Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul (19 page)

Pizer grins, “Take me, Mr Leach. Make John Pizer famous.”

Glancing at Knowles and Brice, Constable Allen blurts, “He’s as
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mad as a March hare.”

Leach petulantly turns to Allen, “Maybe so, son. But that doesn’t mean he’s the murderer.”

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Previously described by Watson as ‘six dirty little scoundrels who stood in line like so many disreputable statuettes’, the Baker Street Irregulars are a gang of street urchins frequently employed by Holmes when engaged on a case. The crafty leader of this group of scallywags is eleven-year-old Hobart Wiggins, whom Holmes, on this occasion, has instructed to track down the cab and driver that had taken Watson from the Royal Adelphi Theatre to 221b Baker Street, where, apparently, he had never arrived.

Furtively standing beside Holmes in a doorway near the corner of Earlham Row and Seven Dials, Wiggins indicates an overhead sign,
Shipley’s Yard Depot,
Hackney Carriage Co. Ltd
, across the street and whispers, “’E’s in there, Mr ’Olmes. Samuel Wensley. Cab number 1729.”

Holmes gives the boy a shilling coin, “You are as
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sharp as a needle, Wiggins. Well done!” He then hands him a
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guinea piece, “A further reward, and justly deserved.”

Quickly slipping the coins into a side pocket of his trousers, Wiggins stares at Holmes enquiringly, “Anyfink else, Mr ’Olmes?”

Holmes smiles mischievously, “When next I need your assistance, I will send for you.”

Touching the peak of his cap, Wiggins skedaddles.

Striding across the street, Holmes hurriedly passes through two large open gates beneath the overhead sign. Entering a spacious cobbled yard reeking of animal urine and dung, he halts abruptly, confronted by a burly man, Rufus Stockmar, scolding cabby Edwin Fletcher.

Stockmar prods Fletcher in the chest with his finger, “Fares are found in the street, not in ’ere. Late agin, an’ yer out on yer ear.”

Fletcher pleads, “It’s me ol’ woman, innit? ’Ad a
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barney wiv ’er last night. She took off an’ ’asn’t come ’ome. Been out an’ ’bout all mornin’ lookin’ fer ’er.”

Stockmar sneers, “Git yerself ’nother woman.” He points to an unbridled horse, uncoupled from its vehicle, “’Arness up, or ship out!”

Fletcher grudgingly turns away, muttering to himself.

Promptly stepping forward, Holmes makes his presence known to Stockmar, “Good afternoon.”

Stockmar stares at him, “No fares in ’ere, sir. Yer’ll ’ave t’ wait outside in the street.”

Amused by the misconception, Holmes smiles, “Thank you, but a cab is not required. Merely a few minutes alone with Samuel Wensley. Vehicle number 1729, I believe.”

Stockmar gazes at Holmes suspiciously, “Who are yer?”

Holmes introduces himself, “Sherlock Holmes.”

Familiar with the name, Stockmar stammers, “O’ Baker Street?”

Holmes nods, “221b, to be exact.”

Stockmar grins, “Yer a bit o’ a detective, ain’t yer?”

Holmes modestly tips his head, “I need your assistance.”

Puckishly, Stockmar winks, “Samuel Wensley, right?”

Appreciating his response, Holmes nods again.

Stockmar indicates a row of cabbies, coupling and harnessing horses to their vehicles, “This way, Mr Holmes.”

Escorting Holmes along the line, Stockmar murmurs, “Samuel’s a good man, Mr Holmes. Been wiv us fer seven years. Never ’ad a complaint.”

Holmes replies, “I seek only information from him, not his head.”

Consoled, Stockmar hollers at the cabbies, “Fares are found in the street, not in ’ere. Evening shift in five minutes.” Seeing Wensley grooming his horse, Stockmar hollers again, “Oi, Samuel, someone t’ see yer.”

Intrigued, Wensley turns about, removing hair from the bristles of his grooming-brush.

Stockmar indicates Holmes, “Mr Sherlock Holmes.”

Wensley thoughtfully stares at Holmes and then suddenly blurts, “O’ course, the Royal Adelphi, right?”

Stockmar chuckles, “Samuel never fergits a face, Mr Holmes.”

Pleasantly surprised, Holmes smiles, “Thankfully not.”

Producing his pocket watch, Stockmar stares at the piece, “Try not t’ keep ’im too long, Mr Holmes.”

Agreeing, Holmes politely tips his hat.

Striding back along the yard, Stockmar bellows, “All right, yer bloody
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’eathens, time t’ earn the rent.”

Holmes turns to Wensley, “There were two of us.”

Wensley shakes his head, “Na, guv’nor, three.”

Acknowledging his error, Holmes murmurs, “Ah, yes, Lestrade. Now, the other gentleman?”

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“’E were a sport. Gave me a shillin’
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tip, ’he did.”

“Did you take him straight home?”

“Well, yeh an’ no, guv’nor.”

“Come, come, Mr Wensley. Was it yes, or was it no?”

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Driven by Wensley, the cab turns from Oxford Street into Baker Street. Hearing a thumping noise coming from within the vehicle, he brings the cab to a halt and opens the small hinged flap built into its roof. Watson gazes up at him, “It is a fine evening, I will walk the rest of the way.”

Wensley frowns, “But we’re almost there, guv’nor.”

Watson chirpily hops out of the cab, “Exercise is good for the heart. It invariably keeps one alive.”

Wensley closes the flap, “If yer say so, guv’nor.” 

Watson gently pats the rump of the horse, “That’s why this fellow is healthy. Plenty of exercise.” He pauses for thought, “However, he does have four legs. A distinct advantage over us, wouldn’t you say?”

Wensley chuckles,
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“One an’ six, guv’nor.”

Watson tosses him a coin, “The rest is for your inconvenience.”

Catching the half-crown piece, Wensley utters his appreciation, “Gawd bless yer, guv’nor.”

Leaving Wensley, Watson merrily strolls along the pavement and begins to hum part of the Berceuse recital.

Manoeuvring his cab to turn it around, Wensley catches sight of a ‘growler’ which, upon emerging from Portman Square, begins to silently follow Watson down the street.

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The horse raises its head, snorts and shakes its harness. Wensley gently strokes its forehead, “Whoa, boy. Steady.”

Holmes tensely stares at him, “Was there any other vehicle in the street?”

Wensley shakes his head, “Just me an’ the growler. As it got alongside the gentleman, its door swung open.”

Holmes queries, “And…?”

Wensley shrugs his shoulders, “Dunno, guv’nor. Turned me cab ’round. Didn’t see nothin’ else.”

Impatiently, the horse stomps its hoofs and nudges Wensley in the back with its muzzle.

He chuckles, “I ought t’ be on the road.”

Holmes gives him a coin, “You have been most helpful.”

Taking the coin and showing his gratitude, Wensley tips his hat, “Gentleman a good friend, is ’e, guv’nor?”

Holmes affirms, “Yes…very.”

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Wearing his mouse-coloured dressing-gown, Holmes closes the window drapes and, apart from the flickering glow created by the burning fire in the grate, plunges the sitting-room into near total darkness. Picking up his cherry-wood pipe and lighting it, he sits in an armchair and begins to exhale smoke. Reminiscing, he recalls a discussion he had with Watson not long after they had moved into 221b.

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“My dear fellow, at birth the human mind is like an empty attic. As we grow and develop, we have a tendency to clutter the attic with rubbish. Upon reaching adulthood, we should have cleared the attic, but alas, in most cases, the rubbish remains. It is this clutter, which I so abhor, that prevents people, regardless of race, from acquiring knowledge.”

Seated in an armchair opposite Holmes, Watson lowers his newspaper and picks up his pipe, “Perhaps we should refurbish the Empire, Holmes?”

Disregarding the remark, Holmes continues, “Foreign to some, and brushed aside by those who favour an impulsive tongue, knowledge or pure reason, without emotional intrusion, is a point of consciousness that all can attain, but few do, Watson.”

Lighting his pipe, Watson leans back in his chair, “In addition to your eccentric habits, Holmes, you can be an uncompromising individual at times.”

Holmes smiles, “Similar to Charles Darwin, Watson?”

Watching blue smoke rise from his pipe, Watson murmurs, “All our ancestors were apes? Nonsense, Holmes.”

Holmes raises a quizzical eyebrow, “So, Watson, you believe we descended from two naked lovers frolicking about in the
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Garden of Eden?”

Watson huffs, “Darwin’s theory is too radical. He could have easily proposed earthworms instead.”

Holmes smiles again, “On the contrary, his evolutionary concept of natural selection is not merely a theory. Amassed over a period of twenty-eight years, his research has shown that the origins of life are a fact. And I expect that, one day, it will be acknowledged as so. Although I rather suspect that our ecclesiastical establishment will forever remain entrenched in the Garden of Eden.”

Watson sighs tetchily, “They used to burn people like you at the stake, Holmes.”

Appreciating the quip, Holmes chuckles, “My dear fellow, your obvious reluctance to embrace the truth implies that you have retained rubbish in the attic. Whereas I have done away with mine, leaving me with an impartial mind.”

Watson huffs again, “And where should a person confine an erroneous belief, Holmes?”

Holmes pensively strokes his chin,
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“Metaphorically speaking?”

Watson nonchalantly shrugs his shoulders.

Holmes ripostes, “In the cellar, of course.”

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Returning to the present and with his face lit by the flickering flames of the fire, Holmes puffs on his pipe and, with clarity of thought, begins to ponder the murders. Mentally conversing with himself, he reflects, “The abduction of Watson, some five hours before the murder of Annie Chapman, is undoubtedly related to her death. Perhaps those of the other two women also. Seized whilst parted from me, his movements, as well as mine, must have been closely observed from the moment we had left our lodgings for the theatre. Granted, there had been other opportunities when he could have been taken, but evidently none had found favour with his abductors until last night. I believe his abduction was not committed by deranged individuals suffering from dementia, but quite the opposite. It was planned, arranged and perpetrated by a calculated mind. And therein lays the root cause of these terrible crimes.”

Brushing tobacco ash from the lap of his dressing-gown with his hand, Holmes further reflects, “What kind of devilish mind could have contrived a diabolical scheme, whereupon destitute women were to be systematically slaughtered in the streets? Whom might dominate an obscene fraternity, wherein a heartless obedience binds all to commit such atrocities?”

With a grim expression, he quickly stands, “At times the truth is never palatable, but I have to confess that I was entirely duped. I should be hung, drawn and quartered for such a monumental blunder. Moriarty, you are indeed the maestro of mayhem.”

Ardently puffing on his pipe again, he begins to pace back and forth across the room, “Prior to meeting Moriarty in this very room, had I ever set eyes on him before? Of course not. Oh, the genius of the man. He had come not as himself, but rather had sent an impersonator. An emissary, if you will, who, by design, had led me on a merry dance halfway across the Continent to the village of Meiringen and the Reichenbach Falls. To my everlasting shame, in my haste to free the world of Moriarty, I had dispatched the impersonator to a watery grave, whose only crime appeared to have been a credible theatrical performance, presented solely for my benefit. Though I sensed at the time that all was not what it seemed, I had foolishly allowed myself to believe that Moriarty had been vanquished when, in fact, he had probably been close at hand, relishing the entire affair. With my thoughtless participation, he had instigated his own death, which had instantly freed him of any further investigation by myself or, indeed, Scotland Yard.”

Returning to the armchair, he sits down, “The utter madness of it all. A
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Vargulf, howling at the moon. Three women hideously slain. Their internal organs eviscerated. Watson abducted. All committed to encourage me to investigate the crimes. Even the initial
M
,
which evoked his surname, was left behind to intrigue me further.”