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

by Felix Bruckner

  “Yus, mate … I was real bad a week back: felt ’ot an’ sick; couldn’t eat nuffink … Mum put me to bed for a couple o’ days.”

  He allowed himself to be examined on the couch: the muscles of the left calf and thigh were markedly wasted and tender, those of the right leg much less so; the left leg was virtually paralysed, but power on the right was normal; sensation to cotton-wool was unimpaired. Using his miniature patella hammer, Dr Dodson was able to elicit tendon reflexes in all four limbs.

  “This is acute poliomyelitis: polio.” The consultant addressed us all.

  “Probably transmitted through swallowing polluted water from the swimming pool … We’re at the height of an epidemic … You’ll have to rest your leg, Dave, until it stops paining: means learning to use crutches and a caliper - something that stops your leg collapsing; the physiotherapist will arrange it all for you, and show you how to put warm compresses on your muscles to make them more comfortable, and ease the pain. You’ll start to get better soon.”

  When the boy and his mother had departed to the physiotherapy department, he turned once more to us:

  “A real tragedy. There are effective preventative measures for polio now: the Salk vaccine, which we give by injection, and an oral one (the Sabin vaccine), which we’ll soon have here at the Children’s Hospital. The problem is persuading parents to have their children immunized …”

  Sunday, 27th September: We sat in the common room, after a leisurely breakfast; we chatted while leafing through the batch of Sunday newspapers laid out on a side table. Bob, Malcolm and I were due to return to The London next day: there was a feeling of festivity as well as nostalgia, at the thought of departure. Bob seemed to have recovered fully from his experience, and the bruising on his face was hardly visible; the pink zig-zag scar was still prominent, and gave his youthful face an incongruously villainous appearance.

  “I say … What’s this?” came Malcolm’s lugubrious voice. “Have a look at this, Bob - in the Hackney Herald:

  “Two men were found semi-conscious by the police early on Wednesday morning, on a bomb site off the Hackney Road. They had been badly beaten, and their faces slashed … They have been identified as Fergus O’Toole and Sean Docherty who had arrived recently from the Republic of Ireland …”

  “Sounds like your friends, Bob …” There was just the hint of a smile in the RMO’s voice; however, as usual, it was Jamie Smythe who had the final word on the subject.

  “It’s a warning: Keep off the grass! They were causing trouble on the Kray Brothers’ territory, and no-one is allowed to do that, other than the Krays themselves … The polite gentlemen you met in the Castle the day after your ‘accident’, must have been the gang’s hatchet men.”

  Chapter Thirty One - December, 1959

  Thursday, 3rd December: I was reading in my room, in the hostel; the bedside lamp cast a warm glow on the ceiling; above the sounds of the New World Symphony, I could hear the wind rattling the windows. It had turned much colder, and, although there was as yet no sign of snow, I was aware that winter had arrived.

  There was a knock on the door, and the porter’s head appeared around it.

  “You’re wanted on Elizabeth Gray Ward, Mr Scott - right away!”

  I grabbed my white coat, and hurried out.

  I was out of breath by the time I reached the delivery ward. It was ten-fifteen on the third evening of the Obstetric Firm, and this was my first delivery.

  “Hurry! She’s fully dilated and her waters have broken: we can’t hold baby in much longer!” The plump motherly midwife gazed at me placidly and benignly, her calm tone belying the urgency of her words. I washed my hands, and was helped into a gown.

  “No time for that now …” (as I made to listen to the foetal heart.)

  The young mother was already in the lithotomy position, her feet up in the stirrups of the delivery table; her hair and night-dress clung to her, wet through with perspiration; she had been resting with her eyes closed, but opened them when she became aware of my presence.

  My heart was thumping madly, though I tried to appear calm.

  “It’s alright, Mrs Bennet, we’ll soon have baby out … What would you like - a boy or a girl?”

  Before she could reply, her eyes screwed up, and she let out a piercing scream: through her stomach wall I could feel the womb hardening. The midwife looked down at the watch pinned to her chest, timing the contractions; Mrs Bennet grasped my hand, and clung on to it tightly.

  “Deep breath in; hold it; now push … keep pushing …” my voice continued confidently.

  The crown of the baby’s head had appeared; however it disappeared again, when the patient relaxed, at the end of the contraction.

  “That was very good,” I heard myself saying. “Now rest: we’ll have baby out next time round.”

  After only two minutes, my hand on her abdomen could feel the uterus beginning to tighten up again: “Once more, deep breath … Hold it … Pu-u-ush …”

  The back of the baby’s head appeared … The whole head was out; the patient paused, waiting for the next contraction, while the midwife wiped baby’s face; the next contraction came almost immediately; the baby’s shoulder and the rest of its body slid out effortlessly, and I almost dropped it in my excitement: it was perfectly formed, with lovely little hands and feet.

  “It’s a boy,” commented the midwife calmly; she dealt with the umbilical cord, wrapped baby in a shawl, and handed him to the ecstatic mother.

  “Not quite finished yet.”

  She gave Mrs Bennet an injection. I had almost forgotten the after-birth - this could yet be the most dangerous part of the delivery! I needn’t have worried: the placenta issued intact, and the uterus contracted down nicely.

  “Thank you, Doctor,” whispered the mother; tired but happy, she closed her eyes.

  I had been dragged out of a deep sleep; now I stood - rubbing my eyes, still slightly dazed - in the delivery room; the whole student firm was present. The senior midwifery sister was assisting the junior accoucheur (the London Hospital jargon for the obstetric SHO), who was demonstrating a forceps delivery. Mr Bradshaw came from a long line of doctors, all of whom had trained at The London; he was a dapper figure - even at two in the morning: he was elegant in casual slacks and a pink-and-white striped shirt; not a hair was out of place, as he donned gown and gloves. He perched on a stool in front of the patient, who was “prepped” and draped in towels; he murmured something reassuring to her; carried out a quick examination, to ascertain the baby’s position; and listened to the foetal heart.

  “Wriggley’s forceps, please, Sister …” He was playing to the gallery.

  Miss Major was a big woman with iron-grey hair, imposing in her dark blue uniform; her starched white apron, cuffs and frilly cap were immaculate. She handed him the bottom blade of the obstetric forceps; he endeavoured to insert this into the patient’s vagina - but with a clatter it fell to the ground. His composure began to slip:

  “Right way up, next time, Sister!”

  Calmly she got out a spare set of sterilized forceps, and again handed him a blade; this time he introduced it successfully; next he tried to insert the top blade. He fiddled with it, but to no avail. During this time, Miss Major had put on a fresh pair of gloves; she approached the patient (who had by now become quite apprehensive); leaning over Mr Bradshaw’s shoulder, she manoeuvred the forceps smoothly: there was a satisfying click.

  Unaware the problem was solved, the SHO had become increasingly agitated.

  “What on earth are you doing, woman?” he bellowed.

  However, Miss Major would not be intimidated.

  “Don’t you shout at me, Mr Bradshaw,” she retorted coolly, “I delivered you!”

  Friday, 11th December: Pete Jackson’s room was next to mine; I was woken by a knock on his door, followed by the porter’s voice, sotto voce:

  “Wake up Mr Jackson. Delivery for you on Elizabeth Gray Ward.”

  Peter had recovered fro
m his hepatitis in time to start the Obstetric Firm; now - almost two weeks into the firm - though he appeared none the worse for his illness, he had yet to deliver a baby. Most of the students had a tally of five or six; Anne Baker-West had managed eight! Pete had been allocated his fair share of deliveries, but they had all turned out to be B.B.A.’s - born before arrival.

  Time passed; I waited, unable to get back to sleep. Nothing happened.

  He must have dozed off, I thought. I’d better wake him again: save him from another B.B.A.

  I padded next door on bare feet, knocked on the door, and entered. I inhaled the scent of talc; I blinked in the brightness - all the lights in the room were on. Pete stood at the mirror, fully dressed in a three-piece suit and tie, hair neatly brushed: he was shaving carefully and deliberately with an electric razor.

  “Only another ten minutes,” he promised.

  Saturday, 26th December: I was home in Oban Road for Christmas; Mum fussed over me, as always; Dad treated me with more than usual consideration; Jane was as attentive as ever, but managed to subdue her excitement a little: she was growing up! Just being with my family, I experienced a feeling of great contentment.

  As always, the Popescus had brought a bottle of Veuve Clicquot Champagne, when they came downstairs for tea on Christmas Day; for the first time, Jane had tried a sip (but had screwed up her face at the bitter taste). Marguerite Popescu, though still lovely, had seemed to me more matronly: this year, her ritual warm embrace and lingering kiss had left no racing of the pulse.

  Jill Pritchard had visited us on Boxing Day, and had charmed my parents. Jane had been a little wary at first; however, eventually she, too, had succumbed, and had even bestowed a kiss on Jill when she left. I had taken her on the Common after lunch (my mother and sister having refused our offer of help with the dishes), and we had walked together for an hour, hand in hand; though we were warmly wrapped against the cold, our noses and cheeks were red from the biting North Wind. It had been grey and overcast, but there was no sign yet of the snow that had been forecast. After tea, I accompanied Jill to the bus stop, and we had waited together in the twilight for the bus which would convey her to Putney.

  Now, at the end of the day, I sat in my old room, re-reading my letters and Christmas cards; the rest of the family had gone to bed; the house was silent. I came to an envelope, addressed to “Dr Edwin Scott” ; inside was a Christmas card with a Dickensian scene of a coaching inn, snow and a robin red-breast; and tucked into this was a letter written in a large round childish hand:

  115 Baronmere Rd.,

  East Finchley,

  London, N.2.

  20th December, 1959.

  Dear Edwin,

  I suppose you must be a doctor by this time, but I do not know where you are working, so I have sent this to your parents’ address. I am married now - you remember Rory! And we have two children: Edwin, aged three and a half, and Sylvia who is two.

  Rory is now a Detective Sergeant (plain clothes) in the Met (that’s the Metropolitan Police), based at New Scotland Yard. He enjoys detecting and is becoming quite good at it. He gets into the minds of the villains. (Poacher turned game-keeper, I thought.) He works with Brian Pitt - remember him at your school? Mr Pitt was a major in the Military Police, but has left the army, and is now a Detective Inspector in the Met.

  Rory and I still think of you with affection. We have a nice little house in Finchley. Do visit us if you are ever in the area! We both still dance occasionally - though Rory has two left feet!

  Well, must finish now. Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

  Best wishes from,

  Hazel Harrison (nee Hart).

  Chapter Thirty Two - January, 1960

  In the year nineteen-sixty, Princess Margaret married the society photographer Anthony Armstrong-Jones, a one-pound note came into circulation in the United Kingdom, and the last National Serviceman was called up; DH Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover was published by Penguin Books after being banned for 30 years, and Alfred Hitchcock’s thriller Psycho appeared on the British screen; JF Kennedy was elected US President, and Nigeria became independent. The politician Aneurin Bevan, Sylvia Pankhurst (the suffragette), and Clark Gable (the film star) died in 1960, and the South African police shot dead sixty-nine black Africans in the Sharpeville Massacre.

  Monday, 4th January: The lights blazed in the seminar room, though it was only mid-afternoon. On the blackboard were diagrams of foetuses in a variety of positions inside the womb; on the table was an assortment of obstetric forceps.

  The obstetrician’s voice droned on monotonously, whilst I struggled to take meaningful notes. Mr Emmanuel Oxford was the senior obstetrician at The London; he was a thin stooping colourless man with a pale lined face, a high domed forehead, and sparse white hair; we had been reminded repeatedly how fortunate we were to be addressed by him personally! Finally he finished his lecture, nodded to us, treating us to the barest of smiles, and disappeared through the door; his paraphernalia was left for one of his minions to clear up later.

  Conversation started up around me; chairs scraped on the floor, but I remained in my seat, eyes fixed on the window. Outside, large snow-flakes drifted slowly down from the leaden skies, occasionally swirled about by a gust of wind; all was pristine and white; shapes were softened by the snow - the drab surroundings were transformed! Yet, amid the wonder, I was beset by nagging doubts: would the road conditions prevent me reaching my district deliveries; and if I succeeded, would they deter the district midwife in her car?

  I collected my midwifery bicycle from the shed behind the porter’s lodge; strapped to the rack was a sturdy metal case holding the gas-and-air machine (used for pain relief in the second stage of labour - before full dilatation of the cervix), and a foetal stethoscope. In my pocket was a collection of shilling coins to feed the electricity and gas meters: it would never do for the lights (or heat) to switch off half way through a delivery!

  It had stopped snowing, but snow lay thick on the ground; there were no tyre marks on the road ahead - I appeared to be the only one to venture forth this morning. I had memorized the route from my London Road Atlas; thus I had no difficulty finding my way along the deserted streets of Bethnal Green, even in the half-light of early morning; as I approached my destination, the sun floated up above the roof-tops, bathing the humble dwellings in a rosy light. My spirits soared: I had arrived safely; perhaps the midwife would make it as well. I left the bike against a wall, and lifted off the heavy midwifery case ...

  The door was answered by an unkempt lady of indeterminate age; her hair straggled into her face, and she hugged a half-open dressing-gown about her broad frame.

  “Come in, Doc,” she invited. “She’s almost ready … Waters broke arf an hour ago … This is ’er fourth: the other three’s next door with ’er sister … I’m ’er Mum.”

  I was ushered into a dark ground-floor flat, crammed with massive old-fashioned furniture; ornaments and family photographs overflowed the ledges. The rear bedroom was dominated by an iron bedstead, which almost filled it. In the bed lay a youngish woman, as overweight and untidy as her mother, smoking the stub of a cigarette.

  “My daughter - Mrs Polly … ’Ere’s the doctor, Mildred. Best put out yer fag, luv … I’ve got plenty of water on the boil, Doc.”

  “What for?” I had visions of dropping the baby in it.

  “For washing yer ’ands a’course. What else?”

  “Oh, thanks … No sign of the midwife yet, I suppose? Hello, Mrs Polly. I understand this is your fourth delivery. Any problems before?”

  While I went to wash my hands, granny placed old newspapers on the linoleum floor around the bed; she switched on all the lights; she appropriated her daughter’s cigarette, lay her on her side with her legs drawn up, adjusted her night-dress, and cleaned her up with a wet flannel. I was reassured by these signs of experience and expertise: she could probably deliver her daughter perfectly well without my aid! The patient remained cheerful, t
hough silent. She let her mother do all the talking: her contractions had started five hours ago, I learned, and were now arriving every ten minutes. She didn’t seem to feel much pain, and gave only an occasional grunt. I checked the baby’s heart with the foetal stethoscope - satisfactory; I performed an internal examination - fully dilated. There was still no sign of the midwife!

  “You’re ready, Mrs Polly. Wait for the next contraction: then start pushing.”

  I felt the uterus begin to contract under my palm.

  “Deep breath in … hold it … push.”

  She grasped my hand firmly, closed her eyes, and pushed; her face became red; the crown of the baby’s head appeared; the whole head was out, followed rapidly by the shoulder and the whole body:

  “A lovely baby boy!”

  The baby gave a gasp; then he let out a long healthy yell; mother smiled gently. I clamped, tied and cut the umbilical cord; granny beamed, and nodded her approval; I handed her the infant, whom she wrapped in an old towel, before passing him on to his mother.

  I remembered to administer the ergometrine injection (to encourage the uterus to contract and prevent a post-partum haemorrhage); the placenta was delivered intact with minimal blood loss, and I was finally able to relax.

  I was once more washing my hands. Mrs Polly was murmuring endearments to her newborn son, as she attempted to feed him; he had stopped crying; ignoring the breast, he assumed an angelic expression, and closed his eyes. There was a knock on the door, and in strode the district midwife, cheerful and purposeful; she glanced around, and immediately took control.

  “I see the Little Doctor has dealt with everything efficiently … Now, how about a nice cup of tea? Then we’ll clean and weigh baby … A boy? What will you call him?”

  Mother was suddenly coy.