A Knife in the Fog

by Bradley Harper

  I recall the next three days poorly. My old patients began to trickle in, and more than once I had to justify why my treatment for their ailments differed from those prescribed by my colleagues during my absence. I learned how difficult it is to earn a patient’s trust, and how quickly it can be eroded, but I was at best only half there.

  Finally, on Thursday the eleventh of October, four days after I posted my macabre correspondence to Professor Bell, I received his reply.

  Doyle,

  Forgive the delay, but I have pondered the significance of the unusual letter you forwarded me long enough to miss the last collection of the day. I agree we cannot verify the authenticity of the author, but we would be foolish to disregard it out of hand. The brass ring strengthens the possibility it is genuine, however. It is a touch I believe the casual crackpot would not have contrived.

  I also agree the use of “companions” was deliberate and was a veiled threat toward Miss Harkness. I have already written to her and requested she travel to Edinburgh to help Miss Jones withstand the surgery, and then accompany her back to London. Miss Harkness trained as a nurse as you recall, and having her present will aid Miss Jones considerably. Fortunately there is a dormitory for nurses adjacent to the infirmary where she can lodge.

  While we cannot forever hover over our comrade, perhaps her temporary absence will put the writer off her trail, and he will turn his ill intentions elsewhere. It is certainly better for both her and Miss Jones that Miss Harkness reside here for the present.

  As for the letter and the ring, although we must share them with the authorities, the police in Edinburgh are not engaged in the affair. A message to Abberline might be misrouted due to the many letters doubtless sent his way by those seeking the reward. Therefore, I suggest we wait until our return to London to share the letter and ring in person.

  I have presented Miss Jones to our medical students and will have my surgical residents examine her Monday next, with her surgery scheduled the following day, the sixteenth of October. Assuming there are no complications, she and Miss Harkness should be back in London in a little over a week’s time after, around the twenty-fourth.

  I shall not reveal the letter you received to Miss Harkness until she is preparing to return to London. I believe it is better for her to act normally, in case she is under observation by your correspondent. A sudden change in her activities might provoke him into rash action. Once he has lost the scent and she prepares to return, she can take the necessary actions to safeguard herself and her companion.

  I will write further once the surgery is complete and I have a date certain for their journey back.

  Sincerely,

  J. Bell

  I was greatly relieved at Bell’s elegant method of removing Margaret from immediate harm. Knowing Margaret would soon be safe, I had my best night’s sleep since returning from London. I received a letter from her the next day, written shortly before she departed for Edinburgh, and my mood improved even further.

  Dear Porthos,

  Before I begin I should inform you I will be in Edinburgh for the next fortnight to care for Molly. Professor Bell has requested me to assist, and I feel guilty it took his summons to remind me of my duty to a dear friend. In recompense, I shall make this letter as informative as possible.

  The papers are full of the adventures of two Private Detectives in the employ of The Evening News named Grand and Batchelor. They questioned a greengrocer named Matthew Packer, who lives two doors from Dutfield’s Yard. During their interview, he recalled selling grapes to a man and a woman around eleven forty-five the night of the murder.

  He described the man as around thirty-five years of age, five feet seven inches tall, and a little on the stout side. Mr. Packer was quoted in the papers: “I am certain he wasn’t what I would call a working man, or anything like us people that live around here.”

  Mr. Packer was taken to the morgue by the two Private Detectives, and he identified the body of the Dutfield’s Yard victim as the grape buyer.

  The image of a well-dressed stranger dangling a bunch of grapes before a woman to lure her to her death recalls the Serpent and the Apple in Genesis, and is sure to have much play in the papers. Given my new acquaintance with the Science of Postmortem examination, I will withhold judgment until Doctor Phillips reveals the contents of Miss Stride’s stomach.

  Meanwhile, I had a surprise visit yesterday from the Reverend Robert Harkness, my father. I may have told you how displeased he is with my career path. To his credit, he expressed sincere concern for my safety. To his discredit, he informed me he had selected an agreeable and well-to-do young man as my husband, and I was to accompany him back home to Worcestershire immediately, where I could be “safe.” I have found, however, that safe and bored are much the same. My half-sister, Hope, was with him to help me pack, and his confidence I would follow him provoked a stronger response than I am sure he was expecting.

  Needless to say, my father returned home without me, though Hope spent the night. I had not seen her in some time, and while he told Hope to “talk some sense” into me, I fear she is even less content at home now after seeing how I live, than she was before.

  To placate my father I have agreed to acquire a dog for my safety. If I told him what other precautions I take, he might require time in hospital, especially if I had been dressed as Pennyworth when he arrived! As rats are a common problem here, I will be seeking a Terrier. I am thinking of buying a bitch but naming her “Johnny,” in homage to another female you know who uses that name professionally.

  Nothing else of relevance to relate at this time, Dear Porthos. I will convey your warm regards to Molly, knowing you intend them.

  Sincerely Yours,

  Margaret

  Reading the letter, I could hear her voice: forceful, opinionated, and intelligent. I realized how much I delighted in her company, and I worried for her safety. I was surprised her father would believe Margaret would meekly submit to his paternal decree.

  I contemplated the image of her father arriving unannounced, expecting her to renounce her life in London and follow him obediently to wed a man she had never met. I began to understand why she fought so fiercely to assert her independence. It must have been a prolonged battle growing up under his roof to develop the strength of will to become her own person. In many ways, that took more courage than facing down a bandit with a razor.

  Two days later, Professor Bell and I received identical letters from Wilkins updating us on events back in London. His message reflected his general personality of an efficient, if bloodless, functionary.

  Dear Doctor Doyle and Professor Bell,

  No new actions to report regarding the Ripper. Inquests for both of his recent victims have been held and would be comic if the subject were not so serious.

  A man purporting to have sold grapes to the murdered woman found in Dutfield’s Yard has been discredited by the police surgeon who performed the postmortem, stating no grapes were found in the stomach. All in all, it has been a farce of the lowest quality.

  At present, the streets of the East End are deserted at night save for vigilant police constables grimly making their rounds.

  Although my offer for another fortnight still stands, I cannot in good faith urge your return until there is fresh ground to cover. When that might occur, sadly, only one man knows for sure.

  With the inquests concluded, I see no reason for further correspondence pending new developments, so do not look for any more letters from me. When you desire to return to London, please telegraph me as before, and I will arrange for your lodging.

  Respectfully,

  Wilkins

  It appeared all of London was holding its breath after the “double event.” No one dared believe this ordeal was over, but for now the increased vigilance seemed to keep the beast in his lair. Police constables walked their beats while neighbors kept watch over each other. The unfortunates huddled wherever they could in groups, and avoided the dark alleys of W
hitechapel at night; yet we all knew it was only a matter of time before the police whistles would sound and the cry of “murder!” ring out once more.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  A MERITED REBUKE

  Friday, October 19, to Monday, October 22

  I continued in this dark mood until Friday the nineteenth of October, when I found a letter from Edinburgh in my mailbox. I tore it open with great eagerness and was prepared to feast hungrily on all it contained. I was even more enthused when I recognized Margaret’s delicate hand, though her words were not as gentle as I had hoped.

  Doctor Doyle,

  First, I am pleased to inform you Molly has undergone surgery and did well. Anesthesia was a challenge. Ether could not be used since the oral cavity was the site of surgery, and a large amount of the gas would have been expressed directly into Professor Bell’s face, rendering him unconscious in the course of the procedure. An injection of Morphine was used both pre- and post-operatively, and Miss Jones did not suffer unduly.

  Her right mandible will be forever weakened, and she will never be able to fit artificial teeth to it as the professor fears the stress of chewing might cause the jawbone to fracture. Nevertheless, the removal of the necrotic bone and the poisonous phosphorus lodged within it should restore her health to a remarkable extent. I will be forever grateful to Professor Bell for the restoration of my dear friend who can never repay him.

  Thus my anger and feelings of betrayal by those whom I had come to consider my comrades runs deeper than they otherwise might. You know precisely the betrayal of which I speak: not revealing to me immediately the vague threat upon my person by this anonymous writer. I understand you two chivalrous gentlemen wanting to protect me and to do what was best for me. I thought however that by now I had made it Quite Clear I am the only person qualified to make that determination. I have been struggling my entire life against limitations upon my independence, no matter how well-intended, due to what I see as a random event of Nature: my gender.

  Neither of you has the right to withhold information which concerns me “for my own good.” If you cannot treat me as an adult, we shall have to part ways. I think I have expressed myself very clearly on this matter and will not speak of it further unless either of you give me cause. I suspect Professor Bell envies you the time it has taken me to temper my anger since he informed me, as well as the relative safety you have, given the distance currently separating us. Putting my ire aside for the moment, I do think bringing me here to care for Miss Jones was the correct course of action. I would have much preferred, however, that it had been my decision with all the information at hand.

  I will update you once Miss Jones and I return to London. The little the Scottish papers contain on the matter convinces me we have, by chance or design, selected the best time to be absent.

  Be well, Porthos. I am STILL a loyal Musketeer.

  Respectfully Yours,

  M. Harkness

  I placed the letter down. My first reaction was anger. I had been in agony, fearing the anonymous writer with the brass ring was stalking Margaret while I was helpless to protect her. Although Bell devised the stratagem to get her out of London, I had fully supported it and had only wished I had thought of it first. I could not believe how ungrateful this woman could be to friends who had done all they could to remove her from harm.

  I opened the top drawer from my desk, grabbed some stationery, and, scribbling furiously, began to articulate how wronged I felt, explaining we had acted only out of deep affection for her. The letter was therapeutic, for as I began to articulate why she should be thanking us for taking care of her, I thought of her character.

  I recalled Margaret standing between me and a straight razor, squarely confronting danger and asking no quarter. This was not a woman who asked men to protect her, but one who sought to make her own way in the world. Her grit, intelligence, and readiness to break with tradition were the very things that attracted me to her. I sadly conceded that, by her lights, I had betrayed her friendship and trust.

  I began to understand how frustrating it must be for her to possess such spirit and intellect, only to have it so lightly disregarded due to her gender. Shakespeare appeared to have the right of it when he had Hamlet inform his companion, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” The world is vast, and my understanding of at least half of it was most incomplete.

  I took a long walk and, after some reflection, felt the need to express my remorse at our well-intended subterfuge. When I returned home, I sat down and, though it was difficult, penned the following.

  Dear Margaret,

  I have taken your admonition to heart and sincerely apologize for not being entirely honest with you. Good intentions count for little when they are used as an excuse to treat a competent person such as yourself with anything less than the respect they deserve.

  I cannot guarantee I can undo a lifetime of customary thought and behavior overnight, but I do promise to accept your reminders should I lapse in future. I appreciate your contributions to our enterprise and your friendship, and I look forward to continuing our mutual struggle against this great evil.

  My best wishes to Miss Jones and for your safe return to London.

  Sincerely,

  Doyle

  Meanwhile, my medical practice and efforts on my novel, Micah Clarke, were going well. My hiatus from writing and my growing powers of observation, due to Bell’s example, allowed me to deepen my descriptions of my characters, much like an artist who has added a new tint to his palette.

  Three days later, on Monday the twenty-second, Margaret’s subsequent correspondence arrived, accompanied by one from Professor Bell. I cowardly read the professor’s letter first in the chance I would receive a warning from him before reading hers.

  Dear Doyle,

  I gather you received a diluted version of the lecture I had from Miss Harkness regarding her ability—nay, her right—to make her own decisions, and how our well-meaning patronizing efforts were most devoutly not wanted. Then, of course, she wholeheartedly supported our plan to have her leave London to tend to Miss Jones. Something about “means and ends,” I think. No matter. I regret having angered her, but I must compliment her on one skill few seem to have mastered. Once she has made her point, she does not belabor it, and we have gotten along swimmingly since my upbraiding over our deception.

  Miss Jones has progressed remarkably well, and though I am proud of the surgical result, her recovery is no doubt due in large part to the skilled care she has received from Miss Harkness.

  I have given my patient leave to return to London on the twenty-third. She will require thrice daily saline rinses for the next two weeks which Margaret can easily oversee. I cannot justify her continued stay, knowing the excellent care she will receive back in London.

  Miss Harkness has assured me she will continue to “take precautions” once the two of them are home. While I am sure you will join me in my concern for her safety, there is nothing either of us can do until we return ourselves.

  All news from London continues to be quiet for the moment. The Ripper’s handiwork bespeaks the fierce pleasure he takes in these murders, however, and I do not doubt there is more blood to be spilled. We can only hope for a clearer trail in the aftermath.

  No news from Balmoral, by the way. Her Majesty will probably outlive us both. I will be more than satisfied if she returns to London shortly with no need of my services save those required of any loyal subject.

  Best wishes,

  J. Bell

  Reassured by Bell’s letter, I opened Margaret’s fearlessly.

  Dear Porthos,

  I trust all is well in rustic Portsmouth. No doubt Professor Bell has informed you Molly and I will soon be back in London.

  Professor Bell kindly lent me his copy of your detective story, A Study in Scarlet. I see the resemblance between your Detective, Mister Holmes, and our mutual friend in regards to his powers of ob
servation. I do agree with Bell’s assessment, however, that he is far more congenial than Sherlock. (Wherever did you get that name?) I find your tale to be a tad dramatic in part, but when Holmes takes the stage and gathers evidence to catch the killer, it shines. I can see now why Mister Gladstone would ask Holmes’s creator to look into the Ripper murders.

  Be of good cheer, my friend. Knowing someone may intend me ill grants me a great advantage. They shall not catch me unprepared.

  I shall write again once I am back within the warm, if aromatic, embrace of the East End.

  Sincerely,

  Margaret

  Despite Margaret’s cheerful tone, I knew I would not rest peacefully until the three of us were together again. Milton famously wrote, “They also serve, who only stand and wait.” Truly, that was the most challenging task I have ever undertaken in my life. But I had no choice. I could only bide my time until, to paraphrase Shakespeare, I could go into the breech once more.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  ODDS AND ENDS

  Thursday, October 25, to Saturday, November 3

  Finally, my patience was rewarded with another letter, postmarked from London this time, and bearing Margaret’s distinctive script. I tore it open with zeal, and read it quickly once, then more slowly a second time.

  Dear Comrades,

  Molly and I are back in our familiar haunts. Her appetite has returned with a vengeance and, although Professor Bell was apologetic that she can now only chew on her left side, this has been her condition for some time. The difference is chewing is no longer painful, and her food doesn’t taste of rotting flesh. Hippocrates once wrote: “If the nutrition is good and the wound is clean, the wound will heal,” so I am stuffing her like a Christmas goose and rinsing her wound regularly.

  Currently I only go out during the day and, be assured, take precautions when I do. I have not noticed any suspicious characters in checked suits lounging about, but it would be foolish to conclude your shadow owns only one suit of clothes.