Whitechapel

by Sam Gafford

  Eventually, my legs too tired to move, I found a small corner in an alley and curled up to sleep. It was a typical September evening, but I had a chill in me that no heat could reach.

  My dreams that night were muddy and clouded. I cannot remember specifics, but I recall scenes that disturbed me. I was walking through a slaughterhouse, and there were people hanging from the hooks instead of cows or pigs. And yet this was not what disturbed me the most. All the bodies were women, and I recognised Polly Nichols and Annie Chapman on the hooks; but there were others, so many others. At one point, I looked down from a height and there was an endless line of rows of hooks with pale, gutted bodies hanging from them.

  As I looked, I could see two figures running down the rows. Laughing and giggling, they were playing some sort of perverse hide-and-seek among the corpses. As I looked closer, I could see that they were Ann and Amy. They ran back and forth, and at first I thought they were playing with each other; but I soon began to realise that they were hiding from a dark shadow that tracked them up and down.

  The game quickly took on a menacing tone as the shadow moved faster and faster. The laughing and giggling stopped and their running became more frenzied and panicked. I shouted at them to run up to me and safety, but they either didn’t hear me or were too terrified to listen.

  The shadow quickly overwhelmed Amy, and I could hear her bloodcurdling scream. I wanted to run down and help but was paralysed with fear. The shadow lifted away from her and what was left was a laughing madwoman. Her voice was the sound of insanity, and I clasped my hands over my ears to block out the sound.

  I saw Ann running desperately towards me. I called her name and extended my hand to her. She stretched out her fingers, and I could almost feel their touch when the shadow grabbed her and pulled her into the air above me. With a shriek, she was torn apart. The shadow ripped the flesh from her leg and face and her breasts completely off. She was still alive as it tore her apart. I could hear her screaming as I jumped awake in the alley.

  What haunted me more was the fact that, just before I woke up, the shadow had turned and looked directly at me. In the mist, I could just make out a face looking back at me. At first it was Arthur’s face with a kind of calm beatitude, but it was quickly replaced with the visage of Mary Kelly, laughing.

  Chapter 39

  London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained.

  —Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

  September 10, 1888

  A church bell somewhere nearby rang out, and I realised it was 3 a.m. I struggled to my feet. The morning air was cool, and my body shook with a chill that had little to do with temperature.

  There was nothing left to do, and in fact I couldn’t even justify to myself why I was out there in the first place. I could patrol the streets all night and never see anything while a murder could take place across the city or another street over. Not to mention that I felt certain that no murder would happen tonight because the person I was growing to suspect as the killer was home waiting for his wife.

  Not for the first time that night, I thought about running back to Cornwall. There was something soothing in the thought of just fishing for the rest of my life. Find some dull-witted village girl who had never dreamed of singing on the London stage and drink myself to an early death every night in the pub with my fellow fishermen. Perhaps their lives had merits I had never seen before.

  By the time I arrived back home, an early morning dawn was breaking. I could hear Mrs. Hutchins bustling about the kitchen, so I quietly walked up the stairs. Barely remembering to take off my clothes, I fell into bed, hoping that I would have a dreamless sleep.

  Several hours later, I awoke. There were no unsettling dreams, but I did not feel particularly rested. I lay in bed for some time, wondering what was the point of getting up. I suspected my best friend of being a sadistic murderer, and the woman I loved, who had promised to marry me, had been lying to me for God knows how long.

  Sometime later, there was a knocking on the door.

  “Mr. Besame,” Mrs. Hutchins whispered, “are you unwell?”

  I sat up in bed, still wearing my underclothes.

  “No, Mrs. Hutchinson,” I replied. “I am fine. I’m just resting as my doctor told me to.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Well, that’s good, then, very good, it is. Should I bring you up some breakfast?”

  “No,” I answered, “I’m not very hungry, thank you. I’ll be down later. I’d just like to sleep a while please.”

  She meekly agreed. I could hear her walk away but not too far, for her footsteps stopped outside Ann’s door. I could hear some muffled voices but not what they said. It was as if I were trying to hear them talk while underwater. In truth, I wasn’t feeling all that well—and not just mentally. I was warm and somewhat feverish, but oddly I didn’t mind. It was almost as if ill-health were something I deserved, and I welcomed it.

  When Ann knocked on my door minutes later, I pretended to be asleep as she opened the door. I could feel her looking at me, and my heart wanted to call out to her; but my mind could only think of the lie that hung in the air between us.

  “Albert?” she said softly, but I did not answer.

  I could feel her indecision as she stood there, so I turned over and presented my back to her. She closed the door and walked away.

  *

  Several hours later, I awoke and saw that dusk was falling. I could not recall the day or the hour. I lay there, watching the shadows grow on the floor, and could feel them match the shadows in my heart.

  When I finally stood up, it felt as if the pressure of the last few weeks came crashing down upon me, and I nearly collapsed. I grabbed the bedpost and pulled myself back to my feet, but there was something wrong.

  I felt a numbness about my mind. Almost as if something were pressing itself down on my thoughts. I moved forward and dressed myself casually. There would be no Ripper-chasing for me that night.

  Downstairs, there was a fire burning in the study fireplace—the welcoming sight of a warm English home! But I could feel none of it. My heart had grown cold to it all.

  “Mrs. Hutchins?” I called, and she came presently from the kitchen.

  “Oh, Mr. Besame! I thought you might sleep all day. Would you like something to eat?”

  I nodded. “Just a little cold meat, please. And some coffee.”

  She smiled and came back with a plate of cold chicken and potatoes. I gulped it down, surprising myself that I was so hungry, and drank several cups of coffee.

  I noticed that the clock on the far wall read after 8 p.m. There were no other sounds in the house.

  “Is Miss Ann not home?” I asked.

  Mrs. Hutchins would not meet my gaze. “No, she . . . she had to go help at the church again.”

  “I see,” I said and finished my meal alone.

  *

  I went into the sitting room, by the fire, and casually read the newspapers. It was difficult to concentrate on them, but a few managed to push their way through the fog. There was a notice that Prince Albert Victor had returned to London from York. That would seem to confirm that Eddy was not involved in Annie Chapman’s murder. Assuming, of course, the report was true. I had begun to feel that conspiracies were circling all around me filled with insane princes and diabolical doctors. Could anything be trusted?

  In the fifth edition of the Star, I found something that brought me up to sharp awareness. An arrest in the Whitechapel murder cases had been made!

  WHITECHAPEL.

  AN IMPORTANT ARREST AT GRAVESEND.

  A Man Thought to be “Leather Apron” Arrested—A Man who

  Admits He Quarrelled with a Woman in the Neighbourhood of Hanbury-street Captured at Gravesend—Opening of the Inquest

  on the Victim.

  The Press Association says:—About nine o’clock this morning a detective arrested a man as “Leather Apron,” who was wanted in connexion with the Whitechapel m
urder, at 22, Mulberry-street, Commercial-street. The real name of the man arrested is John Piser, but his friends deny that he has ever been known under the nickname of “Leather Apron.” When the detective called at the house the door was opened by Piser himself.

  “JUST THE MAN I WANT,”

  said the detective, who charged him on suspicion of being connected with the murder of the woman Sivvy. The detective searched the house and took away some finishing tools which Piser is in the habit of using in his work. By trade he is a boot finisher, and for some time has been living at Mulberry-street with his stepmother (Mrs. Piser) and a married brother, who works as a cabinet-maker. When he was arrested by the detective this morning his brother was at work, and the only inmates of the house were the prisoner’s stepmother, his sister-in-law, and a Mr. Nathan, for whom he has worked. His mother and his sister-in-law declared positively to a representative of the Press Association that Piser came home at half-past ten on Thursday night . . .

  My heart nearly leaped at the thought. I’d been wrong all along! It wasn’t Arthur or anyone I even knew! It was just some bootman. Then I remembered that Abberline had told me days before that they were chasing another lead, so this must have been it. It was as if a weight had lifted from my mind. Now I could cast my suspicions to the wind and get back to my normal life.

  That was when Ann finally walked through the front door.

  Chapter 40

  I do not think there is anything deserving the name of society to be found in London.

  —William Hazlitt

  Ann came bounding through the door. Her energy felt like a pent-up explosion busting loose. Her face was flushed and her eyes were wild. I thought her clothes looked wrinkled and ill-kempt. I saw her before she noticed me in the chair by the fire.

  When she saw me, her step faltered and a curtain fell over her face. She tried not to be obvious, but she was patting down her clothes and adjusting her dress. She took off her hat and placed it calmly on the table and said, in a not very convincing ‘happy’ voice, “Albert! You’re up! I thought you would be asleep.”

  I nodded. “I was just resting here by the fire, reading the papers. Won’t you sit with me for a spell?”

  “Of course,” she smiled. “Are you feeling well?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. I just needed to rest. It’s been a tiring few weeks, you know.”

  She placed her hand on my forehead and then sat down in the chair opposite me. I looked at her and, even though I knew little, I still loved her.

  “You feel much cooler now. Have you been asleep all day?”

  “Most of it.”

  My heart knew better but my mind, cursed thing that it was, pressed forward.

  “Ann, where have you been? Mrs. Hutchins said you’ve been gone almost all day.”

  She smiled, looked me straight in the eye, and lied to me.

  “I’ve been over at the church, helping the Reverend Barnett. It’s been a very busy time there, you know. There’s many of the poor who need help.”

  I nodded. “I’m sure. You’ve been there a lot lately, Ann. Almost daily.”

  She looked at me and placed her hand affectionately on my knee.

  “I know. I’m sorry, Albert. I’ve been there almost every day for the last week, but it’s only because they’ve needed me so. Please don’t be angry with me.”

  And just like that she turned it around on me.

  Suddenly it was my fault for doubting her, for knowing that she had lied. I tried my best to smile, but I could feel my eyes watering.

  I turned my face away towards the front door and said, “I have something for you. It’s in the envelope by the door.”

  “Really? What is it?”

  She went over, picked up the envelope, and gasped as she read the contents.

  “Albert! How did you get these?” She almost ran over to me and hugged me. “These are box tickets, Albert! They’re very expensive.”

  I struggled to put a smile on my face.

  “Well, Richard Mansfield’s not the only one who knows important people, you know. A fancy dinner at Romano’s and then a show. Should be nice, shouldn’t it?”

  Her smile nearly made me forget my hurt.

  “It’ll be marvellous! Even though I’ve seen it before, now I can take my time and watch it even better. And it’ll be wonderful to see it with you.”

  “I thought we’d ask Arthur Machen and his wife, Amy, to join us?”

  Several emotions ran across her face before finally settling on a neutral happiness.

  “That would be lovely, Albert. I’ve been seeing quite a lot of Amy lately, actually.”

  “You have?” I was puzzled by this and began to feel an uncomfortable chill falling upon me.

  “Why, yes, she’s been helping me. You know, at the church!”

  September 11, 1888

  When the day broke on that Tuesday, I could have almost forgotten everything that had happened over the past few weeks. The break-in at The Brothers’, the chase after the book, and the various physical batterings I had received, even the terrible murders that had gripped the East End seemed far away and distant in that morning sun. My soul rose light and free, feeling the promise of a brand new day dawning and the myriad possibilities that lay before me.

  But it took barely a moment for my thoughts and doubts about Ann to crash upon my mind and bring my hopes back down to ground. They made my legs heavy as I crawled out of bed, and I could feel a pressure upon my mind.

  Not knowing what else to do, I shaved, dressed, and made my way downstairs. Mrs. Hutchins had prepared a hearty meal, and I tried to act as if nothing had changed with me, as if I were still the carefree boarder I had been.

  Ann and I exchanged pleasantries. I fancy that she noticed nothing amiss, although I felt that she spent most of the time trying to act as normal as I was. Something hung in the air between us, and I did not have the courage to give it speech.

  Like a man trudging towards the gallows, I made my way towards work. I could barely hear the sounds of the news boys shouting the headlines. It wasn’t until the words “Man Released by Police” caught my ears that anything penetrated my stupor.

  The crier had been from the Daily News, but once I started to listen, others had the same cry. I paid my penny and read as I walked. The man who had only the previous day had been touted as the murderer, John Pizer (a.k.a. “Leather Apron”), had been let go. Another had been arrested in Gravesend, but there was doubt about his guilt as well.

  The security I had felt barely a day before vanished into thin air.

  All the questions flooded back, and I found myself questioning everything again. It had been so easy when Pizer had been arrested. It was a simple solution: some random madman killing women. Nothing odd. Nothing outlandish. Nothing to do with Arthur Machen or myself.

  Now everything changed again.

  I walked into The Brothers’ store and headed down to the basement. I barely spoke to them nor, I noticed, did they say much to me. I was sure that they had informed Gull of my part in the affair of the book, because no one else had known of my request to meet the prince. I no longer knew whom I could trust and, increasingly, I felt that I could not trust anyone. My faith, once so strong, had been shattered from all sides.

  The hours ticked by and I tried to concentrate on my work. However, my mind wouldn’t focus. The thoughts of authors and publishers and editions and conditions simply couldn’t coalesce in my mind. When the day was over, I simply said good-night to my employers and left.

  Without much direction, I found myself wandering. I knew that I should stop by Arthur’s house, to alert him about the theatre tickets for the next day if nothing else. But, now that Ann had brought Amy into her deception, I had little desire to go there. Still, it had to be done, so eventually I found myself knocking on Arthur’s door yet again.

  This time, to my surprise, Arthur answered the door himself, and he was in such a state of happiness that I felt I couldn’t attempt
to spoil it.

  After a few minutes, I reported that my sojourn on the streets of Whitechapel the other evening had been fruitless. Arthur seemed disappointed but also expected it.

  “I surmised as much,” he said. “Whitechapel is a large place, and this killer obviously knows it intimately and also how to disappear when he needs to.”

  “I thought perhaps that the case was over when they arrested Pizer.”

  “Who?” Arthur looked perplexed for a moment. “Oh, yes, ‘Leather Apron.’ No, that was clearly a mistake. That’s not whom they should be looking for.”

  “Really? And who should they be looking for, Arthur? Someone like you?”

  I hadn’t even thought before the words came out of my mouth.

  “Well, frankly, yes! It should be someone who looks completely normal. Not a raving lunatic who’s foaming at the mouth. Not even someone who is covered in blood or a butcher. Just some average-looking man whom no one would even notice.”

  “That could be anyone, Arthur.”

  “Yes,” he replied, tapping his hand absentmindedly with an envelope. “And that is the problem. Chapman’s inquest continues tomorrow. Care to come along?”

  “If you don’t mind, Arthur, I’d rather not. I do have to make some sort of a living, you know. When did it start?”

  “Yesterday. Monday. Not much was said, I gather. It will be continued tomorrow.”

  Sensing a break, I brought up the tickets I had received from Gull.

  Surprisingly, he laughed. “You mean he actually did it? My dear Albert, you may have been the only person ever to force anything out of the almighty Sir William Withey Gull! For tomorrow, you say?”

  “Yes. I know its short notice, but would you and Amy accompany us? It’s for dinner at Romano’s as well.”

  Arthur looked pained. “Certainly, Albert. I wish you had picked some other play, though. I’m not sure there’s enough alcohol to get me through a night of Mansfield’s ham-fisted acting. Still, I suppose Amy will enjoy it.”