Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul

by Gordon Punter

  He throws the tobacco ash into the fire, “The superficial throat wounds inflicted on Mary Ann Nichols and Catharine Eddowes were caused by a person other than the murderer. Fingernail indentations found on the throat of Annie Chapman were clearly made by that person, a woman. The fingers of a man would have merely bruised the skin. In addition, a woman accompanying the murderer from the scene of the crime would have abetted his escape, particularly when all and sundry were searching for a solitary Jack the Ripper.”

  Lestrade interjects, “An imaginary character created by Bullen.”

  Holmes nods, “And reprehensibly perpetuated by virtually every newspaper in the country.”

  Watson ponders, “Then these ghastly murders are at an end, Holmes?”

  Holmes presses tobacco into the bowl of his pipe, “They are, indeed, Watson.”

  Watson sighs despondently, “I don’t know, Holmes, I surely don’t know. What kind of world do we live in where the fairer sex stoops to barbarity and a murderer taints a notable profession, purporting to be a doctor?”

  Lestrade interjects again, “That’s the trouble with criminals, isn’t it, Dr Watson? Forever portraying just one side of the coin. Flip the coin over and you see them for what they really are. Take Thomas Bullen, for example...”

  Watson interrupts him, turning to Holmes, “A journalist, you said, Holmes?”

  Lighting his pipe, Holmes nods.

  Lestrade continues, “A slave to drink and tolerated by Mr O’Connor, the proprietor of The Star newspaper, for his journalistic brashness, Bullen presents the image of a mischievous rascal. But beneath the surface he is a heartless opportunist. Not only did he play a role in the murders, he also tried to incite racial disquiet in Whitechapel with his literary hand. It was he who penned the name Jack the Ripper, sending a letter and postcard to the Central News Agency, in an attempt to make it appear that the murderer was a lone commoner, until Mr Holmes pointed out otherwise.”

  Puffing on his pipe, Holmes sits in his armchair, opposite Watson, “Well, my dear fellow, you have heard all the facts. What shall we do next?”

  Watson responds eagerly, “Press the advantage, Holmes. If you are convinced that this doctor is indeed the murderer, have the[399] charlatan arrested. And Bullen, also. Then perhaps we will learn the identity of the woman.”

  Lestrade concurs, “My thoughts entirely, Dr Watson.”

  Holmes raises a censorious eyebrow, “And to do so, Watson, would bring your distinguished profession into disrepute. A doctor arrested and found guilty of being Jack the Ripper would precipitate a scandal that would undoubtedly discredit the entire medical fraternity of this country, perhaps do irrevocable harm.” He lowers his pipe, “I agree we must hound the murderer until he is caught, not in his guise as the reputable doctor, but that of the lowly Jew, Aaron Kosminski, instead.”

  Watson concedes, “Your reasoning is sound, Holmes. I spoke in haste.”

  Lestrade sighs impatiently, “And how do we recognize Aaron Kosminski, Mr Holmes? You’re the only person who’s met him face to face. Can’t have you traipsing about Whitechapel looking for him when you’re supposed to be [400]slammed up in Bishopsgate Street Police Station, can we?”

  Watson assents, “Lestrade is right, Holmes. How do we recognize him without you presence?”

  Seemingly disinterested, Holmes exhales smoke, “You cannot, of course.”

  Lestrade sighs again, “If we don’t know what he looks like, how on earth are we meant to arrest him, then?”

  Holmes wistfully watches the smoke rise to the ceiling, “Nigh on impossible, I would say.”

  Watson gently chides him, “Come, come, Holmes. It is late. Don’t tease the man.”

  Graciously responding to the mild rebuke with a smile, Holmes turns to Lestrade, “Kosminski is aware that I am the only person, other than his two accomplices, who can identify him.” He raises a tutorial finger, “However, in the erroneous belief that I have been detained at Bishopsgate Street Police Station, he will confidently venture out and move about Whitechapel. Being a supercilious individual, who cannot resist the temptation to gloat over his own accomplishments, especially in public, my expected trial and execution will compel him to remain in the neighbourhood for a while longer. But, of course, and you would be correct in saying, my trial and execution will never take place. Therefore, another significant, imminent event must be used to lure him. Preferably in Whitechapel, with me in attendance, so we can arrest him. Arrogance is his addiction, Lestrade, which we must exploit.”

  Lestrade stares at Holmes enquiringly, “Any particular event in mind?”

  Holmes imparts, “The funeral of Mary Kelly. The [401]cortège, to be exact. Watson and myself in one coach, you and your men in another, out of sight. Kosminski must not suspect it is a trap until it is sprung.”

  Lestrade taps the buff envelope with his finger, “The inquest into the death of Mary Kelly will be held on Monday, two days from now. Her funeral? Who knows? Could be the next day, or the following day. All depends on how long the inquest lasts.”

  Putting his pipe down in the ashtray once more, Holmes stands, “Then, in the meantime, we must continue with our little charade.”

  He looks at Watson, “At precisely eleven o’clock each morning, you will go to Bishopsgate Street Police Station, Watson.”

  Watson smiles mischievously, “Apparently to visit you, Holmes.”

  Holmes jovially pats him on the shoulder, “Exactly, Watson.”

  Watson anxiously raises his hand, “But my medical practice, Holmes? I really should put in an appearance.”

  Holmes taps his forehead with his finger, “My dear fellow, an inexcusable lapse of memory on my part. Of course you must. Will the occasional afternoon or evening suffice?”

  Watson nods, “Assuming I have any patients left.”

  Holmes raises a tutorial finger again, “But not a word of this to anyone. If someone should ask after me, I am assisting the police with their inquiries concerning the Whitechapel murders.”

  Watson sighs and rolls his eyes, “Holmes, please. We have been through this form of deception before. It is hardly likely that I will let you down now.”

  Holmes lowers his finger, “An old habit. Forgive me.” He turns to Lestrade, “At first light tomorrow morning, you and your men will enter Hob’s Passage and search each dwelling. Do not expect to find Kosminski there. But your actions will further convince him I am indeed being held at Bishopsgate Street Police Station, where, during routine questioning, I naturally disclosed to you what I knew of his address. In my absence, Watson will assist you.”

  Watson mutters, “It would appear I am going to be rather busy tomorrow, Holmes.”

  Holmes returns to his armchair, “Indeed so, Watson. But surely a visit to see me at Bishopsgate Street Police Station will enliven your spirit.”

  Lestrade queries, “And Bullen?”

  Holmes smiles, “Do as Watson has suggested. Arrest the rogue. Then, perhaps, you will learn the identity of the woman.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Constructed and opened sixty years ago, in 1828, St Katharine’s Dock is adjacent to the Tower of London, but separated from its infamous neighbour by a broad cobblestone street known as Lower Tower Hill. Running alongside the docks, Lower Tower Hill ends abruptly at the top of Trengate Stairs, a flight of steep slippery stone steps that lead directly down to the lapping murky waters of the River Thames.

  Located near the partially built northern and southern towers of Tower Bridge, an innovative bascule suspension bridge which is expected to be completed within the next six years, St Katharine’s Dock can accommodate one hundred and twenty large ships, along with tugboats, barges and other smaller vessels.

  Whereas in other docks cargo is hoisted from the hold of a ship and left on the quay before a warehouse is allocated, cargo at St Katharine’s Dock is raised directly from ship to warehouse, thereby reducing off-loading and storage time by one fifth.

  Reliant on
several hundred dock labourers, who in turn are dependent on the docks for their livelihood, St Katharine’s Dock draws its daily labour force from the immediate neighbourhoods, predominately Whitechapel, which is less than a mile away.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Carrying a [402]carpet bag containing some of his personal effects and the jewellery casket, Bullen sidles up alongside the damp brickwork of a darkened warehouse. Furtively peering around its corner, he stares at the fog shrouded Pillory Wharf Pier, which extends away from him.

  Relieved to see that the wharf is deserted, apart from the silent ghostly ships moored alongside, he leaves the corner and scurries along the quay towards a two-mast, one funnel merchant ship displaying the weathered name, Gloria Scott, on the side of its bow.

  Upon reaching the ship, Bullen halts, seeing a [403]mulatto, Captain Phelps, descending a gangplank leading from the deck of the ship down to the wharf. Pausing midway, Phelps urgently beckons Bullen, who hastily ascends the gangplank and whispers anxiously, “No delays, I hope?”

  Opening his mouth, Phelps grunts hoarsely, indicating his missing tongue, cut out some two years ago by an embittered crew member during a tavern brawl in [404]Tasmania.

  Reminded of his infliction, Bullen murmurs, “Ah, yes. In my haste, I forgot.”

  Phelps grunts again and raises a gnarled finger, pointing at the wharf behind Bullen.

  Alarmed, Bullen quickly turns about and stiffens immediately, staring at Kosminski standing at the bottom of the gangplank with his hands clasped behind his back.

  Kosminski smirks, “A foggy evenin’, Mishter Bullen.”

  Bullen responds contemptuously, “Come to wish me a pleasant journey, Kosminski?”

  Kosminski nods, “Yah, yah. Yer leave Whitechapel fer good.”

  He snaps his fingers.

  Phelps seizes Bullen by the hair, jerks his head back and, with the blade of a clasp knife, slices open his throat. With a look of sheer astonishment and still retaining his grip on the bag, Bullen lurches down the gangplank, gurgling blood.

  Stepping aside as Bullen stumbles past him, Kosminski snatches the bag away from him, “Mine, innit?”

  Dropping to his knees, Bullen stares at Kosminski incredulously.

  Kosminski sneers, “Why? ’Cos yer ’ave a tongue.” He motions to Phelps with his head, “An’ ’e ain’t.” He crouches and gazes at the near lifeless face of Bullen, blood dripping from his mouth, “Yer can write, too. Who knows? Yer git t’ Australia an’ pen the bogies a note ’bout me. Yer free, me ’anged .” He rises to his full height and pats the side of the bag, “Besides, five ’undred coins is a lot of brass.”

  Bullen keels over, dead.

  Kosminski turns to Phelps, who steps off the gangplank onto the wharf, “The [405]shekels fer ’is fare, keep ’em.” He indicates Bullen with his thumb, “An’ git rid o’ the yutz. At sea.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Never averse to censuring or scolding her government ministers when she considers a particular issue warrants reproach, Her Majesty’s communiqué to Prime Minister Lord Salisbury this morning, in response to the murder of Mary Kelly, is unequivocal in its brevity.

  To Marquis of Salisbury, Prime Minister.

  Balmoral Castle

  Nov. 10. 1888. – This new most ghastly murder shows the

  absolute necessity for some very decided action.

  All these courts must be lit, & our detectives improved.

  They are not what they shld be.

  You promised, when the 1st murders took place to

  consult with your colleagues about it.

  VR.

  At the same time, The Home Secretary, Mr Henry Matthews, receives a longer admonishment.

  The Secretary of State,

  Home Office.

  Balmoral Castle

  Nov. 10. 1888. – The Queen has received with sincere regret Mr Matthews’ letter of the 9th in which he reports the resignation of Sir Charles Warren.

  It would of course be impossible to recognize Sir Charles Warren’s contention that he was not under the orders of the Sec of State, but The Queen fears this resignation will have a bad effect in encouraging the lawbreaker to defy the police, who under Sir Charles Warren, have always done their duty admirably.

  At the same time The Queen fears that the Detective department is not so efficient as it might be. No doubt the recent murders in Whitechapel were committed in circumstances which made Detection very difficult.

  Still The Queen thinks that in a small area where these horrible crimes have been perpetrated a great number of detectives might be employed and that every possible suggestion might be carefully examined, and if practicable followed. Have the cattle & passenger boats been examined?

  Has any investigation been made as to the number of single men occupying rooms to themselves?

  The murderer’s clothes must be saturated with blood and must be kept somewhere.

  Is there sufficient surveillance at night?

  These are some of the questions that occur to The Queen on reading the accounts of this horrible crime.

  VR.

  Acting swiftly, Lord Salisbury summons the entire Cabinet to his official residence at 10 Downing Street. After an acrimonious but short meeting, the Cabinet reluctantly agrees to amend its policy relating to the Whitechapel murders, particularly that of Mary Jane Kelly.

  Shortly afterwards, Lord Salisbury sends The Queen a telegram, informing Her Majesty of the Cabinet’s decision.

  Her Imperial Majesty – 10 November 1888

  Humble duty:

  At Cabinet to-day it was resolved to issue a Proclamation offering free pardon to anyone who should give evidence as to the recent murder except the actual perpetrator of the crime.

  Marquis of Salisbury, PM.

  Effective immediately, the proclamation, signed by Sir Charles Warren, still Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, is printed in a rarely published midday edition of The Times newspaper.

  MURDER. – PARDON. – Whereas on November 8 or 9, in Miller’s Court, Dorset Street, Spitalfields, Mary Jane Kelly was murdered by some person or persons unknown: the Secretary of State will advise the grant of Her Majesty’s gracious pardon to any accomplice, not being a person who contrived or actually committed the murder, who shall give such information and evidence as shall lead to the discovery and conviction of the person or persons who committed the murder.

  CHARLES WARREN, the Commissioner of Police

  of the Metropolis

  Metropolitan Police Office, 4 Whitehall Place,

  S. W., Nov. 10, 1888.

  Disdainfully staring at the proclamation in the newspaper, which he holds open with both hands, Holmes rises from the button-back chaise longue and steps towards the dull daylight issuing through the broad windows of the sitting-room. Intently, he studies another editorial piece.

  The Man in Custody

  The man who was brought to Bishopsgate-street Police Station last night is still detained. His identity is not known to our reporter at this time and the police remain [406]tight-lipped to who he might be. Whether or not he is the assassin of the poor woman found dead in Miller’s-court remains to be seen. A rumour, however, suggests that he could be a man of some distinction which, if he were, might explain why the police are peculiarly silent about revealing his name.

  The inquest into the death of the murdered woman is to be held on Monday at the Shoreditch Town Hall, Old-street. Dr MacDonald, M.P., the coroner for the North-Eastern District of Middlesex, will preside over the inquiry.

  Closing the newspaper, Holmes looks out through the windows, gazing pensively at the storm clouds overhead, “It would seem that our ruse is succeeding. Now what, if anything, will Watson and Lestrade [407]ferret out?”

  Chapter 15

  Reckoning

  Given little or no time by which to recover from the shock of the murder of Mary Jane Kelly, the residents of Spitalfields, particularly those who inhabit Hob’s Passage, are no
w subjected to a police onslaught, never before witnessed in the neighbourhood.

  Entering the foul nameless alleyways that adjoin Hob’s Passage, scores of police constables, led by detectives, begin a methodical search of each dwelling, sometimes breaking down front doors or clambering through windows to gain entry into these hovels.

  As a result, a number of surly inhabitants, intent on evading the police, scarper from their lodgings only to discover that their one avenue of escape is along Hob’s Passage into Booth Street where, unbeknown to them, Lestrade solemnly waits with a contingent of police constables.

  Observing ragged people emerging from the passage into the street, Lestrade hurriedly turns to Sergeant Stokes, standing beside him, “Right, Sergeant, get on with it. I want statements from all of them.” Hurriedly lifting his arm, Stokes beckons the contingent of police constables who quickly converge upon the fleeing people, manhandling and forcing them back against the facade of a large bakery shop. Clattering along Brick Lane, a hansom cab halts behind a smaller group of constables cordoning off the entrance to Booth Street. Getting out of the vehicle and hastily tossing a coin to its driver, Watson approaches the back of one particular police constable and taps him on the shoulder, “Excuse me. May I pass? I’m late already.”

  Constable Nott peers enquiringly over his shoulder at him, “And who might you be, then?”

  Standing next to Nott, Sergeant Kirby turns about, immediately recognizes Watson and smiles, “Afternoon, sir.” He motions to Nott with his head, “Pay no attention to him, sir. Sawdust for brains.”