Whitechapel

by Sam Gafford

  Befuddled, he looked around. “Saturday, I suppose?”

  I shook my head. “No, Arthur. It’s Sunday.”

  Arthur looked at me quizzically. “That’s not possible. Are you saying that I’ve lost almost two days?”

  I nodded. “When I came here just now, you were dazed and confused. It was as if you were in a trance.”

  I could see that Arthur still couldn’t comprehend what had happened.

  “Then,” I continued, “when I pushed you about where you’d been, you had a fit of some kind.”

  At that, his eyes became wary. “Did I say anything?” he asked.

  “It sounded like a lot of gibberish to me. Almost Welsh but not quite.”

  “Do you remember any of it?” His voice was getting a bit more anxious.

  “Just some odd words. I think you said something like ‘Magna Mater’ a couple of times and then ‘Atys’ and something sounding like ‘dhole.’ I don’t know what any of it meant—do you?”

  Arthur blinked a few times and looked away. “No, none of it.” I knew he was lying.

  “Then you had some sort of fit like St. Vitus’ Dance. I had to slap you to bring you out of it. Then you collapsed and now you seem fine.”

  Arthur got up and started walking around the room. “Interesting. Did I recognise you?”

  “Yes, somewhat. But you were really not with me, Arthur. It was as if your mind were somewhere else. So where were you?”

  He turned to face me. “I’m not sure, Albert.”

  I stood up. “Listen, Arthur, if you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine.”

  He looked pained. “No, no, it’s not that. It’s just that I’m truly not sure. The last thing I remember is that I dropped you at your place late on Friday; it may even have been after midnight, I don’t remember. Then . . . I told the cabbie to take me to Whitechapel.”

  My shoulders fell. “Arthur, why?”

  He walked around the room, beginning to circle it like a caged animal. I could see that he was debating whether to tell me or not, but eventually he gave in.

  “I was looking for Mary Kelly.”

  I shook my head. “Why? What hold does she have over you?”

  “It’s not that, Albert. It’s hard to explain. We . . . shared something in our youth that created a bond between us.”

  “And what was that, Arthur? Love?”

  He looked at me wistfully. “I wish it were that simple.”

  Sighing, I replied, “Well, did you find her?”

  “Yes, eventually. She was in the Prince Albert Pub. Not one of my favourite places, but I gather she goes there often enough.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “That’s just the thing, Albert—I don’t remember! We were talking in the pub and drinking and . . . and that’s all. I remember nothing more until I woke up just now after you slapped me.”

  “Arthur, did she drug you?”

  “No, no, of course not. It was something else—something that I hadn’t felt in a very long time since back in Wales.”

  “You’re not making any sense. What are you talking about?”

  Arthur smiled, but there was no happiness behind it. “Nothing, Albert, it’s nothing. It will come back to me; it always does. So,” he clapped his hands together, “what brings you here today?”

  Stunned, I stepped back. “You mean you don’t know? Arthur, there’s been another murder in Whitechapel.”

  *

  I spent another hour or so bringing Arthur up to date on the Chapman murder, my adventure at the crime site, and my conversation with Abberline. I didn’t mention the fact that Chapman had appeared in my dream. For some reason I felt it was important to keep silent on that matter. Nor did I mention Ann agreeing to marry me, although I felt foolish for not talking about the best news I had ever had in my life.

  He grilled me relentlessly about the murder. I had to describe the entire scene, the people there, and even as much of the witness statements as I knew.

  “So does this make three now?” I asked.

  “No, I don’t believe so. Nichols and Chapman are definitely by the same hand, but not Tabram. That was Prince Eddy and his mysterious friend, S. But this is something different—and, I’m afraid, this is only the beginning.”

  “Well, if you’re really sure that Eddy is not involved in this, then my next news won’t be so devastating.”

  I explained to Arthur how I had returned the diary to The Brothers and had made the apparently inappropriate request to meet Eddy.

  Arthur stared at me. “Albert, say you didn’t!”

  I nodded. “But apparently the news of that request travelled fast, as I have just come this morning from a private audience with Dr. William Withey Gull himself.”

  I would not have thought his jaw could have dropped any further.

  “Tell me everything,” he implored and so I did. When I got to the part where I had hurled Gull’s own insult back to him, we were both laughing.

  “Oh, I wish I could have seen that! Punctured by his own words! Still, that was perhaps not a prudent thing to do.” Arthur became serious and looked straight at me. “Dr. Gull is an extremely powerful man, Albert. Do not mistake his age for weakness.”

  “But this means that Eddy will never face justice for poor Tabram!”

  “Yes, that’s true but, Albert, did you ever really think that he would?”

  “That’s not right, Arthur! It’s not fair!”

  He nodded his head. “No, it’s not fair—but who ever told you that life was fair, my friend?”

  Arthur drank more of the now bitterly cold coffee and made an unhappy face. “Consider this, Albert: if Eddy were guilty of all these murders, would he ever be brought to trial?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “No, of course he wouldn’t. Some fool would be offered up as a scapegoat, or even some poor creature dragged from the Thames would take the blame. In the meantime, Eddy would be shipped off someplace where he would live out the rest of his days quietly and under watchful eyes. And, Albert, anyone who dared to speak about this would end up like poor Annie Crook—a patient on Gull’s surgery table.”

  I had to admit that Arthur was right.

  “But,” Arthur continued, “just because we can’t do anything for Martha Tabram doesn’t mean we can’t bring justice to Nichols and Chapman. Soon, I trust, before there are more victims.”

  “You think there will be?”

  His face became grave. “Oh, yes, I know there will be.”

  “Then what can we do? The police don’t seem to have a clue what’s going on. In fact, Abberline thought he saw you at the identity parade yesterday!”

  “He said what?”

  “In the crowd outside the mortuary. He said he saw you there.”

  Arthur became very agitated. “Think carefully, Albert. Did he actually speak to me?”

  “No, he said he called out to you but you didn’t answer. Then he lost track of you in the crowd. There’s something else, Arthur: I think he might suspect that we have something to do with these murders!”

  I could see that this troubled Arthur far more than he wanted to let on.

  “I’m sure he doesn’t. Like everyone else, we’re just concerned citizens who are worried about the case. Still, we will have to be more careful and perhaps avoid him for a little while. Are you up for another scouting mission tonight?”

  “Yes, of course!”

  “Good. Come back around eight and be prepared for a lot of walking. Wear comfortable shoes and ragged clothes if possible.”

  “And what will you do until then, Arthur?”

  The poor fellow looked lost as he picked up a piece of toast and absentmindedly tossed it back on the tray.

  “I? I imagine I will just sit here and wait for Amy to come home.”

  *

  It was only mid-afternoon and I was already feeling the weight of the day on me. I needed to experience some comfort and compassion. I needed to see Ann.


  About an hour later, I was walking toward St. Jude’s where Ann would be busy, I assumed, helping Rev. Barnett. I was surprised at the amount of people who were milling about on the streets. I could hear vague rumblings of anger and discontent. Everyone was anxious and tense, as if waiting for a signal. This was no doubt due to the murders, and I began to become afraid that a mob was about to form around every corner.

  The church was quiet. Oddly, no one was gathering around it either for food or for succour. It was as if the church were being avoided, almost shunned.

  I knocked on the door of the rectory and could hear the sound reverberate inside. At first I thought that the place was deserted, but shortly I could hear someone coming towards the door.

  “What do you want?” a strong, exasperated woman’s voice called out. “There’s no food here. You need to go to Toynbee Hall if you—”

  She opened the door, and I could see that it had been the Reverend’s wife who had been shouting.

  “Oh! Hello. You’re Ann’s young man, aren’t you? Albert Something-or-other?”

  “Yes, Besame. Albert Besame. Is Ann here?”

  She looked perplexed.

  “Ann? Why, no, she hasn’t been around for a few weeks. Not since . . . now let me think . . . well, not long after the last time you were here actually.”

  I didn’t understand. “Could she be at Toynbee Hall then? I’d been told that she was helping the Reverend.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so, dear. In fact, the Reverend was just saying to me the other day that he was wondering what had happened to her. She was quite the help and seemed to be really feeling the spirit. Has she been all right?”

  I didn’t know what to say. All this time, I’d thought she’d been spending her time doing missionary work in the East End. Now, apparently, she’d been lying to me.

  “Oh, yes, yes, she’s been fine, just very busy. I . . . ah, I’ll tell her to come by soon then, shall I?” And before she could answer, I was down the steps and out into the street.

  I needed a drink.

  Chapter 37

  A broken heart is a very pleasant complaint for a man in London if he has a comfortable income.

  —George Bernard Shaw

  I grabbed a strong glass of gin at a nearby pub and tried not to think too much. I couldn’t understand what was happening. The woman I loved, whom I had asked to marry me, had been lying to me. Not just once, but for some time.

  It didn’t make any sense. Why would she be lying in the first place? And, if she weren’t helping Rev. Barnett provide aid to the poor, then where had she been?

  As I walked home, I was unable to make any conclusions. Except, of course, for one: Mansfield.

  But I wasn’t sure what any of it meant. Did this have something to do with her not wanting to tell anyone about our engagement? Just a day before, I had been riding high with happiness. Now I had plummeted about as low as it is humanly possible to go.

  By the time I got home, my gloom was magnificent.

  Mrs. Hutchins was surprised to see me but made no comment about where I had been or where the coach that had spirited me away in the morning had gone. I went and lay down on my bed.

  A few hours later, I rose and put on some ragged clothes to go meet Arthur. I had entirely lost enthusiasm for the idea of walking around Whitechapel all night.

  Walking down the stairs, I could see that the house was quiet. There was an envelope on the table in the hallway addressed to me. Opening it, I found four tickets to the Lyceum for Wednesday night. Private box. There was a note which read simply: “Reservations at the Romano’s for 4 p.m. A driver will call for you at 3 p.m. He is at your disposal for the evening. G.”

  Gull had come across with what he had promised—and in record time as well. I should have been very happy to see this envelope; but now, poisoned as I was by doubt, it was nothing more than a reminder of a gesture I had made through misguided love. I closed the envelope and left it on the table. I didn’t care if anyone saw it. The house was quiet and empty, mirroring my thoughts.

  When I arrived back at Arthur’s, I found him as sullen as myself.

  “Amy has not returned,” he said. “I’ve not had a word from her all day.”

  “Shall we abandon our plans?”

  He thought for a moment. “I should dearly like to, Albert. But if that fiend strikes again tonight while I sit here wallowing in self-pity, I will not be able to forgive myself.”

  “A sensible thought,” I responded. “So you should stay here and I will go to Whitechapel.”

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a sign of relief on anyone’s face as I saw on Arthur’s at that moment.

  “Are you sure, Albert? I feel as if I am abandoning you!”

  “Nonsense,” I replied. “You need to be here. I, on the other hand, have no need to be anywhere.”

  Arthur looked at me quizzically. “Are you all right? Is something wrong?”

  “No, nothing,” I said. “Things are very clear to me. Stay here and I shall report to you tomorrow about my night. Honestly, I do not expect anything to happen.”

  I shook his hand and left his house.

  In all truth, I hoped that I would find the murderer, as I needed nothing so much at that moment as something on which I could purge the fury I felt rising within me.

  Chapter 38

  There are two places in the world where men can most effectively disappear—the city of London and the South Seas.

  —Herman Melville

  The sun had fully set by the time I had reached Whitechapel, and the squalor of my surroundings matched my mood perfectly. Oddly, however, there were far fewer people on the street than I had been used to seeing. Normally, the main thoroughfares like Commercial Street would be crowded as if a fair or parade were expected. Even the smaller streets would be active, although many of those were usually filled with people who were out and about on unsavoury purposes.

  This night, however, only the people who had nowhere else to go were wandering the streets. Almost all the stores were dark and locked. The people I saw the most were constables walking in pairs up and down the streets. Obviously, the police had decided to increase their visible presence in the hope of discouraging the murderer. Only the pubs were open, and it was here that most of the people could be found.

  I made the rounds of several pubs. I started with the Ten Bells, where I cautiously looked for Edwards and any signs of the Gaffer. The barman was new, which comforted me, as I felt it likely that my previous actions would have marked me to the old, roughhewn bartender. Also, I had more than a slight suspicion that he was on Edwards’ payroll—although, come to think of it, most of the people probably were. Or, in the least, they were willing to sell me out for sixpence if any knew that Edwards wanted to see me punished.

  Not seeing much at the Ten Bells, other than a group of frightened people huddled together for as long as the bar was open, I moved further down the street. I was feeling more than a little unsteady when I reached the Prince Albert Pub. I plopped down onto a stool and ordered another gin. I really didn’t need one, but not ordering would have been suspicious and more than enough reason to get tossed into the street.

  I was trying to force down the gin when I heard the landlady holding court loudly at the end of the bar.

  “I seen him here, yesterday morning, large as life, I did!”

  Some gasped but a few scoffed. “Yer full o’ it, Fiddymont! It weren’t the murderer!”

  “Sure as I see you here, he was. Seven a.m. he comes in and sits down in this very spot. He had spots of blood on the back of his right hand, dried blood between his fingers, and a streak of blood below his right ear. His eyes were crazy! Wild as a hawk!”

  The others stood around her, engrossed in her story.

  “Then what happened?” “Did you call the coppers?”

  Fiddymont spit on the floor. “As if they’d do any good! Fucking coppers couldn’t catch the shit coming out o’ their arse w
ith their own hands!”

  “You should’ve given him to us!” another man yelled. “We’d have given him the ride!”

  Fiddymont shook her head. “Didn’t have the time. Soon as he saw me looking at him, he gulped his pint and took off. I sent Mary Chappell after him. She set Joseph Taylor on the bastard, but he lost him up Brushfield Street in Bishopsgate. But I’ve marked him, make no mistake. I see him again, I’ll know him!”

  “What did he look like?” I asked.

  The crowd looked at me as if I’d broken their spell.

  Another fellow spoke up from the far end of the bar. “He was about middle-aged, forties maybe, and ’bout my height.” I judged the speaker to be a bit over five and half feet.

  The man—whom I assumed to be Joseph Taylor—waved his hand over his lower face. “He had a ginger moustache with short, sandy hair that was in all different directions. Um, baggy, pepper-and-salt trousers and a dark coat that he had to hold together. Looked like his clothes didn’t fit. Like they weren’t his clothes. Crazy bugger. I lost him around Dirty Dick’s tavern. Never seen him around here before.”

  I tried to shake my mind clear. Such a man didn’t sound like the murderer at all. He would be a damn fool to show up in a pub after gutting a human being. Still, he would have to be a lunatic to do it in the first place. I realised, with a chill, that I was looking to see if the man could have been Machen. Thankfully, the description didn’t match, but it didn’t make my fears go away.

  I’d begun to wonder if my friend might be the murderer I was looking for.

  The crowd urged the landlady to repeat her story over and over again. She appeared to relish her newfound celebrity. I had heard enough and made my way back out to the street.

  For the next several hours, I wandered through the nearly deserted streets and occasional alleys. My head felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton, and my thoughts were a messy jumble of frightened conjectures and suppositions. I’d never actually been with Arthur when one of the murders had happened. By his own admission, he didn’t even remember where he’d been for the last several days. Then there was the troubling account from Abberline about Arthur showing up at the identity parade and disappearing when Abberline called to him. I wondered if my inspector friend’s mind was wandering along the same paths as mine.