Ripper Street

The next week blurred into the same day repeated — endless reports, interrogations, and cups of strong tea whose smell now provoked not alertness but heartburn. He tried to work, but his thoughts constantly returned to Raven. Every phrase the consultant had uttered, his every gesture, now seemed suspicious to the detective. Following Ponsonby's edict and not daring to incur the wrath of the secret service, he nevertheless reassembled all the events of recent days, examining them practically under a magnifying glass and trying first one theory then another. Was Raven a spy, as Ponsonby claimed? On the one hand, it seemed possible. The consultant's identity appeared highly suspicious: he had reached London by train before the very ship he supposedly sailed on had even docked, which meant he could have been on the island all that time, up to God knows what. He was unknown to the people whose authority he invoked, while his own knowledge of events in London extended far too widely for a man who had supposedly been out of the country for the past several years. On the other hand, Abberline could not even imagine why he would need to do this. Were Raven an American agent, why infiltrate Scotland Yard, and by such an unimaginable method at that, one guaranteed to draw attention? Spies, in the detective's understanding, were renowned precisely for conducting their affairs secretly, without drawing unnecessary eyes and ears. And they certainly did not strive to pass secret information to one another in the presence of the police, as Gould had done. If Raven had been sent to disgrace Scotland Yard, that looked utterly laughable, for no one had succeeded in this matter quite so well as the London newspapers, so it was doubtful anyone could surpass them. What troubled the detective far more was another supposition, which, when it first occurred to him, made his blood literally freeze in his veins and set him pacing anxiously about his office. Having somewhat recovered from the initial shock, he sat down at his desk and, taking up his pen, began to sketch a diagram in his notebook. The first element was a circle in which Abberline wrote the phrase “arrived earlier than expected”, followed by others: “knows the city”, “knows about the underground tunnels”, and “slipped past every patrol”. In a separate column he also wrote the phrases “knew about the murder sites” and “was in America”. The last item he furnished with a bold question mark, and for clarity even underlined it several times. With the same mark there appeared on the paper an item headed “Dr. Stanley”. After some thought, Abberline also added the line “Books gifted to 'F.'“, then stared at it for some time. Suddenly the detective tossed aside the notebook and began rummaging furiously through the heap of papers scattered about his office, which over the past five days had transformed into a kind of wild beast's lair into which neither the housekeeper nor his wife dared poke so much as a nose, for fear of being immediately devoured alive. At last he found what he was looking for — the photographs that the asylum's head physician Charlton had given them, and which Abberline had fortunately thought to take from Raven before they parted at the station. Extracting the photograph of Warwick, he rushed to the desk with a triumphant cry and, like a man trying to outrun his own thoughts, began to draw directly on the photograph, hoping that his modest artistic talents would suffice for his purpose. At last, stroke by stroke, the young doctor in the photograph acquired deep wrinkles on his forehead, his eyes grew sunken beneath the added dark circles, his cheeks gained a gauntness and more prominent cheekbones, and in place of the neat dandy's hairstyle there appeared long, unkempt locks covering half his face. The resulting figure certainly could not be recognised as the promising young specialist Frederick Warwick, newly arrived for his placement at the asylum — but it could be recognised as an entirely different doctor… And him Abberline knew! Returning to his diagram, he added with a hand trembling from excitement and fear “Stanley = Warwick?” and, after further thought, added another entry: “'F.' = Frederick?” The picture emerging was truly monstrous. If Stanley was in fact the escaped Dr. Warwick, then he had been connected with this whole affair from the very beginning and could well have gone mad enough to become the Whitechapel Ripper. But there was an even more terrifying possibility. What if Stanley was in fact entirely uninvolved? What if he really was merely a dim-witted doctor seeking to atone for past strange pursuits through his assistance? But in that case it would mean that Raven had planted his story deliberately, to have a convenient scapegoat ready to hand if needed — while limiting himself to arousing suspicions without allowing Abberline's paranoia to develop far enough to properly interrogate the doctor. “Madmen who fancy themselves sorcerers adore leaving signs and often passionately desire to be caught,” Abberline recalled Raven's words. What if this had been not a professional assessment but a confession? “A deception must be grand enough, or no one will believe it!” — this phrase now sounded like mockery of the detective's own credulity. Adding two more items to his diagram — “Books planted by Raven?” and “Warwick = puppet” — Abberline hastily threw on his coat and, barely managing to put on his shoes and plant his bowler on his head, flew out into the street.

***

Mitchell was on duty at the corner of Ryder Street and Baker Street, tucked behind a newspaper kiosk. The position was rather well chosen, allowing him to watch the windows of the flat while not attracting particular attention. Seeing Abberline racing toward him, he straightened and took a step forward. “Sir! Raven left the flat half an hour ago. Headed to Simpson's restaurant on the Strand.” “What—” Abberline stopped, hands braced on his knees and panting heavily after his run. “Anything unusual, Mitchell?” “No, sir. He goes there for luncheon every day at almost the same time, returns after about an hour. He usually has supper sent up. A couple of times he went out in the morning to buy the Daily News from the newsboy on the corner. Oh, there was one odd thing!” Abberline tensed, trying to calm his uneasy premonitions. Mitchell continued his report: “Two days ago he came up to buy something at this kiosk. I was afraid I'd been spotted, but Raven just paid the owner and left. And afterwards it turned out he'd left a packet of nuts on the counter.” “And what happened then?” “Nothing, sir. The vendor gave the nuts to me, and I… You see, I hadn't eaten since morning…” Mitchell reddened. “Forgive me, sir!” “Never mind, Constable,” the detective breathed a sigh of relief, feverishly considering his next moves. Raven would not be in the flat for at least another half hour — that should be enough time, but it would still be wise to take precautions. “I think your efforts deserve a far greater reward than a handful of nuts. Here's the thing — do me one more favour: go to the restaurant now. If Raven is still there, tell him he is urgently wanted at the Yard regarding a new development in the case. Any plausible reason — an important witness, a summons from Swanson, anything. The main thing is that he goes there immediately. After that, come straight back here.” “Yes, sir. And if he's already left?” “Hmm…” Abberline thought for a second. “Come back anyway — we'll work it out as we go.” Having made sure Mitchell had departed to carry out the errand, the detective immediately headed for number 73. Service apartments for visiting inspectors — he knew these buildings. Simple locks, standard layout. And he still possessed skills acquired in his youth on the less law-abiding streets of London. The set of lockpicks extracted from an inside pocket of his waistcoat served its purpose once more, and within a minute Abberline was standing in the hallway of Raven's flat. The furnishings were spartan — minimal furniture, a travelling trunk, a few personal effects. On the writing desk papers lay scattered: sheets of tracing paper that Gould had provided, mixed in with Raven's personal notes, various diagrams, and something that reminded Abberline of the astrological charts used in ladies' salons for casting horoscopes. The detective lit the desk lamp and began to study the papers. The greater part of all the texts, including those written by hand by the consultant himself, most of it was in a language Abberline couldn’t read. The only thing familiar to him was a map of central London with numerous half-erased pencil markings. The detective's attention was drawn to the Miller's Court area, circled several times and labelled “Consummatum est”. Making a mental note to discover the meaning of the phrase, the detective tried to restore the room to its original state and, extinguishing the lamp, went outside. Mitchell was already waiting for him, stamping about by the same newspaper kiosk. “All in order, sir. Told him a witness had appeared at the Yard claiming to have seen the murderer. Raven went there immediately.” “Excellent.” Abberline looked at his watch. It was already past eight in the evening. “Mitchell, one more assignment. Go to Dorset Street, to Dr. Stanley's. Find out whether he is seeing patients, whether he is there at all. But carefully — just ask the neighbours, don't attract the doctor's own attention. And when you've finished with that, stop by the Westminster Library and ask the librarian on duty what the phrase 'Consummatum est' might mean. It looks like Latin, and that, damn it all, is not my strong suit.” “I know that one! It translates as 'completion', sir.” In response to Abberline's genuine surprise, the constable merely looked down modestly and shrugged. “My father is an Anglican clergyman, Inspector. As a child he often read me sermons in Latin. The phrase you speak of — those are the Saviour's last words, spoken on the Cross, sir.” “You are simply a treasure trove of hidden talents, Mitchell!” the detective tried to respond as cheerfully as he could, shuddering at the thought of what this “completion” might mean for them. So Raven had finished the deciphering several days ago and told no one? Or perhaps he had not deciphered it but had himself determined the location of the future murder — he corrected himself, feeling bitterness gather in his mouth. “In that case, see to Stanley, and then return to the Yard immediately.” “Yes, sir. And what should I do if the doctor is not there?” “Find out where he went and when he'll be back. And report to me personally — no one else.” When Mitchell had vanished into the evening crowd, Abberline was left alone with his grim thoughts. Two suspects — Raven and Stanley. One of them might be the murderer, or possibly they were acting together. The notes in the flat clearly indicated that a new crime would occur very soon.

***

The journey home seemed endless to Abberline. Fragments of thoughts churned in his head, each darker than the last. He returned late, exhausted and utterly drained, wishing only to reach his bed and sink into oblivion, but even these hopes were not to be fulfilled. In the hallway he was met by a worried Mrs. Chandler: “Sir Frederick, Dr. Morrison called several hours ago. He said Mrs. Abberline's condition has worsened and asked that you be sure to contact him. It seems the new medicine has not helped.” The detective exhaled raggedly and, briefly thanking the anxious housekeeper, went up to the bedroom. Emma lay pale, her breathing shallow and uneven. He touched her forehead carefully — the skin was burning. “Emma?” he called softly. His wife opened her eyes, but her gaze was clouded, unfocused. “Frederick?” she whispered. “I'm so cold…” The detective covered her with an additional blanket and, trying to make as little noise as possible, went down to his study. Here, in familiar surroundings, he tried to gather his thoughts. On the desk lay his notes — the diagram of suspicions against Raven, the photographs of Morrow and Warwick. He picked up the photograph of Warwick and again began to study the face he had drawn over. Tried to imagine it haggard, aged, tormented… Yes, there was definitely a resemblance to Dr. Stanley. But was it sufficient grounds for accusations? Beyond the window rain was beginning to fall. Abberline leaned back in the chair, feeling exhaustion descend upon him like an unbearable weight. The events of recent days — the journey to Rochester, Bridget's account, the abduction by Ponsonby's agents, the search of Raven's flat — all of it mingled in his consciousness into some nightmarish kaleidoscope. Somewhere deep down he understood that he had gone too far. A secret search, surveillance of a colleague, deceiving his superiors… But he could no longer stop. Too much was at stake. The detective took up his pen and added a new item to his notes: “Consummatum est = completion. The final murder?” At last exhaustion prevailed, and he dozed off right there in the chair, never having made it to the bedroom. He was awakened by a loud noise beneath the windows. Abberline opened his eyes — evidently he had been asleep for some time: beyond the window it was already deep night, and the street lamp cast uneven shadows on the pavement. From outside came the sounds of a scuffle — dull thuds, muffled curses, and the boots on the cobbles. The detective rose and, swaying with sleep, went to the window. Several dark figures were jostling in the street — judging by their shabby clothing and clumsy movements, ordinary vagrants who had apparently fallen out over something amongst themselves. “Oi!” Abberline shouted, flinging open the window. “Police! Stop that bloody racket and sod off home!” The figures abruptly ceased their scuffling, after which all three scattered in different directions, dissolving into the darkness. Two of the brawlers were noticeably limping as they fled. “Fools,” the detective muttered, closing the window. “Nothing to occupy their hands.” He returned to the chair and soon fell asleep again.

***

On the morning of November 8th, leaving the house, Abberline noticed traces of the previous night's scuffle on the pavement — dark stains that might have been blood, and something white at the very edge of the kerb. Bending down, he picked up a human tooth — a molar, with traces of blood at the root. “Gave each other quite a thrashing,” the detective shook his head, tossing the find into the gutter with distaste. On his way to Scotland Yard he pondered the day ahead. Mitchell was to report on Dr. Stanley, and at the Yard an irate Raven would surely be waiting for him, having been sent on a wild goose chase the day before. He ought to devise a plausible excuse, but the mental strain he was experiencing had so exhausted Abberline that he decided to trust to fate and improvise as events unfolded. Arriving at work, the detective was nearly bowled over by sergeants rushing to and fro. The entire reception hall was packed to bursting with visitors whom, by all appearances, no one had the slightest time for. Deciding to discover the cause of such commotion, unusual even for the Yard, Abberline pushed his way to the duty sergeant's window, which was again manned by Godley, who at present looked utterly lost. “George, what the devil is going on here?” The detective made no attempt to conceal his irritation. “Sir, haven't you heard?” Godley hesitated, trying to find the words. “Sir Charles Warren is about to tender his resignation. They say Mr. Anderson will be appointed the new Commissioner.” Abberline closed his eyes. He had never been an admirer of the old soldier Warren, who tried to run the police like a barracks, but Anderson — an utterly unpredictable man, prone to radical and often harsh decisions — was a hundred times worse. Under him everything could change overnight, and by no means for the better. “Well, it seems Robert's luck has finally turned. Still, every cloud has a silver lining — no one will be breathing down our necks for the next couple of days. By the way, Godley, while we still have our jobs, would you mind telling me where Thomas is at the moment?” “I'm here, sir!” The door to the duty room opened a crack, and Mitchell's face immediately appeared in the gap — having arrived at the station, he had apparently thought it prudent to hide from the crowd outside. “Excellent!” Abberline hastened to join his colleagues and quickly closed the door of their improvised fortress. “What about the doctor?” “Strange business, sir. The clinic is closed; the neighbours say he hasn't slept at home for a couple of days.” “Devil take it!” Abberline went cold, mentally cursing himself for his slowness. Stanley had either fled, or worse, might well be lying in some ditch at this very moment if all this was the work of their consultant. “Or the secret service has been at it. Either way it's bad,” he finished aloud, catching the puzzled glances of the constable and the sergeant. “Godley, was Raven very angry yesterday when it turned out he'd been called in for nothing?” “No, sir,” the man replied, having for the hundredth time finished explaining to some visitor that appointments were postponed indefinitely. “Came by after luncheon, asked about new witnesses in the case, and left after about ten minutes when I told him no one had come in.” “You know what, Mitchell,” the detective paused, “go back to Baker Street and continue your observation. If our lodger so much as thinks of heading toward the East End — come to my house immediately with a report. Meanwhile I shall go and learn the latest news from Swanson.” “Wait,” Godley called out to Abberline and began searching for something in the pile of papers on his desk. “What am I to do with today's witness?” “What witness?” the detective asked, taken aback. “A fellow turned up this morning. Claims he saw a man in the city who looked like the Ripper. All the inspectors are busy, so he's been sitting in the reception for over an hour, won't leave. Might actually have seen something.” “Good Lord! Very well, I'll deal with it!” Snatching the file with the description from the sergeant's hands, Abberline went out into the reception hall, trying to locate the visitor he needed. Among the several dozen people waiting their turn at the station, Abberline noticed a nervous middle-aged man who kept half-rising from his bench whenever he spotted a policeman heading his way, only to sink back down when the officer passed by. “George Hutchinson?” the detective addressed the crowd, glancing for a second at the particulars Godley had compiled. The man he had noted earlier immediately perked up, trying to spot whoever had called his name. “Come to my office, Mr. Hutchinson,” Abberline waved, pointing toward the stairs.

***

Finding himself in the quiet and relative calm of the second floor, Abberline was at last able to get a closer look at the potential witness. Hutchinson settled into the chair, nervously twisting his hat in his hands. The man looked like a typical representative of London's working class — early forties, medium height, with the sinewy build of someone accustomed to exhausting physical labour and cheap drink afterwards. His suit was clean but multiply patched, and the fingers with which he was presently tormenting his unfortunate hat were rough, with grime ingrained beneath the nails. Hutchinson was visibly nervous — constantly licking his lips, fidgeting in the chair, and casting anxious glances at the door as though ready at any moment to bolt. “Tell me, what exactly happened?” Abberline began cautiously, as with a small child, trying not to frighten the possible witness and not to make him close up. “I saw… that is, I think I saw the… the murderer.” The man began haltingly. “It was yesterday evening, around half past eleven, sir. I was walking along Commercial Street when I saw Mary Kelly — I know her, she's… well, you know. One of those. She was standing by the pub, talking to a man.” “Describe this man,” the detective asked, taking out his notebook. “Not local, that's for certain. Tall, dark-haired. Well dressed — expensive coat, hat too. Dark spectacles, like the Americans wear. And in our weather no less? He was about thirty-five, maybe forty. And I remember he spoke with an accent — not a London one, for sure.” Abberline's heart skipped a beat. The description matched Raven all too well. “What happened then?” “They talked a bit, then he gave her something — money, I suppose. Mary nodded, and they went off toward Dorset Street. I didn't follow any further — not my business, like. But that fellow… he was strange all right.” “In what way strange?” “Too calm, sort of. And smiling all the time, but the smile was… unpleasant. And those parts aren't for the gentry, you know, but there he was, the perfect gentleman.” Hutchinson thought for a moment and insisted: “Strange, in short.” Abberline wrote it all down, trying not to betray his agitation. When he had finished, he looked sternly at the man awaiting his answer: “Mr. Hutchinson, I must ask you not to tell anyone about our conversation. It is extremely important for the investigation.” “Of course, sir. But you will catch this… person?” “We shall do everything possible, rest assured.” When the man had left, Abberline locked himself in his office and tried to put his thoughts in order. During the interview he had been trying to remember where he had already seen the name Mary Kelly — and remember he did! It had been written on one of the medical cards he had found in the flat of that accursed Dr. Stanley. A prostitute of the higher sort, who received clients at her own lodgings. Even more frightening was the fact that Kelly's room was located somewhere on Dorset Street, a stone's throw from Miller's Court — the place marked on Raven's map. Events were forming an ever more terrifying picture, and the denouement could come at any moment. Gathering his strength, Abberline rose from behind the desk and, throwing on his coat, headed for the exit. He had to prepare properly for what the coming night might bring.

***

The rest of the day passed in agonising anticipation. Abberline shut himself in the study at home but could not concentrate on anything for more than a few seconds at a time, constantly leaping from his chair and beginning to pace nervously about the room, listening for footsteps in the corridor, expecting and at the same time dreading a report from Mitchell. In the afternoon the constable finally appeared in the study doorway, agitated and out of breath. “Sir! An hour ago Raven left the flat on Baker Street, sir! What are your orders?” Abberline sprang from his chair, feeling his heartbeat quicken. “Which direction did he go?” “Toward the East End, sir. Didn't take a cab.” “Good.” The detective suddenly grew calm all at once, as though some inner spring had been released and all questions had received their one true answer. He finished in an utterly calm tone: “Thank you, Mitchell. Report to the Yard — you have done excellent work.” “But—” The constable clearly wanted to object, but meeting the detective's sad smile, which seemed somehow resigned, he thought better of it and, saluting, left the room. When Mitchell had gone, Abberline opened the desk drawer and took out his personal revolver — a heavy Webley .455. He checked the cylinder, making sure all six rounds were in place, then for what must have been the dozenth time in the past few days pulled on his coat and hat and stepped out into the dusk that was beginning to gather in the street.