Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul (30 page)

Thoughtfully, he murmurs, “The times would appear to coincide with the disappearance of Watson.”

Wiggins frowns again, “Beggin’ yer pardon, Mr ’Olmes?”

Disregarding the question, Holmes enquiries, “The interior of the vehicle, Wiggins? Was anything found?”

Wiggins shakes his head, “Na, nothin’, but a ’orrible
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pong.”

Holmes lowers his pipe, “The interior of the growler had retained an odour?”

Wiggins nods, “The cab master says the pong were like an ’ospital room. Yer know? Where people are knocked out so they won’t feel the knife.”

Holmes elucidates, “An operating theatre, where a patient is anaesthetized before surgery. Chloroform, Wiggins. That is what the cab master had detected. A volatile liquid with a sweet smell that was used to subdue Watson, I suspect.”

♦
♦
♦
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♦

Seated on the edge of the cell bed and holding an enamelled mug of tea, Watson chuckles, “Me? The Whitechapel murderer? That’s quite absurd.”

Kirby concurs, “I’m inclined to agree with you, sir.”

Morrison interjects, “I see you haven’t lost your sense of humour, Dr Watson.”

Watson sips his tea, “If I am the murderer, Dr Morrison, then, conceivably, Her Majesty might be a man.”

Morrison smiles, “An amusing analogy, Doctor.”

Kirby picks up a folded grey blanket, “How’s the brew, sir?”

Watson nods agreeably, “Most refreshing. Thank you, Sergeant.”

Unfolding the blanket, Kirby places it over his shoulders, “Best you keep warm, sir. Apt to get cold down here.”

Morrison retrieves his Gladstone bag, “Are you sure you don’t require any medication, Doctor?”

Watson shakes his head, “Next to that of a hospital matron, I feel my welfare is secure with Sergeant Kirby.”

Humbly, Kirby lowers his head.

Morrison smiles again, “Then, Dr Watson, I bid you good evening.” Acknowledging Kirby, he puts on his top hat and leaves the cell.

Turning to Watson, Kirby expresses gratitude, “Those were kind words. Thank you, sir.”

Watson seizes him by the arm, “And Holmes knows I am here?”

Reassuringly, Kirby gently removes his hand, “The Commissioner and Inspector Lestrade, too.” He sits beside Watson,
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“Madagascar, sir. Ever been there?”

Putting aside his mug of tea, Watson stands and stomps his feet, “No. I served with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers in Afghanistan and India.”

Kirby queries, “Army man, then?”

Watson nods, “And you?”

Kirby replies, “Navy, sir. H. M. S. Goshawk. Spent most of my time sailing the Indian Ocean. That’s where I came across Madagascar. Beautiful island, but the French were forever invading it.”

Watson turns to him, “That’s better.”

Kirby frowns, “Begging you pardon, sir?”

Watson indicates his legs, “Got the circulation going again.”

Kirby suspiciously stares at Watson and then anxiously glances at the open cell door, “You wouldn’t be thinking of…?”

Mindful of his unease, Watson smiles warmly, “And forgo the pleasure of your genial company?” Retrieving his mug of tea, he sits down next to Kirby, “From what you have told me, Sergeant, it would appear that my liberty has been somewhat curtailed. Therefore, I suggest we make ourselves comfortable. Why don’t you tell me about Madagascar and I’ll tell you about Afghanistan and India?”

♦
♦
♦
♦
♦

For the past nine years, since the age of sixteen, which now seems centuries ago, Mary Jane Kelly has maintained a frivolous existence, shamelessly cohabiting with various men whom she had thought would shield her from destitution. Now aged twenty-five and aware that her sensual attractiveness will ultimately wither like a spring flower, Mary is constantly haunted by the spectre of the workhouse, where she would be condemned to a life of utter hopelessness, performing insufferable, monotonous tasks in order to survive.

Convinced her nightmarish dream had indeed been a sign and she will soon be slain, Mary accepts that death, albeit at the hands of an unknown murderer, is preferable to that of a life of incessant deprivation from which there is no respite, or escape. Hope, she reminds herself, would make life tolerable, but despair, where no hope exists, is tantamount to hell on earth.

As she has done throughout her entire life, Mary again looks to a man to deliver her from her plight, gladly knowing that when she encounters him, he will zealously grant her eternal freedom and peace.

♦
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♦
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♦

Accompanied by Lizzie, Mary pauses at the arched entrance to Miller’s Court, “Back t’ work, then?”

Lizzie nods,
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“No rest fer the wicked. Beds t’ make.”

Mary feigns a smile,
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“In fer a penny, in fer a pound, eh?”

Indifferently, Lizzie shrugs her shoulders, “Earnin’s keep a roof over me ’ead an’ grub in me stomach. Can’t ask fer more than that, can I?” Staring at Mary, she adds, “’Ow yer goin’ t’ eat?”

Brazenly, Mary chirps, “I’ll scrounge summut. Now, be off wiv yer. Folks will need them beds.”

Hurriedly taking her leave, Lizzie scurries down the street towards her place of work, the doss-house situated on the corner of Little Paternoster Row where Annie Chapman had lodged. Seconds later, Mary enters the darkened passageway and, walking most of its twenty-foot length, nears the yellowish hue of the overhead gas lamp opposite the door to her room. A male hand shoots out from the gloom and seizes her by the shoulder.

Startled, Mary blurts, “Mother o’ Mercy!” Believing death to be imminent, she nervously pleads, “I’ll not cry out. I’ll not run. Fer pity’s sake, make ’aste. Do it quick. No pain, like.” Of Catholic persuasion, she makes the sign of the cross and closes her eyes.

McCarthy emerges from the darkness, “I said eight o’clock. It’s nigh on nine.”

Recognizing his voice, Mary opens her eyes and disappointedly retorts, “An’ there’s me finkin’ it were ’im.”

McCarthy frowns, “’Im?”

She jerks her shoulder away from him, “Yer ain’t me keeper, yer know!”

McCarthy snaps, “Yer can ’ave others, lass, but I come first.” He indicates the door of her room with his thumb, “Payment in kind. ’Til the slate’s clean.”

M
ary reluctantly produces a key, “An’ after I’ve paid me debt, John McCarthy?”

McCarthy smirks, “I’m a fair man. The room will cost yer nought.”

Sceptically, she unlocks the door, “Fer payment in kind, right?”

He quips,
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“Catch on quick, don’t yer?”

Followed by McCarthy, Mary enters the room, places the key on the table and lights the wick of a candle. Walking over to the bed, she removes her shawl and stares at him, “Goin’ t’ shut the door, then?”

Turning about, McCarthy quietly closes the door with the toe of his boot. Pulling down her drawers beneath her skirt, Mary steps out of them, “
Back scuttle
agin?”

He begins to eagerly unfasten his belt, “Yer worth the wait, lass.”

Mary chuckles and falls backwards onto the bed, “T’ be sure, John McCarthy?”

Revealing his stiffened organ, McCarthy nods, “T’ be sure, lass.”

Mary smiles seductively, “Don’t just stand there, git over ’ere.”

Clutching his slackened belt and the waistband of his trousers, McCarthy saunters towards her,
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“Shilling ’ead first.”

Taking hold of his throbbing organ, Mary eases back his foreskin,
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“Oooh, lovely ’elmet. An’
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no cheese. Not like some I’ve ’ad.”

McCarthy groans, “Cleanliness is next t’ Godliness, innit?”

Sensually, she licks the dome of his organ and runs her tongue along its shaft, “So, after me debt’s cleared, I git t’ stay ’ere rent free?”

McCarthy groans again, “Treat me like this an’ yer can ’ave all o’ Miller’s Court.”

Fondling his testicles, Mary begins to stroke him, “Free?”

McCarthy replies excitedly, “Would I tell yer
porkies
?”

Leaning her head to one side and about to lick his scrotum, she murmurs, “Sell yer own mother fer a
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farthin’, wouldn’t yer?”

Lustfully, he utters, “Stop yer
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yakkin’, lass, an’ git on wiv it.”

Mary pauses, gazes up at him and smiles malicously, “Want t’ give yer summut t’ remember me by.”

McCarthy responds curtly, “When I’ve finished.”

Mary persists, “Summut yer ain’t goin’ t’ ferget.” Again, she runs her tongue along his shaft.

He groans with delight, “Like wot?”

Gripping the dome of his organ with her hand, she bites down hard, sinking her teeth into his shaft.

In utter disbelief, McCarthy blanches. Experiencing nausea and then a searing pain, he shrieks.

Mary lifts her head and grins, “Didn’t like that, then?” Wiping specks of blood from her lips with the back of her hand, she pushes him away. Reeling backwards, McCarthy strikes the table, knocks over the candle, extinguishes its flame and plunges the room into darkness.

Mary taunts him, “Best yer git t’ the ‘ospital b’fore it drops off.”

Feeling his limp organ, he shudders, “Blood! I’m bleedin’.”

She laughs, “T’ death, I ’ope.”

He stumbles towards the door, buttoning his trousers, “I’ll
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cut yer fer this.”

“Don’t fink so. I’m spoken fer.”

McCarthy yanks the door open, “If yer run, I’ll find yer.”

Solemnly, Mary imparts, “Not where I’m goin’, yer won’t.”

Chapter 11

Abyss

Since the murder of Mary Ann ‘Polly’ Nichols in Buck’s Row, Mr Henry Matthews, appointed Home Secretary by Lord Salisbury two years ago, has come under increasing pressure from both the press and the public of the metropolis to offer a substantial reward for the capture of the Whitechapel murderer. Adhering strictly to government policy, which frowns upon such offers, Matthews has, to date, vehemently resisted all, and every, appeal.

Prior to 1884, it had been normal practice for a Home Secretary to offer a reward, sometimes a sizeable amount, for information leading to the arrest of notorious criminals, particularly murderers.

On 6 May, 1882, Lord Cavendish and his under-secretary, Mr Burke, were sliced to death with surgical knives whilst walking in Phoenix Park, Dublin, Ireland. Though a £10,000 reward had been offered for the identities of the assassins, the offer had proved to be ineffective, producing no evidence of any value.

Two years later, a conspiracy to blow up the German Embassy in London, and then to subsequently plant incriminating papers on an innocent man in order to collect a large reward, had been uncovered. The exposure of this conspiracy had led the Gladstone government to question the validity of rewards, ultimately deciding that rewards produced no practical result whatsoever, beyond that of quelling public disquiet.

Hence, in 1884, the custom of offering government rewards had been abandoned. However, it has recently been whispered in prominent circles of society that if a lady of some character had been slain in Whitechapel, instead of a common whore, the Home Secretary would have been obliged to rescind his present policy and offer a reward for the immediate capture of her murderer.

Independent of the Home Secretary and truly masters of their own manor, the City of London Police do not harbour such an entrenched belief. Proof of their determination to leave no stone unturned in pursuit of the murderer is to be found in every national newspaper this Monday morning.

A REWARD OF £500

Offered by the City of London is worded as follows: -

Whereas at 1. 45 a.m. on Sunday, the 30
th
of September, 1888, last, a woman, name unknown, was found brutally murdered in Mitre-square, Aldgate, in this City. A reward of £500 will be paid by the Commissioner of Police of the City of London to any person (other than a person belonging to a police force in the United Kingdom) who shall give such information as shall lead to the discovery and conviction of the murderer or murderers.

Information to be given to the Inspector of the Detective Department, 26, Old Jewry, or at any police-station.

JAMES FRASER, Colonel, Commissioner.

City of London Police Office

26, Old Jewry, 30 Sept., 1888.

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Much to the chagrin of Lestrade, who had been overruled by his immediate superior, Chief Inspector Swanson, the Metropolitan Police has begun to distribute thousands of handbills, displaying an exact copy of the Dear Boss letter, throughout Whitechapel and bordering areas. Pasted to walls, broadsheets, larger versions of the handbills, exhibit the letter in such clarity that the police hope someone will recognize the handwriting. For those residents about to read the handbills, or those yet to see a broadsheet, one salient detail of the letter cannot be overlooked. Although the identity of the Whitechapel murderer remains unknown, he now has a name, Jack the Ripper.

Seated at the dining-table and taking a late breakfast, Holmes stares at a facsimile of the letter, featured prominently on the front page of
The Times
newspaper. He frowns incredulously, “The fools! The impetuous, blundering fools.”

A clenched hand raps on the apartment door.

Maintaining his hold on the newspaper, Holmes rises from his chair, strides to the door and opens it.

With Chandler and Constable Edward Lunt standing behind him on the landing, Lestrade politely removes his bowler hat, “Morning, Mr Holmes.”

Holmes retorts, “And not a good one at that, Lestrade.” He taps the front page of the newspaper with his finger, “I deplore this type of penny-dreadful sensationalism. Evidence should not be made public. Or at least refrain from doing so until we have concluded our investigation.”

Lestrade fingers the brim of his hat, “Chief Inspector Swanson, Mr Holmes. It was his decision, though I argued against it.”

Holmes beckons him to enter, “And what does Chief Inspector Swanson hope to gain from such a futile exercise?”

Motioning Chandler and Lunt to wait, Lestrade steps into the room, “He thinks the letter is a hoax, but he hopes someone might recognize the handwriting.”

Holmes shakes his head despairingly, “Chief Inspector Swanson is not a fool, Lestrade. He is an imbecile. One cannot conduct a murder investigation when a belief contradicts the method.”

Lestrade nods,
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“Clutching at straws, Mr Holmes.”

Holmes returns the newspaper to the dining-table, “The Chief Inspector must be seen to be doing something, even though the final outcome appears to be in doubt, is that it, Lestrade?”

Lestrade nods again,
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“In a nutshell, Mr Holmes.”

Shaking his head again, Holmes remarks, “Foolishness runs riot, Lestrade.” He indicates Chandler and Lunt, “Shall we proceed with the matter at hand?”

Bidding the two men enter, Lestrade addresses them, “We don’t want to keep Dr Watson locked up any longer than need be. I want a thorough search of his room. But remember this is his home. Be scrupulous, but tidy.” He turns to Holmes, “With your permission, Mr Holmes?”

Obligingly, Holmes motions to the short corridor leading off from the sitting-room, “First door on the right, before the bathroom.” He tips his head gratefully, “And thank you for your good manners, Lestrade.”

Lestrade turns to Chandler and Lunt, “You heard Mr Holmes. Go to it.”

Dutifully, the two men step into the corridor, open the first door on the right and enter the bedroom.

Holmes indicates the dining-table, “Have you taken breakfast, Lestrade? If not, you are welcome to join me.”

Lestrade sighs, “No appetite, Mr Holmes. Having to search Dr Watson’s room is hardly a pleasant duty. Him being a gentleman and all.” He pauses for thought, “A question for you, though.”

Holmes raises an inquisitive eyebrow.

Lestrade fingers the brim of his hat again, “Now that Dr Watson is relatively safe and you say you know the identity of Jack the Ripper, why don’t we walk up to the so-and-so and arrest him?”

Holmes counters, “And have him slip through our fingers?”

Lestrade tersely replies, “Allowing him to remain at liberty begs another murder.”

Thoughtfully, Holmes replies, “I share your concern, Lestrade. But our proof against him has to be flawless. Otherwise, the memory of those four slaughtered women will forever haunt us.”

Exasperated, Lestrade sighs again, “I could have him watched closely.”

Holmes frowns, “And alert him? He could flee. Then we might lose him indefinitely. No, Lestrade, we must locate his
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Achilles heel and strike him there decisively.”

Moving aside a plate with a partially eaten slice of toast upon it, Lestrade puts down his hat and then spreads out the Dear Boss letter on the surface of the dining-table.

Holmes applauds him, “Bravo, Lestrade. You have secured vital evidence.”

Lestrade cocks his head, “Swanson may be above me, but I am still charged with this case.” He takes a bloodstained postcard from the inside pocket of his overcoat and places it down next to the letter, “Received by the Central News Agency earlier this morning and handed to me less than an hour ago. It mentions the last two murders…” He taps the Dear Boss letter, “And this, too.”

Holmes glances at the postmark and then stares at the address, scrawled in red crayon on the front of the postcard.

                                                                       
London
E
.
Oct 1. 88

Central News Office

                                                    London City

                                                                    E. C.

He turns over the postcard and reads the communiqué, again written in the same red crayon.

I wasn’t codding dear old Boss when I gave you the tip. Youll hear about saucy Jacky’s work tomorrow double event this time number one squealed a bit couldn’t finish straight off. Had not time to get ears for police thanks for keeping last letter back till I got to work again.

Jack the Ripper

Lestrade interjects, “The handwriting appears not to match the letter, though.”

Holmes reaches for his magnifying glass, “If our writer used his passive hand instead of his principal hand to pen the postcard, then his handwriting would undoubtedly differ, Lestrade.”

Lestrade strokes his moustache, “So, this time he wrote with his left hand, not his right hand?”

Holmes nods “Or, perhaps, vice versa. He may, of course, be ambidextrous. Equally skilled with both hands.” He peers through his magnifying glass at the text, “Only one word, ‘youll’, does not have an apostrophe. ‘Wasn’t’, ‘Jacky’s’ and ‘couldn’t’ do. Which suggests his has virtually abandoned the pretence of imitating an illiterate person, Lestrade. The gloating phraseology is similar to the letter, though he does blunder, alleging two recent murders, when we know it to be just one, that of Eddowes.” He turns the postcard over and closely examines the postmark, “London E with an almost indiscernible C beside it.”

Lestrade exclaims, “East Central London, Fleet Street.”

Holmes murmurs, “Indeed so.” He stares at the postmark date, “The first of October 1888. The day after Eddowes was murdered.” Handing the postcard back to Lestrade, he adds, “Furthermore, American idioms, ‘codding’ and ‘Boss’, have been used again.”

Returning the postcard to the inside pocket of his overcoat, Lestrade queries, “So, the journalist wrote the postcard, then?”

Holmes replies, “Until this morning, the pseudonym, Jack the Ripper, was not common knowledge. Only four people knew of its existence. Sir Charles, you, myself and the journalist. Unless two people, independent of each other, conceived the name, which is extremely unlikely, then one person wrote both the letter and the postcard. The journalist, Lestrade.”

About to slip his hand into the inside pocket of his overcoat for something else, Lestrade refrains from doing so as Chandler returns to the sitting-room, clutching a polished mahogany box. Behind him, Constable Lunt holds a hypodermic syringe and needle in one hand and a brown vial in the other. Two items, which Watson would have certainly disposed of, had he been free to do so.

Chandler presents the box to Lestrade, “Found this, Inspector.”

Lestrade runs his finger over the small brass plaque inscribed with the initials
J. H. W.
on the lid of the box.

Holmes imparts, “John Hamish Watson. He obtained his medical degree at the University of London. A keepsake, Lestrade.”

Lestrade raises the lid and reveals an interior lined with purple velvet, inset with surgical instruments, including three Liston knives. He stares at Chandler, “And what’s missing?”

Perplexed by his question, Chandler frowns, “Well, nothing.”

Lestrade shakes his head despondently, “You don’t get it, do you?”

Chandler continues to frown, “Get what, Inspector?”

Holmes intervenes, “If Dr Watson’s medical instruments are all here, in particular his surgical knives, whose Liston knife was he holding when Constable Long found him in Cripple Court?”

Staring at Chandler, Lestrade tetchily closes the lid of the box, “Because it certainly wasn’t his, was it?”

Chandler blurts, “Then the knife was deliberately left behind to incriminate him, right?”

Wearily, Lestrade nods, “Return the box to his room.” He turns to Lunt and indicates the brown vial, “What’s this?”

Lunt raises the hypodermic syringe and needle, “It’s a…”

Lestrade sighs, “I know what that is…” He taps the brown vial with his finger “What’s this?”

Lunt shrugs his shoulders, “A potion, Inspector?”

Holmes intervenes again, “Cocaine, Lestrade. The good doctor was going to dispose of the drug for me.”

Satisfied, Lestrade murmurs, “I don’t think Dr Watson went and drugged himself, Mr Holmes.”

Holmes concurs, “Quite so, Lestrade. If, in fact, he had done so, both these items would not be here. They would have been found on his person in Cripple Court.”