Silently returning to the table, Kosminski raises the hinged lid of a small oblong case, revealing a hypodermic syringe and needle, “Quite so, Mr Holmes.” Picking up the device, he holds it aloft, presses the plunger of the syringe and squirts a little liquid from the tip of the needle, “Of course, Dr Watson, incarcerated as he is, will be the beneficiary of my audacious scheme.”
Holmes grimaces, “To exonerate Watson would require another murder.”
Kosminski approaches him, holding the hypodermic syringe and needle in one hand, “Precisely, Mr Holmes.” He grips Holmes by the wrist, pushes up the sleeve of his jacket, exposing the inside of his forearm, “Later today, Mr Holmes...” He injects him, “The entire police force of London will learn the identity of Jack the Ripper.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Hearing approaching footsteps emanating from the passage, Constable Nott fumbles for his truncheon. Placing a calming hand on Nott’s shoulder, Sergeant Stokes murmurs, “Hobnail boots, lad. They’re ours.”
Seeing a solemn Lestrade, followed by Chandler, Lunt and the other three constables slowly stepping out of the passage into the street, Stokes quietly asks, “Find anything, Inspector?”
Lestrade glumly reveals a peaked cloth cap, “Apart from this, nothing. Mipps went in there, all right. It’s a bloody rabbit warren. Dark and all. Can’t see your hand in front of your face.”
Staring at the cap, Nott interjects, “What about the journalist, Inspector? We could pull him in. Find out what happened.”
Lestrade sighs wearily, “We could, but we’re not going to.”
Chandler adds, “Alert him now, lad, and Mipps could wind up dead.”
Nott counters, “That might be the situation already.”
Lestrade winces, “We don’t know for sure.” He turns to Chandler and Stokes, “You were both right. We need a lot of men, and daylight, on our side.”
Stokes stomps his feet and blows into cupped hands, “Daresay the men could use a mug of tea, Inspector?”
Lestrade muses, “Back at the station?”
Stokes nods.
Lestrade responds, “In that case, I’m coming with you.”
Chandler frowns, “A nap wouldn’t hurt, Inspector.”
Lestrade shakes his head, No rest for the wicked, I’m afraid. Dr Watson has a right to know what’s going on.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Bleary-eyed, Watson heaves aside the blankets of his cell bed, “Good Lord, Lestrade! Do you know what time it is?”
Lestrade glances at Sergeant Kirby, standing beside him, “Nigh on half past one, Dr Watson.”
Without his clip-on shirt collar and tie, Watson drowsily rises from the bed and sits on its edge, “In the morning, I might add.”
Tickled by the remark, Kirby grins, “I’ll get you a cuppa, sir.”
Lestrade interjects, “Make that two, Sergeant.”
Touching the brim of his helmet, Kirby strides from the cell.
Watson stifles a yawn, “Now, Lestrade, perhaps you can tell me what all the fuss is about.”
Lestrade removes his hat, “It would appear Mr Holmes is lost.”
Watson stares at him sternly, “You woke me up to tell me that?”
Taken aback by his brusque manner, Lestrade stammers, “Well, his disappearance does warrant some concern, Dr Watson.”
Watson smiles mischievously, “Lost Holmes, have you?”
Perplexed by his expression, Lestrade nods.
Watson guffaws, “One does not lose Holmes, Lestrade. On the contrary, he is apt to lose you. From the look on your face, you think Holmes has been abducted, as I was.”
Lestrade fingers the brim of his hat, “Something like that, yes.”
Watson clips on his detachable collar and then begins to knot his tie, “Despite his dispassionate detection methods, Holmes is a magnanimous individual, Lestrade. He will never risk the life of another before his own.” He stands, buttoning his waistcoat, “When necessary, he will not shrink from harm’s way, especially if he is obliged to confront a deadly criminal, face to face.” He reaches for his jacket, “If Holmes has indeed offered himself up as a hapless victim, you can be sure he has done so in order to mislead his adversary into believing the scoundrel has the upper hand.”
Lestrade sighs earnestly, “Mr Holmes says he knows the identity of Jack the Ripper, whose name he has withheld from me. If Mr Holmes goes and gets himself murdered, the Ripper will never be caught, because we won’t have the foggiest idea who we should be looking for.”
Watson puts on his jacket, “Patience, Lestrade. Maddening as it is, Holmes has a tendency to disappear whilst investigating a case, sometimes for days on end. He will make his presence known when he deems the moment appropriate and when you least expect it.”
Lestrade frowns, “Going somewhere, are you, Dr Watson?”
Ignoring the question, Watson looks around the cell searchingly, “My Derby hat, Lestrade. Have you seen it?”
Lestrade shakes his head, “And why would you want your hat?”
Watson pauses indignantly, “It cost me eleven shillings and I do not intend to leave it behind.”
Lestrade scratches his chin, “Leaving us, then?”
Watson continues to look around the cell, “Yes, of course. I can hardly be of any assistance to Holmes, nor you, locked up here.”
Lestrade imparts, “Before he disappeared, Mr Holmes was most adamant you should remain here with us. Being a gentleman and all, I trust you will abide by his request, Dr Watson.”
Watson responds incredulously, “Good heavens! Did he think I might be seized again?”
Lestrade raises a placatory hand, “A precautionary measure, Dr Watson. Mr Holmes thought you would be safer here instead of being alone at 221b Baker Street.”
Watson stares at him, “You mentioned Jack the Ripper. Who, or what, is he?”
Lestrade replies, “The Whitechapel murderer.”
Watson slowly sits down on the cell bed, “I believe you owe me an explanation, Lestrade.”
Kirby enters the cell, holding two enamelled mugs of hot tea. He hands one to Lestrade and then the other to Watson, “Too early for breakfast, sir. Get you something else?”
Taking the mug of tea, Watson wearily smiles, “It is not done for one to sleep in their clothes, Sergeant. A pair of pyjamas, please.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Drunkenly emerging from the passageway, Mary and Fester pause outside the arched entrance to Miller’s Court. Holding the empty pail by his side, Fester burps softly, “Yer know ’ow t’ [337]put a spring in a man’s ’eel, that’s fer sure. I’ll be in the Ringers agin t’night. If yer ’bout, that is?”
Mary teasingly feigns a limp right hand, “Ain’t so sure me ’and can take ’nother ’our like that.” She indicates the street with her thumb, “Which route yer takin’?”
Fester motions the far end of the street, “Crispin Street, then Bell Lane.”
Referring to the pail, Mary swiftly extends her hand, “I’ll return that. Save yer traipsin’ up the street an’ then back down agin.”
Appreciating her offer, Fester gives her the container, “Yer a good ’un, all right. Tell Walter I’ll collect me deposit t’night.” Turning up the collar of his jacket, he shoves his hands into his trouser pockets, “Bleedin’ cold mornin’, if yer ask me. See yer later, then?”
Watching him stroll away, Mary smirks, [338]“One born every minute, that’s for sure.” Clutching the pail to her chest, she eagerly rushes along the pavement and enters the Britannia tavern.
Slamming the pail down on the bar, Mary immediately attracts the attention of burly landlord Walter Ringer, leant across the bar, talking to a customer. Annoyed by the interruption, he approaches her, “Late fer yer, innit, Kelly? Wot yer want?”
She indicates the pail, “Come t’ collect the deposit, ’aven’t I?”
Ringer stares at her suspiciously, “Oh, yeh?”
Pushing the pail towards him, Mary ch
irps, “Fair exchange ain’t no robbery, right?”
Ringer fingers the pail, “Belongs t’ Edwin Fester, not yer, Kelly.”
Mary counters indignantly, “’E be asleep in me bed. Sent me t’ collect the coinage, ’asn’t ’e?”
Ringer takes the pail from the top of the bar, “Talks in ’is sleep, does ’e?” He sets the container down on the floor, “Since when does a man, who’s asleep, ask yer t’ collect summut fer ’im?”
Mary scowls, “Fink me a tea leaf, d’yer?”
Ringer places an elbow on the bar, “Git back t’ yer room, Kelly. Wake Edwin an’ tell ’im t’ come ’ere ’imself.”
Haughtily, Mary replies, “An’ if ’e don’t want t’ come?”
Ringer snarls, “Whores! Yer all the same. Irish bein’ the worst. When yer ain’t offerin’ yerselves t’ blokes, yer thievin’ from ’em.” He motions to the door, “Now ’op it, b’fore I come that side o’ the bar an’ ’appily throw yer out.”
Mary scoffs, “Missus [339]prim an’ proper, is she? Won’t let yer inside ’er, I bet.”
Instinctively raising his arm to lash out, Ringer promptly restrains himself, “Them’s foul words, woman. Drink elsewhere, ’cos yer’ll not be served in ’ere agin.”
Her ruse effectively laid bare and now barred from the tavern because of her acidulous remark, Mary saunters to the street door, remaining nonetheless defiant, “Off t’ the Ten Bells, ain’t I? Where the beer don’t taste o’ [340]piss an’ the gin ain’t thinned wiv water.”
Hurriedly stepping out through the door into the street, she gleefully fingers the two shilling coins acquired from Fester, “A tot o’ brandy, then ’nother bloke, maybe? Round the night off nicely.”
She shivers, draws her shawl tightly around her shoulders, scurries across Commercial Street and heads towards the Ten Bells tavern, barely a minute away.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Seated at a small circular table in the tavern, deserted except for landlord Alfred Grainger engrossed in a newspaper behind the bar, and an intoxicated old hag slumped across another table snoring, Bullen raises an ale glass to his lips and smiles contentedly, “Tonight it will be done. And when the final piece of the jigsaw puzzle has been put in place, a [341]king’s ransom is mine.” He swallows a mouthful of beer and smirks, “Well, maybe not a king’s ransom, exactly. But a lot more than a man could [342]squirrel away during his lifetime in this godforsaken city.”
He stares at his half-filled glass and mulls escape, “The diamond city of Kimberly in the Cape Colony offers a [343]safe haven, where a [344]blaggard, such as me, can still profit [345]from ill-gotten gains. Then, of course, there’s the Bendigo goldfield in Southern Australia, where officialdom might overlook my past for a substantial investment in the venture.” Snapping out of his rumination, he frowns “But where to find a whore with a room of her own?”
Mary hurriedly enters the tavern, glances at Bullen, approaches Grainger and slurs, “More people in Itchy Park than in ’ere, Alf.”
Grainger slowly lowers his newspaper, “I’m blessed, Mary Jane. Fer those wot ’ave a tavern off the ’ighway, business is bad. No customers, like.” He taps the editorial column of the newspaper, “This ’ere Jack the Ripper is keepin’ ’em all at ’ome, ain’t ’e?”
Mary burps, “’Ere’s a ’elpin’ ’and, then.” She slaps a shilling coin down on the bar, “A tot of brandy.”
“Allow me.”
Curiously peering over her shoulder, Mary sees Bullen standing behind her, gulping down the remainder of his beer.
Mary stares at him suspiciously, [346]“Bogey, are yer?”
Bullen wipes his mouth with his hand, “Cold night, isn’t it?” He hands his glass to Grainger for a refill, “And the brandy for her.”
Taking advantage of his generosity, Mary blurts, “Two tots, same glass, Alf.” Seeking his consent, Grainger looks at Bullen, who nods approvingly.
Mary artfully retrieves her shilling coin, “Yer look like a bogey.”
Taking a handkerchief from the side pocket of his jacket, Bullen dabs his forehead, “I seek company, one such as yourself.”
Mary feigns indifference, “Who says I’m fer company?”
He lowers his handkerchief and steps closer to her, “Two tots of brandy does.”
Amused, Mary sniggers, “One fer words, ain’t yer?”
Bullen dabs his forehead again, “What’s your name?”
Grainger places a glass of brandy down on the bar next to Mary, which she immediately grabs, “Marie Jeanette Kelly. French, yer know? From [347]gay Paree.”
Thrusting his handkerchief into his jacket pocket, Bullen quips, “With an Irish accent. That’s a novelty.” He takes a full glass of ale from Grainger, handing him a shilling in payment, “Speak French, do you?”
Mary crows, [348]“Oui.”
Bullen feigns surprise, “Very good.” With a theatrical sweep of his hand, he indicates his table, “Well, Marie Jeanette Kelly, would you care to join me?”
Mary sways and then sniggers, [349]“Merci, monsieur.”
Obtaining his change from Grainger, Bullen pockets the coins and ushers Mary to the table, “From around here, are you?”
Mary shakily places the glass of brandy down upon the table, “Yer ain’t, that’s fer sure.”
She slumps down on a stool.
He sits opposite her, “How do you know?”
Mary stifles a burp, “’Cos yer don’t talk like we do.” She picks up the brandy, “If yer want t’ know where I live, it’ll cost yer.”
Bullen raises his glass to his lips, “I have already paid you for that information.”
Perplexed, she frowns.
Indicating the glass of brandy, Bullen swallows a mouthful of ale.
Mary gazes at the glass in her hand, “Company, nothin’ more.”
He lowers his glass, “One tot’s for company, the other’s for your address.”
Quickly gulping down some of the brandy, Mary reels from its immediate effect, “Oooh!” She slams the glass down on the table and giggles apologetically, “Gone right t’ me ’ead, ain’t it?” She inhales deeply and then gradually relaxes, [350]“Warms the cockles o’ yer ’eart, that’s fer sure.”
Bullen looks at her enquiringly.
Mary divulges, [351]“A stone's throw from ’ere. Miller’s Court, Dorset Street.” She grips the brandy glass, [352]“All square now, are we?”
“Lodging house, is it?”
Mary blurts indignantly, “Lodgin’ ’ouse! I ’ave me own room!”
Bullen feigns an apology, “How short sighted of me. A lady from gay Paree, such as yourself, would naturally have her own room.”
Mary picks up her glass, “An’ I do. Number thirteen.”
Bullen raises his ale glass to his mouth again, “Hardly a fortunate number.”
Mary sighs, “Makes no difference. Nothin’ fortunate ’bout bein’ down ’ere.” She holds her glass aloft, “’Part from this. Kills the pain o’ livin’.”
Swallowing ale, Bullen places his glass down on the table and again produces his handkerchief, “You’re a strange one. Most of the women who live around here are terrified of the Ripper and stay at home, why not you?”
Mary lowers her gaze and murmurs, “Want t’ meet ’im, don’t I?”
Bullen wipes his forehead, “I beg your pardon?”
With a flippant wave of her hand, Mary dismisses his question, “Me ’eart’s achin’, innit?” She indicates his handkerchief, “Wot’s the matter wiv yer? Nervous, or summut?”
Bullen quickly returns the handkerchief to his pocket, “I have a little proposition to put to you.”
Mary cocks her head, “’Ave yer, now?”
Sliding aside his ale glass, Bullen places his elbows on the table and leans closer to her, “If you feel up to it that is?”
“Go on, [353]I’m all ears.”
“I represent a gentleman who likes to conduct his affairs with women discreetly. And since yo
u have your own room nearby, he will certainly want to make your acquaintance.”
“When?”
“Within the hour.”
Mary blurts incredulously, “T’night?”
Bullen nods, “You’ll be well paid, five shillings.”
She scoffs, “Five bob? Pull the other one, it’s got bells on it.”
Taking a half-crown from his pocket, he slides the coin across the table to her, “Two and sixpence, and he’ll settle the balance once you’ve bedded him.”
Mary gawks at the coin, “A [354]toff, is ’e?”
“A Jew.”
Mary chirps, “’Ain’t a poor ’un, that’s fer sure.”
With an impatient finger, Bullen taps the coin “His religion rules that he can only associate with a woman of his own kind, but he prefers otherwise.”
Mary interjects, “Daft way t’ carry on, innit?”
“Physical union with a Gentile woman is forbidden. Privacy is of the utmost importance.”
Mary hesitates, “Never ’ad a Jew b’fore.” She grins at him, “First time fer everyfink, though.” She snatches the coin from the table, “Where do I meet ’im?”
Bullen quickly picks up his glass and gulps down the remainder of his ale, “I will arrange for him to meet you outside the Queen’s Head tavern in half an hour.”
Mary approves, “Very ’andy. Mere minutes from ’ere. Corner o’ Fashion Street.”
Bullen puts down his empty glass, stands and nods, “Just past Dorset Street and close to your room at 13 Miller’s Court.”
Mary queries, “Wot’s ’e look like?”
Bullen smirks, “Salvation, Marie Jeanette. Be there and you will never want again.” He turns away, approaches Grainger and places a sixpence down on the bar, “Give her one more tot. And when she is ready to leave, make sure she is in one piece and can walk.”
Grainger slides the coin across the bar into the palm of his other hand, “Ain’t often ’er kind gits charity, guv’nor. ’Ope she knows wot a bloomin’ gentleman yer are.”
Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul Page 29
