by Kim Wright
"Good day, Robert. We’ve all made our reports, so what brings you down to the Yard?" asked Davy, shaking Spicer’s hand. Trevor was eager to observe Davy's interviewing skills but he didn't want to listen in too obviously and thus make the boy nervous, so he pretended to be absorbed in his nonexistent Hoppy notes.
"Well Davy, something occurred to me last night, but in all the excitement I neglected to put it in the report. It may be important to the case and it may not." answered Spicer, adjusting himself in the chair.
"In this case, we'll take all the information we can gather. What’s it about?"
"Late in the evening yesterday I was making my rounds just off Commercial Street when I came upon Rosy Matters, one of the local girls, and she was sitting on a dustbin having a laugh with a gentleman. What I thought queer was he was really a gentleman. I mean, here was this well-dressed, well-bred sort just sitting in a dark alley, late at night, with old Rosy. I noticed Rosy had a few coins in her hand, and she was jostling them up and down in her palm, like..."
"Like she'd just been paid?" Davy prompted.
"Or like she was stating her fee. I asked them what they were doing in the alley, and Rosy told me to mind my own business. I could tell she was drunk and could easily have been taken advantage of. So for her safety, and with this trouble about, I asked the man in for questioning."
"Questioning about what?" Davy asked, surprised.
"Well it is a crime to solicit a streetwalker, albeit a crime that isn't much pressed."
"Indeed. Go on."
"I took the gentleman to the station house. He was very courteous for a man being arrested, did not even argue. He told Inspector Bradley he was a doctor, and he had given Rosy the two shillings so she wouldn't have to sleep outside for the night."
"What was this gentleman's name, Robert? Do you remember?"
"No, because the Inspector spoke with him in a private room. After a short while he released the man and said since he saw no reason to detain him."
"And you don't remember his name," Davy sighed, glancing toward Trevor. "Would your Inspector remember him? Was he entered into the jail registry as an arrest?"
"I would doubt it. He was there only briefly. I know I made no report on him."
"Where might we find your Inspector Bradley?" Trevor broke in.
"He's on duty at night, but most of the time you'll find him at the Boar's Head Tavern. He likes his whiskey.”
"Thank you, Robert. We will definitely check the man out. And if there is any credence to the story, we’ll make sure you get the credit,” Davy said, offering his hand once more. “What do you think of it, Sir?” he asked, when Spicer was out the door. “Worth anything?”
“Possibly. I know a doctor who treats women in the East End without charge so I suppose these souls do exist. To think an inspector wouldn’t have the presence of mind to take down every name at a time like this…”
Trevor’s words were scarcely out of his mouth when the door flew open and in marched Rayley Abrams. He went straight to Trevor, whispered something in his ear and Trevor rose to his feet. “Davy, take your next witness. With such a late start we’ll have to keep moving steadily if we’re to get all the statements today.”
“Of course, Sir,” Davy said matter-of-factly as Trevor followed Abrams out the door. Trevor thought with some satisfaction that it was as if the boy had been doing the job for years.
Once away from the mob in the hallway, Abrams turned to Trevor. “Someone downstairs I thought you might want to see. Name Micha Banasik. A Pole, brought into Bishopsgate early this morning for roughing up a prostitute. And he works in a slaughterhouse.”
“What time did they bring him in?”
“Between three and four, and he can’t account for where he was before that. He says he was drinking at a pub, but doesn’t remember where or for how long.”
“I appreciate this, especially under the circumstances,” Trevor said. But Abrams looked straight ahead as he walked and Trevor decided that to thank him more profusely might be taken as insult. The man had never been jovial, was accused of being too intent upon his work to have time for a joke with the other boys. But in truth the same criticism had often been made of Trevor.
The two men marched steadily down the stairs to where the prisoners were kept, descending deeper and deeper into the damp basement of Scotland Yard. The lighting was poor as they approached the holding cell where a virtual giant was circling steadily, not pacing as a man would, but rather moving in small, tight circles in the manner of a caged cat. Trevor stopped a few yards back from the cell and stood in the darkness, both to give his eyes time to adjust to the gloom but also because he wanted to watch the man for a minute or two. Banasik kept his huge hands clasped behind him. He was certainly strong enough and he seemed to have the temper.
“Is he what you pictured the Ripper to look like?” Abrams asked.
“I can’t say I’ve ever been able to really form an image of the man. To me he’s like a dark hole. Faceless.”
Abrams nodded. “Part of his appeal, is it not?”
“His appeal?”
Abrams looked at Trevor curiously. “You don’t feel it? I should think your obsession with the Ripper - a feeling I can sympathize with, by the way - would have grown out of some sort of identification with him. He’s no man, he’s every man. He’s faceless, just as you say.”
“It’s part of his intrigue…”
“Precisely.”
“But I wouldn’t call it part of his appeal.”
Abrams shrugged. “Have it your way, Welles. Would you like to talk to the Pole alone?” Trevor nodded and stepped out of the shadows. At the sound of his footfall, the man turned in alarm.
“Are you Micha Banasik?” Trevor asked, looking the man square in the eyes.
“Yes. Why you have ‘rested me?”
“You know why you’re here. Assault on a woman.”
A bit of a smile played around the thick lips. “She tell me she not press charge.”
“Perhaps she didn’t, but that doesn’t mean you’re off the hook. You know that phrase, Micha, ‘off the hook.’ But of course you do, you’re a butcher.”
“If woman not press charge, you must let man go.”
“It’s not surprising you’re familiar with the laws concerning assault. I see from your file this is the third time you’ve been brought in for just that reason. Broke a woman’s wrist last spring, didn’t you?”
“They trying to take too much money from me, because they think I don’t know English.”
“So you beat them?”
“Would you not if you being robbed?”
“No, Micha, I would not. Where were you last night at 1 am?”
“I no remember. Drinking.”
“Drinking where?”
“I sometimes frequent the Pony Pub,” he said, with sudden formality. “I may was there.”
“And this is where you met the woman that you struck?”
“I no know. Why you ask?”
“Last night two women were butchered in the East End. Do you know of this crime?”
Again the dignity, the pulling back of the shoulders. “I not aware.”
“Did you see those women too? Did they try to cheat you of your money? Did you get mad at them?”
“No! And I am not Ripper!”
Gad, even the sewage in the street knew the name. Trevor looked around for Abrams, but the other detective remained in the shadows, leaving the questioning to the man who, rightly or wrongly, was the official head of the case. “Well Micha, we must detain you until we can check your alibi at the Pony Pub,” Trevor said. Surely such a large and brutal-looking man would stand out in someone’s memory if he had indeed been there.
“Make it fast, I not afford to lose job.”
Trevor and Abrams turned away and started for the stairwell.
“What do you think, Welles?”
“We’ll need to check out the pub before we think anything. Peo
ple should remember his accent and his size. We have a good time line, thanks to Phillips. If someone at this Pony Pub can alibi him for the period between 12:30 and two, we’ll have to let him go.”
“Ninety minutes? Now, that is something.” Abrams paused at the top of the stairs and jerked his head in the direction of the cells below. “What’s your instinct?”
“Not our man.”
“I don’t think so either, but there was something …worth interrupting you, I hope.”
“Oh absolutely. Good form, Abrams.” Trevor dreaded the next question, but felt he should ask it. “Where have they put you now?”
“Spitalfields,” Abrams said shortly. It was the Jewish ghetto, an area known for tailor’s shops, kosher butchers, and virtually no crime. “I’m keeping the peace in Petticoat Lane.”
“If Barasik does by chance lead to something, I’ll see you get credit,” Trevor said.
“Credit? I don’t care if it’s the Queen herself that finds him, I just want this bastard caught and hanged,” Abrams said, pulling on his coat. “Speaking of which, I suppose you’ve heard the latest rumor?”
“Which one? Oh, let me guess. The Duke of Clarence.”
Abrams nodded. The Duke, known to the family as Eddy, was not only Queen Victoria’s grandson, but the eldest son of her eldest son and thus in direct line of succession. A less compelling case of the future of the monarchy could hardly be found – the young man was in his twenties and a great dandy about town but rumored to be slow-witted, bisexual, partially deaf, and riddled with syphilis. His escapades were gossiped about in the best parlors of the city and even the papers made thinly-veiled references to the various scandals in which Eddy had been embroiled. Never naming him, of course, just referring to him as “Collar and Cuffs,” a nickname that Trevor could only hope was meant to mock the Duke’s penchant for ostentatious clothing.
“He’s an easy enough target, I suppose,” Trevor said. “Been accused of everything short of stealing the crown jewels.”
“Known to frequent the East End,” Abrams said amiably. “In search of certain pleasures.”
“Are you suggesting he could really - ?”
Abrams held up a palm. “No, no, not suggesting anything of the sort. Besides, I already checked and he has alibis. Infallible ones. In training with his cavalry unit for the first two, with his formidable Grandmama for the second two. I just wanted to make sure you understand how frenzied the speculation is becoming.”
“You requested an alibi for a member of the Royal family?” Trevor said, stunned but more than a little impressed. “However did you manage?”
“By checking the whereabouts of all bloody forty-seven of them,” Abrams said, pushing open the door. “And pretending it was a matter of their personal security. City in a panic, you know, that sort of thing. Don’t worry Welles, the Queen’s private guard thanked me for it, said it showed great thoroughness on the part of the Yard. No feathers ruffled.”
“Good man,” Trevor said softly, as Abrams stepped out in the street.
Davy was on his ninth interview and was developing a bit of a rhythm. Trevor came in with another witness but he seated her at Davy’s desk, not his, then sat down in his own chair, pulled out his notebook and began scribbling notes. Davy looked over for some sort of sign from Trevor about the surprise visit from Abrams, but Trevor gave none. So Davy turned his attention back to this new witness, figuring that Trevor would fill him in later.
“Now you say you saw a man last night with Elizabeth Stride?” Davy asked the old woman seated beside him.
“Yes I did. A looker he was. A handsome dark moustache, a real respectable appearance. I looked him over as I passed Lizzy and him on the corner of Turnbull Street.”
“Could you describe him?”
“About twenty-eight, five feet eight inches tall, with a dark complexion. A foreigner maybe.”
Davy sat back in surprise. Most of the previous witnesses had been able to give only sketchy descriptions at best of men who had been seen with Catherine or Liz, but this woman was very sure of herself. “Why would you say foreign? Did he have an accent?”
“I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he sure made Lizzy giggle. But dark skin, you know, like a Turk or a Greek.”
“What was he wearing?”
“He had on a hard felt hat and a black coat. Pretty he was.”
“Was he carrying anything in his hands? A parcel?”
“Couldn’t see his hands. But he might have had something under his coat. It was big. Poor Lizzy, she was such a sweet girl too.”
Only a woman as old and used up as this one would call the gap-toothed Elizabeth Stride a girl, Davy thought. Of course, on the streets, he supposed beauty and youth were relative. Trevor rose, pushed back his chair, and went to the door to call a new witness for himself, a fact that deflated Davy a bit. He’d appeared to be listening in at first, but evidently Trevor had decided the woman’s testimony wasn’t relevant after all.
“I thank you for coming in” Davy said. “You’ve been a big help.”
“My pleasure, dearie. If you ever need some warmth or comfort you can usually find me on Elm Street,” she said with a smile.
Dear God, was their no retirement age for this particular profession, Davy wondered, opening the door for her to leave. He looked out in the hall and saw one final witness, this one lying on the bench, snoring. But before he would bring the person in, he decided he had better take full notes of the description the last witness had given. As he turned back toward his desk, Trevor signaled him over to his own desk so he could listen to what the person he was interviewing had to say.
“I think it’s Mad Maudy who’s been murdering them poor girls in the East End,” the young woman seated at Trevor’s desk was sobbing. With a quite dramatic flair, she pulled a handkerchief out of her bodice and vigorously blew her nose before stuffing it back in. “She’s as mean as a drunken sailor.”
“Who is this Mad Maudy?”
“Why everyone’s heard of Maudy,” the girl said, surprised. In another place and time she might have been quite pretty and her diction suggested she may have once known better times. But her face was marred by pox scars and the riotous orange of her hair rinse did nothing to flatter her pale coloring. “Maudy Minford, a midwife in the East End. More like a butcher though. Killed as many girls as she’s helped.”
“Killed?”
“She isn’t…very good at her work.”
“There are any number of midwifes in the area. A few doctors are available too,” Trevor said. “Why would the girls keep going to someone with such a bad record?”
The girl fingered her dangling ear hoops, but said nothing. Trevor sighed.
“Where can we find her?”
“Ask anyone in the East End. They’ll point you in her way. You can’t miss her, she’s as ugly and as foul as a stablehand. But she’s always there, Sir, always seems to be around the spot where the girls get offed. I saw her in the alley last night when they were taking poor Cathy out. And she was there when they carted off Dark Annie too. Always there, just looking.”
“Don’t worry,” Trevor said. “We’ll talk with this Mad Maudy.”
“Thank you, Sir,” the woman said, standing to leave. “She took my sister, you know Sir.”
“Took her?”
“Took her home, Sir. To the angels.”
The girl left and Trevor sat back, rumpling his hair. “Good God, what a day. Are there any more people outside, Davy?”
“One.”
“Finish it up and then we’ll discuss the reports over a beer at the Boar’s Head.”
“Very good,” answered Davy promptly, although he was surprised. A beer already? But a quick look down at his pocket watch showed that it was well past eight. His first afternoon in plainclothes had gone fast.
The person on the bench outside was hard to rouse. It took Davy a minute to ascertain if the lump was male or female, but he finally decided that the hat whic
h had fallen to one side indicated another woman.
“Excuse me Ma’am, are you here to make a statement?” asked Davy, shaking her shoulder. “Ma’am?”
“Ma’am?” the woman slowly sat up and threw back her shabby cloak to reveal bare shoulders and a ruby gown. “Oh Davy, don’t be so formal. Don’t you recognize me? It’s Frilly. Frilly Withers.” She struggled to a sitting position, the gown dipping more precariously than ever and her breath strong with the smell of hard whiskey.
“Here, girl,” said Davy, for her face was indeed familiar from his days of patrolling the East End. “Hold ‘round my waist and try to get to your feet.” She lurched against him, giggling and pawing and he felt his face go red again as he fervently prayed that none of the other officers would happened own the hall and witness his predicament.
“Right this way, Frilly,” he said, kicking open the Interrogation Room door. “Here, have a seat.”
She plopped herself down with scarcely a glance at Trevor, reached into her bag to retrieve a pint bottle, half full, and took a gulp. She then offered Davy a drink, but he violently shook his head.
“Why are you drinking so early in the evening, Frilly?”
“It’s dark as midnight out there,” she answered. “He struck down two last night and you go and ask me that? If that demon gets ahold of me I don’t want to know about it.”
“Why are you here?”
“Aren’t you coppers supposed to pay for information?” she asked with a sly grin. “Come on Davy, it be right good information I bring.”
“I’m sorry, but we can’t pay you.”
“A quid. Only a quid, Davy. It’s definitely worth a quid,” she asked again, leaning across the desk so that her breasts nearly slipped from her gown. “I don’t much want to work tonight, you know what I mean. Just a quid for my supper.” Davy glanced at Trevor.
“If it’s important, maybe a quid,” Trevor said. The Yard didn’t make a habit of paying informants but it bothered him to think of this girl on the streets in her condition. Perhaps a little money would buy her the chance to sleep it off in safety.