Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul

by Gordon Punter

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  The aforementioned bloodhounds are two dogs affectionately known to their owner, Edwin Brough, as Barnaby and Burgho. After the murder of Annie Chapman, it was suggested to the police that the use of bloodhounds might be a successful way of ferreting out criminals who had left no trace behind except their scent. Though breeder Edwin Brough has always applauded the special qualities of the bloodhound, he remained sceptical that they could be used effectively in the crowded streets of London.

  Soon after the murders of both Elizabeth Stride and Catharine Eddowes, however, Sir Charles Warren had seized upon the idea of bloodhounds, taking part in an experiment on [374]Tooting Common, where he himself had been tracked by two bloodhounds which had eventually got lost in the thick fog. Undeterred, Sir Charles had encouraged further trials, this time employing Edwin Brough and two of his finest dogs, Barnaby and Burgho. On a misty morning, 8 October, at 7 a.m., the first of these trials began in [375]Regent’s Park.

  Though the ground of the park was coated in frost, Barnaby and Burgho successfully tracked a man who had been given a fifteen-minute head start. That night, in total darkness, they once more succeeded in another trial, tracking a man in [376]Hyde Park.

  The following morning, 9 October, a further six trials were held with Sir Charles, on two occasions, again acting the part of the hunted man. Although the scented trail had been deliberately tainted to deceive Barnaby and Burgho, they successfully tracked him each time. Completing the trials, Edwin Brough had cautioned Sir Charles, explaining that even though Barnaby and Burgho had performed impressively on grass, there could be no certainty that they would repeat their success in the fetid streets of Whitechapel.

  Sir Charles, however, thought that the two bloodhounds had performed splendidly and, under the misapprehension that Brough would lend Barnaby and Burgho to the police free of charge, issued strict instructions that, in the event of another Whitechapel murder, the body should not be disturbed until the bloodhounds could take up the scent. Brough, of course, had expected the police to either purchase or hire Barnaby and Burgho and to insure them against injuries. When he failed to get a firm financial pledge from Sir Charles, he reluctantly withdrew Barnaby and Burgho, leaving the police at the end of last month with no trained bloodhounds anywhere in the metropolis. Prior to the murder of Mary Jane Kelly this morning, Barnaby and Burgho have been kennelled at [377]Wyndyate near Scarborough for the past nine days.

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  Pacing back and forth outside the door of number 13, Lestrade grumbles to Chandler, “We’re [378]manacled by superiors who think they know best. Bloodhounds, indeed.”

  Hurrying along the passageway, Constable Nott approaches Lestrade, “Inspector.”

  Lestrade stares at him expectantly, “We can enter the room?”

  Mystified by the question, Nott frowns.

  Seeing his baffled expression, Chandler murmurs to Lestrade, “I think the answer is still no.”

  Nott imparts, “The photographer, Inspector. I brought him from his studio in Cannon Street Road, as you instructed.”

  Holding a wooden tripod in one hand and a square mahogany box in the other, a thirty-eight-year-old man steps out from behind Nott and introduces himself, “Joseph Martin, Inspector.”

  Lestrade commends Nott, “Well done, lad. Now join the others at the entrance. And when Mr McCarthy turns up with his sledgehammer, or whatever tool he might bring, let him through.”

  Nott touches the brim of his helmet, turns on his heel and strides off along the passageway.

  Lestrade addresses Martin, “Took the mortuary photographs of Tabram, Nichols, Chapman and Stride, didn’t you?”

  Martin nods, “Yes, Inspector. But not Eddowes. The City Police engaged another fellow to photograph her.”

  Lestrade motions to the door with his head, “Prepare yourself, Mr Martin, this one is...”

  Chandler interjects, “Bloody awful.”

  Lestrade continues, “She’s lying on the bed, cut to pieces. I want a photograph of her in that position and another of what is on the table beside her.”

  Martin enquiries, “Her eyes, Inspector? Are they open?”

  Lestrade sighs, “You don’t believe in that nonsense, do you?”

  Martin carefully places his tripod against the wall and his box on the ground, “Makes no odds to me, one way or the other. But if her retinas have retained an image of the murderer...”

  Chandler interjects again, “In the absence of other clues, what harm would it do, Inspector?”

  Lestrade relents, “All right, one photograph of her eyes.”

  Followed by Dr Bagster Phillips, who had examined the body of Annie Chapman in the backyard of 29 Hanbury Street, McCarthy, clutching a pickaxe with both hands, struts along the passageway to Lestrade, “Want I break down the door now?”

  Chandler grumbles to Lestrade, “If we don’t get into that room soon, it’s going to get awfully crowded here.”

  Again, Lestrade sighs and then addresses McCarthy, “Nothing I’d like better, Mr McCarthy.” He indicates the brick wall opposite the door, “Please wait there.”

  McCarthy leans against the wall and moans, “Nigh on two ’ours since we found ’er dead. [379]Wot’s the bleedin’ ’old-up?”

  Chandler snaps, “Patience is a virtue, is it not, Mr McCarthy?”

  McCarthy sneers, “Ain’t got time t’ waste. A closed shop don’t earn brass.”

  Lestrade turns to Bagster Phillips, “Another unhappy occasion, Doctor.”

  Bagster Phillips politely raises his silk top hat, “Not if we are to be enlightened by the unorthodox methods of Mr Holmes again.”

  Lestrade inhales deeply, “Mr Holmes is not here. He is otherwise occupied, Doctor.”

  Bagster Phillips sighs dolefully, “Then you are indeed correct, Inspector. It is an unhappy occasion.”

  A well-attired, forty-seven-year-old gentleman hurries along the passageway and approaches Bagster Phillips from behind, “Good Lord, Phillips, I have never seen such a surly crowd before. There must be five hundred people, if not more, out there.” He stares at Lestrade, “You’re a doctor, too? Don’t look like one, though.”

  Lestrade rejoins, “Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. And you are...?”

  Bagster Phillips introduces the gentleman, “Dr Thomas Bond. Divisional Police Surgeon for A Division, Inspector.”

  Lestrade muses, “Westminster, eh?” He looks at Bond, [380]“A bit off the beaten track, aren’t you, Doctor?”

  Bond counters, “You object to a second opinion, Inspector?”

  Bagster Phillips intervenes, “Perhaps our time would be better spent examining the body of the poor woman, Inspector?”

  Lestrade sighs petulantly, “We are shackled by stupidity, Doctor. But fortunately the body can be viewed.” He turns to Chandler, “Allow these two gentlemen to look through the window.”

  Complying, Chandler leads Bagster Phillips and Bond around the corner to the nearest window.

  McCarthy smirks at Lestrade, [381]“Right carry-on, innit? We outside twiddlin’ our thumbs an’ she’s inside cold as mutton.”

  Ignoring McCarthy, Lestrade whispers to Martin, “When we do gain entry to the room, I want the photographs taken before the place is disturbed, understood?”

  Martin nods, “I’ll be as quick as possible, Inspector, but it is not that easy. One has to consider the light in the room. Exposure and focus is everything.”

  Lestrade taps his foot impatiently, “I appreciate your concern, but when the moment comes, be about your task with a sense of urgency, there’s a good chap, Mr Martin.”

  Accompanied by two police constables, Superintendent Arnold haughtily enters the court from the passageway, “Ah, Lestrade.” He glances about, “And where is your insolent friend?”

  Lestrade frowns, “Mr Holmes?”

  Arnold sneers, “Who else?”

  Lestrade counters, “Elusive as ever. He is not here.”

&nbs
p; Arnold scoffs, “Damn meddling amateur. Now perhaps the London Metropolitan Police can show him [382]a trick or two. You may enter the room. The Commissioner has cancelled the bloodhound order.”

  Lestrade quickly looks at McCarthy and snaps his fingers, “Right, you! Get on with it.”

  Tightly gripping the handle of the pickaxe, McCarthy shoves past Arnold, “’Bout bleedin’ time.” Lifting the tool over his shoulder, he swings it through the air and, with its metal tip, splits the wooden frame beside the edge of the door, close to the lock. Rapidly repeating the deed, he gouges out a piece of wood, comprising of the latch hole. The door springs opens. Turning to Lestrade, he quips, “Like pickin’ daisies, innit?”

  Feigning gratitude, Lestrade replies, “Thank you, Mr McCarthy. Now please stand aside.” Pushing open the door, which strikes one side of the bedside table within the room, he beckons Martin, “If you would be so good, Mr Martin?”

  Holding his wooden tripod in one hand and his mahogany box in the other, Martin hurriedly steps into the room, stares at the corpse and hesitates. Close behind him, Lestrade scuffs the heel of his boot against the edge of a slightly raised floorboard, “As quick as you can, Mr Martin.”

  Spreading the legs of the tripod, Martin removes a [383]Fallowfield glass-plate camera from the box and mounts it upon the device. Ducking his head beneath the black photographer’s hood, he begins to slide the bellows of the camera back and forth, focusing on the body upon the bed.

  Kneeling before the mantelpiece, Lestrade stares at the ashes in the grate. Chandler pokes his head around the open door, “Shall I bring our medical friends in, Inspector?”

  Lestrade shakes his head, “Not until Mr Martin has finished.” He stands slowly, “I want a list of everything you find in the room.” He indicates the ashes, “Put these through a sieve. And another thing, be careful. There are a couple of loose floorboards in here.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  At about two o’clock, Dr Bagster Phillips and Dr Thomas Bond enter the room and begin their examination of the mortal remains of Mary Kelly. Due to the ghastly mutilations inflicted upon her body, neither doctor can determine asphyxiation as the primary cause of death. After concluding their grisly task, they inform Lestrade that an organ, her heart, is missing and, in their opinion, Mary had been slain somewhere between 2 a.m. and 5 a.m. that morning.

  Two statements, however, one obtained by Inspector Beck from Sarah Lewis and the other obtained by Detective Dew from Elizabeth Prater, will ultimately establish the time of death more accurately.

  Just before 3 a.m., Sarah Lewis had dozed off in the armchair in her parents’ room, overlooking the outer yard beside Mary’s room. Some fifty-five minutes later, she had been awakened by a stifled cry of “Murder!” which she thought had originated from close by, possibly from number 13.

  At approximately the same time, Elizabeth Prater, roused from a drink-induced sleep by her pet kitten ‘Diddles’ clambering over her throat, had heard the faint cry of “Oh, murder!” coming from the room of number 13, directly beneath her own room.

  After judging the statements of both witnesses to be reliable, the police will rapidly reach the conclusion that, in all probability, Mary Kelly had been murdered in her room shortly before 4 a.m.

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  Though the police had earlier cordoned off both ends of Dorset Street, this had not prevented people who dwell within the street from [384]sallying forth from their lodgings to besiege the entrance of Miller’s Court with an intense curiosity. Amongst the murmuring crowd, Bullen, anticipating the arrest of Holmes, has also observed the plethora of police officials who have hurried to and from the court all afternoon.

  It is now approaching four o’clock and, in less than an hour, the autumn darkness will descend to chill the residents of the district yet again. Drawn by a pony, a two-wheeled cart halts outside the court. Its driver, accompanied by a mortuary attendant, quickly gets down from the vehicle and removes a soiled, scratched coffin from the rear of the cart. The hushed crowd, having been pushed to the opposite side of the street by a line of police constables, watches as the coffin is manhandled into the court.

  Ten minutes later, the coffin, followed by two police constables, each carrying a cloth-covered enamelled bucket filled with body parts, is brought from the court. Containing the mutilated corpse of Mary Kelly, mercifully concealed from public gaze, the coffin is returned to the cart. Taking the buckets from the two constables, the mortuary attendant puts them down beside the coffin, covers the whole lot with a grubby tarpaulin sheet and resumes his seated position next to the driver.

  Accompanied by Chandler, Lestrade emerges from the court and watches the cart trundling away, “What a way to go to your grave. Without a heart.”

  Noticing Bullen peering over the heads of the crowd staring at the receding cart, Chandler gently nudges Lestrade on the arm, “Inspector...”

  Lestrade interjects, “I see him, too.”

  Chandler grumbles, “When do we get to collar him?”

  Lestrade sighs wearily, “Not until Mr Holmes is found.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Aware that the activities of the police have ceased within the room and that it has been temporarily vacated, Holmes, lying in the space beneath the floor, quietly eases aside the loosened floorboards which have masked his presence from view. Promptly standing, he steps out of the space onto the surface of the floor, crouches and slides both floorboards back to their original position.

  Stepping across to the door, which is ajar, he peers cautiously out into the silent court, observing that everyone is congregated at the end of the passageway in Dorset Street. Quickly slipping out through the door, he hurries to the wall opposite, where McCarthy had previously stood clutching his pickaxe. Casually standing in the corner next to the passageway, he nonchalantly folds his arms and waits.

  Returning to the court with three police constables, two carrying planks of wood, the third a toolbox, Lestrade barks, “I want both windows boarded up and the door padlocked.” He ushers the men past him, “Come on, come on. It will be dark soon.”

  “Indeed, it will.”

  Lestrade turns on his heel and stares at Holmes in amazement, “Good Lord!” He catches his breath, “Dr Watson was right. You do have a habit of popping up when least expected.”

  Holmes raises an inquisitive eyebrow, “And how is Dr Watson?”

  Lestrade chuckles, “Eager to return to 221b, no doubt.” He looks at Holmes’ sock covered feet, “What happened to your...?”

  “My boots? I was relieved of them.”

  Lestrade chuckles again, “You know what they say about this Ripper bloke, Mr Holmes? You don’t hear him come, you don’t hear him go, because he don’t wear boots.”

  Holmes sighs, “Melodramatic nonsense, Lestrade. And hardly relevant to this case.” He buttons his jacket, “After I was waylaid in Hob’s Passage, did you pursue Bullen?”

  Lestrade shakes his head, “Wanted to, but thought better of it. Didn’t want to endanger your life.”

  Holmes tips his head appreciatively, “Thank you, Lestrade.”

  Lestrade laments, “I am the last person in the world you should thank, Mr Holmes. If, in the first place, I had ignored your advice and then insisted on arresting your suspect, chances are Mary Kelly would still be alive. Her death is as much my fault as yours.”

  Impressed by his forthrightness, Holmes inhales deeply, “If I have erred, Lestrade, then I am in honest company.”

  Lestrade shakes his head despairingly, “Shant forget what I saw today if I live to be a hundred.” He stares at Holmes, “It was the way she was murdered. If you can call it that.”

  Holmes counters empathetically, “All the more reason to catch her killer, wouldn’t you say?”

  Lestrade composes himself, “Bullen is out in the street, watching this place, I believe.”

  Holmes smiles mischievously, “Then we must present him with what he expects to see.” He
extends his hands, “Kindly arrest me, Lestrade.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Handcuffed, and with the soiled blanket taken from Mary’s room draped over his head and shoulders, the tall figure of a man, led by Lestrade and shielded by the three police constables, emerges from the court. On the opposite side of the street and held at bay by the line of police constables, the crowd, including Bullen, strain their necks to get a clearer view of the figure.

  Lestrade beckons Chandler, standing beside the rear door of a four-wheeled vehicle known as a ‘Black Maria’, which is used to transport prisoners, “Bishopsgate Street Police Station, at the double.”

  Chandler hesitates, “That’s the City of London. Not our patch, Inspector.”

  Lestrade motions to the crowd with his head, “I know, but we need to throw that lot off the track, especially Bullen.”

  Chandler quickly opens the rear door of the vehicle, “Let them think we’ve taken him to the nick in Commercial Street, right?”

  Lestrade shoves the blanketed, handcuffed man into the Black Maria, “Something like that, yes.” He turns to Nott, standing nearby, “Come with me, lad, and listen to what I have to say.”

  Obeying the order, Nott leaps into the back of the vehicle.

  Upon seeing Lestrade get into the Black Maria after Nott, a toothless, ragged woman, standing beside Bullen in the crowd, nudges him on the arm excitedly, “The Ripper, luv. They’ve nabbed the bleedin’ Ripper.”

  Contentedly removing his hat, Bullen dabs his forehead with his handkerchief, “Certainly seems that way, doesn’t it?”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  With her shawl pulled tightly about her head and lurking outside the Queen’s Head tavern, where Mary had met Kosminski earlier that morning, Eliza Cooper sees the Black Maria rapidly emerge from Dorset Street. Expecting the vehicle to turn left towards Commercial Street Police Station, she is surprised to see it turn right, then right again, entering White’s Row, directly opposite her.