Anatomy of Evil (22 page)

“What?” I asked. “May I?”

I borrowed the opera glasses and looked across, adjusting the rings to bring everything into focus. I could feel my heart begin to thump against my breastbone. Rebecca Cowen was there, looking a trifle bored, but so beautiful it made my heart ache. She wore an evening gown and I stared at the delicate perfection of her shoulders.

“Do you know the Cowens?” I asked.

“By reputation only. He’s very popular in his district. Popular in Poplar? She’s rather shy, but then, she’s young. Rather pretty, though, don’t you think?”

“Is she? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Thomas, I hope you are a better liar while on a case.”

The lights came down and the play began, and we were all drawn into the story of the ill-fated doctor and his supposed lodger. Mansfield was no Henry Irving, but the role was his and he performed it well enough. I looked over and watched my employer as Mrs. Ashleigh slid a proprietary hand under his arm.

Finally, the moment came that I had been warned about by Israel Zangwill. Jekyll was alone in his laboratory, and first drank the formula which he hoped would remove all trace of evil from his soul. He was noting facts in a notebook, and taking his own pulse at the side of his neck, when suddenly, he pitched forward in pain. The audience gave a sudden moan, perhaps in sympathy. Mansfield fell back, disarraying his hair, then slowly pulled himself up again, hunched forward upon the laboratory table. He raised his head, and he had another face! Philippa gasped beside me, and raised the glasses to her eyes, while I trained mine on the actor’s features. His eyes were sunken in shadow, his nose was suddenly hawkish, and his mouth had become a rictus of teeth. It was as if his face had become a human skull. Then he began to laugh, a short, maniacal sound. There were screams in the audience. Looking over, I saw Philippa’s arm latched upon Barker’s. Finally, she would not look, and handed the opera glasses to me hastily.

Instantly, I turned and regarded the third tier. Rebecca had raised a gloved hand to her mouth. Her husband sat there looking bored, the lout. How hard would it be to act solicitous to his new bride?

I trained the glasses on the stage again. Gone was Jekyll entirely and in his place, this devil, Edward Hyde.
Could such a thing happen?
I wondered. Oh, not a physical transformation, of course, but a mental one? Was some fellow leaving his office at night and turning into a monster, preying upon unfortunates, becoming a completely different person in the process?

One could see why there was a file on Richard Mansfield in the Records Room. He had just terrified a thousand people. Perhaps I had underestimated him as an actor, and he was every bit as good as Irving. Or perhaps he carried his mad performance into the streets afterward, and had been given another name in Whitechapel.

The play went on but I was preoccupied. Rebecca. Dr. Jekyll. Asher Cowen. Richard Mansfield. I fell into a reverie until suddenly the curtain was coming down and people rose to applaud. Belatedly, I did the same.

“Wasn’t he terrifying?” Philippa asked. “He gave me gooseflesh.”

“Indeed,” I answered. Barker, on the other side of her, was gathering his hat and stick. No doubt his mind was on the case.

I turned and raised the glasses to my eyes, hoping for one more glimpse of Rebecca Cowen, but she was already leaving, with her family. The chasm between us, the space of the theater seating, seemed somehow symbolic. Symbolic, and utterly crushing.

There is no need to go through the various stages that eventually led us in front of the great actor, the cajoling, threatening, and bribes to the stage manager. Suffice it to say, we were finally shown into the actor’s dressing room. Mansfield sat in a white shirt with the collar sprung, the insides stained orange with greasepaint. His hair was wet, as if he’d just been caught in a shower. He apologized to Philippa for his dishabille.

“I have lost two stone since I began this play last year. It is exhausting,” he explained.

“You were marvelous,” Mrs. Ashleigh said. “It was a tour de force.”

“You are too kind. My word, you’re a big fellow,” he said to Barker. “I like those spectacles.”

“Thank you. Mr. Llewelyn and I are with Scotland Yard.”

“You certainly dress well for policemen. Is there a special division for theaters?” Mansfield turned toward the mirror and began to wipe at his face with a small sponge. “Is this to be an interrogation, then?”

“Certainly not, not in front of the lady. But we can chat, if that is not too disagreeable. I’m no critic, but your performance was very good, and the trick with the lighting was inspired.”

“The lighting?” Mansfield asked.

“Yes, the change from full-on lighting to overhead, lengthening the shadows. I noticed it because my spectacles are sensitive to changes in light.”

“You are the first person in a year to cotton to that.”

“Aye, well. Mum’s the word. That’s the phrase, is it not, lad?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I hear DCI Swanson has questioned you in this matter of the Whitechapel killings.”

“Yes,” the actor said, looking over his shoulder. “Have you ever heard anything more stupid? I’m an actor. I’m just playing a role. I could be Julius Caesar or Richard III and no one would suspect me of anything then. This play has been a blessing as well as a curse. It’s doing very well; almost too well. I suspect this business in the East End is swelling our crowds. I’ve a mind to give it up, for fear that my name will be linked forever with Stevenson’s creation and nothing else, but I’ve got rent to pay on this theater and a wife and children at home. It’s taken me years to reach this level of fame.”

“Then why give it up?” I asked.

“Because it’s killing me. My doctor has warned me that I am endangering my health. I’m like a limp rag every night. That Swanson fellow wanted to know where I went after each performance, but the problem is that I can’t go anywhere but my hotel. I’m asleep in the cab by the time we arrive. The thought of me running around the East End, it’s ludicrous. I’ve tried cocaine to add energy to my performance, but there is a falling away after, and I can barely make it through the final curtain. My hair has begun to go gray. I’ve had to start dyeing it. My doctor is giving me iron tablets and vitamins. My wife says it’s just a play like any other, but sometimes I feel as if I shall become Hyde’s final victim. This play shall be the death of me.”

“You poor man,” Philippa said, actually touching his shoulder.

“My apologies, madam. It wasn’t my intention to complain.”

“It should be an easy matter to establish your whereabouts,” Barker said. “I assume Swanson has done so.”

“Of course. The management at the Carlisle were not happy about having to vouch for a guest, but I have a memorable face and no one saw me leave.”

“Then we have nothing to say, save that you may add another sterling performance to your reputation. The audience was most appreciative.”

“Yes, they were. I shall in no way impugn the London theatergoers. They are the best on earth.”

“We shall leave you to your well-deserved rest. Good evening, sir.”

“And you. My best wishes to the Yard on catching this monster.”

We left the dressing room and were soon stepping out the stage door into a cool evening. Mrs. Ashleigh pulled her stole closer around her. Autumn was coming on.

“‘No one saw me leave,’” she repeated.

“Very good, my dear,” Barker told her. “He has just proven to us that he was capable of looking like two completely different people. Why not three or four?”

“So, he doesn’t necessarily have an alibi at all. You didn’t believe him when he said he dropped off?” I asked.

“Not for certain, no.”

“He was very convincing. How does one know when an actor is telling the truth?”

“When he is completely silent. And not otherwise,” the Guv said.

We took Mrs. Ashleigh to her pied-
à
-terre in Kensington. My employer climbed down and she kissed me on the cheek before alighting. I stayed in the cab to let them say their adieus. When Barker returned, he looked as if he was waiting for me to make some sort of remark. I decided to change the subject.

“You know, I rather believed Mansfield. It’s at least possible he’s telling the truth. Or his version of it, at least. The chances that an actor playing a monster should coincidentally be a monster are remote at best.”

“We’re overlooking something, lad. I don’t know what, but the facts don’t add up. It may be time to throw the pieces of the jigsaw back into the box and start again.”

“How many times shall we have to do that, sir?”

“Until the picture makes sense.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

As humble as it was, my mattress looked inviting after a long night at the theater. I doffed my finery and folded it carefully before pulling on a shirt and trousers, in case we should have to go out again. There was nothing prophetic about this; it was just a precaution, but I was glad I did so all the same.

Later that night we were awakened by a pounding on the door. For the first few seconds I didn’t know where I was. Nothing looked like my bed, or my window that faced the garden. Then I remembered where I was, just as Barker opened the door to whoever was knocking in the very middle of the night. I heard, but could not make out, a low conversation in the hall outside our doors. Something had happened. After a minute or two, I heard the man’s sturdy boots going back down the hall again and Barker returned.

“Thomas,” he said. “Dress yourself. There has been another murder.”

“An unfortunate?” I asked, hunting for my boots.

“In Dutfield’s Yard.”

“That’s off Berner Street.”

“I’m glad all that walking has taught you something.”

We dressed quickly and hurried out into the night. The sky looked blue with starlight. Orion spanned the horizon, as we jogged along swiftly. The area around Berner Street was full of people, though it was not even five o’clock. They start work early here, and somehow East Enders know when there is something nearby that would offer them a few moments’ entertainment.

We pushed our way through concentric knots of people until we came upon a still form which had been tented with a large piece of canvas and an overturned cart, guarded by two constables. I attempted to get close, but was warned away. We began to try to convince them of our identity, which was not easy for there were children running about, trying to get a view of the body, and a half-dozen others who felt their status or occupation entitled them to see it, as well.

“Let them in,” a gruff voice ordered. I turned and recognized Detective Chief Inspector Swanson puffing placidly on a bulldog pipe. We moved closer to hear what he had to say.

“Apparently, the victim’s name is Elizabeth Stride. ‘Long Liz,’ they called her. She was a Swede, about forty-five. An unfortunate, obviously. That’s all we have so far. We’re waiting for Warren to come and take over the investigation. We’ve been ordered not to move the body until he arrives.”

Barker and I took a moment to view the body in situ. It was in the same position as the others, with her arms down at her sides and her lower limbs drawn up and separated. The throat had been cut to the bone and a stream of blood ran like a long scarf toward the gutter. I could see bone through the gaping wound. There was no blood on her petticoats, however, to indicate she had been savaged. The victim had a long, thin face, which may have earned her the name. Like the others, she appeared to be old before her time and haggard, as if she had seen rough usage in life. Her features were almost mannish, and she looked as if she could have given anyone who tried to mistreat her a difficult time of it. I examined her hands, looking for wounds, or an attempt to ward off her attacker, but found none. There was only a little blood in the gutter by the wall near where she lay. I wanted to cover over her petticoats, but I couldn’t. It was all evidence.

“I’ve taken a witness into custody, but only to get a full statement. He’s in ‘H’ Division now. He saw Liz arguing with a man earlier this evening. Thought it was a couple having a row, and crossed the road to avoid getting involved. The suspect called out to a second witness whom the Jew noticed standing nearby, smoking a pipe. He called out ‘Lipski,’ and the second man began to follow. The witness, whose name was Schwartz, feared he would be attacked and fled.”

“Was it a case of mistaken identity?” I asked.

“No,” Swanson said. “They call all Jews ‘Lipski’ here. Both men he identified had fair complexions and brown mustaches. Proper Englishmen, according to Schwartz. That was close to midnight. She was found within the hour. She might have had time to find another client or she might have gone for a drink. That’s what we’re up against here. The clients won’t speak, the victims can’t speak, and the witnesses must be coerced or threatened. Nobody wants to help, but oh, they’ll complain that we aren’t doing our duty to protect them.”

“Who found the body?” Barker asked.

“Another Jew, coming home a half hour later from some anarchist meeting or other. His pony shied on him as he turned into the yard. He got down to investigate and found her on her back, as you see. What do ye suppose the Ripper uses to cut a throat like this? A dirk, perhaps, or a sword?”

“That would certainly draw attention,” Barker said. “I doubt a man in a full kilt and dirk is out there taking lives, or a Coldstream Guard in his best ceremonials, though I suppose militaria is available for sale in Petticoat Lane?”

“Either weapon could be hidden under a cloak, but were he to be caught, the evidence would be very damning,” Swanson said. “This is not the day for a gentleman to be found with a sword case.”

“Indeed not, if he expects to survive an angry mob, aristocrat or no. Fear is one attribute that cuts across all classes. How can we help, Inspector?”

“Search the yard inch by inch for anything out of the ordinary,” Swanson said.

“Aye, sir,” Barker answered.

“Without a lantern?” I muttered to Barker when the inspector had left.

“Dawn will be coming soon. You must accustom your eyes to the gloom.”