Another came within my reach and attempted a feint with his right fist, then lashed out with a kick. His hips gave him away, however, and I staggered him back with a well-aimed blow to his right ear. I could not subtract him from the total, though he moved further back. He would not be quick to resume the attack.
I do not know how much longer we could have kept at this without one of them getting through our defenses, when the toughs and I jumped at the sharp report of a pistol. Margaret held her derringer aloft, smoke curling from its tiny barrel.
“I have one bullet left. Who wants it?” She said, as though discussing the remains of a meal.
Our adversaries looked at one another, perhaps considering whom they would volunteer, when police whistles sounded from the direction of the Spitalfields police station, three streets away.
Our enemy ceded us the field, gathered up their injured fellows, and ran or staggered as best they could away from the approaching constabulary.
I turned to my comrades and was relieved to see that none of us, including the cobbler still clutching his boots, appeared injured.
While violence was common in the East End, gunfire apparently was not, for a squad of six panting constables quickly arrived, accompanied by an inspector in a loud checked suit. Bell briefly related our encounter and the reason for the gunshot.
The inspector, who I subsequently learned was named Thicke, nodded when Bell mentioned the name “Tommy.”
“Aye, I know the lad, and the pack that follows him.” Turning to the cobbler, who had yet to speak a word, he asked, “Would you be willing to testify, Mister Rubenstein?”
“Yes, Sergeant, of course. They must learn a better way. I am happy to help if I can.”
The inspector tugged his flat cap, then, leaving a bobby to accompany us to the station, went off with the remaining members of his band to begin Tommy and his mates’ instruction.
Mister Rubenstein turned to us and, bowing slightly, said, “David Rubenstein. I am in your debt.”
I introduced the three of us. “We were on our way to the station in any event,” I said. “I am sorry you must be delayed by this incident, and also have to go to the station.”
Mister Rubenstein smiled, color returning to his face, and said, “How odd, as I was also on my way to the station. I have a loyal customer there, and I am the only person he entrusts with his boots.”
“It’s a small world we live in, Mister Rubenstein,” Bell said. “So small, in fact, I believe I know whose boots those are.”
“How could you possibly know this?” the cobbler asked. “I didn’t mention his name.”
“Consider. The boots are well-made, calfskin in fact, therefore expensive, but have seen heavy use. Am I correct that this is not the first time they have been resoled?”
“Correct,” confirmed the cobbler, more confused than ever.
“Then from what I see of their use and quality I can deduce that these belong to an inspector whose salary allows some small indulgences, yet earns his pay by the energetic execution of his duties. Given their size, I nominate Inspector George Abberline as the demanding owner of this footwear. Am I correct?”
The cobbler’s eyes were now as wide as when I first saw him, fleeing a gang of hooligans. “Yes, Professor. You are as apt with your mind as you are with your cane.”
Bell nodded, smiling at the cobbler’s kind words, and we set off once more toward the station. It was time to return our attention to the single-headed monster . . . Leather Apron.
The constable took us to a back office where we gave our accounts of the assault in the street, then the four of us found ourselves before the stolid desk sergeant of the day before.
He glanced up at us with a resigned sigh, and before we spoke announced, “Ah yes, Drs. Doyle and Bell. Inspector Abberline is expecting you, and you as well, Mister Rubenstein. Go straight back; you know the way. You Miss, please take a seat over there,” pointing to some benches by the entrance.
Miss Harkness gave me a long sideways glance, then straightened her shoulders and sat where the sergeant had indicated. She surprised me by pulling some knitting out of her bag, then began to work studiously on an unrecognizable article of clothing.
I thought to myself that after her demonstrated abilities with her derringer, I would have been less surprised if she had produced a Scottish dirk. The woman was unlike anyone I had ever met.
Or ever would.
CHAPTER TEN
FACES OF DEATH
Tuesday, September 25, cont.
Inspector Abberline, enveloped in a dense cloud of tobacco smoke, was in the midst of composing a report for his more comfortable colleagues in Whitehall. He smiled broadly, however, when he saw the cobbler with his repaired boots.
“Mister Rubenstein! I’m right glad to see you intact. I would have felt terrible if you’d gone to grief on account of my boots.
“As for you two,” he said, turning to Bell and myself, “We didn’t start off on the best foot, but right now I’d make you both honorary constables.”
Abberline accepted his footwear with reverence and, with a look of utter bliss, replaced some battered brogans with the calfskin boots the cobbler had guarded with his life. “Thank you, Mister Rubenstein,” he said. “Better than new.”
The cobbler smiled, obviously pleased at his customer’s reaction. “A good walk requires good shoes. I sleep better at night, knowing you’re on the street. And oh, I wouldn’t make them honorary constables, Inspector. They and their lady companion handle themselves well in a fight. You should put them on the force! Good day, sir.” And with that the cobbler bowed slightly and made his way out with his head held high, glowing from the inspector’s joy at his craftsmanship.
As I watched Mister Rubenstein depart, I considered that he walked with as much grace as any head of state. It occurred to me that, ultimately, dignity was not a product of social station; it was a gift available to anyone, but one that only we could bestow upon ourselves.
The inspector then turned to the business at hand, and pointed with his pipe to a thick manila envelope on one corner of his desk.
“I have the photographs of the two latest murders here, gentlemen,” he said. “Take as long as you like, but nothing leaves this room. If you have any questions, feel free to ask them at any time. Any respite from this clerical duty is most welcome.”
I pulled out a stack of well-executed photographs consisting of two bundles, each held together with a paper clasp and a small piece of paper attesting to the date and murder victim’s name. As a photography enthusiast myself, I was impressed with the technical expertise of the photographer and the lighting of the bodies. Turning to the top bundle, I read the paper note: M Nichols, Aug 31, 1888.
“I didn’t know it was customary in London to take photographs of murder victims,” Professor Bell commented. “They should be extremely helpful.”
Abberline looked up and gave a grimace that may have been intended as a smile. “We only began this past year, Professor. We have no staff photographer as yet, but pay commercial photographers for the service. It ensures the latest equipment is available to us, but sadly it is also a source for additional images sold to the press.”
The body was washed and posed so the injuries were clearly evident. The camera seemed about six feet away, though close-ups of the more severe wounds were from about half that distance.
Bell peered closely and noted, “Look at the throat, Doyle. One forceful incision did this. Often with suicides who slash their wrists, you see multiple incisions of varying depth, what we call ‘hesitation marks,’ as the person works up their nerve to make the fatal cut. No hesitation here. The initial wound was sufficient such that none other was required.”
I was impressed, if that is the right word, with the decisiveness of the throat wound. The larynx and major vessels were clearly exposed by the incision. A cadaver in an anatomic theater could not have had its vital structures more clearly displayed.
“The
loss of blood was so immediate, her ability to resist would have been completely neutralized,” Bell continued. “The severing of her larynx made her incapable of crying out. This man knew what he was about; when you consider he did this in the midst of a city with people sleeping nearby, his nerve is faultless.”
He looked up at Inspector Abberline and mildly inquired, “I note the pictures are all of the body after it was thoroughly washed. It would be instructive to see photographs taken at the site of the murder before the body was moved, as well as images of her clothing. I am familiar with the protocols of the Edinburgh police, and they routinely examine clothing and corpses in the condition they are found before being cleansed.”
Abberline flinched at this, and I thought the mention of the Edinburgh police was impolitic given our tenuous status in the investigation.
With a sigh he replied, “Good police protocol, wherever you are, Professor. The body arrived at the morgue before the police surgeon. Two paupers who are paid to tend the bodies washed her corpse and disposed of her clothing before they were examined, in direct violation of the orders by the senior inspector on the scene.”
“Yet I see that the second body is also undressed and washed,” Bell observed.
Abberline grimaced and said with an edge of irritation in his voice, “That would be Miss Chapman. When her body arrived at the morgue, Inspector Chandler saw that Robert Mann, one of the two who had washed Annie Nichols, was waiting to receive the body. Chandler ordered Mann’s removal and left strict instructions the body was to remain undisturbed until both Chandler and Doctor Phillips had examined the corpse and clothing.”
Abberline’s irritation at Bell’s comments made me nervous, fearing Bell’s observations might spur the inspector to end our collaboration before it had fully begun, but before I could redirect the conversation, Abberline continued.
“Despite his efforts however, when Chandler later returned he discovered that two nurses acting on instructions of the clerk of the morgue had already washed the remains. If there is another murder, and I have every reason to expect one, I shall have a police constable posted beside the corpse from the moment of discovery until the postmortem is complete.”
Bell nodded with sympathy, implying that he too, had dealt with bureaucracy and all its faults. He resumed his scrutiny of the photographs, saying nothing more until he completed his examination.
Turning to me, he gestured with his free hand toward the close-up image of Chapman’s neck injury. “Again, you will note a single deliberate stroke. There is some tearing of the skin along the edges that could imply the knife was not as sharp as it could have been, or that she was turning her head as he made the incision. I suspect the tearing is due to movement, however, for when you note the abdominal incisions,” at which point he picked up an adjacent image of the abdomen, “no tearing here. I doubt he would use more than one knife. Also, note that the uterus was neatly excised with no tearing of the adjacent viscera.”
I peered closely at the photograph in Bell’s hand. “It appears he knew exactly what he was looking for,” I said. “and how to reach it. The first victim was disemboweled—any hunter or butcher’s apprentice would be capable of that feat—but an exact dissection to a single structure in the brief time available tells me this man has a strong familiarity with human anatomy.”
Bell nodded at my insight, and I was encouraged by his agreement. Bell was ever the professor, and I would always be the student, but it appeared I was still a capable one.
“So, gentlemen,” Abberline asked, “What can you tell me that I don’t already know?”
“The killer has killed before, I am certain,” Bell declared. “There are no wild or unnecessary strokes. He kills with rapid precision, then dissects his victim without wasted motion. He hates women, or streetwalkers at the very least, as he is willing to risk discovery by taking the additional time required to remove their organs. I would enquire with your colleagues throughout Britain, Inspector, as well as other countries if possible, to discover if they have had cases similar to these murders. He did not acquire these skills suddenly.”
Abberline noted Bell’s observations into a small black notebook while maintaining a grim expression, not looking the least encouraged by the professor’s insights.
“I suspect you are right about him being no novice, Professor, but there are no means I know of to ask around unless I am willing to telegraph or write to every police superintendent in the Commonwealth. I can only hope someone may read of our troubles and, if it reminds them of previous murders, they will contact us.”
“I think,” Bell said, “we have gleaned all we may from this evidence, Inspector. Unless you have any other issues to discuss with us, we’ll depart to rejoin our companion and determine our next step.”
At the mention of a “companion,” Abberline raised his eyebrows and frowned. “What’s this then?” he asked. “I will repeat myself, gentlemen, if any of the information we share with you appears in the press, and I determine you to be the source, I shall terminate our arrangement immediately!”
“Please sir,” I responded. “Our companion is a lady who is serving as our guide within the East End. She was the woman Mr. Rubenstein referred to when he spoke of our encounter. I take full responsibility for her discretion.”
“Very well,” the inspector replied. “You know where I stand. Don’t make me regret my decision. Let me know if you develop any additional insights into our killer. I have your address; if anything new develops, I’ll send a constable round.”
We took our leave, and at the entrance I spied Miss Harkness knitting as though she hadn’t a care in the world. I felt a duty to share what we had seen, and what Bell had deduced, but was reluctant to do so there, still feeling the glare of Inspector Abberline.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I ACQUIRE A NEW NAME
Tuesday, September 25, cont.
Returning to her cramped tenement was unappealing, so we settled on the Ten Bells, a nearby pub, and where the late Annie Chapman probably had her last drink. Although midday, it was well attended. Fortunately most patrons contented themselves at the rail or nearby tables. I was relieved to find they served something besides gin, so I ordered three ales, and we went to a table in a far corner.
Miss Harkness was bursting with curiosity. We had no sooner received our drinks than she sought to satisfy it.
“What did you see and, more importantly, what did you make of it?” she demanded.
“Before we can share anything, Miss Harkness,” I began, “I must have your pledge of complete confidentiality. I do not doubt your character, but you are a journalist, and Inspector Abberline has forbidden us from sharing any details of the investigation with members of the press.”
I saw a glint of anger in her eyes and color in her cheeks, the latter oddly pleasing to me. Then she relented, the color passing as quickly as it came.
“You have my word,” she said. “I pledge not to divulge anything I learn, but consider myself released once this affair is complete and the killer either captured or the investigation concluded. Will that do?”
I agreed, distracted for the moment, the image of her flushed face fading more slowly than the color itself, and nodded to the professor to proceed.
Bell, in his detached, clinical manner, described the images we’d reviewed. In an anatomical theater surrounded by colleagues, I would have thought nothing of it. Inside a public house in a disreputable part of London with this young woman as our table companion, it struck me as surpassing odd.
Miss Harkness seemed unaffected by the hideous nature of the injuries, but quite indignant at the careless manner by which the bodies had been cleansed of potentially vital clues.
“Shameful,” she muttered as she shook her head, while Bell, his eyes glowing as he re-visualized the corpses’ injuries, nodded his agreement.
When he had completed his descriptions, she leveled her gaze at him and asked, “And now the most crucial part. The reaso
n you are here, sir. What can you deduce from all this?”
Bell thought for a moment, fumbled for his pipe, and as he absently placed it unlit into his mouth, began to speak slowly and deliberately. “A man. I am sure we are dealing with a man, though I agree with your observation that he is most likely not physically intimidating. Though probably at or below average height, he contains a terrible rage against women that, when released, gives him a momentary strength that belies expectations.”
“Why do you say he directs his rage against women?” Margaret asked. “Perhaps he enjoys killing for its own sake, and chooses these women simply because they are the easiest to kill?”
“Note how he left the two women’s bodies in humiliating positions, their genitals exposed,” Bell responded. “Had he covered them with their skirts, as he could easily have done, I could deduce some shame or remorse at his actions; but no, they were displayed. The third victim, Chapman, had her uterus removed; so, not only was she murdered, but her very Womanhood taken from her.”
Miss Harkness shivered at this last revelation, and Bell paused, perhaps thinking this was more than she could bear.
She took a deep breath, however. “Go on,” she insisted. “If I weren’t prepared for the answer, I wouldn’t have asked the question.”
“The second woman was disemboweled,” Bell continued, his eyes losing focus momentarily as he recounted the images of the slain women. “And I speculate he may have intended to remove her womb as well, but on hearing someone approach, fled before he could complete the act. The third time he was in a more secluded area, and feeling more secure, he took the time to achieve his goal.
“He feels wronged by women and is exacting revenge. Perhaps he has at some point been harmed by a venereal disease or betrayed by a lover. Choosing prostitutes as his victims may simply be because they are the easiest class of women to victimize, or perhaps they are his preferred targets due to the venereal disease scenario. He also has a solid knowledge of female anatomy.”
A Knife in the Fog Page 6
