But his tormentor spoke into his ear: “Gaman! Gaman!” That was his favourite word. It meant “Patience.”
Anisii had enough gaman for another half-circle, and then he collapsed. But not without an element of calculation: he collapsed right in front of a large dirty puddle so that this accursed eastern idol would go flying over his head and take a little swim. Masa went flying over the falling man’s head all right, but he didn’t come down with a splash in the puddle; he just put his hands down into it, then pushed off with his fingers, performed an impossible somersault in the air and landed on his feet on the far side of the watery obstacle.
He shook his round head in despair and said: “Awri, go wash.”
Anisii was gone in a flash.
—
When his assistant reported in the study (after washing off the mud, changing his clothes and brushing his hair), Fandorin listened attentively. The walls were hung with Japanese prints, weapons and gymnastic equipment. Although it was already past midday, the Collegiate Counsellor was still in his dressing gown. He was not disappointed in the least by the lack of any result; in fact he even seemed rather glad. In any case, he did not express any particular surprise.
When his assistant stopped speaking, Erast Petrovich walked across the room, toying with his beloved jade beads and pronounced the phrase that always made Anisii’s heart skip a beat: “All right, l-let us think about this.”
The Chief clicked a small sphere of green stone and swayed the flaps of his dressing gown.
“Don’t think that your little trip to the cemetery has been wasted,” he began.
On the one hand it was pleasant to hear this; on the other hand the phrase “little trip” hardly seemed an entirely accurate description of the torture Anisii had suffered that morning.
“To be quite sure, we had to check if there were incidents involving the disembowelling of victims prior to November. When you told me yesterday that two mutilated corpses had been found in the common grave for December and in the November grave, at first I began to doubt my theory about the Ripper moving to Moscow.”
Tulipov nodded, since the previous day he had been given a detailed account of the bloody history of the British ogre.
“But today, having reviewed my London notes, I came to the conclusion that this hypothesis should not be abandoned. Would you like to know why?”
Anisii nodded again, knowing perfectly well that just at the moment his job was to keep quiet and not interrupt.
“Then by all means.” The Chief picked a notebook up off the table. “The final murder attributed to the notorious Jack took place on the twentieth of December on Poplar High Street. By that time our Moscow Ripper had already delivered plenty of his nightmarish work to the Bozhedomka, which would seem to exclude the possibility that the English and Russian killers might be subsumed in the same person. However, the prostitute Rose Millet, who was killed on Poplar High Street, did not have her throat cut, and there were none of our Jack’s usual signs of savagery. The police decided that the murderer had been frightened off by passers-by who were out late. But in the light of yesterday’s discovery, I am willing to surmise that the Ripper had absolutely nothing to do with this death. Possibly this Rose Millet was killed by someone else, and the general hysteria that had gripped London following the previous killing led people to ascribe a new murder of a prostitute to the same maniac. Now for the previous murder, committed on the ninth of November.”
Fandorin turned over a page.
“This is Jack’s work without a doubt. The prostitute Mary Jane Kelly was discovered in her own room on Dorset Street, where she normally received her clients. Her throat had been slit, her breasts had been cut off, the soft tissue on her thighs had been stripped away, her internal organs had been laid out neatly on the bed and her stomach had been cut open—it is conjectured that the killer consumed its contents.”
Anisii’s stomach began churning again, as it had that morning at the cemetery.
“On her temple she had the bloody imprint of lips that is familiar to us from Andreichkina’s corpse.”
Erast Petrovich broke off his reasoning at this point, because Angelina had come into the study: in a plain grey dress and black shawl, with locks of blonde hair dangling over her forehead—the fresh wind must have tugged them free. The Chief’s lady-friend dressed in various styles, sometimes like a lady, but best of all she liked simple, Russian clothes like the ones she was wearing today.
“Are you working? Am I in the way?” she asked with a tired smile.
Tulipov leapt to his feet and hurried to reply before his chief: “Of course not, Angelina Samsonovna. We’re glad to see you.”
“Yes, yes,” said Fandorin with a nod. “Have you come from the hospital?”
The beautiful woman lifted the shawl off her shoulders and pinned her rebellious hair in place. “It was interesting today. Dr. Bloom taught us how to lance boils. It turns out not to be hard at all.”
Anisii knew that Angelina, the kind soul, went to the Shtrobinderovsky Clinic on Mamonov Lane to help relieve the pain of the suffering. At first she had taken them presents and read the Bible to them, but then she had begun to feel that was not enough. She wanted to be of genuine benefit, to learn to be a nurse. Erast Petrovich had tried to dissuade her, but Angelina had insisted on having her own way.
A saintly woman, the kind that was the very foundation of Russia itself: prayer, help for one’s neighbour, a loving heart. She might seem to be living in sin, but no impurity could stick to her. And it wasn’t her fault that she found herself in the position of an unmarried wife, Anisii thought yet again, feeling angry with his chief.
Fandorin frowned. “You’ve been lancing boils?”
“Yes,” she said with a joyful smile. “For two poor old beggar women. It’s Wednesday; they can come without having to pay. Don’t worry, Erast Petrovich, I managed it very well, and the doctor praised me. I can already do a lot of things. And afterwards I read the Book of Job to the old women, for spiritual reinforcement.”
“You’d have done better to give them money,” Erast Petrovich said in annoyance. “They’re not interested in your book or your concern.”
Angelina replied: “I did give them money, fifty kopecks each. And I have more need for this care and concern than they do. I’m far too happy living with you, Erast Petrovich. It makes me feel guilty. Happiness is good, but it’s a sin to forget about those who are unhappy in your happiness. Help them, look at their sores and remember that your happiness is a gift from God, and not many people in this world are granted it. Why do you think there are so many beggars and cripples around all the palaces and mansions?”
“That’s obvious enough: they give more there.”
“No, poor people give more than the rich. It’s the Lord showing the fortunate people the unfortunate, saying: Remember how much suffering there is in the world and don’t try to ignore it.”
Erast Petrovich sighed and made no attempt to reply to his mistress. He obviously couldn’t think of anything to say. He turned towards Anisii and rattled his beads. “Let’s c-carry on. So, I am proceeding on the assumption that Jack the Ripper’s last crime in England was the murder of Mary Jane Kelly, committed on the ninth of November, and that he was not involved in the case of the twentieth of December. In the Russian style, the ninth of November is still the end of October, and so Jack the Ripper had enough time to get to Moscow and add a victim of his perverted imagination to the November ditch at Bozhedomka. Agreed?”
Anisii nodded.
“Is it very likely that two maniacs would appear in Europe who act in an absolutely identical fashion, following scenarios that coincide in every detail?”
Anisii shook his head.
“Then the final question, before we get down to business: is the likelihood I have already mentioned so slight that we can concentrate entirely on the basic hypothesis?”
Two nods, so energetic that Tulipov’s celebrated ears swayed. Anisii held his
breath, knowing that now a miracle would take place before his very eyes: an elegant thesis would emerge, conjured up out of nothing, out of the empty mist, complete with search methods, plan of investigative measures and perhaps even specific suspects.
“Let us sum up. For some reason so far unknown to us, Jack the Ripper has come to Moscow and set about eliminating the local prostitutes and vagrants in a most determined fashion. That is one.” The Chief clicked his beads to add conviction to his assertion. “He arrived here in November last year. That is two (click!). He has spent the recent months in the city, or if he has gone away, then not for long. That is three (click!). He is a doctor or he has studied medicine, since he possesses a surgical instrument, knows how to use it and is skilled in anatomical dissection. That is f-four.”
A final click, and the Chief put the beads away in the pocket of his dressing gown, which indicated that the investigation had moved on from the theoretical stage to the practical.
“As you can see, Tulipov, the task does not appear so very complicated.”
Anisii could not yet see that, and so he refrained from nodding.
“Oh, come now,” Erast Petrovich said in surprise. “All that’s required is to check everyone who arrived in Russia from England and settled in Moscow during the period that interests us. Not even everybody, in fact—only those who are connected or have at some time been connected with medicine. And th-that’s all. You’ll be surprised when you see how narrow the range of the search is.”
Why indeed, how simple! Moscow was not St. Petersburg; how many medical men could have arrived in the old capital from England in November?”
“So let’s start checking the new arrivals registered at all the police stations!” said Anisii, leaping to his feet, ready to get straight down to work. “Only twenty-four inquiries to make! That’s where we’ll find our friend: in the registers!”
Angelina had missed the beginning of Erast Petrovich’s speech, but she had listened to the rest very carefully and she asked a very reasonable question: “What if this murderer of yours didn’t register with the police?”
“It’s not very likely,” the Chief replied. “He’s a very thorough individual who has lived in one place for a long time and travels freely across Europe. Why would he take the unnecessary risk of infringing the provisions of the law? After all, he is not a political terrorist, or a fugitive convict, but a maniac. All of a maniac’s aggression goes into his ‘idea’; he has no strength left over for any other activities. Usually they are quiet, unobtrusive people and you would never think that they c-carry all the torments of hell around inside their heads…Please sit down, Tulipov. There’s no need to go running off anywhere. What do you think I have been doing all morning, while you were disturbing the dead?” He picked up several sheets of paper, covered in formal clerk’s handwriting, off the desk. “I telephoned the district superintendents and asked them to obtain for me the registration details of everyone who arrived in Moscow directly from England or via any intermediary point. To be on the safe side, I asked for November as well as December—just a precaution: what if Rose Millet was killed by our Ripper after all, and your November discovery, on the contrary, turns out to be the work of some indigenous cut-throat? It is hard to reach any firm conclusions on the pathology of a body that has been lying in the ground for five months, even if the ground was frozen. But those two bodies from December—that’s a serious matter.”
“That makes sense,” Anisii agreed. “The November corpse really wasn’t exactly…Zakharov didn’t even want to rummage inside it; he said it was profanation. In November the earth hadn’t really frozen yet, so the body had rotted a bit. Oh, I beg your pardon, Angelina Samsonovna!” Tulipov exclaimed, alarmed in case his excessive naturalism had upset her. But apparently his alarm was needless: Angelina had no intention of fainting, and the expression in her grey eyes remained as serious and intent as ever.
“There, you see. But even over two months only thirty-nine people arrived here from England, including, by the way, myself and Angelina Samsonovna. But, with your permission, I won’t include the t-two of us in our list.” Erast Petrovich smiled. “Of the remainder, twenty-three did not stay in Moscow for long and therefore are of no interest to us. That leaves fourteen, of whom only three have any connection with medicine.”
“Aha!” Anisii exclaimed avidly.
“Naturally, the first to attract my attention was the doctor of medicine George Seville Lindsey. The Department of Gendarmes keeps him under secret surveillance, as it does all foreigners, so making inquiries could not have been any easier. Alas, Mr. Lindsey does not fit the bill. It turned out that before coming to Moscow he spent only one and a half months in his homeland. Before that he was working in India, far from the East End of London. He was offered a position in the Catherine the Great Hospital, and that is why he came here. That leaves two, both Russian. A man and a woman.”
“A woman couldn’t have done anything like this,” Angelina said firmly. “There are all sorts of monsters amongst us women too, but hacking stomachs open with a knife—that takes strength. And we women don’t like the sight of blood.”
“We are dealing here with a special kind of being, unlike ordinary people,” Fandorin objected. “This is not a man and it is not a woman, but something like a third sex or, to put it simply, a monster. We can by no means exclude women. Some of them are physically strong too. Not to mention that at a certain level of skill in the use of a scalpel, no special strength is required. For instance”—he glanced at one of his sheets of paper—“the midwife Elizaveta Nesvitskaya, a spinster twenty-eight years of age, arrived from England via St. Petersburg on the nineteenth of November. An unusual individual. At the age of seventeen she spent two years in prison on political charges and was then exiled by administrative order to a colony in the Arkhangelsk province. She fled the country and graduated from the medical faculty of Edinburgh University. Applied to be allowed to return to her motherland. She returned. Her request for her medical diploma to be accepted as valid is under consideration by the Ministry of Internal Affairs, and in the meantime Nesvitskaya has set herself up as a midwife at the recently opened Morozov Gynaecological Hospital. She is under secret surveillance by the police. According to detectives’ reports, although her right to work as a doctor has not yet been confirmed, Nesvitskaya is receiving patients from among the poor and impecunious. The hospital administration turns a blind eye and secretly even encourages her—no one wishes to waste their time on dealing with the poor. That is the information that we p-possess on Nesvitskaya.”
“During the time the Ripper committed his crimes, she was in London—that is one,” Tulipov began summarising. “When the crimes were committed in Moscow, she was here—that is two. She possesses medical skills—that is three. From what we know, her personality seems to be unusual and not particularly feminine in its make-up—that is four. Nesvitskaya can certainly not be discounted.”
“Precisely. And in addition to that, let us not forget that in the London murders and in the murder of the spinster Andreichkina there are no indications of the sexual molestation which is usual when the maniac is a man.”
“And who’s the other one?” asked Angelina.
“Ivan Stenich. Thirty years old. A former student of the medical faculty of the Moscow Imperial University. Excluded seven years ago ‘for immoral conduct.’ God only knows what was meant by that, but it looks as though it might fit our bill all right. He has held several jobs, been treated for psychological illness, travelled around Europe. Arrived in Russia from England on the eleventh of December. Since the New Year he has been working as a male nurse in the Assuage My Sorrows hospital for the insane.”
Tulipov slapped his hand on the table: “Damned suspicious!”
“And so, we have t-two suspects. If neither of them is involved, then we shall follow the line suggested by Angelina Samsonovna—that when Jack the Ripper arrived in Moscow he managed to avoid the eyes of the police. And only if
we are convinced that this too must be excluded will we then abandon the main hypothesis and start to search for a home-grown Ivan the Ripper who has never been to the East End in his life. Agreed?”
“Yes, but it is the same Jack anyway,” Anisii declared with conviction. “Everything fits.”
“Who do you prefer to deal with, Tulipov—the male nurse or the midwife?” the Chief asked. “I offer you the right to choose as the martyr of the exhumation.”
“Since this Stenich works in a mental hospital, I have an excellent excuse for making his acquaintance: Sonya,” said Anisii, expressing this apparently perfectly reasonable idea with more vehemence than cold logic required. A man—and one with a history of mental illness at that—appeared a more promising candidate for the Ripper than a runaway revolutionary.
“All right, then,” Erast Petrovich said with a smile. “Off you go to Lefortovo, and I’ll go to Devichie Polye, to see Nesvitskaya.”
In fact, however, Anisii was obliged to deal with both the former student and the midwife, because at that very moment the doorbell rang.
Masa entered and announced: “Post.” Then he explained, taking great satisfaction in pronouncing the difficult phrase: “A smopackadj.”
The package was indeed small. Written on the grey wrapping paper in a hand that was vigorous but careless and irregular was: “To His Honour Collegiate Counsellor Fandorin in person. Urgent and strictly secret.”
Tulipov felt curious, but his chief did not unwrap the package immediately.
“Did the p-postman bring it? There’s no address written on it.”
“No, a boy. Hand to me and wan away. Should I catchim?” Masa asked in alarm.
“If he ran away, you won’t catch him now.”
The Big Book of Jack the Ripper Page 44
