City of Darkness (City of Mystery) (11 page)

“Frustrating for you, I can imagine.”
John said.

“Maddening,” Trevor confirmed. “And
the second case was handled nearly as badly.  But this time I think the killer
wished to leave us a bit more of a clue.”

“A clue? What do you mean?” said
Leanna.

“It’s odd, but it seems we’re being
teased a bit.  The second unfortunate woman- I’m almost finished with the soup,
yes, thank you, Emma…” Leanna looked up, surprised Trevor knew Emma by name.  “The
second woman had been worked on a bit more thoroughly than the first.”

“Do tell, tell us everything,” Tess
said. “Good heavens, this is exciting and the papers are so incomplete in their
descriptions.  When will there ever be another story like this one in London?”

Trevor nodded vigorously.   “I
agree.  It’s the case of the century, in my humble opinion.  In the second
woman, Annie Chapman , both the ovaries and her kidneys were missing…”

“Dear lord,” gasped Gerry. “We’re
dealing with a madman.”

“I originally thought so as well, but
no, not totally,” Trevor said.  “That’s the interesting part.  The organs were
removed with great skill, with very little trauma to the outer tissues, as if
the person doing the job was a professional of some sort.  There was a washed
leather apron found nearby, quite devoid of evidence, unfortunately, but it was
an apron of the type used by people who work in slaughterhouses.  And there are
two in the area.”

“Ah, I see, so you think the killer
may work in one of them,” said Gerry.  “A butcher would have some anatomical
knowledge.”

“That was our first thought, yes,”
Trevor said, leaning back to allow Emma to take his soup dish and replace it
was a steaming plate of lamb.

“But that seems almost too obvious,
doesn’t it?” Leanna said, so absorbed in the story that her shyness had
disappeared.  “To leave a slaughterhouse apron is almost like a joke.”

Trevor turned to her, his eyes
piercing.  “Yes, yes, Miss Bainbridge, that’s precisely as I see it.  I believe
he meant us to think of the slaughterhouse, just as you say, as a type of nasty
joke, but I don’t believe the killer would leave an apron in sight if he
actually worked there.  My superiors cling to the idea and in fact the papers
originally called the killer Leather Apron, before he himself provided us the
far more memorable moniker Jack the Ripper.  But just as you say, Miss
Bainbridge, I think the apron is a planted clue.  Meant to throw us off the true
scent.”  Trevor sighed.   “And the killer had more than just some anatomical
knowledge.  To remove four bodily organs so quickly…”

“….would take a surgeon,” John
finished.  A brief silence fell on the party as they all sat absorbed in their
private thoughts.

“I think so too, as does the police physician
who did the autopsy on the body,” Trevor said.  “The highlights of his report were
printed in the paper.”

“But a doctor wouldn’t be in those
streets and wouldn’t commit such savageries,” protested Fleanders.  “It’s
almost as if you’re saying you think the Ripper is…a gentleman.”

Trevor smiled. “Well he is hardly a
gentleman, is he?  But I think it’s possible he could be of the upper classes,
could be an educated man.”

“Balderdash,” roared Fleanders.

“Yes, that’s pretty much what my
superiors say,” Trevor conceded. “Geraldine, this rack of lamb is a marvel.” 
Everyone else looked down at their untouched plates.

“Yes,” Leanna said hollowly, picking
up her fork.  “Tell Gage it looks wonderful.”

“But if you’re saying that the Ripper
is an educated man,” Tess protested, “I must say that for once I’m in agreement
with Fleanders.”

“I am merely repeating what the
autopsy revealed,” Trevor said with equanimity.  “A body couldn’t be drained of
blood that quickly unless -”

“Drained of blood?” everyone howled
in unison.  Even Tiny Alex, perched precariously on a stack of books, looked
appalled.

“Yes, that’s the oddest thing of
all,” Trevor said. “Both bodies had been nearly completely drained of blood. 
There were few bloodstains around them, but very little when you consider the
severity of the wounds.”

“They were killed somewhere else and
moved,” Leanna ventured.

“You think like me, Miss Bainbridge,”
Trevor said, clearly paying her what he considered to be the ultimate
compliment.  “But there were no trails of blood, no stains anywhere else.”

“If they were strangled before the butchering
began,” John said thoughtfully, “that would have reduced the bloodflow when the
throats were cut.”

“Exactly as Dr. Phillips saw it.” 

“But the spill would still have been
significant,” John went on.  “Unless Leanna is right and the body was moved, I
don’t see how it could have been drained on the spot without leaving behind
bloodstains.”

“A madman,” Gerry repeated.  “A
maniac.”

“He’ll never be found,” Madame Renata
intoned.  Everyone paused and stared at her.

“This Jack the Ripper,” she said. “He
will never be apprehended.”

“I’m set to prove you wrong, ma’am,”
Trevor said.

“Oh don’t be dismayed by her,
Inspector,” Tess said.  “An hour or two ago, she told me women wouldn’t receive
the vote until the 1920’s.  She’s not so gifted a clairvoyant as she thinks.”

“It is not the purpose of my gift to tell
people what they wish to hear,” Madame Renata said, delicately picking at her
rice pilaf.

“And I’m not an inspector.” Trevor
said, more to himself than anyone else.

“With so much attention is there any
chance Jack will simply move on?” John asked.  “He has to be aware he’s the
priority of Scotland Yard.”

“All the more reason we think he
won’t stop,” Trevor said.  “He enjoys the stage he’s built for himself.” 
Trevor was aware that the “we” he referred to was not the whole of the Yard but
rather just himself and Abrams, but he nodded with confidence as he spoke. 
“There was a definite sense of escalating violence between the murders, even
though they were only a week apart.  In the first case, Nichols, the throat was
merely cut.  In the second, not only did Chapman lose several body organs but the
initial slash was so deep that her head was nearly severed from her body…”

Leanna lunged for her water glass,
feeling light headed and queasy.  Even Tess had paled a bit in this last description
and Trevor looked around the table, suddenly embarrassed.  “I’m sorry. I have
such a mania for this case that when I begin talking I must confess I lose all
reason.  I’ve forgotten the ladies.”

“Hmmm,” said Fleanders, looking none
too hale himself.  “Let’s talk of Jenny Lind.”

“Indeed,” John said, lifting his wine
glass. “Let’s talk of Jenny Lind.  Did you hear Barnum is asking sixty pounds
for a ticket to hear her sing at the Palladium?  Did you command those fees on
your tour, Alex?  That’s a crime of robbery, wouldn’t you say?”

Leanna took another gulp of water and
looked around the room.  The group had grown subdued and Trevor was looking
down with reddened cheeks, cutting into his lamb with – there was no other way
to say it - the concentration of a surgeon.

Later, in the kitchen, Emma stood scraping
bones into a pail while Gage busied himself with the tea.  Despite the delay in
serving, Emma thought dinner had gone well.  She was so preoccupied with her
chores that it was a minute before she heard the rapping.  Wiping her hands,
she walked over and squinted out into the darkness but the small glass plate in
the center of the door revealed no one.  She cautiously unbolted the door to
find a young boy, cowering in the darkness and compulsively wiping his nose on
a raggedy sleeve.

He’s heard of Geraldine’s charity,”
Emma thought, prepared to bring him in and warm up a plate. All the stray dogs of
London know about Geraldine.  But before she could speak the child blurted out,
“Is Saint John ‘ere?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Saint John, ma’am, ‘is cook said
he’s come ‘ere.  Me Mum, she’s awful bad with a baby…” He broke off, wild-eyed,
and Emma took his arm and drew him inside.

“Yes, just take a breath.  Dr. Harrowman
is here and I’m sure he’ll come with you.  Gage?” But the butler had already
disappeared into the dining room, returning in a matter of seconds with John.

“It’s me Mum, Saint John,” the child
stammered, bursting into tears of relief.  “She said I was to find you.”

“So the baby’s come calling a little
early, um, Bobby?” John said, pulling on this black cape and tying a red scarf
loosely around his throat.  “We’ll find a cab and be across town in an
instant.”  He put an arm around the boy’s thin shoulders and handed him a
handkerchief, as they stepped out into the night.

“Thank you Emma, Gage,” John called
back.  “Lovely dinner.  Please give my apologies to Miss Bainbridge and
Geraldine.”  Emma stood in the doorway, watching the two until their backs were
obscured by the mist, occasionally catching scraps of John’s voice gently saying
“Hush, Bobby, your mum’s come through this sort of business before.”  Emma’s
chest tightened as she remembered how frantically she and Adam had gone from
house to house seeking the county doctor when her mother had begun her own
death rattle.  But then there had been no doctor, no carriage, no hope. 

I suppose it’s true, she thought to
herself, staring after the dark man in the dark cape disappearing into the dark
night.  He really is a saint.

CHAPTER NINE

Winter, 1872

The snows came, and it was time to go
back to school.  The boy was a good pupil and most days he had finished the
problem while his classmates were still struggling over their slates. Sometimes
he even caught his teacher in small mistakes, although he was careful to never
let this awareness show on his face.

One Sunday he protested a sore throat
so that he would not be required to walk to the village church with the rest of
his family.  He wanted to take his father’s gun and go hunting by himself.  He
sat at the foot of an oak for an hour, neither moving nor hiding and, just as
his father had promised, the birds soon ceased to register his presence at
all.  He watched as a covey of quail trotted no more than a meter before him,
one of them straggling behind.  Was it his imagination that the bird looked
willing, that it indeed seemed to somehow self-select?  He sent it a silent
message in his mind.  Slow down.  Even more.  Yes, that’s it.  Separate
yourself just a wee bit farther from the group.

A snapping twig.  His awareness
snapped too, back to the broader world of the clearing and when he looked up he
saw to his horror that a wolf was standing opposite him, wary and crouched at
the top of the bank.  It was a huge and hulking beast, dark, its mouth
stretched into a horrible parody of a human smile. How long it had been there or
what had kept it from springing he could not say.  He scrambled to his feet,
fumbled with the gun, shot wildly into the air.  The wolf disappeared into the
underbrush and the boy fell trembling to his knees.

How quickly the hunter can become the
hunted.  How quickly the hungry can become the meal. It was a lesson he would
never forget.

He spent three Sundays searching
before he came upon it. When he did, he opened fire and heard a long low bellow
of pain when the bullets found their mark.  Followed the bloody stagger until
the beast dropped, and then ran across the field to its body.  Its final expression
was a grimace of surprise.  So this is death, the wolf’s face seemed to say.  Not
at all as I’d imagined.

Should he bring it home, mount its
head or clean its pelt?  No, there was no way to explain this to his parents,
who had forbidden him to go into the deepest parts of the forest, had forbidden
him to take the gun, who were growing suspicious of this fever than only seemed
to befall him on holy days.  And besides, now that he was observing the wolf up
close, he was disappointed.  It was not the great rival he had pictured.  In
fact it was a shaggy, malnourished creature, with clotted hair and protruding
ribs, not even a proper trophy.  He looked down at it sadly.  Everything seems
smaller when it’s dead.

The bullet marks seemed a violation
of the wolf’s flesh and he knelt, impelled by something he did not fully
understand, and pulled his knife from the pocket of his jacket.  Its dull blade
made ragged progress across the animal’s belly, but the rising blood briefly
delineated the cut, creating a perfect and elegant line before it began to
spill.  He said something aloud.  A word he would not later remember.  He felt
the heat emanating from the wound, felt the promise of something more profound
beneath the mottled skin.  Felt himself being called, like a priest to the
altar or a sailor to the sea. 

Throughout the long winter, while the
other pupils read the lesson, their brows furrowed and their lips moving, the
boy would practice sitting completely still.  Monitoring his breathing to the
point of silence.  Controlling the many small impulses the flesh is prey to –
the desire to scratch, to yawn, to blink.  The clock on the wall ticked away
the seconds, measured the times between blinks, between exhalations, between
the movements and fidgets that would betray lesser men.   He understood.  He
saw it all.  His family was poor, nondescript.  Their limited funds would go to
educate his oldest brother, to provide his sister with a dowry.  The village
they lived in was dying.  Anyone with any wit left as soon as he could, headed
for the city where the newborn factories and mills offered a sort of brutal
hope.