Ripper Street

The carriage arrived at Whitechapel Hospital after approximately half an hour's journey, depositing Raven and Abberline, who had joined him, before the wrought-iron gates before hastily rolling away around the corner and vanishing into the fog. The detective had intercepted the procession — consisting of their vociferous occult specialist and an unusually jittery Swanson — on their way out of the Yard, intending to impose his company upon them and personally observe the actions of their new consultant. The telegram he had composed that morning addressed to Professor Müller, which might shed light on Raven's murky biography, now lay in his jacket's inner pocket, awaiting an opportunity to be sent. To his surprise, the Chief Inspector not only welcomed the uninvited company but immediately delegated the task of escorting Raven to his destination to Abberline, hastily departing to his own workplace to dig through his paper mountains. Slightly puzzled by this behaviour, the detective made a mental note to extract the details later and hailed a police cab. The mortuary attached to Whitechapel Hospital was located in the basement of the main building, reached by a narrow stone staircase that made getting there alive an extremely hazardous undertaking. Even on the approach, a characteristic smell assaulted the nose — a mixture of carbolic acid, formaldehyde, and that indescribably distinctive sweetish odour that no chemicals could mask. Abberline had always loathed this place, which evoked in him a sense of melancholy and utter hopelessness so unsuited to somewhere people were supposed to come for healing. Dr. Phillips was an elderly gentleman with grey side-whiskers, impeccably dressed even in this grim setting. He met them at the entrance to his office — more of a cubbyhole with a single small window near the ceiling, situated slightly apart from the autopsy room: “Detective, good to see you. And you must be the specialist from America?” “Edward Raven, at your service.” “Well then, welcome to my humble kingdom. I'm afraid there isn't much to show you — the bodies were interred long ago. But I've kept detailed sketches and, of course, the photographic images of the last victim.” They proceeded deeper into the room, where documents, drawings, and two black-and-white photographs were laid out on metal tables. Near the far wall, a young man in a stained apron was washing surgical instruments. “Ah, Stanley!” Phillips called to him. “Come, meet our visitors. This is Dr. Stanley, my… assistant, one might say. He volunteered to help when this whole Ripper business began.” The young doctor turned and awkwardly wiped his hands on his apron. He was a thin man of about forty with pale skin and deep-set eyes. Abberline noted a slight tremor in his hands. “Dr. Stanley practises in Whitechapel,” Phillips continued with a note of paternal pride in his voice. “He helps the local poor. When the murders started, he offered his assistance. I confess I was glad of an extra pair of qualified hands.” “Most noble of you,” Raven remarked, studying Stanley intently. “I… I just wanted to help,” the other replied hollowly and hurried back to his instruments. “With your permission, I'll finish the preparations in the nurses' station, Doctor.” “Yes, my boy, off you go.” Phillips watched his assistant's retreating back and turned to his visitors. “I'm at your service, gentlemen.” “Well then, let us begin.” Raven snatched up a magnifying glass lying on one of the tables and approached the materials arranged in neat rows, bending over the images of the crime scene. “Hmm… Curious. Come closer, Doctor — I shall need your professional opinion.” “What do you hope to find?” Abberline enquired, deciding the invitation applied to him as well and reluctantly examining the sketches and reports he had already seen. He had spent so much time studying them that he could recall most of them without looking. “I'll tell you when I see it…” Raven examined the photographs inch by inch with a thoroughness and interest they scarcely deserved. On the blurry black-and-white image one could make out part of the head, the right leg, and the right arm of the murdered woman. The rest of the photograph was smeared and hopelessly overexposed — evidently the photographer's hands had been shaking badly. “I assume these photos weren't taken by a police photographer?” “Alas, no,” Abberline shook his head. “The photographer was one of the correspondents who broke through the cordon. He was seized while trying to get back out, and the photographs were confiscated and sent to be developed.” “You'd have done better to let him finish,” Raven snorted, turning his attention to the second — and last — photograph. In it, the unknown photographer had managed to capture a close-up of a woman's left eye — and nothing more. “And what's this supposed to be?” Abberline, stepping closer to the table, merely sighed heavily: “According to that journalist, they were trying to capture an 'optogram,' hoping to see Jack's face in the victim's pupil.” “Ah, competitors!” the 'occult practices' specialist smirked. “Well, that was supremely useless. Let's hope we have better luck with the rest.” Besides the photographs, Dr. Phillips's archive could boast several dozen sketches and pencil drawings depicting the splayed body of forty-six-year-old Catherine Eddowes. The drawings showed in detail the multiple wounds on the woman's body: a deep incision to the throat, facial injuries including cuts to the eyelids and nose, as well as extensive damage to the abdominal cavity. In some images the artist had even taken the trouble to capture the surrounding scene: in the background, the high brick walls of the warehouses forming the south-eastern corner of the square where the body was found were visible. On the cobblestone pavement, dark stains could be seen between the stones — traces of blood already absorbed into the soil. In the corner of the drawing, a few strokes indicated a gas lamp on an iron bracket and the wooden gates of the Kealy and Tonge warehouse. “Who was the artist?” Raven enquired without looking up from his examination. “The wound diagrams were done by me,” Phillips replied immediately. “I tried to convey the nature of the injuries with maximum precision. Those from the murder scene were done by a police artist brought in for the purpose.” “A creative soul. I see he was more absorbed by artistic expression than by facts,” the consultant grunted. “But your work is most commendable, Doctor. Tell me, how would you characterise the wounds to the abdominal area?” “Hmm,” Phillips, flushing at the praise, hesitated for a moment, searching for words. “An extensive incision from the xiphoid process to the pubic symphysis. Deep, made in a single stroke. Then several transverse cuts, less confident. The intestines were extracted and… er… placed over the victim's right shoulder. Part of the omentum was cut off and placed between the body and the left arm.” “And the organs?” “The uterus and left kidney were completely removed. The kidney was extracted with part of the renal artery — that requires certain anatomical knowledge. The right kidney was left untouched.” “How long would such… work have taken?” “Fifteen minutes, at the very least. In good light. In calm conditions. And that's assuming surgical experience. In the dark, on the street, in haste… Either our killer possesses exceptional skill, or he was simply devilishly lucky not to damage other organs during the extraction.” Nodding vaguely, Edward immersed himself once more in studying the papers, whereupon complete silence reigned in the mortuary for a good three minutes, broken only by Phillips's heavy breathing and Abberline's impatient pacing. “Well, what do you say?” the detective finally burst out. “Found anything?” “Possibly. Here's what troubles me, Abberline.” Raven brought together three sketches showing schematic representations of the body, adding the overexposed photograph to them, then stepped back, letting the doctor and detective through. “Take a look at this and tell me what you think.” “Hmm, I doubt I can add anything to what you've already read in the reports,” the detective conceded. “Have we missed something?” “Allow me to demonstrate. You see these wounds?” Raven flew back to the table in excitement, pointing at the image. “They were inflicted sharply, haphazardly, as if the killer was acting in a state of frenzy. His hand was shaking, the cuts are uneven, some are clearly repeated — he missed and struck again. Now look here,” he pointed to another drawing showing the opened abdominal cavity. “The incision, as the doctor just confirmed, is absolutely precise, surgical even. Whoever did this was fully in control of himself and knew exactly what he was looking for.” “ You don’t mean—” Phillips stepped back in astonishment, stunned by both the consultant's forcefulness and his unexpected conclusion, “that there might have been two men?” His thought was interrupted by an unexpected crash from the direction of the entrance. The doctor's assistant, entering the room, had managed to trip and scatter a heap of forceps, scalpels, clamps, and other medical implements across the floor. “Good heavens, Stanley, are you all right?” Phillips hurried to help his protégé, forgetting everything else at once. “I b-beg your pardon,” his colleague stammered, crawling about on the floor and trying to gather all the instruments he had scattered back onto the tray. “I appear to have tripped over my own foot. Now I'll have to sterilise everything again.” “You're completely out of sorts today, my friend! All this will have to be done over! Gentlemen,” Phillips turned to address the detective and his companion, “might I leave you briefly? I need to prepare for an operation, and here… well, you see.” “Of course,” Raven nodded, barely perceptibly rolling his eyes. “Thank you for your time.” Having waited for both Phillips and Stanley to withdraw, he merely shook his head: “I don't envy whoever ends up on their operating table today.” Abberline, barely suppressing a smile, enquired: “You find Phillips incompetent?” “I find everyone so who is paid for being present at their workplace rather than for results,” Edward waved dismissively. “Start paying doctors by the number of patients who recover under their care — then we can talk about competence. What's more interesting is this… Don't you find it strange to have volunteers of this sort in close proximity to police reports? Where did this Stanley even come from?” “Yes, a nervous sort. Though in his position that's hardly surprising. Imagine — voluntarily dealing with mutilated bodies.” Abberline shook his head. “What about Phillips's idea of two killers? Truth to be told that hadn't occurred to me.” Raven grunted and picked up the photograph that had been troubling him: “I quite allow for the existence of at least two lunatics in London,” he paused theatrically. “But no, I remain entirely convinced that all the recent murders are the work of the same hands. The depth of the cut, the angle of the knife, the direction of the blows — everything points to it. It's just…” “Just?” “I'm not sure about their owner.” “Explain?” “I can't.” Raven spread his hands and smiled disarmingly. “Call it intuition. What would you say to visiting the site of the last murder? The rain and street bustle have surely disposed of all possible evidence, but I'd still like to have a look around.” “Why not?” Abberline shrugged, but couldn't resist one more question: “Satisfy my curiosity — where does a specialist of your profession acquire such medical knowledge?” Raven laughed quite genuinely: “Cultists, Detective. These fellas love their knives!”

***

On their way out of the hospital grounds they encountered Phillips again, just emerging from the nurses' station — a low building set apart from the main hospital. Through the open doors the detective, walking slightly ahead, glimpsed a fairly spacious room lined with ceramic tiles yellowed with age and filled with stretchers and wheelchairs. From inside came the splash of water and metallic clinking — apparently Phillips had just finished dealing with the catastrophe his subordinate had created. “Ah, done already, detectives?” the breathless doctor hurried to meet the men. “Is there anything else I can help you with?” “I think we have more than enough information,” Abberline reassured him, catching a glimpse of Raven walking behind him 'discreetly' slipping the photographs he had borrowed from the mortuary into his jacket pocket. “Only… Tell me, how long has this assistant of yours been working with you?” “Oh, Stanley is a special case. He appeared shortly after the second murder. Said he knew some of the… women. As a doctor, of course. Wanted to help find the killer. He has a small practice on Dorset Street, he… helps fallen women with their particular problems.” “He performs abortions,” Abberline said bluntly. “If one must be crude about it — yes. But someone has to help those wretched creatures.” Phillips looked anxiously at the detective. “I hope the police don't suspect him? I remind you, Frederick, that over the past month you've personally checked every doctor in Whitechapel, and the Royal College of Surgeons has vouched for every one of its graduates!” “Nothing of the sort, dear Doctor!” Raven, having caught up with the detective, took his arm and insistently steered him toward the exit. “Come, colleague, let us not embarrass the worthy physician with our paranoia!” And he added so that only Abberline could hear: “Otherwise he might stab someone with a scalpel out of sheer distress — and no Ripper will be needed.” Having bid farewell to Phillips, they walked to the gates, after which the detective was finally able to give himself up to hearty laughter: “You're impossible, Raven!” Having had his laugh, Frederick waved his hand to summon a cab standing nearby and enquired as if in passing: “By the way, what papers did you take from Phillips?” “Oh, these? A couple of sketches from the murder scene. I want to compare them with the actual location and see whether your staff artist can be trusted.” Having climbed into the approaching carriage first, Raven pulled out his notebook and, half-listening to Abberline negotiating with the driver, began recording all the information they had gathered. A few minutes later his notes had acquired a portrait sketch of the doctor and his assistant, quotations from Phillips's medical reports, the phrase “two killers” — immediately crossed out — and the strange words “Two different approaches?” “Or two different demons,” he muttered under his breath. “I beg your pardon?” Abberline asked. “Nothing important, Inspector. Just thinking aloud.”

***

The cab stopped at the entrance to Mitre Square — a small plaza hemmed in by high brick walls of warehouses and offices. Even in daylight it was gloomy here, and the narrow passages created the sensation of a mousetrap snapping shut. “The body was found right here,” Abberline closed the cab door and, holding his bowler hat with one hand, pointed with the other toward the far corner of the square. “Constable Watkins discovered her at 1:45 a.m. Fifteen minutes before that, Constable Harvey had passed through here — saw nothing.” “Fifteen minutes,” Raven repeated thoughtfully, having jumped down after the detective. “And in that time the killer managed to kill, eviscerate, take the organs, and vanish. Impressive.” He squatted down where the body had been found, passing his hand over the cobblestones. “The blood was washed away long ago?” “Three weeks back. The rain did the rest.” The consultant nodded and, rising to his full height, reached into his jacket pocket. Taking out the drawing he had borrowed from Phillips's archive, he unfolded the paper and began backing away, trying to align the drawn lines with reality: “There it is!” Having found the right angle, he waved with his free hand, beckoning the detective. “You see these stains? They're not random and are positioned slightly away from the body. One could, of course, interview the artist to be sure, but I'm more than certain he drew everything correctly, which means the killer most likely made them deliberately.” “And what does that imply?” Abberline asked. “I'm ready to wager that Jack drew something with the victim's blood. Perhaps he first made a small pool of blood and then traced the symbol he needed over it. Ingenious in its way — such inscriptions would blur almost immediately, and no one would notice anything. Except for the blood itself, of course, but that would hardly surprise anyone given the circumstances. Incidentally, it would explain the business with the removed organs.” “A diversion?” the detective suggested, deciding for a moment to set aside his scepticism about any possible mystical element and give his imagination free rein. “There really was a great deal of blood. Making inscriptions of the sort you describe really wouldn't have been difficult, and afterwards…” “Create a reason for the police and journalists to look the other way,” Raven finished the thought. “I understand my theory suffers from a lack of obvious evidence in its favour, but I expect to obtain such tomorrow. If you like, you may join me.” “Building suspense, are we, Mr. Consultant? Still, I'm entirely at your disposal. By the way,” Abberline hesitated and even glanced around, making sure no passers-by were eavesdropping, “you're already aware that the killer left another message?” “I guessed as much,” Edward confirmed. “Somewhere close by, I take it?” “In the doorway of a residential building a couple of streets from here,” the detective confirmed. “Come, I'll show you.” The journey to the location proved short indeed. After several turns through grimy back alleys, Abberline finally stopped on Goulston Street beside number 108, which looked like dozens of others in the area — shabby, filthy, reeking of urine and fermented cabbage. Heading for the entrance, the detective pulled the warped door toward him and ducked inside, motioning for Raven to follow. “Here,” once inside, Abberline pointed at one of the hallway walls, which looked slightly cleaner than the rest. “An inscription in chalk at a height of about five feet. 'The Juwes are the men that will not be blamed for nothing!'“ the detective quoted from memory. “Along with the inscription they found a piece of poor Eddowes's apron, covered in blood. On the Commissioner's orders, everything was cleaned before the journalists arrived.” “How convenient,” Raven grumbled, wrinkling his nose at the pervasive stench and surveying the wall without interest. “For added plausibility, the killer should have left a piece of matzo and a family Star of David right here as well.” “You think it's a fake? The Ripper trying to divert suspicion from himself?” “Or create a commotion… Although I doubt this was even Jack's doing. The inscription, besides being meaningless in itself, is remarkably illiterate — doesn't fit Jack's profile at all. And as I've said, Detective, London surely has more than one lunatic. Especially now, when all it takes to start riots is some trifling thing — there'll be no shortage of those wanting to set fire to this powder keg.” “Good God, let's get some air,” Abberline finally surrendered and, without waiting for his companion's agreement, hurried toward the exit. “Phew!” Once outside, he was able to catch his breath somewhat and wait for Raven to join him. “It's hardly better out here,” the other commented, though he hadn't lingered in the hallway any longer than the detective. “In any case, washing away all the traces was, I think, the best course of action. I doubt we'd have found anything valuable here.” “I shall certainly convey your approval to Sir Charles.” Abberline scanned the street in search of another cab. “What are your further plans? I need to stop by the post office and then back to the Yard. Warren will surely interrogate me about our outing today.” “I'll take a walk around Whitechapel,” the consultant replied pensively, not noticing the surprised look directed at his back. “I'd like to absorb the spirit of this place. It might help with the investigation.” “Only if you're fond of the smell of filth.” Abberline shook his head. “I love London and feel compassion for those who've ended up at its very bottom, but breathe the same air as them? Still, I shan't hinder you. What about those mysterious clues you mentioned?” “Come to Baker Street tomorrow around eleven. I intend to revive some old acquaintances that might prove useful to us. And by the way, when you're describing my exploits to the Commissioner, let me be wearing a cloak,” Raven requested with an inscrutably serious expression. “I look more imposing in a cloak. A thunderstorm would complete the image, but this blasted weather refuses to cooperate with the investigation!” “Unheard-of insolence on its part!” Abberline decided to play along with the joke and saluted as he leaped into a cab. “Until tomorrow, Raven!”

***

The detective reached Scotland Yard close to four o'clock. By then the weather had deteriorated completely, and the dim autumn sun had finally given up and set below the horizon. “Merlin, damn him!” Bursting into the Yard's reception hall, Abberline spent a long time shaking himself off, cursing their magical consultant to high heaven — the fellow had actually managed to summon a storm, the start of which the detective had encountered precisely on his way from the post office, having decided to make the journey on foot. “Whom are you speaking of so flatteringly?” He heard an insinuating voice from somewhere to his right and barely restrained himself from swearing again. Of course, just Abberline's luck, he had immediately fallen into Anderson's clutches, who seemed to have spent the entire day doing nothing but lying in wait for him. Though the detective wouldn't have been in the least surprised if that were actually the case. Fortunately, at that very moment Swanson's heavy figure appeared on the stairs. The Chief Inspector looked tired and was clearly out of sorts, but at the moment Abberline would have been glad even to see the Commissioner, with all his barrack-room manners, if only his presence would dilute the concentrated company of Anderson. Noticing the detective, Swanson cheered up almost imperceptibly and headed in their direction: “Ah, Frederick, how did you manage to get caught in this deluge?” “Decided to walk from the post office,” Abberline grumbled, rummaging in the pockets of his thoroughly soaked coat and hoping his cigarette case contained at least one cigarette that hadn't gone soggy. “Has anything happened in my absence?” “You missed the distribution of medals, Detective, and your knighting. Parliament expressed extreme satisfaction with our progress,” Anderson replied venomously. “The Commissioner's boundless joy has sent all the plaster falling from the ceilings today.” “I'm not sure there was any left to fall after last time.” Abberline finally extracted a miraculously surviving cigarette with frozen fingers and was now trying to find matches. The prospect of spending the whole night on patrol in the pouring rain somehow no longer seemed so wretched. “Enough, Anderson,” Swanson finally intervened, his voice sounding somehow lifeless and strangely detached to Abberline. “As if this were our first dressing-down in recent weeks.” “Indeed, they're becoming a tradition!” The venom in the Assistant Commissioner's voice could have been made into medicinal ointments. “To hell with the Commissioner. Frederick, you're the only one of us who managed to do any work today. Tell us, how is the investigation progressing? Is Raven of any use at all?” “Hard to say.” The detective finally got his cigarette lit and held his breath for a while before releasing a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. “Today he crawled all over the mortuary and the site of the last murder. I'm not sure, however, that any good will come of it. Or that he actually has any special method.” “And what about,” Swanson hesitated, as if deciding whether to continue, “all sorts of… strangeness?” “You mean, did he produce a magic ball and lay out fortune-telling cards? Alas! And I confess I'm even disappointed!” Abberline was amused, but seeing the strange expression on the Chief Inspector's face, he changed his tone: “What's wrong, Donald, you look rather unwell today…” “I… Devil knows.” Swanson shook his head, trying to shake off the spell of the long day. “I don't know if you'll believe me, but today during my conversation with this Edward I saw something. Or rather, he showed me… Such horror, as if for a minute I was inside the Ripper's head myself. A damned vision!” “We're all exhausted, Donald.” Abberline looked at his colleague with concern, not fully understanding what could have so unsettled the usually tediously calm inspector. “It's surely just nerves…” He was thrown off by a remark from Anderson, who had flown into a rage at the inspector's words: “If you're seeing devils, go to church, Swanson! Or start closing your office windows — I fear the stench of the Thames is affecting your reason!” “Easy, gentlemen,” the detective raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture and, unable to think of anything better, tried to change the subject. “Especially since I seem to have found a lead without any help from our staff sorcerer.” “Indeed?” The Chief Inspector perked up, shaking off his strange apathy. He chose to ignore the Assistant Commissioner's outburst altogether. “Do tell?” “Today at the meeting with Phillips, his assistant was present. According to the doctor — a local, has a practice in Whitechapel, helps the poor.” “Hmm… And what do you find strange?” “A great deal. This Stanley is an interesting fellow altogether. Slow-witted and perhaps a drunkard too. I confess I suspected a mild form of feeble-mindedness in him, but that's not the point — he has his own abortion practice on Dorset Street, which means he could at least in theory have known all the Ripper's victims by sight. And then he's also taken it upon himself to help at the mortuary — isn't that rather a lot? In any case, I want to check on our good doctor tomorrow.” Abberline finished his cigarette, dropping the butt at his feet. “A bit of luck — and Her Majesty's wizard won't be needed at all!” “An outsider with access to medical records?” Swanson shook his head in amazement. “Why didn't you detain him immediately?” “Didn't want to spook him. If the theory is confirmed, there's no avoiding a scandal. But that's still better than having no theories at all.” “But if you're right, it will allow us to get rid of the consultant on charlatanism before our dear Chief Inspector's mind gives way in his presence,” Anderson spat, making Abberline wince as if from toothache and feel an uncharacteristic itch in his fists. “And if not — we can blame everything on him when old Jack gets to his next whore!“