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

by Bernard Schaffer

  “Now if only I could think as he does. No doubt he would use his deuced methods to conjure up the killer by midnight.”

  “Unique gifts,” she repeated to herself, pressing her knuckle to her chin. “Holmes would use the skills with which he is uniquely possessed to solve the case. I think we should begin by doing the same!”

  “We do not possess his gifts, my dear. No one does.”

  “But we possess our own, though, Watson. Think of it. A medical doctor with battlefield experience who’s spent the better part of the past decade apprenticing to the Great Detective.”

  “And Holmes did say that your intellect and prowess rivaled his own.”

  “Really?” she said, her eyes suddenly ablaze. “When did he say that?”

  “Or maybe it was something I misunderstood. Maybe it was I who said it. Regardless, I have seen much of the world’s underbelly at his side. I should say I have more experience dealing with criminals than most.”

  “As do I,” she nodded.

  “A world-famous opera contralto? Experienced with the underworld?” I said.

  Irene smiled, sticking her arm out for a cab. “You would be surprised what a young woman must endure while travelling that particular road, my dear Doctor.”

  Irene provided the cab driver with directions to Golden Lane. I leaned close to her, “Tell me again why we are going to the mortuary?”

  “Picture Jack the Ripper as an artist, Watson. He is steadily progressing, moving into a new phase of his work. We are going to request a private viewing of his most mature, advanced piece to date. To that end, I am hopeful that by observing it, we gain some insight into the inner workings of his mind.”

  I considered her profile in the cab as the sun framed her, whispering, “There is no question as to why he finds you so remarkable.” She smiled, touched my hand gently, and returned to her vigil of the passing London streets.

  “At least Miss Eddowes was taken to a proper morgue,” Irene said. “They took Annie Chapman to a shed in a labour yard. They treated her worse than the body of a dog would have been back in Trenton.”

  I had been to many of the city’s mortuaries during my time with Holmes. Some were little better than barns converted into makeshift morgues with the bodies left on overturned feed crates. The Golden Lane mortuary was at least a building which appeared to be designed for its intended use. London, unlike Paris, had no central mortuary facility in which to conduct autopsies and present bodies to families for viewing.

  We exited the cab and Irene handed the driver several coins. “Wait for us, all right? After this we are going directly to Whitechapel. Do not leave.”

  “Yes, madam,” the driver agreed.

  “Here we go, Watson!” she said excitedly as we walked toward the building. “This is nothing less than a gallery where Jack’s most recent work is on display. From here, we’ll go to the place where he selects his blank canvasses.”

  I eyed the imposing metal door, “Of course we shall. Tell me something, have you ever been inside a mortuary before, Miss Adler?”

  “No,” she shrugged. “As a classically trained performer, it is my duty to experience life in all its aspects, Watson. This experience will be just another thing that allows me to more fully envision the human condition. It is only death, Watson. I assure you that I will be all right. Try not to look so pale.” She knocked politely, and when there was no answer, she knocked again. “Hello? Is anyone there?”

  “Pardon my saying so, but you will never get anyone’s attention that way.” I pounded on the door with my fist. “Holmes always says we must knock with authority, in such a way as to let the occupant know we are here about serious business. Open up, I say! Open up this blasted door immediately or we shall break it down!”

  There was a bit of shuffling behind the door. “Funeral’s Monday! Go away!” a man said.

  I banged on the door again, “We are not here about the funeral, man! Open the door this instant!”

  Several locks were thrown and the door creaked open revealing a short, slumped man in a greasy black apron. “Good day, sir,” Irene said. “We apologize for disturbing you, but we have urgent business to conduct.”

  “Dr. Phillips is not in. Call tomorrow if you want to see him.”

  “But we are not—”

  “Tomorrow,” the man said, pulling the door shut.

  Irene thrust her foot between the door and the frame. “Now you listen to me, sir,” she said, leveling a finger at him. “You will not treat such a distinguished and fine physician as the great John Watson like that. How dare you!”

  The attendant stood still, eyeing me carefully. Irene grabbed the door out of his hands and held it open. “We are here on a special assignment concerning the body of the woman within. Doctor Watson is here to inspect the Eddowes woman for clues that are meant to be given directly to Mr. Sherlock Holmes himself!”

  The attendant smeared the wet black surface of his apron with his slime-covered hands. “Sherlock Holmes? The Great Detective?” Irene said. “Have you not heard of him?”

  “Detective?” the attendant mumbled. “Like, police, yeh say?”

  “Somewhat,” she nodded.

  The attendant nodded, stepping back from the door. Suddenly, he smiled, revealing a mouth of jagged, misplaced teeth, “Police!”

  “What the hell is it, you daft clump!” A uniformed constable came storming down the hall, whacking his palm with a thick nightstick. “Better not be anymore damn lookie-loos. I’ll sort you bastards out with a right battering!” The constable suddenly stopped in mid-stride, staring at me. His face grew dark with rage.

  “Run, Irene! I’ll hold him off!”

  The constable turned and struck the attendant across the side of his head with the back of his hand. “You bloody idiot! Don’t you know who the hell this is? I apologize for that, Dr. Watson. Recognized you straight away. Suppose you remember me as well.”

  “Ah-yes. Yes of course, Constable—”

  “My name is Irene Adler,” Irene smiled seductively at the constable. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, sir. Would you do me the honor of telling me your name?”

  “Hawkes,” he said, smiling brightly.

  “Constable Hawkes,” I said, “of course. How have you been, my good man?”

  “It was me who helped Sherlock Holmes before on a real big case, you know. The doctor could tell you, right?” he said, looking at me.

  “Ah…certainly. Let’s see, it was awhile back, right? Long ago? Holmes and I were looking for that thing. It was the most unusual case. Remember?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?” Irene said, waving her hand. “I have to listen to him blather on all day, you know.”

  Constable Hawkes laughed, “I can imagine how that must be. You ever want to have some real fun, come down to the Crown and Shuttle with me when the day tour is finished. Nobody has a good time like us rozzers.”

  “That sounds delightful!” Irene said. “Maybe after I finish this last wee assignment with the doctor?”

  “All right,” he said. “What is it you need? To see the body?”

  “Yes, actually!” Irene said. “That would be wonderful.”

  “Wait, where is Mr. Holmes?”

  “Oh, he’ll be along later,” Irene put her arm through his and walked into the mortuary. “In the meantime, take us to see the body and tell me all about how you helped Sherlock Holmes with that case you mentioned. Was it exciting? Was it dangerous?”

  Constable Hawkes laughed, telling Irene how he’d been summoned to a house in Brixton several years ago to guard some mysterious scribbling on a wall. I found myself lost in thought, watching the way Irene’s hips swayed when she walked.

  The lobby floor was made of wood. The walls were papered and several framed photographs hung on them, with various-sized plants stuck in all corners of the room. As we moved down the hall, the floor became firm concrete. The room ahead was brightly lit by powerful lamps. Surgical instruments lined th
e countertops. The stink of rotting flesh was unmistakable.

  Irene suddenly gagged, covering her face with her coat. I managed to endure the stench stoically without much of a demonstration as to how utterly repulsive it was. I felt that smell of dead people crawl inside my nose, taking up residence in my hair and clothing. I felt that it would be burnt into my soul permanently.

  It was there, in that room, that we came face to face with Jack the Ripper’s “most advanced, most defined work to date.” As I viewed the body of poor, mutilated Catherine Eddowes, I had my first glimpse into the true madness inside the mind of Jack the Ripper. It was an evil I could not fathom, and I wanted to run screaming from the room and never stop.

  ~ * * * ~

  “He cut off her nose, Watson.” The Princess Alice Pub was crowded, and Irene’s voice was barely audible over the racket they made.

  “Mmm hmm,” I said. “You going to finish that?” She shook her head no. I took her glass and drained it.

  “Her nose,” Irene hissed, touching her own nose. “He peeled away the skin of her face like it was an orange rind. He slashed her eyes!”

  “I know,” I said, picturing the jagged, forking cut going all along the length of the woman’s body. I called out to the barman, “Another round!”

  “He stole things from inside her body, Watson! What the hell could he have wanted them for? The indignity of it all. It’s simply inhuman.”

  “Be a little more discreet, Miss Adler,” I said, looking around. “You have no idea who is lurking nearby. There may be people who do not appreciate us discussing this. I know it was horrible, but this is what we have tasked ourselves with.”

  “I keep picturing how Annie must have looked when that bastard was finished with her. I want to kill him. I want to cut things off of him and see how he likes it.”

  I winced and laughed, finishing the new beer after it arrived. “I suppose your grand idea of Jack the Ripper as fine artist is out the window, eh?” She did not respond to my teasing. I realized that I had not eaten all day, and the beer was beginning to lure me into that fine world of relaxation where one’s face goes numb as his tongue gets sharp. I decided it was a better plan to try seriously discussing the case. “Why does he take the organs, do you think? What use could he have for them?”

  Irene looked past me toward the fireplace for a long while. The flames danced in the pupils of her eyes. “He is taking trophies, Doctor Watson.”

  I snorted with laughter, “That is the silliest thing I have ever heard! Maybe Jack just got lost in Whitechapel when he really meant to be on safari in Africa? You really are a silly little girl, sometimes.”

  Irene stared at me evenly. “I have been thinking of something, Doctor. How is it that he is able to take those organs? If someone handed me a knife and said, ‘Go find a uterus inside that woman’ I doubt that I would be able to. Let alone find it twice. And a kidney? That seems a little trickier.”

  “Indeed. You want your drink? No? Mind if I have it then? The kidney is damned hard to get to as it’s practically hidden by a membrane. Our boy got it out of ol’ Katie Eddowes in pitch blackness from what the papers said. Most impressive.”

  “It implies surgical training,” Irene said, staring at me.

  “Could be,” I shrugged, setting her empty glass down.

  “And an attraction to the darker side of life? To crime, in particular.”

  “If you like,” I said.

  “Let me ask you a question, Dr. Watson. Where were you on the night of September thirtieth?”

  “Pardon?” I said, swallowing.

  “I asked you where you were on the night those two women were murdered.”

  The bar seemed to fall silent for a moment as I stared at Irene. “Miss Adler, I assure you that I do not find your insinuation very amusing.”

  “Dr. Watson, I assure you that I am not joking.”

  “I was at 221 B Baker Street caring for my ill friend. In fact, that is probably where I should be right now instead of wandering the streets of this cesspool with a damned silly girl who fancies herself a bloody detective.”

  Irene leaned forward and whispered, “Please settle yourself, Dr. Watson. It is a simple question. If I am having that thought, surely others will as well. I ask you so that you have an answer prepared if it ever becomes an issue.”

  “I’ll not settle myself,” I said, standing to my feet. “I have better things to do than to sit and drink with someone who does not trust me. Good luck getting home, Miss Adler. Better be on your guard, though, because I just may be skulking around the corner to gut you like a holiday turkey!”

  A man stepped in front of me, barring my way toward the exit. He had a fierce looking scar underneath an eye patch, but I shoved him out of my way and slammed the door open. I paused at a lamp post to catch my breath and try to stop the street from spinning.

  “There he is.”

  I looked up as the man from inside the bar came toward me. I let go of lamp post and lifted my fists. “C’mon! I’ll teach you not to meddle!”

  He just smiled, but his smile was as black and treacherous as the patch on his eye. “I just want to ask you about what you said in there, to that lady.” His right hand crept behind his back. “What you said about gutting her up, and all.”

  I stepped back from the curb. The footsteps of several men closed in behind me, circling, cutting off any possible route of escape. “Listen, my good friends,” I said, trying to collect myself. I turned to take stock of them and was greeted by six dirty faces cruelly twisted in hungry expectation. “I meant nothing by what I said in there. That woman is a friend of mine, and we were having a disagreement. I only said it in jest.”

  “Is that so?” A well-dressed man stepped forward from the shadows. He tipped his hat at me. “That does not seem like something one would jest about, particularly in this part of town. My name is George Lusk, and I am the Chairman of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee. It is my solemn duty to catch the killer who is preying on the women of Whitechapel.”

  “Then you are to be commended, sir,” I said. My legs were shaking. I attributed it to the cold and the beer. “I myself am trying to assist the police in their efforts.” I gritted my teeth to stop them from chattering. I knew I was a damned coward. “Perhaps you have heard of me? Doctor John Watson, associate of the Great Detective, Sherlock Holmes?”

  “The Great Detective, you say?” Lusk said.

  “Exactly. Everyone in the West End knows of him. He, or rather, we, have helped people of all sorts when they are in danger, or needed our assistance!”

  “Oh, the West End,” the man with eye patch snorted. “That must explain it. You see, this is the East End, where most people from your part of town never sully themselves to visit. Strange, but I do not see any Great Detectives around here, Mr. Watson. Just a couple of the regular ol’ blue bottles from Scotland Yard.”

  “That’s right,” one of the men said. “Ain’t no justice here in Whitechapel. There’s just us. Get it? If he’s such a sport why ain’t he here with you out catching The Ripper like we are?”

  “That is precisely what we are trying to do, gentle fellows! Now, I must insist that you excuse me, I have much to do before morning. Off I go then. Back to Baker Street. Vital information to report to Sherlock Holmes concerning these killings.” I inched past them, walking quickly, trying to look determined and important. As I reached the middle of the street, I was confident that I had escaped them.

  “Get him.”

  Let it never be said they took John Watson without a fight. I hit the closest one square in the jaw with a solid right hook, dropping him instantly. The second came around on my left, trying for a tackle and I drove a knee into his collarbone with a crack. A wooden truncheon whistled through the air into my gut, instantly folding me in half, dropping me to the street to retch on both my coat and the cobblestones.

  The bastards stomped me with their boot heels. I covered my head, though my ribs and groin suffered t
he worse for it.

  “That is enough!” Lusk shouted. “Mr. Fitch, call your men off!”

  “All right, all right,” Fitch said. “Hold on a second.” The pounding of their heels paused for a moment. My attackers sucked air, waiting eagerly for the order to begin again.

  I wept like a fool. “I am not the Ripper! You bloody bastards! I am not the Ripper!”

  “You two grab some rope. Find us a lamp post or a tree branch in case we need it,” Fitch said, and two of my attackers left off immediately.

  Lusk bent down, prodding me with the butt of his cane. “Perhaps you are exactly who you say you are. Perhaps there really is a Great Detective whom you are assisting. Perhaps what we heard you say in the bar really was just a misunderstanding. Perhaps not. These are perilous times, Mr. Watson. It pays to be prudent.” Lusk stood up. “I suggest that we search the suspect.”

  “No!” I gasped. My emergency surgical kit was in my coat pocket, containing a small assortment of scalpels, scissors, and knives. Exactly the tools a Ripper would need. I screamed for help as the men tore my hands away from my pocket as I tried to cover it. The body of John Watson would soon hang over Commercial Street, tried, convicted and hanged forevermore as the notorious Jack the Ripper.

  Lusk suddenly shouted over the other voices, “Get back, woman! We are acting in the name of Lord Salisbury!”

  A gunshot cracked the air.

  Smoke poured from the barrel of Irene Adlers’s handgun, and the muzzle was pointed directly at a small hole in the ground between George Lusk’s feet. Irene clinched one eye and lifted the gun and so that it was aimed directly between Lusk’s legs. “My next shot will be placed considerably higher, sir. I doubt even Lord Salisbury could find much use for a eunuch Ripper-Hunter. I’ll take Doctor Watson and I’ll take him right this bloody second.”

  Mickey Fitch pushed Lusk out of the way, stepping in front of Irene’s line of fire. “Put that barker down, girl. There’s more of us than you have bullets.”

  Irene cocked the hammer back and trained it on Fitch’s remaining eye. “I have more than enough bullets to make sure you never see what happens after you speak one more word, you little prat.”