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

by Felix Bruckner

  When I returned home in the evening, I found Mum and Jane in a state of barely-suppressed excitement. A uniformed policeman had visited this afternoon, just as Dad was preparing to leave for work. He had interviewed both my parents to get corroboration of my whereabouts on the night of Friday, 5th May. My father had been late leaving.

  Mother couldn’t stop talking, as she related the afternoon’s events. Over and over, she repeated to me the details of her statement to the police constable, leaving out nothing:

  “You had returned from Whitechapel at a quarter to seven, and I gave you your supper at half-past. I put Jane to bed at eight o’clock …” An expression of pride (or was it chagrin) crossed Jane’s face briefly. “You and I chatted and watched TV in the breakfast room, after I had finished with Jane, until ten o’clock, when I went up to bed … I couldn’t tell him for certain when you retired … I certainly didn’t hear the front door slam after I went upstairs, but I had fallen asleep fairly quickly … Have I done right, Edwin, telling him all this? Incidentally, when did you get to bed that night?”

  “I guess it must have been about half-past ten, and then I read until eleven o’clock - The Hound of the Baskervilles …”

  Wednesday, 10th May: I sat in the Athenaeum on my own, eagerly perusing the daily papers. An article in the Daily Express (“Further Developments in the Whitechapel Murders”) had caught my attention:

  “Police have a suspect for the recent Slasher killing. During house to house enquiries, they have had reports from several neighbours of a middle aged man dressed in black, with red hair and a red beard acting suspiciously, loitering in doorways, on the day before the murder. Could this be a sighting of the Slasher himself? If you see this man, do not attempt to approach him, but report him immediately to the Brick Lane Police …”

  Chapter Nine - June, 1956

  Tuesday, 6th June: Eight of us were assembled in the small seminar room, which led directly off the dissecting room; a few rays of sunlight penetrated the small dusty window high on one wall, but only a tiny patch of blue sky was visible.

  I sat next to my dissecting partner, Sebastian; conversation was desultory, as we awaited our viva voce exam on the latest stage of “Head and Neck”; the three ladies - Anne Baker-West, Heather Smythe and Sandra Sunalingam - sat together, and Miss Baker-West’s high nasal voice cut jarringly through the background noise.

  Dr Bill Chop, our anatomy demonstrator, arrived precisely five minutes late, unlit pipe in mouth emphasising the lantern jaw, jaunty manner belying the importance of the occasion: each of us had to pass this viva before we could proceed.

  Thanks to Sebastian’s expertise, we had kept up with our dissection; however, a really detailed knowledge of the topography of this part was now required, and anatomy was my weakest subject.

  “You need a good mnemonic,” Malcolm Conway had advised laconically.

  The only mnemonic I knew, was “Richard Of York Gave Battle In Vain” - Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Indigo, Violet - the colours of the visible spectrum. Hardly useful here.

  Anne Baker-West expertly fielded the first question on “the course of the maxillary artery”; she had been consistently top in anatomy, and we had expected no less. David Feldman struggled through “the nerves exiting the superior orbital fissure of the skull”, and managed to name four out of seven; Mike Ffrench, Heather, Sandy and Sebastian all gave exemplary answers - much better than anything I could have managed! I felt a constriction of the chest, and a sense of impending doom, as the questioning approached: ultimately, I gave what I considered a totally inadequate answer to “Give the relations of the sterno-mastoid muscle,” but it passed without comment.

  Next, with a mischievous smile, Bill Chop turned to Malcolm: “Ah, Mr Kitchen … er … Mr Conway, please list for us the branches of the external carotid artery.”

  Malcolm’s eyes gleamed behind the thick lenses of his spectacles, but his manner remained casual, almost lazy.

  “SALFOPASM!” he exclaimed succinctly.

  “Yes, Mr Conway … Would you care to elaborate?”

  “My mnemonic. SALFOPASM stands for Superior thyroid, Ascending pharyngeal, Lingual, Facial, Occipital, Posterior Auricular, Superficial temporal, and Maxillary arteries.”

  He finished with a flourish, and the faintest note of triumph.

  By this time, Bill Chop was grinning broadly; we had had an hour and a half of concentrated questions and answers; now he cleared his throat formally, and removed the pipe from his mouth:

  “You’ve all passed ... and can proceed to the next stage of the dissection … By the way, Mr Feldman …” (We were all turning to leave.) “You may find the following mnemonic useful for the nerves passing through the superior orbital fissure of the skull: LAZY FRENCH TARTS SLEEP NAKED IN ANTICIPATION - it stands for Lacrimal, Frontal, Trochlear, Superior division of the oculomotor, Nasociliary, Inferior division of the oculomotor, Abducens. I’m afraid it lacks the pithiness of Mr Conway’s contribution.”

  Friday, 9th June: Though it was only early June, the afternoon was hot, as the sun glared vertically down from a cloudless sky; scarcely a breeze stirred the leaves of the giant horse chestnut tree.

  In tennis whites, I hastened onto the court behind the medical school, where Chris Platt awaited me impatiently: I was late for our singles match, in the annual London Hospital Medical College tennis tournament.

  The net height had been adjusted, and a box of nearly new tennis-balls had been left beside it; however, as this was only the first round, there were neither umpire nor spectators - at which I breathed a sigh of relief. After a brief warm-up, Chris twirled his racquet for ends and service.

  “Rough or smooth?”

  I correctly called “Rough”, and chose to stay where I was. Chris opted to serve first - a towering figure at the far end of the court!

  Bang ...The service ball flew past my right ear: “Fifteen - love.” I moved a couple of paces back - well behind the base line.

  Bang … Chris called a fault.

  The second service was slightly slower; I got my racquet to it, but couldn’t control the ball, which flew out of court behind me, to be retrieved by a passer-by.

  “Thirty - love.”

  Bang … again I remained motionless, until the ball struck the wire netting behind me.

  “Forty - love.”

  Bang … “Game!”

  We changed sides, and I prepared to serve; I noticed that Chris - treating my service with respect - was standing well back, and I put a lot of slice on the shot; the ball skidded off the court surface, bounced into the tram lines, and came to a halt, leaving Chris stranded.

  “Fifteen - love.” My first - and only - point!

  Thereafter, my opponent stood right forward and walloped back anything that came over the net. At the end of twenty minutes, the match was over: 6-0, 6-0.

  I approached the net, red in the face and bathed in perspiration, whereas Chris - in spite of the warm weather - had not yet broken sweat; we shook hands; I was relieved there had been no spectators to witness my humiliation. I decided I would not enter the tennis tournament again next year.

  Saturday, 17th June: It was another glorious day: the sun shone from a pale washed sky, and a few fluffy clouds scudded past; blackbirds warbled in the old chestnut tree, whose leaves stirred in a gentle breeze.

  Abruptly the birds took to the air and their song was blotted out by the noise of a brass band starting up; soon a cheerful march filled the air; family groups strolled from the back of the medical school, spilling out over the lawns, around the tennis courts and past the statue of Queen Alexandra: the Summer Open Day had arrived! Ladies were resplendent in wide-brimmed hats and colourful dresses, adding to the festive atmosphere; young men sported striped blazers and straw boaters, while their fathers sweltered in three-piece city suits.

  My mother and sister had come in their best summer outfits, and I wore my medical school blazer and flannels; unfortunately, Dad was (as usual) at wor
k.

  “This is the Pathology Museum …” After the heat of the sun outside, it was pleasantly cool in the large chamber; I could hear soft murmurings from another small group at the far end - otherwise the place was deserted; I conducted them around the rows of shelves, pointing out the most celebrated specimens in the jars; Mum veered between fascination, horror and disgust; Jane was mildly interested:

  “They look like pickles.”

  “Well, in a way they are.”

  When I showed them the exhibits of Joseph Merrick, the Elephant Man, we lingered only briefly. Next I took them up to the dissecting room, but the bodies had all been covered up, and there was nothing to see.

  “What’s that horrible smell?” asked Jane.

  On the way downstairs, we met Bob Parsons with his entourage; we stopped, while our parents engaged in somewhat stilted conversation, for what seemed an eternity - but was in fact only a few minutes; all the while, we could hear the muted music from outside; I sensed relief all round when they said their goodbyes, and we went our separate ways.

  I showed my family the lecture theatres, the library, the men’s common room; then we were out in the blazing sunshine again, the music suddenly loud, the grounds more crowded than we remembered from an hour before.

  The military band in scarlet tunics and navy blue trousers (with a bold gold stripe down the side) filled one of the tennis courts; they were playing a polka with gusto, though sitting rigidly to attention; their conductor, standing very erect, his baton moving like a metronome, sported a waxed moustache - a veritable caricature of an Edwardian officer! A small crowd had gathered around them, and the bandsmen were in their element.

  There was a larger gathering around another tennis court, where the final of the men’s singles was taking place; I took some pleasure from the spectacle of Chris Platt smashing his way to victory against an agile but much smaller opponent.

  We wandered along the path under the chestnut trees towards the rear wall of the hospital courtyard, the canopy of pale-green leaves offering some respite from the rays of the sun; I pointed out the small wooden gate, which led onto a narrow street, and eventually to the students’ hostel. We turned, and retraced our steps …

  “Look, they’re serving strawberries and cream.”

  I led my small party to a trestle-table - shaded by an awning - where we joined a short queue; on the table were a huge tea urn, glasses of chilled white wine and lemonade, cakes, buns, sandwiches, and fresh strawberries. Jane took a glass of lemonade and a slice of sponge cake, while Mum and I were served tea and cucumber sandwiches; later we returned for strawberries and cream.

  We sat on a wooden bench, basking in the sunshine, watching the small groups promenading up and down in their gay summer outfits. Jane and Mum were smiling happily; my heart was bursting with pride.

  “What a wonderful place this is. What a perfect day …” murmured my mother.

  Saturday, 24th June: This was the first occasion I’d worn my dinner jacket - having collected it from the tailor’s only ten days before. We were in the second coach; this had miraculously negotiated, without incident, the tortuous course between Whitechapel and Fulham, driving only a few feet behind the leading coach: did our driver not know the way? Was he afraid of getting lost?

  Now we entered the gates of a great park, and drove down a driveway lined with shrubs and trees: we were in the grounds of the All England Croquet Club - the Hurlingham Club - the setting for this year’s London Hospital Medical College Summer Ball.

  The couples chatted excitedly, as we filed out of the coach, all in evening dress. The last rays of the westering sun picked out a peacock strutting across the lawns, displaying patterns on his train in iridescent blue, green and gold.

  I held Vicky’s hand, as we followed the crowd through the open doors of the elegant Georgian building, into its spacious hall; in the distance I could hear music - we left our coats in the cloakroom, and made our way towards it. I adjusted my black bow tie self-consciously as we passed a mirror in the corridor.

  “You look very handsome this evening, Edwin.” Vicky gently squeezed my hand.

  I turned to look at her, and my heart gave a lurch: she was dressed in a full length Kingfisher blue gown with short sleeves and a plunging neckline, matching blue shoes, handbag, and bow in her auburn hair; as on the night of our first meeting, she wore her pearl necklace and earrings - the necklace nestling in the V of her breasts; her green eyes sparkled and flashed. She looked ravishing!

  As soon as we entered the ante-room, we were offered flutes of dry champagne, which we sipped whilst we checked the seating plan; then we joined our group.

  David Feldman managed to look untidy in spite of his obviously new dinner suit and plum cummerbund; his bow tie veered towards his left ear, and his carroty hair was awry; totally unconscious of his appearance, he was in deep conversation with a voluptuous, exotic girl in a long sea-green dress, a white flower in her hair: with astonishment, I recognized Sandy Sunalingam. They appeared to be a pair, and for a time, were completely oblivious of the rest of the world.

  Sebastian Clark stood beside a willowy blonde; her languid, mildly bored demeanour announced that she was fully aware of the impact of her charms on the surrounding males - and was playing to the gallery. Where did she come from?

  Bob Parsons approached with his ginger girl-friend Maggie, in a virginal white dress (suggesting to my imagination a bridal gown). David, Maggie and Vicky together might have constituted a meeting of Sherlock Holmes’s Red-headed League.

  We had all been placed together, and, after twenty minutes of chat and banter, were called next door for our meal. Circular tables, each seating ten, were arranged around the fringes of the spacious ball-room; the place was ablaze with crystal chandeliers, which reflected off the gilt rococo wall mirrors, and the ornate silver candelabra on the tables; floral decorations and silver cutlery were set off by the starched white tablecloths; on each table were bottles of red Chateauneuf-du-Pape and white Bordeaux (Entre-Deux-Mers) wines, the latter in silver ice buckets.

  We checked our names against the place cards, and sat down. Paul Harris arrived a few minutes late, looking younger than ever, giggling nervously; he was accompanied by a pale girl with glasses, a prominent bust, and a jolly manner, who treated him protectively, almost maternally.

  A battalion of waiters was busily serving all the tables; eventually our soup appeared - brown and rather tepid.

  I glanced at the menu:

  Mock Turtle Soup

  XXXX

  Blanquettes of Lamb,

  Duchesse Potatoes and Peas

  XXXX

  Fruit Salad

  XXXX

  Cheese and Biscuits

  XX

  Coffee

  XX

  Port

  XXXX

  After the somewhat disappointing soup, the rest of the meal was excellent, enlivened by scintillating conversation, and by the spectacle - at an adjacent table - of one waiter spilling the mushroom and crouton sauce down Mike Ffrench’s shirt-front.

  “I may be off to Nassau for my summer holidays,” came a female voice from my left; I experienced a shock of surprise: it was Vicky, addressing the table at large.

  “My cousin - well, second cousin, really - is Governor of the Bahamas, but I haven’t been there since I was a gel …” Her clamorous, but well-modulated monologue continued over the background hum.

  I had seen quite a lot of her in the two months since our first meeting: I had taken her to the local cinema several times, to hops at Westminster Hospital and University College; once, during one of our At Homes, we had canoodled in an empty lecture theatre; however this was the first time she had mentioned her second cousin, and Vicky remained something of an enigma.

  The wine had been mildly disappointing. However the port - Dow’s 1945 vintage, I had been informed - was superb, and I took a second glass when the crystal decanter was passes around again; I felt replete, mellow, and slightly
tipsy, and remained seated as the band struck up once more. My friends got up onto the floor, leaving us on our own; it was the first time I had seen them dancing; like Dr Johnson’s dog, standing on its hind legs: They didn’t do it well, but I was surprised to see them doing it at all.

  It gradually dawned on me that the waltz they were playing was Moon River. I experienced a sharp pang, at the memory of poor Jenny and Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Despite the gaiety surrounding us and my delight in Vicky’s company, a background tension, which I recognised as a combination of anxiety and fear, still affected me. Would it ever pass?

  “Did I talk too much?”

  I came out of my reverie. Time had passed, but we were still alone at the large circular table. Vicky leaned across, straightened my tie, and kissed me softly on the cheek.

  “No, you were fine, sweetheart …”

  “Do you want to dance?”

  “Alright.”

  She melted into my arms, following my steps easily, chattering happily. My mood lightened, and I once more abandoned myself to the pleasures of the moment. The band was great - interspersing pop music with traditional jazz and the Latin-American numbers of Edmundo Ros.

  Between dances, we moved around the tables to talk to other friends: Malcolm Conway lounging on a chair, his arm casually around the shoulders of a striking brunette in a revealing wine-red dress; Dave Wallis with a pretty little dark-eyed girl in green. When we returned to the floor, we encountered Daniel Southcote in the arms of the latest of his glamorous actresses (I thought he’d left); we waved to Pete Jackson as he twirled his partner expertly past us, and exchanged smiles with some of Vicky’s nursing friends …

  The sound of shattering glass caused the band to falter: just off the dance floor Mick O’Malley, grasping the neck of a broken wine bottle, was squaring up furiously to a handsome sun-tanned figure, whose dinner jacket seemed too tight for his massive frame; he was probably one of the senior students, though he might have been a prize fighter; blood trickled from a gash over his right eyebrow. That O’Malley’s a bloody psychopath! I thought. There was a pause; then - absent-mindedly dabbing at his wound with a large bandanna handkerchief - the big man coolly and contemptuously pushed O’Malley down onto a nearby chair; without a backward glance, he walked unhurriedly away. A buzz of excited conversation spread around the ballroom; I caught sight of Chris Platt on his feet, rigid, face deathly pale, fists clenched; then he whispered something in his partner’s ear, and relaxed visibly. The band resumed its efforts, and the waltz gradually got under way again ...