by Will Thomas
“Barker,” he said. “How are you settling in?”
“Well enough,” the Guv replied. “No one has been conspicuously rude to me, though Llewelyn here has been thumped once or twice in the halls. Still, Anderson warned us this wouldn’t be easy.”
“No, it won’t be,” Swanson replied.
He was about Barker’s height, but at least three stone heavier. I couldn’t fathom how many yards went into the making of his gray suit, but above his walrus mustache was a hawkish nose and even more raptorlike blue eyes. His bulk did not extend above the neck, though I suspect his top hat would have swallowed my head without touching an ear on either side. I had seen him work, and he carried that bulk as if it were mere pillows. He was quick off the mark when it counted.
“What have you done so far?” the chief inspector continued.
“We have reviewed the files of the victims and some of the suspects, the ones still in the Records Room. Also, we’ve walked around Whitechapel viewing the spots where the victims were found and taking in the local color, so to speak.”
“You know as much as I, then,” Swanson said.
“I find that hard to believe. I understand a few of the suspect files are missing.”
“What files would those be, gentlemen?”
“The files concerning Mr. Druitt, Mr. Stephen, and Dr. Tumblety to be precise. I believe Assistant Commissioner Anderson requested that all files be returned.”
“So he did, so he did,” Swanson said. “I admit that the file for Montague Druitt is on my desk. I had returned it on Anderson’s orders, but some fresh information came in and I retrieved it again. I am actively investigating this suspect and would like to keep this file at least temporarily.”
“What became of the files for Stephen and Tumblety?”
“Ah! Yes, of course. Inspector Abberline has been pursuing leads in the Tumblety matter.”
“And Stephen?”
Swanson opened his mouth to speak, then seemed to notice me.
“Is he privy to such information?” he asked, looking at me.
“Anything you say to me you may say to him,” Barker answered.
“Very well. The Stephen file was supposed to come to you. If it is missing, it can only be in the hands of Inspector Littlechild.”
“I thought I knew everyone in the Yard, but I’m not familiar with the name. Who is he?”
“He was an inspector with the Special Irish Branch, but during the last attempt on Her Majesty’s life, he was assigned to guard the royal family, and he took the opportunity to ingratiate himself at Sandringham. Since then, he’s managed to recruit a half-dozen men to his detail, forming an unofficial Special Royal Branch, if you will.”
“I was under the impression I was given free rein here, and the meetings at the palace were merely to give me more authority,” Barker said.
“I’m sure that was what you were intended to think, but it’s complicated. If you were under the impression that Anderson asked you to come in merely as a friend, and because his health is broken down, I suspect you came under false pretenses. There’s more to it than that. A lot more. You are in intrigue here up to your ears. As much or more so than when Great Scotland Yard was for the Scots kings come down south to visit their Sassenach neighbors.”
“Who is this fellow Stephen?”
“He is the Duke of Clarence’s tutor.”
“And he is considered a suspect?” I asked.
Swanson turned and regarded me appraisingly. “He’s got a file and is being actively investigated. Of course, that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s the Whitechapel Killer.”
The Guv held up a hand, to stop Swanson from going on.
“Pray do not tell us any more regarding Mr. Stephen. We would prefer to read the report for ourselves and question witnesses.”
“I would like to have your notes transcripted and added to the general files, in that case.”
“Certainly,” Barker replied.
They both nodded as if coming to an unspoken agreement to work together.
“Now, what is this business about Robert Anderson bringing me in under false pretenses?” the Guv asked.
“I am not the one to ask. It’s Freddy Abberline you should speak to.”
Cyrus Barker leaned his head to the side until I heard his vertebrae crack. “Thank you, I shall, then. Come, Constable Llewelyn.”
The Guv passed down the hall until he came to a door and gave it a thump that shook it in its frame.
“Come in,” a voice said from within.
Barker pushed his way inside. Abberline was as thin as Swanson was stocky. He was perhaps a year beyond thirty but rapidly losing his hair. What he lacked above, he made up for below, with Dundreary whiskers and a mustache. His office was full of apparatus for the Bertillon system of criminal investigation, and there was a microscope on his desk. Years later, when men like Warren and Barker and Swanson had retired from the force, men like Abberline would be in charge, the scientific investigator.
“Cyrus Barker,” he said. “I was wondering when you would arrive. Have you come to take over? Shall I move out and give you my office?”
“What are you talking about?” Barker grumbled.
“As if you didn’t know. So, as they say, a new broom sweeps clean, eh? I just want to know why Anderson couldn’t tell us to our face. Where’s he hiding, in a hotel in Brighton?”
“He is in Switzerland, recovering his health. Why, have you heard otherwise?”
“Yes, and you’re the hammer he’s decided to use.”
“Inspector,” he said, “I give you my word that I have no idea of a plot against the Yard hatched by Robert Anderson. He looked genuinely ill when I spoke to him and he asked me to come here and work in his stead, collecting information. I have no proof. It was an oral agreement. I didn’t think I’d need it.”
“You nonconformists all work together,” Abberline said with a sneer. “You expect me to believe you’re not working for him?”
“What do you mean? I just told you I am working for him.”
“No, not bloody Anderson. I could care less about that jackanapes. I’m talking about Munro!”
Barker’s brows suddenly sank behind his dark spectacles in a frown.
“Munro? James Munro? What does he have to do with this?”
“Only everything. He’s trying to start a coup right here at the Yard, but he’ll have to get by me to do it, and that goes for you if you’re part of it!”
Barker dropped into a chair in front of Abberline’s desk and rubbed his face with his hand. He had crossed swords with Munro in the past, when he was head of the Special Irish Branch. Munro had held the assistant commissioner position before Anderson, but he and Commissioner Warren had not gotten along. Also, though he and Barker did not like each other, both were Scots nonconformists, who took their religion seriously. One would think, and obviously Abberline did, that their similar backgrounds would make them friends, but such was not the case.
“Mr. Anderson made no mention of Mr. Munro. I was not aware they were acquainted.”
“More than acquainted. Thick as thieves, more like,” Abberline said.
“You say that Munro is trying to take over Warren’s position and that Anderson is helping him. Can you substantiate that?”
“Of course not. Munro’s too clever a fox for that. It’s as you say, an ‘oral agreement.’”
“Then permit me to doubt Robert Anderson’s part in a coup d’état. Where is Munro these days? I haven’t heard of him since he quit the Yard in protest at the start of the year.”
“It’s not like you to be behind, Barker. The Home Office has given him a fancy chamber down the street and a salary, for no other purpose than to be a thorn in our side.”
“What was the cause of the enmity between Munro and the commissioner?” I asked.
Inspector Abberline took a deep breath and blew it out slowly before answering. “Munro expected to be made commissioner. He knew that the c
ity board in charge of filling the position usually brought in men from the army, but he believed he had influenced enough important people in the City to change the policy. He nearly blew a hole in the roof when Warren was chosen over him, and then he had to sit by and watch Warren make the usual mistakes a tyro makes, such as the Trafalgar incident. Munro wouldn’t get over the slight, and began intriguing and blackening Warren’s name all over town. Finally, Warren went to the board and threatened to resign. Naturally, they talked him out of it. Then Munro charged in and threatened the same thing. They accepted his resignation.”
“Are you telling me you are against the board hiring someone who had risen through the ranks?” Barker asked him.
“No, I’m not, actually. I believe they should do away with the policy of hiring from outside of the department. It ruins morale. A commissioner should come to the position already knowing everything there is to know about the work. The army and the Met are two different institutions entirely.”
“Then why throw in your lot against Munro?”
Barker and the detective chief inspector eyed each other levelly. Without speaking, Barker nodded.
“Your allegiance does you credit,” my employer said. “Warren approved the rise to your current position.”
“He’s a good man, if a trifle naïve. He tends to see things simplistically, but he works hard and he’s not a bad chap when you get to know him, but it’s been all swords and daggers at him since the very first day. Munro can be quite Machiavellian when it suits him.”
I had to smile a little. It was probably the first time the word “Machiavellian” had been used in conversation at Scotland Yard.
“Why did Swanson send us to you, rather than tell us this himself?” Barker asked.
“He has no respect for Warren, and he thinks Munro’s rise to the commissioner’s chair is inevitable. He’s not going to cross him. Swanson is playing a larger game. He always takes the practical approach. He accuses me of being hotheaded. I suppose I am. You’d better not be trying to trick me, Barker. If you are working for Munro and I find out about it, I’ll have your license. I won’t hesitate for a second.”
“Thomas.” Barker turned and looked at me. “Would you be so kind as to tell Inspector Abberline how I feel about Mr. Munro?”
“I suspect, Inspector, that if Munro were on fire, Mr. Barker would not cross the street, even for the pleasure of stamping him out. Is that close enough, sir?”
I saw Abberline actually crack a smile.
“Aye, Thomas, very apt. Very descriptive. There is no love lost between us, countrymen or no. Inspector, do you feel this new case will be used by Munro to discredit the commissioner?”
“That’s exactly what I feel. It’s all over the press, and now the royal family is interested. There is a very good chance for Warren to get a black eye over this, and I want to avoid that.”
Barker sat back in the chair, which groaned under his weight, and did not speak for half a minute.
“Inspector,” he finally said. “I do not believe that Robert Anderson knowingly intrigued with Munro against the commissioner, but when he returns, I shall call him to task. In the meanwhile, I will work to help the Yard in any way I can to bring this killer to justice.”
“Then you should know that a suspect has been apprehended. We just got a telegram in. He’s being brought in now for questioning.”
“Why wasn’t I informed?”
“I’m informing you now. With any luck we’ll have this case over and done with before it does any damage to Warren’s reputation.”
“Who is the fellow? What is his name?”
“Pizer. They call him the ‘Leather Apron’.”
CHAPTER TEN
Pizer was being held in a temporary cell within the crowded building. Abberline gave us permission to see him as if the building and everything in it were his to parcel out as he saw fit. Unctuous, is what he was. Or bumptious. Possibly both at once.
We were still trying to fit in to our new surroundings and the quickest way there was to ask directions. Barker reasoned that if the commissioner’s office was called “Heaven,” then Hell must be in the basement. We worked our way down as far as we could go, then passed down a hall to a circular stairwell and descended into the basement. His deduction was correct, and we asked for Pizer’s cell, assuring the guard that we had Abberline’s permission, galling as it was, to see his prisoner.
The turnkey unlocked the cell and I filed in behind my employer. Pizer, the so-called Leather Apron, was a short, stockily built man with a wispy mustache and a full beard thick as a beaver pelt. It made him look like a character from a Yiddish play, a shtetl farmer somehow transported to modern London. He spoke with a heavy accent that for the sake of clarity I shall omit.
“What? More of you? Can’t you leave a man in peace?”
“We are sorry to be a nuisance, sir,” Barker said. “The sooner we establish your movements on the night of the various murders, the closer we may come to freeing you.”
“Freeing me? You jest. I shall never be free, sir. I am a Jew, despised of all the world, forced to wander ever west and west. All life is a trial.”
“Then you must bear up and do so with a smile.”
“Ha! You sound like my rabbi. At least you haven’t started kicking me like the last few fellows that were in here.”
“You must find yourself a proper barrister.”
“A barrister,” he cried, gesturing with his hands. “Do I look like the kind of person who frequents barristers? Very well. Unlock the cell. I’ll walk down to the Middle Temple myself.”
“I understand you make boots. What think you of the pair I am wearing?”
So saying, Barker raised a limb and rested his heel on the berth Pizer was sitting on.
“They are obviously secondhand. They weren’t made for you. You need to have a new heel put on both boots, and some of the nails should be tightened. Actually, I do not make boots. They are a luxury in Whitechapel. More often I repair them. Sometimes I make opera slippers I can peddle to a few dealers in the West End, but I never get a good price, no matter how perfect they are. My looks are against me, you see. One could no more mistake me for an Englishman than one could a giraffe. And when some crime occurs, by all means, blame a Jew! He’s as good a suspect as anyone.”
“Where were you on the eighth of September? Do you recall?”
“Recall! They won’t let me forget! I’ll tell you what I told your predecessors: I was with my brother at my flat in Mulberry Street all night. He told me to lie low, because they don’t like me there. Some people have got it in their minds that I am the Whitechapel murderer, though during the first murder I was at the Crossman’s Lodging House, and even spoke to a policeman while a fire occurred at the docks. I was with my brother the second time. It is the old Blood Libel legend they fear, but I am no Levite. I’m not even permitted to touch blood.”
I recalled my first case with Barker among the Jews. They feared the English public would be swayed by a legend now centuries old, that the Jews needed human blood for their sacrifices. It was gross ignorance of the lowest sort, but every few decades the story surfaced again and Jews found brickbats thrown through their windows, and foul words painted on the doors. Christians make bad neighbors, I have heard it said, which is far from what we have been taught.
“I assume they have taken your knife.”
“Of course. They are welcome to inspect it closely. I purchase my leather already tanned. They’ll find no blood on it unless they put it there themselves.”
“How came you to go by the name ‘Leather Apron’?”
“The Gentiles cannot remember my name. Apparently it is too foreign for them, though it is only five letters. Somebody came one day looking for Leather Apron, for the article I wore in my line of work, so I thought, ‘If they remember that, it’s better than nothing’ So, I go by ‘Leather Apron.’ It actually brings me work.”
“I understand you got in a little tr
ouble last month—a gross indecency charge?”
“Yah, yah, that is typical. I see a woman walking with a fancy man one day, and another one another day, and I assume she is a prostitute. I approach her, and we start talking, trading banter as is the custom. I thought we had decided upon a reasonable transaction and began opening my trousers and then she starts to scream. The next thing I know I am arrested. It seems she is only a casual prostitute and won’t take Jews, those awful disgusting Jews who killed her savior. I know I am not an attractive man, but my money is good and I am clean and healthy. She could do worse. May the next Gentile she meets give her a pox!”
“And that’s all?” Barker asked, as my pen transcribed quickly in my notebook.
“It is, except that your inspectors believe I am a piece of challah dough that needs to be pummeled and kneaded every few hours. I expect the newspapers will call me a monster and a mob will form outside every night hoping to hang me. The police will bring them to a fever pitch and then innocently release me into their loving arms, without even a knife to protect myself. Then good-bye, John Pizer, and good riddance to another Jew. It was a mistake to come here. The Cossacks are brutal, but at least they were honest about it. The British hate us, while trying to appear pious and fair-minded. It is a farce.”
“I will check into your alibis on the dates in question.”
“Does it matter? If my alibis are proven, will I be protected? It will do me no good to be found innocent by the police if I am killed.”
“If need be, I will see you to a place of safety myself, Mr. Pizer.”
“What is your name, sir? You are different from the others I have spoken with.”
“I am Special Inspector Barker.”
The man leaned forward and suddenly clasped the Guv’s hand. “Thank you, sir,” he said, trying to quell the raw emotion in his voice. “I wish you luck in your search.”
I called the jailer and we were let out again. I had done eight months in a cell that size for a crime I did not commit and it felt wonderful every time I was able to leave one.
“Opinions?” Barker asked as we walked down the hall from the cells.