Anatomy of Evil (28 page)

Warren pulled a handkerchief from his pocket with a flourish, holding it aloft, then wiped his hands and neck with it, covering it with his scent. He handed the linen to the dog’s handler and turned to the crowd.

“I now go in the guise of a criminal, to see if I can outsmart Barnaby’s expert nose.”

He turned and marched through the crowd. When I last saw him he had stepped into an alleyway on the Commercial Road and was gone.

After a few minutes to let the quarry escape, the handler went down on one knee and put the cloth to the bloodhound’s muzzle, who took in the odor eagerly. He charged off on the lead, followed by the handler, and the reporters and the crowd that remained.

“I’ll stay here,” Matthews said. “Contrary to modern opinion, I have no wish to watch the man publicly humiliate himself.”

Likewise, Abberline appeared too dignified to follow after a dog, but he had no difficulty sending us. We did not trot, but walked swiftly at the tail of the line.

“Cobblestones are a far different surface from a grassy trail,” Barker remarked. “I’m not sure how long they can retain a scent.”

“This isn’t the West End, where there is a crossing sweeper on every corner,” I said. “The streets are spattered with night soil and awash in horse urine.”

“There are fish carts and butcher shops, sausage factories and meat pie shops. Blood drips from carts and flows into gutters. It isn’t like Hampstead Heath at all.”

“True.”

“Even now people are walking across the trail of Warren’s shoes, carrying the scent away. There are hundreds of thousands of people going about their daily lives.”

“But think if it works,” I said. “Suppose the Whitechapel Killer kills again, and we get this little fellow there in time to get a fresh scent.”

“Aye, but that’s quite an ‘if.’ The dog would have to be sent for the second the murder was found. If ’twere in the middle of the night, there might be a chance to catch the killer, but if the murder was discovered after five o’clock in the morning, the trail would be obliterated within an hour or so, I should think. Not that I claim to be an expert on bloodhounds, of course.”

“Is there some significance to the fact that the murders seem to occur very late in the night, sometimes three or four o’clock? Who is about at that time of night, other than insomniacs?”

“Sailors returning from their revels, men who have come to Whitechapel for a night of debauchery. Then there are factory workers. Many take an overnight shift to meet the demand for steel or other goods. The truth is there are many occupations in the East End that require working overnight. One forgets that while the commerce occurs in the West End, the manufacturing occurs in the East.”

“Then there is the good old-fashioned lunatic. Do you suppose he is really affected by the moon?”

“I hadn’t consulted the lunar cycle, but I imagine it has already been dismissed. The Yard is nothing but thorough. If he went by a particular pattern, we’d have been alerted to it by now.”

“You hope,” I said.

“You believe someone would still hold back information on us at this late date?” Barker said.

“Scotland Yard is definitely taking sides these days, and it’s important which side one chooses.”

“I refuse to engage in such childish notions.”

“That’s your side, sir, and it is an exceedingly small one.”

“You think I should play politics?”

“No, but Matthews seems to think this is Warren’s last hurrah. And while we have been brought in by Anderson, once Munro is in office again, I suspect he’ll have no use for us.”

“Perhaps,” Barker conceded.

“Sir, this was intended to be a temporary assignment, anyway, was it not? You do plan to open the agency again.”

“I hope the Whitechapel Killer shall be caught soon, lad, but I cannot give you a date when we shall be able to open our doors again. This investigation could extend into the new year.”

“If it does, sir, I hope we will be staying somewhere more permanent than the Frying Pan.”

“I’ll take it into consideration.”

The hound ahead of us suddenly bayed and we all quickened our steps. He was still on the trail. We passed through an alleyway or two and then suddenly we heard celebrating ahead. Coming into a courtyard, we found the bloodhound on two legs with his paws on the chest of Charles Warren, who was patting him vigorously. We joined in the applause.

“It was a nice little trick,” I said. “The trail was no more than minutes old and no one had time to cross it and confuse the dog. The commissioner’s got his publicity, which I’ll admit, Scotland Yard needs at the moment.”

Flushed with the pride of success, Warren gave another brief speech on the modernity of police methods, no stone left unturned, and that sort of thing. In the middle of the speech, Barker moved through the crowd and spoke to the dog’s handler. They shook hands and I suspected a pound note was passed along. Barker made his way back to where I stood just as the brief speech ended. There was more applause, but some dared to boo him, as well. Though this was the East End, the crowd was smart enough to realize they had been gulled. In fact, I imagine they were less likely to be taken in than their western neighbors.

“See a man about a dog?” I asked.

“Aye, he’s agreed to come with us to the last two murder sites, Dutfield’s Yard and Mitre Square. We’ll test whether Barnaby can pick up the actual scent. I want Swanson and Abberline informed, but not the commissioner. I’m sure they are here. Search for them and tell them I want to see them.”

There was no great hurry. Charles Warren was being photographed with the dog, and every photographer wanted their own picture of Barnaby. Apparently, nothing sells newspapers like a canine hero, even if the heroics were staged for public benefit. I pushed my way through the crowd, and spotted Swanson’s elephantine shape first. He was standing on a low wall a head above the crowd, looking down on them. Did he hope to see the Ripper there, and how would he know him? By his own eyes?

“Sir!”

“Yes, Constable Llewelyn?”

“Inspector Barker would like to see you for a few minutes. He has procured the services of the dog and would like to test his nose against the actual murder scenes.”

“I won’t miss that,” he said, his eyes still scanning the crowd. He had the eyes of an eagle. They were searching for his prey and when he found it, he would pounce quickly and without mercy.

Next, I looked for Abberline. He had a normal build and was less noticeable in a crowd. It took me several minutes, but I finally found him issuing a warning act to that rascal Lusk and some of his men. I had no doubt they had supplied the boos during the commissioner’s speech. Did the man have an occupation or was he using his trumped-up position to extort money from local businesses?

One doesn’t go up to a detective chief inspector, ideally. One steps up behind the man, to the left, and looks away until one is noticed. Sometimes this may take a while.

“What is it, Constable?” he snapped, as Lusk disappeared into the crowd.

I gave the same information that I’d given to Swanson, without the same result.

“Is the press in on this?” he asked. “I won’t have the commissioner humiliated.”

Loyal to the end, I thought.

“No, sir, just the four of us and Barnaby, of course.”

“All right, then.”

About a half hour later the crowd had dissipated, and photographers had stopped fouling the air with magnesium sulphate. We met the dog and his trainer, and began heading north.

“We’ll have to be careful, going into the City territory again,” Swanson remarked.

“Just some men out taking a dog for a walk,” Barker said.

“Three of whom happen to be Scotland Yard inspectors,” Abberline added.

“Everyone must have an occupation. We live by the sweat of our brow.”

“Save your Bible quoting for another time, Barker.”

When we reached Mitre Square, all of us could have found the exact spot where Catherine Eddowes’s body had been found. As it turned out, we didn’t have to. Someone had recently poured fresh blood there. I reckoned it had been there a day or two. It was brownish black.

“S’truth!” Abberline said. “Those blighted tour guides have contaminated the scene.”

“Pig’s blood, I reckon,” Swanson said. “Easily available in this part of town. Among the Gentiles, at least.”

“Let us give the dog a try,” Barker said.

The handler came forward with the animal and it put its nose to the blood-soaked ground and let it sniff for all it was worth. Immediately, it turned and followed an invisible path to the front entrance. We followed after, expectantly. It was difficult not to, in spite of the odds. It was also more exciting being in the lead, at the head, rather than the tail.

Barnaby started quickly and headed into Duke Street. He went a few hundred yards before slowing to a trot. He began to sniff to the left and right, to double back and go again. Eventually, he stopped in the middle of the road.

“He’s lost it,” Abberline said, cursing.

“Hurry him along a bit and see if he picks up the scent again!” Swanson suggested.

We led him a hundred feet or so, but he only snuffled here and there, looking for a scent.

“Take him back to the last place he smelled anything,” I said.

“No,” Swanson insisted. “We should go forward to just beyond the next street and see if he locates the trail again.”

“But suppose the Ripper turned in the next street? We should backtrack and start all over again, only more slowly.”

“I suppose we could try another victim’s trail—” I began.

“Gentlemen!” Barker growled over all of us. “I believe we must accept the fact that the trail has gone cold. It has rained several times since the double murders. The scent has likely washed away.”

In spite of everything, we’d had our hopes dashed. Abberline made a few choice remarks not worth repeating.

“Thank you, Jarvis,” Barker said to the handler. “A canny beast you have there. Too bad he cannot work miracles.”

Barker bent and scratched the bloodhound under its floppy ear. It was glad of the attention.

“Good boy, Barnaby. Mind, sir, that he gets a hearty meal when you get home.”

“At least he made the commissioner happy,” Swanson said.

“There is an ABC in the next street,” the Guv said. “I’ll buy us each a cup of tea, then we can take a couple of hansoms back to ‘A’ Division.”

The last I saw of Barnaby, he was going by in a cab a few moments later, wagging his long tail and enjoying the ride.

“So much for the canine squad,” Abberline quipped over his tea. “At least our boots are safe.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

I was in the offices of Scotland Yard that afternoon, pinning photographs and sketches of the victims and suspects to a large cork board under the Guv’s direction, hoping we could come up with some conclusions we hadn’t found before. Barker was being, if not downright finicky, then exact.

“No, no,” he said. “Take them all down and put up the large ordinance map of Whitechapel.”

“Right,” I said, exercising the patience I was getting so good at.

“Then put the photograph of each victim over the location where their bodies were found.”

I took a handful of map pins and soon had all four photographs pinned in their locations.

“Got it.”

“What have you got in your hand?” Barker asked.

“The photograph of Martha Tabrum, whose throat had been cut earlier this year.”

“Is she a genuine victim of the Whitechapel Killer?”

“I was waiting for you to tell me, sir. Some inspectors have speculated that he was practicing his craft, preparing for what would come later.”

“Then why give up for six months after he’d had a taste of killing? It was successful, after all.”

“If he was in fact the same killer as the one who slaughtered the other women. Then there’s the torso found in New Scotland Yard. To be frank, I didn’t know what to do with this sickening photograph.”

“There’s no need to hang it, lad. It’s a different killer entirely and not in our jurisdiction.”

“What do you mean?” I cried. “It happened right under our very nose.”

“There are only two ways for the body to have been moved to the New Scotland Yard site: either it was carried in under the scrutiny of the guard, which I find difficult to believe, or it arrived by boat on the river. I believe that is a case for the Thames River Police. Scotland Yard will quibble, it being right in their own yard, but this is obviously a river case, since two of the missing limbs have been recovered there. I imagine the other missing limbs shall be found soon.”

“And the head?”

“No, not the head. It’s not difficult to bury a head, but a body is another matter. If the head is found, the victim could be identified and eventually tied to the killer. Of course, I’m speaking of a thinking criminal. If he is not, having disposed of a young woman for whatever foolish reason, he might have been equally foolish enough to throw the head into the Thames.”

Barker was interrupted by someone speaking very loudly in the lobby. We stopped our conversation and listened.

“That voice sounds familiar to me,” I said.

“Let us see who it is and what he wants,” Barker suggested.

We walked down the corridor to the lobby. A man was arguing with the desk sergeant. He was demanding to see the commissioner, but Meadows was trying to assure him an inspector could answer all his problems. It was George Lusk, the head of the Mile End Vigilance Committee, the one who had tried to drive us off his patch.

“What seems to be the problem?” Barker asked.

For once, Lusk looked glad to see him, but he might merely have been glad to see a familiar face.

“Push,” he said. “I’ve had a communication from the Ripper himself!”

“What’s in the package?” my employer asked. Then I noticed a small box on the counter in front of Meadows. He seemed to be avoiding it as much as possible.

“Some sort of organ. Might be a bit of liver or kidney, I reckon.”

Barker crossed and lifted the lid of the pasteboard box, which was wrapped in paper but had already been opened. He peered inside, pulled a pencil from his pocket, and used it to poke about at the object.