by M. J. Trow
‘Go on.’
‘It’s not going well for him. He’s had perhaps five briefs in all this time. Consequently, he took to teaching at a school in Blackheath.’
‘Not Mr Poulson’s Academy?’ Lestrade cried.
‘No, it’s some appalling crammer,’ said Druitt with some distaste. ‘They’ll be abolishing fees next. I don’t know what the world’s coming to. He’s not happy in that post either. He’s not experienced, you see. Only taught in one school before, and then only for a few weeks.’
‘I don’t see the connection between your cousin and the Whitechapel murders.’ Lestrade was frank.
‘I suppose it’s what you chappies would call circumstantial,’ said Druitt. ‘He knows the area like the back of his metatarsals – his time in the Minories. He is also a natural with a knife. I read somewhere that these poor women were mutilated, possibly with a surgeon’s scalpel.’
‘Have you any missing?’
‘You can buy them over any shop counter, Lestrade,’ Druitt told him. ‘My favourite I got second-hand from a butcher in Smithfield. Honed to perfection.’
‘Was he? As you say, Doctor, circumstantial,’ said Lestrade.
‘So far, yes. But what I have not told you, Inspector, is that cousin Monty is deranged.’
‘Mad?’
‘Raving.’
‘His mother, God rest her . . .’
‘Dead?’
‘No, in Chiswick.’ They both knew it amounted to the same thing. ‘They put her away three months ago.’
‘Certified?’ Lestrade checked, for the record.
Druitt nodded. ‘Monty is exhibiting distressingly similar tendencies. Knitting without wool, you know the sort of thing.’
Lestrade nodded wisely.
‘He’s never liked women,’ Druitt went on. ‘Broke all the teeth of his first nanny . . .’
Lestrade knew a school chaplain like that.
‘. . . still, I suppose she shouldn’t have left them on the sideboard; it was asking for trouble really.’
‘Do you have a likeness of your cousin, Dr Druitt?’ Lestrade asked.
‘Not on me. Oh, wait a minute.’ He rummaged in his wallet and produced a sepia photograph of a darkly handsome face with sad eyes and five o’clock shadow. ‘No, that’s my wife. I haven’t one of Monty.’
‘Perhaps you could describe him?’
‘He’s of medium height, swarthy. Hair parted centrally. Small moustache.’
‘Is he in the habit of wearing workmen’s clothes, Doctor? A flat cap? A red scarf?’
‘Certainly not!’ Druitt was horrified. ‘He may be deranged, Inspector, but he still dresses to the Right!’
‘Quite, quite,’ nodded Lestrade.
‘I am not a crank, Inspector,’ Druitt said, rising to go. ‘I leave for Australia in a very few weeks; I cannot answer for what happens in my absence. Believe me, I have come here with a heavy heart. The shame of it! A Druitt! But murder will out, Lestrade, or so I’ve heard it said.’
‘So have I,’ muttered Lestrade, momentarily at a loss to know where.
‘Take it from me, Lestrade, unless Monty is stopped he will kill again.’
‘Where can I find him?’ Lestrade asked.
‘Either at the school at Blackheath or at Number nine, King’s Bench Walk, in the Temple. I’ll see myself out.’
Lestrade had always hated the monthly inspectors’ meetings with the Head of the Criminal Investigation Department. He hated them even more now that they had become weekly. And with the Autumn of Terror in full swing, and cartloads of suspects being sorted and shovelled every day, he was driven to doing his own paperwork. He longed to bring back George from Rhadegund. Even Derry and Toms would be better than nothing. But he must keep the lid on that particular kettle of fish a while longer. What he feared most was that the day would come when he would have to make his own tea.
‘We are very privileged this morning,’ Rodney was dithering, ‘to welcome the Acting Commissioner of the City Police Force, Major Henry . . . er . . . er . . .’
‘Smith,’ the Acting Commissioner filled in for him.
A likely story, thought Lestrade, but Fred Wensley seemed to know him and Fred virtually lived in the City, despite his working for the Yard.
‘Quite.’ Rodney leaned back, stirring his tea with an air of complacency odd in a man whose city was on the verge of panic. ‘Gentlemen, this morning I want to hear your theories. Dr Robert Anderson is poised to take over the case at any moment. The latest report is that he’s reached Gobelins.’
Athelney Jones of the River Police, the most droning bluebottle of them all, broke into applause. Thirteen eyes stared him into silence. The fourteenth, Major Henry Smith’s glass one, obstinately refused to swivel, though it had cost him an arm and a leg.
‘Inspector Gregson,’ said Rodney, looking at Jones, you will have your turn shortly. First, Chief Inspector Abberline.’
Abberline pulled his nose from his decidedly dog-eared gardenia. ‘Gentlemen, I shudder to think of the man hours we’ve expended on this case. The miles walked, the boots worn out. But now, at last, I am able to name names. The Whitechapel murderer, the man we’ve all come to know as Jack the Ripper, is none other than George Chapman.’
A ripple ran round the room. ‘Who?’ Lestrade thought he’d better ask, as nobody else seemed likely to.
‘Chapman,’ beamed Abberline triumphantly. ‘He’s a hairdresser living in Whitechapel.’
‘Knows the area,’ nodded Jones.
‘Access to sharp scissors,’ Gregson observed.
‘But these women haven’t been killed with scissors,’ Wensley felt bound to comment. ‘The coroner’s reports in all the cases . . .’
‘We don’t know what they were killed with,’ said Abberline. ‘We don’t know if the murderer was right- or left-handed, tall or short. Whether he had sex with his victims first or not.’
‘What of George Chapman?’ Lestrade asked. ‘Is he right-handed?’
‘He is.’ Abberline leaned forward, wagging an enthusiastic finger. ‘And he’s tall. Something of a ladies’ man too, I understand. Large ears, you see. And the sort of moustache that drives women wild,’ and he twirled his own with pride.
‘I know that sort of moustache,’ Wensley said. ‘Is your man fair haired, rather striking appearance? Dresses carelessly on omnibuses?’
‘I believe so . . .’ Abberline was bluffing.
‘Severin Klosowski,’ Wensley said.
‘What?’ Abberline asked.
‘That’s his real name. He’s a Polish Jew. Along with Louis Diemschutz, Joseph Lawende and the hundred and twenty or so others you’ve interrogated!’
Wensley, in uncharacteristic mood, jumped up from his chair and swung backwards to the window where the rainy grey of a November morning bounced off the pane.
‘That will do, Gregson!’ Rodney felt he ought to assert himself.
The inspector of that name opened his mouth to protest, but Rodney swept on. ‘Do you have anything specific on this Chapman?’ he asked Abberline.
‘Not in so many words,’ the Chief Inspector was forced to admit, ‘but I’m working on it.’
‘Mr Lestrade,’ said Rodney. ‘We’d like to hear from you . . .’
‘Well, it’s . . .’ Lestrade began, only to be silenced by an unusually forceful Rodney.
‘No, Jones. You’ll have to wait. It’s Lestrade’s turn now,’ and he turned to Honeybun.
That Inspector produced a page from the latest edition of the Charivari. ‘There, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘The Nemesis of Neglect.’ He held up the gaunt spectre, shroud-draped and staring with blood-crazed eyes, the long knife flashing in the shadows. ‘The lid has been lifted off the stinking kettle of the East End,’ he shrilled, rising to the occasion with the fervour of the Evangelist. ‘Quit yourselves like men, and fight.’
‘Fight whom?’ Smith asked.
‘Let no man’s heart fail because of him!’ Honeybun stabbed his f
inger into the air. ‘My little finger,’ he went on, ’shall be thicker than my father’s loins.’
Doesn’t say much for his father, thought Lestrade to himself, but it wasn’t his place to say so.
‘Do you have somebody in mind, Honeybun?’ Abberline demanded. He was always a man on the edge and the problems of the past weeks saw him teetering dangerously.
‘Thou art the man!’ shrieked Honeybun pointing at him. Smith and Rodney, sitting nearest to Abberline, moved away a little. Thirteen eyes now fixed the Chief Inspector, who sat open-mouthed.
‘I know thy pride,’ Honeybun ranted, ‘and the naughtiness of thine heart.’
‘He’s got you there, Chief Inspector,’ Lestrade beamed hugely.
‘Shut up, Lestrade!’ Abberline snarled. ‘I’ll see you later. Assistant Commissioner, I insist this maniac be taken off the case. He’s deranged.’
‘Lestrade?’ Rodney asked for clarity.
‘Honeybun!’ Abberline roared.
‘I think you’d better explain yourself, Honeybun.’ It was a rare moment for Rodney; he’d got the right man. ‘Are you implying that Abberline here is the Ripper?’
‘Any one of us,’ asserted Honeybun. ‘All of us. Don’t you see, sir, that we are all to blame? We have allowed that sink of iniquity in Whitechapel to exist. It is an abomination unto the Lord.’
‘Deranged!’ sighed Abberline in exasperation.
‘Can you come to particulars?’ Rodney asked him.
‘Very well,’ Honeybun said. ‘A social worker. One who has seen too much suffering, too little hope. He has killed these degenerates to awake the conscience of the nation.’
‘Who is he?’ Smith’s eye began to rotate unnervingly. Lestrade wasn’t sure whether it was the glass one or not.
‘Er . . .’ Honeybun began to sound depressingly like Rodney. ‘I’ll find him,’ he promised.
‘Not good enough!’ Rodney said. ‘People are dying, Inspector, and you’re babbling. See me afterwards.’ It might have been Dr Nails talking.
Honeybun looked abashed, perhaps for the first time in his life. ‘Behold,’ he muttered, eyes downcast, ‘I have played the fool and have erred exceedingly.’
Now he did sound like Rodney, Lestrade thought.
‘Amen to that!’ Abberline growled. They all looked at him.
‘Now, Inspector . . . Gregson?’ Right again. ‘Your views?’
‘A foreigner, obviously,’ the Inspector replied. ‘At first I thought the Jews – the clue on the wall which . . . sadly . . . disappeared. The Jews are the men that will not be blamed for nothing . . .’
‘And now you don’t think so?’ Smith asked.
‘I still think it’s the Jews, sir, but not a local man.’ Gregson began to light his pipe with an air of authority. ‘Somebody would know him and would give him away. Even in the Yid community, somebody would crack. The reward’s high enough.’
‘So where have you been looking?’
Under the beds, mused Lestrade.
‘The ports,’ said Gregson. ‘Chief Inspector Abberline and I have been going over all foreign merchantmen, looking for a pattern.’
‘And?’ Rodney edged forward.
‘There isn’t one,’ Gregson said sheepishly. ‘There is no one ship that was here on all the nights in question.’
‘Even so,’ said Jones, ‘eye-witnesses said the man talking to Catherine Eddowes looked like a sailor.’
‘So does everybody in the East End,’ Wensley chimed from the window. ‘I think you’ll agree, Major Smith?’
‘Hmmmm? Oh, yes, quite, quite.’ Smith hadn’t a clue what East Enders looked like owing to his natural aversion to them. Besides, his view of them, by definition, was a little one-sided. But he knew Fred Wensley’s reputation and thought it best to agree.
‘What about a hop-picker?’ Jones ventured. ‘Someone the workers picked up in Kent? That would make him an outsider.’
‘All the more reason for someone to shop him,’ said Lestrade. ‘If these murders are ghastly enough to turn chavim against chavim, as the Jews have it, then surely they’d be wary of a stranger.’
‘Yes,’ said Smith. ‘The lodger.’
‘Lodger?’ Rodney looked at him.
‘Think for a moment.’ Smith had centre stage. ‘The man we are after knows the area. He kills on clear nights. He has no fog to help him. The women he has killed have all been reasonably strong and ought to have been on their guard, especially after the death of Annie Chapman. He strangles them, rips them open and vanishes into the night. He knows those courts and alleyways. But I’m inclined to agree with Gregson.’ Rodney looked at Jones; ‘he’s not local, not in the true sense. The only sort of person who is not local but who knows the area is a temporary resident – a lodger.’
‘The whole place is crawling with lodgers, sir,’ Wensley reminded him. ‘Every tenement has hundreds.’
‘Druitt,’ muttered Lestrade.
‘No need to be offensive, Wensley,’ Rodney reminded him.
‘What?’ Abberline was more astute.
‘Nothing,’ said Lestrade, anxious not to have his theories tested too closely, too soon.
‘We haven’t heard from you, Jones,’ Rodney said to him. ‘Out with it.’
‘We’ve eliminated two important inquiries, sir,’ Lestrade told him: ‘Kosminski and Ostrog. They’re both insane, but they’re not the man we’re after. But I’ve been thinking . . .’
‘Well, there’s a first time for everything,’ beamed Abberline.
Lestrade ignored him. ‘Something one of my constables said.’
‘Constables!’ Abberline snorted.
‘Go on,’ ordered Rodney in a dithery sort of way.
‘What if the man we’re after isn’t a man at all, but a woman?’
There was silence in the room.
‘What’s your motive?’ Abberline asked.
‘What’s yours?’ Lestrade countered. ‘If the murderer is mad, we don’t need a motive, do we?’
‘Are you asking me or telling me, Lestrade?’ Abberline snapped. ‘In all my years . . .’
‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ Rodney tapped his Waverley on the desk top. ‘Why a woman, Lestrade?’ He really was getting better all the time.
‘Because no one has reported a blood-stained man,’ was the answer; ‘because whenever a woman is attacked, we automatically suspect a man.’
There were nods and murmurs of agreement.
‘Let me try a theory on you, gentlemen,’ said Lestrade. ‘One which, I admit, has just come into my head. What if, if, mark you, the murderess is experienced in the business of her sex?’
‘What?’ Honeybun was on surprisingly alien ground here.
‘An abortionist,’ explained Wensley.
‘Thank you, Fred,’ Lestrade said.
‘No time for delicacy, Lestrade,’ said Smith. ‘Get on with it.’
‘What if these women, the four – or is it five? – who’ve died, were pregnant? What if they went to this woman, whoever she is, and she botched the operation?’
‘It’s common,’ nodded Abberline, as the one with the most experience of these things.
‘And to disguise the botch, she cuts their throats and makes it look like the work of a madman?’ Smith had caught the drift. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said with some verve, ‘you may have something.’
There was a murmur of approval, even from Abberline, and Honeybun was still pleased to think that the Scarlet Sisterhood could be blamed.
‘Of course,’ Lestrade was less euphoric than the rest, ‘there are two problems with that.’
‘Oh?’ said Rodney.
‘First, none of the coroners, Wynne Baxter and the others, mentioned a pregnancy – remember these women were in their forties – and second, the timescale. Four, perhaps even five women, all pregnant and in need of the services of an abortionist, in one tiny area within five weeks. No, gentlemen, it defies belief.’
The bubble of expectancy burst. ‘More h
ot air, then, Lestrade?’ Abberline growled.
There was a knock at Rodney’s glass-panelled door.
‘Come!’ the Assistant Commissioner bawled.
A uniformed constable entered. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said. ‘Telegram for Mr Lestrade.’
Rodney tapped again with the Waverley. It was one of his least annoying habits.
‘I’ll have to go, sir,’ Lestrade said. ‘My sergeant calls.’
‘Er . . . what’s afoot?’ Rodney asked.
‘Trouble at Rhadegund Hall,’ Lestrade explained. ‘“Unexpected developments” George calls them. I am to go at once.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Rodney, ‘of course. Your hospital case in Nottinghamshire. You mustn’t keep Sergeant Arthur waiting.’
It was already dark as the trap rattled into the quad at Rhadegund. It was the flogging hour and Lestrade heard the swish and whistle of Nails’s cane as he climbed numbly down. Constable Derry was waiting, a mistake as it turned out, as he found himself rummaging in his pockets to pay the growler.
‘What are these developments, then?’ Lestrade asked him and he was answered by an ear-piercing scream which shattered the evening. Lestrade and Derry looked at one another.
‘Dr Nails a little heavy handed tonight, I see,’ observed Derry, uneasily.
‘Heavy handed be damned,’ said Lestrade. ‘Taken to flogging women now, has he?’ Then he remembered Matron’s words on the Headmaster’s paramour in Balham and felt his comments less unlikely.
‘Came from over there!’ Toms had arrived at the bottom of L staircase and the three Yard men scuttled through the shrubbery in search of the scream.
It was Lestrade who found it first, stumbling headlong over something protruding from the rhododendrons. Despite his cry, he was followed immediately by Derry who landed heavily beside him.
‘I just did that,’ said Lestrade, a little dazed.
‘You couldn’t have, sir,’ said Toms, the only policeman still on his feet. ‘You’ve only just arrived.’
They followed his gaze to the shaking figure of Matron, cloaked and white-aproned against the night. Her face was a livid mask under the moon and she stared at what had brought the policemen low.
