Whitechapel: The Final Stand of Sherlock Holmes (Gentlemen's Edition) Read online

  WHITECHAPEL

  The Final Stand of Sherlock Holmes

  Gentleman's Edition

  By Bernard J. Schaffer

  CONTACT INFORMATION

  Official Website of Bernard J. Schaffer

  www.ApiarySociety.com

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  [email protected]

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  @ApiarySociety

  WHITECHAPEL: The Final Stand of Sherlock Holmes—Gentleman's Edition

  Copyright 2011 by Bernard J. Schaffer. All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-1467943444

  Edited by Bill Thompson and Karen (“The Angry Hatchet”) S.

  Cover and Interior Design by Streetlight Graphics

  www.streetlightgraphics.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. No reference to any real person, living or dead, should be inferred.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PRAISE FOR WHITECHAPEL

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  PROLOGUE

  ACT I: PRETTY GIRLS MAKE GRAVES

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  ACT II: COME ARMAGEDDON, COME

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  ACT III: YOU ARE THE QUARRY

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty One

  Twenty Two

  Twenty Three

  Twenty Four

  ACT IV: NOVEMBER SPAWNED A MONSTER

  Twenty Five

  Twenty Six

  Twenty Seven

  Twenty Eight

  Twenty Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty One

  Thirty Two

  Thirty Three

  Thirty Four

  ACT V: A LIGHT THAT NEVER GOES OUT

  Thirty Five

  Thirty Six

  Thirty Seven

  Thirty Eight

  Thirty Nine

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  AUTHOR'S DEDICATION

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Praise for Whitechapel: The Final Stand of Sherlock Holmes

  “Riveting and gripping.” —Bookpleasures.com

  “A Masterpiece.” —5Star Review, Amazon

  “Absolutely brilliant!” —5Star Review, Amazon UK

  “One of the best books ever.” —5Star Review, Amazon

  Praise for Women and Other Monsters

  “Nothing short of amazing.” —David Hulegaard, author of Nobel

  “Better than Stephen King.” —Al Fetherlin, author of Release

  “Thank God for Schaffer.” —KindleObsessed.com

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The following edition of WHITECHAPEL: THE FINAL STAND of SHERLOCK HOLMES contains no profanity, and edited versions of the violence that appears in the original version. However, it is not suitable for children or those who are of weak constitution.

  This story is a factual representation of the crimes of Jack the Ripper, a sadistic, ritualized serial killer who existed in Victorian times. There are still scenes that discuss and show his deeds.

  I felt it necessary to make this version available to readers who would like to enjoy WHITECHAPEL but are not prepared to face the stark reality of the crimes and times in which they occurred.

  Also, and perhaps most importantly, Mom: You are allowed to read the book now.

  Yours Truly,

  Bernard J. Schaffer

  PROLOGUE

  Annie Chapman slumped against the doorway to her landlord’s office. “Tim? Ain’t got money for me doss just yet. I feel quite ill. Any chance you might spot an ol’ bunter?”

  Tim Donovan counted the last coins stacked on his desk, jotting down the amount, and swept them into his register. He turned the key and dropped it down his shirt. “You’ve got money for beer, but none for bed, that it?”

  “No. It’s not like that, Tim,” Annie said, fishing in her pocket. She lifted a torn piece of envelope to show him the pills within, “See? Had to get some medicine at the ward earlier. They took me last bit of change.”

  “I heard yeh downed a pint with Freddie Stevens just an hour ago. He told me it when he paid his doss. Crossingham’s is a house of lodging, not charity, Annie Chapman. No doss money, no doss.”

  Annie shrugged, putting the pills back in her pocket. “Not a big ‘fing. Never mind, then, Tim.”

  Donovan sighed. “Listen, why don’t you go and see Brummy? He fancies you. See if he’ll pay your way tonight.”

  Annie shook her head, “No, don’t want to do that. Brummy’s angry with me because I told him I’d take care of him if he bought us a pint last week, but I was just trying to get the pint.”

  “Yeh don’t like Brummy?”

  “It’s not that.” Annie lowered her eyes, “Just prefer strangers. People I never have to see again. Hold us a bed, all right?”

  “Wait a tick. I was just reading about that girl they found last week. Some poor bird named Polly Nichols. Paper said her throat was cut from ear to ear, an’ they found her body right over on Buck’s Row. Dangerous out there. Lots of strange people about. I think you should go see Brummy and square with him.”

  “You’re a sweetie for caring, Tim. I am coming back for that room, so don’t let it.” Annie left Donovan’s office, heading down the steps, calling back to him, “I’ll soon be back.”

  Donovan shook his head, frowning as Annie descended the stairs. He opened his ledger and penciled one of the rooms as occupied, leaving the “PAID” space open under Annie’s name.

  Dorset Street ran from Crispin to Commercial Street, and Crossingham’s Lodging House sat in the Spitalfields section of the East End. There were so many flophouses that locals called it “Dosset Street.” Annie had stayed for varying lengths of time at the Brittania, the Blue Coat Boy, Commercial Street Chambers, and the Horn of Plenty, but none of them would even let her in the door without money-in-hand. There were other houses, near Flower and Dean Street, but Annie would not venture into that area alone. Even within the whole stinking cesspool of Whitechapel, that particular quarter of a mile was infamous. Annie had heard Polly Nichols, the dead girl in the paper, was from around those parts. Really no surprise there.

  No one seemed to be about on Commercial Street at that hour. Annie looked down Little Paternoster Row and continued on. What she needed was a generous drunk she could take care of with a quick rub off. She did not feel up for much more than that. As she turned toward Spitalfields Market, fishing a bit of baked potato from her pocket, she let out a long, slow burp into the cool September air.

  The beer provided earlier by Freddie Stevens had cooled her fever, and now she was worried about her stomach. If it took a bad turn, she’d be retching beer, potato, and several small white medicinal pills all over the street. Waste of the money she’d spent at the ward then. She found a bench and sat down, waiting for her belly to settle. The wheels of a hansom cab turned across the cobblestones of Hanbury Street at Brick Lane. The horse’s hooves stopped, and the rear of the cab opened. It was too murky to see the man exiting, but as he shut the door behind him, the horse began walking again, leading the carriage away.

  Annie munched her potato as the man began making his way toward her up
Hanbury. She did not think he saw her yet. The sixth anniversary of her daughter Emily’s death had come and gone with Annie refusing to acknowledge it. She had drunk herself stupid and spent the day in a jail cell.

  Ah, John, she thought. He was no good for work, no good for anything really, except drinking. Annie begged and begged the landlord to let them stay, crying how Emily’s condition would only deteriorate rapidly once they were on the street. The landlord did not care. He sent the police to remove them, and one of them cracked John across the skull with his nightstick when John protested.

  The man was coming closer. Almost time to call out to him.

  It occurred to Annie that Emily’s eighteenth birthday was coming up that September, and it would be time to visit her grave. She would visit John’s as well.

  It was only a few short weeks after they were kicked out of their flat that Emily pressed up against her mother in the dark alley they had been staying in, shivering, complaining of pain. Annie kissed her child’s head, stroking her hair, whispering that it would be all right as long as they stayed together. Emily never woke up.

  Annie and John agreed that it would be best if they simply went their separate ways and leave one another in peace. It was only after they parted that John began to reveal the content of his character. He sent Annie an allowance through the post every week, tracking her down wherever she was staying. In 1886 Annie was living with a man in Spitalfields, and even when John found out, he still sent her the money. Good man, Annie thought. Never find another like him. When the money stopped coming that December, Annie assumed it was because John was finally tired of supporting her and her habits. She was wrong, though. John was dead.

  Annie blinked, trying to pay attention to the man coming closer through the darkness of Hanbury Street. He was near enough that Annie called out, “Hello, guv’ner!” kicking her legs back and forth on the bench, more excitedly than she felt. “Feeling good natured this evening?”

  “I suppose so,” the man said.

  “Care for any company to while away the time?” she said.

  The man looked her up and down. The wide brim of his top hat blocked Annie from seeing much of his face. She could see that he was younger than she, and well-kept. One of the posh West Enders who liked to come down and slum it up with East End bunters, she thought. “I was looking for somewhere that is quiet and dark,” he said.

  “I know just the place,” Annie said, getting up from the bench. “Gladly take you there if you got a thruppence.” The man nodded. “Good,” Annie said. “For a few extra I’ll even kiss it.”

  “Will you?”

  Annie nodded, “Yes, if you’ve got the coin.” She put her hand to his chest, cupping it close, showing the man how it was done. “Put your money right in me palm, like that. There’s plenty a robbers about that’d love to knock one a’ us on the head while we is settling up. Can’t have that happen, now can I? Not to me fine, handsome new friend. But you have nothing to fear, my dear. Ol’ Annie will protect you from the things that go bump in the night,” she said, bumping her hip against his, and laughing.

  “Your name is Ann?” the man said.

  “Yes. Well, Annie.” Annie held out her hand. He put several coins in her palm. Annie checked the alley behind the Hanbury Street houses, picking a spot next to a fence. She hiked her skirt and moved into the shadow between the fence and the steps leading to the back of the house. “Put it in me this way first,” she whispered, putting her hand on the wall and bending forward. “Annie’s going to take real good care of you,” she said, hiking her skirt up to her waist and poking her bottom toward the man.

  He stepped close to her and hesitantly touched her waist. He squeezed the pale white flesh of Annie’s meaty bottom. “There you go,” Annie said. “That feels nice.”

  “No,” the man said, taking his hands away instantly as if repulsed. “I want you to tell me that you hate it.”

  Annie smiled in the shadows, burying her face quickly in her arm. He was one of those types, she thought. “All right,” Annie sighed. “Don’t do it. I hate it. Do you want me to struggle a bit?”

  “Call me a beast,” he whispered, pressing close against her.

  “You are quite a little beastie, dearest,” Annie said, covering her mouth to stifle a giggle. Suddenly, the man yanked her hair straight back, snapping her chin into the air, and Annie felt something sharp pierce the soft flesh beneath her jaw.

  ACT I

  PRETTY GIRLS MAKE GRAVES

  ONE

  The interior of Twenty-Two One B was dimly lit by the flickering gaslights of Baker Street far below. Their illuminations slipped through narrow gaps in the curtains as wind blew through our poorly shuttered windows, rattling the glass panes. The Great Detective sat across from me wrapped in a worn velvet smoking jacket, sucking his pipe silently. His thin face was gaunter than I’d ever seen it and his eyes drawn to serpentine slits. I cleared my throat, finally summoning the will to say, “Holmes, I have wonderful news. Miss Mary Morstan has agreed to be my wife.”

  Holmes removed the pipe from his mouth and inspected its contents. He reached into the small pouch on the side-table and gathered several pinches of aromatic tobacco, packing it carefully inside the pipe and relit it. Finally, after a long time he blew out a thick, stream of smoke and said, “I expect you’ll be leaving Baker Street then?”

  I paused, waiting to see if he was making a joke. “I am utterly serious, Holmes. This is no jest. I am getting married.”

  “Are you waiting for me to congratulate you?”

  “That would be the standard reaction to the announcement of pending nuptials, I suppose.”

  “Perhaps for those who see such things as occasion to celebrate,” he said. “Personally, I cannot fathom why you would want to do something so foolish.”

  “Foolish?” I scoffed. “How can you say that? Mary is quite a beauty. Also, she is loyal, intelligent, and charming.”

  “Intelligent, indeed,” Holmes sniffed. Suddenly, his face grew quite grave and he leaned forward, “Have you accidentally impregnated this girl? If that’s the case, there is no need to do something so foolish. I know of a few doctors who can remedy that quite easily.”

  “How dare you! That type of talk is beneath even you.”

  “Fine,” he sighed. “Farewell then, Watson. I will be able to find other ways to content myself with you no longer here.” Holmes reached above the fireplace for the cocaine bottle upon the mantle, and I snatched it away before he could grab it.

  Holmes and I now stood face to face as I held the bottle at my side, away from his reach. “Why is it so hard for you to congratulate me?”

  “I congratulate you, Watson,” Holmes said, looking hungrily at the bottle. “Does that content you? Hand it over.” When I did not move, Holmes seized my arm, trying to wrench the bottle from my hand. “Give me the cocaine, Watson! Run off with your sweetie and be out of my life forever if you want, just hand me the damned bottle!”

  I shoved him and Holmes fell backwards into his chair with a cry. Normally I would never have been able to fight him off, but after weeks of heavy usage of his damned cocaine and morphine, he was like a frail old man, and he collapsed like an unstrung puppet. “You do not mean that,” I said, catching my breath. “I think your jealousy and this poison have affected your mind.”

  Holmes snorted, “Jealous? Be serious, Watson. I would rather die than marry some little orphaned rantipole who cannot help but fall for the first handsome man that pays her but a speck of attention. Just give me my bottle and go away.”

  I slipped the bottle into my pocket, out of his sight. “Perhaps you are not jealous of me, then, but Mary. You are afraid she is stealing me away from you.”

  “That is quite enough, Watson. I am weary of your foolishness.”

  “Admit you do not want me to leave.”

  “Why? Would you stay if I said so?” Holmes said.

  “Say it. Admit that you are more than just some damned machine
. Be honest, just this one time. ”

  “As God is my witness, Watson, I would like nothing more than for you to get as far and as fast away from me this very instant.”

  “Fine.” I grabbed my coat and hat. “You have made it quite clear that my companionship is of little value to you. Farewell.”

  Holmes’s voice suddenly became soft, “Watson?”

  “What?” I said sharply, expecting he’d finally come to his senses and was about to apologize.

  “The bottle.”

  I cursed and threw it at him, striking him in the chest. I slammed the apartment door shut so hard that pictures on the stairwell rattled as I descended toward Mrs. Hudson’s apartment. Mrs. Hudson opened her door and poked her head out, “What is all that racket about?”

  “Him!” I said, jerking my thumb in the air. Mrs. Hudson peered at me over the tops of her spectacles down the bridge of her nose, looking like a stern nanny who’d just caught her charge snatching a biscuit without permission. I glanced back up at the top of the stairs and sighed. “I apologize for the noise, Mrs. Hudson. I am going to go for a walk in hopes that perhaps in a few hours things will have cooled down.”

  “For years I have watched all sorts of masked regents and befuddled policemen come through that door, all seeking the help of the Great Detective,” she sighed, shaking her head. “Why on earth he was putting his talents to such paltry use, I never understood. I always suspected he was meant for something much greater. But then I realized that he is just biding his time before fate comes calling on him in an hour of desperation. And sometimes I fear for that moment, Dr. Watson. I truly do.”