Holmes halted just inside the door to allow his eyes a moment or two to adjust to the gloom. Despite the two windows, the room was dark, for very little light ever penetrated the enclosed courtyard. But the room being only twelve feet square, it did not seem at first glance there would be much to see. The furnishings were sparse: an old iron bedstead, two rickety tables, and a single chair. There was a fireplace opposite the door, in which it was obvious an enormous fire had recently burnt; there was a large quantity of ashes on the hearth, and they were still smoking.
Then, as their eyes became accustomed to the dim light, they began to make out details.
On the bed was sprawled the body of what had been a young woman. She was practically naked and lay on her back. She had been horribly mutilated. Her face, which was turned toward them, was slashed and disfigured. Her long dark hair, badly disarranged, was matted with blood. Her throat had been deeply cut from one side to the other, and her head was almost severed from her body. There was blood everywhere — on the bed, on the floor, on the walls.
Like the others, she had been eviscerated, gutted. The killer had been most meticulous about it and very thorough.
On the table by the bed there were little piles of flesh neatly laid out. The heart and the kidneys were there. And other parts...
Watson could not bear to look. Sick at heart, he turned his gaze away, toward the wall.
Oh, God!
What he saw caused him to cry out involuntarily, and Holmes and Abberline both spun around. Their gazes followed his. Abberline retched and rushed from the room.
Parts of the woman’s body hung from picture nails in the wall: The place was festooned with her intestines.
Watson staggered out through the door and into the courtyard, sucking in air, forcing himself not to throw up.
Sergeant Thicke was there, having just arrived on the scene. “It’s that bad, then, is it?” he said, looking at Watson’s face. He had already read the expression on Abberline’s as he had rushed past him.
Watson, his eyes reflecting the horror of it, could only look at him. He could find no words to describe what he saw.
They went back in together, Thicke taking Watson gently by the elbow, as if to lend his support.
There was Holmes, somehow managing to ignore the blood and butchery all about him, making a careful inspection of the floor with the aid of a policeman’s lantern.
“Disturb nothing, I beg of you,” he importuned, “and do watch where you step.”
Independently, they went about the grim business of examining the room and its contents. Thicke, pale but firm of jaw, looked around and began making jottings in his notebook, while Watson undertook a visual inspection of the body. After a few minutes, a silent, visibly shaken Abberline rejoined them and Holmes looked up.
“Who was it who discovered the body and under what circumstances?” he asked without preamble.
Abberline responded in a subdued voice, his manner strained: “It was a man by the name of Boyer, a shop assistant who works for M’Carthy, the lodging-house keeper. He was sent over to try and collect some back rent the woman owed. When he got no response to his knocks, he peered through the window — that one, I think, the small corner window closest to the door, the one with the broken pane. He saw the body and ran to tell M’Carthy. M’Carthy came back with him, took one look through the window, and sent him running off to the Commercial Street station. The time was around a quarter to eleven, I’m told. Inspector Beck, accompanied by Sergeant Betham, was the first to respond. He immediately telegraphed Divisional Superintendent Arnold and notified me, and I telegraphed you.”
“And we were the first to enter? No one went in before us?”
“That’s right.”
Holmes nodded in satisfaction. What with all the frantic activity in the courtyard, any clues to be found outside the woman’s room would have been lost to him; he was glad to find that the interior, at least, had been untouched.
He looked sharply at Abberline. “The body was discovered before noon, you say. Why so long a delay in gaining entry? It is past one-thirty now.”
“We were under instructions to wait for the arrival of Sir Charles Warren; it has been a standing order of his since the last murder. But when he did not arrive or respond to our summons, Superintendent Arnold decided not to wait any longer and took it upon himself to order the door forced.”
“It is good that he did,” responded Holmes dryly. “You should know that the commissioner of police will not be joining us here today, with or without his dogs. Your telegram arrived just after a wire from my brother informing me that Sir Charles has tendered his resignation to the Home Office. I have it on the best of authority that it was accepted.”
It was an indication of Abberline’s absorption with the matter at hand that he barely reacted to Holmes’s amazing news, so long awaited by so many people both inside and outside the department.95
Holmes went to the window and gazed at the broken pane thoughtfully for a moment. As Abberline had pointed out, it was the one closest to the front door — just a few feet away and at right angles to it since the door was set in the adjoining wall. Holmes glanced from the window to the door and then back again. “This broken windowpane — it is as you found it?”
“Yes. I was told it has been that way for some time.”
Holmes gave a dry little chuckle and then, with a gesture of dismissal directed at the window, turned his attention to the body of the woman.
“So she’s been dead for some little while, then?” Holmes said. He looked to Watson for confirmation.
Watson went over to the bed and gingerly picked up the dead woman’s wrist and let it fall. There was pronounced stiffness in the limb. Watson shrugged. “Given the indication of rigor mortis, it could be anywhere from six to twelve hours. There’s no way to be more precise without a thorough autopsy and an examination of the contents of her stomach and the like. If we can find her stomach,” he added ruefully, looking around the room.
“Six to twelve hours,” mused Holmes. “That would mean she could have been murdered anytime between midnight and six A.M.”
“Something like that,” Watson agreed. “Perhaps the police surgeon can be more precise. As you know, pathology is not my line of country.”
“Dr. Bagster-Phillips has been sent for and should be along shortly,” Abberline offered. “He’s had many years experience as a police surgeon and is one of the most knowledgeable men I know in his field. And he’s also had the benefit of examining one or two of the other victims.”
Thicke spoke up: “A neighbor upstairs in number 20, a Mrs. Elizabeth Praten, told me she thought she ‘eard a cry at around three-thirty or four in the mornin’, she couldn’t be sure. An’ by the by, if anybody’s h’interested, ‘er name’s Kelly,” he said, pointing with his chin toward the bed. He referred to his notebook. “Mary Jane Kelly, twenty-four or twenty-five years old, a resident ‘ere since February or March. She also went by the name of Marie Jeannette Kelly. Fancied herself a Frenchy, she did. Gave herself airs, I suppose, like so many of ‘em does. Most everybody around ‘ere called ‘er Black Mary — ‘cause o’ ‘er long, dark ‘air, I suppose.”
Holmes looked thoughtful. “It would be helpful if we could find someone else to corroborate the time of that outcry, if there indeed was an outcry. Medical science may fail us on this occasion, I fear, and a witness who heard something may be our only means of pinning down the exact time of death.”
Thicke nodded. “I ‘ave the lads goin’ door to door now. Let me go check an’ see if they’ve come up with anythin’.”
Holmes turned back to Watson. “Do tell us what else you can, Watson — though I know from the condition of the body it will not be much.”
Watson glanced over to the bed where the woman was still lying. He shook his head.
“It’s impossible, Holmes. Simply impossible. He’s hacked her to pieces.”
Holmes persisted. “The neck wound — does i
t look to you as if it were inflicted by the same hand that slashed the throat of the Nicholls woman?”
“Good Lord, Holmes, it’s impossible to say, the damage is so great. It was probably done by the same hand, but I could not swear to it.”
“So you cannot tell where the knife entered the throat — on the left side or the right?”
“Impossible to say.”
Abberline, who had been listening to their exchange, interjected: “Do you doubt that it was the same killer, Mr. Holmes?”
“It is fatal to assume, Inspector. It is always best to doubt everything until you have good and sufficient reason not to. These murders have attracted uncommon attention, and it would not be at all surprising should some other demented individual decide to take a leaf from our friend’s notebook and attempt to make a name for himself by copying his style.”
Watson brooded. “Well, if he’s not the same killer, he’s done him one better. And if it is the same, he has outdone himself! I have seen what the Pathans in Afghanistan can do with their fiendish blades, and that is horrible enough, but I have never seen anything like this. Never!”
Abberline looked around him and nodded. “It’s as if he were in some sort of a frenzy when he did all of this. And it must have taken him no small amount of time, mustn’t it?”
“Oh, yes,” agreed Watson. “He would have been at his work two hours or more.”
Holmes went over to the fireplace and knelt down on one knee. The ashes were still warm to the touch. He poked around for a minute or two.
“Hullo,” he said. “What have we here?” He used the tip of his walking stick to pick up what looked to be the remains of an old tea kettle. “Look at that,” he said. “The handle and spout have practically melted away. That must have been one hot fire to do that.”
Abberline got down on his haunches beside him. “What do you think she was burning in here, I wonder.”
“Not she,” said Holmes. “He.”
“The killer started the fire, do you think?”
“He must have. Look here!” He started sifting through the ashes with his fingers, picking out bits and pieces of partially burnt material. “This is from a woman’s dress, and here, this, it looks like a piece of a bonnet, doesn’t it? Now, why would the woman burn her own clothes? Particularly since, from the looks of things, they may have been the only clothes she had to her name, aside from what she was wearing.”
Abberline pondered the question. “Do you think he burned them because they were bloodstained?”
Holmes shot him a pained glance. “Look around you, man! There’s enough blood here to fill a washtub. No, I think he wanted light — light to see by, light to enable him to do his hellish work! Her clothes were probably the only fuel he could find. And how merrily they must have burned. But at what risk! I should have thought our friend would have been afraid to attract attention. Flames as high as these could have been seen through the window by anyone happening by in the courtyard. What strikes me is that the man just didn’t seem to care whether he was seen at his work or not.”
Abberline got to his feet. “Well, that is certainly something we can be asking the neighbors about — whether any of them noted any bright light coming from either of the two windows at any time during the night.”
Holmes shrugged. “By all means ask, but I would be surprised if you were to receive a positive response. If anyone saw even a hint of high flames, the fire brigade most assuredly would have been summoned without delay. Fire is to be greatly feared in this section of the city, given the age and ramshackle condition of the buildings here, and the density of the population.”
The search of the room continued. Holmes went back to examining the floor of the room, and when he was finished he turned his attention to the fireplace once again, and when he was satisfied nothing more could be found there, he went to the area surrounding the woman’s bed and, as best as he was able without disturbing the body, examined the bedclothes. Some time went by before he concluded his investigation, and when he finally did, it was clear from his troubled expression that he was far from satisfied with the result.
By then the police surgeon, Dr. Bagster-Phillips, had arrived and was making his preliminary examination of the body in preparation for its removal to the morgue. Photographers retained by the police were also on the scene, eager to do their work and be gone.
Holmes had just about decided that there was nothing more he could do there, that he was only in the way, when Thicke stuck his head in the door, a note of urgency in his voice. “We’ve picked up somebody who says he saw ‘er late last night,” he announced. “An’ ‘e claims ‘e got a good look at the bloke what was with ‘er!”
Holmes was out of the room in a flash, Abberline and Watson close on his heels.
The police had set up an informal temporary headquarters in the nearby Ten Bells, a pub located close to the Spitalfields Market on busy Commercial Street.96 It was here that they found Mr. George Hutchinson, securely in the custody of two burly constables and a sergeant, and well in his cups.
As far as they could make out, Hutchinson, an unemployed night watchman, knew Black Mary well. They were old friends, he claimed, and often had pink gins together here in this very pub, on this very spot, or in Mrs. Ringer’s place, The Britannia, at the corner of Dorset and Crispin streets. It was a claim supported by the publican of the Ten Bells, who confirmed that he had seen them together on occasion. Sometimes they even went to the Cambridge Music Hall together, when they could scrape together the price of two four-penny seats in the upper stalls. And, yes, he had seen her the previous night, at around two A.M. He was wandering the streets, he said; he hadn’t the sixpence for a bed. As he turned off Whitechapel Road into New Commercial Street, he noticed a man standing on the corner under a street lamp.97 It was raining lightly. Then he noticed the figure of Mary Kelly coming toward him from the opposite direction, the direction of Dorset Street. Seeing her alone, he thought he was in luck. Maybe he could borrow a little money from her, enough for the price of a night’s lodging. It would not be the first time she granted him a small loan. They stopped to chat, but before he had the opportunity to ask, she started pouring out her troubles to him. The rent was past due, she told him, and the lodging-house keeper was getting nasty; and she had had nothing to eat all day — could he lend her a little something? At least enough for a meat pie, or a penny glass of gin? Wordlessly, said George Hutchinson, he pulled out his empty pockets; sadly, he was unable to help. Mary shrugged and moved off toward the man standing under the streetlight.
Hutchinson stayed and watched. He saw the man put out a hand toward Mary as she drew near him. The man put his hand on Mary’s shoulder and they chatted for a few minutes and laughed together. Then they began to walk toward him, back toward Dorset Street, the man’s arm around Mary’s waist. They walked right by him, and, for want of anything better to do, he followed discreetly behind.
He followed them into Dorset Street, right to the entrance to Miller’s Court. They disappeared into the court together. After a few minutes, he entered the court himself. He went right up to the door of number 13, Mary’s door. He couldn’t hear anything, so he rounded the corner to where the windows were. There was no light, and he could hear no sound. He retraced his steps to the entrance, and just stood there, waiting. For what? He didn’t know. He had nothing better to do, he had no place to go, so he just waited.
And the time was two A.M.?
Yes, around then. He had heard the bells of Christ Church strike the hour.
How long had he stood there at the entrance to Miller’s Court?
Oh, maybe about three-quarters of an hour.
What then?
Well, he got tired of waiting for the man to reappear, so he just wandered off.
Could he describe the man?
Well, he was wearing mole-colored gaiters.
What else?
He was well dressed, too well dressed for that quarter of London, and that was q
ueer.
Describe his clothes.
Well, there were the gaiters, and a long, dark coat trimmed with some kind of fur at the collar and cuffs.
An astrakhan?
If that’s what you call it.
And what else?
Well, he had a white collar with a black necktie. He had a heavy gold watch chain and a horseshoe pin in his necktie, and the watch chain had a seal with a red stone, and, oh, yes, he was wearing dark gaiters, did I mention that?
You said they were mole-colored,
Yes, dark mole-colored.
Did you see his face?
Yes. He had a mustache which curled up at the ends. He had bushy eyebrows. And he was very pale.
What else?
He had dark eyes. He looked like a foreigner. He had a dark complexion.
He was very pale and he had a dark complexion? You could make out all of this by the light of a gas lamp?
It was a bright night.
You said it was raining lightly.
The corner was brightly lit.
How tall was he?
He looked to be around thirty-five years old.
How tall?
Oh. Tall? About five feet six inches tall.
Five feet six inches?
Yes, and thirty-five years old. A foreigner, if you want my opinion.
And he was wearing a pin in his tie?
A horseshoe pin.
And he had a watch chain?
A heavy watch chain with a seal, and the seal had a red stone. And he was wearing a long, dark coat. And, oh, yes, he was carrying some kind of a satchel under his arm, a bag made of shiny cloth, maybe oilcloth.
And he was wearing a silk hat?
I didn’t say that.
What kind of hat was he wearing, then?
I don’t know. It was a billycock, maybe. That’s right, a billycock. And he was wearing a light waistcoat under a dark-colored jacket.
All of which was under a long, dark astrakhan coat?
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors Page 34