A Knife in the Fog

by Bradley Harper

  Despite his initial reluctance, Johnny Upright was now thoroughly enjoying his tale of midnight murder. He leaned closer to us as he continued his story.

  “As dark as it was within the yard that night, our Mr. Ripper could have been right there on the other side of the cart when Diemschutz struck his match. It’s a wonder we didn’t have a third murder.”

  Thicke reapplied himself to his meal, and Bell asked, “And what of the victim? Any leads on who she might be?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing for sure,” he mumbled while chewing. “Luckily I don’t need to know ’er name to ask folks if they might have seen ’er about before one o’clock. On that point, we’ve some leads. There’s two gentlemen that think they may ’ave seen ’er around eleven in a doorway of the Bricklayer’s Arms on Settles Street. It was raining pretty heavy, so she was biding ’er time to let the rain pass in the company of a man about five foot five with a black mustache, dressed in a black morning suit and billycock hat.” Sergeant Thicke smirked as he informed us, “They say the couple seemed in no hurry to go out into the weather, and that the gentleman was hugging and a kissing on ’er pretty heavy.”

  “Strange,” Margaret remarked. “If that man were our killer, I wouldn’t expect him to linger in the open so long, nor to draw attention to himself. If it was him, his nerve is even greater than we thought.”

  “Aye,” agreed Thicke appreciatively. “Our two gents said it was odd how a gentleman so respectably dressed should go on so in public; and they chaffed at them a bit, saying, ‘Watch out! That’s Leather Apron getting round you!’ Well, they was off like a shot after that, and our witnesses say they headed off together toward Commercial Street.”

  “A useful description,” I said, feeling encouraged by the details the witnesses had provided. Surely this had gotten us a step closer to catching him! “Any other sightings after that?”

  “At eleven forty-five, a Mr. Marshall, residing at 64 Berner Street, says he saw a man and a woman kissing outside No. 63. He overheard the man say to the woman, ‘You would say anything but your prayers.’ The couple then headed off toward Dutfield’s Yard. Mr. Williams describes the man as about five foot six, stout, middle aged, cleanshaven, and respectfully dressed in a small black cutaway coat, dark trousers, and a round cap.”

  I was keenly disappointed at the differences in the description of the victim’s male companion. In a fictional tale there would be an unbreakable chain of sightings with various witnesses giving identical details. I was learning a crime story and the real world were as different as chalk and cheese. How frustrating it must be, to labor in an environment where two people could view the same event or person in a similar light, yet produce very different statements. Did either of these accounts describe our murderer? Neither? Both? Any of these possibilities seemed equally likely. It defied reason to believe our killer could solicit a woman and escort her to Dutfield’s Yard unnoticed; yet his ability to pass through the streets and alleyways at will made anything likely.

  “We have a new system for making sketches of criminals,” Thicke mumbled while chewing. “It’s called a ‘Portrait Parle,’ so named by the Frog who designed it. Means ‘speaking picture.’ We tried it with the witnesses, but it was so dark when they saw him they couldn’t give us anything useful. Pity. Jack’s got to make a mistake sooner or later. We’ll be ready when he does!”

  We thanked the good sergeant for the information, and left him contentedly picking his teeth.

  “I think it’s time for Doyle and me to return to the club,” Bell said to Margaret. “The papers will have additional information, given the number of journalists prowling the East End. What of you, Miss Harkness? Aren’t your editors clamoring for some insight from the East End?”

  Margaret scowled. “Given my pledge of silence during the investigation, I can’t report on that.” She sighed. “I suppose I could interview some of the residents, but I am currently not in the good graces of my male ‘colleagues’ after berating them for slipshod reporting. They shrug and reply they are newspapermen, not historians. So no, I am unlikely to be summoned to report on anything related to the murders.”

  Her acid reply made it clear Bell’s simple question had touched a very raw nerve.

  I changed the subject as quickly as I could. “Well then, let’s get you back to Vine Street and Miss Jones before we two return to the Marlborough. An afternoon reading the papers and learning what others have discovered is a luxury I am quite ready to enjoy.”

  “I wish there were clubs for women!” Margaret fumed. “A leisurely afternoon reading the paper sounds like paradise. I don’t suppose I could come along?” the last said with a wicked grin, knowing full well the havoc her presence would cause among the staid gentlemen roosting in their male sanctuary.

  Bell smiled broadly, no doubt imagining middle-aged barristers flapping their arms in horror at her approach, before he returned to the business at hand. “I need to complete my report to Wilkins,” he said. “I heartily agree our Mr. Pennyworth can ably fill us in once we are gone.” He bowed to Margaret in mock seriousness before continuing, “Nothing I have learned over the past twenty-four hours leads me to believe we are any closer to capturing the man. I intend to return once my duties in Edinburgh are complete, but Miss Harkness can keep the trail warm until then. She has been seen in our company regularly and can make a convincing case as Mr. Pennyworth that ‘he’ is acting as our agent pending our return. Are you agreeable, Miss Harkness?”

  Margaret smiled, revealing a lovely set of dimples I had not previously noticed. “You may depend upon me, Professor. My research for my next novel and the investigation into the murders dovetail nicely. I shall correspond with both of you as the situation warrants. Shall I see you before Thursday morning when you depart with Molly?”

  “Only if necessary, in which case we’ll send a courier beforehand,” Bell replied. “I’ll have the doorman get me a timetable and send word to you tomorrow as to what time to have Miss Jones meet me at the rail station on Thursday.”

  Margaret nodded, and off we went. There was little conversation during our journey to Margaret’s flat, each of us deep in thought.

  As she disembarked she remarked, “Very well, gentlemen.” Margaret repaid Bell and me with her own mock-serious bow. “Until Thursday morn . . . or the next disaster.”

  Mr. Pennyworth disappeared into the dark entryway, while Bell and I exchanged a nod of respect for this unorthodox woman.

  Upon our arrival at the Marlborough, I dashed off a note to Wilkins informing him of our need to delay our departure until Thursday, and requesting that we meet Wednesday at our usual time of nine o’clock. The doorman at the Marlborough quickly dispatched the message via one of his waiting street Arabs, and the boy returned with an affirmative reply within the hour. The doorman was not required to gather newspapers for us this time, however, as the club was full of all the latest reports of the murders. I needed only to gather them up and sift through the harvest, then bring to Bell’s attention anything I thought worth his notice. In the meanwhile, he jotted down his thoughts by way of a first draft for Wilkins.

  While I was dissatisfied by returning home without the fiend’s head as a trophy, I would not miss having to report to someone or otherwise account for my time and efforts. In Portsmouth I was solely responsible for my practice and head of my soon-to-be growing household, and, frankly, that was how I liked it. Mr. Wilkins was not an unreasonable employer, but employer he was. I was looking forward to being shed of him, if only for a while.

  I had no shortage of news to share with my companion, so I decided rather than constantly interrupting him, I would provide a summary once I had learned all there was from what lay before me. After I had underlined the last article of interest, I looked up to see him sipping tea and looking at me expectedly.

  “What have you to report, my friend?” he enquired. “By the look on your face, you have a great deal to share.”

  “First, there is th
e matter of a reward. You recall how Sir Warren of the Metropolitan Police has consistently refused to offer one? Well, the mayor of the City of London has authorized a payment of five hundred pounds to anyone who can provide information leading to the Ripper’s apprehension. It appears that taking a life within the Financial Square Mile is a more serious matter than within the East End.”

  I recalled our conversation en route to the City of London morgue, and Bell’s prediction that now that the killer had crossed into the realm of the great and powerful, the resources to catch him would be redoubled. It saddened me to think I lived in a society that put varying values on human life, but this reward was ample proof it was so.

  Bell shook his head. “I agree with Abberline in this, as well as in many other matters. The reward will only hinder the investigation, for now every charlatan or soothsayer with a crystal ball will come forth with a vision, rumor, or something a friend of a friend may have thought they heard or saw. The police will find themselves chasing so many false leads any effort at real police work shall be nearly impossible. Is there any good news amongst all the ink you’ve scanned this afternoon?”

  “The letter we examined in Abberline’s office has, as you know, been released by the police in hopes someone may recognize the writer.”

  Bell sighed. “Which I suspect will incite everyone who has a grudge against their neighbor to accuse them of being the Ripper. Folly heaped upon folly. I am starting to think we three may soon be the only ones left doing any serious work in this matter. Any other good news?”

  Before I could respond, we were interrupted by a much-revived Inspector Abberline, who had another letter from the man who wrote in red.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  JACKY SPEAKS AGAIN

  Monday, October 1, cont.

  Bell rose to greet him. “Inspector! We weren’t expecting you. Nonetheless, welcome.” He bade the inspector take a seat and offered him refreshment.

  I was again impressed by how my colleague treated this good public servant not only as an equal, which he of course was—in every way and more—but almost as a friend.

  Abberline shuffled about a little, not entirely comfortable in our posh surroundings, and refused a seat.

  “I’m to home as quick as I can,” he explained. “But I have something I wanted your thoughts on before I call it a day. It was faster I come here direct.”

  He reached into a leather valise and produced an envelope marked with today’s date and addressed to “Central News Agency.”

  “What do you make of this?”

  Bell took the envelope and opened it. Inside was a plain postcard with a postal mark of October first from the London E postal station. Having risen, I stood beside the professor’s armchair, and so I could clearly notice what appeared to be a bloodstain and writing in the now familiar red ink with the following message:

  I was not coddling dear old Boss when I gave you the tip, you’ll hear about Saucy Jacky’s work tomorrow double event this time number one squealed a bit couldn’t finish straight off. Had not the time to get ears for police. Thanks for keeping last letter back till I got to work again.

  Jack the Ripper

  Bell scrutinized this latest message, leaning back in his chair to remove his shadow from the letter. After a full minute, one that seemed like an eternity to me, and probably as well to the exhausted inspector, Bell returned it to him and spoke slowly. “The postmark tells us this was written and sent after the first letter was published in the newspapers. Given the style and use of red ink, I am confident this is the work of the same individual who wrote the previous message. This ‘double event’ is not confirmatory evidence that this note is from the killer, however, as news of the double homicides was carried in the evening papers that day.”

  Abberline glared at Bell. “All well and good, Professor, but how does this help us?” He spoke with the impatience of a tired man. Even my good Doctor Watson would have perceived that.

  “Given what we know,” Bell replied patiently, “I see one of two possible conclusions: that this is a genuine communication from the killer, or it is a hoax perpetrated by a newspaperman from the Central News Agency.”

  “How can you be so specific as to who might have forged it?” Abberline asked, his fatigue and puzzlement showing in equal measure.

  “Consider, Inspector,” Bell answered. “The role of the Central News Agency is to gather information and write articles to be picked up by newspapers to be published under that paper’s byline. Only someone in the newspaper business would know this agency exists, as they print nothing under their own name. How would someone who isn’t a journalist know they exist, much less know their address?”

  Abberline nodded his head wearily, showing he was following Bell’s explanation so far.

  “Given the competition in the journalism trade, I cannot believe a newspaperman from one enterprise would send such a lucrative story to another.”

  “Is there anything here that leads you to conclude it is from the killer?” I asked, trying to expedite Bell’s explanation to speed Abberline’s much-needed journey to bed.

  Bell was pensive in his reply. “The only factor for the murderer being the author is the mention in the previous message of ‘nicking’ the ears of the next victim. Whatever the case may be, Inspector, now that the first letter has been released to the public I predict the practice of forging letters to newspapers, members of parliament, and reverend clergy, all purporting to be from Jack the Ripper, shall soon become the pastime of many a literate person of weak character. I wish you a wellearned night’s rest, sir, for I fear on the morrow you will find your troubles will have only multiplied.”

  The long-suffering man sighed as he contemplated the image of his desk overflowing with false letters, and with a long face he bade us good evening before he shuffled off.

  “I think that is the cruelest act I have ever seen you perform, Professor,” I protested. “Surely the inspector deserved better than you painting such a dire picture as to what awaits him tomorrow. The man was exhausted, and rather than give him some hope we might be drawing nearer to a conclusion of this affair, you heap ashes upon his head as though he were Job himself.”

  “What would be crueler then?” Bell replied, calm as ever. “To give him a false vision only to have it snatched away by the reality he shall surely confront tomorrow? At least now when the letters pour in— and they shall—he will not waste resources treating each as though it were from the killer. We are facing a sly and heartless enemy and we will not profit by chasing shadows. I will add this postcard to my report to Wilkins and complete my draft. Tomorrow we will peruse the papers, pay our respects to Abberline and Major Smith, and request Pennyworth be accepted as our representative. Wednesday I’ll give my report to Wilkins, then we can make preparations for our departure on Thursday.”

  It was an odd turn of events how Margaret’s false persona of Pennyworth had become a distinct individual in his own right. When she put on masculine attire, she also adopted manly mannerisms, as well as a deeper voice, and I at times briefly forgot there was a woman beneath the façade. Her observations and comments when alone with us, however, remained distinctly her own. Yes, Pennyworth would represent us ably.

  “I am in no humor to go out tonight to dine,” Bell sighed. “A simple meal here at the club and an early turn-in suits me to my bones. I may need to be at my most persuasive tomorrow, especially with the stern major. He is a politician, not a policeman, and I need to convince him it is in his best interests to allow our ‘man’ to remain in contact with his superintendent. Well, one shadow at a time; I’m to dinner and bed. Care to join me in the dining room, Doyle?”

  It was odd at one moment to be discussing the horrible actions of a madman, the next to be comparing the qualities of various wines, but such is the world we inhabit. One must learn to compartmentalize, or the madness of the whole may overwhelm us.

  We retired to our beds early, already preparing in our minds
for the pending separation of our hardy band of Musketeers.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  MY SHADOW’S REFLECTION

  Tuesday, October 2

  We woke to a blustery day announcing summer was over and autumn had commenced in earnest. I wrote a quick letter to Louise informing her of my imminent return, and prepared for my departure.

  Bell emerged from his chambers, his shoulders sagging from the effort of writing his summation and ready to catch some fresh air. He had dutifully produced two copies of his report, one for Wilkins and another for Abberline, and we were soon on our way to Spitalfields.

  As we journeyed I noticed how many men were wearing checked suits. Bell gave me a quizzical look when I sighed, but I merely shook my head, and we continued in a companionable silence as I doubted my suspicions that someone with a poor taste in fashion was stalking us.

  Inspector Abberline was in a surprisingly good mood when we arrived at his office, and he greeted us warmly.

  I quickly learned the source of his merriment was the intelligence that the City of London Police Headquarters was overrun with those who were convinced their mysterious neighbor or some churlish publican was Jack the Ripper. Each supplicant was clamoring loudly for an inspector to accompany them to arrest the accused, then to expedite their collection of the reward.

  He proudly told us he had instructed his desk sergeant to direct all those inquiring about the reward to Major Smith at the City of London headquarters.