City of Darkness

Chapter SIXTEEN

2:50 PM





Eager to inform Davy of his unofficial promotion, Trevor scoured the Yard for the lad and finally found him having a smoke with some other bobbies at the back entrance. Praise youth, Trevor thought wryly. Davy looked none the worse for his grisly early morning experience and he snapped to attention when Trevor motioned him over.

"Davy, I don’t know if I expressed my gratitude adequately to you last night. Securing the area, keeping back the mob, the bit about the chalk message. It all adds up to good police work.”

“Just my job, Sir.”

“And now I have one more request. That you go to your flat this instant, change out of that uniform, and be back here in one hour in plainclothes. You've been assigned to me for the rest of the investigation."

Davy's face went from puzzled to shocked as he stammered for something to say. He lacked at least two years of being qualified to work in plainclothes and this would certainly make him the envy of all the other bobbies. "I hardly deserve it, Sir, it was just a matter of being in the right place at the right time..."

"And doing all the right things. Don't sell yourself short, Madley, there are plenty of people willing to do that chore for you."

"Thank you, Welles, I mean Sir. I...I..."

"Don't just stand there, boy, be off. Report to the interrogation room at four. We’ll be questioning people the rest of the afternoon. Not suspects, mind you, just witnesses. God only knows how valid their observations are, but Eatwell wants them duly noted, every one. "

As Davy took off like a man possessed, Trevor was hit with a sudden wave of exhaustion. The two shallow hours of sleep he’d snatched at dawn wouldn’t see him through this day, he suspected, and he wondered if he might grab a quick nap in his office before the interviews began. He glanced at the members of the press milling about the lawn and they looked back at him hungrily. The rule was they couldn’t come within twenty feet of the doorways of the Yard, but there had been few details in the morning paper. With two murders, nice and fresh, they wanted more gore for the next day’s editions. Trevor watched them with narrowed eyes and decided that yes, perhaps there was time for at least twenty minutes of a nap. The center square clock was striking three.





Forty-five minutes later, a red-faced Davy Madley was walking down the corridor in his Sunday best suit - his only suit for that matter - and manfully trying to ignore the shrill whistles of his fellow bobbies. Although his cheeks flamed, Davy took it all in good spirits because he too would have made fun if any of them had enjoyed such a dramatic twist of fortune. As he approached the interrogation room he noticed some of the witnesses had been assembled outside on a bench. It was a motley crew to be sure.

Trevor, mercifully, did not tease him at all, but simply pointed out his first desk. A regulation issued brown box, but Davy ascended to it as if it were a throne.

"Here are some blank reports and pencils, Davy. Just listen to what each has to say. If you feel it pertains even remotely to the facts in the case, then write the statement down and get their names, address, and where they work. Don't write down everything everyone says, for a good part of our job is the ability to distinguish the crackpots from those who look like crackpots but who have useful information. No matter how daft they seem, be polite."

"Aye, Sir. Be polite."

“My desk is in that corner, so I’m close at hand if anything unusual arises. Gad, what am I saying, it will all be unusual. I mean unusually unusual.”

“Yes, Sir,” said Davy and motioned to the sergeant stationed at the door to send in the first witness. She entered, clearly a lady of the evening who was translating none too well to full daylight. She smiled a slack-mouthed grin at Davy, and Trevor was pleased to see he greeted her in a professional manner.

Trevor's first interview was with a shabbily-dressed man with a pronounced limp and the smell of urine about him. Nevertheless, Trevor sat the poor, small creature down in the chair beside him with grave dignity, and leaned back as far as possible.

"I did it, Guv'ner! I did!" said the little man, grinning broadly and not bothering to wait for a question.

"You did what, my good man?"

"Killed 'em. Murdered each ‘un in cold blood!"

"Who?" asked Trevor, his face still suitably serious although he doubted this man could hurt a flea.

"Why, ‘ose bitches from Whitechapel, of course." he said, spraying Trevor's papers with spittle. "Did 'em all in. Two last night."

"And how, may I ask, did you kill the two last night? Excuse me, I didn't get your name."

"Why, Hoppy! Hoppy Darby, of course! Oh, it was bloody, Guv'ner, bloody indeed. The first one, I snuck up behind 'er and slit 'er throat 'fore she knew it. Then I stayed and serenaded ‘er on me mouth harp while she bleeded to death. But she went too quick and that wasn't ‘nough for me. Hadn't finished me song. That' why I went for the other one."

"And how did this second poor girl go?"

"Pulled ‘er arm off with me bare hands. Then I beat ‘er over the head with it til she passed out, I did."

"Indeed?" said Trevor. "Dreadful."

"Aye, dreadful," Hoppy said happily.

"And then, Hoppy, what did you do with the woman's arm?"

A brief pause. A wrinkled brow.

"I took it home, cooked it up, and ate me fill, I did. I even fed the bones to me dog. So Guv'ner, you'd better lock me up and throw away the key. I’m no good at all, ye see?"

"Lock you up!" Trevor shouted, slapping a palm to his desk and rising so forcefully that even Davy from across the room drew back a bit. "Hoppy, you have been very naughty indeed! We hang people for crimes like these, hang them as soon as possible." Trevor started leafing through his calendar on his desk.

"Hang me!" Hoppy gasped, clutching his throat in retreat. "Who'll feed me dog? Why canna you just put the both of us away for the rest of our born days?"

"I'm sorry Hoppy, for your crime it's hanging. Are you ready? We can hang you and your dog this afternoon."

"Hang me mutt, too? Why, 'e's done nothing."

"You said it yourself, the dog ate the evidence. So we'll string him up there alongside you. Where is this criminal canine anyway?"

Hoppy got up from his chair and took a few shaky steps backward. "I made it all up, Guv'nor, didn't kill anyone. Please don't 'ang us. Didn't do it, was a story."

"And now you're saying you're a liar too? Hoppy, I'm so disappointed in you. Well you'd better be out of my sight or I'll hang you and that damn dog both, just for lying.”

Hoppy could barely get the door open in his haste. Trevor followed and laughed as he watched the tattered figure jerking down the corridor. The people on the bench observed the exit with impassive eyes and once Hoppy was out of sight they turned back to Trevor, whose expression had changed from smiling to sternness again as he shouted, "Next!"

By the time Trevor had returned to his desk Davy was interviewing another witness, Robert Spicer, a constable Davy knew from the East End.

"Good day, Robert. We’ve all made our reports, so what brings you down to the Yard?" asked Davy, shaking Spicer’s hand. Trevor was eager to observe Davy's interviewing skills but he didn't want to listen in too obviously and thus make the boy nervous, so he pretended to be absorbed in his nonexistent Hoppy notes.

"Well Davy, something occurred to me last night, but in all the excitement I neglected to put it in the report. It may be important to the case and it may not." answered Spicer, adjusting himself in the chair.

"In this case, we'll take all the information we can gather. What’s it about?"

"Late in the evening yesterday I was making my rounds just off Commercial Street when I came upon Rosy Matters, one of the local girls, and she was sitting on a dustbin having a laugh with a gentleman. What I thought queer was he was really a gentleman. I mean, here was this well-dressed, well-bred sort just sitting in a dark alley, late at night, with old Rosy. I noticed Rosy had a few coins in her hand, and she was jostling them up and down in her palm, like..."

"Like she'd just been paid?" Davy prompted.

"Or like she was stating her fee. I asked them what they were doing in the alley, and Rosy told me to mind my own business. I could tell she was drunk and could easily have been taken advantage of. So for her safety, and with this trouble about, I asked the man in for questioning."

"Questioning about what?" Davy asked, surprised.

"Well it is a crime to solicit a streetwalker, albeit a crime that isn't much pressed."

"Indeed. Go on."

"I took the gentleman to the station house. He was very courteous for a man being arrested, did not even argue. He told Inspector Bradley he was a doctor, and he had given Rosy the two shillings so she wouldn't have to sleep outside for the night."

"What was this gentleman's name, Robert? Do you remember?"

"No, because the Inspector spoke with him in a private room. After a short while he released the man and said since he saw no reason to detain him."

"And you don't remember his name," Davy sighed, glancing toward Trevor. "Would your Inspector remember him? Was he entered into the jail registry as an arrest?"

"I would doubt it. He was there only briefly. I know I made no report on him."

"Where might we find your Inspector Bradley?" Trevor broke in.

"He's on duty at night, but most of the time you'll find him at the Boar's Head Tavern. He likes his whiskey.”

"Thank you, Robert. We will definitely check the man out. And if there is any credence to the story, we’ll make sure you get the credit,” Davy said, offering his hand once more. “What do you think of it, Sir?” he asked, when Spicer was out the door. “Worth anything?”

“Possibly. I know a doctor who treats women in the East End without charge so I suppose these souls do exist. To think an inspector wouldn’t have the presence of mind to take down every name at a time like this…”

Trevor’s words were scarcely out of his mouth when the door flew open and in marched Rayley Abrams. He went straight to Trevor, whispered something in his ear and Trevor rose to his feet. “Davy, take your next witness. With such a late start we’ll have to keep moving steadily if we’re to get all the statements today.”

“Of course, Sir,” Davy said matter-of-factly as Trevor followed Abrams out the door. Trevor thought with some satisfaction that it was as if the boy had been doing the job for years.

Once away from the mob in the hallway, Abrams turned to Trevor. “Someone downstairs I thought you might want to see. Name Micha Banasik. A Pole, brought into Bishopsgate early this morning for roughing up a prostitute. And he works in a slaughterhouse.”

“What time did they bring him in?”

“Between three and four, and he can’t account for where he was before that. He says he was drinking at a pub, but doesn’t remember where or for how long.”

“I appreciate this, especially under the circumstances,” Trevor said. But Abrams looked straight ahead as he walked and Trevor decided that to thank him more profusely might be taken as insult. The man had never been jovial, was accused of being too intent upon his work to have time for a joke with the other boys. But in truth the same criticism had often been made of Trevor.





The two men marched steadily down the stairs to where the prisoners were kept, descending deeper and deeper into the damp basement of Scotland Yard. The lighting was poor as they approached the holding cell where a virtual giant was circling steadily, not pacing as a man would, but rather moving in small, tight circles in the manner of a caged cat. Trevor stopped a few yards back from the cell and stood in the darkness, both to give his eyes time to adjust to the gloom but also because he wanted to watch the man for a minute or two. Banasik kept his huge hands clasped behind him. He was certainly strong enough and he seemed to have the temper.

“Is he what you pictured the Ripper to look like?” Abrams asked.

“I can’t say I’ve ever been able to really form an image of the man. To me he’s like a dark hole. Faceless.”

Abrams nodded. “Part of his appeal, is it not?”

“His appeal?”

Abrams looked at Trevor curiously. “You don’t feel it? I should think your obsession with the Ripper - a feeling I can sympathize with, by the way - would have grown out of some sort of identification with him. He’s no man, he’s every man. He’s faceless, just as you say.”

“It’s part of his intrigue…”

“Precisely.”

“But I wouldn’t call it part of his appeal.”

Abrams shrugged. “Have it your way, Welles. Would you like to talk to the Pole alone?” Trevor nodded and stepped out of the shadows. At the sound of his footfall, the man turned in alarm.

“Are you Micha Banasik?” Trevor asked, looking the man square in the eyes.

“Yes. Why you have ‘rested me?”

“You know why you’re here. Assault on a woman.”

A bit of a smile played around the thick lips. “She tell me she not press charge.”

“Perhaps she didn’t, but that doesn’t mean you’re off the hook. You know that phrase, Micha, ‘off the hook.’ But of course you do, you’re a butcher.”

“If woman not press charge, you must let man go.”

“It’s not surprising you’re familiar with the laws concerning assault. I see from your file this is the third time you’ve been brought in for just that reason. Broke a woman’s wrist last spring, didn’t you?”

“They trying to take too much money from me, because they think I don’t know English.”

“So you beat them?”

“Would you not if you being robbed?”

“No, Micha, I would not. Where were you last night at 1 am?”

“I no remember. Drinking.”

“Drinking where?”

“I sometimes frequent the Pony Pub,” he said, with sudden formality. “I may was there.”

“And this is where you met the woman that you struck?”

“I no know. Why you ask?”

“Last night two women were butchered in the East End. Do you know of this crime?”

Again the dignity, the pulling back of the shoulders. “I not aware.”

“Did you see those women too? Did they try to cheat you of your money? Did you get mad at them?”

“No! And I am not Ripper!”

Gad, even the sewage in the street knew the name. Trevor looked around for Abrams, but the other detective remained in the shadows, leaving the questioning to the man who, rightly or wrongly, was the official head of the case. “Well Micha, we must detain you until we can check your alibi at the Pony Pub,” Trevor said. Surely such a large and brutal-looking man would stand out in someone’s memory if he had indeed been there.

“Make it fast, I not afford to lose job.”

Trevor and Abrams turned away and started for the stairwell.

“What do you think, Welles?”

“We’ll need to check out the pub before we think anything. People should remember his accent and his size. We have a good time line, thanks to Phillips. If someone at this Pony Pub can alibi him for the period between 12:30 and two, we’ll have to let him go.”

“Ninety minutes? Now, that is something.” Abrams paused at the top of the stairs and jerked his head in the direction of the cells below. “What’s your instinct?”

“Not our man.”

“I don’t think so either, but there was something …worth interrupting you, I hope.”

“Oh absolutely. Good form, Abrams.” Trevor dreaded the next question, but felt he should ask it. “Where have they put you now?”

“Spitalfields,” Abrams said shortly. It was the Jewish ghetto, an area known for tailor’s shops, kosher butchers, and virtually no crime. “I’m keeping the peace in Petticoat Lane.”

“If Barasik does by chance lead to something, I’ll see you get credit,” Trevor said.

“Credit? I don’t care if it’s the Queen herself that finds him, I just want this bastard caught and hanged,” Abrams said, pulling on his coat. “Speaking of which, I suppose you’ve heard the latest rumor?”

“Which one? Oh, let me guess. The Duke of Clarence.”

Abrams nodded. The Duke, known to the family as Eddy, was not only Queen Victoria’s grandson, but the eldest son of her eldest son and thus in direct line of succession. A less compelling case of the future of the monarchy could hardly be found – the young man was in his twenties and a great dandy about town but rumored to be slow-witted, bisexual, partially deaf, and riddled with syphilis. His escapades were gossiped about in the best parlors of the city and even the papers made thinly-veiled references to the various scandals in which Eddy had been embroiled. Never naming him, of course, just referring to him as “Collar and Cuffs,” a nickname that Trevor could only hope was meant to mock the Duke’s penchant for ostentatious clothing.

“He’s an easy enough target, I suppose,” Trevor said. “Been accused of everything short of stealing the crown jewels.”

“Known to frequent the East End,” Abrams said amiably. “In search of certain pleasures.”

“Are you suggesting he could really - ?”

Abrams held up a palm. “No, no, not suggesting anything of the sort. Besides, I already checked and he has alibis. Infallible ones. In training with his cavalry unit for the first two, with his formidable Grandmama for the second two. I just wanted to make sure you understand how frenzied the speculation is becoming.”

“You requested an alibi for a member of the Royal family?” Trevor said, stunned but more than a little impressed. “However did you manage?”

“By checking the whereabouts of all bloody forty-seven of them,” Abrams said, pushing open the door. “And pretending it was a matter of their personal security. City in a panic, you know, that sort of thing. Don’t worry Welles, the Queen’s private guard thanked me for it, said it showed great thoroughness on the part of the Yard. No feathers ruffled.”

“Good man,” Trevor said softly, as Abrams stepped out in the street.





Davy was on his ninth interview and was developing a bit of a rhythm. Trevor came in with another witness but he seated her at Davy’s desk, not his, then sat down in his own chair, pulled out his notebook and began scribbling notes. Davy looked over for some sort of sign from Trevor about the surprise visit from Abrams, but Trevor gave none. So Davy turned his attention back to this new witness, figuring that Trevor would fill him in later.

“Now you say you saw a man last night with Elizabeth Stride?” Davy asked the old woman seated beside him.

“Yes I did. A looker he was. A handsome dark moustache, a real respectable appearance. I looked him over as I passed Lizzy and him on the corner of Turnbull Street.”

“Could you describe him?”

“About twenty-eight, five feet eight inches tall, with a dark complexion. A foreigner maybe.”

Davy sat back in surprise. Most of the previous witnesses had been able to give only sketchy descriptions at best of men who had been seen with Catherine or Liz, but this woman was very sure of herself. “Why would you say foreign? Did he have an accent?”

“I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he sure made Lizzy giggle. But dark skin, you know, like a Turk or a Greek.”

“What was he wearing?”

“He had on a hard felt hat and a black coat. Pretty he was.”

“Was he carrying anything in his hands? A parcel?”

“Couldn’t see his hands. But he might have had something under his coat. It was big. Poor Lizzy, she was such a sweet girl too.”

Only a woman as old and used up as this one would call the gap-toothed Elizabeth Stride a girl, Davy thought. Of course, on the streets, he supposed beauty and youth were relative. Trevor rose, pushed back his chair, and went to the door to call a new witness for himself, a fact that deflated Davy a bit. He’d appeared to be listening in at first, but evidently Trevor had decided the woman’s testimony wasn’t relevant after all.

“I thank you for coming in” Davy said. “You’ve been a big help.”

“My pleasure, dearie. If you ever need some warmth or comfort you can usually find me on Elm Street,” she said with a smile.

Dear God, was their no retirement age for this particular profession, Davy wondered, opening the door for her to leave. He looked out in the hall and saw one final witness, this one lying on the bench, snoring. But before he would bring the person in, he decided he had better take full notes of the description the last witness had given. As he turned back toward his desk, Trevor signaled him over to his own desk so he could listen to what the person he was interviewing had to say.

“I think it’s Mad Maudy who’s been murdering them poor girls in the East End,” the young woman seated at Trevor’s desk was sobbing. With a quite dramatic flair, she pulled a handkerchief out of her bodice and vigorously blew her nose before stuffing it back in. “She’s as mean as a drunken sailor.”

“Who is this Mad Maudy?”

“Why everyone’s heard of Maudy,” the girl said, surprised. In another place and time she might have been quite pretty and her diction suggested she may have once known better times. But her face was marred by pox scars and the riotous orange of her hair rinse did nothing to flatter her pale coloring. “Maudy Minford, a midwife in the East End. More like a butcher though. Killed as many girls as she’s helped.”

“Killed?”

“She isn’t…very good at her work.”

“There are any number of midwifes in the area. A few doctors are available too,” Trevor said. “Why would the girls keep going to someone with such a bad record?”

The girl fingered her dangling ear hoops, but said nothing. Trevor sighed.

“Where can we find her?”

“Ask anyone in the East End. They’ll point you in her way. You can’t miss her, she’s as ugly and as foul as a stablehand. But she’s always there, Sir, always seems to be around the spot where the girls get offed. I saw her in the alley last night when they were taking poor Cathy out. And she was there when they carted off Dark Annie too. Always there, just looking.”

“Don’t worry,” Trevor said. “We’ll talk with this Mad Maudy.”

“Thank you, Sir,” the woman said, standing to leave. “She took my sister, you know Sir.”

“Took her?”

“Took her home, Sir. To the angels.”

The girl left and Trevor sat back, rumpling his hair. “Good God, what a day. Are there any more people outside, Davy?”

“One.”

“Finish it up and then we’ll discuss the reports over a beer at the Boar’s Head.”

“Very good,” answered Davy promptly, although he was surprised. A beer already? But a quick look down at his pocket watch showed that it was well past eight. His first afternoon in plainclothes had gone fast.

The person on the bench outside was hard to rouse. It took Davy a minute to ascertain if the lump was male or female, but he finally decided that the hat which had fallen to one side indicated another woman.

“Excuse me Ma’am, are you here to make a statement?” asked Davy, shaking her shoulder. “Ma’am?”

“Ma’am?” the woman slowly sat up and threw back her shabby cloak to reveal bare shoulders and a ruby gown. “Oh Davy, don’t be so formal. Don’t you recognize me? It’s Frilly. Frilly Withers.” She struggled to a sitting position, the gown dipping more precariously than ever and her breath strong with the smell of hard whiskey.

“Here, girl,” said Davy, for her face was indeed familiar from his days of patrolling the East End. “Hold ‘round my waist and try to get to your feet.” She lurched against him, giggling and pawing and he felt his face go red again as he fervently prayed that none of the other officers would happened own the hall and witness his predicament.

“Right this way, Frilly,” he said, kicking open the Interrogation Room door. “Here, have a seat.”

She plopped herself down with scarcely a glance at Trevor, reached into her bag to retrieve a pint bottle, half full, and took a gulp. She then offered Davy a drink, but he violently shook his head.

“Why are you drinking so early in the evening, Frilly?”

“It’s dark as midnight out there,” she answered. “He struck down two last night and you go and ask me that? If that demon gets ahold of me I don’t want to know about it.”

“Why are you here?”

“Aren’t you coppers supposed to pay for information?” she asked with a sly grin. “Come on Davy, it be right good information I bring.”

“I’m sorry, but we can’t pay you.”

“A quid. Only a quid, Davy. It’s definitely worth a quid,” she asked again, leaning across the desk so that her breasts nearly slipped from her gown. “I don’t much want to work tonight, you know what I mean. Just a quid for my supper.” Davy glanced at Trevor.

“If it’s important, maybe a quid,” Trevor said. The Yard didn’t make a habit of paying informants but it bothered him to think of this girl on the streets in her condition. Perhaps a little money would buy her the chance to sleep it off in safety.

“Oh, it’s important, alright. I danced beside the Devil himself. Last night, I seen the Ripper with Catherine Eddowes, only thirty minutes before he carved her up.” Frilly paused and reached into her bag once more for another taste of the flask.

“Here’s a pound, Frilly,” interrupted Trevor, putting the note in her hand. “What else can you tell us?”

“Why thank you Guv! See Davy, I told you it was good information. I saw old Cathy Eddowes, late last night.”

“How late?” Trevor interrupted.

“Church just struck one bell.”

“And where was she?”

“Coming down Market Street.”

Trevor nodded slowly. The time was right and the part of town was right, just a few blocks from the jail where Eddowes had been released at 12:45.

Frilly smiled with satisfaction at his reaction and continued. “She was in the company of a man about thirty years old. Medium tall, medium build, with a mustache, but formally dressed, a gentleman.”

“What was he wearing?”

“He wore a dark cape and…and…”

“And what?”

“A red neckerchief. Yes, a red neckerchief, loose around his collar.”

“Was he carrying anything?”

“Yes, he had something in his left hand, tucked under his cape, but I couldn’t see what. But the man made me go all queer, you know, as if my senses knew he was a bad ‘un. You get the instinct after you’ve been on the streets for awhile. I got cold chills up and down me backside, as I passed them.”

“Anything else? Did you hear him say anything?”

“No, he seemed to be whispering to Cathy and she was giggling, pleased as punch.” The woman stopped and raised her eyebrows reflectively. “Guess the old gal never did develop the instinct, did she?”

“I guess not,” Trevor said. “Use that money to get some food in you, Frilly, and a warm place to sleep tonight.”

“Thanks again, Guv’ner. Davy, if you come over to Market Street, look me up. It’s been a long time, you know,” she said with a wink as she left the room.

“Detective Welles,” Davy said, springing to his feet the second the door was closed. “Earlier another person gave a very similar description of a man seen with Elizabeth Stride.”

“Let me read the statement.”

Davy handed him the report. “See, Sir? A dark man, medium, well-dressed, a moustache and a full cape or coat. Full enough to hide something – something like a doctor’s bag, Sir? Seen once with Eddowes and once with Stride and that’s unlikely chance, wouldn’t you say?”

“I think we have a real lead here, Davy. And the red neckerchief relates back to something I earlier found, a red fiber under Anne Chapman’s fingernail. Well, we certainly have no lack of suspects, do we? Midwives and foreigners and dark men in capes.”

Davy nodded. “I have sheets of notes here. Everyone in London seemed to see Liz or Catherine last night with a man or two or three. Given the professional calling of the ladies they didn’t seem to lack for men about.”

“You seem to know a few of the ladies yourself, Mabrey.”

Davy flushed. “The East End was my beat, Sir, has been for months – “

Trevor laughed and stood up, stretching. “Relax, boy. I don’t think there’s a man on the force who’s prepared to cast that particular stone at your head. Now get your hat and coat. I’d like to have a pint and look over each other’s notes to bring us up to date. Damn it.”

For in putting on his own coat, Trevor had dropped a pack of tobacco to the floor. As he bent over to collect it he noticed something lying under the door, a gray envelope with ‘DETECTIVE’ neatly printed on the outside. Trevor tore open the seal and pulled out a single sheet of writing paper. Aloud he read:



DETECITVE WELLES, I SAW YOU THERE

I CROUCHED AND WATCHED FROM MY LAIR

I WITNESSED YOU SICKEN AT THE SIGHT

OF POOR OLD CATHY, IN THE ALLEY LAST NIGHT



YOUR BOBB IES, HOW THEY SEARCHED FOR ME

BUT IN THE DARK THEY COULD NOT SEE

I DID NOT BLINK AS THEY DREW NEAR

I SAT AND CHEWED ON CATHERINE’S EAR



I SEND THIS NOTE, TO LET YOU KNOW

I’LL RETURN TO STRIKE A BLOW

AT SOME OLD WHORE STILL WALKING ROUND

HER TIME FOR LIVING, I WILL COUNT DOWN



I’LL LAY HER OPEN, SEE HER SPOUT

WHO KNOWS WHAT ORGANS I’LL TAKE OUT

SO REST DETECTIVE, I’LL SAY GOODNIGHT

BUT I WILL RETURN FOR MORE DELIGHT



JACK THE RIPPER





“You think it’s real, Sir?” Davy asked. “You think he’s been here, in Scotland Yard?”

“Probably not,” Trevor said, although the note in his hands was trembling slightly. “Most of these things are hoaxes.”

“Hope so, Sir. I mean, how many people could even know you’re head of the case now? It’s only been a few hours. Hasn’t been in the papers, has it, Sir? But yet Jack called you out by name.”

“Yes,” Trevor said shortly. “Yes, he certainly did.”