“A doctor, you think?” mused Miss Harkness. “That would explain his anatomic expertise.”
“I shudder to think he may be a member of my profession, though it is possible,” Bell responded. “But a morgue attendant or casual student of anatomy may also possess such knowledge. One possible explanation for the disembowelment of the second victim is that it was done to verify knowledge acquired from anatomical drawings.”
“And what of his being undetected?” she queried. “How could anyone commit such a wanton murder in a crowded city, and yet no one notice?”
The professor took a sip of his ale. “Well, he certainly knows the East End well,” the professor said, lowering his tankard.
“His ability to move about without drawing attention speaks of a man who knows where he is going and how to get there. If only I could have seen the injuries firsthand; I might have been able to discern if he were right- or left-handed, as the depth of the incision where he initiated the wound would be deeper than the finish. But the photographs had no scale to demonstrate such differences. If he is right-handed, we should be none the wiser, but if we can deduce that he is left-handed, then we should be well on our way to finding him.”
Miss Harkness absorbed these insights as intently as a medical student in a lecture hall (perhaps more so than some of my classmates), and she brightened when Bell mentioned he supported her supposition that the killer did not look intimidating.
When he finished we all took another, slow draught from our ales. “So, what do we do now?” Miss Harkness asked, gently dabbing at her lips.
“We?” I asked, irritated. “I recall you specifying ours was strictly a commercial relationship. Two pounds a day when called. I do not know that we have anything more to do together.”
She shook her head smiling, expressing her amusement at the foibles of men. “There are few advantages, God knows, to being a woman, but one of them is the right to change her mind. You have taken me into your confidence. You treat me with respect and as someone gifted with intelligence despite my gender, and you are doing important work. The opportunity to collaborate with you would inform me as a writer, as well as give me insight into this deductive reasoning Professor Bell has mastered. I waive all future fees if you allow me to participate. Do we have a deal?”
“Miss Harkness,” I replied, flummoxed by her request, “while I do not envision us personally chasing this killer down the dark streets of Whitechapel, we may be going into harm’s way. I could not in good conscience allow you to share in that danger.”
At this, she laughed long and hard, such that tears formed at the corners of her eyes. The rough-looking patrons at the bar gazed at us curiously for a moment before returning to their gin.
Finally, after regaining her composure, she smiled. “My dear sir, I reside in the East End and walk alone at night through the most dangerous neighborhoods in the British Empire. I assure you, sir, I am constantly in harm’s way. I believe I have more than once demonstrated that I am quite capable of protecting myself, as well as my companions if necessary.”
I turned to Bell, who smiled and said, “Welcome to our enterprise, Miss Harkness! If we are to be the Three Musketeers, I nominate Doyle as Porthos. I will let you decide if you prefer the persona of Aramis or Athos. Shall we finalize our partnership?”
We raised our tankards and, with perhaps a bit too much bravado, intoned in unison, “All for one and one for all!”
Our words were lightly spoken, but in the end, proved true.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A WELL-DRESSED YOUNG GENTLEMAN
Tuesday, September 25, to Wednesday, September 26
After depositing Margaret (whom I was now allowed to address by her given name) outside her tenement, we returned to our lodgings for the remainder of the day. Although I could not point to any tangible progress in the investigation, I believed that things were going well. We had proven ourselves in battle and earned the cooperation of the senior investigator on the ground.
We also had a better understanding of the enemy we were confronting. I believed we had taken the measure of our foe, and had therefore begun to encircle him. A most reassuring thought, but, as time was soon to tell, a false one.
The following morning, when Bell and I met for breakfast, it was apparent our run of fair weather had expired. Autumn was beginning to assert itself with blowing rain and chilly temperatures. I had little desire to go out into the cold, wet air unless I had a clear destination and purpose. “Where to today?” I asked.
“The morgue,” Bell replied, “would be worth a visit, as it would inform us as to the quality of the work done there, and thus the information it provides.”
I sighed, inspected my oiled canvas coat carefully for defects, and agreed without enthusiasm. “Should we take Margaret along?”
“Aye,” replied Bell. “I’d rather not go astray in this weather, so her guidance may save us a soaking. Besides,” and here Bell surprised me with a wink, “I find her company most refreshing. She asks hard questions and expects hard answers. She would have made an excellent medical student. Besides, all for one and one for all, eh, Porthos?”
I was having difficulty reconciling the stern professor of surgery with this far more congenial colleague, but my respect for him only grew as I saw his admiration for Margaret. Even now, in the 1920s, you would be hard-pressed to find a surgeon or any professional man willing to consider that a woman might be his equal, despite women having acquired universal suffrage. Some men are products of their time, while others exceed them. I was growing to appreciate that my old professor was one of the latter.
Not wishing to wander to Margaret’s tenement only to find her out, I dispatched one of the doorman’s couriers to ask her to meet us at Fenchurch Street Station at one o’clock, and the messenger returned with an affirmative.
Having three hours before we needed to depart, I paid the doorman two pounds (noted in my ledger) to procure newspapers from the first of the month so I could read about the inquests of the three victims. He was diligent and seemed not the least bothered by my request. I promised myself to join a club as soon as my finances allowed.
I found an article in the East London Observer dated September second concerning the inquest of the victim murdered in late August. It was evident the coroner used every opportunity to disparage the efforts of the police in investigating the murder of Miss Nichols, berating them for not discovering her abdominal injuries at the scene.
I passed the paper over to Bell and, after reading the article, he remarked, “It appears Coroner Baxter is more intent on looking clever than assisting the police in finding her killer. I see now why Abberline was willing to accept our assistance.”
I resigned myself to facing the unpleasant weather outside. I pulled on my oiled canvas coat, wrapped a dark-green scarf around my neck, and reluctantly followed the professor out into the rain.
Margaret was not immediately apparent when we reached the station, and, as I peered out, a young man in a coat similar to mine and a dark bowler hat suddenly wrenched the door open and sat down facing us.
“I beg your pardon,” I said in a stern tone.
Suddenly Bell began to laugh deeply. I turned to see him wiping tears from his eyes, as he said, “Woe unto those who have eyes yet do not see.”
“Good afternoon, Doctor Doyle,” said Margaret.
Bell, still smiling, shook his head slightly from side to side, “This won’t do, you know, won’t do at all.”
Margaret gave Bell a look I was certain was to be followed by a fierce argument, but held her tongue when Bell unwound the scarf from my neck and gently placed it on hers.
“We are about to visit an experienced police surgeon,” Bell said. “I would not hazard him failing to notice your lack of a prominent larynx, as one would expect in a slender young gentleman of your age. I assume this is in reaction to being excluded from Inspector Abberline’s office yesterday?”
Margaret nodded, giving Bell a
look of respect and gratitude. “Precisely so, Professor,” she answered. “If you will humor me, I’d like to pass myself off as your personal secretary. That ruse will allow me to accompany you without question. Are you agreeable?”
Bell nodded, smiling. “I’ve always wanted a private secretary. Agreed!”
I gave the driver the address, and in the wet and cool of an autumn afternoon, we three set off for the first time as a team.
As we traveled, Bell asked Margaret why so few streetwalkers inhabited brothels. “As sordid as such a life might be, it would afford the women protection from the elements and make it more difficult for the murderer to visit them unseen. A cry would more likely be heard, and the Madame at the very least would be able to describe the victim’s last customer.”
Margaret shook her head angrily, “Oh there are brothels about to be sure, but a good deal fewer than before, thanks to Mr. Frederick Charrington.” She enunciated each syllable of the gentleman’s title and name with heated emphasis. “Mr. Charrington’s a wealthy heir to a brewing fortune, and whether through an excess of ill-informed good intentions or sheer embarrassment, he’s taken it upon himself to close as many of these establishments as possible. His goal, simply put, is ‘Rid the East End of Vice.’ Unless or until he endeavors to rid it of poverty, he is on a fool’s errand.”
“How can a private citizen go about closing brothels?” I asked, surprised to find myself discussing brothels with this woman as calmly as though we were debating the merits of various pubs. My topics of conversation were certainly expanding.
“He uses the Criminal Law Amendment Act of 1885,” Margaret explained with some feeling, “which allows any citizen who reports a brothel to the police to receive a reward. Armed with that scrap of paper, he’s gone on a crusade to close them all down.”
“A man with such a fixation on courtesans merits suspicion,” Bell observed. “Forcing these women out of doors makes the killer’s hunt easier.”
“Whatever his intentions,” Margaret said, “many women have been displaced out into the streets or common lodging houses to ply the only trade they know. Leather Apron could not have a better ally than Master Charrington. There may be no blood on his hands, but that’s how it usually is with the well to do, isn’t it? Those who die of exposure are just as dead as those slit open by this madman. If there is justice in the next world, I expect this pious gentleman to be greatly surprised by what awaits him.”
Just then we arrived at the morgue, and Margaret stated flatly, “Well, we’re here, and I’ve had my say.”
We alighted from our carriage in silence, Bell and I digesting Margaret’s words. I have learned some things are best left unsaid, if for no other reason than that you lack the words.
The morgue was in a modest brick building just off Whitechapel Road, where I was about to see another side of my distinguished colleague, and Margaret was about to acquire a new name.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CORPSES . . .
Wednesday, September 26, cont.
We were immediately accosted by the supervising clerk, who ruled his small kingdom behind a raised desk.
“Who might ye be and what do ye want?” asked this minor deity. “You don’t look like ye came here to deliver nor pick up no body, and the press ain’t allowed lest they be accompanied by an inspector. I knows all the inspectors in the East End, and I don’t know a one of you!”
Bell straightened to his full-though-modest height, and the stern professor of surgery suddenly reemerged, “I am Professor Bell, Professor of Surgery at Edinburg University. I am not here to deliver anyone into ye’r care but wish to speak with any of your surgeons who examined one of the Leather Apron victims. I am here as a consultant for the Metropolitan Police, and I assure you that neither my personal secretary,” he indicated Margaret, “nor, my colleague, Doctor Doyle, have any relationship with the prress. I am willing to wait here should ye care to summon ye’r surgeon or advance if ye will direct me to his office.”
Bell’s Scottish brogue became more pronounced when he became emotional. I understood it signified at this moment that he was exceedingly irritated with the clerk’s attitude. The man before him did not comprehend what the trilled “r’s” conveyed, however, and I was not disposed to warn him.
The clerk’s scowl showed he was unaccustomed to having his authority challenged, but this small gnome-like man with a thinning pate and ample side-whiskers was a British public servant, the most immovable of objects, while Bell, I already knew from our acquaintance in Edinburgh, was an unstoppable force.
I watched in fascination as the battle of wills ensued.
“Ye’re in luck,” the clerk said, his tone still officious. “Doctor Llewellyn is examining a corpse that was brought in this morning. Ye can wait here, and I’ll have him brought out when he’s done.”
Bell wordlessly produced the letter from Inspector Abberline stating we were granted access to all evidence pertaining to the Leather Apron investigation.
After reading the note, the major domo of the charnel house bowed his head ever so slightly to acknowledge his defeat, and with the hint of a sneer, turned to Margaret. “If yer stummach ain’t too queasy, lad, ye can all go in and speak with ’im while he finishes up. Hope ye don’t mind the smell!”
Margaret nodded, and we proceeded into what Dante may well have envisioned in his Inferno.
Smells can evince powerful reactions. A whiff of an apple tart may bring memories flooding back of your grandmother’s kitchen on a rainy day; lavender may take you to a summer sojourn in Provence. For me, the smell of decaying flesh shall always revive the images of the poor and destitute lying about in various stages of their return to the dust from which we all emerged.
Margaret brought my scarf up over her nose, but otherwise marched on and showed no sign of distress. Bell, having done more than a few postmortems himself, was entirely unaffected. As for myself, it had been some years since I had labored, anatomy atlas in hand, within the dissecting theater. I bore it as best I could, but was grateful we had not recently dined.
Doctor Llewellyn was slender, nearly to the point of emaciation, his face revealing its skeletal foundations. The sight of him carefully poring over the remains of the gray body of an elderly woman was suggestive of a corpse examining a corpse. The long coat he wore over his garments may have once been white, but it was now thoroughly tinged with every fluid a human body may contain. He was animated enough in his movements, however, and turned at our approach with a curious look.
He bowed slightly, and said in a soft voice, “Good afternoon, gentlemen, how might I help you?”
Bell introduced himself, and upon hearing the name Bell Doctor Llewellyn quickly made the connection between my colleague and both the professor’s distinguished career and that of his father.
“An honor, sir. And who are your companions?”
“Doctor Doyle,” I said, “A former student of the Professor’s.”
Llewellyn then looked at Margaret with raised eyebrows.
“Professor Bell’s secretary . . .” I began. At this moment, I realized we had not settled upon an alias for Margaret.
She noticed my hesitation, and in a convincing tenor said, “Pennyworth. Joseph Pennyworth.” She started to offer her hand, then after considering where his hands had just been, merely nodded.
“A pleasure, gentlemen. What brings you to this abattoir?” Llewellyn asked while gesturing broadly at the surrounding carnage.
“We are serving as consultants to the Metropolitan Police,” Bell answered. “I would like to hear your version of events relating to the Mary Nichols murder. You were the police surgeon summoned in her case, were you not?”
Llewellyn narrowed his eyes, “Am I to be replaced? Has Inspector Abberline lost faith in my competence? If so, you are welcome to assume my duties immediately. I can seek employment elsewhere.” Llewellyn’s veins became more prominent, illuminating his pale visage. Bell raised his hand in a placating ges
ture.
“I assure you sir, we have no desire to either supplant you or cast aspersions on your efforts,” he insisted. “But sometimes fresh eyes may see what tired eyes do not.”
Llewellyn took a deep breath. “Forgive me,” he responded, calmer now. “We have all been under tremendous demands to solve this case. And . . . I sometimes do not feel up to the challenge.
“Your fresh eyes are welcome, sir,” he added, resuming the friendlier tone of his greeting. “If you would care to wait for me at the public house across the street, I can meet with you in twenty-five minutes, after I complete my examination and clean up.”
I concluded from the perspiration forming on her forehead that Margaret was for this course of action. As was I.
Bell nodded, so we passed back through the entrance where the senior clerk stared us out the door. We quickly located the public house Doctor Llewellyn had mentioned. As tea was not available I gratefully ordered a brandy for myself and Margaret, while Bell contented himself with ale. I wiped some perspiration from my own brow with my handkerchief, and finding it now reeked of the morgue, left it on the table.
We were eager to hear what the police surgeon could tell us of the murderer’s victims and, thereby, of the killer himself.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
. . . AND CRICKET
Wednesday, September 26, cont.
“Pennyworth?” I asked Margaret, bemused.
“The phrase, ‘in for a penny, in for a pound’ suddenly occurred to me,” she replied, smiling, enjoying her masquerade, “and that name just came out. I briefly considered using my nom de plume, John Law, but I did not want to chance some well-read inspector making a connection with my works.”
The police surgeon was as good as his word, arriving well within his self-allotted time, and, after collecting an ale, he joined us at a back table. He ducked his head as he sat down.
A Knife in the Fog Page 7