‘Both limbs rotted in the ground,’ I said quietly. The fog had a grip on the city now and it felt like a shroud, separating those of us who dealt in death from the life that filled the streets. ‘They’ve been there for weeks – as was the torso, I suspect, despite Mr Windborne’s insistence that it wasn’t there before.’
‘To bring the body here unnoticed,’ Andrews said, ‘how could that be possible?’
‘The hoardings from the Cannon Street entrance appear scalable,’ I said, adding, ‘perhaps not for me, but for a younger man.’
‘Maybe our killer is one of the workmen,’ Moore said,
exhaling smoke. ‘They come and go, and they have easy access to the vault. The torso itself would have been bulky, but the arm and leg could have easily been wrapped and concealed as tools. Or if not the killer, then perhaps an accomplice. I’ll start re-questioning them tomorrow.’
‘What do you think, Doctor? You have a mind for these things.’ He looked at me, his eyes sharp flints in the gloom. I examined my thoughts. He was right: I did have an instinct for seeing into the minds of violent men through their actions. I often wondered, while lying sleepless in my bed, whether that ‘gift’ could be the root of my problems. I could see evil too clearly at times.
‘I doubt that the man we’re looking for would leave the evidence of his crimes at his own workplace. That would be arrogance to the point of stupidity – a quite different kind of madness, or perhaps the action of someone who wants you to catch him. I don’t think either of those is the case here, unfortunately. Neither do I think he has an accomplice. I doubt he would risk a second person knowing about his deeds, no matter how close they might be.’
‘That doesn’t help me,’ Moore said. ‘I was very much hoping you were not going to suggest that a stranger managed to get into our new Police Headquarters and deposit three parts of a body with no one noticing.’
I smiled. ‘Of course, I could be wrong. These are just my thoughts, not proven facts.’
A police constable emerged from the gloom ahead and reported, ‘It’s still quiet out there.’
‘Good,’ Moore said. ‘I am in no mood to face bloodhungry newsmen tonight.’
‘A few passersby stopped to look,’ the constable continued, ‘but I think it was more curiosity about the original find than any news of recent ones. There was only one man I had to move on. He was just staring at the site. Very strange.’
‘A man staring at the site and you didn’t think to perhaps bring him inside for us to talk to?’ Moore’s voice had shifted into something close to a snarl, and I understood why: anyone behaving even slightly suspiciously was enough to consider as a suspect, especially when there were no other leads to follow in such a case. Hunting ghosts was no easy task.
‘He had a withered arm,’ the constable stuttered quickly. ‘He’d never have managed to carry a torso in here.’
The words were like ice hurled at my face.
The stranger from Camden?
‘What was he wearing?’ I asked, before I could control myself. Both Moore and Andrews turned to look at me and I cursed myself, but still I stared at the young man in front of us.
‘I couldn’t see,’ he said, even more nervous now that I was so intent on his information. ‘A long black coat, I think. Waxy.’
So it
was
him! My heart thumped once again. He had been here, and not so long ago. If I could make my
excuses now, then I had half a chance of finding him tonight.
‘Did I do something wrong?’ the constable asked, his eyes flicking between his two superiors. ‘If I had thought …’ His words trailed away.
‘Do you know that man?’ Moore asked.
‘No, not as such,’ I answered. ‘I imagine he is just a ghoul, drawn to such events. He’s probably been at Whitechapel too, I wouldn’t wonder.’ I kept my tone light. I didn’t want to examine my own reasons for keeping this secret from the two inspectors. I told myself I really had nothing to tell – and I certainly didn’t want to share my visits to the opium dens with them.
‘Where have you seen him?’ Andrews asked.
‘If it is indeed the same man, then he was outside the Rainham inquest. I recall the withered arm.’
‘As you say, probably just a ghoul,’ Moore said. He did not sound entirely convinced, but I knew his irritation was directed not at me but at the young officer. Andrews was watching me.
‘To remember a stranger from over a year ago,’ he said, eventually. ‘I wish I had your memory for detail.’
‘Ah, that’s age,’ I said, forcing myself to smile. ‘I can remember things from a year ago, but don’t ask me what I ate for supper last night. How is the Whitechapel search going?’ Presently, all the men in the area were being questioned as part of the search for Jack. I needed to change the subject of our conversation for
the sake of my own nerves and Henry Moore took the bait, snorting derisively.
‘It would perhaps have been more effective if we had not adhered to the law so thoroughly. We should have just searched by force and not with permission. There’s been plenty of time for our Jack to move anything suspicious.’
‘But still,’ Andrews said, ‘it’s better than doing nothing, in the eyes of the populace, at any rate.’
‘Oh yes,’ Moore said, ‘for now, we have the residents with us.’ He dampened his pipe. ‘Until he kills again, of course. And then we’re fucked.’
There was nothing to say after that, and for a while the three of us simply stared out into the fog and listened to the sounds of the search going on in the building behind us. They would find nothing more, I was sure of it. Waring’s dog had done their job for them. And what was the stranger’s interest in these cases? I wondered. And what was he looking for in the opium dens?
I had to find him.
13
THE EAST-END MURDERS
We are requested to publish the following: -
Sir Charles Warren wishes to say that the marked desire evinced by the inhabitants of the Whitechapel district to aid the police in the pursuit of the author of the recent crimes has enabled him to direct that, subject to the consent of occupiers, a through house-to-house search should be made within a defined area. With few exceptions the inhabitants of all classes and creeds have freely fallen in with the proposal, and have materially assisted the officers engaged in carrying it out.
Sir Charles Warren feels that some acknowledgement is due on all sides for the cordial cooperation of the inhabitants, and he is much gratified that the police officers have carried out so delicate a duty with the marked good will of all those with whom they have come in contact.
Sir Charles Warren takes this opportunity to acknowledge the receipt of an immense volume of correspondence of a semi-private character on the subject of the Whitechapel murders, which he has been quite unable to respond to in a great number of
instances; and he trusts that the writers will accept this acknowledgement in lieu of individual replies. They may be assured that their letters have received every consideration.
14
London. October, 1888
Aaron Kosminski
The dank streets outside were finally emptying of the dark-uniformed policemen who had overrun Whitechapel for the past few days, but the sense of tense excitement still hung in the encroaching fog. Handbills and flyers seeking information, thousands of which must have been handed out, now littered the streets. They were trampled into the dirt and mud underfoot until they were no longer visible, but people still talked about their contents, the search for Jack and his grisly souvenirs, even if no gory innards had been discovered in the room-by-room search of their homes.
Not that Aaron had been outside much during the search. Matilda had thought it best he stay inside. It was no secret that hundreds of anonymous accusatory letters and cards were being sent to the police. Aaron had barely worked in two years, and he was known in the overcrowded houses and roads around them as being ‘something of a strange one’ – no doubt the most polite of several descriptions – so she and Morris, after much whispering between them, had encouraged him to stay inside and help with the children.
He hadn’t minded that at all. Going out was something he – or the awfulness inside his head – forced him to do, to seek
it
out, however much he didn’t want to. Not that he felt much safer confined to their rooms, even with the police methodically searching every room for streets around. Even if they found their ‘Jack’, they wouldn’t find what terrified him. Jack was merely a side-effect of the mayhem that followed in the creature’s wake, the wickedness it hid itself within. Everywhere one turned in London these days there were fights and foul words. Tempers were like dry tinder, just waiting for a spark to set them off. It might be more apparent in the hard-scrabble lives in the rough, dimly lit areas like Whitechapel, but he could feel the tendrils stretching out into the large houses of the rich too, where it simmered more quietly. Hatred; violence; evil, all carried on the water.
He wished he could
see
more and
feel
less. What use were these awful half-snippets of thought, the hours of dread? They served no purpose, other than to feed his sisters’ growing conviction that he was mad – and perhaps he was. His hands trembled constantly and he barely slept. Even if someone would employ him, who would trust him with a cut-throat razor?
‘What did you say to them?’
He’d known Matilda was standing in the doorway behind him before she’d spoken. He could feel her eyes, staring at his back with a mixture of worry and disapproval. She’d be rubbing her hands on her apron.
He could almost hear the skin rasping against the worn fabric. She didn’t care what they’d asked him – she already knew that. She cared only for his answers. They all knew the questions: the police had spoken to hundreds of men throughout their laborious search of Whitechapel, and they’d asked the same things – times, places, habits – all the while other officers were looking under beds, rummaging through drawers, examining knives.
Aaron shrugged. He couldn’t quite remember what he’d said. He was sure he’d answered their questions perfectly adequately, but he was also aware that it wasn’t his softly spoken words they’d been paying attention to, it was his nervous twitches, shaking hands and tired, straying eyes. He knew they were suspicious, but what could he say, that they were on the same side of the fight? He could feel the terrible evil at the core of the city, and he wanted to find it as much as they wanted to find the side-effect – this Jack? They’d have him in Colney Hatch as soon as he’d opened his mouth. Perhaps Colney Hatch was where he belonged – he might even find something like peace there.
‘I just answered the questions,’ he said.
‘Good,’ Matilda said, although she sounded less than convinced. She knew as well as he did that although no trace of anything even remotely suspicious had been found in their rooms, that wouldn’t stop the police looking at him.
‘They made me write something,’ he added.
‘They did that to lots of men, so Molly downstairs says. Her Harry too.’ Matilda’s accent was still strong, but she’d picked up the patterns of the language well in their years here. It was a strange mixture of the old country and the new one, and that made him shiver too: the thought of the old country. ‘But if you ask me he’s long gone from here. They won’t find him.’
He didn’t turn around, and after a few moments, she sighed and went back to her cooking. He stared out of the window and picked at the edges of his dirty fingernails, trying to stop his hands shaking. He would have to wash later; Matilda would insist on it. But the water bothered him. It made him think of the river. And that in turn made him think of Betsy’s blood, all those years ago in their childhood bed.
A dank, dark stagnant river of blood: that was what filled his head most days. It tore at his skull.
Perhaps this was just madness, after all.
15
London. October, 1888
Dr Bond
Several of the attendees were still milling around Westminster Sessions House as Inspector Moore, Inspector Andrews and I emerged. They were mainly the workmen and ordinary people who had been called as witnesses. For them, although they had naturally been quite nervous, there was a sense of excitement. Today had been something of an adventure – a change from the monotony of their daily existence; doubtless they would shortly celebrate that fact with several flagons of beer. Once again I pondered the strangeness of life: I attended so many inquests that they were sometimes barely more than an irritating interruption to my day.
I would rather have made my escape from the building more quickly, my overwhelming objective being to see whether the stranger in the black coat had observed this inquest from afar, as he had before, but given the verdict and Jasper Waring’s propensity for chatter and questions, we three had been held up longer than expected, and I could hardly have fled without looking rude, at best.
Now I scoured the green opposite us, but I could
not see the object of my curiosity. Had he been there and left already? It was possible – but why just loiter and observe? What was to be gained from it? If he had some interest in these deaths, which it was clear to me he must, then why not simply approach one of the inspectors? I thought again of the strangely intent way he had moved amongst those in the grip of opium stupor. How did that activity – one I could not deny I was craving for myself – have any bearing on these awful murders? There was, of course, another option: perhaps the man was simply quite mad, and there was no connection.
‘No other evidence to offer at this time,’ Moore muttered, as Detective Inspector Marshall, who had represented Scotland Yard at the inquest, tipped his hat in our direction and then hurried down the steps to his waiting hansom cab.
‘To be fair,’ Andrews said, ‘we have no other evidence. All we have are body parts and some old scraps of newspaper the torso was wrapped in.’
‘That may be true,’ Moore grunted, ‘but hearing it spoken aloud still makes me feel like a fool. I wonder if our Inspector Marshall is one of those who thinks these killings are Jack’s work?’