Ghost of Whitechapel

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘Not this evening, thank you,’ said Jarvis Oxberry, sizing her up.

  ‘Oh, come on, dearie, yer’ll like me.’

  ‘Here, take this shilling.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To buy you a good supper.’

  ‘Well, I ain’t goin’ to say no. Ta, mister, and bless yer.’ Her hand closed over the coin. ‘Yer sure you don’t want a little bit of what yer fancy?’

  ‘No. You may go.’

  ‘Well, a’ right, ta again,’ said the woman, and went on, up Brady Street towards the Jewish cemetery.

  He was behind her within seconds, silent and sure, tracking her through the flirting fog, his right hand in the pocket of his coat. Someone close to Buck’s Row bawled a sailor’s song tunelessly. Jarvis Oxberry took no notice, he was too intent now. But the woman stopped, turned and made him out.

  ‘Oh, ’ello again, ducks, ’ave yer changed yer mind?’ she asked.

  He leapt in sudden fury at having been discovered. It interfered with his method, which was to attack from behind, as he had with both Maureen Flanagan and Poppy Simpson, the former in his bedroom and the latter on her way to the stairs. That way, and if his knife slashed fast enough, he escaped the blood. Now his knife was out, his left hand ready to turn this new prey and to smother her mouth. However, she did a leap of her own that took her clean out of his path. He turned as swiftly as a cat and ran at her. A firm body came flying at him, crashed into his back and downed him. He thudded onto wet slimy cobbles, all breath knocked out of him, the knife slipping from his hand.

  ‘Hold him,’ said the woman, ‘and watch his knife.’

  ‘I’ve got him, and his knife,’ said Sergeant Ross, and snapped handcuffs on writhing wrists. Obscene imprecations hissed.

  ‘Listen, you, whoever you are,’ said Ross, ‘I’m a police officer and you’re under arrest. You’ll be formally charged at Whitechapel police station.’

  Jarvix Oxberry, seething, hissed, ‘Who planned this?’

  ‘Chief Inspector Dobbs of Scotland Yard.’

  ‘May he rot in hell.’

  ‘You’ll be able to tell him that,’ said Sergeant Ross. ‘Well done, Miss Cartright.’

  ‘I didn’t like the way you sang “Barnacle Bill The Sailor”,’ said Nurse Cartright shakily. Her role as a dupe had originated in the lively mind of Dobbs, but although a little pale and visibly unnerved by what it had entailed, she was able to smile faintly as she added, ‘It sounded bloody awful. You’re better at whist.’

  Constable Fred Billings, in mufti, returned to Ellen Street at eleven. Along with other constables he had been released from the evening’s special assignment, that of looking out for a copy-cat Ripper. The suspect had been nabbed.

  Bridget, Daisy and Billy were all still up.

  ‘What’s been ’appening, Fred?’ asked Billy.

  ‘Nothing to worry you,’ said Fred.

  ‘If you’ve set about the starvin’ workers again, Fred Billings,’ said Bridget, ‘you ain’t welcome in this ’ouse, and I’ll ’ave to request yer immediate departure, with all yer bags and baggage.’

  ‘Now?’ said Fred. ‘It’s me bedtime. And I’m on the side of the starvin’ workers, as you well know, Bridget Cummings.’

  ‘No, I don’t know,’ said Bridget.

  ‘You’re lookin’ real handsome tonight,’ said Fred. Bridget’s thick and lush hair, piled, was a shining crown of raven-black. She’d been giving it a lot of attention lately.

  ‘I ain’t receptive to compliments from a copper,’ she said.

  ‘Bridget, ain’t you gettin’ tired of bein’ unkind to Fred?’ protested Daisy. ‘Can’t we ’ave a change from ’earing you goin’ on and on?’

  ‘I don’t want ’im bein’ personal about me looks,’ said Bridget.

  ‘Still, when they’re right in front of me peepers,’ said Fred, ‘I consider meself entitled to comment.’

  Daisy giggled. Bridget gave her a straight look.

  ‘Something up with you, Daisy?’ she asked. ‘And what’re you grinnin’ about, Billy?’

  ‘Well, you been doin’ yer hair up a treat recent, Bridget, and it suits yer,’ said Billy. ‘I dunno what you got called out for, Fred, but while we was talkin’ about you, there was a mention that me, Daisy and Bridget ’ave all got kind faces that we inherited from our mum and dad. And Bridget’s got a fine build as well, ain’t she? Is it Bridget’s kind face and fine build that makes yer think she’s ’andsome?’

  ‘I’m admirin’ of all she’s got, Billy,’ said Fred.

  ‘Where’s the new copper stick?’ yelled Bridget. ‘I’ll do for you, Billy Cummings, and you too, Fred Billings, while I’m at it.’

  ‘Bridget, leave the new stick alone, there’s a dear,’ said Daisy, ‘you’ll only lose that one as well. And don’t shout so much.’

  ‘If anyone ever suffered more aggravation than me, it ought to be wrote down in a book for posterioty,’ fumed Bridget.

  ‘Posterity,’ said Fred.

  ‘Stop showin’ off, will yer?’ said Bridget. ‘I ’ate show-offs.’

  ‘Bridget,’ said Billy, ‘yer kind face is slippin’ a bit again.’

  ‘I’ll strangle that boy in a minute,’ said Bridget.

  ‘Time we all went to bed,’ said Fred.

  ‘Is that an order?’ asked Bridget.

  ‘Not likely,’ said Fred, ’trouble comes easy enough without me askin’ for it. I’d be happy if you’d all consider me just a fam’ly friend. I’m pleased you’re givin’ sensible thought to that house in Pocock Street, Blackfriars. It’s not Park Lane, but it’s a sight better than Whitechapel. And Daisy’s had a fav’rable start at Guy’s laundry, so I ’ear. Things are lookin’ up for all of yer, specially now Bridget’s on day work.’

  ‘I can’t ’ardly believe this,’ said Bridget, ‘I must be ’earing things.’

  ‘Sounds all right to me,’ said Billy, ‘and d’you know what, Daisy, something’s just come to me.’

  ‘What ’as?’ asked Daisy.

  ‘Well, ’aven’t you noticed?’ said Billy. ‘Fred’s got a kind face as well.’

  ‘Oh, me gawd,’ said Bridget, ‘I’m goin’ to bed before I fall sick.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  NURSE CARTRIGHT HAD RECEIVED a commendation from Chief Inspector Dobbs before being escorted home. Her role as a decoy had been a dangerous one, but she had volunteered to take it on without hesitation. With Sergeant Ross always her shadow and guard, she had approached three possible suspects at intervals and in different streets, and quickly established they could not be identified as the man called Jarvis Oxberry, of whom a very good description had been obtained. Farce entered the realms of danger when one of these men said he couldn’t afford a woman, but that he could offer her fourpence if she’d show him what she kept in her corset. She told him to keep his fourpence and went on her way, Sergeant Ross keeping her in sight all the while.

  Regarding the fourth man, she knew she could rely on Sergeant Ross to understand this man was very much a possible in that she called him a handsome gent. Those were the key words, and she’d spoken them clearly enough for Ross to hear. Ross’s drunken bawling of the sailor’s song had been to let her know the man was on her tail after she had resumed her walk.

  Dobbs, who had been in company with the Chief Superintendent during the discreet police infiltration of Whitechapel, not only expressed hearty admiration of Nurse Cartright, but subsequently suggested to Sergeant Ross that she was hardly a woman who should be encouraged to merely play whist.

  The Chief Superintendent was present at the interview with the man called Jarvis Oxberry. It took place at Scotland Yard. Dobbs and his team regarded the suspect with a great deal of interest. Jarvis Oxberry, now recovered from his bruising encounter with Sergeant Ross, showed a calm demeanour. A good-looking man with a quite distinguished air, he appeared to be in his early forties, his handsome countenance marred only by a little scar on his left temple. Dobbs put the first q
uestion.

  ‘You gave your name as Jarvis Oxberry at the Whitechapel police station,’ he said. ‘Is that correct, sir?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You didn’t give your address.’

  ‘I don’t concern myself with trivial questions.’

  ‘We believe you to be residing in Tanner Street, the Borough, as a lodger of a Mr and Mrs Pritchard.’

  ‘Who the devil are they?’

  ‘We can get them here to identify you as their lodger, sir.’

  ‘Do as you like. I’ve been accused of certain crimes. You can’t prove I’m responsible.’

  ‘You were arrested, Mr Oxberry, at a moment when you were attempting the murder of a woman.’

  Jarvis Oxberry looked contemptuous.

  ‘You can’t prove that,’ he said. ‘I didn’t lay a finger on her. An attempt at murder is only an assumption of yours.’

  ‘You were seen to follow her—’

  ‘Seen? Through the fog?’

  ‘It wasn’t thick at ground level last night,’ said Dobbs, ‘and you were seen to run at her with a knife in your hand.’

  ‘What knife?’

  ‘This one.’ Dobbs unwrapped the wicked-looking weapon.

  ‘I’ve never seen it before, except in the hand of a man who claimed to be a police officer. I only know that after I was physically assaulted, he showed the knife to me.’

  ‘You dropped it when you fell,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘That’s what you say.’

  ‘Mr Oxberry,’ said the Chief Superintendent, ‘are you denying you followed the lady and ran at her?’

  ‘I followed her, yes, she had stolen a shilling from me. I didn’t need a knife to prevail on her to give the coin back.’

  ‘She – um – acquired the coin by picking your pocket, did she?’ asked Dobbs.

  ‘It was in my coat pocket. I occasionally keep a coin or two there.’

  ‘I can’t recollect that the lady is known for picking pockets,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘Well, you know now,’ said Oxberry.

  ‘Why were you in Whitechapel, sir?’ asked Inspector Davis.

  ‘What nosy people you are, but if you must know I’ve an interest in certain types of crime, and I’ve recently indulged that interest by making the rounds of the area notorious for being associated with Jack the Ripper. May I go now?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir,’ said Dobbs, fiddling with his watch chain. ‘There’s the murder of Maureen Flanagan to be considered. Miss Flanagan also lodged with Mr and Mrs Pritchard. We suggest the crime took place in your bedroom.’

  ‘That suggestion is pitiful. The woman was unknown to me.’

  ‘Was she? Could she have been when she lodged on the same floor of the house as you?’

  ‘Being aware of another lodger isn’t the same as knowing her,’ said Jarvis Oxberry dismissively.

  ‘There are bloodstains on the flooring planks beneath the linoleum in your bedroom, Mr Oxberry,’ said Dobbs, looking cheerful at being able to deliver that piece of information.

  A little flicker disturbed Oxberry’s lashes, but he said, quite calmly, ‘There may be. I know nothing of them.’

  ‘They’re undergoing expert examination,’ said Dobbs. ‘Further, there are ashes in the fire and the pan. What did you burn there, sir?’

  ‘I’ve lit no fires. Nor can you prove I did.’

  ‘What d’you do for a living?’ asked Dobbs.

  ‘Very little. I mainly exist on my savings and what I earn as a part-time shop assistant.’

  ‘In the men’s outfitters in the Strand?’ said Sergeant Ross.

  ‘That’s correct. ‘I’m committed to a quiet and respectable life.’

  The Chief Superintendent said, ‘How respectable is it, sir, to indulge a morbid interest in the devilish crimes of Jack the Ripper?’

  ‘I consider that a childish question,’ said Oxberry.

  Dobbs studied the man’s features more intently, and surprised himself with a sudden feeling that they weren’t completely unfamiliar. It wasn’t a strong feeling, it was merely a vague stirring in his mind.

  However, he said, ‘Mr Oxberry, have we met before, would you say?’

  ‘Never.’ The answer was incisive.

  ‘You surrendered your wallet at Whitechapel police station,’ said Dobbs. ‘It contained twenty-seven pounds, and nothing else, nothing to prove you are Jarvis Oxberry. I suggest you’re hiding your real identity.’

  ‘You can suggest what you like, but the fact is your accusations that I’m responsible for certain crimes are based on no proof, and my own suggestion is that you let me go.’

  ‘You’re being held very definitely in respect of your attack on a woman, Mr Oxberry,’ said the Chief Superintendent. ‘We’ll resume interviewing you in the morning, and if you wish to have your solicitor present, you may do so. Overnight, you’ll be detained in a cell.’

  ‘You’re making a serious mistake,’ said Jarvis Oxberry, ‘but I should at least like a cup of tea before I retire. No sugar, thank you.’

  He was taken down and given a cup of tea, but not before the Chief Inspector had made another study of his features, a searching one.

  ‘Charlie,’ said the Chief Superintendent before leaving, ‘he’s going to be difficult to break.’

  ‘We’ll get him for the attempted murder of Nurse Cartright,’ said Dobbs, ‘and for the murder of Maureen Flanagan.’

  ‘I think we’ll succeed with the attempted murder,’ said the Chief Superintendent, ‘but we can do with more than circumstantial evidence in respect of Maureen Flanagan. See you in the morning.’

  Dobbs spoke to Sergeant Ross a minute later.

  ‘About our guest, Archie Binns.’

  ‘Yes, guv?’

  ‘We won’t release him yet, not until we’ve cracked Oxberry. Archie won’t mind, as long as we keep feeding him. Oh, and search those ashes for buttons first thing in the morning.’

  ‘We need buttons, guv, Oxberry’s as tough as Gottfried.’

  ‘Don’t I know it. For instance, in respect of the buttons, who’s going to be able to say a burned set belonged to one of Flanagan’s blouses? Still, make the search. Goodnight. Compliments to Nurse Cartright.’

  Mrs Daphne Dobbs was still up when her husband at last arrived home.

  ‘Daffie, what’s kept you out of bed?’

  ‘Oh, just the fact of being a dutiful wife, Charlie. Would you like a hot toddy or d’you want to go straight up?’

  ‘Let’s have a hot toddy.’

  ‘Has the man confessed?’ asked Daphne. Charlie had telephoned to let her know he’d be exceptionally late on account of a suspect being charged. The Metropolitan Police had paid for the installation of a telephone last year.

  ‘No, he’s denying everything, and we’re carrying the heavy burden of no real proof, sod it,’ said Charlie.

  ‘I’ll overlook that,’ said Daphne, and the two of them transferred themselves to the kitchen, where she set about preparing the hot bedtime toddies. When they were ready, she and Charlie sat at the kitchen table to enjoy them. Charlie was thoughtful. ‘Penny for them,’ said Daphne.

  ‘I had a funny feeling that I’d seen this bloke Oxberry somewhere before,’ said Charlie. ‘Not recently, sometime in the past.’

  ‘In a police prison cell, perhaps?’ suggested Daphne.

  ‘You could be right on target,’ said Charlie. ‘You’re a bright girl, Daphne.’

  ‘Well, I was very bright once, when I married you instead of your rival, my charming floorwalker,’ smiled Daphne.

  ‘I’ve got fond memories of my lucky day,’ said Charlie. ‘I wonder now, has Oxberry got a police record?’

  Chapter Nineteen

  THE CHEAP ALARM clock woke Daisy at a quarter to seven. She was up at once, and roused Billy when she was washed and dressed.

  ‘Come on, Billy, wake up, Christmas is comin’.’

  ‘Well, it ain’t gettin’ me out of my bed,’ said Billy drowsily.
/>
  ‘Yes, it is, and I’m doin’ a beef sausage each for breakfast, with scrambled egg.’

  Billy sat up, hair any old how, nightshirt rumpled.

  ‘That’s different,’ he said. ‘Crikey, all this rich livin’ lately, ain’t you a marvel, Daisy?’

  ‘Just splashin’ out a bit,’ said Daisy. ‘We’ll let Bridget sleep on a while, and I’ll put ’ers in the oven.’

  Bridget woke up to an aroma. It drew her out of bed, and her bare feet hit the cold lino. She hissed with the shock of it, then thought of the many slum dwellings in which all lino had been ripped up to feed fires, and bare feet trod cold floorboards and suffered splinters. Putting a coat on over her old flannel nightie, she went downstairs and entered the kitchen, her hair loose and tumbling. She stopped to stare.

  Daisy, Billy and Fred were all at table and eating a cooked breakfast. The large pot of tea stood on the table under its cosy.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said, ’might I be informed what’s goin’ on?’

  ‘Daisy’s cooked a sausage each for us with scrambled egg,’ said Billy, ‘and me and Fred can ’ardly believe our luck. Yours is in the oven, keepin’ ’ot.’

  ‘Yes, you don’t ’ave to get up as early as us,’ said Daisy.

  ‘Wait a minute, what’s Constable Fred Billings doin’, sittin’ at our breakfast table?’ asked Bridget.

  ‘He’s eatin’ ’is sausage and egg,’ said Billy.

  ‘Our sausage and egg, if yer don’t mind,’ said Bridget.

  ‘Morning, Bridget,’ said Fred, uniformed.

  ‘You’ve got a sauce, invitin’ yerself to breakfast,’ said Bridget.

  ‘Well, no, I invited ’im,’ said Daisy, ‘seein’ there was four sausages to the ’alf-pound that was in the larder. Yes, and Fred says he’ll pay fourpence for any breakfasts we give ’im. He’s give us ’is fourpence for this one.’

  ‘I’m bein’ undermined by me own sister,’ said Bridget, ‘and me own brother.’

  ‘Come on, Bridget, sit down and ’ave yours now you’re ’ere,’ said Billy. ‘We’ve near finished ours.’