The Night of the Ripper

~ EIGHTEEN ~

“I should have known as much from what they told me,” Abberline said. “But I had to be sure. The man’s as mad as a hatter.”

Hatter. The word echoed in the confines of the carriage moving between drays and barrows in the midafternoon sunlight of Aldgate High Road. Mark closed his eyes and the image of the man in the deerstalker hat appeared.

“Asleep, are you?” Abberline asked.

Mark blinked. “No, just thinking. Some of the things he said seemed to make sense.”

“Not if you consider the source. I’ve talked to a dozen of these cranks and Forbes Winslow’s the worst of the lot. All that tommyrot about the moon — sheer superstition, if you want my opinion.”

“But his theory about sadism may hold water,” said Mark. “When you come right down to it, we know very little about the impulses influencing human behavior. A German neurologist named Krafft-Ebing has published a book on the relationship between the sexual urge and cruelty. Rape, for example—”

“No mystery about that.” Abberline loosened his vest as he spoke. “A drunken brute who wants a woman will take her by force if necessary. That business about blood-lust or whatever he called it is right out of the penny-dreadfuls. The chap we’re after is clever, no doubt of it. But he’s not Varney the Vampire or Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street.”

“Then he said nothing you’d be willing to accept?”

“Only his description of the killer.”

“Which fits me,” Mark murmured.

“And thousands of others, any one of whom those witnesses might have seen.” Abberline smiled bleakly. “I’m afraid I’d need a good deal more to go on before taking you in.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Is it?” For a moment the inspector’s eyes narrowed: then he shrugged as though dismissing some secret thought. “All I know is I’m back where I started.” He glanced through the carriage window. “And so are you.”

The hansom drew up before the entrance to London Hospital. Mark opened the door and climbed out, but Abberline remained seated.

“I’m off to the Yard,” he said. “But thanks for your cooperation. And if you see Dr. Trebor, tell him I’ll be in touch.”

Mark nodded and turned away, hurrying through the entrance. As he passed along the outer lobby he consulted the wall clock. Almost four; he’d be on call again in a few minutes. But first there was a mission to perform. Eva would have to listen to him now if, as he hoped, she was still here.

Luck was with him and he found her in the outpatients’ waiting hall; to be exact, in one of the consultation rooms, standing in attendance as Dr. Hume interviewed a patient.

The door was open and Mark halted before it for a moment, unwilling to intrude but trying to catch her eye. Like himself she was listening to the exchange between the slit-eyed surgeon and the dowdily-dressed middle-aged female who lay before him on the examination table. Her left sleeve had been rolled up, baring her arm to the elbow. Mark noted the edema extending from a deep laceration on her wrist; a mass of puffed angry reddish flesh striated with telltale blue-green discoloration. The woman was sobbing, and Hume frowned impatiently.

“Quit your blubbering,” he said. “If you had any sense you’d have come sooner, instead of trying to doctor yourself with a poultice. Now it’s too late.”

“Please, sir.” The woman’s voice faltered, then rose in a despairing wail. “I don’t wants ter be cut—”

“Nonsense.” Dr. Hume shook his head. “I tell you the wound’s gangrenous. That hand must come off.”

“Oh no—”

Ignoring her, Hume turned to Eva. “I’m putting this patient into the receiving ward. Get over to surgery and find out how soon an amputation can be scheduled.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

Eva turned and moved into the hall.

As she started off, Mark moved out from beside the open door and took her arm.

“Eva—”

She glanced up, startled. “What are you doing here?”

“I must talk to you.”

“Can’t you see I’m on duty?”

“I know, but this can’t wait.”

Eva glanced back to make sure they were no longer visible from inside Hume’s office, then faced Mark with a frown. “What’s so important?”

“You recall the last time we spoke,” said Mark. “You told me about your fiancé.”

“So?”

“Is he the man you went out with that evening?”

“How would you know about that?”

“Because I saw you. It happened I was in the neighborhood—”

“Happened?” Eva’s eyes accused. “You were spying on me!”

“Please, keep your voice down.” Mark glanced at the row of patients seated on the benches lining the wall. “What I was doing doesn’t matter now. All that’s important is that you tell me the truth. The man I saw with you had a mustache. He wore a dark coat and a brown or black deerstalker hat.”

“That’s right — a fore-and-aft, they call it. But I fail to see why it’s any of your concern.”

“Don’t you read the papers? Don’t you know this is how witnesses have described the Whitechapel murderer?”

Mark saw Eva’s eyes widen in sudden shock. Quite unwittingly she’d offered an explanation in her own words; she’d failed to see.

For a moment Mark found relief in her reaction, but now her reply dispelled it quickly.

“You’re not making sense,” she said. “Accusing someone you don’t know just on the basis of the way they dress! Half the men in London have mustaches, and this season everyone seems to own one of those caps.” She stared at him. “Yourself included.”

“Are you accusing me of being the murderer?”

“I’m accusing no one. But when it comes down to that, I really know nothing about you. And I do know the man you suspect couldn’t be guilty. On the night of the last killing he was with me.”

Mark spoke softly. “All night?”

“Certainly not!” Eva crimsoned. “What right do you have to—”

“Please.” Mark gestured in interruption. “I don’t mean to offend you. It’s just that I’m concerned. Perhaps I’ve gone overboard on this, but believe me, I’m only thinking of your welfare.”

“I understand.” Eva sighed, her voice softening. “And I’m not accusing you. But with all these rumors going around one can’t help wondering.”

Mark nodded. “Then you can realize why I asked about your fiancé. It would help put my mind at ease if you told me who he is, what you know about him.”

Eva shook her head. “I can’t talk now. I must go over to surgery.”

“Later, then. Perhaps this evening.”

“I’ll be on duty until eleven.” Eva smiled and put her hand on his arm. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m quite sure there’s no danger.”

“It’s dangerous for any woman to go about alone at night.”

“You needn’t worry. Alan will look after me.” Then she was gone.

Mark tugged at his mustache. Alan. Just who was he and what was his background? Eva was right — many men answered the description of the killer and there was no more reason to suspect Alan than to accuse himself. But that didn’t answer his questions, and in spite of her assurance he felt a vague unease. All he could think of now was Forbes Winslow’s words. The man we’re looking for is a monster…

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir.” The soft voice sounded scarcely more than a whisper, but the words were clear. “I reckon I knows the one you’re after.”