Ghost of Whitechapel

by Mary Jane Staples

  Bridget sniffed.

  ‘I don’t ’appen to be dressed for sittin’ down,’ she said.

  ‘It don’t bother me,’ said Fred. ‘Mind, I’ll admit this is the first time I’ve seen you not dressed for sittin’ down, but it still don’t bother me. In fact, not dressed for sittin’ down suits yer at this time of the morning.’

  ‘Oh, it does, does it?’ said Bridget.

  ‘If I might be so bold as to say so,’ said Fred, ‘it goes with yer rosy flush of sleep.’

  ‘Oh, ’elp,’ breathed Daisy, alarm bells ringing at the look on Bridget’s face.

  ‘In my opinion,’ said Fred, ‘it ain’t every woman that can show a rosy flush of sleep to go with—’

  ‘Watch out, Fred,’ said Billy.

  As Fred bolted from the house thirty seconds later, a rolling-pin came after him. It flew through the air and knocked his helmet off. He could have gone back and arrested Bridget, but decided not to.

  Fred was a wise copper, all things considered.

  ‘Watcher, Daisy gel, I missed yer last night.’

  So said Percy Townsend as Daisy approached the entrance to the laundry that morning. Percy was weighed down with a large sack of hospital washing, but still had a light in his eyes.

  ‘What d’you mean, you missed me?’ asked Daisy.

  ‘Well, you wasn’t where I ’oped you’d be, outside the Elephant and Castle Theatre,’ said Percy, entering the sorting-room behind her.

  ‘Oh, what ’ard luck,’ said Daisy, ‘and I can’t stay talkin’, except where d’you live?’

  ‘Old Kent Road,’ said Percy.

  ‘Is that near Blackfriars Road?’ asked Daisy, amid the hustle and bustle of bags and bundles and sacks.

  ‘Stone’s throw,’ said Percy.

  ‘Well, fancy that,’ said Daisy, ‘you might be just a stone’s throw from where I’ll be livin’ soon. So long for now.’

  Get that man to the Old Bailey, and get enough proof to ensure a conviction.

  That message came down to the CID from the Police Commissioner. The Minister for Home Affairs wanted the whole thing out of the way as soon as possible, and with it, all further reference to the case of Jack the Ripper and the dire poverty of the Queen’s subjects of the East End.

  ‘Well, guv,’ said Sergeant Ross when he arrived at the Yard from his stint at the Pritchards’ house, ‘you might say I come bearing gifts, even if I couldn’t find any buttons or button remnants in those ashes. First, what I did find was a smoky-looking handbag lodged up the chimney, and, second, a certain note in the pocket of one of Oxberry’s jackets. There’s the handbag. D’you like it?’

  It was a brown, soft-leather handbag, dirty with soot and smoke. Ross had made no attempt to clean it. It contained the little items common to most ladies’ handbags.

  ‘Yes, I do like it, my lad,’ said Dobbs. ‘Yes, I can say that with confidence. My word, it does look filthy, doesn’t it? Has it been identified as belonging to Maureen Flanagan?’

  ‘Yes, by the Pritchards. Further, guv, as we left before we’d made a thorough search of Oxberry’s bedroom last night, due to having to leave in a hurry, I did a bit more after locating the handbag. That’s when I found this note.’

  It was a folded slip of paper bearing the pencilled words, ‘Collection of Published Writings of GULL. New Sydenham Soc.’

  ‘I see,’ said Dobbs, ‘yes, I do see. He made a note of something else he wanted to read, something published by the New Sydenham Society. Sir William Gull again. I think, my son, that our man was being what you might call self-seduced into the lamentable world of the Ripper, and probably mesmerized by who and what the Ripper was – hold on, where’s that anonymous note we received?’

  ‘On the file, guv.’

  ‘Get it, there’s a good bloke. Let’s make sure we’ve got something to hit Oxberry hard with when we see him this time.’

  The anonymous note, produced, was placed beside the note found in one of the suspect’s suits. The Chief Superintendent and Inspector Davis entered Dobbs’s office then, and each took his turn to examine the handwriting. The Chief Superintendent agreed that whatever little differences existed elsewhere, the formation of the capital letters in both notes was by the same hand. That needed to be confirmed by an expert, of course.

  ‘Have we got enough to break him?’ asked Inspector Davis.

  ‘We’ve got bloodstains on his bedroom floor which I’m certain will have come from Maureen Flanagan,’ said Dobbs. ‘We’ve also got her handbag, found up his bedroom chimney, his knife, a note relating to a physician who was treating the Duke of Clarence at the time of the Ripper murders, and a publication on syphilis and its effects as written by that same physician, Sir William Gull.’

  ‘Forget those last items,’ said the Chief Superintendent brusquely.

  ‘They’re evidence of Oxberry’s interest in the Ripper and his possible identity,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘They’re inadmissable,’ said the Chief Superintendent.

  ‘On your orders?’ asked Dobbs.

  ‘The Public Prosecutor’s,’ said the Chief Superintendent.

  ‘On what grounds, might I ask?’ said Dobbs.

  ‘You know damn well, Charlie.’

  ‘On the other hand,’ said Dobbs, ‘there’s no reason why we can’t use them in our interrogation of Oxberry, is there?’

  ‘I’ll allow that,’ said the Chief Superintendent, ‘but no mention of them is to be made in the notes.’

  ‘Tricky,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘I hope you’ll be able to break Oxberry without reference to them,’ said the Chief Superintendent.

  ‘Well,’ said Dobbs in optimistic vein, ‘clouting him with the handbag might even knock him out.’

  The Chief Superintendent, usually with Dobbs all the way, looked on this occasion as if the Chief Inspector’s euphemistic comment was out of order.

  ‘It might take more than the handbag to rattle him,’ said Inspector Davis.

  ‘Well, I grant you,’ said Dobbs, ’he may be certifiable, but he’s no half-wit.’

  ‘And he hasn’t asked for a solicitor,’ said Inspector Davis.

  ‘He likes the challenge of fighting us on his own,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘He liked the challenge of jumping Nurse Cartright from behind,’ said Ross.

  ‘Call that a challenge?’ said Inspector Davis.

  ‘It might have been to him,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘Let’s have him up,’ said the Chief Superintendent.

  Jarvis Oxberry complained to begin with that he hadn’t been allowed to shave. The Chief Superintendent said the supply of a razor to a prisoner was forbidden.

  ‘To prevent me cutting my throat? That’s laughable. Why should an innocent man think about doing away with himself?’

  ‘Well, you are innocent, sir, until you’re proved guilty,’ said Dobbs, with Sergeant Ross taking notes. ‘Are you sure, by the way, that you don’t wish to have a solicitor?’

  ‘Quite sure. I don’t need one. All your questions are based on insupportable theories and accordingly ridiculous.’

  ‘Not all, I hope,’ said Dobbs briskly. ‘Now, do you still say you had no contact with Miss Flanagan on the night of her murder?’

  ‘I do say so, of course I do. I was out all evening.’

  ‘So was Miss Flanagan, wasn’t she?’ said Dobbs. ‘Was she out with you?’

  ‘Out? You said last night—’ The suspect checked. ‘Never mind. I state categorically I had no contact with her.’

  ‘Mr and Mrs Pritchard have assured us you were in, that they heard you.’

  ‘If it’s a question of my word against theirs,’ said Oxberry, ‘I doubt them being given the benefit of the doubt. People addicted to drink make unreliable witnesses. The man Pritchard is an unwholesome character altogether, make no mistake, and if it’s true that this unfortunate woman, Miss – what was her name?’

  ‘Maureen Flanagan,’ said Inspector Davis.

  ‘If it’s
true she was murdered in my bedroom while I was out you’d all be wiser to look closer at Pritchard than at me.’

  Dobbs smiled.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he said, ‘we received an anonymous letter pointing us at Mr Pritchard. What a surprise it was to discover it was in your handwriting, sir.’

  ‘You’re an idiot,’ said Oxberry.

  ‘Oh, I’ve had my moments,’ said Dobbs, ‘and you’ve had a careless one. You left a note lying about.’

  ‘You’re mistaken.’

  ‘No, we’ve got it, sir,’ said Inspector Davis.

  ‘You may say you have,’ said Oxberry.

  ‘We do say,’ said Dobbs, ‘and that and the anonymous letter have been under expert examination this morning.’ Sergeant Ross hid a smile. ‘You wrote them both, Mr Oxberry.’

  ‘I deny it, naturally. What note are you talking about?’

  Dobbs glanced at the Chief Inspector, who gave him a warning look.

  ‘We’ll come to that later, Mr Oxberry,’ said Dobbs, and opened up the brown paper parcel to disclose the sooty handbag. ‘This is Miss Flanagan’s handbag. It was found in your bedroom chimney, lodged there. Can you explain how it got there?’ It was the Chief Inspector’s belief that the man had overlooked it when he left the house to carry the dead woman to Tooley Street.

  ‘I can offer a guess that it was planted in an attempt to incriminate me, either by your men or by the man who dealt Miss Flanagan her death blow. Incidentally, haven’t you forgotten something? As I understood it from newspapers, Miss Flanagan’s body was found in a street, not my bedroom.’

  ‘You’re referring to the newspapers we found in your cupboard?’ said Dobbs.

  ‘Am I to be charged with keeping newspapers in a cupboard?’

  ‘Didn’t you further understand from their reports that Miss Flanagan wasn’t murdered where she was found? She was carried there, and by you, I suggest, sometime during the night.’

  Oxberry laughed.

  ‘Dobbs,’ he said, ‘you’re clutching at straws in the wild wind. You’ve no proof at all that I committed this murder, let alone any hope of proving I carried her to where she was found.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘By the way, sir, why ’ave you been posing as a doctor?’ asked Inspector Davis.

  Jarvis Oxberry shut his mouth tightly, and the small pink scar on his temple deepened in colour. He took time to speak.

  ‘Is that a serious question, or is Scotland Yard staffed by idiots?’

  ‘Oh, some idiots can ask serious questions, y’know,’ said Dobbs, ‘and we do happen to have a witness who heard you tell a young woman you were a doctor. She’d taken a knock during the riots in Whitechapel, and let you attend to her.’

  ‘Nothing of the kind.’

  ‘A police constable was present,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘He’s the witness?’ Oxberry looked caustic. ‘A police constable? Well, he would be one of you, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘He and the young woman can identify you,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘Who could accurately identify anyone in that fog?’ said Oxberry.

  ‘He had his lamp on you and the young woman,’ said Dobbs, ‘and the young woman recognized you when she bumped into you in Whitechapel on the night Poppy Simpson was murdered. You spoke together, Mr Oxberry. You had with you a walking-stick and a Gladstone bag. Is this the bag, sir?’

  It was Inspector Davis who produced it and placed it on the interview-room table. Oxberry regarded it calmly.

  ‘It looks like mine,’ he said.

  ‘It was found under your bed, Mr Oxberry,’ said the Chief Superintendent.

  ‘Really? How interesting.’

  ‘It contains bottles of cheap medicine, headache powders and a stethoscope,’ said Dobbs. ‘I suggest you adopted the look and title of a doctor to give yourself the commendable appearance of a professional gentleman above suspicion, and that in the case of the injured young woman you were unable to resist acting the part.’

  ‘Above suspicion of what?’

  ‘Well,’ said Dobbs, ‘let’s say something like the murder of Poppy Simpson, a known prostitute.’

  Oxberry laughed again.

  ‘What comes next, Dobbs, my implication in the Gunpowder Plot?’ he said. ‘You’re running around in demented circles.’

  The Chief Superintendent reached and opened the Gladstone bag.

  ‘Mr Oxberry, why have you been carrying these items in your bag?’ he asked.

  Oxberry took a look.

  ‘These items are foreign to me, since I’ve never seen them before,’ he said. ‘I should like to know where such things and the knife and the so-called note come from.’

  ‘I daresay we can sort that out,’ said Dobbs. ‘After all, you’ve heard of the Yard’s fingerprint system of identification, haven’t you?’

  ‘You’ll be lucky to find—’ Mr Oxberry checked and shut his mouth tightly again.

  ‘Lucky to find fingerprints on any of these items?’ said Dobbs, who knew there were none. And the only fingerprints on the knife were blurred. ‘You’ve handled everything with your gloves on?’

  ‘Everything you’ve shown me are items I’ve never seen before.’

  ‘A jury might not think so,’ said Inspector Davis.

  ‘You’ve no case to put before any jury,’ said Oxberry. ‘You can prove nothing. Dobbs has the wrong man, and he knows it.’

  ‘Mr Oxberry,’ said the Chief Superintendent, ‘the lino of your bedroom floor has been washed clean with soap and water.’

  ‘I’m delighted to hear it,’ said Oxberry. ‘Thank the landlady for me. Perhaps I should buy her a bottle of port, her favourite tipple.’

  ‘Let’s see,’ said Dobbs thoughtfully, ‘has the blood group of the floor stains been established, Sergeant Ross?’

  ‘Same group as Miss Flanagan’s,’ said Ross.

  ‘That doesn’t look too good for you, Mr Oxberry,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘Nor for you,’ said Oxberry, ‘since it doesn’t prove I was responsible for her murder. I stand on my statement that I was out all evening, pursuing my interest in the actions of Jack the Ripper. You may think that interest strange, but it’s no more than the interest shown by any number of people over the years. I really think it’s time you released me, for you’re getting nowhere, and you know it. You must look for someone else, and I demand you let me go.’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Dobbs, ‘no, I don’t think so, not yet. There’s your attempted murder of a woman as solid grounds for holding you.’

  Oxberry’s scar turned livid.

  ‘Damn you for that put-up job,’ he hissed.

  ‘That scar of yours,’ said Dobbs, ‘how did it come about?’

  ‘By reason of tripping and falling fifteen years ago,’ said Oxberry. ‘Any doctor will tell you it’s an old scar.’

  ‘It changes colour,’ said Inspector Davis.

  ‘Yes, so it does, I believe,’ said Oxberry, ‘but only when idiots strain my temper.’

  ‘You wouldn’t like to make a statement, I suppose?’ said Dobbs.

  ‘About a piffling scar?’ said Oxberry.

  ‘About your involvement in the murder of Maureen Flanagan and Poppy Simpson.’

  ‘You’re making a complete fool of yourself,’ said Oxberry.

  ‘Well, we’ll give you time to think about a confession,’ said Dobbs. ‘D’you still not want the help of a solicitor?’

  Oxberry smiled.

  ‘You’re the one who needs help, Dobbs, not I,’ he said.

  ‘We’ll see,’ said Dobbs. ‘That’s all for the time being.’

  Oxberry was taken back to his cell. The Chief Superintendent regarded Dobbs soberly.

  ‘Any competent defence counsel will make a good case for him,’ he said, ‘even for his attempted murder of Nurse Cartright.’

  ‘We can’t even be sure of proving he was in ’is lodgings when Maureen Flanagan had her throat cut,’ said Davis, ‘especially if his counsel makes
mincemeat of the Pritchards.’

  ‘Which his counsel will do if they say they only heard him,’ said the Chief Superintendent.

  ‘Well, somehow we’ve got to break him,’ said Dobbs. ‘He was close to blowing up once or twice. George, go to the outfitters in the Strand and find out if Oxberry really did work part-time there. Take Sergeant Swettenham with you.’

  ‘I can’t see how that will help,’ said Davis.

  ‘It might help us to prove he’s a liar,’ said Dobbs, who had already established, regretfully, that the man had no police record.

  Chapter Twenty

  A LITTLE AFTER six, Bridget, Daisy and Billy arrived home from their jobs almost together. Fred was already there, in the kitchen, frying a large amount of lamb’s liver and bacon.

  ‘’Ere, now what’s goin’ on?’ demanded Bridget, as fulsome a figure of womanhood as ever was in Whitechapel.

  ‘Good evening, Bridget,’ said Fred, looking homely in his shirt, braces and trousers. ‘Evening, Daisy and Billy. I thought I’d be a bit of a help instead of just a lodger, seein’ you’ve all been out to work while I came off duty early. The potatoes are ready, margarined and mashed, and the lamb’s liver and bacon won’t be long, nor the tinned peas.’

  ‘Fred, you’re a bloke after me own ’eart,’ said Billy.

  ‘Yes, you’re a dear, Fred,’ said Daisy.

  ‘No, he ain’t,’ said Bridget, ‘he’s comin’ it.’

  ‘But, Bridget, ’e’s cookin’ our supper,’ said Daisy, ‘and lamb’s liver and all, and we only ever ’ave ox liver usually.’

  ‘He’s tryin’ to make ’imself one of the fam’ly,’ said Bridget. ‘Yes, and where’d you get the bacon and lamb’s liver from, might I ask, Fred Billings?’

  ‘I sincerely ’ope you won’t mind I contributed them,’ said Fred.

  ‘Well, I do mind,’ said Bridget.

  ‘I don’t,’ said Billy.

  ‘Oh, and I don’t, either, not really,’ said Daisy.

  ‘Any lodger that contributes and cooks a supper for us ought to be taken to the fam’ly bosom,’ said Billy.

  ‘Well, this partic’lar lodger ain’t bein’ taken to my bosom, nor Daisy’s,’ said Bridget.

  ‘That just leaves mine,’ said Billy, ‘and I ain’t really got one that you’d call noticeable. Still, a bloke can’t ’ave ev’rything, can ’e?’