The Night of the Ripper

~ FORTY ~

Inspector Abberline’s stomach was at it again. All the way to Westmoreland Road it rumbled and grumbled while the carriage creaked along the grimy streets.

To make matters worse, Mark kept muttering away. He was a good sort, and it was useful to have a source of medical opinion at his elbow, but right at the moment Abberline would have welcomed a bit of silence — both from his stomach and his companion — so that he could sort out his thoughts.

As it was, he scarcely listened, and confined his replies to grunts and nods. After a long time Mark seemed to take the hint and ceased his chatter.

Not that Abberline faulted him for being stirred up over their errand. At the moment he was busy blaming himself, though for a different reason.

Why hadn’t he given more attention to Alexander Pedachenko before? The name had come up, along with that of Severin Klosowski, another barber-surgeon. There was also a man called Konovalov, and a Michael Ostrog. All of them Russians or Poles, all somehow connected with medical practice, all named as possible suspects by informants. He’d passed the word along to the proper quarters for further consideration, but little information had come back to him. Several of them appeared to be anarchists but only one — Michael Ostrog — was fully interrogated, and he turned out to be a lunatic.

If only he’d followed through himself! But too much else claimed his attention; this cover-up which seemed to involve Eddy, the business with Robert James Lees and his psychic presentiments, the odd affair of Dr. Gull and his false statement. There just hadn’t been time to go with the other leads.

And now, out of the blue, Pedachenko. On the face of it he sounded a likely candidate for the Ripper’s role. But if so, where did that leave Eddy’s possible involvement, and Lees’ visions, and Gull’s evasions? Was there some link between all this and the Russian barber-surgeon? Had he been wrong, or could there really be someone like Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street?

Try as he would, Abberline couldn’t see it. But somehow the connection must exist, if Pedachenko was the man he sought.

If.

Abberline’s stomach protested as the cab jerked to a halt on Westmoreland Road.

The hairdresser’s shop was a hole in the wall of a building block between a taxidermist’s quarters and a confectionary. Its seedy, rundown interior reeked of stale cologne.

So did its proprietor. Delhaye was a willowy wisp of a man whose bushy hair seemed badly in need of his own barbering services: there were no customers on the premises to claim them at the moment. He spoke with a slight accent — French, or so Abberline judged — and his gesturing fingers plucked air as he spoke.

The gestures grew more agitated when he learned of their mission.

“But of course I know Pedachenko! A most capable fellow — we often worked together.”

Abberline frowned. “He’s not here now?”

“Alas, no. I have not seen Alexander since I discharged him last spring.”

“Why did you sack him?”

The hairdresser shrugged. “I had no choice.” He gestured at the empty barber-chairs. “Times are hard.”

“That was your only reason for letting him go?”

Delhaye glanced at the inspector quickly. “Why do you ask? Is he in some sort of trouble with the police?”

“No trouble. It’s just that he might be able to furnish us with some information about a case we’re working on.”

“Information — ah yes, now I understand. He is a learned man, that one.”

“Would you know where we might locate him?”

“But of course. He lives not far from here. If you wish, I can give you the number—”

“Please do.”

Armed with the address, Abberline left the shop and moved down the street with his companion. His stomach still bothered him but Mark did not. For the moment he found himself rather grateful for the excursion. Desk duty and paperwork were the worst part of his job; it was action that exhilarated him, action and anticipation. And now, after all these months of plodding and puzzlement, he could envision an end to failure and frustration.

Approaching the shabby row of flats on Fall Street, he rang the bell at the entrance and felt expectation rise.

It fell with a thud when the elderly landlord answered his questions.

“Pedachenko?” The old man’s head cold turned the name into a sniffle. “That’s right, guv’nor. Had a room here all last year and right on through spring. Moved out some time in June.”

“Did he leave a forwarding address?”

“Not as I recall. You know how it is — they comes and goes.”

Abberline had a burning sensation beneath his belt buckle. Now that anticipation had fled, there was nothing left to shield the spasms. All he could do was plod on. Routine questions, routine replies.

“Can’t say I remember much about him,” the landlord told him. “It was just good-morning or good-evening, should I chance to pass him in the hall. Kept to himself, he did.”

The old man sneezed. “Your pardon, guv’nor.” A gray sleeve rubbed across his reddened nose. “Seems he was in and out quite a bit — I gather he worked for a barber over on Westmoreland, most likely another foreigner. All kinds of them in the neighborhood now, though nary a one about when I was a lad—”

Abberline scarcely listened as the landlord snuffled on, but he forced himself to nod and plod further with his questions.

“Visitors?” The elderly man shook his head. “Not to my recollection. And no women. I don’t hold with any mucking-about on the premises. Come to think of it, I only saw him once in female company. Just before he left, when his sister come for him. I warrant he meant to give up his room here and move in with her.”

Abberline felt a flicker of interest. He asked for a description of the sister and jotted it down in his notebook. But attention wandered again when his query yielded no name or address for the woman. Plod. plod. plod.

By the time they left he was anxious to find a cab stand somewhere back along Westmoreland Road. It was then, as they walked, that Abberline resurrected a glimmer of hope.

He nodded at Mark. “You must think I’ve put you to a lot of trouble for nothing.”

“That’s all right.” Mark’s face was wan in the late afternoon sunlight. “We tried our best.”

“Not to worry.” The inspector managed a smile. “It may not be a dead end after all.”

“What do you mean?”

“We didn’t nab him yet, but at least we have reason to believe that Pedachenko could be our man. We’ve got a description that fits, and his contact with victims heightens the possibility.”

As Abberline spoke he felt his spirits rising. “And there’s another good lead to follow. We know Pedachenko has a sister, and the landlord gave us enough to recognize the woman when we find her.”

Mark glanced up. “How do you propose to do that?”

“By putting out the word. Until today we’ve been stymied on just how to identify one man out of the many. Now we have a name to go by, and a link with another person. The search will be a lot easier. Once we locate Pedachenko or his sister, alone or together, I promise you we’ll get our answer.”