Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul

by Gordon Punter

Mary solemnly relinquishes her grip, “Knew ’er, didn’t I?”

  Raising his glass to his lips, Fester pauses, “Which one?”

  Lost in thought, Mary murmurs, “Gave ’er a bed fer the night.”

  Gulping down the remainder of his ale, Fester wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, “Yeh, but which one were she?”

  Mournfully, Mary stares into her glass, “Beaten black an’ blue, she were. Couldn’t tell midday from midnight.”

  Fester slams his glass down on the table, snapping her out of her melancholy trance, “’Er name, or a gin. Wot yer say?”

  Swallowing her drink whole, Mary chirpily hands him her glass, “Liz Stride. An’ make it ’nother.”

  Fester takes her glass and picks up his own, “Well, at least she kept ’er kidneys.”

  Mystified by his glib remark, Mary nonetheless shivers.

  Slowly, Fester stands, holding both glasses, “The Ripper took one from Cathy Eddowes an’ sent it t’ Georgie Lusk, didn’t ’e?”

  Mary blanches, “Yer kiddin’ me?”

  Fester straightens, “No, luv, I ain’t. ’E sent it t’ Lusk by post in a small cardboard box.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  On Monday, 15 October, a tall man, dressed in clerical garb, had cagily entered a leather shop at 218 Jubilee Street, Mile End, enquiring after the address of George Lusk, Chairman of the Mile End Vigilance Committee, who lived at 1 Tollet Street, although he ran a builders merchant business just around the corner in Alderney Road. The furtive behaviour and zealous eyes of the man had so unsettled the shop assistant, Emily Marsh, that she had instructed shop boy John Cormack to follow the man after he had left.

  This John Cormack had done, but had rapidly lost sight of the stranger in the crowded neighbouring streets. Aged fifty-five and at least six feet tall, if not more, the man had a sallow face, dark moustache and beard, and had spoken with a distinctive Jewish accent. The following evening, at about eight o’clock, George Lusk had received through the post a small cardboard box, 3½ inches square, wrapped in brown paper. Contained within the box had been half a rancid kidney, along with a derisory note.

  From hell

  Mr Lusk

  Sor

  I send you half the

  Kidne I took from one woman

  prasarved it for you tother piece I

  fried and ate it was very nise I

  may send you the bloody knif that

  took it out if you wate a whil

  longer

  signed Catch me when

  you can

  Mishter Lusk.

  At first, George Lusk thought it was a hoax, but then had been persuaded by the treasurer of the Mile End Vigilance Committee, Joseph Aarons, to take the half of kidney to Dr Frederick Wiles at 56 Mile End Road. Finding the doctor out, Lusk had handed the kidney to his assistant, Mr Reed, who had opined that it was most certainly human and had been preserved in spirits of wine.

  Reed had then submitted the portion of organ to Dr Thomas Horrocks Openshaw of the London Hospital, Whitechapel Road, who had examined it under a microscope. Openshaw affirmed that it was part of a left kidney that may have belonged to a woman who had been a habitual drinker and who may have died about the time that Catharine Eddowes had been slain.

  Without further ado, George Lusk had presented the grisly piece of evidence to Chief Superintendent Arnold at Leman Street Police Station who, spurning Holmes and Lestrade, had dispatched the gruesome item to the City of London Police, whereupon the supercilious Dr Frederick Brown had duly examined it.

  The left renal artery, through which blood flows to the kidney, is some three inches in length. In order to remove the left kidney from the body of Catharine Eddowes, Jack the Ripper had cut through this artery, leaving behind two inches attached to the wall of her stomach. Adjoining the half of kidney handed to Dr Brown for examination was the remaining inch, which had convinced him that the organ had indeed come from the murdered woman.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Cheerfully inebriated and followed by Fester clutching a pail of ale to his chest, Mary lurches from the Britannia tavern into the street. Playfully, she nudges him on the arm, “Settin’ yerself up fer the night, are yer?”

  Fester steadies the pail, preventing ale from slopping over its rim, “Half past eleven, luv. Start work at one. Gives me ’bout an ’our.”

  Impishly, Mary grins, “An’ yer want t’ make the most o’ me, eh?”

  Slowly raising its handle, Fester carefully lowers the pail to his side, [328]“’And-job, whilst I drink me ale, luv.”

  Mary laughs, “Standin’, or sittin’?”

  Fester hiccups, “Don’t ’arden quickly, luv. Best I sit.”

  Straightening her shawl, Mary chuckles, “Yer be a ’onest man, Edwin Fester.” She slips her arm through his, “Two bob. That’s fair, innit?”

  Fester grins, “Two shillings! That’s a bargain, luv.”

  Mary jerks his arm excitedly, “Wot’s ’oldin’ yer back, then?” She indicates the pail, “An’ don’t be spillin’ a drop, I’m thirsty.”

  Maintaining their merry disposition, Mary and Fester begin to saunter along the street towards Miller’s Court. Seconds later, Mary Ann Cox emerges from Commercial Street, scurries past the tavern and dolefully lags behind the couple. Unaware of her presence, Mary slurs to Fester, “If the Ripper did do me in, d’yer fink ’e’ll take me kidney, too?”

  Fester hiccups again, “Got ’im on the brain, ’aven’t yer? Most women I know don’t care t’ talk ’bout ’im.”

  Merrily, she prods him in the arm, “D’yer?”

  He shakes his head, “A good ’un like yer? Na, luv. Wager, ’e’ll take yer ’eart.”

  Mary chuckles, “An’ a fine Limerick ’eart ’e’ll be gittin’.”

  Upon reaching the passageway to Miller’s Court, Fester scrapes the pail against the corner of the archway, spilling ale down one side of his trousers. Hurriedly taking the container from him, Mary quips, “Ale is fer us t’ drink, else rats on the ground be doin’ a jig.”

  Fester guffaws, “Now I’ll ’ave t’ take me trousers off, won’t I?”

  Mary sniggers, “An’ I ain’t reason enough?”

  He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, “Ale first, luv.”

  She motions the passageway with her head, “Ale it’ll be.”

  Sheepishly, Fester reminds her, “’E takes a while t’ ’arden, luv.”

  Mary slips her arm out of his, “Got an ’our. That’s ample time.”

  He gleefully rubs his hands together, “Let’s git t’ it, then.”

  Followed by a fervent Fester, Mary strolls down the passageway, carrying the pail of ale. Behind them, Mary Ann Cox continues to tag along. Halting outside the door to her room, Mary hands the pail to Fester, who dips two fingers into the ale and wets his lips.

  Partially raising the hem of her skirt, she stoops and takes a key from the inside of one of her gusset boots, “Lose this an’ there’ll be no fun t’ be ’ad.”

  Mary Ann Cox brushes past her, “Good night, Mary Jane.”

  Holding the key, Mary stands bolt upright, “Gawd!” She turns to Fester, “’Ear that, did yer? She called me by name.”

  Scampering towards her room at the far end of the court, Mary Ann Cox is immediately engulfed by darkness.

  Fingering the keyhole, Mary slides the key into the lock of the door, “First time, in goodness knows ’ow long, she’s spoken t’ me.”

  Fester murmurs, “Friendly sort, is she?”

  Sharply turning the key and then retrieving it from the lock, Mary throws open the door and hollers, “Good night, Coxey, I’m goin’ t’ ’ave me a song.” She quickly ushers Fester into the room, “An’ a drink, too.”

  Placing the key on the table, Mary lights the wick of the candle and indicates a chair to Fester, “Best yer get them trousers off.” She kicks the door shut, tosses her shawl aside and produces two ale glasses, dipping one into the pail, now on t
he floor, and giving it to Fester. Swiftly filling the other glass, she swallows a mouthful of ale and begins to sing a popular music hall song.

  “Scenes o’ me childhood ’rise b’fore me gaze,

  Bringin’ recollections o’ by-gone ’appy days,

  When down in the meadows in childhood

  I would roam,

  No one’s left t’ cheer me now within the

  good ol’ ’ome.”

  Removing his trousers, Fester reveals cotton long johns. Seeing the undergarment, Mary stops singing, “Them, too.”

  Fester demurs, “Keep’s the draught out, luv.”

  Mary smirks, “’Ave ’nother ale, instead.”

  Reluctantly, Fester begins to remove the undergarment.

  Mary continues to sing.

  “Father an’ mother they ’ave passed ’way,

  Sister an’ brother now lay b’neath the clay,

  But while life does remain t’ cheer me I’ll retain,

  This small violet I plucked from mother’s grave.”

  Naked from the waist down, except for soiled socks with holes in their heels, Fester sits down on the chair, glass of ale in hand. Mary seductively approaches him, still singing.

  “Well I remember me dear ol’ mother’s smile,

  As she used t’ greet me when I returned from toil,

  Always knittin’ in the ol’ armchair.

  Father used t’ sit an’ read fer all the children there,

  But now all is silent ’round the good ol’ home.”

  Placing her ale glass down on the table, Mary kneels before Fester, “They ’ave all left me in sorrow fer t’ roam.” She slips a hand beneath his testicles, “But while life does remain in memoriam I’ll retain.” With her other hand, she begins to [329]stroke his limp organ, “This small violet I plucked from mother’s grave.”

  Chapter 12

  Charnel House

  Pacing back and forth in front of the arched entrance to Hob’s Passage, Lestrade impatiently stares at his pocket watch, “Quarter to midnight. What’s taking him so long?”

  Sergeant Stokes sighs tetchily, “Night duty, Inspector.”

  Lestrade returns the watch to his waistcoat pocket, “I beg your pardon?”

  Chandler interjects, “Doubt Constable Nott will find many men at the station, Inspector. Most will be out on the beat, hoping to catch the Ripper.”

  Wearing his uniform, a perspiring Nott suddenly emerges from Brick Lane, accompanied by another constable.

  Lestrade glances at Chandler, “Well, speak of the devil.”

  Breathlessly indicating the other constable, Nott blurts, “He’s the only one, Inspector. Rest are out, searching the streets for Jack the Ripper.”

  Delighted to hear that his assessment of the situation has been corroborated, Chandler smirks.

  Lestrade rejoins, “That’s precisely why we’re here, lad.” He turns to Stokes, “You and the lad stay here. And if anyone should come out of that passage before we do, I don’t just want their name and address, I want you to sit on them.”

  Stokes frowns incredulously, “Sit on them, Inspector?”

  Lestrade nods, “Yes, sit on them. Use your truncheon, if need be.” He points to Nott, “And that goes for you, too, lad.”

  Chandler baulks, “Then we’re going in?”

  Lestrade gestures with his hand, beckoning Constable Lunt and the other three constables, “These four, you and me. Six of us.”

  Chandler quips, “Hardly the six hundred, Inspector?”

  Lestrade grins, “An educated police officer. I like that. [330]Tennyson, right?”

  Chandler smiles, “You’ve read the poem, then?”

  Staring at the four constables lined up in front of him, Lestrade murmurs, “Who hasn’t?” He issues an order, “Stay together, unless I say otherwise. I don’t know what we will find in there, if anything. But I want us back here in one piece. No heroics, understood?” He gently pats Chandler on the arm, “You and me, first.”

  Chandler complies, “Forward, the Light Brigade!”

  Observing the four constables, led by Lestrade and Chandler, entering the passage and steadily disappearing from sight, Nott sidles up next to Stokes, “On my way back from the nick, I bumped into 219 Evans. He said the Commissioner’s [331]chucked in the towel, resigned. Is it true, Sergeant?”

  Stokes ruminates, “Daresay there’s truth in any rumour, lad.”

  Nott motions to the entrance of the passage with his head, “Think Inspector Lestrade knows?”

  Dryly, Stokes replies, “If it’s true and he doesn’t, he soon will.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  An aristocratic authoritarian, Sir Charles Warren has stubbornly held to the belief that, as Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, he ought to have absolute control over the force. He also believes that the British police should be more like their continental counterparts, dictated less by politicians and not answerable to the press.

  His contentious ideas contained in an article and published in this month’s edition of Murray’s Magazine so incensed the Home Secretary, Mr Henry Matthews, that he wrote a formal reprimand to Sir Charles, reminding him of an 1879 Home Office ruling which forbids serving police officers from writing to the press without due clearance from the Secretary of State. Considering his position above that of a mere police officer, Sir Charles had replied to Mr Matthews, stating that he had no prior knowledge of such a ruling and, if his office was to be censored in this manner, he had little, or no alternative, but to resign.

  Holding Sir Charles responsible for the failure of the police to apprehend Jack the Ripper, Matthews had seized the opportunity and late yesterday afternoon accepted Sir Charles’ resignation with effect from today. Until his successor can be found, however, Warren is to reluctantly remain in office for the rest of this month.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Except for the faint light emitted by the oil-lamp upon the table in front of him, the musty room is oppressively dark. Mipps groggily lifts his sore head and attempts to touch the back of it, only to find he is bound hand and foot to the chair on which he sits. At the rear of the room, a tall shadowy figure emerges from behind a drawn curtain, increases the glow of the oil-lamp, picks up a pair of boots from the table and drops them on the floor beside Mipps’ grubby sock covered feet.

  Kosminski stares at him, “Took ’em off so yer wouldn’t be ’eard. Yer no [332]yutz. Who are yer?”

  Mipps replies, “Alfred Mipps, mate. Yer might say, I’m the other side o’ the coin.”

  Kosminski frowns, “A coin ’as two sides. Who’s the other?”

  Cheekily, Mipps grins, “Lookin’ at ’im, ain’t I?”

  Kosminski snarls, “Talk sense...” He draws a finger across his own throat, “Or yer die.”

  Mipps teases, “Kill me? Na, yer ain’t got the [333]bottle, mate. Yer a murderer o’ whores, Aaron Kosminski, not o’ men.”

  Hearing his name uttered, Kosminski glowers.

  Mipps grins again, “Touched a nerve, ’aven’t I? Yer see, Bullen were a [334]means t’ an end. It were yer I wanted t’ meet.”

  Stooping, Kosminski breathes in his face, “Why?”

  Mipps grimaces, “D’yer mind, mate?”

  Perplexed, Kosminski straightens and steps back.

  Mipps exhales heavily, “Can’t stand bad breath, yer see.”

  Pensively, Kosminski strokes his beard, “An’ why should a Gentile want t’ meet a Jew?”

  Mipps sighs tetchily, “Let’s drop the pretence, shall we? Yer no more a Jew than I am Arthur Wellesley.”

  Lunging forward, Kosminski seizes Mipps by the throat, “’Nother riddle?”

  Mipps splutters, “Duke o’ Wellington, weren’t ’e?”

  Kosminski sneers, “Died thirty-six years ago, as yer will.”

  Mipps smirks, “That’s a [335]dead giveaway, mate. A genuine Jew wouldn’t care, or know, when the Duke died.”

  Kosminski tightens his grip, “Yer
clever. Who are yer?”

  Mipps croaks, “Untie me an’ I’ll show yer.”

  Kosminski growls, “Take me fer a fool, d’yer?”

  Mipps coughs, “Na, mate. But from where I sit, anyfink’s worth a try, innit?”

  Kosminski smiles malevolently, “Then let me ’elp yer.” Grabbing Mipps by the hair, he snatches a wig from his head, yanks a false beard from his chin and plucks a fake nose from his face. Tossing aside the theatrical pieces, Kosminski steps back and gazes upon a partially grease-painted aquiline face with sharp piercing eyes.

  Discarding his Jewish dialect, Kosminski excitedly exclaims in a cultured voice, “Mr Sherlock Holmes, at last.”

  Holmes politely tips his head, “Perhaps you will extend me the courtesy of removing your disguise as well.”

  Kosminski replies curtly, “I think not, Mr Holmes. You are scarcely in a position to demand anything of me.”

  Holmes glances at his bonds, “For once, I must agree with you. It would appear you have the advantage.”

  Kosminski gloats, “A distinct advantage, Mr Holmes. I am the spider and you are the fly, ensnared in my web, so to speak.” Thoughtfully, he raises an index finger to his lips, “You mentioned a disguise, which, in all likelihood, denotes you have determined my other identity.”

  Holmes interjects, “If you are to dispose of me, my knowledge of your other identity is irrelevant, Kosminski.”

  Kosminski nods, “You are indeed correct, to a point. And yes, you are to be disposed of, but not by my hand. That privilege is to be reserved for the very establishment you support.”

  Holmes ruminates, “Ah, [336]malice aforethought. You mean to have me executed for murder?”

  “The Whitechapel murders, to be exact.”

  “You forget, Kosminski, I have alibis for the nights in question.”

  “You do? For the precise times when the murders were actually committed? Tenuous alibis can easily be discredited, Mr Holmes.”

  Holmes raises an enquiring eyebrow, “And how do you intend to achieve this madness? I can hardly be expected to assist you in my own demise.”