Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul (31 page)

Lestrade turns to Lunt, “Return them to his room, on
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the double.”

Having replaced the instrument box in the bedroom, Chandler hastily steps back into the sitting-room, “Want we search the rest of the apartment, Inspector?”

Lestrade shakes his head, “That won’t be necessary.”

Emerging from the bedroom, Lunt pauses beside Chandler.

Lestrade queries, “Gentleman’s room’s neat and tidy, like?”

Lunt nods, “As we found it, Inspector.”

Lestrade motions to the door, “Downstairs, both of you. I have business to conclude with Mr Holmes.”

Holmes raises an enquiring eyebrow, “You do, Lestrade?”

Complying, Chandler and Lunt leave the apartment and quietly close the door behind them.

Quickly slipping his hand into the inside pocket of his overcoat, Lestrade produces a folded sheet of paper,
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“Lifted by a man to whom thieving is
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second nature. He didn’t know why we wanted it. We hired him, paid him, that’s all.”

Holmes replies teasingly, “You broke the law, Lestrade?”

Lestrade nonchalantly strokes his moustache, “I like to think we merely bent the rules, Mr Holmes.”

Approving of his response, Holmes replies, “So be it, Lestrade!
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By fair means or foul, we shall
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hound our quarry.” He extends his hand, “Come, show me what Inspector Chandler indirectly procured for you.”

Lestrade smiles, “You never miss a thing, do you, Mr Holmes?” Unfolding the sheet of paper, he puts it down beside the Dear Boss letter lying on the dining-table, “Taken from the drawer of his desk. There were more like this, I’m told.”

Holmes stares at the hand written text, “Red ink again. Why not blue or black? A theatrical gesture, perhaps? A person who seeks notoriety.” Leaning forward, he begins to read.

Five syphilitic whores, sirens of the night,

Five syphilitic whores, cold with fright.

Five syphilitic whores, begging for a shilling,

Martha goes to George Yard, then there’s a killing.

Four syphilitic whores, fearful of Jack,

Wherein Buck’s Row, Polly is hacked.

Three syphilitic whores, who wouldn’t say boo,

Annie enters Hanbury Street, then there’s two.

Two syphilitic whores, which way to run,

Liz dies in Dutfield’s Yard, leaving but one.

One syphilitic whore, now all alone,

To Mitre Square, Jack cuts her to the bone.

Five syphilitic whores, none too well,

Not in heaven, down in hell.

Jack waits, but whom should he next fix?

Fear not my friend, he’ll soon make it six.

Holmes straightens, “Composed by a diseased mind, Lestrade.”

Lestrade counters impatiently, “But, in your opinion, Mr Holmes, does the handwriting match that of the letter?”

Picking up the letter and the poem, one in each hand, Holmes holds both aloft, against the daylight issuing through the windows, “Ah, ah! Cut from the same ream, Lestrade.”

Lestrade grins, “I feel my appetite returning.” He motions to the poem, “Please, Mr Holmes, take a closer look.”

Holmes puts down the papers and picks up his magnifying glass, “Unless, of course, you favour a cold breakfast, I would say your appetite is somewhat overdue, Lestrade.” He compares the text of the poem to that of the letter, “Both have been written by a neat hand, using a Waverly pen nib. Except for the deliberate incorrect spellings in the letter, which are not present in the poem, the punctuation and grammar are strikingly similar in both. Consistent with the postcard, the author of the poem stubbornly includes the murder in Dutfield’s Yard which, though incorrect, nonetheless confirms my belief that the writer of the postcard and the poem, indeed the letter, were penned by the same person.”

Soberly, Lestrade queries, “You’ll stake your reputation on that?”

Holmes places his magnifying glass down on the table, “Yes, and that of my life, Lestrade.”

Gleefully, Lestrade claps his hands together, “We’ve done it, Mr Holmes.”

Amused by his fervour, Holmes smiles, “From the expression on your face, Lestrade, it would appear that you have just unearthed buried treasure. Which is to say, the identity of the journalist has at last been established, has it not?”

Lestrade responds excitedly, “We have a witness, Mr Holmes. A witness who saw him with Eddowes a few minutes before she was murdered in Mitre Square.”

Promptly picking up the letter and the poem, Holmes returns both to him, “Bravo, Lestrade. I do believe you have laid bare the murderer’s Achilles heel. The journalist.” He raises a tutorial finger, “But we must proceed with extreme caution.”

Lestrade nods, “Whatever you say, Mr Holmes.”

Holmes continues, “Watson has undergone an ordeal which prevents him from assisting us for the moment. Contrary to my earlier thoughts, he should not be released and brought to 221b. Left alone here to recover might expose him to further danger, but in police custody, he is safe. I want him detained a little longer, Lestrade, until I say otherwise.”

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Randomly uttered by the populace, the name, Jack the Ripper, has begun to sweep through the East End of London much like the Great Plague did in 1665. Similar to the stark terror incited by the barbaric hordes of Attila the Hun, who had pillaged the Eastern Roman Empire in 441 A. D., so the chilling pseudonym, immediately coming after the murders of Elizabeth and Catharine, begins to sow the seeds of panic amongst the women of Whitechapel.

Whether a woman is of moral or immoral character is neither here nor there. All feel vulnerable and are gripped by the hand of fear. For the fortunate few, the abandonment of an evening job allows them to be indoors before dark. But for many, who have to labour after dusk, escort by a husband or companion to and from work has become prerequisite.

Destitute women, who are unable to find money for a meal, or a bed for the night, seek refuge in a church or chapel doorway, in the belief that, huddled together in the sight of God, they are afforded protection.

The major thoroughfares of Commercial Street, Whitechapel High Street and Whitechapel Road retain a semblance of activity, but elsewhere throughout the neighbourhood, side streets, courts and alleyways are deserted. As early as seven o’clock in the evening, scarcely a woman is to be seen, except for the occasional drifting unfortunate, her mind mercifully dulled
by drink.

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Similarly, Miller’s Court is unusually quiet, apart from Mary Ann Cox scurrying
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hither and thither from the court, seeking goodness knows what. Seated on the edge of her bed next to laundress Maria Harvey, Mary hears the elderly woman scamper past the closed door of her room for the umpteenth time, “She’s goin’ t’ wear ’erself out.”

Maria sniggers, “Out an’ ’bout tryin’ t’ earn ’er keep, is she?”

Standing, Mary steps towards the table and stares at the pile of washed clothes upon its surface, “Who’d part wiv a shillin’ fer ’er?
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Miserable cow, she is. Never gives me the time o’ the day.”

Maria refers to the clothes, “Man’s overcoat, three shirts, one fer a young ‘un, a nipper’s petticoat an’ a bonnet. Clean as a whistle. Washed ’em meself.”

Mary picks up the black overcoat, “Nicked ’em, did yer?”

Adjusting a shawl about her shoulders, Maria giggles, “This one, too. If I don’t pinch ’em, ’ow’d I keep warm? Can’t afford t’ buy ’em, can I? Sell ’em t’ ol’ man Ferris. ’E’ll give yer a few
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coppers fer ’em.”

Mary sighs gratefully, “Yer a dearie, Maria. But I ain’t askin’ yer t’ lose yer job on account o’ me.”

Maria smiles, “I won’t! Ain’t got the nerve t’ walk the streets like yer.”

Briefly recalling how Barnett had thrown her across the room, which had resulted in the damaged window, Mary drapes the overcoat over the lower broken pane of glass, “That’ll ’elp keep out the draught.”

Maria indifferently fingers her bonnet, lying on the bed beside her, “Wot ’bout John McCarthy? Still stokin’ yer, is ’e?”

Mary retorts, “’E’ll not be stokin’ anyone fer a while. ’Urt ’is John Thomas, didn’t ’e?”

Maria guffaws, “’Ow’d that ’appen?”

Mary smiles mischievously, “Went after a lass an’ she bit ’im.”

Incredulously, Maria gapes, “She bit ’is…?”

Retaining her mischievous smile, Mary slowly nods.

A knock at the door interrupts their conversation.

Maria quips, “It’s McCarthy! Wants yer t’ kiss it better.”

Mary chuckles, opens the door and reveals Barnett, blowing into his cupped hands.

Displeased to see him, Mary snaps, “Wot yer want?”

Barnett stamps his feet, “Yer want? Cold, innit? Come all the way from New Street, Bishopsgate, t’ see yer.”

Mary scoffs, “Oh, yeh, that’s a long way, innit? ’Alf a mile, as the crow flies.”

Barnett shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket, “Crow flies. Cold, though.”

Mary relents, “Mind yer ’onour me goodwill, Joseph Barnett.”

She bids him enter.

Believing her to be alone, Barnett steps into the room and, upon seeing Maria, halts abruptly, “She a…?”

Reacting to his undertone, Maria stands quickly, “No, I ain’t! I’m a laundress.”

Barnett blurts, “A laundress. Charwoman?”

Maria sneers, “’Er kind mops floors. I wash clothes.” She stares at his jacket, “Yer lapels look a bit greasy. Wipe yer ’ands on ’em, d’yer?”

Mary stifles a laugh.

Irked, Barnett turns to Mary, “’Em, d’yer? I ain’t come ’ere t’ be mocked, yer know?”

Maria hurriedly picks up her bonnet,
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“Keep yer ’air on, will yer? I were leavin’, anyway.” She steps towards Barnett and prods him in the chest with her finger, “’Eard o’ yer, Joseph Barnett. Play fair wiv our Mary or yer’ll answer t’ me.” Putting on her bonnet, she turns to Mary, “Lord Mayor’s show t’morrow. See yer at Ludgate Circus ’bout eleven o’clock, eh?”

Mary nods, “Outside the ’Are an’ ’Ound in ’Ogs ’Ead.”

Maria indicates Barnett, “Best yer leave ’im behind.”

Mary stifles another laugh.

Disdainfully glancing at Barnett, Maria departs.

Quietly closing the door, Mary turns to Barnett and motions to a chair by the table, “Yer want t’ talk, sit there.” She steps across the room and seats herself on the edge of the bed, “An’ I’ll sit ’ere.”

Barnett ambles to the chair, “Sit ’ere. ’Ow yer been?”

Mary retorts, “’Ow ’ave I been? I’m
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’igh an’ dry wiv rent t’ pay. Tryin’ t’
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earn a crust, ain’t I?”

Removing his cap, Barnett sits, “Ain’t I? Got money, ’ave yer?”

Mary shakes her head,
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“Boracic. Yer?”

Likewise, Barnett shakes his head, “Yer? Not a brass farthin’.”

Mary sighs wearily, “Why yer ’ere, then?”

Barnett shrugs his shoulders, “’Ere, then? No other place t’ go. ’Ad an idea yer might ’elp me out, like.”

Standing quickly, Mary places her hands on her hips, “Dan still got ’is job, ’as ’e?”

Barnett nods.

Mary reproaches him, “’Cos ’e ain’t a bloody
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tea leaf like ’is brother, ’is ’e?”

Barnett grimaces, “’Is ’e? Dan told yer, then?”

Mary scowls, “Told me yer swiped some ’errings an’ got caught. Lost yer wage an’ fell b’hind wiv the rent. ’Cos o’ that, we don’t share the same roof no more. Left me alone t’ serve McCarthy ’til the debt were cleared, didn’t yer? Now yer ’ave the bleedin’ gall t’ come ’round ’ere t’night in search o’ charity.” She shakes her head angrily, “Well, Joseph Barnett, wot yer fink? Were an ’andful o’ fish worth all the ’eartache?”

Barnett stammers, “The ’eartache? Left yer alone? Yer kicked me out, gel!”

Heatedly, Mary indicates the door, “Then be on yer way agin. I’m not long fer this world an’ I don’t aim t’ waste me last ’ours wiv yer.”

Mystified by her remark, Barnett stands, “Wiv yer. Yer sick?”

Mary hurries across the room and yanks open the door,
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“Sick t’ death o’ life, Joseph Barnett. Sick o’ McCarthy, an’ sick o’ yer.”

Provoked by her outburst, he snaps, “O’ yer. Mark me words, gel, walk the streets at night an’ yer’ll come t’ no good.”

Mary sneers, “An’ who’s goin’ ’arm me, then?”

Solemnly, Barnett murmurs, “Me, then? That bloke, the Ripper.”

Mary chirps, “Then I’ll git wot’s comin’ t’ me, won’t I?”

Baffled by her brazen attitude, Barnett frowns, “Won’t I? Come under ’is knife an’ ’e’ll slit yer gullet ear t’ ear.”