by Chris James
‘I agree. Let’s first speculate they were killed near the river, Charlie,’ said Neville. ‘Apply some science to the investigation. How far would that first body have travelled in the tides?’
‘Discovered at midnight. Pathologist estimates six hours in the water.’ Morgan referred to the tables by the chart. ‘The tide was three hours after high water. So…’ he ran his finger from a cross between Blackfriars and Tower Bridge. ‘She would have drifted downstream for three hours or so, and upstream for three hours, all the way back to where she was dropped in. So not far from where she was found, is my guess. Someone hoping she’d end up miles away under Southend pier wouldn’t have known the tides. My guess is she was put in the water around…’ Morgan placed his finger on Blackfriars Bridge, ‘here.’
‘Now the other one. Only four hours in the water, a week later,’ said Neville.
Morgan used a pair of callipers to step off tidal streams. ‘Found at Chiswick. Working backwards, according to the tides, downstream from Chiswick, to Wapping, then upstream to…’ the finger on Blackfriars Bridge again. ‘Blimey,’ Charlie Morgan remarked. ‘Right on the button. Might be something to go on, George.’
‘I need to be certain. Could you confirm all this with live demonstrations, Charlie?’
‘What, throw something in about the same weight, and see where it arrives?’ Neville nodded. ‘We’d have to wait over three weeks, for the same state of the tide. Lunar cycles, you see?’
‘But I can’t wait for the bloody moon.’ Neville looked out of the window again. ‘Odds are, you’re not far out, since we have two bodies pointing in the same direction. And the prime suspect is apparently an artist in the city. Blackfriars, may be near enough.’ He turned back to the river chart. ‘Our killer wouldn’t risk being discovered. By all accounts it was broad daylight when they were shoved in the water. He wouldn’t have risked doing that in the open. He had to be secreted somewhere away from prying eyes.’
‘I’m guessing it won’t be someone working on the river. They would know the tides only too well and wouldn’t want a body snagged on their own anchor chain the next day,’ Morgan offered.
‘Charlie, get your river patrols to mark every property on this chart, say a mile either side of Blackfriars Bridge, that has direct access to the river. We’ll then go house-to-house based on what you report.’
‘Looking for…?’
‘Artists first. Artists or sculptors, those kind of people. But doctors, butchers, mortuary attendants, and anatomy students, should all be included. Pathologist said both heads were severed professionally, not just hacked off. It’s as though they needed to preserve them for some purpose. So anyone who uses a sharp knife for their work with a knowledge of anatomy or muscle structure.’
‘Taxidermist?’
‘There’s a thing. Well done. Charlie. We’ll add those to the list. Wouldn’t come across many of them on a day’s march, eh?’ He tapped on Blackfriars Bridge on the chart again. ‘But I feel we’re getting somewhere.’
Inspector Morgan left Neville pondering over the photographs of the two headless bodies. He pulled a bell pull and an assistant arrived to take notes. Neville ordered one hundred copies of the unsold daily papers, since they were free, containing the circulated photographs of the three missing girls, Polly, Letty and Nora. Neville had been reprimanded by his superintendent for circulating missing girls so soon after their disappearance, asking for the public’s assistance, claiming it was irresponsible as the public would now expect this in every case and they would be inundated. Inspector Neville argued that at least two of these three were dead missing girls and that was an exception. And he desperately needed to find the third girl before she too, ended up in the river without her head. The superintendent was not satisfied, and would not be unless a murderer was soon apprehended, he told Neville. Neville took it all in his stride, ignoring the superintendent. He then dictated a report for the duty sergeant, instructions to all divisions each side of the river to provide every uniformed officer with a copy of the photographs and begin asking all their contacts, shop and innkeepers, brothel madams and ticket touts if they knew of the girls, their contacts, and in particular, of course, of an artist painting their portraits. Another order informed detectives to begin seeking out art galleries in all of central London and asking if they had seen portraits of any of the girls. It was a long shot, so soon after their murder. But Neville survived on long shots. Until his river patrols reported back to him, in a day or two, he decided he wouldn’t start house-to-house – for fear of warning the perpetrator before he had enough evidence.
At 10.15am the following morning, on the twenty-eighth of September, 1894, Constable Basil Bennett left the Savoy kitchens where he had dropped in for his usual cup of char and hot garibaldi biscuits straight from the oven, compliments of the head chef, strolled up Savoy Street and turned into the Strand. A small group of people blocked the pavement outside an art gallery, voicing their disgust at some of the art on show in the window. One woman turned and vomited into the gutter, apologising to the officer and demanding he arrest the gallery owner instantly for indecency and disturbing the peace.
‘The gels with the masks,’ Constable Bennett asked Jean-Louis inside the gallery.
‘Masquerade, Leticia and Isadora, constable. They appeal?’ Jean-Louis asked.
Bennett laughed. ‘Take somethink like that home and my misus’d thrash me with the yard broom, that’s for certain. No thanks. It’s the freckled gel, caught my attention. What’s the gel’s name, d’you know?’
‘Isadora. Why d’you ask? Know the girl perhaps?’
‘Who is she, where’s she from?’
‘You’d have to ask the artist that, my friend. Here, I’ll give you his card,’ Jean-Louis said, taking a business card from inside a folder.
‘Jacob Silver,’ the constable read out loud. ‘Victoria Embankment, Blackfriars? That where I’ll find him?’
‘Yes, he has a studio there, above the apothecary’s.’
‘And the other gel, she ’ave a name?’
‘Leticia. Beautiful isn’t she? How much would you pay to wake up against that body every morning, constable?’
‘I’d pay a bit more if they had their ’eads,’ Bennett said, but he wasn’t laughing.
‘Fashionable horror, constable. It’s the in thing. Tell all your friends, won’t you? These won’t hang around for long. They’ll have to be quick about it. Tell them that, will you?’
‘Rest assured, I shall, Mr St Clair. Be very sure of that. I’ve a feeling they’ll be finding these gels quite an attraction, right away.’
‘One has freckles and the other’s name is Leticia. A third one’s named Penelope but I didn’t see her picture, he’s sold it. Bet your life that’s them, guv,’ Constable Bennett said to Detective Inspector Neville, pointing at the three missing girls’ pictures cut from the daily papers.
‘Jacob Silver, Portrait Artist, 72 Victoria Embankment,’ Inspector Neville read off the business card. ‘Well done Bennett. I’ll see you get a mention.’ He patted Bennett on the back, ‘Good work. Who’s the duty sergeant?’
‘That’ll be Sergeant Beck, sir. Frank Beck.’
‘Ask him to join us would you?’
Uniformed Sergeant Beck was as excited as Constable Bennett when he joined Scotland Yard’s finest detectives in the parade room at Charing Cross police station in Agar Street, less than a half mile from the Savoy. Within minutes of Constable Bennett’s report from the gallery, Inspector Neville had ordered his strongest team to Charing Cross. They would set up shop and run the murder enquiry from there – away from his nagging superintendent. Seldom excited, Neville found the blood rising in his veins at the thought of closing in on this one – an early arrest was imminent, he was sure.
‘Message from the River Police, sir, Inspector Morgan.’ Sergeant Beck said after entering and saluting his senior officer, passing Inspector Neville a folded note.
‘Thank you, sergeant,�
� Neville said reading the note and putting it in his pocket. ‘Got him!’ Curiosity covered the faces looking at him. ‘Number 72 Victoria Embankment has access to the water,’ Neville called out. He signalled his officers to sit while he sat on the edge of the table to address them. ‘With any luck he’ll not be on City’s patch. If he is just over the line, we’ll go in anyway and serve him up on a plate to those taller chaps in their big hats – after I get a confession.’
Everybody laughed.
‘If it’s the house I think it is, inspector, I’ve been there before,’ Sergeant Beck said. ‘An apothecary named Silver was preserved in a bathtub after he kicked the bucket. His old woman got life for carrying on the business. Killed a few patients, she did. Place lies about twenty yards on our side of the boundary.’
‘Great news, Frank. Thank you. The more I hear of our painter friend, the more I fancy him for the rope.’
Frank Beck thrust out his chest, proud to be of assistance in the case and on first name terms with the notorious inspector.
And in case Inspector Neville was in any doubt, Constable Owen Williams, of What’s your game, mister? fame, called in to describe what he had seen above the apothecary’s shop: the actress and the painter.
‘I’ve just come back off leave,’ PC Williams said, ‘saw all the commotion. But they said they was playing, when I caught them at it.’
Now fully aware the prime suspect was based on their patch, Neville turned to address his team.
‘This is how we’ll handle it, gentlemen.’
The Trial: Day 5
‘…And nothing but the truth. Detective Inspector George Neville, Metropolitan Police, Scotland Yard, sir.’
‘Inspector Neville, please would you describe to the court the events leading to Jacob Silver being detained,’ Mr Ponsonby began.
Inspector Neville was extremely handsome and dressed as a true gentleman, not at all as I would have expected. His high starched collar and silk tie tucked into a waistcoat in his pinstriped suit – he might have been a model for Saville Row or Harpers and Queen. Clean shaven, his hair oiled and flat, I noticed more than one fan flutter at nineteen to the dozen amongst the women in the gallery, along with my own. He pulled a notebook from his inside pocket – but his appeared bound in red leather as against the poorer sergeant’s in grey cardboard.
‘Acting on information received,’ he began.
‘My lord, I must object!’ Mr Ecclestone shouted, jumping to his feet.
‘Now what?’ said Mr Ponsonby, sitting.
‘Yes, now what, Mr Ecclestone? The witness hasn’t got to any point yet, has he?’ his lordship enquired. ‘Or did I miss something?’
Mr Ponsonby smirked, I noticed.
After requesting the court be cleared and both the jury and accused were removed, Mr Ecclestone proceeded. ‘My lord, acting on information received. He implies someone called and said: There’s a murderer at number 72, go and get him. Had he had such information? No. Does the jury think he had such information? Maybe. I therefore ask that the officer rephrase his opening remarks and choose something less inflammatory.’ Having said his bit, Mr Ecclestone stood waiting for a response, but the judge had another approach and began questioning the inspector himself.
‘Inspector… Neville,’ the judge said, referring to his notes. ‘You acted on information and went to visit the accused, is that correct?’
‘Yes, my lord,’ answered Inspector Neville.
‘The information didn’t say go there, did it?’ The inspector agreed, it did not. ‘What was the nature of that information?’ the judge continued.
Messrs Ecclestone and Ponsonby raised eyebrows to each other, appearing to presume neither counsel was required in the case any longer. To the amusement of their junior counsel, they both sat with their backs to the judge and let him get on with it.
‘Investigations revealed that the accused had painted three headless women – and two of those women were found headless in the river, my lord.’ Succinct. To the point. Damning enough for Jacob, I was sure.
‘Mr Ecclestone, do you have any questions before I declare my findings and call back the jury?’ the judge asked the defender.
‘M’lud, I submit that the inspector’s opening remarks are inflammatory and mislead the jury. It rings of tip-off. The jury will assume the police knew he did it, never mind what he says etcetera, etcetera. I would prefer he simply said he called on the accused during the course of his investigation. That is all I ask, m’lud.’
‘Not too much to ask, Mr Ponsonby?’ the judge said, raising his spectacles and addressing the still-seated prosecutor.
Mr Ponsonby rose only halfway to his feet. ‘Anything for a quiet life, m’lud’ he said, sarcastically, flopping back down again.
‘Now, now, Mr Ponsonby. Anything for a fair trial, I think you mean?’
‘As it pleases, m’lud.’ Mr Ponsonby was obviously finding the whole thing tedious.
‘It pleases, indeed, gentlemen,’ the judge remarked before leaning over to the clerk and ordering the jury return and the accused be brought up. A full half hour wasted, the inspector began again.
‘As a result of enquiries I called at the accused’s home and place of business, Number 72, Victoria Embankment, in Blackfriars on Friday, the twenty-eighth of September, this year, 1894. Outside I met a Miss Rebecca Muxlow trying to obtain entry to those premises. She was carrying a portrait. I asked to see the portrait and now produce it to the court,’ the inspector said, looking up at Mr Ponsonby for direction.
Mr Ponsonby leaned back to junior counsel and a portrait was produced. An usher placed it on an easel at an angle so that the jury and most of us in the gallery could see it. Next to it were two other vacant easels. ‘Exhibit 14, my lord,’ Mr Ponsonby announced and continued directing the inspector. ‘Did you recognise the lady in the portrait, inspector?’
‘The pink polka dot dress on her lap appeared familiar, and after careful consideration, although her face is depicted in an horrific manner, I thought the girl closely resembled a Miss Polly Daniels, a missing girl who had such a dress. On the back of the painting,’ Mr Ponsonby obliged, turning the portrait around for all to see, ‘I noticed the title of the work: Masquerade ~ Penelope, sir.’
‘Was the painting signed by the artist?’
‘Yes. Jacob Silver, sir.’
‘And why did this painting interest you, inspector?’
‘The painting was one of a set of three, I learned, taken into The Strand Gallery by Jacob Silver, featuring headless women. And headless women were being found floating in the River Thames. I produce the other two paintings: Masquerade Leticia and Isadora, sir.’
Mr Ponsonby guided two ushers to raise the two paintings onto the vacant easels alongside Penelope, in full view of the jury, and entered them into evidence. ‘Exhibits 15 and 16, m’lud.’ Turning to the inspector again, Mr Ponsonby said, ‘Penelope, Leticia and Isadora. All of interest, inspector?’
‘The three missing girls, Polly, Letty and Nora, were all known to one another and all had posed for a city gent, sir. Two of the girls’ bodies, Polly’s and Letty’s, turned up headless in the River Thames, like their portraits. Both had been identified.’
‘And the third body, inspector?’
‘Whilst outside the closed apothecaries shop on Victoria Embankment, shortly after Miss Muxlow gave us her painting to help with investigations, a constable arrived from the River Police and I learned a third woman’s body had been found in the river – without a head. It was later identified as the third missing girl, Nora.
‘The accused arrived at the apothecary’s in a carriage, a few moments later. Myself and five other officers were present. He was in a frantic condition, demanding to speak to Miss Muxlow. I heard him say to her: “Thank God you are safe.” ’
‘Safe from what, inspector? Did you hear?’ Mr Ponsonby asked.
‘No, not then, but the accused would soon explain. But before he could, there were further developments ou
tside his house. A group of women came seeking vengeance and the accused asked to be taken into protective custody without further ado.’
Chapter 18
I returned home in high spirits after leaving Rebecca at the gallery.
‘One hundred guineas,’ I announced to the professor and Betsy at the dinner table. ‘For the last three Emily’s.’
‘One hundred guineas for three, master?’ Betsy said, aghast. ‘They giving them away now?’ she asked as she served a mutton stew.
‘And you’ll never guess who from,’ I said.
‘Someone who recognised your talent, Master Jacob?’ the professor asked, slurping the broth noisily.
‘Three guesses,’ I joked.
‘The Queen?’ the professor offered, with a mouthful of food.
‘No. But it might have been,’ I teased.
‘Not the Prince of Wales, master? Surely not?’ Betsy said.
I laughed. ‘Give in?’ I said to their questioning faces. They nodded.
‘Rebecca Muxlow!’ I blurted out and the professor nearly choked to death.
‘Emily’s sister?’ Betsy asked, patting the professor hard on his back.
‘Emily’s dear sister!’ I rejoiced. ‘Can you believe how happy I was to see her?’
Betsy and the professor stared at one another dumbfounded.
‘What does that bit–’ the professor began, heatedly.
‘Come to see how her old love is getting along, I spect,’ Betsy interrupted, restraining the professor by gripping his arm.
‘She wants me to paint her. And nothing will give me more pleasure.’
‘You…’ the professor hesitated, ‘You spoke of Emily?’
