Ghost of Whitechapel

by Mary Jane Staples

  Ross went down on his hands and knees again. He looked, he moved about, and he dipped his nose close to sniff at the lino.

  ‘It’s been washed, guv, with soap and water,’ he said, and sat back on his heels, his expression stark. ‘Holy angels, this is where Flanagan copped it?’

  ‘Where else? It was staring us in the face from the start, my lad, the fact that the only reason why she was dumped was because having been murdered here, the murderer had to remove her. If you’d had any gumption, you’d have come up with that conclusion as soon as Nurse Cartright suggested to you that perhaps Flanagan never went out at all.’

  ‘Have a heart, guv, you didn’t come up with it, either,’ said Ross.

  ‘I grant that, but I’m not as young as you are,’ said Dobbs, ‘I take time to work things out.’ He remembered then that his young son had unconsciously given him a clue when he said no-one would want to go out in a pea-souper. ‘Now, lift that linoleum at its edge and let’s see if the cracks can tell us anything.’

  Ross used his penknife to lever lino tacks free of the floorboards. He turned the lino back. On the floor, matching the lines of the deepest cracks, were faint stains.

  ‘Bloodstains,’ said Ross.

  ‘Yes, I think we’ve as good as got the gent,’ said Dobbs. ‘Now, suppose it happened as follows, my lad. Suppose Oxberry also fancied Flanagan, but not in the same way as Pritchard. More as a handy victim. Suppose he brought her into his bedroom after she decided a distinguished-looking gent was more acceptable than a lamplighter, and could be relied on to be discreet and fairly generous. She wasn’t going to risk her front of respectability for a five-bob touch from a lamplighter, and Oxberry might have offered her as much as five quid. In fact, my lad, if he intended to do her in, he could have offered her ten quid, and she’d have been thinking she wouldn’t have to pay her pimp Godfrey a percentage of however much it was. Under the circs, and with all that fog outside, throttling London, I’d say she found the invitation irresistible, as long as Oxberry convinced her it would all take place on the quiet in his bedroom.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got to admire that chapter of suppositions, guv,’ said Ross, ‘but we’re missing something. Why should he have wanted to do her in?’

  ‘Wake up,’ said Dobbs. ‘Because he found out she was a pro and he fancied himself as a copy-cat Ripper, but without any gruesome touch.’

  ‘Steady on, guv,’ said Ross, ‘that’s the last thing you want, isn’t it, another Ripper?’

  ‘More to the point, have we got one?’ said Dobbs.

  ‘Well, guv, if he posed as a doctor in Whitechapel, I’d say it wasn’t because of visiting the sick.’

  ‘He’s our man,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘But he was taking a chance, wasn’t he, still lodging here after he’d done for Flanagan?’ said Ross. ‘Mrs Pritchard could have mentioned him when we first interviewed her, and we’d have had to interview him too.’

  ‘You heard her say why she didn’t mention him. And there’s another reason why. Because she knew he had probably heard Flanagan going for her husband when he tried it on. In any case, Oxberry might have seen the risk as a challenge. He’d have known we’d be investigating an outside job, not a job in his bedroom. There’s got to be a suitcase here somewhere. Find it.’

  It was found standing up against the wall beneath the bed. Ross pulled it out, placed it on the bed and opened it. All it contained was a slim printed booklet, with neat stiff covers. Dobbs took hold of it and opened it. It was a published version of papers issued by a physician, Sir William Gull, the subject matter being syphilis. Dobbs leafed through it, perusing paragraphs here and there, and discovering Sir William did not spare the reader in describing the repellent effects of the disease on the actions and tempers of the sufferer.

  ‘What’s it all about?’ asked Ross.

  ‘The pox, and what it can do to a victim,’ said Dobbs. ‘Note the name of the author. Sir William Gull. Sir William, my lad, was physician to the late Duke of Clarence at the time of the Ripper murders, and when the Duke’s behaviour was nowhere near what you’d call normal. I’d say Oxberry, in being in possession of this book, has got a feeling for the actions and behaviour of the Ripper. D’you know what that means, sunshine?’

  ‘That he’s got the pox?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Dobbs, ‘think some more.’

  ‘Well, I could say it means his reason for murdering Flanagan and Poppy Simpson was because he knew they were both pros,’ said Ross.

  ‘Good on you, laddie, you’ve caught up,’ said Dobbs. ‘Have a look at this bedroom fire.’

  Behind the bars of the fire was a heap of ashes.

  ‘Burned clothing?’ said Ross.

  ‘There’s no firewood in the fuel box, no coal in the scuttle,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘Well, who lights a bedroom fire unless someone’s sick and needs a warm atmosphere, guv?’

  ‘Very correct,’ said Dobbs. ‘I don’t think you’ll find any coal ashes among that lot. It’s got to be clothing. Still, you might find what’s left of buttons. You might. Wait a minute, it’s been a week since Flanagan was murdered, and three days since Poppy Simpson was similarly victimized. And Oxberry’s out, and the evening’s foggy. On top of that, what haven’t we found here?’

  ‘The perishing knife,’ said Ross.

  ‘Then we can’t afford to stand about having a chat, can we?’ said Dobbs.

  ‘Christ,’ said Ross, ‘are you thinking he’s going after another woman tonight?’

  ‘I’m thinking that if he’s got the knife on his person, he’s not going to use it for peeling onions,’ said Dobbs. ‘Where’s he likely to be?’

  ‘If he’s copying the Ripper, where else but Whitechapel?’ said Ross.

  ‘I compliment you, my son. Let’s get back to the Yard at the double. On our way out, we’ll let the Pritchards know that this floor is out of bounds, and that we’ll be sending a uniformed constable to stand guard up here. Come on, get moving, stop chewing your bowler.’

  On the way to the Yard, Dobbs came up with another possibility, that the man mentioned in Maureen Flanagan’s last letter to her mother wasn’t Gottfried, alias Godfrey, but Oxberry. After all, she’d known Gottfried for some time, whereas Oxberry had only been lodging in the same house for a month. If he’d made himself especially pleasant to her, even discreetly entertained her some evenings in his living-room, she’d have gone there happily on his invitation the evening she was murdered. Unfortunately for her, Oxberry had already found out she was a prostitute.

  ‘I’ll go along with that,’ said Sergeant Ross.

  ‘Thought you might,’ said the Chief Inspector.

  Chapter Seventeen

  BY NINE O’CLOCK, the fog hung high, gathering into itself the smoke from London’s countless chimneys. At ground level it drifted and shifted, and was semi-opaque within the region of each street lamp. Traffic in the West End was crawling, and in the East End it was sparse. In the haunts of Whitechapel, it had all but disappeared. Figures moved in and out of the lighter patches of fog, and outside the pubs shawled women and flat-capped men argued or gossiped, while doxies fixed their painted faces in expressions inviting, hopeful or coy. Coy was a little difficult for most of them, but experience told them some men preferred coyness to witchery. Inside the pubs, other men and women drank what they could afford, and either brooded on their lot or let the drink loosen their tongues. If they had homes to go to, they were none of them eager to get there. Many homes were hovels, where not even tap water was laid on. The Government still hadn’t passed legislation forcing the landlords in question to supply this basic amenity. But recent murders had brought Whitechapel and its uncivilized conditions into the news again, and Parliament was having to consider some kind of legislation to compel landlords to improve that which was merely primitive.

  The gentleman who called himself Jarvis Oxberry stood within the black lee of a house wall in Mitre Street, taking in the atmosphere created by t
he murder of Catherine Eddowes, the fourth victim of the Ripper twelve years ago. The crime had happened only yards from where he stood. He smiled to himself. The indulging of interest and inclinations was doubly exciting when it embraced such an atmosphere as this. He wondered how close Chief Inspector Dobbs was to him in his investigation. Mrs Pritchard had complained today that he was always on her doorstep. Jarvis Oxberry considered himself capable of keeping comfortably ahead of the Yard man. Tomorrow he would move, before plodding Dobbs finally hit the nail on its head and arrived at his living-room door.

  He heard a man and a woman approach him. He heard them because they were quarrelling. That was the eternal way with such people in such a neighbourhood, where want, privation and slow death stalked so many of them. Quarrelling, shouting, swearing and coming to blows were as much in evidence as dumb apathy.

  They passed him without seeing him, he invisible against the wall and the rolling fog making shapeless creatures of them. He moved away once they were at a distance, beginning his measured walk after satisfying his compulsive liking for being where the Ripper had been. He had walked in the Ripper’s footsteps frequently of late, visiting each of the five places of gruesome murder more than once.

  He was not far from Aldgate tube station. That was where he was sure a certain woman came from late at night, always hurrying, despite the fog. But unless he was mistaken, a plodding constable had decided to come and meet her each night. Not that he was bitter about having been thwarted. Frustrated, yes, because there had been something about her hurrying footsteps that tempted him to bring them to a sudden full stop and her life to its end. But it wasn’t important, his failure, since he was sure from her conversation with the policeman that she wasn’t a street-walker. She was no part of his pattern if she didn’t sell herself. He could find one who did easily enough. They proliferated around the pubs and lodging houses in this neighbourhood. Those who plied their trade from the shelter of doorways or simply by walking the streets were not in evidence tonight, however. He knew why. The fate of Poppy Simpson had scared them, and they were electing to join their kind in or outside the pubs. There was comfort in numbers. He had no intention of approaching such groups and presenting himself to a dozen calculating eyes. He was sure one or two would risk walking the streets. They all knew that some men would rather approach a solitary street walker than select one from a flaunting bevy.

  The foggy conditions, in his favour, were the kind in which he revelled. He had neither his stick nor his bag with him, just his knife. Without his stick, he was at risk himself in such a God-forsaken hole, but his left hand had to be free for the attack from behind. With the woman called Poppy, he had been able to place both stick and bag aside when the front door had been closed. He could not do that when following an intended victim in a street.

  He had plenty of time to select one. And one would surely cross his path eventually. He sauntered in anticipation, keeping to the darkest ways, and hiding himself each time he became aware there were men about.

  ‘Funny about Fred being called out,’ said Billy.

  ‘Yes, and not ’aving to put ’is uniform on,’ said Daisy.

  ‘I don’t know why you two talk about ’im as if ’e was our best friend,’ said Bridget, ‘specially as ’e’s probably been called out to ’elp victimize some starvin’ workers that’s makin’ a protest about their stingy wages.’

  ‘What, this time of night?’ said Billy. ‘Anyway, the strike’s over, the workers ’ad to go back, poor bleeders.’

  ‘The time of night don’t matter,’ said Bridget, ‘the workers and their fam’lies are starvin’ all the time. Their troubles don’t stop at night, I’ll ’ave you know. They’ve got empty stomachs twenty-four hours a day. If that copper, Fred Billings, is out there right this minute, kickin’ and bashin’ men and women near to death, ’e’s goin’ to get ’is head knocked off when ’e gets back ’ere. Then ’e’s goin’ to get chucked out, and all ’is goods and chattels chucked out after ’im.’

  ‘Oh, lor’, Bridget, I wish you wouldn’t get so cross about Fred,’ said Daisy.

  ‘It’ll spoil yer looks, Bridget, you bein’ in a state of permanent vexation,’ said Billy. ‘It’ll start showin’, it’ll make yer kind face look like a cross-patch. You got a very kind face when you ain’t bein’ cross. Look at Daisy, she’s always showin’ a kind face. So am I. It’s inherited, yer know, from our mum and dad, and we ought to take care of it and keep lookin’ kind, specially you and Daisy. Decent blokes like women with kind faces and comfortin’ bosoms. I expect Fred does too.’

  ‘Just lately, Billy Cummings, you’ve ’ad more to say for yerself than you ever ’ad before,’ said Bridget, ‘and you’re saucy with it.’

  ‘Well, it’s me advancin’ age, and the fact I consider meself the man of the fam’ly now,’ said Billy. ‘I’d be obliged, Bridget, if you’d be a bit nicer to Fred, that’s our one and only lodger and pays ’is way generous.’

  ‘Where’s the kettle?’ demanded Bridget. ‘Daisy, lift it off the hob and ’and it to me, so’s I can drop it on Billy’s ’ead.’

  ‘But, Bridget,’ said Daisy, ‘Billy only asked yer to be a bit nicer to Fred.’

  ‘Blow Fred,’ said Bridget.

  ‘You could start by puttin’ his washin’ in the copper with ours tomorrer,’ said Daisy. Monday washing had been given a miss because of Daisy’s new job and Bridget being out. Bridget was due to do it tomorrow morning. ‘I’m sure Fred would be ever so grateful.’

  ‘I can’t believe me ears,’ said Bridget. ‘Me do that blue-bottle’s washin’ and hang it on the yard line as well? And then iron it in the evening?’

  ‘I bet Fred ’ud be tickled to see ’is washin’ hanging on the line next to yer stays and petticoats and things,’ said Billy.

  ‘Daisy, I’m goin’ to break yer brother’s leg in a minute,’ said Bridget.

  ‘Bridget, you can’t,’ protested Daisy, ‘’e won’t be able to ride ’is groc’ry bike.’

  ‘Do a lot to cure ’im of ’is sauce, though,’ said Bridget. ‘Mind, I’ll admit it’s a nice change bein’ with you two of an evening instead of ’aving to be at work. I got fed up comin’ ’ome late in the fog.’

  ‘Fred was ever so pleased you managed the change to day work,’ said Daisy.

  ‘Look, if you don’t stop keepin’ on about that copper,’ said Bridget, ‘me kind face really will suffer.’

  ‘It’s still funny ’im bein’ called out, though,’ said Billy, ‘and not ’aving to be in uniform. Something’s goin’ on somewhere, that’s my opinion as the man in this fam’ly.’

  Bridget rolled her eyes and changed the conversation by saying they’d all go and look at that house across the river on Sunday. Her announcement met with unalloyed approval, and Billy said she was sometimes good of nature as well as kind of face.

  Inspector Davis and Sergeant Swettenham were among the plain-clothes men and local constables on duty, all of whom were keeping a low profile. Davis and Swettenham had experienced a useless day asking questions about strangers.

  Now they were at their own particular station in a dingy street, keeping a lookout for a man answering the description obtained by Chief Inspector Dobbs from Constable Fred Billings and the Pritchards. The fog made the responsibility difficult not only for them, but for the rest of the police on duty.

  ‘What’s the bettin’ the bugger don’t show up?’ murmured Swettenham.

  ‘You suggestin’ Chief Inspector Dobbs has got it all wrong?’ said Davis.

  ‘Not me, sir,’ said Swettenham, ‘it wouldn’t be correct.’

  It might be right, though, thought Inspector Davis.

  At ten o’clock, Jarvis Oxberry was in Buck’s Row, close to the spot where the Ripper’s first victim, Mary Ann Nichols, had been found done to death. He had arrived there by a roundabout way that kept him clear of the turgid heart of Whitechapel. He had walked south through the Minories, turned left for Mint Street and Cable Street, then
directly north up Cavell Street to Buck’s Row. He was conscious as always of the dismal overtones of Whitechapel at night. No amount of fog could hide the East End’s need of help. Somewhere a hungry urchin whined, an urchin perhaps too hungry to even to go bed. Somewhere a woman shouted. Another screamed abuse. A tired man called, ‘Put a bleedin’ sock in it, will yer?’ Another man coughed outside his door to case his diseased lungs. Not far away was a pub, and the sounds of drunken singing could be heard, although muffled by the fog.

  Jarvis Oxberry moved to the corner of Buck’s Row, and in the dim light of its street lamp he was observable for a moment or so. Then he was quite still again, listening to the drunks, to the men and women obviously out of the pub. Some of the women would be moving soon, those who had failed to pick up customers in the pub and would come looking for them. If fog kept some men away from Whitechapel, it did not keep away foreign merchant seamen or furtive characters eager for a woman.

  He waited. From the shelter of a doorway on the corner of Darling Row opposite, a man and woman watched him. He was just visible to them through the semi-opaque fog at the edge of the patch of light. He moved again, becoming invisible, but they were sure he was still there. He was waiting, that was certain, for he’d arrived all of ten minutes ago.

  A minute whisper arrived in the woman’s ear.

  ‘Going to try this bloke?’

  ‘He’ll be the fourth, blow you. Still.’

  The woman, in a skirt, blouse and warm woollen shawl, a gaudy hat on her head, crossed the street, humming a song. Reaching the corner of Buck’s Row she stopped in the light of its lamp, bent down, lifted her skirt and petticoat and pulled on the top of a gartered stocking.

  ‘Cussed thing,’ she said, then let her skirts drop. Straightening up, she looked over her shoulder. ‘Oh, ’ello, ducks, lookin’ for a nice time, are yer? I didn’t see yer at first, or I wouldn’t ’ave give yer a free look at me underpinnings. ’Ere,’ she went on boldly, ‘yer a ’andsome gent, and if me legs ’ave made yer fancy me, and you’ve got ’alf a crown to spare, I’m yer girl. Me lodgings ain’t far. ’Ow about it, eh?’