Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul (7 page)

Benjamin whispers, “Yer didn’t do the whore in, did yer?”

Leary sniggers “Na, but if me ol’ woman found out I’d been wiv ’er, she would ’ave me
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’ung, drawn an’ quartered.”

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Lestrade and Mary amble towards the iron gate, while behind them, the guardsmen disperse. She glumly nudges him on the arm,
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“Cocked it up, didn’t I?”

Lestrade dolefully sighs and reaches into his pocket, “Here’s tu’pence. Get yourself something to eat.”

He beckons a police constable, “Take her home.”

Mary mournfully gazes at Lestrade, “Where’s ’ome, then?”

Lestrade sighs again, “Put some food in your stomach and stay off the drink.”

Taking Mary by the arm, the police constable leads her through the gateway, passing Bullen nonchalantly lounging against a wall in the presence of the remaining two police constables.

Lestrade frowns, “I suppose you saw and heard everything?”

Bullen indicates his notebook, “It’s all here. Pity she was drunk. Inappropriate conduct, wouldn’t you say?”

Smirking, Bullen turns away from Lestrade, brushes past one of the police constables and saunters away, leaving the quadrangle.

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Illuminated by the citrus glow of sputtering gas-lamps, Baker Street is now relatively free of traffic, its serenity broken only by the periodic sound of trotting horses, coupled either to a two-wheeled hansom cab or the slower four-wheeled type dubbed a ‘growler’.

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Plagued by the unsavoury thought that his distinguished career as a private consulting detective may indeed be waning, Holmes nonetheless maintains a level of cordiality, joining Watson at the dining-table, which has been laid out for a meal.

Standing beside the table, Holmes scrutinises the cutlery, “I have come to the conclusion that Mrs Hudson’s sole intention in life is to utterly spoil us, Watson.”

He leans across the table and switches a dessert spoon for a fork in front of a seated Watson.

Watson smiles to himself, “Working again, Holmes?”

Holmes seats himself opposite Watson, “Why, of course.”

Watson shakes his head, amused.

Slightly raising a silver plated dome cover, Holmes peers under the condiment.

Watson chuckles, “Goose, Holmes. And it is quite dead.”

Holmes glances at Watson and smiles, “Cooked to perfection, no doubt.” He replaces the condiment, “Put yourself in her place, my dear fellow. What better company could a solitary Mrs Hudson have than two semi-retired gentlemen like us?”

Watson fidgets in his chair, “Speak for yourself, Holmes. I have a medical practice to run.”

Holmes shakes open a napkin, “Therefore, in order to keep us here, Mrs Hudson will continue to indulge us with her cooking.”

Watson stares at Holmes quizzically, “Are you all right, Holmes?”

Holmes raises a corrective finger, “A part-time medical practice overseen by your associate Dr Sleeman, Watson. How else could you spare the time for our…”

Holmes catches sight of his somewhat distorted face reflected in the silver plated condiment.

Inexplicably mesmerised, he sombrely stares at himself.

The pale sardonic face of Moriarty, equally distorted, gradually appears, superimposing itself upon his likeness. Merging as one, the bizarre double image blurs and then dissipates, leaving nothing, not even the reflection of Holmes.

Watson snatches away the condiment, revealing a roasted goose, “Holmes, for heaven’s sake, what ails you?”

Jolted out of his melancholy mood, Holmes throws down his napkin, rises from his chair and turns away from the table.

Quickly, Watson stands, “Holmes, wait! The Reichenbach Falls, remember?”

Holmes pauses, “How can I forget? There is nothing else.”

Watson replaces the condiment, “Be advised, Holmes, to dwell in the past is to forfeit the future. You are alive. You survived for a purpose, to uphold and preserve justice.”

Holmes turns to Watson and smiles gratefully, “Thanks to you, dear fellow.”

Watson retorts, “Yes, thanks to me. Where is your gratitude?”

Holmes gently pats the left side of his chest and smiles warmly.

Embarrassed to a certain degree, Watson coughs and clears his throat, “Thank you. Now, please sit down. Our supper is getting cold.”

Holmes resumes his place at the dining-table, “Do you treat all your patients the same way?”

Watson casually removes the silver plated condiment, “Only one particular person.” He picks up a carving knife and fork, “Thinly sliced, as usual?”

Holmes nods in agreement and then drops two theatre tickets on the dinner plate in front of Watson, “Norma Neruda plays
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Chopin at the
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Adelphi tomorrow night.”

Holding the carving knife and fork before him, Watson stares at the tickets, “Chopin, Holmes?”

Holmes picks up his napkin, “Yes, Watson. His music will be a tribute to your birthday tomorrow.”

Watson lowers the carving knife and fork, “Oh, Holmes. About my outburst.”

Holmes leans back in his chair, “I was scolded and deservedly so. Now, my dear fellow, the goose, it is getting cold.”

Watson pierces the goose with the carving fork, “With five roast potatoes?”

Holmes smiles, “As usual.”

Chapter 3

Mr Sherlock Holmes Investigates

Covering only a square mile and comprised of the foul, rotting rookeries of Spitalfields, the district of Whitechapel contains one hundred and forty-nine registered doss-houses, offering a nightly sanctuary to eight thousand, five hundred deprived souls, of which one thousand, two hundred are prostitutes.

Often called ‘the poor man’s hotel’, there are many types of doss-houses, but each and every one has one thing in common: from the smallest hovel to the larger monstrosities, all are utterly devoid of any hygienic amenities, merely providing the homeless with an inexpensive place to sleep.

Whereas penniless people are driven to sleep in foggy streets, public parks, or under bridges, those slightly more fortunate attain shelter in a doss-house at night. For the price of fourpence, a dirty straw mattress is obtained upon which to lie, or for tu’pence, a length of stretched rope which, threaded beneath the arms and across the chest, supports the exhausted as they sleep side by side in a row, sitting upright on a long wooden bench.

Liquid sewage seeps into cellars, flea-infested wallpaper hangs in strips and stair handrails, long ago burnt as firewood, are missing.

Whilst this insidious decay and wanton damage is extensive throughout these draughty dwellings, the residents of these vile houses, seemingly unaware of anything amiss, endure these atrocious conditions with a listless indifference.

With a solitary hissing gas-jet casting flickering light over its grubby walls and paper strewn floorboards, the communal kitchen is effectively the heart of a doss-house. Moderate in size, it contains a red-hot coke fire, where haggard women, principally prostitutes, gather to bake the occasional potato, or simply to gossip, whilst keeping warm. Idle chatter between these desperate, hardened women, although genial most of the time, can erupt into violent scuffles over the silliest of disputes.

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Punched in the face, Annie Chapman, brown wavy hair, blue eyes and a thick nose, hurtles backwards and, dropping a piece of hardened soap, collapses to the floor.

Eliza Cooper, tall and sinewy, steps forward and stands over her, “Want more?”

Annie clamps a hand over her left eye, “I’ll git yer fer this.”

Eliza scoffs, “Yer an’ who else?”

Seated on a stool near the open coke fire, Polly Nichols, greying hair, small scar on her forehead and slightly discoloured teeth, leans forward to grab the piece of soap.

Eliza snatches the item from her reach, “I’m a whore just like yer, Nichols.” She glares at Annie, “An’ yer, Chapman.”

Briskly dropping to one knee, Eliza seizes Annie by the throat, “But I don’t rob me own kind. Do it agin an’ I’ll slit yer bleedin’ throat.”

Annie contemptuously spits in her face.

With spittle running down one side of her nose and chin, Eliza raises her fist, “All right, Chapman, yer goin’ t’ ’ospital.”

Robustly built, resident housekeeper Mary Russell approaches Eliza from behind and grabs her by the hair, “Mind I don’t send yer there first.”

Russell jerks Eliza to her feet, “Yer bleedin’ trouble, Cooper. Now, out!” She shoves Eliza towards an outer kitchen door, “Go on, ’op it, b’fore I git really riled.”

Eliza looks over her shoulder and snarls at Annie, “I’ll git yer fer this, Chapman.”

Russell yanks the kitchen door open and pushes Eliza out into a gloomy passage, “Come ’ere agin an’ it’ll be yer funeral.”

She slams the door shut.

Helping Annie to her feet, Russell inspects her swelling eye,
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“Cor blimey, would yer
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Adam an’ Eve it? The Almighty’s given yer a right bleedin’
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shiner.”

Annie groans despondently, “Can’t go out like this, Mrs Russell.”

Russell sighs, “Lookin’ fer sympathy, are yer? Should ’ave thought o’ that b’fore yer
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swiped ’er soap.” She stares at Annie suspiciously, “As a rule, yer bed down at Crossingham's in Dorset Street. Wot yer doin’ ’ere, then?”

Annie gently touches her bruised eye, “Only ’ad the rope. Can’t sleep like that”

Russell cocks her head enquiringly, “Got fourpence?”

Annie nods and produces four
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Bun Penny coins.

Taking the coins, Russell indicates an inner kitchen door, paint peeling from its surface like a skin disease, “Yer’ll git yer mattress through there.”

Holding her hand over her swollen eye, Annie solemnly totters to the door, opens it and leaves the kitchen, entering the doss-house proper.

Russell turns to Polly, “All right, Nichols, fourpence.”

Polly coughs hoarsely, “Ain’t got it, Mrs Russell.”

Russell inhales deeply, “Then it’s the streets. Look, luv, them’s the rules.”

Polly glances at the coke fire, “Can’t I stop ’ere a while? By the fire, it’s cosy, like.”

Disgruntled, Russell places her hands upon her hips, “If yer want charity, see me in the mornin’. But t’night, it’s fourpence.”

Wearily standing, Polly buttons her brown
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Ulster overcoat which, being too long for her, touches her ankles, “Yer could ’old a bed fer me, couldn’t yer?”

Russell grudgingly relents, “All right, Polly, just fer an ’our.”

Adjusting her frayed black bonnet, Polly smiles chirpily, “I’ll soon git me doss money. See wot a jolly bonnet I’ve got now.”

Coughing once more, she waddles to the outer kitchen door.

Russell sadly shakes her head, “Look, luv, yer ain’t a young ’un anymore. Yer’ve got t’ look after yerself.”

Polly peers back over her shoulder, “I’ll be all right. ’Onest, Mrs Russell.”

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Born to parents Edward and Caroline Walker on 26 August, 1845, in Shoe Lane, Fleet Street, Mary Ann ‘Polly’ Nichols had spent the formative years of her childhood residing in the very heart of journalistic London.

On 16 January, 1864, at the age of nineteen, she had married William Nichols, a printer from Oxford, at St. Bride’s Parish Church, Fleet Street and during the next fifteen years, gave birth to five children, the last being a son named Henry, in 1879.

Since its beginning, her tenuous marriage to William had been beset by a string of at least six separations. Thus, in 1881, Polly threw in the towel and had parted from William for good.

William claimed that the breakdown of their marriage had been caused by Polly’s heavy drinking, but her father, whilst admitting that she did drink, alleged that William had recently taken up with another woman who had, in fact, nursed Polly through her fifth and final childbirth.

Apart from a short period between late March and the end of May 1883, when she returned to live with her father, who detested her dissolute character and drunkard behaviour, Polly had existed solely by drifting from one workhouse to another.

Towards the end of 1887 and due to her utter dependence on drink and a slight flirtation with prostitution, Polly had been found by the police sleeping rough in Trafalgar Square. Declared by the authorities to be destitute and without means of subsistence, she was sent to the Lambeth workhouse, where she spent Christmas.

At the beginning of this year and undoubtedly arranged by the virtuous governors of the workhouse, Polly secured a position as a domestic servant with Samuel and Sarah Cowdry at ‘Inglseside’, Rose Hill Road, Wandsworth. On 17 April, she wrote to her father:

I just write to say you will be glad to know that I am settled in my new place, and going all right up to now. My people went out yesterday and have not returned, so I am left in charge. It is a grand place inside, with trees and gardens back and front. All has been newly done up. They are teetotalers and religious so I ought to get on. They are very nice people, and I have not too much to do. I hope you are all right and the boy has work. So good bye for the present.

From yours truly,

Polly

Answer soon, please, and let me know how you are.

Some two months later, however, Polly betrayed Mr and Mrs Cowdry’s trust and left ‘Inglseside’, stealing some of their clothes worth over three pounds. Nigh upon forty-four years of age and fearing probable arrest, she fled to the foul, dangerous streets of Whitechapel and, flitting from one doss-house to another, totally embraced prostitution to sustain her insatiable need for alcohol.

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Tonight, the sky has acquired a dull reddish tone, created only a few hours earlier by a massive fire that had broken out at a South Quay Warehouse in the London Docks.

Housing colonial produce, including a huge number of casks containing brandy and gin, the enormous warehouse, one hundred and fifty yards long, had burst into flames and, fuelled by the exploding casks, had released gigantic tongues of yellow and bluish flames into the night sky, producing a vivid heavenly glow over the entire East End of London which, whilst now waning, still lingers even at this late hour.

Allied to this drama, there had been a storm. Accompanied by peals of thunder and flashes of lightning, the rain was sharp and frequent, but being Friday evening, it had not dissuaded men from seeking their nocturnal pleasures, nor a certain class of sisterhood intent on gratifying those needs.

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Polly steps out of the doss-house at 18 Thrawl Street and, upon seeing the windswept rain, groans, “Right bleedin’ summer this ’as turned out t’ be.”

Turning up the collar of her overcoat and correcting the tilt of her bonnet, she waddles along the murky narrow cobbled street and sees a shabby, hefty man, Jacob Crowley, splashing through a puddle, coming towards her.

Holding a piece of sodden note-paper, he inquisitively gazes at the dingy houses on his side of the street.

Polly pauses, eyeing him suspiciously, “Yer not from ’round ’ere. Lookin’ fer somewhere, are yer?”

Crowley glances at the piece of note-paper, “Eighteen Thrawl Street.”

Polly smirks, “Bed fer the night, is it?”

Irritated by her query, Crowley snaps, “Wot’s it t’ yer?”

Polly feigns indifference and shrugs her shoulders “Been there, nothin’. Not even a bleedin’ floorboard t’ lie on.”

Crowley crumples the piece of paper in his hand, “Mate gave me this address.” He tosses it over his shoulder, “
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Fat lot o’ good ’e’s been, eh?”

Polly stifles a cough, “Fancy a drink?” She grins suggestively, “Or somefink else, maybe?”

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Concealed by a small upturned cart in a darkened yard with the lower part of her overcoat, skirt and petticoat up about her waist, Polly stands stooped over a stack of oatmeal sacks with legs apart. Just behind her, Crowley feverishly thrusts back and forth, wheezing.

Rhythmically in tune with his movements, Polly gazes at the small silver coin in the palm of her hand and smiles.

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It is little wonder then that the prostitutes of the neighbourhood are forced to seek relief from their wretched existence in the local taverns. And there are many to choose from in Whitechapel. One on every corner, in fact. A lot of these blighted women have a preferred public house they like to call home. In Polly Nichols’ case, it is ‘Ye Frying Pan’ tavern, situated on the northern corner of Thrawl Street and Brick Lane.

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Oblivious to the drizzle and drunkenly supporting one another, merchant seamen Straker, Griggs and Burrill lurch along Brick Lane towards ‘Ye Frying Pan’ tavern, noisily singing a maritime song.

“It were down by Swansea barrack

one May mornin’ I strayed

A-viewin’ o’ the soldier lads

I spied a comely maid,

It were o'er ’er red an’ rosy cheeks

the tears did dingle down,

I thought she were some goddess fair,

the lass o’ Swansea town.”

Emerging from Thrawl Street, a trotting pony, harnessed to a two-wheeled cart, hastily turns the corner by the tavern and, confronted by the rowdy trio, shies in alarm, shuddering the cart.

Two tall wicker baskets, one full of cabbages and the other containing cauliflowers, topple from the rear of the cart and, upon striking the ground, hurl their contents across the filthy cobbled street.