Death at Whitechapel (29 page)

From that time forward, Abberline understood that there was no getting out of the rot. His next significant case came seven months after Kelly's death. It was the Cleveland Street brothel affair, where he was ordered to make sure that the important men—Eddy, Lord Arthur Somerset, and Lord Euston, even the brothel owner—escaped before he closed in on the two minor suspects he was told to arrest. In due time these two unfortunates were allowed to plead to minor charges, served short terms, and disappeared. After that ridiculous debacle, which lost him the respect of the few police officers who still believed in him, he was assigned once again to tag after Eddy, who was rumored to be suffering from syphilis and certainly looked the part. Realizing that the extent of his knowledge about the crimes and the cover-ups put him in danger, Abberline tried to keep his head down—but still, there was a near miss or two, and he began to be afraid.

Then came the shocking news, in February of '92, that Eddy was dead, and Abberline was hit as hard by the blow as if the prince had been his son or his brother. And on the day after this devastation, there came another. He was contacted by Walter Sickert and taken in great secrecy to talk with a man named James Stephen, who had been confined for the past few months to a lunatic asylum in Northampton. Stephen, who was a barrister and poet, as well as Eddy's one-time tutor, long-time friend, and brother Freemason, seemed to Abberline to be perfectly lucid. He had a story to tell and names to name, and he urgently wanted, he said, to set the record straight.

Abberline listened carefully, mentally checking the dates, the details, and the evidence Stephen offered against what he knew as fact from his own investigations. The names Stephen named—Dr. Gull, Lord Randolph, and John Netley—confirmed Abberline's own suspicions, although he had not been able to find any direct incriminating evidence. The story was entirely plausible, entirely possible, and the teller's present condition—he was clearly dying—gave to his tale the added significance of a deathbed confession.

But was it the truth? Abberline had to admit that Sickert and Stephen might have concocted it between the two of them, perhaps to cover up their own involvement. Through their relationship to Eddy, they themselves were deeply involved in the case, in one way or another. Had they participated in the murders, as well? Should their names be added to the suspect list? It was possible, but there was no way to know, now. The investigation was ended. The case was closed. The rot had triumphed.

Within a few weeks, Stephen was dead, of self-imposed starvation, according to the official report. By this time, Abberline had heard the rumors that were circulating about Eddy—that he had not died of pneumonia, but of poison; alternatively, that he was not dead at all, but in exile. Both seemed equally plausible to Abberline, given what he knew of the way the marriage had been handled, and what had been done to the women. He continued to give Stephen's story a great deal of careful thought, measuring the names of Gull and Churchill and Netley against the evidence he himself had collected, and concluding, on balance, that Stephen spoke the truth.

Several days after Stephen's death, Abberline went to see Robert Anderson, who was still the head of his department. He told Anderson that he had written down what he knew and surmised about the Ripper's crimes and had put the document in a safe place, leaving instructions for it to be released to the public if he were to die suddenly. He was not yet fifty, but he was ready to retire, if the department could do without him, and if one or two minor requests were filled, such as the payment of his pension and perhaps a little something extra on account of faithful service. Anderson replied, straight-faced, that the department would be devastated by his loss, but he would see what he could do. The next day, his resignation was handed to him. He signed, and received an envelope containing the first of the payments that still continued to come to him, in cash. Emma found the house of her dreams in Bournemouth, and that was the end of his career as a policeman.

The sky was dark now, and the gaslights on the High Street were winking on. He had missed his tea, but no matter. Emma's sister was visiting and the two of them would never miss him. But his table was waiting at the Dog and Pony and a stein or two of ale would do very well in lieu of tea, with perhaps an eel pie to go with it. Tomorrow morning, when Mr. Peters opened the post office, he would send a telegram to Sheridan. He already knew what it would say.

 

T
he room was so silent that the fall of ash in the fireplace seemed loud and startling. Jennie's face was turned toward the fire, and Charles was sitting in his chair with his head flung back, his eyes closed. Kate sat quietly beside Jennie, watching them both and thinking about the fantastical story Charles had told them. Prince marries commoner, marriage destroyed by Prince's family, blackmailers murdered by half-mad Freemasons, police officials conceal the truth, Prince removed from the succession and imprisoned in secret exile. The whole thing was so riveting, so utterly compelling, that it deserved to be the plot of one of Beryl Bardwell's novels, if nothing else.

But the central question was not whether Sickert's tragic tale held the listener's breathless attention or compelled fear and horror and anger—although it certainly did all of that. What mattered was whether the story was true, and as to that, Kate could not be sure. It seemed almost
too
novelistic a tale to be true, the plot elements too neatly contrived, the details too fully explained. But she had to remind herself that Charles, who got the story straight from Sickert himself, seemed to believe it—and Charles was not easily persuaded. What was more, certain parts of the narrative were authenticated by the fragments of information she herself had gathered from other sources. Still, a great deal of the story could not be confirmed. It depended only upon eye-witness testimony, and most of the witnesses were either dead or deranged. Except for Sickert himself, of course. It was entirely a question of veracity. One either believed him or one did not.

Jennie roused herself. “Thank you, Charles,” she said quietly. She sounded sad and resigned. “I suppose I knew, even then, although I should have denied it to Heaven.”

Charles opened his eyes. “It can't be proven,” he said. “Most of it is merely Sickert's word, and the rest of it—what he says James Stephen said, for example—is merely heresay. It would be helpful if Abberline had uncovered some corroborating evidence, but if so, I doubt he will tell me. He was a good policeman, but his silence has been bought and paid for.”

Jennie sighed heavily. “It is sad to think that Randolph could do such things, although you
must
believe me when I say that it was his illness that drove him. Perhaps it is even sadder to think, though, that the government would go to such lengths to cover up a scandal.” She shook her head. “But there have been an untold number of other scandals, all hushed up. I don't suppose we should be terribly surprised by this one.”

Kate stood, feeling the need to step away from the story. “It's rather late. Shall we see what's become of dinner?” She was reaching for the bell when the door opened and Richards came in. Winston was behind him, dressed formally, his hat under his arm, as if on his way to a dinner party.

“I'm sorry to barge in,” Winston said when he'd been announced, “but I must speak to Lady Randolph. Urgently, I'm afraid.”

“Thank you, Richards,” Kate said. “You may go.”

Sotto voce, Richards replied, “Dinner is just ready, your ladyship. Will Mr. Churchill be staying?”

“Winston,” Kate said, “we'll be eating soon. Will you join us?”

“I'm sorry, no,” Winston said. He seemed flustered. “I'm on my way to dinner with Lord Balcarres, and I've only a minute. I shan't keep you from your dinner.”

Richards withdrew and Winston stood, awkwardly, for a moment. Finally he sat down beside his mother and said, almost in a whisper, “Another letter has come, Mama.” He drew an envelope from his pocket. “I came in from Bath in a tearing hurry, caught up the post, and opened your envelope in error.” His voice rose. “There's another press clipping—and he says you must give him five hundred pounds or he'll go to the police and tell them that you were at Finch's on the day of the murder!”

“Not now, Winston,” Jennie said wearily, waving away the envelope. “Not tonight. It's too much. I just can't bear any more.”

“But Mama!” Winston protested. “Something must be done! We can't just hand over—” He stopped and gathered himself up. “I think you should go away. To France, perhaps. Or to India, to visit the Curzons.” He turned to Charles and said, in a commanding tone, “Lord Charles, tell her that she must go to India, straightaway.” His face darkened. “Once she is safely out of harm's way, this person can be ... dealt with.” The last few words were almost a snarl.

Kate took the envelope out of Winston's fingers and handed it to Charles. “Thank you, Winston,” she said quietly. “I believe the situation can be managed without sending your mother on such a long trip—or resorting to violence.”

Winston stood, hand on hip. “But what's to be
done?”
he demanded. His jaw jutted and his large round eyes were hard as glass. “If the man is paid, as Finch was, he'll just keep on asking for more. If he isn't—”

“Winston,” Jennie interrupted, “why don't you go on and enjoy your dinner. Lord Charles will take care of this matter.”

Winston was sputtering. “But—but—”

Charles stood up. “Be a good chap, Winston,” he said wearily. “There shall be time later to go into it. You have an engagement, and we are all very tired here.”

It was true, Kate thought. She herself was fatigued, and Charles was drawn and pale.

Winston looked from one to the other of them. “Quite right,” he said at last, making a visible effort to calm himself. He bent down and kissed his mother's cheek. “I do hope you'll give consideration to my idea of India, Mama. We could go together, for I have decided to return there myself, very quickly. For the polo tournament.”

“But I thought you intended on beginning your political efforts!” Jennie exclaimed, startled. “I've been moving heaven and earth to give you your chance. And now you say you're going back to
India—
for a foolish game?”

Winston smiled, but did not make a very good show of it, Kate thought, and his explanation sounded lame. “But it is a very
important
game, Mama, and I owe it to the Fourth to play my part. And the time shall not be lost, of course. I shall take my manuscript with me, and work on it en route.” He gave her a smile. “I am booked on the S.S. Osiris. Come with me, dearest, and we shall make a fine holiday of it. It is a good way for you to escape from these threats, and from that tiresome George, too. And we shall have
such
fun together.”

Is that it?
Kate wondered.
Is Winston trying to get Jennie away from George? Does he fear that she will marry him and drag her sons into the social ruin that was sure to follow? Or is there something else behind Winston's precipitous departure? Is he running from something? From someone?

“You may go if you choose,” Jennie said stiffly, “but I cannot. There are things I must do here. For one, I can't possibly leave
Maggie
in Manfred's hands and go off on holiday to India. Capable as he is, he requires my direction.”

At the mention of Manfred, Winston's face flushed even redder and his nostrils flared. Kate, watching, remembered the animosity between them. Perhaps George wasn't the only man of whom Winston was jealous.

“I shan't give up trying to persuade you, Mama,” he said, obviously attempting to steady himself. “After you have read the note and the clipping, I believe you will see the wisdom of my suggestion. Leaving England may be the only answer.” He bowed to Kate and Charles. “Good night.”

When he had gone, Jennie shook her head. “What an exhausting boy he is,” she said tiredly, “and so ridiculously full of himself. India! After all I have done to help get his political career underway, I cannot believe that he is dashing off to play polo! It is utterly irresponsible of him to be swayed by such schoolboy distractions. What in the world will the Party think?”

But Kate did not believe it was polo that drew Winston to India, so much as something else pushing him.
Something has happened to frighten him,
she thought. Was it the blackmail note, or what he had learned about his father's situation, or something else? But there was no ready answer to the question, and she was too weary to puzzle long over it.

“Richards says dinner is ready,” she said. “Perhaps we shall all feel better after we have eaten.”

Their conversation during dinner was not sprightly, and Jennie, pleading a headache, retired almost immediately afterward to her room. Kate and Charles returned to the library, where Charles poured himself a whisky, sat down in his chair by the fire, and put his feet up.

After a moment, Kate prompted, “The letter Winston brought—aren't you going to read it, Charles?”

Charles sighed. “Oh, I suppose,” he said testily. He took out the envelope, which Winston had already torn open, and pulled out a letter and a newspaper clipping. He read both in silence, then tossed them down on the table beside him.

“After everything that happened today, I'm not in the mood for this kind of thing,” he said.