Mrs Daphne Dobbs smiled.
‘Thank you, Charlie,’ she said.
Not until he reached the final letter in date order did the Chief Inspector come across a relevant reference, when Mrs Flanagan wrote that it was the first time her daughter had mentioned she had a special man friend. ‘Tell us more about him,’ she wrote, ‘we all thought you’d never have someone special now you’re just gone thirty.’
The Chief Inspector sat up. According to the dates on the missives, Mrs Flanagan and Maureen wrote to each other once a month. He checked the date of this final letter, the only one that referred to a special man friend. 2nd of November. November. That would have been the last Maureen Flanagan received. In Ireland by tomorrow morning at the latest, the Cork police would have advised Mrs Flanagan of her daughter’s death. Today was the 15th of November. Was there a chance that Maureen Flanagan had replied to that last letter, that she’d given her family the full name and some informative details about Godfrey Who?
He looked up, musing.
‘Should I think about going to Ireland?’ he said.
‘Well, I shan’t stop you, Charlie,’ said Daphne, ‘but I’ve heard the Irish Sea can be very rough. Weren’t you a little seasick when we did a boat trip from Hastings to the Isle of Wight one summer?’
‘Something I ate,’ said Charlie, ‘but I won’t say I didn’t congratulate myself on joining the Force instead of the Navy. In any case, what would be the point of sailing the Irish Sea if Maureen Flanagan hadn’t replied to her mother’s last letter before she came to her sudden end?’
‘What was in her mother’s last letter, then?’ asked Daphne.
‘A request for her daughter to tell the family more about a special man friend,’ said Charlie.
‘You mean Godfrey Who?’ said Daphne.
‘What do you think, Daffie?’
‘The same as you, Charlie. The scuttle’s your side, so would you put some more coal on the fire? Then I’ll make us a pot of tea before Jane and William come in from next door for their bed-time cocoa.’
‘One thing I’m sure of,’ said Charlie, building up the fire.
‘What’s that?’ asked Daphne.
‘I’m a lot better off at home than sailing the Irish Sea,’ said Charlie.
‘Well, of course you are, and we’d all be surprised if you weren’t,’ said Daphne. ‘After all, you’ve never been seasick in your armchair.’
Whitechapel on a foggy winter night offered shifting pictures and images very little different from those of twelve years ago. Such images were of sleazy lodging houses, moistly grimy bricks and cobblestones, dark depressing alleyways, and the unlovely façades of deteriorating houses, all shrouded in ghostly fashion by the fog. Here and there, homeless people without a penny huddled together in what shelter they could find. In the doorways of ill-lit pubs, unkempt sluts, painted doxies and down-and-out women, most of whom were the worse for drink, exchanged obscenities and sexual ribaldry with the roughs, the toughs and the slick-haired pimps of the neighbourhood. What if there had been a murder last night? It wasn’t keeping such women off the streets or out of the pubs. It had happened on the other side of the river, which was another world to them.
The dark shadow of the gentleman who had ministered to Bridget late in the afternoon seemed to precede him as he walked through Bucks Row, the scene of the Ripper’s gruesome murder of Mary Ann Nichols, his first victim. If the eerie nature of the place disturbed the fainthearted, it did not intimidate the gentleman. His steps were firm and measured, his Gladstone bag in his left hand, his walking-stick in his right. His appearance was that of a professional gentleman. A doctor, say.
He turned into New Road, and from the shelter of a doorway a voice floated, a soft feminine voice not yet coarse or metallic.
‘’Ello, dearie, like some nice company, would yer?’
He stopped.
‘Who is that?’
She came out of the doorway, shawled and hatted, her bright red skirt whispering. She exuded scent.
‘Poppy, that’s me, ducky, and—’
‘What do you want of me, Poppy?’
‘Now, yer honour, ain’t it what you want of me? My, yer a gent, I can see that, even in this fog. And I’m fresh. Well, I ain’t twenty yet. Would three bob suit yer as a fair price, seein’ I ain’t in the shilling class like most?’
He smiled. He’d enjoyed a very interesting evening, lingering in the areas that had been the hunting grounds of the Ripper.
‘Here’s sixpence,’ he said.
‘Now now, dearie, is that fair? A tanner for a fresh gal?’
‘Take the sixpence,’ he said. ‘I want nothing from you for it.’
She took the silver coin, saying, ‘Well, you’re a kind one, you are, mister, and when you’re feelin’ a bit perky I’ll only charge yer ’alf a crown. Just knock on the door if I ain’t around. Who are yer?’
‘A doctor,’ he said and resumed his walk, going south. He was smiling. He had been called something else in the late afternoon of the day.
Poppy Simpson bit the sixpence, decided it was genuine, lifted her skirt and put the coin into her petticoat pocket.
At ten o’clock, Billy and Daisy were having a chat before going to bed.
‘We’ve got to outvote Bridget,’ said Billy.
‘She’ll pull the roof off the ’ouse if we let Fred ’ave that room,’ said Daisy.
‘No, she won’t,’ said Billy, ‘she might smash a few plates, but she’ll leave the roof alone. I got a fondness for Bridget, and you too, Daisy, but I ain’t sure it’s the wisdom of the ages to let our sister chuck ’er weight about more’n she does already.’
‘Wisdom of the ages?’ Daisy giggled. ‘Where’d yer get that from?’
‘Oh, from listening to customers,’ said Billy, ‘the kind that read books. I admire people that read books, and I might read one meself one day. Anyway, about our Bridget, it ain’t our blame she’d like to take Fred up to the top of Nelson’s Column and drop ’im all the way down into Trafalgar Square.’
‘Oh, she wouldn’t do anything like that,’ said Daisy.
‘I ’ope not, for Fred’s sake,’ said Billy. ‘It wouldn’t ’alf muck ’is loaf of bread up, and ’e probably wouldn’t ever be able to talk again. Bridget might like that, Daisy, but I ain’t approvin’ of it meself, it ’ud be ’ard on a decent copper like Fred. Me, I’m votin’ we let ’im rent the room. I mean, if Bridget starts layin’ down the law to us tomorrer mornin’, we’ve got to stand up to ’er. So you goin’ to vote for Fred, same as me, and same as we did when we was arguin’ the toss with ’er on the doorstep?’
‘I’m goin’ to vote for ’aving five bob a week rent off ’im,’ said Daisy, ‘and sixpence ev’ry day for ’is ’ot suppers. ’Ere, Billy, d’you realize that when I start me laundry job, Briget’ll ’ave to do the cookin’?’
‘Well, we won’t mention that yet, not on top of outvotin’ ’er,’ said Billy.
‘Why not?’ asked Daisy.
‘Well, it would ’ardly be the wisdom of the ages, would it?’ said Billy.
‘Oh, I get it,’ said Bridget over their usual skimpy breakfast the following morning, ‘it’s mutiny, is it? Well, it won’t work. We ain’t lettin’ that room to Fred Billings, and that’s final.’
‘Unfortunately,’ said Billy, ‘me and Daisy—’
‘Unfortunately my eye,’ said Bridget, ‘you ain’t old enough yet to talk like that.’
‘’E gets it from customers that read books,’ said Daisy.
‘Yes, I told Daisy I’ve got a mind to read one meself one day,’ said Billy. ‘Anyway, Bridget, me and Daisy is votin’ Fred in.’
‘Well, I’m votin’ ’im out,’ said Bridget.
‘Unfortunately—’
‘Never mind unfortunately,’ said Bridget.
‘You can’t vote Fred out,’ said Billy, ‘’e ain’t in yet.’
‘Is that supposed to be funny?’ asked Bridget, her mop of hair pi
led and pinned, the lace collar of an ancient blouse thankful for the starch that kept it upright around her neck. ‘I’m gettin’ an aggravated feeling about the way you’re growin’ up, Billy Cummings. If I ’ave any more of yer sauce about lettin’ a certain copper into this ’ouse, something you won’t like is goin’ to drop on yer head, like our flat iron.’
‘But, Bridget,’ said Daisy, ‘we—’
‘I can’t believe the trouble I’m suffering lately,’ said Bridget. ‘I’ve ’ad to watch starvin’ strikers gettin’ murdered by the police, I’ve ’ad the ’orrible misfortune to run into Fred Billings, and now I’m ’aving to listen to me own brother and sister tryin’ to rent ’im that room. Talk about trials and tribulations.’
‘But, Bridget,’ said Daisy, ‘think of the rent.’
‘Yes,’ said Bridget, ‘and think of that copper’s clod’oppers treadin’ all over ev’rywhere. And might I ask what you two are goin’ to say to our neighbours when they find out we’ve got a bluebottle for a lodger?’
‘Oh, they won’t mind Fred,’ said Daisy.
‘Well, I will,’ said Bridget.
‘I dunno why you get aggravated about ’im,’ said Billy. ‘Tell yer what, did yer know garlic’s got healing properties?’
‘Garlic’s got what?’ said Bridget.
‘’Ave I ’eard of garlic?’ asked Daisy.
‘The shop sells it to foreign immigrants,’ said Billy, a born receptacle for bits of knowledge and educated words that came out of the mouths of customers. ‘A lady—’
‘Ladies don’t shop in Whitechapel Road,’ said Bridget.
‘Some do at our grocers,’ said Billy. ‘I ’eard this one say, while I was loadin’ me bike, that a bit of crushed garlic mixed with mashed pertato is good for people that get aggravated.’
‘Bridget, you could try that if it ain’t too expensive,’ said Daisy.
‘Well, she’s got to try something to stop ’erself climbin’ up the ruddy wall ev’ry time Fred gets a mention or she sees ’im on ’is beat,’ said Billy.
‘The Lord give me patience,’ said Bridget, breathing heavily, ‘I’ll go off bang in a minute.’
‘A bit of garlic might easy cool yer down,’ said Billy. He got up. ‘Time I went,’ he said. Bridget chucked a saucer at him. It struck his jerseyed chest and bounced off. He caught it and put it back on the table. ‘I could bring some ’ome,’ he said.
Bridget sprang up. Billy ran, grabbing his old coat and large-peaked cap on his fast way out of the house.
‘Don’t come back!’ Bridget yelled from the open door.
‘Well, I won’t, not till later,’ called Billy, heading with a rush into safety, the morning damp and misty, Ellen Street grey and moist.
‘Robinson,’ said Chief Inspector Dobbs, arriving at his desk, ‘where’s Sergeant Ross?’
‘Gone for a Jimmy, sir,’ said Robinson.
‘Already?’ said Dobbs. ‘Is he short of a private convenience at home, might I ask?’
‘You could pop the question to ’im, sir,’ said Robinson.
‘I don’t need him as a fiancé,’ said Dobbs, ‘I had one years ago. She’s now my wife.’
Sergeant Ross appeared.
‘Morning, guv,’ he said.
‘Feeling better, sergeant?’ asked Dobbs.
‘Yes, a bit like Mafeking,’ said Ross. The Boer War was still a conflict of surging ups and downs, but Mafeking had been joyfully relieved in May.
‘Is this your day for making jokes?’ asked Dobbs.
‘Just a comment, guv,’ said Ross.
‘Don’t let’s have too many like that,’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘Try arranging for a cable to be sent to the Cork police.’
‘Eh?’ said Sergeant Ross.
‘Listen,’ said Dobbs, and explained why he needed the cable to be sent. Mrs Flanagan had mentioned a special man friend in her last letter to her daughter, and asked to be told more about him. It was possible that Maureen Flanagan had replied before meeting her unfortunate end. Perhaps the Cork police would do Scotland Yard the favour of finding out by contacting Mrs Flanagan again. It was to be supposed they’d already called on her to inform her of her daughter’s death, following yesterday’s cable from the Yard. If she was in possession of her daughter’s reply to her last letter, and it contained details of Maureen’s special man friend, perhaps Cork would do the Yard a further favour by cabling the relevant extract. And if Mrs Flanagan still had the letter from her daughter that contained the original mention of the man, the Yard would like those details too. ‘Got that, my lad? Or would you like to sail the Irish Sea and find out in person?’
‘Take a lot of time, guv,’ said Ross. ‘A cable would be far quicker.’
‘So it would,’ said Dobbs. ‘Glad you agree. Right, sharpen your pencil, lick the point and put the cable together. Let me see the draft before you get it sent. Then think about the hospital laundry.’
‘Why?’ asked Ross.
‘Did you see any men working in the calender room, where they’ve got those ruddy great mangles?’ asked Dobbs.
‘They’re calenders, guv, not mangles,’ said Ross, and the look he received was one that befitted a Chief Inspector silently growling. ‘Sorry, guv, they’re like mangles, of course.’
‘The point is, clever Dick, what kind of men work in other sections of the laundry? Fat men, bald men, skinny men, or men an Irishwoman of thirty might fancy for what they’ve got in their pockets as well as in their trousers?’
‘That’s a fair question,’ said Ross.
‘Did you notice if the superintendent had a telephone in her office?’ asked Dobbs.
‘I didn’t get into her office, guv. She came out to us.’
‘Careless oversight of yours, my lad. All right, start drafting that cable.’
‘Right,’ said Ross. ‘Oh, by the way, did you know the Daily Mail’s done it on us?’
‘I stopped reading newspapers from yesterday,’ said the Chief Inspector.
‘I’ve got the Daily Mail on my desk,’ said Sergeant Ross, and fetched it. He opened it up and placed it on the Chief Inspector’s desk. Dobbs examined it. A growl rumbled. The headline above the article was all too threatening to his peace of mind.
IS JACK BACK?
He looked up.
‘You’ve read this, Sergeant?’
‘Yes, guv.’
‘It’s hair-raising, is it?’
‘Witches’ brew,’ said Ross.
‘Who wrote it?’ asked Dobbs, not caring to look at the credit himself.
‘Bloke called Harold Wilkins, guv.’
‘Well, find out where his mother lives, go round there and burn her house down. That’ll upset him even more than he’s just upset me.’
‘I assume, guv, that’s an order I can refuse?’
‘D’you take the Daily Mail, Ross?’
‘I happen to have it delivered,’ said Ross.
‘Well, cancel it and have a comic delivered instead,’ said Dobbs. ‘Take this copy away and set fire to it. Then draft that cable.’
‘Very good, sir,’ said Ross, and as he left, Inspector George Davis came in. That is, he half came in by showing his head and shoulders.
‘Might I henquire if you’ve got a nasty problem, Chief Inspector?’ he said.
‘Might, I enquire in turn if you think I have?’ said Dobbs.
‘Just this awkward business about “Is Jack Back?”’
‘Stop reading fairy stories,’ growled Dobbs, and Inspector Davis took himself away.
A minute later, with the Chief Inspector about to ask the switchboard to telephone Guy’s Hospital laundry, his instrument rang. The call was from the laundry superintendent, and he took it.
‘Good morning, Chief Inspector.’
‘Good morning, marm. I was about to get through to you.’
‘Two minds with but a single thought?’ said the Superintendent. ‘Well, I wanted to let you know that a close friend of Miss Flanagan’s came in yes
terday after you’d gone. She brought some flowers and also asked if she could have that unfortunate woman’s job. Miss Flanagan had promised that if she left us sometime, she’d ask me if her friend could take her place.’
‘You’re speaking of a female friend?’
‘A young lady friend,’ said the Superintendent, objecting politely to the use of the word ‘female’. ‘I asked her one or two questions about her relationship with Miss Flanagan, thinking men friends might be mentioned, but she seemed so distressed about the murder – as we all were – that I decided to leave it until this morning to inform you the girl may possibly be able to help you. She and Miss Flanagan did apparently meet men in passing when they were out together. She should be feeling a little better today, and more able to answer questions, which of course you’ll want to ask.’
‘Very sensible of you, marm, and very obliging,’ said Dobbs.
‘Shall I give you her name and address?’
‘That would be even more obliging,’ said Dobbs, and took down the details that came over the line. That done, he said, ‘Many thanks, marm, we’ll interview her. Meanwhile, you’ve men working in the laundry as well as women, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, indeed, for heavier work,’ said the Superintendent. ‘For delivering and collecting, for packing and so on. Laundry is very weighty.’
‘Do the men come into contact with the ladies working in the calender room?’ asked the Chief Inspector.
‘Constantly.’
‘I’d like to come and take a look at them, marm.’
‘I can’t quarrel with that,’ said the Superintendent, ‘I understand your need to take a look at all men known by Miss Flanagan. I’d dislike it very much, however, if any man here proved to be capable of murdering the poor woman.’
‘I’ve got a fixed dislike, marm, of the capabilities of a certain type of wrong-doer.’
‘I can understand that, Chief Inspector. You’ll be coming here sometime this morning?’
‘I’d like to, with Sergeant Ross.’
‘Of course. What a nice man he is. Goodbye for the moment.’
I suppose, thought the Chief Inspector, as he put the receiver back on its hook, that that leaves me out of the nice ones. Let’s see, about Miss Whatsername – yes, Daisy Cummings of Ellen Street – the distressed friend. Is she fit to be interviewed?
Ghost of Whitechapel Page 6