I fell asleep in the quiet refuge of the reading room and did not stir until five o’clock when Bell roused me. When I informed Bell of my afternoon’s exercise, he laughed heartily at my description of my pursuit of the detective.
“A fine bit of derring-do, my friend,” Bell said, his eyes shining with amusement.
To my surprise, he was complimentary at my explanation of our presence to Mr. Grand/Batchelor.
“Your idea of a series of talks about how medical inquiry may assist police investigations is an excellent one, Doyle. I shall give the matter some thought, and perhaps your efforts at deception may prove truer than you intended.”
“We should inform Margaret that her suspicions about being followed were correct,” I said, “though I doubt either of these two fools is clever enough to be the Ripper.”
We dined from the buffet board within the club around seven o’clock; then I packed what little I would require for the night, and we were off.
We collected Margaret on the way and bade Miss Jones goodnight. Margaret’s “undress” was her usual East Ender Pennyworth ensemble, with the addition of a gray wool workingman’s cap. She explained that her hair fit snugly underneath, and therefore would not come loose in her sleep. She feared the wig she sometimes wore would fall off in the night, so she’d braided her shoulder-length hair to prevent any strands from coming loose. Should someone come in to awaken us, her head would be sufficiently covered to avoid raising suspicion.
I told Margaret of my encounter with the detective, Bell adding to my encounter with dramatic embellishments, and my companions had a good laugh at my expense as I felt my ears burn.
“Dear Porthos,” Margaret gasped out finally, “I didn’t know our adventure would require a baptism of beer. I can only imagine the look the doorman gave you!”
Then, catching her breath, “At least we know who our shadows are. I hope they do not take your advice, about buying a new suit of clothes I mean, it makes it easier to notice them, though joining the circus was not a bad thought at all. I predict they’d have a great future.”
We arrived at the station, and I led Margaret to the conference room where our unwelcoming pallets awaited. I pointed out the loo at the end of the hall, and assured her stalls were available. I also counseled her about the importance of falling asleep before the professor, but she assured me that after a year’s residence in the East End she could sleep through nearly any disturbance. I merely smiled and said nothing more.
The next three days blurred into a succession of long nights and short days. I slept poorly, no doubt due in part to the unyielding nature of the cots, but also to the volcanic rumblings that regularly issued from Bell’s corner of the room. To my surprise, though not amusement, his bass was joined by an alto accompaniment from Margaret, and I was the doomed audience for this recurring nocturnal concert.
I suffered greatly from their competing cacophony, only dozing intermittently in the station, then augmenting my meager sleep with afternoon naps. I would judge their contest a draw, by the way. Although Bell had the greater volume, Margaret had a high-pitched wheeze at the start of every exhalation that could cut one’s nerves as sharply as a surgeon’s blade. Trust me, dear reader, this judge’s decision was made only after endless hours of meticulous contemplation and comparison.
It was the morning of the ninth of November when we parted company with Margaret after our third uneventful night. I was beginning to doubt the value of our vigil. Once we were back at the club and had dined, Bell joined me in the reading room, where I had laid aside some articles I wished to discuss with him.
We were well into our second pot of tea when a police constable, very much out of breath, consulted with the doorman, who promptly pointed in our direction.
He came straight to us and without preamble gasped out, “I was told to fetch you straight away! There’s been another murder!”
There was a police wagon waiting outside for us, and we were soon speeding along, accompanied by the young constable.
“Are we headed for the station?” I asked him.
“No,” was his terse reply, “but not far off. I can tell you this, gentlemen, it’s the worst yet!”
That answer cast a chill on me, one unrelated to the weather. Bell and I looked at one another; his concern mirrored my own: by wagon, Margaret’s flat was “not far off.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
AN ACQUAINTANCE, REVISITED
Friday, November 9, cont.
The journey inside the closed police wagon was terrifying. We could not look outside due to the crowding of additional constables within, and my knowledge of London geography was not sufficient to inform me which direction we were headed, much less the streets we traveled. I listened in fear for the sound of a train, which one could often hear close to Margaret’s tenement. If a train had been nearby, however, I doubt I would have heard it over the pounding in my chest. The nausea from my last trip inside a police wagon returned in full force, probably more due to the spinning of my head then the rocking of the coach.
Finally, mercifully, the wagon stopped. I could hear the voices of a crowd outside. The doors opened and, taking a deep breath, I looked out. A line of constables was holding back a throng of onlookers gazing at a dark, brick-lined archway, with the words “Miller’s Court” written above it.
It was approximately one o’clock when we arrived. The constable who accompanied us led us through the archway into the court itself. There were several additional police constables, a couple of inspectors we had not met before, and our old acquaintances Doctor Phillips and Inspector Abberline. The constables had formed a half-circle around a door at the far end of the freshly whitewashed courtyard, thus keeping the occupants at a distance while the inspectors took turns looking through a window around the corner from the door into the room. The window was broken and partially blocked by newspapers and an old coat.
I gasped! I so clearly remembered the young laundress Mary standing in that door waving goodbye, then cheekily blowing me a kiss. I was relieved beyond measure it wasn’t Margaret’s flat we were visiting, but recalling the bold woman who had lived here I had a surge of guilt at my own relief. By wishing for Margaret’s salvation I was condemning another.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
THIS PLACE OF WRATH AND TEARS
Friday, November 9, cont.
Surprisingly, the door was still closed. Bell went straight to Abberline to ask, “What’s the situation, Inspector, and why is everyone outside?”
Inspector Abberline was flushed, apparently laboring to maintain his composure. “It’s the damned hounds, Professor! We’re waiting for the bloodhounds to arrive per Commissioner Warren’s directive. No one is to enter the room until they are here and get the scent. If you’d like a peek to see what all the tumult is about, you’re free to look into the window over there, though I doubt you’ll thank me for the sight.”
Bell and I exchanged grim glances. I took a deep breath and walked resolutely to the window. I peered within . . .
In my medical training, I thought that I had seen the worst that could happen to a human being.
I was wrong.
Even now, these many years later, I struggle to express the horror of what lay before me, reminiscent of the paintings of hell by that insane Dutch artist Hieronymus Bosch. A body lay on the bed, head turned toward the window. Note that I did not say “face,” for there was little remaining save the eyes, which were open and staring back at me in eternal terror.
There was blood everywhere inside the room. Everywhere. The abdominal cavity had been opened, its contents entirely removed, with mounds of raw flesh resting upon the table beside the bed. There was more to see, and the eye is naturally inclined to roam, but while we see with our eyes, as Professor Bell has often said, we observe with our mind. Mine could absorb no more.
I staggered back and, am ashamed to say, vomited promptly.
Bell placed his hand on my shoulder to console me, then
went to stand next at the window. I heard his sharp intake of breath, but that was his only outward evidence of the impression the scene inside made upon him. After perhaps a full minute at the window, he stood back, satisfied for now, and turned sadly to me.
“Under no circumstances should we summon Mr. Pennyworth here,” he said, careful to use Margaret’s alias so as not to arouse suspicion from any of the police all about us. “I will withstand a hundred lectures before I curse him for the rest of his life with the memory of this scene,” he continued in a lowered voice. “He can accompany us to the morgue later if desired, but I do not want our friend to see how cruelly this poor woman was slaughtered in the one place she felt safe.” Bell’s shoulders slumped. “Such a brave little soul.” He sighed, “Snuffed out merely for the sake of some cruel sport.” He looked at the ground and murmured “The man who could do this is beyond my comprehension.”
Abberline came up to us, and through clenched teeth said, “We bleed the other districts of London to flood the East End, and what do we accomplish? We merely drive the Ripper indoors to do his handiwork.” He ran his hand over his face, then his usual stoic nature reasserted itself, and he asked if there was anything we could deduce from what we had seen.
“It took no great skill to perform the mutilations and evisceration I observed, Inspector,” Bell answered. “Any butcher or abattoir worker who possessed a complete disregard for the cruelty of the act itself would have the necessary skills. What can you tell me of her discovery?”
“Simple enough,” responded the inspector. “She was in arrears for her room, so the landlord, Mr. McCarthy, sent his assistant Bowyer around to collect at about ten forty-five this morning. Bowyer knocked on the door but got no answer. He reckoned she hadn’t the rent and was laying low, so he looked in the window here to see if she was hiding inside.”
Abberline pointed to the window, and I noticed his hand was trembling. Even this old veteran was shaken by what he had seen, and I was less ashamed at my reaction. “When he pulled aside a curtain that was helping to block that broken window he . . . well, you saw what he saw. He hotfooted it back to Mr. McCarthy and could scarcely speak, but was able to say there was a lot of blood. Mr. McCarthy came here straight away and, after looking inside, sent Bowyer to us.
“Inspectors Dew and Beck were on duty when Bowyer arrived. Dew told me the poor man was so frightened that at first he just yammered away until finally he said, ‘Another one. Jack the Ripper. Jack McCarthy sent me.’ The inspectors followed Bowyer back here. They tried the door but were unable to open it, so Bowyer took them to the window and both looked inside.”
Abberline shook his head sadly. “We believe the body is that of the resident, a Miss Mary Kelly, a well-known streetwalker in this area. We won’t know for sure, of course, until we can have a close acquaintance identify her. She was keeping company with a Joseph Barnett, according to the neighbors. I’ve sent a constable round to fetch him from the lodging house he lives in now. I tell you, gentlemen, I don’t envy him the task that awaits, both because of how it may affect him and the little he’ll have to go on.”
Abberline scratched his chin in thought. “I hear from the neighbors that her man Barnett left after quite a row a couple of weeks back. He didn’t like her bringing customers to their bed; she was angry with him for not helping with the rent. This looks like Jack’s work, but I shouldn’t forget to ask Mr. Barnett about his whereabouts last night as well. There’s no sign of forced entry. As the door is locked from outside, if we find Mary’s key inside that would mean the killer already had his own.
“From what I can tell through the window, our killer was here for some time. I would think the longer he stays in one place, the more likely he would be to leave something behind that may help us identify him. Perhaps in his frenzy he got careless and left us a clue. I promise you that if he did I’ll follow it to the gates of hell if I have to!” This last bit was said with a fierce determination that transformed his usually calm and thoughtful appearance into a determined warrior’s. I was glad we had a man of Inspector Abberline’s caliber in charge.
It was half-past one in the afternoon when an inspector arrived and announced the bloodhounds were not coming. I can only surmise this was due to the curse of bureaucracy that infects every human undertaking. Abberline, furious at the needless delay, ordered his men to break down the door.
The landlord fetched a pickax, then tore the door open himself. Perhaps this was to minimize damage to his property, but in fairness he did so with a will and was as sickened by the scene inside as any of us.
I remained outside, having seen quite enough already, while Professor Bell entered with Doctor Phillips. Neither of them touched anything, however, until Doctor Thomas Bond, another police surgeon, arrived. Sadly, the use of fingerprints, now standard procedure in criminal investigations, was not available then. I cannot help but wonder how things might have turned out had the police access to such techniques.
When the examination was complete, the professor came out and said in quiet tones that there was no need for further inspection of the body back at the morgue, as the killer had essentially done the postmortem for us. Nothing of interest remained of the body itself—that could be opened or otherwise viewed—that had not been made visible at the scene or been removed by the killer.
“Her body parts were arranged about the body,” Bell said, morosely, “just as they were for the Mitre Square victim. Only . . . more so. No doubt because the killer had more time due to the seclusion of her room.” Bell clenched his fist and whispered hoarsely, “He arranged her, Doyle . . . like flowers in a vase . . . for some bizarre artistic effect! I cannot fathom this man. Perhaps . . . perhaps it’s better I cannot.”
I merely nodded. What words could have offered him the slightest comfort?
Bell was somber and silent for a moment more, then straightened and looked me keenly in the eyes. “I’ll find him. Wherever he goes, I’ll find him. I’ll see to it he pays.”
I extended my hand. “No, Professor,” I said, returning his gaze. “We’ll find him.”
Bell grasped my hand and, at that moment, each knew the other’s heart. An oath had been sworn.
There had been a fire in Mary Kelly’s grate hot enough to melt the handle and spout of a tea kettle, and the ashes contained the wire rim of a woman’s hat. A woman named Maria Harvey later told police she had stayed with Miss Kelly two nights earlier that week, and she’d left some clothes behind. The police speculated that her clothes must have been the source of the fire, as Mary Kelly’s garments were found hanging neatly on a chair at the foot of the bed. Inspector Abberline surmised that the clothes were set alight to provide the Ripper with light for his gruesome labor.
The examination of the body was completed at three forty-five, and shortly afterward it was removed to the city morgue. A large crowd had gathered outside the entrance of the courtyard as news of the newest murder victim had spread, while the Lord Mayor’s Procession was underway less than half a mile away. This ancient ceremony presenting the new Lord Mayor to the people of London had drawn a considerable number to enjoy the spectacle. As the news of the latest atrocity moved through the crowd, however, many left before its conclusion to partake of other, less formal, entertainment.
I imagined the pomp and circumstance celebrating the new Lord Mayor, attired in his ermine-trimmed robe and his chain of office, contrasted with the subdued removal of Mary Kelly’s body.
“No eulogy for Mary,” I said.
Bell cleared his throat, bowed his head, and, in a voice uneven with emotion, began to recite a recently published poem by William Henley, his pronounced brogue attesting to his emotion:
“Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.”
A multitude rushed out of their apartments and bore silent witness as Mary made her final journey out of Miller�
��s Court. I heard a distant band playing processional music.
“In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloodied, but unbowed.”
Women openly wept and men of every class doffed their caps as she passed by in the battered and often used “shell,” a large coffin-shaped wheeled box covered by a ragged and filthy cloth, while Bell continued:
“Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.”
I watched the most wretched of Her Majesty’s subjects render their honors upon one who had lived gamely among them and so cruelly been taken from their midst, as Bell concluded, choking on the final line:
“It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.”
The sound of a distant crowd cheering marked the end of the Lord Mayor’s ceremony; here in Miller’s Court, no one spoke a word.
We were released for the moment, Abberline asking us to visit him the next morning in his office. We two Musketeers knew that our duty lay now in sharing our unexpected day’s activities with the third, and to tell her we would not be spending the night in Spitalfields station; the calamity we had been awaiting had happened.
We sat in silence during the ride to Vine Street, Bell looking out of the hansom, deep in thought, while I had the feeling once more of something pulling at my sleeve, trying to get my attention.
Margaret had heard of the recent murder already while out buying food, and she’d gone to Miller’s Court, but as she had not been in her Pennyworth attire she’d not been allowed to enter.
A Knife in the Fog Page 21