“You raise a good point, but I see no such wounds,” said I.
“There still could be blood and skin from the assailant under her fingernails,” Willoughby added.
“Another good point,” I said, examining the victim’s nails but discovering only dirt and no evidence of chips or cracks which would indicate she had put up a struggle. “All negative.”
As if the examination of Carrie Nichols’s face weren’t gruesome enough, the study of her neck proved to be even more so. The ghastly wound was so viciously struck that it completely severed the windpipe, as well as the surrounding thick muscles and both carotid arteries. Pooled blood was everywhere, most of it gelled, some of it still dripping. Wiping away the clots, I could see the bones of the cervical spine where the assailant had dug deep into the intervertebral cartilage in an attempt to totally decapitate the victim. As I removed yet another clot, I noticed a sliver of silver metal protruding from the interspace between the last two cervical vertebrae. I tried to remove it, but it was firmly secured in place. “He seems to have left part of his knife behind,” I reported.
Joanna hurried over with her magnifying glass in hand. She gave the sliver careful study before announcing, “It would appear to be the tip of the blade, which broke off under extreme pressure.”
“It requires tremendous force to completely separate well-formed vertebrae,” I stated. “Although the interspace between the vertebrae consists mainly of cartilage rather than bone, it is held in place by thick, sturdy fibrous bands. A single blade would have difficulty slicing through these tissues.”
“I take it that the piece of metal is fixed in its current position,” said Joanna.
“It is immovable.”
“Then I suggest you use pliers to remove the sliver as gently as possible, so as not to disturb any clues it may hold.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Nothing in particular,” Joanna replied. “But it represents the only item of evidence left behind by Jack the Ripper and thus merits careful study.”
“But it is only the tip of the blade,” Willoughby noted.
“Perhaps, perhaps not,” said she. “There may be more of the blade buried into the cartilage and bone.”
Using surgical pliers, I proved Joanna to be correct, for I extracted an inch-long piece of blade from the vertebral interspace. It was covered with dried blood, which I did not remove for fear of disturbing any underlying evidence. After placing the metal sliver in an envelope, I continued with the autopsy and was able to determine the cause of death. Carrie’s heart was normal, but her lungs were so completely filled with blood they had a deep maroon color. Carrie Nichols had aspirated huge amounts of blood and had died of suffocation.
I moved on to the abdomen and made no attempt to reinsert the intestines, which dangled out from a wide gash that extended from her rib cage to her pubis. Once inside the abdominal cavity, it became clear that The Ripper had wreaked even more havoc in a most destructive fashion.
“Unbelievable,” I spoke under my breath.
“How so?” Joanna asked.
“The spleen and liver are untouched, but he has gone to the bother of removing both ovaries and her uterus.”
“Surely some of those tissues must remain,” Joanna wondered aloud.
I shook my head. “They were all neatly removed in a surgical fashion, with their arteries and veins expertly dissected away.”
“He carried them off as mementos,” my father recollected. “The Ripper of the past did the same.”
“I assume these organs were not found at the crime scene?” Willoughby queried. “Correct?”
“None were present,” I answered.
“Mementos beyond any doubt, for he performed the same dissection on the Jane Smith case,” Willoughby noted. “But why the uterus and ovaries?”
“He must be attracted to them in a most perverted way,” my father surmised.
“Or so distracted by female organs he wished to destroy them,” Joanna proposed.
“It all seems to have a sexual connotation,” I agreed.
“In more ways than one,” said my father. “In the mutilated corpses of yesteryear, some believed The Ripper was collecting these organs in an effort to extract an elixir of youth, which would enhance his sexual powers, all of which of course was complete nonsense.”
“But not to a psychotic,” Joanna reminded before turning to Willoughby. “You mentioned that the uterus and ovaries were dissected out in Jane Smith, much like in Carrie Nichols. Please be good enough and recall if there were any differences.”
Willoughby considered the matter at length, then began to nod. “There were several differences which were of minor consequence. Most notably, both kidneys were also neatly removed and taken away. Their dissections were carefully done, unlike the multiple stab wounds on the victim’s chest that appeared to be inflicted during a frenzy. Her neck was sliced open, but only one carotid artery was severed.”
“Which would have been sufficient for her to bleed to death,” I added.
“More than enough,” Willoughby agreed.
“Did you examine her clothing?” Joanna asked.
“As much as possible, for it was blood soaked and filthy as one might expect from a tart,” Willoughby described. “Everything was cheap, including her earrings, which were made of copper.”
My wife quickly pointed to the copper earrings belonging to Carrie Nichols. “Similar to these?”
“Identical, I would say,” Willoughby replied. “But they are common enough and would be quite difficult to trace.”
Joanna hurried over to the corpse and examined its earrings with her magnifying glass. Up and down she moved the glass to enhance the magnification. “I see a smudged fingerprint.”
“Most likely hers,” Willoughby inferred.
“We shall see,” said she, keeping her magnifying glass in hand. “Does the corpse of Jane Smith remain at St. Bart’s?”
“To the best of my knowledge.”
“I should like to view it,” Joanna requested. “With of course your permission.”
Willoughby reached for a button on the wall to signal the orderly Benson and led the way down the corridor. He rudely brushed past technicians and junior pathologists, causing them to quickly step aside. His strident gait indicated that he believed he was again in command of the proceedings. But he wasn’t. Joanna’s seemingly subservient request was meant to make Willoughby more compliant and thus more useful to our investigation.
We entered the cold, dark morgue, which had a bare cement floor and walls made from plaster of Paris. Benson followed us in and switched on the overhead lights that provided sufficient illumination. Uncovered corpses on stretchers were lined up two aside against the walls, which left a more than adequate viewing area in the center of the large room. Willoughby gestured to the body of Jane Smith that lay on a nearby gurney. She was as white as the sheet beneath her.
I took it upon myself to verify Willoughby’s findings and make certain he did not overlook any abnormal features. All was as the senior pathologist had described. The neck was sliced wide open, with a single carotid artery severed. There was no evidence that The Ripper had attempted to decapitate Jane Smith. The slashes across the corpse’s chest appeared to be done in a frenzy, some crisscrossing, others simply stab wounds. Stepping back, I viewed the corpse in its entirety. She was quite short, no more than five feet in height, and somewhat plump, with rolls of fat about her waist and thighs. She clearly was not Pretty Penny.
Joanna moved in by my side and inquired, “Are the ovaries and uterus dissected out?”
A quick, thorough examination revealed this was the case. “All were neatly removed by an individual who knew his way around the abdominal cavity.”
“Maniacal, but skilled,” Joanna noted, as her eyes drifted to the inner, upper surface of the corpse’s left thigh. I followed her gaze and saw a circular, inflamed area, perhaps two inches in diameter, just where the thigh met the
pubic area. In its center was a small, slit-like opening, from which protruded a strip of iodinated gauze.
“It is a carbuncle which has been incised for drainage and treated by insertion of an iodinated strip,” she diagnosed correctly. “Did you notice a similar lesion on Carrie Nichols, John?”
“I did not, but my initial examination was limited to the corpse’s anterior thigh,” I replied. “It may be hidden, but certainly not healed, since the prescription was written on such a recent date.”
“Its presence would be a most important finding,” Joanna stated, now moving to the corpse’s head to examine its shiny copper earrings. Like those on Carrie Nichols, the earrings consisted of copper discs which dangled and were held in place by a thin strand of wire.
“Are there fingerprints present?” I asked, watching her grasp the copper disc by its edges as she carefully studied both sides with a magnifying glass. She repeated the search twice before announcing, “Three fingerprints are evident, two smudged and superimposed, one partial and reasonably clear.”
“Is the latter distinct enough for identification?” I asked.
“Only Scotland Yard can determine that.”
“I see your inference here,” my father joined in the discussion. “But why would The Ripper bother to touch her earrings?”
“Perhaps he did so unintentionally,” I surmised.
“Or perhaps he was somewhat aroused by them,” Joanna suggested. “The earrings, you see, might be considered part of the female anatomy by the killer.”
“Were there any concealed similarities between these earrings and the ones you examined on Carrie Nichols?” Willoughby asked. “If so, it could indicate they came from the same source.”
Joanna shook her head. “My magnifying glass is not nearly sharp enough to make that determination.” She removed the earrings and wrapped them carefully in tissue paper, then handed them to my father to place in an envelope. “Now let us collect the earrings from Carrie Nichols and present them to Inspector Lestrade, who I am certain will give them his closest attention.”
We hurried back to the autopsy room, with Joanna reminding Willoughby that the bodies must remain untouched and on-site at St. Bartholomew’s until Scotland Yard obtained a complete set of fingerprints from the corpses. Moreover, no entrance should be allowed into the morgue until further notice. Willoughby so instructed Benson, who rushed away to carry out the orders.
Once we were back in the autopsy room, the copper earrings were removed from Carrie Nichols and, like those from Jane Smith, were carefully wrapped and secured in a sealed envelope. Only then did I reexamine the corpse, paying particular attention to her intact skin. It appeared to be remarkably clear of scars and blemishes until I reached the buttocks. Lifting the body onto its side revealed a draining incised carbuncle located in the fold between the lower buttock and upper thigh. In its center was a deeply inserted strip of iodinated gauze. All in attendance moved in for a closer view.
“An important common denominator,” said Joanna.
“I am afraid you make too much of these carbuncles,” Willoughby challenged. “May I remind you that personal hygiene is a low priority in Whitechapel and that various infections of the skin are quite common in their population.”
“You raise an excellent point,” she conceded.
Willoughby nodded, obviously pleased with his assessment. “Nevertheless, I will include this minor finding in my report, as should you, Watson.”
“I shall.”
“Then I will be on my way, for I have other matters to attend to,” said Willoughby, stripping off his still-clean rubber gloves and hurriedly departing.
As the door closed, Joanna smiled thinly and shook her head. “It is remarkable how Willoughby can provide a reasonable comment one moment, and appear so oblivious the next.”
“He doesn’t seem to place as much significance on the carbuncles as you do,” my father observed.
“That is because he fails to consider the most important link between the two.”
“Which is?”
“Both of the similarly infected women were killed by Jack the Ripper,” Joanna noted, and left it at that.
CHAPTER 7
The Doss-House
Carrie Nichols’s last-known address was a doss-house on a street called Buck’s Row that bordered the Jewish cemetery in Whitechapel. This being the case, it indicated that Scotland Yard’s investigation of the premises was cursory at best, for the term doss was slang for bed. These hellish dwellings consisted of large, communal rooms that were filled with small, iron bedsteads, all of which were covered with filthy gray blankets. Sheets, when provided, were supposedly washed once a week but rarely were. The poor, the penniless, drunks, criminals, and prostitutes paid fivepence to spend a night in these dreadful places.
We entered the doss-house, accompanied by a constable furnished by Lestrade, and were met with a most disagreeable odor. The housekeeper or warden presented himself immediately, with his worried eyes darting back and forth between Joanna and the uniformed policeman.
“How—how can I be of service?” he stammered.
The constable introduced us as associates of Scotland Yard and instructed the warden to assist us in every way into the investigation of Carrie Nichols’s death. The warden, whose name was Luther, was told that withholding information or evidence would be considered a crime in itself.
“I know little about Carrie Nichols, for she came and went like so many others,” Luther claimed. “She was not a troublemaker, other than screaming and yelling when evicted.”
“And the cause of her eviction?” Joanna asked.
“When she could not produce the fivepence required for another night’s stay,” Luther replied unsympathetically. “If you cannot pay by ten, you are promptly sent on your way. There is no law against that,” he added, and looked at the constable for affirmation, which was not forthcoming.
“When did you last see Carrie Nichols?” Joanna asked.
“The morning before her death,” Luther replied without hesitation. “She begged me to hold a bed for her and promised to return shortly with the required fee, which she did not.”
“Was the bed she had occupied soon reoccupied by someone else?”
“It was,” Luther answered. “By a drunk who threw up over the mattress and was evicted because of it. The mattress was scrubbed down so it would be suitable for another customer.”
My father and I exchanged knowing glances, for whatever clues that mattress might have held were long gone. “Since Carrie Nichols vowed to return soon with the fee, did she leave any of her belongings behind?” I asked.
“Ha!” Luther forced a laugh. “Any items left behind would have been stolen in the blink of an eye. Besides, these people carry everything they own in their pockets.”
“Has anyone inquired about Carrie since her departure?” Joanna queried.
“Only her friend Annie Yates,” Luther said. “She must have asked me a dozen times about Carrie.”
“Were they close?”
“Thick as thieves they were, always huddling together to share their stories.”
“Did they occupy beds next to each other?”
“Usually.”
“By chance is Annie Yates still in residence here?”
“She is.”
“We should like to talk with her.”
Luther turned very quickly. “I will go fetch her.”
“No need,” Joanna said at once. “We prefer to speak with Annie in a quiet room, assuming one is available.”
Luther’s expression changed to one of concern. Something about my wife’s request bothered the little man who had a humped back and a constant scowl on his face. “She is currently residing in a small cubicle.”
“I did not realize that cubicles were available in a doss-house,” Joanna remarked.
“It belongs to me,” Luther said unabashedly.
“Lead the way,” Joanna directed.
We walked
through a large, malodorous room filled with iron bedsteads which were packed in so closely there was barely enough room to squeeze in between them. The beds were empty, their mattresses soiled and devoid of blankets and pillows. Turning a corner, we approached a small kitchen area where a few men were gathered to cook scraps of food they had managed to find or steal earlier. An old man threw out a bone, and raggedly clothed children appeared out of nowhere to grapple over it. It was the sort of behavior one might see in wild animals, yet the man in the kitchen seemed to be amused by it.
We stepped into a tiny room, with just enough space for a bed and chair. Sitting on the bed was a most frail woman, with long, neatly parted blond hair and deep blue eyes that peered out at us over hollow cheeks. She attempted to push herself up out of respect but quickly dropped back down onto the mattress. With effort, she produced a raucous cough that caused phlegm to rattle in her throat.
“This here is Annie Yates, one of the Unfortunates,” Luther introduced.
“She is obviously quite ill,” my father said concernedly. “Is this the reason she was provided with a separate room?”
“I was given this bed for services I rendered,” Annie said candidly. “And I shall perform this service again if Mr. Luther allows me another night’s stay.”
Joanna gave Luther a stern look, but he seemed unaffected by it. Rather than sit as she usually did when questioning, my wife remained standing and kept her distance because of the Unfortunate’s harsh, raspy cough which came yet again.
“You of course know about the dreadful death of your friend Carrie Nichols,” Joanna began.
“I do, ma’am,” Annie replied in a soft voice.
“Do you have any idea who might have done this terrible act to your friend?”
“No, ma’am.”
“When was the very last time you saw Carrie?”
“The night she was murdered.”
“Were you both on the street at that time?”
“No, ma’am. We decided to meet at the Black Lamb, where we can pick up customers now and then.”
The Abduction of Pretty Penny Page 8
