Anatomy of Evil (8 page)

“Keating’s Bug Powder?” I asked, reading the label.

“It’s mostly boric acid. I bought it earlier. Spoon it along the walls and a little between the sheets of the beds. I have no wish to share mine with bedbugs and cockroaches.”

“As long as we’re going first class,” I said.

“That’s the pity of it, lad. In Whitechapel, this
is
first class.”

I looked about. The wallpaper was old and yellowed, unless that was their original color, and there were two single beds, a desk, and a large chest of drawers that might be as old as the building. A window faced the dreary street, but it was better than no window at all. When I first came to London, I had stayed in worse than this. I set to work, armed with my trusty spoon. It felt like I was preparing for some sort of unholy ritual: stay inside the circle and you will be safe.

“So, this is where you went today,” I said by way of conversation.

“Aye,” he growled. “One cannot catch criminals from an armchair in Charing Cross. We shall spend the next few hours observing where the people congregate at night, what they do, and how they live. I’m given to understand that Mary Nichols drank in the room below us just prior to getting her throat cut.”

“So you did not simply pull the name out of a hat.”

“A hat?”

Having spent half his life in China, Cyrus Barker sometimes misses common idioms.

“A conjurer’s trick,” I explained.

“Ah. No, if you recall, this was mentioned in her report.”

I tried to recall the mention, but I had read a lot of information that day.

“Are you finished?”

“Almost.”

I pulled back the covers of the first bed and sprinkled more Keating’s Bug Powder onto the sheets. I did the same with the second.

“What about a change of clothes, sir? Should I call Mac on the telephone set in the morning and have him bring a steamer trunk?”

“No, in the morning, we shall purchase clothing in Petticoat Lane.”

“The booths won’t be set up until Sunday, sir.”

“No, but the permanent shops will still be open. A half-dozen boiled shirts and some twice-turned trousers should allow us to blend into this crowd without being noticed.”

“If you say so.”

Between the bed and the bug powder and the thought of wearing someone else’s trousers, my limbs were beginning to itch.

“How long will we be out, would you say? A couple of hours?”

“Oh, Thomas, the district doesn’t fully waken until after midnight.”

“But I have work in the morning!”

“That cannot be helped. Strong tea must stand in place of a few hours’ rest.”

“What about washing?”

“There is a public bath a few streets away.”

At least I could take comfort in the knowledge that his needs were taken care of.

“What will Etienne say?” I asked. “You know how he gets.”

Etienne Dummolard used Barker’s kitchen to prepare our breakfast and experiment on recipes for his restaurant, Le Toison d’Or. He was temperamental and would pack his equipment and leave at the slightest provocation, such as our disappearing without notice and interrupting his routine.

“Coddling only makes him worse. He should relish not having us underfoot and catering to our needs.”

“Oh, come,” I said. “Etienne hasn’t catered to a need in his life.”

“Just so,” Barker muttered.

“What about the W.C.? I don’t suppose—”

“There is a privy out back.”

“Wonderful. Have you tried the food here?”

“I thought it best to wait until you arrived. Your palate is more sensitive than mine. Shall we go downstairs and try it now?”

As it turned out, there was a red-faced cook in her sixties who ran the kitchen and was known in the East End as an excellent cook. True to the name of the establishment, she had a half-dozen seasoned frying pans on the old Aga that continually fried potatoes, mushrooms, cutlets, tomatoes, fish, and vegetables. It was solid English food in which black pepper was considered an exotic spice, but there was plenty of it, to be washed down with ale or tea. I would have dearly liked something to complain about, but could find nothing. The poor old thing stood on her pins and cooked for sixteen hours straight every day without complaint. Those pans were well seasoned, indeed. I bet they stayed red hot for hours.

After we ate, we began our second foray into the streets of Whitechapel. My first surprise was that at least half of it was as clean, well settled, and orderly as the City of London a few streets away. This, most likely, was the Jewish influence. Wherever they went on the earth, they brought with them civilization, orthodoxy, cleanliness, and order. Despite the fact that they were packed like sardines in a can, they worked hard to prosper and move out of the area, leaving it in far better condition than when they found it.

“Do you see that church there?” the Guv asked, indicating a spire that stood tall in the night. “That is St. Mary Matfelon. It is the original white chapel from which the district gets its name.”

“What are all those funnels, putting out black fumes?” I asked, pointing to a row of chimneys to the north.

“Sugar refineries. The tall one there belongs to a match manufacturer, which gives the area its sulphurous odor. Then there’s a lot of tanning that goes on by the stockyards, and the fish markets over at Billingsgate.”

“No wonder the place smells the way it does. What are the more dangerous sections of Whitechapel, the ones we’ll be interesting ourselves in?”

“You’ve already seen Buck’s Row and Hanbury Street. There’s Flower and Dean Street, the worst row of tenements in all Britain; and Fashion Street, where even the most hale of police constables will not tread alone, and Wentworth Street, which flows into Petticoat Lane. The navy warns their sailors to avoid that street, and that is saying something. It isn’t merely the brothels and fallen women. There are sellers of pornography, counterfeiters, pickpockets, white slavers, gamblers, and rampsmen. Why break your back for twelve hours a day, the residents reason, when you can beat a man into unconsciousness in five minutes and steal his watch and wallet? They seek to avoid Adam’s Curse, laboring with the sweat of one’s brow.”

“Sir, what sort of man consorts with prostitutes? I mean, are they local or do they travel here from other districts?”

“I would imagine most would be local, with the occasional wealthy man who comes to take in the prurient sights of the East End. There are brothels all over London, even in respectable streets, and those who would temporarily leave their wife’s side to indulge in depravity must surely know where they are. To come here may be the most dangerous gamble of all. Women like the two who died, those who only occasionally walk the streets, are not examined for the diseases spread by their occupation, which I’m sure you know are untreatable and end horrifically. One is truly gambling with one’s own life. But then, that might be part of the attraction.”

“Do you think the killer’s presence will curtail some of the activity in the area?”

“Not in the least. Do you think you and Israel were the only ones to take in the sights last night? I imagine that most men who came to Whitechapel were not as particular as the two of you, and ended the evening in the pubs and brothels. I should warn you, however, that those who come exploring without truly knowing what they’re getting themselves into frequently wake up in an alleyway clad in their underdrawers, their possessions gone in six directions. Don’t bring anything that cannot be easily replaced. In fact, I think it best if I carry the wallet while we are in Whitechapel. Not because you are incapable of defending yourself, but rather because if someone sees you with it, there will be several attempts to liberate it from you simply because you do not appear to be a threat. Few would dare approach me.”

I was loath to part with the wallet because with it came a certain amount of independence. Now I would have to ask permission for every purchase I made. However, I saw the sense in what he was saying and reluctantly tendered it into his care.

A game of rounder was taking place in a dead-end alley, its young players paying little heed that catching the ball required running into traffic. It was already growing dark here, but what else did the youth have to do at night? They made paper flowers their mothers sold the next day or practiced picking pockets or worked at situations that children should not in order to feed their families.

“Look at them,” Barker said. “They are already seasoned by hardship and cynical. The adult men are either feverish for making money or have given up and only care for their personal pleasures. Their wives—common law only, you understand—are either bowed down by woe and strife, or have become harridans, fighting to survive. Either way, they look ten years older than their husbands.”

As we walked we came upon a group of young people walking, perhaps five years younger than I. One of the girls upended a bottle of what I took to be gin down her throat, finishing it before simply letting it shatter on the curb. This was no place to take pride in, so there was no attempt to keep it clean.

Nearby, there was a group of women sitting in the gutter, having a discussion. They weren’t drunken or of low repute, they were what passed for respectable women here, but with no money for tea rooms and no parks in which to sit, they stooped in their cobblestone gardens and mended their husbands’ shirts or darned his socks while passing the time of day. Perhaps for five minutes they could forget that they lived in the worst part of London.

“I’m very lucky,” I told my employer. “If you hadn’t hired me, I’d be living in streets like this. Thank you for taking a chance on a failed scholar with a record. Most wouldn’t.”

Barker nodded. He’s not an emotional man, or if he is, he controls it tightly within himself. He, too, had seen hardship and loss and like the people here had learned hard lessons: no one will show you sympathy. Keep yourself in check. Don’t display emotion, it will only get you in trouble. Don’t speak until spoken to. Think before you speak. Keep a constant vigil in every direction for danger. This is the catechism of Whitechapel.

East London was much darker than West London. The gaslights were farther apart, and many shops shut down early and were locked tight. The darkness was palpable. I could stand in front of an alleyway and not see a man standing therein, though he be but three feet away from me. It made the streets seem ever more dangerous. A hand could come out of the darkness, armed with a razor, and one would be cut before one even knew what was happening.

“This isn’t the lark you had with your friend the other night, is it?” my employer asked.

“No, sir.”

“Where are we?” he asked. He knew, but was testing me.

“Dorset Street.” We had just passed under the sign.

“Come with me.”

He seized me by the arm and let me into one of the tenements. Inside, the halls smelled of cabbage and mold. Somewhere above us a couple was having a row and a child was crying. We passed down the hall and turned into another, parallel with the street. We were heading east. I like knowing my bearings and what direction I’m facing at all times. The Guv kicked open a sprung door and we passed across a small court with raw sewage running down the middle, until we passed under an arch and were in Dorset Street again.

“I’d like to obtain a map, sir, so I can memorize the streets,” I said.

“I’ll get one for you tomorrow. There is a test that all London cabmen must undertake before receiving his badge. He must know every street in London. It would not harm you to study for such a test yourself.”

“Yes, sir,” I replied.

It was an unusual occupation in which I found myself employed. Some information is generally helpful, such as how to shoot a gun, or defend oneself, to know the streets, and the signs about a person that reveal criminal activity, or to understand the cant, which is criminal slang. I now knew dozens of things that were only useful in our work, or perhaps that of a barrister.

We had just stepped into Dorset Street when we were accosted. A constable noticed us and without a word laid a hand on Barker’s shoulder and jabbed the tip of his truncheon into the Guv’s side, where it thumped against the gun and holster there. He was a gray-mustached veteran and must have noticed the telltale bulge in my employer’s coat.

“What’s this, then?” the officer demanded.

“What you think it is,” Barker replied.

“None of your lip, you. Open your coat slowly.”

Barker complied. He was carrying two revolvers in holsters under his arms. They were .44 Colts, manufactured for the American firm right there in London.

“We are special officers, working for Robert Anderson,” he explained.

“Got any proof of that, sir?’

“I do, but isn’t ‘H’ Division a few streets away? We’re heading there now. Have you time to accompany us?”

“I believe I will. Do you mind if I ask you to give me those barking irons you’re carrying?”

“No, Constable, I don’t mind at all.”

“Will you surrender them to me, sir?”

“No, Constable, I will not.”

“I see. Might I have your name, please?”

“Certainly. It is Barker,” the Guv said. “Special Inspector Cyrus Barker.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

We were marched down to the Commercial Road Station, “H” Division, and questioned thoroughly. It was just the sort of situation that would have made me anxious in my younger days as an enquiry agent. They read our papers and then asked us a battery of questions, first separately, then together. Any discrepancies were gone over numerous times, trying to break us down, and there was the obvious suggestion that we be placed in the cells overnight until our bona fides could be established. At one point the head inspector demanded to know why Anderson was sending hired spies into his district. It was bad enough with the City Police and the Home Office trying to take a slice of the pie. I’d have felt sorry for him if he hadn’t been so difficult about it. An hour later, he had finally tired of toying with us and let us go. We had successfully introduced ourselves at “H” Division. Barker and I shrugged our shoulders and went on about our business. It’s best to be philosophical about these things, I’ve found.