Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul

by Gordon Punter

  Lestrade lowers his hand, “Having Mr Holmes and Dr Watson on hand will certainly help, but I need more men on the ground, Commissioner.”

  Warren flicks open a buff folder on his desk and stares at a report contained within, “Earlier today, I instructed eight divisions to release forty-two constables to support H Division.” He closes the folder and looks at Lestrade, “Anything else, Inspector?”

  Mycroft interjects, “The intellect that my brother will bring to this case will be the equivalent of a further fifty men, Inspector.”

  Deeming the remark idiotic, Lestrade frowns.

  About to take his leave, Holmes politely tips his head to Warren, “Sir Charles.” He quickly turns to Lestrade, “Day or night, Lestrade. I am at your [165]beck and call.”

  Grateful for his support, Lestrade responds, “Much obliged, Mr Holmes.”

  Finally, Holmes turns to Mycroft, “I do believe that this meeting tonight has constituted your yearly visit to my humble lodgings.”

  Mycroft tetchily replies, “Bring us the names, Sherlock, that’s all.”

  Piqued by his curtness, Holmes responds, “The only radical in Whitechapel that Lord Salisbury should fear is the one wielding a knife, Mycroft.”

  Chapter 6

  The Mark of M

  Seated on a stool in the shabby kitchen of her doss-house at 35 Dorset Street and coughing violently, Annie Chapman drunkenly spits out a glob of phlegm upon the warm embers of a coke fire.

  Hearing the phlegm sizzle, she produces a tatty matchbox from the side pocket of her dirty black coat and, with a shaking hand, removes two pills from it and pops them into her mouth. Hoarsely coughing again, she drops the box, which strikes the floor, splits apart and scatters the remaining pills across the filthy surface.

  Awkwardly gathering the pills, she grabs a discarded envelope from the mantelpiece, tears off a corner and, placing the pills in it, returns them to her coat pocket.

  The deputy of the doss-house, Timothy Donovan, hurries into the kitchen and seizes her by the arm, “I said ten minutes by the fire, not ’alf an ’our. Yer takin’ the [166]bleedin’ piss, gel. Come on, out!”

  Wincing, Annie slurs, “Don’t give me bed away. I’ll be back wiv the money. ’Onest, Tim.”

  Donovan snarls, “Yer can always find money fer drink, but never yer bed. Git the Pensioner t’ ’elp yer out.”

  Annie whines, “’E’s away, ain’t ’e?”

  Donovan shoves her towards the kitchen door, “An’ so are yer, gel.”

  Arduously climbing the rickety staircase to the entrance of the doss-house, Annie steps out into the street and, pausing for breath, sees the doss-house night watchman, John Evans, leaning against the wall, smoking a clay pipe.

  Known as Brummy, Evans quips, “Out an’ ’bout agin, Annie?”

  Annie bleats, “Tim wouldn’t give me [167]tick. Now it’s the streets fer me. In any case, I won’t be long, Brummy. See that Tim keeps the bed fer me.”

  Staggering past Evans and turning into Little Paternoster Row, a narrow bleak street that connects Dorset Street to Brushfield Street, Annie begins to cough heavily once more.

  Wheezing, she murmurs, “Carry on like this, luv, an’ yer won’t live t’ see mornin’.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Curiously devoid of rain for this time of year, the slumbering metropolis has been dry, albeit chilly, during the night. But since the crack of dawn, ominous dark clouds have suggested that a thunderstorm, or perhaps sleet, might be in the offing.

  To Inspector Joseph Chandler seated in the cab, careening around the corner of Oxford Street into Baker Street, the current cold weather is of no consequence, because a short while ago he had seen something that had chilled him to the bone. Something so ghastly, so grisly, that even a hardened police officer such as he cannot drive from his mind.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Having returned to 221b Baker Street late the previous evening and believing Watson had retired to his room for the night, Holmes had quietly gone to bed, slept soundly and risen at daybreak, roused by the invigorating thought that he might soon be called upon to assist Lestrade in the hunt for the Whitechapel murderer.

  Now dressed and jovially stepping out of his room into a short corridor that leads to the sitting-room, Holmes pauses by a closed door and raps on its surface, “Watson, please stir yourself. We are now in the service of Scotland Yard.”

  Not waiting for a response, he strides into the dusky sitting-room and, upon reaching the two broad windows, swiftly draws back the drapes to see a cab in the street below, halting sharply by the front door of the house.

  Hurriedly returning to the corridor, Holmes hears the rat-a-tat-tat sound of a brass knocker. He again knocks on the door of Watson’s room, “My dear fellow, I do believe we may have a visitor.”

  Apprehensive after getting no reply and now hearing heavy feet pounding up the stairs of the house, Holmes throws open the door to reveal an orderly room with an unruffled bed, clear indication that it has not been slept in.

  The knuckles of a clenched hand urgently rap on the door to the apartment.

  Disregarding the knocking at the door, Holmes enters the bedroom and determines immediately that Watson is not at home. Worrying, to say the least. Hurrying along the corridor, he yanks open the apartment door and confronts a tense Chandler, who hastily blurts, “Mr Holmes?”

  Tersely raising a silencing hand to Chandler, Holmes looks down the carpeted flight of stairs at Mrs Hudson, closing the front door, “Mrs Hudson, have you seen Dr Watson?”

  Thoughtfully gazing up at Holmes, Mrs Hudson shakes her head, “Neither last night, nor this morning, Mr Holmes.”

  Holmes pensively strokes his chin, “Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” He quickly turns to Chandler, “And you are…?”

  Chandler stammers, “Inspector Chandler, H Division. Inspector Lestrade sent me to fetch you. There’s been another murder, Mr Holmes.”

  “Where?”

  “Hanbury Street, Spitalfields.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Formerly four separate innocuous streets, Hanbury Street begins at Commercial Street in the west and ends at Baker’s Row in the east. It had been at the corner of Baker’s Row and Old Montague Street that Robert Paul and Charles Cross had informed Police Constable Jonas Mizen about finding the body of Mary Ann ‘Polly’ Nichols in Buck’s Row.

  Situated close to the major thoroughfare of Commercial Street, 29 Hanbury Street is on the northern side, located between John Street and Brick Lane. Ironically, Robert Paul, having left Charles Cross and Constable Mizen in Baker’s Row, had ambled past 29 Hanbury Street on his way to work in Corbet’s Court, a side-street just beyond the house and before Commercial Street.

  Number 29 is a grimy terraced building, three storeys high, two rooms deep, with eight rooms providing sanctuary for seventeen inhabitants. Access to the house is gained through a single street door dominated by a tatty overhead sign that reads Mrs A. Richardson, rough packing-case maker. The weathered door, which is never locked, gives entry to a dismal passageway which slices through the dwelling to a dingy, enclosed backyard.

  From the front room on the ground-floor of the house, Harriet Hardiman runs a cat’s meat shop, where she also lodges with her sixteen-year-old son. Backing on to the shop and to the rear of the property, with a clear view of the backyard, is the kitchen used by landlady Mrs Amelia Richardson, to cook frugal meals and hold weekly prayer meetings. For her packing-case business, Amelia also uses the cellar beneath the kitchen, which can only be entered from the backyard. Along with her fourteen-year-old grandson Thomas, she lives in the front room on the first floor above the cat’s meat shop.

  Overlooking the backyard, the rear room on the first floor is occupied by a boot-maker, Mr Walker, and his retarded adult son, Alfred. Above them on the second floor live cigar makers Mr and Mrs Copsey, again with a view of the backyard. The adjoining front room is inhabited by carman Mr Thompson, his wife and their adopted da
ughter, whilst above them on the third floor, in the attic, lodges another carman, John Davis, his wife and three sons. Finally, a widow, Sarah Cox, occupies the rear room in the attic, also with an unhindered view of the backyard.

  Seen from the street door and situated to the left of the passageway, an awkward communal staircase offers the only approach to the six rooms above. Past the staircase and straight ahead is the self-closing door to the backyard. When pushed, this door opens out to the left to reveal the yard, five yards by four, and partially paved with flat stones. To the left of three worn stone steps that lead from the door to the backyard is a small recess and then a wooden paling fence about five and a half feet high, which runs the entire length of the backyard, separating it from that of number 27.

  Opposite the rear door, in the left-hand corner of the backyard, is Amelia Richardson’s woodshed, whilst in the right-hand corner is the privy. To the right of the door and just below the kitchen window is the padlocked cellar. Slightly beyond that, and jutting from the brickwork, is a solitary tap which supplies the entire household with water.

  Hemmed in by other shabby houses and because the flickering amber light produced by household candles, or inexpensive oil lamps, cannot penetrate the excessive grime that has adhered to the window panes of all these dwellings, the backyard of number 29 is plunged into almost total darkness at night.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  At about 3. 30 a.m. this morning, Mr Thompson had quietly left his room on the second floor of 29 Hanbury Street, passing Amelia Richardson’s front room on the first floor. Hearing him descending, Amelia had greeted him through her closed door, whilst he had continued on down the stairs. Seeing nobody in the passageway, Mr Thompson had left by the street door and strolled off along Hanbury Street towards his place of work in Brick Lane.

  More than an hour later, at 4. 45 a.m., Amelia Richardson’s son, John, who lived around the corner in John Street, had entered the house through the street door, looking for uninvited vagrants who occasionally slept rough in the passageway.

  Easing open the door to the backyard and standing on the top step, John had taken out a table knife and trimmed a piece of leather from a boot that had been hurting him. Now near to daybreak and having been on the step for just over three minutes, he had turned away from the door, walked along the passageway and had left the house, closing the street door behind him.

  Forty minutes later, at 5. 25 a.m., Albert Cadosch, who lived next door at number 27, had gone to use the backyard privy and had heard muffled voices, apparently coming from the yard of number 29. The only word he had been able to catch was “No!” Some three minutes later, at 5. 28 a.m., and returning to use the privy once more, he had heard sounds, again coming from the yard of number 29, of someone or something falling against the wooden paling fence. Impatient to use the privy, he had paid no further attention and heard no more noises. He had left for work and, passing Spitalfields Church, had noticed the time was about 5. 32 a.m.

  Some thirteen minutes later, John Davis had risen from his bed in the attic room of 29 Hanbury Street and began to dress for work. Intent on using the privy in the backyard, Davis had hurried down the stairs to the passageway, noticing that the street door to the house had been left wide open. Undoing his belt and hastily pushing open the door to the backyard, he had suddenly halted, horrified by what he saw. Below him, upon the ground, was the body of a woman, partially lying in the recess between the stone steps and the wooden paling fence. Quickly turning away, Davis had hurtled along the passageway and, rushing through the open street door, had skidded to a halt on the pavement, his belt dangling by his side.

  Waiting just outside their place of work at 23a Hanbury Street, James Kent and James Green had seen Davis hurtle out of number 29, holding up his trousers with his left hand. Approaching from the opposite direction, Henry Holland had also witnessed Davis’ rapid exit from the house. Breathing heavily, Davis called upon the three men to follow him back into the house, which they had.

  Reaching the end of the passageway, the four men had crowded together in the doorway of the backyard and peered down at the body, aghast. Henry Holland had nervously ventured down the steps, taken a closer look at the woman but had refrained from touching her. Having seen enough, the four men had retreated back along the passageway and, upon reaching the street, had raced off in four different directions.

  James Kent had gone directly into the Black Swan tavern and had gulped down a large brandy to calm his nerves. James Green had returned to 23a Hanbury Street, intent on finding a piece of canvas with which to cover the body. Henry Holland had found a policeman in Spitalfields Market but the constable could not assist Holland because he was on fixed-point duty, with strict orders not to abandon his post under any circumstances. In the meantime, John Davis had gone straight to Commercial Street Police Station where he had reported his gruesome discovery.

  At 6. 02 a.m. and not long on duty, Inspector Joseph Chandler had paused at the corner of Hanbury Street and Commercial Street and had immediately been faced by several men rushing towards him. Hastily informed of a likely murder, Chandler had hurried along Hanbury Street and entered number 29, pushing his way through morbid bystanders who had since gathered in the passageway. Stepping down into the deserted backyard, he had been overwhelmed by nausea as he stared down at the horrendously mutilated body of a woman with a white and red bordered neckerchief knotted beneath her chin.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Escorted by Chandler, Holmes eases his way through the sullen crowd milling around the door of 29 Hanbury Street. A hand shoots out from the crowd and grabs him by the arm.

  Bullen grins, “Remember me, Mr Holmes? The Star newspaper. I interviewed you on your return from Switzerland.”

  Holmes raises a disapproving eyebrow, “You are mistaken, sir. You tried to interview me, but I declined the offer.” He jerks his arm away, “I dislike your impertinence now as I did then.”

  Guided by Chandler, Holmes steps from the pavement through the grimy door. Entering the gloomy passageway, he pauses and sniffs the air, [168]“Rancid meat.”

  Admiring Holmes’awareness,Chandler smiles and indicates a right-hand door, “A cat’s meat shop, Mr Holmes.”

  Holmes ruminates, “Ah, yes, the idiosyncrasy of the English. Even in poverty, they steadfastly feed their pets before themselves.”

  Chandler points past the staircase to the back door, “Straight ahead, Mr Holmes.”

  Holmes contemplates the staircase, “How many people live up there?”

  Chandler scratches the side of his face, “Fifteen, not counting Mrs Hardiman who lodges down here in the cat’s meat shop with her son.”

  Holmes frowns, “Discounting the kitchen, this house must have only seven rooms, and seventeen people reside here?”

  Chandler nods, “Packed like herrings in a barrel, Mr Holmes.”

  Holmes smiles, “Your colourful metaphor is most apt.”

  Pushing open the back door and nearly striking a kneeling Dr George Bagster Phillips on the left shoulder with its lower corner, Holmes is approached by Lestrade as Bagster Phillips studiously continues his examination of the corpse.

  Surprised at not seeing Watson with Holmes, Lestrade enquires, “Where’s Dr…?”

  Quickly emerging from behind Lestrade, Inspector Fell glares at Holmes, “Who invited you here?”

  Irritated by his tone of voice, Lestrade turns to Fell, “I invited Mr Holmes. He’s assigned to this case.”

  Fell haughtily sneers at Lestrade, “I should have been informed. Why wasn’t I told?”

  Lestrade scornfully snaps, “Would you like me to summon the Chief Commissioner to notify you? I believe he’s seeing the Home Secretary this morning.”

  Fell fumes, “H Division is my patch, Lestrade, not yours.”

  Holmes walks down the three stone steps into the yard, “My congratulations, Inspector Fell. It seems that the murderer has favoured you yet again. Perhaps he knew that your incompetence
would dispose of any crucial evidence he may have left behind.”

  Again, Fell glares at Holmes, “How can you be sure that it’s the same man?”

  Holmes stares intently at him, “Foolishness will not confirm the fact either way. Will it, Inspector?”

  Exasperated by the bickering, Dr Bagster Phillips rises from the corpse and turns to Lestrade and Fell, “Gentlemen, this will not do. I insist that the body be taken to the mortuary at once.”

  Feeling harassed and pointing to the prying faces of onlookers peering over the fence into the backyard, Lestrade growls at Fell, “Look, Inspector, you either clear this yard and get those people away from that fence, or the Chief Commissioner will want to know from Superintendent Arnold later today why a particular individual of H Division obstructed a murder inquiry.”

  Fell grimaces, “Are you threatening me, Lestrade?”

  Holmes interjects, “On the contrary, Inspector. Lestrade is trying to alert you. Sir Charles Warren is not a man to be provoked.”

  Immediately concerned with his own survival, Fell hurriedly turns to five police constables lingering in the backyard and barks, “You all heard the Inspector. Everyone out! And get those people away from the fence. I want the entire area cleared.”

  Hastily filing past Chandler standing in the doorway, the police constables depart the yard.

  Stepping past Holmes, Fell scowls, “Tread carefully, Mr Holmes.”

  Politely tipping his head, Holmes replies, “Fear not, Inspector, I intend to.”

  Seeing Fell leave the yard, Lestrade looks at Chandler and growls, “Stay there! And let neither hide nor hair past you.”

  Acknowledging the instruction, Chandler silently nods.

  Indicating Holmes to Bagster Phillips, Lestrade addresses the doctor, “This is Mr Sherlock Holmes, Dr Phillips. I’d like him to see the body.”