by Kim Wright
In his seat, Trevor inwardly groaned. Despite the papers beginning to circulate on the importance of proper forensic procedure, the bobbies were notorious for trampling the evidence. Their casual manner toward bloodstains, fibers, and body position was not surprising, for even a few of the high-ranking inspectors had utterly failed to grasp the significance of physical clues. Eatwell, one of the worst offenders in Trevor’s view, frowned at Phillips.
“You’re suggesting we leave the body as we found it, lying in a public street with a crowd mulling around? Perhaps you somehow managed not to notice it as you arrived, Doctor, but we have a mob on the front lawn that’s growing by the hour. The public is in a panic, and the sight of these bodies…let us just say it wasn’t exactly death by natural causes.”
You don’t calm a panic by moving the bodies, you fool, Trevor thought. You rope off the area and move the crowd.
“What I’m suggesting,” Phillips said calmly, “is that the best solution to public panic is bringing the killer to justice. And part of that task is to preserve every shred of evidence.”
“I agree,” Eatwell said, with such an audible sigh it was plain he did not. “Despite the difficulties, I assume you did learn some things?”
“Of course,” Phillips said, glancing down at his papers. “We feel safe in saying the same person committed both crimes. The killer is most likely left-handed, for the wounds on both victims were made in a left to right pattern.” He illustrated with a trembling diagonal slice of the air. “If not left-handed, then he’s as skillful with the left as he is with the right. Both women had their throats slashed from ear to ear, as the papers so gleefully reported, and in Chapman’s case the head was almost severed. These mutilations were deftly and skillfully performed on both victims.” The doctor looked up, his aged eyes sharp and piercing.
“It is impossible to overstate the significance of this last point. It suggests a killer with anatomical knowledge. Chapman had her kidneys and ovaries removed and apparently taken. The murder weapon was a knife about four to six inches in length and extremely sharp. As sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel.”
A tickle of excitement began in Trevor’s throat. “You’re saying the killer could be a physician?”
Inspector Eatwell slapped a palm to the table in protest. “I hardly feel a beast such as this could be a man of medicine, nor a gentleman of any sort, for that matter.”
“Educated at Cambridge!” scoffed a detective from the back of the room. The other men snickered.
Trevor scribbled in his journal: ”Doctor?”
“Were they raped?” The voice came from the back. Abrams.
“No,” Phillips said. “Whatever his game, that’s not it.” He looked directly at Trevor. “Earlier you said the killer had been in a frenzy, which I’ll admit is a logical assumption, but one the facts don’t support. Our killer is vicious, certainly, but methodical. The victims showed no signs of struggle and there was very little blood at the murder sites.”
Trevor looked up from his journal. “But there were mutilations, even organs removed…. Why no blood?”
“There’s very little bleeding after death, Detective. Once a heart stops beating, blood begins to gel in the veins and arteries of the body. Perhaps they were smothered or strangled first, or it’s possible that the first wound was so well-placed the victims were dead by the time they hit the ground. In the Chapman case especially, there was far less blood that one might expect, so quite possibly the killer drained blood from the body.”
“Drained blood from the body?” Rayley Abrams asked the question that everyone else in the room was thinking. “Wouldn’t that take a rather long time?”
“Anywhere from twenty minutes to an hour,” Phillips said. “Depending on his skill and experience level.”
The room sat in silence while the detectives digested this information.
“Could the two women have been killed someplace else and their bodies dumped at the site where they were found?” Trevor finally asked. “Draining blood would take a certain kind of equipment wouldn’t it? Something less portable than a knife?”
“I doubt even a madman would risk being seen dragging a dead body about the streets of London, Detective.” Inspector Eatwell interjected coolly, as again snickers arose from the back.
“Tubes and hypodermics are really all that’s required,” said Phillips. “A bottle or pan to catch the blood, of course. It’s more a matter of having the skill to tap the right vessels in the right places and the ability to find them quickly in the dark.”
“So we are speaking of a doctor,” Trevor said.
“It’s a strong possibility, but one I present reluctantly,” Phillips answered, his face suddenly looking old and tired. “It’s hard to accept that such barbaric crimes could have been committed by someone who has undertaken the Hippocratic Oath.”
“This line of thinking utterly circumvents the issue of motive,” said one of the detectives in the front row, his voice sharp with protest. “People kill for a reason.”
“Indeed,” said the man seated beside him. “Jealousy, greed, lust, revenge…something logical that one can understand. But who could possibly benefit from these deaths? There has to be some way, beyond the obvious similarity of their profession, that these women were connected.”
Not necessarily, Trevor thought. The strong have always preyed upon the weak, perhaps for no other reason than because they are weak. And there were few creatures in London more vulnerable than an aging East End prostitute.
“In this particular case,” Phillips said, “I’d say that method trumps motive. Why these women died isn’t as important as how.”
An uneasy buzz ran through the crowded room. Trevor printed “method over motive” in large letters in his notebook, then glanced back at Abrams, who was still leaning against the wall. For the briefest of moments, the eyes of the two men met.
“Motive is quite naturally the beginning of all criminal inquiry,” Eatwell said, ignoring the doctor and directing an adamant nod toward the detectives in the front row, like a professor congratulating a promising pupil. “It will narrow the list of suspects faster than rounding up every man in London who happens to have skill with a knife.”
“I only know this,” Phillips said, beginning to cram his notes back into his over-stuffed satchel. “Working at top speed it would have taken me forty-five minutes to drain a body and remove four organs. True, this fiend may not be a gentleman, but he does have knowledge of the surgery. Now, if there are no further questions, I’ll be excused, for I do have other cases to contend with.”
Eatwell watched him shuffle out with obvious relief and waited until the door was safely shut before he again addressed his detectives.
“Gentlemen, on the table before me, you will find the physical evidence gathered at the site of the Chapman murder,” Eatwell said. Trevor scribbled down the meager inventory as his fellow detectives rose and milled around the table.
-Three pennies
-Two farthings
-Two brass rings
-Portion of bloodstained envelope bearing the name SUSSEX REGIMENT and postmarked August 28
-One leather apron
“Not exactly the purse of a duchess, was it?” Rayley Abrams said softly. “Poor wretch. What do you make of this Sussex Regiment post?”
“A client, perhaps,” one of the men said. “Or a brother.”
“More likely a son, given her age,” said another.
“I can’t see what the letter would have to do with the death,” said a third. “Some bloke wrote her…lover, son, brother, what does it matter?”
“The significance is not that she happened to have a letter,” Abrams said. “But the fact that most of that letter is missing. I’ll see if any men with the last name Chapman are stationed with Sussex.”
“And what of this?” one of the men asked, lifting the leather apron gingerly from the pile. “It’s the kind they use in slaughterhouses to keep the blood from their clo
thes.”
“There are at least two slaughterhouses in Whitechapel,” said Abrams. “A butcher would have access to knives by the dozen.”
“And the skill to dissect a human body?” Trevor asked, arching an eyebrow.
“At least a butcher would know how to drain blood,” Abrams said.
“And would he be able to remove organs as skillfully as these were removed? Phillips as much as said it was too well done to point to an amateur.”
“Phillips has a love for drama,” one of the detectives said, leaning between Trevor and Abrams to idly flick a penny with his fingertip. “When you two have been with the Yard as long as the rest of us, you’ll see that he can’t resist throwing in some bizarre theory with each coroner’s report.” Most of the men were filing out by now and, after a pause, Abrams turned to join them, leaving Trevor to gaze thoughtfully at the items before him.
“Expecting to find his calling card, Welles?” Eatwell asked, as he was erasing the blackboard.
“It could very well be here, Sir, if we knew where to look.”
“Hmmm, nice to know murder is so simple for our first-rank detectives. I’m sure you and Abrams will have our killer off the streets before tomorrow teatime.”
Trevor stood hesitantly. He’d never known how to respond to Eatwell’s sarcasm. “We’ll try, Sir,” he finally said, backing out of the room.
“Better do more than try,” snapped Eatwell, and he beat his erasers until white dust flew across the table, slowly settling over the last worldly possessions of a woman named Anne Chapman.
CHAPTER THREE
September 9
4:10 PM
When Leanna opened her eyes, Tom was staring down at her with a half-curious, half-worried expression. Behind him, Galloway was pacing. Leanna struggled to raise her head.
“You’re missing your cue,” Tom said. “You’re supposed to ask ‘Where am I?’”
“I know where I am,” Leanna said, pushing away the damp cloth someone had placed on her forehead. “Grandfather’s study. Where’s everyone else?”
“Mama and the big boys have retreated to the parlor to nurse their own shock,” said Tom, letting a small smile slip. “Tell the truth, did you fake that faint? It was an admirably efficient means of clearing the room.”
“Of course not,” Leanna said. “You know I don’t faint. At least I never have before, and I remember when Grandfather was trying to teach us how to dissect a rabbit that you were the one who…. How long was I unconscious?“
“Just a few minutes, but long enough to give me time to confer with Mr. Galloway. We have to talk fast. They’ll be beating on the door any minute.”
“It might be prudent,” Galloway said, “for you to leave Rosemoral for a few weeks. Take a holiday of sorts while your family has the chance to get used to the idea.”
“They’ll never get used to the idea,” Tom corrected him. “But at least until the paperwork is finalized.”
“A holiday? I’ve never been anywhere alone in my whole life. Mama doesn’t even let me ride into town without – “
“You wouldn’t be alone, Leanna. Galloway thinks you should go to London and stay with Aunt Geraldine. She’s settled in Mayfair and, more to the point, she knows the situation. Apparently she is the only one other than Galloway whom Grandfather included in his plan and she understands it, Leanna. All of it. She was the one who suggested you come to her home.”
“I hardly know her,” Leanna said, her mind jumping to a memory of a large, jolly woman with a booming voice and pockets full of candy.
“But I do,” Tom said. “The first month I was in school she sent me a message inviting me to dinner at her home in London and ever since… You’ll be happy there, Leanna.”
“I don’t follow any of this, Tom. Why didn’t you tell me Aunt Geraldine was back in London, or that you’d been to see her? It makes no sense. She didn’t even come to Grandfather’s funeral.”
“She was there,” Tom said firmly. “In the back. Apparently in disguise, and apparently a good one because I didn’t recognize her.”
Leanna looked questioningly at Galloway.
“Leonard knew he was dying,” Galloway said gently. “When he told Geraldine the terms of his will, they concocted this plan. Part of it is that your mother and the older boys shouldn’t be aware that Geraldine was even back in the country. Otherwise, her home in London wouldn’t be a very effective hiding place, would it? Tom knew of her presence but he was sworn to secrecy.”
“Yes,” said Tom. “But until today I didn’t know why.”
Leanna’s head was swimming at the thought of her grandfather, Aunt Geraldine, and Galloway all scheming together, three elderly people going to such trouble to shield her from what would undoubtedly be a very rough time. “But to stay in hiding at her own brother’s funeral…”
“Oh, I think she rather enjoyed that,” said Galloway and Tom laughed. “Your aunt loves a challenge, Miss Bainbridge, and I can’t think of anyone better suited to assist you through this rather unique social transition.”
Leanna shook her head, at last fully alert, as if she had broken through layers of water to reach the surface. She inhaled sharply. “So everyone thinks I should run, is that it?”
“Not run, Miss Bainbridge, but, if you can take refuge for a month or two –“
“I’ll be back in school in a few weeks,” Tom said. “And then I’ll come see you. In the meanwhile, Galloway can set up an account you can draw on by wire, so you’ll have funds.”
“Within the week,” Galloway promised.
“But how do I get to London and what do I do for money in the meantime?”
“Heavens, Leanna, don’t be such a dolt. You’ll take the train and you’ll be living with Aunt Gerry, who will hardly be charging you rent.”
“I’ve brought funds for just that purpose,” Galloway said, glancing at the door from which came the sounds of conversation, the low murmur of Gwynette’s voice, the shrill yelps of William’s indignation. Tom put a finger to his lips and slipped out the door to divert them.
“I can’t accept your money,” Leanna said.
“I expect my loan is secure,” Galloway said, with a smile, and it hit Leanna for the first time that she was a wealthy woman. That while she had been in her swoon it was as if she had been transported, carried to a new country with different customs and a language she had yet to learn. The implications were too much to deal with at the present, though, so she let her mind drift to trivial things.
“I haven’t any clothes with me. I only brought that one bag -“
“There are plenty of shops in London, my dear.”
Leanna paused, thinking of the narrow-hipped jewel-colored dresses she’d seen in the pages of magazines, so different from the filmy pastel gowns her mother had made for her by the local seamstress. The idea of going shopping, alone, with her own money in her pocket…
The barrister laughed. “So I’ve finally hit on the argument that will sway you. The chance to buy new clothes in London is irresistible for any woman, even our stern little Leanna.”
“I haven’t been to London in years,” she said, looking up as Tom reentered the room. “And never alone.”
“Really, darling, try to focus,” Tom said. “You won’t be alone. I’ll wire Aunt Gerry from the train station so she’ll know to be there for you tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow?” Leanna protested.
“It’s the best way,“ Galloway said, as he pulled a pouch from his pocket and carefully began to count out pounds. “There’s a train which departs Leeds station at five-“
“Five in the morning?”
“Yes, Leanna, businessmen take it to London for the day. Grandfather was always going in for the libraries and museums, don’t you remember?”
“You’ve worked out every detail, haven’t you?”
“We’ll leave by carriage at four. They’ll all be dead asleep at that hour and for several hours beyond, judging by the way
they’ve made a run for the decanter,” Tom said. “And they won’t be able to chase you, because they’ll think they have to stay here and fight for their interests. Galloway and I will see to that.”
Leanna sank back against the couch. “I feel so strange - part excited and part frightened to the core. When I give in to the fear, the joy comes rushing in but when I try to feel joyous that little tickle of fear is there to distract me. I wonder what it is.”
“Freedom.”
Leanna gave her brother a sidelong look of doubt.
“No really Leanna, that’s what freedom is like- a bit of excitement, a bit of fear. You’d better get used to the feeling.”
“This is final proof of what I’ve been saying for years,” William sputtered, setting an over-full wine glass on the mantle. “Grandfather was senile.”
“You never called him senile when you thought you were his heir,” Cecil drawled, swirling the brandy in his own glass. “And you’re being awfully careless with the claret given your concern that Rosemoral be kept in such pristine condition.”
“It’s Leanna’s estate now,” William said thickly. “Let her hire more maids. You’ve been notably silent, Mother. What are you thinking? Are we doomed to spend the rest of our days in Winter Garden?”
Gwynette looked up. “You could follow the counsel of the will and take up a profession, I suppose.”
“I can only assume that you’re joking. And what of Cecil’s marriage plans? We’ve all been left in the lurch by this appalling turn of events.”
