Jack The Ripper: Newly Discovered Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (6 page)

CHAPTER TWELVE

Plan in Review

“Mr. Hamilton,” Holmes said to the man in the suit, inclining his head slightly to acknowledge the presence of his friend.

“Hello Detective,” Donald Hamilton said to him.

“I am not used to seeing you dressed in everyday attire. What brought you here today?”

“Well, I was not working today and I heard of the new murder. I wanted to see where it took place. I guess I am playing amateur detective in trying to solve these cases. I see the dead, but rarely the site of the killings,” Hamilton told them.

“Have you noticed anything suspicious?” Holmes asked.

“No, not really. I have seen several men standing around, but most of them are probably old clients, friends, or merely spectators drawn by the tragedy.”

“Well, if you see anything out of the ordinary, please let me know. You know where I am most hours of the day,” Holmes said. “Both Dr. Watson and I have burned more than our share of midnight oil in the past few weeks.”

“He could be a big help to you,” Dr. Watson told his friend as they left the boarding house. “Do you trust him?”

“As much as I trust anyone right now, my friend—which is to say, ‘no.’ But that does not mean he cannot be my ears inside the coroner’s office.”

“You are a master of getting information out of people without them fully realizing they are giving it,” said Dr. Watson. “It’s a skill I have always admired.”

The men took Dr. Watson’s carriage to their favorite pub in the heart of London. They ordered a good lunch and talked about the case. There was a staggering amount of information to review and more witnesses to interrogate. Holmes still needed to review the list of suspects, and the witness’ contradicting statements about the possible perpetrator’s appearance were frustrating. Most of the witnesses had said he was short with a mustache, but some said he was well-dressed, and others said he was not. Some reported he had been carrying a bag or other object, and some said he had not been carrying anything. Even worse, Holmes knew that the descriptions could be completely useless—the man (or men) described might have been clients, rather than the killer.

Holmes decided for the time being to focus on the coroner’s report on the latest victim. Mary Jane was the first to have been killed inside a dwelling. That made it unique. She was lying on the bed, her head turned to the left, as were all the others. Her left arm was across her stomach, with the right arm outstretched to the right across the mattress. Her legs were spread apart with knees bent. The entirety of her insides had been scooped out, her breasts had been cut off, and she had many jagged incisions on her body from a knife. Her organs were laying around her body…her liver between her feet, a breast under her arm…it was all arranged to create a horrific scene. The killer had really done a job on this poor woman.

Her face had been mutilated, made unrecognizable. Her neck, hands, and legs were covered in gashes. Almost every inch of her body was grotesquely mutilated as if she were a piece of meat. She had almost been skinned. It must have taken hours. Her last meal had been fish and potatoes and was partially digested. The carotid artery had been sliced while she lay on her side, and it was this cut that had caused her death, also leaving a large puddle of blood.

“I have an idea, Watson.”

“What might that be?”

“I would like to see if a friend of one of the victims might help us set up the murderer. I don’t want anyone from the police to know about it, because we do not know if any of them are involved in the murders,” Holmes said. “I hate to say that, but it is the truth. The murderer could be anybody.”

“I dare say.”

“I want to get a woman to walk the streets near where the victims were found and see if we can attract him. Of course, I will be counting on you to help me keep her safe.”

“Of course. So we will be using someone as a lure?”

“Yes, though I shudder to call a human being that.”

“Who will it be?”

“I have in mind a woman named Julie, a good friend of Mary Ann Nichols. She has been in touch with me several times and wants to help. I’m sure she will be willing to do what is asked of her.”

“How soon will we set this plan into action?”

“Well, I will require a few more days to go over the information we have so far. I will call upon Julie to propose this idea—do you have the afternoon free to come along?”

“I am always at your service,” said Dr. Watson.

The two men paid their bill and returned to the dark, winding streets of Whitechapel to find Julie. She lived in a shabby lodging house, and Holmes and Dr. Watson waited patiently in the parlor for the landlady to fetch her. They both rose to greet her.

“I hope we have not inconvenienced you by arriving unannounced,” said Holmes. “But you see, I’ve had an idea—and I immediately thought of you as the one person who can help us.”

“If your idea will result in the capture of the Ripper, I am completely at your disposal,” answered Julie. “I’ve cried every night over Polly—I barely sleep thinking of what happened to her. I want her murder avenged, and I don’t want any other innocent women to face that knife.”

Holmes smiled in relief. “I was hoping you would say that, my dear. Here’s what we had in mind…”

CHAPTER Thirteen

Gripped in Fear

Several men came into Scotland Yard claiming to be Jack the Ripper—most were drunk when they confessed to the crimes, and the police immediately dismissed them. Rumors flew around the city, growing more outlandish every day. Everyone suspected everyone—family turned against family, friend against friend, neighbor against neighbor. As the panic gripping London increased, Holmes found himself with a growing number of stories and alibis to go through—no matter how unlikely, every accusation had to be studied.

Yet Holmes suffered through many of the confessions and reports with irritated disbelief—he was quite aware that such a situation brought out the strangest members of society, but still—they were idling away time that could be better spent on any number of tasks.

Joseph Barnett, Mary Jane’s occasional live-in lover, immediately became a suspect. Though he was not residing with Mary at the time, Holmes knew from Julia that their relationship had continued—and it was a union filled with conflict. Joseph was not only livid that Mary Jane sold her body to make a living, but they also fought constantly about Mary Jane’s soft heart when it came to her friends; she would let almost anyone stay with her when they had no place else to go for the night.

“But if Barnett was angry with Mary, so angry that he would commit murder, why would he not just kill Mary?” asked Dr. Watson. “Why would he kill the other women first? I must say I don’t see any motivation there.”

“He may have committed those murders to scare Mary off the streets,” Holmes answered. “Thwarted passion can drive a man to commit heinous acts—especially if he is already unbalanced. And his vivisection of the bodies certainly aligns with the rage he feels toward the occupation of prostitution in general. But—”

Dr. Watson finished the sentence. “He has no medical training that we know of; and the murderer must have some knowledge of human anatomy.”

There were other suspects, of course, based on the profile Holmes had drafted—but additional problems arose based on the contradicting descriptions of the murderer. The accounts of his appearance varied substantially, and as Holmes told himself again and again, many of the men described could merely have been soliciting services with nothing so vile as murder in mind.

The only thing to do, Holmes had definitively decided, was to lure the murderer out with a vulnerable woman—and catch him before she became the next victim. They would need help, though, if they were to catch Jack—they must convince Grant to go along with their plan. Other than Holmes, he was the sharpest detective in the city.

Holmes called a meeting that afternoon. “We have something to discuss with you,” Holmes told Grant. “We have devised a plan and need your help.”

“Well certainly. You know you have free rein concerning the Ripper case—anything you need that I can provide will be at your fingertips. I know that sometimes you are rather—ahem—unorthodox in solving cases, and I assure you I am open to anything to catch the beast stalking our city.”

Holmes explained the gist of the plan and sat back to await Grant’s response.

“But where will we find a woman willing to help us carry out this plan—one who is willing to risk her own life?”

“We have already found such a woman,” Holmes said solemnly. “And she understands the ramifications of what she has agreed to do. We can schedule a meeting to continue our planning at my residence on Baker Street. If the murderer is an officer or detective who walks among us now, we do not want him learning of our plot and ruining it.”

“We can keep this outside of Scotland Yard,” agreed Grant. “However, I will ask that I bring in two policemen who I trust to help us. We cannot carry out your idea without proper protection, both for ourselves and for the young woman. I promise they will satisfy your expectations of discretion.”

“As long as you are assured the men are trustworthy, I will not doubt your word,” said Holmes. “Though I would ensure they have alibis for the nights of the murders before you tell them any details about our plan—just to be safe.”

“Then let’s plan to meet at your house tomorrow night at six. Please get in touch with the woman and let her know that Scotland Yard—and all of London—appreciates the sacrifice she is making.”

“I shall, sir.”

CHAPTER Fourteen

Society of Secrets

For the remainder of the day, Holmes and Watson studied the coroner’s reports and information gathered by the officers. Dr. Watson made notes when Holmes indicated that he do so. They needed to understand every detail of how the murders had occurred before they put their plan to work.

It seemed likely that, in most if not all of the cases, the murderer had made sure the victims’ hands were occupied before he committed his crime. The women had lifted their skirts for sex, busying their hands, and then the culprit had strangled them while they could not defend themselves. Some had died from the strangulation, while others just passed out before he brought out the knife. That was why there was no screaming for passersby to hear. The murderer was very cunning. He had to convince the victim he wanted to procure her services—perhaps he even proffered coins, which he would take back after the woman was dead.

He would then lower them to the ground, their heads to his left. He had not dropped them roughly, for there was no bruising. In this way, he could reach over and cut their throats from left to right with the blood draining to the left away from him. In one case, some blood had been found on the nearby fence, sprayed from the woman’s artery, but nothing appeared to have interrupted its flow—so it had not gotten on the murderer. The fellow had some sort of medical knowledge, of that Holmes remained sure.
Is this monster someone I know?
he wondered.
Is it a medical student, or a doctor, or even a butcher?

“He is a very smart man,” Holmes told Dr. Watson. “He is carrying out these murders flawlessly—if there is a drop of blood on him or a hair out of place when he’s done, I would be surprised.”

“Yes, I see he is very cunning—and devilishly hard to catch,” Dr. Watson answered. “The thing is, why is he trying to bring you under suspicion? I am sure that is never far from your mind. Does he want to blame you? Does he want you to catch him because he knows you are the best detective in our great country, if not the world?”

“It struck me this morning, as I shaved,” answered Holmes. “Many of my insights come to me during that mundane task. Think to yourself of the most important connection I have—of an esteemed friend who shaped my investigative skill.”

Watson gasped. “Edmond Dantes! You’re not saying—”

Holmes laughed. “Of course I am not saying it is Dantes! But this crime must have something to do with the Sovereign Order of Monte Cristo—there are several secret societies that splintered off from the Illuminati, and those societies wish Dantes and all of his friends and companions ill. It is common knowledge now that Dantes got me started on this path, which led me to become the brilliant detective I am today—so who better to target than myself? I am sure a member of another society is behind this. ”

“I think you’ve come to a scarily accurate conclusion about the murderer,” agreed Dr. Watson. “But the person could be anyone—anywhere. Do you have any suspects now that you’ve uncovered this link?”

          “Yes, I am compiling a list that you and I will go over. I am eliminating each suspect by a laborious process of deductive reasoning—it is time-consuming, but fruitful. However, my musings will be for your ears only, my friend.”

“You need not say another word about that,” Dr. Watson assured him.

“I must tell you, though, that I got another note this morning. It was laying on my desk, right here at Scotland Yard.”

“What did it say?”

Holmes pulled the note from his pocket and read it aloud.
“You can’t hide…but I can. Have I baffled even your great mind? JTR.”

“I am beginning to think this fellow has an accomplice,” Dr. Watson said. “How could he so easily slip into this building, unnoticed, unless he is one of the officers?”

“That is why the less men who are involved, the better. The murderer could very well be a detective or an officer who is exceptionally wily—someone we would never expect. This would be a game to them if so.”

“A game with grisly trophies,” shuddered Dr. Watson. “And where does the monster keep these body parts he takes? There has only been one victim from whom he didn’t take entrails; yet he touched none of them in a sexual manner. And he commits his dastardly acts in the dead of night, so swiftly that he is probably nearby when the body is found—yet he is not yet caught. I don’t understand it.”

“Watson, has anyone in Scotland Yard made you feel in any way suspicious? Or even at the morgue? I must say, since I began receiving these notes I often feel as if we are being watched,” Holmes said.

“I can’t say that I have. But, then again, we are always surrounded by others here, and we are often too absorbed in work to notice anyone acting out of sorts.”

“I just get the distinct feeling lately that someone is always on my trail. The killer could be right beside us, and we might never know. He is not leaving any clues to his identity—though he has no compunction about leaving clues to mine.”

“I know, my friend. This is a hard one,” Dr. Watson said as he patted Holmes on the shoulder.

“We should put our plan into motion immediately. Tomorrow night we will have our meeting with Grant, our decoy, and the men Grant chooses to join us. I do hope he has the utmost faith in the pair he picks. I don’t want to take any chances that the murderer hears of our plan and evades capture. We have to stop this monster before someone else gets killed.”

When Holmes arrived at the house on Baker Street that night, Mrs. Parker was in good spirits, humming and smiling. However, when Holmes retreated to his office and saw what was on his desk, he felt he would not smile for a long time. There, sitting on a household ledger, was one of his missing handkerchiefs.

It was covered in blood, now dried and brown, but he could still make out his initials stitched in blue thread…SH.

The killer could have left it at the scene
, Holmes thought,
but he wants me to know he has the power here, the upper hand—both on the streets and even in my own home. This is unacceptable.

He swept the handkerchief into a drawer; he would burn it as soon as possible. And then he would resume his investigation with a vengeance.