The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors (26 page)

Holmes awkwardly but gratefully divested himself of the child and managed to smile politely. “I am afraid you will find it is, ah, somewhat damp, ma’am.”

“Oh, dear. I shall attend to it at once,” she said, enfolding the child in her arms once again. “You will excuse me, I am sure. Whatever must you think of us?”

Reverend Barnett was all smiles. “Yes, yes, of course, m’dear. And a nice cup of tea for our guest, if someone below can see to it. Thank you so very much, Henrietta dear,” he called after the departing figure.

“Mr. Holmes, sir, take a chair, take a chair, please! No ceremony here, none at all. Do make yourself comfortable — and never mind the clutter, I pray you. It is our natural state here, I fear. Clutter, clutter everywhere, clutter and confusion.” He laughed. “I no longer apologize for it, you see. I merely fall back upon my Nathaniel Ward!”

Holmes looked at him blankly. “Do you indeed?”

Reverend Barnett took a deep breath and struck a pose, left hand over heart and right index finger stabbing the air: “‘If the whole conclave of Hell,’” he quoted with mock seriousness, “‘can so compolitize exadverse and diametrical contraditions as to compolitize such a multimonstrous maufrey of heteroclites and quicquidlibets quietly, I trust I may say with all humble reverence they can do more than the Senate of Heaven.’ Hah!” he exclaimed. “I believe I have gotten it right, but I am never
quite sure. Are you familiar with Ward, sir? Not C of E, of course, but a good man nonetheless. Please correct me if I quoted him wrong!”

Holmes raised his hands helplessly and laughed. “A lack in my education, I am certain, but I fear the gentleman’s existence has escaped my notice.”

“Yes? Well, never mind, never mind. I am sure you did not come here to discuss the eccentric writings of seventeenth-century clerics with me, though I confess to you quite shamelessly that I am considered somewhat of an authority.” He sat down in his chair and leaned back, the expression on his kindly face becoming quizzical. It was obvious he was overcome with curiosity. “But what does bring you, Mr. Holmes? What kind wind favors us with your presence? No, no, don’t tell me! Allow me to make use of
my
deductive powers!” He leaned forward and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper that under other circumstances would have been comical. “It must be the dreadful murders, mustn’t it?”

“Indeed it must, sir.”

“Ah, yes, I thought so. How very sad, how very sad.” He shook his head. “The official police have been here on several occasions, of course. We gave them all the cooperation we could, though little enough it was. So many questions, so many questions. And so few answers. There’s the pity of it, you see. There just don’t seem to be any answers, only questions. But how I ramble on! Forgive me, Mr. Holmes, please do. Of course I shall answer any questions you care to put to me, and answer them to the very best of my ability, of course I shall. The good Lord knows I would like to be of help, and in any way I can.”

But there was nothing he could add to the scant knowledge Holmes already had, nor could Mrs. Barnett when she returned five minutes later with the tea. She was saddened by the murders, of course — deeply saddened — but hardly shocked. Nothing that occurred in the East
End could shock her anymore. Holmes sensed that behind that flighty exterior was a sensible, down-to-earth woman, highly intelligent and unusually resourceful, and fully capable of not only understanding the realities of life in the East End, but of dealing with them. His assessment of her was quickly verified.

“When we first came here fifteen years ago to take over St. Jude’s,” she said, “the bishop told Samuel that it was the worst parish in the district. But even he didn’t know how really bad it was! It is a human sewer, you see. There are nine hundred thousand souls in the East End, eighty thousand of them in Whitechapel. Of these, eleven thousand are unemployed and homeless, living the lives of savages, degrading whatever they touch, incapable of helping themselves or even allowing themselves to be helped. The worst part of it, of course, is the children. They are so ill used — abused in the most unimaginable ways.”

Reverend Barnett nodded in agreement. “Yes, but there is improvement, there is improvement. We must not forget that. The passage of the Criminal Law Amendment three years ago has helped immeasurably. The age of consent for females is now sixteen, you know, and that at least has put quite a dent into what was a flourishing trade in child prostitutes. Why, up until then it was possible to purchase a twelve-year-old lass for twenty pounds. Purchase one outright. And whilst I harbor no illusions that that sort of thing does not still go on — yes, with young boys as well as girls — at least we now have laws to oppose it, where before we had nothing.”

Mrs. Barnett caught sight of a strained expression on Holmes’s face. She smiled grimly. “Does the subject shock you, Mr. Holmes? Or does it shock you that I, a woman, should engage in a discussion of it?” She held up her hand. “You need not answer. I fear I’ve made you feel uncomfortable. Well, I do not apologize for it. While I know it is not something to be discussed in polite society, and decidedly not by a
woman, that, you see, is part of the problem. It is not discussed, therefore it is not dealt with. Sometimes I think we English are so very proper that we would rather have our house burn down than disturb public tranquility by shouting ‘Fire.’ You will forgive a woman’s temerity I hope, but shocking though it may be, the matter must be brought out into the open. The rate of syphilis among our children is alarmingly high: One fifth of the children we administer to suffer from inherited venereal disease. And sexual abuse is rampant. Living conditions are so terribly crowded, you see, with as many as six or eight to a single room. Sometimes there is but a single bed, and sometimes the room is shared by two separate families. The incidence of child rape and of incest among father and daughter and brother and sister is deplorable: They simply know no better and see nothing wrong with it.”

Holmes was truly dumbfounded by Mrs. Barnett’s words. Decent women did not discuss such things, certainly not the wife of a clergyman, and certainly not in mixed company. Such words as
rape
and
incest
and even
sex
were just not used. And though he above all individuals recognized the hypocrisy of Victorian morality, such recognition did not lessen his sense of shock or embarrassment at hearing the words spoken.

Reverend Barnett suffered from no such inhibitions. The subject, and his wife’s open discussion of it, was obviously something he was used to. He nodded in agreement with what she had said. “It is the drink that is to blame for much of the degradation, you know.”

“Oh, absolutely!” said Mrs. Barnett. “A measure of gin costs a mere three halfpennies. It only encourages our people to drink themselves into insensibility. It breeds violence and cruelty, and causes a breakdown in family life. I have always maintained that if we were to make the cost of gin more dear, it would go a lot further than any act of Parliament in solving the problems we are faced with here.”

The canon patted her hand. “You are quite right, of course, m’dear, but there is progress, that you cannot deny. Our task is not a hopeless one, far from it. Our young students work wonders! What a fine group of young men! They are out among the poor every day, giving counsel and aid and helping to spread the gospel. Every day I see progress made, every day!”

It was with difficulty that Holmes managed to steer the discussion back to the murders.

“Your students have taken to patrolling the streets at night since these atrocities have begun, I have been told.”

“Quite so. As their warden, I deemed it part of their mission here to join in the hunt for the killer. I will be quite honest with you, Mr. Holmes: Even if our lads are not successful in helping to apprehend the man, the very fact they are able to show they are interested in what happens to these poor, unfortunate women is of assistance to us in our work. It brings us closer to the residents, you see.”

“I do indeed. But it is quite possible they can be of material help. I have several questions to put to you regarding where they have gone and what they have seen.”

Reverend Barnett, true to his word, answered all the questions put to him, but was able to shed little light on the murders. “I know little more than what I read in the newspapers, I fear. I have my own theories, of course, but of what use they will be to you I cannot imagine.”

It took little encouragement on the part of Holmes for Canon Barnett to expound at some length.

“He is not of the district, of that I am certain. Death is no stranger here, to be sure, and cruel, violent death is an everyday occurrence, but not this kind, no — not this satanic, ritualistic sort of thing! It is an outsider, Mr. Holmes, an individual who knows our streets well, who is no stranger to our precincts, but surely not one of our own. What
makes me so certain is simply this: None of our people would have the ingenuity, or the energy.”

Holmes nodded. It was an astute observation.

Canon Barnett paused and smiled slyly. “As to how this fellow makes his escape? Ah, well, I have my theories there too. I have used your method, Mr. Holmes, in reaching my conclusions, you see. I have ruled out the impossible and have settled upon the merely improbable. If he has managed to avoid the police patrols in the streets, it must mean that he is not using the streets! There you have it, plain and simple! Look elsewhere, sir! Look elsewhere!”

Holmes rewarded the clergyman with a bow of approval from his chair. “You have missed your calling, reverend sir! That is certainly a most ingenious line of reasoning, and I vow I shall pursue it with all my heart.”

Both the Barnetts accompanied him downstairs to the front door, but he was unable to make his departure before one parting story from the canon. “You are familiar with Dr. Barnardo and his homes for children, of course? His good works are renowned throughout the district, especially those works performed on behalf of the orphaned and maimed. He took tea with us the other day and he told me this tale:

“He makes it a practice to call regularly at some of the worst of the lodging houses in the district for the purpose of chatting up the female residents known to him, his aim being both to reassure them and commiserate with them and to give them what little comfort he can. The killer’s victims, as you know, are all unfortunate creatures from the meanest of these doss-houses, all sisters under the skin, so to speak. They are terrified, of course — absolutely terrified. Dr. Barnardo encountered one such woman just the other day who told him that she knew one of the earlier victims, poor soul — I forget which one it was. And she said to him bitterly and tearfully that it was her belief that the
authorities had no interest in catching the killer, no interest at all. ‘They just don’t care,’ she said. ‘They don’t care about him and they don’t care about the likes of us.’ Oh, how she ranted on and on, Dr. Barnardo told me. ‘We’re all up to no good and no one cares what becomes of us,’ she railed.

“The pathetic thing of it is, Mr. Holmes, the saddest thing, is that the woman to whom Dr. Barnardo was speaking was Elizabeth Stride, one of the two women who was murdered the other night.”

Canon Barnett looked down at the floor. “Dr. Barnardo didn’t realize it at the time, of course. He knew her only as Long Liz, the name by which she was known to everyone hereabouts. It wasn’t until after he visited the mortuary and viewed the remains that he realized it was the very same woman he had spoken to a few days earlier, the very same woman who expressed such bitterness and sadness and such fear.”

His eyes moistened. “Something must be done,” said the reverend softly, “something must be done.” He gripped Holmes by the arm and gazed earnestly into his eyes. “And I know that you are just the chap to do it.”
⁶⁵

Holmes awoke with a start at the sound of a footfall upon the stair. The ashes in the grate were cold, and the first wan light of dawn began to materialize at the window. He had fallen asleep in his chair and had remained there the entire night, the snifter of brandy untouched at his elbow. Stiffly he rose from his chair and went to the door. It was Abberline, his clothes rumpled, his eyes rimmed with red, his face drawn and haggard.

“I saw the glow of your lamp through the window as I drove by,” he explained, “so I assumed you were already up and about. I hope you don’t mind a caller at this uncivilized hour.”

Holmes stifled a yawn. “Like you, Inspector, I never did make it to my bed last night. Come in, come in. Mrs. Hudson shall no doubt
have a good hot pot of coffee before us very shortly. What news do you bring?”

“News? Oh, no news, I fear. We’ve been chasing shadows, wills-o’-the-wisp. Just the ordinary routine sort of thing with nothing to show for it. Another sleepless night, is all.”

Holmes grunted noncommittally as he busied himself turning up the table lamps.

“You’ve seen the new description given out by the City Police, I presume,” asked Abberline.

“Yes, in the
Gazette
. It bears a vague similarity to that of the man I saw in Mitre Square, insofar as his height and approximate age and costume are concerned. But it differs in some of the other particulars. The red handkerchief around his neck is a bit fanciful, I think, though I was never really close enough to him to see all that much, and the suggestion that he had the overall appearance of a sailor is utter rubbish. Since when does a man of the sea wear a deerstalker hat and a cutaway coat? How they ever reached that conclusion is beyond me.”

“I understand it was based on the observations of a passerby who claimed to have seen our friend with the Eddowes woman in the square — just minutes before the murder took place. The man had the gait and bearing of a seaman, he said.”

“And this passerby, he could tell that the neckerchief the suspect may or may not have been wearing was red? In the darkness of the night? What enviable eyesight this passerby must have. He would put a cat to shame!”

“Well, he claims the moon was very bright — almost as light as day.”