I saw the piercing steeple of Christ Church ahead as we drew nearer and nearer to Lamech’s dwelling. Kipling sat across from me gripping his baton, his knuckles were white, and his face grimaced.
“Steady, Kipling,” said I. He turned his eyes from the cabin floor towards me, and a half smile broke on his face.
“Yes, sir.”
“No need to be. We are simply going to have a conversation with Lamech, not break down his doors… yet.” I grinned in an attempt to ease his tension.
The maria came to a jerking halt, thrusting Kipling and myself backwards and forwards. The driver called that we had arrived. I looked up and down the street. There was an eerie quiet that loomed in the stale air. Our only company was the foul stench of urine and other bodily remains that swam in the gutters. We ducked down an alley and approached a black door. I pounded upon it until it was jerked open. A short man with dark hair and a thick beard answered. His eyes met mine with disapproval and disdain.
“What do you want?” he asked in a thick Polish accent. He raised his arm and leaned on the doorframe, and I saw that his arm was speckled with tattoos. Upon his wrist I noticed a small symbol - the Hebrew Alpha symbol and on the under part, connected by a chain, the Omega symbol.
“I need to see Lamech. I know he’s here,” I demanded.
“This some sort of joke?” the man demanded, his face turning red.
“I’m not joking,” said I. “Now, where is he?”
“Lamech is dead, you bastard!” he shouted. “Don’t act like you don’t know!”
“Dead?” I retorted, taken aback by his news. “What is the cause?”
“You English and your fake ignorance. You can’t pretend you know nothing of this.”
“I assure you we do not.”
“How did he die?” Kipling asked.
“What is this man doing here?” roared a voice from inside. A tall lanky man with wide-set eyes and a large nose sprung towards us. His wrist bore the same tattooed symbol. It was a sign showing which group he belonged to.
“We are here to speak with Lamech, but your friend here tells me that he is dead,” said I.
“I know you, Inspector Reid. You think you can cleanse Whitechapel. Rid it of vermin like us!” shouted the tall man. His hand was jerking and I noticed him playing with a silver ring with the Star of David embedded on it. “I will not have your presence here!”
“I do not need your permission. Now, if there has been a death, I want to know the cause. Should I suspect anything, it will not cost me any great trouble to rally my troops and arrest you all for illegal imports, petty theft, and other random acts of violence.”
“Mr Reid, maybe one day you’ll follow through with your threats of arrest,” the tall man replied. He turned and walked away saying: “Show him in.”
We followed the short man down a dark hallway, and then up a narrow stair and into an attic. The room was covered in Jewish symbols. A desk was piled with newspapers, letters, and several thick Torah scrolls. A strong aroma of incense hung heavy in the room. In the far corner sat two women on the floor, their backs to us. There was a body laid out in front of them. The tall man stood in a corner, smoking a cigarette. The women turned to look at us. One was elderly and frail looking, the other young and fair-skinned.
“They are his mother and sister,” the short man informed us.
“I am Ruth,“ said the young woman. “This is Naomi.” Ruth pointed towards the older woman.
“I am sorry for your loss,” I said removing my hat.
“Can you tell us what happened?” Kipling asked.
“We do not know,” Ruth said. “He was fine until last night. He felt ill, talked lots of nonsense, as though he was dreaming but still awake. Then he fainted.”
“When did he breathe his last?” I asked.
The young woman looked at me sternly. “Is it always straight to business with you, Mr. Reid?”
“May we have a look at him?” Kipling asked softly. I was impressed with Kipling’s tact, and the woman appeared softer towards him. Ruth nodded and we approached.
“He departed from us an hour ago,” Ruth said. I looked upon the face of Abraham Lamech. There was a strange shading under his eyes and a sort of yellowish tint to his skin. His body expelled an aroma that was not one of death. It was something else. A toxin, but I could not be certain of which one.
“Was he with anyone last night?” I pressed.
“Not that we are aware. He went out for a drink.”
“At what time?”
“Haven’t you pressed enough?” the tall man said from his corner, still fiddling with his loose ring. “I think you can leave us now.”
“I think not. His manner of death was no accident. He was poisoned.”
“He went to the Inn round the corner. The White Stag,” Ruth said.
“Quiet, woman!” snapped the tall man.
“They need to know,” she returned softly, but her eyes gave him a piercing stare.
“Do you know who he saw there? Was he meant to be meeting anyone?” I asked. They were unsure. “Has he had any plans to bomb the Whitechapel and Mile End station?”
The women were silent.
“You come here accusing a dead man of this?” the short man said.
“He did it, or someone wants us to think he did. An explosive very much like the ones we know he has used in the past was the cause of the tragedy today. Many are dead. If he had nothing to do with this, it’s important that we learn who did, but it all points here.”
“We know nothing of it,” the tall man said. The short man looked uneasy.
“Cooperation will go a long way,” I returned. The room remained silent.
“We’ll cooperate when swine like Lord Myers stop trying to force the Jews out of the city!” exclaimed the short man. The other shot him a fierce glance.
“I’m not here to discuss matters of prejudice, nor the thoughts and actions of Lord Myers. I am here about the underground station. We will need Lamech’s body for autopsy .”
***
Kipling and I came to an agreement with Ruth and the others regarding Lamech’s body. I sent Kipling back to the station to make arrangements for the body to be retrieved while I carried on to The White Stag. The streets were still quiet as Lamech’s followers mourned his passing in silence. Soon enough the sound of glasses clashing and the murmur of sloshed men could be heard here and there. I approached the public house, the smell of stale beer rushed into my lunges as I set foot inside. Glares of disapproval followed me as I walked up to the bar.
“Your name, sir?” I asked the bartender.
“Jeffry,” the man managed to mumble.
“Lamech was here last night. Who was he with?”
He wiped out a glass with a dirty towel. “Don’t know what you mean guv’ner,” he said, and put the glass onto a shelf.
“Give us some gin,” said a man at the bar. Jeffry grabbed a bottle and glass and filled it for him.
“I know he was here,” said I. “You can either help me or I can have a look at your books. I know you’ve made arrangements with local whores for the use of your rooms.”
“You’d like to know who they bring back. That’d be the real crime.” Jeffry grinned.
“I do not care that others in authority have looked past this. I will not do the same. What I can promise is this: help me, and I will give you time to move your whores before we storm this cesspool!”
Jeffry squinted at me. I glared back at him, unmoving.
“Get us a whiskey!” shouted another man, slapping his open palm onto the bar. Jeffry walked away and I stormed out.
***
I returned, empty-handed, to the station. Lamech’s body was brought in later that night, while White examined the remains of the explosive. Over the next twenty-four hours, the bodies from the explosion were identified. Further aid from other divisions of Scotland Yard stepped in to handle the amount of work. An Inspector Lestrade was put in place t
o interview survivors and speak with those who had lost loved ones, in the hopes of acquiring any leads.
***
I dozed at my desk. A rattle at my door shook me awake. “Come in,” I called, wiping the sleep from my eyes and seeing the morning sun pour through the windows.
“You look like hell, Reid,” said White. “You’ve got a beautiful wife, go sleep with her rather than at your desk.”
“I’d rather you not speak of me and my wife’s sleeping arrangements,” I said. “Tell me, what have you learnt?” White waved, and I followed him. In his private working chamber, Lamech’s body lay on a table. White had done the autopsy during the night. On a counter lay the remains of the explosive, along with some glass dishes filled with coloured powder, some magnifying instruments, and a few Bunsen burners boiling with strange liquids.
“Well, you were right. Lamech was poisoned,” said White, looking over the dead body. “But not by any poison I’m familiar with. This purple colouring of the skin appears to be a side effect of the poison.”
“A foreign poison.” I said, walking over and looking down at the corpse. “How did it get into his body?”
“It wasn’t injected into his system. There are no signs of a struggle or even so much as a needle prick on him. It was done orally, through food or drink.” White walked over to a scope. I followed. “Have a look.” I put my eyes to the scope and looked at the microorganisms. “His gut and intestines were full of the stuff. I can only imagine that this poison is tasteless and has no aroma, or at least was masked by another taste. He gobbled his food and drink, and by the time he got home the poison had taken effect, and he died.” I raised my eyes from the scope and looked at White. “So, there you have it.”
“It was done through his food,” I said. “The only place he went, or at least the only place his family told me he went, was the public house. I paid them a visit. They were, of course, no help at all. It would seem they have something to hide.”
“Think you ought to pay them another visit. Perhaps a nice little raid is in order?”
“What of the explosive?” I questioned.
“It’s definitely one of Lamech’s designs. I knew that from the beginning,” said White, as he ran his hand through his hair. “It’s the chemicals he uses, they leave those colour marks which were left. The device used an unknown chemical compound that Lamech and his group have never used.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“It’s obvious. Where does an anarchist get a new chemical?”
“From someone like you.”
“Exactly,” White returned with a grin. “You need to find the chemist Lamech was working with.”
“Our best lead is back at the public house. Burst down the doors and chase out the whores until we get answers.”
Kipling burst into the room. “We’ve got a problem sir!” He handed me The Weekly Dispatch. The headline read:
JEWISH ANARCHIST RESPONSIBLE FOR WHITECHAPEL & MILE END BOMBING!
“Story by Eustace Brown? Damn, that reporter!” I shouted, throwing the paper aside. “Bring him in!”
“Another thing, Inspector Reid, Detective Chief Inspector Johnstone is here.”
***
“What the hell, Reid?” shouted DCI Johnstone as I stepped into my office. He was sitting atop my desk. “This is sloppy, very sloppy!”
“The reporter sneaked in, heard whispers and crafted a story. There is no truth to his words!”
“It doesn’t matter. We now have a newspaper all over the city claiming that a Jewish anarchist is blowing up rail stations. Not only will this affect people travelling on the Underground, it’s going to cause unwanted hostilities between the gentiles and the Hebrews!”
Johnstone stood and walked around my desk looking at the map of London that hung on the wall.
“I’ll make him print a retraction, sir,” said I.
“What are you doing about this anarchist?”
“He’s dead. He was at the pub the night before the explosion, came home, ill, and died sometime after the explosion. His body lies here. Mr. White…”
“White is here?” he snapped.
“He is, sir.”
“That man is no doctor, he’s no proper scientist. He should not be getting his hands on police business.”
“He’s a good man, and he’s a hell of a lot better than some of these police surgeons we’ve got wasting time on our payroll.” I composed myself. “Now, I have a dead anarchist, a wrecked rail station, and a journalist I need to deal with. So, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
“See that all this is sorted, Reid. Don’t let this be another Ripper.” Johnstone walked out. I went around my desk and fell into my chair.
Chapter 5
Doctor Watson
A Visit To Mr Daniels
Autumn 1890
“Watson, would you visit Lestrade and see what information they might have on this Goblin Man; and the incident regarding Mr. Daniels?” Holmes asked.
“I’ll leave straight away,” said I. “What are you doing?”
“I will follow another avenue. Meet me at Lancaster Gate at nine o’clock, and from there we’ll go see Daniels.”
I left Holmes and made my way to Scotland Yard. I did not find Lestrade at the Yard upon my arrival, and I waited some time before he appeared.
“Hello Doctor.” Lestrade greeted me with a handshake. I followed him into his small office. “What can I do for you?
“I need to learn what you know about The Goblin Man and his connection to David Daniels,” said I.
Lestrade leaned back in his chair and let out a sigh.
“The Goblin Man,” Lestrade began. “He is a man who dresses up and scares people, but he is slippery as a fish, I tell you. We can’t seem to catch him. His activity quietened down the past few years. I know some people thought he might have been the Ripper because his attacks stopped about six months before the Whitechapel horrors started. Now the Goblin is back, or so we’re meant to believe, and tormenting this man Daniels.” Lestrade leaned forward, placing his elbows on his desk. “We’ve got nothing. Nothing other than Daniels’ statements. Any piece of evidence or any claims, they’ve all been circumstantial.” Lestrade shook his head. “We’ve had more patrols around Daniels’ house, but this Goblin somehow slips through all our nets. He’s just a man, but a bloody sly one, that’s for sure.”
“What about the bullets?” I asked.
“What bullets?” Lestrade questioned.
“The ones Daniels says the Goblin somehow took from his revolver.” Lestrade looked befuddled a moment. “Surely he informed you of this?”
“I can’t say that he did. What did he tell you?”
“He told Holmes and I that he took a revolver with him to the club; on his way home the Goblin was waiting for him. When he tried to fire, he realised the gun was empty and somehow the Goblin had the bullets and dropped them on the ground before him.”
“Well, this is news to me!” Lestrade exclaimed. “I’m going to send someone over to his house right away!”
“Holmes and I are going there tonight,” I said.
“Then find out what game this man is playing. He’s wasted enough of our time. I’m sorry I can’t give you any solid information on this Goblin, sometimes I’m not sure he exists.”
***
I met Holmes at Lancaster Gate at nine o’clock; together we walked towards James Street. I told him all that Lestrade had said and that Daniels never spoke of the bullets to the authorities.
“Why would he tell us and not them?” I asked.
“Time will tell, Watson,” Holmes said sagely.
“Lestrade questioned the very existence of this Goblin Man. Do you think it’s possible that Daniels is… well, maybe he isn’t in his right mind?”
Holmes looked off into the distance a moment. “Lestrade may have a point.”
“Where have you been all day?” I asked.
“Watching Daniels,” Ho
lmes said.
“Did you see anything of interest?”
“I didn’t, no. He’s been holed up in his house all day. No one has been seen coming in or out.”
We stopped when we reached the top of James Street. Holmes motioned to go down an alley. We passed by the back of Daniels’ house but saw nothing of interest. As we walked around the corner, Holmes pulled me back.
“Someone’s there,” Holmes whispered peering around the corner.
My heart pounded:”The Goblin?”
Holmes confirmed it was not with a slight shake of his head. “It’s a woman.”
I looked and saw a tall slender woman standing on the porch of Daniels’ house. The light from inside poured over her, but she was too far away to make out any clear features. Her distinguishing feature was her blazing red hair. The front door was open and she was speaking with someone, presumably Daniels. She was handed a small box, after which she turned and left. Holmes and I hid in the shadows as she walked towards us. As she passed us, she paused and turned her head slightly in our direction. We both stood still in the darkness, hoping she would not see us. Finally, after a few moments, she continued on her way.
“Who is she?” I asked when she had gone.
“A curiosity. Come, Daniels will be waiting for us.”
***
Mr. Daniels greeted us with a look of relief. “Oh Mr. Holmes, I am glad to see you!” He ushered us inside and quickly closed the door. “How has your day been?”
“Informative,” Holmes returned. “Has anything of interest occurred since we last spoke?”
“No, no,” Daniels answered quickly.
“No sign of the Goblin?” I pressed.
“Not tonight.”
“Show us your room,” said Holmes.
Sherlock Holmes and The Scarlet Thread of Murder Page 3
