City of Darkness (City of Mystery) (35 page)

Of course he would have to talk to
Emma eventually.  It was wrong of him not to have gone to Kingsly Street
already, but he hoped his work would serve, as it always had in the past, as a
readily accepted excuse for social laxity.  For he knew that Emma, when he did
finally see her, would demand the same assurances that family members always
sought in these circumstances – she would want to be told that her sister
didn’t suffer and that Scotland Yard would catch the killer.  Trevor could
offer no comfort on either score.  He had kept Mary’s books.  After a suitable
time he would bring them to Emma and hope that was enough.

This morning he arrived at his lab
early, and went into the back storage area where the left leg of Mary Kelly was
waiting, packed in ice.  He had kept this part of the body specifically because
of a long slash wound that ran diagonally above the ankle, as if the killer had
considered peeling back the skin there or perhaps severing the foot.  Either
way, the wound was deep and clean, the first real sample Trevor possessed of the
Ripper’s handiwork since he’d begun to read up on the French blade
identification methods.  He had melted wax over the little laboratory flame at
one end of the table and now he pushed aside the sheet to take a closer look at
the leg, to make sure it was free from any stray fibers or hairs.

“Detective Welles?  Do you mind if I
come in?”

Trevor automatically dropped the
white cloth back over the leg, as if protecting its owner from public scandal,
and looked up to see Thomas Bainbridge standing in the hall outside his office. 
“Tom,” he said with surprise, “I was just thinking I wanted to talk to you. 
Come in, have a seat, and please, call me Trevor.”

Tom plopped his lanky form into the
nearest chair.  “So this is Scotland Yard, eh?” he asked, glancing around the
dim, small room.  “I must say it’s exciting to be here.”

“Oh, the Ritz, to be sure.  How are
things at Geraldine’s?”

Tom made a pained face.  “Emma is
adrift on a sea of tranquilizers, while Leanna is hovering outside in the
hall.  Aunt Gerry is distressed she couldn’t have done something for Mary while
she lived, although of course it would have been impossible for even Aunt Gerry
to rescue a person she did not know existed.”

“It doesn’t appear the girl wanted to
be rescued,” Trevor said.  “Evidently she liked her way of life well enough.” 

Tom indicated the cloth on the
table.  “Might I ask what you’re working on?”

Trevor hesitated for a second, but
the boy was a medical student, after all.  “Very well,” he said, and pulled
back the sheet.

Tom stood slowly.  “Is that what I
think it is? Or rather, I suppose I should say, did it come from the body of –
“

“I’m afraid so, and it’s precisely why
I wanted to talk to you.  I recently had a conversation with your sister and we
discussed a new methodology the French have to identify weapons.  The report
says they’re using wax but I’m having no luck getting a clean imprint.  Leanna
seemed to remember your grandfather once make impressions from animal bites.”

Tom nodded.  “He did, but it was
plaster, not wax.”

“Leanna said he learned the technique
from a taxidermist.”

“Really?  I thought it was a
dentist.  Either way, he adapted it.  I wish I could tell you how.  She and I
were children at the time….”

“Did he keep notes on his experiments?”

“Indeed, copious ones.” Tom looked at
Trevor curiously.  “Are you asking for my help?”

“Only unofficially.  See this slash
above the ankle.  If we could find out what sort of weapon….”

“If I can help at all, I’m in,” Tom
said with enthusiasm. So much, in fact, that he seemed to realize his reaction
may have been a bit too eager under the circumstances, for he lowered his voice
to the point of a whisper.  “I’ll have our solicitor collect the journals from
Rosemoral and send them here by courier.  Grandfather was quite systematic in
his studies, so if there’s anything helpful there at all, we shall have it by
the end of the week.”

Trevor smiled at the young man.  “Excellent,
but that’s not the only reason I’m glad you’re in Mayfair.  I hope the ladies
can bring themselves to understand why I haven’t called to offer my condolences. 
During the last few days I’ve been forced to face things…”

“Don’t be absurd, Trevor,” Tom broke
in.  “No one expected you to leave your work at a time like this and Emma did rouse
herself long enough to admire the flowers you sent.  Yellow roses were Mary’s
favorite, by chance, and Emma commented on it.”

“I noticed that her bedclothes had
yellow roses when I was in her room,” Trevor said, trying not to think back too
clearly upon that place.  “How did you hear of the tragedy?”

“John Harrowman wired me on the very day
the body was found.  Leanna said he was a rock, a true rock, the only one who
could get through to Emma at all.”

Trevor frowned.  “John Harrowman
wired for you?”

“Yes, he’s visiting at this very
moment, which is why I stepped out for a bit.”

 “Tom, I suppose there’s something
else I must tell you.  Coming to the lab during the day would be most helpful,
but I’d prefer it if you stay close to home at night.  We have coppers on
surveillance, but there’s no substitute for a man inside the house.   John
Harrowman is a suspect.”

“You’re joking,” Tom said slowly.

“Do you think I would joke about
this?  He’s a skilled surgeon that frequents the East End, he knew at least
some of the victims, he’s ambidextrous… ”

“Those facts could apply to other men!”
Tom said, but Trevor raised his hand.

“Hear me out.  Two days ago, the day
of the killing, my assistant was watching the Kelly house.  He spotted a
well-dressed man poking about, a man who loosely fit the description two
prostitutes gave us after the night of the double murders.  Davy followed the
man to an address that turned out to be Harrowman’s , then on to Geraldine’s.”

“I know why he was there, he told me
himself,” Tom said, his voice rising in anger.  “Mary Kelly was one of his
patients. When he learned she was the one who had been killed he went to her
home as a kind of tribute, to pay respects.  That was before he knew she was
Emma’s sister, of course.  And certainly you can place him in close conjunction
with the women of the East End, his profession explains that.  I won’t hear any
more against him.”

“I don’t blame you for being upset. 
I’ve had trouble accepting it myself.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed.  “I know what
this is about.  The evening we were together playing charades you couldn’t keep
your eyes off Leanna.  I saw it, we all did.  Teased her about it later.  But it’s
just as plain that she’s smitten for John, which is why you’ve concocted this
ridiculous case against him.”

“I don’t hate John, no matter what
you think…”

“Do you have real evidence?  Enough
to arrest him?”

Trevor sat back with a sigh.  “No.”

“I didn’t think so.  And you expect
me to be the one to give it to you, by identifying that this wound was made
from a surgical knife.  As if he’s the only man in London who might possess
such a thing.”

“You don’t have to like it, Tom.  I don’t
like it myself.  I’ve got the best detective I know out on the streets right
now working to determine John’s whereabouts during the five dates in question. 
And no doubt he will establish a perfect alibi and I will most humbly beg your
pardon for this whole conversation.   But in the meantime, humor me and stay
close to the ladies.”

“I’ll stay close to them, you know I will. 
You don’t have to fabricate stories about John Harrowman to press me into my
duty.”

Before Trevor could reply, the door
swung open and Davy entered.  “Sorry, Sir, didn’t know you had a guest.”

“This is Thomas Bainbridge, Davy,
nephew to my friend Geraldine and a medical student at Cambridge.  He has come
to volunteer his services on the case.  Tom, Davy Mabrey, my assistant.”

His face still flushed, Tom rose to
shake Davy’s hand.

“What’s that?” Trevor asked,
indicating a small white box Davy was carrying.

“Just came, Sir,” Davy replied,
glancing meaningfully at Tom.  “Another message from the Ripper and a pretty
grisly one at that.”

“Let’s hear it,” Trevor said. 

“Let’s see it, is a bit more like it,
Sir,” Davy said, gingerly setting the box before Trevor.

Trevor unknotted the twine and pulled
back a bit of paper to reveal, to his disgust, another human kidney, this one
undoubtedly from Mary Kelly.  “Oh Christ,” breathed Tom.  Trevor reached below
the paper for the crumpled note.

“’HERE’S A FINE KIDNEY.  I ATE THE
OTHER ONE.  IT WAS DELICIOUS! –JACK’”

“Kidneys seem to be his favorite,
right Sir?” asked Davy who was rapidly becoming immune to horror. 

Tom gripped the top of Trevor’s desk,
his face pale.  “So you honestly think John Harrowman is capable of cannibalism?”
he asked incredulously. “How can you believe for a second that you are not
dealing with a total lunatic, a madman devoid of any human feeling?” Tom stepped
back, his eyes never leaving Trevor’s face.  “And yet you expect me to help
build your case?  That shall never happen!  I admire him, Detective, just as I
once admired you.”  With this Tom spun and fairly ran from the room, his heavy
boots clattering down the hallway.  Trevor gazed after him pensively.

“You told him, Sir?” Davy asked with
surprise.  “Told him I followed Harrowman?”

“He’s in the house where Harrowman
visits and in the perfect position to observe and report, so yes, I told him,”
Trevor said grimly. “But evidently I misjudged his ability to handle the
information.”

“And should I try to ascertain his
whereabouts, Sir?”   Davy spoke with grave formality, which was marred only by the
fact he mispronounced “ascertain” by putting the emphasis on the second
syllable.  Otherwise, the statement sounded precisely like something Abrams
would say. Trevor supposed it would make sense, that the boy would choose to
imitate the man who seemed polished and unflappable rather than the one who
swayed and cursed and roared, but on another level he felt a pang of remorse. 
He was not doing an especially good job of maintaining his professional dignity
and his underlings seemed to realize that.   Trevor glanced around.  There was
virtually no privacy in the lab and Severin had been cleaning up loudly during
his argument with Tom, washing his tubes and trays with such uncharacteristic
clatter that he was probably just struggling not to overhear the fight.   Who could
guess what the mortuary assistant truly thought of him and Tom’s words had
stung too, that phrase “just as I once admired you.”  Perhaps it wasn’t
Trevor’s job to mentor the younger men in his life, but it was still sobering
to be reminded he was failing so spectacularly in the role.

“Abrams is working on alibis for
Harrowman,” he gently reminded Davy.

“Not Harrowman, Sir.  Tom
Bainbridge.   He’s a medical student, didn’t you say?”

“Tom?  But he’s –“ Trevor caught
himself before he could make the same mistake twice, could claim that the fact
he’d met a man socially eliminated him as a suspect.  “He wasn’t in London for
the murders,” he amended.

“Wasn’t staying at his aunt’s house,
isn’t that what you mean, Sir?”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”  Now the
bobbies were schooling him.  Davy was right.  Not spending the night at
Geraldine’s was hardly proof the Bainbridge boy hadn’t been in London.  Trains
ran between Kings Cross and Cambridge on the hour.   “All right, ascertain his
whereabouts” – Trevor took care to enunciate the word correctly – “and report
back to me.” 

The boy nodded and left, and Trevor
signaled to Severin to come and fetch this latest kidney.  He could scarcely
feature Tom as a serious suspect, but neither could he picture John in that
role, and his instincts, he must admit, were proving no more valuable than a confession
from Hoppy Darby.  Friendship wasn’t an alibi and neither was education nor
breeding nor a Mayfair address.  He had been struggling to teach these lessons
to others and it was perhaps time he learned them himself.   In the future
there would be no feelings in this room, only facts.

Trevor sighed as he pulled back the
cloth to once again reveal the lonely leg of Mary Kelly.   Sometimes he hated
being a modern man.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

5:40 PM

The second note is more direct.  She
wants money. 

Part of him is relieved. He has lain
awake the last two nights wondering at her intent.  Did she plan to reveal him
to the authorities?  Set herself up as some sort of heroine, the woman who
single-handedly learned the identity of Jack the Ripper?  But of course not,
he’d tried to console himself, as he tossed among the sheets of his narrow
bed.  If she planned to go to Scotland Yard she would have already been there.  
She certainly would not have alerted him to her identity, placed herself in
line of his rifle.