Anatomy of Evil (27 page)

The sight made us angry. One of the officers roared and beat upon the walls in his wrath. The walls were suddenly too close, and we were buffeted about. Everyone was yelling and cursing at once and trying to get to the entrance. Eventually, we pushed our way out into the sunshine and the cool, salty air. Men lit cigarettes and pipes and tried to calm their nerves. Some had recourse to hip flasks, though it was not yet noon. We stared into the inky river.

“This case,” I said. “This case—”

“I know,” the Guv replied. Neither of us finished the thought.

“We always seem to be behind.”

“Aye. We are not acting, but reacting. We must find some way to get ahead of him.”

“The newspapermen shall think it is Christmas. This is the worst possible thing to have happened to the Yard.”

“There’s nae more to see here, Thomas. Let us return to our desk.”

I turned and began to walk back to Great Scotland Yard Street. The thought in my head was unless the murderer was found, Jack the Ripper or no, New Scotland Yard would be built on an unsolved-crime site. I’m sure the irony was not lost on the Guv, either.

“An arm was found farther down the river earlier this week, in Pimlico,” he told me. “I’ll bet it belonged to this poor woman.”

“What a horrible way to die,” I cried.

“I have little doubt she was dismembered afterward, lad.”

“Still, cut into pieces and tossed into the Thames, and the main part left here as a warning.”

“Her soul went to heaven at the first instant. The rest is just unfeeling clay. As for the warning, granted, it was a bold move to leave a corpse here on Scotland Yard soil, but it was a convenient place to hide a body. Depriving a person of his or her life takes but a moment and can be done in the heat of anger, but disposing of a body is always the most difficult part.”

“You’re saying that woman was killed for whatever reason, and the body left as an afterthought, rather than that she was deliberately killed and left as a warning? Why?”

“He cut off her head to make her unable to be identified.”

“It’s probably floating in Bayswater right now, waiting to be found,” I said.

“If he is as clever as he is daring, he’ll have destroyed the features somehow, to prevent recognition.”

“You’re certain this is not the work of the Whitechapel Killer?”

“It’s not his method. This fellow has not sliced the abdomen or removed her organs, and so far the Whitechapel Killer has not attempted to remove limbs from his victims.”

“But two women-killers at the same time, that’s a coincidence, and you don’t believe in coincidences.”

“I do not. Generally, it means one has not considered all the factors. In this case, a fellow is getting rid of a body a piece at a time. The limbs are not that difficult, but the torso itself is more so. Why not bedevil Scotland Yard, already chasing after a hobgoblin, by placing it in the construction site and blaming it on the Ripper? He is the perfect scapegoat.”

“You called him ‘the Ripper,’ sir.”

“Did I? Damn and blast. You see how easy it is to fix a label on someone? Deucedly hard to get rid of it afterward.”

“Suppose there are two killers, sir, and they are working together. This is an example of the second’s work coming to the fore.”

“The Whitechapel Killer does not strike me as a social fellow. He is secretive and silent, in spite of these false letters to the press. If there were a second killer, and this is his work, then more likely he is mimicking the first and need not actually know him. He was inspired by the Whitechapel Killer’s success to try this himself. It is quite a strong message, is it not? You are powerless, and I can even set a murdered citizen at your very door, within your own walls. If a talented reporter gets hold of it, he can have every woman in London feel as if she narrowly escaped death, from the simplest char to Her Majesty. Perhaps especially Her Majesty.”

“The murder is bad enough. I mean, it is terrible and the dismemberment. But the obliteration of all identity must be the worst of all. If she is not identified, she’ll go to her grave unmourned and unknown. Meanwhile, her parents, or perhaps even her husband, shall wonder forever if she is alive somewhere, and has left voluntarily. It’s sickening!”

“’Tis, indeed,” Barker rumbled.

“And naked,” I went on. “A further indignity. He spared her nothing. One would think Evil can go no further.”

“Thomas, you must not allow yourself to become emotionally tangled in this case. It can break you like a matchstick. Practice emotional detachment, as much as is possible. Do not allow this to overshadow the case we are already investigating. That has precedence over this one.”

“And if they are working together?”

“Then I believe we shall uncover proof of that connection.”

We returned to our chairs around Barker’s desk.

“I hope so. We have to get this fellow. It would be terrible if he were never caught. It would damage the reputation of the Yard forever.”

“Then between us we must see that that doesn’t happen.”

“Ahem.”

We looked up. A sergeant was standing in the doorway. “You gonna make a fresh pot or jaw all day?”

I jumped to my feet and hustled down the hall. All Scotland Yard investigation runs upon a never-ending supply of black pekoe tea, strong and hot. If the Opium Wars with China proved anything, it is that the entire country runs upon it.

Returning to the kitchen, I emptied the pot, pumped the water, added the tea leaves, and lit the hob. When the tea was finally brewed, I found Barker at my elbow.

“Let us get out of here. Question someone, even if we’ve questioned them a half-dozen times already. Talk to people. Anything to get away from this blighted street.”

“Gladly,” I said.

I felt hemmed in by the walls and hallways of the old building. We seized our hats and passed through those halls again until we stepped out in the street. Eagerly, we passed through the front gate and hailed a cab. We pulled out into Whitehall traffic. It felt as if we were escaping.

There were other occupations that did not require one to view dead and bloated bodies on a weekly basis. One went to an office, filled out forms and created paperwork, and at some point prescribed by one’s duties, one went home and didn’t think about work anymore. One kissed one’s wife and lifted one’s children into the air, because, of course, one was safe to marry because one was not shot at or stabbed or frequently beaten up. We saved London one person at a time, but the city regarded us not. Then we took it personally when an individual slipped through our fingers and wound up wrapped in a roll of dark wool, without a head or limbs.

“Tell me it is early days, and we shall get this fellow.”

“It is, and we shall.”

“Where are we going?”

“Ho’s. He might have some gleaning we can use.”

Ho was Barker’s closest friend, a monosyllabic Chinaman who was first mate aboard the
Osprey
. Now he ran a tearoom in Limehouse. He also traded information. We now had a new piece he might trade for something we could use.

When we arrived at his tearoom, through a clandestine tunnel beneath the Thames, I munched on doughy rolls while my employer conversed with the Chinaman in Cantonese. Ho is bald, save for a thick queue, and has long, weighted earlobes. At one point he was a Buddhist monk, but he looked more like a pirate than a monk.

“Two inspectors came in here last week,” Ho said, switching to English. “Discussed with each other whether there was a demand for female organs among medical students. A specimen in a jar could go for as much as five pounds sterling.”

“That’s a month’s wages down Whitechapel way.”

“It would not work as a going concern, however,” Barker pointed out. “Even murder among the drabs of the East End, the lowest level of society, draws the attention of the community and Scotland Yard. You’ll have to do better than that.”

Just then our food arrived. Sweet and sour pork, snail dumplings, and fried rice. I had been queasy an hour before when the body was found, but my appetite had returned. The living must go on.

“Two City police discussing the case here said it must be the work of a foreign sailor. The bodies are found close to Dockland. The other gave the opinion that Asians have strange rituals involving human sacrifice. I charged him double.”

“Oh, come now. Is that the best you can do?” Barker asked, biting off half a dumpling.

Ho crossed his bare arms, which look flabby, but are actually well muscled. He was speculating over which tidbit to pass on to his friend.

“Two men came in last night, late. Mentioned a person named Lusk.”

“Lusk? Aye?”

“They discussed how to make an example out of the Jews, to ‘run them off.’ One said they must burn the synagogue. The other said if they attack the silver merchants they can loot their shops.”

“So,” I said, “on one hand, we have the Whitechapel murders as a way to make money selling female organs to hospitals. On the other, we have them killing unfortunates in order to blame the Jews so they can loot their prosperous stores.”

“Man said Lusk did not approve.”

“They must be members of the Mile End Vigilance Society,” Barker said.

“If anyone had the organization to make an attempt on the Jews, it would be they,” I said. “I must say I am surprised Lusk would not go for it.”

“Just because he runs a vigilance group does not ipso facto make him a thief and an opportunist. It is possible that he only wants the women at Whitechapel to be safe. Someone there should.”

“Are we even?” Ho asked.

Barker picked up a small cup of tea with his thick fingers and downed it, deep in thought.

“Three fact for one,” Ho reminded him.

Barker slapped the stout table. “Done. Consider us even. Come, lad.”

As we walked into the tunnel under the river, I stopped, as I often did, and listened to the sound of the Thames moving overhead. I knew not by what alchemy it didn’t all come crashing in to flood the tunnel.

“I suppose somewhere on the river there is a head and some limbs bobbing,” the Guv remarked.

“First you make me eat snail dumplings and now you discuss floating limbs,” I complained.

“I’m the one who ate the snail dumplings,” Barker said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Barker and I were getting ready to go into the station the following morning, when there was a knock upon the door. A message was handed to my employer and he shut it again, reading it. He frowned and handed it to me.

“We’re to report to Leman Street as soon as possible,” he said.

“Another killing?” I asked, reaching for my shoes.

“I think not. More likely some sort of inspection. The constable who delivered the note was spotless. Fresh collars and cuffs. Let’s wear our best shoes this morning.”

We broke our fast on buttered toast and tea downstairs, then walked briskly to the corner of Commercial and Leman Street. A crowd had already formed and at least a dozen constables stood about looking anxious. It was nearly seven in the morning and a light mist was falling.

“Who is that?” I asked Barker, pointing to an officious-looking person talking to reporters. He seemed familiar, like I had seen an engraving of his face in the newspapers. A minor royal, perhaps?

“That is Henry Matthews, the Home secretary,” my employer stated.

“The one who hired Munro after he resigned from Scotland Yard?”

“The same.”

“Has the commissioner been sacked?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. You have a brain. Pray, draw your own conclusions.”

Just then, DCI Frederick Abberline stepped out of the station. The next we knew we were being introduced to Matthews. The Home secretary did not seem overimpressed by us, but I assume nothing short of pulling the Ripper from a hat in darbies would have satisfied him.

“Where is Warren with that blasted dog?” Matthews asked.

“I’m sure he’ll be along directly,” Abberline assured him.

We stood about for twenty minutes or more. Some of the crowd moved on to their occupations, or left out of boredom. There was nothing to see but a squad of constables looking uncomfortable.

Finally, Commissioner Warren arrived, with a man leading a sleepy-looking but wiry bloodhound. His hide looked like brown velvet, and his eyes were heavily hooded, but his manner was businesslike. He was ready to be set loose on something.

“The commissioner had a field trial two nights ago in Hampstead Heath, after it was closed,” Abberline explained to us. “He himself acted as bait. The hound tracked him successfully to a thicket. There is to be another trial this morning to see how he fares in the streets of Whitechapel.”

“Will the gentlemen of the press come forward,” the commissioner of police asked.

Certain men in the crowd detached themselves from doorways and conversations and came closer to where Warren and the jowly hound stood. One of them, Bulling, actually reached out and patted the dog.

Warren gave a short speech. I took it down verbatim for Barker’s benefit, but there is no need to repeat it all here. The gist was that no detective, no matter how educated or insightful, was a match for a bloodhound with a keen nose. He described in great detail how he had come up with the thought of a hound himself to track down the Whitechapel Killer, how he had found a trainer, got permission to use Hampstead Heath to test his theories, and how Barnaby, that is, the dog, had proven an unqualified success. The entire speech was highly insulting to the Criminal Investigation Department, who, with Abberline as the only exception, had thrown in their support to Munro. The suggestion was that if Scotland Yard were reduced to Warren and one dog, he would function without them very well, thank you.

“Should this test prove successful, I can imagine a canine division of hounds and handlers, brought to bear against the thieves and murderers of the East End.”

“There you go,” Abberline muttered to Barker. “In one sentence, he has insulted the entire Metropolitan Police and half of London.”

Then Matthews, who must have had hearing as good as the Guv’s, spoke up. “But he has done so with great authority and self-assurance.”