A Knife in the Fog

by Bradley Harper

  Bell and Margaret were in a very jolly mood as we sought a cab, though I failed to appreciate the source of their good humor. It is the only time I can recall walking faster than Margaret.

  “What did you think of Mary?” asked Margaret, once we were underway. “Was she everything you expected?”

  Bell had been silent since we left the residence at Miller’s Court, but spoke out now with heartfelt emotion. “She is like a fire walker dancing upon the coals, always one false step from calamity. There was a desperation yet defiance at the same time, which I found quite noble.”

  There was little more to be said, though I saw a tear in the corner of Margaret’s eye when she disembarked, and I found myself in sudden need of a replacement for my recently discarded handkerchief.

  “Goodnight to you both, gentlemen,” Margaret said huskily then, with more feeling than normal, “and thank you. For seeing, for listening, and for caring. Please be careful tonight. Leave the heroics to the police.”

  Bell and I arrived at Spitalfields police station as the market clock struck ten. Abberline showed us to the back room and our cots, which were adorned with rough gray wool blankets and lumpen pillows.

  “We keep these handy should the cells fill up,” the inspector said all too jovially, apparently enjoying the thought of us sleeping so roughly. There was nothing we could do but make the best of it, so we settled down for, well, anything. At least it was better than standing all night propped up against a wall with a rope running across my body.

  I composed a letter to Louise, but left the details vague. It being her first pregnancy, she was understandably nervous; so I thought it my husbandly duty not to give her additional reasons to worry. My sister Lottie had kindly moved in with us to assist Louise, and she was a welcome addition to our household. My mother-in-law arrived the week of my departure. I feared Louise suspected my reasons for accepting this unusual consultancy were not entirely monetary but also to avoid protracted conversations with her mother. I therefore considered regular correspondence with my wife an insurance policy of sorts, to maintain domestic tranquility.

  Once I had completed my letter, and with the hour being a little past eleven, I undressed to my shirt and trousers, removed my shoes, and made myself as comfortable as possible. I am not an unusually modest man, but I saw no need to demonstrate my taste in undergarments to my old mentor. Also, being only partially undressed in this fashion would allow me to accompany the inspector rapidly should he be called out.

  Bell put away a recent copy of the Lancet, and we bade each other goodnight; neither of us entirely sure if a good night’s rest would be a relief or a disappointment.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE CALM BEFORE THE STORMS

  Friday, September 28, to Saturday, September 29

  Inspector Abberline woke us promptly at six o’clock as we had requested. His rumpled appearance testified to his long night dozing in his office, and he informed us that nothing untoward had happened during our watch. He invited us back that evening should we wish.

  Bell nodded and said, “If it would be convenient.”

  Abberline could tell by my face I did not find it “convenient” in the slightest. With a smile, he replied, “Oh quite convenient, sir. No problem at all.”

  Soon enough we were back at the Marlborough Club, which at that moment seemed one of the most delightful places on earth. I washed the grime from my face and hands before we broke fast together. Afterward, I made up for my poor night’s slumber by retiring to my chambers for a “brief lie down,” which lasted four hours.

  Bell seemed impervious to fatigue, a prerequisite for a surgeon it seems, and after breakfast announced he was off to the Royal London Hospital in the East End to consult with colleagues. He wondered if any of them might have treated a patient recently of unstable mental condition whom they would consider a candidate for our murderer. Margaret had an appointment with an officer of the Salvation Army related to research for her next book, so I was left to my own devices for the day. When it appeared I could sleep no more, I dressed for a leisurely day indoors and went to the reading room to see what could be gleaned from the various newspapers there.

  A British club is a delightful oasis; here men may excuse themselves from the hustle and bustle of the world and female companionship, and relax in the company of fellow males. Proper etiquette is, of course, always expected, but privacy is respected. Food and drink are plentiful, and comfortable bedchambers are readily available. A man may think, write, read, eat, or nap, in any sequence and as much as he desires. If we can choose our heaven when we finally cross over, I could do far worse than to spend eternity in a celestial version of the Marlborough.

  I found before me a wealth of daily papers of various quality and every political persuasion; they seemed to be waiting patiently to share their contents with me. What bliss! Perusing my treasure horde, I came upon an article from the Pall Mall Gazette that recapitulated the Lipski murder that occurred in June of the previous year, and which was used by many as an excuse to believe Leather Apron was Jewish.

  Israel Lipski resided in an attic on 16 Batty Street, off Commercial Street, when he poisoned a fellow lodger, Miriam Angel, with nitric acid. Lipski hanged for the crime, but since then the cry of “Lipski!” was often on the lips of those who attacked Jewish-appearing residents in the East End. There had been a growing anti-alien sentiment in the poorer neighborhoods of London, which was worsened by growing unemployment. Many of those who lacked jobs blamed their worsening economic condition upon the recently arrived Jewish immigrants who had fled the growing anti-Semitism in their homelands.

  The Times had an article that summed up the findings of a recent select committee within the House of Lords investigating the so-called “sweating” system in the East End. Employees were crammed into tiny, foul-smelling, and frequently unhealthy workshops to work up to sixteen hours a day, usually seven days a week. The wages were barely enough to sustain life. One quotation, from a Mr. Arnold White, a leader in the anti-alien movement, was especially odious:

  The poor Russian Jew laughs at what he hears of English poverty and scanty fare. He has a false notion that the English artisan is generally overfed, and easily discontented, and that the Jew can live easily where an Englishman would starve!

  It concerned me greatly that such language would not only be published in a respectable newspaper, but that such words should be uttered in the House of Lords without rebuke. I began to grasp the powder keg of anti-Semite hostility Inspector Abberline was desperately trying to prevent from exploding.

  Bell returned after five o’clock, looking as fresh as though he had just awakened from a long nap. As a general practitioner, I was used to established clinic hours. A surgeon however, especially one on staff at a teaching hospital, was accustomed to working all manner of hours, often through the night, only to see their clinic patients the following morning. I could never match their fortitude, and suspected they evolved from some other branch of human ancestry.

  “Any luck?” I asked.

  “None, and too much,” he said. “London, as you would suspect, has no shortage of lunatics, and more than a fair number with violent tendencies. Sadly, however, my colleagues could not name one who had the capacity for violence coupled with the cunning to escape detection repeatedly. I suspect our killer is quite insane, yet sufficiently aware of his insanity to avoid letting his homicidal nature become known. Such men know how to feign normality quite convincingly. Hmm . . . he will not give himself away easily, I fear.”

  We passed a quiet evening. Bell read, and I prepared a summary of our activities and expenses for Wilkins. When nine o’clock drew near, I sighed, gathered my basic toiletries, and we made our way back to our post.

  Inspector Abberline looked up as we entered. He smiled, perhaps with a touch of pity, before stating there was nothing new to report, and he wished us goodnight.

  I grimaced, nodded in reply, and trudged to the waiting rack.

/>   The next morning, when he woke us, Abberline appeared to have slept poorly. When he asked if he could expect us again that night, I told him I couldn’t say until after a conversation with our employer. As we had an appointment with Wilkins at nine o’clock at the club to present our report and settle accounts, we departed promptly.

  We arrived after seven, giving us ample time to bathe, dress, and eat before his arrival. I introduced Professor Bell, and when they shook hands Bell remarked upon his accent.

  “Your speech, sir, is intriguing. You have attended British public schools, but I detect a slight cadence that reminds me of—”

  “That would be the influence of my late mother,” replied Wilkins quickly, slightly flushed by Bell’s comment, and he resumed speaking in an impeccable public-school accent. “She was from Prussia and was quite insistent I learn her language as well. I spent my early years between England and her native land, and, although I am fully fluent in both languages, I tend to lapse into a slight accent when I speak English under duress. I am blessed with being the product of two great cultures, my father being British. He was a member of the British diplomatic corps, and I was privileged to attend his alma mater, Christ Church College at Oxford. Sadly, my English classmates made rather merry with my heritage at my expense. As children are apt to do,” he said with a faint smile.

  “You, sir, are as observant as Doctor Doyle claimed. I did not begrudge your fee from the start, but now I see what a valuable contribution you can make in this ghastly affair.”

  A few more pleasantries followed, then we settled comfortably into a small meeting room off the dining area.

  “So, gentlemen,” Wilkins continued, steepling his fingers and gazing over them like a headmaster, “what have you to report?”

  Bell and I had previously agreed I was to do the bulk of the talking, as I had dealt with Wilkins before. I gave him a written summary of whom we had met, along with their addresses and what information we had gleaned from them.

  Wilkins became animated when I recounted the letter from the person calling himself Jack the Ripper.

  “Do you consider this to be genuine?” he asked Bell.

  “I am uncertain,” the professor answered. “All I can say is it’s possible.”

  Bell’s deductions of its contents made Wilkins pensive. “I agree with you,” he said after a moment. “We can only wait to see if events prove out the letter’s authenticity, and I believe the inspector is correct that we haven’t seen the last of this man’s handiwork. We shall know soon enough if it is genuine.”

  Wilkins wrinkled his nose with mild distaste at my mention of our meeting with the young prostitute. “It must have been awkward for gentlemen of your station to meet with a lowly whore in her den,” he said with a sour look on his face. “My patron is more sympathetic to their plight, but entre nous, I fail to see the reason for his compassion. They plainly merit their station in life, and their betters,” he swung his arm to include the three of us, “should take little account of them. Still, I serve one in a higher station than my own, so will labor in whatever vineyard he assigns.” I noted Bell’s ears turning bright red, though he held his tongue, ceding me the floor.

  I responded in a firm voice that we had not been alone. Miss Harkness had accompanied us, and if he found our meeting with her so disagreeable, why had he insisted on it in the first place?

  At this Wilkins screwed up his face as though he had bit into a lemon, “Frankly, Doctor, it wasn’t my idea at all; Mr. Gladstone believed it might impress upon you the seriousness of your task. He wanted you to experience their fear for yourselves, as an incentive to give this your all. As for Miss Harkness, I am surprised to learn she continues to be associated with this inquiry. Surely by now, you gentlemen can find your own way about?”

  “She has provided us with invaluable insight into the milieu in which we find ourselves,” I said firmly. “The society of the East End is terra incognita for us. Observation without context can be misleading.”

  Wilkins continued to scowl but said nothing until I presented him my ledger with expenses for the past week. It included ten pounds for Margaret’s assistance. Although she had voluntarily waived her fee, I strongly believed she deserved it, and had no qualms presenting a bill for her services.

  Wilkins sighed, grudgingly paid me the full sum, then remarked, “Be advised, sir, that I shall not disburse any additional funds for this woman. She has served her purpose. Given our desire to keep Mr. Gladstone’s participation from the press, the fewer involved, the better.”

  I agreed, knowing full well Margaret would accompany us regardless, but that the payment I had secured for her would be most welcome.

  “What next, gentlemen? I stand ready to disburse twenty-one pounds to each of you for another week’s labor.”

  “I can promise you only three days more,” answered Bell. “I have many responsibilities in Edinburgh at both the university and in my surgical practice, which includes my duties as the Surgeon in Attendance to Her Majesty during her pending stay at Balmoral. When I came here, I was unaware of the task I’d be facing, so I did not adequately delegate my duties to allow for a longer absence. I may return in future, if necessary, but will not accept more than three day’s fee now.”

  Wilkins seemed disappointed but nodded in acceptance. He turned to me and asked, “What of you, Doctor Doyle? Have you grasped enough of the professor’s methods to continue in his absence?”

  “I may observe a falcon soar,” I replied, “yet never learn to fly.” My colleague bowed his head slightly.

  I continued. “The killer could strike again tonight, in a fortnight, or never. There is no way to know. You never expected us to apprehend the murderer ourselves, but to review the evidence collected by others and give an independent evaluation. Either or both of us can return within a day’s travel should the need arise.

  “Inspector Abberline has assured us the bodies of any further victims will be carefully attended until our colleagues and ourselves can perform a thorough examination. He has invited us to stand watch again tonight in Spitalfields, and I think we should accept the invitation to maintain our good working relationship. Barring any new developments, we’ll go our separate ways on Tuesday.”

  Wilkins accepted our pending departure as graciously as he could, then paid us each nine pounds more, remarking he would settle accounts for our lodging and meals on Tuesday morning. “If there is nothing more, I shall be off to inform Mr. Gladstone of your findings. Until Tuesday next, gentlemen.”

  After Wilkins had departed, I turned to Bell. “What did you make of him?”

  “He is very meticulous. As he grew up in two cultures, it’s hard to tell how much of his mannerisms are a result of that experience, and how much reflect his true nature. He is certainly unsympathetic to the streetwalkers, and it must gall him to labor so to protect them. I would find his prolonged presence rather tedious and thus prefer to move on to more engaging topics.”

  He stifled a yawn, revealing even he was not entirely impervious to fatigue. “We have the day to refresh ourselves before we return to the unyielding cots of Spitalfields station. I applaud your collection on Miss Harkness’s behalf, by the way; it is well deserved. Perhaps we two could decrease our income so we could pay her fee with her being none the wiser?”

  I agreed. I did not exaggerate Margaret’s usefulness in navigating both the geographic and social morass of the East End. I also freely admit I felt safer with her at my side, shameful as it may appear to most men. I would be dishonest to deny it. The nagging guilt I had at my growing infatuation with her was shoved firmly into the back of my mind, though I knew it would not stay there long.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  A POETRY READING

  Saturday, September 29, cont.

  “Margaret will be curious to know how we have passed the last two nights,” I said, “and I am anxious to deliver her payment. If you agree, I’ll send a messenger asking her to meet us at the train stati
on. We have no appointments today until ten o’clock, so we might as well invest some of Mr. Gladstone’s payment in a pleasant meal outside of the East End, and perhaps take in some light entertainment.”

  Bell was amenable, so I had the now indispensable doorman dispatch one of his urchins to Margaret’s residence with the following message:

  Dear Miss Harkness,

  Would you be kind enough to join Professor Bell and myself at Fenchurch Street Station at one o’clock for a meal, at the place of your choosing outside the East End? We could then enjoy an early evening’s entertainment before the Professor and I resume our post in Spitalfields. I hesitate to mention it, but please come “dressed” for the occasion.

  Sincerely,

  Doyle

  We retired to our rooms to augment the meager sleep of the previous night on our merciless cots, which in my case was further affected by Bell’s prodigious snoring.

  The doorman’s courier returned with a note from Margaret expressing her delight at a brief escape from the East End. She promised to come appropriately dressed, adding, “I may have something that will serve.”

  Midday came too quickly, and after packing a small valise for our overnight stay in Spitalfields, we were off to our rendezvous with Margaret. As we left the Marlborough, I noticed a man in a checked suit leaning against a street lamp, apparently engrossed in the newspaper he was holding before him, shielding his face. Coincidence? I feared I was becoming obsessed with random men in checked suits and I boarded our ride without mentioning my observation to Bell.

  Margaret was dazzling in a dark-blue gown with white lace collar. Her attire was not too elegant for the afternoon, but certainly of sufficient quality to freely admit entrance to any of the finer restaurants in London. I noted the absence of jewelry and concluded that walking abroad in the East End with adornment, even in broad daylight, was not advisable; yet her appearance did not suffer in the least.