The Night of the Ripper

~ THIRTY-SIX ~

Shortly before eleven that evening, Mark returned to the hospital. Since Trebor had left he was a free agent this week with no set hours or duties to perform, and today’s events had drained him of any desire to volunteer his services.

It was on Abberline’s request that he came — a request casually delivered when they parted after the carriage had dropped Lees off.

“I wonder if you would do me a favor?” he’d asked. “Does the hospital keep some sort of file on the comings and goings of staff physicians?”

“Of course. All duty hours are recorded.”

“In that case, perhaps you could make an inquiry. I’d do it myself, but if word got out that I was asking questions he might get the wind up.”

“He?”

“Dr. Hume.”

“Hume?” At the sound of the name, Mark started. “Do you actually believe—”

“I believe nothing,” Abberline said. “Not until I can establish his whereabouts on certain dates.”

Mark nodded quickly then. “I know which dates you mean. Let me see what I can do.”

“While you’re at it, you might also find out if he was off-duty on the afternoon of the ninth.”

“You’re saying the man Lees saw on the omnibus could have been Dr. Hume?”

Abberline shrugged. “Lees told us it wasn’t John Netley.”

“Can you take his word for that?”

“I do, but it has no bearing on psychic powers. The man he saw had a mustache. Some time ago Netley’s name cropped up in my investigations and I made it a point to locate a copy of his coachman’s license, with his photograph attached. Netley wears a full beard.”

“Then you knew Gull lied to us. Why didn’t you challenge him?”

“Not without further evidence. If I find it necessary to see Gull again I intend to come armed with adequate proof. That’s why I’d like you to get me word about Hume’s schedule, if you can.”

“I’ll do my best,” Mark promised.

But now, at the hospital’s reception desk, he met with swift disappointment.

“Sorry, Dr. Robinson,” the night orderly clerk said. “We’re not allowed to give out such information. You’d first have to get permission from Chief of Staff.”

“I see.” Concealing his disappointment, Mark started to move away when the clerk called after him.

“You can ask Dr. Hume himself if you like. He’s due in for the night shift in another hour.”

“Thank you.”

For nothing, Mark told himself. It was hardly possible for him to confront Jeremy Hume with his questions. And if what he suspected was true—

“Mark!”

At the sound of Eva’s voice he turned and saw her emerging from the left-hand corridor, dressed in street clothes. She wore no hat this evening, and the gaslight haloed her auburn curls as she approached. “Are you on duty tonight?” she asked.

“No, I just stopped by. And you?”

“Through for the day, thank goodness.” Eva smiled wearily. “And homeward bound.”

“Might I escort you?”

She nodded. “If you like. But it’s only a few blocks.”

“I know.” He fell into step beside her and they left the lobby together.

Once on the street, Mark took her arm. “You still owe me a dinner engagement,” he said. “Perhaps we could stop somewhere for a bite to eat?”

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather go straight home.”

“Not even a cup of tea?”

“I’ve a kettle waiting, thank you. And right now all I really want is a chance to take my shoes off.” She glanced at him as they crossed the street. “You seem tired too. Was it a trying day?”

Quickly Mark told her of the inquest, his subsequent journey to Scotland Yard with Abberline, and their confrontation with George Hutchinson there.

“Do you feel he was being truthful with you?” Eva asked.

“There’s no reason to doubt it.”

She frowned thoughtfully. “But what about those women at the inquest — and the one who claims she saw Kelly alive the following morning? It sounds very confusing.”

“The whole business is confusing, including the way the coroner headed off any further testimony. Abberline vows there’s a cover-up.”

“He’s an odd sort,” Eva said. “Coming round to the hospital so often, asking all those questions. Do you really believe he knows what he’s doing?”

“No doubt about it. In my opinion he knows more than he’s prepared to say. And this time I’d swear he’s on to something.”

“You think highly of him, don’t you.”

“Abberline’s no ordinary policeman. If anyone can snap the cuffs on Jack the Ripper, he’s the man.”

Mark hesitated, wondering if he should continue his account, then thought the better of it. Abberline had enjoined silence concerning their visit to Sir William Gull, and there was no reason to violate his trust. On the other hand, he’d sought information about Hume. And if Eva could supply it—

“Why so silent?” she asked.

“I was just wondering.” Together they turned down Old Montague Street as he spoke. “Have you seen much of Dr. Hume lately?”

Eva shook her head. “If you’re still worried about him molesting me, you needn’t concern yourself. He’s not shared my shift this week or last, so I’ve had no contact with him at all.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know what hours he keeps at the hospital, then?”

“Not really. Why do you ask?”

“I should think the answer is obvious.”

She stared at him as comprehension came. “But why would Abberline suspect him?”

“He has his reasons.”

“And you?” They halted before Eva’s lodgings and she faced him beneath the lamplight. “What reason do you have for getting yourself involved?”

“I’ve asked myself that question a dozen times. Perhaps it’s professional curiosity. If one could only find this man, learn something about him, the way he thinks, examine his twisted motives, it might tell us some things about the human mind—”

“Even if it means getting yourself killed in the process?” Eva’s eyes clouded with concern. “Suppose the inspector is right? If Hume is capable of such crimes, he’ll do anything to avoid being caught out. Don’t you realize the risk?”

“I gave my word I’d help.”

“But what if he suspects?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.” Mark sighed. “If there was just some means of checking on his movements over the past few months without his knowing—”

“Maybe there is.” Eva’s eyes brightened. “The patient log book. All the staff surgeons keep a listing of their consultations and assignments. That would give the exact hours he was on duty and tell you when he was absent.”

“Hume keeps such a record?”

She nodded. “I’ve seen it on his office desk. A small date book, bound in red leather. If you could get a look at that you’d be able to find out when he was away.” Eva frowned. “But when would it be possible to do so without his knowledge?”

Mark pulled out his watch. “Now,” he said. “Hume won’t be on duty until twelve. I’ve still got better than half an hour.”

“Suppose he comes in early?” Eva put her hand on Mark’s arm. “You mustn’t chance it.”

“Don’t worry. I can get back to the hospital from here in five minutes and slip in through the rear entrance.” He smiled. “Thanks for telling me.”

“I wish I hadn’t.” Eva shook her head. “Mark, please—”

“I’ll be careful.”

They parted then, but not before he promised to see her the following day during her nine-to-six shift.

Then he hurried back to perform his errand.

Entering the hospital presented no problem. He went around to the intersection of Oxford and Philpot Street, encountering no one en route — the thoroughfares, ordinarily quiet at this hour, were utterly deserted. London lay silent behind locked doors, trembling in the knowledge that the Ripper was on the prowl.

Mark found the gateway into the rear courtyard, a garden area of trees and shrubbery with a paved central open area. He’d heard it referred to as “Bedstead Square” because it was here that hospital beds were sometimes set out for cleaning or repainting.

Opening the door leading to an inside corridor he moved in shadow past a row of rooms set aside for storage, then turned into the dimly-lit consultation hall at his left. This too was totally unoccupied, and he breathed a prayer that it would remain so. There was always a watchman on patrol but hopefully he wouldn’t be passing this way too frequently during the midnight hours.

Midnight hours. He still had twenty-five minutes. And if luck was with him—

It was.

The door to Dr. Hume’s consulting room was unlocked, and the interior was dark. It remained so until he was safely inside; then, closing the door, he ventured to light an oil lamp on the desk and went to work.

Be careful. Despite his efforts at control, Mark’s heart was beating swiftly, his ears straining to catch any sound of footfalls from the corridor beyond the door.

Eva had been right about the danger involved. If Hume was guilty he’d stop at nothing to avoid detection. And if he discovered someone rifling his office in the middle of the night…

Mark worked swiftly, feverishly. Nothing on the desktop except an appointment pad listing tomorrow’s patients, and a scribbled notation about a surgery scheduled for seven tomorrow morning. The desk drawers opened at his touch, but their contents revealed little except the usual impedimenta — pens, pencils, blank notepaper, a city directory, sheafs of bills and receipts of personal purchases at local shops. And, in the bottom drawer at the right, a notebook.

He pulled it out, pulse pounding as he lifted it up to the light and opened its pages. All they contained were listings of street numbers and the names of other physicians. And address book, nothing more.

Where was the log?

Mark glanced at his watch, then went to the wooden file cabinet in the corner. The drawers slid back, confronting him with rows of folders. Here was data on patients, sheet after sheet of examination forms, charts, appended diagnoses. Each bore a heading which recorded time and date, but in no order. The four drawers must hold nearly a thousand of such files; it would take days to go through them all and extract the exact information he was seeking.

There were no other receptacles in the office here. So where could the log be?

Mark swore softly under his breath as he realized the obvious answer.

In Hume’s pocket.

Of course that’s where the log was; he carried it on his person. Probably most of the surgeons did so, as a convenient method of referring to past appointments. And if Hume’s record contained any incriminating evidence of his hours away from duty he certainly wouldn’t leave it unguarded here.

Mark froze as something echoed hollowly from beyond the closed door. Footsteps, approaching along the corridor outside…

Swiftly he extinguished the lamp, then flattened himself against the wall alongside the entrance. He could do nothing more, there was nowhere to hide, and if the door opened and Hume walked in—

The footsteps were louder now, sounding just before the entrance. Mark’s hands tightened into fists, his temples throbbing in anticipation. If the door opened—

But it did not. And the footsteps moved on, dying in the distance.

Mark exhaled. Only the watchman, after all, and he was gone now, thank God. All quiet, safe to move again, close the drawers of the file cabinet. Close them quickly, for it must be almost midnight. A quick glance at his watch confirmed the hour. Time to leave.

Time to open the office door, slip swiftly down the hall, turn into the rear passageway leading to the back exit.

As he did so, grateful relief gave way to the bitterness of disappointment. He was safe, but he had failed. And because he’d failed, there was no safety — not for himself, for Eva, for anyone. No safety at all with the Ripper still free.

For a moment it had seemed so simple, so easy. Find the log, check the entries, go to Abberline and play the hero. Dr. Hume, I arrest you on the charge of murder—

He smiled ruefully at the thought. Sheer melodrama, a scene from one of Mansfield’s plays. But this wasn’t make-believe; the Ripper was real, and so was the danger. Whether Hume was their man or not didn’t matter now. Whoever the Ripper might be, he had his freedom. Freedom to walk the night, knife in hand, searching for fresh victims…

Midnight chimes sounded from a church nearby, and Mark’s smile became a scowl. So many churches here in Whitechapel, so many prayers going up to God, and for what? Prayer had proved no protection against mass murder. There was no protection possible as long as Jack the Ripper prowled. He could be anywhere now, even here.

Mark moved into Bedstead Court, toward the shadows of the trees and shrubbery surrounding the rear gateway beyond.

And then, out of the darkness, the figure loomed.

Before he could move it was upon him — the hunched, bent figure in the black cloak, scuttling forward into the pale moonlight of the courtyard, its feet encased in baglike slippers, its head covered with a huge shapeless cap. Hanging from the brim was a gray flannel cloth, masking its face save for a glimpse of eyes glowing through a slit.

As the figure advanced, a wave of stench swept before it, and from beneath the concealing curtain came a panting sound.

Then, as Mark watched, the left arm rose. For an instant his eyes widened, waiting for the gleam of a knife in the moonlight, but the delicate fingers were empty. They grasped the hood, swept it back and removed the cap to reveal the face beneath.

But it wasn’t a face.

Mark stared in horror at the misshapen skull striated with a few strands of lank hair growing down over a bony mass protruding from a bulging brow which covered one eye almost completely. The other peered at him from beside the formless lump of flesh serving as a nose. Beneath it was a pink stump projecting from the upper jaw, twisted to turn the upper lip back above the slitted mouth.

The mouth moved now, gasping for breath, and from the opening between the twisted teeth came muffled sounds only remotely recognizable as words.

“Don’t be afraid,” the creature whispered. “I’m John Merrick.”

“Who?”

“The Elephant Man.”