City of Darkness

by Kim Wright

  “You know,” Leanna said “John didn’t recall meeting me on the train.”

  “Um?”

  “John. He didn’t recall meeting me in the train.”

  “He was the man who paid your fare? How bizarre.”

  “Apparently I failed to make much of an impression.”

  Emma shrugged. “You were different then. I remember how you looked standing on the doorstep a few weeks ago. Lost, frightened, practically swimming that black mourning dress. Tonight ….it’s not so surprising he didn’t remember. A woman isn’t like a man. She can change and become anything she wants to appear to be, based on her clothes and her way of walking and talking.”

  “Odd,” Leanna said. “But you’re right. Men don’t look us in the eyes. They take in the clothes and the bearing and they adjust their behavior accordingly.”

  “Trevor Welles looks women in the eyes,” Emma said quietly.

  “Yes,” said Leanna. “He would be a hard man to fool.”

  “Now in my opinion, that is the odd remark,” Emma said, turning to leave.

  “Emma?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you have any sisters?”

  “No.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “How unfortunate for you,” said Emma, closing the door behind her.

  “Auugh,” sighed Leanna, rising from the bed. Of all the things she had struggled to understand since coming to London, Emma might have been the hardest. Leanna went to the dressing table and began to brush her hair so hard that tears came to her eyes.

  1:24 AM

  At the entryway to the George Yard stables, Trevor stood looking down at the lifeless form of a woman. An hour earlier a man had been trying to lead a workhorse into the courtyard when the creature had shied and refused to enter. He’d summoned a bobby making rounds and the boy had quickly found the trouble: a white-stockinged leg sticking out from a gate. Trevor breathed a silent prayer of relief that the bobby - although young and obviously terrified - had exhibited enough presence of mind to rope off the area and leave the body unmoved. Now Eatwell and a few others milled around, awaiting the arrival of Dr. Phillips and trying to keep the throng of onlookers at bay. Although the night was warm, Trevor trembled violently.

  “Isn’t typical, is it Sir?” he ventured, as Eatwell paced by.

  “What do you mean?” Eatwell asked distractedly.

  “Her throat is cut, left to right like the others, but there aren’t any mutilations.”

  “You sound disappointed,” Eatwell said. “Ah, Abrams, what do you make of this?” Trevor looked up to see that Rayley Abrams had joined their circle. While the other detectives looked as if they’d been summoned from their beds – as indeed he himself had been – Abrams was as neatly groomed as ever. He stared soberly down at the woman.

  “Surprising that he’d change his method, Sir.”

  “I agree,” said Trevor. “Just a few days ago in the paper he bragged that he would –“ Trevor stopped, a sudden revelation sweeping with nauseating certainty. “He didn’t finish.”

  “She’s finished plain enough,” Eatwell said but Abrams looked at Trevor and gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod.

  “We need to scour the area, Sir,” Trevor said, his heart beginning to pound. “Something – probably the man with the horse – interrupted the killer before he could leave his usual calling cards. And that would have made him furious.”

  “Perhaps,” said Eatwell. “But why should we care if he’s furious?”

  Because people kill when they’re furious, you imbecile, Trevor thought. Struggling to control his voice he said, “Perhaps a patrol of the area is in order, Sir, or at least an alarm with the whistles. If Jack’s still about, we’ll flush him.”

  “This many coppers in the area and you think he’s still about?” Eatwell said. “In my experience, killers flee once the deed is done and this deed is most assuredly done. Sir Warren himself is on the way here and I want the whole contingent at the ready.”

  “I believe that’s Phillips now, isn’t it?” Abrams said quietly, directing Eatwell’s attention toward the street as a carriage rattled up to the front of the stable. The inspector turned to greet its occupant.

  “See here,” Trevor said, using the diversion to step back from the circle and whisper to the bobby who’d found the body. “What’s your name, lad?”

  “Davy Madley, Sir.”

  “Look round the area.”

  The boy nodded and slipped off without questions. Trevor hung back, watching Phillips’ assistant all but lift him from his carriage and lead him over to the body. “Good God,” said the old man. “Another one.”

  “But she doesn’t fit the pattern…” Trevor said.

  “No, by all appearances this one gave him a bit of a fight,” Phillips said, crouching and gingerly turning over the long, lean body of the prostitute. “Look, even now you can see bruises forming…”

  “Check her nails,” Trevor insisted. “Women fight with their fingernails.” Phillips ventured a grim smile.

  “What are you, mad for fingernails? Very well…”

  Just then three sharp blasts of a whistle pierced the night and the men clustered around the body all jumped. Davy Madley was running toward them, his face chalk-white and his breathing ragged. “Come, come, it’s just as you said, Sir. There’s another and he – he had plenty of time for this one, Sir.”

  Trevor turned to the bobby and shouted “Get back there, and keep the crowds away. Keep the police away.” Davy spun and ran back into the darkness as if he were being chased by the devil himself.

  “Don’t let them touch her,” Trevor cried after the boy’s retreating form. “Don’t let them move her. For the love of the Virgin, don’t let anyone near that body.”

  2:22 AM

  At his home in Brixton, a half-hour on foot from the house of Geraldine Bainbridge and an equal half-hour from the streets of Whitechapel, John Harrowman stood at his wash basin. Slowly, methodically, almost dreamily, he washed the last vestiges of blood from his hands. His favorite scalpel, the one he’d performed his very first surgery with and the one which still felt most at home in his hand, lay disinfected on a folded white towel and a bundle of bloodied clothes had been stuffed in his hassock. He’d been up for twenty hours, but John was not tired. Instead, as he scrubbed and the water blushed from pale pink to red, he was conscious that he was humming, that he was happy. He found a sense of exhilaration and power in his work. No matter how late the hour, he always returned from the streets of the East End feeling right within himself.

  Still humming, he turned from the washstand and walked over to his window. His working class neighborhood was sleeping, and John’s thoughts drifted back to the girl, Leanna. He had been absorbed in his medical practice for years, perhaps too many, and meeting her had reminded him there was another life out there, a life beyond the women of the East End. He caught a glimpse of himself in the window-glass and softly cursed. It had been a rough one; even his undershirt was splattered with dried drops of blood, and he thought for a moment of removing it and adding it to the pile of laundry. But he crawled in his bed instead, letting out a deep sigh, willing sleep to come and stop this strange pounding in his chest. He hugged his own arms, the memory of the night comforting him and in truth - for he was a doctor to the core - even the faint smell of blood was a pleasure.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  2:22 AM

  “There, Sir!” Davy held up his light and pointed to a heap lying on some overturned garbage, then involuntarily averted his face from the overwhelming, slightly metallic smell of freshly spilled blood. Trevor rushed by Davy and held up his light also, gasping as it showed the extent of the carnage which lay at his feet. Davy, who had seen far enough already, dipped his own lamp and stepped back.

  Trevor took Davy’s lantern and laid it on the ground beside the body, then placed his own on the other side, allowing the flickering oil light to spill over what was left of the woman’s face
. He pushed his palm firmly against his mouth, willing back the wave of nausea which had quickly overtaken him, while poor Davy huddled against one of the cold alley walls, fighting a losing battle with his own stomach.

  “Sorry, Sir,” he gasped, wiping away tears with the back of his hand. “Isn’t like me, Sir.”

  “It’s alright, son,” Trevor muttered, wondering if he would be joining the boy in another minute. “Pull yourself together when you can and keep those people back in the street.”

  Davy nodded, then squared his slight shoulders and headed back toward the mouth of the alley. The size of the crowd moving toward him made him pause and almost turn back, but Detective Welles was already on his knees beside the victim and Davy would rather have been ripped to shreds than to once again appear weak before a superior.

  Davy stretched out his arms and gave several firm blasts of his whistle, but nonetheless people pushed forward. Finally, a few feet short of Welles, the crowd stopped and gasps circulated throughout as each onlooker caught sight of the body. There was a second of silence, then a woman screamed, “Why ‘tis Cathy! Catherine Eddowes! And ‘e’s lopped off her ears like ‘e said in the Times!”

  “Damn it,” Trevor hissed over his shoulder at Davy. “Get that woman out of here this instant! All of you, go home to where you belong.” The crowd stood still, more from shock than defiance, until, using his cape somewhat in the manner of a matador, Davy began to shoo them out of the alley. The rest of the officers had at long last arrived and were standing uncertainly in the street.

  “You two,” Davy shouted, too distraught to care that he was yelling at men who outranked him, “push this mob back. And someone take a cloak and shield that body until the doctor arrives.”

  “T’would be my pleasure, Sir,” one of the men muttered, while the other, with a snort, began to disperse the crowd. The bobby became decidedly less flippant when he saw Catherine Eddowes and he swayed a bit on his feet as he unclasped his cloak.

  “Steady, man,” said Trevor, who had been following a thin trail of blood from the body. “I need you to follow this line to its end.”

  “I…I, Sir…”

  “Here, dear God, are you going to faint? Just stand and hold up that cape, just so, like a wall. Davy, lad, you take up the trail of blood. And be careful,” he shouted as the boy faded into the fog.

  “You were right,” a voice said, with a tight and barely controlled anger. Without turning, Trevor knew it was Rayley Abrams and he was relieved to have the man at his side. “The blood’s plentiful and fresh,” Abrams said. “Damn it to hell, this time we could have stopped him….” Abrams spat, the vehemence of the gesture surprising Trevor, and then, without further comment, the two men began to use their lights to look behind barrels and crates. Their minds were running in the same direction, but there was no murder weapon to be found.

  “Worth a try,” Abrams said. “The bastard’s so sure of himself I wouldn’t put it past him to leave the knife in plain view.” They could hear huffing and puffing coming from the direction of the street, and two figures were approaching with lanterns, the smaller carrying a satchel. “Is that you, Inspector? And is the Doctor with you?”

  “Yes, and yes.” Eatwell said shortly. The brisk walk from George Yard had obviously not agreed with him.

  Trevor led the two men back to the garbage pile, as Abrams, with a gesture he found impossible to interpret, slipped from the alley and back into the street. “Before you look,” Trevor said to Phillips and Eatwell, “I warn you to expect a most gruesome sight. The absolute worst yet.”

  “Really, Welles, you missed your calling on the stage,” Eatwell muttered as he pushed aside the young copper who had been holding up the cape. “Mother of God!” he gasped, as he quickly turned and stepped away, his face dissolving into an expression Trevor would have enjoyed under different circumstances.

  Without a word, Phillips signaled to the men standing behind him. His chief assistant, Severin, stepped forward to clasp the doctor under the arms and slowly lower him to his knees. The other moved in with two more lanterns, which he placed at the feet of the body and the additional light illuminated the enormity of the task before them. The woman had been disemboweled with at least an arm’s length of her intestines carefully draped about her shoulders, as if they were a shawl. The eyes, nose, lips, and cheeks were all gouged and sliced, giving her face the appearance of a discarded doll, lying in the street but staring up at the heavens. As promised, her ears had been neatly severed. Phillips did not look up at Trevor as he closely investigated the woman’s fingernails, but apparently Catherine Eddowes had not been given time to strike back at her assailant, for her hands were unmarked. Nor did it appear she had been drained or moved because the alley was awash in blood, so much so that when Phillips finally stood, again with assistance from his companions, his pants were brown and dripping. “Very recent,” he said quietly. “No more than a half hour at most.”

  “Detective Welles! Come quick!” shouted Davy from farther down the street and, giving Eatwell perhaps a bit more of a shove than was necessary, Trevor raced toward the young man’s cries. He found Davy and Abrams staring at a stone wall chalked with letters.

  “Read this.” Abrams said quietly, holding his light up to the wall.

  THE JUWES ARE NOT THE MEN THAT WILL BE BLAMED FOR NOTHING

  Trevor frowned. “What does it mean?”

  Abrams shook his head. “It could mean anything. I presume he’s referring to Jews, although if he’s the educated sort we thought he was, the misspelling makes no sense. And the double negative. It could mean we shouldn’t blame the Jews. It could mean that if we do blame the Jews we would be justified in doing so. It may not be related to these bodies at all. For all we know, those words may have been written a week ago by some random person with a grudge against the Hebrew faith.”

  “Oh no Sirs, begging your pardon, Sirs,” said Davy. “This street is on my regular rounds and there was nothing on this wall when I passed it earlier tonight. These words were written in the last hour, I’ll vouch for that.”

  “Dear God, what now?” Eatwell gasped, rounding the corner. He stopped and considered the wall in silence, then let out a long low curse.

  “Wipe that wall,” he said.

  “Inspector,” Abrams said, “We have reason to believe this message –“

  “Is an abomination and should be wiped off immediately,” Eatwell snapped, staring at the wall with the same expression he had turned toward the mutilated face of Catherine Eddowes. Then he motioned to Trevor and said, between clenched teeth, “You’ve wanted your chance, you made that plain enough. Alright then, I drop the whole bloody mess in your lap. From this point on you’re chief coordinator of the Whitechapel investigation.”

  Trevor stared at him in the flickering gaslight, incredulous. “It’s mine?”

  “It’s yours, damn you, it’s yours.”

  Trevor turned blindly toward Abrams but the man wasn’t there. Instead, he was walking the length of the wall, moving his lantern slowly back and forth. It should be his case, Trevor thought. I want it and I’ll take it, but by all rights, he’s the better man for the job.

  Abrams turned toward him with a soiled cloth in his hands. “A woman’s apron,” he said quietly, so quietly that Trevor had to strain to hear. “Most likely belonging to one of the women and the beast must have wiped his hands on it before leaving. “

  “This isn’t right, Abrams –“

  “Mark it. Fiber evidence.”

  Trevor started to say something else but was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. “Davy,” he called down the street. “I said keep those blasted people back in the courtyard!”

  “I am Police Commissioner Sir Charles Warren,” came a deep voice form the mist. “I take it you’re in charge here, Detective?”

  “Excuse me, Sir,” Trevor stammered. In seven years of police work he had never even seen Sir Warren, who directed activities from his office and was r
eputed to be a criminal genius. “Yes, I am Detective Trevor Welles.”

  “Before the newspaper people start nagging at me in a few hours, I’d like to know if there is anything to report besides two more butchered whores.”

  “Well Sir, we found this bloodstained apron and these writings on this wall,” answered Trevor, holding up a light so the Commissioner could read.

  “Wash this blasphemy off this instant, Detective.”

  “But Sir, we’re quite sure it was written by the killer. Shouldn’t someone else have a look at it?”

  “I don’t care if it was put there by the Queen herself. Wash it off this instant, or we’ll have every Jew in London murdered in a racial backlash. Things are bad enough as they stand and I have no wish to add some sort of religious purge to our problems. Do you, Detective Welles?”

  “The papers don’t have to know of this, Sir.”

  “Are you mad, Detective? Do you honestly think they’d leave a stone unturned in trying to report the case of the century? They lack all discretion when it comes to selling a paper and I won’t have it on that wall a second longer. Am I quite clear?”

  “Yes Sir.”

  “Then if you have nothing more to report, I’ll leave you to your investigation.” Sir Warren raised his lantern to his face, affording Trevor his first clear look at the legend, who in truth resembled any other white-haired, aging Londoner.

  “Very good, Sir,” said Trevor, his shoulders slumping with discouragement. Abrams seemed to have disappeared and Davy was already wiping off the wall. Trevor started at the last faint chalk marks, frowning.

  “You think this means he’s Jewish, Sir? Or that he wants us to think he’s Jewish? Maybe he just hates Jews the way he hates prostitutes, Sir?”