The Return of Moriarty (10 page)

Paget nodded. “Good gel. I think the guv'nor might even see you. Maybe tonight. I'll see if I can get him. In the meantime, I want you to stay here with Mr. Davis. I'll come back as soon as I can and make the arrangements.”

It was gone quarter to six by the time Paget left The Lamb. Paget hoped to reach Moriarty's house off the Strand before the Professor's lady arrived for the evening's entertainment. If he was too late, then the matter would have to be left until the morning.

There were many people on the pavements, and the traffic of hansoms and omnibuses was heavy. Paget did not get into the Strand until after half six. It was still light but Paget cursed as he looked at the house. The curtains of what the Professor called the drawing room were drawn, as were those of the best bedroom. The lady had already arrived. With a sigh of frustration, Paget began to retrace his journey, arriving back at The Lamb a little after seven. He was in many ways glad that the journey had been in vain when he saw Eddowes. Davis had found it difficult to restrain her, having foolishly ordered a bottle of gin to be brought up to the room. She was not impossibly drunk, but already three parts of the way there.

“I'll have the guv'nor here, or take you to him, at two o'clock tomorrow, Kate,” Paget told her. “He's not available tonight.”

Eddowes grinned and nodded. That was one appointment she would not forget.

“In the meantime, to show faith, here's a thicker for the evening.”

He handed over the pound and noticed that her eyes gleamed with pleasure, as though he had given her a fortune. He was, in fact, acting on the assumption that God takes care of fools and drunks: there was more than enough for her to get dead drunk, a bed for the night and plenty of change left over.
^*

Paget told her that he and Davis had business to attend to and that she was not to be late for their appointment tomorrow. She promised him that she would be on time and then left, only getting as far as the taproom, where she consumed a great deal of gin.

Just before eight o'clock, she staggered out into the street, in a highly elated mood, singing and making noises. A few minutes later two policemen picked her up as she stood imitating a fire engine in the middle of Bishopsgate. They took her straight to Bishopsgate police station and left her to sober up.

From just after eight o'clock until the city police allowed her to leave the Bishopsgate police station at one in the morning—still not really sober, but long past the hour when she could lay her hands on more drink—Catherine Eddowes dozed, talked, her speech slurred, and then finally broke into song.

While she was going through these last fuddled hours of her life, Moriarty, oblivious to the fact that his people had secured substantial facts about the Whitechapel-Spitalfields killer, enjoyed himself with Miss Mildred Fenning.

In the September of 1888 James Moriarty was thirty-six years of age and had been the governor of his huge and growing criminal family for twelve years.
^*

While the Professor was regarded, by the ladies who served him, as entertaining, even satisfying, in bed, it was an open secret among the sisterhood of ladybirds who worked under Sally Hodges, that Moriarty, like most men, had his own sexual predelictions. Be that as it may, by half-past midnight, the pair lay drowsy, exhausted by the excessive coupling, which had pleasured both of them, the Professor having quickly assumed a dominant role on the wide bed.

About twelve thirty Catherine Eddowes, who had been awake and singing for at least fifteen minutes, shouted to the jailer at Bishopsgate police station, “When can I go? I want to go out!”

“As soon as you're able to take care of yourself,” the jailer replied loudly.

Just before one in the morning she was taken upstairs and told to get out.

“What time is it?” she asked, still very confused and befuddled.

The sergeant on duty laughed. “Too late for you to get any more drink. Now, off with you.”

Eddowes stood outside in the relatively quiet night street and looked about her, as though not quite certain where she was. She then appeared to make up her mind and stumbled off in the direction of Houndsditch. She was not singing anymore, but the music twirled in her head; a jumbled tapestry of sounds:
I'm poor little Buttercup, sweet little Buttercup, dear little Buttercup I … From Greenland's icy mountains … From India's coral strand,… Where Afric's sunny fountains … Roll down their golden sand.… The Panjamdrum is dead … He died last night in bed … He cut his throat on a bar of soap … Andthe peasranoutofhisbootsandhedied.… Oh, Miss Tabitha Ticklecock, Oh
–

At the corner of Aldgate High Street there was a man, though she could not seem to focus her eyes properly and was using one hand to assist her in walking, placing it flat against the wall. Still, drunk as she was, Catherine Eddowes never turned down a chance.

“Hallo, darling, you're out late. How d'you fancy Miss Laycock, eh?” She called out.

“Why not.” The prospective customer called back.

Eddowes, still elated, drew closer to him.

“Cost you a gen. But you'll not regret it. I'll give you a good stand-up.”

“Where?”

She was now close to him.

“Come on, I'll show you.” Eddowes knew where she was now. “Real quiet. Nobody'll disturb us. Come on, darling, come with Kate.”

So she led him up Duke's Place, through the dark and narrow Church Passage and into Mitre Square. As they entered the square she remembered, through the fog in her head that she had to be at The Lamb by two o'clock in the afternoon. She also remembered why … and who … the man … was … behind … her.…

There was nothing else for Catherine Eddowes to remember. When they discovered her, only fifteen minutes later, her throat and face were mutilated, her right eye smashed in, the eyelids nicked, a portion of the right ear lobe cut off. The belly was ripped open and the intestines removed and draped over the right shoulder. Her left kidney was missing and she was the second victim of that night, the first being a Swedish girl, Elizabeth Stride, known as Long Liz, whose body was discovered about half a mile from Mitre Square, next to the International Workmen's Educational Club in Berners Street.

Paget, full of enthusiasm, and also lurid details of the double killing—he had, with many others, visited both the murder sites early on Sunday morning—returned to Moriarty's house on the dot of midday. It was hardly a convenient time, as the Professor and Miss Fenning had decided to breakfast late and together. When Paget went down the area steps and in through the trademen's door, he could hear the sound of laughter from upstairs and had to remain in the kitchen until a little before one o'clock when, following prolonged farewells, Mildred Fenning was escorted to a hansom, clutching various presents.

After allowing enough time to elapse, Paget went up the stairs and, crossing the hall, tapped on Moriarty's study door. He found his employer in good humor, though looking a little tired, a state that was seemingly rectified once Paget told him, in serious tones, of Eddowes and her story.

“I knew we would find him,” the Professor smiled grimly. “Get the woman and bring her here as quickly as you can. I want Spear, your man Davis, and the colonel as well. See to it.”

Paget set the operation in motion, going last to The Lamb, where he waited with Davis until almost half-past-three. Rumor was rife everywhere, but the two murder victims had not yet been named, and neither Paget nor Davis even suspected that Eddowes could possibly be one of them.

“Like all the others,” Paget remarked bitterly. “A cunning lush.”

“I could have sworn she knew.”

Davis was well aware of what they might expect from Moriarty. In the end Paget ordered Davis to stay at The Lamb until he had at least talked to the Professor about the turn of events.

Moriarty was cool, Spear and Colonel Moran having waited with him, in some expectation of their problems coming to a fruitful conclusion. By seven in the evening, Paget and Spear both had their men out in some force, making inquiries about the whereabouts of Kate Eddowes, but to no avail. Their reports were indeed depressing, for the whole Whitechapel-Spitalfields area was alive with police, uniformed and plainclothed, while local inhabitants thronged the streets—a great deal of ill feeling had been brewed by this last atrocity—and by late on Sunday evening Moriarty was conscious that things were getting out of control. Both Paget and Spear reported that they did not know how long they could really hold their own men and women, for even the closest had been emotionally roused.

Moriarty, by this time, had lapsed into anger, for he knew there was but one way of gaining his former hold on the territory—to dispose of the murderer and rid the streets of the constant patrols and lurking police officers. Thinking they were so near to success, with the news of Eddowes' seemingly firm knowledge, her swift and sudden disappearance had brought about a classic elation followed by depression. The Professor had but to sit down and think clearly to see how far and how sadly his business interests were being hindered. In many ways he now regretted having used this poverty-stricken breeding ground as a focus for much of his work. On the other hand there was no place better in London for recruitment—hunger, lack of means, degradation and filth bred a desire among the young, particularly the lads, to better themselves, and a large number of the men, operated through Paget and Spear, had been culled from the awful streets of that territory to be willingly trained in the many arts of the cracksmen, dippers, patterers, operators of Moriarty's long firms, protectors, whores' cash carriers, procurers of anything from young lithe flesh to extra amounts of laudanum, the price of which was always at a premium.

However, the world that thrived so well below the surface of high-flown morals and respectability, the thin veneer of the age, had taught even Moriarty a certain fatalist philosophy, and by Monday he had accepted the fact that Catherine Eddowes had maced both Davis and Paget.

On Tuesday the body at the mortuary in Golden Lane was identified by Eliza Gold (Eddowes' sister) and John Kelly as being that of Catherine Eddowes, alias Kate Conway, Kate Kelly, Kate Gold and Kate Thrawl.

Within an hour of the news getting out, Moriarty had Paget, Spear, Davis and Colonel Moran at his Strand house, going through what little evidence Eddowes had passed on to Paget.

After much conversation, a great deal of which became mere theorizing, Moriarty said:

“It would seem that we may well be onto something more substantial after all. Our obvious course of inquiries should start at Toynbee Hall, and I think I will undertake that duty myself.”

Toynbee Hall, under the aegis of the Reverend Samuel Barnett, was the focal point for missionary zeal and political ideals that set to bridge the gulf between the classes. To the hall, set in the heart of Whitechapel, came undergraduates from Oxford and men of good will from other aspects of life. So, toward the end of the first week of October in 1888, a prosperous-looking cleric arrived asking to see the Reverend Barnett. This gentleman, whose clothes and demeanor appeared to befit a man of some private means who had received the call and taken the cloth, announced himself as Canon Brewster of Bath, confiding in Samuel Barnett that he had heard much of the work which was being done by those who had been “called to the East” and, finding himself in London, had availed himself of the opportunity to see for himself.

As the good Canon's first gesture was to donate one hundred guineas to Barnett's fund, he was made most welcome, and it was only toward the end of the afternoon that Canon Brewster, whose fat and jovial manner set everyone at their ease, broached the subject of a young man, with whom he had lost touch, who had undoubtedly been of great help to Barnett.

“We have a mutual acquaintance then?” proffered Barnett.

“Indeed.” The Canon smiled. “But, for the life of me I cannot remember his exact name. He came to me for advice while visiting relations in Bath and the picture he drew of your work here has remained in my mind ever since. I believe he was called Drew, or perhaps Drewt. Something of the like.”

Barnett could not recall the name. He sent for the record of residents, but failed to find any similar name on it. However, one resident spoke of a Montague Druitt.

“Montague John Druitt,” he said. “Why, I saw him only the other day. He was from New College and is a barrister, though at present he teaches in a school at Blackheath.”

“And he has been here recently?” gasped the Canon. “How sad that I have missed him.”

“Not here at Toynbee Hall,” replied the resident. “I met him in Bishopsgate last week.”

The Canon's head performed a strange oscillating motion while he muttered, “Oh, dear me, oh dear me, I would so have liked to see him again.”

Not many minutes lapsed before the Canon announced suddenly that he would have to take his leave, and he was escorted out by Samuel Barnett himself, full of thanks for the generous gift.

An hour later, Paget was helping Moriarty out of the clerical clothes and the padding with which he had disguised himself.

“His name is Druitt,” Moriarty announced with a grim, thin smile. “He is a barrister at present teaching at a school in Blackheath. Get your people on to it. I need to know all there is to know. I want it all.”

It took Paget's people the better part of a week to track down the school at which Druitt was employed at Blackheath, the area being well noted for its cramming shops. Paget reported the facts to his employer.

“He's at a school run by Mr. Valentine at Nine Eliot Place, but since quitting practice as a barrister he has still retained his chambers in the Inner Temple: Nine King's Bench Walk.”

Moriarty felt the excitement of the chase coming to a close and gave orders that Druitt should be watched and followed constantly. This was done, and in the weeks that followed Druitt made three journeys to London, always shadowed by one of Paget's men. On each occasion the barrister-turned-teacher went straight to his chambers in the Inner Temple, where he appeared to stay, alone.