Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul

by Gordon Punter

  For the past fortnight, and now forty-five-years-old, Annie has been feeling unwell and, just prior to clashing with Joseph Barnett, had told a close friend, Amelia Farmer, “It’s no use me givin’ way. I got t’ pull meself t’gether an’ git out an’ git some money, or I won’t ’ave no lodgings t’night.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Upon reaching the corner of Dorset Street and Commercial Street, Joseph Barnett brushes past Catharine Eddowes, struggling to support a tousled drunken, middle-aged Ernest Linster outside the Britannia tavern, known locally as the ‘Ringers’.

  Derived from the surname of landlord Walter Ringer and his wife Matilda, the tavern is but one favourite haunt for those prostitutes who constantly parade up and down the busy major thoroughfare of Commercial Street, which cuts straight through the very heart of Spitalfields.

  Pausing at the entrance of the Britannia, Barnett curiously gazes over his shoulder at Catharine, who teasingly pushes Linster back against the facade of the tavern, “Ol’ woman at ’ome carin’ fer the young ’uns, is she? An’ yer out ’ere, ’avin’ a [151]whale o’ a time. [152]Bleedin’ rich, if yer ask me.”

  Sliding up the left sleeve of her black jacket trimmed around the cuff with imitation fur, she indicates the initials T. C. tattooed on her forearm, “Tom Conway! Right bleeder, ’e were. Left me nigh on seven years ago.”

  Drunkenly throwing his head back and staring at the night sky, Linster hiccups, “Me finks, I’m [153]done fer, Cathy.”

  Worried that Linster might abstain from the rest of the evening, Catharine steps forward and brazenly caresses his crotch, “’Ave no fear, luv, I’ll soon put some life in ’im.”

  Aroused, Linster moans, lowers his head and slurs, [154]“Bareback, Cathy. Yer know I like it wiv no saddle.”

  Catharine chuckles mischievously, “’Course I do. That’s why yer come t’ me, ain’t it?” She straightens her black straw bonnet trimmed in green velvet, “’Ow much ’ave yer got, then?”

  Shoving his hands into the side pockets of his jacket and then into the pockets of his trousers, Linster finally produces a half-crown coin. Holding it between finger and thumb, he smugly displays it to her, “Bareback, Cathy?”

  Catharine gawks at the coin and cackles, “Fer that, luv, yer can ride me all the way t’ [155]Epsom an’ back agin.”

  Revolted by her pronouncement, Barnett tersely pushes open the door of the Britannia and, avoiding two raucous men leaving, enters the crowded smoked-filled tavern.

  Easing his way through vivacious drinkers and peering over their heads, Barnett spies a slovenly Arthur Ensor, bent over the bar, supping a [156]pint of ale alone. Slowly sidling up next to him, Barnett bleats, “Bleedin’ whores everywhere t’night, Arthur.”

  Knowing that Barnett has an irritating habit of whining about almost everything, Ensor curtly replies, “Live an’ let live, eh, Joe?”

  Perturbed by something, Barnett shifts from foot to foot.

  Noticing his tense expression, Ensor gently nudges Barnett on the arm, “Come on, mate, it’s Friday night, whores an’ ale, eh?”

  Barnett wearily smiles, “Ale, eh? [157]Stand me a pint, Arthur.”

  Ensor gapes at Barnett, “Stand yer a bleedin’ pint? ’Aven’t yer been paid, then?”

  Hurriedly looking from side to side, Barnett edges closer to Ensor, “Paid then? I’ve lost me job.”

  Ensor scoffs, “Yeh, right, mate. Pull the other leg, it’s got [158]bells on it.”

  Barnett sighs mournfully, “On it. They caught me leavin’ the market wiv some fish under me jacket. Thievin’, they said.”

  Slurping his ale, Ensor wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, “Yer ain’t kiddin’ me, then?”

  Barnett nods, inhaling deeply.

  Ensor gulps down the remainder of his ale, “Wot yer goin’ t’ do, Joe?”

  Barnett shakes his head despondently, “Do, Joe? It ain’t wot I’m goin’ do, Arthur. It’s wot Mary is goin’ do when I tell ’er.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Effectively swept along by the throng of theatregoers departing the theatre, Holmes and Watson halt on the pavement beneath the glass canopy.

  Elated, Watson hums part of the recital, “Captivating, Holmes. Quite captivating.”

  Politely stepping aside and letting an elegant elderly couple pass by him, Holmes smiles, “Music hath charms to soothe a savage breast, to soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak, eh, Watson?”

  Watson gleefully raises a finger, “William Congreve, Holmes?”

  Slapping the folded newspaper against the palm of his hand, Holmes chuckles to himself, “Yes, a dramatist of some distinction, I believe.”

  Watson frowns, “Of some distinction, Holmes? I will have you know that he was a master of English comedy.” He throws his arm aloft and loudly recites, “Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.”

  Aware that several pedestrians are indignantly gawking at him, an embarrassed Watson lowers his arm.

  Disdainfully acknowledging the people, Holmes murmurs, “Do not concern yourself, Watson. I much prefer a recitation outside the theatre to an act of violence in the street.” He takes him by the arm, “Come, the night is not yet over.”

  Erroneously thinking that Holmes is determined to continue with the murder investigation even at this late hour, Watson baulks, “Oh, Holmes, please.”

  Ignoring his plea, Holmes ushers him through the crowd, along the pavement towards Bull Inn Court, “Your birthday decrees that we dine, Watson.”

  Pleasantly surprised, Watson pauses near the narrow darkened lane, “Where, Holmes?”

  Holmes steps to the edge of the pavement and beckons a cab, “Marcini’s. We must be there before eleven, Watson.”

  Spotting Holmes gesticulating, Samuel Wensley slows his horse and brings his hansom cab to a halt alongside the kerb.

  Excitedly brushing past Holmes, Watson hurriedly gets into the vehicle. About to enter the cab himself, Holmes quickly looks up at Wensley, “Cabby, take us to…”

  “Good evening, Mr Holmes.”

  Turning to confront the intrusive voice, Holmes sees Lestrade solemnly emerging from the shadows of Bull Inn Court.

  Mystified by his presence, Holmes intones, “Lestrade! What on earth are you doing here?”

  Knowing that he has caught Holmes by surprise, Lestrade grins, “Waiting for you, Mr Holmes. Thought I’d let you see the show first, though.”

  Holmes raises a suspicious eyebrow, “How courteous of you. But the Royal Adelphi is hardly a music hall, Lestrade. It was a recital, not a variety show.”

  Lestrade frowns, [159]“Splitting hairs again, Mr Holmes?”

  Holmes sighs disapprovingly, “Whatever you want, can’t it wait until tomorrow? We are just…”

  Quickly popping his head out of the cab, Watson intervenes, “Yes, Lestrade, it is my birthday and we are about to dine.”

  Lestrade strokes his moustache with the knuckle of his finger, “Oh, really? Happy birthday, Dr Watson.”

  Staring at Holmes, Watson mutters, “I get the distinct feeling that our meal will have to wait, Holmes.”

  Holmes turns to Lestrade again, “Who has sent you and for what reason, Lestrade?”

  Lestrade frowns, “The Chief Commissioner wants to see you.” He glances at Watson, “Alone, Mr Holmes.”

  Holmes is scathing, “Sir Charles Warren, no less. And what does the perpetrator of Bloody Sunday want?”

  Lestrade inhales deeply, “Please, Mr Holmes, I’ve got my orders. I’m to escort you to Scotland Yard at once.”

  Irritated by his insistence, Holmes snaps, “Yes, yes, Lestrade.” He turns to Watson, “Do you suppose he might resort to handcuffs if I do not accompany him?”

  Watson scoffs, [160]“Over my dead body, Holmes.”

  Grateful for his support, Holmes smiles affectionately, “Yes, quite so. Do not alarm Mrs Hudson, Watson, I will be along shortly.” He again looks up at Wensley, “C
abby, 221b Baker Street.”

  Acknowledging the instruction, Wensley touches the brim of his hat with his finger, “Consider it done, guv’nor.” Opening a small hinged flap built into the roof of the cab, Wensley peers down at Watson seated inside the vehicle, “Just sit back, sir, an’ we’ll be there b’fore yer can say, [161]‘Pop Goes the Weasel’.”

  Chuckling, Watson closes the two front folding doors of the cab and settles back in its leather seat.

  Slamming the flap shut and deftly flicking the reins of the horse, Wensley manoeuvres the cab out into the road and begins to trundle along the Strand towards Trafalgar Square.

  Watching the vehicle recede, Holmes hastily turns to Lestrade, “Well, Lestrade, shall we proceed?”

  Lestrade indicates another cab, parked on the other side of the road.

  Strolling across the thoroughfare, Lestrade murmurs to Holmes, “Do you think this Whitechapel murderer can be caught?”

  Holmes glances at him, “The fingerprint technique has been used in India for nearly a decade, Lestrade. For the last two years [162]Professor Faulds has been urging Scotland Yard to adopt the same method, but to no avail. The advances in photography have also been ignored. Whilst a military man commands Scotland Yard, I am afraid the advantage lies with the murderer.”

  Following Holmes, Lestrade wearily climbs into the cab and sits next to him, “You may well be right, Mr Holmes. Morale is at an all time low at the Yard right now.”

  Holmes impatiently thumps the roof of the vehicle with his hand, “Scotland Yard!”

  The cab lurches forward.

  Holmes quickly turns to Lestrade, “The day of the bloodhound is over, Lestrade. Usual methods of detection, relying on rewards and informants, are archaic. We must look to the future, as indeed the criminal does.”

  Lestrade frowns, “The future? I have enough trouble with the present, Mr Holmes.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  When the Metropolitan Police Force of London was founded fifty-nine years ago in 1829, one of its major tasks had been to find suitable premises to serve as headquarters.

  A building, 4 Whitehall Place, which backed onto a spacious cobble-stoned court named Great Scotland Yard, was eventually selected. Close to Trafalgar Square, the rear of 4 Whitehall Place had been summarily converted into a police station which, in turn, had led the populace to identify Great Scotland Yard as the official residence of the Metropolitan Police Force. Several years later, the word ‘Great’ entirely vanished from the address when the headquarters became known as Scotland Yard, derived from the name of the single access street to the court.

  Towards the end of last year and due to the steady increase in the size of the force, the Home Secretary, Henry Matthews, bowing to political pressure, had appointed the architect, Richard Norman Shaw, to design a new building for the Metropolitan Police Force.

  To be completed by 1900, the new headquarters, now under construction on a vacant piece of land originally intended for a National Opera House close to the Houses of Parliament, is being built, using a curious combination of Portland stone and red bricks. This unusual blend of materials has prompted critics of the building to remark that the structure will ultimately resemble the monstrous keep of a medieval castle.

  However, for the moment, the cramped premises of Scotland Yard continues to serve as headquarters to a beleaguered Metropolitan Police Force, plagued by ministerial interference, derided by the newspapers and universally loathed by the lower classes.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Raising his monocle to his right eye, Sir Charles Warren sourly stares at Holmes seated opposite him, with Lestrade standing at his side.

  He wags a dictatorial finger at Holmes, “I have but one division in Whitechapel, consisting of five hundred and forty-eight men. One police officer to every one hundred and thirty inhabitants. In battle, those odds would be unacceptable. Yet in spite of those numbers, and even though the death of an unfortunate has caused widespread alarm and brought unfair criticism upon the police, law and order will be maintained. The intrusion of a civilian during a murder inquiry, particularly by a meddling amateur detective like you, Mr Holmes, will not be tolerated. It defies my authority and further undermines police morale.”

  Holmes retorts, “Hardly an amateur, Sir Charles. I charge a fixed fee for my services. And you err on another point. Two women have been slain by the same hand, not one.”

  Warren glowers, “Damn you, Mr Holmes, I see no connection between the murders of Martha Tabram and Mary Ann Nichols.”

  Holmes raises a condescending eyebrow, “That is because you are not looking close enough, Sir Charles.”

  Admiring Holmes’ response, Lestrade stifles a chuckle.

  Warren seethes, “You are an impertinent individual and yet it seems you are favoured, Mr Holmes.”

  “Good evening, Sherlock.”

  Instantly recognising the voice, Holmes stands and, turning on his heel, sees Mycroft closing the door, having quietly entered the office.

  Holmes stares at Lestrade and remarks, “Tonight is indeed full of surprises. First you, Lestrade, and now my brother. What next? The Whitechapel murderer in chains, perhaps?”

  Lestrade murmurs, “Dangling at the end of a rope would do nicely, Mr Holmes.”

  Appreciating the reply, Holmes nods in agreement and then looks at Mycroft, “And what brings you away from the Diogenes Club at this late hour, Mycroft?”

  Mycroft replies, “The Prime Minister expects your co-operation, Sherlock.”

  Suspiciously, Holmes taunts his brother, “Ah, yes, Lord Salisbury. A pompous [163]buffoon who advocates that England should remain in splendid isolation. A friend of yours, Mycroft?”

  Aware that Holmes is attempting to goad him, Mycroft bites his tongue, “Merely his envoy, Sherlock. How was the theatre?”

  Ignoring the question, Holmes presses his point, “Lord Salisbury is also a member of the Diogenes Club, is he not?”

  Mycroft glares at Holmes, “Forever snapping at my heels, aren’t you?” He motions to the chair in front of the desk, “Now, please sit down.”

  Intrigued by the presence of his brother, Holmes sits and again faces Warren.

  Mycroft turns to Lestrade, “Inspector Lestrade, isn’t it?”

  Lestrade nods, “Yes, sir.”

  Mycroft indicates Holmes, “I understand that you have worked with my brother on certain criminal cases. Is that correct?”

  Lestrade hesitates.

  Warren growls, “Answer the gentleman, Inspector.”

  Reluctantly obeying, Lestrade rejoins, “On occasions, sir.”

  Mycroft continues, “And how have you found him? Arrogant or helpful?”

  Lestrade is evasive, “Well, let’s put it this way, sir. It’s always an experience working with Mr Holmes.”

  Holmes smiles, “Lestrade, you should have been a politician.”

  Paying no heed to Holmes, Mycroft addresses Warren, “May I continue, Sir Charles?”

  Displeased that he has to temporarily relinquish his authority to Mycroft, Warren begrudgingly consents.

  Assuming the mantle of authority, Mycroft turns his attention to Holmes, “A group of political radicals are known to be active in and around Whitechapel. We want you to seek them out, gain their confidence and provide us with their names. Sir Charles will do the rest.”

  Warren elaborates, “We are concerned that they could infiltrate local societies like the Mile End Vigilance Committee and use them to incite the lower classes for propaganda purposes.”

  Mycroft interjects, “Her Majesty’s government will not tolerate another riot in Trafalgar Square similar to last year.” He reiterates the words spoken by Lord Salisbury, “It would upset the monarchy and alarm the Empire, Sherlock.”

  Holmes raises an admonishing hand, “Gentlemen, please. Your devotion to duty is most evident, but you postulate insurrection without a shred of evidence. The Mile End Vigilance Committee is not politically motivated. It was formed b
y local tradesmen to help the police catch the Whitechapel murderer. Furthermore, Chief Inspector John Littlechild of the Irish Special Branch is an able man, why not use him?”

  Mycroft sighs tetchily, “He is preoccupied, investigating the Irish Republican Brotherhood.”

  Holmes smiles to himself, “Ah, those Fenians again.”

  Warren glares at Holmes, “Whitechapel cannot be allowed to police itself, Mr Holmes. Murderer, or no murderer, I will not have the inhabitants of the district patrolling the streets at night.”

  Holmes concurs, “Quite so, Sir Charles. I do think, however, that my presence in Whitechapel would be rather conspicuous, to say the least.”

  Warren warily stares at Holmes, “Unless you had a good reason for being there in the first place, is that it?”

  Exasperated, Mycroft throws his arms aloft, “For goodness sake, Sherlock, serve your Queen. You are a master of disguise. Go to Whitechapel. Seek out these radicals. Leave no stone unturned[164].”

  Disregarding the outburst, Holmes continues to look at Warren, “Investigating the murders of those two unfortunate women would be reason enough, Sir Charles.”

  Erroneously believing that he has encouraged the response, Mycroft congratulates Holmes, “Precisely, Sherlock.”

  Ignoring Mycroft again, Holmes quizzically gazes at Warren, “Sir Charles?”

  Warren relents, “You are assigned to the case. But remember, Lestrade is in charge of the investigation, not you, Mr Holmes.”

  Holmes politely tips his head, “My methods include one other person, Sir Charles.”

  Warren scowls, “Dr Watson may assist you.”

  Holmes chides, “He invariably does, Sir Charles.” He stands and turns to Mycroft, “Inform the Prime Minister he has my co-operation and that I will assist Scotland Yard in their hunt for the Whitechapel murderer.”

  Raising his hand to his mouth, Lestrade coughs.

  Warren haughtily leans back in his chair and glares at him, “Yes, what is it, Lestrade?”