Anatomy of Evil

by Will Thomas

  “Continue,” Barker said.

  “He’s not afraid of you, which means he’s either as good as he thinks he is, or else very stupid. Or he’s trying to put up a brave front and convince himself. The fact that he’s addressing you is a sign you have attracted his attention, for all his claims.”

  “Mmph.”

  “The ‘ripping whores,’ the ‘catch-me-if-you-can,’ those are cadged from a previous letter. This one hasn’t called himself Jack the Ripper, either. The mention of the kidney pie is his way of saying he was here at some point, eating and drinking while we were walking Whitechapel. He intends to demoralize us by claiming he was under our very noses.”

  “To some degree,” Barker said. “Nearly all correspondence between criminals and their hunters is bravura. He is boasting that I cannot catch him. Or rather, that I cannot catch the Whitechapel Killer, for whoever wrote this is patently not him.”

  “On what evidence do you base this?”

  “Logic,” Barker said. “A syllogism: most people in Whitechapel are illiterate, the Whitechapel Killer lives in Whitechapel, therefore the Whitechapel Killer is illiterate, and therefore cannot have written that note.”

  “What of this?” I asked. “The Whitechapel Killer is literate, only Jewish people in Whitechapel are literate, therefore the Whitechapel Killer is Jewish.”

  “Do you believe the killer is Jewish?” the Guv asked.

  “On the one hand I agree he lives here in the area, as you have maintained, but he must be very savvy in order to have survived so long as a free man. He is intelligent, even educated. Where else can such a person be found in the East End besides the Jewish quarter?”

  “It runs counter to my theory, but I do not dislike it,” Barker admitted.

  “Did I get it right?”

  “I’m sorry, but this is not an agricultural fair. You do not win a blue ribbon for occasionally deducing a plausible idea.”

  “Double or nothing.”

  “Rascal,” he said, and swatted at me with his hat. I dodged from the would-be blow.

  “As a matter of fact, I cannot claim the Ripper is Jewish until I’ve reached a few conclusions,” I stated.

  “Such as?”

  “Are the Jews covering up for him? I have a difficult time believing a man can inflict such damage all by himself. People have friends, relations. Whitechapel is densely populated. Surely someone will spot him eventually. Or already has.”

  “He is taking a terrible risk each time, murdering women for sport, or worse, unless perhaps part of it is the chance of getting caught. He likes danger.”

  “I wonder if there are odds among the bookies concerning the Ripper, if and when he will strike again.”

  “I can just about guarantee it,” the Guv said.

  I pinched the letter between my fingers, feeling the crisp paper. “I imagine they would love to see this.”

  He took the letter and envelope. “That they never shall.”

  “Have you shown this to Scotland Yard yet?”

  He tucked it back in his pocket. “It’s addressed to me. They have several of their own. Besides, it doesn’t say ‘Jack the Ripper.’ It could be from anyone.”

  “Anyone that ‘rips whores’ and is being pursued by Scotland Yard.”

  “Perhaps,” he said.

  “Do you think the duke or his tutor, or both of them together, is the man for whom we are looking?”

  “Frankly, no, I do not. The Duke of Clarence has been in Scotland until yesterday, so Sir Henry has informed me, and Stephen has been watched very closely. He was in the palace during the double event.”

  “So going there has been a complete waste of time,” I cried.

  “It was necessary to eliminate them both as suspects.”

  “So many wasted hours. And visits to the Drake Club. Unnecessary!”

  “It’s worse than that, Thomas. We have been manipulated from the very beginning. Where do you suppose this came from?”

  So saying, Barker reached into his pocket and removed the Royal Command.

  “From Robert Anderson.”

  Barker’s mustache spread out in a smile. “Robert has no connection to the palace. Who do you suppose gave it to him?”

  “I don’t know. Who?”

  “One of three men, all of them working on the same side: Inspector Littlechild, the home secretary, or James Munro.”

  “Then Anderson was working for them!”

  “Not necessarily. When it was offered to him he had no reason to assume it was being used against us. He thought it might be helpful. And it has been, to some extent.”

  “Then why were we given it?”

  “To embroil us in this possible royal scandal, which I’m sure Munro has known about for months. To slow us down.”

  “The duke and Stephen really had nothing to do with the killings?”

  “Nothing save the same morbid curiosity you and your friend Zangwill displayed.”

  I took a gulp of my ale and slammed it down on the table more heavily than I had intended.

  “Who else?” I asked. “Who else is working for Munro? Swanson?”

  “Of course. He is closely watching his chief suspect, the man Munro believes is the killer.”

  I snapped my fingers. “It’s Druitt. That’s the fellow’s name.”

  “Exactly.”

  “We never saw his file.”

  “You never did. I may have strolled into his office once when he was out of the building.”

  “Through a locked door, no doubt.”

  “There is no locked door for a man with skills, Thomas.”

  I smiled. “So, what is it with this Druitt fellow?”

  “He’s a teacher and a barrister, studying for the bar. Almost as brilliant a scholar as Stephen. But there is madness in the family. In Montague Druitt’s case it is hereditary. His mother was institutionalized, and his father was a drunkard. This past year he has been subject to bouts of depression and lapses of memory. Not to draw out the story too much, his family believes he is the killer, and he himself suspects it.”

  “That’s it, then. If they have the case in their pocket, we have no way to solve it.”

  “Not necessarily, lad. He may be convinced he is the Whitechapel Killer, but he hasn’t convinced me.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “The man has no knowledge of Whitechapel. I suspect the killer has a knowledge of the area that is greater than our own, we who have walked the streets every night. It’s how he appears and disappears so quickly.”

  “Then who is it?”

  “Someone we haven’t considered well enough. We must start over.”

  “Back to the beginning.”

  “Don’t sound so dispirited. The beginning is always a good place to start.”

  “We’re back at the beginning, and everyone is in Munro’s pocket: Littlechild, Matthews, Swanson, the palace—”

  “Bulling.”

  “The reporter?”

  “Who do you think told him we had shut our doors and joined with Scotland Yard?”

  “Who else?”

  “Lusk. He tried to stop us not long after Bulling was not successful in warning us away.”

  “I suppose at least half of Scotland Yard would like us to fail to track the killer.”

  “At least that, Thomas. The rest would rather their own find him, rather than a ‘special inspector’ and his constable.”

  “It’s just you and me, then,” I said.

  “Of course.”

  “Against everybody.”

  “Aye.”

  “Marvelous.”

  “Isn’t it? That’s the way all our cases are, Thomas. You and me, tracking down our quarry. Truth to tell, I prefer it that way.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  We began our nightly tour of the ’Chapel, and I was glad to say nothing of any import occurred. No one threatened or harassed us, or harassed anyone else, for that matter. No windows were broken in any Jewish estab
lishments that evening. However, when we returned to our rooms, there was a new envelope on the floor, having been slipped under the door, and it was addressed to me.

  “Do I get my own letter from the Ripper?” I asked, picking it up.

  “It looks to be better paper than mine,” the Guv remarked.

  I opened it. It was written in a formal hand on buff paper.

  “It’s just an address. And a time. Two o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”

  Barker examined the note. “A feminine hand, and an appointment during calling hours.”

  “What do I do?” I asked.

  “Attend, obviously.”

  “Without you?”

  “I don’t expect you shall be in any mortal danger.”

  “I hope not. One never knows with women.”

  I arrived at number 37 Cornhill Street a trifle early and reconnoitered the area as is my usual habit, but doing my best to calm the butterflies in my stomach. This could be anything or nothing, I knew, from a prospective client to a person with a clue about the killings, but I was certain it was from Her. She had recognized me at the Lyceum, and wished to speak to me. Was this her home? It was possible that Asher Cowen, the MP, might have some kind of abode here in his district, among his people. A moment’s thought convinced me otherwise. Certainly a woman would not invite a former suitor to her own home. Not in front of the servants. It would be indiscreet.

  Not content with my stomach, my heart began to flutter as well. I could see the news in the morning’s paper: suitor found dead in front of woman’s home, alleged heart attack. No, make that “dies of a broken heart.” I pulled my watch from the pocket of my trousers by the chain, a terrible way to treat a timepiece, and checked the time. It was one minute until the hour. Not allowing myself to be early, I waited the full minute, then walked up to a glossy black door set in a prosperous-looking limestone wall and tapped upon the knocker. A few seconds later the door was opened. I held my breath.

  A woman stood there holding the door, who looked too young and prosperous to be a servant. I deduced the house belonged to her. She was in her late twenties, with dark hair, olive skin, and sardonic eyes. One eyebrow was raised as she inspected me. I removed my hat.

  “I suppose you had better come in,” she said.

  “I am Thomas Llewelyn.”

  “I know who you are. And you’re not Jewish at all? Remarkable.”

  “I am part of a plainclothes squad for Scotland Yard,” I explained, which was not technically true but was the easiest way to explain it. “Pray forgive the attire.”

  “When I was asked to host this little rendezvous I was dead set against it, but I was promised you would do nothing that might damage anyone’s reputation.”

  “That is the last thing I should want to do.”

  “You are well spoken. I shall give you that.”

  Then a voice came from another room, a voice that made my heart skip a beat. “Ouida, is he here?”

  The woman smiled at her friend’s impatience. “He is.”

  “Bring him in, then. Do not interrogate him in the front hall.”

  “Come along, Mr. Llewelyn. Your Juliet awaits.”

  I followed her, hearing my footsteps inordinately loud in the hall and noticing the scuffs on the toes of my shoes. Oh, that I had appeared in the best my wardrobe could provide. The hall was well decorated with thick carpets and small paintings on the way. Palm fronds were arranged in a large pot. I entered some sort of parlor and I cannot recall anything there, because my eyes were full of her. She rose as I entered, and nodded toward her friend. We would have our privacy, within reason. There were no doors, and I knew it likely Ouida would stay within earshot.

  She had become a woman now, Rebecca Mocatta Cowen. Mrs. Asher Cowen, the wife of a man of substance. Her parents must have been very proud. She had married well and in short order would produce offspring to polish the escutcheon on the family shield.

  “Thomas,” she murmured.

  I felt something like an electric current go right up my spine.

  “Pray forgive my attire,” I said. “I am working.”

  “Oh, Thomas, why did you never come to call? I could have got round Mother’s objections eventually, you know.”

  “It wasn’t your mother. She was only doing what was best for her family. Rather, it was your father. He was very kind, but I understood it would break his heart for his daughter to marry outside of the faith. I could see that he cared very deeply for you.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid I am his favorite. You missed all the arguments. Mother sensed you were hovering nearby and set her plans in motion. Asher began courting me within a week. There were histrionics all over the house. I refused to marry him. Mama slapped me, and I went on a hunger binge. I was going to die for love, for love of you, Thomas, if you must know. A girlish fancy. But you never called or came again. I waited and waited, and made Asher wait with me a full six months before I finally agreed to marry him. You were rather cruel, not to mention ungallant.”

  “Yes,” I muttered. “I’m afraid I was.”

  “I wanted to tell you that. I did nothing to warrant such treatment. Perhaps, I thought, you might explain yourself to me someday, so that I could extinguish the torch I’ve been carrying and get on with my life. Then I saw you in the theater the other day and I recognized you immediately.”

  I nodded. I didn’t trust my voice.

  “We were together five minutes, perhaps ten. You did not kiss me or pledge your troth, yet I dream about our conversation every day.”

  “As do I,” I managed to say. My throat was dry.

  Her dark eyes widened. “You do? This is not in jest?”

  “I felt as strongly as you, and still feel the same way. Probably, I always shall.”

  “Five minutes,” she said.

  “Five minutes.”

  It was during my first case as Cyrus Barker’s assistant. He was trying to introduce me to Jewish culture in order to instill in me the need to protect the Chosen People, and so he hired me as a shabbes goy for the Rabbi Mocatta, lighting the candles and fires forbidden to a Jew on the sabbath. No one had expected a spark to ignite between Rebecca and me. She stole down from her room and we had talked. Five minutes, no more. But that is all it takes, I suppose.

  “I was warned off,” I explained. “Not by your mother or father, but by my employer. My occupation pays very well, but there are inherent risks in this profession. A day or two after our encounter I was in hospital. I’ve been there three times since. I’ve been injured a dozen times. Shot, stabbed, beaten. I was blown off a bridge once. This is no occupation for a married man, Rebecca.”

  “Then why didn’t you just change positions?” she asked, just like that, with all her feminine logic behind it. So sensible.

  “I don’t know if I can explain it. Working for the Guv, for Mr. Barker. It’s not just a situation, it is more like a crusade. He only takes cases that genuinely matter. He—we—protected the Jews from a pogrom last time. It’s very possible we may do so again over this Ripper business.”

  “Is it really as dangerous as all that?” she asked.

  “The last fellow who had my position died. Murdered, floating in the Thames.”

  “But surely some other fellow could do the work. My father has connections in the City. I’m sure he could find a suitable position for you, clerking in an office somewhere.”

  I shook my head. “You don’t really know me, Rebecca. I am a widower. That is, I was when you met me. I did eight months in Oxford Prison for theft. I needed to buy her medicine. You’re wasting your time and concern on someone who is unworthy of it. Perhaps it would be best if you just forgot about me. It would be better for everyone all around.”

  Then she came forward, and before I could do anything, she took my hand in hers. They were warm and soothing like the balm of Gilead.

  “That I will never do, Thomas. You cannot tell a heart to do anything, don’t you know that by now? Mother has tried. F
ather has tried. Goodness knows, Asher has tried. He heard about my secret heartache. He has tried his best to make me forget you.”

  We sat down side by side, and I took both her hands in mine.

  “Is he a good husband?” I asked. “Is he attentive? Does he love you?”

  She squeezed her eyes together and looked away. When she looked back, her jaw was set.

  “My marriage is a masquerade,” she said. “He acquired me the way one purchases a vase from Japan and puts it high on a shelf to admire. Asher keeps a mistress in Islington and occasionally visits a house for low women. One can smell cheap perfume on his clothes when he returns. He … he has an illness our physician is treating him for and we cannot start a family until he is well again. Of course, I stand by his side when he makes speeches and attends dinners. Frankly, they are a bit of a bore, but I must tolerate them so he can rise to whatever position he has set his eye on next. He hopes to be prime minister one day, the first openly Jewish one, he says, since Disraeli was baptized as an Anglican.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I finally said.

  “It sounds so terrible, but it’s not as bad as that. I’m alone much of the time, with the servants. Sometimes Mama comes to see me, or my sister, or Ouida, who is my closest friend since Amy died. You knew Amy Levy, did you not?”

  “Yes. I’m friends with Israel Zangwill, if you recall.”

  “Oh, that’s right. He mentioned your name to me.”

  I leaned forward and looked at her in earnest. “See here,” I said. “If you are in an intolerable situation, you have but to say the word and Barker and I will help you leave. We can put you in the Carlton Hotel for a couple of days, until you decide what you want to do from there.”

  She laughed. I’d have liked to hear her laughing but not that way. There was a trace of bitterness in it.

  “I cannot say I love him, but he is my husband and I should try to make him a proper wife. I don’t know what to say, Thomas, save that between us, we’ve made a horrible mess of things. If somehow it were miraculously repaired, what then? I presume you will not leave your position, nor will you marry me while you work for Mr. Barker.”