Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul

by Gordon Punter

  Collard stares at Lestrade and begins to relax, “I’d be grateful for any assistance, Inspector.”

  Aware that he has no authority in the City of London, Lestrade evades the proposal, “I’m not saying Mr Holmes is God Almighty, but I am in his hands.”

  Agreeing, Collard nods and then turns to Holmes, “I hope you have a [275]strong stomach, Mr Holmes?”

  Holmes counters, “In the pursuit of criminals, one learns to be insensitive to many things, Inspector. A defiled corpse being but one.” He indicates Dr Brown and Dr Sequeira, kneeling beside the body, “Shall we proceed, Inspector?”

  Holmes, Lestrade and Collard approach Dr Brown, who stands suddenly, shaking his head in disgust, “This is outrageous! How can one human being do this to another? It is atrocious.” He curtly lambasts Holmes, “This woman was not murdered, sir. She was plundered.”

  Unruffled by the outburst, Holmes propounds, “Then we agree on one thing, Doctor.”

  Taken aback, Brown frowns, “And what is that, sir?”

  His attention drawn to the body on the ground, Holmes quietly informs him, “The murderer must be caught, of course.” He looks at Sequeira, “The internal organs? They were found like this?”

  Sequeira slowly stands, “Yes, exactly like this.”

  Brown sighs tersely, “Must you dwell on the subject, sir?”

  Irritated by the inane remark and supporting Holmes, Lestrade snaps at Brown, “This is a murder investigation. Mr Holmes is here by invitation of the City of London Police.”

  Dr Sequeira murmurs admiringly, “Sherlock Holmes?”

  Staring at Holmes, Brown haughtily cocks his head, “So, sir, you are the meddling amateur?”

  Holmes impatiently responds, “I do not wish to cause dissention, Doctor, but if you have finished your examination, kindly allow us to proceed with ours.”

  Tetchily turning down the cuffs of his shirt and frock-coat, Brown turns to Collard, “Inform Major Henry James that he shall have my report this afternoon.” Retrieving his medical bag from beside the body, he contemptuously tips his top hat to Holmes and departs.

  Seeing the body of the woman for the first time in its entirety, Lestrade baulks, “Good Lord!”

  Lying prone upon the pavement with her compressed bonnet at the back of her head, the face of the woman is turned towards her left shoulder. Her arms, which look like they had fallen where they now lay, are extended with the palms of her hands facing up. Her left leg is straight, her right leg is bent at the knee.

  Her hair is matted with blood and her face has been savagely mutilated, perhaps in an attempt to expunge her identity. The lobe and auricle of the right ear has been cut off and both the lower eyelids have been nicked. An oblique cut has removed the tip of her nose and an inverted V has been cut into either cheek.

  A dreadful cut, six to seven inches in length, has opened her throat. Below this cut and starting an inch and a half below the lobe of the left ear, a superficial wound runs along the throat and terminates three inches below what remains of the right ear.

  Her lower garments, apron, skirt and petticoat are raised above her abdomen. Her intestines have been drawn out and placed over her right shoulder. And, as if by design, a detached portion of intestine, two feet long, has also been drawn out and placed on the ground below her left arm, alongside her midriff.

  Silently kneeling beside the body, Holmes spots the initials T. C. tattooed on the blood spattered left forearm of the woman. He inhales deeply.

  Noticing his solemn expression, Lestrade kneels, “Do you know this woman, Mr Holmes?”

  Holmes nods slowly, “Dr Watson and I met her at the workhouse infirmary where we examined the body of Mary Ann Nichols. Her name is Eddowes.”

  Collard kneels, “Well, that’s a bit of a relief, isn’t it?”

  Mystified, Holmes and Lestrade both stare at him.

  Collard imparts, “We released a woman from Bishopsgate Street Police Station over an hour ago.” He indicates the body, “Thought it might be her, but the woman we let go was Mary Ann Kelly.”

  Lestrade retorts, “It probably hasn’t occurred to you yet that the woman laying here might be Mary Ann Kelly? Eddowes most likely gave you a false name. Her type always does.”

  Confronted by the inevitable truth, Collard stands, dumbstruck.

  Holmes gazes up at Sequeira, “At what time did she die?”

  Sequeira muses, “Approximately forty minutes ago.”

  Producing his pocket watch, Holmes opens its cover and stares at the time, “After half past one, Doctor?”

  Sequeira nods, “About twenty minutes to two, yes.”

  Holmes snaps the cover shut, “Was she asphyxiated?”

  Lestrade pricks up his ears.

  Sequeira crouches, “The slight spillage of blood about the body suggests that was the case.”

  Holmes indicates the superficial throat injury, “Now, this is very important, Doctor. In your opinion, was this wound inflicted before, or after, the savage incision to the throat?”

  Sequeira is emphatic, “Most definitely before.”

  Holmes smiles, “Because after would have served no purpose?”

  Sequeira replies, “Precisely.”

  Holmes eagerly turns to Lestrade, “Proof again that the fairer sex failed to deliver the decisive cut.”

  Lestrade frowns, “So, it was this sort of medical evidence that first prompted the idea there had to be a woman accomplice?”

  Holmes nods in agreement, “Yes, but I utterly failed to convince Watson of the rationale.”

  Lestrade sighs, “I can understand that, Mr Holmes. I’m still trying to digest the idea myself.” He stares at the body, “And what else will this mess tell us?”

  Holmes turns to Sequeira again, “Are any of the internal organs missing?”

  Sequeira answers, “The left kidney and part of the womb were removed and taken away.”

  Appalled, Lestrade groans.

  Solicitously pulling down the lower garments of the woman and covering her exposed abdomen, Holmes reveals that one corner of her apron has been cut away. He looks at Lestrade enquiringly, “Why do you suppose he did that?”

  Lestrade perks up, “To wrap the organs in?”

  Holmes nods approvingly, “A reasonable assumption, Lestrade.” He gently turns the head of the woman, so that Lestrade can see her face, “Now, look at her face and tell me what you see.”

  Lestrade studies the grotesque wounds upon the face, “What am I looking for, exactly?”

  Holmes earnestly informs him, “The initial of the surname which is used by the murderer to distinguish his atrocities.”

  Intrigued by the exposition, Sequeira stands and intently stares down at the face of the woman.

  Lestrade again scrutinizes the wounds. Gradually, his eyes begin to dwell on the inverted V cut into either cheek. Eagerly, he turns to Holmes, “Those V shapes, they’re the same size.”

  Holmes claps his hands together, “Bravo, Lestrade! I will make a detective of you yet. Now, in your mind’s eye, place one beside the other.”

  Concentrating once more, Lestrade suddenly stands and blurts, “Good Lord! They form…”

  Sequeira interjects, “The letter M.”

  Miffed by his interruption, Lestrade mutters, “Indeed so, Doctor.”

  Turning to a police constable standing nearby, Holmes extends his hand, “May I have your cape?” Placing his bulls-eye lamp on the ground, the constable unclips his cape and hands it to him.

  Hurriedly covering the body with the piece, Holmes stands and tips his head to Sequeira, “Thank you for your assistance, Doctor. Perhaps we will meet again one day in happier circumstances.” He quickly takes Lestrade aside, “I think we can safely assume that Jack the Ripper murdered Eddowes but not Elizabeth Stride.”

  Lestrade nods, “Without a doubt, Mr Holmes.”

  Holmes addresses Collard, “How many constables patrolled the square tonight?”

  Impatient to redeem t
he reputation of his force, Collard replies, “Watkins and Harvey.” Beckoning the two constables, who quickly come forward, he issues them an order, “Tell Mr Holmes whatever he wants to know.”

  Holmes informs Watkins and Harvey, “I am only concerned with the fifteen minutes between half past one and one forty-five.”

  Unbuttoning the breast pocket of his tunic to get his notebook, Watkins is stopped by Lestrade, “You’re not in court. Tell Mr Holmes what happened in your own words.”

  Watkins indicates the carriageway, “Came through there, into the square, at about half past one. Didn’t see a soul.”

  Holmes enquires, “Did you illuminate this particular corner with the beam of your lamp?”

  “Yes, sir. She wasn’t here at the time.”

  “And…?”

  “I turned about and went back into Mitre Street.”

  “Still on duty?”

  Watkins nods, “Mitre Street is part of my beat, sir.”

  Holmes turns to Harvey, “And you?”

  Harvey points to Church Passage, “Some ten minutes later, I came down that passage from Duke Street.”

  “Did you enter the square?”

  “No, sir. I paused at the end of the passage.”

  Holmes indicates the overhead lantern affixed to the wall at the end of the passage, “Beneath that lantern?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you looked into the square?”

  “Yes, sir. I didn’t see no one.”

  “But the murderer could see you.”

  Harvey frowns, “Begging your pardon, sir?”

  Holmes turns to the constables surrounding him, “Please put out your lamps.” Complying with his request, the constables extinguish their lamps, plunging the entire southern corner into darkness.

  Though unseen, Holmes is nonetheless heard, “You were unable to see the murderer, Constable, because he was here in this corner, cloaked by darkness. But from his vantage point, he could see you standing at the end of the passage, lit by that overhead lantern.” Emerging from the darkness, Holmes adds, “And the time was twenty minutes to two. Sadly, Eddowes had just been killed, but not yet mutilated. That would occur over the next few minutes.”

  Robustly pushing a two-wheeled ambulance cart, City Police Constable Charles Brock enters the square, passing Watkins and Harvey dolefully walking away from the corner.

  Harvey laments, “If I’d looked closer, I might have [276]collared the bleeder.”

  Watkins is sympathetic, “What you can’t see, Jim, you can’t catch.”

  Strolling up next to Holmes and Lestrade, Collard indicates the northern corner, “So, with two entrances patrolled by Watkins and Harvey, the murderer had only one avenue of escape.” He points to the Kearly & Tonge warehouse, “Just behind that warehouse is a passageway. It leads straight into St James Place. He must have taken that route.”

  Holmes concurs, “Towards Spitalfields, no doubt.”

  Bringing the ambulance cart to a halt alongside the darkened corner, Brock turns to a lingering constable with a sober expression, “Where is she, then?” The constable solemnly lights the wick of his bulls-eye lamp, illuminating both the cape covered body and Dr Sequeira. Brock crouches, removes the cape and, confronted by the awful sight, stands bolt upright, “Gawd!”

  Shaken, Brock stares at Sequeira, “Can’t lift her like that, Doctor. We’ll drop bits of her on the pavement.”

  Sequeira assents, “If I return the organs to the abdominal cavity, will that help?”

  Brock swallows, “As long as I don’t have to watch, Doctor.”

  Holmes turns to Collard, “Our task here is complete. Good night, Inspector.” He takes Lestrade by the arm, “Come, Lestrade! The game is afoot. No time to lose.”

  Reluctantly following Holmes through Church Passage, Lestrade demurs, “Can’t we call it a night, Mr Holmes?”

  Ignoring his plea, Holmes reaches the end of the passage and strides out into Duke Street. Hurrying along to the Imperial Club, he pauses, turns about and stares at the Great Synagogue on the opposite side of the street. Panting, Lestrade sidles up next to him, indicating the edifice, “What’s the significance, Mr Holmes?”

  Holmes cites, “'And they shall deal with thee hatefully, and shall take away all thy labour, and shall leave thee naked and bare. And the nakedness of thy whoredoms shall be discovered’.”

  Lestrade frowns, “What kind of [277]gibberish is that?”

  His eyes fixed on the synagogue, Holmes answers, “Gibberish to us, but there are devotees who abide by such nonsense.” He cites again, “'And I will set my jealousy against thee, and they shall deal furiously with thee. They shall take away thy nose and thy ears’.”

  Lestrade flinches, “The tip of Eddowes’ nose and part of her ear were sliced off.”

  Holmes slowly turns to him, “Precisely, Lestrade. As decreed by The Book of Ezekiel. One of twenty-four books of the Tanakh.”

  Lestrade frowns again, “The Tanakh?”

  Holmes indicates the synagogue, “The Hebrew Bible, Lestrade.”

  Lestrade irritably shakes his head, “We all know you’re a walking chronicle of crime, Mr Holmes. But from where you derive your information astounds me at times.”

  Holmes imparts, “After the murder of Annie Chapman, I began to consider the possibility that perhaps all the victims had been mutilated in accordance to the edicts of an obscene ritual. But what particular ritual? Whitechapel has a large Jewish population, does it not? Therefore, I decided to start with them and examine their faith. An agreeable afternoon spent in the company of Rabbi Abraham Dyte in the manuscripts room at the British Museum first introduced me to the Tanakh and shortly thereafter, to the barbaric ritual described in The Book of Ezekiel.”

  Lestrade muses, “You said the murderer passes for a doctor. A Jewish doctor, Mr Holmes?”

  Impatiently, Holmes replies, “No, no, no, Lestrade. The murderer is a Gentile who poses as a doctor. And to protect that identity, he adopts the guise of a lowly Jew so he can commit murder.”

  Lestrade nods understandingly, “Very clever of him. As a doctor, he’d be conspicuous in Whitechapel but, disguised as a local Jew, he wouldn’t receive a second glance.”

  Agreeing, Holmes smiles, “You have [278]hit the nail on the head, Lestrade. However, there is more. Having unearthed The Book of Ezekiel, which in itself denotes a scholarly intellect, he now employs its archaic ritual in an attempt to turn the local inhabitants of the district against their Jewish neighbours.”

  Lestrade baulks, “Riots in the streets? He’s more radical than the radicals.”

  Holmes nods, “Whitechapel is a tinderbox of social deprivation waiting to explode. I believe, amongst other things, these murders are meant to ignite the fuse. Therefore, before the night is out, he may well try to further inflame the situation.”

  Lestrade pensively scratches his face, “If you’re right, and then you’re hardly ever wrong, you must know this doctor?”

  Holmes admits freely, “Yes, I know who he is, Lestrade. I also know the real name of the malevolence that dwells behind the disguise. His surname is written all over the murders. But without tangible proof, my conclusions are meaningless.”

  Lestrade coughs and clears his throat, “Then there’s the welfare of Dr Watson to consider, also.”

  Holmes solemnly nods, “Of course. Jack the Ripper has cleverly curtailed my ability to act decisively. To challenge him openly would condemn Watson to certain death.”

  Lestrade sighs, “He’s a cunning so-and-so, isn’t he?”

  Holmes concurs, “Like all great criminals, he has an ingenious mind. And it would appear, for the moment, that he has me at a grave disadvantage.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Merely three streets east of Duke Street, Goulston Street starts at Whitechapel High Street and runs along in a northerly direction to Wentworth Street, Spitalfields.

  Near the northern end of the street is the entrance to 108 -119 Wentworth St
reet Model Dwellings. Built to provide cheap housing for the local populace, these dwellings are inhabited by Jews who trade in second-hand clothes and footwear in the neighbouring markets of Wentworth Street and Middlesex Street.

  At about 2. 20 a.m., whilst Holmes had begun his examination of Catharine’s body in Mitre Square, Police Constable Alfred Long, temporarily drafted to H Division in an effort to raise the number of police patrols in the area, had illuminated the interior of the entrance with his lamp and had seen nothing unusual.

  Returning to the same spot some thirty-five minutes later, and about the time Holmes and Lestrade had stood in conversation opposite the Great Synagogue, Long had again illuminated the interior of the entrance. This time, the beam from his lamp had revealed part of an apron, soaked in blood and smeared with [279]feculent matter, lying on the ground, discarded.

  Picking up the piece of soiled material and eager to leave the dwellings, he had inadvertently swung his lamp around and illuminated the right hand brickwork jamb of the entrance. At shoulder height, neatly written in white chalk, was a message.

  The Juwes are

  The men That

  Will not

  be Blamed

  for nothing

  Now with one foot inside the entrance and the other on the pavement of the silent street, Long heard a mournful groan, which had emanated not from the dwellings, but from Cripple Court, alongside the building, opposite New Goulston Street.

  Hearing another groan, this time prolonged, Long had gone to investigate. Shining his lamp into the court, he had paused, unable to immediately grasp what met his eyes. Kneeling hunched over a horse trough was a middle-aged man, retching. Long thought the man was drunk. His drooped head suggested he had vomited, or was about to do so. But what had prompted Long to fumble for his breast-pocket whistle and then frantically blow the device for assistance, was the sight of what the man held loosely in his right hand: a blood-stained Liston surgical knife.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Robert Liston was born in Scotland in 1794. He studied anatomy under Dr John Barclay at his School of Anatomy located between the Old Surgeons’ Hall and the Royal Medical Society in Edinburgh, Scotland.