Anatomy of Evil (11 page)

“I know even if we track down this fellow ourselves, Scotland Yard will get the credit,” I said. “You do intend to try, don’t you, sir?”

“Of course,” he answered, “because the people in charge and the men investigating the case will know. They are the ones I’m trying to prove myself against. I wonder if you realize how many organizations will be trying to horn in on this case in order to solve it and get the credit.”

“What do you mean?”

“You tell me. With whom are we in direct competition?”

“Scotland Yard,” I answered.

“Who consists of—”

“The Criminal Investigation Department.”

“And?”

“The Met. That is, the regular police. I’m sure they’d like to solve it and be able to lord it over the CID.”

“Who else?”

“Special Branch. They’re devious and not above breaking the law to get what they want.”

“Very good. Continue.”

“Uh…”

“Don’t stand there blowing bubbles like a goldfish, Thomas. Who else?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I can’t think of anyone.”

Barker snorted. “Oh, come now, lad, show some imagination. What about the Plainclothes Division? Surely they’ll be out hunting the killer. Don’t you suppose the Thames Police hope a murder happens close to the river? There is the Home Office, responsible for domestic affairs, and the Foreign Office, who might decide to step in if they suspect the killer came recently from Poland or Russia. Consider ‘H’ Division itself, the Whitechapel Police. They’ll consider the murders to be within their jurisdiction, and might not be likely to share their theories with the Met. Even the Yeomen Guard of the Tower Hamlets considers that area of London their responsibility, and might withhold facts in order to investigate for themselves.”

“When you put it that way, sir, it sounds like a jurisdictional nightmare.”

“That’s exactly what it is. I understand even the coroners and medical practitioners are fighting over the chance to examine the bodies. Their reports will be read widely and could be the making of a career.”

“You make it sound like a foxhunt,” I said.

“A foxhunt! Aye, Thomas, that’s what it is, everyone after one little creature. And the hounds are the newspapers baying on every street corner, ‘Another Horrible Murder!’”

“With so many hounds and hunters, it should be an easy matter to bring this murderer to book.”

“Perhaps,” Barker said, “even probably, given ideal circumstances. But if each of us insists on grasping his few facts and not sharing them with the others, I suspect several more women will be killed before this case is over.”

CHAPTER NINE

“What next, sir?” I asked Cyrus Barker. That is, Special Inspector Barker of the Yard. I don’t believe either of us would get used to that any time soon.

“I believe it is time to speak with the real heads of the investigation, Swanson and Abberline. I would prefer to take them on one at a time.”

If anyone knew exactly how matters stood with the Whitechapel Killer, it would be they. We had met each of them in the course of previous enquiries, and I must admit they were highly competent as far as I could tell. Swanson was nearly as good a tracker of men as my employer and I wondered why he did not go into private work where he could make more money. Abberline was innovative, always trying to bring in science to aid in his cases. Both were well respected within Scotland Yard; I’d even go so far as to say some constables would march through a fire barefoot at their request. If we could get their backing, even their approval, it would certainly make our being there much easier.

We tracked Detective Inspector Donald Swanson to a classroom similar to an operating theater, containing fixed semicircles of benches around an open hub. The hub contained two standing chalkboards, one with a hand-drawn map of Whitechapel on it and the other listing facts about both of the victims. Swanson was alone in the room, adding comments to the second board, when Barker knocked on the door frame. He turned in our direction.

“Barker,” he said. “How are you settling in?”

“Well enough,” the Guv replied. “No one has been conspicuously rude to me, though Llewelyn here has been thumped once or twice in the halls. Still, Anderson warned us this wouldn’t be easy.”

“No, it won’t be,” Swanson replied.

He was about Barker’s height, but at least three stone heavier. I couldn’t fathom how many yards went into the making of his gray suit, but above his walrus mustache was a hawkish nose and even more raptorlike blue eyes. His bulk did not extend above the neck, though I suspect his top hat would have swallowed my head without touching an ear on either side. I had seen him work, and he carried that bulk as if it were mere pillows. He was quick off the mark when it counted.

“What have you done so far?” the chief inspector continued.

“We have reviewed the files of the victims and some of the suspects, the ones still in the Records Room. Also, we’ve walked around Whitechapel viewing the spots where the victims were found and taking in the local color, so to speak.”

“You know as much as I, then,” Swanson said.

“I find that hard to believe. I understand a few of the suspect files are missing.”

“What files would those be, gentlemen?”

“The files concerning Mr. Druitt, Mr. Stephen, and Dr. Tumblety to be precise. I believe Assistant Commissioner Anderson requested that all files be returned.”

“So he did, so he did,” Swanson said. “I admit that the file for Montague Druitt is on my desk. I had returned it on Anderson’s orders, but some fresh information came in and I retrieved it again. I am actively investigating this suspect and would like to keep this file at least temporarily.”

“What became of the files for Stephen and Tumblety?”

“Ah! Yes, of course. Inspector Abberline has been pursuing leads in the Tumblety matter.”

“And Stephen?”

Swanson opened his mouth to speak, then seemed to notice me.

“Is he privy to such information?” he asked, looking at me.

“Anything you say to me you may say to him,” Barker answered.

“Very well. The Stephen file was supposed to come to you. If it is missing, it can only be in the hands of Inspector Littlechild.”

“I thought I knew everyone in the Yard, but I’m not familiar with the name. Who is he?”

“He was an inspector with the Special Irish Branch, but during the last attempt on Her Majesty’s life, he was assigned to guard the royal family, and he took the opportunity to ingratiate himself at Sandringham. Since then, he’s managed to recruit a half-dozen men to his detail, forming an unofficial Special Royal Branch, if you will.”

“I was under the impression I was given free rein here, and the meetings at the palace were merely to give me more authority,” Barker said.

“I’m sure that was what you were intended to think, but it’s complicated. If you were under the impression that Anderson asked you to come in merely as a friend, and because his health is broken down, I suspect you came under false pretenses. There’s more to it than that. A lot more. You are in intrigue here up to your ears. As much or more so than when Great Scotland Yard was for the Scots kings come down south to visit their Sassenach neighbors.”

“Who is this fellow Stephen?”

“He is the Duke of Clarence’s tutor.”

“And he is considered a suspect?” I asked.

Swanson turned and regarded me appraisingly. “He’s got a file and is being actively investigated. Of course, that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s the Whitechapel Killer.”

The Guv held up a hand, to stop Swanson from going on.

“Pray do not tell us any more regarding Mr. Stephen. We would prefer to read the report for ourselves and question witnesses.”

“I would like to have your notes transcripted and added to the general files, in that case.”

“Certainly,” Barker replied.

They both nodded as if coming to an unspoken agreement to work together.

“Now, what is this business about Robert Anderson bringing me in under false pretenses?” the Guv asked.

“I am not the one to ask. It’s Freddy Abberline you should speak to.”

Cyrus Barker leaned his head to the side until I heard his vertebrae crack. “Thank you, I shall, then. Come, Constable Llewelyn.”

The Guv passed down the hall until he came to a door and gave it a thump that shook it in its frame.

“Come in,” a voice said from within.

Barker pushed his way inside. Abberline was as thin as Swanson was stocky. He was perhaps a year beyond thirty but rapidly losing his hair. What he lacked above, he made up for below, with Dundreary whiskers and a mustache. His office was full of apparatus for the Bertillon system of criminal investigation, and there was a microscope on his desk. Years later, when men like Warren and Barker and Swanson had retired from the force, men like Abberline would be in charge, the scientific investigator.

“Cyrus Barker,” he said. “I was wondering when you would arrive. Have you come to take over? Shall I move out and give you my office?”

“What are you talking about?” Barker grumbled.

“As if you didn’t know. So, as they say, a new broom sweeps clean, eh? I just want to know why Anderson couldn’t tell us to our face. Where’s he hiding, in a hotel in Brighton?”

“He is in Switzerland, recovering his health. Why, have you heard otherwise?”

“Yes, and you’re the hammer he’s decided to use.”

“Inspector,” he said, “I give you my word that I have no idea of a plot against the Yard hatched by Robert Anderson. He looked genuinely ill when I spoke to him and he asked me to come here and work in his stead, collecting information. I have no proof. It was an oral agreement. I didn’t think I’d need it.”

“You nonconformists all work together,” Abberline said with a sneer. “You expect me to believe you’re not working for him?”

“What do you mean? I just told you I am working for him.”

“No, not bloody Anderson. I could care less about that jackanapes. I’m talking about Munro!”

Barker’s brows suddenly sank behind his dark spectacles in a frown.

“Munro? James Munro? What does he have to do with this?”

“Only everything. He’s trying to start a coup right here at the Yard, but he’ll have to get by me to do it, and that goes for you if you’re part of it!”

Barker dropped into a chair in front of Abberline’s desk and rubbed his face with his hand. He had crossed swords with Munro in the past, when he was head of the Special Irish Branch. Munro had held the assistant commissioner position before Anderson, but he and Commissioner Warren had not gotten along. Also, though he and Barker did not like each other, both were Scots nonconformists, who took their religion seriously. One would think, and obviously Abberline did, that their similar backgrounds would make them friends, but such was not the case.

“Mr. Anderson made no mention of Mr. Munro. I was not aware they were acquainted.”

“More than acquainted. Thick as thieves, more like,” Abberline said.

“You say that Munro is trying to take over Warren’s position and that Anderson is helping him. Can you substantiate that?”

“Of course not. Munro’s too clever a fox for that. It’s as you say, an ‘oral agreement.’”

“Then permit me to doubt Robert Anderson’s part in a coup d’
é
tat. Where is Munro these days? I haven’t heard of him since he quit the Yard in protest at the start of the year.”

“It’s not like you to be behind, Barker. The Home Office has given him a fancy chamber down the street and a salary, for no other purpose than to be a thorn in our side.”

“What was the cause of the enmity between Munro and the commissioner?” I asked.

Inspector Abberline took a deep breath and blew it out slowly before answering. “Munro expected to be made commissioner. He knew that the city board in charge of filling the position usually brought in men from the army, but he believed he had influenced enough important people in the City to change the policy. He nearly blew a hole in the roof when Warren was chosen over him, and then he had to sit by and watch Warren make the usual mistakes a tyro makes, such as the Trafalgar incident. Munro wouldn’t get over the slight, and began intriguing and blackening Warren’s name all over town. Finally, Warren went to the board and threatened to resign. Naturally, they talked him out of it. Then Munro charged in and threatened the same thing. They accepted his resignation.”

“Are you telling me you are against the board hiring someone who had risen through the ranks?” Barker asked him.

“No, I’m not, actually. I believe they should do away with the policy of hiring from outside of the department. It ruins morale. A commissioner should come to the position already knowing everything there is to know about the work. The army and the Met are two different institutions entirely.”

“Then why throw in your lot against Munro?”

Barker and the detective chief inspector eyed each other levelly. Without speaking, Barker nodded.

“Your allegiance does you credit,” my employer said. “Warren approved the rise to your current position.”

“He’s a good man, if a trifle na
ï
ve. He tends to see things simplistically, but he works hard and he’s not a bad chap when you get to know him, but it’s been all swords and daggers at him since the very first day. Munro can be quite Machiavellian when it suits him.”

I had to smile a little. It was probably the first time the word “Machiavellian” had been used in conversation at Scotland Yard.

“Why did Swanson send us to you, rather than tell us this himself?” Barker asked.

“He has no respect for Warren, and he thinks Munro’s rise to the commissioner’s chair is inevitable. He’s not going to cross him. Swanson is playing a larger game. He always takes the practical approach. He accuses me of being hotheaded. I suppose I am. You’d better not be trying to trick me, Barker. If you are working for Munro and I find out about it, I’ll have your license. I won’t hesitate for a second.”

“Thomas.” Barker turned and looked at me. “Would you be so kind as to tell Inspector Abberline how I feel about Mr. Munro?”

“I suspect, Inspector, that if Munro were on fire, Mr. Barker would not cross the street, even for the pleasure of stamping him out. Is that close enough, sir?”