The first thing Anisii felt was sharp disappointment: 31 October—that was too early. The last definite London killing had taken place on 9 November, so his theory didn’t hold together. But today Tulipov’s head was working quite remarkably well—if only it was always like this—and the catch was easily resolved.
Yes, the body of the prostitute Mary Jane Kelly had been discovered on the morning of 9 November, but by that time Jack the Ripper was already crossing the Channel! That killing, the most revolting of them all, could have been his farewell “gift” to London, committed immediately before his departure for the continent. Anisii could check later to find out what time the night train left over there.
After that the whole thing simply fitted together by itself. If the Ripper left London on the evening of 8 November—that is, on 27 October in the Russian style—then he ought to have arrived in Moscow on precisely the thirty-first!
The mistake he and the Chief had made was that, when they checked the police passport offices, they had limited themselves to December and November and not taken the end of October into consideration. That accursed confusion of the two styles of date had thrown them off the track.
And that was it. The theory fitted down to the last jot and tittle.
He went back home for a moment: to put on something warm, get his “Bulldog” and grab a quick bite of bread and cheese—there was no time to have a real supper.
While he was chewing, he listened to Palasha reading the Easter story from the newspaper to Sonya, syllable by syllable. The imbecile was listening intently, with her mouth half open. But who could tell if she really understood very much?
“In the provincial town of N,” Palasha read slowly, with feeling, “last year on the eve of the glorious resurrection of Christ, a criminal escaped from the jail. He waited until all the townsfolk had gone to the churches for matins and crept into the apartment of a certain rich old woman who was respected by all, but who had not gone to the service because she was not well, in order to kill her and rob her.”
“Ooh!” said Sonya. My goodness, thought Anisii, she understands. And a year ago she wouldn’t have understood a thing; she’d have just dozed off.
“At the very moment when the murderer was about to rush at her with an axe in his hand”—the reader lowered her voice dramatically—“the first stroke of the Easter bell rang out. Filled with an awareness of the solemn holiness of that moment, the old woman addressed the criminal with the Christian greeting: ‘Christ is arisen, my good man!’ This appeal shook the sinner to the very depths of his soul; it illuminated for him the deep abyss into which he had fallen and worked a sudden moral renewal within him. After several moments of difficult internal struggle, he walked over to exchange an Easter kiss with the old woman and then, breaking into uncontrollable sobbing…”
Anisii never learned how the story ended, it was time for him to rush away.
About five minutes after he had dashed off at breakneck speed, there was a knock at the door.
“Oh that crazy man,” Palasha said with a sigh; “he’s probably forgotten his gun again.”
She opened the door and saw that it wasn’t him. It was dark outside—she couldn’t see the face, but he was taller than Anisii. A quiet, friendly voice said: “Good evening, my dear. Look, I wish to bring you joy.”
—
When the essential work had been completed—after the scene of the crime had been inspected, the bodies photographed and taken away, there was nothing left to do. And that was when Erast Petrovich began feeling really bad. The detectives had left and he was sitting alone in the small drawing room of Tulipov’s modest apartment, gazing in a torpor at the blotches of blood on the cheerful bright-coloured wallpaper, and still he couldn’t stop himself trembling. His head felt as empty as a drum.
An hour earlier Erast Petrovich had returned home and immediately sent Masa to fetch Tulipov. Masa had discovered the bloodbath.
At this moment Fandorin was not thinking of kind, affectionate Palasha, or even meek Sonya Tulipova, who had died a terrible death that could not possibly be justified by God or man. In the grief-stricken Erast Petrovich’s head there was one short phrase hammering away over and over again: He won’t survive this, he won’t survive this, he won’t survive this. There was no way that poor Tulipov could ever survive this shock. He would never see the nightmarish picture of the vicious mutilation of his sister’s body, never see her round eyes opened wide in amazement; but he knew the Ripper’s habits, and he would easily be able to imagine what Sonya’s death had been like. And that would be the end of Anisii Tulipov, because no normal man could possibly survive something like that happening to people who were near and dear to him.
Erast Petrovich was in an unfamiliar state quite untypical of him: he could not think what to do.
Masa came in. Snuffling, he dragged in a rolled-up carpet and covered the terrible blotches on the floor, then he set about furiously scraping off the bloodstained wallpaper. That was right, the Collegiate Counsellor thought remotely, but it hardly did any good.
After a while Angelina also arrived. She put her hand on Erast Petrovich’s shoulder and said: “Anyone who dies a martyr’s death on Good Friday will be in the Kingdom of Heaven, at the side of Christ.”
“That is no consolation to me,” Fandorin said in a dull voice, without turning his head. “And it will hardly be any consolation to Anisii.”
But where was Anisii? It was already the middle of the night, and the boy hadn’t slept a single wink last night. Masa said he’d called round without his cap, in a great hurry. He hadn’t said anything or left a note.
It didn’t matter: the later he turned up, the better.
Fandorin’s head was absolutely empty. No surmises, no theories, no plans. A day of intensive work had produced very little. The questioning of the detectives who were keeping Nesvitskaya, Stenich, and Burylin under surveillance, together with his own observations, had confirmed that, with a certain degree of cunning and adroitness, any one of the three could have slipped away and come back unnoticed by the police spies.
Nesvitskaya lived in a student hostel on Trubetskaya Street that had four exits or entrances, and the doors carried on banging until the dawn.
Following his nervous fit, Stenich was holed up in the Assuage My Sorrows clinic, to which the detectives had not been admitted. There was no way to check whether he had been sleeping or wandering round the city with a scalpel.
The situation with Burylin was even worse: his house was immense, with sixty windows on the ground floor, half of them concealed by the trees of the garden. The fence was low. It wasn’t a house: it was a sieve, full of holes.
It turned out that any one of them could have killed Izhitsin. And the most terrible thing of all was that Erast Petrovich, convinced of the ineffectiveness of the surveillance, had cancelled it altogether. This evening the three suspects had had complete freedom of action!
“Don’t despair, Erast Petrovich,” said Angelina. “It’s a mortal sin, and you especially have no right. Who else will find the killer, this Satan, if you just give up? There is no one apart from you.”
Satan, Fandorin thought listlessly. Ubiquitous, could be anywhere, any time, slip in through any opening. Satan changed faces, adopted any appearance, even that of an angel.
An angel. Angelina.
Freed from the control of his torpid spirit, his brain, so accustomed to forming logical constructions, obligingly joined the links up to form a chain.
It could even be Angelina—why couldn’t she be Jack the Ripper?
She had been in England the previous year. That was one.
On the evenings when all the killings had taken place, she had been in the church. Supposedly. That was two.
She was studying medicine in a charitable society and already knew how to do many things. They taught them anatomy there too. That was three.
She was an odd individual, not like other women. Sometimes she would give you a look that made y
our heart skip a beat—but you couldn’t tell what she was thinking about at such moments. That was four.
Palasha would have opened the door for her without thinking twice. That was five.
Erast Petrovich shook his head in annoyance, stilling the idling wheels of his insistent logic machine. His heart absolutely refused to contemplate such a theory, and the Wise One had said: “The noble man does not set the conclusions of reason above the voice of the heart.” The worst thing was that Angelina was right: apart from him there was no one else to stop the Ripper, and there was very little time left. Only tomorrow. Think, think.
But his attempts to concentrate on the case were frustrated by that stubborn phrase hammering in his head: He won’t survive this, he won’t survive this.
The time dragged on. The Collegiate Counsellor ruffled up his hair, sometimes began walking around the room, twice washed his hands and face with cold water. He tried to meditate, but immediately abandoned the attempt—it was quite impossible!
Angelina stood by the wall, holding her elbows in her hands, watching with a sad insistence in her huge grey eyes.
Masa was silent too. He sat on the floor with his legs folded together, his round face motionless, his thick eyelids half-closed.
But at dawn, when the street was wreathed in milky mist, there was the sound of hurrying feet on the porch, a determined shove made the unlocked door squeak open, and a gendarme officer came dashing into the room. It was Smolyaninov, a very capable, brisk young second lieutenant, with black eyes and rosy pink cheeks. “Ah, this is where you are!” Smolyaninov said, glad to see Fandorin. “Everybody’s been looking for you. You weren’t at home or in the department, or on Tverskaya Street! So I decided to come here, in case you were still at the scene of the murders. Disaster, Erast Petrovich! Tulipov has been wounded. Seriously. He was taken to the Mariinskaya Hospital after midnight. We’ve been looking for you ever since they informed us; just look how much time has gone by…Lieutenant-Colonel Svershinsky went to the hospital immediately and all his adjutants were ordered to search for you. What’s going on, eh, Erast Petrovich?”
Report by Provincial Secretary A. P. Tulipov
Personal Assistant to Mr. E. P. Fandorin
Deputy for Special Assignments of His Excellency the Governor-General of Moscow
8 APRIL 1889, HALF PAST THREE IN THE MORNING
I report to your Honour that yesterday evening, while compiling the list of individuals suspected of committing certain crimes of which you are aware, I realised that it was absolutely obvious that the crimes indicated could only have been committed by one person, to whit, the forensic medical expert Egor Willemovich Zakharov.
He is not simply a doctor, but an anatomical pathologist—that is, cutting out the internal organs from human bodies is his standard, everyday work. That is one.
Constant association with corpses could have induced in him an insuperable revulsion for the whole human race, or else, on the contrary, a perverted adoration of the physiological arrangement of the human organism. That is two.
At one time he was a member of the Sadist Circle of medical students, which testifies to the early development of depraved and cruel inclinations. That is three.
Zakharov lives in a public-service apartment at the police forensic morgue at Bozhedomka. Two of the murders (of the spinster Andreichkina and the unidentified beggar girl) were committed close to this place. That is four.
Zakharov often goes to England to visit his relatives, and he was there last year. The last time he came back from Britain was on 31 October last year (11 November in the European style)—that is, he could quite easily have committed the last of the London murders that was undoubtedly the work of Jack the Ripper. That is five.
Zakharov is informed of the progress of the investigation, and in addition, of all the people involved in the investigation, he is the only one who possesses surgical skills. That is six.
I could carry on, but it is hard for me to breathe and my thoughts are getting confused…I had better tell you about recent events.
After not finding Erast Petrovich at home, I decided there was no time to be lost. The day before I had been at Bozhedomka and spoken with the cemetery workers, which could not have escaped Zakharov’s notice. It was reasonable to think that he would feel alarmed and give himself away somehow or other. To be on the safe side I took my gun with me—a Bulldog revolver that Mr. Fandorin gave me as a present on my name day last year. That was a wonderful day, one of the best days in my life. But that has nothing to do with this case.
And so, about Bozhedomka. I got there by cab at ten o’clock in the evening; it was already dark. In the wing where the doctor has his quarters there was a light in one window, and I was glad that Zakharov had not run away. There was not a soul around. A dog started barking—they keep a dog on a chain by the chapel there—but I quickly ran across the yard and pressed myself against the wall. The dog went on barking for a while and then stopped. I put a crate by the wall (the window was high off the ground) and cautiously glanced inside. The lighted window was where Zakharov has his study. Looking in, I saw there were papers on the desk and the lamp was lighted. And he was sitting with his back to me, writing something, then tearing it up and throwing the pieces on the floor. I waited there for a long time, at least an hour, and he kept writing and tearing the paper up, writing and tearing it up. I wondered if I should arrest him. But I didn’t have a warrant, and what if he was just writing some nonsense or other, or adding up some accounts? At seventeen minutes past ten (I saw the time on the clock), he stood up and went out of the room. He was gone for a long time. He started clattering something about in the corridor, then it went quiet. I hesitated about climbing inside to take a look at his papers, became agitated and let my guard down. Someone struck me in the back with something hot and I banged my forehead against the window sill as well. And then, as I was turning round, there was another burning blow to my side and one to my arm. I had been looking at the light, so I could not see who was there in the darkness, but I hit out with my left hand as Mr. Masa taught me to do, and with my knee as well. I hit something soft. But I was a poor student for Mr. Masa; I shirked my lessons. So that was where Zakharov had gone to from the study. He must have noticed me. When he started back to avoid my blows, I tried to catch up with him, but after I’d run a little distance, I fell down. I got up and fell down again. I took out my Bulldog and fired three shots into the air. I thought perhaps one of the cemetery workers would come running. I should not have fired. That probably only frightened them. I should have used my whistle. I didn’t think of it; I was not feeling well. After that I do not remember very much. I crawled on all fours and kept falling. Outside the fence I lay down to rest and I think I fell asleep. When I woke up, I felt cold—very cold, although I had all my warm things on; I had especially put on a woolly jumper under my coat. I took out my watch and looked at it. It was already after midnight. That’s it, I thought, the villain has got away. It was only then I remembered about my whistle. I started blowing it. Soon someone came, I could not see who. They carried me. Until the doctor gave me an injection, I was in a kind of mist. But now it’s better, you can see. I’m just ashamed of letting the Ripper get away. If only I had paid more attention to Mr. Masa. I tried to do my best, Erast Petrovich. If only I’d listened to Mr. Masa. If only…
POSTSCRIPT
At this point the stenographic recording had to be halted, because the injured man, who spoke in a lively and correct fashion at first, began rambling and soon fell into a state of unconsciousness, from which he never emerged. Dr. K. I. Möbius was also surprised that Mr. Tulipov had held on for so long with such serious wounds and after losing so much blood. Death occurred at approximately six o’clock in the morning and was recorded in the appropriate manner by Dr. Möbius.
Lieutenant-Colonel of the Gendarmes Corps Sverchinsky
Stenographed and transcribed by Collegiate Registrar Arietti
—
A
terrible night.
And the evening had begun so marvellously. The imbecile turned out wonderfully well in death—a real feast for the eyes. After this masterpiece of decorative art, it was pointless to waste any time on the maid, and I left her as she was. A sin, of course, but in any case there would never have been the same staggering contrast between external ugliness and internal Beauty.
My heart was warmed most of all by the awareness of a good deed accomplished: not only had I shown the youth the true face of Beauty, I had also relieved him of a heavy burden that prevented him from making his own life more comfortable.
And then it all finished so tragically.
The good young man was destroyed by his own ugly trade—sniffing things out, tracking people down. He came to his own death. I am not to blame for that.
I felt sorry for the boy and that led to sloppy work. My hand trembled. The wounds are fatal, there is no doubt about that: I heard the air rush out of a punctured lung, and the second blow must have cut through the left kidney and the descending colon. But he must have suffered a lot before he died. This thought gives me no peace.
I feel ashamed. It is inelegant.
CHAPTER 8
A Busy Day
Holy Week Saturday, 8 April
The investigative group loitered at the gates of the wretched Bozhedomka Cemetery in the wind and the repulsive fine drizzle: Senior Detective Lyalin, three junior detectives, a photographer with a portable American Kodak, the photographer’s assistant, and a police dog-handler with the famous sniffer-dog Musya, known to the whole of Moscow, on a lead. The group had been summoned to the scene of the previous night’s incident by telephone and given the strictest possible instructions not to do anything until His Honour Mr. Collegiate Counsellor arrived, and they were now following their instructions strictly—doing nothing and shivering in the chilly embrace of the unseasonable April morning. Even Musya, who was so damp that she looked like a reddish-brown mop, was in low spirits. She lay down with her long muzzle on the soaking earth, wiggled her whitish eyebrows dolefully and even whined quietly once or twice, catching the general mood.
The Big Book of Jack the Ripper Page 53
