Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul (15 page)

Staring at Holmes, Watson mutters, “I get the distinct feeling that our meal will have to wait, Holmes.”

Holmes turns to Lestrade again, “Who has sent you and for what reason, Lestrade?”

Lestrade frowns, “The Chief Commissioner wants to see you.” He glances at Watson, “Alone, Mr Holmes.”

Holmes is scathing, “Sir Charles Warren, no less. And what does the perpetrator of Bloody Sunday want?”

Lestrade inhales deeply, “Please, Mr Holmes, I’ve got my orders. I’m to escort you to Scotland Yard at once.”

Irritated by his insistence, Holmes snaps, “Yes, yes, Lestrade.” He turns to Watson, “Do you suppose he might resort to handcuffs if I do not accompany him?”

Watson scoffs,
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“Over my dead body, Holmes.”

Grateful for his support, Holmes smiles affectionately, “Yes, quite so. Do not alarm Mrs Hudson, Watson, I will be along shortly.” He again looks up at Wensley, “Cabby, 221b Baker Street.”

Acknowledging the instruction, Wensley touches the brim of his hat with his finger, “Consider it done, guv’nor.” Opening a small hinged flap built into the roof of the cab, Wensley peers down at Watson seated inside the vehicle, “Just sit back, sir, an’ we’ll be there b’fore yer can say,
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‘Pop Goes the Weasel’.”

Chuckling, Watson closes the two front folding doors of the cab and settles back in its leather seat.

Slamming the flap shut and deftly flicking the reins of the horse, Wensley manoeuvres the cab out into the road and begins to trundle along the Strand towards Trafalgar Square.

Watching the vehicle recede, Holmes hastily turns to Lestrade, “Well, Lestrade, shall we proceed?”

Lestrade indicates another cab, parked on the other side of the road.

Strolling across the thoroughfare, Lestrade murmurs to Holmes, “Do you think this Whitechapel murderer can be caught?”

Holmes glances at him, “The fingerprint technique has been used in India for nearly a decade, Lestrade. For the last two years
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Professor Faulds has been urging Scotland Yard to adopt the same method, but to no avail. The advances in photography have also been ignored. Whilst a military man commands Scotland Yard, I am afraid the advantage lies with the murderer.”

Following Holmes, Lestrade wearily climbs into the cab and sits next to him, “You may well be right, Mr Holmes. Morale is at an all time low at the Yard right now.”

Holmes impatiently thumps the roof of the vehicle with his hand, “Scotland Yard!”

The cab lurches forward.

Holmes quickly turns to Lestrade, “The day of the bloodhound is over, Lestrade. Usual methods of detection, relying on rewards and informants, are archaic. We must look to the future, as indeed the criminal does.”

Lestrade frowns, “The future? I have enough trouble with the present, Mr Holmes.”

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When the Metropolitan Police Force of London was founded fifty-nine years ago in 1829, one of its major tasks had been to find suitable premises to serve as headquarters.

A building, 4 Whitehall Place, which backed onto a spacious cobble-stoned court named Great Scotland Yard, was eventually selected. Close to Trafalgar Square, the rear of 4 Whitehall Place had been summarily converted into a police station which, in turn, had led the populace to identify Great Scotland Yard as the official residence of the Metropolitan Police Force. Several years later, the word ‘Great’ entirely vanished from the address when the headquarters became known as Scotland Yard, derived from the name of the single access street to the court.

Towards the end of last year and due to the steady increase in the size of the force, the Home Secretary, Henry Matthews, bowing to political pressure, had appointed the architect, Richard Norman Shaw, to design a new building for the Metropolitan Police Force.

To be completed by 1900, the new headquarters, now under construction on a vacant piece of land originally intended for a National Opera House close to the Houses of Parliament, is being built, using a curious combination of Portland stone and red bricks. This unusual blend of materials has prompted critics of the building to remark that the structure will ultimately resemble the monstrous keep of a medieval castle.

However, for the moment, the cramped premises of Scotland Yard continues to serve as headquarters to a beleaguered Metropolitan Police Force, plagued by ministerial interference, derided by the newspapers and universally loathed by the lower classes.

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Raising his monocle to his right eye, Sir Charles Warren sourly stares at Holmes seated opposite him, with Lestrade standing at his side.

He wags a dictatorial finger at Holmes, “I have but one division in Whitechapel, consisting of five hundred and forty-eight men. One police officer to every one hundred and thirty inhabitants. In battle, those odds would be unacceptable. Yet in spite of those numbers, and even though the death of an unfortunate has caused widespread alarm and brought unfair criticism upon the police, law and order will be maintained. The intrusion of a civilian during a murder inquiry, particularly by a meddling amateur detective like you, Mr Holmes, will not be tolerated. It defies my authority and further undermines police morale.”

Holmes retorts, “Hardly an amateur, Sir Charles. I charge a fixed fee for my services. And you err on another point. Two women have been slain by the same hand, not one.”

Warren glowers, “Damn you, Mr Holmes, I see no connection between the murders of Martha Tabram and Mary Ann Nichols.”

Holmes raises a condescending eyebrow, “That is because you are not looking close enough, Sir Charles.”

Admiring Holmes’ response, Lestrade stifles a chuckle.

Warren seethes, “You are an impertinent individual and yet it seems you are favoured, Mr Holmes.”

“Good evening, Sherlock.”

Instantly recognising the voice, Holmes stands and, turning on his heel, sees Mycroft closing the door, having quietly entered the office.

Holmes stares at Lestrade and remarks, “Tonight is indeed full of surprises. First you, Lestrade, and now my brother. What next? The Whitechapel murderer in chains, perhaps?”

Lestrade murmurs, “Dangling at the end of a rope would do nicely, Mr Holmes.”

Appreciating the reply, Holmes nods in agreement and then looks at Mycroft, “And what brings you away from the Diogenes Club at this late hour, Mycroft?”

Mycroft replies, “The Prime Minister expects your co-operation, Sherlock.”

Suspiciously, Holmes taunts his brother, “Ah, yes, Lord Salisbury. A pompous
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buffoon who advocates that England should remain in splendid isolation. A friend of yours, Mycroft?”

Aware that Holmes is attempting to goad him, Mycroft bites his tongue, “Merely his envoy, Sherlock. How was the theatre?”

Ignoring the question, Holmes presses his point, “Lord Salisbury is also a member of the Diogenes Club, is he not?”

Mycroft glares at Holmes, “Forever snapping at my heels, aren’t you?” He motions to the chair in front of the desk, “Now, please sit down.”

Intrigued by the presence of his brother, Holmes sits and again faces Warren.

Mycroft turns to Lestrade, “Inspector Lestrade, isn’t it?”

Lestrade nods, “Yes, sir.”

Mycroft indicates Holmes, “I understand that you have worked with my brother on certain criminal cases. Is that correct?”

Lestrade hesitates.

Warren growls, “Answer the gentleman, Inspector.”

Reluctantly obeying, Lestrade rejoins, “On occasions, sir.”

Mycroft continues, “And how have you found him? Arrogant or helpful?”

Lestrade is evasive, “Well, let’s put it this way, sir. It’s always an experience working with Mr Holmes.”

Holmes smiles, “Lestrade, you should have been a politician.”

Paying no heed to Holmes, Mycroft addresses Warren, “May I continue, Sir Charles?”

Displeased that he has to temporarily relinquish his authority to Mycroft, Warren begrudgingly consents.

Assuming the mantle of authority, Mycroft turns his attention to Holmes, “A group of political radicals are known to be active in and around Whitechapel. We want you to seek them out, gain their confidence and provide us with their names. Sir Charles will do the rest.”

Warren elaborates, “We are concerned that they could infiltrate local societies like the Mile End Vigilance Committee and use them to incite the lower classes for propaganda purposes.”

Mycroft interjects, “Her Majesty’s government will not tolerate another riot in Trafalgar Square similar to last year.” He reiterates the words spoken by Lord Salisbury, “It would upset the monarchy and alarm the Empire, Sherlock.”

Holmes raises an admonishing hand, “Gentlemen, please. Your devotion to duty is most evident, but you postulate insurrection without a shred of evidence. The Mile End Vigilance Committee is not politically motivated. It was formed by local tradesmen to help the police catch the Whitechapel murderer. Furthermore, Chief Inspector John Littlechild of the Irish Special Branch is an able man, why not use him?”

Mycroft sighs tetchily, “He is preoccupied, investigating the Irish Republican Brotherhood.”

Holmes smiles to himself, “Ah, those Fenians again.”

Warren glares at Holmes, “Whitechapel cannot be allowed to police itself, Mr Holmes. Murderer, or no murderer, I will not have the inhabitants of the district patrolling the streets at night.”

Holmes concurs, “Quite so, Sir Charles. I do think, however, that my presence in Whitechapel would be rather conspicuous, to say the least.”

Warren warily stares at Holmes, “Unless you had a good reason for being there in the first place, is that it?”

Exasperated, Mycroft throws his arms aloft, “For goodness sake, Sherlock, serve your Queen. You are a master of disguise. Go to Whitechapel. Seek out these radicals. Leave no stone unturned
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.”

Disregarding the outburst, Holmes continues to look at Warren, “Investigating the murders of those two unfortunate women would be reason enough, Sir Charles.”

Erroneously believing that he has encouraged the response, Mycroft congratulates Holmes, “Precisely, Sherlock.”

Ignoring Mycroft again, Holmes quizzically gazes at Warren, “Sir Charles?”

Warren relents, “You are assigned to the case. But remember, Lestrade is in charge of the investigation, not you, Mr Holmes.”

Holmes politely tips his head, “My methods include one other person, Sir Charles.”

Warren scowls, “Dr Watson may assist you.”

Holmes chides, “He invariably does, Sir Charles.” He stands and turns to Mycroft, “Inform the Prime Minister he has my co-operation and that I will assist Scotland Yard in their hunt for the Whitechapel murderer.”

Raising his hand to his mouth, Lestrade coughs.

Warren haughtily leans back in his chair and glares at him, “Yes, what is it, Lestrade?”

Lestrade lowers his hand, “Having Mr Holmes and Dr Watson on hand will certainly help, but I need more men on the ground, Commissioner.”

Warren flicks open a buff folder on his desk and stares at a report contained within, “Earlier today, I instructed eight divisions to release forty-two constables to support H Division.” He closes the folder and looks at Lestrade, “Anything else, Inspector?”

Mycroft interjects, “The intellect that my brother will bring to this case will be the equivalent of a further fifty men, Inspector.”

Deeming the remark idiotic, Lestrade frowns.

About to take his leave, Holmes politely tips his head to Warren, “Sir Charles.” He quickly turns to Lestrade, “Day or night, Lestrade. I am at your
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beck and call.”

Grateful for his support, Lestrade responds, “Much obliged, Mr Holmes.”

Finally, Holmes turns to Mycroft, “I do believe that this meeting tonight has constituted your yearly visit to my humble lodgings.”

Mycroft tetchily replies, “Bring us the names, Sherlock, that’s all.”

Piqued by his curtness, Holmes responds, “The only radical in Whitechapel that Lord Salisbury should fear is the one wielding a knife, Mycroft.”

Chapter 6

The Mark of M

Seated on a stool in the shabby kitchen of her doss-house at 35 Dorset Street and coughing violently, Annie Chapman drunkenly spits out a glob of phlegm upon the warm embers of a coke fire.

Hearing the phlegm sizzle, she produces a tatty matchbox from the side pocket of her dirty black coat and, with a shaking hand, removes two pills from it and pops them into her mouth. Hoarsely coughing again, she drops the box, which strikes the floor, splits apart and scatters the remaining pills across the filthy surface.

Awkwardly gathering the pills, she grabs a discarded envelope from the mantelpiece, tears off a corner and, placing the pills in it, returns them to her coat pocket.

The deputy of the doss-house, Timothy Donovan, hurries into the kitchen and seizes her by the arm, “I said ten minutes by the fire, not ’alf an ’our. Yer takin’ the
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bleedin’ piss, gel. Come on, out!”

Wincing, Annie slurs, “Don’t give me bed away. I’ll be back wiv the money. ’Onest, Tim.”

Donovan snarls, “Yer can always find money fer drink, but never yer bed. Git the Pensioner t’ ’elp yer out.”

Annie whines, “’E’s away, ain’t ’e?”

Donovan shoves her towards the kitchen door, “An’ so are yer, gel.”

Arduously climbing the rickety staircase to the entrance of the doss-house, Annie steps out into the street and, pausing for breath, sees the doss-house night watchman, John Evans, leaning against the wall, smoking a clay pipe.

Known as Brummy, Evans quips, “Out an’ ’bout agin, Annie?”

Annie bleats, “Tim wouldn’t give me
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tick. Now it’s the streets fer me. In any case, I won’t be long, Brummy. See that Tim keeps the bed fer me.”

Staggering past Evans and turning into Little Paternoster Row, a narrow bleak street that connects Dorset Street to Brushfield Street, Annie begins to cough heavily once more.

Wheezing, she murmurs, “Carry on like this, luv, an’ yer won’t live t’ see mornin’.”

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Curiously devoid of rain for this time of year, the slumbering metropolis has been dry, albeit chilly, during the night. But since the crack of dawn, ominous dark clouds have suggested that a thunderstorm, or perhaps sleet, might be in the offing.

To Inspector Joseph Chandler seated in the cab, careening around the corner of Oxford Street into Baker Street, the current cold weather is of no consequence, because a short while ago he had seen something that had chilled him to the bone. Something so ghastly, so grisly, that even a hardened police officer such as he cannot drive from his mind.

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Having returned to 221b Baker Street late the previous evening and believing Watson had retired to his room for the night, Holmes had quietly gone to bed, slept soundly and risen at daybreak, roused by the invigorating thought that he might soon be called upon to assist Lestrade in the hunt for the Whitechapel murderer.

Now dressed and jovially stepping out of his room into a short corridor that leads to the sitting-room, Holmes pauses by a closed door and raps on its surface, “Watson, please stir yourself. We are now in the service of Scotland Yard.”

Not waiting for a response, he strides into the dusky sitting-room and, upon reaching the two broad windows, swiftly draws back the drapes to see a cab in the street below, halting sharply by the front door of the house.

Hurriedly returning to the corridor, Holmes hears the rat-a-tat-tat sound of a brass knocker. He again knocks on the door of Watson’s room, “My dear fellow, I do believe we may have a visitor.”

Apprehensive after getting no reply and now hearing heavy feet pounding up the stairs of the house, Holmes throws open the door to reveal an orderly room with an unruffled bed, clear indication that it has not been slept in.

The knuckles of a clenched hand urgently rap on the door to the apartment.

Disregarding the knocking at the door, Holmes enters the bedroom and determines immediately that Watson is not at home. Worrying, to say the least. Hurrying along the corridor, he yanks open the apartment door and confronts a tense Chandler, who hastily blurts, “Mr Holmes?”

Tersely raising a silencing hand to Chandler, Holmes looks down the carpeted flight of stairs at Mrs Hudson, closing the front door, “Mrs Hudson, have you seen Dr Watson?”

Thoughtfully gazing up at Holmes, Mrs Hudson shakes her head, “Neither last night, nor this morning, Mr Holmes.”

Holmes pensively strokes his chin, “Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” He quickly turns to Chandler, “And you are…?”

Chandler stammers, “Inspector Chandler, H Division. Inspector Lestrade sent me to fetch you. There’s been another murder, Mr Holmes.”

“Where?”

“Hanbury Street, Spitalfields.”

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Formerly four separate innocuous streets, Hanbury Street begins at Commercial Street in the west and ends at Baker’s Row in the east. It had been at the corner of Baker’s Row and Old Montague Street that Robert Paul and Charles Cross had informed Police Constable Jonas Mizen about finding the body of Mary Ann ‘Polly’ Nichols in Buck’s Row.

Situated close to the major thoroughfare of Commercial Street, 29 Hanbury Street is on the northern side, located between John Street and Brick Lane. Ironically, Robert Paul, having left Charles Cross and Constable Mizen in Baker’s Row, had ambled past 29 Hanbury Street on his way to work in Corbet’s Court, a side-street just beyond the house and before Commercial Street.

Number 29 is a grimy terraced building, three storeys high, two rooms deep, with eight rooms providing sanctuary for seventeen inhabitants. Access to the house is gained through a single street door dominated by a tatty overhead sign that reads
Mrs A. Richardson, rough packing-case maker
. The weathered door, which is never locked, gives entry to a dismal passageway which slices through the dwelling to a dingy, enclosed backyard.

From the front room on the ground-floor of the house, Harriet Hardiman runs a cat’s meat shop, where she also lodges with her sixteen-year-old son. Backing on to the shop and to the rear of the property, with a clear view of the backyard, is the kitchen used by landlady Mrs Amelia Richardson, to cook frugal meals and hold weekly prayer meetings. For her packing-case business, Amelia also uses the cellar beneath the kitchen, which can only be entered from the backyard. Along with her fourteen-year-old grandson Thomas, she lives in the front room on the first floor above the cat’s meat shop.

Overlooking the backyard, the rear room on the first floor is occupied by a boot-maker, Mr Walker, and his retarded adult son, Alfred. Above them on the second floor live cigar makers Mr and Mrs Copsey, again with a view of the backyard. The adjoining front room is inhabited by carman Mr Thompson, his wife and their adopted daughter, whilst above them on the third floor, in the attic, lodges another carman, John Davis, his wife and three sons. Finally, a widow, Sarah Cox, occupies the rear room in the attic, also with an unhindered view of the backyard.

Seen from the street door and situated to the left of the passageway, an awkward communal staircase offers the only approach to the six rooms above. Past the staircase and straight ahead is the self-closing door to the backyard. When pushed, this door opens out to the left to reveal the yard, five yards by four, and partially paved with flat stones. To the left of three worn stone steps that lead from the door to the backyard is a small recess and then a wooden paling fence about five and a half feet high, which runs the entire length of the backyard, separating it from that of number 27.

Opposite the rear door, in the left-hand corner of the backyard, is Amelia Richardson’s woodshed, whilst in the right-hand corner is the privy. To the right of the door and just below the kitchen window is the padlocked cellar. Slightly beyond that, and jutting from the brickwork, is a solitary tap which supplies the entire household with water.

Hemmed in by other shabby houses and because the flickering amber light produced by household candles, or inexpensive oil lamps, cannot penetrate the excessive grime that has adhered to the window panes of all these dwellings, the backyard of number 29 is plunged into almost total darkness at night.

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At about 3. 30 a.m. this morning, Mr Thompson had quietly left his room on the second floor of 29 Hanbury Street, passing Amelia Richardson’s front room on the first floor. Hearing him descending, Amelia had greeted him through her closed door, whilst he had continued on down the stairs. Seeing nobody in the passageway, Mr Thompson had left by the street door and strolled off along Hanbury Street towards his place of work in Brick Lane.

More than an hour later, at 4. 45 a.m., Amelia Richardson’s son, John, who lived around the corner in John Street, had entered the house through the street door, looking for uninvited vagrants who occasionally slept rough in the passageway.

Easing open the door to the backyard and standing on the top step, John had taken out a table knife and trimmed a piece of leather from a boot that had been hurting him. Now near to daybreak and having been on the step for just over three minutes, he had turned away from the door, walked along the passageway and had left the house, closing the street door behind him.

Forty minutes later, at 5. 25 a.m., Albert Cadosch, who lived next door at number 27, had gone to use the backyard privy and had heard muffled voices, apparently coming from the yard of number 29. The only word he had been able to catch was “No!” Some three minutes later, at 5. 28 a.m., and returning to use the privy once more, he had heard sounds, again coming from the yard of number 29, of someone or something falling against the wooden paling fence. Impatient to use the privy, he had paid no further attention and heard no more noises. He had left for work and, passing Spitalfields Church, had noticed the time was about 5. 32 a.m.

Some thirteen minutes later, John Davis had risen from his bed in the attic room of 29 Hanbury Street and began to dress for work. Intent on using the privy in the backyard, Davis had hurried down the stairs to the passageway, noticing that the street door to the house had been left wide open. Undoing his belt and hastily pushing open the door to the backyard, he had suddenly halted, horrified by what he saw. Below him, upon the ground, was the body of a woman, partially lying in the recess between the stone steps and the wooden paling fence. Quickly turning away, Davis had hurtled along the passageway and, rushing through the open street door, had skidded to a halt on the pavement, his belt dangling by his side.

Waiting just outside their place of work at 23a Hanbury Street, James Kent and James Green had seen Davis hurtle out of number 29, holding up his trousers with his left hand. Approaching from the opposite direction, Henry Holland had also witnessed Davis’ rapid exit from the house. Breathing heavily, Davis called upon the three men to follow him back into the house, which they had.

Reaching the end of the passageway, the four men had crowded together in the doorway of the backyard and peered down at the body, aghast. Henry Holland had nervously ventured down the steps, taken a closer look at the woman but had refrained from touching her. Having seen enough, the four men had retreated back along the passageway and, upon reaching the street, had raced off in four different directions.

James Kent had gone directly into the Black Swan tavern and had gulped down a large brandy to calm his nerves. James Green had returned to 23a Hanbury Street, intent on finding a piece of canvas with which to cover the body. Henry Holland had found a policeman in Spitalfields Market but the constable could not assist Holland because he was on fixed-point duty, with strict orders not to abandon his post under any circumstances. In the meantime, John Davis had gone straight to Commercial Street Police Station where he had reported his gruesome discovery.

At 6. 02 a.m. and not long on duty, Inspector Joseph Chandler had paused at the corner of Hanbury Street and Commercial Street and had immediately been faced by several men rushing towards him. Hastily informed of a likely murder, Chandler had hurried along Hanbury Street and entered number 29, pushing his way through morbid bystanders who had since gathered in the passageway. Stepping down into the deserted backyard, he had been overwhelmed by nausea as he stared down at the horrendously mutilated body of a woman with a white and red bordered neckerchief knotted beneath her chin.

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Escorted by Chandler, Holmes eases his way through the sullen crowd milling around the door of 29 Hanbury Street. A hand shoots out from the crowd and grabs him by the arm.

Bullen grins, “Remember me, Mr Holmes? The Star newspaper. I interviewed you on your return from Switzerland.”