by Will Thomas
Curious, I moved to the window. The room overlooked the Kosminski Mantle Factory. As I looked down through the skylight of the factory, Aaron Kosminski shuffled by under my gaze.
“So,” Barker asked. “How was your day?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
I was fortunate that once I began working for the Kosminskis, Barker no longer considered it necessary to march around Whitechapel until midnight. Instead, he followed the youngest brother about the district at a discreet distance from the time he left the factory until his return a few hours later, when he was locked in by his brothers for the night.
“What does he do while he is out and about?” I asked over a breakfast of water and day-old bread.
“He lopes about for the most part. He has a quick, hopping step that makes his head bob up and down as he walks. Perhaps he is partially lame but has overcome it. Anyway, he doesn’t interact with anyone. Sometimes he just stops as if he had thought of something important, or is receiving instruction from those voices in his head. He may not move for ten minutes, then he’ll suddenly lope off again. His eyes dart from side to side, but they do not fix on any person or object for very long. To be truthful, I assumed he would fixate upon a particular female, or females in general, but I saw no sign of it. His eyes followed whatever passed him by. But that wasn’t what struck me most.”
“Oh, really? What was that?”
“No one looked at him, or paid any attention. It may have something to do with English manners. They studiously avoided looking at someone so malodorous and unpleasant, as if not willing to cause embarrassment. Either that or they have ceased to notice him at all. He comes, he goes, he does not interact with anyone, and he is not in a position of authority like a policeman, so he is a nonentity. He stands there and is not noticed, like a servant in a drawing room.”
“Do you suppose anyone knows who he is?”
“I imagine the Jews know. After all, he is one of them. The Kosminskis are respected within their community and perhaps simultaneously pitied, as well, for having an apparent imbecile as a family member.”
“Apparent?”
“Aye. We have no real understanding of his intelligence. I really must discover how clever he is. Has he ever had any sort of conversation with his family in front of you?”
“They speak to him, but mostly it’s just orders or questions he can answer with a nod or shake of the head. ‘Are you hungry? Did you remember your jacket?’ Sometimes he responds with a word or two, but I can’t make heads or tails of what it is. It may be slurred or he might have an accent or impediment to his speech. It’s mostly just mumbles, and it has a peculiar quality, as if it were coming from someone else, the way a music hall ventriloquist throws his voice. It’s the strangest thing.”
“I feel I must either discover some sign of real intelligence in Mr. Kosminski or pull you from the premises and have us go back to our former routine. I’m starting to be concerned that this is a false lead. I dare not pull any other constables or inspectors into the investigation unless I have more proof. Can you think of some way to get into his room in the factory and toss it without attracting attention to yourself?”
“Not offhand,” I admitted. “He’s nocturnal. Doesn’t get up until two o’clock in the afternoon. He stays in his room for the most part until five o’clock. I would have to get in between five and seven when he returns. The problem is others may be watching, and Wolfe Kosminski passes in and out.”
“It would have to be during those two hours. We must imagine some sort of ruse you might employ to get inside.”
“If I could stand a sewing dummy in front of the door, I might be able to conceal myself from view for a few moments, but I’d be taking a risk of being caught and sacked. Then we wouldn’t have a pair of eyes inside to evaluate whether he’s the Ripper or not.”
“That might be worth the risk if a quick tossing turns up anything worthwhile.”
“What am I looking for, precisely?” I asked.
“Bloody rags. The missing organs of those poor women, preserved or otherwise. The knife he kills with. A bag of some sort.”
“But you thought it unlikely he’d carry a bag.”
“I was wondering how he lugged those bloody organs home. He couldn’t just put a fresh kidney in the pocket of his trousers.”
“That’s disgusting,” I said. “But then, everything about this fellow is disgusting. His room smells like a charnel house. But how shall I get in?”
Barker rubbed his chin. “Rather than following after Mr. Kosminski again, perhaps I could provide the distraction.”
“That would certainly work. If you were someone looking for an address or wanting to place an order, that might give me enough time to look for something.”
“Excellent. I’ll wait until our suspect is safely down the street and away before I arrive. Don’t move until you see me pull your notebook from my pocket.”
“I will. Tonight, after five? I’ll be ready.”
It was a long day in anticipation of his arrival. I pulled my sewing dummy rather close to Aaron’s malodorous door, where most of the workers were loath to go. Young Aaron came out of his room around three and looked vaguely in my direction without actually looking me in the eye. He was scratching his chest and hair. I’ll get fleas, I thought, on top of possibly getting caught. He went upstairs where the family dwelt and came down again at five. Wolfe made him put on his coat and he shot out the door, running in that gangly way of his.
About five minutes later, a familiar figure came looming through the door.
“Is Mr. Wolfe Kosminski on the premises?” the Guv asked in a loud voice.
“I am he,” the elder Kosminski stated, as he got up from a table where he was sitting and went to greet the visitor.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance. I’m from the Clarion Herald.”
“Not another reporter! Out, sir!”
“Hear me out, if you will. We understand your factory was singled out for public humiliation due to a rival’s inflammatory article, which we consider to have been racially motivated. It has been said a Jew cannot receive proper treatment in the town. We wondered if you would be willing to tell me how this has affected your business, in terms of sales and in finding willing workers. I don’t claim that we can rectify the situation you find yourselves in, but it may stimulate business for you.”
“I suppose I could answer some questions for you, yes,” Wolfe Kosminski replied.
Barker reached into his inside pocket and retrieved my notebook. I looked about me. All the workers in the room were focused on his arrival. I stepped back toward the forbidden door.
I squeezed too quickly into the space and forgot to hold my breath. The odor assaulted me. My eyes watered and I resisted my body’s attempt to gag. My stomach somersaulted and tried to contort. To keep from making a sound I was forced to jam my handkerchief into my mouth. Slowly, my eyes cleared.
The room was rectangular, built against the back wall as a kind of lumber room. It was perhaps ten feet long, but only six feet wide. A bed was there, covered in large sacking with a pillow and a blanket. No white sheets had ever touched this bed. The pillow was blacked where lank, dirty hair lay for hours each night. There was a small desk with a mismatched chair of cane, worn thin and broken. On top of the desk was a collection of objects arranged in a rough circle: the limb of a child’s doll; a pencil stub; a penknife with no blade; a foreign coin, possibly Swiss; a piece of rope. I need not go on. They were items picked up from the gutter, things even the people here had no use for. Perhaps the voices had told him to pick them up. The interesting thing was the arrangement. Everything had been placed just so, forming a circle, but evenly spaced. It was a kind of altar.
On the floor by the desk were wires and red paper, the raw materials for making paper flowers, a minor industry in the East End. The paper was covered in dust. The Kosminskis must have tried to force some work out of their youngest, but he would not or could not oblige. I
did not envy Wolfe Kosminski trying to deal with this recalcitrant brother.
A coat hung on a broken coat rack, by a deerstalker hat. I felt in the pockets on either side, but they were empty. Nothing. Nothing so far. Where might he hide something? The man owned practically nothing.
I patted the bed from one side to the other, looking for the knife or something completely disgusting. An old folding screen stood against the back wall, but a quick glance showed there was nothing on the floor behind it. In the far corner I encountered something hard and square. It was the last thing I expected to find. A book. A rather large book. I pulled it from where it was concealed, in the corner under the mattress by the pillow. I pulled it open, and glanced down. Turned the pages, and glanced again. I was late. Closing it carefully, I stowed it away again and arranged the pillow, then I stopped and backed away, taking in one last visual sweep of the area. Quietly, I eased the door open and slipped out.
“Mr. Kosminski, I feel you have been ill-used. It is not right that one Jewish factory should be subject to persecution while the Gentile businesses beside it receive no such abuse. We shall make an issue of it, sir, I promise you. This cannot go on. Do you know that several kosher shops have had bricks thrown through their windows this very week? But come, sir. I see you must be about your business, and I must be about mine. Be sure to see my article in the Clarion Herald this week. Good day, sir!”
No sooner did I get out the door than I fell into a fit of coughing. My stomach was trying to crawl out of my throat. The next I knew, Wolfe Kosminski was slapping me on the back.
“Are you unwell, Mr. Llewelyn? You look nearly green.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Kosminski. I fear I have been working too close to a certain room. My wish was that I could grow accustomed to it, but the flesh is weak.”
“It does you credit for trying. This mantle is coming along well. You will soon be making them all by yourself, I think.”
Acting as if I had no other wish than to make mantles for fashionable women for the rest of my life had become second nature by now. When had I become such a liar? I told him anything to make him go away so I could finish coughing up my spleen.
There were still two hours to go before I could return and tell Barker my news. They dragged even worse than the ones that had trickled minute by minute to five o’clock. But then, that is private enquiry work. Long stretches of boredom punctuated by intense minutes of pain and disgust.
Finally, Aaron returned to his nightly incarceration, looking manic and flushed. I signed Wolfe’s ledger logging the time. I said good-bye and walked out the door, down Goulston Street, and into an alleyway that led into Cambrian Street, where I let myself into our rented flat. I ascended the stair.
Barker was in his perch, looking down onto the skylight windows of the factory. The smoke from his pipe circled his head. He turned on his stool and looked at me.
“Well?” he asked.
“No organs, no knife, not so much as a bloody rag.”
“Blast!” he barked.
“But there was a book hidden under his bed. A German anatomy book.”
“An anatomy book?”
“I don’t know if he can read, but his filthy fingermarks were all over the illustrations, and they were so dog-eared as to be almost falling out.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
“We now have enough,” Barker announced that evening, standing across from the factory in Goulston Street, “to suggest that Scotland Yard give us a constable or two to watch Aaron Kosminski.”
“I’d have thought that a certainty,” I said.
“Not necessarily. The evidence you found, while damning, is circumstantial. He owns a book on anatomy. So do most doctors. He is of diminished mental capacity, though he may possess a cleverness we haven’t seen so far. He attacked his sister-in-law with scissors.”
“You know, that doesn’t make sense at first glance. His record at the workhouse said he was trained as a hairdresser, but no one would train someone who spent his days staring at the wall, muttering to himself.”
“What are you driving at?” Barker asked.
“I suspect that he’s been declining mentally ever since he left Poland. At eighteen, he might have been neat and orderly, reasonable and able to speak. Since coming here, however, his mental faculties have given way and he has become violently insane.”
“That might be difficult to prove without questioning his family, but if it is true, what would it prove?”
“It’s the timing, sir. At one time he may have had no thought of killing anyone. Then one day he did and he may have ruminated on it without doing anything about it. But finally, in August, he gave in to it. There has to be a logical progression of his sinking into madness.”
“Unless there was a catalyst,” Barker said. “A trigger.”
“You mean his sister-in-law?”
“Aye. They came here, three bachelors. Then one of them gets married to a local girl. Soon she is with child. Now it could go either way. He might hate the changes of having first one stranger in his life and then a little one, or he might have developed stirrings, longings for her.”
“It’s possible his illness may have retarded the onset of puberty,” I said. “Perhaps he found himself having all these confused feelings and desires. She won’t give him what he wants, so he attacks her in anger.”
“But when he returns from his time in the workhouse he sees women nearby that could gratify his sudden needs. He’s not a normal twenty-five-year-old, however, so instead of having the traditional rite of passage of boys, he cuts her throat.”
“Why?”
“Who knows the answer to that? Because he’s mad. Perhaps she belittled him. Perhaps they all did. Unfortunates are not known for their discretion. She told him he smelled. She called him a scarecrow. Or perhaps she refused him because he was a Jew, or insane, or because he won’t or can’t talk, or because he stares. There are a hundred reasons at least. These women are bold as brass. They won’t spare the feelings of a man like that. If she got him angry enough, he might cut her throat without hardly realizing he’s done it.”
“That’s good reasoning. You see, we must have a convincing argument for Swanson and Abberline. We have to know who, what, when, why, and how. A story, like you just came up with, whether all the facts are true or not, may help to convince them. It is not necessary that they believe he is the only suspect. In fact, if they do, we may be pushed to the side. We just want to convince them that he is a possible suspect. Let us go down to ‘H’ Division and see what we can do.”
I was tired after my long day, and famished, but I wasn’t going to argue with my employer. Having discussed it thoroughly, he did not seem inclined to talk, so we marched down Commercial Street and made our way to Leman Street. Our luck held there. Swanson had just arrived in order to confer with Abberline. I thought Swanson might be easier to convince of the two. Abberline seemed likely to prefer his own theories.
“Gentlemen, might we have a word?” Barker asked.
The two chief inspectors were seated at a table scarred with tea rings. They looked up at us.
“What can we do for you, Barker?” Abberline asked.
“I promised Mr. Anderson that I would not withhold material from you and I intend to keep my promise. Mr. Llewelyn and I, having established alibis for the various suspects connected to the royal family, have looked elsewhere. We’ve been tracking a suspect for whom there is already a file, and we came upon some new evidence this afternoon.”
Both of them sat up, Swanson looking hopeful, while I saw doubt on Abberline’s bewhiskered face.
“Does this suspect have a name?”
“Kosminski. Aaron Kosminski.”
The chief inspectors looked at each other as if they both tried to pull the name from their memory. They must have had hundreds of suspects by now.
“Fellow attacked his sister, didn’t he?” Swanson asked, after a moment.
“That’s right,” Abberline s
aid, snapping his fingers. “He’d been put in the workhouse while she was giving birth. Not much more than a youth. The smelly one!”
“What put you on to him?” Swanson asked.
“His family’s mantle factory is in Goulston Street, where the commissioner wiped away the message.”
“‘The Juwes are the ones who will not be blamed for nothing,’” Abberline quoted. “You think someone was trying to tell us something?”
“Perhaps. We realized the only alibi he had was that he was locked up at night. No one was actively watching him, you see. If there were some way for him to get out and return, he would have no alibi and would be close to several if not all of the murders. Therefore, I got Mr. Llewelyn a situation in the factory.”
“That’s more important than tea in ‘A’ Division?” Abberline asked.
“Regrettably, yes. Tell them what you found, Thomas.”
“This young Kosminski fellow, Aaron, has a small room on the premises. I thought it worthwhile to see if there was anything he had concealed there, some proof that he was Jack the Ripper. I believe I found it.”
Both Swanson and Abberline moved to the edge of their chairs. The latter was not going to let it go without comment.
“Well, out with it! What did you find?”
“An anatomy book, well thumbed. Printed in German. You’ll recall he speaks almost no English.”
“Can the fellow even read?” Swanson asked.
“It had diagrams, sir. Anatomical drawings of female reproductive organs. Well looked at, if you know what I mean. There were dirty fingermarks all over it.”
Both of the inspectors tried to speak at once. Swanson broke into a gap-toothed grin and even Abberline had a wry smile.
“We know there is not enough evidence to convict him based upon the presence of a book,” the Guv said. “However, I have secured rooms on the first floor across the street, which have a fine view of the factory. But we are just two men. If we had a constable or two to watch the factory overnight, they might be able to see if he goes in and out.”