Anatomy of Evil

by Will Thomas

  Barker leaned forward. “I admit, sir, that it is normally my policy to seek publicity where I can; however, I would not do so for an agency which is currently closed. I would promise not to seek out the newspapers in order to improve my reputation.”

  “You do realize that the way Anderson was chosen did not sit well with this department. Swanson was the most satisfactory man for the position. Your presence here as Anderson’s assistant might ruffle some feathers among the ranks.”

  “I’m liable to ruffle plenty of feathers by the time this case is over.”

  Warren frowned and crossed his arms. “Now you see, those are the kinds of things you say that make me worry this will not work out. We are a team here, Barker. We must help each other. One detective discovers something and he passes it on to others, who work on it together. You may have been on your own too long.”

  “Commissioner, I am a blunt man. I want to work on this case, and I’m willing to work under any constraints you give me in order to see it through.”

  “If you go to Whitechapel, I expect you to get down in the muck with the rest of us. None of your manservants bringing you a hamper from Fortnum and Mason.”

  It was the word “us” that had me biting my lip. I doubted Warren went to Whitechapel very often himself.

  “I rose from the muck, Commissioner,” my employer said. “I am quite comfortable there.”

  “Good. Now I spoke to Anderson before he left last night and we agreed that you are to come in as a special inspector. Mr. Llewelyn will be a special constable. This means that while he is working for you he is also subordinate to any sergeant, inspector, or official in the building. You yourself are subordinate to the detective chief inspectors. It is necessary to have order here, a chain of command. Can you work within this framework?”

  “Yes, sir, I believe I can.”

  “And what about you, Mr. Llewelyn? What have you to say for yourself?”

  “I will endeavor to bring favor upon these hallowed walls, sir.”

  “Oh, yes, a university man. I forgot. Perhaps you can help some of your new comrades with their spelling. And their manners.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Gentlemen, I don’t particularly want you here, but Anderson insisted that I give you a try. That is what I shall give you. One try. If you speak to the press, you are out. If you do not treat your superiors correctly, you are out. If I find you sitting about doing nothing, you are out. We run a tight ship here and we have a multiple murderer to catch. We do not have time to nursemaid a pair of tyro officers. Don’t put your head up because as God is my witness, I will hammer it down again!”

  Barker looked at him steadily, and for a moment I thought he might kick against the goads. He does not respond well to threats. However, all he did was nod his head.

  “As you say, sir.”

  Charles Warren looked disappointed. Perhaps he had thought to draw Barker out to discredit him.

  “You will be paid, but on a temporary basis. You will work under Assistant Commissioner Anderson when he returns. Until then, keep your noses clean, and if you turn up something in this investigation, tell Detective Chief Inspector Swanson or one of his men. Don’t keep it to yourself. Understood?”

  We both agreed that we did.

  “Raise your right hand. ‘I state-your-name do solemnly and sincerely declare…’”

  And so he administered the Police Oath to us. We promised to serve the Queen and protect the peace and that was that. When a man is young, he dreams of all sorts of occupations he might venture, but not once in my life did I ever consider becoming a peeler. I made a note to myself to duck all my known friends. I couldn’t face the humiliation.

  Things only got worse after that. A constable took me to the equipment room where the sergeant there made much of the fact that I was three inches below regulation height.

  “We don’t have a children’s size, Constable Llewelyn,” he informed me as I tried on helmets.

  “That’s very funny, Sergeant. I shall have to remember that one.”

  “This patch here will go on your shoulder. It denotes you as a special constable. We call you ‘specials.’ You’ll have to get your mum to sew it on.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of sewing it on myself,” I told him.

  “Oh, you can sew, can you? Izzat why you was brought in, to make repairs on uniforms? That’s good to know.”

  Eventually, after more remarks at my expense, I was given a tunic and a pair of trousers that were rather roomy for my taste. The material for both was a heavy and uncomfortable blue wool that smelled as if it were not long off the sheep. I was responsible for providing my own boots, but they gave me a thick black belt and a truncheon. When I was fully dressed the sergeant pointed to a long mirror by the door. I walked over and stood in front of it, staring at someone I never suspected existed before, Special Constable Thomas Llewelyn.

  “Look at that,” the sergeant said. “He looks just like a proper constable, only smaller.”

  I stepped into the corridor again, to find Barker talking with a sergeant there about the case. He had a cup of tea in his hand and had taken off his jacket. Now, Barker rarely takes off his jacket save when he works in his garden. It can be the hottest day in July and he’ll wear his jacket in the office. Most of the inspectors in “A” Division took off their jackets, however, and he was doing what he could to fit in. Still, with his maroon tie, black waistcoat, arm garters, and Windsor collar, his clothes were a cut above theirs.

  He finished the conversation he was having with the constable and came forward to inspect my appearance.

  “You look smart,” he said, looking me over.

  “There’s a first time for everything, I suppose. What next?”

  “We shall have to purchase a pair of boots for you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you ready to begin, PC Llewelyn?”

  I stood as tall and straight as my five-foot-four-inch frame would allow. I nearly clicked my heels.

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Come along, then. Let’s see what sort of trouble we can get ourselves into.”

  I don’t believe he listened to a word Warren said.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  On first sight, Scotland Yard was an ugly building, with scraped paint in the halls, jackknife carvings in every seat or bench, and floors rubbed down to the bare wood. The building exhaled a sweet smell of damp rot. That being said, it was a hive of activity. Every room and hallway was packed with men, and all of them seemed to be discussing the same subject: the death of two prostitutes.

  I stood in the hall for a moment, dazed by the babel of conversations and arguments going on around us, when a sergeant put his head out of a door and pointed a thick finger in my direction.

  “You, there, with your hands in your pockets,” he said. “Two cuppas, and be smart about it!”

  I glanced at the Guv, who gave me a shrug, and then I said, “Yes, sir.”

  The sergeant pulled his head back into the room.

  “Where do you suppose the kettle is?” I asked my employer.

  “I have no idea. You find it and I’ll meet you later in the Records Room.”

  I asked several constables, who seemed too busy to answer, and finally stumbled upon a sort of small kitchen. Now, I don’t rate that I have many good qualities but I can brew a fine cup of tea, or so I’ve been told. Personally, I won’t touch the weed, but I have received enough compliments from those who claim to favor it. The tea in the canister was of the poorest quality, mostly stems and base leaves; I assumed it was purchased for the Yard by the bundle. I picked out the worst offenders and put the rest in the pot before pumping water into it from the basin. I lit the gas with a box of matches I routinely carry for Barker, settled the old, black cast-iron kettle on it, and then began searching through the cupboards. No sugar, lemon, or cream to go into it, nor any sort of biscuit. Savages. I’ll bet they took it strong and hot.

  Five minutes late
r the pot came to a rapid boil and began to shriek. I poured it into cracked cups and saucers with the aid of an unused strainer I found in one of the drawers. Then I attempted to carry them back to the waiting sergeant.

  Suddenly, the hall was full of constables and sergeants hurrying to get wherever they were going. I was jostled and bumped and knocked about as I balanced the cups as best I could. Just when I thought I was going to make it, and could actually see the sergeant’s room in sight, someone came out of a side room and knocked one of the cups over. The second spilled as well, but I deftly poured the dregs from both saucers into one cup and pocketed the other before entering the room.

  The sergeant was talking to a delicate-looking old woman. I set the cup at her elbow. She looked at me doubtfully, but murmured her thanks. No doubt she assumed I had been there for years rather than minutes. I turned and addressed the sergeant.

  “I only brought the one cup, sir. I’ll get the second one now.”

  “Don’t bother. I only needed the one. I assumed you would spill one, at least.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, saluting.

  “No need for that. This isn’t the bloomin’ army. On your way, Constable.”

  I stepped out and immediately found Barker waiting for me as if he’d never left. He led me through the labyrinth of halls and down a set of steps to the basement. Then he opened a door and ushered me into a room. There were several long tables and the walls were lined with shelves containing tall boxes bound in marbled pasteboard covers with ends of imitation leather and brass. Like the rest of the building, it was packed from floor to ceiling.

  There was a constable in the room whose duty it was to make inspectors sign in and out for specific files, so they did not disappear for good. One might think all constables want to go out in the field and investigate or walk a beat, but there one would be wrong. Some stay close to the nest and never fly away, never rising to sergeant, content to stay the course and collect a regular paycheck. This constable was just such a person.

  “Have the files from Mary Nichols been returned?” Barker asked.

  “Oh, yes, sir,” the constable said. “They was turnt in this morning, sir, at the order of Assistant Commissioner Anderson.”

  “May we see them? We will not leave the room.”

  “’Oo are you, sir, if I might ask?”

  “I am Cyrus Barker, assistant to Mr. Anderson. And you?”

  The constable snapped to attention, or as close to it as one could get sitting down. “I’m PC Kirkwood, sir.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Constable. This is my assistant, PC Llewelyn.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” I said, shaking his hand. Kirkwood had gray muttonchop side whiskers cut short, which covered most of his cheeks. He wore small bifocal spectacles set far down on his nose.

  “They only created this room in July,” Kirkwood explained. “It has been my duty to hunt down every file in this building, not to mention in the officers’ homes, and have them brought to this room to be inventoried, classified, and filed away. Then I had to teach everyone to sign them in and out. Now if you need a file and it isn’t here, I can direct you to whoever has it.”

  “That’s brilliant,” I said.

  “It’s efficient,” he corrected. “Some inspector laying hands on a file a half hour early may mean the difference between catching a criminal and letting him skip off on a steamer to Nova Scotia.”

  “Has a file been started for Annie Chapman yet?”

  “Just arrived, sir. At the moment, Chief Detective Inspector Donald Swanson has part of it on his desk. Postmortem results aren’t in.”

  “No doubt he’s in Whitechapel this morning.”

  “At ‘H’ Division, conferring with Inspector Abberline. He’s pretty well moved in there for a while.”

  The Guv nodded, a sign that he had heard and was turning something over in his mind.

  “Sign here, if you will, your names and the file number,” Kirkwood said. “‘Time in’ is 11:31.”

  I signed for us and received the Nichols file. We pulled out a couple of noisy chairs and removed the top of the box. Inside were manila folders and one of green pasteboard which proved to contain the postmortem. I’d have looked at that first, but understood my employer should have the choice. Luckily, he picked up the initial report, leaving the green folder for me.

  Mary Nichols, or “Polly,” was a forty-three-year-old prostitute who was murdered in Buck’s Row on August 31, scarcely a week ago. Her body was found at 3:40 A.M. by a pair of carters: Charles Cross and Robert Paul. At first they thought her only passed out drunk in the street, for the body was still warm, but when the police were brought and a bull’s-eye lantern shone upon her face, one could see that her throat had been cut and her clothing soaked through with blood. Worse yet, when the body was taken to the mortuary in Old Montague Street and her body stripped and examined, they discovered she had been disemboweled as well.

  The Yard had been caught out in many ways during this first case. The locale of the murder had been washed clean of blood by the time the first inspector arrived. The body, once it had arrived at the mortuary, was cleaned by attendants and the clothing thrown into a pile. There was so little blood splattered on the cobbles, it was possible she was cut while lying down, and her eyes were wide open upon death, as if disbelieving this cruel trick of fate.

  The author of the file could not say with any degree of certainty whether the victim’s name was Mary or Polly. She was an unfortunate, a prostitute, and like other members of the criminal classes had found the need to occasionally change her name for various reasons. If her name was Polly, she might have chosen Mary because it made her sound more virtuous, like the Virgin Mary, or otherwise, like Mary Magdalene. It was a common Irish name, so common as to be practically anonymous. Whitechapel was full of Marys. If her name really was Mary, it was possible she chose Polly because it made her stand out from among the Marys. “Polly” sounded fun-loving and gay. A man seeking female companionship might have chosen her over her companions simply because her name was Polly.

  In the photograph affixed to the file, she lay in a box made of what looked to be galvanized tin. One hesitated to call it a coffin. A coffin was made for one person, and it was buried with them. This contained someone else’s remains a half hour before, and probably someone else’s a half hour later. The galvanizing process involved submerging the tin in molten zinc for durability. That box must have held hundreds of bodies. For all I knew, both victims had used the same one. There was no way to differentiate one box from another. There was no shroud, nor any form of lining; merely bare metal. No dignity, no personality, merely anonymity. How did you end here, Mary? I wondered. You were once so full of life and promise.

  In fact, she was full of life an hour before her death, witnesses claimed. She’d been sitting in the Frying Pan public house, having a glass of gin, making jokes with her friend, and bemoaning the fact that she didn’t have enough money for a bed for the night. She did have a new bonnet, however, and on the strength of that she was certain to make up the money she needed. Mary was not beautiful, but she was presentable enough. She was in her forties in a profession whose members rarely reached fifty and lived in a district in which the average age of death was around thirty-five, yet she still lived. She was resilient. She knew the cruelty of life, but she was optimistic. She knew the dangers, or at least, she thought she did. She wasn’t prepared for her killer, but then who would be?

  A friend, whose statement was in the file, had met up with her later in the evening, sometime around two in the morning. Mary had already served several clients on the strength of that new bonnet, but had just as quickly drunk the money away again. She was drunk and still hadn’t the ready for a bed. She was a confirmed drinker, an “alcoholic,” to use the fancy new professional term. She could not quit. Given the choice, she had chosen a drink over even a place to sleep several times that evening. She lived to drink and had died because of it. Had she spent the fe
w pennies she made on her bed the first time she earned it, she’d have been safely tucked away when the Whitechapel Killer chose his first victim.

  I put down the file and picked up another.

  Annie Chapman, the second victim, was what is known as a casual prostitute. She made her living as a worker in crochet and by making and selling paper flowers, but in order to pay for the drink to which she had become addicted, she occasionally stepped out with men. She was a sad case. Annie was forty-seven, plump and consumptive, but well liked at her boardinghouse, where she was known as Dark Annie. In fact, one of the men she stepped out with was considering making the arrangement more permanent. The reputation left behind by both victims was that neither of them would be missed, but the truth was that Annie would be missed by many tenants and even by the landlords where she stayed. The sermons that preached that such a wicked life inevitably turns a woman into a shrill harridan were not strictly true.

  Annie had found herself in a rare argument a few days before with another local woman which came to blows, leaving her bruised and feeling low. She had considered going to a casual ward on September seventh until she recovered. Three days later she was still feeling ill when the owner of her lodging house came asking for rent. He claimed she was drunk and told her to pay him if she intended to sleep there that night. She went out to make the few pence for her bed the only way she could. Unverified claims put her at the Ten Bells Pub on Church Street early the next morning, probably having spent the rent on drink like Nichols. An hour later, she was found nearby in Hanbury Street between a set of steps and a wooden fence. Her face and hands were covered in blood, and her hands raised as if vainly trying to ward off the relentless steel of the knife that killed her. The tip of her tongue protruded between her teeth and the cut in her throat had sliced the neckerchief she wore in two. When she was taken to the mortuary, the postmortem revealed that her entire womb had been removed and was nowhere to be found. Like Mary Nichols, her sister in death, Annie was placed in a battered tin coffin and photographed, pale from consumption, her tongue still visible between her lips.