Whitechapel

by Sam Gafford

“The character of Agnes. She wasn’t in the book.”

  Mansfield waved his hand in dismissal. “Sometimes one must change a novel in order to fit the demands of the stage. Besides, adding Agnes brings a romantic element to the story that”—he turned to Ann and Amy—“the ladies seem to appreciate.”

  “You do not think that women would feel sympathy for Jekyll if he was not in love then? That would seem to imply that their ability to feel is limited.”

  “Now, Albert,” Amy said, “I’m sure that Richard means nothing of the sort.”

  Mansfield turned away from me and focused entirely on Amy and Ann. “Of course not. So, my dears, how much did you enjoy the play?”

  The ladies proceeded to lay praise on Mansfield for several minutes, during which time Arthur and I were entirely ignored. I had endured nearly as much as I could stand when there was a knock on the door and Bram Stoker entered the room.

  “Richard, might I have a word? Oh, excuse me.”

  Arthur quickly grabbed the opportunity. “Quite all right, Bram. We were just getting ready to leave. Amy?”

  Reluctantly, the ladies took our arms and followed us out of the room.

  We had barely reached the end of the hallway when we could hear voices being raised in argument. I clearly heard, at one point, Mansfield’s voice saying, “Closed? What the devil are you talking about?”

  I tried not to smile as we left the theatre.

  *

  The coach was waiting, and soon we were on our way back to Arthur’s house. Amy and Ann were excitedly discussing the play, going over certain scenes and lines (all of which, I noticed, featured Mansfield). Both Arthur and I tried to keep up in the conversation, but neither of our hearts were in it. Through the ride back, Arthur kept avoiding my gaze.

  When we pulled up in front of his house, I got out to help Arthur and Amy but mostly to try to have a word with Arthur. He could see this and said, simply, “Tomorrow, Albert. Come early . . . please.”

  With that, he disappeared into the house and left me standing alone on the silent street.

  The ride home passed quietly. I was in a state of nervous confusion, while Ann seemed to be completely overcome by the play.

  Eventually, feeling the weight of the silence, I finally said, “You seemed to enjoy the play?”

  She smiled, but I did not feel that the smile was for me.

  “Oh, yes! It was even more amazing the second time! Didn’t you think so?”

  For some reason, I felt that I needed to downplay my reaction. It was truly an incredible play and Mansfield had been brilliant in the role; but, oddly, I didn’t want to let Ann know how I felt.

  “It was good. Perhaps a trifle melodramatic, but I suppose that is how such things are. What did you think of the plot? That two men could reside in one body? Do you believe that?”

  She nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, very much so. Don’t you? That one man could be both saint and sinner?”

  “I suppose so. It is the ultimate question, after all. But Stevenson’s novel was more about someone trying to cut his evil side away, leaving only the good.”

  “But in order to do that, the evil must exist first. So isn’t it really saying that everyone has the capacity for good and evil? That each one of us is capable of great evil.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  Ann looked at me—I could not tell what emotion she was feeling. Her face was as blank as a clean sheet of paper, waiting to be written upon.

  “I do, Albert. With all my heart, I do.”

  I should have pressed her on this issue. I should have reached out to her and held her in my arms. I should have compelled her to tell me what was happening with her.

  But I did none of those things.

  We sat in silence for the rest of the ride. She stared at her hands and I looked out the window of the coach.

  Years later, I would recognise that in everyone’s life there are moments of great importance—moments where your future is determined by actions or inactions. You can trace threads back through your life to an exact instance when your life was cast for good or ill.

  This was one of those moments.

  I said nothing.

  And now I am old and alone and Ann is long dead and the world thinks it knows the story of Jack the Ripper. But, like myself that night, it knows nothing.

  Chapter 44

  Go where we may, rest where we will,

  Eternal London haunts us still.

  —Thomas Moore

  We spoke little after getting home. The cabman took off quickly, as if he couldn’t wait to be rid of us, and the house was dark and quiet. Ann made an excuse of being tired and went to bed. Gone already were the nights of long talks by the fire or sharing secrets surrounded by stolen pies and cakes.

  My steps were heavy as I climbed the stairs. The night hadn’t gone wrong, but it had been nothing like what I had originally envisioned. I undressed and went to bed, hoping that the oblivion of sleep would chase everything away.

  *

  September 13, 1888

  That night, my dreams were vague and unsettled. I recall scenes of wandering through the streets of Whitechapel, searching desperately for something or someone. Faces leapt at me from out of the darkness, laughing or screaming. I saw Mansfield, alternating between Jekyll and Hyde. The two faces of Arthur Machen shifted from one side of my vision to the other, merging into a single visage. I saw Mary Kelly laughing and taunting as she placed something vile and rotten inside Ann that caused her to change and her body to twist as if on a torture rack. And still I searched as a feeling grew and grew within me that, no matter how desperately I flung myself through the streets, I was already too late.

  In the morning, I arose slowly. Despite the unnerving nature of my dreams, I was loath to leave the comfort of sleep. Eventually I made my toilet and dressed. The house was quiet as I ventured downstairs. Mrs. Hutchins heard me coming and met me in the dining room with a strong cup of coffee.

  Her voice made a feeble attempt to sound cheerful, but I did not believe it.

  “Good morning, Mr. Albert. Shall I get you some breakfast?”

  “No, no thank you, Mrs. Hutchins. I’m afraid I don’t have much of an appetite.”

  “Still full from your fancy dinner then?” She smiled, and I tried to smile back.

  “Actually, I have to be on my way. I’m meeting Arthur early.”

  I was about to leave when there was a knock on the door. Mrs. Hutchins opened it, to reveal a street urchin on the doorstep. He handed her a letter and scampered off quickly.

  “It’s for you, Mr. Albert,” she said and gave me the envelope. My name was hastily scrawled on the front.

  Inside was a short note from Arthur.

  Meet me at inquest. All will be explained.

  —Arthur

  I grimaced and put the note into my pocket.

  “Bad news, Mr. Albert?”

  “Hmm? Oh, no, Mrs. Hutchins. Just more plots and complications. Do you know, Mrs. Hutchins, I never thought I’d say this, but I actually miss fishing. There is something about its simplicity that is very appealing to me right now.”

  I was about to leave when I was brought up short by Mrs. Hutchins. “Mr. Albert?”

  “Yes?” I was lost in thought.

  “Do you know this is the first time since you’ve lived here, when you’ve gotten up for your day and haven’t asked about Miss Ann?”

  I looked at her. A sadness passed between us. “Yes. Yes, I suppose it is.”

  Then I was down the steps and off to the inquest.

  *

  The third day of the inquest into the murder of Annie Chapman was convened at the Working Lads Institute on Whitechapel Road. This was the same place where I had attended Polly Nichols’ inquest, but this time the building was full.

  I elbowed my way in and was able to get inside before the doors were closed. The room was unbearably warm despite the coolness of the air outside. It was like being in a furnace in
the middle of a snowstorm.

  People were talking excitedly. Rumours were flying about what was going to happen and whether they’d caught the killer yet and why weren’t the police doing more? I looked around the room but couldn’t find Arthur. I did see Abberline, and he saw me as well. He nodded politely and looked back to the crowd. I was reminded of his remark that “killers return to the scene” and wondered if that was what he was looking for and if that was why he had been looking at me.

  The inquest started slowly. I could never understand why such things always took so long. Most of the time, it was just a reiteration of what was already known.

  Inspector Chandler was up first.

  He told how he had been summoned by men running from 29 Hanbury and went back to find the body. He described having the victim taken to the mortuary and finding a piece of coarse muslin, a small toothcomb, and a pocket hair comb in a case near the body and a torn piece of envelope near her head containing two pills and with the letter “M” written on it. There was a seal on the back of the envelope, embossed in blue, with the words, “Sussex Regiment.” This seemed to catch the attention of the gallery, as there was much whispering about it.

  Chandler testified that the body had been brought to the mortuary. That brought some disdain from the coroner.

  “The fact is,” he said, “that Whitechapel does not possess a mortuary. The place is not a mortuary at all. We have no right to take a body there. It is simply a shed belonging to the workhouse officials. Juries have over and over again reported the matter to the District Board of Works. The East End, which requires mortuaries more than anywhere else, is most deficient. Bodies drawn out of the river have to be put in boxes, and very often they are brought to this workhouse arrangement all the way from Wapping. A workhouse inmate is not the proper man to take care of a body in such an important matter as this.”

  The jury foreman stood up and called attention to the fact that a fund to provide a reward had been opened by residents in the neighbourhood, and that Mr. Montagu, M.P., had offered a reward of £100. He said that information might be more forthcoming if the Government also offered a reward.

  This brought out much response from the gallery, as people shouted cries of shame at the Government. The coroner quieted them by repeated strikes of his gavel on his desk.

  “I do not speak with any real knowledge,” he said, “but I am told that the Government have determined not to give any rewards in future, not with the idea of economising but because the money does not get into right channels.”

  The audience howled expletives at this, but the coroner continued.

  There had previously been criticism of how Annie’s body had been handled, and the coroner seemed unwilling to let it go. Going back to Inspector Chandler, he asked about a handkerchief that the victim had been wearing.

  “Did you see the handkerchief taken off the body?” asked the coroner.

  “I did not,” Chandler answered. “The nurses must have taken it off the throat.”

  “How do you know?” the coroner asked, his frustration rising.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then you are guessing?”

  “I am guessing.”

  With a loud, dramatic sigh, the coroner turned to the jury. “This is all wrong, you know. He is really not the proper man to have been left in charge.”

  Chandler was excused and a lodging-house deputy was recalled who identified the handkerchief as belonging to Annie. I felt a slight nudge on my right arm and turned to find Arthur standing there. He raised a finger to silence me and then pointed to the front where Dr. George Baxter Phillips, divisional-surgeon to the police, was preparing to give testimony.

  The crowd knew him and knew that, at last, they would hear what they had come here for—the grisly details of the murder.

  Phillips was impeccably dressed although in a style of several years past. He looked as if he were walking into Parliament rather than an inquest. From the beginning, however, he had an air of a man who did not want to be there. His answers were short and to the point, avoiding any explanations or theories.

  After a brief mention of being summoned to Hanbury Street, Phillips launched into a description of the body as he first discovered it.

  “I found the body of the deceased lying in the yard on her back, on the left hand of the steps that lead from the passage. The head was about six inches in front of the level of the bottom step, and the feet were towards a shed at the end of the yard. The left arm was across the left breast, and the legs were drawn up, the feet resting on the ground, and the knees turned outwards. The face was swollen and turned on the right side, and the tongue protruded between the front teeth, but not beyond the lips; it was much swollen. The small intestines and other portions were lying on the right side of the body on the ground above the right shoulder, but attached. There was a large quantity of blood, with a part of the stomach above the left shoulder.”

  Then followed more complaining by Phillips and the coroner about the poor state of what passed for a mortuary, after which Phillips gave some more details of Annie’s body.

  “The throat had been severed. The incisions of the skin indicated that they had been made from the left side of the neck on a line with the angle of the jaw, carried entirely round and again in front of the neck, and ending at a point about midway between the jaw and the sternum or breast bone on the right hand. There were two distinct clean cuts on the body of the vertebrae on the left side of the spine. They were parallel to each other, and separated by about half an inch. The muscular structures between the side processes of bone of the vertebrae had an appearance as if an attempt had been made to separate the bones of the neck. There are various other mutilations of the body, but I am of opinion that they occurred subsequently to the death of the woman and to the large escape of blood from the neck.”

  The crowd had been silent. The only sound was that of the reporters hurriedly scribbling away in their notebooks.

  Phillips paused and looked up from his notes. His face was ashen and grey.

  “I am entirely in your hands, sir,” Dr. Phillips said, “but is it necessary that I should describe the further mutilations? From what I have said I can state the cause of death.”

  The coroner, rather surprised, responded with, “The object of the enquiry is not only to ascertain the cause of death, but the means by which it occurred. Any mutilation which took place afterwards may suggest the character of the man who did it. Possibly you can give us the conclusions to which you have come respecting the instrument used.”

  “You don’t wish for details,” Phillips shot back. “I think if it is possible to escape the details it would be advisable. The cause of death is visible from injuries I have described.”

  “You have kept a record of them?”

  “I have.”

  “Supposing anyone is charged with the offence, he would have to come out then, and it might be a matter of comment that the same evidence was not given at the inquest.”

  “I am entirely in your hands.”

  The coroner was not pleased with that response and made that clear.

  “We will postpone that for the present. You can give your opinion as to how the death was caused.”

  “From these appearances I am of opinion that the breathing was interfered with previous to death, and that death arose from syncope, or failure of the heart’s action, in consequence of the loss of blood caused by the severance of the throat.”

  The coroner dramatically made a note of this and then moved to: “Was the instrument used at the throat the same as that used at the abdomen?”

  “Very probably. It must have been a very sharp knife, probably with a thin, narrow blade, and at least six to eight inches in length, and perhaps longer.”

  “Is it possible that any instrument used by a military man, such as a bayonet, would have done it?”

  “No; it would not be a bayonet.”

  This caused some slight murmuring from the ga
llery.

  “Would it have been such an instrument as a medical man uses for post-mortem examinations?”

  Dr. Phillips could see the accusation hidden in that question and rushed to dismiss it. “The ordinary post-mortem case perhaps does not contain such a weapon.”

  “Would any instrument that slaughterers employ have caused the injuries?”

  Phillips considered for a moment and replied, “Yes; well ground down.”

  “Would the knife of a cobbler or of any person in the leather trades have done?”

  Phillips was getting annoyed with the coroner’s dogged insistence on the questions. “I think the knife used in those trades would not be long enough in the blade.”

  The coroner paused for effect. Finally he said, “Was there any anatomical knowledge displayed?”

  “I think there was. There were indications of it. My own impression is that anatomical knowledge was only less displayed or indicated in consequence of haste. The person evidently was hindered from making a more complete dissection in consequence of the haste.”

  The audience gasped. Phillips had just suggested that the killer was a doctor.

  The coroner continued. “Was the whole of the body there?”

  “No; the absent portions being from the abdomen.”

  “Are those portions such as would require anatomical knowledge to extract?”

  “I think the mode in which they were extracted did show some anatomical knowledge.” Again the veiled accusation of the murderer having medical knowledge.

  “You do not think they could have been lost accidentally in the transit of the body to the mortuary?”

  “I was not present at the transit. I carefully closed up the clothes of the woman. Some portions had been excised.”

  “How long had the deceased been dead when you saw her?”

  “I should say at least two hours, and probably more; but it is right to say that it was a fairly cold morning, and that the body would be more apt to cool rapidly from its having lost the greater portion of its blood.”

  “Was there any evidence of a struggle?”

  “No; not about the body of the woman. You do not forget the smearing of blood about the palings.”