I had not explained my reason for our sudden need to return to London, but thanked him for his trust in us and for expediting the necessary arrangements.
He nodded and said he awaited my explanation now.
I produced the copy of the first letter and the original of the second, as well as the second ring, Bell having kept the first.
Wilkins assumed his favorite pose of steepled fingers and half-closed eyes. “Well, Professor. Doctor Doyle is apparently impressed with the authenticity of these letters. What is your opinion?”
“I am uncertain if the author is the Ripper,” he replied. “But there is no doubt this person means Doctor Doyle ill. Our murderer has been idle for nearly a month. If he has not left London, each night which passes without another victim increases the likelihood of a killing the next. It was time for us to return, regardless. If we cannot fulfill Mr. Gladstone’s expectations within the next fortnight, I am willing to forgo my stipend save for the cost of lodging.”
“As am I,” I vowed.
Wilkins smiled for the first time in our acquaintance, then laughed agreeably. “I admire your sense of honor, gentlemen, but the Bible clearly states a workman is worthy of his hire. Besides, Mr. Gladstone has given me very strict instructions. Therefore, I have no discretion regarding your payments.”
Wilkins brought out his bulging wallet, then began to thumb through its contents. “Here are twenty-seven pounds for you both for the day you have been here already and the next eight days, as other matters shall require my attention until the fourteenth. If nothing further develops by the seventeenth, I will request a summary, and you will be free to return to your usual occupations. Is that satisfactory?”
We both nodded assent, and Wilkins bade us good day.
We met with Pennyworth as arranged at one o’clock outside Spitalfields Station. The desk sergeant seemed not to have noticed our absence, or at the very least not to have mourned it, and he gestured wordlessly for us to go back before we even asked if Inspector Abberline was in his office.
The inspector, however, appeared pleased at our return, and although he confessed there was currently nothing new for us to review, he was still grateful for the reinforcements.
“Doyle has some items to show you, Inspector.”
“I do. Since our only means of getting these to you, other than by post, was in person, the delay was necessary. Here they are.”
Abberline’s expression changed once I revealed the contents of the two letters allegedly from the killer. He shook his head. “You were certainly right about one thing,” he said. “The postal service will soon have to take on extra hands, what with all the letters flying about, each one claiming to be from the Ripper. I should be cross with you two for not getting these messages to me sooner, but I don’t have the manpower to do anything about ’em. It does seem that whoever wrote these notes has you dead in his sights, Doctor, and while I cannot spare a man to provide you protection, your old digs in the conference room are available anytime.” This last was said with a wink, knowing how much I suffered from his cots, which were seemingly constructed of iron canvas.
“Thank you, Inspector,” I replied. “Regretfully, I believe we are in need of your continued hospitality. If the letters are genuine, he will strike sometime within the next week. I think it best we spend the nights here as before, until either he kills again or a week has passed.”
While I had no joy at the prospect of more nights at the station, we had returned to London with the expectation of a pending attack. We would be best positioned to respond if we were immediately available.
But what of Margaret’s safety? If the murderer intended her as the next target, how could I, in good conscience, leave her alone? The recent appearance of two men following her, for reasons known only to themselves, increased my fear tenfold. Recalling how disappointed Margaret had been at being excluded from our vigils before, I decided to try my best to reverse Abberline’s prior decision. As Margaret had correctly pointed out, she deserved better. The fact that I would know she was safe when she was with us would be a bonus.
“I say, Inspector,” I added. “Would it be acceptable if our assistant, Mr. Pennyworth, stayed here with us? If we do get called out, he could guide us once we were ready to leave the scene.” I sensed Margaret tense beside me while Abberline looked at her thoughtfully, then nodded.
“I’m so desperate to get this over with, I’ll pretty much give you carte blanche.” Speaking to Margaret, he remarked, “You’ve kept your own counsel so far as I know, and not caused us any grief.” Returning to me, he continued, “Bring him along then, but he gets the last cot. I’ve no more to spare. You want to invite anyone else, you’ll have to throw him overboard.”
Bell looked at me and winked, while Margaret “manfully” did her best to suppress a smile. I knew she would be grateful—at least until she experienced the professor’s snores.
“As for me,” Abberline said, “I’m in sore need of some nights in my own bed, or the Ripper will be able to number me among his victims just due to fatigue. Ten o’clock, as usual, gents?”
We agreed, though my concurrence was the least enthusiastic. I considered buying a candle so that I could place wax into my ears, much as Ulysses’s crew was fabled to have done prior to braving the sirens.
Once outside the station, Margaret touched my arm for a moment and quietly said, “Thank you.”
I have heard many speeches of over an hour’s duration that conveyed far less import than those two simple words from someone who had come to mean so much to me. I nodded, unable for the moment to respond.
Bell smiled and asked, “And what of Miss Jones? Will she be all right?”
“She never goes out at night,” Margaret replied. “You may not have noticed, but I have made good use of my new acquaintance with the builder, Mr. Lusk. He had one of his men fortify our door and install a stronger lock. Miss Jones has a police whistle, and I shall also leave her my derringer. And Johnny would raise quite a fuss if Molly were threatened. She may be small, but she has already proven her worth with four-legged rats. I don’t doubt she’d leave a mark or two on the Ripper, given a chance. Molly will probably be the safest resident of the East End while we traipse along dark alleys in the London fog. If you are overly concerned about her, you might ask her to take you in,” she said with a smile.
While reassured about Molly’s safety, I regretted the loss of Margaret’s firearm by our side. I had been much impressed by its effect on the hooligans we encountered with Mister Rubenstein, and on the man with the straight razor, and I’d come to rely upon it to lessen my concerns about our safety.
We agreed to part ways for the next few hours until we picked Margaret up on our way to the station. Bell said he had some colleagues with whom he wished to confer while in the city, so he and I also went separate ways, and I returned alone to the club.
As I alighted, I saw a man across the street, about five foot six, in a checked suit and wearing a brown bowler hat. He seemed to have no purpose but to stand there while reading a paper. My fear for Margaret’s safety, my anger at the way I had been taunted in the letters with the brass rings, together with the mutilations of the victims I had seen firsthand . . . all of it boiled over in one primal moment.
At that instant, the only thing I could see was this man, as though he were standing at the end of a long, dimly lit hallway, and he alone was in the light. I bore straight toward him, and when I was about ten feet away, he lowered his paper to peer over it, and, seeing me, dropped it and ran.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
THE GOALKEEPER
Tuesday, November 6, cont.
I am a large man, but I was still an active sportsman at the time and could move quickly for short distances. I put my head down like a bull and took off after him. His small size allowed him to dodge others on the sidewalk far better than I, so I took to the street, preferring to weave amongst the cabs and wagons.
I was giving it my all, start
ling horses and enduring their driver’s oaths, and once or twice stepping into horse residue at full speed, nearly falling over as a result, but it was quickly obvious he was pulling away. I was losing heart when I saw the sidewalk ahead blocked by some construction work, thus causing the passersby to become tightly packed.
My quarry paused, looked back at me, and I felt a surge of power as I gained on him.
He turned and ran into an alley to his left. I followed at my top speed, just in time to see him run through a shadowed doorway on the left side at the end of the back street.
My breath was becoming more labored now, and I was forced to slow down, coming to a complete stop at the doorway, both to catch my wind and to avoid an ambush.
Entering with caution, I was at first blinded by the darkness after leaving the sunlight behind. My sight temporarily useless, I relied upon my other senses. Listening carefully, I heard heavy breathing nearby but was unable to locate it. I found myself in a dark, narrow passage. As my eyes adjusted, I realized the walls on each side of me were large barrels, stacked three high, such that I could not look over them. I smelled beer. A brewery.
I knew it was foolish to hunt a possible killer in the dark and unarmed, but my anger was only made hotter by the chase. I had two choices: go forward down the beer-lined path, or leave. I went forward.
The passage ran for about twenty feet before opening out into a large central area. I was approaching the end when the final column suddenly toppled over in front of me, and I leapt back just in time to avoid it landing on top of me. The top barrel burst open, covering the floor with its contents.
The man in the checked suit ran toward a door on the far side. I resumed my pursuit, but when I jumped over the barrels in my path I slipped and fell hard on the beer-slimed floor.
I scrambled up as fast as I could, and saw my man fling the door open and run out. I was careful not to slip again, but by the time I made it outside I had lost sight of him. Then I saw a man in a checked suit with a brown bowler hat walking away from me about one-hundred feet to my right. As I braced myself for another sprint, I noticed another man, in a similar suit and hat, walking away to my left at roughly the same distance.
Paralyzed with doubt, I looked down and saw wet footprints, which probably smelled of beer, going to my right.
My quarry was being coy as he walked along the sidewalk at a normal pace, doing his best not to draw attention to himself, and I used that to my advantage as I trotted along the street behind a passing hansom, shielding me from his view.
It was only when I pulled up alongside him that he noticed me, and the chase was on again. I was flagging and began to despair when we both saw a bobby in a small park ahead, passing the time with a governess pushing a pram. The young bobby appeared quite intent on “comforting the comfortable,” to use Abberline’s phrase, and was so distracted he did not notice the two of us playing hares and hounds down the street. I was too short of breath to muster a decent hail, and I feared the time it would take me to reach him would allow my shadow to escape. My quarry turned right, away from the constable, and I labored on in breathless pursuit.
Fortune finally favored the bold, however, for he veered into a narrow alley, only to find the large warehouse doors on either side locked. I stood there at the alley’s entrance, blocking it, while he stood at the far end leaning against a soot-stained brick wall, and we both caught our breath.
I approached him slowly, still heaving as I recovered from my prolonged exercise, and assessing the area for danger. He appeared unarmed, but that could change quickly, as the East End had already taught me.
I have played goalie on various football teams, and this experience served me well, for he suddenly made a rush at me, in hopes of either bowling me over or slipping through my grasp. I had the better of it, however, and was soon grasping the man by his lapels. I was about to give him a “Glasgow Kiss,” or head butt, when he raised his hands in surrender.
“Who are you?” I demanded. “What do you want of me?” As I am just over six feet tall, I towered over him. His face turned pale as I partially lifted him by his coat.
“Be-be-begging your pardon, sir!” he stammered. “I don’t know what you’re about!”
“I know you’ve been following me.” I insisted, still angry, though I was already starting to doubt the wisdom of my action. I had tossed the dice; no backing out now.
My captive’s eyes betrayed him. He looked away for a moment before replying. I have treated women whose injuries were explained by their husbands as “falling down the stairs.” A liar needs to recall his story, while a truthful man can speak straightaway.
“I’ll call a bobby if you don’t let me go this instant!” the man demanded.
I released my grip on his lapels, to avoid a charge of assault, but held onto his coat sleeve. “Go ahead. I would like to hear your explanation to a policeman if not to me.”
“For standing on a street corner?” he sneered.
“I have seen you at least twice before,” I said. “Who are you? If you don’t tell me this instant, I will be the one to call the police.”
As I suspected, when I called his bluff about summoning a bobby, he changed his tune.
“No need for that, sir,” he said. “A simple misunderstanding. My card will explain everything.”
He handed me a simple plain business card with the names Grand and Batchelor, Private Detectives. I recalled Margaret’s letter about the detectives under contract to the Star newspaper who had interviewed the greengrocer next to Dutfield’s Yard.
“Ah, yes. The grape detectives,” I sneered back.
He bristled at this. “Laugh if you like; we found a grape stalk in a drain in Dutfield’s Yard.”
“Proving beyond doubt,” I countered, “that some residents of the East End eat grapes. Well done. I also have reason to believe that you and your associate have been following a Miss Margaret Harkness. For what purpose? I am in an ill temper, and concerned for her safety. Explain yourself!”
The man sniffed in an attempt to look dignified. “That’s privileged information, between us and our clients!”
My left hand was reaching for his lapel when he realized the two of us were alone in the alley. I am not ashamed to say I was quite prepared to give him reason to reconsider, when my captive relented.
“All right, sir! No need for violence.” The detective straightened himself to regain his dignity and said, “Me and my mate were just following anyone who seemed involved in the investigation. We noticed you and another man frequenting the police station. Then this woman with you. Honest. We get paid good money for any stories we bring in. We thought you and your friends might have something to do with the investigation.”
“If you had nothing to hide,” I replied, “why did you run?”
At this, the detective snorted. “The way you were coming at me, I thought you were about to kill me on the spot. Any sane man would run if a man nearly twice his size went after him with the look you had in your eyes!”
“And why did you avoid the constable?”
He shrugged, “Private detectives aren’t too popular with the police. They see us as one short step above criminals. He’d as like arrest me on general principles, just to have it all sorted out at the station. Besides, I was giving you the slip until I made a wrong turn. Now, if you are finished attacking me, Doctor, what is your role in all this?”
Recalling Abberline’s and Wilkins’s insistence that we remain out of the press, I was momentarily at a loss for words. I have ever been a poor liar but have found a half-truth is often a better subterfuge than a complete lie.
I answered that my companion and I were physicians from Scotland, and were in London to observe how the findings from the victims’ postmortems benefitted the hunt for the killer. We had no official standing, but planned to share our observations with our colleagues once we returned home.
The man scratched his chin, disappointed by my answer. “Well then, if you have
no further plans to assault me, sir, I’d best be off.”
“Before I let you go, I have two pieces of advice.”
The man sighed in relief as I released my grip on him, “First, you are to stop following Miss Harkness and myself. Immediately! If I see you again or hear that she is still being followed, I will risk the gaol to stop you.”
He nodded as he brushed imaginary lint where my hand had just been, “And the second piece of advice?”
“Either buy another suit or join the circus. You look ridiculous.”
I nodded permission for him to depart, and after a cautious bow he turned on his heel and walked away. It was only after he left that I realized I had failed to ask which of the two detectives he was. It was much later before it occurred to me that I hadn’t asked if he was only in the employ of the newspaper when he referred to his “clients.” But something else was pulling at my sleeve, trying to get my attention.
The doorman at the Marlborough sniffed as I passed him in the entrance way, and he informed me with great dignity that laundry service was still available that day should I require it, my beer-splattered and sweat-soaked clothes not escaping his attention. I will leave it to your imagination to visualize the state of my boots.
I mumbled my thanks, chagrined to be seen in such a condition inside that venerable establishment, and went directly to my room to bathe and change clothes. It was only once I was soaking contentedly in the bath that I understood what else was bothering me: the detective had addressed me as “Doctor” before I told him my profession.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
STANDING WATCH
Tuesday, November 6, to Friday, November 9
Even partially solving the Adventure of The Ill-Dressed Detective should have given me some sense of accomplishment; yet it only deepened the underlying question as to who knew about Margaret, and therefore was able to refer to “my companions.” I sadly concluded I was none the wiser for the confrontation with my shadow.
A Knife in the Fog Page 20