Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul (41 page)

Her life ebbing, Eliza stares at the unknown man and croaks, “Who are yer?”

Leaning towards her, the man smiles maliciously, “Deliverance, my dear.”

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Standing with his back to the glowing fire, Holmes addresses both Watson and Lestrade, seated in their respective chairs, “We are dealing with a diabolical mind that Lucifer himself would envy. A mind so bereft of pity that the slaughter of five intoxicated women was merely looked upon as pawns in a chess game.”

Retrieving his cooled pipe from the ashtray, he begins to tap tobacco ash from its bowl into the palm of his hand, “I believe our journalist friend Bullen procured the victims, and a woman, most certainly the same woman who hailed you from the growler, Watson, participated directly in at least four of the murders.”

He throws the tobacco ash into the fire, “The superficial throat wounds inflicted on Mary Ann Nichols and Catharine Eddowes were caused by a person other than the murderer. Fingernail indentations found on the throat of Annie Chapman were clearly made by that person, a woman. The fingers of a man would have merely bruised the skin. In addition, a woman accompanying the murderer from the scene of the crime would have abetted his escape, particularly when all and sundry were searching for a solitary Jack the Ripper.”

Lestrade interjects, “An imaginary character created by Bullen.”

Holmes nods, “And reprehensibly perpetuated by virtually every newspaper in the country.”

Watson ponders, “Then these ghastly murders are at an end, Holmes?”

Holmes presses tobacco into the bowl of his pipe, “They are, indeed, Watson.”

Watson sighs despondently, “I don’t know, Holmes, I surely don’t know. What kind of world do we live in where the fairer sex stoops to barbarity and a murderer taints
a notable profession, purporting to be a doctor?”

Lestrade interjects again, “That’s the trouble with criminals, isn’t it, Dr Watson? Forever portraying just one side of the coin. Flip the coin over and you see them for what they really are. Take Thomas Bullen, for example...”

Watson interrupts him, turning to Holmes, “A journalist, you said, Holmes?”

Lighting his pipe, Holmes nods.

Lestrade continues, “A slave to drink and tolerated by Mr
O’Connor,
the proprietor of The Star newspaper, for his journalistic brashness, Bullen presents the image of a mischievous rascal. But beneath the surface he is a heartless opportunist. Not only did he play a role in the murders, he also tried to incite racial disquiet in Whitechapel with his literary hand. It was he who penned the name Jack the Ripper, sending a letter and postcard to the
Central News Agency
, in an attempt to make it appear that the murderer was a lone commoner, until Mr Holmes pointed out otherwise.”

Puffing on his pipe, Holmes sits in his armchair, opposite Watson, “Well, my dear fellow, you have heard all the facts. What shall we do next?”

Watson responds eagerly, “Press the advantage, Holmes. If you are convinced that this doctor is indeed the murderer, have the
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charlatan arrested. And Bullen, also. Then perhaps we will learn the identity of the woman.”

Lestrade concurs, “My thoughts entirely, Dr Watson.”

Holmes raises a censorious eyebrow, “And to do so, Watson, would bring your distinguished profession into disrepute. A doctor arrested and found guilty of being Jack the Ripper would precipitate a scandal that would undoubtedly discredit the entire medical fraternity of this country, perhaps do irrevocable harm.” He lowers his pipe, “I agree we must hound the murderer until he is caught, not in his guise as the reputable doctor, but that of the lowly Jew, Aaron Kosminski, instead.”

Watson concedes, “Your reasoning is sound, Holmes. I spoke in haste.”

Lestrade sighs impatiently, “And how do we recognize Aaron Kosminski, Mr Holmes? You’re the only person who’s met him face to face. Can’t have you traipsing about Whitechapel looking for him when you’re supposed to be
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slammed up in
Bishopsgate Street Police Station, can we?”

Watson assents, “Lestrade is right, Holmes. How do we recognize him without you presence?”

Seemingly disinterested, Holmes exhales smoke, “You cannot, of course.”

Lestrade sighs again, “If we don’t know what he looks like, how on earth are we meant to arrest him, then?”

Holmes wistfully watches the smoke rise to the ceiling, “Nigh on impossible, I would say.”

Watson gently chides him, “Come, come, Holmes. It is late. Don’t tease the man.”

Graciously responding to the mild rebuke with a smile, Holmes turns to Lestrade, “Kosminski is aware that I am the only person, other than his two accomplices, who can identify him.” He raises a tutorial finger, “However, in the erroneous belief that I have been detained at Bishopsgate Street Police Station, he will confidently venture out and move about Whitechapel. Being a supercilious individual, who cannot resist the temptation to gloat over his own accomplishments, especially in public, my expected trial and execution will compel him to remain in the neighbourhood for a while longer. But, of course, and you would be correct in saying, my trial and execution will never take place. Therefore, another significant, imminent event must be used to lure him. Preferably in Whitechapel, with me in attendance, so we can arrest him. Arrogance is his addiction, Lestrade, which we must exploit.”

Lestrade stares at Holmes enquiringly, “Any particular event in mind?”

Holmes imparts, “The funeral of Mary Kelly. The
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cortège, to be exact. Watson and myself in one coach, you and your men in another, out of sight. Kosminski must not suspect it is a trap until it is sprung.”

Lestrade taps the buff envelope with his finger, “The inquest into the death of Mary Kelly will be held on Monday, two days from now. Her funeral? Who knows? Could be the next day, or the following day. All depends on how long the inquest lasts.”

Putting his pipe down in the ashtray once more, Holmes stands, “Then, in the meantime, we must continue with our little charade.”

He looks at Watson, “At precisely eleven o’clock each morning, you will go to Bishopsgate Street Police Station, Watson.”

Watson smiles mischievously, “Apparently to visit you, Holmes.”

Holmes jovially pats him on the shoulder, “Exactly, Watson.”

Watson anxiously raises his hand, “But my medical practice, Holmes? I really should put in an appearance.”

Holmes taps his forehead with his finger, “My dear fellow, an inexcusable lapse of memory on my part. Of course you must. Will the occasional afternoon or evening suffice?”

Watson nods, “Assuming I have any patients left.”

Holmes raises a tutorial finger again, “But not a word of this to anyone. If someone should ask after me, I am assisting the police with their inquiries concerning the Whitechapel murders.”

Watson sighs and rolls his eyes, “Holmes, please. We have been through this form of deception before. It is hardly likely that I will let you down now.”

Holmes lowers his finger, “An old habit. Forgive me.” He turns to Lestrade, “At first light tomorrow morning, you and your men will enter Hob’s Passage and search each dwelling. Do not expect to find Kosminski there. But your actions will further convince him I am indeed being held at Bishopsgate Street Police Station, where, during routine questioning, I naturally disclosed to you what I knew of his address. In my absence, Watson will assist you.”

Watson mutters, “It would appear I am going to be rather busy tomorrow, Holmes.”

Holmes returns to his armchair, “Indeed so, Watson. But surely a visit to see me at Bishopsgate Street Police Station will enliven your spirit.”

Lestrade queries, “And Bullen?”

Holmes smiles, “Do as Watson has suggested. Arrest the
rogue. Then, perhaps, you will learn the identity of the woman.”

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Constructed and opened sixty years ago, in 1828, St Katharine’s Dock is adjacent to the Tower of London, but separated from its infamous neighbour by a broad
cobblestone
street known as Lower Tower Hill. Running alongside the docks, Lower Tower Hill ends abruptly at the top of Trengate Stairs, a flight of steep slippery stone steps that lead directly down to the lapping murky waters of the River Thames.

Located near the partially built northern and southern towers of Tower Bridge, an innovative bascule suspension bridge which is expected to be completed within the next six years, St Katharine’s Dock can accommodate one hundred and twenty large ships, along with tugboats, barges and other smaller vessels.

Whereas in other docks cargo is hoisted from the hold of a ship and left on the quay before a warehouse is allocated, cargo at St Katharine’s Dock is raised directly from ship to warehouse, thereby reducing off-loading and storage time by one fifth.

Reliant on several hundred dock labourers, who in turn are dependent on the docks for their livelihood, St Katharine’s Dock draws its daily labour force from the immediate neighbourhoods, predominately Whitechapel, which is less than a mile away.

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Carrying a
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carpet bag containing some of his personal effects and the jewellery casket, Bullen sidles up alongside the damp brickwork of a darkened warehouse. Furtively peering around its corner, he stares at the fog shrouded Pillory Wharf Pier, which extends away from him.

Relieved to see that the wharf is deserted, apart from the silent ghostly ships moored alongside, he leaves the corner and scurries along the quay towards a two-mast, one funnel merchant ship displaying the weathered name,
Gloria Scott
, on the side of its bow.

Upon reaching the ship, Bullen halts, seeing a
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mulatto, Captain Phelps, descending a gangplank leading from the deck of the ship down to the wharf. Pausing midway, Phelps urgently beckons Bullen, who hastily ascends the gangplank and whispers anxiously, “No delays, I hope?”

Opening his mouth, Phelps grunts hoarsely, indicating his missing tongue, cut out some two years ago by an embittered crew member during a tavern brawl in
[404]
Tasmania.

Reminded of his infliction, Bullen murmurs, “Ah, yes. In my haste, I forgot.”

Phelps grunts again and raises a gnarled finger, pointing at the wharf behind Bullen.

Alarmed, Bullen quickly turns about and stiffens immediately, staring at Kosminski standing at the bottom of the gangplank with his hands clasped behind his back.

Kosminski smirks, “A foggy evenin’, Mishter Bullen.”

Bullen responds contemptuously, “Come to wish me a pleasant journey, Kosminski?”

Kosminski nods, “Yah, yah. Yer leave Whitechapel fer good.”

He snaps his fingers.

Phelps seizes Bullen by the hair, jerks his head back and, with the blade of a clasp knife, slices open his throat. With a look of sheer astonishment and still retaining his grip on the bag, Bullen lurches down the gangplank, gurgling blood.

Stepping aside as Bullen stumbles past him, Kosminski snatches the bag away from him, “Mine, innit?”

Dropping to his knees, Bullen stares at Kosminski incredulously.

Kosminski sneers, “Why? ’Cos yer ’ave a tongue.” He motions to Phelps with his head, “An’ ’e ain’t.” He crouches and gazes at the near lifeless face of Bullen, blood dripping from his mouth, “Yer can write, too. Who knows? Yer git t’ Australia an’ pen the bogies a note ’bout me. Yer free, me ’anged .” He rises to his full height and pats the side of the bag, “Besides, five ’undred coins is a lot of brass.”

Bullen keels over, dead.

Kosminski turns to Phelps, who steps off the gangplank onto the wharf, “The
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shekels fer ’is fare, keep ’em.” He indicates Bullen with his thumb, “An’ git rid o’ the yutz. At sea.”

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Never averse to censuring or scolding her government ministers when she considers a particular issue warrants reproach, Her Majesty’s communiqué to Prime Minister Lord Salisbury this morning, in response to the murder of Mary Kelly, is unequivocal in its brevity.

To Marquis of Salisbury, Prime Minister.