Ghost of Whitechapel

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘Where’s he live?’ asked Ross.

  ‘I don’t know that, honest,’ said Lulu, ‘he sort of keeps ’is head down, he sort of disappears and reappears, but ’e still keeps ’is eye on ’is gels, all of ’em.’

  ‘You sure you don’t know where we could find him?’ said Dobbs.

  ‘Honest,’ said Lulu.

  ‘I think you’re withholding information,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘No, I ain’t,’ said Lulu.

  ‘Tck, tck,’ said Ross.

  ‘Mind, I could find out for yer,’ said Lulu, ‘I could find out this afternoon, if you ’ad a fiver up yer sleeve.’

  ‘How?’ asked Dobbs.

  ‘Mister, I know one of ’is gels that likes me a lot. D’you mind if I don’t tell yer any more?’

  ‘I won’t mind too much if you can come up with the man’s address,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘Could yer come back ’ere tomorrer mornin’?’ asked Lulu.

  ‘We could do that,’ said Ross.

  ‘With me five quid?’

  ‘If you’re worth it,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘Could yer make it six quid?’ asked Lulu.

  ‘Two quid was a fair start, four quid was handsome, a fiver’s a promise, but six quid is coming it a bit,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘Still, it ain’t a fortune,’ said Lulu, ‘and you didn’t mind me askin’, did yer, mister?’

  ‘Well, we all like to have one more go at the lucky dip,’ said Dobbs. ‘Good day, Miss Swann, we’ll be back tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I won’t let yer down,’ said Lulu, ‘specially if yer going’ to put Basil out of business. He’s a real nasty insurance man, ’e is.’

  ‘That’s only what you’ve heard, of course,’ said Ross.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Lulu.

  Chief Inspector Dobbs and Sergeant Ross said nothing as they descended the stairs to the tiled hall. Leaving the building and entering the flow of the West End’s busy life, Ross said, ‘Saucy little madam, that one.’

  ‘Fighting for survival, my lad,’ said Dobbs, ‘which is why she and her kind get into a habit of telling fibs.’

  A weak sun had given up the attempt to brighten the misty air. Barrow boys were active, horse-drawn traffic rolling up from Piccadilly Circus, and the colourful adornments of ladies’ large hats challenging the sober hues of winter. The Chief Inspector’s brown bowler sat squarely on his head, while Sergeant Ross’s black bowler was worn at a slightly rakish angle, which would not have pleased the Chief Superintendent.

  ‘The offer of a few quid changed that,’ said Ross. ‘Do we make a call on the second lady, Mary Smith? I’ve got her address down as Wardour Street.’

  ‘Right, with luck, Mary Smith might save the Yard five quid,’ said Dobbs.

  That piece of wishful thinking fell apart. Mary Smith, if such was her name, had departed from the Wardour Street address two weeks ago, and the present occupant, a coloured lady in pink swans-down and very little else, knew nothing of her or of anyone called Baz Gottfried or Basil Godfrey.

  ‘That puts Lulu Swann back on course for tomorrow,’ said Ross, as he and the Chief Inspector retraced their steps to Shaftesbury Avenue.

  ‘And there’s still Mrs Pritchard and her fidgets,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘Any further thoughts on her old man, guv?’

  ‘Basil’s favourite at the moment,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘Odds-on, would you say?’ asked Ross.

  ‘Evens, sunshine, evens,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘They ’aven’t come back, the police,’ said Mrs Pritchard, when her husband walked in for his midday bite to eat.

  ‘Well, if they do,’ said Mr Pritchard, ‘don’t open yer north-and-south too much. Even opening it a bit ain’t clever, not when it’s in front of coppers from the Yard. Uniformed rozzers that walk the beat ’ave got the looks of the law, but not a lot up top. Yard coppers are artful sods.’

  ‘You didn’t ’ave much up top yerself when you told ’em you didn’t go out that night,’ said Mrs Pritchard.

  ‘You ’ad even less when you said I did.’

  ‘It just slipped out, it was me state of mind,’ said Mrs Pritchard. ‘I ’ope them coppers ain’t been askin’ questions down at the pub.’

  ‘Ruddy ’ell, did you ’ave to mention that?’ said Mr Pritchard.

  ‘It’s on me mind, ain’t it?’ said Mrs Pritchard. ‘They might of found out you was there.’

  ‘If they ’ad,’ said Mr Pritchard, ‘they’d ’ave been back ’ere to ask a lot more of me. Listen, I dunno why we ’ave to ’ave troublesome lodgers.’

  ‘For their rent, of course,’ said Mrs Pritchard. ‘And they ain’t troublesome. It’s you that is. Goin’ after Maureen Flanagan at your age, that was trouble all right, you an old married man and all.’

  ‘Leave it alone, will yer?’ said Mr Pritchard.

  Bridget was not given the opportunity to have another set-to with Constable Fred Billings that evening, for along with other constables he’d been despatched to investigate a disturbance at a lodging house in Crispin Street. Everyone in the place seemed to be fighting everyone else, women clawing, scratching and shrieking, men wading in on each other in attempts to break bones. It took the little band of uniformed policemen quite some time to quell the brawl and to save the lodging house owner from having every stick of furniture broken up.

  Daisy had cooked a rabbit stew not only for herself and Billy but for their lodger as well. However, she kept Fred’s helping hot, and he enjoyed it later, paying the agreed sum of sixpence for it. Bridget by then was at work, so Fred ate his supper in welcome peace.

  The fog returned, not thickly, but in drifting rolling masses of pale brown mist. It searched for the alleys of Whitechapel, and for whatever doors that were open. It was the kind of fog that curled, crept and sneaked. It followed people into the ever-open pubs, causing drinkers to offer up violent protests.

  ‘Shut that bleedin’ door!’

  It was a night which some people thought would tempt Old Nick to emerge from nowhere and prowl about in search of those who belonged to him. They were everywhere, Old Nick’s own, seen one moment and gone the next, the drink-sodden, the degraded doxies and the men of ill repute. Imaginative people might have said the gentleman who walked with a measured tread did so in the way of the devil himself, as if evil had no fear for him.

  He turned into New Road from Whitechapel Road, and from a doorway came the sound of a voice he knew.

  ‘Lookin’ for someone nice, are yer, dearie?’

  He was ready for her this time.

  ‘How much?’ he asked.

  She had her back to the door. It was slightly ajar and a thin streak of light showed. She was dressed in a red velvet bodice and a black skirt, her fair hair piled and dully gleaming. The pale brown fog curled around the gentleman, but she could see enough to place him as a toff.

  ‘Four bob to you, love,’ she said. ‘I’m fresh, and only accept gents.’

  ‘Upstairs?’ he said, his voice a deep murmur.

  ‘In me own room, ducky,’ said Poppy Simpson. ‘Here, do I know yer?’

  ‘I gave you sixpence a few nights ago,’ he murmured.

  ‘Why, so yer did, and it was ’andsome of yer. I’ll be really nice to you for that and four bob.’

  ‘Lead the way.’

  She turned and pushed the door open, revealing a passage partially illuminated by a small boat-shaped flame from a gas jet. He stepped in. She looked at him, a clean-shaven man. He smiled. He was a gent all right. He placed his walking-stick against the wall and closed the door.

  ‘Come on up, lovey,’ she said.

  He heard the sounds of people, little sounds. She turned again towards the stairs. Silently, he placed his bag on the floor, took one long stride, whipped his left arm around her from behind and clapped a gloved hand hard over her mouth, pulling her head back. She gurgled and choked. From his pocket of his coat he drew a knife with a thin, razor-sharp blade. With one fierce slashing
incision he cut her throat wide open. Her blood spurted as he let her drop, retreating fast from her. He bent, wiped the knife clean on her skirt, and put it back in his coat pocket. He picked up his bag, put his stick under his arm, opened the door just wide enough to let himself out, then closed it silently behind him. He took hold of his stick and walked away, into the floating clouds of fog, his footsteps those of a man who felt no need to hurry.

  Bridget, hastening home, entered Commercial Road, making for Back Church Lane, which led to Ellen Street. As usual, she had ridden to Aldgate on the underground tube train, the City Line, the fare three ha’pence. From Aldgate, she walked. The fog could have been a lot worse than it was, and the street lamps in Commercial Road were visible, even if they did seem to be floating in the misty pall. Into the patchy light of one walked a man, tall, over-coated, and carrying a bag and walking-stick.

  ‘Oh, ’ello, doctor, how’dyerdo?’ said Bridget.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ He stopped and loomed.

  ‘Oh, I don’t suppose you recognize me,’ said Bridget, ‘it was ’orrible foggy that evenin’, when the workers was set on by the police and someone knocked me out.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I remember, young lady.’ The gentleman smiled. ‘How’s your head now?’

  ‘Well, I’m still carryin’ it about,’ said Bridget.

  ‘Should you be carrying it about at this late hour?’

  ‘Oh, I’m just goin’ ’ome from me evening’s work in the West End,’ said Bridget.

  ‘The West End? I see.’ He peered at her, taking note of her full figure. ‘I see,’ he said again. ‘Well, this neighbourhood isn’t to your taste, I dare say, so hurry along. Or would you like me to see you to your door?’

  ‘Well, yer a kind gent offering,’ said Bridget, ‘but I’ll be all right.’

  ‘Are you sure? It’s no bother.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ll manage,’ said Bridget.

  ‘Goodnight, then.’

  ‘Goodnight, doctor.’

  They parted, Bridget resuming her walk to Back Church Lane, and he going his own way thinking well, well, her work is in the West End? Well, well.

  As Bridget approached Back Church Lane, a policeman turned out of it. She glimpsed his helmet and uniform.

  At this moment, a woman was making her frantic cries heard in New Road.

  ‘Murder! Murder’s been done!’

  The cries did not reach Commercial Road, where neither Bridget nor Constable Fred Billings heard them as he came face to face with her amid the floating mist.

  ‘Fred Billings, what’re you doin’ ’ere? asked Bridget.

  ‘I though I’d come and meet you,’ said Fred.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To see you safely ’ome,’ said Fred, ‘and to make sure that you didn’t get follered again.’

  ‘Look, when I need a copper to walk me ’ome, I’ll ask for one,’ said Bridget.

  ‘No need to ask, Bridget,’ said Fred, ‘I’m ’appy to volunteer. Besides which, I feet it’s me duty as a policeman and me privilege as yer lodger.’

  ‘As a policeman you ain’t my kind of bloke,’ said Bridget, ‘and as me lodger you can take yerself off as soon as yer like.’

  Fred wouldn’t be put off, however, and insisted on seeing her home. Bridget told him not to think he was doing her any favours, and she also told him she’d seen that doctor again, the one who’d attended to her that evening of the riot. Fred said a doctor who had patients in Whitechapel was a bit of a rarity.

  By this time the Whitechapel police station had seen the arrival of a man and woman, both of whom were white-faced as they reported the finding of a murdered prostitute, one Poppy Simpson, in what they said was their lodging house in New Road.

  Chapter Eleven

  ROUSED OUT OF his bed by a uniformed police sergeant who had arrived in a cab, Chief Inspector Dobbs accompanied him to the scene of the crime in New Road. He kept his feelings to himself during the drive. A second murder similar to the first was bad enough. To have happened in Whitechapel and to a known prostitute made it far worse, since nothing would now hold Fleet Street back from suggesting Jack the Ripper had returned, even though neither victim had been mutilated.

  The Whitechapel police had the house closed off to people. The Chief Superintendent of the Metropolitan Police, responsible for summoning Dobbs, was on the spot and waiting for him, along with a police surgeon. The Chief Superintendent was frankly alarmed. Dobbs was frankly disgusted. The hounds were going to be at his back now with a vengeance.

  Inspecting the body and the pool of drying blood, he said, ‘How long dead?’

  ‘Not long,’ said the surgeon. ‘Say a little over an hour, say about eleven-thirty. Just the one wound, a clean slicing of the throat.’

  ‘Poor bloody woman,’ said Dobbs. He frowned and mused. ‘It doesn’t look as if this one was carried from somewhere else.’

  ‘You’re thinking of the woman found in Tooley Street, the Flanagan woman?’ said the Chief Superintendent.

  ‘This one was done for right here,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘That’s obvious,’ said the surgeon.

  ‘Who lives in this house?’

  ‘It’s a brothel,’ said the Chief Superintendent, ‘and the man and woman who own the place and live here, on the ground floor, were the ones who found the body. There are three women upstairs, and one had a customer with her at the time. He’s still there, but swears he heard nothing. In fact, everyone in the house swears the same.’

  ‘I think I’ll still have a word with the owners,’ said Dobbs, and did so. They were a coarse couple, both as hard as nails, which was one way of surviving in the sleazy jungle of the East End, where dog ate dog. But they were a shaken couple at the moment, insisting they heard nothing that would have made them suspect murder was taking place in the passage. The only sounds had been those from upstairs, where two women had been drinking gin, and a third had been entertaining a client.

  ‘And gawd ’elp us if that ain’t the truth,’ said the man.

  ‘Where might the murdered woman have picked up a client herself?’ asked the Chief Inspector.

  ‘From the doorway. That was ’er pitch, the doorway. She wasn’t keen on walkin’ no street.’

  ‘Unfortunately, that precaution didn’t help her in the end,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘He’s come back, the bleeder,’ said the woman.

  ‘Who’s come back?’ asked Dobbs.

  ‘The Ripper,’ said the woman, white-faced.

  ‘If you say that again, I’ll lose my temper,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘Bloody ’ell,’ said the man, ‘if you’re out of sorts, ’ow d’yer think we feel?’

  ‘That Poppy, done for in our own ’ouse,’ said the woman.

  It was some time before Chief Inspector Dobbs allowed himself to return home. Daphne got up, and at four o’clock in the morning she made him a hot toddy, and a cup of tea for herself. He painted a picture for her of the murder.

  ‘Horrible,’ she said, ‘Charlie, you’re really up against it now, aren’t you?’

  ‘You could say so, Daffie.’

  ‘“A policeman’s lot is not a happy one”.’ said Daphne. ‘Well, not according to Gilbert and Sullivan.’

  ‘It’s not as bad as the lot of Poppy Simpson or Maureen Flanagan, taken off to their Maker without even the chance to say a prayer, probably.’

  ‘Charlie, back to bed for you. You can get some sleep before breakfast. You’ll need it.’

  The late editions of morning papers carried news of the murder in Whitechapel. Chief Inspector Dobbs, on arrival at the Yard, was shown how the papers had sensationalized the fact that the victim was a known prostitute attached to a small brothel and had been murdered within the area that had once been Jack the Ripper’s hunting ground. Dobbs said he’d had a bad night, and that the day didn’t look too good, either.

  The Chief Superintendent had a word with him, letting him know the Commissioner himself had already been in tou
ch and wanted a quick arrest before the whole thing blew up out of proportion. Further, he wanted some kind of action that would take the minds of Fleet Street and the minds of the public off any association with the crimes of the Ripper, otherwise every national newspaper would feed the public with rehashed stories of the Ripper that included conjectures on his identity.

  ‘The gentlemen of the press will swarm into the Yard any moment,’ said the Chief Superintendent. ‘I’ll deal with them, Charlie. You get busy. I’ve taken Inspector Davis off the arson case, and he and Sergeant Swettenham are to make up your investigating team. Have you decided, by the way, to work on the assumption that one man committed both murders?’

  ‘I’m still giving that thought,’ said the Chief Inspector, ‘but what I’d like as a favour is for you to inform the press that the Yard has reason to believe a bloodthirsty lunatic went to work last night to copy the first murder.’

  ‘Good idea, Charlie. I’ll feed the hounds.’

  In his office, Chief Inspector Dobbs and Sergeant Ross were joined by Inspector Davis and Sergeant Swettenham. Dobbs brought the latter men up-to-date with the file on Maureen Flanagan, then told them to do the rounds in Whitechapel, with the assistance, if necessary, of the local uniformed branch.

  ‘Askin’ after who might’ve seen or heard Poppy Simpson pick up the murderer?’ said Inspector Davis.

  ‘That’s it, George, start at the beginning,’ said Dobbs, ‘it’s the only way of starting for all of us, at the beginning. And Whitechapel teems with eyes and ears, even at that time of night.’

  ‘You’re not goin’ to Whitechapel yourself?’ said Davis.

  ‘Not just now,’ said Dobbs, ‘I’ve got an appointment concerning Flanagan’s murder.’

  ‘Point is,’ said Davis, ‘is it a double murder by the same man or a case of sep’rate identities?’