Bracing himself for the ordeal ahead, Abberline stated his errand to the duty officer at the outer desk.
The uniformed man shook his head. “Sorry, Inspector. He’s not in.”
“But he’s expecting me. We have an appointment.” Abberline paused as the door behind the desk opened abruptly and a frowning face peered out.
Sir Charles Warren! His stomach churned as he recognized the familiar features. Speak of the devil—
“Here now, what’s all this?” Eyeing the intruder, Warren’s frown relaxed but did not fade fully. “Oh, it’s you, Abberline. And what brings you here, might I ask?”
“Official business, sir. I’m to meet with Mr. Monro.”
“Indeed.” Warren’s tone was curt. “Then I’d best have a word with you.” Turning, he glanced back impatiently over his shoulder. “Come along, man. I’ve no time for dilly-dallying.”
A twinge of heartburn erupted beneath Abberline’s vest as he followed Sir Charles into the private office. Warren shut the door firmly and seated himself behind an ornate desk littered with papers and leather-bound file folders. Several chairs were grouped in a semicircle before it, but he did not invite his visitor to sit down.
Abberline stood stiffly, conscious of the sour taste at the base of his mouth. Bloaters, that’s what did it — might have known better than to risk bloaters for breakfast—
“Well now.” Warren affixed his monocle and squinted up at him. “I don’t have all day. Suppose you get on with your business.”
“Sorry, Sir Charles.” The Inspector shifted his weight, avoiding the monocular stare. “It’s a matter that concerns Mr. Monro. Hadn’t we better wait until he arrives?”
“I doubt he’d be interested.” Warren glanced toward the door, his voice lowering. “There’s been no announcement yet but you’ll know soon enough. Monro resigned his post last night.”
“Resigned?” Abberline bit his lip.
“We had a difference of opinion regarding his conduct of the Tabram case. I suppose you’re aware of the matter?”
Abberline nodded. “That’s why I’m here. There’s new evidence bearing on the affair. If you’ll hear me out—”
“I’ve no time for that now.” Warren shook his head quickly. “The case will come under the jurisdiction of the new assistant commissioner.”
“Who might that be, sir?”
“Robert Anderson. He’s already notified his acceptance of the appointment.”
“Then perhaps I can see him.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible. He’s not in the best of health at the moment and is seeing no one. I dare say your findings can wait until he feels fit again.”
And what about my health? Irritation rose on a gaseous wave from the pit of Abberline’s stomach. He did his best to force it down as he spoke.
“With all due respect, sir, the present situation in Whitechapel is too touchy for delay. Ever since the Tabram murder rumors have been going around that other killings — Emma Smith’s, for one — were the work of the same man. So far it’s only hearsay, but if what they say is true—”
“Balderdash!” Warren’s fist thumped the desktop. “Pure rubbish!” He jerked the monocle from his eye and fixed Abberline with a naked glare. “No need to get the wind up just because a few buors come to a bad end. Women of that sort always do — sooner or later they’re random victims of the law of averages. Any talk of a mass murderer on the loose is ruddy nonsense!”
Warren jerked his head around as the office door opened and the uniformed duty officer hurried forward into the room.
“Excuse me, Sir Charles — the news just came in and I thought you’d want to know—”
“What are you babbling about?”
“The report from Bethnal Green Station, sir. It’s happened again. They found a woman with her throat cut, over at Buck’s Row.”
~ TEN ~
Egypt, A.D. 1250. Joinville writes of Saracen punishment: “The bernicles are the cruelest torture that anyone can suffer. They are made of pieces of pliable wood, notched at the ends with strong teeth that eat into one another, and bound together with strips of oxhide. When the Saracens want to set people therein they lay them on their side and put their legs between the teeth; then they cause a heavy man to sit on the pieces of wood. And so it happens that not an inch of bone remains uncrushed in either leg. And at the end of three days, they put them in the bernicles and crush them again.”
Abberline’s abdominal distress did not ease in the week that followed. But it wasn’t personal pain that brought him to London Hospital on Friday afternoon.
His appearance in the library was a matter of official business, and he lost no time in stating as much to the surgeons assembled there. Standing before the long table he surveyed the faces of the medical men seated before him. Some, like Dr. Trebor and Dr. Hume, were already familiar; others he recognized by name as they introduced themselves. Young Mark Robinson was a total stranger, but that wasn’t surprising, since he’d just recently come over from America.
America. Must look into that. Abberline made a mental note, filing it away quickly behind his smile of greeting as he spoke.
“First off, I want to thank you for coming here. I know you’re busy and haven’t much time to spare, so I appreciate your cooperation.”
Enough of the soft-soap. Get down to business. “Before we begin, let me assure you that this meeting is off the record. Anything said here today will be considered as privileged information; you have my word on that.
“In exchange, I’m going to ask you to keep silent regarding the matters I present to you. Consider this a confidential consultation on a medical problem. What I want from you is your professional opinion — perhaps a diagnosis.”
Abberline paused just long enough to confirm that his audience was smiling. Good enough, he told himself. Now let’s wipe the grin off their mugs.
“I’m sure you’re all aware of the murder of Mary Ann Nicholls on Monday last, thanks to the attention given it in the public press. Some of the accounts identified her as Polly, but that’s not important.” He paused again, then spoke softly. “What is important is that the woman was murdered in Buck’s Row — only a square away from this hospital.”
Once more Abberline hesitated, scanning the faces before him. The smiles had disappeared, just as he’d expected, and now he took quick inventory of assorted frowns, shocked glances and murmurs of agitation.
Mustn’t stare, he reminded himself. Best they didn’t know he was studying their reactions. And it wouldn’t do if they realized he knew more about them than they might imagine. Before coming here today he’d made a point of checking into the backgrounds of some of these fine gentlemen. Respectable citizens, one and all, reputations solid as a rock. But turn over the rock and you’d be surprised what might come crawling out from under—
“Let me tell you about the deceased,” Abberline said. “Forty-two years old, married, but separated from her husband and children. Last known address, a doss-house lodging at Number Eighteen, Thrawl Street. Shabbily dressed, with clothing including two flannel petticoats stenciled with the mark of Lambeth Workhouse, but she did have a new black bonnet. Last seen alive at two-thirty Monday morning, on the corner of Osborn Street and Whitechapel Road.”
He was reading now from the notebook he’d pulled from his pocket. “The witness who saw her, Emily Holland, testified that Nicholls was intoxicated and said she’d been turned out of lodgings because she had no money, but intended to get more shortly.