Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul (33 page)

The left renal artery, through which blood flows to the kidney, is some three inches in length. In order to remove the left kidney from the body of Catharine Eddowes, Jack the Ripper had cut through this artery, leaving behind two inches attached to the wall of her stomach. Adjoining the half of kidney handed to Dr Brown for examination was the remaining inch, which had convinced him that the organ had indeed come from the murdered woman.

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Cheerfully inebriated and followed by Fester clutching a pail of ale to his chest, Mary lurches from the Britannia tavern into the street. Playfully, she nudges him on the arm, “Settin’ yerself up fer the night, are yer?”

Fester steadies the pail, preventing ale from slopping over its rim, “Half past eleven, luv. Start work at one. Gives me ’bout an ’our.”

Impishly, Mary grins, “An’ yer want t’ make the most o’ me, eh?”

Slowly raising its handle, Fester carefully lowers the pail to his side,
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“’And-job, whilst I drink me ale, luv.”

Mary laughs, “Standin’, or sittin’?”

Fester hiccups, “Don’t ’arden quickly, luv. Best I sit.”

Straightening her shawl, Mary chuckles, “Yer be a ’onest man, Edwin Fester.” She slips her arm through his, “Two bob. That’s fair, innit?”

Fester grins, “Two shillings! That’s a bargain, luv.”

Mary jerks his arm excitedly, “Wot’s ’oldin’ yer back, then?” She indicates the pail, “An’ don’t be spillin’ a drop, I’m thirsty.”

Maintaining their merry disposition, Mary and Fester begin to saunter along the street towards Miller’s Court. Seconds later, Mary Ann Cox emerges from Commercial Street, scurries past the tavern and dolefully lags behind the couple. Unaware of her presence, Mary slurs to Fester, “If the Ripper did do me in, d’yer fink ’e’ll take me kidney, too?”

Fester hiccups again, “Got ’im on the brain, ’aven’t yer? Most women I know don’t care t’ talk ’bout ’im.”

Merrily, she prods him in the arm, “D’yer?”

He shakes his head, “A good ’un like yer? Na, luv. Wager, ’e’ll take yer ’eart.”

Mary chuckles, “An’ a fine Limerick ’eart ’e’ll be gittin’.”

Upon reaching the passageway to Miller’s Court, Fester scrapes the pail against the corner of the archway, spilling ale down one side of his trousers. Hurriedly taking the container from him, Mary quips, “Ale is fer us t’ drink, else rats on the ground be doin’ a jig.”

Fester guffaws, “Now I’ll ’ave t’ take me trousers off, won’t I?”

Mary sniggers, “An’ I ain’t reason enough?”

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, “Ale first, luv.”

She motions the passageway with her head, “Ale it’ll be.”

Sheepishly, Fester reminds her, “’E takes a while t’ ’arden, luv.”

Mary slips her arm out of his, “Got an ’our. That’s ample time.”

He gleefully rubs his hands together, “Let’s git t’ it, then.”

Followed by a fervent Fester, Mary strolls down the passageway, carrying the pail of ale. Behind them, Mary Ann Cox continues to tag along. Halting outside the door to her room, Mary hands the pail to Fester, who dips two fingers into the ale and wets his lips.

Partially raising the hem of her skirt, she stoops and takes a key from the inside of one of her gusset boots, “Lose this an’ there’ll be no fun t’ be ’ad.”

Mary Ann Cox brushes past her, “Good night, Mary Jane.”

Holding the key, Mary stands bolt upright, “Gawd!” She turns to Fester, “’Ear that, did yer? She called me by name.”

Scampering towards her room at the far end of the court, Mary Ann Cox is immediately engulfed by darkness.

Fingering the keyhole, Mary slides the key into the lock of the door, “First time, in goodness knows ’ow long, she’s spoken t’ me.”

Fester murmurs, “Friendly sort, is she?”

Sharply turning the key and then retrieving it from the lock, Mary throws open the door and hollers, “Good night, Coxey, I’m goin’ t’ ’ave me a song.” She quickly ushers Fester into the room, “An’ a drink, too.”

P
lacing the key on the table, Mary lights the wick of the candle and indicates a chair to Fester, “Best yer get them trousers off.” She kicks the door shut, tosses her shawl aside and produces two ale glasses, dipping one into the pail, now on the floor, and giving it to Fester. Swiftly filling the other glass, she swallows a mouthful of ale and begins to sing a popular music hall song.

“Scenes o’ me childhood ’rise b’fore me gaze,

Bringin’ recollections o’ by-gone ’appy days,

When down in the meadows in childhood

I would roam,

No one’s left t’ cheer me now within the

good ol’ ’ome.”

Removing his trousers, Fester reveals cotton long johns. Seeing the undergarment, Mary stops singing, “Them, too.”

Fester demurs, “Keep’s the draught out, luv.”

Mary smirks, “’Ave ’nother ale, instead.”

Reluctantly, Fester begins to remove the undergarment.

Mary continues to sing.

“Father an’ mother they ’ave passed ’way,

Sister an’ brother now lay b’neath the clay,

But while life does remain t’ cheer me I’ll retain,

This small violet I plucked from mother’s grave.”

Naked from the waist down, except for soiled socks with holes in their heels, Fester sits down on the chair, glass of ale in hand. Mary seductively approaches him, still singing.

“Well I remember me dear ol’ mother’s smile,

As she used t’ greet me when I returned from toil,

Always knittin’ in the ol’ armchair.

Father used t’ sit an’ read fer all the children there,

But now all is silent ’round the good ol’ home.”

Placing her ale glass down on the table, Mary kneels before Fester, “They ’ave all left me in sorrow fer t’ roam.”
She slips a hand beneath his
testicles, “
But while life does remain in memoriam I’ll
retain.”
With her other hand, she begins to
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stroke his limp organ, “This small violet I plucked from mother’s grave.”

Chapter 12

Charnel House

Pacing back and forth in front of the arched entrance to Hob’s Passage, Lestrade impatiently stares at his pocket watch, “Quarter to midnight. What’s taking him so long?”

Sergeant Stokes sighs tetchily, “Night duty, Inspector.”

Lestrade returns the watch to his waistcoat pocket, “I beg your pardon?”

Chandler interjects, “Doubt Constable Nott will find many men at the station, Inspector. Most will be out on the beat, hoping to catch the Ripper.”

Wearing his uniform, a perspiring Nott suddenly emerges from Brick Lane, accompanied by another constable.

Lestrade glances at Chandler, “Well, speak of the devil.”

Breathlessly indicating the other constable, Nott blurts, “He’s the only one, Inspector. Rest are out, searching the streets for Jack the Ripper.”

Delighted to hear that his assessment of the situation has been corroborated, Chandler smirks.

Lestrade rejoins, “That’s precisely why we’re here, lad.” He turns to Stokes, “You and the lad stay here. And if anyone should come out of that passage before we do, I don’t just want their name and address, I want you to sit on them.”

Stokes frowns incredulously, “Sit on them, Inspector?”

Lestrade nods, “Yes, sit on them. Use your truncheon, if need be.” He points to Nott, “And that goes for you, too, lad.”

Chandler baulks, “Then we’re going in?”

Lestrade gestures with his hand, beckoning Constable Lunt and the other three constables, “These four, you and me. Six of us.”

Chandler quips, “Hardly the six hundred, Inspector?”

Lestrade grins, “An educated police officer. I like that.
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Tennyson, right?”

Chandler smiles, “You’ve read the poem, then?”

Staring at the four constables lined up in front of him, Lestrade murmurs, “Who hasn’t?” He issues an order, “Stay together, unless I say otherwise. I don’t know what we will find in there, if anything. But I want us back here in one piece. No heroics, understood?” He gently pats Chandler on the arm, “You and me, first.”

Chandler complies, “Forward, the Light Brigade!”

Observing the four constables, led by Lestrade and Chandler, entering the passage and steadily disappearing from sight, Nott sidles up next to Stokes, “On my way back from the nick, I bumped into 219 Evans. He said the Commissioner’s
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chucked in the towel, resigned. Is it true, Sergeant?”

Stokes ruminates, “Daresay there’s truth in any rumour, lad.”

Nott motions to the entrance of the passage with his head, “Think Inspector Lestrade knows?”

Dryly, Stokes replies, “If it’s true and he doesn’t, he soon will.”

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An aristocratic authoritarian, Sir Charles Warren has stubbornly held to the belief that, as Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, he ought to have absolute control over the force. He also believes that the British police should be more like their continental counterparts, dictated less by politicians and not answerable to the press.

His contentious ideas contained in an article and published in this month’s edition of Murray’s Magazine so incensed the Home Secretary, Mr Henry Matthews, that he wrote a formal reprimand to Sir Charles, reminding him of an 1879 Home Office ruling which forbids serving police officers from writing to the press without due clearance from the Secretary of State. Considering his position above that of a mere police officer, Sir Charles had replied to Mr Matthews, stating that he had no prior knowledge of such a ruling and, if his office was to be censored in this manner, he had little, or no alternative, but to resign.

Holding Sir Charles responsible for the failure of the police to apprehend Jack the Ripper, Matthews had seized the opportunity and late yesterday afternoon accepted Sir Charles’ resignation with effect from today. Until his successor can be found, however, Warren is to reluctantly remain in office for the rest of this month.

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Except for the faint light emitted by the oil-lamp upon the table in front of him, the musty room is oppressively dark. Mipps groggily lifts his sore head and attempts to touch the back of it, only to find he is bound hand and foot to the chair on which he sits. At the rear of the room, a tall shadowy figure emerges from behind a drawn curtain, increases the glow of the oil-lamp, picks up a pair of boots from the table and drops them on the floor beside Mipps’ grubby sock covered feet.

Kosminski stares at him, “Took ’em off so yer wouldn’t be ’eard. Yer no
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yutz. Who are yer?”

Mipps replies, “Alfred Mipps, mate. Yer might say, I’m the other side o’ the coin.”

Kosminski frowns, “A coin ’as two sides. Who’s the other?”

Cheekily, Mipps grins, “Lookin’ at ’im, ain’t I?”

Kosminski snarls, “Talk sense...” He draws a finger across his own throat, “Or yer die.”

Mipps teases, “Kill me? Na, yer ain’t got the
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bottle, mate. Yer a murderer o’ whores, Aaron Kosminski, not o’ men.”

Hearing his name uttered, Kosminski glowers.

Mipps grins again, “Touched a nerve, ’aven’t I? Yer see, Bullen were a
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means t’ an end. It were yer I wanted t’ meet.”

Stooping, Kosminski breathes in his face, “Why?”

Mipps grimaces, “D’yer mind, mate?”

Perplexed, Kosminski straightens and steps back.

Mipps exhales heavily, “Can’t stand bad breath, yer see.”

Pensively, Kosminski strokes his beard, “An’ why should a Gentile want t’ meet a Jew?”

Mipps sighs tetchily, “Let’s drop the pretence, shall we? Yer no more a Jew than I am Arthur Wellesley.”

Lunging forward, Kosminski seizes Mipps by the throat, “’Nother riddle?”

Mipps splutters, “Duke o’ Wellington, weren’t ’e?”

Kosminski sneers, “Died thirty-six years ago, as yer will.”

Mipps smirks, “That’s a
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dead giveaway, mate. A genuine Jew wouldn’t care, or know, when the Duke died.”

Kosminski tightens his grip, “Yer clever. Who are yer?”

Mipps croaks, “Untie me an’ I’ll show yer.”

Kosminski growls, “Take me fer a fool, d’yer?”

Mipps coughs, “Na, mate. But from where I sit, anyfink’s worth a try, innit?”

Kosminski smiles malevolently, “Then let me ’elp yer.” Grabbing Mipps by the hair, he snatches a wig from his head, yanks a false beard from his chin and plucks a fake nose from his face. Tossing aside the theatrical pieces, Kosminski steps back and gazes upon a partially grease-painted aquiline face with sharp piercing eyes.

Discarding his Jewish dialect, Kosminski excitedly exclaims in a cultured voice, “Mr Sherlock Holmes, at last.”

Holmes politely tips his head, “Perhaps you will extend me the courtesy of removing your disguise as well.”

Kosminski replies curtly, “I think not, Mr Holmes. You are scarcely in a position to demand anything of me.”

Holmes glances at his bonds, “For once, I must agree with you. It would appear you have the advantage.”

Kosminski gloats, “A distinct advantage, Mr Holmes. I am the spider and you are the fly, ensnared in my web, so to speak.” Thoughtfully, he raises an
index finger
to his lips, “You mentioned a disguise, which, in all likelihood, denotes you have determined my other identity.”

Holmes interjects, “If you are to dispose of me, my knowledge of your other identity is irrelevant, Kosminski.”

Kosminski nods, “You are indeed correct, to a point. And yes, you are to be disposed of, but not by my hand. That privilege is to be reserved for the very establishment you support.”

Holmes ruminates, “Ah,
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malice aforethought. You mean to have me executed for murder?”

“The Whitechapel murders, to be exact.”

“You forget, Kosminski, I have alibis for the nights in question.”

“You do? For the precise times when the murders were actually committed? Tenuous alibis can easily be discredited, Mr Holmes.”

Holmes raises an enquiring eyebrow, “And how do you intend to achieve this madness? I can hardly be expected to assist you in my own demise.”

Silently returning to the table, Kosminski raises the hinged lid of a small oblong case, revealing a hypodermic syringe and needle, “Quite so, Mr Holmes.” Picking up the device, he holds it aloft, presses the plunger of the syringe and squirts a little liquid from the tip of the needle, “Of course, Dr Watson, incarcerated as he is, will be the beneficiary of my audacious scheme.”

Holmes grimaces, “To exonerate Watson would require another murder.”

Kosminski approaches him, holding the hypodermic syringe and needle in one hand, “Precisely, Mr Holmes.” He grips Holmes by the wrist, pushes up the sleeve of his jacket, exposing the inside of his forearm, “Later today, Mr Holmes...” He injects him, “The entire police force of London will learn the identity of Jack the Ripper.”

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Hearing approaching footsteps emanating from the passage, Constable Nott fumbles for his truncheon. Placing a calming hand on Nott’s shoulder, Sergeant Stokes murmurs, “Hobnail boots, lad. They’re ours.”

Seeing a solemn Lestrade, followed by Chandler, Lunt and the other three constables slowly stepping out of the passage into the street, Stokes quietly asks, “Find anything, Inspector?”

Lestrade glumly reveals a peaked cloth cap, “Apart from this, nothing. Mipps went in there, all right. It’s a bloody rabbit warren. Dark and all. Can’t see your hand in front of your face.”

Staring at the cap, Nott interjects, “What about the journalist, Inspector? We could pull him in. Find out what happened.”

Lestrade sighs wearily, “We could, but we’re not going to.”

Chandler adds, “Alert him now, lad, and Mipps could wind up dead.”

Nott counters, “That might be the situation already.”

Lestrade winces, “We don’t know for sure.” He turns to Chandler and Stokes, “You were both right. We need a lot of men, and daylight, on our side.”

Stokes stomps his feet and blows into cupped hands, “Daresay the men could use a mug of tea, Inspector?”

Lestrade muses, “Back at the station?”

Stokes nods.

Lestrade responds, “In that case, I’m coming with you.”

Chandler frowns, “A nap wouldn’t hurt, Inspector.”

Lestrade shakes his head, No rest for the wicked, I’m afraid. Dr Watson has a right to know what’s going on.”

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Bleary-eyed, Watson heaves aside the blankets of his cell bed, “Good Lord, Lestrade! Do you know what time it is?”

Lestrade glances at Sergeant Kirby, standing beside him, “Nigh on half past one, Dr Watson.”

Without his clip-on shirt collar and tie, Watson drowsily rises from the bed and sits on its edge, “In the morning, I might add.”

Tickled by the remark, Kirby grins, “I’ll get you a cuppa, sir.”

Lestrade interjects, “Make that two, Sergeant.”

Touching the brim of his helmet, Kirby strides from the cell.

Watson stifles a yawn, “Now, Lestrade, perhaps you can tell me what all the fuss is about.”

Lestrade removes his hat, “It would appear Mr Holmes is lost.”

Watson stares at him sternly, “You woke me up to tell me that?”

Taken aback by his brusque manner, Lestrade stammers, “Well, his disappearance does warrant some concern, Dr Watson.”

Watson smiles mischievously, “Lost Holmes, have you?”

Perplexed by his expression, Lestrade nods.

Watson guffaws, “One does not lose Holmes, Lestrade. On the contrary, he is apt to lose you. From the look on your face, you think Holmes has been abducted, as I was.”

Lestrade fingers the brim of his hat, “Something like that, yes.”

Watson clips on his detachable collar and then begins to knot his tie, “Despite his dispassionate detection methods, Holmes is a magnanimous individual, Lestrade. He will never risk the life of another before his own.” He stands, buttoning his waistcoat, “When necessary, he will not shrink from harm’s way, especially if he is obliged to confront a deadly criminal, face to face.” He reaches for his jacket, “If Holmes has indeed offered himself up as a hapless victim, you can be sure he has done so in order to mislead his adversary into believing the scoundrel has the upper hand.”

Lestrade sighs earnestly, “Mr Holmes says he knows the identity of Jack the Ripper, whose name he has withheld from me. If Mr Holmes goes and gets himself murdered, the Ripper will never be caught, because we won’t have the foggiest idea who we should be looking for.”