Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul (45 page)

Lestrade slowly leans back in his chair, “How could you have mistaken the Ten Bells for the Queen’s Head when you know every tavern along Commercial Street, Georgie?”

Again, Hutchinson shrugs his shoulders indifferently.

“If you were standing outside the Ten Bells, which I believe you were, then Mary Kelly and her companion could not have walked past you. Why? Because their destination, Dorset Street, is well before the Ten Bells. In order for your
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cock and bull story to
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ring true, you had to be much closer to the man to describe him. So, in your statement, you placed yourself outside the Queen’s Head.”

Impressed by the rationale, Chandler humorously remarks, “You sound like Mr Holmes, Inspector.”

Lestrade mutters, “I think not. He’s far cleverer than me.” Turning to the statement once more, he remarks sarcastically, “Now it gets even better.”

                     They both went into Dorset

                     Street I followed them. They both

                     stood at the corner of the court for

                     about 3 minutes. He said something

                     to her. she said alright my dear

                     come along you will be comfortable.

                     He then placed his arm on her shoulder

                     and gave her a kiss. She said she had

                     lost her handkerchief. he then pulled

                     his handkerchief a red one out and

                     gave it to her.

S
haking his head in disbelief, Lestrade turns to Hutchinson, “All right, Georgie, why did you follow them?”

Hutchinson fingers the brim of his hat on the table, “The geezer were dressed posh, like. An’ the small parcel ’e carried. Who’s t’ say ’e didn’t ’ave a
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blade in it.”

Lestrade strokes his moustache pensively, “Mary Kelly? Was she sober?”

Hutchinson imparts, “Na, a bit spreeish.”

“She was drunk?”

“Cheery, but not drunk.”

Lestrade leans back in his chair again, “The weather, Georgie? What was it like?”

Hutchinson simulates a shiver, “Bleedin’ cold, wet.”

“It was raining?”

“Cats an’ dogs”

Lestrade glowers at Hutchinson, “And you expect me to believe that Mary Kelly, seconds away from the relative warmth of her own room, opts to remain in the freezing rain for another three minutes, chatting to her companion, who is also oblivious of the rain. Then he presents her with a red handkerchief. Come on, Georgie, pull the other leg, it’s got bells on it.”

Timidly, Hutchinson lowers his head.

Lestrade returns to the statement yet again.

                    
They both then went up

                     the Court together. I then went to the

                     court to see if I could see them but

                     could not. I stood there for about

                     three quarters of an hour to see if they

                     came out they did not so I went away.

Lestrade turns to Hutchinson, “Forty-five minutes! What were you hoping to see, Georgie?”

Chandler jibes, “The bloke leave so he could crawl into Kelly’s bed for nought.”

Hutchinson goes red in the face.

Chandler glares at Hutchinson, “Your lodgings were closed. You had no money. What other explanation is there?”

Lestrade nods to himself, “A fair assumption.” He looks at the statement for the final time.

                    Description age about 34 or 35.

                    height 5ft6 Complexion pale, dark eyes

                    and eye lashes
dark
slight moustache,

                    curled up each end, and hair dark,

                    very surley looking dress long dark coat,

                    collar and cuffs trimmed astracan,

                    and a dark jacket under.

                    light waistcoat, dark trousers dark felt

                    hat turned down in the middle

                   button boots and gaiters with white

                   buttons. wore a very thick gold chain

                   white linen collar. black tie with horse

                   shoe pin. respectable appearance

                   walked very sharp. Jewish appearance.

                   Can be identified.

Lestrade murmurs to Hutchinson, “Didn’t get the size of his hat, by any chance?”

Twiddling his fingers, Hutchinson shakes his head.

Lestrade sighs wearily, “How could you have seen the colour of his eyes, let alone his eyelashes? And why, on such a foul, freezing night, did he have his overcoat completely unbuttoned and wide open so you could see his watch chain?”

Chandler scoffs at Hutchinson, “The only thing missing from your description is a big sign above the man’s head saying, ‘rob me’.”

Lestrade points an admonishing finger at Hutchinson, “You have sorely tested my patience. Think yourself fortunate that I’m not going to charge you with perverting the course of justice. If I were you, Georgie boy, I’d leave Whitechapel and hightail it back to Romford. Because if I ever see you around here again, I’ll have you shipped out to the penal colony at
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Botany Bay quicker than you can say
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Robinson Crusoe.” He indicates the door with his thumb, “Now hop it, before I change my mind.”

Slowly standing, Hutchinson picks up his hat, “I see ’er an’ the Ripper t’gether. ’Onest, Inspector.”

Lestrade replies tersely, “I think you did, Georgie boy. But not the way you described it.”

Chapter 16

Retribution

Typical of the English autumn weather, the persistent rain of the past few days has finally abated, giving way to a bitterly cold day, accompanied by a cheerless leaden sky. It is five weeks before Christmas and in Whitechapel the mood of the populace is one of deferential reverence, not for an infant boy who had once been wrapped in swaddling clothes and placed in a manger, but for the disfigured woman who now lies within a polished elm coffin.

The bell of St Leonard's Church in Shoreditch tolls noon. Borne on the shoulders of four solemn men, the coffin, its brass plate inscribed with the words ‘Marie Jeanette Kelly, died 9
th
Nov. 1888, aged 25 years’, is conveyed from the church to the four-wheeled
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Marston hearse waiting outside the main gates.

Impoverished women, constituting a great proportion of the crowd which now besieges the church, surge forward, jostling with one and other to touch the coffin as it is slid into the hearse. Men doff their caps, whilst more women, weeping openly, wail, “Lor’ fergive ’er. She were one o’ us.”

Drawn by a pair of plumed
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Friesian horses, the hearse, followed by two mourning coaches, pulls away from the crowd and, at a slow pace, starts its journey down Shoreditch High Street towards Commercial Street and Spitalfields. Stirred by the death of this one unfortunate, the inhabitants of the neighbourhood, usually at each other’s throats in a constant struggle for survival, stand united on this occasion, silently paying their last respects to a woman who is thought by many to symbolize their own flesh and blood.

Seated beside Holmes in the first coach directly behind the hearse, Watson gazes through the left hand window of the vehicle at the multitude of people lining the street, “I have never known such sorrow, Holmes. It is as if Her Majesty had just died.”

With his chin resting on both his hands, which in turn rest on the handle of his upright walking cane, Holmes remarks pensively, “Given the opportunity, would Her Majesty reciprocate and weep for Mary Kelly as her subjects would for her? I think not, Watson.”

Watson slowly turns from the window, “The privilege of kings and queens, Holmes.”

Holmes leans back in the coach seat, “Bestowed upon royalty from birth, but not by the people, Watson. A privilege that should be used wisely, not flouted.”

Watson ponders for a moment and then murmurs, “Ah, yes, of course. Albert Edward. The Prince of Wales and heir apparent.”

Holmes nods, “Married to Princess Alexandra, who has dutifully borne him six children, the prince should cease his indiscretions with other women forthwith. Frequent visits to the Folies Bergère, which is nothing more than a Parisian bordello, hardly prepares him for his future role as our monarch, Watson.”

Watson assents, “I am apt to agree with you, Holmes. The man’s a scoundrel.”

Holmes nods again, “An imperial degenerate who, given half the chance, would not think twice about ravaging an unfortunate such as Mary Kelly.”

Watson motions to the coach window with his head, “Aaron Kosminski, Holmes? How does one recognize him?”

Holmes replies mischievously, “Quite easy, my dear fellow.”

Watson frowns, “Oh, really, Holmes?”

Holmes indicates the coach window with the tip of his cane, “Look for the man who displays no grief.”

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The funeral cortège, maintaining its slow pace, enters the top end of Commercial Street, gradually passing Commercial Street Police Station on the right. As far as the eye can see, a vast sea of humanity, densely packed, stretches from the Ten Bells tavern and Spitalfields Market, along each side of the thoroughfare down to Whitechapel High Street.

Gazing at the steeple of Spitalfields Church, Watson murmurs, “Hawksmoor.”

Holmes turns away from the right hand window of the vehicle, “I beg your pardon, Watson?”

Watson elaborates, “Nicholas Hawksmoor, Holmes. Born in East Drayton, Nottinghamshire. He designed Christ Church, Spitalfields, along with five other churches. A protégé of Sir Christopher Wren, I would have you know.”

Holmes responds impatiently, “My dear fellow, we are not here to admire the architectural splendours of Hawksmoor.”

Watson begins to protest, “But, surely, Holmes...”

Holmes interjects, “Please, Watson. We have but one chance to catch Jack the Ripper today. Should we falter in our task, should we fail to do so, we may lose him forever.”

Watson assents, turning his attention to the coach window.

Holmes gently taps him on the knee with the tip of his cane, “Hawksmoor’s greatest design was the one used to construct the two towers that form the western front of
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Westminster Abbey. Built entirely of
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Portland stone, I might add.”

Looking through the window at the huge number of mourners, Watson complains, “Please, Holmes, I am trying to concentrate.”

Smiling to himself, Holmes turns to his side of the coach and, staring through the window, sees the Britannia tavern on the corner of Dorset Street glide past.

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As the mourning coach nears the corner of Commercial Street and Wentworth Street, Watson catches sight of a man standing on a stationary two-wheeled cart coupled to a pony, outside the Princess Alice tavern. Even though the man is situated behind an endless mass of people spread out in front of him, he nonetheless has a marked advantage, whereupon he overlooks all of them, giving him an unobstructed view of the funeral cortège. Needless to say, his conspicuous stance has provided Watson with a clear view of him also.

Daring not to breathe, Watson quietly utters, “He stands aloof and wears a felt hat. Has a full beard, but displays neither grief nor gratification.”

Quickly reacting to the description, Holmes moves from his side of the coach and peers over Watson’s shoulder. Upon seeing the man, he imparts earnestly, “Aaron Kosminski. As I inferred correctly, Watson, he could not resist the temptation to gloat at her funeral.” He thumps the roof of the vehicle with the handle of his cane. The coachman, understanding the significance of the sound, promptly reins the coach horses to a halt.

Throwing open the coach door, Holmes advises Watson, “If you are obliged to do so, use your revolver to defend yourself.” Calmly, he steps out of the coach, facing both the mass of people, six to seven deep, and Kosminski, to the rear of them.

For a few seconds, time, as we know it, seems to stand still for Kosminski. Transfixed, he observes Watson, drawing his revolver as he gets out of the coach and stands next to Holmes. Gazing at the second mourning coach, which has also been halted, he sees Lestrade, Chandler and two other detectives rapidly alight from the vehicle, rushing forward to support Holmes and Watson.

Hurriedly indicating the moving hearse to Chandler and the two detectives, Lestrade barks, “Stop that bloody hearse. Can’t have it roaming through Whitechapel by itself.” Confronted by the mass of astounded people gawking at him, he looks at Holmes, “Who’s our man, Mr Holmes?”

With his cane, Holmes points to a motionless Kosminski.

Lestrade stares at Kosminski and then motions to the mass of speechless people with his head, “Have to disperse this lot before we can get to him, that’s for sure.” He quickly turns to Watson, “A shot over their heads might do the trick, Dr Watson.”

Holmes raises a disapproving eyebrow, “I hardly think that is a good idea, Lestrade. They could well stampede. Towards us.”

♦
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As if prompted by the cautionary advice of Holmes, Kosminski drops to the seat of his cart, grabs the reins of the pony and, furiously lashing the animal with a driving whip, begins to force his way through the crowd.

Driven forward by the weight of the people from behind, the first two rows of the crowd attempt to resist being herded towards Holmes, Watson and Lestrade, but to no avail. Unable to retain her ground, a frail woman, swept along by the surging people, slams into Watson who, toppling backwards, inadvertently fires a bullet from his revolver into the air.

Pandemonium ensues.

Alarmed by the sharp crack of the shot, people scatter in all directions, knocking Lestrade to the ground and giving Kosminski the space he requires to turn his pony and cart into Commercial Street. Pushing his way through fleeing people, Holmes depresses a spring latch on the handle of his cane, extending six inches of cold steel from its tip. Tossing the weapon in the air, and then catching it as if it were a spear, Holmes hurls the cane at Kosminski, whilst the Jew manoeuvres his vehicle away from him in the direction of Whitechapel High Street.

Throwing back his head in pain, Kosminski shrieks. Pulling on the reins of the pony, he halts the cart. Clutching the upper part of his right leg, he glares at the blade of the quivering cane embedded in his thigh. Ignoring Kosminski for a moment, Holmes hurries to assist Watson, sprawled upon the ground, “My dear fellow…”

Watson waves him away, “Go, Holmes. Get the blighter.” He indicates the frail woman lying beside him, gasping for air, “This poor woman requires my assistance more than you do.”

Holmes concurs, “Quite so, Watson.”

Gripping the cane just above the blade protruding from his thigh, Kosminski snaps it off and flings the piece aside. Frantically, he whips the pony into a gallop.

Leaving Watson, Holmes sprints forward and throws himself onto the back of the cart. Standing precariously behind Kosminski, but maintaining a certain degree of balance, Holmes lunges at him, grabbing a handful of his hair. Lurching backwards and ripping away what he believes to be tufts of hair, he drops to the cart floor, holding a false wig attached to a limp facial mask. Standing again and perilously swaying from side to side as the cart careens the corner into Whitechapel High Street, Holmes is thrown from the listing vehicle.

♦
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Slammed against bales of cotton stacked high on a stationary wagon, Holmes, although winded, falls to the ground unharmed. Pausing to catch his breath, he spots an unattended motionless pony and cart on the other side of the street. Darting towards the vehicle, he crosses the path of two plodding horses, hauling a dray wagon laden with casks of ale.

Startled by his sudden appearance, the horses shy away from him, jolting the wagon and dislodging a cask, which bounces off the back of the vehicle onto the surface of the street. Striking the edge of the kerb and jettisoning its bung, the cask sprays dark ale, drenching several unsuspecting passers-by.

A simple-minded woman, already drunk, gleefully drops to her knees and, scooping up the ale flowing in the gutter with her cupped hands, slurps the frothy liquid greedily. Leaping onto the cart and seizing the reins of the pony, Holmes spurs the animal into a gallop, paying no attention to the three crates of cabbages that tumble from the rear of the vehicle as he races off after Kosminski.

Unable to stem the blood flowing from the wound with his hand because of the blade jutting from his thigh, Kosminski is aware that, unless he can apply a tourniquet to his leg, he will gradually lose consciousness through loss of blood. Wildly striking the pony with his whip, he urges the animal on.

Having inflicted a severe injury on his adversary, Holmes knows only too well that the advantage lies with him. Tightly gripping the reins of his pony, he stands up on the cart, catching sight of Kosminski up ahead, frenziedly weaving in and out of the heavy traffic. Dropping back down onto his seat, Holmes promptly flicks the reins of the pony and, similar to Kosminski, urges the animal on.

♦
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Before reaching the Aldgate Pump, an historical object that marks the boundary where the City of London begins, Kosminski turns left into Mansell Street and is immediately confronted by a horse-drawn omnibus crossing his path. To avoid colliding with the large vehicle, he mounts the pavement at the rear of the omnibus, scattering startled pedestrians who, dropping bought items, throw themselves back into shops or out onto the street to escape being struck down by the offending pony and cart. Having narrowly forestalled an accident with the omnibus, Kosminski bounces off the pavement, back onto the street, and continues towards Royal Mint Street.

Entering Mansell Street, Holmes is forced to swerve around livid people picking themselves up in the street. Awkwardly assisted to her feet by a costermonger, a heavily-built middle-aged woman snatches her crushed feathered bonnet from the ground, “Look at this, will yer? ’E tore through ’ere like a bloody lunatic. If I ever git me ’ands on ’im,
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I’ll ’ave ’is guts fer garters.”