Annie and the Ripper

by Tim Champlin

  "I thought we had eliminated Prince Eddy as a suspect because he was at the royal shooting lodge in Scotland at the time."

  "That's true enough, thank God. Her Majesty has enough on her mind by having a wild grandson with bizarre habits and friends. Some time or other at one of these wild parties he frequents in the East End, he contracted syphilis from a prostitute and his brain is deteriorating. Even the queen of England has no power to reverse that. That would be depressing and embarrassing enough without having him also turn out to be Jack the Ripper. Although, I would think hanging would be preferable to dying of syphilis, as he's bound to do within a few short years.

  "So, we can set him aside," Clark said, closing the folder and laying in on the corner of the table.

  "Now, what about Montague John Druitt?"

  "Well he's from a respectable family. His father and grandfather were both surgeons, and young Montague was smart enough to win a scholarship early on. Later he had a year of medical training, but then dropped out of university and later went back to take a degree in law. However, he's not practicing, but has accepted a job teaching in a boys' boarding school in Blackheath. His father is dead, mother confined to a hospital for the insane for the past few months."

  "Hmmm…I wonder if insanity runs in the family?" Abberline mused. "He has no previous criminal record. And his siblings have done well in the professions. Do we have anything that puts him near the scenes of the murders, other than these sightings and descriptions that could fit any number of men?"

  Clark shuffled through the papers in the file. "Montague was playing cricket at Blackheath at 11:30 in the morning on the very same day that Annie Chapman was murdered only six miles away at 5:30 the same morning."

  "Anything else?"

  "He's an excellent athlete. Strong hands to strangle and fast enough to flee."

  "That's stretching it."

  "Yessir."

  "But keep throwing possibilities out there. Everything must be considered. We'll keep Druitt as a suspect and put a constable on him to monitor his movements."

  "What about Gull?" Clark asked, opening another file.

  Abberline heaved a great sigh. "Yes, what about Surgeon, Sir William Withy Gull? He's been Physician Extraordinary to Queen Victoria since last year, and royal surgeon for several years since he successfully treated one of the children for typhoid in the early 1870s." He leafed through the few sheets in the file. "Not much to go on."

  "A lot of rumors circulating about him, sir."

  "Yes, I've heard a few of them. Let's see if we can untangle some of this. First of all, one of his duties as surgeon to the royal family is to look after the welfare of Prince Eddy, the Queen's grandson, who, by now has softening of the brain from syphilis. The story goes that Gull follows Eddy to some of the wild parties in Cleveland Street. It's too late for Gull to save Prince Eddy from the consequences of his lustful follies, so the good doctor follows at a discreet distance to see if he can catch Eddy in the act of slashing. Supposedly, Eddy has a horrible fixation on revenge because one of the prostitutes infected him." Abberline shook his head. "I can't envision a seventy-year old surgeon who had a mild stroke last year, roaming the streets of Whitechapel in the middle of the night on such an errand, even though he has a private coach and driver to carry him about."

  "Some are saying Gull, himself, is the killer," Clark said. "He is an ardent vivisectionist. And some of the cutting, such as the triangles carved on Catherine Eddowe's cheeks, the placing of the viscera on the shoulders and so forth, all points to some sort of ritual. Doctor Gull is a prominent Mason—a secret order much into ritual."

  "Far-fetched supposition to connect the two," Abberline said.

  "Then, let me play devil's advocate and propose this," Clark said. "You know of the medium named R.J. Lees? He's the man who's held séances for the queen when she was trying to contact her late husband. Lees is a spiritualist who claims to be a seer and has visions of future events. He claims to have had visions of two murders where the killer cut off the ears. And the ears were actually sliced off one of the women. He also said he saw a vision of the killer wearing a tan tweed topcoat to cover up the blood on his clothing. He even led the police to Surgeon Gull's house on Brook Street. When the police questioned his wife, she was horrified that Gull was a suspect. But then, the doctor, himself, showed up in the middle of the questioning and admitted, since his stroke, he'd had lapses of memory. When he'd come to himself after more than one of these blank periods, he found unexplained blood on his shirt."

  Abberline absorbed all this in silence. "Circumstantial. We have no proof of anything. Now, if Doctor Gull had dropped his knife at the scene of the crime, for example, we might have reason to arrest him on suspicion. But, as it is, we could make a case for dozens of people who were seen in Whitechapel on the nights of the murders."

  "Well, it turned out that Gull also has a tan tweed topcoat, just as Mr. Lees envisioned," Clark said.

  "How many men in London probably have tan tweed topcoats?" Abberline asked. "We have to have something more tangible than that. We need some kind of hard evidence that connects one of the suspects directly to one or more of the victims. Besides, Doctor Gull is an old man weakened by a stroke. You think he'd have the strength to strangle these women?"

  "Perhaps his coachmen, John Netley, did the choking and the surgeon finished with the knife."

  "I suppose anything is possible."

  "Have you considered the possibility that the killer could be a woman?" Clark asked. "Midwives are common in the district, and they go about with blood on their aprons and smocks when coming from assisting at a birth. No one pays them any mind because everyone is concentrating on finding a man."

  "Unless the prostitute is a lesbian, do you think any midwife could get close enough to one of these prostitutes, allegedly for the purpose of sex, to kill her?"

  "Just a thought."

  Abberline pulled his watch from a vest pocket. "Well, we've frittered away most of an afternoon with those letters and these files. Let's give our minds a rest. It's time for us to be off out of here for the day."

  Abberline walked to the Police Athletic Club on his way home. He would force himself to perform three workouts a week here, regardless of his other duties. He was determined to get fit once more.

  Today he went through his routine slowly, stretching, jogging, not overdoing it. He'd learned a hard lesson after the first day when he'd been so sore. Now that the soreness had passed, he knew to go at it a bit easier.

  Although reluctant to admit it, one of the things that made his workouts more endurable was the presence of the smiling blond woman who worked there, the one whose good looks and sunny ways brightened even the murkiest London day. He and the other members called her "Janelle".

  "You'll need this tonight, inspector," she smiled as she handed over his ulster from behind the counter. "There'll be a nip in the air when the sun goes down."

  "Thanks, Janelle," he said, dropping a coin into a jar that was placed on the countertop for tips. "Wish I'd started frequenting this club a long time ago. Maybe I wouldn't have aged so fast."

  "You know, inspector, you'd look a lot younger if you shaved those side whiskers."

  "Really?"

  "Oh, yes. It would make your face look leaner, too. But leave the mustache—maybe just trim it a bit."

  He rubbed a hand over the hedgerow of whiskers that stretched down from his temples, thickened across his cheeks and curved up to form the mustache. He glanced in a mirror fastened to the wall as he put on his hat. She was right. The facial hair had the shape and appearance of a harness. "You might have something there, Janelle. I'll give it a try." He shrugged into his black topcoat. "By the way, you know my name; what's yours?"

  "Janelle Stafford."

  "Have you worked here long?"

  "Just over two years."

  "I can't quite place your dialect. Where're you from?"

  She chuckled. "I moved here from Victoria, Bri
tish Columbia. But I was born in Devonshire. My parents migrated to western Canada when I was just a child. I was clerking in a store there, but decided to come back and see if I liked it better in my native country."

  "Well, then, a belated welcome home." He wanted to ask her age, but thought better of it. Guessing, he'd put her anywhere from twenty-eight to thirty-three.

  That night at home, he lathered up, stropped his straight razor on his belt and carefully removed the entire beard except the mustache, leaving the ends short and jutting out barely past the edges of his mouth. "Damn! She was right!" He turned from side to side, marveling at his reflection in the mirror. He was transformed. No longer did he see the stodgy, middle-aged Chief Inspector. Rather a leaner, thirty-five year old constable had emerged. "Now, to flatten my stomach, tone my muscles." He'd already lost down from 180 pounds to 175, and had a goal of 165, which should be about right for a man five-foot, nine. He grinned in spite of himself. "Janelle, m'girl, you not only have pretty eyes, you have observant eyes."

  CHAPTER 10

  After two murders were committed in the early morning hours of Sunday, October 1st, the month settled down, day following day with no further atrocities.

  Abberline had nearly been lulled into complacency before the double event. This time, he vowed to remain alert, even as week toppled into quiet week in October.

  Sir Robert Anderson, summoned back from extended sick leave in Switzerland, was given responsibility for the Ripper case by Sir Charles Warren. Anderson, out of touch with all the complexities of the ongoing investigation, proposed that a cordon be thrown around several square miles of Whitechapel. Instead of trying to protect the prostitutes, the police, he asserted, should arrest any woman found "on the prowl" after midnight. By conservative estimate, more than 1200 prostitutes worked the Whitechapel district, making this action obviously impractical. Sir Robert was heard grousing about these women getting real jobs. But, as Charles Warren pointed out, they had no saleable skills, and the two occupations normally open to them—charwomen, and hawkers of homemade trinkets—were already full to overflowing. Thus, most of them were thrown back on their only source of income for lodging and food—selling their bodies.

  Armed with his loaded pistol, Abberline prowled the streets of Whitechapel alone three nights that first week, arriving late at the office next day after snatching a few hours of sleep. Then, dressed in his oldest clothes and a soft cap, he chose two nights each week at random to patrol in lonely vigilance. But he also managed to keep up his thrice-weekly visits to the athletic club. He was gradually rounding into shape. He cut back on the pints of bitters at the Three Bells, and his slight paunch began to disappear. He didn't know how much of his weight loss was due to change in diet, or lack of proper sleep, or physical exercise. Possibly a combination of all three. But it was working. He had more stamina, slept better at night and generally felt less stressed by his job. Several of his colleagues commented on his youthful appearance, without realizing he'd shaved his sidewhiskers, and lost two inches off his waist. "I'm thriving on this case," he replied when turning away a compliment. "The Ripper has put me on my mettle."

  That was at least partially true, he reflected. The rest of the truth lay with wanting to look good for Janelle Stafford. By some surreptitious inquiries, he'd confirmed she'd never been married. But she also made it a policy not to step out socially with any employee of the police department. And many of the vigorous young constables had asked her. Early on, Abberline deluded himself into thinking she favored him above all others. But his hopes were dashed when he heard the bantering that went on between her and each of the other men who worked out at the club. She loved them each and all, without exception or favor. She was a young, pretty version of their collective mother. From that point forward, when she complimented him on his youthful good looks, he took it as a well-meant compliment and nothing more. Each of the men was special to her, and she to them.

  Friday, November 9th arrived. Abberline, having patrolled the streets of Whitechapel most of Wednesday night, retired early on Thursday night and arrived fresh at his office the next morning.

  The first three hours of the day were taken up by routine work, reviewing files, reading reports of witnesses, poring over anonymous letters from the public, and trying to ignore the daily call in the newspapers for the resignation of Metro Police Commissioner, Sir Charles Warren, and newly appointed head of CID, Sir Robert Anderson.

  At 11:00, Roger Clark stuck his head of unruly red hair around the office doorway. "Chief, are you going to take in the Lord Mayor's Day parade at noon?"

  "Yes. I could do with a bit of a lift—band music and all that."

  "Good. If you don't mind, I'll join you."

  "Come back at half past and we'll go."

  Abberline had hardly bent his head over his work once more when the thudding of running feet and cries in the hallway startled him. He stood up just as a uniformed constable burst into the room.

  "Chief Inspector, come quick! There's been another murder in Whitechapel."

  It was a sunny day, but Abberline, out of habit, grabbed his ulster from the coat rack and rushed out the door after the policeman. As they ran down to the curb and jumped into a waiting Hansom, Abberline tried to keep his mind a blank, and not anticipate what was waiting for him. During the several block ride, he and the Bobby didn't speak. To keep his mind on something else, Abberline thought of the nickname "Bobby" given to the uniformed constables on the beat. For some reason, he'd always hated that term, "Bobby", derived from the name of Sir Robert Peel, the man who'd organized the Metropolitan London Police force more than fifty years before. Probably meant as a compliment to the memory of Mister Peel, but it sounded undignified when applied to the dedicated men who enforced the law, day in and day out, armed only with truncheons, whistles and shiny blue helmets.

  The Hansom drew up at Miller's Court, and the two men alighted. Abberline half expected to see a group clustered around a body on the ground, but the men and women were talking in low voices in twos and threes.

  "Doctor Llewellyn."

  "Inspector. I got here about fifteen minutes ago." He looked grim. "The worst yet."

  "Who is it?"

  "Mary Jane Kelly."

  "Oh, no! The young, pretty Irish lass."

  "She's not pretty anymore."

  "Where is she?" Abberline glanced around, noting the court had been cordoned off and constables on guard against anyone entering the street.

  "Inside that first room at the head of the court."

  "Let me see."

  "The door's locked."

  "Who has the key?"

  "It's been lost. So says John McCarthy, the landlord."

  "Then, how did you see her?"

  "Come around here." The doctor took him by the elbow. Abberline nodded to the Bobby who opened the heavy rope to let them through.

  "This window. That's how she was discovered an hour ago when McCarthy sent his assistant to collect the back rent." Doctor Llewellyn reached through the broken pane and drew aside the muslin curtain.

  Abberline looked inside, and instantly wished he hadn't. The sudden impression that burned itself into his retina was the image of a body on the bed—hardly recognizable. Pouring out through the broken window from the overheated room was a powerful stench of something burning.

  He recoiled. "Let's force the door."

  "The constable said he and the other police were given strict orders not to touch anything until bloodhounds could be brought to the scene."

  "Oh, that's right. Warren's directive. Has anyone gone to fetch the dogs?"

  "Don't know. A constable went to find Sir Charles an hour ago."

  Abberline fidgeted, standing on one foot, then the other, staring down the street, watching for Charles Warren, or for some conveyance that might be hauling the bloodhounds.

  "Inspector, this is John McCarthy, the landlord," the doctor said.

  "Fred Abberline." The men shook hands. "While we'r
e waiting what can you tell me about this?"

  "Not much, inspector. I rent this room to Mary Jane Kelly. She entertained clients in here now and again when she and her husband, Barnett, were separated-- which was often. I don't get into the private lives of my tenants much, but she and Barnett got drunk a fortnight ago, started quarreling and one of them busted this window. And, since they'd lost the door key, they had to reach in through the broken window and turn the latch. I told her I'd fix the window when she paid me her back rent. She was in arrears to the tune of thirty-five shillings…"

  "I thought the practice here was a night's rent for a night's lodging, paid in advance," Abberline interrupted. "Why did she owe three month's back rent?"

  "Well, it's kind of a long story. Mary Kelly had been living with Barnett. He gave her the rent money, but she drank it up, more often than not. They had quarrels about her drinking, and whoring on the side. I didn't want to force things because Barnett had a job, of sorts, and Mary earned some from prostitution. But she's three months pregnant—I don't know by whom—and was having the heaves in the morning, you know. She'd about run her string, as far as earning money from clients. The room's in Mary's name so I told her she could invite a female friend in to share the room with her, figuring Barnett would have to move out—which he did. This friend was whoring and earning, and Mary would let her use the room whenever she wanted. M'old lady and I figured we'd get the rent money with the two of them taking on clients at least part of the time."

  Abberline nodded. Life was hard in the East End. "Who was this roommate?"

  "Maria Harvey."

  "Do you see her in this crowd now?"

  McCarthy's gaze swept around. "No. I looked for her earlier, but I ain't seen her today."

  "So, who found Mary?

  "I sent Tom Bowyer around this morning to collect the back rent, and he couldn't get no answer when he knocked, so he went around to the side here and pulled out the rags they'd stuffed into the hole in the glass. He got the shock of his life, and then come running to tell me. I sent 'im t'fetch the nearest constable. That's about it."