Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul (6 page)

Mrs Hudson chuckles, “A celebration, Dr Watson. It is good to have you both back safely.”

Watson smiles appreciatively, “Thank you, Mrs Hudson. Goose will be fine.”

Once more, that mischievous twinkle appears in his eye, “With chestnut gravy, Mrs Hudson?”

“And English roast potatoes, Dr Watson.”

Watson promptly raises his hat to her, “Admirable, Mrs Hudson, I will tell Holmes.” 

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The afternoon sunlight streams through the two broad windows, bathing the spacious, modestly furnished sitting-room in a warm amber hue. Wearing a mouse-coloured dressing-gown, Holmes reclines on a button-back
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chaise longue, partially covered by discarded newspapers. Smoking his cherry-wood pipe and reading a copy of
The Times
newspaper, he studies an editorial report.

The Murder in Whitechapel

Yesterday afternoon Mr G. Collier, Deputy Coroner for the South-Eastern Division of Middlesex, opened an inquiry at the Working Lads' Institute, Whitechapel-road, respecting the death of the woman who was found on Tuesday, at George-yard-buildings, Whitechapel, with 39 stabs on her body.

The woman has been identified as that of Martha Tabram, aged 39 or 40 years, the wife of a foreman packer at a furniture warehouse. Henry S. Tabram,
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6, River-terrace, East Greenwich, husband of the deceased, said he last saw her alive about 18 months ago, in the Whitechapel-road. They had been separated for 13 years, owing to her drinking habits. As far as he knew she had no regular companion and he did not know that she walked the streets. Inspector George Lestrade, Criminal Investigation Department, watched the case on behalf of Scotland Yard.

Excitedly throwing open the door, Watson hurries into the room, “Holmes, our worthy landlady exceeds herself.”

Holmes glances up from his newspaper, “Goose, no doubt?”

Watson frowns, “How on earth did you know that?”

“I can hear your stomach rumbling.”

Watson closes the door, “No, you can’t.”

Holmes sighs, “Of course, I cannot. It was a calculated guess.”

He puts aside the newspaper and places his pipe in an ashtray, “I am in need of light relief, Watson, the entire criminal world has deserted me.”

Watson removes his hat, “Perhaps you should be thankful for the respite. Expunging Moriarty from society and then discreetly solving the Credit Suisse fraud in twelve weeks was a truly remarkable achievement, even for one as adept as you.”

Solemnly rising from the chaise longue, Holmes steps to the windows and wistfully stares down at the horse-drawn traffic below, “All for what, my dear fellow?”

Watson fiddles with his hat, “I beg your pardon, Holmes?”

Holmes languidly turns from the window, “I fear that getting rid of Moriarty may, unfortunately, have brought my career to an end. With his absence, there are no longer any tantalising crimes to solve. Only bungling villains with motives so transparent that even a Scotland Yard official could see through them.”

Entirely familiar with Holmes’ infrequent outbursts of melancholy behaviour, Watson feigns cheerfulness, “Carina sings at the Albert Hall tonight. Perhaps we could see her performance after supper?”

Holmes brushes past Watson, “My dear fellow, Carina sang last night. The Royal Philharmonic plays
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Wagner tonight.”

Placing his hat on the dining-table and quickly turning about, Watson again feigns cheerfulness, “Stirring music, Holmes.”

Ignoring the remark and opening a top drawer of a bureau, Holmes unfastens a small morocco case, containing a hypodermic syringe and needle.

Aware that Holmes has favoured his Stradivarius during such moments of despondency, Watson picks up the violin and its bow and offers both to Holmes,
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“Mendelssohn’s Lieder, perhaps?”

Holding the hypodermic syringe and needle, Holmes takes a brown vial from the drawer,

“I require deliverance, Watson. Please call me later when supper is ready.”

Watson sadly concedes, “Yes, of course, Holmes.”

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Strategically built on the northern bank of the River Thames during the reign of William the Conqueror in the 11th century, the Tower of London consists of an assortment of formidable towers constructed by several Kings of England over the last four hundred years.

Essentially an elaborate Royal fortress, the Tower of London has had an infamous history, literally steeped in blood. Besides having been a tortuous prison and a place of execution, murder most foul was also committed within its walls.

Confined to the White Tower in the 15th century by their ruthless uncle
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Richard III, legitimate heirs to the English throne, Edward and Richard, aged twelve and ten, disappeared mysteriously, allegedly slain on their uncle’s orders. Two hundred years later the skeletal remains of two young boys were discovered in a chest concealed under a stone stairwell leading to the Chapel of St John the Evangelist. Believed to be the remains of the two young princes, the White Tower henceforth acquired the notorious name, Bloody Tower, which it still retains today.

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The raised
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Union Jack flag ripples in the breeze. Beneath its flagpole, situated in a quadrangle enclosed by stone walls ninety feet high and fifteen feet thick, a line of eleven Grenadier guards, attired in red tunics and caps, stand at ease before an austere
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Colour Sergeant Reynolds holding a regimental ledger. Behind the Colour Sergeant, an aging Colonel Piggott haughtily paces back and forth, glowering at the assembled soldiers.

Accompanied by three uniformed police constables, Inspector Lestrade, dark-eyed and pallid, opens a squeaky iron gate and ushers a tipsy Mary Ann Connolly into the quadrangle.

Piggott stops pacing and barks at Reynolds, “Colour Sergeant!”

Reynolds inhales and hollers, “Parade…”

The guardsmen stiffen.

“Parade…Attention!”

In unison and, immediately after raising their knees, the guards slam the leather soles of their
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hobnailed boots down upon the ground.

Rudely pushing past two of the police constables just behind Lestrade, Bullen yells, “Inspector Lestrade…”

Lestrade wearily sighs and then turns on his heel, “What is it?”

Bullen produces his handkerchief and mops his forehead, “The Star newspaper, Inspector.”

Lestrade eyes Bullen suspiciously, “Ah, yes, of course. I’ve heard of you. Thomas Bullen, isn’t it? Didn’t an American newspaper throw you back across the
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Atlantic for inappropriate conduct?”

Bullen feigns a smile, “
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Fleet Street rumours, Inspector.”

Lestrade raises a sceptical eyebrow, “Really?”

Bullen pockets his handkerchief and quickly produces a pencil and notebook, “An exclusive for The Star, Inspector?”

Lestrade sighs again, “If you don’t keep out of the way, I’ll have you thrown in the
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Tower. Now, that would certainly enhance your Fleet Street reputation, wouldn’t it?”

Seized by the arm, Bullen is held back by a heavily-built police constable.

Lestrade turns to Mary, who inadvertently burps in his face.

Shaking his head despairingly, Lestrade indicates the line of soldiers, “It’s very simple, miss. If you see either man, just touch them on the shoulder.”

Strolling over to Piggott, Lestrade introduces himself, “Inspector Lestrade. Scotland Yard.”

Piggott scowls disapprovingly, “May I remind you, Inspector, that this regiment fought under
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Wellington at Waterloo. These men are not murderers, they are soldiers of the Queen. Are you prepared to discredit this regiment because of the death of an unfortunate? A penniless whore, Inspector.” 

Offended by the statement, Lestrade replies sarcastically, “Ah, yes, the honour of the regiment. Then, perhaps, we should allow her killer to escape?”

Piggott, his face flushed with anger, roars at Reynolds, “All right, Colour Sergeant, get on with it.”

Clutching the ledger tightly, Reynolds salutes Piggott, “Yes, sah.” He then turns to Lestrade, “This way, Inspector.”

Taking Mary by the arm, Lestrade escorts her to the head of the line, “I’ll be right beside you, miss. Take your time.”

Walking unsteadily, she slowly begins to inspect the soldiers.

Piggott edges up next to Reynolds, who lingers just behind Mary and Lestrade, “Is that woman drunk, Colour Sergeant?”

Using one side of his mouth, Reynolds whispers, “I doubt she’s ’ad a sober day in ’er entire life, sah.”

Piggott sneers, “That, Colour Sergeant, may help us.”

Pausing in front of Private Law and recognising him, Mary smirks. 

Immediately noticing her expression, Lestrade murmurs, “Do you know this man?”

Mary shrugs her shoulders.

Lestrade confronts Law, “What’s your name, son?”

Staring straight ahead, Law remains impassive.

Lestrade wearily shakes his head, “I asked you a question, son. What’s your name?”

Feeling threatened, Law blurts, “Colour Sergeant?”

Loathe to assist Lestrade, Reynolds nevertheless growls at Law, “Yer name an’ rank, son.”

Law reacts timidly, “Why me, Colour Sergeant?”

Lestrade groans, “Because you’re here, son. Because we’re all here.”

Reynolds adopts a fatherly tone, “Bear in mind the ’onour o’ the regiment, son. Answer the Inspector, there’s a good boy.”

Law gulps and glances at Lestrade, “Private William Law.”

Scornfully, Lestrade grins, “There, that wasn’t difficult, was it?”

He indicates Mary, “Know this woman, do you?”

Mary hiccups and then giggles mockingly.

Law promptly shakes his head.

Lestrade casually scratches the side of his neck, “Ever been to Whitechapel, son?”

Law gulps again, “Whitechapel?”

Lestrade nods, “Yes, Whitechapel.”

Again, Law promptly shakes his head.

Lestrade indicates over his shoulder, “Less than half a mile from here. Quite a lively district. Popular with young soldiers, I hear.
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Ring a bell, does it?”

Law shakes his head once more.

Exasperated, Piggott howls, “For heaven’s sake, Inspector, enough of your futile questions. These men are supposed to be on duty. Will you please move along?”

Grudgingly relenting, Lestrade resumes his slow walk along the line with Mary, who spots Leary standing beside another soldier, Lance Corporal Benjamin. Alarmed and feeling queasy, she falters, staggers sideways and bumps into Benjamin, shakily placing her hand on his shoulder for support.

Taken completely by surprise, an incensed Benjamin glares at Mary, “’Ere, wot’s goin’ on?” He shoves her away, back into the arms of Lestrade.

Stepping smartly around Lestrade and Mary, Reynolds glowers at Benjamin, “Shut up, Lance Corporal!”

Benjamin pleads, “I swear it, Colour Sergeant, I ’aven’t seen ’er b’fore t’day.”

Infuriated, Reynolds barks, “I said, shut up! Now, step forward.”

Obeying Reynolds, Benjamin takes a pace forward.

Edging closer to Benjamin, Piggott pompously sneers at Mary, “Now, madam, was this the man?”

Letting go of Mary, Lestrade scowls, “Now, wait a minute. You can’t question her like this, she’s a police witness.”

Piggott ignores Lestrade, “Madam, was this the man?”

Mary nervously glances over her shoulder and catches sight of Leary fingering his bayonet sheath.

Lestrade raises a conciliatory hand to Piggott, “I suggest we postpone this to another day.”

Ignoring Lestrade for a second time, Piggott again sneers at Mary, “Madam, was this the man?”

Frightened by Leary and intimidated by Piggott, Mary screams, “I dunno!”

Piggott sniggers, “Madam, I suggest that you were drunk at the time and that you are drunk now. In fact, it would appear that you are drunk all the time.”

Mary retaliates, “Wot o’ it?”

Lestrade wearily shakes his head.

Piggott glances at Reynolds, “Colour Sergeant.”

Reynolds opens the ledger and reads aloud, “Lance Corporal Benjamin were absent wivout leave from the 6
th
o’ August, 1888, ’til the 8
th
o’ August, 1888.”

He shuts the ledger, “’E returned t’ the garrison last night. Day after the murder, sah.”

Piggott addresses Benjamin, “Where were you for those two days, Lance Corporal?”

Unflinching, Benjamin answers, “
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Kingston-upon-Thames, sah.”

Piggott glances at Lestrade, “Hardly Whitechapel, Inspector.” He addresses Benjamin again, “Can this be corroborated, Lance Corporal?”

Benjamin nods, “I were wiv me father. ’E’s the landlord o’ the Canbury Arms.”

“Why did you go absent?”

“Me mother, sah. She’s sick, sudden like.”

Piggott stares at Lestrade, “Heard enough, Inspector?”

Lestrade lowers his head resignedly.

Piggott smirks, “Dismiss the men, Colour Sergeant.”

Reynolds salutes, “Yes, sah.” He growls an order to Benjamin, “As yer were, Lance Corporal.”

Benjamin steps backwards, resuming his original place in the line next to Leary. Leary whispers from the corner of his mouth, “Thanks, mate, yer saved me from a fate worse than death.”