I tried to feign disapproval of his actions, but failed utterly. The image of the impeccably groomed man besieged by a horde of loud, unwashed, and ill-mannered East Enders was enough to make a Yogi laugh out loud. Were I an observant Catholic, I would be in sore need of confession.
It was a rare moment of much-needed levity. Bell let loose with a deep laugh, and I felt privileged to be allowed in on the joke.
After our laughter subsided, Abberline’s smile faded as he returned to business. Questioning of the staff of nearby lodging houses revealed the woman found in Dutfield’s Yard was called Elizabeth Stride, or “Long Liz,” a play, no doubt, on the name Stride. She earned her “doss” money by cleaning rooms at a lodging house on 32 Flower and Dean Street, where she had resided on and off for the past six years. In addition to her bed, she earned sixpence a day.
I remarked. “With her pay at the lodging house and free lodging, she had no need to walk the streets.”
“As to that,” remarked Abberline, “I’ll let you be the judge. At halfpast six, her chores done and sixpence in her pocket, she went to the Queen’s Head pub. She was back at seven and dressed to go out, departing at half-past seven. Sergeant Thicke has already told you what witnesses reported of her movements. Her actions appear to be those of a woman who, if not a regular streetwalker, was not above it from time to time.”
“Thank you, Inspector,” said Bell. “By the by, I should tell you Doyle and I are departing on Thursday the fourth. Until our return, we hope to stay in contact with you via Mr. Pennyworth. Is that acceptable?”
“Well, he’s kept his mouth shut and stayed out of the way. As long as he behaves himself, we’ll keep him up to date. Sergeant Thicke knows everything as soon as I do. If he’s available, I’d prefer Pennyworth deal with him. Written reports to my superiors are no longer enough, it seems. I am increasingly called to Whitehall to update Swanson and the commissioner on our progress.”
“I’ll inform Pennyworth,” I promised.
“We thank you, Inspector,” Bell said. “I do not envy you your burden.”
Abberline nodded amiably, our laughter together apparently still lightening his mood, and we left.
Once outside, I asked Bell if another visit to the City of London police was in order to request Pennyworth represent us.
Bell nodded. “Perhaps it’s best I go alone,” he said. “The station will be teeming with those seeking the reward, and journalists seeking stories. While I may pass as one more treasure hunter, the two of us are more likely to stand out and draw the attention of Mr. Collier or another of his kind. The note signed by Major Smith doesn’t state how long our access is allowed, nor does it mention Pennyworth at all. A brief conversation with Superintendent McWilliam will update me on Mrs. Eddowes’s murder, and hopefully I can persuade him to accept Pennyworth as our surrogate.”
We parted ways, and with Bell off to the City police station, I went back to the club, but I had too much nervous energy to loiter there for long. Needing the release of a brisk walk, I donned my overcoat and strolled about the neighborhood. I stopped off for a pint at a respectable public-house where I had the strangest feeling I was being watched, and once, while pausing before a store window, I noticed the reflection of a man in a checked suit and bowler hat looking at me intently from across the street. I turned slowly so as not to startle him and to get a better look, but when I faced the street once more he was gone.
Puzzled and a bit uneasy, I headed unhurried but direct to the club to inform the professor when he returned that we had attracted the notice of someone, or “ones,” given the ubiquity of checked suits in London. I knew not what this meant, but I very much wanted him to know that I, at least, was being watched.
CHAPTER THIRTY
THE BRASS RING
Tuesday, October 2, to Sunday, October 7
Bell frowned worriedly when I shared my suspicion, but he paid me the compliment of not asking if I was sure. He understood I would not bring this to his attention otherwise. We agreed there were too many possibilities to know what this meant.
“It could be the journalist Doctor Phillips warned us of,” said Bell, “a plainclothes detective, either public or private, who is trying to determine what our role in this matter is, or it could be the killer. All we can do at present is to be aware of the possibilities and to warn Miss Harkness. It is worrisome, I agree; but there is nothing we can do for the moment.”
The final report complete, Bell suggested an early dinner at the club. “Tomorrow I shall render unto Mr. Wilkins, then prepare for my journey home as well as for my patient’s. I have tickets to buy and a case summary to prepare for my presentation of Miss Jones to the staff.”
I was embarrassed that due to my focus on our investigation, I had completely forgotten the task awaiting him upon his return to Edinburgh. Soon my days would be filled with the routine practice of a GP; my nights turned to my novel Micah Clarke, now nearing completion, and my pregnant wife.
Bell would resume the demanding life of professor and surgeon at a teaching hospital, treating the most desperate and destitute within Scotland. At the same time, he needed to be ready to respond at a moment’s notice to attend to our Most Sovereign Monarch should she require him, scarcely washing his hands before leaving the bedside of the humblest of her subjects to lay those same hands upon Her Majesty.
I suddenly appreciated the full spectrum of the world my mentor and colleague inhabited, and how he could talk with people from all walks of life. He served them all with the same humility and eagerness, which explained his greatness as a teacher, for each student saw something in him they desired to emulate.
The next morning Wilkins arrived at the club promptly at nine o’clock for our report and to settle accounts. This time Professor Bell did all the talking, giving me the opportunity to observe the interaction from a comfortable distance.
Wilkins listened to Bell’s summary with hooded eyes and steepled fingers, his composure only altered when the autopsy findings were presented; then he leaned forward and nodded encouragement, signaling Bell to continue.
By mutual consent, no mention was made of the man I suspected of following me, since I had no proof; nor was there anything to be gained by alarming Wilkins needlessly.
When the report was finished, Wilkins turned to me and asked if I had anything to add.
“Professor Bell speaks for me,” I replied. “I could never have gathered such comprehensive findings on my own.”
“Indeed,” Wilkins replied, the slightest hint of disappointment in his voice. “It was on my recommendation that you two were included in this manhunt. While your findings are interesting, can either of you honestly tell me we are any closer to capturing this ‘Ripper’ than before you joined the investigation?”
Bell and I shook our heads in unison.
“I thought not,” he said dryly. “I understand your mutual desire to return to your normal lives. You Professor, say your duties in Scotland will keep you there for at least a month. I proposed you both thirty days’ employment. Should there be further murders or fresh evidence to examine, I would offer you another fortnight, as the time remaining of our initial contract. If I summon you once more, will you come?”
“Aye,” Bell responded, without hesitation.
“As will I,” I affirmed.
“Very well, gentlemen. How shall we keep in touch?” Wilkins asked.
“We have . . . .” I began, meaning to mention Margaret, when Bell cut me off.
“We shall leave our addresses for both routine post and telegrams. Write as you feel the need to update us. It would be most convenient if you share whatever you have with the two of us at the same time, which will prevent the delay in one of us writing to the other to share the information. How may we contact you?”
Wilkins raised an eyebrow at Bell’s interruption. “The doorman here has proven to be discrete and reliable,” he said. “As I prefer the other staff remain ignorant of our involvement, it is best
to send your correspondence here to the club, and the doorman will see I receive it quickly and quietly. Is that satisfactory?”
“Quite,” we both answered.
That business concluded, Wilkins settled our accounts at the club, as well as my incidentals and an additional three pounds to each of us for an extra day’s service, and then, bidding us a safe and speedy journey, he departed.
“I say,” I complained to Bell, “that was rather blunt the way you interrupted me when I started to mention that Margaret would act on our behalf while we are gone.”
“I apologize, Doyle, but you know his feelings on her involvement. As long as her fees do not come directly from his, or rather his employer’s purse, I see no reason to share our methods with him.”
“Any additional insights on Mr. Wilkins?” I asked, changing the topic to soothe my irritation. “As for me, I deduce he studied to become an accountant, will always be a bachelor, and can tell you precisely how many pairs of shoes he has and how soon the oldest will need a fresh sole.”
“He doesn’t lack for precision in his habits,” replied my companion, smiling. “And, although you make those comments in jest regarding his footwear and marital status, I suspect you are entirely correct. He is very much what some would call a ‘cold fish,’ and although I do not hold myself out as an expert on the feminine mind, I doubt many would find him an appealing life mate. He can also tell you to the penny how much money he has on his person as well as the amount to the farthing in his accounts.
“Disorder is abhorrent to him, which is why I believe he recommended you to Gladstone. Your detective is logical, scientific. Cause follows effect as surely as night follows day. Such a worldview would appeal to him.”
It was still short of noon when we perused the train schedules for the next day’s departures, and the ever-faithful doorman quickly procured our tickets plus the one for Miss Jones after we made our selections.
Bell sent a message to Margaret via one of the street Arabs, stating the platform and the time once we had our tickets in hand. He asked that she and Miss Jones meet him at the station.
I admired the efficiency of the courier service these urchins provided, as well as the opportunity it gave them to earn some means by which to sustain themselves. I smiled at the resemblance his street couriers bore to the “Baker Street Irregulars” I had contrived in Scarlet.
I felt awkward as I contemplated my departure. I had not had such close male camaraderie since my days as a ship’s surgeon. This man whom I had always admired had become something more than a teacher and mentor, someone I now considered a close friend.
Margaret was also much on my mind. In the twentieth century, friendships between men and women are nothing unusual, but in those days a man of my station rarely became overly familiar with a woman other than his wife or an immediate family member. I had enjoyed getting to know her as the intelligent, brave, and inquisitive person she was. I savored our conversations and had grown to rely on her common sense, and I knew life back in Portsmouth would appear dull by comparison.
There was also unease on my part regarding my growing affection for her, but I shoved those concerns aside, telling myself ours was an intense friendship forged through shared adversity and nothing more. I fully expected my return to Portsmouth would soon drive her from my mind.
Knowing Margaret would be preparing Miss Jones for her journey, Bell and I left the ladies in peace. As I would not see Margaret before my departure, I wrote a brief note and entrusted it to Professor Bell to give her at the station. I have no copy but recall the contents clearly.
Dear Margaret,
I regret not having the opportunity to say farewell to you in person. I eagerly await the next chance to join forces with you and the good professor. If we may in some way help bring this monster to justice, I shall consider my life to have been well spent.
I should warn you I have recently become aware of a man in a checked suit following me. I do not know his identity or his purpose, so beg you to “take precautions” until his intent becomes clear.
Sincerely yours,
Porthos
My journey home went smoothly. Louise was starting to show the growing life within her, and my sister Lottie was proving a capable and patient helpmate. Louise’s mother had returned home by the time I arrived, and I suspect my sister had something to do with that, but I never inquired. The adage regarding the dental health of a gift horse seemed to apply, and I gratefully accepted the resulting peace and quiet without question.
I removed the sign from the entrance to my practice announcing my absence, and considered placing a notice in the local paper of my return but decided against it. Portsmouth was, and continues to be, a small town, so I stopped in at a nearby pub to have an ale, knowing my presence there would serve as well as any three-inch advertisement in the back of the paper to let my patients learn of my return.
I had the strange ennui old soldiers often experience after surviving great battles. I was like one who had lain down his sword, but without the satisfaction of having won a victory of any kind. Still, life goes on, although it was not until the third day back, on the seventh, when I girded myself for confronting the stack of correspondence awaiting me on my desk.
I worked methodically through it, looking at the oldest first. As I drew to the end, I came upon an envelope from London without a return address. It was marked only to “Doctor Arthur Conan Doyle, Portsmouth.” The stamp was from the fifth of October, the day after my departure from London. The heft of the envelope told me it contained something in addition to a letter.
Thinking it from Margaret, I slit it open eagerly, and as I did so a well-worn brass ring fell out. The letter was written in a familiar red ink, and the contents froze me to my chair.
My Dear Doctor Doyle,
I trust the cheap trinket I took from the whore on Hanbury Street suffices as a means of introduction . . .
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
A SUMMONS TO EDINBURGH
Sunday, October 7, to Saturday, October 13
When I learned of you joining our merry dance I took the time to read your absurd little tale. Words cannot express my joy after reading it to know I was being tested by the creator of this all too perfect and orderly Detective. You would make the world think there is a balance to the Universe; that everything has a reason, and all actions follow a predictable pattern.
Well Sir, you are correct, but not in the neat and orderly way you suppose.
The very Science you hold out as a source of Wisdom declares Chaos is the true nature of Reality. Consider Professor Darwin’s On the Origin of Species from which the term ‘Survival of the Fittest’ has ‘evolved’. (Forgive me my little jokes, but it is only through humor we make life bearable at times, don’t you agree?). The panther hunts the deer. Over time, the deer become smarter and faster as the less intelligent and slower are culled from the herd. The panther, in response, must become stronger so that he is capable of hunting these evolved deer. The panther improves the deer, and they in time strengthen the panther. And so it goes and has gone for Millennia. So yes, there is an Order to our Universe, but it is written in blood and with great cruelty. I am merely an agent of this immutable reality. The strong feed on the weak, and no theorem or act of Parliament will ever change that.
As I read of your Mr. Holmes, who seems capable of deducing a man’s motives from thin air, I felt the need to demonstrate how impotent his Science of Deductive Reasoning must be in the face of Chaos. I kill at will, and none can mark me. I defeat you as well as an army of Detectives, Inspectors, and Superintendents at every turn. But I am a sporting man. I know you and your Companions have labored hard and are in need of rest. I will sharpen my blades, bide my time, and strike again when I know you are fit to rejoin the game. My prey thus far shows no evidence of evolution. Thus, my work is far from done.
Derisively Yours,
JTR
I sat unmoving for perhaps ten minutes as I absorbed this gh
oulish taunt. I was uncertain if it was truly from this Jack the Ripper, but I knew that whoever the author was, he was not someone I should care to meet in person. Obviously, I would forward this to Bell right away, and I cursed my laziness for taking so long to read my mail. I decided to copy it as exactly as possible first, and then send the original with the brass ring to him.
As I copied the phrase “you and your Companions,” the use of the plural form of the word “Companion” suddenly struck me. This must mean the fiend knew of Margaret as well as Professor Bell! Whether he knew her as Pennyworth or by her real identity was not revealed, but the thought of the killer stalking her in the shadows or, worse, coming to her door now that Miss Jones was in Scotland, chilled my marrow. Could this letter be from my shadow in the checked suit?
I was torn between sending her a warning telegram or rushing back to London immediately. Finally I had to admit, grudgingly, returning to London would be pointless. I had no idea who the author was, nor was I sure what he knew about Margaret; I could not protect her from a phantom. My original impulse to forward this to Bell remained the best course of action, and I would ask his advice regarding what we should tell Margaret of the letter. I had already warned her of the man following me, and I was unsure what more I could say, except that the tone of this letter conveyed the malevolent intelligence I envisioned in the Ripper.
It being Sunday, I posted the letter with the battered brass ring within as soon as the post office opened the next morning, and then turned my steps toward my practice like one sentenced to the gallows. I knew I would have no peace until I received my friend’s reply.
That night I dreamt again of the murdered woman in Dutfield’s Yard. As before, the dead woman opened her eyes and gestured to look behind me. As I began to turn, I felt a hand on my left shoulder and in the bright moonlight I saw a flash of steel, and then I awoke violently, soaked in sweat.
A Knife in the Fog Page 17