by Kim Wright
“He found a thread,” Abrams said, both his expression and voice utterly devoid of emotion. He was once again leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest and head tilted in an absurd parody of the dead woman’s position. Isn’t he the cool one, Welles thought. Slight in build and with those thick eyeglasses he truly does look more like a scholar than a detective - but a bit of a dandy too, his shirtsleeves always clean and his tie knotted just so. Never puts himself on the line with a theory, at least not when a superior is in earshot. And yet he’s always there, observing everything.
“A thread?” Phillips asked. “And you think you can follow it all the way to our killer? The men who found the body tried to lift it, Detective, then thought the better of it and wrapped her in a blanket. By the time I got to that shed she was covered head to toe in fibers and there is nothing to suggest that any of them came from the killer.”
“But this one was under her fingernail, Sir. Not just lying on her chest like it came from a blanket used to move her but dug in, as if she’d grabbed something and held on.” Trevor opened his notebook and removed the fiber, holding it delicately between two fingers, but the doctor shook his head.
“Even if she did manage to grab the clothes of her assailant, that would tell us nothing. A red thread. A man with a red scarf or coat.”
“But Nichols and even Martha Tabram, Sir, meaning no disrespect, but did you check their hands? If something similar – “
“Enough, Welles. Tabram and Nichols are in the ground and this poor woman will follow them there in the morning. Take advice from someone who has been dealing in police affairs for forty years. Do not make waves or go over the heads of your superiors. Follow procedure, or you will find yourself walking the streets again as a bobby.”
“But Sir, I feel I owe – “
“Of course you do,” Phillips said, his expression softening. “You haven’t seen as many dead bodies as I have. Of course you feel you owe them something. Some sort of justice or redemption. But if you carry these feelings too far they will draw you from your true purpose, which is the protection of the living, not vengeance for the dead.” The doctor took a final look at Annie Chapman’s face as his assistant lowered the lid of the coffin, moving so slowly and carefully that it closed with only the softest of sighs. “And if it provides you any consolation, Chapman would have been dead within the year. From the condition of her liver, I’d say she liked her drink.”
“Who is claiming the body for burial, Doctor?” Abrams asked. “Do you know?”
“Her children, Detective. A son and a daughter, both grown. Yes, they have families, these women,” Phillips said more sharply, as if Trevor or Abrams had contradicted him. “Everyone has a family, even them.”
Trevor and Abrams said their goodbyes and returned to the street. They walked a couple of blocks without speaking and Trevor, his face still red from the lecture Phillips had given him, was aware that he taking such large strides that the far shorter Abrams was almost trotting to keep up with him. “Procedure!” he finally said. “You’d think the doctor, of all people, would understand. All those bobbies who bungled the case to begin with were only following procedure. Bloody idiots! And why did they examine the body in that dismal shack, rather than taking her to Scotland Yard? Why didn’t the man who embalmed her take note of any other needle marks? Did you see the way he looked at me when I asked a simple question?”
“I imagine the bobbies took her to the nearest police mortuary,” Abrams said, struggling for breath. “And the assistant was Polish or Czech or somesort, judging by his accent. He may not have even understood what you were asking. You’ve got to…”
“Be more politic?”
“It wouldn’t hurt. Let me buy you a drink, Welles.”
“I don’t need a drink.”
“I think you do,” Abrams said. “And don’t make an enemy of Phillips. He’s one of the good ones. He caught your meaning, even if he pretended not to. Next time he’ll take special note of the hands.”
Trevor slowed down and looked Abrams right in the face. “You’re that sure there will be another?”
“Without question. I’m afraid our boy is just getting warmed up, that it took him two or three tries before he figured out how to make things interesting. And now that he has our attention, he won’t want to lose it. Phillips thinks so too, for what it’s worth, that’s why he told us to keep our focus to the living.”
“Oh God,” Trevor said. “Look at all these people. That man has a red scarf, and that one too, a red collar on his jacket. Don’t you laugh at me, Abrams, but look. They’re all wearing red. Every person on this street.”
“Not all of them, Welles, and believe me, I’m not laughing. Come on. We both could use that drink.”
CHAPTER FIVE
September 10
7:40 AM
The train lurched away from one more small station and Leanna settled back into her window seat. It had been over two hours since she’d waved goodbye to Tom but she’d been unable to nap. Her mind was swirling with thoughts of everything that had happened - the loss of her grandfather, the sudden inheritance, the jealousy and anger of her family. Any of these events by themselves would have been a shock, but it was nearly incapacitating to face so many changes so rapidly. Not to mention she was now on a train by herself, entirely free and unescorted. Her only previous trips to London had been with her governess or her grandfather, for purposes of education, but she had glimpsed enough from carriage windows to know there was life beyond the museums. The shops, theatres, and carriages, the streets teaming with people from all over the world, the cafes where ladies sipped brightly-colored cordials and whispered their secrets.
As the train gained speed and the car began to gently rock to and fro, Leanna’s eye fell on a newspaper that someone had left on the seat across from her, with the headline shrieking KILLER STILL AT LARGE! It was crumpled but readable, and, glancing around, Leanna grabbed it. Everyone in the countryside was avidly following the story of the East End slayings and, in fact, just a few days ago her brothers had been discussing it over the breakfast table. The description in that morning’s article had been confusing to everyone but Tom, so he’d asked her to help illustrate.
Tom had Leanna stand up and he’d crept behind her, slipped an arm around her waist, and used his butter knife to indicate where the cuts must have been made. William and Cecil, their attention fully fixed on their younger siblings for once in their lives, had sat rapt by the reenactment, complete with dramatic sound simulations by Tom and a bit of squeals and thrashing by Leanna. Cecil had asked how Tom knew the killer had attacked his victims from behind.
“It’s all that makes sense considering where the wounds are,” Tom had said, reaching for Leanna and tracing the pattern all over again. “One, two, three, just so. But the angle’s awkward.”
“Perhaps he’s left-handed,” Leanna had said. “Try it with the knife in your other hand.” But just then their mother had swept into the room and interrupted what was probably the most stimulating breakfast conversation the family had enjoyed for years. Cecil and William had returned to their eggs and Tom, frowning thoughtfully, replaced the butter knife on its tray. Gwynette had glanced at the paper and then quite pointedly launched into a discussion of what Leanna might have worn had they only been invited to Wentworth family’s latest tea.
She made them stop talking because of me, Leanna thought. Boys can hear about all sorts of interesting and bloody things, while girls talk about tea parties. But there was no one to stop her from reading now. She pulled out one of the cheese buns that Tillie had packed in her valise, burrowed deeper into the seat, and squinted down at the blurry print.
The knife, which must have been a large and sharp one, was jabbed into the lower part of the abdomen and then drawn upwards, not once but twice. The first cut veered to the right, slitting up the groin, and passing over the left hip, but the second cut went straight upward, along the center of the body, and reaching
to the breastbone. Such horrible work could only be the deed of a maniac!
Suddenly a dark reflection in the window cast a shadow on the paper and Leanna jerked upright to find someone standing in the aisle. Startled, she asked “May I help you?”
Looking down on her was a dark-suited man with a flat-topped hat. “Are you comfortable, Miss?” he asked.
“Very much so,” she replied, easing a bit.
He remained standing and staring at her until she said “Is there something you want?”
“Your fare, please.”
“Oh, yes, yes of course. I beg your pardon,” she stammered, searching her satchel for the money Galloway had given her. “One moment please, I have it here somewhere.”
But the blue silk purse where she’d put the money must have sank to the bottom of the satchel as it seems whatever’s needed always does, because she couldn’t manage to lay her hand on it. The conductor gave a gentle cough and shifted his weight with a sigh. It was clear he perceived her as a country bumpkin, or at least had correctly concluded he was dealing with a woman who had never been alone on a train before.
As she began nervously pulling things from her cloth bag, Leanna felt the presence of someone else, someone taller, standing beside the conductor. “Might I be of some assistance?” a voice asked.
Leanna’s cheeks flushed as she looked up at the face of a strikingly handsome man whose dark hair and mustache stood out boldly from his pale skin. “I appreciate your kindness, but my fare is in this bag somewhere,” she mumbled, pulling at the side pocket of her valise. Finally her fingers found the silk of the purse, but when she looked up the conductor had already turned his attention to the lady behind her.
“Excuse me Sir,” she said, “I have the money.”
The conductor glanced in her direction. “The gentleman took care of it, miss.”
“Oh….oh yes. Yes, thank you,” Leanna said, turning to where the man had stood but all she caught was a glimpse of his cape flowing behind him as he exited the car. Leanna knelt to the dusty train floor to replace the items which had rolled from her bag and her eyes suddenly fell on the worn patches of her skirt. She’d been wearing the same ill-fitting black dress since her grandfather’s funeral. He probably mistook me for a beggar, she thought, irritated at the idea that such an elegant man had been drawn to her out of charity. Not much of a way to begin her great adventure.
Her restless night back at Rosemoral was finally beginning to catch up with her, and Leanna tilted her head against the window. Not to worry that he’s gone, she thought, as the rolling of the car took her into the first shallows of sleep. London would be full of men like that.
10:20 AM
Not remembering exactly what Aunt Geraldine looked like and unsure where she was to meet her, Leanna stepped down from the railway car and began to study the women in the station. No one seemed to be looking for anyone, so Leanna walked over to a bench and dropped her satchel. People were always commenting on how much she resembled Tom, so perhaps if she stood here long enough her aunt would recognize her.
The activity of the station was all-consuming. The babble of voices formed a non-language and a faintly acrid smell filled the waiting area, some combination of cinnamon, coal dust, human sweat, and rotting apples. Men pushing carts, women pushing prams, boys selling papers, girls selling fruit. A group of people with yellow skin and doll-like slanted eyes walked by Leanna, swathed in vibrant yellow and green silks. She tried to keep from staring until she realized that in the easy familiarity of the crowded station, staring was acceptable.
Suddenly, a loud noise, a woman’s scream, came echoing through the hall, and this universal sound of fury seemed to catch the attention of almost everyone. Leanna could not see what had caused the commotion, and she wondered desperately if Aunt Geraldine could be waiting outside in a coach. Groaning as she lifted the satchel, Leanna began shuffling slowly toward the front of the building, and as she walked, the voice became clearer.
“Who is responsible for this outrage? Who is in charge here?” demanded the woman. “Stop right there!” she said, as a single file line of a dozen dark-skinned men wearing white turbans came abruptly to a halt. Leanna strained to look over the gathered heads to see whose voice was so unrelenting, but the only thing in her line of vision was another dark-skinned man, this one in a red turban, who was standing with an air of offended dignity and an oversized umbrella pointed at his nose.
“My lady, we are in the employ of Sir Randolph Walterbury,” replied the porter in a sing-song voice.
“And where might I find this coward?”
“I am Sir Randolph, Madame,” answered a bald gentleman breaking through the crowd. “Rahaj, why aren’t these men loading the transports outside?”
As the people had made way for Sir Randolph, Leanna had been able to slip close enough to catch a glimpse of a tall, broad-chested woman dressed in lavender with a matching hat and an umbrella she used with skill. The umbrella was no longer at the nose of the porter, but was now pointed at the face of Sir Randolph himself. The man in the red turban signaled to the others to continue with the cargo.
“You stop right there!” shrieked the lady, moving to block the progress of the workers with surprising agility, considering her age and her size. “I have counted eighteen elephant tusks, four tiger pelts, two water buffalo heads, and heaven knows what else. What could possess a person of your stature in society to butcher these innocent animals? They were put on this earth for all of mankind to study and appreciate, not just for the wealthy to destroy and display in their drawing rooms. Well, what do you have to say for yourself?”
“These beasts are trophies of sport, taken on a safari in East India,” answered the man, glaring down. “So if you’ll let us pass, Madame-“
“Sport? Safari? Why is it every time an Englishman goes out to prove his manhood, it involves killing? Safari indeed! You take every creature comfort you can from London with you, to be carried by these men for miles in the hot sun, trampling the jungle as you go. No doubt you paid them peanuts for their labor. And sport! You call it sport to hire a hundred porters to chase a poor, defenseless animal in front of your rifle sites to be slaughtered? Perhaps if the tigers had been given guns too it would count as fair contest, but were they? I think not!” By now the crowd was murmuring and, at least among a few of the listeners, sympathy seemed to be switching to the side of the woman.
“What I think Madame, is that this is all none of your business! I’ll not delay another minute listening to this nonsense.” Sir Randolph turned and barked to his men, who were scrambling to carry the rest of the crates onto the transport.
“If you wish to prove your strength, Sir Randolph, then why don’t you do something that will improve England? Start a factory and create more jobs! Help the poor!” the woman shouted at his retreating back. A smattering of applause broke from the crowd.
Suddenly the woman glanced back toward her audience and her eyes fell directly upon Leanna. “Darling!” she cried, as the heads of the onlookers turned. “I’d recognize that Bainbridge profile anywhere.” Leanna drew back, startled by the shift in the crowd’s attention, as the woman bustled toward her, both arms outstretched. “I am your Aunt Gerry! Welcome to London!”
CHAPTER SIX
Autumn, 1872
His father had taught him to hunt.
The man had taken the boy, when he was no more than nine, into the oak woods outside their home. Had given him a gun, one of the sandwiches they had wrapped the night before, and had taught him how to find a place to hide. Not deep in the brambles, as one might imagine. If the hunter sought too much coverage or buried too deep, his father explained, then the slightest move would give his position away.
The father illustrated. He climbed into a nest of broken branches and covered himself entirely. Then he made a great, loud sneeze and the entire pile had shaken, puffing stray leaves into the air. The boy had laughed.
Far better, the man explained, crawli
ng out and brushing the debris from his jacket, to hide in an open area. Perhaps “hide” was not even the proper word. It was more a matter of blending in, of being unobtrusive, of becoming so much a part of the landscape that the birds knew you were there, but did not register your presence as alarming. Ducks, pheasants, and quail were dumb creatures, dumb and plentiful, and if one sat still long enough they would come of their own accord into your sights. The victim would choose himself, would practically beg to be shot.
The boy nodded. He’d always had the gift of grasping concepts quickly, of understanding certain things before his childhood vocabulary gave him the ability to explain them, even to himself. He may not have known the word “contradiction” but he understood his father’s message well enough. The key to survival was to be special, smarter than the other creatures around you, yet still to blend in.
The blending, of course, is the challenge. Most who are special cannot seem to stop themselves from announcing the fact, despite the dangers that come with being different from the rest of your species. If you tie a red string around a wren’s leg, the others in the flock will peck it to death.
CHAPTER SEVEN
September 25
8:20 AM
“I’m still not certain that it’s proper to wear a purple dress in mourning,” Leanna fretted, as she pushed a slice of pear around her plate. “Grandfather has only been buried for three weeks.”
“You loved Leonard, we all know that,” Geraldine said, looking up from her copy of the morning paper. “The important thing is that you and Tom were a comfort to him while he lived, not some barbaric custom you choose to observe after he is dead. Besides, your new gown looks lovely on you.”
