“All you’re saying is that you’re asking questions.” Warren shook his head. “What do you intend to do — send a bloody questionnaire to everybody in London? It won’t wash!”
“I have extra constabulary posted all over the district,” Anderson said. “I’ve canceled leaves, redoubled patrols—”
“Much good that does us! We had virtually half the entire force on duty the night of the double event, but the cunning devil gave us the slip all the same.”
Common sense told Abberline to keep silent but the stirring in his stomach prompted him to speak. “Maybe he didn’t.”
Warren glared at him but Abberline continued.
“I’ve a report from one of our men in Spitalfields,” he said. “Police Constable Robert Spicer was on his beat there that night. Shortly before two o’clock he saw a prostitute named Rosy talking to a mustached man carrying a brown bag. He was well-dressed — fancy coat, high hat, gold watch and chain. He refused to give an account of himself, so Spicer took them both in to Commercial Street station. Mind you, we had eight inspectors on special duty there, and they had news of the two murders just a short time earlier. Spicer told them what he suspected but the man raised a row, said he was a doctor down from Brixton, and what right did they have to arrest a respectable physician just for standing on the pavement talking to a friend? The upshot of it was, they let him go. Let him go scot free, mind you, without even opening his bag—”
“Humbug!” Sir Charles Warren’s glare intensified. “I happen to have heard that report myself and it’s perfectly obvious what the fellow was up to. The whore said he gave her two shillings for her services and she had no complaints.” He removed his monocle, its polished surface glittering in a gesturing hand. “You know my orders. It’s up to the police to deal with those whose actions warrant suspicion. But on no account do I want them making trouble by molesting decent citizens.”
Abberline faced him now. “But how do you expect us to tell the difference unless we investigate?”
“Blast your investigations! While your men were wasting time asking questions, that murdering lunatic was running loose. Now he’s writing letters to the newspapers and cracking jokes, making the whole force look like a pack of fools. All the questions and all the patrols won’t stop him if he decides to kill again. And mark my words — he will!”
“Gentlemen—” Anderson’s interruption came quickly. “There’s no point in crying over spilt milk, or spilt blood, if I may say so. We’re here to decide upon a course of action.” He glanced at Abberline. “Sir Charles has raised an issue we cannot afford to ignore. Do you agree that the murderer may commit further crimes of this nature?”
Abberline shifted uneasily in his chair. “Hard to say. On the basis of the threats in those two letters, it’s a possibility.”
“And one we can’t afford to overlook.” Robert Anderson nodded. “Now I put it to you — in the unfortunate event that another murder can be anticipated, just what steps do you propose to prevent it?”
“I’m not giving up hope yet, sir. There are still several lines of inquiry I’ll be following up in the next few days. With any luck we may lay hands on our man before he strikes again.”
“And if you’re not successful?” Anderson pressed on without waiting for a reply. “What plans have you made to deal with the matter?”
Abberline shrugged. “It depends on circumstances. Rest assured we’ll be taking every precaution.”
“Not good enough.” Warren shook his head. “Your methods have been flat-out failures. The time has come to try a new approach. And if there is another murder we must be prepared to apprehend the killer immediately. We must locate him while he’s still in the vicinity of his crime, hunt him down before he can make another escape.”
Anderson glanced at him, frowning. “But how do you intend to do that?”
Sir Charles Warren affixed the monocle to his eye. “The same way I’d track down any animal,” he said. “I’ll use bloodhounds.”
~ TWENTY-FIVE ~
Germany, A.D. 1640. From its inception in 1618, the Thirty Years’ War grew to a point where it involved six armies of mercenaries bent on rape and plunder. Hundreds of towns and major cities were razed to the ground, their entire civilian population massacred to the last man, woman, and child. As the war dragged on, plague and famine decimated the peasantry. They ate their livestock, then their pets, and finally the very grass left unburned. Corpses were cut down from the gallows and bodies dug up from graves to be devoured, and a mother confessed that she had eaten her baby. The dogs of war were loosed; in the end, they were halted only by starvation.
At seven o’olock on a foggy morning, Inspector Abberline stood shivering on a knoll in Regent’s Park, cursing the London Times.
The newspaper was responsible for this, he was sure of it now. That’s where Warren must have picked up his wild idea, from an editorial which told of using bloodhounds to track down a murderer at Blackburn twelve years ago. It had worked then, the paper remarked, so why not try the method now?
Because Blackburn isn’t Whitechapel, that’s why, Abberline told himself. Tracking a man in the countryside is one thing; trying to run him down in the streets of a swarming slum is quite another matter. He could have told them that, but they didn’t ask. And they wouldn’t listen. Once he’d proposed the notion Sir Charles Warren became a bit of a bloodhound himself, hot on the scent of favorable publicity. It was Warren who contacted a dog breeder in Scarborough and arranged for him to bring two of the beasts up to London for a trial run.
So here they were now: Sir Melville MacNaughten. Warren, and burly bewhiskered Brough the breeder with his hounds, out in the biting cold of the fogbound park at this ungodly hour.
Abberline stamped his feet against the hoar-frosted ground, his steaming breath mingling with swirls of fog. A few paces away the dogs strained at the leash, eager for freedom. They were formidable-looking creatures; Champion Barnaby’s red eyes and yellowish, pointed fangs hinted at a disposition even more irascible than Warren’s himself. And Burgho, the younger dog, was a huge black and tan specimen with a head at least a foot long, most of it running to muzzle.
MacNaughten, Warren and Brough stood behind them conversing in low tones. Abberline couldn’t overhear what they were saying but he felt no desire to join them; the further he kept away from those animals the better. Home in bed was the best place to be right now. yet he had to come here. One must always allow for the off chance, and perhaps these monsters might prove of some use after all. Seeing them now, he could only pity the man they might succeed in hunting down.
But where was that man?
A figure emerged from the mist behind him and the inspector turned to see a uniformed constable approaching. He carried a jacket bundled under his arm and as he reached the group he unfolded it. For a moment Abberline thought he detected a fishy odor mingling with the damp chill of the fog; then, as he moved up to the others, confirmation came.
“Here it is, sir.” The constable addressed Warren. “Straight from the fish market, just like you ordered. Fresh blood’s still on it.”
Sir Charles Warren’s nostrils flared appreciatively, as though he were sniffing roses. “Excellent!” He turned to Brough. “Shall we let the dogs have a whiff of this?”