The Night of the Ripper

~ TWENTY-SEVEN ~

Inspector Abberline was having a bad day. Sitting in the Home Secretary’s office, he listened with growing dismay to the row between Sir Henry Matthews and Sir Charles Warren. Two lords of the realm, if you please, going at it hammer and tongs like a pair of schoolboys.

“I won’t brook interference!” Warren exclaimed. He paced before Matthews’ desk, thumping the tip of his silver-headed walking stick on the carpet with each step. “Not from amateurs with nothing better to do than meddle with the affairs of my department!”

Matthews jabbed a bony finger at the stack of documents on the desktop before him. “You’re wrong, Charles. Dead wrong. These are only a portion of the communications we’ve received. Not from amateur detectives. Not from meddlers. Decent, respectable citizens who fear for their lives, like the ladies of Whitechapel who signed this petition—”

“Ladies? Don’t talk to me of your ladies! If those females down there would seek out some honest employment and keep off the streets, we wouldn’t have this sort of muck to contend with. I’ve more important things to do than play nursemaid to a pack of streetwalkers!”

“I dare say.” Matthews’ tone was dry. “Your job is to catch this murderer. And you haven’t done so. Even with the aid of bloodhounds.”

Warren reddened at the reference but didn’t reply; the failure of his trial runs was public knowledge.

“No offense,” Matthews said. “I appreciate your — shall I say? — dogged determination.”

Again he gestured toward the pile of papers before him. “But since you seem unable to apprehend him on your own, I suggest you give some attention to the advice of others.”

“What others? I’ve had my fill of suggestions from the press. And I don’t fancy self-styled experts like this Forbes Winslow fellow who keeps popping up with what he calls evidence.” Now he glanced at Abberline. “You’ve seen this fellow. Utter imbecile, what?”

The inspector nodded uneasily. “A bit on the eccentric side.”

“Eccentric? The man’s daft! Now he’s taken to analyzing the handwriting of those so-called Jack the Ripper letters. As if it makes any difference how the bugger dots his i’s and crosses his t’s! Sheer waste of time.”

“Is it?” Sir Henry Matthews followed Warren’s pacing figure with a cold stare. “Perhaps such a study might reveal important clues to the writer’s personality. I’m not prepared to dismiss the findings of graphology.”

“And I’m not prepared to give a handwriting test to every man in London!” Warren snapped.

“Then what are you prepared to do? If you’d give some thought to the other suggestions we’ve received—”

“Such as what, might I ask?”

“Such as these.” Matthews extracted a letter from an envelope on top of the heap and began to read a paragraph selected at random.

“Have the cattle boats and passenger boats been examined? Has any investigation been made as to the number of single men occupying rooms to themselves? The murderer’s clothes must be saturated with blood and kept somewhere? Is there sufficient surveillance at night—”

“Sheer drivel!” Warren halted before the desk, bringing his cane down with a thud. “Even a child would know we’ve considered such matters from the start. Why should anyone bother with the advice of some bloody stupid crank? Give me the name of the fool who wrote this — I’ll have his guts for garters!”

“Allow me to finish.” Matthews raised the letter and scanned the final lines.

“These are some of the questions that occur to the Queen on reading accounts of this horrible crime.

“Signed this day and date — Victoria R.”

Warren’s jaw dropped. “She wrote this?”

Sir Henry Matthews placed the letter back on the pile. “Now you can begin to understand why these communications want attention. The Prime Minister has advised me—”

“Are you threatening me, sir?” Warren’s face was purple. “Is that the purpose of this meeting? Let me remind you, no matter what Salisbury or Her Majesty herself may think, I’m in charge of this operation and I intend to conduct it as I see fit!”

“No one is challenging your authority,” Matthews said. “But there is more here than meets the eye. And I warn you, time is running out.”

“So it is.” Warren glanced at the wall clock behind Matthews’ desk. “I’m due back at the Yard as of this very moment.”

Matthews shrugged. “As you will. I was hoping we could discuss the matter further.”

“My duties call for decisions, not discussions.” Ignoring Matthews’ stare, Sir Charles Warren moved across the room, swinging his walking stick. As he opened the door he turned and nodded at the Home Secretary. “Should you happen to address Her Majesty, please inform her that I am personally examining conditions on cattle boats, conducting a census of single men living alone, keeping my eye out for bloodstained clothing, and watching the streets by night. Tell her I appreciate her valuable suggestions, and should they lead to the discovery of the murderer I shall see to it that she will be the first to know.”

The slam of the door put a period to his words, and a warning rumble in Abberline’s stomach added further punctuation. He sat there in silence as Sir Henry Matthews exhaled slowly.

“Bit of a tartar, that one, eh?”

Abberline nodded. “Forgive me for saying so. sir, but this isn’t the first time he’s taken that line. It tends to make for problems in the department.”

“Any suggestions?”

The inspector hesitated, weighing his words. “Meaning no disrespect, but if you could possibly arrange to grant me a free hand in conducting this inquiry—”

“Believe me, I’d like nothing better.” Matthews rose. “Unfortunately, I can hardly jump you over his head, or Anderson’s, for that matter. Question of protocol, eh?”

“I see.”

“I’m sure you do. But there’s no need to look so disappointed. I’d like to entrust you with a private mission of your own.”

“How so?”

Matthews moved up beside Abberline’s chair, speaking in low tones. “Mind you, what I’m about to say is in the strictest confidence. It must go no further than this office. Agreed?”

Abberline nodded.

“Well, then. You heard the Queen’s letter. What do you make of it?”

“She’s concerned—”

“More than concerned. To put matters as delicately as possible, Her Majesty fears that this investigation may not be solely confined to the residents of Whitechapel. It could involve people in high places.”

Abberline’s puzzled frown provoked a further murmur from Matthews. “That’s why I particularly wanted a word with you. Upon examining your duty register I note a connection with the raid on a male brothel at Number Nineteen, Cleveland Street last July.”

“Yes. The trial is still pending.” Abberline paused. “I’ve not had time to look into the reasons for delay.”

“When you do, you may discover that orders have come down from unspecified sources. And that certain of the suspects won’t be available for questioning.”

“Who might they be?”

“James Stephen, for one.”

“Stephen?” Inspector Abberline’s eyebrows arched. “Isn’t he the tutor of—”

“No names.” Matthews paused. “Let me just say that we’ve reason to believe he was responsible for introducing a certain personage to the occupants of the Cleveland Street address.”

Abberline concealed his startled reaction as he spoke. “Anyone else?”

“John Netley.”

“I’ve heard of him. A coachman, isn’t he?”

“That is correct. It has been suggested he frequently drove the party in question on his visits to Number Nineteen.”

“I see.” Abberline hesitated, then shook his head. “No, I don’t see. What has the — personage — got to do with the Ripper affair?”

“This is for you to determine.”

“You’re not suggesting?”

“I’m suggesting nothing, except that you make some discreet inquiries. Would it be possible for you to do so on an unofficial basis?”

“I can manage it.”

“Good.” Sir Henry Matthews led him to the door as he rose. “Remember, I’m relying on your complete discretion.”

“You can depend on me, sir.” Abberline smiled.

But when he left Matthews’ office his smile faded as the Home Secretary’s words echoed in memory. High places. A certain personage. If people like that were suspected of such killings, then whom could you trust?

Inspector Abberline was having a bad day. And his stomach told him it wasn’t over yet.