Annie and the Ripper Read online

  "Yes. I'm a boarder here, and I came out about 6:00. It was nearly daylight then, and I found her lying just as you saw. Nothing much else to say. I ran next door and hollered at the two men working at the packing case manufacturer. They came and looked, then went for the police."

  Abberline drifted away as the constable was making notes. Except for the killer, these were the closest witnesses to the crime. Their statements confirmed the time and place of the murder, but nothing else. Perhaps an examination of the body would yield some clues.

  But the post mortem gave no further leads to identifying the killer. Abberline read Dr. Llewellyn's report, and also attended most of the inquest that was scattered over the next five days. Annie's friends came to testify, and he learned a few more details, but nothing significant. Near the body the police had found part of an envelope, a pocket comb, and two polished farthings. It was a popular con trick to polish farthings so, in dim light, they could be passed for shillings.

  A wet leather apron was found a few rods from the body in the yard, but it turned out to be a work apron of one of the boarders. The apron had been washed and hung to dry.

  The torn envelope with a partial address was thought at first to be a clue. But Tim Donovan, landlord of Annie's lodging house, said he saw her pick up the envelope from the floor and tear off a corner to hold her liver pills. Donovan said Annie was sitting in the kitchen just after midnight because she didn't have money for a bed. Then she went out for a pint of beer with one of the lodgers and returned, apparently drunk, at 1:35 where she again sat in the kitchen, eating a baked potato. "I told her she always seemed to have money for drink, but not for a bed," Donovan testified.

  John Evans, the night watchman at the boarding house, said as she left again, she told him, "I won't be long, Brummy. See that Tim keeps the bed for me while I get m'doss money."

  The best testimony came from one Elizabeth Darrell who saw Chapman at 5:30 a.m. outside 29 Hanbury Street, talking to a man. Darrell described him as being over forty, "a bit foreign looking, wearing a deerstalker hat and a dark coat. He'd a shabby, genteel appearance, if y'know what I mean. I 'eard 'im ask Annie, 'Will you?' and she said, 'Yes.'"

  Later, in the Three Bells, Abberline sifted through notes he'd taken during the inquest and facts the doctor had given him concerning the autopsy. Most of it was useless. Over the years, he'd found witnesses' statements, however well-intentioned, to be mostly inaccurate. "Facts" sworn to usually proved to be wildly erroneous and unreliable. Most people were not trained observers, and the memory played tricks.

  But the vague description of the man seen by Elizabeth Darrell—that was the likely killer. If only she'd seen his face!

  CHAPTER 4

  "GHASTLY MURDER" blared the headline of The Star, the two-word headline covering half the front page. "Whitechapel Prostitutes Gutted Like Fish" was in slightly smaller type below, and then, "Fourth Slashing Has Police Baffled." The column descended with further details in smaller type.

  Abberline tossed the folded paper down on his desk. He expected such outbursts from the Star and other tabloids, like the Illustrated Police News, whose existence depended on an unending string of sensational stories.

  Yet, a somewhat saner newspaper, the Daily Telegraph, ran a headline, "DEMENTED SLASHER ROAMS EAST END". Even the more sedate London Times carried the story of Annie Chapman's murder as front page news, summarizing the three previous murders the police suspected were committed by the same individual.

  The three newspapers were several days old, but the current editions all carried follow-up stories. Now that the public had been sufficiently alarmed, the Letters to the Editor sections of these papers had been expanded to accommodate dozens of outcries from writers. Jews were blamed, foreigners were blamed, a spurned lover was blamed, butchers in the Whitechapel district were blamed, recent insane asylum inmates were blamed. Abberline knew the papers were publishing only some of the less offensive letters. He'd seen many others that flooded into police headquarters, and concluded London had more than its share of people teetering on a knife edge of reality—people tipped over into their own delusional world by published details of mutilations.

  Letter writers offered hundreds of theories of who might have done it and the reasons why—some very bizarre reasons, indeed. Those citizens, who were offering their own suspects or solutions, were complaining the law was not doing enough to catch the killer. They predicted when and where he might strike again. Even those who'd probably never set foot in Whitechapel, wailed about being in mortal danger. Reading dozens of these letters had made his skin crawl nearly as much as looking at the slasher's victims.

  Working in the CID, the Crime Investigation Division of Scotland Yard, Abberline had a very public job, and everyone, it seemed, wanted to tell him how to do it.

  He sighed, staring out the window where rain was streaking the coal dust on the wavy glass. It might be a different story if the Metropolitan London Police, Scotland Yard, and all the various divisions of each, functioned as a cohesive unit. But, in such a bureaucracy, that rarely happened. The heads of divisions and departments were often men who carried knighthoods and had the ear of the Queen or the Prime Minister. Their primary job was making themselves look good in public. If they began to appear incompetent, they were let go in disgrace. These men would do nearly anything to maintain their good public image.

  A discreet rap on his office door.

  Abberline swiveled in his chair. "Come in."

  The door opened and his clerk, a slender man in an impeccable black suit, said, "Sir Charles would like to see you, sir."

  "Very well. I'll be there directly."

  The door closed.

  Abberline got up and straightened his tie in the dim reflection of his bookcase glass. He'd been expecting this. Charles Warren was Metropolitan Police Commissioner, two steps up the ladder from his immediate boss, Sir Robert Anderson, Head of CID. But, when summoned, one didn't take refuge in the chain of command.

  Striding down the hall, he choked back the nausea that made him feel as if he'd swallowed a live squid. He was angry with himself. With his age and experience, he shouldn't be having qualms like a rookie.

  He was shown into Warren's private office by his secretary who closed the door quietly as he left. Heavy woodwork and thick carpet deadened all outside sounds. He stood at a distance in front of the massive desk, until Sir Charles looked up and stacked some papers aside. "Have a seat," he said, pointing at a horsehair padded straight chair a few feet away.

  Warren remained standing behind the desk, looking down at him.

  "Have you seen what the newspapers are saying?" The man seemed to wear a permanent frown. Abberline couldn't recall ever seeing him smile.

  "Yessir."

  "Some of them are calling for my resignation."

  "I haven't seen that. But there will always be malcontents in the press, sir."

  "Yes, one can't put much stock in what they say. They're in business to sell papers, after all. What I want to know is why these reporters are allowed to trail around after the police and interview the same witnesses who've just been questioned."

  Without giving Abberline a chance to answer, he went on. "The Police Department gives them the pertinent facts and that's what they should print. Instead, they flock into the inquests and procure the most lurid details which they use in their sensational pieces, further stirring up a very gullible public."

  He paused and glared at Abberline, who felt compelled to say something. "I don't mean to be impertinent, sir, but there’s no law prevents their attending inquests. We can't stop them from interviewing anyone who'll talk to them. And most witnesses are just ordinary folk who like the attention, like to see themselves in print. As for the inquests…"

  "I know, I know," Warren interrupted with a wave of his hand. "They're open to the public."

  Abberline kept silent while Warren picked up a stack of letters from his desk.

  "It's not just the newspapers, e
ither. Hundreds of letters are pouring in to the department, many of them from dangerous cranks." He sifted through the stack in front of him. "Here's one who complains the law is blaming him for the murders and signs it with the initials, J.C., which the context of the letter makes clear, stands for Jesus Christ." He dropped it and picked up another. "This man claims the killer is using a chloroform-soaked handkerchief to stupefy his victims before killing them. Therefore, anyone who comes near a woman and appears to be blowing his nose should be arrested."

  Abberline had to bite his lip to keep from smiling.

  "Here's another who suggests the killer might be using an old vault in the Jews' Cemetery as a hiding place. Another says the killer could be disappearing suddenly by using the underground sewers. Here's a man who says the prostitute's clothing should be sprayed with a syringe of corrosive liquid so that when the next victim is found, her killer could be traced by means of this material on his own clothing.

  "And these are not the most bizarre. One or two claim to be the killer, himself, but they're thought to be crackpots." He gripped a fistful of letters as he came around the desk. "Here's one." He slipped a letter out of the stack. "He advocates that all the whores be protected from strangulation by being fitted with barbed collars, or collars made of flexible metal that would be electrically charged by being wired to a small battery. He proposes something like chain mail for the body to prevent slashing."

  Abberline didn't reply, but was of the opinion this last idea might have some merit.

  Warren paused, searching the letters in his hand. Abberline sat quietly, not wanting to open further avenues of discussion. He'd let the boss have his say and purge his frustrations.

  "Here's one," Warren said. "It's from an English teacher who's been abroad for the past twenty-two years. He suggests the killer might be a follower of Buddha, one of the Thugs who are experienced killers and feel bound to offer human sacrifice to their deity. He thinks maybe the murders taking place at certain times of the month are coinciding with human sacrifice that must match certain phases of the moon." He dropped the letter on his desk and selected another from his handful. "Here's a writer who thinks the killer might have traveled in China and come in contact with an Oriental custom. He states a man afflicted with syphilis sometimes uses the part cut off from the woman as a kind of poultice to draw the virus from his ulcers. This correspondent claims that Chinese criminals murder women for this very purpose."

  "There are all manner of theories," Abberline interjected as Warren glanced over several more sheets of paper in his voluminous correspondence. "I have seen several dozen letters from the public," he continued, filling the gap in Warren's monologue. "I'm sure all these people who took the time and interest to write us are expressing what they believe to be very helpful suggestions that could aid us in solving the case."

  "And they think the police are stupid for not following up on their advice, no matter how strange it may seem to a reasonable person," Warren said. "I won't bore you with too many of these, but I just want to share with you some of the public reaction to our failure to make an arrest in this case."

  He drew forth a long sheet covered with a bold scrawl. He tilted the letter toward the light from the window. "This writer suggests the killer might be an Indian hill tribesman because, in Sanskrit mythology, special reverence is given to male and female genital organs. This man says he's been informed by old soldiers who have inside knowledge of the practice that the organs themselves are preserved and hung up or worn as amulets, and so forth. He speculates there might be some members of these people operating in the East End. Physically, they'd blend in with any other Europeans on the streets. Even worse, he says the killer might be some old white soldier who's suffered sunstroke in India and adopted the barbaric customs of the hill tribes, killing these prostitutes to obtain their sexual organs." Warren shook his head. "He goes on to say that this same old soldier/informant had told him it was common for East Indians to carry a concealed weapon with a fine needle point dipped in poison. Anyone pricked with this needle or sharp thorn, would be dead within seconds. He says that a man armed with such a weapon could, while caressing a woman, easily prick her neck or spine, causing her to collapse dead in his arms, and then could slash her throat to divert suspicion from the ritualistic poison murder. The removal of the female organs would be considered by the authorities as just part of the overall gashing."

  "Sir, some of the public sincerely want to help, while others…well…are mentally unbalanced. There are any number of deranged individuals out there who are very capable of such acts. That's what makes narrowing down the suspects so much more difficult."

  Warren waved a hand at the pile of letters on his desk. "Yes. There are those on the edge of mental collapse who've been sent into a frenzy by all the publicity. Their minds cannot deal with the details of gore the newspapers are feeding them on a daily basis. Several writers suggest the killer is attempting to overthrow the government of the Empire by thwarting the law enforcement establishment and making them look ridiculous." He suddenly noticed the lone letter he still held. "Oh, yes, here's one you'll like. This man suggests we run an electric wire along the curbstones with an alarm button attached at thirty-foot intervals. This alarm wire would be connected to all the stores and public houses where constables stop to warm themselves on cold winter nights. Then, when a prostitute is attacked and pushes an alarm button, a constable can pick out the location by the color-coded button that lights up. All constables should be mounted, he says, so they can gallop to the rescue in a hurry."

  Warren sighed. "One of the less costly suggestions is from a man who wants locks of hair from the victims because he has a friend who can track down the killer by the prostitutes' hair. This friend, he says, has somehow found men who were guilty of animal cruelty by a psychic use of the animal hair."

  "It's too bad the police must waste so many hours reading all these to decide which merit a follow-up, but there's no help for that," Abberline said.

  "More to the point, Home Secretary, Henry Matthews, and even Her Majesty are taking an interest. It is no longer just a sordid police matter." He paused, staring at a far corner of the room. Then he turned to Abberline. "Did you know there were eighty murders in the city of London last year, yet not one of them was done in Whitechapel?"

  "Remarkable."

  "Remarkable, indeed, considering it's the poorest, most densely packed slum in the city. The residents must do whatever they can just to survive. Yet now, within a few weeks, there have been at least four murders there, of the most horrible type, at least two of which are undoubtedly by the same man."

  "We are doing everything humanly possible to track him down, sir."

  "Sir Robert Anderson, head of CID, and Sir James Fraser, Commissioner of the City of London Police tell me the same thing. They've committed a vast majority of their force to this investigation. But it's not enough. We must have an arrest."

  Abberline was beginning to perspire under his waistcoat, even though the room was cool enough. Why was Sir Charles telling him all this? Did he have something in mind? "Sir, in more than twenty years of detective I’ve seen very few unsolved cases. Killers are not usually as smart as we give them credit for. Normally, a murderer is under duress or such intense emotion he will leave a pertinent clue, or do something to trip himself up. Even calculating, brilliant criminals are not perfect. This man may be some sort of unbalanced genius, but he cannot go on committing such violent dissections in the midst of a crowded part of the city, without being discovered. Sometimes pure happenstance and luck play a part. I sincerely believe we will catch him before long."

  "That all sounds very reassuring, but when? Even Home Secretary Matthews is demanding action."

  Abberline didn't know how to respond to this. Demanding such a thing was as impossible as ordering him to actually invent one of Jules Verne's imaginary flying machines. One could demand all he wished, but that wasn't going to make it happen.

  "The
reason I'm saying this is to impress upon you the gravity of the situation. And…if you can think of any unconventional method that might be useful in trapping this killer," he said, "use it." He rubbed a hand across the thick mustache that nearly hid his mouth, then went back behind his desk and sat down. "As for me, I'm going to try a more conventional approach. If there is still some sort of scent remaining on the last victim's clothing, it's possible we can use bloodhounds to track it. I'll be conducting an experiment in Hyde Park before long to find out. In the meantime, you're free to use your experience and imagination to match wits with this slasher." His dark eyes bored into Abberline's. "Take whatever action you think necessary to rid us of this pestilence." The words were emphatic and directed to him—not through the chain of command--but at him, personally.

  "Yessir." He got up. "Thank you, sir." He bowed slightly and moved toward the door.

  Walking back to his office he unbuttoned his coat and breathed a sigh of relief. Talks like that were never pleasant, but Sir Charles was clearly giving him a not-so-veiled signal to break the rules, if any, to apprehend the killer. But that put Abberline himself on an island. If he did something completely weird--and somehow managed to trap the slasher--Warren would take the credit as a brilliant tactician. If--as seemed more likely--Abberline tried something that only resulted in more murders, or embarrassment to the department, Warren would conveniently forget they'd ever had such a conversation, and Abberline would likely be fired.

  He wondered again why he hadn't taken his mother's advice years ago and become a country parson.

  CHAPTER 5

  "Andrew, I feel like a jackdaw among swans." Abberline tugged at his stiff collar and glanced self-consciously at the elegantly-dressed men and women milling about on the greensward.

  "Nonsense, Fred," Doctor Llewellyn said, guiding him by the elbow toward the shade of some trees where a long table was set with all manner of fancy hors d'oeuvres. "I'm a member of this shooting club and you're my guest." He ladled up a crystal cup full of mint green punch from a silver bowl. "Here… I know you'd prefer a glass of bitters, but I think you'll find this tasty."