Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul (14 page)

Watson gulps, “Good Lord, Holmes! Two people, two men?”

Holmes nods, “The incisions to the throat indicate two people, Watson, but not necessarily two men. The second cut, encircling the entire throat down to the vertebrae, was undoubtedly made by a man of singular strength. The first incision, however, which terminated at the centre of the throat, was inflicted by a person of a weaker disposition. Someone not use to physical exertion. A woman, perhaps?”

Watson is aghast, “A woman? You have entered the realm of fiction, Holmes. Your notion is outlandish and downright offensive, I might add.”

Holmes raises a quizzical eyebrow, “Femme fatale, Watson?”

Watson inhales deeply, “Yes, granted, women do murder for love or gain. But the method by which they dispatch their victims is somewhat subdued, poison being the obvious example. What you imply, Holmes, is monstrous. Women do not stalk the streets at night solely to prey upon those less fortunate.”

Aware that the discussion could become contentious, Holmes changes the subject, “Oh, my dear fellow, forgive me.”

Bemused, Watson stammers, “I beg your pardon, Holmes?”

Holmes throws out a salutatory hand, “You look splendid.”

Watson proudly straightens his black tail coat, “Do you think so, Holmes?”

Holmes smiles approvingly, “In your affable presence, royalty would undoubtedly pale into insignificance.”

Stepping past Watson, Holmes pauses, “However, the button that should be attached to the left cuff of your coat is missing, Watson.”

Watson quickly raises his left arm and, staring at the offending cuff, pulls a bit of loose thread from the fabric, “Too late for Mrs Hudson to remedy the problem, Holmes.”

Holmes offers a conciliatory solution, “Bearing in mind, however, that you normally greet people using your right hand, I do not think the missing item will be noticeable.” He looks at Watson curiously, “Are the theatre tickets in the inside top pocket of your coat?”

Watson nods, “Yes, of course.”

Holmes smiles again, “You will remove the tickets using your right hand. Keep your left arm straight by your side and you will be all right.”

Watson sighs, “Holmes, you can be quite insufferable at times.”

Taking an overcoat from a hook by the door, Holmes hands the garment to Watson, “And you, my dear fellow, are very patient. An admirable arrangement, wouldn’t you say?”

Amusingly shaking his head, Watson hands Holmes his top hat, “A virtue acquired whilst lodging with you, Holmes.”

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Located in the Strand, which runs from Trafalgar Square to Fleet Street, the Royal Adelphi Theatre was named after a unified block of twenty-four neoclassical terrace houses called the Adelphi Buildings, situated opposite the theatre.

Formerly the Sans Pareil Theatre, French for ‘Without Compare’, the present Royal Adelphi Theatre was extensively renovated last year, incorporating into its enlarged design the properties of the Hampshire Hog Tavern, a neighbouring house and the Bull’s Head Tavern located in Bull Inn Court, a narrow lane that runs alongside the right-hand side of the theatre.

Now capable of accommodating in excess of fifteen hundred patrons, the Royal Adelphi Theatre consists of a spacious stage, large orchestra pit, amphitheatre of stalls, dress circle, gallery and private boxes. A London stalwart of popular theatre, it has hosted many successful West End stage productions, particularly those adapted from the published works of Sir Walter Scott and Charles Dickens.

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Clutching a broadsheet displaying the words
Horrible Murder!
, a fifteen-year-old boy, newspapers tucked under one arm, saunters along the pavement amongst elegantly dressed theatregoers yelling, “Star newspaper! Special edition! Whitechapel! ’Orrible murder!”

Holmes and Watson step out of a hansom cab, shielded from the evening drizzle by the glass canopy that runs along the entire facade of the theatre.

Holmes tosses a coin to the cabby, seated above and behind the vehicle. Catching the coin with his hand, the cabby touches the brim of his wet bowler hat, “Thanks, guv’nor.” He stares at the throng of people entering the theatre, “Full ’ouse t’night. Must be someone’s birthday.”

Looking at the cabby, Holmes chuckles, “Indeed, it is.” He then turns to Watson, “Quite a perceptive fellow, isn’t he, Watson?”

Watson guffaws.

Nearing Holmes and Watson, the newspaper boy again hollers, “Star newspaper! Special edition! Whitechapel! ’Orrible murder!”

Attracted by the exclamation, Holmes turns quickly, hands the boy a coin and takes a newspaper from him. Staring at its front page, Holmes points to the star motif positioned between the two printed words
The Star
, “An octagram. But hardly the stylish eight-pointed star of
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Saint John, Watson.”

Impatient to enter the theatre, Watson sighs, “Yellow journalism, Holmes.”

Holmes nods in agreement, “Quite so, Watson.”

Watson inhales deeply, “Then why read such drivel, Holmes?”

Folding the newspaper, Holmes tucks it under his arm, “My dear fellow, its articles reflect the mentality of its writers. Occasionally, I must leave my lofty perch and descend into their world.” He graciously indicates the theatre entrance, “Come, Watson, Norma Neruda awaits you.”

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Considered to be the most perilous street in Spitalfields, where police constables cautiously patrolled in pairs, Dorset Street starts at the Britannia tavern, corner of Commercial Street, and ends at the Horn of Plenty beer shop, corner of Crispin Street. A dreary cobbled street, it is made up entirely of common lodging houses, offering beds at fourpence and sixpence a night.

Four dingy courts, inhabited mainly by prostitutes, lead off the northern side of Dorset Street. A short distance from the Britannia tavern is the first of these, Miller’s Court. On the immediate left of its arched entrance is a chandler’s shop, owned by the wily landlord of Miller’s Court, Irishman John McCarthy. To its right is 26 Dorset Street, consisting of a storage space for costermongers’ barrows at the front and 13 Miller’s Court to its rear.

Access to the cul-de-sac court is gained through the arch, along a narrow gloomy twenty-foot covered passage. At the end of this passage, and to the left, is the chandler’s shop rear window, giving a clear view of most of the court. In front of the window and, again to the left, is an overhead gas lamp attached to the wall. Opposite this solitary glowing gas lamp is a shabby door, which opens directly into a single room, 13 Miller’s Court.

Just inside the squalid room, and to the left of the door, are two grimy windows with faded curtains. Both windows give a general view of a dingy outer recess, where a water pump is positioned against a right-hand wall, whilst straight ahead, situated against another wall, is a small rubbish bin close to the communal privy in the far corner.

Inside the room, in front of the window furthest from the door, is a wooden table. To the right of a small fireplace stands a tall cupboard containing a few bits of cheap crockery and some empty beer bottles. Opposite this, and in the other corner, is the dominant piece of furniture, an old large bedstead with a soiled mattress. Close by, between the bed and the door, stands a small bedside table.

Lying on the mattress, Elizabeth intermittingly moans in her sleep.

Quietly covering her with a frayed blanket, Mary turns to Joseph Barnett, leaning against the closed door of the room, “I ain’t goin’ t’ turn ’er out. Least not t’night.”

Barnett heatedly responds and, because of his inherited speech defect, repeats her last two words, “Not t’night. Look, I ain’t a bleedin’ lodger. I live ’ere, too, yer know?”

Mary snaps,
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“Sweet Jesus, look at ’er, won’t yer? She doesn’t know whether it’s midday or midnight.”

Barnett agitates, shifting from foot to foot, “Or midnight. Who is she, anyway?”

Mary stares forlornly at Elizabeth, “Name’s Liz Stride. Met ’er down in St-George’s-in-the-East. Walloped by ’er fella, she were.”

Barnett cocks his head, “She were. St-George’s-in-the-East? That ain’t yer
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patch. Why were yer down there?”

Mary glowers, “I go where I want, when I want, Joseph Barnett.”

Mindful of her fiery temperament, Barnett grimaces, “Joseph Barnett. Well, send ’er over t’ Crossingham’s. They’ve umpteen empty beds.”

Mary snaps again, “Yer a sour man, Joseph Barnett. She ain’t got two
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ha’pennies t’ rub t’gether.”

Barnett is sarcastic, “Rub t’gether. An’ I suppose yer the
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Ol’ Lady o’ Threadneedle Street, eh?”

Suddenly awakening from her slumber, Elizabeth sits upright and cries out, “Fourpence fer a knee-trembler, luv?”

Mary soothingly eases her back down on the mattress, “Beat yer good an’ proper, didn’t ’e?”

Elizabeth closes her eyes and once more slips back into oblivion.

Caringly, Mary straightens the blanket that covers Elizabeth.

Barnett scowls, “Didn’t ’e? Ah, fer Christ’s sake, she’s a…”

Enraged, Mary promptly turns and slaps Barnett across the face, “Go on, say it. A whore! An’ when their menfolk can’t provide fer ’em, ’ow else are they meant t’ feed themselves?”

Riled, Barnett grabs Mary by her shoulders and violently pushes her back against the window nearest the door, whereupon she breaks a loose pane of glass with the back of her head and a lower one with her right elbow.

Clutching her head but unhurt, Mary scoffs, “Yer daft bugger. Now yer let the cold in.”

Barnett snarls, “Cold in. Git ’er out o’ ’ere. We’ve a bed fer two, not three!”

Mary advances and prods him in the chest with her finger, “Oh, yeh, there’s always the
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sweatshop, ain’t there? Eightpence a day fer seventeen ’ours. Or the workhouse, wiv its bowl o’
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skilly an’ bread so ’ard that yer can’t bite it. An’ wot ’appens when a
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young ’un comes along? Better t’
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wring its neck first than let it suffer in this world. Now, Joseph Barnett, if yer were ’er, wot would yer do?”

Barnett yanks the door open, “Yer do? I’m off up the Ringers. An’ when I git back, she’d better be gone.”

He angrily steps out of the room and, beneath the glowing gas lantern outside, is halted by Mary as she grabs his arm, “Why not take a bed at Crossingham’s yerself, Joseph Barnett?”

Jerking his arm away, Barnett glares at Mary and ambles off through the darkened covered passage towards Dorset Street.

Leaning against the rotten door frame, Mary mournfully gazes back at a snoring Elizabeth, “Best we die b’fore we git too old, eh, luv?”

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The adroit fingers of Norma Neruda gracefully flow across the keys of the piano, playing Frédéric Chopin’s meditative Berceuse, the late composer’s only lullaby.

Soothing to the ear, the soporific music drifts from the stage, floats past the audience in the amphitheatre stalls and spirals upwards to the dress circle, where Watson, seated beside Holmes, smiles reflectively, caressed by the evocative sound.

Seemingly engrossed by the recital, Holmes slides his theatre program slightly to one side, revealing the folded copy of
The Star
newspaper lying upon his knees. Stroking the side of his face with his finger, he considers a particular article.

The Whitechapel Murderer

Can it be true? A considerable number of people are now asking if the Whitechapel atrocities are the work of the Irish Republican Brotherhood, or at least a deranged Fenian acting alone. The idea may seem absurd, but there is no denying that the theory holds credence among those detectives engaged in the hunt for the assassin. Mr George Lusk, President of the Mile-End Vigilance Committee, has since ridiculed another notion that the murderer is a Jewish slaughterman, slaying unfortunates of the lower class in the name of Hashem, one of the many Hebrew names for God.

Holmes murmurs to himself, “A Jewish slaughterman. Why not, indeed?”

Sedately glancing at Holmes, Watson raises his left hand to his mouth and coughs softly.

Responding to the discreet gesture, Holmes slides his theatre program over the newspaper and attentively stares ahead at the stage.

Watson grins and then, remembering the missing button, quickly clamps his right hand over his left cuff and, flitting his eyes from side to side at the audience, cautiously lowers his arm to his lap.

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Hastily emerging from the darkened covered passage of Miller’s Court, Barnett collides with Annie Chapman, hurrying towards her doss-house further down the street.

Annie stifles a scream, “Yer daft bugger, Joe. I thought yer were ’im.”

Mystified by her remark, Barnett frowns, “Were ’im. Who’s ’im?”

Folded at three corners and slung over her shoulders, Annie straightens the discoloured white and red bordered neckerchief knotted beneath her chin, “Where yer been o’ late? The bloke wot did in Martha Tabram an’ Polly Nichols.”

Barnett scowls, “Polly Nichols. Whores like yer, both o’ ’em.”

Referring to Mary Kelly, Annie snarls, “Like yer ol’ woman, eh?”

Barnett heatedly raises his hand as if to strike her.

Indicating the bruised eye given to her by Eliza Cooper, Annie defiantly quips, “Go on, then, Joe. Make it a pair!”

Snubbing the challenge, Barnett lowers his hand, “A pair! Be good if ’e made it three.”

He shoves her aside and strides off towards Commercial Street.

Bemused and angered by his comment, Annie hollers, “Wot yer mean by that?”

Barnett looks over his shoulder at her, “By that? I ’ope ’e gits yer next.”

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Now gradually deteriorating from a chronic disease of the lungs, Annie Chapman was born Eliza Annie Smith in September 1841. At the age of twenty-eight, which in 1869 was not deemed a late age for a woman to wed, she had married John Chapman.

During her fifteen years of marriage to John, Annie had enjoyed a degree of prosperity, principally because her husband had been employed as a valet to a nobleman living in Bond Street, London. Between 1870 and 1873, she had given birth to two daughters, Emily Ruth and Annie Georgina.

Seven years later, in 1880, her only son was born, named John after his father. Sadly, the boy was found to be a cripple and, not long after his birth, had been taken away from Annie and placed in a residential infirmary for invalids.

By this time, Annie had acquired a taste for rum, drinking to excess at times. Partially sober throughout the week, she would regularly drink on Saturday nights, as most folks did, and then find herself in a police cell the next morning, having no recollection of the night before.

In 1881, Annie had left London, moving to the town of
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Windsor with her two daughters and husband, who had obtained a post as a coachman working for a farm bailiff, Mr Josiah Weeks.

The following year, Annie had received another domestic blow when Emily Ruth, her eldest daughter, had died of meningitis, aged twelve. Finding solace through alcohol, she began to forsake John and Annie Georgina, deserting them whilst under the influence of drink, which had now become habitual.

For the next two years, John endured her drunken behaviour, but in 1884 and unable to tolerate her continual abandonment of Annie Georgina any longer, he had parted from Annie, taking his daughter with him. A considerate man, John had continued to provide for his wife, regularly sending Annie a weekly sum of ten shillings, which she had received in the form of a Post Office order, until his death from cirrhosis of the liver and dropsy on Christmas Day 1886.

At the beginning of 1887 and destitute, Annie had taken up with a sieve-maker, Jack Sivvey, blithely lodging with him at 30 Dorset Street, Spitalfields, Whitechapel. Shortly thereafter, she had happily resurrected an acquaintance with Edward Stanley, a bricklayer’s labourer whom she had first met in the town of Windsor some five years previously whilst she had been married to John Chapman.

Nicknamed the ‘Pensioner’, Edward Stanley had lodged at 1 Osborne Street, Spitalfields, but soon after meeting Annie, he had begun to spend his weekends with her, paying for and sharing her bed at her present address, 35 Dorset Street.

At the start of this year and suspecting that Annie had now embraced prostitution by which to support herself, Edward Stanley had inanely suggested to the deputy of her doss-house, Irishman Timothy Donovan, that should Annie ever try to enter the lodging house with a man other than himself, Donovan should turn her away for the night. This, Stanley had explained to Donovan, would hopefully dissuade Annie from prostitution and force her to seek out respectable employment instead. Perhaps there existed a sense of rival jealousy behind the suggestion made by Stanley, or perhaps he did indeed care for Annie. Whatever the truth, the two remained good friends, even though Annie continued to ply her trade in the streets.

For the past fortnight, and now forty-five-years-old, Annie has been feeling unwell and, just prior to clashing with Joseph Barnett, had told a close friend, Amelia Farmer, “It’s no use me givin’ way. I got t’ pull meself t’gether an’ git out an’ git some money, or I won’t ’ave no lodgings t’night.”

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Upon reaching the corner of Dorset Street and Commercial Street, Joseph Barnett brushes past Catharine Eddowes, struggling to support a tousled drunken, middle-aged Ernest Linster outside the Britannia tavern, known locally as the ‘Ringers’.

Derived from the surname of landlord Walter Ringer and his wife Matilda, the tavern is but one favourite haunt for those prostitutes who constantly parade up and down the busy major thoroughfare of Commercial Street, which cuts straight through the very heart of Spitalfields.

Pausing at the entrance of the Britannia, Barnett curiously gazes over his shoulder at Catharine, who teasingly pushes Linster back against the facade of the tavern, “Ol’ woman at ’ome carin’ fer the young ’uns, is she? An’ yer out ’ere, ’avin’ a
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whale o’ a time.
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Bleedin’ rich, if yer ask me.”

Sliding up the left sleeve of her black jacket trimmed around the cuff with imitation fur, she indicates the initials
T. C.
tattooed
on her forearm, “Tom Conway! Right bleeder, ’e were. Left me nigh on seven years ago.”

Drunkenly throwing his head back and staring at the night sky, Linster hiccups, “Me finks, I’m
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done fer, Cathy.”

Worried that Linster might abstain from the rest of the evening, Catharine steps forward and brazenly caresses his crotch, “’Ave no fear, luv, I’ll soon put some life in ’im.”

Aroused, Linster moans, lowers his head and slurs,
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“Bareback, Cathy. Yer know I like it wiv no saddle.”

Catharine chuckles mischievously, “’Course I do. That’s why yer come t’ me, ain’t it?” She straightens her black straw bonnet trimmed in green velvet, “’Ow much ’ave yer got, then?”

Shoving his hands into the side pockets of his jacket and then into the pockets of his trousers, Linster finally produces a half-crown coin. Holding it between finger and thumb, he smugly displays it to her, “Bareback, Cathy?”

Catharine gawks at the coin and cackles, “Fer that, luv, yer can ride me all the way t’
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Epsom an’ back agin.”

Revolted by her pronouncement, Barnett tersely pushes open the door of the Britannia and, avoiding two raucous men leaving, enters the crowded smoked-filled tavern.

Easing his way through vivacious drinkers and peering over their heads, Barnett spies a slovenly Arthur Ensor, bent over the bar, supping a
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pint of ale alone. Slowly sidling up next to him, Barnett bleats, “Bleedin’ whores everywhere t’night, Arthur.”

Knowing that Barnett has an irritating habit of whining about almost everything, Ensor curtly replies, “Live an’ let live, eh, Joe?”

Perturbed by something, Barnett shifts from foot to foot.

Noticing his tense expression, Ensor gently nudges Barnett on the arm, “Come on, mate, it’s Friday night, whores an’ ale, eh?”

Barnett wearily smiles, “Ale, eh?
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Stand me a pint, Arthur.”

Ensor gapes at Barnett, “Stand yer a bleedin’ pint? ’Aven’t yer been paid, then?”

Hurriedly looking from side to side, Barnett edges closer to Ensor, “Paid then? I’ve lost me job.”

Ensor scoffs, “Yeh, right, mate. Pull the other leg, it’s got
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bells on it.”

Barnett sighs mournfully, “On it. They caught me leavin’ the market wiv some fish under me jacket. Thievin’, they said.”

Slurping his ale, Ensor wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, “Yer ain’t kiddin’ me, then?”

Barnett nods, inhaling deeply.

Ensor gulps down the remainder of his ale, “Wot yer goin’ t’ do, Joe?”

Barnett shakes his head despondently, “Do, Joe? It ain’t wot I’m goin’ do, Arthur. It’s wot Mary is goin’ do when I tell ’er.”

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Effectively swept along by the throng of theatregoers departing the theatre, Holmes and Watson halt on the pavement beneath the glass canopy.

Elated, Watson hums part of the recital, “Captivating, Holmes. Quite captivating.”

Politely stepping aside and letting an elegant elderly couple pass by him, Holmes smiles, “Music hath charms to soothe a savage breast, to soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak, eh, Watson?”

Watson gleefully raises a finger, “William Congreve, Holmes?”
  Slapping the folded newspaper against the palm of his hand, Holmes chuckles to himself, “Yes, a dramatist of some distinction, I believe.”

Watson frowns, “Of some distinction, Holmes? I will have you know that he was a master of English comedy.” He throws his arm aloft and loudly recites, “Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.”

Aware that several pedestrians are indignantly gawking at him, an embarrassed Watson lowers his arm.

Disdainfully acknowledging the people, Holmes murmurs, “Do not concern yourself, Watson. I much prefer a recitation outside the theatre to an act of violence in the street.” He takes him by the arm, “Come, the night is not yet over.”

Erroneously thinking that Holmes is determined to continue with the murder investigation even at this late hour, Watson baulks, “Oh, Holmes, please.”

Ignoring his plea, Holmes ushers him through the crowd, along the pavement towards Bull Inn Court, “Your birthday decrees that we dine, Watson.”

Pleasantly surprised, Watson pauses near the narrow darkened lane, “Where, Holmes?”

Holmes steps to the edge of the pavement and beckons a cab, “Marcini’s. We must be there before eleven, Watson.”

Spotting Holmes gesticulating, Samuel Wensley slows his horse and brings his hansom cab to a halt alongside the kerb.

Excitedly brushing past Holmes, Watson hurriedly gets into the vehicle. About to enter the cab himself, Holmes quickly looks up at Wensley, “Cabby, take us to…”

“Good evening, Mr Holmes.”

Turning to confront the intrusive voice, Holmes sees Lestrade solemnly emerging from the shadows of Bull Inn Court.

Mystified by his presence, Holmes intones, “Lestrade! What on earth are you doing here?”

Knowing that he has caught Holmes by surprise, Lestrade grins, “Waiting for you, Mr Holmes. Thought I’d let you see the show first, though.”

Holmes raises a suspicious eyebrow, “How courteous of you. But the Royal Adelphi is hardly a music hall, Lestrade. It was a recital, not a variety show.”

Lestrade frowns,
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“Splitting hairs again, Mr Holmes?”

Holmes sighs disapprovingly, “Whatever you want, can’t it wait until tomorrow? We are just…”

Quickly popping his head out of the cab, Watson intervenes, “Yes, Lestrade, it is my birthday and we are about to dine.”

Lestrade strokes his moustache with the knuckle of his finger, “Oh, really? Happy birthday, Dr Watson.”