Anatomy of Evil (41 page)

Barker returned with a nurse who wasn’t satisfied until she had ladled laudanum down my throat. I hate the licorice flavoring that is used to disguise the taste in patent medicines, but worse than that is nothing to hide the taste of the laudanum at all.

“There you go,” she said. She wasn’t the same one as the night before, but her bedside manner was no improvement. “That’ll start taking effect in a few minutes.”

“Thank you, nurse,” Barker said, as if he was bestowing blessings from heaven. I’m blowed if the woman didn’t begin to simper. I don’t understand it, but sometimes he has that effect on women.

“So,” I said after she was gone. “Warren may be out soon. Is there a way to keep Munro from getting his position?”

“You don’t think he can do the work?”

“I didn’t care for the way he went about it,” I said.

“That isn’t what I asked. Do you think he can do the work?”

“I don’t know. I suppose so. He was second in command when Warren took over, and expected to succeed. I suppose he can.”

“So do I.”

Barker leaned forward and sniffed Rebecca’s flowers.

“Hothouse flowers,” he said. “Not as much bouquet as naturally grown ones, but nice, all the same. Is that not Rabbi Mocatta’s daughter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I was not aware you had retained your relationship.”

“We met by chance while I was in Whitechapel.”

“And how is Asher Cowen?”

“Right enough, or so I hear. I haven’t spoken to him yet.”

Barker’s blasted eyebrows rose above the edge of his round spectacles.

“I only spoke to her once, and shall probably not be renewing our acquaintance. I presume Israel must have told her I was injured.”

“Mmmph,” Barker said. Tacit disapproval, with the expectation that I should do better in future.

“We should have thought of the coal chute, sir.”

“Aye, Thomas, you are right. There is an incline between Goulston Street and the alley to the east, so that the ground floor of Kosminski’s factory becomes the cellar in Aaron’s room.”

“What is to become of the family, sir? Was Wolfe arrested?”

“Arrested and released. It was rather obvious that this family was suspicious of their brother’s involvement in the Whitechapel killings. They did not know about the chute, which was disused, but suspected he might be getting out somehow. If the Yard arrested them, however, it would have to admit in court that Aaron Kosminski is the killer, and they—we—hoped to avoid that at all costs. Not that we told them that. We kept Wolfe and his brother for several hours until they voluntarily signed him over into the custody of Colney Hatch. He will have alienists watching and assessing his mental abilities and condition. Do you know why he smelled so terribly?”

“I assumed it was because he never bathed,” I said.

“True, but he had taken the blood of all his victims and smeared them across his chest. That is why he was so fetid.”

“My word, that’s disgusting! Did you search his room thoroughly? I was wondering if they ever discovered any sign of the organs he carried away with him.”

Barker shook his head. “Oh, lad. I hoped you had worked that out. The young man with whom you have been sharing the premises at 27 Goulston Street is a cannibal.”

“But I thought it a joke, the Lusk letter and the half a kidney, fried and et. That was written by one of the newspapermen.”

“It happens to be true. Perhaps he was not the gentleman everyone expected Jack the Ripper to be, but in terms of being mentally depraved, Aaron Kosminski was everything Grub Street could hope he would be. Of course, they will never know.”

I tried to think of that, but it was too much for my worn-out brain to take in just then.

“You’re starting to shimmer, sir,” I said.

“I imagine that is the laudanum taking effect. I’ve kept you talking far too long. You must get your rest.”

“Have you moved back into Newington, sir?”

“I have, but we’re still at Scotland Yard for now.”

“Has the doctor given any indication of when I can leave?”

“A few days. No more than a week. We shall take it one day at a time. Now, rest.”

By then the room appeared to be teetering, and I thought I was on some large seagoing vessel, a floating hospital, and I fell asleep again.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

A week later, I was finally able to leave the hospital. The doctor had weaned me from the opiates and was reasonably assured that no bit of foreign matter such as a small scrap of shirt had been left inside the wound, which could lead to a fatal infection. Sometimes I think my chief attribute as an enquiry agent is that I heal quickly.

The doctor had ordered another week of bed rest, but I was having none of it. It was time to settle this case and return to our offices. People would be clamoring for Barker’s services by now and it would be nice to sort things out and get things back to the way they were, if that was Barker’s intent. I put on my uniform, conscious of the fact that it would probably be the final time I wore it.

It was good to be home again, and I would not miss the Frying Pan. Etienne Dummolard was not effusive, but he made a
pain au chocolat
for my breakfast with fresh-pressed coffee. It was no pleasure pulling myself up into the hansom cab that was ordered to our door and I understood how Robert Anderson must have felt the night he hired us. My biggest fear was that one of my wounds might open again or begin to seep blood, and I’d have another week of enforced bed rest. After a couple of days I start to go mad from inactivity, especially if I know Barker is out doing things without me.

Alighting slowly in Great Scotland Yard Street, I pushed through the gate and into the entrance of the main building. No sooner had I entered than I knew things had changed. The desk sergeant looked pleased to see me. In the hall, one of the detectives patted me on the shoulder, and another said “Good work.” By the time I reached the small kitchen, it was full of officers wanting to hear the story of how I had captured Aaron Kosminski, also known as Jack the Ripper.

They say that any true account, if told enough, becomes a story. One discards certain facts and retains others. Events are rearranged for the effect they have upon the audience and one attempts to be dramatic or humorous. To tell the truth, I had not been rehearsing my tale beforehand, preferring not to think of the events surrounding Kosminski’s capture. When I told it to Barker during my convalescence, it had been disjointed and brief. In front of a room full of detectives, however, it had to be coherent. Whether it was or not, they tore it apart, asked questions, combed through facts, and pulled inferences from me I hadn’t thought of before. Barker listened and nodded approval.

A phrase from Shakespeare came to me then. It was
Henry V,
unless I miss my guess. This “band of brothers.” I didn’t know these men well, but we had bonded over the teapot and the search for a multiple murderer. I had been an outsider, but was no longer. Looking about the room, I realized I had not been a part of something larger than myself for some time, at least since university. Barker and I were a team, but a very small one. It felt good to be part of a larger entity.

Afterward, the Guv and I were called into Anderson’s office.

“This is the man of the hour,” he said, shaking my hand.

“Hardly that,” I said.

“He’s being modest. We have been questioning the Kosminskis and have gotten signed statements from the brothers to the effect that he had the ability to escape on the nights in question when the unfortunates were killed. It isn’t much, but it is as close to a confession as we will ever get. The youngest brother is hopelessly mad, and can tell us nothing. We even plied him with questions from an interpreter that speaks Yiddish and German.”

“It isn’t that he has no brain function,” I said. “It is like his mind is in a dream world or he is listening only to the voices in his head. He doesn’t seem to care much for the events of the real world.”

“I wonder,” Barker said, “if given his freedom he would ever kill again. Over a period of a few months he went from cutting a throat to eviscerating a woman. There is no way for him to go any further. Does he begin again, or duplicate the last murder?”

“It is academic. This fellow is never getting out again. He shall be locked away for the rest of his days.”

“But there is no plan to announce that Jack the Ripper, or whatever we prefer to call him, has been captured?” I asked.

“No. At some point in the future we may make unofficial mention of it, if the Jews are living in relative safety, but not now. After the Kelly murder, there were several minor attacks upon Jewish businesses. The Kosminskis had a window smashed, though I think it was merely because they were Jewish.”

“Was it Warren’s decision not to notify the public?” Barker asked.

“His and the prime minister’s. The palace and the Home Office were consulted, as well.”

“And Warren is to take the blame for not catching the Ripper, when in fact he has,” I said. “I suppose Munro must be happy.”

“If anything, he is chastened,” Anderson said. “Officially, Warren will take the blame, but unofficially, he’ll become a martyr. Cato throwing himself upon his sword and all that. Munro will not be able to say anything negative about his predecessor.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” I told him.

“And what about you two gentlemen? Shall you return to private work, or would you like to continue on for a while? The positions are still open, and while I cannot promise another case so engrossing, there is always interesting work to be done. That torso in New Scotland Yard, for example. We have determined it was not the work of the Ripper. You could concentrate on that murder this very afternoon, if you like.”

“I cannot speak for the lad, here,” the Guv said. “Any thoughts, Thomas? You decide.”

I looked at him askance. Surely he was not really putting the future of the agency into my hands.

“I’ve certainly found the work interesting, and even stimulating, but I still prefer private work. For one thing, we can pick and choose the cases. The caseload here is relentless.”

Barker gave me no indication whether my decision was the right one or not, but by now, I was well accustomed to flailing in the wind.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Anderson said. “I was looking forward to working together with you both. Thank you for coming to my aid when I was ill. You were the only men in London I could trust to take on the task.”

“Not at all, Robert,” my employer said. “If you need us, remember that we are but one street away.”

We stood and shook his hand. Anderson’s grip was firm and dry. It was good to see him restored to health. Passing down the stair to the ground floor, we found ourselves in the same passage as the first day. Like a jack-in-the-box, the selfsame sergeant stuck his head into the hallway.

“Another cuppa!” he demanded.

Was I still employed, since I was in uniform? I supposed I could make one final cup.

“Coming, sir. Right away,” a voice called from the kitchen. Some poor, luckless fellow was now doomed to make tea here for the rest of the year.

“Don’t call me ‘sir’! I work for a living!”

“Yes, S-Sergeant.”

Barker patted my shoulder and I went to change out of my uniform. Some things don’t matter. Whether I actually did apprehend Jack the Ripper, it didn’t impress the sergeant in charge of the uniforms and equipment.

“Don’t suppose I’ll get much use out of a uniform this size,” he told me. “I couldn’t take it home to the nipper. He’s already outgrown it. I suppose I could dress up a dolly.”

“Or give it to the Guy,” I suggested, referring to the Guy Fawkes dummies that would be burned in effigy.

“Now there’s a thought. P’raps I’ll save it till next November.”

“Sergeant, do you think I could keep the whistle?” I asked. “It got me out of a scrape and has sentimental attachment.”

“You take it,” he said. “I’ve got three dozen in a box under the counter.”

He reached out and took my hand. “Good luck to you, son.”

I pocketed the whistle, then went down the hallway to the Records Room, which PC Kirkwood called his domain.

“The case is over and we’re leaving now,” I said. “I just wanted to say thank you.”

“The pleasure was mine, PC Llewelyn. Or rather, Mr. Llewelyn. If you ever need to look at a file, just let me know, and I’ll see if I can get permission to show it to you.”

“Thank you. That will be very helpful. I’ll see you again soon.”

I’m not much for good-byes. They make me uncomfortable. If I could get out of the building quick enough, I wouldn’t have to shake another bloody hand. I climbed the stairs, where Barker was waiting for me in the corridor, talking to Abberline and Swanson.

“The inspectors have offered to take us across to the Rising Sun and stand us a pint, Thomas.”

“Right. Marvelous,” I said.
Damn and blast.

So, of course, I was forced to recite the entire story again. We sat and ordered pints. Evidently, the rules against drinking on duty didn’t apply to detective chief inspectors.

“I can’t believe we left Kosminski’s record just lying about for you to pick up,” Abberline complained.

“It doesn’t matter who found him, as long as he was found and stopped,” Swanson said.

“Fat lot of good it will do us since we’re not to get credit for it,” Abberline complained.

“Would you rather,” Swanson said, “that the killer’s identity be revealed and we have a full riot in Petticoat Lane?”

“I would. Nothing wrong with pounding the skull of a vigilante every now and again.”

As a rule, we did not touch alcohol before noon, but currently we were not employed. We’d signed our resignations and would receive our wages in due time, and Barker had not yet restarted the agency. We were a couple of chaps on the dole. I looked over at my employer. That is, my former employer. He was munching on a pickled onion from the bar, seemingly without a care.
How soon before he opened the agency again?
I wondered. He didn’t seem in any kind of hurry.

“That must have been a desperate fight, Thomas,” Swanson said.