Ghost of Whitechapel

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘’Old yer ’orses, cully.’

  ‘What d’you want?’ The gentleman stiffened.

  ‘Yer watch and chain, and yer bleedin’ wallet, and I want ’em quick, or I’ll beat yer brains out.’

  A cudgel thrust at the gentleman’s chest.

  ‘A moment,’ he said.

  ‘Come on, divvy up.’

  ‘Here,’ said the gentleman, and delivered a violent kick to the footpad’s left knee. A hoarse bellow signified pain, but an arm swung, and the cudgel lifted high. In the darkness, a knife dimly flashed, and the blade rushed across the raised wrist. Blood spurted.

  ‘Oh, yer bleeder!’ The cudgel dropped, and the footpad clasped his slashed wrist. If he couldn’t see his own blood running, he could feel it, and he went lurching and limping away in the fog, howling for help. The gentleman took out his handkerchief, cleaned the knife, and when he began to cross the footbridge he dropped the handkerchief into the unseen river below.

  Chief Inspector Dobbs found sleep difficult to come by that night. The relation of the first murder to the second might make sense to those who had a copy-cat Ripper in mind, but as far as a suspect for both crimes was concerned, who could relate the murder of Poppy Simpson to either Pritchard or Basil Gottfried, whom Maureen Flanagan had called Godfrey? What motive would either of those men have had for polishing off the Whitechapel prostitute? He knew what the Chief Superintendent might say. That a copy-cat Ripper needed no motive beyond that of a weird kind of bloodlust.

  So the point was, thought Dobbs, lying awake, if he caught the murderer of Maureen Flanagan, had he also caught the murderer of Poppy Simpson? He didn’t think so, not if Flanagan’s slayer was either Pritchard or Godfrey.

  It was gone two before he finally fell asleep beside Daphne.

  Just prior to retiring, the Prime Minister spent a few moments reflecting on how to avoid questions being asked in the House about the possible re-emergence of the Ripper or his successor. That would bring to the fore the conditions of want and privation still existing in the East End, conditions that some awkward members might suggest were responsible not only for turning women into prostitutes but invited the attentions of twisted minds bent on murder. There would be uproar and another huge press campaign condemning the authorities. Most upsetting. Her Majesty, failing in health though she was, would send for him.

  Under no circumstances did he want her waving newspapers at him, newspapers that had dredged up the rumours and insinuations that had been whispered in high circles twelve years ago, rumours and insinuations concerning the possible implication of her grandson, the late Duke of Clarence, in the Ripper murders. That kind of thing would put the frail old lady on her deathbed.

  It was some comfort to know Scotland Yard had taken a prime suspect into custody.

  Such comfort helped welcome sleep to claim him.

  Sergeant Ross had no problems at all once his head touched the pillow in his police flat. He’d had a cosy evening with Nurse Cartright and her parents, playing whist in front of a warm coal fire. Whist relaxed a bloke and took his mind off the unpleasant nature of murder cases, particularly with Nurse Cartright as his partner.

  Chapter Fourteen

  CONSTABLE FRED BILLINGS, UNIFORMED, was stopped by Bridget as he came down the stairs at nine o’clock on Sunday morning.

  ‘You on duty today?’ she asked.

  ‘Not yet, officially,’ he said, ‘but I’ve got to report to the station, along with other men, to see if we’re wanted for special duties. In case people start a riot about the murder and the arrest of a local suspect.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me last night that a suspect’s been arrested,’ said Bridget accusingly. Her wondrous mop of black hair was combed, brushed and piled high, and held in place with pins.

  ‘I was busy tryin’ to stop you burnin’ me ears and gettin’ you home in one piece,’ said Fred.

  ‘Well, I wasn’t ungrateful about you meetin’ me to see me home, it was a nerve-rackin’ night,’ said Bridget, ‘but you were comin’ it a bit all the way to me door.’

  ‘So were you,’ said Fred, ‘and I felt fortunate to ’ave got here without bein’ wounded.’

  ‘You’ll finish up wounded in six places at once if you keep answering me back in me own dwelling,’ said Bridget. ‘Anyway, Daisy and Billy told me you said a bloke ’ad been arrested. Did ’e do it, then, did ’e murder Poppy Simpson?’

  ‘Unfortunately—’

  ‘I keep ’earing that word too much lately,’ said Bridget.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ said Fred, ‘I didn’t arrest the suspect meself, nor was I given official details of how it came about, but I did ’ear a public-minded resident informed on ’im and was told by the Yard subsequent to the arrest to keep ’er north-and-south shut on the grounds that she was in line for bein’ a star witness.’

  ‘Fred Billings, when you’ve got that uniform on, you’re a pain in both me ears,’ said Bridget. ‘Can’t you talk like a human being?’

  ‘I was explaining to you—’

  ‘Showin’ off yer copper’s lingo, you mean,’ said Bridget, scowling at him.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ said Fred.

  ‘Don’t do what?’

  ‘Put creases in yer face,’ said Fred, ‘it spoils yer looks.’

  ‘Oh, beg yer pardon, I’m sure,’ said Bridget. ‘Anyway, it’s a relief the Yard’s got the bloke. It’s about time they did something useful instead of ’elping the bosses to tread on the workers. Look, we’re scrapin’ something together to make a fairly decent Sunday dinner, with apple dumplings for afters, so if you ain’t wanted for special duties, I dare say we could find enough for you.’

  ‘Well, that’s an ’eart-warming invitation, Bridget,’ said Fred.

  ‘Don’t let it give you ideas,’ said Bridget.

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Fred, ‘I know where I stand with you, Bridget.’

  ‘Yes, and just remember I’m still only lettin’ you lodge ’ere on sufferance, and me sufferance’ll die a quick death if you get fancy ideas,’ said Bridget.

  ‘Never mind that,’ said Fred, ‘just do yerself the favour of gettin’ a job that doesn’t keep you out late at night.’

  ‘Stop ’aving these other ideas about thinkin’ you’re entitled to safeguard me,’ said Bridget.

  ‘Well, I’m admirin’ of yer valiant character, Bridget, and don’t want yer to come to grievous harm,’ said Fred.

  ‘Very kind of you, Fred Billings, I’m sure,’ said Bridget. ‘Go on, you’d best get down to the station now.’

  ‘I’m off,’ said Fred. ‘See you later, and thanks for the offer of dinner. I’ll put the usual sixpence in the kitty.’

  ‘Did I ask for any sixpence, did I?’ said Bridget.

  ‘I thought—’

  ‘Hoppit,’ said Bridget.

  Fred left. At the station he was told the Yard required no help from the uniformed branch today, so he went for a long walk, crossing London Bridge to the south side of the river, and on to some police stations in Southwark, to find out if any constables on regular beats knew of a small house to rent in a fairly decent street.

  Chief Inspectors Dobbs, in his best suit, took his family to morning church. There, a pretty eleven-year-old girl, Edith Baxter from next door, dislodged herself from her own family and slipped into the pew beside twelve-year-old William, an engaging boy who was fighting the sudden onset of freckles fairly dormant up to now. Ten-year-old Jane, next to her dad, rolled her eyes.

  ‘William’s starting early, Dad,’ she whispered.

  ‘Never too soon to get acquainted with troubles,’ murmured Charlie. ‘Helps you to learn to cope with ’em before you’re old and grey.’

  The service began, with Charlie thinking again about the complications of trying to decide if he was up against one murderer or two.

  Daphne, knowing what his faraway expression meant, whispered in his ear, ‘Perhaps a prayer might help, Charlie.’

  ‘Well, I’m i
n the right place for a prayer and a half,’ he whispered back.

  On arrival home, he found Inspector Davis on his doorstep.

  ‘Hello, George, what’s brought you from Bow?’

  ‘If I could have a word?’ said Inspector Davis. ‘Morning, Mrs Dobbs.’

  ‘Good morning, George,’ said Daphne.

  ‘Sorry about bargin’ in on a Sunday,’ said Davis. ‘And how are you two?’ he said, addressing himself to Jane and William.

  ‘Oh, quite well, thank you,’ said Jane.

  ‘Except she’s got a pink nose,’ said William.

  ‘Looks all right to me,’ said Davis.

  ‘Come in and have something hot, George,’ said Daphne. The morning was damp, grey and cold.

  ‘I won’t say no,’ said Davis, and Daphne made a hot toddy for both men before resuming preparation of the Sunday dinner, which would be eaten at two o’clock, as was customary with most London families.

  Davis, in the parlour with the Chief Inspector, watched as Charlie Dobbs gave the fire a poke, and then advised him that the man known as Basil Gottfried or Godfrey had shown up. He had entered his house at Bow midway through the morning. Well, at least a man answering his description had. Dressed in a posh overcoat and hat, and looking very self-assured, he let himself in with a key. A woman appeared as he did so. Then the door closed. Sergeant Swettenham was still keeping watch, and if the suspect left the house, Swettenham would follow, although he was hoping to be relieved before the afternoon was over.

  ‘I’m much obliged, George,’ said Dobbs, enjoying his hot toddy, ‘but as it’s Sunday, go back, and if Sergeant Swettenham is still there, let him know he can go off duty. So can you. I’ll call on Basil tomorrow morning.’

  ‘You’ll risk him givin’ us the slip,’ said Davis, his own hot toddy creating a glow in his stomach.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Dobbs, ‘I don’t think he’d have put in an appearance if he suspected we were after him and not one of his feller pimps.’

  ‘It’ll be your funeral if you’re wrong,’ said Davis.

  ‘I’ll chance it,’ said Dobbs. ‘You and Sergeant Swettenham pop off home. I know you’ve both missed morning church, but you can still go to Evensong.’

  ‘The joker in you ’asn’t given up, has it?’ said Davis.

  ‘Don’t you go to church, then?’ asked Dobbs.

  ‘Now and again,’ said Davis. ‘For weddings and funerals.’

  ‘Church is a good place for praying,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘Someone just informed you of that?’ said Davis.

  ‘Yes, Daphne,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘Anything on Binns come through?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been wondering if the Chief Superintendent has ’ad him certified, and might have sent you a message about same.’

  ‘The idea, George, is to class him as a case for serious investigation until we lay our hands on the genuine person unknown,’ said Dobbs. ‘I hope Binns is getting hot pies for his Sunday dinner. I left instructions.’

  ‘D’you think the pimp Gottfried is our man?’ asked Davis, finishing his toddy.

  ‘If he’s not,’ said Dobbs, ‘we’ll have problems. At least, I will.’

  ‘You’ve got them already,’ said Davis, ‘on account of the double murder.’

  ‘Don’t I know it. See you tomorrow, George.’

  Constable Fred Billings arrived back at Ellen Street in time to sit down with Bridget, Daisy and Billy to a dinner of sausages, mashed potatoes and tinned peas.

  ‘I’d like to mention again I’m very appreciative of this kind of ’ospitality,’ he said.

  ‘So am I,’ said Billy, ‘I ’appen to be fond of sausages and mash.’

  Domestic events had made Daisy a bit reckless with the limited amount of housekeeping. What with Fred’s weekly rent of five bob and her forthcoming job at the laundry, she’d felt she ought to splash out. There were three plump sausages each, a snowy mountain of mashed potato on every plate, and a generous helping of shining tinned peas. And there were apple dumplings to follow.

  ‘’Eatin’ like we’re prosperous, well, it’s welcome,’ said Bridget, ‘but I can’t ’elp thinkin’ there’s families in the worst slums probably only gettin’ something like bread and drippin’. For Sunday dinner too. I could spit every day for a week.’

  ‘Bridget, you don’t ’ave to talk like that,’ said Daisy, ‘specially on a Sunday and when we’ve got company.’

  ‘Constable Fred Billings ain’t company,’ said Bridget, ‘he just ’appens to be ’ere. On sufferance, I might add.’

  ‘Well,’ said Billy, ‘passin’ by yer comment on Fred—’

  ‘What you talkin’ about, passin’ by?’ asked Bridget.

  ‘Overlookin’ it,’ said Billy. ‘And I was goin’ to say wantin’ to spit ain’t what you call unmentionable, Daisy. It ain’t nothing like what old Mother Figgins across the street comes out with at times. It’s ’er age, yer know, Fred. Sixty years she’s lived as girl and woman, and in that time she’s picked up words that even old Sailor Joe from down the street ain’t ever ’eard of. Bridget’s got a long way to go to catch ’er up.’

  ‘If I could say something,’ ventured Fred, ‘it’s that your sister Bridget shouldn’t be encouraged to be like Old Mother Figgins, Billy. With a bit of right encouragement, Bridget could turn her hand to talkin’ more like a lady.’

  ‘Turn me ’and to talkin’ like what?’ said Bridget.

  ‘It’s me serious contention there’s always been a lady tryin’ to get out from under yer stays and blouses, Bridget,’ said Fred.

  Billy choked on a mouthful of sausage and mash. Daisy giggled over a mouthful of peas. Bridget’s forkful of mash halted halfway up from her plate.

  ‘Fred Billings, am I ’earing things?’ she asked. ‘Did you remark on me personal wearables?’

  ‘Only out of me firm beliefs,’ said Fred, well into his tasty meal.

  ‘How would you like me dinner in yer lap?’ suggested Bridget.

  ‘No, you eat it,’ said Fred, ‘I’ve got me own. By the way, I ’appened to be talkin’ to a constable in Blackfriars Road across the river this mornin’, and he put me in the way of a vacant house in Pocock Street, which is off Blackfriars Road. I said that’s a bit of luck, I know a fam’ly that’s thinkin’ about movin’. So I made me way to Pocock Street, and there it was, empty all over, and lookin’ like it was three up, three down, which could suit you. Of course, it’s not like the Garden of Eden, but I noticed the kids all ’ad boots on their feet and didn’t look starvin’. It’s a step up from Whitechapel.’

  ‘Oh, we could go and look at it, Bridget,’ said Daisy.

  ‘Not ’alf,’ said Billy. ‘While I wouldn’t mind something like the Garden of Eden, I fancy a step up from Whitechapel and work in a Blackfriars’ grocers. I’m in the way of likin’ groceries, and gettin’ a job behind a counter in a white apron.’

  ‘Well, you get the job first and then we’ll think about movin’,’ said Bridget. ‘Fred Billings, did you ’appen to be across the river accidental or on purpose?’

  ‘As I wasn’t needed for any special duties, Bridget, I did take a walk,’ said Fred.

  ‘On account of us talkin’ about movin’ across the river?’ said Bridget.

  ‘I thought about that when I was talkin’ to the constable,’ said Fred.

  ‘Oh, it was a nice thought, Fred,’ said Daisy.

  ‘Fred’s a decent copper,’ said Billy.

  ‘I’ve got suspicions ’e’s tryin’ to make ’imself a bit too useful,’ said Bridget.

  ‘Well, that’s a lot better than makin’ ’imself a bit too awkward,’ said Billy.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Daisy, ‘I’m sure Fred’s goin’ to be ever so useful, Bridget. Well, there’s things a useful man can do for us women, ain’t there?’

  ‘I could ask what sort of things, but I won’t,’ said Bridget.

  ‘Let’s ’ave the apple dumpli
ngs now,’ said Daisy. ‘There’s custard as well.’

  ‘Crikey, you’re gettin’ to be a reg’lar marvel, you are, Daisy,’ said Billy.

  ‘Oh, what with ’aving an ’elpful paying lodger and me gettin’ a job,’ said Daisy, ‘I thought I’d go a bit mad with Sunday dinner.’ I just hope, she thought, that when I get to the laundry tomorrow, the Superintendent don’t sack me before I start on account of me saying I knew that poor Maureen Flanagan when I didn’t. It won’t be in me favour that I had me fingers crossed. Oh, ain’t life hard on a poor girl?

  Sundays made very little difference to the lives of the people who dwelt in the slums of Whitechapel. The Sabbath did not bestow food, clothes and silver on them, or repair leaking roofs and fill fires with fuel. It did not even supply bare-footed kids with boots. It arrived and it went on its way as indifferent to want and privation as any other day.

  Sunday evenings were much the same as weekday evenings, the dingy pubs catering for the drunks and the slatterns who had all kinds of crafty ways for obtaining the few coppers that would enable them to buy beer or gin. And the women who walked the streets were as active as ever. Sailors and merchant seamen found their way from the docks into the embrace of doxies.

  The gentleman, however, did not take his usual measured walk around the area on which Jack the Ripper had left his gruesome mark. The evening was clear, the air sharp with the onset of crisp winter, and the smoke from chimneys rose to discharge itself without hindrance. Whitechapel on a clear night held no excitement for him. He spent the evening reading a published version of papers issued by Sir William Gull on the causes, the symptoms, and preventive measures relating to syphilis. Sir William Gull had been physician to the Duke of Clarence, once the heir to the throne of the United Kingdom. His papers also dealt with the effects the disease had on the actions and behaviour of the afflicted persons.

  The gentleman smiled at intervals over his reading. He did not have the disease himself. Accordingly, he did not suffer moments of savagery, as certain syphilitics did. He merely had a need for strange excitement and the pleasure of doing Scotland Yard and Chief Inspector Dobbs in the eye.