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

by Felix Bruckner

  ‘I cannot see anything very funny,’ cried our client, flushing up to the roots of his flaming head…”

  Friday, 29th December: We had started after tea; at first everyone was rather stiff and self-conscious; however, we gradually warmed to the game, eventually becoming quite inventive, even animated. Lord Laidlaw led one side, and Lady Antonia the other: I had joined Lord Laidlaw’s team, together with Vicky, Henry Laidlaw, Montague and Roberta; on Lady Antonia’s side were the Digby-Stammers, Cousin Henrietta and her boyfriend James; Sylvester had obstinately refused to participate, but offered to adjudicate in the event of a close decision; Henry’s wife had gone upstairs to rest. There was a trunk full of old clothes to help us act out words and phrases - for the titles of books, films, songs or for proverbs. I’d never played Charades before, but found that I quickly picked up the rules …

  I had got up late, taken a solitary breakfast, and wandered around the deserted house. I had apparently missed the general exodus this morning: with the exception of the pregnant Margaret Hambleton-Laidlaw, all had gone to watch the nearby Point-to-Point race, in which Lady Antonia, Cousin Montague and Vicky had eventually finished second, third and fifth. Vicky was disappointed that I had missed her minor triumph:

  “Clover jumped so bravely, I was really proud of her …”

  However, I had made up for my lapse after lunch when I joined her on an idyllic excursion down to the bank of the River Chess, where the grass was showing emerald in the bright sunshine through the fast-thawing snow ...

  “A stitch in time saves nine!” called Lady Antonia from the group huddled in their chairs at the back of the drawing room, tearing me from my reverie.

  “Correct,” came simultaneously from Percy and Sylvester Laidlaw. Thankfully, I removed my costume …

  It was decided by our hosts that, after a buffet supper, the “young people” could spend the evening at a pub in the village. We piled into two cars: the majority into Lady Antonia’s battered Land Rover, Vicky and I - muffled to the eyeballs - into Vicky’s new open-topped MG sports car; as our engine coughed into life, the tail lights of the Land Rover were already disappearing around the first bend; we followed, skidding on the icy surface of the drive; there came a roar from behind us, and I glimpsed two figures swathed in leather hurtling past on a powerful motorbike.

  “There go Henrietta and James on his Harley-Davidson ...”

  Then we were alone again; our headlights picked out the curves in the narrow lane, catching a rabbit frozen in fear on a snow-bank. The snow lay on the plateau, but, by the time we reached the bottom of the hill, the road was clear.

  The Red Lion Inn was at the near end of the village of Great Chalfont. Although it was only eight o’clock, the car park was almost full, and we were lucky to find a tiny space to squeeze into; Vicky switched off the engine, relieved that her shining new car was still without a scratch; we sat there, reluctant to brave the cold and the dark; the lengthening silence was interrupted by the hoot of a barn owl. Eventually we bestirred ourselves, and got out; as I helped Vicky fit the soft top on her car, I became aware of distant voices and occasional snatches of song; we followed these sounds, and - careful of our footing on the ice - made our way slowly around the ancient building, to the saloon bar at the front.

  The warmth and bright light welcomed us as we entered; at the bar, I bought Vicky a schooner of sherry, and took a half of best bitter for myself; we scanned the crowd: the faces around us were flushed, welcoming and mildly quizzical, but there was no sign of our friends. Could we have arrived here before them? We took our drinks to a small corner table, loosened our overcoats, sipped our drinks, let the atmosphere wash over us, and waited. The place was small, with a low ceiling, thick walls and small latticed windows; the oak beams were blackened by the smoke of countless generations; cigarette smoke curled up to the ceiling; tables and chairs filled the place, perched unsteadily on the uneven flagstones; the room was dominated by a huge open log fire, which gave off its own fragrant smoke; most of the lamps were switched off, and the flames from the fire cast flickering shadows on the walls. The holiday mood of the locals was infectious, and we soon felt part of the crowd - relaxed, mellow, happy.

  “Where can the rest have got to?”

  “They’re probably at The George - at the other end of the village.”

  Reluctantly we finished our drinks, and wandered out again into the crisp night air. We drove slowly through the dark High Street: snow dusted the village green, the pond was a sheet of ice; through the open curtains of the cottages, decorated Christmas trees were lit up like a stage set.

  The George and Dragon Public House was a rather plain Victorian building, much larger than the Red Lion, and with a spacious car park (only half full); as soon as we got out of our car, we saw the old Land Rover and the Harley-Davidson, parked next to each other.

  In the saloon bar, we were greeted by the voice of Alma Cogan from a juke box - but this was almost drowned by the murmurings and laughter of the people who packed the place; although the electric fire had been switched off, the heat hit us, as from an open oven; to one side of the bar stood a large decorated tree, its pine needles already moulting, its multi-coloured lights providing the room’s main illumination. I bought drinks, and followed Vicky to the two tables - placed side by side - where sat our companions.

  “We wondered what had happened to you.”

  Cousin Montague was holding hands with Roberta; Margaret Laidlaw, nursing a large glass of fruit juice, was being fussed over by her husband; Henrietta and James, half out of their motorbike leathers, had almost finished their second pints of beer; Sylvester became more than usually animated at our entrance, simultaneously beaming at Vicky, and scowling at me.

  “We’ve just been to the Red Lion. Thought you’d be there.” Vicky sat down at the table, where a space had miraculously appeared next to Cousin Sylvester. When I had bought our drinks at the bar, I brought a vacant chair from a nearby table, and manoeuvred it into the tiny gap on Vicky’s other side - amused at the crestfallen look that had replaced the jubilation on Sylvester’s face.

  The group discussed the morning’s Point-to-Point race, old Staunton, Lord Laidlaw’s butler (“It’s mainly for him that the family dresses for dinner ...”), absent members of the family.

  James and I exchanged a sympathetic glance, and remained mute. I was content to observe, to meditate, to take the odd swallow of my bitter … I was brought out of my trance by another pint banging down right in front of me: looking up, I was astonished to see that my benefactor was Sylvester Laidlaw, who now stood over me with a happy, somewhat expectant expression on his face.

  “You can’t spend the whole night with just one glass of beer, you know, Edwin.”

  “That’s extremely kind of you, Sylvester.”

  Having finished my pint, I picked up the new tankard and took a sizable swig from it: it tasted odd - must be a different brand … I sipped my drink, and turned my attention to the locals, who were singing along with the juke box, playing shove-ha’penny and dominoes, faces merry and red, voices becoming slurred. Many of these will have a headache tomorrow, I mused.

  “Come on, drink with me!” Sylvester was again in my field of vision, glass in hand, regarding me intently. “Can’t you manage two pints; or do you object to drinking my beer?”

  “Of course not.” And I drained my glass: the taste was even more strange - quite unpleasant, in fact. Sylvester was by now staring at me intently, face flushed, triumphant. Too late I understood - my drink had been spiked!

  A wave of nausea swept over me, sweat beaded my forehead, I felt cramping pains in my stomach; Vicky was looking at me in concern, and I felt the eyes of the rest of the group fixed on me.

  “I need a pee …”

  I staggered to the lavatory, and stood there waiting for the nausea to recede; I retched painfully, bringing up some of the beer into the toilet bowl; after flushing the pan, rinsing out my mouth and dousing my face with cold wate
r, I was able to rejoin the others in the bar.

  “What’s the matter, Edwin? You look terrible,” whispered Vicky in my ear.

  “Your bloody cousin has laced my drink with something … I feel terrible! Can you get me home?”

  I felt better in the cold night air ... Vicky drove in silence, her lips compressed in mild reproach; I shut my eyes tightly, and could feel the wind rushing past through the open window; after some time, the car slowed to take a tight corner; and when I opened my eyes again we were heading up the driveway towards the manor-house; I fought against a return of the dizziness and nausea: as the car stopped, I had just time to open the door and stagger out, before I was again violently sick - over the main steps of the house! Vicky fussed over me, wiping my scarf and the front of my duffle coat with her small embroidered handkerchief; she ushered me into the quiet house: although it was only ten-thirty, the lights were low and there were no signs of life.

  “They must have had an early night,” whispered Vicky. “With a bit of luck we can get you to bed without anyone hearing us.”

  Upstairs, I slumped down on my bed; I lay passive and helpless as she undressed me, though I could feel her fingers trembling; there was a long pause, during which I was aware of the soft rustle of clothes; then there came a weak moan, my blanket was lifted briefly, and she was in bed beside me. My pulse quickened, and I started towards her: immediately the room began to spin, and the nausea returned - compelling me to close my eyes tightly, and turn away from her; I lay immobile, breathing heavily, perspiring profusely, feeling wretched. After a while, I felt the bedclothes stir again, as she climbed out of bed; I heard her put on her clothes, felt a gentle kiss on the back of my head; with a softly whispered “Goodnight”, she was gone, and the door closed quietly behind her; for a long time I remained absolutely rigid, feeling worthless and contemptible … Eventually, I fell into a troubled sleep.

  Saturday, 30th December: I woke late with a splitting headache, still slightly nauseated, tongue dry, and with a horrible taste in the mouth. At breakfast alone with Vicky, I drank two glasses of grapefruit juice and two cups of strong sweet black coffee - with my half-slice of toast and marmalade; there was a constraint between us, and we hardly exchanged a word.

  Afterwards, I packed hurriedly, sought out my hosts to say goodbye, and was driven by Staunton to the station. Vicky waved from the steps of Chalfont Manor, but didn’t accompany me in the Rolls.

  Chapter Thirteen - January, 1957

  In the year nineteen fifty-seven, Sir Anthony Eden resigned because of ill health, and (after some in-fighting) was succeeded as Prime Minister by Harold MacMillan; the Wolfenden Report recommended the decriminalisation of homosexuality, and the Royal Ballet gave its first performance. In that year, the Treaty of Rome established the new European Economic Community (which did not include the United Kingdom); Ghana and Malaya were granted independence; Russia launched the first earth satellite - Sputnik 1. The film star, Humphrey Bogart, and the crime writer, Dorothy L. Sayers, died.

  Students’ Hostel,

  The London Hospital Medical College,

  Philpot Street,

  London, E.1.

  7th January, 1957

  Dear Lady Antonia,

  Thank you for having me at your lovely house last week.

  The food, the company and the surroundings were all excellent, and I enjoyed myself enormously.

  With best wishes.

  Yours sincerely,

  Edwin Scott.

  Students’ Hostel,

  London Hospital Medical College,

  Philpot Street,

  London, E.1.

  7th January, 1957

  Dear Vicky,

  It was lovely to be with you in Lord and Lady Laidlaw’s lovely house. I was hugely impressed by the place, the scenery, the food and the activities. Apart from Sylvester, who seemed to dislike me on sight, I enjoyed the company. And, of course, it was marvellous to spend so much time with you.

  I am deeply sorry about the ending of our last evening. I am convinced that Sylvester laced my beer with a combination of spirits - mainly whisky and gin, I think - as I can usually hold my drink quite well.

  Though it was not my fault, I hope you will forgive me, and that I will see you soon.

  With all my love,

  Yours,

  Edwin.

  Nurses Home,

  The London Hospital,

  London, E.1.

  26th January, 1970

  Dear Edwin,

  Thank you for your letter. It was nice to see you at Chalfont Manor. I hope you have fully recovered.

  I have met a very nice boy - you may know him! We have a lot in common, and I think he is the one for me. We intend to get engaged very soon, though I am too young to marry yet. We may wait until I have finished my nurse training.

  With kind regards.

  Yours,

  Vicky Laidlaw.

  Chapter Fourteen - March, 1957

  Wednesday, 7th March: The invigilator was Professor Buchanan himself. The moment of truth had arrived - Anatomy, the first written paper of 2nd MB, was upon us.

  Mick O’Malley had been the only one to fail the mock examinations; apart from the few high fliers, the rest of our year just scraped through. To my surprise, I had come second in the Trabshawe Biochemistry Prize Exam. I had got the answers right, but had “written insufficient detail on Methodology”: thus Paul Harris had won the prize outright; yet I was still content.

  Now I sat at a desk - the exam paper face down - entering my examination number on the answer sheet.

  The minute hand on the library clock reached the half-hour (nine-thirty); my heart lurched at the sound of the bell; then came the mellifluous voice of the professor:

  “Please turn over your papers and begin. You have exactly three hours.”

  I turned over the question paper, and, as usual, the print came slowly into focus:

  “Please answer Four questions only.”

  There were eight questions altogether, and I read them through carefully.

  Question 1: Describe the development of the respiratory system of the human embryo.

  I might try this one later, I decided.

  Question 2: Describe the nerves which pass through the superior orbital fissure of the skull.

  I’ll start with this ... Now how did that mnemonic go? Oh yes: Lazy French Tarts Sleep Naked In Anticipation …

  Thursday, 15th March: It was pitch black, and, apart from the gentle lapping of waves, there was total silence; I was seated in a rowing boat on the Thames at two o’clock in the morning; the boat was made fast against a small pier near Westminster Bridge, and the occupants - all in black - waited immobile while a river barge drifted slowly past. The group of five London Hospital students had come to paint Tommy’s!

  For three consecutive mornings, surrounded by an anxious crowd of fellow-students, I had scanned the medical school notice board for the results of the 2nd MB Anatomy, Physiology, Biochemistry and Histology exams: each time I had found my name, my heart had missed a beat, yet each time I had read the reassuring information, Pass. Ultimately, among my set, exultation had been tempered with commiseration for the few who had failed; I had phoned mother with the news, and had later joined my friends for a celebratory pub crawl.

  Now, darkness returned as the barge headed downstream; it was low tide, and we set to work by torchlight - daubing the wall of the embankment below the high-water line with white waterproof paint; the small craft bobbed up and down as we laboured, making me mildly seasick; we kept a sharp look-out for the river police, prepared to switch off our torches at a moment’s notice. We finished - without further interruption - after an hour and a half, and departed silently.

  In the afternoon, at low tide, a lobby journalist in the House of Commons put down his empty brandy glass, and glanced out of the window - across the river - at the message in huge white capital letters: “THE LONDON FOR THE CUP!”

  The long-awaited spee
ch from the Foreign Secretary on the break-up of the British Empire had been a damp squib; thus the message on the embankment made banner headlines in the London Evening Standard, the Evening News, and, next day, in the national papers. It even got a mention on the television news programme.

  Wednesday, 21st March: The wan early afternoon sunlight filtered through the windows of the coach as we headed through the City; the atmosphere was festive yet restrained: we were on our way to the United Hospitals’ Rugby Cup Final; it was the first time in living memory that The London had progressed this far. We were up against St Thomas’ Hospital - last year’s finalists - so it would be no pushover. I sat, tired and subdued, next to Bob Parsons, another of last night’s painters and decorators; the coach was crowded with medical students - a handful of nurses, physiotherapists, occupational therapists and radiographers thrown in for good measure. All wore The London navy and white scarves over our oldest, most expendable clothes: we were dressed for battle!

  The coach was stuck in heavy traffic, inching past the Bank of England and the Mansion House; now I could see the massive dome of St Paul’s Cathedral … soon, we were accelerating down the Embankment, the rigging of historic sailing ships appearing at intervals in my window.

  Though Bob and I hardly spoke, around us our friends were animated and excited, chattering and laughing.

  “ If I were the marrying kind/

  Which thank the Lord I’m not Sir …”

  The singing petered out after only a couple of lines. Plenty of time for that on the return journey - to acknowledge defeat or celebrate victory.

  We passed under the Charing Cross railway bridge, and stopped at traffic lights in front of Big Ben: the fruits of last night’s clandestine work could just be glimpsed across the river; I nudged Bob, but he merely grunted, and closed his eyes again. The lights changed, the engine roared, and we were in Parliament Square, crawling between the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey.