Ghost of Whitechapel Page 8

  ‘Hold on, hold on,’ said Dobbs, ‘you are the young lady who applied to the laundry superintendent for Maureen Flanagan’s job, aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh, yes, that’s me, sir,’ gulped Daisy, ‘only I wasn’t ’er friend. I just said I was so’s I ’ad a better chance of gettin’ the job.’

  ‘If that’s a fact, guv,’ said Ross, ‘we’ve been done to a turn by a Whitechapel hen cuckoo.’

  ‘’Ere, watch what yer callin’ me sister,’ said Bridget.

  Daisy was pink. Sergeant Ross, the wind taken out of his sails, was temporarily out of action. Chief Inspector Dobbs, on knowing terms with the frailties of human nature far longer, reacted philosophically.

  ‘You mean you didn’t know Maureen Flanagan at all?’ he said to Daisy.

  ‘Oh, beggin’ yer pardon, no, I didn’t,’ said Daisy. ‘You ain’t goin’ to arrest me, are yer, sir?’

  ‘I’m thinking about it,’ said Dobbs. ‘I could have you locked up in the Tower of London.’

  ‘And beheaded,’ said Ross.

  ‘Oh, yer monsters,’ said Bridget.

  ‘Oh, me ’ead,’ gasped Daisy at the thought of losing it.

  ‘Daisy, your ’ead’s all right,’ said Bridget, ‘it’s theirs that ought to be chopped off.’

  ‘Don’t you know it’s a chargeable offence to lead the police up the garden?’ said Ross.

  ‘Well, it ain’t Daisy’s garden,’ said Bridget. ‘All we’ve got is a back yard.’

  Sergeant Ross glanced at the Chief Inspector, who said, ‘Miss Cummings, that’s positive, is it, that you didn’t know Maureen Flanagan in any way at all?’

  ‘Oh, I never saw the poor woman in all me life,’ said Daisy.

  The Chief Inspector put his hat on. Sergeant Ross put a hand into his coat pocket. Daisy and Bridget both thought he was going to produce handcuffs. Daisy quivered and Bridget bridled. Sergeant Ross drew out a handkerchief and blew his nose.

  ‘Time we left, Sergeant Ross, someone’s been wasting our time,’ said Dobbs.

  Bridget followed the men from the parlour to the street door.

  ‘You ain’t goin’ to charge Daisy, are yer?’ she said.

  ‘Tell her it’s her lucky day,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘There’s no lucky days for Whitechapel people,’ said Bridget, ‘only some days that ain’t as bad as most.’

  ‘You can take it from me, Miss Cummings, I don’t disbelieve that,’ said Dobbs, and he and Sergeant Ross left. They made progress through the mist with long strides, distancing themselves from the street kids.

  ‘Flammed us, by Christ,’ said Ross.

  ‘Not us, my son, the laundry superintendent,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘I could say it was the same thing, guv.’

  ‘You could, and you could say it twice over, but it wouldn’t be true,’ said Dobbs. ‘At no time did Daisy Cummings tell us she knew Flanagan. We got that from the superintendent. So you could say she was the one who supplied us with false information. Was it you who told Daisy Cummings we could have her locked up in the Tower of London?’

  ‘Not me, guv. That was you.’

  ‘Who mentioned beheading?’ asked Dobbs.

  ‘I did,’ said Ross.

  ‘Thought it was you,’ said Dobbs. ‘How’d you feel about arresting the laundry superintendent and mentioning beheading to her?’

  ‘Give over, guv. You going to inform her that Daisy Cummings told her a fairy story?’

  ‘Well, my lad,’ said Dobbs, ‘you could say that was none of my business.’

  ‘I’d have thought—’

  ‘Or yours, sunshine.’

  ‘We’re going to let Daisy Cummings get away with what you might call fraudulent deception?’ said Ross.

  ‘Well, I was guilty of that myself once,’ said Dobbs. ‘Told a Bethnal Green bloke who’d taken to burglary that his old lady had blown the gaff on him, which made him come clean. Come to think of it, I also told Basher Morris of Stepney, noted while wearing a mask for putting coppers into hospital, that the footprints I’d found on a constable’s chest matched his right boot. He swore he’d trod on the constable’s chest accidental. I charged him. Fair cop, he said. By the way, I’ve got an idea that at some time during the progress of this investigation – if you can call it progress – I mentioned blank walls. Can you confirm that?’

  ‘Yes, you mentioned it to the reporters,’ said Ross.

  ‘Well, we’ve just run into one, so I’ll be able to mention it again whey they turn up later. Stop that cab.’

  Ross stepped off the kerb in Leman Street to hail an approaching hansom. The vehicle took the CID men back to Scotland Yard, where a cable from Cork awaited Dobbs. It informed him that the Flanagan family had not heard from Maureen Flanagan since October, when in her last letter she mentioned, quote, ‘By the way, I’ve met a man who’s a bit special.’ Just that. No name, no details.

  ‘That’s no help,’ said Ross.

  ‘Well, I’ll say this much,’ said the Chief Inspector, ‘it’s nothing I’d have sailed the Irish Sea for.’

  ‘Crikey,’ said Bridget after the CID men had gone, ‘you nearly got done for, Daisy, tellin’ the laundry superintendent you knew Maureen Flanagan.’

  ‘Me?’ said Daisy. ‘Well, I like that, it was you that went and suggested it.’

  ‘I wasn’t meself at the time,’ said Bridget, ‘I ’ad the starvin’ and strikin’ workers on me mind. When I think ’ow we all got bashed and brutalized by the bluebottles, I still go livid. Daisy, ’ow can governments let their own people as good as starve to death, ’ow can they send the police in to break the ’eads of workers fightin’ for a livin’ wage?’

  ‘They can do it because none of them live in the East End,’ said Daisy. ‘If they did, they’d soon change their minds about all the ’orribly poor people.’

  ‘No, they wouldn’t, they’d just go and live somewhere else,’ said Bridget.

  ‘Did that police inspector really say I wasn’t goin’ to be charged?’ asked Daisy.

  ‘Yes, he said this is yer lucky day.’

  ‘I don’t know it is,’ said Daisy. ‘I mean, s’pose ’e tells the laundry superintendent? She’ll take me job away before I’ve even started it.’

  ‘If she’s goin’ to do that she’ll write to you and say so,’ said Bridget. ‘If she don’t write, then go in on Monday mornin’ as if nothing’s ’appened. If she wants to ’ave a word with you, tell ’er you wasn’t yerself at the time, that you’d ’ad ’orrible dreams about a gravel pit fallin’ in on our dad and suffocatin’ ’im to death, which it did. That’s it, Daisy, try and break her ’eart about our dad and ’ow it left us suffering and penniless, and ’ow the dream upset you so much that you wasn’t yerself all day and the day after.’

  ‘But I didn’t ’ave no dream,’ said Daisy.

  ‘Well, say you did and keep yer fingers crossed,’ said Bridget. ‘You’ve got to get that job, Daisy.’

  ‘All right,’ said Daisy, ‘I’ll do that, I’ll keep me fingers crossed.’

  ‘And if that copper Fred Billings comes round anytime I’m not ’ere,’ said Bridget, ‘you make sure ’e don’t even get ’is big toe over our doorstep. You ’ear, Daisy?’

  ‘Well, Billy says—’

  ‘I’ll ’ave a word with Billy,’ said Bridget. ‘That boy thinks that just because ’e wears trousers, he can come it over you and me.’

  * * *

  The Fleet Street scribes were gathered together like a flock of expectant owls. Chief Inspector Dobbs, addressing them, first made it known he was considerably put out by an article in the Daily Mail that suggested a certain notorious villain given to butchery had risen up from his grave to take up where he’d left off. Consequently, the panic-sticken people of Whitechapel had rioted.

  ‘Come off it, Inspector,’ said the Daily Mail, ‘that—’

  ‘Chief Inspector,’ corrected Sergeant Ross.

  ‘Yes, I heard you yesterday, sergeant,’ said the Daily Mail.


  ‘No reason to be forgetful, then,’ said Ross.

  ‘Chief Inspector,’ said the Daily Mail, ‘that riot took place before the article appeared.’

  ‘I’m expecting to hear any moment that the East End people are out on the streets again, all due to a misguided piece of newspaper talk putting the wind up them,’ said Dobbs. ‘If that means another riot’s going to develop, I won’t like it, nor will the Commissioner, nor the Home Secretary. Your editors will be on the carpet.’

  ‘Can we have a progress report, Chief Inspector?’ asked the Daily Chronicle.

  ‘It’s slow going, I won’t deny it,’ said Dobbs. ‘But you know how some investigations work. Unless the perpetrator gives himself up and obligingly confesses, it’s a question of making enquiries, listing the possibles and probables, searching for footprints, looking for a weapon, filling up notebooks, going about the process of elimination—’

  ‘Could you stop there, Chief Inspector, and simply let us know if you’ve got any suspects?’ asked the Westminster Gazette.

  ‘Several,’ said Dobbs.

  A ripple of interest ran around Fleet Street.

  ‘Several?’ said the Morning Post.

  ‘Bound to be in a case like this,’ said Dobbs. ‘I’ve told you, of course, that it’s pretty certain Tooley Street wasn’t the actual scene of the crime.’

  ‘No, you haven’t told us that, sir,’ said The Times.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘We’re sure,’ said several voices in concert.

  ‘Well, we all suffer from oversight at times,’ said Dobbs. Sergeant Ross kept his face straight. He knew his boss liked to feed meat bit by bit to the hungry of Fleet Street. Porridge he ladled out. ‘Yes, you can publish that piece of information, that it’s pretty certain the unfortunate victim was already dead when she was – um – placed in Tooley Street. The guilty man or woman—’

  ‘Woman?’ said Fleet Street almost as one.

  ‘We haven’t finished eliminating our several suspects,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘There’s a woman suspect?’ said the Daily Mail.

  ‘I hope the possibilty’ll teach your editor not to fall over himself concerning his own ideas about who did what and who didn’t,’ said Dobbs without a single quiver of any eyelash. ‘Come to that, gents, don’t fall over yourselves about this possible female. Stick to several suspects. I don’t want any particular suspect to get the wind up and vanish, and you don’t want that, either. It would count as assisting the enemy, which could be a chargeable offence.’

  ‘Balls of fire, you’re proscribing the freedom of the Press?’ said the Daily News.

  ‘Sergeant Ross,’ said Dobbs, ‘what’s proscribing the freedom of the Press?’

  ‘No idea, guv,’ said Ross.

  ‘Well, gents, just print what’s fair, reasonable and sensible,’ said Dobbs. ‘Print that we’ve eliminated all the victim’s acquaintances at her place of work, including one who refused to produce an alibi until we talked seriously to this person.’

  ‘Person?’ said the Morning Post.

  ‘Another woman?’ said the Daily Mail.

  ‘Did I say so?’ said Dobbs. ‘Have I said so? Person, I said. You can print that.’

  Sergeant Ross hid a grin. The Chief Inspector was giving the reporters the run-around.

  ‘What about this man called Godfrey?’ asked The Times.

  ‘Ah,’ said Dobbs, and brushed his moustache.

  ‘You’ve got something?’ said the Daily Mail.

  ‘I’ve got a duty to ask questions,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘Chief Inspector, has he come forward?’ asked the Westminster Gazette.

  ‘The victim’s known friend?’ said Dobbs. ‘The person known as Godfrey? No, not yet.’

  ‘He must have seen what’s been printed about him,’ said the Daily News.

  ‘On the assumption that he might be illiterate—’

  ‘Illiterate?’ said the Morning Post.

  ‘To help you, it means, gen’rally, someone who can’t read or write,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘Thanks for that,’ said the Daily Mail.

  ‘Pleasure,’ said Dobbs. ‘Where was I, Sergeant Ross?’

  ‘You were mentioning that the suspect Godfrey might not be able to read or write, guv,’ said Ross.

  ‘So I was.’ Dobbs brushed his moustache again. ‘In that case, anything in a newspaper would be double Dutch to him, which could be the reason why he hasn’t shown up. But if he has seen any of the reports and been able to read them, he’ll have to come forward or risk being considered a prime case for investigation. There shouldn’t be any difficulty in tracing him. Someone who knows him will recognize his description and offer us information about him.’

  ‘You still think it’s a straightforward murder?’ said the Westminster Gazette.

  Chief Inspector Dobbs regarded the questioner in mild surprise.

  ‘Myself,’ he said, ‘I don’t see any murder as a straightforward act, but a very nasty one. It’s what the Yard terms the ultimate in mortal violence, a capital offence that deprives the victim of his or her life. It’s upsetting all round, and every one gives me a headache.’

  ‘I meant you still don’t think there’s a threat to other women at the hands of another maniac?’ said the Westminster Gazette.

  ‘Another maniac?’ said Dobbs threateningly.

  ‘Another—’

  ‘Don’t say it,’ said Dobbs. ‘If you’ll excuse me now, gents, I’ll get on with doing something about my headache. Afternoon.’

  ‘What’s the weather like?’ asked Dobbs at five o’clock.

  ‘Foggy,’ said Sergeant Ross.

  ‘How’d you know?’

  ‘Look at your window, guv,’ said Ross.

  The Chief Inspector turned in his chair. His window showed nothing of the lights of London. They were hidden by that which frequently fouled the air, a mixture of moist soot and dirt that exuded each winter from the chimneys of the sprawling city’s houses and factories.

  ‘That looks like a large amount of fog,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘Does that mean our visit to the West End is postponed again?’ asked Ross.

  ‘How far would we get, d’you suppose?’

  ‘I think we could get as far as you want, guv. Say as far as Soho.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that,’ said Dobbs, ‘I meant with finding tarts who knew Flanagan and could tell us something about her. And you can forget Soho. So can I. She couldn’t have had her throat cut there, too far from where her body was found,’

  ‘Unless he loaded it into a closed cab, guv.’

  ‘Is that a serious assumption?’ asked Dobbs.

  ‘Just a quick thought,’ said Ross.

  ‘Put a bomb under it and blow it up,’ said Dobbs. ‘No villain, however clever and crafty, could get away with that dodge. And I think you’re on the wrong track about the West End. That’s also too far from Tooley Street.’

  ‘Might I correct you, guv? I think you suggested the West End.’

  ‘Did I?’ Dobbs eyed his sergeant enquiringly. ‘What did you suggest, then?’

  ‘I just went along with you,’ said Ross.

  ‘You agreed we’d see if we could spot a likely suspect lurking in the proximity of some suitable tarts in the West End?’

  ‘Yes, guv.’

  ‘Was that because I’m a Chief Inspector?’

  ‘Yes, guv, that and the fact that you’re a bit of a thinker,’ said Ross.

  ‘Well, my lad, I think I thought wrong. I think, as I said, that the West End wouldn’t have been the place, after all. If Flanagan was on the north side of the river that night, and if she had copped it in the West End, he’d have had to carry her body over Waterloo Bridge. From there, would he have gone all the way to Tooley Street? Not on your life, my son. Looking at Tooley Street, he’d have used London Bridge or Tower Bridge to get there – no, wait, a bit, what am I talking about? Once on any bridge, he’d have dropped her into the river, wouldn’
t he?’

  ‘But we know he didn’t,’ said Ross. ‘Neither of us think she was the type to stand in East End doorways looking for custom. Let’s assume she was definitely picked up in the West End, and that the bloke then told her he’d take her to his flat or hotel in a cab. Isn’t it possible he cut her throat in the cab, paid the cabbie at a certain point near Tooley Street, told him the lady was one over the eight, and then lifted her out and disappeared with her?’

  ‘Very good, sergeant,’ said Dobbs, ‘but might I ask what the cabbie later did with all the blood and how he managed to beat the pea-souper? Most traffic was at a standstill.’

  ‘Sod it,’ said Ross. ‘I think I just committed an oversight.’

  ‘Come to that,’ said Dobbs thoughtfully, ‘just where is all that blood? There were traces of a small amount on the scarf, a little on her blouse. Where did most of it finish up? Down a drain? Say a drain around Tower Hill? That’s a point, sunshine. Tower Hill’s not an unoccupied area at night. I think that tomorrow we’ll ask a few questions around that area, and yes, around the streets close to her lodgings as well. Flanagan might have decided Tower Hill was as far as she wanted to go north of the river that evening, because of the heavy fog, or alternatively to have risked her own neighbourhood.’

  ‘It’s a thought,’ said Ross.

  ‘Yes, I – no, hold on, my lad, what’re you talking about?’ said Dobbs. ‘Who the hell around Tower Hill or her own neighbourhood or anywhere else would have spotted anything that mattered to us through that kind of fog?’

  ‘Beg to point out, guv, it wasn’t me that suggested making enquiries around—’

  ‘Shake yourself a bit, my lad,’ said Dobbs. ‘We’ve got one particular problem we need to take into consideration every time you make – or I make – suggestions concerning possible witnesses.’

  ‘What problem is that?’ asked Ross.

  ‘That pea-souper of a fog,’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘A great help to the villain, but no help at all to us.’

  Chapter Six

  COMING OFF DUTY, Constable Fred Billings braved the fog to make his way to Ellen Street. It was fifteen minutes to six when he knocked on the door of the Cummings’ house.