The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors

by Edward B. Hanna

  Smith gained control of himself and continued in a quieter tone: “She gave her name as Mary Ann Kelly when she was brought into Bishopsgate, and apparently she lived with a man named Kelly in Spitalfields, at number 6 Fashion Street. But we’ve since found out she was also known as Eddowes, Catherine Eddowes. These women of the streets change their names with the tides.” He stamped his foot in frustration. “And I thought we had such a good scheme to catch this fellow, or at least keep him at bay!”

  “Your other preparations were all in order?” Holmes asked.

  The major sighed. “I certainly did think so. I put more than a third of our force into plain clothes and had them prowling about every public house, doss-house, workhouse, and hidey-hole we know of. I had them stopping and questioning every man and woman seen together on the streets after midnight. Their instructions were to ignore procedures and do every damn thing a constable, under ordinary circumstances, should not do. I knew there was a possibility that this fellow, this Ripper person, might strike on our ground. And damn, I wanted him. That fool Warren has made a proper muck of things, and I don’t mind telling you that I would dearly love to show him up for the blathering idiot that he is. Do you know that he wouldn’t even allow his people to enter a pub? Not even in the line of duty? The bloody man is a teetotaller, you see!”

  “I have had the rare pleasure of meeting him,” said Holmes dryly, “but I did not know he included total abstinence among his virtues.”

  Smith made a rude noise. “Never did trust a man who doesn’t take a drink now and again,” he muttered.

  He stopped under a gaslight to light a cigar. “You know, I really thought I was ready for him. I really did,” he said between puffs. He shook his head ruefully. “I was spending the night at the Cloak Lane station and when they aroused me at two o’clock with the news, I said to myself, ‘Laddie, you’ve got him now!’ The area was surrounded. within ten minutes, and I was here within twenty! You should have seen us, Holmes! It must have been a sight: I bundled into a hansom with one of my inspectors, fifteen stone if he’s an ounce, and three detectives hanging on behind. Got here at breakneck speed, I can tell you, and it’s a wonder the damn thing didn’t lose a wheel or break a spring in the process. Hate those damn things, anyway: Inventions of the devil, those hansom cabs. Cold in the winter, hot in the summer, and unsafe at any time. I’m always smashing my hat getting in and out, and catching my fingers in the doors. And they roll like a ship-of-the-line in a gale.”

  Holmes had to smile. “Oh, they have their uses,” he said. “I prefer them to walking, in any event. But do tell me what happened next, won’t you?”

  “Yes, yes, of course, forgive me. Watkins — you know, the constable that discovered the body — Watkins told me he didn’t even bother to examine the woman, so sure was he that she was dead. And he knew right off it was the Ripper who did it. I mean, it was obvious to him that it wasn’t one of your usual cases of homicide. He ran across to that warehouse over there on the other side of the square, Kearley & Tonge’s, and shouted for the watchman inside. The watchman is a retired policeman, so he knew what to do straightaway. He ran up to Aldgate, blowing his whistle for all he was worth, and encountered two more of my men there, one of whom went to fetch the doctor, the other to give the alarm. Stout fellows, both of them. And then I arrived here shortly thereafter. Found her lying as she is, exactly as you see her. My people know not to touch anything until someone in authority arrives on the scene.”

  Smith stopped in front of a blanket laid out on the cobbles with a pitiful collection of odds and ends spread out on top of it, two lanterns placed at opposite corners of the blanket serving to illuminate them. “These were her possessions, everything she owned, probably.”

  Holmes knelt down and studied what was there: Two handkerchiefs, one of a checkered material, the other white with a red border; a matchbox containing cotton, a blunt table knife with a bone handle, a man’s cufflink, a few pieces of soap, two short clay pipes, a red cigarette case, a small tin containing tea and sugar, a small comb, a single red mitten, and a broken pair of spectacles.

  “Not much to show for a life, is it?” commented Smith quietly.

  Holmes pursed his lips. No reply was necessary, nor would any have been adequate.

  Smith cleared his throat and looked away. “We made a search of the area, of course, but didn’t come up with anything worth mentioning: No footprints — the pavement is hard here, as you can see. No one was about in the immediate vicinity, so we haven’t been able to find anyone who might have seen the fellow. No one we questioned heard anything — the watchman in the warehouse didn’t. These houses on this side of the square are unoccupied, and of the two over there on the other side, only one is lived in, and that by a policeman, by chance. And he was asleep and didn’t hear a thing. I now have men searching the nearby streets and alleys to see what they can come up with. We may find something that will indicate what route he took out of the square. Who knows? We may even yet find someone who saw him.” His voice trailed off. He did not sound very hopeful.

  Holmes looked at him with admiration. “It certainly sounds as if you have covered everything.” He pondered for a moment, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “By the by, did any of your men take notice of any cigarette ends lying about anywhere in the square, by chance?”

  Smith looked at him. “Why, they’ve not been told to look. Is that important, do you think?”

  Holmes shrugged. “Oh, just a little pet theory of mine. Indulge me, if you will. If a man or two can be spared, I would be most obliged if they would search the cobbles in and about the square with their bull’s-eyes and let us see what they come up with.”

  “Well, I certainly will, if you think it’s consequential.”

  “In the meantime I think I shall just wander around a bit and see if I can find anything. I shall want to examine the body more thoroughly when it’s taken to the mortuary, if you have no objection.”

  “No, none at all, of course.” Smith paused and looked around the square at the busy comings and goings of his subordinates, who were still sifting through the refuse of the square, searching for clues. He shook his head. “It’s funny, you know — his choice of this place for one of his murders,” he said.

  “Oh? How so?”

  “Well, according to local lore, another woman was murdered on this very same spot in the early sixteenth century — murdered by a monk from the priory that used to be located here, if you believe the legend.”

  Holmes raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know that,” he said quietly.

  Major Smith looked thoughtful for a moment. “I wonder if our friend did.”56

  The sound of running footsteps behind them made them turn. A constable and a large detective-inspector in civilian clothes came rushing up, both breathing heavily. “We found somethin’ in Goulston Street, Major,” said the inspector, wheezing audibly. “A scrap a’ cloth wi’ blood on it, still wet. Looks like it could have been torn from ‘er clothes!”

  Without a word, Smith and Holmes rushed off into the darkness, following the inspector’s lead. It was only about a third of a mile to Goulston Street, and they made the distance in under ten minutes. A cluster of lanterns shone with pinpricks of light up ahead as they turned into the street, drawing them to the location. Two constables and a sergeant were waiting for them as they came running up, the sergeant saluting and directing them to a narrow passageway just off the street. Inside, a man in civilian clothes was kneeling on the ground, a constable standing behind him with a lantern.

  The large detective accompanying them slumped gratefully against the wall of the passageway, gasping for breath. He gestured weakly. “This ‘ere is Police Constable Long of H-Division, sir. ‘E’s the one who found it. Alfy, lad, tell the actin’ commissioner ‘ow you came upon it, smartly now.”

  The man knuckled his forehead. “It was like this, sor: I was making me normal rounds, sor, just like I always do, but what with the morder ‘nd all,
I was payin’ particalar attention to the side streets ‘nd dark places — the h’alleyways ‘nd passages ‘nd that — ‘nd I come across this bit of rag, sor, right here where it still rests, as you can see for your ownself, sor. ‘Nd I shines me bull’s-eye on h’it, ‘nd I sees the blood, ‘nd then I runs to the Leman Street station ‘nd makes me report, sor, ‘nd then I comes back ‘ere. ‘Nd that’s the whole of h’it, sor. The time was two fifty-five h’exactly. I’ve got h’it all ‘ere in me book, correct ‘nd proper.”

  Holmes had been listening with only half an ear as he examined the rag of cloth lying crumpled on the ground. It was indeed still damp, soaked with something that surely looked like blood. He carefully separated the material with a pencil and spread it out flat. It appeared that it had been used to wipe off an object such as the blade of a knife. He glanced over his shoulder and addressed the large inspector. “You say this fabric was cut from the woman’s clothes?”

  “Right you are, sir. From the apron she was wearing.”

  “She wore no apron!”

  “Well, sir, not exactly. It was wrapped around her neck when we found her, apparently to staunch the flow of blood from her throat. We removed it to examine the wound, and there was a scrap cut out of it, which puzzled us. There’s no doubt that this is it.”

  Holmes rose to his feet with an effort and looked at Major Smith but didn’t say anything. Smith looked away. “I am afraid someone forgot to mention that to you, Holmes.”

  “Is there anything else that anyone may have forgotten to mention to me?” he asked caustically, his voice reflecting only a hint of his displeasure.

  Constable Long cleared his throat. “Well, there is somethin’ else, sor, but I dinna forget. I jest was never given the h’opportunity.”

  All eyes turned to the constable.

  Without a word he shone the beam of his lantern onto the wall of the passageway — at a spot just above where the scrap of cloth was lying. The light danced eerily on the lathing for a moment, then steadied. Something was scrawled on the wall in chalk, plain to the eye now that it was illuminated:

  The Juwes are The men That will not be Blamed for nothing

  Smith was the first to react. He turned on the constable excitedly. “When did you first notice this?”

  “Why, jest after I found the bit o’ cloth, sor. I searched the entire passageway ‘nd the staircase h’it leads to, jest over there. I was looking for bloodstains, or whatever,” he explained.

  “How do you know it wasn’t there before?” asked Holmes.

  “Because h’it t’weren’t, sor.”

  “How do you know that?” chimed in Smith.

  “Because I looked, sor. I examined this passage ‘nd the staircase, ‘nd checked the doors to all the flats up above not more than thirty minutes before, sor. H’its all in me book, sor.”

  Holmes laughed and shook his head in wonderment. He turned serious again quickly. “The time was two fifty-five, you say?”

  “Yes, sor. H’exactly. I checked me pocket wotch.”

  Holmes mused aloud. “And we have placed the time of the woman’s murder at between one-thirty and one forty-five.”

  “That’s quite right,” Smith agreed.

  Holmes pondered for a minute. “So our friend Jack took at least forty-five minutes to well over an hour to reach this spot from Mitre Square. Even longer, perhaps.”

  “That would appear to be the case.”

  Holmes deliberated.

  “What’s your point?” Smith asked, a little puzzled.

  “Only that it took us a mere ten minutes.”

  “So?”

  “So, Jack did not come directly here, but went someplace else first. The question is where, and why?”

  “Ah,” said Smith, comprehending at last. He thought about it briefly then turned abruptly. “Halse!” he bellowed. “Where’s Halse?”

  “Right here, sir,” said a detective in civilian clothes right behind him.

  “Oh. Halse, go find Mr. McWilliam.57 He’s still in Mitre Square, I believe. Tell him I want the whole area searched and searched again. Tell him what we’ve found here, and tell him we believe the Ripper made at least one other stop first. Tell him to look for bloodstained rags. Tell him to look for... oh, I don’t know, anything at all.”

  “Cigarette ends!” said Holmes. “Look for cigarette ends with a thin gold band!”

  Smith and the others looked at him questioningly. Then Smith turned to his subordinate. “Do it, Halse! Cigarette ends with a thin gold band! Go, man, go!”

  He was gone.

  Smith turned to another one of his detectives. “Hunt, I want a photographic plate made of this.” He pointed to the scrawled message on the wall. “Go find someone to do it, quickly as you can.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the man. “But, sir...”

  “Well, what is it?”

  “I just wanted to point out, sir, that we are out of our jurisdiction. This street is outside of the City’s borders and falls under Scotland Yard.”

  “Oh, damn!” Smith’s features registered first annoyance and then indecision. It was a delicate problem, but it took him only a moment to make up his mind. He pounded fist into hand. “To hell with it! Do as I say! Find a photographer without delay! We’ll worry about the consequences later.”

  Then he turned away to give instructions to others in attendance, and if he harbored any second thoughts regarding the wisdom of his decision, he did not show it. Clearly, paying homage to the niceties of interdepartmental protocol were not uppermost in his mind at the moment.

  Holmes, standing quietly to the side, said nothing, but his estimation of Major Henry Smith, already high, rose a notch or two higher.

  But more pressing matters awaited his attention. He got down on his hands and knees and, with the aid of a lantern, began a methodical examination of the ground in the passageway. Finding nothing of consequence, though he painstakingly searched the ground inch by inch for a good twenty minutes, he turned his attentions once again to the chalked message scrawled on the wall.

  He was deeply engrossed in this activity with pocket lens and lantern, when a cry from the street caught his attention and he hurried out through the passageway to investigate. On the curb he found Major Smith in earnest conversation with a constable who had apparently just come running up, for his chest was still heaving. Holmes heard the words “Dorset Street” mentioned as he approached.

  Smith caught sight of him. “Holmes! C’mon! Dorset Street!” Without another word of explanation he dashed off, and Holmes had no other choice but to follow, along with a mixed crowd of uniformed police constables and plainclothes detectives.

  They ran the length of Goulston Street past Wentworth and past White’s Row, the clatter of their heels loud against the cobbles, the lanterns carried by the uniformed force bobbing crazily up and down and appearing like so many fireflies gone berserk. They ran into Crispin Street, where they turned the corner into Dorset, one of the most notorious streets in all of Whitechapel. There, another cluster of fireflies awaited them, and it took but a moment to discover why. Set back from the street a bare six yards and illuminated by the light of a street lamp was a public sink, one of many that dotted the area. The bloodstained water that was in it had not had sufficient time to gurgle completely down the drain, and the half-smoked cigarette on the ground nearby, picked out in the beam of a constable’s lantern, was still smoldering.

  The entire area was searched, of course, and searched again, but nothing more was found. Policemen knocked on every door and questioned every inhabitant, but no one heard anything, no one saw anything. Their elusive prey had once again vanished completely. From all indications, they had been only minutes, perhaps seconds behind him, but it might as well have been hours or days. The trail was cold, and there was nothing more to be gained by continuing efforts to pick it up again.

  Holmes, accompanied by a grim-faced Smith, departed the scene in a thoughtful mood. Hardly a word was exchanged be
tween them. They made their way to the City mortuary in Golden Lane near St. Luke’s. There, in a starkly bare white-tiled room, they found two surgeons by the names of Brown and Sequeira, who were in the process of washing up, having just completed their post mortem of the woman’s body. The odor of a strong disinfectant predominated but failed to overpower the other smells of the place.

  Brown, who appeared to them to be a rather cold and passionless man, strictly professional, did most of the talking.

  “The cause of death was hemorrhage from the left common carotid artery,” he said matter-of-factly over his shoulder, soaping his hands for the third time. “Death was immediate. The mutilations were inflicted after death.” He wiped his hands on a towel, donned a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles, and referred to his notes.

  “The throat was cut across to the extent of about six or seven inches. The sternocleido mastoid muscle was divided. The cricoid cartilage below the vocal cords was severed through the middle. The large vessels on the left side of the neck were severed to the bone. The internal jugular vein was open to the extent of an inch and a half. All the injuries were caused by some very sharp instrument, like a knife, and pointed.”

  He paused for a moment and riffled through the pages of his notes. “The walls of the abdomen were laid open from the breast downward. The cut commenced opposite the ensiform cartilage in the center of the body. The incision went upward, not penetrating the skin that was over the sternum; it then divided the ensiform cartilage. Clearly, the knife was held so that the point was toward the left side and the handle toward the right. There was damage to the liver, several cuts — I won’t bore you with further technical details unless you insist.”

  He removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. “In sum, there is evidence of several incisions going in various directions. There was a stab to the groin. There was another wounding the peritoneum. The abdominal wall was badly lacerated in several places. And so forth and so on. In layman’s terms, she was totally mangled. The man who did it had a high old time of it, I would say.” He nodded. “A high old time.” He looked from Holmes to Smith and back again without a trace of expression on his face, only a tightening of the lines around his mouth and a slight tic at the corner of his left eye betraying any hint of emotion.