“Tomorrow I’ll compose a report for Wilkins,” Bell said. “I’ll need to delay my departure until Thursday, so I recommend arranging a meeting with him on Wednesday at the club, preferably in the morning. Then I need to return to Edinburgh, Miss Jones in tow, to fulfill my obligations. Her Majesty’s household expects her to remain at Balmoral for one month before affairs of state require her return to London. I shall of course be available for consultation via the post or telegram. What of you, Doyle? Will you remain here as my correspondent, or go back to Portsmouth?”
“I should return to my practice soon, so my patients recall who their physician is, as well as spend time with my wife, who is pregnant with our first child.”
I am ashamed to admit that, as engrossed as I was in the investigation, I had forgotten to mention Louise’s pregnancy. Bell gave me a celebratory clap on the shoulder and wished Louise and me well. I believe when I was in Bell’s presence, I tended to assume the role of medical student once more and forget at times we were now colleagues. To his credit, Bell never treated me as anything but a fellow healer from the moment he arrived in London.
“Like you,” I continued after warm handshakes were exchanged, “I can return to London at need. I am confident Miss Harkness can keep us abreast of any new developments while we’re gone.”
This phase of our hunt was drawing to a close, and we had nothing to show for it. We could only prepare ourselves to follow a fresh trail, when it inevitably came.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
THE DEATH OF LEATHER APRON
Monday, October 1, cont.
When we arrived at Margaret’s flat, Miss Jones was still beaming at the prospect of her pending surgery. When Bell advised her to be prepared to travel in three days’ time, her glow became even more pronounced.
“I shall tidy up my affairs here on Wednesday,” Bell told her, “then take the first available train to Edinburgh on Thursday. We will go directly to the Royal Infirmary from the station and admit you to my service. Expect one week of clinical presentations to our medical students and surgical residents, then surgery.”
Bell touched Molly lightly on the jaw. “The blood supply to the head and neck is robust, so healing should be brisk. One week of postoperative care and additional presentations, then you should be fit to travel home.”
Molly nodded. Her gaze told me everything. She trusted him completely.
“I shall inform Miss Harkness three days before your release,” Bell said, “so she may receive you at the station. If I am not required to return to London in a month’s time, then I shall correspond with one of my colleagues here to evaluate you to see if you need further care, and to inform me of the result. Is that satisfactory?”
“Anything you say, sir!” Miss Jones said, carefully but enthusiastically enunciating each syllable, while nodding vigorously and taking Bell’s right hand in both of hers.
Bell blushed slightly, surprised and gratified by her reaction. He nodded kindly and carefully extracted his hand from hers.
Much of my practice consisted of reassuring patients with minor ailments, thus I envied Bell his opportunity to make a real difference in the life of his patient through his surgical skill and generous heart. I had recently become interested in studying eye surgery, and Molly’s case made this career path look all the more appealing. My writing up until then had had only middling success; thus the opportunity to earn a supportable income while making a vast improvement in a person’s life held a strong appeal.
Miss Jones made us tea while Bell shared with Margaret the essence of our conversation with Superintendent McWilliam.
“What do you deduce from all this?” Margaret asked at the conclusion. “Surely you give no credence to McWilliam’s suggestion that we are dealing with some murdering specter?”
“My philosophy does not allow for such phenomena,” replied Bell. “We are dealing with an unspeakable evil, to be sure, but one composed of flesh and blood. As to his ability to move about the East End through a network of experienced police officers seeking him, I have some thoughts. His method of execution, we now know, is one of suffocation followed by slitting the throat once the victim is supine. He could continue to suffocate them, but I think his anger is so intense toward women he needs to finish his foul work with the knife.”
Margaret shivered, and I felt as though a cold hand had been placed on my heart as I imagined Margaret walking the dark streets of the East End, alone.
“Recall his random stabbing of the liver of his last victim,” Bell continued. “Yet, he took nothing from it. The liver would be congested with blood, and ooze freely—but not spurt. In the same way, the throat wound would bleed briskly, yet with the heart slowed and the victim upon her back, he could have easily leaned back and avoided becoming blood splattered. If he pulled his sleeves back,” whereupon Bell pulled back his own sleeves and held his hands up, as though gowning for surgery, “he could prevent any blood contaminating his clothing altogether.
“As to his evasion of the police, I once holidayed at Penzance and was amazed at the lifeguards’ ability to monitor some three hundred bathers simultaneously. I asked one how he was able to safeguard so many at the same time, to which he replied he rarely focused on any particular person but monitored movements; those moving smoothly were in no distress. He was looking for abnormal, jerky motion, and with his mind searching for that pattern, he could efficiently overlook hundreds of individuals yet immediately find the one swimmer who needed assistance.”
“How is that relevant, Professor?” Margaret asked, furrowing her brow.
Bell smiled. “I believe our policemen are looking for someone moving furtively with blood-splattered clothing. A man walking slowly and confidently in pristine apparel would easily escape their notice; his appearance does not fit their image of the murderer.”
Bell assumed the tone of voice I recalled so well from his lectures in medical school. “Our killer is mad—of that, I have no doubt—but he has a ruthless cunning and nerve that scoffs at consequences. I suspect he does not fear punishment—not even hanging—but dodges detection for the joy of the chase and to prolong his game. Once captured, I wager that rather than plead for mercy in the dock he shall boast of his cleverness and the horrid nature of his crimes. He feels the need to degrade his victims, even after death, to demonstrate his superiority.”
Bell’s description of the killer fit perfectly with what I had seen but had been unable to express so aptly. We think in words, for language is how we make sense of the world. Until this experience could be articulated, it was unformed. My vision of our foe was made clearer by my teacher’s deductions.
“Miss Harkness’s supposition that our killer is meek in appearance, one which I strongly support,” Bell said, while nodding toward her, “further explains both the viciousness of his attacks and his ability to escape detection. He has probably been humiliated by women, and chose this macabre means to demonstrate his masculinity. Then he uses his unassuming aspect as a disguise to slip through the clutches of his pursuers, thereby proving to himself he is also exceedingly clever. Unless he makes a mistake or we are fortunate enough to catch him en flagrante, he will probably have quite a run before being brought to justice.”
“I fear you’re right, Professor,” said Margaret, “though it brings me no comfort. We have three days before you two depart. How should we spend our remaining time together, and what would you have me do once you’re gone?”
“I should look in on Doctor Phillips to learn if the postmortem showed anything unexpected, as well as update Abberline with our findings from the second victim, while asking him to share whatever his efforts have uncovered. I would not plan anything beyond those two meetings yet. Let us see what our colleagues have discovered and go from there.”
Margaret nodded agreement with our itinerary, but said nothing, her downward gaze informing me she was busy digesting the professor’s lecture on the personality of the killer.
Bell elected t
o see Doctor Phillips first, explaining Phillips’s examination was complete while Abberline’s was ongoing. Therefore, the later in the day we visited the inspector, the more he would have to tell us.
The chief clerk merely nodded to us when we arrived and confirmed that Doctor Phillips was in. Thankfully, he had a small office upstairs and I, for one, gratefully redirected my footsteps to the more mundane world of bureaucracy.
The police surgeon was writing his report on the victim and seemed grateful for the pause in his labors.
“I come bearing gifts,” began Bell. “Here,” he said, placing a document into Phillips’s hands, “is a copy of the postmortem of the second victim we now know was named Catherine Eddowes, an intemperate woman apparently, but with no known history as a streetwalker. Frugal Scotsman that I am, I trust you have some new intelligence for me regarding the other lady as means of payment?”
Phillips eagerly scanned the postmortem summary, and seemed pleased with what he found there. Looking up, he shook his head in mock sadness. “Alas Professor, I have nothing of like value, though I do have some small crumbs which will hopefully make your visit worthwhile. The papers are full of what transpired early Sunday morning, and I have been told to expect a visit this afternoon from a woman who believes our guest is her sister. That would at least give a name to the first victim of the night.”
“Having a name would prove useful, no doubt,” I remarked. “That will allow the police to be able to recreate her movements more accurately.”
Doctor Phillips shook his head. “So far, this information has brought us no closer to catching the killer, but at least it gives the appearance the police are doing something worthwhile.”
I smiled in sympathy. “There is no way to tell how your efforts may bear fruit, before the harvest. Console yourself that at least your patients do not return with fresh maladies.”
Phillips smiled at my attempt at levity, “If I do my job properly, Doctor Doyle, they don’t come back at all!” There is always some professional rivalry between surgeons and physicians; it is a constant source of jokes between us.
“As to my findings at the postmortem,” he said, “I found bruises of varying vintage signifying repeated trauma. Apparently, she was a woman who knew hardship and violence all her life, who met a violent, if speedy, end. It appears the killer was interrupted before he could complete whatever bloody rites his madness requires.”
Phillips grimaced, “At least this woman was spared the degradation of mutilation. Small comfort perhaps, as the denial likely spurred our killer, now aroused by the frustration of the first murder, to seek and strike down the next woman he encountered.”
“I agree,” Bell concurred. “The second victim was not even a street-walker, and was killed in a public square, with apparently no attempt to lure her into a secluded alley. He must have been compelled to kill and desecrate the victim as soon as he saw her, and was unable to wait long enough to take any precautions. When he attacked Mrs. Eddowes, I believe any woman would have served.”
Margaret shivered the slightest bit at this, but otherwise kept her manly composure. The thought of being viciously assaulted by this lunatic without warning or provocation must have been a terrifying one. When he only killed prostitutes, other female residents of the East End could comfort themselves that as long as they did not agree to liaisons in dark places, they could feign safety from the killer. Now this illusion had been shattered, and nighttime for the women of Whitechapel had just become even more terrifying.
“Thank you again, Professor, for this,” Phillips said, indicating the postmortem of Mrs. Eddowes. “I regret I cannot repay you in like coin now. Sadly, however, I am sure there shall be future opportunities to make good my debt to you. Good day!”
“I am now more anxious than ever to learn what Inspector Abberline’s inquiries have turned up,” Bell said, once we’d stepped outside. “The great disparity in injuries between the two victims is striking. From what we have deduced of the killer’s character, we can be sure it was no gesture of either mercy or respect for the woman he had just slain. Perhaps we have a witness who interrupted him? Anything we might learn to distinguish him physically from the crowd would greatly aid us.”
“Do you think he is now targeting all women?” asked Margaret. “Or was this second attack an aberration due to his failure with the first?”
“I should rather think the latter, Miss Harkness,” replied Bell. “And I believe your use of the word ‘failure’ is exactly how he perceived the murder. He does not kill merely to rob a woman of her life. No. He failed to desecrate her body, so he was unfulfilled by her murder and, having become aroused, had to kill again. And quickly. That would explain both his wanton selection of his victim and the public space he chose to kill her. It was our best chance to date to capture him, yet he slipped away once more despite a robust police presence, including one slumbering scant yards away, and the nearby watchman. His bold disregard for the odds of discovery speaks of an overpowering compulsion to perform his beastly rituals. Well, let us visit Inspector Abberline to see what he can tell us.”
As we sought transport to Spitalfields, a newsboy hawking papers happened by. I overheard him use the term “Jack the Ripper.”
I purchased a copy of the Star, and learned Commissioner Warren had decided to release the contents of the letter addressed to the Central News Agency we had studied in Inspector Abberline’s office. From that moment on, “Leather Apron” was no more. The legend of “Jack the Ripper” was born.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
HOMICIDE, INTERRUPTED
Monday, October 1, cont.
Inspector Abberline looked as though he hadn’t slept since last we saw him. I have noticed over the years that the more people disparage public servants, the less time they have spent in their company. Before me was a man who had the weight of an entire community on his shoulders, confronting danger and criticism at every quarter from people he would never meet and who were, for the most part, ungrateful.
I have never doubted that one of the strengths of the British Empire lies in its capable and dedicated functionaries. May we never lack for men, and now increasingly women, who undertake the necessary and unpleasant tasks that keep us safe, the streets clean, the byways intact, and the mail delivered. Inspector Frederick George Abberline was, to my mind, an exemplar of those who take the title of public servant literally and with considerable pride.
The poor man was sitting in his chair dressed in the same clothes we had last seen him in two days before. His muddied boots were resting on his desk, and a report was balanced precariously upon his paunch as he attempted to read it while keeping both bloodshot eyes open.
He started so violently when we walked in that he nearly fell out of his chair, and I suspect he had just begun to doze off when we entered. It was now eleven thirty in the morning, thirty-four hours since he had roused us from our sleep. Bell and I had made up for that short night’s slumber, but the inspector was obviously in arrears.
Bell smiled sympathetically at him as he offered a copy of the postmortem on Mrs. Eddowes. “Here you go, Inspector, as promised. I think you’ll find the City of London police more willing to share information going forward. They have neither forgotten nor forgiven Commissioner Warren’s order to erase the graffito, but they have decided to be pragmatic. I can see you are quite played out and I urge you to get some rest. I cannot praise the comfort of the cots in your conference room, but in your current state they will serve well enough. If any should ask, you can say it was doctor’s orders. Four hours minimum, starting now!”
Abberline looked at him for a long moment, pondering Bell’s words, then sighed and agreed. “Aye. I’m no good to anyone right now. Go to the desk sergeant and ask for Sergeant Thicke. You may recall he led the constables who responded to your brawl with Tommy and his lot. He can tell you as well or better than I how goes our investigation into the murder in Dutfield’s Yard. Until later, gentlemen.”
&n
bsp; With that, the exhausted man rose from his chair and tottered off to the relative bliss of the cots that awaited him down the hall.
We were soon in the presence of the indomitable Sergeant Thicke. I later learned that he was known in Spitalfields as “Johnny Upright.” His appearance was remarkable for his almost rigid posture, thick blond mustache, and loud checked suit. I had noticed his name often when reading of the previous murders as being at the scene shortly after the body’s discovery and, after reading the news article and seeing him in action, understood why he was known to the local criminals as someone to be avoided.
It was evident “Johnny Upright” had little use for private consultants, but when Bell told him that Inspector Abberline had referred us, he sighed and responded to our questions dutifully.
“I can spare ye twenty minutes, and then I need to return to the streets. There’s some folk I’ve yet to speak with. There’s plenty more to learn yet, but I’ll tell ye what I know. If ye don’t mind me stuffing me gob while we talk, then ask away!”
Having little choice, we agreed.
“Tell me how the body was discovered,” Bell opened.
“Ah, now that is an interesting story, to be sure,” began the sergeant. “At one o’clock in the morning, a Jewish gentleman named Diemschutz was returning to the International Working Men’s Educational Club to fetch his wife.
“The pony pulling his cart shied left as he entered the court and refused to go further. Looking down, he saw a dark shape on the ground and prodded it with the end of his whip. When he was unable to stir it, he got out of the driver’s seat and, striking a match, saw a woman lying on the ground before the wind blew the fire out.”
Sergeant Thicke took a generous bite from his ploughman’s lunch and, after a moment of vigorous chewing, resumed his story. “Fearing the woman was his wife, Mr. Diemschutz ran into the club and found ’er quite safe. He then announced loudly there was a woman lying outside in the yard, but he didn’t know if she were alive or dead. He returned to the yard with a candle, accompanied by several club members. With the improved light he saw the body lying in a pool of blood and the woman’s throat cut. Immediately everyone there rushed off in all directions screaming ‘murder’ and ‘police’ at the top of their lungs!”
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