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.
Watson pushed back his hat and went to work.
It was a good quarter of an hour before Holmes made his way back. He had roamed around the yard for a brief period of time and then disappeared back through the passageway into the street, where he was observed walking up and down, peering into doorways, searching the gutters, poking into crevices in the pavement with his stick, and occasionally bending down to peer at one thing or another at his feet. Watson, in the meantime, had completed his examination and was standing by the body, wiping his hands on a handkerchief, when Holmes returned.
“Your men have already searched the street, I perceive,” said Holmes to Abberline somewhat coldly.
“Yes, of course. We scoured the area thoroughly,” replied Abberline. “Twice, in point of fact. The lads have even sifted through the rubbish and have searched the alleys and doorways. I can tell you, Mr. Holmes, that except for what is before you, we found nothing — nothing that can be tied to the crime, in any event.”
“Nothing,” repeated Holmes half to himself with a sigh. He then fixed Abberline with a keen, penetrating gaze. “Inspector, has it not occurred to your minions, whose foot sizes do them credit, that the very act of seeking out evidence can, if not accomplished artfully and with some care, obliterate that which they seek?”
“Sir?” said Abberline, taken aback and clearly failing to comprehend.
“If I did not know better,” continued Holmes, “I would be prepared to swear that the Brigade of Guards has paraded through here this morning.” He shook his head. “Wherever there’s the smallest patch of mud in the street, I see the unmistakable imprint of a policeman’s boot. It is as if your fellows went out of their way to leave their mark so as to prove their existence.” He smiled thinly. “I will say this for them, they’re a well-shod lot. Only one seems run-down at the heels insofar as I can ascertain: a pigeon-toed chap, a bit overweight, who goes by the name of Bagley, I believe.”
Abberline looked at him open-mouthed.
Holmes removed his hand from his pocket and held it outstretched, a small, glittering object in his palm. “Popped a button, I think you will find.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” muttered Abberline, taking the object from Holmes, who then turned without another word and walked over toward the body.
“Now then, Watson, what can you tell me?”
Watson took a deep breath. “Well, Holmes, it’s at least as horrible as the other. More grotesque, if anything.”
Holmes walked carefully around the body, barely glancing at it for the moment, devoting his attentions instead to the ground around it, scrutinizing every inch slowly and carefully. Apparently satisfied there was nothing to be found, he turned his attentions to the body itself, that of a plump, well-proportioned woman in her mid-forties, with what had once been dark good looks now ravaged by drink. The woman’s face, bruised and smeared with blood, was turned to one side, the tongue protruding slightly from between the teeth. Her throat had been cruelly sliced: The head was almost completely severed from the body.
Holmes’s eyes narrowed and his lips compressed into a thin line. Chin in hand, he gazed at the sight intently.
Watson got down on his haunches and pointed. “Her throat wasn’t merely cut, Holmes; it was slashed, just like the other. And as far as I can tell, it, too, was from right to left. The entry wound is here, you see, and the angle of it suggests that her chin was raised unnaturally high, consistent with being grabbed about the mouth from behind and her head pulled back.”
“Yes, I see.” He looked around him. “She probably led the way through the passage from the street and he took her unawares as they entered the yard.”
> “It was done with a very sharp instrument,” Watson continued, “a thin, narrow blade. I would say that it was done with great strength, a vigorous stroke. Yet the man knew what he was about; there is no frenzy, no wild, misaimed slashing indicated. The wound at the throat is very precise, and the cuts here and here (he pointed with a finger) are well calculated. But that’s the least of it.” He inhaled deeply. “As you can see, there are frightful mutilations of the abdominal region. She’s been virtually disemboweled.”
Holmes stroked his chin. His eyes had a hard, unnatural look to them.
“That’s not the whole of it, Holmes. Not by half.”
“Well?”
“It would seem that several organs are missing.”
Holmes looked at him sharply. “Missing?”
Watson returned his gaze. “A kidney has been removed, and the uterus as well, and I don’t know what else: We will have to wait for a proper autopsy. Holmes, I tell you, I don’t know what to make of this; I have never seen anything like it.”
Holmes pursed his lips and stood silently, looking down at the body. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and husky; his eyes burned fiercely. “I will have this creature. I will have him, make no mistake.”
Watson stood up and massaged the back of his neck. “There’s not much more I can tell you at this point. As I say, the autopsy may reveal more. But one thing’s for certain — one thing I have no doubt of whatsoever.” He patted his pockets for his cigarette case. “He would seem to have no small degree of anatomical knowledge. He’s no stranger to Gray’s Anatomy, I’ll wager. He knows what he is about.”
“A medical man, you think?”
Watson shrugged.
“Well,” said Holmes, “it’s too early to make a judgment. And there’s far too little evidence upon which to base it in any event. Let us not make the mistake of jumping to conclusions.”
Watson nodded. “Yes, of course.”
Holmes turned to Abberline. “Has an identification of the victim been made as yet?”
“Yes. She’s apparently well known in the vicinity. Her name is Annie Chapman or Annie Siffey — most people know her as Chapman. ‘Dark Annie,’ they called her. As you know, it’s not unusual for this class of woman to be known by two or even more surnames: They often adopt the name of whatever bloke they happen to be living with at any given moment. At this particular moment Dark Annie was living without a man, and she had no permanent address, but she usually dossed down right here in number 29.”
“A streetwalker?”
“Oh, yes — part of the time, at least. But for all that, the people we questioned who knew her said she was a decent sort.”
Holmes pointed with his walking stick at a small, square white cloth spread out on the ground at the foot of the body. “What can you tell me about that?” he asked.
“The handkerchief? That’s Inspector Chandler’s. He was first on the scene.” Abberline went over and carefully lifted a corner of the handkerchief. Beneath it, neatly laid out in a row, as if part of an elaborate ritual, were two brass rings, a few pennies, and a couple of farthings. “Hers, probably,” he said. “The rings were apparently wrenched from her fingers, the coins taken from her pockets. Chandler left them just as he found them.”
“Ah, a paragon, this Chandler, an absolute gem! I must meet this man.”
“That’s him, right there.” Abberline motioned him over, a tired, rumpled man in a houndstooth inverness and brown derby.
Holmes looked at him keenly after the introductions were made.
He was obviously exhausted from being up all night; his face was drawn, his eyes empty. He was a man who had suffered shock and was emotionally drained.
“You were the first to arrive, I am told,” said Holmes. “How very fortunate for the rest of us who followed. Would that you could have kept the herd at bay.”
Chandler smiled grimly despite himself. “I’m somewhat of a student of your methods, Mr. Holmes, and realize the importance of leaving things undisturbed as much as possible until a thorough search has been made for clues.”
Holmes rewarded him with a look of mock pity and patted him on the shoulder. “You will not go far in the Metropolitan Police, I fear. They must think you a dangerous radical.”
He smiled. “Merely a harmless eccentric, I believe. But I am not alone in my views. Many of your methods are winning growing acceptance by my colleagues, among them Inspector Abberline here. Oh, we are scoffed at by some of the older chaps, the so-called graybeards, who have little patience with scientific detection. But the younger ones that are coming into the department now are more open to new ideas, so please, Mr. Holmes, don’t tar all of us with the same brush.”
“I will reserve opinion as to that,” replied Holmes archly. “Now, as to this sorry business, what can you share with me?”
“Quite by accident I arrived on the scene within minutes of the body being discovered. I’m on nights at the Commercial Street Station and was making a tour of the area. It was shortly after six A.M., and I had just rounded the corner into Hanbury Street when I encountered three men running toward me, shouting. At first I thought it was one man being chased by the other two, and that the three of them must be the worse for drink. Then I thought it must be a house on fire, they were that agitated. Then they were upon me and shouting, ‘Murder! Quick... it’s horrible...’ I tell you, Mr. Holmes, I have never seen anyone in such a state as I did these three. Well, as they led me the way back along Hanbury Street toward number 29, I tried to piece their story together.” He slipped his notebook out of his coat pocket.
“Two of the men, it seems — a Jack Kent and a James Green, both of whom work at Bailey’s Yard just up the street: It’s a case-maker’s shop — saw the third fellow, an old porter by the name of John Davis who lives in number 29, come stumbling into the lane with his trouser belt in his hands. He was so upset and befuddled, they said, he could hardly get a word out. Finally he was able to make himself understood enough for them to realize that something was very, very wrong. So they let him lead them back through the passageway there and followed him right here into the yard.” Chandler massaged his chin. “Well, they took one look and ran, didn’t they? And that’s when they came upon me.”
“It was just after six, you say?”
“Yes, that’s right, just a few minutes after. When I came upon the scene, the entry into the passageway — that door opening out onto the street — was open and a crowd was already starting to gather, but not one of ‘em would dare step into the yard proper, they were that frightened. That you can be sure of. Like everyone, they’re curious about dead bodies, but not up close they’re not.”
“So you couldn’t have come along too much after the act had been committed?”
He scratched an ear. “Well, as to that I don’t know. I’m no medical examiner and I don’t pretend to be an expert in that area. But I sent for one straightaway: the divisional surgeon, actually — Dr. Phillips. And of course I arranged to have a telegram sent to Inspector Abberline here, knowing he was in charge of the earlier murder that was just like this one — the Nicholls murder. And I sent back to the Commercial Street station for more men to cordon the area off and keep people out. And then — well, then I started my search for clues and such.”
Holmes shook his head approvingly. “It appears you have done well.”
Chandler shrugged and glanced around the yard. “Well, as to that, I don’t know. If I missed anything, it wasn’t for the lack of trying. But I’ve been all over this yard with a fine-tooth comb and haven’t come up with much, just a few of her poor possessions that were scattered about — and this.”
He pulled out his wallet from an inside pocket, removed a slip of paper, and handed it to Holmes. “I found it lying on the ground right near her head. It isn’t much, but it might tell us something.”
It was a fragment of a bloodstained envelope bearing a regimental crest and postmarked London, 20 August 1888.19 There was a porti
on of a handwritten address, but only the letters M and Sp were still legible. There were also two medicinal pills wrapped carefully in a slip of paper.
“Excellent!” said Holmes. “You are to be congratulated. Is there anything else?”
Chandler removed his hat and scratched his head. “Well, yes, but I don’t really know if it has anything to do with this affair, you see.”
He led Holmes over to a cold water tap in a corner of the yard. Nearby, on the ground, lay a leather apron, saturated in water.
Holmes knelt down and examined it. “What makes you think it’s not related?” he asked, turning it over with his stick. It was the kind of apron a butcher would wear, or a worker in a slaughterhouse.
“There’s no sign of blood on it, you see,” replied Chandler. “And it looks like it has been in water for quite some time. Notice how supple the leather is. It would take quite a lengthy soaking to make it so. It may have been here for days.”
Holmes looked at him with new respect. “I see I’ve not misjudged you, Inspector. An astute observation on your part, one that most would miss.”
“I confess that I certainly would have,” said Watson, who had followed them to the tap and was peering over Holmes’s shoulder.
Holmes shot him a sardonic glance. “Oh, no, not you, old fellow.”
Abberline kicked the ground with a foot. “What bothers me is that there are no signs of a struggle. As you can see, there is no proper paving here, just a patchwork of stones and earth. If the woman put up any sort of resistance, you would expect to find some indications of it. Yet, the ground doesn’t seem to have been unnaturally disturbed. She must have come here with him voluntarily, or even brought him here. Certainly, she was not dragged by force.”
Chandler nodded in agreement. “No question about that. Living here, she no doubt knew the yard well and probably used it with her men friends more than once. As for the ground around the body, I examined that straightaway, as soon as there was light enough to see by. And there was nothing, I assure you, not a sign to be found.”
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors Page 5