Lawende exclaims, “Skirt, dark green. Same.”
Lestrade raises a silencing hand, “Let’s turn our attention to the man, shall we? Describe him to me.”
Lawende promptly divulges, “’E thirty! Round face, moustache. Five feet summut in ’eight. Plump, like.”
Lestrade raises a dubious eyebrow, “How was he dressed?”
Again, Lawende swiftly replies, “Brown billycock ’at. Suit same colour. Look like clerk. ’E…”
Lestrade interjects, “Sure he wasn’t wearing a peaked cap and a pepper-and-salt coloured jacket?”
Lawende shakes his head adamantly.
Despairingly, Lestrade inhales deeply, “Mr Lawende! In your statement, you say the man was thirty years old, five feet seven inches tall, had a fair complexion, fair moustache and was of a medium build. Furthermore, you said he wore a pepper-and-salt loosely fitted jacket, grey cloth cap with a peak and had a reddish neckerchief knotted around his neck. He looked like a sailor.”
Frustrated, Lawende points at the statement, “It wrong. ’E look like clerk. Wipin’ brow wiv ’andkerchief.”
Deciding he is chasing a [291]will-o'-the-wisp and getting nowhere, Lestrade picks up the statement, stands and feigns politeness, “Thank you, Mr Lawende, that will be all.”
Collard quickly rises from his chair and opens the door, “Tell the Desk Sergeant downstairs you are leaving. Thank you for your time, Mr Lawende.”
Standing, Lawende ambles to the door, pauses and then turns to Lestrade, “’E look like clerk. Wipin’ brow wiv ’andkerchief.”
Lestrade nods, “I’m sure he did. Good day, Mr Lawende.”
No sooner has Lawende left the office, Collard closes the door, “In all my born days, I have never heard such inconsistencies from a witness. He contradicted just about everything in his statement.”
Handing the statement to Collard, Lestrade murmurs, “His lack of English let him down. Caused confusion. He did see Eddowes, though.”
Taking the statement from Lestrade, Collard questioningly stares at him, “How can you be sure?”
Lestrade straightens his jacket, “Eddowes…”
Collard interrupts, “We still don’t know if that is her name.”
Lestrade counters, “I have no reason to doubt Mr Holmes. And when he says her name is Eddowes, you may take it to be so.” He picks up from where he was interrupted, “Eddowes was murdered in Mitre Square mere minutes after Joseph Lawende saw a woman standing at the entrance of Church Passage which leads into the square. A coincidence? I think not. And if not, then the woman Joseph Lawende did see was, in fact, Eddowes, about to go to her death.
Collard slowly sits, “Good heavens! That would mean Lawende also saw the murderer.”
Similar to Holmes, Lestrade raises a tutorial finger, “Perhaps not. The murderer may have already been in the square, waiting.”
Collard scoffs, “Oh, come, come, Inspector. What you propose is ludicrous. The murderer had an accomplice?”
Lestrade nods, “Precisely.”
Collard shakes his head in disbelief, “Then, if not the murderer, who was the man with Eddowes?”
Lestrade replies, “Could have been anyone. A journalist, even.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Lying on the cell bed, Watson blinks, opens his eyes and stares up at the friendly face of Sergeant Kirby, leaning over him.
Kirby smiles, “Feeling better, sir?”
Anxiously thinking an accident has befallen him, Watson feels his arms and legs, “Where the dickens am I? A hospital?”
Kirby places a calming hand on his shoulder, “Lie still, sir. There’s a good fellow.”
Watson agitates, “Who are you?”
Kirby pats the three stripes on his tunic sleeve, “Sergeant Kirby, sir. We met in Buck’s Row, remember?”
Placing his hand on his forehead, Watson mutters, “Buck’s Row? Buck’s Row?” He seizes Kirby by the arm, “Of course, [292]Chessington.”
Gently but firmly, Kirby removes his hand, “Whitechapel, sir. You were with Mr Holmes, investigating a murder.”
Watson frowns, “Holmes? Holmes?” He glances at Kirby, “I can’t recall a damn thing.”
Kirby smiles reassuringly, “A cup of tea might help, sir.”
“I recommend a foxglove tonic. It will revitalize him.”
Responding to the abruptness of the voice, Watson and Kirby turn their heads to see the silhouetted figure of a man standing by the open door of the cell. Holding a black Gladstone bag, the man steps forward and addresses Watson, “A temporary lapse of memory is invariably the result of narcotic abuse, Dr Watson.”
Alarmed, Watson quickly examines the inside of his forearms, “Good grief! You are correct, sir. Administered directly into my veins by injection, no doubt. Partially rising from the bed and leaning on his elbow for support, he stares uneasily at the man, “You have me at a distinct disadvantage, sir. You appear to know my name, but I do not know yours.”
The man politely removes his top hat, “Dr Morrison.”
Watson glances at Kirby, “Well, at least I now know who I am.” He looks around the spartan cell, “A sanatorium, Dr Morrison?”
Morrison glances at Kirby and then hesitantly replies, “Well, not exactly, Dr Watson.”
Raising his hand to his mouth, Kirby coughs, “Commercial Street Police Station, sir. You’re our guest.”
Watson gasps, “A police station?”
Kirby nods, “Yes, sir. Whitechapel.”
Again, Watson seizes Kirby by the arm, “Murder? I was with Mr Holmes, investigating a murder, you said. Is that why I am here?”
Gently but firmly, Kirby again removes his hand, “Your memory is improving, sir.”
Quickly putting down his hat, Morrison opens his Gladstone bag and produces a small corked brown bottle, “A foxglove tonic. It will enliven you, Dr Watson.”
Watson slumps back down on the bed, “A digitalis potion? My memory needs reviving, Dr Morrison, not my heart.” He looks at Kirby, “A cup of tea will be suffice, Sergeant.”
Kirby smiles yet again, “A strong brew, sir?”
Watson nods, “And then, perhaps you and Dr Morrison will be kind enough to tell me why I am here.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Apt to play the violin when a crime of some complexity requires solitary reflection, Holmes will immerse himself in a harmonic solo, which banishes all distractions and permits a total concentration of thought. Upon attaining a certain degree of enlightenment, he will abruptly abandon his virtuoso performance, return to his armchair and, virtually motionless, contemplate for hours, whilst occasionally plucking the strings of the musical instrument laid across his knees.
A grubby hand raps on the apartment door.
His deliberation broken, Holmes rises from the armchair, places the violin down on the dining-table and opens the door.
Respectfully removing his cloth cap, Wiggins blurts, “The growler is found, Mr ’Olmes.”
Producing his pocket watch and flipping open its cover, Holmes declares, “Nigh on seven o’clock. You are indeed a nocturnal individual, Master Wiggins.”
Mystified, Wiggins frowns, “A wot, Mr ’Olmes?”
Holmes smiles, “A creature of the night, Wiggins.”
Wiggins shivers, “An’ a cold one, Mr ’Olmes.”
Holmes motions the lad to enter, “Wearing damp clothes, no doubt?”
Wiggins darts into the room and hurriedly kneels before the fire.
Quietly closing the door, Holmes returns to his armchair, picks up his cherry-wood pipe and lights it, “Located in Spitalfields?”
Warming his hands, Wiggins peers over his shoulder and nods, “’Ackney Cab Company, Vine Yard. Near the nick in Commercial Street.” He stands, turns about and begins to warm his backside, “The growler were ’ired by a [293]geezer who didn’t want a driver.”
Holmes exhales blue smoke, “Then who drove the vehicle?”
Feeling the warmth of the fire
permeating his body, Wiggins grins, “The geezer who ’ired the four-wheeler, Mr ’Olmes.”
Pensively leaning forward, Holmes stares at Wiggins, “In addition to a hefty deposit, this geezer, as you like to call him, must have also given a name and address. If not, the cab company would have withheld the vehicle from him.”
Cockily, Wiggins pulls a scrap of paper from the pocket of his jacket and hands it to Holmes, “Name an’ address, Mr ’Olmes.”
Holmes gazes intently at the scrap of paper and the information scrawled in pencil.
Aaron Kosminski
Mission Hall
Plumbers Row
London E.
Inquisitively, he looks at Wiggins, “I doubt you wrote this down.”
Wiggins grins again, “Cab master, Mr ’Olmes.”
Holmes leans back in his armchair and puffs on his pipe, “There is, of course, every possibility that the name and address are false, Wiggins.”
Wiggins quickly sits opposite Holmes, “The address is, Mr ’Olmes. Went t’ Plumbers Row. Mission ’All ain’t there. Empty piece o’ land, no ’all.”
Holmes smiles admiringly, “So, in all probability, the Jewish name of Aaron Kosminski is also fictitious.”
Wiggins frowns, “Ain’t so sure, Mr ’Olmes. Cab master says the geezer who ’ired the growler were foreign, like. Gone fifty, tall, thin. ’Ad a full beard, ’e said.”
Holmes commends him, “You have surpassed yourself, Wiggins. Now, what, if anything, did you learn about the growler?”
Wiggins indicates the scrap of paper, “Turn it over, Mr ’Olmes.”
Complying and staring at more information scrawled in pencil, Holmes again looks at Wiggins, “Provided by the cab master?”
Wiggins nods, “Watched ’im write it down meself.”
Holmes peruses the information.
7 Sept⁄ 88
Carriage 5
Released 10. 30 p. m.
Returned 12. 30 a.m.
Hire charge [294]£4 6s, paid in full.
Thoughtfully, he murmurs, “The times would appear to coincide with the disappearance of Watson.”
Wiggins frowns again, “Beggin’ yer pardon, Mr ’Olmes?”
Disregarding the question, Holmes enquiries, “The interior of the vehicle, Wiggins? Was anything found?”
Wiggins shakes his head, “Na, nothin’, but a ’orrible [295]pong.”
Holmes lowers his pipe, “The interior of the growler had retained an odour?”
Wiggins nods, “The cab master says the pong were like an ’ospital room. Yer know? Where people are knocked out so they won’t feel the knife.”
Holmes elucidates, “An operating theatre, where a patient is anaesthetized before surgery. Chloroform, Wiggins. That is what the cab master had detected. A volatile liquid with a sweet smell that was used to subdue Watson, I suspect.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Seated on the edge of the cell bed and holding an enamelled mug of tea, Watson chuckles, “Me? The Whitechapel murderer? That’s quite absurd.”
Kirby concurs, “I’m inclined to agree with you, sir.”
Morrison interjects, “I see you haven’t lost your sense of humour, Dr Watson.”
Watson sips his tea, “If I am the murderer, Dr Morrison, then, conceivably, Her Majesty might be a man.”
Morrison smiles, “An amusing analogy, Doctor.”
Kirby picks up a folded grey blanket, “How’s the brew, sir?”
Watson nods agreeably, “Most refreshing. Thank you, Sergeant.”
Unfolding the blanket, Kirby places it over his shoulders, “Best you keep warm, sir. Apt to get cold down here.”
Morrison retrieves his Gladstone bag, “Are you sure you don’t require any medication, Doctor?”
Watson shakes his head, “Next to that of a hospital matron, I feel my welfare is secure with Sergeant Kirby.”
Humbly, Kirby lowers his head.
Morrison smiles again, “Then, Dr Watson, I bid you good evening.” Acknowledging Kirby, he puts on his top hat and leaves the cell.
Turning to Watson, Kirby expresses gratitude, “Those were kind words. Thank you, sir.”
Watson seizes him by the arm, “And Holmes knows I am here?”
Reassuringly, Kirby gently removes his hand, “The Commissioner and Inspector Lestrade, too.” He sits beside Watson, [296]“Madagascar, sir. Ever been there?”
Putting aside his mug of tea, Watson stands and stomps his feet, “No. I served with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers in Afghanistan and India.”
Kirby queries, “Army man, then?”
Watson nods, “And you?”
Kirby replies, “Navy, sir. H. M. S. Goshawk. Spent most of my time sailing the Indian Ocean. That’s where I came across Madagascar. Beautiful island, but the French were forever invading it.”
Watson turns to him, “That’s better.”
Kirby frowns, “Begging you pardon, sir?”
Watson indicates his legs, “Got the circulation going again.”
Kirby suspiciously stares at Watson and then anxiously glances at the open cell door, “You wouldn’t be thinking of…?”
Mindful of his unease, Watson smiles warmly, “And forgo the pleasure of your genial company?” Retrieving his mug of tea, he sits down next to Kirby, “From what you have told me, Sergeant, it would appear that my liberty has been somewhat curtailed. Therefore, I suggest we make ourselves comfortable. Why don’t you tell me about Madagascar and I’ll tell you about Afghanistan and India?”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
For the past nine years, since the age of sixteen, which now seems centuries ago, Mary Jane Kelly has maintained a frivolous existence, shamelessly cohabiting with various men whom she had thought would shield her from destitution. Now aged twenty-five and aware that her sensual attractiveness will ultimately wither like a spring flower, Mary is constantly haunted by the spectre of the workhouse, where she would be condemned to a life of utter hopelessness, performing insufferable, monotonous tasks in order to survive.
Convinced her nightmarish dream had indeed been a sign and she will soon be slain, Mary accepts that death, albeit at the hands of an unknown murderer, is preferable to that of a life of incessant deprivation from which there is no respite, or escape. Hope, she reminds herself, would make life tolerable, but despair, where no hope exists, is tantamount to hell on earth.
As she has done throughout her entire life, Mary again looks to a man to deliver her from her plight, gladly knowing that when she encounters him, he will zealously grant her eternal freedom and peace.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Accompanied by Lizzie, Mary pauses at the arched entrance to Miller’s Court, “Back t’ work, then?”
Lizzie nods, [297]“No rest fer the wicked. Beds t’ make.”
Mary feigns a smile, [298]“In fer a penny, in fer a pound, eh?”
Indifferently, Lizzie shrugs her shoulders, “Earnin’s keep a roof over me ’ead an’ grub in me stomach. Can’t ask fer more than that, can I?” Staring at Mary, she adds, “’Ow yer goin’ t’ eat?”
Brazenly, Mary chirps, “I’ll scrounge summut. Now, be off wiv yer. Folks will need them beds.”
Hurriedly taking her leave, Lizzie scurries down the street towards her place of work, the doss-house situated on the corner of Little Paternoster Row where Annie Chapman had lodged. Seconds later, Mary enters the darkened passageway and, walking most of its twenty-foot length, nears the yellowish hue of the overhead gas lamp opposite the door to her room. A male hand shoots out from the gloom and seizes her by the shoulder.
Startled, Mary blurts, “Mother o’ Mercy!” Believing death to be imminent, she nervously pleads, “I’ll not cry out. I’ll not run. Fer pity’s sake, make ’aste. Do it quick. No pain, like.” Of Catholic persuasion, she makes the sign of the cross and closes her eyes.
McCarthy emerges from the darkness, “I said eight o’clock. It’s nigh on nine.”
Recognizing his voice, M
ary opens her eyes and disappointedly retorts, “An’ there’s me finkin’ it were ’im.”
McCarthy frowns, “’Im?”
She jerks her shoulder away from him, “Yer ain’t me keeper, yer know!”
McCarthy snaps, “Yer can ’ave others, lass, but I come first.” He indicates the door of her room with his thumb, “Payment in kind. ’Til the slate’s clean.”
Mary reluctantly produces a key, “An’ after I’ve paid me debt, John McCarthy?”
McCarthy smirks, “I’m a fair man. The room will cost yer nought.”
Sceptically, she unlocks the door, “Fer payment in kind, right?”
He quips, [299]“Catch on quick, don’t yer?”
Followed by McCarthy, Mary enters the room, places the key on the table and lights the wick of a candle. Walking over to the bed, she removes her shawl and stares at him, “Goin’ t’ shut the door, then?”
Turning about, McCarthy quietly closes the door with the toe of his boot. Pulling down her drawers beneath her skirt, Mary steps out of them, “Back scuttle agin?”
He begins to eagerly unfasten his belt, “Yer worth the wait, lass.”
Mary chuckles and falls backwards onto the bed, “T’ be sure, John McCarthy?”
Revealing his stiffened organ, McCarthy nods, “T’ be sure, lass.”
Mary smiles seductively, “Don’t just stand there, git over ’ere.”
Clutching his slackened belt and the waistband of his trousers, McCarthy saunters towards her, [300]“Shilling ’ead first.”
Taking hold of his throbbing organ, Mary eases back his foreskin, [301]“Oooh, lovely ’elmet. An’ [302]no cheese. Not like some I’ve ’ad.”
McCarthy groans, “Cleanliness is next t’ Godliness, innit?”
Sensually, she licks the dome of his organ and runs her tongue along its shaft, “So, after me debt’s cleared, I git t’ stay ’ere rent free?”
McCarthy groans again, “Treat me like this an’ yer can ’ave all o’ Miller’s Court.”
Fondling his testicles, Mary begins to stroke him, “Free?”
Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul Page 25
