1888

September 12th

So sweet, so lovely, so lifeless. Poor little Mary Ann. Whatever would she do now she ran into my knife? All that blood. Little poppet.  Never mind. Sing a lullaby to the whore, just as she did. Shhh...rest now. Time for sleep...



ANOTHER HORRIBLE MURDER IN WHITECHAPEL.

EXCITEMENT IN THE DISTRICT.



Inspector Frederick Abberline lay the Evening Standard from September 10th down with a heavy sigh. This was turning into a crisis. Just a week or so earlier, the body of Mary Ann “Polly” Nichols was discovered at Essex Wharf warehouse. Nothing of its calibre had been seen in London for a long time. The savage murder of the woman had sparked fears to walk the street already and now they were doubly founded by a second murder. Annie Chapman had been discovered mutilated in the same way only four days ago. However, the killer was getting braver and that only spelled trouble in the Inspector’s mind.  The inquest had officially begun. He picked up the coroner, Wynne E. Baxter’s, report, casually sipping on his tea though not really tasting it.

"Five teeth were missing, and there was a slight laceration of the tongue. There was a bruise running along the lower part of the jaw on the right side of the face. That might have been caused by a blow from a fist or pressure from a thumb. There was a circular bruise on the left side of the face which also might have been inflicted by the pressure of the fingers. On the left side of the neck, about 1 in. below the jaw, there was an incision about 4 in. in length, and ran from a point immediately below the ear. On the same side, but an inch below, and commencing about 1 in. in front of it, was a circular incision, which terminated at a point about 3 in. below the right jaw. That incision completely severed all the tissues down to the vertebrae. The large vessels of the neck on both sides were severed. The incision was about 8 in. in length. The cuts must have been caused by a long-bladed knife, moderately sharp, and used with great violence. No blood was found on the breast, either of the body or the clothes. There were no injuries about the body until just about the lower part of the abdomen. Two or three inches from the left side was a wound running in a jagged manner. The wound was a very deep one, and the tissues were cut through. There were several incisions running across the abdomen. There were three or four similar cuts running downwards, on the right side, all of which had been caused by a knife which had been used violently and downwards. The injuries were form left to right and might have been done by a left handed person. All the injuries had been caused by the same instrument."

It wasn’t a lot of information to go on and nor from the testimonies and witnesses was there a lot of motive.  When talking to Edward Walker, her father expressed the belief that she was too kind for enemies.  So why would someone do this to her? He came to the conclusion that this was the work of a man who murdered because he could and that was a very dangerous prospect indeed.

For perhaps the twentieth time that day Abberline cradled his head in his hands and tried to fight off the fatigue. He’d been called from Scotland Yard to Whitechapel to assist in the case but had gotten more than he bargained for. One body was bad enough but just four days ago, Annie Chapman was found dead in backyard of 29 Hanbury Street. Not normally a cause for alarm but the striking similarities between the cases meant the press were making wild speculations about a “serial” killer. There was an uneasy feeling around the Whitechapel area. Abberline had been informed of “The Whitechapel Vigilance Committee”, unhappy with the lack of progress the investigative team had made. Chief Inspector Swanson made a particular habit of calling them “The Whitechapel Veneniferous Committee” which the force found highly amusing. George Lusk, the President of said committee was now making fools of both his organisation and the police. It was a disaster.

What was worse was the arrest of John Pizer had resulted in nothing more than embarrassment. Pizer was a Polish Jew who worked as a bootmaker in Whitechapel. Police Sergeant William Thick brought Pizer in for questioning. Thick apparently believed that Pizer was a man known as "Leather Apron", a local man who was notorious for committing minor assaults on prostitutes. The locals suspected that "Leather Apron" is the killer. Abberline knew differently. Pizer was merely a victim of Thick’s animosity. They had known each other for many years and made their hatred of each other no secret.

Abberline finished the last of his tea and watched the dregs slide back into the bottom of the cup.

“Dew?!” he yelled.

A well postured constable entered the room, smoothing his slicked back hair nervously and pulling his jacket down.

“Yes, Inspector?”

“Fetch me a cab would you? I’m taking a trip to Hanbury Street.”

“Of course, Inspector. Right away.”

He scurried out of the room and Abberline put his coat and hat on waiting by the window. He leant his elbow on the mantlepiece near the fire and mused. He observed the people walking outside, urchins, gentleman, ladies and the elderly. Anyone one of them could be the culprit.

“Inspector?” Dew prompted.

Abberline started a little, knocking a carriage clock from the mantle.

“Damn, man!” he cursed as he bent to restore it.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to-“, the constable began, offering his hand to help.

“No, no,” Abberline interrupted, waving his arm dismissively. “It’s my fault, Walter. Terribly on edge in these times, you see.” He began inspecting the inner clockwork, stroking the intricate gears to make sure all was well. The pendulum was still mobile and the chimes all in place. Abberline breathed a sigh of relief.

Dew nodded understandingly. He too had been placed on long hours recently away from his wife, Kate and his children. It was a considerable strain on every man’s marriage and personal life. He was also curious about the level of expertise Abberline had with clocks, it was something unknown to him.

“Now, my good man, I assume the cab is waiting?” Abberline asked.

“Yes, Inspector. Would you like me to accompany you?”

Abberline smiled. “Why not. Come along then, Dew.”

Outside they climbed into the carriage and gave a nod to the driver. They both sat in silence, Dew fiddling with his hands and Abberline staring at nothing.

“Inspector?” Dew said after a long pause.

Abberline said nothing but nodded for him to go on.

“Do you think it’s the same killer?”

“More than likely. It bears the same signature and they happened in quite close proximity to each other. This culprit has no motive against these women but they’re people that are easily missed aren’t they? Prostitutes are at the lower end of the social spectrum and although it’s the oldest profession in the world, it’s hardly the most respected. Any family has either disowned them, is not in contact with them anymore, impoverished or dead. That is the beauty of the killer’s work, no one cares. Unfortunately that makes our job all the more difficult.”

Walter sighed and rubbed his eyes. Abberline noticed his companion’s weariness and laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

“I know, Walter. We’ve never had such brutal killings and it takes a lot out of you doesn’t it?” The Detective Constable nodded. “Sometimes I think I pass my lack of energy onto my dear wife, Emma. She has given up the hope that I will come home on time and has taken to given me cold meals at night in sheer frustration. A man gets tired of luncheon meat and cheeses after a while.” Abberline gave a dry smile and resumed his observation of the world outside.

Gradually, class difference became evident as the streets became narrower and uneven. The carriage bumped unpleasantly and Abberline found himself nearly on the floor at times. The shops became more basic and the houses turned into pokey terraces. It was a very mixed street with some houses well to do and others in disrepair. The inhabitants by now were used to carriages rolling by due to the awful events of the 8th but yet they still peaked through their curtains, wondering whether the murderer had been apprehended yet. Those around number 29 simply stared as they alighted onto the street and strode towards the backyard.

One woman dressed in a rather bawdy orange dress stood with her arms folded and hip cocked. She wore a rather ugly expression like she’d swallowed a wasp.

“Gottcha man yet darlin’? Don’t reckon you ‘ave. Ol’ Laura says she ‘as bloodstains on her lawn wotcha. Number 25 that is.”

“Miss,” Abberline said politely. “We have already examined Laura Sicking’s claims and have deduced they are merely urine stains. Some public house patron who couldn’t make it all the way home I shouldn’t expect.”

“Don’t choo call me Miss, Mister,” the woman said, pointing a grubby finger at the Inspector. “Mrs Fiddymont you call me.”

Walter gave me an exasperated look and whispered in Abberline  ear, “She’s annoyed because we didn’t take her witness statement seriously. She claims to have seen a bloodstained man hanging around the Prince Albert though no other patron saw it. Most likely drunk.”

“Oi!” A voice interrupted their conversation. They both turned to face Mrs Fiddymont, impatiently tapping her boot on the pavement. “I can ‘ear ya ignorant-“

Abberline rounded on her. “That’s enough. We are doing are best to apprehend the killer but there’s not much evidence to go on. If you insist on insulting police officers and wasting police time I shall have you locked in a cell for the night. Is that alright with you, Mrs Fiddymont?”

She opened her mouth, thought better of it then closed it again, contenting herself with scowling. However, she followed the men to the backyard of Number 29. Once there they found Police Constable John Neil trying to push a prying gentleman out of the crime scene.

“My good man! Please get out of the area, it’s still under investigation!” After shoving the man bodily from the yard he returned and inclined his head towards Dew and Abberline but merely glared at Mrs Fiddymont.

“As I have said, madam, this area is now private.”

Abberline chuckled softly, “The lady will not move until she wants to.”

She smirked triumphantly and leant against the house to watch the proceedings. Abberline and Dew walked over to the spot where Annie Chapman was found and began to search around the perimeter.

“Wotcha lookin’ for?” came the voice from the edge of the yard.

They didn’t answer but trawled from the 5ft high wooden fence to the small shed and back to the stone steps.  Abberline paused at the guttering and squatted down to get a closer look at the fence again.

“Tell me Dew. How does one man walk away from a scene this bloody after spending an hour mutilating some poor woman and not get noticed or no one comes to her aid?”

“I don’t know Inspector. Shall we ask the tenants?”

“Already interviewed.”

“The people next door?”

Abberline considered then nodded, “Yes, they haven’t been asked yet for testimony.”

“Poor start ain’it?” Mrs Fiddymont said. “Not asking all the people who seen ‘em and that?”

Dew and Neil were having difficulties concealing their resentment with Neil’s hands twitching occasionally at the sight of her. Abberline chose to ignore it but was most bemused by the labourer in grease stained clothes bursting through the swinging door with a thunderous face.

“Martha, get your ‘ide back ‘ome. I ain’t been workin’ all day to come ‘ome to an empty table and I find ya down ‘ere, noseying as usual ‘cause your mates want gossip. I want dinner, now. Come on lass.” Mr. Fiddymont grabbed her by the collar and steered her out of the yard. All three officers chuckled as her protestations grew fainter down the street and finally left them in peace.

Abberline took one last look at the blood pool which had turned to a clotted, viscous mass of black and brown and curled his lip in disgust.  Constable Neil held the door open for the both of them as they walked to number 27 and rapped smartly on the door. A young man covered in wood shavings answered and looked rather nervous at the sight of three officers.

“What can I do for you?” he asked a little timidly.

“We’re just enquiring as to the events of the 8th and wondering if anyone residing hear might have heard anything.”

The man nodded feverishly. “I did, Albert Cadoch,” he said shaking Abberline’s hand.

Dew leaned in to Abberline and whispered, “A damn stroke of luck.” Abberline chuckled.

Albert seemed quite anxious to tell them the story and lead them out into the yard parallel to the crime scene. “I was walking past to reach the outhouse to get some sandpaper when I heard a commotion next door. There was scuffling and the sound of heels being scraped. Then I heard a woman shout, ‘No!’ and a great thud against the fence. I couldn’t see what was going on ‘cause the fence was too high but I didn’t like to pry. Then I heard about the murder. Honest, sirs, I didn’t mean anything by keeping quiet. I just thought you’d got all you needed. Another policeman said so the other day.”

Abberline frowned. They were nowhere near advanced in the case and didn’t the people of London know it! To raise false hopes of some progress in the investigation would only make it all the more embarrassing when the police force failed to deliver. He looked around at Constable Neil who immediately shrugged and shook his head as if to say it wasn’t him.

“Yes well, thank you for your information. You’ve been a great help.”

Albert nodded politely and showed them out of the front door. They stood on the street, Abberline silently fuming.

“PC Neil, who visited the premises yesterday?”

“A lot of people, Inspector. There was Sergeant Godley and Constable Harvey-“

Dew snorted, “The lad who can’t keep his mouth shut? Young James? Yes, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s getting a little above his station.”

“Right,” said Abberline as they climbed back into the carriage. “I’ll have to have a little word with Constable Harvey and his Superintendent.”

They left Neil standing on the corner, waving them off and returning to his post to ward off prying eyes. The journey back to Whitechapel was again taken in silence. Dew was trying to digest the information, to make sense of an impossible puzzle. He concluded Albert’s testimony didn’t help them at all. He had not heard the attacker speak nor seen him over the high, wooden fence. It was useless, they were no further forward than they had been this morning. Upon looking at Abberline’s creased forehead he saw the same thoughts swirling around his colleague’s face. The look of disappointed frustration.

Now back at his desk, the Inspector paced the room, following the line he had now worn into the rug, its colour fading, the pattern shabby. He reached for his cup of tea but found out to his annoyance he’d left it too long and it was stone cold. In sheer exasperation he slumped into the chair and buried his head in his hands. Just how was he going to solve this?

                             *

Superintendent Thomas Arnold was deep in conversation with the coroner, Mr Baxter at the local morgue.

“Surely, my good man, you have found something that is not supposed to be there? A fibre or a hair perhaps? Anything?”

Mr. Baxter curled his lip up at the indecency of having his skills called into question. He folded his arms sternly and stood his ground, sending a clear message to Arnold that he was on thin ice.

“I have not found any piece of evidence to suggest otherwise. I have checked every conceivable nook and cranny of that woman and she yields no further clues than what I have written down! If you think you can do better than be my guest!”

He flung a pair of leather gloves at the Superintendent and made a dismissive bow before storming into his office and slamming the door firmly shut behind him.

By now, the coroner’s mood had passed to Arnold and he kicked the small table in the hallway in spite. This was simply not dignified! Every member of his police force was feeling the immense pressure and yet they handled it with certain decorum and prowess. The coroner’s job was quite simple, cut and examine then ship the body to the appropriate family. A policeman’s job was so much more.

Arnold decided to take Baxter upon his word and entered the mortuary. Immediately he was hit by the smell of decomposing flesh and he fought the urge not to part with his afternoon cream cakes. The body was lying stripped on a table and had a sickly blue tinge to the skin. The gases from putrefaction bloated the woman so she looked like a grotesque fair attraction but there was nothing remotely attractive about this particular cadaver. He approached, a little reluctantly, holding a handkerchief over his nose to stop the onslaught of the bitter, disgusting scent. He tried not to stare at the puffy discoloured face, rigid with her last fearful expression. Though he had been a police official for more than thirty years, it was never any easier to see such horrific murders as this.  He looked at the abdomen and the deep incisions. Mustering his resolve he parted the two sides of the wound and peered inside. He glanced quickly at the grisly contents of the human body and found his gaze wandering to a discarded Daily Telegraph.

THE WHITECHAPEL MURDER

IMPORTANT CLUE

         Arnold snorted with mirth. The papers believed themselves so clever, damning the Whitechapel division for the arrest of the innocent John Pizer. They also believed they’d found an important witness he’d apparently missed. Poppycock! Probably some greedy opportunist wanting a tussle with fame.

         Unfortunately his attention had to return to the victim in front of him.  He looked away as he plunged his hand into the cavity and relied on his sense of touch.

         “Absolutely regular isn’t it?” said a small voice from behind the Superintendent who jumped at the noise, immediately suspecting for one daft instant that the corpse had spoken. He turned around to see Baxter leaning on the wall watching him.

         “Yes,” said Arnold angrily, withdrawing his hand and peeling off the gloves. He muttered a small apology much to the coroner’s satisfaction and returned with him to the office to sign a release form.

         “My dear Thomas, we all feel the pressures of this madman’s terrible crime but we shouldn’t turn against each other. It isn’t going to help.”

         Arnold sighed, “I know, old friend but I want this bastard off my streets.”

         “Understandable. I do too, for as much as corpses provide me with a career, I do not wish to see this...savagery, for want of a better word, all the time. It is not good for my faith in the public and certainly not good for my health.”

         Despite himself, the Superintendent smirked, “The public has never inspired faith. Just one false move in a tavern and you’d end up with a bottle of bitter through your chest and no one wants to help for fear of ending up the same way.”

         “Yes as I found out,” mused Baxter, rubbing the chest and feeling the familiar scars through his shirt. “Never a good sign when you nearly perform an autopsy on yourself.”

         They shook hands and parted. On the coach back to Whitechapel station, Arnold found himself dearly hoping that Abberline had found something new today otherwise they’d  truly hit a brick wall in their investigation and there would be hell to pay from the public. He sighed and ruffled his rapidly greying hair.

         His founders, the Bow Street Runners had certainly more respect than the modern police force because they weren’t taken for granted. Maybe they should have a hiatus for a while and see if the people clamour for their return, thought Arnold bitterly. He vented his frustrations through glaring at people through the carriage windows yet it did nothing for the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

                                       *

Far away from the world of the strained Superintendent I grinned at my cleverness. Oh how amusing it was to watch these little men in big hats running about trying to catch me! What an absolute delight!  It had been such a good idea to target prostitutes. A man escorting one wouldn’t be looked twice at and the implication of their union would be obvious so they wouldn’t be bothered.

Annie had been my choice that particular evening after the lovely Mary Ann. She was coming to the end of her working life. A woman in her forties was not often found particularly attractive anymore and she was rather stout. She was also dying. You could not tell from her bold, brass attitude but by watching her I’d seen her coughing incessantly and when not with makeup she had the pallor of approaching death. She was not helping her swift deterioration by spending all her money on rum instead of bed and board. Stupid whore.

That is how I saw her, protesting with her landlord to keep her lodgings just one more night while she earnt income. He allowed her this with a disdainful look as he knew exactly how she was going to get it. Annie was going in the direction of Spitalfield’s Market and I jogged to keep up with her brisk pace and turned into a side street, managing to get ahead of her. I leant against the shutters of Number 29 Hanbury Street and watched her approach, her black skirt rustling. I tried to look as casual as he could, nonchalantly fiddling with the cuffs of my coat and casting occasional glances around myself. Come close little dolly, I thought. Come to Jacky boy, sooth his fire. As she came up the street she caught my eye just as I expected and saw the sly grin I was wearing. She stopped and cocked her hip to one side invitingly.

“Will you?” I said, insinuating my false intentions.

“Yes,” she smiled back, glad of some opportunity to get money.

Oh dear, oh dear. Didn’t her mother ever tell her about strange men? I escorted her into the backyard and could see the slightly annoyed look about her face that we were not going to use the conventional manner of a bed, though nevertheless she sashayed up to me in the manner of a girl half her age, her hip cocked and tongue trailing her lips. Gah. One had to admire her boldness but she was trying to control it too much for me liking and using disgustingly maternal language like ‘Tell Annie what you want’. No one treated me this way; I had left that far behind me. How dare she! Her with her patronising tongue and mollycoddling! Now the beast was clamouring for her end and I happily obliged. Whilst she was busily hitching up her voluminous skirts, my hands quickly shot to her throat. “No!” she rasped, scrabbling at my lovely iron hands. I had her held as one squeezes water from their coat on some stormy night and wasn’t it delicious! The little blood vessels in her face were bursting, leaving beads of red surfacing on her pinkening face. She gagged desperately and began flailing, trying to hit any part of me she could. In one horrible last gasp her eyes rolled up into her head and she fell quite limp. I held on for a few more seconds as I had heard, just to make sure she couldn’t rouse during my fun.

Now came the interesting part. Nice and sharp, stick it in. No wait! Do it properly or not at all. She’s not my mother. I know that but she still deserves to die. I let her drop against the fence with a soft thud and advanced upon her, carving a ragged line across her throat. Her heart had stopped some time before so the blood burbled in the wound rather than spurting, seeping out in little wisps, staining her clothes and pooling beneath her. No mess, no evidence but spoiled fun. I could not stop there though, I had to teach her that I was not hers to dominate and so I carved into her stomach. I mutilated the very thing that made her feminine and allowed her to slump against the fence like a rag doll, twisted and broken.  I did nothing but stand there for a moment, listening to see if anyone had heard. Silence. Full of the thrill of slaughter I ran possessed through the streets towards his home, bloodied and half insane, and once inside, threw myself on the bed and laughed and laughed at the blatant ease of murder.

I grinned gleefully at this memory and turned his beloved weapon over in his hand, running his finger along the point of the blade and dabbing it on the point to test it was still pointed. A bead of red appeared and he nodded, satisfied with its sharpness. My friend, my little tool and pet. You’ll get fresh meat tonight, oh yes you will, my good little boy. I’d been holding back until I knew he could get away with killing but now I couldn’t wait for my next victim. Cut it out, yes...cut out the source of the problem.  That way they could never put me through that again. Soon, oh very soon, I could do it again but only when the blasted police had calmed down. They were always on my trail, although they could never possibly catch up. I couldn’t kill again with so much hysteria on the street. I’ll wait, I thought. Wait until everyone thought they were so deliciously safe. I would be back, it was only a matter of patience...