by Will Thomas
“Where are we?” he asked. He knew, but was testing me.
“Dorset Street.” We had just passed under the sign.
“Come with me.”
He seized me by the arm and let me into one of the tenements. Inside, the halls smelled of cabbage and mold. Somewhere above us a couple was having a row and a child was crying. We passed down the hall and turned into another, parallel with the street. We were heading east. I like knowing my bearings and what direction I’m facing at all times. The Guv kicked open a sprung door and we passed across a small court with raw sewage running down the middle, until we passed under an arch and were in Dorset Street again.
“I’d like to obtain a map, sir, so I can memorize the streets,” I said.
“I’ll get one for you tomorrow. There is a test that all London cabmen must undertake before receiving his badge. He must know every street in London. It would not harm you to study for such a test yourself.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied.
It was an unusual occupation in which I found myself employed. Some information is generally helpful, such as how to shoot a gun, or defend oneself, to know the streets, and the signs about a person that reveal criminal activity, or to understand the cant, which is criminal slang. I now knew dozens of things that were only useful in our work, or perhaps that of a barrister.
We had just stepped into Dorset Street when we were accosted. A constable noticed us and without a word laid a hand on Barker’s shoulder and jabbed the tip of his truncheon into the Guv’s side, where it thumped against the gun and holster there. He was a gray-mustached veteran and must have noticed the telltale bulge in my employer’s coat.
“What’s this, then?” the officer demanded.
“What you think it is,” Barker replied.
“None of your lip, you. Open your coat slowly.”
Barker complied. He was carrying two revolvers in holsters under his arms. They were .44 Colts, manufactured for the American firm right there in London.
“We are special officers, working for Robert Anderson,” he explained.
“Got any proof of that, sir?’
“I do, but isn’t ‘H’ Division a few streets away? We’re heading there now. Have you time to accompany us?”
“I believe I will. Do you mind if I ask you to give me those barking irons you’re carrying?”
“No, Constable, I don’t mind at all.”
“Will you surrender them to me, sir?”
“No, Constable, I will not.”
“I see. Might I have your name, please?”
“Certainly. It is Barker,” the Guv said. “Special Inspector Cyrus Barker.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
We were marched down to the Commercial Road Station, “H” Division, and questioned thoroughly. It was just the sort of situation that would have made me anxious in my younger days as an enquiry agent. They read our papers and then asked us a battery of questions, first separately, then together. Any discrepancies were gone over numerous times, trying to break us down, and there was the obvious suggestion that we be placed in the cells overnight until our bona fides could be established. At one point the head inspector demanded to know why Anderson was sending hired spies into his district. It was bad enough with the City Police and the Home Office trying to take a slice of the pie. I’d have felt sorry for him if he hadn’t been so difficult about it. An hour later, he had finally tired of toying with us and let us go. We had successfully introduced ourselves at “H” Division. Barker and I shrugged our shoulders and went on about our business. It’s best to be philosophical about these things, I’ve found.
We trudged over the cobblestones of Whitechapel on the way back to the Frying Pan. Actually, the Guv informed me, they were limestone setts, not cobbles. Cobbles were round, flat stones brought here by glaciers a few millennia ago. The setts were cut into brickbat shapes and set on top of a layer of sand. There hadn’t been true cobbles in centuries, though some still existed in remote corners of the country and in graveyards. Most cobbles were now used to make buildings. I had worked all day and now was being given a history lesson about stones. It was starting to feel like the longest day of my life.
Finally, we stepped into the Frying Pan, and the Guv bought us each a half pint of stout for a nightcap while the publican announced that the final drinks would be served. I was no longer green and understood that drinks would still be served for a few hours, only money would change hands a bit more surreptitiously. Barker raised the tankard to his lips, then wiped the foam off his black mustache with a finger before smacking his lips.
“Better than the Britannia’s,” I said. “They dose the ale with laudanum.”
“We’ll avoid that one if we can,” he said.
“A word with you, gentlemen,” a man said from a nearby table. He was in his forties, sturdily built, with his hair parted in the middle. He could have done with a shave, and his clothing needed pressing. There was an open bottle of rye and a tumbler in front of him. Barker turned and looked at him. I could picture him sifting through files of cards in his head.
“Tom Bulling,” the Guv finally said. “What do you want?”
“Now, Push, don’t be that way! I just had a question or two.”
“Such as?” Barker growled.
“Oh, you know. Why, for example, you closed your doors on a very popular enquiry agency. Or why you have been seen going into Scotland Yard. And why exactly you’ve decided to hire a room here. This isn’t your average holiday spot. Taking the waters here will pro’bly kill you.”
“How did you come by this information?” my employer asked, leaning over the table on the knuckles of one hand.
“I’m a friendly bloke,” Bulling replied. “Got friends here in the Chapel, friends in Scotland Yard. At the Syndicate, we’re up on the latest information. We have to be.”
“Syndicate?” I asked.
“Central News Syndicate,” he replied. “We provide the news for several newspapers.”
Barker crossed his arms. “Why should my situation be of any concern to you?”
“Oh, Push,” he said. “You’re well known about this town and everything you do is of interest. Have a story for me? Doesn’t have to be a new one, you understand.”
This was exactly what Warren had warned us about, having our names in the newspaper. It was enough to cost us our positions at Scotland Yard. A reporter dogging our steps was all we needed.
“Nothing at the moment, sir,” the Guv replied.
“That’s strange,” Bulling said. He had a rough voice and a Cockney accent. “You look like a busy man. P’raps you’re involved in a certain case in the district. There have been a few murders here lately, in case you hadn’t heard.”
“Pray tell,” Barker said, giving a ghost of a smile.
“I wouldn’t have to use your name. In fact, you could write it yourself if you’d prefer. ‘Recollections of a Private Enquiry Agent,’ or such like.”
“Thank you, no.”
“A comment, then. How do you think the Yard is handling the Whitechapel Killer case? What would you have done instead? Your take on who the killer might be.”
“Whom,” Barker corrected.
“Well, la-di-da. Come on, Push. You’re always good for a story to help a working man earn a living. I’m working to a deadline.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Bulling, I cannot help you.”
Bulling replenished his tumbler and tossed it down.
“Wouldn’t it be better if I used real facts rather than conjecture? The public don’t much care which, after all. They’d believe either, but it might matter to you. I hear Warren has it in for you. Sent your friend Inspector Poole out to Bayswater, where he’s collecting dust from inactivity, just for working with you. What’s going on there?”
“You’ll have to ask Scotland Yard.”
“Don’t think I won’t. I thought we was mates, Barker. You was the one man in London that money couldn’t buy, nor power corrupt. Maybe I
was wrong about you. Never thought I’d see the day you and Warren was thick as thieves.”
“You must write as you please,” the Guv said. He showed no anger at being questioned, but he was adamant in his refusal. “You shall, anyway.”
“I can make it easy for you, or I can make it difficult. This is my mansion here, so to speak. I was born two streets away. I’m known here. They’ll talk to you if I say talk, and they’ll dummy up if I tell them to. I know all the gangs. Grew up with some of them. You been hangin’ ’round Whitehall too long. You’ve grown a heart cold as Portland granite.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Bulling, I cannot—”
“Fine, then. Join the hexstablishment, for all I care. I try to do you a favor and get me fingers bit off for my troubles. But I’m a patient man. I’ll assume you’ve had a bad day. You might change your mind. I’ve got what you call a soft heart. Pass me a word, a clue, a lead, and we’ll let bygones be bygones. No use hendangering a friendship, says I. But I can’t go carrying it round all by myself forever. There’s give and there’s take. Lad, talk some sense into your master.”
“He is perfectly capable of making up his own mind, I’m sure,” I said.
Bulling’s face took on a nasty grin. He leaned back and crossed his boots. “Ah, the honeyed tones of Oxford. Mr. Butter-don’t-melt-on-the-table hisself. You’re a bad influence on him, boy. He used to be a man of the people. Now he’s just another toff.”
“Hoy! Bulling!” the publican roared from the back. “Get your blooming daisies off my table.”
Reluctantly, the reporter removed the offending boots.
“The people of London would like to know why a prominent enquiry agent should suddenly hang up his shingle and start lurking in a bog hole like this one. Has a dip in the Exchange caused a crisis in your finances?”
The Guv made no response.
“Quiet as the sepulchral tomb,” Bulling said. “No telling tales out of school, I reckon.”
“Tell me,” I dared ask. “Have you cadged this out on your own, or has someone tipped you off?”
“Industry!” he replied. “My industry is my byword. When all my competitors are three pints in, I’m out tracking a story. Never say die. You gentlemen ruminate about that. Ta for now. Ta for nuffink!”
He picked up the bottle and tumbler and left, or tried to. The publican met him at the door and took the glass out of his hand. The bottle had been paid for. Meanwhile, Barker went silent. I’m a talkative man, and I say five times the number of words Barker does on any normal day, but I knew when not to ask a question.
“Bullings may once have been a fine reporter,” Barker finally said, setting his bowler hat on the table. “But John Barleycorn has him in his grips. Now he relies upon informants and begging. Or rather, wheedling.”
“How do you suppose he knew what we’ve been up to?”
“Information is worth money, even a penny or two. Someone passed the word of our closing on to him. He probably has many informants at Scotland Yard. Constables aren’t paid well. He was likely informed about our staying here from the hour we arrived. It wasn’t hard for him to put it all together that something’s going on. If he presses hard enough, he’ll learn that I’ve become a special inspector.”
“Do you suppose he’ll write something, as he threatened?”
“Probably not, but if he does, so be it. We’ll always have enquiry work.”
“Now that we’re here, I’d like to work on this case,” I said.
“I’m glad to hear it, Thomas. I was worried you might find making tea beneath you.”
“No work is beneath me, sir, that is honest work. And who knows? The tea I made today might give just the lift a constable needs to catch a criminal, or an inspector to track down a murderer.”
“The wisest words I heard all day,” he said.
Not long after, Barker ordered two dozen oysters and another round of stout. After a long day in my new position I was famished and this part of the East End had the freshest oysters to be had in all London. When the tray arrived, we set to, squirting lemon juice into each shell and swallowing the salty bivalves. I’ve heard the flavor described as coppery and iodine, but those of us who grew up on them think them delicious.
“You’re not just here for the oysters,” I said. “We’re here because of Mary Nichols, are we not?”
“This pub is a favorite among the local unfortunates. I’d like to speak to them when they are not working.”
Within the hour, the door opened and four women entered, all in the early stages of middle age, in tatty hats and darned shawls. Unfortunates. I saw them in the streets, making bold and suggestive stares at passersby, but here we were seated with a pint in hand and it was as if they’d been trotted out for our observation.
“Pink ’ot, my good man,” one said to the owner, who seemed unconcerned that low women had invaded his establishment.
“Gimme some sherry, barman,” the second said regally, a gap-toothed woman in a straw boater.
“Oh, la,” said the third. “H’aint she smart? A pint’s enough for the likes o’ me.”
I didn’t hear the fourth one speak, because the first suddenly brayed over something the publican had said. The foursome was making a spectacle and seemed to enjoy doing so.
“Gwen,” one said, “Lend me that wool scarf o’ yours this Saturday. Jim’s back in town from Liverpool Docks and if I ’ad it he might tike me to the music halls, I reckon.”
“Not till you pay back the sixpence you borreyed last week!”
The woman broke out in language fitting for a sailor, but then she tipped her companion a wink as if to say all was forgiven.
“Why is the Whitechapel Killer murdering women like these?” I murmured to my employer. “Does he think he’s doing a public service?”
“Lad,” he admonished in a low voice, “there is no such thing as an ugly woman.”
He was accusing me of being ungallant, of being quicker to give up my seat on the omnibus to an attractive woman than to one who is old or spotted or in some way imperfect. The Guv treated the old and young, the beautiful and the not so beautiful alike. He opened doors for crones as if they were duchesses. As rough as his manner was, I must admit his behavior was sometimes better than mine.
“That’s not what I meant,” I said, defending my statement. “If one came into Whitechapel for … certain services, surely such women would not be one’s first choice. There are younger women here, prettier women, even more demure women. Is the killer so poor that he can only approach such women as these?”
“No. I suspect the women probably never saw a penny of it.”
“Then I don’t understand, unless the man himself is hideous, and any woman looks fetching to him.”
Barker shrugged. “Perhaps some men might prefer a woman who is more experienced in such matters, compared to an ingénue.”
I was about to make a remark when one of the women we were discussing invited herself unbidden to our table, taking a seat in front of us.
“’Ello, gentlemen. ’Aven’t seen you here before. Jules, at the bar, don’t ’low no solicitin’ ’ere, so I’m just informing you gents that I’m frequently found along Commercial Road most nights and I could show you a jolly time, rilly.”
Now that she was closer to us I could see that her teeth were stained and her skin coarse. Her clothing was mismatched, a dark green cloak over a blue skirt. The toes of her boots were cracked.
“Thank you, madam, for the kindness of your offer,” Barker said, “but we’ve had a long day and must be up again in a few hours.”
“Suit yourself, dearies. If you change your mind, ask for Sadie.”
Barker actually raised his hat. I did likewise, if for no reason than I didn’t like being shown up by my employer.
“We’ll keep that in mind, madam.”
“Did you know Dark Annie?” I asked, referring to Annie Chapman. It was her nickname from the files.
She hesitated for a mo
ment. “By sight, yes. Pasty-faced, she was; consumptive. My cousin had it, so I know. Don’t see why anyone would go with such as her and risk getting it, too, but I’m sure she had to eat, same as you and me. Poor old thing. She chose the wrong fellow and the wrong alleyway together. She never was very lucky. What happened to her, I wouldn’t wish on me worst enemy.”
She threw back the last of her drink, which was pink gin that had been heated with a poker. She looked regretfully at the bottom of her glass and then up at Barker. It occurred to me then they must have been of like age, though she looked years older than Mrs. Philippa Ashleigh, the widow with whom my employer had an understanding.
“Come, lad, let us be going,” Barker said, rising. “It was charming to meet you, Miss Sadie. I hope you have a pleasant evening.”
The unfortunate let us pass without comment or ridicule. It might have been the most polite refusal she’d received in a very long time. We climbed the narrow stair to our room. Once inside, a problem occurred to me.
“Sir,” I said. “We still have no change of clothes in the morning. I mean, I can change into my uniform, but you have no other suit.”
“As I said, we’ll pick up a few boiled shirts at Petticoat Lane in the morning,” he replied. “We shall fit in better both here and at Scotland Yard in such attire, and after this case is over, we’ll hang them in the changing room in our office. That way, you’ll have a change of clothes handy whenever you have to investigate the East End.”
We crawled into our beds. I was exhausted, having worked from seven until midnight. The bed was hard and smelled of bug powder, but I was beyond caring. At that moment, the room might just as well have been a suite at Claridge’s.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The next I knew, I was being shaken awake by Barker’s rough hand. There was no gentle, tony voice from Mac urging me to wake as he gradually drew open the curtain. In fact, there was no gentle anything.
“What o’clock is it?” I asked.
“Half past five.”
“And why are we rising so early, may I ask?”
“You may. You might not receive an answer.”
