♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Lurching drunkenly from the Bull Inn tavern into Aldgate High Street, Catharine starts to imitate a steam fire engine. Shaking an imaginary bell-cord with her hand, she hollers, “Ding! Ding! Ding!”
Attracted by her antics, a small crowd begins to gather.
Breathlessly giggling at their gawking faces, she retches, and then suddenly overwhelmed by her alcoholic intake, topples back, strikes the shutter of a warehouse and collapses to the pavement.
Pushing his way through the crowd, City Police Constable Louis Robinson looks down at Catharine and wearily shakes his head. Crouching beside her, he gently enquires, “Can you stand?”
Grinning, Catharine slurs, “If me legs will ’old.”
Assisting her to her feet, Robinson leans Catharine back against the shutter and lowers his hands.
Aghast, she cries, “Me legs! They’ve gone!” Her eyes rolling, she collapses again, sliding down the shutter to the ground.
Drawn to the commotion and shoving people aside, City Police Constable George Simmonds sidles up next to Robinson. Staring at the crumpled figure of Catharine, he murmurs, “Best we get her to Bishopsgate Street Police Station, Louis.”
Wary of the crowd, Robinson nods in agreement, “You take one arm, I’ll take the other.”
Together, the two constables haul a semi-conscious Catharine to her feet. Catching a whiff of her breath, Simmonds groans, “Smells like she swallowed the whole bleedin’ brewery.”
Robinson shakes his head despondently, “You’d think, with a maniac on the loose, some of ’em would learn.”
Simmonds glances at Catherine, head lolling, “If a [236]dray ran over this one, doubt she’d feel a thing.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Alone in her room at 13 Miller’s Court, Mary kneels before the blackened fireplace, places her hands close to the embers in the grate and warms them.
Outside the room, the knuckle of a finger raps lightly upon the surface of the door.
Mary sighs dolefully and slowly stands.
Indifferently straightening her cotton blouse and long skirt, she brushes back her light ginger hair with both hands, then pulls open the door to reveal McCarthy, anxiously glancing back and forth along the darkened court, holding a small package wrapped in newspaper.
Popping her head out of the room and mimicking his behaviour, Mary quips, “’Fraid the neighbours might see yer, eh?”
McCarthy chuckles, [237]“Yer’ve got a ’ead, lass. I like that.”
Mary shivers, “Comin’ in, or wot? It’s bleedin’ cold out ’ere.”
Stepping into the room, McCarthy places the package on the table next to a solitary lit candle, “’Ungry, are yer?”
Closing the door, Mary nods, “Starvin’!”
Unwrapping the package, McCarthy leers, “Turn the key. Don’t want ol’ Mother Cox [238]breezin’ in, do we?”
Smelling cooked food, Mary hurriedly picks up a key from the bedside table and locks the door.
McCarthy indicates the package, now unwrapped, “Fried fish, baked potato.”
Her appetite aroused, Mary edges closer to the table.
Producing a metal flask from the inside pocket of his jacket, McCarthy triumphantly holds it aloft, “An’ from the [239]Emerald Isle, fine Irish whiskey.”
Powerless to resist the temptation, Mary snatches the flask from him, unscrews its top and swallows a mouthful of liquid. Relishing its taste, she exults, “Well, Mr McCarthy, yer know ’ow t’ treat a lady, don’t yer?” Returning the flask to him, she makes a grab for the food.
McCarthy blocks her movement, “That I do, lass. But d’yer know ’ow t’ treat a man such as meself?”
Mary takes a step back, defiantly placing her hands on her hips, “Twenty-nine shillings I owe yer. ’Alf a crown fer an ’our a day will wipe the slate clean in a fortnight, right?”
McCarthy laughs, “A ’ead fer figures, too.” He takes a swig from his flask and sits on a chair beside the table, “An’ wot ’ave yer got t’ offer me?”
Understanding his insinuation, Mary hesitates.
McCarthy stares at her lasciviously, “Nothin’ personal, lass, just business.” He indicates the fish and potato, “Want it ’ot, or cold?”
Thoughtfully, Mary chews her bottom lip.
Relenting, she rapidly removes her blouse, [240]chemise, skirt and undergarments, depositing them on the floor.
Ogling her slightly plump body, McCarthy exclaims, “Just as the Almighty intended.” Putting his flask down on the table next to the food, he grins, “I agree yer terms.”
Remaining naked, Mary darts forward and begins to wolf down bits of fish, whilst breaking open the crispy skin of the baked potato.
McCarthy rises from the chair, removes his jacket and, standing behind her, unfastens his trousers, [241]“Back scuttle, lass.”
Chewing, Mary places her elbows on the table and arches her body.
Thrusting forward, McCarthy penetrates her anus.
Mary winces, but the discomfort is brief, dispelled by the taste of hot food washed down with whiskey from the flask.
Moving back and forth, McCarthy groans, “This way, yer’ll clear yer debt, an’ I won’t git the pox.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Having laboriously hauled a partially conscious Catharine along the thoroughfare of Houndsditch to Bishopsgate Street Without, Robinson and Simmonds drag her through the two street doors of Bishopsgate Street Police Station, located close to the eastern boundary of the City of London and Whitechapel.
Adjusting his tilted helmet, Robinson presents Catharine to Desk Sergeant James Byfield, “Drunk and disorderly. Found her lying on the pavement outside 29 Aldgate High Street.”
Solemnly opening a ledger, Byfield dips the nib of his pen into an inkwell and addresses Catharine, “Name?”
Supported by Simmonds, Catharine blurts, “Nuffink’.”
Placing his pen beside the inkwell, Byfield closes the ledger and stares at the two constables, “All right, lads, take her down.”
Thankful that they will soon be rid of the burdensome Catharine, Robinson and Simmonds quickly usher her down a flight of stone steps into a corridor lined with open cell doors on either side.
Seeing a napping, helmetless George Henry Hutt seated on a stool with arms folded, Robinson yells, “Wake up, George. We’ve brought you a customer.”
Hutt opens his eyes and yawns, “Any cell. They’re all free.”
Simmonds indicates Catharine, “First one tonight, is she?”
Standing, Hutt straightens his tunic and glances over his shoulder at a clock affixed to the wall, “Won’t be the last, neither.”
Impatient to return to his beat, Robinson snaps, “Ah, come on, George, which one?”
Hutt points to a cell at the rear of the corridor, “In there.”
Pushing Catharine forward, Robinson and Simmonds shove her into the cell.
Hutt slams the door shut and despairingly shakes his head, “It’s only eight forty-five. Her kind must drink all bleeding day.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Seated in an armchair at 221b Baker Street and grateful for the warmth of the fire, a wet Wiggins begins to eagerly scoff a toasted muffin offered to him by Holmes.
Smoking his cherry-wood pipe and pensively sitting opposite the boy, Holmes places an empty plate down on the carpet next to his foot, “So, the growler remains elusive?”
Munching, Wiggins pauses, “Elucifer, Mr ’Olmes?”
Holmes chuckles, “Elusive, Wiggins. Difficult to find.”
Wiggins nods, “Yer can say that agin. Covered this side o’ the city, like yer said. No one knows nothin’.”
Holmes exhales bluish smoke, “Then you will have to narrow your search. Concentrate on Whitechapel.”
Wiggins finishes the muffin, “Down East?”
Holmes elucidates, “Spitalfields, to be precise.”
Licking his fingers, Wiggins rises from the chair a
nd puts on his cloth cap, “I’m on me way, Mr ’Olmes.”
Holmes lowers his pipe, “Though the matter demands a sense of urgency, I did not mean this instant, Wiggins.”
Wiggins grins mischievously, “Late at night is best, Mr ’Olmes. Git a cab master on ’is own an’ ’e’ll [242]natter fer ’ours.”
Placing his pipe in an ashtray, Holmes retrieves the plate from the floor, [243]“Straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak?” Standing, he gives Wiggins a shilling coin, “Something for your troubles.”
Wiggins promptly pockets the coin, “Ta, Mr ’Olmes.”
Pausing before the closed apartment door, Holmes hands the plate to Wiggins, “Please give this to Mrs Hudson on your way out.”
Wiggins takes the plate and, signifying compliance, touches the peak of his cap with his finger.
Opening the door, Holmes is confronted by Lestrade standing before him, removing his bowler hat.
Inquisitively glancing at Wiggins, Lestrade stares at Holmes, “An inopportune moment, Mr Holmes?”
Holmes responds, “On the contrary, Lestrade, Master Wiggins is about to leave.” He looks at Wiggins and teasingly murmurs, “This gentleman is from Scotland Yard. Now run along before he arrests you.”
Clutching the plate, Wiggins bolts from the room.
Watching the boy dart down the stairs, Lestrade sighs, “Ho, ho, ho. Very funny, Mr Holmes.”
Holmes stands to one side, allowing Lestrade to enter, “Mettle, Lestrade. And Master Wiggins possesses it.”
Not amused, Lestrade sullenly steps into the room, “Dr Watson still absent, is he?”
Holmes quietly closes the door, “Surely you have not come here at this late hour merely to enquire after the good doctor?”
Quickly turning on his heel, Lestrade rejoins, “For all you know, I might have some information on his whereabouts.”
Holmes stiffens apprehensively, “I am in no mood for games, Lestrade.”
Lestrade moderates his approach, “Correct me if I’m wrong, Mr Holmes, but along with you, did not the Commissioner also assign Dr Watson to me?”
Raising a quizzical eyebrow, Holmes nods in agreement.
Lestrade continues, “Since then, I have not seen hide nor hair of him. And to be frank with you, that worries me. In the scheme of things, I can be held accountable for his behaviour. From the look on your face and the tone of your voice, I’d say Dr Watson is not here. I’d say, in fact, he’s missing.”
Holmes confesses, “I have underestimated you.”
Lestrade sighs, “People often do, Mr Holmes.”
“Do I have your confidence, Lestrade?”
“Yes, but do not ask me to break the law.”
Tensely, Holmes informs him, “Dr Watson has been abducted.”
Lestrade hastily gives his bowler hat to Holmes and then begins to remove his damp overcoat, “This is going to take a bit longer than I thought.”
Holmes continues, “He was seized a few hours before the death of Annie Chapman, which would indicate that his disappearance is somehow related to her murder. Perhaps the other two poor women as well.”
Lestrade hands his overcoat to Holmes, “And you don’t know who took him?”
Hanging the coat and hat on a hook beside the door, Holmes directs Lestrade to an armchair, “He was abducted in Baker Street. By whom remains a mystery for the moment.”
Lestrade sits, “Well, then. Let’s use some good old fashioned guesswork to solve the riddle, shall we?”
Holmes seats himself opposite Lestrade, “Conjecture based on a lack of evidence is apt to lead one up a [244]blind alley, Lestrade.”
Leaning forward, Lestrade warms his hands in front of the fire, “We’re all being led to believe that the Whitechapel murderer is a doctor. Therefore, it stands to reason that when we catch him, he’ll turn out to be a doctor. Possibly Dr Watson.”
Thoughtfully, Holmes picks up his pipe from the ashtray, “So, in order that the good doctor can be falsely accused of murder, he was abducted?”
Lestrade leans back in the armchair and nods.
Lighting his pipe, Holmes exhales smoke, “And what evidence might be used to incriminate him?”
Lestrade strokes his moustache, “If he were to be found at, or close to, the scene of the next murder with a knife in his hand, that’d be enough.”
“Caught red-handed, so to speak.”
Lestrade grimly stares at Holmes, “And if that were to happen, Mr Holmes, your reputation would be in tatters, and my career at Scotland Yard could be at an end.”
Holmes lowers his pipe, “I share your concern, Lestrade, but if you are indeed correct, then the good doctor is in no immediate danger. However, any undue haste on our part could alter the situation and imperil his life. A risk I am not prepared to take.”
Lestrade sighs impatiently, “So we’re to wait until Dr Watson is tossed back into our laps, is that it? We’re to wait until Jack the Ripper hacks another penniless whore to pieces.”
Holmes frowns, “Who?”
Taking the envelope, postmarked with the initials E. C., from the inside pocket of his jacket, Lestrade hands it to Holmes, “This is the real reason for my visit tonight.”
Puffing on his pipe, Holmes carefully removes the two sheets of paper from the envelope and begins to read.
25 Sept. 1888
Dear Boss
I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they wont fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. I am down on whores and shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I cant use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope ha. ha. The next job I do I shall clip the ladys ear off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldnt you. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work then give it out straight. My knife’s so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good luck.
Yours truly
Jack the Ripper
Don’t mind me giving the trade name
Wasnt good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands curse it. No luck yet. They say I’m a doctor now ha. ha.
Holmes stares at the address written on the envelope and then taps the second page of the letter with the end of his pipe, “Jack the Ripper. A fitting pseudonym, indeed. But then the English have always had a peculiar fondness for the name of Jack. Jack Tar, Jack-in-the-box, Jack of all trades and, of course, Jack Frost.”
He pauses for thought and then murmurs, “That is a clue in itself. The writer must be of this country, versed in our idiosyncrasies.” He looks at Lestrade, “Scoundrels such as Jack Ketch, Jack Sheppard and Spring Heeled Jack also spring to mind. Strangely enough, Jack Sheppard was born in White’s Row, Spitalfields. During his short life as a burglar, pamphlets, songs, pantomimes, and even church sermons praised his ability to escape from any gaol where he had been incarcerated at the time. He finally paid the ultimate price. Hanged at Tyburn, November 1724.”
Restless, Lestrade fidgets, “Mr Holmes, can you please dispense with the history lesson?”
Putting down his pipe, Holmes grips the first sheet of paper with both hands, holds it against the light of the fire and examines it. He disappointedly shakes his head. Promptly repeating the process with the second sheet, he suddenly exclaims, “Ah, ah!”
Lestrade quickly leans forward, “What is it?”
Swiftly picking up his magnifying glass, Holmes peers through the device, scrutinising the sheet of paper, “Part of a watermark, but it is indistinct. We will learn nothing from that.”
Lestrade sighs despondently.
Rising from his armchair, Holmes slips the magnifying glass into the pocket
of his dressing-gown and hurries to the dining-table.
Along with the envelope, he places the two sheets of paper upon its surface and beckons Lestrade, “Come, Lestrade. Now let us see what the writer of the letter never intended us to see.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Several yards past Berner Street and then Batty Street, on the opposite side of Commercial Road, is Settles Street. Apart from its name, there is virtually nothing to distinguish this dismal street from other streets in Whitechapel.
About halfway along the street, and situated on the corner with Fordham Street, the Bricklayer’s Arms tavern is the redeeming feature of Settles Street. Although comparatively small, the tavern has a genial atmosphere, where a woman can meet a friend for a cosy chat, secure in the thought that she will not be propositioned, unless, of course, she willingly invites it.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Shorter than Elizabeth, the distinctive feature of Jacob Whittle is his brow. He has no eyebrows. This is the direct result of ectodermal dysplasia, a rare congenital disease which affects certain parts of the skin and prevents the growth of hair.
Whittle lowers his ale glass, leans closer to Elizabeth and caringly murmurs, “Come away wiv me, an’ yer’ll be rid o’ ’im.”
Mindful of her bruised jaw, Elizabeth dips two fingers into her glass of gin, daubs her lower lip with the fluid and, with the tip of her tongue, savours the alcohol, “Git [245]’itched, like?”
Whittle nods, [246]“I’d treat yer fair an’ square.”
Elizabeth snorts, “Me, treated fair an’ square? That’ll be the day.” She shoves her face forward, “Look at me! Call this fair an’ square, d’yer?”
Whittle snaps, “I ain’t [247]mutton jeff, yer know?” He indicates other patrons in the tavern, “Nor ’em, too. Want the ’ole world t’ ’ear yer took a beatin’?”
Miffed, Elizabeth leans back in her chair, clutching her glass of gin.
Appeasingly, Whittle again murmurs, “Yer a lady, Liz. Yer ought t’ ’ave a better life.”
Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul Page 19
