Lost In Time

by W M Wiltshire

  “Inspector Spratling will not like our involvement, but it can’t be helped,” Rich groaned. “Continue, Frank.”

  * * *

  When the police wagon pulled up to the crime scene, Rich noticed a large crowd had already gathered. He jumped down from the wagon and walked directly over to Spratling to get a progress report. “What the hell are you doing here, Case? This is my jurisdiction,” Spratling barked.

  “It would appear that my station is involved, too; so you’ll just have to share,” Rich said dryly.

  Inspector John Spratling had joined the Metropolitan Police in 1870. He was a keen-eyed man, or so his subordinates believed, with ivory grey hair and beard.

  Spratling grumbled something Rich didn’t quite catch; however, Spratling was not happy with the situation. Even though Spratling had moved up through the ranks quickly, he was only half the inspector that Rich was and everyone knew it, especially Spratling. Rich had bested him on a number of occasions, which, of course, only intensified Spratling’s burning resentment: like gasoline tossed on a flame. This animosity did not bode well for a productive working relationship.

  Spratling spotted a fresh recruit studying the ground where the blood had already been washed away. Fool, he thought. “You, come here!” he snapped.

  Daric walked to Spratling. “Who are you?” the inspector growled

  Daric had to think quickly. He didn’t want the inspector to make any connection between him and Rich. He replied, “Constable Cartwright, Inspector.”

  “Well, Cartwright, make yourself useful. Go search the neighbourhood and don’t forget to check the walls, the yards, and the adjoining railway.”

  “Aye, sir,” Daric replied, and made a hasty exit.

  Rich had been within earshot of the exchange and was impressed at how quickly Daric could think on his feet. Good lad.

  122

  Having suffered Spratling’s ill temperament for the past hour, Rich, Daric and Frank headed to the mortuary to view the body and its belongings for any clues.

  When they entered the Whitechapel Workhouse Mortuary, a private ‘dead house’ for workhouse inmates, they saw Dr. Llewellyn hunched over the body.

  Dr. Rees Ralph Llewellyn was a rather large man standing six-feet tall. His black hair was slicked back with perfumed macassar oil, and he was sporting a handlebar mustache and goatee.

  “Where are her clothes?” Rich asked, walking up to the body laid out on a raised wooden table.

  “I’m afraid, Inspector, that the two buffoons who work here removed them, before I started my examination. They tossed them into a pile in the yard, along with all the other discarded clothing from the workhouse,” Llewellyn stated brusquely, without looking up from his work.

  Frank and Daric had followed Rich over to the examination table. On viewing the body, Daric let out a gasp.

  “I know, hard to swallow, isn’t it?” Frank teased. He recalled his first experience with a corpse; ‘he had tossed his cookies’, as a fellow officer had put it.

  “No, that’s Polly,” Daric blurted out.

  “You know her?” Rich asked astounded.

  “Yes. She was at the Frying Pan pub last night,” Daric explained. He felt terrible for Polly. She had seemed like a nice lady. As Rich had said, an unfortunate trying to survive as best she could. And now this: what a shame.

  “Do you know her last name?” Rich asked hopefully. “Half the battle is trying to determine who the victim is.”

  “No; I know her only as Polly,” Daric said sadly. He excused himself and walked out the back door.

  “Poor lad, can’t stomach the sight, I reckon,” Frank said.

  “Doctor, can you tell me what you’ve found?” Rich asked, ignoring Frank’s comment.

  * * *

  Daric hadn’t left the room because of the body. He had left because the doctor had said Polly’s clothes were out in the back yard and Daric wanted to do a little investigating on his own. He knew what Polly had been wearing the night before and realized it would be relatively easy for him to identify which clothes were hers. Daric also recognized they might hold a clue that could help with the investigation. In addition, he knew there were no guarantees about how long the clothes would be accessible before they were either destroyed or recycled for use by another inmate.

  123

  After gathering from Dr. Llewellyn as much information as was currently available, Rich showed Dr. Llewellyn a knife. It was the one he had picked up a few nights ago, the one that had been lying beside Dani’s motionless body.

  “Doctor, could a knife like this one be similar to the murder weapon?”

  Dr. Llewellyn took the knife from the inspector and examined its shape, hilt, length, and sharpness. “I’d say most certainly.”

  “Thanks, Doctor.”

  Rich, Frank and Daric left the morgue and returned to the crime scene. They wanted to perform one final search of the area before the day’s traffic obliterated any evidence that might still remain.

  While Frank and Daric examined the ground where the body had been found, Rich looked at all the surrounding windows. He noticed that all the curtains were drawn shut. He reached into his front trouser pocket and extracted a few coins. Looking up at the windows of the terraced houses, he tossed the coins into the air. Gravity pulled them back to the damp cobblestone street. Within seconds, several window curtains were thrown open. The occupants anxiously scanned for the treasures that produced that oh so familiar sound. As soon as they caught sight of the inspector, they quickly retreated into the sanctuary of their homes.

  “It astounds me,” Rich muttered.

  “What?” Frank asked, standing up from his search of the gutter.

  “It astounds me that these people can hear a few coins dropping, but no one heard anything during Polly’s murder.” Rich sighed in disbelief.

  Frank pulled out his notebook and scanned it until he found what he was looking for. “It says here that Constable Neil talked to Mr. Walter Purkiss, the manager of Essex Wharf, right over there,” Frank said pointing to a third-storey bedroom window of Mr. Purkiss. “Purkiss said he heard nothing unusual. Even his wife, who had been pacing up and down in their bedroom, heard nothing. And Mrs. Emma Green,” Frank said, pointing across the street, “who lives right next to where the body was found and who professes to be a light sleeper, said she didn’t wake up until the police arrived early this morning.”

  A man was standing at the far end of the Board School. He was wearing a long coat, hat and was carrying a bag. And he was staring in their direction. The fact that he wasn’t continuing on his way caught the inspector’s attention.

  “Excuse me, sir, could I have a moment?” the inspector shouted as he made his way quickly–but not too quickly–down the street; he didn’t want to frighten or alarm the stranger.

  “What can I do for you, Inspector?” the stranger asked. He was roughly five-foot-six. He had a mustache the color of maple sugar and a muscular build and was about twenty-seven years old, give or take. He wore a dark colored Inverness coat and a deerstalker hat similar to that worn by Sherlock Holmes. In his right hand he carried a Gladstone bag; in the left, the latest edition of The Star newspaper.

  “Do you live around here?” Rich began his inquiry.

  “No, I live over on Fashion Street,” the stranger replied cordially.

  “What are you doing in this neighborhood?” Rich questioned, suspicious.

  “I’m just returning home after visiting my mother at the hospital. I took the Wood’s Buildings as a shortcut to Old Montague Street.” The stranger’s answer was calm and coldly efficient.

  “Thank you. Sorry to have interrupted your journey,” Rich said conversationally.

  “Think nothing of it,” the stranger replied. He then turned and continued on his way. Rich thought it odd that the man hadn’t even ask
ed what all the commotion was all about. Human beings are curious by nature. It would have been the logical reaction to the situation. Rich turned around, hoping to get an answer, but he was staring down an empty street. The man had simply vanished like a ghost.

  “Rich,” Daric called, bringing the inspector back to the matters at hand.

  “Yes, Daric, what is it?” Rich was still thinking about his encounter with the stranger.

  “When I was examining the ground where the body was found, I noticed a gutter close by. I presumed that’s where all the blood was washed away. But I also notice that the grate hasn’t been opened recently.”

  “So?” Frank said haughtily.

  “So, the murderer couldn’t have used the sewage tunnels as an escape route. He would have had to walk along the streets, probably right past the police,” Daric retorted.

  “All right, you two. I know we’re all tired, but . . . ” Rich was interrupted.

  “Rich, Dr. Llewellyn told you he believed the body had been dumped here, and that this wasn’t the murder site,” Daric pressed on. He was anxious to share what he had discovered.

  “That’s right. He said there wasn’t enough blood here for the number and severity of wounds that Polly sustained.”

  “It’s unfortunate that Mrs. Green’s son washed away the evidence before we could see it for ourselves,” Frank added.

  “Constable Thain told me that his hands were covered in blood after he and Constable Neil placed the body onto the ambulance,” Daric continued. It was really nothing more than a handcart, Daric thought. “And he also mentioned that Dr. Llewellyn never turned the body over during his initial examination.”

  “What are you getting at?” Frank groaned, not following Daric’s line of thinking, and besides, his feet were sore.

  “What I’m saying is this: I believe this is the actual murder site.”

  “How did you come to that conclusion?” Rich asked skeptically.

  “At the morgue, I went out back to look at Polly’s clothing. I knew what she was wearing the night before, so it was easy to find her clothes. They were literally dripping with blood as if all her blood had soaked into her clothing. This would explain why there was so little blood at the crime scene. It would also explain why there was so much blood on the constables’ hands after they picked her up,” Daric said confidently.

  “Brilliant.” Rich beamed.

  * * *

  The stranger had simply melted into the shadows. He was getting very good at doing so. That was too close, he thought. He had returned to the scene, thinking everyone would have already gone. Luckily, I had a story made up or that bumbling bobby could have been a real problem. He unrolled his newspaper and reread the headline:

  A REVOLTING MURDER.

  ANOTHER WOMAN FOUND HORRIBLY MUTILATED IN WHITECHAPEL. GHASTLY CRIME BY A MANIAC.

  124: Saturday, September 1, 1888

  “How can the inquest have started already? The murder happened only yesterday. We haven’t gathered all the evidence yet,” Rich bellowed.

  Rich and Daric had arrived at the Commercial Street station early that morning; there was a lot to do.

  “Sorry, Inspector, but it’s what Superintendent Arnold requested,” Constable Barrett replied uncomfortably. “He said he wanted the case resolved swiftly.”

  “We just identified the victim last night!” Rich protested. His fight was with Arnold and Spratling, not with his staff. “Never mind, I’ll handle it.” He stormed off to his office. Turning, he shouted, “Daric, follow me.”

  Daric dropped the newspaper he had been reading and followed Rich into his office. “Close the door,” Rich ordered, pulling out his chair and plopping down unceremoniously. Daric took the seat in front of the desk and sat patiently, waiting for Rich to gather his thoughts.

  The office had a large wooden desk. The surface had inlaid forest-green leather. Two straight-back wooden visitor chairs were in front of the desk. In the left back corner of the office was a large filing cabinet. To the right of the cabinet and covering the majority of the remaining wall was a corkboard. It was covered with roughly scribbled notes, poor-quality black and white photographs, and maps. Some were hand-drawn; others were from city files. Daric was looking at Rich’s evidence board.

  Daric took a closer look, paying attention to one map in particular. There was a date and time etched on the corner: August 7, 1888, 4:45 A.M. There was an ‘x’ by George Yard Buildings. He recognized some of the street names: Osborn, Old Montague, Whitechapel . . .

  Why does that sound so familiar? he wondered.

  Turning back to the map after being momentarily distracted, Daric recognized Brick Lane, Thrawl Street . . . Hey, that’s where the Frying Pan pub is located.

  “Daric, I’d like you to keep working at the pub. I want you to keep your eyes and ears open for anything out of place,” Rich instructed.

  Daric found this request almost laughable if the situation hadn’t been so dire. As far as he was concerned, everything was out of place. And out of time, too, for that matter.

  “Okay. I’m sure Mr. Farrow will enjoy my free labor,” Daric said. “What am I looking for?

  “Look for any unusual behavior. The best way to spot it is to watch the regular patrons. If someone they don’t recognize comes into the pub, you should be able to pick it up from their expressions. You’ll know by their puzzled or suspicious glares.”

  “Okay. What else?” Daric asked keenly. He was enjoying this detective stuff. He was also eager to be of some value to Rich. It was the least he could do.

  “Try to take note of names and places you hear,” Rich said, pulling a small notepad out of the top drawer of the desk and sliding it across the desk.

  A knock came at the door. Before Rich could react, it opened and Frank walked in, shaking his brolly. “It’s a frog strangler out there,” Frank moaned.

  “A what?” Daric questioned warily.

  “A frog strangler. It’s raining so hard that even water-loving frogs have trouble breathing in it.”

  Daric looked over at Rich, who just shrugged his shoulders.

  “Bates said he ran into a bit of trouble this morning,” Frank started, as he divested himself of his wet coat.

  “What kind of trouble?” Concern was evident in Rich’s tone.

  “He ran into that Squibby character again. Only this time, he threatened Bates. Told him he would ‘do for him’ if Bates interfered again. Then Squibby picked up a stone and threw it at Bates. He missed Bates and hit a little girl instead. Bates took off after Squibby, but he got away,” Frank said dejectedly.

  “We’ll find him. Tell the others to keep an eye out for Squibby and make sure you give all of them his description,” Rich instructed, getting up and putting on his coat.

  “Where are you off to?” Frank asked.

  “I’m taking Daric to the Frying Pan pub. He’ll be our eyes and ears over there for a while. And then I’m going to pay Superintendent Arnold a visit, to see if I can get the inquest delayed.”

  “The inquest started already? We just found out who the victim was!” Frank protested.

  “If you’d been here earlier,” Rich chastised, “you would have heard all about it. Come on, Daric.” And with that, Rich and Daric left the office and the station, venturing out into the frog-strangling downpour Frank had recently taken refuge from.

  125: Sunday, September 2, 1888

  “Are you sure you’re up to this?” Mary asked for the third time that morning.

  “Yes, I’m sure, Mary. I feel fine; great actually,” Dani replied encouragingly.

  “If, you’re sure.”

  “I am.”

  The carriage stopped in front of the London Hospital. Mary instructed the driver to return at six o’clock for their trip home.

  “You’re sure?” Mary checked one
last time.

  “Will you stop, already? Let’s go in.”

  Mary took Dani to the nurses’ room and found a uniform for her to wear. It was the same as Mary’s: an ankle-length deep-blue chambray dress with white collar and cuffs, a white-on-white striped apron and a starched buckram cap. Mary pulled out a pink arm band and fastened it around Dani’s left bicep. “This shows the staff that you are a fresh new nurse,” Mary explained. Mary was wearing her black teacher’s arm band.

  “Great,” Dani mumbled, feeling inferior.

  “Look at it this way: when they see this band, they won’t be asking you to do anything too difficult.” Mary’s hazel eyes filled with laughter.

  “You stick with me and I’ll explain everything you need to know. And if you like it here, we might even get you on staff, full-time.”

  “Lead the way,” Dani said eagerly.

  * * *

  Dani’s day at the hospital had been quite the learning experience. She had spent most of her day watching Mary work. She was very impressed with Mary’s efficiency. At the same time, the archaic medical practices appalled her.

  For example, earlier in the day, Mary had intercepted a request at the front desk for Dr. Treves. She told the receptionist she would deliver the message personally because she knew the doctor was in surgery.

  Dani followed Mary to the surgery wing. Having found the right room, Mary knocked on the door. “Come in,” called a voice from inside. Mary knew it to be Dr. Treves’s. She opened the door and stuck her head in.

  “Dr. Treves, Inspector Abberline, from Scotland Yard, is here to see you. I told him you were in surgery.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Case. Tell him I’ll be out shortly,” Dr. Treves replied while cauterizing a blood vessel. Dani was standing directly behind Mary throughout this short exchange and couldn’t believe what she was seeing.