The Women of Baker Street

by Michelle Birkby

  ‘Herself, I think,’ he said, mildly surprised. ‘Believe me, all I require from her is her mind and her writing skills. The rest she is discovering for herself.’

  Mary and Lillian returned with a few yellowing old papers.

  ‘There’s a room full of them, back there,’ Mary said to me.

  ‘I keep all my old papers,’ Patrick West said. ‘Not just the cuttings, I like to keep my stories in context. Ah yes, Eleanor Langham. Well, there’s quite a story here. In fact, it requires quite a story in return. Tell me, why didn’t Sherlock Holmes hunt down Jack the Ripper?’

  That was a heart-stopping question. Lillian audibly gasped. She, of course, had been a prostitute in Whitechapel as Jack hunted. Mary, standing by the bookcase, froze. She and John had been on honeymoon then, leaving Mr Holmes alone for the first time in years. As I sat back down on my chair and arranged my skirts, I thought: lie or tell the truth? Deny everything or tell them what he did?

  ‘You cannot print this,’ I said.

  ‘I won’t,’ Mr West said. ‘Not now, anyway. But someone will ask, in fact everyone asks, and at some point in the future I would like an answer.’

  ‘He tried,’ I said slowly. ‘He was down in Whitechapel every night, and all over London during the day. He did not sleep, or eat. He would spend the day riding the trains to work out timetables, or visiting butchers and surgeons to work out how the cuts were done. At night he would walk the streets watching every man that passed him by, trying to see if he was the one, or him, or him. Yet Jack slipped by him, as he did the entire police force. Mr Holmes never spoke of it,’ I said, and yet he had. He had sat in my kitchen and asked how he could hunt a man who had no rhyme or reason to his actions. How could he use logic to track down a creature that had no logic whatsoever? ‘He could push himself hard, but even a man like Mr Holmes has his limits. He collapsed, and was confined to bed. While he slept, Mary Kelly was murdered.’

  Mary gasped.

  ‘We never knew,’ she whispered.

  ‘I was never to tell you,’ I told her. ‘Don’t tell him you know.’

  ‘Did he go back to Whitechapel?’ Lillian asked, her face pale. I nodded.

  ‘He sent the Irregulars through Whitechapel every night looking for suspicious men. But, it’s Whitechapel, it’s full of suspicious men, and women too. They came in and told him about Mary Kelly. He left, and didn’t come back for three days. Then he came in, very early one morning, unshaven for the one and only time in his life that I’ve seen, and said, “It’s over”, and it was. I don’t know if Holmes caught him, or if he knew the Ripper had finished. He never told me.’

  And I’d never tell about the blood I washed out of his shirt that night, the one and only time I washed his shirt rather than send it to the laundry.

  ‘I see,’ Mr West said. Lillian sat back in her chair, her emotions exhausted. ‘Well, when they ask, I can say he tried.’

  ‘Now tell me about Eleanor Langham,’ I insisted.

  Lillian opened the papers and said, ‘Mrs Langham had a son that died, at the age of sixteen, about ten years ago.’

  ‘We know,’ Mary said shortly.

  ‘It was supposed to be of illness,’ Lillian continued, ignoring her, ‘but . . .’

  ‘Ah yes, I remember!’ said Patrick West. ‘She became quite hysterical at the funeral. She accused all and sundry of murdering her boy. The father, the nurse, the doctor, even herself. She screamed that he had been poisoned, or suffocated, or anything. Everyone put it down to her grief – until another boy from the same street disappeared.’

  ‘From his front garden?’ Mary said insistently. ‘While playing? I know that case. I mentioned it to you, Martha, in hospital, didn’t I?’

  She had mentioned so many cases she’d heard of whilst researching the lost boys.

  ‘That’s right. It was a hot sunny day, he was in the garden, there one minute and gone the next. He was never found, poor thing,’ Mary continued.

  ‘I believe this was next door to Eleanor Langham, is that right?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, the very next house,’ Patrick said.

  ‘No, wait,’ Mary objected. ‘It was a different street . . .’

  ‘People move,’ Patrick West pointed out. ‘Especially after an event like that. But at the time, after that incident, there was a lot of hysteria, and suddenly a lot of stories of boys going missing.’

  ‘How many?’ Mary demanded.

  ‘Not that many, in the end,’ Mr West told her. ‘For a while, every boy that went off for an afternoon was reported lost. In the end, though, it was just the boy in the garden.’

  ‘And Eleanor Langham’s son died,’ I said.

  ‘And Eleanor Langham’s son died,’ Patrick West agreed. ‘She became more and more convinced he’d been murdered, and given the lost boy, the authorities agreed to exhume him.’

  ‘What did they find?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Lillian said, reading from the newspapers. ‘It was a death by natural causes. Gastritis – well, they put typhoid down, but it was basically gastric symptoms. All pretty much the same in the end.’

  ‘Mind you, many poisons can look like gastritis, and fade from the body after death,’ Mr West said. ‘On the other hand, genuine gastritis can look like poison.’

  ‘So she was wrong,’ Mary said. Downstairs someone banged on the door and Lillian went to answer it.

  ‘Probably,’ Patrick West said. ‘There was no proof either way. But why kill the boy? No one gained from it.’

  Cui bono, Mr Holmes always said. Who profits? That was one of the reasons he’d had trouble with Jack the Ripper – no one seemed to profit from it.

  ‘But Eleanor Langham would not be convinced,’ Mr West continued. ‘She was in an asylum for a while . . .’

  He was interrupted as a small boy burst in.

  ‘Micky?’ Mary asked. It was one of Wiggins’ boys, panting and worn out.

  ‘I bin all over town looking for yer!’ he cried out. ‘If I ’adn’t found the cab you took . . .’ He bent over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.

  ‘Well, you found us,’ Mary said. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Yer gotta come to the park,’ he said. ‘I gotta cab. Hurry.’

  ‘Why?’ I said, standing up, suddenly cold. Billy . . .

  ‘Dr Watson sent for you,’ he said. ‘’E wouldn’t let me see, but ’e says there’s bodies. More than one. And it’s your case, ’e said.’

  THE BOYS ON THE ISLAND

  He took us to Regent’s Park, yet again. So much of this case led us there. It was damp and misty, the rain hanging in the air and soaking through our clothes, and the park was empty. We got into a small rowing boat with a police constable, and he took it over to the island at the centre of the boating lake. It was cold, and foggy, and all we could see were the tops of trees above the white mist. The only sound was the oars dipping in and out of the water, and faint voices, coming from who knows where. It all felt unreal. Once we landed, we made our way through the trees to the centre of the island. There, we found policemen gathered around holes in the ground – five of them. Beside the holes stood John Watson, stolid and reassuring in his tweeds and huge greatcoat. Beside him stood Inspector Gregson, talking in a low voice. When they saw us, they came over.

  ‘When I saw what I was dealing with, I came to ask Dr Watson for an opinion,’ Inspector Gregson said, once the greetings were over. ‘As Mr Holmes was there, I asked if he’d like to join us. He said no, that this was your case, Mrs Watson. I don’t understand?’ He looked unhappy about her involvement.

  ‘I’ve been investigating several missing boys in the area,’ she said, staring at the graves. Her face was white and strained, but her voice was strong. ‘I believe they’re connected to the Pale Boys.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard of them,’ the inspector said. He was a large man, with intelligent eyes and a gentle voice. He grasped his hat, too polite to wear it in the presence of a lady, though his blond hair was dam
p. ‘Mr Holmes said he would only take over the case if you failed.’

  ‘Which she won’t,’ John said firmly. ‘It would do Sherlock good to have someone else solve a case for a change,’ he told Mary. She smiled and nodded.

  ‘What happened? How did you find them?’ I asked.

  ‘The park keeper noticed a patch of dead grass,’ the inspector explained. ‘He dug down and noticed the soil was loose, and then he found the edge of a body. He called us, and we brought in the dogs. They found more bodies. We’ve been digging all night.’

  ‘May I see?’ Mary asked.

  ‘Are you sure?’ John asked gently. ‘It’s a very upsetting sight.’

  ‘I know,’ she told him, equally gently. ‘I’m ready for that. But I cannot help unless I can see. I have to close the books and look at the reality eventually.’

  ‘I could tell you . . .’

  ‘You can probably tell so much more than I can,’ she agreed. ‘But I feel I owe it to them. I spent so much time looking for them when alive, I can’t abandon them now. I’m not as fragile as you think I am, my darling.’

  He looked at her, very closely, and then nodded. He took off his greatcoat and wrapped it round her, murmuring that it was freezing. Then he took her hand and led her to the graves.

  Mary hesitated for a brief second, then knelt down beside one of the graves and looked in.

  I walked closer, so I could hear, but did not look. I didn’t want to see. Beside me, Inspector Gregson stirred uneasily.

  ‘A sad business, Mrs Hudson,’ he said. ‘I wish Mr Holmes had come.’

  ‘Mrs Watson’s been searching for these boys,’ I told him, as I watched Mary kneel down by the grave. ‘She wished to help them.’

  ‘A very worthy cause,’ he said. ‘And yet I’m not happy with this,’ he admitted, waving a hand at Mary, now crouched over the grave and gently touching something inside. ‘Women being involved, I mean. This sort of thing isn’t fit for women.’

  I turned to him in a flash of anger.

  ‘Not fit for women?’ I snapped, though keeping my voice low. ‘Women gave birth to those boys, nurtured them, fed them, comforted them when they cried. Women lost them and grieved for them. Don’t you dare say that now they’re dead women aren’t fit to look after them.’

  He looked at me, surprised, and then nodded slowly.

  ‘You’re quite right,’ he said. ‘I apologize.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘And for goodness’ sake put your hat back on.’

  ‘What do you see?’ John asked Mary.

  ‘Just bones,’ Mary replied. ‘Not disturbed. Been here a while, years, I’d say. Thin – bad nutrition?’

  John nodded.

  ‘By the shape of the pelvis, a boy. And by the skull, around fifteen, sixteen?’

  ‘It’s a fair enough assumption, given the height,’ John agreed. They were both businesslike now. They didn’t lack respect for the remains in front of them, but the bones were a puzzle to be solved.

  ‘Some old, healed breakages,’ Mary mused. ‘But not healed well.’

  ‘Well spotted,’ John said. ‘Caused by falls, perhaps.’

  ‘So, poor, and perhaps ill-treated,’ Mary said.

  ‘Deduction, not known facts,’ John warned. Mary nodded.

  ‘What’s this?’ she asked, pulling a scrap of material out of the grave. ‘What’s left of the clothing, perhaps? It’s black.’

  ‘Rotted?’ John asked, putting the scrap into an envelope and handing it to Gregson.

  ‘No, dyed black,’ Mary said.

  ‘Dyed black cloth is expensive,’ I called out. Black dye washed out very easily. Mary nodded. ‘Can you tell exactly how long he’s been here?’ I asked.

  ‘Hard to tell,’ John replied. ‘The second grave is the same, just bones. The next two are worse.’

  The wind changed for a moment, and a stench of putrefaction wafted over the site. I put my hand over my nose, and Mary stood still a moment. Then she dropped to her knees beside the next grave and started to examine the remains.

  ‘Nearly totally decayed,’ she said, and only the slightest catch in her throat betrayed her reaction to the stench. ‘Dead less than a year?’

  ‘Six months, I’d say,’ John said, standing beside her and looking down at her with a mixture of respect and affection.

  ‘What do you know about the missing boys?’ I asked Inspector Gregson, as Mary gently touched the body in the grave.

  ‘Nothing, really,’ he said, shrugging. ‘I know that Mr Holmes mentioned it to Lestrade, who mentioned it to me. I thought it was a fool’s errand, something to keep Mrs Watson occupied.’ He looked around him, as if searching for answers. ‘It seems I was wrong.’

  I told him about the house on Henry Street and our experience there, about the rumoured deaths attributed to the Pale Boys, and the woman. I told him what Wiggins had said about the stories, and I told him what Mrs Turner had said about her son (though without mentioning her name).

  I didn’t mention the hospital, or the deaths, or Emma.

  ‘Is that all?’ Inspector Gregson asked. He wasn’t stupid.

  ‘All that is definite,’ I said.

  ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Well, when you have something definite, will you come and find me? I will be at Scotland Yard.’ He stared at the graves. ‘I will not have this going on in my city,’ he said forcefully, but quietly. He was very angry. He walked back to join John and Mary.

  ‘No obvious marks of violence – but with the body in this state, how could you tell?’ Mary murmured to herself in a way reminiscent of Mr Holmes. ‘There’s black cloth again – different materials, but always dyed black.’

  ‘But worn,’ John pointed out. ‘Look, you can see where the material has just started to rub away under the arms. This wasn’t newly put on before he died.’

  ‘So, he wore black habitually,’ Mary said. Just like the Pale Boys. Mary moved to the last grave, and looked up at John in surprise.

  ‘This can’t be more than . . .’

  ‘Three months,’ John said grimly. ‘Perhaps less, exacerbated by the unusually warm weather.’

  ‘No bruises,’ Mary said, puzzled. ‘No breakages. Clean. Wearing a complete suit, all in black, even the shirt. How did he die?’

  ‘Look at the last one,’ John said. Mary did, and then looked up at me, horrified.

  ‘What is it?’ I said quickly. ‘Not someone we know?’

  ‘No, no one we know,’ she said quickly. ‘But Martha . . .’

  ‘Freshly dug, freshly killed,’ John said. ‘Dead no more than a week. He’s killing faster.’

  ‘She,’ Mary corrected. ‘And we didn’t know she was killing the boys at all.’

  A PEACEFUL DEATH

  Oh, we should have suspected it. All of those boys disappearing, never to be found again? Some had to die. They couldn’t remain Pale Boys all their lives. But we had hoped. In much the same way a child is told a favourite dog has been sent to the country, we had hoped the older boys had escaped in some way. But now we had the proof in front of us. Dead boys. They didn’t escape. They died.

  But why did the others stay? Did they know? We couldn’t ask them, they wouldn’t even let us see them, let alone talk to us.

  ‘I’ll need to know everything you know about the Pale Boys,’ Inspector Gregson said calmly.

  ‘I’ll write it all down, if that will do,’ I told him.

  ‘It will,’ he said grimly. ‘It seems women can also kill. Good day, Mrs Hudson.’

  He called some orders out to his men and marched off. He wasn’t needed here, not until the boys were dug up, and besides, he was angry.

  ‘Are you sure it’s not one of the boys you’ve been looking for?’ I called out to Mary.

  ‘None of them had red hair,’ she said softly. ‘He can’t have been more than fourteen.’

  ‘He was underfed once, I’d say,’ John said. ‘But not lately.’

  ‘A suit of black clothes?’ I asked.


  ‘Yes, but no labels or laundry marks that I can see. Handmade.’

  Hand-made? Well, that opened up a certain possibility. But then I remembered, I had hand-made my boy’s clothes; he had grown so fast, I had to. Suddenly I had to turn away. I had to turn my back on those graves and catch my breath and swallow, and not cry, please don’t cry, not here in front of John and Mary.

  That’s when I saw two things. The wind blew the mist aside, just for a moment, and I saw a woman standing on the other bank of the boating lake, watching us. The other was a flash of light, as if what little sun there was caught a telescope lens, up in Eleanor Langham’s house. She could see the whole grave site.

  Mary and John were discussing the cause of death. There were no marks, and no bruising. Suffocation often left marks round the mouth, and apparently in the eyes, but there was none here. John said the police surgeon would have to examine the bodies more carefully. Strictly speaking, he was only there to certify death; the police surgeon was supposed to do the examination.

  ‘You’ve learnt a lot,’ I heard John say to Mary. I don’t think I was meant to hear, but I couldn’t help it.

  ‘I need to, if I’m to help,’ she replied.

  ‘I meant to keep you safe from all the horrors of the world,’ he told her.

  ‘I love you for that, but I cannot live in a fairy-tale castle,’ she told him. ‘If there are horrors, I’d rather face them, and stop them.’

  I saw him smile, and reach out to pull one golden curl through his fingers.

  ‘You are a thoroughly modern woman, Mrs Watson,’ he said proudly, and a little sadly. I think he wanted to play the knight and save his queen, but Mary was no helpless victim. Then they both turned back to examining the body.

  It was Mary who found it. She had remarked that the hands were unscratched, that the boy hadn’t fought for his life. As she put the hand back in place, she had in a moment of tenderness pushed aside the boy’s hair. Then she suddenly saw something, and called John’s attention to it.

  ‘What? What is it?’ I called out.

  ‘Needle marks,’ John called out. ‘Just one, in the neck.’

  ‘It is poison then,’ Mary said, as John helped her up.