A Knife in the Fog

by Bradley Harper

  I recall my thoughts quite clearly at that moment: Surely Professor Bell would never agree to this; thus, I would be excused from taking it on myself, allowing me to walk away ten pounds richer without angering a powerful man. I had to suppress a smile while congratulating myself on my clever escape.

  “Agreed,” I said with false heartiness. “I shall telegram Professor Bell at once. As today is Saturday, I do not expect a response before tomorrow, or perhaps not until Monday. The lodgings are quite acceptable; I assume the daily stipend begins now?”

  “It does,” replied Wilkins.

  “Then I have a telegram to compose and bags to unpack. How shall I contact you when I receive the professor’s answer?”

  “The doorman of the club has three street Arabs he uses as couriers; he will ensure any messages for me are sent straight away. Mr. Gladstone prefers not to meet with you until this matter is concluded. Please understand, his enemies have already made far too much of his Christian charity toward these women over the years, and he does not desire to detract from the current investigation by drawing attention to you.”

  “Very well then,” I replied. “Expect my message within the next forty-eight hours.”

  Wilkins departed, and I applied myself to the wording of my telegram to Bell. I finally settled on the following:

  GREETINGS FROM LONDON STOP IMMEDIATE CONSULTING OPPORTUNITY THREE POUNDS PER DAY STOP UNABLE TO DISCLOSE DETAILS HERE BUT OPPORTUNITY TO SAVE SEVERAL LIVES AND SERVE JUSTICE STOP REPLY SOONEST WITH RESPONSE AND ARRIVAL TIME AND PLACE IF AGREED STOP DOYLE

  I felt as though I had been sufficiently faithful toward my potential new employer, and with a clear conscience I spent the remainder of the day walking through London’s buffet of sights and sounds. Although in later years I found the great metropolis wearisome, on that day I agreed with Doctor Samuel Johnson that when a man is tired of London he is tired of life. Thus it was with a light heart that I returned to the club in time for dinner, to be stopped at the door with a reply from Bell:

  INTRIGUED STOP MUST WIND DOWN MATTERS HERE STOP ARRIVING MONDAY THREE O’CLOCK KINGS CROSS STATION STOP BELL

  I read this several times, brief as it was. No matter how I analyzed it, there was only one possible explanation: Bell was coming. I was in for it now!

  I reluctantly sent a message to Wilkins that Bell had agreed, ate a dinner I do not recall in the slightest, and went to my room. Shortly before retiring I received Wilkins’s reply:

  Excellent! Will meet with you for breakfast at eight tomorrow to help you begin your investigation. J Wilkins.

  I feared I would have little appetite for whatever breakfast had to offer, and I spent a restless night pondering how fate and a single flight of fiction had led me to this moment.

  CHAPTER TWO

  FIRST IMPRESSIONS

  Sunday, September 23

  Breakfast with Wilkins the next day was enlightening. He was the kind of officious person who attach themselves to great men. They can be useful, such as a guide dog for a blind man, but make poor mealtime companions. I ate of the generous offerings, while Wilkins sipped tea and talked in what I was growing to realize was his usual efficient fashion.

  “Here is a note signed by Mr. Gladstone dated yesterday saying you are acting as his agent regarding the Whitechapel murders, and any information shared will be kept in strictest confidence. He trusts you will avoid notice by members of the press as to your, and by inference, Mr. Gladstone’s involvement in this matter.”

  I nodded my agreement.

  “As we await Professor Bell’s arrival, I suggest you meet with some people who will be useful to help you get your bearings, both geographically and as to the status of the investigations. As for geography, I have the address of a Miss Margaret Harkness. She has agreed to see you this afternoon for tea. She is one of the new breed of ‘emancipated women,’ a female author. She currently resides within Whitechapel to become familiar with the daily lives of the working poor portrayed in her novels.”

  Wilkins’s eyebrows lifted in mild distaste. “She lodges in a tenement building, living side by side with daily laborers who can afford only those meager lodgings. I have no familiarity with the East End personally, but after reading her most recent work, I believe she will make an acceptable guide. I met with her briefly yesterday, and I’ve contracted her services for a tour to familiarize you with the area. I strongly suggest you not wander about after dark in that neighborhood, at least not alone.”

  Wilkins saw my discomfort at the thought of visiting the residence of a single, unaccompanied woman, and a slight smile at the corner of his mouth betrayed amusement at my sense of propriety. He spoke before I could voice my objection, “She has a lodger and has reassured me this woman will be joining you for tea.”

  Such sensibilities seem quaint now, but I was very much a man of my era. The thought of being alone with a woman in her residence, other than my wife or family member, was unacceptable. The matter resolved, Wilkins continued.

  “The second person I suggest you see is Inspector Abberline from Section D, or the Criminal Investigation Department, as he is responsible for leading the pursuit within Whitechapel. He has been temporarily reassigned to Division H in the East End, due to his intimate knowledge of the area and contacts within the criminal class. He will be able to get you into the morgue and to see any crime scenes should, God forbid, there be additional murders.”

  “I’m impressed the police commissioner would invest such resources just to stop the murder of a few streetwalkers, no matter how brutal.”

  Wilkins shrugged. “There has been a recent influx of Jews from the Continent, and they have found a cold welcome in the East End. Some within Whitechapel, with no evidence to back their claim mind you, say a Jew must be responsible. The authorities fear large-scale riots in the East End if the murders continue.”

  Wilkins then handed me a sheet of paper torn from his notebook with the address of the Division H police station on Commercial Street within Whitechapel, and Miss Harkness’s residence on Vine Street. I glanced at the addresses briefly, then tucked the paper into my jacket as he continued.

  “I suggest you arrive at his office either very early or very late, for he will be on the streets most of the day. I doubt he is at home even today, but you may wish to wait until Professor Bell’s arrival to call upon him so that he may meet you both at one time.”

  “How may we stay in touch?” I asked. “I am very much in terra incognita here in London. Would a telegram suffice, or would you prefer more direct communication?”

  “You can correspond with me as before via the doorman here at the club. I will expect an update on your progress once a week, though any suggestions or requests for additional resources may be sent at any time.”

  He reached into his coat and produced a bulging sealskin wallet, declaring to me that Mr. Gladstone was either a very generous or very trusting employer, and with a satisfied air he counted out the remainder of my first week’s payment.

  “Here are twenty-six pounds, eleven pounds for you which, plus the ten pounds you have already received, totals twenty-one, and fifteen for Professor Bell. I shall pay you in advance each week on Saturday. That will allow a recurring face-to-face meeting to update me on the progress of your investigation. You may, of course, share your insights with Inspector Abberline, but anything you wish to send to higher authorities should be handled through me. I know best whose ear to whisper into while avoiding public attention. It is my raison d’etre as it were.”

  Mr. Wilkins was thorough, if not charming. After his summation, he provided me with his card, an elegant creamy pasteboard with the name J. Wilkins in filigreed gold lettering and an address in one of the poshest areas of London, which I assumed represented Mr. Gladstone’s residence.

  Wilkins advised me to present his card as needed to establish my bona fides in addition to the note, but to use them sparingly to limit the knowledge of Gladstone’s interest in this matter.

&nbs
p; I required nothing further from him at the moment, and he departed.

  I fear I did not give the most excellent kippers the full attention they deserved, for my mind was still attempting to grasp all that had happened within the past three days, beginning with a mysterious summons from a man thrice privileged to lead Her Majesty’s government.

  Frankly, I did not feel myself up to the task, but I have always possessed a robust curiosity, so I decided to give the investigation a week. If nothing else, I was already twenty-one pounds richer for the experience, and this firsthand exposure to police investigations could serve me well should I decide to pen any further crime stories. They were quite the rage at the time, and in truth such tales have never waned in their power to grasp the public’s fancy. It says much about human nature, I fear. None of it good.

  After composing a letter to my wife, Louise, informing her of my continued stay in London, I found myself some six hours before tea time, so I decided to explore my surroundings.

  I did not disregard Mr. Wilkins’s warning about wandering the Whitechapel neighborhood unaccompanied, but it was Sunday, the sun was out in full force, and I felt robust enough in spirit and appearance to offer no temptation to anyone intent on villainy. I enjoyed long walks and thought it time to merit my second helping of kippers. Apparently my earlier fear that this adventure would lessen my appetite had been unfounded.

  To describe the East End of that day to those born in this more genteel twentieth century is a daunting challenge. The year prior, in June of 1887, our nation had celebrated the fifty years our Glorious Monarch Queen Victoria had so magnificently occupied her throne. The sun never set on the British Empire, and the wealth of distant lands poured into our nation. Every British citizen saw prosperity as their inalienable right. The West End of London teemed with shops, comfortable establishments, and even more comfortable residents.

  The East End, by comparison, was the dumping ground for the poor and dispossessed. This area on the fringes of London and “polite” society contained upward of seventy-six thousand inhabitants. The population consisted of a mix of Irish and British poor, in addition to a recent substantial influx of Jews from Eastern Europe fleeing persecution in their homelands. There was much tension between the East End and the rest of London, exceeded only by the hostility the Irish and British poor showed toward their newly arrived Jewish neighbors.

  Among the various slums, Whitechapel was the worst, with the severest overcrowding and highest death rates. The 1891 census listed the population density of outlying communities at twenty-five people per acre, and the prosperous West End at fifty. Whitechapel had a density of eight hundred residents per acre. I will repeat that number so that the implications may be fully understood: eight hundred. The image brought to mind is of an enormous ant colony.

  This astonishing density of humanity was only possible because roughly half were children, and because of the packing of people into every conceivable space, often with up to eight people per room. Those with a steady if meager income could rent a corner of one room. Some lodging houses catered to those working irregular hours and charged by eight-hour increments. They proudly declared that the bed would still be warm from the previous occupant as an inducement to their potential customers to favor their establishment.

  Most of the inhabitants spent their nights in common lodging houses with varying rates. Eight pence procured a double or matrimonial bed, while four pence rented a single. For a tuppence one could be propped up against a wall, a rope run across the body to stay erect, and you slept as best you could. It was not uncommon to see an entire family dozing fitfully together like soldiers, derelict in their watch. Those who could not afford even these meager accommodations would spend their nights tramping the streets to keep warm, finally sleeping in doorways or stairwells when exhaustion overtook them.

  Obviously not all eight hundred people could be on the street at the same time. Still, I cannot fully describe the bedlam that ensued during the day when the majority of the residents were about, arguing over right-of-way, buying and selling, or going to and from work while sharing the streets with various horse-drawn conveyances. All in all, it made the undetected murders in the midst of this multitude that much harder to comprehend.

  Even before the arrival of the man subsequently called the Ripper, the consensus among the Metropolitan Police was that Whitechapel contained a level of vice and villainy unequaled in the British Isles. I am ashamed to say I saw poverty and human degradation on those streets that I did not know existed in my native land. Had I been taken blindfolded and then exposed to these scenes, I could have easily been convinced I was in Moscow or Krakow.

  Prostitutes abounded of every age, coloration, and language, yet all sharing the hollowed eyes of desperate souls. Public houses were open continuously, serving the vilest gin to any with a copper in their pocket. Alcohol was widely believed to offer some protection against venereal disease, and it was heavily consumed by the ladies of Whitechapel.

  I had set off with the intention of getting my geographic bearings regarding the hunting grounds of my adversary, but the emotional impact of human suffering on such a grand scale left me dazed.

  While the thought of tea was most welcome, to partake within the boundaries of this wretched community was decidedly unappealing. I gathered my resolve, however, and after a couple of wrong turns found myself before a dilapidated and foul-smelling tenement that matched the address of Miss Harkness on Vine Street.

  I took a deep breath. No turning back now. Time to meet my guide.

  CHAPTER THREE

  POCKETS

  Sunday, September 23, cont.

  I had no firm idea what kind of woman would willingly choose to live amid such squalor, but I envisioned a stern-faced spinster with thick pince-nez glasses; I was skeptical a lady of letters could be of any use to me in this environment. The best I could hope for was a detailed map and some history of the events surrounding the murders; I had no intention of burdening myself with the responsibility for her safety while traveling through the darkened alleyways and courtyards of Whitechapel.

  There were no postal boxes or names in the entryway, so I trudged up the dark and slippery stairs to the third floor and knocked on an unassuming door that corresponded with the address 3A.

  “One moment,” said a muted voice on the other side. I heard the rattle of a bolt, and an eye peered through the slit allowed by a heavy chain. “Who is it?” asked the same voice, now clearer.

  “Doctor Doyle,” I replied.

  The door closed, the chain rattled, and the door reopened. The back of a slender figure proceeded ahead of me into the soft light and, without pausing, instructed me to secure the portal behind me.

  I fastened the door nervously, unsure of my reception or of who was receiving me, and entered a small and dimly lit sitting room. On the far side, if a room so small can have a “far” side, a woman sat quietly. She could have been anywhere from thirty to sixty-five, the marks upon her face revealing a life of hardship. She held a yellowish, stained rag over her mouth and a partially knitted sock and her needles in her lap. Beside her stood a slender young man of average height, dressed in working man’s clothing, and wearing a battered bowler hat. The woman looked at me with mild interest, but the young man’s piercing gaze apparently found the stout gentleman before him rather amusing, while I perceived him to be quite rude.

  “Pardon my interruption,” I said, doing my best to appear calm, “but I understand a young woman named Margaret Harkness lives here. She was expecting me.”

  “Quite so,” replied the young man. “I am she.”

  My reaction must have been what she was expecting, given the smirk on her face. Nowadays a woman dressed as a man would cause others to stare, but at the time it was scandalous.

  “Forgive my bit of fun, Doctor Doyle,” she began, “but my work often requires me to travel these streets at night and alone. I have found that dressed as a man, I can move about unnoticed, thus mo
re safely. Do not be embarrassed by your reaction. I am quite accustomed to it when men first meet me ‘undressed,’ by which I mean not traditionally attired.”

  My face must have been quite scarlet by this time, yet she was not the least bothered by my embarrassment. To move our conversation forward and not linger on my discomfort, I turned to the woman beside her.

  “And you, madam, you h-have the advantage of me,” I managed to stammer. The woman nodded slowly, lowered the rag from her face, and grimaced a smile, revealing a festering wound on her right jaw.

  “Molly,” she replied slowly, taking care to articulate each syllable.

  “Miss Jones is my lodger, my touchstone, and friend,” replied Miss Harkness. “She listens to my writing and tells me if it rings true. I in turn grant her a safe place to sleep and a fair share of my meager meals. She worked in the match factories until she developed phossy jaw. We met during the Matchgirls’ Strike in July of this year.”

  Miss Harkness and her lodger exchanged glances before continuing.

  “I cannot afford the surgery required to excise the rotting bone within her jaw, but I can give her shelter and friendship. This is the world you have entered, Doctor Doyle, and I am to be your guide within it.”

  She smiled at me, and I wondered if she was having similar thoughts toward me such as I had when I imagined her as a middle-aged spinster in need of my constant protection.

  “I am a writer, sir, as I understand you are,” Miss Harkness continued. Perhaps you have heard of my most recent novel, Out of Work, or my work published last year, A City Girl?”

  I shook my head, still astounded to find myself casually conversing with a woman attired as a man, as though it were in no way out of the ordinary.

  “You are in the majority,” she shrugged. “To expand my circle of readers, I have published my last two works under the nom de plume John Law. It seems most men feel either threatened, contemptuous, or both when confronted by a capable woman with strong opinions. For the most part, I make my living as a journalist, paid piecemeal by various newspapers for reporting on happenings here in the East End, as no ‘respectable’ journalist dares come here. Indeed, there are some streets within Whitechapel even police officers fear to tread if less than four in number, while I, in my poor attire, pass ghostlike among them.