Whitechapel

by Sam Gafford

  Arthur stood up and began walking back and forth alongside my bed.

  “Consider this: do you not remember what we saw at the mortuary the other day? When we were talking to Llewellyn?”

  “Yes,” I replied, “that other fellow came in and we got the boot. You said that he . . .” Realisation slowly dawned on me.

  “Yes, you see now. You remember that that was Sir William Withey Gull, Physician Extraordinary to Queen Victoria herself. He is the man who had treated the Prince of Wales during a serious illness and kept him alive. It stands to reason that Sir William Gull may have been Eddy’s doctor as well. There’s something else, and I admit it puzzled me when I remembered it.”

  “What is that?”

  “When we went back to the morgue with Abberline after the first inquest, he asked Llewellyn a question that we both thought was very strange for the time. Do you recall what it was?”

  I replied that I didn’t.

  “Abberline asked Llewellyn if Nichols’ killer had taken anything out of the body. He wanted to know if the killer cut something out of her. Why would he ask such a strange question? I confess I have thought about that a great deal. At first, my belief was that it was for some occult reason. That was part of the reason for my visit to the Golden Dawn. Then, after reading the diary, it fell into place.”

  Arthur’s voice grew hushed, and he came close to me as if he was afraid to speak too loud.

  “I think that Prince Eddy’s insanity is known to others in high places and that those others have been thinking the same things we have. I believe there is a conspiracy in place to protect the prince and, if need be, eliminate any who might threaten him or the crown. A conspiracy, Albert, which could very easily be directed against us.”

  “You think that Inspector Abberline is involved in this? He’s part of a cover-up?”

  Arthur looked pained. “I know. I am loath to believe it myself. But what other reason would there be for him asking Llewellyn such a question? It goes against everything I’ve ever known about Fred. He’s an honest, honourable lawman and I would never believe him to be corruptible for any reason. But how could a man, any man, resist if the Queen herself asked him for help? ‘Will no one help the widow’s son?’”

  “What? What does that mean?”

  “Sorry, it means nothing. But you catch my point, yes? Being corrupted by evil or wickedness is one thing; it is easy to resist that. But how do you resist being corrupted by good? By the very system you have sworn to uphold? I don’t know if I could say no to the Queen, could you?”

  I shook my head. I had never thought of it that way. Arthur was right: it was easy to reject crime and corruption, but can you turn away a request from the head of your country? Particularly a request that would serve the greater good?

  “Arthur,” I said slowly, “perhaps this is beyond us. If there is a conspiracy out there, shouldn’t we let them handle this?”

  “I would except for one thing: what about Tabram or Nichols? This supposed conspiracy is to protect Eddy. Who is protecting his victims? If this continues, will Sir William Gull be patrolling the streets, keeping Eddy from killing again?”

  “What would you suggest we do?”

  “We need to make sure. We have to find Pearly Poll and see if she recognises this.”

  Arthur reached into his jacket and brought out a picture of a young man in military dress staring dully at the camera. It was a picture of Prince Eddy.

  “Where did you get that?” I asked.

  He laughed. “You can find these at almost any shop in the West End. They sell for a few pennies. I doubt if any store in the East End carries them, though.”

  “Assuming we do find this woman and she does identify Eddy, then what?”

  Arthur thought. “We would have to do something I would prefer never to do, and that is to speak to the papers. Public opinion is the only thing we can rely on. In any event, I cannot abide just sitting by and doing nothing.”

  I nodded. “There is another possibility, Albert. Mrs. Hutchins’ son has been detained by the police in connexion with the Nichols’ murder.”

  I told Arthur about how Abberline had taken William Hutchins in for questioning and the comments that Dr. Williams had made about the man. Through it all, he didn’t seem convinced.

  “I still don’t think that Mrs. Hutchins’ son is involved. Granted, I would not like to spend much time alone with the man, but it seems too ‘pat’ somehow. If anything, I would worry that the man ends up being used as a patsy and framed for the murders.”

  “I’m sure that Mrs. Hutchins would be happy to hear you say that. Guilty or innocent, the hangman draws no distinction.”

  “Very true. Perhaps I should talk to Fred. See if I can’t get the fellow sprung.”

  “Just how much do you think you can trust Abberline at this point?”

  Arthur thought. “I believe in the man. I believe that, when it comes down to it, he will do what is right no matter the cost. I would prefer to save him pain and suffering, but I cannot help if others are not as considerate as I am. I trust him to be truthful with us, if we give him the chance.”

  It was an endorsement that I hoped someone would make of me some day.

  “So,” I said, “what’s our next move?”

  “Move? I suppose I’m off to look for this Poll. See what she has to say.”

  “Sounds good. Give me a few minutes to make my toilet and we’ll be on our way.”

  Arthur looked stunned.

  “We? I don’t think so. You need to get some more rest.”

  “Nonsense!” I said. “I feel right as rain, and there is no way I’m going to let you go off by yourself.”

  “What about Ann?”

  “As angry as Ann might be that I’m not resting, I think she would be more upset if I didn’t stand by my friend.”

  “Thank you, Albert, I was hoping you would say something like that, even though I couldn’t ask it of you myself. I take it that things are better with Ann?”

  I sighed. “To be honest, Arthur, I really don’t know yet.”

  He nodded. “The sad thing, my friend, is that you never will know when it comes to women. If you think you do, then you’re either wildly delusional or about to die. I’ll meet you downstairs. You may have to sneak by Mrs. Hutchins.”

  Arthur left the room and I carefully got out of bed. I found myself moving far more slowly than I thought I should, and there were times when I felt the room starting to spin around me. I clenched my teeth, shut my eyes, and willed myself to go forward. There were things happening that were far more important than myself, and I was being dragged along in their wake. The best I could do was to try and keep my head and feet about me. At some point, however, I might have to drop my anchor and weather out the storm. If I remembered one thing from my luckless attempt at a fishing life, it was that sometimes the only thing that keeps you alive is knowing when to let the ocean drive you. Except that that course could kill you just as easily as save you. I finished dressing, took a deep breath, and went downstairs where a very irate housekeeper was waiting for me.

  It took the better part of twenty minutes to calm Mrs. Hutchins down and for her to allow me to leave the house. I felt bad as we walked out the door and down the street, looking for a cab. Without me there to care for, Mrs. Hutchins would undoubtedly be left alone to think about her son and the fate that might be awaiting him. God help me, but I actually was hoping that her son would end up being the killer. Bad as that would be, it would be infinitely better than having a killer prince. With a shock, it occurred to me that there was a very real chance of a murderer sitting on the throne of England. The thought enraged me. What made it worse was the thought that someone, or someones, would be covering for him and keeping him out of gaol.

  We found a cab and climbed into it. I was happy to be off my feet, as they were already feeling weak and unsteady. Hoping to get my mind off my dark thoughts, I tried to change the subject.

  “Arthur,
” I asked, “do you think you could get me some tickets for Mansfield’s play?”

  “What? That Jekyll/Hyde thing at the Lyceum? Why on earth would you want to go to that?”

  “That was the show Ann went to last night. She seemed very taken with the thing, and I thought that perhaps, if I were to take her to it myself, she would no longer think of it only in terms of Mansfield.”

  “Ah, a capital idea. I believe I can get my hands on some tickets. However, when you go, perhaps Amy and I can come along?”

  I smiled broadly. “I would like that very much, Arthur. Do you think Amy would come?”

  “Oh, my, yes. She loves the Lyceum, and perhaps she’ll be able to see Mansfield for the pompous fool he is.”

  “There is one thing, though. Last night Ann had tickets in the front row. Do you think we can manage that?”

  Arthur’s face was pinched. “That,” he said presently, “might be a spot of bother. Tell you what: maybe Bram can help us with that. He’s the general manager at the Lyceum, you remember, and no friend of Mansfield’s. He’ll probably greatly enjoy the chance to put a bee up Mansfield’s pants.”

  I hesitated to mention the other point to Arthur but finally decided it was better to thrown myself all in.

  “One last thing, Arthur. Did you know that Ann went to the play with Mary Kelly last night?”

  He was shocked but tried very hard not to show it. He was not very successful.

  “I was not aware of that. Correct me if I’m wrong, but Ann had never met Mary before the party, no?”

  “No, she had not. Otherwise I don’t think Ann would have been so angry at me over Mary’s kiss.”

  “True, true. It seems that a friendship has been struck there. I confess, Albert, that I am not totally sure if this is a good thing.”

  “Why do you say that? She is an old friend of yours from Wales, isn’t she?”

  Arthur leaned back into his seat.

  “She is indeed. We were very close as children. We spent almost every waking moment together, playing in the forests, among the Roman ruins. We did many things there, many things.” He seemed to be drifting off into nostalgia. “But her life has not been easy since those days. I fear that tragedy and loss have shaped her into something that is not entirely recognisable to me. In fact, I have begun to wonder if this person is something unnatural that merely wears Mary as a disguise. I’ve made some enquiries about her, Albert, and what I have heard frightens me greatly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Arthur stared out of the cab window and watched the people as we passed by.

  “The Mary I knew was a sweet, gentle child. After a certain—event—we were not allowed to see each other again. I don’t think she ever really recovered from what happened. After that, her soul soured.”

  “What did you hear?”

  He sighed. “You know, I am sure, that she can hardly be called virginal. That is but the least of it. I have learned of at least four men of wealth and privilege whom she has ‘ruined.’ They lost their money, their sanity, certainly their morality, and in two cases their very lives. One of the survivors is currently a patient in a mental hospital, and it is said that he spends his time raving against horrors he’s seen—that Mary showed him.”

  While I was thrilled to see that Arthur was no longer seeing Mary through eyes of nostalgia, it saddened me to see the affect it had upon him.

  “She was even implicated in a tragedy that happened in your old neighbourhood a few years ago.”

  “My neighbourhood? Mrs. Hutchins’ house?”

  “No, before that. Tottenham Court Road.”

  “Oh,” I said, “there.”

  “Yes, there. A few years ago, a man was found dead in the road and there was a particular house that was implicated in his death. Witnesses said they had seen him visit it at numerous occasions. I have it on good authority that Mary was also a frequent visitor to that house and that she had quit it shortly before the police came to arrest her.”

  “Well, that is hardly conclusive. She may have just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.” I couldn’t believe that I was in the position of defending this woman.

  “It was the condition of the dead man that was remarkable. Not only was he found in the road, but he was naked and with a look of absolute horror on his face. He’d been scared to death.”

  “And this happened on the street where I used to live?”

  “None other. It was found that he had once been a man of means and a small title. In the months before his death he’d sold off all his property, but no one knew what he had done with the money. He had disappeared for nearly a week before they found his body.”

  “So you think that Mary was involved with this?”

  “Yes,” he sighed, “I’m afraid so. I’ve come to believe that Mary Kelly may be the most evil person I have ever known. And I say this as we are about to track down a man who may have helped butcher at least two women. People, to her, are here for her amusement. She uses them and then discards them as you or I would throw away yesterday’s newspaper. But if it were only that, it would be bad enough. Mary Kelly, I fear, is far, far worse than that.”

  “Come now, Arthur, speak plainly. What exactly do you mean?”

  He looked at me like a teacher speaking to an especially dull pupil.

  “You know something of my beliefs by now, Albert—of how I believe that there is a more basic truth that hides behind what we perceive to be reality. There is a natural order to the world that, for the most part, we do not see. Man tries to impose his concepts of good and evil on it, but it simply doesn’t work. The truth of reality transcends us and renders our beliefs moot. The things that we think of as being evil or ‘unnatural’ are nothing of the sort. Murder, theft, adultery—these are nothing in the grand scheme of reality. What is true evil is a perversion of nature, of the proper order of things.”

  “You think, then, that we do not understand the real nature of evil?”

  “No, I don’t think we do. We overestimate it and we underestimate it. We take the very numerous infractions of our social ‘bye-laws’—the very necessary and very proper regulations which keep the human company together—and we get frightened at the prevalence of ‘sin’ and ‘evil.’ But this is really nonsense. Take theft, for example. Have you any horror at the thought of Robin Hood, of the Highland caterans of the seventeenth century, of the moss-troopers, of the company promoters of our day? Then, on the other hand, we underrate evil. We attach such an enormous importance to the ‘sin’ of meddling with our pockets (and our wives) that we have quite forgotten the awfulness of real sin.”

  “And what is sin?” I asked.

  “I think I must reply to your question by another. What would your feelings be, seriously, if your cat or your dog began to talk to you, and to dispute with you in human accents? You would be overwhelmed with horror. I am sure of it. And if the roses in your garden sang a weird song, you would go mad. And suppose the stones in the road began to swell and grow before your eyes, and if the pebble that you noticed at night had shot out stony blossoms in the morning? That is what true sin is, Albert, and that, I’m afraid, is what Mary Kelly truly is.”

  “I find this all very hard to believe, Arthur.”

  “I know you do, just as most anyone would. At least, anyone who had not seen what Mary and I did in the forests of Caerleon. When you are young, your brain responds to certain . . . vibrations that an adult cannot.”

  I was trying to work my mind through these concepts. “If Mary is indeed this kind of truly ‘sinful’ evil, how did she get that way? I mean, she wasn’t born like that, was she?”

  Arthur sank back into the cushions again. “No, she wasn’t. When Mary and I were younger, we spent a lot of our time alone, playing in the forests. The things we saw and did there affected her. That’s what led up to the ‘incident.’ We engaged in a ceremony that awakened something that we should have left alone. I thought that what had happened had ended th
ere, but now I’m afraid it didn’t. What happened to Mary that day was my fault and, therefore, what she has done to everyone she’s touched since is also my fault. I have destroyed lives and never knew it.”

  “You shouldn’t blame yourself, Arthur; people have free will. Mary has chosen to be the person she is. It’s not your fault.”

  “Thank you, Albert, but I don’t agree. If not for that afternoon, Mary would not be the way she is and she would not have left a trail of wrecked lives in her wake. No, the blame lies with me, but in either case you must not let Ann be alone around Mary. Nothing good will come of it.”

  “Just what happened that afternoon with Mary, Arthur? What did you do?”

  He looked at me, and I could tell he was no longer in the cab with me. His mind had gone back to that day, and by the look of him it was not a happy memory.

  “Not yet, Albert, not yet . . . but soon. I’ll tell you all about it soon.”

  We didn’t speak much the rest of the way. I left Arthur to his thoughts and he to mine. For some reason, I suddenly thought about Netley. I hadn’t seen him since he left me at Ah Sing’s, and the Gaffer had said he had gotten information from him. Netley had gone by the time I got out of Sing’s with Cohen, so I hoped that meant he was able to get away. I felt that I was already leaving a string of broken people behind me.

  Most of the rest of that day was spent going from place to place in Whitechapel. We were primarily looking for Pearly Poll, but I was also keeping my eyes open for other things. It was nothing that I could define, but I had a sense that there was something about to happen.

  At first, the people weren’t interested in talking to us. Some of them, however, recognised Arthur or thought that they did and slowly opened up a little. Poll had become something of a celebrity since her close brush with death. Many people claimed to have seen her, but no one knew where she was just then. I gathered that we weren’t the first men to have come looking for Poll. Others had mentioned talking not only to policeman but to a seemingly unending series of reporters. Looking around, I thought I could see some of the reporters myself. The murder had become big news, and it was like watching dogs ripping apart a piece of meat.