Sherlock Holmes and the Molly Boy Murders

Margaret Walsh

Description

London, 1889. In a city still reeling from the depredations of Jack the Ripper another killer arises. Stalking the West End and Marylebone and striking at a seemingly unconnected group of victims, the murderer leaves fear and confusion in his wake. Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, and Inspector Lestrade face a case like no other they have yet faced. A case that will leave each of them changed and bring personal danger as they race against a mounting death toll to bring down the Molly-Boy Murderer.

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 15 octobre 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 1
• EAN13: 9781787054752
• Langue: English

Extrait

Sherlock Holmes
and the
Molly-Boy Murders
By
Margaret Walsh




First edition published in 2019
© 2019 Margaret Walsh
Margaret Walsh asserts the right to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved. No reproduction or transmission of this work, in full or in part, may be made without express prior written permission from the publisher. Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, locations, companies and events appearing in this work are fictitious or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or real events, is purely coincidental. Any opinions expressed herein are those of the author and do not represent those of any other party.
Published by MX Publishing
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Cover design by Brian Belanger



Chapter One
I take up my pen once again to recount an extraordinary case solved by my good friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, although, given the nature of the events that I will recount, it is exceedingly unlikely that this manuscript will ever be published. Indeed, I gave my word to one of the principals that such a thing would not occur. But it behooves me as a witness to the events to record them for posterity.
It was a cool spring day, several months after the dreadful events of Whitechapel horrified London, and indeed, the whole country, and several months before the ghastly events at Baskerville Hall. The sun was endeavoring to burn away the light fog that enveloped our part of the city.
Holmes and I were enjoying a leisurely breakfast when Inspector Lestrade arrived. I described him in my first volume of our adventures as a sallow, rat-faced, little man. He was not rat-faced as such, more that his moustache tended to twitch like a rodent’s whiskers on occasion. It was as fine a moustache as any that graced the philtrum of a Mayfair gentleman.
It was this case that persuaded my friend that Lestrade was truly dependable, steadfast and discreet. It was also this case that lead to Lestrade being included in the denouement of the dreadful events on Dartmoor.
On this particular morning the normally unshakeable inspector was white-faced, his moustache twitching almost uncontrollably. I took one look at him and hastened for the brandy. Holmes assisted our visitor to a chair. “What on Earth is wrong, Lestrade? I have never seen you so shaken,” Holmes said. Concern shaded his tone in a way few people ever heard.
Lestrade took the brandy I offered him, balancing it on his knee briefly as he strove to control the slight shake of his hand. He sipped it gently for a moment. “We need your help, Mr. Holmes. We have got another.” His moustache gave a violent twitch.
“Another what, may I ask?” Holmes’ voice was gentler than it would normally be under the circumstances.
Lestrade took a fortifying gulp of the brandy. “Another Ripper.”
“What?” I sank down in my own chair, aghast at the news. The previous summer and autumn had seen a spate of the most terrible, horrendously violent, killings. Women gutted like pigs in the streets of London’s East End. The newspapers had gone into a frenzy seldom seen before, and the people of London had been left shocked and traumatized.
Holmes’ offer of assistance had been rudely rebuffed by the then-Commissioner of Police, Sir Charles Warren. An unlikeable man with an inflated sense of his own importance, and totally lacking in anything even faintly resembling common sense. He had resigned in disgrace and been replaced with James Monro. A man much admired by the men who served under him.
Holmes settled back in his chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “Tell me,” he said.
“We found a corpse. A young man, well, a boy really. Found naked, throat slit, and the body mutilated.” Lestrade drank more brandy, looked at me hopefully, and held out the glass for a refill. I obliged. Lestrade sipped the brandy slowly. “We cannot identify him. No one knows who he is. This was about three weeks ago. Then today . . .” Lestrade swallowed convulsively “. . . we got another one.”
Holmes leaned forward. “Where is the corpse?”
“At the Royal London.” Lestrade took a deep breath. “Warren was wrong not to want your help during last year’s unpleasantness. But God help me, we simply cannot afford another Ripper panic so soon. Mr. Holmes, will you help?”
“Of course I will.” Holmes looked at me, and I nodded. “We both will.”
Lestrade put his glass on the table. “I have a cab waiting downstairs. Will you come with me now?”
In answer, we both got up, fetched our coats, and followed Lestrade down the stairs. Our agreement to assist appeared to have assuaged his fears. The Lestrade that preceded us was almost his old self again. Not the white-faced, trembling wreck that had entered our flat such a short time before.
In the cab, Holmes asked for more detail. Lestrade obliged. “The first body was found in an alley off Piccadilly. A carter found it. Nearly threw up on it, poor sod. This one was found by a police constable patrolling Victoria Embankment. The constable is in nearly the same state as the carter.”
I was somewhat startled. It takes something fairly gruesome to upset the strong stomachs of such stalwarts as carters and police officers.
Holmes sat back in his seat, content to wait until we reached our destination to ask more questions
The Royal London Hospital, being situated in Whitechapel, tended to garner more than its fair share of victims of violent death. After the previous year’s killings, it was slowly becoming the place where Scotland Yard dumped its more ghastly corpses for examination.
Our trip to the Royal London was swift, the traffic on the streets being unusually light for the time of day. On arrival, Lestrade led us down to the morgue.
The police surgeon, Dr. Thomas Bond, looked up as we entered. He raised an eyebrow.
“Assistance, Lestrade?”
Lestrade gave a tight smile. “Doctor Bond, may I introduce Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson.”
A small smile spread across Bond’s face. His was not a face given to easy smiles. Bond was a firm-featured, square-jawed man, who would no doubt be described as handsome by the ladies of his acquaintance. He had served briefly with the Prussian military and served as police surgeon for A Division through several of their most trying cases. Most notably the Whitechapel murders, the Battersea mystery, and the Thames torso killings.
Bond nodded in my direction. “Not a man to be disturbed by our corpse, then.” He gestured for me to step up to the table.
I walked to Dr. Bond’s side and looked down at the young man laid out upon the stained wooden table. The scent of carbolic made my nostrils twitch, and the smell of old blood and viscera was awakening memories of Afghanistan.
The boy was so young. He looked to be around fourteen or fifteen years of age, fair complexion and blonde hair. His throat was slit almost from ear to ear. Blood flecked the ends of his hair and the base of his throat. I froze, shocked. The young man had been mutilated. His genitalia completely removed. A bulging in his cheeks told me exactly where they had been placed. I felt ill. For a moment the room swirled around me. Visions of Afghani atrocities danced in my memory. Briefly I felt the urge to run away and hide.
“Watson?” Holmes’ voice held curiosity and concern. He walked up and stood beside me. “Hmmm.”
I found my voice. “Cause of death is possibly the wound to the throat. The genitals were certainly removed after death.”
“Cause of death ‘possibly’ the throat wound?” Holmes voice held a slight note of challenge.
I stiffened and glared at him, which, knowing Holmes as I did, had probably been his intention. “Lestrade, was there much blood where the body was found?” I asked.
“No, there was not. Just a small amount around the wound.”
“The lack of blood from the wound, Holmes, combined with the slight congestion of the face suggests that the cause of death was in all probability asphyxia.”
Doctor Bond nodded and raised the corpse’s eyelid. He handed me a magnifying glass and I bent to examine the eyeball. “Ahhhh.”
“Enlightening as always, Watson.”
“There are flecks of blood in the eyeball. Petechial hemorrhage it is called. The result of either strangulation or asphyxia from having a cloth, or even just a strong hand, pinch off the breath. It is likely then that the heart had ceased to beat when his throat was slit, and his genitals were removed. Most probably with a razor or a butcher’s knife.”
Lestrade spoke up. “Why not a scalpel? Could the killer be a doctor?”
Holmes snorted. “Really, Lestrade, do not tell me that you believed that rubbish about the Whitechapel killer being a medical man?”
The look Lestrade threw Holmes was poisonous in the extreme.
I shook my head. “Take a look for yourself. The genitals were removed with one slice. A scalpel blade is too fine. It would take two or more strokes. This was done cleanly in one. So either a butcher’s knife or a broad bladed razor is responsible.”
Doctor Bond hummed his agreement. “What do you make of the torso, Doctor Watson?”
The body of the young man showed a deformity that should have been familiar to me, but I could not place it. I frowned. Holmes had his own glass out, studying the body closely. He handed me the glass, “Look at the base of the ribcage. There are marks. Not ones I am familiar with.”
I took the glass from him and looked closely. The torso was almost feminine, with flesh pushed up and contorted above the ribcage, and the ribcage itse