Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul (23 page)

Restless, Lestrade fidgets, “Mr Holmes, can you please dispense with the history lesson?”

Putting down his pipe, Holmes grips the first sheet of paper with both hands, holds it against the light of the fire and examines it. He disappointedly shakes his head. Promptly repeating the process with the second sheet, he suddenly exclaims, “Ah, ah!”

Lestrade quickly leans forward, “What is it?”

Swiftly picking up his magnifying glass, Holmes peers through the device, scrutinising the sheet of paper, “Part of a watermark, but it is indistinct. We will learn nothing from that.”

Lestrade sighs despondently.

Rising from his armchair, Holmes slips the magnifying glass into the pocket of his dressing-gown and hurries to the dining-table.

Along with the envelope, he places the two sheets of paper upon its surface and beckons Lestrade, “Come, Lestrade. Now let us see what the writer of the letter never intended us to see.”

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Several yards past Berner Street and then Batty Street, on the opposite side of Commercial Road, is Settles Street. Apart from its name, there is virtually nothing to distinguish this dismal street from other streets in Whitechapel.

About halfway along the street, and situated on the corner with Fordham Street, the Bricklayer’s Arms tavern is the redeeming feature of Settles Street. Although comparatively small, the tavern has a genial atmosphere, where a woman can meet a friend for a cosy chat, secure in the thought that she will not be propositioned, unless, of course, she willingly invites it.

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Shorter than Elizabeth, the distinctive feature of Jacob Whittle is his brow. He has no eyebrows. This is the direct result of ectodermal dysplasia, a rare congenital disease which affects certain parts of the skin and prevents the growth of hair.

Whittle lowers his ale glass, leans closer to Elizabeth and caringly murmurs, “Come away wiv me, an’ yer’ll be rid o’ ’im.”

Mindful of her bruised jaw, Elizabeth dips two fingers into her glass of gin, daubs her lower lip with the fluid and, with the tip of her tongue, savours the alcohol, “Git
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’itched, like?”

Whittle nods,
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“I’d treat yer fair an’ square.”

Elizabeth snorts, “Me, treated fair an’ square? That’ll be the day.” She shoves her face forward, “Look at me! Call this fair an’ square, d’yer?”

Whittle snaps, “I ain’t
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mutton jeff, yer know?” He indicates other patrons in the tavern, “Nor ’em, too. Want the ’ole world t’ ’ear yer took a beatin’?”

Miffed, Elizabeth leans back in her chair, clutching her glass of gin.

Appeasingly, Whittle again murmurs, “Yer a lady, Liz. Yer ought t’ ’ave a better life.”

Warmly responding to his compliment, she smiles, “Yer a good man, Jacob, even if yer do look a bit
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funny.”

Whittle chuckles, “A right bleedin’ pair, ain’t we? Yer black an’ blue, an’ me wiv no eyebrows. Made fer one ’nother, I’d say.”

Elizabeth thoughtfully sips her drink, “Where’d we go?”

Whittle swallows a mouthful of ale,
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“Chiswick.”

“Chiswick? That’s a
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posh area, innit?”

“’Eard o’ it, then?”

Elizabeth lowers her glass, “Why there?”

Whittle grins, “New ’ousehold. Got meself a job. Stable groom.”

Elizabeth is impressed, “’Ave yer, now?”

Whittle nods, “There’s a job fer yer, too. If yer want it?”

Inquisitively, Elizabeth cocks her head, “Doin’ wot?”

“Chambermaid.”

Forgetting her bruised jaw, Elizabeth gulps down the remainder of her drink, “D’yer fink I could do it?”

Whittle smiles fondly, “A neater, cleaner woman never lived.”

Elizabeth becomes downcast, “’E’d come after me.”

Whittle leans closer to her, “Use yer ’ead, Liz. Throw ’im off track. Let it slip t’ a friend, yer goin’ to Bognor.”

Elizabeth interjects, “Where?”

Whittle continues, “Bognor Regis, West Sussex. It’s on the coast.”

Elizabeth giggles, “’E’s never been t’ the seaside. Maybe ’e’ll drown ’imself?”

Whittle finishes his ale,
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“Good riddance, yer ask me.”

Elizabeth slams her glass down on the table, “Yer’ve talked me int’ it, Jacob. Treat me fair an’ square an’ I’ll abide by yer.”

Whittle smiles, “A woman wiv gumption, I like that.” He slides his empty ale glass aside, “Meet me top end of Commercial Street t’morrow mornin’ at ten. Then we’ll pop ’cross t’ Chiswick t’ see the ’ousehold butler. Name’s Mr Mercer, nice bloke.”

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Tickled pink, Elizabeth leans closer to him and mischievously whispers,
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“Want t’ dip yer wick?”

Whittle sighs, “Chambermaids don’t work the streets, Liz.”

Elizabeth sniggers, “Yer daft bugger, I know that. Want t’ thank yer, don’t I?”

Quickly won over, Whittle picks up his billycock hat, “Somewhere quiet, mind yer.”

Gaily emerging from the tavern and confronted by the pouring rain, Elizabeth and Whittle halt in the doorway.

Whittle sighs, “Give it a miss, shall we? Don’t want yer stood in the street, up agin a wall, gettin’ soaked.”

Amused by his concern, Elizabeth titters, “Dutfield’s Yard ’as an ol’ sack shed at the back. We’ll go there.”

In an attempt to escape the rain, two dockside labourers, John Gardner and Jack Best, race around the corner from Fordham Street and rudely begin to push past Elizabeth and Whittle to gain entry to the tavern.

Gawking at her bruised face, Gardner blurts,
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“Stone the crows! Who ’it yer?” He glances at Whittle, “’Im?”

Elizabeth snaps, “None o’ yer bleedin’ business, is it?”

Following Gardner, Best shoves past Elizabeth, “A night out wiv Leather Apron, is it?”

Whittle watches the two men disappear through the door of the tavern, “Say anyfink but their prayers.”

Checking the rain, Elizabeth extends her hand, palm up, “’Ere, it’s our lucky night, innit?”

Whittle gazes at the night sky, “Eased off, ’as it?”

Elizabeth nods, “Drizzle.” She suggestively slips her arm through his, “Let’s not dally.”

Jovially, Whittle starts to sing a popular music hall song, “Me ol’ man said, ‘Foller the van, an’ don’t dilly dally on the way’.”

Elizabeth joins in, “Off went the van wiv me ’ome packed in it, I follered on wiv me ol’ cock linnet…”

Singing heartily, they begin to stroll off towards Commercial Road and Berner Street just beyond, “But I dillied an’ dallied, dallied an’ I dillied, lost me way an’ don’t know where t’ roam.”

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With Lestrade standing beside him, Holmes intently stares at the two sheets of paper laid out upon the table, “You will observe, Lestrade, that the handwriting is neat, which indicates a formal education. Its melodramatic prose, however, suggests a writer who has abandoned the classics in favour of sensational literature. The use of red ink, for instance.” He leans forward and examines the letter with his magnifying glass, “Six words, ‘wont’, ‘shant’, ‘cant’, ‘ladys’, ‘wouldnt’ and ‘wasnt’ do not have apostrophes. But ‘knife’s’, ‘don’t’ and ‘I’m’ do. Which tells us what, Lestrade?”

“He’s tried to imitate a person of the lower class.”

Irked by the discriminatory remark, Holmes sternly replies, “Well, that is one way of putting it, Lestrade.”

Lestrade coughs, “A slip of the tongue. I’m sorry, Mr Holmes.”

Holmes continues, “Which belies his own penmanship, Lestrade. He writes regularly, probably for a living.” He picks up the envelope and indicates the
E. C.
postmark, “East Central London.” He hands the item to Lestrade, “Fleet Street lies within the area, does it not?”

Lestrade glances at the postmark, “Are you saying a journalist wrote this letter?”

Holmes impatiently points to the address on the envelope, “If the author had indeed been an ordinary person, he would have sent the missive to the local police, newspaper or, perhaps, to an individual of some standing, but not to the Central News Agency, which is scarcely known outside the journalistic world of Fleet Street. There is, of course, the possibility that the letter was written by someone from inside the agency. But such an act would be tantamount to
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shooting oneself in the foot, as the handwriting would be instantly recognized by his own editorial staff.” He raises a tutorial finger, “However, there is more.”

Turning away from Lestrade, Holmes again leans forward and peers through his magnifying glass, “‘Boss’, ‘fix me’, ‘shant quit’ and ‘right away’ are American idioms. Whoever wrote this letter has mixed with our cousins on the other side of the Atlantic.”

Thoughtfully staring at the envelope, Lestrade slowly scratches his face, “Then why was it sent to the Central News Agency?”

Holmes glances over his shoulder at him, “Maximum exposure, Lestrade. By tomorrow morning, every London newspaper will have a facsimile of this letter, sold to them courtesy of the Central News Agency.”

Acknowledging the rationale, Lestrade nods.

Quickly slipping the magnifying glass into the pocket of his dressing-gown, Holmes picks up the second sheet of paper, “Under normal circumstances, I would be inclined to dismiss this form of communiqué as a practical joke.” Handing the sheet to Lestrade, he indicates the final sentence, “But for this.”

Lestrade peruses the line.
They say I’m a doctor now
ha. ha.

Holmes strokes his chin, “The inclusion of that sentence is meant to throw us off the track. To persuade us that Jack the Ripper is not a doctor.”

Lestrade muses, “Whereas you think the opposite is true?”

Holmes nods, “I believe the murderer, who is not the journalist, masquerades as a doctor. And in order to further conceal his true identity, he may also adopt another disguise to commit murder.”

Lestrade tetchily sighs, “Oh, really? And how did you come by that information?”

Holmes gives the first sheet of the letter back to Lestrade and walks to his armchair, “A two-pronged attack is required, Lestrade. You seek out the journalist and I will concentrate on the doctor.”

Lestrade slips the two sheets of paper into the envelope, “That now brings the number to three, Mr Holmes.”

Holmes sits, “Yes, Lestrade. Three conspirators.”

Seating himself opposite Holmes, Lestrade sighs, “I don’t know, Mr Holmes. First you say the killer has a female accomplice and now you imply a journalist abets him as well.”

Holmes places a few lumps of coal upon the fire, leans back in his chair and nods, “A journalist who has attempted to convince us that Jack the Ripper is a lone wolf. But in doing so, has unwittingly furnished us with clues by which we may solve these murders.”

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Barely audible, singing emanates from the rear of the corridor. Hutt wearily rises from his stool and saunters across to a locked cell. Moving aside a small circular cover on the door, he peers through a peephole into the room. Sitting on the edge of the bed with her head drooped, Catharine softly sings to herself.

Hutt hammers on the door, “You all right, missus?”

Catharine lifts her head, “I need the
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lavvy.”

Sympathetic to her plight, Hutt informs Catharine, “There’s a pot in the corner, use that.”

Catharine slides off the bed, “Not wiv yer lookin’ at me, I won’t.” She stands unsteadily, “When yer goin’ t’ let me out?”

Slipping the circular cover back over the peephole, Hutt replies, “When you’re capable of taking care of yourself.”

Catharine stoops and picks up the soiled chamber pot. Raising her apron, dark green skirt and grey petticoat, she shakily places the pot between her legs, “If I can
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squirt in this, an’ don’t keel over, I’m ready t’ go ’ome.”

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Laughing, Elizabeth and Whittle disappear into the shadows of Hampshire Court, an alleyway situated beside the Red Lion tavern in Batty Street. Gradually emerging from the court, halfway down Berner Street, they pause and gaze at Dutfield’s Yard, merely five houses away on the opposite side of the street.

Elizabeth giggles and quips, “’Ome sweet ’ome.”

Whittle indicates a fruiterer’s shop, one house past the yard and next door to the Lord Nelson tavern, “Fancy some fruit?”

Elizabeth playfully nudges him in the arm, “Yeh, grapes.
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Plums, yer ’ave.”