Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul (37 page)

Bowyer corrects him, “Mary broke ’em, guv’nor. One wiv ’er ’ead, one wiv ’er elbow. ’Ad a barney wiv ’im, she said.”

Feeling belittled, McCarthy snaps, “’E shoved ’er back agin the window, didn’t ’e?”

Dew intervenes, “All right, all right, we’re convinced neither of you broke the window.”

Beck stares at McCarthy, “Which part of the window did you look through?” McCarthy motions to the upper pane of glass, “Got a strong stomach, ’ave yer?”

Ignoring the remark, Beck puts his hand through the hole in the pane of glass, draws aside the curtain and peers into the room. Aghast by the sight that greets his eyes, he slowly withdraws his hand and silently steps back from the window.

Thrown by his stunned expression, Dew murmurs, “Inspector?”

Glancing at Bowyer, McCarthy smirks,
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“That’s calmed ’im down, ain’t it?”

Beck shakes his head in disbelief, “For God’s sake, Dew. Don’t look.”

His curiosity aroused, Dew stoops before the window, pokes his hand through the hole in the lower pane of glass and eases aside the black overcoat. Looking into the room, he immediately recoils, “Good Lord!” Inhaling deeply, he stares at Beck in astonishment, “That’s something I shan’t forget to my dying day.”

Beck shudders, “You and me both, Dew.”

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A City of London Police Sergeant was heard to say later, “In all my years on the force, I’d seen nothing like it before.” He was, of course, not referring to the corpse in the room, but to the multitude of people who now line the route, watching the dazzling splendour of the Lord Mayor’s parade.

At several points along Ludgate Hill, where St. Paul’s Cathedral is located, spectators stand ten deep. Above them, a number of plucky individuals cling to the tops of lamp-posts, having shinned up them to gain a clearer view of the procession.

Passing under a wrought-iron railway bridge displaying the City of London’s coat of arms, inscribed with the motto
Domine dirige nos
(
Lord, guide us
), the parade, nearing its final destination, enters Ludgate Circus, adjoining Fleet Street.

Amongst the festive crowd assembled near the thoroughfare junction, news of the latest Whitechapel murder breaks like a thunderclap. Within the space of a few minutes, the ceremonial pageant, outshone by Jack the Ripper, begins to lose its audience. Pushing, jostling, and sometimes stumbling over one another in their morbid eagerness to get to Miller’s Court, droves of spectators desert the glittering spectacle for the slums of Spitalfields.

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Lestrade shakes his head despondently, steps away from the window and glances at Chandler beside him, “Well, we can safely assume she’s dead, can’t we?”

Chandler inhales deeply, “That’s a bit of an understatement, isn’t it, Inspector?”

Gazing at the partially whitewashed houses situated either side of the flagstone alley which stretches to the rear of the cul-de-sac court, Lestrade murmurs tetchily, “I meant it so.”

Chandler informs him, “We’ve blocked off both ends of Dorset Street and part of Commercial Street to all traffic.”

Lestrade nods approvingly, “Good! That’ll keep the sightseers at bay.” He beckons McCarthy, “Landlord of these premises, right?”

McCarthy nods, “John McCarthy, mate.”

Lestrade retorts, “Let’s understand each other, Mr McCarthy, I am not your mate. Now, how many people lodge in this court?”

“Seven.” He motions to the window with his head, “She would ’ave made eight.”

Lestrade turns to Beck, standing next to Dew, “Statements from everyone. No one leaves, and no one comes in, understood?”

Beck and Dew nod in unison.

Lestrade stares at McCarthy, “Get a sledgehammer, anything. Break down the door.”

Beck demurs, “Can’t do that, Inspector. Commissioner’s orders. We’re to wait for the bloodhounds.”

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The aforementioned bloodhounds are two dogs affectionately known to their owner, Edwin Brough, as Barnaby and Burgho. After the murder of Annie Chapman, it was suggested to the police that the use of bloodhounds might be a successful way of ferreting out criminals who had left no trace behind except their scent. Though breeder Edwin Brough has always applauded the special qualities of the bloodhound, he remained sceptical that they could be used effectively in the crowded streets of London.

Soon after the murders of both Elizabeth Stride and Catharine Eddowes, however, Sir Charles Warren had seized upon the idea of bloodhounds, taking part in an experiment on
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Tooting Common, where he himself had been tracked by two bloodhounds which had eventually got lost in the thick fog. Undeterred, Sir Charles had encouraged further trials, this time employing Edwin Brough and two of his finest dogs, Barnaby and Burgho. On a misty morning, 8 October, at 7 a.m., the first of these trials began in
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Regent’s Park.

Though the ground of the park was coated in frost, Barnaby and Burgho successfully tracked a man who had been given a fifteen-minute head start. That night, in total darkness, they once more succeeded in another trial, tracking a man in
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Hyde Park.

The following morning, 9 October, a further six trials were held with Sir Charles, on two occasions, again acting the part of the hunted man. Although the scented trail had been deliberately tainted to deceive Barnaby and Burgho, they successfully tracked him each time. Completing the trials, Edwin Brough had cautioned Sir Charles, explaining that even though Barnaby and Burgho had performed impressively on grass, there could be no certainty that they would repeat their success in the fetid streets of Whitechapel.

Sir Charles, however, thought that the two bloodhounds had performed splendidly and, under the misapprehension that Brough would lend Barnaby and Burgho to the police free of charge, issued strict instructions that, in the event of another Whitechapel murder, the body should not be disturbed until the bloodhounds could take up the scent. Brough, of course, had expected the police to either purchase or hire Barnaby and Burgho and to insure them against injuries. When he failed to get a firm financial pledge from Sir Charles, he reluctantly withdrew Barnaby and Burgho, leaving the police at the end of last month with no trained bloodhounds anywhere in the metropolis. Prior to the murder of Mary Jane Kelly this morning, Barnaby and Burgho have been kennelled at
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Wyndyate near Scarborough for the past nine days.

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Pacing back and forth outside the door of number 13, Lestrade grumbles to Chandler, “We’re
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manacled by superiors who think they know best. Bloodhounds, indeed.”

Hurrying along the passageway, Constable Nott approaches Lestrade, “Inspector.”

Lestrade stares at him expectantly, “We can enter the room?”

Mystified by the question, Nott frowns.

Seeing his baffled expression, Chandler murmurs to Lestrade, “I think the answer is still no.”

Nott imparts, “The photographer, Inspector. I brought him from his studio in Cannon Street Road, as you instructed.”

Holding a wooden tripod in one hand and a square mahogany box in the other, a thirty-eight-year-old man steps out from behind Nott and introduces himself, “Joseph Martin, Inspector.”

Lestrade commends Nott, “Well done, lad. Now join the others at the entrance. And when Mr McCarthy turns up with his sledgehammer, or whatever tool he might bring, let him through.”

Nott touches the brim of his helmet, turns on his heel and strides off along the passageway.

Lestrade addresses Martin, “Took the mortuary photographs of Tabram, Nichols, Chapman and Stride, didn’t you?”

Martin nods, “Yes, Inspector. But not Eddowes. The City Police engaged another fellow to photograph her.”

Lestrade motions to the door with his head, “Prepare yourself, Mr Martin, this one is...”

Chandler interjects, “Bloody awful.”

Lestrade continues, “She’s lying on the bed, cut to pieces. I want a photograph of her in that position and another of what is on the table beside her.”

Martin enquiries, “Her eyes, Inspector? Are they open?”

Lestrade sighs, “You don’t believe in that nonsense, do you?”

Martin carefully places his tripod against the wall and his box on the ground, “Makes no odds to me, one way or the other. But if her retinas have retained an image of the murderer...”

Chandler interjects again, “In the absence of other clues, what harm would it do, Inspector?”

Lestrade relents, “All right, one photograph of her eyes.”

Followed by Dr Bagster Phillips, who had examined the body of Annie Chapman in the backyard of 29 Hanbury Street, McCarthy, clutching a pickaxe with both hands, struts along the passageway to Lestrade, “Want I break down the door now?”

Chandler grumbles to Lestrade, “If we don’t get into that room soon, it’s going to get awfully crowded here.”

Again, Lestrade sighs and then addresses McCarthy, “Nothing I’d like better, Mr McCarthy.” He indicates the brick wall opposite the door, “Please wait there.”

McCarthy leans against the wall and moans, “Nigh on two ’ours since we found ’er dead.
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Wot’s the bleedin’ ’old-up?”

Chandler snaps, “Patience is a virtue, is it not, Mr McCarthy?”

McCarthy sneers, “Ain’t got time t’ waste. A closed shop don’t earn brass.”

Lestrade turns to Bagster Phillips, “Another unhappy occasion, Doctor.”

Bagster Phillips politely raises his silk top hat, “Not if we are to be enlightened by the unorthodox methods of Mr Holmes again.”

Lestrade inhales deeply, “Mr Holmes is not here. He is otherwise occupied, Doctor.”

Bagster Phillips sighs dolefully, “Then you are indeed correct, Inspector. It is an unhappy occasion.”

A well-attired, forty-seven-year-old gentleman hurries along the passageway and approaches Bagster Phillips from behind, “Good Lord, Phillips, I have never seen such a surly crowd before. There must be five hundred people, if not more, out there.” He stares at Lestrade, “You’re a doctor, too? Don’t look like one, though.”

Lestrade rejoins, “Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. And you are...?”

Bagster Phillips introduces the gentleman, “Dr Thomas Bond. Divisional Police Surgeon for A Division, Inspector.”

Lestrade muses, “Westminster, eh?” He looks at Bond,
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“A bit off the beaten track, aren’t you, Doctor?”

Bond counters, “You object to a second opinion, Inspector?”

Bagster Phillips intervenes, “Perhaps our time would be better spent examining the body of the poor woman, Inspector?”

Lestrade sighs petulantly, “We are shackled by stupidity, Doctor. But fortunately the body can be viewed.” He turns to Chandler, “Allow these two gentlemen to look through the window.”

Complying, Chandler leads Bagster Phillips and Bond around the corner to the nearest window.

McCarthy smirks at Lestrade,
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“Right carry-on, innit? We outside twiddlin’ our thumbs an’ she’s inside cold as mutton.”

Ignoring McCarthy, Lestrade whispers to Martin, “When we do gain entry to the room, I want the photographs taken before the place is disturbed, understood?”

Martin nods, “I’ll be as quick as possible, Inspector, but it is not that easy. One has to consider the light in the room. Exposure and focus is everything.”

Lestrade taps his foot impatiently, “I appreciate your concern, but when the moment comes, be about your task with a sense of urgency, there’s a good chap, Mr Martin.”

Accompanied by two police constables, Superintendent Arnold haughtily enters the court from the passageway, “Ah, Lestrade.” He glances about, “And where is your insolent friend?”

Lestrade frowns, “Mr Holmes?”

Arnold sneers, “Who else?”

Lestrade counters, “Elusive as ever. He is not here.”

Arnold scoffs, “Damn meddling amateur. Now perhaps the London Metropolitan Police can show him
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a trick or two. You may enter the room. The Commissioner has cancelled the bloodhound order.”

Lestrade quickly looks at McCarthy and snaps his fingers, “Right, you! Get on with it.”

Tightly gripping the handle of the pickaxe, McCarthy shoves past Arnold, “’Bout bleedin’ time.” Lifting the tool over his shoulder, he swings it through the air and, with its metal tip, splits the wooden frame beside the edge of the door, close to the lock. Rapidly repeating the deed, he gouges out a piece of wood, comprising of the latch hole. The door springs opens. Turning to Lestrade, he quips, “Like pickin’ daisies, innit?”