by Seamas Duffy
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ replied Holmes, ‘but what on earth would she be doing wandering about the deserted streets of the City at that time of night?’
Lestrade shrugged.
‘Where does the passage lead?’ asked Holmes.
‘Only to a disused churchyard.’
‘And you have searched it?’
‘Yes, we found nothing.’
‘Well, let us pass on, then.’
We set off again towards Moorgate Street and then turned west through the labyrinth of another slum quarter. We came to an ill-lit square, straggling a junction of four deserted streets, which seemed to hold an even more malevolent atmosphere than Frying Pan Alley. The area was not as densely inhabited, but was suffused with the smell of fried fish, sawdust and rotting vegetables overlaid with the sharp reek of hops from the Angel Brewery nearby, save where the pungent odour of tomcats emanated from the side courts and yards. Lestrade once again guided us to the actual site of the murder. Falcon Lane was another narrow, dingy passageway, which led from Falcon Square to a quadrangle where the buildings were mostly offices and tall warehouses. There were few dwellings, however Lestrade pointed across the street to a tall, narrow, red-brick house.
‘On the opposite side of the passage from where the body was found, lives the warehouse manager of the Enfield Electric Company, a Mr Walter Davies, and his family and servants,’ he said. ‘The family had been wakened at various times during the night, due to one of the children being taken unwell; at least one adult in the house was awake all through the night and a light would have been burning.’
‘And they heard nothing?’ asked Holmes.
‘Not a sound.’
‘Then that settles it. It is perfectly inconceivable that any murderer would have struck here, so close is it to the door of the house where a lamp was burning through the night. It would be madness to try to commit a murder here. You cannot have failed to notice the marked similarity in the three locations we have seen: each one is dimly lit, or in a locality with few residents, and in each case a spot has been chosen a few yards from a main street – why? To make it easy for the assailant, or an accomplice, to bring the body in a cab, drag it out, and dump it there. There can be no doubt about that.’
‘Nothing came out about that at the inquests,’ said Lestrade.
‘What do you think, Watson?’ said Holmes, turning to me.
‘I had come to no firm conclusion on it,’ I replied. ‘The question of where the murders were committed was not mentioned in any of the police surgeon’s reports.’
‘No, but then my frequent remarks about the official police lacking imaginative powers can equally be ascribed to the medical profession, who have a similar predisposition to accept things at face value,’ said Holmes.
‘But why should the murderer wish to move the bodies at all?’ the Inspector went on doggedly.
‘To conceal the true place of murder is the most obvious reason, as it may give a clue to the residence or the habitat of the assailant,’ I said.
‘I think it is pretty obvious that the victims may have been lured into a cab on the prospect of conducting business,’ replied Holmes. ‘But the question is, why not simply dump the bodies in some vacant ground, or in open spaces such as railway goods yards which abound, or drop them into one of the many waterways? Instead the hypothetical assailant carries them, at enormous risk, through some of the most densely-populated areas of the city, which can only multiply his difficulties one hundredfold. Consider the mere practicalities of conveying a body through the streets of London, even under the cover of darkness, at one or two o’clock in the morning. There are the usual loafers and idlers abroad at such an hour, and constables on the beat and on fixed point duty. One would require a good knowledge of the city streets, and also of the habits of its denizens and their guardians, in order to evade all of these. The assailant would almost certainly have needed a four-wheeler and that would put him in the power of the cabman. One may consider the jarveys of the city to be an amenable lot; however, I can scarcely imagine one willing to risk his neck by becoming an accessory after the fact of murder for the sake of a few sovereigns.’
‘Of course, he may be a cabman himself,’ I suggested.
‘It is not impossible, but the fifteen shillings which have been left at the scenes of the murders would represent a couple of days wages for a cabman,’ replied Holmes, ‘and then every cab is recognizable by its number too, which would make it very risky.’
‘The bodies could just as easily have been transported in a gentleman’s private coach,’ I said, recalling Lestrade’s words.
‘But then such a coach might equally be recognized by the livery,’ said Holmes, ‘which would make it every bit as risky, especially after the second murder when, presumably, the constabulary would have been more alert.’
‘At least that would eliminate the jarvey,’ I said.
‘But only at the price of putting him in his own coachman’s power,’ said Holmes.
‘Unless he has some hold over the man,’ I replied.
‘Or pays him very well for his silence, I suppose,’ said Holmes.
‘He may drive his own coach when on these expeditions,’ Lestrade interjected.
‘It is an interesting hypothesis,’ answered Holmes, ‘but on the whole, an unlikely one.’
‘If it is not a jarvey in his own cab or a gentleman’s private coach, what then?’ the Inspector asked.
‘An idea is forming in my mind, but do not ask me to elaborate at this stage until I have more data. Whatever the method of disposing of the bodies, we must not lose sight of the question of the killer’s motive. We must look for some common link, someone who knew all three victims; our chief difficulty here, of course, is that it will be impossible to get anyone to admit to knowing this class of person.’
‘You have put your finger on it as usual, Mr Holmes,’ Lestrade replied, ‘for in cases like these, the success of the police depends very much on information supplied by the public. Even if there are no witnesses, sometimes people report that they have heard or seen something out of the ordinary. If you look at some of the neighbourhoods we have just come through, there are some of the vilest and lowest dens of crime and vice in the city; places that defy our notion of civilization: thieving, murder, and worse. Most of the beats in the area are double beats, for even our uniformed men daren’t walk through some of these places at night save together in an armed group. Most of the lowlife beggars here would cut their tongues out rather than speak a word to the official police; they have their own unwritten laws, and they avenge their wrongs by their own hands. You also have a lot of foreigners in these parts, the outcasts of Europe – mostly Jews from Poland and Russia, some of whom have had a pretty bad time of it at the hands of the Czar’s police. They will have nothing to do with any person in uniform, which is one reason why we can’t act against the protection rackets that go on. So you see, between their fear of the official police and concern for their own skins, I doubt that we shall get any help from that quarter.’
‘Yet they cannot all be bad,’ I said. ‘After all, what is the risk of collaborating with the police to help capture such a desperate character compared with the chance of having the life choked out of you?’
‘But you see, Doctor, so far it’s only these poor streetwalkers that have been attacked, and there are plenty respectable folks, though they might be alarmed by it all, who probably feel that the victims are only getting what they deserve; self-righteous is what I would call them. Ah, that reminds me, you wanted to look at the hoax letters, Mr Holmes.’
We drove back through the misty gloom to Scotland Yard. Lestrade brought us into his office and laid a pile of papers before us, which he had drawn from his desk. Holmes began to read them, and after a few minutes, shook his head in a mixture of wonder and amusement.
‘For sheer variety,’ said he, ‘this beats the marble rink dalliances and lost feather boas of the agony columns any day!’
‘At least half of them,’ I remarked, ‘claim either to have committed the crimes themselves or to be offering to supply the identity of the culprit for a sum of money ranging from a few shillings to a hundred pounds.’
‘Now, if a reward was to be offered that might be different,’ Lestrade smiled ruefully, ‘for the very same people would sell their own soul for the price of a half pint of gin! The first pile of letters I have shown you are the ones that we are fairly certain are either hoaxes or have been sent by near lunatics. This one here, for example, is from a chap we know as ‘Head First’. Bert Slater is his name, and he has admitted to nearly every murder that has happened in the last three years. Just dying to meet Jack Ketch face to face! Constable Adams knows the man quite well; an insomniac, perfectly harmless, and wouldn’t hurt a fly. He was a lighterman once – won the Doggett for Horseleydown – fell off a planking in the East India Dock one day, got a knock in the head, and was never the same again.’
‘It is also not unknown for an unscrupulous journalist or a sensationalist editor to add some fuel to the fire in order to keep a good story moving along; it has happened before,’ I remarked.
‘That’s right, do you remember the Ansell case of ’92? Stanbridge of the Eastern Argus got three months for wasting police time,’ Lestrade replied. ‘This collection here,’ he continued, taking out another envelope and laying it at Holmes’s elbow, ‘is a bit more sinister.’
Lestrade was right: some of the writers warned darkly, and ungrammatically, that further outrages were to be expected without providing any details, but one batch of letters stood out from the rest. There were three of them, which had come in pale green envelopes, and were laid out with great precision; the contents consisted of scriptural texts carefully pasted on to the pages with annotations typed very neatly below in red ink. Holmes glanced over these very keenly.
‘There are a few slim clues which may guide us to the identity of the sender,’ he said. ‘Expensive typing paper and envelopes; the typewriter is fairly new – no sign of wear on the keys. American machine undoubtedly … almost certainly either an Underwood No. 2 or a Remington No. 6, I should say. These are recent models, so there cannot be too many in circulation.’
Holmes held a sheet of paper to his nose. ‘Keys recently cleaned and yet it is a new machine; therefore, someone who is rather fastidious to the point of obsession; written by a man, I believe, for no educated woman would use such language. There are several other minor indications, but those are the principal ones. Now let us take a look at the envelopes: the address is typed – to “Inspector Lestrade”, so someone has gone to the trouble of finding out who is in charge of the case. Postmark the same in all three: Kensington. Of course, many people think that a typed note is less likely than a written one to give a clue to their identity because a strictly graphological examination is not possible. Nothing could be further from the truth, for each typewriter – even a new one – has an almost unique set of characteristics.’
‘I was not aware of it,’ said Lestrade.
‘It is a curious thing, you know; a typewriter has really quite as much individuality as a man’s or a woman’s handwriting – a fact which helped me to trap that devious swine Windibank in ’89. No two of them produce exactly the same effect.’
‘Then we ought to have a fair chance of tracing the machine to the buyer?’ asked Lestrade.
‘I should think so, providing it was bought in this country. I should begin by checking all the shops in the Kensington area which sell typewriting machines – try Meredith & Dodds in Kensington Church Street and Wright’s in the High Street first; those are the biggest suppliers to the private market. Failing that, try the Atlantic Typewriter Company, a few doors along from Wright’s, who supply mainly offices and banks. Find out how many people have recently purchased either model, along with a red ink-ribbon. As both models are fairly new, the number is likely to be small, and you ought to have your man.’
‘I shall get someone on to this right away,’ said Lestrade making a note.
‘Have a look at these, Watson,’ said Holmes. I opened the first one, which contained the following:
‘HARLOTS AND ABOMINATIONS OF THE EARTH, 12th June 1895
Revelation x: 5 – Blessed is he that watcheth. Revelation xvii: 1 – The angel said “Come hither; I will shew unto thee the judgment of the great whore.”’
Under these passages, the writer had added:
‘Serviam: I shall serve the Lord.’
The second letter read:
‘THE WRATH OF GOD, 17th June 1895
Revelation xviii: 1 – It has become the habitation of every foul spirit and the cage of every unclean and hateful bird.
Again there was a postscript:
‘I shall choke the breath from the unclean bird of the night.’
‘They are all postmarked on the afternoon of the days of the murders,’ said Holmes, ‘which makes it well-nigh impossible to determine whether they were sent by the actual killer, for the news would have been made public by that time. That means that they could have been written by anyone who had read of the murders in the papers. Notice that the writer does not make any mention of the details of the crimes.’
‘I noticed that,’ said Lestrade. ‘And this one here arrived after the third murder.’ Holmes glanced over it and handed it to me. It ran:
‘HIS SWORD SHALL PIERCE, HIS FIRE SHALL BURN, 21st June 1895
Revelation xvii: 4 – I saw a woman sit upon a scarlet coloured beast, full of names of blasphemy; and the woman was arrayed in scarlet colour having a golden cup in her hand full of the filthiness of her fornication.’
This time the writer had typed as an addendum:
‘I shall empty these vessels of sin, full of the tainted money of harlotry.’
‘They send a chill of horror through my spine,’ I said.
‘Bad as it has been,’ replied Holmes, ‘I feel sure that there is more to come.’
Chapter 3
It was quite an hour or more before my usual breakfast time when I rose next morning, but Holmes was already up and about.
‘Well, last night’s fog has dissipated in more ways than one,’ said he, lighting his pipe as the bright summer sun streamed through the window, ‘and I was in some ways indebted to our correspondent with the new typewriter.’ I noticed that he was surrounded by a pile of papers, and a map of London lay open beside him.
‘I have been thinking about those letters,’ I replied. ‘Even if they were not the work of the murderer, that anyone should glory in this … this cold-blooded slaughter is perfectly inhuman. You know, Holmes, even the most battle-hardened soldier I ever came across, from a rifleman up to a general, would occasionally reflect with some sorrow on the human loss of war.’
‘Indeed, Watson, one recalls the Iron Duke’s words about there being nothing half so melancholy as a battle won, except a battle lost.’
‘And to use scripture to justify such savage darkness of the human mind seems the grossest and most wicked blasphemy.’
‘You put it well, Watson; “savage darkness” indeed. When I had begun to consider the question of motive in this case, I was forced to acknowledge that there is a psychological element missing from our present forensic sciences. Even the French, who are leagues ahead of us, have a tendency to look at criminology from the point of view of the natural sciences: chemical science, projectile science, document examination, the analysis of fingerprints, and so on; whereas the study of the criminal mind, per se, is a subject which remains virtually unexplored. It has been left largely to the novelists to attempt speculation upon it. It occurred to me that Dostoevsky, for example, is in his own way as pertinent as Vidocq or Bertillo
n, for he is just as adamant that “trifles are important” as the Frenchmen, and his exposition of the workings of the disturbed criminal mind is exquisite and persuasive. In his best work, he shows how the criminal, Raskolnikov, does not set out to do wrong; on the contrary, he set out to do right, or at least what seemed to him to be morally justified within the grander scheme of things. That was the important point to grasp. The entire series of events which ensued were almost an object lesson in the operation of the law of unintended consequences. In the complicated way of things, he ends up in fact committing with great compunction a deed which he knows to be morally wrong, purely from force of circumstance and as an expedient and instinctive act of self-preservation. The detective who began to suspect Raskolnikov did so for purely psychological reasons; his trifles were traits of character, based upon the most infinitesimal scrutiny of his suspect’s behaviour, not a trail of material clues.
‘Most cases call for keen scientific analysis and razor-sharp logic, particularly in reasoning in reverse from effect back to cause; whereas others require a more subtle psychological approach to the problem. A tiny minority, perhaps especially those perpetrated by the complex mind of a master criminal, entail both. We have, in the present case, the practical question of method – how the murderer conveyed the bodies to the sites. But more important is the question of motive: what does this man intend to achieve? Does he wish to rid the streets of these poor daughters of Eve? Does he believe that creating a panic in the streets may frighten them away from their iniquitous careers?’
‘He appears to be some loathsome zealot of the Puritan stamp.’
‘The writer of the letters undoubtedly is. But, it is a leap from that to believing that the writer of those letters must also be the killer.’
‘But he may be the killer’s amanuensis.’