The Night of the Ripper

~ TEN ~

Abberline’s abdominal distress did not ease in the week that followed. But it wasn’t personal pain that brought him to London Hospital on Friday afternoon.

His appearance in the library was a matter of official business, and he lost no time in stating as much to the surgeons assembled there. Standing before the long table he surveyed the faces of the medical men seated before him. Some, like Dr. Trebor and Dr. Hume, were already familiar; others he recognized by name as they introduced themselves. Young Mark Robinson was a total stranger, but that wasn’t surprising, since he’d just recently come over from America.

America. Must look into that. Abberline made a mental note, filing it away quickly behind his smile of greeting as he spoke.

“First off, I want to thank you for coming here. I know you’re busy and haven’t much time to spare, so I appreciate your cooperation.”

Enough of the soft-soap. Get down to business. “Before we begin, let me assure you that this meeting is off the record. Anything said here today will be considered as privileged information; you have my word on that.

“In exchange, I’m going to ask you to keep silent regarding the matters I present to you. Consider this a confidential consultation on a medical problem. What I want from you is your professional opinion — perhaps a diagnosis.”

Abberline paused just long enough to confirm that his audience was smiling. Good enough, he told himself. Now let’s wipe the grin off their mugs.

“I’m sure you’re all aware of the murder of Mary Ann Nicholls on Monday last, thanks to the attention given it in the public press. Some of the accounts identified her as Polly, but that’s not important.” He paused again, then spoke softly. “What is important is that the woman was murdered in Buck’s Row — only a square away from this hospital.”

Once more Abberline hesitated, scanning the faces before him. The smiles had disappeared, just as he’d expected, and now he took quick inventory of assorted frowns, shocked glances and murmurs of agitation.

Mustn’t stare, he reminded himself. Best they didn’t know he was studying their reactions. And it wouldn’t do if they realized he knew more about them than they might imagine. Before coming here today he’d made a point of checking into the backgrounds of some of these fine gentlemen. Respectable citizens, one and all, reputations solid as a rock. But turn over the rock and you’d be surprised what might come crawling out from under—

“Let me tell you about the deceased,” Abberline said. “Forty-two years old, married, but separated from her husband and children. Last known address, a doss-house lodging at Number Eighteen, Thrawl Street. Shabbily dressed, with clothing including two flannel petticoats stenciled with the mark of Lambeth Workhouse, but she did have a new black bonnet. Last seen alive at two-thirty Monday morning, on the corner of Osborn Street and Whitechapel Road.”

He was reading now from the notebook he’d pulled from his pocket. “The witness who saw her, Emily Holland, testified that Nicholls was intoxicated and said she’d been turned out of lodgings because she had no money, but intended to get more shortly.

“A little more than an hour later her body was found in Buck’s Row by two men — William Cross, a carter on his way to work, and Robert Paul, a carman. Nicholls was lying on her back at the footway before the gates of a stableyard, and they assumed she was drunk. But when the two tried to raise her up they realized her head had almost been severed from her neck.”

Ignoring the low murmur from the group before him, the inspector riffled through the pages of the notebook, muttering to himself. “Run down street — meet Police Constable Haines on patrol — summon Officer Mizen — Constable Neill on scene — Dr. Ralph Llewellyn summoned from residence nearby, takes pulse, doesn’t examine body — police ambulance to workhouse mortuary — stomach wounds discovered there — Dr. Llewellyn returns — ah, here we are!”

He glanced up, nodding. “Your attention please, gentlemen. I’d like to read you the postmortem findings reported at the coroner’s inquest. Here’s Dr. Llewellyn’s testimony:

“ ‘I was called by the police at about four o’clock. When I arrived the woman had apparently been dead for about half an hour. Her throat was deeply cut. About an hour afterward I was sent for again by the police and upon going to the mortuary where the body had been carried, I found the most extensive injuries to the abdomen. At ten o’clock the following morning I carried out a postmortem. On the right side of the face there was a recent and strongly marked bruise, caused by a blow from a fist or the pressure of a thumb. On the left side a circular bruise might have been produced by the pressure of the fingers. There were two cuts in the throat, one four inches long, the other eight. The large vessels of the neck on both sides were severed. The incisions also completely severed all the tissues down to the vertebrae which had also been penetrated. These wounds must have been caused by a long-bladed knife, moderately sharp and used with great violence. Then in the lower part of the abdomen — two or three inches from the left side — was a wound running in a jagged manner. It was a very deep wound and tissues were cut through. There were several incisions running across the abdomen. On the right side there were also three or four similar cuts running downward. As far as the throat is concerned the weapon appeared to have been held in the left hand of the person who used it. Similarly the wounds in the abdomen ran from left to right and might have been done by a left-handed person. The murderer must also have had some rough anatomical knowledge. He seems to have attacked all the vital parts. I would say the murder might have occupied four or five minutes.’ ”

Abberline flipped a page. “That’s the official testimony,” he said. “But there’s a bit more you might consider. The omentum — do I pronounce that right? — was cut in several places. And two of those stab wounds were in the vagina.”

He paused just long enough to note the effect on his auditors. “Mutilations, gentlemen. Four or five minutes of mutilations which may have occurred while the victim was still alive. Because — in Dr. Llewellyn’s opinion — the abdomen was torn open before the throat was cut.”

No question about the effect of his words now; the excited murmur of voices rose from the semicircle but this time he ignored them. Bending below the table the inspector lifted a leather bag and placed it before him, unlocking it as he spoke.

“There you have the nature of the wounds and the way they were inflicted. I want you to consider this testimony very carefully in the light of your professional experience. Because the question I put to you now is the important one. What was the weapon?” Opening the bag, Abberline reached inside and pulled out a pearl-handled dagger with a sharp point, then held it up against the light. “Would it be something like this?”

“No.” The answer came quickly from a bespectacled man in a frock coat whom he recognized as Dr. Reid, one of the surgical staff members. “It could be used for penetration only, not for slicing.”

Amid nods and murmurs of confirmation, Abberline put the dagger down and dipped into the bag again. This time he brought out a short thick-handled cutting tool with a curving blade.

“What about this one?”

“A cork-cutter’s knife, isn’t it?” Again it was Dr. Reid who spoke.

Abberline nodded. “There’s also a cobbler’s knife, very similar, almost the same shape. Could either one of them do the job?”

“I doubt it.” Dr. Trebor was answering him now. “The findings indicate a longer blade was employed.”

“There’s word going around about a shoemaker,” the Inspector said. “Someone nicknamed ‘Leather Apron’ who is said to have threatened several women in the district over the past weeks. He’s done a bunk since the killings, but we’re on the lookout for him now. Are you sure this type of weapon wasn’t responsible?”

“Almost positive.” Trebor hesitated. “Of course that doesn’t rule out your suspect. He could have used something besides his work tool.”

“Like this?”

Abberline took a sailor’s jackknife from the bag but the muttered reaction from the group was almost instantaneous and entirely negative. Now he withdrew a long thick-bladed knife with a double-edged point. “Or this?” he said.

For a moment no one answered. Then a doctor seated next to Trebor voiced the general puzzlement. “I’m not familiar with this. What’s it used for?”

Before Abberline could reply, an answer came. “A hunting knife — looks like a Bowie. Very common in our western states.”

It was Mark Robinson who’d spoken. Abberline glanced at him quickly. “Right you are,” he said. “An American knife. And do you believe it could inflict such wounds?”

“Perhaps.” The young man nodded. “We use them to gut deer.”

“We?” Abberline faced him. “Have you had personal experience with this sort of weapon? Do you own one?”

Mark Robinson flushed. “Hold on, Inspector. I came here to study surgical techniques and this is hardly the kind of instrument a doctor would need for that.”

“Exactly.” Once more Abberline’s hand descended into the bag and emerged holding a long thin glittering blade. “You’d probably use one of these.”

Dead silence greeted his words. The inspector brandished the blade. “A surgical scalpel. You’re all familiar with it. You all are skilled in its use.”

“Just what are you insinuating?” Dr. Hume was speaking now, his slant-eyes constricting in an accusing scowl. “Do you think one of us is responsible for this abominable deed?”

“What I think isn’t important.” Abberline shrugged. “But if you must know, we’ve heard talk of a surgeon as a likely suspect.”

“Preposterous!” Hume’s voice rose indignantly. “You’re grasping at straws.”

“That’s our job.” the inspector said. “To grasp at straws until we find the needle in the haystack. Or the scalpel.”

He met Hume’s accusing stare. “Consider the circumstances. Whoever committed this crime got clean away in a matter of minutes without anyone setting eyes on him. Why? Because he knows the district, knows it well enough to choose a route where he’ll escape detection. And who knows the area better than a local doctor, practicing here — perhaps in a place like this hospital?”

“Not so fast.” Trebor shook his head. “Thousands of people live and work in Whitechapel. Many of them are as familiar with it as we are. Why make us the target of your suspicions?”

“Because nobody would take notice of you.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“I think it does. As you say, the people who work here are familiar with the district. But they also know each other. If they saw a friend or neighbor out on the street in the middle of the night they’d wonder why, and they’d remember. Of course there are some who wouldn’t attract attention — market porters or slaughterhouse men on their way to work before dawn, for example. Or a doctor called out on emergency, carrying a medical bag filled with surgical scalpels—”

Dr. Hume was on his feet. “Have you gone mad?” he shouted. “My colleagues and I are respectable members of our profession. How dare you accuse us of criminal behavior, without a scintilla of evidence to go on?”

Abberline felt a smoldering sensation in his stomach. “Believe me, I’m not accusing you. I’m only asking your opinions, your cooperation.”

“Cooperation be damned! Why don’t you clear out of here?” Dr. Hume took a step forward, his voice strident. “Clear out and take your bloody butcher knives with you!”

Murmurs of angry assent came from the group seated behind him, muffling Abberline’s sigh. As the others began to rise and follow Hume from the room the inspector turned and replaced his assortment of weapons in the bag. No point trying to say any more, no point trying to stop them; at the moment there was only one thing claiming Abberline’s complete attention.

His stomach was on fire.