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

by Felix Bruckner

  Now I sat, still shivering with shock, in the interview room of Brick Lane Police Station. The room was naturally dark, with only one small window high up on the rear wall; it was lit by a high-wattage bulb dangling from the centre of the ceiling. I sat on a hard chair; facing me across the table were Detective Chief Inspector Charles Butter, a jolly expression on his face, and Detective Sergeant Gary Stebbings, looking impassive. Butter had been promoted since the investigation into the Slasher murders had begun, four years earlier. Next to me sat a very young man, smartly dressed in a charcoal grey suit: my legal representative, whose name I didn’t catch, and never subsequently discovered. He remained mute through most of the interview, interrupting only occasionally to advise that I needn’t answer a question. On the table, a tape-recorder turned, emitting a regular squeak, while the sergeant took copious superfluous short-hand notes.

  After the preliminaries, when we were all identified for the record, and Chief Inspector Butter gave the time, date and place, he passed across to me a transparent plastic envelope, containing a single sheet of paper; on this was written in untidy block capitals:

  “DID YOU KNOW THAT VICTORIA LAIDLAW HAD BEEN EDWIN SCOTT’S GIRL-FRIEND. AND WHY WAS MISS SUNALINGAM SEEN LEAVING SCOTT’S ROOM SCANTILY CLAD ON THE NIGHT OF MONDAY 8TH MARCH?”

  “We received this letter - anonymous of course - yesterday, so I decided to bring you in. Doubtless one of your admirers … We have a warrant to search your room at the student’s hostel, and this is being done as we speak. Have you any comments?”

  I examined the warrant minutely, while my mind raced. It took a while for me to recover from the chief inspector’s double bombshell.

  “Sandy Sunalingam strayed into my room by mistake that night. She was looking for Peter Jackson, who sleeps in the room next door.” (Even as I said it, it sounded lame.) “As for Vicky Laidlaw, she had been my girl-friend, but we broke up - amicably - around Christmas, er … nineteen-fifty-six; she got engaged to another fellow shortly after. As a matter of fact, I attended Vicky’s twenty-first birthday party not long ago. I have another girl-friend myself now, to whom I have just become engaged. I confess that these latest two murders have come as a great shock to me …”

  I had no alibi for the time of either murder. I had been in my room in the students’ hostel, either studying for finals, or in bed asleep. Nobody could confirm this - I had been alone on both nights.

  “Let’s go back to the death of Jennifer James, the physiotherapist. She had also been your girl-friend ... I trust you don’t mind me saying this, but you do appear to possess the kiss of death!”

  Butter, proceeded to scan through the record of my previous statement. Eventually he looked up at me with a friendly smile, the very personification of bonhomie.

  “Ah, here we are. Your mother, with whom you were staying, went to bed at ten pm, and you stated that you had yourself retired to sleep at ten-thirty ... Now, the medical estimate of the time of death was ten-thirty to eleven-thirty. Miss James was expected home from her run by her flat-mate around eleven o’clock, and was in fact seen by a witness running towards the lower end of Brick Lane just before eleven. She was found near her front door, about half an hour later. So we can place the time of death fairly accurately, close to eleven o’clock. From yours and your mother’s depositions, you would have had difficulty making your way to the scene of the crime in time, by public transport or on your bicycle (even if you had set out immediately after your mother went to bed). However, you could have managed it comfortably by taxi. We are currently checking this possibility, interviewing the taxi drivers from the taxi rank at Clapham Common Underground Station …”

  He was interrupted in full flow by a discreet knock. Stebbings went to the door, and there conversed in a subdued voice with a uniformed policeman for several minutes. He handed his superior a note. Butter read it, and his smile broadened.

  “My men have just returned from searching your room at the hostel. They have found an interesting item of evidence.”

  He left the room, and returned almost immediately carrying a small package, again enclosed in transparent polythene, which he placed on the table in front of me.

  “Do you recognise this, Mr Scott? It has the initials E.D.S. on the front …”

  “Yes … it’s my dissecting set …”

  “It’s got traces of blood on the scalpel blade - and I have no doubt that forensic tests will confirm this as human blood …”

  There was a pause, while I waited for my solicitor to say something, but he remained silent.

  “Of course the instruments will have human blood on them. I used them to dissect human cadavers for Anatomy three times a week until Second MB (that’s March, 1957) … but I certainly haven’t used them more recently. I dare say you would find traces of human blood on the scalpel of every medical student at the London Hospital Medical College, if you carried out the search …”

  An atmosphere of gloom descended on the room, but, after a lengthy pause, Detective Chief Inspector Butter rallied, and he resumed his jovial manner.

  “Thus, Mr Scott, we have shown that you were in the possession of a possible murder weapon, that you had the opportunity, and a certain sort of motive - revenge at being discarded by successive girl-friends! There is a strong case against you, Edwin Duncan Scott, and I must remind you that anything you say may be used in evidence against you, if required in court … Now, is there anything else you wish to tell us?”

  My mind was in a whirl. They thought that I was the Whitechapel Slasher!

  “What about the man in black with the red hair and beard?”

  “We have been unable to find such a person … I reckon the murderer was wearing a disguise … Do you have a false beard and wig in your possession, Mr Scott, I wonder?”

  Suddenly, out of the blue, I had a stroke of inspiration:

  “Hold on a minute … If I were the Whitechapel Slasher, then I would have been responsible for the death of Mandy Royston - February nineteen-fifty-six, I think it was. However, if you check the records you’ll find that, at the time of that murder, I was an in-patient at the London Hospital with concussion. There must be any number of witnesses to that … Also, I wonder whether the author of your anonymous letter could be the Slasher himself, for some reason wanting to incriminate me … I would hardly have sent it myself!”

  Once started along this line, my train of thought rushed forward. The words tumbled out of me.

  “The murders began during my first year at The London, and have continued to the present time: the killer must be a medical student in my year …The Whitechapel Slasher must live in the students’ hostel, perhaps on my floor … He (or she) knows me, has a personal grudge against me, is trying to incriminate me - to frame me …” I ran out of breath.

  I never thought I would be grateful to Mick O’Malley! The hospital records for 10th February 1956 were checked, a few nurses were interviewed, and, after a further three hours in a holding cell, I found myself on the pavement outside Brick Lane Police Station, shaking hands with my youthful solicitor …

  Chapter Thirty Five - April, 1960

  Friday, 2nd April: I emerged from the Underground Station onto the narrow pavement. Heavy traffic crawled around the huge roundabout, on which stood the Wellington Arch, symbolising Victory; as I climbed the steps, the Georgian building towering over me was just a white blur. I entered the doors of St George’s Hospital. This boasted one of the smallest of the London medical schools, with an annual intake of only twenty students; however, it was reputed to be the preferred choice of the huntin’, shootin’ and fishin’ set - beside which Ffrench and Co. would seem like country bumpkins.

  In the elegant front hall was a notice, “MB, BS Finals”, and an arrow; I followed the arrow up the sweeping staircase to the first floor, where I was about to take my Medicine Clinical Examination!

  In the waiting area, I could hear the distant hum of traffic; through the windows, I had a view of Apsley House - hom
e of the Dukes of Wellington - Hyde Park Corner and the entrance into Hyde Park; behind the iron railings of the park, lines of tall trees marked Rotten Row and New Ride, where generations of St George’s students have taken their exercise on horseback before breakfast …

  A bell interrupted my thoughts.

  My heart pounded uncomfortably, and I floated unsteadily over the polished floor of the ward, as I was pointed - by the white-coated registrar - towards the bed for my long case; on the way, I was shown the tray of instruments which I might need for the examination: sphygmomanometers, ophthalmoscopes, tuning forks, patella hammers, cotton-wool, neurological pins - even a stethoscope, in the dire event of mine malfunctioning!

  I introduced myself to the patient, a thin middle-aged man with nicotine-stained fingers, and red striped pyjamas two sizes too large; after shaking hands, we proceeded. I asked his name, age and occupation; how long had he been in hospital; was he comfortable? I learned that Mr Brock was married, with three children and one lovely little grandchild - the apple of his eye. The man spoke softly, with a slightly hoarse voice; yet, once started, he seemed unable to halt the torrent of words; I listened politely. Time passed …

  I realized with dismay that there were only ten minutes left, and I had hardly written a word in my notes. The patient looked at the wall clock.

  “We had better get on now, doc: I have had a cough for two years; with grey, blood-stained sputum for six months, and some shortness of breath for the last two months. I have lost two stone in weight, and have no appetite … My lips are cyanosed …”

  He showed his hands: “What’s this? That’s right - clubbing of the fingers …”

  He opened his pyjama jacket: “Notice the flattening of the left side of the chest … Now, feel for my trachea. Where is it? Yes, almost round my left ear … And feel my apex beat … that’s right - displaced to the left … Now percuss the chest - dullness over the left upper lobe … And listen here with your stethoscope … That’s right - bronchial breathing …”

  I worked and wrote frantically; I finished, and thanked Mr Brock wholeheartedly.

  I had just a minute to arrange my thoughts, before two examiners descended on me: the leading one, rotund, bald, with a benevolent smile; the second, neat and dapper, who kept in the background.

  “I'm Dr Altman, and this is my colleague, Professor Permain.”

  I presented the case succinctly, Dr Altman nodding his approval; when I ventured the diagnosis of pulmonary tuberculosis with fibrosis of the upper lobe of the left lung, he seemed delighted.

  Next, they took me across the ward for the first of the short cases, a youngish woman with her hair in a bun.

  “Look at this lady’s face …” the second examiner had advanced, and now confronted me, “ and tell us what you see.” My mind went completely blank.

  “She has prominent eyes, er … and there is a slight bulging of her neck.” I was floundering.

  “Nonsense! There’s nothing wrong with her neck.”

  It’s like the good cop and the bad cop, I thought.

  “Now tell me more about her eyes.”

  I examined them more closely.

  “The pupils are unequal, and … oh, she appears to have a squint - a strabismus!”

  “Alright. Well, what’s it mean?” barked Professor Permain belligerently.

  I pondered: was it the third cranial nerve? Or the fourth nerve … or even the sixth? And which was the affected side? It was no good - I couldn’t think straight …

  “Come on, man; we haven’t got all day!”

  Whilst I tried, with increasing desperation, to clear the swirling fog from my mind, my gaze roved around the room; it paused at a bed halfway down the ward; suddenly the image sprang into sharp focus: the patient was a large plethoric elderly man; sweat glistened on his forehead; the right side of his face was drawn up in a grimace, and his eyes were rolled upwards; his right arm was jerking irregularly; his breathing appeared stertorous, and a ribbon of spittle hung from the corner of his mouth.

  “Sir! The man in that bed … He seems to be fitting … I believe he’s having a stroke …”

  “Nonsense … Just concentrate on this lady!”

  Nevertheless, Professor Permain glanced round involuntarily; he froze for an instant, exchanged glances with his fellow-examiner; and was off (almost at a run) towards the stricken patient, closing the curtains behind him when he arrived. Dr Altman followed, and, after a short time, the ward sister and the supervising registrar joined them.

  Nobody else seemed to notice; for the rest, the Clinical Examination continued. I stood back from my patient, and waited, watching pairs of examiners interrogating the other candidates all around the ward; occasionally, I glanced at the drawn curtains. Finally the bell rang: the signal for the candidates to leave, and the next batch to enter. I waited …

  After a while, Dr Altman emerged through a chink in the curtains; he strode over to me.

  “Am I to stay, Sir? Will you be wanting me to come back?”

  “You can go, young man … and we won’t need you back.”

  “How is the patient, Sir? Will he be alright?” I persisted, in a half-whisper.

  “No …”

  I am revising in the library. I hate it! It is seven o’clock, and, apart from the librarian, there are only two others here, their noses buried in their books. The door swings open, and in strides Edwin Scott, unusually neat in a suit, and face wreathed in smiles. What’s going on? He discards his duffle-coat and scarf on a chair, and moves to select a textbook from the shelves.

  I intercept him for a quick chat, keeping my face friendly. We converse in whispers, so as not to disturb the other students.

  “Guess what? I’m meeting Jill by the statue of Queen Alexandra, at eight o’clock,” he confides. “And then I’m taking her for dinner to the West End. It’s our last chance before Surgery Clinicals …”

  He settles down to an hour’s work, whereas I return my books, gather up my things, and depart surreptitiously. This is the opportunity I have been waiting for, oh dear me yes. It is risky, but finally I will taste my full revenge - it will be sweet indeed! I return to my room in the hostel, to make my preparations.

  By seven-forty-five, I have taken up my position behind the statue, wearing my hood and rubber gloves, and wait in the shadows. I hear footsteps approaching from the rear doors of the hospital. I risk a peep around the corner - it is indeed Scott’s floozy, all dressed up to the nines. She glances at her wrist-watch, and prepares to wait.

  The bitch has her back turned to me. It is dark in the courtyard, and, thankfully, there is nobody about. I take a deep breath - and pounce! In two steps I have reached her; I grasp her neck in both hands; I squeeze. She is unable to scream; however, she fights like a demon, drat the girl. She grabs my right wrist. Before I can change my grip, she has pulled off the glove. I feel a sharp pain - she is gouging and scraping the back of my hand with her sharp finger-nails. I swivel her around, relinquish the grip on her throat, and punch her with all my might in the solar plexus. Even as she sinks to her knees, I hear a shout. Scott has emerged from the medical school, and is rushing full tilt towards me.

  All the better! In an instant, the scalpel is in my hand. I await his approach at the foot of the steps - I’ll kill them both …

  Friday, 9th April: I glanced at my watch, gathered up my surgical textbooks, and put on my duffle-coat and college scarf. I was due to take my last exam - Surgery Clinical - at St Mary’s Hospital, Paddington, in five days’ time. Recklessly we had decided we would fit in one more meeting before then; we would just have to make up the revision time over the following days - and nights! I was a few minutes late; perhaps she had arrived by now, and was waiting for me. I peered through the window: outside, it was pitch black, and my face reflected from the window-pane; I was unable to see into the courtyard.

  I returned my books to the assistant librarian at her desk, and left the library and then the medical school building. Ou
tside, it was mild, and there was no sign of rain … Almost immediately I caught sight of Jill waiting by the statue of Queen Alexandra. My heart leapt; as I quickened my pace I whistled a few bars of the Stardust Melody. I waved, but she didn’t see me ...

  I stopped in my tracks, frozen with fear: behind Jill, out of the shadows of the statue emerged a hideous hooded figure. It was the reincarnation of Joseph Merrick, the Elephant Man! Even as I watched, mesmerised, he pounced. Now he had his hands around her throat, and was throttling her.

  “Stop, you swine, leave her be!” I yelled, as my legs began to work and I ran towards the two intertwined figures. Jill seemed unable to scream. She fought valiantly, but was sinking to her knees. The Whitechapel Slasher relinquished his hold, and she subsided in a heap, like a rag doll.

  At the sound of my voice, he glanced in my direction; briefly he turned to rummage behind him, and then he was rushing down the steps to meet me. A scalpel gleamed dully in his hand; I waited a heart-beat; as the Slasher lunged with the blade, I grasped his right forearm with my left hand, and his jumper with my right; I threw myself backwards, landing on my back and contriving a neat break-fall; with the ball of my foot against his stomach, I wheeled him over my head, and his momentum carried him through the air in a graceful arc; he landed with a satisfying thunk on his back, his weapon clattering to the ground. I had executed the perfect stomach-throw: the tomoe-nage!

  I rose to my feet, leaving him where he lay, and hurried up the stone steps towards Jill. To my profound relief, she gasped and then stirred - she was alive! I examined her swiftly. Her carotid pulse was strong, and she was breathing audibly. I glanced towards the Slasher, but he remained immobile, dead to the world.

  I hastened to get help. In the receiving room, I came upon a pair of uniformed policemen and some hospital porters, drinking tea together - it was after all a Friday night. Briefly I explained what had happened. Everyone knew what to do, and we trooped outside. Two porters took Jill inside on a stretcher to be checked over by the casualty officer. The police constables remained by the statue, to deal with her attacker; one of them detained me, as I was about to follow Jill into the hospital. We turned our attention to the grim figure lying at the foot of the steps in a pool of light, a pink rubber glove on its left hand, the right hand bare and bleeding; a scalpel lay a few feet away. Whilst I resumed my narrative, the constable peeled the hood slowly from the figure’s head: staring up at us was Sebastian Clark, eyes still glazed, face contorted and hardly recognisable, the personification of evil; blood trickled from the corner of his mouth …