by David Waine
*
Commercial Street Police Station was large and triangular on the outside, but drab and functional within, like any other police station. A sense of nervous expectation pervaded the oak-panelled vestibule the following morning as a small crowd of newspaper reporters gathered, the wealthier ones from the nationals doffing their top hats, the lesser hacks from the local rags tipping their bowlers and grunting familiar greetings while fumbling for a new page in their notepads.
As the clock on the wall delivered ten dull chimes, a large door at the back of the room opened to admit a small delegation and a respectful hush fell upon the gathered newsmen. They stood, heads cocked and pencils poised, as the officer in charge, Inspector Frederic George Abberline, produced a prepared statement from his pocket, checked his watch and cleared his throat. A slightly built man of average height, with a flowing moustache and thinning hair, his voice betrayed traces of his Dorset roots.
“Good morning, gentlemen. Inspector Abberline of the Metropolitan Police Force. It is my sad duty to lead the investigation into a capital crime, which occurred yesterday, Friday, August 31st. We can confirm that the body of the woman discovered in Buck’s Row was that of Mary Anne Nichols, alias Polly Nichols, aged forty-two years, a resident of this parish. She had been attacked with an extremely sharp weapon, possibly a knife, and her body severely mutilated.” Looking up from his statement, his eyes scanned the gathered assembly with critical scrutiny. “Are there any questions?”