Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul (42 page)

Balmoral Castle 

Nov. 10. 1888. – This new most ghastly murder shows the

absolute necessity for some very decided action.

All these courts must be lit, & our detectives improved.

They are not what they shld be.

You promised, when the 1st
murders took place to

consult with your colleagues about it.

                         VR.

At the same time, The Home Secretary, Mr Henry Matthews, receives a longer admonishment.

The Secretary of State,

Home Office.

Balmoral Castle

Nov. 10. 1888. – The Queen has received with sincere regret Mr Matthews’ letter of the 9th in which he reports the resignation of Sir Charles Warren.

It would of course be impossible to recognize Sir Charles Warren’s contention that he was not under the orders of the Sec of State, but The Queen fears this resignation will have a bad effect in encouraging the lawbreaker to defy the police, who under Sir Charles Warren, have always done their duty admirably.

At the same time The Queen fears that the Detective department is not so efficient as it might be. No doubt the recent murders in Whitechapel were committed in circumstances which made Detection very difficult.

Still The Queen thinks that in a small area where these horrible crimes have been perpetrated a great number of detectives might be employed and that every possible suggestion might be carefully examined, and if practicable followed.          Have the cattle & passenger boats been examined?

Has any investigation been made as to the number of single men occupying rooms to themselves?

The murderer’s clothes must be saturated with blood and must be kept somewhere.

Is there sufficient surveillance at night?

These are some of the questions that occur to The Queen on reading the accounts of this horrible crime.

                                                                                                    VR.

Acting swiftly, Lord Salisbury summons the entire Cabinet to his official residence at 10 Downing Street. After an acrimonious but short meeting, the Cabinet reluctantly agrees to amend its policy relating to the Whitechapel murders, particularly that of Mary Jane Kelly.

Shortly afterwards, Lord Salisbury sends The Queen a telegram, informing Her Majesty of the Cabinet’s decision.

Her Imperial Majesty – 10 November 1888

Humble duty:

At Cabinet to-day it was resolved to issue a Proclamation offering free pardon to anyone who should give evidence as to the recent murder except the actual perpetrator of the crime
.

                            Marquis of Salisbury, PM.

Effective immediately, the proclamation, signed by Sir Charles Warren, still Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, is printed in a rarely published midday edition of
The Times
newspaper.

MURDER. – PARDON. – Whereas on November 8 or 9, in Miller’s Court, Dorset Street, Spitalfields, Mary Jane Kelly was murdered by some person or persons unknown: the Secretary of State will advise the grant of Her Majesty’s gracious pardon to any accomplice, not being a person who contrived or actually committed the murder, who shall give such information and evidence as shall lead to the discovery and conviction of the person or persons who committed the murder.

CHARLES WARREN, the Commissioner of Police

of the Metropolis

Metropolitan Police Office, 4 Whitehall Place,

S. W., Nov. 10, 1888.

Disdainfully staring at the proclamation in the newspaper, which he holds open with both hands, Holmes rises from the button-back chaise longue and steps towards the dull daylight issuing through the broad windows of the sitting-room. Intently, he studies another editorial piece.

The Man in Custody

The man who was brought to Bishopsgate-street Police Station last night is still detained. His identity is not known to our reporter at this time and the police remain
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tight-lipped to who he might be. Whether or not he is the assassin of the poor woman found dead in Miller’s-court remains to be seen. A rumour, however, suggests that he could be a man of some distinction which, if he were, might explain why the police are peculiarly silent about revealing his name.

The inquest into the death of the murdered woman is to be held on Monday at the Shoreditch Town Hall, Old-street. Dr MacDonald, M.P., the coroner for the North-Eastern District of Middlesex, will preside over the inquiry.

Closing the newspaper, Holmes looks out through the windows, gazing pensively at the storm clouds overhead, “It would seem that our ruse is succeeding. Now what, if anything, will Watson and Lestrade
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ferret out?”

Chapter 15

Reckoning

Given little or no time by which to recover from the shock of the murder of Mary Jane Kelly, the residents of Spitalfields, particularly those who inhabit Hob’s Passage, are now subjected to a police onslaught, never before witnessed in the neighbourhood.

Entering the foul nameless alleyways that adjoin Hob’s Passage, scores of police constables, led by detectives, begin a methodical search of each dwelling, sometimes breaking down front doors or clambering through windows to gain entry into these hovels.

As a result, a number of surly inhabitants, intent on evading the police, scarper from their lodgings only to discover that their one avenue of escape is along Hob’s Passage into Booth Street where, unbeknown to them, Lestrade solemnly waits with a contingent of police constables.

Observing ragged people emerging from the passage into the street, Lestrade hurriedly turns to Sergeant Stokes, standing beside him, “Right, Sergeant, get on with it. I want statements from all of them.” Hurriedly lifting his arm, Stokes beckons the contingent of police constables who quickly converge upon the fleeing people, manhandling and forcing them back against the facade of a large bakery shop. Clattering along Brick Lane, a hansom cab halts behind a smaller group of constables cordoning off the entrance to Booth Street. Getting out of the vehicle and hastily tossing a coin to its driver, Watson approaches the back of one particular police constable and taps him on the shoulder, “Excuse me. May I pass? I’m late already.”

Constable Nott peers enquiringly over his shoulder at him, “And who might you be, then?”

Standing next to Nott, Sergeant Kirby turns about, immediately recognizes Watson and smiles, “Afternoon, sir.” He motions to Nott with his head, “Pay no attention to him, sir. Sawdust for brains.”

Watson laughs, “I am beginning to believe you are my guardian angel, Sergeant. Watching over me wherever I go.”

Kirby chuckles, “Tell that to my missus, sir, and she’ll start to think I can conjure up miracles. More food on the table, a new bonnet, a seaside holiday, even.”

Staring at Kirby, Nott indicates Watson with his thumb, “Is he who I think he is, Sergeant?”

Kirby replies, “Yes, lad, Dr Watson. A right fine gentleman, at that. Now stand aside and let him through.” Turning to Watson, he points to Lestrade, pacing up and down outside the entrance of the passage, “The Inspector is over there, sir.”

Watson politely tips his head, “Thank you.” He steps forward and quips, “I would recommend
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Bournemouth for a holiday, Sergeant. Less crowded than
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Brighton.”

Kirby touches the peak of helmet, “I’ll bear that in mind, sir.”

Watson strides towards Lestrade, “My apologies, Lestrade.”

Lestrade stops pacing, “I expected you earlier, Dr Watson. At Commercial Street Police Station, to be exact.”

Watson huffs, “Yes, yes, I know, Lestrade. But I was delayed by that infernal Desk Sergeant at Bishopsgate Street Police Station, wanting to know why I was there.”

Lestrade thoughtfully strokes his moustache, “Sergeant Byfield?”

Watson nods, “You might have forewarned the fellow, Lestrade. I do abhor misleading people.”

Amused by his tetchiness, Lestrade smirks, “And what did you tell him?”

Watson sighs, exasperated, “That I was a journalist seeking information on the man detained in one of the cells below. Then he asked to see my credentials. Which, of course, I did not have. A most embarrassing moment, Lestrade.”

Pushing past Kirby and Nott, Chandler approaches Lestrade, “Inspector!”

Lestrade stares at Chandler impatiently, “I would like to hear some good news for once but, by the look on your face, I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

Glumly, Chandler shakes his head, “No trace of him, Inspector.”

Watson enquires, “No trace of whom?”

Chandler eyes Watson suspiciously, “Who are you?”

With an indignant expression, Watson stammers, “Who am I?”

Intervening, Lestrade informs Chandler, “Dr Watson.”

Watson adds, “Yes, here representing Mr Sherlock Holmes. Now, perhaps you would be so good as to answer my question.”

Chandler is conciliatory, “I didn’t mean to be rude, Dr Watson, but...”

Watson interrupts him, “I’m sure you didn’t. But your attempt at an apology hardly answers my question, does it?”

Lestrade suppresses a grin, “Thomas Bullen, Dr Watson.”

Watson muses, “Ah, yes. The journalist fellow.”

Chandler elaborates, “At about quarter to seven last night, Bullen gave his latest report to his newspaper editor and that’s the last time he was seen by anybody. I called at his lodgings this morning, the same story. He apparently never went home. His bed hadn’t been slept in and all his clothes were in the wardrobe. I think he’s
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bolted, Inspector.”

Watson murmurs, “If the scoundrel has indeed fled, Holmes’ supposition is correct. The murders are truly at an end.”

Lestrade instructs Chandler, “If he hasn’t already done so, Bullen may try to leave the country by ship. Notify the Thames harbour and dock authorities to be on the look out for him. Start with St Katharine’s Dock, it’s the nearest.”

Incensed at being detained by the police outside the bakery shop, a bedraggled woman, Maud Sapsford, shouts at Watson, Lestrade and Chandler, “Oi, yer three! I ’ave young ’uns t’ feed. ’Ow long yer goin’ keep us ’ere?”

Standing a few feet away from Maud, a scruffy elderly man, Nathan Isaacs, chides her, “Stitch yer mouth, woman. I ain’t ’ad nuffink inside me since last night.”

Maud snaps, “I’ll speak as I find. It’s a free country, innit?”

Nathan scoffs, “A free country, woman? Yer call livin’ down ’ere in Whitechapel bein’ free? We’re no better off than those poor souls the
[411]
Frogs send t’
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Devil’s Island.”

Watson shakes his head despairingly, “If this nation cannot civilly converse with one and other, how on earth can they be expected to communicate with the inhabitants of another country?”

Approving of the remark, Chandler enquiries, “Served abroad, have you, Dr Watson?”

Watson replies proudly, “With the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, in Afghanistan and India.”

“Gives you a new outlook on life, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it does.”

Chandler smiles wanly, “Like to do that myself. Breathe in some fresh air, leave all this squalor behind.”

Lestrade growls, “Enough of daydreams. Get a move on.”

Chandler respectfully tips his hat to Watson, turns on his heel and strides away.

Ashen-faced and tugging at the collar of his tunic, Constable Lunt lurches from the passage into the street.

Catching sight of him, Maud blurts, “Gawd, look at ’im. Looks like ’e’s seen a bleedin’ ghost.”

Nathan groans, “That’s me, woman, if I don’t git some grub in me soon.”

Lunt stumbles towards Lestrade and Watson, “You better take a look, Inspector. I think we’ve found another one.”

Lestrade sighs tetchily, “Another what, Constable?”

Lunt exhales loudly, “A woman, Inspector. Done in like the rest.”

Lestrade turns to Watson, “Perhaps you and Mr Holmes spoke too soon, Dr Watson.”

♦
♦
♦
♦
♦

Opening the door, Lunt stands to one side, allowing Lestrade and Watson to enter the musty room.

Giving his eyes time to adjust to the dimness, Watson catches sight of something lying on a makeshift bed in the corner of the room, “Good Lord, Lestrade. Look!” Hurriedly, he crouches, picking up two pieces of clothing, “My Derby hat and Ulster overcoat.” He turns to Lestrade excitedly, “I thought they were lost for good.”

Lestrade jibes, “Well, that will please the officials at Scotland Yard. Won’t have to reimburse you for stolen property, will they?”

Watson places the hat and overcoat down upon the table, “The discovery of my clothing in this room indicates it was here that I was held captive, Lestrade.”

Lestrade concurs, “A fair assumption, Dr Watson.” He stoops and picks up a pair of scuffed boots, their laces tied together, from beneath the table. Recalling how he had seen Holmes outside 13 Miller’s Court without his boots, Lestrade mutters, “And these would indicate that Mr Holmes was brought here before he was taken to Miller’s Court.”

Watson is not convinced, “Hardly the kind of footwear Holmes is accustomed to wearing, Lestrade.”

Lestrade puts the boots down on the table, beside the hat and overcoat, “I think you will find Mr Holmes was relieved of these whilst disguised as one Alfred Mipps.”

Watson ponders, “Ah, yes, of course. How foolish of me. You are correct, Lestrade. From time to time, Holmes does draw upon his
[413]
thespian talents to outfox an opponent.”

Lestrade nods, “And a very credible performance he gives.” He turns to Lunt, standing by the door, “Where is she, then?”

Perspiring, Lunt motions to the drawn curtain at the rear of the room with his head, “Behind the curtain, Inspector.”

Lestrade counters curtly, “And you’d rather not show us yourself, right?”

Nervously wiping his lips with the back of his hand, Lunt pleads, “If you don’t mind, Inspector. Once is enough for today.”

Lestrade sighs, “All right, run along. But do something useful. Get a hand-cart ambulance.”

Pleased to be ordered away from the room, Lunt queries, “The divisional police surgeon? Shall I fetch him, too, Inspector?”

Lestrade shakes his head, “That won’t be necessary. Dr Watson will examine the body.”

Watson blanches.

Lunt hurriedly touches the brim of his helmet and leaves.

Watson protests, “I will have you know, Lestrade, I am a general practitioner, not a surgeon.”

Lestrade sighs again, “You’re more a medical man than I am, Dr Watson. I require help, not hindrance.”

Watson relents, “Very well, Lestrade. But I cannot answer for my stomach.”

Lestrade quickly draws aside the curtain, letting Watson enter the smaller room first. Confronted by the disembowelled body of Eliza Cooper lying upon the bed, Watson recoils.

Seizing Watson by the arm to steady him, Lestrade imparts clinically, “Not as bad as Mary Kelly. She hasn’t had her face disfigured.” He turns to Watson, “Breathe deeply.”

Watson huffs pettily, “Yes, yes, Lestrade. I am quite aware of the method.”

Lestrade relinquishes his grip, “Having been an army doctor and all, I’d thought you’d be used to this sort of thing.”

Watson confesses, “Internal organs, Lestrade. I loathe the sight of internal organs.”

Lestrade bends, picks up a grey blanket from the floor and covers most of the body with the piece, “Let’s start with her face and then gradually work our way down, shall we?”

Watson regains his composure, “Thank you, Lestrade. A good idea.”

Both men step to the head of the bed, Lestrade on one side, Watson on the other. Staring down at the pallid face of Eliza, with her eyes wide open and her swollen tongue protruding from her mouth, Watson exclaims, “Good heavens, this is the woman who hailed me from...”

Lestrade interjects, “The growler?”

Watson nods, “The very same person, Lestrade.”

Lestrade imparts, “Like you, Dr Watson, I’m not one to forget a face. Bumped into her outside Bishopsgate Street Police Station minutes after we’d taken Mr Holmes through the building. Couple of things she said about Mary Kelly made me
[414]
prick up my ears.”

Noticing the two pickling jars, each containing a human organ, on the shelf above the bed, Watson grimaces, “And they were?”

Lestrade stares at Eliza’s slashed throat, “She let slip Mary Kelly’s name, saying she’d been butchered. An apt description, I thought at the time. Those two pieces of information, coming so soon after the murder, were not common knowledge unless, of course, she had indeed heard it through the Whitechapel tom-toms. But only we, the police, and two other people, landlord John McCarthy and his shop assistant Thomas Bowyer, knew it was Mary Kelly and how she had been slaughtered.”

Watson looks at him enquiringly, “And what do you think this woman was doing at Bishopsgate Street Police Station so soon after Holmes was supposedly arrested?”

Lestrade replies soberly, “Probably to find out whether it was Mr Holmes, or not. Which meant she saw us leave either Miller’s Court, or Dorset Street, and then followed us to the station.”

Watson pensively strokes his moustache, “The last three murders. Were any organs removed from the bodies of the victims?”

Lestrade nods, “The uterus from Annie Chapman, the left kidney from Catharine Eddowes and the heart from Mary Kelly. Why?”

Raising his arm, Watson taps the two pickling jars with his finger, “These certainly look like human organs to me.” He drops his arm, “A uterus and a heart, I would say. But no left kidney, mind you.”