Whitechapel: The Final Stand of Sherlock Holmes

BOOK: Whitechapel: The Final Stand of Sherlock Holmes
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WHITECHAPEL

The Final Stand of Sherlock Holmes

Gentleman's Edition

 

 

By Bernard J. Schaffer

 

 

CONTACT INFORMATION

Official Website of Bernard J. Schaffer

www.ApiarySociety.com

 

EMAIL:

[email protected]

 

Twitter

@ApiarySociety

 

 

 

 

 

 

WHITECHAPEL: The Final Stand of Sherlock Holmes—Gentleman's Edition

Copyright 2011 by Bernard J. Schaffer. All rights reserved.

ISBN-13: 978-1467943444

 

 

Edited by Bill Thompson and Karen (“The Angry Hatchet”) S.

Cover and Interior Design by Streetlight Graphics

www.streetlightgraphics.com

 

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. No reference to any real person, living or dead, should be inferred.

 

TABLE OF CONTENTS

 

 

PRAISE FOR WHITECHAPEL

 

AUTHOR'S NOTE

 

PROLOGUE

 

ACT I: PRETTY GIRLS MAKE GRAVES

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

 

ACT II: COME ARMAGEDDON, COME

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

 

ACT III: YOU ARE THE QUARRY

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty One

Twenty Two

Twenty Three

Twenty Four

 

ACT IV: NOVEMBER SPAWNED A MONSTER

Twenty Five

Twenty Six

Twenty Seven

Twenty Eight

Twenty Nine

Thirty

Thirty One

Thirty Two

Thirty Three

Thirty Four

 

ACT V: A LIGHT THAT NEVER GOES OUT

Thirty Five

Thirty Six

Thirty Seven

Thirty Eight

Thirty Nine

 

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

 

AUTHOR'S DEDICATION

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

 

Praise for Whitechapel: The Final Stand of Sherlock Holmes

 

 

“Riveting and gripping.”
—Bookpleasures.com

“A Masterpiece.”
—5Star Review, Amazon

“Absolutely brilliant!”
—5Star Review, Amazon UK

“One of the best books ever.”
—5Star Review, Amazon

 

 

Praise for Women and Other Monsters

 

 

“Nothing short of amazing.”
—David Hulegaard, author of Nobel

“Better than Stephen King.”
—Al Fetherlin, author of Release

“Thank God for Schaffer.”
—KindleObsessed.com

 

AUTHOR’S NOTE

 

The following edition of WHITECHAPEL: THE FINAL STAND of SHERLOCK HOLMES contains no profanity, and edited versions of the violence that appears in the original version. However, it is not suitable for children or those who are of weak constitution.

This story is a factual representation of the crimes of Jack the Ripper, a sadistic, ritualized serial killer who existed in Victorian times. There are still scenes that discuss and show his deeds.

I felt it necessary to make this version available to readers who would like to enjoy WHITECHAPEL but are not prepared to face the stark reality of the crimes and times in which they occurred.

Also, and perhaps most importantly, Mom: You are allowed to read the book now.

 

Yours Truly,

Bernard J. Schaffer

 

PROLOGUE

 

 

Annie Chapman slumped against the doorway to her landlord’s office. “Tim? Ain’t got money for me doss just yet. I feel quite ill. Any chance you might spot an ol’ bunter?”

Tim Donovan counted the last coins stacked on his desk, jotting down the amount, and swept them into his register. He turned the key and dropped it down his shirt. “You’ve got money for beer, but none for bed, that it?”

“No. It’s not like that, Tim,” Annie said, fishing in her pocket. She lifted a torn piece of envelope to show him the pills within, “See? Had to get some medicine at the ward earlier. They took me last bit of change.”

“I heard yeh downed a pint with Freddie Stevens just an hour ago. He told me it when he paid his doss. Crossingham’s is a house of lodging, not charity, Annie Chapman. No doss money, no doss.”

Annie shrugged, putting the pills back in her pocket. “Not a big ‘fing. Never mind, then, Tim.”

Donovan sighed. “Listen, why don’t you go and see Brummy? He fancies you. See if he’ll pay your way tonight.”

Annie shook her head, “No, don’t want to do that. Brummy’s angry with me because I told him I’d take care of him if he bought us a pint last week, but I was just trying to get the pint.”

“Yeh don’t like Brummy?”

“It’s not that.” Annie lowered her eyes, “Just prefer strangers. People I never have to see again. Hold us a bed, all right?”

“Wait a tick. I was just reading about that girl they found last week. Some poor bird named Polly Nichols. Paper said her throat was cut from ear to ear, an’ they found her body right over on Buck’s Row. Dangerous out there. Lots of strange people about. I think you should go see Brummy and square with him.”

“You’re a sweetie for caring, Tim. I am coming back for that room, so don’t let it.” Annie left Donovan’s office, heading down the steps, calling back to him, “I’ll soon be back.”

Donovan shook his head, frowning as Annie descended the stairs. He opened his ledger and penciled one of the rooms as occupied, leaving the “PAID” space open under Annie’s name.

Dorset Street ran from Crispin to Commercial Street, and Crossingham’s Lodging House sat in the Spitalfields section of the East End. There were so many flophouses that locals called it “Dosset Street.” Annie had stayed for varying lengths of time at the Brittania, the Blue Coat Boy, Commercial Street Chambers, and the Horn of Plenty, but none of them would even let her in the door without money-in-hand. There were other houses, near Flower and Dean Street, but Annie would not venture into that area alone. Even within the whole stinking cesspool of Whitechapel, that particular quarter of a mile was infamous. Annie had heard Polly Nichols, the dead girl in the paper, was from around those parts. Really no surprise there.

No one seemed to be about on Commercial Street at that hour. Annie looked down Little Paternoster Row and continued on. What she needed was a generous drunk she could take care of with a quick rub off. She did not feel up for much more than that. As she turned toward Spitalfields Market, fishing a bit of baked potato from her pocket, she let out a long, slow burp into the cool September air.

The beer provided earlier by Freddie Stevens had cooled her fever, and now she was worried about her stomach. If it took a bad turn, she’d be retching beer, potato, and several small white medicinal pills all over the street. Waste of the money she’d spent at the ward then. She found a bench and sat down, waiting for her belly to settle. The wheels of a hansom cab turned across the cobblestones of Hanbury Street at Brick Lane. The horse’s hooves stopped, and the rear of the cab opened. It was too murky to see the man exiting, but as he shut the door behind him, the horse began walking again, leading the carriage away.

Annie munched her potato as the man began making his way toward her up Hanbury. She did not think he saw her yet. The sixth anniversary of her daughter Emily’s death had come and gone with Annie refusing to acknowledge it. She had drunk herself stupid and spent the day in a jail cell.

Ah, John, she thought. He was no good for work, no good for anything really, except drinking. Annie begged and begged the landlord to let them stay, crying how Emily’s condition would only deteriorate rapidly once they were on the street. The landlord did not care. He sent the police to remove them, and one of them cracked John across the skull with his nightstick when John protested.

The man was coming closer. Almost time to call out to him.

It occurred to Annie that Emily’s eighteenth birthday was coming up that September, and it would be time to visit her grave. She would visit John’s as well.

It was only a few short weeks after they were kicked out of their flat that Emily pressed up against her mother in the dark alley they had been staying in, shivering, complaining of pain. Annie kissed her child’s head, stroking her hair, whispering that it would be all right as long as they stayed together. Emily never woke up.

Annie and John agreed that it would be best if they simply went their separate ways and leave one another in peace. It was only after they parted that John began to reveal the content of his character. He sent Annie an allowance through the post every week, tracking her down wherever she was staying. In 1886 Annie was living with a man in Spitalfields, and even when John found out, he still sent her the money. Good man, Annie thought. Never find another like him. When the money stopped coming that December, Annie assumed it was because John was finally tired of supporting her and her habits. She was wrong, though. John was dead.

Annie blinked, trying to pay attention to the man coming closer through the darkness of Hanbury Street. He was near enough that Annie called out, “Hello, guv’ner!” kicking her legs back and forth on the bench, more excitedly than she felt. “Feeling good natured this evening?”

“I suppose so,” the man said.

“Care for any company to while away the time?” she said.

The man looked her up and down. The wide brim of his top hat blocked Annie from seeing much of his face. She could see that he was younger than she, and well-kept. One of the posh West Enders who liked to come down and slum it up with East End bunters, she thought. “I was looking for somewhere that is quiet and dark,” he said.

“I know just the place,” Annie said, getting up from the bench. “Gladly take you there if you got a thruppence.” The man nodded. “Good,” Annie said. “For a few extra I’ll even kiss it.”

“Will you?”

Annie nodded, “Yes, if you’ve got the coin.” She put her hand to his chest, cupping it close, showing the man how it was done. “Put your money right in me palm, like that. There’s plenty a robbers about that’d love to knock one a’ us on the head while we is settling up. Can’t have that happen, now can I? Not to me fine, handsome new friend. But you have nothing to fear, my dear. Ol’ Annie will protect you from the things that go bump in the night,” she said, bumping her hip against his, and laughing.

BOOK: Whitechapel: The Final Stand of Sherlock Holmes
5.59Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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