Making the rounds this morning I started with my new friend Sergeant Thicke. He told me it would serve no purpose to go round to the City of London Police. Their force is inundated with false leads submitted by all those desirous of the five-hundred-pound reward, and they have little time for anything else.
Sergeant Thicke suggested I speak with Mr. Lusk, Chairman of the Mile End Vigilance Committee, who we met on the twentyninth of September when you were shown the first Ripper letter. He has received some threatening letters, and suspicious-looking strangers have been asking about him within his neighborhood.
Thankfully, Mr. Lusk remembered me being with you that day, for when I knocked at his door, he had to unbolt two locks and then peered suspiciously through a crack secured by a very robust chain. Once allowed entry, he told me he had recently reinforced the door and doubled the locks. He was a shaken man and easily startled.
He had received two threatening letters addressed as “Dear Boss,” and on the sixteenth of October, he received a small package wrapped in brown paper with a smeared London postmark. Inside the package was a poorly preserved piece of kidney and a brief message:
From hell
Mr Lusk
Sor
I send you half of the Kidne I took from one women prasarved it for you tother piece I fried and ate it was very nise I may send you the bloody knif that took it out if you only wate a whil longer
Signed Catch me when you Can
Mishter Lusk
Mr. Lusk is now considerably in fear of his life, and I cannot fault him. One crackpot attempting to emulate the Ripper may, in some ways, be more dangerous than the original, as his “admirers,” if I may use such a term, may be less selective in their victims and therefore even more destructive. It is a sad state of affairs when a man who puts himself forward to help his neighbors should become the target of such cruelty.
There are increasing incidents of Jews being attacked on the streets. Recently a police inspector had to barricade himself into a house with a Jewish tradesman to protect the poor man from a mob. It was a very near thing before constables arrived to drive the crowd away. Sergeant Thicke says everyone on the force is on edge, fearing mass violence if the Ripper strikes again.
There is much evil stirring within the East End, my friends. We must act quickly, to extinguish the spark to the firestorm Abberline so rightly fears.
Come when you can,
MH
I was greatly concerned by the events Margaret related at the end of her letter. I had seen a small example in the case of the cobbler, Mister Rubenstein. To imagine an open insurrection within the confines of London was beyond my imagination. It seemed the Ripper could now go on extended holiday, as many others were willing to spill blood in his stead.
Given the deluge of Ripper imitators, however, I was becoming increasingly doubtful that my letter with the brass ring was authentic, though two things still nagged at me. How had the writer known to contact me? And what did they know of my “companions”? Was it the mysterious man in the checked suit I had glimpsed briefly in the store window, or was it someone within the police force?
The thought of a police constable as the Ripper gave me pause. Sergeant Thicke was well known for his checked suits, though the pattern tended to be far louder than that of my unknown shadow. “Johnny Upright” seemed to delight in announcing his presence, perhaps to intimidate the felons he dealt with on a regular basis.
I did notice reports of the murders often mentioned Sergeant Thicke arriving at the scene shortly after the discovery of the victim. He was well known in the area, and it would be an easy matter for him to murder someone and “arrive” on the scene soon after, so he had the means. If assisting in the murder investigation increased his chances of promotion, he would also have a motive.
Was it the newspaperman, Mr. Collier, whom Doctor Phillips had warned us about in the pub? The murders were certainly selling a lot of papers. His nude drawing of a woman that I noticed protruding from his jacket demonstrated an excellent knowledge of female anatomy. His fondness for drink, however, would not make for the steady hand required to murder as quickly and precisely as the Ripper.
Could it be Wilkins? He certainly had plenty of disdain for the Ripper’s victims. I recalled Bell’s comments about his need for order, however, and could not conjure the image of this fastidious little man rummaging through a freshly disemboweled body. I believed he would faint at the sight of a bloodstain on his shirt cuff.
Finally, I considered the mysterious Mister Charrington, who had apparently made it his life’s work to force all the prostitutes of the East End out onto the street. Whether he was truly the Ripper or not, the killer could certainly count Mister Charrington among his allies.
My head began to ache as I tried to solve this riddle with insufficient information. I could only keep all these possibilities in the back of my mind and plow on. More than likely the Ripper was someone I had never met.
Meanwhile, my dear Louise had developed that glow often seen in women great with child, though both my sister and I despaired at times of her variable dietary demands as her pregnancy advanced. Fortunately she was never a woman who tended toward jealousy, for it was but five days later, on the thirtieth, when I received another letter from Margaret.
My Dear Friends,
Molly continues on the mend. I have no doubt our Surgeon will be quite pleased.
The Metropolitan Police have shown no dint in their activity to catch our killer. The East End has been further reinforced with constables conscripted from outlying districts, as much to control the increasing anti-Semitic tone of the region as to assist in the Ripper’s capture.
They just concluded a house-to-house search in an area comprising several neighborhoods. There were even trials this past week of bloodhounds in a couple of public parks, which were sufficiently encouraging, and Commissioner Warren has ordered the body of any new murder victim not be touched until the hounds can be brought to the scene and put on the scent.
There are already grumblings from the areas which have had their constabulary decreased, and while the East End is increasingly resembling an armed camp, I doubt Police Commissioner Warren will be able to sustain the criticism for long.
Meanwhile, speculation as to the identity of the Ripper continues to run rampant. I have even heard rumors mentioning Joseph Merrick, “The Elephant Man,” who resides in the Royal London Hospital on Whitechapel Road. The logic goes that due to the hideous mutilations performed by the killer, only a person as deformed as Mr. Merrick could be capable of such atrocities. No one can explain how a man with his well-documented lameness and physical deformities could traverse the streets of London unnoticed, but fear of those different from ourselves can defeat reason at every turn.
I hesitate to mention it, as it may be due to the apprehension your warning gave me, but I have had the odd feeling of being observed the past two days while “dressed.” I am only slightly exaggerating when I say there seems to be a man in a checked suit on every street in London.
Hopefully, the time is drawing near when I may see you two again and we drive this madman to ground. The first frost is not far away, and the ladies of the street will be hard-pressed to survive if they cannot soon return to their usual livelihoods. Write me when you know your itinerary.
Sincerely yours,
Margaret
I had to face the painful reality that, while in Portsmouth, there was nothing I could do to safeguard Margaret from her possible mysterious follower, and I had no obvious reason to return to London. My sleep was troubled anew, and I was in a foul mood, when on Saturday the third of November another large envelope arrived postmarked London E, and lacking a return address. My hands shook as I opened it.
A brass ring tumbled out.
I laid the letter aside, went to the liquor cabinet, and poured myself a generous portion of Scotch. I have no shame in admitting I downed a healthy dose, then unfolded the cheap stationery, knowing before rea
ding it that it was a summons.
Dear Doctor Doyle,
Your presence is kindly requested to rejoin our little Danse Macabre in London. I have been patient, but winter is approaching, and my little pigeons are starting once more to leave their roosts at night. It is time to remind them, and the bumbling Police, to whom the night truly belongs. I give you three days, that is until the sixth, to tidy up your affairs in that little rural practice of yours, and then I will unsheathe my blades once more and seek my prey. Time for Nature to reassert herself.
I was very disappointed in your performance last time, but have charitably ascribed it to a lack of motivation. I have decided therefore to select someone you know as my next victim, hoping this may bring out the best in you. I want to give you every opportunity to test your view of reality versus mine before I demand you acknowledge your defeat. But I am getting ahead of myself. Another Pas de Deux, I think, before we get to that discussion. I look forward to speaking with you then. As the Good Book says, “Now I see into a mirror darkly.” Soon all shall be revealed. Will that give you any comfort, I wonder?
Until
JTR
I laid the letter down, and then sank my head into my hands. I had telegrams to send, but for just a moment I needed to sit still and repress my need to scream.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
THE HUNT RESUMES
Monday, November 5
Wilkins readily agreed to reserve our lodgings, and soon we were back at the Marlborough Club. It was as though no time had passed. He apologized that he would be unable to meet us upon arrival, so we agreed to meet at nine o’clock the following day. Bell and I arrived late on the afternoon of the fifth, within half an hour of one another, and as soon as we had unpacked, set off together for Vine Street. The door opened on the second knock, and a small black-and-brown terrier ran happily to the door to greet us.
“Johnny?” I asked Margaret.
“Johnny,” she affirmed. “More useful than a husband, wouldn’t you agree?” she asked with an arched eyebrow.
I noticed, as promised, this Johnny was female.
Despite the momentary distraction of Johnny’s enthusiastic greeting, my pulse quickened at the sight of Margaret, and her smile told me she was happy, in some measure, to see me as well.
I was angry with myself for my foolish infatuation with her, reminding myself of my pregnant wife awaiting me in Portsmouth. Despite my best intentions, however, the time spent apart had done nothing to lessen my attraction to her. The quiet joy I had in her presence, and my concern for her well-being, was undeniable. I eased my guilty conscience by telling myself that, while I could not master my heart, I could restrain my actions. That would have to suffice.
Bell performed a quick exam of Miss Jones and pronounced her released from his service. He praised Margaret for her excellent nursing care.
I was impressed by the transformation. Molly had gained at least five pounds, her odor was normal, and there was no drainage nor accompanying rag to cover her mouth. I noted a well-healing fresh surgical scar on the skin overlying her right jaw, and a slight droop to her mouth on that side, indicating damage to the facial nerve. Her outward appearance otherwise was unremarkable. Miracles do happen; it seemed I was in the presence of one now.
“Please, do join us for tea,” she offered happily. “I just put on a fresh pot!” An unremarkable statement from anyone else; in Molly’s case, it was a proclamation that her life was renewed. Johnny trotted happily after her as she went to fetch the tea, and I could tell the two had already become fast friends.
We seemed quite a happy family as we sat sipping tea, scratching Johnny’s ears, and catching up with one another.
“Anything new about your possible shadow?” I asked Margaret.
“Perhaps,” she said, with an odd smile. “I had the same feeling yesterday, so entered a pub and ordered an ale. Shortly after, two men, both dressed in checked suits, walked in together and avoided my gaze when I looked at them. Nothing conclusive, but I doubt the Ripper has an accomplice, so the presence of two men is somehow reassuring. If they continue, I am sure between the three of us we can corner one of them.”
Once the teapot was stored, I shared the full details of the last message from my mysterious correspondent. I hadn’t had time before our reunion to describe the contents due to the three-day deadline given me and the brevity required of a telegram.
The unveiling of the brass ring quieted the room, and when I read the letter a chill came over us all. Looks were exchanged when I read aloud the section making threats against someone I knew.
Margaret nodded, looking grim. I was certain she was the least anxious person in the room.
When I finished, a moment of total silence followed before Professor Bell paused from petting Johnny and asked to see the letter for himself.
After a minute’s perusal, he spoke thoughtfully, “The writer demonstrates an obsession with you, Doyle. Your fictional detective represents a rationality he utterly rejects, and he is using these poor women’s murders to taunt you. He will not stop until he is captured or killed, and I fear he may make an attempt on your life. I believe we have our work cut out for us.”
Until now I had been primarily concerned for Margaret’s safety. The depth of ill will this person had toward me had not occurred to me before. Suddenly I knew the fear of dark places and movements within the shadows; I did not want to be the deer in this madman’s object lesson in evolution, but I felt most unpantherlike.
We decided to go out briefly to celebrate our reunion, and to bring Molly along, Johnny in tow, as Molly would not leave the flat without her. It was nothing elegant, just sandwiches at a small coffee shop by Fenchurch Street Station, but Molly acted as though we were taking her to the Tea Room at Harrods.
Margaret excused herself for a moment, and when she left, Molly turned to me and asked, “Did Miss Margaret tell you about her father’s visit?”
“Yes, she did,” I answered. “She said she was touched he was concerned about her.”
Molly snorted at this, and the sudden fire in her eyes set me aback. Up until now, I had thought of her as a rather meek and self-effacing woman.
“Oh, he was concerned all right!” she said forcefully. “Concerned what his parish thought. You never ’eard how she and I came to live together, ’ave you? It’ll only take a moment.”
The writer in me sensed a story, and I nodded for her to continue before Margaret’s return.
“I was working in the match factory. Me jaw was festering pretty bad, and me and the other girls refused to work anymore until the white phosphorus was gone. The girls could see ’ow I was getting on, and they didn’t want to turn out like me.”
“Couldn’t the management just bring in other workers?” I asked.
“Yes, they could. But we stood in front of the door, not letting anyone in. Miss Margaret was there at the gates to write about it when the bosses sent in the strike breakers. They were men with large clubs, there to force us back. Miss Margaret stood up to one who was about to hit me pretty ’ard, so when he grabbed ’er and threw ’er to the ground, I ’it him with a paving stone.”
“Good God!” I cried. “And the police did nothing?”
“They weren’t there. Why would they be? What were we to them? Well, as soon as I laid the man out, Miss Margaret grabbed me and got me out of there. She decided to live ’ere so she could tell our story. To make others understand what we go through, just to stay alive. When her articles in the paper started coming out, the bosses sent a couple of men around to find ’er, and that’s when she began carrying a gun and dressing like a man.”
I could easily envision Margaret taking on a hired thug to protect a friend, and had to smile at the image I had previously had of her as a helpless “lady of letters.” I have rarely been more wrong.
“And another thing,” Molly said quickly, watching for Margaret’s return. “Don’t mention ’er father. At first, she thought ’e came here becaus
e he cared for ’er. T’was ’er half-sister, Hope, who told ’er the real reason. ’E was afraid if she were murdered by the Ripper, ’is congregation would think she’d become a streetwalker. It was all done to protect his reputation. Nothing more.”
Bell shook his head. “No wonder she wants to make her own way. I see now why asking her to come to Edinburgh without telling her of the threat made her so angry. She has probably been betrayed or ignored by her father all her life. We are fortunate she didn’t resign when she found out.”
Margaret reappeared at that moment and, by our sudden silence, knew we had been talking about her. She looked at Molly, who shrugged back at her, and we left the shop to return to the flat. Margaret seemed thoughtful, so to distract her I mentioned once more how well Molly appeared, and how happy she was to be out of doors.
Margaret looked at her, smiled, and said this was the first time Molly had eaten in public in the past two years. I envied Bell his power to improve someone’s life so profoundly, thus strengthening my growing interest in eye surgery.
Later, while Bell and I were boarding our cab by the train station, I thought for a second a figure in a checked suit stepped out of the shadows of a nearby alley. He stood there barely long enough for me to see him, then stepped back into the darkness and disappeared. I wasn’t certain, but his actions made me wonder if he deliberately wanted me to notice him. I wondered who else had noticed our return.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
ABBERLINE RELENTS
Tuesday, November 6
When Wilkins arrived the next morning he seemed to have aged at least five years. He appeared genuinely happy to see us, though his German accent had returned, denoting the duress he was suffering. When I asked about his worn appearance, he grimaced and said that Mr. Gladstone was becoming impatient with him and, by extension, us, due to the lack of demonstrable progress in our investigation.
A Knife in the Fog Page 19