Whitechapel

by Sam Gafford

  The second floor had been treated as badly as the first. The carnage continued here and, looking briefly inside my room, I saw that my meagre belongings had been thrown about as if a whirlwind had passed through. I quickly ran over to Ann’s room and found the same situation there. Furniture had been tossed about, but every personal item was gone. It was if Ann had never lived in that room at all. I immediately thought of the hiding place in the closet floor and ran to check it. The space was completely empty. The clay doll, which I now knew was a dhole that Mary (or Ann) had carved to resemble me and steal my identity, was gone. There was nothing left at all. Ann was completely and totally lost.

  Chapter 66

  “These friends”—and he laid his hand on some of the books—“have been good friends to me, and for some years past, ever since I had the idea of going to London, have given me many, many hours of pleasure. Through them I have come to know your great England; and to know her is to love her. I long to go through the crowded streets of your mighty London, to be in the midst of the whirl and rush of humanity, to share its life, its change, its death, and all that makes it what it is.”

  —Bram Stoker

  While tending to Mrs. Hutchins, I enlisted the aid of a neighbour who called for the police and for Mrs. Hutchins’ friend, Dr. Williams. Both arrived quite quickly. With Dr. Williams’ help, I was able to get Mrs. Hutchins back downstairs and on a couch while the constables wandered about from room to room.

  Although still woozy, Mrs. Hutchins soon recovered enough to begin crying and weeping. Dr. Williams tried to calm her down, but her distress was too overpowering.

  “Can you tell us what happened here, ma’am?” asked the P.C.

  “I don’t know, I don’t know! Oh, it’s horrible. Look at my poor home.”

  Dr. Williams tenderly rubbed her hands. His soft voice was the product of decades spent dealing with the ill. “Now, dear, they’re merely things. They can be replaced. What’s the last thing you remember?”

  “I—I was upstairs. I was talking to Miss Ann. She was in her room and she seemed to be very worried and upset about something.”

  “Do you know what she was upset about?” I asked.

  “No, she—she wouldn’t say. She was waiting for you, Mr. Albert. She was waiting for you to come home so she could talk to you.”

  “What time was this, ma’am?” the P.C. asked.

  “Oh, I don’t remember. Around ten a.m., I suppose. You never came home last night, Mr. Albert. She waited!”

  I cursed myself. Here I was bouncing from bar to bar looking for Ann when she had likely been home all that time.

  “There, there, dear, don’t exhaust yourself. Here, drink some of this.” Dr. Williams put a powder in a glass of water, stirred it, and offered it to Mrs. Hutchins. She drank it timidly.

  “All right, then,” the P.C. continued, “you were talking to your other boarder at about ten a.m. And then what happened?”

  Her face grew frightened. “All of a sudden, I felt there was something behind me. I’d been standing in Miss Ann’s doorway and she was sitting on her bed. I hadn’t heard anyone come in or the door open, and you know that I’m very aware of who’s in my house, Doctor!”

  He nodded and patted her hands again.

  “I felt that there was someone behind me. I’d not heard a sound coming up the stairs, but I felt it all the same! I was too petrified to turn around—and then I heard a kind of ‘clicking’ sound and then something hit me and everything went black.”

  She began weeping again and worked herself up to a state that she could scarcely be consoled, even though Dr. Williams was trying his best. Between sobs, Mrs. Hutchins said that was the last thing she knew before being helped down the stairs by Dr. Williams and myself.

  The P.C. turned to me. “Where were you when this all happened?”

  Despite myself, I couldn’t help but grin. “I was at H Division,” I said, “talking to Inspector Abberline. He’ll vouch for my times there.”

  “Oh, Abberline hisself, eh? Well, don’t you rate? When did you get back here?”

  “About an hour ago. I found Mrs. Hutchins upstairs and sent a neighbour for you lot and Dr. Williams. I stayed with her until Dr. Williams showed up, and we brought her down here for her comfort. Then you got here.”

  “I see, I see. Can you tell if anything is missing? I know it’s a bit of a mess, but anything stand out?”

  I shook my head. “Mrs. Hutchins didn’t have much to steal. Her china was probably the most valuable thing here, and you can see that’s been all smashed up.”

  “Nothing missing from your room?”

  “Not so much as I could see. I’m a writer, so I don’t have much in the way of valuables.”

  “I see, I see. And what about this ‘Miss Ann’—anything missing there?”

  “You mean besides Miss Ann herself?”

  The P.C. got rather huffy at that. “Yes, sir, if you please.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t in the habit of going into her room. She is an unmarried woman, after all.”

  The P.C. looked me up and down with an odd look on his face.

  “So what’s all this, then? Place torn up but nothing taken? Women knocked out but not killed. What’s the point of it all?”

  “The ‘point,’ officer, is Miss Ann. I believe she was the target of this attack and has been kidnapped.”

  My statement brought a loud groan from Mrs. Hutchins and further crying.

  “Kidnapped?” the P.C. cried. “For what reason? Did anyone mean her harm?”

  I had an idea but would never have spoken a word of it to this man. As difficult as I had been to convince, speaking of dholes and ‘ceremonies’ would have only served to get me locked up in a mental ward.

  “Miss Ann was, I mean, is a lovely young woman who does not have an enemy in the world. She is a very talented singer.”

  “Oh, one of those, is she? Anyone in that crowd dislike her?”

  To my regret, I gave into one of the few mean impulses of my life.

  “There is one man. You might wish to speak to Mr. Richard Mansfield. He is an actor. I believe that he harboured unsavoury feelings for Ann. He is a most emotional man. If rebuffed, I don’t know how he would react.”

  The P.C. found this to be very interesting and made several notes. I knew that I was exposing Mansfield to undue harassment by the police, but I truly felt no remorse at naming him as a suspect. In my mind, he was getting only what he deserved. If it was not specifically due in Ann’s name, then in some other poor woman’s. Looking back, I know this for what it truly was: an angry act of jealousy.

  Mrs. Hutchins was inconsolable. The thought of Miss Ann being in danger had destroyed any bit of self-composure she had left.

  “If there is nothing further,” Dr. Williams said, “I’d like to give Mrs. Hutchins a sleeping draught to ease her nerves.”

  “That’s fine,” the P.C. said. “I have nothing further for her.”

  Feeling as if I were acting myself, I went up to Mrs. Hutchins and held her hands in mine. “I promise you, Mrs. Hutchins, I will find Ann and bring her home. No harm will come to her.”

  I don’t know if she believed me or not. I know that I didn’t—because, in my heart, I knew that Ann was already lost.

  Chapter 67

  It is difficult to speak adequately or justly of London. It is not a pleasant place; it is not agreeable, or cheerful, or easy, or exempt from reproach. It is only magnificent. You can draw up a tremendous list of reasons why it should be insupportable. The fogs, the smoke, the dirt, the darkness, the wet, the distances, the ugliness, the brutal size of the place, the horrible numerosity of society, the manner in which this senseless bigness is fatal to amenity, to convenience, to conversation, to good manners—all this and much more you may expatiate upon. You may call it dreary, heavy, stupid, dull, inhuman, vulgar at heart and tiresome in form. [. . .] But these are occasional moods; and for one who takes it as I take it, London is on
the whole the most possible form of life. [. . .] It is the biggest aggregation of human life—the most complete compendium of the world.

  —Henry James

  October 1, 1888

  I should have asked Dr. Williams for sleeping medicine myself, because my dreams that night were a chaotic mix of terror and fear. I walked through shadowy streets, at times stalking and at other times being stalked. Always I had the impression of being watched; if I could turn fast enough, I could catch the occasional glimpse of small figures which were a hideous child-sized mockery of life. They would laugh at my fear and delight in my anguish as I ran up and down streets, shouting Ann’s name. Over everything towered the twin spectres of Mary Kelly and Arthur Machen. They were connected in some horrible way which I could not understand—opposite sides of some loathsome, misshaped coin.

  The house was quiet when I made my way downstairs. After the police had left, Dr. Williams and I had done what we could to clean up the mess. Some of the furniture would need to be reupholstered, and the china and other breakables would have to be replaced. The entire place gave me the feeling of something that was familiar on the outside but changed irrevocably on the inside.

  Following the smell of fresh coffee, I found Dr. Williams in the kitchen. It looked as if he had gotten even less sleep than I had and was on the verge of a nervous collapse himself.

  “Physician,” I said, “heal thyself.”

  He turned and gave a half-smile.

  “Ah, would that I could, Albert. I’m afraid that Mrs. Hutchins had a very rough night. She woke up screaming several times. I finally got her to go back to sleep about an hour ago. Just in time for me to hear a newsboy screaming outside. I sped him on his way, but”—he smiled conspiratorially—“not before buying a paper myself. You may find it interesting.”

  He pointed to the paper on the kitchen table. Somehow I knew what it contained, so did not rush to read it. I poured a cup of strong, black coffee and drank a few hardy gulps before sitting down.

  It was a copy of the morning edition of the Daily News, and on the first page was the headline:

  TWO MORE MURDERS AT THE EAST END.

  Below were smaller headlines:

  SHOCKING MUTILATION OF A BODY.

  EXCITING SCENES.

  AN ARREST.

  The arrest appeared to be just some unfortunate man who happened to seem suspicious to others—that was enough to call the police. It was odd how, a day before, I might have leapt at the notice of the arrest as a rational explanation. Now I simply regarded it as just another mistake. Even without knowing any of the particulars, I dismissed it.

  Further in the article, the entire text of the ‘Dear Boss’ letter was printed. I read it through again. Before, I thought it the work of a murderous madman; but now, after speaking to Arthur, it seemed like just another false clue. The papers, however, were eager to jump on it and declare it the writing of the killer, asking anyone who recognised the handwriting to notify the police. This only made me think that Arthur was right, and that it was nothing more than a stunt by a reporter.

  I noticed that Dr. Williams was watching me for a reaction. Having finished my coffee, I poured another cup.

  “So,” Dr. Williams began, “what do you think?”

  I sighed. “I don’t know what to think anymore. Arthur thinks this letter is just a stunt to sell more papers, and I can’t really disagree with him.”

  “But there are two more dead women. You can’t argue with that.”

  The image of the bodies came to the forefront of my mind. “No, I can’t.”

  Dr. Williams did not respond. Silently, we drank our coffee until he finally spoke.

  “Albert, I can’t pretend that I have any idea of what is happening here. I only know that Mrs. Hutchins has been attacked, and I cannot allow that to happen again. I will be taking her to my home to recover once she wakes up. Despite what I know will be her objections, I will take no refusal.”

  “I understand.”

  “And what will you do?”

  I straightened up in my chair, acting as if its support could give weight and seriousness to my words.

  “I am going to find Ann.”

  “I see. Do you have any idea where she is?”

  “I believe”—I had to choose my words carefully, as I did not wish to involve Dr. Williams any more than necessary—“that she has been taken and is somewhere in the East End.”

  “Do you believe her to be in danger?”

  “Yes, I do. Of the most serious nature.”

  “But you do not feel that you can go to the police for help?”

  I stiffened. “I have learned a few things in my time here in London, Dr. Williams, and one of them is that there are areas where the police are powerless to act. In the East End, being a policeman is a detriment. If I am going to find her, I will have to act on my own.”

  “I see. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  In all truth, I did not know any way he could assist; but then again, I had no real idea what I was going to do.

  “I’m afraid not, but I will ask you to keep Mrs. Hutchins safe. I don’t think anyone will come back here, but it is best not to take unnecessary risks.”

  “Why don’t you think he will come back?”

  “Because I think he got what he came here for, and that was Ann. All the destruction was simply misdirection. Ann was the goal. That’s why I can’t sit here and wait for the police to do anything. I have to do something, even if I fail.”

  I stood up and shook Dr. Williams’ hand.

  “I will ask one more thing of you. If, in the future, I have need of you, I will send for you, and you must promise to come at once with no questions or hesitations. I cannot tell you why, nor can I even say that it will ever happen. But I need to know that, if I need you to pull me out of some hell, I can depend upon you.”

  “I give you my word, sir.”

  A few minutes later I walked out of my door. I’d no idea if it was for the last time, but I did know that I was tired of being swept along by other forces. It was time for me to start taking charge. I would begin with Arthur Machen.

  *

  “Where do we go from here?”

  The afternoon was passing. Rose had brought us a cold lunch while we talked in Arthur’s study. Upstairs, Amy was resting. A soft rain had come and gone.

  Arthur was studying the small book that the Beast had given him during our last visit to the Golden Dawn. It seemed several lifetimes ago.

  “Do you believe now, Albert?”

  “Iacta alea est,” I replied.

  Arthur gave a grim smile in return. “‘The die is cast,’” he responded. “Suetonius attributed the quotation to Julius Caesar, uttered before he led his army across the Rubicon—a path that would lead him to conquer Rome. Of course, he was assassinated later, so a hollow victory at best. Let us hope our campaign is more successful.”

  “You were right, Arthur: I’ve seen too much to disbelieve anymore. In any case, Ann is now involved. I don’t have the luxury of being noncommittal. Let Abberline chase his letter-writing fiends. We have to take a more active path.”

  He nodded. “I have been thinking of all the things we’ve learned and the information you have discovered. It is my fear that Martha Tabram was Mary’s apprentice and that she was killed either because she resisted Mary or was part of some larger plan.”

  “But it was the prince and Stephens who killed Tabram, not Mary or your dhole or doppelgänger,” I replied.

  “Yes, but Mary has many agents. There are few true coincidences in the universe.”

  “The killings have increased in ferocity. The first one the other night would have been far worse if I hadn’t interrupted the creature at his work. The second one was far worse, doubtless because I had frustrated it earlier.”

  Arthur flipped through the papers on his desk. “The newspapers have already identified the victims. The first was Liz Stride and the second was Catherine Eddowes. Both un
fortunates. No doubt Abberline is busily compiling witness statements and suspects.”

  “You still believe the letter to be a false?”

  “I do. There are several reporters I could name who would concoct such a thing. It’s meant to sell papers. What would anyone gain from writing such a thing?”

  “Terror? Frighten the entire city?” I responded, even though I truly had no clue.

  “For what purpose?”

  “Perhaps that is the purpose. Some men crave chaos. If they cannot find it, they will create it.”

  “Or write it. No, a killer such as this would not be likely to write; and if he did, his madness would be indisputable. There are too many contrary clues in the thing.”

  “So we are back where we started,” I said. “Everything begins and ends with Mary Kelly.”

  “Yes, but my fear right now is for Ann. Her odd behaviour did not begin until shortly after Tabram’s murder. I think that Mary chose Ann to take Tabram’s place, but I don’t know why.”

  “Either way,” I said slowly, “apprentice or sacrifice, Ann is in deadly danger. All our efforts must be focused on finding her.”

  “Agreed, but it will not be easy. Mary will likely go to ground, and if we are correct she will be keeping Ann away from sight.”

  “I can’t go to Abberline,” I said, “but the answer is in the East End. I plan on infiltrating the place, becoming one with the fallen masses. I hope to find the clue that will lead me to her or to Mary Kelly. If I can find one, I will track her to the other.”

  Arthur sighed. “Albert, this is not a penny dreadful and you are not a detective. How can you have any hope of success?”

  I slammed my fist down on his table, taking him quite by surprise.

  “And what would you have me do, Arthur? Sit on my hands until either the world ends or Ann’s dead body is discovered? It is you who have been saying that we need to find Mary Kelly. How many nights have we both rambled about the streets looking for her? We’ve found nothing because we are not part of the East End. It shows in our speech and our bearing and, frankly, in our cleanliness. Edwards as much as told me that himself! Unless they accept us in Whitechapel, we will never learn anything—and we are quickly running out of time!”