The Night of the Ripper

~ NINE ~

Early morning sunshine faded behind him as Detective Inspector Frederick Abberline passed through the doorway of Number Four, Whitehall Place and moved into the darker domain of Scotland Yard. Portly, plump and proper, he plodded down the hall, acknowledging the greetings of passersby in the busy corridors.

But his smile of salutation concealed concern. Did anyone suspect? His mission here today called for all the poise he could muster, and nothing upset dignity more than the rumble of an upset stomach.

Entering the reception room at the end of the hall, Abberline breathed a silent prayer that his queasiness would quiet. James Monro, assistant commissioner and head of the C.I.D., regarded any infirmity in an underling as insubordination; every member of the force was expected to be physically and mentally fit at all times. Still, he had respect for his people, which was more than could be said for a bully like Warren.

Bracing himself for the ordeal ahead, Abberline stated his errand to the duty officer at the outer desk.

The uniformed man shook his head. “Sorry, Inspector. He’s not in.”

“But he’s expecting me. We have an appointment.” Abberline paused as the door behind the desk opened abruptly and a frowning face peered out.

Sir Charles Warren! His stomach churned as he recognized the familiar features. Speak of the devil—

“Here now, what’s all this?” Eyeing the intruder, Warren’s frown relaxed but did not fade fully. “Oh, it’s you, Abberline. And what brings you here, might I ask?”

“Official business, sir. I’m to meet with Mr. Monro.”

“Indeed.” Warren’s tone was curt. “Then I’d best have a word with you.” Turning, he glanced back impatiently over his shoulder. “Come along, man. I’ve no time for dilly-dallying.”

A twinge of heartburn erupted beneath Abberline’s vest as he followed Sir Charles into the private office. Warren shut the door firmly and seated himself behind an ornate desk littered with papers and leather-bound file folders. Several chairs were grouped in a semicircle before it, but he did not invite his visitor to sit down.

Abberline stood stiffly, conscious of the sour taste at the base of his mouth. Bloaters, that’s what did it — might have known better than to risk bloaters for breakfast—

“Well now.” Warren affixed his monocle and squinted up at him. “I don’t have all day. Suppose you get on with your business.”

“Sorry, Sir Charles.” The Inspector shifted his weight, avoiding the monocular stare. “It’s a matter that concerns Mr. Monro. Hadn’t we better wait until he arrives?”

“I doubt he’d be interested.” Warren glanced toward the door, his voice lowering. “There’s been no announcement yet but you’ll know soon enough. Monro resigned his post last night.”

“Resigned?” Abberline bit his lip.

“We had a difference of opinion regarding his conduct of the Tabram case. I suppose you’re aware of the matter?”

Abberline nodded. “That’s why I’m here. There’s new evidence bearing on the affair. If you’ll hear me out—”

“I’ve no time for that now.” Warren shook his head quickly. “The case will come under the jurisdiction of the new assistant commissioner.”

“Who might that be, sir?”

“Robert Anderson. He’s already notified his acceptance of the appointment.”

“Then perhaps I can see him.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible. He’s not in the best of health at the moment and is seeing no one. I dare say your findings can wait until he feels fit again.”

And what about my health? Irritation rose on a gaseous wave from the pit of Abberline’s stomach. He did his best to force it down as he spoke.

“With all due respect, sir, the present situation in Whitechapel is too touchy for delay. Ever since the Tabram murder rumors have been going around that other killings — Emma Smith’s, for one — were the work of the same man. So far it’s only hearsay, but if what they say is true—”

“Balderdash!” Warren’s fist thumped the desktop. “Pure rubbish!” He jerked the monocle from his eye and fixed Abberline with a naked glare. “No need to get the wind up just because a few buors come to a bad end. Women of that sort always do — sooner or later they’re random victims of the law of averages. Any talk of a mass murderer on the loose is ruddy nonsense!”

Warren jerked his head around as the office door opened and the uniformed duty officer hurried forward into the room.

“Excuse me, Sir Charles — the news just came in and I thought you’d want to know—”

“What are you babbling about?”

“The report from Bethnal Green Station, sir. It’s happened again. They found a woman with her throat cut, over at Buck’s Row.”