Whitechapel

by Sam Gafford

  After a brief stop back at home to change, I wandered back to the East End and eventually ended up at the Ringers. It was with some surprise that I noticed that Lusk was now firmly entrenched in Edwards’ old seat. Upon noticing me, he motioned me over.

  “You should have told me who you were, mate,” Lusk said, smiling.

  “What do you mean?”

  Lusk laughed. “You’re the man who made it possible for me to be here in this seat right now. Because of you, Edwards will probably be doing a nice long stretch out at Broadmoor. And, naturally, when someone leaves a position, someone else fills in for him.”

  “I thought you were a builder of some sort,” I replied.

  “That’s only part of it. Now that Edwards is gone, people need someone else to turn to for certain things. I’m only happy to oblige. That said, I owe you a debt for clearing the decks, as it were. Now, if you’re a clever man (which I think you are), I can make use of you.”

  I pretended that nothing in the world would make me happier.

  “But,” I said, “won’t that interfere with your duties at the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee?”

  “Not a bit. Curiously, many of our interests overlap. Trust me, I will not forget what is happening to our brothers and sisters here. I will continue to work towards their behalf in every way. Did you know that I recommended to that fop Warren that they offer a pardon to any of the Ripper’s associates? This man can’t be killing all on his own. There’s too many ways he would have gotten caught if he had. No, he has someone or a few someones who are helping him. I took my case right up to Warren himself.”

  I tried to act impressed. “You might have something there. How else could someone kill a person like this and not be covered in blood? He would have been spotted eventually.”

  “Exactly!” Lusk shouted. “And whoever is helping him may be tormented with guilt but afraid to come forward. What better way to encourage him—or her—than offering them a pardon?”

  “So what happened? I haven’t seen anything in the papers about it.”

  “That bloody fool Matthews refused! The cheek of that man! Warren told me that Matthews said that ‘offering a pardon would set a bad example.’ What a pompous twit! I’m sure that if it were his wife or daughter at risk, rewards would suddenly appear. I swear to you that, if I could, I’d turn the Ripper on his wife before bringing him to the police!”

  Clearly, the appellation ‘Ripper’ was taking a strong hold on the public.

  “Anyway,” Lusk continued, “I can use a man who can get things done. Sully’s a good sort but limited in some ways. Come by the office tomorrow. I’ll set you up right.”

  The next day, I began my ‘apprenticeship’ in a criminal organisation. I’d hoped that it might lead me to new clues about Ann’s whereabouts, but it really only taught me about the depths to which people can sink.

  Chapter 70

  Our haughty life is crowned with darkness,

  Like London with its own black wreath.

  —William Wordsworth

  October 11–17, 1888

  During the following week, I became a frequent fixture at the office of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee. Well, ‘office’ might be a strong word. It was mostly just a few rooms and a couple of desks. People came in and out all day and even into the night. Some would drop off things, others would pick up different things, and still more would show up to be sent off on various tasks and errands. Lusk began to count on me and would send me to bring important messages to other members of the committee or letters to the various newspapers and news outlets. A few times I was sent to ‘collect’ certain parcels from some of the worst areas in the East End. Dorset Street became one of my new haunts, as I was constantly up and down the road doing various tasks. My speed and industry appealed to Lusk, who came to rely on me when he needed something done quickly. As compensation, he was paying me nearly double what my time in the cellar of The Brothers’ bookstore had given me. The work was dire, and I often had to go and make collections from various poor and unfortunate people. Sometimes I would take sympathy on them and pay their debt for the week out of my own pocket, but I knew I could not keep doing that indefinitely. Eventually it would get back to Lusk, and his approval of me would vanish faster than a full purse at the Ten Bells.

  But my largesse was not purely born out of charity. Each person I helped became another ally in my search for Ann. They were new eyes and ears that, often, could reach places I had never known about or would never find. By the end of the week, I had over a hundred pairs of eyes looking and searching for Ann or Mary Kelly.

  On the 15th, an ad appeared in the ‘agony’ column of the Star. It read simply:

  A.B.—No progress yet on obtaining blueprints. Should achieve them by the 18th. Will advise. A.M.

  Arthur had not yet gotten the blueprints we needed to check the underground. I wasn’t sure if it was because of a problem or if this was a normal delay in dealing with the government. I wondered again about the possibility of Mary Kelly having connexions in higher places that could be working to keep us stymied.

  In the meantime, I endeared myself to Lusk and the men of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee. I drank with them, caroused with them, and took note of their every movement and deed. For all I knew, Kelly’s accomplice was there among them. I suspected everyone. I also made a point of being at the ‘office’ whenever I could—and that was why I was there on the 16th when a very important parcel arrived addressed to Lusk.

  It was a three-inch cardboard box, wrapped in brown paper. The handwriting was chaotic and Lusk’s name and the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee address were barely legible. It sat there for a few hours until Lusk arrived and began to go through his mail.

  When he opened the parcel, he jumped up and shouted, “What the devil?”

  We quickly crowded around him to see what he was screaming about and saw a lump of red flesh in the box along with a blood stained letter.

  “Look at this, lads!” Lusk bellowed out as he lifted up the letter.

  “What is it?” asked one of the other loafers in the room.

  “I think it’s a dog’s kidney,” Lusk said. “At least, I hope that it is. Listen to this letter.”

  Lusk held up the page and read it to us, accentuating the misspellings and bad writing:

  From hell.

  Mr Lusk,

  Sor

  I send you half the Kidne I took from one woman and prasarved it for you tother piece I fried and ate it was very nise. I may send you the bloody knif that took it out if you only wate a whil longer

  signed

  Catch me when you can Mishter Lusk

  The room was silent.

  “Bloody hell,” one man said.

  Lusk looked horrified.

  “It’s just some crank with a beef, that’s all,” said another man.

  “It could be from the killer,” the first man said.

  “Nah,” replied a third, “it’s not signed ‘Jack the Ripper.’ It’s not anything like the other letters he sent.”

  A spirited debate ensued. I took that opportunity to look at the fleshy lump in the box. I couldn’t tell if it was human or animal, but the object inspired the most baleful foreboding in me. Perhaps, I thought, it was not an accident that it was sent to the office while I was there.

  “I think you should give it to the police,” I said.

  “What the hell for?” the second man replied. “I know a crank when I see one.”

  Lusk, looking very pale, said, “Didn’t the papers say the Ripper took a kidney from one of the last victims?”

  He stood silently, gazing at the box but not daring to look inside again. “We’re having a meeting tomorrow,” he said cautiously. “We’ll see what the others think. Right now, I don’t want to look at this damned thing any longer.”

  He put the box and the letter in the drawer of his desk and locked it up securely. Given the nature of the parcel, he probably needn’t have bothered, as
no man was eager to be anywhere near it. For my part, I felt that it should be handed over to Abberline at once. I was staring at a piece of a puzzle that I couldn’t fathom, but I had no doubt that it was ugly and wicked.

  *

  The next day, I spent time prowling through the underground.

  It is not an easy thing to describe. The London underground of the late 1880s overwhelmed the senses. The smells, the heat, the smoke, the noise, and the areas of complete darkness were unfathomable. It was the type of place that drove sane men insane and turned madmen into monsters. I had begun to make my own map based on some of the stations and areas I had learned were inhabited by the forgotten and destitute. Already, I had been given warnings from others of places where it was not safe for a man to go unless he was part of an armed group.

  This, I knew, was exactly the kind of place Mary Kelly would pick to hide in and make her plans. Dante would have been proud to see part of his classic work portrayed in reality. Or, more likely, it would have saddened him.

  By the time I emerged from the world below, I was covered in soot and grime. Truly, no one would have been able to recognise me. Perhaps not even Ann herself would know me even if we stood close together.

  When I arrived at the meeting of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee, it was well underway. I listened through the usual litany of boasting and petty complaints that is the lot of virtually every organisation and happened to be close by the treasurer, Mr. Joseph Aarons, when Lusk came up to him.

  “I suppose you will laugh at what I am going to tell you,” Lusk began, “but you must know that I had a little parcel come to me on Tuesday evening, and to my surprise it contains half a kidney and a letter from Jack the Ripper.”

  Although most were quieted by this revelation, Aaron’s did laugh—but the look on Lusk’s face quickly silenced him.

  “Someone is trying to frighten you, Lusk!” said one of the men from the night before, and more laughter rose up.

  “It is no laughing matter to me,” Lusk said.

  Aarons could see that this was so. “Well,” he said, “it’s already late. Tomorrow, a few of us will come to your house and discuss it with you. For now, let’s leave the matter at rest and adjourn for the night.”

  There was some grudging opposition to this, but eventually the meeting dispersed.

  I asked Lusk if he had received any more messages. He replied that he had not.

  “One of those damned things is enough. I tell you, I am a man who is not afraid of anything, but this business frightens me as nothing has ever done before.”

  Just having spent a few weeks in the East End had exposed me to much that I would have considered disturbing in my former life, but to hear a man inured to such experiences profess his fear struck me to my core.

  “Why so?” I asked.

  “Because, Al, I’d believed that this killer was nothing more than a madman—and madmen can be dealt with by knife or gun. Now I fear that there is a monster among us and it cannot be stopped. Not by mere men, at least.”

  October 18, 1888

  I had made it a point to be at Lusk’s home in Alderney Road when the committee men arrived. There were four of them: Aarons, secretary Harris, and committee members Reeves and Lawton. Lusk showed us inside, quickly went to his desk, and unlocked the drawer. He took out the same box that I had seen before in the office. Clearly, he had brought it home in anticipation of this visit.

  Lusk handed it to Aarons and said, “Throw it away! I hate the sight of it! I’ve not had a decent hour of sleep since I received the damned thing.”

  Aarons opened the box. The kidney had begun to rot and stink. He passed the box around until, finally, he said, “I think this is a sheep’s kidney, but we should make sure. Let’s take it to Dr. Wiles’ office in Mile End Road and hear what he says.”

  There was mutual agreement, and we set off as a group to the surgery. Lusk was unusually quiet but Aarons, secure in his belief that this was nothing more than a prank, was talking about ways to mount more protests in the West End.

  The doctor was out, but his assistant, Mr. F. S. Reed, was in and expressed great interest in the organ. He quickly examined it and offered the opinion that it was a human kidney that had been preserved in spirits of wine. However, he wanted to be sure, so he quickly brought the kidney over to London Hospital to show to Dr. Thomas Horrocks Openshaw, the curator of the Pathological Museum, while we waited for his return.

  Nerves had grown tense during Reed’s absence, and even Aarons was beginning to feel that the kidney and note were genuine. Lawton suggested we inform the police immediately, but the others wanted to wait for Openshaw’s report. I sensed that one of their overriding concerns was not to be made to appear foolish; so we waited.

  A short time later, Reed arrived breathless and very pale. He took out a short piece of paper and proceeded to give Openshaw’s findings: “The kidney belonged to a female and was part of the left kidney. The woman had been in the habit of drinking. My opinion is that the woman died about the same time that the Mitre Square murder was committed.”

  The room was quiet.

  “Well, that’s that, then,” Aarons said. “We have to bring it to the police now.”

  Everyone agreed, and we forthwith made our way to Leeman Street station. Our faces were grim with purpose; we must have made quite a sight, as several pedestrians agitatedly moved out of our way. We asked to see Abberline immediately upon arrival, but only Lusk and Aarons were admitted with the parcel and Dr. Openshaw’s brief report. The rest of us had to wait outside.

  Nearly an hour later, they finally emerged looking as if they had been through a battle themselves.

  “It’s in his hands now,” Aarons said.

  “And to the devil with the whole thing,” Lusk added. “I won’t be surprised if it hadn’t been Satan himself who wrote that damned letter.”

  “What is Abberline going to do?” I asked. I had not wanted to enter the building in case Abberline saw through my disguise. Finding me with what was possibly the kidney from the last victim would have been enough for him to lock me up for good.

  “He’s passed it along to the City Police,” Aarons said. “They’ll give it to one of their surgeons for a more complete analysis.”

  “More likely he’s just passing the bomb up the line,” Lusk said. “He’ll want no part of it either.”

  “Did he believe you, though?” asked Reeves.

  “He seemed to,” Lusk said, “but you know what coppers are like, especially with us. They’ll say one thing and think another.”

  The men grumbled their agreement and slowly dispersed.

  I had no medical knowledge and couldn’t even tell where to find the kidney in the human body, but I had no doubt that this was taken from the Mitre Square victim. The only question was why?

  Chapter 71

  Sir, London is a strange place, and you must look with a keen eye, and stay in it a great while, before you will be a master of half its expedients.

  —Squire Randal, 1776

  Lusk was still unnerved by the events, so I decided to take a trip back home. I had a longing for a warm bath and the comfort of a soft bed, even if only for a few hours. It had been some time since I had stopped there, so I probably shouldn’t have been surprised to find that Mrs. Hutchins had come back from her ‘vacation.’

  I had to talk quickly to convince her of my identity when I walked in, given that my clothes were spotted and caked with dirt. Indeed, a chimneysweep would have looked sparklingly clean next to me.

  “Mr. Albert,” she exclaimed, “what in the world has happened to you? Are you ill or have you been robbed?”

  I tried to put her mind at ease and laughed, “Nothing like that, Mrs. Hutchins. I have been searching for Ann, and when doing so it is best if I blend in.”

  “Oh, my heavens! You’re a sight, no two ways about it. Have you found her? Is she safe?”

  Shamefully, I could not look at her in the eyes. “I have not
found her yet, but I will. I swear it.”

  She tried to be comforting, or as much as she could without actually touching me. “I know you will, Mr. Albert. But I would have liked to have had word from you as well. Mr. Machen stopped by the other day to let me know you were ‘away on business’ and that I should not rent your room, but I’d no idea what you were about. Why don’t you go upstairs and take those ‘clothes’ off? I’ll heat up some water for a nice hot bath; and you look as if you haven’t eaten for weeks, so I’ll get the kettle on.”

  Gratefully, I began to walk up to my room but asked, “Mrs. Hutchins, forgive me, but I thought you were staying somewhere else for a while.”

  She playfully scoffed. “Ha! This is my home and this is where I belong. Besides, if anyone were to come back, he’d find himself facing an angry Irishwoman and woe betide him!”

  It was a comfort, of sorts, to be back in my home with Mrs. Hutchins and the promise of good food and a warm hearth. I had never truly appreciated such things until I had given them up. Still, a pall fell over my room as I stood in the upstairs hall and could see Ann’s room just beyond. Its silence was an accusation to me.

  After peeling off my clothes (and explaining to Mrs. Hutchins why she shouldn’t wash or simply throw them out), I took a relaxing bath. There was a small pile of mail for me that had built up over the weeks, and I flipped through it while I soaked. Most of the items were inconsequential, although there was a letter from my mother enquiring after my welfare. Apparently my father had suffered an injury while out on the fishing boat and, although he was expected to recover fully, his frustration was making everyone miserable. In short, little had changed.