The Night of the Ripper

~ TWENTY-ONE ~

It was well past midnight when Mark turned down Commercial Street. A light rain had just fallen and the cobbled pavements were still wet. Possibly the weather had dampened the spirits as well as the persons of East End pleasure seekers; whatever the reason. Mark encountered few pedestrians and the usual Saturday night carriage traffic had stilled its clamor here. In the distance he heard the ghostly echo of a train whistle rising from the London, Tilbury and Southend tracks, but the street itself stood silent.

Mark quickened his pace, searching for sight of his destination along the rows of darkened shops. It was his resolution, not his feet, which faltered now.

Was it wise to venture here alone? True, he’d given the Fitzgerald woman his word, but perhaps he should have told Abberline of his appointment. On the other hand there was no way of anticipating the inspector’s reaction; if he insisted on coming his presence might frighten her away.

Once again Mark found himself regretting Dr. Trebor’s absence. He’d know the right thing to do under these circumstances and his company would be welcome in the lonely night.

For a moment he wondered if he should turn back. Suppose it was all a fool’s errand? The woman had seemed sincere, yet that proved nothing; even if she told the truth she could be mistaken. If only Trebor were here to advise him!

But Trebor wasn’t here. And it was too late to abandon his mission now as the sign of the Coach And Four beckoned directly before him, swaying under a fan of gaslight.

Mark entered, grateful for sudden warmth and the muted murmur of voices; the mere presence of others was reassuring.

To his surprise he found the pub well patronized. Others seemingly shared a need for companionship, and a sizeable group had gathered at the bar. Obviously they were neighborhood residents: the billycock hats of shopkeepers bobbed between the peaked caps of manual laborers and the shawls and bonnets of their women. Conversation rose steadily but there was little laughter and none of the song he recalled from Bank Holiday night at the Angel and Crown.

Mark spied the moon-shaped bald head of the publican bending over his taps at the center, and he moved to the bar before him.

The moon rose. “Evenin’, sir.”

“Jerry?”

“That’s me name.” The bartender smiled, but his eyes were wary. “What’s yer pleasure?”

“I’m looking for Annie Fitzgerald.”

The smile faded but the eyes were intent. “You a crusher?”

“No, this has nothing to do with the police. I’m a friend of hers.”

“Not bloody likely.” Jerry’s smile returned, but now it hinted of contempt. “Seein’ as how you don’t even know ’er rightful name.”

“I don’t understand. She said she’d be waiting. I was to ask for Annie Fitzgerald—”

The bartender nodded in sudden comprehension. “Now I sees the light. You come for a bit o’ business, eh?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“Well, then — yer in the right church but the wrong pew. She was ’ere a while back, but she did a bunk.”

“How long ago did she leave?”

The bartender shrugged. “I disremember.” He turned to address a dwarfish man wearing a soiled butcher’s apron who nursed a beer beside Mark at the bar. “Shorty, old cock — the gent ’ere’s inquirin’ after Long Liz. You ’appen to take notice when she shoved off?”

The small man nodded. “Past ’arf an ’our ago, I makes it. I saw ’er blabbin’ wiv that foreign-lookin’ chap what come in a while before. Figgered ’im for a masher, but ’e didn’t seem to take ’er fancy, ’cause next I noticed she gives ’im a shove and goes poppin’ out the door. In one ’ell of a ’urry, too, like she was late for midnight mass.”

“The man she was talking to,” Mark said. “Where is he?”

The short customer squinted toward the line of patrons at the bar, then shook his head. “Don’t see ’im. Must be ’e follered ’er.”

Jerry glanced at Mark. “No ’arm done,” he said. “Once she does ’er business she’ll be back, most likely. What say you ’ave a lush while yer waitin’—”

But Mark was already heading for the door.

The night air was damp and he felt the sudden shock of cold wind against his cheeks as he scanned the empty shadows of the deserted street. The chill that rippled along his spine wasn’t the work of the wind; it came from within, from the memory of the short man’s words. “A foreign-lookin’ chap. Must be ’e follered ’er.”

Mark glanced to his left. That was the direction he’d come from, and he’d seen no sign of anyone then. So the woman had probably gone off to the right.

He started on that route, pausing at the next intersection, Backchurch Lane, to stare into the dark depths beyond. Nothing moved in the narrow passageway between the grimy walls of the huddled houses and the only sound he heard was the lonely keening of the wind.

Mark moved on quickly, but pace alone was not enough to account for the way his heart was pounding, and the cold not cause enough to set him trembling. Now it was the woman’s voice that murmured in his ears. “I reckon I knows the one you’re after. I knows ’is name and I knows ’is game.”

He came to Berner Street and there the inner voice faded, drowned in sound that rose from his right. He peered through darkness and found its source; a cluster of shadowy shapes milling around the open wooden gateway beside a lighted house.

Mark hastened toward them and the babbling rose about him. Bearded men muttered to one another before the opening but their excited interchange, in German and Yiddish, told him nothing. It was only in their faces that he found a common language; eyes and expressions were eloquent with fear.

He pushed his way through the group before the gateway and blinked as lantern-light flared from the narrow courtyard beyond. More bearded figures moved within, but among them were several clean-shaven men in police uniforms. Now two of them approached, waving their bull’s-eye lanterns.

“Clear out, the lot of you — out, you ’ear?”

The crowd retreated, murmuring in protest, and Mark fell back with the rest as the officers drew the double gates shut before them.

But as they did so he was given a final glimpse of what lay inside the courtyard — the body of a woman. He recognized the soiled black skirt and shabby velveteen jacket trimmed with moth-eaten fur, recognized the checkered scarf tied in a bowknot around her neck.

It was only the garments that identified her now, for the face leering up in the lantern-light had changed. The brown curls framing it were soaked with scarlet, the pale complexion was spattered with streaks of red, and from the slashed and severed throat a burst of blood flowed over the cobblestones.

Numb with nausea, Mark turned away. Now whistles screeched in the distance and a carriage jerked to a halt at the intersection. Its occupants emerged — two men in business suits and another wearing a frock coat and carrying a medical bag. From the street beyond a group of police constables converged, moving toward the gate. It opened now to admit the party, but Mark didn’t look back. He elbowed his way through the surging, jostling throng, sickened by the sound of voices shrilling and thrilling with eager expectation, and by the sight of faces grimacing in ghoulish glee.

Blood-lust. Dr. Forbes Winslow’s words held a new meaning for him now. But his diagnosis didn’t apply to the killer alone; the mob that hovered here was possessed by the same craving. Once the predator has struck, the vultures gather—

“Mark!”

The voice came from behind and he halted at the head of the street, glancing back at the figure advancing from the gateway as the wooden barrier swung shut. Now Dr. Trebor’s face was discernible under the lamplight at the intersection.

“I thought I saw you in that crowd,” Trebor said. “What brings you here?”

Quickly Mark told him of his errand and its consequences. The older man listened in silence, then nodded. “She must have been killed shortly after leaving the pub. Someone claims to have seen her with a man here in Berner Street only a short time before the body was discovered, or so they tell me.”

Mark met his glance. “How did you happen to get inside the courtyard?”

“I was passing by on Commercial Street when I heard shouting. The body had just been discovered by a coster driving his barrow and pony into the yard. Apparently this man — Diemschutz, or some such name — is the steward of the International Working Men’s Educational Club, which meets in the building on the right. It’s one of those socialist groups.”

“I noticed there were a lot of foreigners in the crowd,” Mark said.

“Some of them live in the cottages along the street. They heard the commotion and came running out. I got there just as the first constable arrived. The corpse was still warm. The throat had been cut but I didn’t note any further mutilations. Most likely the killer heard Diemschutz’s cart in the street and took off unnoticed as he drove in.”

“You didn’t stay to examine the body further?”

Dr. Trebor shrugged. “They’d already sent for the police surgeons. As far as anyone knew, I was just another member of the crowd that got into the courtyard before the gates were closed. I saw no reason to get involved. It would only mean another night without sleep, and I’m exhausted enough, what with the long trip—”

“You were away all week?”

“That’s right.” Trebor spoke quickly. “A business matter. I just got into town before midnight.”

Mark held silent for a moment, sorting his thoughts. The face in the lamplight seemed haggard indeed, but was fatigue the sole cause? And if he’d just returned from an extended journey, where was his luggage?

Trebor stared at him. “Is something wrong?”

“I was just wondering. About your bags—”

“They’re at my digs. I meant to unpack, but I was too tired.”

“Yet you went out again, at this hour?”

“I felt the need for a bit of food before retiring, since there was no dining car on the train.” Trebor broke off, frowning. “But why all these questions? Surely you don’t think—”

But I do think, Mark told himself. Perhaps Trebor was telling the truth; perhaps coincidence accounted for his presence here. Unless his presence had a purpose.

Suppose the murderer hadn’t taken off when he was interrupted? Suppose there wasn’t time to run, only moments enough to conceal himself somewhere in the courtyard and avoid discovery? Then, as the others arrived, he could step forth unnoticed as just another onlooker. An onlooker like Dr. Trebor—

“Answer me!” Trebor’s voice was harsh. “Answer me!”

But the answer that came rose from another source. Both men turned at the sound of pounding feet against the pavement, both stared at the bowler-hatted intruder who ran past them into the crowd before the gates. And both men heard his hoarse cry echo through the night.

“Another one!” he shouted. “There’s been another woman murdered in Mitre Square!”