by M. J. Trow
‘Buck’s Row? That’s Whitechapel.’
‘Yessir.’
‘Well, why the hell . . . oh, all right. Wait a minute. I’ll be down. Have you got a wagon?’
‘Yes, sir. Oh, and one more thing, sir.’
‘Yes, Constable?’
‘A message from Mrs Abberline, sir, asking when you’ll be home.’
There was a shrill laugh from the bed. Abberline spun round with his finger to his lips and then back to the constable. ‘Get me to the station and then tell Mrs Abberline that all surveillances take time. The criminal mind, tell her, cannot be rushed. And, dear though she is to me . . .’
More giggles from the bed.
‘. . . my mind is and must be on higher things.’ He slammed the sash down just in time so that the constable did not hear the ‘Oh, Fred, you wicked, wicked man.’
‘Spratling, isn’t it?’ Abberline snapped. The inspector in the patrol jacket stood to attention.
‘It is, Mr Abberline.’
‘All right.’ Abberline threw the cold water over his face. ‘What have your boys dug up?’
‘It’s another one,’ he said.
Abberline had been here before. ‘Oh?’ he played dumb, a rôle he never found difficult.
‘Like that Martha Tabram. Or similar, anyway.’
‘Who is it this time?’
‘One Mary Ann Nicholls,’ Spratling consulted his black book, ‘wife of one William Nicholls of thirty-seven Coburg Street, a printer of Messrs Perkins, Bacon and . . .’
‘Yes, yes, all right. What happened?’
‘Her throat was cut, left to right. Almost cut her head off, he did . . .’
‘Who? The husband?’
Spratling shrugged. ‘Person or persons unknown.’
Abberline nodded, wrestling with his tie. ‘It’ll be the husband.’
‘She was disembowelled.’
Abberline looked up. This was a bit strong, even for Whitechapel. ‘They didn’t get him, then?’ he said.
‘I’m not sure it is the husband, sir. He seems to have a pretty tight story as to his whereabouts.’
‘Of course he has.’ Abberline began cleaning his nails with his letter-opener. ‘They all do.’
‘The doctor thinks she was cut about down . . . there . . . before her throat was cut.’ He read from his own notes. ‘The abdomen had been cut open from centre of bottom of ribs on right side . . .’
‘Yes, all right, Spratling, thank you,’ Abberline raised a hand, ‘I haven’t had my breakfast yet. Suspects apart from her husband?’
‘Well, it’s difficult,’ the Inspector admitted. ‘Nicholls was a prostitute.’
‘Ah,’ said Abberline, as though that said it all. ‘Doing business in the street, was she?’
‘Could be,’ Spratling said. ‘She’d been separated from the old man and was living at a lodging house in Flower and Dean Street. She couldn’t afford the fourpence for her bed, apparently, but was going out to earn it.’
‘Well,’ Abberline put on his bowler again, ‘I’ll look into it, Inspector.’
‘Sir, I believe we’ve got a maniac on our hands, sir.’
Abberline seared him with a glance. ‘All right, I’ll put one of our junior men on it. But now it’s time for breakfast.’
In his outer office Abberline accosted the desk man. ‘Sergeant, where’s Lestrade?’
The sergeant checked the register. ‘Last seen ’eading in the general direction of Northampton, sir.’
‘Northampton?’ Abberline looked perplexed. ‘What the devil is he doing there? Oh well, I’ll be in the Clarence if anything breaks, Sergeant. Apart from wind, of course,’ and he left the building.
Dr Theophilus Nails was a martinet of the old school – the school in this case being St Rhadegund’s. He was a burly man the wrong side of sixty, but that had not stopped him at all. In fact, it hadn’t even slowed him down. When Lestrade entered the great man’s study that afternoon early in September, he found the Headmaster still swathed in ropes and crampons.
‘Ah,’ Nails’s voice could shatter glass. ‘You must be Lestrade. Shocking business, what? What progress?’
‘Well, sir, I . . .’
‘Oh, forgive me. Seat. Brandy. In that order, what?’
Lestrade found himself complying with both orders. Like Wellington and his infantry, he didn’t know what effect Nails had on his boys, but he certainly terrified him.
‘I was hoping you could shed some light, sir.’
‘I?’ Nails paused in mid-swig, then downed it and poured again. ‘I have only this morning arrived home after a month in the Himalayas. You climb?’
Lestrade was about to protest that he didn’t, when he realised Nails’s meaning and said, ‘No.’
‘Pity. Ought to be part of basic training for you chappies. I wish we had some cliff faces near here. I’d soon put the boys through it. Now, where were we? Ay yes, this wretched washerwoman.’
‘Miss Hollis,’ Lestrade informed him.
‘Yes, quite. I didn’t know her personally, of course. My chaplain tells me she was murdered. Can that be true?’
‘I fear so,’ said Lestrade.
The Headmaster tapped his desk top with an ice pick. ‘How very, very awkward,’ he said.
‘Sir?’
‘Well, dammit, Lestrade. Term starts in two days. There’ll be a devil of a stink.’
‘The boys?’
‘The murder, man!’ Nails frowned at the Donegalled figure in front of him. He was clearly an imbecile, what with his head on one side and all.
‘May I ask, sir, why you ordered the local constabulary off the premises?’
‘Certainly you may ask,’ Nails told him. ‘I can’t have bobbies with their great feet trampling all over the First Eleven Square, Lestrade. This is a school. St Rhadegund’s School. What would the governors say? The parents? I am a father to these boys, Lestrade. I am in loco parentis.’
Lestrade didn’t doubt for a moment that the redoubtable Dr Nails was a father figure, but he really didn’t see how trains fitted into the picture.
‘The Chief Constable’s son is on our books,’ Nails explained, then rolled his eyes heavenwards, ‘albeit in the Remove; I merely sent a message to Arnold and told him what I thought of his constabulary. He understood of course and agreed with me, but he pointed out how difficult it was to get recruits these days who could master gerundives.’
Lestrade nodded. He’d noticed this for years.
‘How did this wretched girl die?’
‘She was drowned, sir. In your laundry.’
‘My laundry? Oh, no, Inspector, I never wash dirty linen in public. Who could have done it?’
‘That is what I am endeavouring to find out,’ Lestrade answered. ‘Maggie Hollis died, I believe, late on Tuesday night. The coroner’s report might help there, though we’ll have to wait for that.’
‘Oh, I’ll get that for you. Old Risdon’s grandson is on our books.’
‘The Remove?’ Lestrade asked.
‘No, the Lower Fourths, but I fear that is his ultimate destination, yes.’
‘I have interviewed everyone who was on the premises that night.’
‘Even the boys?’ Nails looked horrified.
‘No, sir, Mr Spooner advised me I should wait until you returned.’
‘Quite right. Oh, my boys may be young tearaways, Inspector, scallywags even. There may even be a bounder or two among ’em. But no really bad hats, I assure you.’
‘Even so, sir. I must have your permission to interview them.’
‘Must you? Oh well, I suppose, if you must. But I reserve the right to be present, Inspector.’
‘As you wish.’
‘Could none of the staff shed any light? That wretched woman Mrs Shuttlecomb for instance?’
‘I’m afraid Mrs Shuttlecomb is in a coma, sir.’
‘Good Lord, not the gin, was it?’
‘No, the Chaplain.’
‘Ah.’
> ‘If I weren’t so busy, I’d press charges.’
Nails waved it aside. ‘Done us all a favour,’ he assured him. ‘Utterly wretched woman.’
‘Are there only two keys to the laundry?’
‘I believe so. Better ask Adelstrop.’
‘Who?’
‘You remember Adelstrop,’ the Headmaster assured him.
‘Yes, of course. He did his rounds at about ten-thirty and noticed nothing untoward.’
‘Good, good,’ Nails nodded. ‘That’s what I like, a tight ship.’
‘Personally, I should have been happier had he witnessed a large man running from the laundry,’ Lestrade told him.
‘Ah,’ beamed Nails, ‘you’ve got someone in mind to pin this on.’ A positive light gleamed in his eyes. ‘Not Charles Bradlaugh, is it?’
‘Who?’
‘That upstart who has the temerity to represent this wonderful county of ours in Westminster. The man isn’t only a profligate and debauchee, he’s also an atheist.’
‘I take it his son isn’t on your books,’ Lestrade asked.
‘Certainly not. Not even in the Remove. I’d hang myself first.’
‘No, Dr Nails, I have no one in mind. I merely meant that a young girl was done to death in a building in a school containing thirty-six assorted staff and, on the night in question, twenty boys. And no one heard a thing.’
‘That’s the nature of the beast, Inspector. No one saw the thuggees at work either.’
‘That’s a little out of my beat, sir,’ Lestrade said. ‘Do you happen to recognise this?’ He handed Nails the little black cylinder he had found in the cadaverous hand of Maggie Hollis.
‘Yes, I do. It’s an amulet,’ the Headmaster told him. He dropped it hard on the desk and the end fell off.
Lestrade started and cried out.
‘It’s all right, Inspector, it’s supposed to do that. Look,’ he pulled out a rolled piece of parchment, ‘it’s an extract from the Dharam Ganth. Very common where I’ve just come from.’
‘Would you say they’re common in Northamptonshire, sir?’
‘Good Lord, no. Where did you get this?’
‘It was clutched in the dead girl’s hand,’ Lestrade told him, ‘and it’s my guess she snatched it from her murderer at the moment of her death.’
‘Good Heavens!’
The conversation ended abruptly as the Bursar knocked on the door and entered the room.
‘Yes, Bursar?’ Nails looked up.
‘Excuse me, Headmaster. A telegram for the Inspector.’
Lestrade opened it. Great Scotland Yard. Stop. Another Whitechapel Number. Stop. Get here. Stop. This must stop. Stop. Abberline. Wearily, the Inspector shambled to his feet.
‘Gentlemen, I’m afraid I shall have to leave you for a while. Dr Nails, may I question those twenty boys when I return?’
‘Be my guest, Lestrade,’ beamed Nails, and the Bursar saw him out.
‘Mercer,’ he scowled when Lestrade had gone, ‘get the Chief Constable for me, will you? We can’t have people like that trampling all over St Rhadegund’s. Can’t even hold his head up straight. And I don’t believe he has any grasp of the classics at all.’
They shook their heads at the declining standards.
Leather Apron
‘W
hat have we got, George?’
The sergeant finished stirring his tea with his pencil stump. ‘From the wall, guv’nor?’ he asked.
‘That’s why we put it up there,’ Lestrade said. ‘So much easier than shoe-boxes.’ He reached for the sergeant’s pencil stub, sucked it thoughtfully and committed it to the deep, stirring wistfully.
‘Looks like two of ’em,’ George said.
‘Go on, then.’ Lestrade lolled back in his chair and closed his eyes. ‘Pretend I’ve just come in and know absolutely nothing.’ That wasn’t far from the truth. ‘Assistant Commissioner Rodney is having one of his accursed monthly meetings tomorrow and I’m having one of my headaches.’
‘Right, sir,’ Sergeant George read the yellowed pages pinned to the board. ‘Martha Tabram, aged thirty-five, found in the early hours of the seventh August on a staircase in George Yard Buildings off Commercial Street.’
‘Cause of death?’
‘Stabbing, sir. Thirty-nine holes to throat and stomach.’
‘Weapon?’
‘Something sharp, sir.’
‘You didn’t do it, then, George,’ Lestrade sighed.
‘No, sir, I was on duty at . . . oh, I see, sir.’ The sergeant saw Lestrade’s eyes flicker for a second in disbelief. ‘It was possibly a bayonet, sir. And the deceased had been seen a few hours before her death in the company of another prostitute and two soldiers.’
‘And?’
‘No.’ George scanned the wall carefully. ‘Just that, sir.’
‘No.’ Lestrade kicked his feet off the desk. ‘I mean and what happened?’
‘Mr Abberline pulled ’em in, sir. The other woman couldn’t identify anybody. Said they all looked the same in uniform. According to the company commander, they were the only ones on leave that day he couldn’t account for. But without a positive identification . . .’
‘Nothing else?’
‘No, sir. Shoe-box marked “pending”.’
Yes, thought Lestrade, there were a lot of those. ‘What about the latest one?’
‘Mary Ann Nicholls, aged forty-two. Also a prostitute found in Buck’s Row. Skirt above her knees, if you get my drift. Found about three-thirty, Friday, thirty-first ult. Two cuts to the throat, from left to right. The second one nearly eight inches long, almost depac, detap . . . cut her head off, sir. Most of front teeth missing. Abdomen slashed, intestines chucked about.’
‘Where did the post mortem take place?’
‘Er . . . Montague Street workhouse, guv’nor.’
‘Wasn’t there another one?’ Lestrade was talking to himself really.
‘Not in Montague Street, sir,’ Sergeant George was an old Q Division hand. He’d been born in those tawdry gutters. All in all, he hadn’t progressed very far.
‘No, I mean killing,’ Lestrade explained. ‘April, wasn’t it? Get me that shoe-box. No, left, left, Sergeant. Yes, that’s it.’
‘Name, sir?’ George thumbed through the sheafs of paper.
‘Smith,’ Lestrade said apologetically.
George’s shoulders fell. ‘There are another sixteen of these, sir, crawling with Smiths.’
‘No, it’s in that one, George. Emma, er . . . George Street, Spitalfields.’
‘Blimey, guv.’ George was impressed. ‘You’re dead right,’ an unfortunate turn of phrase perhaps, ‘number eighteen. Found in the early hours at Osborn Street, still alive. Said four men had grabbed her. Face slashed and a blunt object shoved up . . .’ His voice tailed away.
Lestrade looked up. ‘All right, Sergeant. I get the picture. Don’t make funny reading, the shoe-boxes, do they? Could she identify her attackers?’
George shrugged. ‘Don’t say. She died the next day of peti . . . perinon . . . stomach trouble.’
Lestrade leaned forward. ‘Your verdict, then, Sergeant?’
‘I leave that to the jury, sir,’ George beamed.
‘Yes, I’ll do the wit,’ Lestrade said. ‘What’s our common theme, our link?’
George thought long and hard, gazing torturedly between wall and shoe-box and back again.
‘Mr Abberline thinks it’s because they were whores, sir, though I must admit he didn’t include this Emma Smith.’
‘No,’ Lestrade shook his head. ‘I’m not sure we should either. Every other woman in Whitechapel and Spitalfields walks the night, Sergeant. That’s a pointless road to walk down. Look again at Smith and Tabram.’
George did. Nothing.
‘Where they were found,’ Lestrade said slowly, ‘or where they lived.’
The sergeant stiffened and swallowed hard.
‘Exactly,’ Lestrade nodded. ‘Emma Smith lived in
George Street. Martha Tabram was found cut about in George Yard. If I can find that name in connection with Mary Nicholls, I’ve got enough coincidence to hang you, George George.’
George stepped back as though he had trodden in a cowpat. Then he saw the wry smile creep over the yellowed face of the Inspector. ‘Get on, sir, you’re pulling my leg!’ he grinned.
‘I wouldn’t even touch your leg without surgical forceps, Sergeant. But you’re absolutely right. I must get on.’
Military knuckles crashed heavily on Lestrade’s door and Constable Derry appeared, saluting smartly so that his hand quivered against his temple.
‘Inspector Spratling to see you, sir.’
‘Thank you, Constable. Show him in.’
‘Very good, sir!’ The steel-shod boot came down.
‘Remind me to have a word with him about that, George, will you? Cut along to Mr Abberline and tell him . . . tell him we’re making satisfactory progress.’
‘Are we, sir?’ George thought he might have missed a chunk of the recent conversation.
‘No,’ said Lestrade blankly, ‘but we don’t need to tell Mr Abberline that, do we?’
‘Quite right, guv’nor.’ George paused to let Spratling in, then closed the door behind him.
‘Morning, Sholto.’ Spratling took the offered chair. ‘Wasn’t that George George?’
‘It was, Jack. Do you know him?’
‘From when I was in Q Division,’ Spratling said. ‘Just like his parents. No imagination.’
It took one to know one, Lestrade surmised. ‘Got anything for me on this Mary Nicholls?’ he asked.
‘So the Yard is in on it?’
‘Does that bother you, Jack?’
‘Not unduly, Sholto. I was told to report the situation to Abberline. To be honest, I’m not exactly cock-a-hoop about it.’
‘You haven’t got to work with him,’ Lestrade reminded him.
‘That’s true. So you’re the “junior man”, are you?’
‘What?’ Lestrade bridled. He’d been eleven years on the Force and four before that with the City. All right, so his head was a little on one side at the moment, but the police surgeon had said it would pass. There was no call for Jack Spratling to be rude.
‘That’s how Abberline described you. “I’ll put one of our junior men on it”, he said. As I live and breathe.’
