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

by Bernard Schaffer

  As Lestrade turned to leave, he heard the man say, “You were the one who abandoned your family, Gerard. You are the one who gave up path of righteousness. Do not blame anyone else for that.”

  “What did you say? Who the hell do you think you are?”

  “His word says that he comes with a sword in hand to strike down the wicked. What if you are that sword, Gerard? What if, when it came time for him to take you up against evil, you were nowhere to be found?”

  “Stop it. Stop looking at me like that.”

  “Believe me, my son, I know your burden and it is indeed a heavy one. But it is no heavier than theirs.” The man turned and held out his hand toward the altar.

  Another woman, shrouded like the others, emerged from behind the statue of Christ. She moved awkwardly across the altar, descending the steps on wobbling legs to sit beside her sisters in the pew. Lestrade’s eyes twitched, and his knees began to shake. He looked back at the tramp and suddenly had to shield his eyes from the burst of light coming from the man.

  “There are dark forces at work in this world, my son. I forgive you, Gerard Lestrade. Be a good man. Your family needs you. I need you.”

  Lestrade collapsed between the pews where he cowered and shivered like a beaten dog. At last he struggled to his feet to see that the church was quiet and empty.

  He looked at the large statue staring down at him from over the altar and her heart began hammering inside of his chest. Lestrade hurried up the aisle toward the church doors and threw them open as he ran, tumbling and rolling into the street. He scrambled to his feet and kept running into the streets of Whitechapel, screaming the whole way.

  ACT IV

  NOVEMBER SPAWNED A MONSTER

  TWENTY FIVE

  Constable Wensley pointed down Thrall Street at the shoe sticking out of an alleyway. “Let’s have a look down there.”

  “It’s probably just another blasted vagrant,” Constable Lamb sighed.

  Wensley squinted to look closer, then took off down the street. “It’s him! Here he is.”

  “Christ, he’s a mess,” Lamb said. “Oy, Inspector? You all right?”

  Gerard Lestrade tucked his knees beneath his chin, muttering to himself and refusing to acknowledge they were there. “Help him up,” Lamb said, grabbing Lestrade under the arm. “There’s a good chap. Christ, he’s stink like a brewery.”

  “Better snap to, Inspector,” Wensley said. He brushed the dirt off of Lestrade’s coat. “Chief Inspector Brett is losing his mind trying to find you.”

  When Lestrade did not answer, Lamb said, “Another girl’s been murdered, sir. It’s a bad one. Not even like the others.”

  “…The fifth sister,” Lestrade whispered.

  Lamb cocked an eye at Wensley. “Whatever you want to call it. It’s another victim. Just worse, this time.”

  Lestrade stared at them for a moment. “What do you mean?”

  “This one was found in her room, Inspector. The Ripper really went to town on this one, sir. Enjoyed himself quite a bit,” Wensley said.

  Lamb put his arm around Lestrade to keep him steady. “Listen, Inspector. You are in no shape to go over there. Tell you what, I don’t live too far off. Go to my flat and get washed up, catch a little slumber, and come find us in a few hours. We’ll hold Brett off until then. The dead bird certainly is not going anywhere. She’ll just smell a bit worse by the time you get in.”

  Lestrade blinked, trying to focus. There was a look of concern etched on Lamb’s face that was far beyond the young man’s experience on the job. Wensley only looked afraid. The boy had come to rely on Lestrade to provide a lead the rest of them could follow and now he was clearly worried Lestrade was lost to them. Lestrade took a deep breath and swept his hand through his hair. “Boys, when we took up our oaths to be policemen, we swore to serve and protect. Not serve and protect when it was convenient. Now stop standing about and help me get over there.”

  “Yes, sir!” Wensley said.

  “Too right,” Lamb said. “The walk to Miller’s Court will do us some good. Best to enjoy all the fresh air while we can. You’ll miss it quite soon, I reckon.”

  Whatever Lestrade expected to see inside Thirteen Miller’s Court, it did not come close. At first, he tried peering through front window but gagged on the foulness coming through the broken glass in the lower corner. Once he opened the door, a wave of nausea broiled in his stomach, making his belly twist and turn until he dry heaved. He wished there was still something in his stomach left to vomit up. Lestrade turned back toward the open door and took several deep breaths before returning to look at the splattered body spread out on the bed.

  The woman’s organs were carefully arranged on either side of her. It seemed impossible to believe that there was that much blood, intestine, organ and tissue inside of one body. It was ludicrous that one person had so much material stuffed inside of them. He laughed sharply at the sight of it in complete shock.

  “I’ll give you a hand in there, Inspector,” Wensley said. The young constable opened the door as he said, “That old ninny Lamb said it was bad, but I can handle it—” Wensley froze in the doorway and all the color drained from his face. He lurched forward just as Lestrade spun him around and shoved him back through the door. He held Wensley by the collar until the sound of vomit splashing the pavement ended.

  Lestrade patted Wensley gently on the back. “You are going to stay out here, my boy. You’ll be fine.”

  “But…but, I can…holy Christ….that’s inhuman. Just give me a moment, Inspector. I swear, I’ll be fine.” There were tears in the boys eyes but he blinked them away and wiped them with his sleeve.

  “I said for you to wait out here, Fred. Someday I do not doubt that it will be up to you to go into rooms like that. But right now, at this moment in time, the responsibility falls to me and lately I haven’t been doing my part. You stay outside. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir. What can I do to help you, then?”

  “Let no one enter this room without my permission.” Lestrade shut the door marked Number Thirteen and turned to take in the room. It was small and cluttered. The front door could not open fully without banging against a small bedside table, and the bed, while not particularly large, nearly took up the whole room.

  The woman on the bed was…no, Lestrade said to himself, looking away. Don’t look at her. Not yet.

  The fumes of decomposition coming out of the body began to sting his eyes. Mucus running down the back of his throat already tasted of it. Lestrade coughed and gagged. He felt his legs trembling to the point that he could no longer stand steadily. He leaned back against the bed and sank to the floor. “Can’t do it,” he said, wiping his sleeve across his nose and eyes. “I simply cannot do it.”

  He stood back up, ready to call out to Wensley to open the door. It was time to go fetch the doctor. There was nothing left to be accomplished by standing in the room except becoming more nauseous. He turned to the body, “I’m sorry, love. I just do not have it in me to do this anymore.” Her face was gone, nothing more than bone and muscle. Just stripped flesh, Lestrade thought. Could be any woman, really. Could be Carrie. Could be me mum. Could even be my little girl in a few years, he thought.

  His teeth were grinding together at the thought of the viciousness needed to strip away the flesh of a woman’s face. “What kind of an animal does this? What kind of beast are you?”

  Lestrade lowered his head and reached out to touch the tip of the woman’s bare left foot. It was the only thing left that was recognizably human. He put both his hands around her toes and pressed them between his palms. He bent at the knee and closed his eyes, and for the first time since he’d become a policeman, he prayed.

  A knock at the door interrupted him. “Inspector?” Wensley said, without opening the door.

  “What!” Lestrade barked.

  “There is a man out here asking to come in. He is quite insistent that he can assist you,” the constable said.

 
“Tell him to piss off! We do not need any amateurs and lookie-loos snooping around, Wensley.”

  “Actually, I think it might be-”

  “Pardon me, Constable.” The door creaked open and a man said, “Good morning, Inspector Lestrade.”

  “Look, just bugger off, all right?” Lestrade lifted his hand to block out the bright sun pouring though the door that silhouetted a tall, thin man in a flop-eared travelling cap. “It’s you. You came.”

  Sherlock Holmes nodded solemnly. “I apologize for being late, Inspector. Might I have permission to enter the scene of the crime? I believe I may be able to lend you some assistance.” He surveyed the room. “By the looks of things, you are in great need.”

  Lestrade leapt to his feet. “Yes, yes, come in. Of course!”

  “Then the time for niceties has passed, Inspector, and we must get to work,” Holmes said as he took off his coat. He rolled up his sleeves and looked about the room. “Have you touched anything in the room? Anything at all?”

  “No one has touched a damn thing in here, except for the front door handle when we forced it open.”

  “Excellent,” Holmes nodded. He walked around the outer edges of the room, checking the table where the flaps of her skin were stacked, but ignoring them as he bent close to examine the empty space on the table’s top.

  “What are you looking for?”

  Holmes covered his hand with his shirt sleeve and shut the door, staring at the handle. It was smeared with blood. “Something that the suspect would have to have touched.” Holmes inspected the door so closely that the tip of his hat nearly touched the wood. He checked the lock and surface of the door. Holmes looked down at the broken pieces of glass on the ground and his eyebrows began to twitch. “Yes, yes, that’s it,” Holmes muttered, looking from the bits of glass to the window.

  “Yes, what, man? Tell me!”

  “There is a new type of investigative tool I have been recently made aware of, Inspector, but at present, I have little more than a theory. Still, we need more. Come with me.” Holmes opened the door, seeing the sea of people pushing toward them, trying to get past the two Constables.

  “Keep every one of these people back,” Lestrade shouted.

  “Yes, sir!” Lamb yelled over his shoulder.

  “It is imperative that no one goes into this room before we return. All will be lost!” Holmes said.

  More policemen began to arrive, swinging their batons at random, knocking people away. Lestrade put his hand on Wensley’s shoulder, shouting, “Not one person goes into this room. Not one!”

  “But Chief Inspector Brett is bringing Dr-“

  “I do not care if the Commissioner himself shows up and wants to go in that room!” Lestrade said.

  “Yes, sir!” Wensley shouted, whipping his baton at the crowd.

  Holmes pulled on Lestrade’s sleeve, pointing into the distance at a red knit shawl lying on the ground. As they approached the shawl, a woman came out of the alley near it. Her face was red and blotchy from crying. “That was hers,” the woman sniffled.

  “Whose?” Holmes said.

  “Mary Jane Kelly’s. The woman that’s dead in Number Thirteen. I saw her wearing that shawl last night.”

  “What time did you see her? Was she with anyone?” Lestrade snapped.

  “Why are you yelling at me?” the woman said, inching back into the alley.

  “One moment, madam,” Holmes stepped forward. “My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. We are investigating this woman’s murder and can only hope that something you saw might be of great use to us. What is your name?”

  “Mary Cox. I live in Number Five, Miller’s Court. I knew Mary Jane.”

  “We are both dreadfully sorry for what happened to your friend,” Holmes said. “You saw her last night?”

  “Yes,” Cox lowered her head. “She was a good woman. Give you the shirt right off her back. She was wearing this shawl as she walked with a man back toward her place. I didn’t get much of a look at him, but when I called out ‘Good night,’ to her, she could barely answer me.”

  “Why is that, Miss Cox?”

  Cox shrugged, “I suspect she was too drunk. Just a few seconds later, I heard someone cry out, ‘Oh, Murder!’ from the darkness. There was nothing after that.”

  “But she was wearing this shawl when you saw her? Where did you see her, exactly?” Holmes said.

  Cox pointed, “Down there, coming from the courtyard. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Mary Jane only worked close to home because she knew the area.”

  “Thank you, Miss Cox. You have been invaluable to us.” Holmes bent down to the shawl, inspecting it carefully. He found a piece of it that had been stretched so thin that Holmes could see his fingers through the fabric. He stuffed the shawl in his pocket and checked the walkway.

  “What are you looking for,” Lestrade said.

  “These,” Holmes said, showing him the light black scuff marks along the concrete. A new series of shouting arose from down the street, and Holmes frowned. “We’d better get back to Number Thirteen before it is too late.”

  ~ * * * ~

  Chief Inspector Brett stood screaming in Constable Lamb’s face. “I am giving you a direct order, Lamb! Move or you are going to be standing in the soup lines with the rest of these miscreants!”

  “Who you calling a miscreant?” someone shouted from the crowd.

  “You police are useless!” cried another. “How many people have to die before you bastards catch the killer?”

  The crowd pushed closer to Brett, who turned, looking at them nervously. “I’d be a little more polite to these nice Whitechapel folk, Chief Inspector,” Lamb said grimly. “These blokes do not recognize how important you are by the fanciness of your uniform.”

  “Let me in that room at once, Lamb.”

  Lamb shook his head, “Inspector Lestrade ordered us not to let a single person in here, and that includes you until he tells me otherwise. We shall defend this room by force, if necessary.”

  “What about you, Wensley? You going to throw your career away like this simpleton? I can get you into CID, lad. We can use a smart boy like yourself. Do not bollix that up.”

  “I’m sorry Chief Inspector, but I cannot,” Wensley said as thick beads of sweat streamed down his forehead.

  “I am giving you an order, Wensley!”

  “I am deeply sorry, sir, but your order is unlawful. Regulation One One Three states that the lead investigator at any crime scene is responsible for its security and integrity, regardless of rank or privilege. Inspector Gerard Lestrade is the lead investigator in this case, and he ordered us to not let anyone in.”

  “Regulation One One Three, you say?” Brett growled fiercely. There was enough uncertainty in his eyes that Wensley did not faint dead on the spot. “God help you if it does not say exactly what you think it does.” Brett forced his way back through the crowd, screeching at everyone to get back from him.

  Lamb watched Brett vanish and clapped Wensley on the back. “I knew all that reading would come in handy, mate. I’m tired of seeing us all play toad eater for that bastard Brett. Good for you!”

  “I’ll be pushing a merchant cart on Commercial Road this time next week,” Wensley moaned, wiping his hand across his head. “I’m finished!”

  “Why’s that? Regulation One One Three--”

  “There is no Regulation One One Three, you dolt!” Wensley said. “I am finished, and it’s all because of you and Lestrade!”

  “Well…it sounded good, if it makes you feel better,” Lamb said. “Really should be a regulation if you ask me.”

  “Oh, shut up, Lamb!”

  ~ * * * ~

  Lestrade opened the door to Number Thirteen again and began coughing, trying to breathe into his shirt. “It is getting worse in here, Holmes. Let’s move this along. What’s your big theory?”

  Holmes refused to be fazed by the stifling fumes. “At this point, I believe it is
safe to speculate that the Ripper did not intend to kill Mary Jane Kelly in her home. From Mrs. Cox’s account, I surmise that they were walking together when Miss Kelly became afraid. She bolted from the Ripper in an attempt to escape and ran here for safety. He snatched a handful of her shawl as she ran and ripped if off of her shoulders. She must have made it back inside and locked the door, but the murdered was already onto her. He simply smashed the window and let himself in.”

  “Wonderful, Holmes, really,” Lestrade said. “But what the hell do we do now to catch the bastard?”

  Holmes bent to one of the broken pieces of window glass lying on the ground. He lifted a shard into the light, holding it only by the edges. He inspected the piece and threw it away. He picked up a second piece and placed it directly in the rays of sunlight coming through the window so that it formed a prism on his face. Holmes waved Lestrade over and showed him the perfectly preserved fingerprint sitting in the center of the glass. “Allow me to introduce you to Jack the Ripper.”

  TWENTY SIX

  The police station bustled with activity as journalists shouted questions at every passing person and civilians slammed their fists against the railing, demanding to see whoever was in charge. Inspector Collard of the London City Police was holed up in Lestrade’s office, peeking out through the curtains. “This place is a bloody madhouse,” he whispered.

  Sherlock Holmes removed a silk handkerchief from his pocket and unfolded it on Lestrade’s desk, revealing the small shard of glass inside. He picked up a pen and tapped the shard’s edge, rubbing his chin as he concentrated.

  “What exactly is that, sir?” Wensley asked.