“How could you know all that?” I asked. “You have spent less time with him than I have, and never without myself present. I recall no such revelations.”
“Indeed. Revelations . . .” replied my companion. “Have you observed that the knuckles of both hands are enlarged? The fifth metacarpal bone of the right hand is misshapen, denoting an old and poorly mended fracture commonly known as a ‘boxer’s fracture.’ The thickening of the pinna of his left ear due to one or several hard blows unsuccessfully avoided further supports my deduction of his former avocation. Above the wrist of the right hand is the tip of a dragon’s tail tattoo, such as one commonly sees in sailors who have visited Hong Kong. Your misperception of his height is due to your conversations with him with you predominantly seated, while he is standing and wearing his top hat. You misjudged his age due to wrinkles formed from squinting into the sun’s reflections off the ocean.”
“And his being recently widowed, how on earth did you deduce that?”
“I have noted a certain air of melancholy about him. He will sigh, then unconsciously rub his left thumb over his ring finger, yet there is no ring there. He is thinking of his departed wife, and the thought of her absence makes him touch that space formerly occupied by his marriage ring.”
I nodded. Now that the professor had mentioned it, I had noticed the distinct lack of gaiety in the man. I had simply put that down to the nature of his duties and mundane existence.
“But how could you possibly know he was an alcoholic?” I queried. “He lacks jaundice, his gait is steady, and his uniform is always clean and pressed.”
“As to his former enslavement to drink,” Bell answered, leaning back in his seat and steepling his hands, “there are several enlarged blood vessels on his nose, a hallmark of alcoholics; yet his eyes are clear, his uniform, as you say, is impeccable, and his step stable. Once those blood vessels enlarge they never return to their previous size; but the absence of any other characteristics of the alcoholic, plus the fact that he is now the doorman of this venerable club, leads me to conclude that this weakness has been overcome, despite the recent loss of his beloved wife.”
I bowed my head in admiration. “Your deductions ring true, Professor. I must, therefore, ask again, how is it that you see these things while others do not?”
“There’s the rub, Doyle. When you look at this man, what do you ‘see’? You see a doorman. A functionary. Someone available to do your bidding, and his uniform defines him in your eyes. You do not see more because you do not need to see more. This does not mean that you are an evil or callous man, merely a comfortable one. I think much of the evil we are confronting in this ‘Jack the Ripper’ is the result of too many comfortable people seeing only the surface of their fellow man, and woman.”
Bell’s words regarding how the better-off disregarded their fellow man stung because I would have to admit I was often guilty of this. I had but a moment to ponder my shortcomings, however, when the professor concluded our conversation as we approached our destination.
“But this morning, our Jack committed a fatal error. As long as he preyed upon the unfortunates within the East End, the well-to-do could look on with pity. This latest victim, within the confines of the City of London, however, has crossed a boundary that extends into the realm of the most influential within this great city. He was hunted before partly for sport by the mighty. But he has frightened them, and now they will pursue him out of fear, and an anger fueled by fear.”
We arrived at the morgue as Bell concluded. Time to visit one of the Ripper’s most recent acquaintances, and see what she could tell us of this man who held the East End, and now the City of London, hostage at knifepoint.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
A PROPHESY FULFILLED
Sunday, September 30, cont.
The morgue was situated on the aptly named Golden Lane, as the surrounding buildings were of a much higher standard than those adjacent to the morgue of the Metropolitan Police. It seemed even in death the citizens of the City of London fared better than their poorer neighbors to the east. We found Margaret nattily attired in a dark coat and cravat. Rather overdressed for the occasion, I thought, but if she wanted to play the part of a “dandy” from the West End, she looked it. We all seemed much the better for our rest, and with a renewed vigor we entered the morgue.
With our note from Major Smith in hand, we were granted entrance to the examination room, where we found Doctor Brown awaiting us.
Brown was a slight man in his early thirties, with light brown, thinning hair and tortoise-shell glasses. He was at his desk going over some documents, but stood to straighten his attire and welcome us as we entered.
“Ah, Professor Bell and company. I was told you would be coming. Welcome to our small enterprise.” He spread his arms to indicate the morgue in its entirety. “Not as impressive, perhaps, as what the Metropolitan Police can offer, yet we get few complaints. I know of you, Professor, by your well-earned reputation, but your companions have the advantage of me.”
Bell introduced me properly, then Margaret as Mr. Pennyworth, his personal secretary.
“Welcome, gentlemen,” Brown said. “You should understand that, although we are now at the end of September, this is the first murder to occur in the City of London this year. I am quite accustomed to examining those who expire by violent means, but those have been, for the most part, industrial accidents, overturned carriages, and suicides. Homicide is an unusual cause of death in the financial capital of the world. Our citizens are more apt to terminate their own life than seek retribution against another.”
The morgue was roughly half the size of the one used by the Metropolitan Police, appropriate for the population it served. Still, the pale-green tile walls, concrete floors, and the smell of carbolic acid were the same as any other morgue one might visit throughout Europe. Though the neighborhood surrounding the building was of a higher standard, the rooms where the dead yield their final secrets are all the same.
“Given the rarity of homicide in our jurisdiction, gentlemen,” Brown continued, “I ask that you bear with me as I examine this poor woman in minute detail. Feel free to ask questions at any time, and you are of course free to depart whenever your curiosity is satisfied. I wanted to be well rested for this trial, and will not rush through for the sake of completion.”
“Excellent!” replied Bell. “I am weary of evidence being carelessly lost or washed away. I am happy to assist, but should you find my presence a bother, please say so.”
“Nonsense, Professor,” replied Brown, “I would be grateful for your help.”
Brown motioned to an assistant whom I had failed to notice previously, a short and pale older man with thinning, gray hair and a sallow complexion. I wondered if my previous disregard of him confirmed Bell’s conclusion that I saw those beneath my station only when they could be of service to me. I had a pang of guilt at the thought, then thrust it from my mind. I had more pressing matters.
The body awaited us upon the autopsy table, and although the genitals and face were covered with blood-soaked cheesecloth, they did not hide the fact the woman had been eviscerated much as a hunter might gut a stag. Margaret paled and squeezed her eyes shut briefly as we approached the table, and for a moment I feared she would faint.
Then she straightened her shoulders and continued forward. Playing her part of personal secretary, she stood adjacent to Doctor Brown’s assistant in the furthest corner of the room and made notes as the examination proceeded. We began with the assistant handing the police surgeon notes he had made at the murder scene.
Brown cleared his throat and addressed us in a manner that reminded me of my days in medical school. “Let me read you my observations from Mitre Square first, and then we can proceed to the postmortem.
“The body is of a middle-aged Caucasian female, thin, well formed; the body was on its back, the head turned to the left shoulder. The arms by the side, both palms upward, fingers slightly bent. The abdomen was
exposed. The throat cut across.”
Brown paused to lift the cheesecloth over the face and throat, exposing a single deep incision that traveled from one side of the neck to the other, and extended to the spinal column. The powerful precision of the wound made my hands turn cold when I pondered the fury and cunning required to make such a lethal stroke—without hesitation and in a public space.
“The intestines were drawn out to a considerable extent,” Brown continued, “and placed over the right shoulder. A piece of about two feet was detached from the body and placed between the body and the left arm, apparently by design.”
“You mean to say the murderer was decorating the corpse with her own body parts? Placing them for effect?” I blurted out.
Brown looked up from his notes, surprised by my outburst, then said, “Precisely, Doctor. I believe he was arranging the body to make the maximum effect upon whoever discovered it.”
Then, looking down, he read aloud, “The body was quite warm. No death stiffening had taken place. She must have been dead most likely within the half hour.
“There was little blood on the bricks or pavement around. There were no traces of recent sexual intercourse. As the clothes were taken off carefully from the body in preparation for examination, a piece of the deceased’s ear dropped from the clothing.”
“The small amount of surrounding blood tells us she died instantly,” Bell mused. “Your description of the state of the body at discovery is most thorough. I can envision the scene vividly.”
“Well then,” said Brown, obviously pleased with Bell’s remarks, “let’s see what we shall see.”
Doctor Brown began dictating as his assistant and Margaret took notes. I should mention that in the postmortem suite the assistant is called a Diener, or servant. This title stems from the tradition in Germany, where the examination of the deceased to study disease and its effects began. This practice became known as pathology, the study of pathos, or suffering. The Germans also coined a term for the postmortem I found quite accurate: “autopsy,” or “to see for oneself.”
Brown pulled back his sleeves and began. “Rigor mortis is well marked, although the body is not quite cold.”
“The onset of rigor mortis so soon after death denotes strenuous muscular activity just before death,” noted Bell. “Although she was unable to cry out, there was a struggle of some kind.”
“Excellent insight, Professor,” agreed Brown.
I positioned myself behind Bell and to his left so that Margaret was on the opposite side of the room and I could keep a watchful eye on her. I noted her taking a sharp breath when the face was uncovered, taking one step back, and losing her façade of clinical detachment for a moment. I raised my eyebrows and nodded my head toward the exit, silently asking if she needed to leave. She shook her head, then looked back at her notebook and resumed capturing the two surgeons’ observations.
Professor Bell and Doctor Brown, however, were so intent as to take no notice of her, for they were now fully in their element. Bell often bent over to inspect items of interest as Brown pointed them out, and their smooth synchrony around the corpse reminded me of a long-married couple dancing together.
It was apparent that the killer had labored meticulously to make her disfigurement as complete as possible. Imagining him bent over her body in a dark corner of a public square, risking detection at any moment, spoke both of his skill with a knife and the overpowering need he had to mutilate his victims.
“The fatal wound was the severing of the left common carotid artery. Death was immediate, and the mutilations inflicted after death.”
Brown went on to describe the neck wound, her disembowelment, the removal of the womb and left kidney, stating that whoever removed the organs appeared to know what they were doing.
In his summary he pronounced, “I believe the wound in the throat was first inflicted, and she must have been lying on the ground. The wounds on the face and abdomen prove they were inflicted by a sharp, pointed knife, and those in the abdomen by one six inches or longer. The throat was severed instantly, thus no noise could have been emitted. I should not expect much blood to have been found on the person who inflicted these wounds. The wounds could not have been self-inflicted.”
Despite her initial squeamishness, Margaret slowly became entranced with the blend of art and science that a proper postmortem required. I was relieved to see that, as we progressed, she looked up more frequently, her color returning, and by the end, she was nodding vigorously in agreement as Brown and Bell voiced their observations.
Although Doctor Brown had not previously performed many homicide investigations, this one could serve as a model for any surgeon pursuing a forensic career. Good habits in one field of endeavor tend to carry over into others.
As Brown was washing up, he turned to Bell and asked, “Well, sir, what do you make of all this?”
“I agree with your assessment that the killer has more than a rudimentary knowledge of anatomy, specifically female anatomy” he replied. “To be able to remove the uterus intact without nicking the bladder denotes more than a beginner’s skill, especially when you consider he did it in a poorly lit square—and quickly to escape detection. The cuts of the liver appear random, since no portions of that organ were removed. Perhaps he is gradually expanding his knowledge, for this time he has removed a kidney. He has not done so before, while he has previously removed a uterus.”
“Interesting, Professor.” Brown nodded gratefully. “You are more familiar with his work than I, and I look forward to reading what my colleagues have discovered from his previous victims. I am grateful for the collaboration you have forged between our two agencies.”
“As am I, Doctor,” Bell agreed. “From what I have learned from the other postmortems, I believe he asphyxiated at least two of his victims before severing their throats. I cannot prove he did so this time; however, his subtlety in technique may have improved so it is no longer detectable. He apparently occludes the airway just firmly enough and long enough for the victim to lose consciousness, then severs their neck once they are supine and the neck stable. This would explain how he can make such a forceful incision in one go, as the neck is supported by the ground, and he can put his weight into the killing stroke.”
Brown was entranced by Bell’s vivid description of the killer’s modus operandi. “Brilliant, Professor! That explains my findings perfectly. Your insight is greatly appreciated.”
Bell smiled, savoring Brown’s sincere praise. “It appears our murderer has found a technique in which he is comfortable and proficient, and I should be able to identify another of his victims unfailingly. One thing I would like to point out to my colleagues, if you will . . .” Turning, he indicated Margaret and I were to approach, then he rotated the victim’s head, first to the right, then to the left, while lifting her hair to expose the scalp. Only a short remnant of the ear lobe remained on each side.
We nodded grimly, recalling the letter in red ink signed “Jack the Ripper.” Somehow, giving the Ripper a voice made him even more terrifying.
“Well,” Bell continued, “it has been a short night for all of us. I owe Major Smith a report in the morning, so I’d best be off. Thank you greatly for your cooperation, Doctor Brown. Should you ever come to Edinburgh, I would be grateful if you would visit me and find time to lecture my residents on the art of forensic examination.”
Doctor Brown glowed at these kinds words and mumbled an acceptance. As a police surgeon, he was unused to notice of any sort, much less high praise from such a distinguished member of the medical profession. I doubt I have ever seen anyone so happy at the conclusion of a postmortem.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
A LIFE SPARED
Sunday, September 30, cont.
Once outside we had a brief conference regarding our next steps. Bell had to write a report in duplicate of his findings and conclusions of the examinations of the two bodies. Margaret offered her notes, and Bell accepted them gratefully. One
thing above all else stood out regarding this latest victim. Her ears had, as had been predicted in the “Dear Boss” letter, been “clipped.” This supported the supposition that the letter was a direct challenge from the murderer.
“Are you all right, Margaret?” I asked. “Did you know the victim?”
“Not personally,” she replied. “But that doesn’t matter, does it? As Master Donne so eloquently stated, ‘Ask not for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee.’ If I had been walking along Mitre Square at that hour, it could as easily have been me.”
She shivered at this, then she fixed me with a fierce expression. “I have cared for accident victims as disfigured as she was, but this was not accidental. It was intentional, performed with great malice and, I assume, delight by the man who did it. We live our lives with certain assumptions; the sun will rise, rain will fall, and, yes, sometimes misfortune befalls us. But we go about this great city assuming that, if others do not wish us well, they at least do not intend us evil.”
She clenched her jaw and shook her head slowly. “To know there is a man out there, lurking in the shadows, who takes pleasure in our cruel murder, is like introducing a shark into a public bathing area. It changes the reality for all—not only the victims but the potential victims, of which I am one. So no, Doyle, in one way I did not know her; in another way, I am her.”
I touched her arm for a moment, without speaking, for there was nothing to say. We had a murderer to catch. That mattered more than words.
As the only wound to the first victim was to the throat, Bell believed further examination of her body would be fruitless, so a return to the Metropolitan Police morgue was unnecessary. He also had to compose a summary of the findings from the previous two victims for Acting Commissioner Smith if we were to maintain the peace between the two departments.
A Knife in the Fog Page 13