The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors

by Edward B. Hanna

  “Holmes! Where the devil have you been? I’ve been looking all over for you! Why did you leave me like that? Good Lord, man, how could you bring me to a place like this?”

  The bearded man laughed, but not unkindly. “It does take some getting used to, doesn’t it?” he said. “But as these soirees go, this is a relatively tame one. I don’t partake of many myself, but they do allow one to get caught up on the latest goings-on. For a journalist such as myself, that is essential.” He stuck out his hand. “G. B. Shaw is the name.”

  “Mr. Shaw,” explained Holmes, “writes music and drama reviews for the Pall Mall Gazette and the Saturday Review. You have heard me sing his praises on more than one occasion, though to be perfectly honest, I am not always in total agreement with his opinions. He and I were just getting caught up in a subject you know is dear to my heart, cockney dialects.”

  Watson, angry as he was, could never permit himself to be discourteous or uncivil. Besides, it was obvious this fellow was not one of “them.” He had an engaging way about him, a gay twinkle in his eye, as if amused by the world and all who were in it, and he looked as out of place at the moment as Watson felt. Watson gathered control of his indignation and shook the young man’s proffered hand politely.

  “Holmes is an ardent admirer of your reviews,” he said, “and I hear him speak your name often, Mr. Shaw. As to unusual dialects, you have come to the right place. These people seem to speak a language all their own, an outrageous parody of the Queen’s English that seems to originate somewhere in the dark regions of the nasal passages, avoiding the vocal cords altogether. And how they do roll their r’s and draw out their a’s!”

  Shaw laughed in delight. “Indeed, indeed. It is a travesty of the language, is it not? Our more exclusive public boarding schools are to blame, I am sure of it. They catch them young and inflict upon them a certain unnatural mode of speech, which their benighted headmasters have decided is the hallmark of a well-bred English gentleman. As a result, the aristocracy simply mangle the language, and of course the middle classes, ever ready to ape their betters, are quick to follow suit. The English, it would seem, delight in doing their language grievous injury. They have no respect for it, you see, and will not teach their children to speak it properly.” He laughed again. “It has gotten so that it is quite impossible for an Englishman to open his mouth without making everyone else in the world despise him.”

  The subject was apparently a favorite of Mr. Shaw’s, for he went on in the same vein for some time. His observations, though biting, were quite humorous, and Watson found himself, along with Holmes, enjoying the conversation immensely.

  After a while Shaw turned to Holmes. “But tell me, if you don’t mind me asking, why are you here? This does not seem to be the kind of place one would normally find Mr. Sherlock Holmes, unless upon a case. I should think you would be hot upon the track of this Jack the Ripper fellow, who has all of London in a positive frenzy.”

  Watson stiffened. Holmes, on the other hand, displayed no change in his outward demeanor, but merely shrugged and smiled politely.

  “A task for the official police, surely,” he said.

  Shaw looked at him keenly. “They don’t appear to be doing a very good job of it. I should think they could use your expertise.”

  Holmes measured his words with care. The man was a member of the press after all, and they were always on the scent of something.

  “Under the circumstances,” said Holmes, “I doubt if much more could be done than is being done. Your average individual has no concept of how difficult it is to find someone who does not wish to be found, especially in a great metropolis such as our own.”

  “And you have not been consulted at all?”

  Holmes lit a cigarette. “I have been out of the city, actually. Only just returned a few days ago. Somewhat out of touch with things, really.”

  Shaw studied him shrewdly for a moment. He had been a journalist long enough to know when someone was being evasive, appearing to answer a question without answering it at all. He took a different tack.

  “Tell me, Mr. Holmes, since everyone else in London seems to have a theory of who this fellow is, what is yours?”

  Holmes shot him a sidelong glance and laughed. “As Watson here will tell you, Mr. Shaw, I have an absolute aversion to theorizing. It is so much more efficacious to apply oneself to the facts of the matter than to indulge in speculation. Having no facts, I have no opinion.”

  It was Shaw’s turn to laugh. “Then you are the only person in London who doesn’t. It is impossible to go anywhere without hearing a baker’s dozen in quick order. The prevailing one of the day is that the fellow is a Jewish ritual slaughterer, a sochet, I believe they are called in their language.”

  Watson look horrified. “Whatever is a ritual slaughterer?” he asked.

  Holmes turned to him and explained: “The Jewish religion requires that cattle be slaughtered in a certain prescribed way by an individual especially selected and trained for that purpose. It has something to do with their dietary laws, I understand: The animal must be dispatched quickly and humanely, and from what I gather, that calls for some experience.” Turning back to Shaw, Holmes said: “That’s as good a guess as any, I suppose. Such a person would have the means — a sharp knife and an aptitude for using it — and a knowledge of anatomy of a kind. And it is true there is a large ghetto of Jewish immigrants in the area where the murders have occurred, along with several of their slaughterhouses. Yes, I like that theory. The Ripper could very well be a Jew.”

  Shaw perked his ears up.

  “Of course,” continued Holmes blithely, “he could also be an Irish slaughterer of horses or a Polish slaughterer of pigs. An abundance of both can be found in the district as well. And the anatomy of pigs and horses has as much in common with the anatomy of a human as does that of beef cattle or sheep, which is to say nothing whatsoever.” He shrugged. “So much for theorizing.”

  Shaw chuckled, a little abashed. “I see your point, Mr. Holmes, and it is a point well taken. The man could be anyone at all. Or not even a man, but a woman dressed as a man — that is another theory I have heard.”

  There was an amused gleam in Holmes’s eyes. “Oh, I like that one! It would certainly explain how the killer has been able to get past the police undetected. But then, presumably, so could a man dressed as a woman — or two men dressed as a horse, or a little man dressed as a titmouse. The possibilities are limitless, you see — as limitless as the human imagination. I’ll tell you how it is, Mr. Shaw: I shall put my trust in facts, thank you, and leave wild speculation to those who are more imaginative than myself.”

  Shaw smilingly raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. “I can see that I am out of my depth. I best confine myself to music and the theater, where at least I don’t have to justify my opinions.”

  He looked around the room. “You know, there is one good thing to come out of all of this. Less than a year ago the West End crowd, these good people included, were literally clamoring for the blood of the people — hounding Sir Charles Warren to thrash and muzzle the scum who dared complain that they were starving, behaving, in short, as the propertied class always does behave when the workers throw it into a frenzy of terror by venturing to show their teeth. I speak, of course, of the Trafalgar Square riots. Whilst we conventional Social Democrats — yes, Doctor, I am indeed one of those dangerous radical fellows, I am sorry if it shocks you — whilst we were wasting our time on education, agitation, and organization, this independent genius known as Jack the Ripper has come along and taken the matter well in hand. He has done more in a fortnight to call attention to the plight of the poor than we have been able to accomplish in years!”

  He took out his watch. “My goodness, I had not realized the hour. But tell me, before I go, Mr. Holmes, were you being quite serious when you told me you could differentiate from among the district dialects of London? Surely you were jesting’”

  Holmes smiled. “I have
it in mind to write a monograph on the subject someday: It has long been an interest of mine. As the Yorkshireman speaks in a dialect as distinct in its character and makeup from, say, a native of Dover or the Midlands, natives of London speak in dialects that can differ sharply from one neighborhood to the next. Why, I know a professor of phonetics who, I promise you, can listen to the calls of the flower girls in Covent Garden and be able to determine with an uncanny degree of accuracy what districts they come from. He can tell you not only the districts, but in some cases even the very streets in which they live, for the dialects are often subtly different from one street to the next, you see.”

  Shaw looked at him with interest and stroked his beard. “You amaze me, Mr. Holmes! Can this chap truly do that?”

  “With an uncanny degree of accuracy,” repeated Holmes. “You will find that the dialect spoken in Lisson Grove, for example, is quite different from that of Earl’s Court or Hoxton or Selsey. I flatter myself that I can often place an individual within a few miles of his or her place of origin, sometimes within a few streets, but my ability to do so pales in comparison to his.”

  “How simply wonderful!” said Shaw, his red beard bobbing with pleasure. “If ever you do complete your monograph, you must send it around to me. I am quite intrigued by what you say.” He held out his hand to be shaken. “This has been a most entertaining and instructive little chat. But now you must excuse me, I really should be off. The hour grows late and I have a deadline to meet.” He favored Holmes with a parting wink. “Covent Garden, eh? Well, I will be sure to engage the flower girls in conversation when next I go there.”68

  Holmes and Watson departed shortly after, much to Watson’s relief. Not only was he decidedly uncomfortable in the company of these fops, these effete dandies with their studied mannerisms and peculiar values (not to mention the, er, sexual proclivities of at least some of them), but he was highly curious to learn from Holmes his reason for wanting to visit this place to begin with. Obviously he did not come on a lark, he had an ulterior motive, and Watson was most eager to discover what it was.

  They had retrieved their hats and cloaks and were exiting through the door when the clatter of a coach drawing up at the end of the mews caught their attention. It was a shiny black brougham drawn by a magnificent, glistening pair, leather harnesses liberally appointed with silver trappings. A small, discreet crest was emblazoned on the coach’s door, but it could not be made out in the dim light.

  Three men in evening dress alighted from the conveyance as Watson and Holmes walked toward it, two of them showing obvious deference to the third, a slight young man of below average height who emerged last from the carriage, a dark, open cloak thrown carelessly over his shoulders. He took in his surroundings with a bored, supercilious air.

  The two other men looked to be at least a few years older, and there was something about one of them that suggested he would have been more at ease in uniform, for his bearing was unmistakably military, while the third man bore the careless slouch of a civilian, one hand in trouser pocket, the other casually holding a cigarette.

  Their faces became momentarily distinguishable as they passed beneath the streetlight, and Holmes in that fleeting instant studied them intently. The oddest thing, the single most noticeable thing, it seemed to Watson as the trio came closer, had to do with the younger man’s appearance, but it took a moment before he realized what it was: The winged collar of his shirt seemed to be cut unnaturally high, almost ridiculously so, the better presumably to hide an unusually long, thin neck, though in reality it served only to call attention to it. Watson caught a glimpse of his face as he walked past. There was something else about him, something familiar, but Watson just could not put his finger on it. He had a small upturned mustache and a vacuous look about him: Large, languid, heavily lidded eyes that moved neither left nor right and seemed focused on nothing, as if everything worth seeing in the world had already been seen and further observation was superfluous. He led his companions past Holmes and Watson without appearing to notice them at all.

  Holmes stepped to one side and tipped his hat deferentially, and Watson suddenly gasped in recognition. He, too, stepped aside but was not quick enough to reach for his hat. He merely gaped in astonishment as Holmes bowed his head slightly and said, “Good evening, Your Royal Highness.”

  Without a nod or upward glance the young man entered the house, his two companions following closely behind. One of them, the civilian, paused momentarily to glance back at Holmes, taking a last puff from his cigarette and casually letting it fall to the ground before proceeding. The green door closed quickly behind him.

  “That young man!” exclaimed Watson breathlessly. “Good Lord, wasn’t that — ?”

  “Indeed it was,” replied Holmes, a thoughtful, even troubled look upon his face.

  Seventeen

  SATURDAY, OCTOBER 27-SUNDAY, OCTOBER 28, 1888

  “It is an old maxim of mine that when you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

  — The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet

  His Royal Highness Prince Albert Victor, known to friends and public alike as Prince Eddy, was a grand-child of Queen Victoria’s, one of the many who, by virtue of numerous carefully arranged marriages over the years, was to be found in virtually every major royal Protestant family on the European continent (and some that were not so major, and even one or two that were not so Protestant). Not for nothing was the Queen-Empress known as “the grandmother of Europe.”

  But Albert Victor held a special place among her grandchildren. He was the eldest son of her eldest son, Albert Edward, the Prince of Wales, and as such was Heir Presumptive to the throne of England.

  Watson had been utterly shocked to witness His Highness enter the establishment that he and Holmes had just departed. For an heir to the throne to be seen in the company of such individuals as were present in that house (“fops and pederasts and godknowswhat,” in Watson’s words) was most unseemly and highly disturbing. Ever the proper Englishman, Watson adhered to a rigid code of what was right and what was wrong, and the higher one’s station in life, the higher the standard to which that individual was held. The prince’s presence among individuals of questionable morality, to say the least, deeply offended Watson’s sense of propriety. Holmes, on the other hand, seemed neither shocked nor surprised, but he was troubled, that much was evident. He remained steadfastly silent during the ride back to Baker Street, the gleam of the streetlights flashing upon his saturnine features revealing a look of concern: Chin in hand, thin lips compressed, eyes staring off into space. Watson knew better than to break into his deliberations. Even though there were several questions he was burning to ask, he showed great self-restraint and remained silent also. But once back in their rooms in front of the fire, snifters of brandy close at hand, Watson could contain himself no longer.

  “What do you suppose he was doing there?”

  Holmes did not even look up. “I have not the foggiest notion.”

  “Not a guess?”

  “You know I never guess.”

  “I cannot believe it! The prince, of all people.”

  “Your eyes did not deceive you, unless mine did so as well.”

  “I just cannot credit it!”

  “You have already made that point abundantly obvious. Further repetition is not required.”

  “Do you think he is on intimate terms with any of those people? Friends with them, I mean?”

  “That point, too, is obvious, or at least can be safely assumed. His Highness has somewhat of a reputation for unsavory associations.”

  “I had not heard that,” said Watson in a shocked tone.

  “The palace has not seen fit to announce it.”

  Watson bridled a little at Holmes’s sarcasm, but understood the meaning behind it. The press treated the Royals, as they were collectively called, with the softest of kid gloves, and rarely was anything ever printed about them without the
prior approval of those court functionaries whose job it was to manage such affairs. Even the Prince of Wales’s notorious peccadillos, well known throughout Europe and the subject of endless gossip, were treated gingerly by the minions of Fleet Street. Scandals involving the lusty, fun-loving heir — and his name had been connected with several — saw print only on the rare occasions when they reached open court. And even then, where he was concerned the published accounts were subdued, cautious, and most respectful. Of his young sons Eddy and George, nothing untoward had ever been printed. Neither had ever had a hint of scandal attached to their names, and Watson was taken aback at Holmes’s disclosure.

  “You know that as a fact? About Prince Eddy’s associations, I mean.”

  “It is not widely known. The gossip has been restrained, but even his royal father is said to have despaired of him, and that is saying some.”

  “Good Lord, I cannot credit it!”

  “So you have said.”

  “I just cannot credit it.”

  Holmes sighed. “Watson, my dear, dear chap, you can be most trying at times.”

  “I? I can be trying? Really, Holmes, that is most absurd of you. It was not I who dragged you off to some — some den of iniquity populated by spoiled, rich sodomites with their preposterous talk and ridiculous mannerisms. It is not I who — who —”

  Holmes held up his hand. “Point well taken. I pray you, do not belabor it.”

  “Why did we go there anyway? Surely you must have had some object in mind.”

  Holmes nodded. “Sleeve links,” he replied.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I went to take note of their sleeve links.” He waved a hand airily and added, half under his breath: “Among other things.”

  “Great Scot!” Watson stared at him in disbelief. “Do you mean you think one of them — one of them — might be the Ripper?”

  “I don’t know, but there is evidence that suggests just such a possibility. Circumstantial evidence, to be sure, but too strong to ignore, far too strong to prevent me from drawing certain inferences. If you were wondering where I was those few days I was gone, I spent a good part of my time in front of a particular house on a particular street in Whitechapel, observing the comings and goings at all hours of an interesting assortment of gentlemen, some known to me by sight, others not. They had one thing in common, these gentlemen: They were decidedly out of place. Every single one of them was a member of the upper classes, and one must wonder what business they had in the slums, in what is without question one of the worst streets in London and one of the most opprobrious addresses.”