She was full of questions, but she soon realized we could either walk briskly or I could talk.
I promised to share our adventures as soon as I was able, and we proceeded purposefully toward Goulston Street and the message from the killer’s bloodstained hand.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
A GRISLY CORRESPONDENCE
Sunday, September 30, cont.
I heard a church clock strike five as we arrived and found Abberline in another heated debate. Bell noticed our approach, however, and motioned us to the sheltered entrance to the Wentworth Dwellings.
“Here.” He gestured to a small dark smudge on the landing. “This is where the fragment of the victim’s apron was found by a police constable. And here,” he said, gesturing to the wall above, “is our mysterious message.”
I had been up most of the night, walked far more than was my routine, seen violent death, and been terrified that this last victim was a woman I had grown quite fond of. I was tired and in need of a pause in the nonstop barrage of shocks to my system. So, with that in mind, perhaps you can realize the effect the message had on me after having withstood so much in such a brief time. The graffito was written in chalk in this manner:
The Jewes are
The men that
Will not
be Blamed
for nothing
“Who discovered this?” Margaret asked.
“Police Constable Long,” Bell said, indicating a young constable standing apart from the crowd. “I haven’t had a chance to interview him. Perhaps we should do so now, before the police need to be summoned to quell a riot amongst themselves.”
PC Long was looking on at the heated arguments between the senior officers of the two police forces with a look of frank amusement, perhaps enhanced by his own role in the matter, when we approached.
“Constable Long,” Bell asked, “would you mind telling us how you found this graffito?”
“Who are you three gentlemen?” Long answered, annoyed at our interruption.
“Consultants to the Metropolitan Police,” I told him. “Inspector Abberline will vouch for us.”
“If he doesn’t get a broken jaw, first,” Long responded, his good humor returning. “All right then, I’ll keep it short. I was walking my beat just before three. I ain’t usually assigned here, but I was brought over a month ago from my usual beat by Paddington Station. So, I walk slow and careful. The lot around here are a fair bit shabbier than what I’m used to, and I mind me steps.”
The noise level from the scrum of inspectors had subsided for the moment, while Abberline was pointing out that we were now clearly in his jurisdiction. A quiet voice is more compelling than a shouted one, but as soon as the City police began their angry rebuttal that this evidence pertained to a murder in their jurisdiction, Long turned his attention back to us.
“I make my rounds every half hour. I saw nothing unusual before, but this time there was a rag, still wet with blood and a long mark which I reckon was from the killer wiping his blade down, lying in front of the doorway here.” He indicated the entrance to the Wentworth Building. “It was as though dropped by someone just before they walked inside. I didn’t know about the murders, so when I saw the rag I feared someone had been attacked and was lying nearby dead or injured on the staircase at the entrance. As I stood up after finding the rag, I saw the message written on the wall right in front of me. Well, it took me a few seconds before I could find enough wind to blow my whistle, I can tell ya that!”
“Anything else, Constable?” I asked.
“Well sir, the blood on the rag. I’m told the rag came from the lady’s apron—it had a fair amount of shite smeared on it, too. I reckon he must have gutted her like he’s done before.”
“Thank you, Constable Long,” Bell said. “I believe your deduction is correct. Farewell.”
“This could hardly be worse,” said Margaret, once we turned away from PC Long, allowing him to return to his former diversion. “Mitre Square is but one street over from Bevis Marks, where the Great Synagogue lies, and the bulk of the residents here and in the surrounding two streets are Jews.”
“What do you make of this?” I asked Bell. “The meaning is unclear to me.”
“Consider,” he replied, “our killer has just sated his blood lust. He has found a secluded spot to wipe his blade, apparently on the apron fragment, and perhaps to hide the knife. He has eluded detection, and before going to ground, is inspired to taunt his pursuers. He leaves this obvious clue of the blood-soaked apron fragment to draw attention to his message. Part of him is cold and calculating, yet another part is savoring the havoc he is wreaking on society. He is clearly following everything written about him in the papers, and so is well aware of the growing tendency to scapegoat the Jews for his murders.”
Margaret and I exchanged glances, and I believe her pale expression mirrored mine as we recalled Abberline’s gruesome vision of an East End set ablaze by angry mobs, as well as our recent encounter with Mr. Rubenstein. Were we gazing at the match?
“I believe it was composed with little thought,” Bell mused aloud. “A bauble to distract us, and perhaps to incite further mayhem by others. Part of his nature seems to be that of a spoiled child crying out for attention, deliberately breaking things to be noticed.”
“A very cruel and deadly child,” Margaret added.
We turned to the debate raging among the senior officers. Abberline was all for erasing the graffito immediately, fearing the effect it would have should it become public. Officers of the City of London Police argued this graffito was an important clue in a murder within their jurisdiction, and should be preserved until morning when it could be properly photographed.
One inspector suggested erasing only the top line, “The Jewes,” and conserving the rest until morning, but Abberline believed no one would be fooled by such a simple maneuver. It seemed the impasse was about to lead to blows when Sir Charles Warren, commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, arrived. We three faded quietly into the back of the crowd and listened attentively as the two sides presented their case to him.
As the senior authority on the scene, and with the graffito within his jurisdiction, the commissioner had the ultimate say in the matter. After hearing both sides, he ordered the writing be erased immediately.
Much has been written by those in comfortable chairs about what a grievous error this was. I challenge any among them to have the fate of hundreds of innocents weighing upon their choice at such a moment and have them discover how heavy a burden that can be. A decision had to be made on the spot without consultation or survey.
Sir Charles put the public welfare over his police responsibilities and had this possible provocation erased. A police constable produced a rag soaked in water, and soon the mysterious message was erased from the wall, though the image shall always linger in my memory.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
DIPLOMACY
Sunday, September 30, cont.
The commissioner received a muffled report from Abberline of what he knew of the two murders, nodded his head, and left. The City of London police inspectors, having nothing to protect or photo graph, departed together in a huff.
Abberline remembered his two consultants and approached us slowly, his shoulders sagging with fatigue. “Well gentlemen,” he began, “I trust you enjoyed this evening’s entertainment. But never fear, we aren’t done yet. You have access to our morgue to review the findings of the first victim. The second one lies within the City of London’s morgue. Major Henry Smith is their acting commissioner, and it will require his authority for you to enter there.”
Abberline looked from Bell to me and back again, before emphasizing, “If you are to be of any use to me, I need you to convince the City police to share information with us.”
Bell answered for both of us. “We will do our best, Inspector.”
Abberline paused to wipe his face with a handkerchief, then sighed. “I understand the injuries of the Mit
re Square victim were far more extensive, so her examination will likely prove more useful. I am willing to exchange any information we have from tonight’s and previous victims in exchange for whatever you can learn from theirs. But it is best that this come from you. A moment . . .”
Abberline scribbled a note saying the Professor and I were empowered to speak on his behalf regarding the exchange of postmortem findings between the two police forces, and passed the note to Bell.
“I discussed this with Sir Charles, and he agreed. He advised we not use his name, as it is likely even more unpopular with our colleagues than mine. I suggest you go there right away. Major Smith’s office is near the Bank of England. Your Mr. Pennyworth there,” he said, nodding toward Margaret, “should be able to take you to it quick enough.”
“Aye,” said Margaret, in her best Pennyworth tenor. “Straight west from here, a little over a mile.”
Abberline nodded and managed a slight smile. “I see now the value of his guidance and shall speak no more of him, though I shall hold you, Professor, accountable for his discretion.”
Bell nodded agreement as the inspector continued. “Once you are done there gentlemen, return to my office and I can tell you what we learned from witnesses and a search of Dutfield’s Yard in daylight. In return, you can enlighten me with your conclusions from the City morgue. Agreed?”
Bell nodded. “Done and done, Inspector.”
“Very well then. Good luck, gentlemen!” And with that, the burly inspector rushed off to lead the hunt for any further clues the killer may have left behind.
Bell chuckled after the inspector departed, and when he saw my puzzled look replied, “We seem to have risen considerably in Inspector Abberline’s esteem. We have evolved from annoyances to emissaries venturing into a hostile camp.”
I had to smile at his analogy, and I admired his ability to see the humor in our situation when it had quite escaped me.
“While I,” said Margaret, “have evolved to a full-blown conspirator in our little enterprise.” She turned to me. “Thank you, Doyle, for coming after me this morning. I cannot adequately express my gratitude for turning away from the hunt to fetch me. I will not fail you. Either of you. Follow me now, gentlemen. The City of London police headquarters is insultingly close to the site of the last murder, so put one foot in front of the other and before you know it, we’ll be there!”
Margaret’s thanks did much to brighten my mood, but little to strengthen my step. Still, there was nothing else to do but proceed. The sooner we examined the corpse, if allowed, the less chance crucial evidence might be tossed casually into the rubbish bin or washed down a gutter. I consoled myself with one thought, however, as the jurisdiction of the City of London Police was smaller, the population of its morgue would be reduced accordingly.
Thankfully it was but a fifteen-minute walk before we arrived at the office of Acting Commissioner Major Henry Smith; my pocket watch read seven o’clock when we entered the station.
I believe somewhere in England there resides a factory that manufactures desk sergeants, for they all seem composed of the same attitude and greet arrivals with the identical air of long-suffering dejection.
Professor Bell presented himself to this specimen, and the faithful guardian inquired resignedly as to our purpose.
“My colleagues and I are consultants to the Metropolitan Police Department. I wish to speak with your acting commissioner to request permission to examine the body from this morning.”
The sergeant gave a grimace when Bell mentioned the Metropolitan Police, then shrugged and said, “We’re not on the best of terms at the moment with our esteemed colleagues on that force, gentlemen, but I’ll ask if Major Smith will see you. As you might expect, he’s having a busier Sunday morning than usual. I won’t promise nothing.”
The sergeant left the room, passing through a door that opened onto a long hallway behind him. He returned but a minute later, which indicated Major Smith was not a man who labored over his decisions, and stated, “Follow me, gents.”
We were taken to a door marked Commissioner, and after the sergeant’s knock was answered by a muffled “Enter,” we did. The sergeant returned wearily to his post, and we were left alone with the office’s sole occupant.
Major Smith appeared to be a gentleman more accustomed to the salons of power than the back alleys of the East End. He was slender, approaching sixty, and although it was early Sunday morning, he was meticulously dressed in a dark silk waistcoat and white cravat. His well-tailored coat hung from a tree stand behind him; his white mustache and full head of hair were neatly groomed.
He looked up from a report on his desk. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said in a mild tone, “I do not wish to be rude, but, as you can well imagine, I have a full schedule this morning. Please introduce yourselves and state your purpose.”
The tension between the two police departments was telling as Major Smith did not rise to greet us, nor did he invite us to sit. He was making it obvious he was in control of the situation, and we, as agents of the Metropolitan Police, were in disfavor.
“Professor Joseph Bell, sir,” began my companion, “Professor of Surgery at Edinburgh. With me is my colleague, Doctor Doyle, and our guide, Mr. Pennyworth. Doctor Doyle and I are acting on behalf of this gentleman’s employer.” At this, he presented Major Smith with Wilkins’s calling card, and it had the desired effect.
Smith’s eyebrows rose, he nodded, then slowly returned the card to Bell.
“What has he to do with this sordid affair? I had no idea Gladstone had any interest in this matter.”
“He would prefer his interest not become common knowledge,” replied Bell. “He has always shown Christian charity in improving the lot of the women this creature is slaying. We have been contracted to advise the Metropolitan Police by using scientific methods my colleague Doctor Doyle has championed. Inspector Abberline apparently feels our assistance merits his confidence.”
Major Smith made a face at the mention of Inspector Abberline, but held his tongue and allowed the professor to continue uninterrupted.
“I have a note from him authorizing full disclosure of everything learned from the postmortems of the previous murder victims, as well as what we might gain from the woman found in Dutfield’s Yard this morning. In exchange, I request permission to examine the body from Mitre Square with your police surgeon. If I may say, sir, you risk little and stand to gain much.”
Major Smith pondered our peculiar contract for a moment, and then, nodding, grabbed his pen and a sheet of paper. “This note states that you and your companions are granted access to the morgue—but only in the presence of our police surgeon, Doctor Brown. He was at the scene this morning shortly after the dead woman was found, so he can also share the position of the body and the reports of the police constables who discovered her. Is that acceptable, gentlemen?”
“Quite, and thank you, Commissioner,” replied Bell. “We’ll be off.”
Smith nodded and then, with narrowed eyes, replied, “I look forward to reading your written report in payment. Tomorrow morning would be most convenient.”
Bell grimaced slightly at this, then nodded and said, “As you wish, Commissioner. Tomorrow morning it is.”
We saw ourselves out, and at the entrance showed the note to the morose desk sergeant. He nodded and detailed a police constable to show us to the morgue.
“I don’t know if Doctor Brown’s still about, but if you hurry you might yet catch him. No promises, mind!”
The dour constable accompanying us sighed that “We’ve a bit of a walk” north to the morgue on Golden Lane. My legs ached at the thought of another forced march without breakfast. Noting my look of woe, Bell kindly asked the constable the address, and we dismissed the officer in favor of hiring a growler that delivered us to the charnel house within fifteen minutes.
Our confrontation with the local Cerberus, that fierce but loyal Guardian to the Underworld, was greatly facilitated by the
message from Major Smith. After reading the note, the senior clerk informed us the police surgeon had gone home after the delivery of the body, to have something to eat and return to bed. He would return at two o’clock for the postmortem. I thought Doctor Brown to be a gentleman of praiseworthy wisdom.
“I propose we do likewise,” I said, pleading to my companions, given that it was now approaching nine o’clock. “We have had a short night and an overlong morning with nothing to eat or drink. I confess to being quite done in.”
Both agreed readily, to my relief. Margaret said she could return to the morgue on her own, and play the role of Bell’s personal secretary. We let Margaret off at her address, and then on we went to the Marlborough. I dined ravenously, bathed, and crept gratefully into my bed with instructions to be roused in three hours’ time at one o’clock.
I slept deeply, though far too briefly. The last image I recall was of the poor woman in Dutfield’s Yard. She was lying on her back in a pool of blood. Suddenly, her eyes opened, and she raised the hand holding the cachous. Her index finger extended, indicating that I look behind me. As I turned my head to see what was there, the doorman gently shook me awake.
As we rode back to the city morgue, I posed a question to the professor (one that had been very much on my mind these past few days). “I have always wondered . . .” I began, “how is it you see things that are obvious to you yet invisible to those around you?”
He sat back for a moment and rubbed his chin. “How would you describe the doorman at the Marlborough?”
I pondered this question, puzzled as to its relevance, but after some thought, answered, “Tall, nearly six feet, sandy-colored hair, and neatly trimmed walrus mustache. Perhaps sixty years old; uniform spotless. He has a deep voice and a Welsh accent.”
“Not bad, Doyle,” replied Bell. “But would it surprise you to know that he is a former boxer, reformed alcoholic, and was a sailor in his youth? Also, he is perhaps five foot nine inches tall, in his early fifties, and recently widowed.”
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