Anatomy of Evil (12 page)

I saw Abberline actually crack a smile.

“Aye, Thomas, very apt. Very descriptive. There is no love lost between us, countrymen or no. Inspector, do you feel this new case will be used by Munro to discredit the commissioner?”

“That’s exactly what I feel. It’s all over the press, and now the royal family is interested. There is a very good chance for Warren to get a black eye over this, and I want to avoid that.”

Barker sat back in the chair, which groaned under his weight, and did not speak for half a minute.

“Inspector,” he finally said. “I do not believe that Robert Anderson knowingly intrigued with Munro against the commissioner, but when he returns, I shall call him to task. In the meanwhile, I will work to help the Yard in any way I can to bring this killer to justice.”

“Then you should know that a suspect has been apprehended. We just got a telegram in. He’s being brought in now for questioning.”

“Why wasn’t I informed?”

“I’m informing you now. With any luck we’ll have this case over and done with before it does any damage to Warren’s reputation.”

“Who is the fellow? What is his name?”

“Pizer. They call him the ‘Leather Apron’.”

CHAPTER TEN

Pizer was being held in a temporary cell within the crowded building. Abberline gave us permission to see him as if the building and everything in it were his to parcel out as he saw fit. Unctuous, is what he was. Or bumptious. Possibly both at once.

We were still trying to fit in to our new surroundings and the quickest way there was to ask directions. Barker reasoned that if the commissioner’s office was called “Heaven,” then Hell must be in the basement. We worked our way down as far as we could go, then passed down a hall to a circular stairwell and descended into the basement. His deduction was correct, and we asked for Pizer’s cell, assuring the guard that we had Abberline’s permission, galling as it was, to see his prisoner.

The turnkey unlocked the cell and I filed in behind my employer. Pizer, the so-called Leather Apron, was a short, stockily built man with a wispy mustache and a full beard thick as a beaver pelt. It made him look like a character from a Yiddish play, a shtetl farmer somehow transported to modern London. He spoke with a heavy accent that for the sake of clarity I shall omit.

“What? More of you? Can’t you leave a man in peace?”

“We are sorry to be a nuisance, sir,” Barker said. “The sooner we establish your movements on the night of the various murders, the closer we may come to freeing you.”

“Freeing me? You jest. I shall never be free, sir. I am a Jew, despised of all the world, forced to wander ever west and west. All life is a trial.”

“Then you must bear up and do so with a smile.”

“Ha! You sound like my rabbi. At least you haven’t started kicking me like the last few fellows that were in here.”

“You must find yourself a proper barrister.”

“A barrister,” he cried, gesturing with his hands. “Do I look like the kind of person who frequents barristers? Very well. Unlock the cell. I’ll walk down to the Middle Temple myself.”

“I understand you make boots. What think you of the pair I am wearing?”

So saying, Barker raised a limb and rested his heel on the berth Pizer was sitting on.

“They are obviously secondhand. They weren’t made for you. You need to have a new heel put on both boots, and some of the nails should be tightened. Actually, I do not make boots. They are a luxury in Whitechapel. More often I repair them. Sometimes I make opera slippers I can peddle to a few dealers in the West End, but I never get a good price, no matter how perfect they are. My looks are against me, you see. One could no more mistake me for an Englishman than one could a giraffe. And when some crime occurs, by all means, blame a Jew! He’s as good a suspect as anyone.”

“Where were you on the eighth of September? Do you recall?”

“Recall! They won’t let me forget! I’ll tell you what I told your predecessors: I was with my brother at my flat in Mulberry Street all night. He told me to lie low, because they don’t like me there. Some people have got it in their minds that I am the Whitechapel murderer, though during the first murder I was at the Crossman’s Lodging House, and even spoke to a policeman while a fire occurred at the docks. I was with my brother the second time. It is the old Blood Libel legend they fear, but I am no Levite. I’m not even permitted to touch blood.”

I recalled my first case with Barker among the Jews. They feared the English public would be swayed by a legend now centuries old, that the Jews needed human blood for their sacrifices. It was gross ignorance of the lowest sort, but every few decades the story surfaced again and Jews found brickbats thrown through their windows, and foul words painted on the doors. Christians make bad neighbors, I have heard it said, which is far from what we have been taught.

“I assume they have taken your knife.”

“Of course. They are welcome to inspect it closely. I purchase my leather already tanned. They’ll find no blood on it unless they put it there themselves.”

“How came you to go by the name ‘Leather Apron’?”

“The Gentiles cannot remember my name. Apparently it is too foreign for them, though it is only five letters. Somebody came one day looking for Leather Apron, for the article I wore in my line of work, so I thought, ‘If they remember that, it’s better than nothing’ So, I go by ‘Leather Apron.’ It actually brings me work.”

“I understand you got in a little trouble last month—a gross indecency charge?”

“Yah, yah, that is typical. I see a woman walking with a fancy man one day, and another one another day, and I assume she is a prostitute. I approach her, and we start talking, trading banter as is the custom. I thought we had decided upon a reasonable transaction and began opening my trousers and then she starts to scream. The next thing I know I am arrested. It seems she is only a casual prostitute and won’t take Jews, those awful disgusting Jews who killed her savior. I know I am not an attractive man, but my money is good and I am clean and healthy. She could do worse. May the next Gentile she meets give her a pox!”

“And that’s all?” Barker asked, as my pen transcribed quickly in my notebook.

“It is, except that your inspectors believe I am a piece of challah dough that needs to be pummeled and kneaded every few hours. I expect the newspapers will call me a monster and a mob will form outside every night hoping to hang me. The police will bring them to a fever pitch and then innocently release me into their loving arms, without even a knife to protect myself. Then good-bye, John Pizer, and good riddance to another Jew. It was a mistake to come here. The Cossacks are brutal, but at least they were honest about it. The British hate us, while trying to appear pious and fair-minded. It is a farce.”

“I will check into your alibis on the dates in question.”

“Does it matter? If my alibis are proven, will I be protected? It will do me no good to be found innocent by the police if I am killed.”

“If need be, I will see you to a place of safety myself, Mr. Pizer.”

“What is your name, sir? You are different from the others I have spoken with.”

“I am Special Inspector Barker.”

The man leaned forward and suddenly clasped the Guv’s hand. “Thank you, sir,” he said, trying to quell the raw emotion in his voice. “I wish you luck in your search.”

I called the jailer and we were let out again. I had done eight months in a cell that size for a crime I did not commit and it felt wonderful every time I was able to leave one.

“Opinions?” Barker asked as we walked down the hall from the cells.

“Pizer’s a toad, but he doesn’t deserve to be in there, nor should he be beaten and hung by a mob. It’s one thing to be a Jew and look like Mac, but it’s another thing to be built like a blancmange. He’s a pathetic figure. Do you really plan to take him to safety while a mob cries for his blood?”

“I’m sure we can get him out of there during the day and away to someplace out of town.”

“Inspector!” Barker called, once we’d reached the first floor. He’s got a voice that rattles windows. Ahead of us I saw Abberline turn on his heels at his approach.

“Inspector, have you made any progress establishing Mr. Pizer’s alibi?”

“His brother vouches for him on the night of Annie Chapman’s murder, but so far we have no nonrelative witnesses on the night in question. We’re still searching for the constable he claims to have spoken to during the fire that evening of Nichol’s murder.”

“Are you overtaxed due to the patrols in Whitechapel?”

“Yes, we are, rather.”

“Would it be amenable if I attempt to establish his alibi myself?”

Abberline shrugged his shoulders and looked at him as if he were mad. “If you like.”

“Capital. Special Constable Llewelyn and I shall get right on it. Thank you, Inspector.”

Abberline’s eyes swept mine as if to ascertain whether Barker was having him on, rather than volunteering to take on a duty. I nodded solemnly, if for no other reason than to assure him that both of us were on the level. It is one of my unwritten duties to assure others that Barker truly means what he says. Luckily, there is never any doubt on that score.

The name of the sergeant at “A” Division was Meadows. I doubt he appreciated the irony of his own name. There, with nothing but brick and cobble in any direction, he stood behind the desk in Lemon Street, a man whose name conjured wildflowers, and maidens making daisy chains. From him we were able to list the constables who had been abroad the night of Mary Nichol’s murder, and might remember speaking to Pizer during the fire. Later that evening, after eating our dinner at the Frying Pan, we set out for our nightly walk, intent on finding our witness. Barker walked up to the first constable we saw. We identified ourselves and questioned him.

“Constable, were you on patrol the night of the London Docks fire, the same night as Mary Nichol’s murder?”

“Aye, sir, I was.”

“Do you recall speaking to a man named Pizer that night, a Jew who was a resident of the tenement? He says he spoke to a constable who can establish his alibi.”

“Pizer? Nay, I cannot recall speaking to such a man, but I was busy with the fire, sir, and I didn’t speak to anyone much beyond yelling for them to stay back.”

“Thank you, Officer. What is your name?”

“Thatchwick, Inspector.”

“Found it,” I said, consulting my list.

“Well, thank you, PC Thatchwick. Stay vigilant and perhaps we shall catch the rascal tonight.”

“I hope so, sir.”

That was one conversation, verbatim, according to my notes, but it might as well have been a boilerplate for every one that came after. The names were changed, of course, and where they had been on the night in question. It had been a busy night for the blues of Lemon Street Constabulary.

I expected the Guv to go by a certain routine each night, but he purposely avoided it, so that we went a different route and thus came upon new vistas and never repeated ourselves as we explored Whitechapel. He also quizzed me, asking me which street we were approaching or what this one led to. If he recognized a person there, he’d tip his hat, then ask who that was, and when we had spoken to them last. He never allowed me to fall into slack habits or take a street or neighborhood for granted.

Sometimes he would plunge into a tenement, take the stairs to the roof, cross over to the next one and go down that stairwell to the street. The squalor in some places was appalling, but in others, someone took as much pride in their rooms as if they were in Fitzrovia. There was fresh paint on some walls, and the floors, though bare, were washed regularly. Certain streets such as Flower and Dean were infamous, but others, especially those close to the synagogue, might have been mistaken for the City.

Naturally, I was tired, and grew morose over this steady tramping night after night. In my more philosophical moments, however, I reasoned that I was getting an education of sorts. I now knew the East End backward and forward, all the major buildings, the churches and synagogues, the graveyards and monuments. I knew when businesses closed and when workers got off their shifts, which restaurants served proper food and which to avoid. The names of some of the unfortunates became known to me and the bawdy houses where they plied their illicit trade.

So far, we had three quarters of the names marked off the list of constables on duty that night. If I’ve given the impression we find our man every time we step out of our door, such was not the case. Enquiries often led us nowhere. People forget. They lie. They bear false witness out of some sort of duty to a friend. They make up things. But every now and then they tell the truth and we catch a break.

“Your name, Constable?”

“Newbrough, sir.”

PC Newbrough was as shiny as a freshly minted farthing. He was young, adenoidal, and if he were fortunate, his chin would grow in or he’d be able eventually to grow a beard.

“Constable, do you recall a fire on the night of Mary Nichols’s murder? According to our records, you were on duty that night.”

“Yes, sir,” he replied. “A fire on the docks, it was. Lamp knocked over. Couldn’t say for certain it was arson. Everything that might have been called evidence burned. Still, it was contained by the Whitechapel Fire Brigade well enough, without too much damage. If it was set for a claim, it didn’t do enough damage to make anyone any money.”

“Do you recall speaking to a man that evening named John Pizer?”

“No, sorry. Can’t say as I do. What did he look like?”

“Five foot four, stocky, bull-necked—”

“Has a beard that looks like a dead badger,” I said.

Newbrough pointed a finger at me. “Leather Apron!” he cried. “Why didn’t you say so? Everyone knows Leather Apron. He’s a perpetual nuisance there. Always bothering the whores, wanting something for free. He’ll call it flirting but I call it making an affray. We arrested him for public lewdness recently.”

“Mr. Pizer claimed that was a misunderstanding. He also said he was being hounded by locals for being a Jew.”

Newbrough snorted, then turned it into a cough. It was not good to act informally around an inspector you did not know.