A deadly deception, p.16
A Deadly Deception, page 16
“Trouble?” I repeat.
He regards me with glazed eyes. “What with his ma and that.”
I bite the bullet and ask him outright, “Was Mary Jane up to something?” I say. “Was she in danger?”
He sniffs and shakes his head again. “I warned Alice. To be sure, I did.”
I dip closer. “Warned her about what?”
“About getting herself involved in Mary Kelly’s affairs. But she was a good soul and she loved that boy, she did. She’d do anything for ’im.”
I think I’m finally getting somewhere. I know I have to tread careful, but the question needs to be put. “Timmy was with Alice that night, weren’t he?”
John fixes me with a look that’s suddenly switched from sad to scared. A pulse of fear appears to beat in his neck. His face wears a silent terror as he scans all around him, searching for any eavesdroppers. Luckily, there’s only two old blokes propping up the bar.
“The night she was slain? Ey, he was,” he croaks in a whisper.
I bite back my own fear. It’s as I hoped. I’m thankful that the child was spared the sight of his mother being butchered, if she was. Being a witness would’ve put him in more danger than he might already be. “Did Alice bring him back to your room that night?” I ask gently.
He grunts, but keeps staring at the table, like his memory is playing out the scene in front of him. “That, she did.”
“And he’d never stayed with you before?”
A shake of the head. “Never.”
I swallow hard. I’m about to ask a tricky question, but it’s an important one. “Do you think Alice might have known that something was afoot? Something bad?”
For a moment he’s dumb, as if he’s considering all the wickedness he’s ever come across in Whitechapel, until finally he nods. It’s a slow up-and-down of his weary head, before, nudging closer, he tells me, all confidential, “From that night on, she were never the same. Always restless and fearful for the boy, too.” He sucks the air in through his jagged teeth. “I’m only glad she was spared knowing he’s been taken.”
I take a sip of my lemonade, just to show him I’m in no hurry. “You think she was worried someone was after him?”
His face suddenly lifts to meet my regard. “That, she was. To be sure, she was,” he replies without a shred of doubt in his voice, as if he’s never been more certain of anything in his life. He swallows down the rest of his beer, slams the mug on the table, and stands. It’s like he’s suddenly sobered up and regrets spilling the beans.
“Don’t go,” I say, looking up at him from my stool. I surely don’t want to lose him, just as he’s started to open up. But he seems resolved.
“I’ve said too much already, my girl,” he tells me, and with that, he slaps his flat cap on his head and walks out into the warm afternoon. And me? I’m left to ponder. Why would Alice take little Timmy away from his home that night, and that night only, unless Mary Jane knew something might happen to her? Unless Mary Jane knew someone planned to kill her?
EMILY
“You wanted to see me, sir?” Detective Sergeant Hawkins has been summoned to McCullen’s office.
The inspector is looking out of his window; his hands are clasped behind his back. “Yes, laddie,” he says, turning.
Hawkins is nervous. He fears he may have been caught out. Was his encounter with the Pinkertons witnessed by officers the other night? If it was, and he was trailed to the commissioner’s house, then his number is up. He’s aware that his mission carries with it innumerable dangers; the greatest being, he is uncovered and the London Fenians are provoked into enacting an atrocity in retaliation.
At the inspector’s bidding, the sergeant sits himself opposite, rubbing his clammy palms on his trousers. McCullen sits, too, with his gaze now locked firmly onto the young detective’s face.
“My, my, you look as though you are overdoing things” is his first, most unexpected comment.
Unsure as to how to react, Hawkins sniffs and tries to loosen his collar with two fingers. He has, of course, been working long hours, but he had no idea that his labors were visible in a physical manifestation. “I am simply doing my job, sir,” he replies uneasily.
“Burning the midnight oil, so I hear.” McCullen picks up a pen and loops it through his fingers.
Hawkins frowns. “There is much work to be done, sir,” he counters indignantly. The sudden thought of an eye at his keyhole flashes into his mind. He worries his master is having him spied upon.
McCullen leans back in his chair. “You always were conscientious.”
Hawkins notes the worrying use of the past tense. “And will always remain so, sir, to the best of my abilities.”
The inspector nods. “That’s good to hear, Hawkins, because I’ve decided to give you a new assignment.”
“Sir?”
“Something a little less challenging.” McCullen slides a brown leather folder across the desk. “A bit of a respite.”
“Sir?” repeats a confused Hawkins, opening up the file. “But I’m fully engaged in my case, sir,” he protests. Then, as if his superior needs reminding, he adds, “The Whitechapel murders, sir.”
The inspector coughs out a laugh. “And I know, firsthand, what they can do to a man, laddie.” He straightens his lips as he recalls his enforced period of rest. “You’ve been trying to catch Jack for what? Eleven months now, is it? The task is taking its toll. Look at you! The bags under your eyes, skin as pale as pastry—you need a change of pace.”
Hawkins suddenly finds himself feeling terribly drained, as if the mere suggestion of ill health has had an effect on him. “A change of pace,” he repeats. “I don’t understand, sir.”
“Read what’s in front of you,” orders McCullen, gazing at the open folder, filled with recent report sheets. “There’s more to Whitechapel than Jack, laddie. Take your pick.” He nods at the pages detailing various felonies and assaults. “I’m sure you’ll find something to keep you occupied,” says McCullen with a disingenuous smile, as if he is bestowing upon his junior officer an immense honor.
“But, sir . . .” The detective is on the verge of protesting, when McCullen flattens his palm at him.
“You’ll thank me for this, Hawkins. No more late nights, just good, honest detective work. It’ll keep you busy enough for the next few weeks, then you can return to the Ripper case with renewed energy.” He leans forward with a caveat. “If, of course, we haven’t caught the fiend by then.”
The young officer knows there is more to this demotion than meets the eye. McCullen is up to something, he is sure of it, but he also knows there is no use in challenging his orders.
“Very good, sir,” he says as the inspector shuts the folder and hands it to him.
Dismissed with a nod, Hawkins tucks the papers under his arm, rises, and is heading for the door, when McCullen suddenly calls him back.
“Oh, and, Hawkins . . .”
“Yes, sir.”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t see that flower-selling friend of yours anymore.” The inspector delivers a rather suggestive wink. “It does your reputation no good to be mixing with her sort.”
McCullen’s advice hits the sergeant like a blow to his abdomen. Hawkins senses the hairs bristle on the back of his neck. His cheeks flush with anger. However, he resists the temptation to answer back. If he does, he knows he will expose both himself and Constance to accusations that might impede his investigation into the London Fenians. Constance will have to wait a little longer for her honor to be defended.
“Sir,” he replies with a nod. From now on, he appreciates he will have to be even more careful in his movements.
CONSTANCE
I’m back flogging my flowers. Someone’s got to earn a crust, even though eating’s the last thing on my mind right now. I’m at the junction of Hanbury Street and Brick Lane. Elsa, the old dear who’s usually here, has gone down with something nasty, so I’ve seized my chance to take a prime pitch. It’s midmorning and the lane’s choked with traffic streaming in and out of the Eagle Brewery. There’s always the clerks and boss types, who’ll pay for a bloom to brighten up someone’s day. I douse a rose in cologne to make it smell more than it really does, and waft it under the noses of passersby. When they catch a whiff, some of them can’t resist.
I’ve just scored another sale when I see a bloke in a bowler crossing the street and making a beeline for me, like he doesn’t need any persuading to buy. It’s only when he’s a couple of feet away that I realize it’s Thaddeus, looking dapper as ever, this time in a yellow waistcoat. He doffs his hat, but he’s all stiff, like he doesn’t want anyone to know we’re already acquainted. I cotton on to his game and play along.
“A buttonhole, if you please, miss,” he says, keeping po-faced, then all cloak-and-dagger, he adds, “We need to meet urgently.”
“What’s happened?” I ask, selecting a bloom.
“I’ve been taken off the Ripper case,” he mumbles.
Just then, I catch sight of a copper—I don’t recognize which one—plodding along the pavement just a few feet away. I still my tongue until he’s passed.
“What?” I can’t hide my shock as I stick a pin into the rose’s stem.
“McCullen’s told me to investigate less taxing crimes.”
“Why would he do that?”
Thaddeus looks about him before he speaks, like he’s worried we’re being watched. “It’s time I told you, Constance,” he confesses.
“Told me what?” I damn near prick myself as I fiddle with the pin.
“That I’m working directly for Commissioner Monro.”
You could knock me down with a feather. “Commissioner Monro!” I blurt, then realize my indiscretion. “Why?” I whisper.
He looks along the road in the direction of the infirmary as he speaks. “As I said, we need to talk, in private.”
“I’ll say we do,” I agree, handing him the rose. “This one take your fancy?” I ask.
I watch him reach into his pocket for his tuppence.
“No,” says I. “It’s a gift.”
He smiles. “I will find a way to repay you,” he tells me, sending a tingle down my spine; then, from out of nowhere, he adds, “But I fear we can no longer meet at St. Jude’s.”
I was returning his smile, but his words have suddenly wiped it away. “Inspector McCullen again?” I say.
He nods. “I think he’s afraid of you.”
“Afraid? Of me?”
“You have hitherto made us police look rather inept,” he tells me with a shake of his head. “He’s ordered me not to see you again.”
All of a sudden I’m feeling almost flattered that I’m seen as a threat; then the worry kicks in again. “What shall we do?”
He shoots back, “Can I come to your home tomorrow evening?”
I frown. There’s obviously something troubling him and we need to get down to the business of detecting, but he’s still set me on edge. “I’ll be there,” I tell him, adding: “But make sure no one recognizes you. I think of nosey Mrs. Puddiphatt. If she catches Thaddeus calling round late it’ll be all over the street that I’m in jail before the day’s out. “Dress in workman’s clothes and I’ll tell Ma I’m teaching you to read.”
“But . . .” he protests, all puzzled.
“And I’ll make sure Flo is out.”
“If you think it’s really necessary.”
“I do,” I cut him off.
“Very well,” he says with a sigh, doffing his hat. “Until tomorrow.”
EMILY
London Hospital’s Pathological Museum is a veritable treasure trove of body parts, and only a short distance from Whitechapel High Street. From deformed fetuses to tumors the size of footballs, all manner of human life—and death—is to be found here, preserved in formaldehyde or surgical spirit and arranged in glass jars for the education and edification of the medical profession. To this end, the museum works very closely with the hospital’s mortuary, which is also where Detective Sergeant Hawkins is hoping to find a certain Fenian dynamitard.
You see, he is here by design rather than luck. Last night, as he leafed through the files he obtained from the Pinkertons and examined the information pertinent to one Gabriel Flood, he could barely believe his eyes. The name on the file may have been different, but there was no mistaking the face in the photograph: the piercing eyes and the flowing locks. More proof, if more was needed, was found in a handbill. Dated August 1887, it read: WANTED FOR CRIMES IN ENGLAND, Samuel Doyle, the notorious dynamitard, dead or alive. Reward $200.
There, staring out at him from a wanted poster, was the face of the young mortician who had assisted Dr. Bagster Phillips with Alice Mackenzie’s postmortem. There was even mention of a distinguishing mark: a tattoo of a phoenix on his right forearm. With mounting alarm he’d read that Doyle’s father, Padraig, was the surgeon who’d supplied the knives for the Phoenix Park murders. The thought had struck him like lightning. The commissioner had told him a similar knife was found at Miller’s Court. The connection was made. There was no mistaking it; Gabriel Flood and Samuel Doyle were one and the same. But how to investigate him without arousing suspicion? Then it had come to him.
Sifting through the various crime records in need of investigation that were bestowed upon him by Inspector McCullen, he’d come across the perfect excuse to visit the hospital: a rather ancient report of petty pilfering at the infirmary’s mortuary. It’s an ongoing problem; so habitual, in fact, no one has ever bothered to investigate it, until now. It suits his purpose remarkably well in light of what he has learned. So it is Gabriel Flood, also known as Samuel Doyle, who now brings Hawkins to the pathology museum, which harvests specimens from the mortuary. He intends to ask questions of the doctor in charge, a Dr. James Holt.
Hawkins has heard the rumors: Holt is a man fallen from grace after an unfortunate misjudgment with a scalpel as he performed surgery on a society heiress. The incident, it is said, drove him to drink—a probability borne out by the fact that it is not yet midday when Hawkins finally tracks down the doctor to the hospital mortuary, and smells alcohol on his breath. Nor does Holt seem particularly concerned when the sergeant reveals the reason for his visit.
“Pilfering?” he reiterates. “That comes with the territory, doesn’t it?”
Holt, once a good-looking man, but now clearly addicted to alcohol as evidenced by his bulbous, veined nose, stands at one of the sluices in the large room. His dark hair is disheveled and his eyes are already bloodshot. He has just finished examining the corpse of a recently deceased patient and is clearly not giving the detective his undivided attention.
“Here, Flood,” he calls to his wavy-haired assistant as he shakes his wet hands over the sink.
The assistant hurries over, towel in hand, and it takes Hawkins all his self-control not to handcuff his suspect there and then. The young mortician who aided Dr. Phillips at Alice Mackenzie’s postmortem the other day is most certainly Samuel Doyle. The two men’s eyes meet fleetingly before the assistant turns away and scurries off to busy himself with the cadaver on the table behind. It is enough, however, to confirm to the detective that he has nailed his suspect.
He switches back to the doctor. “We are obliged to follow up reports of criminal activity, sir,” Hawkins points out.
Holt shrugs. “But the theft of the pocket watch was at least two months ago,” he replies.
Hawkins nods. “I fear we are hard-pressed at the moment, sir, with the recent murders.”
Holt, his hands now dry, nods his understanding. He walks over to where his jacket hangs on a nearby hook. “It was a relative who made the complaint, anyway. I merely passed it on. Such pilfering is regarded as one of the perks of the job for these wretches.” He glances over to the assistant. “I’m inclined to turn a blind eye if a few trifles go missing.”
The detective remains silent as the young man collects some bloodied dressings and leaves the room.
“Your mortuary assistants,” Hawkins says as Holt picks up his case. “Do they not normally come from the workhouse?”
Holt slips an arm into his jacket sleeve. “Yes.” Then following the detective’s gaze toward the door, he nods. “He’s an exception,” he replies in a low voice. “Something in his past, I’m told. But I don’t pry, Sergeant. We all have things we’d really rather forget.”
Bearing in mind the doctor’s own questionable history, Hawkins raises a brow. “Quite,” he replies, then pauses before asking, “How long has that man worked here, sir?”
“Flood?” says Holt, confirming Hawkins’s suspicions. “I’m afraid I’ve no idea. Since before I started,” he replies, reaching for his case, but his curiosity is now piqued. “You didn’t come here to investigate a petty theft, did you, Detective? You came for Flood. He’s in trouble, isn’t he?”
“What makes you say that?” asks Hawkins.
Holt forces a smile. “You’re looking at a man who’s seen his fair share of it.” He glances over to the door through which the assistant left. “I can spot it a mile off.”
CONSTANCE
Today I’ve come to Billingsgate. You’ll remember it’s Joe Barnett’s old stomping ground, but I know his brothers still work at the fish market and he’s a regular round these parts, too. The more I think on it, the more I reckon he was the one who warned me off asking about old Alice.
Up early, I am, to arrive just as the big gong sounds across the Thames, calling all the merchants to market. Did I say “market”? More like a palace, and that’s no lie. It’s a fine new building, built in the Italian style, like the ones I’ve seen in art gallery windows, with a bell tower. It’s a sight for sore eyes, I can tell you, but it’s not so easy on the nostrils. My blooms would be lost in such a place. It don’t half-stink round here. That’s why I brought a load of oranges to shift, instead.
At first, I just stand on the quay and marvel. Boats of all shapes and sizes, and from all around this island, are moored up and being rid of their slippery cargo. Boxes full of cod from Yarmouth and Lowestoft, and baskets and hampers of sprats, and herrings and mackerel from the southern ports, are shifted quick as you like. Some look fresh and shiny, but it’s obvious which ones aren’t from their pong.
