Annie and the Ripper Read online

  "You know," Matt said, thoughtfully, "you speak better English than most whites in this show. I think you were born to speak our language, rather than Sioux."

  "I make English my language," Crowfoot said. "To speak and write like whites will be good later. I will always be Sioux, but I must be ready to move on. Too many Sioux stay on the reservation and get drunk, then die."

  The huge crowd erupted into thunderous applause as Annie skipped out of the arena and the canvas curtain fell behind her.

  "My turn," Crowfoot said, vaulting onto his pony's back and urging him up toward the entrance with a dozen other Sioux riders.

  CHAPTER 3

  Inspector Abberline sat in the Three Bells public house, nursing a pint of bitters. It was his favorite drink, but tonight he hardly tasted it as he stared into space, oblivious to the noise and bustle around him.

  It'd been just a week since the murder of Polly Nichols. For some reason, he'd been drawn to her funeral yesterday at the City of London Cemetery in Ilford. There'd been no real reason for him to attend—nothing more he could learn there. Perhaps he was hoping the murderer would show up anonymously among the mourners who were few enough in number and included her father, her husband and her eldest son, along with several of her friends from her more recent life in Whitechapel. Police and the undertaker had worked together to stave off the idly curious and the morbid from attending, so the cortege could pass unhindered.

  Abberline had stood near the open grave while a Church of England priest, wearing a white surplice over his black robe, read the burial service. Abberline glanced at the faces of the few mourners, wondering what they were thinking. The man who'd been pointed out to him by the clergyman as the father, stood bareheaded, thinning hair ruffling in the slight breeze. His sunken cheeks made him look as if he might fall into a heap any second beneath the black topcoat. What a blow this must be to a parent, Abberline thought, to have a child end up like this. The estranged husband, wearing a threadbare tweed jacket too small for his bulky torso stood, stony faced. He was probably attending because he felt obligated as the legal spouse, rather than out of any sense of love. Mere speculation on my part, Abberline reprimanded himself. The man might very well be broken hearted. Certainly that was the look conveyed by the face of the grown son who appeared to be in his late twenties. Lean and dark haired, a haunting sense of grief shone in the hollowed-eyed look the young man turned on the plain pine box.

  "…we hereby commit the body of our sister to the earth in sure and certain hope of the resurrection…" the priest intoned. He reached forward, grasping a handful of fresh loam from the mound of dirt and sprinkling it over the wooden lid of the casket that had been lowered into the open grave. Each of the family members did the same, in turn, followed by a half-dozen women friends who stood in a group to one side. Abberline recognized Beth Hampton, Liz Stride and Catherine Eddowes among them. Nothing could sound more final than the hollow thumping of those dirt clods on the lid of that coffin, Abberline thought, a lump forming in his throat.

  As he put on his hat and turned away, he took another good look at those attending. Four men were strangers to him. But their age and general appearance told him there was not even a remote chance any of them could be suspected of being the killer. Not that he had any idea what the killer looked like. Yet, his experience and investigative instincts told him the man was lithe and strong, not over middle age. It had to be someone who was quick on his feet, not overweight, would not stand out in an East End crowd, and probably had strong hands--perhaps those of a workingman, instead of a gentleman.

  He was glad he came, even if he learned nothing further that would help him solve this case. It was good to realize that these prostitutes were not just names and post-mortem reports. They had backgrounds. They'd been real people, with real interests, feelings, loves, and hopes. They'd started life in very different ways. This woman had married, and had at least one child. He wondered what'd gone wrong. He'd glean some knowledge of her past from the inquest and from the statements of her friends. He was always curious about the route each of the women he knew had taken to wind up on the street. And now this one had come to a brutal, violent end. His was not to judge, but to learn the facts and to ponder the realization that bad situations, flawed judgment and human weaknesses could do in even the best person.

  In spite of intensive effort, widespread questioning of potential witnesses, searches of the neighborhood, along with tips and suggestions from the public, the police were no closer to identifying the slasher than they'd been the night of the murder. Not only that, but the authorities were left with only guesswork as to his motivation.

  Abberline sipped his beer. Being an investigator could be a frustrating business. Many man hours and much legwork had been spent by the police, to no avail. They'd eliminated many people, but this had not led to a narrowing of possibilities. Conversely, the list of suspects seemed to be growing daily.

  He sat back in his chair with a sigh, debating whether to order a steak and kidney pie. Often he thought better on a full stomach. The Three Bells was justly famous for the flaky crusts on its kidney pies. Nothing soggy here. He signaled for the serving girl. "Kidney pie, Caroline," he said. "A fresh one if you please. Not heated."

  "You're a lucky man, inspector." She flashed him a smile as she wiped her hands on her apron.

  Pretty girl. Only one tooth missing that he could see.

  "Robert took four from the oven not three hours ago. And there's just one left."

  "And another pint to go with it." He held up his glass to show the remaining bitters.

  She brought the pie and refilled his glass. They knew each other well, and he would have loved to give a pat to that nice round rump as she turned away, but thought better of it. Maybe she could sit on his lap while he questioned her about the murder. That wouldn't do, either. He was too well known and respected around here to start anything like that. Clacking tongues about his alleged liaisons would do nothing to enhance his reputation. Besides, Caroline had been thoroughly questioned by the police and could offer no useful information. He must keep everything professional. But, damnation, there was nothing else to go on. That's why his mind was wandering. As he savored the pie and the beer, he gradually came to the conclusion that Polly Nichols' murder was most likely an anomaly committed by some itinerant, maybe a sailor passing through the port, crazed by too much drink, or by a long hatred of women, or by the green dragon--a one time act of violence by a demented man long gone.

  He watched the patrons filing in and out of the smoky room. Although he frequented other pubs in Whitechapel, the Three Bells was his favorite. He'd come to know the regulars by sight and many by name—night watchmen, laborers on the docks, carmen—workers whose jobs required them to be abroad at odd hours. He also knew the bartenders, the serving girls, the prostitutes.

  In spite of the week-old murder of the Nichols woman and the two killings preceding that, he could detect no apprehension, no panic among the women who habitually gathered at this pub between customers. Over the foamy rim of his glass, he observed four women at a nearby table. In reality they were probably much younger than they appeared at a glance. They were in a jolly mood and he caught a few words of some ribald joke. Three of the women laughed aloud. The fourth, known as "Dark Annie" Chapman only pulled her shawl around her and frowned at her empty glass. Annie's dark moods had given her the cognomen, along with her black hair and eyes.

  "Annie, you're a riot!" Mary Kelly cried, throwing her head back until her wavy auburn hair cascaded over her shoulders. Of the group, she was the youngest and prettiest, and likely the most popular. Her lilting Irish tongue and free, generous spirit—even in lean times--made her a great favorite among those of both sexes. Abberline wondered what kind of background she'd come from in Ireland.

  "It's the way she tells them--deadpan," laughed Liz Stride. She was only five feet five, but nicknamed "Long Liz" because of her last name, "Stride". A plain-looking woman, she could ha
ve been anywhere from thirty-five to forty-five. "Tell us true, now, did he really say that, or did you make it up?'

  They whooped with laughter again, and several heads at the bar turned in their direction.

  They were all dressed in long, full dresses, two of them wearing men's overcoats and Annie a heavy shawl to ward off the September chill.

  To Abberline's discerning eye the clothing was worn and threadbare, castoffs they'd picked up here and there at lodging house and second hand stores, augmented now and then with something reasonably new.

  The time was less than half ten, early in their working day, so none of the four seemed to be in her cups.

  "Tom, bring us a gin, will ya, luv?" Dark Annie called to a lean, mustachioed bartender who was passing their table, tray in hand.

  "Best go easy on that, Annie," Mary Jane Kelly cautioned. "Don't want to be spendin' your doss money before you earn it."

  Dark Annie, shifted her short, somewhat stout figure in the chair. "Don't worry, Mary, this is my last one. I'm takin' these liver pills they give me at the infirmary. They said no more than two drinks a night while the pills lasted."

  "Two drinks a night, is it?" a woman with a straw hat pinned to her mousy brown hair said. "You must be workin' on next Thursday's quota."

  The three of them burst into laughter.

  "Really, Annie, if you're a bit poorly, you might want to lay off a few nights and rest, especially if there's some crazy on the streets."

  " 'Lay off a few nights', she says." Annie assumed a mocking tone. "If I was one of Queen Vic's ladies-in-waitin', I could probably do just that. As for the crazy on the street, he's likely off to parts unknown by now. The police been sweepin' clean as a broom since poor Polly left us. They haven't found tic or whisper of 'im."

  She accepted her small glass of gin from the waiter and took a generous gulp. "If I run across this gent tonight, I'll give his willie such a twist, he'll think it's a pretzel."

  "Seriously, Annie, you need to have a caution."

  "I will." She pushed back her chair. "Hmmm…that gin doesn't seem to be settin' well on m'stomach tonight. You can finish it. I'd best be off. I don't want to be at it 'til daylight." She pushed back her dark, wavy hair, and moved toward the door, appearing a bit unsteady on her feet.

  "Poor thing, she's 'ad too much already."

  "Don't think so," Mary said. "I been here a few hours with 'er. She didn't drink that much. I think she's sick."

  Abberline watched her go, feeling a familiar twinge of pity. These women-- the ignored, the unknown--who'd sunk toward the bottom of society's ladder, were taking great risks. They dealt every night with strangers, many of them rough men, drunk, some violent. And their recompense was a few coins to buy a bed in a lodging house, a meal and a gin. From what he knew of their personal histories, many of them had started out with little. Through bad choices, lack of saleable skills, abusive husbands, or just bad luck, they'd wound up here, selling themselves until they died early of diseases.

  A firm rap on the door of his flat brought Abberline awake instantly from a light sleep. He rolled over in the dark, rubbing his eyes. "Yes?"

  "Corporal Carnes," a voice from the hallway answered.

  "One moment." He swung his legs over the side of the bed, stomach tensing with that familiar apprehension that always came with an alarm in the night.

  He hadn't slept well. The meat pie lay heavy on his stomach. He pulled on his trousers, looped up the braces, and swung a shirt around his shoulders. From long habit of caution, he pulled his Adams from the holster on the bedpost.

  A draft of cold air rushed in as he shot the bolt and opened the door six inches. A low-burning lamp in the hallway showed a muscular uniformed policeman.

  "Sorry to disturb you at this hour, Inspector."

  "Quite all right. What's the problem?"

  "There's been another murder in Whitechapel."

  "A prostitute?"

  "Yes, sir. Even worse than before."

  "Let me dress. Won't be a minute."

  "There's a Hansom waiting."

  Closing the door, he fumbled for a match on the bedside table. Striking it, he lit the lamp and picked up his watch—6:14 a.m.

  Gray daylight illuminated the scene when they pulled up in front of a lodging house at 29 Hanbury Street.

  At the edge of a loose cluster of people, Doctor Andrew Llewellyn was talking to a constable.

  "Doctor, you always seem to arrive ahead of me," Abberline said by way of greeting.

  "They call me first because I'm close by. Half the time I sleep on a cot in my surgery. But they needn't have been in a rush. She's been dead for at least an hour."

  "Same as before?"

  The doctor nodded. "Come and see."

  The door on the ground floor of the big frame house stood ajar and Abberline saw it opened into a passageway that led all the way through to the back door. He followed the doctor and a constable who carried a lantern. The back door opened out into a yard enclosed by a board fence that separated the yard from the adjoining property. They went through a gate and the clump of police and neighbors parted to let them in. Someone had partially covered the body with a large grain sack, leaving the feet, encased in high-top shoes, sticking out from beneath. Abberline took the lantern from the constable, bracing himself for what was to come. He bent and pulled off the sack. A woman lay on her back, petticoats bunched up above the knees. Another grim sight. He compressed his lips, barely able to glance at the displaced organs. The bullseye reflected from the bright blood at her throat. He tilted the beam up slightly to see her face. Black, wavy hair, and a pug nose. It was Dark Annie Chapman.

  Abberline dropped the stained grain sack back over the body and straightened up, shuttering the lantern.

  "You say this happened only an hour ago?"

  "Give or take," the doctor said. "I thought longer at first. But the massive loss of blood, plus the chilly air, made the body cool down quickly."

  The two men moved away to talk privately.

  "Her name is Annie Chapman. I saw her leave the Three Bells last night at half after ten. We need to question anyone who might have seen her later. I heard her say she wouldn't be soliciting until daylight because she was ill and wanted to earn just enough for her doss." He turned to his friend. "But all that is police work—not your concern."

  They paused by the corner of the fence in the gray morning light. Abberline almost wished darkness still covered this dreary scene. "Tell me what you saw that I missed."

  "Swollen tongue and throat bruises consistent with strangulation, just as before. Probably choked to unconsciousness to prevent struggles while he slashed her throat. Abrasions on the fingers, as if rings were forcibly removed."

  "I can't imagine she had any rings worth stealing," Abberline said. "Eviscerated like the Nichols woman."

  "Yes, but some of the organs are entirely missing," the doctor said.

  "Missing?"

  "That's correct, unless they turn up in a trash can or were tossed somewhere nearby. We'll know after a search. Part of the stomach wall and most of the bladder are gone."

  "Why would he do that?"

  Doctor Llewellyn shrugged his broad shoulders. "There's no logic to this; but the way the cutting was done suggests some anatomical knowledge."

  Abberline arched his brows.

  "Doesn't appear to be only a random, frenzied slashing. And the positioning of the inner organs--why not leave them where they fell?"

  His question hung unanswered in the subdued light of dawn.

  "I'll make a thorough exam at the morgue, but I believe the knife used had a blade six to eight inches long, thin and sharp."

  A shiver ran up Abberline's back, as if an icy breath had blown on the back of his neck. Needing to shake off the eerie sensation, he moved to one side and pointed. "Blood was smeared on the fence, so apparently she was killed here."

  "Just as before," the doctor agreed. "A secluded spot, away from view of the street.
"

  Abberline inhaled deeply. "Do you have the feeling we've done all this before, a week ago?"

  "Detail for detail."

  "Well, no need for me to come to the infirmary with you this time," he said. "I'll get your autopsy report tomorrow. Think I'll stay here and help the police search and question possible witnesses."

  "Very good. I'll be in touch." Doctor Llewellyn nodded and walked away.

  Abberline watched as the doctor directed the police to lift the body to a stretcher for removal to the makeshift morgue.

  When the remains of Dark Annie were gone, he walked back inside the fenced yard and listened as the constables interviewed the landlady who owned the property. Neither she nor her boarders had heard a thing. Not unusual. He moved on to another policeman who was taking notes and talking to three young men.

  Abberline perked up his ears.

  "Yes…that's right, officer. My name's John Richardson. I'm the son of the landlady, Mrs. Amelia Richardson."

  "And what did you see?"

  "Nothing. I don't live here, but I come by often to check on the house because my mother leaves this passageway open on the ground floor. I came here this morning about 4:30 on my way to market. Went through the passage and stood on the steps leading into the back yard."

  "And…?" The constable was becoming impatient.

  "I stopped to cut a piece of leather off my boot that was chafing my foot. Then I left, but I didn't see or hear anything."

  "What about you, Mister…?"

  "Albert Cadosh. I live next door at 27 Hanbury Street. I came out about 5:30 and heard some conversation from behind the fence separating our two yards.

  "What did they say?"

  "They were talking low and all I heard was a woman saying 'No'. I walked back into the house and then came out again about three or four minutes later. That's when I heard something fall heavily against the fence."

  "And you didn't bother to take a look?"

  "What goes on in the Richardson's yard is none of my business."

  The constable turned to the third man. "You found the body?"