The Last Confession of Sherlock Holmes Page 11

  “Savage!” spat Lestrade.

  “It would be unwise to harbour such prejudices, Lestrade,” Holmes replied. “Difficult though it is, we must try to remain emotionally unengaged in all cases. The atrocities Jack the Ripper has committed are adequate to blind any man with contemptuous rage, but we must keep him from pulling the blood-soaked wool over our eyes, and look only at the facts.”

  “And which facts do you consider noteworthy, Mr Holmes?” said Abberline.

  “They are thus: he strikes always between twelve and six in the morning and always upon a weekend; his victims are always women, and more specifically, nightwalkers. He always uses a knife, with great skill and increasingly terrible violence. Each murder has left only the slightest trace of evidence, and is never sufficient to guide us down the correct path. His actions and continuing freedom suggest that he is a ruthless man with a meticulous logic and an education of the highest order.”

  “Not unlike yourself then, Mr Holmes,” Abberline sneered.

  “In some respects, no,” he replied. “We must remain careful, gentlemen, be mindful of these facts, but do not let them prejudice your judgment when we arrive. If we begin to theorise before we have the facts, we shall be forever chasing shadows through the underworld. I suggest we attempt to move our minds away from this ghastly business until we have the misfortune to examine the next victim of Jack the Ripper.”

  As we reached our destination, I was struck by the location; although not a main-street, the murder had taken place on what was seemingly a busy road. Leading from this were side-streets and the darkest of alleyways, yet the murder was almost semi-public; the Ripper was moving out of the shadows. We were met at our carriage by a tall and powerful looking constable, and instantly one was struck by a commendable sense of purpose. I had heard Holmes mention Constable Warrington from time-to-time, and though they had yet to be formally introduced, he had gained a high reputation with both Holmes and the force. Despite his youth, the constable’s strong personality accompanied by the occasional demonstration of reckless bravery had gained him a respect which far outstripped his rank. There was no man more befitting such a daunting task, but even this most valiant of fellows bore the visible disturbance of one who has only recently laid his eyes for the first time upon a victim of Jack the Ripper.

  “Constable Warrington, I presume?” said Sherlock Holmes as we vacated the carriage.

  “Mr Holmes, it is indeed an honour sir,” said Warrington, wringing Holmes’s hand.

  “Constable,” interrupted Abberline, striding menacingly up to Warrington and standing so close to him that he could surely see his pupils dilate, “let me make it clear to you right now; you do not give me orders. You do not tell me how to conduct my investigations; and, no-matter what childish admiration you have for Mr Holmes, you do not decide whether I consult him. Unless, that is, you wish me to send you heroically on your own after a suspect in a rather unforgiving part of the city? Have I made myself clear?”

  “I apologise, Inspector Abberline,” replied Warrington. “It is the first time I have seen a victim of Jack the Ripper… I was not myself.”

  We left Constable Warrington to continue his patrol of the area; the thought of a peacefully sleeping public was of slight comfort, but it would not be long before the brief interlude of docility would inevitably turn to widespread panic. Warrington’s efficiency at least spared us any untoward local attention, but the distinct lack of human presence served only to create a more daunting atmosphere.

  Some of our more fanciful newspapers may write of Britain and her glorious empire, but this is far from the complete picture; deep within the heart of this greatest of civilisations lies pockets of cancerous tumours. For every grand country home there is an urban slum: families living in basements, with filth and squalor as their homely companions. For these poor souls, the miracle of birth and the tragedy of death take place in the same room. Too often are the bright eyes of innocence opened, only to stare into the lifeless pits of a recently deceased loved one. The streets echo with the groaning of decay, and the nostrils burn at the stench of diseased and decomposing flesh. To a man of conscience, such suffering is a torture to behold: the glorious empire and her rotting children is a notion which is inconceivably immoral. I am not sure which disgusts me more, the existence of such conditions, or the wealthier elements of society who find themselves wandering into such areas, simply to leer at the residents as though they were some form of hellish circus.

  Fortunately, tonight we would be spared the presence of those who saw the streets of Whitechapel as a walking tour of Bedlam. Other than the sounds of our boots upon the pavement, the streets were silent and empty: the rows of identical, inadequate houses were all blacked out, as if the presence of the Ripper had swept through, extinguishing all life within.

  As we approached our destination, I glanced up to see the cold stone-grey of the church dominating my vision; the soft menacing glow of industrial furnaces caused the night sky to burn with a subdued yet furious anger. Though we approached a house of God, I was overcome with an intense feeling of foreboding: it was if the comfort of the Deity had been banished, and only the empty chill of evil remained. The grounds were surrounded by a stone wall, and though designed for privacy, they now served to contain the malevolent presence inside. We reached a breach in the form of an arch and a small wooden gate, where Dr Phillips was awaiting our arrival.

  “Mr Holmes,” he said, as we approached. “I must say that I am pleased to see you again, having read of your demise. But I was rather hoping to never lay eyes upon you again under professional circumstances.”

  Despite Holmes’s rather brisk reaction to Dr Phillips testimony, he was a much-liked and respected police surgeon. He was a charming man, and distinctly old-fashioned in both appearance and attire.

  “Ah, Dr Phillips, I am inclined to agree with your sentiment. Within the confines of our profession, you are the last person I wish to see,” said Holmes.”

  “And for good reason sir. If you gentlemen would please follow me, I shall escort you to the poor woman.”

  A short loose-stoned path brought us before an alcove two yards in depth, a large wooden door at its end. Protruding from the left-hand side of the stone archway, which had been barely visible from the roadside, were two legs. Though I was braced for the horror which waited, I still recoiled at the sight. Slumped in the doorway was the body of a naked mutilated woman. Her skin was torn and ripped, her torso defiled, and her eyes removed. Though I had often noted Holmes’s mechanical nature, I have never been more agitated by his complete lack of compassion.

  “Could you please provide us with your report Dr Phillips?” he said.

  “Certainly; I shall give you a complete summary of the facts, and I think you will notice a few peculiarities.”

  “I have already observed several, but pray proceed, and then we may compare our findings.”

  “The victim has been dead for about two hours, placing the time of death around half-past two this morning. The woman is believed to have been in her mid-to-late-thirties. Her hair was removed prior to the murder. The throat has been slit from left to right. It is a relatively deep cut but sufficient only to kill the victim; it is not as deep as in previous instances. The face has been meticulously cut, but it has not been mutilated as we have seen before. The eyes have been expertly removed: a thin surgical blade was used for this part of the operation, and has been performed with professional execution. The victim has not been disembowelled, but the arms, legs and torso have been subjected to mutilation. The blade was inserted by about half-an-inch and dragged up the body, creating relatively deep, jagged columns. Upon the right hand only, all the fingers and the thumb have once again been expertly removed.”

  “Is that all?” asked Holmes.

  “Yes sir, although it is also notable that the victim had some very faint markings upon he
r wrists and ankles. Whether that is relevant or just an unfortunate result of her profession, I cannot say.”

  “Well, that should be easy enough to deduce,” said Holmes, bending down to minutely examine the victim. “She has not been moved? She was found slumped in this seated position, in this very alcove?”

  “Yes sir, no one has moved the body.”

  “Lestrade do you have a pencil upon your person? And Dr Phillips, could I procure a swab?”

  Gently using the offered pencil, Holmes lifted the lips of the victim in order to examine both her teeth and gums. He then took a sample of moisture from the woman’s lips. Satisfied with the results, he handed the swab back to Dr Phillips before examining every inch of the alcove and the church door. As Holmes walked off to examine the shingle path and surrounding area, I examined the body myself, but could note no omission on behalf of Holmes or Dr Phillips, and simply stared into those empty sockets in disbelief that such horror had returned once more.

  “Any theories, Holmes?” I enquired as he returned to the church entrance once more.

  “Six so far, but none which are conclusive. The path has been completely distorted by numerous prints, and so effectively obscures our murderer’s print. This is undoubtedly one reason he chose the location. There are clear markings upon the street, which suggest a carriage drew up, stopped, and then departed. Such evidence suggests that the victim was chosen; brought to the location, and then subjected to these heinous crimes, to ensure that we would be certain of the man we are dealing with. I have sent Constable Warrington to fetch the man who discovered the body. Unfortunately, in a moment of ill-advised compassion, they allowed him to leave until called upon; we must hope he does not know of anyone in the area who can provide him with any form of medicinal comfort, or we shall be most inconvenienced.”

  “Mr Holmes,” said Constable Warrington, returning after a brief interlude, “this is the man who discovered the victim, Mr William Faulker.”

  Before us stood a scruffy man of unfortunate circumstance: his clothing was frayed, his dark hair unkempt, and an aged cap perched carelessly on his head. His dirty face showed signs of poverty and also betrayed a hint of violence; though physically not a powerful man, his stocky frame suggested a strength which most would find surprising.

  “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr Holmes,” said Mr Faulker, an air of uncertainty in his otherwise gravelly voice.

  “And yours, Mr Faulker,” replied Holmes politely. “I trust you have not consumed any substance that may have rendered you incapable of aiding us in our investigation?”

  “No, sir. I most certainly wanted to but I cannot afford such luxuries.”

  “I regret to hear of your troubles, Mr Faulker, and I sympathise with the distress you have suffered, nonetheless I am pleased you have remained sober. Fortunately I have brought with me a small flask of Watson’s gin. Please take a mouthful to help regain your nerve, and if you would be so kind, describe for us how it was you came across this most unpleasant of scenes.”

  “Thank you,” said Faulker, taking the flask, “I live on Court Street, near the station, with my wife Marie and our three children.” He took a brief pause and a swig; it was unclear whether it was the effect of alcohol or the disturbing events of the night which caused him to shudder. “Our circumstances are dire, but for around these parts that is regular,” he continued. “I’m an Ale Turner at the brewery, on the east end of Pelham Street. Every morning I leave the house by four, walk up Hanbury Street, past this church, then go up Deal Street and onto Pelham. I saw the body lying in the entrance as I walked past.”

  “That is your complete statement, Mr Faulker?” said Holmes.

  “Yes, sir, it is,” he replied gruffly.

  “If that is indeed your entire statement, Mr Faulker, then I assume you are hoping that I would fail to take into account the singularity that it was you in particular who discovered the victim, despite the numerous early risers who travel down this street? You wish me to ignore that the wall which surrounds these grounds obstructs the view of this alcove from every angle, and that the victim could only have been viewed from the gateway entrance? Even from there, this would prove exceedingly difficult: no mere passer-by could simply have noticed her out of the corner of their eye. Not only this, but also you wish me to ignore that, while you stood in this singular spot, you were also capable of noticing the woman’s legs, which only slightly protruded from their area of shadowed concealment? You have also revealed, Mr Faulker, that you live upon Court Street, which is remarkably close to where Polly Nichols was found murdered six years ago. Perhaps then, you are a far more sinister individual than Constable Warrington appreciated: after all, you could quite simply sink back into the shadows of your profession or your establishment, having carried out such deeds. If I were you, Mr Faulker, I would provide a more coherent case for your discovery, or you shall find yourself placed amongst the most infamous of suspect lists: that of Jack the Ripper.”

  Our man had turned a ghostly shade of white as he realised his miscalculation. His breathing became sharp and his hands began to tremble; it seemed as if he were about to embark upon some form of grotesque transformation.

  “Mr Holmes, I assure you that I am not capable of such violence,” Faulker stammered.

  “Once again, Mr Faulker, I must insist that you stick to the facts.”

  “You accuse me of such a crime?”

  “I do not accuse you of anything: I can see by the scratches upon your neck, the rips in your clothing, and your slightly bleeding knuckles that you have been involved in a recent skirmish. Furthermore, we have a dead woman, and a highly suspicious and, judging by your countenance at my remarks, violent individual, who is refusing to or incapable of providing an adequate alibi as to how he discovered the victim. Perhaps you thought you would be clever and avoid suspicion by alerting the authorities yourself? So I ask you again, Mr Faulker, how did you discover this woman?”

  “Very well,” said he, his face in a state of terrible contortion. “There are some things a man wishes to remain private, even from the authorities. I told you I have three children, Mr Holmes, but a little over two weeks ago, I had four. Our youngest and my only daughter, Emily, was just two years old, but she contracted some awful disease and died within days. I attend this church regularly but it has no cemetery, at least not for people of my background. Emily was buried in one of those great cemeteries outside the City; but every day, upon my way to work, I stop for a few minutes at the gate and say a prayer for my baby daughter. I wouldn’t have noticed the body, but there was a bit of a breeze and it made her dress blow about her ankle. I thought the movement was a bit odd, and when I strained, I thought I saw what looked like legs. I went to have a look and then alerted the authorities.”

  “The death of an infant is not uncommon, Mr Faulker. Why is it that you wish me to believe a man such as yourself would harbour such sentiment?”

  “Whatever you comfortable folk may believe about the citizens who make up the bulk of this city, we are not savages. The death of one of your own is a pain no man, no matter what his circumstances, should be made to suffer. Not that I would expect you to understand.”

  “A touching story, Mr Faulker,” said Holmes, “I thank you for giving us the true and complete version of your night’s events. If you have nothing more to add, you may continue upon your way.”

  “Holmes, I understand you wish to extract the truth but must you use such tactics?” said Abberline, as William Faulker departed the scene, an array of pain and emotion evident in his eyes.

  “Had he not insisted upon providing an incomplete testimony I would not have pushed him so; if he had presented before us the complete narrative when I first enquired, I would have been inclined to believe him and prepared to have been more sympathetic.”

  “A coherent account, I would say, but should we not ha
ve asked him about the carriage?” said Lestrade.

  “No, the murder took place hours before the body was discovered by Mr Faulker. Jack the Ripper vanishes into the shadows, he does not sit in a carriage waiting to be sighted. As for my suspicion of the man, I never believed in his guilt; such people mistrust the authorities and are always reluctant to give a full account, even though it usually contains nothing incriminating, they merely gain satisfaction from being unhelpful. In such circumstances, demonstrating the stupidity of such action is usually sufficient, in this case more than so. What conclusions did you draw upon your inspection of the body, Watson?”

  “The teeth and gums are quite healthy, and the fingernails appear well kept. The skin looks a little off-colour, though, something which could have only developed over time, so I assume you were searching for traces of poison. I also noticed that the wounds around the fingers and the eyes have been wiped; the excess blood was smeared across the door and upon the handle, but the neck and torso were left alone, though I can offer no reason for this action.”

  “Excellent. I had deduced as much. As for the poison, the evidence would suggest such a method, though at this stage of the investigation I cannot be certain. So, gentlemen: we have heard from our man, and seen the body, do any theories begin to materialise?”

  “The fingers and mouth surely point to a life of relative comfort,” said Inspector Abberline.

  “Perhaps, although not necessarily,” said Holmes. “Watson?”

  “The nails were well kept but slightly soiled; that is suggestive of one who took pride in her appearance but did not have the means to do so, or her circumstance dictated that she at least must dirty her hands. She could had previously lived in comfort and recently fallen on hard times.”

  “Excellent, Watson! I would be inclined to use your theory as the basis for one of our more probable hypotheses. If we apply the same reasoning to a similar train of thought, we may also consider the possibility that she was a lady of the night who was being courted by a wealthy benefactor. Such a scenario is quite common, and I am told that a number of women get into the profession in the hope of achieving such an end.”