‘Indeed. Mary Jane Kelly, a Whitechapel woman again.’
Sir Charles shook his head. ‘This last one was different, Frey. It was brutal – I mean shockingly so. The preliminary report from Dr Bond made me sick: her entrails were strewn all about. The scene was so terrible that one of our officers vomited on the spot, and a blasted correspondent from The Times saw it all. As we speak, I have some agents trying to – persuade him not to publish the story.’
I nodded briefly, as I knew the persuasion methods preferred by the CID. ‘Is that the reason you called me? Do you want me to lend a helping hand on the Ripper’s case?’
‘Why, no …’ Warren’s expression became sombre. He kneaded his eyelids as he went on. ‘This has happened at the worst possible time. I knew it would happen at some point, but not so soon …’
‘What is it?’
Warren sighed deeply. ‘I told you that there have been two killings. One was that Kelly woman … the other was an old chap, a musician, I hear. Apparently he was murdered most viciously … I think in Scotland.’
I frowned. ‘Excuse me, sir, but why do you say you “think”? Is the report not trustworthy?’
‘I have received no report, Frey. Hearsay is all I have had access to.’
I frowned harder. ‘How can that be? You are the head of the police –’
And then it struck me.
Warren gulped and shook his creased cheeks. ‘I am no longer, Frey. I have been forced to submit my resignation.’
‘By whom?’
Warren exhaled wearily. ‘By Lord Salisbury himself.’
The Prime Minister of Great Britain. The matter must be serious indeed, and within the next few seconds of silence a torrent of images came to my head.
The mayhem caused by Jack the Ripper had reached its peak and the state of fear had lasted for an unbearably long time. The press had become so obsessed with him that everything he did was exaggerated a thousand times, and the poor Londoners could talk of nothing else – only recently the headlines had referred to a forged letter written in fake blood.
I could picture the marquess storming into Warren’s office, sick of the circumstances and demanding answers, only to discover that Scotland Yard was not even close to finding the murderer. Only a handful of suspects had been traced, each one as unlikely to be the perpetrator as the others.
Then I thought of this mysterious new murderer in Scotland. If even Sir Charles Warren had no access to the reports …
‘From the fragments of information I can gather,’ Warren said, ‘I believe the government is afraid of an imitator of the Ripper emerging in Scotland … or even many imitators, anywhere in the land …’
‘What do you think he is planning to –’
‘That is not the most pressing matter, Frey. I called you to warn you.’
‘Warn me?’
‘Yes. Once I am ousted, they will transform Scotland Yard in a snap.’
‘Is Monro taking charge?’ I pronounced the name with acrimony, for I already knew the answer.
‘Most certainly.’
James Monro was Scotland Yard’s assistant commissioner, outranked only by Warren himself. Lately, the two men had found it almost impossible to work together, and it soon became evident that one of them would ultimately have to leave.
‘Not only will the organization of the CID change, Frey. Heads will roll soon, and yours could be among them.’
For a moment I simply nodded in silence, pondering Warren’s words. His long friendship with my late mother had played a vital part in my enrolment, and his connections with my family were well known to everyone. It was only natural that if he fell, all his peers and protégés would fall as well. The papers were still talking about my success in the case of Good Mary Brown, a tiny seamstress who’d poisoned her five husbands with arsenic after buying life assurance policies in their names; however, my dedication and talents would mean nothing when politics took over.
‘Do you think I should fight them?’ I asked, rather daringly.
‘I would strongly advise you – not to.’
I blinked in confusion. I was expecting any other reply; any except that.
‘Do I hear you aright? If they decide I serve no purpose, I am to step aside like a pusillanimous imbecile? After more than seven years of service?’
He looked hard at me. ‘Yes, and you must, if you know what is best for you!’ Warren had raised his voice and his echo lingered. ‘The situation will bring out the worst of these people, Ian …’ he whispered. ‘You will be well advised not to cross them.’
Sir Charles would seldom call me by my given name. Deep inside I knew he was right. He was giving me his best advice, with decades of loyalty to my mother’s family to back him up, and I should not discount it lightly.
Still, my mind struggled. It was no easy news to swallow.
‘Then I should expect Commissioner Monro to summon me and give me some bad news very soon …’ I sighed, and then smiled mockingly. ‘Part of me looks forward to it, I must confess. Confronting him will be rather amusing …’
Warren rose to his feet, grunting at my dry humour. ‘If they ask for your resignation you must do as they say, do you understand? Do not believe that your name or your wit will do much for you this time. Everything will change now, Frey. Remember my words.’
He cast me one last stare. I could not tell whether the man was seething or on the verge of tears. Whichever it was, he preferred to conceal it, turning away hastily and heading to the cathedral’s entrance.
I left St Paul’s with gloomy thoughts haunting me.
As I said, it was family connections and a good deal of chance that brought me to Scotland Yard. I began my service directly after abandoning the faculties of medicine in Oxford and then law in Cambridge. My path felt unclear and there seemed to be few ambitions to spur me on. I could have remained at home living off my family’s wealth – my two grandfathers bequeathed me generous bank accounts – but my unquiet brain soon became bored. More importantly, there was an inexplicable void in that life of leisure I could not accept; the thought of passing through this world like an unnoticed breeze, of a useless existence, was sometimes so unbearable I could not sleep. As succinctly (and rather condescendingly) put by my father, I needed to ‘prove my value’.
Given my uncle’s connection with Commissioner Warren, I soon found a post as an assistant inspector at Scotland Yard. A rather modest position for a former Oxford student, but it did not bother me greatly, for it was intended to be a temporary diversion. My knowledge of anatomy and law, though not thorough, could prove useful for the police, and the post would give me good reason to leave the house. The latter was by no means a minor consideration; I would have died after another week of hearing my stepmother’s constant gossiping or my youngest brother Elgie playing the violin at the oddest hours.
The CID, however, trapped me and would never let me go.
Before I knew it I found myself working until well past midnight each night, studying files and solving what could only be described as multifaceted puzzles. A mark on the wall, the contents of a wallet, a lock of hair from a lost love, a glove carelessly left behind … those tiny details of everyday life, things that the ordinary man would never normally ponder on, were our tools, and most of the time sufficient to allow us to draw a full picture of victims and aggressors. Their lives and characters, their flaws, their passions and philosophies … in short, their innermost, darkest secrets were at hand if one knew just how to read the world around.
How thrilling, how fascinating that game was. Finally, I’d found my place. Proved my value. My enthusiasm had surely impressed Commissioner Warren, and over the years we had become close colleagues.
A miserable rain was now pouring over London, falling from thick, black clouds, so that the only light on the streets came from the gas lamps along the road. The carriage bumped on a pothole, taking me out of my thoughts for a second. The roads in central London were in dreadful disrepair �
�� uneven, bumpy and usually flooded – and they became worse as we moved towards the small house I rented in Suffolk Street.
It is an odd thing indeed that I should call that place home. Like my profession, it was meant to be only a provisional arrangement. I had begun renting the house four years earlier, when cases kept me locked in my office later and later at night. Being well aware of the depravity that reigned in London, the last thing I wanted was to wander around the city at night. I thus decided to rent rooms close to Whitehall Place, so that I could spend the night there when the job kept me late at Scotland Yard.
I would also go there to meditate and ponder on my cases, for I appreciate my privacy, especially when I need to concentrate. Of course I would not dare to present myself at the headquarters wearing an unironed shirt, so I moved part of my belongings there and of course had to hire a maid. Things went on and on that way, and before I knew it the small house had become my regular residence. Modest as it was, the place sometimes felt far more homely than the family pile in Hyde Park Gate.
As I arrived I was surprised to find light coming from the kitchen window, where I found Joan, my housekeeper, helping herself to ham and bread.
Joan was a stout widow in her mid forties. With her grey hair and her ample bosom and behind, she has always brought to mind a plump, overgrown pigeon. From the moment I hired her I knew that she had a tendency to be rather too outspoken, and I later discovered that she also had a weakness for cheap sherry, but still I could not complain; Joan kept the rooms impeccable, knew exactly how I liked my clothes, and prepared the most delightful black coffee. I had consciously turned a deaf ear to her foul mouth, even when I had guests, for it ensured no other employer would ever try to steal her from me.
‘Why, Joan! Are you still here? Your punctuality to leave usually compensates for your unpunctuality to arrive.’
On any other day Joan would have retorted with some earthy banter, but to my bewilderment she only remained silent.
‘Joan, what is the matter?’
‘Letters for you, sir,’ she said in her strong Lancashire accent. I saw her pointing at two small envelopes on the table, but she did not move.
I dreaded to look down at the letters, thinking that Warren’s predictions had become true much sooner than I expected; however, even before picking up the letters I recognized the hands on the envelopes.
‘A note from Eugenia and one from my brother …’ I muttered suspiciously. Had anything been wrong with them they would have sent a servant to fetch me. ‘Joan, these cannot be urgent enough to keep you here until close to midnight. Tell me what is wrong.’
She took a huge bite of ham on bread as if wishing to gather courage, and once she had swallowed it, said, ‘Sir, is it true? Has there been another murder?’
I let out a weary sigh as I tore the first envelope open. I knew Joan would not desist until I told her the truth. ‘I am afraid so, there was an attack last night.’ I was still speaking as I began reading the note. It was not at all an urgent message: it was from Eugenia, my betrothed. She was simply keeping me up to date with inconsequential daily matters, and asking for the millionth time when I would have free time to call on her. I’d been neglecting her because of my work, and should soon make up for it. The second note was from Laurence, my eldest brother, reminding me of the family dinner the following evening.
My attention went back to Joan once I had finished reading. ‘You did not wait here all this time just to confirm the news, did you?’
Then she finally let it out. ‘No, Mr Frey. I … I forgot the days are getting shorter and ’twas dark before I knew it.’
I arched an eyebrow. ‘Go on.’
‘I know you’ll think I’m a ninny, but going home at night, you know, with everything that’s happening … I was thinking that there’s some space in the storage room, sir. I thought I might stay there when it gets too dark … just ’til the police catch him. You won’t notice I’m ’ere, I promise.’
I could hear my father’s voice as if he were in the same room – You are too bloody soft with the servants! – but how could I refuse the poor woman’s plea? Even I, a tall, armed police inspector of thirty-one, felt unsafe when walking the streets of the city alone.
‘Please, Mr Frey. I can pay you for the room!’ she cried. ‘You can take it off me wages and –’
She was becoming so frantic I had to stop her.
‘Joan, show some composure, for the love of God! Do you not know me at all? I was not going to ask you to pay rent. And stop talking about the damn pantry; there is a maid’s room you may use as you see fit.’ I looked at my pocket watch. ‘It is very late, though. Tonight you may sleep in the guest room – but only tonight.’ Elgie was in the habit of arriving unannounced to claim it, though even he would not come so late as this.
‘Oh, thank you, Mr Frey … I …’
‘All right, all right,’ I said soothingly and hurried upstairs before Joan abandoned herself to improper weeping. Once composed, she prepared me a light supper and I asked her to polish my very muddy shoes before breakfast.
I retired to bed thinking of Commissioner Warren’s words: ‘Everything will change now …’
Agitated though I had been, I fell asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow. That would be the last good night’s rest I’d have in a long time for, the next day, everything did change.
2
London on a November morning smelled of cesspools and stale alcohol from the pubs. I wrinkled my nose at the odours as I walked hastily towards Scotland Yard, dodging the half-frozen horse dung that peppered the streets.
Stench and turds were not the only foul thoughts in my head. While having breakfast I’d received a note from Wiggins, my assistant, urging me to go to headquarters. James Monro, the new commissioner, had demanded my immediate presence. I instantly knew that my career in the London police was over.
I’d not seen much of him, but the few times Monro and I had had to collaborate had been enough to fix my opinion of him: square-minded, prejudiced, religious to the point of fanaticism … and to cap it all, the man was from Edin-bloody-burgh – as my father likes to call it.
It is well acknowledged that any sensible English gentleman will unreservedly abhor anything Scottish, but my father is an extreme case. As a young man some failed businesses in Aberdeenshire lost him an amount of money so obscene that, for the rest of his life, he’d never again utter the name of any Scottish city, town, village or character without inserting some blood in between its consonants.
If I was to be dismissed, at least I would spare old Mr Frey the disgrace of knowing that one of his heirs took orders from a Scotchman.
As usual, Scotland Yard was among the busiest spots in the Westminster area. Carriages brought and took people at all times, and a constant stream of officers and constables entered and left the red-brick building. Inside, the place felt equally cluttered, with people running to and fro like frantic ants, and my small office on the second storey was no exception. Files were piled to the ceiling and more than once Wiggins had been buried under an avalanche of paper. New, larger offices were being built at the Embankment, by Westminster Bridge, and I was looking forward to moving there. As I walked into my office I found Wiggins hunched over his usual pile of paperwork.
‘Morning, sir,’ he said with a shaky voice. I never quite understood the source of his shyness; the young man was educated and reliable, with a promising career ahead of him if he only managed to gather some self-confidence.
‘So the new commissioner wants to see me,’ I said, tossing my coat aside.
‘Aye, sir.’
‘Should I go to his office or Warren’s?’
‘Neither, sir. He wants to see you in the main hearing room –’
‘What!’
Wiggins dropped his dipping pen and ink pot. ‘The – the commissioner called for a cabinet meeting at ten o’clock, sir,’ he said, as I helped him mop up the black ink, ‘but he wants to see you in private bef
ore the chief bailiffs arrive.’
‘Getting rid of me first thing in the morning … He won’t waste a bloody minute, the old man,’ I grunted, leaving the office with huge strides.
I made haste and found the hearing room looking as gloomy as a grave. The place had wide windows but was dimly lit by a half-hidden sun so that, despite the hour, it seemed as though it was late in the evening.
There was only one man in the room: James Monro, a robust man in his fifties, with a square face, a grey moustache and white mutton chops of a hideous kind. I found him comfortably seated on the master chair, at such ease as if he’d been commissioner for years.
‘I believe I must congratulate you … sir,’ I said, making my best display of hypocrisy.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Frey,’ he replied. ‘Have a seat. I have a great deal to tell you and very little time.’
I sat down and interlaced my fingers on the long table, waiting, but Monro kept his nose on the disarray of documents in front of him. I spoke only after the lapse of time that courtesy demanded: ‘Excuse me, sir. You implied there was some urgency …’
Monro only lifted his index finger to silence me.
How he must be enjoying it! I thought, but all I could do was to remain in my seat, gnashing my teeth and hating his bristly mutton chops, his deviated nose and his stupid, bovine little eyes.
He finally spoke, looking at me with great severity.
‘I will say it simple and straight. As you are aware, your friend Sir Charles has … resigned. Now that I am in charge, I plan to implement substantial changes, beginning with the dismissal of any superfluous elements retained only because of Warren’s sentimental disposition.’
So this is how it ends, I thought, withdrawing my hands to clench my fists freely under the table.
‘It is no secret that your position is overpaid and that you find it hard to cooperate with some of your colleagues. For instance, not long ago it came to my ears that you called Berry, the photographer, a … what was it? Stinking piece of rancid mutton?’
The Strings of Murder Page 2