Whitechapel

by Sam Gafford

  “Albert!” Arthur exclaimed. “Is it time already?”

  “Time? Time for what?”

  “For the inquest. It is the third of September, yes?”

  I nodded, not knowing what in the hell he was talking about.

  “Good, good. Come in. I’ll dress quickly and we’ll be on our way. Rose! Bring my clothes!”

  Arthur fairly pulled me into the library, and I was astonished at what I saw. It was in a state of disarray that mirrored its owner. Papers were thrown here and there. Books lay open on any and every surface. There were newspapers strewn about the floor, and I noticed that they were the penny sheets with the most dreadful headlines. Clearly, nothing was going to go as expected today.

  “Arthur,” I began, “what are you talking about? What inquest?”

  “The Nichols inquest! It reconvenes today! Perhaps now someone will actually answer some questions and shed some light on the case.”

  I looked to my left, and there was an easy chair covered with open books. Glancing at them, I noticed that they were all concerned with folklore. Flipping a page or two, I realised that they all had to do with legends about fairies and trolls and other ‘little folk.’ What on earth was Arthur doing staying up all night reading these?

  “It was good of you to swing by and collect me. I’ve been reading and studying all night.” Arthur laughed the laugh of those who have not slept or known peace for some time. He slapped my arms jovially and then brought his hand up as if something had just occurred to him. “I think . . . I think I’ve forgotten to have breakfast.” Arthur leapt to the door again. “Rose! Bring some food!”

  “Arthur, what have you been doing?”

  “Research, Albert, research. Diving into my old books about legends and such. I have become aware, to my horror, that I’d forgotten far too much of what I used to know. That could be dangerous, Albert, very dangerous. I’ve also been looking for one of my old journals as well as a very interesting diary that came into my possession some years ago. I know that they are here but, as often happens with unhappy memories, they are filed away somewhere until I remember where. But I will. Ah, here’s Rose.”

  The maid came into the room looking very frightened. She was carrying a bundle of clothes in one hand and balancing a plate of cold meat with another. She gave me an exasperated glance as she left the room.

  Arthur quickly began devouring the meat as he scrambled into his clothes.

  “Have you been up all night?” I asked.

  Looking at me, Arthur grinned impishly. “No less than you, I think!”

  “Arthur, are you sure you’re quite all right?” I had become very worried. The man on whom I had banked my entire future looked and acted as if he had just escaped from Bedlam.

  “Perfectly. Do you know how wonderful a thing it is, Albert, to discover your major purpose in life? To know why you are here on this earth?”

  “Have you had some kind of religious epiphany?”

  He laughed, but it was not the kind-hearted laughter that I was used to hearing from Arthur. This was fractured and manic in tone. Where had my friend gone?

  “Religion is not one of my vices, Albert. But I guess you could say that, this morning, I feel very much like King Arthur setting off on the quest for the Holy Grail. At the very least, I am eager to lay hands upon my Mordred and not in a loving embrace, let me tell you.”

  “Once again, Arthur, I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “It would sadden me greatly if you did, Albert. But come! We have to be on our way.”

  In a blur, Arthur burst past me and through the door. I had to struggle to keep up and nearly missed Amy standing by the door with a frantic look on her face.

  “Albert, what on earth is the matter with him? He wouldn’t come to bed last night. He shut himself up in his library and we could hear him all night throwing books around and shouting like a madman. He wouldn’t even come out for breakfast.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know what’s going on, Amy. I’ll stay with him and try to calm him down a bit. You might want to talk to his doctor and see if he can prescribe something to make him sleep. He’s working himself up into a horrible state.”

  Meanwhile, Arthur was frantically waving his arms trying to catch a cab. Finally one eased up alongside him, and he was bellowing for me to come along. I ran down the stairs and fairly leaped into the coach.

  The cushions were lush and comfortable, and I could have easily sunk into them for a nap if I hadn’t been so worried.

  “Arthur, what happened to you after I left the party?”

  He was looking out the window, watching the people as we passed by. “I have a theory, Albert, hear me out. I thoroughly believe that London is one of the ‘centres’ of the world through which many things flow. Not just people but history, nature, life, and, oh yes, death as well. London is like a river and, like a river, there are ebbs and flows. She has areas where the pace is slow, almost tranquil, and there are other parts of London where it is like a raging river with rapids and sharp turns and angry rocks. In a way, I believe that a man could station himself at one of these points and, if he waited long enough, everyone he had ever known would eventually walk by him.”

  “I think I’ve heard something like that before.”

  He looked insulted. “Not in the way I mean.”

  I examined my friend more closely. He looked older, more worn, and beyond what one would expect from a single sleepless night. His very hair looked thinner and lighter, as if it was hanging onto this existence by the slightest of threads . . . or the strongest of wills.

  “Did something happen after I left last night?”

  “Hmm? Oh, no, not in the way you mean. No ghosts lingered after the séance and none of the tables lifted into the air. After everyone left, Amy and Rose went to clean up and I went into my library. I admit that I was shaken by what Lees had said to us. It was not expected.”

  “That thing about the ‘ceremonies’?”

  His face darkened.

  “Yes, that ‘thing.’ I confess, Albert, that it has been some time since I was personally acquainted with such an event. I believe I spoke to you previously, in the vaguest terms, about some of the instances of my youth. That passage, I am positive, was meant for me specifically. I don’t have to add that it has some very dark implications.”

  “Can I help?”

  Leaning against the side of the cab, with his head in the half-light from the window, I saw my friend smile. That is the way I remember Arthur Machen, the man who would become the darling of the decadent literature set in the 1890s and would then fall into appalling poverty near the end of his life. I remember that smile playing across a face that lay suspended halfway between the dark and the light. I remember how, despite his torment, he still strove to spare me from it.

  “My dear friend, you have helped more than you will ever know. Your loyalty and faithfulness has been an anchor to me as these oceans have overwhelmed everything else. I hesitate to bring you any further into danger. And if, as I truly suspect, things are happening as they are, there is more danger than you could ever imagine. ‘Heaven and earth, Horatio, heaven and earth.’”

  “If I may be so bold, Arthur, you underestimate me. I am no longer a country fool who has spent his life sheltered and coddled.”

  “Indeed?” His face heartened. “There is a dangerous side to Albert Besame? I find this to be very interesting. I must hear more.”

  “And you will, Arthur, but it is not an easy or short story. It is, however, one that I must tell you as soon as possible. Perhaps after this inquest?”

  “Ah, if you must make me wait.” He fell back into the seat cushions. “Just like a writer, you are trying to build suspense!”

  “Not intentionally, I assure you.”

  “The problem,” Arthur said lightly, “is the fact that eventually one must deliver on the suspense. Every story must have a dénouement, whether we like it or not.”

  The co
ach pulled up to the Working Lads’ Institute on Whitechapel Road, and I was surprised to see that there was a fairly sizeable crowd already there. We edged our way inside and were able to grab two of the remaining chairs before the inquest began.

  From a side door, the coroner’s clerk came in and addressed the assembly.

  “This is Monday, September 3, 1888. Mr. Wynne E. Baxter, the coroner for South-East Middlesex, is presiding. This is an enquiry into the circumstances attending the death of the woman Mary Ann Nichols, who was discovered lying dead on the pavement in Buck’s Row, Baker’s Row, Whitechapel, early on Friday morning last.”

  The coroner came in, and he was dressed as garishly as he had been the previous day. His coat was a loud colour of brownish red and his pants were striped. Looking quickly around the room, I saw that Inspector Abberline was also there with a few other men I didn’t recognise. One of them looked very officious and filled with a sense of his own importance.

  The first witness was Inspector John Spratling, who deposed that he had first heard of the murder about half-past four on Friday morning while he was in Hackney Road. He was met at Buck’s Row by P.C. Thain, who showed him the spot where the body had been found and which had already been taken to the mortuary.

  “I proceeded to the mortuary in Old Montague Street, where I saw the body and wrote my description.” The only thing he was able to add was that Nichols’ skin appeared not to have been washed for some time prior to the murder. “Dr. Llewellyn examined the body for the next ten minutes. I did not see the body again until it was stripped.”

  “Who stripped the body?” asked Baxter.

  “It was done by two of the workhouse officials.”

  “Did they have the authority to strip the body?”

  “No, sir; I gave them no instructions to strip it. In fact, I told them to leave it as it was.”

  “I don’t object to their stripping the body, but we ought to have evidence about the clothes. What were the clothes anyway?”

  “There was a reddish-brown ulster, with seven large brass buttons, and a brown dress which looked new. There was also a woollen and a flannel petticoat, belonging to the workhouse. Inspector Helson had cut out pieces marked ‘P. R., Princes Road,’ with a view to identifying the body. There was also a pair of stays, in fairly good condition, but witness did not notice how they were adjusted.”

  The coroner looked annoyed. “I think it is important to know the exact state in which the stays were found.”

  Inspector Abberline spoke up. “If the coroner pleases, we could send for the clothes.”

  “Yes, I suppose that would be acceptable.”

  Abberline motioned a P.C. over and whispered some directions to him. The officer quickly ran out the side door.

  The foreman of the jury asked whether the stays were fastened on the body.

  Inspector Spratling replied, “I could not say for certain. There was blood on the upper part of the dress, and also on the ulster, but I only saw a little on the under-linen, and that might have happened after the removal of the body from Buck’s Row. The clothes were fastened when I first saw the body. The stays did not fit very tightly, for I was able to see the wounds without unfastening them.”

  “Please continue with your testimony, Inspector,” Baxter said.

  “About six o’clock that day, I made an examination at Buck’s Row and at Brady Street, which ran across Baker’s Row, but I failed to trace any marks of blood. I subsequently examined, in company with Sergeant Godley, the East London and District Railway lines and embankment, and also the Great Eastern Railway yard, without, however, finding any traces. A watchman of the Great Eastern Railway, whose box was fifty or sixty yards from the spot where the body was discovered, heard nothing particular on the night of the murder.

  “I then visited half a dozen persons living in the same neighbourhood, none of whom had noticed anything at all suspicious. One of these, Mrs. Purkiss, had not gone to bed at the time the body of deceased was found, and her husband was of opinion that if there had been any screaming in Buck’s Row they would have heard it. A Mrs. Green, whose window looked out upon the very spot where the body was discovered, said nothing had attracted her attention on the morning of Friday last.”

  “Which constable was responsible for that area where the body was found?” a member of the jury asked.

  “Constable Neil. He is the only one whose duty it is to pass through Buck’s Row. But there is another constable who passes along Broad Street from time to time who might have been within hearing distance.”

  “Did the victim have her clothes on when she was murdered?”

  Spratling seemed amused at the question. “Yes,” he said, “she did.”

  “Thank you, Inspector, you may step down.”

  The next witness was Henry Tomkins who gave his occupation as a horse-slaughterer. I didn’t know there were such people.

  “I was working in the slaughterhouse in Winthrop Street from between eight and nine o’clock on Thursday evening until about twenty minutes past four on Friday morning. Normally, me and my mates go home after finishing work, but that morning we went to see the dead woman.”

  “How did you know about the murder?” Baxter asked.

  “P.C. Thain stopped at the slaughterhouse at about a quarter past four and told us. He was quite excited about it.”

  “Who went with you?”

  “One of my mates, Charles Britten. He works with me at the slaughterhouse. It’s not that far from our work to Buck’s Row.”

  “Is your work noisy?” asked the coroner.

  “No, sir, very quiet.”

  “Was it quiet on Friday morning, say after two o’clock?”

  “Yes, sir, quite quiet. The gates were open and we heard no cry.”

  “Did anybody come to the slaughterhouse that night?”

  “Nobody passed except the policeman.”

  “Are there any women about there?” Baxter asked.

  “Oh! I know nothing about them. I don’t like ’em.”

  The crowd laughed, but Baxter was not amused.

  “I did not ask you whether you like them; I ask you whether there were any about that night.”

  Tomkins blushed. “I did not see any.”

  “Not even in Whitechapel Road?” Baxter sighed. I could tell that he was a man who did not suffer fools, or halfwits, gladly.

  “Oh, yes, there are, of all sorts and sizes. It’s a rough neighbourhood, I can tell you.”

  “Is the slaughterhouse close enough to the scene of the murder that you could have heard any screams or calls for help?”

  “No, no sir. It’s not that close.”

  “What did you see when you got to Buck’s Row?”

  “There were two or three policemen there. Oh, and the doctor as well.”

  “Is that all?”

  “I think there were two other men there, but I didn’t know them.”

  Baxter made a note. “And then what did you do?”

  “We waited until they took the body away. About another dozen men also showed up to watch. No one seemed to know what had happened to the woman. I mean, we all knew she was dead and all, but not how she died.”

  “Have you read any statement in the newspapers that there were two people, besides the police and the doctor, in Buck’s Row, when you arrived?” asked Baxter.

  “I cannot say, sir.”

  “Then you did not see a soul from one o’clock on Friday morning till a quarter-past four, when the policeman passed your slaughterhouse?”

  “No, sir.”

  A juror spoke up. “Did you hear any vehicle pass the slaughterhouse?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Would you have heard it if there had been one?” another juror asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where did you go between twenty minutes past twelve and one o’clock?” a third juror asked.

  “I and my mate went to the front of the road.” This seemed to elicit some commotion.
I realised that there was some question whether this man may have done the murder himself and then snuck back to work.

  “Is not your usual hour for leaving off work six o’clock in the morning, and not four?” asked the same juror, who seemed to think he was onto something.

  “No; it is according to what we have to do. Sometimes it is one time and sometimes another.”

  “What made the constable come and tell you about the murder?”

  “He called for his cape.”

  Unable to coerce a witness-stand confession, the juror relented and the tradesman was allowed to stand down. Next up was an inspector I had never seen before. He had been sitting next to Abberline on the bench and took the stand eagerly. I got the distinct feeling that he enjoyed the attention.

  “Inspector Helson, when did you first learn of the murder?” Baxter asked. The coroner looked as if he were getting bored with this whole business and wanted to get it over as quickly as possible.

  “I received information about the murder at a quarter before seven on Friday morning.”

  “And then?”

  “I went directly to the mortuary and saw the body with the clothes still on.”

  “What do you recall about the clothes?”

  “The dress was fastened in front with the exception of a few buttons. I saw that the stays, which were attached with clasps, were also fastened. I saw that there was blood on her hair and on the collars of the dress and ulsters but not on the back of the skirts.”

  “Were there any cuts on the clothes?”

  “No, sir. I saw no indications of any kind of struggle having taken place. It looked as if she had been completely overpowered.”

  “Did you do anything else relating to this case?”

  Helson looked put off. “I examined the neighbourhood of Buck’s Row which lies in Broad Street. After a detailed examination, I found only one suspicious mark, which was a stain that might have been blood. It is my belief that the body had not been carried to Buck’s Row. I think she was killed on the spot.”

  Baxter didn’t look as if he cared one whit what Helson thought and dismissed him rather abruptly. The next in the parade of policemen was P.C. Mizen.