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

by Bernard Schaffer

  Lusk grabbed me by the arm and hefted me from the ground. “Go!” he shouted. “Get the hell out of here!”

  I struggled to my feet, snatching my coat. “I am not the Ripper,” I said, slamming my shoulder into Fitch as I passed. “I’m not the bloody Ripper, you bastard.” I limped to Irene, eyes still fixed on the men. I held out my hand, “Give me the gun.”

  “Shut your mouth and keep walking.” She nudged me toward the nearest alley, keeping her gun aimed at the group. “Goodnight gentlemen. Best of luck in your endeavors, sodomizing small rodents, etc.” She leaned her head toward me, “Can you run?” “I refuse to run from them.”

  Irene’s eyes flared, “Damn it, John! Are you too stupid to realize I am trying to rescue us both?”

  “That’s it,” Fitch snarled. “Best to get going now, laddie. Run while you can. We’ll be seeing each other again, though, Doctor Watson. Trust that! Nobody does this and lives! I am going to cut your bullocks off and feed them to you! Then I am going to take a machete to your whore! You wait!”

  “I believe I can manage a light sprint, Miss Adler,” I said.

  “Good. Get going, I am right behind you.”

  SIXTEEN

  “Oy, Fred, listen. Listen! Put down the damn book and look at this.” Constable Lamb shook the Evening News at Wensley, pointing to an article on the cover. “Hammerton is calling us a disgrace.”

  Wensley looked up from the book of procedure directives and said, “Who is Hammerton?”

  “A police surgeon out in Bow Street. Who gives a damn what some bloke all the way out there has to say about the job we’re doing? Seen any dead bunters lately in Convent Gardens? No, we got ‘em all here in Whitechapel, but that bastard wants to see his bloody name in the newspaper so he goes spouting off this load of bollocks. It’s ridiculous!”

  “You still haven’t told me what that load of bollocks was,” Wensley said. Lamb tossed the paper across the desk at him.

  A DISGRACE TO OUR POLICE ORGANISATION.

  Dr. Hammerton, the divisional surgeon of the Bow-street Police, stated last night to our correspondent that he considered the recent murders and their non-solution a perfect disgrace to our boasted police organisation, and there appears to be little room for doubt that the detective system in regard to murder is not at all a good one, looking at the great number of murders, mostly of women, that are continually occurring and never detected.

  “Right there in tonight’s Evening News. As if the public was not having a difficult enough time letting us get on with catching The Ripper, now our own surgeons are stirring things up even worse,” Lamb said.

  The doors to the station slammed open and Lamb and Wensley got to their feet as a crowd of loud, angry men charged toward the gate. They came directly up to the wooden rail and began banging their fists on it, shouting. “We demand to speak to whoever is in charge!” the one in front yelled.

  Wensley waved his hands and told them to be quiet. “One at a time, gentlemen. Someone start off by telling us what the problem is. We’ll decide who should handle it.”

  One of the men stepped forward and removed his hat. “My name is George Lusk, and these men are the members of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee. We have come forth to announce the identity of Jack the Ripper.”

  From inside his office, Inspector Lestrade could hear the voices of people shouting. It was nothing out of the ordinary for Whitechapel at that time of night. He looked back at Chief Inspector Brett and said, “So that is the official version, is it?”

  “No, Inspector. That is the only version. Sir Charles Warren arrived on Goulston Street the night of the ‘Double-Event’ and immediately identified the threat to the Jewish populace from the obviously unrelated graffiti on the wall. The Commissioner took the necessary steps to prevent an incident, with which the City Police were in full compliance and appreciation. The graffiti in question was properly documented prior to being destroyed.”

  Lestrade smiled, shaking his head, “What a load of bollocks.”

  “Let us be clear about one thing, Lestrade. This version also includes that you only left a murder scene in hot pursuit of a fresh lead. It allows for you to be so caught up in pursuing the killer, you momentarily lapsed in your awareness of where our jurisdictional responsibilities are.”

  “Does this version put me back on the case?”

  Brett handed him his old report, most of which was crossed out by a thick black pen. Brett handed him a new report which was already written, with only a place at the bottom for Lestrade to sign. “It does the moment your recollection becomes synonymous with this report.”

  Lestrade picked up the pen, scribbled his name on it, and handed it to Brett as if were something foul. Constable Wensley knocked on his office door, “Pardon me, sirs, but there is a crowd out front and one of the men says that he has discovered the identity of Jack the Ripper. He says he has proof.”

  “Let me guess,” Lestrade said. “Lewis Carroll is Jack the Ripper?”

  “Wasn’t he the one who wrote that children’s book?” Wensley replied. “That would be a good laugh. Anyway, no, sir, these gentlemen are claiming they have evidence that The Ripper is Doctor John Watson of Baker Street.”

  “Ridiculous,” Lestrade said, jumping from his chair. He came out of his office, storming toward the gate, shouting, “What the bloody hell are you all carrying on about? You lot better have a good reason to accuse a man like…oh my God.”

  Mickey Fitch looked at Lestrade and sneered. “Well, well. If it ain’t ol’ Gerry Lestrade. Heard yeh been looking for me, copper.”

  Lestrade shouted, “Get them!” and dove over the gate to tackle Fitch to the ground.

  Constable Wensley leapt over the counter like a deer and cracked the head of the first Fitch boy he landed near. Two of the gang members dove onto Wensley and pulled him to the ground.

  Lamb leapt onto the top of the whole pile of men and started swinging and kicking in every direction.

  Fitch grabbed Lestrade’s face with both hands, ripping into the skin of his cheeks with his fingernails. “Get off of me, pig! I’ll rip your eyes out!”

  Lestrade grabbed Fitch’s ears and slammed the back of his head against the floor. “You killed that girl on Brick Lane! Jammed a stick so far up her you killed her, didn’t you? Rapist bastard!” Fitch’s head twisted from side to side, his eye-patch coming loose in Lestrade’s hands. Lestrade looked into the gaping hole and gasped.

  Fitch hammered his fist straight into Lestrade’s nose, instantly snapping it sideways. Lestrade’s eyes swelled as blinding pain spread across the front of his face, filling his mouth with copper-tasting blood.

  “Sweet Jesus! What the hell are you doing!” Brett cried.

  “Stop!” Lusk shouted. “Stop!” Lusk grabbed Fitch by the back of his collar and pulled him back from Lestrade.

  “You broke my nose!” Lestrade howled, pulling his hand away to see the blood. “I am going to kill you, you Irish prat.”

  “Come on, pig!” Fitch screamed, eye patch dangling from his ear. “Come and have at it!”

  “That is enough!” Brett shrieked. “All of you stop it this instant.”

  Wensley and Lamb looked at Lestrade, waiting to see what he would do. Both men took a moment to fix their uniforms and check how many buttons they had lost in the fray. Lestrade groaned in pain and told Wensley to get him a towel. “Chief Inspector, I have been looking for this bastard since the Emma Smith murder. I am placing him under arrest for intense interrogation. Let’s see how you hold up with that, you simpering little mandrake!”

  “No, you are not, Inspector,” Brett corrected.

  “What?”

  “No one is getting arrested until we hear what these men have to tell us about the Jack the Ripper killings. You said you have evidence?”

  “Irrefutable,” Lusk answered.

  “Fine. Inspector Lestrade, take a statement from this gentleman. Constables, assist the Inspector by taking statements from these
other ones,” Brett looked around the room. “Christ, I hate Whitechapel.”

  “Stop the cab!” I shouted and threw the door open in time to vomit onto the street. Irene held me by the back of my coat to keep me from falling out. I wiped my mouth and looked up, thinking I heard someone shouting to me.

  “Doctor Watson? Oy! That you?” I spat several times as a young boy ran toward us up the street. “Hang on!” he shouted. “I need to talk to yeh. What yeh getting sick all over the street for?”

  “Hello, Wiggins,” I said. Wiggins was the leader of a group of juvenile street arabs that Holmes kept in his employ for conducting searches. The pay was a shilling a day, with an extra guinea going to the finder of whatever was being sought. Apparently, I was being sought, and Wiggins was about to get an extra guinea. “Watch your step.”

  Wiggins looked at the sickness on the pavement beneath the cab’s door and scowled, stepping carefully around it as he climbed inside to join us. “Mr. Holmes sent us out to go find you straight away.”

  “Why?”

  Wiggins shrugged. “I suppose it has something to do with you getting arrested for being Jack the Ripper.”

  “What!” Irene shouted, as I vomited onto the street again.

  ~ * * * ~

  When I threw the door open to 221 B Baker Street there were two constables waiting to seize me the moment I entered. Inspector Lestrade stood in the corner, clutching a blood-soaked cloth to his nose. Beside him, a smaller man in a fancy uniform shouted at Mrs. Hudson, who was standing on the tips of her toes screaming for everyone to get out. Sherlock Holmes sat in his chair with his legs crossed, admiring the scene around him with a smirk.

  The constables grabbed me by either arm and Chief Inspector Brett cried, “Dr. John Watson, I am placing you are under arrest for the murders in Whitechapel!”

  “That is preposterous!” I shouted. “I did not murder anyone!”

  He waved a rolled up piece of paper at me and said, “I have a sworn statement from six men who overheard you threatening to gut a whore in a tavern. When they confronted you, you savagely attacked them and even fired a gun at them!”

  “A whore?” Irene said. “How dare you!”

  “Who the hell are you?” Chief Inspector Brett asked.

  “Dis is insane,” Lestrade said. He kept the cloth pressed against his swollen face in obvious agony but managed, “Don Wadsin is dot da Ripper. De’s Dolmdes’s assisdand.”

  “Be silent, Inspector,” Brett said. “Constables, take this man away immediately!”

  The two constables holding me turned me toward the door when Irene shouted, “Wait! That is not how it happened at all! I witnessed the entire incident.”

  “One American strumpet’s word against that of six British men?” Brett laughed. “We’ll see what the judge has to say about that. Off we go, boys.”

  “What about what I have to say about it, Chief Inspector?” Holmes said softly.

  Brett stiffened, breathing sharply through his nose. “What could you possibly have to add, Holmes? Perhaps you are used to being accommodated when you go about interfering in police business, but neither I, nor the Police Commissioner, are particularly fond of interlopers who go poking their nose into official matters. The investigation of crimes in London is our responsibility, and ours alone, Holmes. I think it is time for the public and yourself to be reminded of that! If you wanted to be a police officer so badly, I suggest you file a letter of interest at Headquarters like everyone else.”

  Holmes regarded Brett for a moment, then shrugged. “Very well. If you choose to accuse Watson of murder, that is your right, Chief Inspector, and I will not interfere. Personally, I agree that he has been acting unusually lately, and I could not vouch for his sanity one way or the other.”

  “Holmes!” I cried.

  “That being said, there are few things that I consider sacred in this world and your inability to pay attention to even the simplest details is something I simply cannot abide.”

  “My abilities are none of your concern, Holmes. They seem to have landed me your secretary quite nicely.”

  “At present, your abilities are my only concern, Chief Inspector,” Holmes shot back. “For example, if you possessed one single shred of observational skill you would have noticed the state of Watson’s clothing.”

  Every head turned and looked me over carefully.

  “Obviously, his coat is torn at the pockets and lapels, as if from being pulled and pushed during a great struggle,” Holmes said. “Further, if you had one scintilla of competency, you would see that his face is bloodied and bruised. Yet, Watson has only one small cut on the knuckles of his right hand. It seems to me that would palpably indicate he received a great many blows to the face and yet threw only one punch in return.

  “Moreover, if you, in all your egregious browbeating, were instilled with the most infinitesimal speck of intuition, the minutest snippet of insight would doubtlessly make it painfully obvious to you that both the toes and insteps of Watson’s shoes are scraped down past the leather. Clearly, this demonstrates, even to a brainless twit like you, that he was lying on his stomach, scrambling on the ground. Now, please enlighten all of us, Chief Inspector Brett, with all of your enviable skill, how you explain that?”

  There was silence, save for the sound of Lestrade who coughed with laughter behind his towel.

  Chief Inspector Brett’s face turned crimson. Finally he muttered, “I will not fall for your tricks, Holmes. Watson is under arrest.”

  “I will make you a wager, sir,” Holmes said. He stood up and reached into a jar on his mantle. “What amount of money is enough to interest you?” He pulled out a stack of two hundred pound notes wrapped in a bank seal and threw it at Brett’s feet. “How many years of salary is that for you? If you go over and look at Watson’s hands and see gunpowder on the sleeves of his shirt, the money is yours. If you see gunpowder on the cuffs of Miss Adler’s, the money remains with me, and you will leave.”

  “Show me your hands,” Brett snarled.

  I lifted them for his inspection. Irene held up her hands beside mine and began waving them. “I think these little black spots all over my sleeves are what you are looking for, Chief Inspector,” she said. “These ones that look exactly like spent gunpowder.”

  Brett gritted his teeth and turned to Holmes. “This changes nothing, Holmes. We are still arresting John Watson for the Ripper crimes.”

  Holmes sat back down and began rubbing his temples with the tips of his fingers. “I have tolerated Scotland Yard for far too long. I can see that now. Mrs. Hudson, please notify the Central News Agency that Sherlock Holmes is prepared to sit down with them and discuss the inadequacies of the London Metropolitan Police Service. I have a file containing all of the cases they have taken credit for which were only solved due to my intervention. Now I wish to express my complete and utter lack of faith in their ability to solve these killings. Let them know I recommend the people of Whitechapel rise up and form armed posses to protect themselves and their families.”

  “You truly are a bastard,” Brett hissed.

  “Better a bastard than a buffoon,” Holmes said. “Take your monkeys and get out of my sight.”

  Chief Inspector Brett stormed past us, shoving Irene and me out of the way and charging down the steps. Lestrade was laughing so hard that tears were streaming down his face, even as he groaned in agony.

  “For God’s sake, this poor man needs medical attention. Unhand me at once,” I said to the constables. They released me and I walked over to Lestrade, asking him to lower the towel. “I am afraid your nose is badly broken, Inspector. I can reset it for you, but it will be quite painful, and I’ll need you to hold still.”

  Lestrade nodded, taking a deep breath and holding it, as I put my thumbs against either side of his misshapen nasal bone.

  “Ready?” I asked.

  Lestrade closed his swollen eyes. I pressed inwards with my thumbs and snapped the cartilage back into place, cracki
ng the bone so loudly that everyone winced. Lestrade cried out and clutched his face but when he looked up, his nose was in its proper position. Finally, he said, “Thank you, Doctor Watson. I have to admit, Holmes. That thing you do is much funnier when I am not on the receiving end of it.”

  Holmes took his seat in front of the fire and turned his head away from Lestrade.

  “All right,” Lestrade nodded toward Irene and me. “Try to get some sleep, folks. I will talk to the Chief Inspector and see if I can make some sense of this to him. I would not worry about him again. Goodnight.”

  The constables followed Lestrade down the steps. Mrs. Hudson scooped up the bloody towel, letting off a string of mutterings as she left the apartment. She gave Irene a sideways look as she passed. I took a deep sigh of relief and said, “Thank God that is over with. Holmes, you have my thanks for saving me, old chap.”

  “I shudder to think what would have happened had you not been here,” Irene added. “That was brilliant—”

  “Shut up!” Holmes growled. “Would the two of you just shut up for once in your lives? Look at you both, standing there as if you’d just come back from a big adventure. The simpleton doctor and the trollop opera singer, off to catch Jack the Ripper, eh?” He turned on me, “When the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee hangs you from a lamppost I will laugh, Watson. Laugh! And you, the Opera Starlet. I bet Jack the Ripper cannot wait to get his knife into your belly. You will make a prettier picture than the other women, I confess, but after he peels the skin off of your cheeks and chin it will not make much difference now, will it? How dare the two of you go out there without someone to watch over you? You are like two foolish children who need an adult to mind you so you do not get crushed to death crossing the street! Watson, go into your room and do not come out again until you get your wits about you!”

  “I am no child,” I said. “Do not speak to me as such.”