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

by Bernard Schaffer

  “How can you be so certain?”

  “He’s given up his name, Mr. Phillips. Letting us know he’s not Leather Apron or any of the other boogie men we’ve blamed. All artists protect their work with extreme jealousy and I would venture to guess that Jack the Ripper is no different.”

  ~ * * * ~

  On Sunday, September Thirtieth, sometime after midnight, Louis Diemschutz gently whacked his pony’s rear, ordering it to keep moving. The pony’s pace began to slow before they were even halfway home from the Westow Hill market, its scrawny frame struggling to pull the weight of the boxes of cheap, imitation jewelry that Diemschutz humped back and forth to the market each weekend. Few pieces had been bought that day, and the cart was still nearly full. They came to Berner Street, wheels squeaking on the uneven stones, and Diemschutz saw that the gates to the yard at the International Working Men’s Educational Club were propped open for him.

  “That is my Adele’s doing,” he said to the mount. “God blessed me on the day she agreed to marry me.” It was Diemschutz’s practice to talk aloud, both to fill the silence, and to trick any thieves lurking in the shadows into thinking he might not be alone. Diemschutz had been robbed before.

  The pony stopped so suddenly that the boxes beneath Diemschutz shifted forward abruptly, nearly inverting the cart.

  “What are you doing?” Diemschutz shouted, pushing the boxes back into place. “Damned worthless animal! Get going! Hiyaaa!” The pony would not budge. It lowered its ears, staring straight forward into the darkness, hot breath steaming from its enormous nostrils. “Move or I’ll whip you until you bleed!” Diemschutz shook the leather strap in his hand fiercely, but the little horse did not move. Diemschutz cracked it across the right flank harder than he thought he had the strength left to. “Go! Hyahh! Go!” He hit the pony across the flank twice more, and the cart began to move, but slowly.

  Something moved in the shadows, and the pony veered left, hooves scraping against the dirt. Diemschutz flinched, unable to see if it was anything more than a large animal. “Come out this instant!” Diemschutz looked frantically around, clutching his leather strap. “I have a weapon!”

  There was no answer. Diemschutz scanned the yard, satisfied that he was alone. He cursed himself for being no better than a scared old woman. The pony grunted, scraping its hoof on the ground. Diemschutz slid slowly off the cart, lighting a match and squinting in the darkness as he moved toward the door to the club.

  He saw a pair of spring-sided boots lying on the grass. The woman’s dark petticoat and bonnet made it impossible for him to see the rest of her clearly. “Pardon, my lady? Are you drunk? Can you hear me?” he said, standing several feet back. The woman did not move and made no noise.

  Diemschutz suddenly dropped the match and raced up the stairs to the Club screaming for Adele. He found her sitting at a table with several other members and cried out, grabbing her and kissing her repeatedly. “Whatever are you doing, Louis?” she said.

  “My God, I was so afraid! There is a woman lying in the yard and I could not see her face and I thought it could have been you,” he sputtered as hot tears ran down his face. “There is a woman down there and I do not know if she is drunk or…my God, she might be dead.”

  Diemschutz’s words quickly spread throughout the club, and in moments men were swallowing the rest of their drinks and making stone-faced agreements that if his friend went down to check on the woman, he would not go alone.

  A group of them grabbed lanterns, and peeled Diemschutz away from his wife, telling him to take them to where the body was lying. As they filed down the stairs, Diemschutz lifted his finger and pointed, “There she is. Next to the gutter.”

  No one moved.

  “I think you had better go have a look, Mr. Diemschutz,” a man said.

  “Me? Why me? I did not even want to come back down here!”

  “You’re the one that found her. Here, take my lantern.”

  Diemschutz took the lantern, wincing at the intense heat coming from the lid, making the handle uncomfortable to hold. He went on shaky legs across the lot, holding the lantern over the woman’s boots, and rumpled skirts. He moved the light over her dark overcoat, and paused, thinking he saw movement. Her head was bent forward into the crook of her arm, face turned toward the wall. Diemschutz bent, tapping the woman on the hip. “Wake up, miss. You had too much to drink. Time to get up.” The woman did not move. Diemschutz grabbed the arm covering her face and as he tried to move it, his hand slipped off, covered in something wet and warm.

  ~ * * * ~

  “Another body?” Lestrade stood up, putting both hands on his desk, his face only inches from the young constable. “You are seriously standing there telling me another body had been found? Tell me that there is another damned body out there, Constable. I dare you to. I wish to Christ you’d tell me there’s another dead body lying out there on the street just so I can shove this perfectly shined shoe up your hairless little arse!”

  “Y-Yes, sir. As you say sir. There is, in fact, another dead body over in Dutfield’s Yard, but I told them not to touch anything until you get there. Just like you said. Sir.”

  Lestrade put on his hat and coat, grunting, “For Christ’s sake, Constable. Why in the hell did you have to tell me that? What’s your name, son?”

  “Frederick Wensley, sir.”

  “Lead the way then, Constable Wensley,” Lestrade said, following him out the door. Lestrade sighed, looking the young officer over. “What the bloody hell is making that squeaking sound.”

  Wensley lifted his shoes to show him the bits of tire scrap nailed to the wooden soles. “Regulation boots make an awful racket on the cobblestones, sir. I found a few scraps of rubber and nailed them to the soles of these things to be able to walk the streets a little quieter. I hope to catch the murderous bastard in the act.”

  “That is a bloody brilliant idea, Wensley. I’m recommending you be promoted to Chief Constable of CID.”

  Wensley smiled, holding his lantern higher as they approached Dutfield’s Yard. “I do not know about running it, sir. I hope to join, someday.”

  “Compared to who we have running CID now, I reckon you’d be a vast improvement at the helm, Wensley. Keep up the good work, and you just may get there, son. Oy!” Lestrade called out. “Who the bloody hell is in charge here?”

  “Constable Lamb, sir!” another constable called out, saluting Lestrade. Lamb was tall, fit and blonde. He looked like he belonged on a recruiting poster. Lestrade did not easily trust good-looking people. Too soft.

  “How much did you move the body around, Lamb?” Lestrade asked.

  “The body was not moved at all, sir.”

  Lestrade sighed. “I’ll ask you this again, given that I am accustomed to being lied to first off. I give people the chance to get it out of their systems. I often tell people that I can forgive them for lying to me first off, given that I look like I am stupid, but I assure you, Constable Lamb, I am less stupid than I look.”

  “I am sure it is much less stupid, sir,” Lamb agreed.

  “Are you saying I truly do look stupid, Lamb?”

  “No, sir, I was just-“

  “My point is that if you did move the body, but have lied about moving it, I will make one small allowance for having lied to me, but only one. Understand me?”

  “Yes, sir,” Lamb said.

  “Lamb. Did you move the body?”

  “No, sir. We were very careful to follow your orders, sir.”

  “You were, eh? What exactly have you done so far, then?”

  “We made a diagram of the yard, and also of the body. We ordered all of the witnesses to stand over there, but told them not to talk amongst themselves.” Lamb pointed at the group of people gathered near the stairwell to the club. “And I sent someone to fetch Dr. Blackwell.”

  “My God,” Lestrade said, looking back at Wensley and Lamb. “You two may just be the cleverest police officers I have had the pleasure of meeting in this whol
e sorry, sordid, nightmare of an investigation. Give us your lantern, Wensley.”

  Lestrade bent to examine the body. The woman was lying on her back, head tilted toward the wall of the club, resting in a carriage rut on the ground. Her legs were drawn up toward her stomach. There was a checkered scarf tied around her neck, pulled into a tight bow, just beneath the enormous gaping wound on her throat.

  Blood flowed from her throat, leaking into the wheel ruts that drained into the gutter like all the other detritus of the East End. Lestrade unbuttoned the woman’s coat and dress, waving the constables back. He lifted her skirt and held the lantern between her legs, peering in. “What’s this?” Lestrade said. “There’s no other injuries?” Lestrade checked again, still seeing nothing to indicate the woman had been cut open or had anything ripped out. Lestrade checked her shoulders, seeing that there were not organs draped over them. He checked her stomach and chest, still finding nothing. Her arms and legs were still warm. The blood was still dribbling from her neck. “Who found this woman?” Lestrade asked.

  Louis Diemschutz stepped forward, “It was I, sir.”

  “Tell me exactly what happened.”

  Once Diemschutz finished recounting the events of his arrival, Lestrade looked around at the dark yard with multiple exits and cursed furiously. “You were right on top of the bastard! You could have seen him!”

  “I had no idea, sir. I tried, really I did.”

  It’s all right, man. You did well enough. You found her. More than that, you stopped him from having his evil way with her body. Do you understand what I am saying?”

  “No,” Diemschutz said, his voice shaking.

  Lestrade leaned forward, looking Diemschutz directly in the eye. “Because of you, he did not have time to open her up. He lost tonight, and we won. We came closer to catching him than ever before, and he knows it. He is scared.” Lestrade smiled, tightening his grip on Diemschutz’s shoulder. “You have given us all hope,” Lestrade added, taking a deep breath.

  “Murder! Murder!” someone screamed, running toward them.

  Lestrade looked up, annoyed. “Grab that idiot and shut him up before he sends everyone into a panic.”

  Constable Wensley raced into the street, grabbing the man by the collar. “Pipe down, you! We’re already here! What are you still screaming for?”

  “A woman!” the man cried, “cut all to pieces! Come quickly!”

  “What? Where?” Lestrade snapped.

  “Mitre Square!” the man shouted. “A woman’s dead! Horribly mutilated.”

  “In the blessed name of Christ, how can this be?” Lamb muttered.

  Inspector Gerard Lestrade’s chest tightened to the point that he could not breathe. He bent at the waist, trying to assimilate the man’s words into something logical, something he could absorb beyond the wretched horror threatening to overtake him. It’s simple, a voice in the back of Lestrade’s mind whispered: He beat you. You thought you’d stopped him tonight, but he just went down the street and had his little fun with someone else. Bet he got his little presents out of her, too. Bet there’s bits of her hung all over Mitre Square like Christmas decorations.

  Lestrade shoved past the other constables and stormed down Commercial Road. “Blessed name of Christ… Where does that bastard bugger off to when some bunter is getting her innards yanked out of her?”

  TWELVE

  Catherine Eddowes looked down at the boots in John’s hands. “No, John, we mustn’t. These are brand new.”

  John Kelly smiled, wiggling his toes through the holes in his socks. He tapped his right foot against the pavement, telling her, “Go on, Katie. It’s aw right. See how much Mr. Jones will give you for them.”

  “I can’t,” she pushed his hands away. “You haven’t got another pair. It’s not right.”

  John stepped back and began shuffling his feet on the sidewalk. “Look at me, love. What do I need boots for? I like being barefooted anyway. Helps me dance!” He leapt up and clicked his heels together, landing on one knee with his arms outstretched. “What, no applause?”

  Catherine sighed, and clapped her hands together. “Are yeh sure, John?”

  “Of course I am,” he said. “Go give that Mr. Jones what for.”

  A few minutes later, Catherine returned, dropping several coins into John’s palm. John looked at the coins and frowned. “Doesn’t look like me new boots were worth much, does it?”

  “No, and winter is coming soon. That old bastard would not even hear me out. He just tossed the boots over his shoulder and handed me the coins. Told me to go get drunk and try not to get gutted by Leather Apron on my way home.”

  “You know what, Katie?” John said. “Now that I think about it, this looks like plenty of money. Enough for us to pop on down to Cooney’s kitchen for a few fresh eggs and some bacon? Maybe even a little sugar for our tea. That would do us right, I reckon.”

  Catherine put her arm through his and nodded, kissing his shoulder as they walked. “I think I’m going to go see me daughter,” Catherine said. “Haven’t seen her in a bit, an’ she might have some money to lend me.”

  “Doesn’t seem right to borrow money from your own child, Katie.”

  “It is if you need it,” Catherine said. “An’ we do. Unless you would rather me go out on the street for a few hours tonight.”

  John shook his head. “Absolutely not. We agreed those days are finished, Katie. I can’t stand the thought of you with any of those filthy animals. Plus, now there’s that maniac running around cutting everyone up. No, I will not hear another word of it.”

  “Then I suppose I must go see me daughter. Do you want to come?”

  “That seems like a long walk for a man with no shoes,” he replied, smiling. “Why don’t you go, an’ meet me when you get home. It is nearly two o’clock now. What time do you think you’ll return?”

  “I should not be any later than four.”

  “Aw right.” John kissed her and said, “No later, then? I want you safely back before it gets dark out.”

  Catherine laughed, tapping John on the cheek. “You needn’t fear for me, my love. I can take care of m’self.”

  ~ * * * ~

  At eight thirty that evening, Constable Robinson looked at the crowd blocking his way on Aldgate High Street and cursed. “What the bloody hell is all that racket?” Robinson made his way closer to the source of the loud screeching noise.

  “Wooooooooooo! Woooooooo!” Catherine Eddowes bellowed as she stumbled backwards and fell onto the street. “That’s how they sound, tellin’ you to move your fat arse!”

  A crowd of onlookers laughed at her as she struggled back to her feet, standing straight at attention and clicking her heels together. “Ladies an’ gents, we got a fire an’ aw’! Get out of the way so we can put it out! I say, why not let ol’ Katie help?” She gathered up several layers of skirt to her waist and squatted in the street, spraying urine onto the pavement.

  Robinson ran forward and kicked her from behind, knocking her face forward onto the ground. Another constable heard Robinson yelling and helped him lift Catherine to her feet. “Help me get this bunter back to the station!” Robinson shouted, starting to drag Catherine away.

  “No, wait!” Catherine cried, pulling her hands free. “Get off of me! I have to get home!”

  “You aren’t going anywhere in your condition. You can sleep it off at the station.”

  “Let me go!” Catherine screamed, trying to claw Robinson across the face.

  Constable Robinson caught her hand and twisted her wrist so fiercely that she cried out. He drew his baton and held it up to her face. “Try that again and I’ll swaddle you so hard your brains leak out. Get going.”

  Sgt. Byfield looked up as the station door opened. He put his newspaper down. Robinson shoved Catherine Eddowes through the door and pushed her toward the cellblock. Once she was behind the cell door, he slammed it shut and locked it. Byfield watched Robinson wipe his hands and grunt with satisfaction as he
walked back toward the desk. “I thought you were patrolling for suspicious persons resembling a certain villainous murderer. That looks like a drunken woman in my holding cell, Constable,” Byfield said.

  “It is, sir,” Robinson said. “But she’s a right nasty one.”

  Sgt. Byfield watched Catherine slump over on the hard wooden bench and begin snoring. “You are be some kind of hero, Robinson. We’ve got a maniac out there butchering bunters, and you bring in a drunk woman. Where do you want to put the medal?”

  “This toss pot pissed all over Aldgate, Sergeant. She gave me a bloody hard time about it, too. Can’t we just keep her here until she dries out a bit?”

  “What do I care?” the sergeant shrugged and returned to his newspaper. “Whole damn city’s about to go up in flames. Might as well have a little company for the end of the world, no?”

  Four hours later, Byfield woke up when his feet slid from the desk and slammed onto the floor. He wiped drool from the corner of his mouth and rubbed his eyes. Someone was singing. He turned toward the cellblock. The woman’s back was turned to him on the bench.

  “In Dublin’s fair city where the girls are so pretty

  I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone

  As she wheeled her wheelbarrow, through streets

  broad and narrow

  Crying cockles and mussels alive, alive-oh.”

  “Hey? Stop making all that racket,” he shouted toward the cellblock.

  “Alive, alive-oh. Alive, alive-oh.

  Crying cockles and mussels, alive, alive-oh.”

  He tapped the wall with his nightstick, “Oy! You sobered up in there or what?”

  Catherine turned over and smiled at Byfield. “Didn’t mean to wake you, sir. You have quite a snore. Must keep your wife in shambles.”