Anatomy of Evil

by Will Thomas

  The fellow eventually came to a door, knocked on it and entered. I would have been inclined to stay outside until invited in, but my employer went through immediately, so I followed. The room was large; part of it was given over to comfortable furnishings and a large fireplace, but part contained a large desk, a filing cabinet, and various chairs of the Chippendale variety. A man was just rising to his feet. Had this been a play and I was casting for the role of Queen’s Private Secretary, I’d have hired him on the spot. He was between fifty and sixty, with a salt-and-pepper beard, and looked thin and elegant. At first he looked taken aback, which was understandable.

  “You are Cyrus Barker, whom Robert Anderson recommended?” he asked.

  “I am, sir. This is my assistant, Thomas Llewelyn.”

  “Won’t you have a seat, gentlemen? We have much to discuss.”

  My employer is not one to let another control the conversation. He spoke while in the act of lowering himself into the chair.

  “I assume Her Majesty has been informed of the recent Whitechapel murders.”

  “Oh, yes, she knows. She has been beside herself over the matter. Thrice in my hearing she has used the phrase ‘murdered in our beds.’ She is of the opinion that Scotland Yard is sitting on its hands. I must admit I happen to agree with her.”

  “Of course you do, Sir Henry. You are not a police officer. But you are a military man. You understand the logistics involved in patrolling a city. These murders are occurring at night in the darkest part of Whitechapel. The darkness is so intense that a constable could pass by the killer standing in the shadow and not even see him. Had there been better lighting in the lowest sections of London, this would not have started, let alone continued. This killer works in total darkness and thrives upon it.”

  “But come, gentlemen. Two gruesome murders.”

  “I will admit that no one anticipated a second killing. All the patrols came in to Whitechapel to lend assistance. They assumed he would scurry back to his burrow, wherever it is, or that we would apprehend him. Instead, he attacked like a fox among the chickens. He is bold. By the heavens, he is bold!”

  “The fact that he is bold will not assuage Her Majesty’s fears. If Commissioner Warren cannot safeguard the population, it may be necessary to bring in another man. The Home Office is of the opinion that it was a mistake not to have chosen from within the ranks of the Metropolitan.”

  “We are well aware of the Home Office’s opinions of the matter. This killer will be caught, I assure you of that. It is inevitable. Whitechapel is flooded with officers and they are learning the streets and the people. New facts and new suspects are considered each day. We have the most modern police department in the world. They use the Bertillon system of detection. He cannot stay hidden forever. He is but one man. A madman, of course, and madmen move erratically, but one man all the same. We understand that our reputation is on the line.”

  “It was said in the halls of Parliament recently that perhaps they’ve been sinking too much money into Scotland Yard. Better to shut it down, set it up in some other part of London with new methods and better training.”

  A smile spread across Barker’s face, the kind that goes with thoughts of vengeance.

  “Led by James Munro, I’ll be bound.”

  “The name has been suggested,” Ponsonby admitted.

  “No doubt. One cannot whitewash a turkey and call it a swan, Sir Henry. Munro is trained in all the same methods you now consider obsolete. Meanwhile, Commissioner Warren, who, to state the obvious, was trained in the same strategies you yourself studied, is now facing censure. It appears you are arguing on the wrong side.”

  “Perhaps you are right,” Ponsonby said. He opened a file on the desk and closed it again. “How is it that a private enquiry agent speaks so highly of his chief rival?”

  Barker leaned back and glanced at the ceiling, which was full of cherubs and heraldry. “I find it a comfort that I must scratch a living working unusual cases because most crimes are solved by the Yard. Sometimes the sheer volume they solve means they don’t have much time for unusual and more cerebral crimes, which are my meat and drink, but one cannot argue with their success. The Sûreté, the New York Police Department, and the Tokyo Keishicho can only hope for such a record.”

  “You are being squandered, Mr. Barker. They need you in the House of Commons when an increase in funding is required. The file the Home Office provided tells me you need not scratch out a living at all, that you are a wealthy man. Why not sit back and take your ease?”

  “We all must work, Sir Henry. Skills grow rusty if one doesn’t use them. And even women such as Mary Nichols and Annie Chapman, living on the very edge of society, should be able to do so without being butchered.”

  Ponsonby nodded. “I concur, as does the Queen. Understanding that these women were forced by circumstances to go outside the law in order to make their living, they nevertheless deserved such safety as the Empire can provide.”

  “Is Her Majesty often concerned with being murdered in her bed?” the Guv asked.

  “She has survived several attacks upon her life, as I’m sure you are aware, and the hub of the anarchist movement is currently among the Jews in the East End.”

  “As are the Workers’ Unions, who hope to reform society by doing away with the monarchy,” Barker added.

  “Precisely. She is more concerned with those matters than of this Whitechapel Killer actually breaking into the palace. You must understand, she is occasionally given to hyperbole.”

  Sir Henry then stood and crossed the room to a window. He pushed back the tails of his coat and stared out into the grounds deep in thought. The silence seemed interminable, but was probably no more than ten seconds. I wondered for a moment if we had been dismissed. Finally, he turned about.

  “I had to decide whether to bring you into my confidence, sirs, before I discussed a certain matter, which is of some delicacy. To do so, I had to convince myself that you were capable of discretion. Our normal liaison with Scotland Yard, Inspector Littlechild, I do not consider capable. I have complained on several occasions about his vulgar manner to the commissioner, but to no avail. He is not the sort of person to present to Her Majesty. This matter cannot leave this room, save when speaking to your immediate superiors, and nothing about it may be written down. There must be no file upon this subject at Scotland Yard, lest it fall into the wrong hands and become an embarrassment to the Crown. Do I make myself clear?”

  “You do, sir,” Barker rumbled.

  “And you, young man?” he asked, turning on me. “I include you in this silence.”

  “You may rely upon our discretion, sir. We would do nothing to harm the monarchy.”

  Ponsonby stared at us momentarily, as if finally convincing himself that we were worthy of his confidences, and with good reason. We were total strangers to him, and at best, I was an addendum to his file. I imagined he had no idea I was tagging along, and if he had he’d have learned things that were not in my favor, such as the fact that before I was hired as Barker’s assistant, I had done eight months in Oxford Prison for theft, or that my best friend was one of those Jewish socialist intellectuals he feared would try to bring down the government. I offered him my most trustworthy face, for all that was worth.

  “Very well,” he began, slowly pacing the carpet. “The matter concerns the Duke of Clarence, the royal heir but one to the throne. He has a tutor by the name of Stephen. James K. Stephen. Brilliant fellow. Came highly recommended. He and the young duke are quite close. Albert Victor is now twenty-four, and Stephen is twenty-nine. I suppose like most royals, the duke has led a very cloistered existence. Stephen proposed to take him on an outing into Whitechapel, to visit the tenements there.”

  “As his father did several years ago,” Barker said. “If memory serves.”

  “Indeed, yes. His Royal Highness found it very informative. I would even say it will make him a better ruler when he ascends the throne. And though the tutor suggest
ed the matter, it was approved by the Prince of Wales. As before, no notification would be given, and no attempt made to beautify the area or shield him from anything. He would see Whitechapel as it truly was, though I must state this was decided before the recent killings there. They went late last month. They were given no escort to draw attention to them, but they were discreetly followed by the Home Office, as a matter of course.”

  “He is the royal heir, after all,” I said.

  “Precisely. Unfortunately, the two managed to somehow evade the Home Office an hour or two later in the worst part of the district, before turning up again in Commercial Street. There was a minor flap when they returned, but they and the driver of the vehicle all claimed they had simply traveled about the streets and did nothing more dangerous than to pass through one or two of the worst tenements heavily swathed in scarves so as to not be recognized. However, the Home Office became suspicious of Stephen and looked deeply into his background, interviewing his acquaintances past and present. They came to me with what they found. I was not pleased with the information they had acquired.”

  “What did they find?” Barker asked.

  “James Stephen is a sodomite. The Home Office now suspects that during the missing hour they were in a private residence which caters to such … activities. The heir is impressionable, and Stephen has very winning ways. We fear that the two have become—that Stephen has introduced the duke to these practices. The Home Office now informs us that they have gone out at least once more to Whitechapel without notifying us. In order to separate him from such influences, we have sent Albert Victor to Balmoral.”

  “This is all very interesting,” Barker said. “And I suppose under the Labouchere Amendment, James Stephen could be prosecuted if the Home Office has enough information to make a case beyond hearsay. However, I do not believe Scotland Yard would prefer to become involved in this matter. Is there more?”

  Ponsonby ran a hand across his brow. “There is. Apparently, Stephen is subject to spells. They began at university, I understand, but he was in a carriage accident recently, and the spells have become more frequent.”

  “You are being rather vague, Sir Henry,” my employer said. “How does Mr. Stephen act during these spells?”

  “His behavior has been diagnosed as a form of mania. He is highly restless, full of energy almost to a fault, argumentative, and euphoric. During these periods he is known for being markedly misogynistic, but then, I understand he is critical of the fair sex at the best of times.”

  “What you are implying,” the Guv said, “is that the tutor of the heir to the throne is a suspect in the Whitechapel killings.”

  “We cannot be sure of Stephen’s whereabouts on the nights in question. It appears there are other members of the staff within the palace who are sympathetic to his interests.”

  “And how do the duke’s father and grandmother feel about the matter as it stands?”

  Ponsonby, who had been standing during our conversation, suddenly collapsed into a chair. It was as if his limbs had given out. He passed a hand over his face again.

  “I have not dared to tell them,” he answered.

  It was Barker’s turn to smooth his mustache, if only to hide the smile on his face. I cleared my throat.

  “Indeed?”

  “We—the prime minister and I—have been considering the best time and proper method of informing them. Such news would destroy his father, and as for Her Majesty, I’m not certain she understands that such things exist. The matter would have to be explained to her.”

  “I do not envy you your task, Sir Henry, but I still do not know how I can help you. The Home Office is following Stephen adequately, I’m sure. If I am pulled away from the investigation to shadow one suspect, who may turn out to be innocent, I may be hampered from laying hands on the killer when he reveals himself.”

  “Stephen is a lot of things,” Ponsonby said, “but I do not think innocent is one of them.”

  “Innocent of the crime of murder, at least. Is there more?”

  Ponsonby nodded. “I fear so.”

  Barker began ticking off points on his fingers. “The royal heir may not be inclined to fulfill his duties to the monarchy, his tutor is not only a frequenter of male brothels, but might be responsible for several horrendous deaths, and the household is riddled with his supporters. What more do you fear?”

  “This fellow, Littlechild. He knows everything and I am inclined to think that he will not keep silent about the matter without something in return.”

  “I am a plain man, Sir Henry, and I prefer plain words. Is Inspector Littlechild blackmailing you?”

  “Not yet, but I’m not sure why. He’s an oily fellow, but a straightforward one. I’ve been waiting for him to suggest some sort of payment, and then I would pounce. I could have him sacked and jailed within the afternoon. So far he has said nothing, which I find perplexing.”

  Barker pondered this behind those smoky quartz spectacles. He tapped his chest, or more precisely, the pocket where his tobacco was normally kept, but not in this suit. It was just as well. I doubted one could just light a pipe in Buckingham Palace without a formal censure.

  “Tell me,” he finally said. “Is the inspector acquainted with the Home Office agents?”

  “They are thick as thieves. I understand they have even ridden together while following Stephen. Why do you ask?”

  “Let me consider the matter.”

  “What shall I do in the meantime about the Duke of Clarence and Mr. Stephen?”

  “You must inform the Prince of Wales about his son’s indiscretions, and let him decide whether to tell Her Majesty. This is not a firecracker, it is a blasting cap. You do not want to be holding it when it goes off.”

  Barker stood. He had bustled in and now he was ready to leave. He took out one of his cards and gave it to the Queen’s private secretary.

  “I can be reached at Scotland yard in a matter of minutes. Pray call me if anything new occurs.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I was growing accustomed to the routine, if one could call it that. Each day began with research in the Records Room, went on to making tea and delivering messages, lunch, interviewing witnesses, dinner, then walking Whitechapel. Sometimes the entire routine was overthrown, if there was a coroner’s inquest or a new suspect. I felt I now knew the area better than anyone who was not raised there. I could walk down most streets and know what was around the corner, though it had taken close to a month to learn it. Even the unfortunates had begun to leave off harassing or enticing us. Now they bantered with us, assuming we were local. We had invented occupations for ourselves in case anyone asked: I was an out-of-work tailor, while Barker was an ex-miner who had received a small settlement due to black lung. We walked to help improve his health and had come to London to improve our fortunes. That was our story. The incurious believed it. As for the others, those who knew Push in the East End or recognized us from previous cases, they understood our need for partial incognito, assuming we were working with the Board of Deputies or some such organization to find the killer. The reporters, the Jews, the unfortunates, the publicans, the aid society members and socialists in Whitechapel, none of them suspected we were working with Scotland Yard. Whitechapel was the center of London’s Underworld, and no matter how long the police had been there, they were still the enemy. A private agent, on the other hand, he was just a working stiff trying to make a living. There was even a chance he actually gave a tinker’s damn about what happened to the people who lived there.

  I was passing through the halls of Scotland Yard when I heard my name called by the desk sergeant. When I hurried up, he handed me a telegram.

  “Who for, Sergeant?” I asked.

  “Your master.”

  I took the note to my employer, who slit it open with a knife. He read the piece of yellow paper, covered in glued-on words, and folded it into his pocket with a look of intent on his face.

  “Who is it from, sir?” I as
ked.

  “Ponsonby,” he answered. “He’s plugged the leak in the palace staff and now has them working for him. He says Stephen is restless and shall probably go out tonight. He’s been leaving through the stable entrance, Sir Henry claims, and picks up a cab a few streets away.”

  “Are we going to follow him?”

  “Of course. The only way to tell where a fellow goes is to follow him. It is possible he commits murder on the nights when he is agitated.”

  “But he may be going to a brothel, sir. That is, a male brothel.”

  “Aye,” the Guv said.

  “A male brothel,” I repeated.

  “What concerns you, Thomas, that someone you know might spy you going in there, or that you might be approached by a male prostitute?”

  “Both! Do we have to go in? Can we watch from outside?”

  “Need I remind you that James Stephen just escaped from Buckingham Palace, which is surrounded by guards? How difficult do you think it would be for him to slip out a side entrance of an establishment that is designed to afford anonymity to its clients? In fact, if he is careful enough he could establish an alibi of sorts. One cannot be accused of murdering a woman in Hanbury Street at the same time one is accused of gross indecency somewhere else.”

  “I suppose it doesn’t matter how much I protest. You’re going there, anyway.”

  “Where the case leads, Thomas. We go where the case leads.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  * * *

  The Drake Club was a residence in Halifax Street built in Regency days when the wealthy were first building outside the City, where land was cheap and plentiful. It must have been an ample mansion then, with marble columns and level steps, the pride of the neighborhood. Now it was unkempt and ramshackle, like an old widow fallen on hard times. The slate roof was sagging under its own weight. In every window, however, there was a splash of color, a vase full of peacock feathers here, or an oriental fan there. It was vulgar but it achieved its purpose. As I stood watching, two men hurried furtively inside.