The Night of the Ripper

~ SIX ~

“You didn’t know?” Trebor said.

Mark shook his head. “How did it happen?”

“Come along and I’ll tell you about it.” Trebor led the way and the two men left the room together, moving past medical wards and into the quiet confines of the hospital library.

“Here, sit down and make yourself comfortable.” As Mark sank into a leatherbacked chair in the corner, Trebor turned to the wall buffet’s display of carafes and glassware. “Care for a spot of port?”

“No thank you. I’m all right.”

“As you wish.” The older man filled a glass and carried it over to a chair opposite Mark, seating himself with a sigh of satisfaction, long legs sprawled before him. “That’s better. At least we can have privacy here.” He peered up at the portraits of long-deceased medical practitioners which lined the walls above the rows of bookshelves. “That’s one of the chief virtues of the dead — they may listen, but they never interrupt.”

Mark stared at him impatiently. “The inquest,” he said. “Why were you attending?”

“There were newspaper reports of the crime. The moment I read them I connected the circumstances with that little episode at the public house on Bank Holiday night, but I couldn’t be entirely sure. So when I saw the notice regarding today’s proceedings I made it a point to be present.”

Mark leaned forward. “What took place?”

“The usual formalities.” Trebor sipped his wine. “George Collier presided. Sound man, no nonsense. According to him the Tabram woman was only thirty-five. I’d have guessed her to be a good bit older, but of course one must make allowances for the sort of life she led. Drink and disease—”

The younger man nodded quickly. “The murder,” he said. “How did it happen?”

“Ah yes.” Trebor nodded. “The woman had nine wounds in the region of the throat, eleven in her breasts and thirteen in the abdomen and pelvic girdle, almost any one of which could have proved fatal. Quite obviously her assailant continued his attack long after realizing she was dead. And the nature of the incisions indicated that two weapons were employed — one a dagger and the other a much longer and broader instrument.”

“What sort of instrument?”

“Perhaps a soldier’s bayonet.” Trebor twirled his glass. “Tabram’s companion — Pearly Poll she calls herself, though her real name is Mary Ann Connelly — took the stand. She said that when the two left with the soldiers they paired off. Pearly Poll and her corporal did their business in a close called Angel Alley. Martha Tabram and the other soldier headed for the George Yard buildings down the street. That was the last she saw of them.”

Mark tugged at his mustache. “Did they identify the soldier?”

“I was about to tell you. Inspector Reid of Scotland Yard escorted Pearly Poll to the Tower of London. Everyone in the garrison who’d had leave on Bank Holiday night was lined up on parade for her to inspect, but she couldn’t recognize the man, or even her own client.”

Mark frowned. “She must have been lying.”

“So they believed.” Trebor finished his wine and set the glass down on the table beside him. “But to give her the benefit of the doubt, they went through a similar inspection at Wellington Barracks, this time with the Coldstream Guards. And this time she immediately indicated two men — one a corporal and the other a private — and accused them.”

“Thank goodness.” Mark nodded and leaned back in his chair.

“Save your gratitude,” Trebor murmured. “Further inquiries disclosed that the corporal had been home with his wife all evening, and the other guardsman returned to barracks at ten o’clock.”

Mark’s hand went to his mustache again. “But if it wasn’t a soldier, then who—?”

“The verdict of the coroner’s jury was murder by person or persons unknown.”

For a moment Mark glanced away, meeting the silent stare of the portraits on the wall. Then he faced Trebor again and when he found his voice the words were scarcely audible.

“My fault,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I should have spoken to the woman. I fully intended to. That’s why I left so abruptly. After what you told me about their circumstances I meant to give both of them some money, enough for a decent night’s lodging. But when I got outside and saw them going off with those drunken brutes I lost my nerve. And my dinner.”

“You were ill?” Trebor said.

“Yes. That’s why I didn’t come back to the pub.”

“Where did you go?”

“To my rooms. I would have apologized to you next morning but you weren’t here.”

“Business took me out of the city,” said Trebor. “I just returned last night. When I read about the inquest it occurred to me that perhaps I could give testimony.”

Mark swallowed quickly. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“No need. After hearing the proceedings I thought the better of it. All I could have done was corroborate the victim’s presence at the pub and this had already been established by others. No point bringing myself into the picture. Or you.”

Mark nodded. “Just as well. Let sleeping dogs lie.” Then he shook his head quickly. “I shouldn’t say that. She wasn’t a dog — she was a human being.”

“Whoever killed her didn’t think so.” Trebor spoke slowly. “Over thirty stab wounds. Not just murder, but the savage mutilation of a corpse after her death agonies in the dark. The work of a maniac.”

“Yes, it must have been.” Mark rose, his face pallid in the wan light from the window as he turned and started for the door. “We must talk further. But it’s time for me to make my rounds. If I can be excused—”

“Of course.”

Mark moved away and the door closed behind him, leaving Trebor alone in the gathering twilight. Only the eyes in the portraits saw his troubled frown.