Johnson brought out a small, old-fashioned silver snuffbox.
“A pinch, m’dear?” he said, offering the box to Holmes. “No? You won’t mind if I partake? Fank you so veddy much indeed, I’m sure. A nasty ‘abit, I know, but a modicum o’ snuff can be most h’efficacious, I find.”
So saying, he deposited an ample “modicum” of the brownish-white powder into the palm of his hand and proceeded to inhale it with a violent snort. Without pause, he reached into an inside pocket of his bulging frock coat and drew out a thick and untidy wad of papers bundled together and tied with ribbon, looking not unlike a lawyer’s brief. Moistening a fat thumb, he began systematically flipping through the bundle, patiently scanning each and every leaf until he found what he was looking for.
“‘Alf a mo,” he said.
He studied the piece of paper for a moment, holding it almost at arm’s length to do so, and snorted once again.
“Now then,” he said finally, “about that certain ‘ouse at number 19 Cleveland Stw’reet, that which yer particular’wy asked about by way of enquir’wy, as h’it t’were. H’it is an addw’ress which o’ course is not unknown to us. H’it has a intw’esting ‘istory to h’it and an unusual provenance — a story what will no doubt h’amuse you, but for another time perhaps, as h’it ‘as no bearing on the matter afore us and I am sure that you and the good doctor is h’occupied wiv matters of far more h’importance and of a pw’ressing nature, as h’it t’were. Now then, I will tell yer ‘ow h’it t’is: The ownership of the estabwlishment in question, namely number 19 Cleveland Stw’reet, is somewhat murky at the moment, which h’it ‘aving changed ‘ands more than once over the course o’ the past sevewal months. Up until midsummer h’it was owned by one Ephraim Tysall, h’esquire, who is of wittle inter’west to us and of no conseqwence to the matter at ‘and, I can h’assure yer (snort).”
Holmes nodded, satisfied.
“The new owner of w’record is one Mr. Michael Loughlin, a waiter and barman by twade, and he, too, is of wittle inter’west to us in that if ya bel’wieve that an unemployed barman (snort) what don’t have two coins to rub togevver what ain’t copper, and whose old dad is a dealer in coal and wegetable gw’reens and is a gent what is not unknown to certain h’associates of our acquaintance (broad wink) — if you bel’wieve he has the sugar ‘n’ honey to purchase said pw’remises, why then, Master Sherlock, m’dear (snort), I’d wike to talk to yer about buying some shares in the new bw’ridge they be buildin’ across the Thames, thank ya nicely, if ya get me meaning, which I’m sure ya does (snort).”93
Retying the bundle with its ribbon, he returned it to the pocket from which it came and pulled out another, beginning the same painstaking process all over again, chattering away nonstop all the while as he subjected each piece of paper to a frowning scrutiny, as if seeing it for the first time. It seemed that he carried within his numerous and commodious pockets a unique filing system of sorts, one unquestionably of his own devising. But if there was a method to it — an orderly, organized whole made up of its diverse and independent parts — only Shinwell Johnson held the key, for its formulation seemed well beyond the scope of simple logic or any form of human understanding.
Again he found what he was looking for and announced the fact with a snort. “Now then. If ya wike, I can supp’wly ya wiv the name of the tw’rue owner of number 19 Cleveland Stw’reet, though it won’t do ya much good to know h’it, an’ I can tell ya to the penny how much he clears in ‘is weekly wents, though h’it won’t be o’ much inter’west, and I can supp’wly ya wiv a wist o’ the names o’ them young buggers employed at the telegw’raph office what makes much more in their off hours at number 19 Cleveland Stw’reet. And I can pweesents yer wiv a wist of the toffs’ names what goes there w’regular, though that might take some wittle time and expense because they wike to maintain their h’anonymity, don’t they? But I suspecks ya knows as well as I do who they is, anyways (snort).” He favored Holmes with a quick, shrewd glance and chortled.
“As for the particular gent ya inquired about — a ‘andsome bloke what tw’ravels in exalted circles o’ the ‘ighest kind and what is bew’lieved to wisit number 19 Cleveland Stw’reet often an’ w’regular? Aye, he is sometimes to be found in the company o’ anuvver gent whose face is nev’r seen, because why? Because he takes special pains and keeps h’it well cuvered, now, don’t he? But this ‘ere gent, ya can’t help but notice ‘im, can yer? Which he’s a gent what has certain distinctive features and peculiarities o’ dress, such as wearin’ veddy ‘igh collars h’attached to ‘is shirts. Veddy ‘igh collars an’ wide cuffs. And his face would be known anywhere, now, wouldn’t it? And his name shall remain nameless for reasons what I shall not get into, if yer pl’wease.” He glanced at Holmes meaningfully.
“Understood,” Holmes responded tersely.
“As I well knew ya would, m’dear. An’ since ya also already knows the name an’ h’identity o’ the first gent, I won’t bovver to mention h’it either. His wesidential addw’ress is noted on this here swip o’ paper, which I duly places into your possession.”
Holmes took the proffered slip.
“As to the dates o’ h’is w’isits to number 19 Cleveland Stw’reet during the last fortnight or so, yer will find them noted down on this here sw’lip o’ paper, which I likewise places into your possession.”
Holmes took the second piece of paper, glanced at it, and arched an eyebrow, then stuck it away into the folds of his wallet along with the first.
“Now, don’t be putting away your purse jest yet, m’dear. There’s a bit more to come.”
He resumed thumbing through his wad of scraps until finding the next one he wanted.
“On this here sw’lip o’ paper we have a certain addw’ress in Grosvenor Square — Seventy-four Brook Street, to be exact — which has been wisited on three occasions by the wery same gent what is on that first swip. It is an addw’ress what is not only a residence, as ya will find, but (he bobbed his head deferentially in Watson’s direction) is a doctor’s surgery an’ belongs to a certain wery h’important and distinguished member of the medical perfession.”
Holmes reached out for the new scrap of paper Johnson handed to him, studying it for a few moments in puzzlement. “Sir William Gull, the royal physician?”
He looked across at Shinwell, who tapped the side of his ample nose meaningfully.
Shinwell obviously felt that the information it contained was of some importance, and Shinwell’s instincts were usually good.
Holmes put the slip of paper away along with the others and extracted a five-pound note from his wallet, but Johnson stopped him.
“No, no, m’dear, not this time,” he said, holding up his hand. “This one’s on me.” He smiled roguishly. “I considers h’it me public-spirited duty, don’t I? I don’t know what any of this ‘as to do with the killings of those poor ducks, but if anything I can do will ‘elp to catch the fiend what did h’it, why, cor’blimy, dear chap, I’m ‘appy enough to do h’it. Indeed I am.”
So saying, he bundled up his papers and stuffed them into various pockets, rising to his feet with a grunt.
“As to what all this means, if it means anyfing a-tall, well, I’m sure I don’t know, and that’s an actual fact. This is more yer line of country, ain’t h’it? We’ll leave h’it to yer to make heads or tails of h’it, m’dear, ya bein’ the best judge an’ all.”
Collecting his ulster and billycock hat at the door, he turned to look once again at Holmes, who was still seated in his chair, gazing contemplatively into the fireplace. Shinwell’s beady little eyes took on a mischievous glint.
“Which ‘e does h’it one of two ways, this bloke, if yer was to ax me, Maw’ster Sherlock, m’dear,” he said. “Makes ‘is excapes, I means.”
Holmes looked up.
Shinwell Johnson cocked his head to one side, relishing the moment. “Unless he uses one of those ‘ot air ballwoons an’ tykes to the sky, I fink he goes un
dergw’round, ‘at’s what I fink. He takes to the sewers, in me ‘umble opinion — wike the bloody, filthy sewer rat that ‘e is. An’ that’s God’s ‘strewth.”
Clapping his billycock onto his head at a jaunty angle, he gave one last parting snort, as if for good measure. “G’day to ye, m’dears. Mazel tov, as they say. Faith ‘n’ begorra. No h’extra charge.”
With that he was gone, the sound of his good-natured chortle following him down the stairs to the lower landing, there to be joined by a shriek of youthful delight, caused no doubt by the sudden discovery that a shiny new tuppenny had been lurking behind Billy’s left ear.
Holmes remained unmoving in his chair following Shinwell Johnson’s departure, staring moodily into the fire and mentally reviewing the information that had been passed on to him, rolling it over in his mind in a vain effort to find some significance in it, something new, some little shred to go on.
Watson did his best to tiptoe around him. Taking advantage of the quiet moment that had descended upon them, he brought out his letter case to catch up on his correspondence, and for some little while the scratching of his pen was the only sound in the room to compete with the soothing tick-tock, tick-tock of the clock on the mantel.
It was that much more of a shock, therefore, when Holmes, with no warning at all, leapt up from his chair with a cry and made a sudden rush for the door.
Watson’s pen went skidding across the page.
“What an unmitigated ass I’ve been!” exclaimed Holmes, grabbing his coat, stick, and hat and bolting out the door.
He was gone before Watson could recover from his astonishment, leaving in his wake, as evidence of a hurried departure, his dressing gown draped over the stairwell banister where he had flung it and, at the foot of his chair, his meerschaum pipe lying smoldering on the carpet.
EDITOR’S NOTE
There is an unaccountable gap in Watson’s narrative at this point: Three pages of his notes are missing. Whether they were accidentally lost or misplaced or were purposely removed, it is impossible to say, but as a result of their loss, there is regrettably no record of Holmes’s activities between the afternoon of November 7 and the morning of November 9.
However, we know from other sources — The Times and The Daily Telegraph in particular — that no major events, save one, occurred during that brief period that had a bearing on matters relating to the ongoing investigation of the Whitechapel murders.
The one exception occurred on Thursday, the eighth of November. Sir Charles Warren, under unrelenting pressures from the press, Buckingham Palace, and Parliament, finally submitted his resignation to the Home Secretary. It was done so quietly that two days passed before the press (or even his own chief aides) became aware of it.
We know from the historical record that during this period police officials in Whitechapel, expecting another murder at any time (for none had occurred in over a month) made what preparations they could to prevent it. They increased routine patrols, assigned detectives in disguise to key locations, and flooded the district with plainclothesmen.
Their precautions were to no avail.
Twenty-Three
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 9, 1888
“‘Is there any other point to which you would wish to draw my attention?’
“‘To the curious incident of the dog in the night-time.’”
— Silver Blaze
A young man, a detective in civilian clothes, separated himself from the others straining to peer into the two windows at the end of the alley. He lurched to one side and vomited.
“For God’s sake, don’t look!” he warned another officer who came running up. “Whatever you do, don’t look!”
Holmes and Watson had just entered the enclosed yard — Miller’s Court, it was called — through a narrow, covered passage from the street. Even though it was only early afternoon, there was little light. It had been raining sporadically throughout the day and the sky was dismally gray. They had to force their way through the crush of people who were gathered behind a makeshift police barricade at the entranceway to the court, craning their necks to see. There was the rank smell of poverty about the place, and a redolence of fear.
Holmes elbowed his way to one of the windows and peered over someone’s shoulder through filthy glass panes into what was a small, cluttered hovel of a room. When he turned away, his face was deathly pale.
The telegram summoning Holmes to Miller’s Court had arrived as he and Watson were sitting down to an early luncheon, the second telegram of the morning to bear momentous tidings. Their shepherd’s pie left on the table untouched, the newspaper on the floor where it fell, the pair of them were out on the street within minutes, commandeering a passing growler for the dash across town.
But it was some little while before they were able to make their way to the East End. The streets were packed with jostling throngs and the progress of their four-wheeler was frustrated by unusually heavy traffic. It was Lord Mayor’s Day, and soon the Rt. Hon. James Whitehead, wigged and robed and burdened by the heavy weight of his chain of office, would proceed in baroque splendor to his investiture at the Law Courts in the Strand. The crowds lining the route of the procession were already thick, spilling over into the side streets adjoining the route as well. That it was also the Prince of Wales’s birthday, his forty-seventh (they could hear the distant boom of the cannon as the royal salute was fired from the battery at the Tower), added to the holiday mood. Street peddlers were everywhere, sprinkled here and there with stilt walkers, musicians, and grotesque clowns with painted faces. The cries of the costermongers and food vendors hawking meat pies and trotters, plum duff and baked potatoes, pickled eels, hot wine, and roasted chestnuts, competed for attention with the chatter of performing monkeys, the banter of pitchmen and pearlies, and the blabber and antics of street performers of every stripe, the noise predominated by the dissonance of one-man bands and hurdy-gurdies.
Over all and pervasive was the ammonia stench of manure and horse urine, for even on a normal day with ordinary traffic the streets of the city were receptacles for hundreds of tons of droppings; more so on a day like this, when the traffic was decidedly heavier. The little street arabs plying the major intersections with brooms were having a good day of it sweeping paths clear for “the quality,” it being well worth a penny to the gents to avoid fouling their shoes and to keep “m’lady’s” skirts clean.
Several detours were required for the carriage to reach its destination: The area surrounding Guildhall, where the Lord Mayor’s banquet was to take place following the investiture, had to be given a wide berth, and it seemed to take ages before the driver of their coach was able to make any progress at all.
But at long last they crossed Bishopsgate into Spitalfields and wended their way up White’s Row into Crispin Street to the corner of Dorset, a short, narrow road bordering the vast Spitalfields meat market — so narrow there was barely enough room for two drays to pass, and so notorious that even policemen, residents boasted, feared to walk its brief length unaccompanied.94
The entrance to Miller’s Court was easily missed: A narrow, arched portal set into a brick wall between two nondescript doorways, one of them belonging to number 26 Dorset Street, behind which the court itself was located. It was reached from the street by a dark, forbidding passageway — a tunnel, really — twenty feet long and barely three feet wide. On the far side, the passage opened into a garbage-strewn yard looked down upon on all sides by the rear windows of low-rising tenements.
Miller’s Court was not a place one would normally choose to enter, let alone live in, assuming one had the choice. It had all the charm of an open sewer, and it was a dangerous place besides. Curiously, those who did live there were predominantly women. Most of them were prostitutes, slatternly looking, gin-soaked, and sour-smelling, aged before their time and hard pressed to earn even the small amount required for the rent they paid. They dwelled in a warren of rickety, vermin-infested single-room flats, rented out no-quest
ions-asked for a mere four shillings a week, and overpriced at that. The landlord was named John M’Carthy, and the rooms were known collectively as M’Carthy’s Rents.
Holmes, standing in the middle of the court and surveying the dismal scene, turned as he heard his name called. It was Abberline, accompanied by a senior uniformed official introduced as Superintendent Arnold, who clearly was in charge, for within a matter of seconds he sent everyone scurrying: Policemen were hurriedly assigned posts and given their instructions, and the court and the street beyond were soon cleared of those who did not belong.
The two windows that were the focus of so much attention looked into number 13 Miller’s Court, a small single room with no amenities, unless you counted the windows themselves, which were situated side by side with one being smaller than the other.
The entrance to number 13 was just around the corner, the first door on the right directly off the passageway. The door led directly into the room, there being no such extravagance as a vestibule or foyer to impede one’s way. But the door seemed locked, or something was jamming it, and they had to remove the larger of the two windows to get in. An officer climbed over the sill, found the door bolt fastened, and opened it from the inside.
The horrible, indescribable stench that met them when they entered caused them all to gag. Abberline covered his nose and mouth with a handkerchief before he was able to cross the threshold. Holmes and Watson, just behind him, did the same.
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors Page 33
