Anatomy of Evil

by Will Thomas

  “If anyone had the organization to make an attempt on the Jews, it would be they,” I said. “I must say I am surprised Lusk would not go for it.”

  “Just because he runs a vigilance group does not ipso facto make him a thief and an opportunist. It is possible that he only wants the women at Whitechapel to be safe. Someone there should.”

  “Are we even?” Ho asked.

  Barker picked up a small cup of tea with his thick fingers and downed it, deep in thought.

  “Three fact for one,” Ho reminded him.

  Barker slapped the stout table. “Done. Consider us even. Come, lad.”

  As we walked into the tunnel under the river, I stopped, as I often did, and listened to the sound of the Thames moving overhead. I knew not by what alchemy it didn’t all come crashing in to flood the tunnel.

  “I suppose somewhere on the river there is a head and some limbs bobbing,” the Guv remarked.

  “First you make me eat snail dumplings and now you discuss floating limbs,” I complained.

  “I’m the one who ate the snail dumplings,” Barker said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Barker and I were getting ready to go into the station the following morning, when there was a knock upon the door. A message was handed to my employer and he shut it again, reading it. He frowned and handed it to me.

  “We’re to report to Leman Street as soon as possible,” he said.

  “Another killing?” I asked, reaching for my shoes.

  “I think not. More likely some sort of inspection. The constable who delivered the note was spotless. Fresh collars and cuffs. Let’s wear our best shoes this morning.”

  We broke our fast on buttered toast and tea downstairs, then walked briskly to the corner of Commercial and Leman Street. A crowd had already formed and at least a dozen constables stood about looking anxious. It was nearly seven in the morning and a light mist was falling.

  “Who is that?” I asked Barker, pointing to an officious-looking person talking to reporters. He seemed familiar, like I had seen an engraving of his face in the newspapers. A minor royal, perhaps?

  “That is Henry Matthews, the Home secretary,” my employer stated.

  “The one who hired Munro after he resigned from Scotland Yard?”

  “The same.”

  “Has the commissioner been sacked?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. You have a brain. Pray, draw your own conclusions.”

  Just then, DCI Frederick Abberline stepped out of the station. The next we knew we were being introduced to Matthews. The Home secretary did not seem overimpressed by us, but I assume nothing short of pulling the Ripper from a hat in darbies would have satisfied him.

  “Where is Warren with that blasted dog?” Matthews asked.

  “I’m sure he’ll be along directly,” Abberline assured him.

  We stood about for twenty minutes or more. Some of the crowd moved on to their occupations, or left out of boredom. There was nothing to see but a squad of constables looking uncomfortable.

  Finally, Commissioner Warren arrived, with a man leading a sleepy-looking but wiry bloodhound. His hide looked like brown velvet, and his eyes were heavily hooded, but his manner was businesslike. He was ready to be set loose on something.

  “The commissioner had a field trial two nights ago in Hampstead Heath, after it was closed,” Abberline explained to us. “He himself acted as bait. The hound tracked him successfully to a thicket. There is to be another trial this morning to see how he fares in the streets of Whitechapel.”

  “Will the gentlemen of the press come forward,” the commissioner of police asked.

  Certain men in the crowd detached themselves from doorways and conversations and came closer to where Warren and the jowly hound stood. One of them, Bulling, actually reached out and patted the dog.

  Warren gave a short speech. I took it down verbatim for Barker’s benefit, but there is no need to repeat it all here. The gist was that no detective, no matter how educated or insightful, was a match for a bloodhound with a keen nose. He described in great detail how he had come up with the thought of a hound himself to track down the Whitechapel Killer, how he had found a trainer, got permission to use Hampstead Heath to test his theories, and how Barnaby, that is, the dog, had proven an unqualified success. The entire speech was highly insulting to the Criminal Investigation Department, who, with Abberline as the only exception, had thrown in their support to Munro. The suggestion was that if Scotland Yard were reduced to Warren and one dog, he would function without them very well, thank you.

  “Should this test prove successful, I can imagine a canine division of hounds and handlers, brought to bear against the thieves and murderers of the East End.”

  “There you go,” Abberline muttered to Barker. “In one sentence, he has insulted the entire Metropolitan Police and half of London.”

  Then Matthews, who must have had hearing as good as the Guv’s, spoke up. “But he has done so with great authority and self-assurance.”

  Warren pulled a handkerchief from his pocket with a flourish, holding it aloft, then wiped his hands and neck with it, covering it with his scent. He handed the linen to the dog’s handler and turned to the crowd.

  “I now go in the guise of a criminal, to see if I can outsmart Barnaby’s expert nose.”

  He turned and marched through the crowd. When I last saw him he had stepped into an alleyway on the Commercial Road and was gone.

  After a few minutes to let the quarry escape, the handler went down on one knee and put the cloth to the bloodhound’s muzzle, who took in the odor eagerly. He charged off on the lead, followed by the handler, and the reporters and the crowd that remained.

  “I’ll stay here,” Matthews said. “Contrary to modern opinion, I have no wish to watch the man publicly humiliate himself.”

  Likewise, Abberline appeared too dignified to follow after a dog, but he had no difficulty sending us. We did not trot, but walked swiftly at the tail of the line.

  “Cobblestones are a far different surface from a grassy trail,” Barker remarked. “I’m not sure how long they can retain a scent.”

  “This isn’t the West End, where there is a crossing sweeper on every corner,” I said. “The streets are spattered with night soil and awash in horse urine.”

  “There are fish carts and butcher shops, sausage factories and meat pie shops. Blood drips from carts and flows into gutters. It isn’t like Hampstead Heath at all.”

  “True.”

  “Even now people are walking across the trail of Warren’s shoes, carrying the scent away. There are hundreds of thousands of people going about their daily lives.”

  “But think if it works,” I said. “Suppose the Whitechapel Killer kills again, and we get this little fellow there in time to get a fresh scent.”

  “Aye, but that’s quite an ‘if.’ The dog would have to be sent for the second the murder was found. If ’twere in the middle of the night, there might be a chance to catch the killer, but if the murder was discovered after five o’clock in the morning, the trail would be obliterated within an hour or so, I should think. Not that I claim to be an expert on bloodhounds, of course.”

  “Is there some significance to the fact that the murders seem to occur very late in the night, sometimes three or four o’clock? Who is about at that time of night, other than insomniacs?”

  “Sailors returning from their revels, men who have come to Whitechapel for a night of debauchery. Then there are factory workers. Many take an overnight shift to meet the demand for steel or other goods. The truth is there are many occupations in the East End that require working overnight. One forgets that while the commerce occurs in the West End, the manufacturing occurs in the East.”

  “Then there is the good old-fashioned lunatic. Do you suppose he is really affected by the moon?”

  “I hadn’t consulted the lunar cycle, but I imagine it has already been dismissed. The Yard is nothing but thorough. If he went by
a particular pattern, we’d have been alerted to it by now.”

  “You hope,” I said.

  “You believe someone would still hold back information on us at this late date?” Barker said.

  “Scotland Yard is definitely taking sides these days, and it’s important which side one chooses.”

  “I refuse to engage in such childish notions.”

  “That’s your side, sir, and it is an exceedingly small one.”

  “You think I should play politics?”

  “No, but Matthews seems to think this is Warren’s last hurrah. And while we have been brought in by Anderson, once Munro is in office again, I suspect he’ll have no use for us.”

  “Perhaps,” Barker conceded.

  “Sir, this was intended to be a temporary assignment, anyway, was it not? You do plan to open the agency again.”

  “I hope the Whitechapel Killer shall be caught soon, lad, but I cannot give you a date when we shall be able to open our doors again. This investigation could extend into the new year.”

  “If it does, sir, I hope we will be staying somewhere more permanent than the Frying Pan.”

  “I’ll take it into consideration.”

  The hound ahead of us suddenly bayed and we all quickened our steps. He was still on the trail. We passed through an alleyway or two and then suddenly we heard celebrating ahead. Coming into a courtyard, we found the bloodhound on two legs with his paws on the chest of Charles Warren, who was patting him vigorously. We joined in the applause.

  “It was a nice little trick,” I said. “The trail was no more than minutes old and no one had time to cross it and confuse the dog. The commissioner’s got his publicity, which I’ll admit, Scotland Yard needs at the moment.”

  Flushed with the pride of success, Warren gave another brief speech on the modernity of police methods, no stone left unturned, and that sort of thing. In the middle of the speech, Barker moved through the crowd and spoke to the dog’s handler. They shook hands and I suspected a pound note was passed along. Barker made his way back to where I stood just as the brief speech ended. There was more applause, but some dared to boo him, as well. Though this was the East End, the crowd was smart enough to realize they had been gulled. In fact, I imagine they were less likely to be taken in than their western neighbors.

  “See a man about a dog?” I asked.

  “Aye, he’s agreed to come with us to the last two murder sites, Dutfield’s Yard and Mitre Square. We’ll test whether Barnaby can pick up the actual scent. I want Swanson and Abberline informed, but not the commissioner. I’m sure they are here. Search for them and tell them I want to see them.”

  There was no great hurry. Charles Warren was being photographed with the dog, and every photographer wanted their own picture of Barnaby. Apparently, nothing sells newspapers like a canine hero, even if the heroics were staged for public benefit. I pushed my way through the crowd, and spotted Swanson’s elephantine shape first. He was standing on a low wall a head above the crowd, looking down on them. Did he hope to see the Ripper there, and how would he know him? By his own eyes?

  “Sir!”

  “Yes, Constable Llewelyn?”

  “Inspector Barker would like to see you for a few minutes. He has procured the services of the dog and would like to test his nose against the actual murder scenes.”

  “I won’t miss that,” he said, his eyes still scanning the crowd. He had the eyes of an eagle. They were searching for his prey and when he found it, he would pounce quickly and without mercy.

  Next, I looked for Abberline. He had a normal build and was less noticeable in a crowd. It took me several minutes, but I finally found him issuing a warning act to that rascal Lusk and some of his men. I had no doubt they had supplied the boos during the commissioner’s speech. Did the man have an occupation or was he using his trumped-up position to extort money from local businesses?

  One doesn’t go up to a detective chief inspector, ideally. One steps up behind the man, to the left, and looks away until one is noticed. Sometimes this may take a while.

  “What is it, Constable?” he snapped, as Lusk disappeared into the crowd.

  I gave the same information that I’d given to Swanson, without the same result.

  “Is the press in on this?” he asked. “I won’t have the commissioner humiliated.”

  Loyal to the end, I thought.

  “No, sir, just the four of us and Barnaby, of course.”

  “All right, then.”

  About a half hour later the crowd had dissipated, and photographers had stopped fouling the air with magnesium sulphate. We met the dog and his trainer, and began heading north.

  “We’ll have to be careful, going into the City territory again,” Swanson remarked.

  “Just some men out taking a dog for a walk,” Barker said.

  “Three of whom happen to be Scotland Yard inspectors,” Abberline added.

  “Everyone must have an occupation. We live by the sweat of our brow.”

  “Save your Bible quoting for another time, Barker.”

  When we reached Mitre Square, all of us could have found the exact spot where Catherine Eddowes’s body had been found. As it turned out, we didn’t have to. Someone had recently poured fresh blood there. I reckoned it had been there a day or two. It was brownish black.

  “S’truth!” Abberline said. “Those blighted tour guides have contaminated the scene.”

  “Pig’s blood, I reckon,” Swanson said. “Easily available in this part of town. Among the Gentiles, at least.”

  “Let us give the dog a try,” Barker said.

  The handler came forward with the animal and it put its nose to the blood-soaked ground and let it sniff for all it was worth. Immediately, it turned and followed an invisible path to the front entrance. We followed after, expectantly. It was difficult not to, in spite of the odds. It was also more exciting being in the lead, at the head, rather than the tail.

  Barnaby started quickly and headed into Duke Street. He went a few hundred yards before slowing to a trot. He began to sniff to the left and right, to double back and go again. Eventually, he stopped in the middle of the road.

  “He’s lost it,” Abberline said, cursing.

  “Hurry him along a bit and see if he picks up the scent again!” Swanson suggested.

  We led him a hundred feet or so, but he only snuffled here and there, looking for a scent.

  “Take him back to the last place he smelled anything,” I said.

  “No,” Swanson insisted. “We should go forward to just beyond the next street and see if he locates the trail again.”

  “But suppose the Ripper turned in the next street? We should backtrack and start all over again, only more slowly.”

  “I suppose we could try another victim’s trail—” I began.

  “Gentlemen!” Barker growled over all of us. “I believe we must accept the fact that the trail has gone cold. It has rained several times since the double murders. The scent has likely washed away.”

  In spite of everything, we’d had our hopes dashed. Abberline made a few choice remarks not worth repeating.

  “Thank you, Jarvis,” Barker said to the handler. “A canny beast you have there. Too bad he cannot work miracles.”

  Barker bent and scratched the bloodhound under its floppy ear. It was glad of the attention.

  “Good boy, Barnaby. Mind, sir, that he gets a hearty meal when you get home.”

  “At least he made the commissioner happy,” Swanson said.

  “There is an ABC in the next street,” the Guv said. “I’ll buy us each a cup of tea, then we can take a couple of hansoms back to ‘A’ Division.”

  The last I saw of Barnaby, he was going by in a cab a few moments later, wagging his long tail and enjoying the ride.

  “So much for the canine squad,” Abberline quipped over his tea. “At least our boots are safe.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I was in the offices of Scotland Yard that after
noon, pinning photographs and sketches of the victims and suspects to a large cork board under the Guv’s direction, hoping we could come up with some conclusions we hadn’t found before. Barker was being, if not downright finicky, then exact.

  “No, no,” he said. “Take them all down and put up the large ordinance map of Whitechapel.”

  “Right,” I said, exercising the patience I was getting so good at.

  “Then put the photograph of each victim over the location where their bodies were found.”

  I took a handful of map pins and soon had all four photographs pinned in their locations.

  “Got it.”

  “What have you got in your hand?” Barker asked.

  “The photograph of Martha Tabrum, whose throat had been cut earlier this year.”

  “Is she a genuine victim of the Whitechapel Killer?”

  “I was waiting for you to tell me, sir. Some inspectors have speculated that he was practicing his craft, preparing for what would come later.”

  “Then why give up for six months after he’d had a taste of killing? It was successful, after all.”

  “If he was in fact the same killer as the one who slaughtered the other women. Then there’s the torso found in New Scotland Yard. To be frank, I didn’t know what to do with this sickening photograph.”

  “There’s no need to hang it, lad. It’s a different killer entirely and not in our jurisdiction.”

  “What do you mean?” I cried. “It happened right under our very nose.”

  “There are only two ways for the body to have been moved to the New Scotland Yard site: either it was carried in under the scrutiny of the guard, which I find difficult to believe, or it arrived by boat on the river. I believe that is a case for the Thames River Police. Scotland Yard will quibble, it being right in their own yard, but this is obviously a river case, since two of the missing limbs have been recovered there. I imagine the other missing limbs shall be found soon.”

  “And the head?”

  “No, not the head. It’s not difficult to bury a head, but a body is another matter. If the head is found, the victim could be identified and eventually tied to the killer. Of course, I’m speaking of a thinking criminal. If he is not, having disposed of a young woman for whatever foolish reason, he might have been equally foolish enough to throw the head into the Thames.”