The Return of Moriarty (9 page)

On the morning of Friday, the twenty-eighth, they both felt the pangs of depression, the gloom rising from the amount of gin they had consumed on the previous evening, coupled with the knowledge, apparent to them on all sides, that they were back among the appalling dirt and crowded conditions of the East End of London.

Catherine Eddowes did not feel too well, a not unusual state, as the Bright's disease that ravaged her body was far advanced. They were also flat broke and argued for a while about Catherine walking up to The Lamb in order to contact Alfred Davis. But she said that she felt too unwell. “After we've had a drink or two, John, I'll be fine.” Like all alcoholics who have reached a chronic stage, she was unable to face the true realities until the spirits had assuaged her craving.

But there was no money for drink. They quarreled violently for some time until, at last, Kelly agreed to pawn his boots. Eddowes took them from his feet, outside the pawnshop in Old Montague Street, carried them inside, popping them for an alderman.

With money in their collective pocket again, the urgency of getting to Lamb Street appeared to be reduced. Indeed, they started out in that general direction, but became lost in the small pond of gin they consumed. Time quickly loses its meaning to alcoholic vagrants. Warmed by the gin and bawdy chatter of the public houses around Old Montague and Wentworth Streets, they found themselves, suddenly, it seemed, outside, with only sixpence left and night well advanced.

Eddowes was in good humor by this time.

“I'll go up and see Davis in the morning,” she told John Kelly. “Here, you take fourpence and go back to the Flowery Dean. I'll take my chances in Mile End.” Meaning that she would try to get a bed for the night in the Mile End Workhouse, something a man could not do without having to work for the night's lodgings.

By the morning of Saturday, the twenty-ninth, they both looked very much worse for wear, and once again they were broke. This time there was nothing to pawn and John Kelly was in a sullen mood. They drifted aimlessly for a few hours, and around two o'clock Eddowes, now desperate for gin, told her companion that she was going off to see her daughter.

Kelly was thoroughly out of sorts with her by now and was certain that her story about knowing the identity of Leather Apron was a figment.

“That's all right by me,” he said. Then, as he turned away, “Watch out for spring-heeled Jack.”

Eddowes muttered some coarse language and told him that she could take care of herself.

He did not see her alive again.

Even though she felt really ill, Catherine Eddowes was determined to get to Lamb Street. She had hoped for some opportunity such as this, because she had no intention of sharing the five-hundred-guinea reward money with him.
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Eddowes dragged herself, feeling very weak, up Hounds-ditch, where she and John Kelly had spent most of the morning, and into Bishopsgate, finally turning right into Lamb Street. The public house known as The Lamb stood about halfway down on the right-hand side. The taproom was crowded when she entered, and she pushed her way toward the bar.

“Hallo, ducks, you look all in. Been on the bevie?”

The barman was a fat man in his late thirties, not at all put out by Eddowes' appearance, as they were used to all types of drunk and vagrant at The Lamb.

“I don't feel so well,” muttered Eddowes.

“Drop of spirits will soon put you right—or a drop of something.”

He gave a lewd wink to a group of men who crowded near her.

“No, no. I'm just looking for someone.”

But the barman knew the alcoholic look as well as anyone in his trade. Her quick negative relaying the fact that she carried no cash. Strangely, for few were given to offering much charity, except by words of sympathy which cost nothing, in this part of London, the barman felt sorry for the thin little woman, bleary eyed and disreputable.

“Go on, dear, have something on me. A daffy won't harm me.”

He pushed a glass containing the small measure across the counter where Eddowes, with the voracity of her body's needs, clutched at it, her hands shaking as she lifted the glass and sipped the spirit.

“So who're you lookin' for, my lady?” The barman grinned amicably.

Catherine Eddowes leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper.

“I'm told I can find Albert Davis here.”

The grin faded from the barman's lips and his eyes lifted quickly from her face, his gaze darting round the room.

“Who wants him?” he asked, his face a mask.

There had been many such as Catherine Eddowes asking for Davis in the past weeks and he knew why. The terror that had come to this part of the City spread its tentacles wide, and not only those living near to the murders felt the ice in their veins. Every person who came to The Lamb asking for Davis brought the barman into all too close a contact with the unseen, unheard beast who lurked, knife in hand, within the imagination of all London dwellers—as well as in truth behind corners, doors, and shadows in the East End.

“He won't know me. But I've something to tell him.”

The barman watched as she swigged back all but the dregs of her gin, then he nodded slowly.

“Wait,” he cautioned, then moved away to serve three clamoring customers before calling through to the pot boy to take over for a moment and slipping away up the flight of stairs sealed by a thin wooden door behind the bar.

He was back within a minute, beckoning to Eddowes, who pushed through the throng to the right-hand corner of the bar, lifted the flap and, passing behind the wooden counter, joined the barman at the foot of the stairs.

“Straight up there. It's the door to your right at the top,” he said quietly.

Albert Davis was in his mid-thirties and had pursued a life of crime since his seventh year, when he had learned the art of dipping. By seventeen, he had grown too tall and broad to practice the true art of picking pockets, and, being something of a professional, he disliked the cruder versions of that trade, which called for jostling the plant (victim) in an obvious manner. He had served only one short term of imprisonment while picking pockets, and from that lay he finally graduated to the work of being a good cracksman. For a few years now he had worked exclusively for Paget, discovering only in the last two years that the Professor was the man who worked Paget.

Davis was a first-class family man, loyal and obedient and, like a dozen or so more, had lived most of his life in the area that divided the city from the Whitechapel-Spitalfields territory. He had been present when Moriarty himself had briefed them regarding his plans for the identification of Leather Apron and from that day had sat, without grumbling, in the small room at The Lamb, seeing anyone who came forward with rumor or accusation regarding the murderer. After all, he thought, it was not a bad way of life: a comfortable bed, as much booze as he wanted, three meals a day, a measure of respect from the landlord and his barmen and, when the occasion presented itself, sexual satisfaction from any of the informers he fancied.

“Sit down, my love,” he said pleasantly to the anxious Catherine Eddowes when she entered, motioning toward a chair.

He noted that she looked nervous and ill. He also diagnosed that she was in need of drink, for he too had experienced much in his lifetime and could read the faces, twitches, shakes of people like Eddowes as skillfully as a doctor.

“Do you fancy a glass?” he asked.

She nodded vigorously, and, going to the door, Davis bawled down the stairs for Tom, (for that was the barman's name) to send up a brace of good gins. He returned to the room and remained silent until the drinks had been delivered.

“So, what's your name, dear?” he asked after watching the frail woman take a mouthful.

She told him, adding her address—which she gave as number six, Fashion Street.

“And what have you come to see me about?”

“I was told there was a reward out for Leather Apron. Not the official reward, but one from the family.”

Davis nodded again. “You are a family person, so you must know that.”

“I'm on the batter.”

“Then you have the protection of family people. How much were you told? About the reward?”

“They said as how it was worth five hundred guineas.”

“Did they now? Well, Kate, you reckon you've got five hundred guineas' worth of intelligence, then?”

“Yes.”

The way she said it made Davis look at her hard. They all said they had good words when they came to him, but, as like as not, most of what they said was about as much use as a brewer's fart. Davis had, in the few concentrated weeks during which he had been dealing with the matter, developed a nose for brewer's farts. The certain manner in which Kate Eddowes had affirmed she had real intelligence was different. It was as though Albert Davis knew that he was on to something.

“You tell me then,” he said as calmly as he could.

“You the one who gives the money?” she asked.

“Eventually.”

But his reply did not please her.

“What I mean is, are you the prime one, the top man?”

“Well …” He paused, knowing that he had a cunning woman here who could probably detect uncertainty even with a skinful of gin. Whores do have that kind of sixth sense, learned through their trade, though, he quickly reflected, little good it had done for Polly Nicholls or Dark Annie. “Well, you tell me and I take it to the top man. He looks into the matter.”

“I'll only tell what I have to the top man.” It was a positive statement.

“Come on, girl, you can at least give me a hint. What you got? A meetin' with old Leather Apron or something?” He was to remember those words the following day.

“I know his name.” Again the positive ring of truth.

“Kate, tell me, is this straight?”

“As a pound of candles.”

“You know his name? You know who he is? You know where he is?”

“I know his name, or near enough. I knew where he was at a year or two ago. I know enough for him to be found.”

“Then tell me, girl.”

“I'll only tell the man. The governor.”

Davis looked into his glass, which was, by this time, empty, only a dampness and the unmistakable odor to prove that it had ever contained the juice of the juniper. He considered Catherine Eddowes and the action he should take. At last he gave her a pleasant smile.

“I'll get the guv'nor then. I'll send for him.”

By this time it was well on toward half-past three. Paget did not arrive until almost five o'clock, by which time Davis had provided Eddowes with more gin, being careful to see that she did not become intoxicated. Paget was unsmiling, for he also had faced many who had provided nothing firm in the intelligence they rushed to give.

Kate Eddowes was not drunk, but the effects of the gin were pleasant; she felt safe, at ease, and the man she now faced was tall, well built and set up. She offered him a smile, but he merely looked at her blankly as he sat down heavily on Davis' bed.

“You're Catherine Eddowes?” he asked without much expression.

“No other.”

“And you have something important to tell me.”

“If you're the governor.”

It was at this point that Paget made his error.

“I'm as near to the governor as you'll get, gel.”

The gin spoke: “Then I'll not be talking to you.”

Like Davis, Paget felt something definite in the tone of voice that came from this washed out, frail, scarecrow of a whore. It was instinctive, a sense of apprehension that he was near to a truth, combined with an uncanny knowledge that the woman was almost not of this world. He was to think on that feeling the following morning.

“Look, darling,” he said, in the same steady manner, so as not to betray his inner thoughts. “The guv'nor cannot come here tonight.”

“Then he can come tomorrow.”

“He cannot come any night.”

“Then you'll take me to him.”

Paget allowed himself a few seconds thought.

“I might do that, but I'll have to give him the strength of the argument.”

“I've told Mr. Davis the strength.”

“Then tell me.”

“I know the man's name. I know where he used to be. With what I have to say you will be able to find him. And I expect the five hundred guineas for that.”

“If he's found from what you tell us, you'll get the five hundred.”

“Then you'll take me to the guv'nor.”

“It's not as easy as that. Not as simple. I shall need some hint. We've had a great many people telling us who old Leather Apron is, and believe me, he's mostly their neighbor who they've fallen out with or some old Ikey they've popped their mother's locket to, or some innocent they don't like the look of. Kate Eddowes, I give you my word as a family man that you'll get your money if this is real strength, but I have to give the guv'nor something more definite. Tell me a little, gel, and I'll go for him at once.”

Eddowes pondered on this. She was used to bargains and curbside haggling, and her whore's intuition told her that Paget was being straight with her.

She nodded in the direction of Davis. “Nothing personal, Mr. Davis, but I'll tell Mr. Paget and nobody else, and I'll not tell all.”

Paget motioned Davis toward the door.

“Speak then,” he said when the man had gone.

Eddowes' eyes narrowed.

“Tell the goveror that he's quite a young man, educated and that, at one of them universities. He's a professional man. A few years back he was at Toynbee Hall, that was where I first saw him. I seen him recently though, a month or so back.”

“And his name?”

“He's called Drew, or Drewt, something like that.”

“And how do you know this is the man, Kate?”

“Enough. I'll tell that to the guv'nor and nobody else. Nobody. I've already told you too much. You'd find him with what I've told you.”