Ghost of Whitechapel

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘’Ere, you coppers!’

  About to knock on one more door, the CID men turned. Up came the unkempt woman in the misty dusk.

  ‘Got something else to say, have you?’ asked Inspector Davis. They’d already talked to the woman and listened to nothing helpful from her.

  ‘It’s Archie Binns what lives in me back yard,’ she said. ‘’E’s just told me ’e done it, and ’e could ’ave, ’e’s got funny ways and ’e showed me the razor ’e used. Come on, come and git ’im before ’e hops it or does one of me lodgers in.’

  Inspector Davis didn’t argue. He and Sergeant Swettenham followed the hurrying woman back to her dingy house.

  Chapter Thirteen

  WHEN CHIEF INSPECTOR Dobbs and Sergeant Ross got back to the Yard, Inspector Davis and Sergeant Swettenham were waiting for them.

  Inspector Davis, who had already reported to the Chief Superintendent, now reported to his immediate superior that a suspect had been arrested.

  ‘Is that a fact?’ said Dobbs.

  ‘A bloke by the name of Archie Binns,’ said Davis.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In a cell. He’s confessed. And look at this.’ Davis unwrapped a cut-throat razor. The blade showed a rusty stain.

  ‘That’s the weapon?’ said Sergeant Ross.

  ‘He says so.’

  ‘What’s his confession worth?’ asked Dobbs.

  ‘You’d better decide that, guv,’ said Sergeant Swettenham.

  ‘Let’s have a look at him,’ said Dobbs, and they made their way to the cells. The suspect was locked up in number three. A uniformed constable unlocked the door and the four CID men went in. The suspect, seated, glanced up. He was a cadaverous-looking man who might have been any age from thirty to forty. His chin and jaws were covered with dark stubble, his eyes hollow. He wore a ragged unbuttoned coat over a darned grey jersey and patched black trousers, and his boots were dirty and cracked. His uncovered head was black with a profusion of greasy hair. At the sight of his visitors, an inane smile parted his mouth to reveal an array of bad teeth, alternating with gaps.

  ‘’Ello, gents, ain’t I a wicked bloke?’ he said.

  ‘Are you?’ said Dobbs. ‘How wicked?’

  ‘Well, I’m the one, ain’t I? I done it, didn’t I?’

  ‘And what did you do?’ asked Dobbs.

  ‘Good as cut ’er napper off, didn’t I?’

  ‘Whose napper?’

  ‘Poppy’s. In ’er doorway. Just like that.’ He effected a slashing movement of his right hand. ‘With me razor.’ He smiled again, a foxy smile this time.

  ‘What’s your name?’ asked Dobbs.

  ‘I ain’t givin’ me name, not till I’ve ’ad a cup of tea and a meat pie.’

  ‘He’s Archie Binns,’ said Inspector Davis, ‘and he lives at fourteen Underwood Street, in an old watchman’s hut in the back yard. We picked him up there, on information given by a Mrs Flint, who rents the house and has lodgers.’

  ‘He lives, sleeps, eats and walks about in an old watchman’s hut in a backyard?’ said Dobbs.

  ‘More or less, accordin’ to Mrs Flint,’ said Davis.

  ‘She ain’t a bad old cow,’ said Binns. ‘What about me tea and a pie?’

  ‘We’ll see what we can do,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘I’m ’ungry,’ said Binns.

  ‘When was it you used your razor on Poppy Simpson?’ asked Dobbs.

  ‘Last night, didn’t I?’ Binns sounded pleased with himself. ‘In ’er doorway.’

  ‘And what time was this?’ asked Dobbs.

  ‘Late, wasn’t it? I don’t read times. I can read writin’, I can’t read times.’

  ‘What made you do it?’ asked Dobbs.

  ‘Well, I ’ad me razor with me, didn’t I? ’Ere, you should’ve seen the blood.’

  ‘You want to make a full confession, do you?’ asked Dobbs.

  ‘You write it down and I’ll sign it,’ said Binns. Again he smiled, ingratiatingly this time. ‘But not till I’ve ’ad me pie, an ’ot one. And will I git some breakfast?’

  ‘You’d like to make your confession, sign it and stay here, would you?’ said Dobbs.

  ‘Well, I would, wouldn’t I?’

  ‘The board and lodging is free,’ said Dobbs, ‘and we’ll see now about some food.’

  ‘I ain’t goin’ to complain,’ said Binns.

  The CID men left. Back in his office, the Chief Inspector said, ‘Well?’

  ‘The bloke’s a half-wit, guv,’ said Ross.

  ‘Could’ve done it, though,’ said Inspector Davis. ‘Had to pull him in.’

  ‘He’d like to stay,’ said Dobbs, ‘so we’ll let him.’

  ‘And charge him?’ said Sergeant Swettenham.

  ‘Let’s think about what we’ve got,’ said Dobbs. ‘We’ve got a gift horse, a suspect who’s offered a confession, a local Whitechapel man.’

  ‘Hold on, guv,’ said Ross, ‘we all know the confession’s not going to stand up. The bloke’s a crackpot.’

  ‘But the Fleet Street hounds don’t know it,’ said Dobbs, looking cheerful. ‘I’d say that as Archie Binns would like to be our guest indefinitely, we could use him to take the pen-and-ink hounds off our backs. My back particularly, I might say. So we’ll keep him under arrest and let the press know we’re making enquiries into the details of his confession. That’ll quieten Fleet Street. Binns won’t worry how long we keep him in a cell as long as we feed him tea and hot pies.’

  ‘Good idea, guv,’ said Sergeant Swettenham.

  ‘Which reminds me, sergeant,’ said Dobbs, ‘go and organize the required food for our guest.’

  ‘What, go and find a pie shop, you mean, sir?’ said Swettenham.

  ‘That’s the ticket,’ said Dobbs. ‘Hurry it up.’

  Sergeant Swettenham left.

  ‘What’s our next move?’ asked Inspector Davis, and Dobbs put him in the picture concerning the day’s developments in respect of the suspects Pritchard and Basil Gottfried. Pritchard, he said, could be in the clear now.

  ‘Yes, could be,’ he added. ‘But I’ve still got peculiar suspicions about him.’

  ‘We could all turn peculiar over any case of double murder,’ said Davis.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Dobbs, ‘you and Sergeant Swettenham carry out the watch at Bow.’

  ‘Tomorrow’s Sunday,’ said Davis.

  ‘Yes, hard luck,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘I knew some of that would come my way,’ said Davis. ‘What’ll you be doin’?’

  ‘Taking my family to church,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘’Ope you enjoy the sermon,’ said Davis.

  Constable Fred Billings was late going off duty. By the time he reached the house in Ellen Street, the winter evening was dark, damp, and patchy with fog. In the street, kids were gathered around a coke fire contained in an old dustbin patterned with holes. The contraption had been pinched that day from a coke yard.

  Daisy and Billy were pleased to see Fred. Fred, however, wasn’t too pleased to hear from Billy that Bridget had gone to her washing-up job as usual.

  ‘I’ll have to talk serious to that sister of yours,’ said Fred.

  ‘But she can’t afford to give ’er job up,’ said Daisy.

  ‘A job that keeps her out late at night is the wrong sort of job,’ said Fred, thinking about the kind of villainy that lurked around Whitechapel at the witching hour. ‘Yes, I’ll have to talk serious to her.’

  ‘Can I listen in, Fred?’ asked Billy. ‘It could be worth as much as tuppence, listenin’ to anyone talkin’ serious to Bridget. ’Ere, how did the police get on today about last night’s murder?’

  ‘Being as I am, a constable of the law, Billy, I’m not in a position to come up with confidential details,’ said Fred, ‘but I did ’ear a suspect’s been taken in.’

  ‘Crikey, the Yard’s laid their mitts on the bloke?’ said Billy.

  ‘’Ave they, Fred?’ asked Daisy.

  ‘So I ’eard from me st
ation sergeant,’ said Fred.

  ‘Oh, who is he?’ asked Daisy.

  ‘Well, Daisy,’ said Fred, ‘even if I knew, I wouldn’t be at liberty to give yer his name and address.’

  ‘Still, ain’t it a relief ’e’s behind bars?’ said Daisy. ‘Billy and me didn’t like to think of ’im prowling about lookin’ for other unfortunate women that’s come down in the world.’ Daisy, for all that she knew of Whitechapel’s street walkers, always referred to them in charitable terms, and although Ellen Street rubbed elbows with the streets of ill repute, she remained uncontaminated by what went on in brothels. ‘Billy says ’e’s goin’ to meet Bridget at Aldgate tube tonight.’

  ‘I’ll do that, Billy,’ said Fred, ‘it’s a man’s job. And it’ll give me the chance to do my bit of serious talkin’ to her.’

  ‘That’s ever so kind of yer, Fred,’ said Daisy.

  ‘Well, didn’t I tell yer, Daisy, that we could rely on Fred to do some safeguardin’?’ said Billy.

  ‘So yer did,’ said Daisy. ‘Fred, I’ve kept yer supper hot on the hob. It’s mutton stew with suet dumplings. Take yer ’elmet off and sit down and I’ll serve it up.’

  ‘I’ll appreciate that, Daisy,’ said Fred. He placed his helmet aside and sat down at the oilcloth-covered table, on which stood a cheap cruet. Daisy took a knife and fork from a dresser drawer, and a tablespoon. She put the cutlery in front of Fred.

  ‘The spoon’s for the gravy, Fred,’ she said.

  ‘I also appreciate that, Daisy,’ said Fred. ‘I’m partial to gravy when there’s dumplings as well. You’re treatin’ me very ’ospitable.’

  ‘Yes, and only sixpence a time,’ said Billy.

  Daisy took a large plate out of the oven and placed it in front of Fred. Then she lifted the iron saucepan off the hob of the range fire and with a ladle filled the plate. Amid the meat and the pot-cooked vegetables there were two creamy-looking dumplings sitting roundly in the thick gravy.

  ‘Well, I like the look of that,’ said Fred. Hungry, he set to with his knife and fork, and found the dumplings tasty and succulent.

  ‘Bridget’s thinkin’ about us movin’,’ said Billy.

  ‘Bridget’s thinkin’ sensibly, then,’ said Fred. ‘Where to, might I ask?’

  ‘On the other side of the river,’ said Billy, ‘only Daisy ain’t sure she’ll like it among foreigners.’

  ‘Foreigners?’ said Fred, stalwart-looking in his uniform.

  ‘Anyone that lives on the other side of the river is a foreigner to Daisy,’ grinned Billy.

  ‘Oh, not like French or German, though,’ said Daisy, ‘and, anyway, I’ll get used to them. We all will. Bridget thinks conditions is better in Southwark, and that me and ’er will ’ave a chance of meetin’ men that’s more respectable than those round ’ere.’

  ‘I see, she’s suddenly thinkin’ about gettin’ herself a bloke, is she?’ said Fred.

  ‘Well, I don’t think she wants to be an old maid with just a parrot for company,’ said Daisy.

  ‘I dunno why you can’t be ’er bloke, Fred,’ said Billy. ‘I mean, you ain’t walkin’ out with a skirt, are yer?’

  ‘Well, I suppose I’m what you call available,’ said Fred, ‘and you’re welcome to let Bridget know that.’

  ‘Can’t you let ’er know it yerself?’ asked Billy.

  ‘Unfortunately, that kind of talk comin’ from me personally is liable to aggravate Bridget and earn me a quick funeral,’ said Fred, ‘and I ain’t ready for that yet. I’d like to live on for a bit.’

  ‘Fred, you don’t ’ave to take all Bridget’s remarks serious,’ said Daisy.

  ‘I don’t mind her remarks,’ said Fred, his appetite doing full justice to Daisy’s cooking, ‘it’s ’er saucepans that make me nervous.’

  ‘Well, I’ll admit it,’ said Billy, ‘when she take ‘old of one I always start running meself.’

  ‘Still, ’aven’t yer noticed, Billy, she ’asn’t chucked Fred out, nor any of ’is things,’ said Daisy.

  ‘There y’ar, Fred,’ said Billy, ‘Bridget’s bark is a lot worse than ’er saucepans.’

  Fred laughed and finished his stew, whereupon Daisy served him a helping of rice pudding from the dish she took from the oven.

  ‘All for sixpence, Daisy?’ he said.

  ‘Well, when I cook for me and Billy,’ said Daisy, ‘it don’t cost much more to include you. And you can sit round the fire with me and Billy afterwards.’

  ‘Home from home, Daisy, bless yer warm ’eart,’ said Fred.

  Bridget, wrapped in a thick apron, was enveloped in clouds of steam as she worked her way through a mountain of crockery in the kitchen scullery of the restaurant.

  Oh, blow this, she thought, it’s breaking me back and ruining me lily-white hands. I’d like a decent daytime job. It’s not natural at my age slaving away at a sink till eleven at night. And what’s more, walking home from Aldgate about half-eleven every night, and in the fog most nights, ain’t what I call cosy. It’s beginning to make me feel like one of them women that walk the streets. I’ll get horrible men propositioning me. Or following me and dogging me footsteps, like I’m sure happened a few nights ago. Bridget Cummings, it’s time to move out of Whitechapel with Daisy and Billy, and get yourself work in a nice shop somewhere in Lambeth or Southwark. Daisy ought to have a chance of meeting a decent feller with a decent job. There’s not many fellers like that in Whitechapel. Not that it’s their fault, there’s no decent jobs going, poor blokes. I’ll have to do some looking for a place across the river, especially seeing that’s where Daisy’s going to work. I’ll start looking quick. As for Fred Billings, that crafty copper’s getting his feet under the table at home, I suppose.

  Much to her disgust, the patchy fog had thickened by the time she reached Aldgate on the tube train. It had crept into the station, and the booking hall was misty with it. She hurried through and stepped into the dark night. The street lamps were veiled, but their dim glow was some help. The number of lamps had been increased following outcries about badly lit streets during the time of the Ripper.

  He was waiting for her, the man who looked like a professional gentleman. He was tucked against the wall on the other side of the entrance to Back Church Lane as she turned into it from Commercial Road. He was quite invisible. He heard her footsteps and recognized them. He smiled. Back Church Lane was a place of silence at this hour, and only in the pubs of Commercial Road were there local people not yet abed. She crossed the street and he began to follow, moving at a quick silent pace through the fog. He carried no bag, nor did he have his walking-stick with him. In his right hand was his razor-sharp, thin-bladed knife.

  Bridget heard nothing of him, but all her nerves were tautly strung, her every instinct alive to the threat posed by the veiled night, the silence and a sense of the lurking unknown. Up to a week ago, the lateness of her homegoing journeys hadn’t been any real worry to her. She wasn’t of a nervous disposition. Only during this last week had she let imagination and sensitive instincts take hold of her, and last night’s murder had increased her unusual apprehension.

  She froze as a figure loomed up in front of her.

  ‘Is that you, Bridget?’ asked Constable Fred Billings, and Bridget’s stalking shadow silently checked.

  ‘Oh, me gawd,’ gasped Bridget, ‘what d’yer mean by scarin’ me to death?’

  ‘Give over,’ said Fred, ‘I’m ’ere to walk you home. I’d ’ave met you at Aldgate, only I ran into a night duty sergeant on his beat with a constable, and that delayed me. This has got to stop, Bridget Cummings. It’s dangerous for any woman to be on the streets at this time of night. Sooner or later you’ll get jumped on and dragged into an alley. I never knew a more aggravatin’ woman than you in the way you don’t take good advice and give up this night-time job in that West End restaurant.’

  ‘Me? Me aggravatin’? Talk about the pot callin’ the kettle black, what bleedin’ cheek,’ said Bridget. Behind her, at a distance of no more
than ten yards, the gentleman, hidden by the fog and the doorway of a house, put his knife back into his coat pocket and smiled resignedly. It hardly mattered now, in any case. She wasn’t a prostitute. He had thought she was, that she went street-walking in the West End each evening.

  ‘We don’t want any language,’ said Fred, ‘just a bit of commonsense.’

  ‘Kindly don’t talk to me like me keeper,’ said Bridget. ‘Mind, I ain’t saying it wasn’t thoughtful to come and meet me. I’m gettin’ to imagine things lately in all this fog, and it ain’t doin’ me nerves one bit of good.’

  ‘Well, it’s not very clever, is it, wandering about after what ’appened in New Road last night,’ said Fred sternly. The fog and darkness that surrounded them allowed each only a vague picture of the other, but Bridget’s taut nerves had relaxed at what she felt was the solidity of his presence.

  ‘Wandering about?’ she said. ‘Don’t come it, Fred Billings, the next time I wander about will be the first. Don’t you get ’igh and mighty with me just because you’ve got yer ’elmet on.’

  ‘Never mind that,’ said Fred, ‘just come along with me, my girl, and I’ll see yer safe home.’

  ‘Do what?’ said Bridget. The hidden gentleman smiled again.

  ‘Just come along with me,’ said Fred.

  ‘I’m ’earing things,’ said Bridget, but she began walking with him.

  ‘Now,’ said Fred, ‘about you movin’ with Daisy and Billy across the river—’

  ‘None of yer business,’ said Bridget, ‘and who told yer, anyway?’

  ‘Daisy and Billy,’ said Fred. ‘First sensible idea you’ve ’ad for ages. I’ll ask around and see if I can point yer to a decent place in Lambeth or Southwark. It’ll suit Daisy, seeing she’ll be workin’ across the river at Guy’s laundry.’

  ‘’Ere, who put you in charge of us?’ demanded Bridget.

  ‘Just consider me yer ’elpful lodger,’ said Fred.

  ‘I ain’t considerin’ anything of the kind,’ said Bridget, and argued with him through the fog all the way to her front door.

  The gentleman, meanwhile, had departed.

  It was when he reached Tower Hill that the risk he himself was constantly taking in being out late at night reared its menacing head. Out of the fog came a large man with a sepulchral voice.