Chapter Two - Annie Chapman
She is a wicked woman: that's simply a fact.
She had dreamed of being something different once, when she'd first married. She'd wanted to be a mother like you saw in prints, chubby children dandling on her knee. A mother with a wide smile and floury arms, a lit fire, copper pots and pans that shone with cleanliness.
It had never quite been like that, but they'd been happy a while, even after little Johnny was born and it became clear he'd never walk. John the elder liked his drink a bit too much so there was never quite as much money around as she'd like, but he was a kind man. He never lifted a finger to her in all the years they were together, not even when she failed him so badly.
And then there had been Emily. Annie never knew what she'd done to be blessed with such a daughter. Such a pretty child, turned heads in the street - god only knew where she got that from, neither she nor John were much to look at. And she was kind – kinder than Annie had known a child could be. Such a good little poppet. She'd been godsend when it came to little Johnny, fed him, bathed him, chatted with him even when none of the other children wanted anything to do with him, and Annie was so run off her feet with work she wanted to scream.
And then that awful day, when Emily came home quiet and complaining of a headache. Before Annie could turn around the girl was on the floor, shaking and puking and choking. She went from being a happy healthy little girl to lifeless figure laying in their bed in a matter of hours.
After Emily's death, Annie had stopped caring about the floors, and the baking and keeping her little Johnny fed and clean. John the elder began to drink more and more, and she joined him. Sat by the hearth and drank and drank as the dishes lay in the sink, the floor grew black. Both of them staring at each other across a dirty kitchen until they couldn't stand to stare any more.
John the elder left to find work in the North, and Annie left the remaining children with her sister.
In London the pressing hurt didn't fade but it was easier somehow – the world around her is a blank, no longer filled with the lingering impression of her daughter's face.
"You've other children, you know," her sister scolds in her letters. Annie knows, and that is what makes her wicked, because sometimes she thinks she'd trade them all for a chance to see her Emily again.
Annie turns the coin in her fist over and over again. She's sent nothing to the kids this month. Somehow when the time comes, she finds the parching thirst over taking her, a widening ache that could only be pushed away by the bottle. And so she walks past the post office and into the tavern, wicked wicked woman that she is.
She's only a little in her pocket now: not enough to be worth the sending of. But the guilty sickness deep inside her, when she contemplates returning to the inn and drinking the rest, is too strong. She hesitates. If she can manage to make a little more today… maybe it will be enough to send to her babies.
She looks about her. There's a man standing at the corner of the street, back to the wall. Genteely dressed, with a deerstalker hat low over his eyes. Probably got no use for the likes of her, she thinks, and glances back at down the alleyway towards the distant lights of the inn. No, she'll never be any better if she doesn't try. Picturing her little Emily's face she takes a step forward towards the gentleman.
"Can I help you, Sir?"
He turns to her, angle of the head signalling attention.
"For just a penny, I can make you a happy man…."
Molly was woken early by her mobile buzzing on the nightstand by her ear. She hauled herself up into the sitting position to look at the caller ID.
Sherlock.
"There's been another murder," he said curtly as soon as she picked up. "Hanbury Street. Come immediately."
"I don't do crime scenes," Molly said.
"I need your input on this one," said Sherlock. "Come quickly before Anderson contaminates everything."
As Molly arrived on Hanbury Street she nearly collided with a flushed and short breathed John Watson approaching from the opposite direction. He blinked at her.
"I didn't think you did crime scenes," he said.
Molly shrugged. "Sherlock wanted me to look at the body."
"Oh," said John. "Oh, right."
"If you two are ready," Sherlock's voice boomed from the other end of the street.
Lestrade was looking distinctly ruffled when they approached. "He won't let my team near the crime scene until you two have seen it," He growled.
"One of your team failed to notice that the last victim had been mutilated," Sherlock said. "You'll forgive me if I lack faith. Molly?"
Molly looked at the body, and took in a harsh breath. No one could miss the level of mutilation on this body. The woman's face was livid, swollen, tongue peeking grotesquely out from between her teeth, and her throat had been cut. Her skirt had been pushed up to expose her abdomen, and the belly slit open, entrails pulled out and tossed over her shoulder, like a particularly revolting scarf. Exactly like Annie Chapman, Molly thought. There was something… a bulge in the abdominal cavity. Molly caught a glimpse of yellow.
"What," Molly's voice sounded a little unsteady, so she cleared her throat and began again. "W-what is that, in her stomach?"
"Unclear," Sherlock said, moving closer to the body, his hand outstretched.
"Stop!" John shouted out suddenly. He was at Sherlock's side in an instant gripping hold of his arm. His face had gone deathly pale.
"John…"
"Both of you, get back," he said in a tone that cut through the cool early morning air like shattering glass. Numbly Molly and Sherlock both obeyed him.
"You need to form a perimeter. Move everyone to a safe distance," John barked at DI Lestrade. "Call bomb disposal."
Lestrade stared at him.
"You mean…."
"That's dynamite," John said. "There are explosives inside her."
They waited on the edge of the perimeter for the bomb squad to declare the area safe. Sherlock was practically vibrating with energy, bouncing on the balls of his feet and staring across as if trying to monitor every action. John, by contrast, had gone very pale and still.
"What are they doing?" Sherlock snarled at last. "I'm sure I could defuse a bomb in less time than this."
"I hope to God I never see you try," John said.
"Unlikely it was ever in danger of going off, stuffed in there among her entrails. It's symbolic gesture not an actual threat. And the crime scene will be completely contaminated by now by those heavy footed louts. I don't know why you had to call attention to it."
John bared his teeth."Forgive me if I don't want to see my best friend blown up,"
Sherlock rolled his eyes elaborately. "I'm not an idiot, John"
"You jumped off a roof,"
Sherlock groaned, tilting his head back to snarl at the sky. "This again. I've told you a hundred times..."
"You have, yeah." John said.
There was a short frosty silence. Molly looked at her shoes, toeing at a loose piece of gravel with her feet and trying very much to look as if was finding it more interesting than the argument going on around her.
"I wouldn't have thought you'd find it so hard to accept," Sherlock said, in a low voice. "You seemed to have no trouble at all moving on."
John swung around, eyes blazing and Molly was rather worried she'd have to break up a fist fight, when Lestrade called to them.
"All right, boys," Lestrade said, walking over. "They said we're good to go,"
Sherlock made a grunting noise and pushed past the still furious-looking John to follow Lestrade over to the body.
"Are you all right?" Molly asked.
John blew out a breath. "Yeah. God, he's a dick," he gave her a forced smile. "Sorry you got caught in the middle of that,"
"It's not a problem,"
John looked over at Sherlock, who was leaning over the body now with a rapt expression, all arguments apparently forgotten.
"Maybe I should just go. You and Sherlock seem to have this one covered," the note of bitterness in his voice was unmistakeable.
"Neither of us recognised dynamite in her belly." Molly pointed out.
"Yeah," John said, but the dark look hadn't faded from his face.
"You've no idea how grumpy he gets when you aren't around," Molly said. "Please… for all our sakes."
John laughed, relaxing a little and stuffed his hands deeper in his pockets. "Yeah, OK," he said. "I'll be along in a minute."
There was nothing like explosives in a corpse to make a Detective Inspector's job a bloody misery, Lestrade reflected. He spent half the sodding afternoon on the phone with counter terrorism, trying to persuade them that the case was better in his (and Sherlock's) capable hands than being crawled over by MI6. In the end Sherlock made what looked like a very sarcastic call to his brother and somehow things got sorted.
Luckily they'd got an ID on the body pretty swiftly this time – the woman had a driving license on her back pocket. Maria Watts, 40. Another one with a hefty file for drugs offenses, including a brief jail sentence a year ago, though apparently she'd been clean since then. She'd been working as a cleaner for the local community centre just down the street from the murder site. It seemed she'd been walking home from work when she'd been attacked.
Lestrade met Sherlock and John in the lab, to listen to Molly deliver the results of the autopsy.
"The wounds all resemble accounts of the second Ripper killing," Molly said, as soon as he'd taken a seat next to John. "A portion of her uterus has been ripped out, and he's taken her liver. He choked her this time, before cutting her throat, probably with her own scarf. It was lying on the floor next to her. She was dead before anything was done to her. It's exactly what you'd expect from a copy cat. Except…"
"Except Jack the Ripper didn't stuff his victims with dynamite," Lestrade said.
"No," said Molly.
"So why did he?"
Molly bit her lip. She seemed about to say something, then shook her head. "I don't know,"
Lestrade's phone buzzed. He glanced at it. It was Donovan. "Looks like they've turned up a witness," he said. "Someone saw her chatting to a bloke right before she was killed. Coming, boys?"
Sherlock was on his feet in one fluid movement.
"Of course."
They met the witness, Bessie Small, in the art room of the community centre. She was a short, broad shouldered woman, in her late twenties at a guess, a vest shirt revealing thick well muscled arms, and blonde hair cropped close to her head. She greeted Lestrade with a scowl. "I've already spoken to the police."
"But you haven't spoken to me," Sherlock said smoothly stepping into the room after Lestrade. Ms Small shot him a very unimpressed look.
"There really isn't anything to say. I was working in the studio late, after class-"
"Rather late to finish work," Sherlock commented.
"I teach the evening class," Ms Small said. "It often doesn't finish til half ten, and then I stayed behind to work on some pieces of my own."
"What is it you teach?" John asked.
"Pottery," Sherlock replied before the woman could open her mouth. "Obviously. Look at her elbows."
John rolled his eyes at Lestrade, but Lestrade didn't miss the hint of a proud smile beginning to curl the corner of his mouth.
The woman glared at Sherlock. "Anyway," she said. "Like I said, I went out the side door, and I saw that girl, Maria, talking to a man."
"Do you remember anything about the man?"
Ms Small shrugged. "It was dark. He was tall, I think. Wearing a long coat, and one of those hats with the flaps, you know," She put her hands by her ears to indicate flaps. "What do they call them? A Sherlock Holmes hat."
John made a short choked noise, and both Lestrade and Sherlock turned to look at him. John lifted a hand to cover his mouth, shrugging apologetically.
"He was wearing a deerstalker?" Sherlock asked. "Are you sure?"
"Fairly sure. Like I said," the woman said. "I didn't take much notice of it. I just – I assumed he was a friend of hers." A note of guilt had crept into the woman's tone.
Lestrade gave her his best reassuring smile. "Thanks very much," he said. "You've been a big help. If you remember anything else, please get in touch, I'll give you my personal number." He handed over his card.
The woman nodded at him. "Hope you catch the bastard," she said, gruffly.
John's mobile bleeped as they left the centre. His face brightened a little as he read the message, the lines on his brow smoothing out.
"It's Kelly," he said. "Wants to know if I'll be free tonight. D'you think…"
"Yes, you may as well go," Sherlock said. "I won't require you. I need to discuss these developments with Molly. Taxi!"
Lestrade never ceased to be surprised by Sherlock's seemingly supernatural ability to call up taxis from seemingly empty streets – for sure enough, a taxi appeared precisely at that moment, and Sherlock swung into it without a backwards glance at either John or Lestrade.
"Nice to see he hasn't changed," Lestrade commented to John.
"Is it?" John said. Lestrade noticed he was looking after the taxi with rather a peculiar expression on his face, jaw tense, eyes oddly wary.
"I can give you a lift to the tube, if you like," Lestrade said. "I'm taking it you don't have an objection to police cars?"
"Nah, that'd be great," John said. "Thanks."
"Things OK, then, between you and Sherlock?" Lestrade asked casually as they settled into their seats. John looked at him enquiringly. "It was a pretty shitty stunt he pulled, especially for you. I'd have been furious. I was furious actually."
John shrugged. "I was pretty angry for a bit, yeah. But – well, you know. On some level I think I expected it. Even when I believed he was dead, there was always part of me thinking, pretending to be dead, letting us all mourn him – it's exactly the sort of bloody insensitive thing he would do."
Lestrade snorted.
"So, you forgave him, then?"
"I'm still angry. But then, I'm always a bit angry with him. It's just the way we are."
"Part of his charm."
"Yeah,"
"Back to normal then?"
John leaned back in the car seat and sighed slightly, fixing his eyes on the ceiling. "Yeah."
They drive in silence for a while. "I think that's the problem really," John said suddenly. "I went – we all went through all of that. Grieving and – and you know, thinking. And, you know. I thought a lot about how things could have been different. How I could have done things differently, and that maybe things would have - better. Then you – you know, get over all of that, learn to live with the fact that you'll never have all those things you thought about. Move on. And then of course, the arsehole just strolls back into your life, and things are exactly the same. Makes it all seem like a lot of wasted energy. Why go through all of that if you just end up in the same place as before?"
"Messes with your head, definitely," Lestrade said. He paused. "What d'you think you'd like to be different then?"
John, for some reason, huffed a half-laugh at this, and then rubbed a hand over his eyes and hair. "God, I don't know. You're right, this whole thing is just driving me round the bend. I'm don't even know what I'm talking about," he smiled at Lestrade. Lestrade remembered that smile all too well - it was that broad, particularly charming one John always brought out whenever Sherlock was doing something incredibly dodgy and John was covering for him. Lestrade also knew with a certainty that is signalled the end of John's willingness to talk about this.
"The station's just up ahead," Lestrade said. "Jubilee Line OK?"
"Perfect," John said, hand already on the door handle. "Thanks a bunch."
"Anytime," Lestrade said.
He watched as John scrambled out of his seat and ducked across the street. He never would figure out what was going on with those two, he thought.
Molly straightened, rolling her aching shoulders back. She'd been working without pause since early morning: Sherlock had sent her a long list with extra tests he wanted her to run on the body, most of them rather odd, but Molly was working through them diligently. Lucky that the lab was mostly empty at this time, hard to explain why she was painstakingly staining a slice of the victim's liver with grape juice. At least that was what she thought, until behind her a came the quiet but unmistakable sound of someone clearing their voice.
Mycroft Holmes, beautifully dressed as ever in a pressed grey suit and saffron coloured tie was standing, at a respectful distance, behind her. Molly blinked. How hadn't she heard him come in?
"Miss Hooper," Mycroft said. "Apologies for disturbing you. I can see that you're busy."
"Oh no," said Molly. "Seems about time for a break actually. Fancy a cup of something?"
"You're very kind," Mycroft said.
Molly smiled went to the corner of the lab where they had a nook kitchen and kettle.
"We've still only got Tetley's, I'm afraid," she said. "Or – there's instant coffee."
"Tetley's would be delightful," Mycroft said, and perched himself a little awkwardly on one of the lab stools.
Molly busied herself with filling up the kettle.
She'd been visited monthly by Mycroft Holmes during the time Sherlock had been dead. His visits had always followed the same pattern: he asked her courteous but distant set of questions about her own life, told her absolutely nothing about his own and then spent fifteen good minutes drinking tea from Molly's Pathologists Don't Do It In The Morgue, What the Hell Is Wrong with you?mug. Molly had never been entirely sure why he came, since he never spoke about Sherlock or any of that business. Maybe he was just checking that she was still holding her tongue as she'd promised – though he certainly said nothing of the kind. Or maybe he just found comfort in spending a little time with the only other person who knew Sherlock was alive – if so, Molly sympathised. Even if they never talked about it, it was nice to just sit there both quietly knowing, and not having to pretend anything. Comforting somehow.
Why ever it was he came, she knew for certain it wasn't for her tea. The muscles around his eyes always tightened a little as he sipped at it, as if trying to repress a wince. It made Molly want to smile. The Holmes brothers both thought they were so much harder to read than they actually were.
She'd been thinking of getting some fancier tea bags in for his visits, actually, but then Sherlock returned and Mycroft stopped coming to the lab so it didn't seem like there was any point. Well, until today.
"I'm afraid I am here, strictly on business, Miss Hooper," Mycroft said. He paused, picking up a spoon to fish the tea bag out of his mug, carefully squeezing it against the edge of the mug.
"About the Jack the Ripper case?" Molly wasn't entirely sure what Mycroft did but from Sherlock's mutterings she'd inferred it was something to do with the government. It made sense the terrorism aspect would have caught his attention.
"Indeed," Mycroft said, and sighed. "Jack the Ripper. A name that has an unfortunate habit of igniting paranoia in the good British public. The first time he killed, London was in a state near to riot, and I'm afraid I don't believe we have grown any more rational. I was hoping that we would be able to keep it out of the press's attention….."
"And you won't be able to?"
Mycroft lifted his briefcase onto the desk in front of his, and clicked it open. He pulled out a paper file which he handed to Molly.
"I have here the copy of a letter sent to the editor-in-chief of the Daily Mail," he said. "Copied in were the editors of the Sun, the Mirror and the Daily Star."
Molly opened the file. Inside was a print out of an email, with the subject line God is Great. There was no text, only an attached file. Molly turned the page: a screen shot on the opened file. A photograph. Their latest victim, Maria Watts, lying on her back on the Whitechapel pavement, sightless eyes open, and a stick of dynamite clutched to her chest. A handkerchief had been tied around her throat, obscuring the mark where it had been slashed.
"That photograph was taken before she was mutilated," Molly said.
"Yes," Mycroft said. "It appears that your murderer has entered into a correspondence with the tabloid press. I can't say I envy his taste."
"There were letters in the original Ripper case," Molly said. "To the press, to members of the police force, the neighbourhood watch. Probably hoaxes."
"In this instance, the correspondent was undoubtedly the same man who committed the murder. Did you note the address the email was sent from?"
Molly flicked the page back to look. allahakhbar
"Jihad… so this is some kind of terrorism?"
"Someone is certainly going to some trouble to make us believe so," Mycroft said.
Molly leaned back in her chair.
"The original Ripper killings," she said. "Were blamed on the Jewish community. Jewish people were attacked… the police were terrified there would be riots, mass killings. They even destroyed evidence implicating the Jews out of fear that if it were seen it would provoke more violence…"
"Precisely," Mycroft said. "It appears your killer found Jack's talent for sowing hatred inspirational. Unfortunately, he's likely to be successful. Fascinating how little changes about the human psyche, isn't it?"
"People will blame the Muslim community for the killings," Molly said. "Can't you stop them from publishing?"
"Unfortunately not. The trials of having a free press," Mycroft sounded faintly disapproving. "All I can do is contain the damage. In the mean time if you could inform my brother that the emails have been traced to an internet café on Pool Street – the address is in the file. I expect he will want to investigate."
"I'll tell him,"
Mycroft hesitated. "It would be preferable for this murderer to be caught with as little drama as possible. I know that my brother is unfortunately addicted to spectacle but in this case I'd prefer as little of that as possible. I know I can rely on your discretion."
"I don't know if he'd listen to me," Molly said.
"Nonsense," Mycroft said, rising to his feet. "I suspect your influence on my brother is more profound than you realise. He is an ungrateful soul, but not unintelligent. He is not incapable of recognising a very good friend when he encounters it."
Mycroft's gaze on her suddenly felt rather intense but oddly, unlike when Sherlock looked at her, Molly didn't feel the urge to blush and look away. Instead she held his gaze, drawing herself a little straighter.
"Thank you," she said. Mycroft inclined his head to her, and held out a hand to shake hers formally.
"I hope to see you soon, Miss Hooper," he said. "Under more auspicious circumstances."
"I hope so too," Molly said.
Molly has barely had time to return to her works before the door of the lab banged open and Sherlock appeared.
"Molly," he looked around the lab, eyes narrowed. "Mycroft has been here,"
"Yes, he left you a file, on the desk," Molly said. Sherlock turned to look at her, frowning deeply. For a moment he looked like he was about to say something, but he merely pursed his lips, striding over to the desk where the file was. He leafed through it quickly.
"Your brother thinks he's trying to provoke some kind of race riot,"
"Predictable," Sherlock said. He kicked a lab stool out from under the desk and sat on it. "He's feeding us exactly the evidence that the original Ripper investigation was handed and hoping we will tie ourselves in precisely the same knots. Men wearing leather. Men in deerstalkers. Bloodthirsty minorities. He's leading us on the same tired old trail and we're following him. We need to get ahead of him. Do something new. Something different. If only I could think." Sherlock raised his hands, tugging at his hair anxiously. Molly watched him, biting her lip.
"Where's John?" she asked.
Sherlock's face seemed to shutter. "With his girlfriend, I expect."
"Oh," Molly said.
Sherlock made an odd sort of snort.
"She seems good for him," Molly couldn't seem to stop herself from saying. It was tactless, probably. None of her business. She couldn't help being a bit fascinated though. Sherlock was never more human with her than when he talked about John.
"Good," Sherlock sneered. "The woman is so dull she won't even let him talk about dismemberment at the dinner table and so flighty she can't stick to one hair colour for longer than a fortnight. But she has dimples and sings folk ballads we are supposed to find her charming."
"Well, John has you to talk to about – bodies and things." Molly said. "Doesn't he?"
"That's not-" Sherlock began and stopped, looking away, brow furrowing a little.
Molly felt a flash of pity for him. "It is hard," she said. "Having only part of a person when you want more."
She thought of all the years she'd stored up those little scraps of interaction with Sherlock, building them into something they weren't. Something it should have been obvious they would never be.
Sherlock gave her an odd sideways look, a peculiar mixture of contempt and genuine interest.
"You think I'm pining for love of John," Sherlock stated, his tone vibrating slightly with a sarcastic amusement. Molly flushed a little.
"Aren't you?"
Sherlock smiled, and it wasn't a very nice smile. "I'm rather more selfish than you give me credit for." He hesitated. "But supposing it was true - what should one do, in such a situation?"
"Well," Molly said. " I suppose I'd say you should figure out what you really want first," Molly said. "And then, once you've done that, you can talk to – to the other person. See if they are interested. Casually at first, you know, ask them for a co- on a date, something like that. At least I'd know if they aren't interested then, and move on. Try to, anyway."
"Hmm," Sherlock said. "Interesting."
Abruptly he got up, sweeping Mycroft's file into his hands.
"I'm going to this internet café," he said. "See if I can dig up any more leads. And Molly-"
"Yes?"
"I'd like you to do some thinking about Jack the Ripper. Make a note of everything we know about his next murders. We need to find a way to get ahead of him, and you know the case better than any of those idiots at the Yard."
"Oh," Molly said. "Yes, of course."
"Think very hard, Molly." Sherlock said. He gave her a long serious look before jumping to his feet and whirling out of the door.
Molly was exhausted by the time she got home that evening, her eyes wanted to close of their own accord. She glanced longingly at the very comfy looking bed in the corner of her room, but instead went to the desk, taking her laptop out of her bag and opening it. They needed more information on Jack, and minds better versed in his case than Molly's. She typed an address into her browser – .org – to her relief the website was still there and, judging by the dates on the forums, still active. It had been years – Molly had stopped visiting years ago, too busy to cling to old obsessions. But scrolling down the page and noticing a few familiar names Molly felt a wave of nostalgia. She really felt like she'd belonged her once, among the 18th century murder enthusiasts and want-to-be detectives.
She clicked on the first topic that seemed relevant 'Lucky Liz – did Jack's third victim know her killer?' and began to read.
"You seen the morning's papers, Sir?" Donovan said to Lestrade as soon as he entered the door. Lestrade grimaced. He'd caught sight of the headlines on the way in and it had been enough to give him a very bad feeling about the day ahead. Unfortunately there was no escaping it – there was a stack of papers already on his desk.
Two Dead as Islamic Extremists Terrorise Whitechapel Brilliant. Even better there was a picture of him at the crime scene talking to John. When the hell was that taken? Lestrade flicked through. A few papers had made the Ripper connection, thought thankfully this seemed based on the location of the last two murders, they apparently hadn't weaselled any information out about the mutilations yet. One paper has a vile little cartoon of a man with an in a prayer cap and with a full beard wielding a knife over a supine woman, entitled Osama the Ripper? Lestrade let the papers fall back onto the desk in disgust.
"Apparently EDL's planning a march through Whitechapel already," Sally said, arms folded. "And the Anti Racism lot are planning a counter march, and the Muslim Brotherhood are talking about going in as well…"
"Bloody hell," Lestrade said, with feeling.
"Policing that is someone else's problem," Sally said grimly. "And I can't say I envy them. Thing is, Sir, when that happens, the place is going to be swamped with people, journos, protestors… It's going to be hard to monitor. If he's looking for a time to strike and get away clean, that might be a good one."
"According to the Ripper timetable, he'll go after two women next," Lestrade said. "The double event." Lestrade had spent half the night reading up on the case. Two women, Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes had been killed within hours of each other, right under the noses of the police.
"We can't let it happen, Sir," Sally said, her expression steely.
"No," Lestrade said. "We can't."
