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

by Felix Bruckner

  Through my bedroom window, I could see the sun setting behind the mountains, tingeing the clouds with pink; as I watched, the sky turned from pale blue to mauve; beside the crescent moon, rose the evening star - the planet Venus: together, they cast but a pale light, as the gloom deepened into blackness …

  Bronwen, Danny and I had eaten supper off the best china: roast lamb, roast potatoes, stuffing, peas and carrots - fabulous fresh farm fare! After, there was apple tart; then hot sweet coffee (with a little too much milk). When the meal was finished, Danny had excused himself, and disappeared to his own tiny cottage:

  “Have to be up early, boyo …”

  Aunty Bronwen had washed up, firmly refusing my offer of help; another hug and a wet kiss, and she was on her way to bed; I had sat in an easy chair for another ten minutes, listening to the creaking of the old farm-house; finally, I had followed her upstairs.

  Now, in my pyjamas, under the crisp sheets, I lay back, regarding the circle of light on the ceiling cast by my reading lamp; the open book remained unread on my stomach. The noises of the night were magnified: the sighing of the trees in the light wind, an occasional baa as the sheep composed themselves to rest, the raucous cry of some mysterious night bird, the eerie hoot of a hunting owl. The bark of a fox was taken up by the farm dogs; after a pause, there came the heart-rending squeals of a small animal caught by the fox; these were cut off abruptly, and there was silence!

  I switched off the bedside light, and, to the sound of rain-drops drumming on the roof, drifted into a peaceful sleep.

  Saturday, 5th September: Sally sat motionless; Bob was crouched low, ears cocked, teeth bared in a soundless snarl, creeping forward very slowly; both dogs looked frequently towards Danny, who directed them with his stick, giving an occasional terse command: the flock of sheep was bunched together, but in a perpetual state of motion, uncertain whither to run. Sally moved forward a few paces - and the sheep made a sudden dash through the open gate into the pen.

  With a broad grin, Danny closed and fastened the gate, turning to me for approval; the sheep-dogs relaxed; they wagged their tails, and queued for Danny to pat them; I got off the stile, where I’d been watching; despite my overcoat, I felt quite cold: though the rain had kept off, the sun remained behind a bank of cloud. While we walked casually towards the farmhouse in the gathering dusk, the dogs raced back and forth excitedly ahead of us - a complete contrast to the discipline they had shown while working the sheep!

  Monday, 7th September: I was warm after my climb, and removed my duffle-coat; I sat on a tuft of grass, near the summit of the hill, gazing down into the valley: the sun glinted on the ribbon of water below, where the stream flowed swiftly between boulders; the patchwork of fields and hedges was softened by a fine haze.

  I had stopped off at the village shop, to buy some hazel-nut chocolate. Everything had been exactly as I remembered it: in one corner, was the post-office, with its grill, and official-looking posters on the wall; next to this, a smooth marble counter proclaimed the grocery department, which was stacked with tins and jars, and hung with hams and cheeses; beside the scales - on the centre of the counter - stood the gleaming chrome ham-slicing machine; in the far corner of the shop was the confectionery section, overflowing with tall jars of sweets, liquorice all-sorts, sherbets, candies, toffees - and a large range of chocolate bars; on a rack, in the centre of the shop, with the newspapers and periodicals, were stacked the comics and annuals of my youth.

  Now, on the hillside, I took the chocolate from my pocket, broke off two squares, and placed them in my mouth. I munched slowly, as I recalled my childhood: games (conkers, marbles and milk-tops) in the school playground; my heroic attempts to learn the Welsh language; the exhilaration of playing and helping on the farm; the quiet, shy, unobtrusive love of Uncle Dafydd and Aunty Bronwen. The wicked world of Whitechapel and its serial killer seemed very far away; I was unaware that events were moving inexorably in my absence, and were soon to reach a climax.

  A hazelnut crunched between my teeth. There was a sudden chill in the air: the sun had disappeared, and I was enveloped in a fine drizzle; the occasional bleating of sheep sounded louder; otherwise the land seemed subdued; there was not the slightest breeze, and - against the faint hiss of the rain - the silence was oppressive.

  I donned my coat, fastened the toggles, and raised the hood. When I looked again, I found that the valley was blotted out by a greyish-white mist, shreds of which were draped over bushes and rocks only ten feet away. I sprang up, and, with a feeling of growing unease, began to make my way downhill; soon, I was totally engulfed by the fog - and noticed with alarm that I had lost sight of the path; slowly I edged downwards, the mournful baas of the sheep my only company. I fought to maintain my spirits, to keep myself from panic.

  The gurgling of a stream (which I hadn’t noticed on my ascent) became audible: suddenly, I was upon it - almost in it.

  I’ll follow it down the mountain.

  Just in time I remembered tales of lost travellers following a stream over a precipice - and stopped dead! I moved away from the cascade of water, and began descending again, extra cautiously ...

  A dark shape loomed unexpectedly out of the mist - a stone wall; I followed it along for a few paces, and came to a gate; passing through this, as if in a fairy-tale, I found myself in a small garden; then the front door of a stone cottage appeared, and I nearly laughed out loud with relief; the door opened almost immediately to my knock, and a motherly white-haired woman ushered me into the single ground-floor chamber.

  “You’re frozen, young man, look-you. Come warm yourself by the fire, and have a nice cup of tea … Lost, is it? You’ll be alright now, right as rain … just drink your tea and eat your scones … You’ll be Bronwen Pugh’s young man …”

  While I sipped my tea, and listened to the soothing musical cadences, I gazed out of the window: the fog had disappeared as quickly as it had come; the hills looked benign and picturesque once more, no trace remaining of menace; the village of Llangammarch Wells nestled peacefully in the valley below, in the warm evening sunshine.

  Saturday, 12th September: There was a sense of power, as the roar of the engine swept over me: I sat in the driver’s seat, high above the ground, clutching the heavy steering wheel; I bumped along the rough track at ten miles an hour, my whole frame juddering to the vibration of the tractor’s motor; in the cart behind me were piled bale upon bale of hay, bound for the barn - for the animals’ winter feeding. Once or twice, I thought I’d end up ignominiously, in a ditch; I dreaded meeting another vehicle on the narrow lane, but so far my luck had held. We had pitch-forked the bales onto the cart together, and this was our second journey to the barn - the drive my reward for the back-breaking work. Danny strolled a hundred yards behind, without a care in the world.

  After the hot sunshine, the interior of the barn was dark and cool; I climbed the ladder to the hay loft; in my nostrils was the scent of the warm hay, bringing back further vivid memories of the past: playing and hiding in this self-same loft (which at that time had seemed so much larger and more mysterious) ...

  Danny propelled the bales up to me with his pitch-fork; I stacked them neatly, trampling each successive layer underfoot, until my head almost bumped against the rafters; eventually, the cart was empty. I felt nostalgic and melancholic: tomorrow was the last day of my holiday; I was due to return to London after ten magical days, redolent of my Breconshire childhood. Would I ever come back?

  Monday, 14th September: I looked around the bleak little box room with its sloping ceiling: there was just space for a narrow bed, a tiny writing desk and chair, and a chest of drawers; my white coat hung on a hook on the door, and my jacket and a spare pair of trousers were folded on top of the chest. On the desk - luxury of luxuries - sat a shiny black telephone. I had just arrived and unpacked. From the single dusty window, I had a view of Hackney Road - empty on this Monday evening - and the Castle Inn.

  Now, I sat disconsolately on the bed, wonder
ing what to do, and what to expect: I was on my paediatric attachment at the Hackney Children’s Hospital. Bob and Malcolm hadn’t yet arrived; and Pete had fallen ill with hepatitis, and might well miss the whole Firm.

  I was startled out of my thoughts by the shrill ring of the telephone.

  “Mr Scott? I’m Dr Hall - Barbara Hall - the RMO. Supper is in the doctors’ dining room on the ground floor from seven o’clock. The hall porter will direct you; and I’ll meet you there, when you’re ready. There’s no sign of your friends yet …”

  I entered the dining room, which doubled as the Hospital Board Room: it was panelled in oak, richly carpeted and curtained in Prussian blue and gold, and lit by two crystal chandeliers; on the walls, hung oil paintings of Victorian benefactors in elaborate gilt frames, and a portrait of the Queen on horseback, Trooping the Colour; a huge Georgian mahogany table with a set of sixteen Chippendale chairs took pride of place at the head of the room (however they remained unoccupied); two smaller, more mundane, modern specimens were squeezed into the area near the door: these were covered with somewhat soiled white cloths, and laid out for about a dozen people. I took a seat, as unobtrusively as I could, and waited to be served.

  Three doctors chatted as they ate their soup: a woman and two men, all in their mid- twenties, the men in their shirt-sleeves, and the woman in a skirt and blouse; their white coats hung on a row of pegs on the wall, behind the door. The man nearest me was athletic and muscular, with a square chin and a five o’clock shadow; his dark eyes twinkled, and an engaging smile caused them to crinkle at the corners. There was a pause in the conversation, as he turned to me.

  “Hullo, I’m Jamie Smythe, an HP here … you must be one of the London Hospital students … You may know my sister Heather - she’d be in your year at The London …” (Though I examined him closely, I could see no resemblance.) Dr Smythe had paused, with a quizzical look, and I realized that something was expected of me, in return.

  “Edwin Scott, medical student …” I began. “Yes, I do know Heather … Quite well, as a matter of fact, but she never mentioned a brother …” I faltered, embarrassed at finding myself the centre of attention.

  “Perhaps I’m considered the black sheep of the family …”

  “I’m Paula Howard, another house physician …” broke in the young woman sitting next to Jamie, saving me from further discomfort. She was ash blonde and startlingly beautiful, with large grey eyes under long lashes, and perfectly chiselled features; her honey tan contrasted agreeably with the pale skin of her neighbour. She smiled at me with evident sympathy, and my heart nearly stopped.

  The second man sat on my side of the table: he was slightly built, with light brown hair, a diffident manner, a short sleeved shirt, and a blue polka-dot bow tie; his speech was slow and deliberate, with a faint but unmistakable trans-Atlantic accent, which took me by surprise.

  “Hi, Edwin. I’m Chuck Abrahams, casualty officer … Pleased to make your acquaintance … If you’re ever at a loose end, you’re sure welcome to see some cases with me in casualty … We’re down in the basement.”

  Bob Parsons and Dr Hall arrived with my soup. The resident medical officer was a small bird-like woman, a little older than the other doctors; she wore a fawn cardigan and skirt under her white coat, which she now discarded, and hung up on a peg with the others’.

  “Hello. You must be Mr Scott. I’m Barbara Hall … We talked on the phone, earlier.”

  Her voice was surprisingly deep and resonant, and she spoke with authority.

  “Tomorrow evening, you will both be shadowing Dr Smythe.” (My eyes met Paula Howard’s, and I experienced a stab of disappointment.) “During the day, you will go on the consultants’ ward rounds, and sit in on their out-patient clinics. We have lunch-time meetings for all doctors on Fridays in the seminar room, with sandwiches provided. At other times, attach yourselves to Dr Smythe, and clerk as many admissions as you can. I’ll let you know if I have anything interesting for you to see, myself … You’re expected to get up at night for emergencies; but you can let night sister know if you’re too tired, and want to be left to sleep … Can’t have you dozing off on a consultant’s ward round, next day! Any questions? Right … Tomorrow morning we meet on the Gastro Ward at nine-thirty …” (She turned to the hovering waitress.) “I’ll have the vegetable soup, please, Edith.”

  The conversation was terminated; Bob ordered, and I got on with my meal …

  Tuesday, 15th September: Malcolm, Bob and I sat in the saloon bar of the Castle Inn, pints of bitter on the table before us.

  Malcolm hadn’t arrived until after midnight - well after Bob and I retired - and had had to be let in by the night porter. This morning, we had all met just inside the infants’ gastro-enterology ward; promptly at nine-thirty the consultant, Dr Mary-Jane Wilson, had arrived; we had accompanied her, her registrar, her house physician (a girl I hadn’t seen before), and the RMO on her round. Dr Wilson was a stately blue-haired lady who had obviously been attractive in her youth, and still enjoyed male company. She had smiled archly at us, and, throughout the ward round, had addressed all her remarks to the three students and her male registrar.

  The cots in the ten glass-fronted cubicles were occupied by babies and toddlers; some were shrivelled from dehydration - and intravenous fluids dripped into their scalps. One little Turkish boy had stood, holding on to the cot bars; as we passed outside his cubicle, he had moved around the inside of his cot, trying to keep eye contact with me.

  “Dadda, dadda …” he had exclaimed repeatedly, stretching out his arms towards me.

  “You’ve clearly made quite a hit with this patient, Mr Scott … Sure you’ve not been in these parts before?” Dr Wilson had observed drily.

  Now, we sipped our ale, reflecting on the day’s events …

  An empty beer bottle rolled along the floor, and struck Bob gently on the ankle; he picked it up, righted it, and placed it to one side; we resumed our conversation …

  Another bottle rolled along the floor, rapping Bob more forcibly on the ankle; glancing up, we saw a short disreputable-looking man with unkempt red hair and a filthy tan rain-coat smirking at us. Bob flushed with anger, and drew himself up to his full height:

  “Do you mind leaving us alone, and playing with your damned beer bottles elsewhere?” he shouted belligerently.

  “Sure, Squire … anythin’ you say … Just a harmless bit o’ fun …” replied the rat-faced little man, in a slurred voice with a strong Irish accent. He gave an ironic salute, and turned back to his companion and his drink.

  The bar became crowded; the background noise increased; a white upright piano, out of tune, and with several cracked notes, played honky-tonk music.

  “My round …” Bob gathered up our glasses, and weaved his way towards the bar. As he passed between the two Irishmen, a scene unfolded before me like a film in slow motion: one pinioned his arms; in a single smooth action - as though frequently rehearsed - Rat-face picked up a bottle of stout from the bar, and struck him full in the face with it. The bottle shattered, leaving Bob dazed on the floor, bleeding from a gashed cheek, his shirt stained dark brown (from Guinness), and crimson (from blood). The music stopped and there was a shocked silence. The two men disappeared through a door to the public bar, while I staunched the blood with my handkerchief; eventually Malcolm and I helped Bob - still groggy - onto a chair.

  “That wus a ’orrible vicious act!” The barman stood beside us, pot-bellied, face brick-red, sweating profusely.

  “You alright, Sir? Afta go to ’ospital wi’ that … Looks bad …”

  “It’s okay: we’ll take him to casualty in the Children’s Hospital across the road; we’re medical students there … But should we report this to the police first?”

  An apprehensive expression flitted across his face.

  “Don’t worry, gen’lmen. I’ll take care of it.”

  As the tinkling of the piano, and the buzz of conversation built up again, Bob slowly regained his c
omposure.

  We took him to casualty; here Dr Abrahams supervised me while I stitched up the wound, before we finally retired for the night.

  Wednesday, 16th September: Wednesday was a slack day at the Children’s Hospital, and I found myself in casualty once more. Bob had gone upstairs to rest after lunch; Malcolm had simply disappeared. Chuck Abrahams seemed pleased that I had taken up his offer, and went out of his way to instruct me; I shared tea with him and staff nurse, in the single large consulting room.

  Outside, the waiting area was deserted. All was silent ...

  We could hear its cries long before the child arrived: they travelled from the entrance hall of the hospital, down to the basement, and all along our corridor; just outside, they ceased abruptly, as the patient stopped for breath.

  “Gee, a customer, at last! Finished your tea, Edwin? Then let’s get started …” Chuck beamed at me, the soft New England accent more audible than usual.

  “Wheel them in, Staff Nurse …”

  The mother, not much more than a child herself, was dirty, dishevelled and distressed.

  “’E’s bin cryin’ since last night. Won’t eat nuffink. Says ’is back ’urts …”

  The little boy was about three years old; he sat on his mother’s lap, momentarily quiet, while he peered around at the unfamiliar surroundings - eyes streaked with tears, face flushed, wet hair plastered down on his scalp.

  “What’s the commonest cause of acute back pain in a child of this age, Edwin?” Chuck interrogated me.

  “Lumbar disc prolapse? Leukaemia?”

  The mother turned visibly pale; however the casualty officer was already shaking his head vigorously.

  “Wrong!” he stated emphatically. He turned back to the young girl:

  “No need to worry, madam. The most likely diagnosis is ’flu - Influenza … Please check his temperature, staff nurse; then I’ll examine him fully; afterwards we’ll try to collect a urine sample, to exclude a urinary tract infection …”