doctor.”

Biting her lower lip, Emma coyly looks at Watson and nods.

Unwrapping the filthy bandage, Watson exposes a ruptured abscess, puss oozing from its centre. Fearful of gangrene, he turns to Holmes, “She could lose her arm. I must act quickly.”

Holmes concurs, “Quite so, Watson.

Emerging through the open door, a stout middle-aged woman, Mrs Dowsett, wearing a starched white bonnet and apron, steps into the yard and, placing her hands on her hips, glares at Watson, “This is Whitechapel, not
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Harley Street.”

Raising a curious eyebrow, Watson stands, “And who are you, madam?”

Catharine quips, “The Devil’s gift t’ medicine, sir.”

Dowsett scowls at Catharine,
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“Stitch your lip, Eddowes.”

Incensed and indicating Watson, Catharine glowers at Dowsett, “Gawd luv us, matron, ’e’s tryin’ t’ ’elp the poor
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mite, ain’t ’e?”

Watson stares at Dowsett intently, “You are the matron of this infirmary?”

Dowsett cocks her head, “Mrs Edith Dowsett. And you are…?”

Ignoring the question, Watson glares at her, “Madam, when I was an assistant surgeon with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers in the second Afghan war, I treated many battle causalities, some successfully, I might add. At the battle of Maiwand I was struck in the left shoulder by a Jezail bullet, which shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery. But because infection was not allowed to spread, I retained the use of my arm.” He indicates Emma, “Now clean her wound immediately. I assume you know what an antiseptic solution is?”

Glancing at the speechless Mrs Dowsett, Catharine sniggers,
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“Cat’s got yer bleedin’ tongue, ain’t it?”

Holmes edges closer to Watson and admiringly murmurs, “Well said, dear fellow.”

Clearing her throat, Dowsett beckons Emma, “Inside.” She turns to Catharine, “Not you, Eddowes, wait here.”

Ushering Emma through the open door, Dowsett begrudgingly tips her head to Watson, “Good morning, Doctor.”

Watson turns to Catharine, “Now, my dear woman, what ails you?”

Scratching herself, Catharine unwittingly reveals the initials
T. C.
tattooed in dark blue Indian ink on her left forearm, “Bleedin’ fleas, sir.”

Alarmed by her admission, Watson steps back, excusing himself, “I am a doctor of medicine, not an
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entomologist. Best you let matron attend to you.” Despairingly, he shakes his head and turns to Holmes, “It is not done, Holmes. It is simply not done! We belong to the greatest empire the world has ever known and yet we repeatedly fail our own people. It is a travesty.”

Holmes nods in agreement, “Yes, with revolutionaries waiting in the wings.” He indicates a shoddy wooden door that displays the faded word
Mortuary
upon its paint-peeled surface, “Now I require your assistance, Watson. The decision is yours. Shall we continue?”

Watson assents, “Yes, of course, Holmes.”

Promptly turning on his heel, Holmes nearly collides with a tearful Ellen Holland, stepping out through the mortuary door escorted by a young police constable, George Allen.

Stepping aside, Holmes politely tips his hat to Ellen.

Watson reacts likewise.

Erroneously believing that both men are officially related to the murder inquiry, Police Constable Allen ignores Holmes and Watson and indicates the open door of the infirmary to Ellen, “This way, miss.”

The couple slowly walk across the yard and enter the building.

Holmes musingly taps his chin with the handle of his walking cane, “The murdered woman has just been identified, Watson.”

Bemused, Watson frowns, “I beg your pardon, Holmes.”

Holmes lowers his cane, “Tears are shed for the dead only by relatives or friends. In life, that woman knew the deceased, whom she has just identified, Watson.”

Chapter 4

Unfortunates

Fleetingly roused by the compassion shown to Emma by Watson and seeing him about to enter the mortuary, Catharine shouts, “Oi, sir, fear not fer the little mite, I’ll see she gits ’ome.”

Watson smiles at her, tips his hat and then follows Holmes into the mortuary.

Catharine scratches her arm again, leans against the grimy brickwork of the infirmary and despondently sighs, “Well, ol’ gel,
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fleas t’day, wot’s it t’morrow?”

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Now aged forty-six and bearing the same Christian name as her mother, Catharine Eddowes was born on 14 April, 1842, at Graisley Green, Wolverhampton. The youngest of a family of eleven, she was brought to London the next year, where her mother eventually died when she was thirteen.

Two years later, following the death of her father, George Eddowes, Catharine was placed in an East London workhouse orphanage from where she soon absconded, fleeing to her Aunt Elizabeth in Wolverhampton and, in due course, taking up with a labourer, Thomas Conway, whom she had met in the city of Birmingham.

Though not married to Thomas, Catharine nonetheless bore him a daughter and son and, upon moving back to London with him, had given birth to another boy. Gradually succumbing to alcohol to numb the drudgery of life, she started to abandon Thomas and the children, slowly drifting away and, on occasions, disappearing for weeks on end.

Returning from these alcoholic forays, her reunions with Thomas were invariably tempestuous affairs, resulting in violence that often left Catharine much the worse for wear, nursing black eyes and a bruised body. In 1881, aged thirty-nine, her stormy relationship with Thomas finally collapsed, whereupon she had bitterly parted from him, losing guardianship of her children.

Seemingly without a second thought, Catharine had taken up with another man, John Kelly, with whom she began cohabiting at Cooney’s lodging house, 55 Flower and Dean Street, Spitalfields, Whitechapel. A quiet, meek, inoffensive sort of fellow, John Kelly, until recently, had always managed to find regular employment in Spitalfields Market, but now suffering from a kidney complaint and a bad cough which frequently prevents him from getting work, he has fallen upon hard times.

Disinterested in his failing health, Catharine often exerts her fiery temperament, dominating the docile Kelly who, in turn, slavishly looks upon her as an astute and kindly person. Commonly labelled by the dregs of her own class as a persistent
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scrounger and drunkard, Catharine will engage in bouts of prostitution, but only after menial jobs, from which she might earn money, or a paltry meal, have proved difficult to find.

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With bloodied hands, Dr Rees Ralph Llewellyn solemnly draws a gore-stained sheet over the figure on the table. Turning to a large chipped porcelain sink, he nudges the handle of a solitary water tap protruding from the moist brickwork with his elbow.

“You must be the divisional police surgeon?”

Taken by surprise, Llewellyn hurriedly turns to see Holmes and Watson standing just behind him.

Holmes smiles disarmingly, “My apologies, sir, I did not intend to alarm you.”

Placated, Llewellyn regains his composure, “You are correct, sir, I am Dr Llewellyn.” He indicates his bloodied hands, “Excuse me.”

He turns back to the sink and begins to earnestly rinse his hands in cold water flowing from the tap.

Holmes glances at the covered figure on the table, “May we see the body, Dr Llewellyn?”

Emanating from a dim corner of the mortuary, a caustic voice murmurs, “Well, well, well.”

Curiously peering over their shoulders, Holmes and Watson see, emerging from the dimness of the corner, a portly man wearing the dark-blue
serge
uniform of a local police inspector.

Haughtily stroking his mutton-chop moustache with the knuckle of his forefinger, the man disdainfully quips, “You Scotland Yard boys are up early this morning. Come down here to show us how to do our job, have you?”

Aware that the man is acting under a misapprehension, Holmes enquires, “And you are…?”

The man glares at Holmes, “And who’s asking?”

Holmes persists, “Come, come, a simple question, is it not?”

Sensing that Holmes could be a person of authority and thereby his superior, the man relents, “Inspector Edmund Fell. H Division.”

Holmes feigns a smile, “Ah, yes, the Whitechapel Division.” He indicates Watson, “We are here merely as observers, Inspector.”

Fell scoffs, “Come to spy on us, more like it.”

Seemingly disregarding the churlish comment, Holmes glances back over his shoulder, “May we see the body, Dr Llewellyn?”

Wiping his hands on a clean linen towel, Llewellyn enquiringly turns to Fell, “Inspector?”

Ignoring Llewellyn, Fell steps closer to Holmes and begins to finger the lapel of his overcoat, “How much do they pay you up there? I bet this cost a tidy sum.”

Abhorring his manner, Holmes replies, “The cost of my wardrobe will not solve this case, Inspector. May we see the body?”

Genuinely astounded, Fell stammers, “Wardrobe? You’ve got more clothes like this?”

Holmes turns away from Fell and stares intently at Llewellyn, “Dr Llewellyn, may we see the body?”

Fell condescendingly jibes, “Touchy, aren’t we?”

Again, Llewellyn looks to Fell for permission, “Inspector?”

Fell stares at Holmes and sneeringly consents to his request, “Go ahead. Courtesy of H Division.”

Holmes politely tips his head, “Thank you, Inspector.”

Accentuating his authority, Fell murmurs, “Just the body, mind you.”

Holmes raises an inquisitive eyebrow, “What else could there be, Inspector?”

Stung by the question and realising that he may have fallen into a trap of his own making, Fell attempts evasion, “What else could there be, indeed?”

Pursuing his advantage, Holmes teasingly responds, “Perhaps you have the murder weapon, Inspector?” He briefly stares at the ceiling and then shakes his head, “No, I think not.” He points to a small pile of blood-stained clothes, a frayed black bonnet and a pair of ankle books lying on the cobbled-stoned ground near the mortuary table, “Or the victim’s name. Obtained from her clothes, perhaps?”

Fell swallows hard.

Holmes smiles mischievously, “Highly likely, wouldn’t you say?”

Tensely, Fell stiffens.

Holmes suddenly retorts, “Enough of your
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tomfoolery, Inspector. The name of the victim, please.”

Fell gawks, “What?”

Holmes is impatient, “Come, come, Inspector, the name of the victim. Who was she?”

Flustered, Fell stammers, “You can see the body, that’s all.”

Holmes snaps, “No, Inspector. That will not do. I believe that the deceased was identified by a woman who left this mortuary barely ten minutes ago.”

Dr Llewellyn coughs, attracting attention to himself, “That is correct, sir.”

Fell scowls at Llewellyn, “I’m in charge here, Dr Llewellyn.”

Exasperated by the idiotic stance of Fell, Dr Llewellyn inhales deeply, “Then, Inspector, I propose you tell the good gentleman what he virtually already knows.”

Watson glances at Llewellyn and chuckles, “Yes, and I second that.”

Holmes stares at Fell, “It would appear, Inspector, that the jury has decided in my favour.”

Fell bitterly shakes his head, “You Scotland Yard boys are all the same. Come down here, make demands, and then get the praise for the
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graft we do.”

Holmes wearily sighs, “Her name, Inspector.”

Fell grudgingly relents, “Mary Ann Nichols. Also known as Polly.”

Dr Llewellyn coughs again, “An unfortunate, sir,”

Fell sneers at Llewellyn, “A euphemism that doesn’t offend the ladies at teatime. Down here, Polly Nichols was a whore, nothing but a common whore.”

Holmes turns to Llewellyn, “Dr Llewellyn, the body, please.”

Holmes and Watson step along one side of the mortuary table, opposite Llewellyn, standing near the head.

Llewellyn partially pulls back the sheet, revealing the pallid face of Polly. Her throat has been savagely cut and there are two bruises close to her mouth.

Carefully inspecting the smaller bruise, which is below the right side of the jaw, and then the larger semi-circular bruise on the left cheek, Holmes places his left hand over the lower part of the face, matching his thumb to the first bruise and the tips of his fingers to the semi-circular bruise.

He glances at Dr Llewellyn, “If I am not mistaken, the murderer clamped his left hand over her mouth.”

Llewellyn nods in agreement, “And then with his right hand, he throttled her.”

Holmes turns his attention to the incisions in the throat, “Why two when one would have been suffice? Perhaps the murderer has yet to master his technique.”

Llewellyn indicates the first incision with his finger, “The first cut begins here, below the right ear and, running an inch below the jaw, terminates in the centre of the throat.”

Holmes and Watson stare at the second incision.

Llewellyn continues, “The second cut, again beginning below the right ear and just below the first incision, is about eight inches long and encircles the entire throat. It severed both carotid arteries and the tissues down to the vertebrae. This cut, gentlemen, would have been lethal.”

Watson murmurs to Holmes, “But the poor woman was already dead. She had been asphyxiated.”

Llewellyn looks at Watson, “Mercifully, yes.”

Holmes thoughtfully stares at Llewellyn, “Are there other injuries, Dr Llewellyn?”

Llewellyn grips the top end of the sheet, “Prepare yourselves, gentlemen.”

He throws aside the sheet, revealing the entire nakedness of the corpse down to its knees.

Watson blanches, “Good Lord.”

Llewellyn shakes his head in disgust, “I have seen many horrors in my life, but nothing compares with this revolting spectacle.”

Holmes brushes past Watson and gazes down at the abdominal region of the body.

Fell swaggers towards Holmes, “Gutted like a pig, she was.”

Ignoring the brash remark and indicating the abdominal area to Llewellyn, Holmes queries, “The incision, beginning at the lower part of the ribs and extending down through the stomach to the pubic bone, was made with what type of instrument?”

Llewellyn pensively edges along his side of the table and halts opposite Holmes, “I believe an attempt was made to disembowel her, but the murderer failed. The weapon used was most certainly a narrow-bladed knife at least six inches long.”

Holmes stares at Llewellyn, “And the time taken?”

Llewellyn strokes his beard with finger and thumb, “Four to five minutes. The murderer attacked all the vital organs, therefore he must have had some anatomical knowledge.”

Looking at the intestines partially protruding from the awful gash and noticing several other cuts to the abdomen, Watson groans, “These are appalling injuries, Holmes, the murderer must have torn at her like the devil.”

Llewellyn draws the sheet back over the body, “I am inclined to agree with you, sir.”

Incredulously staring at Holmes, Fell stutters, “Holmes? Sherlock Holmes?”

Holmes casually replies, “Yes, Inspector.” He indicates Watson, “And my good friend and associate, Dr Watson.”

Pleasantly surprised, Llewellyn smiles admiringly, “Upon my soul.”

Fell scowls at Holmes, “You should have announced yourself.”

Holmes sighs, “I was hardly given the opportunity. You seemed preoccupied with my wardrobe at the time.” He courteously tips his head to Llewellyn, “Thank you, Dr Llewellyn.”

Llewellyn reciprocates, “It has been an honour, Mr Holmes.”

Holmes turns to Watson, “Come, Watson.”

Angrily stepping in front of Holmes, Fell blocks his way, “I’m going to report this.”

Holmes snaps, “Yes, please do. And what do you think your superior, Chief Superintendent Arnold, is going to say when he learns that it was you who gave us permission to see the body?” He reminds Fell of his previous contemptuous remark, “I believe you said, ‘Go ahead. Courtesy of H Division’.”

Fell swallows hard, “You’ve made a fool of me.”

Holmes snaps again, “No, sir, you made a fool of yourself. Your time would be better spent pursuing the killer of this poor woman than harbouring an idiotic resentment towards your colleagues at Scotland Yard.”

Gently touching Fell on the shoulder with the handle of his walking cane, Holmes steely advises, “Now stand aside, Inspector, there’s a good fellow.”