The Whitechapel Conspiracy

by Anne Perry

  “You didn’t go out of London! I told you ...”

  “No, I didn’t,” she said quickly, gulping. “But I don’ ’ave ter do wot yer tells me. ’E went ter Whitechapel, Remus did ... ter the back streets, Spitalfields way, Lime’ouse side. ’E asked if anyone seen a big carriage about four years ago, drivin’ around, one as don’t belong. Which were kind o’ daft. Nobody around there’s goin’ ter ’ave a carriage. Shanks’s pony, more like. Omnibus if yer sticks ter the main ’Igh Street.”

  He was puzzled. But at least this was not sinister. “Looking for a carriage? Do you know if he found anything?”

  For a moment he thought she was going to smile, but it died before it began. There was an underlying terror inside her which snuffed out every shred of lightness. It gripped at him with a kind of pain he could hardly bear.

  “Yeah, ’cos ’e never recognized me, so I let ’im ask me, like ’e asked anyone else,” she answered. “An’ I told ’im I’d seen a big black carriage four years ago. ’E asked me if anyone in it ’ad acted like they was lookin’ fer anyone special. So I told ’im they ’ad.”

  “Who?” His voice came roughly, hoarse with tension.

  “I said the first name as came ter me ’ead. I were thinking o’ that girl wot wos took from Cleveland Street, so I said ‘Annie.’” She shivered violently.

  “Annie?” He took a step closer to her. He wanted to touch her, hold her by the shoulders, but she might have pushed him away, so he stood still. “Annie Crook?”

  Her face was bleached white. She shook her head very slightly. “No ... I didn’t know it till later, hours later, w’en I followed ’im back to Whitechapel again, arter ’e’d bin ter the river police, wrote a letter ter somebody, an’ met up wi’ a gent in ’Yde Park an’ accused ’im o’ summink terrible, an’ ’ad a real quarrel wif ’im, an’ then gorn all the way back ter Whitechapel—” She stopped, breathless, her chest heaving.

  “Who?” he demanded urgently. “If it wasn’t Annie Crook, what does it matter?” Unreasonably, he was disappointed. Only the horror in her face held him from looking away.

  She gulped again. “It were Dark Annie,” she said in a strangled whisper.

  “Dark ... Annie ... ?” Slowly the horror began to dawn on him, cold as the grave.

  She nodded. “Annie Chapman ... wot Jack cut up!”

  “The ... Ripper?” He could barely say the word.

  “Yeah!” she breathed. “The other places ’e were askin’ about coaches were Buck’s Row, w’ere Polly Mitchell were found, ’Anbury Street w’ere Dark Annie were, an’ ’e finished up in Mitre Square, w’ere they got Kate Eddowes, wot wos the worst o’ them all.”

  Horror washed over him as if something nameless, primeval, had come out of the darkness and stood close to them both, death in its heart and its hands.

  He could not bring himself to say the name. “If you knew it then, you shouldn’t have followed him the rest of the way back to the river police and ...” he started, hysteria rising in his voice.

  “I didn’t!” she protested. “ ’E went ter the police first, askin’ about a coach driver called Nickley tryin’ ter run down a little girl about seven or eight, wot ’e did twice, but never got ’er.” She caught her breath. “An’ after the second time ’e went an’ jumped inter the river, but ’e took ’is boots off first, so ’e din’t really mean ter kill ’isself, ’e jus’ wanted folks ter think ’e did.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?” he asked quickly. He caught hold of her arm and pulled her to the side of the pavement, out of the way of two men passing by. He did not let go of her.

  “I dunno!” she said.

  He was struggling to find sense in the story, to see the connections to Annie Crook and what it could have to do with Adinett and Pitt. But deeper, from the core of him, welling up in spite of all he could do to prevent it, he was fighting his fear for Gracie, and his fear for himself because she mattered to him more than he could control or knew how to deal with.

  “But ’e knows,” she said, watching him. “Remus knows. ’E’s so lit up yer could see yer way across London by ’im.”

  He was still staring at her.

  “I saw ’is face in the lamplight in Mitre Square,” she repeated.

  “That’s w’ere Jack did Kate Eddowes ... an’ ’e knew that! Remus knew! That’s w’y ’e were there.”

  Suddenly he realized what she was saying. “You followed him there at night?” He was aghast. “By yourself ... into Mitre Square?” He heard his voice ascend up the scale, trembling and out of control. “Haven’t you got the wits you were born with? Think what could have happened to you!” He shut his eyes so tightly it hurt, trying to force away the visions that were inside his head. He could remember the pictures of the bodies four years ago, hideous distortions of the human form, a mockery of the decencies of death.

  And Gracie had gone there, at night, following a man who could be anything. “You stupid ...” he shouted. “Stupid ...” No word came to him that was adequate for his fear for her, his rage and relief, and the fury at his own vulnerability—because if anything had happened to her he would never have been happy again.

  He was oblivious of people stopping to stare at him, even of an elderly gentleman who hesitated by Gracie, concerned for her safety. Then apparently he decided it was domestic, and hurried on.

  Tellman did not want to care so much, about Gracie or anyone else, but particularly about her. She was prickly, wrong-headed about almost everything that mattered; she didn’t even like him, let alone love him; and she was determined to stay in service to the Pitts. The very thought of being in service to anyone set his teeth on edge, like the sound of a knife scraping on glass.

  “You are stupid!” he shouted at her again, swinging his arm around as if he would smash something on the ground, only he had nothing to throw. “Don’t you ever think what you’re doing?”

  Now she was angry too. She had been frightened before, but he had insulted her, and she was not going to stand for that.

  “Well, I found out wot Remus were after, an’ that’s more’n you did!” she shouted back. “So if I’m stupid, wot does that make you, eh? An’ if yer in too much of a rage ter see wot I jus’ told yer, an’ use it ter ’elp Mr. Pitt, then I’ll jus’ ’ave ter do it me-self! I dunno ’ow, but I’ll do it. I’ll go an’ find Remus again an’ tell ’im I know wot ’e’s doin’, an’ if ’e don’t tell me—”

  “Oh, no you won’t!” He caught hold of her wrist as she turned to leave, almost cannoning into a large woman in a striped dress.

  “Get off o’ me!” Gracie tried to snatch herself away, but Tellman had her tightly, and he was too strong for her. She bent forward and bit him, hard.

  He yelled with pain and let go of her. “You little beast!”

  The large woman hurried away, muttering to herself.

  “Then you keep yer ’ands ter yerself!” Gracie shouted back at Tellman. “An’ don’t yer try tellin’ me wot ter do and wot not ter do! I don’t belong ter nobody, an’ I’ll do wot I like. Yer can ’elp me an’ Mr. Pitt, or yer can stand there an’ call me names. It don’t make no difference. We’ll find out the truth, an’ we’ll get ’im back—you’ll see!” This time she flounced her skirts around and stormed off.

  He started to go after her, then stopped. His hand was thoroughly sore. Unconsciously he put it to his lips. He had no idea what to say to Gracie anyway. He felt crushed. He wanted to help, for Pitt’s sake, and because it was right, and for Gracie’s sake too. She would have to trust him, and he would be more than worthy of it.

  But he was terrified for her, and it was a new and dreadful feeling, a fear like no other, cold and knotting him up inside.

  She stopped a dozen yards away and swung around to face him again.

  “Are you really jus’ gonna stand there like a bleedin’ lamppost? “ she demanded.

  He strode over to her. “I’m going to find Remus,” he said gravely. “And you’re goi
ng home to Keppel Street before Mrs. Pitt throws you out for not doing your job. I suppose it hasn’t occurred to you that she’s worried sick where you are—as if she didn’t have enough to be scared about.” He projected his own feelings onto Charlotte. “She’s probably been awake half the night imagining all sorts of terrible things happening to you. She’s lonely, doesn’t know what to say or do for the best, and you should be there helping.”

  She looked at him, weighing her words. “Yer going ter find Remus, then?” she challenged.

  “You deaf? I just told you I am!”

  She sniffed. “Then I reckon as I’ve told you all I found out, I’ll go ’ome an’ get summink fer dinner ... maybe make a cake.” She shrugged and started walking away again.

  “Gracie!”

  “Yeah?”

  “You did very well ... in fact, brilliantly. And if you ever do it again, I’ll tan your seat till you have to eat off the mantelpiece for a week. Do you hear me?”

  She grinned at him, then kept on walking.

  He did not want to smile, but he could not help it. Suddenly there was a joy beside the fear, a fierce, warm ache he never wanted to lose.

  Tellman did not even consider remaining by the flower market pursuing the stolen goods. It was still early. If he went straightaway he might find Remus and be able to confront him and discover, either by threat or persuasion, exactly what he knew. For Pitt’s sake he must find out what connection it had with Adinett—for everyone’s, if Remus really knew the identity of the most fearful murderer ever to strike London, or possibly anywhere. All other names of terror paled beside his.

  He walked rapidly away, head down, not looking right or left in case he caught the eye of anyone he knew. Where would Remus be at this hour? It was not yet five past nine. Perhaps he was still at his home? He had been out late enough last night.

  He caught a hansom, to save time, giving the driver Remus’s address.

  If he were not there, then where would he be? Where would he go this morning? What pieces of the puzzle were left to find?

  What did he know already? It had something to do with a coach driver called Nickley, who apparently had driven his master’s carriage around Whitechapel searching for those five particular women, and then when he had found them, someone had butchered them in the most horrific manner. Why these women and not others? Why had he stopped with five? They had been ordinary enough, prostitutes of one sort or another. There were tens of thousands like them. Yet, according to Gracie, whoever it was had asked after at least one of them by name.

  The cab jolted him along the street without interrupting his concentration.

  So it was not a maniac simply out to kill. There was purpose. Why had Annie Crook been taken from the tobacconist’s shop in Cleveland Street, and apparently ended up at Guy’s Hospital? And attended by the Queen’s surgeon! Why? Who paid for it? If she was insane it was hardly a surgical matter.

  And who was the young man who had been taken from Cleveland Street at the same time, and also under protest?

  He arrived, paid the driver but asked him to wait five minutes while he went and knocked on the door. The landlady told him Remus had gone out ten minutes before, but she had no idea where to.

  Tellman thanked her and went back to the cab, directing the driver to the nearest railway station. He would take the underground train to Whitechapel, then walk the quarter mile or so to Cleveland Street.

  Through the journey he sat turning the problem over in his mind. If Remus was not there, and he could not find him, he would have to start asking around himself. There did not seem any better place to begin. It all appeared to start with Annie Crook. There were several other pieces that so far had no connection, such as why was it important that Annie Crook had been Catholic?

  Presumably the young man was not, and either his family or hers had objected. And her father, William Crook, had ended up dead in the St. Pancras Infirmary.

  Who was Alice, that the coach driver had nearly run her down, not once, but twice? Why? What kind of a man wants to murder a seven-year-old child?

  There was definitely a great deal more to learn, and if Remus knew any of it, then Tellman must get it from him, one way or another.

  And who was the man Remus had met in Regent’s Park, who seemed to have been giving him advice and instruction? And who was the man he had quarreled with at the edge of Hyde Park? From Gracie’s description, a different man.

  He got off at Whitechapel and walked rapidly to Cleveland Street, turning the corner and striding briskly.

  This time luck was with him. He saw the figure of Remus less than a hundred yards ahead, standing almost still, as if uncertain which way to go.

  Tellman increased his pace and reached him just as he was about to turn left and go towards the tobacconist’s shop.

  Tellman put out his hand and grasped Remus’s arm.

  “Before you go, Mr. Remus, I’d like a word with you.”

  Remus jumped as if he had been frightened half out of his wits.

  “Sergeant Tellman! What the devil are—” Then he stopped abruptly.

  “Looking for you,” Tellman answered the question, even though it had not been completed.

  Remus effected innocence. “Why?” He started to say something more, then thought better of it. He knew about protesting too much.

  “Oh, a lot of things,” Tellman said casually, but without letting go of Remus’s arm. He could feel the muscles clenched under his fingers. “We can start with Annie Crook, go on through her abduction to Guy’s Hospital and whatever happened to her, and the death of her father, and the man you met in Regent’s Park, and the other man you quarreled with in Hyde Park ...”

  Remus was too badly shaken to conceal it. His face was white, fine beads of sweat on his lip and brow, but he said nothing.

  “And we could go on to the coach driver who tried to run down the child, Alice Crook, and then threw himself into the river, only he swam out of it again,” Tellman went on. “But most of all I want to know about the man inside the coach that drove around Hanbury Street and Buck’s Row in the autumn of ‘88, and cut the throats of five women, ending up disemboweling Catherine Eddowes in Mitre Square, where you were last night ...” He stopped because he thought Remus was going to faint. He retained his grasp on him now as much to hold him up as to prevent him from running away.

  Remus was shuddering violently. He tried to swallow, and nearly choked.

  “You know who Jack is.” Tellman made it a statement.

  Remus’s whole body was rigid, every muscle locked.

  Tellman felt his own breath rasping. “He’s still alive ... isn’t he?” he said hoarsely.

  Remus jerked his head in a nod, but in spite of his fear there was a light returning to his eyes, almost a brilliance. He was sweating profusely. “It’s the story of the century,” he said, licking his lips nervously. “It’ll change the world ... I swear!”

  Tellman was doubtful, but he could see that Remus believed it. “If it catches Jack that’ll be enough for me,” he said quietly. “But you had better do some explaining, and now.” He could not think of a sufficiently effective threat, so he did not add one.

  The challenge returned to Remus’s eyes. He snatched his arm loose from Tellman’s grip. “You won’t prove it without me. You’ll be lucky if you ever prove it at all!”

  “Maybe it isn’t true.”

  “Oh, it’s true!” Remus assured him, his voice ringing with certainty. “I just need a few more pieces. Gull’s dead, but there’ll be enough left, one way or another. And Stephen’s dead too, poor devil ... and Eddy, but I’ll still prove it, in spite of them.”

  “We,” Tellman corrected him grimly. “We’ll prove it.”

  “I don’t need you.”

  “Yes you do, or I’ll blow it wide open,” Tellman threatened. “I don’t care about making a story, you’re welcome to that, but I want the truth for other reasons, and I’ll get it, whether I make your story or ruin it.�
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  “Then come away from the shop,” Remus urged, glancing over his shoulder and back again at Tellman. “We can’t afford to wait around here and be noticed.” He turned as he spoke and started off towards the Mile End Road again.

  The air smelled like thunder, damp and heavy.

  Tellman hurried after him. “Explain it to me,” he ordered. “And no lies. I know a great deal. I just haven’t worked out how it all connects up ... not yet.”

  Remus walked a few paces without answering.

  “Who is Annie Crook?” Tellman asked, matching him step for step. “And more important, where is she now?”

  Remus deliberately ignored the first question. “I don’t know where she is,” he answered without looking at him. Then, before Tellman could become angry, he added, “Bedlam, by now, I should think. She was declared insane and put away. I don’t know whether she’s still alive. There’s no proper record of her at Guy’s, but I know she went there and was kept there for months.”

  “And who was her lover?” Tellman went on. In the distance thunder rumbled over the rooftops and a few heavy spots of rain fell.

  Remus stopped dead, so abruptly Tellman was a couple of steps beyond him before he stopped too.

  Remus’s eyes were wide; he started to laugh, a high, sharp, hysterical sound. Several people turned in the street to look at him.

  “Stop it!” Tellman wanted to slap him, but it would have drawn even more attention to them. “Be quiet!”

  Remus gulped and controlled himself with an effort. “You don’t know a damn thing, do you? You’re just guessing. Go away. I don’t need you.”

  “Yes, you do,” Tellman contradicted him with certainty. “You haven’t got all the answers yet, and you can’t get them, or you would have. But you know enough to be frightened. What else do you need? Maybe I can help. I’m police; I can ask questions you can’t.”

  “Police!” Remus gave a guffaw of laughter, full of anger and derision. “Police? Abberline was police—and Warren! As high as you like ... commissioner, even.”