Whitechapel: The Final Stand of Sherlock Holmes (27 page)

“She’s dead all right,” Lamb said. “Just not murdered. Poor bunter looks like she drank herself stiff.”

“No use for me then?”

“Unless you want to help find her missing little girl. You know that bunter that always walks around with the kid? Well, that’s the bunter there,” Lamb pointed at the body, “and her kid ain’t nowhere to be found. People around here are nervous that somebody might have snatched her up and put her to bad use.”

“Louise?” Lestrade said, feeling the breath go out of his chest all at once.

“I think that was her name. You know her?”

Lestrade slid past Lamb, standing over the woman’s body. Louise’s eyes were open, staring in wide-eyed wonder. Her clothes were filthy and torn, and her legs were set apart at odd angles, with one bare foot turned inwards toward the other. “No,” he said softly. “No, of course not, I mean, other than to have seen her wandering town with the little one in tow. What happened?”

“People said she staggered in here and dropped. Some bastard stole her shoes and went into the Brittania bragging about it. He said she wasn’t moving, and when a few others came out here to see if there was anything else to steal, they realized she was dead.”

Lestrade nodded, feeling the muscles in his jaw tighten. “And the little girl?”

“Nobody’s seen her,” Lamb said. “Vanished. Just more fodder for Whitechapel, I suppose.”

Lestrade sucked in air between his clenched teeth. He left the courtyard and waded through the crowd, going back toward the Brittania. People now steered clear of him, bumping into one another to clear his path. He opened the doors and walked to the barman, who was busy filling a mug of beer and laughing. Lestrade grabbed him by the collar, yanking him forward. “Good evening, mate. Who came in with the dead woman’s shoes?”

“Who the bloody hell do you-“

Lestrade grabbed the back of the barman’s head and slammed his face against the bar. He looked up at the other patrons, who were muttering among themselves and beginning to close in on him. “Who brought in the dead woman’s shoes?” he said loudly.

“You came in the wrong place alone, copper,” one of the men said. “We got more here `an you got.”

“Yes,” Lestrade said. “Except I’ll have all the doors locked and burn this place to the ground with all of you inside it if one of you so much as speaks another bloody word other than to say who took the dead woman’s shoes.”

No one spoke, but enough people turned to look at the man sitting in the corner of the bar behind a tall glass of beer. He looked at Lestrade and scowled, “Aw, screw all o’ you disloyal batards.”

Lestrade let go of the barman and began walking toward him. “Look, I didn’t know the bunter was stiff, I swear it,” he said, pulling the shoes out of his jacket and putting them on the bar. “You can have them back. Look, here they are. Safe an’ sound, sir.”

“Safe and sound?” Lestrade said. He picked up one of the shoes and inspected it. They were men’s shoes, with the soles worn through so that he could stick his finger through them and touch the other side. Worthless. Probably something Louise found in the street, or worse yet, made a trade for. “You see her daughter?”

“No, I swear it,” the man shook his head quickly. He tried sliding a half-finished glass of beer behind his back, out of Lestrade’s sight. “Just the bunter.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“All right,” Lestrade nodded. “What were you going to do with the shoes?”

“Sell ‘em to get some money for food. I got two kids an’ they ain’t eaten in days. I was desperate.”

“But you had enough money for that beer you’re hiding behind your back?”

The man turned and looked at the glass, eyes widening. “That isn’t mine, sir. I just sat down, and it was already here.”

Lestrade picked up the glass, “You should finish it.”

“I don’t want it, sir. It ain’t mine.”

Lestrade leaned so close that his spittle landed on the man’s quivering lips. “You must be thirsty though. Coming in here, after a hard night of stealing the shoes off a dead woman. Two kids at home who ain’t eaten. Seeing all these people making merry. Bet that does one in, right?”

“No, sir. I was just leaving in fact.”

The man stood up and Lestrade slammed him back down into the stool. He shuffled in his pocket for a few coins, and slapped them on the bar. “Barman, give us a full pitcher!”

The barman came quickly over with a pitcher. As he set it down, he said, “Listen, Inspector. We don’t want no trouble here, we’re a quiet little neighborhood place. Would you mind—”

Lestrade picked up the pitcher by the handle, “My friend here is going to have his drink and then I’ll leave. Open your mouth, mate.”

“No, I don’t—”

Lestrade snatched him by his hair and yanked his head backwards. The man’s mouth opened as he cried out. Lestrade tipped the pitcher into his mouth, filling it with beer. It bubbled past his lips and spilled across his face. “Drink up, mate. Drink up,” Lestrade said, making sure the beer went into the man’s nostrils and tearing eyes. “Better start swallowing faster or you’ll drown.”

“Leave him alone!” one of the women cried. Others in the crowd began to cry out as Lestrade continued pouring. The man gagged and choked, splashing Lestrade with his disgorge.

“Almost finished, lad. Don’t stop now. Don’t waste it,” Lestrade growled, struggling to hold the man in place as until the last of the beer was down his throat. Finally, it was done. He tapped the bottom of the pitcher, watching the last of the foam trickle down its sides into the man’s vomit-caked face. Lestrade slammed the empty pitcher down on the bar and wiped his hands. “There you go. Now you’ve had your drink.”

TWENTY FOUR

The Christ Church of Spitalfields was now a rundown respite for wandering drunks and bunters looking to get out of the bad weather, but it had not always been so. In 1850 some bastard named Ewan Christian gutted the interior of the once-beautiful church and blocked up all the windows.

Kind of like the East End itself, Lestrade thought. “Used to be a pretty nice place till some nutter came in and started gutting everything in sight,” he muttered. From a distance, the church still looked impressive. Its tall, towering steeple and Tuscan columns set it high above any other building in that part of the city. From far away, Christ Church looked like a beacon of light to all weary travelers. A House of God that stood tall and proud even in a place as awful as Whitechapel.

“Here is the church…and here is the steeple,” Lestrade said. “Open the doors…Jack’s killed all the people…heh…heh….” He put his hand against the entryway and waited for the ground to steady. Six pints at the Princess Alice had gone down easily, but the rum he’d chased it with was threatening to make a sizzling reappearance on the church threshold. Lestrade sucked in gulps of air and righted himself. He headed stiltedly down the aisle toward the altar, trying to get past the rows of shifting pews before dizziness overtook him.

Some local tramp was dutifully sweeping the aisles. The Church probably paid him a penny to each night to clean up the place and keep an eye on it so nobody defiled the altar. He nodded at Lestrade as he staggered down the aisle, but Lestrade waved at him and said, “Piss off. Mind yer own business ‘if’n yeh knows what’s good for yeh.”

Lestrade collapsed into the pew with a grunt. He was just about to lie down on its hard wood surface when he realized there was a group of four women seated across the aisle from him.

Each of them was dressed in black veils and mourning cloaks. Lestrade could see the imprint of their faces beneath the thin black fabric, but they did not move or speak. “Pardon me interrupting, ladies. Real sorry,” Lestrade said. He grabbed the back of the pew and leaned forward, trying not to vomit.

The women sat with their hands folded, looking toward the statue of Christ harnessed above the altar. There was a stained glass portrait behind the statue that showed Christ hunched over, bearing an enormous crucifix on his shoulder. Lestrade squinted in the dim candlelight to see the portrait, but the tramp came to stand if front of him, looking concerned. “Sorry mate,” Lestrade said. “I did not know there were mourners in here. Didn’t mean to make a fuss.”

The tramp shrugged and came around the side of the pew to sit beside him. “Long night? Came to seek a little solace in the presence of the Lord?”

“The only solace in Whitechapel is for the dead, friend.”

“Perhaps not even then, eh?”

Lestrade regarded the man carefully. His vision was blurry, but he blinked, trying to focus on him. “I’ve had a bit to drink tonight, but if you don’t mind me saying, you look familiar to me. Do I know you?”

The tramp shrugged and wiped a dirty hand across his sweaty forehead. “I been spending quite a bit of time around here lately, though I keep to myself, mostly. I might know yeh, but yeh might not know me, right?” He held out a filthy hand, nail-bitten fingers wiggling in front of Lestrade’s face, “It’s a pleasure.”

“Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard,” Lestrade took the man’s hand firmly in his. “Pleased to meet you.”

“A police officer? That sounds exciting. Mind if I sit here with yeh for a bit? ”

Lestrade shrugged and the tramp let his broom rest on his shoulder. There was an unusually strong smell about the man but it was not the stale booze and vomit that most vagrants reeked of. Lestrade finally recognized it as the incense the priests used for consecration during Mass. He chuckled, imagining Joseph probably had found a pot of the stuff in a storage closet behind the altar and filled his pockets with it. Screw it, Lestrade thought. Let him have a little bit of this place to carry around with him.

The women still had not moved. Lestrade frowned as he watched them, trying to clear his mind enough to make sense of why four women dressed in funeral garb were sitting in the Spitalfields Church in the middle of the night. “What are they doing here?” Lestrade whispered.

The tramp looked at the women sadly. “They’re waitin’ for their sister. Sad story, really. One a’ the worst I ever did hear.”

“I’m all spent on sad stories for now, mate,” Lestrade said. “Not to be rude or anything, but I’ve had enough of dead people for one evening.”

The lights dimmed inside the church. Everything went dark except for five flickering candles lit across the lowest step leading up to the altar. The women mourners all lowered their head.

“The bloody hell?” Lestrade whispered, sitting up in his seat and looking around.

The tramp shook his head sadly. “Their sister is nearly arrived and they are afraid for her. It is a time of great darkness in the world.”

“I can understand that. I certainly wouldn’t want my sister wandering around this cesspool at this hour. Tell you what. I’ll go find her and escort her here, all right? I should be out looking for a lost little girl anyway, instead of sitting in here.”

“There is hope for you yet, Inspector Lestrade. I think yeh are a good man who’s just lost his way, lad.”

Lestrade laughed at that. “Is that right? You know all that from a five minute conversation? Tell you what, mate. You go back to your job and I’ll go back to mine.”

The tramp smiled gently. “I am sure the torment and cruelty yeh deal with every day has seeped into yer being. Don’t let it steal your faith.”

“Faith?” Lestrade said. “Faith is for children. The sort of thing you tell them so they don’t piss themselves at night for fear of growing up in a world where nothing matters and God is either dead or oblivious.”

“Do yeh truly mean that?”

“Did faith do Annie Chapman any good when her guts were lying across the sides of her belly? “Should I have had faith when I was trying to find poor Catherine Eddowes’ nose in the shadows of Mitre Square? Some lunatic is racing around chopping women to bits and stealing their organs. And the sad fact is that nobody cares. Nobody really gives a damn when all is said and done. Little Abigail might be dead by morning, and all anyone will say is there goes another life wasted in Whitechapel. Who can possibly have faith in a God that lets a beast like Jack the Ripper come into creation? Here’s how I see it. If there is a God, and it’s him that lets all this madness happen, he’s a right sadist. I hate him. I hate him and I’d spit in his face if he ever had the nutmegs to show it to me. Goodbye, sir, and stay clear of me the next time our paths cross.”

As Lestrade turned to leave, he heard the man say, “You were the one who abandoned your family, Gerard. You are the one who gave up path of righteousness. Do not blame anyone else for that.”

“What did you say? Who the hell do you think you are?”

“His word says that he comes with a sword in hand to strike down the wicked. What if you are that sword, Gerard? What if, when it came time for him to take you up against evil, you were nowhere to be found?”

“Stop it. Stop looking at me like that.”

“Believe me, my son, I know your burden and it is indeed a heavy one. But it is no heavier than theirs.” The man turned and held out his hand toward the altar.

Another woman, shrouded like the others, emerged from behind the statue of Christ. She moved awkwardly across the altar, descending the steps on wobbling legs to sit beside her sisters in the pew. Lestrade’s eyes twitched, and his knees began to shake. He looked back at the tramp and suddenly had to shield his eyes from the burst of light coming from the man.

“There are dark forces at work in this world, my son. I forgive you, Gerard Lestrade. Be a good man. Your family needs you. I need you.”

Lestrade collapsed between the pews where he cowered and shivered like a beaten dog. At last he struggled to his feet to see that the church was quiet and empty.

He looked at the large statue staring down at him from over the altar and her heart began hammering inside of his chest. Lestrade hurried up the aisle toward the church doors and threw them open as he ran, tumbling and rolling into the street. He scrambled to his feet and kept running into the streets of Whitechapel, screaming the whole way.

ACT IV