Ripper Street

Their arrival in London was chaotic and somehow oppressive. The sense of things left unsaid that Abberline had felt throughout their journey had thickened to a pall and now seemed to hang in the air with the steam and coal dust, blotting out any clear course ahead. He and Raven stood for a time on the platform at Victoria Station, observing the customary bustle — belated passengers hurrying to catch the last trains, porters wheeling luggage trolleys, and newsboys crying out the headlines of the evening editions. “Well then, Detective,” Raven said at last, cupping his hands and breathing into them, “I intend to spend the next couple of days deciphering the documents. I need to study that book carefully and think over all that has happened. I shall keep you informed if there is any news.” “Agreed,” Abberline nodded, still under the impression of Bridget's account. “I expect we shall see each other tomorrow at the Yard?” “I do not think it is a good idea. We should bide our time, in case our little excursion has attracted unwanted attention from the secret service. If they decide we have asked one question too many, this investigation is over. And so are our careers.” “You think that possible?” “I would expect no less from people who managed to silence an entire town. Personally I do not give a damn what they think of me, but you are a policeman, Frederick. People simply must be able to trust you.” “Well then,” Abberline shivered and glanced about, as though expecting bloodhounds from the Crown's service to leap out at them from around the corner. “Perhaps you are right. In that case I shall try to dig through the archives and learn all I can about Warwick's fate. I cannot shake the feeling that he may still be connected with our investigation. I hope that at least one of us will have luck on his side.” “Without a doubt.” Raven shook the detective's hand in farewell. “Good night, Abberline.” The detective watched the retreating figure, which quickly dissolved into the crowd. Something about their parting and the consultant's behaviour struck him as unusual — Raven had looked pensive and withdrawn, and his departure seemed too hasty to be put down to ill humour or merely the unsuccessful trip to Rochester. As though he knew more than he had said, yet did not wish to share his thoughts. The journey home to Clapton took about an hour. Abberline rode the omnibus, gazing absently out the window at the illuminated shop fronts and the occasional passer-by drifting past. His thoughts were occupied with the events of recent days — the blind old woman's tale, the mysterious death of Morrow, and the disappearance of Warwick. By the time he reached his house on Mildmay Road, it was already past midnight. The housekeeper had left a cold supper for him and a note on a silver tray in the hall. “Sir Frederick, the post has arrived. A letter from Oxford lies on your writing desk. I also wished to inform you that Mrs. Abberline was unwell all day. Dr. Morrison called this evening and left new medicine. M. Chandler.” Abberline frowned. Emma's health had deteriorated noticeably in recent months, and he secretly feared that the consumption, which had seemed to retreat a year ago, was returning with far greater force than before. Climbing quietly to the second floor, he looked into the bedroom. His wife was asleep, but her breathing was uneven, and an unhealthy flush burned on her pale cheeks. The detective carefully closed the door and went down to his study. On the writing desk an envelope with an Oxford seal awaited him. Opening it, Abberline unfolded the sheet of paper and spent some time studying its contents, reading each line several times over. Finally he flung the letter aside and stood for a while, pinching the bridge of his nose: “'This message is to inform “Inspector Abberline” that Professor Müller and his family know nothing of and have never encountered any Edward Raven! A curse be upon you! Miss Evans Waltbridge.'“ He read the message aloud, written by the professor's secretary, vainly hoping that doing so might help him understand its meaning. “What the devil!” The detective slowly lowered the letter to the desk. So Raven had lied about his education? It would be easy to believe that the professor had forgotten one of countless Oxford students, but at their first meeting Edward had claimed to have a personal acquaintance with Müller. And that curse at the end… It all looked as though the professor's circle did not believe they were truly being written to by the police. And if so, for whom was their reply intended? Abberline leaned back in his chair, feeling anxious thoughts and suspicions swarm in his head. All the worries of recent days flashed before his eyes like a kaleidoscope, replacing one image with another at incredible speed. At some point Raven in his visions suddenly began to dance and laugh like a madman, then his face was replaced by the eyeless face of the forest witch, saying something in a language unknown to him. She was interrupted by Dr. Stanley, for some reason all covered in blood and holding a rusted scalpel in his hand… “Sir Frederick?” The detective awoke with a start and, jerking his head, nearly lost consciousness from the sharp pain in his stiff neck. He had evidently fallen asleep just as he was, spending the entire night in the chair, and was now reaping the fruits of such hapless lodging. “Breakfast is ready. It is already half past eight.” In the doorway of his study stood the housekeeper, gazing at the detective with concern. “Thank you, Mrs. Chandler,” he replied hoarsely, trying to restore movement to his numbed hands, which now responded with hundreds of tiny pinpricks in his fingers. “I shall be up directly.” Having somehow risen from the wretched chair, Abberline washed hastily and hurried to look in on the bedroom — Emma was still asleep, her breathing somewhat more even. After breakfast he pulled on his coat and made haste for Scotland Yard, pondering yesterday's revelations as he went — revelations that still mingled in his head with fragments of what might have been dream or midnight delirium brought on by a night spent folded into that damned chair. He was walking along Mildmay Road when he heard the clatter of hooves behind him. Turning, he saw a dark enclosed carriage approaching slowly. Nothing suspicious — an ordinary coach, hundreds of which travelled the London streets. The carriage drew level with him and suddenly stopped. The door flew open, and two men in identical leather coats and gloves leapt out. “Inspector Abberline?” asked one of them, tall and lean, evidently with a military background. “Yes, and what—” Abberline did not have time to finish. The second man, more stocky than the first, wordlessly seized him by the arm, twisted it behind his back, and dragged him toward the carriage door. The detective tried to resist, but immediately felt something metal pressed against his side. “Do not struggle, sir,” said one of his captors quietly. “Just come with us. Quietly. No fuss.” Abberline was shoved into the carriage. The windows were curtained, and on the seats sat two more men. One of them threw a black sack over his head. “What the— Who are you?” he attempted to protest, but received a single short and precise blow to the stomach, which for a time deprived him of the ability to breathe. “Silence,” a voice ordered curtly. The carriage set off. The detective, having somewhat recovered, tried to determine the direction of travel by sounds and turns, but soon lost track. They drove for at least an hour. The carriage wound back and forth constantly, as though trying to confuse the trail and throw off any possible pursuit. Absolute silence reigned within, which Abberline did not venture to break, and in the end he even dozed off, only to be unceremoniously shaken awake by his escorts. The carriage stopped, after which he was led outside and dragged forward, still with the sack over his head. They led him down stone steps — the detective felt the air growing cooler and damper. A cellar. Finally Abberline was seated on a hard wooden bench, and only then was the cloth yanked from his head, allowing him to look about. When his eyes had adjusted to the light of the gas lamp — the sole source of illumination — the detective was able to make out a tiny stone room, little more than a closet and measuring no more than three paces in length and breadth. The walls were bare, without windows. In the corner stood a bucket and a pile of straw — an improvised cell. “Make yourself comfortable, Inspector,” grunted the lean man, who was evidently the leader. “Someone will be in to see you shortly.” With these words all four of his “escorts” departed, locking the heavy oak door behind them. Abberline was left alone. He tried to stand but immediately collapsed back with a groan — his legs buckled and refused to obey, whether from fear or from the blow. Where had they brought him? Who were these people? Her Majesty's secret service? Raven had said they might attract interest, but to arrange a kidnapping in broad daylight in the middle of London? It seemed utterly incredible, particularly considering that they had learned practically nothing. Time dragged on agonisingly. Occasionally footsteps and voices could be heard beyond the door, but no one entered. The detective tried to recall everything he knew of the Crown's secret services, but his knowledge was fragmentary. The Special Branch had officially existed only recently, or at least had become known to the general public only five years ago following a series of terrorist attacks. Abberline recalled the explosion at Scotland Yard in 1884 — the work of Irish terrorists who were never caught. At the time, rumours had spread that the affair involved not only Fenians but also foreign agents — Russian, German, even French. It was said that London swarmed with spies of every stripe, that they had infiltrated every stratum of society, from dockers to aristocrats. All of this provided fertile ground for rumours and stirred up rabble-rousers of all kinds, but for the life of him the detective could not understand how any of it could relate to him. At last, when it seemed to Abberline that several hours had passed, the lock clicked. Into the cell walked an elderly gentleman in an expensive suit, with a high forehead, neatly trimmed grey side-whiskers, and a cane in his right hand. Abberline recognised him at once — and small wonder! — his visitor was Sir Henry Ponsonby, personal secretary to Queen Victoria. “Inspector Abberline,” said Ponsonby, seating himself on a chair immediately brought in by a guard and studying the detective's face closely. “Forgive me for the circumstances of our meeting, but the matter requires confidentiality.” “Sir Henry?” Frederick tried to rise, but Ponsonby gestured for him to remain seated. “I require answers to several questions, Inspector. And I hope to receive them from you.” Ponsonby tapped his cane on the stone floor. “What were you doing in Rochester?” “Investigating the Jack the Ripper case, sir. Looking for traces of Silas Morrow.” “On whose orders, might I ask? And who was your companion?” “On your orders, sir,” Abberline replied, bewildered. “I was accompanied by Edward Raven. A consultant on ritual murders, whom you yourself recommended to Scotland Yard…” Ponsonby frowned. “Inspector, I recommended no one to anyone. Furthermore, the London police's inability to catch the murderer is most regrettable, but I hardly see how a specialist of such dubious profile could be of any assistance!” “But… Raven said…” The words stuck in Abberline's throat. Something like a cold chime flashed through his mind. “Ah yes, this mysterious Mr. Raven.” Ponsonby leaned forward. “Tell me everything you know about him. I assume he furnished you with a sheaf of most authentic-looking letters and some diverting story to explain his appearance?” The detective briefly recounted all he knew of the consultant — his appearance at the Yard, his knowledge, his methods. Ponsonby listened in silence, nodding occasionally. Notably, to Abberline's surprise, he was particularly interested in Raven's visit to the Quatuor Coronati Lodge: “So Gould gave him certain documents to decipher?” he asked when Abberline had finished. “To an American specialist, with whom he had previously conducted an extensive correspondence concerning affairs in Britain?” “Yes, sir.” “Ve-ery interesting!…” Ponsonby sighed heavily. “Inspector, I fear you have simply been used. The man in whom you so rashly placed your trust is at best a fraud, at worst a foreign agent. I have not the slightest notion what his aims might be, but consider for yourself: an American appears at the height of the investigation, gains access to all the information, leads you down a false trail…” He tapped his cane once more, fixing Abberline with an unblinking gaze and clearly observing his reaction. “In our times, spies are everywhere. Irishmen, Russian provocateurs, German agents. All of them are interested in discrediting the British Crown and making our services appear incompetent and unable to protect Her Majesty's subjects.” “You think he is a spy?” Abberline asked incredulously. “And what do you think? A mystical consultant who appears precisely when he is most needed?” Ponsonby rose. “And consider for yourself — since this consultant of yours appeared, you have not advanced one step toward solving the East End murders, yet you have managed to participate in the transfer of secret documents to a representative of a foreign power! Pray to God, Inspector, that we were on our guard and now have a chance to thwart his plans!” Abberline sat stunned. Everything fell into place — the lie about knowing Müller, the strange knowledge, the reticences, the nocturnal wanderings… “What should I do, sir?” he finally croaked. His throat had gone dry from all that had happened. “No contact whatsoever,” Ponsonby answered curtly. “Continue the investigation, but do not come within a mile of Raven or whatever his real name is! And not a word to anyone about our conversation. If the truth that American agents have penetrated Scotland Yard becomes public knowledge…” He did not finish, but the threat was clear. “I understand, sir.” “I hope so. And now you will be taken back. And remember — this conversation never happened.”

***

The carriage stopped at the entrance to Scotland Yard already past half past two. Abberline was deposited without ceremony, like a sack of flour, scarcely given time to collect himself. The black sack was removed only in the carriage, just before he was let out, and the detective was still squinting in the daylight as he climbed the familiar steps. Inside the building the usual afternoon bedlam reigned, which at present suited him just fine. Abberline made his way to his office, trying to look as natural as possible, but almost immediately came face to face with Swanson. “Frederick!” the latter called from his office doorway. “Where have you been? I was beginning to worry.” “Good day, Donald,” Abberline cursed inwardly, marvelling at his own ill luck, and stopped, striving to affect ordinary weariness. “Emma was unwell this morning. I had to wait for the doctor.” “Nothing serious, I hope?” There was genuine concern in the Chief Inspector's voice. “A flare-up of… old troubles.” Abberline did not elaborate. “Donald, I wanted to warn you — for the next few days I shall be appearing at the Yard irregularly. If Anderson asks after my absence, tell him my wife is unwell. I imagine even he will find nothing to object to in that.” Swanson nodded with understanding. “Of course. Give Emma my best wishes. And what of the Ripper case? Any news from your consultant?” At the mention of Edward, whose image Abberline still could not reconcile with the picture Ponsonby had painted, he involuntarily started, but tried to conceal it. “Nothing definite as yet. He is… studying certain documents. There may be clarity in a few days.” “Ah well,” Swanson shrugged, “we shall wait. But he had best hurry — the press grows ever more insistent, to say nothing of old Charles.” Abberline nodded and hurried to his office. There he sat for about an hour, pretending to work with papers but in reality trying to put his thoughts in order. Ponsonby's words churned in his head, utterly depriving him of any bearings. He was not prepared to blindly trust the agent of the secret service, mindful of the methods they employed, yet still, and yet… An American… gains access to all the information… leads you down a false trail… Leaving the Yard, Abberline felt guilty for using his wife's health as an excuse, but the prospect of coming to work while keeping the events of recent days to himself seemed appalling. For the first time he walked the corridors of the Yard feeling not like part of the police, but like a traitor. How could he work alongside his colleagues, knowing what he now knew? How could he look Swanson in the eye, when only recently the man had praised Raven's perceptiveness? On the steps of the building he ran into Constable Mitchell and suddenly stopped dead, having at last come to a definite decision. “Mitchell!” he called. “Wait a moment.” “Yes, sir!” The constable snapped to attention. “I need your help.” Abberline lowered his voice and drew Mitchell aside. “A completely confidential assignment. Do you remember the house at 73 Baker Street?” “Yes, sir. The service flat.” “Correct. I need you to observe that house discreetly. If our consultant goes out, note the time, the direction, and if possible — whom he meets and where he goes. But most importantly — do not let him catch sight of you.” Mitchell nodded in puzzlement, taken aback by the unexpected assignment. “Is this something to do with the Ripper case, sir?” “Possibly, but I am not certain. In any event, this is strictly between us, Mitchell! Not a word to anyone — not even Swanson. Report only to me personally. Is that clear?” “Clear, sir. And… if the occupant notices the surveillance?” “Make sure he does not notice. But if it comes to it — you are simply patrolling the area. That should hardly arouse his suspicion.” Abberline clapped the constable on the shoulder. “I am counting on you.” “I shall not let you down, sir!” When Mitchell had departed, Abberline felt a strange sense of relief. Now at least he would know what Raven was up to. And after that… after that, he would see.