“But a woman carrying a medical bag through the streets after midnight is bound to attract attention,” Mark said.
“Not necessarily. Many such women are abroad at that hour; their presence is taken for granted and passes unnoticed.”
“You don’t mean—?”
“Midwives.” Conan Doyle nodded. “Exactly so. They’re the ones most apt to deliver babies in the slums, not your fancy obstetricians. They’re so common no one gives them a second glance, any more than they would a postman. And if your Ripper is found near the scene of the crime his disguise would offer a perfect explanation; a midwife making her rounds stumbled on the body and stopped to give medical attention. Perhaps his voice would have to be disguised in case of answering questions, but the chances are that he’d not be halted and no questions would be asked. I’m quite certain that Mr. Holmes would concur at this conclusion. Jack the Ripper has escaped detection by disguising himself as a midwife.”
“Extraordinary,” Trebor murmured.
“Elementary,” said Conan Doyle.
Rising, he took his leave, and Trebor faced Mark in silence as he snubbed his cheroot in the ashtray.
“What do you make of it?” Mark asked.
“Difficult to say. I admit the idea sounds plausible. That bit about a false mustache is quite ingenious — a typical Sherlock Holmes touch, don’t you think? A wonder the police haven’t thought of it.”
“Do you suppose we might broach the notion to Inspector Abberline?”
Trebor shook his head. “I’m afraid our friend the inspector has other ideas. As a matter of fact, I’ve just been told that a man answering to his description has been checking my own comings and goings with the landlady at my flat.”
Mark gave his mustache a nervous tug. “That’s odd. I’ve no description, but one of the tenants at my own lodgings mentioned a man had stopped around inquiring about my movements over the past weeks. Surely you don’t think—?”
“Never mind what I think.” Trebor scowled. “It’s what Abberline thinks that must concern us now.”
~ TWENTY-SEVEN ~
Russia, A.D 1720. An eighty-year-old man refused to appear at a court masquerade dressed as the Devil. Peter the Great had him stripped naked and marooned on an ice floe in the Neva River, with pasteboard horns on his head. He froze to death.
Inspector Abberline was having a bad day. Sitting in the Home Secretary’s office, he listened with growing dismay to the row between Sir Henry Matthews and Sir Charles Warren. Two lords of the realm, if you please, going at it hammer and tongs like a pair of schoolboys.
“I won’t brook interference!” Warren exclaimed. He paced before Matthews’ desk, thumping the tip of his silver-headed walking stick on the carpet with each step. “Not from amateurs with nothing better to do than meddle with the affairs of my department!”
Matthews jabbed a bony finger at the stack of documents on the desktop before him. “You’re wrong, Charles. Dead wrong. These are only a portion of the communications we’ve received. Not from amateur detectives. Not from meddlers. Decent, respectable citizens who fear for their lives, like the ladies of Whitechapel who signed this petition—”
“Ladies? Don’t talk to me of your ladies! If those females down there would seek out some honest employment and keep off the streets, we wouldn’t have this sort of muck to contend with. I’ve more important things to do than play nursemaid to a pack of streetwalkers!”
“I dare say.” Matthews’ tone was dry. “Your job is to catch this murderer. And you haven’t done so. Even with the aid of bloodhounds.”
Warren reddened at the reference but didn’t reply; the failure of his trial runs was public knowledge.
“No offense,” Matthews said. “I appreciate your — shall I say? — dogged determination.”
Again he gestured toward the pile of papers before him. “But since you seem unable to apprehend him on your own, I suggest you give some attention to the advice of others.”
“What others? I’ve had my fill of suggestions from the press. And I don’t fancy self-styled experts like this Forbes Winslow fellow who keeps popping up with what he calls evidence.” Now he glanced at Abberline. “You’ve seen this fellow. Utter imbecile, what?”
The inspector nodded uneasily. “A bit on the eccentric side.”
“Eccentric? The man’s daft! Now he’s taken to analyzing the handwriting of those so-called Jack the Ripper letters. As if it makes any difference how the bugger dots his i’s and crosses his t’s! Sheer waste of time.”
“Is it?” Sir Henry Matthews followed Warren’s pacing figure with a cold stare. “Perhaps such a study might reveal important clues to the writer’s personality. I’m not prepared to dismiss the findings of graphology.”
“And I’m not prepared to give a handwriting test to every man in London!” Warren snapped.
“Then what are you prepared to do? If you’d give some thought to the other suggestions we’ve received—”
“Such as what, might I ask?”
“Such as these.” Matthews extracted a letter from an envelope on top of the heap and began to read a paragraph selected at random.
“Have the cattle boats and passenger boats been examined? Has any investigation been made as to the number of single men occupying rooms to themselves? The murderer’s clothes must be saturated with blood and kept somewhere? Is there sufficient surveillance at night—”
“Sheer drivel!” Warren halted before the desk, bringing his cane down with a thud. “Even a child would know we’ve considered such matters from the start. Why should anyone bother with the advice of some bloody stupid crank? Give me the name of the fool who wrote this — I’ll have his guts for garters!”
“Allow me to finish.” Matthews raised the letter and scanned the final lines.
“These are some of the questions that occur to the Queen on reading accounts of this horrible crime.
“Signed this day and date — Victoria R.”
Warren’s jaw dropped. “She wrote this?”
Sir Henry Matthews placed the letter back on the pile. “Now you can begin to understand why these communications want attention. The Prime Minister has advised me—”
“Are you threatening me, sir?” Warren’s face was purple. “Is that the purpose of this meeting? Let me remind you, no matter what Salisbury or Her Majesty herself may think, I’m in charge of this operation and I intend to conduct it as I see fit!”
“No one is challenging your authority,” Matthews said. “But there is more here than meets the eye. And I warn you, time is running out.”
“So it is.” Warren glanced at the wall clock behind Matthews’ desk. “I’m due back at the Yard as of this very moment.”
Matthews shrugged. “As you will. I was hoping we could discuss the matter further.”
“My duties call for decisions, not discussions.” Ignoring Matthews’ stare, Sir Charles Warren moved across the room, swinging his walking stick. As he opened the door he turned and nodded at the Home Secretary. “Should you happen to address Her Majesty, please inform her that I am personally examining conditions on cattle boats, conducting a census of single men living alone, keeping my eye out for bloodstained clothing, and watching the streets by night. Tell her I appreciate her valuable suggestions, and should they lead to the discovery of the murderer I shall see to it that she will be the first to know.”