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

by Bernard Schaffer

  Byfield smiled. “She stuffs cotton in her ears. How you feeling?”

  Catherine stretched out, yawning. “I really need to be going. Can you let me out?”

  “Did you sleep it off? I’m not letting you out unless you can get home safe.”

  “What time is it now?” Catherine asked.

  “It’s nearly one in the morning.”

  “Christ,” Catherine sighed. “I’ll get a damn fine hiding when I get home thanks to you lot.”

  “Serves you right,” Byfield said. “No one told you to go out and get drunk. You pissed all over the street like a dog. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, young lady. If I was your husband I’d strap you until you couldn’t sit down.”

  “It’s me own fault. I went to see me daughter and she gave me some money. I thought I’d stop for a drink before I went home and that’s the last thing I remember until I woke up here.”

  “Let that be a lesson to you. All right. Out you go. What way are you going home?”

  “Back toward Aldgate.”

  “Let me find someone to escort you.”

  Catherine shook her head, “I’ll just get it worse if I show up with a constable. Good night, Sergeant.”

  “Good night, then. Mind yourself out there.”

  “I always do,” she said, tying her bonnet and leaving the station.

  ~ * * * ~

  From Braham Street, Montague Druitt could hear singing. It was the first noise to pierce the silence since he’d moved far enough away from the police whistles and shouting on Berner Street. Druitt cursed his wretched luck. The blasted Jew and his pony had caught him by surprise. Who the hell comes wheeling along with a cart full of trinkets at one o’clock in the morning?

  “Alive, alive-oh. Alive, alive-oh.

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

  Druitt walked to Duke Street, peering down the block in the dark, where the singing had come from. A woman was squatting in the shadows with her skirt bunched up at the waist. Hot steam rose from the puddle beneath her. He stepped back into the shadows, waiting for her to finish, waiting until she came walking closer to him. As she was nearly upon him, Druitt stepped out of the shadows, looking in the opposite direction.

  “Hello, hello,” Catherine Eddowes said, waving lazily at him.

  Druitt turned suddenly. “Oh! I did not see you there. You startled me.”

  She laughed, stumbling. “No need to be scared of me, love. I’ll protect yeh.” Druitt offered her his arm, and she took it, nestling against the warmth of his coat. “It has been a hell of a long night.”

  “I should think so, for you to be out at such an hour,” Druitt said, watching Catherine clutch her side and breathe sharply. “Are you unwell, my dear?”

  “I ache all over,” she said, wincing. “You aren’t a doctor by any chance, are yeh?”

  “Of a sort,” Druitt said with a gentle smile.

  “They said it’s something called Bright’s Disease.”

  Druitt thought for a moment. “Is that not a disorder of the kidneys?”

  “Exactly right. I needs medicine for it. You ain’t got no medicine on you, do you doctor?”

  “No, I am afraid I do not. Let me think for moment of what I might possess in its place.” He cocked an eyebrow at her, “Does medicine require money, by any chance?”

  “I believe it does,” she grinned.

  “Then you are in luck, for that I have.”

  Catherine nodded, “And would sir be willing to part with any of that money in exchange for, say, a bit of service?”

  Druitt smiled and said, “That probably depends on the service.”

  Catherine put her arm in his, leading him toward Mitre Square. She pointed at the darkest corner of the square, at a small fenced-in supply yard filled with stacks of bricks and lumber and overturned wheelbarrows. “I am not supposed to be doing this. Hope that adds to the excitement for you. Me husband would kill me if he found out!”

  “Kill you?” Druitt gasped. “How dreadful.”

  Catherine shrugged. “I’ll need to find somewhere to doss tonight. Listen, I’ve a proposition for you.” She leaned in close and whispered something in his ear and giggled, “Is that worth a tanner to ye?”

  Druitt produced the sixpence coin and nodded. Catherine took the coin, moving into the shadows. She lifted her coat and dropped onto her hands and knees, poking her buttocks in the air. She grabbed the hems of the two skirts and petticoat she wore and pulled them up over her back. “All right,” she said, wigging her naked bum. “Do it slowly, I pray you.”

  He wrapped his fingers around the bone-handled blade from his father’s medical bag. The rust was now scraped away. He’d polished and sharpened the blade so that it shined brighter than a star in the darkness of the square. “I will,” Druitt said. “I most certainly will.”

  THIRTEEN

  Inspector Lestrade stormed up to the London City Police Constable blocking Church Passage, and said, “Let us through, Constable.”

  “You from Scotland Yard?” the constable said.

  “Yes, I am, son,” Lestrade said. “Now kindly piss off and let us through, all right?”

  “Hang on, sir,” the constable said. “I was given specific instructions to let one of the brass know if you lot showed up. Wait here, please.” The constable ran toward the group of City police officers huddled in the corner of Mitre Square and they all turned and looked at Lestrade. Lestrade promptly began walking toward them.

  “Wait, sir!” the constable shouted, racing toward him. “You weren’t given permission to enter.”

  “Bollocks,” Lestrade said, “stop playing games so I can see what the hell happened.”

  Three finely dressed men left the group and turned toward Lestrade. “Christ,” he muttered under his breath, recognizing all three. Major Henry Smith, the Acting Commissioner of the London City Police, was followed by the Head of the City Detective Department, Superintendent Albert Foster. Lestrade nodded to the third, a younger man who hurried behind them. Inspector Edward Collard was a decent-enough bloke for being a City copper. “Good evening, gentlemen,” Lestrade said, nodding his head. “Heard you had a murder.”

  “Forget the boundaries of your jurisdiction, Inspector?” Superintendent Foster replied.

  “It’s hard to keep track of where one little square mile begins and ends, Superintendent. An hour ago one of our residents was killed just a few blocks from here. The killer was interrupted, and did not get to finish his work. Seems that our boy came here next.”

  “What’s the matter, Lestrade? Afraid to let us share in the glory?” Foster asked.

  Lestrade laughed. “Glory? That’s rich, mate. I’m up to my thomas in dead bodies and you lot think that just because you finally get to play in the sandbox, you can suddenly throw your weight around?”

  “How about you get the hell off of our crime scene, Lestrade?” Foster demanded. “You are out of your jurisdiction, and this is none of your concern.”

  “You haven’t seen anything like this before, Albert. I have worked this case since the very start. If the killer is cutting up whores down here, it is my damned concern!”

  “Gentlemen! That is quite enough,” Major Smith interrupted. “Mind you that we are all sworn to serve the public, and furthermore, we are representatives of Her Majesty. In keeping with that you will kindly shut both of your mouths before I have you arrested for obstructing this investigation.”

  “Yes, Commissioner,” Superintendant Foster said.

  Lestrade tipped his face down, “I apologize, sir. I only meant to come and see if I might be able to assist you.”

  “I think we are quite capable on our own, despite your obvious doubts, Inspector,” Major Smith replied. “We have investigated a crime or two before, even in our one little square mile.”

  “Fair enough,” Lestrade nodded. “Listen, I meant no offense, sir. It is no secret that your detective division is better staffed and equipped than mine. Still
, I have a lot of experience dealing with this particular handiwork, and I should like to coordinate our investigations, to see if together we can come up with a solution.”

  “Very well then,” Major Smith said. “Inspector Collard, take Inspector Lestrade over to the body.”

  Lestrade followed Collard into the supply yard. Lestrade sniffed the air, cringing. “I know that smell. He opened her up, eh?”

  “Gutted her like a deer,” Collard whispered. “I’ve never seen anything like it, Gerard. I do not think I’ll ever sleep right again. I’ve been on the job over ten years, and this is beyond my grasp.”

  Lestrade put his hand on Collard’s shoulder, “It’s beyond all of us, mate.”

  “Her guts are lying up there on her shoulder. Her face is all torn up. She’s split open right down the middle. There’s another clump of guts between her body and arm. What kind of monster would do this?”

  A doctor was bent beside the body, looking over the gruesome remains with a blank stare. Lestrade bent down to the doctor and said, “Dr. Brown? Can you tell me if she is missing anything?”

  The doctor did not respond. Collard snapped his fingers in front of Brown’s face. “Gordon? Oy?”

  Brown blinked several times and looked at both Collard and Lestrade. “What do you two want?”

  “I asked you if the body is missing any parts. Did he take anything from her?”

  “What do you mean? Her money?”

  “Her uterus,” Lestrade said.

  Doctor Brown looked at the body and his mouth opened and closed but nothing came out of it. Lestrade shook Brown by the shoulders, “Come on, chap! Fix up, look sharp. My last one was missing a uterus, and I need to know if this one is as well.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it must mean something that the killer keeps gutting them open to take them! The sooner I figure out why is the sooner I can figure out who, you daft clump.”

  “Inspector, calm down,” Collard said, putting his hand on Lestrade. “Dr. Brown, can you please check to see if this woman is missing any organs?”

  Brown swallowed and rolled up his sleeve, reaching inside the gaping cavity of her belly, squishing her insides with his fingers as he felt around. “T-There’s a stump where her uterus should be. Everything else appears to be—no… wait. She’s also missing a kidney.” The doctor pulled his hand out of the body and wiped it on his jacket. “How is that possible? I can barely see my hand in front of my face. How in the hell did he manage to extract her kidney? It is hard enough to do that on an operating table and next to impossible under these conditions.”

  “What makes it so difficult?” Lestrade said.

  “There are ribs in the way, as well as membranes, bodily fluids, organs, intestines. I must take this woman to Golden Lane. If you have any questions, ask for Dr. Thomas Bond. Perhaps he can make sense of this.”

  A shrieking police whistle pierced the night that silenced the doctor and froze everyone in place as if they were afraid to move or speak.

  Lestrade finally turned to Collard and said, “If it’s another body I am going to throw him off of the Old Bailey’s roof when I catch him.”

  ~ * * * ~

  City Constable Alfred Long’s hands were shaking as he pointed toward the Wentworth Dwellings stairwell. “I went in here. I was checking up and down the street for any signs of the murderer and when I went past the stairwell, I looked in.”

  “And nobody’s been in or out since you arrived?” Collard asked.

  “No sir,” Long answered.

  Lestrade leaned in to the stairwell, holding the lantern over the length of apron crumpled on the floor. “That apron is the same exact cloth as the one your girl is wearing,” Lestrade said to Collard. “I’m certain of it. Same material, same color. Except, of course, for all the blood and fecal matter on this one.”

  “Why did he carry it all this way just to dump it here?” Collard said.

  “No idea,” Lestrade shrugged. “Maybe he was carrying whatever he cut out of her in it, all bunched up? Maybe there were too many police around? Maybe he cut himself and was using it to cover up the wound?”

  “Or maybe he wanted us to find it,” Collard said. “Take a look at the wall.”

  Lestrade squinted at the words written in chalk across the stairwell’s wall:

  “THE JUWES ARE THE MEN

  THAT WILL NOT BE BLAMED FOR NOTHING.”

  “What the bloody hell does that mean? What is a Juwe?”

  Collard shrugged. “Lots of Jews have shown up around here lately. People are not exactly welcoming them with open arms into the East End, are they now?”

  “Not those Jews,” Lestrade said. “He spelled it differently.”

  “Imagine that, a bloke who goes around cutting women open and stealing their organs in the middle of the night has the nerve to have bad spelling. I bet his mother will be quite disappointed in him, no?”

  “You’re a right funny bastard, Collard. What I meant was how can we be certain it has anything to do with the apron? There’s police all over the place out here. Our boy was hurrying away from the crime scene and ditched a piece of evidence. Why take the time to write this? It might just be a stairwell with graffiti on it.”

  “Yes, but in chalk?” Collard said. “How long could that stay up?”

  Lestrade handed Collard the light. “Let’s play it safe, then. Make sure nobody touches that wall until we can get it photographed.” Lestrade stepped out of the stairwell onto Goulston Street and came face to face with his own Commissioner, Sir Charles Warren.

  Chief Inspector Brett came around behind the Commissioner. His face was red and strained when he said, “What are you doing here, Inspector Lestrade? Why aren’t you at the murder scene in Dutfield’s Yard?”

  “I came to assist here, sir,” Lestrade explained.

  Sir Charles’s eyes widened. “This is not our jurisdiction.”

  “Their murder happened an hour after ours did, sir. I came to see if I could get any information to assist our investigation.”

  “In what way could these people possibly assist us?” Sir Charles sneered.

  “This is a serious offense, Lestrade!” Brett barked. “You are out of your jurisdiction, working on a different police department’s murder while we have our own investigations to attend to! You will report to my office at seven tomorrow sharp!”

  “Now listen—” Lestrade said.

  Inspector Collard raised his hand, “Pardon, sirs. If I may, I asked Inspector Lestrade to see a piece of evidence in this stairwell because I did not know if it was significant or not. He only left Dutfield’s to assist me for a moment. He was just heading back.”

  “What is the evidence?” Brett scoffed.

  “There’s an apron taken from one of our victims. It’s covered in her filth. Right above it is some writing on the wall,” Collard said.

  “What does it say?” Warren said.

  “Something about the Jews, sir.”

  “The Jews?” Warren said. “Let me see.” Warren took the lantern from Collard and went into the stairwell.

  “What the bloody hell is going on over there, Inspector Collard?” Major Smith said. Both Smith and Detective Superintendent Foster hurried to the stairwell, seeing several uniformed officers from the London Metropolitan Police Service. “Constables, secure this crime scene,” Major Smith shouted to his own people.

  The City constables shook their heads and walked over to the Metropolitan constables and asked them to move back. Both sides muttered at one another. Sir Charles stepped out of the stairwell, eyes narrowed. He pointed to one of his uniformed men, “You! Find a wet sponge and get rid of that writing at once.”

  “What?” Lestrade said.

  “Wait just a second,” Major Smith said. “You have no authority here, Sir Charles. This is a City Police investigation.”

  Sir Charles ignored the Major and snapped his fingers at his men, saying, “Now. Move it. Get it off that damn wall.”

&
nbsp; “The first man who lets one of these Metropolitans through is fired. This is a serious breach of etiquette, Commissioner Warren, one I will be forced to take up with the Home Office.”

  “The Home Office?” Warren snickered. “I am sure to lie awake at night terrified of them. Chief Inspector Brett?”

  “Yes, Sir Charles?”

  “Make sure that wall is wiped clean in the next five minutes and that no one else is allowed to see it.”

  “Yes, Sir Charles,” Brett replied.

  “Wait one second!” Lestrade said. “We have to at least photograph it first. By Christ, this is a cock-up!”

  Sir Charles Warren turned to Inspector Lestrade, “If you utter one more bloody word I will plant you beneath the streets of Whitechapel, you interfering, loud mouthed, imbecile.”

  “I demand an explanation, Sir Charles!” Major Smith shouted.

  “Damn it, Henry! I will be up to my neck in dead Jews if this gets out. Just because you have this little spot of land to concern yourself with doesn’t mean that I will let you rip my entire city apart. May I remind you that you are merely an Acting Commissioner? May I remind you that I answer to the Minister’s Cabinet? I will wipe my arse with your entire Home Office and send a regiment of officers to seize your police headquarters if you try and stop me from getting this wall washed.”

  Lestrade spat on the ground and turned on his heels and left. Collard hurried after him to catch up. “What do we do now?” Collard asked.

  “What do you mean?” Lestrade laughed. “We do nothing now. We go home now because we are dead in the water now. Let the bastards have it, my friend. Let all the nasty little bastards win tonight.”

  FOURTEEN

  It all started with a test tube containing a new discovery Sherlock Holmes called “haemoglobin.”

  In 1881, I returned to London from the Afghan front. I met up with Stamford, a friend who was helping me get acclimated to life at home. I had no place to live at that point and no funds to afford my own dwelling. Stamford suggested a man he knew who might be interested in going halves on a second-floor, two bedroom flat in the West End.