Mayhem (26 page)

‘No one has come forward for her?’ Bond asked.

‘There is no one missing who matches her description,’ Andrews said, then added, ‘Not listed, anyway.’

‘And as the bosses think we should not yet publish your findings, or the details of her death,’ Moore said, ‘it’s not bloody likely that more will come forward.
As if there isn’t enough already splashed all over the newspapers.’ He shook his head in despair; sometimes the stupidity of his superiors made him want to walk out of Division headquarters and never look back. ‘As if someone would imitate this murder just from your report – if someone wishes to kill like this, then they will go right ahead and do just that. And if it was a one-off accidental death, then your report will make no difference, will it?’

‘Accidental death?’ Dr Bond asked.

‘There is a suggestion that she might have been trying to get rid of the baby; that she died while trying, and her friends then cut her body up to hide the evidence.’

‘Highly unlikely,’ Dr Bond said, frowning. ‘She was about seven months pregnant – that is very late. In my experience, women at that stage will either kill themselves, or abandon the child after giving birth to it.’

‘I agree,’ Moore said. He liked the doctor’s analytical mind. He could see why he and Andrews had become friends. ‘However, the bastards above me seem to have aborted their own brains at times.’

He glanced back over his shoulder. The dog continued to run up and down the short trail it had found, desperately seeking the next lead, but finding nothing. He knew how Smoker felt.

‘If only we knew how he killed them,’ he muttered. ‘At least that would give us
something
to go on.’

‘I’m sorry I cannot give you more,’ Dr Bond said; his gaze was shifting from one place to another, but he never looked straight at Moore, and the inspector wondered if he was feeling guilty, if the police were applying too much pressure for answers.

‘You can only give us the facts, Doctor,’ Andrews said. ‘And we’re very grateful for them.’

‘For what good they do us,’ Moore added. ‘At least we had six months off – and at least it’s not bloody Jack. That bastard can stay wherever he’s gone to ground – although under it would be my preferred choice.’ He looked again at the doctor. ‘Tell me, Bond: you’ve got the kind of mind for it. Why the river, do you think?’

‘I don’t understand.’ The doctor looked startled. Moore wondered if perhaps he had spoken too abruptly. His patience was thin at the best of times, and although his preferred outcome would have been to catch the killer, this period of calm leading to the man simply disappearing would have been an acceptable second-best. It didn’t look like he would be getting either.

He looked at Dr Bond and explained, ‘I mean, why is he dumping so many of the parts in the river, where we can – and are – finding them? We don’t have the heads, because he doesn’t want them found – he is either burning them or burying them, I would reckon. He leaves other parts in places he knows we will find them – that damned torso at Scotland Yard, and the one in the bush there – but the rest goes in the water – so why? Why is the
river
so important?’ He could hear
his own frustration, and he stared at the doctor, almost willing him to have an answer. Not that he could, of course; the only person who really knew was the killer himself.

For a long moment, Dr Bond said nothing. His eyes turned towards the River Thames, out of sight, but ever-present. ‘Perhaps,’ he said eventually, ‘perhaps it is some kind of sacrifice: a gift to the water. Man or monster, we all have our gods.’

‘You think he’s worshipping the river?’ Andrews asked.

‘Or feeding it,’ Bond finished.

‘A madman, then,’ Moore concluded. ‘As if that wasn’t clear enough.’

Jasper Waring was heading towards them. Moore sighed: his turn to buy the beer – and to be fair, the little dog had done its best. After that, he’d go back to the station and tell them in no uncertain terms that he was going to need the public’s help if they wanted any chance of finding out who this body belonged to. God help them all, and God help him, but they needed all the information out there.

‘Sometimes I think we are all mad, Inspector, in our own ways.’

Dr Bond had spoken so quietly that his words barely carried, but there was something heavy in his tone that gave Inspector Moore pause. He looked again at the surgeon. He had become so used to his gaunt, tired appearance that he had failed to notice that his cheeks
had grown even more sunken, his shoulders hunched. He hoped the doctor was not speaking too much from his own experience. He needed sane and rational men around him.

‘Not me, Doctor Bond,’ he said. ‘That you can always rely on.’

He walked over to join Waring. Slapping the reporter on the back, he announced, ‘The dog’s done his best. Let’s call it a day.’

‘If you say so.’ Even Waring had had enough of hunting for dismembered bodies, juicy stories or not. ‘Dr Bond looks tired,’ he commented, as if following the inspector’s own train of thought.

‘We’re all bloody tired,’ Moore said, ‘Dr Bond as much as the rest of us.’

‘Hebbert’s more tired than Bond, I reckon,’ Waring said, and whistled for his dog. ‘Unless my eyes were deceiving me and it weren’t him I saw in the East End, dressed all untidy.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I told you: I saw him, last year, out on the streets. More than once.’

‘You must be mistaken.’

‘My Smoker’s got the nose, Inspector,’ Waring said, patting the dog, ‘but it’s me with the eyes. Now, let’s get that beer.’

35

The
Times
of London
June 13, 1889

The remains are those of a woman, age from 24 to 26 years, height 5ft. 4 in. to 5ft. 6in., well built and fleshy, very fair skin, hair light brown or sandy, well-shaped hands and feet, bruise on ring finger probably caused by wearing a ring; nails on both hands bitten down to the quick; four good vaccination marks, about the size of a three-pence piece [5 cents U.S. or Canadian] on left arm; skin on palms does not indicate that deceased did hard work; considerably advanced (probably about seven months) in pregnancy. The articles in which the remains were enclosed are as follows: – The skirt of an old brown linsey dress, red sleevage, two flounces round bottom, waistband made of small blue-and-white check material similar to duster cloth, a piece of canvas roughly sewn on end of band, a large brass pin in skirt, and a black dress button (about size of a three-penny piece) with lines across in pocket; a piece of the right front, two pieces of the back, the right sleeve and collar (about 4 1/2 in. wide) of a lady’s ulster, gray ground, with narrow cross stripes of a darker colour, forming a check of about three-quarters of an inch square; ticket pocket with outside lap on cuff, upon which there is also sewn a large black button; the material of good quality but much worn; a light blue flannelette bag, about 13in.
square, top edge unhemmed; a pair of women’s drawers (old); square patched on both knees, originally of a good material, band formed of several pieces joined; ‘L. E. Fisher’ in black ink at right end of band; a piece of tape sewn on with black cotton to each end of band to tie round body. The various parcels tied up with black mohair bootlaces, pieces of venetian blind cord, and ordinary string. The various articles described can be seen between 10A.M. and 4P.M. daily at Battersea Station by persons who have missing female relatives. The clothes may not have been worn by the deceased.

Decatur Saturday
Herald
– Illinois, U.S.A

England
THE VICTIM OF LONDON’S LATEST BUTCHERY IDENTIFIED.
London, June 25

The identity of the woman whose body was recently taken piecemeal out of the Thames has been established, several persons having recognised her by the clothing in which parts of her body were wrapped and by the peculiar scars upon the arms. She was Elizabeth Jackson, a frequenter of the common lodging houses in Chelsea and virtually a prostitute. She was known to be alive on May 31.

PART THREE

36

London. June, 1889

Dr Bond

Finally, I had a name to haunt me: Elizabeth Jackson. Inspector Moore’s insistence had paid off, and although he and his colleagues had been swamped with both the genuine and the ghoulish wishing to see the remnants of clothing that had been found with her, eventually the police had managed to put the more difficult pieces together.

I had been at the mortuary when Annie Jackson had come to identify her daughter. She was not long out of the workhouse and clearly not faring well in life herself, but the sight of her child, headless and identifiable only by scars on her arms, was surely enough to break her.

After that, Moore and Andrews had been able to work more quickly, piecing together the fragments of her life in much the same way Charles and I had done with her physical remains. I had arranged an early dinner with Andrews, as was becoming our habit, knowing that he would think nothing of sharing any information with me. I kept myself calm, telling myself that this might finally bring an end to my mad
suspicions of Juliana’s husband. In the days since the first inquest I had veered wildly from one extreme thought to the other; indeed, I had at times locked myself into my own house to avoid searching out the priest. I wondered why they had not come for me – surely they would be fired up over the fate of the poor discovered woman? I had to admit, to myself at least, that some small part of me hoped that some awful fatal accident had befallen the priest at least, freeing me of their grip.

But nothing Andrews told me allayed my suspicions. I fear my hand trembled slightly as I forced food into my mouth, chewing methodically as I listened. My mouth was dry, and what little hunger I might have had had vanished. Elizabeth Jackson had come from Chelsea. She had fallen on hard times, not an unusual story – although in her case, her employer knew of no reason for her sudden departure from a secure place as a housemaid in a good household – and then taken up with a disreputable man. She had spent some time in Whitechapel (which, Andrews pointed out, had caused some excitement amongst those who were determined that our Thames killer and Jack were one and the same), before returning, heavily pregnant, to her native streets. She had been seen sleeping by the Thames; we could only assume the child’s body had gone into the river too.

It was a maudlin tale, and I could see the lack of any real leads was taking its toll on my friend, but for my
own part, I felt a
frisson
of excitement. This woman had a name now, and that gave me a far greater chance to disprove any possible link to young Harrington. Then I could put this madness to one side, at least, even if not entirely out of my head.

I elicited Elizabeth Jackson’s place of work from Andrews, and now here I was, standing in the late-evening gloom and staring at the familiar houses opposite. Of course they were familiar: I had collected Juliana for the hunt and dropped her off here too, on several occasions.

Dread curled in my stomach, knotting like a snake in slick, perpetual movement, slippery coils twisting this way and that. I looked up at the empty house brooding in the middle of the street. Even the pale stone of its walls seemed darker than those around, as if the dirty air was drawn to smear its residue across its surfaces. Juliana and James were still in Bath, and so all the lights were out, but still the windows glinted, as if daring me to challenge the wickedness held inside. Did he leave an echo here, whispering through the empty rooms when he wasn’t there? Had it seeped into the very fibres of the building? Was that why they were giving it so complete a renovation that they might better have sold up and moved to a different property?

A streetlamp flickered momentarily, sending a flight of shadows across the pavement. I shivered at the thought of my own shadow, and twisted to see it. It moved with me, and I fought the idea of something
existing in that space, of always being just out of sight. I pulled a bottle of laudanum from my pocket and took a long swallow to steady my nerves. I was becoming as twitchy as Kosminski, and he, that poor tormented man, was only a few breaths away from an asylum. I looked back at the houses – at the one close to Harrington’s where lights blazed out. It was perhaps a little late for a house call, but not so much that it would cause undue alarm. I needed to do what I had come here for.

I turned my back on Harrington’s house and crossed the street.

*

‘If you are a newsman, then you can leave right now. We have nothing to say to you. The family are all at dinner and cannot be disturbed.’ The housekeeper had barely opened the door; even through that narrow gap I could tell she was a formidable woman. Her eyes were suspicious, but alert, and I knew that if there were secrets in this house, this woman would know them.

I held my hat between my hands.

‘I am very sorry to disturb you so late. My name is Dr Bond. I am the Police Surgeon. I …’ I hesitated around the words, and then managed, ‘I examined Elizabeth. I just have a few questions.’

She stared at me for a long moment, but I had seen a flicker of pain and care cross her stern face at the mention of the dead girl.

‘You ’ad better come in.’

I was shown into the drawing room, and after a few moments an elegant woman in her forties appeared, with the housekeeper alongside her.

‘Dr Bond?’ she said, and gestured to a seat, which I took. She remained standing. ‘I am Mrs Blythe. I am afraid my husband is not at home. This is about Elizabeth Jackson?’ She was elegant and polite, but there was a distaste in her voice, as if the whole business of Elizabeth’s demise was, whilst undeniably unfortunate, intensely irritating for the scandal it had brought to her door. ‘Mrs Hastings will be best able to answer your questions. She manages the staff. She spoke to the inspector. I will say that we had no trouble with Elizabeth – none of which I am aware.’