Seeking Hyde

by Reed, Thomas;

  Not so the corpse of the second victim. In this case the purpose of the murderer had been fulfilled, and a mutilation inflicted of the same nature as that upon the body of ANNIE CHAPMAN. It was in the south-western corner of Mitre-square, in Aldgate, that the second body was found. It was again the body of a woman, and again had death resulted from a deep wound across the throat. But in this instance, the face had also been so slashed as to render it hard for the remains to be identified, and the abdomen had been ripped up, and a portion of the intestines had been dragged out and left lying about the neck.

  Stevenson’s gorge began to rise as soon as he saw the headline: a second new murder overnight in the East End!

  It was the detail regarding the intestines lying on the Chapman woman’s throat—like a garland of bloody sausages, as his brownies rendered the detail to his mind’s eye—that sent him dashing from his wing chair in the morning room. He barely reached the cloakroom, shouldering an elderly member out of the way as he dove into the water closet and vomited his breakfast into the porcelain bowl. “For the love of God!” he gasped as he left the stall and staggered over to the washstand to scoop cold water up onto his face.

  He made a supreme effort to gather himself, then walked out into the hallway. Dobbs stood there waiting for him, a look of profound concern on his face. The young man from the desk in the porter’s lodge was there by his side.

  “Mr. Stevenson,” said Dobbs, stepping forward. “We were told you’d taken ill.”

  “I’m fine,” answered the writer. “Just a little indigestion, I think. Thank you, Dobbs. I shall be just fine.”

  The man stood there motionless, fidgeting with his hands.

  “Truly. I shall.”

  “Well, sir. If you say so.”

  “I do. Many thanks for your solicitude. I am fine.”

  Back in his room, Stevenson brushed his teeth to scour the vile taste from his mouth. He took a moment to collect himself, then looked at his watch. A quarter past nine. He had arranged to meet Symonds at noon to discuss their obligations and options. He dearly wished it could be sooner.

  As their hansom clattered once again through Aldgate, barely twelve hours after their last passage, Stevenson shuddered despite the unseasonable warmth of the day. The weather was brilliant: bright sun with a few puffy clouds sailing down the Thames on a gentle westerly. Still, he fought back a chill as they rolled closer to the theater of last night’s butchery. Symonds noted his companion’s unease and looked across at him sympathetically, his own lips a taut line.

  Their cabman bellowed from above, and they looked forward to see a tiny street urchin scuttling out of their way. The lad gestured obscenely as they rumbled past.

  “They learn young here,” joked Symonds.

  “And hide little.”

  They were surprised to find that their destination sat like a flatiron right in the angle of Commercial and Whitechapel Roads. Last night, in hot pursuit of their quarry, they had somehow managed to ride right along the north wall of the precinct’s police station, never noticing its commanding presence. More shocking, perhaps, was the realization that the killer himself had strolled boldly down Church Street just a few steps to the east. Given his obvious familiarity with the area, he must have known he was giving a narrow miss to a warren of law enforcers. It was remarkable hubris.

  The cab bore right onto Commercial Road and pulled up in front of an impressive arched entrance, disgorging its two well-dressed passengers into a modest throng of the far less well attired. Just beyond the station door, an organ grinder cranked away on his instrument. A delicate monkey, decked out in a garish vest and cap, perched on the man’s shoulder, eyeing the passersby with rapt curiosity. Stevenson and Symonds climbed several stone steps to the ground floor of the station, nodding at two constables who stood aside to make way as they entered. The reception hall was spacious and modern, lined with benches on which a variety of bedraggled men and women sat in postures of anxiety, annoyance, or dejection. The pair walked up to a tall central desk rather like a judge’s bench, behind which a uniformed officer sat bareheaded, attending to paperwork.

  “Good morning, Constable.” Symonds raised a gloved hand and laid it on the front edge of the desk. His fingers drummed nervously.

  The policeman looked up with scant enthusiasm. “Yes, sir?” he drawled. Stevenson could well imagine how the accumulating days, months, and years spent laboring in such a precinct might wear a man down to a jaded and cynical nub.

  “I wonder if Detective Inspector Abberline might be available to speak with us.”

  The man surveyed the two of them with a vaguely lupine air. He took in a breath, exhaled slowly through flared nostrils, and set his pen down on his papers with exaggerated care.

  “And what might your business with the Inspector be? If you would.” His head tipped back and he peered at them down his long nose.

  Symonds glanced at Stevenson, then again faced the man.

  “It is in regard to the murder of Elizabeth Stride.” He extracted a small leather case from his coat and pulled out his card, laying it on the desk with a soft snap.

  The man paused to examine the credential, blinking quickly as he pulled himself into a more erect posture.

  “I’ll just see if the Inspector is available, Mr. Symonds. Nicks!” he called, turning to another policeman who sat in a chair behind him, the morning paper on his knee. “I’m just stepping away for a moment.”

  Constable Nicks folded his reading matter and walked slowly to the desk, taking his seat with weary resignation.

  “If you’ll wait here,” said the first man, “I’ll see about Inspector Abberline.” He pointed to one of the benches. A reasonable span of clear wood stretched between an older woman, who held a sleeping infant against her chest, and a disheveled graybeard who appeared to be as dead to the world as the child was.

  Stevenson walked across the tiled floor and, with a quick nod to the woman, seated himself on the hard bench. She smelled distinctly of coal-smoke and something else; perhaps bacon. He looked about the room, recalling heady times in Edinburgh when he, Baxter, and Ferrier had spent more than a late-night hour or two in a similar setting—always, however, to be quickly released back to their careless ways through a simple recitation of their family names. The usual occupants of these particular benches would seldom enjoy such freedom from consequence.

  The old fellow to their left started, and then belched in his sleep—then belched again more loudly. Symonds slid six inches closer to Stevenson, shaking his head with a snort.

  Footsteps sounded in the corridor across the way, and they looked up to see an officer and a middle-aged man in a tattered wool jacket walking towards them. The latter progressed with some difficulty, pulling his left leg stiffly along, the toe of his boot scraping over the floor. He must have been the victim of an early stroke, or some sort of military injury or factory accident.

  “Thank you, Mr. Diemschutz,” said the constable, as he escorted the man over to the exit.

  “Aye.” The fellow glanced towards Stevenson’s bench as he exited, inexplicably nodding his head. The woman next to Stevenson disencumbered an arm from her child and nudged him softly.

  “That’s the bloke what found one of ’em last night,” she whispered, pulling a long face.

  “Indeed. And how would you know that?”

  “I lives above Dutfield’s Yard is how. That’s Diemschutz, the carter. They say ’es the one what run in on Saucy Jack. Stopped ’im dead in ’is business.”

  “Really!” exclaimed Stevenson. “A sad thing to witness.”

  “Wors’an sad, sir. Beastly!” The child stirred in her arms, squeezing out a tired whimper, and she bent again to soothe him. The policeman from the charge desk emerged from the corridor opposite, ah-hemming loudly as he approached.

  “If you’ll follow me,” he said, and extended his hand back the way he had come.

  The three of them walked briskly past a series of closed doors, th
eir footsteps echoing harshly in the tiled hallway. In one of those offices someone must have been smoking a cigar. Stevenson sniffed enviously at the sharp aroma. He had forgotten to bring cigarettes.

  “You are lucky to find Inspector Abberline here,” volunteered the constable, turning to them as he led the way. “He’s had a busy day.”

  “I expect he has,” said Symonds.

  The man wheeled around at the far side of an open door and tossed his head towards the entrance.

  “Thank you,” said Symonds as he led Stevenson into the room.

  Standing behind a cluttered desk was a tallish man with a receding hairline and impressive black muttonchops. His fingertips were poised on the edge of the desk, as though he were a sprinter taking his mark for a race.

  “Mr. Symonds?” he asked in a voice livelier than anything they had yet encountered in the morose building.

  Symonds nodded, raising his hand partway to his shoulder. It could have been the gesture of a diffident schoolboy, thought Stevenson, and this man was an internationally renowned scholar.

  The inspector stepped around the desk and reached out for Symonds’s hand. “I am Detective Inspector Abberline. Of the Metropolitan Police.”

  “Inspector,” replied Symonds, shaking his hand. “And this is Mr. Stevenson.”

  “Mr. Stevenson.” Abberline’s grip was unexpectedly limp, very much at odds with his energetic manner. He motioned the men to two chairs flanking the near side of the desk, then returned to his own seat. Once settled, he leaned forward with his elbows on the desk. “Constable Briggs informs me that you would like to speak with me about Elizabeth Stride.” He joined his fingertips into stars just under his nose and stared at his visitors with preternaturally wide-open eyes. He was most likely operating on very little sleep.

  “We would,” replied Symonds, with a glance at Stevenson.

  “A dreadful incident,” said the inspector. “One of two last night, as I expect you know.”

  Symonds nodded. He removed his gloves and laid them neatly on his knee. Reaching down for the small satchel he had been carrying, he opened it and carefully extracted the dark lantern, laying it on the desk. “We recovered this item early this morning. In what we now know to be Dutfield’s Yard.”

  Abberline craned forward with an expression of incredulity. “You what?”

  “And this as well.” Symonds removed a handkerchief blotched with dark brown stains. He laid it softly alongside the lantern on the inspector’s desk. “Please. Look inside.”

  Abberline reached out and picked up the grim parcel, unwrapping the stiffened cloth with a hint of apprehension. Did one ever get fully used to the horrors that were to be encountered in this line of work? Stevenson wondered. Perhaps it was a little like writing—or dreaming: never knowing what might pop out of the darkness into full and chilling view.

  “I believe you will find that to be the Stride murder weapon,” offered Stevenson, once Abberline had completed the unsavory task of unwrapping it. “If you care to examine it against the slashes on the poor woman’s neck.”

  The inspector’s head jerked up and he stared piercingly at the writer. “Slashes, you say. You know, then, that there was more than one wound.”

  Stevenson nodded. It had struck him as curious that the Times account had mentioned only “the gash.” Perhaps it had something to do with the verification of possible witnesses.

  The inspector took a deep breath and set the knife down very carefully. He wiped his hands distractedly against the sides of his trousers, then leaned sharply forward.

  “Would you gentleman care to tell me how you came to be in possession of these objects?”

  Their initial conversation went very much as Stevenson and Symonds had expected it might. Abberline listened to their account of the Portman Square surveillance, first with disbelief, and then with increasing agitation. Their recounting of the previous night in Whitechapel was met with even greater alarm. The man did his best to maintain his composure, but the veins standing out along the sides of his high brow testified to his great discomfiture. Had they perhaps not realized what danger they had put themselves into? Were they not aware that, by removing the lantern and the knife from the murder scene, they were tampering with critical Crown evidence and jeopardizing what was likely one of the most significant criminal investigations in the nation’s history? When Stevenson countered by saying that the evidence would never have remained to be found in Dutfield’s Yard if they had not been there to interrupt the murderer in his task, Abberline blustered that such a conjecture could never be definitively proven. He rose impatiently from the desk and strutted over to the window, staring out into the street with his hands clasped behind his back. His fingers worked nervously, like wrestling crabs. Stevenson could just hear the street organ below, grinding away in its numbingly uniform tempo.

  “Well,” said Abberline at last, turning back towards the two of them with a look of resolve. “I very much think that this is a matter for Scotland Yard.”

  “But we understood,” declared Stevenson, “that you yourself were with Scotland Yard, no?”

  “I am indeed,” Abberline replied, reseating himself. “But I have been seconded to Whitechapel for the duration of this particular investigation.”

  “I see,” said Symonds. He looked uncertainly at Stevenson.

  “What do you suggest we do, then, Inspector?” asked the writer.

  “I will notify Chief Inspector Swanson that you two gentlemen will be coming in to speak with him.”

  “And when should that be?” asked Symonds.

  “As soon as tomorrow, I should think. The chief inspector will be extremely eager to hear what you have to say. I can assure you of that.”

  Symonds nodded. “And as for the identity of our man—I assume I had best disclose that to you now?” Stevenson could hear a quaver in his friend’s voice.

  “Please, no!” exclaimed Abberline, holding up his palms. “That is something for you to convey directly to the chief inspector.”

  Symonds looked vaguely mystified. “But, given that it is you who are in charge of the investigation—”

  “Again, any specific name is for the chief inspector’s ears. I assure you, we are working under a very strict protocol with this case, as I expect you will understand.” He looked back and forth between the two of them. “Now, is there anything else?” Meeting with no response, Abberline clapped his hands together lightly and stood to signal the end of the interview.

  It was curious, mused Stevenson as they walked down the echoing corridor towards the exit. Abberline had seemed far and away the most energetic and genial officer at the Whitechapel station, yet the look in his eyes as they left had bordered on relief. He must have been truly exhausted.

  “I quite understand how Abberline felt,” remarked Symonds, as their hansom struck out for the West End. “What we have done is unlikely to be a daily occurrence in these climes. Most definitely the stuff of one of your own fanciful narratives.”

  Stevenson chuckled. “And, I allow, most definitely prosecutable. Tampering with criminal evidence!”

  “Ought we to worry about that, do you think? Prosecution?” The strains of the recent weeks showed on Symonds’s face: there was darkness under his eyes and an unrelenting tenseness in his brow.

  “Not at all, I expect. Especially if the evidence we give leads to an arrest and a conviction.”

  “And what if it emerges in court that it wasn’t the authorities who collected the lantern and the knife? Might that not eliminate the items from consideration?”

  “That won’t happen,” replied Stevenson. “Not unless they don’t want to catch our murderer. Nor unless his barrister was there in Dutfield’s Yard, taking notes.”

  They rode on in silence, the clip-clopping of their horse’s hooves bouncing off the tall facades of Leadenhall Street. The fine weather of early afternoon had yielded to low cloud, and a few tentative drops of rain blew in under the roof of the cab.
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br />   “Why do you suppose Abberline refused to let you name the fellow?” asked Stevenson, shaking his head in puzzlement as he adjusted his knees for a little more shelter. “I fully understand the importance of the case; the world is watching. But, if I were Abberline—and truly in charge of the entire investigation in this precinct—I might be tempted to let my curiosity override my sense of procedure.”

  “Perhaps that too has something to do with your being a writer,” responded Symonds with a weary grin.

  “Perhaps,” Stevenson agreed. “By the way, did you notice the change in the constable’s demeanor when he saw your card?”

  “No.”

  “Your scholarly reputation seems to have preceded you. Even in these unenlightened latitudes.”

  “I find that quite unlikely,” snorted Symonds.

  The hansom jostled on in a freshening shower. Despite the lingering warmth of the day, Stevenson threw the worn lap robe over their legs.

  “You know, there is still the matter of your own future, John,” he volunteered after another considerable pause. “We have yet to take the final step. Once you name the man to Swanson, you will have set a sizeable stone to rolling. Lord knows where it will come to rest.”

  “And if I don’t name him, Louis, Swanson and the others will most certainly have me up on charges,” Symonds replied. “But worse than that, my silence would amount to a capital crime in the court of self-opinion. And the court of self-opinion, as you very well know, is for me the most fearsome jurisdiction of all.”

  “As for me, Symonds. Upon my word, as for me.”

  At two o’clock the following afternoon, Stevenson and Symonds sat at 4 Whitehall Place in the office of Chief Inspector Donald Swanson, the senior officer named by the commissioner to head the East End murder investigation.

  The chief inspector was a Scotsman—from Thurso, Stevenson discovered, after inquiring about the fellow’s birthplace as soon as he heard his accent. His voice and cadence were not altogether unlike Stevenson’s, a fact rendered all the more striking given that the officer’s moustache was a virtual twin to the writer’s own. As he sat there across from the man, Stevenson took the strange notion that he could be staring into a distorting glass on Bournemouth’s amusement pier, glimpsing the way he might look if he had any real flesh on his bones. A non-skeletal Louis—as Cummy, Margaret, and Fanny might have liked to see him. If Swanson could have been a more portly twin, however, his manner was not particularly brotherly. After reviewing what he had read in Detective Inspector Abberline’s report and asking the two of them to confirm—point-by-point—the veracity of the account, he leaned back in his chair and crossed his sizeable arms. The impression was that of a combative walrus.