Anatomy of Evil
Page 33
A phrase from Shakespeare came to me then. It was Henry V, unless I miss my guess. This “band of brothers.” I didn’t know these men well, but we had bonded over the teapot and the search for a multiple murderer. I had been an outsider, but was no longer. Looking about the room, I realized I had not been a part of something larger than myself for some time, at least since university. Barker and I were a team, but a very small one. It felt good to be part of a larger entity.
Afterward, the Guv and I were called into Anderson’s office.
“This is the man of the hour,” he said, shaking my hand.
“Hardly that,” I said.
“He’s being modest. We have been questioning the Kosminskis and have gotten signed statements from the brothers to the effect that he had the ability to escape on the nights in question when the unfortunates were killed. It isn’t much, but it is as close to a confession as we will ever get. The youngest brother is hopelessly mad, and can tell us nothing. We even plied him with questions from an interpreter that speaks Yiddish and German.”
“It isn’t that he has no brain function,” I said. “It is like his mind is in a dream world or he is listening only to the voices in his head. He doesn’t seem to care much for the events of the real world.”
“I wonder,” Barker said, “if given his freedom he would ever kill again. Over a period of a few months he went from cutting a throat to eviscerating a woman. There is no way for him to go any further. Does he begin again, or duplicate the last murder?”
“It is academic. This fellow is never getting out again. He shall be locked away for the rest of his days.”
“But there is no plan to announce that Jack the Ripper, or whatever we prefer to call him, has been captured?” I asked.
“No. At some point in the future we may make unofficial mention of it, if the Jews are living in relative safety, but not now. After the Kelly murder, there were several minor attacks upon Jewish businesses. The Kosminskis had a window smashed, though I think it was merely because they were Jewish.”
“Was it Warren’s decision not to notify the public?” Barker asked.
“His and the prime minister’s. The palace and the Home Office were consulted, as well.”
“And Warren is to take the blame for not catching the Ripper, when in fact he has,” I said. “I suppose Munro must be happy.”
“If anything, he is chastened,” Anderson said. “Officially, Warren will take the blame, but unofficially, he’ll become a martyr. Cato throwing himself upon his sword and all that. Munro will not be able to say anything negative about his predecessor.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” I told him.
“And what about you two gentlemen? Shall you return to private work, or would you like to continue on for a while? The positions are still open, and while I cannot promise another case so engrossing, there is always interesting work to be done. That torso in New Scotland Yard, for example. We have determined it was not the work of the Ripper. You could concentrate on that murder this very afternoon, if you like.”
“I cannot speak for the lad, here,” the Guv said. “Any thoughts, Thomas? You decide.”
I looked at him askance. Surely he was not really putting the future of the agency into my hands.
“I’ve certainly found the work interesting, and even stimulating, but I still prefer private work. For one thing, we can pick and choose the cases. The caseload here is relentless.”
Barker gave me no indication whether my decision was the right one or not, but by now, I was well accustomed to flailing in the wind.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Anderson said. “I was looking forward to working together with you both. Thank you for coming to my aid when I was ill. You were the only men in London I could trust to take on the task.”
“Not at all, Robert,” my employer said. “If you need us, remember that we are but one street away.”
We stood and shook his hand. Anderson’s grip was firm and dry. It was good to see him restored to health. Passing down the stair to the ground floor, we found ourselves in the same passage as the first day. Like a jack-in-the-box, the selfsame sergeant stuck his head into the hallway.
“Another cuppa!” he demanded.
Was I still employed, since I was in uniform? I supposed I could make one final cup.
“Coming, sir. Right away,” a voice called from the kitchen. Some poor, luckless fellow was now doomed to make tea here for the rest of the year.
“Don’t call me ‘sir’! I work for a living!”
“Yes, S-Sergeant.”
Barker patted my shoulder and I went to change out of my uniform. Some things don’t matter. Whether I actually did apprehend Jack the Ripper, it didn’t impress the sergeant in charge of the uniforms and equipment.
“Don’t suppose I’ll get much use out of a uniform this size,” he told me. “I couldn’t take it home to the nipper. He’s already outgrown it. I suppose I could dress up a dolly.”
“Or give it to the Guy,” I suggested, referring to the Guy Fawkes dummies that would be burned in effigy.
“Now there’s a thought. P’raps I’ll save it till next November.”
“Sergeant, do you think I could keep the whistle?” I asked. “It got me out of a scrape and has sentimental attachment.”
“You take it,” he said. “I’ve got three dozen in a box under the counter.”
He reached out and took my hand. “Good luck to you, son.”
I pocketed the whistle, then went down the hallway to the Records Room, which PC Kirkwood called his domain.
“The case is over and we’re leaving now,” I said. “I just wanted to say thank you.”
“The pleasure was mine, PC Llewelyn. Or rather, Mr. Llewelyn. If you ever need to look at a file, just let me know, and I’ll see if I can get permission to show it to you.”
“Thank you. That will be very helpful. I’ll see you again soon.”
I’m not much for good-byes. They make me uncomfortable. If I could get out of the building quick enough, I wouldn’t have to shake another bloody hand. I climbed the stairs, where Barker was waiting for me in the corridor, talking to Abberline and Swanson.
“The inspectors have offered to take us across to the Rising Sun and stand us a pint, Thomas.”
“Right. Marvelous,” I said. Damn and blast.
So, of course, I was forced to recite the entire story again. We sat and ordered pints. Evidently, the rules against drinking on duty didn’t apply to detective chief inspectors.
“I can’t believe we left Kosminski’s record just lying about for you to pick up,” Abberline complained.
“It doesn’t matter who found him, as long as he was found and stopped,” Swanson said.
“Fat lot of good it will do us since we’re not to get credit for it,” Abberline complained.
“Would you rather,” Swanson said, “that the killer’s identity be revealed and we have a full riot in Petticoat Lane?”
“I would. Nothing wrong with pounding the skull of a vigilante every now and again.”
As a rule, we did not touch alcohol before noon, but currently we were not employed. We’d signed our resignations and would receive our wages in due time, and Barker had not yet restarted the agency. We were a couple of chaps on the dole. I looked over at my employer. That is, my former employer. He was munching on a pickled onion from the bar, seemingly without a care. How soon before he opened the agency again? I wondered. He didn’t seem in any kind of hurry.
“That must have been a desperate fight, Thomas,” Swanson said.
I wasn’t aware he knew my first name.
“I wasn’t sure whether I was in the right place at the right time, or the wrong time. He attacked me before I could decide.”
“It’s too bad,” Abberline said. “An inch in another direction and you could have drawn a police pension.”
“Wish I’d thought of that then.”
An ale led to an early lunch of sandwiches sliced fr
om the joint and some chips. The Sun did good chips. Put the Guv next to a couple of inspectors and they could talk methods and cases for hours. It was close to noon before the inevitable shaking of hands, and promises to renew acquaintances soon. At last, we stepped out into Great Scotland Yard Street again and headed for the gate.
He’ll expect me to ask whether or not the decision to stay in the Yard or reopen the agency were truly mine to make, I told myself. I decided I wasn’t going to bring it up. If anyone should speak of it, it would have to be Cyrus Barker, currently unemployed. No, not unemployed. He was now a gentleman. I was the one who was unemployed. After all, if you’ve got no agency, you don’t need an assistant, do you? He hadn’t asked me to be his secretary or his chauffeur in the interim. I was currently without gainful employment, but I had some money saved. It seemed comical to realize that I had become his lodger. I wondered what he would charge for room and board.
We walked down Whitehall Street and as I looked toward Craig’s Court, my eyes saw it. BARKER AGENCY. PRIVATE ENQUIRY AGENTS. The hoarding was back up. When had he ordered it restored? It had to be before he’d asked me whether we would stay with Scotland Yard or not. The question had been moot. At least we were back in business and I was employed again.
“Hallo, Mr. B,” Jenkins said as we entered.
“’Lo, Jeremy, How have you been?”
“Well enough, sir. I believe congratulations are in order.”
“Thank you. Please don’t ask me to repeat what happened just yet. I’m tired of telling it.”
Barker entered without a word, passed through into his chambers, and filled a pipe from the smoking cabinet in the bookcase. Then he sat down in his chair and looked at the post and the newspapers that had arrived that morning.
Suddenly, Jenkins seized my hand, which was resting on his desk. He inclined his head to the front entrance. I frowned. What was he driving at? He moved his eyes toward the door, rather insistently. I took two steps toward the front door and looked back at him. Almost imperceptibly he nodded. I walked to the door, opened it, and stepped out.
I looked up. The hoarding was just the same as it always was. The alley that was Craig’s Court looked the same. Then I looked down. Barker’s name had been installed in its rightful place. Below it now, there was a second plaque, of bright new brass. It read:
Thomas Llewelyn
Private Enquiry Agent
I knew the Guv would not appreciate any sentiment. Even a thank-you just then would be too much. I would thank him later. As it was, I reentered, nodded to Jenkins, then went in and sat down in my chair. However, I coughed, for emphasis.
Barker’s pipe was going and he was slitting envelopes and considering which case to take. If being away a full street to the south had accomplished anything, it had given us a half-dozen or more cases from which to choose. No having to accept just anyone who came in because we weren’t busy. My employer put every letter and envelope in the second drawer on his right. He never left anything on top of his desk. Then he picked up the morning edition of the Times and flapped it in a way he has that irritates me and he knows it.
Meanwhile, I pulled out my notebook and began to compile my notes. After all, I was employed again and I was expected to work. Barker was reading and I was preparing a final report from the agency for Scotland Yard.
“Asher Cowen,” he said.
“Oh, please,” I told him. “Do not mention his name to me. I’m tired of hearing it. What has he done now? Is he to be knighted or become the Lord Mayor of London?”
“Neither,” Barker said from behind the newspaper. “He dropped dead last night while giving a speech in Stepney.”
AFTERWORD
Aaron Kosminski returned to the workhouse and eventually was admitted to Colney Hatch Lunatic Asylum in 1891. He was transferred to Leavesden Asylum and remained there until his death in 1919. He was never lucid enough to confirm or deny that he was Jack the Ripper.
Robert Anderson was a fixture at Scotland Yard until his retirement. He then wrote a series of books on Christian theology, as well as his memoirs, The Light Side of My Official Life. He was knighted in 1901. In his memoirs and in various interviews, he claimed that Jack the Ripper had been caught and that he was a mentally insane Polish Jew.
DCI Donald Swanson had a long and distinguished career at Scotland Yard. In a handwritten memorandum in his own copy of Anderson’s book, he confirmed that Kosminski was the killer.
Charles Warren stepped down as commissioner of Scotland Yard shortly after the final killing, taking the public blame for not catching the Ripper. He was knighted for service to the Crown in 1888.
James Munro succeeded Warren as head of Scotland Yard. He was commissioner of Scotland Yard for three years.
DCI Frederick Abberline remained at Scotland Yard for several years. Eventually, he moved to Zurich and took over the European branch of the Pinkerton Detective Agency.
Prince Albert Victor (Eddy) became engaged to Princess Mary of Teck after two unsuccessful courtships, but died of what the royal palace claimed was pneumonia.
James K. Stephen, like his famous cousin, Virginia Woolf, eventually committed suicide. He had been admitted to a mental asylum in Northampton. When Prince Albert Victor died, he went on a hunger strike, dying twenty days later on February 3, 1892.
Inslip opened an establishment in Portland Place called the Hundred Guineas Club. He survived the Cleveland Street Scandal of 1890, which revealed the existence of a homosexual underworld and forced many aristocrats to flee the country.
Thomas Bulling was a reporter for the Central News Syndicate. Robert Anderson and others suspected he was responsible for the “Dear Boss” letter and the invention of the name “Jack the Ripper,” in order to sell newspapers.
Israel Zangwill went on to become a famous author and apologist for his people. He invented the phrase “melting pot,” and wrote a famous mystery novel, The Big Bow Mystery.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am fortunate that there are so many individuals and organizations researching Jack the Ripper and publishing their findings in books, articles, and private forums. This book is the result of many years of study, and I am indebted to those who made this search possible.
As always, I wish to thank my agent, Maria Carvainis, and my editor, Keith Kahla. He and his wonderful team convince me that the Barker and Llewelyn books could not be in better hands.
Thanks must also go to my daughters, Caitlin and Heather, who cast a gimlet eye upon my work and provide encouragement. And finally, to my wife, Julie, who types, edits, advises, and occasionally stands firm as the conscience of Cyrus Barker. No one could do it better.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
WILL THOMAS is the author of the Cyrus Barker and Thomas Llewelyn series, most recently Fatal Enquiry. He works as a librarian in Oklahoma, where he lives with his family. You can sign up for email updates here.
Also by Will Thomas
Some Danger Involved
To Kingdom Come
The Limehouse Text
The Hellfire Conspiracy
The Black Hand
Fatal Enquiry
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
/>
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Afterword
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Will Thomas
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
ANATOMY OF EVIL. Copyright © 2015 by Will Thomas. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover design by Sara Wood and David Baldeosingh Rotstein
Cover photographs: man in walkway © Roy Bishop / Arcangel Images; knife in hand © Jitka Saniova / Trevillion Images
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The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request
ISBN 978-1-250-04105-0 (hardcover)