Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul

by Gordon Punter

  Appreciating the quip, Holmes chuckles, “My dear fellow, your obvious reluctance to embrace the truth implies that you have retained rubbish in the attic. Whereas I have done away with mine, leaving me with an impartial mind.”

  Watson huffs again, “And where should a person confine an erroneous belief, Holmes?”

  Holmes pensively strokes his chin, [211]“Metaphorically speaking?”

  Watson nonchalantly shrugs his shoulders.

  Holmes ripostes, “In the cellar, of course.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Returning to the present and with his face lit by the flickering flames of the fire, Holmes puffs on his pipe and, with clarity of thought, begins to ponder the murders. Mentally conversing with himself, he reflects, “The abduction of Watson, some five hours before the murder of Annie Chapman, is undoubtedly related to her death. Perhaps those of the other two women also. Seized whilst parted from me, his movements, as well as mine, must have been closely observed from the moment we had left our lodgings for the theatre. Granted, there had been other opportunities when he could have been taken, but evidently none had found favour with his abductors until last night. I believe his abduction was not committed by deranged individuals suffering from dementia, but quite the opposite. It was planned, arranged and perpetrated by a calculated mind. And therein lays the root cause of these terrible crimes.”

  Brushing tobacco ash from the lap of his dressing-gown with his hand, Holmes further reflects, “What kind of devilish mind could have contrived a diabolical scheme, whereupon destitute women were to be systematically slaughtered in the streets? Whom might dominate an obscene fraternity, wherein a heartless obedience binds all to commit such atrocities?”

  With a grim expression, he quickly stands, “At times the truth is never palatable, but I have to confess that I was entirely duped. I should be hung, drawn and quartered for such a monumental blunder. Moriarty, you are indeed the maestro of mayhem.”

  Ardently puffing on his pipe again, he begins to pace back and forth across the room, “Prior to meeting Moriarty in this very room, had I ever set eyes on him before? Of course not. Oh, the genius of the man. He had come not as himself, but rather had sent an impersonator. An emissary, if you will, who, by design, had led me on a merry dance halfway across the Continent to the village of Meiringen and the Reichenbach Falls. To my everlasting shame, in my haste to free the world of Moriarty, I had dispatched the impersonator to a watery grave, whose only crime appeared to have been a credible theatrical performance, presented solely for my benefit. Though I sensed at the time that all was not what it seemed, I had foolishly allowed myself to believe that Moriarty had been vanquished when, in fact, he had probably been close at hand, relishing the entire affair. With my thoughtless participation, he had instigated his own death, which had instantly freed him of any further investigation by myself or, indeed, Scotland Yard.”

  Returning to the armchair, he sits down, “The utter madness of it all. A [212]Vargulf, howling at the moon. Three women hideously slain. Their internal organs eviscerated. Watson abducted. All committed to encourage me to investigate the crimes. Even the initial M, which evoked his surname, was left behind to intrigue me further.”

  He leans back in the armchair and stares up at the ceiling, “But what is his ultimate intention?” Lowering his gaze, he looks forlornly at the fire, “At any time, Moriarty could have easily plunged a knife into my back and been rid of me. Instead, he has gone to considerable lengths to ensure that I am continuously tantalised by his butchery. For the sake of Watson, I am therefore obliged to remain a seemingly manipulated pawn in his monstrous scheme. But I will not rest until I have learned his true identity and forever put an end to his abominable activities.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Patronized and opened three years ago by Her Royal Highness [213]Alexandra, Princess of Wales, the Working Lads’ Institute, situated opposite the London Hospital in Whitechapel Road, is a charitable organization devoted to providing shelter for orphaned boys.

  Housed in a lofty building, containing the Alexandra room, which is actually a large hall often used by the local authorities for official proceedings, the institute has recently found itself in the unenviable position of accommodating the inquests into the deaths of Martha Tabram, Mary Ann ‘Polly’ Nichols and now Annie Chapman.

  Having presided over the former two and now the latter inquest, the Coroner for the County of Middlesex, forty-four-year-old Wynne Edwin Baxter, is flamboyant in nature, particularly in the clothes he wears.

  Chequered suits, spats and silk handkerchiefs are invariably the attire of the day. Extremely intelligent and very outspoken, he does not suffer fools gladly and, on occasions, has scolded witnesses in court, whose evidence, he feels, could have prejudiced members of the jury.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Entering the crowded noisy Alexandra room through its two open doors and noticing Lestrade and Chandler standing to the front of the court, Holmes approaches the two men and quietly remarks, “Filled to capacity, I see.”

  Lestrade scornfully indicates a row of seated journalists, pencils and notebooks at the ready, “We’re privileged, Mr Holmes. The leeches of Fleet Street.”

  Appreciating the quip, Holmes smiles and, inquisitively looking around the hall, sees Thomas Bullen leaning nonchalantly against a window sill, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief, holding neither pencil nor notebook.

  Holmes quizzically murmurs, “Most peculiar, indeed. A journalist who appears disinterested with the inquest.”

  Lestrade cocks his head, “What’s that, Mr Holmes?”

  Holmes responds politely, “My apologies, Lestrade. I was merely thinking out loud.”

  Lestrade stares at him curiously, “Not like you, Mr Holmes.”

  Holmes quips, “A momentary lack of discipline, Lestrade.”

  Squinting suspiciously, Lestrade queries, “Something to do with Dr Watson, is it?”

  Holmes raises an inquisitive eyebrow, “How perceptive of you, Lestrade.”

  Lestrade mutters, “Not really, Mr Holmes. His absence at your side is conspicuous, to say the least.”

  Emerging from an ante-chamber, Coroner Wynne Baxter enters the court.

  A gradual hush permeates the hall.

  Beneath a gilded-framed portrait of Princess Alexandra hanging on the wall, he seats himself at his desk and addresses the court, “We are here to decide upon the cause of death and who may have had a motive to commit such a barbarous act.” He turns to the jury, “You have heard the testimonies of several witnesses, some acquainted with the deceased, others who were not. You have learnt of her wretched existence and where and when she died. Suffice to say, death had occurred between half past five and six o’clock on the morning in question. But who had slain the unfortunate woman? In order to shed some light on the matter, the court recalls Dr George Bagster Phillips.”

  Slowly rising from his chair, Bagster Phillips respectfully tips his head to Wynne Baxter, “I am in the hands of the court, sir.”

  Almost in unison, the seated journalists begin to scribble in their notebooks.

  Observed by Holmes, Bullen remains impassive.

  Gazing at Bagster Phillips, Wynne Baxter utters, “You are indeed, Dr Phillips.” He picks up a hand-written transcript and holds it aloft, “When previously asked by this court to describe the mutilations inflicted upon the deceased, you had refrained from giving further testimony, saying, and I quote, ‘Such ghastly details would serve no purpose this side of Christendom’, unquote.”

  Placing the transcript upon the surface of his desk, Wynne Baxter stares at Bagster Phillips, “May I remind you, Dr Phillips, that this is not a church and I do not preach from the pulpit. We are here solely to determine the death of a woman hideously slain. Do you still intend to deny this court your medical testimony?”

  Leaning closer to Holmes, Lestrade whispers, “Bloody tenacious, isn’t he?”

  Holmes smiles, “A man after
my own heart.”

  Replying to the question, Bagster Phillips states, “It was never my intention to flout the authority of this court. Merely to spare the present honourable members the revulsion I myself had endured.”

  Wynne Baxter sighs, “A commendable sentiment, Dr Phillips. But is the court to hear the remainder of your testimony?”

  Bagster Phillips agitates, “If you insist, sir.”

  Wynne Baxter rejoins, “I do insist, Dr Phillips.”

  Bagster Phillips inhales deeply, “Very well.” He slowly turns to the jury, “The abdominal mutilations were inflicted upon the body after death and with a certain degree of anatomical skill.”

  Groans of incredulity resound from the back of the hall.

  Wynne Baxter strikes a circular hardwood block with his gavel, “Silence! I will not tolerate interruptions whilst the jury is being addressed.” He stares at Lestrade, “It is quite apparent that the testimony of Dr Phillips is going to be explicit in nature. Therefore, Inspector, kindly remove all women and children from the court.”

  Lestrade turns to Chandler, “Quickly as you can.”

  Aided by two police constables, Chandler begins to earnestly escort five ragged women and three shoeless children from the court. Clutching an infant to her breast, one of the women sneers at him, “No one sees ’im come. No one sees ’im go. Ask me, one o’ yer [214]bluebottles did ’er in.”

  Annoyed, Chandler seizes the woman by the arm and murmurs, “Maybe I’ll do you next.”

  The woman scoffs, “Save me a sleepless night under London Bridge, won’t it?”

  Ushering the woman from the room, Chandler closes the doors behind him.

  Wynne Baxter tips his head to Lestrade, “Thank you, Inspector.” He then turns to Bagster Phillips, “You may continue, Dr Phillips.”

  Clearing his throat, Bagster Phillips coughs, “The incision made to the front of the body avoided the rectum and divided the vagina low enough to prevent injury to the cervix uteri. The entire pelvic organs had been cut out and were found to be missing.”

  Wynne Baxter interjects, “Was the knife used on the abdomen the same as that used on the throat?”

  Bagster Phillips nods in agreement, “It must have been a very sharp instrument, with a narrow blade, six to eight inches in length, perhaps longer.”

  “Is it possible that a military man, using a bayonet, could have committed the atrocity?”

  “The instrument was not a bayonet.”

  “Could the knife have been an instrument used for post mortem examinations?”

  “The typical post mortem case does contain such a knife, yes.”

  Pensively, Holmes slowly strokes his chin.

  Wynne Baxter deliberately pauses so as to maximise the impact of his next question, “Dr Phillips, you have made it known to this court that, in your opinion, the perpetrator of this crime possessed a certain degree of anatomical skill.”

  Irritated, Bagster Phillips sighs, “It is not easy to remove the pelvic organs with the mere sweep of a knife.”

  Wynne Baxter presses his point, “A medical man, perhaps?”

  Reluctantly, Bagster Phillips concedes, “Someone with medical knowledge, yes.”

  Impatient to report the startling admission to their respective editors, the journalists hastily and noisily rise from their chairs. In their individual fervour to be the first person out of the hall, they jostle with one and other, pushing people aside.

  Incensed by the disturbance, Wynne Baxter again hammers the block with his gavel, “Order! Order! Order!”

  Lestrade wearily shakes his head and glances at Holmes, “That’s[215] gone and torn it. Now we’re looking for a doctor.”

  Recalling Watson and watching Bullen saunter from the court, Holmes murmurs, “Indeed we are, Lestrade.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Creating a relentless clatter by running their short sticks along the wrought-iron railings outside Leman Street Police Station, two[216] ragamuffins teasingly chant:

  “They’ve captured Leather Apron, yer must agree;

  ’E’s goin’ t’ meet ’is death, ’angin’ from a tree.”

  Helmetless and with his tunic partially unbuttoned, an incensed police constable darts from the entrance of the station and seizes the grubby boys by their collars.

  Fuming, he snarls, “You haven’t been up all night, have you?”

  Exchanging nervous glances, the boys timidly shake their heads.

  He snarls again, “Well, I have. Traipsed the streets to protect your hides. [217]Rained cats and dogs, it did. Was about to [218]steal a nap and then you come along with your bleeding rat-a-tat-tat.”

  Releasing the boys, he grabs their sticks, snaps them in two and tosses the broken pieces into the street, “Go on, hop it before I show you the inside of a cell.”

  Relieved to have simply got away with a reprimand, the boys scarper.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Inside the police station, to its rear, Detective Sergeant Leach guides Lestrade down a short flight of stairs towards a closed door, “Where’s Mr Holmes, then? He’s assigned to this case, isn’t he?”

  Lestrade pauses by the door, “Mr Holmes is apt to pursue one line of inquiry whilst I follow another.”

  With a smidgen of sarcasm, Leach replies, “Commissioner must think he’s smarter than we are, right?”

  Ignoring the remark, Lestrade indicates the door, “Why did you bring him here?”

  Leach raps on the surface of the door with his knuckles, “If we’d taken him to the nick in Commercial Street, chances are a mob might have tried to lynch him.”

  From inside the room, Police Constable Knowles opens the door. Smartly stepping aside, he reveals John Pizer seated at a table with Police Constable Brice standing behind him.

  Leach enters the room and exclaims, “Your lucky day, John. Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard to see you.”

  Swiftly standing, Pizer bows reverentially to Lestrade, “John Pizer famous now, yah?”

  With an incredulous expression, Lestrade glances at Leach.

  Amused, Leach smiles, “Known John nigh on fifteen years. He’s quite harmless, really.”

  Lestrade sighs, “Then why am I here?”

  Leach stiffens, “Chief Superintendent Arnold’s orders. You’re to question any suspect we might bring in.”

  Shaking his head in disbelief, Lestrade snaps, “Who’s next?”

  Leach stammers, “Beg your pardon, Inspector?”

  Exasperated, Lestrade inhales deeply, “A lot of people who live in Whitechapel are like him, Jewish. Why not bring all of them in for questioning?”

  Leach stammers again, “But…”

  Lestrade raises a silencing hand, “All right, all right. Let’s get on with it.”

  Noticing a leather apron and a rolled-up piece of canvas upon the table, Lestrade motions Pizer to sit, “Been fed, have you?”

  Pizer sits and nods, “Yah! Soup, bread.”

  Lestrade stares at Leach, “Got that one right, didn’t you?”

  Feeling scolded, but remaining in the room, Leach quietly closes the door.

  Looking at Knowles and Brice, Lestrade barks, “Notebooks. Write everything down.”

  Promptly removing notebooks from the breast pockets of their tunics, the two police constables flick them open whilst licking the tips of their pencils.

  Sitting opposite Pizer, Lestrade unrolls the piece of canvas and reveals four short bladed knives, “These were found in your room. Under your bed, to be exact.”

  Picking up one of the knives, Pizer fingers its blade fondly.

  Knowles and Brice exchange tense glances.

  Calmly, Lestrade retrieves the knife, “Yours, right?”

  Pizer blurts, “Yah, yah.”

  Placing the knife down next to the other three, Lestrade queries, “What do you use these for?”

  Pizer grins, “Tools. I shoemaker.”

  Lestrade taps the leather apron with his finger, “And
this?”

  Pizer continues to grin, “Yah, I use. No cut leg.”

  Adopting a fatherly tone, Lestrade murmurs, “Ever threatened a woman with a knife, John?”

  Pizer baulks, “Yah, when?”

  Lestrade sighs, “Answer the question, John. Have you ever used a knife to threaten a woman?”

  Pizer shakes his head vigorously.

  Keeping his eyes on Pizer, Lestrade rolls up the piece of canvas, “Where were you on the mornings of August seventh, thirty-first and September the eighth?”

  Pizer grins again, “Yah, like yer.”

  Sternly, Lestrade advises, “Don’t play games, John.”

  Trying to find the words by which to express himself, Pizer pleads, gesticulating wildly with his hands.

  Lestrade resumes his fatherly tone, “Settle down, John. Take your time.”

  Pizer stutters, “Sleepin’, like yer.”

  “Where?”

  “’Olloway Road.”

  “Holloway Road?”

  “Yah, ’Olloway Road. Round ’Ouse.”

  Lestrade looks at Leach, putting his next question to him rather than Pizer, “The Round House. A doss-house?”

  Leach nods, “A witness has verified that he lodged there on two of the dates.”

  Pizer confirms, “Yah, first, second mornin’.”

  Lestrade turns to him, “And September the eighth?”

  “’Ulberry Street.”

  “Mulberry Street, where you were picked up?”

  Pizer grins yet again, “Yah, people now know John Pizer.”

  Outside the room, the knuckles of a clenched hand rap hastily on the surface of the door. Opening it, Leach reveals Chandler, lowering his arm, standing beside Mrs Elizabeth Long.

  Rising quickly from his chair, Lestrade smiles at her, “Ah, Mrs Long. Good of you to come.” He indicates Pizer, “Have you ever seen this man before?”

  Sniffling due to her cold, Mrs Long steps into the room, stares at Pizer, turns to Lestrade and shakes her head.