Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul (17 page)

Nodding, Lestrade looks up at Chandler and barks, “Fetch two constables and move her to the hand-cart ambulance.”

Chandler hurriedly turns on his heel and disappears along the passageway.

Putting on his black silk top hat, Bagster Phillips tips his head to Holmes, “Your inference has been most enlightening, Mr Holmes.”

Holmes courteously responds, “I trust we may meet again, but in more pleasant circumstances, Dr Phillips.”

Acknowledging Lestrade, Bagster Phillips leaves the yard.

Lestrade thoughtfully strokes his moustache with the knuckle of his finger, “So, Mr Holmes, we’re looking for a murderer and an accomplice.”

Holmes interjects, “A man and a woman, Lestrade.”

Lestrade stammers incredulously, “A woman…?”

Holmes indicates the corpse, “The fingernail scratches on the side of the neck were inflicted by a woman whilst she strangled the deceased. The same woman also wrenched the brass ring, or rings, from the finger, taking away the paltry object as a keepsake. Perhaps the organs were removed from the body for the same reason.”

Lestrade shakes his head in disbelief, “I’m a practical man, Mr Holmes. Where do I search for these two people?”

Holmes smiles, “In Spitalfields, of course.”

Lestrade frowns once more, “You’ve lost me again, Mr Holmes.”

Holmes patiently sighs, “The three murders occurred within a short distance of each other. In Spitalfields, to be precise. I believe if you consult a map, the area in question is about a quarter of a square mile. Concentrate all your efforts there, Lestrade, for that is where I suspect the murderer and his accomplice will be found.”

Noticing something lying upon the ground beneath the solitary dripping tap, Holmes quickly kneels and fingers the edge of a leather apron saturated with water, “Something a slaughterman would wear and recently scrubbed clean, I do believe?”

Lestrade hovers at his side, “You don’t think the murderer wore this and then paused to wash it after he’d killed Annie Chapman, do you?”

Holmes frowns, “What an absurd idea, Lestrade.”

Lestrade chuckles, “I jest again, Mr Holmes. The apron belongs to John Richardson. He’s the landlady’s son. Seems he washed the apron yesterday and left it here to dry overnight.”

Holmes slowly stands, “Our yellow press will undoubtedly want to create a ghoulish pseudonym for the murderer. I suspect the name of this article might be used to that effect, Lestrade.”

Lestrade pensively strokes his chin with his finger, “Got me there, Mr Holmes. Hadn’t thought of that one.”

Thinking of Watson, Holmes walks to the stone steps, “Now, if you will excuse me, an altogether different matter has arisen which demands my immediate attention.”

Lestrade agitates, “Why, Mr Holmes?”

Holmes pauses, “Why, what, Lestrade?”

Lestrade sighs wearily, “Why butcher these women in public? What’s the motive?”

Holmes solemnly replies, “A worrying question, indeed, Lestrade. And a conundrum that has continually occupied my mind since the murders began.”

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Lying on the bed and covered by the frayed blanket, Mary slowly opens her eyes and gazes at the faded pattern of the wallpaper, which is hardly discernible beneath the dirt. She wearily sighs and then clamps her hand over her mouth, stifling a yawn so as not to wake Elizabeth sleeping beside her.

Wearing a cotton blouse and a
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linsey-woolsey skirt, she slides out from beneath the blanket and, placing her bare feet on the dirty floorboards, shivers. Snatching a knitted red shawl from the back of a chair, she quickly wraps the piece around her shoulders.

Silently slipping her feet into a pair of worn elastic
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gusset boots, Mary looks to the furthest window, where closed curtains dim the daylight, and disdainfully glares at Barnett seated on a chair, slumped over the wooden table, snoring.

Quietly leaving the room and pulling the door shut behind her, she scampers into the dingy outer recess and quickly operates the hand-pump, splashing cold water on her face. Shivering again, she wipes her face with the shawl, hurriedly turns and almost bumps into an elderly Mary Ann Cox, timorously scurrying past her towards her room at the far end of the court.

Perplexed by the pallid expression of the emaciated woman, Mary blurts, “Gawd luv us, Coxey! Seen a ghost, ’ave yer?”

Lost in fearful thought and oblivious to the comment, Mary Ann Cox continues on to her room.

Feeling slighted, Mary hollers, “Cat got yer tongue, ’as it?”

Mary turns on her heel and, tightly clutching the shawl around her shoulders with both hands, hurries past the door of her room, down the narrow covered passage, and once through the arch, abruptly halts, immediately struck by the unusual sight of solemn people, silently ambling along the pavement either side of Dorset Street in the drizzling rain.

She frowns and then murmurs, “Summut’s up.”

Adjacent to the arched entrance of Miller’s Court and with his shirtsleeves rolled up, Thomas Bowyer steps out of the chandler’s shop and, stooping, picks up an open crate of apples, which has recently been delivered and set down on the pavement.

Spotting Mary, he yells, “Oi, Kelly! McCarthy wants t’ see yer.” He motions his head towards the open door of the shop, “Inside.”

Snubbing Bowyer, she brazenly helps herself to an apple from the crate, rubs the fruit on her shawl and enters the shop to see John McCarthy, nearly twice her age, lolling behind the counter, casually flicking through the pages of a ledger.

Indicating the street with her thumb, Mary snaps, “It’s like a funeral parlour out there. Why’s everyone so bleedin’ miserable?”

McCarthy sombrely looks up from the ledger,
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“Dark Annie were cut t’ pieces in ’Anbury Street last night. Bleedin’ ’orrible, like.”

Aghast, Mary drops the apple.

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Lying on her side and gradually stirring from her sleep, Elizabeth drowsily opens her eyes and hazily catches sight of Barnett still slumped over the table, snoring. Having no recollection of Barnett, or indeed whose room she is in, Elizabeth tosses aside the blanket and sits bolt upright.

Barnett grunts in his sleep.

Groggily rising from the bed, she totters forward, yanks open the door and, assailed by daylight, shields her eyes with her hand.

Lurching along the covered passage and experiencing nausea due to lack of nourishment, Elizabeth staggers aimlessly into the street, stumbles and falls to the ground.

Almost immediately, a hefty woman, wearing a damp shawl over her head, looms above her and blurts, “Yer a sight fer sore eyes. Stuck me nose in every
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nook an’ cranny, lookin’ fer yer. ’Eard Mike Kidney gave yer a beatin’ yesterday. Thought ’e’d cut yer up in ’Anbury Street, ’til I found out it were Annie Chapman.”

Again shielding her eyes with her hand, Elizabeth looks up and recognizes the friendly face of Elizabeth Tanner, who helps to run a doss-house located at 32 Flower and Dean Street.

Elizabeth pleads, “Oh, Mrs Tanner,
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I’m sixes an’ sevens. Dunno where I’ve been, dunno where I’m goin’.”

Kneeling in front of Elizabeth and examining her face, Tanner indicates the arched entrance to Miller’s Court, “Bet the Irish lass gave yer shelter fer the night. Generous t’ ’er own kind, she is.”

Tanner gently touches Elizabeth’s face, particularly her bruised jaw, “’Urt, does it?”

Elizabeth winces and then nods.

Tanner is scornful of Michel Kidney, “’E’s a
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swine. Sooner or later, ’e’ll git ’is
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comeuppance. Best yer stay away from ’im, luv.”

Elizabeth wearily sighs, “’E’ll come after me. Always does.”

Standing and assisting Elizabeth to her feet, Tanner urges, “Let’s git ol’ man Hobbs down at the infirmary t’ take a look at yer jaw an’ then afterwards yer might be able t’ eat summut, all right?”

Perking up, Elizabeth nods in agreement.

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Entering the chandler’s shop and placing the crate of apples down upon another, Bowyer glances at Mary and then looks at McCarthy still behind the counter, “One crate short, guv’nor.”

McCarthy fumes, “Git down the market an’ find out where it is. Tell Fairclough it’s ’nother crate or ’e don’t git paid.”

Hastily rolling down his shirtsleeves, Bowyer quickly slips his hand behind the open door and snatches his jacket from a wall hook.

Slowly stepping out from behind the counter, McCarthy barks at Bowyer, “An’ no stoppin’ off at the Ringers on the way.”

About to leave, Bowyer meekly touches the brim of his tatty bowler hat, “Right yer are, guv’nor.” Pulling on his jacket, he strolls out of the shop and promptly disappears along the street.

Stooping, McCarthy retrieves the dropped apple from the floor, rubs its green skin against his open waistcoat, bites into the fruit and, rotating the ledger upon the counter, murmurs, “Let’s see…”

Running his finger down a column of numerical figures, he turns to Mary and utters, “Yer b’hind wiv the rent. Twenty-nine shillings.”

Mary retorts, “Joe settles the rent, not me.”

McCarthy bites into the apple again, “Well, ’e ’asn’t. So, where is it?”

Mary retorts again, “’Ow the ’ell should I know? I ain’t got it. I’m
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skint.”

McCarthy raises a mollifying hand, “Calm down, will yer?” He offers the half-eaten apple to her.

She hesitates.

He thrusts it into her hand, “Yer look like yer need it.”

Ravenous, Mary begins to devour the apple, core and all.

McCarthy strokes his moustache with the tip of his finger, “We can settle yer arrears privately, like.”

Chewing, Mary cocks her head, “Privately?”

McCarthy edges closer to her and murmurs,
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“Scratch me back an’ I’ll scrap yer debt.”

Understanding his innuendo, Mary mockingly replies, “Got fleas, ’ave yer?”

McCarthy persists, “Yer a cut ’bove the other
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dregs ’round ’ere. Serve me twice a week an’ I’ll fergit wot yer owe me.”

Mary is incredulous, “Joe fends for me.”

McCarthy sniggers, “That daft parrot! Can’t fend fer anyone, not even ’imself.”

Using the tip of her chipped fingernail, Mary removes a bit of apple from between her teeth, “’E’s me man. An’ I don’t
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work the streets anymore.”

Sternly, McCarthy gazes at her, “Well, lass, yer may ’ave to. An’ this time there’s a madman roamin’ ’em.”

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Violently throwing open the door of the room, Mary jolts Barnett out of his slumber. Angrily advancing upon him, she jabs him in the shoulder with her finger, “Twenty-nine shillings! Twenty-nine bleedin’ shillings! Where is it? Come on! Wot did yer do wiv it?”

Sleepily, Barnett groans, “Do wiv it? Do wiv wot?”

Incensed, she slaps him across the face with her hand, “Wake up, yer daft bugger. The bleedin’ rent! Twenty-nine shillings! Why ain’t yer paid McCarthy?”

Yawning and rubbing his eye with his knuckle, Barnett stands, “Paid McCarthy? Oh, that.”

Mary steps back, placing both hands on her hips, “Oh, that? Is that all yer can say?” She indicates the doorway with her thumb, “Best yer git out there an’ earn it, or else McCarthy is goin’ t’ want
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a slice of me on the side t’ settle the debt.”

Barnett agitates, “The debt. Ferris the
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pawnbroker will ’elp out.”

Mary snaps, “An’ wot yer got t’ pawn, yer boots?” Turning away from Barnett, she sees the empty bed. Picking up the blanket, Mary begins to seethe again, “Where is she?”

Barnett shrugs his shoulders, “Is she? Left fer work, I’d say.”

Gradually turning on her heel, Mary stares at Barnett, “An’ why ’aven’t yer?”

Barnett gulps.

Mary glares at him, “Cat got yer tongue, ’as it?”

Barnett stutters, “’As it? I’ve lost…”

Fearing the worst and dropping the blanket to the floor, Mary quickly raises her hands to her mouth and gasps.

Barnett extends a placatory hand, “I’ll find summut.”

Lowering her hands, Mary cries, “Oh,
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Sweet Mother o’ Mary. Yer gone an’ killed me, Joseph Barnett.”

Baffled by her last words, Barnett blurts, “Joseph Barnett. Talk sense, gel.”

Resignedly, Mary murmurs, “Best yer go now, Joseph Barnett.”

Barnett demurs, “Joseph Barnett. Now wait a minute.”