Annie and the Ripper

by Tim Champlin

  He pulled up, out of breath. "I'm Inspector Abberline of Scotland Yard. What's the trouble?"

  "Constable Henry Lamb, Inspector," a man said at his elbow. "I was whistling for my partner up the street. Another murder, I'm afraid."

  Abberline felt as if someone had kicked him in the stomach. "Where? How long ago? Who found her?"

  "Over here. I've sent a man for the doctor, but I'm afraid there's nothing he can do."

  Abberline followed the inspector inside another fenced yard between two brick buildings. By the light of the constable's lantern, Abberline looked upon a sight that had become all too familiar--a woman on her back with her legs drawn up. Blood running between the cobblestones had begun to coagulate. Strangely, her face was placid, eyes closed.

  "My God, it's 'Long Liz' Stride! I just saw her in the Three Bells the other night. These women live on stolen time." His hand shook as he reached down and opened her fingers that still clutched something--a small packet of cachous, used to sweeten the breath. Her right hand was lying on her breast, smeared with blood. The long incision across her neck appeared to have been made from left to right—exactly as the others--indicating a right-handed attacker, whether she was facing him or away from him. There appeared to be no further mutilation.

  Just then, another man pushed his way in alongside. "I'm Doctor Blackwell," he said, taking the lantern and crouching closer.

  Abberline backed away. He'd seen all he wanted.

  "A man driving his rig into the yard found her when his horse shied, sir," the constable said without being asked. "Empty warehouse on that side, but there's the International Working Men's Educational Club," he said, indicating a structure with lights on in two windows. "I'm familiar with it. A Socialist meeting place. Mostly Polish and Russian Jews. They held a debate there earlier this evening. People coming and going. The killer didn't have much time."

  "I see," Abberline said, thinking that was why the victim hadn't been further mutilated.

  Anger and frustration. So near, yet so far. The Ripper was probably laughing at them right now—and from somewhere not too far away. Abberline wondered if the Ripper might have escaped by carriage—his own or an accomplice's. The police had already checked all the rental liveries within several square miles, and found no leads. All the cab drivers had also been questioned, to no avail. If afoot, he was likely still in the neighborhood. There were just too many streets and alleyways and courts in this congested section of the city to patrol them all. The entire police force of London would have to be assigned just to cover it.

  He gritted his teeth.

  He heard the clatter of shod hooves on cobblestones coming at a trot. A black Mariah passed a street lamp a block away. A few seconds later the driver reined to a halt and a constable stepped down from the box. "Is Chief Inspector Abberline here?

  "Yes. What is it?"

  "Come quickly, sir. There's been another murder a few blocks from here. Mitre Square."

  "Let's go."

  He followed the constable and they climbed in the back doors of the paddy wagon. The driver cracked his whip and they were off.

  "Another prostitute?"

  "Yes, sir. At least I believe she was."

  "How did you know where I was?"

  "When no one answered at your lodgings, we stopped at the Three Bells and asked."

  "You made good time. When did this happen?"

  "Barely a half-hour ago."

  "Damn! We're only one jump behind him!" He slapped his thigh. "What else can you tell me about it?"

  "Not much, sir. We set off to find you before we got all the details."

  The rhythmic clopping was the only sound as the rubber-rimmed wheels rolled silently. The two men sat facing each other in the darkness.

  The clopping slowed and the policeman on the box reined up. The two men stepped out the back door.

  Abberline glanced about. "Another perfect setting," he muttered. Moving pools of lantern light illuminated the legs of several men. A low murmur of conversation.

  "Who found her?" Abberline voiced his question to the knot of men.

  "Edward Watkins, sir," a voice spoke up. The man stepped forward. "City Police Constable. I was making my circuit at fifteen-minute intervals. I went through the square at 1:30 and it was deserted. When I returned at 1:44 precisely, I flashed my light into all the corners as I always do. Found the body right over there. Come and see." Watkins led the way to a spot where a corner was formed by a brick building and a wooden fence. "This cobbled court is about 25 square yards and is enclosed by warehouses. Lots of traffic through here by day, but it's deserted at night. The street light doesn't penetrate back into these darker corners."

  He flashed his bullseye lantern down at a rumpled pile of clothing that contained the mutilated body of a woman, lying on her back. Blood on her clothes and the stones. He turned away from the now-familiar sight.

  So the Ripper had done his grim work within fifteen minutes and gotten away without being seen.

  A man was crouched by the body, a small black bag beside him.

  "Police surgeon, F. Gordon Brown," the constable said in a low voice.

  Abberline stepped back and bumped into someone.

  "You got here quicker than I did," a familiar voice said.

  "Andrew, don't you ever sleep?" Abberline countered, turning to greet his old friend.

  "Will this grisly business never stop?" Doctor Llewellyn said as the two of them moved away to talk privately.

  "Two in one night, within a mile and less than an hour of each other," Abberline said. "And nobody saw or heard anything." He blew out a long breath. "Will you be doing the post mortem on this one?"

  "No. A jurisdictional matter. Mitre Square is just within the boundaries of the city. She'll be taken to the City Mortuary at Golden Lane."

  Policemen and spectators swarmed over the surrounding court and street, pools and beams of lantern light shining into corners, doorways and basement stepwells.

  One of the constables approached. "Chief Inspector, I found something in the stepwell you should see." He held a bloody rag in the lantern light. "It appears to have been cut from the victim's apron."

  "Likely used it to wipe his hands on as he was leaving," Abberline said. "I doubt he's anywhere around, but make sure to block off those stairs and question anyone up above."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Save it for evidence of course," he added thinking it wouldn't bring them any closer to identifying the killer.

  "Inspector Abberline! Over here!" Constable Watkins gestured and led the way through a brick archway. "Look at this." Watkins held up his light and Abberline saw a message chalked on the brick wall. He took out a notebook and a pencil and copied it down:

  The Juwes are the men That will not be blamed for Nothing

  "What does that mean?" the doctor asked.

  "I have no idea. Not even sure the killer wrote it."

  "I'd testify it wasn't there before dark, or I would have seen it," Constable Watkins said. "This is a mostly Jewish neighborhood, sir, so that writing couldn't have been there long, or the Jews would have wiped it off."

  "Yes."

  Abberline put his notebook in his pocket and the three men exited the enclosure in time to see the body of the latest victim being lifted onto a hand barrow. "Careful, lads: Don't get blood on yourselves."

  "Hold it. Hold it," an authoritative voice interrupted. The bearers of the body halted and set down the stretcher.

  Abberline recognized the voice and the commanding presence of Sir Charles Warren who'd come on the scene. It was the first time he'd been called to one of these murders.

  While someone held a light, Warren examined the woman. "Do you know her name?"

  "Not yet, sir, but she'll be identified."

  "Go ahead." The stretcher bearers started toward the hearse.

  Warren looked around and asked a couple of questions, then spotted Abberline. "Ah, Chief Inspector, you're here. What have you discover
ed about this?"

  "No more than you, sir. I just arrived myself from another attack only a few minutes walk from here."

  "I was informed the Ripper had committed another of his signature mutilations."

  "One of the policemen found this," Abberline continued, leading the Police Commissioner into the archway, and holding up the light by the brick wall.

  "Rather cryptic message," Warren said. "Made by this Ripper fellow, I assume."

  "We think it might be."

  "Is he blaming the Jews, or is he saying the Jews will be blamed because this killing was done in their neighborhood?"

  "It's anyone's guess, sir."

  "Guess? We can't be guessing. We must apply proper detective work and find this man!" His voice rose slightly at the end. He frowned at the crudely-formed letters, biting at his lower lip beneath the heavy mustache. "This is not good."

  Abberline looked at him, wondering what he was referring to.

  "Get someone to scrub this off," Warren said.

  "What? Sir, this is evidence. At least wait until a photographer can come and make an image of it."

  "No. Write it down, if you haven't already, but I want it off that wall."

  Abberline hesitated, looking sideways at Doctor Llewellyn. "I'm not sure I understand why you want it removed. Perhaps we could just drape a cover over it for now."

  "I want it off—now!" Warren snapped. "I don't want a riot on my hands. If word gets into the newspapers about this inscription, people will be up in arms and the Jews will be blamed. The killer might be a Jew, or a Pole or a Russian or a mad Englishman. But, until we know, I want this wiped off. We will not have any race riots, in addition to everything else we have to deal with."

  "I don't think that's a good idea, sir," Abberline persisted.

  "I'm not asking your advice; I'm giving you an order." There was a note of near hysteria in his voice.

  CHAPTER 7

  "You have it, sir!" Abberline boomed, channeling his anger into his voice. "Constable Watkins, wet a rag in that rain barrel and rub the writing off the wall."

  The constable cut a sharp glance toward Warren, but said, "Right away, sir."

  Abberline groaned inwardly as his order was carried out. Sir Charles Warren stayed to ensure the cryptic message was completely gone before he lit a cigar and strolled away without another word.

  "I'm not in the business of detection or law enforcement," Doctor Llewellyn remarked quietly. "But it seems only good sense to leave that message as possible evidence."

  Abberline shrugged, trying to calm himself. "He had his reasons, whether I agree with them or not."

  "Don't worry. You can tell me your real feelings," the doctor said.

  "It's almost criminal," Abberline said. "That action will have serious consequences when word gets out." He turned away from the now-blank brick wall. "What I'm more concerned about is Jack the Ripper getting away again. We're so close, I can smell the brimstone," he grated between clenched teeth.

  "No, what you smell is Warren's cigar," Doctor Llewellyn said.

  Abberline took a deep breath and willed himself to be calm. "Are you going to assist at either of the autopsies?"

  "I'll look in on both, but other doctors will do them. Come along if you like."

  "Let's walk. I need some cool night air. Doubt if we could find a Hansom this time of night."

  "You sure you want to walk these streets at two in the morning?"

  "I have my friend--and he's ready," Abberline answered, patting his lapel that hid the shoulder holster.

  "Let's go, then."

  "I'll stop by the Three Bells before they close and collect my topcoat."

  Forty minutes later, the two men were at the St. George's Mortuary. Before they entered, Abberline, out of long habit, filled his lungs with breathable, damp night air before he was forced to endure an atmosphere that reeked of formaldehyde, mold, urine and feces.

  Police surgeon F. Gordon Brown and his assistants were waiting for a photographer who was setting up his bulky camera on its tripod and preparing to make an official record of the mortal remains of 'Long Liz' Stride. Four plates were exposed in the brilliant explosions of flash powder in the hand-held tray. The burnt powder drove out the odor of the place and was welcomed by Abberline, even though the smoke stung his nostrils.

  "Now, doctor, if you'll remove one of her eyes…" the photographer said, moving his large camera closer to the table. "I want to backlight it for a closer shot."

  "Do what?" Surgeon Brown asked, shooting a sharp glance at the burly, bearded photographer. "You want me to excise her eyeball? Why?"

  "Commissioner Warren's orders."

  "Where is Sir Charles?" Doctor Brown asked. "I need to get clarification of this."

  The men in the room milled about for several seconds while someone was sent to the office to find him. Sir Charles came in and said, "Remove both eyes. Then a light will be placed behind them, and three photographs will be taken of the retinas. First the pupil will be illuminated, second, with the eyes illuminated as before, while the nerves are stimulated by an electric charge, and third, with the nerves stimulated, but with the eye not lit up."

  "And what, exactly, is that supposed to show?" Doctor Brown was becoming irritated.

  "Her retinas will retain the last image they saw, thus giving us a picture of her killer."

  "Sir Charles, that's a popular misconception; there's no scientific basis for it."

  "Have you ever seen it tried?" Warren snapped.

  "Well…no."

  "Then how do you know?"

  Doctor Brown was silent under this chastising by his superior.

  "We have a perfect opportunity to test it right now," Warren continued, apparently warming to his subject. "Her eyes were not damaged."

  "All right," Doctor Brown conceded. "You want me to remove both eyes?"

  "Yes."

  "And place them where?"

  "Position them upright on a table where I can get a strong light behind them."

  This took some doing, but the Liz Stride's eyeballs were finally in place. It was hoped by Charles Warren that these eyes, though they'd never see again, had retained at least their last image. The photographer and his assistant managed to make several exposures of them.

  "There's no means here to set up an electrical stimulation," Abberline said under his breath to Llewellyn as they observed from several feet away. The doctor motioned for Abberline to follow him, and headed for the door.

  When they were outside in the cool night air, Doctor Llewellyn said, "I assume the lack of an electric charge will be the reason given for that experiment not producing the desired result."

  "Sir Charles is becoming desperate," Abberline said. "Did you know that old belief came from something in a Jules Verne novel?"

  "Is that a fact?" the doctor said as they strolled away toward the City Mortuary. "Sounds good in theory, though, doesn't it?"

  The two men fell silent. The dark street was deserted and Abberline almost preferred the sound of their voices to the silence as they passed along the deep shadows of doorways and alleys and courtyards. "Jack the Ripper," he said aloud. "I visualize him squatting beside Death, warming his hands at its cozy fire, chuckling madly at our game of hide and seek."

  "I don't picture him at all," the doctor said. "To me, he's like a tornadic whirlwind that comes in the night, destroys and disappears. Who can capture a force like the wind? He's a disembodied spirit—the essence of evil."

  "Oh, he most certainly has a body, and I won't be satisfied until it's locked up for life in the loony bin, or stretched on a gibbet."

  "Sounds as if Jack the Ripper has become your very personal enemy."

  "I'm trying to retain a professional attitude about this, but it's more difficult each time I see one of the women I've known in life, murdered on the street."

  Llewellyn nodded. "Prostitutes think no one in decent society cares what happens to them. They have a fatalistic attitude as well. I
tried to warn one of them the other night about the dangers she faced."

  "What'd she say?"

  "Just shrugged. 'Oh, I know what you mean,' she said. 'I ain't afraid of him. It's the Ripper or the bridge with me. What's the odds?'"

  "Yes, most self-styled Christians disdain them. Yet, Christ welcomed sinners and ate with them. That was one thing the Pharisees and the elders held against Him."

  "Women of the streets are treated for injuries and diseases at charity wards and workhouse infirmaries," the doctor said. "For most of them, unfortunately, it's not a very long step between first aid and last rites."

  Dawn was graying the outlines of soot smudged buildings when, after a strenuous walk, they reached the City Mortuary.

  The night watchman admitted them and they entered the post mortem room, quietly, edging around a small clump of men to get a view of the autopsy.

  "Have they identified her yet?" Doctor Llewellyn asked one of the workers standing beside him.

  "Two of her friends said her name is Catherine Eddowes," the man replied.

  "Well, at least she's now a person and not just a nameless corpse," the doctor replied.

  The coroner looked up at the low voices in the room. "Ah, Doctor Llewellyn… Come closer, if you wish."

  Doctor Llewellyn moved up to the table.

  "Most extensive mutilations we've seen yet," Doctor George Bagster Phillips said, dictating as he spoke. He proceeded to detail her horrific injuries, while Abberline let his attention slip and tried not to overhear the doctors' conversation. "…odd placement appears to have been done by design, but I don't know why unless this was some sort of ritual." Doctor Phillips paused to allow the male stenographer to catch up with his dictated notes.

  "Her death was caused by massive blood loss…"

  Abberline tried to think of something pleasant—like Janelle Stafford.

  "… knife had at least a six-inch blade that was very sharp."

  Standing behind the small group, Abberline looked away from the body. He had not developed a physician's immunity to such things. His cup was already running over.