The Sixth Victim

by Tessa Harris

  I do not follow them after that. They leave the site in all haste to report their grisly find to the police. Not long afterward, a detective and two uniformed constables are on the scene. It is this commotion that attracts the attention of Constance and her sister.

  CONSTANCE

  I always keep my eyes open for rossers, so when I clock three of them together, it puts me on edge. And when I watch them pushing a handcart, it makes me curious.

  “See them?” I ask Flo, nodding in the peelers’ direction. “What d’ya reckon they’re up to?”

  “Let’s go ’ave a butcher’s,” she grins, nudging my arm.

  I glance at my basket. It’s almost empty except for one measly posy and my feet are freezing. I fancy a change of scenery. “All right,” I reply.

  So we follow the rossers with the cart. A man is with them, but he’s not under arrest. He’s showing them where to go, leading the way through the high gates on Cannon Row. He’s wearing a cloth cap and he’s all dirty and it looks like he’s a workman. After a few moments, we know that he is. He’s taking the three policemen toward the river, to the building site that’ll be the new police headquarters. Mind you, you’d need a good imagination at the moment to see how it’ll be when it’s finished. Today it’s all cranes and scaffolding and mud. The ground is dug out to make tunnels and channels, like some mad mole has run amok in the soggy dirt.

  “We best go back,” I tell Flo, the mud sucking at my boots.

  “Wait,” she tells me, tugging at my sleeve. Her gaze is fixed on the men’s heads as they bob up and down, breaking up great clods of earth with pickaxes and shovels. I’m assuming they’re digging the foundations for the new building. I want to go back.

  “There’s nothing to see here,” I tell Flo. “It’s just mud.” But again, she tugs at my sleeve as I turn.

  “No. Wait,” she tells me in a hoarse whisper, and I notice her eyes are on stalks.

  It’s tricky to make out what’s so caught her attention, but I strain to see. There’s a little cluster of men waiting for the coppers as they fast approach. Faces smeared with mud, they’re scrambling down into the mire like mudlarks, but you can still catch their grim expressions. They’re taking turns to jump down into a pit to look at something. One skinny lad has to be hauled back up by the others and breaks away to bend double and throw up in a nearby trench.

  “Christ Almighty!” says Flo, and she grips me tight. I feel her breath hot on my cheek. “I think they’ve found another one.”

  “I don’t like the look of this,” I say, swinging my basket round. “We’ve got to get out of here.” Back through the gates, we go. We’ve scarpered a few yards away from where we saw the coppers. I’m hugging myself, wrapping my own fingers round my arms against the cold and against the fear. “It’s like he’s following us,” I whisper.

  I wait for Flo to tell me not to be so stupid. Only she doesn’t. She’s out of breath and her nose is running. She wipes away the snot with the back of her sleeve, giving me a look at the same time. Barely have I stopped speaking, then Big Ben starts to chime. We both raise our gazes to the clock face that looms in the distance and see that it’s five and it’s getting dark.

  “Jim’ll be here soon,” Flo says, trying to be cheerful. “He’ll put the smiles back on our faces.”

  It’ll take more than a few stupid jokes to lift my mood, I think.

  EMILY

  A crowd of laborers has gathered like flies around the spot where the torso lies. They jostle to get a better look, but many of those who manage to also double over and retch. Gilbert Johns is one of them.

  “Move away! Away will you. This is a crime scene!” A bowler-hatted detective and two uniformed constables arrive on the scene. The detective, a clean-shaven young man, with sharp eyes, tries to swat the onlookers away. He and his hapless men do not relish their task. They know, from the ghoulish account that Windborn has just delivered at the nearby King Street Police Station, that what they are about to view will be unpalatable, to say the least.

  The foreman has accompanied the policemen to the site. As the constables clear the path to the vault, Windborn remains anxious. He shakes his head. “The gaffer’s not going to like this,” he tells the detective.

  “The gaffer?”

  “Sir William,” replies Windborn. “Sir William Sampson. Him what’s the head of everything. Him that pays our wages. He’ll not like this holdup. If we can’t work, he’ll stop our money.”

  The detective—Hawkins is his name—has only recently been promoted. It’s clear to me that such responsibility sits heavily on his young shoulders. He shrugs a little too much and his cough is caused by nerves rather than any physical congestion. Any inconvenience caused to these leering laborers is of little consequence to him. There is much more at stake.

  I feel nothing but pity for him and his men as they gaze with a mixture of disgust and horror at the maggot-infested torso, with its breasts exposed for all to see. While his men keep curious eyes at bay, Hawkins crouches on his haunches, a handkerchief clamped to his mouth. He has seen decomposing corpses before. It was part of his training, but this . . . this was something else: a dismembered hunk of rotting meat, foul and fetid and, most shockingly, human.

  He waits for what must seem to him an age for the medical officer, who joins them perhaps half an hour later. Dr. Bond is an elderly man, with silvery hair and a large moustache, and his arrival is clearly welcome. He seems to bring a semblance of order to the proceedings.

  “So,” Bond begins, staring at the torso that presents itself to him on the mud. The newspaper in which it is half wrapped rustles slightly. He stills it with the cane he carries. He will examine the remains more closely later. For now, he is keen to see where it was found.

  “In here, I assume?” he asks Hawkins, pointing to the large slab of stone that’s been heaved across the entrance to the vault to keep out prying eyes.

  The young detective nods. “Sir.”

  The doctor frowns and takes off his topper, handing it to a waiting policeman.

  Two constables roll away the slab to allow the doctor access. Bond ducks down into the vault and begins his inspection immediately. I follow just in time to see his fingers spider along the ledge. He is holding his breath, shutting his mouth and nose to the sickly sweet smell that pervades the vault. The second constable was ordered to follow the doctor into the catacomb and now holds up a lantern so that Bond can inspect the shelf. He examines the wall, holding up a magnifying glass to it, before returning to the torso itself. He notes the maggots and the advanced state of decomposition, but pays particular attention to the twine used to bind the parcel.

  “Well, sir?” Detective Constable Hawkins is waiting outside, thankful to be in the open air. The stink of the Thames is as perfume compared with the stench in the vault.

  Bond takes out his pocket handkerchief and blows his nose in an attempt to rid his nostrils of the foul smell. He is highly regarded by the police force, and he is aware he has not been summoned to the grisly scene by chance.

  “You want to know if this is linked in any way to the other, I presume, Hawkins?” He is wiping his hands with his handkerchief, paying particular attention to the webbing between his fingers, as if he is about to conduct an operation.

  The younger man dips his head and looks away, as if too embarrassed to admit it. “The thought had occurred to me, sir.”

  Of course, I knew he was referring to the arm, the one that had been found in the river mud near the sluice off Ebury Bridge Road not three weeks before. Bond had examined it shortly afterward.

  The doctor flourishes his handkerchief before secreting it in his pocket once more. “It is a possibility. The string,” he says with a sniff. It is clear to me that he is recalling the twine he had found when he was called to examine it. It had been used as a ligature to prevent the blood draining from the cut end.

  The older man looks up and fixes the young detective with the measured gaze that comes with
years of experience. “But I’ll wager you also want to know if this is the work of the dastardly fiend who is stalking Whitechapel, eh, Detective Constable?”

  “I . . . um. Well, I . . .” Hawkins’s manner can lurch from being upright and bold to slouched and unsure in the blink of an eye.

  Bond shrugs and snatches his hat from the waiting constable. “And that, I fear, I cannot say,” he tells him, clamping it down on his head. “Not yet, at any rate.” He picks up his medical bag and glances back down at the unsavory parcel. “See to it that the remains are removed to Millbank Street. I shall examine them there.”

  “Yes, sir,” replies Hawkins, almost standing to attention. As soon as the medical officer is out of sight, he orders his reluctant men to load the parcel into the undignified conveyance. He turns his back on them so that he does not have to witness their repulsion as they manhandle the torso unceremoniously into the cart. And as he does so, facing toward the slow flow of the slate-gray Thames, I see his lips move as he asks himself the question that Dr. Bond was unable to answer, at least for the time being. Could this poor, unfortunate woman—with neither a head, nor legs, nor arms—be Jack the Ripper’s sixth victim?

  CHAPTER 11

  Wednesday, October 3, 1888

  CONSTANCE

  My poor old feet are killing me. I’m walking back home after a long day that’s left me with three bunches of wilting herbs. I think they’re past saving and that means money down the drain. Flo’s running some chores for Ma, but I can’t wait to sit down in front of the fire.

  The light’s fast fading, even though it’s just after four o’clock, so I’m not loitering. I’m coming down Fournier Street when who should I spot but the Irish lad with the funny walk called Mick. He’s the one who saw us home safe the night we came back from the Egyptian Hall. He’s pushing a cart that’s covered in tarpaulin. I’m not sure I want to speak to him again, so I look the other way, pretending not to notice him. The trouble is, he notices me.

  “Hello!” he says cheerily.

  I turn and feign surprise. We’re standing quite close to each other and it’s then that I catch it on the air—a foul stink that makes me want to retch. My eyes instinctively dart to his barrow. Flies buzz around it. He sees me pull a face.

  “Meat for the cats,” he tells me. “Don’t ’alf stink!”

  I nod. “I’ll say.” He’s wearing a leather apron that’s smeared with blood as well. I think I’m going to be sick. I offer him a vague smile, then walk on.

  “See you around some time!” he calls after me. I pretend I don’t hear him.

  * * *

  Later that night, Flo and me sit by the fire, watching the dying embers and holding our hands out to them now and again, making the most of the warmth. Mr. Bartleby’s come and gone and Ma’s long been tucked up. Neither of us is in much of a mood for talking. We’re too wrapped up in our own thoughts. It’s Flo, as usual, who breaks a long silence.

  “You ’eard that physick went to the police?”

  I look up at her. The candle went out a while ago and the only light in the room comes from the fire.

  “Physick?”

  “Yeah. One of them that says they can see into the future. Speak to dead people and all that load of cobblers.” She wiggles her fingers.

  “You mean a psychic.”

  “Physick. Psychic. Don’t matter what name you give ’em, they’re all balmy, if you ask me. Anyway, this bloke reckons he knows who the Ripper is.”

  I want to say that nobody did ask her. But I don’t. “Robert James Lees,” I tell her.

  She shrugs. “Couldn’t tell ya his name.”

  “So what happened?” I’m curious to know for my own peace of mind.

  She shakes her head. “What d’ya think? He pipes up and goes to the rossers and they say they’ll look into it. They didn’t tell him he was off his rocker to his face.”

  I know why she’s telling me this story. She’s testing me. I’m waiting for the question to come and, sure enough, it does. “So you reckon you’re physick. . . .”

  “Psychic!” I snap.

  I’ve wounded her. “All right. Keep your hair on!”

  I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” I say, adding: “And, no, I don’t. I’m not psychic. It was just a dream, that’s all.”

  Flo lifts the poker and jiggles the last few embers. A lone flame suddenly bursts into life, then dies down just as quickly.

  “You got an idea, though.”

  “An idea?”

  “ ’Bout who this Jack might be.” Flo’s suggestion stuns me. “You must have thought about it,” she goads.

  My mind flashes to Abel Gipps, all jumpy and excitable the morning they found Annie Chapman, the bootblack with his hook on Commercial Street and then to Mick and his bloody apron and the cart full of stinking meat. What if there was another body in there, all chopped up and ready to feed to cats?

  “Not really,” I reply. Even though she can’t make out my expression in the shadows, she knows I’m lying. “What about you?” I ask, keen to take the attention off myself.

  I see her head nod in the dying glow. “I’ve got my suspicions,” she tells me, tapping her nose with her forefinger.

  “Oh?” She seems quite sure of herself.

  “Yes. And he’s known to us all.”

  I’m shocked. “Who?”

  “A regular visitor, he is.” She lifts her gaze to the ceiling, to where Ma sleeps, and the light catches the whites of her eyes and I read her thoughts.

  “No!” I cry out, all breathy.

  She nods and lifts a hand to count on her fingers. “Always wants to know what’s going on, keen to blame the Jews, all cocky about the Vigilance Committee.”

  What she says is true. But, of course, it’s no proof that Mr. Bartleby is a murderer. Nevertheless, I think of his fingers touching mine at the table when we held that séance and the way he looks at me sometimes and I feel my flesh creep.

  “Yes,” says Flo. “I think, from now on, Con, we should watch our mutual friend, as Mr. Dickens would call ’im.”

  I think, perhaps, she’s right. Every man in Whitechapel is under suspicion.

  CHAPTER 12

  Thursday, October 4, 1888

  EMILY

  Of course, it suits the press to maintain the fiction that all the murdered women have died by the same monstrous hand. A mania is taking hold of the city—indeed, the whole country. It has even spread as far as America, where various near-hysterical newspaper reports even point the finger of suspicion at their own citizens.

  I, therefore, wonder how much publicity will be given to the letter that is being held firmly in the hands of Chief Constable Adolphus Williamson. I am in his office at Scotland Yard. Because of the chief constable’s years of experience, Chief Inspector John Shore has called upon the services of Dolly Williamson, the name by which the officer is known. Sadly, however, the chief constable’s heart condition and subsequent failing health have meant he can no longer pursue a very active role within the force. He cannot take personal charge of the investigations and direct operations, as some think he should, but his expertise is still much prized.

  As I watch him read the missive for the first time, I can see the beads of sweat emerge on his forehead, even though away from the fireplace, the room is really quite cool. He takes out his handkerchief to mop his brow. He is experiencing palpitations.

  “What do you make of it, Dolly?” asks Shore, after an anxious wait. He is leaning forward. His voice is low.

  The chief constable looks up, then tosses the letter on the desk as if it repulses him. “The man’s obviously depraved,” he says, pulling at his collar in a vain attempt to loosen it.

  “Obviously,” replies Shore. “But is it genuine?” He jabs the letter with his forefinger. “Are we dealing with two mad killers?”

  Williamson scoops up the sheet of paper again into his sweaty hands. He reads out loud: “‘I swear I did not kill the female whose body was found
in Whitehall. ’ ” He pauses and shakes his head before carrying on: “ ‘If she was an honest woman, I will hunt down and destroy her murderer. If she was a whore, God will bless the hand that slew her. ’ ”

  “A religious maniac?” suggests Shore. “The references to the women of Moab and Midian . . .” He points to another sentence, written in an educated hand.

  Williamson nods slowly. “It certainly looks like there’s two of them on the loose.”

  Shore lets out a sigh and slumps back into his chair. “Well, at least we can tell the press that the Whitehall body might not be the Ripper’s sixth victim, eh?”

  The chief constable shrugs his shoulders in a gesture of resignation. “Tell them what you want. Whether they believe us is another matter,” he says.

  It is clear to me that the police are in disarray. They are beginning to look like fools in the eyes of the increasingly anxious public. And there is more bad news to come.

  CONSTANCE

  Flo’s talk of Mr. Bartleby being Jack has unsettled me even more. I haven’t seen him since, but I know that when I do, I won’t be able to act normal round him. And now the papers are full of letters about psychics. They’re coming forward in droves, all wanting to help solve these terrible crimes. Mediums calling on the victims, or tracking down Jack; clairvoyants seeing him in their mind’s eyes; spiritualists in contact with the other side—they’re everywhere, and I know that means Mr. Bartleby’ll be after me, like a dog with a bone. I just don’t know where to turn. Miss Tindall, where are you?

  EMILY

  I hear her call, but I cannot answer. Not just yet. Poor, dear Constance is not the only woman feeling threatened in Whitechapel, and even farther afield, at this time. From the length and breadth of London, and beyond, anxious people are coming forward with their suspicions: errant lodgers, absent husbands, oddly-behaved employees. Every man has become a suspect; and if they are foreign, or Jewish, it seems they are even more likely or capable of committing fiendish atrocities. It does not surprise me in the least, then, to learn that this Robert James Lees, a self-styled spiritualist and medium, has come forward to offer his psychic services to the police. I fear the man is a well-meaning fool. He claimed he could attempt to get in touch with the victims, no doubt for a fee. Wisely, the police have declined. There are too many at the moment who fancy themselves blessed with such supernatural powers. Either they are poor, deluded dupes, or simply eager to make money on the back of a fear that is verging on mass hysteria. The true ones who are chosen do not put themselves forward. They are sought out and they are few. I am eternally thankful that I have been given the power to find them.