Anatomy of Evil (34 page)

There is no greater aid to the private enquiry agent than the
Kelly’s Directory,
which lists every business, charity, government office, and landowner in London. I found twenty-five lunatic asylums therein and over thirty workhouses. I dusted off my Hammond typewriting machine and spent close to an hour typing all of the information into it, so Barker could see it all at a glance. Well, two glances, one for each page. Then I worked out which ones were in the East End or nearby and even collated the information by district, so that someone, presumably me, did not have to crisscross the area from one institution to the next. When I was done, the Guv’s pipe was put away, but he was still facing forward, unmoving, stonelike, deep in thought. I laid the sheets in front of him and he grunted, pulling them closer.

“What a marvel these new machines are,” he murmured. “Have you noticed how illegible the forms are at the Metropolitan Police building? The inspectors’ handwriting is atrocious, because the men are uneducated and are not taught proper copperplate. Suppose a man were falsely accused or worse, let go, because of a misspelling or an illegible word!”

To get the full irony, one has to realize that this was Cyrus Barker saying these words, who may in fact have the worst penmanship in all Britain, including Manx, the Orkneys, and the Isle of Wight. A child sedated with opium could manage a better scrawl. However, it got me thinking.

“You know, sir, it would not hurt our reputation to appear organized and professional. What if we sent regular reports to Warren, neatly typed and in a proper folder, explaining what we are doing and have accomplished so far? You said we should be transparent. Of course, we don’t have to tell him everything we’ve done. It would be better than having him order us into his office in a day or two and demand what we’ve been up to.”

Barker sat back in his chair. For all I knew, he had not heard a word I said. Then he leaned forward and thumped the desk with his fist, rattling the glass.

“I like it!” he said. “Do it, by all means. We’ll also provide a revised version for Sir Henry Ponsonby. That’s good thinking, lad. I knew we needed to get away from the Yard and wipe the cobwebs from our minds.”

That was typical. Fresh air and sunshine got the credit for my idea. Had I pulled the teapot from the small kitchen there, perhaps
it
would have come up with the idea.

“I’ll get on it, then, sir.”

I pulled my notebook from my pocket, put another piece of paper in the Hammond and began to type. This was what I did best. I can pull a trigger or introduce a fellow to my right jab, but I’m best with ideas. Creating a report that looked authentic, while simultaneously praising our efforts and obfuscating what we didn’t want to reveal, takes a certain level of talent. I have acquired few skills in my life, but that was one of them.

So engrossed was I in my work, I have no recollection of what the owner of our chambers did while I wrote. There is a slight memory that he paced the room deep in thought, but perhaps that is merely the likeliest option. He did not slip out, of that I am certain, for he was there when I was done. Perhaps he read one of the hundreds of books the chamber held, though I suspected most were there to impress our clients.

Setting the finished copy in front of my employer, I scuppered back to my chair in case he should find it unsatisfactory. I had placed five sheets of fresh vellum before him, single-spaced. Barker read. He is not a fast reader, but when he is done he has grasped every nuance and can quote back full passages.

He read and I watched. When he reached the final page, he opened his drawer and removed a stylographic pen, which he preferred to a stylus and bottle that might spill ink upon his antiseptic desk. He unscrewed the cover, held the nib down to let the ink flow, and then wrote that signature I’d seen a thousand times in my life. That was it. No corrections. He looked through the lower drawers of his desk and found an envelope the size of the letter without folding it.

“Thomas,” he said, “your penmanship is better than mine. Please write ‘Commissioner Warren—Private’ on the cover.”

I did as he asked, using my best orthography. Afterward, he put the signed report in the envelope and tied the loop of string which secured it.

“Now take this to Scotland Yard and hand it in at the front desk. Change out of your uniform and return.”

The duties took me about a quarter hour. By the time I returned, Barker and Jenkins were in their hats and coats. Automatically, I checked the time on the watch from my pocket.

“It is but five past five,” I said.

“We are shutting down the office early,” Barker explained, or didn’t.

“Why?”

“Jeremy assures me the Rising Sun serves excellent mussels and porter. Did you have other plans? You could go back to Scotland Yard and boil more tea for an hour, if you prefer.”

“No, no,” I said. “Mussels and porter are fine.”

The Guv passed between us and out the front door. Jenkins and I locked up together.

“Did you put him up to this?” I asked.

“It was Mr. B’s idea,” Jenkins assured me. “He asked about the mussels. Maybe he just got a bit peckish. I know I am.”

“The only dinner you’ll graze on is at the bottom of a pint glass.”

“Porter is nourishing and healthful. Says so on the adverts.”

We caused a minor sensation when Jenkins walked into the public house a half hour ahead of time. It was as if the sun had slipped in its orbit. He had to tell and retell the tale at the fireplace to such friends as were there. The rest would arrive for alternate versions. Meanwhile, the Guv and I dug the mussels out of their shells and washed them down with strong porter. I tried to make a remark about the Walrus and the Carpenter, but it fell on deaf ears. Dining as he was, I suspected Barker was still working, and had been all afternoon. The mussels, like most food, were wasted on him. His mind was in the case already, trying to work out where the Whitechapel Killer might strike next.

“Goulston Street,” he muttered.

“What about it?”

“That’s where he was last seen. The bloody apron and the message in chalk.”

I felt the briny mussel slip down my throat before taking a bitter, hopsy sip of porter.

“What about it?”

“He’s just completed a bloody crime, the bloodiest of his career. He’s wiping his hands. He throws it down.”

“He writes the note.”

Barker raised a finger. “That is not yet determined. Such notes are scrawled all over Whitechapel. He may have just dropped the cloth in front of it. But Goulston Street.”

“Ghoul Street, more like.”

“He’s covered in blood, at least his hands are, in spite of the apron. He needs to wash. He’s accomplished his objective, even after being interrupted in Elizabeth Stride’s murder and being forced to retreat. He’s done for the night. I suspect he’s on the way home. If one could draw a line from Mitre Square to Goulston Street, I believe one would be heading into the murderer’s personal neighborhood.”

“You’re certain,” I said.

“Of course I’m not certain, lad. It is merely a theory I would like to test. And test it we shall, tonight. I suggest more mussels and less porter.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The next day I began my tour of the East End asylums. Needless to say, I was not looking forward to it, but then no one came to such places voluntarily. I went in uniform in order to make my visit authoritative, but truth to tell I didn’t know what such institutions could or could not reveal about their patients. Promising myself that I would keep my emotions in check, I chose one at random, the Poplar Lunatic Asylum.

First of all, the building was large and brick, and surrounded by a high gate. In fact, that was the standard architecture for each building. There was a porter in a booth at the front, and I explained my purpose. I was waved through. There were benches along the walkway and some patients were outside in the morning sun. They were being watched over by an imposing man who was either a guard or a nurse. A few of the patients attempted to come to me, but were coaxed back to their benches by him. They were a pathetic lot. Most here seemed to have been born with medical conditions in addition to their madness. The patients were docile for the most part, and I suspected they have been given sedatives. Many stared into space, and did not communicate with their neighbors.

Finally, I reached the door and found a sort of clerk in the lobby. Introducing myself, I asked if it was possible to see patient arrival and departure records going back to the summer. The clerk said he would need to speak to the doctor in charge, and I offered to speak to him myself. That would not be necessary, I was assured, and the gentleman disappeared down the hall and returned a few minutes later. A clipboard was handed to me, and I began to go through the loose pages, looking for recent departures. There were two. Most of the patients were coming in. I needed to have the man decipher some of the abbreviations there, and it turned out he was well up on all that occurred there at the asylum. Of the two men, one had been released because he was bedridden and his family took him home to die. The other was being transferred to a facility in Devon. I wrote down the names and pertinent information, and shook the fellow’s hand. The entire process had taken less than half an hour.

There was no need to crisscross London a half-dozen times, so I found a workhouse nearby. The people there were not insane, for the most part. They were just destitute. Children played in the cobblestone streets and it was like a small town, only without anything growing nearby. No trees or plants of any kind, it was a town made of brick. The citizens were dispirited, and I would have felt the same were I sentenced to live there. We have but one short life on this planet, and they were spending it imprisoned because of a few debts. Oh, I’m sure some deserved it, being gamblers or spendthrifts, but others were here due to a profligate spouse or father, or they had backed a note for a friend and had all their possessions taken away.

Again, I found someone who understood what happened there, a warder, who was able to inform me that they occasionally took in temporary patients with mental problems as long as they did not cause much of a nuisance. In fact, some came back regularly, when a “fit” was on them and their families could do nothing with them. The workhouse had a barred section for more serious cases, and a guard to watch them. I came away with three names. One was a sailor subject to fits. Another spent half his days at home and the other half in cells, particularly during the full moon. He was a true lunatic. The third was one of the suspects filed in the case, the Polish Jew, Kosminski. The information corroborated the file we had at Scotland Yard. The visit coincided with one of his manic episodes. I took down the names of the subjects and some notes about each.

And so the morning passed. Each place looked slightly different than the others, but the conditions were mostly the same. Some places were cleaner than others, some were better run, but all were depressing in the extreme. I thanked God for a sound mind. My story would bring tears from a washerwoman’s eyes, but it was nothing compared to what these men and women had endured. They had no purpose in life, but were waiting to die. I felt sorry for the families, as well, unable to care for their family member at home with their constant shifts in moods. It was tragic.

Soon, I realized the buildings were all over the area, evenly spaced across the East End, but so anonymous that I could pass under their eaves and never know it. They did not announce themselves frequently. The workhouses might occupy part of an entire street, but they were often tucked away, and the district grew around them. What better place to hide these houses of misery than among so much other misery?

“How did you find your search?” Barker asked when I returned to Scotland Yard.

“A dozen names,” I answered. “This is time-consuming, sir.”

“Just so,” he rumbled. “Take your time. Have you the list?”

I pulled my notebook from my pocket and showed it to him. He took it from me eagerly.

“It is something to investigate while we wait until he strikes again.”

“You think the Ripper will commit another murder?”

“Oh, I am sure of it. Why shouldn’t he? We are doing a poor job of stopping him. He is committing murder in our very streets and yet we cannot find him. Ah.”

“What is it?”

“That fellow, Kosminski again. He lives in Goulston Street.”

“That’s right.”

“Attacked his sister-in-law during one of his episodes. Broken scissors.”

“But he was at work during the killings. He is a night watchman at a factory.”

“I don’t see who would continue to use him as a guard after he was incarcerated in an asylum. There is more to this than meets the eye. Continue to investigate.”

“This is a fishing trip,” I complained.

“You like to fish. If anything turns up, it becomes due diligence, and you look professional. No one could ask for more. Besides, it gets you away from your duties making tea and delivering messages.”

“There’s that, I suppose.”

“I could get you transferred to walking a beat, if you prefer.”

“I’m walking a beat right now, sir, from seven to midnight. Longer, if something happens.”

“Then you have no reason to complain.”

“I wasn’t complaining, sir. ‘All things work out for the best in this, the best of all possible worlds.’”

“Whom are you quoting now?”

“The German philosopher Leibniz.”

“Well, don’t. That’s the sort of thing that will get you in trouble here.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t you have duties to perform?”

I sighed and went back to the kitchen and began making a pot of tea. It brought men in from the other offices while it brewed. I opened a fresh tin of biscuits and even Barker came into the hallway. He likes shortbread. Most desserts he finds oversweet, but he was raised on the stuff, handmade by his little Scottish mum until she and his father died in a cholera epidemic in China when he was eleven and he became a street child, disguising his European origins behind a pigtail and a pair of spectacles. I suspected shortbread reminded him of better times.