“It were, sir. There’s a window on the other side, near to the dustbin, that’s got a broken pane. That’s how my man were able to look inside, bu’ we had ta break the door in ta get into the room. We ain’t touched nothin’ nor gone in.”
“Have you no key, Mr. McCarthy? Surely, as landlord, you possess keys to all your properties. Could you not use it?”
McCarthy’s rough cheeks tinged with pink. “I lost it, sir. Mary ‘ad the only copy.”
“Good heavens, man, you could have made another from hers, could you not? Never mind, we’ll discuss it at length later—at Leman Street.”
“Ain’t we ta wait fer them bloodhounds, Superintendent?” a young constable enquired. “Commissioner’s orders.”
“The commissioner’s orders are null and void as of this moment, Constable. Neither he nor the dogs will be forthcoming. If you take exception with my orders, you may write to Scotland Yard and complain.”
“I do not, sir,” the youth answered, gulping.
“A wise decision,” Sinclair said as he stepped through the open doorway. The pickaxe had splintered through six layers of peeling paint, and the marquess moved cautiously, avoiding the dull rainbow of debris as he passed into the chilly room. Despite the cold, several flies had discovered the gore in number 13, and one flew past his ear as Charles crossed the floor. “We’ll need some kind of temporary walkway; otherwise, we’ll be leaving our own bloody footmarks all over. I prefer to inspect those left by our killer. Inspector Reid, no one is to come in yet. France, see if you might find a scrap of lumber or old carpet.”
Superintendent Thomas Arnold had just arrived, and the portly, uniformed policeman peered into the room from outside the doorway. “Charles?”
“Hello, Tom,” the marquess answered. “I hope I’m not intruding into your domain.”
“Not at all. Scotland Yard is always welcome in Whitechapel, but I thought we were to wait for Warren and the bloodhounds. His standing order is that no investigation commences before his arrival.”
“You’ll be waiting a long time, if you do that, Superintendent,” Sinclair answered, his eyes memorising every detail in the cramped space. “Warren’s resignation was accepted by the Home Secretary last evening. I expect James Monro is already decorating his new office over at Whitehall. For now, I am senior investigator. Is that clear?”
“It is,” Arnold answered, relieved to hear it. “My men are yours to command, Lord Haimsbury.”
Charles now stood beside the bed, where the remains of Mary Kelly lay. “It’s nearly identical to the Lyceum,” he told Reid, who watched from the doorway. “Like there, the killer or killers have displayed some of the excised tissue and organs around the victim’s body. Do we have a name for this poor woman?”
“It’s Mary Jane Kelly, sir,” McCarthy said, a cotton handkerchief to his face. “She was behind in her rent.”
“You will never collect it now,” Sinclair answered soberly. “Superintendent Arnold, ask your men to start making a list of everyone who was resident last night—anywhere within earshot. I want to know this poor woman’s every action from yesterday: where she went, whom she saw, what she did. Also I’ll need the name of all her visitors during the previous fortnight. If she has relatives or close friends in the crowd, ask them to wait in Mr. McCarthy’s shop.”
“Right away, sir,” the police superintendent replied before turning and issuing commands to his uniformed men.
Edmund Reid remained outside. “Can you tell if the kidney left at your home is from this woman?”
Charles wished the earl had come with them, for Paul’s knowledge of medicine and anatomy would prove most useful now. “No, not yet. This is monstrous! She’s been carved like a game hen, Edmund. One thigh is nothing but bone, and her internal organs have all been removed, as if she’d been hollowed out for stuffing. The viscera lie scattered all about the body. We’ll want Sunders or another surgeon here as soon as possible. Also, we’ll require a trusted photographer. For the present, who has a pencil and paper?”
Nearly every policeman’s hand went up, and Charles motioned towards Antram. “Constable, how accurately can you depict a scene? With a drawing, I mean.”
Reid answered. “He’s very good, Charles. Do you want him inside?”
“Yes.”
A lean young man in a neatly pressed uniform with brass buttons joined Reid at the threshold. “Superintendent?”
“Come in, Antram, but step carefully. Try not to leave too many footmarks,” he told the policeman. “I want everything diagrammed as to its precise location in the room. Begin by drawing the body as it lies upon the cot, and then add details as we discover them.”
The lad sketched out a rectangle, which he labeled with the address, date, and victim’s name. He also added Sinclair’s name as chief investigator. “Ready, sir.”
Charles moved closer to the bed, careful to avoid altering any evidence. “Do you take stenography?”
“I do, sir.”
“Good, write as I speak. Make drawings as you can. The victim is lying prone, eyes open. These are blue in colour. Her upper torso is flat against the mattress, shoulders even, the head turned towards her left. She is dressed only in a chemise. There is no obvious sign of other clothing. Her legs are splayed, positioned approximately two feet apart, knees flexed, angled in opposing directions outward. The neck tissue has been thoroughly excised down to the bone. The abdominal wall is cut through, commencing at the breastbone and extending to the pubis. The gastric cavity has been excavated; all organs removed.” Charles donned leather gloves and gazed into the vacant eyes. “She must have been lovely in life. We should see if we can find someone with a photograph of her. What is this?” he asked as he lifted Kelly’s head several inches to look at the pillow. “Sketch this if you can, Constable. The killer’s left bits of her beneath the head, obscured by the hair. I see what might be an intact uterus and one breast. Why do this? Is it meant as a message? I count two kidneys, also, beneath the hair; both intact,” he added, looking up at Reid. “This rules out the one sent to me as being relevant to this case.”
“The Victoria murders, perhaps,” Reid suggested. “It may not be human, Charles. Sunders will be able to tell us when he examines it later today.”
“Yes, all right,” Sinclair answered, sighing. “The room is painted in blood, though not equally so. There is a large flap of skin and associated tissue, possibly from the abdomen, lying upon a nearby table. Mark the location on your diagram, Constable. The other breast has been positioned beside the right foot. Is that a liver? There betwixt her feet?” he asked as a most welcome face appeared at the door.
“I got here as soon as Granger’s driving could get us through the maddening traffic,” Aubrey told his cousin. “Good heavens! Did one man do all this?”
“We don’t know yet,” Sinclair replied. “Come in, Paul, but mind where you walk. The floor’s covered in blood and tissue. See there, by her feet? Is that a liver?”
“Part of one,” the earl answered. “This is monstrous. James told me how it is you came to learn about the murder. Are both kidneys present?”
“So it seems. We’ll have to examine the one sent to me later. I left it in Reid’s dead room. What do you make of the scene?”
The earl stood still, examining the room carefully, then turned as he made sense of the various clues. “Her throat was slashed first. You can see the arc of arterial blood along this wall, just to the left of the bed. See the large pool, here, near her foot? That’s probably from the initial cut, which means she was deliberately posed. Moved by the killer or killers and displayed as we see her now. Charles, help me to turn her, if you don’t mind.”
Using their gloved hands, the two men gently moved Kelly’s body towards her left side. “Yes, you can see more blood beneath her. I doubt that she was conscious when she was killed.”
“Why do you say that?�
� Reid asked as Antram continued with his drawing.
“No defensive wounds on her hands and arms, though the carving makes it tricky to determine for certain. There is a small wound on her right thumb, but not where one would expect if she were trying to defend herself against an attacker. Poor woman. What’s her name?”
“Mary Kelly, or so I’m told,” Sinclair answered. “She looks no more than mid-twenties, I’d say. I’m told she was quite pretty in life. Tall. Fair complexion. Large blue eyes. Lovely blonde hair.”
All colour suddenly drained from Sinclair’s face, and the detective rushed out of the cramped room, emerging into the courtyard. The crisp November air clouded with vapour as he took deep breaths, his back bent whilst he grasped his knees.
“Steady on, Cousin,” Aubrey said as he joined Charles outside. “Perhaps, this is too much for you just now, with all that’s happened. I’m told you had very little sleep, and that you had a bit of a spell last night.”
“The note, Paul. Saucy Jack’s second note. He referenced a former crime from long before. How did it go again? That ‘she of the pretty blonde hair had pleased him once and would again’? Good heavens, he’d already selected Kelly as his next victim, when he wrote that! Don’t you see it? This poor girl bears a striking resemblance to Patricia Stuart!”
“No, surely not,” the earl argued. Then as he considered it further, his own face paled. “Nothing more is to be said of this. Not here,” he warned his cousin and Reid. “And certainly nowhere within Beth’s hearing. Charles, why don’t you go home? I can stay, if you wish and help Reid.”
“No, I’ll remain,” he said, regaining composure. Thomas Sunders arrived in company with Dr. Thomas Bond from A-Division.
“Hello, Superintendent. Lord Aubrey,” the amiable Scottish surgeon said as he approached the two cousins. “I’m sure you both know Dr. Bond. He’s with Mr. Dunlap’s division.”
“Yes, hello, Bond,” Sinclair said, his breathing slowing. “This one is particularly vicious. I think you can go in now, if you wish. I’ve had a constable named Antram making sketches of the scene. He has a strong stomach. I think he’ll make an admirable assistant.”
“That is always a blessing,” Sunders replied. “You’re a bit green, if I may say so, Lord Haimsbury. Is it that bad?”
“It is that bad,” the earl answered for his cousin. “The room’s quite narrow, Sunders. Be careful as you walk. We’d not want to obscure any footmarks left by the killer.” Aubrey stood still, but then his head turned towards the open doorway. “Footmarks. Footmarks! Charles, when you entered, were there any tracks upon the floor?”
Sinclair shook his head. “None. Only blood and tissue. No prints of any kind,” he whispered, pulling his cousin towards the chandler’s shop, away from the crowd. “How can that be? How can such a crime be committed, so much blood expelled without even one stray mark within that blood? But more to the point, how did the killer escape a locked room?”
“It was locked?”
“It was. The chandler had to break it open to admit the police.”
Aubrey swatted at a fly. “I hate mysteries like this. Look, Charles, let’s go back to my coach to speak of this. Granger’s keeping watch on it. It’s parked behind your marias.”
The two men left the area, and as they passed through the narrow opening that led past McCarthy’s shop, they noticed a slender man in formal dress—completely out of place in such a neighbourhood. “Did that man come with you?” Sinclair asked the earl.
“No, I came alone,” Aubrey answered, glancing at the well-dressed gentleman. “He seems familiar, though. Most likely a west-ender looking for a cheap thrill. With the procession today, most of the banks declared a holiday. The sad truth is that some of our class enjoy touring the east, so it’s possible this fellow heard of the crime and hopes to sate his unsavoury appetite for titillation.”
Charles shook his head. “Or he is a unprincipled reporter, thinking to wear the guise of a slum tourist. Hello, Michael. That’s a rather splendid suit. Did you steal it?”
“I find your insinuation insulting, Superintendent. My attire is my own.”
“Is it now?” Sinclair asked, crossing to the lurker. “Just how did you hear about this crime? Did your Whitehall advocate whisper into your ear? Do not think yourself immune to police justice this time, Mr. O’Brien.”
The reporter turned to leave, but Aubrey grasped his collar and spun him about on his heel. “Oh, no, old chum. You and I have unfinished business.”
The earl used both hands to pat along the reporter’s pockets, and the slightly built man objected. “Now, now, Lord Aubrey! I’m really not that sort of fellow!”
Paul held up a long knife, which he’d discovered in O’Brien’s left jacket pocket. “I’ve seen gamekeepers use knives like this to skin rabbits and foxes. A strange item to keep in such a fine suit. What employment do you have for such a weapon?”
The reporter reached out, trying to retrieve the knife.
“Oh, no,” the earl warned him. “This joins other evidence at Leman Street.”
Sinclair called to one of the constables keeping watch on the waiting marias. “You there! We’ve a suspect who requires a comfortable ride back to Leman Street. Here you are, Mr. O’Brien. It’s a banner day for you, it seems. You’ll get to enjoy our hospitable accommodations once more. This time, however, it’s likely you’ll be remanded for arraignment. I’ll have our sergeant send someone to pack a bag, if you like. How many socks does one need whilst awaiting the rope, I wonder?”
“Now, now, Superintendent,” O’Brien began, his voice low but calm. “You proceed from a complete misapprehension! I merely came here to obtain eyewitness testimony for The Star’s next edition. I’d been overnighting with a friend following an evening’s entertainment at the Cambridge, and I happened to be walking past when the commotion arose.”
“You may tell us all about it once we’ve made you comfortable,” Sinclair argued. “Constable, see to it that this hack is booked into one of our lower-level cells. He has a nasty skin condition which requires he spend many hours in dark, dank rooms. If we have any spare rats, I’m sure he’d appreciate the company.”
The young policeman helped the reporter to mount the steep wooden steps that led into the maria’s interior, and in a moment, the wagon departed for Leman Street.
Reid appeared at the two cousins’ elbows. “Did I see you arrest someone, Charles?”
“Our old friend, Michael O’Brien. Abberline will be quite pleased, I imagine. The reporter claimed his presence mere serendipity, but I suspect someone tipped him off. You know, Paul, I think I will go back to Westminster, but you needn’t stay. Reid can take charge. Do you mind, Edmund?”
“Not at all. I’ve sent for Abberline. I’m certain he’ll make haste, and Sunders is a thorough man. With him to guide Bond’s eye for observation, we’re assured of accurate assessments of the woman’s wounds. France’s men have begun a survey of everyone living nearby and assemble the woman’s history. I heard a neighbour mention that Kelly has a common-law husband named Joseph Barnett. I’ve asked France to find out all he can on the man.”
Sinclair smiled. “You’re thorough as always. I want you to speak with Henry Irving at the Lyceum regarding a man he recently dismissed named Parker. The man’s been sporting a long knife and bragging about being Ripper. It’s probably nothing, but I’d like to eliminate him as a suspect. Oh, and Edmund, as you’ll be tied up the remainder of the day, would you ask France to attend the circle meeting with you tomorrow rather than drop by tonight? We hope to begin at one, barring anything unforeseen.”
Inspector Reid followed his friends to the Branham coach, parked behind the remaining maria. “Yes, I’ll tell him, and I’ll be sure to send your other coach back to Westminster, once I return to Leman Street. Shall I assign someone to question O’Brien?”
“No, let hi
m stew a bit. He’ll keep until you and Fred have finished here. I doubt that I can return today, Ed,” Sinclair answered. “I’ve a nagging thrumming at the back of my mind that needs tending. I suspect the answer lies with Mr. Baxter at Branham Hall, so I might take the earl’s train to Kent this afternoon. See you tomorrow.”
The cousins left the area and entered the Branham coach, sitting opposite one another. Granger called to the horses, and the matched pair headed away from the narrow lane. Knots of curious citizenry had gathered near Christ Church, most still discussing the lord mayor’s parade and the planned meat tea to be served later that day at Charrington Mission. A few had learnt about the horrific murder near Dorset, and rumours that a slightly built toff had been arrested spread like wildfire amongst the gossipers. By four that afternoon, most in Spitalfields believed Jack had indeed been caught, a mistaken impression which brought temporary peace to many, but also aided the police in their efforts.
Paul sighed as the coach passed the church. “That place always brings back troubling memories. I can still see Beth’s little face when I arrived in your station house, Charles. All those years ago. You said you hoped to speak to Baxter. What about?”
“It’s because of that little face that I go, Paul. I want to learn more about Beth’s childhood terrors, and I believe our butler can offer insight. And I want to bring back Bella. I’d feel better if we had something with keener vision than mine inside her bedroom at night.”
“You’re bringing Beth’s Labrador back with you? Why? What happened during my absence?” he asked.
“William Trent paid a call on us last night. Didn’t the duke tell you?”
“No. He never mentioned Trent. James said you had an incident, and that Marchand saw someone climbing into the house, but little beyond that. This morning, I left early to speak with Morgan—long story, but she’s flown the coop. I should have known she’d refuse my help.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I spoke with her last night at the Egyptian about MacKey. In fact, Lorena had also fled by the time I reached the Langham. That’s where Susanna insisted our doctor had holed up. Now, I wonder if any of it was true. Morgan convinced me that she wanted to leave Redwing, and I foolishly put her up at a hotel I own. When I returned this morning to look in, she’d gone. The man I left to keep watch on her, said she’d departed sometime during the night.”
The Blood Is the Life Page 12