Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul (43 page)

Lestrade sighs wearily, “The murderer sent half a kidney to Mr George Lusk, Chairman of the Mile End Vigilance Committee. Dr Openshaw, he’s the pathological curator at the London Hospital Museum, examined the portion shortly afterwards and confirmed it was probably part of the left kidney which had been taken from the body of Catharine Eddowes.”

“What happened to the other half?”

“The murderer wrote that he fried and ate it.”

Watson shakes his head in disgust, “Is there no end to the man’s bestiality?”

Lestrade sighs again, “To be frank with you, Dr Watson. I don’t think there’s a word in the dictionary to describe him.” Gently lifting Eliza’s right hand, he stares at the two brass rings on her index and middle fingers, “Mr Holmes was right.”

Mystified, Watson frowns, “I beg your pardon, Lestrade?”

Lestrade indicates the two rings, “When Annie Chapman was murdered, a brass ring, or two, were wrenched from the third finger of her left hand. Mr Holmes was of the opinion that the woman who participated in the murder took the rings as well. At the time, I thought he had taken leave of his senses, but it looks like his belief has, again, proved to be correct.” He lowers Eliza’s hand, turning his attention to her face, “How do you think she was murdered, Dr Watson?”

“The swollen tongue implies she was asphyxiated.”

“Strangled?”

Watson nods, “Then her throat was cut.”

With a sweep of his hand, Lestrade motions to the remainder of the blanket covered body, “And then she was disembowelled, right?”

Watson nods again, “If
Aaron Kosminski did indeed murder her, and all the evidence found in this room suggests we are standing in his lair, what chance Bullen?”

Lestrade frowns, “You think Kosminski might murder him, too?”

“He may have already disposed of him, Lestrade.”

Lestrade inhales deeply, “Ironic, isn’t it? The Home Secretary has offered a free pardon to any accomplice, and neither she, nor Bullen, who may also be dead, can help us now.”

♦
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Hearing the rain outside lashing against the broad windows of the sitting-room, Watson, seated in his armchair beside the fire, shivers, “A foul evening, Holmes.”

Sitting opposite Watson and smoking his pipe, Holmes pensively stares at the burning coals in the grate.

Watson lowers his pipe, “Holmes?”

Holmes snaps out of his thoughts, “Yes, Watson?”

Watson rolls his eyes, “Did you hear what I just said?”

Holmes puffs at his pipe, “Of course, Watson. A foul evening, indeed.” He suppresses a smile, “Due to the bad weather we are having, no doubt?”

Watson fidgets in his chair, “Damn inconsiderate weather, if you ask me, Holmes. Chills a man to the bone.” He stands, removing a newspaper he has been sitting on, “Occasionally, I wonder why people remain in this country. Surely it cannot be because of our climate.”

Holmes interjects, “You are to be congratulated, Watson. Your inference is indeed correct.”

Slowly sitting, Watson places the newspaper over the arm of the chair, “Concerning the weather, Holmes?”

Holmes smiles, “My dear fellow, I speak not of the weather, but of Bullen, and the woman you and Lestrade found murdered this afternoon.”

Watson guffaws, “Of course you do, Holmes. I was merely trying to deflect your adulation.”

Holmes raises a curious eyebrow, “In addition to your aversion to heights, confined spaces, internal organs and now praise, is there anything else you wish to avoid?”

Watson thoughtfully puffs at his pipe and then shakes his head, “Nothing comes to mind, Holmes.” He raises a belated finger, “Oh, there is one thing. I have been rather neglectful of my medical practice of late and intend to devote more time to my patients. If I should fail to do so, I might lose both them and Dr Sleeman as a partner.”

Silenced by the disclosure, Holmes leans back in his chair.

Watson adds, “I am the doctor, you the detective. Sometimes, our chosen professions need to go their separate ways. Surely you cannot expect me to depend solely on your income to
[415]
keep the wolf from the door?”

Holmes smiles, “Of course not, Watson. And you are quite right. A gentleman such as yourself should possess regular employment.” His expression hardens, “But I ask one thing of you before you put your commendable decision into practice. Remain at my side and together we will bring Jack the Ripper to justice, alive or dead.”

Watson consents, “I could do no less, Holmes.”

Holmes claps his hands together excitedly, “Capital, Watson.” He draws on his pipe, “Your inference that Thomas Bullen is dead is indeed correct. Slain not by the hand that slew the woman, but orchestrated by the same malevolent hand nevertheless. Moriarty would never leave at liberty two collaborators who could point an accusing finger at him.”

Watson stammers, “Moriarty?”

Holmes nods, “Yes, Watson. Alias Jack the Ripper, alias Aaron Kosminski and...” He curbs his tongue.

Watson interjects, “But the Reichenbach Falls, Holmes?”

Leaning forward, Holmes gently taps Watson on the knee with the end of his pipe, “A paid imposter, Watson. Sent to dispose of me, but failed to do so. And because I emerged from his trap unscathed, Moriarty used the time, whilst we were solving the Credit Suisse fraud in Switzerland, to plan his revenge. And thus was born Jack the Ripper.”

Watson slowly lowers his pipe, “The initial M. His calling card. Left behind to taunt you, no doubt?”

Holmes nods, “Quite so, Watson. When the Christian name of a victim did not begin with the first letter of his surname, he remedied the difference, quite deliberately, in fact.”

Watson strokes his moustache, “But Mary Kelly, Holmes? Why did he write M on the wall of her room when he must have known her forename began with the same initial?”

Holmes raises a tutorial finger, “Le meurtre final, Watson.”

Watson frowns, “I beg your pardon, Holmes?”

Holmes quickly lowers his finger, “Am I to believe that you have forgotten the French language so soon, Watson?”

Watson feigns indignation, “Of course not, Holmes. But when you spring things like this on a fellow, one is apt to get flummoxed.”

Holmes prompts Watson, “The English equivalent, then?”

Watson translates, “The final murder.”

Holmes smiles, “Splendid, Watson.”

Bemused, Watson stares at him, “I am none the wiser than I was a minute ago. What exactly does it mean?”

Holmes retains his smile, “Precisely that, Watson. Disguised as Aaron Kosminski and having slain Mary Kelly, Moriarty triumphantly autographed her death as the final murder, scrawling the first letter of his actual surname on the wall in blood.”

Watson challenges the explanation, “Surely the dead woman Lestrade and I examined in the room in Hob’s Passage was the final victim?”

“No, Watson. That particular woman was murdered simply to silence her. Mary Kelly was the final victim of Jack the Ripper.”

“Then why on earth are you so reluctant to reveal the name of the physician Moriarty purports to be?”

Holmes slowly leans back in his chair, “In order to safeguard the reputation of an innocent individual, I am obliged to withhold the name, Watson.”

Watson raises his pipe to his lips, “And you will not be persuaded otherwise?”

Holmes shakes his head, “
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My tongue is tied, my lips are sealed.”

Watson commends the remark, “Admirable, Holmes. No damn tittle-tattle from you.” He puffs at his pipe, exhaling bluish smoke, “This innocent person, Holmes? Must be an important someone, then?”

“Yes, Watson. Extremely important.”

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Eleven o’clock, Monday morning, 12 November, 1888. At about the same time that Watson departs 221b Baker Street on another deceptive visit to Bishopgate Street Police Station, the hastily arranged inquest into the death of Mary Jane Kelly, recorded Marie Jeanette Kelly otherwise Davies on the inquisition document, begins at the Shoreditch Town Hall, Old Street.

A twenty-five minute walk from Miller’s Court, up Commercial Street, past Bethnal Green Road and along Shoreditch High Street, the town hall is accommodating the inquest purely because of a police blunder. When the mortal remains of Mary Kelly had been removed from Miller’s Court, they should have been taken to the mortuary in Old Montague Street, Whitechapel, near to where she had been murdered. Mistakenly, her remains were taken to the mortuary in Shoreditch and unceremoniously deposited there. Due to this breach of jurisdiction, authority to conduct the inquest immediately passed from the flamboyant coroner of Whitechapel, Mr Wynne Edwin Baxter, to the fastidious coroner of Shoreditch, Dr Roderick MacDonald M. P.

The first witness to be called is Joseph Barnett, who informs Dr MacDonald, along with the jury, that he had lived with Mary for twenty months, but had left her on 30 October because he could no longer endure her continuous habit of giving nightly shelter to homeless prostitutes. He admits that he had visited Mary on the evening of 8 November, stating that another woman, whom he had not known, had been in the room when he called, but had left soon afterwards, leaving him and Mary alone to talk. Having been shown the terribly mutilated corpse found in the room by the police, he was able to identify the body as that of Mary by her ears and her eyes.

Maria Harvey, who had previously given Mary the six articles of clothing to pawn, testifies that she had stayed with Mary at 13 Miller’s Court on the Monday and Tuesday nights, prior to the Thursday evening that Joseph Barnett had called on Mary, whilst Maria had also been present in the room. Shown a man’s black overcoat by the police, Maria had immediately recognized it as the coat she had given to Mary, which Mary had subsequently draped over the broken window to block out the cold. Asked what had become of the other clothes she had left behind in the room, Maria is at a loss to say.

Purporting to be a widow, Mary Ann Cox informs the court that prior to midnight on Thursday, she had followed Mary and a short stout shabbily dressed man, with a blotchy face and carroty moustache, along Dorset Street into Miller’s Court. Mary had been drunk and the man had carried a pail of ale. Bidding Mary good night, Mary Ann Cox had gone to her room at the rear of the court whilst Mary had begun to sing loudly ‘This small violet I plucked from mother’s grave.’ Remaining in her room for a mere fifteen minutes, Mary Ann Cox had then left the court and returned some forty-five minutes later, at about one o’clock, to warm her chilly hands in her room. Leaving her room yet again, and still hearing Mary singing, she had left the court, only to return an hour and half later, around three o’clock, to find Mary had ceased her singing and her room was in darkness. Confined to her own room due to the heavy rain, Mary Ann Cox did not undress, nor did she fall asleep. And because she had been awake, she had heard the sound of one or two people leaving the court at about quarter to six in the morning. They had clearly left a room quietly, since Mary Ann Cox had not heard the sound of a door being closed.

Sarah Lewis is the next to testify, giving her occupation as a Laundress. At half past two on Friday morning, 9 November, she had gone to seek shelter with her parents, Mr and Mrs Keyler, who lodge at 2 Miller’s Court, a room situated on the first floor, directly overlooking the ground floor room of the deceased. As Sarah had hurriedly approached Miller’s Court in the pouring rain, she had noticed a man standing outside
Crossingham’s lodging house, across the street, opposite the entrance to the court.

Asked by
Dr MacDonald to describe the man, Sarah provides the court with this description.

“I see a man wiv a
wideawake
’at. There were no one talkin’ t’ ’im. ’E were a stout-lookin’ man, an’ not very tall. The ’at were black. I did not take any notice o’ ’is clothes. The man were lookin’ up the court. ’E seemed t’ be waitin’ or lookin’ fer someone. Further on there were a man an’ woman. She bein’ drunk. There were nobody in the court.”

Sarah further testifies that, upon entering her parents’ room, she had dozed off in a chair, but awoke about half past three. A little before four o’clock, she had heard a female voice utter “Murder!” which she thought had come from number 13. Cold and hungry, Sarah had ignored the cry.

Elizabeth Prater, deserted by her husband some five years previously, tells the court she lodges in the room above the room rented by the deceased. At about half past one on Friday morning, she had entered her room, wedging two chairs against the door for protection. Fully clothed and intoxicated, she had lain upon the bed and fallen into a drink-induced sleep. Just before four o’clock, her pet kitten ‘Diddles’, clambering over her throat, had awoken her. Similar to Sarah Lewis, Elizabeth had heard a woman groan “Oh, murder!” which seemed to originate from beneath her own room. Like Sarah, she had ignored the utterance.

Thomas Bowyer relates how he had peered through the window of 13 Miller’s Court at about eleven o’clock that morning and, upon seeing the mutilated body of Mary Kelly, had immediately reported his find to his master, Mr John McCarthy.