CHAPTER 15
The Baker Street Irregulars
The mood was somber in our rooms at 221b Baker Street as we awaited the results of the fingerprint comparisons. We had learned earlier there were problems with the items that had been submitted to Scotland Yard for investigation. In particular, the fingerprints on the broken-off blade and piece of glass were partial prints that only captured the tips of the fingers. Thus, any match would be most difficult to obtain since at least twelve identical points had to be compared and confirmed. Nevertheless, there was another avenue which might match the new fingerprints on Annie Yates’s shoes to those of Jack the Ripper. It would also prove beyond a doubt that the past and present Jack the Ripper were one and the same.
“How did you come to know there was a definite fingerprint of The Ripper’s that dated back to 1889?” my father inquired, with his leg resting on an ottoman. His knee was much improved, but some swelling and stiffness persisted, so he wisely decided to forgo his journey to Brighton.
Joanna was standing by the window, watching the comings and goings on Baker Street below. “By reading all the old, available documents which recorded his murderous activities. There was one letter he wrote in red ink, which also included a fingerprint that was clearly stamped on the paper in red ink as well. He obviously did so intentionally, as a taunt to Scotland Yard.”
“Have you actually seen this letter?” I asked.
“I have not, for it along with dozens of other such documents are under seal at the Public Record Office,” Joanna replied. “Lestrade is now applying to the commissioner to have the seal broken.”
“Let us hope that print can be matched to those on the blade and broken glass,” my father remarked. “And those then matched to one of the fingerprints on Annie Yates’s shoes.”
“That would be a perfect world which rarely exists, Watson,” Joanna said. “You must keep in mind that a match on the broken glass, which is highly improbable, would still not convict, for any barrister worth his salt would state that the bottle was stolen from St. Bart’s by an intruder. After all, Willoughby and Anderson frequently touch bottles of formaldehyde, which are in great use in their department. Rudd might also come in contact with such bottles, into which he would place his surgical specimens. Thus, it is the print on the blade which connects the owner to Jack the Ripper, and thereupon rests the weakest print of all.”
“So we must depend on matching a fingerprint on the shoe to the one on the letter The Ripper wrote,” my father concluded.
“But here again there may be a problem,” she continued on, walking over to the Persian slipper which held her Turkish cigarettes. She carefully lighted one before returning to her position at the large window overlooking Baker Street. “You see, it is believed that the majority of letters written by Jack the Ripper to Scotland Yard and the newspapers were in fact hoaxes. Some idiot actually included a piece of kidney in his letter for added effect.”
“But if the fingerprint on the shoe matches that on the letter, we have our killer,” I stated.
“Ah, if it were only so simple,” Joanna countered. “Again, any worthwhile barrister would claim the letter was written as a hoax by the defendant while in medical school. And of course the suspect would swear under oath that he did so. You would have to prove otherwise, for under Anglo-Saxon law an individual is innocent unless you can prove him guilty.”
“But such a match would certainly point the finger of guilt at its owner,” I contended.
“Unfortunately, there is a huge difference between pointing a finger and establishing guilt,” said she.
My father sighed dispiritedly. “I am afraid the letter stamped with his fingerprint is indeed a hoax. Only a simpleton would send such an identifying feature.”
“Perhaps,” Joanna agreed mildly. “But then the study of fingerprints was not used in criminal cases back in 1889 when the letter was written, and The Ripper, being such a clever fellow, would have known this and have no hesitation in sending the taunt.”
“So he remains a step ahead of us,” I noted.
“At the least,” Joanna said, and suddenly craned her neck for a better view of the street. “But I intend to close that gap a bit.”
“How so?” I asked.
“By recruiting some assistants,” she replied, and, after extinguishing her cigarette in an ashtray, pointed out the window.
My father and I hurried over to view three figures, darting between traffic as they approached our doorstep. I instantly recognized the Baker Street Irregulars, as did my father, for the sight brought a smile to his face and no doubt recalled his exciting days with the long-dead Sherlock Holmes. There was a most interesting history behind the Irregulars which few were aware of. The Great Detective had somehow gathered up a gang of street urchins whom he employed to aid his causes. They consisted originally of a dozen or so members, all streetwise, who could go everywhere, see everything, and overhear everyone without being noticed. When put to the task, they had a remarkable success record. For their efforts each was paid a shilling a day, with a guinea to whoever found the most prized clue. Since Holmes’s death, more than a few of the original guttersnipes had either drifted away or become ill, but their leader, Wiggins, remained and took in new recruits to replace those who had departed. He had last employed them in the case of The Disappearance of Alistair Ainsworth, in which they played an important role in uncovering the plot behind the cryptographer’s disappearance.
Joanna knew Miss Hudson would recognize the group and allow them immediate entrance, for it was our landlady who sent for the messenger to carry the message to the Irregulars. On hearing their footsteps on the stairs, Joanna quickly turned to us. “The Irregulars are to be given the barest facts and nothing more. Then we shall set them loose.”
“To what end?” asked my father.
“Why, to track our gentleman drifters of course.”
After a brief rap on the door, Wiggins entered, followed by two children, in their teens, whom I knew well. On closer examination it was clear the trio had not changed much over the past two years. In his late twenties, Wiggins was tall and quite thin, with hollow cheeks and dark eyes that seemed to dance around, as if searching for something that might be hidden in the background. To his right was Little Alfie, who was fifteen but appeared younger, with his unkempt brown hair and the look of innocence about him. On the other side of Wiggins was Sarah The Gypsy, a dark-complected girl who had grown a head in height since last seen. The young lass possessed an extraordinary sixth sense that told her when she was being watched or if there was a constable nearby.
“Got your message, I did, and came at my quickest,” Wiggins said in a deep cockney accent. “That will be a shilling twopence for our ride over, if you please, ma’am.”
Joanna handed over some coins and spoke directly to the point. “I take it you know Whitechapel well.”
“It is my home turf, ma’am,” Wiggins said proudly.
“Are you familiar with the Black Lamb?”
“It is a pub at the lower end.”
“Have you visited there?”
Wiggins shook his head. “Rarely, for they overcharge and underpour.”
“On your few visits there have you noticed gentleman drifters?”
“They come and go, but never stay long.”
“There are three I am most interested in.” Joanna went to her small writing desk for a large manila envelope. She opened it and gave the photographs of Peter Willoughby, Maxwell Anderson, and Thaddeus Rudd to Wiggins, who studied them at length. “Do you recognize any of the three as being gentleman drifters?”
I glanced over at the head shots which were made by the photography department at St. Bartholomew’s for identification badges. The three physicians appeared so proper and distinguished, which belied the savage cruelty one of them possessed.
Wiggins carefully looked at the photographs once again before saying, “I can’t be certain, ma’am, for the gentlemen are usually dresse
d in top hats and I have only seen them at a distance.”
“And you may wish to keep your distance, for one of this lot is a cold-blooded murderer.”
If Joanna’s depiction affected the Irregulars, they did not show it. Wiggins gave each of the photographs another cursory glance and asked, “Do their killings in Whitechapel, do they?”
“So it is believed.”
He nodded knowingly. “Like old Jack the Ripper, eh?”
“Like Jack the Ripper,” Joanna agreed. “But it would be best that you not mention this to anyone, for word would spread and reach his ears, which would surely put him on guard.”
“Not a word, then,” Wiggins vowed, making the motion of sealing his lips shut. “Are you interested in their activities inside the pub, then?”
“I am interested in their activities when they leave the Black Lamb,” Joanna instructed. “Once you recognize any of the three, I would like you to signal Little Alfie and Sarah The Gypsy that he is to be followed noiselessly. I need to know where he goes and with whom.”
The leader of the Irregulars hesitated as he appeared to be searching for the correct words. “You do realize that the gentlemen often depart with one of the Unfortunates?”
“I do.”
“It would be very difficult to witness their acts, for they are usually performed in dark alleyways, with only scant light from an outer lamppost,” Wiggins said frankly.
“That will not be necessary, for I suspect this particular gentleman will depart alone and travel to a place where he will change his appearance and attire, such that he is no longer recognizable.”
Wiggins quickly formulated a plan which would meet Joanna’s requirements. “I can spot the gentleman as he departs and signal Little Alfie and Sarah by stepping outside and lighting a cigarette. I can assure you they will neither be seen nor heard, but that will be the easiest part. It is when he travels that the difficulty sets in. If he goes by carriage or taxi, he will be impossible to track unless I hire a similar mode of transportation, which will add greatly to your expense.” He paused to consider the matter further. “It will take some doing, and will require an extra pound or two, for it has to be done without being noticed.”
“So be it,” Joanna agreed, and went to her purse. “Here is a pound up front in case the need arises, and a shilling each for your work tonight.”
“I shall return when there is news,” said he, and led the other Irregulars to the door.
She hurriedly called after him, “There is one more precaution you must take. If the gentleman drifter changes into a totally different character and begins to bargain with an Unfortunate, you are to somehow sound the alarm, for he means to do her great harm!”
“Which we will do with police whistles,” Wiggins decided at once. “And of course there will be an additional charge for the whistles.”
“Done.”
Once the door closed, Joanna began pacing the floor, head down, hands clasped behind her, as she no doubt reviewed the plans and possible pitfalls of the instructions given to the Irregulars. She rarely second-guessed herself, but with so much at stake even the smallest detail could be consequential.
“I believe your plans are quite good, with a high benefit-to-risk ratio,” I opined.
Joanna stopped pacing and smiled at me. “You are becoming very adept at reading my mind, dear John, but my primary thought was not with the plan itself. I was wondering if it would be worthwhile to alert Lestrade that there will be observers on the streets of Whitechapel who can sound an alarm with whistles if The Ripper makes an appearance.”
“A rather worthwhile idea, I would think,” said my father.
She shook her head at the notion. “At first glance perhaps, but then I worry that Lestrade would place even more constables on the streets, which would alert The Ripper and postpone his next attack.”
“But a postponement works to the benefit of prospective victims,” my father noted.
“It might also make The Ripper disappear, which is not to our advantage,” said Joanna. “No, I think it best we leave things as they are for now.”
“As do I,” I agreed. “Nevertheless, I have real doubts that the Irregulars will be capable of performing the task you have given them, for it will be particularly difficult to follow the suspect through the dark streets of Whitechapel if he departs in a taxi or carriage. I think it unreasonable to believe that Wiggins will have such transports waiting for hours outside the Black Lamb.”
“That may not be a recurring problem, for you must bear in mind that The Ripper requires a place to change his appearance and it is unlikely he will travel home or to the playhouse, where he might well be seen in his new identity.”
“He could change clothes in the back of a four-wheeler or limousine,” my father suggested.
“Again that is unlikely, for the strange transformation would be noticed by the driver, and his suspicion would grow if the suspect departed at Mitre Square,” Joanna pointed out. “Furthermore, he would need a place to apply greasepaint, which requires good lighting which a carriage or taxi will not provide.”
“Where will he change and transform himself, then?” my father asked.
“I have a strong suspicion that he has a dwelling within walking distance of the pubs, which he uses for the singular purpose of disguising himself and later removing said disguise.”
“Assuming he does have such a dwelling, he has used it for twenty-eight years, which covers the time of the original Jack the Ripper,” my father calculated.
“Precisely,” Joanna concurred. “And on that optimistic note I will brew a fresh pot of Earl Grey while we await Lestrade’s phone call.”
“During which time I will endeavor to finish reading this morning’s Guardian,” said my father, reaching for the folded newspaper.
I watched Joanna clear her workbench and light a Bunsen burner in order to prepare the Earl Grey black tea, which she made far darker than that brewed by Miss Hudson. My wife firmly believed that strong tea and equally strong nicotine from a Turkish cigarette provided a most excellent stimulus to the brain. She was obviously still searching for answers to the perplexing case we now were facing. As Sherlock Holmes would have said, this was quite a three-pipe problem. My attention went over to my father, who was deeply immersed in the morning newspaper. Its front page was filled with reports and speculations regarding the latest victim of Jack the Ripper. I was certain my father had read every line, for he believed one could gather more information about criminal activities from a single newspaper than from a dozen magazines and periodicals. Something had caught my father’s interest, for he brought the newspaper in closer to his eyes.
“Joanna, you did not tell us that young Johnny would soon honor us with the pleasure of his company!” my father called out.
“I wished my son’s visit to be a surprise,” she explained.
“It will be a most delightful one, for his presence always lights up our rooms.”
“How did you learn of it?”
“It was noted in the Guardian’s society column that Lord Blalock will be hosting a splendid birthday party for the lad later this week.”
“I am afraid his dear grandfather does tend to overdo it for Johnny,” Joanna noted. “I predict the party will be somewhat extravagant.”
“To which I was not invited,” my father grumbled good-naturedly.
“Oh, I was hoping you would accompany John and me to the festivities.”
“I shall look forward to it,” said he, and returned to the opened newspaper. But before he could turn the page, the nearby phone rang. He quickly reached for it and answered, “Yes?”
My father pushed the newspaper aside and quietly apprised us, “It is Lestrade.”
He listened intently and intermittently asked, “When?… Where?… Was there any resistance?… Escaped?… Conclusive evidence, you say?”
The conversation continued at length, but my father saw no need to take notes. However, he did move his li
ps silently, which was a habit of his while memorizing. He nodded a few times as he brought the call to an end, saying, “We shall join you immediately.”
My father gave us a most serious look before telling us the nature of the phone call. “Inspector Lestrade has apprehended Jack the Ripper.”
“Is he one of the physicians from St. Bart’s?” Joanna asked at once.
My father shook his head. “He is an escaped inmate from the Hanwell lunatic asylum.”
“And the proof?” asked she.
“Conclusive, for it definitely places the suspect at the scene of Annie Yates’s murder,” he informed.
“Did Lestrade give you the particulars on this evidence?”
“He did not, telling me only that it is beyond dispute.”
“We must see this evidence before it can in any way be distorted or placed under a court’s seal.”
“It sounds as if you have your doubts.”
“I doubt everything Scotland Yard does, particularly when a solution is given to them on a silver platter.”
“But conclusive evidence is still conclusive evidence.”
“Did Lestrade invite us to see the evidence and interrogate the suspect?”
“He did.”
“Then he, too, has some underlying doubts.”
“Based on what?”
“That Jack the Ripper is far too clever to be an out-and-out madman.”
CHAPTER 16
The Hanwell Asylum
Approaching Hanwell, our carriage was waved through the gated entrance without inspection. A delivery lorry leaving the mental institution was likewise allowed to pass without stopping. I also noted there was only a single guard at the gate and that the metal fence which surrounded the facility was at the most three feet high, all of which would make for an easy, unnoticed escape. The medical facility itself was unprotected and far more expansive than I had anticipated. It consisted of a cluster of imposing stone buildings that encircled a very large garden where men were busily at work.
The Abduction of Pretty Penny Page 16