A Knife in the Fog

by Bradley Harper

  I paid her two pounds, noted the expense in my ledger, and, after finishing our tea, we set off.

  “Your itinerary is most convenient,” Miss Harkness explained, “for the site of ‘Dark’ Annie Chapman’s murder is but a brief walk from Spitalfields Police Station on Commercial Street. We could spend the next hour walking north if you gentlemen prefer, but if your generous Mr. Wilkins’s purse allows, I suggest we take a brief stroll to the rail station and hire a growler. One of the reasons I chose this location is that Fenchurch Street Railway Station is one of the few places in the East End where they are reliably available.”

  I agreed, and we made our way there.

  In the modern London of the twentieth century, its citizens do not grasp that during the reign of Queen Victoria we were still a society of horse. The Underground was yet in its infancy; the working class rode horse-drawn trolleys, while people of means had two choices of cabs. The first and most common was the hansom, a nimble two-wheeled carriage drawn by a single horse, with the driver seated above and behind his two passengers. The doors were opened and closed by a lever operated by the driver, and in general, passengers were not released until the fare was paid. The seating was sufficiently intimate that ladies would be scandalized if asked to share a ride with a man other than their husband or close relation.

  For groups over two, or when more proper transport was required, a Clarence cab was called for. This four-wheeled conveyance was fully enclosed, seated four in two facing seats, and was drawn by one or two animals. It was slightly more comfortable than a hansom, and therefore more expensive. A Clarence was commonly referred to as a growler due to the noise its wheels made going over cobblestones.

  Miss Harkness gave the driver the address of 29 Hanbury Street, at which the driver tightened the grip on his reins. He said nothing for a moment, then replied, “That’ll be half a crown then, sir. Not a penny less. That’s an evil address to be sure, and I’ll not linger no longer than it takes you three to alight.”

  I sighed and paid (as it was now my habit to do), and after boarding made a quick addition to the expanding list of expenses in my ledger.

  To pass the time as well as become better acquainted with her, I asked Miss Harkness how Wilkins had known to contract her as our guide.

  “He said he had read A City Girl,” she answered, “and was so taken with my description of the East End and the working poor, he tracked me down via my publisher. He was, needless to say, surprised to learn that I was ‘John Law.’ After overcoming his initial shock, however, he hired me anyway, saying you’d benefit from having an educated person as a guide.

  “He paid me the moment I agreed, saying he’d rather not make a return trip. He’s a fastidious little man, isn’t he? My understanding was there was only to be the one tour, though we didn’t meet any streetwalkers that night as he requested,” she smiled, “Due to unforeseen circumstances.”

  Bell chuckled at her last remark; I gritted my teeth and said nothing.

  “If you’re willing to pay for my time,” she continued, “we can rectify that whenever you’d like.”

  Soon after, we stopped abruptly and disembarked before a row of faded brick four-story tenement houses. Gesturing toward number twenty-nine, Miss Harkness remarked, “These are designed for eight people per flat but are often occupied by up to twice that number. As the residents work all hours, the doors are usually left open, so the streetwalkers often pass through to the backyards to ply their trade; on rainy nights, they use the stairwells. Follow me please.”

  Miss Harkness took on the manner of a docent leading visitors into an art gallery. I was learning that, with experience, even the most horrible events could be discussed as calmly as cricket scores. She had evidently gained such experience in the East End and was as matter-of-fact as any of my professors at the dissecting table.

  The tale she related gave us needed insight into our foe, and reinforced the challenge we had agreed to.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE THESPIAN

  Tuesday, September 25, cont.

  “As I am a woman who often goes out alone at night, you can understand my personal interest in these murders,” she began. “I follow the reports closely in the newspapers, and as a journalist myself, I take every opportunity to speak with my colleagues following the case.”

  She indicated the opening to number twenty-nine. “Let us begin, then . . . On the night of September seventh, eight days after the previous murder, Annie Chapman was trying to pass the night at Crossingham’s Lodging House. The night porter allowed her to sit by the fire in the kitchen when she said she lacked money for a bed and was weak from consumption, having been discharged that day from hospital.”

  “She would still be quite feeble,” said Bell. “The demand for beds is such that patients are rarely fully recovered before required to surrender theirs to another even more gravely ill.”

  Margaret nodded in vigorous agreement before continuing. “Around midnight, the porter went to the kitchen and found her the worse for drink. He told her if she could find money for gin, yet none for lodging, she had to leave. As she left she told him to save her a bed and she would return soon with payment. He last saw her headed toward Spitalfields Church, tipsy but not inebriated.

  “A barman at the nearby Ten Bells recalled a woman answering Annie’s description drinking in the bar at five o’clock when a small man in a ‘little skull cap’ stuck his head through the door and called her outside. That sighting is unverified, but we do know that she arrived here by five-thirty. Follow me.”

  I hunched my shoulders as one does before going out into a storm. I recalled the events of my last visit to a murder scene with Miss Harkness, but I did my best to appear as though this was nothing more than a casual stroll, and I suppressed a slight shiver.

  Bell and I followed as she led us through the front entrance, past the stairwell reeking of cabbage and humanity, and on into the back. A pale young man with blond, dirty hair partly covered by a gray wool flat cap came down the stairs as we passed. He was dressed in well-worn but serviceable trousers, a shirt with a tattered black wool vest, and a cravat. He stared at us for a moment, apparently taken by surprise, then accosted us as we entered the backyard.

  “’Old on there!” he cried. “This ’ere’s private property! If you wants to stare about, it’ll cost you each a copper. For that you can stay as long’s you like, and I can tell you all I knows about the murder.”

  We three exchanged looks. Margaret gave a curt nod, and I counted out three coppers into the enterprising young man’s hand.

  Satisfied, he swung his arm around, encompassing the area and said: “’Ave a looks about, and when you’re ready, I’ll begins me recitation.”

  It appeared he had performed as a guide before, for he took on a professional air once paid.

  The back plot consisted of a small courtyard with grass growing between large paving stones and a locked cellar door, to the right as one looked away from the building. The sides and back were bordered by a dark-brown wooden fence five feet high with no gate; the entire space was not much larger than a boxing ring. There were three clotheslines in the left-hand corner running along the back fence for about six feet, currently devoid of laundry.

  After we had looked around I indicated we were ready, and he began enthusiastically.

  “Laydy ‘n’ gentl’men, allow me to introduce meself. Me name is John Richardson, son of Amelia Richardson, who lives upstairs. On the day of the murder, I was ’ere a little before five in the mornin’ to check on the cellar door, you sees to the right. I was on me way to work, but I check the lock each morning ’cause it’d been broken into some time back. All was well, and as me right boot was pinching, I sits down ’ere.” He indicated the steps leading down from the residence. “to trim it with me knife.”

  Young Master Richardson spread his arms wide, as though to emphasize the seriousness with which he trimmed his boots. I decided he had missed his true calling as a m
ummer.

  “After it fit right, I went to work. ’Bout half past fives, Mr. Cadoche, a carpenter who lives next door, went out to his backyard for a mom’nt. When he turns to go back in he hears a woman’s voice say ‘No.’

  “He weren’t sure but thought it was from ’ere.” He indicated our location. “He returns three or four minutes later when he hears somethin’ falls against the fence ’tween us. He din’t look over the paling, but at the inquest said: ‘It seemed as though somethin’ touched the fence suddenly.’ He then sets off for work, and when he reached the Christchurch Spitalfields clock tower along the street, he said it showed five thirty-two.” Whereupon he pointed dramatically down the street to the clock tower, which was plain to see from our location.

  “About the same time, Mrs. Eliz’beth Long was walkin’ along Hanbury Street on ’er way to market.” He fixed us with what I am sure was a practiced gaze and pointed in the opposite direction from the clock. “She ’eard the brewery clock chime five thirty just before she passes outside our flat and sees a man ‘n’ a woman jawin’ away. She din’t get a good look at his face, but said ’e was ‘foreign lookin’ with a dark complexion, shabby, yet genteel. Much like meself, I s’ppose,” he added with a wink and a grin. “’E looked to be ’bout forty and a bit over five feet, wearin’ a dark overcoat and brown deerstalker cap.”

  “The carpenter’s report of the time and Mrs. Long’s can’t both be correct,” I said. “It’s not possible the victim was seen outside this building at five thirty, and then slaughtered in the backyard several minutes before five thirty-two.”

  Our narrator straightened to his full height and placed his hands upon the lapels of his vest. “I’m only reporting what they said,” he replied. “Ye’ll have to ask ’em yourselves about that if ya can find ’em.”

  “Don’t be surprised by this, Doyle,” Bell said. “I’d be suspicious if everyone agreed. Please continue, Mister Richardson.”

  Our guide gave me a glare, then resumed.

  “The woman was facin’ ’er way, so Mrs. Long got a be’er look at ’er and later when she sees photographs of ‘Dark’ Annie said it was ’er. At the inquest she said the couple was talkin’ pretty loud and the man said, ‘Will you?’ in a funny accent, and the woman said, ‘Aye.’ Sad to say we often see couples ’ere about at odd hours, so she thinks no more ’bout it and gone about ’er business.”

  He went on to describe with many flourishes how shortly before six o’clock Mr. John Davis, an elderly resident of his building, came downstairs and discovered a woman’s body in the backyard. He went running into the street calling for help, and convinced three men to follow him immediately. After passing through the house they saw the mutilated body of Annie Chapman lying upon the ground between the steps and the wooden fence.

  Our guide indicated the spot, some six feet from the steps and beside the paling, the innocent-appearing paving stones now well-scrubbed of any residue. He then resumed his narrative. “’Er head was turned toward the ’ouse with her dress pulled up to the waist, showin’ ’er red ‘n’ white striped stockings, and an ’andk’chief tied round the throat.”

  Her hands and face were covered in blood, and the hands outstretched, giving the impression she’d struggled with her assailant and had fought to protect her throat.

  After taking in the scene before them, the three men sprang off to summon a policeman. The first quickly changed his mind, however, and summoned a brandy at a nearby pub.

  The second raced to Spitalfields Market, where he found a constable on fixed-point duty, but the constable refused to follow, stating it was against procedure.

  The third went directly to Spitalfields Police Station and Inspector Chandler accompanied him with the nearest constable at hand. By the time they arrived a large crowd had already formed.

  The inspector ordered the scene cleared of onlookers, then sent the constable back to the station for reinforcements and Doctor George Phillips, the police surgeon.

  Our guide struggled to describe her injuries, when Miss Harkness intervened. “The body was terribly mutilated with early rigor mortis present and the throat deeply severed. The postmortem revealed the uterus had been neatly excised.”

  Mr. Richardson seemed to take offense at Miss Harkness’s unasked-for assistance, glaring at her for a moment, then shrugged and warmed to the next part of his recitation.

  “Three brass rings she always wears were missin’, but the strangest things is, ’er pockets had been emptied out ‘n’ everythin’ in them, far as we know, was laid at ’er feet in a row.

  “Over there.” He pointed to the corner opposite the clotheslines. “Were a washed leather apron that belongs to me. I weren’t asked ’bout it until it already been in the papers.”

  “Many took the apron as proof the murderer was a Jew,” added Margaret.

  Our guide nodded, resigned to her additional comments.

  “Only a very robust police presence prevented riots when this discovery was announced,” Margaret continued. “The uproar over the apron was so bad, additional police constables from other parts of London were temporarily reassigned here, both to aid in the pursuit of the killer and to prevent large-scale attacks on the Jews.”

  “Thank you, Miss Harkness and Mr. Richardson,” said Bell. “I think we have profited all that we may from this sad place. Doyle and I are off to view the photographs of the two victims. If you would direct us to the entrance of the police station, Miss Harkness, you may go.”

  Richardson shed his thespian persona, tugged on his cap, and was off in an instant, intent perhaps on investing his three coppers.

  Margaret meanwhile looked first at Bell, then to me, and, after a thoughtful pause made an unexpected request. “Doctor Doyle, if you do not mind terribly, I’d like to accompany you to view the photographs. As I mentioned before, I am a single woman living amidst this horror, and any intelligence I can gain from them may help me.”

  I was taken aback by this unusual request and could not understand how a lady could ask to view such terrible images.

  “Professor Bell and I were only granted permission yesterday,” I replied. “I do not have the authority to grant you access we have only recently received ourselves.”

  Miss Harkness fixed me with a look of determination I was learning should not be ignored. “Very well then, I would be content to wait outside so we could discuss them afterward while the photographs are still fresh in your mind.”

  I could find no argument against this, and was reluctant to incur her displeasure, so I nodded in agreement.

  Shortly after leaving the scene of the killer’s latest atrocity however, we would encounter the second monster Abberline had warned us about; the many-headed beast known as the Mob.

  CHAPTER NINE

  LEGION

  Tuesday, September 25, cont.

  We were scarcely one street from the murder site when we heard the frenzied shouting of several angry, male voices. The streets in this residential area were sparsely occupied at midday, so we quickly noted the crowd of young men behind us, headed our way, chasing a middle-aged smallish man clutching a pair of boots. He was being quickly overtaken, and as he drew near I saw the yarmulke on his head and, unfortunately for him, a leather apron. I noted the boots were newly resoled. A cobbler.

  “Come here!” Bell commanded, and the frightened man halted in our midst, Bell to the right, I to the left, with Margaret and the cobbler in the middle.

  The mob, composed of seven young working men, halted, puzzled by this turn of events.

  The leader, the largest among them, as is usually the case, could not have been above nineteen years, his fellows anywhere from sixteen to twenty. Young toughs, eager to prove themselves to their fellows.

  “Stand aside!” their red-faced captain commanded. “’Less you wants some of what’s coming to ’im! We don’t want his kind about, and it looks like he needs a lesson!”

  “Turn around,” Bell said, ice to his fire, “Or you
may be the student. Go about your business.”

  “Go on, Tommy!” urged one of the mob, one in the back I noticed, as is also usually the case. “Show ’im what for!”

  Tommy, with his followers at his back, found himself in a tight spot. Pummeling a single, relatively helpless man was one thing. Confronting three men and a woman was quite another. Though they still had us outnumbered by nearly two to one, the odds had changed.

  Mobs are ugly things, even one as small as this, and I have come to appreciate that those who incite them quickly become their prisoner. Tommy could not back away now without losing his authority. He was as trapped as the cobbler in this tragic farce.

  I saw the look of determination in his eyes, and stepped forward to meet his advance, resolute to protect my friends with all the strength I possessed.

  I had not sparred in four years but my opponent, while young and strong, was untrained. I knew to watch his shoulders and hips to predict his next move, so I easily avoided the energetic but wild “haymaker” aimed in my general direction.

  A blow has a very small area where it may be effective; if you step back, it quickly fades in power as your opponent loses his balance. If you step into it, you dilute its force as it is still gaining momentum. I am pleased to say that my return blow to his midsection was perfectly timed and placed. Tommy collapsed on the cobblestones, his face gone from red to purple, as he struggled to find his breath.

  The remaining hooligans were not deterred by their leader’s quick defeat, but were sufficiently impressed that they began to encircle us. Bell used his cane effectively, applying his backhand to deliver a smart blow to the elbow of his closest adversary, driving him back as he howled in pain.

  Two down. Five to go. The odds were looking better by the moment. The remainder of this sorry lot decided the cobbler or the woman among our party were the easier targets. They surrounded us and began, one at a time, to make quick advances only to back away again, attempting to draw Bell or myself out enough so that others could attack our center.