The Whitechapel Girl

by The Whitechapel Girl (retail) (epub)

  ‘Sorry? Is that all you’ve got to say? I’ve run away from one prison and here I am in another.’

  ‘Ettie…’

  ‘Why doesn’t everyone leave me alone?’ wailed Ettie, the effort of speaking exhausting her, but she was too angry to stop. ‘You offered me help, a refuge. Then you did this to me.’

  Celia turned away from her and, taking the newspaper from the breakfast tray, said softly, ‘Ettie, I promise you, I only did it because I wanted you to be safe. And it really was for your own good. Look.’ She held the paper so that Ettie could see the headlines. ‘Another bride was murdered last night.’

  * * *

  The sergeant took his notebook from the breast pocket of his tunic and began to read with a glazed expression: ‘Mary Jane Kelly, otherwise known as Marie Jeanette, aged twenty-five years. Found on Friday 9 November. Thirteen Miller’s Court, Dorset Street, Spitalfields.’ He paused, seeing in his mind’s eye how the young constable had slipped on the blood and gore as they’d gone into that vile room. ‘Found on bed, almost naked – what there was left of her…’

  He carried on reading, reciting the litany of mutilations which, had he not seen them for himself, he would never have believed a human being capable of.

  When Sergeant Miller had finished, he put away his notebook and said, ‘Her living in Miller’s Court, I know it sounds stupid, but that made it worse somehow. And Number Thirteen. Unlucky for her, eh?’

  Inspector Grainger nodded and lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of the one he had just finished smoking. ‘Yes, sergeant, unlucky. Now, this bloke who identified Kelly – Joseph Barnett – how sure can we be he was right?’

  ‘He knew her well enough. He’d lived with her for almost a year,’ said the sergeant, his professional tone recovered. ‘If they hadn’t had a row, he’d still have been with her.’

  ‘A row?’

  ‘Don’t read too much into it, sir. I’ve seen the state the man’s in. But what interested me was when he said he’d been to see her recently, to try and patch things up. I think he was really fond of her, you know.’

  ‘Get on with it, Miller.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The sergeant straightened his back. ‘This might sound daft, but he said that there was a strange woman in the room. Someone he’d never seen before. And you know what it’s like in the East End: everyone knows everyone else. Some of ’em even mind everyone else’s business for ’em.’

  ‘That can be very useful for us, sergeant,’ said the inspector. ‘Right, and talking of which, sir, I think there’s something might interest you. The officer on desk duty yesterday said he’d had a complaint from one of Protsky’s neighbours. Apparently, the night before last, there was an almighty row coming from his rooms, and it wasn’t the first. But they said this one was different. They heard a girl’s voice, and she wasn’t just shouting, she sounded distressed.’

  Grainger rubbed his hand over his chin. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Well, they said the young woman who lives with him, Ettie Wilkins, she hasn’t been seen since then. And she’s a good-looking young thing; striking, if you know what I mean: not the sort to be ignored if she was around.’

  ‘Let’s have the “Professor” in for another little chat, eh sergeant?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Now, getting back to this woman Barnett said was in Kelly’s room. What do we know about her?’

  ‘Well, according to Barnett, she was a bit of a mystery. Nicely dressed, he said. Definitely not like a local woman.’

  ‘Did she say anything to him?’

  ‘No, but he reckoned that she looked very comfortable in the room. Familiar, like. And, there was something else.’ The sergeant looked pensive, remembering what Barnett had told him. ‘He said that before Mary Kelly said anything, anything at all, she kind of looked at this woman, as if she was checking what she should say. Like this woman had some sort of hold over her. Well, that’s what he reckoned.’

  ‘Do you think she was a customer?’ asked the inspector, tapping the ash from his cigarette.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Do you think she was wearing “queer drawers”, as they say round there? From these reports,’ Inspector Grainger leafed through a sheaf of papers, ‘I see they called her French Marie. Had all sorts of ways to please a customer.’

  ‘I never thought of that, I’m sure, sir,’ said the sergeant blushing. ‘I just thought maybe…?’

  ‘Yes, sergeant?’

  ‘I just thought, could “Jack” be a woman, sir?’

  * * *

  The sight of the uniformed sergeant entering Tyvern Court was nothing surprising to any of its inhabitants, but the appearance of the well-dressed inspector accompanying him soon had most of the court engaged in speculating about what could be going on.

  ‘Keep away from the walls of the buildings, sir,’ advised the sergeant, looking cautiously around them.

  ‘Why’s that, Miller? Infection?’

  ‘Er… no, sir,’ said the sergeant, not quite knowing how to put his point. ‘You see, they’re not very keen on the police force round these parts, and they’re liable to empty their piss-pots – begging your pardon, sir – out of the windows and on to your head.’

  ‘Thank you, Miller,’ said the inspector, and joined the sergeant in scanning the upstairs windows for potential missiles.

  ‘Here we are, sir.’

  As soon as Ruby saw them go into Number Twelve and start climbing the stairs, she rushed hell-for-leather over to Myrtle Bury’s.

  ‘Myrt!’ she bellowed along the passage. ‘Quick. The law’s over at Sarah’s!’

  Inside Number Twelve, the inspector was trying to get his breath: he had never smelt anything so putrid in all his life.

  ‘For God sake open that window, sergeant,’ he gasped through his handkerchief.

  While the sergeant struggled with the years of filth and grime cementing the sash cords to the window-frame, the inspector remained near the door – the only source of relatively fresh air. He directed his attention to what he presumed was Mrs Wilkins, although it looked for all the world like a bundle of rags thrown on to the stinking mattress which lay in the corner.

  But before he could ask her anything, she started making terrible animal-like noises that came out in wheezing, rasping. It was a moment or two before he realised she was laughing.

  ‘It’s that lodger, ain’t it?’ she hissed. ‘He’s been put away. I never thought I’d say it, but bloody good job and all.’

  ‘No,’ said the inspector, glancing over with a puzzled frown to the sergeant. ‘It’s not about your lodger.’

  ‘I know who she means,’ the sergeant puffed as he battled hopelessly with the window.

  ‘So if it’s not him…’ Sarah did her best to drag herself into a sitting position. ‘What are you two doing here?’ Her voice rose with alarm at the possibilities.

  ‘Is your daughter Ettie staying here with you, Mrs Wilkins?’

  Sarah’s hand flew to her mouth and she began wailing like a banshee.

  The inspector held his hand to his ears: he’d have preferred the wild animal noises.

  ‘My Ettie!’ she shrieked. ‘What d’yer want with my little girl?’

  ‘Ettie? What’s the matter with Ettie?’ The voice came from behind the inspector, who turned round to see a tall, red-headed man of about twenty standing there, almost filling the doorframe. Behind him was a stout middle-aged woman with faded auburn hair that had probably once been as bright as the hair of the man whom the inspector rightly presumed to be her son.

  ‘Yeah. What d’yer want with her?’ asked Myrtle, made bold by the safety of standing behind her son.

  ‘It’s all right, Mum,’ said Billy over his shoulder. ‘I’ll sort this out. You go outside and wait with Ruby.’

  ‘That all right with you, Sarah?’ said Myrtle, peering round her son into the gloom. Much as she wanted to help, and to know what was going on, she was glad to get out away from the stench.
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  Sarah didn’t answer her, she just continued with her wailing. ‘Aw no, my little Ettie. I know what’s happened, she’s been done in by the Old Boy. It was my little Ettie the paper-boy was hollering about, wasn’t it?’

  ‘What!’ Billy exploded into the room.

  The inspector, preferring to brave the stink than to stand in Billy’s way, leapt back to where the sergeant was standing.

  ‘Shit!’ hollered the sergeant, making the inspector jump again.

  This time he barely missed landing on Sarah. The thought made him gag.

  ‘My sodding hand,’ cursed the sergeant, waving his arm about in pain. In his efforts to raise the sash, he’d smashed right through the only pane of glass that wasn’t patched with layers of paper and old rags, but he wasn’t offered any sympathy.

  ‘Will you tell me what’s going on?’ Billy hissed menacingly. ‘Or have I gotta lose me temper?’

  ‘Mrs Wilkins,’ said the inspector, carefully keeping an eye on the big red-haired man. ‘It wasn’t your daughter who was killed the night before last. It was Mary Kelly.’

  ‘Mary Kelly?’ Her wails subsided into pathetic snuffles.

  ‘Marie Jeanette, you might know her as,’ said the sergeant, and sucked his teeth as he examined his cut fingers in the gloomy light.

  ‘Aw no,’ sniffed Sarah.

  The inspector thought that she was threatening to start her wailing again, but she was calmer now.

  ‘The French gel. Pretty little thing she’d been in her time. I don’t know,’ she said with a loud sigh. ‘When will it all stop, eh?’

  With her fragile alcoholic’s memory, Sarah had forgotten her concern for her daughter and was now becoming philosophical. It was almost more than the inspector could take.

  ‘You know the victim?’ he asked bluntly, and nodded for the injured sergeant – who knew better than to argue with his governor – to take notes.

  ‘Yeah. I knew her,’ said Sarah, with what might have been a giggle. ‘That one shared more than a pipe with some of them girls she used to hang around with down the Chimney Sweep.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Lived with a fellah, didn’t she? But he was always buggering off to his sister’s place. So she found herself some other, more reliable company instead.’

  ‘Who was that then, Mrs Wilkins?’ The inspector, sensing he was getting close, ignored his repulsion and bent forward, getting nearer to her, encouraging her to speak.

  ‘You’re a new boy round here, ain’t yer?’ she said patronisingly. ‘She wore queer drawers, yer stupid bastard.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Wilkins,’ said the inspector, raising his eyebrows at the sergeant. ‘That’s a great help.’

  ‘Aw, just let me know if you need any more information,’ said Sarah sarcastically. ‘Pop in any time. I’ll make sure I’ve got a drop of something in for yer. Now yer can all piss off out of it. I wanna have a little rest.’

  The sergeant stood back, waiting for the inspector to leave first.

  ‘And yer’ll do something about that sodding window yer broke and all,’ Sarah croaked, as she pulled the filthy covers up over her skinny shoulders. ‘Dirty bastard coppers.’

  Billy stepped forward, positioned himself by the doorway and stared while the two police officers filed out of the room.

  ‘And you, son,’ the sergeant said, ‘had better watch yerself, or we’ll have to find something to drag that Alfie of yours in for again, won’t we? And that young Tommy of yours. Following in his big brother’s footsteps, so I’ve heard from the local beat constable.’ The sergeant pointed down the stairs and said to Billy. ‘Now, let’s leave the lady in peace, shall we, and go outside and have a little chat?’

  Billy followed the now intrigued inspector down the wooden stairway and out into the court, where Myrtle, Ruby and the other women stood waiting, surrounded by their various broods of snotty-nosed, ragged children.

  The inspector watched silently as the big red-haired man spoke to the sergeant.

  Billy lifted his chin and stared down at the uniformed officer. ‘So what was you talking to Sarah about Mary Kelly for?’

  ‘That’s not why we came here. We came because we’ve been having discussions, you might say, down at the station with the man Sarah’s girl’s got herself hiked up with.’

  ‘Ettie?’ Billy suddenly didn’t look so cocky.

  ‘Yeah, that’s right, Bury; but you know what it’s like trying to get sense out of Sarah: might as well…’

  ‘Ne’mind Sarah,’ Billy interrupted. ‘Why’ve yer taken Protsky in?’

  ‘We’ve been talking to him about the murders, son,’ the sergeant said, gauging Billy’s reaction to the information. He didn’t need to be an expert to see how he felt.

  Trotsky!’ Billy’s face flared scarlet with rage. ‘I never trusted that bastard.’ He gripped his hands into tight fists. ‘I told her he was no good. I told her. I should have made her come back.’

  ‘When was Ettie round here last?’ the sergeant asked, flashing a look back to the inspector.

  ‘The night when Polly Nichols copped it, she was here then.’ Billy’s voice was so quiet, the sergeant had to strain to hear him. ‘And then about a week later, I think it was, she turned up in the Frying Pan with Sarah. She asked about me, Patrick said, but I missed her. I was still at work, see…’ Billy’s voice trailed away as he stared blankly into the distance.

  ‘Billy?’ Myrtle pushed past the inspector and stood between her son and Sergeant Miller. ‘I ain’t standing back no more. Tell me, what’s going on here?’

  It was as though his mother’s voice woke him from a dream. ‘That geezer Ettie went off with, Mum,’ said Billy, rubbing his hands over his pale, horrified face. ‘They’ve only got him down the nick. About the murders.’

  ‘Jesus!’ Myrtle ran with surprising speed for a woman of her size and was up the stairs of Number Twelve before anyone could stop her.

  ‘Go and sort her out, Ruby, for gawd’s sake,’ said the sergeant wearily, scratching his head so that his helmet wobbled from side to side. ‘Sarah don’t know yet that we’re even worried about the girl.’

  Ruby bobbed her head in agreement and made to follow Myrtle. But it was too late – Sarah’s screams could be heard loud and clear from the room above.

  ‘Sod me,’ groaned the sergeant, and turned to his boss for orders.

  With a look of surrender on his face, the inspector shook his head at the sergeant. ‘Don’t ask me, Miller,’ he said. ‘You’re the one whose patch this is.’

  Chapter 35

  ‘Is this yours?’ the inspector asked Jacob as he walked over to the filing cabinet.

  ‘Is what mine?’ lisped Jacob through cut and swollen lips.

  ‘This.’ Inspector Grainger picked up a brown paper parcel from on top of the cabinet and carried it back to his desk. Remaining standing, he unfolded the packet and took out a black cloak which he shook out in front of him.

  ‘No,’ said Protsky abruptly.

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘I was wearing mine, wasn’t I?’ he replied scornfully. ‘When you dragged me in again at some God-forsaken time this morning.’

  ‘What,’ chimed in the sergeant, ‘a fine gentleman like yourself with, if you don’t mind me saying, a bit of the dandy about you, and only one cloak?’

  ‘Where is she, Protsky?’ demanded the inspector, stepping round the desk to Jacob. ‘You might as well tell us.’

  ‘I told you, she’s gone to her mother’s.’ He said the words slowly, deliberately, through gritted teeth. ‘Now, can I go home, or are you going to keep me here for another pointless round of questions?’

  ‘You should be grateful we’ve brought you in this time, Protsky, as much for your own protection as anything else.’ Grainger sat himself down at his desk.

  ‘My own protection?’ Jacob sneered, gingerly touching his wounded mouth with his fingertips. ‘I’d be safer down the docks at closing time.’
/>   ‘Are you suggesting that these injuries happened whilst you’ve been at the station, sir?’ The sergeant smiled derisively.

  ‘Ask those young constables of yours,’ snapped Jacob, wincing at the pain of opening his mouth too widely.

  ‘Do you wish to bring a complaint against one of the officers?’ asked the sergeant coldly.

  ‘What do you think?’ answered Jacob cynically.

  ‘Very similar names, aren’t they?’ the inspector said, lighting, as had become his habit, a cigarette from the butt of the one he had just finished. ‘Jacob. Jack.’ He inhaled deeply on the fresh cigarette while he ground the other out in the already overflowing ashtray. ‘Do you know anything about sending letters from hell, Professor Protsky?’

  Jacob let out a strangled laugh. ‘What?’

  ‘Or how about the “Old Boss”? Does that mean anything to you?’

  ‘Foreigner, aren’t you?’ said the sergeant.

  ‘I’m as English as you are.’

  ‘I’m Irish,’ said the sergeant raising his eyebrows.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Jacob.

  ‘Just what sort of a name is Protsky?’ snapped the sergeant less evenly.

  Jacob shook his head contemptuously.

  ‘We were in Whitechapel earlier this afternoon, Protsky. Mind you, you probably knew that, what with your special powers.’ Grainger stared at him through the cigarette smoke. ‘There’s a lot of talk going round about you and Miss Wilkins. All sorts of gossip. Shame we can’t get her side of it. You see, she still hasn’t been traced.’

  Jacob swallowed hard and shifted uncomfortably in the hard, upright chair.

  We have a new method of detection, you know, Professor. One that I’m quite keen to try out if we can find the right person to do it for us.’ The inspector spoke slowly, easily. ‘Perhaps you have heard of the procedure, an educated man like yourself. A photographic image of the killer is taken from the retina – the eye – of the dead woman.’ He took a long drag on his cigarette.

  ‘Remarkable isn’t it, science?’

  ‘It sounds more like trickery to me,’ sneered Jacob.