I shared Bell’s eulogy with her, and she, like me, was deeply affected by his tribute to Mary. His nobility of spirit had impressed me ever since I served as the clerk of his surgical service not so many years before. This entire adventure had only strengthened my respect for the character of my old mentor.
“I’m sorry we weren’t able to include you, Margaret, but Abberline sent a wagon for us, and we had no control over our movements until we arrived,” I said, lying as convincingly as I knew how. In truth, I was not sorry at all, sharing Bell’s desire to spare Margaret the visions of Mary Kelly’s butchery.
Margaret brushed that aside, for her fury was directed elsewhere. “The bastard!” she snarled. “To think this brute who kills women for sport is at this very moment laughing at the terror he’s inspired. The second letter was correct, Doyle. I know you and the professor assumed the writer intended me as his next victim . . . I feel guilty that he chose poor Mary instead. He couldn’t have been following us the entire time; how would he know we met with her? How would he even know about us?”
Suddenly I feared I would vomit again. The answer to Margaret’s question had stopped pulling on my sleeve and now stared me in the face.
“The answer has been right in front of me the entire time, but I lacked the wit to see it!” I declared, furious. My friends stared at me with blank faces.
“Unless the killer has been shadowing us continuously, how could he possibly have known of our meeting with Mary Kelly? Who else besides we three could have known?”
Margaret looked at me blankly, while Bell began nodding his head as comprehension dawned.
“Think, Margaret! Who is the one man to whom I gave a list of all our activities and contacts?”
Margaret’s face turned pale, and her knees almost betrayed her when the realization struck. With a voice husky with emotion, she whispered, “Wilkins.”
CHAPTER FORTY
HANNIBAL’S SON
Friday, November 9, cont.
“Exactly!” roared Bell. “Wilkins! It was he who supposedly convinced Mr. Gladstone to contact you. We have kept him abreast of the investigation, yet we never verified his identity. A simple cardboard card with gold lettering and an impressive address, and we gave him our complete trust. The bah-stard!”
Margaret began to tremble. “Mary! Poor Mary! He wanted to kill someone you knew, remember? That’s why he wanted you to meet with a streetwalker . . . and I led you straight to her! I’m the reason she’s dead!”
I took both her hands in mine, looked into her eyes, and said firmly, “Nonsense, Margaret. He is the reason she is dead. I was taken in by his deception. If anyone else is to blame, it’s me, for accepting this man’s identity at face value. Please. The burden is mine, if not Wilkins’s, or whatever his name is. We cannot bring her back. But I swear to do all I can to make him face justice.”
“But what proof do we have?” she asked plaintively. “We don’t even know where he lives. Your only means of contact is through the doorman. Could he be an accomplice?”
“No,” Bell replied with conviction. “The doorman is accustomed to carrying out the random requests of powerful men all the time. To send a message to one address though addressed to another would be in a day’s work for someone in his position.”
“So how can we track him down?” Margaret wanted to know, still seething.
“Simple enough,” I said. Anger of my own was now replacing the shock, and it was serving as a powerful tonic to clear my mind. “Send Wilkins a message and follow the messenger.”
“Perfect,” said Bell, nodding, his eyes cold with fury. “Track the beast to his lair using the very means he has used to keep a watch on us.”
It was nearing sunset when we arrived back at the Marlborough Club. Margaret, in her Pennyworth persona, was loitering across the street with her derringer in her coat pocket, while I handed a message to the doorman for Wilkins marked URGENT. The note requested a meeting as soon as possible regarding the murder that had happened that day. Margaret would follow the messenger, while Bell would follow her at a discrete distance. The professor argued the courier could have been warned about either of us attempting to track him, so Margaret, in male attire, should be able to pass along unnoticed behind him until the message reached its true destination.
The doorman merely nodded when I placed the message and a one-pound note into his hand. Bell was already outside, hidden in the shadows but in view of Margaret. As we could not be sure of the doorman’s innocence, I agreed to remain behind and within easy sight of him. Thus, he would be reassured there was nothing unusual regarding the message, and I could observe him as well.
I spent an anxious ninety minutes before the response to my message arrived, just before my friends’ return.
Dear Doctor Doyle,
I regret other concerns prevent me from meeting with you at this time. I can well imagine the reason for your sudden summons. Perhaps you, or at least Professor Bell, are not entirely incompetent, although you must admit I have provided you with ample opportunity to discern my true role in this affair. As I can only assume you had the messenger followed, we can dispense with the charade. Now is the time to see what effect motivation has upon your performance. I desire to meet with you, and very soon. I will not deny myself the pleasure of seeing the look of abject defeat upon your smug face. The little whore I butchered this morning whimpered as I sliced her. Well, at least until I sliced her some more. I look forward to giving you a personal demonstration.
I will make this as easy as I possibly can then. My next victim will be Hannibal’s Son. Stop me if you can.
Until we meet again,
Wilkins no more
My two companions returned shortly afterward, looking more tired than I had seen either of them before.
“What happened?” I asked, trying to keep my voice as normal as possible. Where did the messenger go?”
They looked at one another, then Margaret answered. “The German Embassy.”
I digested this thunderbolt while I wordlessly handed over the written reply to Margaret, which she and Bell silently pored over together.
I do not know who was more surprised: I, by the destination of the message, or my comrades, by the reply.
“He is canny, this Jack,” said Margaret, finally. “We cannot touch him while he is inside the embassy. Even if we could convince Abberline this man is our killer, he would not be able to get a judge to issue a search warrant for his private residence. If we confront him on the street, he can claim diplomatic immunity that only the ambassador could waive. Even if a search of his quarters were agreed to, the embassy staff would most likely remove all incriminating evidence before the search to avoid a scandal. The only way we can stop him is to catch him in the act.”
“Our best chance is to find this Hannibal’s Son,” said Bell. “Who today can claim to be a son of that extinct dynasty?”
I had a flash of inspiration, “Hannibal does not refer to a person exactly, but a place. Specifically, to Hannibal, Missouri, in America. Jack intends to murder Mark Twain!”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
THE TERRIER
Friday, November 9, to Saturday, November 10
There was a long silence as Bell and Margaret digested my outburst, then each began to nod slowly, recalling the announcement outside the Old Vic when we had attended the poetry reading together.
“Twain is here for a three-night run, as I remember,” said the professor.
“Starting tomorrow night,” I replied. “So, all we must do is convince Abberline of our suspicions and have sufficient forces discretely on hand so that when Wilkins, or whatever his name is, makes his move we can catch him in the act and take him into custody.”
“Let’s break down your proposal into each of its parts,” replied Bell. “First, without any proof save an easily forged letter, we convince an inspector of Scotland Yard that Jack the Ripper is a diplomat of the German Embassy. Second, we assume the police are suffic
iently cunning to protect Mr. Clemens from an attack while not alerting the killer to their presence. Third, we catch the killer in an act so obviously malevolent it will pass the strictest legal review as proof of murderous intent, allowing the police to bring him into custody. Finally, the foreign secretary can convince the German ambassador it is in the best interest of relations between our countries to waive diplomatic immunity. All four of those conditions will have to be met if he is ever to stand trial for his crimes.”
“Then what do you propose?” I asked, feeling suffocated by our apparent helplessness. “Do nothing?”
“Not at all, my friend,” Bell replied. “But we should realize the hurdles we must overcome. I suggest we start with the police in the morning. Inspector Abberline would not be found in his office at this late hour, but he is expecting us tomorrow morning. We can rehearse our arguments and see how we do with the first challenge.”
Bell was right, of course. My feeling of triumph for having solved the riddle of the next victim left me. It seemed the Ripper was as elusive as ever. I could only hope the trust and respect Bell had earned with Abberline would cause him to believe that our wild story contained an element of truth.
“Odd, don’t you think?” Margaret asked. “Up until now, he has only attacked women. It is quite extraordinary for him to threaten to attack a man, especially one as prominent as Mr. Clemens.”
“I agree, Miss Harkness,” said Bell. “But if we are confident this man is the Ripper, we have to take him at his word. We can do no less.”
I agreed. If we disregarded this threat out of hand and Mr. Clemens were to die we would have to bear the burden the rest of our lives.
We decided to pick Margaret up at nine o’clock on our way to the station the next morning. I walked with her in silence to the nearest cab, asked the driver to take her directly home, and gave him a one-pound note to ensure he did so.
I passed a fitful night, furious at the man who could butcher an innocent woman then dance away, unscathed, to mock us. I finally arose before six and took the opportunity to read the latest about the investigation of Miss Kelly’s murder. What I read was not encouraging.
An editorial from the Times caught my eye.
As long as this murderer . . . is cool enough to leave no clue behind him . . . his crimes may continue. Unless there were a policeman, not merely in every street, but in every house in Whitechapel, it is impossible to secure the safety against this “monster” of such women as yesterday’s victim . . . as long as these Whitechapel women offer themselves to the slaughterer, and the slaughterer does not lose his head, it is unjust to blame the police for failing to protect them.
The truth in the article frightened me. There would never be enough policemen. If Jack the Ripper were to be stopped, one way or another, it was up to us.
The statement by a Mr. George Hutchinson, an acquaintance of Mary’s for over three years, was poignant to me in one particular:
About two o’clock on the morning of the ninth, I was coming by Thrawl Street, when I met the murdered woman.
A man coming in the opposite direction to Kelly tapped her on the shoulder and said something to her. They both burst out laughing . . . He then placed his right hand around her shoulder. He also had a kind of small parcel in his left hand with a strap around it.
. . . . followed them. They stood on the corner of the court for about three minutes. He said something to her. She said: “All right, my dear. Come along. You will be comfortable.”
I recalled Mary Kelly telling us how she would try to get a potential customer to laugh before taking him to her room, as a way of assessing the potential danger. If this man described by Hutchinson was indeed the Ripper, it appears he passed the trial quite readily. The image of her taking the monster into her refuge only to realize his true nature when she was powerless to stop him, trusting in his laugh, saddened me in ways I cannot describe. This man did more than take lives. He took hope.
When we entered the station later that morning, the desk sergeant nodded with an odd smile on his face as he gestured for us to proceed to Abberline’s office. I quickly learned the source of his merriment, for as we approached I could hear a high-pitched, raspy voice berating the inspector at a remarkable volume.
“How dare you bring his name into this affair, Inspector! If it didn’t increase the chances of this getting out, I would have you sacked!”
We entered to see a short, thin gentleman in a double-breasted frock coat and top hat catching his breath, presumably for the next volley. Abberline was sitting at his desk looking at his accuser wearily. When we entered, his eyes turned on us, his glare extinguishing any hope I’d had of persuading him of our story.
“Well, speak of the devil!” he cried, “Or devils, in this case. Professor Bell, Doctor Doyle, and Mr. Pennyworth, allow me to introduce you to my guest, Mr. Jonathan Wilkins, personal secretary to Mr. Gladstone, who by the way, says he has never heard of any of you!”
There was stunned silence as Mr. Wilkins eyed us furiously over his pince-nez glasses, and I suddenly felt weak, having been exposed to Inspector Abberline before we had a chance to explain.
Mr. Wilkins advanced with the ferocity of Margaret’s terrier pursuing a rat, while holding a letter aloft in his right hand. “I received this note this morning from an anonymous source advising me that a Doctor Doyle and Professor Bell were misrepresenting themselves as my agents and, by inference, were acting on behalf of Mr. Gladstone. Explain yourselves, sirs. I will brook no evasion!”
“I freely admit we have never met, sir,” I began. “I was contacted by courier shortly after the murder in early September by a man who misrepresented himself as you. Professor Bell and I have met with him at the Marlborough Club on Pall Mall, where he lodged us and paid all expenses. The doorman will verify the dates we have lodged there, and the receptionist can describe the man who paid our bills as well as produce copies of the receipts. Here is the card he gave us, as well as the letter he said was signed by Mr. Gladstone, stating we were acting on his behalf.”
Wilkins studied the card and letter suspiciously. “The card is not one of mine,” he replied cautiously. “The stock is a lighter shade than what I use, but correct in every other detail. The letter is on paper the same quality and tint as Mr. Gladstone’s. Whoever,” and here he raised his eyebrows to indicate his suspicions of us had not yet fully abated, “wrote this letter has at some time viewed correspondence from his office. Describe this man for me.”
“About five foot six, pale, dark hair, and he has a trace of a Prussian accent,” I answered. “He is obviously well-to-do, else he would not have been able to fund us so lavishly, though he dresses modestly.”
At the mention of a Prussian accent, Wilkins’s demeanor changed, his shoulders relaxing as he pondered my words.
“Inspector Abberline,” he said. “I am satisfied that Doctor Doyle was duped by a cunning charlatan. As I am anxious this misadventure not be picked up by the papers, and I am sure that these gentlemen do not wish to tarnish Mr. Gladstone’s name,” at this he looked at me with raised eyebrows over his spectacles, “I will not file suit.
“You may continue to cooperate with them as you see fit, as long as the real nature of their agency is understood. Gentlemen, I would like to speak to you in private. I will await you at the entrance of the station, from whence we can adjourn to a place of your choosing to continue this conversation. Please do not leave me waiting long.”
When Mr. Wilkins said, “not file suit,” it occurred to me we were liable both for civil and criminal proceedings. A civil suit could be brought against us if he alleged we besmirched his employer’s name, and Inspector Abberline would be totally within his rights to charge us for hindering a police investigation. We had narrowly avoided the one, now to confront the other.
The inspector glared at us in silence while considering the situation. Finally, he sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping, “My hands are full as it is, and dealing with you lot
is just one more thing that would require a long report that I would have to write and carry to Whitehall.
“I also think you acted in good faith, and I know you had no hand in the murders as you were here in the station house during the ‘double event.’ But I cannot work with you any further. If word were to get out about how I was taken in, my promotion to Scotland Yard would be in question. You must leave here now, and don’t come back.”
“But Inspector,” I cried, “I have reason to believe we know who the Ripper is, and who his next victim will be! He has threatened to kill the American author Samuel Clemens! You must listen to me!”
“Oh?” said Abberline in a weary tone, “and how would you know that? Told you himself, has he?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes,” I replied.
“Then in a manner of speaking, let me tell YOU that you had best leave this station right now, else you’ll be spending another night here, further down the hall in a cell!”
“Come, Doyle,” said Bell. “There is nothing further to be gained here. The inspector has been most generous with his time and his trust. I regret our parting ways in this manner, but I should have foreseen this. Let’s see what the real Mr. Wilkins has to say before we plan our next move.”
We trudged wearily out of Abberline’s office, defeated for the moment. I was puzzled by the professor’s comment that he should have foreseen our current predicament but was hopeful our meeting with Mr. Gladstone’s real secretary would bring some light to our present darkness.
Soon we were to learn a new name for our adversary, and an explanation for his fascination with blood.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
BLOODLINES
Saturday, November 10, cont.
We adjourned to a nearby pub with private salons in the back, and once the door was closed Mr. Wilkins turned to us and said, “Tell me all you know about my doppelganger.”
A Knife in the Fog Page 22