Whitechapel

by Sam Gafford

  Saturday, 1st September, 1888

  The next morning, I enjoyed another happy breakfast with Ann before making my way to the bookstore. In my mind, I was wondering just what today would bring. I already knew that I would be attending a medical inquest (my first!) and that Wendell would have secret tasks for me to do as well. For a writer, I was becoming quite the detective and spy!

  The shop was open when I got there, and both Robert and Wendell were present. The mess had been cleaned up and, truth be told, I would not have been able to tell that there had been a robbery just the day before.

  “Ah, here is our defender!” Robert exclaimed. “All better, I trust?”

  “Yes, much better! In many ways.”

  Robert looked at me strangely. “You seem in particularly good spirits this morning, Albert. Anything special happen?”

  I could feel myself blush.

  “Ahhhhh . . .” Wendell said. “It is a woman!”

  “Indeed?” Robert said. “Is he right, Albert? Are you courting a young lady?”

  “I guess you could say that,” I replied. “I mean, we have only just begun to speak of such things.”

  Robert laughed quietly. “Well, Albert, if all you do is ‘speak’ with her, your courtship will last a very, very long time.”

  “Perhaps not as long as all that then,” I said. “Is everything repaired from yesterday?”

  “Hmm?” Wendell said. “Oh, yes, the back window is fixed and the books back in order in their place. Except for a few, of course.”

  “Wendell!” Robert grumbled.

  “Yes, Robert, I know. But we will have to address this issue soon.”

  “And we will, Wendell, I have already set some things in motion to resolve this.”

  Wendell was shocked. “You have? Without consulting me? Robert, what have you done?”

  “Not now, Wendell, I will speak to you about it in a moment.” Robert turned towards me. “Albert, feeling well enough to climb back down the ‘Hole’?”

  But before I could answer, Wendell chimed in. “Oh, I have something else for Albert to do today, Robert.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes, I need him to go to Berberry’s and check some of the auction items for me. I want his opinion.”

  Robert looked confused. “Why are you sending him? Why not go yourself?”

  Wendell, to his credit, stood strong. “The events of yesterday have changed many of our plans, would you not agree?”

  Robert considered this and then nodded. “Yes, yes, they have. Very well. Tell Albert what you want him to do and then come in back. We need to talk.”

  As Robert walked to the office, Wendell came up to me. “Come outside, Albert, I’ll give you your directions.”

  On the street, Wendell handed me a piece of paper. I went to open it when he stopped my hand. “Not here. I want you to give this to someone. His name is Ben Edwards. You can find him at the Ringers on Commercial Street in the East End. He is usually only there in the morning, arranging business.”

  “How will I recognise him?”

  “He is an evil fellow with a stark black beard that he keeps trimmed in square edges. There is a scar over his right eye. Do not ask anyone for him. If he is not there, sit and wait. When you find him, go up to him and say, ‘Wendell sent me.’”

  “And then what?”

  “Give him that piece of paper. He will read it and give you an answer. If the answer is ‘no,’ return here. If he gives you something else for an answer, act upon it without hesitation.”

  “If I’m using your name, why don’t you go yourself?”

  “Because I cannot be seen personally acting on this matter. Even now, I may be watched. Besides, now I need to find out what Robert has done on his own. Foolish man, I only hope he has not made this situation worse. Go now!”

  I left and quickly made my way down the street. Already I was amazed at how my steps were constantly being brought back to the East End and to Commercial Street in particular. It was now barely before 8 a.m. and the inquest would begin at noon. I had to make sure that Arthur knew I would not be at The Brothers’ when he came to call, so I quickly walked to his home.

  His wife answered the door.

  “Oh, Albert, it’s you! I heard all about your accident yesterday. Is your head well?”

  I had never quite heard it put that way before.

  “Yes, much better. I don’t mean to be rude, but is Arthur here?”

  “Why, no, he left about an hour ago. Said he had to go see someone, but he should be back shortly.”

  “Ah, could you give him a message for me? He was supposed to come and collect me at The Brothers’ this morning, but I’ve been sent on an errand for Mr. Robson. Would you just let him know that I’ll meet him at noon?”

  “Certainly. But meet where?”

  I wanted to tell her the truth, but I didn’t think I should tell this good woman that her husband was planning to attend the inquest for a murdered prostitute.

  “We’re meeting for lunch and he’s going to . . . ah, take me on a tour of London’s churches.”

  “Hmm . . . Well, Arthur would certainly be the one to do that. He probably knows more about them than anyone else living. I’ll tell him.”

  “Thank you, Amy. I wish I could stay and talk, I really do, but I must get about my errand.”

  “Of course, Albert, I understand.”

  I turned to walk away when she called me back.

  “Albert! I nearly forgot. We’re having a bit of a party here tomorrow night and Arthur tells me that you’ve made friends with a young lady. Would you care to bring her to the party?”

  My heart lightened after the gloom of the morning.

  “I would! I would, indeed. Are you certain it’s all right?”

  “Of course it is, dear. I’m surprised that Arthur hadn’t invited you already so that he’ll have someone to talk to.” In a low voice she said, “He doesn’t care much for my parties.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Well, they tend to be full of artists and such and, even though he wants to be a writer, he doesn’t care for many artists.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Arthur.”

  “No, it doesn’t, does it? But many times we are not the way we should be. I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

  “Yes, definitely. What time?”

  “Seven. That way I will have a few minutes to get to know your young lady.”

  “She’s hardly my young lady.”

  “No? Whose is she then?” She laughed as she closed the door. In truth, I had not begun to think of Ann as my young lady, but I suppose it was true. Thinking about it gave an extra bounce to my step as I walked down to Commercial Street. I had been in that area so often the last few days that I already knew my way.

  *

  What I didn’t know is that there is no public house named Ringers. It actually was named The Britannia and was called ‘The Ringers’ in local slang because that was the name of the couple who ran it. I spent many minutes walking up and down Commercial Street before I finally asked someone. He looked at me oddly and pointed out the pub at the corner of Commerical and Dorset Street. Walking inside, I found that, despite the early hour, the pub was in high spirits.

  It was another basic public house with a bar against the wall and tables in the centre floor. There was not much in the way of decoration, but the patrons didn’t seem to care. Some were eating, but most were drinking something or other. I looked around but did not see the man Wendell had sent me to look up. I went to the bar, got myself a strong cup of coffee, and settled down at a table near the middle of the floor where I could watch the front door.

  There was quite a variety of people in the pub, but none of them could be called particularly prosperous. Even in my threadbare clothes, I probably looked better off than most of them. There were a number of women milling about and a good many working-class men who looked as if they were either going to or coming from work or involved in looking
for it. I suppose it was the fact that I had already survived several trips to the Ten Bells that I was feeling more comfortable. I spent roughly an hour just observing the people come and go when the door opened and what I could only assume was Ben Edwards entered the pub.

  He was a large man with hands that looked as if they could crush a man’s skull like a walnut. He wore an old pea-coat that had seen better days, and he gave all the appearance of a madman. No sooner had he taken a seat in one of the far booths than people lined up to see him. Others tried to take no notice, but everyone managed to cast a quick glance in that direction now and again. I was probably more obvious than the others, as Edwards also took notice of me watching him. Person after person sat down in his booth. Some only talked a few minutes and left, but others fished things out of their pockets and passed them quietly to him. It did not take very long for me to realise that Mr. Edwards was a ‘fence’ and his business was in dealing with stolen goods.

  When the line had finished and Edwards was alone, I slowly walked over to him. I could feel my legs shake. This was truly the fiercest-looking man I had ever seen. Normally I would not even dare to come close to such a brute, but I had made a promise and I meant to keep it.

  Edwards watched me walk up and eyed me keenly before going back to his beer. “Are you a copper?” he asked. His voice sounded like a giant beast that had not eaten in some time. “I know all the coppers in the ‘Chapel but never seen you before.”

  “Me?” I answered. “No, no, I’m not. I . . . um . . . Wendell sent me.”

  He looked me in the face. “Wendell, eh? Why didn’t he come himself then?”

  “He . . . ah . . . he couldn’t get away. Business. He said to give you this.”

  I held out the slip of paper Wendell had given, and Edwards grabbed it. As he unfolded it, I could see that there was some money inside along with a note. Edwards studied it. He looked at me and thought for a moment.

  “Sit down,” he finally said.

  I eased into the booth, more than a little nervous. This man looked as if he could reach across the table and tear me in two.

  “Listen,” he said slowly, “what Wendell is asking isn’t easy. I will have to make some enquiries. He should be prepared to pay for this information. Is he?”

  Truly, I had no idea, but I reasoned that Wendell would pay any amount of money to reclaim the prince’s diaries.

  “He is,” I answered.

  I slowly became aware of two women in the corner of the room shrieking at each other. At first it didn’t attract much attention, but their voices continued to get louder and louder.

  Edwards didn’t seem to notice anything. Pub arguments were probably part of his normal business environment. “I had heard,” Edwards began, “of this robbery. I think I know who did it. But what he did with the loot is another matter.”

  I looked over at the women. One was a short, stout woman who looked to be in her forties with dark, wavy hair. The other woman was taller and, though she didn’t have the weight of the first one, she had an air of viciousness about her that made her more dangerous. She was younger with light brown hair and fairly thin.

  “I’m tellin’ you now, Eliza, you stay away from ‘the Pensioner’ or I’ll do you right!” the older woman cried. They were standing up and facing off now.

  Edwards noticed me looking and followed my gaze. He smiled. “Time for the morning show, is it?” he said and turned to watch.

  “Don’t you be telling me what to do, Annie! I can’t help it if he prefers youth over an old cow!” the second woman yelled back.

  “Least I don’t stink of disease! I can smell your filth from here!”

  “You lousy bitch!” The younger woman lunged at the older one, and they fell over one of the tables onto the floor. Despite her bulk, the older woman, Annie, could not land a blow. Eliza, the younger, made several strong strikes against Annie’s midsection before someone pulled her off. The audience made a disappointed sound and went back to its business. I saw Annie stumble out the door as Eliza yelled after her. “That’s right, you cunt! Come back again and I’ll serve you some more!” Eliza’s friends laughed, and she went back to her drink. Slowly the pub went back to normal.

  “They’s always fighting around here. Not much else to do but drink and fight. Now just who the hell are you?”

  I was taken aback by the bluntness of the question.

  “Um . . . my name’s Albert, Albert Besame. I work for Wendell.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, let me tell you something, Albert. You don’t belong here.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Look at you! Clean shirt, nice jacket, all your teeth. You stick out here like a priest in a whorehouse. Sitting there and drinking coffee? Do you see anyone else here drinking coffee? People here don’t have time to sit about sipping their drinks. In the ‘Chapel, you drink to get drunk, and the faster the better. You’re a crime waiting to happen. Someone will get to you sooner or later.”

  I gulped. Perhaps I did not blend in as well as I had thought.

  “Regardless,” I finally said, “Wendell asked me to wait for a response.”

  Edwards snorted.

  “Come back this afternoon. I’ll have an answer for you then. Now go away. My reputation suffers every minute I’m seen with you.”

  I got up and left. Truthfully, I was happy to get out of there. In the street, I saw Annie limping along, holding her side. Part of me wanted to go over to her and comfort her, while another part warned me that my help might not be welcomed.

  Time was getting late and I set off for the inquest. I felt I would never truly get to know the East End. In his way, Edwards was correct in that, no matter how poor I had been, I had never fallen as far as these people. I would never understand the sacrifices they made every day just to survive. No matter how hard I tried, I would always be an outsider in the East End and I would never be able to gain their trust completely. That would cost me dearly in the months ahead.

  Chapter 13

  I like the spirit of this great London which I feel around me. Who but a coward would pass his whole life in hamlets; and forever abandon his faculties to the eating rust of obscurity?

  —Charlotte Brontë

  It took longer to get to the inquest than I had anticipated. Still being new to the East End, I was not prepared for the number of short roads, courts, narrow streets, and alleys that make up the area. I knew that the inquest was being held at the Working Lads’ Institute on Whitechapel Road, but it took me a little while to find the place. By the time I got there, the inquest had already begun.

  The Working Lads’ Institute was a mission whose purpose was to provide food and comfort to young people of the East End. In this instance, it was serving as the location for the inquest into the murder of Polly Nichols. It felt strange to be listening to talk of murder in a building that had been made to help the poor and destitute.

  The inquest took place in a large room with a jury to one side, someone I assumed to be the coroner standing towards the other side of the room, and a witness between them. The coroner was dressed very flamboyantly.

  I was surprised to see so many people here. The room was fairly full with spectators and reporters. This was apparently more important than I had thought. I found Arthur sitting on the far side near the jury and made my way over to him. The coroner was questioning an older man, and I wondered what he could have to add to the case.

  “Albert!” Arthur whispered. “At last! I thought you’d never make it. What happened to you?”

  I took the seat next to him. “I had to run an errand for Wendell. Did you get my message?”

  “Yes, Amy told me, but we’ll have to talk later. This is important.”

  “Who is that up there? And why is that man dressed so flashily?”

  Arthur chuckled. “That is the coroner, Mr. Wynne E. Baxter. He is a bit ‘bright,’ isn’t he? But make no mistake, Albert, he may look the fool but he has a keen mind.”

&nb
sp; “And the other man?”

  “That is the father of the unfortunate victim. He positively identified her earlier today and is giving evidence about her life.”

  I leaned forward to listen. Mr. Baxter had a fine, clear voice and was obviously a man who was used to speaking in public and enjoyed it. The witness, on the other hand, was a smaller man whose voice was sometimes difficult to hear. His clothing was plain, and I would say that he was a man who was not used to being noticed.

  The coroner turned to the man. “What did she do after she left you?” he asked.

  The man shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  The coroner held up a letter to which they must have referred earlier. “This letter seems to suggest that she was in a decent situation.”

  “She had only just gone there,” the man responded. It sounded as if Polly had been somewhere nice at one time but that her father did not think she would last—and, in fact, she did not.

  “Was she a sober woman?”

  The man looked sad as he considered this. “Well, at times she drank, and that was why we did not agree.”

  “Was she fast?” At first I did not understand what the coroner meant by that, but I eventually gleaned the answer.

  The man looked even sadder. “No; I never heard of anything of that sort. She used to go with some young women and men that she knew, but I never heard of anything improper.”

  Despite what he said, I had the feeling that the father did know but perhaps didn’t want to face the truth.

  “Have you any idea what she has been doing lately?”

  “I have not the slightest idea.” Or he did not want to know.

  “She must have drunk heavily for you to turn her out of doors?”

  The man looked indignant. “I never turned her out. She had no need to be like this while I had a home for her.”

  The coroner thought for a moment and then decided to take another tact. “How is it that she and her husband were not living together?”

  The man sighed. “When she was confined her husband took on with the young woman who came to nurse her, and they parted, he living with the nurse, by whom he has another family.” I had no idea that she had been married or had children. Foolishly, I thought that she had no one and that was what had brought her to her fate. Now, perhaps, I saw that there were other causes.