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

by Bernard Schaffer

  TWENTY TWO

  It was early evening and Irene had not yet returned from wandering Spitalfields. She insisted she needed the time to get acquainted with our new surroundings. While she journeyed into the heart of Ripper’s hunting ground, I decided to purchase new bedding and some accoutrements that would help us maintain at least a modicum of civilization while we were forced to stay in such squalor. I tossed the old bug-ridden sheets out of the window and before the sheets settled onto the ground people were fighting over them on the street below.

  Our bags had arrived earlier in the day and I unpacked them while listening to the people above our room stomp. Below us, they banged on the ceiling for even the slightest noise. On either side of the room, the voices of whoever was speaking came through as clearly as if they were standing at my side.

  I laid Irene’s skirts and petticoats out on the bed and folded them carefully. The next bag contained her undergarments. I found a chemise made of such sheer material that I could see the details of my hand through both sides of the fabric. I lifted it to my face and inhaled deeply, detecting faint traces of Irene’s scent.

  The door to our room burst open and Irene announced, “I have it, John! I can find my way back to Crossingham’s from nearly any point in Spitalfields. How did you make out?”

  I quickly stuffed the chemise underneath the folded skirts on the bed and turned. “Ah. Basically, the same as you. I did a bit of freshening up to the place as well.”

  “Excellent,” she said, looking at the folded clothes. “You did not have to do that, John. Now, do me a favor and remove your shirt.”

  “Pardon me? Why?”

  “You need a shave. That mustache is too well-kept. I have been studying the faces of the men here, and most of them are not nearly so well-groomed. Come on. I have what you need in my bags.”

  I nervously undid the buttons of my shirt, sucking in my belly as much as I could. It was hairy and jiggled from too many of Mrs. Hudson’s biscuits. I stood as erect as I could and lifted my shoulders, as if I were back in the Army.

  Irene did not seem to notice and handed me a pair of clippers, a razor and a bar of soap. Our room did not have a toilet, and she told me to wait there while she fetched a bowl of water from the common facility down the hall. The water she returned with was an ugly yellow color.

  “There is no mirror,” Irene said, looking around. “Here, let me have those. Hold still, if you please.” She pressed against me, lifting my chin as she started scissoring away the ends of my mustache. Her breath was sweet and her chest crushed against me as she leaned forward. She lifted my nose and yanked on my lip.

  “Ow!”

  “Oh, stop being a baby, Watson,” she said, smirking. She handed me one end of a leather strop and quickly sharpened the razor upon it, then wetted her hands and lathered them with the soap.

  She put her warm palms against my face. “That smells lovely,” I said.

  “That soap costs enough money to pay for every room in this place for a month. Your skin will positively tingle when we’re finished!”

  “Oh good. That is precisely what I have always wanted. Tingly skin.”

  “Try not to move. I would hate to cut off such a perfectly formed lip. I imagine a man could get used to this. Not lifting a finger while a woman bathes you.”

  “Perhaps I could convince Mary to apprentice under you?”

  “Only if she would enjoy it as much as I,” Irene said, winking. “There you are, sir. What do you say, a thruppence ought to settle us up?”

  “In Whitechapel I believe a thruppence entitles me to a much more thorough bathing.” Irene looked at me with such shock that I felt my cheeks flush. “I have no idea what just came over me, Miss Adler. That comment was inappropriate and I deeply apologize.”

  She smiled and tapped me on the cheek, “Oh stop, John. I thought you were finally coming out of your damned shell there for a moment. All right, we need to rest up for tonight. The first girl, Polly Nichols, was killed after three in the morning. Annie was killed after five. The next two were killed closer to one. What do you make of that?”

  “The Ripper is a creature of the night?”

  Irene stared at me for a moment. “Sometimes I really think you are playing with me, Dr. Watson. Anyway, I would venture to guess that he killed the first girl in the middle of the night but found that too many people were out and about. Many were probably still stumbling home drunk at that hour. He killed Annie closer to the morning thinking there would be fewer people. For some reason, he then switched to a much earlier time. Why would he do that?”

  “Transportation, perhaps? Depending on where the Ripper lives, he may have needed to find a cab to get home and had trouble finding one before.”

  “An interesting theory. And here, I had been thinking that the killer lived relatively close to Whitechapel.”

  “When he killed Annie Chapman at five in the morning, he would have found many more people on the street than he expected,” I said. “People who live here that can find work must have to travel, for I have seen no factories or plants in Whitechapel. They must go out of the area, and that would mean getting up quite early. I would expect one o’clock was a much better time to kill his victims, because the people who work were asleep already and those who are unemployed were probably still inside a tavern.”

  Irene nodded, “I believe that is a rather brilliant deduction, John. Has Holmes been pulling the wool over all of our eyes all this time, while it was really you doing all the detective work?” We both laughed, and Irene checked her pocket watch. “It is nearly six now. We should try to get some sleep.”

  “All right,” I said. I watched Irene cross to the other side of the bed and begin undoing her clothing. I lowered myself to the floor and unlaced my boots. I stretched out on the cold wooden floor, listening to the whisper of Irene’s clothing sliding off of her body. I turned over on my side. “If it is not too much trouble, Miss Adler, would you mind throwing me down a pillow when you have a chance?”

  “What are you talking about?” Irene asked.

  “A pillow maybe? Or, even a blanket? It is rather uncomfortable on the floor without one.”

  “Stop being silly and come up on the bed this instant, John.” Irene patted the mattress, “Really, I will not bite.”

  I laughed sharply, “I could not begin to imagine how inappropriate that would be.”

  “John, there is not one thing in this whole damned world that is as appropriate as you imagine it. I have been with royals and nobles all over the world; the exact people we fall all over ourselves to impress with good manners and etiquette, and let me be the one to tell you, they engage in more depravity than the worst whore in Whitechapel. It is a gigantic ruse that people like you and me scurry around trying to be appropriate, while every other Lord is busy buggering his own sisters. Get in the damned bed.”

  I started to stand up, saying, “If my Mary ever found out about this, I should be in...”

  “What? What is it?”

  It was the sheer chemise, and she wore it lying on the bed, turned toward me. Her hand was beneath her head, so that her hair spilled down onto the pillow. The soft pale skin of her neck and the tops of her breasts were revealed by the gown’s low-cut neck and her nipples poked through the fabric. Two long, shapely legs stretched out toward me, with Irene rubbing one bare foot slowly over the other. “Why are you just standing there? Surely you’ve seen a woman without her petticoat before.”

  “Of course I have,” I said, sliding into the bed beside her. Irene closed her eyes and in moments, her breathing became slow and rhythmic. In that instant, she eclipsed all that I knew, casting my remaining days into a cold and empty night. Like the bright star sailors set their course both to and from, I would be doomed forever to follow her distant glittering light.

  ~ * * * ~

  “Wake up, John.”

  “Mmm. What? Something wrong?”

  “Yes, you snore like a grizzly bear and I weep for
your intended bride. We have to get going.” Irene was already dressed in a dark frockcoat and a wide black bonnet. “How do I look?”

  I regarded her costume. It was the same attire as that of every other woman in Whitechapel. She wore several skirts and a thick coat. Her bonnet was tightly wrapped under her chin, and two long black ribbons hung down over her chest. Only her throat was exposed. I thought for a moment, then said, “Undo your bonnet. I have an idea. Hand me your leather strop. I may have to get you a new one, but if this works, you will thank me for it.”

  From my medical bag I retrieved a sharp knife, suture and thread. I measured Irene’s neck with the strop and began cutting the leather at either end. “When I was in the army, we were travelling on the Arabian Sea and had to be escorted by an American naval vessel. The ship was protected by a group of US Marines.”

  I cut several holes in the leather and began stitching. “The Marines all had tightly fitting leather collars that were designed to protect their necks from sword strikes. ‘Leathernecks’, I think they called themselves.” I held up the length of leather strap to measure it around Irene’s neck. “All of the Ripper victims’ throats were cut first. It is the killing blow that incapacitates them enough so that he can do his business.” I wrapped the leather around her throat. “It will fit you snugly like a belt around your neck. Can you still breathe? Good.”

  I tied the ends with thick suture cord as Irene held her hair up, pressing back against me. Irene tied a black scarf around her neck over the leather, and I smiled. “There you are,” I said.

  Irene touched her neck, feeling the leather. She drew a finger across her neck like the blade of the Ripper would and nodded satisfactorily. “I’m ready.”

  The local tavern was crowded, but we managed to find a table in the corner where we could hear one another without shouting. “The way that I see it, we have several options. We can pick a likely location and wait in the shadows in hopes of seeing him in the act. Or, we can pick a likely victim and follow her in hopes of him attacking her while we are close by. Or, we can do this properly and lure him into a trap he cannot hope to escape.”

  I gently sipped my beer, looking around the ale house. No one paid either of us any attention. I barely recognized my own face in the mirror. “What does luring the Ripper entail, exactly?”

  “The right bait, obviously,” she said. “We will give him a victim standing in exactly the right place, at exactly the right time. A woman he cannot resist, in a place so dark that he can easily use that blade of his to open her up and play with her innards. But in that darkness, he will find something altogether different. For the first time, Jack the Ripper will know what it is to fear.”

  I rubbed my bare lip, feeling the stubble with the tips of my fingers. “I am not quite sure what he will fear about us, my dear. What I am sure of is that he will try his damndest to kill you.”

  “Let him,” Irene said, eyes flashing, “I want him to fight, John. Before this hunt is ended, more blood will run in the streets of Whitechapel. If some of mine must be spilled in order to put an end to this monster, I’ll gladly give it.”

  “Do not say that,” I said. In that moment I pictured Irene sprawled out on the mortuary table at the London City morgue, her belly cut open and devoid of all its contents. Her eyes stared up at me dim and cloudy.

  Irene patted my hand. “You are a good man, John Watson. I wish I knew more like you.”

  We set out into the night, as Irene listed the murder sites one by one, “Polly Nichols was killed on Bucks Row, at the northeast corner. Annie Chapman was killed on Hanbury, in the northwest. Liz Stride was killed in the southeast, and Katie Eddowes was killed in the southwest.”

  “All of the victims were killed in a geometrical square, then?”

  “Somewhat,” she said. “What if we bisect that square? Wentworth and Montague Street run somewhat through the middle. They seem as good a place as any.” We travelled Commercial Street, passing Flower and Dean, then Thrawl, and I noticed that the neighborhood was becoming more decrepit and menacing with every step. Buildings at either end of the streets were abandoned and dark, but in the shadows I could see eyes peering out at us. A small group of men gathered down on Thrall Street, watching us. “Stay calm, John,” Irene whispered. “Do not make eye contact with them and keep walking.”

  I checked my waist. The gun Irene had given me was secured in my waist band. As the men came to Commercial Street and began following us, I put my hand on the handle, ready to draw. “Turn left,” I said, leading her down Wentworth Street. More men emerged from George’s Yard. “Isn’t that where that woman was killed? Emma Smith?”

  “Yes,” Irene said, beginning to walk faster. “Keep your head down and keep moving.” The men followed us, matching our pace.

  “Out for a stroll, eh, love?” one of them called out to Irene.

  I turned, seeing the men were getting closer and cursed. “Bloody hell, I recognize him. He was one of the bastards that attacked me.”

  “I doubt they can recognize us now, John,” she said, pulling her bonnet tight. “We look too different. Remain calm.”

  “Oy, slow down, bunter. Did you pay your tax, old girl?”

  “What tax is that, love?” Irene said, continuing to walk.

  Several men stepped out of the shadows ahead of us, blocking our passage. Irene and I froze in place. “The tax that allows you to whore in this area without us doing you like that other bunter. The one that got the broom. She refused to pay her tax, you see.”

  “I can pay,” Irene said quickly. “Just tell me how much it is, and be on your way.”

  “A half crown.”

  Irene shuffled in her bag and pulled out the coin, showing it to him. “Here, take it and leave us be. This gentleman does not have all night-”

  “Bring it over here,” he said.

  Irene walked over to them and put the coin in the man’s outstretched hand. He snatched her by the wrist, “You are a fine right one, I reckon. I think we might need to charge you a bit more than a half crown.”

  “Now see here,” I said, starting forward.

  “Have no fear, friend,” he said, holding Irene tight. “We’ll not use her too hard. You can have your go with her when we’re done.”

  The other men began grabbing at Irene, reaching between her legs and pulling on the buttons of her coat. “Unhand her at once!” I shouted.

  “Piss off, mate,” the man said to me. “What do you care, anyway? Surely we ain’t the first to fill her sockets tonight.”

  The one holding Irene reached under her skirt, and she cursed at him, kicking him and slapping his hands. I reached into my waistband for the handle of the gun and was about to pull it when the sharp, piercing sound of a whistle erupted from the far end of the alley. Four constables came running toward us.

  “You Nichol bastards had better learn to lie low when we’re about,” the first constable said. He stopped directly in front of me and grunted. “Is that you, Dr. Watson? What the bloody hell are you doing out here?”

  I recognized Constable Lamb as one of the ones who had come to arrest me at Baker Street and lowered my head, “Yes, constable.”

  “Watson? Dr. Watson?” the Nichol boy said. “Wait till Mickey hears about this. Tried to disguise yourself, eh?”

  Constable Lamb turned and cracked the man across the face with his nightstick, dropping him to the ground instantly. Lamb wiped blood from his nightstick and smiled, “There you go, Dr. Watson. Reckon this bastard will not be giving you any more trouble tonight.”

  I grabbed Irene by the arm and we walked directly back to Crossingham’s. She was shaking as we entered our room. I untied her bonnet and undid the leather strap and scarf from her neck. She tried undoing the buttons of her coat but her fingers were trembling too much. I undid them for her, then I turned my head aside and undid her bodice.

  As I laid her clothing on the table, I saw she had not moved. She was holding herself, shivering. “Come here,” I s
aid, putting my arms around her. “I would not have let them hurt you. My gun was ready the entire time. If the police had not come, I would have started putting bullet holes in the lot of them.”

  “Thank you, John,” she said, looking up at me. I had never seen her look vulnerable before. She was always in command, always so strong, and now she looked like nothing more than a nervous child.

  “I would do anything for you,” I said.

  Irene unbuttoned my coat and took the gun from my waist. Her hands slid across my pelvis as she removed it, stirring me. She removed my coat from my shoulders and let it fall onto the ground. “What are you doing?” I said.

  “I need to feel alive, John.” She kissed my fingers, then the inside of my wrist. “Before it is too late.” She kissed my chin, my neck, and my lips. Her nipples swayed against my bare chest through the thin cloth of her gown. I caressed her, opening my mouth to intertwine our tongues. She turned us toward the bed. She pushed me onto it and undid my trousers.

  TWENTY THREE

  “Wake her up, mate. She’s had it.”

  “She ain’t movin’. She look all right to you?”

  “`Cept for the extra half pint o’ mettle.”

  “Well, wake her up and get her out of here. I think her little girl is sitting out in the bar somewhere.”

  “Her what? Oy, what a dirty little puzzle! She’s been back here all evening, getting knocked by every tickle tale in Whitechapel while her daughter is sitting at the bar? With the bastards around here, it’s lucky the little girl weren’t put to task as well.”

  Louise’s eyes flickered open as the two men grabbed her by the ankles and began dragging her across the floor toward the storeroom’s door. The shelves of flour and salt spun wickedly, and bile spilled out of her mouth. “Get off of me,” she shouted.