by Sam Gafford
My mind flashed back to the scenes in the morgue and at the inquest.
“Do you suspect someone with medical knowledge then? A doctor perhaps?”
Godly and Abberline looked at each other, and then the inspector turned to me with a very stern look on his face. “Now listen to me, Albert, you did not hear that in any official capacity, do you understand? I am not saying that we are looking for a mad doctor.”
“But are you?”
Finally Godley spoke up. “What we are looking for is a murderer, whoever he may be.”
“Exactly so,” Abberline agreed.
After a moment of silence, Abberline continued. “There has been talk,” he said, “that has reached us from certain quarters that a man known as ‘Leather Apron’ may have been involved. Apparently, some man is known around Whitechapel as annoying some of the ‘unfortunates’ and he wears a leather apron. They think he may be a butcher of some sort and is known to have a temper. I have some enquiries being made, but I do not honestly expect much to come of it.”
“We don’t have much time to find him, though,” Godley said, and this brought an immediate look of reproach from Abberline.
“Why not?” I asked.
Abberline sighed and looked like a man who had much to complain about.
“Because,” he finally said, “there is a lot of pressure on us all to find this man. Our superiors want this case wrapped up quickly and an arrest they can promote in the papers. And there are those in the East End who feel that we are not doing enough to find him. Some are already claiming that, had Polly been one of the upper class, her killer would already be clasped in irons.”
I was shocked. “Surely they can’t believe that?”
Abberline looked at me, and then both he and Godley started laughing. “You haven’t been in London long, have you, Mr. Besame?” Godley said between laughs.
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
Abberline gave me an understanding and pitiful pat on the shoulder. “What the Sergeant means is that there are people who believe that the police exist only to keep the poor from the rich and that there are people who want to profit from that belief.”
“Profit in what way?”
Abberline’s face grew serious and he leaned closer to me, “Anarchy, Albert. There are forces conspiring against England and the monarchy even as we speak. They would like nothing better than to bring a French Revolution here to English shores. And they use instances like Polly Nichols’ death to stir up the crowd. Make no mistake, Albert. There are those among us who spend their lives thinking of ways to spend terror and death.”
I could barely comprehend such a thing.
“And these are Englishmen?”
Godley shook his head. “Sadly, yes. Many of them are.”
“And many,” Abberline continued, “are in Whitechapel.”
“Do you,” I hesitated to ask, “think that they could have had Polly killed simply to stir up this kind of ‘class hatred’?”
They both smiled. “That,” Godley said, “Mr. Besame, is the very thing many of our superiors, who aren’t even in the police force, are afraid of.”
“That’s about enough now, George. We’ve been too free with our speech already.”
“But did the doctor ever give you his report?”
Shocked, Abberline turned to me. “How did you know about that? Oh, yes, you were with me and Machen, weren’t you? Sorry. Too many details to keep in my head sometimes.
“Anyway, yes, Llewellyn finally came through with his report, but I seriously doubt if he wrote it himself. I’ve half a mind to have another doctor examine the body, except that would create certain other ‘problems’ that I’m not sure if I should provoke just yet.”
“Did Polly’s killer take anything from her body?”
Smirking, Abberline said, “You’ve got quite a mind for details, don’t you, Albert? Shame you didn’t join the force. I know many patrolmen who don’t remember half as much as you have.
“But, no, according to Llewellyn’s report, nothing was taken from the body. Still, reading between the carefully constructed lines he had dictated to him, I got the feeling that it was not from lack of trying.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, quite plainly, that I believe someone with surgical skill butchered that woman for the express purpose of finding something inside of her. Failing, I fully expect him to try again. But I see that we are at our destination. Would you like the Sergeant and me to come with you and attest your situation to your employers?”
I thought about that and, much as I would have liked to have the inspector with me, I did not wish to show to Wendell that I had betrayed his trust. Also, it had come time for me to stand on my own feet and face Ronson myself, whatever the outcome might be.
“No,” I answered. “I think it’s better if I do this myself.”
Abberline nodded. “I understand. Here is my card if you need to get in touch with me. As for the matter of the Gaffer, he will be bound over for trial and I will likely need you to give testimony against him. Will that be a problem?”
I didn’t like the thought of going against that monster in court, but what could I say? I was honour-bound to stand up for Abberline in the way he had stood up for me.
“No, no problem. Just let me know when you’ll need me. Where is the Gaffer now?”
Godley happily said, “Still locked up at our station. We’ll ship him off to Ludgate soon enough, and I imagine he’ll make quite the impression for himself. I believe that’s one of the few prisons in England the Gaffer hasn’t been in already!”
Abberline thrust his hand out in friendship. “Good luck, Albert. Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be in touch with you soon. Give my best to Arthur!”
I shook his hand and Godley’s and stepped out of the coach onto the street in front of The Brothers’ shop. The light was on and the ‘open’ sign in the window. I was late for work.
Chapter 22
Sir, London is a strange place, and you must look with a keen eye, and stay in it a great while, before you will be a master of half its expedients.
—Squire Randal
Not knowing what to expect, I opened the door of the shop and went inside.
To my surprise, I was met by a hurricane named Wendell.
“Albert! Thank God! I’ve been so worried about you! Where the devil have you been? No word from you and then you don’t show up on time for work! I’ve been beside myself! And look at you! You look dead on your feet!”
I stumbled forward as Wendell came bounding out of the back of the shop.
“Wendell, it is good to see you. Is that coffee I smell coming from your office? Do you think I might have a cup?”
“Of course, of course, my dear boy. Come, come into the office and tell me what you’ve been doing. By the looks of things, you’ve been quite busy indeed!”
We walked back to the small office, and I noticed that Robert was nowhere to be seen. I began to fear where he might be and whom he might show up with at the shop.
Wendell poured me a strong cup of black coffee which I drank down quickly. I don’t think I’d ever tasted such a wonderful thing in my life. I could feel its warmth spread through me and the life return to my bones.
“Is Mr. Carslake not here?” I asked.
“Robert? No, he got an urgent message about fifteen minutes ago and bolted out the door. I believe he is going to meet his ‘enquiry agent.’”
The sneer with which Wendell said that gave me some hope.
“In that case,” I began, “I need to speak fast, because I have no doubt he will be returning with Ronson before we know it.”
As quickly as possible, I filled Wendell in on my adventures. I told him everything from my meetings with Edwards to the hunt for Cohen and then, finally, the tragic end at Ah Sing’s opium den. When I finished, he sat there, breathless.
“So the man Cohen is dead?”
“Yes,” I replied
. “Quite so.”
“Which means we have no hope of ever recovering the diary?”
“No, I believe there is still a chance. Cohen told me that he had given it to someone named ‘Tosher’ or ‘Tisher’ whom he trusted. ‘Safe as in the Bank of England,’ he had told me. You wouldn’t say that of someone you didn’t trust completely. We also know that he probably didn’t have time to stash it outside of the city, so it is still in London.”
Wendell thought for a moment. “Unless he posted it to someone.”
“No. Cohen didn’t know what the diary was, but he knew it was important, so he wouldn’t have trusted it to the mail. Whoever he gave the book to, he delivered it in person.”
“How do you intend to find him?”
I hadn’t actually thought of that.
Trying to sound more confident than I felt, I finally said, “I’ll have to go back to Edwards. See if he recognises anyone by that name or if I can reconstruct Cohen’s last few days. The book is still here in London and I will find it.”
“I have every faith in you, Albert.”
That was good, I thought, as the shop door opened, because that’s about to be tested.
Robert had walked into the office with Ronson behind him. Gone, however, was the Ronson I had seen back at the police station. He had taken the time to clean himself up and change his clothes. He was smartly dressed in a three-piece suit with a fancy watch fob dangling in the vest pocket. His hair, I noticed, had been treated and combed so that every strand was in place. His face, however, still bore the marks of his battle with the Gaffer.
“Wendell,” Robert said, his face and voice solemn as the grave, “we need to talk.”
To his credit, Wendell stood up strongly and, even though his voice wavered, he said, “We can speak freely before Albert. After all, he is our trusted employee, is he not?”
“I’m not so sure about that, Wendell. Mr. Ronson has told me some very disturbing things regarding Albert that make me question his motives and loyalties.”
I hastened to respond. “My loyalties have always been to the both of you, sir.”
“Would that that were true, Albert,” Robert continued. “But Ronson has brought evidence to me that I cannot overlook.”
“What evidence is that?” I asked.
Ronson stepped forward. He was as prideful and arrogant as the first time I had met him.
“Why is it,” Ronson began, “that every time I tried to follow a lead or clue about the theft, I found you there? If you were so innocent, Mr. Besame, why did I find you consorting with common thieves in a pub in Whitechapel and then meeting with the very man who stole the book from this very shop in an opium den?”
“I would like to know the answers to that as well, Albert,” Robert said. His face showed such a sadness at having trusted me that I felt I would weep.
“I—I cannot say,” I responded.
“Of course he can’t,” Ronson jeered. “Because he is the very mastermind behind this plot. He was placed in this shop for the single purpose of accomplishing this theft. If you wish to know the man who has robbed you, then look no further, for he is here!”
Ronson’s flair for the dramatic was in full bloom.
“I tell you now, Mr. Carslake, that if you would give me a few moments alone with Besame, I will have your book back to you within an hour.”
That, I was sure, would not be a pleasant hour for me.
“All right, Robert,” Wendell said in a voice so strong that I had trouble believing it was coming from him. “That’s quite enough.”
“Wendell,” Robert replied, in an effort to dismiss him as easily as he normally would, “please. This doesn’t concern you.”
“Yes, it does. The only reason that Albert was in any of those places was because I had asked him to be.”
This time, both Robert and Ronson were shocked. I will remember the looks on their faces as long as I live. Never had they thought that anything like this would happen.
“Wendell, what the deuce are you talking about?”
“Albert was working on my authority. I had asked him to make enquiries for me and see if he could recover the book. To his credit, he has never hesitated in doing what I asked despite great risk to his life and health. This man is to be thanked, Robert, not threatened. He is as loyal an employee as we can ever hope to have.”
“Wendell, on what authority?” Robert began, but Wendell quickly cut him off.
“On my authority, Robert. You may like to forget it from time to time, but I am an equal partner in this business and my reputation is at stake as well.”
“But—but why? Why involve Albert, a mere employee, in this?”
Emboldened, I replied. “Because I could be counted on for fidelity and faithfulness—two traits that cannot always be bought easily. Besides, Mr. Carslake, is not Mr. Ronson also an employee of sorts?”
Robert looked stunned at my rudeness, but he had to admit that I had a point. Both Ronson and myself were employees. We were simply different sort of employees.
“This is ridiculous!” Ronson butted in. “I tell you that this is the man responsible for your theft. Will you do nothing about it?”
Although dwarfed by the taller man, Wendell stood right up to Ronson and said, “I say to you that Albert Besame had nothing to do with this theft other than working as my agent to recover our property. The fact that you cannot see that casts serious doubts about your ability as an ‘enquiry agent.’”
I could never have been prouder of my employer.
“I cannot believe this!” Ronson sputtered. “Mr. Carslake, surely you see reason?”
Robert considered for a moment. There were far weightier matters on his mind than merely deciding who was telling the truth.
“Mr. Robson is my friend and partner. If he swears to me that Albert is innocent of any charges in this matter, then I believe him.”
Wendell quickly responded. “I do so swear.”
“Then that settles the matter. Mr. Ronson, do you have any further suspects in the case?”
Ronson was speechless. It was a picture that almost made all the pains of the last few days worthwhile.
“I—I—shall have to study my notes on the case again.”
Wendell snorted. “Thankfully, Albert doesn’t need to ‘study’ anything. He already has a clue and will be following it up today.”
Reeling from the change in the world around him, Robert managed to regain his footing. “He does? Well, this is splendid news. Simply give Mr. Ronson the information and he will track it down.”
Before I could object, Wendell spoke up again. “No.”
“What?” Robert and Ronson both said simultaneously.
“What are you talking about?” Robert sputtered.
Wendell stood by my side. “I mean that my trust remains in Albert. I believe that if any man can recover the book, it is he.”
“I simply do not understand you sometimes, Wendell. Very well, Albert can work with Mr. Ronson. He will defer to Mr. Ronson, of course, as the more experienced man.”
Ronson was about to speak when it was my turn to surprise everyone. “No.” I said.
This time, Wendell was smiling.
“What do you mean, Albert?” Robert asked, impatiently. Things were not at all going the way he had expected.
“I mean that I will not work with this man. He has threatened violence to me on more than one occasion. He does not trust me, nor I him. Were I to work with this man, I have no doubt that I would end up dead in some East End alley.”
Reeling from yet another stunner, Robert rallied. “Oh, come now, Albert. It’s not as bad as all that.”
“It is, Mr. Carslake. This man was discharged from the police for extreme violence against suspects. He is known and disliked by both the police and the criminal class. Working with him is tantamount to digging my own grave. Neither will I give him the information I have. In truth, I have no faith that the man could find the book or, even if he did, t
hat he would return it to you without an exorbitant fee.”
“Why, you slanderous bastard!” Ronson made an effort to grab me again, but my employers kept him at bay.
Breathlessly, Robert pushed Ronson away. “I think I begin to see what you mean, Albert.”
“You can’t be serious! You believe this meddlesome snot?”
“I believe in what I see, Mr. Ronson. I’m sorry, but your services are no longer required.”
Fuming, Ronson gripped his gloves so furiously that the blood drained from his hand.
“Very well. You will receive a bill for my services, Mr. Carslake. I trust you will settle it promptly. And as for you”—he pointed accusingly at me—“I’m not done with you yet, Cornwall. Not by a long shot.” With that he stormed out of the office and the store.
To his credit, Robert looked genuinely sorry when he turned to me and said, “My deepest apologies, Albert. I had no idea that you were working on Wendell’s . . . on our behalf. When I got the message from Ronson to meet him immediately, I thought he had recovered the book. Instead, he launched into a lengthy diatribe against you, accusing you of the most horrible things. Not the least being that you were an opium addict who had arranged to have the book stolen to pay for your habit. I should never have believed such slander and would not have were our situation not so dire. Do you really think you can recover the book?”
Feeling overwhelmingly tired, I nevertheless stayed on my feet. “I do, sir, but you were right about one thing.”
Robert grinned. “Well, glad to see that I haven’t mucked the whole thing up. What was I right about?”
“I do need help. I need someone who can guide me through Whitechapel and whom the locals know and trust. But that means that I will have to tell him everything and hide nothing.”
“I see,” Robert said and slid into his office chair. I could see that he was already calculating the risk in bringing yet another person into this affair.