Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul (38 page)

Feigning gratitude, Lestrade replies, “Thank you, Mr McCarthy. Now please stand aside.” Pushing open the door, which strikes one side of the bedside table within the room, he beckons Martin, “If you would be so good, Mr Martin?”

Holding his wooden tripod in one hand and his mahogany box in the other, Martin hurriedly steps into the room, stares at the corpse and hesitates. Close behind him, Lestrade scuffs the heel of his boot against the edge of a slightly raised floorboard, “As quick as you can, Mr Martin.”

Spreading the legs of the tripod, Martin removes a
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Fallowfield glass-plate camera from the box and mounts it upon the device. Ducking his head beneath the black photographer’s hood, he begins to slide the bellows of the camera back and forth, focusing on the body upon the bed.

Kneeling before the mantelpiece, Lestrade stares at the ashes in the grate. Chandler pokes his head around the open door, “Shall I bring our medical friends in, Inspector?”

Lestrade shakes his head, “Not until Mr Martin has finished.” He stands slowly, “I want a list of everything you find in the room.” He indicates the ashes, “Put these through a sieve. And another thing, be careful. There are a couple of loose floorboards in here.”

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At about two o’clock, Dr Bagster Phillips and Dr Thomas Bond enter the room and begin their examination of the mortal remains of Mary Kelly. Due to the ghastly mutilations inflicted upon her body, neither doctor can determine asphyxiation as the primary cause of death. After concluding their grisly task, they inform Lestrade that an organ, her heart, is missing and, in their opinion, Mary had been slain somewhere between 2 a.m. and 5 a.m. that morning.

Two statements, however, one obtained by Inspector Beck from Sarah Lewis and the other obtained by Detective Dew from Elizabeth Prater, will ultimately establish the time of death more accurately.

Just before 3 a.m., Sarah Lewis had dozed off in the armchair in her parents’ room, overlooking the outer yard beside Mary’s room. Some fifty-five minutes later, she had been awakened by a stifled cry of “Murder!” which she thought had originated from close by, possibly from number 13.

At approximately the same time, Elizabeth Prater, roused from a drink-induced sleep by her pet kitten ‘Diddles’ clambering over her throat, had heard the faint cry of “Oh, murder!” coming from the room of number 13, directly beneath her own room.

After judging the statements of both witnesses to be reliable, the police will rapidly reach the conclusion that, in all probability, Mary Kelly had been murdered in her room shortly before 4 a.m.

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Though the police had earlier cordoned off both ends of Dorset Street, this had not prevented people who dwell within the street from
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sallying forth from their lodgings to besiege the entrance of Miller’s Court with an intense curiosity. Amongst the murmuring crowd, Bullen, anticipating the arrest of Holmes, has also observed the plethora of police officials who have hurried to and from the court all afternoon.

It is now approaching four o’clock and, in less than an hour, the autumn darkness will descend to chill the residents of the district yet again. Drawn by a pony, a two-wheeled cart halts outside the court. Its driver, accompanied by a mortuary attendant, quickly gets down from the vehicle and removes a soiled, scratched coffin from the rear of the cart. The hushed crowd, having been pushed to the opposite side of the street by a line of police constables, watches as the coffin is manhandled into the court.

Ten minutes later, the coffin, followed by two police constables, each carrying a cloth-covered enamelled bucket filled with body parts, is brought from the court. Containing the mutilated corpse of Mary Kelly, mercifully concealed from public gaze, the coffin is returned to the cart. Taking the buckets from the two constables, the mortuary attendant puts them down beside the coffin, covers the whole lot with a grubby tarpaulin sheet and resumes his seated position next to the driver.

Accompanied by Chandler, Lestrade emerges from the court and watches the cart trundling away, “What a way to go to your grave. Without a heart.”

Noticing Bullen peering over the heads of the crowd staring at the receding cart, Chandler gently nudges Lestrade on the arm, “Inspector...”

Lestrade interjects, “I see him, too.”

Chandler grumbles, “When do we get to collar him?”

Lestrade sighs wearily, “Not until Mr Holmes is found.”

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Aware that the activities of the police have ceased within the room and that it has been temporarily vacated, Holmes, lying in the space beneath the floor, quietly eases aside the loosened floorboards which have masked his presence from view. Promptly standing, he steps out of the space onto the surface of the floor, crouches and slides both floorboards back to their original position.

Stepping across to the door, which is ajar, he peers cautiously out into the silent court, observing that everyone is congregated at the end of the passageway in Dorset Street. Quickly slipping out through the door, he hurries to the wall opposite, where McCarthy had previously stood clutching his pickaxe. Casually standing in the corner next to the passageway, he nonchalantly folds his arms and waits.

Returning to the court with three police constables, two carrying planks of wood, the third a toolbox, Lestrade barks, “I want both windows boarded up and the door padlocked.” He ushers the men past him, “Come on, come on. It will be dark soon.”

“Indeed, it will.”

Lestrade turns on his heel and stares at Holmes in amazement, “Good Lord!” He catches his breath, “Dr Watson was right. You do have a habit of popping up when least expected.”

Holmes raises an inquisitive eyebrow, “And how is Dr Watson?”

Lestrade chuckles, “Eager to return to 221b, no doubt.” He looks at Holmes’ sock covered feet, “What happened to your...?”

“My boots? I was relieved of them.”

Lestrade chuckles again, “You know what they say about this Ripper bloke, Mr Holmes? You don’t hear him come, you don’t hear him go, because he don’t wear boots.”

Holmes sighs, “Melodramatic nonsense, Lestrade. And hardly relevant to this case.” He buttons his jacket, “After I was waylaid in Hob’s Passage, did you pursue Bullen?”

Lestrade shakes his head, “Wanted to, but thought better of it. Didn’t want to endanger your life.”

Holmes tips his head appreciatively, “Thank you, Lestrade.”

Lestrade laments, “I am the last person in the world you should thank, Mr Holmes. If, in the first place, I had ignored your advice and then insisted on arresting your suspect, chances are Mary Kelly would still be alive. Her death is as much my fault as yours.”

Impressed by his forthrightness, Holmes inhales deeply, “If I have erred, Lestrade, then I am in honest company.”

Lestrade shakes his head despairingly, “Shant forget what I saw today if I live to be a hundred.” He stares at Holmes, “It was the way she was murdered. If you can call it that.”

Holmes counters empathetically, “All the more reason to catch her killer, wouldn’t you say?”

Lestrade composes himself, “Bullen is out in the street, watching this place, I believe.”

Holmes smiles mischievously, “Then we must present him with what he expects to see.” He extends his hands, “Kindly arrest me, Lestrade.”

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Handcuffed, and with the soiled blanket taken from Mary’s room draped over his head and shoulders, the tall figure of a man, led by Lestrade and shielded by the three police constables, emerges from the court. On the opposite side of the street and held at bay by the line of police constables, the crowd, including Bullen, strain their necks to get a clearer view of the figure.

Lestrade beckons Chandler, standing beside the rear door of a four-wheeled vehicle known as a ‘Black Maria’, which is used to transport prisoners, “Bishopsgate Street Police Station, at the double.”

Chandler hesitates, “That’s the City of London. Not our patch, Inspector.”

Lestrade motions to the crowd with his head, “I know, but we need to throw that lot off the track, especially Bullen.”

Chandler quickly opens the rear door of the vehicle, “Let them think we’ve taken him to the nick in Commercial Street, right?”

Lestrade shoves the blanketed, handcuffed man into the Black Maria, “Something like that, yes.” He turns to Nott, standing nearby, “Come with me, lad, and listen to what I have to say.”

Obeying the order, Nott leaps into the back of the vehicle.

Upon seeing Lestrade get into the Black Maria after Nott, a toothless, ragged woman, standing beside Bullen in the crowd, nudges him on the arm excitedly, “The Ripper, luv. They’ve nabbed the bleedin’ Ripper.”

Contentedly removing his hat, Bullen dabs his forehead with his handkerchief, “Certainly seems that way, doesn’t it?”

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With her shawl pulled tightly about her head and lurking outside the Queen’s Head tavern, where Mary had met Kosminski earlier that morning, Eliza Cooper sees the Black Maria rapidly emerge from Dorset Street. Expecting the vehicle to turn left towards Commercial Street Police Station, she is surprised to see it turn right, then right again, entering White’s Row, directly opposite her.

Hurriedly leaving the tavern, Eliza scurries across the road, enters White’s Row and spots the Black Maria at the far end of the street, traversing a junction and entering Raven Row. She halts abruptly, catching her breath, “Ain’t no need t’ rush, gel. Nearest nick down there is in Bishopsgate.”

Darkness begins to descend as the pair of horses, coupled to the Black Maria, gallop into Widegate Street, which is, essentially, a continuation of Raven Row. Passing innocuous terraced houses on either side, the vehicle rattles and lurches over the cobblestone surface of the street. Reaching the junction of Bishopsgate Street Without, the Black Maria pauses, turns left and, within a minute or so, halts outside the entrance of Bishopsgate Street Police Station.

Clambering down from the passenger seat beside the driver, Chandler darts to the rear of the vehicle, opens its door and peers inside, “Here we are, Inspector. Safe and sound.”

Ashen-faced and holding his bowler hat to his chest, Lestrade steps out of the vehicle unsteadily, “Oh, really? I had no idea how uncomfortable these things were.”

Nott follows, clutching his stomach with both hands, “Thought I was going to
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throw up.”

Smoothing his ruffled hair with one hand, Lestrade puts on his hat with the other, “Right, lad. You know what to do. Get to it.”

Nott nods, turns away and strolls off along the kerb towards Half Moon Alley, which leads to the back of the police station.

Holding the blanketed, handcuffed man by his arms, Lestrade and Chandler noisily barge through the doors of the police station, startling Sergeant Byfield who, seated behind his desk, leaps out of his chair, “What the dickens...”

Without as much as a blink of an eye, Lestrade and Chandler haul the man past him.

Flabbergasted, Byfield steps out from behind his desk, “Where do you think you’re going? Who are you?”

Lestrade glances over his shoulder at him, “Inspector Lestrade. Scotland Yard. Come with me.”

Reluctantly obeying the order, Byfield indicates the blanketed, handcuffed man, “Who is he, then?”

Lestrade halts at the top of the stone steps leading to the cells below, “Some would have us believe he’s Jack the Ripper.”

Byfield blanches, “Miller’s Court? He’s the one?”

Chandler fibs, “Caught him red-handed, didn’t we?”

Lestrade adds, “If a
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nosy parker should ask you, a man was brought in here tonight, suspected of being the Ripper. Get my point?” He motions to the steps with his head, “Lead the way.”

Hurriedly descending the steps in front of the three men, Byfield enters the corridor lined with open cell doors and snaps his fingers at Hutt, seated on a stool, “Smarten up, George. Visitors!”

Hutt quickly stands, straightens his tunic, comes to attention and sees Lestrade, Chandler and the blanketed, handcuffed man step into the corridor.

Byfield looks at Lestrade, “Any particular cell, Inspector? They’re all free.” He glances at Hutt, “Right, George?”

Hutt nods in agreement, “None occupied.”

Lestrade counters sternly, “Unlock the back door.”

Taken aback, Byfield stammers, “I beg your pardon?”

Chandler interjects, “You heard the Inspector, Sergeant. Unlock the back door.”

Tetchily, Byfield enquires, “I suppose it’s too much to ask what’s going on, Inspector?”

Lestrade snaps, “Yes, it is. Now unlock the door.”