“First off, I would like to go on record that I do not understand Inspector Helson’s logic in releasing that information to the press. Every day I see some new aspect of our investigation appearing in the damn newspaper. We might as well announce to whomever is doing these killings to go ahead and slaughter prostitutes at will,” Lestrade said.
Chief Inspector Brett wrote as Lestrade spoke, continuing after Lestrade had finished. Brett paused writing, “Go ahead and slaughter prostitutes?”
“At will, sir.”
“Any other persons you’d like to cast blame on to excuse your inability to capture the killer?”
Lestrade nodded, “Well, now that you mention it, I consider Coroner Wynn Baxter responsible for the Annie Chapman killing.”
Brett dropped his pen and peered over his glasses, “Excuse me, Inspector?”
Lestrade leaned forward, “I can spell his name if you would like, sir. Might as well jot this down too. In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say.”
Chief Inspector sighed and picked up his pen. “I assure you I can spell it, Lestrade. Best not to take that tone with me at this moment. Carry on.”
“Sorry, sir. I meant to say that I should like to file a protest with you over the conduct of Coroner Baxter concerning the Polly Nichols inquest. It is the duties of the coroner’s court during inquest to determine only the identity of the decedent and the cause of death. Instead, he used the hearing as a way to puff himself up and get into the newspapers. They knew who the girl was and how she died the very first day of the inquest, but it continued for nearly two more weeks. Now, the public has as much information as I do about the murder, if not more, depending how many newspapers they can afford to buy,” Lestrade said.
“How does that implicate the Coroner in Annie Chapman’s death?”
“For one thing, Baxter made a big production discussing the method in which Nichols was killed, including what kind of knife the killer used. How it enabled him to dispatch her silently with a cut across the throat straight away. Every maniac in the city could have read that and began to formulate their own interesting ways to get themselves into the paper as well. Worst of all, he started blabbing about all of the other murders I am trying to solve, saying how he was drawing connections between each of them. Now the public is stirred up into a frenzy thinking there is some wild roving pack of murderers all over the streets, and Scotland Yard is buggered to anything at all about any of them.”
Brett had stopped writing before Lestrade finished speaking. He folded his hands calmly and set them on the desk. “I will be certain to pass along your opinion of Scotland Yard to the Assistant Commisioner.”
Lestrade sighed, thinking it was a good time for a little career preservation. “I have been working around the clock on these damn murders, trying to bring you some arrests, sir. I am a little out of sorts. I apologize.”
“Working around the clock on the murders, eh?”
“Yes, sir. Why do you say it like that?”
“You are married, correct, Inspector?”
Lestrade shifted in his seat. “Yes, sir. I have two little ones as well. What does that have to do with this?”
“There are some rather unsettling rumors about you, Inspector. Let me just say that it would not be very prudent for any of our Inspectors to be caught in a compromising position with one of the people responsible for bringing this killer into our midst. Do you understand me, Lestrade?”
“Sorry, sir? Who is responsible?”
“The whores of Whitechapel, Gerard! Because they cannot find a more decent existence than bunting, we now have this murderous bastard to contend with. Get me?”
Lestrade looked down for a moment, then nodded. “I understand, sir.”
Brett nodded, picking up his pen. “Let us just sum up your feelings about Coroner Baxter and his responsibility in the death of Annie Chapman, shall we?”
“Yes, Chief Inspector. Can we just say that I believe the coroner overstepped his duties, and that by making such a large spectacle of a routine inquest, created a frenzy among the public. During that inquest, the Annie Chapman woman was killed. I would stake my career that she will not be the last.”
Chief Inspector Brett turned the paper over, “If you or your officers had cause to arrest Pizer, otherwise known as ‘Leather Apron’ that was unbeknownst to Inspector Helson when he gave his statement to the press, then why was Pizer released the very next day?”
Lestrade sighed. “Sergeant Thick said he brought Pizer in for his own safety, sir. It had already been in the newspapers that we were looking for ‘Leather Apron’ in connection to the Tabram killing. Sgt. Thick has known Pizer for quite some time and escorted him in so that we could question him, and protect him from the crowds that were staking out his house.”
“And?”
“He could give no account for the night Tabram was murdered, but he was able to give successful alibis for both the Polly Nichols and the Annie Chapman murders. I am of the opinion that he is possibly responsible for killing one woman, but not the others,” Lestrade said.
Chief Inspector Brett continued writing. “Is that all?”
“No, Chief Inspector. While he was being questioned, a man from his neighborhood came forward to claim he’d witnessed Pizer fighting with Annie Chapman the night she was murdered, threatening to knife her.”
Chief Inspector Brett looked up and smiled, “That sounds promising. What came of it?”
“The damned witness turned out to be a publicity seeking idiot who only wanted to see his name in the paper,” Lestrade said. “After all of that, we had to let Pizer go. At this point I still consider him a murder suspect and intend to pursue his arrest as soon as I get the chance to focus on that individual case.”
Chief Inspector Brett continued writing. “And how did Mr. Pizer leave the station, Inspector Lestrade?”
Lestrade paused, taking a deep breath. “He was assisted in leaving through the rear, sir.”
~ * * * ~
The Princess Alice Pub was less than a mile away, and Lestrade stormed out of the police station toward it, covering the distance quickly as he sputtered curses at the Chief Inspector. He was intending on drinking himself sick when he saw Louise waiting outside the Pub’s doors, holding her little girl’s hand. “Good evening, Inspector,” Louise said politely as he approached. The little girl watched him silently. “You feeling good natured the evening?”
“Yes, I suppose I am,” he said. He looked down, finding himself standing in the stinking pool of someone’s sickness, splattered not too long ago onto the entranceway of the Princess Alice. No one had bothered to splash a bucket of hot water on it.
“Might you be interested in getting a bit of drink first, then?” she said eagerly. He knew Louise was keen on her drink. A bit too keen, sometimes, by the look of her.
“Maybe after,” he said. “I can’t relax just yet.”
“You look a bit bound up tonight, Inspector,” Louise said, stepping close to him. “Why don’t you let Louise take some o’ that bad mettle out of yeh?”
“What about her? She going to be all right out here by herself?”
Louise patted the child on the head, “Abbie will be just fine, won’t you my love? Stay right here under the light where Mummy can see you. I am going to talk to the nice policeman in the alley for a moment, so do not disturb us.”
The little girl nodded silently and watched as Louise pulled him into the shadows. He found himself unable to relax because Abbie was watching them. He tried looking the other way, into the darkness of the alley. “Not right here. Someone might see us.”
“Let them,” she whispered. “This is Whitechapel, darling. No one gives a toss what happens here.”
SEVEN
I tucked the fresh bouquet of tulips behind my back and rapped on the door. Mary threw it open, smiling brightly. “Miss Mary Amelia Morstan,” I said, bringing the flowers around toward her hands in a sweeping, dramatic motion. I bowed deeply, “Doct
or John Watson at your service. It is my great privilege to escort you to the ball.”
Mary curtseyed, saying, “I believe you should get used to calling me Mrs. John H. Watson.”
I laughed, grabbing her close and kissing her quickly on the mouth. Mary allowed me that, but as I tried to press against her, she turned away. I sighed as she went to fetch a vase from the kitchen.
“How is Mr. Holmes?” Mary called out.
“Wretched.” I hung my hat and coat by the door. “I’ve never seen him in such a state.”
She returned, setting the flowers on the mantle next to photographs of her father and mother. “These are really quite lovely, John. Thank you. Since I’ve moved back from the Forrester’s, I have not had the chance to do any decorating of my own. The house looks as though its true owner will return at any moment and chase me out onto the street.”
“You will have all the time you need, my love, whenever you are ready.”
Mary smiled and nodded. “So what pray tell, is ailing the World’s Keenest Deductive Mind?”
“Try not to be wicked, darling. I told you he is ill with a rare strain of ‘flu. But I must confess, it should have been through his system by now. I am beginning to fear that Holmes’s illness is not just of the body.”
“Is he seeing a doctor?”
“Why does everyone insist upon asking me that?”
“I meant someone not held in Holmes’s thrall. An outside observer.”
“Thrall? I am not at all in Holmes’s thrall. You think me to be some sort of servant of his?”
“No,” Mary shrugged, “But you are admittedly his ever-present assistant. How many years have you been back in London? And all that time you were supposed to be building a medical practice, but instead you’ve been lurking about in the background as Holmes’s self-appointed biographer. And now, when you should be well-established and respected in society and ready for your new life with me, I have to cart you around instead. It is up to me to make the introductions and try to help you drum up business. Yet, even now, you are completely consumed with playing Holmes’s nursemaid.”
“Mary,” I said softly, “Please. I know you are upset with me because I have not been visiting as frequently as I promised. I am sorry, my darling.”
Mary shrugged, “Do you think me so bereft of beauty that no other man would be interested? Is that why you treat me in this way?”
“Not at all!” I put my arms around her waist, “You are all I think of, day and night. I swear it. But Holmes is my friend. He needs me.”
“He has family, does he not?” Mary said.
“You mean Mycroft? That man is worse than Holmes by a million! If he even took the time to stop calculating how to enslave other nations long enough to remember that he had a brother, it would be a miracle. No, dearest, Sherlock Holmes has no one else but me.”
“Do you honestly believe Holmes thinks of you as a friend?” Mary said.
My eyes widened, “Yes. Of course! I believe so, anyway. Don’t be ridiculous, of course he does!”
“Well I think of you as my fiancé. One I have barely seen for months,” Mary said, taking a deep breath. “I love you, John Watson, but if we are to be married, I need you to act like a man and not a manservant.”
I was too stunned to speak. Her words struck at the core of my being. Mary came off of her chair and sat between my legs, cupping my hands in hers. “Swear to me that from now on, you will stand up for yourself.”
“All right,” I finally whispered. “But can you give me just a little more time to help my friend heal? After that, it will be just you and me forever after.”
She nodded and kissed me deeply on the mouth. I tasted her sweet lips and tongue, playing against them with my own. I caressed her neck and shoulders, sliding down the front of her dress, winding my fingers through the twirling ribbons around her neck. I ran my hands over her corseted bosom for one wonderful moment before she swept them away and stood up. Her face was flushed, and she fanned herself with her hand. “That will be quite enough of that, Dr. Watson.”
“As a medical professional, I must disagree with you.”
“How so?”
“I am a physician, Miss Morstan, and thus feel that it is only proper to conduct an immediate and full examination of your person.” I came up behind her, pressing close against her back. My hands wrapped around her hips, fingers tracing her flat stomach. I kissed the back of her neck softly. “It may very well be a matter of life and death.”
“But, Dr. Francis is my physician,” she teased, tilting her head so that her ear was exposed to me. I kissed it and bit it gently.
“That old quack? Scandalous. Francis is barely a veterinarian. No, darling, what you need is a specialist. Someone qualified to observe the biological changes to your body once your heart rate is elevated, to measure the quantitative amount of sweat dripping down the small of your back during strenuous…physical…exertion.”
Mary pushed my hands away, “Stop it, John.”
“Did I do something wrong? I apologize.”
“No.” She took a deep breath, “It is my fault. I let you get too comfortable. We only have to wait a little longer.”
“All right,” I sighed, sitting back down and straightening my tie. I took measure of the room and its furnishings. Mary was correct about not making any advances in decorating the house since her father had died. Further, I doubted if her father had changed a single thing since Mary’s mother had passed on ten years prior to that. It was the house of a dead person who’d lived in the house of a different dead person. What a dreadfully stuffy place for poor Mary to have been raised.
Mary worked for years as governess for the Forrester family, assisting Mrs. Cecil Forrester with duties of the household, and in raising their children into fine young adults. The youngest had been sent off to finish his schooling and prepare for his life at University, but Mary and Mrs. Forrester were so close by then that they were nearly mother and daughter.
I knew that I needed to dedicate myself more directly to expanding my medical practice, and securing my financial future. I wanted to provide the best life possible for Mary, we both wanted children, and more than anything, I wanted to make her proud to call herself “Mrs. John H. Watson.” I sat back in Captain Morstan’s chair and crossed my legs, suddenly feeling very much at home.
~ * * * ~
“This will pass, Holmes,” I said, patting his knee.
He thrashed in his chair, cursing in protest as I mopped his forehead. “Get away,” he groaned, pulling the collar of his gown tightly around his throat. “I need my pipe, Watson. Please get it for me?”
“Fine, if that will settle you.” I packed tobacco into the bowl of his pipe and lit it for him. Holmes snatched it, sucking the stem greedily until thick grey smoke filled his mouth and nostrils. “I know you hate to hear this, but I take your condition as a good thing.” Holmes snorted in protest. “I am serious. It is almost as if your body is leeching itself of all the damned chemicals you pumped into it.”
Holmes sucked on the pipe, folding his legs onto the seat underneath him and covering himself with a blanket. “Why are you still sitting there, Watson?” he said, looking up. “Certainly we have not become so rude so as to not ask Mrs. Hudson what she wants?”
“Calm yourself, my good man. There is no one here but you and me. Mrs. Hudson is in her flat downstairs. You are safe here, and no one will—”
“Mrs. Hudson is at the door, Watson! Are you deaf as well as a sadist?” he said, just as there was a faint rap on our door.
“You never cease to amaze me, Holmes.”
Mrs. Hudson scowled at me when I opened the door. “Missive for the ill one,” she said, holding out a sealed letter. She looked over my shoulder, sniffing in dissatisfaction. “I reckon he needs a doctor.”
“He has one, my good lady. I assure you that I am giving him the finest care possible.”
“As you say, then. Ring me when you’re ready for some sou
p, sir.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Good evening.” As she left, he turned to me and whispered, “What a delightful woman. So unlike the rest of her species. Others would do well to learn from her.”
I tucked the letter into my pocket and crossed to the window. “My Mary is as perfect as anyone could possibly desire, Holmes. Takes no rubbish from me, I can tell you that. Ah! Here we are, Holmes. I think a bit of fresh air should help sort you out.” I grabbed the window frame and gave it a good yank, trying to loosen the grime sealing it shut. “What the bloody deuce,” I said, shaking the window so fiercely that the contents of my pockets were nearly spilling out. I shifted the letter delivered by Mrs. Hudson to my other pocket, when a vise-like grip seized on my arm. “Let go of me, Holmes. What are you doing? Go sit back down.”
Holmes gripped me so firmly that I winced, holding me in place while he fished inside my pocket for the letter. “Give it to me, Watson. At once.” Holmes found the letter, lifting it close to his face for inspection as he turned it end over end, then held it to his nose, inhaling deeply.
“You should not be standing, Holmes. Come, sit down,” I said, taking him by the elbow. “Whatever are you carrying on about?”
“Do you not recognize this envelope, Watson? Have you not seen precisely this same paper stock once before?” His voice was shaking. Holmes cocked his head to the framed photograph hanging on the far wall.
I looked again at the letter and my eyes widened. The air whistled from my pursed lips. “Her?”
“The woman.”
We both knew that for Sherlock Holmes there could only ever be one woman. In March of that year, Holmes received a visit from a client who claimed anonymity. He was the King of Bohemia. King Wilhelm required Holmes’ professional assistance, and was willing to pay handsomely for both a resolution to the matter, and the utmost discretion. Holmes was not only famous for sorting out cases that baffled the Inspectors of Scotland Yard, but his was also a preferred method because he could be trusted not to reveal any of the sometimes damaging details of his findings.
Whitechapel: The Final Stand of Sherlock Holmes (Gentlemen's Edition) Page 7
