The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors

by Edward B. Hanna

  To Holmes, in recalling the conversation, the real puzzle was how a sizable portion of the city’s population — decent and compassionate people all — could go about their daily lives knowing so little about the appalling conditions of the poor in their midst. Though few in the affluent West End of London knew it, bodies (and portions of bodies) washed up from the Thames almost every day, many of them the victims of crime, to be sure, but most merely the victims of poverty. Life was cheap in the East End, and if life was cheap, why should death be held any dearer? Wasn’t it far more practical and much less expensive to carry the dead to the river or a convenient building excavation than to the undertaker?

  Yet the two elderly gentlemen knew nothing of this and would have been shocked and highly indignant if so informed. It was more comfortable, less disturbing, to believe that every unexplained death in the East End was caused by a maniacal killer on the loose rather than by society’s own ignorance, insensitivity, and indifference.53

  Holmes tensed in the doorway, his reverie suddenly interrupted. Across the way the front door of the pub had opened and someone was emerging into the street. In the light of the gas lamp over the entrance, Holmes could see clearly who it was. He smiled grimly. “Ah, the game,” he said to himself softly. “The game.”

  Once again he took up the pursuit. There was no time to wait for the official police reinforcements he had sent for. He had misgivings about that in any event. Too many heavy-footed policemen in the vicinity — no matter how well disguised or hidden — would be more of a hindrance than a help. Yet, he had felt he was duty-bound to have little Solly inform Abberline of his whereabouts — but not until after Wiggins had been located and the other Irregulars were sent to take up positions in the surrounding streets. Their deployment would serve as insurance, just in case he was to lose the man yet again. But he had no intention of doing so, not this time. This time he would cling to him like — like jelly to toast. This time he would never allow him out of his sight, not for an instant.

  But it was not that easy. He found that he had to remain much farther behind him than before. The fog had all but disappeared, and even though the night was still dark and the streets poorly illuminated, it was necessary for him to maintain even greater precautions than he had earlier. He was tiring now. The tension was beginning to take its toll and he knew it. It meant that he must be even more alert, more cautious; a mistake now — a fall, a stumble, a sudden sound — and all might be lost. And he might never have this opportunity again.

  The man set off at a steady pace, more rapid than before, as if a sense of urgency had overcome him, as if he were becoming desperate.

  Holmes had no trouble keeping up the pace. To the contrary, he had to restrain himself from rushing headlong after the man and getting too close. A careless move at this point could ruin everything, and he knew it, but it still took every bit of self-control that he possessed to hold back.

  Holmes was the most patient of men when he had to be — an acquired virtue, not one that came naturally to him — but even his patience had its limits, and at this juncture it was rapidly approaching them.

  Fortunately, the man he was following reached his destination before his forbearance gave way entirely. His quarry simply turned a corner and was there, and it was as if a stage-setting had been prepared for his coming.

  The scene, to Holmes’s eye, was perfect, absolutely flawless. It appealed deeply to his sense of the theatrical: A narrow, darkened street, a soft haze, damp cobblestones glistening in the light of a single street lamp. And beneath the vaporous light, leaning casually against the lamppost as if posed, the figure of a woman silhouetted dramatically against a backdrop of dilapidated buildings, amorphous pallid shapes in the haze.

  Then suddenly, as if a gauze curtain had been raised or a switch thrown, the haze dissipated and the square was bathed in bright moonlight. The transformation was startling. It was almost too perfect, a touch too melodramatic for Holmes’s fastidious tastes, as if contrived by a second-rate designer of scenic settings, unimaginative in the extreme.

  The man slowly approached the woman. The woman reached up and preened her hair suggestively. The man lighted a cigarette, a wisp of smoke curling up toward the gas lamp. Eye contact was made, silent words exchanged. Moves were performed as if part of a ritual pantomime. It was like some fantastic tableau, a living, breathing portrait.

  Holmes waited in the wings and watched.

  Eleven

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 30, 1888

  “From the position in which the body was found, it is believed that the moment the murderer had got his victim in the dark shadow near the entrance to the court he threw her to the ground and with one gash severed her throat from ear to ear.”

  — The Times, October 1, 1888

  Time and all motion seemed to come to almost a standstill, as if somehow retarded or restrained by some inexplicable preternatural force. It was like being part of a dream in which every move is made with unnatural lumbering slowness, every gesture separate and distinct from every other, painfully exaggerated, ponderously heavy, all so very unreal.

  But it was not a dream and it was not unreal: It was stark reality and all the more terrifying because of it.

  Holmes watched from his place of concealment as the man he had been following took the woman’s arm and coaxed her around the corner into a courtyard off the street, just out of view. He waited a few seconds, then followed cautiously behind.

  A gateway marked the entrance to the courtyard, and he paused across from it momentarily to make certain his presence had remained undetected, then hurried to the other side of the street. Keeping to the shadows, he inched his way forward until finally reaching a point where he could go no farther without running the risk of being seen. He was reluctant to leave the shadows until the last possible moment.

  In any case, the courtyard was in total darkness and it was impossible to see into it. He found that he was clenching his jaw so tightly that his teeth hurt, and his knees were trembling with suppressed excitement.

  Suddenly there was a sound that caused him to stiffen. It was a choked-off scream — not so much a scream as a muffled, gurgling protest. It was a sound that made his blood run cold.

  He started to run. He hurtled through the gateway and into the courtyard and came up short, his heart pounding against his ribs. It was darker than black: The darkness was utterly impenetrable. He stood still as could be, trying to quiet his breathing, straining to catch the merest sound.

  He started. There was something there, he was certain: There was movement and a faint, barely perceptible scraping or scuffling sound perhaps. Yes, there was definitely movement. And there was the specter of a shape looming darker than the darkness around it.

  He was on the verge of calling out, had even opened his mouth to do so, when a sudden noise from close behind him caused him to whirl around in surprise.

  He heard the sharp sounds of hooves on the pavement, and a horse neighed from somewhere close by. From out of the darkness there was a yell, a high-pitched, guttural yell. Then something hurtled past him from the other direction and he was shoved aside with such stunning force that the breath was knocked from his body. He caught just a glimpse of a heavily cloaked figure charging past. Was that the glint of knife blade, or had he simply imagined it?

  He had no time to dwell on the question. Several things happened at once: It was as if a floodgate had burst open. There was a confusion of sounds, a muffled clamor of dissimilar noises: Hurried footsteps, hoofbeats, the neighing of a horse, the creak of wagon timbers, the scrape of ironclad wheels against the cobbles.

  There was a startling flash of light. There was an outcry. There was a frenzied movement of shapes, of rushing currents. There was a horror-stricken face that suddenly appeared from nowhere and just as quickly disappeared. There was a garble of voices: Many angry, frightened, excited voices. There were shouts, more flashes of light, reeling forms. Then there were other faces, faces all around him
, disembodied faces, bearded faces, all with wild eyes and open mouths and all emitting horrible, unintelligible animal sounds. There was jostling, a surge of pushing and shoving. There was the smell of sweat, of unwashed bodies, a smell of fear. There was a glancing blow, and something stung his ear. There was an arm around his throat. There was a blow to his shoulder, another to his ribs. Something was dragging him down. He was being pulled in several directions at once and pummeled. His legs give out from under him, and he was forced to the pavement, a heavy weight on his chest. His face was ground into the muck of the street. He felt a blow to his kidney; he felt a kick to his ribs. His breath was being crushed out of him. He found himself struggling desperately, now in a panic, flailing and kicking out. He was being pinioned, smothered; his strength was giving out. He was desperate for air. A single breath. A single suck of sustenance.

  A sudden sharp blow to the side of his head brought curious relief: A flash of brightness, an explosion of light that seemed to burst in his brain, and he felt himself sliding, slipping, easing away. Then there was darkness, a darkness of a sort — a grayish, deep-violet darkness with streaks of vivid yellow and orange and bright green flashing through it, and the shouts, the noise, the tumult, the frenzied whirlpool of confusion receded off into the distance. And as he slipped further and further away, as the flashes of color began to fade and diminish in intensity, his last conscious thought was how peaceful it was, how very, very calm and peaceful and mercifully quiet.

  His first conscious thought, his first awareness of being, was not one of pain — the pain would come later — not one of confusion or disorientation, but one of annoyance, extreme irritation. Then he became aware that he was being roughly handled, pushed, and shoved about. A bright light shone into his eyes. It was unbearable. He tried turning away from it, but he could not, and no matter how tightly he clenched his eyelids, he could not shut it out. The searing, invasive brightness seemed to penetrate his brain.

  Then came the pain. His head was bursting with it. His shoulder burned with it. There was pain in his ribs and in his side. One of his legs ached badly. His whole body felt sore — sore and twisted, bruised and battered. He felt as if he had been pounded and pummeled by some fiendish apparatus that had swallowed him, ingested him, and disgorged him.

  To ease the pain required movement, but when he tried it he discovered that it only caused more pain. There was so much of it, and from so many sources, that he decided he was better off unconscious and found himself trying to regain it. But in the end curiosity won him over: He was curious to find out what brought on the pain.

  It was this curiosity that made him finally force his eyes to open, made him strain to see. But it was futile. The light was like fire, like sharp, burning needles in his brain. It shone directly in his eyes, causing stabs of exquisite pain. Even a raised arm to ward it off did no good. To the contrary, the movement only made him more aware of the other agonies, so he made no protest when the arm fell again, which it seemed to do of its own accord. It was probably this act and the resulting sharp shock of agony that it caused him that brought about full consciousness finally. But it was no godsend.

  He became aware once again of faces in front of him and of voices around him, of pungent odors, of stale sweat and urine. Not his own, he fervently hoped. The closest face, once his mind cleared sufficiently for him to distinguish it, was that of homely, steel-eyed officialdom. Beneath the peak of a policeman’s helmet there was a most impressive bulbous nose involved, and Holmes in his joy would have reached out and kissed it had he not feared that the probable consequences of such an act would have been the infliction of further pain.

  “‘Ere!” said a voice of authority. “Bring the blighter to ‘is feet.” And he felt himself being lifted upright by several rough and all-too-willing hands. The maneuver caused such ache to his head that he almost lost consciousness again. A wave of dizziness left him wobbling: His legs were not his to command, and he was grateful for the support on either side of him. Not as grateful, perhaps, as he would have been had they allowed him to lower himself once again to a prone position.

  “You’ve got some h’explainin’ to do, mate,” said the voice of authority. “What’s your name, then? That’ll do for a start!”

  Holmes tried shaking his head to clear the dizziness, but that was a major mistake.

  “Give me a moment, won’t you?” he heard a voice say, and then realized with a start of recognition that it was his own, the sound of it was that strange to his ears.

  “C’mon, who are ya?” said another voice, angry and menacing in tone. “Who the hell are ya?”

  Holmes tried to take his head in his hands, but his arms were being held in a viselike grip. He shut his eyes and winced.

  “All in due time, my good man,” he said with some difficulty. “First you will have to allow me to ascertain what I am, or if I am indeed.”

  “Huh!” exclaimed another voice in the Greek chorus. “Sounds like a proper toff, ‘e does.”

  “I’ll ‘andle this,” said the voice of authority. “Now, back off, the lot of ya, and let me ax the questions.”

  The light suddenly flashed in Holmes’s eyes once again, and he flinched from it.

  “Awright now, who are ya?”

  “Constable, if you will just lower your bull’s-eye so it is out of my eyes, I will be more than willing to identify myself. But first you must send for Detective Inspector Abberline, who will vouch for me, I am sure. And for God’s sake, fetch someone to attend to that poor woman!”

  At that there was another outcry of angry voices, and a babble of unintelligible tongues, which Holmes couldn’t begin to understand. A fist was waved in his face.

  “Poor woman, is h’it? Poor woman? A lot ye’d know about that, ya murderin’ fiend!”

  “Stan’ back! Stan’ back! H’all o’ ya, now. Get back or I’ll take the lot o’ ya in charge!”

  It suddenly occurred to Holmes in his semi-stupor that he was in no small amount of danger: All that stood between him and a lynch mob was this single, unarmed minion of the law.

  The human brain works in mysterious ways and on many different levels at once, even (or perhaps especially) when under the severest of pressures, and Holmes, despite his pain, despite the realization of the danger he was in, was able to view his situation with detachment, with something approaching total equanimity. It was a mental process which, considering the circumstances, struck him as being unusual in the extreme: On one level he was marveling over the fact that he was still alive; on another he was examining the very real possibility that it might not be for long; and on still another he couldn’t help but contemplate the irony of it all, should he, rather than the man he was pursuing, end up at the end of a hangman’s noose. It was a circumstance not without one or two distinct points of interest, he decided — a situation which, though disconcerting, was surely also somewhat... droll.

  Then, with sublime irrelevance, another thought suggested itself to him: Poor old Watson, he mused, will be positively beside himself.

  But then came deliverance. He was saved, if not in the nick of time, surely within not more than two or three nicks. Rescue came in the form of reinforcements of the Metropolitan constabulary. Within seconds the courtyard was swarming with helmeted men in blue, bull’s-eye lanterns flashing and truncheons at the ready. Within minutes he was not so much escorted as carried to a waiting horse-drawn conveyance, shoved inside with two burly constables for company, and carted off into the night, his world pitching and swaying around him.

  His most vivid, most lasting memory of the events of that night was to be the eerie scene half viewed through the bars of the small rear window of the police wagon, a neatly framed visual image, grotesque and phantasmagorical, that could have been a depiction of Dante’s vision of the nether regions, a painting by Hieronymus Bosch: Flashing lanterns on the cobbles of the street and on the brick walls that lined it, the light like stabs in the darkness; an excited, disorganized milling a
bout of frightened humanity; and the faces, angry faces, pale, terrified faces, receding off into a black void, leaving in his mind a lasting, indelible imprint.

  A gentle but capable hand dabbed persistently at his forehead with a cloth sopped in something cold and stinging that made him wince at every touch and caused his eyes to tear. A large overly stuffed bosom in a starched white apron stood stiffly at his elbow, basin in hand, the face above it round, well-fed, and uncompromisingly plain, its features permanently fixed in an expression of stern disapproval. Individuals who engage in street brawls, the expression clearly said, deserve what they get.

  The hospital examining room was very bright and very white and smelled strongly, overpoweringly, of carbolic and whatever else hospitals always smell of. Holmes only hoped that it wasn’t what was being applied to his face.

  “Mmm,” the doctor stated authoritatively — a diagnosis, in Holmes’s opinion, which was calculatingly vague enough to cover any possibility ranging from total recovery to expiration at any moment. It did little to instill greater confidence on his part in the acumen and sagacity of the medical profession.

  However, that was not to be the young practitioner’s last word on the subject. A good diagnostician, after all, must take a stand — right, wrong, or otherwise. “Purely superficial,” he murmured. The words were spoken half to himself, as if he were not quite certain he was prepared to share that conclusion with the rest of the world as of yet. But, in for a penny, in for a pound, he apparently decided. “Yaas, mostly mild abrasions,” he stated, his tone now filled with growing confidence. “Nothing at all to concern ourselves about.”

  “How very reassuring,” said Holmes dryly.

  “I am a trifle troubled about the ribs, however.” He poked a finger at the region in question and Holmes winced. “Ah, feeling a touch of tenderness, are we?”

  “Yes,” said Holmes hoarsely.

  “Are we experiencing any sharp pain there? Any sharp stabs of pain, as it were?