Gleefully, Lestrade claps his hands together, “We’ve done it, Mr Holmes.”
Amused by his fervour, Holmes smiles, “From the expression on your face, Lestrade, it would appear that you have just unearthed buried treasure. Which is to say, the identity of the journalist has at last been established, has it not?”
Lestrade responds excitedly, “We have a witness, Mr Holmes. A witness who saw him with Eddowes a few minutes before she was murdered in Mitre Square.”
Promptly picking up the letter and the poem, Holmes returns both to him, “Bravo, Lestrade. I do believe you have laid bare the murderer’s Achilles heel. The journalist.” He raises a tutorial finger, “But we must proceed with extreme caution.”
Lestrade nods, “Whatever you say, Mr Holmes.”
Holmes continues, “Watson has undergone an ordeal which prevents him from assisting us for the moment. Contrary to my earlier thoughts, he should not be released and brought to 221b. Left alone here to recover might expose him to further danger, but in police custody, he is safe. I want him detained a little longer, Lestrade, until I say otherwise.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Randomly uttered by the populace, the name, Jack the Ripper, has begun to sweep through the East End of London much like the Great Plague did in 1665. Similar to the stark terror incited by the barbaric hordes of Attila the Hun, who had pillaged the Eastern Roman Empire in 441 A. D., so the chilling pseudonym, immediately coming after the murders of Elizabeth and Catharine, begins to sow the seeds of panic amongst the women of Whitechapel.
Whether a woman is of moral or immoral character is neither here nor there. All feel vulnerable and are gripped by the hand of fear. For the fortunate few, the abandonment of an evening job allows them to be indoors before dark. But for many, who have to labour after dusk, escort by a husband or companion to and from work has become prerequisite.
Destitute women, who are unable to find money for a meal, or a bed for the night, seek refuge in a church or chapel doorway, in the belief that, huddled together in the sight of God, they are afforded protection.
The major thoroughfares of Commercial Street, Whitechapel High Street and Whitechapel Road retain a semblance of activity, but elsewhere throughout the neighbourhood, side streets, courts and alleyways are deserted. As early as seven o’clock in the evening, scarcely a woman is to be seen, except for the occasional drifting unfortunate, her mind mercifully dulled by drink.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Similarly, Miller’s Court is unusually quiet, apart from Mary Ann Cox scurrying [314]hither and thither from the court, seeking goodness knows what. Seated on the edge of her bed next to laundress Maria Harvey, Mary hears the elderly woman scamper past the closed door of her room for the umpteenth time, “She’s goin’ t’ wear ’erself out.”
Maria sniggers, “Out an’ ’bout tryin’ t’ earn ’er keep, is she?”
Standing, Mary steps towards the table and stares at the pile of washed clothes upon its surface, “Who’d part wiv a shillin’ fer ’er? [315]Miserable cow, she is. Never gives me the time o’ the day.”
Maria refers to the clothes, “Man’s overcoat, three shirts, one fer a young ‘un, a nipper’s petticoat an’ a bonnet. Clean as a whistle. Washed ’em meself.”
Mary picks up the black overcoat, “Nicked ’em, did yer?”
Adjusting a shawl about her shoulders, Maria giggles, “This one, too. If I don’t pinch ’em, ’ow’d I keep warm? Can’t afford t’ buy ’em, can I? Sell ’em t’ ol’ man Ferris. ’E’ll give yer a few [316]coppers fer ’em.”
Mary sighs gratefully, “Yer a dearie, Maria. But I ain’t askin’ yer t’ lose yer job on account o’ me.”
Maria smiles, “I won’t! Ain’t got the nerve t’ walk the streets like yer.”
Briefly recalling how Barnett had thrown her across the room, which had resulted in the damaged window, Mary drapes the overcoat over the lower broken pane of glass, “That’ll ’elp keep out the draught.”
Maria indifferently fingers her bonnet, lying on the bed beside her, “Wot ’bout John McCarthy? Still stokin’ yer, is ’e?”
Mary retorts, “’E’ll not be stokin’ anyone fer a while. ’Urt ’is John Thomas, didn’t ’e?”
Maria guffaws, “’Ow’d that ’appen?”
Mary smiles mischievously, “Went after a lass an’ she bit ’im.”
Incredulously, Maria gapes, “She bit ’is…?”
Retaining her mischievous smile, Mary slowly nods.
A knock at the door interrupts their conversation.
Maria quips, “It’s McCarthy! Wants yer t’ kiss it better.”
Mary chuckles, opens the door and reveals Barnett, blowing into his cupped hands.
Displeased to see him, Mary snaps, “Wot yer want?”
Barnett stamps his feet, “Yer want? Cold, innit? Come all the way from New Street, Bishopsgate, t’ see yer.”
Mary scoffs, “Oh, yeh, that’s a long way, innit? ’Alf a mile, as the crow flies.”
Barnett shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket, “Crow flies. Cold, though.”
Mary relents, “Mind yer ’onour me goodwill, Joseph Barnett.”
She bids him enter.
Believing her to be alone, Barnett steps into the room and, upon seeing Maria, halts abruptly, “She a…?”
Reacting to his undertone, Maria stands quickly, “No, I ain’t! I’m a laundress.”
Barnett blurts, “A laundress. Charwoman?”
Maria sneers, “’Er kind mops floors. I wash clothes.” She stares at his jacket, “Yer lapels look a bit greasy. Wipe yer ’ands on ’em, d’yer?”
Mary stifles a laugh.
Irked, Barnett turns to Mary, “’Em, d’yer? I ain’t come ’ere t’ be mocked, yer know?”
Maria hurriedly picks up her bonnet, [317]“Keep yer ’air on, will yer? I were leavin’, anyway.” She steps towards Barnett and prods him in the chest with her finger, “’Eard o’ yer, Joseph Barnett. Play fair wiv our Mary or yer’ll answer t’ me.” Putting on her bonnet, she turns to Mary, “Lord Mayor’s show t’morrow. See yer at Ludgate Circus ’bout eleven o’clock, eh?”
Mary nods, “Outside the ’Are an’ ’Ound in ’Ogs ’Ead.”
Maria indicates Barnett, “Best yer leave ’im behind.”
Mary stifles another laugh.
Disdainfully glancing at Barnett, Maria departs.
Quietly closing the door, Mary turns to Barnett and motions to a chair by the table, “Yer want t’ talk, sit there.” She steps across the room and seats herself on the edge of the bed, “An’ I’ll sit ’ere.”
Barnett ambles to the chair, “Sit ’ere. ’Ow yer been?”
Mary retorts, “’Ow ’ave I been? I’m [318]’igh an’ dry wiv rent t’ pay. Tryin’ t’ [319]earn a crust, ain’t I?”
Removing his cap, Barnett sits, “Ain’t I? Got money, ’ave yer?”
Mary shakes her head, [320]“Boracic. Yer?”
Likewise, Barnett shakes his head, “Yer? Not a brass farthin’.”
Mary sighs wearily, “Why yer ’ere, then?”
Barnett shrugs his shoulders, “’Ere, then? No other place t’ go. ’Ad an idea yer might ’elp me out, like.”
Standing quickly, Mary places her hands on her hips, “Dan still got ’is job, ’as ’e?”
Barnett nods.
Mary reproaches him, “’Cos ’e ain’t a bloody[321] tea leaf like ’is brother, ’is ’e?”
Barnett grimaces, “’Is ’e? Dan told yer, then?”
Mary scowls, “Told me yer swiped some ’errings an’ got caught. Lost yer wage an’ fell b’hind wiv the rent. ’Cos o’ that, we don’t share the same roof no more. Left me alone t’ serve McCarthy ’til the debt were cleared, didn’t yer? Now yer ’ave the bleedin’ gall t’ come ’round ’ere t’night in search o’ charity.” She shakes her head angrily, “Well, Joseph Barnett, wot yer fink? Were an ’andful o’ fish worth all the ’eartache?”
Barn
ett stammers, “The ’eartache? Left yer alone? Yer kicked me out, gel!”
Heatedly, Mary indicates the door, “Then be on yer way agin. I’m not long fer this world an’ I don’t aim t’ waste me last ’ours wiv yer.”
Mystified by her remark, Barnett stands, “Wiv yer. Yer sick?”
Mary hurries across the room and yanks open the door, [322]“Sick t’ death o’ life, Joseph Barnett. Sick o’ McCarthy, an’ sick o’ yer.”
Provoked by her outburst, he snaps, “O’ yer. Mark me words, gel, walk the streets at night an’ yer’ll come t’ no good.”
Mary sneers, “An’ who’s goin’ ’arm me, then?”
Solemnly, Barnett murmurs, “Me, then? That bloke, the Ripper.”
Mary chirps, “Then I’ll git wot’s comin’ t’ me, won’t I?”
Baffled by her brazen attitude, Barnett frowns, “Won’t I? Come under ’is knife an’ ’e’ll slit yer gullet ear t’ ear.”
Mary smiles, “Blessed ’eaven, Joseph Barnett.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Casually stepping out of the Ten Bells tavern into a relatively quiet Commercial Street, Thomas Bullen pauses, wipes his wet lips with the back of his hand and then strolls off along the pavement of Church Street towards Brick Lane.
Cloaked by the shadows of Spitalfields Market, Lestrade turns to an unkempt Alfred Mipps, grey haired and bearded, and murmurs, “That’s our man. Worked for the Chicago Tribune in [323]eighty-six and the New York Herald in eighty-seven.”
Approached by a tottering woman, seemingly drunk and plying her trade, Bullen contemptuously knocks her aside, whereupon the woman falls backwards into the street, inadvertently disturbing a pile of horse dung with her outstretched flailing arm.
Perturbed by the sight, Mipps glances at Lestrade, “’E ain’t a ladies’ man, that’s fer sure, guv’nor.”
Lestrade nods, “Thrown out of America for falsifying news stories, he returned to England, end of last year, and then obtained a job with The Star newspaper, beginning of this year.”
Watching the woman trying to pick herself up, Mipps remarks, “Bleedin’ rascal, eh?” The woman stands uneasily, lurches forward and then slumps down on the pavement, her back positioned against the gloomy facade of a barbers shop.
Lestrade imparts, “A habitual drinker, he is known down here for his peculiar amorous behaviour.”
Mipps refers to the woman, “Ain’t too fond o’ ’em, is ’e?”
Lestrade elucidates, “On the contrary, he likes to engage with both men and women. Preferably together, at the same time.”
Close to the corner of Church Street and Brick Lane, Bullen halts beside a costermongers’ fruit and vegetable barrow and begins to examine oranges with his fingers.
As a gesture of departure, Mipps touches the peak of his cloth cap, “Best be after ’im, guv’nor, else I might lose ’im.”
Lestrade nods again, “A discreet distance, mind you. And stay in sight.”
Quickly turning up the collar of his jacket, Mipps emerges from the shadows of the market, ambles across the street and heads straight towards the slumped woman and Bullen beyond. Upon reaching the woman, he gently places his hand under her chin, raises her drooped head and gawks at her face. Constable Henry Nott promptly opens an eye, “Police business. Push off!”
Astonished, Mipps grins, “A copper! Wiv no [324]tash! Bloody fine act, mate. [325]Won me over.” He motions to the market with his head, “Wiv ’im, are yer?”
Nott opens his other eye, “Inspector Lestrade?”
Mipps nods, “The guv’nor, yeh.”
Nott chides him, “Keep your voice down, will you?”
Cheekily, Mipps clamps his hand over his mouth.
Nott queries, “What are you doing here?”
Removing his hand from his mouth, Mipps indicates Bullen with his thumb, “Keepin’ a’ eye on ’im, ain’t I?”
Nott nods, “Aren’t we all?”
Mipps adds, “Guv’nor wants t’ know where ’e goes.”
Bullen selects an orange and flicks a coin to the costermonger. Glancing back over his shoulder, he notices Mipps, but perceives nothing peculiar about his presence, merely believing that Mipps is foolishly endeavouring to help a drunken whore whom he has just stumbled upon. Beginning to peel the orange, he saunters to the corner of Brick Lane.
Seeing this, Mipps commendably pats Nott on the arm, “Keep up the good work, mate. Mind a docker don’t take a likin’ t’ yer, though.”
Sighing wearily, Nott straightens his bonnet.
Jauntily strolling across Brick Lane and having partially peeled the orange, Bullen pauses in front of a closed grocery shop and pops a segment of the fruit in his mouth. Reflected in the shop window, partly lit by a spluttering street lamp, he catches sight of Mipps behind him, sidling up to the corner he has just left.
Unaware he has been spotted, Mipps sees Bullen pop another piece of orange into his mouth and amble away from the shop. Upon reaching another corner, the journalist suddenly turns right and disappears into Booth Street, an even grimmer side street than Brick Lane.
Darting across Brick Lane and anxiously poking his head around the corner into Booth Street, Mipps gapes. Bullen is nowhere to be seen. He has vanished, apparently into thin air.
Stepping around the corner into the street, Mipps removes his cap and musingly scratches his head. [326]Two yards from the corner and on the same side of the street, he notices something lying on the ground close to the arched entrance to Hob’s Passage. He replaces his cap, approaches the entrance and nudges a piece of orange peel with the toe of his boot.
Warily entering Hob’s Passage, Mipps is immediately confronted by several nameless alleyways that extend in different directions like the strands of a spider’s web from each side of the passage. Inset closed street doors, found here and there along these foul alleyways, offer no clue to who, or what manner of person dwells behind them.
Aware that the slightest noise could betray his presence, Mipps hurriedly removes his boots, ties their laces together and slings the footwear over his shoulder, one boot dangling down his back, the other down his front. Silently, he ventures forth into the gloom and begins to investigate the warren, detecting only the sound of the occasional rat scurrying back and forth. Quickly realizing the extent of the labyrinth and considering a search futile, he decides to adopt a ‘wait and see’ tactic. About to position himself in a darkened doorway, he hears the sudden movement of someone behind him. Viciously struck across the back of the head, Mipps collapses to the ground, unconscious. Returning a black leather [327]cosh to the inside pocket of his jacket, Bullen grins.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Hurriedly emerging from Brick Lane and still dressed in feminine attire, Constable Nott enters Booth Street, immediately followed by Lestrade, Sergeant Stokes and Constable Lunt. Approaching the four men from the other end of the street and accompanied by two other constables, Chandler dashes towards them.
Lestrade barks, “Come your way, did they?”
Chandler halts, catching his breath, “Not through Samuel Row, they didn’t.”
Lestrade impatiently scratches his chin, “Then they’re still in this street, somewhere.” Indicating Hob’s Passage, he turns to Nott, “In you go, lad, and see what you can find.”
Nott demurs, “Dressed like this?”
Stokes interjects, “He could be mistaken for a whore, Inspector. Might be tempting fate if the Ripper is in there.”
Lestrade muses, “Perhaps you’re right. On second thought, you go with him.”
Stokes blanches, “Me, Inspector?”
Lestrade counters, “Yes, you, Sergeant.”
Stokes nervously tugs at the collar of his tunic, “Hob’s Passage is the Black Hole of Calcutta, Inspector.”
Caustically, Lestrade replies, “This is Whitechapel. Calcutta is in India, Sergeant.”
Stokes remonstrates, “Calcutta, Whitechapel, they’re the same. There’s blokes in there who’d sooner
slit your throat than wink at you. Last week, three of my men chased a ruffian in there, lost him and themselves. Took ’em the rest of the day to find their way out. Shook ’em up something rotten, it did. If your man’s gone in there, Inspector, and isn’t dead already, he soon will be.”
Chandler interjects, “Down here, Inspector, the locals call it the Devil’s Passage.”
Lestrade sighs wearily, “And you’re about to tell me why, right?”
Chandler continues, “Hob is another word for the devil. Once a villain has entered the passage, he can leave by a dozen different exits, perhaps more. We’re only seven men, Inspector. And before we can enter, we’ll have to seal off those exits. That means more men. A lot more.”
Stokes adds, “And not before daybreak, either.”
Lestrade quickly turns to Nott, “Get back to the station, change your clothes and bring whoever you can here.”
Nott nods, promptly raises the hem of his skirt and totters away.
Stokes protests, “But, Inspector...”
Lestrade retorts, “Afraid of the dark, Sergeant?”
Inhaling deeply, Stokes submissively shakes his head.
Lestrade confronts Chandler, “I’ll not have it said we stood idle whilst Mipps was murdered.”
Chandler frowns, “I’d say we’re on a fool’s errand, Inspector.”
Aware that Chandler is probably correct, Lestrade nonetheless remains steadfast, “Perhaps you’re right. But we would have tried our best. And that’s what really counts, isn’t it?”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Seated on a stool in the Britannia tavern beside Edwin Fester, blotchy faced with a carroty moustache, Mary throws back her head and chuckles, “Go on, pull the other one, it’s got bells on it.”
Swallowing a mouthful of ale, Fester lowers his glass, “No porkies, luv. The first were Liz Stride.”
Mary grabs his arm, “Liz Stride?”
Fester smirks, “Gawd, where yer been? Yeh, Liz Stride an’ then Cathy Eddowes.”
Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul Page 27
