♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
With bloodied hands, Dr Rees Ralph Llewellyn solemnly draws a gore-stained sheet over the figure on the table. Turning to a large chipped porcelain sink, he nudges the handle of a solitary water tap protruding from the moist brickwork with his elbow.
“You must be the divisional police surgeon?”
Taken by surprise, Llewellyn hurriedly turns to see Holmes and Watson standing just behind him.
Holmes smiles disarmingly, “My apologies, sir, I did not intend to alarm you.”
Placated, Llewellyn regains his composure, “You are correct, sir, I am Dr Llewellyn.” He indicates his bloodied hands, “Excuse me.”
He turns back to the sink and begins to earnestly rinse his hands in cold water flowing from the tap.
Holmes glances at the covered figure on the table, “May we see the body, Dr Llewellyn?”
Emanating from a dim corner of the mortuary, a caustic voice murmurs, “Well, well, well.”
Curiously peering over their shoulders, Holmes and Watson see, emerging from the dimness of the corner, a portly man wearing the dark-blue serge uniform of a local police inspector.
Haughtily stroking his mutton-chop moustache with the knuckle of his forefinger, the man disdainfully quips, “You Scotland Yard boys are up early this morning. Come down here to show us how to do our job, have you?”
Aware that the man is acting under a misapprehension, Holmes enquires, “And you are…?”
The man glares at Holmes, “And who’s asking?”
Holmes persists, “Come, come, a simple question, is it not?”
Sensing that Holmes could be a person of authority and thereby his superior, the man relents, “Inspector Edmund Fell. H Division.”
Holmes feigns a smile, “Ah, yes, the Whitechapel Division.” He indicates Watson, “We are here merely as observers, Inspector.”
Fell scoffs, “Come to spy on us, more like it.”
Seemingly disregarding the churlish comment, Holmes glances back over his shoulder, “May we see the body, Dr Llewellyn?”
Wiping his hands on a clean linen towel, Llewellyn enquiringly turns to Fell, “Inspector?”
Ignoring Llewellyn, Fell steps closer to Holmes and begins to finger the lapel of his overcoat, “How much do they pay you up there? I bet this cost a tidy sum.”
Abhorring his manner, Holmes replies, “The cost of my wardrobe will not solve this case, Inspector. May we see the body?”
Genuinely astounded, Fell stammers, “Wardrobe? You’ve got more clothes like this?”
Holmes turns away from Fell and stares intently at Llewellyn, “Dr Llewellyn, may we see the body?”
Fell condescendingly jibes, “Touchy, aren’t we?”
Again, Llewellyn looks to Fell for permission, “Inspector?”
Fell stares at Holmes and sneeringly consents to his request, “Go ahead. Courtesy of H Division.”
Holmes politely tips his head, “Thank you, Inspector.”
Accentuating his authority, Fell murmurs, “Just the body, mind you.”
Holmes raises an inquisitive eyebrow, “What else could there be, Inspector?”
Stung by the question and realising that he may have fallen into a trap of his own making, Fell attempts evasion, “What else could there be, indeed?”
Pursuing his advantage, Holmes teasingly responds, “Perhaps you have the murder weapon, Inspector?” He briefly stares at the ceiling and then shakes his head, “No, I think not.” He points to a small pile of blood-stained clothes, a frayed black bonnet and a pair of ankle books lying on the cobbled-stoned ground near the mortuary table, “Or the victim’s name. Obtained from her clothes, perhaps?”
Fell swallows hard.
Holmes smiles mischievously, “Highly likely, wouldn’t you say?”
Tensely, Fell stiffens.
Holmes suddenly retorts, “Enough of your [105]tomfoolery, Inspector. The name of the victim, please.”
Fell gawks, “What?”
Holmes is impatient, “Come, come, Inspector, the name of the victim. Who was she?”
Flustered, Fell stammers, “You can see the body, that’s all.”
Holmes snaps, “No, Inspector. That will not do. I believe that the deceased was identified by a woman who left this mortuary barely ten minutes ago.”
Dr Llewellyn coughs, attracting attention to himself, “That is correct, sir.”
Fell scowls at Llewellyn, “I’m in charge here, Dr Llewellyn.”
Exasperated by the idiotic stance of Fell, Dr Llewellyn inhales deeply, “Then, Inspector, I propose you tell the good gentleman what he virtually already knows.”
Watson glances at Llewellyn and chuckles, “Yes, and I second that.”
Holmes stares at Fell, “It would appear, Inspector, that the jury has decided in my favour.”
Fell bitterly shakes his head, “You Scotland Yard boys are all the same. Come down here, make demands, and then get the praise for the[106] graft we do.”
Holmes wearily sighs, “Her name, Inspector.”
Fell grudgingly relents, “Mary Ann Nichols. Also known as Polly.”
Dr Llewellyn coughs again, “An unfortunate, sir,”
Fell sneers at Llewellyn, “A euphemism that doesn’t offend the ladies at teatime. Down here, Polly Nichols was a whore, nothing but a common whore.”
Holmes turns to Llewellyn, “Dr Llewellyn, the body, please.”
Holmes and Watson step along one side of the mortuary table, opposite Llewellyn, standing near the head.
Llewellyn partially pulls back the sheet, revealing the pallid face of Polly. Her throat has been savagely cut and there are two bruises close to her mouth.
Carefully inspecting the smaller bruise, which is below the right side of the jaw, and then the larger semi-circular bruise on the left cheek, Holmes places his left hand over the lower part of the face, matching his thumb to the first bruise and the tips of his fingers to the semi-circular bruise.
He glances at Dr Llewellyn, “If I am not mistaken, the murderer clamped his left hand over her mouth.”
Llewellyn nods in agreement, “And then with his right hand, he throttled her.”
Holmes turns his attention to the incisions in the throat, “Why two when one would have been suffice? Perhaps the murderer has yet to master his technique.”
Llewellyn indicates the first incision with his finger, “The first cut begins here, below the right ear and, running an inch below the jaw, terminates in the centre of the throat.”
Holmes and Watson stare at the second incision.
Llewellyn continues, “The second cut, again beginning below the right ear and just below the first incision, is about eight inches long and encircles the entire throat. It severed both carotid arteries and the tissues down to the vertebrae. This cut, gentlemen, would have been lethal.”
Watson murmurs to Holmes, “But the poor woman was already dead. She had been asphyxiated.”
Llewellyn looks at Watson, “Mercifully, yes.”
Holmes thoughtfully stares at Llewellyn, “Are there other injuries, Dr Llewellyn?”
Llewellyn grips the top end of the sheet, “Prepare yourselves, gentlemen.”
He throws aside the sheet, revealing the entire nakedness of the corpse down to its knees.
Watson blanches, “Good Lord.”
Llewellyn shakes his head in disgust, “I have seen many horrors in my life, but nothing compares with this revolting spectacle.”
Holmes brushes past Watson and gazes down at the abdominal region of the body.
Fell swaggers towards Holmes, “Gutted like a pig, she was.”
Ignoring the brash remark and indicating the abdominal area to Llewellyn, Holmes queries, “The incision, beginning at the lower part of the ribs and extending down through the stomach to the pubic bone, was made with what type of instrument?”
Llewellyn pensively edges along his side of the table and halts opposite Holmes, “I believe an attempt was made to dis
embowel her, but the murderer failed. The weapon used was most certainly a narrow-bladed knife at least six inches long.”
Holmes stares at Llewellyn, “And the time taken?”
Llewellyn strokes his beard with finger and thumb, “Four to five minutes. The murderer attacked all the vital organs, therefore he must have had some anatomical knowledge.”
Looking at the intestines partially protruding from the awful gash and noticing several other cuts to the abdomen, Watson groans, “These are appalling injuries, Holmes, the murderer must have torn at her like the devil.”
Llewellyn draws the sheet back over the body, “I am inclined to agree with you, sir.”
Incredulously staring at Holmes, Fell stutters, “Holmes? Sherlock Holmes?”
Holmes casually replies, “Yes, Inspector.” He indicates Watson, “And my good friend and associate, Dr Watson.”
Pleasantly surprised, Llewellyn smiles admiringly, “Upon my soul.”
Fell scowls at Holmes, “You should have announced yourself.”
Holmes sighs, “I was hardly given the opportunity. You seemed preoccupied with my wardrobe at the time.” He courteously tips his head to Llewellyn, “Thank you, Dr Llewellyn.”
Llewellyn reciprocates, “It has been an honour, Mr Holmes.”
Holmes turns to Watson, “Come, Watson.”
Angrily stepping in front of Holmes, Fell blocks his way, “I’m going to report this.”
Holmes snaps, “Yes, please do. And what do you think your superior, Chief Superintendent Arnold, is going to say when he learns that it was you who gave us permission to see the body?” He reminds Fell of his previous contemptuous remark, “I believe you said, ‘Go ahead. Courtesy of H Division’.”
Fell swallows hard, “You’ve made a fool of me.”
Holmes snaps again, “No, sir, you made a fool of yourself. Your time would be better spent pursuing the killer of this poor woman than harbouring an idiotic resentment towards your colleagues at Scotland Yard.”
Gently touching Fell on the shoulder with the handle of his walking cane, Holmes steely advises, “Now stand aside, Inspector, there’s a good fellow.”
Meekly, Fell steps to one side.
Politely raising his hat to Llewellyn, Watson accompanies Holmes to the door, “The man’s an imbecile, Holmes.”
Holmes quips, “It is not mandatory for some policeman to have a brain, Watson, just big feet.”
Stepping out of the mortuary into the yard, Holmes sombrely turns to Watson, “The murderer is no ordinary mortal, Watson.”
Looking across the yard and, seeing that Catharine has gone, Watson conceals a yawn with his hand, “I am apt to agree with you, Holmes. No person in their right senses would have committed such a heinous crime.”
Holmes inhales the fresh air, “You misunderstand me, Watson.”
Watson yawns again, “Don’t you ever get tired, Holmes?”
Holmes counters staunchly, “My dear fellow, an abomination is loose in Whitechapel and has slain two women. Can we permit fatigue to deny us the right to pursue and apprehend him?”
Watson wearily shakes his head, “Of course not, Holmes.”
Holmes indicates the wicket door, “There is one more place we must visit before we can retire for the day.”
Obtaining his second wind, Watson inquisitively stares at Holmes, “Two women, Holmes?”
Holmes begins to stroll towards the wicket door, “Yes, Martha Tabram and Mary Ann Nichols.”
Watson thoughtfully pauses, “Of course, the woman murdered in George Yard Buildings.”
Holmes halts, turns and smiles, “Your memory serves you well, Watson.”
Watson jests, “You are not the only person in London who reads the newspapers, Holmes.”
Holmes chuckles and then beckons Watson, “Come, Watson. I believe the two crimes are connected.”
Watson musingly strolls towards Holmes, “Martha Tabram was brutally stabbed to death whereas Mary Ann Nichols was horribly mutilated. Medical evidence will therefore suggest that no proof exists to support the case that one man killed both women, Holmes.”
Holmes impatiently taps the ground with the tip of his walking cane, “The murderer, if truly a lone wolf, has still to perfect his modus operandi. And your conclusion is flawed, Watson. At least one fact demonstrates that one man committed both murders. Martha Tabram and Mary Ann Nichols were both choked to death before their bodies were subjected to further injuries. Now, in your medical opinion, what does that reveal?”
Instantly understanding the significance of the question, Watson gasps, “Good Lord, Holmes! Asphyxiation arrests the heart, which stops the blood from being pumped throughout the body.”
Holmes nods in agreement, “Meaning that our murderer knew that once he had stopped the heart, he could slash away at the body with impunity, confident that he would not be saturated in blood.”
Anxiously scratching the side of his face, Watson queries, “But why the abdominal mutilations? If it had been a domestic quarrel or a robbery, then surely the cuts to the throat would have been enough?”
Holmes opens the wicket door, “My dear fellow, have we not agreed that strangulation was suffice? The murderer slew and mutilated these poor women in public places to draw the utmost attention to his crimes, which itself may signify something more than an insatiable bloodlust. Are we to believe that a depraved mind is arbitrarily slaying destitute women to satisfy an inner craving, or might the deaths of these women be part of an atrocious scheme devised for an entirely different purpose from the one we imagine? If the latter be the case, Watson, I foresee another murder and alas, quite soon, I fear.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Hurled across a ground-floor room from inside the small terraced property, a three-legged stool crashes through the window of the house, narrowly missing two startled elderly [107]charwomen standing and chatting on the pavement in the street.
Frantically yanking open the grimy front door of the house and thrusting her head out into the cobbled street, forty-five-year-old Elizabeth Stride squeals, “’Elp! Murder! Police!”
From behind her, a dirty male hand, its skin torn by fingernail scratches, seizes the top of her curly dark brown hair and viciously jerks her back into the house, slamming the door shut.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Born Elisabeth Gustafsdotter on 27 November, 1843, in the village of Stora Tumlehed, Sweden, Elizabeth Stride was the second eldest daughter in a family of four children, two girls, two boys. Her parents, Gustaf and Beata, had owned a small farmstead where they had raised crops, primarily potatoes, carrots, oats and wheat. An isolated village, Stora Tumlehed had been dominated by the Lutheran Church, which exerted strict control over the villagers, continually subjecting them to its religious dogma.
Hence, Elizabeth had spent her childhood and the greater part of her adolescence living in an extremely insular environment, until the age of seventeen.
Having grown restless and utterly bored with rural life, Elizabeth had moved to the vibrant city of Gothenburg in 1861, where she obtained a job as a domestic servant, looking after a divorced man, Lars Olofsson, and his offspring. In August 1864, her mother, aged fifty-four, had died of [108]consumption and Elizabeth, who had recently drifted into prostitution, had become pregnant, no doubt by one of her transient clients.
The following year, Elizabeth had been officially registered as a professional prostitute by the Gothenburg police, a compulsory requirement under Swedish law, introduced to thwart the spread of contagious diseases. In April, she had given birth to a stillborn girl and then, four months later, had been admitted to the Kurhuset Hospital suffering with a chancre, a venereal wart which revealed the first stage of syphilis. Treated and purportedly cured, Elizabeth had been discharged from the hospital three weeks later.
In January 1866 and as bequeathed to her in her mother’s will, Elizabeth had inherited a modest sum of money, which she had promptly spent, buying a new wardrobe of clothes and purch
asing a steamship ticket to England. Six months later, she had arrived in London. According to one story, probably generated by Elizabeth herself, she had turned up in the metropolis and, being adrift, had taken up with a foreign gentleman who, after wearying of her, had hired her out as a servant to a family living in Hyde Park.
Regardless of whether the story had been true or not, in 1869 she had met and married a forty-eight-year-old carpenter, John Stride, who lived at 21 Munster Street, Regents Park. Shortly after their marriage, the couple had moved to East London, where they ran a coffee shop in Poplar High Street. Though Elizabeth had by now acquired a habitual taste for alcohol and drank heavily, the couple had remained together for another twelve turbulent years.
Towards the latter end of 1881 and with her marriage now in ruins, Elizabeth had parted from John Stride and had entered the Whitechapel Infirmary, suffering from [109]bronchitis. From there, she was admitted to a local workhouse, performing menial tasks, but more often than not, resorting to prostitution to etch out a meagre existence. Eventually weary of the puritanical code of behaviour demanded by the workhouse, Elizabeth had sought and found lodgings at 32 Flower and Dean Street, Spitalfields, Whitechapel.
Three years later, on 24 October, 1884, John Stride had died of a heart disease, aged sixty-three. The following year, freed of her estranged husband, Elizabeth had taken up with a waterside labourer, Michael Kidney, lodging with him first at 33 Dorset Street, Spitalfields, and then moving east along the Commercial Road to 36 Devonshire Street, St. George’s-in-the-East, where they now live.
Seven years younger than Elizabeth, who is now aged forty-five, Michael Kidney is a volatile [110]bruiser, capable of extreme violence when riled, especially if drunk. In April of last year, Elizabeth had astonishingly brought a charge against Kidney for assault, but no doubt fearing a reprisal from him, had failed to attend the Thames Magistrate Court to give evidence, leaving the police with no alternative but to drop the charge.
Known to her own kind as Long Liz, her height being slightly taller than the average woman, Elizabeth has a worn, pale complexion, grey eyes and is missing all the teeth in her lower left jaw.
Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul Page 8
