Not the REAL Strand Magazine; just a pastiche.

 

Original text adaptation © Copyright Lord Blackhood der Kether, 2000;

Original illustrations © Copyright Lorraine Kukla and Stef Kukla, 2000.

 

This site has been created and maintained by Lord Blackhood der Kether (BA), Lorraine Kukla & Stef Kukla. Anyone found using any of the pictures or texts on this web site - WITHOUT the express permission of Lord Blackhood, Ms. Kukla; or Mr Kukla - will be considered in breach of copyright and will be prosecuted accordingly.

 

 

 

* Being an unofficial adaptation of Stephen Knight’s Jack the Ripper: The Final Solution (Grafton, 1977);

   and John Hopkins’ screenplay for Bob Clark’s movie Murder By Decree (Avco Embassy, 1979).

 

CHAPTER  V.

THE SECRET ORDER.

 

The Story So Far - Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson are visited by a group of East End Merchants concerned about the murders of Jack the Ripper. That night, Holmes is sent an anonymous telegram alerting him of another murder. Holmes and Watson make haste to Whitechapel and examine the body in the presence of Inspector's Lestrade and Foxborough; but are soon turned away by Police Commissioner Warren. They follow a suspicious looking man to a nearby street, where he eludes them but leaves a chalk graffito: 'The Juwes are The men that Will not be Blamed for nothing'. A week later, the pair look closely at the Police files on The Ripper and find that the investigation has been incompetently run from the start; furthermore, that valuable evidence has been ignored. On the same day, they receive more advice from their anonymous informant; telling them to meet with a certain Robert James Lees...

 

have been led to understand you know something of the Whitechapel murders,” said Sherlock Holmes to Robert James Lees; the renowned medium and spiritual adviser to Her Majesty, Queen Victoria. We had been shown in by the housekeeper, who took us to the Morning Room where Mr. and Mrs. Lees were both waiting. It had been more of a statement than a question that Holmes had made to him upon our arrival and Lees regarded Holmes with nervous - yet unwavering - caution.

As I saw him sitting in his high-backed armchair it struck me to see just how sickly and haggard he appeared. I noticed that his wife, herself a formidable figure, never left his side, and it seemed to me that perhaps he was in a condition which required constant personal attention.

Lees closed his eyes and bowed his head. “I have seen the man known as Jack the Ripper,” came his croaked reply. He speech was quiet, slow and laboured, as if he found it a strenuous task to even speak. “I was sitting in this chair, just as I am now. I was reading. Suddenly, I was overwhelmed with an image of a woman; she was tired, ill and close to dying.

“Through the ethereal mists, came death himself; hidden yet visible. He sat in a small, black room. It was an unpleasant room; full of dreadful memories and a pungent stench of death.

“He took her into this dark place; but the room could change its location and did so before my eyes. She entered that place alive; but when she left it, she was dead and drenched in blood.

“The man did not emerge, but it seemed to me as if the very shadows of night were carrying her body. She floated - as if she were being carried - through a dark tunnel. On the far side, she was lain down upon her back, and her body began to turn itself inside out. I could not bear to witness any further . . . any more -”

When the strain of speaking became too much, Mrs. Lees continued for him. “The following night, just such a murder took place. The woman’s name was Annie Chapman.”

“Did you not go to the police?” Holmes queried.

“Several times,” came Mrs. Lees’ angry reply, “and they treated him as if he were a raving madman.”

“You cannot completely blame them,” said I, incurring from her a most venomous glare indeed.

“I believe what my colleague means,” said Holmes in my defence, “is that it is an experience outside of their own; something they simply will not allow themselves to believe.”

“Absolutely,” I concurred.

“Do you believe it, Mr. Holmes?” she asked with passionate urgency.

“Though I am not too familiar with this particular phenomenon, I have witnessed events far stranger.” This reply seemed to have an effect on Lees, for he looked up at Holmes and began to speak more lucidly.

“I have seen him again, Mr. Holmes. Only this time it was in person.

“The shock of my vision had forced me to take a holiday abroad to recover. Upon my return to London, my wife and I took an omnibus. A man alighted at one of the stops and I instantly knew that it was him - the man from my vision.

“At Marble Arch, the man left and I followed him. I quickly found a constable and told him of my vision, but he would not believe me. As I was trying to convince him that I was not mistaken, I saw that the man had hailed a cab. Of course, by then, it was too late.”

Holmes pondered Lees’ words for a while. “A curious tale indeed,” he said. “But you have seen more of this man, have you not?”

Lees had no opportunity to reply, for at that moment we were interrupted by an apologetic house-keeper and a very stern-looking Inspector Foxborough. “I do beg your pardon for this most unwarranted intrusion,” he spoke to the unhappy couple. “I’m afraid I must remove these gentlemen from your company.” Then he turned to us. “Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson; the Commissioner would like a word with you both. He was most insistent, I’m afraid.”

“I thank you both for your time and your kind hospitality,” said Holmes to our hosts. “I know we shall speak again.”

We arrived at the Police Station, only to be lead to the mortuary. Sir Charles Warren was waiting for us there, standing next to a trolley bearing a partially covered cadaver. I started when I saw the corpse’s face “Good God,” I exclaimed. “It’s Makins!” I took a closer look at him and saw that his exposed chest displayed what appeared to be a bayonet wound. I realised from this that he had indeed been cut short whilst attempting to pass information to us.

“You recognise this man, Holmes?” asked Warren, more as a statement than a question. “You won’t deny that you were in his employ?”

 “I am in my own employ, Sir Charles,” he responded, curtly. “This man, and others, came to me in regards to my services. I have given them no reply as yet.”

“Don’t play games with me, man,” Warren exploded. “You’re running with the foxes, and you know their colours full well.”

“If I have correctly interpreted the meaning of your colourful metaphor, then I will say that I was most certainly aware that Makins was a radical -”

“So you admit your guilt,” Warren boomed in ugly triumph. “You think it best to own up to your part in their conspiracy - their treason - so that I might look upon you with more leniency.”

“That’s absolute nonsense,” I protested. “What do you mean, sir?”

“Steady on, old fellow,” Holmes spoke to me, softly. “I believe Sir Charles has the intention of arresting me.”

“For treason?” I exclaimed. “That’s patently absurd!”

“Not treason, Watson. Murder.”

“Precisely,” Warren gloated, menacingly. “I don’t know what falling out you had with your slimy friends, or quite what part you played in their foul games, but I can place you at the scene of this man’s murder. And don’t be too certain I won’t eventually discover evidence of your plotting. I’ll have time enough while you fester in Newgate.”

With that, he stormed away with Foxborough at heel. At first, I felt nothing but utter dismay, but that soon melted away as I saw a certain familiar, stout individual standing cap in hand, at the door. Although the three stood far enough away as to make it impossible for us to hear them, it was quite obvious that he was acquainting himself with Foxborough and Warren. The occasional gesture in our direction implied that he was imparting to them his observations of the previous night.

“There’s that fellow from the wharf,” I said to Holmes. “He must have witnessed everything.”

“Yes,” Holmes replied. “I believe rescue is at hand. Sir Charles won’t like that at all. But for now, we must examine the body.” He turned to the wounded corpse and scrutinised the wound with the aid of a short pick and a magnifying lens.

“Holmes,” I said in a hushed voice, “why on earth would revolutionaries hire you to catch a madman?”

“Indeed, Watson,” he whispered back. “Food for thought. Why feed us information in such a bizarre fashion? But more importantly, who killed Makins; and why?”

“What do you think it was that killed him?”

Holmes straightened his back and passed me the lens saying, “A single-edged sword of some description. It was long and slender; yet sturdy enough to plunge right through his sternum.” Upon close examination, I was able to concur with his observations.

“I still have no idea how you knew that Makins was a radical,” I stated, passing him back the lens. “May I inquire how you arrived to such a conclusion?”

“I sensed something about those men. Dreadfully unscientific of me; but on occasion, just such an undercurrent may automatically activate the knell of a man’s nerve. My personal alarm rang most disconcertingly that night and I had quite immediate doubts about Makins here. He was a bad actor, with an unnatural and excessive servility. Lanyer was even worse. He was too passionate about his politics to conceal them, with his very vocal resentment of ‘rich women in their palaces’.

“Two days ago, I made inquiries around Whitechapel, and confirmed my suspicions about those ‘good honest fellows’ as I believe you described them.” As Holmes finished telling me all of this, Foxborough rejoined us.

“It’s a good thing for you that the dock-guard was so diligent to his duties,” he told Holmes in a cautionary fashion.

“Then we are free to go as we please,” Holmes responded, coldly.

“For the time being, Mr. Holmes. However, Sir Charles would like to see you in his office before you leave; and I warn you not to provoke him. He’s determined to end your involvement in this matter. He’s a dangerous man and has many secret friends.”

As Foxborough left, I saw a slight smile cross Holmes’ thin lips. “Secret friends,” he said to himself. “What a curious expression.”

We entered Warren’s office to find him standing in front of his desk. Seated to one side was a man I recognised instantly as the Home Secretary, Henry Matthews. Warren looked about ready to burst as he turned his blazing eyes fully upon Holmes. “I warn you, you swine,” he roared, “if you pursue this matter any further -” He stopped, his expression switching from rage to one of frozen shock. When I looked to my associate I saw why. Holmes was conducting one of the most bizarre gestures with his hands that ever I did see. It concluded with him extending his right hand to Warren, as in some peculiar handshake. To my astonishment, Warren presented his right hand in the same manner and the two men linked both their smallest fingers together. Then, as fast as lightning, Holmes twisted his hand round and pulled a ring from Warren’s finger.

“Forgive the slight of hand, Sir Charles,” smiled Holmes. “When in pursuit of criminals, one must learn their devices.” With that, Holmes flipped the tiny panel on the top of the ring to reveal an engraved surface, depicting an interlocked square and compass: -

“Holmes,” I said at last, “could you possibly enlighten me as to what you are in fact doing?”

“The handshake and the ring, Watson,” he replied, “are archaic rituals preserved by the 33^rd degree members of the Secret Royal Order of Free and Accepted Masons.”

Warren snatched his ring out of Holmes’ grasp and placed it back on his finger. “We are not a ‘secret’ order,” he growled, shuffling back behind his desk.

“Your existence at least is no secret,” Holmes responded calmly. “However, your rituals and memberships are secrets you guard as close as ever you can. That was the reason you removed the writing from the wall.”

Warren opened and closed his mouth several times, as if he were searching for the most suitable response. Eventually, it came to him. “I am responsible for the people of this city,” came his low voice, enraged yet controlled, “for their right to go safely about their business -”

“Does that include the right to murder and butcher them?” interrupted Holmes.

“Damn you!” bellowed Warren. He then quickly glanced at Matthews and regained his composure. “Jews, you understand, would have been dragged out and slaughtered by the hundreds if I had not removed the writing. If just one person had seen those words the rumours would have spread like wildfire. Not a single Jew would have been safe; their shops burned, their houses -”

“Nonsense, Warren,” snapped Holmes, his impatience finally getting the better of him. “That writing had nothing to do with the Jews; you know that as well as I do. Good God, man! Do you really expect me to believe your feeble propaganda after I’ve already demonstrated my knowledge in the matter? Don’t you dare attempt to tell me that you removed the message to protect Jews from anti-Semitic rage! The ‘Juwes’* referred to are from your own secret order of Freemasons, as well you know.”

[Pronunciation for this word is JOO-ays – J.W.]

The power of Holmes’ oratory seemed to knock Warren’s legs from under him. He slumped and writhed in his chair, spluttering with great effort. Matthews remained motionless, silently observing the scene. “We are a benevolent society,” Warren finally managed. “We are no danger to the public whatsoever and I am deeply offended that you should -” He stopped again as Holmes once more performed peculiar gestures with his hands. As to their meaning, I could not begin to guess; but whatever it was, it was enough to drain the colour from the Commissioner’s face. He staggered back onto his feet, holding the desk to keep himself steady. “This is not the kind of sordid little game you’re used to playing, ‘consulting detective’,” he spat. “If you persist in your intolerable meddling, be warned; you do so at a grave risk to yourself -” Then, turning to me, “- and those you choose to involve. If you have wisdom enough to understand, you would be well advised to forget all you have seen and heard on the matter. Good day to you both.”

Holmes did not speak, nor display emotion of any sort as we rode back to Baker Street and I began to fear that we were both fighting against too great an adversary. Imagine my astonishment when, as soon as we entered our rooms, Holmes crowed in triumph and bade me pour us each a sherry.

By now, I had absolutely no idea as to what was circulating itself in Holmes’ mind, for I had understood so little of the many revelations that day. “I don’t know what those peculiar gestures of yours were all about,” I said, passing him a glass of sherry, “nor whether it achieved the effect you were hoping for. Personally, I couldn’t make head nor tail of it.”

“Well, it certainly gave Sir Charles pause,” Holmes chuckled. “Although, I’m not sure which gave him the greater fright; the fact that I knew the secret signs, or the possibility that I might actually be a fellow Mason.”

“Meaning what, exactly?” I queried.

“These are the signs particular to the Freemasons. At their ceremonies, each and every Mason exhibits such gestures to indicate his rank.”

“But how could they be related to these murders?”

“Whoever wrote that message is either a Mason, or has made a study of their practices.”

All my life, if ever I had heard anything about the Freemasons, or had been acquainted with a Freemason, I had been lead to believe, like Warren had stated, that they were benevolent and no threat to the public whatever. To me, the implications behind Holmes’ assertion were perfectly monstrous. “Do you mean to say,” I asked, “that he accuses the Masons of these abominable crimes?”

“It most certainly appears to be the belief of the author; and I’m afraid that I also am inclining in such a direction; though I would prefer the term “Mason” rather than its plural.

“Foxborough’s reference to Warren’s ‘secret friends’ confirmed that which I had suspected from the night of the double-murder. I asked myself time and time again, ‘Why had the Commissioner visited a murder site in the slums of London at that ungodly hour of the morning?’ It was my conjecture that he may have noticed elements of Masonic lore previously, with Nichols and Chapman; especially Chapman. How much he knew could only ever be roughly surmised.

[Further details of the Chapman incident will be divulged in future issues – J.W.]

“His very presence in Mitre Square was - to say the least - somewhat out of the ordinary. An even more extraordinary (and damning) element could be gleaned from the nature of Makins’ mortal wound.”

“Makins’ wound?” I repeated. “How could that be connected?”

“Sword-sticks, my dear Watson,” he spoke, applying tobacco to the bowl of his briar-root pipe. “Though it is not entirely an uncommon feature to the wealth of canes publicly available; I feel I should draw your attention to the trivial point of its symbolism to certain guilds, societies and fraternities over the past few centuries. In the instance of Freemasonry, a member may keep his ceremonial sword in the guise of a regular walking stick.

“From each and every incident in this case, minute confirmations have seeped to the surface. For example, the word ‘Juwes’ chalked in the Wentworth common stairwell refers to three brothers who, according to Masonic ritual, murdered the Grand Master Hiram Abiff - the builder of King Solomon’s Temple. The names of these ‘three ruffians’ (as they were sometimes termed) were Jubela, Jubelo and Jubelum; hence collectively referred to as ‘Juwes’.

“When they were brought before Solomon they threw themselves at his feet, confessing their sins. Jubela said, ‘O that my throat had been cut across’; Jubelo said, ‘O that my left breast has been torn open and my heart and vitals taken from thence and thrown over my left shoulder’; and Jubelum said, ‘O that my body had been severed in the midst.’”

“Good Lord,” I exclaimed. “Those unfortunate women were mutilated in just that savage way.”

“Not quite, Watson,” he responded. “From what I saw of Catherine Eddowes - as well as Inspector Chandler’s report on Chapman’s death - their internal organs had been placed upon their right shoulders. I have pondered over this inconsistency for the greater part of this week; but I feel that patient perseverance in the matter has given me a reasonable hypothesis in difference to mere carelessness.

“This, along with other miscellaneous details, has lead me to conclude that the killer is likely to have an active accomplice. Certain signs indicate that this person is - in many ways - subordinate to the killer himself. He is less educated, of a lower social class, and is ruthlessly ambitious.”

“What makes you so sure of all of this?” I queried.

“His knowledge of Masonic lore is apparent but sloppy; as though it had been hastily researched and clumsily executed. It is likely to have been passed on to him by his master (who would undoubtedly be the Freemason in question). Only his subordinate (or rather his apprentice) would be given the more menial tasks to carry out; id est, the ritual laying out of the corpses.

“In terms of his social category, there is a remote possibility that he is not of the lower classes; however, I have some reasons to suspect otherwise. His apparent lack of education is indicative of his social standing and would explain why he cannot tell left from right.”

“Holmes,” I cautiously ventured. “This may be the first time I have had legitimate cause to say this, but you have quite disappointed me with this inference. I have often witnessed certain similar moles of nature apparent in poor and well educated men alike. Although its exact origin may cause some contention between schools of thought, the fact remains that these men display an unaccountable confusion between left and right. This is oft’ times associated with a variety of similarly unaccountable inabilities.”

The corners of Holmes’ mouth twitched as a slight smile fluttered briefly over his features. “I must confess,” he spoke, softly and with genuine humility, “that you have rather cut me to the quick. Granted, it was an arrogant inference to make before a man of systematically superior medical knowledge.

“But although my judgement was poor in that particular example, there have been other elements leading me to that conclusion. Such a genuine vulgarian would be inconspicuous amongst fellow vulgarians who abundantly inhabit those wretched slums.

“I ask you to think back, and to recall every detail, every fact, and every observation you have accumulated in the matter. When you have done this, ask yourself, ‘who is the master and who is the apprentice?’”

“Would you be referring to that man we followed?” I asked.

“I no longer believe so,” he frowned, pensively. “From the descriptions of both men in the Swanson report, which would you say is most likely to be a Freemason?”

Even with my limited knowledge of Freemasonry, I knew it to be a gentlemanly society; and that vagabonds and impoverished roughnecks would find it consistently impossible to obtain membership therein. “From their descriptions,” said I. “I would say neither of them.”

“Precisely so, old chap. It may be that Foxborough was right about that second man. The more I think it over, the more convinced I am that - as with Israel Schwartz - he witnessed Stride’s murder entirely by chance. Schwartz left the street in great haste and had gone some distance before he realised that he was not being followed.

“It is just possible that the second man gave the impression of following Schwartz’s example for the benefit of the killer; but instead of leaving, he hid himself away. As the killer (or killers) left Stride’s corpse, he may have followed them, observed the attack upon Eddowes, waited for the killers to leave before removing a scrap of her blood-stained apron, and then used it most deliberately as a most damning piece of evidence.

“It is difficult to tell from the report whether he actually knew or recognised the killer; or that he merely recognised the symbolic nature of the mutilations. I confess that - though I am want to chastise others when they rely on baseless supposition - I occasionally find myself slipping into that all too appealing habit.”

“But are you certain, one way or the other, as to his guilt in the matter?” I pressed.

“What can I say?” he shrugged. “He displayed no violence towards Stride; and his actions after Eddowes’ death are hardly those of an enemy of the Whitechapel unfortunates. Why else would he incriminate the Masons? What possible reason could he have if he was the killer’s confederate? Were he guilty his actions would place the noose around his neck also.”

“It may be, if he wants to atone for his sins -”

“Then why not go to the police?”

“I think we saw evidence of that in Warren’s office.”

“Excellent, Watson. You have it precisely. He could not go because the very men he was accusing have brothers in the most influential and untouchable sectors of our society. However, I think it would be better if we leave the Wentworth man alone until we are more prepared to follow that particular line of inquiry.”

Owing to the immense bombardment of information imparted to me by Holmes - possibly coupled with many a nervous gulp of my dram - my mind began to swim and I had to grasp the mantle-piece to stop myself from collapsing. “Assuming that what you say is true, in what way are these wretched women involved?”

“I suggest that you ask them,” was Holmes’ nonchalant reply. At first, I failed to extract any form of logical interpretation from his suggestion. My confusion must have been all too easily read, as he said, “Their friends and families, old chap. Being that it is too late to ask the dead, we must settle for the living.”

“That’s a relief,” I breathed. “I feared for a moment that you were going along the same way as poor old Robert Lees.”

“Thank you for reminding me, dear fellow. While you are acquainting yourself with the dead woman’s friends, I shall endeavour to re-ingratiate myself with said Robert Lees.”

 

Chapter  Vi.

further investigations.

Over the next few days, Holmes met in secret with Robert James Lees. Sparing him any further embarrassment, Holmes visited his house in a variety of inconspicuous disguises. As Holmes listened to his unravelling story, he learned not only of what Lees knew of the matter, but also what the police also knew and neglected to record. “I knew that he had killed again,” said Lees, “ and again I went to the police. They were more inclined to listen as I furnished them with details that no one could possibly know. They took me to the place where one of the bodies was discovered. They seemed to think they could use me as some form of bloodhound.

“I remembered the place from my vision, but try as I might, I could not find any trace of the killer. It was as if he had not even been there. The Inspector gave me a silk handkerchief. I think it must have belonged to the poor woman. And yet I still had no sense of him.

Then, the Inspector gave me something strangely trivial; unrelated to the case, in my opinion -”

“Was it the stem from a bunch of grapes?” Holmes had asked.

“It was, Mr. Holmes,” replied Lees, astonished. “How could you know that?”

“But you were then able to sense him?” Holmes pressed.

“With the stem in my hand, it was as if he were suddenly there. I followed him in which ever direction he took me. With the police following, he took me to his house. I stood outside with the Inspector and pointed at the address, telling him that the man they were looking for was in there. The Inspector cautioned me to be sure I was accurate. I stood by my claim and we called on the house. The man we spoke to was not pleased with my intuition. He reminded us of what time it was, for it was quite late, and we left him.”

“I notice,” said Holmes, “that you have been most reluctant to mention the man’s name. I will make no attempt to force it from you, for I understand how persuasive Sir Charles can be -”

“He came here,” interrupted Mrs. Lees. “He threatened my husband as if he were a common criminal.”

As Holmes kept me updated on his visits to Robert Lees, he informed me that Lees had also sensed some danger dogging our footsteps; close and threatening. When Holmes told me of this, I felt my blood run cold. How could we ever hope to complete this case amongst such mortal peril?

Shortly after that meeting, Holmes promised Mr. and Mrs. Lees that he would never again trouble them in regards to the Ripper murders; for he knew that further visits would only incur further threats and warnings.

In the days following, Holmes pursued other lines of inquiry, some of which were fruitful, and others not so much. During that time, I ventured several times into Whitechapel, asking many people questions about Nichols, Chapman, Stride and Eddowes; where they were from, if they had any enemies, where they socialised or attracted clients, et cetera. To my absolute amazement, I discovered that, even though the victims’ bodies had been found in a wide area encompassing three separate districts, they all lived in Spitalfields in close proximity to each other.

Dorset Street turned out to be the factor which linked the women together. Chapman had been lodging at N^o.35 Dorset Street and drank at a public house – ‘The Britannia’ - on the same road. Just fifty yards away was Fashion Street, where both Eddowes and Stride had occasionally lodged.

Less than a hundred yards from Dorset Street was Flower and Dean Street. This street contained not only Stride’s and Eddowes’ more permanent addresses (N^o.’s32 and 55) but also a house where Nichols had spent a great deal of her time.

Thrawl Street, one hundred and eighty yards from Dorset Street, contained Nichols’ more permanent address, N^o.18. Catherine Eddowes often visited N^o.6 of that road, to see her sister.

When I had made further inquiries into the lodging habits of Elizabeth Stride, I found out that she often used to stay with a man called Michael Kidney. It turned out that he lived in the same ‘nethersken’ as Annie Chapman, N^o.35 Dorset Street. Of the two or three hundred lodging houses in the general Whitechapel area, it appeared that the Ripper had chosen his prey most discerningly.

[Nethersken: inferior lodging establishment; rather like a common doss-house – J.W.]

On one of my visits, I made the chance discovery that - not only Annie Chapman - but Polly Nichols and Elizabeth Stride also drank, along with a woman called Mary Kelly, in the Dorset Street tavern - The Britannia - also known locally as ‘Ringer’s’. I decided to visit this tavern in the hopes of obtaining more information concerning those women. Upon arrival, I soon found myself acquainted with two unfortunates who frequently drank there, Alice and Rose. As we sat down to a pint of ale apiece, I began to ask them if they had ever known any of the victims “It gets me ‘ow the papers ‘ave bin glorifyin’ ‘is bloke,” said Alice. “As if ‘e’s impor’an’ an’ we aint.”

“What you wanna know ‘bout Polly for?” asked Rose.

“Well, I’m writing about her, you see,” I replied. “I rather pride myself in being accurate with my facts.”

“You don’ wanna write nuffin’ bad ‘bout ol’ Pol.”

“I have absolutely no intention of writing anything bad about anyone; but it appears to me - from the newspaper reports at least - that a great deal more is known about the killer that his victims.”

“‘At’s jus’ what I said, eh?” spat Alice through the thick clouds of her clay pipe. “If anyone’d fought ‘bout the likes of us inna firs’ place, we’ wou’n’ve come t’viss! Marv’lous choice we got; Lumphouse or street.”

[Lumphouse: East-End colloquialism for work-house – J.W.]

“Exactly,” I responded. “The dirty politics of the matter are my main bone of contention.”

“What you wanna know ‘en?” Rose asked.

“Well,” I continued, “it seems to me that there’s been quite a connection between all the women. For example, I have been led to understand that all four women socialised in this very establishment.”

“Kaffy Eddowes di’n’,” remarked Rose.

“I was given to believe that she did. I mean, I was told they drank here with Mary Kelly. That was one of Eddowes’ alias’, was it not?”

“Yeah, ‘at’s true; but the Kelly I’m talkin’ ‘bout is really Mary Kelly. Not made up like.”

“Another Mary Kelly?”

“A real Kelly, from Ireland. It were ‘er ‘at the girls all drank wiv.”

I perceived that Rose was becoming quite uncomfortable with the subject of Mary Kelly, but I was determined to discover all that I could. “I don’t suppose you know how I could get in contact with her at all, do you?”

“You won’ find ‘er round ‘ere no more,” came a voice from behind me. “She slung ‘er ‘ook no’ long back. Toffee-nosed bint go’ mixed up wiv some toffs. Ever since she’s bin comin’ the Rofschild; tryin’ ‘a be the toffer ‘at she aint.” I turned around to see the source of the voice and saw a young unfortunate seated at another table. Looking back to Alice and Rose, I gathered they had no liking for this woman, for they gave each other what appeared to me as a knowing look. Then, without saying a word, they both rose and left. “Cheap lushes,” muttered the young woman. “Jus’ jealous, ‘cause ‘m young an’ gets all the blokes. A’s ‘cause I still got me own teef.”

[Rothschild: one who boasts about their fictional wealth – J.W.]

[Toffer: (anachronism) A higher class of unfortunate – J.W.]

“I see...And this Mary Kelly?”

“‘Ers’ve worn out an’ all. Wha’ you wan’ wiv Mary Kelly anyways?” she asked, slyly.

“Background information, if possible. I was wondering, Miss...?”

“You can call me wha’ you like.”

“Oh. I’d really rather call you by your proper name, Miss...?”

“Franny’ll do,” she replied at last. “I could give you anyfing Mary Kelly could; be’er too, mind.”

“I’m sure you could,” I cautiously ventured. “But my main concern at the moment is Kelly herself.”

“I could take you to ‘er, ‘f you like. Have ourselves a good time, jus’ ‘e free of us; or four, if Joe fancies ya. Can’t promise they don’ ‘ave the glim; but then again if you’re the risky type -”

[Glim: syphilis, or similar venereal disease – J.W.]

“I would be most appreciative if you could lead me to her,” I stated, doing my best to distance myself from her obscene innuendo. With ‘Franny’ (presumably Frances) leading the way, we left ‘Ringer’s’ and bustled through the busy Dorset Street footpaths until we reached a gateway. “Through here?” I asked.

“Wan’ed Mary Kelly, right?” she replied, unbolting the gate. She said no more as she slipped through the way, and faithfully, I followed her through into an ally between two lodging houses.

“So she lives here, then,” I remarked. ‘Franny’, who had been waiting by the gate, closed it shut and bolted it.

“I gotta tell ya, Kelly don’ really live ‘ere.” At the sound of these words, I felt my face flush cold. I had suspected that something such as this might happen. All the same, I hadn’t really faced the thought that it actually would happen. I stood still, waiting for the inevitable. I was not to wait for long. Barely had ‘Franny’ closed the gate before a grubby ruffian stepped out of the shadows. He sauntered over, eying me up and down. It had not escaped my attention that he carried a large knife in his hand.

“You dir’y ol’ fella,” he rasped. “Wha’ you fink you’re doin’, comin’ down ‘ere an’ muckin’ about wiv our women? Wha’ if I were to wander up Wess an’ pay a call on your misses? You wouldn’ like ‘at now, would ya?”

I was not about to let myself be intimidated by this rogue. “So that’s your game, is it?” I declared defiantly. “Extortion. I’m afraid you’ll have no luck with me, sir.” Although I had not exactly expected it, I had still prepared for this eventuality. I drew a police whistle from my coat pocket and gave it as strong a blow as I could muster. The rogue’s reaction was electrifying. He leapt for the whistle and fairly knocked me to the ground. But military training prevailed in the face of such uncoordinated barbarism, and I quickly overpowered the foul pander.

Scarcely had I pinned him to the ground with my walking cane, when two young constables burst in through the gateway. As luck would have it, the two officers who came to my assistance were familiar to me, from previous occasions with Holmes. “Ah, officers,” I boomed in triumph. “Quick on the scene, as usual.”

But ‘Franny’ was more crafty than I had given her credit for. “‘E’s Jack the Ripper,” she yelled, pointing me out.

“What, him?” asked the young constable of me, after a moment’s stunned silence.

“God’s troof. ‘E tricked me inna comin’ ‘ere wiv ‘im, ‘en ‘e pulled a knife out. I screamed an’ me mate came out an’ grabbed it off ‘im. Quick as can be ‘e knocks ‘im to the ground -”

“What, him?” asked the constable again.

“This is Dr. John Watson,” said the other officer. “I’d trust him with my own mother.”

“‘E’s ‘e Ripper, I’m tellin’ ya,” sneered the young woman. “You jus’ makes sure you arrests ‘im good. I go’ a loud yell, an’ if you don’ cuff ‘im I’ll bring a mob wha’ll do much worse.”

“Just you keep your mouth shut,” the constable hissed. Grabbing me at the elbow, he gave me a frustrated yet apologetic look. “I’m sorry sir, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to accompany me to the station.” Seeing that I had no other choice, I reluctantly went to the local Police Station to make my statement of obvious innocence. To ‘Franny’s’ fury, she and her pimp were taken also. Lestrade seemed to amuse himself by doing his usual trick of playing every step by the book. He diligently penned my statement and kept me in a cell overnight.

I was awoken early the next morning by the unmistakable chuckles of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who stood above me with Lestrade by his side. “I’m remanding this mischief-maker into your custody, Mr. Holmes,” smirked the Inspector. “Just you make sure he keeps his nose clean in future.”

“Oh, dear,” choked Holmes, barely able to stifle his fits of mirth. “My dear fellow, what have you gone and done this time? Haven’t I warned you often enough of the dangers inherent in investing too much trust in people; especially women with an axe to grind.”

“I was set upon no less -” I began.

“Put up quite a struggle too, so I’m informed,” was Lestrade’s remark.

“I have no doubt he did,” laughed Holmes. “Come along, Watson. Let’s get you home and bathed and changed and what-have-you.” Holmes roared with uncontrollable laughter all the was back to Baker Street, and it was a considerable length of time before his fit of giggles eventually subsided. It took slightly longer for his smile to fade, but I considered that he was then far more receptive to hearing the details of what I had been able to ascertain the day previous.

On the black-board, I set out the basic geography of the square mile terrorised by the Ripper. I indicated to Holmes the locations of the victims’ lodgings, common social ground, and where their bodies were found. When I had finished, Holmes took a moment to consider the results of my inquiries. “Excellent work, old chap. You really have done remarkable well.”

“And about this Kelly woman -” I prompted.

“More than a coincidence, I’ll wager. Consider the possibility that whoever killed Catherine Eddowes did so in the belief that she was Mary Kelly; the real Mary Kelly, to be precise.”

“It’s quite possible,” I speculated. “Coincidences will happen though.”

“But this would have to be a coincidence of the most amazing odds. If it is more than mere congruity, then this Mary Kelly is in mortal peril indeed.”

“Not if the killer believes that he has already slain her.”

“An unlikely possibility if the killer reads the newspapers, which he undoubtedly does. As Foxborough informed us, he made certain that Eddowes’ correct name, not her alias, was given to reporters. Only one paper published the incorrect name, and I would assume they corrected it not long after.”

“What if this man is illiterate?”

“If my suspicion concerning a confederate is correct,” he answered, “then it is likely that at least one of the pair is literate, for he sent two letters to Central News concerning Chapman and the ‘double-event’ -”

“Are you certain that those letters are genuine?”

“Quite certain, old man. I do not hold everything done by the police in low regard, and in this instance they are treating these two letters, out of the hundreds they are sent daily, as genuine. I have myself examined them and have little doubt as to their authenticity. It may be too broad an assumption of mine - for we are still lacking crucial details pertinent to the apprentice - but I am inclined to estimate (by the hand and syntax contained therein) that those letters had been set down by the superior of the pair.

“This said, it would hardly surprise me if the killers were already searching for the real Kelly.”

“Not necessarily,” I advised. “If the killers did slaughter Eddowes in the belief that it was Kelly, they must have been fairly certain that they had the right person. These men have so far been meticulous, clinical and exact in their detail. How then does it fit that such individuals would make so crass a blunder?”

“That changes nothing,” Holmes snapped, irritably. “They would have learnt their mistake the next day -”

“But don’t you see?” I interrupted. “They were hunting a Whitechapel unfortunate by the name of ‘Mary Kelly’. It’s like catching Robin Hood, then releasing him when you discover that ‘Robin Hood’ isn’t his real name.”

“Watson, you are a genius,” was his jubilant reply. “How could I have missed that? It would certainly explain why there have been no more murders. This changes matters and also buys us time.”

“What’s to be done then?” I asked. “Should I go back and ask around some more?”

“No, dear fellow. I feel you have suffered enough at the hands of these rough East-Enders. No, I shall make the inquiries myself, beginning at the Wentworth Dwellings of Goulston Street. It’s a lead we should perhaps have followed earlier, but I hope I can make up for lost time. I need your help in other areas; to find the man Lees tracked down. I am as yet uncertain of his name; however, from Lees’ tale, I have at least some notion of his address. I would appreciate it greatly if you were to consult the Medical Directory. Produce for me a full list of eminent doctors in the West London area. I have left a list of streets for you to pay close attention to.

“Nay; make it a list of physicians! I trust you will have more luck in this field of inquiry.” With that, Holmes grabbed his hat and coat and made for the door.

“But what about this Kelly woman?” I called after him.

“I’m hoping to find her while I’m in the area. I have a hunch this mysterious artist will lead me to her.”

“Why so? And what makes you say he’s an artist?”

“Watson, he clearly knows her by the familiar exchanges between them in Mitre Square. As he gave us so valuable a clue as to the identity of the killers, I am unsure as yet as to what his intentions or motivations are. There is a pattern to all this and he is a part of it. You yourself know, from your inquiries, that these killings are not random. These women are linked; and the method of their execution demonstrates something far grander than mere savage butchery. If I’m right, and I frequently am, the killers will not rest until they have ensnared the real Mary Kelly.

“As to this man being an artist, it was plain to see the stains of different coloured oil paints upon his shirt front. And there was a strange melancholy about him, which I think was not fully the result of witnessing a brutal murder. I have often seen such expressions on the faces of many a modern artist. He makes a living for himself with his art, but does not make more than a mediocre commission, or he would not be living in such squalor.”

“No doubt you will have these interpretations verified when you call on him.”

“I certainly shall,” Holmes called from the stairway. With Holmes gone, I set about compiling the list of surgeons Holmes requested. It was no great task and took me little time to complete. After more than six hours waiting for Holmes’ return, I attempted to alleviate my boredom by preparing for myself a brandy and cigar; but before I had the chance to enjoy either, I was all too suddenly disturbed by something most unexpected. At around about two thirty in the afternoon, Mrs. Hudson and Inspector Foxborough entered the rooms carrying an unconscious Holmes between them.

 

To Be Continued…

APPENDICES TO VOLUME MM N^o. 3

i. TEXT; CHAPTER FIVE

THE NAME OF ROBERT JAMES LEES is one tied in so closely with the Whitechapel murders that it is a rare thing indeed to find any case-study on the Ripper which does not in some way refer to him:

 

'In the previous edition of this book I omitted all reference to Robert James Lees because of its inherent absurdity. However, other writers since have seen fit to mention this man's claim to have discovered Jack the Ripper...'  [The Identity of Jack the Ripper by Donald McCormick (Revised edition; Long John LTD & Arrow Books Ltd - 1970)]

 

Presumably the 'inherent absurdity' mentioned is the very nature of Lees' involvement in the case (ie: his alleged psychic abilities). However, one's belief in (or lack of) matters concerning clairvoyance is essentially irrelevant to the case at hand; as Lees' very involvement in the investigation was noted and published decades before its discovery and use by Stephen Knight as an intriguing piece of circumstantial evidence.

Surprise, surprise; Melvin Harris refers to the Lees story in The True Face of Jack the Ripper. Could it be that Harris will look upon this testimony with all of the professional disinterest of an unbiased reporter?

 

'He was a well-meaning man who suffered from delusions.' [Appendix 6, page 179 - Revised edition; Brockhamption Press; 1999)]

 

I guess that means no; but then again, Harris refers to many people as being delusional [unless they are in some way useful in his case against D'Onston].

Even though he feels he has demonstrated that Doctor Benjamin Howard (supposed tattletale) was completely innocent of drunkardly blabbering about Lees' involvement; he falls extremely short of actually proving it.

Other Ripperologists have also expressed their concerns that Harris fails to take all of the facts into account. Peter Underwood is one of the very few to even acknowledge Melvin Harris; besides Harris himself, that is.[Jack the Ripper: One Hundred Years of Mystery by Peter Underwood, page 91 (Paperback First Edition; Javelin Books - 1988)]

As Knight pointed out, no-one in their right mind would admit to divulging such a scandalous, hush-hush story whilst under the influence of large quantities of alcohol; especially someone of such high standing in the medical community. With this in mind, it is hardly surprising that he denies having ever said it.

If the story had not been true, no doubt Howard would have laughed it off as a ridiculous example of media sensationalism; rather than writing a strongly worded letter to the author of the article. The doctor doth protest too much, methinks.

Once again, whether or not Dr Howard did spill the beans isn't the greatest concern; especially when you consider that the story itself was strikingly similar to accounts told by Lees himself, Emily Porter (Lees' grand-niece), Cynthia Legh (close friend of Lees') and even the wife of the accused (although this is more the case in the visions discussed in Chapter VI). But even in the highly unlikely possibility that it never happened, it is still a quaint little thriller of a tale.

I have chosen to drastically alter Watson's opinions of the supernatural, as - in the movie - he was most derisory towards Mr & Mrs Lees and their testimony. Since Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was himself a theosophist, I thought it much more likely that Watson would be wary of Lees' claim but would also be open-minded on the issue.

Considering that the film recounts the Lees story mostly in visuals [and also that such a style would be pretty-much impossible to transfer to a novel] I went back to the original statements as given by Lees and the wife of the accused. As with the grapes, I include this segment of the film not merely for the sake of convenience, but also for its factual origins and relevance to the case at hand.

The significance of the swordstick was something I discovered only days after I had published Issue 2. In a booklet titled Walking Sticks, I happened to notice a paragraph describing sticks of profession:

 

'Perhaps the most important guild using canes was the French compagnonage, consisting mainly of the building trades. Each of their canes bears the emblem of a particular trade. The Knights Templar had their special walking stick, and so did the Freemasons (canes containing ceremonial Freemason's swords)'. [Walking Sticks by Catherine Dike (Shire Publications Ltd, Buckinghamshire 1990; pages 22-3)]

 

It is difficult to tell whether Warren's accusations of Holmes' supposed treason were genuine concerns or whether they were a matter of intolerance and malice. I make this remark because the scene in question was almost entirely a creation of Hopkins'. As a result, this has become a necessary portrayal of the Commissioner as a paranoid aggressor.

In all honesty, it didn't even require Hopkins' handy-work to cement the historical figure of Warren into the corresponding character; for his legendary status was carved out by no-one other than himself. If ever he had a bad reputation, it was as a result of his own doing and was only immortalised by the media as a statement of record.

It has always been a commonly known fact that it was Sir Charles Warren's decision that the Goulston Street message should be removed with haste. His reasons - or rather the lame excuses he let be known - are similarly known to any lay-Ripperologist (reiterated in Hopkins' screenplay and reproduced in this edition).

Many theorists who oppose Knight's findings say that Freemasons have never used the term “Juwes” as a collective term for Jubelo, Jubela and Jubelum; and that they are more often than not referred to as "The Three Ruffians". However, some of my Masonic acquaintances have admitted to me that the word "Juwes" is indeed a Masonic term for the above mentioned. Forgive me if I do not publish their names; as anonymity is the lesser of two evils.

Even though the monologue concerning the Masonic legend of the "Juwes" was almost identical to Christopher Plummer's corresponding oratory in the film, I took mine from a quote in The Ripper Legacy by Howells and Skinner. [The Ripper Legacy: The Life & Death of Jack the Ripper, by Martin Howells & Keith Skinner (Sidgwick & Jackson, 1987, page 79)] If the truth be known, the full discourse contained a very few extra details of mutilation and ceremony NOT connected in any way to those suffered by the Ripper's victims. However, even without the extraction of the details from their rightful context, there still remain more concurrences than anomalies.

ii. TEXT; CHAPTER SIX

In looking at the continuing account of Lees' involvement in the case, I felt that more than one visit may have been necessary; as Lees would almost certainly have needed a great deal of coaxing to confide in Holmes.

The disguises referred to would doubtlessly include that of a chimney-sweep (as shown in Murder By Decree); but there would certainly have been others. There are only so many times a sweep will turn up at the same address before people start to take notice.

In developing the chapter concerned with the Dorset Street investigation, I was stunned to see – in the movie – a most ridiculous inconsistency in the form of Watson's blackboard cartography. It bore no resemblance what so ever to a map of Whitechapel, Spitalfields and Aldgate; not even a rough one:

To my mind, if Watson had been keeping himself busy with his Whitechapel inquiries, he should have returned to Baker Street with at least 300% more info than he did.

In the movie, Watson is seen discussing the issue with about a half a dozen sex-workers. Unfortunately, there is no indication as to their names. It is for this very reason that I decided to insert the characters of Alice, Rose and 'Franny'. Ripperologists reading this will undoubtedly recognise those characters; for those of you who are not Ripperologists, I will not spoil it for you by revealing more of their background info.

Interestingly, they give the impression that they know something; that they are in possession of secret knowledge of some type or other. I decided to play that down a little; though I believe that one might drunkenly jabber more than she should, whilst the other might be more guarded on the issue. It is little surprise then that most of the victims were killed shortly after gulping back a right skin-full.

As I read the various statements of the lodging and socialising habits of the Ripper's victims, I was amazed to discover just how many coincidences there actually were. [Jack the Ripper: The Final Solution by Stephen Knight, Chapter 9 (Fourth Edition; Granada Publishing Ltd - 1980)] In the film, we do not get anywhere near the same depth of information, as Watson recounts very few pertinent details. Curiously, just as MURDER BY DECREE contains a grossly inaccurate map, the documentary on JACK THE RIPPER: THE FINAL SOLUTION gives us one which is even worse:

Lestrade is - as Holmes has mentioned in the past - 'shockingly conventional'. I would credit him with a good sense of humour as well (much as Hopkins did).

I should say that Holmes also has a cheeky twinkle to his character [he was mirthful from the word go in A Study In Scarlet]. Many have criticised Christopher Plummer's portrayal of Holmes in Murder By Decree; because Holmes is apparently cold, logical, calculating and unfeeling. I assume that one of the points of contention is his uncontrollable laughter as he rescues Watson from a fate worse than Lestrade:

 

'Although Plummer gave a coherent alternative depiction of Holmes, it is not the authentic Sherlock of Conan Doyle.' [Sherlock Holmes: A Centenary Celebration by Allen Eyles, page 120 (John Murray Publishers Ltd - 1986)]

 

Any Sherlockian of at least competent literacy ability would know that Holmes was nothing if not unpredictable. His quirky flippancy in The Red-Headed League, his drug-induced stupors (actually portrayed by Plummer in Silver Blaze two years before Murder By Decree), and his absolute adoration for 'a touch of the dramatic'; all demonstrate that Plummer was very much the 'authentic Sherlock of Conan Doyle'.

In the film, one of the more irritating gaps of Watson's investigations is the fact that Catherine Eddowes had first been identified as 'Mary Kelly'; in that she often used that alias. Without this prior knowledge, how much less of an impact is it that they should set about finding another woman of that name? I feel there would be a greater sense of urgency in the matter if such details had been included.

It would have been a wise move on Holmes' behalf to take up the East End investigations from where Watson left off as more locals would begin to take more notice and people other than 'Franny' and her ponce would start calling him the Ripper.

This particular switch in investigations was also wise in terms of relative expertise; as Watson would sail through such a job as he was left with.

From reading some of the biggies – such as The Sign of Four and The Hound of the Baskervilles - I have noticed that Holmes lets his knowledge out bit at a time. I don't think he is intentionally deceptive; but more a matter of social forgetfulness. Holmes often sees ten times the amount of data that others see, due to his razor-sharp observational abilities.

I don't think he forgets that others observe fewer details than he does; but he may sometimes neglect to bring something to someone's attention if he doesn't consciously think, "This is something that anyone other than myself would miss." I think that 'the artist' might be one such example of the above-mentioned mind-set.

iii. ILLUSTRATIONS; CHAPTER FIVE

The cover-page echoes back to those grim, early shots in Murder By Decree; with the carriage of death [stretched out of proportion in the film with a fish-eye lens] looming out of the thick fog.

The reproduction of that shot was Stef Kukla's idea; and I believe it works rather well. In the previous two issues, we have approached the episodes from the relative comfort of the Strand corner of Fleet Street. No such comfort welcomes the reader to this edition, as we find ourselves stumbling blindly into the ill-lit, fog-laden slums of Whitechapel.

 

"TO MY ASTONISHMENT, WARREN PRESENTED HIS RIGHT HAND IN THE SAME MANNER."

It was bad enough when Stef had to draw the Wentworth Dwelling passageway in reverse; but just imagine his frustration as he realised he had drawn the men shaking their left hands when they should have been shaking their right.

Using a colour state from Melvin Harris' The Ripper File, Stef took great pains to arrange all of Warren's military regalia in mirror image; so that - when the flip came - it would all be in correct order.

 

"I HAVE SEEN THE MAN KNOWN AS JACK THE RIPPER."

At first, we looked to Murder By Decree, to examine Donald Sutherland's portrayal. It was decided that - since our view of the movie was that of a Collier's interpretation - it would be foolish to depict him the same way in the Strand format.

Then we looked to the Lees in David Wickes' tele-movie Jack the Ripper. However, we found him to be too fanciful and not very believable [and certainly not in keeping with biographical information or later photographs].

Stef was almost ready to either resign himself to attempt a younger version of the Lees in the Photo Psychic News, or opt for an illustration of something (or someone) else; when I came across a photograph of him published in Melvin Harris' The True Face of Jack the Ripper.

This photograph - though it still depicted an elderly Lees - was an absolute inspiration to Stef. He could see Freud in him, or Andrew Kier [as he looked in his portrayal of Quatermass].

The shadow, which cast half of his face into darkness, became a sinister metaphor for the evil trespassing in his mind. The smoking jacket was inspired by the final illustration from The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet.

 

"GOOD GOD," I EXCLAIMED. "IT'S MAKINS."

This simple little picture has a strange sadness about it; almost contradictory to how we should respond to his character.

Stef told me that he saw a very weak, vulnerable and impressionable Makins as a result of reading drafts I had written quite early on. Respect to Ron Pember for his portrayal in the movie; but I have a tendency to view the world almost through Brechtian eyes. I see no heroes and villains; just fallible people doing their best to live from day to day in the styles to which they are accustomed.

I won't bombard you with too many personal politics; I'll space it out in future editions, if it is becomes relevant to the chapters I will be discussing.

 

"HOLMES FLIPPED THE TINY PANEL ON THE TOP OF THE RING TO REVEAL AN ENGRAVED SURFACE."

The bane of many an illustrator is HANDS!!! As yet, I have met not a single illustrator who actually finds such a task easy. Many different versions of this picture were attempted before the final decision was taken as to which looked the most realistic.

 

"I'M NOT SURE WHICH GAVE HIM THE GREATER FRIGHT; THE FACT THAT I KNEW THE SECRET SIGNS, OR THE POSSIBILITY THAT I MIGHT ACTUALLY BE A FELLOW MASON."

For this edition, Stef was responsible for most of its illustrations. However, this is not the case in this particular picture. Gawd bless the little battler for trying, but - as I said to his face - "this picture is utter crap!!"

I do not exaggerate. The figures themselves couldn't have been more than seven centimetres high, and were so lacking in any form of credibility that they could not be used.

Thankfully, Lorraine Kukla offered to re-draw it. Her version was much kinder to the eye and was not injured too much by Stef's background fill.

 

iv. ILLUSTRATIONS; CHAPTER SIX

 

"I STOOD OUTSIDE WITH THE INSPECTOR AND POINTED AT THE ADDRESS."

Not one of Stef's best efforts, but - as with the movie - it depicts that which is not mentioned. He again shows a young Lees with 'the inspector'. As I looked back over this picture, I noticed how Inspector Foxborough is portrayed; with his hands in his pockets and his back to the truth. It was then that I realised that - in every picture of Foxborough so far - the key feature was nonchalance.

Like I said [specifically in the case of anatomical accuracy] this is not one of his best; but I absolutely must commend him on his attention to background detail. Of that particular residential facade, he showed a lot of care and scrutiny.

 

"'AT'S JUS' WHAT I SAID, EH?' SPAT ALICE THROUGH THE THICK CLOUDS OF HER CLAY PIPE."

As I have previously mentioned, 'Clay Pipe Alice' is someone easily recognised by Ripperologists. Donald McCormick's The Identity of Jack the Ripper contains two sketches of her as she looked in the late eighteen-eighties.

Stef can be quite morbid at times and drew her in a far less flattering way than the afore-mentioned sketches. [In the very near future, I intend to scan one of those sketches in as a basis for comparison]

When Lorraine drew the 'Kate Eddowes with a Bobby' picture; Stef felt that her depiction of Eddowes was unnecessarily flattering for a middle-aged prostitute who had cirrhosis of the liver, Bright's disease, and was highly intoxicated at the time.

I am inclined to think that the picture worked very well in its context.

 

"MILITARY TRAINING PREVAILED IN THE FACE OF SUCH UNCOORDINATED BARBARISM."

Utterly inspired by the corresponding scene in Murder By Decree. It requires no further comment.

 

"I NEED YOUR HELP IN OTHER AREAS; TO FIND THE MAN LEES TRACKED DOWN."

Ever noticed how - in certain films or picture books - the characters seem to be wearing the exact same clothes for days on end? It appears to me that Stef was very aware of this aggravating visual element; enough so that he lets it be known [via this picture] that Holmes and Watson do in fact have a little variety in their wardrobes.

I think he also wanted to do a fireplace picture in the style of Sidney Paget. Unfortunately, he is attempting a picture for the next edition, showing the other end of the mantelpiece and he doesn't know what to put next to it. Shame.