“Doctor Doyle and Professor Bell?” the constable wheezed. When we acknowledged our identities, he took a deep breath before gasping out, “Inspector Abberline sent me round! He hoped you might be here as you weren’t at your club and he gave you this address. He asks that you come with me. Immediately!”
Given the urgency of his voice there was nothing for it but to wish Mr. Lusk a good day. So off we went with the constable to the now familiar Spitalfields station, where I heard the name Jack the Ripper for the first time.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
DEAR BOSS
Thursday, September 27, cont.
We found the inspector in his office with a worried expression, studying a document on his desk. When we entered, he stood and gestured to Bell to take his seat, whereupon he handed the pro fessor the object of his intense scrutiny.
Bell sat down, and Margaret and I crowded close on either side and leaned over his shoulders so we could view what turned out to be a letter dated September twenty-fifth addressed to the Central News Agency.
“This letter was received two days ago,” Abberline explained. “After some discussion, they forwarded it to us. I want your opinion as to whether it is genuine, and if it contains any useful information.”
The paper was of inferior quality, and the ink was red, making it difficult to read, but the contents were chilling.
Dear Boss
I keep on hearing the police have caught me. but they wont fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I can’t use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope ha. ha.
The next job I do I shall clip the ladys ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn’t you. Keep this letter back til I do a bit more work, then give it out straight. My knife’s so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good Luck.
Yours truly
Jack the Ripper
Don’t mind me giving the trade name
Wasn’t good enough to post this before I got all that red ink off my hands curse it No Luck yet.
They say I’m a doctor now. ha ha
Bell sat silent for several moments as he studied the letter, the only noticeable sound in the room Abberline’s pacing.
Finally the inspector could bear it no longer. “Well, Professor, what do you make of this?” he asked. “Do you think it genuine or no?”
Bell answered slowly, “The writer is well educated, though trying to appear less so. The words are correctly spelled and no words are crossed out, so it was all written in one go without any wavering in the lines, demonstrating confidence in his writing ability. Some contractions lack the apostrophe but others are correctly written, hence my supposition he is attempting to hide his knowledge of proper grammar. The phrase ‘I gave the lady no time to squeal’ is interesting. Perhaps he is alluding to the throat being slashed, which is assumed by most to be the cause of death, or perhaps it is a reference to her suffocation, which few other than the killer would know.
“I believe the writer was either born in England or came here at an early age, as his use of English is colloquial, for example, his phrase ‘til I do get buckled’ and ‘just for jolly.’ Therefore I can safely exclude a recent immigrant or anyone who arrived in England as an adult. I would say this was written by a man who is either British or well acquainted with British culture, with an above-grammar-school education.”
Abberline took a deep breath before asking, “Is this from the killer, sir? Does this help us in any way?”
“I can’t say with certainty if this is from our murderer,” Bell answered with candor, “but I can say it is consistent with what we know about him already. He is alluding to further murders soon, and unless we are extremely fortunate, we can only wait and see if the next victim has her ears removed.”
Abberline snorted at this. “A proper method that is!” he exclaimed. “I shall be sure to include that in my next report to my superiors: ‘We should wait patiently for the next murder to see what we learn!’ I do not believe that would be well received. Well, the intelligence the writer has some formal education lets us rule out most of the poor men who live in the East End, as well as the more recent immigrants. My official report then shall be I doubt its authenticity, but I shall privately act as though it is genuine.”
Bell spread his hands. “How may we help?” he asked.
“I think it time for me to pull some night duty,” Abberline said, with a degree of resignation. “For the next few nights I’ll sleep here in my office. Should there be another murder, I want to arrive at the scene before it has been all trampled over. You two gentlemen are welcome to join me, but you,” here he indicated Margaret, “in my excitement I failed to ask who you might be. How is it that you are accompanying my ‘consultants,’ eh?”
“Pennyworth, sir,” replied Margaret in her boyish tenor, respectfully tugging at her cap. “I have been contracted by Doctor Doyle as his guide in the East End. You might say I am a consultant to your consultants. I apologize for not introducing myself earlier, but you and these gentlemen were so excited I dared not interrupt.”
Margaret’s meek reply did little to allay Abberline’s suspicions as he continued to view her with narrowed eyes.
“I haven’t seen you about before,” he said. “You’re obviously well educated, and you must know the East End well, or you could not serve as a guide. How do I know you’re not the killer? You certainly seem to fit the professor’s description of the man who wrote this letter.”
“I can vouch for him,” I said, just catching myself from saying “her” at the last possible second, so there was a slight catch in my voice when the word “him” came out.
Abberline turned his gaze upon me. “And how can you do that?” the inspector inquired, eyeing me now with those same narrowed eyes.
“He—” (again a near fumble) “was referred to us by our employer. We would be quite lost within this maze without him.” I could feel my palms moisten with Abberline’s gaze, and I hoped despite my inner unease, that I returned his look with a convincing innocence.
“Well, Mister Pennyworth,” Abberline remarked, “I will let it pass for now. No word of this letter is to escape your lips or we shall have further inquiries as to your affairs. Do I make myself clear?”
“Indeed, sir,” Margaret answered. “I shall be as inscrutable as the Sphinx.”
The inspector nodded, somewhat puzzled by this reply, but let it pass, mollified for the moment.
“So, gentlemen, care to spend a night or two as guests of the Metropolitan Police? I could arrange a pair of cots in our conference room down the hall. I promise not to disturb you unless a report I feel merits my attention calls me out. The holding cells are on the other side of the building, so our regular guests should not disturb you. Are you up for it?”
“And what of our companion?” I asked. “Does your invitation include him as well?”
“This is no walking holiday,” replied the inspector. “You will be accompanied by myself or a police constable at all times. You’ll have no need for your guide, and the fewer ‘consultants’ I have mucking about, the fewer I have to manage. No gents, I am sorry, but he’s not welcome.”
Margaret nodded her acceptance without expression. I awaited Bell’s reply.
“Very well, Inspector. In for a penny,” he added with a quick wink to Margaret. “Expect us at ten this evening. We have some errands to run and a change of clothes to procure, so unless there is something else, we’ll be off.”
Abberline nodded, “Until ten, then.”
Once outside, Margaret fumed at he
r exclusion, “I am quite disappointed, Doctor Doyle,” she complained, turning her frustration upon me, “that you did not support me before Inspector Abberline. You and the Professor shall go off to examine the murderer’s next atrocity while I, the helpless maiden, await your attention and rescue. I have spent most of my life rejecting the role men would choose for me, and I do not willingly accept it now. I have stood mutely loyal throughout our investigation, yet now, at the first sign of reluctance to include me, you yield immediately. I deserve better of you, sir. I deserve more.”
Bell came to my rescue. “Miss Harkness,” he began with his calm and reasoned voice, “Doyle and I, despite the rescue of the cobbler and his boots, are on thin ice with the inspector. I do not in the least discount your contribution, and I know you are capable of far more than society has allowed. I respect your opinion and assistance. Please trust me when I say I shall seek to include you as much as is within my power to grant or to negotiate throughout this affair, for however long as I am involved. I cannot do better than that, and it would be disrespectful of my integrity and your intelligence to promise more.”
Margaret sighed. “Well said, sir. I withdraw my complaint, if not the feeling behind it.”
It was now approaching five in the evening. We had five hours to return to our lodgings, sup, and return to pass the night at the Spitalfields police station.
“Well,” said Margaret, “I suppose we have time to visit one of the streetwalkers I know, though most, when asked their profession, will answer ‘laundress.’ Mr. Wilkins was rather insistent you do so.”
“Are you sure we have time?” I asked, my reluctance no doubt obvious.
“Just,” replied Margaret, unswayed by my lack of enthusiasm. “Luckily, she resides in a rented room off Miller’s Court nearby, on the other side of Spitalfields Market. We can be there within ten minutes’ brisk walk. Let’s be off!”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE LAUNDRESS
Thursday, September 27, cont.
“Who is this person?” I asked, uneasy at the prospect of going to a place of sexual commerce.
“Her name is Mary,” Margaret replied, as Bell and I labored to meet her hurried stride. “We became acquainted during my time with the Salvation Army. As she is one of the few tarts with a fixed address, I thought she was the easiest to present to you. I told her we might come by since we were assisting the police in the Leather Apron murders, so she’s expecting us.”
Margaret suddenly stopped and turned to address us with a stern expression. “I expect you gentlemen to treat her with the respect due all humankind. If you open your minds, you will find her a noble spirit trapped in demeaning necessity.”
Bell and I nodded agreement quickly, like the two scolded children we suddenly felt ourselves to be.
The shadows were already lengthening, and my apprehension growing, but I wisely kept my reluctance to myself. Off we went to Miller’s Court and a meeting with the young prostitute.
“She’s better off than many,” commented Margaret as we walked. “She has a stable roof over her head, she is younger than most of the ladies here, and she’s in good health. She shares her room intermittently with a fishmonger who provides her some protection, but she has had to walk the streets to pay the rent as he gives her no financial support. In the hierarchy of streetwalkers within the East End, she is near the top of the heap.”
I was soon to learn what a very shallow “heap” that was. We passed through a narrow and dark brick-lined archway into the open space of Miller’s Court. The courtyard was teeming with children playing noisily, the air thick with the smell of cooking cabbage and fish. Margaret headed for the flats at the far end, which were notable for the bricks having been recently whitewashed. The door to the woman’s residence was on the ground floor, adjacent to a larger entrance to apartments upstairs, so it had windows on two sides. As we came closer, I noticed the window around the corner from the door was broken and stuffed with odds and ends to block the wind.
I confess to being nervous, meeting a harlot in her living quarters. I was uncertain what manner of person we might encounter, but I was not prepared for the pleasant young woman who awaited us.
She had a fair complexion with light brown hair, and was neatly dressed in a clean brown frock with a white apron. Her accent declared an Irish heritage, and her age appeared to be around twenty-five years; the harshness of the East End had yet to leave its mark upon her. Indeed, she could easily have passed as a milkmaid in any artist’s depiction of simple country life.
Her small single room was furnished with a double or “matrimonial” bed, a small night table, a larger table with two chairs in one corner, a chamber pot beneath the bed, and a wash stand. She noticed my eyes straying to the window with the broken pane.
“From a row with me mahn,” she said, with a charming blush.
I saw now that the gap was covered over with newspaper, rags, and an old coat. Her man was currently not in residence she explained, as he assisted a greengrocer during the day.
“Mary”, said Margaret, “these gentlemen are aiding the police hunt for Leather Apron, as I told you. It might help us to understand how to stop him if you could tell us about your work as a laundress. How do you choose your customers? Where do you take them?”
Mary smirked when Margaret used the word “laundress,” apparently having no false modesty as to how she paid her rent.
“It’s hard enough,” she said, “making yer way as it is. But with Leather Apron about . . . every time you go out at night, ye take yer life in yer hands. Oh, I’m lucky to have a man in me life to look after me, though he chafes about bringing customers here. I’ll not do business in an alley when I’ve a proper bed to go to.” She pointed with satisfaction to the plain black iron bedframe and rumpled mattress. I tried not to look too closely at the stains, my imagination furnishing vivid explanations for their origin.
“The time it takes to bring ’em here gives me a chance to sort ’em out, else they don’t get in. I’m safer here than anywhere else. After a while, ye get a sense of who’s dangerous and who’s just anxious to be done with it. I get ’em to talk a bit, and if I can get ’em to laugh, then I know they’re no danger. You can tell a lot about a man from his laugh.”
“What manner of ‘clients’ do you have?” I asked, overcoming my reluctance.
“Oh, all types! Dandies from the West End, clergymen, sailors. Sailors are the best! They have a pocket full o’ coin and haven’t had a woman in weeks; like crowns falling from the sky!”
I blushed at this but stammered my thanks as manfully as I could. I confess I was fascinated with this young courtesan, as women in my social circle were entirely mute regarding sexual relations. I found it stimulating to encounter a woman who could be so frank about this fundamental aspect of humanity.
The young “laundress” made a profound impression on me, and to my surprise I found I respected her. She was doing what she could with what she had to make her way in the world. I found no “fallen woman,” as was so popularly portrayed in the literature of the time, but a brave soul who stared unflinchingly at the worst life could throw at her and carried on.
There are many forms of courage, and I reckoned hers no less than that of a guardsman on the field of battle, except her battle was daily.
Though not the typical streetwalker, since she had a fixed residence, her procuring of clientele was no different and exposed her to the same dangers. A survey conducted by the Metropolitan Police two weeks later concluded there were over twelve hundred active prostitutes in the East End. That level of competition made the ladies not overly selective of their customers, for there was literally a competitor on every street corner.
Our killer could not have fashioned a more abundant hunting ground, nor prey so eager to seek a private audience with him. As the ladies of the night typically plied their trade in the back streets and alleyways, they knew better than anyone the darkest and most secluded places to lead their
executioner.
Bell asked, “Wouldn’t you prefer to work in a brothel?”
“Not for me life!” she declared. “There, yer take whoever the Madame sends your way, and work the hours she says. Here,” she extended her arm to encompass her meager room, “I work the hours I want and bring only the customers I think fitting. I get to sleep with me own mahn when I’m not working, and as long as I keep the landlord happy, I can do as I please. Aye, there’s some girls that like to get tucked into bed, but there’s plenty enough of us what like to have a proper say as to who we do it with, and how it’s done.”
I had to suppress a smile, for I had similar thoughts regarding having an employer, even one as intermittent as Mr. Wilkins. I admired her entrepreneurial spirit and admitted to myself that we had something in common.
“So, gentlemen, you working with the police and all, what’s a working girl like me to do to save herself from this bahstard?”
“The best advice I can give you,” I said, “is that this man is far more dangerous than he appears. Don’t be taken in by someone who looks harmless.”
“Then you’d be asking me to starve.” Mary snorted. “I can’t be turning away those what don’t scare me now, can I? What’s the point of that? Well, good day to you then, unless yer’ve another reason to stay?” She patted the well-used mattress. Smiling at me, she asked, acting coy, “Need yer laundry done, luv?”
Margaret giggled in delight at my startled reaction. While I am proud to say I did not bolt out of the flat, I took my leave rather hurriedly, to the clear amusement of the young prostitute and my companions. As we reached the archway at the far end of the court, Margaret took my arm and said Mary was waving us goodbye, and I turned to see her waving from the door. As I raised my hand halfheartedly to wave back, she blew me a kiss. At that moment I believe my face could have warmed the entire courtyard, as her neighbors all turned to see who was Mary’s most recent paramour.
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