“That, my dear fellow, is a finger-mark left by the man who killed the woman on Thirteen Miller’s Court last evening. It shows us the unique fingerprint pattern that can only be found on…I believe…the right index finger of the killer.”
“And how does that help us, sir?” Wensley said.
“It doesn’t,” Holmes replied. “At least, not yet. We are gathered here, gentlemen, to put all of the facts at our disposal on the table and develop a plan of attack. Who wants to go first?”
“The killer is a man,” Lestrade said.
“Is that a deduction or a guess, Inspector?” Holmes said. Lestrade scowled and looked down at the ground. “Forgive me, Inspector. What I mean to say was, please give us more details so that we can determine if it is a sound enough theory for us to continue.”
“Well, there’s about twenty-eight feet of intestines in the human body,” Lestrade said. “Our boy scoops them right out of the bodies and dumps them onto his victim’s upper torso. Then he still has strength enough left to start cutting out the organs he wants. I imagine there’s a good deal of pulling and yanking involved. This leads me to believe the Ripper is male.”
Holmes nodded, “That is a very good supposition. I think we are safe in assuming it to be true. Further, he has the physical strength to keep them from escaping once he is in the midst of his deeds, and the swiftness to escape from the scene of the crime before being detected. And now, we have an eyewitness account from Mrs. Cox that Mary Jane Kelly was seen walking with a man, toward the scene of the crime last night. So we are confident that the Ripper is a man, and that he possesses some stamina and strength. I would suggest that limits our suspects to males who are likely younger and athletic. What else do we know?”
“He hates the Jews,” Inspector Collard said. “We saw it for ourselves in the stairwell.”
Holmes frowned. “Unfortunately, I must disagree with you on that point, Inspector. As far as I understand, the graffiti you are referring to was found in the same stairwell as the bloody apron after Miss Eddowes was killed, correct?”
“Yes,” Collard said. “But it was spelled funny. We saw it before it got wiped away. It said ‘THE JUWES ARE THE MEN THAT WILL NOT BE BLAMED FOR NOTHING.’”
“But that is a common stairwell, is it not? And certainly, it would not be unreasonable to find graffiti in that area? It is my understanding that the neighborhood in question is not particularly fond of outsiders.” Holmes waited as Collard considered this, as everyone else nodded in agreement. “Further, none of the victims are Jewish, or connected in any way to Jewish society. There is also always the possibility that the graffiti was left by the killer, but as a subterfuge designed to create confusion. Regardless, it gives us much less that is of value than the precious time it consumes. We should move on. What else?”
“He’s good with a blade,” Lamb said.
“And he knows anatomy, as a doctor would,” Wensley added. “He knows where to find what he wants inside each body and how to get it out quickly and efficiently.”
“Excellent,” Holmes said. “I agree that there is a strong possibility our killer has some manner of medical training.”
“He hates the whores of Whitechapel,” Lestrade muttered.
“Mmmm,” Holmes said.
Lestrade’s eyebrows raised and his voice rose, “You can’t have seen what I saw at Miller’s Court and not believe that he utterly hates those women.”
Holmes’s eyes brightened, “Yes! Yes, that’s it exactly, Inspector. He hates women. He is killing the prostitutes of Whitechapel because they are easily accessible at the times when he is free to do his bidding. Let’s face it, one could not lure a wholesome nursemaid into an alleyway in the dead of night. I believe he is killing them because they are targets of opportunity.”
“Why Whitechapel, then?” Collard asked.
“Obviously, he lives nearby,” Lestrade said.
“In Whitechapel?”
“Doubtful,” Holmes said. “Whitechapel consists mainly of dwelling houses that are busy all day and night. To get to one’s room, you have to pass the doorman, and whoever else happens to be roaming around the house. I would imagine that people would notice someone soaked in blood returning to their room.”
Everyone in the room fell silent, waiting for someone else to speak. “Is that all we know?” Lestrade said. “After four months? How can this be?”
“It is regrettably little,” Holmes said.
“What about the letters to the press? The torso?” Collard said.
“We’ve got no way to tie him directly to any of it,” Lestrade said. “Bloody useless.”
“Perhaps not useless,” Holmes said. “Let ‘s stick it to the back of our minds, but not become overly focused on it. Gentlemen, what we desperately need are hard facts. And we need them quite fast, I might add.”
“So what do you propose, Holmes?” Lestrade asked.
Holmes bowed his head for a moment in thought as the mechanisms in his mind began to assemble and re-orient the information into something new and workable. “If you are all in agreement, I would like to assign each of you to a task.” Holmes looked around at the men, all proud, capable police officers who now stood with their arms folded, looking at the ground. These were men who were not accustomed to taking orders from civilians. Lamb whispered something to Wensley that made him chuckle.
“Gentlemen,” Holmes said. “I know that you have all been at this much longer than I, and it is somewhat presumptuous of me to show up now and try to stir you into action. I assure you, that is not my intention. This is an evil that none of us can fight alone. We must work together if we are to defeat it.”
“We’ll do whatever you require, Holmes, isn’t that right, boys?” Lestrade said, looking around at the others, who nodded. “Give us your assignments.”
“I would like Inspector Collard to make an inquiry of all the medical schools in London and see if they are aware of a young man who was too unstable to continue in his training. Pay particular attention to any mention of a student who only showed interest in anatomy and cutting open cadavers but not in healing the sick. Also, check all of the persons arrested for grave robbing within the past several years. It simply makes sense to me that our killer would familiarize himself with working in an anatomical environment before setting out to perform his deeds.”
“All right,” Collard said.
“Inspector Lestrade, you should remain in Whitechapel as a central hub of our intelligence. Everyone else is to report any and all new findings to Inspector Lestrade immediately, whether in person or by telegraph.” I will go to all of the asylums in the area and see if they have recently released anyone who fits our limited portrait of the Ripper.”
“What do you want me and Fred to do, sir?” Lamb said.
Holmes removed a letter from inside his jacket and handed it to Lamb. “I’d like for you to go find Francis Darwin at the Royal Academy and give him this letter and this piece of glass, Constable. Tell him that the time for pontificating is past. His countrymen are relying on his ability to persuade Dr. Henry Faulds and Francis Galton to stop their bickering and find a way to analyze that print.” Holmes turned to Wensley, “And I need you to handle a particularly important missing person investigation. Finding this person is of vital importance to our success.”
Lestrade spoke up, “The two of you take off those stupid uniforms. Change into your street clothes.”
“Yes, sir,” both men said.
As the men began to clear out, Holmes put his hand on Wensley’s arm. “Just a moment, Constable. I want you to know I consider this a personal favor. It is of vital importance to me, and nothing less than the necessity of the task at hand could keep me from it.”
“Anything, sir,” Wensley said.
“I have lost my Watson and I need him found.”
~ * * * ~
Lestrade watched the other men leave. “Why am I being held back, Holmes? Are you not quite finished with our old riv
alry yet?”
Holmes looked at him and said, “Actually, the reason is that you smell. You smell foul, and by my estimation you have not slept properly for days. You will be of little use in the field until you go home and collect yourself enough to assist us properly in this investigation.”
“Be of use? Who the bloody hell do you think-“
“Inspector, this is hardly the time for our little charade of who is outdoing whom. Go home, get a few hours of sleep, and meet us back here so that we can begin coordinating our efforts.”
“A few weeks ago you were so undone by whatever poison you’d been shooting into your arm that you could barely lift your head, and now you think you can stand in my own office and bark orders at me?” Lestrade said.
“Yes, I confess that it was my frailties that let The Ripper get away with this for so long, Inspector. I shall not allow yours to prevent me from finding some sort of redemption.”
“Redemption, eh?” After a moment, Lestrade he looked down at his filthy clothes, thinking of the man in the church. “I suppose I could do with a bath.”
~ * * * ~
Lestrade tapped the carman on the shoulder and pointed to where he wanted to be dropped off. It was still a half-block down from his front door. Walking toward that door, the words would not come to him. He had no excuses to offer and knew of no lies big enough to cover his disgrace. He felt as if someone had beaten him with a heavy stick on the legs, so that they dragged and cramped the closer he got to his home. He used the hand- rail to support himself as he trudged up the steps and knocked on the front door.
“Poppa!” Little Gerard yelled out. “You’re home!”
Lestrade dropped to his knees and hugged the boy tightly. Juliette let out a cry of delight as she saw her father and raced toward him as quickly as her tiny legs could take her. Lestrade scooped her up into his arms and squeezed her. He kissed both children repeatedly, going back and forth from one to the other, over and over. They giggled and squealed as his rough beard tickled their faces. Lestrade stopped and said, “Give me a moment now. I have to go talk to your mother.”
Carrie was in the kitchen chopping vegetables, keeping her back turned to him. “Good evening, love. How are you?”
“I was not expecting you for dinner,” Carrie said firmly. “It will take a few minutes to make extra. That is, if you intend on staying.”
“Yes,” Lestrade said. “I would like that, if you allow me to.”
“If it suits you, what say do I have?” she said, chopping forcefully.
He moved to touch her shoulder and she flinched. “I would like to stay and eat with you. After that, I have to return to the police station, but I promise you that I will be home once this investigation is finished. I swear to it.”
“I do not believe you, Gerard. But the children will be happy to have you here, even for a little while,” Carrie said. “You smell positively dreadful. Your clothes are all still where you left them. I kept your favorite shirt and trousers pressed and ready, should you ever have decided to come home. Go bathe and get changed.”
“I am changed.”
TWENTY SEVEN
Will Druitt yelled, “Stop! Carman, stop the carriage!” He tried elbowing past those blocking his way down the carriage steps, but found himself forcefully wedged between a side-rail and the bosom of an excited overweight woman who rushed toward the edge, pointing.
“Look, darling! A whore!” the woman cried out happily.
“Yes, I believe it is.”
“Do you think she might be the next to go?”
“I doubt it, my lovely. That haggard little thing has scabs around her mouth. I heard that Jack the Ripper only selects the loveliest ones to be his dark brides.”
“Monty!” Will cried out. “Carman, stop the bloody cab!” He pushed the woman off of him and made his way down the rickety steps to street level. “Monty!” he called out. “Carman, stop the cab this instant!”
“I can’t just get over to the side like that, sir,” the carman said. “There are too many other cabs.”
“Slow down then, I’ll jump off.”
“You serious?”
“Monty! Wait!” Will called out, holding the hand rail. Carriages whizzed past only inches from the bottom stair. “Yes, I’m serious! Slow the horses down.”
“Be bloody careful you don’t get run over!”
Will leapt into the street, scrambling as he landed to get out of the way of the hooves and wheels charging toward him. Montague Druitt was hunched over against the wall of an alleyway, glaring at his brother like a feral animal. He saw Will and snarled, “Get away from me!”
Will dashed through the carriages and made it onto the sidewalk. “Monty! I’ve been looking for you all over! Where the hell have you been?” There was dried blood caked around Druitt’s mouth and streaking his throat in dark red-crusted lines. Druitt collapsed to the ground.
“It has all gone wrong, Will,” Druitt said, as tears swelled in his eyes. “Everything! Nothing is happening the way it was supposed to. I tried, Will. I tried and tried, but it was not enough.”
“Everything will be fine, Monty. We just need to get you cleaned up and back to Blackheath. I promised Mr. Valentine that I would have you at that big cricket meeting. Can you walk?”
Druitt ignored Will, staring at his hands. “What have I done, Will? Why did this happen to me?”
Will grabbed Druitt and began lifting him to his feet. “I see that I have let you down, little brother. I put too much upon you at once. It is my fault, and I am sorry. Starting now, I am going to do better, but first I am going to get you to that blasted meeting so we can get this all sorted out. All right? On your feet.”
“I cannot be this thing any longer, Will. Please save me.”
“Of course, Monty. Just as soon as we get on the train back to Blackheath, all right?”
“All right, Will.”
They made it to the train station in time to board one leaving for Blackheath. Will managed to scrub Monty’s clean face enough that no one stared at them on the train. As the whistle on the towering steam engine’s stack blew and the wheels began to turn, Druitt put his arm on the cabin window and watched flakes of ash scatter past just as they had so many years ago when he first went to Portsmouth. He looked at Will sitting next to him, whose beard and face resembled their father’s so much. Druitt put his head against Will’s shoulder and closed his eyes, imagining that he had never come to Whitechapel at all.
~ * * * ~
The board members of the Blackheath Cricket, Gottball, and Lawn Tennis Company were sitting and talking quietly as they smoked cigars and sipped tea. George Valentine stood before them and said, “Thank you so much for coming today, gentlemen. I appreciate the Special Finance Committee scheduling this session to discuss something that is so near and dear to all of us.” From the corner of his eye, Valentine saw Montague Druitt coming up the steps toward the room. Druitt was neatly dressed, but his eyes were red and darted about the hallway nervously.
“I would like to present a most extraordinary young man. In just one year in Blackheath he has served our community in ways that many of us would do well to emulate. He is an Assistant Headmaster at my school, a barrister for the court, and a valued member of this very club. There is nothing closer to this man’s heart than encouraging the young men of Blackheath in the sport and etiquette of cricket, and today he will explain how you can help him do that very thing. Mr. Montague Druitt,” Valentine said and began to clap.
Druitt walked toward Mr. Valentine, who put his arm around Druitt, waiting for the applause to die down. Valentine glanced suspiciously at him, but returned to his seat.
Druitt straightened his collar and checked his tie, feeling that the knot was too big. He fussed over it for moment, then took his notes out of coat pocket and cleared his throat. “Gentlemen and fellow members, thank you for attending today. We have an order of business to discuss that pertains to Mr. George Valentine’s school for young
men. The school is asking for this committee’s assistance in obtaining an extra acre of land to erect a grandstand. You see, we would like to host the cricket championships here in Blackheath next year…” Druitt’s voice trailed off as he stared at the back of the room.
Some of the members shifted in their seats, turning around to see what had stolen Druitt’s attention, but seeing only a wood-paneled wall with a few paintings hung on it. Druitt did not move, did not even blink. Fat droplets of sweat streamed down his forehead, balancing for a moment on the tip of his nose before dropping to the floor.
Five women, clothed in gowns as fine and white as wedding dresses stood at the rear of the room, watching Druitt silently.
Blood drained from Mr. Valentine’s face as everyone in the audience began to murmur. Valentine jumped to his feet, “Gentlemen, I apologize. Mr. Druitt has been quite ill and only recently returned to us. Allow me have a moment with him-“
“Be gone from here, you filthy whores,” Druitt growled. “You are as unfit to walk the earth in death as you were in life.” Druitt threw down his speaker notes and stormed toward the back of the room, knocking chairs from his path as the members of the committee dove out of his way. “How dare you return to mock me from the grave! I sent you to hell!”
“Monty!”
Druitt looked back at the man standing in the doorway and froze for a moment. He was dressed in a familiar top-hat and carried a black leather medical bag. “Father?”
“Yes, Monty. Come here, son. It is time for us to go.”
“I want to go home,” Druitt whined, turning away from the awful looking women who would not stop staring at him. He had stolen their faces and still they stared. He had un-sexed them and removed their organs of regeneration, even consuming them to make their power his own, and still they mocked him. “Take me away from this place, father. Away from all of you!” he shrieked, flailing wildly at the members of the committee who lifted their arms in self-defense and fled, yelling that Druitt was mad.
Whitechapel: The Final Stand of Sherlock Holmes (Gentlemen's Edition) Page 23