Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul (29 page)

Again, Lestrade nods understandingly, “You see many people, then? A good memory for faces and what folks wear, have you?”

Gently tapping his temple with his finger, Lawende grins again, “Ya, keep ’em ’ere.”

Lestrade leans back in his chair, “Tell me who and what you saw in Duke Street last night.”

Lawende inhales deeply, “Left club wiv Joseph…”

Lestrade interjects, “Joseph Hyam Levy?”

Lawende concurs, “Lodges at 1 ’Utchinson Street, Aldgate. ’E’s butcher.”

Recalling the mutilated body of Catharine, Collard murmurs, “A
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kosher butcher, no doubt?”

Lawende nods yet again, “An’ ’Arry ’Arris, who deals in furniture. Left Imperial Club…” He pauses for thought and then indicates the statement, “Wot time, I say?”

Sceptically glancing at Collard, Lestrade looks at the statement, “A few minutes after half past one.”

Lawende blurts, “Ya, Imperial clock say same. Rainin’, but not ’eavily. ’Cross the street, see man an’ woman under lantern, talkin’. She ’ad ’and on ’is chest, friendly like. Walked past ’em int’ Aldgate.”

Leaning forward, Lestrade stares at Lawende, “Across the street, under a lantern, standing where?”

Again, Lawende indicates the statement, “It say there! Corner Duke Street, Church Passage.”

Lestrade persists, “At the entrance of Church Passage, leading into Mitre Square?”

Lawende groans, “Ya, now woman dead in mortuary.”

Considerately, Lestrade lowers the tone of his voice, “How far were the couple from you?”

Lawende wistfully stares at the ceiling, “Eight, nine, ten feet.”

Lestrade glances at Collard, “Fairly close.” He again leans back in his chair, “Now, Mr Lawende. Describe the woman to me. What was she wearing?”

Unable to give exact details, Lawende stammers, “She dress like woman do. Bonnet, jacket, skirt.”

Lestrade scratches his face, “Well, then, was she wearing an apron?”

Lawende shrugs his shoulders and then shakes his head.

Lestrade sighs wearily, “Was there anything particular that you noticed about her face?”

Lawende again shrugs his shoulders and then again shakes his head.

Frustrated, Lestrade leans forward, “I’ll be frank with you, Mr Lawende. I don’t know how you can say the woman lying in the mortuary is the same person you saw standing at the entrance of Church Passage last night. You can’t give a description of that woman and the poor creature in the mortuary has had her face so badly mutilated that, if she were my own mother, I’d find it hard to recognize her.”

Lawende beseechingly looks at Collard, “’Er clothes! Them’s the same.”

Lestrade rejoins, “What makes you so sure that the clothes of the woman in the mortuary are the same as those worn by the woman who stood at Church Passage?”

Lawende exclaims, “Skirt, dark green. Same.”

Lestrade raises a silencing hand, “Let’s turn our attention to the man, shall we? Describe him to me.”

Lawende promptly divulges, “’E thirty! Round face, moustache. Five feet summut in ’eight. Plump, like.”

Lestrade raises a dubious eyebrow, “How was he dressed?”

Again, Lawende swiftly replies, “Brown billycock ’at. Suit same colour. Look like clerk. ’E…”

Lestrade interjects, “Sure he wasn’t wearing a peaked cap and a pepper-and-salt coloured jacket?”

Lawende shakes his head adamantly.

Despairingly, Lestrade inhales deeply, “Mr Lawende! In your statement, you say the man was thirty years old, five feet seven inches tall, had a fair complexion, fair moustache and was of a medium build. Furthermore, you said he wore a pepper-and-salt loosely fitted jacket, grey cloth cap with a peak and had a reddish neckerchief knotted around his neck. He looked like a sailor.”

Frustrated, Lawende points at the statement, “It wrong. ’E look like clerk. Wipin’ brow wiv ’andkerchief.”

Deciding he is chasing a
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will-o'-the-wisp and getting nowhere, Lestrade picks up the statement, stands and feigns politeness, “Thank you, Mr Lawende, that will be all.”

Collard quickly rises from his chair and opens the door, “Tell the Desk Sergeant downstairs you are leaving. Thank you for your time, Mr Lawende.”

Standing, Lawende ambles to the door, pauses and then turns to Lestrade, “’E look like clerk. Wipin’ brow wiv ’andkerchief.”

Lestrade nods, “I’m sure he did. Good day, Mr Lawende.”

No sooner has Lawende left the office, Collard closes the door, “In all my born days, I have never heard such inconsistencies from a witness. He contradicted just about everything in his statement.”

Handing the statement to Collard, Lestrade murmurs, “His lack of English let him down. Caused confusion. He did see Eddowes, though.”

Taking the statement from Lestrade, Collard questioningly stares at him, “How can you be sure?”

Lestrade straightens his jacket, “Eddowes…”

Collard interrupts, “We still don’t know if that is her name.”

Lestrade counters, “I have no reason to doubt Mr Holmes. And when he says her name is Eddowes, you may take it to be so.” He picks up from where he was interrupted, “Eddowes was murdered in Mitre Square mere minutes after Joseph Lawende saw a woman standing at the entrance of Church Passage which leads into the square. A coincidence? I think not. And if not, then the woman Joseph Lawende did see was, in fact, Eddowes, about to go to her death.

Collard slowly sits, “Good heavens! That would mean Lawende also saw the murderer.”

Similar to Holmes, Lestrade raises a tutorial finger, “Perhaps not. The murderer may have already been in the square, waiting.”

Collard scoffs, “Oh, come, come, Inspector. What you propose is ludicrous. The murderer had an accomplice?”

Lestrade nods, “Precisely.”

Collard shakes his head in disbelief, “Then, if not the murderer, who was the man with Eddowes?”

Lestrade replies, “Could have been anyone. A journalist, even.”

♦
♦
♦
♦
♦

Lying on the cell bed, Watson blinks, opens his eyes and stares up at the friendly face of Sergeant Kirby, leaning over him.

Kirby smiles, “Feeling better, sir?”

Anxiously thinking an accident has befallen him, Watson feels his arms and legs, “Where the dickens am I? A hospital?”

Kirby places a calming hand on his shoulder, “Lie still, sir. There’s a good fellow.”

Watson agitates, “Who are you?”

Kirby pats the three stripes on his tunic sleeve, “Sergeant Kirby, sir. We met in Buck’s Row, remember?”

Placing his hand on his forehead, Watson mutters, “Buck’s Row? Buck’s Row?” He seizes Kirby by the arm, “Of course,
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Chessington.”

Gently but firmly, Kirby removes his hand, “Whitechapel, sir. You were with Mr Holmes, investigating a murder.”

Watson frowns, “Holmes? Holmes?” He glances at Kirby, “I can’t recall a damn thing.”

Kirby smiles reassuringly, “A cup of tea might help, sir.”

“I recommend a foxglove tonic. It will revitalize him.”

Responding to the abruptness of the voice, Watson and Kirby turn their heads to see the silhouetted figure of a man standing by the open door of the cell. Holding a black Gladstone bag, the man steps forward and addresses Watson, “A temporary lapse of memory is invariably the result of narcotic abuse, Dr Watson.”

Alarmed, Watson quickly examines the inside of his forearms, “Good grief! You are correct, sir. Administered directly into my veins by injection, no doubt. Partially rising from the bed and leaning on his elbow for support, he stares uneasily at the man, “You have me at a distinct disadvantage, sir. You appear to know my name, but I do not know yours.”

The man politely removes his top hat, “Dr Morrison.”

Watson glances at Kirby, “Well, at least I now know who I am.” He looks around the spartan cell, “A sanatorium, Dr Morrison?”

Morrison glances at Kirby and then hesitantly replies, “Well, not exactly, Dr Watson.”

Raising his hand to his mouth, Kirby coughs, “Commercial Street Police Station, sir. You’re our guest.”

Watson gasps, “A police station?”

Kirby nods, “Yes, sir. Whitechapel.”

Again, Watson seizes Kirby by the arm, “Murder? I was with Mr Holmes, investigating a murder, you said. Is that why I am here?”

Gently but firmly, Kirby again removes his hand, “Your memory is improving, sir.”

Quickly putting down his hat, Morrison opens his Gladstone bag and produces a small corked brown bottle, “A foxglove tonic. It will enliven you, Dr Watson.”

Watson slumps back down on the bed, “A digitalis potion? My memory needs reviving, Dr Morrison, not my heart.” He looks at Kirby, “A cup of tea will be suffice, Sergeant.”

Kirby smiles yet again, “A strong brew, sir?”

Watson nods, “And then, perhaps you and Dr Morrison will be kind enough to tell me why I am here.”

♦
♦
♦
♦
♦

Apt to play the violin when a crime of some complexity requires solitary reflection, Holmes will immerse himself in a harmonic solo, which banishes all distractions and permits a total concentration of thought. Upon attaining a certain degree of enlightenment, he will abruptly abandon his virtuoso performance, return to his armchair and, virtually motionless, contemplate for hours, whilst occasionally plucking the strings of the musical instrument laid across his knees.

A grubby hand raps on the apartment door.

His deliberation broken, Holmes rises from the armchair, places the violin down on the dining-table and opens the door.

Respectfully removing his cloth cap, Wiggins blurts, “The growler is found, Mr ’Olmes.”

Producing his pocket watch and flipping open its cover, Holmes declares, “Nigh on seven o’clock. You are indeed a nocturnal individual, Master Wiggins.”

Mystified, Wiggins frowns, “A wot, Mr ’Olmes?”

Holmes smiles, “A creature of the night, Wiggins.”

Wiggins shivers, “An’ a cold one, Mr ’Olmes.”

Holmes motions the lad to enter, “Wearing damp clothes, no doubt?”

Wiggins darts into the room and hurriedly kneels before the fire.

Quietly closing the door, Holmes returns to his armchair, picks up his cherry-wood pipe and lights it, “Located in Spitalfields?”

Warming his hands, Wiggins peers over his shoulder and nods, “’Ackney Cab Company, Vine Yard. Near the nick in Commercial Street.” He stands, turns about and begins to warm his backside, “The growler were ’ired by a
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geezer who didn’t want a driver.”

Holmes exhales blue smoke, “Then who drove the vehicle?”

Feeling the warmth of the fire permeating his body, Wiggins grins, “The geezer who ’ired the four-wheeler, Mr ’Olmes.”

Pensively leaning forward, Holmes stares at Wiggins, “In addition to a hefty deposit, this geezer, as you like to call him, must have also given a name and address. If not, the cab company would have withheld the vehicle from him.”

Cockily, Wiggins pulls a scrap of paper from the pocket of his jacket and hands it to Holmes, “Name an’ address, Mr ’Olmes.”

Holmes gazes intently at the scrap of paper and the information scrawled in pencil.

Aaron
Kosminski

Mission Hall

Plumbers Row

London E.

Inquisitively, he looks at Wiggins, “I doubt you wrote this down.”

Wiggins grins again, “Cab master, Mr ’Olmes.”

Holmes leans back in his armchair and
puffs on his pipe
, “There is, of course, every possibility that the name and address are false, Wiggins.”

Wiggins quickly sits opposite Holmes, “The address is, Mr ’Olmes. Went t’ Plumbers Row. Mission ’All ain’t there. Empty piece o’ land, no ’all.”

Holmes smiles admiringly, “So, in all probability, the Jewish name of Aaron Kosminski is also fictitious.”

Wiggins frowns, “Ain’t so sure, Mr ’Olmes. Cab master says the geezer who ’ired the growler were foreign, like. Gone fifty, tall, thin. ’Ad a full beard, ’e said.”

Holmes commends him, “You have surpassed yourself, Wiggins. Now, what, if anything, did you learn about the growler?”

Wiggins indicates the scrap of paper, “Turn it over, Mr ’Olmes.”

Complying and staring at more information scrawled in pencil, Holmes again looks at Wiggins, “Provided by the cab master?”

Wiggins nods, “Watched ’im write it down meself.”

Holmes peruses the information.

7 Sept⁄ 88

Carriage 5

Released 10. 30 p. m.

Returned 12. 30 a.m.

Hire charge
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£4 6s, paid in full.