Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul

by Gordon Punter

  Watson laughs, “I am beginning to believe you are my guardian angel, Sergeant. Watching over me wherever I go.”

  Kirby chuckles, “Tell that to my missus, sir, and she’ll start to think I can conjure up miracles. More food on the table, a new bonnet, a seaside holiday, even.”

  Staring at Kirby, Nott indicates Watson with his thumb, “Is he who I think he is, Sergeant?”

  Kirby replies, “Yes, lad, Dr Watson. A right fine gentleman, at that. Now stand aside and let him through.” Turning to Watson, he points to Lestrade, pacing up and down outside the entrance of the passage, “The Inspector is over there, sir.”

  Watson politely tips his head, “Thank you.” He steps forward and quips, “I would recommend [408]Bournemouth for a holiday, Sergeant. Less crowded than [409]Brighton.”

  Kirby touches the peak of helmet, “I’ll bear that in mind, sir.”

  Watson strides towards Lestrade, “My apologies, Lestrade.”

  Lestrade stops pacing, “I expected you earlier, Dr Watson. At Commercial Street Police Station, to be exact.”

  Watson huffs, “Yes, yes, I know, Lestrade. But I was delayed by that infernal Desk Sergeant at Bishopsgate Street Police Station, wanting to know why I was there.”

  Lestrade thoughtfully strokes his moustache, “Sergeant Byfield?”

  Watson nods, “You might have forewarned the fellow, Lestrade. I do abhor misleading people.”

  Amused by his tetchiness, Lestrade smirks, “And what did you tell him?”

  Watson sighs, exasperated, “That I was a journalist seeking information on the man detained in one of the cells below. Then he asked to see my credentials. Which, of course, I did not have. A most embarrassing moment, Lestrade.”

  Pushing past Kirby and Nott, Chandler approaches Lestrade, “Inspector!”

  Lestrade stares at Chandler impatiently, “I would like to hear some good news for once but, by the look on your face, I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

  Glumly, Chandler shakes his head, “No trace of him, Inspector.”

  Watson enquires, “No trace of whom?”

  Chandler eyes Watson suspiciously, “Who are you?”

  With an indignant expression, Watson stammers, “Who am I?”

  Intervening, Lestrade informs Chandler, “Dr Watson.”

  Watson adds, “Yes, here representing Mr Sherlock Holmes. Now, perhaps you would be so good as to answer my question.”

  Chandler is conciliatory, “I didn’t mean to be rude, Dr Watson, but...”

  Watson interrupts him, “I’m sure you didn’t. But your attempt at an apology hardly answers my question, does it?”

  Lestrade suppresses a grin, “Thomas Bullen, Dr Watson.”

  Watson muses, “Ah, yes. The journalist fellow.”

  Chandler elaborates, “At about quarter to seven last night, Bullen gave his latest report to his newspaper editor and that’s the last time he was seen by anybody. I called at his lodgings this morning, the same story. He apparently never went home. His bed hadn’t been slept in and all his clothes were in the wardrobe. I think he’s [410]bolted, Inspector.”

  Watson murmurs, “If the scoundrel has indeed fled, Holmes’ supposition is correct. The murders are truly at an end.”

  Lestrade instructs Chandler, “If he hasn’t already done so, Bullen may try to leave the country by ship. Notify the Thames harbour and dock authorities to be on the look out for him. Start with St Katharine’s Dock, it’s the nearest.”

  Incensed at being detained by the police outside the bakery shop, a bedraggled woman, Maud Sapsford, shouts at Watson, Lestrade and Chandler, “Oi, yer three! I ’ave young ’uns t’ feed. ’Ow long yer goin’ keep us ’ere?”

  Standing a few feet away from Maud, a scruffy elderly man, Nathan Isaacs, chides her, “Stitch yer mouth, woman. I ain’t ’ad nuffink inside me since last night.”

  Maud snaps, “I’ll speak as I find. It’s a free country, innit?”

  Nathan scoffs, “A free country, woman? Yer call livin’ down ’ere in Whitechapel bein’ free? We’re no better off than those poor souls the [411]Frogs send t’ [412]Devil’s Island.”

  Watson shakes his head despairingly, “If this nation cannot civilly converse with one and other, how on earth can they be expected to communicate with the inhabitants of another country?”

  Approving of the remark, Chandler enquiries, “Served abroad, have you, Dr Watson?”

  Watson replies proudly, “With the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, in Afghanistan and India.”

  “Gives you a new outlook on life, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, it does.”

  Chandler smiles wanly, “Like to do that myself. Breathe in some fresh air, leave all this squalor behind.”

  Lestrade growls, “Enough of daydreams. Get a move on.”

  Chandler respectfully tips his hat to Watson, turns on his heel and strides away.

  Ashen-faced and tugging at the collar of his tunic, Constable Lunt lurches from the passage into the street.

  Catching sight of him, Maud blurts, “Gawd, look at ’im. Looks like ’e’s seen a bleedin’ ghost.”

  Nathan groans, “That’s me, woman, if I don’t git some grub in me soon.”

  Lunt stumbles towards Lestrade and Watson, “You better take a look, Inspector. I think we’ve found another one.”

  Lestrade sighs tetchily, “Another what, Constable?”

  Lunt exhales loudly, “A woman, Inspector. Done in like the rest.”

  Lestrade turns to Watson, “Perhaps you and Mr Holmes spoke too soon, Dr Watson.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Opening the door, Lunt stands to one side, allowing Lestrade and Watson to enter the musty room.

  Giving his eyes time to adjust to the dimness, Watson catches sight of something lying on a makeshift bed in the corner of the room, “Good Lord, Lestrade. Look!” Hurriedly, he crouches, picking up two pieces of clothing, “My Derby hat and Ulster overcoat.” He turns to Lestrade excitedly, “I thought they were lost for good.”

  Lestrade jibes, “Well, that will please the officials at Scotland Yard. Won’t have to reimburse you for stolen property, will they?”

  Watson places the hat and overcoat down upon the table, “The discovery of my clothing in this room indicates it was here that I was held captive, Lestrade.”

  Lestrade concurs, “A fair assumption, Dr Watson.” He stoops and picks up a pair of scuffed boots, their laces tied together, from beneath the table. Recalling how he had seen Holmes outside 13 Miller’s Court without his boots, Lestrade mutters, “And these would indicate that Mr Holmes was brought here before he was taken to Miller’s Court.”

  Watson is not convinced, “Hardly the kind of footwear Holmes is accustomed to wearing, Lestrade.”

  Lestrade puts the boots down on the table, beside the hat and overcoat, “I think you will find Mr Holmes was relieved of these whilst disguised as one Alfred Mipps.”

  Watson ponders, “Ah, yes, of course. How foolish of me. You are correct, Lestrade. From time to time, Holmes does draw upon his [413]thespian talents to outfox an opponent.”

  Lestrade nods, “And a very credible performance he gives.” He turns to Lunt, standing by the door, “Where is she, then?”

  Perspiring, Lunt motions to the drawn curtain at the rear of the room with his head, “Behind the curtain, Inspector.”

  Lestrade counters curtly, “And you’d rather not show us yourself, right?”

  Nervously wiping his lips with the back of his hand, Lunt pleads, “If you don’t mind, Inspector. Once is enough for today.”

  Lestrade sighs, “All right, run along. But do something useful. Get a hand-cart ambulance.”

  Pleased to be ordered away from the room, Lunt queries, “The divisional police surgeon? Shall I fetch him, too, Inspector?”

  Lestrade shakes his head, “That won’t be necessary. Dr Watson will examine the body.”

  Watson blanches.

  Lunt hurriedly touch
es the brim of his helmet and leaves.

  Watson protests, “I will have you know, Lestrade, I am a general practitioner, not a surgeon.”

  Lestrade sighs again, “You’re more a medical man than I am, Dr Watson. I require help, not hindrance.”

  Watson relents, “Very well, Lestrade. But I cannot answer for my stomach.”

  Lestrade quickly draws aside the curtain, letting Watson enter the smaller room first. Confronted by the disembowelled body of Eliza Cooper lying upon the bed, Watson recoils.

  Seizing Watson by the arm to steady him, Lestrade imparts clinically, “Not as bad as Mary Kelly. She hasn’t had her face disfigured.” He turns to Watson, “Breathe deeply.”

  Watson huffs pettily, “Yes, yes, Lestrade. I am quite aware of the method.”

  Lestrade relinquishes his grip, “Having been an army doctor and all, I’d thought you’d be used to this sort of thing.”

  Watson confesses, “Internal organs, Lestrade. I loathe the sight of internal organs.”

  Lestrade bends, picks up a grey blanket from the floor and covers most of the body with the piece, “Let’s start with her face and then gradually work our way down, shall we?”

  Watson regains his composure, “Thank you, Lestrade. A good idea.”

  Both men step to the head of the bed, Lestrade on one side, Watson on the other. Staring down at the pallid face of Eliza, with her eyes wide open and her swollen tongue protruding from her mouth, Watson exclaims, “Good heavens, this is the woman who hailed me from...”

  Lestrade interjects, “The growler?”

  Watson nods, “The very same person, Lestrade.”

  Lestrade imparts, “Like you, Dr Watson, I’m not one to forget a face. Bumped into her outside Bishopsgate Street Police Station minutes after we’d taken Mr Holmes through the building. Couple of things she said about Mary Kelly made me [414]prick up my ears.”

  Noticing the two pickling jars, each containing a human organ, on the shelf above the bed, Watson grimaces, “And they were?”

  Lestrade stares at Eliza’s slashed throat, “She let slip Mary Kelly’s name, saying she’d been butchered. An apt description, I thought at the time. Those two pieces of information, coming so soon after the murder, were not common knowledge unless, of course, she had indeed heard it through the Whitechapel tom-toms. But only we, the police, and two other people, landlord John McCarthy and his shop assistant Thomas Bowyer, knew it was Mary Kelly and how she had been slaughtered.”

  Watson looks at him enquiringly, “And what do you think this woman was doing at Bishopsgate Street Police Station so soon after Holmes was supposedly arrested?”

  Lestrade replies soberly, “Probably to find out whether it was Mr Holmes, or not. Which meant she saw us leave either Miller’s Court, or Dorset Street, and then followed us to the station.”

  Watson pensively strokes his moustache, “The last three murders. Were any organs removed from the bodies of the victims?”

  Lestrade nods, “The uterus from Annie Chapman, the left kidney from Catharine Eddowes and the heart from Mary Kelly. Why?”

  Raising his arm, Watson taps the two pickling jars with his finger, “These certainly look like human organs to me.” He drops his arm, “A uterus and a heart, I would say. But no left kidney, mind you.”

  Lestrade sighs wearily, “The murderer sent half a kidney to Mr George Lusk, Chairman of the Mile End Vigilance Committee. Dr Openshaw, he’s the pathological curator at the London Hospital Museum, examined the portion shortly afterwards and confirmed it was probably part of the left kidney which had been taken from the body of Catharine Eddowes.”

  “What happened to the other half?”

  “The murderer wrote that he fried and ate it.”

  Watson shakes his head in disgust, “Is there no end to the man’s bestiality?”

  Lestrade sighs again, “To be frank with you, Dr Watson. I don’t think there’s a word in the dictionary to describe him.” Gently lifting Eliza’s right hand, he stares at the two brass rings on her index and middle fingers, “Mr Holmes was right.”

  Mystified, Watson frowns, “I beg your pardon, Lestrade?”

  Lestrade indicates the two rings, “When Annie Chapman was murdered, a brass ring, or two, were wrenched from the third finger of her left hand. Mr Holmes was of the opinion that the woman who participated in the murder took the rings as well. At the time, I thought he had taken leave of his senses, but it looks like his belief has, again, proved to be correct.” He lowers Eliza’s hand, turning his attention to her face, “How do you think she was murdered, Dr Watson?”

  “The swollen tongue implies she was asphyxiated.”

  “Strangled?”

  Watson nods, “Then her throat was cut.”

  With a sweep of his hand, Lestrade motions to the remainder of the blanket covered body, “And then she was disembowelled, right?”

  Watson nods again, “If Aaron Kosminski did indeed murder her, and all the evidence found in this room suggests we are standing in his lair, what chance Bullen?”

  Lestrade frowns, “You think Kosminski might murder him, too?”

  “He may have already disposed of him, Lestrade.”

  Lestrade inhales deeply, “Ironic, isn’t it? The Home Secretary has offered a free pardon to any accomplice, and neither she, nor Bullen, who may also be dead, can help us now.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Hearing the rain outside lashing against the broad windows of the sitting-room, Watson, seated in his armchair beside the fire, shivers, “A foul evening, Holmes.”

  Sitting opposite Watson and smoking his pipe, Holmes pensively stares at the burning coals in the grate.

  Watson lowers his pipe, “Holmes?”

  Holmes snaps out of his thoughts, “Yes, Watson?”

  Watson rolls his eyes, “Did you hear what I just said?”

  Holmes puffs at his pipe, “Of course, Watson. A foul evening, indeed.” He suppresses a smile, “Due to the bad weather we are having, no doubt?”

  Watson fidgets in his chair, “Damn inconsiderate weather, if you ask me, Holmes. Chills a man to the bone.” He stands, removing a newspaper he has been sitting on, “Occasionally, I wonder why people remain in this country. Surely it cannot be because of our climate.”

  Holmes interjects, “You are to be congratulated, Watson. Your inference is indeed correct.”

  Slowly sitting, Watson places the newspaper over the arm of the chair, “Concerning the weather, Holmes?”

  Holmes smiles, “My dear fellow, I speak not of the weather, but of Bullen, and the woman you and Lestrade found murdered this afternoon.”

  Watson guffaws, “Of course you do, Holmes. I was merely trying to deflect your adulation.”

  Holmes raises a curious eyebrow, “In addition to your aversion to heights, confined spaces, internal organs and now praise, is there anything else you wish to avoid?”

  Watson thoughtfully puffs at his pipe and then shakes his head, “Nothing comes to mind, Holmes.” He raises a belated finger, “Oh, there is one thing. I have been rather neglectful of my medical practice of late and intend to devote more time to my patients. If I should fail to do so, I might lose both them and Dr Sleeman as a partner.”

  Silenced by the disclosure, Holmes leans back in his chair.

  Watson adds, “I am the doctor, you the detective. Sometimes, our chosen professions need to go their separate ways. Surely you cannot expect me to depend solely on your income to [415]keep the wolf from the door?”

  Holmes smiles, “Of course not, Watson. And you are quite right. A gentleman such as yourself should possess regular employment.” His expression hardens, “But I ask one thing of you before you put your commendable decision into practice. Remain at my side and together we will bring Jack the Ripper to justice, alive or dead.”

  Watson consents, “I could do no less, Holmes.”

  Holmes claps his hands together excitedly, “Capital, Watson.” He draws on his pipe, “Your inference th
at Thomas Bullen is dead is indeed correct. Slain not by the hand that slew the woman, but orchestrated by the same malevolent hand nevertheless. Moriarty would never leave at liberty two collaborators who could point an accusing finger at him.”

  Watson stammers, “Moriarty?”

  Holmes nods, “Yes, Watson. Alias Jack the Ripper, alias Aaron Kosminski and...” He curbs his tongue.

  Watson interjects, “But the Reichenbach Falls, Holmes?”

  Leaning forward, Holmes gently taps Watson on the knee with the end of his pipe, “A paid imposter, Watson. Sent to dispose of me, but failed to do so. And because I emerged from his trap unscathed, Moriarty used the time, whilst we were solving the Credit Suisse fraud in Switzerland, to plan his revenge. And thus was born Jack the Ripper.”

  Watson slowly lowers his pipe, “The initial M. His calling card. Left behind to taunt you, no doubt?”

  Holmes nods, “Quite so, Watson. When the Christian name of a victim did not begin with the first letter of his surname, he remedied the difference, quite deliberately, in fact.”

  Watson strokes his moustache, “But Mary Kelly, Holmes? Why did he write M on the wall of her room when he must have known her forename began with the same initial?”

  Holmes raises a tutorial finger, “Le meurtre final, Watson.”

  Watson frowns, “I beg your pardon, Holmes?”

  Holmes quickly lowers his finger, “Am I to believe that you have forgotten the French language so soon, Watson?”

  Watson feigns indignation, “Of course not, Holmes. But when you spring things like this on a fellow, one is apt to get flummoxed.”

  Holmes prompts Watson, “The English equivalent, then?”

  Watson translates, “The final murder.”

  Holmes smiles, “Splendid, Watson.”

  Bemused, Watson stares at him, “I am none the wiser than I was a minute ago. What exactly does it mean?”

  Holmes retains his smile, “Precisely that, Watson. Disguised as Aaron Kosminski and having slain Mary Kelly, Moriarty triumphantly autographed her death as the final murder, scrawling the first letter of his actual surname on the wall in blood.”