Holmes stares at the hot coals in the grate, “And would such a mind derive pleasure, committing murder with an accomplice?”
Deliberating, Sleeman slowly leans back in his armchair, “Yes, I don’t see why not. But that would indicate a ruthless intellect. An individual who merely murders hapless women to advance a scheme he has devised. Who knows? Perhaps the disappearance of Dr Watson is part of the scheme, too, Mr Holmes.”
Holmes smiles, “You are to be congratulated, Dr Sleeman. Your [193]hypothesis is worthy of note, but we have deviated somewhat from my original question as to why the murderer removed the pelvic organs from the body and took them away.”
Sleeman deliberates again, “If we accept my hypothesis, then in this particular case, removing the organs from the body hardly suggests a motive for murder.”
Holmes interjects, “Precisely, Dr Sleeman. The organs were removed as part of an overall strategy to ensure that the murder received our utmost attention. A tantalising ruse intended to tease a comparable intellect, if you will.”
Baffled by the comment, Sleeman frowns, “Can you be more exact, Mr Holmes?”
Intent on leaving, Holmes stands and tersely replies, “It is about luring the prey, Dr Sleeman. And if I am to bring an end to these atrocious crimes, it would appear that I have no other alternative but to rise to the bait.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Similar to the vast number of Jews who had fled Eastern Europe to escape the violent ethnic persecution which had pervaded the Russian Empire some two decades ago, John Pizer, like so many displaced inhabitants of Poland, had arrived in the East End of London in 1867, then aged seventeen.
Speaking only Yiddish, a dialect derived from archaic German, and consisting of Polish, Russian and Hebrew words, Pizer and his countrymen were perceived as illiterate outsiders by the local populace, who accused them of stealing their jobs and pushing up rents through a willingness to live in overcrowded conditions.
Jewish sweatshops emerged and began to offer menial jobs, whilst other industrious Jews spread out across the entire district, etching out a living as tailors, costermongers, cobblers, furriers, tanners and kosher butchers. This ability to fend for themselves in a foreign land, whilst perpetuating their own distinctive culture, did nothing to endear them to the local community, who continued to view all immigrants, particularly Jews, with suspicion and hostility.
Towards the end of June of last year, an event had occurred at 16 Batty Street, Commercial Road, which had further strained the tenuous union between the Jews and the rest of the inhabitants of the area.
Miriam Angel, a young Jewish woman six months pregnant, had been murdered whilst she had lain in her bed. Her murderer, a twenty-two-year-old Polish immigrant named Israel Lipski, formerly Israel Lobulsk, had crept into her room and had poured aquafortis, prussic acid, down her throat. Roused by her agonising screams, other lodgers had rushed into the room to find Miriam dying and, hidden beneath her bed, Israel Lipski, who had attempted to kill himself by swallowing the same poison.
Arrested, tried and hung two months later, Israel Lipski had acquired contemptible fame when his surname was adopted by the majority of East Londoners as a term of derision which is still used today to insult or humiliate any Jew.
A month before Israel Lipski was executed, John Pizer had been convicted at Thames Magistrates Court of stabbing James Willis, a fellow boot maker, in the hand and sentenced to six months imprisonment with hard labour. In August of this year, and three days before Martha Tabram was found murdered in George Yard Buildings, he had been charged at the same court with indecent assault, involving an eleven-year-old boy, but on this occasion he was found to be innocent and had been discharged.
Immediately after the murder of Annie Chapman and believing that no Englishman could have perpetrated such a horrible crime, the local residents, further fanning the fires of anti-Semitism, had pointed a judgmental finger at John Pizer, now nicknamed Leather Apron, accusing him of being the Whitechapel murderer.
The prospect of falling victim to the vengeance of a baying mob terrified Pizer more than being sought by the police. Thus, he had gone into hiding, securing refuge with his mother.
Now aged twenty-eight and with a rudimentary grasp of the English language, it is also rumoured that he has a cruel sardonic expression and is known to loathe prostitutes.
On the south side of Whitechapel Road and not far behind the Church of St Mary Matfellon, with its unique exterior pulpit and inner White Chapel from which the district had derived its name, is Sion Square, which leads directly into Mulberry Street.
There is an air of industry about Mulberry Street, which is mainly occupied by immigrant workers employed in the boot, shoe and slipper trade. The bulk of the footwear produced in this unassuming street is destined to be worn on the stage in London theatres.
Accompanied by Police Constables Knowles, Brice and Allen, Detective Sergeant Leach, wearing his proverbial tall-crowned bowler hat, pushes his way through a crowd of people impatiently jostling with one another outside the terraced house of 22 Mulberry Street.
A slovenly skeletal man, John Skinner, tauntingly nudges Leach on the arm, “’E’s at ’ome, guv’nor. An’ if yer don’t take ’im, we’ll ’ave ’im.”
Leach earnestly turns to Knowles, Brice and Allen, “Keep these [194]blighters back. Any trouble, use your truncheons.”
Hurriedly positioning themselves between the belligerent crowd and the house, the three police constables start to push back the agitators.
Stepping towards the house and noticing the street door has no knocker, Leach hammers on its surface with his fist, “Police! Open up!”
Raising a first-floor window, an elderly woman pops her head out and peers down at Leach, “Yah, ’bout time.” She indicates the crowd, “Look at ‘em, they’re mischief. Want t’ ’urt me boy.”
Leach politely removes his hat, “John at home, is he, Mrs Pizer?”
Hurled from the midst of the crowd, part of a brick shatters a window pane just above the head of Mrs Pizer, who promptly withdraws from view, slamming the window shut.
Turning on his heel and replacing his hat, Leach glowers at the hushed crowd as Knowles, Brice and Allen draw their truncheons.
Spotting Skinner smirking, Leach bellows, “You! Come here!”
Timidly obeying and ambling forward, Skinner snivels, “Weren’t me, guv’nor. I ain’t the one wot threw it.”
Leach seizes him by the lapel of his ragged jacket, “What’s your name?”
Skinner squirms, “John Skinner, guv’nor.”
Leach breathes in his face, “I know your kind, John Skinner. [195]All piss and wind. Daresay you wouldn’t [196]throw a plank of wood to a drowning man, would you?”
Misinterpreting the analogy, Skinner grins stupidly, “Right yer are, guv’nor. Wouldn’t [197]’arm a fly.”
Leach sniffs the air and frowns, “Don’t wash either, do you?” He shoves Skinner back and points at him warningly, “Be about your business, John Skinner, or it’s the [198]local nick for you.”
Skinner begins to skulk away, [199]tail between his legs.
Addressing the crowd, Leach shouts, “I’ve decided to give you the afternoon off. Go home, there’ll be no lynching today.”
Mumbling amongst themselves, the crowd reluctantly begins to disperse.
Knowles, Brice and Allen respectively return their truncheons to the long trouser pockets of their uniforms.
Turning to the street door, Leach again hammers on its surface, “Police! Open up!”
Once more raising the first-floor window and poking her head out, Mrs Pizer peers down at Leach, “Yah, me people say this land safe. ’Ere people kind. ’Ow yer say? [200]Tosh, all lies.”
Leach sighs, “Send your son down, Mrs Pizer. He’ll be safe with us. You have my word.”
Leaning out of the window and craning her neck, Mrs Pizer looks up and down the partially deserted street. Satisfied that the rabble has departed,
she again withdraws from view, slamming the window shut.
Quickly peering over his shoulder at the three constables, Leach enjoins, “Come closer, lads, he might make a run for it.”
Unbolted from the inside, the street door slowly opens, revealing the beardless face of John Pizer.
Leach smiles, “Hello, John. Shaved your beard off, I see.”
Pizer nods, “’Ow yer know I were ’ere, Mr Leach?”
Leach wiggles the lobe of his ear, [201]“A little bird whispered in my ear. Said I’d find you at home, having tea with mum.” He indicates Knowles, Brice and Allen, “These constables are here to make sure you don’t do anything silly, John.”
Pizer grins, “Take me, Mr Leach. Make John Pizer famous.”
Glancing at Knowles and Brice, Constable Allen blurts, “He’s as [202]mad as a March hare.”
Leach petulantly turns to Allen, “Maybe so, son. But that doesn’t mean he’s the murderer.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Previously described by Watson as ‘six dirty little scoundrels who stood in line like so many disreputable statuettes’, the Baker Street Irregulars are a gang of street urchins frequently employed by Holmes when engaged on a case. The crafty leader of this group of scallywags is eleven-year-old Hobart Wiggins, whom Holmes, on this occasion, has instructed to track down the cab and driver that had taken Watson from the Royal Adelphi Theatre to 221b Baker Street, where, apparently, he had never arrived.
Furtively standing beside Holmes in a doorway near the corner of Earlham Row and Seven Dials, Wiggins indicates an overhead sign, Shipley’s Yard Depot, Hackney Carriage Co. Ltd, across the street and whispers, “’E’s in there, Mr ’Olmes. Samuel Wensley. Cab number 1729.”
Holmes gives the boy a shilling coin, “You are as [203]sharp as a needle, Wiggins. Well done!” He then hands him a [204]guinea piece, “A further reward, and justly deserved.”
Quickly slipping the coins into a side pocket of his trousers, Wiggins stares at Holmes enquiringly, “Anyfink else, Mr ’Olmes?”
Holmes smiles mischievously, “When next I need your assistance, I will send for you.”
Touching the peak of his cap, Wiggins skedaddles.
Striding across the street, Holmes hurriedly passes through two large open gates beneath the overhead sign. Entering a spacious cobbled yard reeking of animal urine and dung, he halts abruptly, confronted by a burly man, Rufus Stockmar, scolding cabby Edwin Fletcher.
Stockmar prods Fletcher in the chest with his finger, “Fares are found in the street, not in ’ere. Late agin, an’ yer out on yer ear.”
Fletcher pleads, “It’s me ol’ woman, innit? ’Ad a [205]barney wiv ’er last night. She took off an’ ’asn’t come ’ome. Been out an’ ’bout all mornin’ lookin’ fer ’er.”
Stockmar sneers, “Git yerself ’nother woman.” He points to an unbridled horse, uncoupled from its vehicle, “’Arness up, or ship out!”
Fletcher grudgingly turns away, muttering to himself.
Promptly stepping forward, Holmes makes his presence known to Stockmar, “Good afternoon.”
Stockmar stares at him, “No fares in ’ere, sir. Yer’ll ’ave t’ wait outside in the street.”
Amused by the misconception, Holmes smiles, “Thank you, but a cab is not required. Merely a few minutes alone with Samuel Wensley. Vehicle number 1729, I believe.”
Stockmar gazes at Holmes suspiciously, “Who are yer?”
Holmes introduces himself, “Sherlock Holmes.”
Familiar with the name, Stockmar stammers, “O’ Baker Street?”
Holmes nods, “221b, to be exact.”
Stockmar grins, “Yer a bit o’ a detective, ain’t yer?”
Holmes modestly tips his head, “I need your assistance.”
Puckishly, Stockmar winks, “Samuel Wensley, right?”
Appreciating his response, Holmes nods again.
Stockmar indicates a row of cabbies, coupling and harnessing horses to their vehicles, “This way, Mr Holmes.”
Escorting Holmes along the line, Stockmar murmurs, “Samuel’s a good man, Mr Holmes. Been wiv us fer seven years. Never ’ad a complaint.”
Holmes replies, “I seek only information from him, not his head.”
Consoled, Stockmar hollers at the cabbies, “Fares are found in the street, not in ’ere. Evening shift in five minutes.” Seeing Wensley grooming his horse, Stockmar hollers again, “Oi, Samuel, someone t’ see yer.”
Intrigued, Wensley turns about, removing hair from the bristles of his grooming-brush.
Stockmar indicates Holmes, “Mr Sherlock Holmes.”
Wensley thoughtfully stares at Holmes and then suddenly blurts, “O’ course, the Royal Adelphi, right?”
Stockmar chuckles, “Samuel never fergits a face, Mr Holmes.”
Pleasantly surprised, Holmes smiles, “Thankfully not.”
Producing his pocket watch, Stockmar stares at the piece, “Try not t’ keep ’im too long, Mr Holmes.”
Agreeing, Holmes politely tips his hat.
Striding back along the yard, Stockmar bellows, “All right, yer bloody [206]’eathens, time t’ earn the rent.”
Holmes turns to Wensley, “There were two of us.”
Wensley shakes his head, “Na, guv’nor, three.”
Acknowledging his error, Holmes murmurs, “Ah, yes, Lestrade. Now, the other gentleman?”
[207]“’E were a sport. Gave me a shillin’ [208]tip, ’he did.”
“Did you take him straight home?”
“Well, yeh an’ no, guv’nor.”
“Come, come, Mr Wensley. Was it yes, or was it no?”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Driven by Wensley, the cab turns from Oxford Street into Baker Street. Hearing a thumping noise coming from within the vehicle, he brings the cab to a halt and opens the small hinged flap built into its roof. Watson gazes up at him, “It is a fine evening, I will walk the rest of the way.”
Wensley frowns, “But we’re almost there, guv’nor.”
Watson chirpily hops out of the cab, “Exercise is good for the heart. It invariably keeps one alive.”
Wensley closes the flap, “If yer say so, guv’nor.”
Watson gently pats the rump of the horse, “That’s why this fellow is healthy. Plenty of exercise.” He pauses for thought, “However, he does have four legs. A distinct advantage over us, wouldn’t you say?”
Wensley chuckles, [209]“One an’ six, guv’nor.”
Watson tosses him a coin, “The rest is for your inconvenience.”
Catching the half-crown piece, Wensley utters his appreciation, “Gawd bless yer, guv’nor.”
Leaving Wensley, Watson merrily strolls along the pavement and begins to hum part of the Berceuse recital.
Manoeuvring his cab to turn it around, Wensley catches sight of a ‘growler’ which, upon emerging from Portman Square, begins to silently follow Watson down the street.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
The horse raises its head, snorts and shakes its harness. Wensley gently strokes its forehead, “Whoa, boy. Steady.”
Holmes tensely stares at him, “Was there any other vehicle in the street?”
Wensley shakes his head, “Just me an’ the growler. As it got alongside the gentleman, its door swung open.”
Holmes queries, “And…?”
Wensley shrugs his shoulders, “Dunno, guv’nor. Turned me cab ’round. Didn’t see nothin’ else.”
Impatiently, the horse stomps its hoofs and nudges Wensley in the back with its muzzle.
He chuckles, “I ought t’ be on the road.”
Holmes gives him a coin, “You have been most helpful.”
Taking the coin and showing his gratitude, Wensley tips his hat, “Gentleman a good friend, is ’e, guv’nor?”
Holmes affirms, “Yes…very.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Wearing his mouse-coloured dressing-gown, Holmes closes the window drapes and, apart from the flickering glow cre
ated by the burning fire in the grate, plunges the sitting-room into near total darkness. Picking up his cherry-wood pipe and lighting it, he sits in an armchair and begins to exhale smoke. Reminiscing, he recalls a discussion he had with Watson not long after they had moved into 221b.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
“My dear fellow, at birth the human mind is like an empty attic. As we grow and develop, we have a tendency to clutter the attic with rubbish. Upon reaching adulthood, we should have cleared the attic, but alas, in most cases, the rubbish remains. It is this clutter, which I so abhor, that prevents people, regardless of race, from acquiring knowledge.”
Seated in an armchair opposite Holmes, Watson lowers his newspaper and picks up his pipe, “Perhaps we should refurbish the Empire, Holmes?”
Disregarding the remark, Holmes continues, “Foreign to some, and brushed aside by those who favour an impulsive tongue, knowledge or pure reason, without emotional intrusion, is a point of consciousness that all can attain, but few do, Watson.”
Lighting his pipe, Watson leans back in his chair, “In addition to your eccentric habits, Holmes, you can be an uncompromising individual at times.”
Holmes smiles, “Similar to Charles Darwin, Watson?”
Watching blue smoke rise from his pipe, Watson murmurs, “All our ancestors were apes? Nonsense, Holmes.”
Holmes raises a quizzical eyebrow, “So, Watson, you believe we descended from two naked lovers frolicking about in the [210]Garden of Eden?”
Watson huffs, “Darwin’s theory is too radical. He could have easily proposed earthworms instead.”
Holmes smiles again, “On the contrary, his evolutionary concept of natural selection is not merely a theory. Amassed over a period of twenty-eight years, his research has shown that the origins of life are a fact. And I expect that, one day, it will be acknowledged as so. Although I rather suspect that our ecclesiastical establishment will forever remain entrenched in the Garden of Eden.”
Watson sighs tetchily, “They used to burn people like you at the stake, Holmes.”
Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul Page 16
