by Will Thomas
“You are right. We have made a hash of it. But we do have one tool we can use.”
She looked up into my eyes. I could sit beside her and stare into those dark, lusterful orbs for the rest of my life.
“And that is?”
“Cyrus Barker himself. He’s awfully good at advice. He’s the wisest person I know. He prays over things and thinks them over before reaching a conclusion, which is generally the right one.”
“You understand,” Rebecca said, “that I cannot leave Asher. He needs me to support him and his career. Whether he is an ideal husband to me, I shall certainly try to be an ideal wife to him.”
I took her hand again.
“I would not have it any other way,” I said.
Just then, Ouida returned with a tray of tea. It was another example of how the beverage was used in England, to smooth over awkward situations. She sat down across from us, one part friend and three parts chaperone, and began to pour.
“You have a lovely house,” I said to my hostess.
“Thank you. Mrs. Cowen tells me you are some kind of detective.”
“Private enquiry agent, actually.”
“And how does one become a private enquiry agent?”
“Oh, the usual way, you know. I began at university.”
“Which one?” she asked. She was sharp, but not disposed to hate me. Not yet, anyway.
“Oxford. Magdalen.”
“Did you know Oscar Wilde?”
“He was a senior boy while I was in my first year. We met once or twice. I’m not sure if he’d remember my name.”
We talked of this and that, while she probed me the way a surgeon probes, with a sharp scalpel. The patient found it painless enough; anything to sit beside Rebecca for a few more minutes. Finally, she said the words I dreaded to hear.
“It was so nice to have you come.”
I stood and bowed gravely. “Thank you for inviting me. One so rarely gets a glimpse into these old houses of the City. Whenever I pass by, I shall remember this afternoon and these beautiful rooms.”
I turned and took Rebecca’s hand. I could feel it trembling.
“Mrs. Cowen, I am delighted to make your acquaintance again. I shall look forward to speaking with you at a later date. I must be away now. I am sorely busy. It was charming to take tea and renew old acquaintances. Good afternoon, ladies!”
I turned and left the room. Finding my hat in a seat by the front door, I stepped out and resisted the urge to lean against the frame and breathe like a fish that had been thrown onto dry land. What a mess. What a bloody mess.
Had I done something, anything, when Rebecca and I had first met, it might have changed the outcome somehow. But I did nothing, leaving her to struggle along against the machinations of her parents and the odious Mr. Cowen. Very well, he wasn’t odious. I didn’t know that for a fact. But he was an idiot. A mistress, when the loveliest girl in the world was at his beck and call? Could such a man appreciate her? No, a thousand times, no. The real me, the natural me, the one I had been when I first met Rebecca, might have stolen her away without blinking an eye. However, I had been changed by working with Cyrus Barker. As much as I loved her, she was Cowen’s, and I had no right to take her, even if he did not appreciate her. If he beat her or mistreated her outright, certainly, but there seemed limited evidence of it. She had grounds for adultery, but not everyone will make such a claim against their husband, and thereby ruin her own good name. I must give it some thought. Much thought, in fact. That, and I should consult Cyrus Barker about the matter.
Which would be the ideal time? That evening, when we walked Whitechapel together. Provided the Ripper didn’t strike again, we would have the entire evening for a full airing of events, past and present, concerning Rebecca Cowen, née Mocatta. If I had the courage.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
When we returned to Scotland Yard, we learned that Robert Anderson was back from his enforced holiday and was in the building. Knowing that he would have a good amount of work to do, including being brought up to speed by Commissioner Warren himself, Barker thought it prudent to wait until we were called in to see him
“What are you going to say to him?” I asked.
“I haven’t decided. I’ll see what he has to say to me first.”
“And if he doesn’t say anything regarding Munro, what then?”
“Then we’ll know he has a reason for hiding it, and shall need to uncover it.”
“Why not just ask him outright?”
“What?” the Guv asked. “Club him over the head while he reads his mail? We’ve been friends for several years. I should think he deserves better treatment than that.”
“Have it your way, then.”
“Oh, I intend to.”
After an hour or so, during which Barker studied the latest suspect file, we were finally called into Anderson’s office.
“Ah, gentlemen,” he said from the depths of his chair.
The color had returned to his cheeks, and though he didn’t exactly look five and twenty, he looked a world better than when we saw him last and he had brought us into this case, possibly the biggest in Yard history.
“You are looking well, Robert,” Barker said.
“I feel better. When I reached Switzerland, I slept for most of a week. Then I was ravenous and my wife was hard-pressed to feed me, and finally my strength returned and I spent much of the time walking in the cool Alpine air. It restored my health and I believe my spirits, as well. She’ll tell you I was a trial as a patient, and frankly, I was. My doctor informs me that had I continued as I was, I’d have collapsed within a fortnight. But what news when I returned!”
“You did not get the newspapers in Switzerland?”
“My wife would not allow them. ‘They’ll only upset you,’ she kept saying. Two more murders by this Whitechapel Killer while I was gone! I had no idea he would continue to attack unfortunates in the East End. Forgive me if you have been asked to do too much. I had anticipated that you would have a dull caseload in my absence, but this! It beats all, as they say.”
“It has been very interesting,” Barker said.
“And I suppose you have managed to be in the thick of it.”
“Well, the lad and I have taken rooms in a public house in the Commercial Road and have patrolled Whitechapel every night.”
“More work? I suppose, Mr. Llewelyn, that he has taken advantage and made you work round the clock.”
“Frankly, sir, I was keen as Colman’s myself to track down the fellow, especially after two in one night. The man’s a devil, I tell you.”
“Then I’m glad I did not miss his capture while I was in Switzerland. I’d have regretted it for the rest of my professional life. Tell me what you have learned and whom you suspect, Cyrus.”
Barker caught him up on events. He is no storyteller and has no ability to embellish beyond the barest facts, but this was the appropriate time for such dry facts, and he told it well enough.
“You are of the considered opinion that neither the duke nor his tutor are responsible for the murders.”
“No,” Barker stated. “The duke was out of the country when the murders occurred and Mr. Stephen was … occupied and accounted for.”
“Thank you for sparing me the details,” Anderson said.
“If he is not the killer, Mr. Stephen is allowed his privacy.”
“As long as he is not breaking any other laws. So, you are back to the beginning, then. The rabbit trail led nowhere.”
“Not exactly,” Barker corrected. “We have eliminated several suspects, and a few more are under suspicion.”
“I am wondering what will happen,” the assistant commissioner asked, “if all our suspects are eliminated. Then what shall we do?”
“Track down new ones and start again,” Barker replied, as if it were only a matter of common sense.
“I hope you appreciate that heads will roll if this fellow isn’t caught. Salisbury’s government is hangi
ng by the most gossamer of threads.”
“If it were easy, the killer would have been captured by now, Robert. The man works randomly and anonymously. There are few patterns he displays, yet somehow he has managed to frighten the entire population of London, cast himself in the role of a fiend, and made a mockery of our offices.”
“You can understand why Warren is not exactly pleased with the state of the investigation. I almost promised him you would bring him to justice.”
“It all depends on whether he is working alone or has help. It is possible he is being aided without his neighbors’ or relatives’ knowledge of what he is doing. This is too big a secret to keep to one man. If he is alone, he is a feral beast and will inevitably be caught. If he has help, it might take longer.”
“We haven’t got ‘longer.’ He must be caught soon or something might happen to this country as we know it. Warren has hinted at declaring martial law. What can the Yard do if troops are occupying Whitechapel?”
“Warren does not have that kind of power,” Barker said.
“That’s what they said about Cromwell.”
“Anyway, he wouldn’t.”
“How do you know? This case is making a desperate man of him. Who knows what he will do, if cornered.”
“Robert, you are confusing the prey with the hunter. You’re starting to sound like James Munro.”
I blinked, I admit. He had mentioned the one name I had expected he would not reveal. Anderson frowned for a moment, then he actually smiled.
“I suppose some have recounted the rumor that he and I are hatching a plot to undermine the Yard.”
Barker folded his arms and sat back easily. “Of course. Once you were on the Continent, they could not wait to tell me. They see the two of you as evangelicals, conniving to get Warren sacked. I personally believe that you would no more rather work under one than the other.”
“Then no more need be said of the matter,” Anderson said.
“Exactly.”
“So, tell me, is there anyone you currently suspect?”
“There’s someone I am thinking of, but he has an alibi for the murders. I must see if I can break it.”
“Then, by all means, bring him in and we’ll see if we can break it together.”
“That did not work for Pizer.”
“But he was a Jew,” Anderson pointed out.
“So is this suspect.”
“We mustn’t go about arresting Jews if we can avoid it. It causes unrest. There are a lot of Jewish anarchists in the East End.”
“Are you more concerned with the safety of the Chosen People, or of causing unrest in the East End?” Barker asked.
“Both concern me. I don’t want to see them harmed, and I am aware how indebted financially England is to Rothschild and others. As well, I understand that the population finds them very alien and is concerned that so many are arriving here. So far, we have seen no need to prohibit them from coming. I honestly hope it remains that way.”
“You might have warned me about Munro’s machinations.”
“To tell the truth, I was not aware that word had gone out regarding the matter, among the officials of Scotland Yard.”
“And where do you stand?” the Guv asked.
“It is an internal matter involving men in higher positions than I. Of course, I was hired from outside Scotland Yard myself, but I can see the sense of officers rising from within. Logic dictates commissioner will eventually be a rank that is earned rather than bestowed. It depended upon the pool of men from which the situation can be drawn.”
“I think Mr. Abberline imagined a vast conspiracy of evangelicals, accomplishing diplomatically the overthrow Cromwell was unable to retain.”
Anderson actually chuckled, which was a very good sign that his health had returned. “Leave it to the Anglicans to distrust all nonconformists.”
“Am I relieved of my duties, Robert? You are returned. I’m sure there are prospective clients waiting for me to open my doors.”
“Bide a while, Cyrus, if you would. You’ve come this far, and know as much as anyone. Both of you. Why not stay until it is done?”
“As you wish,” Barker said, without consulting me. I believe he knew how I would feel about the matter. “We have put many days into this case. ’Twould be a great pity to leave it now when we are so close. I should be quite put out if the case were solved tomorrow based upon the information the lad or I had provided.”
“So are you? Close, I mean?”
“It has been sheer luck on the Ripper’s part that he has not been caught so far. I do not believe his luck can hold out much longer.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I don’t know how anything gets done in Scotland Yard. There is too much traffic through those weather-beaten halls. It is not a place conducive to thought or ratiocination. There is never any silence. People are chattering all day long, either to witnesses, colleagues, or suspects. Detectives talk through their thought processes, and sometimes those conversations can become heated. Men accuse each other of crimes, large and small, and others protest their innocence of said crimes. It’s enough to give a man a thumping headache.
Luckily, the Guv had a well-appointed office just around the corner. At the time he rescued me, I had made my fourth or fifth pot of tea and was dangerously close to running out of digestive biscuits. He came up beside me and took me by the elbow in that way of his that brooks no refusal.
“Let’s go back to our chambers, Thomas,” he said. “I cannot hear myself think here.”
“Gladly,” I said, donning my helmet and adjusting the strap on my chin.
In the entrance, I told the desk sergeant that we were out investigating a case and it might be well to find a constable to make more tea soon. Then we walked in rare autumnal sunshine to Barker’s chambers. Jenkins looked relieved to see us. Having a room all to oneself has a way of making time drag. His desk was littered with copies of the Illustrated Police News. He opened his mouth to say something to me, probably something cutting about my uniform, but the Guv interrupted him. He had the first of his inspirations since leaving “A” Division.
“Have you read about the killings, Jeremy?” he asked.
“Indeed I have, Mr. B. Plenty gruesome it is, too.”
“It would have to be to be in that rag,” I said.
“This ain’t no rag, Mr. L. It’s nothing but the gospel truth, so help me!”
“Do you think,” Barker broke into our argument, “that you could clip and collect articles pertaining to the Whitechapel murders? You must purchase a few scrapbooks for the purpose. Good ones, I think. Leather bound.”
“Of course, sir,” Jenkins said. He’s a skinny fellow, loose as a scarecrow, with a hawkish nose and black hair.
“I wish he’d had the foresight to collect the issues that have gone through this office in the past few months,” I said.
“Got ’em, Mr. B.,” our clerk said. “I take them home every night to read to the pater. He does like it when I read to him after supper. Then we discuss the events of the day. He’s got a perfect horror of throwing away newspapers. I’ve got them going back several years.”
Part of what Jenkins said was not strictly true. I had met his father on two or three occasions. He was one of the city’s best forgers at one time, but that had been when we were fighting in the Crimea. Now he sat, silent and gray, staring at nothing, a victim, I suspected, of dementia. His son refused to admit it, out of respect for his father, perhaps, who at one time shed a larger-than-life shadow. Jenkins implied, even claimed outright, that they engaged in lively conversations, but I suspected that he had been robbed of all speech. The most I had heard from him was a sigh. Barker and I never spoke of it, but we both joined in this fantasy, asking Jenkins how his father was, and what he had been up to recently. It was the least we could do for a man who not only kept our offices running, but had stopped several people who had meant us harm.
“Excellent. Thomas, give Jeremy a te
nner. No, two of them. Jeremy, I want you to create the definitive scrapbook on the Whitechapel Killer. Comb the newsstands for articles and opinions on the subject.”
“What newspapers, sir?” he asked, a trifle dazed.
“The Times, the Daily News, the Dispatch, the Standard, your beloved Illustrated Police News, the morning Post, the Jewish Chronicle, the Pall Mall Gazette, the Star, and anything else you think might be of interest. Use your own discretion.”
He looked like a fellow in deep water who had just been thrown a lifeline. Something to occupy him during the long day until five-thirty and his first pint at the Rising Sun.
“I’m your man. I’ll give you my absolute best.”
Barker patted him on the shoulder. “One could not ask for more. Now, as for you, Thomas…”
I looked over at him. Unlike Jenkins, I had plenty of things to do, from the minute I awoke with the aid of the Guv’s boot in my shoulder, to the minute I fell in bed eighteen hours later.
“Yes, sir?” I asked, with a little less enthusiasm than our clerk had shown.
“I want you to collect a list of all lunatic asylums in London and the surrounding boroughs. Include in your list the workhouses, as well, because the insane are often kept in their casual wards.”
I had flipped out a fresh notebook and was writing shorthand.
“Got it,” I said.
“From that, compile a list of places that accept paupers from the East End. Rule out any from Kensington, for example, which are mostly for the rich, or good old Bethlehem, which is too far away. As I recall, there are several asylums north of the city in Hackney, for example.”
“Hackney,” I said as I wrote. “Then what, sir?”
“I want you to visit those institutions and get a list of previous or temporary patients that have been released within the past few months.”
“I see where you are headed,” I said. “The killer has very likely been institutionalized at one time or another. But how am I going to get them to tell me? I’m sure that’s private information.”
“You have two things going for you, lad. One of them is that uniform. The other is your ability to charm them into giving you information.”