The Ripper Legacy

by David Stuart Davies

  ‘Indeed it is. And I can assure you that all my endeavours are focussed on that problem.’

  ‘But you are not prepared to share your findings.’

  ‘My findings, such as they are, are currently of no use to Scotland Yard. When the path becomes clearer and a solution is in sight, that is the time I will turn to the official police force.’

  ‘Then, I shall take up no more of your valuable time.’ This statement was issued through gritted teeth. Gaunt strode to the door and flung it open before turning to face us once more.

  ‘Good day, gentlemen,’ he rasped before slamming the door shut.

  Holmes gave one of his dry chuckles. ‘The arrogance of the man, coming here expecting me to do his work for him.’

  ‘You were a little churlish,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, I was, wasn’t I? There was something about Inspector Gaunt that I did not take kindly to.’

  ‘Nevertheless we are working for the same goal and you were not truthful with him. We have gleaned some evidence that may be of use to his investigation.’

  ‘And in the hands of the dunderheads at Scotland Yard could lead to catastrophe. The situation is extremely delicate. As Gaunt observed, a young boy’s life is in the balance. One careless move could lead to disaster. This matter needs treating with the utmost care and subtlety – qualities that are not prevalent within the confines of Scotland Yard.’

  ‘He seemed such an able fellow.’

  ‘Don’t be fooled by a smart suit and a confident manner, Watson. Gaunt did not come here to join forces with us in trying to solve this crime.’

  ‘What for then?’

  ‘To pick my brains. To learn what I knew.’

  * * *

  That evening we set off for Whitechapel. As dusk took hold of this grimy benighted area of London, Holmes and I turned into Bat Street. It was a wider thoroughfare than I had imagined. I had expected it to be a narrow alley of terrace houses, each as anonymous and shabby as the next, with blank grimy windows. I was wrong. It was a broad street with a small butcher’s shop, a pawnbroker’s and a public house, The Saracen’s Head, with a vivid sign advertising its presence. It was lively with pedestrians: there was a blind beggar soliciting alms and a singer grating his way through some unmemorable folk song along with a trio of street girls hanging around under a gas light, more in casual conversation than seeking trade. Holmes approached them and immediately they sensed a possible customer and broke away from the group, each striking what no doubt they considered was a provocative pose. They grinned and preened, waiting, it would seem, for Holmes to make his choice. Each woman was heavily made up so that their faces resembled a child’s garish shiny-faced doll. I could not say how old any of them were with accuracy. Certainly they were not in the flush of youth, but their mummified faces hid their true ages.

  Holmes touched his hat in greeting. ‘I am anxious to discover the whereabouts of Alice Sunderland. I wonder if you ladies are able to help me.’

  They giggled at the reference to the term ‘ladies’ and exchanged dark glances. Holmes held up a shiny coin. ‘I am prepared to pay for your trouble.’ Six avaricious eyes focussed on the coin.

  ‘What was the name again, duckie?’ said the tallest of the group.

  ‘Alice Sunderland.’

  The three women exchanged glances again, nudged each other suggestively and laughed. ‘I think we could help you, but you see there are three of us. You get my meaning?’

  Holmes nodded and withdrew a further two coins.

  ‘That’s right handsome of you, sir,’ said another, before stifling a giggle.

  ‘I’ll take those,’ said the tall one, holding out her hand.

  ‘The information first,’ said Holmes.

  The woman leaned close to him and whispered something in his ear. Holmes’s face darkened; his whole expression was one of displeasure. With some reluctance he handed over the coins. The woman curtsied and burst into a fit of laughter and then passed a coin each to her companions, who seemed equally amused.

  ‘Come, Watson,’ said Holmes brusquely.

  ‘What on earth was that all about?’

  Holmes flashed me a sardonic grin. ‘That was all about three street women getting the better of Sherlock Holmes.’

  ‘Do you mean they didn’t tell you where Alice Sunderland is?’

  ‘Oh, yes, they told me all right.’

  ‘Well, where is she?’

  ‘Under our very noses,’ he replied sourly.

  By now we had reached the entrance of The Saracen’s Head. Holmes raised his cane and pointed to the small sign above the door that gave details of the proprietor who was licensed to sell beer, spirits and other intoxicating beverages. The name given was Alice Sunderland.

  ‘We had been thinking that Alice Sunderland was a prostitute, when it appears that she is the licensee of a thriving business.’ Holmes smiled and gave a dark chuckle. ‘If I had been a little more observant, I could have saved myself three sovereigns. Still, it proved a valuable lesson. One that I should have learned years ago: never make assumptions that blind you to other possibilities. Well, old boy, as my purse is somewhat depleted at the moment, the drinks are on you.’

  The Saracen’s Head was full to bursting with customers. There seemed to be the whole array of London society in the place: a bunch of costermongers; numerous nefarious-looking fellows; a few soldiers; and several small West End types slumming it, using the East End as one of their cabaret stops. And of course there were prostitutes patrolling the clientele, seeking custom or a free drink.

  With some effort we made our way to the bar. I ordered two pints of porter from the burly barman. As I paid, Holmes leaned forward and addressed the man. ‘Is Alice around?’ he asked, his voice coarser than normal. The barman raised a quizzical eyebrow as though he had not heard properly or understood the question.

  ‘Alice Sunderland,’ said Holmes.

  The barman flipped out a watch from his waistcoat and studied it. ‘She’ll be on in a few minutes,’ he said, before moving down the counter to the next customer.

  A small table in the corner had suddenly become vacant and with great alacrity, Holmes and I took possession of it.

  ‘What did he mean?’ I asked above the raucous babble that filled the room, as I sat down on a small stool.

  ‘I think we are about to be entertained,’ my friend replied, nodding towards the far end of the bar.

  It was here the crowd was moving backwards to reveal a small makeshift stage and a battered upright piano, at which sat a large Negro wearing an amorphous white shirt and a bowler hat. He hammered out a set of raucous rallying chords while announcing in a loud, rich voice: ‘Pray silence, you lugs, for our own Ally Sunderland.’

  A portly woman wearing what looked suspiciously like a ginger wig clambered up onto the stage. She was dressed in a large glittery gown that was obviously too small for her and as a result strained at every curve and crevice.

  ‘Hello, cheeky boys and girls,’ she cried.

  The audience roared their approval and the piano struck up with the popular song, ‘The “Ticket-of-Leave” Man’. After the first verse most of the customers were joining in. I glanced over at Holmes, who maintained a tight amused grin.

  Two more rousing songs followed and the crowd were now fully entranced by the performance. Then ‘Our Ally’ gave the touching ballad, ‘Alice, Where Art Thou?’ which brought a respectful hush from the throng. Her act concluded with an energetic rendition of ‘The Underground Railway’. As she finished, the whole audience roared their approval.

  ‘Is this the Alice Sunderland we are seeking, Holmes?’ I asked.

  ‘I see no reason why it should not be. It is time for us to find out.’ Without another word he was out of his seat and pushing his way through the crowd of admirers that clustered around Alice Sunderland. She seemed both delighted and amused by their open admiration. With great guile, Holmes managed to sidle right up to her and whisper in her ear. At once the br
oad smile that had adorned her plump features disappeared. Her eyes widened in shock and for a moment she stared at my friend without saying a word. He spoke to her again and at length she responded, shaking her head in denial, all the while her eyes darting around the room. Holmes had further words in her ear, to which, with some reluctance, she responded. Holmes nodded and moved away as surreptitiously as he had arrived. Within seconds, Alice Sunderland was beaming again and chatting with her admirers, but this time her jollity did not reach her eyes, which now registered fear and worry.

  ‘I think I have disturbed the lady, Watson, which shows that we are on the right track,’ my friend informed me on reaching my side.

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Not much, but she looked suitably distressed when I told her I wanted to talk to her about the child she sent to the baby farm eight years ago. She tried to deny it but I told her that I had proof from Mrs Chandler herself. That convinced our “Ally”. She said she couldn’t talk now, but invited me back when the pub closes around midnight.’ My friend rubbed his hands. ‘That should be a very interesting and enlightening interview.’

  Eleven

  Dr Watson’s Journal

  We could hear Big Ben chiming midnight as we approached The Saracen’s Head once more, later that night. The streets were much quieter now, but there was still a number of folk about: drunks, prostitutes and potential clients along with knots of late-night revellers and in the occasional doorway some poor homeless wretch curled up for the night. One got the impression that in this part of London it never grew quiet: there was always some activity.

  ‘Our hostess said that she would leave the door of the saloon bar on the latch so that we could enter without knocking,’ said Holmes. Through the frosted glass at the windows, we could see the dim illumination within as though one or two lights were still burning.

  On entering the building, the smell of stale tobacco, sweat and sour ale assailed the nostrils. A thin curtain of smoke still hung in the air so that it was like viewing the place through a fine gauze veil. There was a shadow moving over by the bar and as we progressed further into the room we saw that it was an old man with stooped shoulders who was wiping down the counter. He glanced up briefly at our approach.

  ‘We have come to see Alice Sunderland,’ said Holmes.

  ‘Her ladyship’s up them stairs,’ the fellow replied gruffly, returning to his cleaning duties.

  We passed through a door marked ‘Private’ at the far end of the bar and ascended a narrow staircase and on to a dimly lighted landing along which was a door partly ajar. A strange shimmering light emanated from the chamber beyond. As Holmes laid his finger on the door, I sensed his body stiffen. ‘There is something wrong,’ he whispered to me, as he pushed the door open.

  There was something wrong: lying back on a chaise longue illuminated by flickering candlelight was the body of Alice Sunderland, her head lolling backwards. The hilt of a dagger rose from her chest, surrounded by a small patch of coagulated blood. Holmes sprang forward, felt her pulse and then turned to me sharply. ‘See to her, Watson. All is not lost.’ With these words he dashed from the room and I heard him race down the stairs.

  I turned my attention to the lady. I too felt her pulse. It was very weak and irregular but still in evidence. As gently as I could I raised her into a sitting position and then bathed her brow with a damp flannel I secured from a wash basin in the corner of the room. Her eyelids fluttered and gradually opened. Even then I knew this was a temporary state of affairs – a last rallying call. It was clear to me that her attacker had been successful in bringing this lady’s life to a close. She gazed at me uncomprehendingly and tried to speak, but the words would not come.

  ‘I’ll get you some water,’ I said and she nodded her head imperceptibly.

  ‘Gin, if you please,’ she muttered, the words emanating in a harsh whisper. ‘Give me gin.’

  I was certainly not going to deny a dying woman her last request so I looked around the room for a bottle of gin. I spied one on a small table by the door. Moments later I was administering the drink to her. She sipped gently, a slight smile touching her lips. ‘Lovely,’ she said.

  Some moments later Holmes returned to my side. ‘The devil got away,’ he cried, his whole body heaving with the exertions of the chase. ‘How is she?’

  I shook my head. Holmes emitted a groan and knelt down by Alice Sunderland.

  ‘It is Sherlock Holmes,’ he said, his voice kind, but I who knew him well could detect that steely note of urgency there also. ‘What can you tell me about the Temple child? He has been taken. We need to save his life.’

  For a moment the dying woman closed her eyes and when she opened them they were filled with tears. ‘He is a precious child. Royal.’

  ‘Royal,’ I cried.

  ‘Yes. He is the child of Mary Kelly and Eddy.’

  Holmes cast me a swift glance. ‘Eddy, the late Duke of Clarence, son of the Prince of Wales.’

  ‘Yes,’ she affirmed, her voice growing fainter until it was a mere whisper. ‘They were married and had a child. A little boy. A prince.’

  ‘Mary Kelly… she was one of the Ripper’s victims…’ I murmured as the seriousness of the situation slowly began to unfold in my mind.

  Alice Sunderland nodded her head wearily. ‘The Ripper was their weapon to get to Mary and then to the boy. They wanted him dead.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  The dying woman gave a gurgling laugh. ‘Who do you think? Mary came to me and begged me to take the child, to get him to safety. She knew her days were numbered. How could I refuse?’ The tears rolled freely down her ashen face. ‘I couldn’t keep the boy here. Not in the heart of Whitechapel. They’d soon get wind of him here.’

  ‘So you took him to Mrs Chandler’s baby farm and put him up for adoption.’

  Alice nodded. ‘All I cared about – all Mary cared about – was that the boy would live. She didn’t care about his royal heritage. That counted for nothing. I thought he was safe… but they’ve caught up with him at last.’

  ‘Who are they?’ Holmes repeated gently.

  The woman’s eyes flickered and closed momentarily before opening again. They were now less bright, less focused. The light of life was fading in them.

  ‘I reckon you know as well as I do, Mr Sherlock Holmes.’ She smiled and then her head lolled to one side, her eyes closing for the last time.

  ‘My God, Holmes,’ I said at length, ‘what does it all mean?’

  ‘That is something I intend to find out, my friend. The tentacles of this dark and dangerous business are spread far and wide. One thing is clear: we are dealing with a sinister and treacherous organisation and they know we are on their trail. It did not take them long to silence this poor creature. They knew she held information that was vital to us.’

  I glanced down at the bloody corpse of Alice Sunderland, saw the gruesome handiwork of our enemies, and shuddered. ‘What are we to do about her?’ I asked, covering the woman’s face up with a cloth.

  ‘We’ll find a bobby on the beat and tell him the basic facts and leave it in his hands to see to the rest.’

  * * *

  An hour later we were back in Baker Street sitting either side of the glowing embers of our fire, each with a glass of brandy in our hands.

  ‘Who killed Alice Sunderland?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, it was the fellow who appeared to be cleaning up in the bar when we arrived.’

  ‘He was an old chap.’

  ‘So he seemed. As a practitioner of disguise myself, I should have been more wary. When we went upstairs, he was off like the wind. He had to have had a great head start for me to fail to catch up with him, but I can assure you that he was no old man.’

  ‘And you have no idea who the fellow was.’

  ‘Specifically, no. But he is obviously one of the minions who are part of the organising force behind this whole affair. A fine set of fellows all: we have the kidnappers, the brute who attac
ked us and would have killed us at the Chandler establishment, and the murderer of Alice Sunderland.’

  ‘And what is the motive? What is their goal?’

  ‘Of that I am not absolutely sure, although I have my theories.’

  ‘And what is all this about Eddy, the late Duke of Clarence?’

  ‘There lies the nub of the matter.’ Holmes rolled his brandy glass between his hands. ‘There was an idea, a theory that was circulating in the higher echelons of Scotland Yard at the time of Jack the Ripper, that the Queen’s grandson, the Prince of Wales’s son, Prince Albert Victor Christian Edward, the Duke of Clarence and Avondale, known as “Eddy” to his familiars, was in some way connected with the murders.’

  ‘What! How preposterous.’

  Holmes smiled. ‘Ah, you old royalist. When will you learn that he who wears the crown does not necessarily have a noble heart?’

  ‘I cannot believe…’

  ‘Maybe not. And it was clear that Eddy could not have been the Ripper. He was away from London on at least one occasion when the killer struck.’

  ‘Well then…’

  ‘But,’ Holmes raised his index finger in an admonishing gesture, ‘that does not mean he was not in some way connected with those terrible crimes.’

  ‘In some way…? What on earth do you mean?’

  Holmes stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘There was a conspiracy of silence at Scotland Yard during that very dark period. As you will remember I was only involved at the periphery of the investigation. Sir Charles Warren made sure I was kept at arm’s length. He wanted to make sure that I was denied access to a great deal of the evidence that Inspector Abberline and his men had collected.’

  ‘I remember. You were frustrated that you had been sidelined.’

  ‘Indeed. But it wasn’t arrogance or jealousy on their part as it had been in some instances in the past. It was because they knew that if I had been given all the facts, I could have solved the case and unmasked the identity of Jack the Ripper.’

  Holmes had never discussed the case with me so frankly. I remembered how brooding and sullen he had been at the time, but he had never confided in me. I could see now from his strained, gaunt features that the memory of his treatment still caused him anger and distress.