Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul

by Gordon Punter

  Holmes whispers, “Hush, Watson, restrain yourself, walk towards me.”

  Watson shivers and groans, “I abhor confined spaces, Holmes, especially those that are dark. They make me feel entombed.”

  Holmes whispers again, “Please, Watson, time is but short. Put aside your fear, summon your courage and, as the crow flies, walk forward in a straight line.”

  Nervously placing the palm of his hand upon a piece of slimy brickwork and fingering its contour, Watson inches his way through the darkness and, emerging from the murkiness of the alleyway, spots the shadowy figure of Holmes, standing up ahead by the steps of a short cast-iron foot-bridge.

  Watson hurries forward, “My fears can be insufferable at times, Holmes.”

  Holmes places a comforting hand on his shoulder, “We, all of us, harbour demons of the mind that are there to be conquered. You did well, Watson.”

  Watson calms and indicates the foot-bridge, “Curious width, Holmes. Wide enough for a[93] costermonger’s barrow.”

  With the tip of his walking cane, Holmes quietly touches the first of three steps that lead up to the bridge, “To mount, or descend these steps whilst trying to manoeuvre a barrow would be idiotic.” He glances over his shoulder at the alleyway, “Once you emerge from that alleyway, the throughway on this side broadens to some sixteen to eighteen feet. Therefore, the unusual width of this bridge implies that it was solely designed to fit the breadth of this land and not constructed to assist with the movement of trade, Watson.”

  Watson sighs, “Thank you, Holmes, most enlightening.”

  Holmes thoughtfully looks up at the night sky, “It would appear that [94]Mother Nature has given us respite from the rain. Come, Watson, before she changes her mind.”

  Strolling across the bridge, Holmes indicates its rough surface, “Below us is the Metropolitan District Railway and, if I am not mistaken, just up ahead will be Winthrop Street.”

  Upon reaching the dreary street, which runs straight across their path, Holmes and Watson immediately turn left and, after taking a few steps, diagonally walk to the pavement opposite. About to pass an overhead sign that reads Harrison, Barber & Co. Ltd. Horse Slaughters, both men quickly sidestep animal offal being brushed out through two open gates by a slaughterman.

  Watson murmurs in disgust, “Good heavens, Holmes, have these people no respect for disease?”

  Holmes glances at the weathered sign, “Unlike the wealthy, Watson, impoverished people cannot afford to remain idle. Public sanitation means nothing to those struggling to survive.”

  Nearing the right-hand end of the street, Watson looks up at a grim edifice, “And what institutional blemish is that?”

  “A Board School, where the susceptible minds of children are gradually marred by sanctimonious teachers clutching the Book of Common Prayer in one hand and wielding a cane with the other. Charlatans, all of them, Watson, who should be driven from this world and refused entry into the next.”

  “I say, Holmes, strong words, indeed.”

  “I loathe bigotry, Watson. An impartial tutor is certainly a rarity these days, much like an honest criminal.”

  Rounding the Board School and about to enter the next street, Holmes and Watson nearly collide with Constable Thain, standing beneath an unlit wall-mounted gas lantern. Caught unawares, he raises a deterring hand to Holmes, “Sorry, sir, but you can’t come through here.”

  Holmes stares past him intently, noting the scene unfolding before him.

  Mid-fifties, chubby and holding a notepad and pencil, Sergeant Kirby stands before an elderly man, Walter Purkis, outside Essex Wharf, “You’re the manager of this place and you heard nothing at all, is that right?”

  Purkis irritably points to Constable Neil questioning Mrs Green as she leans against the open door of her house, “Told ’im once, now I tell yer.” He points to a first-floor window, “I were up there wiv me missus, asleep. Never ’eard nor saw a soul ’til ’e come a knockin’.”

  Staring at Neil and running her fingers through her unkempt grey hair, Mrs Green fumes, “’Ow many more times ’ave I got t’ tell yer? Like I told the sergeant, I didn’t ’ear anyfink. Nor did I see ’ide nor ’air o’ anyone.”

  In front of the gateway and watched by another two police constables, a young lad swings a wooden pail and, after pitching water onto the ground, begins to brush away the last vestiges of blood.

  Holmes turns to Thain, “At what time was the body found?”

  Thain cocks his head enquiringly, “Who are you?”

  Holmes civilly introduces himself, “Sherlock Holmes.”

  Upon hearing the spoken name, Kirby looks over his shoulder.

  Holmes indicates Watson, “And my good friend and associate, Dr Watson.”

  Unacquainted with the names, Thain politely murmurs, “Sorry, sir, but I still can’t let you through here.”

  Kirby turns to Purkis, “Wait here!”

  Sleepily rubbing his eyes, Purkis groans, “Where else am I goin’?”

  Looking aloft, Holmes spots the street nameplate, Buck’s Row, affixed to the side of the Board School building. He gently nudges Watson on the arm, “Perhaps our dreams do tell us something, after all.”

  Watson sighs, “Mumbo jumbo, Holmes.”

  Kirby strolls up behind Thain, “Step aside, lad, I’ll deal with these gentlemen.”

  Thain smartly moves to one side.

  Kirby steps forward, looking both men up and down, “Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson, in the flesh at last.”

  Holmes inquisitively stares at Kirby, “I do not believe we have met before, Sergeant…?”

  Kirby smiles, “Kirby. Sergeant Kirby, sir. I’m a great admirer of yours, Mr Holmes.” He quickly turns to Watson, “And of you, too, Dr Watson.”

  Acknowledging the compliment, Watson modestly tips his hat.

  Holmes looks at Kirby intently, “Where has the body been taken, Sergeant?”

  Kirby hesitates, “Ah, yes, the body.”

  Holmes pursues his question, “Come, come, Sergeant, to which mortuary has the body been taken?”

  Kirby pensively scratches the side of his face, “I’d like to know, off the record, so to speak, how you knew that a murder had been committed here, Mr Holmes?”

  Watson chuckles mischievously, “Haven’t you heard, Sergeant? Holmes is [95]clairvoyant.”

  Holmes sternly glances at Watson, “Intuition might be nearer the truth.”

  Watson guiltily apologises, “I’m sorry, Holmes.”

  Misunderstanding and thinking that the exchange of words is part of their investigative mode, Kirby taps the side of his nose, “Ah, trade secrets, eh?”

  Amused, Holmes smiles, “Quite so, Sergeant.” He again pursues his query, mimicking some of Kirby’s own words “Off the record, so to speak, where has the body been taken, Sergeant?”

  Kirby taps the three stripes on the sleeve of his tunic, “I’ve grown fond of these, Mr Holmes.”

  Holmes is empathic, “I will use the information discreetly. You have my word, Sergeant.”

  Kirby glances over his shoulder and then steps closer to Holmes, “Well, Mr Holmes, let’s put it this way. There’s a mortuary in Cable Street and another in Old Montague Street. Don’t think you ought to bother with the first one, though.”

  Appreciatively, Holmes tips his head to Kirby.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Whitechapel does not have a public mortuary. Its only one had been demolished a few years earlier by the Metropolitan Board of Works when widening a street in the district.

  Subsequently, corpses were taken, as they are today, to a local workhouse infirmary which featured a mortuary that was, in fact, nothing more than a large dirty shed.

  Still required to perform autopsies in these foul places, Divisional Police Surgeons, whilst giving their testimonies at coroner’s inquests, frequently protest and chide government officials, whom they hold responsible for the deplorable unsanitary conditions in which they are forced to work. />
  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Whilst dawn breaks, and impatient to get to the mortuary in Old Montague Street, Holmes departs Buck’s Row and ardently leads a weary Watson through a warren of foul smelling streets. Passing a shabby court, he hastily enters a dingy alleyway and halts before two large wooden gates, one fitted with a small [96]wicket door.

  Watson catches his breath, “Good Lord, Holmes, I do believe you know the district by heart.”

  Holmes contemplates the gates, “My dear fellow, it has always been a practice of mine to consult a map before embarking on a new case, especially when confronted by unfamiliar territory. In this particular instance, I merely studied a map of the neighbourhood, committing its streets and relevant places of interest to memory.”

  Watson stifles a yawn and indicates the gates, “The mortuary, Holmes?”

  Holmes nods, “As a rule, discreet access is often gained by the use of a rear entrance.” With the tip of his walking cane, he prods the wicket door, “Ah, locked.”

  Watson peers over his shoulder, along the alleyway, “The front entrance, Holmes?”

  Stepping back, Holmes pensively stares at the top of the gates, “And reveal our presence to inquisitive police constables? I think not, Watson.”

  On the other side of the gates, a grubby hand turns a key in the lock of the wicket door.

  Upon hearing the noise, Holmes glances at Watson and jovially smiles, “Providence prevails, Watson.”

  Holding the key, a gaunt man, Robert Hatfield, steps through the wicket door out into the alleyway. Upon seeing Holmes and Watson, he venomously snarls, “Ere, trade only.”

  Holmes reacts audaciously, “Then, sir, we are tradesmen.” He glances at Hatfield’s hands, “You are the mortuary attendant, I believe?”

  Hatfield snarls again, “’Ow yer know that, then?”

  Holmes points to Hatfield’s hands, “There is dried blood between your fingers, which suggests that you have haphazardly washed and dried your hands in a hurry to get somewhere. Home for breakfast, perhaps?”

  Dumbstruck, Hatfield stares at his hands.

  Brushing past him, Holmes hurriedly steps through the wicket door, followed by Watson, who cheekily tips his hat to Hatfield.

  Disturbed by the two men entering the stoned-flagged yard, an oily rat scurries along the base of a building, behind a bare-footed, fair-haired girl, standing beside a bedraggled woman, next to an open door.

  Watson sees the rodent disappear through the door into the building, “Is this supposed to be a medical institution, Holmes?”

  “A workhouse infirmary, Watson.”

  Staring at six-year-old Emma Walderman, who clutches her bandaged right arm, Watson exclaims incredulously, “Outrageous, Holmes, this child has no footwear.”

  The bedraggled woman, Catharine Eddowes, hazel eyes and dark auburn hair, glibly comments, “The problem ain’t ’er feet, sir, it’s ’er bleedin’ arm, innit?”

  Watson turns to Catharine, “I would have you know, madam, I am a doctor and that her malady has not escaped my attention.”

  Feeling scolded, Catharine haughtily adjusts her black straw bonnet, “Well, when yer finished wiv ’er, yer can take a look at me, can’t yer?”

  Watson slowly crouches before Emma and, gazing at her dirty face, smiles, “With your permission, I would like to take a look at your arm.”

  Unsure how to respond to Watson and with a fretful expression, Emma looks pleadingly to Catharine for support.

  Catharine responds dismissively, “I ain’t yer bleedin’ mother. Go on, let ’im ’ave a [97]butchers, says ’e’s a doctor.”

  Biting her lower lip, Emma coyly looks at Watson and nods.

  Unwrapping the filthy bandage, Watson exposes a ruptured abscess, puss oozing from its centre. Fearful of gangrene, he turns to Holmes, “She could lose her arm. I must act quickly.”

  Holmes concurs, “Quite so, Watson.

  Emerging through the open door, a stout middle-aged woman, Mrs Dowsett, wearing a starched white bonnet and apron, steps into the yard and, placing her hands on her hips, glares at Watson, “This is Whitechapel, not [98]Harley Street.”

  Raising a curious eyebrow, Watson stands, “And who are you, madam?”

  Catharine quips, “The Devil’s gift t’ medicine, sir.”

  Dowsett scowls at Catharine,[99] “Stitch your lip, Eddowes.”

  Incensed and indicating Watson, Catharine glowers at Dowsett, “Gawd luv us, matron, ’e’s tryin’ t’ ’elp the poor [100]mite, ain’t ’e?”

  Watson stares at Dowsett intently, “You are the matron of this infirmary?”

  Dowsett cocks her head, “Mrs Edith Dowsett. And you are…?”

  Ignoring the question, Watson glares at her, “Madam, when I was an assistant surgeon with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers in the second Afghan war, I treated many battle causalities, some successfully, I might add. At the battle of Maiwand I was struck in the left shoulder by a Jezail bullet, which shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery. But because infection was not allowed to spread, I retained the use of my arm.” He indicates Emma, “Now clean her wound immediately. I assume you know what an antiseptic solution is?”

  Glancing at the speechless Mrs Dowsett, Catharine sniggers, [101]“Cat’s got yer bleedin’ tongue, ain’t it?”

  Holmes edges closer to Watson and admiringly murmurs, “Well said, dear fellow.”

  Clearing her throat, Dowsett beckons Emma, “Inside.” She turns to Catharine, “Not you, Eddowes, wait here.”

  Ushering Emma through the open door, Dowsett begrudgingly tips her head to Watson, “Good morning, Doctor.”

  Watson turns to Catharine, “Now, my dear woman, what ails you?”

  Scratching herself, Catharine unwittingly reveals the initials T. C. tattooed in dark blue Indian ink on her left forearm, “Bleedin’ fleas, sir.”

  Alarmed by her admission, Watson steps back, excusing himself, “I am a doctor of medicine, not an [102]entomologist. Best you let matron attend to you.” Despairingly, he shakes his head and turns to Holmes, “It is not done, Holmes. It is simply not done! We belong to the greatest empire the world has ever known and yet we repeatedly fail our own people. It is a travesty.”

  Holmes nods in agreement, “Yes, with revolutionaries waiting in the wings.” He indicates a shoddy wooden door that displays the faded word Mortuary upon its paint-peeled surface, “Now I require your assistance, Watson. The decision is yours. Shall we continue?”

  Watson assents, “Yes, of course, Holmes.”

  Promptly turning on his heel, Holmes nearly collides with a tearful Ellen Holland, stepping out through the mortuary door escorted by a young police constable, George Allen.

  Stepping aside, Holmes politely tips his hat to Ellen.

  Watson reacts likewise.

  Erroneously believing that both men are officially related to the murder inquiry, Police Constable Allen ignores Holmes and Watson and indicates the open door of the infirmary to Ellen, “This way, miss.”

  The couple slowly walk across the yard and enter the building.

  Holmes musingly taps his chin with the handle of his walking cane, “The murdered woman has just been identified, Watson.”

  Bemused, Watson frowns, “I beg your pardon, Holmes.”

  Holmes lowers his cane, “Tears are shed for the dead only by relatives or friends. In life, that woman knew the deceased, whom she has just identified, Watson.”

  Chapter 4

  Unfortunates

  Fleetingly roused by the compassion shown to Emma by Watson and seeing him about to enter the mortuary, Catharine shouts, “Oi, sir, fear not fer the little mite, I’ll see she gits ’ome.”

  Watson smiles at her, tips his hat and then follows Holmes into the mortuary.

  Catharine scratches her arm again, leans against the grimy brickwork of the infirmary and despondently sighs, “Well, ol’ gel, [103]fleas t’day, wot’s it t’morrow?”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ />
  Now aged forty-six and bearing the same Christian name as her mother, Catharine Eddowes was born on 14 April, 1842, at Graisley Green, Wolverhampton. The youngest of a family of eleven, she was brought to London the next year, where her mother eventually died when she was thirteen.

  Two years later, following the death of her father, George Eddowes, Catharine was placed in an East London workhouse orphanage from where she soon absconded, fleeing to her Aunt Elizabeth in Wolverhampton and, in due course, taking up with a labourer, Thomas Conway, whom she had met in the city of Birmingham.

  Though not married to Thomas, Catharine nonetheless bore him a daughter and son and, upon moving back to London with him, had given birth to another boy. Gradually succumbing to alcohol to numb the drudgery of life, she started to abandon Thomas and the children, slowly drifting away and, on occasions, disappearing for weeks on end.

  Returning from these alcoholic forays, her reunions with Thomas were invariably tempestuous affairs, resulting in violence that often left Catharine much the worse for wear, nursing black eyes and a bruised body. In 1881, aged thirty-nine, her stormy relationship with Thomas finally collapsed, whereupon she had bitterly parted from him, losing guardianship of her children.

  Seemingly without a second thought, Catharine had taken up with another man, John Kelly, with whom she began cohabiting at Cooney’s lodging house, 55 Flower and Dean Street, Spitalfields, Whitechapel. A quiet, meek, inoffensive sort of fellow, John Kelly, until recently, had always managed to find regular employment in Spitalfields Market, but now suffering from a kidney complaint and a bad cough which frequently prevents him from getting work, he has fallen upon hard times.

  Disinterested in his failing health, Catharine often exerts her fiery temperament, dominating the docile Kelly who, in turn, slavishly looks upon her as an astute and kindly person. Commonly labelled by the dregs of her own class as a persistent [104]scrounger and drunkard, Catharine will engage in bouts of prostitution, but only after menial jobs, from which she might earn money, or a paltry meal, have proved difficult to find.