Whitechapel

by Sam Gafford

  I went to take my leave, but Arthur had one last comment to make. “It seems that Ann and Amy have been spending a great deal of time together, Albert.”

  I feigned ignorance. “Oh?”

  “Apparently, Ann has recruited Amy into doing charity work at St. John’s in Whitechapel. Very commendable.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. Very commendable.”

  Arthur smiled as we walked to the door. “Mind you, I wish she wouldn’t keep Amy out quite so late. Surely ‘charity begins at home,’ eh?”

  He winked at me and closed the door.

  The amount of things I didn’t know at that time was staggering.

  Chapter 41

  I love London society! I think it has immensely improved. It is entirely composed now of beautiful idiots and brilliant lunatics. Just what society should be.

  —Oscar Wilde

  When I had returned home, I could hear Ann and Mrs. Hutchins fluttering about in her rooms. I helped myself to some cold beef and coffee and ate in the kitchen. I did not want to be alone but could not bear the company of anyone else.

  Later I tried to read the papers, but they could not hold my interest. The night before, a group of men had convened in Whitechapel and formed something called the “Whitechapel Vigilance Committee.” Their goal was to patrol the streets and protect their women where the police could not. All I could see was the potential for more bloodshed in the name of justice.

  In a storm of wind and excitement, Ann came bounding down the stairs. She was looking for me.

  “Albert! There you are! I thought you were home. What do you think?”

  She did a small twirl, showing off her dress. It was beautiful and striking, full of velvet and lace. It was a true lady’s dress and one that could have been worn by any high society woman. I found that I had unintentionally held my breath because she was so lovely.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said, and I meant it.

  Ann smiled. “Do you really think so? I didn’t have a lot of time, so I pretty much had to take this off the dressmaker’s mannequin. But I think it fits very well, don’t you?”

  I can still picture her, twirling in her bright, new dress with a smile on her lips and her eyes twinkling with happiness. Sometimes, being able to remember that picture is worse than forgetting it.

  “I’m so excited, Albert! I want to enjoy every second of tomorrow night. I want to memorise it all so that I can relive it over and over again.”

  She bounded back up the stairs and left me in the room alone. The fire crackled in the fireplace, but I could not get warm. The September of 1888 was an unseasonably cold one, and it had placed its chill hand upon me.

  September 12, 1888

  Most of the next day passed in a sort of fog-bound dream-state for me. I got up as usual and had a light breakfast with Ann, who was bubbling with excitement. So much so that she had decided not to go ‘help’ at the church that day. She and Mrs. Hutchins would be spending most of the day preparing her wardrobe, hair, makeup, and many other feminine matters of which I was happily ignorant.

  The newsboys were shouting about the start of the Chapman inquest and the rising public demand for the government to offer a reward for anyone who would turn in the murderer. I ignored them.

  I think that The Brothers were actually relieved when I informed them that I would only be working a half-day. They didn’t ask for a reason and I didn’t give one. Downstairs, in the ‘black hole,’ I began to realise that I would not be able to continue working there much longer. My trust in them had been broken, and I felt that they knew it themselves and were ashamed of it.

  I can’t even remember what books I indexed that day.

  *

  Around lunchtime I took my leave and walked back home. It was still too early for the afternoon editions, so there was no news about the inquest. I was sure that Arthur would fill me in, but I wondered if he might ‘edit’ his comments to allay my growing suspicions.

  Mrs. Hutchins and Ann were flittering about in her room, and I knocked gently as I passed. “Don’t forget, Ann, the coach is coming for us at 3 p.m.”

  An unnaturally happy voice replied, “I won’t! I’m nearly ready!”

  My ‘best’ suit was laid out on my bed, and I spent the next hour tugging and adjusting. I was checking myself in the mirror when Mrs. Hutchins came in with a brush and began giving my jacket a vigorous cleaning.

  “Really, Mrs. Hutchins, that’s not necessary. I can do it myself.”

  “Not a problem, Mr. Albert. You need to shine just as brightly as any of those ‘toffs’ with their own valets and footmen. Remember, you reflect on Miss Ann just as much on yourself.”

  “Yes,” I replied, “of course.”

  She turned me about and checked me up and down. “Very good, Mr. Albert. You’ll have a fine time.”

  I tried to smile. “Yes, I am sure we will.”

  As I went to the door, she held me back a bit. “Mr. Albert,” she said tentatively, “I don’t mean to pry. My borders’ business is their own and all, but . . . is everything all right? Between you and Miss Ann?”

  My back straightened a bit. My mask was never as good as I thought.

  “What do you mean?”

  She fretted her hands back and forth. “It’s nothing, I’m sure, it’s just . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, she seems different. Not herself. It’s foolish, I know, but sometimes I get the feeling that I’m talking to something pretending to be Miss Ann. Do you know what I mean?”

  “I’m not sure I do. Can you explain?”

  She shook her head. “No, no, I can’t. I suppose it’s just me being a foolish old woman, but I can’t shake the thought that there’s something wrong. There are times when I’m talking to her and she doesn’t even seem to be all there. As if she’s listening to something else. And there’s another thing . . .”

  “Yes? What is it?”

  “I shouldn’t say, Mr. Albert, it’s not right to be gossiping like this.”

  I tried to give her a soothing smile. “Don’t think of it as gossip, Mrs. Hutchins. Think of it as simply being concerned for a friend.”

  “Well . . . there are times when I walk by her door and I could swear that she is talking with someone. At first I thought it might be you, Mr. Albert—and I can assure you I would not stand for that in my house! So I knocked and quickly opened the door, but she was just sitting on her bed, holding a kind of clay statue. She said she’d made it as part of an ‘art study,’ but I honestly had never seen such an ugly thing in my life. It looked like a man, somewhat, but it was too thick in some spots and too thin in others. I don’t know anything about art, Mr. Albert, but I know that wasn’t anything anyone anywhere would call ‘art.’”

  “Oh, well, that’s hardly anything to get upset about. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  “I suppose. But I’ve heard her talking to it at other times as well, and sometimes it sounds as if it’s answering back!”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “Oh, of course not, I imagine she is ‘playing’ at it. She’s probably making the other sound herself. Except that the voice she gives it scares me, Mr. Albert. It’s a low sound, such as you’d imagine the voice of a bear or tiger to be. And it keeps going on about ‘ripping’ something.”

  I tried not to show my concern. “I’m sure it’s nothing, Mrs. Hutchins. I suspect she’s been doing this sort of thing since she was a little girl. She has been studying for the stage, you know.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you’re right.” I could tell that she was as unconvinced as I was. Silently, we each agreed to allow the other this happy delusion.

  By the time I had reached the bottom of the stairs, the coach had arrived and Ann was practically bouncing with excitement.

  First we had to pick up the Machens. I give the driver his instructions, and the coach took off at a sprightly pace. Behind us, I could feel Mrs. Hutchins watching the vanishing coach with a feeling of dread and un
ease.

  Chapter 41

  Pussy-cat, pussy-cat, where have you been?

  I’ve been to London to look at the Queen.

  Pussy-cat, pussy-cat, what did you there?

  I frightened a little mouse under the chair.

  —Mother Goose

  Arthur and Amy were ready on time and, given the quality of everyone else’s garments, I felt very much the ‘poor relation.’ Amy and Ann immediately began talking excitedly about the play. Arthur appeared more sullen and withdrawn than I had seen him lately.

  I tried to coax him out a bit as I kept an ear trained on the ladies’ conversation.

  “What news from the inquest?” I asked.

  Arthur looked out the window. I felt, more than ever, an air of sadness about him.

  “Very little,” he eventually said. “The fellows who found her gave testimony, but nothing significant. She wasn’t in the yard at four-forty-five a.m. and then she was at six a.m.”

  “Not much time,” I said. I didn’t volunteer the information I had received myself at Hanbury Street and realised that there was a great deal I had become accustomed to keeping from Arthur. I felt that he suspected as much as well.

  “Oh,” he said, “that Pizer fellow gave testimony. Seems he wanted to clear his name. States that he had been hiding out at his brother’s since last Thursday because he was afraid the police were already looking for him.”

  “And the bloody apron?”

  Arthur dismissively waved his hand. “Not even his. Belonged to the son of one of the building’s inhabitants.”

  “They adjourned, I assume?”

  Arthur nodded. “Until tomorrow—which, I am given to understand, will be quite interesting. I stayed a bit and talked to Freddy, who tells me that Dr. Phillips is giving his testimony tomorrow and that he is being compelled to do so!”

  “Why compelled?”

  Arthur shrugged his shoulders. “Appears that the good doctor feels the details are too shocking for open court. He wanted to give his testimony privately, but Baxter, the coroner, refused. We’ll see what he says when he stands up as a witness.”

  “I think,” I said slowly and deliberately, “that I would like to come for that.”

  Arthur’s face brightened. “You would? Splendid, good fellow! I’d hoped you would. Now, Freddy (that is, Inspector Abberline) said something odd to me. He wanted to know where you were. He was surprised that you hadn’t shown up today, and then he mentioned what you told me—that he’d seen me at Chapman’s ‘identity parade.’”

  “What did you say?”

  “That I’d never been there. I finally remembered that I had actually been in the British Museum that day, doing some research. Several people saw me, and I could have sworn that he was actually asking me for an alibi! Can you imagine?”

  I could easily. His explanation did not account for where he had been the night before or even that morning.

  Arthur moved closer to me and lowered his voice to a whisper. “And then he wanted to know where you had been the morning of the murder.”

  “I?”

  He nodded. “I told him that I had been with you the night before and dropped you at your house. And, should he desire, your landlady would vouch for your time.”

  “What did he do then?”

  “He nodded at me in that fashion he has where it is almost as if he’s taken a mental note of what you’ve said and filed it away in the back of his mind.”

  Arthur settled back in his seat.

  “He’s really quite the good detective, you know. Better than that Holmes character, I’d wager.”

  This caught the attention of the ladies, who began an earnest discussion about the adventures of Doyle’s ‘consulting detective’—of which, not surprisingly, Arthur was not terribly fond.

  As I looked at Amy and Ann, all I could think about was their deception and deceit. They’d become conspirators in something that completely eluded me. And yet, they sat there as innocently as newborn lambs. It would have been a fitting symbol, given what was about to come.

  *

  The dinner was magnificent.

  I had never been to Romano’s before, of course, and would likely never go again, so this one dinner is imprinted on my memory for more than one reason. Even Arthur and Ann seemed slightly nervous, although they had apparently dined there before.

  The butter-coloured front of the building looks onto the Strand, and even at 4 p.m. the traffic had been building. The driver dropped us off at the front and said he would wait for us with the other drivers around the corner. It was an old and impressive building, and I wondered what it might have been before its current life as a restaurant.

  Several smartly dressed men in fine tuxedos held the doors open for us as we walked inside. The small antechamber contained a fine cloakroom as well as a flower stall, and several couples were milling about. I could hear the excited clatter of dining coming from the room beyond; it appeared that, despite the somewhat early hour, Romano’s was already quite full.

  After telling everyone to wait, I walked up to an imposing-looking Italian gentleman who carried himself like a cavalry colonel and appeared to be in charge. He looked at my suit rather disdainfully, but his face changed considerably when I said, “A table has been reserved for the guests of Dr. Gull.”

  “Of course, signor,” he said happily. “I am Signor Antonelli and at your service. Will Sir William be dining with you this evening?”

  “Regrettably, no. But he sends you his best regards as always, Signor Antonelli.”

  Gull had done nothing of the sort, but the lie had pleased Antonelli greatly as he showed us to our table with a great flurry of motion.

  “The menu has been set for you by Dr. Gull. I trust that you will enjoy your meal.”

  And then he was gone.

  What followed was a veritable whirlwind of activity and food. The hors-d’oeuvre was some sort of sardine which I found too salty, but which the ladies devoured as if they had been starved for years.

  This was followed by Crème Pink ’Un, which I was given to understand was a dish made famous by Romano’s but which left me cold. It was a combination of rice with a bisque soup with crayfish. I had begun to miss the pure Irish fare of Mrs. Hutchins’ table.

  This was saved, however, by the Truite Meunière, which was a fresh filet of trout in a sauce that beautifully balanced lemon and butter. I doubt if I had ever eaten anything so heavenly before or since.

  The next course was a perfectly cooked pheasant, which I had to admit I had also never eaten before. The seasonings brought out the delicate flavour of the meat, and before I knew it the plates were clean and cleared off for a salad course.

  A short dish of artichokes in a hollandaise sauce came next, and by the time the vanilla ice en corbeille and petit fours arrived, we could not have eaten another bite.

  Over coffee, I finally took a moment to look around the room. It was a grand chamber with a high chandelier and fine oak and teak along the walls. Framed seascapes wound around the room and everything, from the clock to the musicians playing quietly in the corner to the electric light brackets, carried an air of Eastern opulence.

  I felt as if I were in another world.

  Arthur, sensing my astonishment, leaned close to me. “And yet, for all this opulence, the East End, where thousands are starving, is but a few miles away.”

  I felt both anger and shame at that comment. Shame that I had been enjoying such a grand meal which, after all, I did not have to pay for, while others could barely find a scrap of bread or a potato for their meal. And also anger at Arthur for spoiling the dinner.

  Suddenly a very well-dressed man appeared at the table.

  “Good evening,” he said in a voice with a pleasing Italian accent. “I trust everything go right with your dinner, yes?”

  We all agreed with high praise, and the little fellow beamed with pride. He was dressed in faultless dress-clothes, with a small, carefully tended moustache and
a full head of black hair which had just started to grey at the temples.

  “I am ‘the Roman,’ and this is my house. I bid you welcome. Now, may I ask, which of you is Signor Albert?”

  I identified myself, and he moved closer to me.

  “I have been instructed to give you this, signor. It is from your patron for this evening. Arrivederci!”

  He handed me a small envelope with my name on it. I tried to keep my fingers from trembling as I opened it and took out the small note inside.

  It said simply:

  Enjoy your meal.

  Please call on me Friday at 2 p.m.

  Your attendance is expected.

  —Gull.

  I could sense Arthur looking at me.

  “Everything all right, Albert?”

  I forced a smile and place the note in my pocket. “Perfectly. Just a reminder that the performance begins at seven and we shouldn’t tarry.”

  I could tell that Arthur didn’t truly believe me, but regardless we got up to leave. I made to give Antonelli a tip, but Arthur held me back with a gentle hand on my arm and a firm look.

  As we made our way out to the street, I asked why he had stopped me. “He would have taken it as an insult, Albert. A gentleman never tips, nor do those who wait upon him expect him to do so.”

  The driver was waiting for us outside, and it would have been a short ride to the Lyceum if there hadn’t been so much traffic.

  “Isn’t it marvellous?” Ann said. “Richard said that the theatre is packed every night!”

  “Oh?” I asked. “Mansfield, you mean? And when did he say that?”

  I could see Ann catching herself slightly and was surprised to hear Amy speak up.

  “The other night at our party. You remember, Arthur? He was bragging about how successful the play had been.”

  “I wouldn’t recall,” Arthur said. “I try to forget anything that a fool says after they say it.”

  “You don’t care for Richard very much, do you, Arthur?” asked Ann.

  I could feel Arthur rising to the occasion, but Amy caught him by his arm.