“No,” said Holmes.
“Any difficulty with our breathing?”
“None,” said Holmes.
“Are we quite sure about that? I fear a rib or two may have suffered — there are some rather nasty supracostal bruises. We don’t want a punctured lung now, do we?”
Holmes lifted his eyes and gazed at the young man coldly. “If it is to be our lot to share the same anatomy, Doctor, I can assure you that I for one do not.”
The young practitioner, steeped in the seriousness of his calling, was somewhat taken aback. He peered owlishly at him over thin wire spectacles for a brief moment and then said, “Hmm, yes, quite.”
He completed his ministrations quickly and, Holmes couldn’t help but notice, with a measurable reduction in gentleness. “No bandages, I think, Sister,” he said curtly, wiping his hands on a towel. “These facial abrasions should heal nicely in the open air, but I wouldn’t advise shaving for a day or two.”
This last remark Holmes assumed was directed toward him, though a surreptitious glance at Sister’s upper lip caused him to hesitate before responding: “I for one shall certainly take your advice, Doctor, and I thank you for your solicitude.”
Sergeant Thicke, his brow furrowed with concern, was waiting for Holmes outside the examining room when he emerged. Filled with solicitude, the policeman gently helped Holmes to ease into his jacket and would have taken him by the arm to assist him down the corridor had not a glower from Holmes warned him off. Yet his desire to be accommodating remained undampened.
“Why don’t we pop in ‘ere and ‘ave a nice ‘ot cuppa, Mr. ‘Olmes. Ye look as though ye could use it.”
“If I look anything the way I feel, I could use a cauldron of it.”
They retired to a small staff lounge, where Holmes lowered his frame gingerly into a chair while Thicke busied himself in the corner with the tea things.
The tea, once delivered, was hot, bitter-strong, and very sweet, and had a faint aroma of disinfectant. Nonetheless, Holmes sipped it appreciatively, savoring every mouthful, though it stung the insides of his cheeks.
“Ye feelin’ better now, are ye, Mr. ‘Olmes?”
“My entire physical being feels like one huge sore thumb, if the truth be known, but thanks to the quick arrival of your people, I shall survive, I fear.
“Yer ‘ead feelin’ better too, then?” He was being most solicitous, a note of genuine sympathy in his tone, and Holmes shot him a questioning glance, one mixed with surprise and some amusement.
“They gave me a headache powder of some sort, and I am indeed feeling better, thank you.”
Thicke nodded. “Ye ‘ad a close ‘un now, din’cha? Inspector H’Abberline would ‘ave been most upset should anything ‘ave had ‘appened to ye. As we would ‘ave all,” he was quick to add.
“Very kind,” said Holmes between sips.
Thicke shrugged. “Well, we would ‘ave all been in a pretty kettle of fish if ye was — if anythin’ did ‘appen to ye. God, I dread to think what Fleet Street would ‘ave made o’ that!”
Holmes had to smile. Any personal concerns for his safety on the part of Scotland Yard, some of them no doubt genuine, would have certainly yielded precedence to professional concerns: The police would have been pilloried in the press if anything had happened to him — and that was no conceit of his; it was fact. They would have been raked over the coals, without question.
Thicke put his mug of tea down very carefully, as though afraid the slightest noise would be disturbing to Holmes. He leaned over and without even a by-your-leave made an elaborate examination of Holmes’s face (to Holmes’s consternation), clucking sympathetically.
“I don’t believe the damage will permanently mar my beauty, Sergeant,” Holmes said in a tone of icy forbearance. “You needn’t carry on so.”
Thicke had the good grace to look embarrassed. “Now, the inspector made it a point to instruct me to make certain that ye get home all right, and told me to say that ye should get a good night’s sleep. Or what’s left of the night,” he added ruefully, glancing up at the clock on the wall. “And he said that he’ll see ye on the morrow and go over matters with ye then. In the meantime, he says ye shouldn’t concern yerself. Just get a good rest, is all.”
Holmes shook his head. “No, I’m fine. As soon as I finish my tea, and perhaps have a second cup, we’ll be off. I want to get back to... what street was it?”
“Berner Street. But that’s out o’ the question, Mr. ‘Olmes. The inspector was most h’explicit in telling me to see ye home.”
Holmes became annoyed. “Nonsense. Let us speak no more about it.”
“Well, I dunno.” Thicke shook his head. “I dunno at t’all.”
Holmes ignored him. “Now, tell me everything, Thicke. Leave nothing out.”
Thicke looked at him and frowned. “I’m not sure what I can tell ye that ye don’t know already. It was yerself that was there, not me. But from what we can make out, the Ripper — that’s what everyone in the department’s callin’ him now — the Ripper. ‘E was interrupted by the appearance of a ‘orse ‘n’ cart driven by a traveler in costume jewelry.” Thicke reached into a pocket and pulled out his notebook. “One Louis Diemschutz, is ‘is name, would ye believe. H’it was just about one A.M. when ‘e with his nag and his costermonger’s barrow turned into the court just off Berner Street, right where ye was. ‘E lives in the court, ye see, and is the steward of a sort of local political club there, the International Working Men’s Educational Club, h’it’s called — mostly Jews and other foreigners: A pack of socialists and troublemakers all of ‘em, if ye ask me. ‘E was comin’ back from a sellin’ trip, ‘e was, this Diemschutz.”
Thicke paused for a sip of tea from the mug. “Well, ‘e leads ‘is ‘orse into the court, and the ‘orse ‘e shies, ye see — rears right up. Now, this Diemschutz thinks that some rubbish must be in the road, so ‘e reaches down and feels around to clear h’it, and that’s when ‘e discovers the body.
“Now, as near as we can figure it, ‘e comin’ into the lane with the ‘orse and all, and ‘im makin’ a racket, ‘e scares the Ripper away just as ‘e’s doin’ the job on the lady — we’ve got ‘er name now too: Elizabeth Stride, a ‘ore just like the others. An’ the bawstard bolts, ye see. Never does get a chance to do anythin’ but slice ‘er throat.”
Thicke paused. “That’s when ye musta come runnin’ up, Mr. ‘Olmes, just at that very second.”
Holmes nodded.
“Well, this bloke Diemschutz raises the alarm and the club empties out — they was ‘aving a late meeting of some sort: Probably conspiring the overthrow o’ the Crown for all we knows, the filthy vermin — and they sees ye runnin’ up and figures ye for the killer. That’s the way we figures h’it, unless ye can tells us different.”
Holmes shook his head. “No, that’s about right. I hadn’t the faintest idea of what descended upon me, but it makes sense. The funny thing is, I didn’t hear this fellow, what’s his name Dim — something? I didn’t hear him come up at all. Obviously, I wouldn’t necessarily have seen him, it being so dark. But I should have heard him, unless...”
Thicke cocked an eyebrow.
Holmes looked thoughtful for a moment, then shook his head. “No. Events happened so quickly, it’s difficult to reconstruct them. I suppose that in the flurry of excitement, I just never heard him approach. He must have come into the street from the opposite direction.”
Thicke stood up and placed his cup carefully on a side table. “That must have been h’it, then. ‘E did say ‘e was comin’ from the direction of the railway, and ye was at the other end, wasn’t ye?”
“Yes,” Holmes said distractedly. He massaged the back of his neck. The events of Berner Street were so jumbled in his mind that it all seemed like a dimly remembered dream, or something that happened ages ago. He found it disturbing that he had so little recall of what had transpired.
The opening of the door interrupted his thoughts. The grim
face of a helmeted police constable appeared in the doorway. Upon spotting Thicke, he came all the way in. “Been lookin’ for ye, S’arn’t,” he announced. “Inspector H’Abberline sent me. There’s been another murder.”
Thicke’s tea mug crashed to the floor. “Whaaat!”
“This one’s in the City, in Mitre Square,” said the constable. ‘E did a ryght proper job o’ work this tyme: She’s slit from gullet to gizzard, an’ ‘e copped an ear as well!”
“‘E did wot?”
“‘E cut off her bloody ear!”
Holmes shot to his feet, all pain forgotten. “I think I shall forgo the pleasure of another cup of tea, after all,” he said.
Thicke bolted for the door. “I think ye’d be better off gettin’ some sleep, is what I think, Mr. ‘Olmes,” he said over his shoulder as he hurried down the corridor.
“Sleep!” Holmes spat out irritably, struggling to keep up with him. “I’ll sleep tomorrow, Sergeant, or the next day or never — or the day after that. Let us hurry, I pray you.”
Twelve
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 30, 1888
“The murder in the City was committed in circumstances which show that the assassin, if not suffering from insanity, appears to be free from any fear of interruption while at his dreadful work.”
— The Times, Monday, October 1, 1888
The scene at Mitre Square was one of orderly confusion: Uniformed policemen and detectives in civilian clothes were everywhere in evidence. The entire area had been closed off by police barricades, and the carriage secured by Thicke for the brief trip from the hospital had been stopped several times before being allowed to proceed to the location of the second murder.
“Mitre Square is outside of Scotland Yard’s jurisdiction,” explained Thicke after they passed through another roadblock. “The City Police will be in charge of this one.”
Holmes nodded, but made no comment. He had already assumed as much; indeed, was counting on it. It was one of the oddities of London that the Metropolitan Police had responsibility for maintaining law and order in every borough of the city except for that one single square-mile portion on the north bank of the Thames known as the City. Its proper name was actually “the City of London,” but few people ever referred to it as that, and those mainly foreigners. Saying merely “the City” identified it sufficiently to any native Londoner, or indeed to anyone anywhere in the world who had anything to do with international finance.
Geographically, the City was the core of London; historically, it was its most ancient part, occupying the site of the original Roman town of Londinium. It was where William the Conqueror was to erect his principal castle, now known as the Tower of London. But actually the City’s true importance far outweighed the accidental distinctions afforded it by history and geography. In a very real sense it was the center not only of England and the British Isles, but of the Western world — and much of the rest of it as well. It would be scant exaggeration to say that the City, in these, the waning years of the nineteenth century, was the most important square mile on the face of the Earth.
Within its narrow confines were such landmarks and symbols of power as the Bank of England, the Inns of Court, Lloyds of London, the Stock Exchange, and St. Paul’s Cathedral: It was the City, not Wellington’s regiments or Nelson’s 74s, that had made England the world power that she was. And it was those offices the City contained that were the true center of world influence, those of the lawyers, merchants, money changers, bankers, brokers, shipowners, and underwriters who collectively ruled England and the British Empire, regardless of what the politicians just around the river’s bend in Westminster might think, or the old lady in Windsor.
It was not so surprising, therefore, that traditionally and historically the City had always maintained a measure of autonomy. Not only did the Metropolitan Police require authorization to enter its precincts, but, technically, so did the sovereign herself. The Queen-Empress may reign, but the pound sterling ruled.
But no such niceties were to be observed by the man who called himself Jack the Ripper. He required no special permission to pass through Temple Bar into the confines of the City.54 It was convenient for him to do so, so he did. It was an accident of geography or a quirk of sardonic fate that the wealthiest, most powerful square mile in the Empire lay side by side with one of the poorest, most powerless.
The site of the Ripper’s second murder that night was barely ten minutes away from that of his first. Mitre Square was off Aldgate High Street, just north of Tower Hill and within sight of the Tower of London itself.
The body was found in a corner of the square facing Church Passage. It was a confined space, no more than thirty yards square, bordered on two sides by warehouses and the other two by workshops and mostly deserted tenements. During the day the square was a busy place, but after six o’clock it was empty.
The woman was lying on her back, with her left leg extended and her right leg bent. Both arms were stretched out, palms upward. She wore a black cloth jacket with an imitation fur collar and three large metal buttons. Underneath was a worn dress with a pattern of Michaelmas daisies and golden lilies. A black straw bonnet trimmed with velvet and beads was still tied to her head with a ribbon. Holmes studied the woman’s face. It had been badly disfigured. There were cuts on her cheeks, her lips, and even her eyelids. There was a large gash from her nose to the side of her right cheek. Her right eye had been smashed in. Part of her right ear had been cut off. Her throat had been cut.
Holmes knelt down on one knee and, by the light of lanterns held by the police officers who surrounded the body, made a hasty examination. Her clothes were in disarray, her dress and petticoats pushed up to above her waist. Holmes idly noted that she was wearing a pair of men’s laced shoes, which under any other circumstances would have added a comic note to her appearance.
But there was nothing funny about her now. She had been badly mutilated. There was a horrifying gash running from her breastbone downward, and a revolting mess of viscera spilled out from her abdominal cavity. Entrails were ripped from her body and flung in a heap onto her chest.
Holmes got to his feet slowly, his face set in a grim expression. He was studying the position of the body and did not notice the commanding figure who came up quietly alongside of him.
“Morning, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said the man in a subdued voice. “It seems our friend has had a busy night of it.”
What with the poor light, it took Holmes a second or two to recognize the speaker. “Why, Major, is that you?”
The man nodded. “I knew that eventually this monster would cross my path and venture over into the City, and I thought we’d be ready for him, but...” His voice trailed off and he shook his head in frustration.
Holmes knew him well. He was Major Henry Smith, the Acting Commissioner of the City Police and one of the few police administrators whom he respected greatly. Unlike his counterpart in the Metropolitan Police, Smith was a thorough professional and went about his business in a rational, organized way. What he lacked in scientific training he made up in imagination and energy and in a willingness to keep an open mind and not adhere to rigid, outmoded doctrine. He was a man of cool judgment and keen wit and was highly respected among his own men.55
“I’m glad you’re here, Holmes. Damn glad. It goes without saying that I would appreciate anything you can do to help us. Your opinions would be most valuable.”
“Very kind, I’m sure,” mumbled Holmes.
Smith gestured toward the body. “She was still warm when our constable discovered her. He was probably just minutes behind the murderer.”
“Your constable was the first to come upon the body, then?”
“Yes. His description of the deceased was most colorful: ‘Ripped like a pig in the market,’ he said. Come, let us walk. I can’t bear to look at this obscenity.” Smith took him by the elbow and guided him toward the center of the square. “PC Edward Watkins, Number 881, was the man. A thoroughly reliable f
ellow; I know him personally. It was during the course of his regular rounds that the body was discovered at one forty-five. He had previously been in the square not fifteen minutes earlier — that’s how long it takes him to make his rounds — so we are able to pinpoint the time with some accuracy.”
“Less than an hour after the first murder in Berner Street,” mused Holmes.
“So I understand,” said Smith. “And I am told you were there.”
Holmes nodded ruefully. “For all the good that it did.”
“Well, don’t blame yourself, old man. I am certain you did your best. Just bad luck, is all. There is more than enough of it to go around. We’ve had our share of it here too. What particularly galls me is that we had the victim in custody earlier in the evening, and if my instructions had been followed, this might not have happened.”
“Oh?”
Smith explained: “It is our practice to pick up anyone we find lying about in the streets intoxicated and hold ‘em until they become sober, particularly the women — for their own safety, you understand. She was brought into the Bishopsgate station at around eight-thirty last night and placed in cells. Having sobered up, she was released shortly before one o’clock. She was last seen walking in the general direction of Houndsditch and this place.” He shook his head. “If we had kept her through the night, she’d still be alive. But it was her bad luck to achieve sobriety too quickly, poor soul.”
Smith chewed on his lip, clearly angry. “Moreover, if my standing orders had been obeyed, we might have had this fellow in custody as we speak! All women released from cells during the hours of darkness are supposed to be followed by one of our people. Those have been my orders since these murders began. But for some damn-fool reason, she wasn’t! If we had followed her, and then called in men to guard the approaches of the square, we would have caught the man red-handed, damn it!”
Holmes confined his reply to a noncommittal grunt. He had little patience with people who agonized over the “ifs” of life and engaged in self-recriminations over what might have been.
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors Page 15