FIC: Oeam Big Bang: The Case of the Stolen Heart

[alexs_storybook]

Title: The Case of the Stolen Heart
Author: alexcat
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Type: General Fiction
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters, literary or historical, though the original story is my own creation.
Warnings: Graphic descriptions of brutally murdered bodies.
Beta: Larry
Characters: Holmes, Watson, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson
Archive: OEAM, Alex's Story Book, Ao3
Author’s Note: This is my 2013 OEAM Big Bang
Spoilers: No
Summary: Holmes and Watson take on London's most famous unsolved murders.


Acknowledgements:

I’d like to thank Larry for being my sounding board and my beta reader for this story. I’d also like to thank Jenny for reading over the story and telling me she still loves my Watson. And huge thank you to Stephanie (lotrangel17) for the artwork. Isn’t it great?

Notes:

While the Jack the Ripper case is factual, my story is a fictional account of what Sherlock Holmes and John Watson do to solve the case. I have stayed with the facts as much as possible while also trying to keep my Holmes and Watson as canon as possible. I, of course, based them on the original characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The Ripper info is from several books and websites that you will find listed at the end.

Go to this page to view maps of Whitechapel. They will give you some idea of the locations of the murders and the layout of the area.

I hope you enjoy the story.

Alex

~~~~~


THE CASE OF THE STOLEN HEART

Prologue – Introduction of the Subject


October 1, 1888

Lestrade was knocking at the door of 221 Baker Street early that morning. I’d not even sent the boys out for the papers yet and Holmes was still abed. I’d heard him moving around late into the night so I went down for tea with Mrs. Hudson as not to bother his slumber and had just gone back upstairs when the inspector knocked on the door.

“The landlady said you were in. Is he up?” He gestured with his head toward Holmes’ bedchamber.

“Not yet. He was about his experiments last night until some ungodly hour. What brings you here so early, Inspector Lestrade?”

“Have you read the morning papers?”

“I was about to send one of the boys out for them.”

Lestrade pulled out one of the morning dailies. “There’s been two more. They were found about six this morning. Bad business this is, Dr. Watson. Cut their throats and slit their bellies, one of them anyway.”

Lestrade looked shaken, which was unusual for the experienced policeman. I knew he meant there were more dead women in Whitechapel. The first had been a month ago and only made the news because she had been brutalized in a most horrid way by her killer. He’d killed another a week later in much the same fashion.

“I think we may need Holmes’ help.”

Holmes had disregarded the whole story as uninteresting earlier in the week but perhaps I could persuade him to change his mind now that there were more victims.

“Some at the Yard think he’s a doctor,” Lestrade leaned forward as he let this detail drop. “He has some skills with a knife, they say, skills that would make him a professional man.”

“I’ll talk to Holmes.”


**

~~~~~


Chapter One – Lestrade’s Visit

Let me backtrack a bit to explain the fear that gripped the Whitechapel area in the East End of London in those dark days in the late summer and autumn of 1888. The Whitechapel district of London was a sea of poverty and filth with over seventy thousand people crowded into an area not any bigger than a square mile. There were immigrants who’d fled from Poland and other eastern European countries all crammed in so tightly that poverty and violence were a way of life. Murder was nothing new or even all that newsworthy for the area.

Lestrade’s presence told me that there was much more to these particular murders than the normal.

He sat down and shifted uncomfortably as if his clothes itched. He clearly felt out of his element this time.

“Why do they need Holmes to help solve the murders of a few unfortunates from the bad part of London?” I asked him.

“Dr. Watson, have you read about them?”

“Just a cursory reading, I’m afraid. I read that they had their throats cut and were also sliced up a bit.”

“It’s more than that. Much more.”

I leaned forward and then sat back, not wanting to seem eager to hear the gory details that I was sure were about to be imparted to me. But I did want to hear them, whether it was simple curiosity or something more morbid.

“He just cut the first one open and made a bit of a mess. Mary Ann Nichols was her name. She weren’t any more than a drunk and a prostitute but –” he broke off. “The next one was Annie Chapman. She was pretty much the same as Nichols except he – he cut her intestines and laid them on her shoulder and he removed and took her female parts. Cut them out as slick as you please, like he did it all the time.”

I felt my face pale. I had seen many ugly and brutal things in my life but this sounded more horrid than most anything I’d encountered so far.

“Scotland Yard has no suspects?”

“We’ve got hundreds of them, just no idea which one is the man. If any of them is the man.”

“This is a little out of your area, isn’t it?”

“It was but the last victim was in the London District. Besides, I have friends in H Division. I said I’d ask Holmes if he’d help.”

“I saw the letter in the paper. Was it right?”

“He called himself Jack the Ripper.”

“Was it him?”

“There was a second one in the same handwriting, this morning.”

“What did it say?”

Lestrade held out a piece of paper, a copy of the card.

I read:

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. ha not the time to get ears for police. thanks for keeping last letter back till I got to work again.
Jack the Ripper

“Is this what happened?”

Lestrade nodded.

“This man will be almost impossible to catch unless you can catch him in the act.”

“That’s why they’ve sent me to talk to Holmes and to you too, of course,” he added as an afterthought.

The bedroom door opened and Holmes came into the room. He was still in his pyjamas and robe but his hair was combed so I knew he’d been up for a bit, long enough to make himself presentable anyway. He’d most likely heard every word Lestrade had said as well.

“Good morning, dear Lestrade. What brings you here to Baker Street so early in the day?”

“I came on behalf of the police, sir. I, that is, we would like you to take a look at some murders we’re having a bit of trouble with.”

I almost smiled at Lestrade’s subservient attitude. He’d not always treated Holmes this way. He’d thought Holmes a fool to begin with but that soon changed as Holmes had helped him solve several cases, despite Lestrade’s disdain.

“What murders would those be? Those unfortunate ladies of Whitechapel?”

“Why yes. We had two more last night and they were worse than the ones before.”

“The other two ladies were murdered too, correct? If so, then how can these be worse?”

Lestrade proceeded to tell both of us how they were worse, detailing how the fourth woman had been gutted and had her nose cut off, had her female organs removed as well as one of her kidneys. Even Holmes paled a little at Lestrade’s description and this was the man who was beating a corpse when I met him.

“Why would you think I can find him?”

Lestrade shrugged. “I don’t if you can or not, sir, but I’m fairly sure that we can’t.”

“Why are the police so dead set in finding him? The women he’s killed are not important members of society.”

I knew then that Holmes was going to join the investigation or more correctly, Holmes was going to investigate these murders on his own at Lestrade’s behest. He really didn’t care so much about the women but there was a small sense of morality in him that often defended those who were shunned or scorned by proper society. Besides, it might be a challenge for him, something to relieve his boredom.

Lestrade opened his mouth to answer Holmes’ question and realized that he had no answer. “It’s our job,” was all he managed to come up with and I suspect that as close to the truth as he could figure it out.

“Where are these last two women? I shall need to examine them for myself. I should also like to see the letter that you told Watson about, the real one, not a copy.”

“I’ll send a cab for you and Watson in an hour. I need to make arrangements.” Lestrade got to his feet. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson.”

“I haven’t solved your murders yet, Lestrade. Perhaps you’ll have no need to thank me at the end of the day.”

After Lestrade left, I turned to Holmes. “This is not going to be easy.”

“I have no doubt that you are right, Watson. Even so, we shall give it our best.”

And so we began one of our strangest cases.

*
~~~~~



Chapter Two – Two for One

Holmes was dressed and ready in a matter of minutes. We hired a cab to take us to where the scene of last night’s first monstrosity. When we arrived, there were people milling about, many people but the crowd was still somewhat subdued.

Berner Street did not look so menacing in the light of day. It was filthy, with rubbish littering the ground but until we saw the blood on the ground, it seemed like any other street in Whitechapel.

We listened to two men who claimed they were witnesses and indeed, the police believed that one of them had interrupted the killer before he finished his ghastly chore, thus leaving Liz Striker not mutilated like the two before her, but not any less dead either.

She had been seen alive at 12:45 a.m. and found dead a mere fifteen minutes later by Louis Diemschutz as he drove his cart into the yard. The man swore there had been someone or something there that spooked his pony but he’d not seen anyone. Anyone alive. He’d found the body of Elizabeth Striker on the ground instead and immediately sought help in a nearby club.

By this time, the crowd in the street was beginning to get rowdy and loud, shouting obscenities about the lack of progress on the murders. They’d been angry here in the East End for some months since a labor protest had been put down forcefully by the police. A series of unsolved murders just added fuel to the already burning fires of unrest.

Holmes poked around on the ground for a few minutes and motioned for me to follow him. We got back in our cab and visited the scene of the second murder. Catherine Eddowes had been discovered only forty-five minutes after the Striker woman. This body was actually inside the London Police district and involved Lestrade’s Scotland Yard branch.

The killer more than made up for not getting to carve up Liz Strider when he killed Catherine Eddowes. He cut her throat, disemboweled her as well as cutting her face almost beyond recognition then he got to the grisly work of taking some souvenirs with him. He’d taken her womb and one of her kidneys.

It was only after we had looked around this scene that we were told of the bloody apron found not so far away on Goulston Street. It looked as if it he’d used it to wipe his hands. One of the last witnesses who’d seen Eddowes said she’d been wearing a white apron.

As we stood and looked at the apron as it still lay there, Holmes asked Lestrade, who had joined us by now, a question.

“What was written on this wall? I can see where it’s been wiped clean recently.”

Lestrade looked rather uncomfortable. “Nothing, I’m sure.”

Holmes stood up straight, looked at me and headed for our cab. I followed. Lestrade stopped us by the time we reached the door.

“The inspector decided it needed to be removed so as not to incite riots. The people are getting unruly again like they did a few months ago and no one wants that.”

“Then tell me what it said. Or I shall let you figure this out all on your own.”

Lestrade took a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Holmes. He opened it and showed it to me.

"The Juwes are the men That Will not be Blamed for nothing"

Below it, he’d written it this way: "The Juwes are not the men That Will be Blamed for nothing"

“Which was it?” Holmes asked.

“I did not see it. The first officer wrote it the first way then DC Halse changed it.”

“Was this apron found when the body was?”

“No. It was found maybe an hour or so later.”

Holmes walked back to the murder scene and bent down, touching the bloody ground. His hand came away sticky. I handed him a handkerchief and folded it carefully and placed it back in my pocket when he was done. I had learned to keep anything he picked up or touched at a crime scene. One never knew what he’d deduce from the smallest of clues.

We went back to the cab, Lestrade with us.

“I want to see the bodies.”

We saw Elizabeth Striker first. Holmes asked questions as he moved her this way and that, looking carefully at the wounds and at the cut throat. I took some notes as if I were doing the post mortem myself. I wanted to keep the details close in case we needed them again. We would only get one chance to see these poor women before they were buried and I knew we needed to get as much information as possible.

Striker had died from having her throat cut and little else was done to her. We saw no signs of struggle at all in her hands and body. Any bruises we saw were already old and yellowing. Unfortunately, many women in Whitechapel sported bruises from boyfriends, husbands and the men who paid for their favors. They often led brutal lives and this one, at least, had come to a brutal end also.

It was time to see Eddowes and I knew from the scene that this one was not going to be pleasant. I was glad that I’d had only some toast and tea for breakfast.

As it turned out, I did not manage to keep them down either. I have been in war and have seen many things in my work as a surgeon but the thing I saw on the table was no longer human. The killer had made up for being interrupted with Striker and taken his rage out on poor Catherine Eddowes.

He’d slaughtered her, almost cutting her head off then mutilating her face as well as ripping her open like an animal, taking parts for his own purposes. I ran to the sink and, blushing, returned to take notes a few moments later. Holmes did not comment.

We found no signs of her fighting him. I decided that perhaps he’d subdued her and the others prior to killing them. It would be a mercy if it were so.

Finally we left, Lestrade escorting us home.

“So can you help us?” Lestrade looked expectantly at Holmes once we were back at Baker Street.

“I am not sure what it is that I am to do.”

“Can you help us find this man, this Jack the Ripper?”

Holmes didn’t say anything for several long minutes then he looked at Lestrade almost as if he’d forgotten the policeman was there.

“What on earth are you going to do with him if we do find him?”

Lestrade had no answer. He rose and nodded to Holmes and said his good byes to me and left us, closing the door loudly as he let himself out into the street.

*

~~~~~


Chapter Three – No rest for the Weary

“Holmes, how are we to find this man?” I had thought of little else the rest of the day but Holmes had not been in any mood to talk about it. He’d read the papers silently then played his violin, much to my and Mrs. Hudson’s dismay.

On the best of days, his playing was very nice. He could have hired himself out as a chamber musician. But on days that he was upset or was deep in thought, the thing sounded like the catgut strings were being removed from the cat as it lived.

He finally stopped sometime late in the afternoon. That’s when I asked him the question. He still didn’t answer me immediately.

“I do not know. We know they did not fight him but the women were all prostitutes and were used to being ill treated so maybe that means little except that perhaps they did not suffer greatly as he appears to have killed them before he did more.”

“I thought the same.”

Holmes raised his head and smiled at me. “Always thinking, are you?”

“Now and again, Holmes.”

“I think our man is fairly young. The witnesses place him in his twenties and of medium height, about your height perhaps.”

“That could be half of London.”

Holmes raised a brow at me. “It could even be you, Watson. Lestrade says the police think he’s a doctor.”

“Perhaps it was you. You’re no stranger to such things. You were beating a corpse in the medical school when I met you, if you’ll remember.”

“I daresay it was neither of us but who knows what Lestrade and his band of buffoons at Scotland Yard might come up with? I do know one thing. He is not done. He will strike again.”

I nodded, sure of that too. This man had a taste for killing and it seemed to fill some awful, inhuman need in him. The only way he’d ever stop would be by force. I wondered if Holmes and I were going to have to be the force that stopped him.

When the afternoon papers came, we read the stories about the killer, Jack the Ripper they were calling him as he’d supposedly named himself. I had my doubts about the letter in the paper. But the name fit all too well.

I normally kept office hours for my surgery but I had promised that I would work at the hospital that evening so I left Holmes alone. It was a busy night and passed quickly. I was able to leave about five in the morning and was hoping to grab a bite when I got home then get a nap before Holmes arose and took up the rest of my day with our new investigation.

Alas, he was waiting for me when I got in.

“It’s not yet daylight and I have a cab coming to take us to Berner Street. We shall walk from there to Mitre Square. If we are lucky, we can accomplish this before daylight is full upon us.”

I sighed and went to change clothes. There was little use to argue. He’d have his way in the end so I might as well go with him without protest now. It would save time.

We rode to Whitechapel in silence. I was tired and may have even dozed a bit. It was indeed still dark when we got there. I stayed in the cab while Sherlock got out at the scene where Liz Striker was found. He milled about for a bit then came back to the cab. We then rode to the last scene and he did the same.

I was ready to be home and to try to get some sleep but we kept going, visiting the first and second murder sites then going to the police station to look at files and photographs from these murders too.

I say we but I must admit that I was too exhausted to pay much attention to anything at that point. It was early afternoon when we finally got back home. I said nothing to anyone, just went to my bedchamber and fell across the bed still dressed. It was dark when I awoke.

Holmes was sitting beside the window looking out into the street. He did not turn when I came into the room.

“Mrs. Hudson has dinner warm for you downstairs. She said just to ring and she’d bring it up.”

I nodded and rang. Mrs. Hudson came bustling up the stairs with a tray and set it on the table for me.

“Mr. Holmes, I brought you some tea.”

He absently thanked her while I sat down and began to eat.

“Have you heard about the awful business in Whitechapel?” Mrs. Hudson read the papers as voraciously as Holmes and I did.

“We have indeed, Mrs. Hudson,” I answered her as I poured my tea and buttered the warm rolls she’d brought.

“I hope they find the man who did it. No one deserves to die so horribly. No one.”

I certainly agreed with that but I did not tell her that Holmes was working on the case though I suspect she knew. Little got by our landlady. Holmes griped quite a bit about her being nosy or her trying to make him eat or any other trivial little thing he could come up with but I suspect he secretly liked that she was concerned for his welfare. I know I was pleased that she was concerned for both of us.

*

~~~~~




Chapter Four – Questions and Answers

Lestrade was at our door again early the next day. He brought more information and this time, he brought an original card from ‘Saucy Jack’ for us to see and read. It was written in a decent hand and I could read it easily.

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. ha not the time to get ears for police. thanks for keeping last letter back till I got to work again.

Jack the Ripper

It seemed to refer to the earlier letter and to the murder of Catherine Eddowes, in which he cut off her ear. It had fallen out of her clothes when she was being cleaned in the morgue. This card was sent to the Central News Agency, as same as the first one. Holmes took the card and smelled of it and then looked at it front and back for several long minutes without saying anything at all.

He handed it back to Lestrade. “It could be anyone who reads the early editions of the paper writing these.”

“I know sir, but it’s all we have. Or at least the best of what we have. ”

Holmes nodded and handed it back.

“Are there any witnesses?”

“None that saw the murders but three fellows claim they saw the dead woman with a man about fifteen minutes before she was found. I can get you their names and addresses if you like.”

“I’d like to talk to the first policeman on the scene too, if I might. I didn’t talk to anyone yesterday.”

“Would you like to see them at the station?”

“In Whitechapel? No. I think not. Perhaps Scotland Yard instead.”

“I’ll see what I can do, Mr. Holmes.”

Lestrade left us to arrange for the interviews and I went downstairs for tea. Holmes was saying very little and I knew that meant he had something on his mind, though I didn’t know if it had to do with the case yet or not.

He was never easy to get on with even at the best of times but he could be rather aggravating when he was in one of his moods. I knew there was no use in asking him anything. He’d talk when and if he wanted to. Nothing could make him do so before he was ready.

I had some patients scheduled at my office in the afternoon anyway. I tried to keep up my practice as well as aiding Holmes in his investigations but sometimes it was difficult, there being only so many hours in a day and a human need to use part of those hours for sleeping.

Even my patients were chattering about Jack the Ripper. Such brutality brings out the curiosity in people, if nothing else. Of course, they all asked if I thought he was a doctor and did I know anyone who’d do such a thing.

Of course I didn’t know anyone like that and I told them so. I did not tell them that I expected that I’d meet him in the next few weeks as Holmes and I searched for him. I did not look forward to it at all.

I arrived home late and as usual, Mrs. Hudson had dinner for me.

“I’m sure he’s all right but I’ve not heard a peep out of him all day, not even his footsteps in the apartment,” she told me as she poured my tea. She worried about Holmes as if he were her own son sometimes. So did I, for that matter, but it usually did neither of us any good. Holmes was Holmes and neither of us was likely to change him in the least.

I ate at her table rather than go up just yet. Mrs. Hudson and I talked about the weather, my day and hers, anything to keep from having to talk about Holmes.

Finally I could stall no longer and excused myself to go to our apartments.

Holmes was sitting by the window again, looking out into the street.

“I’m home.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Mrs. Hudson says you’ve not stirred all day.”

“Does she have so little to do that she has time to spy on me?”

“You know she worries.”

He made a rather rude sound.

“We are to go to the police station in the morning. There are three witnesses who we shall talk to as well as the first policeman on the scene at the Eddowes murder. I am also planning to speak to the doctor who did the post mortem on Miss Eddowes.”

“Did Lestrade come by here then?”

“No. He sent a message.”

“Have you decided why someone is doing these things?”

“I have some idea but I do not want to speak of it yet.”

I nodded. This was not unlike Holmes. He often worked things out in his head all the way to the ending scenario before he enlightened me.

I went to bed early, still suffering from my lack of sleep in the previous days. I was asleep by the time my head hit the pillow.

Morning took us to the police station and into an interview room set up by Inspector Lestrade.

There had been three men who saw a man and a woman supposed to be Miss Eddowes standing at the corner of Duke Street and Church Passage. The men were Joseph Lavender, Joseph Levy and Harry Harris.

“So tell us what you saw, Mr. Lavender,” Holmes leaned across the table.

Lavender did not seem to be very intimidated by us. Perhaps he was simply exhausted from being asked over and over again what he’d seen that night. Perhaps he thought we thought him a suspect.

“I saw them and he was shabby, maybe about thirty and five foot nine in height. He had fair hair and a fair moustache. He was wearing a red neckerchief and cap with a peak.”

“Was he a sailor?”

“Maybe… the coppers asked me that and then told me he wasn’t when I said he might have been.”

“Would you know him if you saw him again?”

Lavender shook his head. “I don’t know that I would, sir. I really just got a glance.”

The other two men had little to add, nothing as a matter of fact. Levy smirked as if he knew something but I think he was just enjoying being the center of attention, sort of like those who confess to every crime that comes up just for the attention. Harry Harris said he knew nothing and refused to say more.

These three were Jewish immigrants and perhaps they simply did not wish to become involved out of fear that they’d be blamed simply because of who they were. It would not be the first time such a thing had happened in London. Many of the residents of Whitechapel were Russian and Polish Jews who’d escaped one persecution only to find another sort of persecution on the dingy streets of London.

Constable Watkins had found the body and he said he was walking his beat on Duke Street at 1:30 and saw nothing but found her at 1:45 on his next pass through the area.

Next we talked to Dr. Brown, the police surgeon who did the post mortem. He said she’d been killed then cut up and that he was sure she was killed right where she lay. He said the apron piece found on Goulston Street had been part of an apron that Miss Eddowes was wearing. Evidently the killer had cut it with his knife to clean either his hands or his knife.

That was it for our day. We went to a small restaurant for dinner and arrived home rather late, having actually discussed the case a bit at dinner.

It would be a few weeks before there was anything new other than accusations and arrests of men who had solid alibis. There were many of those before the month was out.

*
~~~~~




Chapter Five – From Hell

Things quieted down in Whitechapel over the next few weeks. I worked in the surgery long hours each day while Holmes did some small cases that did not require my presence. We read the morning and evening papers, which still featured much about the Ripper, a lot of it speculation and sensationalism designed to sell more papers.

Then all hell broke loose again.

George Lusk was the chairman of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee and his name and address were plastered all over the area on posters asking for information on the identity of the murderer. He got hundreds of letters and such from people who needed or wanted to be involved somehow. One of the packages he got was very strange. On October 16th, a package was delivered to his home. Mr. Lusk opened the package and found two things: a letter and half of a kidney. For some reason that I simply cannot understand, he decided this was a hoax and started to toss it out. He, instead, put them in his desk drawer for safekeeping.

The next day, the Vigilance Committee met and Mr. Lusk brought out his package and showed it to the other men. They did not believe it a prank and convinced him to show it to a Dr. Frederick Wiles and they headed to his office. His assistant was there though the doctor was not and told them the kidney looked human to him.

It hit the papers on the 19th and we got invited by Charles Warren, head of the Metropolitan Police, to take a look at both the letter and the kidney. The letter was crude and the grammar was awful, not like the ones Holmes and I had seen before.

Here is the text of the letter:

"From hell

Mr Lusk

Sor
I send you half the Kidne I took from one women preserved it for you the other piece I fried and ate it was very nice. I may send you the bloody knif that took it out if you only wate a while longer

signed
Catch me when you can Mishter Lusk"

And the kidney…

It was a left kidney of something. I knew that Dr. Wiles’ medical student said it was human as did several other doctors but I wasn’t even sure it was that. It has been my experience that pig kidneys look quite like human ones. It had been preserved in wine too but that means nothing at all.

We were looking at the kidney in the Police Station.

“So Holmes, is it a hoax?”

“The letter most likely is and I must assume the kidney is also.”

“Why do you say so?”

“It’s too convenient, my dear fellow. And too sensational. It’s as if the whole thing is being staged to impress someone.”

“The letters or the killings?”

Holmes deliberately did not answer me.

I gave my opinion that the kidney was that of a pig. Some of the policemen seemed disappointed. I wasn’t sure what to make of that. Perhaps they’d gotten caught up in the macabre excitement of Saucy Jack and his awful actions. Perhaps they simply thought any clue would bring them a step closer to finding him and stopping his evil work.

One thing I did know was that we had not come up with any suspects yet. We’d read the notes from several interviews and even sat in on some interviews but none of the men the police talked to was the killer. The murderer was still a complete mystery.

When we got home, a very agitated young man was waiting for us outside.

“Are ye Master Holmes?” He asked me and I shook my head and nodded toward Holmes.”

“What can I do for you?” Holmes stepped down from our cab onto the street in front of 221 Baker Street.

“It’s me Da… he tends bar at the Prancing Pony and the owner has accused him of stealing from the till.”

“Does he steal from the till?”

The boy looked angry at Holmes’ question. “My Da’s no thief!”

Holmes smiled. “Come up then and we’ll see if we can help you.”

We all went up to our rooms and Mrs. Hudson offered tea. The boy declined but Holmes had her bring tea and some finger foods. I knew it was because the boy looked underfed and rather shabbily dressed.

After the tea was brought, the boy gave in and had a cup, along with some food. I ate too so he’d not feel that we felt sorry for him, even though we did.

“So tell me about your father.”

“My Da’s name is James Murphy and he is the barman at the Prancing Pony. His boss, Mr. Martin, said Da is stealing from him. He says he’s going to have him sent away for it. Mr. Holmes, Da’s an honest man and I don’t know what we’ll do if he’s sent away. There’s just him and us, my brother and me. Our Ma died when we were little and Da’s looked out for us all by his self since then.”

“Dr. Watson and I shall look into it. We’ll see that your father does not get sent away. He may have to find another place to pour drinks but he’ll not be sent away. What is your name, son?”

“I’m Jimmy Murphy, named for him, I am.”

And he was gone.

Holmes looked at me. “The owner is either spending his money on women or is gambling his money away and is blaming Mr. Murphy to keep his business partners or his wife from finding out.”

“I’d think so. Shall we find out which?”

“Perhaps you could look into it. I have some other matters to take care of.”

I raised an eyebrow at him but didn’t ask. I knew he’d tell me if he wanted me to know and no amount of questioning could get it out of him if he didn’t want to talk about it.

“Very well. I shall have a drink at the Prancing Pony first. The boy could be wrong about his father too.”

I called for a cab to deliver me to the pub and set about dressing for an evening of tossing back a few pints. That was something I actually looked forward to.

*

~~~~~




Chapter Six – The Prancing Pony Diversion

The Prancing Pony was a rather nice little pub and I spotted Murphy right away, for young Jimmy looked just like a miniature of him. I got a pint for myself and settled in to watch but I was soon drawn into a game of cards. It was a friendly enough game but I never do know quite when to stop betting so I left a few hours later with only enough to pay my cab when I got home.

James Murphy was indeed a nice seeming fellow. The patrons of the pub seemed quite fond of him and gave him a good word as he moved about the tables, delivering drinks along with his one little barwench, a lovely blond who looked as if she belonged in a drawing room instead of a pub. I could not see any foolery between her and Murphy or any of the patrons either.

Was she the owner’s lady? I hadn’t found out but I did ask who owned the place and got an earful from one of the men playing cards.

“Martin? Why he’s a bastard if ever there was one! He never lets us keep tabs and makes poor Katie and James pay out of their pockets if there’s not enough money to account for every pint by the end of the night,” one middle-aged fellow with ruddy cheeks and rough hands said.

“Donnie’s right. He ain’t got a drop of good in ‘im!” This was from the bespectacled shopkeeper who was winning most of the hands. “He cheats on his wife too!”

This made my ears prick up. “Lots of men do that.”

“Not one with a wife as pretty as his. Looks like a princess, she does,” the third man at the table chimed in. “My Molly says she’s as nice as she is pretty too. Molly does some cleaning for her sometimes and she says Mrs. Martin is a real lady.”

“I’d never cheat on my wife if I had one,” I laughed. “I don’t fancy being hit on the head with a frying pan!”

They all laughed and we moved onto another subject. I’d paid up what I owed the barman and gave the girl a tip too and headed home with my empty pockets and my suspicions about Mr. Martin.

Holmes was out when I got home and Mrs. Hudson had already gone to bed. I decided to read the evening papers and lit a few lamps to brighten up the place. Holmes could sit in the dark for hours but not me. I went through the papers, reading everything I could find about the Whitechapel murders. There was nothing new and I had not really expected anything but it never hurt to check.

I was tired from another long day and a bit too much to drink so I went to bed about ten and didn’t move until the next morning when Holmes woke me. He was just coming in and not being at all quiet about it. I assumed that this was his way of making sure I was awake and ready to be of service. Sometimes he annoyed me to no end but I usually didn’t mind. There was never a dull moment with Holmes about and he certainly needed someone to keep him out of trouble most of the time, someone who thought of the practical things, like paying the rent on time or fetching tobacco when our supplies were getting low.

“Good morning, Watson. What did you find out last night?”

“Murphy is well thought of at the pub and Martin, the owner, is despised by the patrons. Martin has a beautiful wife who he’s cheating on and she’s also well thought of. Evidently one of the patrons’ wives does her cleaning and says she’s a fine person.”

“Claire Martin is a daughter of a wealthy man. Our Mr. Martin thinks to raise his status through her.” So he had been making enquiries.

“So why would he cheat on her?”

“Maybe she’s too ladylike for his taste?”

“Holmes, a practical man would not do anything to wreck his good name with her family.”

“Since when are men practical? How many men have you known ruled by their lusts or their greed instead of their good sense?”

I nodded. “You’re right.”

“His father-in-law loaned him the money to buy the pub.”

“Why would a woman cost him so much?”

“Maybe she’s blackmailing him or maybe someone else is.”

“I guess that’s what I need to find out. Where did you find out who his wife is, by the way?”

“I went to visit my brother and he knows someone who knows everyone, it seems, and he got the information for me.”

I was surprised that Holmes would visit Mycroft for such a small case. He tried not to ask his brother for favors if he could avoid doing so. It didn’t even occur to me that he might have gone to Mycroft for another reason all together.

Holmes hired his boys to watch Mr. Martin and report back to us what they found out. He laughingly called them the Baker Street Irregulars, his band of ruffian children, but they would do anything for ‘Mr. ‘olmes,’ as they called him. He never hesitated to throw them a few pence for their favors and that went a long way with them.

In two days time, we got a report from them. Mr. Martin had been seen riding around in a carriage in a random sort of way until he picked up a young man on the street corner. He drove the man around the block and then let him out at the same corner. The boys followed the man as he went to a house occupied by a spinster lady named Agnes Wayne.

Agnes Wayne was no doddering old spinster though. Agnes Wayne was in her mid-forties and looked perhaps thirty-five. She had a reputation as a woman who knew what she wanted and got it, then discarded it when she was through with it. Apparently Mr. Martin was one of the things she’d discarded and she was extorting money from him to keep quiet about the whole thing.

“So how can we fix this so James Murphy doesn’t end up without a job?” I still was more concerned for James Murphy and his Jimmy than for the other people involved in the little drama.

“Perhaps Agnes Wayne can be persuaded to stop blackmailing Martin?” Holmes said.

“Or maybe Mr. Martin needs to be scared into the truth.”

“Maybe someone in Her Majesty’s Service should speak to Agnes Wayne.”

“Mycroft?” I asked.

“Me.”

“You?” I knew he could disguise himself to be almost anyone but I was uneasy about this.

“I can have Mycroft verify me if someone asks.”

The plan was that Sherlock would simply go to Agnes and explain that Mr. Martin was doing some undercover work for the Crown and that there would be dire consequences for anyone who caused a scandal for any reason concerning him. She would be advised to cut her losses and forget she ever knew him.

Tomorrow we would carry it out.

*
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Chapter Seven – Another Missive

Holmes was gone when I got up. I had no idea what he looked like when he went out. His disguises usually fooled even me. I had a leisurely breakfast and read the dailies in his absence.

Ripper fever, as I had begun to think of it, was still high. The ‘From Hell’ letter had been splattered all over the front pages of nearly every paper in London and its awful contents had everyone talking. The thoughts of cannibalism sold many papers in the days following the letter’s publication. All of London waited with baited breath to find out who the Ripper was. He had to be some mad yet brilliant man to do the things he’d done almost under the nose of the police and yet remain undetected.

Would we find him? I had my doubts.

I hoped Holmes was able to solve young Jimmy Murphy’s problem today. There was little I could do about any of it until he returned home. I went to my office up in the morning to see patients and had a few house calls to make as well so it was early evening before I got back to Baker Street.

Holmes was there when I arrived. He was still disguised as a dandified gentleman.

“There you are, Watson. Mr. Martin is not going to make any more problems for James Murphy or his son. A rather well dressed and well spoken member of Her Majesty’s Service spoke with both Martin and Miss Wayne and they will no longer trouble anyone with their schemes, under threat of jail and exposure to the press.”

“You are a bold man, Holmes, passing yourself off as a servant of the crown.”

“As it turned out, my brother said that Miss Wayne had many more secrets than just her affection for Mr. Martin and she was rather easy to persuade as her own brother is interested in politics.”

“How will Murphy know?”

“Well, it turns out that Mr. Martin stopped by the Prancing Pony and told Mr. Murphy that the missing money turned out to be a bookkeeping error on the part of his accountant and that Mr. Murphy had nothing further to worry about.”

I clapped Holmes on the back. “Well done!”

He cleaned his face and changed his clothes and was once again Sherlock Holmes.

“Holmes, why did you visit Mycroft?”

“I wanted to ask him a few questions?”

“About the killer?”

“Not exactly but about something related to the killer. I figured he would have more knowledge than Scotland Yard. I have not often found them to be as brilliant as they find themselves.”

I had to laugh at that. It was an understatement to say the least. Holmes often thought that Scotland Yard made such a mess at a crime that no one could possibly glean any evidence or information from anything once they’d been in the vicinity. They touched everything, moved everything, stepped on all the footprints and generally made Holmes’ work twice as hard as it had to be. It truly was a miracle that they ever solved a crime.

“What would that be?”

“Just an idea for now. I will inform you later if it works out to have any merit.”

I nodded. That was all I would find out for now. Holmes would tell me when he was ready and that was that.

The day went by with little more from the Ripper though the notes and letters kept flying into the police station and to the newspapers. Unrest was growing and people wanted answers. They wanted the crown to offer a reward for information on the killer or killers and I even read some flyers and newspapers asking for any information, even from accomplices of the killer.

I didn’t think he had any accomplices and I didn’t think he’d get caught unless he wanted to. I wasn’t altogether thrilled with our involvement in the whole thing either. I did not see it as a feather in our cap at all.

On October 24, a note arrived in the post addressed to Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, 221B Baker Street, London. It had no return address on it and the postmark was a little blurred but it appeared to have been mailed at our local post office.

Do you thnk you can stop me – Il sind some red to
Thay all must DIE! Mor fun fr me.
Nd you cant stop ME.

Signed
Yor frind in Whitchapl


Holmes opened it and handed it to me.

“At least he didn’t send us a body part. I suppose we should let Scotland Yard know about it and I’d like to compare it to the kidney letter. The misspellings seem as contrived as those did and I want to see if the handwriting matches.”

I sent a boy to Lestrade with a message straightaway. The policeman was there before I thought the boy had time to find him.

“I have come to take the letter,” he said as he came in the door.

“That’s not going to happen, my dear Lestrade. I do require you to bring Mr. Lusk’s letter here so Watson and I might compare the writing.”

Lestrade looked like he might explode for a moment then he nodded. “May I read it, sir?”

Holmes handed him the letter. He read it and handed it back.

“At least he didn’t send you any body parts, did he?”

“Sadly, no. I might have gotten a clue from one.”

We went to the station and compared letters. The handwriting closely matched Mr. Lusk’s letter. Even though it told us the same person sent both letters, we still had no idea who this man was. He was said to be many things: doctor, butcher, madman, genius. Perhaps he was all of them and more. He was also invisible when he set about his evil business on the streets of London. Perhaps if we knew how he was invisible, we could catch him.

“Perhaps the head of the investigations for the Metropolitan Police and the City Police can give us a better idea of where the police are in their investigation,” I said to Holmes.

“That we are given access to most everything they have tells me that they are completely without real suspects or any real idea of who this man is.”

“I suppose so but I think we could still get something from interviewing Commissioner Anderson at the Metropolitan.”

“If you wish but I will not waste my time.”

“What will you be doing?”

“I have a few ideas,” was all he’d say.

*
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