The Whitechapel Girl

by The Whitechapel Girl (retail) (epub)

  Inspector Grainger shoved a tankard of ale along the bar to the sergeant, and watched as Patrick handed round the drinks to the women. Then he settled himself in a chair close to the bar and took a long pull at his glass of porter. ‘So, what have you heard?’ he asked, licking the foam from his top lip.

  ‘What they’ve had in all the papers,’ answered Milly stiffly. ‘And a bit of gossip. Yer know.’

  Bella decided it was time someone started acting in a bit friendlier way to the inspector. ‘Is it true what they say about how he done her in?’ she asked in, what was for her, a sweetly modulated tone.

  The inspector nodded to his companion, indicating that he should speak. ‘Sergeant,’ he said simply.

  The older man didn’t sit down, he remained standing at the bar, slightly behind the inspector’s chair. He didn’t need to consult his notebook: details of events like this latest murder stuck in a man’s mind, no matter how long he’d been in the force. ‘Annie Chapman, otherwise known as Siffey,’ he intoned, ‘was found at half-past five in the morning on Saturday 8 September, in the back yard of number Twenty-nine Hanbury Street, Spitalfields.’

  ‘We know that,’ said Milly, looking at him scornfully. ‘We wanna know if the bastard did all them things to her, like what everyone’s saying he did.’

  ‘I don’t think that either matters or is of any concern to anyone here,’ said the sergeant. He was obviously discomforted by her question and kept his eyes firmly on a point somewhere up near the ceiling of the jam-packed bar.

  Inspector Grainger said, ‘All right, sergeant.’ Then he reached into his pocket, took out his pad, and read out a paraphrase of his notes in an even, flat tone: ‘Found on her back. Legs bent at knees, wide apart. Clothes, old and dirty, pushed up…’

  Florrie held her hand up to silence Ivy who was about to object.

  ‘Head almost severed…’ He looked up briefly and paused, then went on. ‘…from the throat being slit. Twice. Knife wounds to the guts.’ Inspector Grainger paused, took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead, taking his time to consider what was fit to be said. He opened his mouth to speak, changed his mind, then finally added: ‘Some internal organs were removed.’ Then he snapped the notebook shut and put it away.

  ‘Course her clothes was old,’ Ivy muttered in a tiny, muted voice.

  ‘I reckon yer could do no better than sorting that George Banner out,’ Florrie suddenly declared. ‘And there’s no need to go looking at me like that, Bella. I know we don’t talk about our own round here, but it’s different this time. This is serious.’

  The inspector turned his head and caught the sergeant’s eye. The older man signalled with a brief nod that Banner was a name that was known to him.

  ‘See, Georgie boy likes beating people up,’ Florrie persisted, ignoring Bella’s disapproval. ‘Women especially.’

  ‘Does he now?’ The inspector opened his pad again and scribbled himself a note.

  Ada had been unusually quiet for once, apart from the odd comment she’d hardly spoken at all, she’d just sat and silently swallowed her gin. ‘You wanna find who’s responsible for all this?’ she snapped, abruptly.

  ‘Don’t be stupid. Course we do, yer dozy…’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant Miller,’ said the inspector to his older companion. ‘Of course we do, Ada. It is Ada, isn’t it?’

  She nodded. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well?’ he coaxed her.

  ‘Yer need to look no further than that no-good bastard holy Joe from the brewery,’ she said, staring round the bar, daring anyone to disagree with her. ‘You mark my words.’

  ‘Charrington?’ the sergeant asked, sounding and looking surprised.

  ‘That’s right,’ Ada snorted scornfully. ‘Cleaning up the place, he reckons. But who for? That’s what I wanna know. Been driving us barmy since last year, he has. Closing down all the case-houses, then buying up all the property. “Development” they call it. The no-good pig.’ Her face was contorted with hatred. ‘No one ever bothered us round here before, and we never bothered them. Everyone knows what it’s like in these parts, what goes on and everything. So if they don’t like it they just keep away. But he’s stuck his bleed’n nose in and what’s happened? I’ll tell yer. He’s driven us all out on to the streets. That’s what he’s done. Bloody lovely, innit? Being forced outside to do yer business. Like sitting targets we are, waiting to be knocked off by some maniac.’

  ‘I hardly think…’ began the sergeant.

  Ada spat on the floor. ‘That don’t surprise me.’

  The inspector filled the embarrassing silence by sending Sergeant Miller to the bar for another round of drinks.

  The sergeant wasn’t impressed to be running around after whores, but bosses were bosses and he knew better than to argue.

  Ivy piped up, ‘Is it true what they say, that he hunts the girls down like a savage, sniffing them out? Then, when he catches ’em, he drinks their blood?’

  ‘I know you all have every right to be worried…’ the inspector said reassuringly.

  ‘Thanks for nothing,’ said Milly, interrupting him.

  ‘But these stories,’ he continued, ‘they’re spreading like wildfire, and they’re doing no one any good. Why don’t you all try and keep calm.’

  ‘Keep calm?’ an angry voice asked from the doorway.

  All eyes turned to see who had just come in.

  It was Maisie Bury. ‘I know the girls are all worried, they’ve got every right to be, but there’s others what live round here and all,’ she said, perching on the table next to where Florrie was sitting. ‘Why don’t yer come and talk to us as well? Maybe we could tell yer something worthwhile.’

  ‘Keep yer drawers on, girl,’ said Bella sarcastically. ‘The nice policeman’ll talk to you when it’s your turn.’

  Some of the other brides sniggered, but Florrie said, ‘Shut up, you lot. There’s enough trouble round here without us arguing amongst ourselves.’

  Sergeant Miller slid the final tray of drinks on to the table that was now also occupied by Maisie’s wide rear end, then leaned forward and whispered in the inspector’s ear, ostensibly to remind him of another appointment, but actually to get him out of the pub before the girls turned nasty. The sergeant knew the warning signs of a row building up to a full-blown punch-up, and that was all he needed: his new governor getting done over by a bunch of brides.

  Inspector Grainger thanked the sergeant for reminding him, and stood up ready to leave. Til take you up on that offer, Miss…?’

  ‘Bury,’ she said, glaring at Bella. ‘Maisie Bury. From Tyvern Court.’

  ‘Thank you, I’ll remember, Miss Bury,’ he said gallantly.

  ‘Don’t matter if yer don’t,’ scoffed Bella. ‘The sergeant here knows where our May lives, don’t yer darling? Well, where her brother Alfie lives, anyhow.’

  The inspector treated them to a broad, affable smile as though he were taking leave of treasured friends, fixed his hat firmly on his head and then said, ‘Be careful, won’t you, ladies? Keep safe.’

  ‘Don’t worry yerself about us. We’re handsome,’ jeered Milly. ‘I mean, there’s only a monster out there on the prowl waiting to cut our throats, ain’t there?’

  ‘We do what we can,’ growled the sergeant as he opened the door for his governor.

  ‘Aw yeah,’ scoffed Ivy. ‘Course yer do. Now make sure you coppers get home nice and safe, won’t yer? And, like Milly said, don’t worry about us, we’ve got the vigilantes round here now.’

  ‘What, Lusk and his cronies? Don’t make me laugh, girl,’ sneered Ada. ‘They’re all a load of bleed’n nutcases. Belong in the loony bin, the lot of ’em. Be a lot safer without them on the loose.’

  The women didn’t notice that the policemen had left: there was now only one thing that really interested any of them.

  ‘Safe?’ said Florrie loudly, shuffling sideways along the bench to make room for Maisie to sit next to her. ‘That’s a laugh. Them p
oor girls could have been safe if them bastard deputies had trusted ’em for the few pennies for their beds for the night. Then they’d still be alive today. Want a right larruping, the lot of ’em. The no-good arseholes.’

  ‘And a good hiding for Charrington and all,’ chipped in Ada.

  Ivy, as the brides had come to expect, had a piece of information no else had yet heard. ‘D’you hear about what happened in the room where they found her? This girl I met outside the Butcher’s Arms told me all about it. Liza, her name was.’

  ‘Who?’ Milly piped up, looking towards Florrie. Florrie knew all the brides.

  ‘You know,’ Florrie said. ‘Liza. From round by Pearl’s place.’

  ‘Aw, right. Her. Liza.’ Milly nodded, then looked back at Ivy so that she could continue.

  ‘Well.’ Ivy widened her eyes dramatically. ‘Liza used to share this room with Annie Chapman what was done in.’

  ‘She never did!’ Ada pulled her chair closer to the table.

  ‘Truth. And, what do yer think?’

  ‘Come on. What?’ Maisie was agog. She wanted to hear more.

  Ivy leaned forward and spoke in a loud whisper. ‘She woke up to find out that the girl she’d been sharing with had been hacked to bits and left for the dogs in the alley outside.’

  There was a collective intake of breath around the bar.

  ‘As God’s my witness,’ proclaimed Ivy, primly. ‘And, what else d’yer think?’

  ‘For gawd’s sake, get on with it,’ sighed Florrie, wondering if she found Ivy quite as attractive as she’d first thought.

  ‘On the bit of looking-glass they had hung up over the fireplace…’ Ivy was enjoying the attention, so dragged out the story for all it was worth.

  ‘Yeah,’ they all urged her, collective impatience almost taking over from interest.

  ‘Well, she saw these words, written in blood they was, on the glass: “Lucky yer never woke up and turned on the gaslight,” it said, “or it’d have been you and all for the chop!”’

  ‘Bleed’n liar,’ yelled Milly. ‘Liza can’t sodding read.’

  ‘And how could he have got all that on one bit of looking-glass?’ Ada wanted to know.

  ‘Yeah, that’s right. How?’ Bella demanded.

  ‘Leave the kid alone,’ said Florrie, reaching out to ruffle Ivy’s mop of black hair. ‘She was only repeating what Liza told her.’

  Ivy flushed red. She felt humiliated. She’d really thought that she was being accepted by the others, and now they were jeering at her.

  ‘Cheer up, darling,’ said Florrie kindly. ‘Look there’s a customer outside.’ She pointed towards the fuzzy silhouette of a man against the etched glass of the pub window. ‘Now, I think it’d be nice if we let young Ivy take this turn, don’t you?’

  ‘Go on then,’ said Bella grudgingly.

  With all her old bounce completely restored, Ivy stood up and flounced towards the door. ‘Ta, ladies,’ she said with a cheeky wink.

  ‘And you watch out for Leather Apron,’ Milly warned her. ‘Wears flannel on his boots, he does, to creep up quiet so yer don’t hear him when he’s behind yer.’ Milly was as irritated by Ivy’s prattling as all the other women but, also like the others, she didn’t want to see the pretty little thing get hurt, much less get done in by a maniac.

  ‘And don’t let him do yer from behind, love,’ Florrie called out, much to the amusement of the market porters who were drinking at the bar.

  ‘But it’s easier if I throw me frock over me head and bend over,’ retorted Ivy, never one to use two words when twenty would do. ‘Gets it over and done with and I don’t have to look at their ugly mugs neither.’

  ‘But then he can get his hands round yer throat, yer dozy mare,’ exploded Ada, smacking the table top and rolling her eyes at the girl’s stupidity.

  ‘They’re right,’ said Milly. ‘Make sure yer have him do yer up against the wall. Keep yer eyes on him all the time.’

  ‘I hate looking at ’em,’ said Ivy, hovering by the door, but making sure she kept a watchful eye on the prospective customer outside.

  ‘No good being fussy, darling. Yer’ll learn that as yer get older,’ said Florrie practically. ‘And anyway, yer’d hate a knife in yer guts worse than looking at some bloke’s buggy eyes, now wouldn t yer?’

  Ivy shrugged. ‘S’pose so,’ she said.

  ‘And don’t go in no passages in the buildings,’ Ada chipped in. ‘Stay where yer can call out for help.’

  ‘Blimey, anything else?’ said Ivy. ‘It’s like having me mum round me. No, worse. It’s like having that old cow of a farmer’s wife going on at me all the time. Do this, don’t do that…’

  ‘Get off with yer,’ said Florrie fondly. ‘If yer don’t move yerself there won’t be no one to do yer from behind or anywhere else.’

  Ivv stepped out from the pub and on to the street, her hips swinging and her chin up. The warm evening air wasn t like it was in the country, but even in Brick Lane it tasted sweet after the sour atmosphere of the crowded bar. She flashed her eyes at the tall, well-dressed man. ‘Hallo, darling,’ she said, brazenly. ‘Looking for some company, are yer?’

  Chapter 32

  ‘So what exactly am I meant to be doing here?’ As Jacob spoke he followed the inspector with his eyes, watching him pace up and down the length of the faded, but still luxuriously thick rug which stood in front of his desk.

  The inspector glanced briefly over to Sergeant Miller, who was propped up against the wooden filing cabinet in the corner of the office, indicating that he should speak.

  ‘You might have read in the newspapers that we are asking psychics to assist us with our inquiries, sir,’ Miller said without the merest hint of the contempt he felt for the primped and groomed man who stood before him.

  ‘I remember something of the kind,’ said Jacob cynically, and turned his body towards the inspector. ‘If I recall, the article in the Chronicle said something along the lines of – now let me see, what was it…? That investigation into the murders gives an unequalled opportunity for psychics and clairvoyants to prove the value of their occult sciences? A chance to prove and make known the sincerity of their art?’ He paused for the inspector to nod his confirmation of what he was saying, then continued, ‘So, yes. I have read about the challenge.’

  ‘Good. Good.’ The inspector sat down in his big leather chair, leaned back and leisurely lit a cigarette. He scratched the side of his neck and exhaled slowly. The blue smoke curled lazily towards the nicotine-stained ceiling. ‘You know all about it.’

  ‘But I am not here in response to any such challenge, inspector,’ said Jacob firmly. ‘I was dragged in here. From my home. Against my will.’

  ‘Dragged?’ The inspector looked to the sergeant for verification of such a disparaging suggestion. ‘Surely not?’

  The sergeant shook his head solemnly. ‘As I understood it, sir, the gentleman here came most willingly.’

  ‘Look, I’m a busy man. Just explain what you want from me and I’ll be off.’

  ‘Take a seat,’ said the inspector with a gracious smile, and picked up a brown cardboard file from his desk which, apart from a heavy crystal ashtray, was now completely empty. ‘You might be able to help us, because unlike most of the other psychics who have approached us, I believe you are familiar with the part of the East End where the murders took place.’ The inspector stared at Jacob with eyes narrowed against the tobacco smoke. ‘You’ve spent time around Whitechapel.’

  Jacob didn’t respond in any way to the police officer’s assertion; he had no intention of letting the inspector see the discomfort he felt. ‘To when are you referring, inspector?’ he asked nonchalantly. His voice sounded calm but his mind was racing: how much did they know about him, he wondered? He would have spat if his mouth hadn’t gone totally dry; just when he was gaining the reputation he craved, this had to happen. All he needed was for stories about his time playing the penny gaffs to get around and he and Ettie would be laughi
ng-stocks, their career in ruins.

  ‘According to information we’ve received,’ said the sergeant, consulting his notepad, ‘you were there on New Year’s Eve.’ He looked up. ‘And on several other occasions since.’

  ‘You look relieved,’ said Inspector Grainger, tapping the spent ash from his cigarette.

  ‘Relieved?’ repeated Jacob, with a frown. ‘What makes you say that?’

  Grainger smiled, less affably this time. ‘You should understand that we know all about your working the gaffs but, don’t alarm yourself, that’s of no concern to us.’ Grainger turned to the sergeant. ‘Well, not for the time being. So, why were you in Whitechapel?’

  ‘I was there with…’ Jacob hesitated for a fraction of a second, then carried on speaking almost without missing a beat. ‘With a friend. Someone who knows the area well.’

  ‘And who might that be, sir?’ said the sergeant, showily licking his pencil in preparation to write the name in his pad.

  ‘I’d rather not say,’ said Jacob, folding his arms with what he intended to look like casual ease. ‘I was, as you might say, “out slumming” with a friend. It would be most indiscreet of me to mention any names. I’m sure that, as a gentleman and as a man of the world, inspector, you can appreciate the position I’m in.’

  ‘You flatter me,’ said the inspector.

  The sergeant wrote something down in his pad, tore out the page and handed it to his boss.

  The inspector nodded his acknowledgement of the sergeant’s assistance and read the note. The friend you’re so loathe to name, that would be Ettie Wilkins, wouldn’t it? The same young lady who shares your rooms and who assists you in your magic act.’

  Jacob blinked slowly, holding back his anger.

  ‘There’s something I want you to hear,’ the inspector continued, then nodded to the sergeant who went to the door and called in a young constable from the outer office.

  The junior officer stood in front of the inspector’s desk next to Jacob’s chair, his hands behind his back and his chin held high, awaiting his orders.

  ‘I have brought in the officer here to inform you about the latest murders,’ said the inspector, studying Jacob’s face for any signs of a reaction. ‘And yes, I did say murders. Two women have been killed this time.’