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

by Felix Bruckner

  For the first time in months - after the black melancholy that had engulfed me - I experienced the faintest stirrings of enjoyment; yet, there remained in my mind a nagging feeling of guilt - a feeling that it was I who was betraying Jill!

  Slowly, I walked back to Regent’s Park Underground Station in the darkness. I had plenty of time to catch the last train home.

  Friday, 13th March: The Medical Unit was on emergency take; Sebastian, Pete, Michael Ffrench and I were shadowing the house physician, who was in the process of admitting new patients to the wards. Charles Witherspoon was in his fourth month into the post; tall and gangling, with horn-rimmed glasses, he remained as friendly as ever. However, he appeared much neater than I remembered him (as chess secretary), and even his straggly hair had been subdued; he was clearly very bright to have landed this plum job, and radiated quiet confidence and efficiency.

  Earlier this evening (with minimal supervision from Mr Witherspoon), I had put up my first drip for a blood transfusion. Now all five of us were gathered around the bed, faces hidden behind paper masks: it was ten-twenty; the bright light from the angle-poise lamp cast bizarre dancing shadows on the inside of the curtains; but, beyond these, the ward was in darkness. Half-way down the ward came a gentle snore; otherwise there was total silence.

  The patient - a fifty six year-old man with nicotine stained fingers and blue lips - had been admitted a little over an hour before, gasping for breath; he had “fluid on the lung” - a large pleural effusion, confirmed by X-ray; now he sat with arms resting over the bed-table so that he was bent forward at the optimum angle. The skin had been cleaned, draped with sterile towels, and infiltrated with local anaesthetic; at the site of maximum dullness to percussion, the houseman inserted a large-bore needle, attached to a 50ml syringe through a three-way tap; as he advanced the needle between the ribs, just below the left shoulder blade, straw coloured fluid entered the syringe under pressure.

  “Sterile containers, please, staff nurse.”

  Fluid was gently squirted through the tap into the containers, for examination in the laboratory; aspiration of the chest continued apace.

  “I say, Charles … I’ve read that the patient can g-go into shock if drainage is too rapid …”

  “I’ll bear that in mind … but please keep your voice down. The other patients are trying to sleep.”

  (“I’m already feeling much more comfortable,” put in the patient. “Please do carry on, Doctor.”)

  “Now, Mr Ffrench … If you could just hold the dish for me, I can empty the syringe into it,” continued Witherspoon in a subdued voice, as he resumed his task.

  The chest was aspirated, the tap turned, and the fluid ejected from the syringe into the large enamelled kidney dish. From time to time, as the dish filled, he monitored the patient for adverse events.

  “What is the likely cause of the f-f-fluid build-up, Charles?” Michael Ffrench’s strident voice broke in upon us, again disturbing the tranquillity of the ward.

  However, before the houseman could reply, there was a resounding crash: Ffrench had dropped the kidney dish, and a puddle of pleural fluid gleamed darkly on the floor …

  Well Edwin, your latest floozy might have ditched you, but it’s too late, far too late to affect me. My mind is set against you, and I will have my revenge, oh dear me yes. I’ve done my homework, and now I’m ready. I have checked the duty roster on Sister’s desk; for the last week I have been timing her, as she goes for her meal-breaks.

  From my window, I watch the gaggle of student nurses, chattering and laughing, pass through the rear gate of the hospital’s shadowy courtyard, heading for the Nurses Dining-room. Swiftly I descend the stairs, pass out of the building, and find my hiding place in the depth of the dark doorway I had selected on my reconnaissance. As usual, she is about ten minutes behind the main body of night nurses. As usual, she is alone, walking briskly and purposefully, wrapped in her cape against the chill of the March night, but deep in thought. The sky is overcast, blotting out the moon and stars. It is cold, but at least the rain has held off. I have donned my hood and my special gloves. My case stands behind me, propped against the door of the building. I hear the approaching clump-clump of her shoes on the paving-stones.

  As she passes, I spring. She is smaller and more delicate than I had thought. My hands encircle her throat; my grip tightens. She remains silent, save for a tiny gasp. She struggles feebly for a short time, and then collapses into a crumpled heap. It is ten minutes past midnight: I have three quarters of an hour before the other nurses return. I strip her rapidly and efficiently - she has a lovely body, but I can’t afford the time to become aroused, dear me no. I make my incisions across the breasts, then mid-line from sternum to pubis (opening up the abdomen). I remove the coils of large and small intestines, and mange to extract the uterus and Fallopian tubes, largely intact. I clean my instruments on her petticoat, fetch my bag, and return them to the plastic containers therein. I arrange her on her back, legs apart, arms by her side; her viscera I place on her right, her neatly-folded clothes on the left. I exult. I am back: the Whitechapel Slasher has returned!

  I check that there is no-one around, before removing my gloves and hood, and stowing them away. Suddenly, while standing, totally exposed next to my exhibit as though on a theatre stage, I hear singing and laughter; I hesitate a second, then return briskly to my refuge in the dark doorway. A band of men is coming home from a night on the tiles; they do not enter Cavell Street, and their voices drift away into the ether. I trust they are not students, making for the hostel. I wouldn’t want to meet them, when I return, myself. My heart is racing, as I pass rapidly, and with heightened senses, down the deserted street. I pause at the corner, then proceed more slowly to my destination. The entrance hall is dimly lit, empty. No-one has seen me. I enter quietly.

  Thursday, 19th March: Joe Knowles was holding forth on Professor Harley, as we entered the Athenaeum. It was the mid-morning tea break, and we had the place to ourselves, just Joe, Malcolm, Sebastian, Bob and I. We poured ourselves tea from the thermos flask, and settled into the low easy chairs. I glanced idly at the newspaper beside me on a coffee table, and froze. All other thoughts were instantly wiped from my mind, as the headlines on the front page of the Daily Mirror jumped out at me: “WHITECHAPEL SLASHER RETURNS FROM THE DEAD. ANOTHER NURSE MURDERED.”

  With unsteady hands, I picked up the paper.

  “There’s been another murder … Listen to this, chaps: ‘In the early hours of this morning, a new body was found in the streets behind the London Hospital in Whitechapel, by night-nurses returning from their meal-break. We understand that the victim was Staff-nurse Victoria Laidlaw, aged twenty-one. She had been strangled and the body mutilated in the trademark style of the Whitechapel Slasher. This appears to be his fourth victim. The last murder took place on 5th May, 1956, almost three years ago. It had been thought that the Slasher was dead; now we believe that he may have been abroad or in prison, during the intervening time. The police are making house to house enquiries, and interviewing Miss Laidlaw’s many friends …’”

  My eyes went out of focus, and I trailed off, only dimly aware of the subdued conversation continuing around me.

  Saturday, 21st March: I sat in my room, lost in thought. I had had my supper, but didn’t feel like working in the library or socialising this evening.

  First Mandy Royston, then Jenny James, and now Vicky Laidlaw - I had known them all, two of them very well indeed! It felt as though the Slasher was targeting me, had a personal grudge against me. However, the police had not interviewed me this time, so at least I didn’t have to prove an alibi (“I was in bed, at the time of the murder, Officer. No, I have no-one able to corroborate my story …”) But what if they found the silk scarf I had bought her for her birthday?

  I switched on my gramophone, and put on the record of Hoagy Charmichael’s Star Dust Melody; I picked up the Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, and opened it at the last story, The Adventure of the Co
pper Beeches:

  “ ‘To the man who loves art for its own sake,’ remarked Sherlock Holmes, tossing aside the advertisement sheet of the Daily Telegraph, ‘it is frequently in its least important and lowliest manifestations that the keenest pleasure is to be derived …’ ”

  Chapter Twenty Nine - June, 1959

  Tuesday, 2nd June: The operating theatre sweltered in the exceptionally hot weather. A theatre nurse fainted, and had to be helped to the anaesthetic room next door; here she lay on the cool stone floor to recover, a pillow under her head and a glass of water in her hand; Sister had had to wait until the ongoing operation had finished (and she had counted up the used swabs and instruments), before she could attend to her ...

  For the next three months, we would be attached to the Professorial Surgical Unit for our senior surgical firm. I was scrubbed, and stood at the head of the table, observing, but with very little to do. The bright theatre light amplified the heat, but sweat, dripping from my chin and the tip of my nose, was instantly soaked up by my mask.

  The surgeon was Professor Oliver Richards, thin and rather stooped, with steel half-moon glasses and a hearing aid; wiry grey hair peeped out from under his surgical cap. While he operated, he chatted amiably with the house surgeon who assisted him.

  It was rumoured that - to avoid boredom or difficult decisions - the Prof would switch off his hearing aid in committee, and take a nap. This rumour occasionally proved dangerously wrong: at one meeting he sat through a long tedious discussion with closed eyes and a seraphic smile; however, when one member attempted playfully to disparage him, he came to life with a sudden crushing retort, confounding the committee, wiping the smiles of anticipation from their faces!

  We were operating on a lady with a mixed parotid tumour, a benign growth of the parotid salivary gland at the angle of the jaw. Professor Richards’s flow of conversation gradually ebbed, as he concentrated ever harder on his task; time passed - one hour, two hours …

  “I’m stuck … Appear to have lost the facial nerve. Come on, Harry, you’d better take over; this is more your field than mine.”

  I came out of my reverie with a start: Harry Starling was the Surgical Unit houseman - bottom of the ladder! Yet, to my amazement (while staff nurse wiped the professor’s brow with a swab), the two changed places, and the house surgeon accepted the surgical instruments from his boss. He took a few minutes to orientate himself and check the surroundings; then, after a few deft scalpel strokes, he pointed with a probe:

  “There you are … facial nerve intact … everything’s fine. Want to take over again, Oliver?”

  “No, Harry. You carry on … Finish it off.”

  Starling had been a mature medical student, and had only recently qualified as a doctor. He was short and spare, with wavy flaxen hair, and no sense of humour. He had kept himself to himself, and had had little time for his fellow students. He was reputed to be married, with a young family; but if this were true, he had very little time for them either - as he worked ferociously for most of the hours of each day. I had discovered that he was a qualified dentist: he was now embarking on a medical career, with a view to becoming a facio-maxillary surgeon.

  Mr Starling was clearly an excellent operator: he had soon dissected out the tumour, tied and divided its blood supply; after carefully displaying and preserving the important neighbouring structures - arteries, nerves and parotid duct - he removed the tumour, placing it in a pot for histology; finally, he sewed up the incision. The affable conversation resumed; both surgeons removed their gloves and gowns, and disappeared - still chatting - through the swing-doors to the surgeons’ room, for tea …

  Saturday, 6th June: I lay on my bed, day-dreaming, again absorbed in my recording of Star Dust. I was disturbed by a knock on the door - and there, hard on the heels of the porter, was Jill!

  “I hope you didn’t mind me bringing her up to your room, Mr Scott.” And, without waiting for a reply, he was gone.

  I whisked my legs off the bed, and sat up, staring at her in surprise. Jill remained motionless on the threshold, diffident and apprehensive, valiantly holding back the tears.

  “Do come in,” I broke the silence at last. She entered the room, closed the door behind her, and the flood-gates opened:

  “I came yesterday, but you were out.” Her voice trembled. “Oh Edwin, will you ever forgive me? I’ve been such a fool … Paddy’s good looks and charm just swept me off my feet …” (She caught the look on my face.) “Not that you’re not good looking and charming … I … I just meant … Well, his constant presence in the flat, and his persistence gradually wore me down … And he suddenly proposed one night last November, when we were both slightly sloshed after a party … But he has a nasty temper, and can get violent when he’s drunk … And he has been getting drunk more and more, since getting into the first rugby fifteen … He has beaten me …”

  I noticed she had some old bruising over her cheek and around her left eye ...

  She had broken off her engagement, and moved out of the flat. Now, she was sleeping on the floor at a girl-friend’s place, until July, when a room would become vacant at the St Thomas’ students’ hostel.

  Her story affected me deeply. I stood up, and moved towards her; suddenly she was in my arms, head buried in my shoulder; her sobs shook my whole body, and I could feel her tears soaking through the collar of my shirt.

  “What can I do? I feel so lost. Will you let me see you again, Edwin? Please take me back! I still love you so.”

  I remained silent. After a long pause, I detached myself, and took a small parcel from the chest of drawers. I had visited Harrod’s Department Store in Knightsbridge to find a replacement for her mother’s Minton cup and saucer; I had felt shabby and insignificant, mingling with the high-born, the rich and the famous; yet I had ultimately been successful in my quest.

  “I wondered how I would get these back to your parents … The porcelain I broke …”

  She glanced briefly at the package, smiled wanly into my eyes, and then hugged me ferociously to her.

  “My Darling …”

  “Oh, Angel …”

  After an eternity of grey, life’s vivid colours had miraculously returned.

  Chapter Thirty - September, 1959

  Friday, 4th September: The path unwound, as though in a dream; a gentle drizzle moistened my face and hands, while I trudged - alone - from the railway station. Flashes of familiar sights jolted me back into the past: I had last been here when I was eight, at the end of the Second World War. The silence was broken by the bleating of sheep, and an occasional splash, when I stepped in a puddle. My spirits lightened, my step quickened, and I was hardly aware of the weight of my suitcase. It was late Summer, and I was finally paying my long-promised visit to Aunty Bronwen in Llangammarch Wells.

  The scene was dominated by the majestic backdrop of the mountains, softened by a fine mist; as I passed through the open gate and along the rough track towards the farm buildings, the rain stopped, the sun emerged, and the rolling Welsh countryside was bathed in a golden light; even the sheep were momentarily silent; and peace reigned complete. I stopped in wonder.

  Then a dog barked, and a streak of black and white bounded towards me from one of the buildings; he leaped up on me, wagging his tail excitedly. At first I thought it must be Flash - but then realized that he would have been very old indeed! A second sheep dog wandered out at a more leisurely pace, to welcome me; finally, a youngish man appeared from an out-house, cleaning his oily hands with a rag.

  “It’s sorry I am not to be meeting you at the station, man.” The broad smile, and the wonderful Welsh cadences charmed me instantly. “Aunt Bronwen did ask, but I had to finish repairing the old truck … I’m Danny Thomas. You must be Edwin. My, you’ve changed …”

  Danny was the son of Bronwen’s sister. I recalled him as a gangly teenager, helping on the farm during the war.

  “Everything on the farm is mechanized now,” he confided.

  Gone
were the horses - replaced by a tractor; gone were the cows, and the cow shed was a dilapidated ruin. The farm house, barn and out-houses all looked a little seedy; everything seemed smaller than I remembered. Chickens pecked in the yard. Only the sheep in the fields were unchanged.

  Our voices brought Aunty Bronwen from the house, wiping her hands on her apron; she wore carpet slippers, a cardigan and an old tweed skirt; one woollen stocking had fallen around her ankle. I was shocked at how old she looked: her hair, wispy and grey, straggled out from under a hair net; she, too, was much smaller than I remembered, and she had put on weight; her face was smiling, but streaked with tears. She smelt faintly of lavender and moth balls.

  “My dear little Edwin … you’ve come home …you’ve come to visit your old Aunty … Oh, I don’t know what I mean … But I’m so happy,” she sobbed. At the long-forgotten sound of her voice, a host of jumbled emotions chased themselves through my mind.

  She kept hold of my hand, as we passed through the farmhouse door - straight into the oak-beamed living room: the ceiling was low, the windows were small; and it was stiflingly hot from a blazing fire in the old kitchen range. In front of this, warming himself, lay an ancient grey and white sheep dog, head on his paws; one eye opened, as he scrutinized me; his tail beat feebly.

  “Do you remember Flash? He’s sixteen now. The dogs that met you are Bob and Sally, his pups.”

  I carried my luggage up the rickety staircase, to the small meticulously tidy room at the back of the house. The bed cover was drawn back in welcome, and there was a small vase of wild flowers on the chest of drawers. I began to unpack my case; on top was the present I had brought Aunty Bronwen: the light brown cardigan Mum had helped me choose at Selfridges.