Whitechapel

by Sam Gafford

  “I don’t know what to think anymore, Albert. All I know is I have two dead women, an East End ready to explode, and people hammering me to make an arrest, any arrest. They don’t even particularly care if I arrest the actual killer at this point. Anyone will do.”

  “I assure you, Inspector, I have nothing to do with all this!”

  “Calm yourself, Albert, I don’t think you do either; but perhaps you need to stop hanging around murder scenes so much, hmm?”

  Just then a constable came out of the building. “Inspector? I think we have an I.D. on the victim.”

  “Who was she then?”

  The P.C. looked at the papers in his hand. “At present, three separate witnesses have identified her as Annie Chapman, also known as ‘Dark Annie.’”

  “Right, thank you, Richards. I think we can stop this parade now. Get these people moving along. Godley!”

  The sergeant snapped to attention.

  “Spread the word. Start making enquiries. I want to know everything there is to know about this ‘Dark Annie.’ I want to know where she was last night, what she ate, who she talked to. Everything!”

  “Right, sir!” Godley set off at a brisk run, full of purpose.

  “Well, Albert, I’m off then. Take my advice: find a better hobby than chasing murder around London.”

  The crowd quickly dispersed. Now that their identification had been made, the police had shut the doors of the mortuary. Left without a chance of seeing the victim, everyone lost interest and left. I noticed a few reporters hanging around. They were, no doubt, waiting for some last nugget of information for their papers.

  I walked away. I debated going back to Arthur’s but decided to heed Abberline’s advice and went home. The house was curiously quiet. Neither Ann nor Mrs. Hutchins was around, so I simply decided to go to bed.

  I spend the next few hours trying vainly to sleep. There was just too much for me to keep straight in my mind. Everything was beginning to melt together into one large, violent mess. Unable to rest, I busied myself at my writing desk and tried to make sense of the whole thing. So I began making the notes that I would carry with me for the rest of my life, detailing the facts as I knew them, when I knew them.

  I eventually realised that I could smell food cooking, and my stomach reminded me that it was time for dinner. I walked downstairs and into the kitchen and saw Mrs. Hutchins hard at work at her oven. I had the impression of a conductor in front of a symphony orchestra, in total control of his environment.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Hutchins,” I cried, “what is that wonderful smell?”

  She nearly dropped her plate.

  “Oh, Mr. Albert! You startled me! I didn’t even know you were home!”

  “Indeed. I’ve been resting as per my doctor’s orders.”

  “Really?” she said with more than a hint of sarcasm. “I’d like to believe that’s true. Well, take a seat. Dinner will be ready in a moment.”

  I sat down in the dining room and noticed with excitement that there was a place set for Ann. I was hoping she’d arrive in time.

  It wasn’t until I was nearly done eating my fish that Ann came bustling through the door.

  “Albert, you’re up! How wonderful! Mrs. Hutchins, am I too late for supper?”

  “Not at all,” Mrs. Hutchins called from the kitchen. “Just sit down and I’ll bring you a plate, dear.”

  It was all I could do not to stare at her. Ann looked even lovelier than I remembered. Her cheeks were flush with the cool September air, and her lips were red with fire.

  “Albert! You’re looking at me as if you’ve never seen me before.”

  I blinked and smiled. “I’m sorry, Ann. It’s just that you look so lovely today. You take my breath away.”

  Ann smiled back at me. “Oh, Albert, that’s such a wonderful thing to say.”

  “So where have you been all day?”

  “I’ve been over at the Reverend’s—and believe me, there’s been quite a stir going on. Did you know there’s been another murder?”

  “Oh, yes, I’d heard something about that.”

  Ann looked at me quizzically. “You did? How? You were supposed to be resting today.”

  I poured myself a cup of coffee and avoided her gaze. “Well, I had to step out for a bit. I wanted to stop in at The Brothers’ and let them know how I was faring. I heard about it there.” Which, strictly speaking, was the truth.

  Mrs. Hutchins brought in a full plate as Ann looked at me and slowly shook her head. “Whatever am I to do with you, Albert? I’m beginning to think that I’ll have to tie you to your bed.”

  “That would be a splendid idea, Miss Ann,” Mrs. Hutchins added.

  “Well, anyway, everyone was in a state about it. I don’t know the details, but apparently the poor woman was killed quite violently. The people are getting very upset and concerned.”

  “Oh?” I said. “What are they saying?”

  “Some very angry things. Many feel that the police are not doing enough to protect women in the East End—and they’re right, of course. But I’m starting to hear some very ugly things about the Jews as well.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m afraid so. Everyone is looking to blame someone, and more often than not they blame the Jews. It’s an old story. To many, the Jews are an odd and unusual race. Their culture is strange and frightening to some. So, typically, they strike out at the things they don’t understand.”

  “What does the Reverend think?”

  “Oh, he’s very worried, of course. He’s working on a letter right now that he’s going to be sending to the Times about it all. He hopes that some good might come of it.”

  I was confused. “How could something good come from any of this?” I asked.

  “Well, not the deaths, obviously. But Reverend Barnett hopes that this will cause many to realise how horrible the conditions are in the East End.”

  “I suppose that’s possible. Ann, I wonder,” I stumbled over the words, “if you’d like to go for a walk after you finish supper?”

  She looked at me out of the corner of her eye, but there was a slight smile on her face. “Are you sure you don’t have to run off somewhere? Chasing down some dangerous books?”

  I smiled. “No, absolutely not. You are my only chase this evening.”

  “I like the sound of that, Albert. Yes, I think a walk would be very nice.”

  *

  After a brief wait for her to change into a walking outfit, we were out the door.

  The evening was brisk and cool, much as the whole day had been. It seemed that we might be heading into an early winter. Ann’s arm rested in mine as we walked. We took a leisurely path and spent some time walking along the Embankment. The Thames was quiet and lovely in the moonlight, but the water looked cold and harsh. Other couples passed us by, and we nodded as they went. It seemed that the East End and the murders were millions of miles away.

  Our conversation was light and airy, full of simple thoughts and small jokes. In truth, I had no idea where I stood with Ann, and I was afraid to find out that my hopes were wrong. Reason told me that I should simply enjoy the evening and not push for anything. However, it was the first time I had been in love, and reason means little in such circumstances.

  “Ann,” I asked slowly, “are you still angry with me?”

  Ann looked at me confusedly. “Why would you think that, Albert?”

  “Well, because of what happened at the party.”

  “Oh, that. Well, yes, I was angry at you, Albert. But Mary convinced me she was just having a bit of fun at your expense, so I’ve forgiven you.”

  “I’m glad to hear that!” And I was truly glad, but no happier for some reason. “But there’s this Mansfield fellow . . .”

  “Albert, really! There’s nothing that you need to worry about. Richard, I mean, Mr. Mansfield, is just trying to help me with my singing career. He knows many important people. He’s just being nice.”

  “So you’re n
ot . . . you’re not in love with him?” I doubted if I was able to hide the fear in my voice.

  Ann laughed. It sounded beautiful, but I didn’t know which way to take it.

  “Oh, Albert. Dear, dear, Albert. No, I am NOT in love with Richard Mansfield. A girl’s head could be turned by him, to be sure. He is successful and charming, but he is incapable of any true depth of feeling. There is a reason he became an actor, after all.”

  “Is there someone you’re in love with then?”

  Ann looked at me and smiled. “Is it not plain to you?”

  I bent my head slightly. “I am not practised in such things. Ann, I need to know. Have I completely mucked things up with you?”

  She leaned close and kissed me on the cheek. “No, Albert, not at all. I don’t think it’s possible for you to do that.”

  I smiled and took her hand in mind. “In that case, Ann, will you marry me?”

  Ann looked shocked and her mouth gaped open.

  “I can’t promise,” I went on hurriedly, “that I will be successful like Mansfield. I can’t even promise that life will be easy. But I can promise that I will love you for the rest of my life.”

  Tears were welling up in her eyes. “Then that will be all I will ever need. Yes, Albert Besame, I will marry you.”

  With that she kissed me lightly on the lips, and I held her tight.

  We walked on, her hand in mine. I don’t remember much that happened after that until Ann turned to me and said, “Albert, would you mind if we didn’t tell anyone about our engagement? Not right away?”

  I was puzzled. “I suppose not, but why?”

  “I just want to do everything the right way. It’ll be our little secret. Just for a little while.”

  “If that’s what you want, Ann. But I confess that I don’t understand.”

  “It’s just one of the silly things we women do, Albert. Every girl wants her wedding to be perfect.”

  “Then it will be, Ann. I promise you that.”

  As we walked, I could hear newsvendors yelling nearby. “Another murder in Whitechapel! Horrible crime!”

  Ann’s grip on my arm tightened. “Albert, let’s get a paper. I want to see what they’re saying!”

  I walked over and got the sheet from the boy. There were already several other people lining up for copies. Whatever else, the Whitechapel murderer sold papers.

  Ann nearly grabbed the paper from me and began reading. It was the evening edition of the Star. There were multiple headlines above the column: “Horror Upon Horror / Whitechapel Is Panic-Stricken / At Another Fiendish Crime / A Fourth Victim of the Maniac.” Ann began to read the article aloud as we walked, much to my displeasure.

  “‘London lies today under the spell of a great terror. A nameless reprobate—half-beast, half-man—is at large, who is daily gratifying his murderous instincts on the most miserable and defenseless classes of the community. There can be no shadow of a doubt that the Whitechapel murderer, who has now four, if not five, victims to his knife, is one man, and that man a murderous maniac. Hideous malice, deadly cunning, insatiable thirst for blood—all these are the marks of the mad homicide. The ghoul-like creature who stalks through the streets of London, stalking down his victim like a Pawnee Indian, is simply drunk with blood, and he will have more.’”

  “What nonsense!” I replied.

  “I agree. Seems a bit hard to believe that some American Indian is to blame for all this.”

  “What else does it say?” I asked.

  “Just blaming the police for the murder. Saying that their ineffectiveness helped create the situation. Then they’re blaming Warren, as usual, bringing up the whole ‘Bloody Sunday’ thing again. Reminding readers that Warren gave the order for the police to use their clubs on the citizens. Oh, my . . .” I looked over. Ann’s face had lost all colour.

  “What is it? What’s the matter?”

  “They describe what the killer did to her. Oh, Albert, it’s horrible!”

  I took the paper from her. “Let’s put this away, Ann. Let’s not ruin this wonderful evening.”

  She smiled. “You’re right, Albert. Let’s forget about this horror for now.”

  I folded the paper and was about to put it under my arm when I happened to glance at it. This time, it was my turn to turn white. There, near the bottom of the page, was a drawing of the second victim. I guessed that the reporter must have snuck an artist into the identity parade. As I looked, I felt my legs go weak. It was the face of the woman I had seen at Ringers when I met with Edwards; the woman who had gotten into a fight in the bar. Worse still, it was the same woman from my dream who had wept and told me how sorry she was. What did it all mean?

  Chapter 34

  I hope to see London once ere I die.

  —William Shakespeare

  September 8, 1888, evening

  I managed to keep Ann from noticing my distress but was not sure if I was entirely successful. We finished the walk, talking about such things as when we should have the wedding, where we should live, all the types of things that foolish young people speak of when they are in love and blind to the future.

  As we climbed the stairs of our home, Ann turned to me and again stated, “Remember, it’s our secret!”

  I smiled, still uncomprehending, and nodded agreement.

  Her reminder was for naught, as the house was uncharacteristically quiet.

  “Do you think Mrs. Hutchens has already gone to bed?” I asked.

  “I suppose so, although that is very unlike her. She’s gone and left us alone so that we can get up to no good!” Ann laughed.

  “So what should we do then?”

  Her eyes grew mischievous. “Let’s raid her larder!”

  Without another word, Ann dashed into the kitchen and began looking through the cupboards. Within minutes, she had removed the best pastries and cakes she could find and laid them before us on the table. As the night wore on, we ate and talked and laughed. I don’t think I ever loved her more than I did on that night, sitting at the table and eating what seemed to be an endless amount of food.

  When I woke up the next morning, my body felt sore. All the activities of the last few days played out on my limbs as I struggled out of bed. I used the wash basin and tried to make myself presentable. No matter how rough I looked, there was a song in my heart and I felt as if the rest of my life would be wonderful and full of love. I never guessed I would end up a lonely old man in an empty house.

  I could hear Mrs. Hutchins moving around in the kitchen as I ambled down the stairs. I nearly bumped into her as she came through the door.

  “Oh, bless me! I didn’t hear you come down, Mr. Albert.”

  I smiled. “No harm done, Mrs. Hutchins. Is there any coffee left?”

  “Of course there is. Sit down and I’ll bring you a cup.”

  As I eased into a chair, I noticed a small stack of papers on the table.

  Pulling them towards me, I could see that they were all full of news about the newest murder. The papers were practically in a frenzy.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Albert. I meant to put those away.”

  “I didn’t know you were such an avid reader of the newspapers.”

  “Well, no, not normally. I don’t usually bother with them. Lot of nonsense about politics and such; but everyone’s been going on about the murders and, well, I just had to see.”

  With a tinge of guilt I remembered having told Abberline about Mrs. Hutchins’ own son and realised that she had more than a gossipy interest in the case. No doubt she was worried that they might come after her son again.

  “It is a dreadful thing,” I said. “The things that people can do . . .”

  I put the papers down and tried to put them out of my mind, but I couldn’t forget that face. That I had seen that woman beaten in the pub was bad enough, but her appearance in my dream was even worse. I couldn’t escape the feeling that it was a harbinger of worse things to come.

  “I take it Miss Ann has already
gone out?”

  Mrs. Hutchinson gave a half-smile. “Yes, about an hour ago.”

  “Did she say anything to you? Look different in any way?”

  Now she looked confused. “Different? How so, Mr. Albert?”

  “I don’t know. Just different. Happier, perhaps?”

  “Well,” she paused, “not really. In fact, she seemed sad for some reason.”

  Now I was confused. “Sad? What do you mean?”

  Mrs. Hutchins waved her hands dismissively. I could tell she instantly regretted saying anything at all.

  “Oh, nothing, Mr. Albert. She was just very quiet this morning. Not her usual self. She’s off to help the Reverend again. I’m sure that’s why.”

  “Yes, quite.”

  I was about to ask if Ann had said when she’d be back home when there was a persistent knocking on the door.

  Mrs. Hutchins opened it and I could hear her talking to someone. It was a man, by the tone of the voice. He was insistent, while Mrs. Hutchins was just as inflexible.

  I walked to the door, intent upon protecting my landlord, and found her talking to a man in a very smart suit with a gleaming top hat on his head.

  “Can I be of assistance?” I asked.

  Mrs. Hutchins jumped, startled at my presence.

  “Are you Mr. Besame?” the man asked. His voice was calm and even, but it was also very strong and rigid. It was the voice of a military man, one who was not accustomed to being disobeyed. Somewhere, deep in my memory, I was certain that I had heard that voice before.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Albert, this gentleman won’t listen. I told him that you were not to be disturbed.”

  “Not to worry, Mrs. Hutchins, I’ll handle it,” I said and gently moved her away from the door. I could hear her walk away but not so far as to be unable to hear our conversation.

  “I am Mr. Besame. How may I help you?”

  I looked at the man. Although he was older, his hair was dark and full. His moustache was trim and waxed. Whoever he was, he took great pride in his appearance.

  “I am Dr. Ackland. I have been asked if you would accompany me.”

  I looked at him, puzzled. Who the devil was this and why was his voice so familiar?