A Knife in the Fog

by Bradley Harper

  “Carefully notice the gentleman in the checkered coat at the far side of the bar,” he said in his soft voice. “He is a journalist for the Star and makes it a habit of loitering about in hopes of another Leather Apron victim being brought in before his colleagues get wind of it.”

  I glanced casually over to the bar, as I was facing it, and noted a short, stout man in a loud checkered suit coat and dark trousers with greasy, long, dark hair. He appeared somewhat tipsy, and was staring into his glass of dark liquid, oblivious to our presence.

  “His name is Collier,” Llewellyn said, “and he is a rather poor specimen of humanity. I have given strict instructions to the clerk that no strangers are to enter the morgue without authorization, as Collier has in the past gone in to make sketches of the victims of accidents and murders to sell to his paper. His unauthorized artwork has, of course, sold many issues, while causing much distress to the families of the deceased. I warn you not to let him learn of your presence or purpose, lest everyone in the East End who can read will soon know of it and dog your steps wherever you go.”

  I was beginning to appreciate the degree to which the press was an active participant in the Whitechapel murder investigations. They hired detectives, performed in-depth interviews with neighbors and friends, and did everything conceivable to be the first to report the latest developments with little regard to their veracity.

  Although I have over the years contributed various articles and letters to newspapers, I have never been a working journalist, so the ferocity of their competition was new to me. At times it seemed that newspapermen, like streetwalkers, could be found at every street corner, and were no more virtuous (perhaps less so).

  It was only some years later, however, during a trip to America, when I came to appreciate that the entire world had been following the tragic murders within this one blighted district of London. I think this must have been the first crime to have ever gotten such global attention, due both to the sensational nature of the murders and the increasing use of the telegraph.

  “To save time and reduce our chances of discovery by Mr. Collier,” Bell began, “let me start by saying we have been thoroughly briefed by Inspector Abberline about the killings. I have only a couple of questions for you, and then we may go our separate ways.”

  Llewellyn nodded his agreement, and Bell continued. “What kind of knife do you think the killer used?”

  “Certainly over four inches in length, but it wasn’t the knife that killed her. All her wounds were postmortem, I believe. Her tongue was swollen and protruding, and her face was gray. It is my opinion that the killer suffocated her, and once she had expired he lay her body down and had at her with his knife. There was ample blood beneath her head certainly, but the severing of the major vessels on both sides of her neck with her legs raised facilitated the free flow of blood onto the ground. Her wounds elsewhere had no signs of bleeding into the surrounding tissue or on her dress, which explains how her abdominal incision was missed at the scene.”

  I recalled that during the inquest Coroner Baxter had heaped scorn upon the police and Doctor Llewellyn for initially missing the abdominal wounds. I could understand Llewellyn’s desire to explain to a colleague as distinguished as Bell how that happened, and why he had become so defensive when Bell first described our function.

  The professor nodded his understanding. “Your colleague Doctor Phillips conducted the postmortem on Miss Tabram, the woman murdered in early August. He concluded two knives were used, most wounds caused by a short-bladed knife, perhaps a clasp knife, but that the deep wound in her left breast was inflicted by a longer-bladed weapon, possibly a bayonet or sword. Did you see anything in the Nichols case to suggest the killer used more than one knife?”

  “None,” answered Llewellyn confidently. “Although I respect my colleague very much, I find his opinion that a second blade was used inconclusive. Soft tissue is easily distorted by force, and since the breast is mainly adipose tissue, if the murderer had been holding the breast in his right hand while thrusting with his left, an injury track much longer than the actual blade may result.”

  At the mention of the killer holding the weapon in his left hand, Bell brightened. “Do you believe the entrance wound was on the inside of the breast then?”

  “Indeed I do, sir,” replied Llewellyn. He took a long draught of his ale, then placed the tankard down with perhaps more force than he intended, given his warnings of the esteemed journalist. “Phillips told me the marks left by the knife guard were noted on the medial surface of the breast, indicating the blade’s entry point.”

  “Excellent!” Bell exclaimed. “Looking for a left-handed killer simplifies our task enormously. But earlier you said Miss Nichols was suffocated. Not strangled? Wouldn’t strangling have been easier?”

  “I am positive she was asphyxiated, sir,” replied Llewellyn, shaking his head. “As you know, manual strangulation usually results in a fracture of the larynx, or at least the trachea. Both structures were pristine. A sober person might easily resist or call for help, but our victim was quite intoxicated, as was evident from the smell of gin about her corpse when I examined it. A man of fixed intent and forceful grip could have easily overpowered her. I am as sure of her cause of death as I am that I am sitting here with you.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Bell replied, a faint glow in his eyes I had often seen when presented with a challenging case. “Is there anything else we should know?”

  “I can think of nothing now,” he answered. “If I do, or if we get another victim, how might I contact you?”

  I gave him our address at the Marlborough Club, and Llewellyn was standing to depart when Mr. Collier pulled his head out of the fumes in his glass long enough to recognize the surgeon. He staggered over to our table.

  “Good afternoon, Doctor,” he said to Llewellyn, his breath and body odor saying far more than his words.

  I noticed a sketchpad like those one often sees art students carry about, sticking out of his coat pocket. What little I saw of a female nude demonstrated more skill than I would have credited him, based on his appearance and odor.

  “And who might these gentlemen be?” he inquired, at what I assumed was an effort to be charming.

  “Colleagues of mine, Mr. Collier,” Llewellyn answered coolly. “From Scotland.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t catch their names,” Collier said, his bloodshot eyes glinting.

  I desired no entanglement with this man whatsoever. Were he to quote us in any way regarding the murders, it would give Abberline grounds to terminate our access. Besides, I found him quite offensive both in manner and hygiene, and wished for fresher air as soon as possible. Still, it would do us no good to ignore him, as that would only heighten his interest, so I gave him the first name that came to mind. “Watson,” I answered.

  “Holmes,” Bell responded, his quick wink and use of the name of my consulting detective revealing he had read my story.

  “Pennyworth,” Margaret replied, puzzled by our private joke.

  “We were discussing the cricket match held last week between the Australian national team and Surrey,” I said. I still played regularly myself and could discuss the strengths and weaknesses of all the major teams with ease. “The Aussies acquitted themselves very well, wouldn’t you agree?”

  I have learned over the years that people either adore or detest cricket. I was gambling, given what I could deduce of Mr. Collier’s character, that he was one of the latter. Apparently I judged him correctly, for I saw a look of mild panic appear in his eyes. He mumbled his apologies and returned to the rail and his glass of dark liquid.

  Llewellyn gave me a slight bow and departed, while Bell and Margaret lifted their glasses in a mute toast to my subterfuge.

  “Well played,” Margaret mouthed silently, and we exchanged grins like two errant children who had just poached a pie from a windowsill.

  I felt a thrill pass through me to see her gaze at me so, and our eyes lingered a bit lon
ger perhaps than was seemly, and the image of my devoted and pregnant wife, Louise, sprang to mind, and I looked away.

  “Come,” Bell said, “we should retire before Mr. Collier bestirs himself again. It is getting late, and I have no desire to linger here this damp evening. Let’s be off.”

  We had to walk to Whitechapel Road before finding a cab. While we walked, I returned to Doctor Llewellyn’s assertion that the killer asphyxiated his victims before slitting their throats. I asked of no one in particular, “I wonder why that wasn’t mentioned at the inquest?”

  “There are many possibilities,” answered Bell, still smiling, I assumed, at the ease with which I had driven away the malodorous Mr. Collier. “The police may have wished to prevent the killer from learning how thoroughly the corpse had been examined, thus making him careless. Llewellyn may have been overruled by his superiors, who thought that with the wounds to the throat there was no need to speculate further.

  “What matters to me is knowing something the killer doesn’t know he has revealed; the wound to the left breast was inflicted by the left hand. It was the deepest wound, so it stands to reason the killer would have used his dominant hand. I think our visit was most profitable.”

  At one point, I thought I saw a man in a checked suit following us, but when I stopped to get a better look behind me he was gone. Collier, perhaps? I said nothing to my companions, though I did quicken my pace, and thus theirs. I was uncertain of what I had just glimpsed, but I was sure of my desire to depart the area promptly.

  “What next?” I asked Bell as we sought a growler.

  “I should like to spend one night ‘walking the beat,’ as it were, to complete my orientation to Whitechapel.

  “Then,” Bell continued, “if there are no new developments, I will return to Edinburgh next Tuesday Never fear! I shall come back quickly should another murder occur. I am very keen to examine one of Leather Apron’s victims before the evidence is lost.”

  We finally hailed a cab, and once inside agreed to meet at a coffeehouse adjacent to Fenchurch Street Station at one o’clock the next day. After dropping Margaret off outside her tenement, Bell and I continued to the club.

  “I didn’t know you’d read my story,” I said to Bell as we rode along, fearful of his opinion yet desiring it fiercely.

  “Aye, Doyle,” he replied, smiling. “I know naught about Mormons, but the reasoning behind your detective’s deductions seemed sound to me. I enjoyed it very much.”

  His words filled me with pride. I believed my best work lay in historical fiction (and some critics would agree with that), but were I to write only one detective story, it should be a good one.

  I felt an intense need to bathe before dinner, and to send my clothes off to be laundered, and I noticed Bell was in a different suit when we dined. We had two more days until Bell would be introduced to Wilkins, and we could present our findings. Hopefully, Wilkins would be satisfied with our report. Then we could both return to our previous lives, and I could set aside my ill-fitting role of consulting detective.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  HOUSE CALLS

  Thursday, September 27

  Today we were to meet with Mr. George Lusk, head of the Mile End Vigilance Committee. Mr. Lusk was a local builder chosen by his neighbors to organize the community to aid the police and augment the security of their district. Professor Bell thought it helpful to learn what actions were being taken to thwart the killer should he strike again. We had until one o’clock to loiter about the club, and I took the opportunity to update my knowledge of the official investigation.

  A cartoon in Punch caught my eye. Labeled “The Nemesis of Neglect,” it portrayed a ghostlike figure drifting along a dark alleyway, a naked blade in its right hand, the left extended like a claw, and the word CRIME written upon its forehead. Beneath the apparition was the following inscription:

  There floats a phantom on the slum’s foul air,

  Shaping, to eyes which have the gift of seeing

  Into the Spectre of that loathly lair.

  Face it—for vain is fleeing!

  Red-handed, ruthless, furtive, unerect,

  ’Tis murderous Crime—the Nemesis of Neglect!

  From what I had recently experienced in the East End, I heartily agreed with the sentiment of the cartoon and accompanying legend. I shook my head sadly, then turned to the cricket scores.

  At length the time came for us to be off. I had no scarf to shield Margaret’s modest larynx, what with the day being mild, but she greeted us clothed in a workingman’s attire and vest. She had wrapped a clean rag about the neck as was commonly worn by those of that class, and completed her wardrobe with a billed wool cap. Bell and I had grown accustomed by now to the vagaries of her dress, or “undress” to use her phrase, and neither of us batted an eye at her masculine ensemble.

  “So, Porthos,” Margaret teased, “whither today?”

  I chose not to bristle at this gentle dig at my circumference. Bell had so named me already, and a woman who wields a derringer as aptly as a knitting needle should not be lightly crossed.

  “Mr. Lusk, of the Mile End Vigilance Committee,” I answered. “It would be helpful to know what actions the locals are taking, and I recall you mentioning, when we first met, that you would introduce me to one of the streetwalkers, per Mr. Wilkins’s instructions.”

  “Done and done!” replied Margaret cheerfully. “Lusk first. The ladies will still be sleeping off last night’s activities.”

  I told myself I would not blush when the subject of sexual commerce came up, but under Margaret’s calm gaze, I felt my ears warming. Again.

  “Well, then, let’s be off!” I muttered, perhaps more brusquely than I had intended, but sly smiles between Bell and Margaret told me my discomfort was apparent to them both.

  Mr. Lusk resided on Alderney Street in Mile End, which borders Whitechapel on the eastern side. Inspector Abberline had sent him a message that we would be paying him a call. His exact phrase, as I recall, was that we were “sanctioned” consultants.

  We found Mr. Lusk at home and patiently awaiting us. He had my name and Bell’s, but looked quizzically at Margaret, whom we introduced as Mr. Pennyworth, our local guide. That was only half true, of course, but I digress.

  Mr. Lusk appeared as one of those hail-fellow-well-met chaps one often finds in the mercantile class, yet the bags under his eyes testified to some restless nights of late. Portly, with broad shoulders, I imagined he had once been an active participant in his construction business, though now with increasing age and responsibility, he left the actual labor to others.

  He was subdued for the most part as he led us into his parlor, though with occasional bursts of what I assumed was his usual optimism breaking through, speaking forcefully one moment and hesitantly the next. While I was certain we had nothing in common, I respected him due to his common decency and desire to aid his neighbors.

  “Good day, gentlemen!” he said. “The inspector sent word of your coming. I’ve no idea how I can help, but ask me anything—George Lusk is an open book. Me and me neighbors are anxious to put this terrible matter to rest, and if I can help you, I’ll do what I can.”

  Bell had grown accustomed to taking the lead in these interviews, so I was content to sip the excellent tea Mr. Lusk provided and let the professor get on with it. By allowing him to carry the conversation, I was free to sit back and observe, an aid to both a consulting detective and a writer.

  “Thank you for seeing us, Mr. Lusk,” Bell began. “How did your Vigilance Committee come into being, and what steps are you taking to protect your neighborhood?”

  “How is easy enough,” said Lusk. “I’ve always been a loud speaker and organizer. More than once a Jewish man has been taken into custody by the police, not because they are suspected of being the murderer, but to protect them from hooligans who’ll attack any man who appears Semitic. I’ve known many of these businessmen since they first arrived, and I’m happy to represent them.
” He made a fist as he spoke of the “hooligans,” and though somewhat advanced in years, I had no doubt of his willingness to raise that fist against them.

  “As for what we are doing to prevent further killings, we are petitioning the Home Office and even Her Majesty to offer a reward for any information that could lead to Leather Apron’s arrest. The police have resisted, saying it would only encourage riffraff and soothsayers to lay false trails they would be obliged to follow, yet we feel anything that increases the odds of his capture is worth trying.”

  Mr. Lusk’s tone changed when he referred to Her Majesty. His softer, reverential tone revealed his simple faith in the goodness of our monarch and her love for her people. I have found deceitful people suspect duplicity in others if only to justify their own, while decent folk expect the same from their fellow man. It was evident to me to which point of view Mr. Lusk subscribed.

  “Currently,” he continued, “we’re raising our own reward fund, and we’ve taken to posting watchmen in pairs to patrol the neighborhood. They are not to confront any suspicious characters they encounter, mind you, but to summon a constable should they feel the need. They walk their beats from eleven o’clock until two; when the streets are believed to be most dangerous. It’s been three weeks since the last murder, so we’re hopeful our measures are having an effect.”

  “Have these killings impacted your trade?” Bell asked.

  “No sir, but I have friends and family who inhabit this neighborhood. I would be a poor Christian indeed if I did nothing to stop these murders if there were aught I could do.”

  At this he clenched his jaw and looked every inch the “British Bulldog” I am sure he felt himself to be.

  Lusk was about to say something more when there was a knock at his door. He went to see who it was and returned puzzled, with a young police constable who was red-faced from exertion and out of breath.