by David Field
Constable Long of the Metropolitan Police and Detective Halse of the City, both advised the jury that the apron portion had been found in the front passageway of a model dwelling house in Goulston Street, where it might well have been thrown by someone passing in the street. But above it, on the wall, someone had written in chalk the phrase: ‘The Jews are the men that will not be blamed for nothing.’ The conflicting testimonies of the two officers led to controversy over both the spelling and the precise order of the words employed, controversy that could not now be resolved since the writing had been erased on the order of the Metropolitan Police Commissioner Sir Charles Warren.
First of all, while Long was of the opinion that the word had been spelt ‘Jews’, Halse was adamant that it was spelt ‘Juwes’, which was allegedly the way that Orthodox Jews might spell it, tending to suggest that its author had been Jewish. Even more in dispute was where precisely in the sentence the word ‘not’ had occurred. Was it: ‘The Jews are the men that will not be blamed for nothing,’ implying that they were open to blame for something (and arguably the series of murders for which popular prejudice was already blaming them), or was it: ‘The Juwes are not the men that will be blamed for nothing’, implying that they were being falsely accused of something they had not done and would be seeking to establish their innocence?
Both officers claimed to have written the sentence down accurately in their notebooks, but the attention of all concerned was diverted by the controversy that surrounded the order given at the time that the offensive sentence be removed before it could become the occasion of a riot.
The fear of this and the responsibility for its removal, were both ascribed to the Metropolitan force, on whose territory Goulston Street was located. When the matter was raised in Parliamentary circles, Sir Charles Warren was obliged to write to his political masters in the Home Office, a month later, justifying his order for the removal of the allegedly racist graffiti on the grounds that ‘if that writing had been left, there would have been an onslaught upon the Jews, property would have been wrecked and lives would probably have been lost.’
Perhaps the most blatant piece of blame-shifting that occurred during that inquest arose in connection with the failure to conduct an immediate search of the rooming house in whose front passageway the apron portion had been discovered. A solicitor engaged to represent the ‘interests’ (which meant, of course, the reputation) of the City of London Police, when asked a question by a jury member regarding why the rest of the dwelling had not been searched immediately upon the discovery of the apron, replied that the City Police had not been advised of the find by their Metropolitan colleagues until two hours afterwards.
In summing up to the jury, and leading them firmly by the nose, the coroner asserted: ‘that the crime was a most fiendish one cannot for a moment be doubted, for the miscreant, not satisfied with taking a defenceless woman’s life, endeavoured so to mutilate the body as to render it unrecognisable. I presume that you will return a verdict of wilful murder against some person or persons unknown, thereby allowing the police to freely pursue their inquiries and follow up any clue they might obtain. A magnificent reward has been offered and this might be the means of setting people on the track and bringing to speedy justice the creature who committed this atrocious crime.’
He seemed to reflect for a moment, before adding, ‘It would be sufficient to return a verdict of wilful murder against some person unknown, inasmuch as the medical evidence conclusively demonstrated that only one person could be implicated.’
The jury duly obliged and one more had been added to the notional misdeeds of the man calling himself ‘the Ripper’.
The reference to ‘a magnificent reward’ was misleading to the point of dishonesty, since, although the City of London had offered five hundred pounds for information leading to an arrest, Sir Charles Warren had argued strenuously for authorisation to offer a much larger one to anyone coming forward with information that would help identify the person responsible for these gruesome atrocities. But he had been refused such authority by Home Secretary Henry Matthews.
As if this disloyalty had not been enough, Sir Charles was also convinced that his authority was being undermined from beneath him, by the man he was most relying on now that his team of detectives was increasingly deployed on the task of identifying and buckling the insane hacker of back-alley prostitutes. James Monro had resigned only a month or two ago from his previous role as Assistant Commissioner, following a lengthy and occasionally vitriolic difference of philosophy between the two men regarding the management, role and independence of the Criminal Investigation Department that had fallen within Monro’s remit as Assistant Commissioner. They had also almost come to blows when Warren had blocked the appointment, as an additional Assistant Commissioner, of Monro’s close friend Melville McNaghten.
No sooner had Monro’s resignation become effective than Home Secretary Matthews had appointed him ‘Head of the Detective Service.’ This not only allowed Monro to exact his revenge by keeping important information from Warren, but it sent a clear message to the Whitehall police community that in any future confrontation between Warren and Monro, the latter could rely on the support of the Home Secretary, who answered directly to Prime Minister Salisbury, and through him to Queen Victoria herself. Indeed, recent requests from Her Majesty for explanations regarding the failure of London police officers to apprehend the maniac in their midst had all come from the Palace to Salisbury, who had passed them on to Monro while advising the Queen that Warren was the man in ultimate charge of the institutional failure.
Little wonder that the two men sitting in the leather armchairs in Monro’s office only days after the Catherine Eddowes inquest felt uncomfortable. Not only did they have to explain why they had so far failed to lock up the Ripper, but they were aware that anything they said that might possibly be used to undermine their ultimate superior officer would be put to good effect by their own immediate boss.
‘I fail to see how the lunatic has so far managed to evade capture,’ Monro complained as he glared pointedly at Abberline.
‘That question were better directed at Reid,’ Abberline growled.
‘Who would be better placed to answer it,’ Reid retorted, ‘if you weren’t undermining me at every move.’
‘That’s enough — both of you!’ Monro instructed them. ‘If the pair of you can’t work in harmony, at the very top of this investigation, that sentiment will clearly leak down through the ranks and they’ll all begin taking sides. It’s bad enough that we have to work with the City because your resident madman took his penchant for sharp knives to the wrong side of Aldgate. Reid, how many men have you got deployed on the streets?’
‘All of them,’ Reid complained, ‘to the point at which normal policing is at a standstill. The pickpockets, totties, burglars and footpads can operate with impunity while my men lurk under lampposts trying to look as if they’re about to apprehend the culprit. That seems to be keeping the lid on the local Yid-haters and vigilantes, but unless the person responsible cares to step out under a gaslight and wave his knife in full view of a uniformed constable, we don’t have a realistic hope in Hell of catching him in the act.’
‘There’s no doubt we’re dealing with the same man for every one of these outrages?’ Monro enquired.
‘So it would seem,’ Reid replied before Abberline could offer the same opinion, ‘although there’s a curious difference in methodology between them. The one we believe to have been the first victim — Martha Tabram — was simply killed by a single stab to the heart, although the assailant played “needlepoint” with a penknife as an encore. Next came Polly Nichols, who had her throat cut and was subjected to minor surgery in what was almost broad daylight before we believe that the attacker was disturbed. With Annie Chapman he had more time and various organs were removed and retained after he cut her throat. Then came what the press dubbed ‘the double event’; Elizabeth Stride, who also had her throat cut before
the killer was again disturbed, followed by the latest in the series, Catherine Eddowes — another longer piece of anatomising and the removal of, among other things, the kidney which was sent to a local vigilante group.’
‘Anything to add?’ Monro asked Abberline, who shrugged.
‘Yes and no. We’re not sure that the Stride and Eddowes killings were by the same man, or even if they occurred in the order that everyone’s assuming.’
‘In the rumoured belief that this person has medical knowledge, have you tried all the local hospitals for loony doctors?’
‘Disturbingly, we identified five, all still let loose on patients, but all with immaculate alibis,’ Reid replied.
‘Sailors?’
Abberline guffawed, before apologising and explaining the reason for his mirth. ‘Do you know how many docks there are within hacking distance of Whitechapel and how many vessels come and go during the course of a week, sir?’
‘Point taken, but keep trying. I’d hate to have to advise the noisier elements of the East End that it’s probably one of their own.’
‘The ease with which the offender evades detection certainly suggests a detailed knowledge of the area and particularly where the back alleys lead to and from,’ Reid confirmed.
‘All the victims have been prostitutes, that right?’
‘Correct so far,’ Reid confirmed, ‘but of course they’re the easiest targets. They make themselves available in doorways and pubs to any passing male and they take them up dark alleys to earn their few wretched pennies. My biggest fear is that he’ll branch out and start attacking more law-abiding folk on their way to and from legitimate activities. At least our Ripper is keeping the numbers down in the pubs and the doss houses are full after eleven in the evening.’
‘Anything else you think I should know?’ Monro enquired.
When both men sadly shook their heads, the meeting was brought to a close.
‘Keep going, both of you, preferably both in the same direction at the same time. Bring me the head of Jack the Ripper.’
Chapter Eighteen
Esther carried the bowl of water carefully up the staircase and into her room, placing it on the washstand, then leaning forward and splashing her eyes in an attempt to remove the redness. It was all very well crying for three days, if the cause was right, but the evidence would have to be removed before she could venture up to Rosen’s with her latest batch of finished work. If it came to that, she would need to clear her vision sufficiently to complete the last commission, a frock coat into which an extra inside pocket had been inserted and which needed to be hand-stitched to a proper finish.
She raised her head and looked out of the narrow window down into the yard, where it was drizzling. There was mud on the ground, left by a wagon that had recently unloaded more carcasses that would eventually feed a hundred cats for a month and her mind flew back to the mud that always seemed to lie on Church Lane. She would have to stop brooding on what might have been, she ordered herself sternly. Her brain received the message, but her heart was reluctant to leave Barking.
Her mind began to replay that final drama yet again, as if she hadn’t spent the past three days going over and over it, like some awful book that was terrifying to read, but which she couldn’t bring herself to put down. The ominous silence of that ride home, Jack trying everything in his power to get her to speak; her fear of doing so in case she said awful things that put their relationship beyond retrieval. Perhaps she would have been better off saying them and breaking that final thread, rather than living on in a hopeless dream of something magical happening — perhaps waking up to find that it had all been a horrid nightmare, or a visit from Constance Enright to apologise for what she had said and thought.
No chance, she reminded herself. For one thing, Jack’s mother wouldn’t be seen dead in a hovel like this. More to the point, she had been perfectly right to seek to protect her son from an unwise match with a Jewess who lived in a common lodging house and took in sewing for a living. For all the good looks that others insisted on telling her that she possessed, she was still a pischerke — a nobody. One day her looks would fade and she would still be a seamstress at heart, an orphan relying on others for her survival. Jack might amuse himself by playing at being a policeman, but he was from a different world from hers and one day he would wake up to himself and take his rightful place in society. Then how would he feel, making his way in polite social circles with a wife whose origins had to be tactfully hidden from their suspicious friends?
Not that Jack had even mentioned marriage, so why was she fooling herself? His mother might think that he was about to propose to Esther, but that was probably just a mother’s ambitious wish for her son to be settled in life, with grandchildren to dote on her as she passed into old age. Now, of course, there could be no question of anything like that. Still, she had learned one thing; never be too open-hearted or generous with one’s affections. Jack had seemed too good to be true and as it turned out he was. Head down, she told herself, get on with that sewing and then get up to Rosen’s for your money — that’s your real place in life.
She hadn’t heard the first gentle tapping on her door and only became aware of it as it became louder and more insistent, accompanied by the strident voice of Sadie Thompson. ‘Get off yer arse, lady — yer copper’s ’ere ter see yer!’
Her heart leapt into her mouth and she hastily brushed down her dress and looked into the hand mirror on her small dressing table to see if the redness still showed. Then she stopped herself in her tracks. If Jack Enright thought he could come crawling round here, seeking to persuade her that he really did love her for herself, when in fact he was only following Mama’s instructions to get himself a pretty wife to hang off his arm, then he could damn well look somewhere else.
She threw open the door and confronted Sadie. ‘Tell him I don’t want to see him and to take his uniformed presence somewhere else, where the neighbours won’t think the worst.’
‘It’s not the one wi’ the uniform,’ Sadie advised her. ‘It’s the older one what were wearin’ ’is own clothes the last time ’e were ’ere.’
‘Percy?’
‘I don’t know ’is bloody name, do I? Best get down inter the kitchen.’
With some reluctance, but driven by curiosity, Esther smartened herself up and went downstairs. Percy Enright sat at the table and looked up nervously as Esther breezed in, trying her best to look unconcerned. Percy smiled weakly as he looked into her eyes.
‘Looks like you’ve been crying,’ he observed.
‘None of your business,’ Esther advised him curtly, ‘and if you’re here to tell me how sorry Jack is for what his mother said and for leading me up the garden path, don’t waste your breath. This pretty little seamstress can talk for herself, but has no message for your nephew that’s fit for a lady to utter, or a gentleman like yourself to hear.’
Percy’s face hardened slightly. ‘You can be ruthless when you want to be, can’t you? What exactly did Constance say to you that’s caused such a rift between you and Jack?’
‘You heard what I said in the garden last Sunday. She obviously thinks of me as a slum girl setting her hat at a wealthy boy. She must have got that idea from Jack and I obviously couldn’t pursue our relationship in those circumstances, always wondering what he really thinks of me. Did he send you up here to see how I’m dealing with the truth?’
Percy shook his head sadly. ‘I haven’t seen him since Sunday. Nobody has. He’s shut himself in his room at his lodgings, refusing all food. His only communication was a note to Edmund Reid asking for permission to take his annual leave all in one instalment, effective immediately. That expires next Monday and if he doesn’t report for duty by then, he’ll be thrown off the force. So stop feeling so sorry for yourself and grow up!’
‘Are you here just to tell me that?’ she challenged him. ‘If so, please be aware that I’ve grown up more since Sunday than I ever thought possible and now I can get on wit
h my life knowing what my true value is to others.’
‘And your value to the community?’ he enquired enigmatically.
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning I need to find Mary Kelly.’
‘You were the one who told me about her — surely you know where she can be found?’
‘Yes and no,’ Percy replied. ‘Somewhere along Dorset Street, which is the biggest rabbit warren in Spitalfields, the last time I looked. But she’s our only link to what Pearly Poll and her slasher are really up to.’
‘I thought you’d given up with her,’ Esther reminded him. ‘According to what I hear from what other people read in the papers, even Inspector Reid thinks your killer of prostitutes is a random lunatic.’
‘Maybe he does,’ Percy explained, ‘but he still wants to do Poll for procuring abortions and a win like that might cheer him up. He’s making life pretty miserable for the rest of us, gromphing around the station and yelling back at us whenever we say anything intended to cheer him up. A bit like the way you’re behaving at the moment, actually.’
‘So why can’t you go into Dorset Street with the full might of the law, kick down a few doors and batter people over the head till they give you the truth?’
‘If that’s the image that Jack gave you of how we police work, then I’m very sad,’ Percy replied with a shake of the head. ‘We’re a bit more subtle when dealing with law-abiding people than we are when we’re breaking up street brawls.’
‘So why can’t you just go up there and ask some important questions?’ she demanded, forcing an ironic laugh from Percy.
