Thus, most evenings we retired to bed at ten, switched off the lights; and listened for an hour or two to Wagner’s Ring of the Nibelungen, with Herbert Von Karajan and the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra; or Basil Rathbone’s sombre reading of The Raven, Murders in the Rue Morgue, or The Fall of the House of Usher. I had always enjoyed Wagner and Poe; however, by the end of the month, I had - like Bob - become an addict.
Monday, 15th February: The letter had been left on my side-plate, at the breakfast table, and I had recognized the neat handwriting instantly; throughout this morning’s lecture it had been burning a hole in my inside jacket pocket. At last I was alone in our room. My fingers trembled slightly, whilst I slit open the envelope; there was a hint of gardenias in the air, as I extracted the letter:
Medical Students’ Hostel,
St Thomas’ Hospital,
Lambeth Palace Rd.,
London, S.E.1.
12th February, 1960.
Darling Edwin,
It’s ages since we parted, and I miss you dreadfully. I hope you are well, and are settling in at Queen Alexandra’s Maternity Hospital. How have you been enjoying your Obstetrics? Do they keep you awake much at night? I hope you don’t let all those beautiful young midwives entice you away from me!
I have bumped into Paddy Kennedy a few times. He was really upset when I broke off our engagement, though I suspect it was more injured pride than anything else. He promised to treat me more considerately, and never to strike me again, if only we would get together again. He even asked me to marry him (again), but I just told him to get lost!
My mother was overjoyed when I gave her the replacement for her broken Minton cup and saucer - said they were a better quality than the originals. She hadn’t really expected it, and now sings your praises. Wants me to bring you over to visit again - if you have the time!
I loved seeing your family on Boxing Day. They all treated me so kindly, and your sister is a poppet.
I’ve been very busy, since we last spoke. Finals are looming, and I’m getting quite worried. I’m on the Cardio-thoracic Firm, here. It’s hectic but very interesting. I’ve assisted once in theatre. We’ve seen several lobectomies and pneumonectomies - mostly lung cancer. One of our surgeons inserts Souttar’s tubes into the gullet for oesophageal obstruction from advanced cancer - helps their swallowing considerably! However, the high spot of the Firm, so far, has been a closed mitral valvotomy for mitral stenosis, yesterday. We don’t do open heart surgery at St Thomas’ yet, but the surgeon inserted his index finger through an incision in the beating left atrium. He closed the hole around his finger with a purse-string suture. He split the mitral valve, pulled his finger out, and closed the purse-string: he lost less than half a pint of blood altogether, and the heart was much improved after.
Oh darling Edwin, you can’t imagine how I long for you. My whole being aches for your touch. I dream about you at night, and think about you most of the day. I can’t wait until the time when you come back to me.
Look after yourself, and keep away from the beautiful young midwives!
All my love.
Your Jill.
I put the letter back in its envelope, and returned this to my breast pocket. I still tingled, from the recollection of her words. I vowed I would never lose her again.
Perhaps - if I can summon up the courage - I’ll propose to her when we meet again …
Wednesday, 17th February: After two and a half weeks at Bedford, I had had only four deliveries - including my undiagnosed twins - and Bob only three; we were struggling to reach our quota of ten a month. Then the flood-gates opened: suddenly, there were five or six deliveries for us every night; the phone would wake me each time (even when it was Bob’s turn), and I was unable to return to sleep quickly. Several times we overslept next morning, forfeiting breakfast; and arriving late for the midwifery lectures - or missing them altogether!
A nagging feeling told me that things could not go on like this; sure enough, after a week we were summoned to Dr Spinks’s study. He received us coldly, seated behind his desk, frowning, fiddling with a gold propelling pencil.
“I’ve had complaints about you from the midwifery sisters: you’ve refused to perform episiotomies - no; no excuses! You know they’re Hospital Policy - my policy! Also, worse still, you have deliberately missed my midwifery lectures … I had expected better of you, and I am very, very disappointed in you both … I shall report this to your Dean, and make my displeasure known.” He dismissed us with a curt nod.
Sunday, 28th February: February ended in a blaze of sunshine; the weather was mild; snowdrops opened; birds sang. I finished the month with twenty-four deliveries; Bob with twenty-five. We should have been happy, as we drove back to London; however, Dr Spinks’s bombshell had left us apprehensive.
Chapter Thirty Four - March, 1960
Monday, 1st March: At nine o’clock in the morning, we were called to the Dean’s office; like Spinks he sat at his desk, gazing at us impassively.
“I have had complaints about the two of you concerning your time at Queen Alexandra’s Maternity Hospital. Before I act, I’d like to hear your version of events.”
Dr Turnbull-Clark kept silent, while we poured out our hearts to him: our slights, our frustrations, our hurts, and our sense of injustice; how hard we had worked; how little we had slept; the teaching: not so much the quality, more the subject matter - how it clashed with (and contradicted) what we had already been taught at The London. When we had finished, he remained immobile, lost in thought; finally he spoke.
“You are not the first to express disquiet at what goes on at Bedford … Seems I shall have to pay Dr Spinks a visit … I may have to review the whole question of the London Hospital obstetric attachments, and we may need to make some radical changes … As for you two - consider the matter closed! Thank you.”
Sunday, 7th March: Though the sun shone brightly in the early March sky, the grass was rimed with frost; a bitter North Wind ripped through our clothes - straight from the Plains of Siberia. Deep in conversation, we rose from the bench on the bank of the Serpentine, and began to walk: although muffled in overcoats, gloves and scarves, it was too cold to remain seated for long. The sun sparkled on the still waters of the crescentic boating lake; the café on its banks remained shuttered for the winter; ahead was the statue of Peter Pan; in the opposite direction, we glimpsed the Albert Memorial, and beyond that the cream-and-brown rotunda and dome of the Royal Albert Hall; a scattering of crocuses in yellow and mauve peeped out of the ground, but generally the banks of flower beds were empty, and the trees bare; other than a few ducks, nothing moved in Kensington Gardens.
Abruptly Jill halted, distress evident in her face:
“I can’t give you an answer, Edwin … I simply can’t!”
“Please,” I coaxed. We stood, unsmiling, facing each other, oblivious to the rest of the world.
“Very well - is it Streptococcus pyogenes?”
“No, sorry - it’s Streptococcus viridans … sub-acute bacterial endocarditis is caused by Streptococcus viridans.”
It was our last month before Finals, and we had both been revising feverishly. We had arranged this outing, though time was scarce, because it might be the last time we met until the exams were over. We hadn’t seen each other for ten weeks - a period filled with dreams and longing: now we devoured each other with our eyes; the touch of our hands through our gloves set us on fire, dispelling (for the moment) all thoughts of further work; apart from a distant hum of traffic, the world stood still!
I broke the lengthening silence.
“ You know I love you, Jill ... I’ve been thinking about this a lot, but still don’t know how to put it … Oh dear … Can you … will you marry me? (No reply.) At the very least, it may keep Paddy Kennedy off your back!”
Suddenly, I found her in my arms, eyes closed; and, despite the public place, she was smothering me in kisses.
“Darling Edwin,” she murmured in my ear, “I wonder
ed if you’d ever ask …”
Monday, 8th March: I was woken by a faint sound; in the dark, I could just see the door handle move; I lay motionless, as the door opened and then closed, slowly and silently. I held my breath.
“Don’t turn the light on,” came a gentle whisper. “I’ve nothing on under this house-coat.”
A moonbeam pierced a gap in the curtains - it was Sandy Sunalingam! I was baffled: I had known her for almost five years; during that time, although I had found her alluring, she had always remained aloof. At one time, she appeared to be dating David Feldman, but that liaison had fizzled out without rancour.
She bumped into a chair, almost knocking it over; she staggered momentarily, before proceeding onward toward my bed; her dressing-gown slipped to the floor, and I had an impression of waist-length hair and heavy breasts. I struggled against strong feelings of arousal. I’ve just become engaged, I thought, desperately.
I attempted to speak, to tell her to leave; but my mouth was dry, and all that emerged was a hoarse croak; she interpreted this as a sign of encouragement! As she drew near, I caught a whiff of brandy on her breath, mingling with the exotic scent of her perfume; my blanket lifted, she gave a subdued squeal, and she was upon me; she kneeled over me, and I found a soft breast nuzzling against my face; she moaned, and collapsed, panting, on top of me; her lips were on mine, devouring me hungrily; her hands unfastened the buttons on my pyjama jacket; then moved down my chest, and ever more urgently down my stomach.
“Oh, Peter,” she sighed.
A large quantity of cold water plunged over me from a great height; my head cleared instantly; my hand - on her breast - froze. I pushed her away, and sat up - almost catapulting her off the bed!
“Pete’s room’s next door,” I mumbled.
I am awakened by stealthy movement in the corridor outside. My curiosity instantly aroused, I hasten out of bed, open my door a crack, and peep through. Now, what’s this? What is Sandra Sunalingam up to, entering Edwin Scott’s room at two o’clock in the morning? Have they no shame, these two? If they’re not careful, they’ll waken the whole floor.
But pause awhile! This clandestine meeting has given me the germ of an idea … I shall make use of it for my own ends; I can incorporate it into the plans for the next phase of my revenge, the next stage of my resurrection. Oh yes indeed, it will be perfect! In the end, Edwin, you will be so entangled in the meshes of my web that you will never escape …
Wednesday, 10th March: “Today, we will try to cover Crohn’s disease, regional ileitis.”
We sat in the Medical Unit seminar room; all the Firm was present - even Pete, with whom I struggled to avoid eye contact; our weekly tutorials had resumed as soon as we were all back from our obstetric attachments. Bill Audley, our tutor, was a godsend: enthusiastic, cheerful, clear and knowledgeable. He had been taking us through the difficult topics in Medicine - those not well covered in our textbooks.
“What do we know of the pathogenesis of this condition?” There was a chorus of “Nothing!”; followed by nervous laughter.
“It’s caused by an allergy to pine pollen,” Malcolm’s laconic voice came from the back of the room; further laughter.
“As a matter of fact, he may well be right. Nobody really knows the cause, but one theory is that it’s a hypersensitivity reaction. Crohn’s disease is commonest in the Scandinavian countries, where pine forests are prevalent; and some of the histological features of the disease do suggest an allergy or hypersensitivity …”
The laughter stopped in its tracks. Malcolm smiled.
She is swotting in the library, brow furrowed in concentration. I watch her over my Bailey and Love, all thoughts of revision set aside. This evening, I shall strike again! I am getting closer and closer to you, Edwin Scott. I am entrapping you in my spider’s web, oh yes.
She has closed her book, and is making ready to leave. Rapidly, I stand, replace my Textbook of Surgery on the shelf. I wear a warm jumper; there’s no need for an overcoat, as the evening is mild. I leave the library, slip out of the medical school by the back door, and hurry down the path toward the rear gate of the courtyard. I take my place behind the giant chestnut tree, and am immediately enveloped in almost total darkness. I have had my implements in my case for the past week, awaiting this chance, this heaven-sent opportunity. Now I don my hood and gloves. I am ready.
I wait a while; I hear nine o’clock strike from the church tower. Ah, here she comes. She’s wrapped up in a warm overcoat - can’t tolerate our climate, after Ceylon. That must be why she took so long. Her footsteps approach; I peep out from my hiding-place: no-one else around, we’re alone.
I pounce …
Michael Ffrench and Anne Baker-West left the library together, and headed for the students’ hostel. The sky was overcast, and the courtyard poorly illuminated as they followed the path towards the back gate. They walked briskly in the dark, each regretting not having brought a torch.
“What’s that pale thing on the ground by the tree?”
“Looks like a person, a b-body - Good Lord, it could be another victim for the Whitechapel S-S-Slasher …”
They crouched down simultaneously, just discerning in the dim light the long hair, the open abdomen, viscera displayed on one side of the corpse, clothes on the other.
“It’s a woman …”
“Skin’s s-s-still warm … b-but can’t make out if the b-blood has clotted …”
“Who is it? Do we know her?”
“Can’t tell - not enough lu-light …”
They rose, and strode rapidly together past the statue of Queen Alexandra, to the hospital entrance. Fortunately, they found a couple of policemen at the doors to the receiving room, and Ffrench was able to report their grisly discovery.
The forensic team arrived within twenty minutes, while the two students were still being questioned.
Thursday, 11th March: This morning, the news raced like wildfire around the medical school:
“Sandy Sunalingam was killed last night within the hospital grounds - the latest victim of the Whitechapel Slasher … But was she targeted, or was she just in the wrong place at the wrong time?”
Once again, the story made front page headlines in all the national newspapers.
On this occasion, all the students in my year were interviewed by the police - all who had been at the London Hospital Medical College since November 1955, the time of the first murder. (This excluded the Oxbridge Set, who had not started until June 1957.) We were seen by four pairs of uniformed policemen, two pairs in the seminar rooms behind the dissecting room, and two in offices on the ground floor of the college. They had taken us in alphabetical order, so I was called towards the end of the morning.
“Name … How long have you been a student here? How well did you know Miss Sunalingam ?”
The interview were perfunctory, and I was finished within ten minutes. By the time I had descended the stairs for lunch, the corpse had been removed for forensic examination, the lights and scene of crime tape had disappeared. The police had completed their systematic search of the courtyard. Now all that remained were some dried blood-stains on the path near the old chestnut tree.
Revision became more frantic. Most evenings, I sat in the medical school library until it closed at ten-thirty, reading weighty tomes, making notes, occasionally dreaming. At week-ends, I would sit at the table in my room, eyes glued to my books or revision folders, Beethoven or Dvorak playing in the background.
There were communal revision sessions in Joe’s or Bob’s room, where an occasional bottle of beer might be consumed; but this was the only social life we allowed ourselves until we had finished Finals: suddenly these loomed large!
Coming in the year of the young Queen Elizabeth’s coronation, the conquest of Mount Everest by Edmond Hillary and Sherpa Tenzing on 29th May 1953 had symbolized the dawn of a new age. George Mallory had been one of the first to attack the mountain two decades before, and had ultimately died in the attempt. As
ked why he had wanted to climb it, he had famously replied, “Because it’s there.” For years - almost as long as I could remember - I had struggled in the foot-hills of my own Himalayas; I had scaled the peak I had thought to be Everest when I had passed my A-level exams, only to discover an even higher peak ahead. Now this was upon me at last. I couldn’t tell yet, whether I would love or hate the practice of Medicine. However, one thing was certain: if I succeeded in conquering this mountain, life would never be the same again!
The silly plods. They haven’t made the connection. I must give them some assistance, oh yes. I must point them in the right direction. I must point them to Edwin Scott.
I bought some foolscap paper, a small packet of envelopes and a ball-point pen, in a stationer’s shop in Vauxhall. Using my left hand, I write my message in block capitals. Naturally, I do not sign the letter. When I have finished, I place the sheet of folded paper in an envelope, seal it, and address it to:
“THE INSPECTOR IN CHARGE OF THE SLASHER MURDER INVESTIGATION, BRICK LANE POLICE STATION, LONDON, E.1.”
I stick a stamp on the envelope, and post it in the post-box outside Whitechapel Station. Then I take a train to Waterloo, and dispose of the pen, the superfluous paper and envelopes in a dustbin behind the station.
Thursday, 18th March: My arrest had created a sensation in the medical school, and most of the students seemed to be watching as I was led out to the waiting Black Maria. The only thing I had reason to be grateful for was that I had not been handcuffed!
In the Footsteps of The Whitechapel Slasher (Edwin Scott Crime Trilogy Book 1) Page 27