And that’s why he was so startled when, one bleak afternoon late in November, he discovered the shop in Saxe-Coburg Square.
“I’ll be damned!” he said.
“Probably.” Lester Woods, his companion, took the edge off the affirmation with an indulgent smile. “What’s the problem?”
“This.” Kane gestured toward the tiny window of the establishment nestled inconspicuously between two residential relics of Victoria’s day.
“An antique place.” Woods nodded. “At the rate they’re springing up there must be at least one for every tourist in London.”
“But not here.” Kane frowned. “I happen to have come by this way less than a week ago, and I’d swear there was no shop in the Square.”
“Then it must have opened since.” The two men moved up to the entrance, glancing through the display window in passing.
Kane’s frown deepened. “You call this new? Look at the dust on those goblets.”
“Playing detective again, eh?” Woods shook his head. “Trouble with you, Hilary, is that you have too many hobbies.” He glanced across the Square as a chill wind heralded the coming of twilight. “Getting late—we’d better move along.”
“Not until I find out about this.”
Kane was already opening the door and Woods sighed. “The game is afoot, I suppose. All right, let’s get it over with.”
The shop-bell tinkled and the two men stepped inside. The door closed, the tinkling stopped, and they stood in the shadows and the silence.
But one of the shadows was not silent. It rose from behind the single counter in the small space before the rear wall.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” said the shadow. And switched on an overhead light. It cast a dim nimbus over the countertop and gave dimension to the shadow, revealing the substance of a diminutive figure with an unremarkable face beneath a balding brow.
Kane addressed the proprietor. “Mind if we have a look?”
“Is there any special area of interest?” The proprietor gestured toward the shelves lining the wall behind them. “Books, maps, china, crystal?”
“Not really,” Kane said. “It’s just that I’m always curious about a new shop of this sort—”
The proprietor shook his head. “Begging your pardon, but it’s hardly new.”
Woods glanced at his friend with a barely suppressed smile, but Kane ignored him.
“Odd,” Kane said. “I’ve never noticed this place before.”
“Quite so. I’ve been in business a good many years, but this is a new location.”
Now it was Kane’s turn to glance quickly at Woods, and his smile was not suppressed. But Woods was already eyeing the artifacts on display, and after a moment Kane began his own inspection.
Peering at the shelving beneath the glass counter, he made a rapid inventory. He noted a boudoir lamp with a beaded fringe, a lavaliere, a tray of pearly buttons, a durbar souvenir programme, and a framed and inscribed photograph of Matilda Alice Victoria Wood aka Bella Delmare aka Marie Lloyd. There was a miscellany of old jewelry, hunting-watches, pewter mugs, napkin rings, a toy bank in the shape of a miniature Crystal Palace, and a display poster of a formidably mustachioed Lord Kitchener with his gloved finger extended in a gesture of imperious command.
It was, he decided, the mixture as before. Nothing unusual, and most of it—like the Kitchener poster—not even properly antique but merely outmoded. Those fans on the bottom shelf, for example, and the silk toppers, the opera glasses, the black bag in the far corner covered with what was once called “American cloth.”
Something about the phrase caused Kane to stoop and make a closer inspection. American cloth. Dusty now, but once shiny, like the tarnished silver nameplate identifying its owner. He read the inscription.
J. Ridley, M.D.
Kane looked up, striving to conceal his sudden surge of excitement.
Impossible! It couldn’t be—and yet it was. Keeping his voice and gesture carefully casual, he indicated the bag to the proprietor.
“A medical kit?”
“Yes, I imagine so.”
“Might I ask where you acquired it?”
The little man shrugged. “Hard to remember. In this line one picks up the odd item here and there over the years.”
“Might I have a look at it, please?”
The elderly proprietor lifted the bag to the countertop. Woods stared at it, puzzled, but Kane ignored him, his gaze intent on the nameplate below the lock. “Would you mind opening it?” he said.
“I’m afraid I don’t have a key.”
Kane reached out and pressed the lock; it was rusted, but firmly fixed. Frowning, he lifted the bag and shook it gently.
Something jiggled inside, and as he heard the click of metal against metal his elation peaked. Somehow he suppressed it as he spoke.
“How much are you asking?”
The proprietor was equally emotionless. “Not for sale.”
“But—”
“Sorry, sir. It’s against my policy to dispose of blind items. And since there’s no telling what’s inside—”
“Look, it’s only an old medical bag. I hardly imagine it contains the Crown jewels.”
In the background Woods snickered, but the proprietor ignored him. “Granted,” he said. “But one can’t be certain of the contents.” Now the little man lifted the bag and once again there was a clicking sound. “Coins, perhaps.”
“Probably just surgical instruments,” Kane said impatiently. “Why don’t you force the lock and settle the matter?”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that. It would destroy its value.”
“What value?” Kane’s guard was down now; he knew he’d made a tactical error but he couldn’t help himself.
The proprietor smiled. “I told you the bag is not for sale.”
“Everything has its price.”
Kane’s statement was a challenge, and the proprietor’s smile broadened as he met it. “One hundred pounds.”
“A hundred pounds for that?” Woods grinned—then gaped at Kane’s response.
“Done and done.”
“But, sir—”
For answer Kane drew out his wallet and extracted five twenty-pound notes. Placing them on the countertop, he lifted the bag and moved toward the door. Woods followed hastily, turning to close the door behind him.
The proprietor gestured. “Wait—come back—”
But Kane was already hurrying down the street, clutching the black bag under his arm.
—
He was still clutching it half an hour later as Woods moved with him into the spacious study of Kane’s flat overlooking the verdant vista of Cadogan Square. Dappled splotches of sunlight reflected from the gleaming oilcloth as Kane set the bag on the table and wiped away the dust. He smiled at Woods.
“Looks a bit better now, don’t you think?”
“I don’t think anything.” Woods shook his head. “A hundred pounds for an old medical kit—”
“A very old medical kit,” said Kane. “Dates back to the Eighties, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Even so, I hardly see—”
“Of course you wouldn’t! I doubt if anyone besides myself would attach much significance to the name of J. Ridley, M.D.”
“Never heard of him.”
“That’s understandable.” Kane smiled. “He preferred to call himself Jack the Ripper.”
“Jack the Ripper?”
“Surely you know the case. Whitechapel, 1888—the savage slaying and mutilation of prostitutes by a cunning mass-murderer who taunted the police—a shadow, stalking his prey in the streets.”
Woods frowned. “But he was never caught, was he? Not even identified.”
“In that you’re mistaken. No murderer has been identified quite as frequently as Red Jack. At the time of the crimes and over the years since, a score of suspects were named. A prime candidate was the Pole, Klosowski, alias George Chapman, who killed several wives—but poison was his meth
od and gain his motive, whereas the Ripper’s victims were all penniless prostitutes who died under the knife. Another convicted murderer, Neill Cream, even openly proclaimed he was the Ripper—”
“Wouldn’t that be the answer, then?”
Kane shrugged. “Unfortunately, Cream happened to be in America at the time of the Ripper murders. Egomania prompted his false confession.” He shook his head. “Then there was John Pizer, a bookbinder known by the nickname of ‘Leather Apron’—he was actually arrested, but quickly cleared and released. Some think the killings were the work of a Russian called Konovalov who also went by the name of Pedachenko and worked as a barber’s surgeon; supposedly he was a Tsarist secret agent who perpetrated the slayings to discredit the British police.”
“Sounds pretty far-fetched if you ask me.”
“Exactly.” Kane smiled. “But there are other candidates, equally improbable. Montague John Druitt for one, a barrister of unsound mind who drowned himself in the Thames shortly after the last Ripper murder. Unfortunately, it has been established that he was living in Bournemouth, and on the days before and after the final slaying he was there, playing cricket. Then there was the Duke of Clarence—”
“Who?”
“Queen Victoria’s grandson in direct line of succession to the throne.”
“Surely you’re not serious?”
“No, but others are. It has been asserted that Clarence was a known deviate who suffered from insanity as the result of venereal infection, and that his death in 1892 was actually due to the ravages of his disease.”
“But that doesn’t prove him to be the Ripper.”
“Quite so. It hardly seems possible that he could write the letters filled with American slang and crude errors in grammar and spelling which the Ripper sent to the authorities; letters containing information which could be known only by the murderer and the police. More to the point, Clarence was in Scotland at the time of one of the killings and at Sandringham when others took place. And there are equally firm reasons for exonerating suggested suspects close to him—his friend James Stephen and his physician, Sir William Gull.”
“You’ve really studied up on this,” Woods murmured. “I’d no idea you were so keen on it.”
“And for good reason. I wasn’t about to make a fool of myself by advancing an untenable notion. I don’t believe the Ripper was a seaman, as some surmise, for there’s not a scintilla of evidence to back the theory. Nor do I think the Ripper was a slaughterhouse worker, a midwife, a man disguised as a woman, or a London bobby. And I doubt the very existence of a mysterious physician named Dr. Stanley, out to avenge himself against the woman who had infected him, or his son.”
“But there do seem to be a great number of medical men amongst the suspects,” Woods said.
“Right you are, and for good reason. Consider the nature of the crimes—the swift and skillful removal of vital organs, accomplished in the darkness of the streets under constant danger of imminent discovery. All this implies the discipline of someone versed in anatomy, someone with the cool nerves of a practising surgeon. Then too there’s the matter of escaping detection. The Ripper obviously knew the alleys and byways of the East End so thoroughly that he could slip through police cordons and patrols without discovery. But if seen, who would have a better alibi than a respectable physician, carrying a medical bag on an emergency call late at night?
“With that in mind, I set about my search, examining the rolls of London Hospital in Whitechapel Road. I went over the names of physicians and surgeons listed in the Medical Registry for that period.”
“All of them?”
“It wasn’t necessary. I knew what I was looking for—a surgeon who lived and practised in the immediate Whitechapel area. Whenever possible, I followed up with a further investigation of my suspects’ histories—researching hospital and clinic affiliations, even hobbies and background activities from medical journals, press reports, and family records. Of course, all this takes a great deal of time and patience. I must have been tilting at this windmill for a good five years before I found my man.”
Woods glanced at the nameplate on the bag. “J. Ridley, M.D.?”
“John Ridley. Jack, to his friends—if he had any.” Kane paused, thoughtful. “But that’s just the point. Ridley appears to have had no friends, and no family. An orphan, he received his degree from Edinburgh in 1878, ten years before the date of the murders. He set up private practise here in London, but there is no office address listed. Nor is there any further information to be found concerning him; it’s as though he took particular care to suppress every detail of his personal and private life. This, of course, is what roused my suspicions. For an entire decade J. Ridley lived and practised in the East End without a single mention of his name anywhere in print, except for his Registry listing. And after 1888, even that disappeared.”
“Suppose he died?”
“There’s no obituary on record.”
Woods shrugged. “Perhaps he moved, emigrated, took sick, abandoned practise?”
“Then why the secrecy? Why conceal his whereabouts? Don’t you see—it’s the very lack of such ordinary details which leads me to suspect the extraordinary.”
“But that’s not evidence. There’s no proof that your Dr. Ridley was the Ripper.”
“That’s why this is so important.” Kane indicated the bag on the tabletop. “If we knew its history, where it came from—”
As he spoke, Kane reached down and picked up a brass letter-opener from the table, then moved to the bag.
“Wait.” Woods put a restraining hand on Kane’s shoulder. “That may not be necessary.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think the shopkeeper was lying. He knew what the bag contains—he had to, or else why did he fix such a ridiculous price? He never dreamed you’d take him up on it, of course. But there’s no need for you to force the lock any more than there was for him to do so. My guess is that he has a key.”
“You’re right.” Kane set the letter-opener down. “I should have realized, if I’d taken the time to consider his reluctance. He must have the key.” He lifted the shiny bag and turned. “Come along—let’s get back to him before the shop closes. And this time we won’t be put off by any excuses.”
—
Dusk had descended as Kane and his companion hastened through the streets, and darkness was creeping across the deserted silence of Saxe-Coburg Square when they arrived.
They halted then, staring into the shadows, seeking the spot where the shop nestled between the residences looming on either side. The shadows were deeper here and they moved closer, only to stare again at the empty gap between the two buildings.
The shop was gone.
Woods blinked, then turned and gestured to Kane. “But we were here—we saw it—”
Kane didn’t reply. He was staring at the dusty, rubble-strewn surface of the space between the structures; at the weeds which sprouted from the bare ground beneath. A chill night wind echoed through the emptiness. Kane stooped and sifted a pinch of dust between his fingers. The dust was cold, like the wind that whirled the fine grains from his hand and blew them away into the darkness.
“What happened?” Woods was murmuring. “Could we both have dreamed—”
Kane stood erect, facing his friend. “This isn’t a dream,” he said, gripping the black bag.
“Then what’s the answer?”
“I don’t know.” Kane frowned thoughtfully. “But there’s only one place where we can possibly find it.”
“Where?”
“The 1888 Medical Registry lists the address of John Ridley as Number 17 Dorcas Lane.”
—
The cab which brought them to Dorcas Lane could not enter its narrow accessway. The dim alley beyond was silent and empty, but Kane plunged into it without hesitation, moving along the dark passage between solid rows of grimy brick. Treading over the cobblestone, it seemed to Woods that he was being led into another era, y
et Kane’s progress was swift and unfaltering.
“You’ve been here before?” Woods said.
“Of course.” Kane halted before the unlighted entrance to Number 17, then knocked.
The door opened—not fully, but just enough to permit the figure behind it to peer out at them. Both glance and greeting were guarded.
“Whatcher want?”
Kane stepped into the fan of light from the partial opening. “Good evening. Remember me?”
“Yes.” The door opened wider and Woods could see the squat shadow of the middle-aged woman who nodded up at his companion. “Yer the one what rented the back vacancy last Bank ’oliday, ain’tcher?”
“Right. I was wondering if I might have it again.”
“I dunno.” The woman glanced at Woods.
“Only for a few hours.” Kane reached for his wallet. “My friend and I have a business matter to discuss.”
“Business, eh?” Woods felt the unflattering appraisal of the landlady’s beady eyes. “Cost you a fiver.”
“Here you are.”
A hand extended to grasp the note. Then the door opened fully, revealing the dingy hall and the stairs beyond.
“Mind the steps now,” the landlady said.
The stairs were steep and the woman was puffing as they reached the upper landing. She led them along the creaking corridor to the door at the rear, fumbling for the keys in her apron.
“ ’Ere we are.”
The door opened on musty darkness, scarcely dispelled by the faint illumination of the overhead fixture as she switched it on. The landlady nodded at Kane. “I don’t rent this for lodgings no more—it ain’t properly made up.”
“Quite all right.” Kane smiled, his hand on the door.
“If there’s anything you’ll be needing, best tell me now. I’ve got to run over to the neighbor for a bit—she’s been took ill.”
“I’m sure we’ll manage.” Kane closed the door, then listened for a moment as the landlady’s footsteps receded down the hall.
“Well,” he said. “What do you think?”
Woods surveyed the shabby room with its single window framed by yellowing curtains. He noted the faded carpet with its pattern well nigh worn away, the marred and chipped surfaces of the massive old bureau and heavy morris-chair, the brass bed covered with a much-mended spread, the ancient gas-log in the fireplace framed by a cracked marble mantelpiece, and the equally-cracked washstand fixture in the corner.
The Big Book of Jack the Ripper Page 162