City of Darkness

by Kim Wright

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  5: 38 PM

  Trevor was finishing up his paperwork and debating taking a break for a pint or perhaps even a decent supper. His cheerfulness that morning on the dock had all been for show, calculated to ease Abrams’s guilt at leaving. Trevor had spent the day going through the crew rosters Davy had obtained from the dockmasters, checking to see if any of the men aboard had a history of medical training. A long shot, but perhaps worth taking.

  “The work is never finished,” a voice said gently. “You just have to find those points where you can put it down and walk away for a bit of rest.”

  “I know,” Trevor said, looking up at the creased and kindly face of Phillips. “I’m just about ready to step out for dinner. Shall you join me?”

  “Wife waiting at home,” Phillips said, surprising Trevor, who hadn’t known the doctor was married. The nature of the Yard meant that men might bond into a quick brotherhood behind these walls, but not necessarily that they were friends on the outside. In fact, quite the opposite. Most of the people in criminology were nearly fanatical about keeping their private lives separate from their professions. Still, it was hard to picture Phillips with a wife.

  “Do you need assistance, Sir?” Severin asked, emerging from the backroom, with his shirt sleeves rolled up, wiping his hands on a towel.

  Phillips snorted softly. “I believe I can make my way up the stairs and into a carriage without a nursemaid, thank you.” He walked out a bit more briskly than his usual pace, as if to illustrate his capabilities, and as they listened to the fading sounds of the doctor’s cane tapping up the stone staircase, Severin’s shoulders sagged.

  “You were quite right to ask,” Trevor told him. “His decline over these last weeks has been noteworthy. It’s just hard for a man like Phillips to admit he needs help.”

  Severin nodded and turned back toward the sink.

  “And you should be finishing up as well, shouldn’t you?” Trevor added. “The good doctor is quite right. The chores will all wait for the morrow and there’s a point where we all simply must walk away from them.”

  The young man gave him a small smile. “Hard for me to leave work undone, Sir.”

  “Indeed. Then consider it an order. I shall order you to do what I cannot manage myself.” Trevor leaned back in his chair and watched Severin take a final swipe at the counter with a rag. He reminded Trevor of Davy, whose own methodical work ethic had produced these very ship rosters spread out before him, and Trevor reflected that, difficult as it might be, the older men on the force were going to have to start entrusting the younger men with more significant responsibilities. Trevor shook his head ruefully. Davy and Tom and now Severin. They were the true modern men, were they not? The ones who would carry England into its bold new future.

  “Are you going home to a wife as well?” Trevor asked, as Severin pulled on his cape. He meant the question almost as a joke, but Severin flushed.

  “Hope to be soon, Sir,” he said quietly.

  “Ah, then. Bully. It’s a fine thing to have a special girl.”

  Severin nodded and then asked, almost as an afterthought, “And for you, Sir?”

  “No,” Trevor said shortly. “No one.” Clearly fearful that he had managed to offend two superiors within five minutes, Severin scuttled out the door, leaving Trevor to stare down at the ship rosters. No one special and no one waiting. He may as well give the crew lists one more look.

  5:42 PM

  “How do I look?” Leanna asked, turning in a slow circle before Emma.

  Emma considered for a moment. “Respectable. But not especially prosperous.”

  “Perfect,” Leanna said, bending to pick up the clothes scattered about the room and stuff them back into the bags designated for the workhouse. “That was precisely the effect I was going for.”

  “And how do I look?” Emma asked, turning herself.

  “Just the same. Respectable but not prosperous.”

  “Ah, but that’s how I always look.”

  Leanna laughed uncertainly. Since the shock of Mary’s death and her long stint on medication, Emma’s behavior had been uncharacteristically erratic, and it was hard to tell when she was joking.

  “We certainly had a lot of dresses to choose from,” she said, attempting to iron her skirt with her hands, as she often did when nervous. “Where does Aunt Gerry obtain all these garments anyway?”

  “Her friends bring clothing from their maids,” Emma said “which in turn is passed along to women not fortunate enough to be maids. I suppose there’s rather a protocol to how the clothing descends through its various owners. Women who are respectable and prosperous, followed by women who are respectable but not prosperous and then, finally, those poor creatures who are neither.”

  “Oh yes,” Leanna said, rather breathlessly. “Quite right.”

  Emma bent to tie a shoe. She seemed to take her time, then finally she stood and straightened, looking directly into Leanna’s face. “In other words,” she said. You to me and then on to Mary and last of all women like Annie Chapman and Cathy Eddowes. That’s the order in which it all descends.”

  5:59 PM

  Trevor was thinking he should truly finish for the night when Tom Bainbridge showed up at his door, looking exhausted and a little guilty. Trevor waved him inside and watched in surprise as the boy took off his shirt to reveal a bloodstained chest and, grimacing, fished a surgical scalpel from the inner pocket of his coat.

  “I’m afraid I’ve been a fool,” Tom said. “These items came from the home of John Harrowman.”

  “Harrowman gave them to you?” Trevor asked, frowning in confusion. The boy didn’t seem to be hurt, so why was he covered in blood?

  Tom violently shook his head and collapsed into a chair. “I broke into his home while he was out for luncheon,” he said. “Bungled it all, I’m afraid, but I did come away with this shirt, which was damp when I started out, and this knife …”

  “Whyever did you take his shirt? You must realize that any blood that was still damp couldn’t possibly belong to Mary Kelly.”

  “But the blood itself….There are tests to be run, are there not?”

  “Perhaps. But we’d only need a trace of it and that is….rather a large shirt and rather a lot of blood, is it not?” As Tom moved into the light, Trevor absorbed the full impact of his costume and couldn’t resist a chuckle. “In the future you and I must discuss the meaning of the word ‘sample’ and the various non-surgical ways in which a man might use a knife.”

  “I don’t know why you’re laughing,” Tom said, with as much dignity as he could muster under the circumstances for the full force of his ridiculousness was hitting him as well. “I’ll admit that the more time that passes the more I’m unsure what I hoped to gain in bringing you this shirt, much less this shirt in its horrible entirety. But I must tell you that there were certain elements in John Harrowman’s room that make me think you were right about calling him a suspect.”

  “What sort of elements?”

  As Tom gave a brief recount of his morning’s adventures, Trevor began to shake his head.

  “The presence of knives and bloodied clothes are explained away by his profession,” Trevor said. “And as for the fact his private quarters were in shambles and you found a smutty book….I’m afraid if we used that as criteria, every bachelor in London would be behind bars before morning, with me, and perhaps even you, among them. No, we need more than that, especially now that it appears Harrowman has somewhat of an alibi.”

  Tom looked at him blearily. “How the deuce does a man have ‘somewhat of an alibi.’”

  “This was Abram’s last task before he sat sail for Paris,” Trevor said, opening his notebook. “Learned that Harrowman spent most of the night at the bedside of a Mayfair woman in labor. The daughter of your aunt’s friend Tess, in fact, named Margory Cuthberson. You may have met her.”

  Tom shook his head. “Most of the night?”

  “Twins, a
long birth, and when the lady became fatigued, apparently Harrowman offered her a respite with chloroform. And while she rested, so did the rest of the house, including him.” Trevor shrugged. “Therein lies the ‘somewhat.’ This rest period gives us a small window of opportunity, perhaps two hours, in which Harrowman could have conceivably left the Cuthberson home.”

  “Time frame?”

  “Very early morning. Which, yes, I’m well aware coincides with the Kelly killing. It’s conceivable he could have crossed town in a coach, done the deed, and returned to Mayfair in time to deliver the twins. But it’s far-fetched, Tom, and would have required either a bizarre set of coincidences or absolute genius to ensure he’d find a victim at precisely the right time, could calculate how long it would take to butcher her and how long the family he was using as an alibi would continue to slumber. Plus the thoroughness of the work on Kelly….Phillips think it would have taken the better part of a night.”

  “For a man Phillips’s age perhaps. You’ve seen John. A man at the height of his powers might have done it all far faster.”

  “Possible,” Trevor said. “But to my mind still unlikely. I say, you’ve gone from his biggest defender to his first accuser rather fast, haven’t you?”

  Tom’s ankle was throbbing and he eased it onto the chair beside him. “The bit about the chloroform is rather convenient.”

  “Whyever would you say that? It’s standard use in childbed for the women who can afford the cost of such oblivion. The Queen herself accepted it for her later births, did she not? And made the doctor who administered it to her a knight or a duke or something of the sort?”

  Tom nodded. “A baron, I believe. Yes of course, the chloroform can be explained away too, just as everything else. But his proclivity for drugging women may be a factor in all this, don’t you see? John has prescribed large doses of morphine for Emma in the last few days. I know what you’re thinking, that it’s natural to do so for a girl who’s had such a severe shock, but Emma has been quite disoriented.” Tom drew a deep breath, struggled for a way to explain the next part. “I have the sense that last night I was trying to help her. That I carried her, had to assist her in the most profound way.”

  “What do you mean you have the sense? Did you carry her or didn’t you?”

  “My own memory has been a little-“

  “You’re suggesting he drugged you as well?”

  “No, no I did that task for him. I was rattled when I left here yesterday and I’m afraid I may have had a bit too much brandy. So granted, I’m hardly the best witness to Emma’s behavior over the last twenty-four hours but I will say that based on Leanna’s descriptions, John is being quite cavalier with her medication. Apparently he’s decided that the cost of oblivion isn’t too high.”

  “Perhaps he just doesn’t like to see a woman suffer,” Trevor said quietly, although he was also busily scribbling down everything Tom had told him. “Can’t bear the sight of it myself, to be honest. If I had a means for relieving their pain, I might act just the same.”

  “Consider the pattern. That’s what Grandfather always taught me and Leanna, that the beginning of all science is just this, the recognition of a pattern. Doctors have access to knives, which you’ve realized was significant from the start, but they have knowledge of drugs too, do they not? It’s possible a physician might use them not just to relieve suffering, but for his own darker purposes. Selecting victims. Providing alibis.”

  Trevor frowned. “How is Emma today?”

  “Much clearer. Really almost her normal self.”

  “And you?”

  “Better too.”

  “But where have you been all afternoon? You said you went to Harrowman’s home at luncheon but it’s dark outside. So for the last four or five hours have you-“

  To Tom’s relief, Trevor’s inquiries were cut short by the arrival of Davy, bearing a letter.

  “This came special, Sir.”

  “Another confession? Another kidney? Put it with the others.”

  Davy shook his head. “You’ll want to see this one. It’s from Miss Bainbridge.”

  “Why the devil would Gerry send a message here?”

  “Not that Miss Bainbridge, Sir. This is from the other one. The girl. Leanna.”

  6:21 PM

  Cecil walked into the Pony Pub and took a moment to survey his surroundings. It appeared things were coming together well. Georgy had been dispatched to meet the girls in Hanover Street and Micha was already here in the pub, earlier than could be expected considering the man was a Neanderthal, probably no more capable of reading a clock than he was of quoting Plato. Micha had taken residence at the bar and, with a sigh, Cecil joined him. He would have preferred to conduct this particular piece of business in privacy but privacy, he was beginning to understand, was as rare a commodity in Whitechapel as a diamond and opal brooch. Besides, the hour was early and pub yet uncrowded. It was unlikely anyone would take note of their conversation.

  Cecil slid onto the barstool beside Micha and gave him a companionable nod. “Beer for both of us,” he said to the barmaid, a pretty little thing who giggled at every word that was said to her. Cecil waited until his beer had descended a few inches in the glass and then turned to Micha.

  “You were offered a certain amount for a certain task,” he said. “But you can add ten more pounds very easily.” Micha did not answer, which Cecil took as an invitation to continue. “Two girls will appear, just as planned,” he said, keeping his voice low and his focus straight ahead. “Your prey is the blonde one, rather tall. Blonde, you know. Means she has yellow hair. She’ll be dressed as a lady. My life would be easier if this girl didn’t exist. Do you catch my meaning?”

  “What I do with other?”

  Cecil shrugged. “Makes no difference to me. Have your way with the chit if you fancy her, and consider it a bonus. Not the blonde.” Cecil could not have explained why this mattered to him, in light of all that was about to happen, but he turned to the huge man for the first time, staring into his face to impress the point. “She won’t be sullied and she needn’t suffer. Needn’t see it coming.” Cecil took a deep drag from his glass, shuddered as the sting of the five-pence pint washed across his tongue. “She should go fast, like the cow. Can you manage?”

  Micha nodded, but the phrase “ten more pounds” was all he’d heard. Whatever came next was just details, and details were the sort of things rich men could afford, of no interest to a working class bloke like Micha. Who could tell yellow hair from any other kind, in the dark? Thirty pounds, that’s what mattered. More than a month’s worth of wages at the slaughterhouse, paid up prompt for a moment of sport. Wasn’t this the damndest country, Micha thought, one where a man could be paid so well for doing what came naturally, and as he looked up his happy glance fell on one of his kinsman.

  “Tell me,” he said, “I am here all the night, am I not?”

  He was speaking to the well-dressed man Cecil had seen the first night, the man who had, in fact, told Cecil how to find Micha. “Here all the night,” the man said, raising a pint from the end of the bar. “Both of us, eh, Lucy?”

  “Drinking all night, the both of you,” the girl said.

  So this is how they establish an alibi, Cecil thought. Each claims that the other was in the Pony Pub, and all the while any number of villainies are being perpetrated in the streets beyond. Despite his vow to remain unobtrusive, to keep his scarf pulled high and his hat pulled low, Cecil found himself staring at this other man, the one with the mustache.

  He’s like me, Cecil thought, the notion coming on him abruptly, with the bitterness of cheap beer. We’re men who once knew greater means, men who thought their lives were destined for different ends, but we’ve fallen on hard times, haven’t we? The man’s coat, while worn and dirty, had a certain quality. An elegance in the cut and Cecil had always prided himself that he could recognize elegance, even when it was tattered and concealed, just like this, in the tawdry streets of Whitechapel. He
raised his beer in tribute and, after a moment’s pause, the man raised his back.

  6:25 PM

  John emerged from an alleyway just off Toddle Street, carrying his black bag at his side, and, walking swiftly, began to make his way toward the waterfront. This area was better lit than most of Whitechapel and as John passed under a street lamp, someone called his name. She had been searching the streets for him for twenty minutes, had sent a note to his house, and she was shaking with relief at the sight of his tall form silhouetted in the fog. He turned at the sound of her voice and she tumbled into his arms in relief. They conferred, very briefly, and then linked arms and started walking away from the water.

  6:25 PM

  “Well, o’course I wouldna bring a baby here.” The little man’s tone was offended, as if to suggest while it might be morally permissible to sell a child, only a beast would put one in a pram and push it to a tea house. “The baby should be with me wife, natural enough, that’s where we be headed.”

  “Then why did you ask us to meet you here?” Leanna asked through gritted teeth. Everything about the situation smelled wrong but Emma only seemed bewildered. She sat across from Leanna, gripping her cup so tightly that it seemed the porcelain might crack at any minute.

  “Ladies like you might not likely meet old Georgy ‘less the place was posh, am I right?” The man had probably scrubbed up as well as he could, Leanna thought, but he still stood out in a neighborhood tea room, surrounded by gossiping women and the occasional husband treating his wife to a piece of pear tart. Georgy kneaded his hands nervously and looked from Leanna to Emma. “Money here, baby when ye follow,” he said.

  “There’s isn’t a baby at all, is there?” Leanna said coldly.