The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors (43 page)

Billy was not from the neighborhood but from some poorer district across town, the young son of a local shopkeeper’s widowed sister who had gone tubercular and could no longer care for him properly. Boys like him usually ended up in the workhouse or worse, and he knew it. So if during those first few days he seemed annoyingly too willing, too eager to please, too desperate to do the right thing, surely — surely — he could be forgiven.

It was not his labors or long hours but his stiff new shoes that finally slowed him down, raising blisters the size of ha’pennies on the heels of both his feet so that by the time Sunday evening came around he was reduced to a painful hobble, a not-unwelcome predicament insofar as the rest of the household was concerned, because the shoes squeaked horribly, a most irritating noise that no amount of tallow seemed able to dampen.

But neither could the discomfort of mere blisters dampen Billy’s enthusiasm. He was almost as proud of his new employment as he was of his page’s uniform, which, though secondhand (or was it third?), showed hardly any signs of sag or wear and fit him admirably — this last point, if he only knew, being a far more compelling reason for his selection over the other applicants than any of his other qualifications.

Watson, still not accustomed to the boy’s presence, his scurrying about, and his constant popping in and popping out, was in the process of taking a sip of his morning coffee, when Billy’s head appeared through the door yet again.

“What now?” Watson asked over the top of his newspaper, irritability creeping into his voice, the tranquility of his morning having been marred by all of the activity.

“Mr. Shinwell Johnson!” piped the boy manfully, his high-pitched voice betraying only aspirations of ever becoming manly.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” muttered Watson, as much in response to the boy’s vocal performance as to the significance of his message.

Holmes, in contrast, reacted with surprising pleasure, given his subdued and distracted manner those last few days. “The blithe Shinwell?” he cried. “Show him up, Billy, show him up! How eagerly I’ve awaited his porcine, plaid-vested presence. And more coffee from the kitchen, lad, and bring another cup!”

Shinwell Johnson, or “Porky Shinwell,” as he was more familiarly known in the shadowy precincts of Blackfriars, was a large, coarse, lumpy individual with puffed and bloated features, a rubicund nose, thick, beefy lips perpetually curled in a sly smile, and dark, piggy eyes that were equally crinkled with pleasure and narrowed in cunning. His arrival at the top landing, red-faced and wheezing, was heralded in a marked and most striking manner by an almost combustible reek of brandy, which had ascended the stairs far enough in advance of him to make Billy’s announcement of his approach seem altogether superfluous.

The exertions of the climb left him breathless but hardly speechless, for Mr. Shinwell Johnson was a most loquacious man, as chatty as he was stout and as stout as he was shrewd. He carried in his brain and pockets an accumulation of knowledge which if ever divulged could place several dozen (or more) in the dock, including the odd one or two who in the normal course of their day were accustomed to looking down upon it from the bench.

It was Holmes’s habit to use Shinwell as his agent in the vast serpentine underworld of London, for he was well known and welcome
in the darkest recesses of that world, and, being trusted by its inhabitants as few others were, was able to obtain information where no one else could. Information was his stock in trade, a commodity he dealt in as other men dealt in foodstuffs or cotton goods or ribbons for “m’ladies’ hats.” His store of knowledge pertaining to the activities of London’s criminal class was unequaled, and it was this that endeared him to Holmes. That in the early years of his career he had been known to the police as a dangerous character did little to harm him professionally. To the contrary. To those with whom he customarily did business, the fact that he had two terms in Parkhurst on his sheet was a definite point in his favor. That he had somehow managed to evade a third term, through the intercession of a certain individual who shall remain nameless, only enhanced his reputation further (and, incidentally, was what endeared Holmes to him).
⁸⁹

It was a rare occasion when “the blithe Shinwell” graced Baker Street with his “porcine, plaid-vested presence.” Holmes used his services sparingly and with discretion so as to limit the possibility of their association ever being revealed to the world at large. Exposure of their dealings would reflect badly not so much on Holmes as on Johnson, whose customary business associates — most unforgiving of indiscretions on the part of any of their number — had a tendency to make their displeasure known in emphatic ways.

Johnson, settled into the room’s sturdiest chair with a cup of well-laced coffee close at hand, needed little encouragement to get right down to business. He cocked his massive head to one side and beamed at Holmes affectionately, fingers laced across his ample middle, thumbs twirling in contentment. When he spoke it was with a slight impediment of speech, and not with any single distinguishable regional accent but with a combination of several, as if he had sampled them all and, not being able to make up his mind, had decided to partake of them all.

“Wh’ell, Mawster Sherlock, m’dear,” he said. “I ‘ave been most h’active in yer be’alf, ‘aven’t I? — tew’rribly, tew’rribly active.” He snorted — something he did loudly and often, to Watson’s annoyance, an unmistakable barnyard sound that could make heads turn in the street.

“This bushel o’ coke what calls himself Jack the Wipper is becoming a w’right pw’roper nuisance, h’ain’t he? — w’right pw’roper, indeed!” He snorted again. “I must tell yer, he’s as much a myster’wy to our sources o’ h’information in the stw’eets as he is to the clubs n’ sticks in Sco’lin’ Yard, and that’s an actual fact. But that don’t come as no surprise to yer now, does h’it? No, o’ course not,” he chuckled.

Holmes waited patiently, knowing that Shinwell would not be rushed.

“I’ll say this much: He’s not a local bloke. Me people would find him out quick enough if he was. No, he’s not from the East End a’tall, if yer axes me. ‘Strewth, I think he’s a p’woper fw’lag unfurled, if yer catches me meanin’.” He cocked his head to the side and smiled slyly, pausing for Holmes’s response.

Playfully, he had salted his comments with the rhyming slang of the cockneys, knowing full well that it would get a reaction from Holmes.
⁹⁰
Johnson, who was no cockney, spoke it as a matter of course, as he also spoke a smattering of Yiddish and Gaelic, for they were the languages of people with whom he came into daily contact and with whom he had commerce, and being able to communicate with them on
their
terms helped him win their trust. Besides, it amused him.

Holmes regarded him coolly, but not without a faint sparkle in his eye. “If I understand you correctly, Shinwell, your friends don’t have any better idea of who the murderer is than the detective division of the Metropolitan Police, but most of them agree he is probably a person of quality. Do I have that right?”

Johnson bobbed his head and laughed, hugging himself delightedly.
“Aye, an’ they fink it’s an uncommon poor way for ‘im to get his jollies, they do. They fink he’s
mushuganah
— a crazy bloke what wud be well adwised to confine ‘is play to his giggle stick, I shoul’n’t wonder.”
⁹¹

Holmes cracked a smile at last, which pleased Johnson very much, for he enjoyed making people smile, particularly people he was fond of.

“Now, if you don’t mind, Shinwell,” said Holmes in the mock tones of a schoolmaster, “may we get on with it?”

Shinwell nodded and turned serious. “In point of h’actual fact, ‘ere’s the truth of h’it,” he said, “this bw’loke is as much an upsetting influence to me fw’riends and h’associates in B’wackfw’riars as ‘e is to yer fw’riends in Whitehall. I h’assure you, if h’any o’ our people knew who he was, they’d do for ‘im, and ‘at’s no lie. He’d get a good, ‘ealthy dose o’ his own medicine fer certain. Why, his life wouldn’t be worth a dicky diddle. H’it’s been most unsettling, this whole bleedin’ business. The chaps don’t like h’it, you see. It’s no good for commerce, is h’it? Why, h’it calls h’attention to fings, don’t h’it? Which h’it bw’rings the Sweenies into the distw’rict, an’ none o’ us wike that. Not even the Sweenies.” He smiled puckishly and snorted. “‘Strewth, least o’ all the Sweenies.”
⁹²

Johnson brought out a small, old-fashioned silver snuffbox.

“A pinch, m’dear?” he said, offering the box to Holmes. “No? You won’t mind if I partake? Fank you so veddy much indeed, I’m sure. A nasty ‘abit, I know, but a modicum o’ snuff can be most h’efficacious, I find.”

So saying, he deposited an ample “modicum” of the brownish-white powder into the palm of his hand and proceeded to inhale it with a violent snort. Without pause, he reached into an inside pocket of his bulging frock coat and drew out a thick and untidy wad of papers bundled together and tied with ribbon, looking not unlike a lawyer’s brief. Moistening a fat thumb, he began systematically flipping through
the bundle, patiently scanning each and every leaf until he found what he was looking for.

“‘Alf a mo,” he said.

He studied the piece of paper for a moment, holding it almost at arm’s length to do so, and snorted once again.

“Now then,” he said finally, “about that certain ‘ouse at number 19 Cleveland Stw’reet, that which yer particular’wy asked about by way of enquir’wy, as h’it t’were. H’it is an addw’ress which o’ course is not unknown to us. H’it has a intw’esting ‘istory to h’it and an unusual provenance — a story what will no doubt h’amuse you, but for another time perhaps, as h’it ‘as no bearing on the matter afore us and I am sure that you and the good doctor is h’occupied wiv matters of far more h’importance and of a pw’ressing nature, as h’it t’were. Now then, I will tell yer ‘ow h’it t’is: The ownership of the estabwlishment in question, namely number 19 Cleveland Stw’reet, is somewhat murky at the moment, which h’it ‘aving changed ‘ands more than once over the course o’ the past sevewal months. Up until midsummer h’it was owned by one Ephraim Tysall, h’esquire, who is of wittle inter’west to us and of no conseqwence to the matter at ‘and, I can h’assure yer (snort).”

Holmes nodded, satisfied.

“The new owner of w’record is one Mr. Michael Loughlin, a waiter and barman by twade, and he, too, is of wittle inter’west to us in that if ya bel’wieve that an unemployed barman (snort) what don’t have two coins to rub togevver what ain’t copper, and whose old dad is a dealer in coal and wegetable gw’reens and is a gent what is not unknown to certain h’associates of our acquaintance (broad wink) — if you bel’wieve he has the sugar ‘n’ honey to purchase said pw’remises, why then, Master Sherlock, m’dear (snort), I’d wike to talk to yer about buying some shares in the new bw’ridge they be buildin’ across the Thames, thank ya nicely, if ya get me meaning, which I’m sure ya does (snort).”
⁹³

Retying the bundle with its ribbon, he returned it to the pocket from which it came and pulled out another, beginning the same painstaking process all over again, chattering away nonstop all the while as he subjected each piece of paper to a frowning scrutiny, as if seeing it for the first time. It seemed that he carried within his numerous and commodious pockets a unique filing system of sorts, one unquestionably of his own devising. But if there was a method to it — an orderly, organized whole made up of its diverse and independent parts — only Shinwell Johnson held the key, for its formulation seemed well beyond the scope of simple logic or
any
form of human understanding.

Again he found what he was looking for and announced the fact with a snort. “Now then. If ya wike, I can supp’wly ya wiv the name of the tw’rue owner of number 19 Cleveland Stw’reet, though it won’t do ya much good to know h’it, an’ I can tell ya to the penny how much he clears in ‘is weekly wents, though h’it won’t be o’ much inter’west, and I can supp’wly ya wiv a wist o’ the names o’ them young buggers employed at the telegw’raph office what makes much more in their off hours at number 19 Cleveland Stw’reet. And I can pweesents yer wiv a wist of the toffs’ names what goes there w’regular, though that might take some wittle time and expense because they wike to maintain their h’anonymity, don’t they? But I suspecks ya knows as well as I do who they is, anyways (snort).” He favored Holmes with a quick, shrewd glance and chortled.

“As for the particular gent ya inquired about — a ‘andsome bloke what tw’ravels in exalted circles o’ the ‘ighest kind and what is bew’lieved to wisit number 19 Cleveland Stw’reet often an’ w’regular? Aye, he is sometimes to be found in the company o’ anuvver gent whose face is nev’r seen, because why? Because he takes special pains and keeps h’it well cuvered, now, don’t he? But this ‘ere gent, ya can’t help but notice ‘im, can yer? Which he’s a gent what has certain distinctive features and
peculiarities o’ dress, such as wearin’ veddy ‘igh collars h’attached to ‘is shirts. Veddy ‘igh collars an’ wide cuffs. And his face would be known anywhere, now, wouldn’t it? And his name shall remain nameless for reasons what I shall not get into, if yer pl’wease.” He glanced at Holmes meaningfully.

“Understood,” Holmes responded tersely.

“As I well knew ya would, m’dear. An’ since ya also already knows the name an’ h’identity o’ the first gent, I won’t bovver to mention h’it either. His wesidential addw’ress is noted on this here swip o’ paper, which I duly places into your possession.”

Holmes took the proffered slip.

“As to the dates o’ h’is w’isits to number 19 Cleveland Stw’reet during the last fortnight or so, yer will find them noted down on
this
here sw’lip o’ paper, which I likewise places into your possession.”

Holmes took the second piece of paper, glanced at it, and arched an eyebrow, then stuck it away into the folds of his wallet along with the first.

“Now, don’t be putting away your purse jest yet, m’dear. There’s a bit more to come.”

He resumed thumbing through his wad of scraps until finding the next one he wanted.