by James Carnac
I could think of no method outside these three classes whereby a murder could be brought home to the person responsible.
In examining the three possible circumstances likely to lead to detection, it seemed to me that in all cases of murder the strongest card in the hand of the police was supplied by motive. From my subsequent reading in the extensive crime literature of to-day, I think I was correct in my belief. So far as class number three was concerned, therefore, I was at an advantage; the murder which I meditated would appear to be motiveless; or rather, any motive which appeared to underlie it—such as revenge—would be erroneous. I may say, in passing, that the various motives attributed to me by ingenious theorists have afforded me considerable entertainment.
Feeling certain that detection through the channel of motive could be absolutely disregarded, I concentrated my thoughts upon classes one and two.
I must not be caught in the act; the precaution here was self-evident, for I did not propose to operate in the middle of a crowd. I should naturally choose a secluded spot and need only satisfy myself that it was secluded and that it could be vacated at an instant’s notice, preferably by one of several directions.
My principal danger seemed to lie in class number two. I must not drop any personal article near my “subject” or allow him or her to clutch anything of mine—such as a handkerchief or button—during the throes of dissolution. Not that I imagined such a trivial article as a button or handkerchief (unless marked with my name) would afford any information, but the principle must be maintained consistently. Nothing whatever must be found on the scene except the remains of the subject. I could only guard against a mishap in this connection by keeping perfectly calm and free from nervousness and this, I had no doubt, I could do; for although my imagination is active enough I am able to keep my nerves under control by concentrating my thoughts entirely upon my actions. I am one of those fortunate persons whose “nerves” do not betray them in emergency; I seldom get excited, in spite of my alleged Gallic ancestry.
Touching this matter of leaving traces: it should be noted that finger-print identification was not at that time in use by the police.
Having carefully turned over in my mind the matters outlined above, I then began to consider who would be the most suitable subject for my purpose. It must, or at least should, be a person who could well be spared by the community; a person who would not lose much in losing their life. The state to which it had pleased God to call them should be such that death would be a not unwelcome release. Who would fill this description?
I decided instantly that so far as my limited experience and observation went, the middle-aged prostitutes of the East End of London are the most pitiable and degraded of our fellow-beings. They have nearly all sunk to depths of almost unimaginable misery and degradation: most of them are drunken and probably many of them are diseased. They must be a misery to themselves and, in some respects, a menace to others. What can life possibly hold for these women that it should be worth their keeping?
If any reader should doubt my conclusions let him pay a visit to the East End of London and exercise his powers of observation and inference. Let him remember, also, that bad as are the conditions there to-day, they were even worse forty years ago.
Not only would a woman of the class alluded to be the most suitable from the point of view of economics, she would also be the most convenient. She would be readily approachable and would, of her own free will, conduct me to a spot sufficiently secluded for my purpose. For a place suitable for bawdry is a place eminently suitable for throat-cutting.
I am not certain that up to this point in my reflections I had definitely determined to put my project into execution, though I write as if my thoughts were prompted by actual intent. I toyed with the idea as a possibility or a probability but more, perhaps, in a purely academic spirit. But I do know that after several days’ consideration of the proposition and of carefully weighing the difficulties and risks, I had finally determined to put my plan into immediate operation. This was on the 5th of August, 1888.
—
In the early evening of August Bank Holiday I prepared to set out upon my enterprise. I had decided that until late at night, or even early on the following morning, the East End streets would be too crowded for the execution of my purpose; in that rabbit-warren of slums it would be difficult for me to work with the minimum risk of disturbance until such time as the bulk of the inhabitants had settled down for the night. If the woman I chose conducted me to some lodging of her own I might be seen entering with her or leaving, for so packed with humanity were all the buildings of the Whitechapel area that a strong probability existed of my being noticed unless I postponed operations until few people were about.
But I had worked myself into such a state of excited anticipation that I felt strongly the need of some means of occupying my mind during the evening. I determined to go to the theatre; the first performance of Daniel Bandmann’s Jekyll and Hyde was billed for that evening and this I would attend.
I assumed a dark suit which, although not new, was not shabby enough to excite notice in the theatre—for I anticipated that I should be unable to obtain other than one of the higher-priced seats for a first-night on a Bank Holiday evening—but over this suit I put on a very old, long, black overcoat. This I could remove on entering the theatre and when, later, I went to Whitechapel it would conceal the relatively decent quality of my suit and should render me inconspicuous. Fortunately the weather had been particularly cold and miserable for the time of year, and there had been a tendency towards rain. An overcoat would not, therefore, seem out of place.
In the breast-pocket of my suit I placed my father’s large scalpel; in the side-pocket of my overcoat a thin, straight knife or dagger of Malay origin which I had inherited, with other curios, from my uncle and which usually hung on the wall of my sitting-room. But then I hesitated; the knife was of an awkward length for my overcoat-pocket, and I perceived that when I removed and folded my coat there was some risk that the knife would fall out. I removed it and placed it with the scalpel in my breast-pocket.
I stood for some moments dressed for the street and pondered; another idea occurred to me. I went through all my clothing and emptied the pockets of every article they contained apart from the knives, my handkerchief, my latch-key and some money. A pen-knife, a pencil-case and one or two other oddments I carried into my bed-room and laid in a drawer. I would reduce the risk of dropping anything on the scene of my enterprise. Even a pencil-case might prove a danger.
I looked at myself in my wardrobe mirror, examining my person critically. Did I look shabby enough in my long coat to pass unremarked in the East End? I could not visualize a typical East Ender for comparison, because there is no typical East Ender. The types and nationalities to be encountered in that district were so mixed that almost any type of dress could be seen. The sole distinguishing point was a universal shabbiness. My long seedy coat, my rather short figure—for I am slightly below the medium height—my sallow complexion and my longish black hair gave a total effect suggestive, in an indefinite way, of a Jewish type. Certainly I could see nothing in my appearance to attract notice.
My rooms were on the first floor and as I passed downstairs I called over the banisters to my landlady, whose presence below was indicated by a rattling of crockery, telling her I was going to the theatre and that I might be very late. I purposely omitted to enlarge upon this statement, for I had thought the point over with other details. If, I argued, I told the good woman I was going to a friend’s house, or invented some other explanation of my probable lateness, it might look suspicious. I was not in the habit of giving any explanations, and I had frequently been away from my rooms until the early hours of the morning. A gratuitous statement to-night might seem unusual, and I was unwilling to risk even such trifling possibilities as this. Let my landlady suppose I was engaged in the bawdy pleasures of a bachelor. When I came
home with the milk, my landlady would probably suspect me of wenching, but she would certainly not suspect me of that which I had really done. And for me to vouchsafe an unusual and uncalled-for statement would entail the remote possibility of speculation on the woman’s part.
I let myself out into the street and took my way to the Opera Comique Theatre.
I had previously seen Richard Mansfield in “Jekyll and Hyde” and was interested to be able to compare Bandmann’s version with it. But the curtain had not been up for half an hour before I appreciated that here was no sinister drama of psychology, but something which soared almost into the regions of classic harlequinade. I gave myself up to pure enjoyment; when Mr. Bandmann carried out his metamorphosis from Jekyll to Hyde by the simple expedients of turning up his collar and inserting a set of grotesque teeth while the footlights were conveniently lowered, I crowed with delight. When, in the character of the ogre-like Hyde, he hopped about the stage uttering hoarse crooning sounds, I momentarily lost sight of my ultimate aim that evening in the entertainment immediately provided.
I know the moralist would prefer to learn that the play was a well-handled commentary upon my own existence; that I recognized in myself the dual personality of Stevenson’s sinister puppets and that, filled with self-loathing at the thought of the thing I contemplated, I resolved to stifle the evil Hyde in my own nature. That I left the theatre a changed man, the tears streaming from my eyes. Such a reaction would be so obviously the right and proper treatment in a fictional account of such a man as I that I almost feel I should apologize for writing the truth. But I am sure that even a moralist would have laughed at this “dramatization” of “Jekyll and Hyde.”
But sometimes my chuckles would be cut off short as a wave of excitement swept over me induced by a sudden recollection of what lay before me that night. The scene on the stage would be blotted out as my thoughts turned inwards to a predictive tableau of a dark slum, with a slinking slattern and a dark figure with his hand on that which lay within his coat-pocket—and then the vision would fade and the glare of the footlights would appear again. I would continue my interrupted chuckle.
It may seem unkind for me to write so disparagingly of Mr. Bandmann’s production, but that my personal opinions as to its demerits were also the opinions of others was clearly indicated by the tone of the critiques which I read on the following morning in the course of my search in the papers for news of a death in Whitechapel.
Towards the end of the play a choir of boys was introduced to sing, inconsequently, “Rock-a-bye baby on the tree top,” and this definitely recalled me to reality. For my wriggles of merriment were such that the point of the dagger which I carried in my pocket penetrated the lining, and I felt it pressed uncomfortably against my ribs. I stiffened, and cautiously inserted my hand to adjust the position of my weapon.
I remained in my seat until the apotheosis of Dr. Jekyll concluded the performance in a kind of transformation scene and then, not waiting to hear Mr. Bandmann’s speech before the curtain, I left the theatre.
As I came out into the dark street and my mind leapt again upon that which faced me, as a dog leaps instantly upon a bone which has been for a time withheld from him, I realized that I had made one slip in my planning. A trivial, almost negligible slip, but in my circumstances was it possible to say that anything was quite negligible?
Suppose my landlady entered my sitting-room during my absence and noticed that the Malay dagger was not hanging in its usual place! I paused in my walk and turned the matter over in my mind. But my mistake could not be remedied now, I decided. I could not return home at this time; I could not postpone my enterprise. To live through another day of anticipatory excitement was unthinkable. I must rely upon the extreme improbability of my landlady entering the sitting-room where she had normally nothing to do in the evening; and, even if she did enter it, on the unlikelihood of her noting the dagger’s absence. Nevertheless I was annoyed; I, who had pondered details so carefully, had made a childish blunder. I should have taken the scalpel only!
I dismissed the matter from my mind, and set out, walking slowly, towards the east.
Chapter 17
I walked along Fleet Street, Ludgate Hill, past St Pauls to the Bank and then down Lombard Street, Fenchurch Street and Aldgate to Whitechapel High Street. I purposely loitered, but even then it was barely mid-night as I turned into the last-mentioned thoroughfare. The streets were still teeming with people, and I stood at a corner and looked about me. Very few of the passers-by gave me so much as a glance, but one loafer stared hard at my feet and then glanced up into my face as he went by. I looked down and the cause of his interest was evident. I had forgotten that a decent pair of boots is as rare in a poverty-stricken area as a silk hat. Mine were slightly mud-splashed, but they compared more than favourably with other footwear around me; they were neither broken nor ill-fitting, and the laces were carefully tied.
I turned down Commercial Street and as I went I deliberately soiled my boots by walking through the mud, of which there was a plentiful supply. In a few minutes my boots were no longer in a state to excite remark.
I loafed about that district for what seemed hours, passing from one garbage-littered slum to another, watching the knots of people around the closing public houses and the roisterers, single or in groups, who staggered singing down the gloomy streets. There was a good deal of drunkenness, which accounted for the singing; no one sings in that part of London unless he is drunk. There is nothing but drink to make him sing.
Several women, mostly drunk, accosted me in the course of my perambulations, but it was too early yet for what I had to do. One of these creatures was persistent, following me along the street and hoarsely whispering Mephistophelian suggestions into my ear. Her diction was crude, but her intentions were by no means obscure. So suitable a “subject” did she appear in her urgency to make my better acquaintance, that I hesitated; she misinterpreted this and, laying a dirty hand on my coat, stared into my face with bleary eyes. But no, I decided; the streets were still too far awake; I would take no risks. I roughly disengaged her hand and hurried away.
Gradually the streets cleared; by this time I felt tired and footsore, but the feeling of excitement which had filled my mind during my walk had grown rather than diminished. But it was a controlled excitement and I enjoyed the sensation which accompanied it; a sensation, I think, such as hunters must experience when tracking a beast to its lair. As the slums into which I entered became more and more quiet until only occasional isolated stragglers could be seen, I knew that the time of my choice of subject was near at hand.
I was thrilled by the thought of my power. I was Death stalking this jungle of slums; it was for me to take or to spare. Should this slinking woman who came towards me be the one to die, or should I pass her by? And that bundle of rags lying in a doorway; surely she was ready for my reaping?
And then I saw another woman at the end of a street, staggering, obviously drunk. I followed her with long, feline strides. If she turned on feeling the black shadow at her elbow and met me with importunity, she should be the one. If she ignored me, she should be spared. Let hers be the choice. She was too drunk to notice me and I brushed by her.
At last, on turning a corner, I came face to face with a woman who seemed relatively sober. We almost collided.
“Hold up, dearie,” she said. Then she stepped back and looked into my face.
“You look as if a bit ’o fun wouldn’t do you no ’arm,” she said.
“Fun!” I muttered, for my mouth had suddenly become dry. I knew that here was my subject.
“Yus, fun,” she replied; and was more explicit. “Come on, you’ve got some money, ain’t yer?”
A spirit of impishness descended upon me, and I began to demur to her suggestion. Let her persuade me; let her plead for death!
The creature was insistent. “Come on,” she said. “Why shouldn’t yer; Ba
nk Holiday an’ all? I ain’t so bad. Come on; I know a quiet place.”
We argued for an appreciable time, and then she began to swear in a jocular way. At last I yielded. She led me through several lanes, now practically deserted, down Commercial Street, and suddenly dived into a doorway. “Come on,” she whispered and, grasping my sleeve, drew me up a flight of dark stairs to a landing dimly lit by a gas-jet from above. “We shall be all right ’ere,” she muttered; and flopped down on the landing.
“What ’ave yer got for me?” she asked. I stared down at the recumbent figure for a moment before replying; I could just distinguish her. Then I placed my hand in my inside pocket.
I hesitated, savouring to the full the excitation of the moment, and then slowly drew out the Malay dagger. As the dim light caught the blade I saw the woman’s eyes widen, and then her mouth open for a scream. I pressed my hand over her mouth as I raised my weapon. “Oo my Gawd!” came in a sort of strangled gasp from between my fingers; and then I struck swiftly downwards. I felt her body give a quick jerk, and her heels banged against the wooden flooring. I struck again, and again. And then I pulled out my scalpel …
—
The doctor stated at the subsequent inquest that the body bore thirty-nine wounds. He had taken the trouble to count them and probably knew. But I am unable to confirm his statement.
—
I have no clear recollection of descending the stairs, but I found myself outside the building, the dagger and the scalpel in my hands. I think that for a few moments I was almost dazed, but I suddenly saw my hands and full consciousness returned to me. They were red and glistening. Reason resumed its sway, and I thrust the knives into my breast pocket and buried my hands in the pockets of my overcoat. I glanced up at the place I had left and observed an iron tag bearing the name George-yard Buildings; I looked up and down the street. Not a soul was in sight. Without hurry I crossed the way, passed into Commercial Street and down another narrow street which was, I think, Dorset Street. Here I passed a man, but he gave me but a glance. I walked through several lanes, all of the same slum type, and as I went I became conscious of an extraordinary lassitude. I wanted to sit down and rest; but I could not sit down and rest. I had to get well away from the district, for the remains of my subject might have been already discovered, and I could not afford to be seen and, possibly, remembered.