Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul

by Gordon Punter

  Holmes taps the photograph with his finger, “Whilst we were at Miller’s Court, you mentioned her name, did you not?”

  Lestrade inhales deeply, “Mary Jane Kelly. Also known as Marie Jeanette Kelly. Don’t know why. She was Irish, not French.”

  Holmes examines the second photograph, showing part of Mary’s outstretched right arm, her mutilated abdomen, the raised bent knee of her skinned left leg, her left hand and pieces of her flesh piled on the bedside table in the background, “Perhaps she wished to rise above her station, Lestrade?”

  Lestrade replies solemnly, “A flowery name can’t change who you are, Mr Holmes. But mark my words, she won’t be forgotten, that’s for sure. The way she was murdered will be talked about for years to come.”

  Holmes retains the first photograph, returning the second one to Lestrade, “If not the entire ghastly affair, I suspect.” He stands and addresses Watson, “Whilst you were incapacitated, drugged by one of your abductors, who finally had you dumped in Cripple Court, which resulted in you being detained at Commercial Street Police Station as a suspect, three more murders took place.”

  Watson baulks, “Three! Good Lord, Holmes.”

  Holmes elucidates, “Annie Chapman in the backyard of 29 Hanbury Street, Catharine Eddowes in the southern corner of Mitre Square...” He gives the photograph to Watson. “And Mary Kelly in her room at 13 Miller’s Court, Dorset Street.”

  Watson gazes at the photograph and, appalled by the image, blanches, “The other two women? Were they disembowelled and disfigured like this?”

  Holmes imparts, “To a lesser degree, but violated, all the same.”

  Watson laments, “In all my years in the medical profession, I have never seen such a destruction of life as depicted here.”

  Lestrade stands quickly, “If you were in her room, Mr Holmes, and I couldn’t see you, where were you, then?”

  Holmes smiles mischievously, “Beneath your feet, Lestrade.”

  “Beneath my feet, Mr Holmes?”

  “Yes, Lestrade. Where else?”

  Lestrade stares down at the toes of his boots and, with a look of realization, exclaims, “You mean...?”

  Holmes nods, “Exactly, Lestrade.”

  Lestrade slumps onto his chair, “The loose floorboards.” He shakes his head incredulously, “I don’t believe it.”

  Watson gives the photograph back to Holmes, “More mumbo jumbo, Holmes?”

  Holmes gently pats him on the shoulder again, “I wish it were so, Watson. I wish it were so.” He returns the photograph to Lestrade, who, slipping it back into the buff envelope, queries, “Why were you in her room in the first place, Mr Holmes?”

  Sitting in his armchair, Holmes retrieves his pipe from the ashtray, “Are you familiar with the poem, ‘The Spider and the Fly,’ by the late Mary Howitt, Lestrade?”

  Lestrade shakes his head.

  Watson interjects, informing Lestrade, “The poem was published fifty-nine years ago, in 1829. Sadly, its author, Mrs Howitt, suffered from bronchitis in old age. She died at the beginning of this year. The end of January, to be exact.”

  Holmes lights his pipe, leans back in his chair and slowly exhales smoke, “Part of the first verse comprises of these words, Lestrade.”

  “Will you walk into my parlour?” said the Spider to the Fly,

  ’Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy.

  The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,

  And I’ve a many curious things to show when you are there.”

  Looking at a bemused Lestrade, Watson continues the verse.

  “Oh no, no, said the little Fly, to ask me is in vain,

  For who goes up your winding stair can ne’er come down again.”

  Holmes glances at a dumbstruck Lestrade, “Now listen carefully, Lestrade. It is in the fifth verse that the plot thickens, decidedly.”

  “The Spider turned round about, and went into his den,

  For well he knew the silly Fly would soon come back again.

  So he wove a subtle web, in a corner sly,

  And set his table ready, to dine upon the Fly.”

  Watson informs Lestrade, “Now the spider employs flattery.”

  “Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and silver wing,

  Your robes are green and purple, there’s a crest upon your head,

  Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead.”

  Lowering his pipe, Holmes smiles at Watson admiringly, “And the climax, Watson. The penultimate verse, I believe.”

  Watson recites obligingly,

  “Thinking only of her crested head, poor foolish thing! At last,

  up jumped the cunning Spider, and fiercely held her fast.

  He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den,

  Within his little parlour, but she ne’er came out again.”

  Holmes jovially claps his hands together, “Bravo, Watson. Your memory has served you well.”

  Lestrade sighs, “Whilst I remain on the desert island in the dark, I might add.”

  Watson chuckles, “Holmes has used the poem as a metaphor by which to answer your question, Lestrade.”

  Lestrade fidgets, “Oh, really? Mr Holmes got something against the English language, has he? Plain and simple will do, thank you.”

  Watson turns to Holmes, “With your permission, Holmes.”

  Holmes nods approvingly.

  Watson stares at Lestrade, “The spider is our murderer, Lestrade. And...”

  Lestrade interjects, “The fly, Mary Kelly, right?”

  Watson shakes his head, “No, Lestrade. The fly is Holmes.”

  Lestrade frowns, “I think you better explain, Dr Watson.”

  Watson leans back in his armchair, gazes up at the ceiling and recites, “So he wove a subtle web, in a corner sly, and set his table ready, to dine upon the fly.” He lowers his gaze and looks at Lestrade, “As bait to lure Holmes into his web, the murderer committed five seemingly motiveless murders. He knew Holmes would be unable to resist the temptation to investigate such intriguing crimes. The sudden seizure of his good friend and associate was yet another ruse to draw him further into the web.” He recites again, “Come hither, hither, pretty fly, with the pearl and silver wing.” He continues, “The culmination of this despicable plot was the murder of the poor woman in 13 Miller’s Court. Against his will, and probably drugged as I was, Holmes was deposited in the room to be later discovered by you and formally arrested as the Whitechapel murderer. History may recall one day that, when the room was entered, apart from the body of Mary Kelly, no one else was found inside. But, of course, we know the truth. Holmes’ ingenuity had saved him from wrongful arrest, concealing himself as he did by lying beneath the floorboards.” He turns to Holmes, “I hate to dwell on the beastly matter, Holmes, but five women were slaughtered in your name.”

  Holmes ruefully lowers his pipe, “The truth is never palatable and your inference is correct, Watson. Five women were indeed put to death so that I could be arrested, tried and hanged as Jack the Ripper.”

  Watson inhales deeply, “Hanged by the very establishment you support, Holmes. A [393]coup de grâce for any criminal.”

  “Not just any criminal, Watson. An extraordinary criminal.”

  Lestrade strokes his moustache impatiently, “Then perhaps you would like to tell me his name, Mr Holmes.”

  Holmes returns his pipe to the ashtray, “I am afraid you will have to remain patient for a little while longer, Lestrade. But this much I will tell you. In his disguise as the lowly Jew, the murderer is Aaron Kosminski.”

  Lestrade groans, “I had hoped to hear more. The name of the doctor, to be exact.”

  Watson catches his breath, “A doctor? Are you saying a doctor committed these atrocities, Lestrade? This is preposterous. Members of my profession do not perform murder, we value life.”

  Holmes intervenes, “My dear fellow, you must prepare yourself for a shock. When not m
asquerading as Aaron Kosminski, Jack the Ripper dons another disguise. That of a respectable doctor, who resides closer to home than you would care to imagine.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Rapidly increasing the glow of the oil-lamp upon the table in the darkened musty room, Kosminski scowls at Bullen, standing opposite him, “Yer see ’im?”

  Bullen nods, “Handcuffed and taken away in a Black Maria.”

  Placing the palms of his hands on the table, Kosminski leans forward, “Yer see ’is face?”

  Bullen motions about his head with his hand, “He had a blanket thrown over his head. Quite tall, like you. Most definitely Sherlock Holmes.”

  Kosminski glares at Bullen, “If yer not see face, ’ow yer know?”

  Eliza steps out of the shadows of the room, nonchalantly fiddling with the two brass rings on the fingers of her right hand, “Took ’im t’ the nick in Bishopsgate Street Without, didn’t they?”

  Kosminski straightens, “Yer see face?”

  Eliza shakes her head, “Na, but Desk Sergeant told me ’e were [394]banged up in a cell downstairs. An’ Desk Sergeant ain’t got no reason t’ lie, ’as ’e?”

  Looking at Kosminski, Bullen grins, “I think your little scheme has worked out rather well, wouldn’t you say?”

  Kosminski stares at him intently, “T’morrow, people read story in Star newspaper, yah?”

  Bullen nods again, “The entire story will appear in a special morning edition. All the facts pertaining to the death of Mary Jane Kelly will become public knowledge, barring the identity of the man who was arrested by the police in Miller’s Court.”

  Kosminski angrily slams his fist down on the table, rattling the glass chimney of the oil-lamp, “’Olmes! ’Olmes!” He points at Bullen threateningly, “Why yer not write it so?”

  Bullen counters, “The man arrested by the police had his head completely covered by a blanket. I cannot report, nor write about, something I didn’t see.”

  Kosminski snarls, “’Olmes were in the room, yer knew that.”

  Bullen rejoins, “Along with you, me...” He indicates Eliza, “And her. Any mention by me that Holmes had been in that room would certainly arouse police suspicion and ultimately put our heads in a hangman’s noose.” He pauses for thought and then stares at Kosminski, “You play the Devil’s game, don’t you? That’s precisely what you would like to see happen, isn’t it?” He indicates Eliza again, “Her, me and Holmes. Hanged for murder whilst you go on your merry way.”

  Alarmed, Eliza squawks at Kosminski, “’Ere, wot’s goin’ on?”

  Ignoring her query, Kosminski stoops and produces a tarnished jewellery casket from underneath the table, which he places on its surface in front of Bullen, “Yer not trust me, yah?” He indicates the casket with his hand, “Me ’onest fellow. Open an’ see.”

  Releasing a spring catch on the front of the casket, Bullen raises its lid to reveal an abundance of gold sovereigns.

  Eliza gawks, “Gawd luv us! A bleedin’ treasure trove, innit?”

  Kosminski grins at Bullen, “Five ’undred, yah?”

  Closing the lid, Bullen murmurs, “It seems I have misjudged you, Kosminski. You appear to be a man of your word.”

  Eliza perkily nudges him on the arm with her elbow, “An’ there’s me gittin’ all [395]’et up over nothin’, yer daft bugger.”

  Kosminski slides the casket towards Bullen, “Yer board Gloria Scott t’night, yah?”

  Bullen gazes at him suspiciously, “Who told you I had booked a passage on a ship?”

  Kosminski smirks, “Yer met Captain Phelps at St Katharine’s Dock this mornin’. Booked passage under different name t’ Australia. Gloria Scott sails from Pillory Wharf Pier in three ’ours, yah?”

  Bullen snaps, “That can mean only one thing. You had me followed, or you followed me. Why? Afraid I would skedaddle before I fulfilled my part of the bargain?”

  Kosminski sneers, “Bon voyage, Mishter Bullen.”

  Securing the catch of the casket, Bullen picks up the object and turns to Eliza, “Tell me, I’m curious.” He motions to Kosminski with his head, “He murdered for revenge. I assisted him for this...” He taps the casket with his finger, “But what prompted you? Those five women belonged to your class. Surely you must have felt some empathy towards them?”

  Eliza fingers the fringe of her shawl, “Yer truly want t’ know?”

  Bullen nods.

  Eliza cocks her head, “As I ain’t goin’ t’ see yer agin, I’ll tell yer. When I sees whores, it’s like lookin’ in a mirror. I sees meself. Wot I once were, wot I won’t be agin. Them’s vermin, givin’ the pox t’ every Tom, Dick an’ ’Arry.” She indicates Kosminski with her thumb, “When I met ’im, ’e put me right, didn’t ’e? Told me, if some folks ’ave a disease, like whores do, yer ’ave t’ cure ’em. Cut out their innards, like.” She smiles gleefully, “Know wot?”

  Bullen frowns, “What?”

  Eliza confesses, “Watchin’ ’im rip open those whores gave me a bleedin’ thrill. Made me quiver all over. Better than ’avin’ a bloke stoke yer any day. An’ that be the truth.”

  Contemptuous of her admission, Bullen jibes, “Mercifully, those murdered women are rid of us. Perhaps you should be the one to be pitied, not them.” Clutching the casket tightly to his chest with one hand, Bullen tips his hat to Kosminski and Eliza with the other, “I cannot say it has been a pleasure knowing you both. [396]Au revoir.” Hurrying from the room, he quietly closes the door behind him.

  Heatedly, Eliza turns to Kosminski, “Five ’undred gold sovereigns! Wot ’bout me, then? When do I git me just reward? I don’t want brass, just the new life yer promised me. Canada, yer said.”

  Picking up the oil-lamp from the table, Kosminski pulls aside the curtain at the rear of the room, “Yer on bed, me on top, blanket between us.”

  Eliza bleats, “An’ that’s me just reward?”

  Kosminski beckons her, “A new ’orizon awaits yer.”

  Inwardly excited, she steps towards him, “Yer a funny bugger. Ain’t never wanted t’ stoke me b’fore, why now?”

  Kosminski motions to the smaller room beyond the curtain with his head, “Whores dead. ’Olmes arrested. Celebration.”

  Eliza eagerly removes her shawl, dropping the piece to the floor, “Wot’s Canada like, then?”

  He ushers her past the curtain into the room, “Clean!”

  Catching sight of two pickling jars, one containing a uterus, the other a human heart, both suspended in fluid and positioned on a shelf above the headboard of an unmade bed, Eliza cackles, “Chapman an’ Kelly t’ watch us. That tickles me fancy.” She turns to Kosminski, who closes the curtain behind him, “Pity yer sent that kidney t’ Georgie Lusk, otherwise Eddowes would ’ave been ’ere, too.” Impatient for his attention, she throws herself upon the bed, lies on her back, drawing a grey blanket over her body, “Like this, or ’ow Mother Nature intended?”

  Kosminski places the oil-lamp down on an upturned wicker vegetable basket, “Yah, yah, as yer were born.”

  Flinging the blanket aside, Eliza quickly stands, hurriedly removes her clothes and then again lies down on the bed, this time drawing the blanket across her naked body. Noticing the bulge created by his hardening member inside his trousers, Eliza chirps to Kosminski, “Up b’fore the [397]cock crows. An early riser, fer sure, ain’t yer?”

  Disregarding her remark, Kosminski throws his jacket down on the bed, kicks off his boots and unfastens his trousers, revealing his erect organ.

  Amorously intoxicated, Eliza groans submissively, “Oooh, ’urt me if yer must, but [398]spare me face.”

  Kosminski stares at her salaciously, “Spread legs.”

  Beneath the blanket, Eliza obligingly parts her legs.

  Straddling her, he lowers himself and, lying upon her, begins to enact intercourse.

  Feeling his rigid member pressing against her groin, Eliza begins to rhythmically move back and forth, sliding her hands inside his trouser
s and grasping his buttocks.

  Kosminski moans excitedly, “Yah, good.”

  Eliza responds similarly, “Oooh, yeh. Yer ’ave time. Act as if yer want t’ murder me.”

  Further aroused by her perverted desire, Kosminski experiences an instant surge of carnal exhilaration. Slipping his hands around her throat, he murmurs, “Like the whore yer are, yah?”

  Eliza shudders with pleasure, “Yeh, like Mary Kelly.”

  Gazing up at the human heart in the pickle jar upon the shelf, Kosminski tightens his grip.

  Eliza groans ecstatically, removes her hands from his buttocks and grips his organ, “’Urt me some more.” She begins to stroke his organ furiously, “Oooh, yeh, ’urt me some more.”

  Tightening his grip even further, Kosminski throws back his head, moans loudly and spends his seed upon the blanket.

  Climaxing as well, Eliza releases his organ, gasping for air.

  Kosminski continues to apply pressure to her throat.

  Horrified that Kosminski has not relinquished his grip, Eliza reacts violently. Summoning up all her strength, she begins to struggle for her life. Desperately clawing at his hands to no avail, she grips the top of his head with both hands, frantically tugging at his hair. Reacting swiftly, Kosminski jerks his head back, leaving a partially conscious Eliza clutching a facial disguise, comprised of a wig, elasticized mask and false beard, which has come away from his face in her hands.

  Her life ebbing, Eliza stares at the unknown man and croaks, “Who are yer?”

  Leaning towards her, the man smiles maliciously, “Deliverance, my dear.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Standing with his back to the glowing fire, Holmes addresses both Watson and Lestrade, seated in their respective chairs, “We are dealing with a diabolical mind that Lucifer himself would envy. A mind so bereft of pity that the slaughter of five intoxicated women was merely looked upon as pawns in a chess game.”

  Retrieving his cooled pipe from the ashtray, he begins to tap tobacco ash from its bowl into the palm of his hand, “I believe our journalist friend Bullen procured the victims, and a woman, most certainly the same woman who hailed you from the growler, Watson, participated directly in at least four of the murders.”