It had been a nice evening, if a little long. But then she had been in no hurry to get home. Home meant being alone with Riley and his temper, his constant fault-finding.
“Nothing like a good bit of beef,” Albert was saying with satisfaction. “Do it just right, in the Black Boar, they do.”
“Must ask them how they do their Yorkshire pudding,” Riley said in agreement. “You should ask them, Gwen,” he added. “You could learn a thing or two! God knows, you need to.”
There was no answer to give and Gwen had long ago learned not to argue with him. Their two daughters were grown up and gone. Their letters home were one of Gwen’s greatest pleasures.
“Did you hear me?” Riley demanded irritably.
“Yes, I heard you,” she replied. “And there’s no use asking a professional cook what he does, ’cos they don’t tell.”
“Tried it, have you?” He would not let it go.
There was no point in arguing. It would only make him angrier.
“All got our secrets,” Albert said cheerfully. “If every woman could cook like they do, they wouldn’t have their trade.”
“Just fit to eat would be nice,” Riley snapped back.
What could she say to that? She was actually quite a good cook, as well as seamstress, and general manager of the house on a limited budget. But the argument was not really about that at all, and she knew it, even if he pretended otherwise. He simply wanted something to be angry about.
“No excuses?” Riley asked, as if she were deliberately ignoring him.
“It’s expensive to have your own cook.” Mary observed. “You have to have enough room for her to live with you, for a start.” What she was really saying was that Riley did not earn enough to provide for one.
Gwen turned away so Riley could not see her wide smile.
It was a moment before Riley found his answer.
“Shouldn’t need one! There’s only the two of us in the house. A woman who knows what she’s doing ought to manage everything else.”
Before he could go on any further they heard footsteps in the fog and they all turned to see the figure looming out of the darkness toward them.
Gwen felt a moment of fear before she recognized the outline of a policeman, and the knots eased out of her.
“Good evening, sir, madam,” the warm, agreeable voice said politely. “Bit of a nasty night to be out so late.”
“It’s all right, Constable,” Albert answered calmly. “Been out to dinner. Just stopped a bit long, that’s all.”
The policeman had been holding his lantern in such a way as to show himself very clearly, so he would not frighten them as a stranger, but now he turned it on them, the men first, then the two women.
“Take that out of my eyes!” Riley said sharply. “We’re respectable people going home a bit late, that’s all! Do you think if we were out to burgle someone we’d take our wives along?”
“Sergeant Walpole,” the policeman introduced himself. “And no, sir, it never occurred to me that you might be burglars. I was making sure you were all safe.”
“Why on earth shouldn’t we be safe?” Albert asked, but there was a thread of alarm in his voice. Perhaps without doing it intentionally he moved a little closer to Mary.
“There’s been another one, sir,” Walpole replied quietly. “Dutfield’s Yard, sir, just off Berners Street. I don’t like to say too much in front of the ladies, but it’s even worse than before. You should go home and stay inside. I advise you not to have a newspaper in the house….”
“My wife doesn’t read newspapers,” Riley said sharply, but now his voice was edged with fear more than anger. Berners Street was just around the corner from where they had eaten such a good meal only an hour or two ago. “Respectable women don’t.”
“Just so, sir. All the same, I would avoid them if you can. This one is…” He hesitated, looking for a word that would convey his urgency to the men without suggesting its real horror to the women. He failed to find it. “Very bad,” he finished, his voice hoarse.
Gwen felt cold even through her coat, although perhaps it was only because they had been standing still, and she was tired. The evening had gone on too long and had ended with the terrible news. The Ripper had struck a third time. The first had been the final day of August, the second the 8th of September. Then there had been three weeks without anything, and they had thought it was over. Now the last day of the month and it had happened again. If Sergeant Walpole was right, it was too terrible for him to describe.
There was a moment’s silence. They could see nothing beyond the fog, as if the rest of the world had disappeared.
“I do care,” Walpole said quietly. “And I’d stay indoors when you can. Goodnight ladies, gentlemen.” He turned the lantern off them, and in a few steps he was swallowed up in the night as if he had never existed.
Mary sighed and gave a shiver. “Let’s hurry,” she said, moving forward toward the next corner, where she and Albert would turn off to go home.
Albert caught up with her and took her arm, calling goodnight over his shoulder.
“Shouldn’t have told us,” Riley said angrily. “What’s he trying to do? Scare us all out of our senses? He’ll have half the women in London in hysterics. Fool!”
“Nobody’s in hysterics,” she retorted, stung at last into response. “Unless it’s you! And of course it’s women who are frightened. It’s women he’s killing. He’s just advising us not to go out alone after dark. You’d complain enough if he didn’t warn us.” She wanted to start walking, as fast as she could, but she was far too frightened to risk getting out of his sight. Even a madwoman wouldn’t want to be alone in the dark this autumn, not in London.
“Then don’t just stand there!” Riley snapped. “Let’s go home!” He started to stride out along the pavement.
—
In the morning, Gwen went out to buy a few necessary groceries.
There was a biting east wind, but it had blown the fog away and she would rather be cold than have the suffocating feeling of being shut in and blind to people perhaps only yards away from her.
It was only when she reached the butcher and had chosen her ham bones—very large and nice looking, excellent for soup—that she saw the newspaper lying on the bench on her way out. The headlines said, “Jack the Ripper strikes again!”
In spite of herself, she stopped and looked at it. The letters were so large and so heavily inked they arrested her attention in spite of common sense telling her she did not want to know.
She read on with a kind of hideous fascination. She could not help it, because Sergeant Walpole had been wrong, completely! It had not been in Dutfields Yard as he had said. It had been in Mitre Square. A woman called Catherine Eddowes had been horribly killed, and her body found at 1:45 in the morning. That was barely quarter of an hour before Sergeant Walpole had spoken to them, if that long! How was it possible he even knew?
The answer was so terrible she could not bear it, and yet neither could she look away. He had been dressed in a police uniform, carrying a bull’s-eye lantern like the police carried. Had he just come from slashing that poor woman’s throat and then tearing her body apart, opening up her abdomen to lay her entrails on the ground beside her? How was he not covered in blood, drenched in it, soaked? Wouldn’t they have seen that, even in the fog?
It couldn’t be! His voice was soft, his face gentle. Was that how he got away with it? He looked like a policeman. Maybe he even was one? Of course no one suspected him! She and Riley, all four of them, had stood on the pavement in the fog and spoken to him, just as if he really were a policeman, there to save them, protect them.
“Ma’am, you shouldn’t be looking at that!” the butcher’s voice was soft and urgent. “One o’ my customers must ’ave left it there. ’Ere! Let me take it an’ throw it away.” He reached across in front of her and picked the paper off the sill.
“It was Catherine Eddowes,” she said slowly. “He said it were Liz
zie Stride.” She gazed at the butcher’s mild, troubled face. “That’s what he said.”
“It were both of ’em, ma’am,” the butcher told her. “One off Berners Street an’ one in Mitre Square. The first one found at one o’clock, the other at a quarter to two. Both of ’em poor souls cut to pieces like they were animals in a slaughterhouse. He’s like something risen out of hell, he is. I’m right sorry that newspaper got left there. I’ll see it never ’appens again.” He crushed it up in his hands.
“Two…both last night?” She could scarcely grasp it, and yet she also felt a kind of relief that it was an ordinary policeman she had met in the street, not the half-human fiend they had come to call Jack the Ripper. Just Sergeant Walpole. She was so overwhelmed with relief that she very nearly let the ham bones slip through her hands onto the floor.
The butcher looked at her with concern. “You all right, ma’am? You like to sit down a bit? I’ll fetch you a glass of water.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Shaw, but I’ll be fine.” She stood up a little straighter.
“We can’t have half of London falling about fainting just ’cos of the newspapers.”
She took a deep breath and steadied herself, forcing a smile to the butcher, much to his relief. “Thank you.”
He smiled back, nodding in agreement. He thought her a sensible woman, and his respect was in his expression as he returned to behind his counter and got ready for his next customer.
Gwen went on towards the grocer, but the hideous image was still in her mind.
Gwen went into the grocery shop and bought tea and sugar, and a pound of butter. The next place she went to was the bakery, for some crumpets. They were fresh and still warm to the touch, even through the paper of the bag they were in. She was just leaving when she met Sergeant Walpole coming in the door.
“Good morning, ma’am,” he said cheerfully, as if he were pleased to see her.
“Good morning, Sergeant,” she answered, putting on a smile with a bit of effort. “I hope you didn’t have to be up all night?”
“I’m afraid so,” he said with rueful honesty. “Just going to stop an’ have a cup of tea, and a crumpet. Shouldn’t have crumpets for breakfast, but after last night I could do with something nice.”
“You must be so tired you could sleep on a clothesline,” she said with sympathy. She felt a little guilty for the fearful thoughts she had held about him only a few minutes ago. “I don’t know how you manage, the things you must see. Nobody should have to…” She stopped, knowing she had given herself away.
He shook his head. “You shouldn’t ’ave looked, ma’am. I know the newspapers and posters are all over the place, but you’ll give yourself nightmares if you looked at them. You’ve got to believe it all happened quick, or you’ll drive yourself daft. We’ll catch him.”
“You don’t have to say that to make me feel better, Sergeant,” she told him. “You’ll do your best. Enjoy your crumpets. Toast them well and put on plenty of butter.”
“I like them with a bit of treacle too,” he said with a look on his face as if he could taste them now. “Too sweet, and I dare say it isn’t good for you, but sometimes it hits the spot exactly….”
“I must try that,” she answered. “Good for you or not, it feels just right.”
“And eat it quick, before it goes cold,” he added. “I confess, I’ll take my boots off in front of the fire, and sit back a bit, before I have to go out again.”
“I suppose everybody’s on extra shifts now.” She looked at him and saw the weariness in his face. He must have little time to sleep, and not much to change his clothes or wash and shave. An hour or two just to eat something really nice, and relax.
“Pretty much,” he admitted. “Never known a case like this one.” For a moment he allowed his own fear to show through. Then perhaps seeing the sympathy in her face, he blushed. “Sorry, ma’am. Shouldn’t be talking like this. It’s my job. We’ve all got to do it right and put a stop to this. Nice to see you, ma’am. Enjoy your crumpets.” He stepped aside for her to pass him and leave.
“You too,” she replied. Then, conscious of the desire to linger and talk to him, and how wrong it would be, how silly, she hurried along the damp footpath and turned the corner toward her home.
—
Riley came back from his work at the City Council offices well after dark. His coat was damp across the shoulders and his boots were sodden, as if he had accidentally stepped into a gutter. She had toasted crumpets ready for him, with jam, and a pot of tea. She thought about putting treacle out as well, but decided not to.
He sat down with a sigh as if the day had been difficult. She thought about asking him how he was but could not think of a way of saying it that would sound exactly right. He had told her before, tersely, that his days were all the same and to try and make conversation out of it was foolish. Even if he explained to her, she would not understand. She wondered now if perhaps his work was more difficult than he had allowed her to know. Was she being unfair to him, unsympathetic? Could it be that his bad temper really was at least in part her fault?
She passed him another warm crumpet and smiled at him.
He looked momentarily surprised, but he took it, covered it in butter, then ate it with relish.
“Fresh,” he remarked. “Get it in daylight, I hope?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Good. Don’t go out when you might have to come home as it’s getting dark…even dusk. Do you understand?”
“I won’t,” she agreed with some feeling. The hideous pictures in the newspaper were still very clear in her mind, not that she could tell him that, of course.
“And I don’t want you visiting Mary anymore, even in daylight,” he added. “Not until they catch the Ripper…which might be never.”
“Don’t say that, Riley! Of course they’ll catch him!” she protested. “It can’t go on forever like this!”
“Maybe. But you’ll not visit Mary until he’s locked up and then hanged.”
She had to argue. Mary was her closest friend. “Mary couldn’t have anything to do with him!” she protested. “That’s…not possible.” She had been going to say “ridiculous” then realized how rude it sounded.
He raised his eyebrows high. “Isn’t it? Do you know who the Ripper is, then?”
“No, of course I don’t!”
“He could be anybody, couldn’t he?” he went on. “He doesn’t have to be some slavering lunatic anyone could see was mad! He might be a perfectly respectable man who goes about his business all day, just like anyone else. In fact he probably is. That’s why we can’t catch him.” He waved his arm in the air. “He isn’t a monster out there! He’s a monster inside himself, but to all of us he looks like our neighbors. To some poor woman he probably looks like the man she’s been married to for years. Slept beside without a thought of trouble, except maybe he snores, or drops his clothes around for her to pick up.”
She stared at him with slow-dawning horror, her tea forgotten. He was not saying this just to frighten her; it was true. Somebody was seeing the man every day, maybe washing his clothes and cooking his meals. To her he was just “Jack” as he had always been. Only to everyone else he was “Jack the Ripper”—a monster so terrifying, whose acts were so dreadful, he was scarcely thought of as human.
But she would know, surely? You would have to know!
He read her thoughts as if she had spoken them aloud.
“Do you know it isn’t Albert?” he said, looking at her steadily.
“We’ve known them for years!” she protested. “That’s an awful thing even to think.”
“Yes, it is awful,” he agreed. “It’s an awful thing the Ripper’s done, and goes on doing. That policeman told us there was one, but there were two. And I won’t tell you what he did to them. But why can’t the police catch him, Gwen? I’ll tell you why, because they’re looking for a maniac, someone wild and haggard, soaked in blood. And he’s just an ordina
ry man, probably wearing a suit and polished boots. I dare say he has nice manners and says ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘good morning, ma’am,’ like anyone else. Like our polite and helpful policeman the other night. How do we know he wasn’t the Ripper himself? What would he have done to you if you’d been out there on the street alone, eh?”
She felt sick at the thought. She had liked Sergeant Walpole, actually rather a lot. But Riley was right, of course. Jack wasn’t caught because he looked just like anyone else, except when he struck, and it was too late to run away, maybe too late even to scream.
Riley was looking at her with satisfaction. He could probably see her thoughts written clearly in her face.
“You’ve known Albert for years,” he went on. “But you know the Albert Mary sees. What about the Albert I see? You haven’t thought of that, have you?” There was triumph in his eyes.
She was angry because the thought was frightening. “You think you know him better than Mary does?” she challenged.
He gave a short bark of laughter. “For heaven’s sake, Gwen! Of course I know him better than Mary does! What does any woman really know about a man? One side of him, one tiny little side.”
She did not answer straightaway. She tried to think what she wanted to say to him, and what she dared say. Actually she thought that many women knew a great deal more about the men they had spent their adult lives with than they would be wise to say. When you counted on someone for all you had, you pretended not to see certain things or understand them.
Did the Ripper have a wife, or a sister, or a female servant of any kind? Did she know who he was, what he did, and perhaps because he provided the roof over her head, the clothes on her back, the food on her plate, she protected him?
That was a terrible thought. But life could be terrible at times.
He misunderstood her silence.
“You don’t believe me!” he said angrily. “You think you know so much. You look at Albert and see a nice, polite man who speaks to you softly and pays you compliments to make you smile, and you imagine that’s who he really is. Sometimes, Gwen, you are so gullible I think you live in a little dream world of your own.” He sat up straighter in his chair. “Let me tell you, Albert isn’t anything like the man you think he is. He drinks too much…”
The Big Book of Jack the Ripper Page 28
