“Of course. How are you, Doctor?”
“Very well, thank you. Much better than you I must say, with your current case,” Dr. Watson answered. “It’s a ghastly situation.”
“Yes, it is,” the inspector answered. “But we hope to catch the killer before he chooses another victim, if indeed he intends to.”
Mrs. Parker brought in another cup of coffee as the inspector took a seat.
“Are you willing to come to the station with me and look over the evidence we’ve compiled so far?” Grant asked. “I would also like to take a trip to the morgue so you can view the body. I have never seen anything like this before—and Whitechapel is a rough place, where we have become accustomed to vile crimes.”
“Of course, whatever you need me to do,” Holmes answered. “I must say I am more than curious about this one.”
The men discussed some of the particulars of the case, and Holmes told the inspector that he would meet him at the office after lunch.
“Thank you very much,” Grant said as he finished his last sip of coffee and took his leave. “I will see you in a few hours. This may turn out to be your most challenging case yet.”
CHAPTER Three
Devil's in the Details
Scotland Yard looked the same as it always had—an impressive brick façade looming over a busy road. Inside, dozens of people milled about, cigarettes hanging from their mouths as they busied themselves with some errand or another. Many of the faces seemed younger than Holmes remembered, but time marches on, he reminded himself. And it took a certain kind of man, one with a soul of steel, to survive long at Scotland Yard.
Holmes was led to Inspector Grant’s office by a blonde secretary and told to wait there and to make himself comfortable.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” the woman asked.
“That would be very nice, thank you.”
The young woman slipped through the door, leaving him alone for the moment. Holmes looked over the office. It had once been his, before he retired from the establishment and started taking on only the cases that most interested him. There had been many crimes solved within these walls…and still were, he was sure. There were certainly times he missed being swept up in the bustle of the agency, but all in all peace suited him better now.
He watched as Inspector Grant walked his way, stopping every now and then to sign a paper or answer a question. He was a busy man, and well-respected by his peers. He finally made it to the office and promptly shut the door. The men shook hands and they both took a seat; Grant behind the desk, Holmes in front of it.
“I want to thank you again for coming,” Grant said to Holmes. “I am sure I interrupted you in something—I hope it was nothing too pressing.”
“Oh, it is no bother at all. I am anxious to hear about the evidence that your men have gathered. Please tell me everything you know so far—I know we discussed the case at some length at my home, but I want to hear every detail. You never know what small clue can lead to a revelation!”
“I think we should walk over to the morgue first so you can see the victim. Then we can delve into the facts of the case as we know them. Let me send a messenger, so the coroner can arrange the body for viewing.”
“Certainly.”
When Grant had sent his messenger, the men got up and left for the morgue—it was only a short distance away, and the crisp fall air made for an invigorating walk. When they arrived, Donald Hamilton, the coroner’s assistant, ushered them into the back room where the bodies were stored. The coroner met them there a few moments later.
“How do you do, Dr. Llewellyn?”
“Very well, thank you—and you, sir?”
“As well as can be expected, given the debauchery I see daily,” answered Grant. “I would like you to tell Detective Holmes about Mary—he has a brilliant mind and is most eager to help solve this case.”
“Of course,” Dr. Llewellyn said as he moved to one of the tables and pulled back the sheet to reveal the victim.
Holmes, though he had seen many a body in his day, never got used to seeing those tale-tell autopsy stitches. He also never liked to see a body on a slab; perhaps it made him face his own mortality, but whatever the reason he knew he could never be an undertaker. The woman had been cleaned up and lay there as if she were asleep—that is, if you only looked upon her face.
“Her throat was cut twice; also her stomach was cut open and she was disemboweled,” the coroner said as he pulled the sheets further back and showed the detectives. “Part of her intestines were laid up on her shoulder. Why, I can only wonder. The murderer must have been in a hurry. This one took his souvenir with him, but not the type of souvenir that we have seen in these other murders—those were clearly robberies.”
“Yes, body parts are usually not the normal thing to take,” answered Holmes. “Did you find any other evidence around the scene—perhaps the murderer left something behind?”
“No, we did not. And the body was fairly clean except for the woman’s own blood and a broken fingernail,” the coroner said as he motioned to the woman’s right index finger. The nail had been torn off down to the quick. She still had a hint of red lipstick on her lips, which made the scene all the more surreal and grotesque.
“I assume, given her dress and grooming, that she was—ahem—a lady of the night?” Holmes asked. “I apologize if the question is indelicate.”
“We are all adults here,” answered the coroner. “And we know many such women in the city survive on the streets—the question is not an indelicate one. Yes, she made her living in the way you suggest.”
“Have you spoken to any of the other known prostitutes in the area?” Holmes asked. “It would have been easy to target a woman walking alone—but perhaps one of her cohorts saw her, or noticed something amiss in her demeanor. Perhaps she was even feuding with a client or a lover.”
“We have officers canvassing the neighborhood now,” Grant answered. “So far, we’ve had multiple reports from those who noticed her in what would have been the last hours of her life. Though I must admit the residents of Whitechapel are not usually cooperative with our investigations, they seem to have come together when faced with this present horror. Everything we have uncovered so far will be in the file I shall give you to review.”
“I have one final question,” concluded Holmes. “I suppose Mary’s body has been handled by a number of officers today, not to mention the coroner and his assistant?”
Grant looked confused, but nodded affirmation. “And I suppose the ambulance driver, as well—why do you ask?”
“I shall explain it more clearly later,” answered Holmes. “There’s a revolutionary new technique I have been experimenting with—it has to do with fingerprints, and capturing them from various surfaces, even human flesh. But with Mary I suppose it is much too late—if any of her clients’ or her murderer’s fingerprints remained upon her body, they have likely been smudged too much to be of any use.”
After a little more discussion about the grisly crime itself, the coroner pulled the sheet back over Mary Ann’s face and put the body back into the drawer. The detectives returned to Grant’s office.
“Here is the file,” Grant said as he handed it to Holmes. “There are several witnesses you will need to see and question. I trust you will get started right away, and report back to me anything you find. We want to nail this down as soon as we can, before panic takes hold of the city.”
“Of course, sir.”
“We have given you a desk to work from, should you prefer being here some days rather than in your own office on Baker Street. My secretary will show you—please don’t hesitate to ask should you need anything. The entire force of Scotland Yard is at your disposal.”
“Thank you very much,” Holmes nodded.
“Wait,” said Grant as Holmes turned to study the list. “You promised you would explain the importance of fingerprints—you know I am most interested in any new form of gathering evidence. Please take th
e time to share this knowledge with me.”
“It’s very simple,” answered Holmes. “Hold your fingers up to your face and examine them.”
He waited while Grant did so.
“You will notice the whorls and ridges on the pad of each finger—they are unique not only from finger to finger, but from man to man. A German anatomist discovered this in 1788, in fact. Fingerprints have been used to identify individuals, or to serve as their signatures, since even ancient Babylonian times, and in more recent times—less than a decade ago—a Scottish physician proposed using fingerprints as a means of identification.”
Grant nodded, realization dawning across his face; he also looked a bit abashed. Holmes, suspecting why, continued on.
“This surgeon, Dr. Henry Faulds, even came to the Metropolitan police two years ago and offered the technique to Scotland Yard—though they were not interested. It is a shame—a travesty, even—that the good men here did not listen to Dr. Faulds. When this technique is honed and refined, as it one day will be, it will serve as a fail-safe means of identifying who has touched an object, or even a body. I’m sure you can see how invaluable that would be to investigations and eliminating—or confirming—suspects.”
Grant hung his head. “I remember the surgeon of whom you speak; and I will admit I dismissed him without much thought. I believed he was a crackpot, and we are so busy here. I am not a man of science, and I did not take time to listen to his theories.”
“It is never too late to right a wrong,” said Holmes. “And if we can get a fingerprint from the body or the belongings of the next victim, it may solve our case for us.”
“Tell me what to do,” said Grant. “I will ensure it is done.”
“When—or rather if—there is another murder, instruct your officers to barricade off the area as quickly as possible; instruct them sternly to refrain from touching the body. Call me, and I will dust the body and the surroundings for fingerprints.”
“Dust it?” said Grant. “Of course I will do as you ask—but what do you mean by dusting it?”
“I have been experimenting, as I said,” answered Holmes. “Dusting is a way of making the fingerprints visible, using a variety of substances and some very careful collection methods. So far I have had fairly reliable results with very finely sifted ashes, and I am still considering other ways of lifting a print.”
“Fascinating,” said Grant. “I will instruct the officers as you have requested.”
The witness list Grant left him with was long. Holmes had his work cut out for him, and he knew he would not only need intelligence but also stamina to see this case through to its conclusion.
Holmes and the first witness, a man named Mr. Henry Birch, sat down at Birch’s kitchen table. Mr. Birch was the proprietor of a milk stand near where the murder had occurred.
“At a little past eleven a man came to my stand, and said he quite desperately wanted a glass of milk. He appeared nervous, his eyes darting around, and he was carrying a black bag. I gave him the milk, which he drank down hurriedly, and then he asked if he might step into the yard beside my stand. I said I had no objection—and why should I have?—but I became suspicious upon reconsidering his demeanor. When I stepped out to check on him, I saw that he was pulling on a pair of overalls. The man paused and said, ‘That was a terrible murder last night, wasn’t it?’ and then he picked up his bag and was gone,” Birch continued. “I thought he might be a detective in disguise, or even an engineer once I saw the overalls.”
“Did you recognize him?”
“No, sir. I had never seen the fellow before.”
“Can you give me any details of his appearance?” Holmes asked.
“Well, he had on a blue suit with a stand-up collar, and a low hat, and a watch chain hanging from his pants. He had a slight mustache and his face seemed to be a little sunburned—perhaps he was even a sailor or some other sort of seafaring man. Say, do you think it was the killer himself?”
“I can’t speak on the matter so early in the investigation,” Holmes answered. “Though I’d appreciate any other detail you may remember.”
That was all Mr. Birch could tell him, so Holmes excused himself to move on to the next witness. First, though, he would join forces with Dr. Watson—his friend always had some insight to add, and would be an invaluable ally in interviewing the remaining witnesses.
“Would it not be better to call the witnesses into Scotland Yard?” asked Dr. Watson. “If time is of the essence, such a strategy will save you a substantial amount of time.”
“Jolly good idea, Watson. I knew I kept you around for some reason,” Holmes laughed. “I suspect some witnesses would be more comfortable speaking in their own homes or place of work, but if I feel that’s the case I can always make a personal follow-up visit later on.”
Holmes proceeded to send messengers out to find and invite everyone on his list and set up appointments starting within the hour.
Holmes also sent a message to Mrs. Parker that both he and Dr. Watson would return to the house on Baker Street for a late supper; he didn’t want the kindly maid to worry about them, and he also didn’t want a cold meal after such a long day of work.
Before returning to the station, Holmes and Dr. Watson walked through the dank streets of Whitechapel, where they found a crowd of citizens indulging their nosiness and slinking around to steal a look at where the woman had been murdered. Police were still there cleaning up and trying to dispatch the onlookers. There was nothing useful left at the scene.
Holmes thought briefly to himself that he must request that Scotland Yard close off any future murder scene as quickly as possible—chances were they had lost valuable evidence by not doing so.
CHAPTER Four
Insights
Holmes and Watson sat in the small, cold interview room waiting for their first witness to arrive. It was Sarah Colwell.
“Hello, Mrs. Colwell. Thank you for coming in on such short notice,” Holmes told her as she walked in and sat down.
“Oh, you are most welcome,” the blonde matron answered. She was small, and appeared nervous—she wrung her hands as she sat down, and repeatedly smoothed her worn skirt. “I have children—I want this murderer caught as much as anyone. I want my little ones to be safe on the street.”
“Of course you do, ma’am—that’s exactly what we’re trying to do, to make the streets safe. Now, what did you observe on the night of the murder?”
“I live only about 120 yards from where the murder occurred in Buck’s Row. I heard what sounded like running, and someone shouting ‘murder, police!’ It sounded like the person was running from another person—though I admit I only heard one set of footsteps. Now, my children were the ones who woke me. They said someone was trying to get in our front door and was screaming,” Mrs. Colwell said. “From talking to my neighbors, they also heard someone screaming ‘murder, police’ about five or six times. This happened around midnight.”
“And that’s all you can tell us?”
“Yes it is. I hope it helps,” answered the witness.
“Yes, it does. Thank you very much,” Holmes said as he dismissed the woman.
“Her story doesn’t sound like it will be of much use,” Holmes told Dr. Watson after Mrs. Colville had left the room. “The murder took place at three-forty in the morning. Whatever Mrs. Colwell heard occurred far earlier—such a ruckus is likely even common-place in an area such as Buck’s Row. And how could she possibly have concluded that the person screaming was running from another person if she only heard one set of footsteps?”
“You are quite right, old friend. Also, despite Mrs. Colwell’s claims about the neighbors, no one else has come forward saying they heard any commotion—so the noise could be an earlier murder attempt that was thwarted,” said Dr. Watson. “Or it could merely have been a drunk.”
Next, the two men who had found the body, Charles Cross and Robert Paul, entered the room.
“Mr. Cross, how did you come to b
e at the site of the murder?”
“Well, I leave for work every morning around three-twenty, so I was passing by the alley about ten minutes later. I noticed what I thought was a tarpaulin laying on the ground. Out of curiosity, I walked over to see what it was, and discovered it was a person,” the man said.
“That’s when he called to me as I was walking down the street in the vicinity,” chimed in Robert Paul. “I walked over to Mr. Cross and felt the woman’s hand—it was quite cold, and I felt no pulse.”
“You are sure you felt nothing?” Holmes asked.
“Well, almost positive. I thought she was most likely dead, especially when I noticed all the blood,” he answered.
“Then what did you do?”
“We were both late for work, so we left.”
“Did it not occur to either of you that you should have notified the police immediately?” Holmes questioned, squinting in irritation. “Perhaps the perpetrator was still nearby!”
“Well, yes, we should have gone to the police right away,” answered Robert Paul, “but we needed to get to our jobs. Work is not so easy to find, you know. We saw a policeman standing at the crossing of Hanbury Street and Baker’s Row and told him what we had seen. He told us his name was Jonas Mizen, and that he would notify the police. We then went on our way.”
The next witness to arrive was James Hatfield. He was an inmate in the Whitechapel workhouse, employed as a dock laborer. He had been brought to the morgue around 6:30 A.M. to help undress the victim in order for the doctor to make his examination; Donald Hamilton, who had been in charge of the morgue at that time, had accepted the body.
“Tell me about undressing the body,” Holmes requested. “No detail is too small.”
“I removed her overcoat and cut the bands of her petticoat to remove it; her dress I pulled down with my hands,” Hatfield said very nervously. “She also had on a chemise, which I removed as well.”
Jack The Ripper: Newly Discovered Adventures of Sherlock Holmes Page 2