Bagster Phillips respectively tips his head to Holmes, “A pleasure, Mr Holmes. But I warn you, prepare yourself.”
Moving aside, he reveals the corpse.
Staring at the body, Holmes stiffens.
Lying on her back, in the recess between the stone steps and the paling fence, with her long black coat, brown bodice and black skirt soaked in blood, is the body of the murdered woman. Positioned close to the rear of the house, her head is turned to the right, with tongue protruding from the mouth of her swollen face. Her parted legs, clothed in red and white striped woollen stockings, are drawn up, but both feet rest upon the ground and point straight towards the woodshed at the end of the backyard.
There is a pronounced bruise on her right temple, another on her upper eyelid, another on her cheek and yet another two inches below the lobe of her left ear. Next to this bruise are three distinct scratches that run in the opposite direction to the deep incision of the throat, which encircles her entire neck down to the vertebrae.
Bent and bloodied at the elbow, her left arm lays across her left breast, whilst her right arm remains straight at her side.
Her abdomen is entirely laid open. The intestines, severed from their mesenteric attachments, are on the ground above her right shoulder, and just above her left shoulder lays a portion of the stomach.
Lestrade edges closer to Holmes, “She was found here some three hours ago. I didn’t want her moved until you’d seen her, Mr Holmes.”
Holmes glances at Lestrade, “By whom?”
Lestrade strokes his moustache, “A carman by the name of John Davies.” He indicates the top of the house, “He lives up there on the third floor with his wife and three sons.”
Holmes stares enquiringly at Lestrade, “Now, Lestrade, this is extremely important. Has the woman been identified yet?”
Lestrade nods, “Some fifteen minutes ago. A woman friend of hers. Said her name’s Annie Chapman.”
Fleetingly registering disappointment, Holmes ponders.
Noticing his expression, Lestrade queries, “Why should her name be of any significance, Mr Holmes?”
Ignoring the question, Holmes crouches and thoughtfully gazes at a piece of muslin, a small tooth comb and a pocket comb arranged neatly upon the ground by the feet of the body.
Squatting beside Holmes, Lestrade stares at the items, “He’s a queer one, Mr Holmes. First he makes a right bloody mess of her, then he goes and does this, all neat and tidy, like.”
Pensively, Holmes murmurs, “The murderer taunts us, Lestrade.”
Lestrade muses, “Something like a cryptic message, is it?”
Holmes jovially claps his hands together, “Lestrade, you exceed yourself. Take the first letter of each item and what does it give you?”
Lestrade sighs wearily, [169]“A slip of the tongue, Mr Holmes. I was merely jesting.”
Holmes is persistent, “Oh, come, come, Lestrade. I know my methods can appear somewhat unorthodox at times. But the first letter of each item, please.”
Lestrade reluctantly relents and, feeling utterly foolish, stammers, “M, material. C, comb. C, comb.”
Holmes smiles, “Excellent, Lestrade. However…” He fingers the piece of muslin, “The material is coarse.”
Lestrade blurts, “Another C?”
Holmes nods, “Yes, Lestrade. Now, say the first three letters.”
Lestrade sighs, “Ah, come, Mr Holmes. He’s not that clever?”
Holmes sternly replies, “Oh, yes, he is, Lestrade. He is very clever. Now please indulge me. The first three letters, if you will?”
Again, Lestrade relents and mutters, “See, see, see.”
Holmes is jubilant, “Or, look, look, look.”
Lestrade shakes his head, “And what are we supposed to be looking for?”
Holmes cheekily retorts, “Why, his name, of course.”
Lestrade indicates the corpse, “Amongst this?”
Holmes raises a bemused eyebrow, “Where else?”
Bagster Phillips crouches and looks at Holmes admiringly, “Your methods are quite intriguing, Mr Holmes. How may I assist you?”
Carefully lifting the left hand of the body, Holmes points to an abrasion on the knuckle of the third finger, “A ring, or rings, have been wrenched from this finger.”
Bagster Phillips nods in agreement, “The abrasion over the head of the proximal phalanx would indicate so, Mr Holmes.”
Holmes lowers the hand, “Brass rings, if I am not mistaken.”
Lestrade chuckles mockingly, “Another little supposition of yours, Mr Holmes?”
Irked by the remark, Holmes snaps, “You see all, yet you observe nothing, Lestrade. Impoverished people cannot afford to purchase gold or silver, only brass. Whoever took the rings from this poor woman is of the same class. A person who deems brass valuable. Why else take it?”
Scolded, Lestrade points to the three items on the ground, “I thought you said he was clever?”
Holmes nods, “He is, but whoever took the rings from the finger is not.”
Lestrade blanches, “Good Lord, Mr Holmes, do you know what you’re saying?”
Astonished, Bagster Phillips queries, “Two people committed this murder?”
Holmes nods again, “The murderer had an accomplice.” He points to the three scratches below the lobe of the left ear, “What do you think caused these scratches, Dr Phillips?”
Bagster Phillips leans closer, “Fingernail scratches. I believe the murderer placed his left hand over her mouth, sinking his fingernails into her skin. Then, with his right hand, he strangled her.”
Holmes indicates the tongue protruding from the mouth, “I agree with your prognosis, Dr Phillips. The thickening of the tongue supports the case for suffocation.” He gazes at the blood smeared swollen face, “And then she struck the fence before she fell?”
Bagster Phillips straightens his back, “Or she was laid down. The murderer pushed her chin up with the palm of his left hand and then cut her throat once from left to right. Carrying on round the entire neck, he sliced through the muscles to the vertebrae and almost severed her head.”
Lestrade interjects, “What type of knife might have been used?”
Bagster Phillips contemplates the question, “A narrow-bladed knife, such as a slaughterman might use.”
Lestrade pursues the question, “A surgical knife, perhaps?”
Bagster Phillips musingly strokes his grey beard with finger and thumb, “A post mortem knife would have been sharp enough to remove her organs.”
Holmes attentively pricks up his ears, “Do you mean removed from the body, or taken from this yard?”
Bagster Phillips stands and rubs his aching knees, “I believe, Mr Holmes, that an autopsy will confirm the majority of her pelvic organs are missing.”
Shocked, Lestrade stands bolt upright, “My God! What manner of man are we looking for, Mr Holmes?”
Holmes raises a censorious eyebrow, “God has nothing to do with this, Lestrade. Divine intervention, as conceived by mankind, does not exist and therefore cannot solve this case. Only an entire analysis of the facts will.” Carefully slipping his hand beneath the blood-matted hair of the woman’s head and touching something, he exclaims, “Ah, ah!” Removing the torn corner of an envelope, he stands, shakes a few pills from it and gives them to Bagster Phillips, “Common medication, Dr Phillips?”
Bagster Phillips inspects the pills, “They are consumption opiates which can ease coughing. In life, she must have suffered from an infection of the lungs.”
With an enquiring expression, Lestrade turns to Bagster Phillips, “She was dying before she was murdered?”
Bagster Phillips nods in agreement.
Turning over the piece of envelope, Holmes stares at a large capital W, scrawled in red crayon upon its surface. Immediately reminded of his missing friend and associate, Holmes murmurs, “Watson.”
Lestrade frowns, “I beg your pardon, Mr Holmes?”
Rotating the scrap o
f paper, Holmes reveals a large capital M to Lestrade.
Lestrade gawks, “The murderer’s initial? You’re right, Mr Holmes. He’s mocking us.”
Holmes concurs, “M might be the first initial of his surname, or he could be telling us that he committed the previous two murders as well. Bragging, if you like.”
Lestrade frowns again, [170]“You’ve lost me, Mr Holmes.”
Holmes hands the piece of envelope to Lestrade, “In addition to the fact that all three women were throttled, what other curious similarity connects Martha Tabram, Mary Ann Nichols and Annie Chapman together?”
Intently staring at the initial again, Lestrade mutters, “M, Martha. M, Mary.” He hesitates and then suddenly blurts, “Good Lord, Mr Holmes, he christened Annie Chapman M.”
Holmes tersely raises his finger, “Similarity reveals familiarity. The murderer, or accomplice, knew the deceased. Only by knowing her in the first place could they amend her name.”
Bagster Phillips politely interrupts, “If you are finished, Inspector, I suggest that we have the body moved to the mortuary.”
Nodding, Lestrade looks up at Chandler and barks, “Fetch two constables and move her to the hand-cart ambulance.”
Chandler hurriedly turns on his heel and disappears along the passageway.
Putting on his black silk top hat, Bagster Phillips tips his head to Holmes, “Your inference has been most enlightening, Mr Holmes.”
Holmes courteously responds, “I trust we may meet again, but in more pleasant circumstances, Dr Phillips.”
Acknowledging Lestrade, Bagster Phillips leaves the yard.
Lestrade thoughtfully strokes his moustache with the knuckle of his finger, “So, Mr Holmes, we’re looking for a murderer and an accomplice.”
Holmes interjects, “A man and a woman, Lestrade.”
Lestrade stammers incredulously, “A woman…?”
Holmes indicates the corpse, “The fingernail scratches on the side of the neck were inflicted by a woman whilst she strangled the deceased. The same woman also wrenched the brass ring, or rings, from the finger, taking away the paltry object as a keepsake. Perhaps the organs were removed from the body for the same reason.”
Lestrade shakes his head in disbelief, “I’m a practical man, Mr Holmes. Where do I search for these two people?”
Holmes smiles, “In Spitalfields, of course.”
Lestrade frowns once more, “You’ve lost me again, Mr Holmes.”
Holmes patiently sighs, “The three murders occurred within a short distance of each other. In Spitalfields, to be precise. I believe if you consult a map, the area in question is about a quarter of a square mile. Concentrate all your efforts there, Lestrade, for that is where I suspect the murderer and his accomplice will be found.”
Noticing something lying upon the ground beneath the solitary dripping tap, Holmes quickly kneels and fingers the edge of a leather apron saturated with water, “Something a slaughterman would wear and recently scrubbed clean, I do believe?”
Lestrade hovers at his side, “You don’t think the murderer wore this and then paused to wash it after he’d killed Annie Chapman, do you?”
Holmes frowns, “What an absurd idea, Lestrade.”
Lestrade chuckles, “I jest again, Mr Holmes. The apron belongs to John Richardson. He’s the landlady’s son. Seems he washed the apron yesterday and left it here to dry overnight.”
Holmes slowly stands, “Our yellow press will undoubtedly want to create a ghoulish pseudonym for the murderer. I suspect the name of this article might be used to that effect, Lestrade.”
Lestrade pensively strokes his chin with his finger, “Got me there, Mr Holmes. Hadn’t thought of that one.”
Thinking of Watson, Holmes walks to the stone steps, “Now, if you will excuse me, an altogether different matter has arisen which demands my immediate attention.”
Lestrade agitates, “Why, Mr Holmes?”
Holmes pauses, “Why, what, Lestrade?”
Lestrade sighs wearily, “Why butcher these women in public? What’s the motive?”
Holmes solemnly replies, “A worrying question, indeed, Lestrade. And a conundrum that has continually occupied my mind since the murders began.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Lying on the bed and covered by the frayed blanket, Mary slowly opens her eyes and gazes at the faded pattern of the wallpaper, which is hardly discernible beneath the dirt. She wearily sighs and then clamps her hand over her mouth, stifling a yawn so as not to wake Elizabeth sleeping beside her.
Wearing a cotton blouse and a [171]linsey-woolsey skirt, she slides out from beneath the blanket and, placing her bare feet on the dirty floorboards, shivers. Snatching a knitted red shawl from the back of a chair, she quickly wraps the piece around her shoulders.
Silently slipping her feet into a pair of worn elastic [172]gusset boots, Mary looks to the furthest window, where closed curtains dim the daylight, and disdainfully glares at Barnett seated on a chair, slumped over the wooden table, snoring.
Quietly leaving the room and pulling the door shut behind her, she scampers into the dingy outer recess and quickly operates the hand-pump, splashing cold water on her face. Shivering again, she wipes her face with the shawl, hurriedly turns and almost bumps into an elderly Mary Ann Cox, timorously scurrying past her towards her room at the far end of the court.
Perplexed by the pallid expression of the emaciated woman, Mary blurts, “Gawd luv us, Coxey! Seen a ghost, ’ave yer?”
Lost in fearful thought and oblivious to the comment, Mary Ann Cox continues on to her room.
Feeling slighted, Mary hollers, “Cat got yer tongue, ’as it?”
Mary turns on her heel and, tightly clutching the shawl around her shoulders with both hands, hurries past the door of her room, down the narrow covered passage, and once through the arch, abruptly halts, immediately struck by the unusual sight of solemn people, silently ambling along the pavement either side of Dorset Street in the drizzling rain.
She frowns and then murmurs, “Summut’s up.”
Adjacent to the arched entrance of Miller’s Court and with his shirtsleeves rolled up, Thomas Bowyer steps out of the chandler’s shop and, stooping, picks up an open crate of apples, which has recently been delivered and set down on the pavement.
Spotting Mary, he yells, “Oi, Kelly! McCarthy wants t’ see yer.” He motions his head towards the open door of the shop, “Inside.”
Snubbing Bowyer, she brazenly helps herself to an apple from the crate, rubs the fruit on her shawl and enters the shop to see John McCarthy, nearly twice her age, lolling behind the counter, casually flicking through the pages of a ledger.
Indicating the street with her thumb, Mary snaps, “It’s like a funeral parlour out there. Why’s everyone so bleedin’ miserable?”
McCarthy sombrely looks up from the ledger, [173]“Dark Annie were cut t’ pieces in ’Anbury Street last night. Bleedin’ ’orrible, like.”
Aghast, Mary drops the apple.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Lying on her side and gradually stirring from her sleep, Elizabeth drowsily opens her eyes and hazily catches sight of Barnett still slumped over the table, snoring. Having no recollection of Barnett, or indeed whose room she is in, Elizabeth tosses aside the blanket and sits bolt upright.
Barnett grunts in his sleep.
Groggily rising from the bed, she totters forward, yanks open the door and, assailed by daylight, shields her eyes with her hand.
Lurching along the covered passage and experiencing nausea due to lack of nourishment, Elizabeth staggers aimlessly into the street, stumbles and falls to the ground.
Almost immediately, a hefty woman, wearing a damp shawl over her head, looms above her and blurts, “Yer a sight fer sore eyes. Stuck me nose in every [174]nook an’ cranny, lookin’ fer yer. ’Eard Mike Kidney gave yer a beatin’ yesterday. Thought ’e’d cut yer up in ’Anbury Street, ’til I found out it were Annie Chapman.”
Aga
in shielding her eyes with her hand, Elizabeth looks up and recognizes the friendly face of Elizabeth Tanner, who helps to run a doss-house located at 32 Flower and Dean Street.
Elizabeth pleads, “Oh, Mrs Tanner,[175] I’m sixes an’ sevens. Dunno where I’ve been, dunno where I’m goin’.”
Kneeling in front of Elizabeth and examining her face, Tanner indicates the arched entrance to Miller’s Court, “Bet the Irish lass gave yer shelter fer the night. Generous t’ ’er own kind, she is.”
Tanner gently touches Elizabeth’s face, particularly her bruised jaw, “’Urt, does it?”
Elizabeth winces and then nods.
Tanner is scornful of Michel Kidney, “’E’s a [176]swine. Sooner or later, ’e’ll git ’is [177]comeuppance. Best yer stay away from ’im, luv.”
Elizabeth wearily sighs, “’E’ll come after me. Always does.”
Standing and assisting Elizabeth to her feet, Tanner urges, “Let’s git ol’ man Hobbs down at the infirmary t’ take a look at yer jaw an’ then afterwards yer might be able t’ eat summut, all right?”
Perking up, Elizabeth nods in agreement.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Entering the chandler’s shop and placing the crate of apples down upon another, Bowyer glances at Mary and then looks at McCarthy still behind the counter, “One crate short, guv’nor.”
McCarthy fumes, “Git down the market an’ find out where it is. Tell Fairclough it’s ’nother crate or ’e don’t git paid.”
Hastily rolling down his shirtsleeves, Bowyer quickly slips his hand behind the open door and snatches his jacket from a wall hook.
Slowly stepping out from behind the counter, McCarthy barks at Bowyer, “An’ no stoppin’ off at the Ringers on the way.”
About to leave, Bowyer meekly touches the brim of his tatty bowler hat, “Right yer are, guv’nor.” Pulling on his jacket, he strolls out of the shop and promptly disappears along the street.
Stooping, McCarthy retrieves the dropped apple from the floor, rubs its green skin against his open waistcoat, bites into the fruit and, rotating the ledger upon the counter, murmurs, “Let’s see…”
Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul Page 14
