“My dear fellow.” Oscar Wilde’s smile had vanished. and now his voice deepened. “Whatever you may think of me. I’m not so devoid of human feeling as to shield a murderer. Like any decent citizen, I wish only to protect my family from such creatures. Remember, I have a wife and children of my own.”
The carriage came to a halt. When the coachman opened the door. Wilde turned to Abberline with a parting smile. “If I had any further information, rest assured it would be gladly given. But unfortunately I know nothing more, and I can only wish you well. My man has instructions to drive you back to the Yard. Godspeed, Inspector.”
Alone in the carriage, jolting now on his way to his official quarters, Abberline shook his head. “Godspeed” from Oscar Wilde? The pouf as a family man? Life had its share of surprises, to say nothing of complications.
But he might safely scratch Eddy from his list of suspects. Or could he? After all, the poet had merely given his opinion, and perhaps there were things he didn’t know.
That was the rub; there were too many things nobody seemed to know. Nobody except the bloody bastard himself — Saucy Jack, Red Jack, Jack the Ripper — writing those damned letters, laughing at him. Who was he, where was he, what was he doing? No killings in all these weeks past — possibly he was in lavender a thousand miles away by now, gone scot-free.
Abberline sighed. “No sense stewing,” he muttered aloud. He intended only to report in, sign out and spend a quiet evening at home.
But his bad day hadn’t entirely ended. One more complication and surprise awaited the inspector at Scotland Yard.
That’s where they handed him the kidney.
~ TWENTY-NINE ~
France, A.D. 1792. The Princesse de Lamballe was clubbed to death outside La Force prison after being made to walk on corpses lying in the street. Her head was cut off and carried into a local tavern to be displayed on the bar while toasts were drunk. Then it was mounted on a pike to be shown to her dear friend, the Queen. En route the head was brought to a beauty salon, where its hair was curled and powdered. Then the crowd bore it in parade beneath the prison windows of the Queen and her children.
The following afternoon was dark and dreary, mirroring Mark’s melancholy mood. Sitting in the surgical lounge, he struggled with his medical observation notes taken during the past week, but concentration eluded him.
Today his thoughts kept turning to Eva. She’d eluded him too. An image of auburn hair and peacock-blue eyes flashed before him but brought no content; it was the reality he wanted. Why had she taken such pains to avoid him? Was it because of Alan?
Another image arose, that of a mustached man wearing a peaked cap. Her fiancé, Eva said. Then why this secrecy, these clandestine meetings? Why had he never appeared at the hospital to escort her home? Perhaps he was married: that would explain the need for concealment. But somehow it was difficult to picture Eva in the role of mistress. Or was it just a stubborn rejection of the ultimate image; Eva and Alan, locked together in naked embrace?
Mark bit his lip. Stop playing the jealous lover—
“There you are.”
He returned to reality as Trebor entered, followed by a familiar figure. Inspector Abberline nodded, closing the door behind him.
“Not disturbing you, are we?”
Mark maintained his smile as he shook his head, but there was no warmth behind it. What was Abberline doing here?
The inspector glanced at Trebor as he started forward. “Mind if I tell him?”
Trebor shrugged. “Not at all. I’m sure he’s been curious too.”
“About Dr. Trebor’s absence,” Abberline said. “I admit it had me puzzled, so I made it my concern to check into his movements. It seems he’s had a legitimate reason for being away. Mrs. Trebor lives in Nottingham—”
Mark gaped at Trebor. “I never knew you were married!”
“There was no reason to mention it,” Trebor said. “My wife and I have been estranged for some years. But when I learned she was in hospital there. I felt it my duty to go to her.”
“She’s ill, then?”
“Terminal consumption.”
“I’m sorry.” Mark spoke sincerely, but at the same time he was aware of his relief. It had been wrong to entertain any suspicion of Trebor; on the other hand. Abberline had suspected him as well.
Now his relief gave way to apprehension as he became conscious of the portly inspector’s level stare.
“I’ve taken the liberty of looking into your affairs also,” Abberline said. “Particularly after examining the murder messages.”
“But that’s ridiculous.” Mark gestured angrily. “Anyone can see those letters are the work of an obvious illiterate.”
“A bit too obvious.” Abberline’s gaze didn’t waver. “Someone took deliberate pains to misspell words and disguise his handwriting. But much of the slang he used — like ‘boss,’ for example — is American.”
“You’re accusing me of sending them?”
“Not accusing. I just want you to know why I made a point of establishing your whereabouts at the time of these crimes.”
Mark faced him squarely. “And what did you find out?”
“That you were in The Coach And Four pub when the first of the double killings took place. You were at Berner Street when the second occurred in Mitre Square.” Abberline’s voice softened. “My apologies. But in cases like this one must not overlook any possibility, however farfetched.”
“I agree.” Mark felt his tension ebb as he spoke. “About those letters, though. Do you really believe they’re genuine? Whoever wrote them seemed to know about the murders in advance, yet there’s always a chance of a hoax—”
“Not any more.” Abberline reached into his inside coat pocket. “This is a photographic copy of a letter received by George Lusk, the chairman of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee. See what you make of it.”
He unfolded the single sheet and handed it to Mark, watching him as he read.
From Hell
Mr Lusk
Sir I send you half the Kidne I took from one woman prasarved it for you tother piece I fried and ate it was very nice I may send you the bloody knif that took it out if you only wate a whil longer.
signed Catch me when you can Mishter Lusk.
Mark looked up as Abberline spoke. “Notice how obvious the misspellings are. No genuine semi-literate would make those kind of mistakes, and they differ from the sort in the other letters. The lack of punctuation is also artificial.”
Trebor nodded. “What about the kidney?”
“It was enclosed with the letter, in a cardboard box.”
“Oh my God!” Trebor addressed Mark. “Do you remember the inquest on the Eddowes woman? Dr. Brown testified that the uterus had been removed, and the left kidney was missing.” He returned to Abberline. “Where is it now?”
Before the inspector could reply, a knock sounded on the lounge door.
“Come in,” Mark called, and the door opened. To his surprise it was Eva who stood in the doorway, wearing her probationer’s uniform.
She nodded at Abberline. “Dr. Openshaw is ready to see you. If you’ll come this way—”
Abberline joined her as she turned, beckoning the others to follow them.
Moving down the hall, Mark murmured to his companion. “Openshaw. Where’ve I heard that name before?”
”He’s a staff pathologist here. Curator of the hospital museum. His office is around the corner.”
And there, in the little room, Dr. Openshaw awaited them.
Mark did his best to conceal his reaction, but the room repelled him. It was lined on three sides with shelving on which rested rows of bell-jars and glass containers glittering in the glimmer of the gaslight overhead. But once his eyes grew accustomed to the glare, it was the content of the glassware that he found most unnerving.