A deadly deception, p.7
A Deadly Deception, page 7
When the session adjourns for luncheon and he slowly files out of the courtroom, Hawkins feels as if he is treading on treacherous ground. He’s been tasked to investigate a possible Irish link with the Whitechapel murders, but could it really be, he wonders, that these barbarous killings of unfortunate women were politically motivated, designed to make Her Majesty’s Constabulary of Police look like fools?
Are the Fenians so hell-bent on Home Rule that they’re willing to sacrifice innocent lives to further their cause? The dynamite explosions of a few years ago demonstrated that they are. But then again . . .
He is just musing on the dilemma when he feels a shoulder clip his own. His gaze darts up to see a young man with long, dark, wavy hair vying for the doorway. “I beg your pardon,” he reacts with involuntary politeness.
The young man whose shoulder he brushed is equally apologetic. “Forgive me, sir,” he says sheepishly, his pale complexion coloring a little. He gestures to the detective to go first.
As Hawkins passes in front of the young man, he thinks there is something familiar about him. He has seen him before, but where? It is not until he is outside again that he remembers. He is the mortician who attended at Alice Mackenzie’s postmortem.
CHAPTER 8
Wednesday, July 24, 1889
CONSTANCE
We’re at Plaistow Cemetery, just east of Whitechapel, paying our last respects to Alice. She was older than the other victims, although just how old I don’t think even she could say. I’d put her around the same age as Ma, although her years on the street had left their mark on her face just as surely as the scars men gave her.
There was a good turnout for the funeral. Hundreds of mourners lined the pavements in Whitechapel. Even hanging out the top windows, they were. Like a river of black, it was, running down Artillery Street, where we set off from the Tower at half past one. Messrs. Parker and Tempany certainly did her proud. Along with the hearse there were two mourning carriages, pulled by big glossy-black horses. Behind the hearse walked a handful of women, Lizzie Albrook among them, and three gents, including Alice’s man. They were led by the undertaker in his claw-hammer coat. Betsy Ryder, from the doss house, was there, too. Homely as a pair of slippers, she is. Walking by her side was little Timmy Kelly. This time there were shoes on his feet. Done up all smart, he was, with a dapper cap that he took off to walk in the cortege. Looked a proper picture. Poor, lost lamb.
I followed the hearse with Ma and Flo, passing in slow procession some of the other places where Jack had been about his fiendish work. Along Commercial Street we filed, past Dorset Street and the archway leading to Miller’s Court, where they found Mary Jane. Through into Hanbury Street next we went, where Annie Chapman met her grisly fate at Number 29, then on into Baker’s Row and the western end of Buck’s Row, where Polly Nichols felt Jack’s blade.
As we turned onto Whitechapel High Street and onto Commercial Road, the crowds started to thin and everyone went back to their own business, leaving our little band to proceed here, to Plaistow. Yes, they all did Alice proud. Even Joseph Barnett put in an appearance, although I think he’s got some nerve showing up, now we all know he roughed up Mary Jane. He accompanied the hearse to the cemetery, too, but stood back when they lowered the coffin into the ground and only nodded at little Timmy when he came face-to-face with him afterward.
There was barely a dry eye at the graveside. All in all, it’s been a good show. Everyone’s made a fuss of poor Timmy. He was that well behaved. When he saw everyone else all teary-eyed, he shed a few of his own for dear old Alice, but I don’t think he understands death. I hope not, anyway. I’m not sure he can get his head around the ending of everything on earth—not the going away of it all and the emptiness that’s left behind. That’s not easy for anyone to get to grips with, let alone a nipper like him. What that little ’un’s been through and he’s not yet seven years of age!
Now that Alice has been lowered into the ground, I grab a clod. The earth feels cold and sticky in my hand and I throw it into the open grave. It makes a dull thudding sound on the coffin. The little party of mourners is breaking up, and I leave Ma and Flo to talk to Betsy Ryder and the others. I slip away, quiet like, to pay my respects to someone else who’s remembered in the graveyard. I don’t think they’ve noticed me.
Walking along the headstones, a few rows back, I come to Miss Tindall’s memorial stone. It’s quite plain: no angels or urns for her. Just a round-topped granite slab with a simple inscription: Emily Frances Grace Tindall, 1862–1888, a beloved daughter who died in the service of others. I think she would approve, although, perhaps, she would prefer passed over to died.
All visitors to this place have their own sad story to tell, but surely none as strange as mine. It’s been almost eight months since they buried Emily Tindall, or rather what remained of her, and I still miss her most terribly. Sometimes when I’m alone or at night, I get this terrible ache in my chest and I just want to reach out and touch her. But I can’t. Of course, I’m luckier than most bereaved people because I have seen her since she passed. It may only have been a fleeting glimpse now and again, in a crowd or even in the mirror, but I know she’s been there. As strange as it may sound, I’m almost expecting to catch sight of her here, in this resting place.
I’ve saved a flower from the bunch I put on Alice’s grave. It’s a single rose. Bobbing down, I lay it by the stone and say a few words. Only, just as I’m straightening myself up again, I suddenly see, a few yards beyond, a woman step out from behind a nearby tree. She’s all in black, with a veil over her head, and for a second I think it’s her.
“Miss Tindall,” I mutter, only not so loud as the others can hear me. For a moment she is still. Her head turns and I think she’s staring at me, even though I can’t see her face beneath the mesh. Then she turns back and starts walking. But I won’t let her leave. Not like that. I hurry after her. “Miss Tindall!” I call, only louder, but she ups her pace. There’s something not right. Something different. She’s not walking like Miss Tindall walked, not like a lady. Her shoulders are rounded and she’s not wearing a hat, like Miss Tindall always did. This woman’s taller, too. She’s soon at the cemetery gates, but before she goes through them, she stops and glances back once more. Only, she’s not looking at me. She’s gazing beyond to Alice’s grave and to the party of mourners that’s making slow progress toward the gates, too. By the time I reach the railings and look down the street, the woman’s gone; she’s melted into thin air. Vanished. She weren’t no Miss Tindall, and that’s for sure. But who was she? Or what? The thought has already bloomed in my head. We are in the place of the dead, surrounded by them. Perhaps she was a ghost. Perhaps she’d crossed over. Perhaps she wanted to welcome old Alice to heaven.
“You all right?” asks Flo, coming up to me, with Ma on her arm.
“Yes,” I say, looking about. I’m all distracted and flustered and she knows it. I’ve got that feeling again, like someone’s been inside my head and rummaged around in my brain. Am I seeing things? I’m not sure.
“Been paying your respects to Miss Tindall?” asks Ma, her sad eyes rimmed red.
“That’s right,” I reply with a nod. I hope she doesn’t notice I’m all atremble.
Just behind Ma comes Betsy with little Timmy. She’s holding his hand.
“You’re a brave boy,” says Ma, patting the top of his ginger head as he draws alongside.
“That he is,” agrees Betsy. “That he is. His ma would have been proud of him today.”
That’s when I get this feeling. I look at little Timmy and I see in his face his mother’s good looks: the pert nose and the clever eyes. I wonder if it was her I saw just now, even though her features were hidden by the veil. The woman I saw was watching the boy as he bowed his little head by Alice’s grave. It was the same woman I saw by the doss house the other day. I’m sure of it. Maybe Mary Jane’s come back to see her son. That’s it! Just like Miss Tindall, she’s still walking the earth, even though her body’s in the ground. What was the name Miss Tindall gave herself? A revenant. Yes. Could it be that Mary Jane Kelly, whose body they found locked in that bloody chamber, slashed and cut, has returned to her home turf? When they found her, there was talk that no human thing could have wrought such evil on a body, that she was the victim of a demented creature. Some even said it was a golem from Jewish folklore that did it: a thing of clay that’s given life, only to take it from others. The demon may have mutilated her body, but it didn’t destroy her spirit and it couldn’t break the bonds of a mother’s love. That’s it. The thought suddenly seizes me: Mary Jane’s returned to watch over her little Timmy, to see that no harm comes to her boy. I hold the idea tight in my head to stop it from slipping away. It’s a fanciful notion, but I think it could be true. I think I may have just seen the ghost of Mary Jane Kelly.
EMILY
It’s evening in St. James’s, in a very fashionable district of London, not a stone’s throw away from the Richmond Club. This time they’ve agreed to meet in a side street, so that to passersby it appears a casual encounter between acquaintances.
“McCullen,” greets Royston, raising his hat. “I hear the funeral this afternoon was most touching, a fine turnout.”
The Scot lifts his bowler. “Indeed so,” comes the reply.
“And I trust a particular mourner came to pay her respects.”
McCullen nods. “There was a sighting,” he says nonchalantly; for all the world it seems as if he is inquiring after his friend’s family.
Under the glow of the streetlamp, a smile spreads across Royston’s face. “Don’t tell me.” He flattens his palm in front of him. “The graveside!”
“Yes.”
Royston nods. “I knew she’d be back for him sooner or later. A man should never underestimate a mother’s love,” he muses.
But what McCullen has next to relate quickly wipes the smile off his co-conspirator’s face. The Scot shakes his head and leans forward. “The bad news is we lost her.” Royston drops his smile and his jaw begins to work angrily. He is trying to hold back his temper. “Sir?” McCullen is unsure about his master’s silence, but needs a response. “How should we proceed?”
The master darts the Scot a wry look. “Do you fish, Inspector?” he asks, fixing him with a curious stare.
McCullen is confused. “I’ve been known to bag a salmon or two from the Tay.”
“Then you’ll know how important it is to have good bait.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“And we have the perfect sort. Our colorful fly will make our fish move soon enough. But when she does, we need to be able to reel her in as quickly as possible. Do I make myself clear, Inspector.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then find her, and find her quickly. Or there’ll be hell to pay.”
CONSTANCE
Death is never far away from my thoughts these days. Tonight, as I lie in bed, in the darkness, my mind wanders back to Miss Tindall. It’s been so long since I’ve felt her presence—four months now, or maybe more. I was thinking that perhaps when the killings stopped, she might cease her visits to me, too. It certainly seems that way. She comes to me when there’s trouble and fear all around. So, if I’m right, she’s due to visit any time soon. She’ll show me what I must do to help make things right. I must not resist. My door must always be open to her, even though it unsettles me and makes me fretful, I know I need her help. I pray I will hear from her erelong.
Just then, Flo stirs and pulls the cover off me. I yank it back. She grunts. I seize my chance.
“Flo,” says I.
“I’m asleep,” she replies.
I carry on regardless. “Did you see a woman in a black veil at the cemetery today?”
There’s another scornful grunt. “What you on about? There were lots of ’em,” she replies unhelpfully.
“No, there wasn’t,” I insist. “Everyone in our party had hats on, not just veils.”
There’s a short silence, followed by: “How should I know?” I see her shoulder work a shrug under the sheet.
“Never mind,” says I, after a moment. Only, I do mind. It matters to me whether the woman in the black veil I saw was flesh and blood or a spirit. Was she a revenant like Miss Tindall, or, as I’m starting to think, was she real? The way she walked, the way she stared. The way she was just, well, there. Whenever Miss Tindall has come to me since she died, it’s been strange. I’ve seen her reflection in a mirror, or there’ve been flashes before my eyes and I’ve swooned. But this woman was different. She was solid and unyielding. Perhaps she was real, after all?
I close my eyes. Miss Tindall, will you tell me? I pray.
EMILY
Yes, dear Constance. The woman you saw in the cemetery this morning is as real as you are. You have begun well, but next you need to find out her identity. Tonight, in your dreams, you will revisit Alice Mackenzie’s graveside. You will study the faces of the mourners: There is your own mother, supported by your sister, Florence. There are women from Mr. Tenpenny’s, too: Among them is henna-haired Margaret Cheeks, who, but for the grace of God, was to have accompanied Alice out that night. At first, it was feared she might have fallen victim to an attack, too, until she reappeared the following day telling the police she had spent the night with her sister. There is George Dixon, the blind boy in his dark glasses, who swears he accompanied Alice to a public house the night she died. Despite extensive inquiries the investigation has not been able to corroborate his story. There is Alice’s common-law husband, John McCormack. He cries copious tears, but are they real? Finally you will see Betsy Ryder, both her plump hands placed protectively on young Timmy Kelly’s shoulders, as both of them watch the coffin lowered into the soil. Let your eyes settle on the child for a moment, then lift them slightly so that you gaze directly beyond him. There, in the distance, you will see the woman in the black veil who is so occupying your waking thoughts. I cannot reveal her identity to you. Only you can discover who she is. All that I can tell you at the moment is that her sights are still set on little Timmy. Until she has him within her power, she will not rest.
CHAPTER 9
Thursday, July 25, 1889
EMILY
Acting Inspector Hawkins arrives at work this morning to find an unusually reserved Sergeant Halfhide behind the desk at the station. The veteran officer’s greeting seems a little muted and Hawkins puts it down to Mrs. Halfhide’s rheumatism. He knows it’s flaring up again; although a glance toward his office door tells him there may be something else troubling the hirsute policeman. To his surprise he sees Constables Semple and Tanner shuffling out of it under the weight of several large files, together with his precious boxes of card indexes.
“What the devil . . . ?” Hawkins stops short.
“Orders, sir,” says Semple, his embarrassed gaze dropping to the floor.
“Whose orders?”
Constable Tanner pulls his mouth into a grimace and lets his eyes slide to his right, from where a voice suddenly booms.
“On mine, Hawkins.” Standing at the doorway, arms spread wide and hands gripping the posts on either side, is Inspector McCullen. The fiery Scot, who appointed Hawkins to take charge in his absence, has, it seems, neglected to inform the junior officer of his intention to return to work quite so soon.
The younger man’s jaw gapes. “Sir, I did not know . . . I . . .”
“Och, spare me the drama, laddie.” He stands back a little from the threshold. “Come in,” he orders, hooking his arm and gesturing Hawkins inside. “We’ve work to do.”
McCullen shuts the door behind him. “So, Detective Sergeant,” he begins, making sure Hawkins understands he’s been instantly demoted to his former rank, now that his boss is back. “Let’s get down to business.”
Hawkins, very much in shock, and not a little annoyed at his sudden eviction—not to mention his immediate relegation—nevertheless obeys. He remains speechless as he takes a seat in front of the desk that less than twelve hours before he regarded as his.
Without prior notice it seems Inspector McCullen has returned from his “rest” with an air of confidence and renewed vigor that makes Hawkins feel that a spell of extended leave might be just the tonic he needs at the moment.
In front of the inspector is an open file. “This latest killing,” he says, his hand swiping across the pages of the report that he’s just been reading. “You’ve been at the inquest, yes?” McCullen remains as forthright as ever. Circumlocution is not his style.
Hawkins nods. “Yes, sir. Both days so far.”
“And what do you make of it?”
“You mean, do I think this latest murder the work of the Whitechapel fiend, sir?”
“Of course, that’s my meaning, laddie,” barks McCullen.
Hawkins clears his throat. “There are two schools of thought, sir. One . . .”
“Damn it, laddie.” The Scot’s palm slaps the desk. “I’m perfectly aware of other opinions. I want to know what you think.”
The younger man tilts his head for a moment. What his superior does not know is that he has seen Alice Mackenzie’s body for himself. As with the other victims, her corpse was not a pretty sight, but at least her face had escaped the knife this time, if not her body. There were other, more subtle differences, too, although without Dr. Phillips’s authority, Hawkins does not feel himself at liberty, as yet, to disclose more. He therefore settles on saying: “I am not convinced that we are dealing with the same killer, sir.”
Another slap on the desk is accompanied this time by a heavenward rolling of the eyes. “Not another of your wretched theories,” replies McCullen. “The top brass was clearly wrong about Montague Druitt being Jack, I’ll give you that, but you seem to delight in complicating matters.” The Scot does nothing to hide his irritation with his junior’s circumspection.
