Ripper Street

The next morning Abberline awoke in a remarkably serene mood. For the first time in a very long while he had managed to sleep without nightmares, and the capricious British weather had decided to break the succession of unrelenting fogs of recent days and yesterday's storm, revealing clear skies, from which the sun tentatively peeked, as if uncertain whether such liberty was permitted. Trying not to wake his wife, who had, after all, long since grown accustomed to seeing him more often in formal photographs than in the flesh, the detective carefully rose from bed and, taking care not to make unnecessary noise, went out to the sitting room. Having decided, as planned, to pay a visit to the charity clinic before going to the Yard, the detective permitted himself a small indulgence in the form of breakfast — a fried egg with bacon and bean porridge prepared the day before by his elderly housekeeper Mrs. Chandler, who customarily came twice a week to put things in order. Feeling particularly buoyant, Abberline even risked leafing through the morning paper while smoking a cigarette and, to his surprise, found not a single new piece of gossip or scandal. He might even have grown accustomed to this state of affairs, were it not for his damned instinct telling him that calm like this came only before storms. In the end, unable to bear such deafening silence, Abberline pulled on his barely dried coat and shoes, clapped his bowler hat on his head, and went out. Deciding to vary his routine, the detective did not take a cab, heading instead for the omnibus stop on the corner. The morning route through the City would allow him to reach Commercial Street, from which Dorset Street was but a stone's throw away. The journey through the city centre also proved uneventful. Only a couple of times did Abberline receive surly looks from the few passengers in the omnibus, reminding him how low the reputation of the police had fallen in the city of late. No one, however, ventured to voice their displeasure, and twenty minutes later the detective alighted at his stop and headed straight for Dorset Street. By this time the street had already begun to wake. From doorways here and there prostitutes crawled out after the night shift, sweeping empty bottles from the doorsteps. Street sweepers raked rubbish into piles that were immediately scattered by stray dogs. From somewhere came drunken laughter and the sounds of a morning brawl. The most dangerous street in London was beginning a new day. The clinic in question proved to be the entrance to an unprepossessing basement of a grey two-storey tenement with a laconic sign reading “Medical Aid.” No other markings or surgery hours were posted on the door, from which Abberline concluded that Dr. Stanley did not hold regular consultations and was clearly in no hurry to advertise his services. And indeed, doctors of his sort were found by their work in Whitechapel, not the other way round. Abberline pushed the flimsy wooden door — locked. He walked around the building, stooping along the way to peer through the murky windows of the clinic, which were situated roughly at knee level. Inside, darkness reigned, but one could still make out the furnishings of a wretched waiting room: three chairs with sagging seats, a desk with peeling varnish, a glass-fronted cabinet containing surgical instruments and a couple of hefty medical reference books. On the wall — an anatomical poster and some charts whose meaning Abberline could not fathom. At first glance there was nothing suspicious, apart from the very fact that a medical practice existed in this den of iniquity. “Looking for the doctor?” came a hoarse female voice. Abberline turned. On the threshold of the neighbouring house stood a woman of indeterminate age in a greasy housecoat, beneath which a nightgown of dubious cleanliness was visible. “Police business, ma'am. When does Dr. Stanley usually see patients?” “More in the evenings. The girls come to him after…” she made a vague gesture, “after work. Good doctor, not like some butchers. And he doesn't charge much. A shilling for an examination, two for… the procedure.” “How long has he been practising here?” “Since spring, it'll be. Showed up just after the first murders. Said he wanted to help the unfortunates. Strange one, he is, but harmless.” Abberline handed the woman a shilling: “And where does he live? I'd like to have a word with him without too much formality.” “As you say, sir,” the woman deftly tucked the money into the folds of her housecoat. “He lives right here, on the second floor. That's his window! Only he ain't there now — left for the hospital before dawn.” “And what time would that have been?” the detective asked, mentally calculating the approximate work schedule of Phillips's assistant. “Mrs…?” “Henriet, your worship, I'm a washerwoman.” She replied with incongruous coquetry and began rattling on, clearly hoping to earn another coin or two. “Half five in the morning, I remember clear as day. Just at that time the coppers… Oh!” the woman faltered, covering her mouth with her hand. “That is, the constables were chasing some drunk about under my windows.” “A drunk?” “Aye, some fellow was lurking about. Dressed fancy-like, but still got himself sozzled and was rummaging in the bushes. So, they nabbed him as a suspect. What if he's the Ripper?” “Who knows,” Abberline shrugged and tossed another coin into the 'washerwoman's' grimy palm. “Thank you for your help. Do me a favour and don't mention to the doctor that I was looking for him.” “As you wish, your worship!” The woman nodded knowingly, watching the detective's retreating back. Turning the corner, he walked past the clinic entrance straight to the staircase leading to the second floor. Having climbed it, Abberline found himself in a narrow corridor with only two doors, one of which bore a small brass plate with the crookedly stamped letters “Stanley, Dr.” Having tugged the handle a couple of times and ascertained that the door was locked, the detective glanced around once more to make sure there was absolutely no one to observe him, drew a leather case containing a set of picks from his pocket, then dropped to one knee and set to work on the keyhole. A muffled click, heard a couple of minutes later, announced Abberline's success, whereupon he yanked open the now-unlocked door… and nearly fell over, stumbling on the threshold into something that for want of a better word might be called Stanley's 'desk' but was in fact an upended orange crate with an inkwell and a stack of crookedly filled medical cards sitting on it. Besides this dubious piece of furniture, the room also contained a metal cot with a heap of blanket and sheet lying on it, capable of evoking pity even in a convict, as well as a three-legged stool and a small cabinet, all three shelves of which were filled with medicine bottles and more of those same medical books — a veritable treasure by a poor doctor's standards. Intrigued by this detail, the detective ran his fingers along the spines of the books and pulled one out at random — it proved to be Gray's Anatomy. On the title page, in faded ink, was written: “To F. — with hopes for the continuation of the family tradition. Christmas 1879.” No other marks appeared on the page, nor were there any other mentions of the mysterious “F.,” from which Abberline concluded that the books had been either stolen or bought second-hand — which is to say, stolen all the same. The detective continued methodically examining the premises, which proved not at all difficult and required no particular exertion, since he could have reached from one end of the doctor's dwelling to the other without moving from the spot. The medical cards contained many names familiar to the detective, including the unfortunate Polly Nichols and Annie Chapman — a good half of all Whitechapel's prostitutes had somehow ended up among Stanley's patients, along with other residents of the district engaged in presumably more honest labour. However, nothing suspicious was to be found in the records: the most common entries were prescriptions for mercury ointment for the French disease and other venereal ailments, and tincture of opium for recovery after abortion procedures. Occasionally the doctor prescribed laudanum for sleeplessness and carbolic acid for disinfecting wounds — no notes, no secret writings — nothing that might lead Abberline to further suspicions. Succumbing to a momentary weakness, he even went through the reference books in the cabinet again, hoping to find some magical rituals or other devilry of the sort Raven spoke of with such confidence, but found nothing of the kind. Having completed his search, he tried to put everything back in its place and went out the door, which after some simple and brief manipulation was once again locked.

***

By half past nine Abberline had arrived at the Yard building, reasoning that before his meeting with Raven he would have time to look in at the station and learn the night's reports. The duty detective at the Yard proved to be Sergeant George Godley, a middle-aged man with an almost perfectly square jaw, luxuriant walrus moustache, and large hands that betrayed a former sailor. At the sight of his superior he gave a rather casual salute and immediately launched into the latest news: “What a night it's been, Fred! Everyone in the city seems to have decided to go completely mad!” “Good Lord,” Abberline felt for his cigarette case with mounting apathy and, finding it completely empty, sat down on one of the visitors' chairs. “What now?” “Jack's been sighted all over the city! The lads ran themselves ragged chasing bloody ghosts all night.” “And what was the result of all this running about?” “The usual,” Godley shrugged. “Picked up a dozen drunks, a couple of pickpockets, and three idiots who mistook a yard cat for the Ripper. Chased it down Brick Lane until the bobbies stopped them. By the way, what's the story with that American consultant of yours? Has old Anderson managed to finish him off with his sermons?” “I don't follow — what about him?” Abberline frowned, sensing the arrival of the very storm he had been expecting all morning. “The lads say he wasn't at the flat on Baker Street all night.” “Damned Yank!” The detective leaped up and, as if striking an invisible wall with his forehead, froze, clenching his fists helplessly. “Quick, check if any of last night's drunks matches Raven's description! Start with those picked up on Dorset Street.”

***

The police station on Commercial Street was a two-storey building of brick blackened by time and soot. It was here, as it transpired, that a night-time drunk matching the description was being held. Passing through heavy oak doors with wrought-iron hinges and running up the steps inside, Abberline couldn't help grimacing at the smell of sweat, urine, and stale alcohol that assailed him and had surely long since seeped into the walls, then nodded in passing to the duty sergeant and headed straight past the wanted posters on the walls toward the cells at the end of a long narrow corridor reeking of carbolic acid, mould, and damp plaster. Walking past individual cells, the detective came up against the bars of the 'drunk tank,' where all the troublemakers who posed no particular danger were usually held and routinely released in the morning after a precautionary beating. Here, sprawled on a separate bench and looking indecently pleased with life, lay a slightly rumpled but — to Abberline's considerable surprise — completely sober Raven. Catching sight of the detective, he spread his arms in friendly greeting and smiled broadly: “Ah, Inspector — good morning, I hope! Though I must say I expected you sooner. I shouldn't like to be late for our scheduled appointment!” “You…” the detective momentarily lost the power of speech at such impudence. “Do you have any idea what you've done? Wandering about in the middle of the night in a district where a murderer is at large, violating the curfew! Explain yourself at once!” “I told you I intended to breathe Whitechapel in,” Raven waved dismissively as if in polite conversation. “Besides, I was curious to examine the sites of the previous murders and to see how the Ripper slips past the patrols. And I succeeded, I might add!” “Did you now?” Abberline barked, slamming his palm against the metal bars of the cell. “Is this your success?” “Naturally! For the record I easily evaded three out of four police patrols. I would have escaped the last one too, but I got slightly lost in the alleys around Wentworth Street so I played drunk and surrendered.” “So, all those night reports… That was you?” The detective was so stunned he lost all his anger. “But how the devil did you…?” “Get me out of here, Frederick, and I shall reveal all my se-e-ecrets!” Raven proclaimed with theatrical intonation and added in a more businesslike tone: “Incidentally, I took the liberty of warning our contact yesterday of my possible whereabouts, so a carriage should already be waiting for us outside. If you don't mind, I can tell you all the details you're interested in on the way. What do you say?” For a while Abberline struggled with the desire to abandon everything and leave, or else tie up the damned consultant with a ribbon and send him straight to Her Majesty to deal with him herself, but in the end common sense — or perhaps the detective's curiosity — won out: “Stay here, I'll fetch the keys!” “I shall await you, my general!” Raven's cry caught Abberline already in the corridor, making him stop mid-step. He stood frozen for a while, evidently fighting the urge to return and bring down upon the idiot all the thunder and lightning of Britain, but a second later he was striding forward again, betraying his mood only by the clatter of his heels.

***

The formalities connected with releasing the police consultant took about ten minutes, after which Abberline once again found himself before the cell door, this time accompanied by a sergeant who immediately set about rattling his keys, unlocking the ancient rusted locks of the cell. Emerging from the station, Raven stretched with relish: “Lovely morning, isn't it? Didn't manage to get any sleep, but otherwise it was a most instructive night — I heard wonderful stories from the local regulars.” “Delighted the drunks have found in you a grateful audience!” Abberline barked, still angry as the devil. “ What in God’s name, Raven? If you don't care about your own well-being, you might at least have thought of me! I have no desire to explain to Her Majesty's secretary why your corpse was found in the river with a cracked skull!” “Don't believe everything you read in the papers, my friend! London is a remarkably safe city.” Edward smirked serenely. “Ah, and here's our transport! Come, I shall tell you a great deal of interest while we're on our way.” A little way from the tiny square in front of the shabby police station, a black carriage with two horses and a coachman who clearly felt out of place in such surroundings had indeed drawn up. Catching sight of Raven waving to him, the man nodded somewhat nervously and, jumping down from the box, opened the carriage door, on which Abberline made out a coat of arms depicting four crowned martyrs and a Latin motto: “Quatuor Coronati.” Not giving the detective a chance to ask all the questions that had accumulated, the consultant darted forward and, nodding to the driver, ducked inside the carriage, forcing Abberline to follow. Inside, as expected, they were met by rich upholstery of red velvet and a faint aroma of expensive tobacco and leather, which almost immediately surrendered to the stench emanating from Raven, who had spent the night as far from high society as was physically possible. Settling himself opposite, the detective sceptically surveyed the consultant sprawled on the crested cushions and mentally sympathised with the carriage's owner, for whom it would probably be easier to burn it after this journey than to scrub it clean. The carriage slowly set off, giving Abberline the opportunity at last to focus on the matters of interest to him: “Where are we going, Raven? And don't you dare tell me you ride in such a private carriage every day for evening strolls!” “Not every day,” the other agreed. “Sometimes I dress in simple sackcloth and walk about the city under cover of night, listening to the conversations of the common folk… All right, all right,” Edward raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture, seeing that his companion was clearly not in the mood for jokes. “We are going to the main building of the Quatuor Coronati Lodge, by personal invitation of its Grand Master, Sir Robert Gould.” “Well, that explains both the carriage and why the devil I'm being made to put up with you at all.” “Yes, my patronage from Sir Ponsonby is a direct consequence of the fact that he and Gould are old acquaintances from their military service in the East. He will, I expect, tell you all the other details himself when we meet. Anything else?” “Oh, don't worry, I'm only just getting started! You claimed you managed to escape four patrols in one night, and then there's this!” Abberline pointed an accusing finger at the shoes on Raven's feet, all smeared with something black. “I'm ready to swear that's coal dust, which isn't so easy to get covered in running about central London.” “Easy enough if you know the places,” Raven grunted with barely concealed self-satisfaction. “For example, the tunnels and ventilation shafts of the Underground. A remarkably convenient place, I must say. And — can you believe it? — completely unguarded at night!” “So you…” “'Vanished into thin air like a bloody phantom of the East End, like a devilish apparition roaming the streets of London!'“ Raven declaimed with pathos, clearly quoting another mad newspaper headline. “Or something along those lines. In any case, during the night I managed to visit the sites of all the Ripper's murders without any particular hurry. Imagine what a murderer could do, moving like that?” “Inconceivable!” Abberline shook his head. “But wait — where did you get the data on the tunnel locations? That's classified information!” “Classified,” Raven agreed, “but by no means secret. I, for example, obtained it from Sir John Fowler.” “The chief engineer of the Metropolitan Railway?” “Precisely. And also, by a remarkable coincidence, a Mason and honorary member of the very lodge we are now heading to.” “Damnation,” Abberline shook his head wearily, trying to digest the flood of new information. “But how could such information be available to Jack?” “Who knows,” the consultant shrugged. “Perhaps he took part in the construction of the tunnels among the other workers, or perhaps he somehow managed to obtain the blueprints… All these questions we shall, I expect, be able to put to Sir Robert in person. In my correspondence with him I received only a general picture of the situation.” “And you didn't see fit to mention this!” Abberline retorted acidly, but Raven merely smiled: “Forgive my distrust, Frederick. We had not met in person and I did not know whether I could trust you.” “What made you change your mind? And you clearly have, considering I'm riding with you now.” “Your reports.” Raven replied with unexpected seriousness, gazing thoughtfully at the detective. “The way you spoke of the residents of Whitechapel. You consider them human beings, and that is already no small thing, given your years of work at the Yard, and perhaps even more than many of them deserve.” “I didn't expect such chivalry from you.” Abberline replied, somewhat embarrassed — his inclination to defend ordinary citizens had, for as long as he could remember, always brought him trouble. Raven laughed: “And rightly so — I'm not in the least inclined to it! But I know how to value that trait in others. And I understand perfectly well that were someone like that soldier of yours Warren in your place, the whole city would already be marching in formation on the parade ground. And I don't even want to think what it would be like if it were someone like Anderson. Although who knows whether you'll be grateful to me for such trust?..” The consultant fell silent but immediately waved his hands as if chasing away dark thoughts. “But to hell with it! We seem to have arrived.” The carriage was indeed turning, and with a lurch came to a final stop. “One last question, Raven,” Abberline caught the consultant by the sleeve as he was about to get out. “How did you manage to warn Gould of your arrest in advance?” “Oh, that's quite simple,” Raven turned and, looking searchingly into the detective's eyes, shrugged. “I can see the future.” Abberline merely rolled his eyes in irritation, somehow guessing he would not get a straight answer.