Warmly responding to his compliment, she smiles, “Yer a good man, Jacob, even if yer do look a bit [248]funny.”
Whittle chuckles, “A right bleedin’ pair, ain’t we? Yer black an’ blue, an’ me wiv no eyebrows. Made fer one ’nother, I’d say.”
Elizabeth thoughtfully sips her drink, “Where’d we go?”
Whittle swallows a mouthful of ale, [249]“Chiswick.”
“Chiswick? That’s a [250]posh area, innit?”
“’Eard o’ it, then?”
Elizabeth lowers her glass, “Why there?”
Whittle grins, “New ’ousehold. Got meself a job. Stable groom.”
Elizabeth is impressed, “’Ave yer, now?”
Whittle nods, “There’s a job fer yer, too. If yer want it?”
Inquisitively, Elizabeth cocks her head, “Doin’ wot?”
“Chambermaid.”
Forgetting her bruised jaw, Elizabeth gulps down the remainder of her drink, “D’yer fink I could do it?”
Whittle smiles fondly, “A neater, cleaner woman never lived.”
Elizabeth becomes downcast, “’E’d come after me.”
Whittle leans closer to her, “Use yer ’ead, Liz. Throw ’im off track. Let it slip t’ a friend, yer goin’ to Bognor.”
Elizabeth interjects, “Where?”
Whittle continues, “Bognor Regis, West Sussex. It’s on the coast.”
Elizabeth giggles, “’E’s never been t’ the seaside. Maybe ’e’ll drown ’imself?”
Whittle finishes his ale, [251]“Good riddance, yer ask me.”
Elizabeth slams her glass down on the table, “Yer’ve talked me int’ it, Jacob. Treat me fair an’ square an’ I’ll abide by yer.”
Whittle smiles, “A woman wiv gumption, I like that.” He slides his empty ale glass aside, “Meet me top end of Commercial Street t’morrow mornin’ at ten. Then we’ll pop ’cross t’ Chiswick t’ see the ’ousehold butler. Name’s Mr Mercer, nice bloke.”
[252]Tickled pink, Elizabeth leans closer to him and mischievously whispers, [253]“Want t’ dip yer wick?”
Whittle sighs, “Chambermaids don’t work the streets, Liz.”
Elizabeth sniggers, “Yer daft bugger, I know that. Want t’ thank yer, don’t I?”
Quickly won over, Whittle picks up his billycock hat, “Somewhere quiet, mind yer.”
Gaily emerging from the tavern and confronted by the pouring rain, Elizabeth and Whittle halt in the doorway.
Whittle sighs, “Give it a miss, shall we? Don’t want yer stood in the street, up agin a wall, gettin’ soaked.”
Amused by his concern, Elizabeth titters, “Dutfield’s Yard ’as an ol’ sack shed at the back. We’ll go there.”
In an attempt to escape the rain, two dockside labourers, John Gardner and Jack Best, race around the corner from Fordham Street and rudely begin to push past Elizabeth and Whittle to gain entry to the tavern.
Gawking at her bruised face, Gardner blurts, [254]“Stone the crows! Who ’it yer?” He glances at Whittle, “’Im?”
Elizabeth snaps, “None o’ yer bleedin’ business, is it?”
Following Gardner, Best shoves past Elizabeth, “A night out wiv Leather Apron, is it?”
Whittle watches the two men disappear through the door of the tavern, “Say anyfink but their prayers.”
Checking the rain, Elizabeth extends her hand, palm up, “’Ere, it’s our lucky night, innit?”
Whittle gazes at the night sky, “Eased off, ’as it?”
Elizabeth nods, “Drizzle.” She suggestively slips her arm through his, “Let’s not dally.”
Jovially, Whittle starts to sing a popular music hall song, “Me ol’ man said, ‘Foller the van, an’ don’t dilly dally on the way’.”
Elizabeth joins in, “Off went the van wiv me ’ome packed in it, I follered on wiv me ol’ cock linnet…”
Singing heartily, they begin to stroll off towards Commercial Road and Berner Street just beyond, “But I dillied an’ dallied, dallied an’ I dillied, lost me way an’ don’t know where t’ roam.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
With Lestrade standing beside him, Holmes intently stares at the two sheets of paper laid out upon the table, “You will observe, Lestrade, that the handwriting is neat, which indicates a formal education. Its melodramatic prose, however, suggests a writer who has abandoned the classics in favour of sensational literature. The use of red ink, for instance.” He leans forward and examines the letter with his magnifying glass, “Six words, ‘wont’, ‘shant’, ‘cant’, ‘ladys’, ‘wouldnt’ and ‘wasnt’ do not have apostrophes. But ‘knife’s’, ‘don’t’ and ‘I’m’ do. Which tells us what, Lestrade?”
“He’s tried to imitate a person of the lower class.”
Irked by the discriminatory remark, Holmes sternly replies, “Well, that is one way of putting it, Lestrade.”
Lestrade coughs, “A slip of the tongue. I’m sorry, Mr Holmes.”
Holmes continues, “Which belies his own penmanship, Lestrade. He writes regularly, probably for a living.” He picks up the envelope and indicates the E. C. postmark, “East Central London.” He hands the item to Lestrade, “Fleet Street lies within the area, does it not?”
Lestrade glances at the postmark, “Are you saying a journalist wrote this letter?”
Holmes impatiently points to the address on the envelope, “If the author had indeed been an ordinary person, he would have sent the missive to the local police, newspaper or, perhaps, to an individual of some standing, but not to the Central News Agency, which is scarcely known outside the journalistic world of Fleet Street. There is, of course, the possibility that the letter was written by someone from inside the agency. But such an act would be tantamount to [255]shooting oneself in the foot, as the handwriting would be instantly recognized by his own editorial staff.” He raises a tutorial finger, “However, there is more.”
Turning away from Lestrade, Holmes again leans forward and peers through his magnifying glass, “‘Boss’, ‘fix me’, ‘shant quit’ and ‘right away’ are American idioms. Whoever wrote this letter has mixed with our cousins on the other side of the Atlantic.”
Thoughtfully staring at the envelope, Lestrade slowly scratches his face, “Then why was it sent to the Central News Agency?”
Holmes glances over his shoulder at him, “Maximum exposure, Lestrade. By tomorrow morning, every London newspaper will have a facsimile of this letter, sold to them courtesy of the Central News Agency.”
Acknowledging the rationale, Lestrade nods.
Quickly slipping the magnifying glass into the pocket of his dressing-gown, Holmes picks up the second sheet of paper, “Under normal circumstances, I would be inclined to dismiss this form of communiqué as a practical joke.” Handing the sheet to Lestrade, he indicates the final sentence, “But for this.”
Lestrade peruses the line. They say I’m a doctor now ha. ha.
Holmes strokes his chin, “The inclusion of that sentence is meant to throw us off the track. To persuade us that Jack the Ripper is not a doctor.”
Lestrade muses, “Whereas you think the opposite is true?”
Holmes nods, “I believe the murderer, who is not the journalist, masquerades as a doctor. And in order to further conceal his true identity, he may also adopt another disguise to commit murder.”
Lestrade tetchily sighs, “Oh, really? And how did you come by that information?”
Holmes gives the first sheet of the letter back to Lestrade and walks to his armchair, “A two-pronged attack is required, Lestrade. You seek out the journalist and I will concentrate on the doctor.”
Lestrade slips the two sheets of paper into the envelope, “That now brings the number to three, Mr Holmes.”
Holmes sits, “Yes, Lestrade. Three conspirators.”
Seating himself opposite Holmes, Lestrade sighs, “I don’t know, Mr Holmes. First you say the killer has a female accomplice and now you imply a journalist abets him as well.�
�
Holmes places a few lumps of coal upon the fire, leans back in his chair and nods, “A journalist who has attempted to convince us that Jack the Ripper is a lone wolf. But in doing so, has unwittingly furnished us with clues by which we may solve these murders.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Barely audible, singing emanates from the rear of the corridor. Hutt wearily rises from his stool and saunters across to a locked cell. Moving aside a small circular cover on the door, he peers through a peephole into the room. Sitting on the edge of the bed with her head drooped, Catharine softly sings to herself.
Hutt hammers on the door, “You all right, missus?”
Catharine lifts her head, “I need the [256]lavvy.”
Sympathetic to her plight, Hutt informs Catharine, “There’s a pot in the corner, use that.”
Catharine slides off the bed, “Not wiv yer lookin’ at me, I won’t.” She stands unsteadily, “When yer goin’ t’ let me out?”
Slipping the circular cover back over the peephole, Hutt replies, “When you’re capable of taking care of yourself.”
Catharine stoops and picks up the soiled chamber pot. Raising her apron, dark green skirt and grey petticoat, she shakily places the pot between her legs, “If I can [257]squirt in this, an’ don’t keel over, I’m ready t’ go ’ome.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Laughing, Elizabeth and Whittle disappear into the shadows of Hampshire Court, an alleyway situated beside the Red Lion tavern in Batty Street. Gradually emerging from the court, halfway down Berner Street, they pause and gaze at Dutfield’s Yard, merely five houses away on the opposite side of the street.
Elizabeth giggles and quips, “’Ome sweet ’ome.”
Whittle indicates a fruiterer’s shop, one house past the yard and next door to the Lord Nelson tavern, “Fancy some fruit?”
Elizabeth playfully nudges him in the arm, “Yeh, grapes. [258]Plums, yer ’ave.”
Sauntering across the wet street, Elizabeth and Whittle sidle up next to the raised window of the shop. Seated behind a sparse display of fruit, a white-haired Matthew Packer slavishly grins at the couple, “Ain’t much left.”
Elizabeth eagerly points to a box of black grapes, “’Em do!”
Packer teases her, “’Ole box?”
Elizabeth burps, “Yer daft bugger. Wot’d I do wiv a ’ole box?”
Taking a silver coin from the pocket of his trousers, Whittle smiles at Packer, “Keep the box, we’ll ’ave a bunch.”
Packer tears the page of a newspaper in half, “Wrapped?”
Elizabeth quickly extends her hand, “I’ll ’ave ’em fresh.”
Placing a stem of grapes on the torn page of the newspaper, Packer hands them to her, [259]“Thru’pence.”
Whittle gives Packer the coin, “Ta, mate.”
Plucking a grape from the stem, Elizabeth places the fruit in her mouth, bites it and sighs with delight, “Oooh, juicy.”
Turning away from the shop, Elizabeth and Whittle stroll towards Dutfield’s Yard. Hurrying along the pavement with head bowed, a slovenly Horace Welch approaches the couple from the opposite direction. Upon nearing Elizabeth and Whittle, he sidesteps them, recognizes Elizabeth, but does not acknowledge her. Pausing at the door of the Lord Nelson tavern, he slyly watches Elizabeth and Whittle halt outside the yard, devouring the grapes.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Shoving his way through raucous revellers, Welch reaches the bar and purchases a pint of ale. Attracted by boisterous singing, he swallows a mouthful of beer and makes his way to the rear of the tavern. Seated at the small circular table, Kidney and Skinner drunkenly sing:
“She died o’ a fever an’ no one could save ’er
An’ that were the end o’ sweet Molly Malone.
But ’er ghost wheels ’er barrow
through streets broad an’ narrow.
Cryin’ cockles an’ mussels alive, alive-oh.
Alive, alive-oh.
Alive, alive-oh.
Cryin’ cockles an’ mussels, alive, alive-oh.”
Rowdily applauding their gusto, revellers raise their glasses and cheer. Belching, Skinner heartily slaps Kidney on the back, “A fine Irish song, mate, but I ain’t breath fer more.”
Kidney laughs hoarsely, “Molly Malone. [260]Dublin born an’ bred. There’s a lass who’d put [261]lead in yer pencil.”
Skinner chuckles, “That’ll be the day. She ain’t real. Never lived, mate.”
Feeling belittled, Kidney retaliates, “’Ow d’yer know? A bleedin’ ’istory book, are yer?”
Shuffling over to the table, Welch meekly stares at Kidney, “I’ve seen somefink yer ought t’ ’ear ’bout.”
Despising Welch, Kidney mocks him, “Welch by name, [262]Welch by nature. Wot yer seen?”
“Yer ol’ woman.”
Immediately incensed and leaping from his stool, Kidney grabs Welch by the collar, causing him to spill some of his beer, “Where?”
Welch stammers, “Two doors from ’ere. Dutfield’s Yard.”
Kidney sneers, “Anyfink else?”
“Wiv a bloke, ain’t she?”
Fuming, Kidney pushes Welch away.
Rising from his stool, Skinner murmurs to Kidney, “She’s takin’ the piss, mate. Want t’ give the bloke a ’idin’, I’ll stand watch.”
Kidney picks up his glass and gulps down the remainder of his ale, “It ain’t ’im who gets a ’idin’, it’s ’er.” He slams the glass down on the table, “Come on.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Ambling past Elizabeth and Whittle, Israel Schwartz, a Hungarian Jew who speaks little or no English, collides with both Kidney and Skinner as the pair exit the tavern. Cruelly elbowing Schwartz in the chest, Kidney growls, “Lipski!” Fearful of further violence, Schwartz flees. Turning the corner into Fairclough Street, he runs towards the relative safety of his lodgings in Back Church Lane.
Seeing Elizabeth and Whittle standing outside the yard, Kidney indicates the School Board building across the street to Skinner, “Over there, on the corner.” Skinner begins to have qualms about Kidney, “Just a ’idin’, mate. [263]Nothin’ serious, eh?”
Kidney pushes him out into the street, “Keep watch.”
Positioning himself on the corner opposite the tavern and trying to appear inconspicuous, Skinner nervously lights his clay pipe.
Oblivious to impending danger, Elizabeth and Whittle continue to consume the grapes. Seeing her shiver, Whittle queries, “Cold?”
Chewing, Elizabeth jibes, “Someone just stepped [264]on me grave.”
Whittle grins suggestively, “Finish the grapes, I’ll warm yer up.”
Darting past the fruiterer’s shop and the adjoining house, Kidney lunges at Whittle, grabs him by the shoulder and savagely thumps him in the face. Startled at first and then terrified, Elizabeth drops the remainder of the grapes.
Throwing Whittle back against the brickwork of the house, Kidney produces a horn-handled clasp knife. Flicking open a six inch blade and using its tip, he taps the end of Whittle’s nose, “Lost yer eyebrows, I see?” He jabs Whittle in the crotch, “Want t’ loose yer [265]manhood, too?”
Overwhelmed by fear, Whittle urinates in his trousers.
Kidney disdainfully turns to Elizabeth “An’ yer’d ’ave ’im over me?” He throws a punch and strikes her in the face. She collapses to the pavement, squashing fallen grapes on the ground beneath her body. Seizing Whittle by the throat, Kidney snarls, “On yer way, mate. Ain’t nothin’ t’ see ’ere.”
Bolting, Whittle scarpers back up the street. Upon reaching a narrow arch, he turns left and disappears into Batty’s Gardens. Stooping, Kidney grabs Elizabeth by her hair and drags her into the yard.
Driving his two-wheeled cart harnessed to a pony along Commercial Road, a young Russian Jew, Louis Diemschutz, turns the vehicle into Berner Street. Steward of the International Working Men’s Educational Club, Diemschutz is also a hawker of cheap jewellery. Intent on safely dep
ositing his unsold wares with his wife at the club before stabling his pony elsewhere, he manoeuvres the cart down the cobbled street towards Dutfield’s Yard.
Seeing Diemschutz, the pony and the cart clattering towards him, Skinner anxiously taps the bowl of his pipe on the heel of his boot, clearing the receptacle of tobacco ash. Slipping the pipe into the pocket of his jacket, he darts across the street to the entrance of the yard. Confronted by impenetrable gloom, he whispers, “We’re [266]tumbled, mate. Someone’s comin’.”
Emerging from the darkness, Kidney closes the bloodied blade of his knife. Skinner blanches, “I said, nothin’ serious, mate.” Kidney seizes him by the lapel of his jacket, “One word t’ the bogies, yer wind up like ’er.” Relinquishing his grip, Kidney pushes Skinner along the pavement towards the tavern, “We’ll go way of Fairclough.”
Nearing the yard, Diemschutz catches sight of what he believes are two drunken men leaving the Lord Nelson tavern and turning right into Fairclough Street.
He turns his cart to enter the yard.
Chapter 9
Night of the Signs
Catharine hammers on the cell door with her fist, “Oi, let me out! I want t’ go ’ome.”
Unlocking the door, Hutt informs her, “After you’ve given your name and address to the sergeant upstairs.”
Stepping out of the cell, Catharine chirps, “Wot we waitin’ fer, then?” She follows Hutt along the corridor, “Wot’s the time?”
He wearily glances at her, “Too late for you to get more drink.”
Catharine sighs, “I don’t need drink, just the time.”
Hutt indicates the clock affixed to the wall, “One o’clock.”
She pauses apprehensively and makes a reference to her male companion John Kelly, “I’ll git a right bleedin’ [267]’iding when I git ’ome. Likes me in by nine, don’t ’e?”
Motioning her to keep walking, Hutt retorts, “Serve you right. You shouldn’t get drunk.”
Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul Page 20
