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

by Felix Bruckner

  Before supper, the three of us were back in the saloon bar of the Castle Inn. Bob, though still somewhat subdued, was clearly much recovered; his face, however, was a battlefield: on his left cheek was a large sticking plaster, which only partially concealed the swelling and extensive bruising. We sat at a corner table with our pints; it was early, and the place was quiet.

  After a while two big men entered the pub; they approached the bar, addressed a few words to the landlord, who nodded towards us; they came over, and - uninvited - sat down at our table. They were in their thirties, thickset and muscular; with the scarred and dented faces of prize-fighters, they looked tough and formidable; however, their hair was fashionably cut, they wore smart three-piece pin-striped suits; and, in their huge fists, they carried bowler hats and neatly rolled umbrellas. They appraised us carefully and deliberately; then the spokesman addressed Bob with elaborate courtesy:

  “I understand you was involved in a bit o’ trouble yesterday, Sir - at these premises. Very sorry to see you was ’urt … I wonder if you could tell us about it, Sir … Describe what ’appened-like …”

  Bob launched into a detailed account of last night’s events, his description occasionally supplemented by Malcolm or me; the men cross-examined us minutely - they were especially interested in the speech and appearance of Bob’s assailants; at last, they appeared satisfied.

  “Thank you, gentlemen. You’ve been most helpful.”

  “What’ll happen next?” asked Bob.

  “Don’t worry, Sir. We’ll arrange a meeting …”

  With that, they were on their feet, the door swung open, and they were gone.

  Thursday, 17th September: Jamie Smythe had given me the afternoon off again. I climbed the last flight of stairs, pushed open the door, and emerged on the flat roof: the blinding light and heat of the Indian Summer struck me simultaneously; a cast iron water tank and several tall brick chimneys barred my way; attached to one chimney was a television aerial, and leaning against its base a stack of folded deck-chairs; picking one up, I went in search of somewhere to sunbathe. It was just after lunch, and the place appeared deserted ...

  “Why don’t you come and join me, Edwin?”

  I felt a surge of excitement at the sound of the lazy, rather husky voice; there was a shimmer of platinum-blond hair, as I rounded the water tank, and I found Paula Howard at the far end of the roof, reclining on a deck-chair. She wore a brief bikini in purest white, which emphasized her light tan and breathtaking figure; her eyes were half-closed against the strong sun; by her side lay a white towelling robe, an open book, and a pair of sun-glasses; in her hand was a bottle of suntan oil.

  A roof-top panorama of aerials and chimneys stretched as far as the eye could see; on a nearby council-flat balcony, washing hung on a makeshift line; to the north, in the heat haze, I discerned the heights of Highgate; to the west, the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral; the sky was a washed pale blue, with just a few wisps of white cloud; the sun blazed down from almost directly above.

  “Put your chair here … Then be an angel and give me a hand with this …” She lifted the bottle a fraction. “Could you just oil my back … and my shoulders?”

  She leant forward. I moved towards her like an automaton, and found myself gently kneading her shoulder blades; her skin felt warm and silky, as my hands - lubricated by the oil - slid easily around her shoulders.

  “Down a bit,” she murmured, as she loosened her bikini straps, and settled back in the chair; with her own hands, she guided me to the soft flesh of her upper arms, pushing the straps down further; in a trance, I continued my massage: the bikini-top fell forward, exposing one exquisite white breast, its pink areola and nipple standing erect. Her eyes flew wide open, and she looked searchingly into mine, an inscrutable smile on her lips; her gaze travelled down to her bare breast - while I stood over her, turned to stone, unable to tear my eyes away.

  “Don’t worry, Edwin … No-one can see … apart from that bird …” her voice soft and low, she nodded towards a sparrow perched on the roof parapet. The world stood still …

  A door banged, and high-pitched female voices approached: the spell was broken. I straightened and stepped back; Paula, with one smooth movement, pulled up her bikini straps - regaining her decorum; she lay back again, eyes closed. Three young student nurses appeared from behind the water tank, carrying deck-chairs.

  Slowly and deliberately, Paula stood up; she put on her white towelling robe, then glanced ostentatiously at her wrist watch:

  “Gosh! Is that the time? Must get back to work,” she exclaimed, addressing the gallery; she picked up her things, and was gone - leaving behind her the deck-chair and a faint aroma of suntan lotion. I sat down; I put on my sun-glasses; I opened my book, and gazed at it through unfocussed eyes, my pulse still racing.

  While Malcolm and the absent Pete had been allocated to Paula Howard, Bob and I found ourselves on Tippet Ward with Doctor Smythe. Jamie Smythe was a likeable fellow, handsome, courteous, patient and good humoured. Though towering over them, he appeared to empathize with the children, chatting with them at their level, and flashing his infectious smile; even quite sick patients stopped crying and smiled wanly back at him.

  We were about to go to supper, when Sister warned us that a new admission was on its way up; while we waited, we heard the high-pitched wail which rose up the lift-shaft, only to be cut off by a bout of coughing. A student nurse stepped from the old-fashioned wrought-iron lift cage, carrying a small baby, its mother following. The baby was now quiet, and appeared to be asleep:

  “Rose Miller, aged four months.”

  As the nurse handed her to Sister, the infant began to cough again, a succession of barks of increasing frequency and intensity; her eyes opened wide, scared, searching for her mother; she turned a bluish-purple hue; the attack was terminated by a long whoop, as she sucked in her breath; she vomited a little milky fluid; finally her normal pink colour returned, she closed her eyes again, and was still.

  “Whooping cough,” Dr Smythe stated flatly. “How long has this been going on, Mrs Miller … and how frequent are the bouts?”

  The baby’s mother looked haggard and upset.

  “She’s only bin ill since this morning, doctor, but getting worse. The bouts is cummin’ every ’arf hour, and she sort o’ stops breathin’. Can’t seem to keep ’er milk down. ’Erbie, my son oo’s six, ’as ’ad a cough, but ’e ain’t whooped with it.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Will she be alright?”

  “I think we’ve caught her in time, Mrs Miller,” the house physician smiled encouragingly at her. “Sister will take her temperature (a rectal thermometer was inserted), while I do a quick examination … Then we’ll start her on treatment straight away.”

  A student nurse sat in the cubicle, the glass windows misted by the steam inhalation, holding the baby gently in her arms. The patient had been given an injection to stop the cough and relieve the airways obstruction; she had taken some clear fluids by mouth and was now resting peacefully, partly from exhaustion, and partly from the sedative effect of the opiate; her temperature was high, but her pulse was settling to a more comfortable rate. Her mother, after waiting with her for another half an hour, had been persuaded to go home to her husband and little boy.

  “We’re in the middle of a whooping cough epidemic,” Jamie Smythe informed us, when she had left. “Our firm alone has had two others in the last ten days - one was dead on arrival; the second died shortly after admission: both were very young babies. The older the child, and the earlier it’s brought into hospital, the better the prognosis … We’ll save this one!”

  Friday, 18th September: The ringing of the telephone roused me from a deep sleep. I looked at the luminous face of my alarm clock - twelve-thirty: I had been asleep less than an hour!

  “There’s an admission coming into Tippet Ward.” Night Sister’s voice was quiet but urgent. “I gather you’re shadowing Dr Smythe … His telephone seems to be out of order, so I wondered i
f you would wake him for me, and let him know.” Before I could reply, the phone went dead.

  I put on trousers and a jumper over my pyjamas, pulled on my white coat, and made my way to Jamie’s room, in the next corridor. (I didn’t disturb Bob, who had been excused from night calls on health grounds.)

  I knocked softly on the door; there was no answer, but I thought I could hear a moaning sound from within; I knocked again - more loudly. I heard the light switch click.

  “Come in!”

  I opened the door, and peeped in: the bedside light cast deep shadows in the small room; the narrow bed stood against the far wall; the phone was off the hook. Dr Smythe had levered himself up on one elbow - to bring me into focus.

  “There’s a child on its way to Tippet Ward. Your phone’s not answering, so Sister asked me to call you …”

  I broke off: beyond Jamie Smythe, another head rested on the pillow - though its face was shrouded in shadow, it was framed by a halo of ash-blond hair; I stared aghast, suddenly feeling sick.

  “It’s alright, Edwin,” came a familiar husky female voice. “We’re just good friends!”

  I recoiled, as if scalded; before I knew it, I was outside in the corridor, my back to the door, heart thumping painfully in my chest. Dr Smythe joined me a few minutes later, fully dressed, white coat slung over his shoulder. Tight-lipped and with eyes downcast, I followed him to the ward.

  The little boy was about two years old; his mother held him awkwardly, as his head and whole body arched over backwards; he was bathed in sweat; from time to time, he gave a shrill scream.

  “The meningeal cry,” Jamie muttered, half to himself.

  Having examined the child, he spoke briefly to the distraught mother, finally asking her to wait in sister’s office. A little later, scrubbed, gloved, masked and gowned, he was ready to perform the lumbar puncture, with staff nurse and me assisting.

  “This is most likely meningococcal meningitis, even though there’s no rash yet. Viral meningitis is not usually as severe as this …”

  The toddler was quiet now. He lay carefully positioned on his side; I grasped his shoulders and legs, rolling him into a ball, holding him gently yet firmly; his tiny back was marked with a marker pen, cleaned with iodine, and draped in sterile towels from the lumbar puncture trolley: the house physician found the gap between the vertebrae, and inserted the fine needle …

  I followed Jamie Smythe down to the pathology department in the basement, where he unlocked the door, and switched on the lights. After a brief search, we found the oil immersion microscope and the special slide with the counting chamber; a drop of the spinal fluid was placed on the slide, which was stained and positioned on the stage of the microscope; a bead of oil was deposited over the cover slip; the houseman focused the microscope for what seemed an inordinate length of time; at last he gave a grunt of satisfaction, and I heard him counting under his breath.

  “Have a look at this, Edwin; I reckon there are ten thousand cells per c.c., almost all polymorph neutrophils … Definitely a bacterial infection …Can you see?” I nodded.

  “And those little round pink bacteria: Gram-negative cocci. Almost certainly meningococci!”

  We left the cerebrospinal fluid container - prominently labelled - in the fridge; and a short note with the pathology form, on the bench next to the microscope; then we returned to the ward.

  “The patient should respond to treatment with penicillin and TLC.”

  I remained mute on the way up, a frown on my face, my mind still agitated; I refused to respond to Jamie’s attempts at light conversation, and avoided eye contact. How could this monster have seduced such a beautiful angelic creature?

  Jamie stopped; he looked at me in concern; at length, he divined what was troubling me:

  “The woman in my bed? Paula? … Cheer up, it’s not quite as bad as it seems. After all, we are married!”

  I looked up, surprised, amazed, my mind in fresh turmoil.

  “Well, Edwin, you must be about the only person in the hospital not to know!”

  Saturday, 19th September: All thoughts of Paula Howard vanished as soon as I caught sight of Jill. Though traces of anguish (from her brief engagement) lingered, I knew I loved her more than ever. We exchanged smiles, hurried across Tottenham Court Road, and entered the Dominion Cinema. Hardly had we settled down in our seats, than the lights dimmed; I held Jill’s warm soft hand - still a bitter-sweet pleasure!

  The film, Gigi, had been a huge hit throughout the country, and many of the songs were already familiar. It gave the ageing Maurice Chevalier a new lease of life, and made Leslie Caron a star overnight; their authentic French accents and joie de vivre imparted a freshness to the score which communicated itself to the entire audience. Even the quintessentially English Hermione Baggeley - as Chevalier’s old mistress - seemed to ooze Frenchness in her cracked spoken duet with him: Yes, I remember it well.

  Around us, courting couples kissed in the darkness, but I was content to feel Jill’s shoulder against mine, and an occasional increased pressure of her grip: it was wonderful, just to be with her again ...

  We left the cinema, in the crush of the capacity crowd, with Chevalier’s rendition of Thank ’eaven for little girls still echoing in my head. The night air was invigorating; my heart was light: nothing and nobody would ever part us again!

  I was walking in the warm evening darkness, a smile on my lips, a spring in my step. I was due to meet Jill again, by the statue of Queen Alexandra. The lamp above the hospital exit into the courtyard cast weird elongated shadows. I saw her almost immediately, waiting patiently; I waved and shouted, but she didn’t hear, didn’t turn.

  Something moved behind her; from behind the statue emerged a hooded form; while I watched in horror, he paused briefly, and then pounced. I quickened my pace, but seemed to be running through treacle towards the struggling figures. I shouted again, but no sound came. As I reached the stairs approaching the statue, Jill collapsed to the ground. The Whitechapel Slasher turned to face me, a scalpel grasped in his gloved hand. I felt a searing pain in my chest, as he struck, and I knew I was going to die, that I was going to join Jill …

  I woke in my bed at the Children’s Hospital, disorientated, bathed in sweat, heart pounding painfully. What a waste, I was thinking, still only half awake. What a terrible waste!

  Monday, 21st September: I was in the last week of my paediatric attachment. The wards - with their brightly painted murals of Disney characters, their miniaturized furniture, and the boxes of toys and books scattered over the tables and floors - brought back vivid memories of my sister’s emergency appendicectomy.

  I had been observing the patients. When they had time, the nurses would play with them or read to them; occasionally, the children would play together; however, most of the time, they sat, apathetic, gazing into the distance, the smaller ones rocking back and forth monotonously for hours on end.

  Visiting in most wards was for forty-five minutes after supper: the children would sulk for the first ten to fifteen minutes, ignoring their parents completely; then they became animated, enthusiastic, joyful; finally, when the bell rang for the parents to leave, misery and gloom descended again, more intensely than before; and the wards throughout the hospital echoed to the sounds of sobs and wailing. Was visiting really worthwhile, I wondered, perversely.

  Barbara Hall had been a revelation. I had accompanied the RMO on nights, when Dr Smythe had been off duty. Her looks belied her stamina and strength of character; she loved the children, and exhibited all the qualities of a first rate paediatrician: sympathy, patience, kindness, diagnostic acumen, and technical skills. She was absolutely dedicated to her work, and was happy to be woken, even when officially off duty; she had introduced scalp-vein drips to the Children’s Hospital from Great Ormond Street, and was prepared to help the house physicians with the technique at any time - it would save the infant from a cut-down at the ankle; she was the final port of call for difficult lumbar punctures, succeedi
ng when all others (including registrars and senior registrars) failed. She invariably maintained her self-control; her normally clipped Roedean speech remained even and calm, in the most life-threatening circumstances - the only change, a barely noticeable Scottish burr. Though she never let anyone get close enough for real friendship, all the doctors admired and respected her. (“She’s one tough cookie,” Jamie Smythe summed her up.)

  She would go far, in her chosen specialty …

  Now, Bob, Malcolm and I sat in the small dingy out-patient department, observing the consultant at work. Dr Dodson was a short balding middle-aged man, with a yellow bow tie, and a yellow rose in the button-hole of his light grey suit; a monocle dangled from a cord around his neck; periodically, he screwed this into his left eye - allowing it to fall out onto his chest, when he engaged the patients in conversation; in his speech, he used children’s expressions, and he listened long and earnestly to their replies. The children liked his eccentricities, and treated him as one of them; the mothers adored him; he spent time discussing the benefits of breast-feeding with them, trying to persuade them to continue for at least six months; for older babies and toddlers, he gave advice on artificial feeds and weaning. I found this all rather boring: my concentration began to wane, and my thoughts wandered.

  The last patient of the morning was a thin eight-year-old boy, who entered with a pronounced limp. He had been a keen swimmer, we discovered, but had developed severe leg pains a week ago, and had had to stop all activities; when he started walking again, his mother had noticed the limp.

  “Have you been ill at all, Dave?” asked Dr Dodson.