Whitechapel: The Final Stand of Sherlock Holmes by Bernard J. Schaffer Page B
Authors: Bernard J. Schaffer
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spectacular. The entire audience leapt to their feet, thunderously applauding as Irene took her bows, standing knee-deep in the flowers and cards thrown at the stage. People were screaming her name. As Irene passed through the curtains, Oscar Wilde was clapping, “Oh, brava, Irene. Brava.” There was a handsome and tall man standing nearby and Wilde held out his hand to say, “Allow me to introduce Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein.”
Wilhelm bowed low and kissed her hand. “I am also the King of Bohemia,” he said. “Really? A King? Oscar, is this some sort of jest?”
“I assure you it is not,” Wilde said with a quick smile.
“Well, then I suppose it is just us Libertines,” Irene said, looping her arm through Wilhelm’s.
“Pardon me, Miss Adler?” a voice creaked from behind Irene.
Christ, Irene thought, seething. Is there no one among the lower class possessed of any manners at all? She turned, “As you can plainly see, I am a little busy at present, Annie. Would you mind terribly giving us just a moment, please?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Annie said, lowering her head. “Whenever you prefer.”
“Who in God’s name is that wretched creature?” Wilde said.
“Someone I cannot seem to escape. Would you mind distracting her while I steal His Majesty away for a little privacy? I find myself wanting to get to know him a bit better.” Irene winked at Wilhelm, who was smiling stupidly. Alas, she thought. Better pretty than clever.
“Anything for you, my dove,” Wilde said. He leaned in toward her ear, “Try not to break him. He’s a bit fragile.”
“Oh, no promises,” Irene said, as Wilde moved past her to begin talking to Annie Chapman, leading her away from the stage and out the back door. “So,” she said to Wilhelm, “tell me all about Bohemia.”
In her dream she now turned to look at Annie, who was standing in the shadows beneath the curtain’s rigging, watching her leave. Someone came up behind Annie and pressed a knife to her throat, covering her mouth and beginning to saw the flesh with the edge of his blade. No one seemed to notice when Irene began screaming for help.
NINE
The East End of London is relatively small, composed of an area just about fifteen square miles in size. That year, over one million people were estimated to have lived there. By comparison, New York City’s Manhattan is roughly twenty-three square miles, and in an 1880 census, had nearly the same number of residents.
An 1820 survey found thirty-thousand thieves operating in the East End. Police reports indicated they stole more than two million pounds of goods from local stores and residences. Like most places, immigrants sought out less-expensive, less-noticeable areas to live in their new country. Clusters of Jewish, German, and Russian ghettos were clustered throughout the East End, formed both to protect and insulate the foreigners from the natives. Outsiders were not welcome. Cliques, gangs, fraternities, or whatever other euphemism one preferred, quickly formed and those groups were often at odds with the competing interests of others who did the same. The pie is only so big. Only the most resourceful, resilient, and ruthless get to eat it.
The London Metropolitan Police Service estimated there were sixty-two licensed brothels in Whitechapel. Besides those formal establishments, another twelve hundred whores roamed the streets and alleyways. Every so often, a few were found dead. Death in general, and even murder, were common occurrences in the East End. It was no different from any city, in any part of the world, either before or since, and whatever terrible things happened there were regarded by outsiders with an air of inevitability.
Emma Smith, Martha Tabram, Polly Nichols, and Annie Chapman changed all that. Their deaths were so gruesome, so sensational, that soon every newspaper in the world had correspondents in Whitechapel searching for
Wilhelm bowed low and kissed her hand. “I am also the King of Bohemia,” he said. “Really? A King? Oscar, is this some sort of jest?”
“I assure you it is not,” Wilde said with a quick smile.
“Well, then I suppose it is just us Libertines,” Irene said, looping her arm through Wilhelm’s.
“Pardon me, Miss Adler?” a voice creaked from behind Irene.
Christ, Irene thought, seething. Is there no one among the lower class possessed of any manners at all? She turned, “As you can plainly see, I am a little busy at present, Annie. Would you mind terribly giving us just a moment, please?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Annie said, lowering her head. “Whenever you prefer.”
“Who in God’s name is that wretched creature?” Wilde said.
“Someone I cannot seem to escape. Would you mind distracting her while I steal His Majesty away for a little privacy? I find myself wanting to get to know him a bit better.” Irene winked at Wilhelm, who was smiling stupidly. Alas, she thought. Better pretty than clever.
“Anything for you, my dove,” Wilde said. He leaned in toward her ear, “Try not to break him. He’s a bit fragile.”
“Oh, no promises,” Irene said, as Wilde moved past her to begin talking to Annie Chapman, leading her away from the stage and out the back door. “So,” she said to Wilhelm, “tell me all about Bohemia.”
In her dream she now turned to look at Annie, who was standing in the shadows beneath the curtain’s rigging, watching her leave. Someone came up behind Annie and pressed a knife to her throat, covering her mouth and beginning to saw the flesh with the edge of his blade. No one seemed to notice when Irene began screaming for help.
NINE
The East End of London is relatively small, composed of an area just about fifteen square miles in size. That year, over one million people were estimated to have lived there. By comparison, New York City’s Manhattan is roughly twenty-three square miles, and in an 1880 census, had nearly the same number of residents.
An 1820 survey found thirty-thousand thieves operating in the East End. Police reports indicated they stole more than two million pounds of goods from local stores and residences. Like most places, immigrants sought out less-expensive, less-noticeable areas to live in their new country. Clusters of Jewish, German, and Russian ghettos were clustered throughout the East End, formed both to protect and insulate the foreigners from the natives. Outsiders were not welcome. Cliques, gangs, fraternities, or whatever other euphemism one preferred, quickly formed and those groups were often at odds with the competing interests of others who did the same. The pie is only so big. Only the most resourceful, resilient, and ruthless get to eat it.
The London Metropolitan Police Service estimated there were sixty-two licensed brothels in Whitechapel. Besides those formal establishments, another twelve hundred whores roamed the streets and alleyways. Every so often, a few were found dead. Death in general, and even murder, were common occurrences in the East End. It was no different from any city, in any part of the world, either before or since, and whatever terrible things happened there were regarded by outsiders with an air of inevitability.
Emma Smith, Martha Tabram, Polly Nichols, and Annie Chapman changed all that. Their deaths were so gruesome, so sensational, that soon every newspaper in the world had correspondents in Whitechapel searching for
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