by Sam Gafford
“Ah, yes, well, you are in Charing Cross Hospital, and my name is Dr. Thomas Webb. You’ve been with us a couple of days. I know it doesn’t feel like it to you, but you’re actually making splendid progress!”
“I am?” is what I tried to say, but the result sounded as if my mouth were full of pebbles. Apparently Dr. Webb was well used to deciphering such sounds.
“Oh, my, yes! Why, when you came in, you were practically one large bruise! Now I’m happy to see that your swelling has gone down a great deal and, in another day or two, you should be able to speak clearly and walk about on your own.”
I found this hard to believe, as my body was nothing but pain.
“The bulk of your injuries were to the soft tissue of your body. This resulted in a great deal of pain, and quite monstrous bruises, but little permanent damage. You did have a cracked rib on your right side which we’ve bound up for you, and you will have to be careful of that. No extreme exertion! Rest is what is called for and plenty of it. Sadly, we won’t be able to allow you to do that here.”
My confusion must have been clear, as Dr. Webb was quick to explain his remark.
Softly, confidentially, he said, “There is a constable posted outside your door. There has been one since you were brought in. They were told that, when you woke up, you were to be brought to Inspector Abberline for questioning. I was able to get them to agree to wait until tomorrow, but I am afraid they will not wait any longer than that. He is most insistent upon seeing you.”
“How . . . how long?”
“How long have you been out? Well, today is September twenty-seventh, if that helps.”
A week. I’d lost a week.
“You came to us three days ago, already unconscious. We had some concerns that you might not wake up at all, but your Welsh friend never doubted it for a moment.”
“Arthur? He was here?”
The doctor nodded and continued to examine my various wounds and bandages.
“Oh, my, yes, he’s been here every day since you were admitted. Very dutiful friend, he is.”
“Was,” I gulped harshly, “a woman here?”
He looked at me strangely. “A woman visitor, you mean? No, I’m afraid not. Just your Welsh friend.”
I felt my hope drain away.
“Now here’s the nurse with some plain broth for you. Drink as much of it as you can and then try and get some rest.”
He moved to walk away, but I reached out for him. “Doctor, I . . . I can’t afford this. I can’t pay your bill.”
The man smiled broadly as if the thought had never even occurred to him. “No need to worry about that, Mr. Besame. Your entire stay has been paid for in advance.”
Instead of comforting me, this made me even more nervous.
“Paid? By whom?”
“Why by Dr., I mean, Sir William Gull, of course. He’s consulted with me on every step of your treatment. You’re quite fortunate, Mr. Besame. Few people outside of the royal family can claim him as their physician.”
I had to get out of here as quickly as possible.
Chapter 59
Flight usually intensifies the very thing one flees and establishes a special intimacy with it.
—Thomas Moore
September 28, 1888
I awoke to find Arthur sitting nervously by my bedside. He smiled when I addressed him, but it was a tired smile all the same.
“It’s good to see you awake, Albert. Dr. Webb says that he was very concerned when they brought you in.”
I tried to move around a bit. My body ached slightly less than the day before, so I took that to be encouraging.
“Arthur, I’m glad to see you too. Just who was it who brought me to hospital?”
He shifted rather uncomfortably in his chair. “From what I understand, you were brought in an ambulance by the police. I only found out about it on Wednesday when Fred Abberline notified me by messenger. I came right away, of course, but there was little to do but bind your wounds and hope you would come out of it. Albert, you took a terrible beating. Who did this to you? What happened?”
I quickly hushed Arthur, for I could see that the door was open and the constable on duty outside was paying strict attention to our conversation. I didn’t want to say too much in front of the man before I could decide what I wanted Abberline to know.
“I was kidnapped by the Gaffer,” I said, thinking that was safe enough to divulge. “He wanted revenge for my getting him arrested. They shot him dead when they rescued me.”
A look of horror passed over Arthur, and I could not tell if it was just because of what I had told him.
“When you didn’t return home last week,” Arthur said, “Mrs. Hutchins alerted me and I, in turn, alerted Abberline. He’s had men out looking for you, but I had no idea where you’d been found.”
“Arthur,” I whispered, “what about Ann? What did she say?”
He leaned back in his chair. “Oh, she was very concerned as well. Or, at least, that was the appearance she gave to Sergeant Godley, who came by and questioned her. I’m not sure if I believe her or not.”
“Dr. Webb says that she did not visit me here.”
He looked off to the side. “No, she did not.”
There was something unsaid there, but I let it drop.
“Fred wants to see you today, but Dr. Gull has forbidden him from pestering you with questions. Therefore we should go there immediately after you eat some breakfast.”
Arthur wheeled a small tray over to me. I ate some cold eggs and toast with little enthusiasm. After that, I managed to sit up and, between us, got myself dressed and ready.
The same nurse came in as I was struggling to walk beyond the bed and nearly exploded with rage. Despite her protests, I made it known that I was leaving the hospital then and there and that, if she really wanted to help me, she would procure a serviceable cane for me to use; otherwise, her presence was not required.
She quickly returned with both a cane and Dr. Webb, who reiterated his recommendations that I stay in bed. I brushed him aside and, just as he was about to compel me back to bed, the P.C. finally spoke up.
“The gentleman prefers to leave, sir, and you’d best not hinder him if he does. I’ve orders to take him right to Inspector Abberline and then, I promise you, he will be escorted home. You may call on him there if you wish to continue treatment. Now, if you don’t mind?”
The constable moved to take my arm, but I waved him off. Together with Arthur, I managed to hobble down the stairs and out a nearby side exit to the street. Amazingly, a police carriage was waiting and we climbed in. The P.C. gave his instructions to the driver and got into the compartment with us. Although, physically, there was room for us all, it was uncomfortable in other ways.
I tried to get Arthur to say if there had been any new developments in the ‘Whitechapel Murderer’ case, but he made it clear that he did not wish to discuss it. Clearly, I was not the only one who didn’t want to talk in front of the silent policeman.
By the time we reached the station, I was already feeling worn out. Seeing this, Arthur helped me out of the carriage and promised that he would see me home once we were done with Abberline. I wasn’t entirely sure that I wanted to go home, but neither did Arthur offer to let me stay with him. Perhaps Abberline had different ideas about my housing needs.
We were led into a private room with a table and a few chairs around it. I settled down uneasily, feeling the bandages around my abdomen tighten as I moved. Arthur sat down next to me and we waited.
When Abberline finally came into the room, I could tell that he had also changed in the last week or so. His face was thinner, and his eyes were sunk deeper into their sockets. Clearly, the case had been wearing on him.
“Well, Albert,” he said in a friendly enough voice, “you’ve looked better!”
He and Arthur chuckled slightly. Any attempt at laughter on my part would have been too painful to manage, so I simply smiled.
“Right, th
en, why don’t you tell me what the devil happened to you?” Abberline took out a pencil and some paper and made notes while I talked.
“It’s not very complicated, Inspector,” I answered. The swelling on my lip had reduced to the point where my words were no longer indecipherable. “I was kidnapped off the street by the Gaffer. He then proceeded to beat and torture me as revenge for what happened at Ah Sing’s opium house.”
“I see. And why was Edwards involved?”
“Apparently they worked together. I had been trying to find a rare book that had been stolen from my employers, you remember. During my imprisonment, Edwards told me that he had been the one who had hired Cohen to steal the book, so that when Cohen went missing and I found him first, it led to the Gaffer’s killing Cohen. Then I recovered the book and returned it to my employers. So, in a way, they both had a score to settle with me.”
Abberline nodded his head and put down his pencil.
“Here’s why I have a problem with that story, Albert. First, Edwards is a facilitator. He’s a ‘go-between’ who works for other people. Second, why’d they keep you alive? That’s not the Gaffer’s style. If this was just about revenge, why didn’t he just knife you right in the street? No one would have stopped him. Why keep you alive for several days?”
“I don’t know, Inspector. You’d have to ask them.”
“As you well know, Albert. I can’t ask the Gaffer. We plopped him down in Potter’s Field two days ago. As for Edwards, well, he’s not saying anything. His barrister’s fair pulling out his hair because Edwards isn’t giving him any kind of defence. He will certainly go down for kidnapping and ‘aggravated bodily harm,’ but that’s nothing to an old con like him. Even Newgate would be a bank holiday for him.
“All that, to me, says that there was someone else involved in this business. Someone who wanted something from you—and that’s why you were taken and beaten.”
I shrugged. “They kept me drugged, Inspector.” That was true enough. “I wasn’t sure where I was or what day it was. If there was another person in the room, they didn’t let me see him.”
Abberline grunted. “And they never asked you any questions?”
“Never.”
“Just beat on you for days for a lark?”
I nodded.
Shaking his head, Abberline made some more notes.
“Anyone else who might want to harm you, Albert? Possibly someone thinking you’re the Whitechapel killer?”
I was stunned. I’d never considered that Abberline would think such a thing.
“No,” I said, “why would he?”
“Perhaps because the two of you are always around? Perhaps because both of you have been spending an awful lot of time in Whitechapel? Your names have come up several times when we’ve questioned people. Someone might have got it into his bright head that one of you was the killer and hired Edwards to beat a confession out of you.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Arthur said.
“Is it? And I suppose no one ever does anything that is ridiculous or stupid? Such as walking through the East End asking lots of questions and acting like detectives when it suits you?”
“If there was a reason for my abduction,” I said, “beyond simple revenge, no one bothered to tell me. The Gaffer, as you know, never needed a reason to beat someone.”
Abberline nodded in agreement.
“Do you know how we found you?” he asked.
“I don’t.”
“We got a tip from an old friend of yours, Albert—a cabbie named Netley. He said you were being held captive beneath the underground. Well, by the time we got there, a whole squad of other bobbies were already there. They handed you to a couple of my men, who brought you to the hospital. We collected Edwards and took him away, but several of my men said that they saw another man, with a sack over his head, being pushed into another coach which drove away as if it were in the races. Now, who do you suppose that other person was?”
“I’ve no idea. I saw no such person.”
“Did you see anything? You were locked up for days and all you can give me is one dead man and another whom we already have!”
“Give the poor lad some space, Fred.” Arthur interrupted. “Look at him. Clearly, he’s lucky to still be alive to tell any sort of tale.”
Abberline gave out a disgusted moan. “Right. I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me. We’ll need you to testify against Edwards so we can send him down for kidnapping and assault. He’ll probably get a couple of years’ vacation ‘at her Majesty’s pleasure’; but then, Albert, he’ll be back here on the streets and probably not with the fondest memories of you. If you come to your senses and decide you want to tell me what really happened in that stone room, let me know.”
Brusquely, Abberline picked up his papers and left the room. We slowly made our way back through the maze of the police station and to the street.
“Let’s get you back home,” Arthur said as he began to hail a cab.
That prospect gave me melancholy thoughts, so I gently lowered his arm.
“If you don’t mind, Arthur, I see that there is a coffee house further up the street. With your help, I think I can make it there. I find myself in need of some rest and a bracing drink. Then, after a bit to eat and away from police and everyone else, I have a story to tell you.”
He nodded with a sombre mien, and we began to walk down the street.
It was a cold day, I remember, with the threat of rain. I’d begun to think that I would never feel warm again if I stayed in London.
Chapter 60
New York, like London, seems to be a cloacina of all the depravities of human nature.
—Thomas Jefferson
After some coffee, a hearty lunch, and as much procrastinating as I could possibly manage, I began to tell Arthur what had really happened to me.
“Some of what I told Abberline was true,” I began, “but only the barest part of it. It is true that I was abducted, but not off the street. I was lured to a particular house in Whitechapel, and when I entered it Edwards knocked me unconscious.”
“Lured?” Arthur asked. “How were you lured?”
My mouth went dry, and I took another gulp of coffee and motioned to the waiter. “I think we should get some stronger stuff than this. We may need it.”
I ordered two large ales and, when they arrived, took up my tale again.
“I had been doing exactly what you had suggested to me, Arthur. I had been following Ann. Both she and Mrs. Hutchins had been acting odd again that morning. In short, I believe that they are pretending to be ‘normal’ and that something else has occurred between them.
“Anyway, Ann left quickly after breakfast and I followed her to Whitechapel, where, after a long journey through many alleys and small streets, she came to a private court and entered a building. Edwards was there waiting for me.”
“You mean Ann knowingly delivered you into his hands?”
I nodded. “I believe so.”
“I can scarcely believe it. Was she under any sign of threat or abuse?”
“None that I could see. I have no idea what her part in all this was: during the length of my captivity, I did not see her again.
“When I awoke, I was tied to a chair and Edwards told me that I had been taken because his ‘employer’ had questions for me.”
“So Fred was right! Edwards and the Gaffer were working for someone else.”
“Yes, and that man’s name was James Kenneth Stephens.”
Arthur drew a blank at the name.
“Stephens was the ‘S’ that Eddy wrote about in his diary.”
I could feel his astonishment.
“So this Stephens was the one who killed Martha Tabram?”
Nodding, I continued. “Yes, and undoubtedly many more. He confessed as much to me over the ensuing days as he questioned me. If I did not answer to his satisfaction, he allowed the Gaffer to beat me.”
Arthur put his head in his hand and le
aned on the table. “I will not shed a tear over the death of that man; but, Albert, I am so sorry for getting you into this mess. It’s all my fault.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, if I hadn’t put you forward to The Brothers for my old position, you wouldn’t have been then when Cohen broke into the store and stole Eddy’s diary.”
I shook my head at him. “No, Arthur, there’s no sense in thinking that way. After all, if I hadn’t tried to jump into the Thames, I wouldn’t have been there for you to rescue in the first place! We can trace all the faults of our mothers and fathers way back to Adam and Eve, and it will not make any difference.”
He smiled but was not relieved. “It is good of you to say so, but I will always feel some responsibility for your situation.”
“That is not as important as why Stephens had me tortured. First, he wanted to know who else knew about the contents of the diary. He was very specific in suspecting you, Arthur, but I did not let on that he was correct. Then Stephens wanted to know who I was working for, and I could not tell them that either.”
“Why not? Others knew you had been working for The Brothers in trying to find that stolen book.”
“Because, in that instance, I was not working for them. After returning the book, I was tasked with the specific duty of locating Stephens in the East End. I suppose I was asking too many impertinent questions in the wrong places, and after discovering I was looking for him Stephens wanted to know why.”
“Why were you? Who sent you to find him?”
“Sir William Withey Gull.”
Arthur sat stunned. I finished my ale and called for another.
“In God’s name, why? Why should Gull care about Stephens at all?”
“Because,” I leaned closer so that the waiter would not hear, “it was he who retrieved Eddy’s diary from The Brothers and, I presume, destroyed it. Although I would not be surprised if he had not hidden it away somewhere in case he should ever need leverage with the Queen. He knew the contents of the diary before anyone, including you or me, ever did. Stephens was a threat to the Empire because of what had been written there. But they had lost track of him and he was hiding in the East End.