Lestrade and the Ripper

by M. J. Trow

  ‘What’s wrong with his leg?’ Lestrade asked.

  ‘Absolutely nothing,’ said McGregor, ‘but . . . I couldn’t help noticing your neck . . .’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing either . . . or, rather, it is something . . .’ said Lestrade quickly, anxious to be allowed to leave the place at some point.

  ‘Dick’s leg has become an obsession with him. He thinks he has to limp and he thinks everybody he talks to must have the same affliction.’

  ‘What exactly is the matter with him, Doctor?’ Wensley asked.

  ‘He’s mad,’ said McGregor, ‘which brings me to the purpose of your visit. Michael Ostrog. He’s a different kettle of fish entirely. Is it vital you see him?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lestrade.

  McGregor put his spectacles down on the desk and sat back, patting the gold chain of his hunter. ‘I warn you, sir, the man is unhinged. He is cunning, he is ruthless and he has definite homicidal tendencies. He nearly killed a warder only last week.’

  ‘Why?’ Wensley asked.

  McGregor shrugged. ‘If I knew that, we could probably shut this infernal place down,’ he said. ‘The mind is a dark place, Mr . . . Wensley, is it? All medical science can do is to strike the odd match here and there to light that dark. Some of the shadows are frightening.’

  ‘Will Ostrog talk to me?’ Lestrade asked.

  ‘He might,’ nodded McGregor after a moment’s consideration, ‘but I shall be obliged to lock you in the cell with him. It’s padded. If he closes that grille in the door – and he has the strength to do it – it would be minutes before we heard your screams. In those minutes, Mr Lestrade, I promise you, you would be dead. Tell me,’ McGregor leant back again, ‘are you armed?’

  Lestrade nodded.

  ‘Whatever weapon you are carrying, leave it here. Now. If he finds you’re armed, he’ll kill you.’

  Lestrade stood up and dropped the brass knuckles with the concealed blade onto McGregor’s desk.

  ‘Sholto, this is madness,’ said Wensley.

  ‘Never a truer word . . .’ said McGregor. ‘Welcome to Bedlam, gentlemen.’

  The three of them left the office by a side door, McGregor leading the way. At the bottom of a flight of stone steps, a girl met them.

  ‘Annie.’ McGregor stopped her, lifting up her chin. She was pretty, perhaps twenty-one or two. ‘You’ve been crying,’ he said. ‘How’s the baby?’

  ‘Alice is fine, thank you sir.’ She curtseyed and scurried away.

  ‘I think I know that girl,’ said Wensley.

  ‘Annie Crook,’ said McGregor. ‘A sad case.’

  ‘Crook.’ Wensley chewed the name over. ‘No, I can’t place it.’

  ‘How long has Ostrog been here?’ Lestrade asked.

  ‘This time, six days,’ McGregor told him.

  ‘So he was at large at the time of the Whitechapel murders?’

  McGregor raised an eyebrow. ‘So that’s what all this is about?’

  ‘You’ll keep this under your coat, Doctor, of course?’ Lestrade checked.

  McGregor nodded and mounted the stairs. At the top, a burly warder stood aside and slid the heavy bolts on a studded door.

  ‘Humour him, Lestrade,’ was McGregor’s final advice as the Inspector disappeared inside the cell. Wensley offered a silent prayer and leant against the wall. A few seconds of this and he was pacing up and down. Suddenly aware that McGregor and the warder were watching him, he stopped, folded his arms tightly and stared at the floor. It was altogether the least neurotic thing he could think of doing.

  There were no corners in the room where Lestrade found himself. And it was a radiant white. Neither was there any furniture. When he glanced round to check the door, he couldn’t find it at first, so tightly did it fit. Only the tiny grille high in the wall gave a hint of its presence. But he couldn’t miss the black, bearded figure in the far corner, whose dark, hypnotic eyes bored right through him.

  ‘Mr Ostrog?’ He found his voice.

  The Russian stood up, with difficulty in his strait-jacket, and bowed. ‘Doctor.’ The voice was deep enough to shake the furniture, had there been any. ‘Doctor Mikhail Ostrog, at your service.’

  He hopped across to Lestrade, pinioned together as his legs were. He peered intently into his eyes, then a broad smile appeared on his face. ‘Tovarich,’ he said, ‘it is you.’

  Lestrade blinked. Then he remembered McGregor’s advice – ‘Humour him,’ he had said.

  Tears welled in Ostrog’s eyes and he gabbled something incomprehensible.

  ‘Speak English,’ whispered Lestrade, pointing upwards. ‘That’s most important. They’ – he glanced left and right – ‘must not know I am Russian.’

  ‘My dear friend,’ beamed Ostrog, ‘I would embrace you if I could.’

  Lestrade hugged the bearded man in what he hoped was a Russian gesture, just as long as he didn’t have to start rolling around on the floor like a Cossack.

  ‘Do you have any vodka?’ Ostrog asked.

  Lestrade shook his head. ‘They searched me,’ he said.

  ‘So you’re not armed?’ Lestrade did not care for the glint in the man’s eye. He opened his Donegal flap to show that he was not.

  ‘That’s a wery good disguise, tovarich.’ Ostrog nodded his approval. ‘What is that?’

  ‘It’s what the well-dressed Englishman is wearing this year,’ Lestrade lied. Actually, no well-dressed Englishman would have been seen dead in it, even ten years ago.

  ‘How is Dragomilov?’ Ostrog asked.

  ‘Well, well,’ Lestrade bluffed through a gritted smile. He could sense the white walls of the room closing in on him.

  ‘And Gorbachev?’

  ‘He sends his love.’ Lestrade grew bolder, but froze as he realised a look of horror appear on Ostrog’s face.

  ‘Anastasia Gorbachev is a woman,’ the Russian said, ‘or she was when I saw her last.’

  ‘Ah, you know these Ukrainians!’ Lestrade laughed. It was the only part of All the Russias he had heard of. It would have to do.

  A silence. Followed by a smirk. Then Ostrog broke into a steady, rhythmic guffaw. ‘These Ukrainians!’ he chuckled. ‘That’s good tovarich. Wery good. It’s the way you tell them!’

  ‘But you,’ said Lestrade, delighted to change the subject, ‘how have you been?’

  Ostrog shrugged to indicate his position, about the only gesture of which he was capable. ‘But my report. You have come for my report.’

  Lestrade nodded. Ostrog lowered himself into the corner where the conversation had begun and Lestrade thought it best to do the same.

  ‘As you know, I arrived here two months ago, on the merchant-man Ulyanova. I jumped ship in their Albert Docks and made my way to their Whitechapel.’

  ‘Why Whitechapel?’ Lestrade hoped he wasn’t showing too much ignorance.

  ‘I would not be noticed, tovarich,’ Ostrog explained. ‘Ah, the number of foreigners in this country. It’s worse than a Kiev bazaar.’

  Lestrade laughed with him and was still doing so when Ostrog fell silent. ‘I forgot to ask,’ he said solemnly, ‘His Imperial Majesty the Tsar . . .’

  ‘Er . . . as well as can be expected,’ Lestrade hedged.

  Ostrog nodded grimly. ‘It’s all that caviar,’ he sighed ruefully. ‘That or the nihilists.’

  Lestrade, of course, was woefully unfamiliar with either dish. ‘Go on with your report, Mikhail,’ he said, hoping the pronunciation was approximate.

  ‘I lived in their Berners Street,’ Ostrog told him, ‘and took a job as a butcher’s assistant. A family firm of old standing called Prentiss. That gave me access to the sharpest of knives.’ Lestrade’s heart began to ascend to his mouth. This was it. ‘It also allowed me to pass unnoticed through the streets in the early hours.’

  ‘You had no trouble?’

  ‘Well,’ Ostrog shrugged, ‘not really. Not until an idiot called Lusk began to chase the Jews around. Not that that is a bad thing in itself, of cou
rse. His Imperial Majesty has done it all his life.’

  ‘Of course,’ Lestrade found himself agreeing, as though he and the Tsar were bosom pals.

  ‘But Lusk made it difficult for me to operate . . .’

  ‘Operate?’ Lestrade repeated.

  Ostrog chuckled. ‘Ah, I can’t remember when I operated last . . .’ he mused.

  ‘Whitechapel?’ Lestrade jogged his memory. ‘September the thirtieth – a lady named Catherine Eddowes.’

  Ostrog looked puzzled. ‘Tovarich,’ he said, ‘either you’ve been drinking or one of us is mad.’

  Lestrade chuckled. It was the civilised form of the scream he really wanted to give vent to. ‘Tell me, Mikhail,’ he said ‘didn’t the police bother you in all this?’

  Ostrog guffawed. It was no more than Lestrade had expected. ‘Isn’t that the whole point of the exercise, tovarich?’ he laughed. ‘Why I was brought here I the first place? Tut, tut. You haven’t read the Okhrana file, have you?’

  Lestrade smiled sheepishly.

  ‘My duty was to slip unnoticed into London, commit an atrocious crime so as to embarrass the British police and slip away again.’

  ‘I see,’ said Lestrade. ‘Well, Mikhail, I must admit you’ve done a splendid job. We . . . er . . . the police are embarrassed, all right. Did you choose the four women at random? Or were there more? What about Martha Tabram? Was she the first?’

  Ostrog looked at him oddly. ‘Tovarich, I don’t know what you are talking about. I chose the target which would embarrass their British Police more than anything else.’

  ‘Oh?’ Lestrade had lost this conversation entirely.

  ‘I killed Their Majesty Queen Victoria.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Lestrade after the inevitable pause.

  ‘Well, she’s the next best thing to a mother-in-law to his Imperial Majesty,’ Ostrog chuckled. ‘What man does not wish to be rid of his mother-in-law?’

  ‘What . . . er . . . what did you do?’ Lestrade asked.

  ‘I cut her throat, the fat little cow,’ said Ostrog with some relish.

  ‘I see. So the . . . Prince of Wales will become King now?’

  ‘Not before time,’ said Ostrog as though he was discussing the onset of a shower in August. ‘I read their London Illustrative News. I know how the poor man is suffering. Well, there it is, I have inadvertently given him his chance. But, more importantly,’ he sat upright with a light in his eyes, ‘I have done my duty.’

  ‘But you’ve been caught, Mikhail,’ Lestrade reminded him.

  Ostrog looked at him, darkly, then staggered to his feet; his face changed colour, his shoulders heaved and the warder at the grille began unbolting furiously, aided and abetted by the frantic McGregor and Wensley. There was a ripping sound as Ostrog’s straps and buckles flew in all directions and he peeled the jacket off.

  The door crashed back and three men rushed in. But Ostrog was serenity itself. ‘Goodbye, my dear fellow.’ He shook Lestrade’s hand warmly. ‘It has been fun. Thank you for calling.’ He leaned close to Lestrade and whispered, ‘don’t worry, tovarich, I’ve got out of here before. Twice. Allow me to congratulate you, by the way, on your English accent. Most impressive.’

  McGregor took charge. ‘Well then, Doctor,’ he beamed, ‘perhaps a quiet game of chess later?’

  Ostrog looked at and through him. ‘I think I’d rather watch a girder rust,’ he said blandly, and sank into the corner again.

  McGregor gestured Lestrade and Wensley out of the cell. ‘It’s turned rather cold, Tom,’ he said to the warder. ‘Perhaps Dr Ostrog would like to put another jacket on,’ and he nodded furiously in the Russian’s direction as they left.

  Lestrade flattened himself against the right side of the door.

  ‘God, Sholto,’ said Wensley, ‘you’re white as a sheet.’

  ‘It’s just the reflection from the walls,’ gulped Lestrade. ‘Do you know a family called Prentiss?’

  ‘Butchers in Spitalfields? Yes, I do.’

  ‘He works for them.’ Lestrade gestured through the wall. ‘Sharp knives. Leather aprons. Bloodstains. It all fits.’

  ‘You mean the Ripper’s a Prentiss?’ Wensley was incredulous.

  ‘That’s not what I said, Fred. The Hand and Gavel’s near here, isn’t it? They’re on you,’ and they thanked the good doctor and fled the building, careful to swing their legs wide as they met Dick on the way out.

  M.J.Druitt

  T

  he visitor fumed and paced the corridor again.

  ‘He shouldn’t be long now, sir,’ said Sergeant Dixon.

  The visitor looked at his watch again. ‘Yes, so you’ve told me,’ he said, tapping the glass for the umpteenth time.

  ‘We’re in for a change, I shouldn’t wonder.’ Dixon stirred his cocoa dreamily with his thumb. That gave him the problem of having nowhere to put the skin.

  ‘Oh, this is ridiculous. I can’t wait any longer!’ and the visitor snatched up his hat and made for door. It was his misfortune – and Lestrade’s – that the two men should arrive at the same point simultaneously. There was a crack of crania and Lestrade rolled steadily sideways, dunking his elbow neatly into Dixon’s cocoa. The sergeant steadied his superior and in doing so found a useful repository for the cocoa skin.

  ‘Are you all right, sirs?’ the sergeant asked.

  Lestrade groaned in reply.

  ‘I think so,’ said the other man, and for the first time caught sight of Lestrade’s neck. ‘Good God, did I do that?’ he asked.

  ‘No, no,’ Lestrade assured him; ‘a combination of things, really.’

  ‘Even so, I’d see a doctor if I were you.’

  ‘Allow me to introduce you gentlemen, now that you’ve run into each other,’ said Dixon. ‘Inspector Lestrade, this is Dr Druitt.’

  ‘Ah, Lestrade,’ Druitt extended a hand, ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

  ‘Dixon, get on that blowing machine and order two teas – my office, double quick.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ Dixon straightened behind his desk, ‘and mind ’ow you go.’

  The doctor and the policeman struggled together in the tiny lift, Lestrade’s bowler rim pinned under Druitt’s nose, and it was with relief that they spilled out onto the first floor.

  ‘What I have to say,’ Druitt moved confidentially close to his man, ‘is for your ears only.’ He leaned back, eyes flicking from left to right to check for eavesdroppers. ‘Actually, it was originally intended for Chief Inspector Abberline’s ears, but he told me he couldn’t be bothered.’

  Lestrade clicked his tongue and shook his head. ‘Have a seat,’ he said.

  ‘I shall be filing a complaint against him, of course.’

  ‘I’ll get you the forms,’ Lestrade offered, perhaps a touch over-eagerly. ‘Ah, tea.’

  He wrapped his hands gratefully around the steaming mug, then bawled to the retreating constable who had brought it, ‘I thought today we might have had handles!’ He smiled at Druitt. ‘Now, sir. May I have your name again, please?’

  ‘Druitt, Lionel Druitt.’

  ‘Mr Druitt . . .’ Lestrade began to write down the details.

  ‘Doctor,’ Druitt thundered. ‘Look, Inspector, I have been passed down the line, ignored, kept waiting, ridiculed, walked into and wrongly addressed . . .’

  ‘What is your address, sir?’ Lestrade asked, blandly.

  ‘Eighty-four, the Minories. I have a practice there.’

  ‘I see. And how may I help you, sir, if Chief Inspector Abberline could not?’

  ‘I am only here under duress,’ Druitt said. ‘If you hadn’t arrived when you did . . . I came at the suggestion of a colleague of mine. Dr John Watson.’

  ‘Sometime of 221B Baker Street?’ Lestrade looked up.

  ‘I believe so. We were at medical school together. We share the same club and dine occasionally.’

  ‘And why did Dr Watson suggest you come to see me?’ Lestrade asked.

  ‘He didn’t. He suggeste
d I see Abberline. And all he did was point to a list of names as long as your quadriceps femoris and say, “Wait your turn”. Apparently, he was working his way through a few hundred foreign sailors . . .’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ tutted Lestrade, ‘that’ll be a new one for Mrs Abberline.’

  Druitt stood up. ‘I can’t help thinking you’re not taking this very seriously, Lestrade! People are being horribly murdered in Whitechapel, the police are clearly at a loss to know what to do and you’re being flippant.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Lestrade. ‘What is it you have to tell me, Doctor?’

  Druitt paused in mid-rant and sat down heavily. He looked at Lestrade, then whipped out a silver hip flask and poured its contents into the tea. ‘Medicinal, of course,’ he said. ‘I just can’t stand Darjeeling straight.’

  Lestrade was unfamiliar with the sexual practices of the Hindu and let it pass.

  ‘The Whitechapel murderer,’ said Druitt, staring at Lestrade. ‘I know him.’

  Lestrade leant back, pausing for the first time to take off his bowler. ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘My cousin, Montague John Druitt,’ the doctor said. ‘I believe that he has been killing these women.’

  ‘These are serious allegations, Doctor,’ Lestrade warned him.

  Druitt nodded. ‘I know, but they must be made.’

  ‘Tell me about your cousin.’

  Druitt took a deep breath. ‘Monty is thirty-one. All the right things in life: Winchester, Oxford, that sort of thing. We are an old family, Lestrade. There have been Druitts in Dorset for centuries.’

  Lestrade wrote in his black book: ‘Descended from the ancient Druitts.’

  ‘He obtained his degree – in classics – in . . . let me see, eighteen eighty, it would be.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then he had a yen for the theatre, Lestrade.’

  ‘He became an actor?’

  ‘No, a surgeon,’ scowled Druitt. ‘The operating theatre, man. He joined me for a while at my Minories practice and assisted in various minor operations. He was surprisingly good at wielding the knife . . .’

  Their eyes met across a crowded room.

  ‘Then, I never really knew why, he switched to Law; joined the Inner Temple. He was called to the Bar three years ago, shortly after his father died.’