The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors (10 page)

Holmes gazed out at the passing scene and shrugged. “Yes, well... even they cannot always be completely wrong.”

A light rain was beginning to fall as their hansom entered Piccadilly Circus, where early evening throngs promenaded past brightly lit theaters and shops, the lights reflecting garishly from the now-dampened pavement. When the hansom reached Trafalgar Square a few minutes later, the rain quite suddenly became heavier, causing the
crowds there to quicken their pace, while a flock of pigeons erupted for no apparent reason from the base of Nelson’s Column, making a single circuit before settling helter-skelter amid the mushrooming of umbrellas that erupted almost as swiftly as the pigeons had taken flight.

Within minutes more the hansom carried them into Whitehall, taking them past darkened government buildings. The streets here, unlike the others they had driven through, were almost devoid of pedestrian traffic, for while most Londoners labored six and a half and seven days a week, government bureaucracy takes its weekends seriously, and except for a crisis of truly catastrophic proportions is to be found in evidence only Monday through Friday, holidays excepted. After rattling past Admiralty Arch, the hansom turned, and they now entered the narrow street, just opposite the Admiralty itself, that was their destination.

The collection of undistinguished low buildings of stone and grime-streaked yellow brick which now lay before them took its name from the street. Here resided the brain stem and central nervous system of the Metropolitan Police force and, of greater interest to Holmes at the moment, the offices of the Criminal Investigation Division. The whole and all of its parts — the street, the buildings, the police force, and the CID — were known both collectively and individually as Scotland Yard, a state of affairs which paradoxically was a source of never-ending confusion to anyone who was not a Londoner — a tribute, it seemed to Holmes, to that people’s indomitable tolerance of the absurd.

It was a thought that appealed to that small part of him which was French, and he left the carriage smiling, leaving Watson to wonder why.
²⁵

They entered the main building through a side entrance to avoid the crowd of journalists milling about in front. The latest murder being the major news story of the day, the presence of the journalists, a loud and raucous lot, was only to be expected, and Holmes, who generally
held them and their work in low esteem, wished to avoid an encounter.

“It is the only profession I can think of that wholly consists of men who have missed their calling,” said Holmes dryly. “The best of them are assassins and lying malcontents; the worst are
lazy
assassins and lying malcontents. If truth were coin of the realm, they would all be paupers.”

It was only minutes after they gave their names to the officer at the desk that a tired and worried-looking Inspector Abberline came to fetch them, escorting them back to the rabbits’ warren of cluttered offices, drab and cheerless, that housed the CID.

Once he and Watson had been relieved of their hats and sticks and provided with mugs of tepid tea, Holmes lost no time in getting to the business at hand.

“This, I think, you will find of some interest,” Holmes said to Abberline, handing him the small glassine envelope. “It was discovered a short while ago at a location where the Chapman woman may have last been seen alive. It, in all probability, belonged to the man with whom she was seen, the very same man who may have accompanied her to number 29 Hanbury Street.”

Abberline took the envelope from Holmes’s fingers and, barely glancing at it, laid it on the desktop in front of him. “Thank you,” he said simply, his face showing no reaction whatsoever.

Holmes frowned, studying the other man’s features before speaking again.

“I must say, Inspector,” he said quietly, “that while a man in my profession should never be surprised at anything, I am at the moment surprised by your lack of surprise. Oh, I know it is not a crown jewel that I present to you, but it is an item of some value in the matter currently under investigation, and I would have thought you would have reacted with, shall I say, somewhat greater enthusiasm than you have so far exhibited.”

Abberline took a deep breath. “I have to inform you, Mr. Holmes, that our prime suspect is not the man your theory suggests. By that I mean he is not a gentleman, but a common laborer of the district. Sergeant Thicke is out looking for him now, and I hope to have him in custody before the day is out.”

Holmes placed a finger over his lips and leaned forward. “You not only surprise me, Inspector. You positively amaze me.”

Abberline fidgeted in his chair, and his fingers began a nervous tattoo on the desktop. Holmes observed him silently for a few moments, exchanged glances with Watson, and finally spoke again.

“Would it be presumptuous of me to ask who this suspect is, Inspector?” There was a slight edge to his voice.

Abberline refused to meet his gaze, but instead busied himself with a sheaf of papers in front of him. “Not at all,” he replied, his diffident tone suggesting otherwise. “It is a man by the name of John or Jack Pizer, who lives in the district and is believed to have been seen in the vicinity at around the same time the murder occurred.”

“And the fact of his being seen in the vicinity —
believed
to have been seen, in your words — that alone makes him the prime suspect? I should think that if he resides there, he quite possibly has legitimate business to be seen there.”

Abberline shook his head and looked up, meeting Holmes’s gaze finally. It apparently took some courage for him to do so. “He is known in the area as ‘Leather Apron.’ He habitually wears one, you see. He is a cobbler or boot finisher by trade.”

“Leather Apron,” mused Holmes, “Leather Apron. How very convenient.” The sarcasm in his voice, though gently expressed, was unmistakable, and Abberline visibly blanched.

Holmes continued. “I take it that the similar article of apparel that Inspector Chandler found at the murder scene and correctly deduced
could have had nothing to do with the crime is what ties our Mr. Pizer to the event. Or am I only jumping to conclusions?”

Abberline sighed heavily. “Look, Mr. Holmes...” he began, spreading his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

Holmes jumped up from his chair and began pacing in front of Abberline’s desk. “Of course, of course, that must be it! How stupid of me for not realizing it sooner! For, after all, there cannot be another soul in all of London who also wears a leather apron: Not another cobbler, or butcher, or slaughterhouse worker, not a collier, or farrier or smithy, or hod carrier, not a surgeon or iron worker, or, or... I fear I am running out of occupations! Help me, someone!” He threw up his arms dramatically as if in entreaty and spun about. Then, leaning over the desk with anger in his eyes, he glared directly into Abberline’s face.

“Really, Inspector, this will not do! This will not do at all!”

Abberline looked miserable. Clearly, he could marshal no argument in the face of Holmes’s assertions, and made no effort to try. He clasped his hands together on the desk and held them tightly. Holmes stood there, exasperated, looking at him.

“Have you followed up on no other lead, then?” he asked quietly.

Abberline shook his head.

“That fragment of the envelope that was found near the body, bearing a regimental crest — the Sussex Regiment, I believe. Has any progress been made in tracking that down?”

“As far as we can tell,” said Abberline, “it had no connection with the murderer. It was the woman’s apparently. She probably picked it out of a dustbin somewhere and used it to wrap some tablets in, some medication she picked up at the clinic. We’ve established she appeared there the previous day complaining of feeling ill.”

“Yes,” mused Holmes half to himself, “such an obvious clue would have been too easy.” He stroked his chin. “Nothing else, then?”

Abberline shook his head again.

“No effort has been made to search the streets for more of these cigarette samples? None of your men have attempted to question cabbies? Nothing has been done to seek out the man whose identity I described to you?”

With each question Abberline shook his head.

Holmes gazed at him silently for a long moment, then turned to retrieve his hat and stick. “Come, Watson. Our business here is done.”

Abberline rose from his desk and followed Holmes into the corridor, taking him by the arm as they walked toward the front hall. “Look, Mr. Holmes, I am not at all happy about this situation, that much must be obvious to you,” he said very quietly. “But as you no doubt are aware, our department has been under severe pressures of late. Surely you must realize that my hands are tied. I do have my orders, after all.”

Holmes nodded. “I assumed as much. I am not unaware of the stresses and recent changes that have been inflicted upon the CID.
²⁶
And I know what orders from a superior mean to a policeman. But what I cannot understand is the intellect of the superior who would give such orders. Upon what intelligence are these directives based? Upon what special knowledge or insight?”

Holmes reached out his hand, and in a small gesture of apology for his harsh words gently adjusted the collar of Abberline’s suit coat. “You need not attempt a reply, Inspector,” he said with a grim smile. “There can be no adequate response, and I expect none.”

They had reached the front hall and were just inside the vestibule at the door when the sound of an arriving carriage caught their attention. The door flew open and in walked a figure that caused their heads to turn.

It was a tall, good-looking man in the dress uniform of an army general — boots, spurs, medal ribbons and all. He had a full, drooping cavalry mustache and wore a monocle in his eye. Upon his head,
incongruously, was a tall, old-fashioned stovepipe hat of the sort that police constables wore a generation past. The haughty bearing of the man, along with the uniform, the monocle, and the hat, resulted in a total effect so ludicrous that only a stage setting for one of Mr. Gilbert’s operatic farces would have done it justice.

Watson gasped and would have laughed outright had not something in Abberline’s demeanor — a look of apprehension, perhaps — brought him up short.

Abberline said deferentially, “Good evening, Sir Charles.”

“What’s this, what’s this?” said the general loudly, peering from face to face. “Oh, it’s you, Aberdeen. Carry on, then!”

He made as if to continue on his way, but stopped short and spun around on his heel. “And who are these gentlemen? Who are you, sir? And you? Who are you and what is your business here?”

The questions came in rapid-fire order and were delivered at something approaching parade-ground decibels, apparently his normal speaking voice. “From the Home Office, are you? I knew it! I can spot you bloody Home Office wallahs a mile away! Well, I won’t have you snooping around here with your striped trousers and effeminate ways! I won’t have it, d’ya hear! Don’t be bothering my officers with a lot of damn fool questions! They have better things to do with their time, or should, by gad!”

He spun on his heel again and once more started for the inner corridor, only to halt in mid-stride and return a second time. He pointed an accusing finger at Watson. “You are not Home Office! What do you mean by suggesting that? What are you, journalists? Too damn well turned out to be Fleet Street chaps, I should think! Seedy bunch of fellers, all of them. Who are these people, Aberdeen?”

Abberline, who had stood there stoically though all of this, swallowed hard. “May I introduce to you, Sir Charles, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes and Dr. John Watson. Gentlemen, the Commissioner of Police, Sir Charles Warren.”
²⁷

“Holmes? Holmes?” bellowed Warren, making it sound like an accusation. “I thought you said Home Office!”

Holmes bowed slightly. “Actually, I said nothing at all, Sir Charles. But nonetheless, good evening to you.”

“Holmes!” bellowed Warren again, a spark of recognition appearing in his eyes. He lowered his head menacingly, his mustache quivering. “Not that so-called consulting detective feller, are you?”

Holmes smiled politely and bowed again.

Warren’s eyes blazed. “Well, I can tell you, sir, you are not wanted here! I have heard of you and your so-called scientific methods, and it is pure humbug, sir, that’s what it is — codswallop and humbug! Consulting detective, indeed!”

Warren approached within inches of Holmes and waved a finger under his nose. “It’s my aunt Fanny’s arse, that’s what it is! Now, what do you think of that?”

Holmes, who had little patience with those whom he deemed to have “less alert intelligences than his own” (It was
people
he did not suffer gladly; fools he suffered not at all), considered Warren coldly: “I think, Sir Charles, that you should uncock that finger, unless you intend to use it.”

Warren peered at him in confusion. “What! What! What did he say?” He turned to Abberline. “What’s he doing here anyway?

Abberline, who had visibly paled, searched his brain desperately for an adequate reply, for his career, he realized, was suddenly in great jeopardy. He had gone to Holmes on his own initiative, without the knowledge or consent of higher authority. He had violated the old adage among civil servants: “That which is not expressly permitted is expressly forbidden.” He had committed an unpardonable sin, and
what was worse, he had done it stupidly: He not only acted on his own but acted without having anyone to lay the blame on.

Abberline’s predicament became clear to Holmes in an instant. He jumped in quickly. “My presence here, Sir Charles, has to do with the Whitechapel business. I have been following developments closely and have some theories about the case that Inspector Abberline reluctantly — though I must say, politely — agreed to listen to.”

“Oh, he did, did he?” Warren said. He cast an angry glance in Abberline’s direction.

“Yes. But the inspector was not interested in my views, and I realize now that I was wasting his time.” Holmes waved an angry Watson to silence, for he had opened his mouth to protest. “So, with your permission, sir,” Holmes continued, “Dr. Watson and I will now take our leave.”