by Tim Standish
‘Mr Wilkinson and Mr Dent?’ I replied that we were. ‘Please wait here for a moment, gentlemen.’ She used a pencil to mark a point on the sheaf of notes she was evidently typing from and walked from around the desk, knocked lightly on the door connecting her room to the Principal’s and went inside, closing it behind her. A brief snatch of telephone conversation escaped as she did so, dropping to a distant murmur as the door closed.
Church took off his bowler, holding it by his side, and glanced around the office. Filing cabinets filled the right-hand wall while on the left behind the desk was another, much smaller table on which sat an engine terminal.
The door opened and she came back out. ‘Sir Anthony is ready for you, gentlemen. Please, let me take your coats.’ She stood to one side, folding our coats over her arm as we handed them to her. Church gave her his hat and we walked through the doorway. It pulled shut behind us with the briefest and softest of clicks.
Sir Anthony’s office was much larger and far more luxuriously furnished than that of his secretary. The wall opposite the windows was covered in bookcases, the wooden floor almost entirely hidden by a vast silk carpet that stretched the length of the room. Sir Anthony was at the far end behind a broad, leather-topped desk. On the wall behind him hung a few portraits of severe-looking men in dark suits and a smaller painting of what looked like a Venetian piazza. Sir Anthony was standing as we entered, smartly dressed in a dark, three-piece suit. He was younger than I had pictured him, perhaps in his early forties, shorter than both myself and Church, and with a complexion and midriff that suggested that the position of Principal was one that attracted regular invitations to formal dinners. His dark hair was beginning to thin and, as if to partially make up for this, he wore a neatly trimmed goatee beard. ‘Please, gentlemen, do sit down,’ he said in an amiable manner, indicating the two green leather swivel chairs on our side of the desk. We walked over and sat down and I handed him one of my cards.
He looked at it for a moment. ‘You are a lawyer, Mr Wilkinson?’
‘Yes, Sir Anthony.’
‘And what can I do for you and your colleague, Mr…?’
‘This is Mr Dent, he acts as an enquiry agent for our firm.’
‘I see,’ he said. ‘And what brings you to St George’s?’
‘My firm represents a number of clients who have lost loved ones in the last eight years.’
He gave me a puzzled look. ‘There is no connection with St George’s, surely? Our survival rates for patients are the best in the country. We also have an impeccable record when it comes to surgical and diagnostic errors. Are you sure you’re in the right place?’
‘Oh we’re sure,’ growled Church, grim faced next to me, causing Sir Anthony to give him a slightly nervous glance.
‘Perhaps if I explain a little more of the case,’ I said.
‘Oh please do. That would be useful.’ Sir Anthony smiled again, this time a little less certainly.
‘Thank you, Sir Anthony,’ I replied. ‘By the way, I must say how impressive the hospital wing was that we passed through. Was that a recent improvement?’
‘Yes indeed,’ he said, instantly more comfortable in the role of extolling the hospital’s virtues, ‘the result of a most generous bequest we received a few years ago which enabled us to modernise and extend the hospital, an improvement that was well overdue.’
‘Well I must say it looks tremendous and must be of great benefit for the patients,’ I said.
‘And for the students, of course!’ he replied with the tone of a real enthusiast. ‘Which is such an important part of what we do here.’
‘Of course. But to bring us back to the case we are hoping for your support with?’
‘Of course, of course.’ Sir Anthony seemed to have overcome Church’s blunt interruption, and was cheerfully polite again. ‘If there is anything I might be able to do.’
‘Our clients,’ I said, ‘have all had female family members murdered in London since November 1888 and we are—’ I got no further before Sir Anthony interrupted me with a note of exasperation in his voice.
‘My good Lord, is this that blasted Ripper case again?’ He shook his head. ‘I honestly don’t believe it. It’s like a damned millstone.’ He looked at us both in turn, calming himself. Shook his head again. ‘Gentlemen, I apologise for that outburst. However, I am afraid I have no wish to be involved in your case, whatever it is.’
‘Sir Anthony, if I could just explain a little about what we are asking of you and, either way, we will be on our way without delaying you any further.’
‘You can,’ he replied, ‘but be warned I have very little patience for the subject.’ He fished in his pocket and pulled out a gold watch which he consulted. ‘And I’m afraid I have a phone call that I must make so the briefer you can make it the better.’
‘Very well,’ I said. ‘And apologies, Sir Anthony. I hadn’t imagined that the mention of the case would cause you such distress; after all, it was eight years ago.’
He smiled thinly. ‘You would think so. But you are the second pair of gentlemen I have seen today who have seen fit to do so.’
‘Really?’ I said. ‘Who were the others?’
He paused, obviously considering whether or not to answer my question. ‘If you must know, they were police officers.’
Church looked at me. ‘Not good news for us, Mr Wilkinson.’
‘Not at all, Mr Dent,’ I replied. ‘It seems they may have got wind of our case even at this early stage, which is most tiresome. You see, Sir Anthony,’ I continued ‘our clients’ case is simply this: that the Metropolitan and City police forces should have learnt a great deal from the way that the Ripper cases were tackled which, when put into practice, would have made Whitechapel and other parts of the City safer. In fact, this has markedly not happened; there has been no decrease in the level of assaults on women in the time since and in fact the number of murders has increased, particularly those of a vicious nature.
‘We will be seeking to prove grievous negligence on the part of both forces, negligence which has resulted in the murder of a number of women who would otherwise be alive today. And from you, Sir Anthony, we were hoping to take a statement attesting to the poor nature of the police investigation and review of the case. Given your review of the original murders as part of the investigation at the time we thought you would be well placed to do that.’ I smiled, hopefully.
‘Well, Mr Watkins—’
‘It’s Wilkinson, Sir Anthony, Kenneth Wilkinson.’
‘Whatever your name is, I am afraid I won’t be able to help you. I have no wish to rehash what wasn’t a particularly pleasant task for me and one, quite frankly, that I wish I had never been persuaded to be involved in. In my opinion the police did their best in somewhat challenging circumstances. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’ He stood: clearly our time was at an end. We both stood as he pushed a button on his desk.
‘There was one other thing, though,’ Church said and pulled a copy of the aerial photograph from Miller’s Court. ‘Are you familiar with this photo, Sir Anthony?’
Irritated, he looked down and I saw the shock of recognition flash briefly in his eyes before he managed to give the appearance of a much vaguer familiarity. ‘Er. Yes, I think so. That was in the papers wasn’t it, at the time of the murders, I mean? They thought it was the Ripper.’
‘Almost,’ said Church, ‘This one is a larger version and look, you can see another man in the picture.’
‘Another man?’ Sir Anthony paused, brow creasing. ‘You mean the figure in the street is just a passer-by then?’
‘Oh no,’ said Church. ‘The fellow I got this from said he thought they were in it together. Two rippers, not one, do you see?’
‘Not really, No. I really must ask you gentlemen to leave me to it, I’m afraid.’ A fragile smile clung to Sir Anthony’s face as he ushered us towards the door. He pulled the door open and looked around. His secretary was just coming back into the room as he did. ‘Mi
lly, where the devil have you been? I was buzzing you and there was no answer.’
‘I am sorry Sir Anthony, I had to take your correspondence downstairs to make the last postal collection. I thought that these gentlemen would be with you for longer.’ The girl looked quite taken aback.
‘Well they aren’t. So please see them out. Gentlemen.’ He nodded curtly and went back into his room, not quite slamming the door behind him.
The secretary passed over our coats and Church’s hat. ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen, I apologise for the delay.’
‘No apology necessary,’ I said supportively and shrugged on my coat. ‘I expect Sir Anthony was just worried about missing his call.’
‘His call?’ the girl looked blank for a moment then recovered herself. ‘His call, of course, one of the governors has asked to speak to him. Well,’ she said, trying for and almost managing a bright smile, ‘thank you, gentlemen, I’m sure that Sir Anthony will be in touch if he wants to follow up with you.’ I had had enough experience of NCOs suddenly fabricating pretexts for discrepancies during my time in Canada, sometimes on my behalf, to recognise it when I saw it. Catching Church’s eye, I saw that he was thinking along similar lines.
I thanked her and asked her to pass our thanks onto Sir Anthony. All smiles and casual conclusion, we headed back down the corridor and pushed the button for the lift.
‘Interesting,’ Church said softly, as he looked at the indicator above the door climb its way to three.
‘Most,’ I replied.
‘All smiles until you mentioned the Ripper.’
‘Wasn’t he, though?’
‘And he’d seen that version of the photo before.’
‘Yes he had,’ I agreed.
Church made a short, thoughtful noise. ‘I think I’ll ask Patience to run the good doctor’s cards.’
We stood in silence as the lift arrived, chimed its bell and opened its doors. We both got in and I pushed the ‘G’ button. I turned to Church. ‘How does that goose seem to you now?’
‘Not so wild,’ said Church.
The lift moved downwards smoothly, stopping gently and letting us out at the ground floor. We retraced our steps to the reception where the same woman was still working steadily at her labours. We thanked her with a smile, signed our names again and left.
After the warmth of the hospital the street felt even colder than it had done earlier and I hunched into my coat again as we walked back to the cab. The driver materialised from behind it and sprang up into his seat as we got there, bringing the engine back to life as we clambered inside.
‘Euston,’ Church shouted up through the hatch once we were in. ‘And I’ll give you a note for Green.’
‘Aye, sir,’ came the shout back from our driver.
Church pulled a small leather notebook and pencil from inside his jacket and wrote quickly on it. ‘I’ll tell Patience to get to work. Anything else?’ He looked over at me.
I thought for a moment. ‘Yes. Tell Green that the doctor’s assistant, Milly, should become her new best friend. And ask both of them to find out why he has a painting of a Venetian square on his office wall.’
‘Venetian?’
‘Yes it didn’t look like San Marco; one of the smaller ones, San Lorenzo perhaps?’ I said.
Church finished writing the note, folding it and, opening the hatch, passed it up to the driver. ‘Make sure Green gets this,’ he said.
‘Aye, sir.’
Church closed the hatch again and sat back in his seat. He breathed out, took his hat off, rubbed a thick-knuckled hand over his close-shaven head.
‘Good work for a first-timer,’ said Church.
‘Thank you, Church,’ I said. ‘It seems that that not being shot at, imprisoned or dragged along a riverbed immeasurably improves my mental acuity.’
‘It surely does,’ he replied. He looked me over thoughtfully. ‘You let me know if you’re not okay. Understood?’
‘Don’t worry. I’m fine,’ I said. And I realised that I half meant this. I had been so intent on observing the surgeon that, for those moments, everything else had faded from focus. Perhaps, I thought, the role with these Map Room people could be more than a legally expedient refuge. Perhaps, it could help me keep Edgar and the rest of it out of my mind, the way that the sharp end of army life had done.
We sat in silence for a few minutes before I decided to show some willing. ‘What do we know about the chap in Blackpool?’
Church glanced over at me. ‘Not much. Worked in a pharmacy not far from Whitechapel at the time of the murders. Bit of an obsessive. Wrote about a dozen letters to the papers with advice for the police. Suggested that specially chosen constables should dress up as women to act as bait for the Ripper. Arrested for obstruction twice. Ran an on-wire salon for Ripper theorists for a while then, six months or so after the last murder, sold up and left London. Almost nothing since. Patience dug up an address in Blackpool. A boarding house, she says. No wife or family. Seems to have a low but regular income. Nothing unremarkable. But because, apparently, we have nothing better to do, we’re off to bloody Blackpool.’
‘Now then,’ I said, ‘I’m sure it will be a delight. We can see the Tower, take in a show, go for a walk along the pier perhaps?’
He looked at me glumly. ‘The pier? In November? It will be bloody freezing.’
‘Bracing, Church, I think the word that you might be looking for is bracing.’
10. Illuminations
The rain hammered down relentlessly.
It danced on the dull, grey cobblestones and swept ragged shreds of urban flotsam along the gutters. It hissed and spat on the gas lights that burned at the end of the side street we stood in and it drummed down on the borrowed umbrellas of questionable efficacy beneath which Church and I stood, hunched and sodden.
The round, ruddy face of the doorman looked out at us impassively through the small square hatch in the door, a unique source of warmth and light in this narrow street of silent warehouses and boarded up shops. ‘I’m sorry, lads,’ he said, ‘We’re closed. Might be there’s a club somewhere by the Tower.’ He pointed up past us, out of the street to where the Tower was dominating the skyline, its restaurant lit up and its lower frame glowing in the lights from the promenade beneath.
Lightning flashed somewhere out to sea and a slow roll of thunder made its way across the sky. A drip of water made its steady, infuriating way down the back of my neck and past my shirt collar.
‘Look, sunshine,’ said Church, taking a step closer to the door, ‘we’re not tourists that just fell off the train. We’re not here for a polka. We’re here for the club you’re standing in. Now open up and let us in. It’s pissing down out here.’
‘Look lads, it’s like I’ve already told you, we’re not open tonight. That’s just how it is, I’m afraid.’ And with that, he closed the hatch.
Church swore, briefly, coarsely and loudly and turned to look at me.
A crisp, star-filled sky had covered our departure from London but the weather had worsened the further north we had travelled and by the time we got to Blackpool it had been doing, in Church’s words, a pretty fair impression of a monsoon.
We had taken a cab to the hotel, dropped our bags, been loaned umbrellas by a concerned receptionist who did her best to persuade us to stay and sample the delights of the dining room, and headed out. Richardson’s lodgings had been easy enough to find based on the address that Patience had provided and I think, though we didn’t discuss it, that we were both hoping for a short conversation and an early supper. Richardson was out when we called, however, and at first his landlady was adamant she didn’t know where. This changed after a careful explanation from Kenneth Wilkinson of Gadd, Shanks & Pincock of our search for Mr Richardson in connection with a large inheritance. At this the landlady was more than happy to tell us that he was at work, work being a club of some kind. She didn’t know exactly what sort of work. She didn’t know the name of the club. She wasn’t sure where it was
, she had told us, but probably in the same place as all the rest of them. She didn’t know what time Mr Richardson was expected; he had his own key. She hoped we found him and cheerily waved us on our way.
So we had visited the few pubs, bars and clubs that were open on a bleak November evening, starting by the Tower and working our way townwards from there. Still introducing myself as Wilkinson, I showed Richardson’s photo to everyone we talked to, saying we were lawyers sent by his family but no more. As we did, I found that, despite the rain, I was enjoying being Agent Sterling and sleuthing around the grimier alleys of Blackpool’s seafront. I was warming to Church and I think that the reverse was also true and it seemed that we were slowly building a working camaraderie, albeit one that wasn’t turning into results.
We cajoled, smiled and, in Church’s case, looked silently menacing, but were none the wiser and about to call an end to the evening when we had a small stroke of luck. In a less salubrious club, a few streets in from the seafront, we encountered a patron who thought he recognised the picture and whose confidence in this identification positively soared with half a crown in his hand. Richardson, he told us, could be found working in a club not far from the one we were in.
‘What’s it called?’ Church had asked.
The man hesitated but on being prompted by Church proffered the name: The Filthy Lanes. It was French, he had added by way of an explanation. I hadn’t had the heart to contradict him and I puzzled at what the original words might have been as we continued on our rain-soaked tour of Blackpool’s nightlife. After a quarter of an hour or so we had found the place he’d directed us to, in a short street of dark and shuttered shops and storehouses. And so here we were, standing in the rain, in front of what looked like the stage door of an old music hall, attempting to argue our way past a particularly intransigent doorman.