Running his finger down a column of numerical figures, he turns to Mary and utters, “Yer b’hind wiv the rent. Twenty-nine shillings.”
Mary retorts, “Joe settles the rent, not me.”
McCarthy bites into the apple again, “Well, ’e ’asn’t. So, where is it?”
Mary retorts again, “’Ow the ’ell should I know? I ain’t got it. I’m [178]skint.”
McCarthy raises a mollifying hand, “Calm down, will yer?” He offers the half-eaten apple to her.
She hesitates.
He thrusts it into her hand, “Yer look like yer need it.”
Ravenous, Mary begins to devour the apple, core and all.
McCarthy strokes his moustache with the tip of his finger, “We can settle yer arrears privately, like.”
Chewing, Mary cocks her head, “Privately?”
McCarthy edges closer to her and murmurs, [179]“Scratch me back an’ I’ll scrap yer debt.”
Understanding his innuendo, Mary mockingly replies, “Got fleas, ’ave yer?”
McCarthy persists, “Yer a cut ’bove the other [180]dregs ’round ’ere. Serve me twice a week an’ I’ll fergit wot yer owe me.”
Mary is incredulous, “Joe fends for me.”
McCarthy sniggers, “That daft parrot! Can’t fend fer anyone, not even ’imself.”
Using the tip of her chipped fingernail, Mary removes a bit of apple from between her teeth, “’E’s me man. An’ I don’t [181]work the streets anymore.”
Sternly, McCarthy gazes at her, “Well, lass, yer may ’ave to. An’ this time there’s a madman roamin’ ’em.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Violently throwing open the door of the room, Mary jolts Barnett out of his slumber. Angrily advancing upon him, she jabs him in the shoulder with her finger, “Twenty-nine shillings! Twenty-nine bleedin’ shillings! Where is it? Come on! Wot did yer do wiv it?”
Sleepily, Barnett groans, “Do wiv it? Do wiv wot?”
Incensed, she slaps him across the face with her hand, “Wake up, yer daft bugger. The bleedin’ rent! Twenty-nine shillings! Why ain’t yer paid McCarthy?”
Yawning and rubbing his eye with his knuckle, Barnett stands, “Paid McCarthy? Oh, that.”
Mary steps back, placing both hands on her hips, “Oh, that? Is that all yer can say?” She indicates the doorway with her thumb, “Best yer git out there an’ earn it, or else McCarthy is goin’ t’ want [182]a slice of me on the side t’ settle the debt.”
Barnett agitates, “The debt. Ferris the[183] pawnbroker will ’elp out.”
Mary snaps, “An’ wot yer got t’ pawn, yer boots?” Turning away from Barnett, she sees the empty bed. Picking up the blanket, Mary begins to seethe again, “Where is she?”
Barnett shrugs his shoulders, “Is she? Left fer work, I’d say.”
Gradually turning on her heel, Mary stares at Barnett, “An’ why ’aven’t yer?”
Barnett gulps.
Mary glares at him, “Cat got yer tongue, ’as it?”
Barnett stutters, “’As it? I’ve lost…”
Fearing the worst and dropping the blanket to the floor, Mary quickly raises her hands to her mouth and gasps.
Barnett extends a placatory hand, “I’ll find summut.”
Lowering her hands, Mary cries, “Oh, [184]Sweet Mother o’ Mary. Yer gone an’ killed me, Joseph Barnett.”
Baffled by her last words, Barnett blurts, “Joseph Barnett. Talk sense, gel.”
Resignedly, Mary murmurs, “Best yer go now, Joseph Barnett.”
Barnett demurs, “Joseph Barnett. Now wait a minute.”
Weary of his speech repetition, Mary clamps her hands over her ears and screams, “If yer can’t provide fer me, I’ll not share a roof wiv yer.” With her eyes brimming with tears, she slumps down on the bed and gazes at him beseechingly, “Go now, Joseph Barnett. Let me be, leave me in peace.”
Silenced by her rejection, Barnett retrieves his jacket from the back of the chair and his cloth cap from the table. Shuffling to the door, he glances over his shoulder at her, “Take care, yer ’ear?”
Mary begins to sob profusely.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
The Star newspaper – 8 September 1888
Leather Apron
&
The Whitechapel Murders
The populace of Whitechapel is loud in its indignation over the inefficiency of the police, and is asking several questions to which there does not seem to be any tangible answer. Among other things, the inhabitants of the district wish to know why the police have failed to arrest the man now known as ‘Leather Apron’.
‘Leather Apron’ is quite an unpleasant character. If, as many of the community suspect, he is the real author of the three murders which, in our opinion, were committed by the same person, he is a devilish brute, intent on more outrages.
From all accounts, he is a little over five feet, four inches in height and wears a dark, close fitting cap. He is stocky, and has an unusually thick neck. His hair is black and closely clipped and he has a small black moustache. Aged about 38 or 40, the distinguishing feature of his clothing is a leather apron, which he always wears, and from which he got his nickname.
Rumours abound that a Hebrew, John Pizer, is being sought by the police in connection with the three atrocities. Thought to be ‘Leather Apron’, John Pizer is a shoemaker by profession, who carries his instruments of trade, sharp knives, where ever he goes. Our Star reporter has also learnt that he is in the habit of waylaying women in the street, whereupon he threatens to ‘rip them up’.
Merely three streets north of Hanbury Street and disdainfully crushing The Star newspaper between his hands, Lestrade enters Commercial Street Police Station and, avoiding police constables urgently scurrying back and forth, tosses the crumpled paper to an austere Desk Sergeant, Albert Stokes, “Mr Holmes was right, as he invariably is.”
Though mystified by the remark, Stokes catches the newspaper and drops it straight into a small wicker basket, “Filed, Inspector.”
[185]Tickled by the deed, Lestrade smiles, “Pity it isn’t the journalist who wrote the article, eh?”
Again mystified by his quip, Stokes frowns, “I beg your pardon, Inspector?”
Before Lestrade can reply, Chandler hastily emerges from a dim corridor and sidles up next to him. Guardedly glancing at Stokes, Chandler hands Lestrade a hand-written statement, “Her name’s Mrs Elizabeth Long. Inspector Fell doesn’t know she’s here.”
Quickly taking Chandler by the arm and easing him away from the ears of Stokes, Lestrade murmurs, “Good man. Let’s keep it that way.”
Accompanying Chandler along the corridor, Lestrade peruses the statement and declares, “For the most part, I dislike being underhanded, but in this particular case, catching the murderer overrides my good nature.”
Indicating a closed door, guarded by a burly police constable, Edward Lunt, Chandler murmurs, “In here, Inspector.” He hurriedly opens the door.
Entering the sparsely furnished room, Lestrade sees a tousled gaunt woman seated at a wooden table, an enamelled mug of hot tea in front of her and a young police constable, Henry Nott, holding an open notebook and pencil.
Enquiringly staring at Nott, Lestrade taps the statement with his finger, “You take this down, lad?”
Humbly, Nott nods.
Lestrade smiles, “Neat hand-writing, very businesslike.” Taking off his bowler hat, he addresses the gaunt woman, “Mrs Long?”
Remaining inside the room, Chandler quietly closes the door.
Mrs Long sniffles, “Yeh.”
Slowly placing his hat upon the table and sitting down on a chair opposite her, Lestrade introduces himself, “Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard.” He points to the mug of tea, “Tea all right, is it?”
Mrs Long sniffles again and, wiping her nose with the back of her finger, nods.
Appalled by her behaviour, Lestrade squirms, takes a folded starched handkerchief from his pocket and hands th
e piece to her, “Here, use this.”
Snatching the handkerchief, Mrs Long blows her nose loudly. Inhaling deeply, she attempts to return the linen to Lestrade, who waves it away with his hand, “Keep it.”
Mrs Long grins, [186]“Ta.” She chuckles, “Right bleedin’ time o’ the year fer a cold, innit?”
Lestrade nods, feigning agreement. He stares at the statement in his hand, “You live at 2 Church Row…”
Mrs Long interjects, “Off Brick Lane.”
Lestrade continues, “You knew Annie Chapman by sight and have since identified her as the woman found murdered in the backyard of 29 Hanbury Street, is that right?”
Mrs Long sniffles again.
Lestrade frowns, “Please use the handkerchief, Mrs Long.”
She wipes her nose, “I knew ’er, yeh.”
“Did you know that she was in the habit of working the streets?”
“She were sick, coughed all the time. Couldn’t work proper.”
Lestrade stares at her intently, “Not like you, eh, Mrs Long?”
Mrs Long replies, “Me ’usband’s a cart minder. I don’t ’ave t’ work.”
Raising a sceptical eyebrow, Lestrade murmurs, “I see.” He glances at the statement and then looks back at her, “Tell me in your own words precisely what you saw on the morning of the murder.”
Mrs Long blows her nose again, “I ’eard the brewery clock in Brick Lane strike the ’alf ’our. It were ’bout five-thirty in the mornin’. I were goin’ along ’Anbury Street t’ Spitalfields Market when I see ’er outside 29 talkin’ t’ a man. As I passed ’er, I ’eard the man say, ‘Will yer?’ She answered, ‘Yeh.’ Then I went to the market.”
Beckoning Nott, Lestrade whispers, “Make sure you get her reply to my next question, lad.”
Dutifully, Nott licks the tip of his pencil.
Lestrade again looks at Mrs Long, “Describe the man to me.”
Mrs Long dabs the end of her nose with the handkerchief, “I only got a glimpse o’ ’im, like.”
Lestrade persists, “Describe what you can remember.”
Mrs Long sniffles yet again, “’E ’ad ’is back t’ me, but I see ’e ’ad a black beard. ’E look like a foreigner, much taller than ’er.”
Lestrade interjects, “A foreigner? A Jew, perhaps?”
Mrs Long blurts, “Well, ’e weren’t one o’ us.”
Anxiously glancing at Chandler, Lestrade continues, “How was this foreigner dressed?”
“Long dark coat an’…” She pauses, lost in thought.
“Mrs Long?”
She wags her finger, “Yer don’t see a lot o’ ’em in Whitechapel. Our men wear cloth caps, bowler ’ats, but not those.”
Lestrade sighs, “Can you be more exact, Mrs Long?”
“Deerstalker ’at, brown it were.”
Lestrade cocks his head, “With a peak fore and aft?”
Mrs Long exclaims, “That’s the one.”
“And how old was the man?”
Mrs Long shrugs her shoulders, “Anywhere b’tween forty an’ eighty, I’d say.”
“Would you recognize him again?”
She pronounces, “Might do. Can’t say.”
Beckoning Nott again and tapping his notebook, Lestrade murmurs, “Write this up, businesslike. Give it to me and no one else, understood?” He raises a silencing finger to his lips, [187]“Mum’s the word, lad.”
Acknowledging the instruction, Nott nods.
Lestrade stands and, picking up his bowler hat, tips his head to Mrs Long, “Thank you, Mrs Long, you’ve been most helpful.” He indicates the mug, “Stay a while, finish your tea.” Staring at Nott, he commands, “If she wants another, get her one.”
Nott nods again.
Chandler opens the door.
Unhurriedly stepping out of the room into the corridor, Lestrade stares at Edward Lunt, still on duty, “When she’s ready, take her home. And use the back entrance.”
Confirming his acceptance of the order, Lunt touches the brim of his helmet with his finger.
Chandler pulls the door shut behind him and edges closer to Lestrade, “Annie Chapman was murdered between half past five and six o’clock in the morning. If, as Mrs Long says, she saw Annie Chapman alive at half past five with a foreign looking man, then the foreigner must have been the murderer. Beyond half past five, an altogether different person wouldn’t have had the time to murder her, let alone perform the mutilations on her body, which must have taken ten to fifteen minutes to inflict.”
Lestrade musingly strokes his moustache, “Certainly seems that way, doesn’t it?”
Noticing his pensive expression, Chandler enquires, “Something on your mind, Inspector?”
Lestrade sighs, “That bloody Deerstalker hat.”
Chandler concurs, “Yes, why should anyone want to wear such an unusual hat, especially in Whitechapel?”
Lestrade murmurs, “Mr Sherlock Holmes.”
Chandler frowns, “I beg your pardon, Inspector?”
Lestrade sighs again, “When in pursuit of a criminal, Mr Holmes is apt to wear an Inverness overcoat and a Deerstalker hat.”
Chandler frowns again, “But the description given by Mrs Long doesn’t resemble Mr Holmes.”
Lestrade elaborates, “If necessary, he will also adopt disguises.”
Chandler inhales deeply, “Are you suggesting that Mr Holmes might be the Whitechapel murderer, Inspector?”
Lestrade chuckles, “Of course not.”
Chandler exhales, “Then the hat is not significant?”
Lestrade stares at Chandler intently, “Oh, yes, it is. The murderer may have worn the hat to draw attention to himself, why else wear it? Perhaps he wants us to think he is Mr Holmes.”
Chandler exclaims incredulously, “He means to incriminate Mr Holmes?”
Slowly putting on his bowler hat, Lestrade wistfully replies, “If that be the case, and I’m not saying for one moment it is, we might beg the question…by whom and for what purpose?”
Chapter 7
Dear Boss
Located west of Marylebone Road and a mere fifteen minute walk from 211b Baker Street, Paddington is a leafy middle-class area, renowned for its idyllic watery enclave of Little Venice, which the English poet Robert Browning has described as the prettiest and most romantic place in London. The stupendous glazed roof terminus of Paddington Station, opened in 1854 and designed by the late Hampshire engineer Isambard Kingdom Brunel, is situated in Praed Street, a short distance from St Mary’s Hospital and Medical School, founded forty-three years ago in 1845.
Towards the latter part of last year, and in partnership with Dr Reuben Sleeman, who also lectures on cerebral disorders at St. Mary’s Medical School, Watson had started a modest part-time medical practice at 109 South Wharf Road, located just behind the hospital. Due to his steadfast association with Holmes, he has, on a number of occasions, inevitably been absent from the practice which today prides itself on having a respectable number of patients, some notable, whose patronage has principally been retained by the tireless efforts of Dr Sleeman.
Escorting Lady Iverton from his consulting room into the hallway, Sleeman counsels, “A mild form of melancholy that will recede whilst you holiday in [188]Geneva. Fresh air, at times, can help remove the [189]cobwebs of the mind, Lady Iverton.”
Lady Iverton stares at him enquiringly, “Then medication is not required, Dr Sleeman?”
Sleeman smiles assuredly, “None at all.”
Slipping her hands into a pair of soft brown leather gloves, Lady Iverton expresses relief, “Your words are most reassuring.” Adjusting her large ostrich-feathered hat, she courteously tips her head to him, “Good morning, Dr Sleeman.”
Sleeman reciprocates, [190]“Bon voyage, Lady Iverton.”
Taking a pocket watch from his waistcoat, Sleeman tetchily opens its metal cover and stares at the time.
“Good morning, Dr Sleeman.”
Quickly raising his head, Sleeman sees Holmes
striding along the hallway towards him.
Holmes urgently enquires, “Dr Watson! Have you seen him?”
Sleeman returns the watch to his pocket, “I could well ask you the same question, Mr Holmes.”
Abruptly halting, Holmes raises a pensive finger to his lips, “Then, as I suspected, he is not here?”
Sleeman cocks his head, “He has gone astray? I thought he had deserted our practice for another one of your infernal cases.”
Deeming his remark inapt, Holmes retorts, “Dr Watson does not shrink from his obligations. He has neither deserted this practice, nor you, Dr Sleeman.”
Sleeman yields, “A [191]churlish outburst. I apologise, Mr Holmes.”
Accepting the apology, Holmes politely tips his head.
Sleeman muses, “If Dr Watson is not here, nor with you, where is he?”
Holmes replies, “It is an old maxim of mine that when a person is not where he should be, then he is at another place where he does not want to be. Intuition tells me that Dr Watson has been taken from us and is being held somewhere against his wishes.”
Sleeman blanches, “Good Lord! Abducted?”
Suddenly lost in thought, Holmes ignores the question, strokes his chin with his finger and murmurs, “Why did the murderer remove the pelvic organs from the body and take them away?”
Perplexed, Sleeman stares at Holmes and then exclaims, “Why, of course, the Whitechapel murders. You are investigating the crimes.” He indicates the interior of his consulting room, “I think we better go inside.”
Still deep in thought, Holmes steps into the room.
Following him, Sleeman quietly close the door, “Human organs are usually removed from the body for medical research or, in some cases, to determine cause of death.”
Holmes breaks free of his thoughts, “Trophies, perhaps? To gloat over?”
Sleeman guides Holmes to an armchair beside a glowing fire, “If you were mad, quite mad, I suppose that might be a possibility.”
Holmes sits, “Quite mad, Dr Sleeman?”
Sleeman seats himself in another armchair, “Yes, an egotistical mind, suffering from [192]monomania, would undoubtedly fall into that category.”
Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul Page 15