Anatomy of Evil

by Will Thomas

  “Don’t begrudge them, lad,” Barker said, as if divining my thoughts. “They have their own ways of mourning here in the ’Chapel.”

  A third vehicle came up behind the coach. It was a brougham for members of the press. The reporter Bulling was there, his face red with drink, and not the only one, too.

  At a signal, the front carriage driver gave a click of his tongue and the lead horses tossed their black-plumed heads and began to pull. The procession gave a ragged cheer and began to move. We walked with the crowd, since we were not a part of the City Police, represented by Superintendent Foster and Inspector McWilliams. A body of constables kept order merely by their presence and the solemnity of the occasion.

  The route to the City of London Cemetery was by way of Great Easter Street, Commercial Street, Whitechapel and Mile End Roads, until it reached Ilford. The crowd were old and young alike, including babies bawling in their mothers’ arms. Some had known Kate, most had not, but were paying their respects, and some had come simply out of curiosity. I looked about and wondered if the Whitechapel Killer himself was here. One would think he could not stay away from this display of his own handiwork.

  “They must be joking,” Barker rumbled, breaking into my reverie.

  “What now?”

  “Look ahead.”

  I did. There was a wall of constables stretching across the street. Scotland Yard men. Would there be an altercation here, between the Yard and the City men? No, as we approached, the Met came forward while the City retreated, staying within the City limits. They would not cross over and see the woman to her grave, and neither would the constables from nearby “G” Division step into their territory.

  “Stupid,” I said.

  “‘Call no man fool,’” Barker quoted from the Psalms. “Once you start, you will never stop.”

  As we passed the white chapel of St. Mary Matfelon Church, the crowd swelled as the mourners waiting there mingled momentarily with the participants. Those who had come to pay their respects here gave the procession a gravitas it greatly needed. Some of the women were actually crying, and I suspected they were Eddowes’s true sisters, those of her profession that had been with her every day, commiserating with her struggles and few momentary pleasures. I saw one of the constables reach out with a gloved hand, and pat a weeping woman on the shoulder. There, unheeded by anyone but me, was one of Scotland Yard’s finest moments.

  It was a long walk, snaking through the entire district that the Ripper prowled, and many walked in pinched and broken shoes, though no one complained. It was an event people would remember in their old age. “Was you there at Old Kate’s funeral? That was something worth seeing, was it not?”

  When we finally reached Ilford and Forest Gate, there were hundreds more mourners already waiting at the cemetery for our arrival. It was a crush. The two crowds merged and without the presence of the police there might have been chaos.

  “Shall we observe at a distance, Thomas, or do you feel the need to be graveside?”

  Just then a man carelessly clipped my ear with an elbow.

  “At a distance would be fine,” I said.

  We let the procession continue to the Church of England portion of the cemetery, which was full of falling leaves, reminding me of the changing seasons. A breeze blew through the cemetery, sending leaves cartwheeling over everything. It seemed very apropos. The dead leaves would soon cover the dead woman’s grave.

  A chaplain in his long surplice read a ten-minute speech, not quite eulogy, nor yet sermon, either. What does one say over the coffin of an unfortunate? One cannot act as if she was virtuous, but on the other hand, only the most hard-hearted of clergymen would dare say anything derogatory in front of this crowd.

  “Who’s paying for all this?” I finally asked my employer.

  “The City officials have waived the fees for her burial. The rest was donated by a local churchman.”

  “‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’” I heard the chaplain’s voice travel on the wind with the dancing leaves.

  “God rest her soul,” Barker added.

  “‘Flights of angels, sing thee to thy rest,’” I said to myself.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Scotland Yard is famous for its staunchness, its gravity, and the seriousness with which it handles every complaint. Without question, it is the best police force in the world. That motion having been put forward and seconded, there is occasionally an atmosphere as if they were a group of boys at play. One must understand that there were no women working there to scrutinize behavior for its gentlemanliness, and though some denizens had crossed the fifty-year threshold and were in their dotage, the median age was about twenty-five.

  We were in the Records Room on the morning of the second of October, looking over the latest arrest records in connection with the case, when somewhere in the hallways a voice called out, “Oy!” Aside from being a beloved Yiddish term of surprise, it is often used in the Yard, its meaning being a combination of “Stop what you are doing,” “Come to my aid,” and “You’ve got to see this!” It is the vocal equivalent of the police whistle.

  Barker and I debated whether to go to the aid of whoever made the call. After all, there was a beehive of constables there ready to handle any emergency. Then a few ran down the hall past our door. Immediately, we were on our feet. A prisoner had tried to escape, I thought, or a fight between suspects or witnesses had broken out; those were the only reasons I could conceive on the spur of the moment. By the time we reached the door, more officers shot past, and I realized something of sufficient magnitude had occurred that it was siphoning men down the hall. Just because the Guv and I were new did not mean we would be caught flat-footed. We sprinted down the now congested hallway. Men were jostling to get ahead of us, but the Guv has a way of swinging his elbows as he runs that make him a danger to one’s eyes and throat. Most gave way.

  We turned into the main hall of “A” Division, expecting to find a riot in progress, but instead, everyone inside the building was funneling out the front door. Had a bomb threat been made? Was Barker right that the populace wouldn’t stand for the Yard’s methods and had come to protest? No, everyone running out the door was turning right toward the Embankment and following after the man in front of him. We could but do likewise.

  Reaching the corner of Great Scotland Yard and Northumberland Street, we passed through a makeshift barrier and into the geometric grid of bricks and blocks that formed the skeleton of the New Scotland Yard building. Designed by Norman Shaw, it was intended to replace the poky and disorganized halls of the old building with order and ample space for all possible future needs. What it lacked in space beside the river and Great Scotland Yard Wharf, it would make up for in height. I understood it would be five stories tall. When finished, it would dwarf all the buildings nearby, but that was still a year or two to come. We ran among the brickbats and pallets trying not to trip, and to avoid puddles which had formed in the sandy soil. It slowed my progress, because I knew this group of philosophers would jeer and laugh at the first man who tripped and fell.

  Ahead, most of the residents of Scotland Yard had settled in a ring around a half-built structure, taking turns stepping down into a recently finished basement. We waited our turn, and when we finally reached the room squeezed in, having no idea what to expect.

  The small, unfinished cellar was packed with men standing shoulder to shoulder, lit by a single dark lantern in the middle. We shuffled forward until we could see. There was a bundle on the floor, originally swathed in black cloth and rope, but now lying exposed. It was a torso; pale, naked, headless, and limbless. A female torso.

  The Ripper had left us a present on our very own doorstep, just to prove to us and the whole world that he could do it and get away with it. If Barker weren’t there, and him such a Puritan, I’d have let out a few curses in frustration.

  The victim appeared to have been young and well formed and the skin so pale as to remind me of a mermaid. The limbs had
been sawn with some degree of precision. As we watched, one of the chief inspectors came out with a length of canvas and covered the body in preparation to carry it to a hand litter left behind in the street. We watched in fascination as he tried to lift it. It slipped out of his hands and struck the ground with a squelching sound that rather made me queasy. Two attempted it next, and found it no easier to grasp than the one. Finally, a third joined in and rolled the partial body into a makeshift sling held by the others. Some of the men were assigned to examine every inch of ground from the old building to the water for clues.

  The sight made us angry. One of the officers roared and beat upon the walls in his wrath. The walls were suddenly too close, and we were buffeted about. Everyone was yelling and cursing at once and trying to get to the entrance. Eventually, we pushed our way out into the sunshine and the cool, salty air. Men lit cigarettes and pipes and tried to calm their nerves. Some had recourse to hip flasks, though it was not yet noon. We stared into the inky river.

  “This case,” I said. “This case—”

  “I know,” the Guv replied. Neither of us finished the thought.

  “We always seem to be behind.”

  “Aye. We are not acting, but reacting. We must find some way to get ahead of him.”

  “The newspapermen shall think it is Christmas. This is the worst possible thing to have happened to the Yard.”

  “There’s nae more to see here, Thomas. Let us return to our desk.”

  I turned and began to walk back to Great Scotland Yard Street. The thought in my head was unless the murderer was found, Jack the Ripper or no, New Scotland Yard would be built on an unsolved-crime site. I’m sure the irony was not lost on the Guv, either.

  “An arm was found farther down the river earlier this week, in Pimlico,” he told me. “I’ll bet it belonged to this poor woman.”

  “What a horrible way to die,” I cried.

  “I have little doubt she was dismembered afterward, lad.”

  “Still, cut into pieces and tossed into the Thames, and the main part left here as a warning.”

  “Her soul went to heaven at the first instant. The rest is just unfeeling clay. As for the warning, granted, it was a bold move to leave a corpse here on Scotland Yard soil, but it was a convenient place to hide a body. Depriving a person of his or her life takes but a moment and can be done in the heat of anger, but disposing of a body is always the most difficult part.”

  “You’re saying that woman was killed for whatever reason, and the body left as an afterthought, rather than that she was deliberately killed and left as a warning? Why?”

  “He cut off her head to make her unable to be identified.”

  “It’s probably floating in Bayswater right now, waiting to be found,” I said.

  “If he is as clever as he is daring, he’ll have destroyed the features somehow, to prevent recognition.”

  “You’re certain this is not the work of the Whitechapel Killer?”

  “It’s not his method. This fellow has not sliced the abdomen or removed her organs, and so far the Whitechapel Killer has not attempted to remove limbs from his victims.”

  “But two women-killers at the same time, that’s a coincidence, and you don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “I do not. Generally, it means one has not considered all the factors. In this case, a fellow is getting rid of a body a piece at a time. The limbs are not that difficult, but the torso itself is more so. Why not bedevil Scotland Yard, already chasing after a hobgoblin, by placing it in the construction site and blaming it on the Ripper? He is the perfect scapegoat.”

  “You called him ‘the Ripper,’ sir.”

  “Did I? Damn and blast. You see how easy it is to fix a label on someone? Deucedly hard to get rid of it afterward.”

  “Suppose there are two killers, sir, and they are working together. This is an example of the second’s work coming to the fore.”

  “The Whitechapel Killer does not strike me as a social fellow. He is secretive and silent, in spite of these false letters to the press. If there were a second killer, and this is his work, then more likely he is mimicking the first and need not actually know him. He was inspired by the Whitechapel Killer’s success to try this himself. It is quite a strong message, is it not? You are powerless, and I can even set a murdered citizen at your very door, within your own walls. If a talented reporter gets hold of it, he can have every woman in London feel as if she narrowly escaped death, from the simplest char to Her Majesty. Perhaps especially Her Majesty.”

  “The murder is bad enough. I mean, it is terrible and the dismemberment. But the obliteration of all identity must be the worst of all. If she is not identified, she’ll go to her grave unmourned and unknown. Meanwhile, her parents, or perhaps even her husband, shall wonder forever if she is alive somewhere, and has left voluntarily. It’s sickening!”

  “’Tis, indeed,” Barker rumbled.

  “And naked,” I went on. “A further indignity. He spared her nothing. One would think Evil can go no further.”

  “Thomas, you must not allow yourself to become emotionally tangled in this case. It can break you like a matchstick. Practice emotional detachment, as much as is possible. Do not allow this to overshadow the case we are already investigating. That has precedence over this one.”

  “And if they are working together?”

  “Then I believe we shall uncover proof of that connection.”

  We returned to our chairs around Barker’s desk.

  “I hope so. We have to get this fellow. It would be terrible if he were never caught. It would damage the reputation of the Yard forever.”

  “Then between us we must see that that doesn’t happen.”

  “Ahem.”

  We looked up. A sergeant was standing in the doorway. “You gonna make a fresh pot or jaw all day?”

  I jumped to my feet and hustled down the hall. All Scotland Yard investigation runs upon a never-ending supply of black pekoe tea, strong and hot. If the Opium Wars with China proved anything, it is that the entire country runs upon it.

  Returning to the kitchen, I emptied the pot, pumped the water, added the tea leaves, and lit the hob. When the tea was finally brewed, I found Barker at my elbow.

  “Let us get out of here. Question someone, even if we’ve questioned them a half-dozen times already. Talk to people. Anything to get away from this blighted street.”

  “Gladly,” I said.

  I felt hemmed in by the walls and hallways of the old building. We seized our hats and passed through those halls again until we stepped out in the street. Eagerly, we passed through the front gate and hailed a cab. We pulled out into Whitehall traffic. It felt as if we were escaping.

  There were other occupations that did not require one to view dead and bloated bodies on a weekly basis. One went to an office, filled out forms and created paperwork, and at some point prescribed by one’s duties, one went home and didn’t think about work anymore. One kissed one’s wife and lifted one’s children into the air, because, of course, one was safe to marry because one was not shot at or stabbed or frequently beaten up. We saved London one person at a time, but the city regarded us not. Then we took it personally when an individual slipped through our fingers and wound up wrapped in a roll of dark wool, without a head or limbs.

  “Tell me it is early days, and we shall get this fellow.”

  “It is, and we shall.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Ho’s. He might have some gleaning we can use.”

  Ho was Barker’s closest friend, a monosyllabic Chinaman who was first mate aboard the Osprey. Now he ran a tearoom in Limehouse. He also traded information. We now had a new piece he might trade for something we could use.

  When we arrived at his tearoom, through a clandestine tunnel beneath the Thames, I munched on doughy rolls while my employer conversed with the Chinaman in Cantonese. Ho is bald, save for a thick queue, and has long, weighted earlobes. At one point he was a
Buddhist monk, but he looked more like a pirate than a monk.

  “Two inspectors came in here last week,” Ho said, switching to English. “Discussed with each other whether there was a demand for female organs among medical students. A specimen in a jar could go for as much as five pounds sterling.”

  “That’s a month’s wages down Whitechapel way.”

  “It would not work as a going concern, however,” Barker pointed out. “Even murder among the drabs of the East End, the lowest level of society, draws the attention of the community and Scotland Yard. You’ll have to do better than that.”

  Just then our food arrived. Sweet and sour pork, snail dumplings, and fried rice. I had been queasy an hour before when the body was found, but my appetite had returned. The living must go on.

  “Two City police discussing the case here said it must be the work of a foreign sailor. The bodies are found close to Dockland. The other gave the opinion that Asians have strange rituals involving human sacrifice. I charged him double.”

  “Oh, come now. Is that the best you can do?” Barker asked, biting off half a dumpling.

  Ho crossed his bare arms, which look flabby, but are actually well muscled. He was speculating over which tidbit to pass on to his friend.

  “Two men came in last night, late. Mentioned a person named Lusk.”

  “Lusk? Aye?”

  “They discussed how to make an example out of the Jews, to ‘run them off.’ One said they must burn the synagogue. The other said if they attack the silver merchants they can loot their shops.”

  “So,” I said, “on one hand, we have the Whitechapel murders as a way to make money selling female organs to hospitals. On the other, we have them killing unfortunates in order to blame the Jews so they can loot their prosperous stores.”

  “Man said Lusk did not approve.”

  “They must be members of the Mile End Vigilance Society,” Barker said.