Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul

by Gordon Punter

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Assailed by the relentless clatter of printing press machines just beyond the open door of his office, O’Connor impatiently puts on his spectacles, opens a copy of The Star newspaper and stares at an editorial headline.

  Sherlock Holmes returns from Switzerland

  Daring exploits

  Thrilling adventure

  O’Connor scowls, turns towards the door and barks, “Bullen! Get in here!”

  Wearing a printer’s apron smudged with black finger-marks, a young spindly Perkins promptly pops his head round the door, “Yeh, Mr O’Connor.”

  O’Connor glares at Perkins, “I said Bullen, boy. Doesn’t anyone listen anymore?”

  Wiping his forehead with a handkerchief, an overweight Bullen brushes past Perkins and enters the office.

  O’Connor snaps at Bullen, “Been drinking again, have you?”

  Perkins skedaddles.

  Bullen nervously licks his lips, “Haven’t had one since…”

  O’Connor snarls, “Don’t lie, Bullen, I can smell your breath from here.” Scornfully, he stabs the editorial headline with his finger, “What’s this?” Adjusting his spectacles, O’Connor sneeringly reads aloud, “Daring exploits. Thrilling adventure.”

  He turns to Bullen contemptuously, “The Star is a reputable newspaper, Bullen, not a [50]penny-dreadful publication. Our readers require factual news, not just sensational headlines.”

  Bullen sighs ruefully, “Well, you see, Mr Holmes was quite hesitant. He didn’t actually say anything.”

  O’Connor peers over his spectacles, “He wouldn’t. So, you made the story up, is that it?”

  Bullen raises an objectionable eyebrow, “Not exactly. But now and then…”

  O’Connor interjects, “Mr Sherlock Holmes and, I might add, Dr Watson, left our shores for the [51]Continent towards the end of April. It is now August. What do you suppose these two gentlemen were doing for the past three months?”

  Bullen shrugs his shoulders, “Savouring the delights of a [52]Parisian brothel, perhaps?”

  O’Connor snatches his spectacles from his face, “Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Bullen. An unpleasant habit that you would like to copyright, no doubt?”

  Bullen petulantly mops his forehead with his handkerchief, “The absence of Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson from these shores for the last three months suggests that they may have been involved in another case, altogether different from the one we reported.”

  O’Connor angrily tosses the newspaper aside, “Yes, and we will probably read all about it in [53]Beeton’s Christmas Annual or, worse still, in another newspaper, won’t we? Conjecture, guesswork. I want facts, hard facts. The only reason that you still have a job here is, sometimes, not often, you can turn in a good story. Now, what about this murdered whore?”

  Bullen pockets his handkerchief, “Most likely murdered by the [54]Old Nichol gang who did in Emma Smith.”

  O’Connor despairingly stares at Bullen, “Really? Well, Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard doesn’t think so. Rumour has it that a Grenadier guard may have killed her with a bayonet. Lestrade’s holding an identity parade at the Tower of London this afternoon. Get over there. I want an exclusive for tonight’s edition. And stick to the facts.”

  Bullen frowns, “What’s so special about this particular whore?”

  O’Connor inhales deeply, “She was stabbed thirty-nine times.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Located in the West End of London and less than one mile long, Baker Street is a wide thoroughfare, running from York Place in the north to Oxford Street in the south. Named in honour of its builder, William Baker, who laid the street out in the previous century, Baker Street consists primarily of residential houses interspersed with the occasional commercial shop.

  Apt to be congested at times, due to the large assortment of horse-drawn vehicles continually travelling between Marylebone Road and Oxford Street, Baker Street is nonetheless representative of a well-ordered, safe through-road, particularly at night.

  Situated on the west side, and a mere two doors away from Blandford Street, is an inconspicuous Georgian terrace house, numbered 221b Baker Street. Owned by Mrs Hudson, a motherly widow now getting on in her years, but still energetically devoted to her two eminent lodgers, 221b Baker Street has been home to Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson since they were first introduced to each other seven years ago.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  With a grimy face and dressed in filthy blackened clothes, an elderly deliveryman, Albert Langford, heaves a large sack of coal off his back and, tipping its contents through a circular opening in the pavement outside 221b, causes a cloud of choking dust to rise from the cellar beneath his feet.

  Permanently stooped and coughing hoarsely, Langford folds the dirty coal sack and places it on the rear of his cart parked alongside the kerb. Turning the corner from Blandford Street and nearing 221b, Watson grimaces, instantly fanning the air around him with his hand, “Good Lord! This is intolerable!”

  Langford ambles across to the cellar opening and, using the inside of his boot, slides a cast iron cover over it, “’Ow’s that, guv’nor? Better?”

  Watson lowers his hand, “Thank you. How can you tolerate it?”

  Langford scratches the side of his unshaven face, “Don’t give it much thought. Been doin’ this since I were a [55]nipper.”

  He coughs and then taps his chest, “Mind yer, gittin’ ’ard t’ clear the [56]ol’ pipes in the mornin’, though.”

  Opening the street door to 221b, a perky Mrs Hudson steps out of the house, “Back from your surgery, Dr Watson?”

  Watson politely lifts his hat to Mrs Hudson, “Yes.” He indicates Langford, “Unlike this poor devil, it appears that our nation is in a healthy disposition today and has given me the afternoon off.”

  Mrs Hudson stifles a chuckle and then looks at Langford enquiringly, “Another day’s work done, Mr Langford?”

  Stepping towards Mrs Hudson, Langford touches the peak of his cap with his finger, “Aye, ma’am. [57]Dozen bags in all.”

  Mrs Hudson hands him some coins, “Please keep the change.”

  Langford takes the coins and incredulously stares at them in the palm of his hand, “But, there’s an extra [58]shillin’ ’ere!”

  Mrs Hudson gently smiles, “Indeed there is, Mr Langford. An additional penny for each bag delivered and well earned.”

  Stirred by her kindness Langford reverently removes his cap, “Yer a good ’un, ma’am.” He glances at Watson, “She’s a [59]bleedin’ peach, guv’nor.”

  Mrs Hudson blushes, “Now, now, Mr Langford, be off with you. And be sure to put some extra food on the table for your family.”

  Langford replaces his cap, “As yer say, ma’am, as yer say.” Civilly acknowledging Watson, he again touches the peak of his cap with his finger and saunters back to his cart.

  Mrs Hudson turns to Watson, “Would goose be all right?”

  Bemused, Watson stares at her, “I beg your pardon?”

  “Would you and Mr Holmes like goose for supper?”

  With a mischievous twinkle in his eye, Watson runs a finger along his moustache, “I am sorry, Mrs Hudson, but I was not aware that Christmas had arrived early.”

  Mrs Hudson chuckles, “A celebration, Dr Watson. It is good to have you both back safely.”

  Watson smiles appreciatively, “Thank you, Mrs Hudson. Goose will be fine.”

  Once more, that mischievous twinkle appears in his eye, “With chestnut gravy, Mrs Hudson?”

  “And English roast potatoes, Dr Watson.”

  Watson promptly raises his hat to her, “Admirable, Mrs Hudson, I will tell Holmes.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  The afternoon sunlight streams through the two broad windows, bathing the spacious, modestly furnished sitting-room in a warm amber hue. Wearing a mouse-coloured dressing-gown, Holmes reclines on a button-back [60]chaise longue, partially covered by discarded newspape
rs. Smoking his cherry-wood pipe and reading a copy of The Times newspaper, he studies an editorial report.

  The Murder in Whitechapel

  Yesterday afternoon Mr G. Collier, Deputy Coroner for the South-Eastern Division of Middlesex, opened an inquiry at the Working Lads' Institute, Whitechapel-road, respecting the death of the woman who was found on Tuesday, at George-yard-buildings, Whitechapel, with 39 stabs on her body.

  The woman has been identified as that of Martha Tabram, aged 39 or 40 years, the wife of a foreman packer at a furniture warehouse. Henry S. Tabram, [61]6, River-terrace, East Greenwich, husband of the deceased, said he last saw her alive about 18 months ago, in the Whitechapel-road. They had been separated for 13 years, owing to her drinking habits. As far as he knew she had no regular companion and he did not know that she walked the streets. Inspector George Lestrade, Criminal Investigation Department, watched the case on behalf of Scotland Yard.

  Excitedly throwing open the door, Watson hurries into the room, “Holmes, our worthy landlady exceeds herself.”

  Holmes glances up from his newspaper, “Goose, no doubt?”

  Watson frowns, “How on earth did you know that?”

  “I can hear your stomach rumbling.”

  Watson closes the door, “No, you can’t.”

  Holmes sighs, “Of course, I cannot. It was a calculated guess.”

  He puts aside the newspaper and places his pipe in an ashtray, “I am in need of light relief, Watson, the entire criminal world has deserted me.”

  Watson removes his hat, “Perhaps you should be thankful for the respite. Expunging Moriarty from society and then discreetly solving the Credit Suisse fraud in twelve weeks was a truly remarkable achievement, even for one as adept as you.”

  Solemnly rising from the chaise longue, Holmes steps to the windows and wistfully stares down at the horse-drawn traffic below, “All for what, my dear fellow?”

  Watson fiddles with his hat, “I beg your pardon, Holmes?”

  Holmes languidly turns from the window, “I fear that getting rid of Moriarty may, unfortunately, have brought my career to an end. With his absence, there are no longer any tantalising crimes to solve. Only bungling villains with motives so transparent that even a Scotland Yard official could see through them.”

  Entirely familiar with Holmes’ infrequent outbursts of melancholy behaviour, Watson feigns cheerfulness, “Carina sings at the Albert Hall tonight. Perhaps we could see her performance after supper?”

  Holmes brushes past Watson, “My dear fellow, Carina sang last night. The Royal Philharmonic plays [62]Wagner tonight.”

  Placing his hat on the dining-table and quickly turning about, Watson again feigns cheerfulness, “Stirring music, Holmes.”

  Ignoring the remark and opening a top drawer of a bureau, Holmes unfastens a small morocco case, containing a hypodermic syringe and needle.

  Aware that Holmes has favoured his Stradivarius during such moments of despondency, Watson picks up the violin and its bow and offers both to Holmes, [63]“Mendelssohn’s Lieder, perhaps?”

  Holding the hypodermic syringe and needle, Holmes takes a brown vial from the drawer,

  “I require deliverance, Watson. Please call me later when supper is ready.”

  Watson sadly concedes, “Yes, of course, Holmes.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Strategically built on the northern bank of the River Thames during the reign of William the Conqueror in the 11th century, the Tower of London consists of an assortment of formidable towers constructed by several Kings of England over the last four hundred years.

  Essentially an elaborate Royal fortress, the Tower of London has had an infamous history, literally steeped in blood. Besides having been a tortuous prison and a place of execution, murder most foul was also committed within its walls.

  Confined to the White Tower in the 15th century by their ruthless uncle [64]Richard III, legitimate heirs to the English throne, Edward and Richard, aged twelve and ten, disappeared mysteriously, allegedly slain on their uncle’s orders. Two hundred years later the skeletal remains of two young boys were discovered in a chest concealed under a stone stairwell leading to the Chapel of St John the Evangelist. Believed to be the remains of the two young princes, the White Tower henceforth acquired the notorious name, Bloody Tower, which it still retains today.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  The raised [65]Union Jack flag ripples in the breeze. Beneath its flagpole, situated in a quadrangle enclosed by stone walls ninety feet high and fifteen feet thick, a line of eleven Grenadier guards, attired in red tunics and caps, stand at ease before an austere [66]Colour Sergeant Reynolds holding a regimental ledger. Behind the Colour Sergeant, an aging Colonel Piggott haughtily paces back and forth, glowering at the assembled soldiers.

  Accompanied by three uniformed police constables, Inspector Lestrade, dark-eyed and pallid, opens a squeaky iron gate and ushers a tipsy Mary Ann Connolly into the quadrangle.

  Piggott stops pacing and barks at Reynolds, “Colour Sergeant!”

  Reynolds inhales and hollers, “Parade…”

  The guardsmen stiffen.

  “Parade…Attention!”

  In unison and, immediately after raising their knees, the guards slam the leather soles of their [67]hobnailed boots down upon the ground.

  Rudely pushing past two of the police constables just behind Lestrade, Bullen yells, “Inspector Lestrade…”

  Lestrade wearily sighs and then turns on his heel, “What is it?”

  Bullen produces his handkerchief and mops his forehead, “The Star newspaper, Inspector.”

  Lestrade eyes Bullen suspiciously, “Ah, yes, of course. I’ve heard of you. Thomas Bullen, isn’t it? Didn’t an American newspaper throw you back across the [68]Atlantic for inappropriate conduct?”

  Bullen feigns a smile, “[69]Fleet Street rumours, Inspector.”

  Lestrade raises a sceptical eyebrow, “Really?”

  Bullen pockets his handkerchief and quickly produces a pencil and notebook, “An exclusive for The Star, Inspector?”

  Lestrade sighs again, “If you don’t keep out of the way, I’ll have you thrown in the [70]Tower. Now, that would certainly enhance your Fleet Street reputation, wouldn’t it?”

  Seized by the arm, Bullen is held back by a heavily-built police constable.

  Lestrade turns to Mary, who inadvertently burps in his face.

  Shaking his head despairingly, Lestrade indicates the line of soldiers, “It’s very simple, miss. If you see either man, just touch them on the shoulder.”

  Strolling over to Piggott, Lestrade introduces himself, “Inspector Lestrade. Scotland Yard.”

  Piggott scowls disapprovingly, “May I remind you, Inspector, that this regiment fought under [71]Wellington at Waterloo. These men are not murderers, they are soldiers of the Queen. Are you prepared to discredit this regiment because of the death of an unfortunate? A penniless whore, Inspector.”

  Offended by the statement, Lestrade replies sarcastically, “Ah, yes, the honour of the regiment. Then, perhaps, we should allow her killer to escape?”

  Piggott, his face flushed with anger, roars at Reynolds, “All right, Colour Sergeant, get on with it.”

  Clutching the ledger tightly, Reynolds salutes Piggott, “Yes, sah.” He then turns to Lestrade, “This way, Inspector.”

  Taking Mary by the arm, Lestrade escorts her to the head of the line, “I’ll be right beside you, miss. Take your time.”

  Walking unsteadily, she slowly begins to inspect the soldiers.

  Piggott edges up next to Reynolds, who lingers just behind Mary and Lestrade, “Is that woman drunk, Colour Sergeant?”

  Using one side of his mouth, Reynolds whispers, “I doubt she’s ’ad a sober day in ’er entire life, sah.”

  Piggott sneers, “That, Colour Sergeant, may help us.”

  Pausing in front of Private Law and recognising him, Mary smirks.

  Immediately noticing her expression, Lestrade
murmurs, “Do you know this man?”

  Mary shrugs her shoulders.

  Lestrade confronts Law, “What’s your name, son?”

  Staring straight ahead, Law remains impassive.

  Lestrade wearily shakes his head, “I asked you a question, son. What’s your name?”

  Feeling threatened, Law blurts, “Colour Sergeant?”

  Loathe to assist Lestrade, Reynolds nevertheless growls at Law, “Yer name an’ rank, son.”

  Law reacts timidly, “Why me, Colour Sergeant?”

  Lestrade groans, “Because you’re here, son. Because we’re all here.”

  Reynolds adopts a fatherly tone, “Bear in mind the ’onour o’ the regiment, son. Answer the Inspector, there’s a good boy.”

  Law gulps and glances at Lestrade, “Private William Law.”

  Scornfully, Lestrade grins, “There, that wasn’t difficult, was it?”

  He indicates Mary, “Know this woman, do you?”

  Mary hiccups and then giggles mockingly.

  Law promptly shakes his head.

  Lestrade casually scratches the side of his neck, “Ever been to Whitechapel, son?”

  Law gulps again, “Whitechapel?”

  Lestrade nods, “Yes, Whitechapel.”

  Again, Law promptly shakes his head.

  Lestrade indicates over his shoulder, “Less than half a mile from here. Quite a lively district. Popular with young soldiers, I hear. [72]Ring a bell, does it?”

  Law shakes his head once more.

  Exasperated, Piggott howls, “For heaven’s sake, Inspector, enough of your futile questions. These men are supposed to be on duty. Will you please move along?”

  Grudgingly relenting, Lestrade resumes his slow walk along the line with Mary, who spots Leary standing beside another soldier, Lance Corporal Benjamin. Alarmed and feeling queasy, she falters, staggers sideways and bumps into Benjamin, shakily placing her hand on his shoulder for support.