Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul (4 page)

“I will press it home, Moriarty.”

“I have no doubt that you will, Mr Holmes.”

Holmes glances back along the narrow track, “You will walk in front of me.”

Moriarty begins to edge away from Holmes, “You know that is quite impossible.”

Lunging forward, Holmes stabs Moriarty in the chest. Unharmed, Moriarty smirks. Inquisitively, Holmes slices open his frock-coat and shirt, revealing polished metal.

Moriarty chuckles, “A
[18]
breastplate, Mr Holmes, quite effective against sword-sticks.”

Swiftly grasping the walking cane just beyond its blade, Moriarty yanks Holmes forward, viciously striking him across the face with the back of his gloved hand. Quickly raising his knee and promptly extending his leg, he then brutally kicks Holmes in the stomach.

Reeling backwards and slamming violently into the trunk of a small weathered tree, Holmes loses his grip on his walking cane, which immediately flies through the air, over the edge of the track and disappears into the chasm.

Moriarty stoops, picks up a mouldy length of
[19]
bough, advances on Holmes, and forcefully strikes him across the chest with it.

Holmes drops to the ground. Moriarty continues to strike him. Slipping over the edge of the track, Holmes throws out one arm, then the other, gripping the tree trunk with both hands.

Stepping to the edge, Moriarty gazes down at Holmes, dangling over the chasm and above the swirling fog of spray far below him, “King takes pawn, I believe, Mr Holmes?”

Straining to maintain his grip, Holmes stares up at Moriarty, “It would appear so, Moriarty.”

Moriarty raises the length of bough above his head, “I do not have to do this, Mr Holmes.”

Surreptitiously gaining a toe-hold in a small crevice below him, Holmes raises a sceptical eyebrow, “Yes, you do, Moriarty.”

Fiercely swinging the bough, Moriarty strikes Holmes on one hand. Holmes winces, but retains his hold. Again, Moriarty strikes his hand. Again, Holmes winces, but does not release his grip.

Incensed, Moriarty kneels, glaring at Holmes, “Relinquish your hold!”

Holmes responds defiantly, “Not until I am dead.”

Moriarty stands, raising the length of bough to deliver a final murderous blow,
[20]
“Auf Wiedersehen, Mr Holmes.”

A shot rings out, shattering the bough and showering Moriarty with splinters.

With a profound sense of relief, Holmes murmurs, “Watson.”

Quickly letting go of the tree trunk with one hand, Holmes seizes Moriarty by the lapel of his frock-coat and jerks him forward, “Farewell, Moriarty.”

With a startled expression, Moriarty shrieks and pitches head first over Holmes’ shoulder. Plunging into the chasm, he penetrates the fog of spray, immediately vanishing from sight.

Hurriedly emerging from a
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cleft in the glistening black rock and pocketing his revolver, Watson rushes forward, drops to his knees and grasps Holmes by his free hand.

Relinquishing his hold on the tree trunk with his other hand, Holmes grabs Watson by the arm, “Pull, Watson!”

Looking past Holmes and staring into the abyss far below, Watson instantly experiences queasiness, “Oh, Holmes.”

Seeing Watson blanch, Holmes tightens his grip on his arm, “My dear fellow, this is hardly the time, nor the place, to enlighten me about your fear of heights.”

The rock surrounding the small crevice where Holmes has his toe-hold suddenly crumbles, causing him to slip and partially drag Watson over the edge of the track.

Petrified, Watson stares down at Holmes, “I think it might help if I closed my eyes, Holmes.”

Holmes peers over his shoulder and looks straight down into the ominous spiralling spray, “Yes, Watson, close your eyes and, whatever happens, do not move.”

Summoning all his inner strength, Holmes slowly heaves himself up and painstakingly clambers over Watson to safety. Pausing for a breath, he then leans back over the edge, grabs Watson by his shoulder and pulls him to safety.

Sitting beside Watson on the ground, Holmes affectionately taps him on the shoulder, “You may now open your eyes, Watson.”

Breathing heavily, Watson opens his eyes, “Good Lord, Holmes, I thought our day had arrived.”

Holmes raises a critical eyebrow, “You aim was slightly off the mark, Watson.”

Watson stammers incredulously, “I will have you know, Holmes, that my aim was not. I never intended to harm the blighter, just to caution him, not to kill him as you have done.”

“Self-defence, Watson.”

“That may be so, Holmes, but my shot struck its target as was intended.”

Holmes chuckles, “How do you feel now?”

“Scarcely appreciated, Holmes.”

Holmes commends him, “Your presence is most appreciated, Watson. Your timely intervention undoubtedly saved the day.”

Aching, Holmes stands and then assists Watson to his feet, “If it should ever strike you that I am becoming a little arrogant, or not giving a particular case the attention that it deserves, kindly remind me of this day and I shall be indebted to you yet again, Watson.”

Chapter 2

The Reign of Terror Begins

Whitechapel, East End of London, is a notorious squalid district of friendless narrow cobbled streets, comprising of rat-infested lodging houses, locally referred to as doss-houses, and noisy smoke-filled pubs patronised by local prostitutes candidly plying their trade. The entire sordid area is inhabited by an insolent brutal teeming mass of people, including Slavic Jews, devoid of good manners, who persistently argue and brawl amongst themselves.

Anyone or anything can be bought in Whitechapel, particularly sinful pleasures. With a plethora of syphilitic whores, whom soldiers and merchant sailors eagerly pay for brief gratification and eternal disease, the entire impoverished neighbourhood is essentially one large pulsating brothel.

In numerous gas-lit courtyards, houses of ill-repute cater for the gentry, offering the services of foreign women skilled in the ways of fornication that their English compatriots are not. For those with unusual tastes, child brothels afford protection from police arrest, where children quickly wolf down the paltry food they are given, seemingly unaware of their unnatural
[22]
bondage.

Unlike perpetual death, food is constantly in short supply. Shoeless infants roam the street markets after dusk, thrusting their arms into discarded piles of putrefying fruit to draw forth rotten morsels, which they promptly devour, whilst hungrily probing for more. Throughout the entire East End of London, it is an accepted fact that many of these ravenous street
[23]
urchins will be dead before they reach the age of five.

Due to the severe shortage of essential shelter, undernourished people are regularly forced to wander the dismal foggy streets at night. In the derelict graveyard beside Spitalfields Church, known as ‘Itchy Park’ because of the lice carried by its filthy nocturnal occupants, ragged men, women, children and sometimes babies are to be found huddled on benches on both sides of the narrow burial ground pathway, attempting to sleep, but often roused from their slumber by the intense cold.

Adjoining the eastern boundary of the City of London, itself the financial heart of the great British Empire, Whitechapel had been, until recently, relatively free of motiveless murders against women. When a murder occurred within the district, involving a female victim, it was invariably the tragic result of a household quarrel, which had enabled the local police, H Division, using a modicum of detection skills, to immediately pounce upon the perpetrator of the crime, usually an estranged husband or male companion.

Since February of this year, however, a disturbing phenomenon has begun to emerge in the East End of London, principally Whitechapel. Wanton attacks on women, particularly prostitutes, have started to increase.

Aged thirty-eight, the first victim had been Annie Millwood, who may have supported herself through prostitution. A resident of a lodging house at 8 White’s Row, Spitalfields, Whitechapel, she had been viciously attacked at night in a gloomy alleyway close to her doss-house, by an unknown man, who had inflicted several knife wounds to her lower torso and legs. Although she had recovered from her injuries, she unexpectedly collapsed five weeks later, apparently dying of natural causes.

Living close to Whitechapel at 19 Maidman’s Street, Mile End, Ada Wilson, aged thirty-nine, had been the next victim. About to retire for the night, she had opened the front door of her lodging house to an unfamiliar man, who had savagely stabbed her twice in the throat. Given little or no chance of survival, Ada Wilson had nonetheless made a full recovery and had been released from hospital several weeks later.

The same could not be said of the third victim, Emma Smith. Aged forty-five and most definitely a prostitute, she had lodged at 18 George Street, Spitalfields, Whitechapel, and had been cruelly assailed in a darkened street by three men, who had forcibly thrust a blunt object into her womanhood
[24]
, tearing her
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perineum. Taken to the London Hospital in Whitechapel Road, she had died the next day from
[26]
peritonitis.

With little or nothing in the way of evidence to guide them, the police formed an opinion that the three incidents were probably not related and, like a
[27]
storm in a teacup, would soon blow over and be forgotten. But a rumour started to spread throughout the district that the appalling violence inflicted upon these three hapless women might merely be a prelude of horrors yet to come.

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August
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Bank Holiday Monday is the last national holiday of the summer. Longing to flee the persistent wet weather of the district, a few East Londoners had risen early and ventured forth as far as the warm Sussex coast. But as the day progressed, a dull leaden sky ominously warned of still more rain to come. In fact, it seemed to have done nothing but rain during the last three months of this year. Thundery showery squalls had started in June, progressed through July and, with little or no respite, continued into August.

Not surprisingly, then, most of the local folk had opted to remain close to home for the day. Obliged to vacate her doss-house at 19 George Street, Spitalfields, thirty-nine-year-old prostitute Martha Tabram sought to benefit from the public holiday by plying her trade in the boisterous local taverns.

Born in 1849 and soberly raised by parents Charles and Elizabeth White, Martha had, at the impressionable age of twenty, married a furniture packer named Henry Samuel Tabram. Giving birth to two sickly sons, Frederick in 1871 and Charles in 1872, her tempestuous marriage to Henry had finally disintegrated in 1875, due largely to her chronic mania for gin.

Commonly referred to as ‘Mother’s Ruin’, gin is the opium of the poor. Initially perceived as a medicine, it was thought to be a cure for
[29]
gout and
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dyspepsia. It renders most men impotent and women sterile, and is the major reason why the birth rate in the East End of London is exceeded by the death rate. Gin is mainly consumed by women, especially mothers. Babies are fed it to keep them quiet, children are maltreated during drunken rages and daughters are forced into prostitution to pay for the habit. It drives a number of women insane, forces others to take their own lives, but mercifully alleviates the pangs of hunger and keeps the addicted warm in winter.

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Recently assailed by a cloudburst, the cobbled surface of the Whitechapel High Street now glistens, dimly reflecting the paltry yellowish glow of gas lamps that sparsely line the narrow, filthy pavements either side of the gloomy thoroughfare. With only a few minutes to go before midnight, men and women, like rats scurrying from the hold of a sinking ship, hasten along the road, determined to gain shelter in their dilapidated lodgings before the onslaught of further rain.

Unseen by all, an indistinct figure loiters in the shadows of a dingy alley, intently staring at the White Hart
[31]
tavern just across the damp road. Stirred by a perverse inner sense of excitement, the watchful figure contentedly sighs, “Being dead is quite wonderful. It allows one to roam freely unnoticed.”

Wearing a tatty bonnet, frayed long black jacket and a soiled dark green skirt, Martha drunkenly stumbles from the White Hart, dragging a twenty-two-year-old guardsman, Lance Corporal John Leary, by the arm into the street.

Martha gawks at the heavens, “’Ere, it’s stopped rainin’. ’Bout bleedin’ time.”

Twirling the upturned end of his small brown moustache with finger and thumb, Leary murmurs, “Somewhere quiet, eh?”

Martha shoves him aside teasingly, “’Ere,
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’old yer ’orses, will yer? Wot’s the bleedin’ rush?”

Throwing open the door of the tavern, an intoxicated Mary Ann Connolly, tall and muscular, lurches into the street, hauling along another young guardsman, Private Law.

Mary burps and giggles.

Law slumps back against the facade of the tavern and deeply inhales the night air.

Indicating Law to Mary, Martha cackles mockingly, “Can’t take ’is
[33]
ale, can ’e?”

Mary grins stupidly,
[34]
“Be no lead in ’is pencil t’night.”

Martha chuckles,
[35]
“A knee-trembler will soon wake ’im up.”

Sidling up to Law, Mary sniggers, “’Ow ’bout it, luv?”

Perspiring, Law heaves and then swallows hard.

Swaying from side to side and staring at Martha desirously, Leary hiccups, “’Ow much, then?”

Martha feigns indifference, “Dunno if I fancy it now.”

Leary edges closer to her imploringly, “Come on, ’ow much?”

Martha haughtily cocks her head,
[36]
“Tanner!”

Befuddled, Law stares at Mary and slurs, “Sixpence?”

Stiffening, Leary glowers at Martha, “We stood the drinks. Yer drop the price.”

Mary grins at Law,
[37]
“Fourpence is fer me bed an’
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tu’pence is fer me breakfast.” She turns on her heel and scowls at Leary, “It’s a tanner each, or
[39]
sling yer ’ook.”

Quickly changing her tune and determined to placate Leary, Martha runs a seductive finger along the single white stripe on the arm of his scarlet tunic, “We ain’t askin’ fer the
[40]
Crown Jewels, are we?”

Promptly subdued, Leary relents, “All right, where?”

Martha indicates a narrow dismal street beyond a darkened archway beside the tavern, “’Long there, George Yard.” She then looks at Mary, pointing at Law, “Where yer takin’ ’im?”

Mary peers over her shoulder, “’Round the corner, Angel Alley.”

Satisfied, Martha nods, “Back in fifteen minutes, right?”

Irritated yet again, Leary once more stiffens, “Fifteen minutes fer a tanner!”

Riled by his quibbling manner, Martha grabs Leary by the arm, “Ah, come on, will yer?” She drags him through the archway, “Yer probably won’t even git started.”

♦
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♦
♦

Mary and Law unsteadily lurch along the gas-lit high street and, upon reaching Ye Olde Angel tavern, turn left into Angel Alley. Aware that Law is veering away from her, Mary seizes his arm and hauls him back beside her, “I don’t ’alf git ’em, don’t I?”

Stepping backwards into a darkened doorway, she extends her hand, palm up, “All right, luv, a tanner.”

Law shoves his hand into a pocket and, producing a small silver coin, shakily gives it to her.

Clutching the coin tightly, Mary lifts both her skirt and petticoat, “All right, we ain’t got all night, let’s git on wiv it.”

Law tensely glances over his shoulder and then meekly stares at her, “Wot if someone comes?”

Mary sighs and shakes her head, “Look, luv, that’s wot yer suppose t’ do,
[41]
innit?”

Law begins to fumble with the front buttons of his dark blue trousers. Mary burps and then giggles, “First time, is it?”

Law sways and swallows hard.

Infuriated by his ineptitude, she drops her skirt and, reaching out, grabs Law by his tunic and yanks him forward, “’Ere, let me do that! Otherwise we’ll be ’ere ’til mornin’.”

Law retches violently and vomits on the shoulder of her beer-stained waist-length jacket.

Mary pushes him away and shrieks, “Yer paid me t’ serve yer ol’
[42]
John Thomas. Belchin’ yer guts over me weren’t part of the price.”

♦
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Near the top end of George Yard, close to Wentworth Street, is a scruffy tenement block unimaginatively named George Yard Buildings. Providing cheap accommodation for local residents, it is a bleak, gloomy structure at night, due to the fact that the gas lamps illuminating its inner flights of wide stone steps and landings are punctually extinguished at eleven o’clock, thereby plunging the entire edifice into near total darkness.

Casually fastening his trousers, Leary steps out of the shadows alongside the grim building and glances along the narrow murky street. He hiccups drunkenly, “Ever ’eard o’ the
[43]
Black ’Ole o’ Calcutta?”

Smoothing her skirt with her hand, Martha emerges from the darkness, “Can’t say I ’ave.”

Leary glowers, “An airless dungeon, eighteen feet by eighteen. Nigh on a ’undred English prisoners were crammed int’ it wiv little or no water t’ drink. Next day, only twenty-three of ’em were alive. The rest ’ad suffocated durin’ the night.”

Mystified by his comment, Martha frowns, “Wot’s that got t’ do wiv me, then?”

Leary turns and sinisterly breathes in her face, “Like t’ do that t’ all whores, especially yer.”