by Will Thomas
As I left the room, I told Barker I was collecting a cab. I went out and found one rather readily in Commercial Road. Then I returned, pocketed the list, and took Goldstein in darbies to the cab. True to my word, I let him out a free man at Aldgate Station.
“Don’t come back into Whitechapel for a while,” I advised. “If you are recognized, Mr. Barker and I might not be there to help you.”
The last I saw him, he was trotting away with his Gladstone in his hand, ready to put this day behind him.
It was a simple matter, forgotten by everyone but me. A salesman is accused of being a killer by a crowd of residents upset by the recent deaths, simply because he was carrying a bag. I recall it as the first time in the public mind that Whitechapel’s most infamous killer was said to carry a Gladstone bag. This is how legends are born.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
That evening Cyrus Barker and I were walking our usual beat, from Bishopsgate in the west to Brady Street in the east. I could now draw a rather faithful rendering of the entire district, with all of the streets and many of its buildings. Also, I could name at least thirty individuals in the area whose names we had reason to learn, and several dozen others whom I recognized but whose names I did not yet know. In short, I knew the area well enough to have grown tired of it, and bored with everything and everyone. I was there to help find a killer, not to be entertained; I know that, but still, I had been in Whitechapel long enough that I felt I had come to know all her secrets, save for the one we had come there to learn. I knew, for example, that there was a missing cobble in Whitechapel High Street on the left by the cotton warehouse. I knew, because I had stepped into the hole on several occasions.
All evening, men were coming off work and going home, unless they worked the overnight shift, in which case they were having their dinner with strong tea in order to stay awake the rest of the night. The evening shift was dangerous. A half-awake worker was liable to make mistakes, and mistakes in Whitechapel factories usually meant a trip to London Hospital, with mangled or missing fingers. There may have been an occupation in the East End that wasn’t slowly killing the men, women, and children that worked at it, but if there was, I hadn’t found it. The prostitutes were not the only unfortunates. It was said the girls in the local match factories gave off a glow at night, due to the phosphorous they handled. It was something of an education to learn that mine was not the only dangerous occupation.
As I recall, we had just come out of Jane Street, a minor passage off Commercial Road. Ahead of us a group of men were coming out of some kind of meeting hall, though it was nearly midnight. My mind automatically said socialists, for only they would debate the troubles of the world so late into the night. They appeared to take no notice of us, so I felt the safety to do likewise. They passed, we passed, and all was as it should be. That is, until the axe bit into the wood of a fence not two feet from my head.
“Oy!” I cried.
Granted, it wasn’t the response of an educated man, but this was neither the time nor place to say, “I say there!” If I had, they’d have laughed in my face. Actually, I didn’t need to say anything, for Barker was already answering the statement with two pocketfuls of sharpened coins. I watched them glitter as they spread across the courtyard. Most of them bounced harmlessly off the brick walls nearby, but at least a few found yielding flesh.
I pulled the axe from the fence and turned toward the half-dozen men who faced us.
“Did somebody drop this?” I asked. “You can have it back, if you like.”
Then a final man came out of the building, no better dressed, but more commanding than the others. He was in his forties, with sandy hair and a clean-shaven face. Few bothered to shave often in this part of town.
“Well, well. The Governor and his Nibs,” he said. “This is a pleasure. You must forgive my boys for their high spirits.”
“And you are?” Barker asked.
“Lusk. George Lusk of the Mile End Vigilance Committee.”
“You’re a fair distance from home, I must say. What business have you here in Whitechapel?” Barker asked.
“The same as your own, I expect. Security.”
“Is this security you offer free of charge, or are you collecting payment for it, one business at a time?”
“We are privately funded,” Lusk said. “Some philanthropists believe that the best persons to deal with this Whitechapel Killer are the ones who live here in the district.”
“So you say,” Barker retorted. “But this is the Jewish quarter, and I do not see a Star of David among you.”
“We’re more interested in why you’re here, Push, you and your man Friday. Were you hired by a client, or are you hoping to catch the killer yourselves?”
“What if we were?” the Guv asked, crossing his arms. “What would that matter to you?”
“It would matter because you’re muddying the waters. We don’t need professionals here trying to make a name for themselves, nor amateurs trying to become heroes so they can cadge free drinks the rest of their lives. It’s our women who are dying here. We already put up with all the peelers marching around, but when we see the two of you here night after night, we have a right to ask what’s going on. We want no toffs here, even ones disguised in castoffs from Petticoat Lane. So, I ask you again nicely, what brings you here?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Lusk, but for the life of me I cannot see how my business is of any concern to you. Whitechapel is not your personal fiefdom. As far as I know, people still can come and go as they see fit without your permission. Doubtless, some are here after the reward monies offered by various organizations for the Whitechapel Killer, but you cannot convince me that you are not tempted yourself.”
“Very well, Push,” Lusk said. “The buzzards have been circling all month and it was only a matter of time before they alighted on the lampposts. Your reputation goes before you. I’ve heard you are a charitable gent. We don’t have a mansion in Southwark. This may be our only chance to see this kind of money. We need it more than you. It could mean medical attention or a decent place to live, or even a full meal, for once.”
“I sympathize with your plight, sir, but I already have a client. I am currently about his business. I myself have no interest in the reward.”
“Easy for you to say, but if you catch the killer, we won’t get paid.”
“That cannot be helped.”
Lusk shrugged. “I tried, Mr. Barker, really I did. But you just wouldn’t listen. All right, boyos. Teach these chaps some manners!”
The men began to circle us. I knew for a fact that my employer had a Scotland Yard inspector’s badge in his pocket, not to mention two Colt revolvers, any of which would have stopped the coming scuffle in a trice. However, he had few enough outlets for his own particular bloodlust to turn this one down. Who was this Lusk fellow, and under what bushel basket had he been hiding that he would challenge Cyrus Barker in the street? I could only think that his education was about to begin.
Fighting two people at once is only for the advanced pugilist, but it can be done. The first step is to move forward onto the balls of the feet and be ready to move quickly. Your hands must be up before you, ready to slap away whatever attack may be coming your way, and you must do your best to line yourself up so that one of your attackers is always in front of the other, blocking the other’s movements. Never get into the situation where you have one on either side. Slip it, run, if this happens, then try again. Slap away a punch, then seize or push one man into the other. If possible, tie their limbs into knots. From time to time, it is necessary to punch or kick the one in front to pacify him, but for the most part one is attacking the man behind, using the closer opponent’s body as a weapon. As much as you can, attempt to create confusion and frustration between your adversaries. And when you fight, by all means, fight dirty. Punches to the eyes, the throat, the ear. When two are attacking you, the Queensberry rules go out the window. If one of your opponents falls down, immediately attack th
e second man, with the momentum of the fight in your favor. Lastly, avoid high kicks, if not kicking entirely. They are powerful and effective, but slow. In a fast and close-quarter fight with two men, there is no time for beautiful, aerial kicks.
And so the two men came at me at once. The first threw a punch which I blocked, then pulled him off balance, pushing him into the second man. The first man stumbled into the second, and as he tried to get up, I gave him a good tap on the nose. I’m no natural fighter, but I do have a good right jab. Blood seeped from his nose. There is nothing more encouraging to you and discouraging to your opponent as spilling claret. The second fellow came around the first, prepared to fight, but after avoiding the first blow, I thrust him over onto his brother and began kicking them as they struggled. Not hard, you understand; but hard enough to discourage them.
“All right, lads, come on. On your feet. I haven’t got all night,” I said, knowing it’s always a good policy to add insult to injury.
The first was getting onto his feet when I swept his front foot from under him and he fell again. Now they were angry. Is there anything more frustrating than two fellows not being able to subdue one small, harmless-looking chap? As they tried to rise again I kicked one into the other one. He trapped my foot, but I merely bore down on my front leg, and as he fell, I punched the second one in the lip just below his bloody nose.
That was it, the entire fight from start to finish. I hadn’t really hurt either of them, only embarrassed them and tangled them together. The second would need to stanch the bleeding, but I hadn’t actually broken his nose. I stepped back. To be more precise, I danced back, because I was feeling good about the exchange, and wanted to appear unwinded and ready for anything. Barker stood in the street with his hands in his pockets, looking at the leader. Men were sprawled in the street about him groaning. He looked disappointed the scrap was over so soon.
“You were saying?” he asked.
Lusk licked his lips. “We represent the people here, Barker. It is our duty to protect them, not swells like you. We don’t need amateurs coming in and causing trouble or worse, and we don’t need professionals taking money out of the district.”
He tensed when Barker reached into his pocket. My employer is known for being well armed. But he only retrieved his special inspector’s badge.
“We have been retained by Scotland Yard in this case,” he said. “I’m sure you understand the necessity to bring as many trained men into the field as possible.”
“Well, I’m blowed,” Lusk said. “Sorry, Push. We’ve agreed not to hamper the Yard in its investigation. In fact, we hope to provide information for you as we find it. You can understand the need to tighten security around here and not let just any Dick and Tom walk the streets.”
“No harm done,” Barker replied, shrugging his beefy shoulders.
“Not on your side, no. I’ve got half my squad down. What am I gonna do now?”
“Help your men up and start again tomorrow. Come along, Thomas.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
There was a note awaiting us at the Yard the following morning. The paper was embossed and had originated from Buckingham Palace, from the office of the Queen’s private secretary. It read: I have an opening in my schedule at one o’clock this afternoon. We must discuss several matters concerning Whitechapel. I look forward to making your acquaintance. Ponsonby.
“The royal imperative,” Barker remarked. “If I had plans or interviews today, I am to cancel them. Something has occurred at the palace.”
“We can’t go like this,” I said. “Even just to see the Queen’s private secretary. I’m a mess!”
“Agreed. A change into our best day suits is in order. We must return to Newington. If you will acquire a cab, I shall call Jacob Maccabee from our offices and let him know what we require.”
I made a fresh pot of tea and put out some biscuits, then slipped outside in search of a hansom. “A” Division required a constant supply of vehicles for its inspectors coming to and from its headquarters, so cabmen routinely slow when they pass Great Scotland Yard Street. I hailed one, clambered aboard, and told the driver to wait for my associate. After a few minutes, Barker came down Whitehall Street, and climbed aboard, calling our address in Newington. It would be good to be home again, even if only for an hour or two.
“The timing is perfect, actually,” I said, trying to sound positive. “By the time we return, they will have collected new information about the victims and the killer’s whereabouts.”
When we arrived in Lion Street, it was almost pleasing to see Mac’s face and he seemed relieved to see us. It must have been deadly dull rattling about in that big Georgian house, polishing floors and silverware to a high gloss. The man had declared an all-out war on dirt, and to him, my existence within the house was a challenge.
“I have taken the liberty of preparing a cold collation. We cannot have your stomachs gurgling in front of Her Majesty. I have brushed your best suits and they are on your beds. I shall have your boots polished by the time you are ready.”
I went into the dining room with its paneled walls, hung with targes and claymores. The table held plates of cold roast beef, sliced thin, flanked by pots of mustard and horseradish sauce, an endive salad, a small wheel of sharp cheddar with biscuits, olives, and fresh bread. I was disappointed when Mac brought in tea. To tell the truth, I was getting tired of it. Then he returned from the kitchen with a French press full of coffee and set it at my chair.
“That smells wonderful, Mac,” I said. “You’ve outdone yourself.”
“Not at all, Mr. Llewelyn. Just a few things I threw together at the last minute.”
I knew better. He likes a compliment from time to time and is not likely to get it from Barker, who is often turning over a case in his head.
We dined and then I took a short nap before it was time to dress. My closet, thanks to my employer, was full. There were knee-length morning coats for visiting wealthy clients before lunch, cutaway jackets and sack suits for everyday wear, and evening kit for going out at night. Then I had a suit much like my everyday one, only more formal. The buttons were silver, the waistcoat filigreed, and the lapels satin. I had only worn this suit once that I recalled, when visiting a baron.
Mac bustled in from upstairs, with his talc whisk broom in his hand. He frowned at me. Something was amiss, but then, it always was when standing next to an Adonis. I am not tall enough, my chin is not prominent enough, when compared to perfection.
“What’s wrong now?” I asked.
“Your hair. It could do with a trim. I wouldn’t want it to prove a distraction to Her Majesty.”
“We’re not going to see the Queen, Mac, merely her secretary.”
“You might pass her in the halls.”
“If I did, I doubt she would be concerned with my hair.”
To Mac’s way of thinking, Her Majesty, Victoria Regina, was the arbiter of all things and must and should think exactly like Mac himself. I, on the other hand, suspected she had more important matters to consider.
“I’m fine,” I told him. “It’s too much.”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“I’m sure, Mac. Thank you.”
“Very well,” he answered. And sniffed. I hate it when he sniffs. He took the brush to my suit a little more vigorously than I would have liked. Then he opened my wardrobe, took my top hat out of its box and set it precisely on my head, down upon my nest of curls, because of course I was incapable of setting it precisely thereupon. No one could except Mac, and perhaps Queen Victoria, but it would be beneath her.
“Choose a proper stick,” he warned. “Black with a silver ball.”
It occurred to me then why moving temporarily to the East End had been so liberating. I could dress as I like. In fact, at Scotland Yard, neatness was practically frowned upon.
Then Barker came down the stair from Mount Zion, shining like Moses himself. His many buttons gleamed, as did his silk top hat. He had freshly
brilliantined his hair. He looked resplendent.
Afraid that too much movement might spoil the cut of our suits, Mac even went into Newington Causeway and summoned a cab. Knowing him, he probably turned down one or two before finding just the right one. One cannot be too careful in these matters.
We were on our way then, and for once I was nervous. I knew we weren’t going to visit the Queen, but who was this Ponsonby cove and what would he think of Cyrus Barker? It’s a funny thing about the Guv. He’s got all of us—Mac, me, Etienne, Jenkins, even Mrs. Ashleigh—fussing over him, making certain he puts his best foot forward. I don’t believe he ever once worries about anything himself.
Buckingham Palace began as a town house owned by the Duke of Buckingham. Not many people know that. Then George III visited there, fancied the place, and bought it for the missus.
For a time, it was known as the Queen’s Castle. It was expanded, then expanded again until it was imposing even by Westminster standards, where the Abbey and the Houses of Parliament stand. It was built to keep small Welsh coalminers’ sons like me out. What if I didn’t genuflect low enough? I hadn’t practiced my bows. What if I said the wrong word or couldn’t say anything at all? What’s the worst that could happen? They didn’t really behead people at the whim of the sovereign, or of her private secretary. Or did they?
After a brief discussion with the guards at the front gate, we were ushered into the grounds and bowled down the drive to the palace itself. It resembles nothing so much as a large block of marble. There’s not a turret or a tower to be found. This sort of design would not do in Bavaria or Paris, but the English prefer function over form. As long as it repelled cannonballs and class insurrection, it would do fine.
We stepped through the doors and were met by a man who might have been a butler or a retainer, or even some sort of security. He looked at Barker gravely and took our hats. After the Guv explained our purpose, we were led down carpeted halls and past paintings that were larger than I. My heart began to beat in my breast. Try not to trip, Thomas, you prat.
