Whitechapel

by Sam Gafford

  Arthur motioned for me to calm down, but my frustration was overwhelming. I poured a glass of whiskey and drank it down quickly, barely noticing the burning of my throat. “It may not be much of a plan, Arthur, but it is all I have.”

  He nodded his agreement. “You may be right. As visitors, we will never be trusted. Even an open purse can only gain so much. Very well. You will go ‘underground,’ as it were. I cannot. Amy’s health has improved, but I cannot leave her at this time.”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t ask you to. You need to continue our investigations here. Maintain a close contact with Abberline. In the flood of information the police are receiving perhaps something useful to us will appear. At this point, we cannot afford to discount anything.”

  “How can I reach you if I need you?”

  I thought briefly. “You can send me a message at my home. I will stop in there from time to time if I can, but I cannot promise. If the need is urgent, place an ad in the ‘agony’ column of the Times. I will check it daily. Do not give my name or yours; just use our initials.”

  “There is one last thing,” Arthur said as he picked up the small book from the table. “You remember that the Beast gave this to me? I think it may prove to be important. I have read it and I am entrusting it to you. I cannot stress to you how vital it is that you proceed with caution. Not only are you searching for a woman more dangerous than any person on this planet, but you will be walking through an environment that is incredibly dangerous on its own. People will kill you there for nothing more than looking at them the wrong way or unthinkingly giving them an imagined insult. I tell you this with no exaggeration, Albert: the East End of London may be the most dangerous place on the face of the earth. Keep yourself safe. Do you have your revolver with you?”

  I nodded.

  “That is good, but it may also be like a light that attracts thieves as moths to a flame. Guard it carefully. I hate to send you to this with nothing more than a full stomach and words of warning, but I have no choice. This business may make corpses of us all before it is through.”

  Arthur gave me the book and insisted that I take some morsels of food with me. Sensing that he was trying more to delay me than anything else, I took my leave and set my path towards Whitechapel. I could not help but be reminded of Dante’s Inferno: “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.” It was an apt description for the East End as well.

  Chapter 68

  I believe we shall come to care about people less and less. The more people one knows the easier it becomes to replace them. It’s one of the curses of London.

  —Ambrose Bierce

  By the time I reached Whitechapel, I had roughed up my clothing with a judicious tear here and there. A pile of dirt provided some grime for my face and hands. I lowered my shoulders and shuffled as I walked. Finally, I looked like a true resident of the East End with no hope for the future.

  That night brought more news in the papers. Another postcard had been received by the Central News Agency that morning, and it was rushed into the evening editions. This one had the same handwriting as the “Dear Boss” letter which had set the reporters into an absolute frenzy. The postcard read:

  I was not codding dear old Boss when I gave you the tip, you’ll hear about Saucy Jacky’s work tomorrow double event this time number one squealed a bit couldn’t finish straight off. ha not the time to get ears for police. thanks for keeping last letter back till I got to work again.

  Jack the Ripper

  The news ran through the East End like wildfire. It was being talked about everywhere I went. The consensus was that there was a madman running through Whitechapel and that no woman was safe. I heard no end of class hatred that night and scores of people vowing, “If this had been a rich woman, they’d have him in the noose already.” Others were threatening to march on the West End and Whitehall and pull the royal family out into the street. It was probably the only time I have ever heard British subjects express envy of the French and their revolution. Arthur was correct when he had told me all those weeks ago about how this area had become a powder keg, ripe for exploitation by anarchists and communists. But then, I would come to learn that it is far easier to provoke a mob than an individual.

  That first night, I wandered from pub to pub and walked down endless alleys, and even through dark buildings that threatened evil deeds and rooms which delivered on those promises. On October 1 I fell into the hole that is known as London’s East End and would not emerge for nearly a week.

  *

  I had many strange experiences during that time. None produced the results that I wished for, and I learned nothing of Mary Kelly’s whereabouts or any sign of Ann. During one of the first days I visited Reverend Samuel Barnett, who reported that Ann had not been to the church in weeks. When I responded that she had gone missing, he became very concerned and mentioned how Ann had seemed nervous and out of sorts the last few times he’d seen her.

  “It almost didn’t even seem like her, Mr. Besame. We were administering to some of the unfortunates, giving them donated clothing and the like, and a woman came through the line whom I hadn’t seen before—a very lovely woman, too, with striking red hair. When Ann saw her, all the blood drained from her face. They spoke for a few moments, and Ann’s face became frightened and then very angry. I had to look away for a minute, and when I turned back Ann was gone.

  “The next day she returned and apologised, but there was something different about her. It was almost as if she had suddenly developed a hardness, a coldness in her eyes that wasn’t like her at all. Shortly after, she stopped coming.”

  I was sure that the other woman had been Mary Kelly, but the Reverend could not offer any more details. As I was about to leave, he asked if I needed a new coat, remarking on the now poor state of my own. I thanked him but declined.

  “Wait,” the Reverend called me back, “I just remembered. I think I saw her the other night, but it couldn’t have been her.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Well, because she was carousing with men outside of the Ten Bells. Ann wouldn’t have done that. She was drinking and behaving most outrageously. Now that I think about it, I’m sure it couldn’t have been her.”

  “When was this, Reverend?”

  He thought for a moment. “I think on Monday. The first. Probably around ten p.m.”

  That was the day of my descent, when the papers had been full of the letter and postcard and the East End had been afire with outrage. I had been in the Ten Bells that night, but probably not until nearly midnight. Ann would have been gone long before then.

  It didn’t make any sense, though. If Ann had been kidnapped the day before, why would she be out ‘carousing’ the day after? Or was I wrong? Was she a willing accomplice in her abduction? I continued my search. I found that coins and drinks eased suspicious tongues far better than requests for help.

  I had positioned myself in areas where men were recruited for daily work of an unscrupulous sort. The less qualms one had, the more work could be arranged. I made the acquaintance of an ugly character named Sully who had lost his left hand in some sort of machine accident at a factory. He liked me and took me around to meet others like himself. I quickly learned that he was an ardent communist who believed that the cause of much of the pain in the East End was due to rich people exploiting the poor. I could not exactly disagree with him, as there was evidence all around me that supported his argument.

  In my desire to make more contacts, I allowed Sully to drag me along to a meeting of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee, where the president, an odious rabble-rouser named George Lusk, railed against the police and the ruling class in particular.

  “They sleep there in their warm beds at night—and why not? It’s not their women who are being murdered in the street. It’s not their daughters who might be ripped apart by some fiend!”

  This was answered by jeers from the audience. I joined in so I would not be set apart from the group, but I was troubled by Lusk
and his desire to incite violence.

  “We must protect our women! We must take up arms and patrol the streets, my brothers! Only then will our women and homes be safe. We have to show them our power and make them fear us! Are you with me?”

  Cheers resounded through the room. I had a very great fear that at any minute the mob would explode into the street and begin its own ‘reign of terror.’ Thankfully, the furor devolved into nothing more than bouts of drinking and cursing and idle threats. Lusk, however, stood off to one corner with what I could only guess were his cronies.

  “C’mon,” Sully said, “I want you to meet the boss.”

  We pushed our way through. As we got closer to Lusk, his ‘guards’ moved to intercept us, but Lusk waved them off.

  “George,” Sully said, “this here’s my mate, Al. He’s jake. He was one of the hands on the dock job yesterday.”

  Lusk looked me up and down and grunted. I disliked the man immediately; but because I knew that he would be an important source of information, I had to pretend that we were of a similar mind.

  “Yeh,” I said, “that was a good ’un a’right. Always glad to put it to the Toffs, anytime, mate.”

  This was apparently the right thing to say, as Lusk gave a leering grin and shook my hand hard enough to nearly break it.

  “They’ve been living off the sweat of our backs long enough,” Lusk growled. “It’s time for us to start striking back. These murders are just what we need to bring attention to this hell-hole. Now we just have to keep it. Know what I mean?”

  I had no idea what he meant, but acted as if I did and was very eager to get to work.

  “Come around the office. We can use a man who knows what needs to gets done and does it. Sully will fill you in.”

  The small group of men left the room like some sort of hunting party. Soon after, the meeting broke up and everyone left. Sully brought me along to one of the doss-houses where, for a small fee, I was allowed to sleep on a filthy mattress without sheets or pillows. It was actually a comfort, even though I kept my gun and few possessions close to me and my nerves were on edge all night.

  *

  There were few clues for me to find. Mary Kelly was like a ghost. Always gone when I finally received a tip as to her location. There were no signs of Ann at all. I was convinced that Mary was now holding Ann prisoner somewhere out of sight. But without a clue about Mary, I was fishing blind.

  It was mind-shattering how many places there were to hide in Whitechapel and the East End. The buildings held multitudes of rooms, many of which could not be seen from the street. I couldn’t simply burst through doors without some hope of finding something, as I would either be arrested or shot on sight.

  I scanned the ‘agony’ column in the Times every day, but there were no messages from Arthur. Neither was there much news on the murders. The entire city was holding its breath, waiting for the next murder or sensational event. The tension was nerve-wracking, and I could see it having an effect on everyone around me. Tempers were short. Where once before people might have simply exchanged a few heated words, now they escalated quickly into vicious fights. The number of assaults increased, and suspicion was the order of the day.

  Lusk had sent me on a few ‘missions’ which were really nothing more than episodes of threatening people and shop-owners to do whatever Lusk wanted them to. I saw shipments of strange boxes come and go at the office of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee, along with men of dark moods. If I actually had something to report, I’d have sent a message to Abberline; but based on the papers, he had enough to handle on his own.

  The hue and outcry for the resolution of the murders was increasing. Even the queen had issued a statement calling for the swift capture of the culprit. The only problem was that the police truly had no idea what they were facing, so how could they succeed? It was like trying to catch a rat with a sponge. They were hopelessly lost.

  For some reason, I felt compelled to attend the funeral of Catherine Eddowes.

  The image of her lying on the pavement in Mitre Square had never been far from my mind. Based on what Arthur had said, I felt sure that there had been some ceremonial aspect to how she was killed and displayed. I just had no idea what that could be.

  *

  I was surprised at how many people were at the funeral.

  A crowd had already gathered at the city mortuary in Golden Lane by the time I arrived. Before long, the procession headed for Ilford Cemetery. The road was virtually blocked with mourners. Even more people were in the windows and roofs of the adjoining buildings. It was eerily quiet.

  The hearse was of a higher quality than one might have suspected, drawn by a single black horse. As it passed, I could see the coffin inside. It was made of polished elm with oak mouldings and a plate with the inscription, in gold letters: “Catherine Eddowes, died Sept. 30, 1888, aged 43 years.” Behind the hearse was a mourning coach with family and friends of the unfortunate woman. A brougham containing the members of the press followed closely after.

  From Golden Lane, the procession wound through Old Street to Great Eastern Street, then down Whitechapel Road, where it passed the parish church of St. Mary’s where a large crowd had gathered to watch the hearse pass through. From there, it marched solemnly along Mile End Road and through Stratford before finally reaching the city cemetery at Ilford. Even more mourners had gathered there, having walked from the East End to await the funeral.

  As the carriages came to a slow stop, four middle-aged women climbed out of the mourning coach, followed by two younger women and one tired man who looked as if he had aged years overnight. There was a lovely wreath of marguerites by the gravesite, and as the pallbearers walked forward with the coffin, I could see that another wreath (presumably from the family) was sitting atop the polished elm boards.

  Men and women of all ages had gathered by the graveside, and I saw many young children and infants in tow. There was much crying from both sexes. A stern chaplain came forward and began reading sections from the Bible. A woman near me whispered to her chum that the clergyman had paid for the funeral himself and the City of London had donated the burial plot. Her friend replied that, considering the circumstances, it was “the very least that they could do for her.” Even at a funeral, the undercurrent of anger and frustrated hostility was high.

  As the reverend continued reading, I scanned the faces in the crowd. I’d hoped to catch a glimpse of Mary or even Ann among the mourners, but if they were there, they kept themselves well hidden. Lusk and his cronies were there, of course. Their appearance owed more to keeping up a good image than to actual grief. None of them showed any sadness or remorse. All I could see in them was a simmering anger. Lusk noticed me and gave a nod of recognition which I returned.

  I suppose I should not have been surprised to find Arthur in the crowd.

  He stood off to the side, anxiously watching the people and the police as if he were waiting for one or the other to erupt into violence. I made my way over to him and quietly approached him from behind.

  “It should be raining at a funeral, don’t you think?”

  Hearing my voice, Arthur turned and gave a look of astonishment. “Albert!” he exclaimed, excitedly shaking my hand. “I should never have recognised you. Good heavens, you have lost yourself in the part, haven’t you?”

  “Sometimes the best place to hide is in plain sight.”

  He nodded in agreement. “Have you learned anything? Any news of Mary or Ann?”

  I moved him gently to the side.

  “Nothing conclusive. I hear whispers of Mary, but when I show up there she has already gone. I feel as if I am chasing a ghost.”

  “If Mary is keeping her hidden, we may never find her. If we could only discover who her confederates are, we might have a better chance of tracking them.”

  I turned and looked at the small group of people standing at the grave.

  “Do you know them?” I asked.

  “The older women, I’m give
n to understand, are Eddowes’ sisters. The younger two are nieces and the man was her common-law partner. Despite her circumstances, they have been left distraught by her death.”

  Lusk had begun to leave, pushing his way jauntily through the crowd. I pointed him out to Arthur.

  “Do you know him?” He did not. “That is George Lusk, head of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee. He is a dangerous man who, I believe, is going to try to use this whole tragedy for his own political ends. You remember once telling me that you believed that the East End was a powder keg waiting for a fuse? I fear that Lusk is planning on being that fuse.”

  The funeral had finished and the crowd was beginning to depart. To everyone’s relief, there were no outbursts or riots. Grief had managed to overwhelm any emotions of hate or anger—but, I had no doubt, only for a short time.

  We had turned and were about to leave ourselves when Arthur pulled on my arm. I looked where he pointed, hoping to see Mary Kelly, but was instead amazed to see Robert Lees walking towards a private carriage. He looked older and walked stiffly as if age, or fear, had robbed him of any vitality.

  “Why do you think he is here?” Arthur asked.

  “He could simply be paying his respects the same way we all are doing. Still, if you have a question, wouldn’t it be better to ask him?”

  “Indeed, indeed. Can you meet me at my house on Wednesday morning? I’ll arrange an appointment.”

  “Certainly. But I must leave now. Being seen with such a clean gentleman as yourself will not do my reputation much good.”

  Arthur looked crestfallen. “But where will you go?”

  I shrugged. “I have to keep looking. Until I know if Ann is alive or dead, I must keep looking. I have to.”

  I walked away and, within a matter of seconds, had disappeared in the crowd.