Crossing the bridge, Mark glanced past Abberline to catch a glimpse of the view from the carriage window.
London preened in the morning sunlight. The Tower battlements were less grim in its glow, the drab docks took on a sparkling radiance. Far to the right the dome of St. Paul’s was haloed in a golden glitter.
Mark had almost forgotten the city’s beauty — or did distance lend enchantment? It seemed to him he’d been imprisoned all these months in the dark dungeon that was Whitechapel; now, crossing the Thames, he was escaping to a world outside its walls.
But there was no beauty in Walworth. Dustmen shoveled and sweated in the streets, competing with chittering sparrows for offal; specks of soot blurred the sunny shimmer above. The area reminded him all too vividly of the East End slums, and when at last the carriage brought them to their destination he found St. Saviour’s Infirmary a great deal less imposing than London Hospital.
Nor was Dr. J. F. Williams’ office any more attractive than the narrow cubicles he’d seen in his own daily rounds.
Dr. Williams himself provided the one bright note amid the bleak surroundings of the charity institution. A chubby little man, squinting up at them through round gold-rimmed spectacles, he greeted his visitors effusively.
“Sit down and make yourselves comfortable.” he said. “It was good of you to come. I’d an idea you might be interested.”
Abberline took a chair beside Mark as he spoke. “You’re sure of your facts?”
“Quite sure. I mentioned three patients in my letter, but actually there were four. The woman who called herself Tabram or Turner was also treated here.”
“Why haven’t you brought this to our attention before now?”
“I didn’t know.” Dr. Williams moved behind his desk. “It wasn’t until the other day, conducting a routine review of our records for the past six months, that I came across the names.” He beamed at his visitors. “Quite a coincidence, eh?”
Abberline frowned. “And so is the fact that all these women came here from Whitechapel.”
“Not necessarily,” Dr. Williams said. “We get more than a few patients from there. Begging Dr. Robinson’s pardon, many East End residents come across the river for free treatment because they’re afraid of London Hospital and its surgery. Our cases include any number of women like these.”
“So it seems.” The inspector glanced at the desktop. “Do you have their records available?”
“I pulled the files.” Dr. Williams seated himself and produced the folders from a drawer. “Here we are.” He opened the first file and peered down at the single sheet it contained. “Tabram, in July. The usual complaint — suffering from malnutrition.” His smile faded. “But then, aren’t they all? A pity we can’t cure poverty with pills.”
“And the others?”
Dr. Williams opened the second folder. “Polly Nicholls in August. Bruises and contusions on face and arms. Apparently she’d been beaten. Also the usual — eh, Dr. Robinson?”
Mark nodded. “I’ve seen my share of that.”
Dr. Williams glanced at the contents of the third folder. “Chapman also came in August. Chronic nephritis, a concomitant of alcoholism.” He opened the last folder. “Ah, here’s Kelly. November first. As recorded here in her own words, she didn’t have her flowers and feared she might be knapped.”
Mark frowned. “Just what does that mean?”
The little man smiled. “Sorry, I forgot you’re a Yankee. Translating street vernacular into English, it signifies that Kelly noted the absence of her menses and believed she could be pregnant. The examination disclosed the diagnosis as correct.” He sighed. “Poor thing — such a tragedy.”
“Did she say anything else about it?” Abberline asked.
“Not to me. I didn’t see her.”
“What about the others?”
“I’ve not seen them, either,” Dr. Williams answered. “We treat scores of outpatients here daily and it’s not possible for me to attend them all.”
“Then who did?”
“We have quite a large staff of part-time volunteers — local physicians, some internees and the like.” Dr. Williams glanced rapidly at the sheets before him. “The patient Turner was examined by an intern named Higgins. But the other three women were all treated by the same volunteer.”
As he listened, Mark felt a flurry of excitement. “Was it by any chance a Dr. Hume?”
Williams shook his head, “No. This man’s name is Pedachenko.”
Now it was Abberline whose voice betrayed excitement. “Alexander Pedachenko?”
“That’s correct. Do you know him?”
“Only by reputation. Russian, isn’t he?”
“So it seems. As I recall, he claims to have obtained a medical degree some years ago and joined the hospital staff at Tver, wherever that may be. Although he emigrated he never became a citizen; as a foreigner he’s not licensed to practice here.” Dr. Williams smiled apologetically. “Perhaps I bent the rules a trifle in permitting him to work with us, but we’re always sorely in need of reliable assistance.”
Abberline nodded. “What else can you tell us about him?”
“Not very much. His surgical knowledge seems quite extensive. Naturally he couldn’t be allowed to perform operations, but has frequently served in attendance. He’s rather quiet and soft-spoken. He has a slight accent, though his command of English is excellent. I’d rate him as highly intelligent.”
Mark leaned forward. “Could you describe his appearance?”
Dr. Williams shrugged. “I’d say there was nothing particularly distinctive about it. His complexion is a bit swarthy, but that’s common among Slavs. Dark hair and eyes, of course, and around five feet eight in stature. With the usual mustache.”
Inspector Abberline rose. “Will he be in today?”
“I’m afraid not. Dr. Pedachenko hasn’t been with us for several weeks now.”
The inspector scowled. “Done a bunk, has he?”
“I don’t believe so,” Williams said. “Why should he?” The eyes behind the spectacles held sudden concern. “Surely you’re not implying any involvement in the fate of those poor females?”
“No implication intended,” Abberline answered. “But since he attended them, he might know a few things which would help shed light on the matter. Naturally I’d like to question him. And when you tell me he’s left—”
“No mystery about that, really.” Dr. Williams smiled. “Apparently he was short of funds. He’d been supporting himself as a part-time barber’s surgeon — removing warts and moles, the usual line. I gathered he intended to return to that work on a steady basis.”
“Told you that, did he?” Abberline nodded. “You wouldn’t happen to know where he’s employed now?”
“Indeed I do.” The small man flipped through the pages of a ledger resting on the left-hand side of his desk. “Now where’s he listed? Ah, here it is.”
He read the notation, then looked up. “You’ll find him at Delhaye’s hairdressing shop, over on Westmoreland Road.”
~ FORTY ~
India, A.D, 1857. Sergeant Forbes-Mitchell, of the 93rd Highlanders, writes of the relief expedition’s arrival at Cawnpore, where wives and children of troops massacred after the garrison surrendered were themselves slaughtered while imprisoned in a bungalow. “Most of the men of my company visited the slaughterhouse. Among the traces of barbarous torture and cruelty… was an iron hook fixed into the wall of one of the rooms of the house about six feet from the floor. It was evident that a little child had been hung onto it by the neck with its face to the wall, because the wall all around the hook was covered with handprints, and below the hook with footprints, in blood, of a little child.”