Death at Whitechapel (17 page)

Charles had originally decided to consult Abberline because he thought the former inspector might be able to shed some light on the current status of the Ripper investigation. There had been a great many rumors over the intervening years that the Ripper—who appeared to have gone out of business after the death of Mary Kelly—had been killed, imprisoned, or committed to a lunatic asylum, and the facts concealed from the public. Some of the reports Charles had heard actually seemed quite credible, like the theory of the mad doctor from the West End who had been secretly committed to an asylum in Islington, his role in the Ripper killings concealed for the sake of his family. If anyone knew that Jack the Ripper had actually been identified—and hence could not have been Randolph Churchill—that man was Fred Abberline. Perhaps that was the reason for the former inspector's lack of enthusiasm for a meeting and his suggestion that his work was no longer relevant. If this were true, Charles's endeavors would be radically simplified. The authorities might be persuaded to make some sort of statement that would protect Jennie and her sons from any more of these cruel blackmail attempts, and that would be that.

But his discoveries in Cleveland Street had given Charles something more to think about. For one thing, he had learned from the talkative barber that Jennie's blackmailer was an experienced photographer. If the landlady was to be believed, Finch did not have a darkroom where he could have created the forgery, the sophistication of which strongly suggested that it had not been produced in his broom closet. He must, therefore, have a studio somewhere else. But where? And where were the original negatives for the forged photograph?

Charles frowned. There was no actual evidence that Finch himself had devised the photo; as a matter of fact, someone else could just as easily have produced it and given it to Finch. But why Finch? Randolph Churchill had had any number of powerful enemies who would have been delighted to pay a great deal for the privilege of exploiting such an incriminating photograph. What was more, the barber had said that Finch had been involved in other extortion attempts in connection with the Cleveland Street brothel incident, so he was no stranger to the criminal arts. It was that suggestion, more than anything else, which now made it seem likely that Tom Finch had indeed produced the blackmail photograph, and that it was time to undertake a serious search for the studio he might have used, which was probably located in Cleveland Street or nearby. If Charles could find that studio, he might be able to find the
negatives
—and the person who wrote the note Jennie had received yesterday.

The conductor tapped on the door, opened it, and Charles handed him his ticket. Then he picked up The Times and was just settling back to read the day's news when he thought of something else. Wasn't it Abberline who had been put in charge of the inquiry into the Cleveland Street brothel affair—and who had taken most of the criticism when the police handling of the case came under fire? Perhaps he would have some information about Tom Finch. And perhaps, come to think of it, while Abberline had been investigating the Ripper killings, he might also have happened onto some information about Mary Kelly's residency in Cleveland Street.

Charles opened
The Times,
frowning slightly. It was beginning to seem that all roads led to Cleveland Street.

 

The Bournemouth Central station was built as a monument to the grandeur of the London and Southwestern Railway, its high roof spanned by latticed girders that were supported by buttressed red-brick side walls. The chill drizzle that plagued London was only a mist here on the South Coast, but the sky was still overcast and the waters of Poole Bay were gray and choppy. Charles walked the mile or so from the railway station to the pier, which was deserted when he arrived. In fact, the only person in sight was a lone fisherman, sitting on a folding stool at the far end of the pier. Charles strolled slowly down the pier, and in a few moments the fisherman casually pulled in his line, packed up his stool and tackle, and walked toward Charles.

It was Abberline. The former inspector's hairline had receded even farther since Charles had seen him last and his heavy mutton-chop whiskers had turned decidedly gray, but the wary look had not left his eyes and his mouth was still hard and shrewd. He had spent over thirty years in the service of the Metropolitan Police, and the work had marked him.

“Hello, Abberline,” Charles said. “How's the fishing?”

“Some days it's good, some days not,” Abberline replied. His voice was gruff, and Charles heard suspicion in it. “Do you fish, Lord Somersworth?”

“You can dispense with the title, if you don't mind,” Charles said easily. “I've retained the name of Sheridan. And no, I don't fish. Don't go in for hunting, either. I've never been much of a sportsman.” He paused. “I trust you're enjoying your retirement.”

Abberline put down his gear and leaned his elbows against the railing of the pier, looking westward across the bay, where the curve of the shoreline marked the Isle of Purbeck.

“I can't complain,” he said. “Bournemouth's a bit dull, after London, but the air is fresh and it's nice to be able to sleep at night.” He turned his head and drew his dark brows together, studying Charles, as if reassessing him. “You seem to be making quite a name for yourself in forensics. I was impressed by your article on crime-scene photography in the
British Journal Photographic Almanac.”
The corner of his mouth turned up. “If you don't mind my saying so, Sheridan, you've come a long way since that impertinent letter you wrote to Warren, complaining about those wretched photographs of the Ripper victims.”

Sensing a slight thaw in Abberline's manner, Charles grinned. “You know about that? I suppose, then, that you're the one who had me drafted to record the carnage.”

“Afraid so. You made some good points in your letter, and even Warren, fool that he was, had to admit that the job our man was doing was barely adequate.” A pair of gulls wheeled overhead, crying lustily, and somewhere in the town, a tower clock struck the third quarter-hour. “Warren said no at first, but the word came down that you were reliable.” He paused. “The right sort, I mean,” he added in a level tone. “The right background. You could be counted on.”

“The right background? I'm not sure I understand.”

Abberline gave a short laugh. “Neither did I, at the time. Later, though, it came clearer.” He gave Charles a slantwise look that held a grudging admiration. “Be that as it may, you did good work, Sheridan. Much more professional than I expected from a toff. And you've continued to do good work since, in spite of your elevation. So I've decided to be straight with you.” He hesitated. “But only as far as I can.”

“Thank you,” Charles said.

“You have little to thank me for. And I have little to tell. A few weeks after Kelly's murder, I was ordered to close the investigation.”

“Close
it?” Charles exclaimed, surprised. “But why? The case was unsolved and the murders were only a few months old!”

Abberline watched the swooping gulls for a long moment and then turned, scanning the pier in each direction. A woman and a child were walking toward them, the woman bending her head into the wind, the child dancing along with both arms outstretched as if to fly. Abberline lowered his voice.

“What makes you think the case was unsolved?”

Charles pursed his lips. So the rumors
had
been true. “No one was ever brought to trial,” he said, “and there was never an offical explanation. Like everyone else, I assumed that the authorities wanted to bring the Ripper to a public justice.”

Abberline's voice was edged. “That would be the wrong assumption, now, wouldn't it? The ‘authorities,' as you call them, wanted to close the investigation, that's all. They made it clear that I was not to pursue it, either officially or unofficially, and that I am never to discuss what I know with anyone.” His mouth took on a wry, half-mocking twist. “Not even with someone who can be counted on. Not even with someone like you, Sheridan.”

Now Charles was beginning to understand. Abberline was speaking, obliquely to be sure, about some sort of police cover-up-or perhaps even higher, in the Home Office. “These authorities,” he said. “They still have some influence over you, I take it, even though you are retired from the force?”

“Some influence? Well, that's one way of putting it.” Abberline laughed, his mockery now turned on himself. “I've been given a fine house and a generous pension, twice what I should be getting otherwise.” He lowered his head to his arms. “I don't know why I'm telling you this, except to explain why I can't do what any reputable law enforcement officer ought to be able to do.” His voice was muffled, but Charles could hear the humiliation in it, and guilt, and a wretched self-pity. “And don't blame the Yard, for God's sake. Their hands are tied, as are mine.”

Don't blame the Yard? To Charles, the words clearly implied that the order to close the case had come from the Home Office, which suggested that the matter had been taken as far up the line as the Cabinet. The Cabinet! What the devil had he got into?

Now it was Charles's turn to fall silent. The wind had dropped and a fog was closing fast around them, swathing the distant shoreline and the end of the pier. It was probably pointless to attempt to persuade the man, given his situation, but he had to make one more try.

“I understand your position, Abberline, but there's more here at stake than I've said so far. I've been asked to help a certain lady who is being blackmailed with a forged photograph that poses her husband with one of the Ripper victims. I don't need details. But if I can show that the case has been solved—”

Abberline's head came up. “You can't,” he said. “Aren't you listening to me, man? It's a damn shame about the blackmail. I'm sorry for it, and sorrier for the lady. But the case is closed, and there's nothing I can tell you.”

Abberline's helpless, angry frustration was contagious, and despite his resolve for calm, Charles found the passion rising in him. “But an innocent woman's future is at stake, I tell you!” he said fiercely. “And it's not just a matter of blackmail, either. The extortionist was murdered, and the police are looking for her. She could go to prison if I can't sort this out.”

Abberline's face was impassive. He looked away into the distance, saying nothing.

Charles pulled in his breath. “All right, then,” he said, trying to make himself speak more quietly. “If you can't talk to me about the Ripper, talk to me about Cleveland Street.”

Abberline came suddenly to life. “Cleveland Street!” He pounded the railing with a sudden savage vehemence. “Sheridan, do you have any idea what you're dealing with, or the danger you're in?”

“Murder,” Charles said. “And blackmail. That's what I'm dealing with. And as for danger, it's the lady who—”

“You have no idea,” Abberline said quietly. “None at all.” He turned to fix his gaze on Charles's face. His eyes were narrowed and his jaw was working, and when he spoke again his voice was taut, as if he were suppressing wretchedness or rage, or both. “You may think that your social position guarantees you a certain safety, but it does not. The authority that sentenced four women to death because they threatened to reveal a secret marriage surely has the power to restrain one renegade lord. I advise you to watch your. step.”

“A secret marriage?” Charles asked, astonished.

Resolutely, Abberline turned his face toward the water.

“I need to know, damn it, man!” Charles exclaimed. “Tell me!”

Abberline shook his head from side to side like a dog. “No more,” he growled. “No more! I've already said too much.”

Charles stood for a moment, hesitating. “Then say no more.” He put his hand on Abberline's arm. “Except for yes or no. One word only. Or not even a word. Just a nod or a shake of the head.”

Abberline frowned. “What do you mean?”

“If I tell you what I have learned from other sources, will you confirm or contradict it?”

Conflicting emotions crossed the other man's face. “Possibly,” he said. “It will depend.”

Charles reached into his coat pocket and drew out the photograph. “This is Mary Kelly.”

Abberline glanced at it. If he was surprised, his face didn't show it. “Yes.”

“The photograph was taken in Cleveland Street, in front of Number 22, by a man named Tom Finch. Did he have anything to do with the Ripper killings?”

“Finch?” Abberline seemed surprised. “No.”

“Did Mary Kelly live at Number 22?”

Abberline shook his head.

“Did she live nearby?”

Abberline did not respond.

“Was the secret marriage hers?”

The town clock began to strike the hour. Abberline straightened. “The last train to London is due to leave in thirty minutes. If you hurry, you can just catch it.”

Charles felt close to despair. “Is there nothing you can tell me that might help?”

The fog was swirling thick. Abberline bent over to pick up his fishing gear. “You might talk to Walter Sickert,” he said. “Number 13 Robert Street, Cumberland Square. Near Regent's Park.”

And with that, he turned to walk up the pier toward the shore. He did not look back.