Part 1 - Chapter One
I am writing this on the 8th of April in the year 1920 from the comfort of my home at 221B Baker Street, to where my late wife and I had moved from our lodging in Queen Anne Street in 1908. As I reflect on the many and varied adventures I have shared with my dear friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, my reveries take me back to another 8th of April, some seventeen years past. It was on that occasion that Holmes and I, together with our colleague, former Detective Chief Inspector Frederick Abberline of Scotland Yard, had spent the preceding afternoon, evening and this morning in animated discussion. The topic of that discussion was our involvement in the horrifying events of the prior fifteen years, which achieved its culmination in the proceedings of the previous morning.
To begin at the beginning then, it was mid-morning on the 7th of April, 1903, and we had just returned from Wandsworth Prison in South West London, where we had been invited to witness the execution of Severin Klosowski, also known as George Chapman, but whom the world had come to know as Jack the Ripper. The disagreeable nature of the penetrating, chilly, almost threatening drizzle was an appropriate reflection of the character of the monster whose well-deserved fate we had come to observe. We were fairly expressionless as we stood with Major Knox, the governor of the prison, in the small, white-washed death chamber and watched as Mr. William Billington, the executioner, enabled this human abomination to plunge through the trap door of the gallows on his six foot-six inch journey to hell.
It is worth noting that DCI Abberline had been the one to draw us into the horrifying miasma of the Whitechapel murders in the autumn of 1888. Through the conduct of a cooperative investigation and by dint of persevering detective work, Holmes and he, with my assistance, had been able to deduce that the horrors had continued, perpetrated by the same man, with some irregularity until 1901 in America as well as England. Therefore it was altogether fitting that the three of us should together attend the fulfillment of our efforts.
Following the event, we did not linger as the deceased was allowed to swing beneath the gallows for the required one hour, to ensure that the sentence had been carried out. We looked on that practice as an antiquated and quaint formality. We were quite certain he was dead.
As we passed from the execution shed and out through the prison gate, we could not help but notice what can only be described as a tableau of singular oddity. Standing a short distance from the shed, a crowd had collected, which consisted of a goodly number of journalists, police officials, and no few curious citizens, and that roared in approval as the black flag was hoisted above the prison wall. Further on, supported by the arm of her brother-in-law, Stanislas, and attended by her sister, Alice, was the quietly sobbing Lucy Klosowski, the widow of the dead man. Though we had interviewed her in the past, we thought it best to allow her some semblance of privacy at this time to reflect on what must have been a flood of confusing, contradictory thoughts whirling in her brain about the fiend who had been in fact, the father of her two children.
Thus, in an attitude of bittersweet satisfaction, we entered our growler, which we had previously requisitioned for the morning, for a pleasant enough hour and a half trip back to Marylebone, whereupon we adjourned to the fireside of Holmes’s Baker Street rooms.
Over several warming brandies, Holmes and Abberline also indulging in cigars, the conversation covered all areas of our long association as we had sought to apprehend the perpetrator of the Ripper murders, and our ensuing efforts to solve the mystery that had bedeviled the police forces of two countries for the past fifteen years. Eventually, I took my leave to return to Queen Anne Street while Abberline was to spend the night at Baker Street and return to his home in Bournemouth by train the following morning.
Fortunately, I had been mindful enough to take extensive notes during the conversation. Relying upon them, and my own memories of the developments of the crimes and notes made during the inquiries and investigations, I shall endeavor to provide a true and accurate deposition of this singular case.
To begin with then, it was not an unseasonable early evening on September 13th, 1888, as Sherlock Holmes and I sat in the parlour of 221B Baker Street discussing our latest adventure involving a Greek interpreter and two miscreants named Kemp and Latimer. Dissatisfied that the adventure had played out without appropriate justice, Holmes was expounding on his suspicion that the entire affair bore the acrid scent of the involvement of Professor James Moriarty, whom he described as the ‘Napoleon of Crime’.
We were interrupted when Mrs. Hudson knocked at the door to announce that we had two gentleman visitors, an event which was somewhat untoward at this hour of the day. Nonetheless, we asked her to show them in. Leading the way was our most recent official police companion the tall, tow-headed Inspector Tobias Gregson of Scotland Yard. He was accompanied by a rather sturdy individual, whose bushy side whiskers only served to accentuate the scarcity of hair on his head.
Before introductions could be made, Holmes took the offensive. “Hello Gregson! Watson and I were just discussing our latest adventure with you and how the last act, so to speak, seemed to be unfulfilled. Have you made any progress as to the whereabouts of Kemp and Latimer and their traveling companion? And is there any hint of Professor Moriarty?”
“Er, no, Mr. Holmes,” said Gregson, somewhat taken aback at Holmes’s preemptive questioning. “Though there is nothing concrete, through channels we’ve learned that they may have made their way to the Continent and we have dispatched agents to investigate the rumor, but in truth, I do not hold out much hope for resolution. As to Moriarty, we have heard even less.”
“Hmm, yes. Just as I suspected would be the case regarding the professor,” sighed Holmes.
“To the point of my visit then, Mr. Holmes: this is...”
“No need, Gregson. Even a blind man would recognize DCI Abberline from the pictures in The Illustrated Police News,” Holmes said as he stepped forward to shake the inspector’s hand. “Allow me to introduce my friend and colleague, Dr. John Watson”
The inspector shook my hand and complimented me on my work with Holmes.
“Now then,” Holmes continued, “I must say, Chief Inspector, it is really no test of my deductive abilities to discern why you’ve come here. My only question is why you’ve taken so long in seeking my assistance in the matter which is the talk of all London and beyond, to wit: the recent barbarous murders in Whitechapel.”
“You are of course correct, Mr. Holmes. As to why you have not been approached up until to this point, I have no excuse save that Sir Charles Warren, the Commissioner of Police, has been determined that the professional efforts of Scotland Yard are of sufficient expertise to resolve the matter and bring the perpetrator to justice.”
“I see,” said Holmes as he crossed to the mantel piece, retrieved the Persian slipper that served as his tobacco hamper, filled his pipe and proceeded to light it. Ending the pause that ensued, he asked, “Watson, would you mind offering our guests some brandy? Chief Inspector? Gregson?”
Being anxious to follow where I sensed the conversation might be going, I complied. Gregson begged off with the excuse that he had only been present to expedite the introduction and that a pressing engagement at Metropolitan Police Headquarters demanded his attention. With a nod around, he took his leave. DCI Abberline seemed somewhat relieved at the invitation, accepted the brandy and at my suggestion, seated himself on the sofa. Holmes and I, brandies in hand, took seats on side chairs opposite him across a low table.
“If it is no impertinence on my part, Chief Inspector, will you tell us how many professionals Sir Charles has assigned to these murders?”
The chief inspector gave a nervous cough. “There are twenty-three detectives, two clerks, one inspector, which is myself, and numerous constables.”
“And how far along have you gotten in your efforts?” asked Holmes, not in an unkind manner, for he knew the difficulties involved in such an investigation.
“If I may speak directly, Sir Charles is a fine man and has had an admirable and successful career in the military, but he is not a policeman. Though his efforts are well meaning, I fear that his capabilities and methods are limited by his lack of appropriate experience and coloured by unintended prejudice against non-professional investigations in which category, I am sorry to say, he has included you. That is why I asked Gregson for an introduction, so that I might come to you on my own, to correct Sir Charles’s oversight, in the hope that we might join forces to solve the murders and bring this monster to justice, Mr. Holmes”
Holmes stood abruptly, raised his snifter of brandy and with a determined smile said, “There is nothing neither Watson nor I would like better than to be of assistance in this investigation. Since we are now colleagues, I suggest that we dispense with formality. We are Holmes and Watson and you are Abberline. Is that agreeable to you?”
Abberline let out a breath, raised his glass and said, “Eminently agreeable, Holmes. Eminently agreeable. Now as you know, we have two horrible murders that we assume are related: Polly Nichols on the 31st of August and Annie Chapman on the 8th of this month.”
“I am sorry to interrupt you, Abberline,” said Holmes, “but I fear you may be somewhat in error.”
“Oh, how so?”
“Correct me if I am wrong, but I am certain that I am not, but wasn’t there an earlier murder of another drab, named Martha Tabram, in the same vicinity who was done away with in a similar manner?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Why is she not included in your victim tally?”
“Two reasons: firstly, unlike the other two, she was murdered on a week night. Secondly, she was stabbed thirty-nine times, more than the other two victims combined.”
“Let me ask you, Abberline, were all of the wounds inflicted upon Mrs. Tabram delivered with the same weapon?”
“Why no, they were not, but how did you know that?”
“Judging by the way the wounds were described in the newspaper, I concluded that the wound to the throat was administered with a short-bladed knife, while the others bore the indications of a longer blade being used – particularly the wound piercing her heart. This bears a marked resemblance to the weapon that was determined to have been employed in the murders of Mrs. Nichols and Mrs. Chapman. That tells me that not only were two weapons involved, but perhaps two murderers. It is my contention that the fiend you are seeking did indeed murder Nichols and Chapman but was perhaps a late comer to the Tabram murder.
“Her throat had been slashed and she was lying in George Yard, most likely in the process of dying. The suspect came upon her there in his quest for a victim. The original assailant being scared away, he then stabbed her through the heart to prevent further bleeding, and proceeded to inflict the subsequent wounds upon her, in what could only be described as a frenzy – most likely brought on by a deviant sexual urge, such as that which I believe is evidenced in the following murders. I should also note that to judge from the description of the pools of blood close in around the victims: Mrs. Nichols and Mrs. Chapman, were strangled first to stop the heart from pumping. That would eliminate the possibility of the murderer being covered with blood, which would have undoubtedly been the case, had the heart continued to pump.”
“The manner of death makes perfect sense, but really, Holmes,” Abberline exclaimed as he abruptly rose from the sofa, “a sexual frenzy? That is ridiculous! I don’t see it, I just don’t see it at all! Surely, Holmes, such an aberration cannot truly exist?”
“Oh yes, my dear Abberline, it can and does. Tell me: did you consider robbery as being a motive in the slayings? No of course you didn’t. Witness testimonies as to earlier events of the evenings in question tend to corroborate each other in the fact that the women were, as they say, skint. Having exhausted what meager funds they had on drink, they were desperate to secure money for a night’s shelter – at one of the numerous doss houses in the vicinity – which they were each attempting to do by way of plying their trade. That eliminates the motive of robbery.
“One of the tenets of my methods is that once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. To further apply a favourite precept of mine, which I have borrowed from Herr Arthur Schopenhauer and which you have just now eminently demonstrated, all truth passes through three stages. First, it is ridiculed. Second, it is violently opposed. Third, it is accepted as being self-evident. There being nothing left of possible motives, the expression of emotion, as violent and morbidly aberrant as it may be, must be it.
“As to the existence of such a perversion, Dr. Richard von Krafft-Ebing, in his recent work Psycopathia Sexualis, has identified the existence of such a perversion as a very real thing, being a combination of cerebral neurosis, not the least of which are sadism, necrophilia and satyriasis, all of which point to the behavior of our as yet unknown killer.”
“My word, Holmes, you amaze me,” said Abberline, to which I added my agreement.
Holmes gave a short laugh as Abberline re-seated himself on the sofa. “Surely you didn’t think I would restrict my reading to melittology texts and The Police Gazette? Watson will agree with me that education never ends.” I nodded. “Further, I believe said precept is no more applicable than in the profession of consulting detective. Watson, please do the honours once more, would you?”
I was more than happy to comply, as I believed that this demonstration of Holmes’s unique erudition called for another drink.
“Now,” said Holmes, “where were we? Have your investigations yielded any likely suspects?”
“You must understand, Holmes,” Abberline answered, “that we have not been alone in the conduct of our investigations. Contrary to Sir Charles’s wishes, a number of citizens of the area have formed an ad hoc organization calling itself the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee with a Mr. George Lusk, an interior decorator by trade, to be its chairman. Even though my men have canvassed the area and conducted extensive interviews with the locals, this group of vigilantes has grown impatient with our efforts and has taken it upon itself to make inquiries that have done nothing to help our search and in fact have done much to hinder our progress by intimidating potential witnesses and suspects.
“Despite this, by studying the nature of the crimes, we have been able to develop a number of theories about the perpetrator, which have led us to several candidates, shall we say, for the position of fiend.”
“Capital,” said Holmes, “please enlighten us.”
“Even taking into consideration Mrs. Tabram, which I had not done until your analysis just now, by the feature of the attacks, we have surmised that the individual has some knowledge of surgical techniques and anatomy. So he – and we are most certain that these crimes were committed by a man – may be a physician. We are also working under the very likely supposition that the man is not a stranger to the area and probably resides nearby.”
“Excellent,” said Holmes. “I agree with you that the killer is undoubtedly male, not just from the viciousness of the attacks, but the fact that he is consorting with drabs in such a place and at such an hour. However, if the individual is a denizen of the area, which I believe to be the case, it is highly unlikely that someone of the social standing of a physician or a surgeon would select such an impoverished district in which to reside. It is more likely that the man has had some surgical training, perhaps as an apprentice, nurse or doctor’s assistant or even a barber. As you are doubtless aware, barbers, particularly in the poorer areas, are often called upon to perform minor surgeries. With these factors in mind, can you still offer up any potential malefactors?”
“Yes, I believe I can, Holmes, although the evidence we have been able to gather is flimsy to say the least and since there was no cause to detain the suspects on this account, they remain at large but under observation.
“The first possibility is one Thomas Cutbush, a clerk by trade but with an intense interest in medical texts which, according to his employer, he pores over whenever possible. He is known to frequent Whitechapel in the company of prostitutes, one or more of whom infected him with syphilis some years back. He has spent time in the Lambeth Asylum for the insane, during which period he often mentioned his abiding animosity toward ladies of the evening.
“Hmm,” said Holmes as he puffed on his oily Peterson. “Next?”
“Aaron Kosminski is a Polish Jew who resides in Whitechapel and is employed as a hairdresser or a barber in Greenfield Street. He has been interned several times at the Mile End Old Town Workhouse due to the unstable nature of his sanity, which was brought on, according to records of the asylum by untreated venereal disease. My colleague Chief Inspector Donald Swanson favors Kosminski as the prime suspect.”
“Whitechapel, of course is home to many immigrant Jews, so Kosminski’s religion would not come into play, I believe,” said Holmes. “The relevant facts are his occupation and mental condition. Please continue, Abberline.”
“One Francis Thompson meets most of the requirements you’ve set forth. He is one of those residents we questioned in hopes that he might have been a witness to any unusual circumstances, but the more he was questioned, the more he was to come under suspicion. Inquiries of his family uncovered the information that he was the son of a doctor and that he himself had been in medical school.
“These past three years he had been living in poverty conditions in Spitalfields, during which time he attempted to earn a living as a writer and poet. During this time also, he became addicted to opium. Being a strong Catholic, to the extremes I should call it, he often wrote of his severe disdain of the immorality of prostitutes. During questioning, it was discovered that he often carried a dissecting knife on his person under his coat. All of this would seem to put him in the forefront of the suspects.”
“So it would seem,” said Holmes. “Have you any others?”
“There are a number of others, Holmes, and doubtless more will surface as the investigation”…
“And the killings,” Homes inserted.
“...continue. Yes, Holmes. I fear you might be right. However there is one other individual in whom I’ve taken a personal interest, and he also meets your criteria. His name is Severin Klosowski, and he is a Polish immigrant having arrived here in March of last year. His record states that he trained extensively in Poland as a junior surgeon, which attests to the fact that in Poland, he was qualified to practice. As he found, doubtless to his dismay, this qualification was not reciprocal in England. Mr. Klosowski was only able to secure a position as a hairdresser's assistant. After some months, he opened a barbershop at 126 Cable Street, where he also now resides.
“Following an initial interview by a constable, who stated that Klosowski seemed quite unnerved by the process, I then took it upon myself to interview him further at Metropolitan Police headquarters. He was polite, yet terse. He seemed less unnerved and more put out, with an underlying layer of restrained anger.
“I questioned a number of Klosowski’s neighbors. Although couching their testimonies in reluctance, they for the most part concurred that while Klosowski was generally polite, he did possess a temper, which he would sometimes display at odd moments. A number of them said that they had seen him in various pubs in the area and that after he had taken drink, his temper would flare at whomever he was talking with at the time – man or woman. It’s interesting, Holmes. I felt that if there were one common, overriding attitude among the neighbors as I questioned them, it was one of extreme caution – not toward me mind you, but toward Klosowski.”
“I see,” said Holmes. “I find myself in agreement with your analysis, Abberline. Though the others you have named are somewhat intriguing, I believe that Mr, Klosowski may be the answer. His history, as you have described it, indicates that he is in possession of an intellect clearly superior to the other suspects. He is familiar with surgical techniques and he is of a somewhat unstable temperament that he is at pains to control.”
“What do you suggest I do, Holmes?”
“It seems to me that at the moment, you can do nothing more than what you are doing, save increasing the police presence in Whitechapel and continuing the interviews with the citizenry. Please do not hesitate to contact me if you find that I might be of any further assistance, though I fear at this point, you are conducting the manhunt much as I would. I am truly sorry that I cannot be of more help to you at present.”
“Very well, Holmes,” said Abberline as he stood and made his way to the door. “Thank you for your advice. You may be assured that I will be calling on you again as this series of hideous events plays itself out. Good evening to you both. I’ll show myself out”
“Well Holmes” I said once Abberline had left, “what do you make of this?”
“What do I make of it? What I make of it is that Scotland Yard is doing its utmost, which will probably not be sufficient without our help. Abberline was very wise in seeking us out – we must remember to thank Gregson on the matter – but I am quite certain, unfortunately, that he will again seek our counsel before much longer, unless I am wrong, which of course I am not.”
A fortnight had passed before we again heard from Abberline and the continued Whitechapel atrocities. In the meantime, Holmes and I had become involved with the case of the insidious Thaddeus Sholto, from which the only fortunate result, and I believe to be my saving grace, was my introduction to Miss Mary Morstan, who agreed to become my wife. I must say that Holmes, despite his affection for me as a partner and friend, did not react favourably to my engagement because of his belief that he sees rationality, which is the bedrock of deductive reasoning, as being totally incompatible with emotion.
In what I can only describe to be an almost childlike reaction to my good fortune, he again took up the syringe of a seven-percent cocaine solution, to which he turned when confronted with certain problems or an extended period of inactivity. I had been striving to wean him from this unnecessary dependency, but had met with uneven success. Thus it was that I was relieved when we again heard from Abberline which served to redirect Holmes’ attention from the needle back to the affair to which he had previously begun to apply his skills.
