Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul (28 page)

Incensed, Arnold turns to Warren, “Mr Holmes should be thrown in
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Newgate Jail.”

Warren tetchily queries, “On what charge, Superintendent?”

Arnold huffs, “Treason, Commissioner. He mocks those of us who have taken a vow to protect the monarchy.”

Warren muses, “Mr Holmes is impertinent, but hardly a traitor.” He takes Arnold to one side, “Whilst Dr Watson is in our custody, I want him cared for.”

Arnold frowns, “But why? He may be the murderer. Better to let him rot.”

Warren sighs tiresomely, “Mr Holmes is favoured by the Prime Minister and I want nothing to befall Dr Watson. Do I make myself clear, Superintendent Arnold?”

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Now daybreak, Holmes and Lestrade wearily step out through the doors of the police station and begin to inhale the cold crisp morning air. Scratching the stubble on his chin, Lestrade murmurs, “So, what about you, Mr Holmes?”

Holmes stretches his back, “I beg your pardon?”

Lestrade promptly stifles a yawn, “If your brother is a Freemason, what about you?”

Grasping the implication of the question, Holmes replies, “Unlike Mycroft, I do not have political ambitions.” He smiles disarmingly, “Nor does Watson, Lestrade.”

Satisfied, Lestrade nods.

Holmes glances at him mischievously, “And you, Lestrade?”

Lestrade stammers, “Me? A Freemason? I’m a plain and simple chap, Mr Holmes. I like things out in the open. None of this behind closed doors nonsense for me.”

Holmes commends him, “Spoken like the honest fellow you are.” He then enthuses, “It is Sunday. Our day of rest, Lestrade. Watson is quite safe. Sir Charles is no fool and will ensure that he remains so. Therefore, a warm bath, a hot meal and some sleep will enliven us for tomorrow.”

Lestrade queries, “And then what, Mr Holmes?”

Holmes stares at him determinedly, “Then, Lestrade, we will take the fight to the enemy.”

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Stirring from their beds this Sunday morning, the inhabitants of Whitechapel begin to collectively hold their breath as the horrific news of the latest two murders committed in their midst sweeps through the metropolis.

At morning prayers in the Metropolitan Tabernacle, the largest Baptist Church in South London, fifty-four-year-old cleric Charles Haddon Spurgeon solemnly informs his congregation, “We hear startling news of abounding sin in this great city. Oh God, put an end to this, and grant that we may hear no more of such deeds. Let Thy gospel permeate the city, and let not monsters in human shape escape Thee.”

Prior to this Christian supplication, it seemed that the majority of the populace of East London had abandoned their dwellings in favour of the streets, not to indignantly protest the hideous slaughter of their women, but to shamelessly assail Dutfield’s Yard and Mitre Square out of morbid curiosity. Windows overlooking the sites were raised and seats at them openly sold and eagerly paid for. Those fortunate enough to have procured a newspaper, or a broadsheet, read aloud to the illiterate in the streets, who clustered round, impatient to hear every gruesome detail. A pavement artist attracted a large crowd in Whitechapel Road with his coloured delineations of the two murders. His success, however, was short lived when three police constables fervently doused him and his lurid images with several pails of water.

Due to the atmosphere of utter terror that now exists amongst the lowly women whom the murderer preys upon, some charitable doss-house deputies have allowed a few regular female lodgers to remain on their premises even though they do not have the price of a bed. But this is an exception rather than the rule. Most have been pitilessly turned out into the streets to fend for themselves best they can, the vast majority taking refuge in the only place left available to them, their own particular local tavern.

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Frequently patronized by Mary Kelly and only a short walk from her room in Miller’s Court, the Ten Bells tavern is situated on the corner of Commercial Street and Church Street, which runs along the northern side of Spitalfields Church. Conveniently located opposite Spitalfields Market, the Ten Bells is invariably the first port of call for a horde of market porters who, after a gruelling day of work, flock to the tavern to quench their thirst and to indulge in carnal pleasures with the lewd sirens that lurk within.

Seated in a pew opposite her friend Lizzie Albrook, who works in a lodging house in Dorset Street, Mary runs her finger around the rim of a small glass of gin, “If the bogies don’t catch ’im, ’e’ll do it agin. Who knows? I might be next.”

Lizzie sups ale, “’E kills ’em in the streets. Yer safe in yer room.”

Mary tensely bites her bottom lip, “Can’t stand bein’ by meself, ’fraid t’ go out at night. Only
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stokin’ I git is from John McCarthy.”

Lizzie murmurs, “Crafty bugger, ’e is. Gits women in debt then ’as ’is way wiv ’em. Payin’ off arrears, are yer?”

Mary solemnly picks up her glass and swallows a mouthful of gin, “Yeh. An’ it brings me nought else.” Trying to further suppress her sorrows, she gulps down the remainder of the drink, “Wotever yer do, Lizzie, don’t do wrong an’ turn out like me. Stay off the streets an’ away from men. Nothin’ but bleedin’ trouble, they are.”

Lowering her glass of ale, Lizzie slides the drink across to Mary, “’Ere, finish it. Never were fond o’ ale. Man’s drink.”

Ignoring its smell and taste, Mary sips the ale, “’Ad this dream last night. ’E were murderin’ me. Cut me up summut awful. I woke wiv a start an’ then ’eard ’e’d done two more in. Couldn’t stop shakin’.” She desperately seizes Lizzie by the hand, “It were no dream, Lizzie. It were a sign. I’m next. I’m goin’ t’ die.”

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In the afternoon at about 1. 20 p. m., Detective Sergeant Leach had received an urgent appeal for help from Albert Meadows, the landlord of the White Swan tavern, close to White Swan Yard on the south side of Whitechapel High Street. Cautiously entering the deserted tavern with five constables, Leach had found Michael Kidney in a stupor, slumped over a table, amidst overturned tables and broken stools, beer bottles and glasses.

Some thirty-five minutes earlier, Kidney had staggered into the White Swan, belligerently intoxicated. Picking a fight with two other men, whom he had thrashed mercilessly, he had then collapsed across the table, insensible.

Not long after the murder of Mary Ann ‘Polly’ Nichols, in Buck’s Row, Whitechapel detectives such as Frederick Leach had been issued with truncheons for their own protection. Concerned that to rouse Kidney might precipitate another wanton attack, Leach had promptly drawn his weapon and whacked Kidney across the back of the head, thereby plunging him into a deeper, longer sleep.

Taken to Leman Street Police Station and thrown into a cell, where he finally regained consciousness, Kidney is now hauled into the same room where Lestrade, assisted by Leach, had previously questioned John Pizer.

Forced down into a chair in front of a table by constables Brice and Knowles, Kidney drowsily rubs the back of his head and sneers, “If I’d been the bogie on duty when me poor Liz ’ad been done in, I’d ’ave shot meself.”

Leach closes the door, “Did I say she’d been done in?”

Aware that he may have jeopardized his liberty, Kidney baulks.

Leach steps towards him,
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“Dropped a clanger, haven’t you?”

Kidney averts his eyes, “Ain’t sayin’ nuffink.”

Brice and Knowles position themselves in front of the door.

Leach sits on the corner of the table nearest to Kidney, “Where were you between midnight and one o’clock?”

Kidney contemptuously waves him away with his hand.

Casually, Leach folds his arms, “You want I should release you to the mob outside?”

Kidney smirks, “An’ ’ave me torn t’ shreds?”

Leach counters, “Save us the trouble of hanging you, won’t it?”

Nervously, Kidney stares at him, “Yer wouldn’t do that?”

Leach replies steely, “Yes, I would.”

Kidney relents, “In a tavern, drinkin’.”

“Any tavern in particular?”

“Don’t remember.”

Leach proposes, “How about the Lord Nelson tavern? Corner of Berner Street and Fairclough Street, to be precise.”

Kidney shrugs his shoulders, “Dunno. Might ’ave been.”

Unfolding his arms, Leach stands, “And then you took Elizabeth Stride into Dutfield’s Yard and slit her throat. You meant it to look like someone else had murdered her, but you didn’t have the time, did you?”

Feeling like a cornered animal, Kidney snaps, “Proof! Proof! Yer need proof, but yer ain’t got none.”

Leach replies calmly, “Oh, really?” He looks at Knowles and motions to the door.

Knowles opens the door.

Escorted by a bearded police constable, John Skinner steps from the corridor into the room. He stares at Kidney, “Yer didn’t listen, mate. I said nothin’ serious, like.”

Standing quickly, Kidney snarls at him,
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“Judas!”

Leach shoves Kidney back down into his chair, “We’re going to settle this affair like gentlemen, or it’s the mob for you.” He removes a horn-handled clasp knife from the pocket of his jacket, “Do you recognise this?” He indicates Skinner, “You asked him to hide it for you. Or, perhaps, you intended that it should be used to convict him of murder.”

Kidney glares at Leach, “It’s ’is word agin mine.”

Leach breathes in his face, “But you had a motive, he didn’t.”

Leach again looks at Knowles and motions with his hand.

Knowles promptly pokes his head out into the corridor and beckons someone.

Timidly, Jacob Whittle enters the room, nursing a swollen jaw and a black eye.

Leach smirks at Kidney, “Know this man?”

Incensed, Kidney attempts to rise from his chair.

Leach grabs him by the hair and jerks his head back, “There’ll be no prison sentence for you, Michael Kidney. With testimonies provided by these two gentlemen, you’re going to swing from the gallows.”

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At approximately the same time that Leach had stumbled upon Michael Kidney in the White Swan tavern, Lestrade had begun an afternoon nap in his home at 145 Hilldrop Road, opposite the local Baptist Chapel in Lower Holloway, North London. A short distance from the City Prison, which resembles a medieval castle, and close to a cab stand in Middleton Road, 145 Hilldrop Road affords Lestrade a blessed retreat from the loathsome activities of the criminal world, in particular, the atrocities committed by Jack the Ripper.

On this particular afternoon, however, the tranquil mood of 145 Hilldrop Road had been invaded in the form of a hand-delivered communiqué sent by Inspector Collard of the City of London Police. It transpired that, at midday, witness Joseph Lawende had positively identified the woman found slain in Mitre Square as the same woman he had seen in the company of a man only minutes before she had been murdered. As a gesture of co-operation, Collard had cordially invited Lestrade to question Lawende, who had volunteered to remain at Bishopsgate Street Police Station for the next two hours in anticipation of his visit.

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Seated at a table in Collard’s office, opposite Lestrade and with Collard in attendance, Lawende declares, “’Ave room. 45 Norfolk Road,
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Dalston.”

Lestrade stares musingly at the hand-written statement laid out upon the table before him, “Dalston, eh? About where I live.” He looks up at Lawende, “Quite a distance from here, isn’t it?”

Lawende nods in agreement.

Lestrade strokes his moustache, “What brings you to this neck of the woods, then?”

Not understanding the question, Lawende frowns.

Lestrade rephrases the question, “What brings you down here to the City of London and Whitechapel?”

Lawende grins, “Imperial Club, Duke Street.”

Lestrade nods understandingly, “Ah, yes. Across the street from the Great Synagogue.”

Lawende retains his grin, “Yer know, ya?”

Ignoring the question, Lestrade enquires, “Jewish, aren’t you?”

Lawende nods again, “Ya, Polish.”

Lestrade taps the statement with his finger, “Say’s here, you’re a commercial traveller.”

Obligingly, Lawende blurts, “Cigars, cigarettes, pipe tobacco.”

Lestrade queries, “You’re a salesman?”

Lawende nods once more, “Take orders. No sell direct.”