“You were away all week?”
“That’s right.” Trebor spoke quickly. “A business matter. I just got into town before midnight.”
Mark held silent for a moment, sorting his thoughts. The face in the lamplight seemed haggard indeed, but was fatigue the sole cause? And if he’d just returned from an extended journey, where was his luggage?
Trebor stared at him. “Is something wrong?”
“I was just wondering. About your bags—”
“They’re at my digs. I meant to unpack, but I was too tired.”
“Yet you went out again, at this hour?”
“I felt the need for a bit of food before retiring, since there was no dining car on the train.” Trebor broke off, frowning. “But why all these questions? Surely you don’t think—”
But I do think, Mark told himself. Perhaps Trebor was telling the truth; perhaps coincidence accounted for his presence here. Unless his presence had a purpose.
Suppose the murderer hadn’t taken off when he was interrupted? Suppose there wasn’t time to run, only moments enough to conceal himself somewhere in the courtyard and avoid discovery? Then, as the others arrived, he could step forth unnoticed as just another onlooker. An onlooker like Dr. Trebor—
“Answer me!” Trebor’s voice was harsh. “Answer me!”
But the answer that came rose from another source. Both men turned at the sound of pounding feet against the pavement, both stared at the bowler-hatted intruder who ran past them into the crowd before the gates. And both men heard his hoarse cry echo through the night.
“Another one!” he shouted. “There’s been another woman murdered in Mitre Square!”
~ TWENTY-TWO ~
New England, A.D. 1623. Colonists reported that the Indians “tormente men in ye most bloodie maner that may be; fleaing some alive with ye shells of fishes, cutting off ye members and joynts of others by peesmeale, and broiling on ye coals, eat ye collops of their flesh in their sight whilst they live; with other cruelties horrible to be related.”
Police Constable Watkins found the body.
At one-thirty he’d passed through Mitre Square on patrol; the tea warehouses lining it on two sides were dark, the dwellings facing them were empty and the square itself was deserted. Fastening his lantern to his belt he continued on his rounds. Watkins kept his eyes and ears open as he walked but all was quiet. Nothing to see, nothing to hear, and the beat was a short one; fifteen minutes later he had already retraced his route and returned to the square.
It was then, as he entered, that he saw the woman lying on her back in the shadows of the southwest corner.
She wore a black straw bonnet over her dark auburn hair, a black cloth jacket, a thin white vest, a linsey-woolen skirt and a dark green print dress with a pattern of daisies beneath the outer clothing. Brown ribbed stockings and a pair of men’s laced boots encased her feet, while a piece of a coarse white apron and a bit of ribbon were tied loosely around her neck. Obviously she’d taken precautions to protect herself from the chill of the night.
But nothing had protected her from the cold steel of the knife.
She lay on her back with both arms extended, the left leg straight and the right bent at the knee. Her upturned face was a Hallow’een horror; part of the nose had been cut off, the lobe of her right ear nearly severed and both lower eyelids were nicked. Her cheeks, jaw and lips were gashed, and the throat beneath opened in a yawning crimson cavity from ear to ear.
The knife had not halted there. Her upper garments bunched above her breasts to expose the naked flesh below. She’d been disemboweled; the intestines were pulled out and draped over her right shoulder, with a detached segment lying beside the left arm. The pavement beneath the body was bathed in blood.
Police Constable Watkins wasted no time. Remembering there was a night watchman on duty inside one of the tea warehouses, he ran over and banged on the door, then pushed it open as the man appeared. “For God’s sake, mate, come to my assistance,” he cried. “There’s another woman cut to pieces.”
The Acting Police Commissioner for the City of London was Major Henry Smith. At two o’clock he was notified of the crime at the Cloak Lane station; by the time he arrived on the scene with three detectives and an inspector the hunt was under way. In the hours that followed a series of shocking discoveries were made.
The first surprise came when Smith viewed the corpse. In spite of the mutilations, detectives identified her as a woman who’d been found lying drunk in Aldgate Street earlier that evening and taken to the Bishopgate police station. Sober again shortly after midnight, she was released from her cell and sent on her way. Sometime within the next forty-five minutes she’d met her murderer.
Major Smith took over. After Dr. Blackwell had arrived and examined the body, he ordered the corpse removed to the city mortuary. The contents of the victim’s pockets offered no immediate clues, and Smith was much more interested now in tracing the killer’s possible escape route. He sent his men off to search the surrounding area, knocking on doors and stopping every passerby in the streets.
One of the detectives made a discovery; he came rushing back and led Smith to confront surprise number two.
In a narrow close off Dorset Street a public sink bubbled with red-streaked water. A few telltale drops still remained when Smith reached it. “The murderer must have stopped here on the run to wash his hands,” the detective said. “The way I see it—”
He was interrupted as another searcher came up to Major Smith.
“You’re wanted over in Goulston Street, sir,” he shouted. “Constable Long’s just found something there.”
What he’d found was a piece of the victim’s white apron, soaked with blood. Dr. Blackwell had noticed that a piece had been missing, obviously hacked off by the killer’s knife. And here it was, lying beside a passageway — surprise number three.
But as Major Smith appeared on the scene another surprise claimed his full attention.
Behind the spot where the bloodstained piece of apron lay, a dark doorway loomed. On its black dado wall were three lines scrawled in chalk. Smith stared at the message.
The Juwes are not the
men that will be blamed
for nothing.
The words were still there at five o’clock when Sir Charles Warren arrived. Major Smith waited for him with City Police Inspector MacWilliams and two detectives.
Warren studied the message through his monocle, then scowled.
“Rub it out.” he said.
Major Smith had suffered enough surprises over the past few hours, and this one was the final straw. “But Sir Charles — this is important evidence! I’ve ordered one of my men to fetch a camera, and as soon as it’s daylight we’ll photograph the writing—”
“Daylight be damned!” Warren plucked his monocle free and gestured with it. “We can’t wait any longer. There’s a Sunday morning market at Petticoat Lane, and the costers will be up and about in a few minutes now. If any of them catch sight of a message like this we’ll have race riots on our hands.”
“Might I make a suggestion, sir?” One of the detectives spoke softly. “If it’s the Jews you’re worried about, couldn’t we just rub out the first line? Maybe only the one word—”
Warren shook his head. “I’ll not take chances. Wipe it out, man — all of it!”
The detective hesitated and Major Smith stepped forward.