Epilogue
Friday, 9th April 1960: By the time I arrived back in the receiving room, Jill was fully conscious. Her voice was hoarse, barely audible; her stomach and her throat hurt, but she gave me a brave smile. As I hugged her, I could feel her shivering violently. I myself felt weak with relief; hot tears cascaded silently down my cheeks.
“You’re safe now, my love,” was all I could think of saying, though it would be a long time before I would feel safe myself.
The casualty officer returned to the cubicle.
“We’ll admit her overnight for observation, as soon as I can find a bed … You’ll be able to stay with her as long as you like, Mr Scott; but first I think the representatives of the law would like a few more words …”
A fog had descended on my brain, and I was unable to give any further meaningful details to the police constable. He smiled sympathetically, and promised to return in a day or two, when my mind was clearer, to tie up the loose ends.
Sebastian Clark had regained full consciousness shortly after I left the scene. He was handcuffed and taken to Brick Lane Police Station; with him (in plastic evidence bags) went the Elephant-man hood, the two rubber gloves, the scalpel, and his brief-case. A sample of blood from the back of his right wrist had been taken, and this would be matched against the scrapings from under Jill’s finger-nails, to corroborate my statement. In due course, Clark’s room at the hostel was searched; articles of underwear from the murder victims were discovered under a loose floor-board, together with a red beard and wig, a pack of needles, a reel of dark brown cotton, a thimble, a pair of dress-making scissors, and a single dark brown pillow-case of the same colour as the hood. Clark’s fingerprints had been found on the scalpel at the foot of Queen Alexandra’s statue; there was human blood on the blade, but it was not recent.
Chief Inspector Butter gained full credit from the national press for the apprehension of the Whitechapel Slasher. My part in his unmasking received scant attention, for which I was duly grateful.
Tuesday, 18th May 1960: The King’s Head was a mock-Tudor hostelry, around the corner from Picaddilly Circus, complete with oak beams, and a brass foot-rail extending the length of its counter; horse-brasses and cast iron horse-shoes adorned the beams and walls; luxurious leather benches were drawn up to the fake-antique oak tables; it was a far cry from the rough pubs of the East end in which I felt so at home. The place was packed with customers, but for once I didn’t mind the “toffs” and tourists; I allowed myself to enjoy the convivial atmosphere, and the aroma of rich cigar-smoke; prices were higher than at my local, but tonight I didn’t care. Tonight I had no financial concerns - I had just passed my Finals!
A silk scarf hid the residual bruising around Jill’s neck; apart from this and some mild hoarseness, there was - to the casual observer - no evidence of her ordeal. As usual, St Thomas’ had been more efficient than The London, and she had received her results the day before; she had already celebrated with her own set; now Jill joined me and my friends, for our celebrations.
We were on our third pints. Heather Smythe was admiring Jill’s engagement ring - a Georgian antique with clusters of small diamonds and emeralds in a gold setting - which we had chosen from a jeweller’s in Conduit Street less than a week ago. Our group had exhausted the novelty of “Dr Parsons”, “Dr Jackson”, “Dr Feldman”, “Dr Wallis”, “Dr Platt”, “Dr Conway”, “Dr Knowles”, “Dr Smythe”, “Dr Pritchard” and “Dr Scott”. Though no-one mentioned the dead Sandy Sunalingam or the now sinister Sebastian Clark (in police custody, awaiting trial), their memory hung over us like a black cloud. Our dean, poor Dr Turnbull-Clark, was on compassionate leave, and it was rumoured that he was heading for early retirement ...
It was ten o’clock, and now we were all quietly happy, and getting quietly drunk. Since reading the exam results on the medical school notice board, the fierce joy and manic euphoria - which had vanquished my demons and sustained me through the day - had subsided to this feeling of near contentment.
The District Line train clattered into Monument Underground Station; I raced up the stairs to the platform, and threw myself through the closing doors. I had seen Jill home, and almost missed my last train. With relief, I sank down on the nearest seat. Only three stops to Whitechapel …
By the time we reached the next station, Tower Hill, my pulse rate had settled and my breathing was almost back to normal. The carriage emptied; the doors closed. As the train rattled soothingly down the track, I appeared to have the compartment to myself. With a sense of luxury, I re-lived the events of the day, and contemplated the future:
I would have to give evidence at Sebastian’s trial, but that was still months away ...
Next Friday I would be moving home from the students’ hostel; however, the following Monday, I had to return to the medical school to find out about my first house job, which was due to start at the beginning of June. I had been assured I would get a post somewhere ...
I wonder what Jill will do, and where she’ll be sent? We won’t be getting married until after our house jobs; but will our careers separate us, or will we find a way to stay together - and live happily ever after? Will I become a teaching hospital consultant? Perhaps President of the Royal College of Physicians … or Physician to the Queen (if both Her Majesty and I live long enough) … This could truly be the dawn for me of a New Elizabethan Age … Sir Edwin Scott, or perhaps even Lord Scott of Clapham …
“I know your type. You men are all the same - only want one thing!”
My happy dream was shattered by the strident female voice: a woman of perhaps forty, with pinched face, untidy hair, and drab clothing had approached from the far end of the carriage; she sat herself directly opposite me. Her face was flushed, and her shrill voice was rising:
“I’ve met your sort before - don’t think I can’t tell what you’re after ...”
Good God, I thought, frantically. I’ve been qualified less than a day, and already I’m at risk of being struck off the Medical Register.
The lights of Aldgate East Station appeared; the train emerged from the tunnel, slowed, and came to a halt. The doors opened. The witch-like figure rose from her seat, and swayed towards me, clutching her umbrella threateningly. Without pausing to think, I jumped to my feet; in desperation, I weaved around her, and was through the doors, just as they were closing; I left the woman standing open-mouthed in the brightly lit compartment, gazing malevolently at me while the train drew away. Exhilaration mingled with relief, as I strode up the steps to the station exit. I would have to walk the extra stop to Whitechapel; but no matter - it was a lovely balmy night, and I had avoided a fate worse than death!
The streets of the East End of London were empty, and echoed to my solitary footsteps. Yet tonight I felt no fear: a rosy future beckoned. Far above, the bright constellations wheeled in the midnight sky.
In the Footsteps of The Whitechapel Slasher (Edwin Scott Crime Trilogy Book 1) Page 29