The Night of the Ripper

~ TWENTY-SIX ~

“I say, Mark — do you have a moment?”

Mark halted and glanced back up the hospital corridor to see Trebor standing in the open doorway of the library.

He nodded, and the older man beckoned to him. “Come along, then. I’d like you to meet someone.” Following Trebor into the room he saw a mustached man with a brown cowlick framing his tanned forehead who sat facing the door as they entered. Now the stranger rose, holding out his hand, and Mark found himself confronting a giant; a broad-shouldered, barrel-chested presence with a booming voice and a powerful grip.

Trebor did the honors. “I’d like you to meet a friend of mine. Mark Robinson — Dr. Arthur Conan Doyle. He’s in private practice—”

Trebor broke off, conscious of Mark’s surprised stare. “What’s come over you?”

Mark nodded at the tall man. “You wouldn’t happen to be the author of A Study in Scarlet?”

Conan Doyle smiled broadly, and for a moment, despite the bushy mustache bordering his mouth, he looked like an overgrown boy.

“Trebor was just speaking of you.” he said, “From the States, aren’t you? How on earth would you know about my work?”

“There was a copy of Beeton’s Christmas Annual in the ship’s library,” Mark said. “I read it on the voyage over here. My congratulations, sir.”

“Thank you.”

As the two men seated themselves, Mark continued. “Allow me to say that I think you’ve a promising career in literature if you care to pursue it.”

“Hardly literature.” Conan Doyle shrugged. “But I trust you’re right about the career.”

“Arthur is overly modest,” Trebor said. He lit a cheroot as he spoke. “His story created quite a bit of interest when it appeared in book form this year.”

Mr. Doyle sighed. “I’m afraid my little mystery tale wouldn’t claim as much attention today. It can scarcely hold a candle to the newspaper accounts of this Ripper business.”

“I wonder.” Mark glanced at the tall man. “What do you suppose your detective character — Soames, isn’t it? — would make of the affair?”

“Holmes,” murmured Conan Doyle. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sorry.” Mark flushed. “I’m not very good with names.”

“No matter. Why should you or anyone else have reason to recall it? I’m flattered you knew mine. No one ever seems to remember writers.”

“I made a point of it in this instance,” Mark said. “And while I got his name wrong, I shan’t forget your character. The way you described his methods of deduction was quite extraordinary.”

“And not entirely fiction.” Trebor puffed on his cheroot. “If I’m not mistaken, the real-life model for Sherlock Holmes is my old friend Joe Bell. He was Arthur’s boffin at Edinburgh.”

“Recognized him, did you?” Conan Doyle smiled. “I admit I borrowed some of his techniques for Holmes’ benefit.” He nodded at Mark. “But you asked what Sherlock Holmes might think of this Ripper matter. I imagine his first concern would be to establish the identity of the killer.”

“Quite so.” Trebor flicked the gray tip from the end of his cheroot into an ashtray beside his chair. “But how would he go about it, with all those suspects? I suppose you’ve read the verse that Scotland Yard just received?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“Then allow me to recite it for you.” Trebor set his cheroot down and cleared his throat.

“Capital!” Conan Doyle beamed. “If this communication can be taken as genuine, then our Ripper is apparently a man of principle as well as poetry. He’s playing fair by eliminating others who might be mistaken for suspects.”

“Playing fair?” Trebor retrieved his cheroot. “You talk as if this were some sort of game.”

“Perhaps it is — to him.”

“You’re not serious?”

“Indeed I am. Consider the elements involved in the crimes. From all accounts it would seem as though the Ripper goes out of his way to reveal his presence to witnesses before each murder, then runs off in the nick of time to evade his pursuers. One perceives a definite element of hide-and-seek about it all.

“Then there’s the matter of clues — clues designed to mystify and mislead. Emptying his victims’ pockets and arranging their contents about the bodies, planting a bloodstained bit of apron here, a knife there. And that message scrawled on the wall about Jews. The way it was worded seems deliberate; it can be taken either as an accusation or a denial. I tend to believe the misspelling of the word was intentional, along with the other mistakes and grammatical errors in the letters.”

“You think the letters are genuine?” Mark asked.

“It all depends on which ones you’re referring to. I’m told hundreds have been received — warnings, confessions, other verses. Undoubtedly most of them are hoaxes. But the ones which predicted the crimes in advance cannot be explained away so easily. I believe they’re part of the game. A game of life and death.”

“What sort of man would look upon murder as though it were a sporting event?”

“A man who has a total disregard for his fellow creatures. A man whose own perverted pleasures take precedence over the pain and suffering of others. A man completely convinced of his own superiority, rankling because his intelligence and abilities have not been recognized by the rest of the world. A homicidal maniac, yes, but also an egomaniac. Hence the deliberate risk-taking, the flaunting of clues, the letter-writing. All this designed, mind you, to establish his superior cleverness and cunning — and to further his fame.”

Trebor gestured with his cheroot. “In that case you must admit he’s succeeded. The police have no idea as to identity, and neither would your fictional detective.”

“On the contrary.” Conan Doyle settled back in his chair. “If Sherlock Holmes were employed on this case I think he might be well on the way to a solution.

“To begin with, we’ve noted that the murderer has been playing hide-and-seek, but taking great pains to plant false clues and false leads. Under such circumstances one must detect a glaring and obvious discrepancy in his conduct. If he goes to such elaborate lengths to escape discovery, then why does he brazenly display his presence to witnesses before committing his crimes?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Trebor said. “But that’s exactly the question I’d ask your Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

“And he would give you an answer.” Conan Doyle nodded. “He would tell you that the killer’s revelation is a form of concealment. A device designed to turn the attention of the police in the wrong direction. While they are busily engaged in looking for a mustached man wearing a peaked cap, they’re not likely to be paying much attention to that same man disguised as a woman.”

“A woman?” Mark leaned forward.

“Consider the eyewitness descriptions. In almost every instance, the man seen talking to a victim was carrying a package — either an object wrapped in paper or some sort of bag.”

“Which would contain the murder weapon,” Trebor said. “That much the police determined.”

“How? They’ve not examined such a bag or parcel. It’s mere guesswork on their part. Mr. Holmes would remind you there are less conspicuous ways to conceal a knife. But suppose the bag or package was needed to hold something else — a woman’s clothing, designed for wear immediately after the murder?

“Consider how completely the killer could change his appearance. It would take only a second to remove a false mustache, less than a minute to don a long-skirted dress, jacket and bonnet, none of which would reveal any telltale bloodstains. Since many of the poorer female residents of Whitechapel — including one of the murder victims, you may recall — wear men’s boots against the cold, his shoes wouldn’t matter. As for his own clothing, including the cap, he’d have only to pop them into the bag or parcel along with his knife, and be on his merry way.”

“But a woman carrying a medical bag through the streets after midnight is bound to attract attention,” Mark said.

“Not necessarily. Many such women are abroad at that hour; their presence is taken for granted and passes unnoticed.”

“You don’t mean—?”

“Midwives.” Conan Doyle nodded. “Exactly so. They’re the ones most apt to deliver babies in the slums, not your fancy obstetricians. They’re so common no one gives them a second glance, any more than they would a postman. And if your Ripper is found near the scene of the crime his disguise would offer a perfect explanation; a midwife making her rounds stumbled on the body and stopped to give medical attention. Perhaps his voice would have to be disguised in case of answering questions, but the chances are that he’d not be halted and no questions would be asked. I’m quite certain that Mr. Holmes would concur at this conclusion. Jack the Ripper has escaped detection by disguising himself as a midwife.”

“Extraordinary,” Trebor murmured.

“Elementary,” said Conan Doyle.

Rising, he took his leave, and Trebor faced Mark in silence as he snubbed his cheroot in the ashtray.

“What do you make of it?” Mark asked.

“Difficult to say. I admit the idea sounds plausible. That bit about a false mustache is quite ingenious — a typical Sherlock Holmes touch, don’t you think? A wonder the police haven’t thought of it.”

“Do you suppose we might broach the notion to Inspector Abberline?”

Trebor shook his head. “I’m afraid our friend the inspector has other ideas. As a matter of fact, I’ve just been told that a man answering to his description has been checking my own comings and goings with the landlady at my flat.”

Mark gave his mustache a nervous tug. “That’s odd. I’ve no description, but one of the tenants at my own lodgings mentioned a man had stopped around inquiring about my movements over the past weeks. Surely you don’t think—?”

“Never mind what I think.” Trebor scowled. “It’s what Abberline thinks that must concern us now.”