by M. J. Trow
Bracegirdle paused. ‘Not that much, Lestrade. No one needs money that much.’
‘I want to ask you a direct question, Major,’ the Inspector said. ‘I’d like an honest answer to it.’
‘Fire away!’
Lestrade stood up. ‘Did you kill Singh Major?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Did you kill Anthony Denton?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Did you kill Margaret Hollis?’
‘No, sir.’
They were emphatic, old soldier’s answers, firm-lipped, iron-jawed, clear-eyed. If Lestrade was any judge of men at all after his fifteen years on the Force, the man was telling the truth.
‘Very well,’ he said and rummaged in his pocket. ‘What do you make of this?’
He held up the amulet which he had found in Maggie Hollis’s hand. Bracegirdle looked closely. ‘It’s an amulet,’ he said, ‘with some gibberish written inside it. Was it Singh’s?’
‘I’m beginning to wonder. Do you know where I might find his brother?’
‘From Hell’
B
racegirdle did not know where Singh Minor was. Neither did anybody else. He had been there at breakfast before news of Singh Major broke. No one in his House had seen him, least of all Hardman, the House prefect. Yet Dr Nails had forbidden anyone to leave the grounds. Singh’s bed had been made. He ought to have been in mathematics, but Lestrade could understand him wanting to miss that. Besides, he had an appointment with Singh Major.
Matron and the Bursar had laid out the young man in the san. Since Spencer Minor had wisely given the mince a wide berth, Singh was its only occupant. Lestrade thrust his hands in his pockets, circled the naked corpse once, then again. A young man, seventeen or eighteen years of age, handsome in a dark sort of way. No marks on the body, except the bruising around the noose at his throat, the mountaineer’s noose. What would Mr Berry make of that? There would be a post mortem of course in a day or two and he would know if Singh had died in the water or in the boat. If he was drowned, why the noose? And if he was hanged, why the boat? And why was he naked? And where were his clothes? And what was his connection with Maggie Hollis, the pregnant laundress? And with Anthony Denton, the young classics master? And why couldn’t Lestrade answer any of these questions? A knock at the door produced Matron who in turn produced a welcome face, even if it did belong to Sergeant George.
‘Got your telegram, guv’nor,’ he grinned. ‘Blimey.’ He surveyed what remained of Cherak Singh. ‘What’s his problem?’
‘Whatever it is,’ sighed Lestrade, ‘it’s ours, too. Let’s get down to the village. I’ll let you buy me a drink.’
Snug in the settle of The Nag’s Head, Lestrade placed his feet on the firedogs and soaked up the atmosphere of pipe smoke and beer.
‘I smuggled this out.’ George returned with the pints and unfolded a letter for Lestrade’s perusal. The Inspector read it between sips.
‘Dear Boss . . . who’s that?’
‘It was addressed to the Central News Office in Fleet Street.’
Lestrade read on: ‘I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they wont fix me just yet. This writing’s grim, George; not yours, is it? That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits . . . so he reads the papers.’
‘There’s plenty to read. I tell you, sir, there’s panic in London. I’ve never seen anything like it in twelve years on the Force.’
‘I am down on whores . . .’ Lestrade read on, lowering his voice as he realised an eerie silence had descended on the snug. Even the clock seemed to have stopped. ‘. . . and I shant quite ripping them till I do get buckled . . . Down on whores, George.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What does that mean to you?’
‘He doesn’t like prostitutes, sir,’ was the best the sergeant could do at short notice.
‘Thank you, George,’ said Lestrade. ‘Remind me to mention you in despatches. Think, man.’
‘Somebody with a grudge against them, sir,’ George was warming up as the beer began to reach various parts Lestrade could not.
‘Gladstone?’ Lestrade suggested.
‘A religious maniac, surely,’ George countered.
‘Gladstone,’ repeated Lestrade, who returned to the letter. ‘Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal . . . Who does he mean? When was this posted?’ There was no envelope.
‘The twenty-fifth ult, sir. That would make it . . . Annie Chapman.’
‘I love my work and want to start again,’ he paused. ‘You will soon hear from me with my funny little games.’ He dropped the crumpled paper on the table. ‘It’s a game to him, George. He’s taunting us.’
‘Read on, guv’nor. It gets better.’
‘I saved some of the . . .proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I cant use it . . .’ Lestrade looked at George. The sergeant shrugged.
‘Red ink is fit enough I hope ha ha. The next job I do I shall clip the lady’s ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn’t you . . .’ Lestrade looked at George again.
‘No ears arrived yet, sir. Mind you, I wouldn’t like to enquire too closely as to what was in Constable Derry’s sandwiches yesterday.’
‘Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work then give it straight out. My knifes nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good luck. Yours truly . . . Jack the Ripper.’
‘Yes,’ George leaned forward, ‘and all this time we’ve been calling him the Whitechapel murderer.’
But the letter had a postscript. ‘Don’t mind me giving the trade name wasn’t good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands curse it. No luck yet. They say Im a doctor now ha ha.’ Lestrade sat back. ‘Why did you bring this?’ he asked. ‘I’ve been taken off that case, remember. By the Commissioner, no less.’
‘Ah,’ George beamed, with the air of a man who keeps his ear to the grindstone, ‘but he may not be Commissioner much longer.’
‘Oh?’ As countless people had realised, Lestrade was all ears.
‘They’re all after his blood. Except the Ripper, apparently. Every morning paper in the City is demanding Charles Warren’s resignation. They say there’s a cover-up going on.’
‘Do they?’ Lestrade had been away from the hub of things for two days. Already he was hopelessly out of touch.
‘He’s seeing the Queen this very day.’
‘I wonder which of them will go?’ Lestrade mused.
‘Inspector Wensley urged me to bring this, sir,’ George told him.
‘You were taking a chance, though. This is evidence.’
‘Well, we’ve all got to go sometime.’ George was fairly philosophical for a sergeant. ‘I think Mr Wensley would appreciate some help, sir.’
‘What’s Abberline doing? No, don’t tell me.’ Lestrade perused the letter again. ‘First, he made an official complaint to the press for publishing that nonsense about Leather Apron.’
George nodded.
‘Then he paid a call at Leman Street Station where the incident happened and shouted at everybody in sight.’
He nodded again.
‘Then he investigated proprietors and retailers of ginger beer.’
Another nod.
‘Followed by proprietors and retailers of red ink.’
‘Spot on!’ said George in admiration. ‘How did you know that, guv’nor?’
‘Oh, just wild guesses,’ smiled Lestrade. ‘When’s he starting on the hospitals and Harley Street?’
‘Sir?’
Lestrade quoted again. ‘They say Im a doctor now ha ha.’
‘I’m not sure he’s had time, sir.’
‘Tut, tut. Has Fred Wensley seen this?’
‘Yes,’ said George.
‘What does he think? Is it genuine?’
‘He thinks it is, sir.’
Lestrade stood up and walked into a pool of sunshin
e on the uneven flagstones of the floor. ‘That’s good enough for me. When are Derry and Toms due?’
‘Tomorrow, sir. First train.’
‘All right, George. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch Fred Wensley’s. There are nearly four hundred boys up the road and I want depositions from them all. Derry and Toms can help.’
‘Are you sure about that, sir?’
‘I like to see wit in a man,’ said Lestrade, stonily. ‘You’ll certainly need it around here. Every word you write, every question you ask will be watched over by the Headmaster, Dr Nails.’
‘A doctor, eh?’ George was elsewhere.
‘Of theology, George,’ said Lestrade. ‘Don’t mix your cases.’
‘With respect, guv’nor, isn’t that what you’re doing?’
‘Some have cases thrust upon them,’ said Lestrade as he drained his tankard. ‘Your shout, I think.’
‘Where will you be, sir?’
‘Sitting here waiting for it.’
‘No, I mean while I’m taking statements.’
‘I’d better go and hold Wensley’s hand. And George . . .’
‘Sir?’
‘We may not have Jack the Ripper at Rhadegund Hall, but something is worrying the sheep. Keep your eyes open.’ He turned in search of the latrine and collided with a warming pan.
The little old lady sat dozing by the fire in the drawing room. The tall gentleman with the plumed hat cleared his throat forcefully, causing the little old lady to sit bolt upright so that the dog on her lap shook and growled.
‘Do you have the ague, Sir Charles?’ she asked through pursed lips.
‘No, ma’am,’ he answered, clicking his boots again, ‘I was merely wondering . . .’
‘If we were awake? Of course we were. Tell me, these dreadful murders in Whitechapel. Who is behind it?’
‘We have our suspects, ma’am. Personally, I favour the Jews.’
‘Do you?’ the old lady said with some distaste and struggled to her feet so that the dog pounced on Sir Charles’s sash ends and proceeded to tear them to shreds.
‘Is he worrying you?’ she asked.
‘Not unduly, ma’am,’ the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police answered, praying the little cur would not cock its leg all over his patent leather, ‘but I feel he is disturbing my tassels a little.’
‘We must improve the lighting in those mean streets,’ she went on, running her chubby little fingers over the marble nose of the Teutonic Hero whose busts adorned every corner. ‘We will talk to Mr Matthews. We are not sufficiently gas-and-watered. As for you,’ the lugubrious eyes took on a brittle grey in the morning light, the old sparkle still there, glancing from the chandeliers, the mirrors and back again, ‘you must improve our detective force. Who is in charge?’
‘Chief Inspector Abberline, ma’am.’
‘Abberline? Never heard of him.’ She paced the floor, resting now and again, leaning on various busts as she went. Charles Warren was aware of various Indian figures hovering in ante rooms. It unnerved him more than the vicious little lap dog chewing holes in his coat tails, snarling and yapping. ‘Dear Lord Beaconsfield once told me of a young policeman he had met. Apparently, he was singularly impressed by him. His name was . . . Depraved . . .Was that it? No, Deranged? No.’
‘Lestrade, ma’am?’ Warren was even more unnerved by this time.
‘No, I don’t believe it was that. However, if it were, is this man still on the Force?’
‘Yes, ma’am, but on another case, I fear.’
‘Bring him back, Sir Charles. We insist upon it. Lord Beaconsfield was certain this young man would go far.’
‘Well, Northamptonshire, anyway,’ Warren muttered.
The old lady spun round with an agility rare in one so age crazed. ‘Put this Lestrade in charge. Before heads start to roll.’
A clock, in the likeness of the late Prince Albert, chimed the hour. ‘Ah, Karim,’ she called shrilly and one of the Indian shadows appeared, bowing low, ‘is Lord Salisbury without?’
‘Yes, madam,’ bowed Karim.
‘Admit him. And Sir Charles . . .’
‘Your Majesty?’
‘Is there something the matter with your leg?’
‘No, ma’am, merely that your spaniel . . .’
‘Shitzu!’ the Queen corrected him.
‘Bless you, ma’am,’ and the Commissioner left, bowing thrice.
The Inspectors faced each other over mugs of tea. It was something of a red-letter day, not merely because of those purporting to be from the Whitechapel murderer, but because Fred Wensley had come to the Yard without the aid of the wild horses.
‘So tell me again,’ said Lestrade, unable in his heart of hearts to bear the silence, now that George, Derry and Toms were away at Rhadegund Hall.
‘His name’s Honeybun. Isaiah Honeybun.’
‘God!’
‘Perhaps. Or at least His right-hand man. He asked me if I felt I had a vocation.’
‘And did you?’
‘Not for months. You know how it is. Rest days are a thing of the past.’
Lestrade nodded in agreement. ‘And Abberline sent him?’
‘No, no. From what I gathered from the Chief Inspector’s demeanour at Leman Street yesterday, an invitation from on High is the last thing he wanted. The word is that it was Warren’s idea.’
‘Oh, well . . .’ Lestrade shrugged, pushing the empty mug away from him, ‘that says it all. Where’s he come from?’
‘Three years in the Post Office. Before that, Cheltenham, man and boy,’ Wensley told him.
‘Not exactly a walk on the wild side,’ mused Lestrade. ‘What does he make of this lot, this visiting angel?’
A sharp rap at the door punctuated his question, and a tall, rather sallow man with a clipped moustache and firm jaw strode into the room.
‘Would you be Chief Inspector Abberline?’ he asked.
‘Not for ready money,’ Lestrade answered. ‘I’m Lestrade. Who are you?’
‘Isaiah Honeybun.’ He extended a hand. ‘Your brother in Christ.’
‘Ah, quite.’ Lestrade felt his fingers give a little under the muscular grip. ‘Late of Cheltenham, I understand.’
‘And the Post Office,’ Honeybun reminded him.
‘Get many mutilations in the Post Office?’ Lestrade asked.
Honeybun looked confused.
‘What about Cheltenham?’ Wensley asked.
‘There are sinners everywhere, Inspector,’ Honeybun reminded him.
‘How true.’ Lestrade’s face had not yet lost the grin it had taken on at Honeybun’s entrance. ‘Tea?’
‘Thank you, I don’t. It leads to indigestion and dims the brain.’
‘Of course.’ Lestrade flashed a desperate glance at Wensley who suddenly found the rococo ceiling fascinating.
‘You do sit down?’ Lestrade needed to be reassured.
‘Not for long.’ said Honeybun. ‘If the Almighty had intended us to sit he would not have given us legs. Idle posteriors make idle people.’
‘They do indeed. Do you know, Fred, that could have been me talking?’
‘Could it, Sholto?’ Wensley began to cough uncontrollably and started stuffing his handkerchief in his mouth.
‘Are you familiar with the Whitechapel case, Inspector?’ Lestrade asked him.
‘Please – call me Isaiah. I have perused the shoe-boxes,’ Honeybun told him. ‘Nasty business, very nasty.’
‘The worst I’ve seen,’ Wensley confided.
‘I was referring to the shoe-boxes,’ said Honeybun. ‘Would you like my candid opinion?’
‘Of the shoe-boxes?’ asked Lestrade.
‘The murders,’ Honeybun explained.
The Yard men sat and waited. Honeybun reached in his pocket and fished out a Bible. He placed it on the desk and placed a hand on it. ‘“Now the serpent”,’ he said, ‘“is more subtil than any beast of the field”,’ and sat back.
The Yard men looked at ea
ch other.
‘Isaiah . . .’ Lestrade was first to break the silence.
‘Genesis,’ Honeybun corrected him.
The Yard men looked at each other again.
‘“He did grind in the prison house”,’ said Honeybun.
‘You’ve got somebody in mind?’ Wensley asked, still prepared to be enthusiastic. ‘A turnkey? I don’t remember reading that in the shoe-boxes.’
‘“Where thou lodgest, I will lodge”,’ countered Honeybun.
‘Yes, my sergeant thinks we are looking for a lodger,’ said Lestrade, trying valiantly to follow the man from Cheltenham.
‘“Elijah passed by him, and cast his mantle upon him”,’ Honeybun was in his element.
Wensley glanced at Lestrade. ‘This Elijah is an accomplice?’
‘Gentlemen!’ Honeybun smiled, holding up the Book. ‘It is all in here. All the answers we will ever need.’
‘Yes, but . . .’ Lestrade began.
‘“Who will find a virtuous woman”?’ asked Honeybun.
‘I’ve been trying for years,’ muttered Wensley.
‘Our man, gentlemen,’ Honeybun leaned forward as though the new hat rack had ears, ‘is a policeman. Possibly over-zealous, but a policeman nonetheless.’
‘He’s killed all four?’ Lestrade asked.
‘“One event happeneth to them all”,’ Honeybun answered him.
‘How can we catch him?’ Wensley asked.
‘“As a dog returneth to his vomit, so a fool returneth to his folly”.’
‘Honeybun!’ Lestrade roared, slamming his fist down so that Inspectors and mugs jumped in all directions. ‘Do you think you could give us a straight answer without quoting the scriptures?’
Honeybun looked shocked. The thought had never occurred to him. ‘Very well,’ he said at last, while Wensley sponged his waistcoat. ‘For the past day, gentlemen, I have been patrolling Whitechapel. I have seen them, gentlemen, the People of the Abyss. Little boys barely up to lectern height who steal for a living. Little girls who sell their bodies. Women who are the very dregs of society. Scum. Filth.’
‘They’re my people,’ Wensley said quietly. ‘Oh, they’re poor, all right. Some of them are bent. Perhaps one of them is the Whitechapel murderer.’ He leaned forward to Honeybun, his face ashy grey. Lestrade knew the signs of old. ‘But they’re not scum, Mr Honeybun. Neither are they filth.’
