“No matter. Come along and form your own opinion. I fancy you may find him a bit of an odd fish.”
And that was all Abberline would say. During the carriage ride to Wimpole Street both men confined themselves to silence. It wasn’t until they entered the restaurant and made their way to a corner table that Mark learned anything more about the odd fish.
At first glance there was nothing either odd or piscatorial about the tall dignified man with muttonchop whiskers who rose to greet them. Much to Mark’s surprise, L. Forbes Winslow was introduced as a doctor. And once they scanned the menu and gave their orders to the waiter, Dr. Forbes Winslow corroborated his professional status.
“Good of you to come,” he said. “I welcome the support of a fellow physician.” Forbes Winslow smiled at Abberline. “And you too, Inspector. As you know, my suggestions to the authorities have fallen on deaf ears. But we’ve no time to waste, with a diseased degenerate at large.”
Abberline nodded to Mark. “Dr. Winslow has a theory about the recent murders,” he said.
Forbes Winslow’s smile disappeared. “I do not deal in theories. As an alienist, I state facts.”
“Alienist?” Mark was intrigued. “I take it you’ve had some firsthand experience in the study of mental disorders?”
“Indeed I have.” Forbes Winslow was beaming again. “After all, I grew up in a lunatic asylum.”
Mark glanced at Abberline, seeking his reaction, but the inspector’s face was impassive.
“My father was the resident physician at Hammersmith,” Forbes Winslow continued. “I’ve studied lunacy all my life. That’s why these crimes attracted my attention from the start. Although I conduct a practice here at Wimpole Street I’ve spent a great deal of time investigating the Whitechapel murders. The East End residents don’t take kindly to the police, but they trust me. I’ve talked to the witnesses, the lodging-house keepers and those poor creatures of the streets. What I learned has been communicated to the press and to Sir Charles Warren himself. But no one listens, and the killings go on.”
“That’s why we’re here,” Abberline said. “Suppose you tell us your conclusions.”
Dr. Forbes Winslow spoke slowly. “There are three possibilities. First, that the murderer is a monomaniac who labors under the belief that he is bringing the vengeance of God upon fallen women. This would account for his singling out prostitutes as his victims.”
“We’ve thought of that,” Abberline said. “It’s an obvious motive. Trouble is, there’s nothing to support the notion.”
“Not as yet.” Forbes Winslow leaned forward. “So let us consider the next alternative. Suppose the murderer is an epileptic? In that case he might kill and not even be aware of what he’s done.”
Abberline raised his eyebrows but Mark nodded to him quickly. “Dr. Forbes Winslow is talking about amnesia. Sufferers from epilepsy don’t remember what occurs during a seizure. But we really can’t say how these spells are brought about.”
“Not so.” Forbes Winslow shook his head. “From my long observation of the insane I’m convinced they are influenced by phases of the moon. Lunatic — the very term speaks for itself. Even our ancestors knew of the relationship between the moon and madness. Modern medicine would do well to heed ancient wisdom in this regard. And I’ve done so. These murders were committed either when the new moon rose or when it entered its last quarter.”
He was interrupted by the arrival of their orders, and said no more until the waiter departed. Inspecting Abberline’s luncheon choice, he nodded approvingly.
“Tea and biscuit. Very sensible. As you see, I confine my own midday repast to a fruit compote. I’m firmly convinced that many mental disorders are due to an excessive intake of food. My father placed his charges on a meat-free diet; no spices or condiments, no sweets, no alcohol.” He surveyed Mark’s plate with a frown. “But you, sir — steak-and-kidney pie — very dangerous. Very dangerous indeed.”
“We tend to heavy meals where I come from.” Mark smiled. “I can’t say that Americans are any crazier as a result.”
Forbes Winslow shrugged. “Read your history. You Yankees were always a violent people. Whiskey and wars, red meat and revolution.”
“Interesting idea.” Abberline cleared his throat. “But you were telling us why you thought the Whitechapel murderer is an epileptic.”
“That was my second opinion. However, I find it unlikely.”
“For what reason?”
“Because of the nature of the crimes. The severe mutilation and dissection of the corpses could not be performed by someone in the throes of violent physical spasms. The use of the knife indicates a steady hand and a calculated purpose.”
“Someone has suggested that Chapman’s uterus was removed for possible sale to a medical school.” Abberline regarded his tea and biscuit with distasteful resignation. “We’ve checked into that, but no one admits to making such an offer. Besides, it wouldn’t account for the other murders.”
“Quite true.” Forbes Winslow forked a piece of fruit. “And that brings me to the third possibility. The man we’re looking for is a monster, possessing both shrewdness and intelligence. He’s alert to the danger of detection and goes about his work with diabolical caution. I am not completely ruling out the presence of a delusion or lunar influence, or even an amnesia caused by something other than seizure, but his actual motivation for these crimes may be far worse.”
“And what is that?” Abberline asked.
“Sexual mania.” Forbes Winslow bit into a cherry. “A perversion of instinct in which physical gratification can be obtained only when accompanied by the infliction of pain and suffering. Sadism, if you will. But not the milder form — mere whipping or ordinary abuse of one’s victim. This is a state of acute frenzy, a demented rage which finds satisfaction only in death and torment. Blood-lust. gentlemen. Sheer, hideous blood-lust.”
For a moment his auditors were silent, but Abberline’s frown was eloquent. Mark glanced down, avoiding Forbes Winslow’s gaze. In so doing he discovered something about the man’s attire which he hadn’t noticed before. His spats and shoes were partially concealed by a pair of heavy brown rubbers.
The alienist followed Mark’s stare, then nodded. “Ah yes, I see you’re observing my rubbers. I make it a practice to wear them at all times as a precaution against sudden rainfall. It is my considered opinion that dampness is dangerous. Not only does it lay the body open to the onslaught of disease: it can also affect the orderly workings of the mind.” He gestured hastily. “But that’s of no bearing on our problem. What do you say to my conclusions?”
Now Mark’s eyes met Abberline’s. There was no doubt as to what the inspector was thinking, and he marveled at the mildness of his reply.
“You’ve given us a great deal to mull over. Your findings will be carefully considered.”
Forbes Winslow smiled. “Thank you. sir. All I ask is that you maintain an open mind. And I trust you do agree that these murders are the work of one man.”
“What makes you so sure?” Mark asked.
“In each instance witnesses have come forward to describe a suspect, and the descriptions tally.”
“I haven’t followed the last case.” Mark said. “Did someone claim to have seen Chapman’s killer too?”
Forbes Winslow nodded. “I spoke to Mrs. Long, who testified at the inquest. She saw the victim talking to a stranger in Hanbury Street, just before the time of the murder. Her companion was a mustached man who wore dark clothing and a brown deerstalker hat.” The alienist jabbed his fork in Mark’s direction. “In fact he looked very much like you.”
~ EIGHTEEN ~