No wonder Abberline had a bad stomach. And when he finally found himself ushered into Sir Charles Warren’s presence, matters only got worse.
Of course Warren knew about Piggott, and John Pizer, and another suspect — a barber’s assistant named Ludwig — who’d been arrested and released. He’d read it all in the papers.
“That’s what I want you to explain,” Warren said. “How does all this twaddle get into the hands of the press?”
Abberline stood there, hat in hand, forcing himself to remain calm, but his fingers twisted the brim of his bowler.
“I’m afraid there’s no help for it, sir. The way journalists keep swarming into Whitechapel asking questions they’re bound to turn up information. We can’t prevent that.”
“Information?” Warren fixed the monocle to his bad eye and regarded him with a steely squint. “It’s enough they know we’ve planted detectives working in the slaughterhouses, visiting all the butcher shops, questioning every lodging-house keeper in the district. Personally I think it a mistake to print such stories — they’re bound to put the murderer on the qui vive—but at least it shows we’re doing our duty.” He picked up a morning paper from his desktop. “What I can’t countenance is rot like this. Suggesting that whores should carry whistles and walk in couples, or that officers on patrol disguise themselves as common prostitutes!”
“I admit that isn’t practical,” Abberline said. “Speaking for my men I can vouch they’ll do almost anything they’re ordered to, but shaving off their mustaches is a bit much.”
“Damn it, man, are you trying to make sport of this?” Warren’s squint grew into a glare. “Leave the bad jokes to Fleet Street.” He opened the newspaper, riffling through its pages. “There’s more bilge here in the letter columns. Suggestions that we recruit prizefighters to dress as women. Or even enlisting effeminates to pose as streetwalkers, giving them spiked steel collars to wear because the murderer first attacks the throat. I tell you the whole city has gone crazy.”
“Agreed.” Abberline nodded. “But it’s a crazy man we’re after. And we’re bound to find him, sooner or later. I have some fresh leads—”
“Then go after them!” Warren’s maniacal monocle glittered. “But mind you, not a word to the press. They’re having a field day, blowing this whole affair up out of all proportion, and I know why.” His mustache quivered as he spoke. “You can see the reason behind this puffery, can’t you? They’re out to discredit me. Ever since those infernal riots last year they’ve been after my blood. Well, let them try and be damned to them!” Crumpling the paper, he threw it into the wastebasket beside his desk. “I won’t have it, do you hear? I won’t have it!”
A warning sounded in Abberline’s stomach and he covered it hastily, clearing his throat. No sense talking to Warren any further, but there was another alternative.
“I appreciate your feelings in the matter, Sir Charles, and I’ll not trouble you about those leads. But I do want an official opinion before I go ahead. Perhaps it would be best for me to discuss plans with the assistant commissioner. If he’s ready to assume charge of the case now—”
“Anderson?” Warren offered him a surprised stare. “Haven’t you heard? He left here the day after the Chapman murder.”
“Left?” It was Abberline’s turn to display surprise.
“I told you he was feeling poorly. His physician recommended a month’s holiday abroad. Switzerland, I believe.”
Something spasmed in Abberline’s gut and he turned away quickly without replying; a nod of farewell was all he could safely venture as he put on his hat and left the office.
Only upon reaching the outer corridor beyond the anteroom did he give voice to his reaction.
“Switzerland,” Abberline muttered. “All hell breaks loose in Whitechapel and he runs off to take a holiday.” His stomach rumbled in counterpoint to his words. “No hard feelings, but I hope he falls off an alp and breaks his bloody neck!”
~ SEVENTEEN ~
England, A.D. 1531. Good King Henry VIII established a law to discourage poisoners. They were boiled alive.
All week long Mark avoided reading the papers.
After the shock of the murder report he’d come to a decision. Following the accounts of the crime could only lead to troubled sleep and worse waking moments. He made up his mind to concentrate on work.
But what a curious phrase — making up one’s mind. Was it just a figure of speech? Or do we literally “make up” our minds? To what extent do we control our perception of reality; where does thought end and imagination begin?
The problem intrigued him. It would be helpful to discuss the subject with someone like Trebor, but he hadn’t appeared at the hospital since the day before the murder.
Twice Mark had seen Eva going about her duties in the infirmary, but there had been no chance to speak with her. She was deliberately avoiding him, he knew, and sooner or later he intended to force the issue. The question was how to go about it.
He considered the matter again as he came out of the consultation room on Saturday noon. Surely she’d have some free time this weekend. Perhaps the best thing to do was go directly to her lodgings and insist on seeing her. Whatever Eva’s feelings about him might be, she owed him that much.
“Dr. Robinson!”
Mark halted, recognizing the portly figure of Inspector Abberline as he approached.
“Sorry to bother you,” Abberline said. “I’ve been trying to locate Dr. Trebor.”
Mark shook his head. “I haven’t seen him here all week.”
“Neither has anyone in the administration office.” Abberline pushed his bowler back to reveal a perspiring forehead. “They say he was called away on business. You wouldn’t happen to know where he went, by any chance?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Odd he didn’t leave word of his whereabouts.” Abberline took a handkerchief from his vest pocket and blotted his brow with it. “You medicos are a close-mouthed lot.”
“I don’t believe Dr. Trebor is required to account for his absence,” Mark said. “He’s only a voluntary consultant. And if he has business elsewhere—”
“Any idea what sort of business that might be? Or is that a professional secret?”
Mark felt a twinge of irritation. “I know nothing about his personal affairs.”
“That’s the point. Nobody seems to know where he goes and why.”
“Is there any reason they should?” Even as he spoke Mark knew the answer and anticipated it. “Surely you don’t suspect Dr. Trebor of any connection with what’s been happening.”
“That’s not why I’m here.” Abberline replaced the now-soggy handkerchief in his pocket. “You may recall he volunteered assistance if required. I was about to take him up on his offer.”
Mark found himself hesitating before he replied. Despite his disclaimer Abberline might still suspect Trebor and probably suspected him as well. Like it or not, he was still involved, and the best course now was to cooperate.
“Could I be of any help?” he asked.
Abberline smiled. “Good of you to ask. If you’re free for an hour or so you might take lunch with us.”
“Us?”
“I’ve an appointment at the Duck and Drake for one o’clock. Chap named L. Forbes Winslow. Ever heard of him?”
“Can’t say I have.”