Whitechapel

by Sam Gafford

  I closed the door and went back to my own bed, where I lay quietly in my despair.

  September 16, 1888

  Suddenly there was the sound of footsteps fairly running down the stairs, and I jumped awake. But, as quickly as I could grab my coat and stumble out my door, Ann was already out and gone. To Mrs. Hutchins’ astonishment, I bolted by her (muttering my apologies) and ran outside.

  Down the street, I could just barely see Ann stepping up into a hansom cab. From that distance, I could not tell if she were alone. Due to the early hour, I could not find a cab, so had to watch as hers drove off into the distance. It was small comfort to note that it was heading for the East End.

  Lost in my own thoughts, I walked to St. Jude’s church. By the time I finally arrived, the service was nearly over. Positioning myself across the street, I watched the meagre group of parishioners file out into the morning sun.

  Ann was not one of them.

  Wherever she had gone, it was not to church.

  I wandered for a time then, searching the crowds and looking for her face. It gradually dawned upon me that I was also watching for another face without even realising it: Stephens. Gull had tasked me to find Stephens. Although I did not feel obliged to step quickly to that quest, I could hardly help it if Stephens happened across my path.

  As I walked through the streets of Whitechapel, I noticed that there were people whom I now recognised. We’d pass a quick greeting or nod of recognition and then move along. It concerned me that I was becoming more comfortable in the East End than I was in my own neighbourhood.

  I eventually found myself back at the Ten Bells, where I stopped for a drink and something to eat. The exertion had begun to wear on me, and I could feel hunger weakening my every step. As I ate my lunch (a meagre sandwich of beef and mustard), I heard a familiar voice behind me calling my name. I turned around and was amazed to see a much bruised Netley standing there with a broad smile on his face.

  “Oy, Guv’nor,” he said in a voice close to mocking, “care to stand an old mate for a pint?”

  I felt my own face widen into a smile and happily clapped his arm. I noticed that he winced but was trying to hide it.

  “Netley!” I cried. “Absolutely! Come up here and join me. Landlord! A pint of my friend here.”

  Despite the barman’s obvious distaste for Netley, he poured the glass and took my coin. I was overjoyed to see the little man still on his feet, although I could see that he moved more stiffly and slowly than before. I had not seen him since I crawled out of the opium den with the Gaffer at my heels. I’d wondered what had become of him but honestly had never made much effort to find out.

  “Where have you been?” I asked. “What happened to you that night at Ah Sing’s?”

  He motioned for me to lower my voice. “Careful, sir,” he said, “that’s not a name you should be throwing about like that and all. Truth be told, I thought you would be rather cross with me after that night.”

  I was confused. “Why would I be angry?”

  “Well, on account o’ my leaving you like that. I’m powerfully sorry about that, sir, but the Gaffer really left me no choice. He’d tracked us there. Don’t ask me how: I ain’t sussed that out yet, but he did. When you went inside, he attacked me on my coach. The bastard pulled me right off of it and threw me to the ground, he did. Then he beat me until I was nearly out of my wits. All that time, though, he never asked me where you were. ’Cause he already knew, you see?”

  I nodded. The Gaffer’s presence that night had told me it was not accidental. He’d come looking for Cohen and me because someone told him that we would be there.

  “I was near dead when he picks me up, see? Plants me back on my coach and warns me not to come back. Then he smacks my horse, who takes off like a comet. It was all I could do not to fall off and rein him in. When I did, I could hear you blowing your whistle and then someone blowing the police whistle a bit later. I’m ashamed to say that I did not come back for you, sir. I’d have been dead in me grave if’n I had.”

  “It’s all right,” I said and gave Netley a forgiving pat on the shoulder. He winced again but did not turn away. Instead, he smiled and took a large swig of his ale. “I don’t blame you,” I went on. “The Gaffer would have killed you. He very nearly killed me and several constables as well. He did kill the man I was looking for, though.”

  Netley nodded glumly. “Aye, I did hear that. Sympathies. But you see, that ain’t the end of it. The Gaffer got sprung all right and he’s still hiding here in Whitechapel. He ain’t left because he’s looking for you.”

  I felt a shiver run through me. “Me? Why me? Are you sure?”

  “Sure as blood. Some of its business, to be sure, but a lot o’ it is personal. He’s got a powerful hate on for you, sir. It’s best you stay clear of here for a while.”

  I considered this. Part of me desperately wanted to take Netley’s advice. Perhaps I could convince Ann just to run away with me, even to Cornwall if need be. But I’d come too far. Beyond just getting to the bottom of whatever Ann was up to, I had pledged myself to Gull and I was guessing that he was not a man who took well to being disappointed. Then there was the whole Arthur business as well. Whatever the outcome, I couldn’t leave London just then. I couldn’t even leave Whitechapel. Too many clues were here.

  “How do you know this?” I asked.

  “A man keeps his ears open and his eyes sharp,” he responded. “Mind you, the Gaffer would be happy to lay his hands upon me again as well, I’m sure. But it’s you he’s been asking about and looking for. I’d advise a ‘Bank Holiday’ for you, meself.”

  I shook my head. “Can’t be done, I’m afraid. There’s too much left unfinished. I’ll watch my step, but I’d appreciate a warning if you hear anything more.”

  I quietly slipped Netley a coin, and he gave a nod of understanding.

  My throat had suddenly gone dry, so I finished my glass and made to leave.

  “Would you be needing a lift, sir?” he said. “Got my coach right outside. No charge.”

  Something about that sounded ‘off’ to me, so I declined. “I need the walk,” I said and shook his hand before leaving.

  I couldn’t be sure where Netley, or anyone else for that matter, stood. I began to see plots and schemes everywhere.

  Walking down Commercial Street, I mixed through the crowd. Evening was beginning to fall and the day labourers were coming to drink away the dust and dirt of their work. As I walked, people bumped me back and forth a little more harshly than I thought necessary. Something told me there were too many people on the street and that, even at this time of night, this was oddly frenetic. I pushed my way through the throngs of babbling figures until I reached the sidewalk and the cool brick of a warehouse building.

  Looking back across the street, I thought I saw something moving in the shadows of the alley opposite. My pulse quickened. Had the Gaffer found me so quickly? I made ready to run when I saw two small figures peer out from the darkness and directly at me.

  At first I thought that they were children because they were so short. At most, they were perhaps three feet tall. They wore clothes that looked ill-fitting, and they were clearly uncomfortable in them. If pressed, I would have said that they were men; but I made that assumption based solely on the style of clothes they wore: shirts, pants, coats, and pieces of leather that could have once been called shoes.

  But it was their faces that struck me the most. They were filled with the most incredible hatred imaginable. Loathing poured from their eyes and mouths like blood from a dying man. It was a most powerful hatred, and it was directly solely at me.

  Upon realising that I had spotted them, they leaped back into the shadows and disappeared. Within seconds, the alley was as empty as if they had never been there at all.

  Chapter 50

  I had neither kith nor kin in England, and was therefore as free as air—or as free as an income of eleven shillings and sixpence a day will permit a man to be.
Under such circumstances, I naturally gravitated to London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained.

  —Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

  I trudged back home but kept a nervous watch in the alleys and streets around me. I even walked as close to the street as possible to prevent someone reaching out from a hiding place and grabbing me; but then I realised that I was making it easier for someone to pull up in a cab and seize me just the same. I was seeing danger all about me. Even the thought of hiring a hansom frightened me: how could I know the driver had not been bribed by the Gaffer or some other villain? I wanted to run home and hide within my room, crouched in a corner where no one could reach me.

  It was nearly 9 p.m. by the time I returned home. Mrs. Hutchins informed me that Ann had returned earlier that afternoon and then gone back out. She was, to use my landlady’s words, “not acting herself.”

  I took a position in the parlour chair and turned it towards the door. Despite my vow to stay awake, the weariness of the day overcame me, and near about 1 a.m. I fell asleep. Around 5 a.m., I jumped awake, startled by some nightmare I can no longer recall. I quickly went upstairs, but Ann was not in her room. Her bed was cold and looked as if it had lain empty all night. Frustration welled up inside me, but I could do nothing to dispel it.

  The paper had said that the inquest into Polly Nichols’ murder was scheduled to reconvene, and it seemed the perfect place to be.

  *

  The Working-Lad’s Institute on Whitechapel Road was crowded, but not as much as it had been previously. I guessed that, as time wore on, the murder became less consequential. So quickly are serious matters forgotten.

  Taking a seat, I looked around and was surprised that I could not see Arthur in the audience. Nor did I see Abberline. Perhaps I had overestimated the importance of the inquest.

  But I barely had time to dwell on that when the coroner burst into the room with the air of a man in a desperate hurry to be somewhere, anywhere, else.

  Dr. Llewellyn was recalled, only to report that he had re-examined Nichols’ body and had determined that no viscera were missing from the corpse. Personally, I found that to be a very interesting statement both in the conclusion stated and the underlying thought that had prompted it.

  Next was a parade of poor residents of the East End who really had little to add to the case. Mostly, they seemed desirous of snatching a bit of fame for themselves that would, no doubt, fuel their drinking stories for years to come.

  It started to get interesting when Abberline arrived, and the next witness was one of the two men who had found the body. Robert Paul, a man of horribly ugly features, testified that he had been walking to work when another man stopped him and brought him over to look at the body. The other man thought he had detected a heart-beat, but it was very faint. Together they walked to Montague Street, where they informed a policeman not four minutes later. Before finding the body, he had not seen anyone running from the scene.

  Next came the mortuary attendants, who proceeded to give bland testimony about the time of the body’s arrival and their steps afterward to clean it. Even Coroner Baxter seemed fed up with it all by this point.

  “We cannot do more,” he said. Then, looking at the police specifically, he noted, “There was a man who passed down Buck’s Row when the doctor was examining the body. Have you heard anything of him?”

  Abberline stood. “We have not been able to find him. Inspector Spratley, J Division, stated he had made inquiries in Buck’s Row, but not at all the houses.”

  “Then that will have to be done.”

  Abberline nodded and made some notes in his pad.

  After a brief list of other witnesses the coroner thought would have been called but weren’t because they had nothing new to offer, he glared at the police.

  “Is there any other evidence?” he grumbled.

  “No, not at present,” answered another one of the detectives whom I did not recognise.

  The coroner looked as frustrated as everyone else felt. The foreman of the jury stood and cleared his throat. “I would have thought,” he began, “that had a reward been offered by the Government after the murder in George Yard, well, it’s very probable that the two later murders wouldn’t have happened. It doesn’t matter who got the money so long as they could have allowed us to put hands on this monster in our midst. Everyone is frightened over it. Now we have all these murders unsolved!”

  “Well,” the coroner droned, “the first murder was the worst and that attracted the least attention.”

  No one seemed to understand what he meant by that.

  “I’d happily give twenty-five pounds from my own pocket,” the foreman said. “I’d hope that the Government would do no less. These poor people had souls like everyone else.”

  The crowd began mumbling in agreement, and a current of anger was starting to rise.

  Banging his gavel for quiet, the coroner replied, “It is my understanding that there are no rewards to be offered any more for any case. It matters not whether the victims were rich or poor. There was no surety that a rich person would not be the next.”

  “If that should be,” the foreman replied, “then there will be a large reward.”

  The crowd cheered their agreement with this. All along, the East End had felt that if the victims had been rich women murdered in their beds, then no expense would be spared to bring the killer to the gallows.

  The same policeman who had spoken earlier tried to shout above the clamor. “Rewards have been discontinued for years! Years now!”

  Coroner Baxter pounded on his desk, but the crowd would not be silenced.

  “Bah!” he said bitterly. “I’m adjourning this inquest until Saturday. I’ll present my summation and we will send the matter to the jury then, although I can’t believe that there will be but one conclusion here.”

  With that, Baxter was out the back door and the police began pushing the people out the exits. I mixed in with the crowds and hoped that Abberline hadn’t spotted me.

  *

  I made it to the street and walked along as quickly as I could. I don’t know why I felt so afraid of being seen, but events of the last few days had left me feeling as exposed as a nerve on a tooth. My feet eventually found their way to more familiar streets and I realised that I was on my way to The Brothers’ shop. Shamefully, I had trouble remembering the last time I had been to work. But then I recalled my encounter with Gull and knew that I was not the only one who had reasons to feel ashamed.

  Even though I was nervous, I quickly determined that, at least in this, I would have some sort of resolution.

  The shop was empty when I walked in, and I thought that it might actually be closed. Soon, however, Wendell’s round head appeared from behind a stack of books. A smile broke out on his face involuntarily but was quickly replaced with a grimace of guilt.

  “Albert!” he said, trying to sound nonchalant. “It’s you! Are you feeling better?”

  “Yes,” I said while I attempted to smile in return. “Much better.”

  I stepped forward and shook his hand, but it felt tentative and unsure.

  “Excellent, excellent. So happy to hear it. Ah, Robert is out on an errand, but I’m sure he’ll be happy to hear it as well.”

  Pulling a chair up, I sat down and looked at Wendell very seriously.

  “Actually, I came in to see if you’ve been able to arrange my ‘meeting’ with the prince.”

  I did not think it was possible for Wendell to become any more pale than he normally was, but he did.

  “Ah, ah, yes, about that,” he said, “well, you see, the problem is . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, the thing is . . . there was another party and, um, he . . .”

  Whatever pleasure I thought I would derive from this encounter was nothing like what I was seeing. I was actually feeling sorry for Wendell and guilty at having caused him such discomfort. After all, in the whole busi
ness with the consulting detective, Mason, Wendell was my only ally. I had to put an end to this.

  “Wendell, I know about Dr. Gull. He sent for me the day after I asked you and Robert for an audience with the prince. I confess that I have not thought fondly of you both for that.”

  Wendell’s discomfort only increased.

  “Oh, Albert, I’m so sorry! I promise you, we did not betray your trust. It was Gull himself who came to us shortly after you left the diary here. It was as if he knew it was here and everything that happened. He pressured us and, I’m sorry to say, we told him all we knew of the sad affair. He claimed he had come at the behest of the princess, so we could not refuse when he took the diary with him. Then he wanted to know where you lived, and to my eternal shame we told him.”

  Hanging his head, his voice grew soft.

  “I had no idea what to do, Albert. I—I’m just a bookseller. I know nothing of such things. And now, now I fear that this will cost us our reputation and business. As you can see, we are not overwhelmed with customers.”

  “I do see. I’m sorry, Wendell. I understand why you did what you did, but I hope you will understand that I can no longer work here because of it. This . . . ‘situation’ is no longer tenable, I fear, for any of us. I will, of course, work until you can find a replacement.”

  “That’s very good of you, Albert. It makes me very sad that things have come to such a pass. In truth, I had hopes of training you to have a larger part of the business one day, but I understand your meaning. Would that we had never come to receive such ‘royal’ attention! But we are all just subjects after all.”

  I smiled. For all that had happened, I had a great deal of affection for Wendell and I would have liked to have worked for him for many years. But now my trust had been shattered, as he well knew, and I could not risk that someday he might give me up again for whatever reason.