Ghost of Whitechapel

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘Why don’t you all take yer hats and coats off and sit down?’ said Fred. ‘Then I’ll dish up. I’ve got the plates in the oven, and I’ve set the table.’

  ‘’Ere, what’s yer game, Fred Billings?’ asked Bridget.

  ‘Well, I’ve been thinkin’ a bit,’ said Fred, ‘and it occurred to me you’ve all suffered years of struggle without yer parents. So I said to meself it’s time you ’ad someone to be a sort of Salvation Army comfort to yer.’

  ‘Salvation Army whatter?’ said Bridget. ‘Daisy, ’e’s gone off ’is rocker.’

  ‘Still, it’s a kind thought, and we ought to ’ave a bit of religion around,’ said Daisy. ‘Let’s all take our ’ats and coats off and sit down.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Billy, ‘then our bit of religion can dish up.’

  Bridget uttered a strangled yell and rushed upstairs. Seconds later something clumped and bumped down the stairs to hit the passage floor. Billy darted to investigate.

  ‘Billy, what’s happened?’ called Daisy.

  ‘Bridget’s chucked Fred’s Sunday boots down the stairs,’ called Billy.

  ‘Oh, well, now she’s done that she’ll be all right in a minute,’ said Daisy. ‘Come and ’ave yer supper, Billy.’

  ‘Bridget, you comin’ down now to ’ave yer supper?’ called Billy.

  ‘Yes, I am, so tell that bit of religion to say ’is prayers!’ yelled Bridget.

  ‘Oh, all right,’ called Billy.

  But Bridget arrived without any aggravation showing and sat down with the others to a tasty supper.

  ‘All right, are yer, Bridget?’ asked Fred kindly.

  ‘I’m watchin’ you, Fred Billings, don’t think I ain’t,’ she said. ‘I know what your game is.’

  ‘What game is that?’ asked Billy.

  ‘Gettin’ as close as ’e can to me virtue,’ said Bridget.

  Daisy shrieked. Billy grinned.

  ‘Well, I ain’t goin’ to stand in Fred’s way,’ he said.

  Daisy shrieked again.

  Bridget glowered.

  Fred laid kind eyes on her virtuous bosom.

  With Jane and William in their beds, Mrs Daphne Dobbs said to Charlie, ‘You can talk about it now.’

  ‘He’s getting at me,’ said Charlie.

  ‘This man Oxberry?’ said Daphne.

  ‘I’ve got a peculiar feeling it’s a personal battle just between him and me,’ mused Charlie.

  ‘Well, I suppose it would be,’ said Daphne, knitting away. ‘After all, he knows you’re in charge of the investigation.’

  ‘I think it’s a bit more than that,’ said Charlie. ‘The saucy sod keeps calling me Dobbs.’

  ‘What’s he like exactly?’

  ‘Cool, clever, handsome and impertinent,’ said Charlie. ‘He actually has been working for the men’s outfitters in the Strand. George Davis checked. It’s difficult to shake the swine. He makes all the proof we offer sound like circumstantial evidence. But he’s been close to losing his temper a couple of times. It showed. He’s got a scar on his left temple that turns livid, and his mouth shuts tight.’

  The knitting needles stopped clicking, and Daphne stared at her husband.

  ‘Did you say a scar, Charlie?’

  ‘A small one, but very visible,’ said Charlie.

  ‘And it discolours when you feel he’s getting angry?’

  ‘It happened twice,’ said Charlie.

  ‘My God,’ breathed Daphne.

  ‘Something worrying you, Daffie?’

  ‘The incredible,’ said Daphne, body stiff. ‘Charlie, fetch me our family album, there’s a love.’

  ‘Family album?’

  ‘Just fetch it. It’s in the bottom drawer of the bureau.’

  Charlie fetched it and gave it to her. She opened it up, leafed through the first two pages and stared at a certain photograph. The family album was her labour of love, all photographs neatly inserted.

  ‘You’re making me curious,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Look at that,’ said Daphne, and passed the open album to him. She leaned and put a finger on one of the photographs. He inspected it. It was a photograph of her parental family, of her mother and father, her sister, her married brother and his wife and small boy, and of herself standing next to a tall good-looking man. ‘That was taken before I married you,’ said Daphne, ‘and I kept it because it’s the only one I had of all my family together, not because Edward is in it.’

  ‘Edward?’ said Charlie.

  ‘Edward Vincent,’ said Daphne.

  ‘Your old flame?’ said Charlie. ‘I’d forgotten his name.’ He took a more clinical look at the photograph. ‘Well, I’m damned,’ he said, ‘now I know why I had a feeling I’d seen Oxberry before. It wasn’t in person, it was in this photograph. I took a good look at it the first time I saw it, because I knew then the bloke had been my rival.’

  ‘Charlie, do you think the man Oxberry could be Edward Vincent?’ asked Daphne, slightly short of breath. ‘Edward had that scar when I knew him, and I saw it turn very livid once, when I had to tell him I was going to marry you.’

  ‘I never met him,’ said Charlie.

  ‘No, I was never foolish enough to bring the two of you together,’ said Daphne. ‘He was a near neighbour and I’d known him for quite a while before you came into my life. His job was that of a floorwalker, as you know, and he always looked the part.’ Daphne remembered how often he seemed to arrive silently at her side, and how courteous he was. ‘I thought him very pleasant, polite and well-mannered until the moment when I had to let him know I was engaged to you. I never mentioned it to you, but he became horribly unpleasant, and I couldn’t repeat some of the things he said, especially about you. But I can tell you he said that one day he’d make your life not worth living. His scar was a vivid red, his expression so ugly. Charlie, is Oxberry’s scar a little straight line of pink puckered skin?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Charlie.

  ‘My God,’ breathed Daphne, ‘then he could be Edward Vincent. That photograph is fourteen years old, but can you recognize Oxberry in Edward?’

  ‘Yes, it’s him, Daffie. Our suspect and your floorwalker are one and the same, I’ll lay the Bank of England on it. Strike my Sunday shirt-tails, d’you know what he’s been up to?’

  ‘You tell me, Charlie, I’m too shaken to make guesses.’

  ‘Looks like it’s even put you off your knitting,’ said Charlie. ‘Edward Vincent, alias Jarvis Oxberry, is playing Jack the Ripper at my expense and the expense of his victims. You could say he can only think about me and the Ripper, and he’s giving me the headache of the century. Well, from what you’ve just said, he had some idea about making me look a failure, a very peculiar way of getting his own back for losing you to me. He’s very sure of himself, and probably believed I wouldn’t be up to tracking him down. All the senior officers on the Ripper case were classed as failures by the public, the newspapers and certain authorities. It broke some of them. Edward Vincent is probably hoping this case will break me. Jesus Christ, could anyone ever get into his kind of mind? Well, for God’s sake, why didn’t he simply make an attempt to murder me instead of taking the lives of two women who’d done him no harm at all? I suppose the answer is that the Ripper’s ghost took hold of him, and that he enjoyed the feeling of power his knife gave him.’

  ‘Charlie, how could he have known you’d be in charge of the investigation?’ asked Daphne.

  ‘It was almost certain I would,’ said Charlie. ‘I was the Yard’s bright boy at the time Maureen Flanagan’s body was found. Dalston police wanted me to investigate another case – a woman beaten to death – but the Yard sent another officer.’

  ‘Charlie, you’ll have a dramatic confrontation with your suspect in the morning,’ said Daphne.

  ‘I won’t dress up for it,’ said Charlie. ‘By the way, I’ll borrow this photograph for a bit if I may.’

  ‘You can always borrow whatever you want from me,’ said Daphne, ‘an
d some things you don’t have to borrow, they’re yours for keeps.’

  ‘Such as?’ said Charlie, extracting the photograph.

  ‘Me, William and Jane,’ said Daphne.

  He woke up with a start in the middle of the night. He might have woken Daphne, to ask a question of her, but he spared her that. He returned to his sleep, and put the question to her after the alarm went off.

  ‘He was a floorwalker at the Stamford Hill stores when you knew him, Daffie?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Edward Vincent.’

  ‘Oh. I see. You’re already at the Yard. Yes, the Stamford Hill stores.’

  ‘And where did he live? Can you remember?’

  ‘Yes. Downs Park Road, south of Stamford Hill, and in a bachelor flat not far from my parents’ house. Why’d you ask?’

  ‘I’ve got a bee in my bonnet.’

  ‘About Edward Vincent?’

  ‘About him and his walking-stick, and if he still lives south of Stamford Hill, not far from Queensbridge Road, Dalston.’

  At half-past nine the following morning, Chief Inspector Dobbs and Sergeant Ross were received by the general manager of the Stamford Hill stores. Agreeing to help them with their enquiries, he informed them that Mr Edward Vincent had been promoted from floorwalker to departmental manager in 1895, but left seven weeks ago. He also confided to the CID men that Mr Vincent had been acting peculiarly for months prior to giving notice.

  ‘Peculiarly?’ said Sergeant Ross.

  ‘He referred to every matter as trivial, he referred to the store itself as trivial, and that he had more important things to do. We invited him to resign, and that was when he gave notice.’

  ‘I’d be obliged if you’d let us have his address,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘Under the circumstances, I’ve no objection,’ said the general manager, and gave the address as Flat two, nineteen Downs Park Road, Hackney Downs.

  After a few more questions and answers, the Chief Inspector and Sergeant Ross took themselves off to the address. Flat two was empty. Ross went into action and sprang the lock of the door. They entered. The first thing of interest they came across was a collection of books on the case of Jack the Ripper. The next was a folded raincoat of water-proofed gaberdine in a small suitcase tightly lodged beneath a standing wardrobe. The coat was badly bloodstained, and it reeked.

  ‘Bloody ’orrible,’ said Ross.

  ‘Quite correct, my lad, bloody ’orrible, and smells like it too,’ said Dobbs. ‘But I think we can now say we know why that walking-stick looks battered and bruised. We’ll call in at the Dalston police station on our way back to the Yard.’

  Since the case of the woman beaten to death had not yet been solved, the Dalston police received Chief Inspector Dobbs and all that he had to tell them with evident relief. While reminding him that one of his Yard colleagues, Inspector Duggan, was in charge of the case, they allowed him to retain the raincoat. That is, he refrained from parting with it for the time being.

  ‘Good God,’ said the Chief Superintendent of Scotland Yard. ‘Oxberry is a man called Edward Vincent, once known to your wife and employed by the Stamford Hill stores up to seven weeks ago?’

  ‘I’m certain of it,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘Hold on, Charlie, you mean you haven’t established it as fact yet?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Dobbs. ‘He’s a bachelor, lives by himself near Hackney Downs usually, and Mr Harold Newcombe, general manager of the Stamford Hill stores, will be arriving at the Yard early this afternoon to say hello to him.’

  ‘You suspect him now of the Dalston murder?’

  ‘I suspect there’s a nasty reason for the bloodstains on a raincoat of his. It was found in his flat and has his name on an inside label.’

  ‘D’you think you can break him today?’

  ‘I’ll know when I have.’

  ‘When he offers a confession?’

  ‘More like when his scar turns livid and he asks for the help of a solicitor.’

  ‘I’ll leave him to you, Charlie.’

  Jarvis Oxberry, demanding civilized treatment, had been shaved by a barber. Accordingly, when he was brought up from his cell, he looked smooth-chinned and self-satisfied. His manner was that of a seemingly unworried man, and he said good afternoon to Chief Inspector Dobbs and Inspector Davis. Sergeant Ross sat to one side, ready to continue taking notes.

  ‘’Ad a good night, sir?’ asked Inspector Davis.

  ‘As good as that fellow, I daresay,’ said Oxberry, nodding at the Chief Inspector. ‘Do you intend to carry on with this farce?’

  ‘We don’t have any alternative,’ said Dobbs. ‘Let’s see now, where were you living before you took rented rooms with the Pritchards?’

  ‘Oh, here and there, in various lodgings.’

  ‘And what was your last address before you moved in with the Pritchards?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I’ve used so many addresses that I can pin-point none, except my present one: Scotland Yard. Oh, and the Pritchards’ house, of course. When can I expect to be released?’

  ‘As soon as we’ve eliminated you from our enquiries,’ said Dobbs, looking friendly. ‘Now, sir, regarding a capital crime committed in early October in Queensbridge Road, Dalston, I wonder if you can help us with that. A woman was beaten to death late at night. A witness—’

  ‘Sod you, Dobbs.’ The interruptive oath arrived crushingly. ‘You jump about like a flea-ridden kangaroo. I’m not in the least interested in what might have happened in Dalston, and even if I were, you’d get no help from me.’

  ‘I’ve a feeling you don’t like me very much,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘Does anybody?’ Oxberry was caustic again.

  ‘Well,’ said Dobbs on a cheerful note, ‘there’s my wife, Mrs Daphne Dobbs, who lets me know on my birthdays that she’s still fairly fond of me.’

  The mouth shut tight, and the pink scar flushed. Dobbs knew he’d struck a telling blow. At least, he sensed he had.

  ‘Really?’ There were vibrations in the voice. ‘You surprise me.’

  ‘It’s sometimes a surprise to me,’ said Dobbs affably, ‘but it’s always comforting. Where was I? Yes, there’s a witness, a young man, who passed a couple misbehaving themselves in a shop doorway just off Queensbridge Road. It—’

  ‘Don’t go on, you tiresome man.’

  ‘It won’t take long,’ said Dobbs. ‘The time was about eleven, the night dark, but the young man saw what was going on with the help of a little light from a street lamp. He noted the woman had red hair. He also noted they’d been seen by another man, who’d been walking ahead of him. The woman—’

  ‘Damn the woman and you too,’ said Oxberry bitingly.

  ‘She was found dead at two in the morning in Queensbridge Road by a constable on night beat. She was a widow of thirty-three, who was known to – um – ply her trade in the area. A Mrs Amelia Fairbanks. The man—’

  ‘Give it a rest,’ said Oxberry.

  ‘The man who’d been seen with her in the shop doorway, and was naturally under suspicion, came forward the following evening to clear himself of her murder. She was brutally beaten to death, her skull cracked in two places, her face and neck gashed, and up to now her murderer hasn’t been found.’

  ‘Your incompetence is your own affair,’ said Oxberry, ‘and I repeat, I’m not in the least interested in the matter. I’m not even interested in why you’re telling me about it. Can we get down to the fact that you’re unable to charge me with any offences, since you have no real proof in each of the cases you’ve mentioned?’

  ‘That’s a reasonable request, and I won’t say it isn’t,’ said Dobbs. ‘But first, let me say in regard to the Queensbridge Road murder that we now think the man who preceded the witness stopped at some point and tucked himself away. We think he waited until the man and woman in the shop doorway had parted, and that he then followed the woman until he was able to attack her in Queensbridge Road, stunning her with the first blow of his walking-s
tick, and then finishing her off.’

  Oxberry looked at Inspector Davis.

  ‘Can’t you arrange for this man Dobbs to be taken away and put in a straitjacket?’ he asked. ‘He’s quite mad.’

  ‘Well, the point is, sir, is his madness useful to the Yard or not?’ said Davis. ‘There’s this small suitcase, y’see, and what’s in it.’ He shifted a mackintosh that was lying over the seat of a chair. The removal of the mackintosh uncovered the suitcase, which he picked up and placed on the table. He opened it, showing it contained a folded raincoat. He took it up and shook it out. The garment was thick with dried blood, its condition vile, its smell noxious. ‘Look at that, sir, don’t you call that ruddy awful?’

  Oxberry, who had regarded the disclosure of the suitcase and the raincoat tight-lipped, did not falter.

  ‘I call it disgusting,’ he said. ‘Who owns it? Dobbs? I’d burn it.’

  ‘Yes, why didn’t you do that?’ asked Dobbs. ‘Was it because it would have made a Godalmighty stink?’

  ‘You really are mad,’ said Oxberry.

  ‘Well, that’s not as bad as being a calculating executioner of harmless women,’ said Dobbs. ‘I’ve not met many like you, Mr Edward Vincent.’

  Oxberry grew rigid.

  ‘You stupid fellow,’ he said, ‘you suffer from the imagination of a raving idiot.’

  ‘Well, we think this is your raincoat, sir,’ said Inspector Davis. ‘It was found at your flat in Downs Park Road, south of Stamford Hill.’

  ‘I’m entirely detached from Downs Park Road, wherever it is.’

  Inspector Davis exposed the inside of the coat and a sewn label.

  ‘There you are, sir. E. J. Vincent is the name on the label. For the interest of dry cleaners, I presume?’

  ‘Ask Mr E. J. Vincent, whoever he is. My name is Oxberry. Take that relic away. Its smell is disgusting.’

  ‘There’s something else,’ said Dobbs, and the walking-stick appeared. He placed it on the table. ‘That’s yours, sir, found in your lodgings. Bruised and battered, you might say. It takes a lot to put dents in ebony, and the silver handle’s had a hard time too. What’s made the stick look so sorry for itself?’