Whitechapel

by Sam Gafford

  “State your actions, P.C. Mizen, if you please,” asked Baxter.

  “Yes, sir.” He cleared his throat. “At a quarter to four on Friday morning, I was at the crossing of Hanbury Street with Baker’s Row when a carman passed by. He was with another man, and they told me that I was wanted by a policeman in Buck’s Row, where a dead woman was lying. When I got there, P.C. Neil sent me to get the ambulance. He was the only one with the body.”

  Baxter perked up. “The only one?”

  “Yes, sir, no one else was in the street at that time.”

  The next witness would turn out to be one of the people who found Nichols’ body.

  “State your name and occupation.”

  “My name is Charles Andrew Cross. I’m a carman at Messrs. Pickford and Company. I’ve been with them for over twenty years now.”

  “Thank you. Please state for the record your involvement in this case,” Baxter said mechanically.

  “I left home at about half past three on Friday morning to go to work. I regularly walk through Buck’s Row on my way, and this time I saw something on the opposite side of the road, lying against the gateway. I couldn’t see what it was and thought it might just be some tarpaulin sheet that someone had thrown into the street. I walked into the middle of the street and I could see that it was the body of a woman.”

  “Did you know she was dead?”

  “No, sir, not yet. I was in the middle of the road when I heard the footsteps of someone coming up the street, in the same direction I had just come. When he got closer to me, I told him, ‘Come and look over here; there is a woman lying on the pavement.’”

  “And then what happened?”

  “We went and looked at the body and I touched her hand. It was cold and limp. I said that I thought she was dead. I touched her face, and it was still warm. The other fellow placed his hand on her heart and said, ‘I think she is breathing, but very little if she is.’ I suggested that we should prop her up, but he didn’t want to touch her.

  “You say you touched her face?” The witness nodded. “Didn’t you notice that her throat had been cut?”

  “No, sir. It was very dark.”

  Baxter didn’t look as if he believed that answer.

  “What did you do then?”

  “We continued on our way, looking for a policeman.”

  “Which P.C. did you find?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That he was wanted in Buck’s Row because there was a woman lying in the street. I told him that she looked to be either dead or drunk, but that I believed, for my part, that she was dead. The policeman said, ‘All right,’ and walked on. The other man I was with left soon after and I went on my way.”

  “Had you ever seen that man previous to this?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did you see P.C. Neil in Buck’s Row?”

  “No, sir. I thought that maybe the woman had been ‘outraged’ and gone off in a swoon. I swear I had no idea she was injured so seriously.”

  “Did the other man tell you who he was?”

  “No, sir; he merely said that he would have fetched a policeman, only he was behind time. I was behind time myself. Sorry to say that people lying in the street is not that unusual in Buck’s Row.”

  “Did you tell Constable Mizen that another constable wanted him in Buck’s Row?” asked one of the jurors.

  “No, because I did not see a policeman in Buck’s Row.”

  Baxter rolled his eyes at this. “Did you tell P.C. Mizen there was a dead woman in Buck’s Row whether there was another constable there or not?”

  “Um, who is P.C. Mizen, sir?”

  The gallery chuckled. “The constable who testified before you!”

  “Oh, oh, yes, sir. It was him that we told.”

  I had begun to get rather bored. For an inquest, there was a remarkable lack of answers. So far, all that had been determined was that Nichols was found dead by two people who may or may not have met a P.C. in Buck’s Row and they went and told another P.C. who went to the body only to be told to go and fetch a cart. Oh, and Baxter was strangely interested in Nichols’ clothes—which, considering his own taste in wear, might not have been that strange after all.

  The widower of Polly Nichols took the stand next.

  “You were married to the deceased?” Baxter asked.

  “Yes, sir, but we’ve been living apart for the last eight years.”

  “When did you last see her alive?”

  “That would be about three years ago. I hadn’t heard from her since.”

  “And you kept no contact with her for those three years? You had no idea what she’d been doing in that time?”

  “None, sir. I didn’t care to hear from her.”

  A juror chimed in. “It is said that you were summoned by the Lambeth Union for her maintenance, and you pleaded that she was living with another man. Was he the blacksmith whom she had lived with?”

  “No, it was not the same; it was another man. I had her watched.” There were excited whispers at this.

  “Did you desert your wife?” the antagonistic juror asked.

  “I most certainly did not leave her. She left me of her own free will! She’d had no occasion for doing it either. I provided well for us. If she could have just stayed off the drink, we’d have gotten along fine. She was an evil woman when she’d been drinking.”

  I expected more revelations from the widower, but he was suddenly dismissed. Things seemed to be wrapping up, and I thought that Baxter was anxious to be done with the witnesses and about his lunch.

  Emily Holland, a married woman, living at 18 Thrawl Street, was the next witness. Her testimony was given in a quick fit of nervousness. In any case, she had very little of importance to say. Polly had stayed at her lodgings for about six weeks, but had not been there during the last ten days or so. About half past two on Friday morning Holland saw Polly walking down Osborne Street. She was alone, and very much the worse for drink. Polly told Holland that they would not allow her to return to where she had been living because she could not pay for her room. Holland tried to convince Polly to go home. She refused, adding that she had earned her lodging money three times that day. She then went along the Whitechapel Road. Holland did not know in what way she obtained a living. Polly always seemed to her to be a quiet woman and kept very much to herself.

  “What kind of woman was the deceased?” asked Baxter.

  “She was always kind and respectful to me. I never saw her quarrel with anyone. But she was always sad, like she was weighed down by some trouble. When I left her at the corner of Osborne Street, she said she’d soon be back. I never saw her again.”

  Another woman, Mary Ann Monk, deposed to having seen Polly entering a public house in New Kent Road about seven o’clock in the evening. She’d known Polly from being in the workhouse herself, but knew really nothing about Nichols or how she earned her living. She was an amazingly useless witness.

  I was fairly nodding in my chair when the coroner rapped his gavel and declared the inquest adjourned once again until 17 September. Two weeks from today!

  Arthur’s face was grave.

  “What on earth is going on?” I said. “Why are they adjourning the inquest yet again? And for a fortnight?”

  “I tell you what it means, Albert,” Arthur responded glumly. “It means that they have absolutely no idea who killed Polly Nichols or why. More to the point, they have another two weeks to come up with some kind of suspect, whether he’s guilty or not.”

  Chapter 24

  The English have no respect for their language, and will not teach their children to speak it. They spell it so abominably that no man can teach himself what it sounds like.

  —George Bernard Shaw

  The crowd slowly filed out of the room. I don’t think that any of them were satisfied with the results. If this was the way that crimes were handled, I was surprised that anyone was ever caught.r />
  “Is this what you thought it would be?” I asked Arthur.

  “To be honest, no. Most of these things are very cut and dried. The police usually have a suspect in custody already and evidence is just given about the facts of the case, and then the suspect is bound over for trial at the Old Bailey. Even when there’s nothing to report, I’ve never known an inquest to take this long to say nothing.”

  “Arthur, I think I need to speak to Inspector Abberline. I may have something important to tell him.”

  Confused, Arthur followed me over to Abberline. I thought that perhaps I should speak to Abberline alone, but I had decided not to have any secrets from Arthur any longer. He was my friend and I trusted him with my life, and soon I would trust him with all my secrets.

  “Inspector? Might I have a word?”

  “Ah, Albert. Didn’t expect to see you here. Did everything go well with your employers? Oh, and Arthur is here too.”

  Now highly confused, Arthur managed only a brief, “‘Morning, Freddie.”

  “Yes, things went very well, Inspector, thank you. I wanted to talk to you because of what you told me this morning about ‘leather apron.’”

  “This morning?” said Arthur. “Albert, what secret life have you been living?”

  “I do hope, Albert,” Abberline said, “that you realise that what was said in your presence was highly confidential.”

  “Of course, sir. But here’s the thing . . . I think I may know someone who might be this ‘leather apron.’”

  “Indeed? Whom do you mean, Albert?”

  “My landlady’s son is a butcher. He frequently wears a leather apron.”

  “I see,” Abberline smiled. “Albert, simply owning an apron and being a butcher is not enough proof to suspect a man.”

  “I know that, Inspector, and I wouldn’t say anything if it wasn’t that a doctor who is a close friend of my landlady told me, also in confidence, that this man had a peculiar affinity for blood and that I should watch any pets I might have while he’s around. And that I should particularly be careful of him around any lady friends I might have.”

  Now Abberline looked interested. “Did the doctor give you any further information?”

  “No, and I didn’t feel that I should pry. Inspector, I feel very badly about mentioning this. I mean, I would hate to accuse my landlady’s son if there are no grounds for it.”

  “You needn’t feel that way, Albert. It may turn out to be nothing, or it could be something very important. One never knows about these things. In any event, I will make sure that your name is kept out of this. What is the man’s name?”

  “William Hutchins.” I gave the inspector the details as far as I knew them, but I did not know where the man lived.

  “No need. We’ll run him to ground. Thank you for the information, Albert.” Abberline shook my hand and walked out the door while Arthur looked at me in amazement.

  “William Hutchins? You think that Williams Hutchins killed this woman?”

  “I don’t know what to think, Arthur. But you must admit that Hutchins is an unusual character.”

  “Oh, yes, very much so. He’s always been a tad ‘off,’ so to speak. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had been kicked by a horse as a child. Still, a murderer? I’m just not sure about that.”

  “Have you ever had any strange experiences with the man?”

  Arthur thought for a moment and a dark look came over him. “There was a time when I came upon him in his mother’s back yard abusing a dog. This dog was probably near death before he got his hands on it, but he seemed intent upon hastening its demise. I set him to rights quick enough. I know that Mrs. Hutchins has had some problems with the boy and that he has caused her no end of heartache.”

  “Have you ever seen him violent?”

  “Not towards any person, no. There were times, now I think of it, that I did see him looking at several women in ways that I would not consider healthy. However, in this particular case, Albert, I do not think he is involved at all.”

  “What makes you say that? I mean, if even the police don’t have a suspect?”

  “Because they are not looking in the right places—and I fear this murder is only the start.”

  “I should hope not. I don’t think London needs any more of such horrors. I see nothing to suggest that this is not an isolated event.”

  “Then,” Arthur concluded, “you are doing the same thing as the police and not looking in the right place, Albert. Unless something is done, and done soon, things will only get worse.”

  We left the inquest and I began to feel the pangs of hunger. We decided to adjourn to the nearest pub where we had a large lunch that, for the most part, Arthur barely ate. He was clearly troubled by something, and I was certain that it was the events of his party and not the inquest we had just attended. I decided that this was the appropriate time and began to tell Arthur everything. I started with Wendell’s asking me to try to get information from Edwards about the theft and then to recover the book itself. I told him about my first meeting with the Gaffer and my near escape. Finally, I described my adventure after leaving his house the night before including the trip to Ah Sing’s, Cohen’s death in my arms, the battle between the Gaffer and the police, my trip to the police station, Abberline’s interrogation and verbal sparring with Ronson, and finally my own confrontation with Ronson at The Brothers’.

  Arthur sat through my speech with his mouth open. When I finished, he took a large swig of his ale and stared at me. Suddenly, Arthur clapped his hands together and laughed long and hard.

  “Albert! I never thought you had it in you! Oh, the Queen is missing something by not having you as a secret agent.”

  For some reason, this greatly annoyed me. I had gone through this entire adventure at great risk to my life and limb for altogether altruistic reasons, and now I was being laughed at! Arthur saw my discomfort and made an effort to compose himself.

  “My pardon, Albert. I do not wish to offend. It’s just that this is such a far cry from the lonesome waif I found in the street merely a few weeks ago! I had actually expected you to want to speak to me about Ann and what you should do with her.”

  “Do with her? Why would I want to speak about doing something with her?”

  Arthur grew solemn. “Albert, my dear, dear friend. It was obvious to me that the party last night did not go the way you had hoped. I saw that there was some friction between you two, and I naturally assumed you wanted to know how to patch things up with her.”

  I sat there stunned. In the first place, I had no idea the whole thing had been so obvious to everyone else; and in the second place, I honestly hadn’t been thinking about it. “There are some ‘difficulties’ between us now, but I hope to be able to resolve that shortly. Preferably after we have resolved this business with The Brothers’ book!”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Let us think about this for a minute. Or rather, you may think with me as I finally eat my long-neglected lunch. You are certain that Cohen had the diary?”

  “Positive. He admitted to having it and was more than happy to sell it to me for passage out of the city.”

  “Good. We can reasonably conclude that the book is somewhere close. I believe you had already surmised that?”

  “I had thought something of the sort, yes.”

  “Excellent. We are thinking along the same lines then.” Arthur took a mouthful of beef and washed it down with ale. “It is also likely that he would have kept the book somewhere safe, so that he could get to it quickly when he needed to. Also, he specifically said that it was being held by someone?”

  “Yes, he said it was somewhere ‘as safe as the Bank of England’ and it was with the Toshers.”

  “That doesn’t sound right. Are you sure that’s the name he gave?”

  “I believe so. It was a rather tense situation at the time.”

  “Yes, yes, quite so. All right, here is what we do first. We must determine who this Cohen’s confidants were and
where they are. No doubt they have no idea of the item in their possession, and I’m sure they will be eager to sell it. Do you know anything about the man himself?”

  “I’m afraid not. He was a known thief, and it was Edwards who ran him to ground.”

  “Yes, Edwards. I think that we should stay clear of Mr. Edwards for the time being. I get the feeling he may not be too kindly disposed to you at the moment, and if Edwards should get a whiff of what is at the heart of this matter, he would seize it for himself—and then you, and The Brothers, would be lost.”

  “If we don’t go to Edwards, what shall we do?” I asked. It seemed a sensible question at the time, but I realised its naïveté the second I said it.

  “There are many other sources of information in Whitechapel, Albert; you merely have to know where to look. Lucky for you, you have an excellent guide in me!”

  Arthur continued to consume his lunch, gaining more gusto as he went. It did me good to see him so excited and more like himself. Perhaps the business of the previous night was wearing off.

  “What we shall do is check some of the easiest places first. See if anyone had seen Cohen before yesterday and especially if anyone knows if he had any family in the area. We will progress upwards from there to the higher levels, where information comes more dearly and at a greater price. With luck, we will not have to go too far.”

  “I do not think we will have much time.”

  “I agree. News of Cohen’s death is surely spreading as we speak. If he has any relatives they may be even now disposing of the book. Which would be good news if it could be verified. In lieu of its recovery, I’m assuming that the book’s destruction will serve just as well. . . . Hold on a moment. Did you know Cohen’s full name?”

  I thought for a minute. “It was Jacob, Jacob Cohen. Why?”

  “I had a suspicion. Given the name, he was almost certainly a Jew.”

  “Why is that important?”

  “Because, Albert, the Jews in London are a very close-knit community where everyone knows one another and where family is almost everything. This may make things easier. What was the address where you first confronted him?”