Holding a piece of sodden note-paper, he inquisitively gazes at the dingy houses on his side of the street.
Polly pauses, eyeing him suspiciously, “Yer not from ’round ’ere. Lookin’ fer somewhere, are yer?”
Crowley glances at the piece of note-paper, “Eighteen Thrawl Street.”
Polly smirks, “Bed fer the night, is it?”
Irritated by her query, Crowley snaps, “Wot’s it t’ yer?”
Polly feigns indifference and shrugs her shoulders “Been there, nothin’. Not even a bleedin’ floorboard t’ lie on.”
Crowley crumples the piece of paper in his hand, “Mate gave me this address.” He tosses it over his shoulder, “[84]Fat lot o’ good ’e’s been, eh?”
Polly stifles a cough, “Fancy a drink?” She grins suggestively, “Or somefink else, maybe?”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Concealed by a small upturned cart in a darkened yard with the lower part of her overcoat, skirt and petticoat up about her waist, Polly stands stooped over a stack of oatmeal sacks with legs apart. Just behind her, Crowley feverishly thrusts back and forth, wheezing.
Rhythmically in tune with his movements, Polly gazes at the small silver coin in the palm of her hand and smiles.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
It is little wonder then that the prostitutes of the neighbourhood are forced to seek relief from their wretched existence in the local taverns. And there are many to choose from in Whitechapel. One on every corner, in fact. A lot of these blighted women have a preferred public house they like to call home. In Polly Nichols’ case, it is ‘Ye Frying Pan’ tavern, situated on the northern corner of Thrawl Street and Brick Lane.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Oblivious to the drizzle and drunkenly supporting one another, merchant seamen Straker, Griggs and Burrill lurch along Brick Lane towards ‘Ye Frying Pan’ tavern, noisily singing a maritime song.
“It were down by Swansea barrack
one May mornin’ I strayed
A-viewin’ o’ the soldier lads
I spied a comely maid,
It were o'er ’er red an’ rosy cheeks
the tears did dingle down,
I thought she were some goddess fair,
the lass o’ Swansea town.”
Emerging from Thrawl Street, a trotting pony, harnessed to a two-wheeled cart, hastily turns the corner by the tavern and, confronted by the rowdy trio, shies in alarm, shuddering the cart.
Two tall wicker baskets, one full of cabbages and the other containing cauliflowers, topple from the rear of the cart and, upon striking the ground, hurl their contents across the filthy cobbled street.
The bearded driver, Aaron Kosminski, mid-fifties, tall and lean, strains at the reins, halting the pony. Looking back over his shoulder and seeing the scattered vegetables, he groans, “Aaah, na!”
Leaping from his wooden seat, Kosminski strides to the rear of the cart and, indicating the virtually empty wicker baskets on the ground, glares at the three seamen smirking outside the tavern door, “See wot yer do?” He points to the cabbages and cauliflowers strewn about the street, “Yer make bloody fine mess, na?”
Griggs laughingly nudges Straker on the arm, “E’s a foreigner. A [85]Yid! A bleedin’ Jew!”
Kosminski stoops and retrieves one of the baskets, “Yer, pay. Everyfink!”
Straker crouches and contentiously picks up a cabbage, “Yer want me t’ pay fer this?”
Kosminski nods, “Yah, everyfink’.”
Straker stands and disdainfully throws the cabbage aside, “Pay yer? Pay a bleedin’ Jew.”
Burrill sniggers, “Go on, Straker, give it t’ ’im.”
Kosminski scowls at Burrill, “This me country. Yer seaman. Where yer country?”
Grinning at Kosminski, Griggs sidles up next to Straker, “Yer’re standin’ in it, mate.”
Straker sneeringly kicks a cauliflower along the street, “Yeh, an’ it’s time…yer…left.”
From darkened doorways and alleyways, sullen men begin to emerge, stepping into the street and silently rallying round the solitary Jew.
Kosminski mocks Straker, “Now, yer go.” He points to the tavern, “Inside. Drink more. Buy whores.”
Unnerved by the ominous presence of the men, Straker glances at Griggs, “Best do as ’e says. Quickly, like.”
Griggs anxiously stares at the gathering men, “Where’d they come from?”
Burrill retorts, [86]“Rats from the ’old.”
Straker retreats and, brushing past Burrill, pushes open the door of the tavern and nearly collides with a drunken Polly, leaving.
Upon seeing Burill and Griggs behind Straker, she burps, “Three ain’t a problem, luv.”
Straker shoves past her and jibes, “Then it’s yer lucky night, ain’t it? They’re outside, waitin’ fer yer.”
Polly stumbles from the tavern and, confronted by a dozen or more men retrieving vegetables in the street, quips to herself, “Too many, luv.”
Heaving a wicker basket of recovered cauliflowers onto the back of his cart, Kosminski broodingly strokes his beard, watching Polly totter off along Brick Lane towards the Whitechapel Road.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Pausing at the corner of Osborn Street and Whitechapel Road, Polly leans against a shop window and coughs hoarsely.
The shadow of a figure falls across her.
Ellen Holland, aged fifty and haggard, stares at Polly, “Whorin’ is goin’ t’ kill yer, Pol.”
Polly wearily smiles at Ellen and coughs again.
Ellen sighs, “Look, luv, come wiv me. I’ll git yer a bed.”
Trying to stand erect, but swaying, Polly places the palm of her hand on the shop window for support and groans, “I ain’t got no money. I drank it.”
Ellen gently tugs her by the arm, “All right, just fer t’night, yer can bed down wiv me.”
Polly jerks her arm away, “No!”
She brushes past Ellen.
Ellen pleads, “Where yer goin’, then?”
Polly begins to stagger off along the Whitechapel Road, “I’m goin’ t’ git fourpence fer me bed.”
Ellen shakes her head despairingly.
A single clink is heard.
Ellen looks down and spots a penny coin, lying beside the side of her foot on the pavement. Another coin drops, landing next to the first.
Inquisitively peering over her shoulder, she sees a stout man who, after wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, flicks two more coins, which also land alongside her foot.
Ellen turns about, faces the stranger and indicates Polly to him, “Why not let ’er earn the fourpence?”
The man raises an index finger and wags it disapprovingly.
Ellen stoops, casually collects the coins and cheekily grins at him, “Anywhere in mind, luv?”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Dangling dangerously below Watson, who strains fervently to hold him by the hand, Holmes loses his grip and, with a fearful expression, drops down the side of the Reichenbach Falls and descends into its malevolent fog of spray.
Frantically clawing at the rock face with both hands, which eerily dissolves into grimy brickwork, Holmes plunges down the side of a gloomy building, ripping away a street nameplate.
Standing alone in a gas-lit cobbled street partially shrouded by fog, he stares at the nameplate, Buck’s Row, before it shatters violently in his hands, revealing a vision of locked stable gates.
Two distinct shadows are chillingly cast across the gates. A man throttles a woman, who drops lifelessly to the ground. Swiftly kneeling beside her, the man produces a long bladed knife and, ferociously wielding the lethal instrument, slices open her throat.
Abruptly awakening, Holmes sits upright in bed, utters a forlorn cry and clutches his throat with his hand.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Calming himself and removing his hand from his throat, Holmes stares at the hypodermic syringe and needle lying next to the brown vial upon the
bedside table beside him.
Watson bursts into the bedroom, holding a glowing oil-lamp in one hand and his revolver in the other.
Holmes raises a censorious eyebrow, “Do come in, Watson.” He glances at the revolver, “And please put that away.”
Flustered, Watson slips the firearm into his dressing-gown pocket, “I heard you cry out.”
Holmes picks up the hypodermic syringe and needle, “Yes, you did. A momentary lack of discipline on my part.” He thoughtfully fingers the syringe, “I really should stop using this.”
Placing the oil-lamp on another bedside table, Watson sits on the edge of the bed, “Holmes, I speak to you as both your friend and a doctor. Persist with this morbid habit and it could soften your brain as [87]syphilis does to a person inflicted with the disease.”
Holmes puts the syringe down, “My dear fellow, crimes are conceived in the imagination. How else am I supposed to know the thoughts of my adversaries?”
Watson stares at Holmes sombrely, “With a clear mind, Holmes.”
With an inspired expression, Holmes smiles, “You are quite right, Watson.” Tossing aside the bed clothes, he leaps out of bed and pulls on his dressing-gown.
Taken by surprise, Watson quickly stands, “What is it, Holmes?”
Holmes raises a solemn finger, “It may be murder. Cold-blooded murder, Watson.”
He snatches the hypodermic syringe and needle from the table, “Quickly, Watson, bring the lamp.”
Holmes hurriedly enters the darkened sitting-room, takes a map of London from a book shelf and eagerly spreads it out upon the dining-table.
Picking up a magnifying glass, he beckons Watson with a swift movement of his hand, “Let the hound see the hare, Watson. Bring the lamp closer.”
Sidling up next to Holmes, Watson holds the oil-lamp over the map. Stooping, Holmes peers through his magnifying glass and begins to concentrate on a specific locality, scouring streets with the tip of the hypodermic needle.
Watson yawns, “Why the urgency, Holmes? Could this not wait until morning?”
Staring through his magnifying glass, Holmes pauses and squints at an almost indefinable street, “Murder is invariably committed before breakfast, Watson. Wait until then and one may lose the trail.”
Holmes jubilantly stabs the hypodermic needle into the map, “Watson, the street does exist! It is just off the Whitechapel Road.”
Watson frowns, “Unlike a mushroom, I abhor being kept in the dark. What street, Holmes?”
Holmes excitedly plucks the hypodermic syringe and needle from the map, “My dear fellow, you are quite right.”
Totally mystified, Watson frowns again, “I am?”
Holmes hands the syringe to Watson, “I dislike altering my habits, but I would be exceedingly gratefully if you would dispose of this and its contents. You will find a further bottle in the top drawer of the bureau.”
Pleased that his advice has been heeded, Watson smiles, “Yes, of course, Holmes.”
Holmes quickly brushes past Watson, “Come on, Watson, get dressed.”
Watson frowns once more, “Good Lord, Holmes! Do you know what the time is?”
Holmes pauses, “Yes, it is approximately three forty-five.”
Watson quizzically stares at Holmes “How on earth did you know that?”
Holmes inhales deeply, “My dear fellow…” and then indicates the grandfather clock beside the book shelf.
Watson holds the oil-lamp aloft and stares at the clock face, which reads 3:50. He then turns to Holmes, who is just about to leave the room, “You are mistaken, Holmes, the time is ten to four.”
Holmes pauses again and impatiently sighs, “Watson, the clock is five minutes fast. Now, please stir yourself, the game is afoot.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Walking his beat along the narrowest part of the unlit cobbled street, past shabby houses on one side and tall warehouses on the other side, Police Constable John Neil nears the locked wooden gates of Brown’s Stable Yard, located almost opposite Essex Wharf, whose name is cut into its ornate reddish brickwork.
Sweeping the street with the beam of his bulls-eye lantern, Neil dimly illuminates a shape lying on the pavement in front of the gates. Gingerly, he crouches and, upon inspecting his find, recoils and fumbles for his whistle.
A hand taps him on his shoulder.
Alarmed and standing bolt upright, Neil quickly turns and comes face to face with Police Constable John Thain, “Saw your light, thought you might need some help.”
Thain stares down at the ground and blanches, “Oh, my gawd[88].”
Another police constable, Jonas Mizen, suddenly emerges from the darkness, panting.
Astonished, Neil stares at Mizen, “Anymore of you out there?”
Mizen catches his breath and looks down at the pavement, “Christ! They weren’t kidding me.”
Neil sighs, “Ah, come on, Jonas, who wasn’t kidding you?”
Mizen indicates back over his shoulder, “Two [89]carmen, Charlie Cross and Bob Paul. Stopped me at the corner of Baker’s Row and Hanbury Street. Said they’d found this about five minutes ago.”
Thain glances at Neil, “That’s just before you got here.”
Neil shakes his head, “And I thought I had a quiet beat. Far from it, eh?” He stares at Mizen, “Where are those carmen now?”
Mizen pats his tunic breast pocket, indicating his notebook, “Took down their particulars and then let them go off to work. Wanted to get down here as fast as I could.”
Neil quickly turns to Thain, “Fetch Dr Llewellyn. He lives around the corner in Whitechapel Road. A hundred and fifty-two.”
Thain touches the brim of his helmet with his finger and brushes past Mizen.
Neil frowns, “Oi, John…”
Thain pauses, “Yeh, I know. Shortest route is back down here and along Brady Street.” He indicates his shoulder, “Left my [90]cape around the corner in Winthrop Street. I’ll pick it up first and then cut through to Whitechapel Road from there.”
Neil nods in agreement, “Make it quick, like.”
Dashing away, Thain is swallowed up by the darkness.
Neil hurriedly turns to Mizen, “Report back to Sergeant Kirby. Tell him we need more men and a [91]hand-cart. And don’t dawdle, Jonas, I’m going to be on my own here.”
Mizen touches the brim of his helmet, “Right you are, John.” He hastily turns and, like Thain before him, rushes off into the darkness.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
The body had first been discovered at about 3. 40 a.m. by Charles Cross who, walking to work along the northern side of the street, had noticed what he thought was a tarpaulin laying in front of the gateway to Brown’s Stable Yard. Approaching the object to take a closer look, he had found a woman stretched out upon the ground, but had not discerned any injuries due to the night being almost pitch-black. Hearing hasty footsteps from behind, Cross had guardedly turned about and had met Robert Paul, also on his way to work. Quite relieved by the fortuitous arrival of Paul, Cross had immediately shown him what he had stumbled upon.
The woman had lain on her back, her head towards Brady Street from where both men had come. Her legs were slightly apart and her skirt had been raised. The two men had crouched, touched her hands, agreeing that she felt cold. Neither of them detected breathing. Concerned that they might be late for work, they decided to leave the body and report its location to the first policeman that they might encounter. To preserve the modesty of the woman, Cross had pulled down her skirt and walked off with Paul towards White’s Row. At the junction of Baker’s Row, Hanbury Street and Old Montague Street, Paul and Cross had met and reported their find to Police Constable Jonas Mizen who, allowing both men to continue their journey to work, had hurriedly strode off to investigate their find.
At about 3. 45 a.m., seconds after Cross and Paul had left to find a policeman, Police Constable Neil had entered the street, also from Brady Street, and had found the woman for himself. He saw that the th
roat of the woman had been cut and that blood still trickled from the wound.
Some fifteen minutes later, Police Sergeant Kirby arrived to assist Neil and had immediately knocked on the door of New Cottage, the first house adjoining Brown’s Stable Yard. The occupant of the house, Mrs Emma Green, had informed Kirby that she and her family of two daughters and a son had heard nothing, even though the body lay to the side of her ground-floor street window. At 4 a.m., having been roused by Constable Thain, Dr Rees Llewellyn arrived and, after making a quick examination of the woman, pronounced life extinct, placing the earliest time of her death at about 3. 30 a.m.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Amid the pouring rain, a hansom cab slows to a halt beside the kerb of a wide pavement in Whitechapel Road. Opening its two front folding doors, Holmes leaps from the vehicle and strides across the wet pavement to the arched entrance of an alleyway sandwiched between a shabby pawnbroker’s shop to the left and a butcher’s shop to the right.
Hopping out of the cab and seeing Holmes disappearing into the alleyway, Watson tosses a coin to the cabby seated in his sprung seat, above and behind the vehicle.
Quickly removing his [92]billycock hat, the cabby catches the coin in it, “Much obliged, guv’nor.” He indicates the alleyway, “’E’s in a bleedin’ ’urry, ain’t ’e?”
Agreeing with his remark, Watson wearily smiles, “Yes, rather.”
Turning on his heel, he hurries after Holmes.
Taking the coin from his hat, the cabby shouts, “Oi, d’yer want me t’ wait fer yer?”
Ignoring the question, Watson dashes across the pavement, enters the dismal alleyway and, confronted by near total darkness, abruptly halts.
He squints, peering into the gloom, “Holmes?”
Ahead, but unseen, Holmes quietly replies, “Yes, Watson, this way.”
Watson begins to perspire, “I think our response to your fanciful premonition has gone a bit too far, Holmes.”
Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul Page 6
