The Night of the Ripper

~ THIRTY-EIGHT ~

Mark wondered if the Elephant Man slept that night after he left him.

As for himself, there was little rest. Little rest, and far too many troubled thoughts. In the sleepless hours before dawn, he tried to impose some semblance of order on his impressions.

The photograph of Princess Alexandra in Merrick’s room — was it just coincidence that the unfortunate creature cherished a picture of Eddy’s mother? And the man in the deerstalker cap; could he actually be Dr. Hume? Did Hume steal out of the hospital at night to descend on Whitechapel, scalpel in hand? The operation was a success, but the patient died—

If only he could talk to Trebor! But that wasn’t possible, and his suspicions would not be resolved by an outsider’s opinions. There was only one man he’d trust now, and at nine the following morning he found him at Scotland Yard.

Abberline seemed tired too. He sat in shirt-sleeves at his desk, and when Mark greeted him he pointed at the paper mountain rising before him on the desktop.

“Look at this,” he said. “There ought to be a law forbidding lunatics the use of pen and stationery.”

Seating himself, Mark peered at the pile. “More crank letters?”

The inspector nodded. “Warnings. Confessions. Tips from every Tom, Dick and Harry, and eyewitness accounts from their wives. Every woman from here to Edinburgh has seen a suspect hiding under her bed. Plus dozens of cards and letters purporting to come from the Ripper himself.”

“You’re pulling my leg.”

“I’m tearing my hair.” Abberline smiled wearily. “It seems as though every practical joker in the country has taken it upon himself to plague us. And the newspapers keep turning up correspondence they’ve received. Forbes Winslow gets a dozen or more every day. All fakes, of course; the handwriting differs, the style varies, and the content is a dead giveaway that the writer doesn’t even know the circumstances of the crimes he boasts of committing.”

“Then why bother with them?”

“Because they bother me. At this stage of the game we can’t afford to ignore any possibility that might crop up, no matter how improbable it sounds.” He swept the papers aside and leaned back. “But I’m done with that for good.”

“You’ve found something?”

“Perhaps.” Abberline pursed his lips thoughtfully. “But first, let’s hear what you’ve been up to. Were you able to get that information on Hume’s activities on the murder dates?”

“The hospital refused to give it out,” Mark said.

To his surprise, the inspector didn’t seem upset by the news. “No great matter.” He shrugged. “It may not be all that important now.”

“But this is.” Quickly Mark told him of his meeting with the Elephant Man and the story of Hume’s nocturnal departure by way of the rear courtyard.

Again he was startled by Abberline’s reaction, or the lack of it. He’d listened carefully, but he was still leaning back.

Now Mark leaned forward. “Do you see how it all adds up? You told me yourself that Hume frequents slaughterhouses — that he refused to talk to you about the murders. I know he wears a peaked cap which could easily be mistaken for a deerstalker. And you must have other reasons to suspect him.”

“True enough. I’ve done some checking on my own. I have a clear picture of a left-handed man, with definite sadistic tendencies, who has been known to perform operations without anesthetics on occasion. A clear picture, but not a pretty one.”

“Then isn’t it time to act? You say yourself that you can’t afford to ignore any possibilities. Maybe it no longer matters if you arouse Hume’s suspicions. Go to the hospital in your official capacity and demand to see the record of his duty hours. Hume needn’t be informed of your inquiries if you insist on silence.”

The inspector nodded. “I’ve already considered doing so, and I may get around to it later. But as I told you, it’s not important now.”

“How can you say that?” Mark’s voice rose. “If Hume is guilty—”

Abberline sighed. “Hume is dead.”

“What?”

“The report came in an hour ago. He was run down by a hansom last night in Piccadilly Circus. Skull-fracture and a crushed chest. Died in the street before he could be moved.”

“Good God.” Mark sat stunned as the detective straightened in his seat.

“So you see, there’s no urgency involved.”

“But discovering his movements could still tell us if he was the Ripper.”

“I’d like to think so,” said Abberline. “And so would my superiors. It would solve the case very neatly, tie up all the loose ends. Unfortunately, even if we learned Hume wasn’t on duty at the time of the murders, it would only prove opportunity, not guilt. And when it comes to circumstantial evidence of that sort, I may now have a better way of linking him to the crimes.”

Mark frowned. “You said earlier that you found something?”

“Something found me.” Abberline opened his desk-drawer and pulled out an envelope. “Not all the letters I’ve received are necessarily hoaxes. This one was waiting when I arrived here today.” He extracted a note sheet from the envelope and unfolded it. “A message from a Dr. J. F. Williams. Do you know him?”

“No, but I’ve heard the name. If I’m not mistaken, he’s the head of St. Saviour’s Infirmary.”

“That’s the man.” Abberline scanned the sheet as he spoke. “And the infirmary is located over in Walworth, across the river from Whitechapel. Dr. Williams offers some interesting information, if his facts are correct.”

“What facts?”

Abberline spoke slowly. “He tells me that at least three of the Ripper’s victims — Annie Chapman, Polly Nicholls and Mary Jane Kelly — were treated there at the infirmary before they died. And another doctor helped attend them.”