“Then we’ve naught to fear, Doyle. Between my cane,” he raised his silver-headed ebony walking stick, “your vigor, and Miss Harkness’s armory, I feel we shall be well equipped for whatever danger awaits us.”
“Then you’ll agree to work with me on this?” I asked, unsure which reply I preferred.
“Indeed I shall,” he responded. “My father was a forensic surgeon. I would be proud to follow in his path, at least in this instance, to help bring this monster to justice. As long as I feel useful, and more pressing obligations do not interfere, I’m your man. Her Royal Highness travels to Balmoral Castle in a fortnight, and I shall be required to keep myself near to hand during her stay there, but I shall be as available as possible otherwise.”
I believed that gave us ample time to discover whether we could be helpful to the investigation, as well as give the police the opportunity to catch the killer, be it with our assistance or not, so we shook hands upon it. I should have been disappointed, as I now had no honorable means to escape my agreement with Wilkins; yet to my surprise, I was relieved. There was nothing more to be said: the hunt was on. Later, however, I had reason to question who was the hunter and who the hunted.
It was approaching five o’clock and would be dark within the next two hours, but Bell was all for a meeting with Inspector Abberline as soon as possible. As Wilkins had said he was only to be found either early or late in his office, this seemed as good a time as any to introduce ourselves. I was uncertain how our “assistance” might be received, but I decided that if we were denied cooperation with the Metropolitan Police it was best to know now and proceed accordingly.
Soon we were traveling toward the heart of the Ripper’s hunting grounds, to meet with the huntsman leading his pursuit.
CHAPTER SIX
AN UNEASY ALLIANCE
Monday, September 24, cont.
Though not luxurious compared to the West End, the neighborhood surrounding the Division H police station in Spitalfields had a more genteel poverty than Whitechapel, sporting a few hotels and non-alcohol-related businesses. The police station was well lit and maintained, and upon asking the desk sergeant where we might find Inspector Abberline, he nodded to a passageway behind him to his right.
“Third door on your left down the hallway. T’was his before he went to Scotland Yard and his upon return.” I thanked him, and we proceeded as directed.
The door was open. A heavy-set balding gentleman of middle age, dressed in well-worn brown tweeds and sporting impressive side-whiskers, was deep into a document when I knocked on the door frame. He looked up when I asked “Inspector Abberline?” and this badger-like figure sighed wearily.
“Who are you and what do you want?” he asked.
“Sir,” I replied, trying to be as inoffensive as possible, “I am Doctor Conan Doyle. My companion is Professor Joseph Bell. We were directed to seek you out by our employer. We are here regarding the Leather Apron murders.”
My introduction seemed to inspire resignation rather than enthusiasm, judging by his weary reply, “I don’t give out interviews. There are plenty at Whitehall and Scotland Yard all too happy to see their name mentioned kindly in the press, but I have work to do, and unless you have something to tell me to help find this madman, I’d rather not be bothered.”
I extended the letter from Gladstone and replied, “Hopefully, sir, we may be able to do that very thing. If you could take a moment to read this letter of introduction, I think our position will become clear.”
Abberline accepted the letter with reluctance and, after reading it, showed no more interest than before. “This gentleman has no authority in this matter, and I have no intention of allowing voyeurs to hinder this inquiry.” A light then seemed to dawn upon his face. “Bell, did you say? Any relation to the forensic surgeon in Edinburgh?”
My colleague inclined his head. “My father,” he replied.
“Are you a forensic surgeon as well?” asked the inspector.
“I have done official inquiries from time to time, though it is not the focus of my practice,” Bell responded.
Abberline sat back in his chair and surveyed Bell with new respect.
At that moment, I felt inconsequential. I would soon become accustomed to the sensation.
Abberline shook his head with a grimace. “The coroner has been extremely unhelpful in the investigation thus far, preferring to mock our efforts to the delight of the press. To be honest, some unbiased or at least non-hostile professional advice would prove useful.” Then, arching an eyebrow, “Perhaps we may come to an arrangement, gentlemen, so pay attention. I will allow you to consult on this investigation if you agree to the following stipulations, so don’t answer me until I’ve had my say.
“First: you,” (here he swept his arm to indicate the two of us), “are under no circumstances to speak with any newspapermen. If any do approach you, deny that you are present in any official capacity; you are an extra set of eyes, not another voice.”
Wagging his finger and warming to the topic, he continued. “Second: if I tell you to come, come; if I tell you to go, go! I’d rather not be explaining your presence to my superiors. Whatever your expertise, there are many of the high and mighty who look unfavorably upon Mr. Gladstone and his views. The last thing I need is for politics to muck this up worse than it already is.
“Third,” he said, with a humorless smile, “lacking any better advice, do as I say! You will be allowed to observe and comment entirely upon my good graces. Currently I am not feeling very graceful, so do not try my patience. Are we understood?”
Though not the most elegant invitation I have ever received, I sympathized with this hard-working public servant, and the professor and I agreed to his terms without hesitation.
“Perhaps we might begin with the current state of the investigation,” I ventured, trying to regain some control over the conversation.
At this, Abberline sighed and pulled out a well-worn short briar pipe, inspecting it carefully before continuing. “Ah, if there were only one. Let me educate you two gentlemen on the patchwork quilt that constitutes the law enforcement community here.
“There are two police agencies within the great city of London. Currently you are in Spitalfields police station, manned by the Metropolitan Police headed by police commissioner Sir Charles Warren. He has taken much abuse regarding these murders, and he’s keen to see this matter resolved as soon as possible.”
“I was told you are assigned to Section D,” I prompted. “What is that, exactly?”
“Section D is our Criminal Investigation Department, commonly known as Scotland Yard,” he answered as he filled his pipe.
Inspector Abberline smiled with well-deserved pride as he told us he had been assigned to Section D after many successful years in Spitalfields, but he’d scarcely occupied his new office when fatal assaults on prostitutes began in April. Given his familiarity with the East End and contacts among the criminal underworld, he was sent temporarily back to Spitalfields to lead the investigation on the ground. Currently he had no other duties save the Leather Apron murders.
He swiveled in his chair and pointed to a large map on the wall behind him, then explained that the East End was made up of two divisions: Division H, headquartered in Spitalfields, and Division J in Whitechapel. Each division had its own inspectors doing their own investigations; Inspector Abberline’s role was to orchestrate this vast enterprise. Commissioner Warren had appointed Chief Inspector Swanson as the senior officer in charge of all aspects of the investigation, however, so Abberline sent his summaries to him, “in his very comfortable office in Whitehall, where he is bravely ‘leading’ our efforts,” he explained, in a slightly mocking tone.
“You stated that there are two police agencies in London,” I prodded. “What then, is the second one?”
“Oh yes, that would be the City of London Police,” the inspector snorted, while lighting his pipe. “Their jurisdiction is, as you would expect, the heart of the city ar
ound the financial Square Mile. Frankly, we in the Metropolitan Police do not see them as ‘real’ police officers, but rather as ornaments for the mighty, there to comfort the comfortable as it were. Given the inhabitants of their district, they do a fair amount of investigation of financial crime, requiring green eye shades more than a cudgel. Bookkeepers with badges, if you ask me.”
As the smoke of his tobacco filled the office, Inspector Abberline complained of the many amateur detectives now wandering the East End, hoping to catch the killer. A fortnight past the director of the Bank of England had been apprehended dressed as an ordinary laborer after streetwalkers reported him as a suspicious character.
“Last night we detained a journalist dressed as a woman,” he smirked. “He claimed he was in women’s clothing hoping to encounter the murderer! I suspect the interview would have been a brief and one-sided affair. These blasted newspapermen are a sharp thorn in our side, reporting every rumor as though it were fact, as well as everything the police are doing. Our villain is informed daily on the status of our hunt, and he must take great comfort in that intelligence.”
He looked at us with eyes full of weariness and frustration. “I tell you straight, gentlemen, he shall strike again. Our enemy is quick, ruthless, and knows what he’s about. He’s got his blood up and won’t stop until we catch him.”
“And what of the nom de guerre of the murderer, Leather Apron,” I asked. “How did he acquire that name?”
The inspector sat back in his chair, watching the smoke trail up to the ceiling before answering. “After the murder of Mary Nichols in late August, we made the rounds of the prostitutes in the area, asking them if they had noticed anyone suspicious. Several mentioned a chap they called Leather Apron, for he was always wearing one. He was, or still is as far as I know, a ruthless extortionist who assaults any who will not pay him a fee.
“Sergeant Thicke, one of our police sergeants, believes he knows the man they spoke of, a poor piece of work named John, or Jack Pizer.” Clamping down hard on his pipe stem, he snorted. “As has too often happened in this affair, a local paper, the Star, published the fact that we were seeking ‘Mister’ Pizer. There’s been no sign of him since, and Commissioner Warren now forbids us from talking to journalists to prevent other ‘interested parties’ from learning of our plans.”
“I have heard some believe a Jew must be responsible,” I prompted. “Why so?”
“Ah, that bit of foolishness.” He winced. “The article in the Star went on at some length to describe Pizer as appearing Hebrew. That has greatly inflamed our Gentile inhabitants, for many of the Jewish tradesmen wear leather aprons for their work.”
He shook his head. “We’ve taken Jewish tradesmen into custody more than once—not to arrest them but to protect them from angry crowds seeking out the first foreign-looking man they saw wearing a leather apron.”
“What is your opinion on the matter, Inspector?” Bell asked. “Surely you do not take these accusations at face value?”
Abberline stated with conviction, “As to a Jew being the killer, ask any police constable, and he’ll tell you this is very unlikely. The Jewish immigrants we have here came mostly with their families, know a trade, and were trying to escape hard times back home. On the whole, they are more law-abiding than the poor Irish and English residents, and all their rules regarding blood and corpses make me very doubtful a Jew could perform murders as vicious and bloody as these. I would wager a month’s pay we’ll not find a Son of Abraham as our monster.
“Luckily I’m not alone in this opinion. A group of local businessmen has formed the Mile End Vigilance Committee. The president, a local builder named George Lusk, has been petitioning the Home Office to offer a reward. So far, the Home Secretary has refused, saying, quite rightly,” (he emphasized with the stem of his pipe), “that rewards only bring out folks with more avarice than information.”
Then, fixing us with an intent stare, “I fear if he strikes again with no suspect in custody, we might see riots such as have been all too frequent on the Continent recently. The East End is a tinderbox, gentlemen. It matters little which match sets it ablaze; the result would be terrible beyond anything I have ever witnessed. I labor day and night with that vision in mind. If there is anything you can do to avert such a tragedy, give it your best! I would consult an oracle at this moment, if I thought she could help.”
I was shaken by the image of the East End erupting into flames set by angry mobs, and realized that, as important as it was to stop this madman from taking more lives, the danger extended far beyond the few prostitutes he could personally murder. His shadow loomed over an entire community.
The evening was now fully upon us, and as Professor Bell was tired from his journey to London we sought to leave. Inspector Abberline dashed out a brief note stating we were acting as consultants in the investigation and granting us access to any evidence that came into police custody. Before leaving, we arranged to return the following day to review photographs of the two most recent victims.
During our return to the club, I mentioned to Bell that we could visit the site of the third murder the following day in the company of Miss Harkness, while en route to Spitalfields. This would place us at the scene in the safer hours of daylight, though I did not mention the latter fact to Bell. He merely nodded in agreement, his weariness evident.
“It appears you’ve signed us up for quite an adventure,” is all he had to say.
Despite his outward calm, however, I could tell by the wrinkles on his forehead that he was worried by the enormity of the task before us.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A COOL RECEPTION
Tuesday, September 25
As the meals at the club were ample and well-prepared, it wasn’t until half-past nine in the morning when we arrived at Miss Harkness’s tenement. Bell was withdrawn though not unfriendly, and I could tell by the glint in his eyes and the set to his jaw that he was as fixed upon the scent as a bloodhound. His presence and calm determination had done much already to steady my nerves and to give me a sense of purpose in our endeavor.
The monosyllabic Miss Jones greeted us at the door, and when we asked about Miss Harkness, she removed the blood-tinged rag from her mouth and remarked curtly, “Out. Back soon.”
Professor Bell asked if he might examine her mouth, and after he explained he was a surgeon she agreed. After peering into her mouth for perhaps thirty seconds, he told her gravely her case was a serious one that required excision of the necrotic bone.
She nodded, clearly aware that, untreated, her case would prove fatal.
I was impressed by her stoic acceptance of this fact and wondered if I would be capable of the same were I in her position. We accepted her invitation for tea and were perhaps ten minutes into our chipped cups when Miss Harkness, “dressed” for the moment in a plain, though clean, dress of faded blue cotton, came bursting into the apartment with two loaves of bread and a quarter wheel of cheese.
She was surprised by our presence and did not mince words about it. “What are you doing here?” Then nodding toward Professor Bell, she added, “And who is he? I thought our contract complete. You have enough for your story now, don’t you?”
I suddenly realized I hadn’t fully shared the reason for my previous visit.
Bell was smiling, amused by her blunt demeanor, while I, caught off guard by her reaction, was surely blushing once more. This woman seemed to have that effect on me.
“I am sorry, Miss Harkness,” I began, trying to soothe her irritation at our unexpected visit. “I have not been entirely forthcoming. What did Mr. Wilkins tell you? Then perhaps I can answer your very pertinent questions.”
She looked at me, weighing how best to respond, then shrugging her shoulders, replied, “He said one to two gentlemen would visit me, needing to be shown around the East End a bit. That one of you was a writer interested in the Leather Apron murders, and Mr. Wilkins would pay me handsomely for my time. I did, and he has. I do not see
we have any further business to conduct.”
“And whom did he say he represented?” I inquired with caution, not seeking to anger her further.
“He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. The money was good, the work quick and honest, and little travel involved. A woman in my situation finds curiosity an expensive luxury. As I see it, you got what he paid for, so finish your tea and be off with you.”
“Please allow me to explain,” I pleaded. “I have as I told you, written a crime story. The detective I created, Sherlock Holmes, used a means of observation and deduction to arrive at the identity of the killer. My companion is Professor Bell, a professor of surgery at Edinburgh, and a master of the skills I credit to my detective. Mr. Wilkins has convinced his employer, a man of some influence, to engage us as consultants to the Metropolitan Police. Our purpose is to provide alternative explanations to their evidence, as scanty as it is, to help them catch the killer.
“We have an appointment this afternoon at Spitalfields to view photographs of the victims, leaving us time to visit another murder scene beforehand. The first murder, that of Martha Tabram, I understand occurred some distance from the police station, so I ask you to take us to the scene of the third, that of Annie Chapman, which I understand is conveniently nearby. After that we shall bid you good day and good fortune. If you require additional payment, I am prepared to pay it, as Mr. Wilkins has assured me he will reimburse any reasonable expenses.”
Miss Harkness watched me intently throughout, searching for any evidence of falsehood. Apparently, my sincerity allayed her suspicions, and she nodded twice with conviction. “Very well then. Two pounds for another tour, and I will then escort you to the police station. Should you require my aid in future, my rate will remain two pounds per day. If I could afford it, I’d pay as much to you to help put that monster away, but we have to live in the real world.”
A Knife in the Fog Page 4