“Were you approached?”
“No, ma’am, for the people present were from the local neighborhood. There were no gentleman drifters to be seen.”
Joanna’s brow went up in obvious interest, for Annie Yates had just uttered a most important clue. Gentleman drifters were known to be respectable men who seek excitement prowling the lowlife pubs of East London in search of cheap, anonymous sex. Some were said to actually be addicted to this form of secret entertainment. Clearing her throat, Joanna asked, “Had you or Carrie ever encountered such gentleman drifters at the Black Lamb?”
“On several occasions,” Annie answered. “They would chat us up and arrange to meet us on the street at a later time.”
“In the Mitre Square area?”
“That was a favorite place because of the dark passageways and deserted buildings.”
“Did any of these gentleman drifters seem to favor you or Carrie?”
“One gentleman in particular preferred Carrie, in that she was from a neighborhood in Bristol where he claimed he was born and raised.”
“Claimed, you say?”
Annie managed a weak smile. “People from Bristol have a distinct accent which he did not have. He had upper-class London written all over him.”
“Can you describe this man?”
Annie shrugged. “There was nothing unusual about him. He was of average height and frame, with long gray hair that curled at the bottom.”
“Did he wear a hat?”
Annie thought before nodding. “On one occasion he wore a black hat, like the ones you see on fishermen sometimes.”
The man who visited the sweet shop, I thought immediately, but that type of hat was quite common in the poorer sections of London. “Did he ever offer you or Carrie candy?” I asked.
“Never,” she said promptly. “He wouldn’t even buy us a pint.”
“Cheap, then.”
“Quite. He tried to come off as one of us, but his educated speech said otherwise, as did his finely manicured nails. You will never see those on a Whitechapel man.”
“Well noted,” Joanna complimented. “Now tell me, was he ever rough or threatening to you or Carrie?”
“Only when his performance failed,” Annie said frankly.
“How often would this happen?”
“Always,” said Annie. “He would try and try, but seemed incapable of being aroused.”
“So you never truly did your business with him?”
“Nor did Carrie, despite his best efforts.”
“I take it this was the moment he became threatening?”
Annie nodded as another paroxysm of violent coughing came and went. “He would scream and grow quite angry, and blame us for his failure to perform.”
“Did he ever strike you or Carrie?”
“He once gave Carrie a black eye, but immediately apologized and attributed his violence and inadequacy to alcohol.”
“Did she believe his excuse?”
“No, ma’am, for drunks can still perform, but not as well as those who are sober.”
“After this altercation, I would think Carrie stayed clear of this gentleman drifter.”
“At first she did, but he continued to apologize and gave her a gift, so she gave in and returned to him.”
“What sort of gift did he give her?”
“Lovely copper earrings, like these,” Annie replied, and swept back her hair to reveal earrings that were identical to those found on the two victims currently residing in the morgue at St. Bart’s. “He seemed to fancy copper ones, for he presented them to me and Carrie and to yet another Unfortunate named Evie.”
“Do you have any idea where he purchased them?”
Annie shrugged. “At a jewelry shop, I would guess.”
“Are there many jewelry stores in Whitechapel?”
“Only a few, but none that sell expensive items.”
Joanna decided to rephrase the question, for here lay an important clue. “If you wish to purchase copper earrings, which shop would you visit?”
“Froman’s, for I once saw a nice display of copper jewelry in his window.”
“And where would Froman’s be located?”
“Half block north of here, across from the Jewish cemetery.”
“Very good,” Joanna said, docketing the information. “Now let us return to the Black Lamb where these gentleman drifters tend to congregate. On a usual night, how many were present?”
“Three or four, and they would always gather as a group.”
“I would think that you and the other Unfortunates would keep a close eye on them.”
“Oh, we would indeed, for they were most generous and willing to pay the higher fee.”
“Was your business ever conducted within the pub itself?”
“Never,” Annie answered, coughing loudly again and now wiping perspiration from her forehead, which no doubt arose from her fever. “It was usually done in a dark alleyway that was situated behind the pub.”
“Would the gentleman drifters then depart or go back into the pub?” Joanna asked.
Annie thought for a moment before answering. “For the most part, they hurried to their waiting hansoms and carriages.”
“Was this the behavior of the gentleman who favored you and Carrie?”
Annie shook her head. “He would never do business behind the Black Lamb, but insisted we follow him to Mitre Square.”
“Did he give a reason for that?”
“No, ma’am.”
“You stated that you followed him to the square,” Joanna noted. “That implies he knew the way.”
“He did indeed, for the distance from the pub to the square was seven or more blocks on the major streets, but he was aware of all the alleys and shortcuts which shortened our travel time. He was very familiar with the backstreets, I can say with certainty.”
A thin smile crossed my wife’s face. “Did you return to the Black Lamb after your business was done?”
“Yes, ma’am, for there may have been yet more customers to be had there.”
“Did your gentleman drifter accompany you back to the pub?”
“No, ma’am. He disappeared down one of the dark passageways into the square.”
“Would there be transportation awaiting him nearby?”
“Most unlikely, ma’am, for that is a very rough area where a waiting carriage would be too tempting a target for thieves and other criminals.”
“You have been most helpful,” Joanna commended.
“I can only hope it leads you to the evil monster who did this terrible deed to Carrie,” Annie said sadly. “Who could be so vicious?”
“As you just noted, it had to be an evil monster,” Joanna replied, and turned to my father. “Do you have any questions, Watson?”
“Only a few,” my father said, giving the Unfortunate a gentle, reassuring smile. “I know you are not well, so I shall endeavor to take up as little time as possible.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Annie, swallowing back a cough.
“Were you aware of the carbuncle on Carrie’s leg?”
“Yes, sir. It had given her considerable trouble and pain to the point she could not put any pressure on it.”
“So she sought care at St. Bartholomew’s?”
“And excellent care it was. She was seen by a most kind doctor who drained the carbuncle twice.”
“Twice, you say?”
Annie nodded. “On the first visit, the sore was opened and she was told to apply warm, salty soaks to aid in the drainage, which of course she didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Where was someone living on the street going to find warm, salty soaks?”
“Your point is well taken,” said my father. “So she had to return for yet another incision?”
“Which was done by the good Dr. Rudd, who was so kind that he placed some type of medicine on the skin to remove any pain from the procedure.”
“And gave her a prescription fo
r iodinated gauze to insert into the carbuncle to assist the drainage.”
“Exactly right, sir.”
“Did she have the funds to purchase the iodinated gauze?”
Annie nodded again. “She told me she had a little money hidden away, but did not tell me where.”
“How did you come to know that she was being treated by Dr. Rudd?” I interrupted. “Did she mention his name?”
“She did, but I know the doctor as well, for he was attending me for a female problem.”
“May I inquire what the problem was?”
“Something called endometriosis.”
“I see,” said I, recalling that endometriosis was a painful condition in which tissue that usually lines the uterus grows outside the uterus. “Was he able to give you any relief?”
“A little, with some herbal mixture the hospital provided.”
My father rejoined the inquiry by asking, “I am told that the list of patients who wish to enroll in the charity clinic is very long indeed. You and Carrie were most fortunate to be allowed in. Do you know how that was arranged?”
Annie shrugged. “I wondered about that myself, for we both had such difficulty filling out the forms. It was a bit of luck for sure.”
Joanna and I exchanged glances, silently telling each other that more than luck was involved here. What were the chances that three Unfortunates from Whitechapel would somehow find their way into a most selective clinic at St. Bart’s?
Annie had another paroxysmal bout of coughing which provided blood-tinged phlegm. She seemed to lose her breath and struggled to regain it.
“Take slow, gentle breaths in and out,” my father advised, and waited for her respirations to normalize. “You must return to the clinic as soon as possible.”
“That will not be possible, sir, for my next appointment is not due for three months.”
“I was once on staff at St. Bartholomew’s and will make phone calls to see if I can arrange an earlier appointment.”
“You are most kind, sir.”
My father reached into his pocket for a half crown and handed the coin to the Unfortunate. “You are to take this money, which will pay for your continued stay here until the clinic arrangement can be made.”
“I am so grateful to you, sir.”
“And she is to remain in your cubicle,” Joanna demanded of Luther. “If I hear otherwise, things will not go well for you.”
Luther nodded his acquiescence as the scowl on his face seemed to grow.
My father gently patted Annie’s shoulder and inquired, “Please forgive me, but you are both observant and well-spoken, and I cannot help but wonder how you came to be in this dreadful situation.”
Annie sighed to herself as a sad memory returned. “I was once a lady’s maid at an estate in Bristol where I was genuinely liked and paid a comfortable salary. My life was simple, but good, and got even better when I married a carriage driver from the estate. But then I came down with this terrible lung infection and was dismissed. Shortly thereafter my husband was killed in a road accident and everything went sour.” She took another sad sigh, deeper this time, and ended by saying, “And here I am now at the lowest possible level in life.”
My father patted her shoulder gently once again and instructed her in a kind voice, “You are to remain at rest until you hear from us.”
“I shall, sir.”
We left the doss-house and stepped out into a chilly afternoon which was made even colder by a brisk wind that sent garbage on the street flying into the air. I could barely imagine how the poor and penniless managed to survive on the mean, frigid streets of Whitechapel, where I suspected many died at a far too early age. Joanna waved good-bye to the constable and signaled our carriage to follow us as we walked along.
“What diagnosis do you give her, Watson?” she asked.
“With her obvious emaciation and bloody cough, I would put tuberculosis at the very top of the list.”
“Is there any hope?”
“I am afraid not,” my father said grimly. “Everything about the poor woman tells us her life on earth can now be measured in months.”
“A shame in many regards.”
“Indeed,” my father agreed. “But I am curious how you seem to have known that someone in the doss-house would provide such a trove of information. Was there a clue I overlooked?”
“Oh, you saw it, Watson, but failed to bring it to its logical conclusion,” Joanna elucidated. “Recall the struggle which Carrie Nichols engaged in at the entrance to the dark passageway off Mitre Square. The evidence showed she resisted the advances of the customer to such an extent that he was required to render her unconscious in order to make her submit. Now, why would she fight so fiercely when she was eager to accommodate virtually any customer?”
My father gave the matter long thought before nodding to himself. “She was terrified of him.”
“Precisely,” Joanna went on. “Some act he had done to either her or a friend previously had frightened her badly. She wanted no part of him. Now, please keep in mind that most women, unlike men, have a close friend, with whom they share all their stories, even their most intimate ones.”
“And that close friend was Annie Yates,” my father concluded.
“Thus, it follows that the struggle in the entrance to the passageway told us to find that close friend,” Joanna said. “And even in her wretched condition, she provided us most important information which leads directly to Jack the Ripper.”
“Such as?”
“We now know that The Ripper lives in Whitechapel.”
“Based on what, pray tell?”
“A number of features point to that conclusion, my dear Watson,” she replied, and counted off the reasons on her fingers. “First and foremost, he was keenly aware of its alleys and backstreets, even in darkness. Secondly, he was seen in various locations such as the pub, Mitre Square, the sweet shop, and now a jewelry shop, all separated by sizable distances. These are characteristics of an individual who was very familiar with the district and thus most likely has a dwelling here.”
“But he is educated and obviously well-to-do,” I argued. “That is not the type who would own a house in Whitechapel.”
“He might if he wished to have a secret dwelling,” Joanna countered. “But what is of equal interest is that both Carrie Nichols and Annie Yates were patients in the charity ward at St. Bart’s.”
“As was the initial victim who was autopsied by Willoughby,” I added. “You will recall she, too, had a draining carbuncle that was skillfully treated.”
“So we have three Unfortunates, all being looked after at a highly selective clinic at St. Bartholomew’s,” Joanna concluded. “That cannot simply be happenstance.”
“Particularly if all three were under the care of Thaddeus Rudd,” I noted.
“A most important observation, John,” said my wife, with an affirmative nod. “And one which merits further investigation.”
“Hold on!” my father protested at once. “It is quite a stretch to implicate a fine, distinguished surgeon in these vicious murders, only because he happened to treat them in a free clinic where he so generously donated his time.”
“You may be correct, Watson, but it is a habit of mine to believe all suspects guilty until proven otherwise.”
“That is so contradictory to our system of justice.”
“But it works well for me.”
My father stepped around a dead cat as he considered the matter further. “I would never assign this diabolical behavior to such a fine physician.”
“Even one known to have a terrible temper?” Joanna inquired pointedly.
“You seem convinced we are dealing with a Dr. Jekyll–Mr. Hyde personality.”
“That is because our murderer fits the profile so well.”
We came to Froman’s Jewelry Shop, which had only a narrow window to display its inexpensive goods. There were rows of silver rings with colorful stones, which were mixed in with
earrings and bracelets made of copper. On entering we were greeted by a short, heavyset man, balding, with ruddy cheeks and a kind face. Above him, a caged parrot squawked at our presence.
“May I help you, madam?” asked he, from behind a glass counter. A framed certificate on the wall noted that Joseph Froman was a member of a jewelers association.
“We are interested in your copper earrings and bracelets,” Joanna replied. “I have been invited to a costume party and would like to buy some appropriate jewelry.”
“Of course.” Froman reached into the showcase and extracted shiny copper items which he placed on the counter for inspection. “The copper earrings are said to come from Africa, but I am not certain that is true.”
My wife examined the earrings and asked, “Will the thin wire which attaches to the ear hold up?”
Froman shrugged. “I have had no complaints.”
“Do you sell a fair number of them?”
“Not very many,” he said honestly. “There was no demand for them until last week.”
“Oh, a lot of customers requested them, did they?”
“Only one,” Froman recalled. “This strange chap came in and bought five sets of copper earrings. I usually do not sell that number in a month.”
“Five, you say!” Joanna said, apparently interested. “They must have been gifts.”
Froman shrugged again. “Whatever their purpose, he demanded five sets, which nearly exhausted my supply. I counted them out, after which he did the same, as if to make certain about their number.”
“Strange business,” Joanna probed gently. “Did he look or behave in a strange manner?”
“Not really,” the jeweler said, thinking back. “He was wearing ordinary clothes, with long gray hair tucked under a fisherman’s hat. What was odd was that the total charge was fifteen shillings which he paid with a ten-pound note. We do not see many of those in Whitechapel, I can tell you that.”
“Did he carefully count the change?”
Froman shook his head firmly. “He simply stuffed the earrings and nine pounds five in his pocket and rushed out.”
“Rushed out, eh?”
“Like the shop was on fire.”
Joanna and the jeweler were now speaking like old friends, and she was collecting information which might not otherwise be revealed. Individuals in the lower class tended to clam up around the affluent as well as around the authorities, particularly the police, for fear of somehow becoming involved. Joanna had a remarkable talent for finding common ground with them by chatting primarily about their trade, yet gathering important details all the while.
The Abduction of Pretty Penny Page 9