Whitechapel: The Final Stand of Sherlock Holmes (13 page)

“Yes, darling?”

“Is that the woman you told me about? I do not recall you mentioning anything about all of this.”

“This?”

She turned, looking at Irene who waived to the crowd, smiling brightly. Her full, red lips puckered as she blew a kiss to all of us. “That,” Mary said.

“Well, I can tell you that she looks completely different in person.” I looked sideways at Mary, hoping that my lie had gone unnoticed. Even Mary could not look away from Irene now. Her long, golden hair was pulled into a tight bun that offset the high arches of her cheekbones. She lowered her arms and closed her eyes, and the whole crowd fell silent. An organist off to the side of the stage stepped on his pedals and a low-groan emitted from the pipes.

Her voice erupted over us, filling the room with sound. Her highest notes carried me upwards, spinning me delicately through the air.

“Frondi tenere e belle

del mio platano amato,

per voi risplenda il fato.

Tuoni, lampi, e procelle

non v’oltraggino mai la cara pace,

né giunga a profanarvi

austro rapace.”

The organist had not finished, but as Irene stopped singing the crowd applauded wildly. Irene waited politely to acknowledge them until the pipes of the organ were silent. She then tilted her head in acknowledgement to the crowd and left the stage.

People cried out for her to return to the stage, and in a moment, the kitchen doors swung open again. Everyone leapt to their feet, shouting and applauding. The servants rushing through the doors stopped suddenly, eyeing the crowd in wonder, balancing silver food trays carefully. They then smiled and bowed dramatically, making everyone laugh and return to their seats.

I pushed Mary’s seat in and nodded to everyone at our table. The food had begun to arrive, and I waited for each person to receive their plate before I stood and said, “Gentlemen, ladies, I shall return in just a moment.”

“Dr. Watson?” Mary said, cocking an eyebrow at me. “Where are you going?”

“I shall be right back.”

I ignored looks from the curious staff members as I entered the kitchen. Many of them were racing around, scurrying to get the massive amounts of food off of the serving trays into the hands of the hungry guests. I saw a pantry door closing ahead and Irene’s angry voice from within. “Do not stand there and tell me there is nothing you can do, Charles!”

“Irene, this is a far different matter than anything you could possibly understand.”

“No, it is you who does not understand. Women are being butchered right under your nose, and you will not send in the resources to deal with it.”

“Why are you so angry, hmm? Come give us a kiss.”

“Get off of me, Charles!”

“Stop it, Irene. Just a little reminder of when we first-“

I opened the door, meeting the crimson-faced stare of Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, Sir Charles Warren. His hands were wrapped around Irene, who was squirming to get away.

“Watson!” Irene shouted.

“Hello, Miss Adler,” I said, reaching for her. I put my hand on her shoulder and pulled her away from the Commissioner’s grip as he glowered at me. “I am so sorry to interrupt, Sir Charles.”

“Wait just a bloody minute,” Warren barked, grabbing at Irene’s hand. “This is a private conversation that—”

I saw a kitchen woman hurrying past and stepped into her path, halting her suddenly. “Excuse me,” I said, “Police Commissioner Sir Charles Warren has yet to be seated and although he is too much of a gentleman to complain, I am affronted on his behalf.”

“What?” the woman said nervously, “oh my.”

I threw the door open and pointed at him, “Yes, this man, the Commissioner of the London Metropolitan Police Department is left standing while everyone else is being catered to. Do you know who he is? I assure you, madam, the Queen herself is familiar with Sir Charles Warren.”

Other people in the kitchen were now staring at us. Irene came to my side, and together we fled the kitchen while the staff gathered around Warren, throwing accusations at one another and jockeying to be the first to offer to guide him to his seat.

Irene giggled as we made our way for the front door, down the steps toward her awaiting carriage. “My thanks to you, Watson,” Irene said. “Good old Charles. Put a few whiskeys in him and he becomes Lothario.”

“I do not think that was anything to joke about, Miss Adler. You were about to be ravished.”

Irene laughed, wrapping her shawl around her throat. “I assure you that I was in no such danger. It takes more than any drunken policeman to corner me. Do you know Charles actually told the newspapers that it was useless to send detectives into Whitechapel? He said ‘This monster will be captured by good old-fashioned patrol work.’ What ignorance!”

“Well apparently he has some familiarity with you to lure you into a pantry to discuss the situation.” My voice was angrier than I intended it to be. It contained a hint of jealousy that revealed itself before I could catch it. I decided it was because of my dear friend Holmes’s attachment to her and that I was simply defending his honor by my hatred of seeing another man pawing Irene. “Regardless, he is one of the most powerful men in the country and could have us both arrested with a single word. It is best to use at least some caution with him.”

“Did Holmes get my letter?”

“What’s that? A letter, you say?”

“Did Holmes get the letter I sent him? About the killings in Whitechapel?”

“I am not certain,” I said. “Holmes has been terribly ill lately and I doubt he would even have the strength to open your letter if he did receive it. It is probably lying in the large pile of letters sitting on his chair, just waiting until he has recovered sufficiently enough to get back to work.”

Irene stared at me for a moment. “You have grown so used to lying on his behalf that you cannot stop yourself any longer, can you? If you were any sort of capable physician, you would have forced him off of the cocaine long before this.”

“…Pardon me?”

She looked at me innocently, batting her large eyes, “What?”

“What did you just say?”

“Nothing,” Irene said, looking back to the road. “I suppose I’ll need to do it myself. Have a wonderful evening at your party, Watson. Hopefully not too many more women will be butchered in the street while you and your friends drink and make merry.”

“You came tonight. You performed for them. If you hold these people in such low regard, why go out of your way to entertain them? I suppose the price was right, eh?”

She laughed. “I knew Warren would be here and it was the only way I could get his attention. A woman has to find her way around in certain situations, sir. It is not as simple as you men might think. Good night. And do tell Holmes I was asking for him.”

When I finally sat back down next to Mary, she was intently eating her meal and avoiding making any eye contact, or taking any notice of me, whatsoever. “Hello, everyone. I hope I am not interrupting anything with my late arrival.”

A man sitting in the seat across from mine waved his hand and said, “No bother at all. Miss Morstan tells us that you are the manservant for none other than Sherlock Holmes?”

“Manservant?” I said, exhaling deeply. When I looked toward Mary, she only looked away.

ELEVEN

Steven Morrissey weaved through the crowded floor of the London Central News Limited, waving an envelope as if it were on fire and he was trying to put it out. “Mr. Phillips! Mr. Phillips! Stop the presses! You have to see this!”

Adam Phillips looked up from his editor’s desk. “What are you going on about, Morrissey?”

“It’s from him! Him!”

“Him who?” Phillips asked.

“The killer!” Morrissey took a deep breath as every machine and pen in the office stopped moving. Staff members silenced one another, looking at him. “He sent us this letter. He says his name is Jack the Ripper.”

Phillips looked at the front of the envelope. It read:

The Boss

Central News Office

London City

Phillips checked the postmark. The envelope had been stamped and sent by London’s East Central Post that day. Phillips removed a single sheet of paper from inside the envelope, seeing it was splattered with bright red ink. At least, he hoped it was ink. “This letter is dated September Twenty-Fifth,” Phillips noted. “That’s two days ago, yet he mailed it today. Why would he wait to send it?”

“Read it,” Morrissey said.

“It is probably just a hoax.”

“Read it, sir!”

Phillips cleared his throat.

“Dear Boss,

I keep on hearing the police

have caught me but they won’t fix

me just yet. I have laughed when

they look so clever and talk about

being on the
right
track. That joke

about Leather Apron gave me real

fits. I am down on whores and

I shant quit ripping them till I

do get buckled. Grand work the last

job was. I gave the lady no time to

squeal. How can they catch me now.

I love my work and want to start

again. You will soon hear of me

with my funny little games. I

saved some of the proper
red
stuff in

a ginger beer bottle over the last job

to write with but it went thick

like glue and I can’t use it. Red

ink is fit enough I hope.
ha. ha.

The next job I do I shall clip

the lady’s ears off and send to the

police officers just for jolly wouldn’t

you. Keep this letter back till I

do a bit more work then give

it out straight. My knife’s so nice

and sharp I want to get to work

right away if I get a chance.

Good luck.

Yours truly

Jack the Ripper

Don’t mind me giving the trade name.

PS: wasn’t good enough

to post this before

I got all the red

ink off my hands

curse it.

No luck yet. They

say I’m a doctor

now
ha ha
”

Phillips looked up at his staff and nodded several times at them. “You see? It is just a sick joke. Anyone could tell…just a harmless prank.”

None of them moved. All stared at the letter silently. Morrissey finally spoke, “What are you going to do, Mr. Phillips?”

“Do? I am going to do absolutely nothing. It is nothing but a ruse meant to get us all into a tizzy.” Phillips took the letter and crammed it into the envelope, throwing it down into the rubbish pail and wiping his hands together.

“You should send for the police,” Morrissey said.

“For what? They have enough on their plate with piles of mutilated bodies, I think.”

“Then at least publish the damn thing! People are being killed, Mr. Phillips. We need to warn them.”

Phillips glowered back at him, “Warn who? The whores? You want to warn them to stop whoring, be my guest. That is the end of the conversation. Do you not have anything else for me besides forged letters?”

Morrissey pulled several hand-written pages from his bag and handed it to Phillips. “Here’s a thousand words on a man named John Fitzgerald. He walked into the police station and confessed to killing Annie Chapman.”

“Really?” Phillips took the pages. “Is he under arrest?”

“Perhaps, but certainly not for the Chapman murder. Every shred of his story has proven false. He is just another one who wanted to see his name in the press.”

Phillips looked at the pages and shook his head. “Let me understand. A man walks into a police station and confesses to killing Annie Chapman, lying all the while in hopes of the newspapers running a story with his name in it?”

“Correct,” Morrissey nodded.

“And you are giving me a thousand word article which accomplishes precisely that?”

“Right again,” Morrissey said.

“Bit of a conundrum, isn’t it?”

“Not really,” Morrissey explained. “You pay me to write articles that sell newspapers, sir. Unfortunately, the public wants to read every single shred of news about these killings. If people like John Fitzgerald did not exist, we would have to invent him.” Morrissey bent down and picked up the Ripper letter from the trash can. “I am sure you do not mind me keeping this? I’ll bet a month’s salary that it is genuine.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“He’s given up his name, Mr. Phillips. Letting us know he’s not Leather Apron or any of the other boogie men we’ve blamed. All artists protect their work with extreme jealousy and I would venture to guess that Jack the Ripper is no different.”

~ * * * ~

On Sunday, September Thirtieth, sometime after midnight, Louis Diemschutz gently whacked his pony’s rear, ordering it to keep moving. The pony’s pace began to slow before they were even halfway home from the Westow Hill market, its scrawny frame struggling to pull the weight of the boxes of cheap, imitation jewelry that Diemschutz humped back and forth to the market each weekend. Few pieces had been bought that day, and the cart was still nearly full. They came to Berner Street, wheels squeaking on the uneven stones, and Diemschutz saw that the gates to the yard at the International Working Men’s Educational Club were propped open for him.