by Robin Paige
“The rooms won’t be ready to rent till Mr. Finch’s brother comes to claim his belongings,” she said in a proprietary tone. “He was all packed up when he was killed, for going to Paris, so it won’t take his brother long to collect his things. But it’ll be another few days before the carpet is cleaned and the rooms is ready. Come back next week. Monday will do.” She started to close the door.
“But I don’t want to rent Mr. Finch’s rooms,” Charles said. “I just want to have a look around. I’d like to see if he—”
The landlady’s black eyes snapped. “Oh, you don’t want to rent, do you? And why not, I’d like to know.” Her voice rose defensively. “They’re fine rooms, large and convenient, and only a little blood spilled on the carpet, which will be entirely gone as soon as it’s been cleaned. You won’t find any better lodging in Cleveland Street.”
“But I don’t intend to lodge in Cleveland Street,” Charles said, already sensing the futility of his effort. “Actually, my interest in this matter is of a professional nature. I should like to see Mr. Finch’s darkroom.” The existence of the darkroom was a matter of speculation, but Charles felt he had nothing to lose.
“Dark rooms? Dark rooms, you say?” The landlady became scornful. “Look here, sir! The windows in those rooms is the envy of every lodging-house proprietor in Cleveland Street. A painter lived there before Finch, and he never once complained about the rooms being dark! In fact, he was quite complimentary about the light. North, it is. That’s the best, they always says.”
“I fear that I have not made myself clear,” Charles said humbly. “I understand that Mr. Finch was a skilled photographer. He needed a small room without light—a closet, perhaps—in which to develop his photographs and prepare and store his chemicals. I should like to see it. What’s more, I am prepared to make his brother a handsome offer for his equipment, as well as for his collection of negatives.”
The landlady snorted. “Well! If you’ve come round looking for foul-smelling chemicals that are liable to go off like a bomb, you’re going to be disappointed, that’s all I’ve got to say. This is a clean, safe house, I’ll have you know.” She wrinkled her nose distastefully. “If I ever got a whiff of any chemical goings-on, Mr. Finch would have been out on the pavement in one minute flat, bag and baggage! What do you think this is? A haven for anarchists?”
Charles wanted to protest that most photographic chemicals were quite odorless and generally noncombustible, but he restrained himself, feeling that the landlady would not welcome instruction in the matter. “Perhaps,” he said, “Mr. Finch performed his professional work elsewhere.”
“If he did,” she retorted snappishly, “it wouldn’t be any business of mine, now, would it?”
Charles sighed and reached into his pocket. “Here is my card. Perhaps you will be good enough to give it to Mr. Finch’s brother when he calls to retrieve the belongings, and to convey my offer, as well.”
The landlady studied the card as if she were scrutinizing it for evidence of chemical contamination, then pocketed it with a suspicious harrumph.
Murmuring his thanks, Charles took his leave. As he was going down the steps, he heard the door slam behind him.
But while Number 2 had yielded very little in the way of information, Number 3, across the way, produced rather more. It was a barbershop, with the deep doorway Charles had remarked earlier, where an observer might have stationed himself. The barber was a voluble little fellow named Osborn, with a shiny bald head, a remarkable pair of waxed black mustaches, and a finely honed sense of curiosity. He had, as it turned out, observed the observer, a fact that emerged after Charles sat down in the barber chair and requested a trim for his beard.
“O‘course I saw the man, now, didn’t I?” Osbom said, bending close for a few critical snips of his scissors. “ ’Ee stood for the longest time right in that doorway there, like ’ee wuz goin’ to come in and get shaved.”
“Can you tell me what he looked like?”
Osborn snipped again, twice here, once there. “Blond, ‘andsome, a gentleman. Admir’ble mustaches.” He pursed his lips, considering. “Might’ve been a milit‘ry man, from ’is bearin’.”
Blond, handsome, mustached, military—George Cornwallis-West, to the life, Charles thought. So Jennie had been right. George had hidden himself in the doorway and watched her come and go. But how long had he been there? Long enough to run upstairs and kill the man who was waiting for Jennie?
“I don’t suppose you happened to notice the time,” he remarked.
“No, I didn’t.” Osbom plied his comb regretfully, then returned to snipping. “ ‘Twas before the coppers was called to the lodging across the way, though—I can tell you that much. When I went out to see wot the trouble wuz, ’ee was gone.”
“Oh?” Charles asked, feigning ignorance. “There was some trouble that afternoon, then?”
“Trouble!” Osborn exclaimed. He turned Charles’s chin for a better view, snipped several times, then turned it the other way.
“I’d say ‘twas trouble! Tom Finch, ’oo lived in Number 2, ‘ee got ’imself stabbed to death, poor man. There wuz folks buzzin’ ‘bout, coppers in droves, the mortuary wagon parked by the door till goin’ on teatime—and the landlady ’avin’ a fine fit of ‘ysterics, o’course.” His eyes glinted. “Most excitement we’ve had since that unsav’ry business at Number 19.”
“Number 19?” Charles asked, and then, with a start, remembered. “Oh, yes, of course. Number 19.”
The year after the Ripper killings, in the autumn of 1889, a scandal had erupted regarding a male brothel that had enjoyed a thriving business at Number 19 Cleveland Street. In fact, the affair had reached to high places, to the Royals, even, for it was widely rumored about London that Eddy, the Duke of Clarence, frequented the place in pursuit of its forbidden pleasures. After two initial arrests, however, the thing had been quickly hushed up. The brothel’s owner had taken himself off to France, and the two men charged in the case received suspiciously light sentences—in return for their silence, some said. The North London Press had charged that men of title, Lord Euston and Lord Arthur Somerset, a close friend of Prince Eddy—had been allowed to escape justice in order to protect more highly placed persons, but the editor, a man named Ernest Parke, paid dearly for his freedom of speech: he was convicted of libel and dispatched to prison. Gossip about Eddy’s part in the affair had raged until his death, some two and a half years later. And the whole thing had begun at Number 19 Cleveland Street, Charles mused—just a few doors down from Walter Sickert’s studio and across the street from the tobacconist’s and confectioner’s shop he had visited this morning.
“Funny thing, come t’ think of it,” the barber said, stepping back to admire his handiwork. “The man ‘oo was killed, ’ee wuz involved in that business.” He paused solicitously. “Wot d‘ye think, sir? Short ’nough for ye?”
“I think you have done a first-rate job,” Charles said, allowing the striped cotton cape to be removed. He stood. “So Tom Finch was part of the affair at Number 19, was he?”
“ ‘Deed ’ee wuz,” Osborn replied, shaking the cape with a snap. “In fact, ‘im an’ Charles ’Ammond—‘ee was the owner o’ the place—went off t’ France together, so’s they wouldn’t get arrested. Not that many did,” he added significantly, “if ye take my point. There wuz ’igher-ups involved, so they say. Far as the coppers wuz concerned, it wuz ’ands off.”
“Indeed,” Charles said. He reached into his pocket. “I understand that Mr. Finch was something of a photographer. It that true?”
“Oh, yessir,” Osburn said, his eyes following Charles’s hand. “Used t’ take photos up an’ down the street. Not buildings or ‘orses, though, just people. Said ’ee specialized in faces.” In a meaningful tone, he went on: “I’ve ‘eard as ’ow ‘ee might ’ave took a few photos at Number 19. Not just faces, neither, if ye take my meanin’.”
“Oh?” Charles said. He took out a silver coin.
&
nbsp; “An’ used ’is photos to put a bit o’ the black on one or two,” Osburn went on. He rubbed his bald head. “Some say that Lord Euston paid Tom Finch quite a few pounds for a good picture o’ hisself.”
“Ah,” Charles said. Lord Euston, eh? So Mr. Finch’s blackmail of Jennie Churchill was not a novice’s lucky first effort. Who knows how many extortion attempts the man had made? “Well, then,” he said reflectively, “I suppose you have wondered whether Mr. Finch’s employment might have contributed to his death.”
“So I ‘ave.” Osbum gave an emphatic nod. “So I ’ave, indeed. I ‘eard that some fine lady come to see ’im before ‘ee died. I shouldn’t be much surprised if she wuz tired o’ the black an’ decided to ’andle the matter ’erself.”
“Hmmm,” Charles said. He took out the photograph of Mary Kelly and handed it to the barber. “I am curious as to whether this might be an example of Mr. Finch’s work. Do you recognize the woman?”
Osburn gave the photo his careful attention. After a long moment, he said, “I believe I recognize ‘er, sir, but I couldn’t give ye ’er name. Seems to me she lived ’ere-abouts, some while ago.”
“It would have been more than ten years ago,” Charles said. Still studying the photograph, the barber rubbed his hand over his bald head again. “Seems to me she was a nursemaid,” he said thoughtfully. “I seem to recall ’er pushin’ a pram. But ten years is a long time.” He handed the photo back.
“It is indeed,” Charles said, pressing two silver coins into the barber’s hand. “A good trim,” he said, “and more. I thank you.”
“Ye’re more than welcome, sir,” Osbom said. He looked down at the coins, then squinted at Charles. “Ye’re not from the p’lice, are ye?”
“No,” Charles said, “I’m not. This is a private inquiry.”
“A private inquiry?” A light broke across the barber’s face. “T’ be sure! Like Sherlock Holmes, eh?”
“Something like,” Charles said, and took his leave.
20
From Newspaper Account of Catherine Eddowes’ Inquest
Crawford (solicitor representing City Police): Would you consider that the person who inflicted the wounds possessed anatomical skill?
Brown (police surgeon): He must have had a good deal of knowledge as to the position of the abdominal organs and the way to remove them. The way in which the kidney was cut out showed that it was done by somebody who knew what he was about.
The Times,
12 October, 1888
The drizzle had changed to rain by the time Kate and Jennie walked through the gate of the Bloomsbury Spiritualist Society and out into Boswell Street. Without speaking, they put up their umbrellas and splashed through the puddles in the direction of the British Museum, where they found a small tea shop with a green awning. They took a table in a darkened corner, away from the window and the noise of traffic from the street, and ordered cress sandwiches, vegetable soup, and cups of strong, steaming tea poured from a china pot.
Kate wiggled her toes inside her damp boots and sipped her tea gratefully, glad for its warmth and for the quiet shelter of the tea shop. Mr. Lees had been far more willing to talk with them than she had anticipated, and their conversation had yielded an unexpected treasure trove of information. At the same time, it had been distinctly unsettling, not only because Mr. Lees’s story was so extraordinary but because the conclusion of his tale had had such a devastating impact on Jennie, who sat across from her now, pale and silent, her eyes cast down.
Kate was accustomed to crafting fictions with a startling psychic twist. In fact, some of Beryl Bardwell’s most popular early stories had involved a medium named Mrs. Leona Travis, who frequently helped the New York Police Department solve some very grisly crimes by calling on the spirits of the departed to tell what they knew. But the story that Robert Lees had related—in a reprise of the Sunday Times-Herald article that Kate had read and clipped—was much more amazing and far more real than any of Beryl Bardwell’s fictions. It had, Kate thought, the ring of truth.
Over cups of coffee and a plate of biscuits brought in by a young parlor maid, Lees said that he had been working at his desk one morning in September, ’88, when he had a strong premonition that the Ripper was about to kill again.
“I saw the whole scene,” he said. “The woman, half drunk, the man, drawing a knife from his inside pocket to slash her throat.” He went immediately to Scotland Yard but found that the C.I.D., already overwhelmed with crank reports, had no patience for this latest lunatic. The following night, however, just such a murder took place. Lees was so deeply affected by his failure to prevent the death that he became ill and was advised by his doctor to go abroad for a few weeks with his wife, to distract himself from the horror of the killings. It didn’t work.
“I believed,” he said gravely, “that some sort of mysterious link—a magnetic wave, if you will—had been formed between me and the man who was butchering those poor women. I became obsessed. I read about the murders, thought about them, even dreamed about them.” His voice became intense. “I knew—yes, I knew—that if I could identify the man whose intentions I sensed, the killings would stop.”
A few weeks later, Lees was riding in an omnibus with his wife when he became aware that the killer was nearby. At the top of Notting Hill, a man boarded and Lees bent over to tell his wife, “That is Jack the Ripper.” She tried to laugh him out of it, but Lees was firm in his conviction. When the bus turned off Edgeware Road at the Marble Arch and the man got out, Lees followed him up Oxford Street in the direction of Apsley House. As they went, the man became increasingly agitated and nervous, and at last hailed a cab and made off down Piccadilly.
Some time later, dining with friends, Lees suddenly knew that the Ripper had struck again. He went immediately to Scotland Yard, arriving even before the telegram about Mary Kelly’s murder arrived. Convinced that Lees’ powers were genuine, one of the inspectors encouraged him to submit himself to the killer’s strange magnetic connection. Trailed by the inspector and his men, Lees walked through the West End, stopping finally in front of a mansion that was the home of one of the most celebrated physicians in London. Inside, the inspector spoke to the doctor’s wife, who confessed that she feared that her husband was losing his mind. His behavior had become frighteningly erratic and she had realized with horror that he was absent from home whenever a murder occurred in Whitechapel. She had been too fearful to inquire about his whereabouts.
Under questioning by doctors, the physician himself acknowledged that his mind had been unbalanced for the past year and that there were intervals when he could not recall where he had been or what he had done. On one occasion, he confessed that he had awakened as if from a dream and discovered blood on his clothing, the source of which he could not identify. Some weeks later, the physician was certified as insane and committed, under the name of Thomas Mason, to a private asylum in Islington. To conceal the truth, the family announced that he had died. His coffin was filled with stones, and his funeral was celebrated with appropriate solemnity and attended by many of Society’s greats. His real death came later, in the asylum.
Kate leaned forward. “What was the doctor’s name?” she asked.
Mr. Lees studied her with a sober attention. “I trust you will forgive me for being blunt, Miss Kelly—or whoever you are. I am fully aware that you have uses for this information other than the one you have told me. Even so, I offer it freely, because I feel that you have lied to me out of a genuine desire to find the truth.” He turned from Kate to Jennie. “The physician whom I identified was Sir William Gull.”
Kate could see that Jennie recognized the name. At Mr. Lees’ pronouncement, her face went white. Her large dark eyes were fixed unwaveringly upon his face and she sat stiffly erect, gripping the arms of her chair with both hands as if to keep from fainting. She did not utter a sound.
Lees cleared his throat. “However, Sir William was not the only man involved in the crimes.” He paused, stil
l looking at Jennie, as if he were waiting for a question from her. When she said nothing, he went on. “There were others. The police—one inspector, anyway—knew who they were.” He held up his hand as if to forestall a question. “I cannot tell you their names, nor even share my suspicions. I can say only that Sir William did not act alone, nor on his own behalf. He was, as he thought, acting upon the commission of a greater authority.” He stood. “I see that this is terribly upsetting, so I shall leave you to gather your thoughts before you go on your way. Please help yourselves to more coffee.”
Then he had turned, his strong face lined with the deepest compassion, to Jennie. “I do wish you well, my lady,” he said softly. “Your path is a steep and difficult one.” He looked down at the muddy black boot showing under her dark skirt and added, inexplicably, “Pray do mind your step.” And then he was gone.
The waitress placed their soup and sandwiches on the table before them and brought another pot of tea, and the two women began to eat without speaking. Jennie, however, ate only a little of her lunch, and that without enthusiasm. At last, she leaned back in her chair and said, in a voice that was tinged with a bitter sadness, “I suppose you want to hear about it.”
“I want to hear what you are ready to tell me,” Kate said quietly.
Jennie raised her chin. “Very well, then. You have probably already guessed that I knew Sir William. He was the Prince of Wales’s regular physician—as well as Physician-in-Ordinary to the Queen—and he treated me when I was ill with typhoid. He treated Randolph for his disease as well, with mercury.” Her jaw was set and her dark eyes were unfathomable. “Randolph and I attended his funeral. He was buried in a churchyard at Thorpe-le-Soken, and so many went that a special train had to be laid on.” She pulled a deep breath. “Sir William was a very good friend of Randolph’s. They were both Freemasons, you see. I once heard him say that anything Randolph asked of him, he would do. And now I’m to understand that Sir William was the Ripper, and that he did not work alone?” She shook her head. “Can you blame me for feeling ... distraught?”