In the Footsteps of The Whitechapel Slasher (Edwin Scott Crime Trilogy Book 1)

by Felix Bruckner

  “Rather … And what about The Citadel?”

  “Oh, yes. That’s even better. Remember where the young doctor has to perform a tracheotomy on the child with diphtheria …”

  The interval came to an end, the lights dimmed, the music resumed; we danced, still engrossed in conversation.

  “What about Conan Doyle?”

  “Oh, I adore Sherlock Holmes; my favourite story’s Silver Blaze in The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes:

  ‘What about the curious incident of the dog in the night-time?’”

  “‘But the dog did nothing in the night-time.’”

  “‘That was the curious incident, my dear Watson ...’”

  As my mood became more sombre, I found myself confessing the details of my terrible dissections of the dogfish, and my purchase of Barraclough’s Primer of Zoology in an attempt to remedy matters; I even mentioned my mother’s part in the opening of the new biology labs, without which I couldn’t hope to enter medical school …

  “Oh the Deadwood stage came a-rollin’ over the hill …” Doris Day was now in more ebullient mood.

  During the quick-step I found myself boasting of the record player my parents had given me for my last birthday.

  “It’s fantastic - plays 78’s, 45’s, and L.P’s, and stacks six records at a time ...”

  I recounted last year’s school visit to Covent Garden where Kirsten Flagstad had sung Brunhilde - in Wagner’s Gotterdammerung. While the other boys fidgeted restlessly in their seats for the four hours of the opera, I had been totally engrossed; the outing proved to be a turning-point in my conversion to classical music …

  “I simply love Beethoven.” Jill had listened patiently to my rambling monologue, and now entered the discussion.

  “Yes. Isn’t he the greatest ever? My favourite’s his Eroica Symphony.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that; I think I prefer the Seventh: it’s more melodic … But what’s your opinion of Mozart, Edwin?”

  We dismissed Mozart summarily as boring and superficial; couldn’t see what other people found in him. We discussed Schubert, and why he had composed a ninth symphony without finishing his eighth.

  “Perhaps all composers aim to complete nine symphonies - look at Bruckner, Dvorak, and even Beethoven himself.”

  I was sixteen and a half years old: the naïve thoughts and banal phrases sounded magical in my ears, the ideas emerging as though newly minted.

  “What about Johann Strauss? I gather they have a Viennese Night at the proms every year. It should be a wonderful experience.” And we agreed to go together next year - if we could get tickets ...

  The music slowed, and the lights dimmed; I noticed that her eyes were closed; once again her cheek brushed mine, the contact persisted - and we were dancing cheek to cheek; after a while she placed her arms around my neck, and I held her; we stayed in a “clinch”, gyrating gently, but hardly progressing forward at all. (Out of the corner of my eye, I observed the other couples “smooching” just like us.) I felt her body against mine, from hip to chest, deliciously soft … The spell was broken, all too soon, by the familiar rendering of Vaya con dios my darling …

  “Please take your partners for the last waltz,” came the disembodied voice over the loudspeaker: it was ten to eleven …

  The lights blazed, and everyone headed for the cloak-rooms. “See you here in ten minutes,” murmured Jill. “There may be a queue.”

  As I entered the door marked “Boys’ Cloakroom,” my sweetly euphoric mood evaporated and I became suddenly apprehensive.

  How can I see her home from Streatham all the way to Putney, and get home myself afterwards? I thought, on the brink of panic. With real relief I saw my three school-friends, who had collected together, and appeared to be waiting for me.

  “I don’t even know where Putney is ...”

  When I had explained the problem, there was a lengthy pause while they sought a solution.

  As always, Brian Pitt reacted first: “Why don’t you take her to Putney; then, from her home, phone for a taxi to bring you back to Clapham Common.”

  “It would cost the earth, and I’ve only got about a pound on me.”

  “All right then, when you get her home, ask her to direct you to a night bus - normal transport will have finished by then.” This was Johnny East’s contribution.

  “But there may not be any night buses to Clapham from there, and she is unlikely to know where to catch them, anyway.” I was not reassured.

  To my surprise, it was the usually taciturn Colin Thomas who had the last word on the subject: “Just walk her to the bus stop outside the school, here, explain the situation, arrange to speak on the phone tomorrow, and kiss her goodnight.” I had not heard such a long speech from him in a month!

  Immediately new problems presented themselves: “How should I kiss her? A long kiss or a peck? On the lips? Mouth open or closed …”

  “Just see how it goes.”

  Somewhat comforted, I returned to the hall, leaving my companions still debating among themselves; I stopped in dismay. The hall was empty, and a caretaker was already switching off the lights. I glanced at my watch - half an hour had elapsed since I had left Jill, and she had gone! I was mortified, heart-broken: my perfect friendship had ended almost before it had begun. Desperately, I searched around outside, but she had vanished. I had lost my soul-mate.

  Would I ever see Jill Pritchard again?

  Chapter Three - November, 1955

  This is much better than the frogs and toads of my school-days, oh dear me yes; better even than the bird with the broken wing. I have been re-reading Robert Louis Stevenson; tonight I feel more like Dr Jekyll & Mr Hyde than the Elephant Man. I was reminded by the book that Jekyll had worked in a hospital in Whitechapel - presumably the London Hospital.

  I walk jauntily down the dark deserted streets. Edwin would be proud, if he could see me now; after all, in a way I’m doing it for him. I turn into the now familiar cobbled alley, find the dark doorway, and pause. All is silent, all is empty. Swiftly, I delve into my briefcase, don my dark brown hood and pink gloves, and fasten the catch on the case. I adopt my hunched posture, move quietly to the street intersection, and peep cautiously out. Nothing! I wait, my heart beating agitatedly in my breast. Two o’clock strikes. Still nothing …

  But hark! I hear the approach of solitary footsteps. When they have almost reached my corner, I leap stealthily out. She is small and neat, dressed in a carmine jumper, short black skirt (displaying her knees), black stockings and stiletto-heeled shoes. Around her neck, she wears a thin, black silk scarf. Her eyes are thickly mascaraed, and her lips are formed into a cupid’s bow.

  She freezes, and the partly smoked cigarette falls to the ground. She is unable to scream - for which I’m thankful. All she can mange is a subdued sob. Almost immediately, I am upon her, before she can even turn away. I seize her throat with both hands, and squeeze. Her eyes bulge, as I gaze into them through the slit in my hood. Even in the poor light, I see her face become livid. She struggles ineffectually, like a little bird, while I continue to squeeze; I have a feeling of immense power. Suddenly, she goes limp, and I lower her gently to the ground. When I finally ease my grip, I check her carotid pulse: nothing. She is indeed dead!

  I look around me. All is deserted. So far, so good; but I shall have to hurry. Quickly I strip off her clothes - it’s more difficult than I had expected. I pile them neatly by the side of her supine body. From my case, I take a brand new scalpel, and make some rather tentative cuts over her breasts and sternum, and a deeper, more confident, slash the full length of her abdomen. I draw the knife across her cheeks for good measure. Finally, I arrange her body and hair tidily, check that her clothes are straight; I place my dissecting instruments into a plastic bag, and then transfer all neatly into my case. A sudden thought strikes me, and I chuckle out loud in spite of myself: I am treading in the footsteps of the Whitechapel Slasher!

  This whole episode has taken much longer tha
n I had expected. Luckily, I was not disturbed. Quickly I return to my alleyway, remove hood and gloves, straight into another plastic bag, and then back into the brief-case. I cover everything with a tea-towel, lock the case, and exit through the far end of the narrow street.

  I resume my normal unhurried gait, but check at the next lamp-post that there is no blood visible on me. I walk purposefully down Brick Lane; I meet no-one. Finally, I emerge onto the Whitechapel Road, and head for home. I am quietly satisfied with the night’s work; yet there is still room for improvement.

  Thursday, 3rd November: I was in the men’s common room, chatting idly to my new friends; I had a newspaper on my lap, and was browsing through it, glancing with only passing interest at the headlines.

  I sat up with a gasp.

  “Listen to this in the Daily Mail:

  ‘PROSTITUTE MURDERED IN WHITECHAPEL. EVIDENCE SUGGESTS MODERN DAY JACK THE RIPPER.’

  “ ‘Fay Bradley, a prostitute, was found strangled in Hanbury Street, not far from Whitechapel Underground Station, in the early hours of this morning by two policemen on the beat. Her clothes had been removed and folded neatly beside the body. The skin of her face and torso had been slashed with a sharp implement. Could this be the work of a modern day Jack the Ripper? According to a friend they had previously confronted a hooded monster in the identical spot about a fortnight before, but had escaped.’ ”

  We came out of our torpor; for the rest of the morning, the murder remained the sole topic of conversation.

  Elsa, our pert lab technician, finished setting up the equipment, as we arrived. The physiology laboratory was on the top floor of the medical school, with views across the City of London to St Paul’s Cathedral. The arrangement of work benches reminded me of my school labs; however, the apparatus which had been laid out was vastly different: corrugated rubber tubing connected a face mask through a system of valves to a wide cylinder, inside which a piston rose when it was filled with exhaled air; the cylinder - covered with heat-sensitive graph paper - rotated, and a heated stylus ran over it, recording the changes in volume of gas against time. This was a spirometer, and we were provided with one for each group of four students.

  Professor Mendelson supervised the class: he showed us how to attach the mouth-piece, pinch off the nostrils with a clip, then blow steadily, to empty all air from the lungs into the spirometer; and, finally to take a maximum breath in again. In each group, one student checked that all tubing remained correctly attached (and didn’t leak); one acted as the experimental subject, breathing in and out of the machine; one started the drum and ensured that the stylus maintained contact with the graph-paper throughout the experiment, while the fourth recorded the subject’s pulse at the wrist. The whole sequence was repeated once, and then we all changed places: eventually each team should end up with eight recordings.

  I found myself teamed up with Bob Parsons, Malcolm Conway and David Feldman.

  Malcolm had volunteered to be the first guinea-pig. He was exceptionally broad-shouldered, with black wavy hair, and a perpetual blue “five o’clock shadow” on his jowls; what one first noticed about him, however, were his prominent ears and his thick horn-rimmed glasses.

  “Without them, I’m blind as a bat!” He confessed wryly.

  We had soon discovered that Malcolm had a photographic memory; yet his brain often appeared overwhelmed by the sheer volume of information that presented itself. The answers he regurgitated always started from the beginning of the text, and included much irrelevant material.

  “What is meant by the FEV1?” he had been asked.

  “Er … The vital capacity is the maximal volume of air that can be breathed out after a maximal inspiratory effort, if the air is expired as quickly as possible, the Forced Expiratory Volume in one second (FEV1) is a measure of the patency of the airways, especially the small bronchi and bronchioles, the peak expiratory flow, measured on a Wright peak flow meter gives a more accurate assessment of ...” There was hardly a breath between sentences.

  “Everything but the kitchen sink,” our teachers summed him up, and he became known as “Kitchen-sink Conway”.

  Malcolm was connected up, and accommodated in a comfortable seat. He breathed out, the drum rotated, the stylus moved down and recorded on the heat-sensitive paper; after a brief pause, there was a slight jerk, and then the stylus descended further. We were totally absorbed by the recording; it was only when Bob reported that the pulse was weak and appeared to be accelerating, that we noticed the subject’s face turning purple - though he remained quiet and self-contained, sitting patiently, without fuss.

  Clearly something was wrong! I removed the clip from his nose, and he took in a huge gulp of air. In retrospect, we realized that the chart showed him breathing out, but never in: the inspiratory valve was mal-functioning. While Malcolm regained his normal colour, and the rest of the team our equanimity, Elsa called Professor Mendelson. He checked the apparatus, disconnected and reversed the inspiratory valve, and finally reconnected it; he blew in and out of the tubing a few times, watched the cylinder rise and fall, frowned at Elsa, nodded to the group, and, still without a word, disappeared back into his office.

  Friday, 4th November: I sat alone in my medical school blazer and tie, trying to make a pint of beer last all evening; outside it was pitch black, but I could hear the rain drumming on the window panes; the refectory, which had been converted into a dance floor for the evening, was virtually deserted, and a handful of students conversed in low voices at the bar: it was eight-thirty, and this was a London Hospital Medical College At Home.

  Social events were held monthly, alternating between the medical school and the nurses’ home. Last month’s function had taken place on a special floor laid over the nurses’ swimming pool; it had been a quiet affair, for although the beer was free, most of the students had left when it ran out.

  Tonight, the ladies began to arrive at nine o’clock: the experienced few headed straight for the bar; the rest huddled in small groups on the seats around the edge of the room, chatting nervously.

  A senior medical student detached himself from the bar, and switched on the record player: a quickstep echoed through the dining-room. Nobody moved.

  I finished my drink, surveyed the scene; then, with heart pounding painfully, I made my way across the empty floor towards a group of girls; at random I chose one with frizzy ginger hair and glasses: “May I have the pleasure of this dance?”

  She rose awkwardly and danced away from me, holding me rigidly at arm’s length, concentrating intently; I could feel her shivering.

  “My name’s Edwin; I’m a medical student here.”

  “I’m Emma …”

  I could produce no further conversational gems, and we continued our solitary progression around the floor in silence. I don’t know which of us was more relieved, when the music finally stopped - and I was able to escort her back to her seat.

  By ten o’clock, I was wondering whether to leave; the bar was now fairly full: the students were drinking steadily, their dialogue punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter; about half the chairs around the hall were occupied - almost exclusively by girls; the noise level had risen by a couple of decibels.

  “I’ll try one last dance.” I emptied my second pint, and strode purposefully towards a girl sitting very erect in one corner.

  “May I have the pleasure ...”

  Carefully she put down her glass of sherry, before rising to her feet with a faint smile; I took her hand, and walked her towards the centre of the floor, where two or three couples were making rather heavy weather of a waltz; we took our stance carefully, and then launched ourselves into the dance: she moved neatly, holding me lightly, with just the correct contact at the waist and hips.

  “I’m Edwin; I’m a medical student at The London.”

  She eyed my new blazer and tie with a faintly sardonic smile, assessing me.

  “Hm, I’m Jenny … Jenny James.”

  “Are you a nurs
e?”

  “Good Lord, no! I’m a physiotherapy student - second year.”

  She gazed at me steadily from slightly above my eye level; she had black hair with a fringe; her pale skin accentuated her deep hazel eyes.

  “What year are you, Edwin?”

  I admitted rather meekly that this was my first year.

  The music stopped and I returned her to her seat and glass of sherry; somewhat to my surprise, I found myself sitting next to her - she didn’t seem to mind. She had a low melodious voice, and conversed confidently and easily.

  “I don’t very often come to these dances, you know, and never come to the nurses do’s - physios are most certainly not welcome there! But I’m glad to have come today - to have met you, Edwin ...”

  “Would you like to dance again?”

  A stately (though rather tinny) foxtrot was playing; she took another sip of her sherry, put her glass down next to her chair, and then we were gliding over the dance floor, she continuing to monopolise the conversation.

  Jenny wore a striped blue and white blouse, a flared navy skirt, pearl ear-rings, and a single string of pearls at her throat; her lipstick was dark red, and I noted just a hint of eye make-up; she smelled of fresh soap, rather than perfume; she was athletic yet graceful, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist.

  “I love sport ... Went to Millfield. It’s a co-ed boarding school in Somerset, quite near my home. It’s not fantastic, academically - which is why I’m doing Physiotherapy - but it has great sporting facilities.”

  She played hockey, tennis, badminton, and was a judo blue belt. Since coming to The London, she had worked out most days in the physiotherapy gym, and ran regularly.

  We danced the samba, another waltz, a quickstep ... I mentioned my interest in chess, eliciting only a fractional raise of the eyebrow, but when I hinted I might take up badminton or judo, she gave me a warm, encouraging smile.

  Across the room I noticed Malcolm, Dave II and Sebastian seated together at the bar; they were sipping their drinks, gazing out at the dancers, but neither talking nor making any effort to get onto the floor.