by M. J. Trow
‘And that’s peculiar,’ Kempster said.
‘What is?’
‘Notice these hairs, behind the ears?’
There was nothing left of the ears, but Bliss could approximate.
‘They’ve been cut short.’ The doctor lifted a few with his tweezers. ‘Do you want my diagnosis?’
‘Fire away.’
‘Our head is that of a middle-aged woman who sees herself as over the hill. The water has had an effect, of course, but I’d say she’d been in the river for three days, perhaps more. She cut her hair because it was thinning – she may have had alopecia – and wore a wig. As for the removal of the head,’ he pointed to the edge of skin below the chin, ‘that was done with some precision. Surgeon’s scalpel followed by a fine-toothed saw.’
Bliss frowned. ‘Are you saying the murderer is a doctor, doctor?’
‘I’m saying no such thing,’ Kempster said. ‘No one who took the Hippocratic oath could carry out butchery like this. I’m talking about implements, not people.’
‘What bothers me,’ Bliss said, ‘is that the papers have already got hold of it. When I find out who talked to The Times, I’ll have his bollocks in the rowlocks as we say on the river. You’ve come out with a theory of sorts, Dr Kempster and you’re an educated man working with evidence. Can you imagine the lunacy that’s about to be unleashed? Every other madman in London is going to claim this woman is his mother, auntie or downstairs maid. And the other madmen will claim they killed her.’
‘But you need to find out who she was?’
‘Of course,’ Bliss conceded.
‘Can I suggest a photograph, then?’
‘Of this?’
Kempster nodded.
‘The papers’ll never publish it. It would upset the fine ladies over their breakfast tables. Anyway, as I understand it, the cost is prohibitive.’
‘Leaflets, then,’ the doctor suggested. ‘The Met can stick ’em up on walls and other vantage points.’
‘The Met, doctor?’ Bliss frowned. ‘Are you suggesting I farm this out to other Divisions?’ He was horrified.
Kempster turned to face the man. ‘You said this face was found at Limehouse?’
Bliss nodded.
‘What about the other body parts?’
‘Torso near Battersea Park; shoulder off Greenwich.’
‘There you are,’ Kempster shrugged. ‘That’s two miles as the crow flies. Covers more than one Division, does it not?’
‘It only covers one Division, doctor. Mine. This one belongs to the River Police. When you say “photograph”, who did you have in mind?’
‘Probably Sergeant Ballantyne, V Division.’
Bliss nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s all right. As long as it stays with us. I’ll sort it.’ He looked at the tragic head again, the features scarred and ill-fitting on the block, the eyes blank and oaken, the ragged lips hanging open. He turned to go. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘while we’re still extrapolating, the short hair could have another explanation.’
‘Oh? What’s that?’
‘Our lady of the river could have been a recent guest of Her Majesty. The first thing they do with a stretch in a women’s prison is to shave off their hair. It was a nice day when I came in here. Think I’ll take a little cab ride up to Holloway.’
While Sergeant Ballantyne of V Division steeled himself to set up his tripod and photograph the head, other portions of the dead woman were coming to light. On the Thursday, the thighs turned up, one at Blackwall Point; the other at Woolwich Dockyard. The next day, an embarrassment of riches, as though the murderer was taunting the River Police with the multiplicity of finds. Somebody’s cocker spaniel, splashing on the foreshore near the Royal Arsenal, came bouncing back to its less than enchanted owner with a pelvis. An arm was jammed into the slime-weeded stanchions of the Albert Bridge; the other one bobbed in the brackish water of White Hart Docks, near Vauxhall. And the sluice gates of Wandsworth Distillery produced a lower leg, giving rise to rather unpleasant jokes about the effect their beer had on people by the distillery workers.
When all the pieces had been brought in, dried and roughly assembled in Dr Kempster’s mortuary, he had most of a person lying on the slab in front of him and he could give Daddy Bliss a clearer picture of the victim. He had been right about the head; the woman was perhaps forty, though she may have been younger. The pubic hair of the pelvis matched the colour of the short crop on the scalp and the ‘feminine’ moustache that he had noted earlier. There were no feet, but Kempster estimated that the dead woman had been about five foot three inches tall. She was not a virgin and had given birth. The condition of the breasts and nipples led him to believe that, at some time, she had suckled a child. And there, as so often in Kempster’s grisly profession, his enquiries came to an abrupt full stop.
SIX
‘Man cannot live by bread alone’ the homily painted on the workhouse wall had told him. As September lengthened into shorter days and the nights brought a vicious chill, William Bisgrove had been forced to admit himself. He was of no fixed abode, he told them, his West Country accent a risk in betraying his background. He told the Overseer of the Poor that he couldn’t read, told them his name was Bickstaff and he made his mark. Picking oakum and sewing mail bags was not that different from Broadmoor, but there was no one here to strap him to a chair and dunk him in cold water to clear, as they had told him, the pathways to his brain. Above all, there was no electric current to shoot through his body, making him jerk like a puppet and dance like a marionette.
And so, for William Bickstaff, né Bisgrove, the workhouse would do; until the river called him again and he could look for his lost love.
Mrs Rackstraw had had what for her was a relaxing week. True, she had had to deal with the mountain of laundry that any Monday brought; how two young men of moderate habit made so much washing, she couldn’t imagine. It was like working for a family of ten. But it kept Maisie on an even keel; for some reason, the girl seemed to positively enjoy washing out smalls and ironing shirts, if the silly grin on her face was anything to go by.
Tuesday had been a particular highlight. She had been looking for an excuse to bite the butcher’s boy’s head off for some time now, a feud sparked by an inadequate delivery of mince some years before, and Tuesday brought a perfect excuse with some lamb chops she wouldn’t give to a dog. She boxed his ears and sent him on his way, his head ringing. She went through the rest of the day humming happily under her breath and made a cake so light it would make an angel weep for joy. Grand and Batchelor never knew because the whole thing was eaten at the kitchen table, with a few ribald anecdotes from Mrs Gooding on the literal shortcomings of Mr Gooding.
Wednesday had brought a slight retrenchment of Mrs Rackstraw’s good mood, but she perked up in the afternoon when she discovered to her delight that the grocer had charged her twice for a delivery of Garibaldis. She had donned her bonnet and tied it with unusual determination under her chin and set off to give battle. The man had quailed when she went into the shop; he had been adding a penny a pound on sugar for about a year and thought his day had come. He was so delighted to find it was a simple biscuit discrepancy that not only did he capitulate at once, he gave her a bag of only slightly broken Nice and she returned home vindicated.
Thursday was her afternoon off and she went to visit her married niece, living in two rooms over an undertaker’s in Bermondsey. She took with her the only slightly broken Nice, a gift which, lacking only a vowel, she thought particularly pertinent. She chuckled over the pun as she clung to the rail and bounced about on the wooden seat on the omnibus over Waterloo Bridge. She came back late, smelling slightly of pine shavings and embalming fluid and went straight to bed.
Friday began well enough, but soon took a turn for the worst.
‘The lunatic’s back,’ she announced as she brought in the toast.
‘The lunatic?’ A week is a long time in the enquiry agent business and Grand was at a loss.
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‘That lunatic from last week. I thought you’d given him his marching orders.’
Batchelor took a slice of toast and buttered it thoughtfully. ‘I certainly thought we’d seen the last of him,’ he said. ‘Perhaps he’s come to tell us he has found his wife.’
‘Or to pay the bill,’ Grand added. Neither of them had any hopes of getting any money out of Selwyn Byng, but hope could still spring eternal.
Batchelor added a load of marmalade and cut his toast into quarters. ‘Give us a minute to finish this, Mrs Rackstraw, then show him up.’
‘I shall do no such thing,’ she said, bridling. ‘A lunatic in my kitchen, indeed. I’ll put him in the drawing room and tell him he can wait. There’s nothing worth taking in there.’
Batchelor forbore to mention his grandmother’s collection of cranberry glass – it wasn’t to everyone’s taste, perhaps, but who knew with lunatics?
‘All right, Mrs Rackstraw,’ Grand said. ‘We won’t be long.’
When the woman had slammed her way out and they heard the baize door flap close, Grand spoke for them both.
‘I didn’t think we’d see him again, did you?’
Batchelor wiped his fingers on his napkin and looked thoughtful. ‘He didn’t seem the kind of man who would come and tell us the outcome, I agree. He would just find out where she was, grovel, and then put it all behind him. He certainly wouldn’t come and tell us we were right …’ The alternative hung in the air.
‘So … you think he’s come to tell us we’re wrong?’ Grand said, doubtfully.
Batchelor had no chance to answer. They heard the baize door open and Mrs Rackstraw telling the lunatic in no uncertain terms to wait in the drawing room until her gentlemen were free.
‘She has her uses, doesn’t she?’ Grand said. ‘Despite the drawbacks …’
The door to the dining room flew open and Selwyn Byng hurtled in, Mrs Rackstraw in his wake. She grabbed for his flying coat-tails but he foiled her by the simple expedient of tripping over the rug and measuring his length at Grand’s feet.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Mrs Rackstraw said, hauling him upright with one wiry arm. ‘He got away from me. Hold him here and I’ll send Maisie out to fetch someone from the asylum.’
Byng hung limply from her grip, all fight gone out of him. He had a package in his hand, roughly wrapped but indisputably bloodstained. Without drawing attention to it, Grand said smoothly, ‘Perhaps if you would bring another cup, Mrs Rackstraw, we’ll talk to Mr Byng over coffee, as he’s here.’
The housekeeper looked from her young gentlemen to the sorry-looking specimen in her grasp and unceremoniously let go. Byng sagged at the knees but managed to find a seat at the table without actually falling over. With one of her very best snorts, she left the room, sending Maisie back with a cup; one from the second-best service, with a chip in the saucer and a crack in the handle. It was pure foolishness to trust the best china to a lunatic.
While they waited, the enquiry agents looked at their erstwhile client. The days since they had seen him last had not treated him kindly. Weaselly from the outset, he had lost more weight and the shirt collar, noticeably grubby and creased, hung a little loosely on his neck. He had dark circles under his eyes and he had shaved in what could only be called a cursory fashion; a sprout of whisker adorned one corner of his mouth. He slumped in the chair and waited to be given food and drink, like a sulky child.
He sipped the coffee and sat, the gory parcel next to his plate where some toast, spread and cut by Batchelor, got cold and leathery.
‘Do you have news, Mr Byng?’ Grand asked at last.
The man turned haggard eyes to him and then to Batchelor. He didn’t speak, but pushed the parcel into the middle of the table.
‘May I … open it?’ Batchelor asked.
Byng shrugged and took another sip of coffee, watching them over the rim of his cup.
Using a clean knife from the sideboard, Batchelor teased open the parcel and revealed a finger, neatly removed at the third joint, still wearing a ring. The fingernail was neatly cut and discreetly polished and, despite being a disarticulated body part, caused little horror in the men around the table. Grand had seen far worse when he was little more than a boy, on the battlefields of Shiloh and Chickamauga. Batchelor had developed a thicker skin than he had thought possible in his years as an enquiry agent and Selwyn Byng, who might be expected to be horrified, had lived with it now for over twenty-four hours and had become inured to it.
There were clearly many questions to ask but Batchelor got in first. ‘Is this your … wife’s?’ Of the difficult questions he had asked in his life, this ranked up there with the best of them.
Byng nodded.
‘You’re sure?’ Grand checked. It seemed to him that it was a small enough piece to be so sure about.
Byng spoke for the first time. ‘Yes,’ he said, dully. ‘It is my wife’s finger.’ He sounded as if he had been practising this statement for a while. It came without inflection or emotion. ‘It’s her ring. I haven’t looked, but if you care to, you will see that two initial Es are entwined inside, in a heart. It …’ and his voice broke a little, ‘… it is Emilia’s own design.’
Grand and Batchelor looked at the finger, lying there amongst the crumbs and detritus of their breakfast. Neither really wanted to touch it; it would be a matter of who would blink first.
Batchelor saved them both from a gory task. ‘I think the best thing to do would be to take it to a doctor to be examined. A police surgeon, for preference.’
Byng came alive. ‘No police! No police!’
‘No, not the police,’ Batchelor reassured him, re-wrapping the finger and adding a napkin for good measure. ‘A police surgeon. And I happen to know one; I used to get details from him after inquests in my newspaper days. Dr Kempster; Felix, I think his name is. He lives out in Battersea – I’m sure he’d be pleased to help.’
‘I’m still not—’
‘Mr Byng.’ Grand spoke firmly but kindly. ‘This is another matter now. We need to know whether …’ he paused. How did you put it when the finger’s husband was sitting there? ‘… whether the finger was removed when your wife was still alive.’
Byng replied with one of his visceral howls. Down in the kitchen, Mrs Rackstraw chose a sharp knife and tucked it into the waistband of her apron. Lunatics; no good would come of it.
‘Please, Mr Byng.’ Grand reached out and grabbed the man’s wrist. ‘Believe me, although you don’t want to think of her in pain, it is far better than the alternative, surely! Dr—’
‘Kempster,’ Batchelor chimed in.
‘Dr Kempster will be able to tell us what we need to know. Do you have anyone at home?’
‘Just the staff.’ Byng was calm again now, but it was a thin veneer.
‘What about your father? Could you go and stay with him?’
Byng’s eyes sprang open. ‘My father! What day is this?’
‘Friday.’ The two forgave him for losing track; it wasn’t every day a man got his wife’s dismembered finger in a parcel.
‘I must … I must get to the warehouse.’
‘Not today, surely.’ A work ethic was all very fine and dandy, but Grand felt sure that this was an occasion where a man would be allowed a bit of furlough.
‘I … I haven’t told my father about my bit of trouble,’ Byng said. ‘He … let’s just say he isn’t a very emotional man. He couldn’t understand why I wanted to marry Emilia in the first place. She is an heiress, true, but not for many years. He had another girl in mind, one who had already come into her trust. But … from the first time I saw her, Emilia was the only one for me. And now …’ Suddenly, he turned on Grand. ‘This is your fault! If you had looked for her …’ and again he collapsed in a storm of weeping.
‘Mr Byng,’ Grand said, severely. He couldn’t help feeling that he was speaking to a recalcitrant horse. ‘Did you have a third note?’
‘No.’
‘Then how is this
our fault? We had no clues, you lied to us – if with that you felt we could possibly find your wife, I am afraid you have a sadly erroneous view of what enquiry agents can do. We might as well have gone door to door, knocking and asking if they had Mrs Selwyn Byng stashed in their basement. I think you’ll agree that that is a question unlikely to be answered in the affirmative.’
Byng shrugged but didn’t answer. He had found someone to blame other than himself and for now, that was enough.
‘Her captors have racked up their demands in the most cruel way, but it isn’t anyone’s fault but theirs. What I suggest is that you go home and get some rest, but if you insist on going to work today, then get a shave on the way.’ He looked at the man, assessingly. ‘You are much the same size as James. He will lend you a clean collar.’
‘Will I?’ Batchelor was affronted. He was very particular about his collars.
‘Of course you will.’ With a glare, Batchelor went to get one. ‘We must have your address now, Mr Byng; we need to tell you how we get on with Dr Kempster.’ He fished out a small notepad from his pocket and pushed it across with a stub of pencil. ‘Write it down for me and we will come and let you know as soon as we know anything. It will probably not be today. The doctor may want to do … tests. But if you could arrange to be at home tomorrow, we will wait on you then.’
‘I can’t just …’
‘This isn’t a case of “just”, Mr Byng. This is your wife’s life. Be at home tomorrow. We’ll see you then.’
An Indian summer came suddenly to London that late September and the streets of Whitechapel were dumb in the heat. Piles of clothes, black and patched, lay on the street corners and the narrow pavements, the cobbles were slick with grease and the walls crawled with cockroaches.
William Bisgrove gave up counting these because there were just far too many of them. He had carried the banner for the past three nights, settling down with the homeless and hopeless who infested this end of the Metropolis. In the end, the mortuary of the workhouse had got him down; that and the increasingly nosy questions the Overseers asked. He walked out one morning and never went back. Irish tinkers’ carts creaked and wobbled over the iron-hard ground and the great drayhorses that serviced the parish’s innumerable pubs and off-licences snorted and sweated in the sun. They lashed the flies with their tails and tossed their heads as the harnesses jingled and they champed their bits.
