Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul (32 page)

Mary smiles, “Blessed ’eaven, Joseph Barnett.”

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Casually stepping out of the Ten Bells tavern into a relatively quiet Commercial Street, Thomas Bullen pauses, wipes his wet lips with the back of his hand and then strolls off along the pavement of Church Street towards Brick Lane.

Cloaked by the shadows of Spitalfields Market, Lestrade turns to an unkempt Alfred Mipps, grey haired and bearded, and murmurs, “That’s our man. Worked for the Chicago Tribune in
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eighty-six and the New York Herald in eighty-seven.”

Approached by a tottering woman, seemingly drunk and plying her trade, Bullen contemptuously knocks her aside, whereupon the woman falls backwards into the street, inadvertently disturbing a pile of horse dung with her outstretched flailing arm.

Perturbed by the sight, Mipps glances at Lestrade, “’E ain’t a ladies’ man, that’s fer sure, guv’nor.”

Lestrade nods, “Thrown out of America for falsifying news stories, he returned to England, end of last year, and then obtained a job with The Star newspaper, beginning of this year.”

Watching the woman trying to pick herself up, Mipps remarks, “Bleedin’ rascal, eh?” The woman stands uneasily, lurches forward and then slumps down on the pavement, her back positioned against the gloomy facade of a barbers shop.

Lestrade imparts, “A habitual drinker, he is known down here for his peculiar amorous behaviour.”

Mipps refers to the woman, “Ain’t too fond o’ ’em, is ’e?”

Lestrade elucidates, “On the contrary, he likes to engage with both men and women. Preferably together, at the same time.”

Close to the corner of Church Street and Brick Lane, Bullen halts beside a costermongers’ fruit and vegetable barrow and begins to examine oranges with his fingers.

As a gesture of departure, Mipps touches the peak of his cloth cap, “Best be after ’im, guv’nor, else I might lose ’im.”

Lestrade nods again, “A discreet distance, mind you. And stay in sight.”

Quickly turning up the collar of his jacket, Mipps emerges from the shadows of the market, ambles across the street and heads straight towards the slumped woman and Bullen beyond. Upon reaching the woman, he gently places his hand under her chin, raises her drooped head and gawks at her face. Constable Henry Nott promptly opens an eye, “Police business. Push off!”

Astonished, Mipps grins, “A copper! Wiv no
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tash! Bloody fine act, mate.
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Won me over.” He motions to the market with his head, “Wiv ’im, are yer?”

Nott opens his other eye, “Inspector Lestrade?”

Mipps nods, “The guv’nor, yeh.”

Nott chides him, “Keep your voice down, will you?”

Cheekily, Mipps clamps his hand over his mouth.

Nott queries, “What are you doing here?”

Removing his hand from his mouth, Mipps indicates Bullen with his thumb, “Keepin’ a’ eye on ’im, ain’t I?”

Nott nods, “Aren’t we all?”

Mipps adds, “Guv’nor wants t’ know where ’e goes.”

Bullen selects an orange and flicks a coin to the costermonger. Glancing back over his shoulder, he notices Mipps, but perceives nothing peculiar about his presence, merely believing that Mipps is foolishly endeavouring to help a drunken whore whom he has just stumbled upon. Beginning to peel the orange, he saunters to the corner of Brick Lane.

Seeing this, Mipps commendably pats Nott on the arm, “Keep up the good work, mate. Mind a docker don’t take a likin’ t’ yer, though.”

Sighing wearily, Nott straightens his bonnet.

Jauntily strolling across Brick Lane and having partially peeled the orange, Bullen pauses in front of a closed grocery shop and pops a segment of the fruit in his mouth. Reflected in the shop window, partly lit by a spluttering street lamp, he catches sight of Mipps behind him, sidling up to the corner he has just left.

Unaware he has been spotted, Mipps sees Bullen pop another piece of orange into his mouth and amble away from the shop. Upon reaching another corner, the journalist suddenly turns right and disappears into Booth Street, an even grimmer side street than Brick Lane.

Darting across Brick Lane and anxiously poking his head around the corner into Booth Street, Mipps gapes. Bullen is nowhere to be seen. He has vanished, apparently into thin air.

Stepping around the corner into the street, Mipps removes his cap and musingly scratches his head.
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Two yards from the corner and on the same side of the street, he notices something lying on the ground close to the arched entrance to Hob’s Passage. He replaces his cap, approaches the entrance and nudges a piece of orange peel with the toe of his boot.

Warily entering Hob’s Passage, Mipps is immediately confronted by several nameless alleyways that extend in different directions like the strands of a spider’s web from each side of the passage. Inset closed street doors, found here and there along these foul alleyways, offer no clue to who, or what manner of person dwells behind them.

Aware that the slightest noise could betray his presence, Mipps hurriedly removes his boots, ties their laces together and slings the footwear over his shoulder, one boot dangling down his back, the other down his front. Silently, he ventures forth into the gloom and begins to investigate the warren, detecting only the sound of the occasional rat scurrying back and forth. Quickly realizing the extent of the labyrinth and considering a search futile, he decides to adopt a ‘wait and see’ tactic. About to position himself in a darkened doorway, he hears the sudden movement of someone behind him. Viciously struck across the back of the head, Mipps collapses to the ground, unconscious. Returning a black leather
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cosh to the inside pocket of his jacket, Bullen grins.

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Hurriedly emerging from Brick Lane and still dressed in feminine attire, Constable Nott enters Booth Street, immediately followed by Lestrade, Sergeant Stokes and Constable Lunt. Approaching the four men from the other end of the street and accompanied by two other constables, Chandler dashes towards them.

Lestrade barks, “Come your way, did they?”

Chandler halts, catching his breath, “Not through Samuel Row, they didn’t.”

Lestrade impatiently scratches his chin, “Then they’re still in this street, somewhere.” Indicating Hob’s Passage, he turns to Nott, “In you go, lad, and see what you can find.”

Nott demurs, “Dressed like this?”

Stokes interjects, “He could be mistaken for a whore, Inspector. Might be tempting fate if the Ripper is in there.”

Lestrade muses, “Perhaps you’re right. On second thought, you go with him.”

Stokes blanches, “Me, Inspector?”

Lestrade counters, “Yes, you, Sergeant.”

Stokes nervously tugs at the collar of his tunic, “Hob’s Passage is the Black Hole of Calcutta, Inspector.”

Caustically, Lestrade replies, “This is Whitechapel. Calcutta is in India, Sergeant.”

Stokes remonstrates, “Calcutta, Whitechapel, they’re the same. There’s blokes in there who’d sooner slit your throat than wink at you. Last week, three of my men chased a ruffian in there, lost him and themselves. Took ’em the rest of the day to find their way out. Shook ’em up something rotten, it did. If your man’s gone in there, Inspector, and isn’t dead already, he soon will be.”

Chandler interjects, “Down here, Inspector, the locals call it the Devil’s Passage.”

Lestrade sighs wearily, “And you’re about to tell me why, right?”

Chandler continues, “Hob is another word for the devil. Once a villain has entered the passage, he can leave by a dozen different exits, perhaps more. We’re only seven men, Inspector. And before we can enter, we’ll have to seal off those exits. That means more men. A lot more.”

Stokes adds, “And not before daybreak, either.”

Lestrade quickly turns to Nott, “Get back to the station, change your clothes and bring whoever you can here.”

Nott nods, promptly raises the hem of his skirt and totters away.

Stokes protests, “But, Inspector...”

Lestrade retorts, “Afraid of the dark, Sergeant?”

Inhaling deeply, Stokes submissively shakes his head.

Lestrade confronts Chandler, “I’ll not have it said we stood idle whilst Mipps was murdered.”

Chandler frowns, “I’d say we’re on a fool’s errand, Inspector.”

Aware that Chandler is probably correct, Lestrade nonetheless remains steadfast, “Perhaps you’re right. But we would have tried our best. And that’s what really counts, isn’t it?”

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Seated on a stool in the Britannia tavern beside Edwin Fester, blotchy faced with a carroty moustache, Mary throws back her head and chuckles, “Go on, pull the other one, it’s got bells on it.”

Swallowing a mouthful of ale, Fester lowers his glass, “No porkies, luv. The first were Liz Stride.”

Mary grabs his arm, “Liz Stride?”

Fester smirks, “Gawd, where yer been? Yeh, Liz Stride an’ then Cathy Eddowes.”

Mary solemnly relinquishes her grip, “Knew ’er, didn’t I?”

Raising his glass to his lips, Fester pauses, “Which one?”

Lost in thought, Mary murmurs, “Gave ’er a bed fer the night.”

Gulping down the remainder of his ale, Fester wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, “Yeh, but which one were she?”

Mournfully, Mary stares into her glass, “Beaten black an’ blue, she were. Couldn’t tell midday from midnight.”

Fester slams his glass down on the table, snapping her out of her melancholy trance, “’Er name, or a gin. Wot yer say?”

Swallowing her drink whole, Mary chirpily hands him her glass, “Liz Stride. An’ make it ’nother.”

Fester takes her glass and picks up his own, “Well, at least she kept ’er kidneys.”

Mystified by his glib remark, Mary nonetheless shivers.

Slowly, Fester stands, holding both glasses, “The Ripper took one from Cathy Eddowes an’ sent it t’ Georgie Lusk, didn’t ’e?”

Mary blanches, “Yer kiddin’ me?”

Fester straightens, “No, luv, I ain’t. ’E sent it t’ Lusk by post in a small cardboard box.”

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On Monday, 15 October, a tall man, dressed in clerical garb, had cagily entered a leather shop at 218 Jubilee Street, Mile End, enquiring after the address of George Lusk, Chairman of the Mile End Vigilance Committee, who lived at 1 Tollet Street, although he ran a builders merchant business just around the corner in Alderney Road. The furtive behaviour and zealous eyes of the man had so unsettled the shop assistant, Emily Marsh, that she had instructed shop boy John Cormack to follow the man after he had left.

This John Cormack had done, but had rapidly lost sight of the stranger in the crowded neighbouring streets. Aged fifty-five and at least six feet tall, if not more, the man had a sallow face, dark moustache and beard, and had spoken with a distinctive Jewish accent. The following evening, at about eight o’clock, George Lusk had received through the post a small cardboard box, 3½ inches square, wrapped in brown paper. Contained within the box had been half a rancid kidney, along with a derisory note.

                        
From hell

               Mr Lusk

                  Sor

                     I send you half the

               Kidne I took from one woman

               prasarved it for you tother piece I

               fried and ate it was very nise I

               may send you the bloody knif that

               took it out if you wate a whil

               longer

                    signed Catch me when

                                          you can

                                  Mishter Lusk.

At first, George Lusk thought it was a hoax, but then had been persuaded by the treasurer of the Mile End Vigilance Committee, Joseph Aarons, to take the half of kidney to Dr Frederick Wiles at 56 Mile End Road. Finding the doctor out, Lusk had handed the kidney to his assistant, Mr Reed, who had opined that it was most certainly human and had been preserved in spirits of wine.

Reed had then submitted the portion of organ to Dr Thomas Horrocks Openshaw of the London Hospital, Whitechapel Road, who had examined it under a microscope. Openshaw affirmed that it was part of a left kidney that may have belonged to a woman who had been a habitual drinker and who may have died about the time that Catharine Eddowes had been slain.

Without further ado, George Lusk had presented the grisly piece of evidence to Chief Superintendent Arnold at Leman Street Police Station who, spurning Holmes and Lestrade, had dispatched the gruesome item to the City of London Police, whereupon the supercilious Dr Frederick Brown had duly examined it.