Whitechapel: The Final Stand of Sherlock Holmes (Gentlemen's Edition)

by Bernard Schaffer

  Wilhelm bowed low and kissed her hand. “I am also the King of Bohemia,” he said. “Really? A King? Oscar, is this some sort of jest?”

  “I assure you it is not,” Wilde said with a quick smile.

  “Well, then I suppose it is just us Libertines,” Irene said, looping her arm through Wilhelm’s.

  “Pardon me, Miss Adler?” a voice creaked from behind Irene.

  Christ, Irene thought, seething. Is there no one among the lower class possessed of any manners at all? She turned, “As you can plainly see, I am a little busy at present, Annie. Would you mind terribly giving us just a moment, please?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Annie said, lowering her head. “Whenever you prefer.”

  “Who in God’s name is that wretched creature?” Wilde said.

  “Someone I cannot seem to escape. Would you mind distracting her while I steal His Majesty away for a little privacy? I find myself wanting to get to know him a bit better.” Irene winked at Wilhelm, who was smiling stupidly. Alas, she thought. Better pretty than clever.

  “Anything for you, my dove,” Wilde said. He leaned in toward her ear, “Try not to break him. He’s a bit fragile.”

  “Oh, no promises,” Irene said, as Wilde moved past her to begin talking to Annie Chapman, leading her away from the stage and out the back door. “So,” she said to Wilhelm, “tell me all about Bohemia.”

  In her dream she now turned to look at Annie, who was standing in the shadows beneath the curtain’s rigging, watching her leave. Someone came up behind Annie and pressed a knife to her throat, covering her mouth and beginning to saw the flesh with the edge of his blade. No one seemed to notice when Irene began screaming for help.

  NINE

  The East End of London is relatively small, composed of an area just about fifteen square miles in size. That year, over one million people were estimated to have lived there. By comparison, New York City’s Manhattan is roughly twenty-three square miles, and in an 1880 census, had nearly the same number of residents.

  An 1820 survey found thirty-thousand thieves operating in the East End. Police reports indicated they stole more than two million pounds of goods from local stores and residences. Like most places, immigrants sought out less-expensive, less-noticeable areas to live in their new country. Clusters of Jewish, German, and Russian ghettos were clustered throughout the East End, formed both to protect and insulate the foreigners from the natives. Outsiders were not welcome. Cliques, gangs, fraternities, or whatever other euphemism one preferred, quickly formed and those groups were often at odds with the competing interests of others who did the same. The pie is only so big. Only the most resourceful, resilient, and ruthless get to eat it.

  The London Metropolitan Police Service estimated there were sixty-two licensed brothels in Whitechapel. Besides those formal establishments, another twelve hundred whores roamed the streets and alleyways. Every so often, a few were found dead. Death in general, and even murder, were common occurrences in the East End. It was no different from any city, in any part of the world, either before or since, and whatever terrible things happened there were regarded by outsiders with an air of inevitability.

  Emma Smith, Martha Tabram, Polly Nichols, and Annie Chapman changed all that. Their deaths were so gruesome, so sensational, that soon every newspaper in the world had correspondents in Whitechapel searching for headlines. The day after Annie Chapman’s body was discovered, no fewer than fourteen newspapers carried precise, vivid details of her demise. These newspapers were quickly gobbled up by a terrified, gossip-hungry, morbidly obsessed populace. Journalists completely abandoned the standard non-partisan tenets of reporting, opting instead for a dogmatic, inflammatory approach to cover what was termed “The Whitechapel Horror.” Each new article was increasingly soaked with editorial vitiation concerning the description of the killer. The character of the female victims was targeted, and even more importantly, the impotence of the police.

  The people of the East End became accustomed to seeing the names of many of their friends and neighbours in the paper. Daily, news articles quoted someone new solemnly offering their personal take on the murders and naming the party they believed responsible. Every new “revelation” was shamelessly foisted on the public as if it were fact. During all hours of the day and night, police and journalists swarmed through Whitechapel, leaping over one another like rats in the street, bucking to find just one more person to interview, one more story to fan the flames.

  George Lusk knew all of this. Gazing out at the sea of people squeezed into the meeting room of the Whitechapel Board of Building and Design, he decided the time had come for him to convene what he intended to be a solution to the problem. “All right, let’s get started, folks. Order,” he said, tapping his gavel on the desk. The people in the crowd continued to shout. “I am calling the first meeting of the Mile End Committee to Protect Whitechapel to order! Everyone must settle down, please.”

  “This is impossible,” Joseph Aarons said, taking the gavel from Lusk and banging it even harder. “Order! Order!” he shouted. Aarons and Lusk served together on the Board Committee and had been part of the decision to open their hall to the public in the event that any would want to voice their opinion to the crowd. They expected a dozen or so attendees, not the crowd so massive that they filled the hall and forced others to stand outside of the doors.

  “Be silent so we can get started!” Lusk shouted.

  A man stepped forward through the crowd. The men surrounding him pushed the other people back, clearing a path. A deep scar ran down the side of his face, both above and below a menacing black eye patch. “Shut up, all of you,” he growled. The crowd fell silent.

  “Oh God,” Joseph Aarons said. He leaned close to Lusk and pointed toward the man with the eye patch and said, “What the hell is he doing here?”

  “Who is it?” Lusk asked.

  “Mickey Fitch. He brought the whole damned Old Nichol Gang.”

  “What do they want?” Lusk muttered. Regardless, the crowd was now quieted down. Lusk began, “Ahem. We would like to thank you all for coming tonight. We know that many of you have deep concerns about the recent events in our neighborhoods. We want to give you an open forum to discuss them.”

  “You mean how the damn cops don’t give a flying frig about stopping the killer?” someone in the front yelled.

  “You ain’t kidding!” a man up front shouted.

  Someone else yelled, “The damn police is too busy looking after the changing of bus houses in the West-end and watching over Trafalgar Square to care what becomes of poor devils like us!”

  The crowd began to get loud again, and Lusk rapped his gavel futilely until Mickey Fitch held up his hand and they fell silent. When Fitch spoke, his voice was a low gravelly snarl. “There are some of us here tonight, Mr. Chairman, who feel that the people of Whitechapel can do a better job of looking after our own, on our own.” The men behind Fitch grunted and nodded.

  “I just bet,” Aarons said out of the side of his mouth to Lusk. “His business interests have to be suffering with all the damn blue bottles around.”

  Lusk smiled calmly at the crowd and said, “I assure you that is the precise reason we have assembled here tonight, sir.” He stood to his feet, waving his hand above the crowd, “Let us all put aside our differences to unite under one common banner of rescuing our fair city from the evil clutches of this monster. To turn our voices toward Buckingham Palace once more to announce that we, the people of the East End, will not be forgotten!”

  The crowd cheered and Lusk smiled brightly, soaking in their admiration. He saw that Mickey Fitch was not cheering, but stood with his hands folded, waiting. Lusk calmed the crowd down and said, “Let us hear from Mr. Fitch. What do you propose, sir?”

  Fitch licked his lips and said, “Talk is cheap, Mr. Lusk. What me and my boys had in mind was something a little more action-oriented. You see, the police trying to catch this killer are lacking one crucial thing that our lot can provid
e. A certain familiarity with the ways and means of Whitechapel, if you will.”

  “This is not what I had in mind, Mr. Fitch,” Aarons said, turning in his seat. He lowered his voice and said, “George, what the hell are you doing? We were supposed to put on a nice little show and get Lord Salisbury’s attention. This man is a gang leader. He will cut out throats the second we are no longer of any use to him.”

  Lusk was imagining the Queen putting a medal around his neck as he nodded silently while Fitch spoke.

  ~ * * * ~

  Montague Druitt’s carriage rolled to a stop in front of his old home in Dorset. He paid the carman and waited until he was alone before going up the stairs to the front door. As he went through the door, he shivered at its exact similarity to the last time he’d been in the house. Little had changed except that now thick layers of dust and cobwebs covering everything. Animals had taken up residence in the home, and he listened to them scurrying along the walls and floors as he closed the door.

  Druitt checked the windows and doors on the first floor, ensuring that they were intact and none broken. He unlatched the back door and went down the steps, gazing out into the deserted fields now overgrown with weeds and grass. The spiked fence was gone, torn out by his father years ago, despite Ann’s protests that her garden would be overrun by animals without it. In one of the few acts of defiance of his mother that Druitt had ever seen, William ignored her and ripped the metal posts from the earth, cursing each spike as he wept.

  Druitt bent down to inspect the patch of earth his sister had been placed down on so long ago. He closed his eyes, feeling the soft breeze on his face and hearing his sister gurgle, “Monty, Monty.”

  He lied down on the ground, putting his face in the dirt, smelling to see if he could still find the scent of her. He dug his fingers into the dirt, and scooped a handful of it into his pocket. There was a sealed jar in his other pocket, and he’d spent the entire train ride covering it protectively as other passengers sat too close, or bumped into him.

  “I am glad to take you with me, sister,” Druitt whispered, patting the soil in his pocket. He walked back into the house, taking the stairs toward his father’s locked bedroom, shouldering the door and shattering the wooden frame into splinters. He found William’s medical bag on top of the dresser. Druitt opened the bag and inspected the surgical blades within. They were rusted. He threw them back into the bag and grabbed the handle, turning to leave. He stopped when he saw William’s hatbox in the corner.

  Druitt lifted the dusty lid and removed the top hat from inside. He inspected the brim and found it was still sturdy and without creases. He put the hat on his head. He shut William’s bedroom door and walked to the stairs leading up to the attic bedroom. Piles of Ann’s things covered every step. Druitt kicked them away, clearing the steps, scattering bottles of lotion and clothing and trinkets and faded photographs all across the hall. He looked at the top of the stairs at the closed door to Georgiana’s bedroom. Light poured through the edges of the door in the places it did not meet the frame, like a portal to some other place.

  Druitt opened it and went up the stairs toward Georgiana’s closed bedroom door. Something was welling deep within. Too powerful to bother attempting the door handle, he reached the upper landing and kicked it in. Decades of dust covered Georgiana’s mirror, and Druitt swept his hand across its surface, from top to bottom. He looked at himself in the mirror, satisfied. Druitt emptied his pockets of Georgiana’s dirt and piled it on the floor in front of the mirror. He removed the jar from his left pocket and set it in front of the dirt. He opened his father’s medical bag and set the sharpest looking bone-handled knife next to the jar.

  He stripped naked, looking at himself in the mirror for a moment. He stepped into the dirt, feeling it between his toes. He picked up the knife, studying his palm before slicing it open, letting blood leak onto the dirt below. He unscrewed the lid of the jar and reached in, lifting the clump of Annie Chapman’s wet uterus with his fingers. He squeezed it tightly with his bleeding hand, feeling its cold ichor mix into his bloodstream, stinging the wound.

  Druitt closed his eyes, seeing the horror in Polly Nichols’s eyes as he sliced across her throat. He saw her body crumpled on the street. He saw Georgiana on the fence. He saw his mother, naked, shrieking at him.

  “I am the beast, and I will devour the world.” Druitt lifting the dripping organ to his mouth and bit deeply of Annie Chapman’s uterus, sucking it until the cold juices burst into his mouth. Deep within, an explosion ignited, setting fire to his insides, lighting his mind and soul aflame so that he screamed in both ecstasy and horror. A new voice spoke to Druitt, born of the inferno.

  “My name,” he whispered, chewing the cold flesh and swallowing, “is Jack.”

  ACT II

  COME ARMAGEDDON, COME

  TEN

  Mary and I arrived at the Forrester home precisely at seven o’clock. She spent the ride lamenting that she was arriving as a guest, rather than being there already, helping them to prepare for the event. “Poor Gordon never knows how to fix his hair. I bet it is a disaster. And Miss Mildred in the kitchen? God, if she forgot to get the—”

  “Mary?” I said softly, “Perhaps I am not the only one who needs to adjust to the changes our life together will bring.”

  “You are right, darling. Tonight we begin to make our mark on society. The night the future Dr. and Mrs. John Watson reveal themselves to the world.” She took my hand in hers as our cab lined up behind the others waiting to deliver their occupants to the front steps. Servants waited by the curb to assist the women from their cabs; others waited at the front doors, taking guest’s coats as they entered. Smartly dressed men bowed to the arriving couples, pointing them toward their destination within. What I’d initially thought a modest stained glass window beside the doorway was now fully lit in rich crimson that swirled with cobalt, sparkling and majestic. Shapes etched into the window appeared to shift and rotate in the flickering lights. The shadows of people in the hall appeared behind the window, giving the impression that they moved within the colors of the glass itself. I held Mary’s hand tightly, taking in the full view and whispered, “Something like this could be ours, if we put our minds to it. We could live like this.”

  Mary nodded, nestling her head in my arm as we approached the house. “We would be lucky to be half as rich as the Forrester’s, John. Not by how much money they have, but how they care for one another.” She pulled me toward the house, eager to make her entrance. She laughed like a little girl, excitedly racing up the steps. “I’ve missed being here so much. I hope you take to one another, John. They are so important to me.”

  “I shall be glad to know them then,” I said. “I want good people to be in our lives, people who know the value of family. This home is exquisite.”

  “Aunt Mary!” came an excited shriek as we entered. A young man with hair standing straight up in the air came running up to Mary and threw his arms around her. “You’re here!”

  “Of course, Gordon,” Mary said, laughing, kissing him on the cheek. She licked her palms and began flattening his hair dutifully.

  “There you are!” Mrs. Forrester called out, wrapping her arms tightly around Mary’s shoulders. “Dr. Watson,” she said, lifting her hand toward me delicately.

  I took her hand and kissed it, bowing my head. “Mrs. Forrester, thank you for inviting me to your lovely home.”

  She smiled, “As you know, Mary is much more than someone who just works for us. She is like a daughter, which means that I expect to be seeing quite a lot of you as well.”

  “I will be on my best behavior then,” I said, making both women smile. “Is Mr. Forrester about? I have not had the chance to introduce myself to him yet. I suppose it was impolite of me to not have asked his permission before I proposed to Mary?”

  “Of course not,” Mrs. Forrester said. “Any man worthy to assist the Great Detective must be worthy of our approval.”

  Mary waved her han
d. “John is finished running all over London with Mr. Holmes. He is now concentrating on expanding his medical practice before we marry. There will be no more chasing of basset hounds for my husband.”

  “Pardon me, darling, but it was not a basset-hound. It was a long fanged, phosphorous-infected devil of a-“

  “Of course. Anything you say, my love.” Mary smiled knowingly as she turned back toward Mrs. Forrester, “We were hoping to make some introductions this evening, to let people know that his services are available.”

  “I have a grand idea. The eldest son of the Sixth Duke of Gordon is here tonight. He’ll inherit the title soon enough. If you impress him, he might be able to introduce you to several people. He’s not yet a duke, so he can’t be offended at having you sit with him.” She leaned close to Mary, “Let me go make the arrangements.”

  Mary smiled brightly at me, clutching my hand. “An-almost-Duke! You see, John? Everything is coming together nicely!”

  “I do not want to push myself on people, Mary.”

  “I know, and you shan’t. People are curious enough about your involvement with Holmes that they will want to meet you.” Mary paused for a moment, weighing her words. “I think it would be better to tell people that you worked alongside Holmes, acting as his advisor for anatomical and medical questions. It sounds better than always running around claiming to be his ‘biographer,’ or ‘assistant.’ What do you think?” She straightened my collar and fixed my jacket’s lapels, looking me over in a way no one had since my mother used to prepare me for church. I half-expected her to lick her thumb and swipe it across my cheek to clean away the sticky residue of a taffy. “There. Now you look presentable.” Mary diverted from her inspection when she noticed me grinning. “What is it?”