The Night of the Ripper

~ TWENTY-FIVE ~

At seven o’olock on a foggy morning, Inspector Abberline stood shivering on a knoll in Regent’s Park, cursing the London Times.

The newspaper was responsible for this, he was sure of it now. That’s where Warren must have picked up his wild idea, from an editorial which told of using bloodhounds to track down a murderer at Blackburn twelve years ago. It had worked then, the paper remarked, so why not try the method now?

Because Blackburn isn’t Whitechapel, that’s why, Abberline told himself. Tracking a man in the countryside is one thing; trying to run him down in the streets of a swarming slum is quite another matter. He could have told them that, but they didn’t ask. And they wouldn’t listen. Once he’d proposed the notion Sir Charles Warren became a bit of a bloodhound himself, hot on the scent of favorable publicity. It was Warren who contacted a dog breeder in Scarborough and arranged for him to bring two of the beasts up to London for a trial run.

So here they were now: Sir Melville MacNaughten. Warren, and burly bewhiskered Brough the breeder with his hounds, out in the biting cold of the fogbound park at this ungodly hour.

Abberline stamped his feet against the hoar-frosted ground, his steaming breath mingling with swirls of fog. A few paces away the dogs strained at the leash, eager for freedom. They were formidable-looking creatures; Champion Barnaby’s red eyes and yellowish, pointed fangs hinted at a disposition even more irascible than Warren’s himself. And Burgho, the younger dog, was a huge black and tan specimen with a head at least a foot long, most of it running to muzzle.

MacNaughten, Warren and Brough stood behind them conversing in low tones. Abberline couldn’t overhear what they were saying but he felt no desire to join them; the further he kept away from those animals the better. Home in bed was the best place to be right now. yet he had to come here. One must always allow for the off chance, and perhaps these monsters might prove of some use after all. Seeing them now, he could only pity the man they might succeed in hunting down.

But where was that man?

A figure emerged from the mist behind him and the inspector turned to see a uniformed constable approaching. He carried a jacket bundled under his arm and as he reached the group he unfolded it. For a moment Abberline thought he detected a fishy odor mingling with the damp chill of the fog; then, as he moved up to the others, confirmation came.

“Here it is, sir.” The constable addressed Warren. “Straight from the fish market, just like you ordered. Fresh blood’s still on it.”

Sir Charles Warren’s nostrils flared appreciatively, as though he were sniffing roses. “Excellent!” He turned to Brough. “Shall we let the dogs have a whiff of this?”

The trainer nodded and Warren gestured to the constable. Holding the reeking jacket at arm’s length, the man made a gingerly approach to the two hounds. Quivering with excitement, the beasts snuffled, low growls rumbling deep within their throats. Brough’s arms tensed with effort as he gripped the double leash to restrain them from leaping at the bloodstained coat. “Easy now, that’ll be enough,” he said. “They’ve got the scent.”

The constable needed no further urging; he stepped back, glancing timorously at Warren.

“What next, sir? Shall I put it on?”

Abberline blinked at him. Good God, don’t tell me he’s volunteering to let himself be tracked! The man’s a fool—

“Wait!” Sir Charles Warren gestured peremptorily. “It’s my responsibility. I’ll wear the jacket.” And reaching for the garment, he slipped his arms into the sleeves.

Abberline stared. So he’s the fool! One had to admire his courage, even while realizing it was prompted by a hunger for acclaim if the experiment succeeded.

“Very good, sir.” Brough nodded at Warren. “Are you quite sure you know what to do?”

“Certainly. I’m to go off and find a suitable hiding place at the far end of the park. Give me a five minute start, then release your dogs. Mind you, stay as close to them as you can. I’ve no desire to be attacked by the brutes.”

“No danger of that,” Brough said. “I assure you they’ve been trained to stand at point once they have you at bay.”

“Assurances be damned.” Warren fumbled in his trouser pocket and produced an army revolver. “In case you’ve misled me, your beasts will have to answer to this.”

He turned to MacNaughten. “Five minutes, now. I’ll thank you to keep track of the time.”

MacNaughten took a watch from his vest and consulted it. “Exactly seven-ten.”

“Then I’m off.”

“Good luck,” Brough said.

“Good hunting.” Sir Charles Warren tightened his chimney-pot hat against his forehead, then broke into a run as he started away down the slope. A moment later he disappeared into the gray silence.

Abberline stood beside MacNaughten, breathing deeply as the fish odor faded like the figure in the fog.

“What do you think?” he said. “Wouldn’t it have been wiser to wait until this clears away?”

MacNaughten shrugged. “Might as well give it a real test. After all, the fog’s likely to be just as thick some nights in Whitechapel this time of year.”

“I still say they won’t find him.”

“Never fear.” Brough glanced at the hounds as they tugged impatiently on leash. “These two are best of breed. I’ll back them against all comers, even the Cubans trained for slave hunting.” He nodded at the black and tan dog. “Look at that muzzle. You won’t find such flews in your ordinary bloodhound. These specimens were bred for scenting power. Once they’re turned loose at the scene of the crime, your Jack the Ripper won’t stand a chance.”

Abberline sighed. “I hope you’re right. But Regent’s Park’s not exactly crowded this time of morning, and there’s nothing to confuse the trail. The East End is packed with people every night, and what with fishmongers and butchers and slaughtermen wearing bloody clothing, it’s likely your dogs could be confused.”

Brough scowled. “Barnaby and Burgho never make mistakes. You’ll see.” He turned to MacNaughten. “How much longer to go?”

MacNaughten squinted at his watch. “Less than a minute. Get ready.”

The trainer knelt and started to unbuckle the leash ends attached to the bloodhounds’ collars. “Hold it now, lads,” he murmured. “Ah, that’s it, me hearties. Got the scent, have you? Then — off you go!”

And the dogs bounded forward with a rush that nearly tumbled Brough to the ground.

He rose, gesturing to his companions. “Come along, before we lose them!”

Abberline, MacNaughten and the constable started down the slope, trotting in the wake of the trainer, but their efforts were foredoomed. Within seconds the bloodhounds had vanished into the fog.

“Now what?” MacNaughten muttered. “You should have let them track on leash.”

“Hardly a fair test, sir,” said Brough. “Slows them down. Best to show you how quickly they work on their own.” He gestured toward the white wall of mist ahead. “Carry on.”

The trio stumbled down the frosty incline behind him. Brough set a fast pace, and Abberline found himself panting with unaccustomed exertion as he floundered amid a tangle of trees and shrubbery in their path. “Not so fast,” he wheezed. “This damned fog’s so thick we’re likely to lose each other.”

“Join hands,” MacNaughten suggested.

It wasn’t much help. The undergrowth impeded their progress, and they had to break grip to circle the trees which appeared abruptly before them.

“Where are the dogs?” Abberline panted. “I don’t hear them.”

“You will, once they have the quarry at bay.” Brough grasped his hand. “Stay with it, sir.”

Their feet thudded across flatland now, and Abberline noted with grim satisfaction that the others were breathing heavily too.

“What’s taking them so long?” he gasped.

Brough shrugged. “Not to worry. Remember, this is clean-shoe tracking — it makes for slower going to work by scent alone.”

MacNaughten cast a dubious glance at the trainer. “I haven’t the faintest idea where we are,” he said. “Perhaps the dogs are lost too.”

But now a mournful howling rose faintly through the mist.

“Hark to that!” Brough grinned triumphantly. “They’ve got him.”

“But where?” Abberline looked up as the sound echoed through the impenetrable curtain of gray surrounding them. “Which way do we go?”

“Straight ahead.” Brough started forward at a swifter pace. “They’ll guide us.”

And when they moved on the baying grew louder, rising to an ululating crescendo as a tangled thicket loomed to their left.

“Over here!” Brough cried.

Releasing Abberline’s hand, he pointed toward a cluster of bushes. Now Barnaby and Burgho were both audible and visible; they stood trembling before the thicket, howling with ferocious eagerness to leap upon their prey.

“Good lads!” Brough hurried towards his champions, then knelt between them, hands gripping their collars tightly. “Good lads!”

At his touch the dogs fell silent. He peered forward and his voice rose. “All safe, sir — I’ve got them.”

There was no response.

Brough waited a moment, then called again. “Sir Charles — you can come out now.”

But Sir Charles didn’t come out. Nothing stirred in the thicket beyond.

Brough and MacNaughten frowned and the police constable moved up beside Abberline. “Want me to ’ave a look?”

The inspector nodded. “Follow me,” he said. The two men started for the clump of bushes, stooping to enter an opening in their midst.

As they did so, an unmistakable fishy odor assailed their nostrils. The natural recess beneath the surrounding shrubbery was dark, and for a moment they saw nothing. Gradually their eyes adjusted to the dimness and a shadowy shape became visible, crouching upon a pile of leaves.

They stared at the figure huddled before them — the forlorn figure of a small boy. His frightened face was smeared with grease, and so was the paper he clutched in one hand; the paper cone filled with a helping of fish-and-chips.