City of Darkness

by Kim Wright

  “But we are sure your superiors have reprimanded those men for their carelessness.”

  Trevor hesitated.

  The Queen nodded. “Ah. So your superiors are part of the problem. We shall issue a proclamation that in the matter of the Whitechapel murders ultimate consideration should be given to proper forensic procedure.” She used the newly- learned word with pleasure, as a child might. “We assume you will be able to write a paper explaining what these procedures are to be.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Then we will guarantee a copy of this paper will be in the hands of each inspector within twenty-four hours. Go home and begin it immediately.”

  He could have fallen on the floor and kissed her feet. “This is far more than I had dared hope for, Your Majesty.”

  “You are dismissed,” Victoria said abruptly.

  Trevor rose, bowed, collected his things and began backing toward the door. The Queen was gazing into the fire.

  “Detective?”

  “Your Majesty?”

  “I understand my grandson is one of your suspects.”

  Trevor stood stunned, both by the boldness of the inquiry and the fact she had for once dropped the use of the royal “we”. Finally he found his voice. “All of London is our suspect, Ma’am. But your grandson’s alibi proved impeccable, did it not?”

  The queen managed a sound somewhere between a cough and a laugh. “Quite a clever answer, Detective, our guess is that you will go far in life. You are dismissed,” she said again and Trevor fled.

  1:10 PM

  Leanna watched with ill-concealed impatience while John finished the last of his chicken and folded the blue napkin back to its original design. “This has been a lovely lunch,” he said, smiling at her.

  “Yes, lovely. Have you noticed anything unusual about it?”

  “The mint sauce for the chicken? Quite daring. Was that your idea?”

  “You know I’m not speaking of the mint sauce,” Leanna fairly howled in exasperation, for it was impossible to tell when John was joking and when he was not. “We’re alone, quite utterly alone, and please don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

  “I’ve noticed of course, but thought it would be ungentlemanly to comment on the fact and thus cause you distress.”

  “And thus cause me distress? Honestly, John, sometimes you can be as thick as plank. I have plotted all morning to get everyone out of the house.”

  “Is there something you wanted to discuss?”

  Leanna nervously fiddled with the lace of her gown. Of course there was something she wanted to discuss, but there was no way a lady could ask a gentleman to declare his intentions. Strange that she had planned how to get him alone, but been unable to script the conversation to follow. She looked at John hopelessly.

  “Are you upset with me?” John asked. “Because of the cancelled theater dates? I know no apology can suffice…”

  “Your apologies have all sufficed. It’s just that you seem so casual about our courtship. Is this even a courtship? Is that the right word? I don’t know where I stand.”

  His eyes were so dark it was impossible to distinguish pupil from iris and Leanna noticed he was nervously pulling at the buttons on his waistcoat as if attempting to mirror her own bodice fiddling. “I explained to you, Leanna, when we first met, that I am not in a position to inherit from my family.”

  “Meaning what?” Leanna asked, anxiety now becoming an acute pain in her chest, for she knew what was to follow.

  “Meaning that I must restrain any feelings toward you until that point in time where I am capable of pressing for a serious courtship. I have a practice to establish, a clinic to build, and to declare my intentions to you before I am in a position to offer…”

  “You’re saying you won’t be able to court anyone for years! Money isn’t all that matters. My family – “

  “Your family is wealthy, is that what you’re about to say? That doesn’t make things better, it makes them worse. It only means the gulf between us is all the wider. Do you plan to take me home to the country, to the family estate? Do you think your mother and brothers would be delighted to welcome their precious Leanna and her penniless suitor?”

  “You’re hardly penniless, John. You have a thriving practice. And that wasn’t what I was about to say about my family at all. If you only knew how things really stand….”

  He turned from her, resting his chin on his knuckles so that she could only see his profile. “I wouldn’t ask you anything until I was in the position to give you the world. It wouldn’t be gentlemanly.”

  “Oh, dash that word ‘gentlemanly’ from the language. More pain has been given to more girls by men who were trying to be gentlemanly…I don’t want the world, John. When have I suggested that I expect you to give me the world?”

  “How old are you, Leanna?”

  She swallowed, knowing that the answer would be used against her. “Twenty.”

  “I am thirty-two. When you are my age, you will see what I mean and you’ll thank me for not promising what I cannot deliver.”

  “If you’re saying that you think your whole career must be established before you marry, that’s foolish,” Leanna said, carelessly reaching across the table to grasp his arm. “I understand life better than you think I do and besides, I know wealthy people. So does Aunt Geraldine. I could help you with your work.” My God, she was close to begging. She forced herself to release his wrist, sit up straight again and control her voice. He was still unwilling to meet her eyes and suddenly her desperation gave way to anger.

  “But that isn’t it, is it? You’re only using your work and your lack of money to shield me from the real truth. You don’t have to choke back passion for my sake because there isn’t any passion. It’s easy to restrain an emotion you don’t feel, isn’t it John? And to receive a reputation for saintliness in the bargain…”

  “You know nothing!” he suddenly roared, sending the silver flying and causing Leanna’s to jerk back her hand. “You don’t know me at all, don’t know what I think! How dare you tell me what is and isn’t hard to bear? Thank you for the lunch, Leanna, but I’m leaving.”

  Leanna could barely see him rise through her tears. “I only wanted you to touch me, once, just so I would know that you cared.”

  “You think that when a man touches a woman it’s proof of his love?” John rasped, his face splotched with anger and his hands unsteady. “By God, but you are young and stupid. And you think you can help me in my work! That is quite the joke, Leanna.”

  “Then go. You’ve insulted me enough.”

  “No, I haven’t, you’ve insulted yourself. You may not like this, probably won’t, but there are certain social truths you must learn to accept. There are women men may freely touch and there are those whom they may not. You fall into the latter group and why you find that insulting, I can’t begin to guess.”

  “Oh, spare me your analysis,” Leanna said, her own composure returning a bit. “What you really mean is that women are like curios in a shop. Some are laid out and marked quite clearly and affordable to anyone who ventures in. Others are on a high shelf and if you must ask the price that in itself is a sign you cannot afford to buy. To obtain one of those curios you have to enter into lengthy negotiation with the shopkeeper who keeps telling you how special and unique each one is. All you’re saying, John, is that I am on a high shelf. In your heart you believe that, one way or another, all women are for sale and the only problem between the two of us is that you can’t afford me yet.”

  “If that is the way you see our relationship, then there is nothing more to discuss,” John said. “I’d ask Gage for my coat, but as you point out every ten minutes, Gage isn’t here.” He looked at her, his expression flat. “You’re quite spoiled and I can’t believe I ever took you so seriously.”

  “Kiss me.”

  “What?”

  “Kiss me. I know you want to.”

  He stood up, looking down at her, and
a new emotion came into his face. Sadness. “You’re playing games and I can’t say I fully blame you. You’re young, and I may be your first suitor. You want to turn me into one of the men in your books. Restraint may be foolish in fiction, but not in real life, Leanna. No, I won’t kiss you. I’m not a toy.”

  “Neither am I, John. I want some sign that you really do care. Evidently I am expected to wait…”

  “No one is asking you to wait. Do as you please.”

  “I want to wait,” Leanna said, vowing not to break into sobs for a second time. “Just give me a reason to believe…”

  “If you need proof of my feelings then you don’t know me. No, I won’t kiss you. I won’t touch you at all.”

  Leanna took a big gulp. “Why not?”

  “Because I intend to marry you.”

  Leanna sank back into her chair, breathless and tearless, and John pulled on his coat and left the room without a backward glance. The oaken door onto Kingsly Place slammed shut with an angry crack, but Leanna did not flinch at the sound. A minute passed, measured by the dull thuds of the mantle clock, then another. Still Leanna did not move and she waited for some feeling to come. Despair? Triumph? Relief? Frustration? But no emotion rose from the solid surface of her numbness and finally, with surprising steadiness, she stood and began to collect the dishes on a platter to take to the kitchen. She gazed down at the scattered silver and linens under John’s chair. A great war had evidently been fought here, but Leanna was not sure if she had won or lost.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  October 29

  4:15 PM

  “I don’t know how to thank you, Welles.”

  “Then don’t. If I can’t go to Paris myself, you’re clearly the man for the job.” Trevor looked back as he held the door for Abrams. “And there is something you can do in compensation. I’m on my way to meet Madley and Phillips for an overview of the case. Come with me. We’ve been through this all so often, and we can use a pair of fresh eyes.”

  Abrams looked about, nervous as a naughty schoolboy. “Eatwell insisted –“

  “Bother Eatwell. I plan to use your brain as much as I can while it’s still in London. In a matter of days you’ll be sailing to France, on direct order of Her Majesty, and even Eatwell’s jurisdiction doesn’t reach that far. Come on, man. We go through the notes every week, for all the good it’s given us.”

  Abrams nodded and followed Trevor deeper into the belly of Scotland Yard, down each level until they ended up in the mortuary where Phillips and Davy were already waiting. If they were surprised to see Abrams coming through the door with Trevor, neither made a sign. The four men sat down around the table and Trevor pulled out his notebook.

  “I thought we’d see if Abrams brings any new thoughts to the discussion,” he said. “Davy, would you like to begin?”

  “Three hundred thirteen people interviewed so far,” Davy said promptly. “Eighty- one of them detained, most on the grounds of a prior arrest for violence with a woman, particularly a prostitute. Most of the men are untrained, illiterate, over half of them foreign-born. Which is, of course, quite a different profile from how we originally viewed our killer.” Davy looked at Abrams. “The ships bring more men in and out every day and we could continue to interview them until the turn of the century. But I don’t think we’ll hear anything new.”

  He’s different from the boy I met a few weeks ago, Abram thought. All that lad could do was stammer “Yes, Sir” and “No, Sir,” and the bobby before me now isn’t afraid to express an opinion, even in the midst of superiors.

  “Sounds like you’ve found three hundred and thirteen Micha Banasiks,” Abrams said. “Have you interviewed any people who aren’t illiterate and foreign-born?”

  Davy nodded. “Of course, Sir. An actor who is apparently too good at his craft, a writer of children’s books who likes to play word games similar to those in the letters, several doctors, even a woman or two. Either interviewed them or indirectly sought alibis, just as you did for the Duke of Clarence.”

  “The Queen’s grandson?” Phillips said with surprise. “Even I hadn’t heard that part. Whatever for?”

  “Granted, he has no medical skills,” said Trevor. “And, for that matter, no apparent skills of any sort. But he is known to be a frequent patron of the brothels in the East End.”

  “It’s quite a jump from saying he visits whores to saying that he kills them,” Phillips said sharply. His use of the word “whore” surprised Abrams. In all they had been through, he had never heard the doctor refer to the women of Whitechapel as anything but patients or victims. But Welles and Davy laughed easily.

  “Quite right,” Welles said. “He may be a fool or a reprobate, but the man has alibis to spare.”

  “Other than that, we don’t have much more than we had when you worked the case,” Davy said, turning back to Abrams. “It’s most likely a man with some medical training who is ambidextrous. “

  “Not a slaughterhouse worker?” Abrams asked, just to confirm.

  Phillips shook his head. “I’m afraid the last two killings ruled that out completely. The work on Eddowes…Well, you saw. Too complete.”

  “We received a kidney courtesy of George Lusk, the man who leads the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee,” Trevor said.

  “So the newspapers got that part right?” Abrams said.

  “Unfortunately yes,” Trevor said. “That was one thing we were hoping to keep under our hats but Mister Lusk seems to have an unquenchable thirst for public attention. We considered him a suspect, briefly, because he always seemed to be close to the trouble, but he has excellent alibis as well.”

  “But he did provide the kidney,” Phillips said. “Which is human, of a size that would suggest from a woman, and in the right state of decomposition to have been removed about the time Eddowes was killed. An expert job of removal, especially under the circumstances of haste and darkness, and it was then I knew beyond question that we weren’t dealing with a dockworker or a barber or a butcher.”

  “So why are you still interviewing men from the East End?” Abrams looked around at the three solemn faces before him. “I’m sorry if it’s a rude question, but it seems to me you’ve eliminated the very sort of man you’d find there as a suspect.”

  “Some of the men in the East End started life higher,” Davy said. “You’ve got to remember, Sir, not everyone is like you and Detective Welles. I mean no disrespect, but –“

  “He’s fumbling around trying to find a polite way to say that not all men are ambitious climbers like us, Abrams,” Trevor said with a mirthless laugh. “Not all men rise above their born station.”

  Davy looked down at the table. “Just the opposite for some, Sir, that’s my point. A man who was once educated or professional…. he could fall in status, take a step back in his prospects. Due to a taste for alcohol or for certain type of woman or even because he emigrated from some lesser country and then he’d be dead bitter, wouldn’t he, Sir? That’s why I’m still interviewing men from the East End.”

  “I disagree with Davy,” Trevor said amiably. “I think we’re looking for a West End gent who goes to the East End, does his deeds, and then leaves.”

  “How?” Abrams asked skeptically. “Does he walk up to the fountain on Merchant Street covered in blood and casually hail a carriage?”

  Trevor winced. “Quite right. That’s the part I haven’t figured.”

  “Show Detective Abrams the pictures and the letters,” Davy prompted.

  “Ah, the damned letters,” Trevor said, reaching for another file. “More than a dozen in total and I would venture most of them are hoaxes. The question is, which ones? Some are quite polite and measured, one a wild rant supposedly sent from hell, two are in rhyme….hard to picture them all being written by the same man.”

  Abrams flipped through the letters, his eyes scanning a phrase here and there. “An educated man could pretend to be ignorant,” he said. “He could deliberately misspell words and use
incorrect grammar in an attempt to throw us off the scent.” Abrams reddened as he noted he’s used the word “us” instead of “you.” Despite the plum of the Paris assignment, he had not fully come to terms with the humiliation of being removed from the case, and his hands almost trembled with the excitement of actually touching the Ripper letters. “But an ignorant man or a person with limited knowledge of English couldn’t write any better than they knew how, no matter how hard they tried.”

  “Which is precisely why I don’t think they were all written by the same person,” Trevor said. “Now, for the pictures.”

  Abrams paused for a moment before flipping the file open, his fingertips resting lightly on the cloth covering. Photographs disturbed him, for reasons that he could not say. When Scotland Yard had insisted each of their detectives submit his image to the black box, Abrams had found that his heart was pounding as he waited in line for his turn. I’m as bad as those savages who fear the camera will steal their souls, he thought, and the final product – the visage of a homely, bespectacled man, whose left eye tended to drift ever so slightly toward his nose – had not pleased him. Abrams considered the recent mania for photographing the dead even more macabre, although in the case of murder victims he supposed there was an argument to be made for the practice.

  With a soft exhalation, Abrams opened the folder. The first picture was of Martha Tabram, proof that Welles had not fully given up on the notion of including her in the list of victims. Her face was turned slightly to the left, mouth slack, as if she had been caught in the act of snoring. Mary Nichols had been photographed from an odd angle, as if whoever had taken the picture had stood at her feet and gazed up at her. Next came Anne Chapman, her head also lolling to the side, and Elizabeth Stride, the only one of the group whose photograph evidenced the oft-quoted claim that the dead looked at peace. He supposed it was because the Ripper didn’t have much time with her. Sad to consider that this were likely the only pictures ever taken of these five women, the only way in which they would ever be remembered.