A Study in Terror

Chapter III Whitechapel

“By the way, Holmes, whatever became of Wiggins?” I asked the question late the following morning in the rooms at Baker Street.

We had had a buffet supper the previous evening at the station after our return from Shires Castle, whereupon Holmes had said, “The young American pianist, Benton, plays at Albert Hall tonight. I recommend him highly, Watson.”

“I was not aware that the States had produced any great pianoforte talents.”

Holmes had laughed. “Come, come, my dear fellow! Let the Americans go. It has been more than a century now, and they have been doing quite well over there.”

“You wish me to accompany you? I should be delighted.”

“I was suggesting the concert for your evening. I have a few investigations in mind which are better made at night.”

“In that case, I prefer the easy-chair by the fire and one of your fascinating books.”

“I recommend one I recently acquired, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, by an American lady named Stowe. A lugubrious work, meant to stir the nation to correct a great injustice. It was, I believe, one of the causes of the War Between the States. Well, I must be off. Perhaps I shall join you in a night-cap later.”

Holmes, however, returned very late, after I was abed. He did not awaken me, so that our next meeting was at breakfast. I hoped for an account of his night’s work, but none was forthcoming. Nor did he appear to be in haste to get on with things, lounging lazily in his mouse-coloured dressing-gown over his tea and clouding the room with heavy exhalations from his beloved clay pipe.

Came a sudden clatter upon the stairs, and there rushed into the room a dozen of the dirtiest, most ragged urchins in all London. They were Holmes’s incredible band of street Arabs, whom he called variously “the Baker Street division of the detective police force,” his “unofficial force,” and “the Baker Street irregulars.”

“ ‘Tention!” snapped Holmes; and the urchins struggled into a ragged line and presented their begrimed little faces in what they evidently took to be a military posture.

“Now, have you found it?”

“Yes, sir, we have,” replied one of the band.

“It was me, sir!” cut in another eagerly as he grinned, showing gaps where three teeth were wanting.

“Very good,” said Holmes, sternly, “but we work as a unit. No individual glory, men. One for all and all for one.”

“Yes, sir,” came the chorus.

“The report?”

“It’s in Whitechapel.”

“On Great Heapton Street, near the pass-over. The street is narrow there, sir.”

“Very good,” said Holmes again. “Here is your pay. Now be off with you.”

He gave each urchin a shining shilling. They clattered happily away, as they had come, and we soon heard their shrill young voices from below.

Now Holmes knocked the dottle from his pipe. “Wiggins? Oh, he did very well. Joined her Majesty’s forces. My last note from him was post-marked Africa.”

“He was a sharp youngster, as I recall.”

“So are they all. And London’s supply of the little beggars never diminishes. But I have an inquiry to make. Let us be off.”

It took no feat of intellect to predict our destination. So I was not surprised when we stood before a pawn-shop window on Great Heap-ton, in Whitechapel. The street, as Holmes had deduced and the urchins confirmed, was narrow, with high buildings on the side opposite the shop. When we arrived, the sun was just cutting a line across the glass, the inscription upon which read: Joseph Beck―Loans.

Holmes pointed to the display in the window. “The kit sat there, Watson. Do you see where the sun strikes?”

I could only nod my head. Accustomed though I was to the unerring keenness of his judgements, the proof never ceased to amaze me.

Inside the shop, we were greeted by a pudgy man of middle-age whose moustaches were heavily waxed and drilled into military points. Joseph Beck was the archetype of German tradesmen, and his efforts to produce a Prussian effect were ludicrous.

“May I be of service, sirs?” His English was thickly accented.

I presume, in that neighbourhood, we were a cut above his usual run of clients; possibly he hoped to acquire a pledge of high value. He actually clicked his heels and came to attention.

“A friend,” said Holmes, “recently made me a gift, a surgeon’s-case purchased in your shop.”

Herr Beck’s protuberant little eyes turned sly. “Yes?”

“But one of the instruments was missing from the case. I should like to complete the set. Do you have some surgical instruments from which I might select the missing one?”

“I am afraid, sir, I cannot help you.” The pawnbroker was clearly disappointed.

“Do you recall the set I refer to, the transaction?”

“Ach, yes, sir. It took place a week ago, and I get very few such articles. But the set was complete when the woman redeemed it and carried it away. Did she tell you one instrument was missing?”

“I do not recall,” Holmes said, in an off-hand manner. “The point is that you cannot help me now.”

“I am sorry, sir. I have no surgical instruments of any description.”

Holmes pretended petulance. “All the way down here for nothing! You have caused me great inconvenience, Beck.”

The man looked astonished. “You are being unreasonable, sir. I do not see how I am responsible for what occurred after the case left my shop.”

Holmes shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose not,” said he, carelessly. “But it is a nuisance. I came a long distance.”

“But, sir, if you had inquired of the poor creature who redeemed the set―”

“The poor creature? I don’t understand.”

The severity of Holmes’s tone frightened the man. With the tradesman’s instinct to please, he hastened to apologise. “Forgive me, sir. My heart went out to the woman. In fact, I let her have the case at a too generous price. Her terribly disfigured face has haunted me.”

“Ah,” murmured Holmes. “I see.” He was turning away in clever disappointment when his hawk’s-face brightened. “A thought occurs to me. The man who originally pledged the case―if I could get in touch with him…”

“I doubt it, sir. It was some time ago.”

“How long?”

“I would have to consult my ledger.”

Frowning, he produced a ledger from underneath the counter and thumbed through it. “Here it is. Why, it has been almost four months. How time flies!”

“Quite,” agreed Holmes, drily. “You have the name and address of the man?”

“It was not a man, sir. It was a lady.”

Holmes and I glanced at each other. “I see,” said Holmes. “Well, even after four months, it might still be worth an effort. What is her name, pray?”

The pawn-broker peered at his ledger. “Young. Miss Sally Young.”

“Her address?”

“The Montague Street Hostel.”

“Odd place of residence,” I ventured.

“Yes, mein Herr. It is in the heart of Whitechapel. A dangerous place these days.”

“Indeed it is. Good-day to you,” said Holmes, civilly. “You have been most accommodating.”

As we walked away from the pawn-shop, Holmes laughed softly. “A type who must be adroitly handled, this Joseph Beck. One can lead him great distances, but he cannot be pushed an inch.”

“I thought he cooperated handsomely.”

“Indeed he did. But the least odour of officialdom in our inquiry and we should not have pried the time of day out of him.”

“Your theory that the scalpel was removed as a symbolical gesture, Holmes, has been proved correct.”

“Perhaps, though the fact is of no great value. But now, a visit to the Montague Street Hostel and Miss Sally Young seems in order. I’m sure you have formed opinions as to the stations of the two females we are seeking?”

“Of course. The one who pawned the set was clearly in straitened financial circumstances.”

“A possibility, Watson, though far from a certainty.”

“If not, why did she pledge the set?”

“I am inclined to think it was a service she rendered a second party. Some-one who was unable or did not care to appear personally at the pawn-shop. A surgeon’s-kit is hardly an article one would expect to find a lady owning. And as to the woman who redeemed the pledge?”

“We know nothing of her except that she sustained some injury to the face. Perhaps she is a victim of the Ripper, who escaped death at his hands?”

“Capital, Watson! An admirable hypothesis. However, the point that struck me involves something a little different. You will remember that Herr Beck referred to the one who redeemed the case as a woman, while he spoke in a more respectful tone of the pledger as a lady. Hence, we are safe in assuming that Miss Sally Young is a person to command some respect.”

“Of course. Holmes. The implications, I am frank to admit, escaped me.”

“The redeemer is no doubt of a lower order.

She could well be a prostitute. Certainly this neighbourhood abounds with such unfortunates.”

Montague Street lay at no great distance; it was less than a twenty-minute walk from the pawn-shop. It proved to be a short thoroughfare connecting Purdy Court and Olmstead Circus, the latter being well-known as a refuge for London’s swarms of beggars. We turned into Montague Street and had progressed only a few steps when Holmes halted. “Aha! What have we here?”

My glance followed his to a sign over an archway of ancient stone, displaying a single word, Mortuary. I do not see myself as especially sensitive, but as I gazed into the murky depths of the tunnel-like entrance, the same depression of spirit came over me that I had experienced at first sight of the Shires Castle.

“This is no hostel, Holmes,” said I. “Unless a sanctuary for the dead can be called such!”

“Let us suspend judgement until we investigate,” replied he; and he pushed open a creaking door that led into a cobbled courtyard.

“There is the smell of death here, without a doubt,” said I.

“And very recent death, Watson. Else why should our friend Lestrade be on the premises?”

Two men stood in conversation at the far side of the courtyard, and Holmes had identified the one of them more quickly than I. It was indeed Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, even leaner and more ferret-like than I recalled him.

Lestrade turned at the tramp of our footsteps. An expression of surprise came over his face. “Mr. ’Olmes! What are you doing here?”

“How good to see you, Lestrade!” exclaimed Holmes, with a warm smile. “It is heartening to find Scotland Yard dutifully following where crime leads.”

“You needn’t be sarcastic,” grumbled Lestrade.

“Nerves, man? Something seems to have you by the short hairs.”

“If you don’t know what it is, you didn’t read the paper this morning,” said Lestrade, shortly.

“As a matter of fact, I did not.”

The police officer turned to acknowledge my presence. “Dr. Watson. It has been a long time since our paths crossed.”

“Far too long, Inspector Lestrade. You are well, I trust?”

“A bit of lumbago now and again. I’ll survive.” Then he added darkly, “At least until I see this Whitechapel maniac dragged to the gallows.”

“The Ripper again?” asked Holmes, sharply.

“The very same. The fifth attack, Mr. ’Olmes. You have, of course, read about him, although I haven’t heard of you coming ’round to offer your services.”

Holmes did not parry the thrust. Instead, his eyes flicked in my direction. “We draw closer, Watson.”

“What was that?” exclaimed Lestrade.

“The fifth, you said? No doubt you mean the fifth official murder?”

“Official or not, ’Olmes―”

“What I meant was that you cannot be sure. You have found the bodies of five of the Ripper’s victims. But others may have been dismembered and thoroughly disposed of.”

“A cheerful thought,” muttered Lestrade.

“This ‘fifth’ victim. I should like to view the body.”

“Inside. Oh, this is Dr. Murray. He is in charge here.”

Dr. Murray was a cadaverous man, with a deathlike complection, and a poised manner which impressed me favourably. His attitude reflected the inner resignation one often finds in those who deal intimately with the dead. He acknowledged Lestrade’s introduction with a bow, and said, “I do officiate here, but I had rather posterity remembered me as director of the hostel next door. It affords greater opportunity for service. The poor wretches who come here are beyond aid.”

“Let’s get on with it,” interrupted Lestrade, and conducted us through a door. A strong carbolic-acid odour greeted us, an odour I had grown to know too well in her Majesty’s Indian service.

The room into which we were shown demonstrated how little is ever done to confer dignity upon the dead. It was less a room than a long, wide passageway, each inch of whose walls and ceiling was tastelessly whitewashed. One entire side consisted of a raised platform, upon which rude wooden tables jutted out at intervals. Fully half the tables were occupied by sheeted, still figures; but Lestrade led us to the far end.

There, another platform stood, with its table and sheeted morsel of humanity. This platform was slightly higher, and so placed that a sign, The Corpse for To-day, might well have seemed appropriate.

“Annie Chapman,” said Lestrade, morosely. “The latest victim of our butcher.” With that, he drew back the sheet.

Holmes was the most objective of men where crime was concerned, but a grim pity invaded his face. And I must confess that I―accustomed to death both in the bed and upon the battlefield―was sickened. The girl had been slaughtered like an animal.

To my amazement, I saw what appeared to be disappointment supplant the pity upon Holmes’s face. “The face is not scarred,” he murmured, as if in complaint.

“The Ripper does not mutilate the faces of his victims,” said Lestrade. “He confines his attentions to the more private parts of the body.”

Holmes had turned cold and analytical. He could now have been regarding a specimen in a dissection-room. He touched my arm. “Note the skill of this unholy work, Watson. It verifies what we have read in the journals. The fiend does not cut at random.”

Inspector Lestrade was scowling. “There is certainly nothing skilful in that slash across the abdomen, ’Olmes. The Ripper used a butcher’s cleaver for that one.”

“Before the abdomen was dissected, possibly with a surgeon’s scalpel,” muttered Holmes.

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. “That second blow, the one to the heart. It was done by a cleaver, also.”

“The left breast was removed with consummate skill, Lestrade,” said I, with a shudder.

“The Ripper’s surgery varies. Its skill seems to depend upon the time that is available to him. In some cases there has been scarcely any, cases in which he was interrupted in his devil’s work.”

“I am compelled to alter certain superficial ideas I had formed.” Holmes appeared to be speaking to himself rather than to us. “A madman, certainly. But a clever one. Perhaps a brilliant one.”

“Then you admit, Mr. ’Olmes, that the Yard is contending with no blundering idiot?”

“Most assuredly, Lestrade. And I shall be happy to give you whatever aid my limited powers allow.”

This widened Lestrade’s eyes. He had never before heard Holmes deprecate his own talents.

The policeman searched for a suitable rejoinder, but apparently such was his astonishment that he could find none.

He recovered sufficiently, however, to voice his standard plaint. “And if you are lucky enough to apprehend the fiend―”

“I seek no credit, Lestrade,” said Holmes. “Rest assured, the Yard shall reap the glory.” He paused, then added, gloomily, “If there is any.” He turned to Dr. Murray. “I wonder if we may be permitted to inspect your hostel, Doctor?”

Dr. Murray bowed. “I should be honoured, Mr. Holmes.”

At that moment a door opened, and a pathetic figure appeared. There was much about the shuffling creature to pity, but I was struck first by the total vacancy in his eyes. The expressionless features, the sagging, partially-open mouth, bespoke an idiot. The man shuffled forward and stepped upon the platform. He cast a look of empty inquiry at Dr. Murray, who smiled as one smiles at a child.

“Ah, Pierre. You may cover the body.”

A spark of eagerness appeared on that vacuous countenance. I could not help thinking of a faithful dog given a chore by a kindly master. Then Dr. Murray gestured, and we moved away from the platform.

“I’ll be off,” said Lestrade, sniffing wrinkle-nosed at the carbolic. “If there is any information you require, Mr. ’Olmes,” said he, politely, “do not hesitate to call upon me.”

“Thank you, Lestrade,” said Holmes, with equal courtesy. The two detectives had evidently decided to call a truce until the morbid affair could be resolved―the first such truce between them, I might add, that ever I was aware of.

As we quitted the charnel-house, I glanced back and saw Pierre smoothing the sheet carefully over the body of Annie Chapman. Holmes, I noted, also glanced in the simpleton’s direction, and something kindled in his grey eyes.