The Night of the Ripper

~ ELEVEN ~

The corridor outside the library echoed with the sound of righteous indignation as the staff members departed to resume their rounds.

Trebor lagged behind, and Mark halted beside him. “What are you waiting for?” he asked.

“Abberline.” Trebor turned as the inspector emerged from the doorway, carrying his bag. “A word with you, sir?”

Abberline nodded. He seemed drawn and spent, poor devil; no wonder, after the dressing-down Hume had given him.

“Sorry about what happened in there,” Trebor told him. “Speaking for myself I want to apologize—“

“Not necessary.” But the inspector’s glance was grateful. “It’s my fault for getting carried away. Reckon I should have been a bit more tactful.”

“All you did was express your opinion.”

“Which nobody wants to hear.” Abberline shook his head. “They can’t afford to admit the case was bungled from the start.”

“How so?”

“To begin with, they sent a telegram round to my home that morning informing me of the affair. I went straightaway to Buck’s Row but the body had already been removed. And the bloodstains on the pavement were scrubbed clean with a bucket of water on Constable Neill’s orders. If the fool had left well enough alone the pattern of those stains might have told us something about the murder methods. As it is we’ve got nothing to go on but the bruises of the jaw and side of the victim’s face, which indicate strangulation by someone approaching her from behind.”

“You’re sure about that?” Mark said.

“I’m not sure of anything, after the way they mucked about with the corpse at the mortuary.”

Trebor looked puzzled. “But you told us that Dr. Llewellyn examined the body there.”

“Not until after it was stripped. Two workhouse inmates — one of them a bloody halfwit, mind you — had already removed the clothing, even cut some of it off. And then those idiots washed the body.”

“By whose orders?”

“I can’t get a straight answer on that. No one admits responsibility.”

Trebor nodded. “So you came here hoping for a further medical opinion.”

“Not entirely. I scarcely counted on any doctor coming up with fresh clues without even seeing the corpse.” Abberline paused. “Just between us, what I had in mind was more of a fishing expedition, you might say.”

Trebor nodded again. “Then asking questions and exhibiting those knives was merely a charade. The whole business was designed to test our reactions by showing us that scalpel.” He smiled. “I’m afraid I underestimated you, Inspector. You play a good game.”

Abberline shrugged. “It’s no game. In my opinion the murder weapon had to be a scalpel. And a doctor may be the man who used it.”

Trebor met his gaze. “Which one of us do you suspect?”

“I can’t answer that now.”

“And if you could, you wouldn’t.”

“Not without further investigation. I’m still looking for more information.”

“Perhaps we can help you,” Mark said. Trebor glanced at him in surprise as he continued. “If there’s any way we could be of assistance—”

“Perhaps you can. I need to know more about some of your colleagues. Dr. Reid, for example. I’ve heard from reliable sources that he’s rather keen on using the knife.”

“You’re speaking of his operating procedures, of course.” Trebor chose his words carefully. “Reid’s a sound man. I know there are those who think he’s too quick with a diagnosis, too eager to perform surgery rather than suggest other procedures. But you’ve got to understand his position. With the volume of patients we handle here daily there’s neither time nor staff enough for prolonged treatment. In case of doubt, surgery is the sensible solution. I don’t believe Dr. Reid does any cutting just for cutting’s sake.”

“What about Hume?”

Trebor hesitated. “Hard to say. He’s inclined to be a bit conservative in his views — one of the old school of practitioners who still believe in laudanum and laudable pus.”

“I take it you don’t much care for him.”

“I don’t really know the man.”

“Suppose I tell you that he spends a good deal of his spare time in the local slaughterhouses watching the butchers at their work?”

“That’s quite possible,” Trebor said. “But it doesn’t necessarily indicate he’s a murderer.” He smiled. “No, I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that.”

“Very well, then. What about you?”

The question came quickly, catching Trebor off guard. “Really, Inspector — can you offer any evidence for such an accusation?”

“Only circumstantial,” Abberline said. “Take the matter of your prolonged absences from duty here. Most of the doctors work regular shifts, but you seem to come and go as you please.”

“That’s because I serve only in the capacity of a voluntary consultant,” Trebor told him. “I’m privileged to keep my own hours.”

“So you have time to attend inquests.” Abberline spoke slowly. “Martha Tabram’s, for one. And Polly Nicholls’.” He stared at the doctor. “You didn’t mention your attendance the other day, but I saw you there.”

“As one of fifty spectators,” Trebor said, “If mere presence is an indication of possible guilt, you’ve got forty-nine other suspects to question.”

“Right now I’m questioning you.”

“And I’m ready to answer.” Trebor took a deep breath. “First off, I agree with you — inquiries on both the Tabram and Nicholls cases were botched. As a result all sorts of wild rumors are making the rounds, including this gossip about the killer being a doctor. We already have problems here at the hospital because patients fear our surgeons and the knife. The last thing we need is an accusation of murder. That’s why I’ve followed the autopsy proceedings. I keep hoping to hit upon some clue that might help resolve matters once and for all.”

Abberline nodded. “Then I can count on you if I need medical information?”

“By all means.” It was Mark who answered. “If anything turns up, please let us know.”

“I’ll be in touch.” The inspector turned and moved down the hall, the sound of his footsteps mingling with the faint clank of metal from inside his bag.

Trebor waited until he disappeared around the corner at the far end, then turned to Mark. “Why did you volunteer?”

“For the same reason you did. I want to help.”

“That may not be wise.”

“How so?”

“Consider the circumstances. All this unrest here in Whitechapel, fears of a mass murderer roaming the district, suspects being mobbed in the streets. Every foreigner is under suspicion — Jews, Poles, Russian anarchists — even Americans.”

“But that’s ridiculous. No one would accuse me.”

“Don’t be too sure,” Trebor said. “Suppose someone asked you where you were on the night of the last murder?”

“I’d refer them to you. We were at the theater together—”

“And afterward you took off alone.”

“I went to my lodgings.”

“So you said. But can you prove that? Did anyone see you there?”

Mark stiffened, eyes wary. “What are you driving at? Do you think I killed those poor unfortunates?”

“Others might.” Trebor nodded. “So it’s best not to get involved.” He reached into his vest pocket and consulted his watch with a frown. “Past three — I must be on my way. We’ll discuss this later.”

He started down the corridor, leaving the younger man behind. As he turned he glanced back and saw that Mark was no longer alone. Now he stood deep in conversation with a young woman in a probationer’s uniform. As she raised her face to the light he recognized Eva Sloane.