Whitechapel: The Final Stand of Sherlock Holmes (17 page)

Finally, a German doctor isolated the cocaine alkaloid from the leaf of a coca plant. Medical journals filled with praise for the new “Wonder Drug” and that excitement quickly spilled over into the populace. Or rather, those who could afford it.

Those who could not afford it were forced to soldier on with beer and gin, but the upperclass soon were indulging in wine, cigarettes, powders, tablets, and even toothache drops for children, all with cocaine as the main ingredient.

I’ve taken to reading anything I could find about treatment for addiction to the drug, but there is little interest in admitting even to the problem. I learned of a doctor in Illinois who is injecting addicts with gold chloride for treatment, and he is planning on creating franchises of treatment centers. Sadly, the only evidence of improvement seems to be that of the funds in Dr. Keeley’s bank account.

Holmes stares at me when he thinks I am not watching him.

His eyes have grown dark again, shadowed. His drawn, gaunt face is motionless, but in his pupils I see hatred swirling, his rage so palpable that I can feel it coming off of him like heat from the fire. By now, the cocaine must be completely out of his system. I’ve spent hours calculating the rate of speed the drug would take to circulate throughout his entire body, before finally breaking down enough to no longer effect him, and there is no reason why it should not be completely gone from him. I am at a loss and can make no sense of his condition.

~ * * * ~

“These make six murders to the fiend’s credit; all within a half-mile radius. People are terrified and are loud in their complaints of the police, who have done absolutely nothing. They confess themselves without a clue, and they devote their entire energies to preventing the press from getting at the facts.”

“Six murders? They’re giving him credit for six, now?” Lestrade exclaimed in disbelief. “This bastard is going to play hell with us trying to catch up to his own myth!”

“What are the blasted Yanks thinking, writing that bollocks?” Collard said.

Lestrade shook his head. “It’s written by a local correspondent. Some twiddle poop bastard without the nutmegs to write it for a paper in his own country, I reckon.”

“The local papers aren’t much kinder. Here’s the Evening News.” Collard read:
‘The public cannot fail to be impressed with one fact-the apparent bravado of the assassin.’
Oh, that’s just charming. Yes, I’m impressed with his bravado as he’s stabbing bunters in their privates and ripping their innards out. Really quite brave of him.”

“These reporters are interviewing people right after we leave. Some of the locals give better statements to the press than they do to the police. What in the hell is everybody thinking? The whole sodding world is insane.” Lestrade chucked the paper across his office.

“Did you hear what they did down in Mile End?” Collard asked. “Formed a Whitechapel Vigilance Committee. Some bastard named Lusk rallied up a bunch of hooligans to ‘patrol the streets’ because they don’t think the police are doing a good enough job.”

“Well there you go,” Lestrade said. “Let the public do it themselves if they think it’s so easy.”

“Excuse me, Inspector Lestrade?” Constable Lamb said, knocking at the door.

“What now?”

“There’s a Mr. Morrissey here from the Central News Agency. He said he wants to talk to someone involved in the murder investigations. That’s him in the suit.”

Lestrade stormed out of his office and into the lobby. “I don’t give a damn who you are or what you want, but you had better get the hell out of my police station before I throw you through the front door! You bastards have bollixed up this entire investigation from start to finish and nearly created a national hero out of this murderous scum! Get out! Now!”

Morrissey pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose and smiled gently at Lestrade. “I did not come to argue the merits of press coverage with you, Inspector. I came to tell you the name of your suspect.”

“You and every other maniac,” Lestrade said. “Half the people who come into this police station claim to have the killer living right upstairs from them. Let me guess, it’s Walter Sickert. Bugger off!”

“I make no such claim, Inspector. I did not mean his legal name. I meant the one that he wants us to use. The killer has written to our newspapers twice,” Morrissey handed a satchel to Lestrade. “Perhaps we can go somewhere more private and talk?”

Lestrade sat at his desk, looking over the “
Dear Boss
” letter, seeing it was received on September Twenty Seventh, three days before the double-killings of Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes. “Why wasn’t this given to us immediately?”

“My editor thought it was a hoax,” Morrissey said. “I believe the second victim, Miss Eddowes, had some injury to her ear?”

“Fourth victim,” Collard corrected him.

Morrissey nodded, “As you say, sir.”

“This says ‘clip off her ears,’” Lestrade said. “Our boy only cut off a piece of Eddowes’s one ear lobe.”

Morrissey pulled a postcard out of the satchel and handed it to Lestrade. “We then received this, just today. I believe, in light of recent events, it is certainly worth considering these as genuine.”

Lestrade inspected the card. It was written in the same red ink as the letter, but its face was stained with larger streaks of blood.

“I was not codding

dear old Boss when

I gave you the tip,

you’ll hear about

Saucy Jacky’s work

Tomorrow

double event this time

number one squealed

a bit couldn’t

finish straight

off. Had not got time

to get ears for

police thanks for

keeping last letter

back till I got

to work again.

Jack the Ripper”

“Blimey,” Lestrade said. “This was postmarked this morning. None of the papers picked up the story until the first editions hit the street today. That’s not enough time for a hoaxer to write this.”

“Unless he wrote it before the papers came out,” Collard said.

“Right,” Lestrade whispered.

Morrissey took out his pen and began scribbling on a notepad. “Inspector Lestrade, let me ask you—” Lestrade snatched the notepad and pen away from Morrissey and led him by the shoulder toward the door. “Just a few quick questions, Inspector!”

“Out! I appreciate you bringing in the letters, and so help me God, you’d better get anything else you receive to us immediately, but now is the time for you to leave while I am seeing you in a kind light and before I remember why I hate all of you reporters so much.” He pushed Morrissey through the door and went back to his office.

Collard was reading the letter and post card, eyes wide. “Jack the Ripper?” he said. “What the bloody hell? This is insanity. I’m starting to think about taking my wife and girls and leaving London. This bastard can have the bloody East End for all I care. Folks like us don’t have a prayer, Lestrade. There isn’t a policeman in the entire world with any hope of catching this bastard.” Collard fished a pipe from his jacket with shaking fingers and finally got it lit. After taking a long smoke he said, “We don’t need a detective. We need a priest. Jack the Ripper is a demon and it’s going to take a miracle to stop him. Unless you know any detectives who can perform miracles. Ain’t got one of them lying around here, do you?”

Lestrade looked up at Collard’s pipe and said, “Actually, maybe I do know one.”

~ * * * ~

There was a knock on the downstairs door, coming from the Baker Street entrance to our apartment. The knock was loud and insistent and continued until Mrs. Hudson answered. “Can I help you, sir?”

“Good evening, madam. Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard calling for Sherlock Holmes.”

“I’m terribly sorry, sir, but the--of all the outrage! How dare you!” Mrs. Hudson shouted as Lestrade stormed past her and stomped up the stairs toward our apartment.

“Suppose I’ll let them in?” I said to Holmes. He only glared back at me in response. I sighed, turning the knob, and greeted Inspector Lestrade and the red-faced Mrs. Hudson.

“This-this-this ruffian pushed his way past me and forced his way up here!” Mrs. Hudson complained.

Lestrade looked at Holmes and said, “Are you sick? You look horrible.”

Holmes did not respond.

“He is very sick! That is what I was trying to tell you before you barged into my home!” Mrs. Hudson said.

Lestrade looked over his shoulder at Mrs. Hudson and then back at me. “I am here on official police business. I need to speak with Holmes. Alone.”

“I am afraid that is not quite possible at the moment, Inspector,” I said. “But if you do not mind my staying, I think it might be good for Holmes to hear what you have to say.”

Lestrade shrugged. “Just you, then. Nobody else.”

I apologized to Mrs. Hudson as I shut the door. “I am sorry for that, Inspector. She takes her charge quite seriously.”

Lestrade took off his coat and sat down in my chair, opposite Holmes. “Can you hear me? Your eyes aren’t even open.” Holmes sniffed and looked at the Inspector but did not speak. Lestrade looked at me and said, “How long has he been like this?”

“It is only temporary. He had a fever, but it has passed,” I said.

“Very well. I suppose you both know of the murders in Whitechapel?”

“We have heard a little,” I said. “The newspapers have certainly been paying a lot of attention to it. A little too much, I think.”

Lestrade nodded. “And here I always thought Holmes was the intelligent one. Regardless, I want you to purge your thoughts of whatever you might have read in the papers. I am going to give you the information I have, which is not to be discussed with anyone outside of this room. Is that perfectly understood?”

“We are nothing if not discreet, Inspector. It is a cornerstone of our reputation,” I reminded him. “Why else would so many royals and socialites come to us for help when they could just go to the police?”

Holmes chuckled slightly. I do not think that Lestrade noticed.

“There have been four killings in Whitechapel by a subject calling himself ‘Jack the Ripper.’ I am discounting the other murders because they do not fit in with these four. All of his victims had their throats cut. All have had some sort of injury to their abdomens. In all of the killings, except for the third, wherein The Ripper was interrupted in the middle of his deed, he is progressively mutilating them worse than he did before.

“Polly Nichols’s was a forty-three year old prostitute. Jack killed her on Friday, August Thirty First, between three-fifteen a.m. and three forty-five a.m. He cut her throat, and we found several deep cuts on her abdomen.

“Annie Chapman was a forty-seven year old prostitute. Jack killed her on Saturday, September Eighth, after five thirty a.m. He cut her throat and ripped her belly completely open. He took Chapman’s uterus.

“Elizabeth Stride was a forty-four year old prostitute. She was killed Sunday, September Thirtieth, around one a.m. Her throat was cut, but nothing else appeared damaged. I believe the killer was spooked and ran off before he could finish his business.

“Less than an hour later, the body of Catherine Eddowes was found only a few blocks away. Eddowes was a forty-six year old prostitute. Her throat was cut. Her belly was ripped open. Both her uterus and kidney were taken. In addition, there were many more injuries inflicted, including her face.”

Lestrade looked from me to Holmes, making sure that we were following him. “Do you see? It is almost as if he is learning from each one, quite the same as you or I would, Holmes. Say, for instance, we go out on our first investigation and realize that we forgot to bring a candle in case our lantern went out. Next time we bring it. Perhaps we forget to bring a bag to put evidence into. The next time we remember. Jack the Ripper is getting better at his trade and learning as he goes on. Every killing brings him closer to something I cannot understand, but I hope that you might.”

Holmes began laughing softly and murmured the word, “Monkeys.”

“Pardon?” Lestrade said.

“Ignore him,” I said, “he is not well, Inspector. Please continue, I am utterly fascinated.”

Lestrade looked at Holmes, who was still laughing. He ignored him and said, “Those are the things that we know for certain, but because it is so little, we are awash in meaningless theories. We have detectives following up leads suspecting the Freemasons, the royal family, a prominent artist running around telling people he is the killer, and even the author of ALICE IN WONDERLAND. We have hundreds of quacks, derelicts, and publicity seekers who want to be arrested for the murders just to see their names in print.”

“Jabbering, drooling monkeys!”

Lestrade stood to his feet, “Now look here, Holmes, what the hell do you mean by that? I came here as a sign of my respect for your investigative abilities to discuss this case with you. Man to man. Professional to professional.”

“We cannot discuss it ‘man to man’ because you are not a man,” Holmes shouted. “You are a monkey! All of you are. Collectively, you stand as much chance of catching this killer as a group of thick-jawed simians in a rail-yard have of assembling a steam engine. You have been given the tools, the plans, and the materials, but you do not possess the simple mental capacity. Jack the Ripper has stared you in the face and found you lacking, my dear Inspector. Can you not at least see that?”

“Holmes! That is quite enough!” I said. “I humbly apologize, Inspector Lestrade. I do not know what has come over him but we would be glad to assist you. Just give me a little while to talk it over with him. Would you mind coming to see us tomorrow?”

“Do not fill him up with false hope, Watson,” Holmes said. “The Ripper is beyond you, Lestrade. He is a new thing in an old world. At least have the decency to know when you are outclassed, Inspector. When you have been made obsolete.”