The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors (6 page)

“Holmes!”

“I have spoken to police constables, publicans, ladies of the street, missionaries, derelicts, teamsters, and jarvies, and just about everyone else you could think of short of the lord chancellor, and for all the good it has done me I might as well have frittered away the day as I see you have done.”

Watson ignored the barb. “You have seen Abberline again?”

“No,” he said disgustedly. “To what purpose? He has nothing, poor fellow. God knows he is trying hard enough. A good man, that — far better than most.” High praise, coming from Holmes.

“So, what’s your next step?”

Holmes brooded for a minute before answering, then shook his head violently as if to rid himself of depressing thoughts. “My next step? Why, a good wash-up and dinner! If I am not mistaken, that is Mrs. Hudson’s footfall upon the tread, and she most assuredly is accompanied by a leg of mutton, if the smells emanating from the kitchen are to be credited. And I, dear fellow, am famished!”

For all his protestations of hunger, Holmes ate very little that Sabbath
meal; he merely pecked at his food, listlessly moving it around the plate, deep in thought. And when the dinner service was cleared away, he moved to his chair by the fireplace and spent the evening brooding, in one of his brown studies, not even looking up when several hours later Watson finally left the room to retire, quietly wishing him a good night.

The next morning, a bright and sunny one, Watson awoke at his usual hour to find Holmes once again already gone. This time Mrs. Hudson was at least able to impart the news, when she arrived with the breakfast things, that he had left hurriedly, in summons to an urgent telegram, that he was carrying his battered Gladstone bag, and that she overheard him tell the cabby that his destination was Paddington Station. “And when I called after him to ask what time he wanted dinner served, he shouted back, ‘seven-thirty next October.’ Now, really!” She shook her head and moved toward the door. “Oh, he said to tell you to be sure to take notice of the mantel.”

Watson went there at once, where he retrieved the note Holmes had left for him. It took a moment to decipher the hurried scrawl:

W —

Off to the countryside for a few days.

Looks to be an interesting little matter.

If nothing else, I shall enjoy the comforts

and diversions of a country manor.

H.
¹⁵

The “few days” turned into several more. It was late Friday evening before Holmes returned from the countryside, a glow in his cheeks and, for once, in good humor. He declined to go into the details of the case, however, and even refrained from telling Watson where in the countryside he had been.

“His lordship insisted upon total confidentiality, and I gave him my word. Can’t say as I blame him, though he is hardly the first old fool with a young wife and a randy groundskeeper. But it is nothing that would interest you, dear fellow, I assure you. Merely a sordid little case of blackmail, a simple matter after all. It just took a while to sort out. A pretty house, though, with quite a lovely park. Unfortunately, the food was abominable. The lord of the manor is a vegetarian, would you believe: one of those rabid antivivisectionist fellows. Professes to despise all blood sports, and even chases behind the local hunt in his trap, ringing a cowbell and bellowing quotations of that Oscar Whatshisname chap.
¹⁶
Won’t allow meat or fish at his table. Not even an egg for breakfast! God, what I would not do for a good thick cut of roast beef. Is it too late to dine at Rules, do you think? Oh, I see that you have been at table already. Pity, that. Well, perhaps tomorrow, if you have no other engagement. Yes, Rules tomorrow: something to which we may look forward!”

But it was not to be. It was shortly after seven A.M. when the two of them were awakened. There stood Mrs. Hudson on the landing, in robe and slippers and old-fashioned mobcap, the unmistakable uniform of a telegraph boy behind her in the shadows. “Most urgent it is, the lad says. Is it bad news, do you think? Oh, heavens, it must be at this hour!”

“Calm yourself, Mrs. Hudson, dear lady,” Holmes said, patting her on the arm. “Back to your bed now, and mind the stairs. No, no, don’t trouble about breakfast. A shilling for the lad, Watson, if you would be so kind. Make it two, seeing the earliness of the hour.”

Holmes turned up the lamp on the side table and tore open the flimsy envelope. A mere glance at the telegram was all that was needed.

“Quick, Watson, into your clothes! The devil’s afoot!”

S
ATURDAY
, S
EPTEMBER
8, 1888

“You know my method. It is founded upon the observation of trifles.”

—
The Boscombe Valley Mystery

I
t was a wild dash through the nearly empty streets of a gray-streaked London, the clatter of the horse’s hooves loud against the cobbles, Holmes banging on the ceiling of the hansom cab with his walking stick, urging the driver on to even greater feats of recklessness. Fortunately there was little traffic at that hour to impede their progress.

“Faster, man! Faster!” Holmes shouted. “In heaven’s name, faster!”

Watson, who had been handed the telegram as soon as he was bundled half dressed into the hansom by Holmes, was trying unsuccessfully to make out its message by the feeble light of the coach lamp, but the jouncing and buffeting of the speeding conveyance made it impossible.

“Great Scot, Holmes!” he shouted to make himself heard over the clamor. “Will you not tell me what has happened?”

“Surely you’ve guessed!” Holmes shouted back. “There’s been another murder in the East End!”

“Good Lord!”

“That’s from Abberline,” snapped Holmes, gesturing to the crumpled message in Watson’s hand. Once again he called up to the driver, “Faster, man! Can’t you go faster!”

Watson, for one, devoutly wished that he could not, for the coach was swaying alarmingly as it was; he could keep his seat only with the greatest of difficulty: His hat was knocked askew at almost every turning, and he found himself gripping the side strap so tightly that his hand hurt from the pressure.

“When did it occur?” he shouted to Holmes as he resettled himself in his seat after a particularly wild swing around Oxford Circus. “Does the telegram say?”

“Barely an hour ago, from what I gather. Fortunately the post office was at its most efficient. I’m thankful for that!”
¹⁷

“Does Abberline give any details?”

“No,” came the shouted reply. “The telegram says merely, ‘Come in haste. Another Whitechapel outrage.’ And then the address, Twenty-nine Hanbury Street.”

“Hanbury Street? Not all that far from the site of the last murder, is it?”

“No, not all that far. A short stroll away; a half mile, perhaps.”

They then lapsed into silence, each wrapped in his own thoughts as the hansom sped through the city.

Familiar streets and landmarks flashed by in a kaleidoscopic blur as the daylight grew stronger, and the relatively few pedestrians at large turned to stare in alarm as the coach hurtled past: Oxford Street into Tottenham Court Road into High Holborn into Newgate, past the towering dome of St. Paul’s into Cheapside, Cornhill, Leadenhall, Aldgate — their progress from the West End of London to the East End was made in what must have been near-record time. It ran the course not
only of the city’s streets but of its social and economic groupings as well, for while the two ends of London were mere miles apart geographically, they were poles apart in every other aspect. Their journey took them past mansions and palaces of the titled and wealthy, the sedate homes of the merely affluent; past shops filled with finery and all manner of delicacies, through lower-middle-class neighborhoods, shabbily genteel, into poor working-class districts, grimy, grim, and colorless.

The hansom took a particularly violent turn as it rounded into Commercial Street from Aldgate, the horse veering wildly to avoid a lumbering brewer’s dray: Both of them were knocked sharply to the side. The jarvey now was forced to slow his horse; the streets were getting narrower, the traffic heavier. They rode on in tense silence: The jostling ride made conversation difficult in any case, and the scarcity of information made it pointless.

The sky had brightened considerably in the meantime, but still the day promised to be a drizzly-gray one. Visibility was such that it was just possible to make out distinctive features of the buildings they hurried past. Holmes leaned forward expectantly in his seat, peering onward.

“Ah, we are almost there,” he said at last. “If I’m not mistaken, there’s a bevy of ‘bobbies’
¹⁸
milling about up ahead.”

Watson, too, spotted the police picket in the distance. Obviously, the street leading to the scene of the crime had been cordoned off, and despite the early hour, small crowds of onlookers stood off to one side, straining to catch a glimpse of whatever it was that had caused the police to converge on the neighborhood in the first place.

The hansom jolted to a halt at the corner of Commercial Street and Hanbury: A rope barricade across the intersection would permit them to travel no farther. Holmes pushed open the doors and bounded from the cab.

“Pay the man, Watson! I promised him a sovereign if he didn’t spare his nag!”

The group of helmeted constables at the barrier had turned upon the coach’s arrival, and a large sergeant with a cavalry mustache and proud bearing sauntered over, barring Holmes’s path.

“And where might you be going, sir?”

“My name is Holmes. Show me to Inspector Abberline at once, if you please. I’m expected.”

The policeman’s attitude changed at once. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes? Yes, indeed, sir! This way, sir. Mind your topper goin’ under the rope. Bagley! Escort these gents to Inspector Abberline, then report back ‘ere. Smartly now, none of yer dawdlin’! An’ do up your butt’n, for God’s sake!”

In appearance, Hanbury Street was not very much different from Buck’s Row, the site of the earlier murder: It was forever in shadow. Narrow and dark, the sun’s rays rarely ever reached its recesses, and the brooding tenements that lined both sides of the street seemed shriveled with cold. They were dilapidated affairs, three-storied brick structures for the most part, with shops on the ground floor and flats above. A few contained boardinghouses on the upper floors: doss-houses, as they were called, reeking dormitories with rows of beds at four pence a night. Holmes and Watson picked their way through rotting garbage to where a small circle of police officials in civilian clothes was gathered in front of an open doorway at number 29. The doorway was located alongside an empty storefront which, as indicated by a weathered sign over the darkened window, was at one time occupied by a barbershop, N. BRILL, HAIRDRESSER AND PERFUMER the sign said in fading block letters, while other, smaller advertisements in the storefront window extolled the virtues of VASELINE and BRYLCREEM hair dressings.

The squat shape of Abberline separated itself from the other forms as Watson and Holmes approached.

“Well, Mr. Holmes,” he said by way of greeting, “your prognostication was entirely correct. It would seem that you have your other murder.”

“Which provides me with scant satisfaction,” said Holmes tersely. “The particulars, if you please.”

Without further preamble the police inspector quickly presented him with the salient facts. It did not take him long, for the facts were threadbare and few. The body was found in a rear yard by a lodger, a yard located behind the building they now faced. It lay there still.

“You are certain it was done by the same hand, are you?” Holmes asked, peering through the open doorway that presumably led to the site.

“See for yourself, sir. There cannot be two such devils stalking the streets. It’s our man, all right, make no mistake.” With a gesture Abberline directed them through the door into a passageway. Dank and smelling of urine, it extended through to the rear of the building to another door which opened onto a small courtyard in the back. There were three stone steps leading down. At the foot of the steps, alongside a low wooden fence enclosing the yard, lay what appeared to be a bundle of rags. In the gray light it took a moment or two for their eyes to adjust and for them to realize that it was a body they were looking down upon. It was that of a fully clad woman sprawled on her back, her legs drawn up with her feet flat on the ground, her knees turned obscenely outward. Her clothing was badly disarrayed and pulled up over her waist, exposing the lower portion of her extremities. She was horribly mutilated.

After only the briefest of glances at the terrible sight, Holmes looked around him with an almost casual air, scanning the yard and the surrounding rooftops as if the dead woman were incidental. The sense of urgency and extreme excitement that he exhibited all the way from Baker Street was now nowhere in evidence. Instead, he displayed a cold, analytical air, calm and self-contained, almost disinterested.

“Watson, this is more in your line,” he said, gesturing toward the body at his feet. “I would value your opinion. In the meantime, I’ll just take a brief stroll.” He then wandered off, examining the ground as he went, like a man who had just dropped his last coin and would go without dinner unless he found it. Several of the police detectives exchanged looks. There were incredulous smiles on the faces of more than a few.