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

by Felix Bruckner

  The temperature - taken in the axilla - proved to be normal.

  Now Phillips fixed the circular ENT mirror on his forehead; through a tiny nasal speculum (illuminated by the bright light), he inspected first one nostril and then the other: a flash of light reflected from something on the left side; the frightened child struggled briefly - though I helped his mother secure his arms - and the decibel level of his screams increased dramatically; with remarkable speed and dexterity, the doctor inserted the ENT forceps, and withdrew them, grasping a tight ball of silver paper. An expression of amazement appeared on the little boy’s face, and his crying stopped instantly, as though a tap had been turned off. The foreign body was handed to Mrs Sparks, who beamed delightedly.

  “There you are, Mother. All done …”

  While he was writing up the casualty card, another commotion could be heard in the waiting area; I peered around the cubicle curtain.

  The rows of hard benches had filled with patients; near the entrance to the department, there was a trolley, supervised by two ambulance attendants and two uniformed policemen; as I watched, it was wheeled into the minor operating theatre, where the staff-nurse was preparing for action; one policeman hovered at the door to the theatre, while the other intercepted the receiving-room officer:

  “Bad business, Sir … Found ’im on a bomb site, ’arf a mile from ’ere … Semi-conscious, bleedin’ like a pig … Can’t get much information out of ’im. Calls ’imself ‘John Smith’ … Looks like a gang job: the Richardsons from South London are trying to muscle in, ’ere; but this is Kray territory, and the Kray Brothers don’t like it. Word is he’s Sammy Peters from Tooting … hope to find out more, later - if ’e makes it!”

  I followed Dr Phillips into the small theatre. The patient, clad in a loud check suit, was huddled on his side on the trolley; a crimsoned handkerchief was held to his face, hiding most of it, but revealing a receding chin, a low forehead beaded with sweat, and a shock of carroty hair; by contrast his skin was unnaturally - almost deathly - pale.

  “Good evening, Mr … er Smith. Can you tell me what happened?” No answer. “Well, then. Let’s examine you …”

  “Hmm … No alcohol on his breath …” he muttered to himself. “Pulse one hundred and five, reasonable volume. Blood pressure one hundred and five over seventy - not bad. Pale, quite anaemic. Bruise on the back of his head; skin broken over it.”

  He turned to me: “Probably caused by a blunt instrument (as they say in detective stories). Possibly a cosh … Hmm … loss of the tip of the right middle finger - an old injury … Now, let’s have a look at his face …”

  The handkerchief - soaked in blood - was gently removed, with minimal resistance from the patient; it revealed a long clean cut down the left side of the face, from forehead to the angle of the jaw, skipping over the eye socket, but deepening over the cheek bone; the wound gaped, and again began to bleed briskly.

  “So … a razor slash. OK: swabs, please, staff-nurse.”

  Using three or four gauze swabs together, he staunched the blood, careful not to get any on his white coat.

  “Now, Staff … can you please clean the wound, and put on a temporary dressing; then take his temperature. In the meantime, I’ll draw a blood sample for haemoglobin, group and cross-match - say three pints - and you can get that off to the path SHO on duty, pronto.”

  A few minutes later - the blood samples taken, the wound dressed, and the patient on the operating table - Bryan Phillips and I scrubbed up together, donned the off-white theatre gowns, and were tied in at the back by staff nurse (a thrill like an electric shock passed through me, as her fingers lingered over the ties, and her breasts brushed my back). Finally, she helped us on with our rubber gloves.

  “This won’t hurt, Sir.”

  The receiving room officer cleansed the wound with iodine, and infiltrated it with local anaesthetic from a 20 ml syringe; while I watched, he inserted the first six interrupted skin sutures - swiftly and neatly.

  “Now you try; I don’t use continuous stitches: they can unravel … and you can get into quite a mess, if you don’t get the tension just right.”

  My first few stitches were laborious and uneven: the skin either gaped or overlapped. However, I gradually fell into a rhythm; the suture line became regular, and the edges came together neatly; the local anaesthetic was working: the patient appeared to feel no pain. The bleeding stopped completely.

  The wound needed twenty-seven stitches altogether, by the time I had finally finished; it had taken me forty five minutes. I admired my handiwork: the last few were almost indistinguishable from the casualty officer’s original half-dozen!

  “He’ll revel in this scar … badge of honour … like the duelling sabre cuts of Prussian officers in the last century … probably call himself ‘Scarface Peters’ … Hmm … The incision was clean, but we’d better play it by the book and give him an anti-tetanus jab, Staff Nurse, when you’ve dressed the wound … He’s apyrexial and not obviously in shock; but he’s lost a fair bit of blood, and he’s clearly concussed. Let’s arrange to send him up to the ward.” (At this, the patient protested feebly.) “He can have a skull X-ray on his way there … He’ll need a few pints of blood … and they can observe him overnight, in case he’s bleeding intracranially.”

  He followed me outside, where the policeman stood waiting, helmet under arm, and cup of tea in hand.

  “He’s going up to Brodie Ward for observation, constable. You’ll have a better chance to interview him there - in a side room - than down here in the receiving room …”

  Saturday, 20th September: My thoughts returned briefly to Jill, as we waited on the north side of the river, in the shadow of Tower Bridge - dwarfed by this Gothic monument to late-Victorian engineering. A wan sun peeped out from the overcast sky. There were five from my set among the thirty-odd London Hospital medical students: Sebastian, Chris, Malcolm, Bob and I. This was the second year of what was hoped to become an annual event - the London, Guy’s and Bart’s Hospitals London to Brighton walk. At half-past-ten in the morning, in response to a muffled command from a megaphone, the mass of over a hundred bodies started slowly forward.

  Bob Parsons and I ambled off together along the cobbled streets; we were casually dressed in jumpers and corduroy trousers, wore comfortable walking shoes, and carried rucksacks on our backs. A BBC Outside Broadcast van swept its camera over us, before turning its attention to the head of the procession, where a group of athletic young men in Guy’s rugger jerseys was striding out purposefully. On his own - a dreamy expression on his face - strolled Malcolm Conway, dressed inappropriately in light blue suit, tie and suede shoes; we overtook him, and he soon disappeared from sight. After a while we crossed the River Thames over London Bridge; the great throng remained together down Borough High Street, heading towards the Elephant and Castle.

  Shortly after twelve o’clock, Bob and I - in a group near the middle of the field - made our first pub stop; we ordered halves of bitter, and, while we quenched our thirst, I stealthily removed my shoes and socks under the table; I had felt my feet getting sore for some time: now I discovered that I had a blister under my right big toe - although we had been walking for only a little over an hour! I applied a plaster from my rucksack, and quickly put on my shoes and socks again; no-one seemed to have noticed; we finished our beer, emptied our bladders in the “Gents”, and departed. As we were leaving, a group of walkers on their second pints were already bursting into song.

  “I wonder whether we’ll see them again …” mused Bob.

  Though still overcast, the day was warming up. I removed my jumper, and stuffed it in my bag; by the time we reached Clapham Common, I had broken into a light sweat; however, we were carefree and relaxed, and walked easily. The small back-up lorry - a banner on its side proclaiming “The London Hospital Brighton Stroll” - was parked on the edge of the Common, reminding me that I was famished. It was almost two o’clock, and, apart from a banana shortly after starting, I h
adn’t had a bite to eat since breakfast. From the back of the lorry, three girls, dressed in London Hospital nurses uniforms, dispensed sandwiches and water.

  “How’s it going, Edwin?”

  I looked up with a start, and realized that I was being addressed by Vicky Laidlaw - I hadn’t recognized her!

  “Fine, absolutely fine …”

  Bob and I crossed the road and took our offerings to a nearby park bench: the rather stale cheese and tomato sandwiches were delicious, and the water tasted like wine. Refreshed, we strode on once more, towards Streatham. Though the walkers were by now quite strung out, we would catch sight of a group of them from time to time, reassuring us that we were still on the route to Brighton. On a bench on Streatham Common, we stopped again, while I applied a plaster to a blister on my other foot, and Bob examined his own feet:

  “No problems yet.”

  Then we were off again, chatting as we walked.

  “What about Maggie? Are you still seeing her, Bob?”

  “Yes; I was undecided for a time, but now I know that she’s the one for me.” However, despite the confident words, he still sounded doubtful.

  In turn I related my long and chequered history with Jill, while Bob remained mute, kept his own counsel ...

  We arranged to pair up for the elective period of our obstetric course, which would be spent away from The London; though this was still eighteen months away, we had to apply soon, or risk missing out on the best places.

  We marched briskly - almost unconsciously. Time passed. A few drops of rain cooled and refreshed us, but hardly dampened the pavements. As we left Thornton Heath behind us, the large Edwardian villas gave way to smaller nineteen-thirties’ suburban housing. I remembered my cycle trip with Johnny East on this very road, when I was still at school: At least we won’t have difficulty finding our way, today …

  The evening sun slanted down, as we entered the bustle of Croydon; ahead of us, a group of walkers paused outside a sizeable inn, the Swan; they mounted the four steps to the entrance, and disappeared inside; we followed them in.

  Although it was only ten-past six, the saloon bar was crowded, and we had to jostle our way to the counter for our halves of bitter, and ham and cucumber sandwiches. At a corner table Chris Platt and Sebastian Clark sat with a group of Guy’s rugby players: from the empty glasses on the table, I could see that all were already on their second pints; Chris waved vaguely towards us, before returning to the serious business of drinking.

  It was getting dark, when we emerged from the pub, and the temperature had dropped by several degrees; the moon and stars were blotted out by rolling black clouds. We stood a while, to get our bearings.

  “It’s this way …”

  We headed south on the Purley Way, towards Brighton.

  As we climbed a long steep hill - to leave Croydon behind - the countryside began to open up; by the time we reached the summit of the hill, and the lights of Purley glittered below us, we were quite warm again from our exertions.

  We had been walking alone for hours, through black countryside and sparsely illuminated villages. Bob’s conversation faltered, and his pace gradually slowed, as we struggled up the steep rise that constituted Redhill; he was groaning by the time we reached the summit; I - on the other hand - still felt full of walking. Ahead was darkness, as the Brighton Road plunged into the valley.

  “It’ll be easier downhill,” I encouraged my friend. “You’ll get your second wind.”

  Sure enough, we progressed more easily. However, after only a further five or ten minutes, Bob came abruptly to a halt, and literally clung to me; he appeared to be in great distress:

  “I can’t go on, Edwin. Both my hips have seized up … Please don’t leave me!”

  “Alright, Bob, we’ll go back … We passed a small hospital near the top of the hill; we’ll head for that … Think you can make it?”

  Together, we climbed slowly back towards the lights of the small town, with me trying to support Bob’s weight; yet, by the time we arrived at the hospital, I was hobbling just as badly as my friend: my knees could hardly hold me - and a searing pain shot through them with each step.

  The place was in total darkness, and I was dismayed to find the door to casualty locked. However, when I rang the bell, a light came on over the entrance; a few minutes later the lock turned, and the door swung open. The porter was accompanied by Night Sister, who ushered us into a small waiting area.

  “We’re London Hospital medical students … on the Brighton Walk …” Bob started haltingly, “We’ve rather broken down … wondered if you could put us up for the night.”

  Sister appraised us coolly and carefully.

  “Hm …You do look a bit the worse for wear … I’ll let you have a couple of couches in casualty … It’s eleven-thirty now: you’ll have to be out before eight tomorrow morning, when the day staff come on duty … You’re not the first, though. We already have two young men from the race, who arrived over an hour ago … looked almost as bad as you!”

  She showed us our curtained cubicles; then introduced us to the two Bart’s students, who had by now bedded down for the night in the furthest ones, but were lured out by the sound of our voices: Jack and Adrian were burly, fresh-faced lads, just completing their first pre-clinical year.

  “Adrian sprained his ankle … but it should be sorted by tomorrow. Well, we have to be up early, to reach Brighton at a reasonable hour. See you there … Good luck!” And their cubicle lights went off.

  Sister brought Bob and me cocoa, poached eggs on toast, and some codeine for our joint pains; she bade us a whispered “Goodnight”, and vanished, switching off the main lights on the way.

  Gratefully, we wolfed down our midnight feast; we swallowed the pain-killers with the dregs of our cocoa, switched off our side lights, and settled down to sleep on the hard couches. A single bulb glowed somewhere behind the frosted glass doors leading from casualty to the main part of the hospital.

  I felt stiff all over; however, the pain in my knees had settled to a tolerable level, and I was snug and warm under the coarse blanket; as I plunged into unconsciousness, I was dimly aware of the thunderstorm raging directly overhead: the almost continuous flashes of lightning and simultaneous crashes of thunder mingled with my dreams …

  I was woken by Sister with a cup of hot weak sugary tea and a couple of biscuits. The curtains were drawn, early morning sunlight slanted through the windows, and Bob sat on a chair drinking his tea, hair dishevelled, eyes unfocussed - still half asleep.

  “It’s gone seven o’clock … the other two left ages ago … Daft … still want to walk to Brighton. Be much simpler to take the train! What about you two? You’re looking a lot better … Want me to get the casualty officer to look at you?” We shook our heads.

  “Well, you’d best have some more codeine before you leave … The railway station’s not far from here, and you can get a direct train to Victoria Station.”

  Monday, 22nd September: This afternoon, Bob and I joined the rest of our firm on the Orthopaedic ward round. Though wearing suits under our white coats, bathed, shaved, fed and rested, we nevertheless presented a spectacle to the occupants of the ward - patients and staff alike.

  Our unshaven faces, dishevelled clothing and pronounced limps had attracted a few raised eyebrows, but otherwise our homeward rail journey had been uneventful.

  My knees were still distended with fluid, though the left one had subsided somewhat over the week-end; we had been to see Bryan Phillips in the receiving room, this morning, and he had supplied us with walking aids. I continued to limp with my stick, while Bob hobbled on wooden axillary crutches. However, Chris Platt was not even among the walking wounded; he had fallen down the steps as he emerged from the Swan in Croydon, and had broken his ankle! Now his left leg was encased in plaster, and he was being pushed about the ward in a wheel-chair by a self-conscious Sebastian Clark. He would again miss a substantial part of the rugby season.

  “I see som
e of you have been on the Brighton Walk,” remarked the Orthopaedic Consultant sardonically.

  Malcolm Conway strolled dreamily and serenely at the back of our group; a smile played around his lips, but his eyes were as inscrutable as ever behind the thick lenses of his spectacles:

  “How far did you get in the Walk?” I enquired, when the ward round had finished.

  “Oh, I reached Brighton Pier, alright … I came fourth!”

  Sunday, 28th September: The event had taken over a year to arrange. I had picked Jill up from her flat in Lambeth, and now we were on our way to Putney. Though superficially carefree, we both felt anxious and constrained: I was finally coming to tea at Jill’s family home! After Putney Bridge Station, the District Line train crossed the Thames; a raised section of the tracks passed over the roof-tops, giving the lie to the term “Underground”; we alighted at East Putney, and made our way out of the station concourse.

  We walked hand in hand down the peaceful High Street, past closed shops and a couple of open (but deserted) coffee houses, down the hill towards the river; the afternoon sun shone warm from a brilliant sky.

  We crossed the empty main road, and turned into a side street - Felsham Road: I found myself in a world of large Edwardian houses, with an occasional Daimler or Bentley parked in the road, but not a living soul to be seen; at the road-side, rows of mature horse chestnut trees were dressed in their orange autumn foliage; highly polished auburn-and-black conkers littered the pavements and kerbs, some only half-out of their spiky green cases; from one tree, a thrush serenaded us mournfully. The road stretched out ahead.

  “It’s past three o’clock; we’re late!”

  Since I no longer limped, we were able to increase our pace, and finally we turned up a path towards an imposing double-fronted edifice. Jill by-passed the front entrance steps, but I had slowed to examine the black-painted door with the lion door knocker, and the brass plate: “Dr. E.D. Hughes, M.B., B.S.”