Hutchinson frowns, [420]“Wot yer drivin’ at, Inspector?”
“Mary Kelly was a prostitute, right?”
Hutchinson responds defensively, “’Er kind ’as t’ make a livin’, guv..., Inspector.”
Lestrade muses, “If she were out [421]peddling her wares, surely she would have offered herself to you for a price, rather than ask you for money, don’t you think?”
Hutchinson gulps.
Lestrade continues, “On the other hand, she may have already procured a punter and was going to meet him, which meant she had no need of you at all.”
Chandler places both his hands on the table and leans closer to Hutchinson, “Mary Kelly didn’t ask you for sixpence. You asked her.”
Stumped, Hutchinson remains silent.
Lestrade chuckles, “You see, Georgie boy, if you lied about the sixpence...” He taps the statement with his finger, “How much of this do you expect us to believe?”
Hutchinson shrugs his shoulders indifferently.
Folding his arms, Lestrade places them on the table, “But to show you that I am a fair man, I’m going to give you the [422]benefit of the doubt.” He returns to the statement.
She went away towards
Thrawl Street. a man coming in the
opposite direction to Kelly tapped
her on the shoulder and said something
to her they both burst out laughing.
I heard her say alright to him. and the
man said you will be alright for what
I have told you. he then placed his
right hand around her shoulders. He also
had a kind of a small parcel in his left
hand. with a kind of strap round it.
Lestrade stares at Hutchinson again, “If I were to walk down Commercial Street, I’d find Thrawl Street is situated beyond Flower and Dean Street, on the same side, right?”
Hutchinson nods.
“And you stood on the corner of Flower and Dean Street and watched Mary Kelly walk towards Thrawl Street?”
Hutchinson nods again.
Chandler looks at Lestrade, “One for words, isn’t he, Inspector?”
Amused by the remark, Lestrade asks Chandler, “What would you say the distance is between the two streets?”
Chandler considers the question, “From Flower and Dean Street to Thrawl Street? [423]Ten yards, give or take a foot.”
Lestrade turns back to the statement and narrates a particular paragraph, “I heard her say alright to him. And the man said you will be alright for what I have told you.” Looking at Chandler, he motions to Hutchinson with his hand, “And there’s Georgie boy, at least thirty feet away, but he can hear everything Mary Kelly and her companion are saying to each other. Believe that?”
Chandler quips, “Not unless he’s got the ears of an elephant.”
Lestrade turns to Hutchinson, “You a drinking man, Georgie?”
Hutchinson grins, “Second nature, Inspector.”
“What’s the name of the tavern opposite your lodgings?”
“The Princess Alice.”
“Now if you were to walk up Commercial Street, what would be the name of the next tavern?”
“The Queen’s Head.”
“Corner of Fashion Street, right?”
Hutchinson nods yet again.
“And the next one?”
“The Britannia, corner of Dorset Street.”
Lestrade commends him, “You know your taverns, all right. And the one past Spitalfields Church?”
“The Ten Bells.”
Paraphrasing Hutchinson, Lestrade murmurs, “The Ten Bells.” He turns back to the statement again.
I stood against the lamp of the Ten Bells
Queens Head Public House and watched
him. They both then came past me and
the man hid down his head with his hat
over his eyes. I stooped down and looked
him in the face. He looked at me stern.
Lestrade slowly leans back in his chair, “How could you have mistaken the Ten Bells for the Queen’s Head when you know every tavern along Commercial Street, Georgie?”
Again, Hutchinson shrugs his shoulders indifferently.
“If you were standing outside the Ten Bells, which I believe you were, then Mary Kelly and her companion could not have walked past you. Why? Because their destination, Dorset Street, is well before the Ten Bells. In order for your [424]cock and bull story to [425]ring true, you had to be much closer to the man to describe him. So, in your statement, you placed yourself outside the Queen’s Head.”
Impressed by the rationale, Chandler humorously remarks, “You sound like Mr Holmes, Inspector.”
Lestrade mutters, “I think not. He’s far cleverer than me.” Turning to the statement once more, he remarks sarcastically, “Now it gets even better.”
They both went into Dorset
Street I followed them. They both
stood at the corner of the court for
about 3 minutes. He said something
to her. she said alright my dear
come along you will be comfortable.
He then placed his arm on her shoulder
and gave her a kiss. She said she had
lost her handkerchief. he then pulled
his handkerchief a red one out and
gave it to her.
Shaking his head in disbelief, Lestrade turns to Hutchinson, “All right, Georgie, why did you follow them?”
Hutchinson fingers the brim of his hat on the table, “The geezer were dressed posh, like. An’ the small parcel ’e carried. Who’s t’ say ’e didn’t ’ave a [426]blade in it.”
Lestrade strokes his moustache pensively, “Mary Kelly? Was she sober?”
Hutchinson imparts, “Na, a bit spreeish.”
“She was drunk?”
“Cheery, but not drunk.”
Lestrade leans back in his chair again, “The weather, Georgie? What was it like?”
Hutchinson simulates a shiver, “Bleedin’ cold, wet.”
“It was raining?”
“Cats an’ dogs”
Lestrade glowers at Hutchinson, “And you expect me to believe that Mary Kelly, seconds away from the relative warmth of her own room, opts to remain in the freezing rain for another three minutes, chatting to her companion, who is also oblivious of the rain. Then he presents her with a red handkerchief. Come on, Georgie, pull the other leg, it’s got bells on it.”
Timidly, Hutchinson lowers his head.
Lestrade returns to the statement yet again.
They both then went up
the Court together. I then went to the
court to see if I could see them but
could not. I stood there for about
three quarters of an hour to see if they
came out they did not so I went away.
Lestrade turns to Hutchinson, “Forty-five minutes! What were you hoping to see, Georgie?”
Chandler jibes, “The bloke leave so he could crawl into Kelly’s bed for nought.”
Hutchinson goes red in the face.
Chandler glares at Hutchinson, “Your lodgings were closed. You had no money. What other explanation is there?”
Lestrade nods to himself, “A fair assumption.” He looks at the statement for the final time.
Description age about 34 or 35.
height 5ft6 Complexion pale, dark eyes
and eye lashes dark slight moustache,
curled up each end, and hair dark,
very surley looking dress long dark coat,
collar and cuffs trimmed astracan,
and a dark jacket under.
light waistcoat, dark trousers dark felt
hat turned down in the middle
button boots and gaiters with white
buttons. wore a very thick gold chain
white linen collar. black tie with horse
shoe pin. respectable appearance
walked
very sharp. Jewish appearance.
Can be identified.
Lestrade murmurs to Hutchinson, “Didn’t get the size of his hat, by any chance?”
Twiddling his fingers, Hutchinson shakes his head.
Lestrade sighs wearily, “How could you have seen the colour of his eyes, let alone his eyelashes? And why, on such a foul, freezing night, did he have his overcoat completely unbuttoned and wide open so you could see his watch chain?”
Chandler scoffs at Hutchinson, “The only thing missing from your description is a big sign above the man’s head saying, ‘rob me’.”
Lestrade points an admonishing finger at Hutchinson, “You have sorely tested my patience. Think yourself fortunate that I’m not going to charge you with perverting the course of justice. If I were you, Georgie boy, I’d leave Whitechapel and hightail it back to Romford. Because if I ever see you around here again, I’ll have you shipped out to the penal colony at [427]Botany Bay quicker than you can say [428]Robinson Crusoe.” He indicates the door with his thumb, “Now hop it, before I change my mind.”
Slowly standing, Hutchinson picks up his hat, “I see ’er an’ the Ripper t’gether. ’Onest, Inspector.”
Lestrade replies tersely, “I think you did, Georgie boy. But not the way you described it.”
Chapter 16
Retribution
Typical of the English autumn weather, the persistent rain of the past few days has finally abated, giving way to a bitterly cold day, accompanied by a cheerless leaden sky. It is five weeks before Christmas and in Whitechapel the mood of the populace is one of deferential reverence, not for an infant boy who had once been wrapped in swaddling clothes and placed in a manger, but for the disfigured woman who now lies within a polished elm coffin.
The bell of St Leonard's Church in Shoreditch tolls noon. Borne on the shoulders of four solemn men, the coffin, its brass plate inscribed with the words ‘Marie Jeanette Kelly, died 9th Nov. 1888, aged 25 years’, is conveyed from the church to the four-wheeled [429]Marston hearse waiting outside the main gates.
Impoverished women, constituting a great proportion of the crowd which now besieges the church, surge forward, jostling with one and other to touch the coffin as it is slid into the hearse. Men doff their caps, whilst more women, weeping openly, wail, “Lor’ fergive ’er. She were one o’ us.”
Drawn by a pair of plumed [430]Friesian horses, the hearse, followed by two mourning coaches, pulls away from the crowd and, at a slow pace, starts its journey down Shoreditch High Street towards Commercial Street and Spitalfields. Stirred by the death of this one unfortunate, the inhabitants of the neighbourhood, usually at each other’s throats in a constant struggle for survival, stand united on this occasion, silently paying their last respects to a woman who is thought by many to symbolize their own flesh and blood.
Seated beside Holmes in the first coach directly behind the hearse, Watson gazes through the left hand window of the vehicle at the multitude of people lining the street, “I have never known such sorrow, Holmes. It is as if Her Majesty had just died.”
With his chin resting on both his hands, which in turn rest on the handle of his upright walking cane, Holmes remarks pensively, “Given the opportunity, would Her Majesty reciprocate and weep for Mary Kelly as her subjects would for her? I think not, Watson.”
Watson slowly turns from the window, “The privilege of kings and queens, Holmes.”
Holmes leans back in the coach seat, “Bestowed upon royalty from birth, but not by the people, Watson. A privilege that should be used wisely, not flouted.”
Watson ponders for a moment and then murmurs, “Ah, yes, of course. Albert Edward. The Prince of Wales and heir apparent.”
Holmes nods, “Married to Princess Alexandra, who has dutifully borne him six children, the prince should cease his indiscretions with other women forthwith. Frequent visits to the Folies Bergère, which is nothing more than a Parisian bordello, hardly prepares him for his future role as our monarch, Watson.”
Watson assents, “I am apt to agree with you, Holmes. The man’s a scoundrel.”
Holmes nods again, “An imperial degenerate who, given half the chance, would not think twice about ravaging an unfortunate such as Mary Kelly.”
Watson motions to the coach window with his head, “Aaron Kosminski, Holmes? How does one recognize him?”
Holmes replies mischievously, “Quite easy, my dear fellow.”
Watson frowns, “Oh, really, Holmes?”
Holmes indicates the coach window with the tip of his cane, “Look for the man who displays no grief.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
The funeral cortège, maintaining its slow pace, enters the top end of Commercial Street, gradually passing Commercial Street Police Station on the right. As far as the eye can see, a vast sea of humanity, densely packed, stretches from the Ten Bells tavern and Spitalfields Market, along each side of the thoroughfare down to Whitechapel High Street.
Gazing at the steeple of Spitalfields Church, Watson murmurs, “Hawksmoor.”
Holmes turns away from the right hand window of the vehicle, “I beg your pardon, Watson?”
Watson elaborates, “Nicholas Hawksmoor, Holmes. Born in East Drayton, Nottinghamshire. He designed Christ Church, Spitalfields, along with five other churches. A protégé of Sir Christopher Wren, I would have you know.”
Holmes responds impatiently, “My dear fellow, we are not here to admire the architectural splendours of Hawksmoor.”
Watson begins to protest, “But, surely, Holmes...”
Holmes interjects, “Please, Watson. We have but one chance to catch Jack the Ripper today. Should we falter in our task, should we fail to do so, we may lose him forever.”
Watson assents, turning his attention to the coach window.
Holmes gently taps him on the knee with the tip of his cane, “Hawksmoor’s greatest design was the one used to construct the two towers that form the western front of [431]Westminster Abbey. Built entirely of [432]Portland stone, I might add.”
Looking through the window at the huge number of mourners, Watson complains, “Please, Holmes, I am trying to concentrate.”
Smiling to himself, Holmes turns to his side of the coach and, staring through the window, sees the Britannia tavern on the corner of Dorset Street glide past.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
As the mourning coach nears the corner of Commercial Street and Wentworth Street, Watson catches sight of a man standing on a stationary two-wheeled cart coupled to a pony, outside the Princess Alice tavern. Even though the man is situated behind an endless mass of people spread out in front of him, he nonetheless has a marked advantage, whereupon he overlooks all of them, giving him an unobstructed view of the funeral cortège. Needless to say, his conspicuous stance has provided Watson with a clear view of him also.
Daring not to breathe, Watson quietly utters, “He stands aloof and wears a felt hat. Has a full beard, but displays neither grief nor gratification.”
Quickly reacting to the description, Holmes moves from his side of the coach and peers over Watson’s shoulder. Upon seeing the man, he imparts earnestly, “Aaron Kosminski. As I inferred correctly, Watson, he could not resist the temptation to gloat at her funeral.” He thumps the roof of the vehicle with the handle of his cane. The coachman, understanding the significance of the sound, promptly reins the coach horses to a halt.
Throwing open the coach door, Holmes advises Watson, “If you are obliged to do so, use your revolver to defend yourself.” Calmly, he steps out of the coach, facing both the mass of people, six to seven deep, and Kosminski, to the rear of them.
For a few seconds, time, as we know it, seems to stand still for Kosminski. Transfixed, he observes Watson, drawing his revolver as he gets out of the coach and stands next to Holmes. Gazing at the second mourning coach, which has also been halted, he sees Lestrade, Chandler and two other detectives rapidly alight from the vehicle, rushing forward to support Holmes and Watson.
/> Hurriedly indicating the moving hearse to Chandler and the two detectives, Lestrade barks, “Stop that bloody hearse. Can’t have it roaming through Whitechapel by itself.” Confronted by the mass of astounded people gawking at him, he looks at Holmes, “Who’s our man, Mr Holmes?”
With his cane, Holmes points to a motionless Kosminski.
Lestrade stares at Kosminski and then motions to the mass of speechless people with his head, “Have to disperse this lot before we can get to him, that’s for sure.” He quickly turns to Watson, “A shot over their heads might do the trick, Dr Watson.”
Holmes raises a disapproving eyebrow, “I hardly think that is a good idea, Lestrade. They could well stampede. Towards us.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
As if prompted by the cautionary advice of Holmes, Kosminski drops to the seat of his cart, grabs the reins of the pony and, furiously lashing the animal with a driving whip, begins to force his way through the crowd.
Driven forward by the weight of the people from behind, the first two rows of the crowd attempt to resist being herded towards Holmes, Watson and Lestrade, but to no avail. Unable to retain her ground, a frail woman, swept along by the surging people, slams into Watson who, toppling backwards, inadvertently fires a bullet from his revolver into the air.
Pandemonium ensues.
Alarmed by the sharp crack of the shot, people scatter in all directions, knocking Lestrade to the ground and giving Kosminski the space he requires to turn his pony and cart into Commercial Street. Pushing his way through fleeing people, Holmes depresses a spring latch on the handle of his cane, extending six inches of cold steel from its tip. Tossing the weapon in the air, and then catching it as if it were a spear, Holmes hurls the cane at Kosminski, whilst the Jew manoeuvres his vehicle away from him in the direction of Whitechapel High Street.
Throwing back his head in pain, Kosminski shrieks. Pulling on the reins of the pony, he halts the cart. Clutching the upper part of his right leg, he glares at the blade of the quivering cane embedded in his thigh. Ignoring Kosminski for a moment, Holmes hurries to assist Watson, sprawled upon the ground, “My dear fellow…”
Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul Page 38
