The Night of the Ripper

~ TWENTY-NINE ~

The following afternoon was dark and dreary, mirroring Mark’s melancholy mood. Sitting in the surgical lounge, he struggled with his medical observation notes taken during the past week, but concentration eluded him.

Today his thoughts kept turning to Eva. She’d eluded him too. An image of auburn hair and peacock-blue eyes flashed before him but brought no content; it was the reality he wanted. Why had she taken such pains to avoid him? Was it because of Alan?

Another image arose, that of a mustached man wearing a peaked cap. Her fiancé, Eva said. Then why this secrecy, these clandestine meetings? Why had he never appeared at the hospital to escort her home? Perhaps he was married: that would explain the need for concealment. But somehow it was difficult to picture Eva in the role of mistress. Or was it just a stubborn rejection of the ultimate image; Eva and Alan, locked together in naked embrace?

Mark bit his lip. Stop playing the jealous lover—

“There you are.”

He returned to reality as Trebor entered, followed by a familiar figure. Inspector Abberline nodded, closing the door behind him.

“Not disturbing you, are we?”

Mark maintained his smile as he shook his head, but there was no warmth behind it. What was Abberline doing here?

The inspector glanced at Trebor as he started forward. “Mind if I tell him?”

Trebor shrugged. “Not at all. I’m sure he’s been curious too.”

“About Dr. Trebor’s absence,” Abberline said. “I admit it had me puzzled, so I made it my concern to check into his movements. It seems he’s had a legitimate reason for being away. Mrs. Trebor lives in Nottingham—”

Mark gaped at Trebor. “I never knew you were married!”

“There was no reason to mention it,” Trebor said. “My wife and I have been estranged for some years. But when I learned she was in hospital there. I felt it my duty to go to her.”

“She’s ill, then?”

“Terminal consumption.”

“I’m sorry.” Mark spoke sincerely, but at the same time he was aware of his relief. It had been wrong to entertain any suspicion of Trebor; on the other hand. Abberline had suspected him as well.

Now his relief gave way to apprehension as he became conscious of the portly inspector’s level stare.

“I’ve taken the liberty of looking into your affairs also,” Abberline said. “Particularly after examining the murder messages.”

“But that’s ridiculous.” Mark gestured angrily. “Anyone can see those letters are the work of an obvious illiterate.”

“A bit too obvious.” Abberline’s gaze didn’t waver. “Someone took deliberate pains to misspell words and disguise his handwriting. But much of the slang he used — like ‘boss,’ for example — is American.”

“You’re accusing me of sending them?”

“Not accusing. I just want you to know why I made a point of establishing your whereabouts at the time of these crimes.”

Mark faced him squarely. “And what did you find out?”

“That you were in The Coach And Four pub when the first of the double killings took place. You were at Berner Street when the second occurred in Mitre Square.” Abberline’s voice softened. “My apologies. But in cases like this one must not overlook any possibility, however farfetched.”

“I agree.” Mark felt his tension ebb as he spoke. “About those letters, though. Do you really believe they’re genuine? Whoever wrote them seemed to know about the murders in advance, yet there’s always a chance of a hoax—”

“Not any more.” Abberline reached into his inside coat pocket. “This is a photographic copy of a letter received by George Lusk, the chairman of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee. See what you make of it.”

He unfolded the single sheet and handed it to Mark, watching him as he read.

Mark looked up as Abberline spoke. “Notice how obvious the misspellings are. No genuine semi-literate would make those kind of mistakes, and they differ from the sort in the other letters. The lack of punctuation is also artificial.”

Trebor nodded. “What about the kidney?”

“It was enclosed with the letter, in a cardboard box.”

“Oh my God!” Trebor addressed Mark. “Do you remember the inquest on the Eddowes woman? Dr. Brown testified that the uterus had been removed, and the left kidney was missing.” He returned to Abberline. “Where is it now?”

Before the inspector could reply, a knock sounded on the lounge door.

“Come in,” Mark called, and the door opened. To his surprise it was Eva who stood in the doorway, wearing her probationer’s uniform.

She nodded at Abberline. “Dr. Openshaw is ready to see you. If you’ll come this way—”

Abberline joined her as she turned, beckoning the others to follow them.

Moving down the hall, Mark murmured to his companion. “Openshaw. Where’ve I heard that name before?”

”He’s a staff pathologist here. Curator of the hospital museum. His office is around the corner.”

And there, in the little room, Dr. Openshaw awaited them.

Mark did his best to conceal his reaction, but the room repelled him. It was lined on three sides with shelving on which rested rows of bell-jars and glass containers glittering in the glimmer of the gaslight overhead. But once his eyes grew accustomed to the glare, it was the content of the glassware that he found most unnerving.

Underneath the bell-jars there reposed a grotesque assortment of dried and dessicated human limbs — stumped legs terminating in toeless knobs, detached hands splayed to exhibit six fingers, feet webbed like those of some huge batrachian. Others held malformed skulls; macrocephalic enormities and microcephalic blobs. Floating in the preservative of the containers were misshapen organs; shriveled lungs, bloated and enlarged hearts, a hydrocephalic head the size of a watermelon that bobbed against the glass in obscene greeting.

Mark turned away to gaze at white-smocked Dr. Openshaw standing beside the table in the center of the room. He too was bobbing his head in welcome, and the movement was scarcely less disturbing.

The little bald-headed man with the monkish tonsure of straggly brown hair fringing his collar peered up through the rounded lenses of pince-nez that enlarged the staring pupils of dead-gray eyes. Under the light his skin was gray too, and gray lips parted in a mirthless smile to reveal a row of twisted teeth.

Dr. Openshaw smelled of formaldehyde. Indeed, the whole room reeked of it, mingled with the odor of other chemicals emanating from an assortment of phials and racked test-tubes on the tabletop beside a microscope, stacks of glass slides, a Bunsen burner, and instruments used for pathological examination.

But as greetings were exchanged, what captured Mark’s attention was the battered, coverless little cardboard box resting at the far end of the table. The box, and its contents, which Dr. Openshaw was now-indicating with the points of steel tweezers gripped in the grayish claw of his right hand.

His voice was gray, too: a dry rustling uncolored by any hint of emotion. “I have completed my examination.” he said. “The specimen is almost a classical example of the ginny kidney.”

“Ginny?” Abberline frowned.

“Forgive my use of the vernacular. An alcoholic’s kidney.” The tweezers dipped into the box and lifted out the spongy mass as he spoke. “Observe the discoloration. There is unmistakable evidence of an advanced stage of Bright’s disease. According to indications, I would venture that it has been excised from a female of middle years, perhaps forty-five or thereabouts. I’d say it was removed some time within the past three weeks.”

“The time is right.” Abberline murmured. Mark glanced at Trebor and Eva, sensing their response to this observation.

But Dr. Openshaw looked perplexed. “You still haven’t told me where you obtained this specimen.” he said. “Or under what circumstances.”

“All that can wait.” The inspector moved up beside the pathologist. “What else can you tell us about it?”

“Very little, without a more detailed analysis.” The tweezers twirled the soggy organ. “I do note the renal artery has been severed. Its normal length is three inches or thereabouts, but only an inch remains attached here.”

“And according to the coroner’s findings, two inches remained in the body.” Abberline’s question followed quickly. “In your opinion, was this removed by someone familiar with medical procedures?”

Dr. Openshaw moistened his thin lips with the tip of a grayish tongue. “The absence of extraneous surrounding tissue seems to indicate the excision was performed by someone with a knowledge of anatomy. I’ve already spoken to Dr. Hume—”

Mention of the name startled Mark. Trebor seemed equally upset, and Eva’s sudden frown was eloquent with silent revulsion.

“What did Hume say?” Abberline asked.

“He believes it’s the work of a surgeon.”

Mark glanced at his companions. Like himself, he knew they were recalling the postscript of the first Ripper letter. “They say I’m a doctor. Ha! ha! ha!”

They stared at one another. But nobody laughed.