Ripper Street

Swanson splashed cold water on his face one last time and reached for the towel hanging on its hook, pensively observing his reflection in the mirror. The reflection gazed back, weary and hostile. For the past ten minutes or so he had been using the lavatory as an improvised refuge, but any further delay would look decidedly odd. With a sigh, he finally dried his face and, snatching up the document folder lying beside the washbasin, hurried out into the corridor, heading for his superior's office, which he had somehow managed to escape alive and relatively unscathed a short while ago. The Queen's nocturnal dispatch, sent moreover on her personal stationery rather than the customary Palace Chancellery paper, had caused quite a stir at the Yard, the echoes of which still reverberated through the corridors from the canteen on the upper floor to the mortuary in the basement. In her letter, Her Majesty had deigned to acknowledge the difficult position of the London police and expressed her wish to strengthen their ranks by appointing a new investigator with special powers. And what a strengthening it was! “An occult specialist!” Warren's voice thundered once again just as Swanson had some ten yards left to reach his office. If there was one thing the retired military man was not lacking, it was the power of his vocal cords. Mentally offering up a prayer to the Blessed Virgin, the Chief Inspector drew a breath as if before a plunge into water and threw open the doors, surveying the venue of their customary morning briefing, which now more closely resembled a battlefield. The Scotland Yard Commissioner Charles Warren's weakness for his glorious military past already meant that all their meetings rather resembled parade-ground assemblies, but now, with the floor strewn with shards and scraps of paper, Swanson would not have been in the least surprised to find redoubts and an artillery battery. The only consolation in their situation was that Warren appeared to have stopped smashing vases, though he had done so only because their supply had simply run dry. At least now the Chief Inspector could survey the expanse of his superior's office somewhat more calmly and assess the damage. Besides the Commissioner, standing by a half-open window was Chief Detective Inspector Frederick Abberline — a solidly built man of middle years with dark, deep-set eyes and an eternal bowler hat on his head, which, as Swanson suspected, he used to conceal his incipient baldness. At the present moment the inspector stood half-turned at the open window, smoking a cigarette and radiating what seemed to be absolute serenity, watching the morning fog slowly rise from the Thames, bringing with it the familiar stench — rotting fish, industrial waste, and God knows what else. On the other side of the room, in an armchair by the wall, sat Sir Robert Anderson with the air of a man who preferred to keep his distance from the eye of the storm — a man so thin as to appear sickly, with birdlike features, a long nose, and thin, tightly compressed lips — a reflex particularly common in him during periods when he was obliged to behold his immediate superior. The entire space of the office was flooded with dim morning light that somehow managed to penetrate the grimy windows of Scotland Yard, tinting the walls a sickly yellow and making the room resemble a chamber in an opium den. The resemblance was heightened only by their “chief patient,” who continued his rampage, hands planted on his desk, looming over his surroundings like a menacing shadow at his full and considerable height. The monocle in his right eye glinted furiously with every sharp turn of his head: “An occult specialist!” Warren spat for the seventh time that morning — by Swanson's count. “Her Majesty has seen fit to send us a gypsy woman with a blasted crystal ball!” Robert Anderson, momentarily ceasing to impersonate the shadow on the wall with which he shared both his perpetual silence and his almost monastic black vestments, adjusted his spectacles and remarked quietly: “Technically, Sir Charles, the letter refers to a 'consultant on occult crimes and ritual murders.' It also mentions that this specialist was most highly recommended to Her Majesty by her private secretary, Sir Henry Ponsonby.” “Where on earth did she find him, Swanson?” Warren thundered, noticing the arrival of a new victim. “One may reasonably assume such information is unavailable—” Anderson interjected with Jesuitical intonation and barely concealed self-satisfaction in his voice, not giving the Chief Inspector a chance to formulate his answer. “But I venture to suggest that the Queen has a weakness for mysticism, and Ponsonby is secretly a member of the Quatuor Coronati Masonic Lodge.” “Secretly?” Abberline echoed with a hint of a smile in his voice, momentarily distracted from his contemplation of the view outside. “Even the last mangy cat on Fleet Street knows, of course,” Anderson shrugged. “As far as I'm aware, Sir Henry is quite pragmatic and not inclined toward such mysteries, but as the Queen's secretary he doubtless prefers to keep his finger on the pulse of everything happening in Britain's largest lodges.” “And to collect compromising material on the participants in their orgies,” Swanson snorted, closing the door behind him in a futile attempt to contain the hurricane of the Commissioner's outrage within the bounds of his office. “I did some digging and found everything the archive has on this consultant.” “Report immediately, damn it!” Warren barked, which in his language signified extreme interest and benevolence toward the speaker. “There isn't much to report,” Swanson began, opening the folder he had brought, which contained only a couple of pages of text. “Full name: Edward Corwin Raven. Born in Glastonbury, Somerset. Spent the last two years in the New World, where he consulted for the Pinkerton Agency on a case involving…” — he squinted, reading the fine print of a newspaper clipping — “'ritual murders in the coal mines of Pennsylvania.'“ “I seem to recall that case,” Abberline responded. “The press coverage was rather loud. But if memory serves, the Pinkertons found no 'occult traces' during the investigation?” “Quite so,” Swanson confirmed, still studying the eleven-year-old newspaper clippings. “Irish radicals were found guilty, carrying out vengeance on mine managers and policemen. For added mystification, the ruffians used secret marks and timed murders to coincide with holiday dates. Ordinary cutthroats.“ “A charlatan, then,” Warren pronounced. “A charlatan with a recommendation from Her Majesty's secretary,” Anderson corrected. “Arriving today, incidentally, on the Persia at the Liverpool docks.” “A charlatan who helped solve the case,” Abberline objected, immediately catching the simultaneously displeased glances of both the Commissioner and his assistant — an unprecedented unity of opinion on their part. “Which is already more than we can boast after four corpses and a month of daily searching.” “And what do you propose?” Warren surveyed those present. “We could declare plague on the ship,” Anderson remarked drily, drawing the astonished attention of everyone present. “Keep them in quarantine for a couple of weeks, and after that, quite possibly, this 'specialist' won't want to come ashore himself. Or won't be able to.” Swanson would have been hard-pressed to say how seriously Anderson had made his proposal, but given the Assistant Commissioner's fondness for resorting to “unofficial methods” — rivaled only by his love of the Bible — hearing such a thing from him was hardly surprising. “And you'll personally explain to Her Majesty why her protégé died of cholera or starvation during those weeks?” Abberline inquired with a note of acerbity from the window, then stubbed out his cigarette on the windowsill and turned to face the room. “Gentlemen, allow me to remind you once more — we have four corpses, the city is in a panic, and not a single worthwhile lead, unless you're prepared to chase every shadow on the wall in the shape of Jack the Ripper, reports of which I could measure by the pound. And if Her Majesty wishes to send us tightrope walkers or a trained monkey in a top hat, I confess I'm ready to work with them just the same.” “Five corpses, if you count Tabram,“ Swanson corrected pedantically. “Tabram wasn't him,” Abberline waved dismissively. “Not his style, too crude, and besides…” A knock at the door prevented him from finishing his thought. The constable who entered immediately snapped to attention and hastened to report: “Sir! A gentleman who introduced himself as Mr. Raven is waiting in the reception hall downstairs with the duty shift. Arrived half an hour ago.” Warren, stunned by the unexpected news, froze: “Half an hour ago? The ship wasn't due until noon!” “Quite so, sir. The gentleman stated he disembarked at Dover and arrived in London on the night train. He has letters of introduction addressed to the Commissioner and a large leather trunk with him.”

***

Following the hastily concluded meeting, it was decided that Abberline and Anderson would go down together to meet the newly arrived consultant, the chief annoyance of which for the senior detective was the necessity of enduring the Assistant Commissioner's company for longer than the strictly allotted minimum. On ordinary days, Abberline tried to cross paths with this zealous follower of the Jesuits as seldom as his official duties allowed, but now he would hardly be able to avoid contact with Anderson, since it was already clear that under the new circumstances the Commissioner would take to demanding daily reports not only on the progress of the Ripper investigation but also on the movements of Raven, who, like it or not, would be Frederick Abberline's responsibility. Lost in these reflections, the detective managed to while away the journey to the Yard's reception area and did not even notice when he found himself meeting the gaze of the subject of his musings. Edward Raven had somehow managed to lounge comfortably on one of the benches provided for visitors, a feat that rather astonished Abberline, who had believed nothing could be less comfortable than the crookedly assembled and poorly planed wooden menace in the Yard's reception hall. Raven himself proved to be a man of about thirty-five, dressed with that studied negligence which betrays either a true gentleman or a confidence trickster of the highest order. His dark hair was arranged in an impeccable parting, his nose bore a pair of tinted spectacles in the American fashion with gold frames, and his smile was so polite it bordered on mockery, with which he watched the approaching policemen while languidly swaying his right hand, which rested on his travelling case. Edward wore no hat, yet still greeted his interlocutors by tipping an imaginary bowler: “Gentlemen,” he rose at their approach with a dancer's grace. “Something tells me I've been expecting precisely you. I hope my untimely arrival hasn't caused any trouble.” “It would be strange indeed for us to fault anyone for wishing to assist the police in identifying the Ripper,” Abberline responded diplomatically, extending his hand first for a handshake. “Frederick Abberline, Chief Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard, at your service.” “Robert Anderson, Assistant to Commissioner Warren.” “I am exceedingly pleased to make your acquaintance,” said the newly arrived consultant, having assessed the handshakes of both men — the first firm and slightly guarded, the second limp and sluggish — then assumed a somewhat theatrical pose and hastened to take charge of the conversation: “Allow me to introduce myself: full name Edward Corwin Raven, native of Glastonbury, specialist in black magic, cults, and occult murders. Although I daresay you already know all this about me and have even formed an opinion on the matter. Am I right?” “I confess,” Anderson interjected quietly into the expert consultant's monologue, “such an unusual choice of profession is highly atypical for a well-bred Christian. You are a Christian of course?” “I am, shall we say, an interested observer,” Raven replied readily, watching the Assistant Commissioner's reaction with curiosity. “A sceptic, then,” the other concluded dismissively. “Not at all. I am quite confident in the existence of God — more than one even. What causes me far greater doubt is the possibility of the existence of saints.” “Gentlemen, let us not make this personal,” Abberline hastened to intervene, seeing that his colleague was about to explode or, worse still, launch into a Sermon on the Mount. “We are all in the same boat here, and as I said before, I personally am prepared to accept any help if it ultimately enables us to catch the murderer.” “I shall, without any doubt, render my full assistance to the Scotland Yard police,” Raven declared, for the first time without playful intonations in his voice. “And let us be clear about one thing, gentlemen. I will say at once that I do not engage in anything that feeble and uneducated minds might take for magic; I do not summon ancestral spirits, nor am I capable of exchanging a few words with your late grandmother at a séance. What I do know, and know well, is how to recognise madmen who believe they practise magic. I know what rules and rituals they follow and what mistakes they make most often.” “So,” Abberline said with interest, “in the Pinkerton case you weren't trying to find traces of sorcery?” “I endeavoured to prove their absence,” Raven confirmed. “And, as you are doubtless aware, I succeeded brilliantly, sending twenty cutthroats to the gallows.” “Would you be so good as to tell us where a respectable gentleman might learn such a rare profession as yours? I don't recall anything of the sort being taught at the universities of London or Cambridge,” Anderson nevertheless inserted his barb. “I grew up in a region where nearly every other person considers himself a descendant of the Druids or a guardian of the Holy Grail. Try living among such a lot, and you will very quickly learn to distinguish the lunatics and charlatans of every stripe. I did not have the opportunity to study at Oxford, but my family was on close terms with Professor Max Müller there, from whom I learned a great deal about comparative mythology and the behaviour of fanatics. Later, when my family moved to France in pursuit of a better life, I worked for some time with the Paris Prefecture as a consultant on unsolved crimes and participated in the case of the Satanists of Rue de Vaugirard. There I also became acquainted with the methods of Monsieur Bertillon, which struck me as most promising. But if you want a list of my official credentials,” Raven spread his hands, “I'm afraid I can hardly boast of achievements in the field of academic education.” “A most impressive background nonetheless,” Abberline noted, making a mental note to search the archive records for any mention of the events and persons the consultant had described. “ Might I then ask what you will require in order to join the investigation? Incidentally, have you found lodgings yet?” “Alas,” Raven replied carelessly, “the preparations were exceedingly rushed, and I haven't had a home in London for quite some time now, so at present all my worldly possessions in the city consist of my trunk and the letters with which Sir Henry Ponsonby furnished me through his courier.” “In that case, perhaps you would find it convenient to take up residence in a departmental flat?” Anderson proposed unexpectedly. “The comfort leaves something to be desired, but it's not far from the Yard, and you could move in immediately.” “That sounds splendid! As for comfort, if there's a bed, a pub nearby, and I needn't walk a couple of miles to answer nature's call — consider all my domestic needs fully satisfied,” Raven smiled amiably. “Excellent, I shall make the arrangements immediately. I say, Mitchell,” the Assistant Commissioner waved his hand, attracting the attention of a constable standing nearby, “get us the keys to some vacant flat and a police carriage.” “Much obliged,” the consultant approved, and immediately switched to a far more businesslike tone. “From tomorrow I should like to begin examining the available evidence. I take it there's no possibility of examining the bodies?” “The bodies of the deceased have been committed to the earth, as Christian morality demands,” Anderson replied stiffly, displeased by the unexpected forwardness of his interlocutor. “Of course,” Raven confirmed without a trace of irony in his voice. “It is precisely this, rather than the capture of the murderer, that morality demands of us. In that case, what do you have at your disposal?” “You will have the opportunity to examine all the physical evidence and photographic images of the crime scenes.” “Now that's more interesting, gentlemen.” Raven clapped his hands together like a man who had just won a particularly good hand of poker. “In that case, with your permission, I shall spend today settling in and studying the materials to better understand the situation. I am particularly interested in details that you or the coroner deemed insignificant.” “Insignificant?” Anderson raised an eyebrow. “Symbols on walls that were taken for bloodstains, objects carelessly left at crime scenes, testimony from drunkards about 'devilry' that is typically ignored by patrol officers.” Raven drew a notebook in a leather binding from his inner pocket and began consulting his notes. “Believe me, gentlemen, madmen who fancy themselves sorcerers adore leaving signs and often passionately desire to be caught — one simply needs to know where to look. But for now, the examination reports, witness statements, and medical findings will suffice. It would be splendid if they could be delivered to my lodgings. I often stay up late and wouldn't mind spending the evening productively.” Abberline and Anderson exchanged glances. “The files are in the office of Chief Inspector Swanson,” the detective said after a momentary hesitation. “But they are classified. The Commissioner's authorisation will be required.” “Which you already have, do you not?” Raven's smile became almost genuine. “Otherwise, you wouldn't have troubled yourselves to meet me in person.” “I expect that won't be a problem,” Anderson replied sourly. “Some documents are not permitted to leave the Yard, but we shall be able to provide you with certain materials. A messenger will deliver everything necessary within a few hours.” “Excellent. In that case, all other details can be discussed tomorrow with this Swanson of yours. Shall we say ten o'clock?” “Sir, the carriage is ready,” announced the constable who had approached their group, saluting Anderson and cutting him off mid-sentence. “Here are the keys you requested. The flat at 73 Baker Street is currently unoccupied.” “Oh, how convenient. Almost next door to the fictional detective,” Raven brightened and reached for the keys. “I hope the landlady is less intrusive than Mrs. Hudson?” Abberline blinked: “You read The Strand?” “Guilty as charged. I'm fond of detective stories.” “Well then, so be it,” the Assistant Commissioner stated with a heavy sigh, cutting short the idle chatter and shaking the proffered hand once more. “Until we meet again!” “Good day, gentlemen!” The consultant, deftly hefting his trunk and jingling the keys he had been given to some tune known only to himself, swiftly departed, leaving the detective and the Assistant Commissioner alone with each other and their thoughts. “A departmental flat?” Abberline broke the ensuing silence with a note of curiosity regarding Anderson's unexpected altruism. “At least he'll be under observation,” the other waved dismissively. “I'm wondering whether we can confirm even part of the story he's told us.” “I'll look through the newspaper archives — something might turn up,” the detective suggested. “To be thorough, of course, we ought to send inquiries to the Pinkerton Agency and the Paris gendarmerie, but then we'd have to ask our Ripper very, very nicely to sit tight for a month or two while we wait for replies. But I think I can arrange a messenger to Oxford.” “Do be so kind, Frederick,” Anderson agreed with a touch of spite. “Lest this popinjay do your job faster than you?” “I see nothing wrong with catching the murderer, even if I'm not the one to do it. In the worst case, if he proves useless, we'll have lost only a couple of days. A small sacrifice, considering we've been treading water for a month…” Abberline parried. “Well then, I'll go give Swanson and Phillips the good news that they're to expect visitors tomorrow.“