Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul (5 page)

Martha angrily shoves him away, “Would yer, now? Go on, ’op it b’fore I call a
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copper.”

Leary haughtily tugs the bottom of his tunic, and then strokes the single white stripe on his sleeve, “’Ave no fear! I’m not ready t’
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swing fer the likes o’ yer yet.”

Coming to attention and mockingly saluting Martha, he spins on his heel, teeters momentarily, corrects his balance and then reels off towards Wentworth Street.

Martha belches and snorts, “’Ere, mate, yer goin’ in the wrong direction. Should be the other way.”

Smugly smiling to herself, Martha adjusts her bonnet, hastily turns and bumps into a darkened figure.

Stifling a startled shriek, she flinches,
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“Wot’s yer game, then?”

The figure silently extends an arm, revealing a silver coin held between the thumb and finger of a gloved hand. Instantly calming and avariciously casting caution to the wind, Martha grabs the coin, “Will ’ere do, or somewhere else?”

Uncurling a finger, the figure points to the arched entrance of George Yard Buildings.

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Still the worse for drink, and with her shoulder partially covered in dried vomit, Mary Ann Connolly throws open the door of the White Hart and lurches into the crowded smoked-filled tavern, bumping into a brawny merchant seaman.

Spilling his pint of ale, the seaman angrily turns to Mary, sniffs the air and instantly recoils from the pungent sickly odour that exudes from her.

Elbowing her way through the noisy revellers, Mary staggers to the bar and is immediately confronted by the surly proprietor, Mrs Fiddymont.

“Wot yer want this time, Connelly?”

Mary looks over her shoulder searchingly, “Martha!” She leans across the bar and stares at Mrs Fiddymont through glazed eyes, “Martha Tabram!”

Mrs Fiddymont squirms,
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“Gawd! Yer smell like a
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rotten kipper.”

Mary burps and then proudly displays the sixpenny coin, “Got the price o’ a bed fer the night an’ tu’pence fer me breakfast, though.”

Mrs Fiddymont smirks avariciously, “Well, yer can buy yerself a drink whilst yer wait fer ’er, can’t yer?”

Fingering the coin, Mary dithers, “It’s a warm bed I’d be losin’.”

Mrs Fiddymont callously indicates the tavern door, “Best be on yer way then.”

Mary continues to hesitate and then, sighing forlornly, slams the coin down on the bar, “All right! I’ll ’ave a
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tot o’ gin.”

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Partially cloaked by the darkness, a tall indistinct figure, wearing a soft felt hat with its wide brim turned down, slowly emerges from the entrance of George Yard Buildings.

Stealthy hugging the side of the edifice in an endeavour not to be seen, the figure hurries along the wet cobbled street and, joining a dimly lit, shadowy woman loitering at a corner, departs with her and disappears into the gloom of Wentworth Street.

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Just over two hours later and prior to daylight, waterside labourer John Reeves, having risen early for work, wearily steps out of his lodgings at number 37 George Yard Buildings. Locking his front door, he slips the key into his grubby jacket pocket, adjusts his close fitting cloth cap and begins to descend the inner stone steps whilst yawning. Traipsing down to the dreary first floor landing and catching sight of something lying upon the pitted stone floor, he abruptly halts. Snapped out of his lethargy, he recoils, becoming paler by the second.

Stretched out on her back, arms at her sides and hands tightly clenched, Martha lies in a pool of blood. Her raised dark green skirt and brown petticoat, having exposed her stocking-clad legs which are parted, hints that recent intimacy may have taken place.

The Star
newspaper – 7 August 1888

A Whitechapel Horror

A woman, now lying unidentified at the Whitechapel mortuary, was stabbed to death this morning, between two and four o’clock, on a staircase landing in George-yard buildings, George-yard, Whitechapel.

George-yard buildings are tenements occupied by the poor labouring class. A lodger says the body was not on the stone landing when he returned home about two o’clock.

Another lodger going to his work early discovered the body. No weapon was found near the deceased, and her murderer has left no trace. She is of middle age and height, has black hair and a large round face, and apparently belonged to the lowest class.

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Founded last year, in 1887, by its editor, Thomas P. O’Connor,
The Star
is a socialist newspaper, persistently claiming to have the largest readership of any evening paper in Great Britain. Purporting to be the champion of the underprivileged and costing a mere halfpenny, some of its journalists, similar to other tabloid reporters of the day, frequently resort to so-called yellow journalism, flagrantly distorting and exaggerating news stories to increase circulation.

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Assailed by the relentless clatter of printing press machines just beyond the open door of his office, O’Connor impatiently puts on his spectacles, opens a copy of
The Star
newspaper and stares at an editorial headline.

Sherlock Holmes returns from Switzerland

Daring exploits

Thrilling adventure

O’Connor scowls, turns towards the door and barks, “Bullen! Get in here!”

Wearing a printer’s apron smudged with black finger-marks, a young spindly Perkins promptly pops his head round the door, “Yeh, Mr O’Connor.”

O’Connor glares at Perkins, “I said Bullen, boy. Doesn’t anyone listen anymore?”

Wiping his forehead with a handkerchief, an overweight Bullen brushes past Perkins and enters the office.

O’Connor snaps at Bullen, “Been drinking again, have you?”

Perkins skedaddles.

Bullen nervously licks his lips, “Haven’t had one since…”

O’Connor snarls, “Don’t lie, Bullen, I can smell your breath from here.” Scornfully, he stabs the editorial headline with his finger, “What’s this?” Adjusting his spectacles, O’Connor sneeringly reads aloud, “Daring exploits. Thrilling adventure.”

He turns to Bullen contemptuously, “The Star is a reputable newspaper, Bullen, not a
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penny-dreadful publication. Our readers require factual news, not just sensational headlines.”

Bullen sighs ruefully, “Well, you see, Mr Holmes was quite hesitant. He didn’t actually say anything.”

O’Connor peers over his spectacles, “He wouldn’t. So, you made the story up, is that it?”

Bullen raises an objectionable eyebrow, “Not exactly. But now and then…”

O’Connor interjects, “Mr Sherlock Holmes and, I might add, Dr Watson, left our shores for the
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Continent towards the end of April. It is now August. What do you suppose these two gentlemen were doing for the past three months?”

Bullen shrugs his shoulders, “Savouring the delights of a
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Parisian brothel, perhaps?”

O’Connor snatches his spectacles from his face, “Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Bullen. An unpleasant habit that you would like to copyright, no doubt?”

Bullen petulantly mops his forehead with his handkerchief, “The absence of Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson from these shores for the last three months suggests that they may have been involved in another case, altogether different from the one we reported.”

O’Connor angrily tosses the newspaper aside, “Yes, and we will probably read all about it in
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Beeton’s Christmas Annual or, worse still, in another newspaper, won’t we? Conjecture, guesswork. I want facts, hard facts. The only reason that you still have a job here is, sometimes, not often, you can turn in a good story. Now, what about this murdered whore?”

Bullen pockets his handkerchief, “Most likely murdered by the
[54]
Old Nichol gang who did in Emma Smith.”

O’Connor despairingly stares at Bullen, “Really? Well, Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard doesn’t think so. Rumour has it that a Grenadier guard may have killed her with a bayonet. Lestrade’s holding an identity parade at the Tower of London this afternoon. Get over there. I want an exclusive for tonight’s edition. And stick to the facts.”

Bullen frowns, “What’s so special about this particular whore?”

O’Connor inhales deeply, “She was stabbed thirty-nine times.”

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Located in the West End of London and less than one mile long, Baker Street is a wide thoroughfare, running from York Place in the north to Oxford Street in the south. Named in honour of its builder, William Baker, who laid the street out in the previous century, Baker Street consists primarily of residential houses interspersed with the occasional commercial shop.

Apt to be congested at times, due to the large assortment of horse-drawn vehicles continually travelling between Marylebone Road and Oxford Street, Baker Street is nonetheless representative of a well-ordered, safe through-road, particularly at night.

Situated on the west side, and a mere two doors away from Blandford Street, is an inconspicuous Georgian terrace house, numbered 221b Baker Street. Owned by Mrs Hudson, a motherly widow now getting on in her years, but still energetically devoted to her two eminent lodgers, 221b Baker Street has been home to Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson since they were first introduced to each other seven years ago.

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With a grimy face and dressed in filthy blackened clothes, an elderly deliveryman, Albert Langford, heaves a large sack of coal off his back and, tipping its contents through a circular opening in the pavement outside 221b, causes a cloud of choking dust to rise from the cellar beneath his feet.

Permanently stooped and coughing hoarsely, Langford folds the dirty coal sack and places it on the rear of his cart parked alongside the kerb. Turning the corner from Blandford Street and nearing 221b, Watson grimaces, instantly fanning the air around him with his hand, “Good Lord! This is intolerable!”

Langford ambles across to the cellar opening and, using the inside of his boot, slides a cast iron cover over it, “’Ow’s that, guv’nor? Better?”

Watson lowers his hand, “Thank you. How can you tolerate it?”

Langford scratches the side of his unshaven face, “Don’t give it much thought. Been doin’ this since I were a
[55]
nipper.”

He coughs and then taps his chest, “Mind yer, gittin’ ’ard t’ clear the
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ol’ pipes in the mornin’, though.”

Opening the street door to 221b, a perky Mrs Hudson steps out of the house, “Back from your surgery, Dr Watson?”

Watson politely lifts his hat to Mrs Hudson, “Yes.” He indicates Langford, “Unlike this poor devil, it appears that our nation is in a healthy disposition today and has given me the afternoon off.”

Mrs Hudson stifles a chuckle and then looks at Langford enquiringly, “Another day’s work done, Mr Langford?”

Stepping towards Mrs Hudson, Langford touches the peak of his cap with his finger, “Aye, ma’am.
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Dozen bags in all.”

Mrs Hudson hands him some coins, “Please keep the change.”

Langford takes the coins and incredulously stares at them in the palm of his hand, “But, there’s an extra
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shillin’ ’ere!”

Mrs Hudson gently smiles, “Indeed there is, Mr Langford. An additional penny for each bag delivered and well earned.”

Stirred by her kindness Langford reverently removes his cap, “Yer a good ’un, ma’am.” He glances at Watson, “She’s a
[59]
bleedin’ peach, guv’nor.”

Mrs Hudson blushes, “Now, now, Mr Langford, be off with you. And be sure to put some extra food on the table for your family.”

Langford replaces his cap, “As yer say, ma’am, as yer say.” Civilly acknowledging Watson, he again touches the peak of his cap with his finger and saunters back to his cart.

Mrs Hudson turns to Watson, “Would goose be all right?”

Bemused, Watson stares at her, “I beg your pardon?”

“Would you and Mr Holmes like goose for supper?”

With a mischievous twinkle in his eye, Watson runs a finger along his moustache, “I am sorry, Mrs Hudson, but I was not aware that Christmas had arrived early.”