Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul (47 page)

Moriarty sneers, “Lunacy is close to genius, is it not?” Not waiting for a reply, he lifts his arms in a silencing gesture, “Enough of this idle chatter.” He grabs hold of a pickaxe, leaning against the wall, “Only one of us will leave here alive. And I intend it should be me.”

Holmes murmurs implacably, “Wishful thinking, indeed.”

Harnessing his remaining strength, Moriarty raises the pickaxe above his head and hobbles towards Holmes, ready to strike a blow. Quickly turning to the winch, Holmes removes the ratchet, but the rope leading to both the overhead pulley and the girder does not move. Cautiously pausing, Moriarty glances up at the girder, gently swaying in the breeze. Realizing that Holmes has just attempted to kill him, or at the very least, maim him, he motions to the winch with his head and mockingly quips, “An invention of our Industrial Revolution, Mr Holmes. Apt to fail when you least expect it.”

Holmes returns the ratchet to the winch, “Quite so, Moriarty. But one should be prepared for any eventuality.” Grasping the rope, he slices through it with the Liston knife. Released, the rope spirals upwards. The girder plummets, corkscrewing like the propeller of a steam ship. Shuffling backwards and believing he is out of harm’s way, Moriarty smirks, “This is futile, Mr Holmes. Sooner or later, you will have to bow to the inevitable. King takes pawn.”

The girder drops between the two men, rotating wildly. To avoid having his head smashed, Holmes stoops, but for Moriarty, inhibited by his wounds, it is too late. Struck by one end of the sweeping girder, which shatters his left shoulder, he is hurled across the roof, over the parapet wall into emptiness. The girder strikes the ground. The resounding noise it produces reverberates through the entire tower. Rushing to the parapet wall, Holmes sees Moriarty tumbling through the air, plunging towards the smoking funnel of a tugboat, towing a coal barge along the river, close to the tower.

Dropping like a stone, Moriarty plummets into the funnel, head first. Due to the intense heat, the exposed hair of his body, and his clothes, ignite. His skin blisters, his eyes char. In a heartbeat, he is asphyxiated. Seconds later, his scorched, blackened body, falling to the bottom of the funnel, is incinerated.

Discharging a puff of black smoke, the tugboat, manned by a crew of three, who are totally unaware that a person has just perished aboard their vessel, continues on its way. Staring at the smoke trailing behind the tugboat and rapidly dispersing, Holmes murmurs dryly, “Auf Wiedersehen, Moriarty.”

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Retrieving his boots from the base of the arch, Holmes slips them on. Parting his woollen scarf with both hands, he removes the leather collar from around his neck, tightly rolling it up and sliding it into his overcoat pocket. Throwing one end of the scarf over his shoulder, he strides down the ramp, approaching the waiting foreman and his labourers. The foreman, although relieved to see him, snaps, “Wot were the noise, then? Nigh on
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scared the livin’ daylights out o’ me. Thought the ’ole bleedin’ buildin’ were comin’ down.”

Holmes offers an apology, “Forgive me. I can be a little clumsy at times. I inadvertently dislodged a girder.”

The foreman stares at him incredulously, “A wot...?” He turns to his men, “Git up there, quick. ’Ave a butchers. Any damage, I want t’ know.” He turns back to Holmes, “That’s assumin’ yer ’ave finished, guv’nor?”

Holmes smiles, “Quite finished. The place is entirely yours.”

The foreman motions to the tower with his head, “Wot ’bout the other bloke, then?”

Holmes retains his smile, “Ah, yes, him. He has flown. The place is quite deserted. No one there.”

A hansom cab, clattering down Lower Tower Hill, halts behind the foreman and his men. Quickly getting out of the vehicle, Watson, followed by Lestrade, pushes his way through the group and, upon seeing Holmes, utters, “Thank God. You’re alive.”

Holmes replies light-heartedly, “Evidently so, my dear fellow.” He addresses the foreman, “Structural damage? I suggest you hurry.”

The foreman nods, “Right yer are, guv’nor.” Sharply turning to his men, he barks, “Well, don’t just stand there. Up aloft, an’ be quick ’bout it.” The labourers, with the foreman in tow, hurriedly ascend the ramp.

Looking at Watson, Holmes queries, “The woman, Watson?”

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

Holmes prompts him, “The woman who was lying beside you on the ground in Commercial Street, incapacitated.”

Watson recollects, “Ah, yes, of course. The woman who ran into me. A mild case of shock, Holmes. Up on her feet in no time at all.”

Lestrade interjects, “Aaron Kosminski, Mr Holmes?”

Watson stares at the front of Holmes’ overcoat, “Blood, Holmes! Did the scoundrel injure you?”

Grateful for his concern, Holmes smiles, “No, but he did
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prick my conscience.” He turns to Lestrade, “Aaron Kosminski has gone. As though he had never existed, Lestrade.”

Lestrade frowns, “Gone where, Mr Holmes?”

Holmes glances at the sky, “Some might say to a higher court of justice, Lestrade.”

Lestrade strokes his moustache, “Then perhaps now you can tell me his real name.”

Holmes ruminates, “It has been an arduous day. Patience is a virtue you will have to embrace a little longer, Lestrade. But this much I can tell you. Below us sits an oarsman, waiting in a boat. If he had lived, Aaron Kosminski would have used the services of this man to elude us. So far, the oarsman has yet to break the law. Of course, you could arrest him for complicity, which would be almost impossible to prove now that Kosminski is dead. Or you could simply ignore him. Which is it be, Lestrade?”

Lestrade grins, “You’re a wily one, Mr Holmes. I can hardly arrest a man for sitting in a boat, can I?”

Holmes gently pats him on the arm, “Good man, Lestrade. It does no harm at times to
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turn a blind eye.”

Lestrade addresses Watson, “Due to my waylaying Mr Holmes outside the Royal Adelphi Theatre on the night...” He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and produces a notebook. Flicking through its pages, he continues, “On the night of the seventh of September...” He glances at Holmes, “Good grief, that long ago?”

Holmes smiles warmly, “Ten weeks, two days, to be precise.”

Again, he addresses Watson, “Due to my waylaying Mr Holmes outside the Royal Adelphi Theatre on the night of the seventh of September, you were deprived of a celebratory meal, Dr Watson. A birthday dinner, in fact.”

Watson laughs, “Good heavens, Lestrade, you are quite right. That particular instance had slipped my mind completely.”

Lestrade chuckles, “Not mine, Dr Watson. What I don’t commit to memory, I write down.” He returns the notebook to the inside pocket of his jacket, “On behalf of Scotland Yard, I would like to make amends. Tonight, if that’s agreeable?”

Consenting, Watson politely tips his head, “Along with Holmes, of course?”

Lestrade nods, “Of course.”

Holmes recommends, “Marcini’s in Montague Street. Near the British Museum. A splendid menu, and reasonably priced.”

Watson exclaims jovially, “Capital, Holmes!” He edges closer to Lestrade, “And during our meal, I will enlighten you about a cult of religious assassins I stumbled upon whilst I was in India. Devotees of the goddess
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Kali. Known as the
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Thuggee.”

Amused by his fervour, Holmes smiles, “Not exactly a palatable subject for dinner, my dear fellow.”

Lestrade grins approvingly, “Any conversation that makes no reference to the Whitechapel murders will be most welcome, Dr Watson.”

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Having been allowed by the police to continue its journey, the hearse, carrying the coffin containing the remains of Mary Kelly, had left Commercial Street, heading in a north-easterly direction towards St Patrick’s Roman Catholic Cemetery in Leytonstone, a distance of some six miles from Spitalfields. Travelling first along the Whitechapel Road and then the Mile End Road, the hearse had eventually passed through Stratford, finally reaching the cemetery shortly before two o’clock in the afternoon.

With its ornate gateway situated in Union Road, Leytonstone, St Patrick’s Roman Catholic Cemetery is the only Catholic cemetery in the East End of London. Opened nearly twenty-seven years ago, in 1861, most of the people who have been interred in its grounds have been of Irish descent.

Whilst Holmes is recommending Marcini’s Restaurant to Watson and Lestrade for their evening meal, Reverend Father Columban, waiting outside the small chapel of the cemetery, receives the coffin. Permitted to travel in the two mourning coaches vacated by the police, Joseph Barnett, Maria Harvey, Mary Ann Cox, Sarah Lewis and Elizabeth Prater, all of whom had given evidence at the inquest, arrive at the cemetery as well.

Solemnly preceded by a cross-bearer and two acolytes, Father Columban leads the shoulder-borne coffin, followed by Barnett and the four women, to an open pauper’s grave dug near the north-eastward corner of the cemetery. Kneeling on the damp clay beside the grave, Barnett removes his cloth cap, whilst the women, lowering their heads, kneel either side of him.

As the pall-bearers ceremoniously position the coffin over the grave, Father Columban intones the 23rd Psalm.

“The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures,

He leadeth me beside the still waters,

He restoreth my soul,

He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness

for His name’ sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the

shadow of death, I will fear no evil.

For thou art with me.

Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.

Thou preparest a table before me in the

presence of mine enemies.

Thou annointest my head with oil,

My cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me

all the days of my life, and I will dwell

in the House of the Lord forever. Amen.”

Handed a single chain brass incense thurible by the first acolyte, Father Columban swings it over the coffin three times. Each swing signifies the upper three ends of the Holy Cross.

“Earth to earth,

Ashes to ashes,

Dust to dust.”

He returns the
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thurible to the acolyte. The second acolyte then hands him a small bottle of holy water. Removing the cork from the religiously etched bottle, Father Columban sprinkles water over the coffin. Again, three times.

“The Lord giveth,

The Lord taketh away.

Amen.”

Returning the bottle to the second acolyte, Father Columban motions to two gravediggers standing nearby. Removing the three artificial floral wreaths lying upon the coffin and depositing them on the ground, the gravediggers, using lengths of taut rope slung under the casket, begin to lower the coffin into the grave.

Grasping the top of the coffin with her hand, Mary Ann Cox cries, “Fergive me, lass. I should ’ave spoke t’ yer more often.”

Putting her arm around her shoulder, Sarah Lewis consoles her, “Grieve not, Coxey. Mary’s goin’ t’ a far better place than ’ere.”

Elizabeth Prater slowly stands, rubbing her knees, “Ain’t that the truth, fer sure.”

Fingering his cap, Barnett approaches Father Columban, “Yer did ’er proud, Father. She would ’ave liked ’em words yer said.”

Responding to the compliment, Father Columban tips his head, “You were related to the poor woman, my son?”

Barnett glances over his shoulder, seeing the two gravediggers hurriedly shovelling earth into the grave, “My son? Should ’ave been, Father, but it wasn’t t’ be.” He puts on his cap, “Good day t’ yer, Father.” Shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket, he ambles away, heading towards the entrance of the cemetery.

Brushing past Father Columban, Maria Harvey hails him, “Oi, Joseph Barnett.”

Barnett halts, “Joseph Barnett. Wot?”

Maria shivers, “Gawd!” She clutches her shawl tightly about her shoulders, “Cold, innit?”

Barnett sighs tetchily, “Cold, innit? Course it is, gel. November, ain’t it?”

Maria extends her hand to him, “Look at me fingers, will yer? They’ve gone blue.”

Barnett indicates the grave, “Gone blue. Not as blue as Mary is, lyin’ in ’er grave.”

Maria retracts her hand, placing it beneath her shawl, “Wot yer goin’ t’ do now she’s gone?”

Barnett shrugs his shoulders, “She’s gone? Leave Whitechapel, I suppose. Make me way in the world.”

Maria smirks,
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“Chance would be a fine fing, eh?”

Barnett snaps, “Fing, eh? Got t’ try, gel. Can’t stay ’ere an’ die fer nought.”