* * *
Sent to the Central News Service, 5 Oct. 1888
Dear Friend
In the name of God hear me I swear I did not kill the female whose body was found at Whitehall. If she was an honest woman I will hunt down and destroy her murderer. If she was a whore God will bless the hand that slew her, for the women of Moab and Midian shall die and their blood shall mingle with the dust. I never harm any others or the Divine power that protects and helps me in my grand work would quit for ever. Do as I do and light of glory shall shine upon you. I must get to work tomorrow treble event this time yes three must be ripped. Will send you a bit of face by post I promise this dear old Boss. The police now reckon my work a practical joke well well Jacky’s a very practical joker ha ha keep this back till three are wiped out and you can show the cold meat.
Yours truly
Jack the Ripper
11
London. October, 1888
Inspector Moore
‘I see your lot have been busy over at Whitehall today,’ Waring said, paying the waiter for their two tankards of beer. ‘More police officers than should have been in that building for quite some time, eh?’ Moore took a swallow and said nothing, but he watched the slim man carefully as he laughed at his own poor joke.
It had come as no great surprise to Henry Moore that Jasper Waring had wanted to meet him in a Whitechapel public house. The police were three days into their search of the area – a public relations act, more than with any real hope of catching their killer – and reporters were swarming the area eager for any tidbits of salacious gossip, anything they could print about any of the unfortunate women – about their pasts or those who knew them. The public was greedy for as much information as they could get; whether it was truthful or not was apparently irrelevant. Jack and his murders had proved, if such proof were needed, that there was a palpable excitement in fear. The newspapers were doing a roaring trade, and of course Jasper Waring would want to be at the heart of that.
Moore had to admit that Waring was smarter than most. He certainly had a nose for a story, and while he was no doubt relishing Jack’s antics as much as the rest of his breed, Waring was a man who would always be looking for something he could claim for his own. ‘Jack’, whoever he might be, was the whole of London’s business, and there were newspapermen better connected with the police than he who would get any information first. Not that there was much danger of that.
‘Those bloodhounds turn anything up?’ Waring’s eyes were sharp, but still Moore said nothing as he downed half his beer. The newsman would be paying for their drinks; that was always the unspoken agreement, and he intended to make the added time on his working day worthwhile. He was tired, and it had been a cold and frustrating day of supervising the policemen and dogs as they searched the Scotland Yard building site for more – or any – of the dead woman’s body parts. Their hunt had been as fruitless as the more high-profile one going on throughout the streets of Whitechapel, and eventually Moore had admitted defeat and sent the team, including Andrews, home to warm up.
‘Not like Jack, this boy, is he?’ Waring smiled, his expression a mix of wry and cheeky. Moore wasn’t sure he liked the young reporter, but he did respect him, and they had been useful to each other in the past; if that had not been the case he would have just gone home. God only knew he could do with the sleep. He needed eight hours straight a night and of late he’d been lucky to get five or six before having to drag himself out of the depths of his slumber to head back to Division to trawl through yet more false leads.
As it was, now that he was here, the sheer force of life that filled the Princess Alice on the corner of Commercial Street was refreshing him. Much of the laughter was fuelled by drink, and much of the drink was fuelled by hardship, but at least there was some laughter. Londoners were strange folk, he had concluded a long time ago, never more alive than when in the presence of death. The food stands which had sprung up at the murder sites, the street theatres recreating the tableaux of the unfortunate women’s deaths: entertainment crafted by the grip of terror. Was it too much, perhaps, he wondered as he looked at the glazed eyes and flushed faces of those who filled the surrounding tables. There was something amiss in the people of the city, even he could sense that: a hysteria maybe. There had been too much violence done on London’s streets this year. It needed to slow down.
‘What makes you think it isn’t Jack?’ he said, finally addressing his companion. Waring wasn’t showing deep insight: the methods of murder were so different that although both were gruesome, they were unlikely to be linked. It was Dr Bond’s opinion that there were two killers at work here, and he was very much inclined to agree.
‘The letter for a start,’ Waring said. ‘“I swear I did not kill the woman found at Whitehall”?’ He obviously noted Moore’s look of displeasure because he laughed slightly as he raised his beer glass. ‘Come, come: it came into the Central News Agency. It was hardly likely to be kept a secret.’
‘We’ve had more than seven hundred such letters arrive, and it’s unlikely any of them are from Jack himself. They simply add to the load of the investigation and my lack of sleep. You’d do best to ignore them,’ he said sternly.
‘It’s my job to make sure they get published, not to hide them.’
‘At least you’re an honest bastard. There is truth in that.’ Moore signalled the waiter for two more drinks.
‘And your lot have hardly been quick to connect them.’
‘There is also truth in that,’ Moore said. ‘Policemen are often politicians too. So what exactly is it you think I can do for you?’
‘It’s not what you can do for me,’ Waring winked. ‘It’s what I can do for you.’ He let out a sharp whistle and turned his head to the door. Various customers glanced down at the floor as something moved between them, causing the odd smile or curse in surprise.
The small terrier came and sat obediently at Waring’s feet. ‘Meet Smoker,’ Waring said. ‘If there’s more of that woman hidden in Whitehall, he’ll find her.’
‘We’ve tried dogs,’ Moore said. ‘As you are no doubt very well aware, I’ve spent my day surrounded by the damned things.’
‘You haven’t tried this dog.’ The waiter hurried over and Waring paid for the drinks. He waited until the man had scurried away again before leaning forward and continuing, ‘If there’s something to be found, he’s the one that will do it.’
Moore stared at him. ‘You want me to let your dog search the Whitehall building?’
‘No,’ Waring shook his head and tipped his glass towards Moore. ‘I want you to let my dog and I search your premises. No find, no story. I give you my word.’
So there it was: the point of the meeting. But to let a reporter and a scruffy terrier into the crime scene? How would that play out back at Division? The bosses would hang him. He looked down at the eager-eyed hound; it appeared to be staring back at him, awaiting his answer. It was a confident eye, he had to give the dog that. How much harm could it do? He and Waring understood each other; the reporter would not make him look inept, no matter what the outcome. He drained his beer. He also knew he didn’t have a huge amount of choice. In their strange relationship of give-and-take it was he himself who owed the most recent debt of gratitude.
‘Tomorrow then,’ he said, and got to his feet. ‘Meet me at Division at half past eleven. I’ll take you over from there. And no audience.’ The dog, Smoker, thumped his tail against the dusty wooden floorboards.
‘Tomorrow then,’ Waring repeated, and also got to his feet. The dog looked up at its master and as the two men headed out into the cold night air, Smoker stayed close at Waring’s heels.
Moore headed to the main thoroughfare to try and find a hansom cab; unlike many of Whitechapel’s foetid alleyways, Commercial Street was well-lit and busy.
‘Do you want to share?’ he asked Waring, a polite gesture only. They might be many things, but friends they were not. Boundaries were respected.
Moore nodded. That was the strange delusion to be found in all newsmen: they had a firm belief that the tragedies of the world belonged to others; their role was simply to report on those tragedies. Some found out otherwise, of course, and it had been one such event that had brought Waring and Moore together.
‘Take care,’ he said as a hansom pulled to the side and waited for him to climb on board. ‘The streets aren’t everyone’s friend.’
‘Ha!’ Waring laughed with good humour. ‘I doubt they are any man’s friend, but I’m not alone in my enjoyment of them. You’d be surprised who I’ve seen wandering through them. The good doctor, for one. Even though he takes care to dress down and not be seen, I can always recognise a man by his gait.’
Moore half-smiled. Men were always drawn to the gutter at some point or another, and he knew the doctor. He would want to understand the killer who stalked Whitechapel, and that would mean treading in his footsteps. Had he not gone the path of medicine, Thomas Bond would have made a fine inspector.
*
It was only just after noon when Moore led Waring and Smoker down into the vault, and barely fifteen minutes later that he stood dumbfounded and speechless, all words lost to him. Jasper Waring was equally silent. No matter what promises the reporter had made, he surely couldn’t have expected such swift results.
‘Fetch Dr Bond,’ Moore muttered eventually, his teeth gritted. He didn’t raise his eyes from the dog’s find, but he heard feet scurry quickly away and up the steps back to daylight. The remaining group of officers were silent, each no doubt wishing that they were part of Commissioner Warren’s Force who were still searching Whitechapel room by room in the increasingly vain hope of turning up something that might lead them to Jack. Moore had half a mind to send them all there immediately, as they’d been pretty damned useless here at Whitehall.
When they’d arrived in the badly lit basement of the new building, they’d placed the dog near the spot where the torso had been found. Despite the poor visibility, the terrier began digging at the ground almost immediately, barely more than a few inches from where the parcel had been placed. He was digging with such determination that Moore’s heart raced in anticipation. He had not been denied, either, for there at his feet was the dog’s find.
He held the lamp over it again: a human leg, severed below the knee, with the bare foot still attached.
‘I told you he was good,’ Waring said.
Moore ignored the reporter’s boast and glared up at the small gathering, those who had been unfortunate enough to accompany them. Even in the grainy light that was doing little to dispel the pitch-blackness of the claustrophobic vault, they would no doubt be able to see the rage burning in his eyes. He felt as if they were blazing like he were the Devil himself.
‘Why did we not find this?’ No one answered. ‘How many pissing days have we wasted scouring this building? For what? For us to be saved from our own incompetence by a newsman’s ratting dog?’
‘At least we have it now,’ Andrews said, the only man brave enough to speak out in the face of Henry Moore’s anger. ‘Better to find it this way than not at all.’
Andrews was right, of course, even if that did nothing to appease his own rabid frustration. He also knew that every man involved in the previous search would be just as embarrassed at their failure to make the discovery. If the police couldn’t find body parts that were – literally – right under their noses, then how could they expect the public to have any faith in their ability to catch the more attention-seeking Jack? It was a farce, and he wanted no part of it.
He tried to unclench his tight jaw. What was done was done. Now there was only how to proceed.
‘We’ll come back this evening and continue,’ he said, gruffly. The dog, his job done, was now more intent on getting his master’s attention than digging further. ‘But we will conduct the search in secret, do you understand?’ He glanced at Waring. ‘That is as much for you as them. No news reporters drawing attention to us, and I want none of the workmen to know we’re here. Our killer might be among their number.’
‘The fog will hide us,’ Andrews said. ‘And I’ll keep the number here to a minimum.’
‘Good,’ Moore said. Not that they needed a minimum; all they needed, it appeared, was the bloody dog.
12
London. October, 1888
Dr Bond
I was not in the best of spirits on arrival back at the Scotland Yard worksite, but the strangeness of my own mood was only enhanced by the atmosphere I found there. It was eerie: when people spoke, it was only in hushed whispers, and through the thick night fog the few policemen Moore had with him moved like ghosts, here and there and gone as they let Charles and myself into the unformed building.
Candles lit our way back down to the vault and in that oppressive underground room those spread against the walls and in the corners seemed only to exacerbate the darkness of the shadows. I shivered, and not entirely from the cold.
‘This is the dog, then?’ I asked. It was a pointless question, but I felt the need to break the silence with something other than a whisper.
The small terrier was pacing a little, his tail down, and I wondered if he too felt that the air tonight was somehow unnatural. He looked up at us and whined, and then growled.
‘I don’t think he likes the dark,’ Moore said. ‘He’s not as confident tonight.’ He leaned down and patted the creature’s head, a gesture I found surprising, having never taken Moore for an affectionate man. There was something essentially practical about him. He was by all accounts an excellent detective, but I doubted he was ever personally affected by the cases presented to him. Or perhaps that was too sweeping a judgement. If he were emotionally affected, then I felt he dealt with such reactions far better than some – myself included, of late.
The dog whined again, and Moore released him from his lead. ‘Let’s see what you can find this time,’ he said. ‘Bring me the head and you’ll be an inspector by morning.’
Moore’s gruffness was soothing in this strange environment which hinted constantly at things just out of sight. I couldn’t help but remember the strange vision I had had under the influence of the opium, where there had been something looming in the darkness. I shook it away, not only for the vision itself, but for the opium itch it brought with it.
‘Here he goes,’ Charles muttered as the dog wandered here and there, his nose to the ground, his short legs trembling slightly. Charles seemed unaffected by the almost supernatural atmosphere we stood in, and I wished I could be as sanguine as he, and shake off my own personal exhaustion and melancholy. The past week or more had been busy – we’d had the inquest for the torso which had been rotting unnoticed so close to where I now stood, and then the wasted time of the boiled bones found on the railway tracks – at first they had looked like evidence of further gruesome murder, but once I had had time to examine them I was left in no doubt that they were clearly those of a bear. The reporters had been disappointed at that news, and I found myself wondering at the feverish excitement for blood that had filled the streets of the city this year.
The dog reached Charles’ feet and growled slightly, jumping back.
‘These feet are very much not what you’re looking for,’ Charles said, as he stepped back towards the wall to give the dog more space, and a flutter of a laugh passed around us all. At Mary’s insistence I had dined twice more that week with Charles and his family, and had been glad to find my friend in much better spirits. I found myself missing Juliana and her young man, who had gone to Bath for a few days; the young woman’s company was charming, and the exuberance of youth, much as a small part of me envied it, was good for the soul.
As it was, I had spent only three night of the past ten in the opium dens of Bluegate, where I satisfied both my urge for the drug and my need to search for the dark-coated stranger – though on no occasion did I see the man. After my r
ecollection of him at the Rainham inquest, this left me frustrated.
Moore coughed suddenly, just one quiet expulsion, but I jumped slightly. It was only a small movement, but enough to draw Inspector Andrews’ attention to me.
‘Are you all right, Doctor?’ he asked. ‘You look pale.’
Even in the gloom I could see him studying me with a mixture of concern and curiosity, and I forced a smile. ‘If I’m truly honest, I, like the dog, am no great fan of small spaces with no natural light.’
He returned my smile and the answer appeared to satisfy him, but his eyes still rested on me, and I wondered what he was thinking. Had my behaviour become unusual? Did my increasing itch for the poppy show?
‘He’s digging,’ Charles said, breaking the moment, and we all turned to look. It was true: the dog might have been unsettled, but he couldn’t fight his nature.
‘That’s where the leg was found,’ Andrews looked at Moore. ‘Perhaps there’s still a scent there.’
Moore said nothing. His gaze was intent on the terrier, who had lost all interest in everything except what secrets the ground might hold. The earth looked hard, only small pockets of dirt flying up with each scrabble of his claws, but he continued to dig, determined.
We stood in silence and watched, anticipation growing. This was not an animal who was simply confused by a scent; the dog was digging with purpose. My own heart thumped in my chest. There was more of our mystery woman to be discovered here, I was sure of it. After several minutes of mounting tension, a flash of something other than darkness appeared in the light of the candle Moore was holding over the animal: fingers, bent as if clawing their way out of the ground.
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