Ghost of Whitechapel

by Mary Jane Staples

  Sod it, thought the Chief Inspector, we haven’t got a thing on him, not even a small piece of decent circumstantial evidence. And who could prove that Maureen Flanagan had obviously reached a stage where she wanted to back away from organized prostitution? That kind of attitude was known to turn pimps spiteful, but again who could prove in this case that Gottfried had turned murderously spiteful? We could charge him with living off immoral earnings, but that’s like making do with dry bread when we’re after a full-course meal.

  ‘Mr Gottfried, before you and Miss Donaldson took yourselves off to Scott’s, you saw Maureen Flanagan, did you?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I saw the girls in the house I own in Wardour Street, and then left them to their own ways of seeing the night through. Maureen wasn’t among them.’

  ‘But we know she went out that night,’ said Sergeant Ross.

  ‘Not to the West End,’ said Gottfried. ‘That is, not to Wardour Street. It was a bloody foggy night, anyway.’

  ‘Was she due to turn up?’ asked Inspector Davis.

  ‘That night?’ said Gottfried. ‘Yes, she was, but she didn’t. I put her absence down to the fog.’

  ‘On the other hand,’ said Inspector Davis, ‘you knew where she lived, you’d been there. You could ’ave met her somewhere nearby.’

  ‘And cut her throat?’ said Gottfried. ‘Don’t be childish.’

  ‘In any case, he was in Scott’s with me,’ declared Margaret Donaldson acidly, ‘and I’ll put that in me best writin’ if you want.’

  I’m chasing rainbows, thought the Chief Inspector. And what’s more, there’s not a chance in hell that this prosperous pimp did the Whitechapel murder.

  ‘What time did you leave Scott’s?’ he asked.

  ‘A little after ten,’ said Gottfried.

  ‘That’s it, a little after ten,’ said the woman.

  ‘I see.’ Dobbs glanced at Davis. ‘Is everything tidy?’ he asked Inspector Davis.

  ‘Fairly,’ said Davis.

  ‘Would you like to check, Miss Donaldson?’ asked Dobbs of the simmering lady.

  ‘Yes, I would,’ she said, and got up and left the kitchen. She inspected the house upstairs and downstairs before returning. ‘There’s some loose ends,’ she said.

  ‘Could we criticize their manners?’ asked Gottfried.

  ‘We could,’ she said.

  ‘But we’ll let it go,’ said Gottfried.

  ‘In that case, we’ll say good morning.’ Dobbs looked as if his brisk and outgoing approach to life and its problems had taken a little beating. ‘I hope you understand why we had to interview you, Mr Gottfried. Sorry to have spoiled your breakfast. Kippers, I see. I’ve a fondness for the occasional kipper myself. That’s all, then, thanks for putting up with us. By the way, don’t disappear again.’

  ‘Does that mean you’ll be back?’ asked Gottfried. ‘If so, let me know in advance, and I’ll see that a grilled kipper will be ready for you.’

  ‘That’s a kind thought,’ said Dobbs. ‘Good morning, then.’

  He left, and the others followed him out. Margaret Donaldson closed the front door on their going.

  ‘You satisfied, guv?’ asked Sergeant Ross on the way to the main road.

  ‘Not much,’ said the Chief Inspector.

  ‘He’s the kind that could’ve done it without blinkin’ an eyelash,’ said Sergeant Swettenham.

  ‘While he was in Scott’s?’ said Sergeant Ross.

  ‘I’ll grant that needs workin’ on,’ said Swettenham.

  ‘The two of them, Gottfried and his so-called housekeeper, ’ardly turned an ’air,’ said Inspector Davis, ‘except the woman got a bit irritable. He’s a cool customer, Gottfried. I wouldn’t trust him any farther than one of ’is tarts could throw him.’

  ‘That’s what I said,’ observed Sergeant Swettenham.

  ‘I think I’ve got a headache,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘I think we all have, guv,’ said Ross.

  ‘George,’ said the Chief Inspector, ‘do me a favour. There must be someone in Whitechapel who noticed a man who didn’t belong, but who didn’t think anything of it at the time. I’m convinced Poppy Simpson wasn’t done in by a resident, even if some of them might drown their own mothers for the price of a pint. Ask around at the pubs, and ask the known doxies if any of them were approached that night by an unusual kind of customer.’

  ‘Unusual?’ said Davis.

  ‘They’ve all got a nose for the unusual,’ said Dobbs. ‘Take Sergeant Swettenham with you.’

  ‘Well, it’s a fact it won’t do to spend all our time lookin’ for Flanagan’s murderer,’ said Davis. ‘That’ll just let the trail go cold in Whitechapel. In any case, I’d still bet on Gottfried as the cove we want for the Tooley Street job. I wouldn’t give a monkey’s tail for ’is alibi.’

  ‘A jury might,’ said Dobbs, ‘but I think I’ll call in at Scott’s.’

  ‘I’d go for Gottfried meetin’ Maureen Flanagan definite that night,’ said Sergeant Swettenham.

  ‘Yes, that’s still on the cards,’ said Dobbs. He and Sergeant Ross parted company with Inspector Davis and Sergeant Swettenham when their growler reached Aldgate. The Chief Inspector and Ross continued on to the West End. ‘What’s keeping you quiet, my lad?’ asked Dobbs.

  ‘I was with Nurse Cartright last night,’ said Ross.

  ‘Again? Have you got intentions?’

  ‘Just my feet under the table at the moment, guv,’ said Ross. ‘What I was thinking about was that Nurse Cartright suggested that as the fog was a real pea-souper on the night of the Tooley Street murder, perhaps Flanagan didn’t go out at all. I said she must have, seeing she had to be out when she copped the knife. My lady friend said that knocked her supposition on the head a bit, but, frankly, I’m wondering now if she wasn’t right.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ said Dobbs as the growler jostled for position on crowded Ludgate Hill.

  ‘Hit the bull’s-eye by accident, have we?’ said Ross.

  ‘It’s been right under our noses from the beginning,’ said Dobbs. ‘Flanagan didn’t go out, not in that pea-souper. She was murdered in her lodgings and dumped in Tooley Street. That was why there was no handbag. Remember, the Pritchards said they didn’t hear her leave. They were having a ding-dong, and thought that was the reason why they didn’t. But she stayed in her room, of course she did, and we ought to have guessed that days ago. The man who did for her wasn’t going to leave her in her lodgings, was he? That would have pointed us immediately at either a friend or acquaintance.’

  ‘Pritchard or Gottfried,’ said Ross.

  ‘Buy Nurse Cartright a large bunch of flowers, and a box of chocolates as well,’ said Dobbs. ‘Our next stop, by the way, will be Scott’s. Let’s see if they can help us to put some kind of a dent in Basil’s alibi.’

  The growler, reaching Trafalgar Square eventually, moved into the maelstrom of traffic and went on to Piccadilly Circus. From there it continued on to Scott’s bar and eating-place, where it dropped the CID men.

  There, two members of the staff struck a blow favourable to Gottfried. He was a regular patron, and yes, he had been there on the evening in question. He had a lady with him, but because of the fog they left earlier than usual, just before ten.

  ‘I’ve got the dead hand of bad luck resting heavy on my shoulders,’ said Dobbs, growling a bit as he and Sergeant Ross departed. ‘A little before ten’s not much different from a little after ten. Gottfried said after ten to put himself well on the safe side.

  ‘There’s still Pritchard,’ said Ross.

  ‘He’s favourite now,’ said Dobbs, ‘but let’s find some food first, sunshine. I’m not at my best on an empty stomach. Also, my headache’s worse and I need a whisky.’

  ‘Well, after a Scotch, would you fancy a hot meat pie at Joe’s in Covent Garden, guv?’ asked Ross.

  ‘That’ll do,’ said Dobbs. ‘Which reminds me that Archie Binns’s confession to both murders will be taken down in writing t
his afternoon. Which means the Commissioner and Fleet Street will expect him to appear at a magistrates’ court for committal once we’ve finished checking details.’

  ‘I thought that was only bluff,’ said Ross.

  ‘So it is, my lad. Checking details only means giving ourselves more time to lay our hands on the real villain or villains. By the way, we’ll put ourselves on Pritchard’s doorstep at six this evening. He’ll be home by then.’

  ‘His old lady will either faint or reach for her port,’ said Ross.

  ‘If she faints, he’s our man,’ said Dobbs, ‘but will that solve the Whitechapel murder as well?’

  ‘Search me, guv,’ said Ross.

  As they made their way to a pub, a light mist began to creep into London.

  When they returned to the Yard, a uniformed constable from Whitechapel was waiting to see Chief Inspector Dobbs. His station sergeant had sent him. He was Constable Fred Billings, and he had something to tell the Chief Inspector.

  ‘The fact is, sir, it occurred to me only this morning what ought to ’ave occurred to me at the time. That is, on the night Poppy Simpson was murdered.’

  ‘Let’s have it, then,’ said Dobbs.

  Fred explained that he was lodging in Ellen Street with two sisters and their brother, name of Cummings. On the night of Poppy Simpson’s murder he’d left the house about eleven-fifteen to meet the elder sister, Bridget Cummings, who worked in the evenings at a West End restaurant. It was very foggy, but he came face to face with her in Commercial Street. She told him she’d just met a doctor, a gent who’d attended to her when she was knocked out during the Whitechapel riots, and who said he had patients in the district that he had to see. Fred described him, tall and good-looking and probably in his early forties, well-dressed in a bowler hat and overcoat, and carrying a walking-stick and a Gladstone bag.

  ‘Typical of a doctor,’ said Sergeant Ross.

  ‘Yes,’ said Fred, ‘but I don’t recollect Whitechapel ever ’aving a well-dressed doctor doin’ the rounds of patients, nor attendin’ to any late at night. Whitechapel people that get sick usually end up dyin’ in their beds or in the Infirmary, mostly without ever ’aving seen a doctor. And I know now that when Bridget Cummings bumped into this one, it wasn’t long after Poppy Simpson was found with her throat cut.’

  ‘He’s in his early forties, you say?’ queried the Chief Inspector.

  ‘That’s the age I’d give him, sir,’ said Fred.

  Early forties. That meant he would have been about thirty, say, twelve years ago. Chief Inspector Dobbs thought what that could point to. A return of press and public interest in a resurrected Ripper. Bugger that.

  ‘Sergeant Ross,’ he said, ‘take Constable Billings to your desk and get him to write down every detail he can remember about this doctor. Do that for us, will you, constable?’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said Fred.

  ‘And when you get back to Whitechapel, give your station Superintendent my compliments and ask him if he could put some extra men on the beat tonight.’

  ‘To keep a lookout for the doctor bloke, sir?’ said Fred.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Dobbs. ‘By the way, compliments to you too for having a head on your shoulders.’

  Later that afternoon, Archie Binns made a statement that was taken down in writing and signed by him over a cup of tea sugared to his liking. Subsequently, the Chief Superintendent himself gave the press the kind of information that led them to believe a down-and-out would be formally charged with both murders, providing his confession had no holes in it.

  The information was relayed to the Prime Minister, who expressed gratitude and relief.

  Chapter Sixteen

  DAISY, HER FIRST day’s work over, left in company with other laundresses. She was more than pleased with her day, especially as the forelady had received a good report about her efforts. Passing through the sorting-room, she heard a voice she recognized, that of the young man, Percy Townsend.

  ‘’Old on a tick, Daisy gel, and I’ll see yer ’ome.’

  ‘I can see meself ’ome,’ said Daisy.

  ‘’Ello, Percy’s got ’is eye on yer already, ’as he, Daisy?’ asked a laundress.

  ‘He don’t waste time, does ’e?’ laughed Daisy, and out she went with her new friends into the rising fog of the late afternoon. Percy’s voice followed her.

  ‘See yer, Daisy gel.’

  ‘Well, ’ard luck if I see you first,’ said Daisy. Crikey, she thought, me prospects could be a lot better here than in Whitechapel. She said goodnight to the other laundresses and set off for London Bridge. When she reached it, it was full of people coming home from the City, and the bridge and the home-goers all looked dim and ghostly in the dark shrouds of winter. But she had a little bit of spring in her step.

  When she arrived home, both Bridget and Billy were there.

  ‘Bridget, ain’t you goin’ to work?’ she asked.

  ‘First, ’ow did you get on?’ asked Bridget.

  ‘Oh, there wasn’t no trouble at all,’ said Daisy.

  ‘Not from the Superintendent?’ said Bridget.

  ‘No, she was ever so welcomin’, them police officers mustn’t have told on me, that was kind wasn’t it?’ said Daisy. ‘And everyone else was ever so kind and ’elpful. They nearly all live that side of the river, but they wasn’t a bit like foreigners. The forelady said that if I was satisfact’ry at the end of a month, I’d be kept on and me wages made up to ten shillings. Won’t that be a boon, Billy?’

  ‘I ain’t goin’ to complain,’ said Billy. ‘All of us earning something, and Fred’s rent on top. And Bridget ain’t doin’ any more night work, which shows she ain’t as much short of sense as we thought. Or Fred must’ve talked serious to ’er.’

  ‘Fred Billings talks through his ’elmet mostly,’ said Bridget.

  ‘Bridget, you doin’ day work, then?’ asked Daisy.

  Bridget said she’d been out during the morning. She’d been able to talk to the kitchen manager of the restaurant, telling him that her sister was failing for want of necessities and that her brother was getting consumptive. They couldn’t be left of an evening. The kitchen manager said troubles that never came singly ought to be looked after in hospital, and that it was fortunate that she herself looked in prime condition. Bridget assured him looks were deceptive, that her night work was wearing her out. Not that she wanted to give it up, not while there was still breath in her body, but she’d be forever grateful if there was day work she could do in the kitchens. She nearly fell down when the manager said all right, start this afternoon and work from one till five, washing-up, clearing-up and helping to get the restaurant ready for the evening patrons.

  ‘Bridget, oh, today’s our luckiest one,’ said Daisy blissfully.

  Bridget said it was about eleven when she left the restaurant during the morning, so she took a tram along the Embankment and down Blackfriars Road, and when she got off she decided to go among south-London foreigners and walk to Pocock Street, to look at the empty house that Fred Bluebottle had mentioned.

  ‘Bridget, that’s not nice, callin’ Fred that,’ said Daisy.

  ‘He’s lucky I ain’t smothered ’im in his sleep,’ said Bridget.

  ‘’Ere, ’old on,’ said Billy, ’as the man in this fam’ly, Bridget, I ain’t standin’ for you gettin’ into bed with Fred, and then tryin’ to smother ’im once he’s fell asleep.’

  ‘Oh, yer saucy monkey,’ said Bridget, and darted. She plucked the frying-pan from its hook above the hob, and turned. Billy, however, wasn’t there any more. He’d vanished. She sped from the kitchen. ‘You Billy,’ she yelled up the stairs, ‘you come down ’ere and take yer medicine, or I’ll come up there and give it to you, you ’ear me?’

  ‘If yer don’t mind, Bridget,’ called Billy from the landing, ‘I’m just about to lock meself in Daisy’s room to keep meself alive. Mind you, I still ain’t ’aving you gettin’ up to larks wiv our lodger. It ain’t decent, not in th
is fam’ly it ain’t. Call me when supper’s ready.’

  ‘Oh, yer young cuss,’ yelled Bridget. ‘Me gettin’ up to larks with a copper? I’d chop me own ’ead off first.’

  ‘Bridget, stop shoutin’,’ called Daisy.

  ‘That Billy needs takin’ in hand,’ said Bridget, coming back into the kitchen and replacing the frying-pan.

  ‘You didn’t finish tellin’ me about the ’ouse across the river,’ said Daisy.

  Bridget said she’d looked at it. It had railings and a gate, it was quite a nice terraced house with a bay window, and the kids around didn’t try to nick her handbag, they just wanted to know why she was looking at the house. At least, she thought that was what they were asking about, only their south-London cockney sounded foreign.

  ‘It didn’t, did it?’ said Daisy. ‘It didn’t in the laundry.’

  ‘I’m pullin’ yer leg, you silly,’ said Bridget. ‘Anyway, I asked who the landlord was and where I could see ’im. They told me, so I’ve been thinkin’ I might go and talk to ’im one mornin’. Yes, I might. That’s if we think Billy might get a bit of a job in the area.’

  ‘Oh, ain’t today been a promisin’ one?’ said Daisy. ‘Bridget, is there something cookin’?’

  ‘Yes, a rabbit stew,’ said Bridget, ‘but it only went on the ’ob ’alf an hour ago, after I got back from me afternoon’s work, so supper’ll be a bit late.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right,’ said Daisy. Billy reappeared, although in cautious fashion. Bridget frowned at him.

  ‘’Ello, ’ow’s yerself, Bridget?’ he said. ‘’Ere, ain’t Fred ’ome yet?’

  ‘No,’ said Bridget, ‘and this ain’t ’is home, it’s where he ’appened to arrive one evening when me back was turned, and don’t think I don’t know who ’elped him.’