Ghost of Whitechapel Read online

  ‘Shame on you if you were usin’ one,’ said Fred, ‘and lucky if you dropped it. If my sergeant had caught you with it, he’d ’ave made me arrest you.’

  ‘Leave off, will yer?’ said Bridget. ‘Where’s me hat?’

  ‘Lost in the ruddy fog,’ said Fred.

  ‘Look at that, it’s liftin’,’ said Bridget. The pall of yellow, which had been shifting and moving all afternoon, as if it hadn’t been able to make up its mind whether or not to settle down for the night, was drifting and breaking. Buildings were re-appearing in the thinning murk of the dark evening. ‘All right, I’m off ’ome, but I don’t need you.’

  ‘Your ’eadache does,’ said Fred. ‘I don’t want you fallin’ over on account of gettin’ dizzy. Give us your arm.’

  ‘You got a hope,’ said Bridget, beginning to walk. ‘D’you think I want to be seen arm in arm with a copper, and one that’s just been beatin’ starvin’ men and women unconscious?’

  ‘Not yours truly,’ said Fred. ‘Fair fight, I’d say, and no quarter.’

  ‘Don’t you get ashamed of yerself sometimes the way you and all the other ’eavy clumpin’ bluebottles ’elp the bosses to keep men and women and their kids down in the gutter?’ said Bridget.

  ‘You know ruddy well where me sympathies are,’ said Fred, ‘but I took this job on for better or worse, which means that most of the time I’ve got to obey orders. I can’t always turn a blind eye.’

  Bridget ignored the fact that Constable Fred Billings was well-known for his blind eye. As far as she was concerned, he’d put himself on the side of the enemy the day he first appeared in uniform.

  ‘I watched you grow up from a boy to a man, that I did, Fred Billings,’ she said, as they crossed the Whitechapel Road into Union Street, with the fog now reverting to no more than mist again, and a litter of broken bottles and discarded weapons of offence adding to ever-present garbage. ‘Let you kiss me under me ’ome-made mistletoe ev’ry Christmas, and walk me up Victoria Park some Sundays. I couldn’t believe it when near to me seventeenth birthday you went and joined the bruisin’ arm of the law. I ain’t ’ardly ever spoken to you since, and gawd knows why I am now. It must be that me head ain’t normal at the moment.’

  ‘Know how you feel, Bridget, but I was lucky to get into the Force, and it wasn’t done to put meself on the side of the bosses.’

  ‘But it did, didn’t it? Well, you was always a bit too good for the likes of yer own kind,’ said Bridget, ‘and I don’t suppose it cost you even a small drop of blood to turn traitor.’

  ‘I think you’re tryin’ to get my goat,’ said Fred, ‘but I’m dead set on not lettin’ it ’appen. I can’t afford to give in to me darker side. I’ll get dismissed from the Force if I’m caught smackin’ yer bottom in Union Street.’

  ‘Don’t make me spit,’ said Bridget, ‘I could eat two bluebottles like you for me supper, and bake yer ’elmets for me afters, with custard. I ’ate coppers, Fred Billings, and I ’ate you worser for ’elping the law to tread on yer own kind.’

  ‘Thanks for the compliments,’ said Fred. They crossed Commercial Road into Back Church Lane, leaving the central slums behind, although they were still within the grey citadel of poverty. ‘As it ’appens, I was comin’ to see you this evening.’

  ‘I don’t remember invitin’ you,’ said Bridget, ‘which I wouldn’t, anyway. If I did, me neighbours would burn me ’ouse down, and I’d deserve it.’

  ‘Bridget, don’t you think I know how bloody bad things are for people round here?’ said Fred.

  ‘They ain’t bad for you, not with a copper’s steady wage and free uniforms and decent lodgings up by Stepney Green,’ said Bridget.

  ‘I was comin’ to that,’ said Fred, a typical law and order type with his firm gait and his straight back. He was twenty-seven, and as he ate three times a day he’d built up a fine framework of hard muscles. ‘I’m havin’ to move out of me lodgings. Me widowed landlady is marrying again, a widower, and as she’s got three kids and he’s got two, they want my two rooms. I noticed on me beat yesterday that you’ve got a room to let, so I thought to meself—’

  ‘Oh, yer bugger,’ said Bridget, as they turned into Ellen Street, ‘you’ve got the nerve to think we’d let the room to a copper, and you of all coppers? I’d sooner let it to another Jack the Ripper.’

  ‘That wouldn’t do you much good,’ said Fred. ‘Anyway, I’d like to proposition you—’

  ‘I’ll chop yer mucky ’ead off if you try propositioning me,’ said Bridget. ‘Blimey, what a day, nearly the worst of me life, what with gettin’ beaten up by the police and ’aving to listen to you.’

  ‘If you don’t leave off,’ said Fred, ‘I’ll run you in.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I’ll think of something,’ said Fred. They arrived at Bridget’s door, and as they did so her brother Billy came riding up out of the mist on his errand boy’s bike with its large grocery carrier.

  ‘Oh, ’ello Fred, ’ow’s yerself?’ he said. He was a lean, vigorous and cheerful lad, counting himself lucky that he was earning, Bridget was earning and that Daisy did the cooking. Daisy could put together a tasty meal out of scraps and potatoes. ‘Ain’t seen much of yer lately, Fred,’ he went on. ‘Nor ’as Bridget.’

  ‘’Ere, you,’ said Bridget, ‘what’s the idea? Ain’t I told you never to talk to a copper? Pertic’larly, ain’t I told you never to talk to Fred Billings?’

  ‘’Ave yer?’ said Billy. ‘Was I listening at the pertic’lar time in question?’

  ‘Don’t show off,’ said Bridget, ‘or I’ll fetch you a clout. What you doin’ ’ere?’

  ‘I was just on me way back to the shop when I saw yer with Fred,’ said Billy. He didn’t finish his rounds until six, and there was still half an hour to go. ‘It ain’t illegal, seein’ yer and stoppin’, is it?’

  ‘It’s illegal talkin’ to coppers, specially this one,’ said Bridget.

  ‘Well, I’m blowed,’ said Billy, ‘’oo made that pertic’lar law?’

  ‘I did, yer saucy fleabox,’ said Bridget, and aimed a blow at him. Billy ducked and dodged it while keeping hold of his bike. He had to keep hold. If he let go for longer than a few seconds, street kids would appear like magic and cart it off under his nose. ‘Stand still, will yer?’ said Bridget, then turned. Street kids had indeed appeared like magic to run their hungry glittering eyes over the bike.

  Fred stepped forward. At the sight of his uniform, the kids disappeared. Like magic.

  ‘Well, now you’re ’ome, Bridget, I’ll report back,’ he said. ‘Nice to see yer, Billy. I’m ’oping to take up lodgings with you and yer sisters.’

  ‘That’s a good idea, Fred, be glad to ’ave yer instead of another petticoat,’ said Billy.

  ‘He’ll get ’imself into our house only over me dead body,’ said Bridget.

  ‘Me proposition is five bob a week, Billy, which Bridget didn’t give me a chance to mention,’ said Fred, ‘and which is a bob more than what you’re askin’, and I’ll take supper at a tanner a time.’

  ‘There y’ar, Bridget,’ said Billy, ‘ain’t that a welcome proposition?’

  ‘You Billy,’ said Bridget, grinding her teeth, ‘go and take that card out of the parlour winder.’

  ‘You mean Fred’s got the room?’ said Billy.

  ‘No, I don’t mean that,’ said Bridget, ‘I mean we ain’t got a room to let while ’e’s standin’ ’ere in ’is ’obnailed copper’s boots. You can put the card back in soon as ’e’s gone.’

  ‘Much as it ’urts me, I ain’t got time to muck about like that,’ said Billy, a bit of an independent young cockney.

  The door opened then, and Daisy showed herself. She was wearing her apron, and the apron gave off a slight smell of fish.

  ‘I thought I ’eard talkin’ goin’ on,’ she said. ‘I – oh, ’ello, Fred, you’re a nice surprise.’

  ‘Considerin’ what I’ve been hearing about me good self this last half hour,�
�� said Fred, ‘I’m obliged to you for them kind words, Daisy, and might I mention I like yer domesticated look?’

  ‘Complimented, I’m sure,’ said Daisy. ‘I’m gettin’ some nice plaice ready for fryin’, with some fried taters. Fred, you ’ere knockin’ for Bridget again after all these years?’

  ‘No, he ain’t,’ said Bridget, ‘’e’s been sidin’ with the bosses again and breakin’ the bones of suffering workers.’

  ‘There’s broken bones and bleedin’ heads on both sides,’ said Fred, ‘but if I’m sorry for anyone it’s for the workers and the starvin’.’

  ‘Fred wants that room we been tryin’ to let,’ said Billy.

  ‘Crikey,’ said Daisy, ‘this is our lucky day.’

  ‘No, it ain’t,’ said Bridget, ‘and Fred Billings ain’t lodgin’ in our house.’

  ‘We’ve all got a say, yer know, Bridget,’ said Billy, ‘and before I get back to the shop, I’m sayin’ yes. And so’s Daisy.’

  ‘Am I?’ said Daisy.

  ‘Yes, you just said,’ grinned Billy.

  ‘Oh, all right,’ said Daisy, thinking of the extra income that would come from Fred’s rent and her laundry wages. ‘Well, we couldn’t ’ave a more respectable lodger, Bridget.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to sort it out and call again tomorrer, when Bridget’s head is feelin’ better.’ said Fred. ‘So long till then, and keep Bridget behavin’ ’erself, Daisy.’ Off he went. Billy mounted his bike, and away he went too. Daisy and Bridget walked through to the kitchen.

  ‘Daisy, we’re not ’aving a copper as a lodger,’ said Bridget.

  ‘No, course not,’ said Daisy, slipping plaice from a dish into the frying-pan that was warming on the range hob. The closed hob cooked slowly. ‘Still, Fred’s different, and the kids don’t chuck fish ’eads at him like they do at the other coppers. Oh, Bridget, what d’you think, I got that job at Guy’s laundry.’

  ‘You did?’ said Bridget, looking at the old tin clock on the mantelpiece. The time was twenty-five minutes to six. She had to be at work at six-thirty and wouldn’t finish until eleven. Billy would be in from the shop by five past six, when he and Daisy would sit down to supper. She herself would be offered something in the restaurant kitchen, and she always accepted the option. It meant a little saving on housekeeping money. She listened while Daisy gave her a bubbling account of her interview with the superintendent. ‘Well, I’m proud of yer, Daisy, you spoke your piece very clever. Seven-and-six a week wages is goin’ to be a real ’elp. We don’t need a lodger now.’

  ‘Yes, we do, if we want things to get really comf’table for us,’ said Daisy, ‘and if we want to ’ave some decent clothes for a change. You can’t get good-payin’ and well-behaved lodgers easy. Look, I treated me and Billy to plaice tonight to celebrate me laundry job, I took a bit of money out of the cocoa tin. We ought to celebrate, Bridget – crikey, I just noticed, your clothes are all messed up, and where’s yer ’at?’

  ‘Lost it, and the copper stick,’ said Bridget tersely. ‘We got beat by the fog and a million bluebottles. Now I’m goin’ to wash and get changed, and I’ll talk to you and Billy in the morning about that room. I ain’t ’aving Fred Billings in this ’ouse. If ’e gets just one of ’is copper’s flat feet over the doorstep, I’ll only ’ave to chop ’is bleedin’ ’ead off.’

  ‘Bridget, that ain’t a bit nice,’ said Daisy. ‘You don’t ’ave to talk like you was brought up in a workhouse.’

  ‘Can I ’elp it if Fred Billings makes me forget I’m a lady?’ said Bridget, and disappeared to put herself to rights before she went to her job.

  A young woman, arrested by the police for helping to set the blazing factory alight, slipped them before a Black Maria arrived to cart her and other suspects off to the lock-up. She was in Commercial Street now, not far from where Mary Kelly, the Ripper’s last victim, had been murdered. The foggy mist was dogging her, drifting at her back, rising in front, the dark street haunted by the transient nature of the atmospheric phenomenon. She passed the entrance to an alley. A shadow moved. Her back turned icy, and she looked over her shoulder. The misty darkness seemed to break apart to admit a figure. For a moment she stood rooted. Then she screamed and ran, taking herself through the rising mist in a frantic dash for her home in Lamb Street.

  There was no pursuit, nor did her scream arouse any attention. Since early afternoon the mobs of workers had flung screams, shrieks and yells in every direction.

  The figure was that of the tall gentleman. The young woman’s hysterical flight had aroused a smile in him. She had been in no danger, for he had felt no urge to repeat his performance of last night, especially as he had not known whether the young woman now running was a prostitute or not. What he did know was that Chief Inspector Dobbs of Scotland Yard was investigating the murder of Maureen Flanagan. That was sufficient unto itself, since he was sure Dobbs would certainly fail with this case. He would never know who to look for.

  For the time being, the gentleman was content to indulge his morbid interest in walking in the footsteps of the Ripper. The latent atmosphere of evil in the misty darkness of Whitechapel, with its ever-present echoes of gruesome murder, was so much to his liking as to fascinate him. Even the danger to himself as a target for Whitechapel’s creeping villains was an excitement.

  Chapter Four

  THE FOG WAS back again by seven as a thick blanket, which caused Chief Inspector Dobbs to cancel his foray with Sergeant Ross into the back streets of the West End. At eight o’clock, having had supper, he was in his living-room with his wife, a cheerful fire burning brightly, his son and daughter next door with their neighbours’ children. On the mantelpiece the clock, set in a walnut case, ticked gently. On the wall above it hung a large photographic portrait in sepia of his wife’s parents. On the opposite wall hung a massive colourful picture, bought in the Caledonian market, of a magnificent Highland stag. Chief Inspector Dobbs liked that stag, he like its proud defiant look, and he liked the aggressive nature of its antlers. It did not bother him in the least that there were thousands of homes owning similar pictures, including Balmoral. Not that he had ever been to Balmoral, and in any event he’d think twice about going if the old Queen went off her ageing head and invited him. He understood male guests had to wear kilts. An invitation would mean he’d have to break a leg in order to escape Balmoral and a kilt.

  Patterned curtains draped the windows, hiding the foggy nature of the night. On a small table beside his armchair were a number of letters. Carpet slippers on his feet, his jacket off, he settled into his fireside chair and picked up one of the letters. He drew the missive from its envelope.

  Mrs Daphne Dobbs, seated in the opposite armchair, glanced at him. Thirty-six, fair-haired, she wore a high-necked brown velvet dress, its collar fastened by a cameo brooch, a birthday present from Charlie. She favoured velvet in winter. Its warmth was a protection against the draughty nature of Victorian houses. Her features were pleasant, her disposition equable, her background lower middle class, her father a schoolteacher soon to retire. She had married Charlie when she was twenty-two and he was a uniformed police sergeant, not yet in the CID. It had been a case of choosing between a policeman and a stores floorwalker. She opted for Charlie because Edward, the floorwalker, was so pleasant and courteous of demeanour and speech that she always felt he was never outside his esteemed working self on the first floor of the Stamford Hill stores. Charlie, on the other hand, was a breezy suitor, and always good for a laugh or two. So, because he appealed to her sense of humour, he was the one she elected to marry, and after a few years she was really quite pleased with herself for having chosen to take an extrovert presence into her life instead of a merely courteous and pleasant one, especially as Edward proved neither courteous nor pleasant on the day he discovered he was an also-ran.

  She said now, ‘Don’t mind me.’

  ‘Well, I won’t, Daffie, and I like you excusing me,’ said Charlie. ‘I see you’ve got your knitting.’

&nb
sp; Daphne Dobbs was a compulsive knitter.

  ‘And I see that you’ve got some old love letters that aren’t mine,’ said Daphne.

  ‘They’re letters from a Mrs Flanagan in Ireland to her unfortunate daughter Maureen.’

  ‘Ghastly,’ said Daphne. They’d discussed the murder on his arrival home.

  ‘Ghastly letters?’ said Charlie.

  ‘No, ghastly crime,’ said Daphne. ‘You promised me once you’d never bring work home with you.’

  ‘I consider it lucky to have a wife who understands there’s some promises I can’t always keep,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Some luck goes a long way,’ said Daphne, ‘but might not always last for ever. Can I ask what you’re looking for in the letters?’

  ‘Mention of a bloke called Godfrey, a friend of the murdered woman, and accordingly suspect,’ said Charlie, perusing the letter and thinking it odd that Mrs Flanagan had neighbours who let their domestic animals, like chickens, share their cottage with them at night.

  ‘Godfrey Who?’ asked Daphne.

  ‘That’s it, Daphne, Godfrey Who? I haven’t got his surname. I’m hoping I’ll find it in these letters. I read a dozen or so in the office without any luck. Now I’ve got a dozen more to read. In keeping these letters from her mother, Maureen Flanagan kept hold of her family links. Decent woman on the whole, I’d say. Yes, on the whole.’

  ‘You’re definitely suspicious of this Godfrey man?’ asked Daphne.

  ‘I’m not unsuspicious, not yet I’m not,’ said Charlie, ‘and I could get very suspicious if, when the newspapers publish his details, he doesn’t come forward to clear himself.’

  ‘Is that all you’ve got so far, Charlie, suspicions of a man who was the woman’s friend?’

  ‘That’s all,’ said Charlie, reading a second letter.

  ‘She could have had other men friends,’ said Daphne.

  ‘You sound like Sergeant Ross,’ said Charlie.

  ‘I quite like Sergeant Ross,’ said Daphne, knitting away.

  ‘That’s fair, seeing you’re two of a kind,’ said Charlie. ‘I mean, he has bright moments too. Not all the time. Say frequently. Well, now and again, say.’