Thus it came about that I, called from my bed by Annie Oakum, accompanied Sir John and Benjamin Bailey to the site of the second homicide. It was well on to five o’clock, perhaps a bit after, by the time that we reached our destination, and there were in the east gray hints of dawn approaching. If Constable Brede’s messenger had faithfully fulfilled his mission to Bow Street, he must also have told quite a few others along the way about the murder at the churchyard gates, for upon our arrival, we found that a considerable crowd had gathered. There must have been twenty or thirty there, and among them, five or six women. They had congregated at the far end of the narrow alley near the gates, inspired by nothing more than rowdy curiosity. Most were inebriated; a few seemed to have difficulty keeping their feet. They seemed to be pressing in on the constable. But for his part, he held firm, keeping them at bay a good eight or ten feet from the prone figure which he guarded.
“Follow me,” said Benjamin Bailey.
And that we did — Sir John last of all with his hand upon my shoulder — proceeding close in the wake of that giant of a man who had long served as captain of the Bow Street Runners. Mr. Bailey simply pushed through the assemblage, his club held before him in two hands, spilling them right and left as he led the way to Mr. Brede.
“Ah,” said the beleaguered constable, “glad I am to see you. I’ve had to whack a couple, though I’ve broken no heads.”
“Well, you and Mr. Bailey must clear them out. You have my permission to break a few if you must,” said Sir John. “But first I shall give them warning.”
He stepped forward so that he was near nose-to-nose with the front rank.
“I am Sir John Fielding, Magistrate of the Bow Street Court,” he announced. There were grumbles in response.
“I order you to disperse,” he continued. “Any who think they may know the identity of the victim of this attack or have information to offer, I would have you wait in Bedford Street. The rest of you are to return to your dwelling places that we may be free to conduct our inquiry without interruption or bother. I shall give you a minute to clear the area, then I shall bid my constables to drive you out. Any who resist will be subject to arrest, fine, and imprisonment for not less than thirty days.”
Sir John took two steps back and waited. About half the crowd, including all the women in their number, immediately turned about and started for the street beyond. The rest remained for but a moment, exchanging sullen glances, then began backing away, some slowly, most at a quickstep.
“Mr. Bailey, when you and Mr. Brede have seen them to Bedford Street, I would like you to remain there to see that they do not return. You might also interrogate those who may have information to see if any are worth my bother. Mr. Brede, when you have reached the street, please return to me and give your report.” He gave a moment’s pause. “You may proceed, gentlemen.”
The two constables set out with some wide distance between them. Each held his crested club before him in two hands. What was left of the crowd scattered before them. One of the most drunken, however, permitted his legs to become entangled one with the other and fell sprawling before Mr. Brede. Unable to rise, even with the assistance of a whack on the backside administered by the constable, the poor fellow simply scrabbled with his elbows and knees quite without result. Mr. Brede bent down and said something that was lost to me in the clatter of feet on the cobblestones, then he moved on and left him lying. It took but a minute more to clear the alley.
“Have you noticed, Jeremy,” said Sir John, “that there seems to be an increase in riotous behavior, unruly crowds, and the like?”
“Now that you mention it, sir, yes, I have.”
“There was a terrible disturbance in St. Martin’s Lane but a month past and another in Drury Lane two weeks ago near as bad.” He paused, then added, “I do fear the rule of King Mob.”
Constable Brede came back at a jog-trot, pausing only to have a word with him who had fallen. Then, a moment more, and he was with us.
“Mr. Brede?”
“Yes, Sir John, I am here.”
“Then give your report, sir.”
That he did, using far fewer words than I have in describing his discovery of the woman’s body. He was, as I have said, a taciturn man, reserved in nature, one who kept himself a bit apart from the other constables. Not unfriendly was he — simply a bit stiff in his manner — an uncomfortable man who seemed to make others uncomfortable, too.
“Do you believe the attack took place where you found the body?” asked Sir John.
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Well… why. Constable? What did you find to support your belief?”
“It’s what I didn’t find.”
“Yes?”
“After I saw she was dead, I lit my lantern and went searching in case the killer was still about — though I thought that unlikely. I also kept an eye open for blood spots. They wasn’t any to be found — nowhere in the alley. There was something else, as well.”
“And what, pray tell, was that?”
“Well, sir, if you wouldn’t mind stepping over here to where she’s lyin’.” I guided Sir John for the three necessary steps. “When I come back, and before the crowd started to come, I took a closer look at her with the lantern, and I saw her dress was unbuttoned and just pushed together, like. So I ventured a look — I know we’re not supposed to disturb things but I thought it might be important. May I now, sir?”
“Yes, of course.”
Except for a cursory glance upon our arrival, I had not looked at the victim lying against the gates. The ugly wound at her throat was quite visible as Mr. Brede held up his lantern for us to see. Then he knelt beside her and pulled open her frock. Though certainly not experienced at viewing the dead and having little knowledge of the sort of damage possible to the human body by a determined assassin wielding a knife, I was not then, nor have I ever been, what one might call squeamish. Nevertheless, I was so shocked at what I saw that my stomach took a sudden, nasty turn. I turned away in disgust.
“I know you can’t see, sir, so you must take my word she’s quite bad cut-up in her body.”
“Jeremy, can you be more specific?”
“Yes, sir, I’ll try.” I took a deep breath to begin and was suddenly aware of a bad odor compounded of blood and bodily organs, a slaughterhouse smell. “There’s a big long cut from between her breasts to as far down as I can see. Then there are cuts under the breasts and the skin has been pulled back and sort of tucked to her sides so her inwards are exposed. There’s a deal of blood, and some stuff like thick, bloody rope has been pulled out of her.”
“That would be the intestines,” said Sir John. “You’ve told me enough, Jeremy. Cover her up, Mr. Brede. Come, let us get away from the smell.”
It was done, and we retired some several steps back. Yet once released, the odor seemed to follow us, pervading the air all round.
“When I saw how bad she was cut up, I looked beneath her and found there was blood had soaked through her dress onto the stones. So it does seem to me her throat was cut from behind, as is usual, then she was turned round, so to speak, and dropped down as she is now and all that cuttin’ of her middle was done.” He paused, then added: “I blame myself in this. Sir John.”
“How is that, Mr. Brede?”
“Well, I came by here after midnight and took a look down the alley from Bedford Street. The moon was higher then, and I could see fairly well, and all seemed well, so I went on to St. Martin’s Lane, where most of the trouble is. Perhaps if I’d come and taken a look, I might have caught the villain who done this deed, might even have prevented it.”