“You will execute an emergency stop when I bang my newspaper down on the dashboard.”
The newspaper was raised, the hill was clear. As I depressed the clutch for the next gear change, I hit the brakes - to my horror I saw that the newspaper remained elevated! The examiner, caught off guard, was thrown forward; for a moment I thought that he would crash through the windscreen, terminating my test in the most grisly manner possible; fortunately he managed to grasp the dashboard; he regained his seat and the moment of danger passed. We both sat silent in the stationary car for several minutes, before he nodded, and I moved slowly forward again ...
On the way back to the test centre, I had no problems with my right turns, and made only the faintest crunch of gears, as I changed down; I felt confident - almost exhilarated - manoeuvring through the heavy traffic of Wimbledon Broadway, and had to concentrate not to exceed the speed limit.
“Pull in and switch off your engine.”
I checked my mirror, gave a hand signal, slowed down, and stopped three inches from the kerb. I answered the few simple questions on road signs and stopping distances;
there was a long pause, while the examiner looked through the check list on his clip-board, and made a few notes; I waited with bated breath, heart pounding almost audibly.
“Congratulations, Mr Scott, you’ve passed!”
The rain stopped, and the sun emerged from behind the clouds, dazzling me as it reflected off the wet road …
Wednesday, 12th April: I was enjoying a long Easter holiday; the fine warm sunny weather was interspersed with showers; through the French windows of my room, I could see a small corner of lawn beyond the concreted back yard: on the grass, sat a robin - its head to one side, its little red breast heaving - patiently waiting for a worm to emerge into the wet. From further afield came the repetitive tapping of a woodpecker, and the faint cooing of wood-pigeons.
Today was my nineteenth birthday. I had wakened at nine o’clock, to a breakfast in bed of coffee, toast and marmalade.
“Happy birthday, darling,” my mother seemed about to burst into song.
With my breakfast tray came a pile of packages and envelopes. Jane had hovered in the background, waiting for Mum to leave, so that she could wish me a happy birthday, and give me her gift personally, a surprisingly attractive silk tie in diagonal blue and silver stripes, for which she had saved up her pocket money for months; she had waited impatiently while I unwrapped it, and then tried it on over my pyjama jacket.
“I chose it myself ... Do you like it?”
Now, still in my dressing gown, my breakfast finished, I sat at the writing table, the sounds of Dvorak’s Slavonic Dances breaking over me; half my mind was on the opened presents before me, the other half still on the activities of the small bird outside.
Overall, I was pleased and touched by the multiplicity and diversity of my gifts. However, as so often, the star present was from my parents: a small envelope containing a card which read “EDWIN’S 19TH BIRTHDAY PRESENT - A made-to-measure Dinner Jacket from Alexandre the Taylor’s”. Once more they had hit on what I desired most in the whole world!
From Aunty Bronwen there was no communication ...
Friday, 21st April: I was back for the beginning of the Summer term. The medical school was buzzing with the news that Daniel Southcote - the charismatic mature student, producer of two Christmas Shows - had failed his 2nd MB for the third time, and had finally been kicked out of The London; rumour had it that he had put up a brass plate outside his Harley Street flat: “2nd M.B., F.A.I.L.E.D.” and was having to turn away the occasional gullible patient!
Now I sat alone in the bar, the sky through the window behind me purpling into darkness; I awaited signs of activity from the adjacent dance floor, the start of another At Home at the London Hospital Medical College.
With a pang, I watched Jenny through the open partition, seating herself - a pint of bitter in her hand, and a smile on her face. She was engrossed in a conversation which she punctuated with gusts of appreciative laughter. I had had no contact with her since our night at the Chislehurst Caves, and had wondered what I’d done to incur her displeasure. I craned my neck to see who she was with: her companion had his back to me, but I recognized all too well the bulky outline and spiky red hair of Mick O’Malley! Should I leave? No, I would brave it out for another half-hour.
A group of girls entered, chatting, and began arranging themselves - with apparent unconcern - on chairs nearby; after allowing a few moments for them to settle, I put down my pint tankard, and advanced on them: at random, I invited one of them to dance. I prayed that I wouldn’t have the further humiliation of a refusal right in front of Jenny and Mick, and was relieved when I was accepted without hesitation; I accompanied my partner onto the floor. As we passed before them, Mick scowled, but Jenny gave me a cheery wave; nonetheless, I knew that our romance was over.
“My name’s Vicky - Vicky Laidlaw. I’m a nurse … I’m afraid I’m quite inexperienced, you see I’ve just started. I was eighteen only last month, and this is my first social function here.”
I found her candour refreshing.
“I’m Edwin - a medical student ... been here since last October.” (I couldn’t keep a note of pride from my voice.)
As we waltzed gently around the room, I examined her more closely: she was a good half inch shorter than me, even in her high heels; she had merry grey-green eyes, chestnut hair, and faint freckles on her face and arms; her eyes would crease up, and delightful dimples appeared on her cheeks whenever she laughed - which was often. She followed my lead effortlessly, and seemed to float as she danced. I found her monopolising the conversation, and listened contentedly: her voice was low, soft and slightly husky, and she spoke with the cut-glass accent of the upper classes. In spite of her youth, I was struck by her composure.
“I attended Cheltenham Ladies College … Though I’m only in PTS, I’m already enjoying nursing hugely; The London is such a lovely hospital, the surroundings so unusual ... I live in Regent’s Park…”
In the zoo? I wondered.
“… and father’s in banking … But I simply love the Nurses Home, and I’ve made so many friends already …”
I noticed that the music had stopped, and we were standing in solitary splendour on the empty dance floor; her companions had tactfully disappeared by the time I took her back to her seat ...
“Could you fetch me a small cream sherry, please, Edwin.”
I brought it for her from the bar, collecting my own glass on the way back, and came to sit by her; I was able to assess her further, as I sipped my warm beer: she wore matching pearl ear-rings and necklace; a black V-neck jumper with three-quarter length sleeves; a maroon calf-length skirt - plain but elegant - and a broad belt which emphasised her waist. She asked me about myself, but I had hardly drawn breath to answer, before she was off again, chattering enthusiastically:
“I love horses … Do you ride?”
“Sadly, no.”
“Nowadays I only ride when I visit my Uncle Percy in the Country - he keeps such a sweet-natured mare just for me. You’d adore her!” (Short pause, for a sip of sherry.) “Do you ride a motor-bike?” I was startled by the sudden switch.
“No, but I have passed my driving test ...”
“I find it so exhilarating, being a pillion passenger. You must take it up …”
I hardly noticed that the music had resumed, and that we were now dancing a foxtrot; I was charmed by the combination of youthful naivety, self-assurance and girlish good humour; I was constantly aware of her subtle - probably very expensive - perfume. We stayed together all evening, sometimes dancing, sometimes sitting out; conversing as if we had known each other all our lives. The memory of Jenny James had been totally erased from my mind.
“I’m afraid I haven’t a late pass, and have to be back in the Nurses Home by half-past-ten!”
It was ten-fifteen.
We grabbed our coats, and dashed around the corner to the PT
S Nurses Home; at the front door, a sister tutor was fiddling ostentatiously with a bunch of keys, prior to locking up.
I felt a quick breathless kiss, and Vicky was gone!
Friday, 28th April: Although it was still daylight outside, it was dark in the basement, and the electric lights were on. We had walked the whole length of the Strand from Trafalgar Square, and had entered the London School of Economics by a hidden side entrance; as usual, only the secretary, Charles Witherspoon, remembered the way - though several had been here before. This was my first outing for the London Hospital Medical College chess team, and I was surprised to be playing fourth - not bottom - board.
We had been provided with soggy sandwiches - chicken, ham and cheese - by the home team; I turned down the offer of a pint of beer, and contented myself with a cup of tea. I needed to keep my wits about me.
The men’s common room was dilapidated, almost seedy: it was smaller than our Athenaeum, littered with newspapers and magazines; the walls were covered in political posters; six chess tables were distributed randomly around the room.
From outside a clock struck seven: almost in unison, without instruction, we checked and started our chess clocks - and began playing.
I faced a scruffy character with long hair and a shaggy beard, which made him look older than his years; his fingers were nicotine-stained, finger nails long and dirty.
“Name’s Scroggins,” he muttered, avoiding eye contact.
“Edwin Scott …”
Playing White, I had - as usual - opened with the Queen’s Gambit; after twelve moves I played my customary knight sacrifice - declined (or not noticed)! Having baited my trap, I offered my opponent a draw, to lull him into complacency. Mr Scroggins paused for a full minute, surveying the pieces, while the clock ticked away; then, to my surprise and confusion, he abruptly leaned forward and shook hands: oblivious to the impending peril, he had accepted the draw!
Ours was the first game to finish.
Chapter Eight - May, 1956
I have again done my homework meticulously, and had a couple of rehearsals to check the timing. (For these I gave another outing to my red beard and wig, so as not to risk recognition.) The bitch keeps herself fit, I’ll say that for her, oh yes. Unless she is out gallivanting, she runs four times a week. She leaves her flat in Old Montague Street at ten fifteen in the evening, trots briskly due East, and then disappears left up Vallance Road, heading towards Bethnal Green Road. After forty-five minutes, she reappears in my line of vision, down Brick Lane, still at the same economical pace, before turning back into Old Montague Street; she is home shortly after eleven o’clock.
I have found a dark doorway at the Brick Lane end of her road, where I can change and wait in reasonable security. It is a splendid, warm, starry night, with a narrow crescent moon: perfect for my purpose. I am some distance from the nearest street light, and well hidden from prying eyes. I wear my hood and kitchen gloves. A nearby clock strikes eleven, and the chimes are taken up by several distant churches. Then silence. She is bang on time. In the absolute stillness of the night, I hear the soft padding of her tennis shoes and her laboured breathing, as she rounds the corner, and heads toward me.
This female is strong and dangerous, but I am prepared. I let her pass, before I pounce from my doorway. On this occasion I have supplied myself with a hammer; before she can react, I strike her heavily on the back of the head. I can hear, as well as feel, the skull bones crack, oh dear me yes. Just like the proverbial egg-shell! I strike again, just to be on the safe side. She goes down. A soft sigh is all that escapes her lips. I stoop over her - I feel no carotid pulse. She is dead! Nevertheless, I open up the carotid artery on both sides, just to be doubly safe.
I strip off her jumper and bra - she has large shapely breasts - her running shorts and dark-coloured, skimpy panties. Using forceps and scalpel, I make a long, deep, mid-line incision, from xiphisternum to pubis. I disembowel her efficiently. This time, in addition, I’m able to remove most of her uterus and Fallopian tubes.
I tidy her up, place her clothes and viscera in neat piles, on either side of her supine body. I return my instruments, hood and gloves (in two plastic bags) to my case, and lock it. I look around - the streets are empty, the windows blank. I glance at my watch: I have taken just twenty minutes. I turn back, down Brick Lane, and walk briskly, but without undue haste, towards the Whitechapel Road, and home.
Saturday, 6th May: My father invariably reads the daily newspaper as soon as he wakes, around ten-thirty. Mother brings it to him in bed with his breakfast, and he expects it to be unopened, virginal.
However, this morning Mum appeared in the breakfast-room at nine o’clock, just as I was starting on my coffee. She was in a state of high excitement, and she deposited the News Chronicle on the table with a flourish.
“Look, Edwin. What d’you make of this? Wasn’t she one of your friends?”
“WHITECHAPEL SLASHER STRIKES AGAIN”
The headlines leapt off the page at me.
“The killer known as the Whitechapel Slasher has claimed his third victim, who was identified as Miss Jennifer James, a physiotherapist at the London Hospital in Whitechapel, East London. Her body was found in the early hours of this morning by two uniformed policemen on foot patrol from Brick Lane Police Station, in front of her flat in Old Montague Street. We await results of forensic investigations, but we understand that there are similarities to the previous recent murders (3rd November, 1955 and 11th February, 1956) both within a stone’s throw of the present death. Detective Inspector Charles Butter, the officer leading the investigation, stated that the body had been slashed with a sharp instrument, and the abdominal contents removed. The dissecting skills shown suggest that the Slasher may be a Surgeon, a Pathologist, or a Medical Student; or maybe a local Vet or Butcher. The proximity of all three murders to the London Hospital make the first three options the most likely. Police are conducting house to house enquiries, but so far have found no-one who heard or saw anything suspicious at the time. They have interviewed her flat-mate, Miss Catherine Edge, who identified the body. Unfortunately, she sleeps in the rear bedroom, and heard nothing. She confirmed however, that Miss James had been on one of her regular evening runs, and had been expected home at around eleven o’clock. We understand that, as a result of Miss Edge’s statement, the police are widening their enquiries …”
My coffee and toast had grown cold, as I continued to stare, with unseeing eyes at the front page of the paper.
I looked again at the luminous dial of my bedside clock: 2 am. I turned over restlessly in bed, unable to sleep. The air was close, oppressive, thundery, but outside it refused obstinately to rain.
The thoughts kept churning round and round in my head. The death of the prostitute was probably random, only linked to the London by its location; however, both the other murder victims had taken part in our 1955 Christmas show. And what - if anything - is the significance of that fact?
Eventually, still without finding a solution to the problem, I fell into a troubled sleep.
Monday 8th May: I sat at the metal table with my partner, Sebastian Clark. The news of Jenny James’s death had swept through the medical school, and was the sole topic of conversation in the dissecting room; very little work was actually being performed here this morning.
“You knew her quite well, didn’t you, Edwin?” Sebastian ventured tentatively.
I was still shocked, and gazed blindly at our partly dissected arm, without answering.
“Mr Scott required urgently in the General Office …”
A medical school porter plucked me up from my cadaver; with the attention of the rest of the table focussed on me, I was escorted from the large chamber, and shepherded down the main stairway to the ground floor. However, instead of the college secretary’s office, I was ushered into the adjacent small, windowless room. The door closed behind me. The place had been vacated by the two typists who normally occupied it: behind the larger of the desks sat a Pick
wickian figure with a shining bald head, a benevolent smile, but a sharp and penetrating gaze; on a corner of the other desk perched a burly man with a narrow Ronald Coleman moustache, a notebook open on his knee. Both men were in dark three-piece civilian suits, the bigger, younger one with his jacket draped over the back of a chair, and his shirt-sleeves rolled up to expose well-muscled forearms.
“Good morning, Mr Scott - it is Edwin Duncan Scott?”
I nodded.
“We’re police officers investigating the death of Miss Jennifer James … I’m Detective Inspector Butter, Brick Lane Police Station C.I.D., and this is my sergeant, Gary Stebbings …” He nodded towards his colleague, who kept his eyes down, while he continued scribbling his notes.
“We understand that you knew Miss James well; in short, that you are … were … her boy-friend …”
“You should talk to Mick O’Malley …” My voice came out hoarse, low, barely recognisable as my own. “He’s her current boy-friend … was, I mean … I haven’t been out with her since the end of February, last saw her - with Mick - at a medical school At Home about six weeks ago …”
“And where were you on the night of Friday, 5th May - that’s last Friday night - Mr Scott?”
“I was back at my home in Clapham Common … I still live at home with my parents, and I returned from my day at medical school at about a quarter-to-seven …”
They cross-examined me for about an hour, the inspector taking the lead role, his sergeant adding an occasional question of his own. Then I found myself outside, in the marble-floored entrance hall of the college, my limbs shaking, my head reeling. Well, at least they hadn’t taken me in handcuffs to the police station …
In the Footsteps of The Whitechapel Slasher (Edwin Scott Crime Trilogy Book 1) Page 7