Given her voluminous skirt, I could easily conjecture a vast armory sequestered within those folds. She seemed delighted and relieved to see us uninjured, taking Bell’s hand in one of hers and mine in the other and grasping them both warmly for a moment. Once inside the carriage, we asked her to choose the site of our luncheon. After she had directed the driver to a popular bistro in the West End, her bright eyes fastened upon mine, and she demanded I recount our evenings’ adventures.
“Nothing of consequence, Margaret,” I replied, teasing, “although I did discover that Professor Bell’s snores can frighten the most hardened criminal into silence, as none dared disturb his slumber.” Margaret and Bell laughed together at my jibe as I pulled out my wallet. “Our conversation this morning with Mr. Wilkins was fruitful, however.” At which point I carefully placed ten pounds into her hands.
“What’s this?” she asked, and my pulse quickened at the smile she gave me.
“Your payment,” I replied with aplomb, savoring the moment. “We impressed upon Mr. Wilkins the value of your guidance, and thus, here is your salary for the five additional days you helped us.”
Margaret clapped her hands, and for a moment, I forgot what I was about to say as I watched her eyes sparkle with joy.
Finding my bearings, I continued. “The professor and I have informed Mr. Wilkins that unless something new arises, we shall both depart in three days. We feel we’ve done everything possible for the moment, and rather than wait aimlessly for the killer to strike again, we’ll return to our humdrum lives until there is a new development.”
Margaret’s smile faded before she shrugged and asked, “So my friends, what now?”
“We are free until ten o’clock tonight,” I said, trying to sustain her smile. “We have some of Mr. Gladstone’s crowns in our pockets and wanted to celebrate our small successes with you.”
Margaret laughed at this. “Thank you, sir,” she countered. I believe she would have curtsied, were it possible inside the cab, such was our mood. “You are most generous with your compliments and the coin of another, and I gratefully accept both.”
We passed a carefree afternoon and early evening eating an enjoyable meal and attending a subsequent poetry reading at the Old Vic. The poetry was not to my taste, but Margaret was quite persuasive, and we men chivalrously yielded to her wishes. I recall neither the poet nor the poem; and I may have dozed off, for at one point I noticed Bell’s elbow nudging my ribs.
As we left, I saw a poster regarding an upcoming performance by the American writer Samuel Clemens, known more widely as Mark Twain. He was to give readings of his works on three successive nights, from the tenth until the twelfth of November. I had read his novel Huckleberry Finn and found it to be two-thirds of a great work. He wrote movingly of the condition of the slave Jim, treating him as fully human with many admirable qualities, only to fall into a trite tale at the end with Tom Sawyer’s arrival and subsequent pranks. As I had not yet written two-thirds of a great novel, however, I was obliged to consider him to be much the superior author.
My own trite tale of my fictional detective and Mormon revenge I described in Scarlet had done well enough in the popular press, but it revealed no great insights into humanity as did Finn. I regretted circumstance would prevent me from hearing him tell his extraordinary tales in his own voice.
We returned Margaret home ten pounds richer and half a bottle of wine happier than when we had met that afternoon, before reporting for our vigil at the station. Inspector Abberline played the part of innkeeper well, conducting us to our quarters and bidding us goodnight.
My spirits had been buoyed by the pleasant company and wine, but now, confronted with the military-style pallet awaiting me, I sighed. I partially undressed as before, and endeavored to fall asleep before Bell could add his cacophony to the night.
I grumbled to myself that thus far his snores had been the most dangerous part of our nights in the station and wished heartily for something to break the monotony.
If only my wishes were routinely granted as abundantly as they were that night.
CHAPTER TWENTY
A BLOODY NIGHT
Sunday, September 30
I dreamt I was wandering somewhere very dark and damp. I heard the scurrying of small feet in the blackness surrounding me. Yellow eyes glowed, and I knew the teeth beneath those eyes were sharp and ravenous.
“Wake up!” shouted the inspector. “There’s been another murder; come with me now!”
I responded groggily, in the world somewhere between waking and sleeping, and dressed like a wind-up toy.
Bell seemed in much the same state, but we staggered with a will behind the inspector and through the police station, now full of activity.
My pocket watch read one-thirty as we headed for the exit.
“We just received a telegram that a woman’s body has been found with her throat severed,” Abberline informed us tersely. “It’s in a courtyard off Berner Street. Time to earn your keep, gentlemen. Let’s go!”
The night air brought us more fully awake as we were herded into the enclosed police wagon that was to take us to the site. Although I could not see outside, the pace of the hooves and swaying of the wagon told me we were moving at a rapid pace, matched only by my racing pulse.
“What do we know?” I asked Abberline, who sat beside me in the darkness.
“First reports are always wrong,” replied the inspector in a tight tone. “Best we wait and see for ourselves. Besides, I’d rather not prejudice you before the facts are in.”
It appeared we “consultants” were now truly in the thick of it. My heart pounded with the excitement of the chase, and at the prospect of seeing a victim fresh and at the scene before incompetent, if well-meaning, functionaries obscured all useful information.
After fifteen minutes of nausea-inducing transport, I was relieved to escape the close space of the wagon and step out onto the street. Although still not quite two o’clock, a crowd had already gathered at the entrance to Dutfield’s Yard, a courtyard outside a stable where the murdered woman awaited us. A carriage wheel was affixed to the wall beside the gate, serving as a traveler’s aid in locating the establishment; an adjacent window had a black sign with white letters proudly advertising Nestlé Milk.
Abberline shouldered his way through the crowd, bringing us in tow. The gates to the yard were secured and guarded by a police constable, who reported to the inspector that all onlookers within the yard were confined pending their examination. He let us in at Abberline’s order, then re-secured the entryway after we passed.
The sound of the gate closing behind us gave me a slight shiver. I realized I couldn’t leave until permitted to do so.
The sight that awaited us was in stark contrast to the Nestlé sign suggesting milk for growing children or steaming tea. Police Constable Henry Lamb had been the first authority summoned to the site, and it was he who greeted Abberline with a grateful sigh. With some thirty onlookers milling about, Lamb appeared overwhelmed with the responsibility of preserving the scene while managing the crowd.
The pale remains of a woman of middle age were lying in a pool of blood, the moon faintly reflected in the dark fluid surrounding her. A man was bending over her, but it was difficult to see the body or the man clearly, as they both wore dark clothing. And the buildings surrounding the court cast them in dark shadow, broken up only by the bobbing beams of light given off by the constables’ bull’s-eye lanterns.
“I arrived a little after one, and her face was still warm, but there was no pulse. I summoned Doctor Blackwell, a physician who resides nearby.” The constable indicated the man bent over the body. “He pronounced her dead around half-past one. Now that you’ve arrived, I’d like to examine the Working Men’s Club here.” He jerked his head toward a small two-story brick building adjacent to the yard. “And clear it of anyone inside.”
“In a moment,” replied Abberline, “and my men will assist you, but first tell me what you know
and how you came to be here.”
I was anxious to hear Lamb’s recitation, but I was also keen to view the body and speak with Doctor Blackwell.
Bell was aquiver with anticipation for the latter, so with my eyes I indicated to the inspector we medicos wished to confer with our colleague. He nodded agreement. We wasted no time, and it was only later in the day that Bell and I heard of the events leading to the body’s discovery.
“Doctor Blackwell. Bell, Professor of Surgery, Edinburgh, and my colleague Doctor Doyle. We’re with Inspector Abberline,” the professor had begun, when the man straightened and turned around. From pictures in the various newspapers that had reported the inquest of Annie Chapman’s murder, I immediately recognized the bewhiskered stout gentleman as Doctor Phillips, one of the police surgeons for Division H.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Phillips said briskly. “I’m Police Surgeon Philips, and ordinarily I’d be pleased to meet you. Doctor Blackwell responded to the police constable’s summons to see if there was anything to be done for the poor woman. He correctly identified her as deceased and has been dismissed.” Doctor Phillips had a soft voice that was hard to understand above the mutterings of the crowd, who by now were finding the entertainment of the body fading as their confinement wore on them. He borrowed a lantern from one of Abberline’s constables, then gestured for us to come closer as he bent over the body.
With the aid of the lantern’s light, we could see she was lying upon her back, her dress respectfully draped across her. It appeared to have been undisturbed. Tied around her neck was a checked silk scarf, the bow upon the left-hand side pulled tightly.
“The cause of death, gentlemen,” Phillips remarked dryly as he revealed a deep gash across her throat that cleanly severed her windpipe. “Before his departure, Doctor Blackwell told me he believed the scarf was used to pull her backward, though neither of us is certain whether her throat was slit while standing or once she was on her back.”
Bell asked for the lantern. He bent over and slowly scanned the throat, the upper body of the deceased, and the surrounding ground. I noted the ear on the right side was intact, as I recalled the message signed “Jack the Ripper.”
“I believe her throat was cut once she was on her back,” Bell said, after his examination. “Blood loss would have been immediate and brisk. Note here the bloodstains on the dress over her upper body end at her collarbones. I see no blood on the dress below them. Blood spurting out from the supine position would be unlikely to travel far enough to reach her breasts. The distance required from the standing position is irrelevant, however, as gravity would assist the blood’s journey down her upper body. That there is no blood on her clothing below the neckline therefore suggests she was supine.
“The knot of the scarf around her neck is certainly tighter than would have been bearable in life, and I agree the killer probably grabbed her by it. I believe the most likely scenario is he suddenly grabbed the scarf from behind, then continued to garrote her until she lost consciousness, cutting her throat once she was down. If he had tried to wield the knife while she was standing, the scarf would likely have been severed. What other injuries have you found?”
“None, sir,” replied Phillips. “None whatsoever. I’m uncertain if we are dealing with the same murderer.”
“I rather think we are,” replied Bell. “The asphyxiation before cutting her throat is his calling card, so to speak. There is nothing in the papers mentioning this peculiarity of his, so, unless he is running a school for assassins, we are dealing with Leather Apron’s handiwork.”
Bell straightened, and after casting about the body with the bull’s eye lantern for another moment, suddenly bent over and with a cry pointed to the victim’s left hand.
Phillips kneeled. Opening her hand, he discovered a small paper packet. In one of my fictional accounts, this would have proven to be a crucial clue, a note from the killer, or directions to a rendezvous. But this was real life (or death, in this case), and the packet proved to contain nothing more than cachous, or breath fresheners.
“Nothing extraordinary in itself,” Bell said, “but it does speak to the suddenness of the attack in that she hadn’t the time to drop this packet to defend herself.”
It was now approaching three o’clock, and I was about to ask one of the numerous inspectors about the premises what they knew of the body’s discovery, when Abberline suddenly came at us out of the darkness at a dead run.
“Come with me now!” he ordered. “There’s been another murder!”
Perhaps it was the early hour of the day, or, more likely, the shock of a second atrocity that turned my thoughts inward, for I became ill at the thought of another whirl-about within the police wagon. Abberline, after noting my expression, relented and allowed me to sit up with the driver. Doors secured, the horses were given their heads, and we were soon speeding through the deserted early morning streets. A sense of foreboding built within me, for the surroundings grew more and more familiar as we barreled westward, first along Commercial Street, then Aldgate High Street. Soon, Saint Botolph’s Church loomed on our right, marking where one would turn left to reach Margaret’s tenement; my hands began to sweat, and my chest tightened as we drew near the turn.
As we reached the church, I clenched my eyes, praying we go on. And we did, veering to the right onto the following Duke Street. I let out a long exhalation, realizing I must have been holding my breath for several seconds.
The fright I suffered thinking Margaret might be the next victim revealed how dear this unconventional woman had already become to me. I never shared my solitary ordeal atop the racing police wagon with Bell, though my face must have shown the strain of my momentary terror, for he gave me an odd look on our arrival.
Abberline launched himself immediately into the gathering of police inspectors huddled together in a far dark corner of what I subsequently learned was Mitre Square, only three streets away from Margaret’s tenement on Vine Street. I quickly understood by the heated tone of the conversations that this murder scene lay within the jurisdiction of the City of London Police. I recalled Abberline’s disdainful description of his neighboring colleagues as “bookkeepers with badges,” so I had no doubt as to his intense desire to assume the role of senior officer on the scene, the niceties of jurisdiction be damned.
Doctor Phillips had remained behind to see to the other victim’s secure transport to the morgue, where a more thorough examination could be conducted and photographs taken, before an awakened London could produce a crush of onlookers. The body of the latest victim in Mitre Square had already been removed, so Bell and I found ourselves with little more to do than walk around the square to acquaint ourselves with its surrounds.
“Bad news for Abberline,” I ventured. “It is an unnecessary complication to have jurisdictional challenges on top of everything else.”
I was pondering how we could be of use without a body to inspect, when a police constable suddenly arrived as fast as he could go and went directly to the gathering of senior officers. There was a brief though loud outcry from the group, before Inspector Abberline emerged and came straight to us.
“As there’s no corpse here for you to examine, you gentlemen are released. I must leave immediately to investigate the site where a torn-off portion of this victim’s apron was found. There is also a message written in chalk on the wall adjacent that we believe to be from the murderer. I can write it down and share it with you later.”
“Please, Inspector,” Bell said. “I would like to accompany you. I may be able to deduce as much from the manner it is written as from the actual contents. You saw how I could analyze the message signed Jack the Ripper. Perhaps I might do as well this time?”
Abberline seemed of two minds, but lacking time for debate, relented. “Fair enough, Professor. Lord knows there will be plenty of folks about unknown to my superiors. The message is located squarely within the jurisdiction of the Metropolitan Police, so there’ll be no doubt as to who’
s in command there. I’ll have to give the driver instructions, Doctor, so you’ll have to ride inside.”
My stomach turned at the thought, and I asked if I could follow on foot.
Abberline had no time for niceties. “Come as you can, then. The address is on Goulston Street, by the entrance to the Wentworth Model Dwellings, about a half mile to the northeast. Oh, and before we go, you gents may be interested to know that the lady murdered here had both her ears nicked.”
Abberline’s revelation was like a splash of freezing water to the face, but before I could respond, they were gone. Now I was the man of two minds, for I wanted desperately to go after Bell and the inspector, but I felt a duty to Margaret, who had been excluded thus far.
Her tenement was but five minutes’ walk from where I was standing, so I turned round to rouse her and bring her along. Besides, I told myself, I would like as not become completely lost and not find the address on my own. Also, after my fright on the police wagon, I was anxious to see her.
The door to her flat opened a crack within seconds of my knock, revealing Margaret already in her Pennyworth attire, and I had to just look at her for a moment before I could speak.
“What’s wrong, Doyle,” she asked, troubled at the early hour of my visit and the wild look in my eyes. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Almost,” I said. I swallowed. “Almost.”
“Is the professor all right?” Margaret asked, clutching her chest in sudden concern. “Why isn’t he with you?”
“Two murders tonight,” I gasped, more out of breath than I should have been, given the short distance I had walked. “Bell is at the Wentworth Building, Goulston Street, examining a message from the murderer.”
“I know the place,” Margaret said. “Let’s go!”
On the way, I asked her why she was up so early and dressed as Pennyworth. She explained that she customarily rose at four o’clock, to write until six, then went out for bread. Not knowing when we might summon her, she was for the moment dressing mostly as a man.
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