Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul (21 page)

Pizer grins, “Tools. I shoemaker.”

Lestrade taps the leather apron with his finger, “And this?”

Pizer continues to grin, “Yah, I use. No cut leg.”

Adopting a fatherly tone, Lestrade murmurs, “Ever threatened a woman with a knife, John?”

Pizer baulks, “Yah, when?”

Lestrade sighs, “Answer the question, John. Have you ever used a knife to threaten a woman?”

Pizer shakes his head vigorously.

Keeping his eyes on Pizer, Lestrade rolls up the piece of canvas, “Where were you on the mornings of August seventh, thirty-first and September the eighth?”

Pizer grins again, “Yah, like yer.”

Sternly, Lestrade advises, “Don’t play games, John.”

Trying to find the words by which to express himself, Pizer pleads, gesticulating wildly with his hands.

Lestrade resumes his fatherly tone, “Settle down, John. Take your time.”

Pizer stutters, “Sleepin’, like yer.”

“Where?”

“’Olloway Road.”

“Holloway Road?”

“Yah, ’Olloway Road. Round ’Ouse.”

Lestrade looks at Leach, putting his next question to him rather than Pizer, “The Round House. A doss-house?”

Leach nods, “A witness has verified that he lodged there on two of the dates.”

Pizer confirms, “Yah, first, second mornin’.”

Lestrade turns to him, “And September the eighth?”

“’Ulberry Street.”

“Mulberry Street, where you were picked up?”

Pizer grins yet again, “Yah, people now know John Pizer.”

Outside the room, the knuckles of a clenched hand rap hastily on the surface of the door. Opening it, Leach reveals Chandler, lowering his arm, standing beside Mrs Elizabeth Long.

Rising quickly from his chair, Lestrade smiles at her, “Ah, Mrs Long. Good of you to come.” He indicates Pizer, “Have you ever seen this man before?”

Sniffling due to her cold, Mrs Long steps into the room, stares at Pizer, turns to Lestrade and shakes her head.

Disenchanted, Knowles and Brice wearily lower their notebooks.

Not in the least surprised, Lestrade politely acknowledges her response, “Thank you.” He glances at Chandler, “Give her a cup of tea and see that she gets home.”

Acting upon the order, Chandler leads Mrs Long from the room.

Referring to Pizer, Lestrade instructs Leach, “Let him go. And if it were me, I’d sue every London newspaper for slander, especially The Star.”

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Created by an Act of Parliament in 1858, the General Medical Council has been, for the past thirty years, the regulator of the medical profession in Great Britain. Its principal role is to protect patients from professional misconduct. It possesses the authority to discipline, or expel, negligent practitioners, who previously would have been appraised and registered by the council in order that they could have practiced in the country in the first place.

Consisting of members of the medical profession, most notable being Sir William Withey Gull, Physician in Ordinary to Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, the council does not receive financial support from the government, but derives its income from fees paid by practitioners upon obtaining registration.

Containing the personal and professional particulars of each medical practitioner in the country, the leather bound registration ledgers of the council are kept under lock and key in its office at 299 Oxford Street, near the corner with Harewood Place, which is but a short cab ride from Baker Street.

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The keeper of these registration ledgers, Alfred Henry Lane, is a spry elderly individual who has an air of quiet amusement about him, as though constantly enjoying a private joke. Minus the lower part of his left arm, Lane had sought and gained employment with the council when he was invalided out of the army nineteen years ago.

Proudly pointing to the row of ledgers on a shelf, Lane blithely winks at Holmes, “Got friends in ’igh places, ’ave yer? I mean, not every Tom, Dick an’ ’Arry gits t’ see wot’s inside this room.”

Holmes jovially replies, “All the way up to Her Majesty, Mr Lane.”

Lane chuckles, “A man wiv a sense o’ ’umour. I like that, sir.”

Holmes confesses, “I mislead you. The truth of the matter is that a colleague of mine is known to the council.”

Lane muses, “Must be a doctor, then?”

Holmes concurs, “Indeed he is.” He indicates the left sleeve of Lane’s jacket, upturned and folded, “The unfortunate result of a military engagement, I hear.”

Lane smiles cheerfully, “Abyssinian War. Battle o’ Magdala, Tenth o’ April 1868. Lost me ’and an’ forearm whilst savin’ a chum, sir. An Ethiopian tribesman blew it apart wiv an ol’ blunderbuss. Nasty weapon up close.” 

Holmes smiles admiringly.

Lane grins, “Mind yer, we routed ’em. Killed seven ’undred o’ the
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buggers. Only thirty o’ us were wounded. I were one o’ ’em.”

Holmes hands him a slip of paper, “The name of the gentleman I seek.”

Lane is apologetic, “Got a bit carried away, didn’t I, sir?”

Holmes smiles again, “On the contrary, Mr Lane, a tale of pluck is always worth recounting.”

Moved by the compliment, Lane murmurs, “Kind words. Thank yer, sir.” Putting on his spectacles, he stares at the name written on the slip of paper, “Now, t’ business.”

Thoughtfully running his finger over the embossed spines of the ledgers, he pauses by one, “Ah, ’ere we are, sir.” Removing it from the shelf, he places the ledger upon a table, opens it and begins to flick through the pages.

Holmes seats himself at the table.

Looking at the name on the slip of paper again, Lane places it alongside a written entry in the ledger and exclaims, “Ah, yeh.” He rotates the ledger and indicates the entry to Holmes, “This is the gentleman, sir.”

Eagerly staring at the entry, Holmes taps a registration date written beside a name with his finger, “As I suspected. He was only registered by the Medical Council last year.”

Lane slowly removes his spectacles, “Nothin’ odd ’bout that, sir. Probably a
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whippersnapper straight out o’ medical college.”

Pensively, Holmes leans back in his chair, “In your opinion, Mr Lane, at what age does a physician, or surgeon, normally apply to the council for registration?”

Lane promptly replies, “Not past thirty-five, that’s fer sure.”

Standing quickly and again using his finger, Holmes stabs at a date of birth entry, “This whippersnapper, Mr Lane, is fifty-six.”

Lane guffaws, “Yer sound like a detective. Scotland Yard, is it?”

Holmes slams the ledger shut, “I have him, Mr Lane.”

Mystified by the remark, Lane frowns, “Yer ’ave who, sir?”

Holmes smiles, “Moriarty! He has many guises, but I now believe I know who he is.”

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Dusk precedes evening.

Illuminated by the yellowish glow of an overhead gas lamp, and gripping a broadsheet flaunting the words
Hanbury St. Murder
, a youth with newspapers tucked under one arm hollers, “’Anbury Street murder! Latest edition! Is the killer a doctor? ’Anbury Street murder! Latest edition! Is the killer a doctor?”

Within seconds, anxious passers-by rapidly descend upon the youth, snatching newspapers from him and, in payment, tossing coins on the ground by his scuffed boots.

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Hastily seating himself behind his desk, Warren barks at Lestrade, standing opposite him, “The Central News Agency, Lestrade.”

Lestrade frowns, “I’m sorry, Commissioner, you’ve lost me.”

Warren tetchily drums the surface of his desk with his fingers, “It’s a news gathering organization.”

Recalling its address, Lestrade blurts, “Ah, yes. Number 5, New Bridge Street, City of London. Not within our jurisdiction, is it?”

Warren glowers, “Are you trying to provoke me?”

Lestrade demurs, “Never crossed my mind, Commissioner.”

Raising a sceptical eyebrow, Warren slides a drawer open and, producing an envelope, stares at its address, scrawled in red ink.

                             The Boss

                                   Central News        

                                          Office

                                  London City

Fingering the envelope, postmarked with the initials
E. C.
, he looks up at Lestrade, “The Central News Agency obtains its news, particularly political speeches, from abroad. It then sells that news on to prominent newspapers here in London. Outside the so-called fraternity of Fleet Street, the agency is virtually unknown.” He slides the envelope across the surface of his desk to Lestrade, “This was received by their editor late this morning and handed to me less than an hour ago.”

Staring at the envelope, Lestrade hesitates.

Warren snaps, “Peruse the letter, man. Now you have a name.”

Removing two sheets of paper from the envelope, also written in red ink, Lestrade begins to read, his eyes gradually expressing the gloating awfulness of the message.

                                                                                    25 Sept. 1888

Dear Boss

    I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they wont fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the
right
track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. I am down on whores and shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some proper
red
stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I cant use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope
ha. ha.
The next job I do I shall clip the ladys ear off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldnt you. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work then give it out straight. My knife’s so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good luck.

                            Yours truly

                         Jack the Ripper

Don’t mind me giving the trade name

Wasnt good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands curse it. No luck yet. They say I’m a doctor now ha. ha.

Chapter 8

Harbinger of Death

South of Commercial Road and running parallel with Batty Street, where Israel Lipski had poisoned Miriam Angel last year at number 16 Berner Street is a cheerless street of terrace houses which cuts across Fairclough Street and ends at Ellen Street.

On the west side of Berner Street, between Commercial Road and Fairclough Street and opposite the School Board building, is Dutfield’s Yard. Its pair of tall wooden gates displays the painted white letters of two past businesses:
W. Hindley, sack manufacturer & A. Dutfield, van & cart builder
. The right hand gate is fitted with a wicket door for use when the gates are locked, though this is rare.

The yard begins as an alley and then widens slightly to become an unlit cobbled court. The entire length of the yard is flanked on the right by 40 Berner Street, home to the International Working Men’s Educational Club, and on the left by number 42. Alongside this particular house is a row of shabby cottages and, to the rear, a derelict sack shed, a stable and the printing press of the Yiddish radical newspaper
Der Arbeter Fraint
(
The Worker’s Friend
).

Access to the International Working Men’s Educational Club, whose windows overlook the court, is gained through the front door in Berner Street, or by the use of a right hand side door in Dutfield’s Yard. It is customary for members of the club to use this unlocked side door, thus avoiding the need to knock and wait for entry through the street door.

In stark contrast to the dank gloom of Dutfield’s Yard and only three houses along, the Lord Nelson tavern, situated on the corner of Berner Street and Fairclough Street, is an alluring, intoxicating retreat from a life of remorseless drudgery endured by so many residents of the immediate area.

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Hunched over a small circular table in the tavern and staring broodingly into an empty ale glass, Michael Kidney is unaware that the disease which infects him is incurable and will, if he should live so long, send him to the grave.

Vulgarly nicknamed the ‘pox’, syphilis had first manifested in the form of a lesion on his organ. The lesion will soon clear, but in four to eight weeks he will suffer a secondary stage, skin eruptions to his face and back that will scar him permanently.

During the next five years, he will experience severe headaches and concentration loss, becoming lethargic, irritable and irrational. As the disease gradually destroys his central nervous system, he will go mad. Ultimately, he will succumb to paralysis and, finally, death.

Sullenly occupied with venomous thoughts of Elizabeth, Kidney shoves his empty ale glass aside.

Having indifferently forgotten about the chastisement he had received from Detective Sergeant Leach in Mulberry Street, John Skinner ambles towards Kidney, carrying a glass of dark ale in each hand.

Kidney glances up at Skinner and mutters, “All this bleedin’ time I’ve been
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shacked up wiv a whore.”

Skinner chirpily places both drinks down on the table, “Yer’ve been lucky, mate. ’Aven’t ’ad t’ pay fer it, ’ave yer?”

Kidney snarls, “Should
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send ’er t’ sleep. Good an’ proper, like.”

Sitting, Skinner blanches, “Steady on, mate. That’s ’angin’ talk.”

Slurping ale, Kidney wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, “Maybe so. But if she were found
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carved up like ’em other three whores, the
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bogies would fink the bloke they’re chasin’ ’ad done ’er in, not me.”

Skinner removes a clay pipe from the top pocket of his jacket, “Got t’ yer, ain’t she?”

Again slurping his ale, Kidney tetchily lowers his glass,
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“Buggered off an’ left me wiv the pox, didn’t she? Chances are she’ll give it t’ ’nother bloke. Bloody rich, innit?”

Skinner presses flaked tobacco into the bowl of his pipe with his thumb, “Welcome t’ the family, mate. Got me dose last Christmas.
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Pissin’ broken glass fer over a month, I were.”

Kidney scoffs, “Broken glass? Feels like bleedin’ acid.”

Lighting his pipe, Skinner snorts, “Ah, yer’ll git over it. Leaves yer ol’ John Thomas, goes t’ yer back an’ face, then peters out.”

Kidney stares at him concernedly, “Nothin’
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unt’ward, then?”

Skinner exhales smoke, “Would I tell yer
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porkies, mate? Na, yer’ll live t’ be a ’undred. Assumin’ yer don’t murder yer ol’ woman an’ ’ang fer it.”

Gulping down the remainder of his ale, Kidney slams his empty glass down on the table, “The sooner she’s pushin’
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up daisies, the better I’ll feel.”

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Sitting on the edge of the bed in her lodging house at 32 Flower and Dean Street, Elizabeth holds a piece of broken mirror up to her face. Abjectly gazing at her reflection, she cocks her head to one side, gently touches her bruised jaw and winces.

Elizabeth Tanner hurries into the gas-lit dormitory, shaking rain from her shawl, “A filthy evenin’. Wet an’ windy already.”

Quickly putting aside the piece of mirror, Elizabeth stands and brushes her long black skirt with both hands,
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“Spick-an’-span, Mrs Tanner.”

Stooping, Tanner runs her fingers over the surface of the bare floorboards, “Mop ’em, did yer?”

Elizabeth nods.

Straightening, Tanner glances around the room, “Beds made?”

Elizabeth nods again, “Fifteen, an’ mine.”

Tanner smiles approvingly and hands Elizabeth a silver coin, “There’s sixpence, luv. Don’t waste it on drink. Put some grub inside yer.”

Elizabeth clutches the coin tightly, “Ta, Mrs Tanner.” Eagerly putting on a black coat with a fur hem, and then a crepe bonnet, she cheekily smiles at Tanner,
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“Take yer fancy, do I?”

Indicating the outside rain lashing at the panes of a small window, Tanner frowns, “Yer goin’ out in this?”

Before Elizabeth can reply, a grey-haired Charles Preston pokes his head into the room and addresses Tanner, “Wanted downstairs, Liz.”

Tanner glares at Preston, “Mrs Tanner t’ yer.”

Preston mockingly tips his head, “If yer say so, ma’am.” He looks at Elizabeth, noticing her attire, “Out fer the evenin’, luv?”

Elizabeth brushes the sleeve of her coat with her hand, “Lend us yer clothes brush, Chas.”

Preston sighs, “Would if I could, but some
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bleeder
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nicked it, luv.”

Irritated by his presence, Tanner snaps, “’Op it! I’ll be down in a minute.”

Preston light-heartedly winks at Elizabeth and then withdraws his head from the room.

Hurriedly kneeling, Elizabeth removes a large piece of folded green velvet from beneath the mattress of her bed, “Ain’t ’avin’ some bugger nickin’ this!” She stands, handing the cloth to Tanner, “It’s
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worth a bob or two.”

Tanner fingers the material, “Nice, very nice, luv.”

Bashfully, Elizabeth divulges, “Ol’ man Bradshaw give it t’ me. Payment in kind, Mrs Tanner.”

Tanner smiles understandingly, “Don’t worry, luv. I’ll git Cathy Lane t’ mind it fer yer.”

Elizabeth utters a sigh of relief,
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“Lor’ bless yer.” She straightens her coat, “Best be off, then.”

Tanner queries, “Wot time yer be back?”

Elizabeth begins to leave the room, “Can’t say fer sure. Meetin’ a friend down the Bricklayer’s Arms.”

Toying with the silver coin, Elizabeth chirpily descends a wooden staircase and, seeing night watchman Thomas Bates standing by the open street door, utters, “Evenin’, Tom.”

Bates exclaims, “Yer a cheerful soul. Who’s the lucky bloke, then?”

Elizabeth flashes the sixpence, “Don’t need one. Got this.”

Bates enviously eyes the coin, “Where yer git that?”

Elizabeth crows, “Mrs Tanner. Fairy godmother, ain’t she?”

Brushing past Bates, Elizabeth steps out into the narrow fetid street and, blithely ignoring the rain, strolls along the litter strewn pavement to Commercial Street.

Upon reaching the bustling thoroughfare, she warily pauses at the corner, pockets the coin, turns left and then heads off towards Whitechapel High Street and Commercial Road just beyond.

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Essentially a continuation of Whitechapel High Street, Aldgate High Street, which runs into Aldgate, is where the jurisdiction of the London Metropolitan Police ends and the authority of the City of London Police begins.

Established and financed by the Corporation of the City of London a decade after Sir Robert Peel had created the London Metropolitan Police, the City of London Police, totalling some five hundred men, is responsible for policing the ‘square mile’ around St Paul’s Cathedral.

Independent of the Home Office, which routinely advocates that the force should be absorbed by the larger Metropolitan Police Force, the City of London Police headquarters is at 26 Old Jewry, near the Bank of England, known affectionately as the ‘Old Lady of Threadneedle Street’.

Scotsman Colonel Sir James Fraser, now seventy-four and ripe for retirement, has been commissioner of the force for a quarter of a century and is studiously assisted by Major Henry Smith, who was appointed to the rank of Chief Superintendent three years ago in 1885.

Though the murders of Martha Tabram, Mary Ann ‘Polly’ Nichols, and recently Annie Chapman, had all occurred in Whitechapel, Major Henry Smith has not been complacent. Having previously put a large number of his uniformed constables in plain clothes to patrol the eastern boundary with Whitechapel, he has now issued new orders to his force to keep a close watch on prostitutes, and to report every man seen with a woman after dark. In addition, any prostitute found drunk and incapable in the street must be taken to one of six divisional police stations and held overnight for her own protection.

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Lurching drunkenly from the Bull Inn tavern into Aldgate High Street, Catharine starts to imitate a steam fire engine. Shaking an imaginary bell-cord with her hand, she hollers, “Ding! Ding! Ding!”

Attracted by her antics, a small crowd begins to gather.

Breathlessly giggling at their gawking faces, she retches, and then suddenly overwhelmed by her alcoholic intake, topples back, strikes the shutter of a warehouse and collapses to the pavement.

Pushing his way through the crowd, City Police Constable Louis Robinson looks down at Catharine and wearily shakes his head. Crouching beside her, he gently enquires, “Can you stand?”

Grinning, Catharine slurs, “If me legs will ’old.”

Assisting her to her feet, Robinson leans Catharine back against the shutter and lowers his hands.

Aghast, she cries, “Me legs! They’ve gone!” Her eyes rolling, she collapses again, sliding down the shutter to the ground.

Drawn to the commotion and shoving people aside, City Police Constable George Simmonds sidles up next to Robinson. Staring at the crumpled figure of Catharine, he murmurs, “Best we get her to Bishopsgate Street Police Station, Louis.”

Wary of the crowd, Robinson nods in agreement, “You take one arm, I’ll take the other.”

Together, the two constables haul a semi-conscious Catharine to her feet. Catching a whiff of her breath, Simmonds groans, “Smells like she swallowed the whole bleedin’ brewery.”

Robinson shakes his head despondently, “You’d think, with a maniac on the loose, some of ’em would learn.”

Simmonds glances at Catherine, head lolling, “If a
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dray ran over this one, doubt she’d feel a thing.”

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Alone in her room at 13 Miller’s Court, Mary kneels before the blackened fireplace, places her hands close to the embers in the grate and warms them.

Outside the room, the knuckle of a finger raps lightly upon the surface of the door.

Mary sighs dolefully and slowly stands.

Indifferently straightening her cotton blouse and long skirt, she brushes back her light ginger hair with both hands, then pulls open the door to reveal McCarthy, anxiously glancing back and forth along the darkened court, holding a small package wrapped in newspaper.

Popping her head out of the room and mimicking his behaviour, Mary quips, “’Fraid the neighbours might see yer, eh?”