by Tim Standish
I pictured my father then, lying in his room in the house at Falmouth, telescope to hand, tyrannising the staff and, from what Milady said, lingering bloody-mindedly against his body’s best efforts. Maybe, I thought, if I played Agent Sterling to the hilt just long enough to prove Church’s prediction of a goose chase accurate, I could satisfy the terms of the agreement, resign with a pardon firmly in place and get back to the family home in time to see him.
Our guide was called Evan, ruddy faced and heavy set with a wide, toothy smile that flashed on and off as the moment required. He wore a dark blue bus conductor’s uniform with a badge that showed the route number as 666, the same being shown at the front of the bus next to its destination: To Hell. I had expected him to have, or to affect, an East End accent but instead, when he spoke, it was with a gentle Welsh lilt.
I hadn’t known what to expect when Collier had said he was sending me out for some local colour, but it certainly wasn’t this. I had been vaguely aware of the Ripper murders when they were happening but hadn’t really cared much, even though Edgar, myself and the set we hung out with would sometimes pop down to the East End for larks. Thinking back to those days, we had been so oblivious to anything but ourselves that even as brutal murders as these didn’t hold our attention for long. Before the briefing that morning, I wouldn’t have known how many murders there were, let alone the dates and names and, despite the penny dreadful aura that clung to the proceedings, I found myself quite interested in the tour, though not as much as Green, sitting excitedly beside me.
At first I had thought she was putting on an act, but as the tour progressed it seemed that her enthusiasm was genuine. She had only joined the Map Room recently herself and, as she had told me earlier, was keen to prove her worth, earn what she called her ‘agent name’ and get out into the field. To me, she certainly seemed to know what she was talking about.
‘Excuse me?’ From the seat beside me Miss Green’s hand shot up for what I conservatively put as the seventh time since the start of the tour.
‘Yes, miss?’ His tone was still jocular, but the brow furrowed nervously as he waited for what was to follow. I got the distinct impression that our guide was beginning to regret his earlier humouring of the young lady’s keenness. The German children had obviously formed the same impression and glanced round whenever Green spoke.
‘Are we going to be stopping at Goulston Street?’ she asked.
The guide looked slightly puzzled for a moment before responding. ‘Goulston Street, ma’am?’
‘Yes, to look at where they found the writing.’
‘Ahh,’ he said, nodding wisely, and broadened his focus to the rest of our small company. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, what the young lady is referring to is an incident that occurred after the fourth murder where a young constable found a woman’s apron stained with blood and discarded in a passageway.’
‘And some writing, Mr Evan!’
‘Indeed,’ he said, ‘some writing was found nearby—’
‘Exactly above it,’ she interrupted.
Raising his hands defensively, he carried doggedly on. ‘Well, certainly in a close proximity. The thing is though, miss, ladies and gentlemen, that this discovery did cause some consternation at the time, particularly as the writing mentioned Jews. Nowadays those of us who study the case professionally,’ with a meaningful glance at Green, ‘and with the benefit of modern research methods, tend to discount this as a coincidence or at best an attempt by a local resident to stir up trouble. So, not really worth a visit on this tour… where our next stop will be to explore the night of the “double event” where the Ripper was uniquely witnessed in the act of his brutal work and almost caught! Alas the citizens of Whitechapel were to have no such luck and he went on to commit the most foul and depraved of his atrocities. So, think on that as we turn now,’ a quick look over his shoulder, ‘into the cheerful bustle of Commercial Street.’
The bus edged steadily out into the street, in between a dray piled high with beer barrels and a horseless carriage disgorging a set of bankers on their way to an early lunch. The centre of the street was dominated by trams, pedestrians chancing their luck between them whenever they slowed. Hawkers shouted their way along the edge of the road shadowed by small clumps of children hoping for charity, whether deliberate or accidental. To the south I spotted a couple of airships, smaller than the one that carried me across the Atlantic, probably domestic flights headed north to Manchester or Glasgow. The traffic noise was cacophonous; the smells of market, trade and transport thick about us as the driver skilfully nosed us into the traffic flowing south. As he did, the German boy asked, ‘Please sir, if you can say, why the road is named this way?’
Back on familiar territory, the guide relaxed into his explanation of the City, markets, exchanges and industries excluded from the Square Mile. Green sat back against the chair looking thoughtful.
‘What do you think of the show so far?’ I asked.
She turned to me. ‘Actually pretty good. He seems to know his stuff. What about you?’
‘Enjoying it more than I thought I would. What did the writing say?’
Green looked pleased that I had asked. ‘The Jews are the men who will not be blamed for nothing.’
‘And what does it mean?’
‘Well, there are some fanciful interpretations, Masonic proclamations and whatnot, but those of us who study the case professionally,’ she said wryly, ‘see it as just your everyday anti-Semitic graffiti. There’s plenty of it around here. The apron did come from Eddowes and the Ripper dropped it there. There were lots of rumours at that stage that the killer was Jewish so it might have been an attempt at a smokescreen.’
‘And what do you think?’
‘I think it was thoughtfully and deliberately done to confuse the police. Not that they needed much help with that at the time. But not by Jack, by his partner or by whoever was looking after him.’
‘Looking after him?’
‘Look around you,’ she said, as the bus arrived at the junction with Whitechapel High Street where the raised arms and red light of the traffic signal had brought the traffic to a temporary halt. ‘Most of these roads are packed all day and don’t get much quieter at night, and yet a lone man, unhinged enough to perpetrate some pretty foul atrocities, managed to evade capture night after night. I’ve been looking at some profiles the Pinkertons have been developing. Killers who work on the spot tend to be careless and make mistakes. They get caught. The ones who plan coldly tend to kidnap their victims and murder at a place of their choosing; they prepare everything, including their escape, so carefully. Jack looks like the first type, a spur-of-the-moment killer. I don’t think someone like that is careful or smart enough to stay free without help. Now maybe that help was police incompetence or indifference, but I think it was more than that. Partner or the full-blown conspiracy that Mr Collier seems in favour of, I don’t know. But something.’ The signal changed and, with a gentle lurch, we set off again.
‘You could well be right, but I think you should give our poor host some time off.’
‘The guide?’ she looked slightly aghast that I would suggest such a thing. ‘But that’s half the fun. I think it must make a change for him from ploughing through the same dull script every day. Besides, when I asked Mr Church how I was supposed to act he just told me to be myself.’
‘Did he?’
‘He did.’
‘Well then, carry on Miss Green, I mean Rose.’
‘Whatever you say Albert.’ Green winked at me and leaned forward in her seat attentively. Bert Norris was one of the soldiers from my company in Canada and it seemed as good a name as any to masquerade under for this outing. I leaned back in my seat and took in the scenery, letting the drone and chirp of guide and audience fade into the background.
It was a strange feeling to be back here after being in Canada for so many years. We’d often been told by the CO and the occasional visiting dignitary how valuable our work was an
d how the folks back in Blighty appreciated our sacrifice. Certainly, they did in Canada; by and large the populace was grateful to see us, and it wasn’t uncommon for officers and NCOs to be given a drink or a meal on the house in some places. But back here in London I could see how forgotten that particular frontier was and how little interest shown in what was happening there.
Of course, there were no exotic native celebrations to photograph or foods to taste, no glamorous cavalry charges or airship battles, just grinding days of watching and patrolling and hoping for something to happen, then wishing it hadn’t when it did. It was a familiar complaint in the officers’ mess back in Canada that resurfaced whenever a newspaper arrived from home. It was over 10 years since the Second Civil War and the Confederate States of America was slowly being allowed back onto the world stage. The British image of President Jackson had shifted from the evil tyrant who had carpet-bombed Washington to the remorseful elder statesmen keen to make reparations, and, with nothing to fear from our new friend, the money that was spent on troops in Canada would be far better used at home.
That wasn’t my experience. If anything, the unofficial incursions on the Canadian border had become more frequent and bolder in the last year, certainly for our garrison. The CO had promised to take it up the line just before I left but with little optimism that anyone in HQ would pay attention.
‘You look serious! What were you thinking about?’ said Green, next to me. The bus had stopped.
‘Lunch.’
‘Well, we’ve three more stops to put you off your appetite!’ I stood to one side to let her off the bus and followed her out to the pavement. The others followed us out and last of all came the guide, who jumped down from steps and clapped his hands together.
‘Ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the scene of the third murder or should I say the third and fourth murders, Jack’s “double event”, an evening of horrific and audacious crimes!’ He reached into his pocket for his notebook. ‘We’ll be walking for now and Ronald there will pick us up again at Mitre Square. But for now we’ll bid him “addoo” and make our way to the first of the two, the murder of Elizabeth Stride.’
The guide walked us down a narrow street of low, somewhat dilapidated buildings, mostly made up of workshops and traders. It was less dirt ridden than some of the streets we had been down earlier in the bus but only marginally so and a marked difference from the bright awnings of the taller buildings we had left behind with the bus. We walked a little way down the street to where a higher, three-storey building stood, tables and a bar visible through the windows at the front. A faded sign over the door read ‘International Working Men’s Club’. The guide nodded to one of the men standing outside who lifted a pipe away from his thick black beard to return the greeting and beckoned us towards a narrow passageway next to the building. I saw the father of the family hesitate as he saw the men, before shepherding his wife and children protectively past them as they followed our guide into the rear, which opened out into a small, dingy yard, barely big enough to turn a cart with one door leading off it into the kitchen of the club.
‘Imagine if you will, ladies and gentlemen, the scene. A hard-working and loving husband returning late is driving his pony and cart into this very yard when suddenly the pony shies and throws him backwards! Looking down he sees a body on the ground. Shocked he runs into the club and returns with two colleagues and the three of them discover that it is a woman with her throat cut most horribly, blood pooling on the ground beside her. Unlike the other victims, though, there were no other injuries. But why, you ask? Because the killer was disturbed in the act! Forced to flee, his dreadful urges unsated, he roamed the night looking for his next victim and we will be following his path on foot as we travel to the site of the next murder and the dreadful mutilations of Mitre Square!’
‘Excuse me, Mr Evan.’ One of the old ladies raised a finger as she spoke.
‘Just Evan is fine, ma’am. What can I do for you?’
‘We weren’t told there was going to be walking on this tour. How long do you expect this part to take and, could you please tell me, will there be any steps?’
Our guide smiled politely and replied, ‘It won’t be more than fifteen minutes or so, ma’am, and if you’re fatigued at any stage I’m sure our group won’t mind resting for a moment.’
She and her companion seemed mollified by this response and they moved off along the street, led by Evan. The German family fell in behind them while I waited to bring up the rear, Green walking alongside me. ‘Do you think,’ she asked in a low voice, ‘whether it is exhaustion they are concerned about or contamination?’
‘Both?’ I hazarded with a small smile that I forced into a laugh as I remembered we were supposed to be a couple.
The walk was a little over the quarter of an hour promised, particularly with the few pauses introduced by Evan, ostensibly to point out a sight or two along the way but rather, I think, with our two older companions in mind. Out of the bus, at ground level, the blare of the street was even louder and little conversation was possible as we walked along.
I remembered Mitre Square from the briefing file: a quiet spot right at the edge of the city; mostly commercial storage with a few empty houses. A constable’s beat passed through the square and that night he came through twice: the first time it was peaceful and empty without a soul in sight, the second time a woman lay half naked and eviscerated in the south-west corner. Green looked bored as the guide explained all this to the group. Her mood wasn’t improved when, having said his piece, Evan asked if the gentlemen would like to view photographs of the scene, making it clear that, for reasons of delicacy, children and ladies would not be permitted to see them. Despite vociferous protests from Green, however, our guide refused to budge from his position. I declined to look at them myself, which Green took as solidarity with her but, really, I just didn’t want to see them. I’d seen enough of the ones in the briefing pack that morning.
Back aboard our transport, most thankfully in at least two cases, we turned out of the square into a busy road then almost immediately left it to dive into a warren of narrow streets that were, if anything, worse than those we had passed during the early parts of the tour.
‘Before we arrive, ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid I must let you know that we will be unable to alight from the bus at Miller’s Court.’ He held his hands up at the mild outrage that arose at his statement, mainly, it has to be said, from Green. ‘I’m very sorry about that but it’s for your own safety. I’m sorry to say that there has been an increase in criminal activity in recent weeks, added to which there are extensive building works going on in the area and I’m afraid we don’t want any of you good people to come to any harm. However, I do have such photographs and plans of the dwelling as to make it almost as if we were there.’ Agreeable nods from all but Green whose hand shot up.
‘What building works?’
‘Ah, yes miss, of course. It’s one of the Models, I do believe the Peabody’s. Rentable housing to raise the quality of living and aspiration of the common man, as it were.’ He smiled. ‘A most laudable aim, as I’m sure we would all agree.’
When we arrived we saw that what he said was true; the side of the road where Miller’s Court was had been demolished in its entirety and in its place stood a building site and a large hoarding proclaiming the arrival of ‘improved housing and workspaces for the poor as may combine in the utmost possible degree the essentials of healthfulness, comfort, social enjoyment and economy’.
‘As he says, it seems laudable,’ I ventured at Green.
‘Hmm. Convenient though, wouldn’t you say?’
Evan talked us through the murder, explaining that he would be leaving out some of the more gruesome details in deference to the weakly constituted of the company. I heard Green snort audibly as he said that.
‘A question, miss?’
She shook her head and smiled sweetly. ‘Not at all Mr Evan, you carry on. You’re doing a fantastic job!
’
I remembered the photos from the file of material we’d been given and thought it was a sensible decision. The room in the pictures that I’d seen was a charnel house, the victim subjected to a series of frenzied, inhuman mutilations and even the guide’s toned-down version was gruesome enough and a reminder of how fitting the destination on the front of the bus was. And lingering on that thought for just too long, that other room from my own memory jerked into view in my mind’s eyes, sharper now, and her name came with it this time. The name that had shaped Edgar’s last breath. Alice. I desperately riveted my attention to the guide’s closing pitch, focusing fiercely on his words till she left me again.
‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. And that is the end of our tour today. I hope you have found it illuminating, educational and not a little unsettling. Don’t forget, Jack was never caught so be wary if you walk these streets again, he might be waiting. And if people ask you where you have been today, you can truly tell them you have been to Hell… and back!’ He finished with a flourish and was rewarded with applause, most loudly from the two children, until a glance from their father settled them down.
And the tour was over, except of course, we were told, if we had more questions we could repair with the amenable Evan to the nearby Ten Bells public house to share a drink ‘at the very tables where the Ripper’s victims imbibed their nightly tipple’ and ask him any further questions that we may have.
‘And don’t forget,’ he continued, ‘to keep hold of your tickets and you will be afforded a generous discount on all tickets for the Gaiety Theatre at the Aldwych. Thank you all so much and, of course, I would be more than happy to accept any further appreciation you felt appropriate.’
The old ladies tutted at this, but he seemed to strike a vein with the father of the family who furnished Evan with what could have been half a sovereign. Palming it deftly, he turned to Green and myself. ‘Hello miss. I’m sure you will have some more questions for me? Perhaps you and your gentleman would like to join me for an ale?’
