Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul (39 page)

Inhaling deeply, Byfield instructs Hutt, “All right, George, unlock the door.”

Removing a large metal ring attached to the leather belt of his tunic, Hutt selects a key, strides to the end of the corridor, unlocks the door and slides back two large bolts, one at the top of the door, the other at the bottom.

Lestrade enjoins, “Everyone wait here!” Escorting the blanketed, handcuffed man along the corridor, he pulls open the door to reveal Nott standing outside in the yard beside a hansom cab. He indicates the corridor to Nott, “Inside, lad.”

Complying with the order, Nott quickly enters the corridor. Closing the door behind him, Lestrade looks up at the cabby, “Breathe a word of this to anyone and I’ll have you taken to
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Princetown Prison on Dartmoor.”

The cabby replies jovially, “Didn’t see a fing, guv’nor. Deaf an’ dumb, too.”

Approving of his reply Lestrade hurriedly removes the handcuffs from the blanketed man, opens the two front folding doors of the cab and helps him into the vehicle. Closing the doors, he tosses a half-crown to the cabby, “221b Baker Street. Back entrance.”

Catching the coin with his hand, the cabby touches the brim of his hat, “On me way, guv’nor.” Flicking the reins of the horse, he manoeuvres the vehicle out of the yard into Half Moon Alley and trundles away.

Returning to the corridor, Lestrade addresses Byfield and Hutt, “Unless you want to fall foul of Major Henry Smith, none of what you have just seen ever happened. But so far as the press or the public are concerned, a suspect is definitely being held down here in connection with the Whitechapel murders. Understood?”

Byfield queries, “And how long should we hold this suspect?”

Lestrade muses, “Thirty-six hours, at least.” He turns to Chandler, “Get yourself down to Cannon Street Road and see Mr Martin. I want those photographs he took this afternoon, and I want them tonight.” He steps towards Nott, “Commercial Street Police Station, lad.”

Nott frowns, “What for, Inspector?”

Lestrade brushes past him, “Time to release Dr Watson.”

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Turning the corner from Widegate Street into Bishopsgate Street Without, Eliza catches sight of the Black Maria parked alongside the kerb, outside the police station. Pausing for breath, she smirks, “Ain’t often wrong, are yer, gel?”

Hastily ascending the worn steps to the entrance of the station, Eliza stumbles as Lestrade, Chandler and Nott emerge from the building. Confronted by her mishap, Lestrade assists her to her feet, “Do yourself an injury, you will. Why the hurry?”

Eliza feigns nervousness, “Why the ’urry? Mary Kelly butchered in Miller’s Court an’ me out ’ere alone. I be after refuge.” She points to the entrance, “In there!”

Lestrade interjects politely, “This is a police station, not a mission hall.”

Eliza sighs impatiently, “Know that, don’t I? But when I’m feelin’ nervy, like t’night, Desk Sergeant lets me stay a while, ’til I’m ready t’ go ’ome.”

Lestrade chuckles, “So, the City Police are a charitable lot, after all.” He raises his hat to her, “Have a pleasant evening.”

Eliza blurts, “Oh, yeh? Wiv a madman loose on the streets. Wot’s t’ say I won’t be next?”

Lestrade indicates the entrance, “Get yourself inside, and we of the London Metropolitan Police will do all within our power to see that Jack the Ripper never troubles you, or anyone else, again.” He raises his hat once more, “Good night.” Pensively, he descends the steps to the pavement, followed by Chandler and Nott.

Chandler sidles up next to him, “For a moment, I thought you were going to
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let the cat out of the bag.”

Lestrade pauses, “How did she know the murdered woman was Mary Kelly? We haven’t disclosed that information yet.”

Chandler quips, “Whitechapel
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tom-toms.”

With a questioning expression, Lestrade stares at him, “She also said Mary Kelly had been butchered. That’s an apt description, wouldn’t you say?”

Chandler shrugs his shoulders, “Figure of speech.”

Lestrade saunters towards the Black Maria, “Maybe you’re right. Perhaps I’m imagining phantoms where there are only shadows.” Staring at the vehicle, he cringes, “Tell you what! You take that thing. Me and the lad will hail a cab.”

Having entered the police station, Eliza approaches Byfield, returning to his desk, “Little bird tells me the bloke wot did in Mary Kelly were brung in ’ere ten minutes ago.”

Byfield sits in his chair and opens the ledger upon his desk, “And did that same little bird also tell you to mind your own business?”

Eliza casually leans against his desk, “Need t’ know if it’s safe t’ walk the streets, don’t I?”

Byfield dips the nib of his pen into an inkwell, “It’s safe to walk the streets. Now, run along, will you?”

Eliza sniggers slyly, “If it’s safe fer me t’ walk the streets, the bloke nabbed in Miller’s Court must be ’ere, then?”

Acting upon Lestrade’s previous instruction, Byfield deliberately divulges, “A man suspected of being the Ripper was brought in here less than fifteen minutes ago. Satisfied?”

“Downstairs, locked up, is ’e?”

“Yes, securely locked up.”

Eliza brazenly suggests, “Let me ’ave a peek at ’im. I be ever so thankful. Use one o’ yer empty cells, if yer like?”

Lowering his pen, Byfield stares at her sternly, “That kind of proposition can get you locked up, too.” He motions to the door of the station with his head, “Now, clear off, before I lose my sense of goodwill.”

Retreating to the door, Eliza chirps to herself, “Daft bugger! Told me wot I wanted t’ know, anyway.”

Chapter 14

Consequences

Refreshed after having taken a warm bath, Holmes, wearing his mouse-coloured dressing-gown, enters the sitting-room and closes the drapes of the two broad windows. Picking up his cherry-wood pipe from the mantelpiece, he presses tobacco into its bowl, sits in an armchair beside the glowing fire, and lights the pipe pensively.

A knock at the door interrupts his thoughts.

Rising from the chair, Holmes opens the door to reveal Watson, standing beside Lestrade, who holds his bowler hat with one hand and a buff envelope with the other.

Holmes exclaims excitedly, “My dear fellow, do come in. Still in one piece, I see?”

Watson glumly steps into the room, “Being involved in this case with you, Holmes, has sorely tested my
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constitution. Held in a police station like a common criminal was hardly therapeutic.”

Holmes turns to Lestrade, “Was he not told?”

Lestrade slowly enters the room, “Of being suspected as the Whitechapel murderer, or why you wanted him detained further?”

Holmes murmurs, “Why I wanted him detained.”

Lestrade confirms, “Told him myself, Mr Holmes.”

Closing the door, Holmes turns to Watson, “A precautionary measure for your own protection, Watson. After you were taken into police custody, I deemed it necessary.”

Watson wearily sinks into an armchair, warming his hands before the fire, “I have been relieved of both my Derby hat and Ulster overcoat, Holmes. It is not the cost of replacing the items that grieves me, but the fact that I had become quite attached to them, you see.”

Puffing on his pipe, Holmes pats him on the shoulder soothingly, “Quite so, Watson. Quite so.”

Lestrade interjects, “Scotland Yard will
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foot the bill, Dr Watson.”

Watson’s face lights up, “You will, Lestrade?”

Holmes chuckles, “Not personally, Watson.”

Lestrade elucidates, “The cost of your clothing, or any other personal property stolen from you whilst you are assigned to this case, is covered by a special police fund, providing the amount does not exceed five pounds.”

Watson smiles delightedly, “Really?”

Holmes raises a questioning eyebrow, “I thought the cost of the missing items was not significant, Watson?”

“Compensation will help, Holmes.”

Sitting in an armchair opposite Watson, Holmes puffs at his pipe, “Now that you have regained your spirit, perhaps you will enlighten me as to how you were abducted. I am interested only in the part where you left the cab in Baker Street, close to Portman Square. You may dispense with the account of your journey from the Royal Adelphi to that point.”

Lestrade places his hat down on the dining-table, retaining hold of the buff envelope.

Holmes glances at him, “Please, Lestrade, draw up a chair.”

Lestrade drags a chair away from the dining-table, positions the piece of furniture next to Holmes and sits.

Holmes stares at Watson, “Well, Watson?”

Watson coughs quietly, “After leaving the Royal Adelphi...”

Holmes interrupts, “Come, come, Watson. I am interested only in the part where you left the cab in Baker Street, close to Portman Square.”

Looking at Lestrade, Watson sighs, “He can be quite insufferable at times, you know.”

Lestrade suppresses a smile.

Holmes summarizes, “The cabby, Samuel Wensley, whom you rewarded with a half-crown coin, dropped you off at Baker Street and saw you walk towards Portman Square on your way here. As you passed the square, Mr Wensley caught sight of a growler, which came out of the square and appeared to follow you along the street. Now, perhaps, you will tell me what happened next.”

Watson muses, “If you have learnt that much, Holmes, then you must have investigated my disappearance.”

Holmes lowers his pipe, “Of course, my dear fellow. Your welfare was, and will always be, of paramount importance to me.”

Watson looks at Lestrade again, “Then, on the other hand, he can also be quite humane.”

Again, Lestrade suppresses a smile.

Watson stares at Holmes, “As the growler drew alongside me, its door opened and a woman, seated inside, hailed me. By name, I might add.”

“She addressed you as Dr Watson?”

Watson nods, “Yes. She seemed rather agitated. Said there had been an accident involving you and my presence was urgently required at
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Charing Cross Hospital.”

Gleefully clapping his hands together, Holmes exclaims, “Ah, ah! A cunning ruse, indeed. Then, of course, you got into the vehicle?”

“Quite the opposite, Holmes. I did not. The appearance of the woman aroused my suspicion.”

Lestrade murmurs, “The way she was dressed?”

“Precisely, Lestrade. Ragged, in fact.”

Puffing at his pipe, Holmes exhales bluish smoke, “A woman of the unfortunate class, Watson?”

Watson nods once more, “An apt description, Holmes. And she spoke as one.”

Lestrade restlessly strokes his moustache, “Would you recognise her again, Dr Watson?”

“Most certainly.”

Holmes taps ash from the bowl of his pipe into an ashtray, “So, if you did not get into the growler voluntarily, you must have been forced into the vehicle, Watson.”

“Indeed so, Holmes. A person, seated opposite the woman inside the growler, seized the lapels of my overcoat, hauled me into the vehicle and clamped a piece of gauze over my mouth, which smelt of chloroform. Needless to say, I attempted to resist, but I was soon rendered insensible. The next thing I knew, I awoke and found myself in Commercial Street Police Station, suspected of being the Whitechapel murderer.”

Lestrade enquires, “This other person, Dr Watson. Could it have been a man?”

“Why not? Certainly had the strength.”

Lestrade glances at Holmes, “The murderer?”

Holmes shakes his head, “From information obtained by my little friend Wiggins, I believe the murderer hired and drove the growler himself. Therefore, that leaves only one other person.”

“Bullen!”

“Yes, Lestrade. A man brash enough to strike me unconscious would have no qualms about anaesthetizing Watson.” He puffs at his pipe again, “After Watson had been sedated and taken to a place of captivity, conceivably a dwelling in Hob’s Passage, the murderer returned the growler to the Hackney Cab Company in Vine Yard at half past midnight, approximately five hours prior to John Davis stumbling upon the mutilated body of Annie Chapman in the backyard of 29 Hanbury Street.”

Lestrade fingers the buff envelope, “And Hanbury Street is a mere stone’s throw away from Hob’s Passage in Booth Street.”

Holmes nods, “Quite so, Lestrade. And If I am not mistaken, Hob’s Passage is the epicentre of these atrocious murders.” He gently taps the buff envelope with the end of his pipe, “Three photographs, I believe? Each a different view of the woman slain in Miller’s Court. The one taken of her retinas was a futile effort, however. A nonsensical waste of time.”

With an incredulous expression, Lestrade blurts, “How on earth could you know that? You weren’t in the room at the time, Mr Holmes.”

Holmes raises a quizzical eyebrow, “Are you certain, Lestrade?”

Watson fidgets in his chair, “I say, Holmes, what is all this mumbo jumbo?”

Ignoring Watson, Lestrade continues, “If you had been in that room, Mr Holmes, I would most definitely have seen you.”

“Because you did not see me, Lestrade, does not mean I was not there.”

“Invisible, were you?”

“To your eyes, yes. And if I had not been so, you would had the unenviable task of actually arresting me instead of participating in my little charade, for which I am extremely grateful.”

Lestrade sighs despairingly, “It’s times like this, Mr Holmes, that I feel like a man marooned on a desert island without the foggiest idea of what is being said to me.”

Watson guffaws, “My sentiment entirely, Lestrade.” He looks at Holmes, “You are apt to forget at times that mere mortals require the occasional explanation, Holmes.”

Holmes smiles disarmingly, “Your solicitude is warranted, Watson. But all in good time.” Putting his pipe down in the ashtray, he turns to Lestrade, “The photographs, please.”

Removing two half-plate black and white photographs from the envelope, Lestrade hands them to Holmes, “The full-length one of her lying on the bed shows the letter M scrawled in blood on the back partition wall, close to her right shoulder.” Staring at the photograph, Holmes is once again confronted by the horrendously mutilated body of Mary Kelly. He winces inwardly, “You have a keen eye, Lestrade. It does, indeed.”

“There can be no doubt about it now, Mr Holmes. The man who killed Tabram, Nichols, Chapman and Eddowes butchered her, too.”

Holmes taps the photograph with his finger, “Whilst we were at Miller’s Court, you mentioned her name, did you not?”

Lestrade inhales deeply, “Mary Jane Kelly. Also known as Marie Jeanette Kelly. Don’t know why. She was Irish, not French.”

Holmes examines the second photograph, showing part of Mary’s outstretched right arm, her mutilated abdomen, the raised bent knee of her skinned left leg, her left hand and pieces of her flesh piled on the bedside table in the background, “Perhaps she wished to rise above her station, Lestrade?”

Lestrade replies solemnly, “A flowery name can’t change who you are, Mr Holmes. But mark my words, she won’t be forgotten, that’s for sure. The way she was murdered will be talked about for years to come.”

Holmes retains the first photograph, returning the second one to Lestrade, “If not the entire ghastly affair, I suspect.” He stands and addresses Watson, “Whilst you were incapacitated, drugged by one of your abductors, who finally had you dumped in Cripple Court, which resulted in you being detained at Commercial Street Police Station as a suspect, three more murders took place.”

Watson baulks, “Three! Good Lord, Holmes.”

Holmes elucidates, “Annie Chapman in the backyard of 29 Hanbury Street, Catharine Eddowes in the southern corner of Mitre Square...” He gives the photograph to Watson. “And Mary Kelly in her room at 13 Miller’s Court, Dorset Street.”

Watson gazes at the photograph and, appalled by the image, blanches, “The other two women? Were they disembowelled and disfigured like this?”

Holmes imparts, “To a lesser degree, but violated, all the same.”

Watson laments, “In all my years in the medical profession, I have never seen such a destruction of life as depicted here.”

Lestrade stands quickly, “If you were in her room, Mr Holmes, and I couldn’t see you, where were you, then?”

Holmes smiles mischievously, “Beneath your feet, Lestrade.”

“Beneath my feet, Mr Holmes?”

“Yes, Lestrade. Where else?”

Lestrade stares down at the toes of his boots and, with a look of realization, exclaims, “You mean...?”

Holmes nods, “Exactly, Lestrade.”

Lestrade slumps onto his chair, “The loose floorboards.” He shakes his head incredulously, “I don’t believe it.”

Watson gives the photograph back to Holmes, “More mumbo jumbo, Holmes?”

Holmes gently pats him on the shoulder again, “I wish it were so, Watson. I wish it were so.” He returns the photograph to Lestrade, who, slipping it back into the buff envelope, queries, “Why were you in her room in the first place, Mr Holmes?”

Sitting in his armchair, Holmes retrieves his pipe from the ashtray, “Are you familiar with the poem, ‘The Spider and the Fly,’ by the late Mary Howitt, Lestrade?”

Lestrade shakes his head.

Watson interjects, informing Lestrade, “The poem was published fifty-nine years ago, in 1829. Sadly, its author, Mrs Howitt, suffered from bronchitis in old age. She died at the beginning of this year. The end of January, to be exact.”

Holmes lights his pipe, leans back in his chair and slowly exhales smoke, “Part of the first verse comprises of these words, Lestrade.”

“Will you walk into my parlour?” said the Spider to the Fly,

’Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy.

The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,

And I’ve a many curious things to show when you are there.”

Looking at a bemused Lestrade, Watson continues the verse.

“Oh no, no, said the little Fly, to ask me is in vain,

For who goes up your winding stair can ne’er come down again.”

Holmes glances at a dumbstruck Lestrade, “Now listen carefully, Lestrade. It is in the fifth verse that the plot thickens, decidedly.”

“The Spider turned round about, and went into his den,

For well he knew the silly Fly would soon come back again.