Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul

by Gordon Punter

  “And what exactly did you see?”

  “She were lyin’ on the ground in front o’ the stable gates. ’Er throat ’ad been slit, ear t’ ear.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Blood, that’s all. Not much, mind yer.”

  “Did you know the deceased?”

  Unfamiliar with the word ‘deceased’, Tomkins stammers, “The wot… guv’nor?”

  Embarrassed for Tomkins, Watson stifles a cough.

  Holmes sympathetically rephrases the question, “Had you ever seen the woman before?”

  Tomkins shakes his head, “Can’t say that I ’ave, guv’nor. ’Er kind are found in the Whitechapel Road, not down ’ere. Mind yer, ain’t a reason t’ [128]butcher ’er, is it?”

  Holmes nods in agreement, “You have been most helpful. Thank you.”

  Fingering the half-crown coin, Tomkins grins, “Much obliged, guv’nor.” Politely touching the peak of his cap with his finger, he ambles away and, indicating the dead horse, again hollers to Mumford, “’Oi, Jim, git these bleedin’ [129]innards stowed away. Want someone t’ slip on ’em an’ break their neck, d’yer?”

  Holmes earnestly turns to Watson, “A belated breakfast, Watson. Mrs Hudson would have most certainly prepared curried eggs for us.”

  Broodingly gazing at the carcass of the horse, Watson murmurs, “How on earth could you know that, Holmes?”

  Holmes stares at him curiously, “Because it is Friday, Watson.” He notices his doleful expression, “My dear fellow, what ails you?”

  Watson shakes his head sadly, “Mary Ann Nichols, Holmes. She was hardly an animal.”

  Holmes agrees, “Undoubtedly not, Watson. But to her killer, that is exactly what she was.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  H Division has two police stations in Whitechapel, one situated near the northern end of Commercial Street, Spitalfields, the other located in Leman Street, adjacent to the neighbourhood of St George’s-in-the-East. Opened twelve years ago, Commercial Street Police Station is the modern of the two, but the older Leman Street Police Station continues to serve as the headquarters of H Division, which has been dogmatically commanded by fifty-three-year-old Chief Superintendent Thomas Arnold for the past thirteen years.

  In St George’s-in-the-East, any person found flagrantly breaking the law is summarily arrested and taken to Leman Street Police Station, where he or she, if charged with a grave offence, is rapidly thrown into a holding cell, prior to making an appearance before the Thames Magistrate Court the next day.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  With the heels of his heavily scuffed boots scraping across the slate-coloured basement slabs, Michael Kidney struggles as Police Constables Ernest Knowles and Walter Brice haul him backwards along the gas-lit corridor which smells strongly of [130]carbolic soap.

  Dragged past an open metal door, Kidney catches sight of a bruised and expressionless Elizabeth seated beside Mary in a cell. Standing before them, Detective Sergeant Frederick Leach and Constable Allen gaze pensively at the two reticent women.

  Kidney hollers, “Yer filthy whore! Open yer [131]trap an’ I’ll cut yer good an’ proper.”

  Knowles glances down at Kidney and snarls, “Like Polly Nichols, eh?”

  Brice responds in a similar manner, “And Martha Tabram?”

  Looking up at both men either side of him, Kidney grimaces, “I didn’t stick ’em.”

  Nearing another open cell door, Knowles retorts, “What about your [132]old woman, then?”

  Kidney feigns regret, “Only meant t’ scare ’er, that’s all.”

  Brice glares at Kidney, “With a bread knife!”

  Heaved to his feet by Knowles and Brice, Kidney anxiously stares at the two constables, “’Ere, ’old up a minute. I ain’t the one yer’re lookin’ fer. I didn’t do ’em in.”

  Pitching Kidney into a gloomy cell, Knowles growls, “We’ll see about that, won’t we, mate?”

  Hearing the cell door slammed shut, Elizabeth flinches.

  Noticing her reaction, Mary murmurs, “Yer all right, luv?”

  Elizabeth mournfully stares at the cell floor.

  A tear trickles down her cheek.

  Thoughtfully staring at Elizabeth, Mary bites her bottom lip and again murmurs, “Don’t fret, luv. I’ll take care o’ yer.”

  Removing his tall-crowned bowler hat, Leach seats himself on a stool and, in a fatherly tone, addresses Elizabeth, “If you press charges, we might be able to put him away for good.”

  Mary sneers, “An’ if ’e gits out?”

  Leach barks at Mary, “Look, Kelly, shut up or I’ll charge you.”

  Mary indicates Allen, “Fer doin’ ’is job?”

  Leach glances over his shoulder at Allen, “Step outside, son.”

  Meekly, Allen silently steps out of the cell into the corridor.

  Leach again turns his attention to Elizabeth, “He might be the [133]bloke who murdered those two women. If you press charges, we can hold him. It’ll give us a chance to find out whether he’s the killer or not.”

  Exasperated, Mary snaps, “Look at ’er, will yer? [134]Black an’ blue an’ [135]shakin’ like a bleedin’ leaf. She needs a ’ospital.”

  Leach points an ominous finger at Mary, “One more word from you and…”

  Fearful that Kidney would seek revenge if she collaborated with the police, Elizabeth screams, “No!”

  Leach frowns, “What?”

  Elizabeth touches her bruised jaw and winces, “I ain’t givin’ ’im t’ yer.”

  Leach retorts, “Good Lord, woman, he might have killed you.”

  Elizabeth shakes her head, “No, yer ain’t ’avin’ ’im.”

  Looking at Leach, Mary sniggers, “Yer see, down ’ere, we don’t turn agin our own kind.”

  Leach leans forward, staring Mary in the eye, “Even when they mean to murder you, eh?”

  Dumbstruck by his words, Mary blanches.

  Slowly stepping from the cell into the corridor, Leach looks first at Allen and then Knowles and Brice, “Let the women go.” He then indicates the cell containing Kidney, “Hold him for twelve hours and then let him go.”

  Confounded, the three police constables glance at each other. Putting on his hat, Leach wearily sighs, “This absurd East End code of theirs, ‘Thou shalt not [136]nark to a copper’, is going to get them all killed.”

  Chapter 5

  Femme Fatale

  For six years, since the spring of 1880, a Liberal government had governed Great Britain, led by notable political reformer William Ewart [137]Gladstone. However, less than two years ago, unable to halt the dissension in his own party over his ‘Home Rule Bill for Ireland’, Gladstone and his entire cabinet, including Foreign Secretary the 5th[138]Earl of Rosebery, had been removed from power, marginally defeated by the Tory Party in a summer election.

  Headed by fifty-eight-year-old Robert Arthur Gascoyne-Cecil, 3rd Marquess of Salisbury, widely known as Lord Salisbury, the Tory government had found no respite from the emergence of radical political activists that had equally plagued the former government, principally the Irish Republican Brotherhood, whose members were known as Fenians.

  Between 1883 and 1885, the Fenians, in a concerted effort to rid Ireland of British rule, had dynamited several railway stations and prominent landmarks in the metropolis, including Scotland Yard, where at 9 p.m. on the night of 30 May, 1884, an enormous explosion had ripped through its premises, severely damaging not only the headquarters of the Criminal Investigation Department, but also that of the Special Irish Branch.

  Since the ‘Home Rule Bill for Ireland’ had been effectively stifled by the English political elite, and fearing possible reprisals from the Fenians, Lord Salisbury had embarked on a campaign, which he ardently pursues today, to quash any public support for the Irish Republican Brotherhood, particularly in London.

  Last year, a month before her Golden Jubilee, Queen Victoria had visited East London, complaining afterwards to Lord Salisbury
that she had heard a horrid noise, quite new to her ears, in fact. In furtherance of his own doctrine, Salisbury had artfully articulated that the booing noise Her Majesty had heard had most certainly come from either the socialists or the Irish, people who would stop at nothing to vent their anger. What Salisbury had not revealed to the Queen was that the majority of the protesters who had booed her had been starving women and children merely expressing their resentment at her ill-timed visit. He had also failed to mention that the entire East End of London was a smouldering tinderbox waiting to explode.

  Barely four months later, on Sunday, 13 November, more than ten thousand ragged men and women had marched out of the East End, intent on holding a rally in Trafalgar Square to voice their protest against British brutality in Ireland.

  Unbeknown to the protestors, Salisbury, having been informed of the rally a few days previously, had instructed the obstinate Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, Sir Charles Warren, to disperse the protesters with maximum vigour, using all available forces at his disposal.

  Warren, a former Major-General in the army, had deliberately allowed the protesters to enter Trafalgar Square, whereupon they had immediately found themselves penned in by railings which had been erected some days earlier.

  From that point onwards, the marchers had been utterly doomed. Supported by two squadrons of Life Guards with drawn sabres, two thousand uniformed police constables had charged the protestors, indiscriminately wielding their truncheons.

  Struck about the face and head, men and women had fallen to the ground, blood flowing freely from their wounds. Many were so badly beaten they had required hospital treatment. Two of the organisers, Johns Burns and Robert Cunninghame-Graham, had been quickly arrested and unjustly imprisoned for six weeks. The populace of the East End and the socialist newspapers had held Warren personally responsible for the casualties, a denouncement that even today is swiftly resurrected whenever ‘Bloody Sunday’ is recalled.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Solemnly gazing through the window of his parliamentary office at a collier laboriously steaming along the River Thames, Lord Salisbury produces a folded copy of The Times newspaper from behind his back and, staring at an editorial report, musingly strokes his bushy brown beard.

  The Whitechapel Murders

  A meeting of local tradesmen, chaired by Mr George Akin Lusk, was held yesterday in the Crown public-house at 74 Mile-End-road. After a short debate about the recent murders in Whitechapel, sixteen influential gentlemen were appointed as the Mile-End Vigilance Committee, including Mr Joseph Aarons as its secretary. A scheme to form other East London vigilance committees, whose members would patrol Whitechapel at night to prevent further murders, also met with widespread fervour. The proposed scheme was thereafter presented to other political and social groups within the district, whereupon it was unanimously accepted.

  Outside the room, the bony knuckle of a bent finger raps softly on the mahogany surface of the closed office door.

  Salisbury looks up from the newspaper, “Come!”

  The door swings open, revealing a thin private secretary clothed entirely in black, except for his stiffened white collar.

  He reverently tips his head, “Mr Mycroft Holmes, Prime Minister.”

  Seven years older than Sherlock and more heavily built than his brother, Mycroft steps into the office, halts and courteously tips his head, addressing Salisbury by his peerage title,

  “Good afternoon, my lord.”

  Salisbury reacts genially, “Ah, Mycroft, good of you to come.”

  He impatiently waves the private secretary away, who dutifully retires from the office, quietly closing the door behind him.

  Mycroft expresses himself with humility, “I am here as a humble servant of the Crown, my lord.”

  Abhorring abasement, Salisbury is politely sarcastic, “Yes, yes, Mycroft, that is why I sent for you specifically.”

  Suspicious of the remark, Mycroft nonetheless retains his sense of propriety, “An honour indeed, my lord.”

  With a commanding gesture of his hand, Salisbury beckons Mycroft and, thrusting the newspaper towards him, stabs at the editorial report with his finger, “An opportunity has arisen.”

  Cautiously glancing at Salisbury, Mycroft takes the newspaper from him and begins to read the editorial report.

  Salisbury returns to the window and, looking through it again, broodingly gazes at the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral in the distance, “An astonishing accomplishment. Did you know that he designed fifty-three churches after the Great Fire of London[139]?”

  His concentration broken, Mycroft looks up from the newspaper, “I beg your pardon, my lord?”

  Stroking his beard once more, Salisbury turns to Mycroft, “Sir Christopher Wren. Unlike him, I doubt that future historians will be so reverent when they recall my past achievements, Mycroft.”

  Mycroft feigns pacification, “You must do what you have to do, my lord.”

  Referring to the editorial report, Salisbury glowers, “We must act! Decisively and now!”

  Mycroft frowns, “Whitechapel, my lord?”

  Salisbury stares at Mycroft intently, “Harbouring political activists, anarchists and revolutionists. Intent on bringing civilization down about our ears. We are the government, not a rebellious rabble, Mycroft.” He inhales deeply, “I mean to enlist your brother.”

  Mycroft blanches and immediately opens his mouth to protest.

  Salisbury raises a silencing hand, “No refusal, mind you. Talk to him. Tell him the very society he enjoys may be on the verge of disintegration. Persuade him to assist us, Mycroft.”

  Finding his position untenable, Mycroft attempts to discourage the request, “Why engage a civilian, my lord?”

  Irked by having his order queried, Salisbury scowls, “Scotland Yard is so riddled with informants that to send one of its detectives on a clandestine mission to infiltrate a radical movement would be tantamount to sentencing him to certain death.” He raises an admonitory finger, “Besides, the unmasking of such an infiltrator by the anarchists could be used to implicate this government and bring it into disrepute. No, I need a person of integrity, untainted by corruption and, above all else, a person not associated with this government. Your brother, Mycroft.”

  Mycroft raises his hand to his mouth and coughs embarrassedly, “My association with my brother is hardly amiable. I see him merely once a year. At Christmas, my lord. Christmas Eve, to be precise.”

  Salisbury snaps, “Then I suggest you bring Christmas Eve forward this year.”

  Resigned to his fate, Mycroft obediently tips his head.

  Salisbury takes the newspaper from him, “Sir Charles Warren has been notified and will aid you in this matter. I will not have this country held to ransom by political radicals. It upsets the monarchy and alarms the Empire, Mycroft.”

  Mycroft feigns agreement, “Quite so, my lord. Quite so.” About to turn away from Salisbury, he hesitates “A thousand pardons, my lord, I all but forgot. My sources have revealed that Gladstone and the Earl of Rosebery will table a motion of no confidence in the [140]House tomorrow.”

  Taken aback, Salisbury falters and drops the newspaper, “Good Heavens! For what purpose?”

  Though not outwardly apparent, Mycroft savours every word of his reply, “Evidently to hasten the downfall of your government, my lord.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Smartly dressed for the theatre, black tail coat, slender trousers and bow tie, Holmes is knelt before the fireplace and, imitating a person wielding a knife, swipes at a cushion upon the floor with his right hand.

  Watson merrily enters the room and, in an effort to emphasize his theatre attire, gleefully throws out his arms, “Chopin, Holmes?”

  Holmes slowly stands, pensively staring at the cushion, “No, my dear fellow, the cushion represents Mary Ann Nichols.”

  Instantly deflated, Watson sighs, “Can we not dispense with this murder for tonight, Holmes?”

  Ig
noring Watson, Holmes continues to stare at the cushion. Suddenly breaking free from his deliberation, he claps his hands together. “Of course, there were two murderers, or at least a murderer and an accomplice.”

  Watson groans, “Please, Holmes, our cab will be here shortly.”

  Holmes raises an index finger, “Hear me out, Watson.”

  Watson reluctantly relents, “Of course, Holmes.”

  Holmes indicates the fireplace, “This represents the locked gateway to Brown’s Stable Yard in Buck’s Row.” He points to the cushion situated close to the fireplace, “The head of Mary Ann Nichols lying beside the gateway, pointed towards Brady Street, from where Charles Cross, Robert Paul and Police Constable Neil would shortly emerge. Her slightly parted feet were positioned towards the Board School in the opposite direction.”

  He solemnly turns to Watson, “This is how Mary Ann Nichols was found murdered. Lying upon the ground close to the gateway, her head in the direction of Brady Street and her feet pointed to the Board School.”

  Watson thoughtfully scratches his chin, “Your source at Scotland Yard has served you well, Holmes.”

  Holmes smiles mischievously, “Yes, the information was imparted to me late this afternoon whilst you were at your surgery.”

  He stares down at the cushion again, “We know that Mary Ann Nichols was first throttled and then allowed to fall to the ground where she was quickly laid out.” Holmes kneels beside the cushion, “Because she had fallen quite close to the gateway, in this instance the fireplace, the accomplice had knelt to the left of the body and had attempted to cut her throat left to right, whilst the murderer, having thrown up the skirt, attacked the abdomen. Up to this point, the perpetrators of this barbarous deed had been entirely successful, but the accomplice had failed to incise the whole throat. Hence the first incision we examined at the mortuary which terminated at the centre of the throat, Watson.”