The Whitechapel Girl

by The Whitechapel Girl (retail) (epub)

  ‘It’s all right, Celia, I’m here.’ Ettie cradled Celia in her arms and let her cry.

  Then she said in a soothing, tender voice like a mother encouraging a distressed and reluctant child: ‘Come on now, Celia, we’ll have to be going.’

  * * *

  ‘I would like to speak to someone about what has been happening in Whitechapel.’ Ettie leaned close to the waist-high counter, speaking to the young constable in hushed tones so that Celia would not hear her words.

  ‘One moment, miss,’ said the constable, and disappeared through a door behind him into the duty-sergeant’s office.

  ‘There’s another one out there, sarge,’ said the constable, jerking his head towards the door. ‘One of them posh tarts. Reckons she wants to talk about Jack the Ripper!’ He pulled a face of mock horror as he said the name.

  The sergeant shook his head. ‘Haven’t they got anything better to do with their time? I can’t see what sort of a thrill they get from it, I really can’t. Send her down the East End to Miller. Let him sort her out.’

  ‘Righto, sarge.’

  No matter how strongly Ettie objected, nor how persistently she demanded to be seen by the young man’s superior, the constable merely smiled – pleasantly enough – while he instructed Ettie how to get to Whitechapel. He wasn’t silly; he was experienced enough to know not to be too difficult with ladies like her: they could be related to all sorts of important people who would kick up a fuss at the merest hint of rudeness.

  As he gave Ettie the quite unnecessary directions to the East End, she drummed her fingers impatiently on the counter. Then, when he had finished, she put her arm round Celia’s shoulders and guided her towards the big front doors which opened on to the street.

  The constable called after them in a friendly, helpful voice, ‘Don’t forget, it’s Sergeant Miller you want.’

  Then, when the doors had closed behind them, he added cheerfully, ‘And bloody good luck to him, and all.’

  * * *

  Ettie went back to the bench where Celia sat waiting quietly.

  ‘They’re finding someone to talk to us,’ Ettie said to her, but Celia didn’t seem to register her words. She looked as though she were in a waking dream, her eyes open but focused on nothing.

  Ettie took Celia’s hand gently in hers, ignoring the duty-constable who was looking them over admiringly.

  ‘You wanted to see me?’ Sergeant Miller lifted the wooden flap and stepped from behind the counter.

  ‘Sergeant Miller?’ asked Ettie hesitantly in her acquired accent. She’d been out of the East End for a while, but the old apprehension about talking to the law was still there. The fact that she was a ‘lady’ still didn’t help her confidence much.

  ‘That’s me, miss,’ said the sergeant in an even, neutral tone. ‘What can I do for you?’

  Ettie turned to Celia. ‘I won’t be long. You wait here.’

  Celia nodded wordlessly.

  Ettie looked at her anxiously. ‘You will be all right?’

  She nodded again.

  ‘Would you mind if we spoke privately?’ Ettie asked the sergeant.

  The sergeant led Ettie to the corner of the room.

  ‘This has to be discussed in confidence,’ she insisted.

  ‘I’m a very busy man, I’m afraid, miss…’ Miller began.

  ‘But you don’t understand,’ Ettie interrupted. ‘No, please, don’t walk away, I’m not being intentionally rude.’

  She moved closer to the sergeant, making him feel most uncomfortable. He backed off warily, he was never sure what young ladies might do nowadays.

  ‘Sergeant Miller,’ Ettie said determinedly through her teeth. ‘You must listen to me. That young woman, over there. Celia Tressing. Is…’ She bit her lip as she fought back the tears which threatened to roll down her cheeks. ‘That young woman is Jack the Ripper.’

  The sergeant whispered something hurriedly to the constable and then said to Ettie, ‘You go with the officer here. I’ll be with you shortly.’

  The constable took Ettie and Celia into a small, shabby room, bare except for two chairs and a rickety, unpolished table. He closed the door and stood by it, as though he were posted on guard duty, which in fact he had been, by Sergeant Miller.

  In his spacious office, the inspector paced back and forth, wearing a track in the deep pile of the rug which stood in front of his broad partner’s desk. Each time he went in there, the sergeant was still amazed at the transformation the inspector had worked on the room. Police officers in his day had never bothered about rugs and fancy desks. But it was a modern world, and he supposed he would have to get used to it.

  But there were some things the sergeant would never be able to get used to, and one of them was how the inspector could even begin to think that a young lady like Miss Tressing could have anything to do with the murders. He had to admit that he had been the one to bring up the idea of the killer being a woman in the first place, but he hadn’t meant someone like Miss Tressing: that was just ridiculous.

  ‘It would be more understandable if it was her father, sir,’ said Miller. ‘I understand several of his colleagues have been implicated in that buying bodies for experiments business.’

  The inspector didn’t answer, he just kept pacing.

  ‘That could make someone an obvious suspect,’ Miller went on, trying in his own way to make sense of these ridiculous developments. ‘Perhaps getting fed up with paying, he organises his own supply. Who knows, maybe the girl found out, and now she’s covering up for her old man.’

  Again no response. The inspector was too busy thinking about whether it really was such an illogical idea that it could be a woman who committed the crimes? Being very keen on logic, the inspector liked to spend time working through his ideas.

  ‘Why shouldn’t it be her?’ he said at last.

  That certainly wasn’t what the sergeant had wanted to hear. ‘How could it be her?’ Miller protested. ‘It’s got to be some sort of beast. A monster. Some creature who can’t get, well, pleasure, if you take my meaning, from a woman in the normal way.’ The sergeant was trying desperately to create some sort of order out of his confusion. ‘Or a secretive maniac,’ he said. ‘Someone who nobody would ever suspect.’

  ‘Like a Jekyll and Hyde?’ asked the inspector, pausing just long enough to look inquiringly at the sergeant.

  ‘Jekyll and who?’ As soon as the words had left his lips, the sergeant wished he hadn’t asked; the inspector either said very little or went into a full-scale lecture full of fancy ideas that he could neither follow, nor much wished to. This might well turn out to be one of the long answers.

  ‘The play in the West End that everyone’s talking about.’

  Abruptly, the inspector stopped pacing and sat at his desk. He flicked through a sheaf of papers. ‘I have to agree with you, Sergeant Miller. It couldn’t be this young woman.’ He looked at the growing piles of paper which now covered every surface of the tooled leather desk-top. ‘What shall we do with them, Miller?’

  ‘Shall I go out and send ’em away with a flea in their ear?’ suggested the sergeant. ‘We’ve got more than enough on our plate as it is. There’s that young girl from Tyvern Court, Ettie Wilkins, still not been traced, for a start. Who knows, the way things are going, she might well be the next horrible surprise for some poor devil to come across in a foggy alley.’

  The inspector took a cigarette from his case and tapped the end thoughtfully on the back of his hand. ‘No.’ He put the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and spoke through half-open lips. ‘I’ll tell you what. Send in that friend of hers. What’s her name?’

  ‘Says it’s Miss Smith,’ said the sergeant, rolling his eyes. ‘Doesn’t want us to know her identity, I’d say,’ he added with an obviousness that set the inspector’s teeth on edge.

  ‘I’ll have a quick word with her.’

  Sergeant Miller looked out into the hall and told a passing constable to bring Miss Smith into the in
spector’s office.

  The constable and Ettie stood framed in the doorway.

  Inspector Grainger told them to come in, pointed to a seat for Ettie, and carried on talking to the sergeant. Apparently interested only in his cigarette, his notes, and the sergeant’s opinions, the inspector was actually concentrating closely on Ettie’s every reaction to the discussion.

  ‘So, we’re agreed on one thing then, Sergeant Miller,’ said Grainger, releasing a plume of blue smoke with his words. ‘It isn’t feasible that a young lady could be responsible for atrocities such as those committed on the dead women.’

  The sergeant thought his governor had taken leave of his senses. He had only just become accustomed to discussing the case with the inspector, another man; he certainly wasn’t used to speaking in front of members of the public, particularly female ones. Maybe the inspector had cracked under the strain of the investigation. Red-faced, the sergeant pointed out Ettie’s presence with a sideways gesture of his head. But the inspector indicated that the older man should carry on and answer him. Before Miller could think of an inoffensive enough reply to utter in front of a young woman, the young constable who had fetched Ettie surprised everyone present by coughing loudly and asking for permission to speak.

  ‘You have a view on this matter, constable?’ asked Inspector Grainger.

  ‘It could be a woman, sir, begging your pardon. I was thinking about it only the other day. About the handywomen. You know about them?’

  The sergeant squirmed uncomfortably. He ran his fingers round the stiff serge of his uniform collar. This was not going the way he would have liked.

  ‘The abortionists?’ asked the inspector, very interested now in the constable’s opinion.

  Sergeant Miller was less impressed. His embarrassment was becoming acute. He dealt every day with all sorts of things, but it still didn’t feel right to speak about such issues out loud, especially in front of a young woman like Miss Smith, or whatever her name was.

  ‘They’re more than that, sir – if you don’t mind me saying. They do all sorts of things. Help women have their babies. Lay out the dead. Even take in washing, some of them. Oh yeah, they’ve got all sorts of knowledge, the handywomen. So why shouldn’t it be one of them?’ asked the constable. He was obviously warming to his subject. ‘You see, it makes sense. They’re well known to all the locals, so they can move around freely, but they’re also wary of the whores. They have to be. The brides are all very friendly to them when they want them to shove one of their rusty knitting needles up them, but they’d grass them as soon as look at them for a couple of glasses of Satin.’ He nodded in what would, in other less gruesome circumstances, have seemed a farcical imitation of a man many years older and wiser than he. ‘It could easily make one of the handywomen the killer, and the tarts are an obvious target if some of them were getting a bit mouthy.’

  ‘An interesting point of view,’ said the inspector. ‘Constable…?’

  ‘Jennings, sir. PC Jennings.’

  Sergeant Miller saw that the inspector was noting something down. He was probably taking the young man’s name for future reference. He tutted despondently to himself; they had it so easy, the young officers of today. All they had to do was stick their heads into a few books and they thought they knew it all.

  ‘But are you convinced that a woman could make those cuts?’ The inspector pressed the young officer. ‘There were some really deep wounds.’ He saw Ettie pale. ‘My apologies, Miss Smith.’ He reconsidered his words. ‘Could a woman manage that?’

  Sergeant Miller liked the way the inspector was letting the constable take over the discussion even less than he liked such talk in front of the young lady. He swallowed hard and interrupted: he felt obliged to. ‘A woman who worked as a slaughterhouse cleaner would be strong enough, governor,’ he said. ‘Or someone with a bit of medical training and the right tools. But a lady like her? Never. She wouldn’t know where to start.’

  The young constable looked put out.

  ‘Well, that precludes Miss Tressing from our investigations then,’ said the inspector, happy to have a closure to at least one loose end in the whole sorry mess.

  This time it was Ettie who felt she had to interrupt. Her words came in a soft, barely discernible whisper. ‘Celia–’ she corrected herself – ‘Miss Tressing, has midwifery skills. She told me. She is also fully trained in the dissection of bodies.’

  ‘How do you know this?’ asked Inspector Grainger, addressing her directly for the first time since the constable had brought her into the office.

  ‘We had a long talk,’ she said, studying her lap. ‘She told me all about it.’

  ‘And how long have you been friends with the lady in question?’

  ‘I’m not her friend exactly,’ said Ettie. ‘Not really. Actually I’ve only just met her.’

  ‘And where was that, Miss Smith?’

  Ettie thought quickly: the last thing she wanted was for the inspector to arrest her on a fortune-telling charge. ‘At a meeting,’ she invented as she went along. ‘A religious discussion about life on the Other Side. A meeting at…’

  ‘Never mind all that.’ The inspector was growing impatient now that he seemed to be getting somewhere. ‘Sergeant, bring the girl in and set Jennings here on tracing her father.’

  ‘I don’t think…’ Ettie began.

  ‘I’m not much interested in what you think, Miss Smith.

  Sergeant Miller, show the young lady out when you go to fetch Miss Tressing.’

  ’I’m sorry for all that talk back there, miss,’ said Sergeant Miller to Ettie, holding open the wide double doors which led out to the street.

  Ettie smiled. ‘You’re very kind, thank you.’

  ‘I’ll get one of the constables to escort you to your carriage. Or did you come by hansom?’

  ‘I’m fine, really sergeant. In fact, I’d like to walk.’

  ‘But it’s late, must be gone ten o’clock, miss,’ he persisted. ‘And these streets aren’t exactly safe for a young lady like yourself at any time of the night, or day for that matter. Specially with this fog coming up.’

  ‘I’m really absolutely fine. And I do want to walk for a while.’ But the sergeant wouldn’t hear of it; he seemed very interested in her welfare. He stood between her and the street, preventing her from leaving. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. And thank you again. You’ve been very kind.’

  ‘The streets round here can be very dodgy.’

  Ettie was growing tired of his persistence. ‘I assure you, I’m fine. I even have friends in the area.’ She noticed the look that flashed momentarily across his face. ‘From my charitable work,’ she added hurriedly.

  At that the sergeant stood back to let her pass. He was more than pleased with himself. He’d known she wasn’t the lady the others in there had believed her to be – call themselves investigating officers! A fancy accent couldn’t fool him. There was Whitechapel in that young woman’s blood, as sure as there was champagne in the veins of the Prince of Wales.

  As she stepped out into the cool night air, Ettie was glad to see the back of Sergeant Miller and the whole of the rotten cop shop with him. As much as Celia’s confession had horrified her, her instinctive slum-dweller’s fear of the police got the better of her and she hated the thought of leaving the poor, deranged creature with them. But it was all out of her hands now. She’d come back to see her in the morning. Bring her some decent food and a piece of soap. Even she deserved that. Ettie stretched her aching limbs and took in a deep, welcome breath. Even with the stench of the sewers, horse muck and factory smoke filling her nostrils, she still felt like she was breathing in the freshest of country air – not that she’d ever been to the country – but after the smell of fear and despair which hung as thick as a curtain in the police station, she could just imagine what it must be like.

  Back inside the inspector’s office, Celia was sitting opposite his desk in the seat that Ettie had recently vacated.
/>   ‘Miss Tressing,’ said the constable, pencil at the ready. ‘We need to check your address.’

  ‘We intend to send for your father,’ said the sergeant, not wanting to be left out.

  ‘He’s not at home,’ said Celia vaguely. ‘He went away. For a week, Smithson said.’

  The inspector leaned back in his chair and pressed his fingertips together across his chest. ‘So where is he then, Miss Tressing? We intend to speak to him, with or without your cooperation.’

  ‘He’ll be back tomorrow. Or is it the day after?’ It sounded as though each word she uttered took the most painful effort. She paused and stared about her.

  ‘And he left you all alone?’ asked the inspector sceptically.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Celia, her eyes hollow with exhaustion. ‘Quite alone.’

  Chapter 38

  Ettie stood outside the police station in Leman Street, leaning against the rough brick wall. She was surprised at just how reluctant she was, despite all she now knew about her, to leave Celia alone in there. But, if nothing else, Ettie had always been practical, and she knew she couldn’t do any more for her tonight. And she also knew that she didn’t fancy going back to Bow. She had decided several hours ago, when it finally dawned on her that what Celia was telling her made Jacob an innocent victim of others’ – including her own – suspicions, that she couldn’t face him yet. She knew she needed a clear head and the broad light of day to be able to pluck up enough courage to make her peace with him. She felt ashamed that she’d ever suspected him of such terrible things, and cringed when she thought about the way she’d treated him lately, especially compared to the compassion she felt for Celia. And even if he did have his funny ways, didn’t all men, she reasoned to herself. And he’d been so good to her: he’d got her out of that hell-hole in Tyvern Court and away from that lodger; and this was how she had repaid him.

  Tyvern Court – it was less than a quarter of a mile away from the police station; she would go there first to see her mum, then go back to Bow and make her peace with Jacob, show him she was sorry. Ettie sighed loudly and pushed herself away from the wall. Now that Celia was locked away in the cells, the East End streets were a much safer place to be: at least she could walk without fear of the Ripper’s knife.