Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul (50 page)

Mipps nods again, “Yer ’ospitality ’as fortified me spirit.”

Perplexed by the remark, Reece frowns, “Charlie Dickens write that, too?”

Mipps shakes his head, “No, mate. Summut that came t’ mind, that’s all.”

Hurrying along the frost covered pathway with Mipps at his side, Reece points to the north-eastward corner of the cemetery, “Up a’ead. Second from the end, right ’and side.”

Mipps looks at the frosted ground either side of the pathway, “Yer’d never know folks were buried ’ere. No ’eadstones, nothin’.”

Reece solemnly informs him, “Pauper’s graves. Marie Kelly were fortunate. She went down in a coffin. Some go down wrapped just in a blanket.” He halts, indicating a piece of ground to the right of the pathway, “This be ’ers.”

Mipps stares at the ground in astonishment, “’Ow can yer tell?”

Reece replies rapidly, “Row sixty-six, plot ten. Ain’t in me nature t’ make mistakes, yer know?”

Still staring at the ground, Mipps shakes his head in disbelief.

Reece gently pats him on the arm, “Take yer time. An’ when yer finished, there’ll be a ’ot cuppa waitin’ fer yer in the gate’ouse.”

Expressing his appreciation, Mipps nods.

Shivering from the cold, Reece quickly takes his leave, scurrying back along the pathway to the gatehouse.

Slowly bringing his hands together in front of him, Holmes, with an expression of infinite sadness, lowers his head. Descending from the branch of a nearby tree, a redbreasted robin lands on the plot in front of him. Instead of hopping about the ground as normal, the bird remains strangely motionless, then cocks its head and looks at Holmes inquisitively. His reverence broken by the odd behaviour of the robin, particularly its curious gaze, causes Holmes to raise a quizzical eyebrow.

Fluttering its wings excitedly, the robin chirps.

Intrigued by its spirited manner, Holmes kneels.

The robin hops closer to him.

Holmes extends his hand.

Hopping onto the palm of his hand, the robin chirps again.

Carefully raising both his hand and the bird to his own eye level, Holmes murmurs poignantly, “Amid such sorrow, you bring good cheer. Mary Kelly is free, untainted by decadence, as indeed you are.” He stands, “Soar, my little friend. Proclaim
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Ode to Joy.”

The robin chirrups, flaps its tiny wings and ascends. Circling once above the head of Holmes, the bird curves upwards, flying away.

During her short and stormy life, Mary Kelly had failed to sustain a lasting association with any of the men she had known, including Joseph Barnett. Whether or not she had actually been capable of giving herself over to one particular man for an indefinite period of time is a moot point. In death, however, the respect, which she had found so elusive in life, has now been accorded to her by a man whom she had neither known nor met. A man possessed of an incredible intellect, who, after much forethought, has decided to bring the curtain down on his extraordinary career.

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Seated at the bureau in one corner of the sitting-room, Watson, using a nibbed pen, concludes a lengthy piece of writing with the sentence, ‘
And, of course, what Holmes had determined should be done, was indeed done’.

Interrupted by a knock on the apartment door, Watson places his pen down beside a brass inkwell, quickly closing its hinged top. Hurriedly gathering up several sheets of handwritten paper, which are spread about the surface of the bureau, he slips them into a buff folder.

Retrieving his pipe from an ashtray near the glowing fire, he opens the apartment door to reveal Lestrade standing on the landing, removing his bowler hat.

Lestrade tips his head politely, “Evening, Dr Watson. Mr Holmes at home?”

Watson replies, “I’m afraid not, Lestrade, but do come in.”

Upon entering the apartment, Lestrade glances around the sitting-room, “Out on a case, is he?”

Watson quietly closes the door, “Holmes can be clandestine at times. He doesn’t share everything with me, Lestrade.”

Although he agrees with the sentiment, Lestrade decides not to comment. Instead, he indicates an armchair by the fire, “Would you mind?”

Watson nods, lighting his pipe.

Sitting in the armchair, Lestrade places his hat on his knees, “New headboy at Scotland Yard, Dr Watson. James Monro.”

Drawing on his pipe, Watson sits opposite Lestrade, “Perhaps Mr Monro will be more fortunate than Sir Charles, Lestrade.”

Leaning forward, Lestrade warms his hands in front of the fire, “Nothing has really changed, though. Still the same old guard at the top, clinging to mistaken beliefs. They think the Ripper’s done another one.”

Watson quickly lowers his pipe, “Good grief! Four days before Christmas. Where?”

Lestrade continues to warm his hands,
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“Clarke’s Yard, Poplar. A prostitute by the name of Rose Mylett.”

Watson frowns, “Poplar? That’s hardly Whitechapel, Lestrade.”

Lestrade leans back in the chair, “How right you are, Dr Watson. But you try telling that to Commissioner Monro, who has come up with a ridiculous notion to prevent more murders and save the London Metropolitan Police money. Henceforth, any woman found murdered in the East End will have her murder attributed to Jack the Ripper. The Commissioner wants to frighten all the prostitutes off the streets. That way, he will be able to reduce the number of police patrols in the area which, he says, is an exorbitant cost the force can no longer afford to bear.”

Watson groans, “I retract my previous remark, Lestrade. It would appear Commissioner Monro will fare no better than Sir Charles. Does the
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bounder not know that the unfortunate women of the East End have no other place to go but the streets?” He quickly picks up a folded newspaper from the arm of his chair and, handing it to Lestrade, taps an editorial column with the end of his pipe, “Perhaps you can explain this, Lestrade?”

Lestrade stares at the newspaper column and grimaces.

After six terrible murders, the identity of the Whitechapel murderer still remains a mystery. Having failed to unmask the perpetrator of these ghastly crimes, Mr Sherlock Holmes should concede defeat and opt for shameful anonymity to preserve the reputation of the newly appointed Police Commissioner of the Metropolis, Mr James Monro.

Lestrade hands the newspaper back to Watson,
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“A new broom sweeps clean, Dr Watson.”

Watson waves the newspaper at him, “This is utterly outrageous! How could they print such a condemnation? In doing so, they have denounced England’s finest son.”

Lestrade murmurs, “Forgive them for they know not what they do.”

Watson lowers the newspaper, “I beg your pardon, Lestrade?”

Lestrade fingers the brim of his hat, “That’s what Christ said when he was dying on the cross. Forgive them for they know not what they do.”

Returning the newspaper to the arm of his chair, Watson stares at him, “You are a religious man, Lestrade?”

Tilting back his head, Lestrade stares at the ceiling, “Let’s put it this way, Dr Watson. I’ve seen enough horrors in my lifetime to know evil exists.”

Watson enquires, “And where does this evil dwell, Lestrade?”

Lowering his head, Lestrade stares at Watson, “In the minds and hearts of men. There is no horned, cloven hoofed, long tailed Devil, Dr Watson. Mankind is the essence of evil. Take Jack the Ripper, for example. He was merely a storm in a teacup. There’s a lot worse waiting for us from whence he came.”

Watson sighs, “Though I am loathe to admit it, I think you are right, Lestrade. But your biblical recourse hardly explains why you came here tonight, does it?”

Lestrade smiles wanly, “Very perceptive of you, Dr Watson.” He inhales deeply, “Over the past months, I have grown to admire Mr Holmes. But his successful methods of detection have earned him several enemies at Scotland Yard. He has made a few influential people appear inadequate, shall we say? As an indication of their resentment, they mean to dispense with his services. I came here tonight to forewarn him. Off the record, of course.”

Watson puffs at his pipe, “Very commendable of you, Lestrade. But why not tell your people at Scotland Yard the truth? That it was Holmes who solved the Whitechapel murders and sent Jack the Ripper to an earthly grave.”

Appalled by the suggestion, Lestrade baulks and then splutters, “I can’t tell them that, Dr Watson. I swore to Mr Holmes I would
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hold my tongue.” He quickly recovers his composure and then feigns indifference, “Who was Jack the Ripper, anyway?”

Watson cocks his head enquiringly, “Holmes has never revealed the true identity of Jack the Ripper to you, then?”

Lestrade lies, “Not to me. How about you?”

Watson shakes his head, “When necessary, Holmes can be quite reticent, if not downright secretive.” He suddenly puts down his pipe, “Forgive me, Lestrade. Can I offer you something to drink? Tea? A cognac, perhaps?”

Not wishing to deceive Watson any further and eager to leave, Lestrade stands, clutching his hat, “I best be on my way. When you see Mr Holmes, give him my regards.”

Standing, Watson escorts him to the door, “I would say you are in a
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bit of a pickle, Lestrade.”

Lestrade pauses, “In what way, Dr Watson?”

Watson slowly opens the door, “Now that Scotland Yard intends to dispense with our services, your superiors will hardly permit you to call upon us to help you in the future. So, where exactly does that leave you, Lestrade?”

Stepping through the door, Lestrade replies glumly, “Right
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out in the cold, Dr Watson.” He puts on his hat, “Right out in the bloody cold. Good night.”

Watching Lestrade descend the stairs, Watson pensively closes the door and then returns to the bureau. Sliding open one of its small drawers, he removes an envelope, stamped and addressed to him, along with a folded sheet of writing paper. Gazing at the sheet of paper, he again reads the handwritten message, which he had received two days earlier.

Poldhu Cottage

Poldhu Cove

Nr. Lizard Point

Cornwall

16 Dec. 88

I eagerly await your arrival on the 24
th
.

Very sincerely yours,

Joseph Bell

Watson slumps down on the chair in front of the bureau, “Why on earth did he have to go and choose Cornwall?”

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About three hundred miles from London and a five hour train journey from Paddington Station, Cornwall forms the south western extremity of England. It is a bleak, desolate and windswept place, with a rapidly declining copper and tin industry. Jutting out from the rest of England into the turbulent grey waters of the English Channel, Cornwall is sparsely inhabited. Its people, whether living in fishing villages or isolated cottages, share one thing in common, an initial distrust of outsiders.

With its name derived not from a reptile, but from the Gaelic word ‘lezou’, which loosely means ‘headland’, Lizard Point is the southernmost point of Cornwall. Overlooking a major shipping route, its lighthouse beacon has been alerting ships to the treacherous Cornish coastline for more than two centuries.

A quarter of a mile from Lizard Point and heading towards the town of Penzance, barely a mile away, where the train from London terminates at its station, is the coastal inlet of Poldu Cove. At the top of the cliffs that dominate the cove, and located inland at the base of a rocky peak, is a solitary thatched whitewashed cottage aptly named Poldu Cottage.

Arriving at Penzance railway station some thirty minutes late, Watson is met by a bewhiskered
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pony and trap driver, Ythel Beith. Pleased to have left the confines of his train carriage, Watson hops into the two-wheeled vehicle and settles down for the remainder of his trip. Spurring the pony into a trot with a flick of the reins, Beith steers the trap along a coastal track running parallel and near to the edge of the cliffs. Steadying his suitcase, which is perched on his knees, Watson inhales the fresh sea air, “I say, what wonderful weather. I never expected this of Cornwall.”

Peeved that he had been kept waiting at the station, Beith broods. A wheel of the trap strikes a lump of rock embedded in the relatively soft surface of the track, causing the vehicle to bounce. Watson clamps his hand over his hat, “More than can be said for the road, it seems.” He looks at Beith, “How far to the cottage?”

Beith shrugs his shoulder.

Watson frowns, “Talkative fellow, aren’t you?”

Beith angrily reins the pony to a halt and turns to Watson, “Mister Bell said fer me t’ fetch yer. Didn’t say nought ’bout talkin’ t’ yer.”

Watson counters, “I have done something to offend you?”