City of Darkness

Chapter TWO

September 9

4:05 PM





It may have been high tea in the more civilized neighborhoods of London, but there was little time for ceremony at Scotland Yard. As had been the case for days, the front lawn was overrun with reporters, eyewitnesses, whores, lunatics, preachers, and politicians, all demanding to know what the police were going to do about the East End murders.

Trevor Welles cut through the crowd with a speed which belied his size. He was of a body type often called portly, a term he detested, for he was proud of the fact his back and shoulders were dense with muscles. Besides, years on the force had taught him that a long low stride covered ground as well as a run, and there were few men in the Yard who could outdistance him when it mattered.

As he entered the building, a desk sergeant jerked a thumb to indicate he should take the stairs. Trevor bounded up three flights to the meeting room where at least two dozen plainclothes detectives sat waiting. At the front of the room stood a slate and a small table with several items littered about the surface. Trevor picked his way to the front row. Inspector Arthur Eatwell was sitting behind the table staring at the bare wall in front of him and he failed to acknowledge Trevor’s greeting.

“You may smoke, gentlemen,” the Inspector said, without moving, and all the detectives pulled out their pipes. There were a few coughs, a scraping of chairs, and then a variety of aromas, from cherry to leather, began to fill the air.

The door behind Eatwell opened and a small, gray haired man entered carrying a black leather bag. “Thank you for joining us, Dr. Phillips,” Inspector Eatwell said, finally turning from the wall. “Gentlemen, I’m sure you’ll all recognize our chief coroner. Begin anywhere you wish. ”

The doctor nodded toward the men, and sat his bag on the table. “Then I’ll start by saying to date Scotland Yard has completely bungled the investigation of these two murders.”

A murmur swept through the room and Eatwell’s ears reddened, although he kept his look of rapt attention.

“Don’t you mean three murders, sir?” Trevor asked, raising one hand, and leafing through his journal with the other. “What about Martha Tabram, found August seventh?”

“And there have been other knifings of women in the East End this year,” came a voice from the back. “Annie Millwood in February, Ada Wilson in March, Emma Smith in April…”

Trevor turned to see that this last speaker was Rayley Abrams, who was leaning against the far wall of the room. Abrams had come on the force a year before Trevor and his solemn demeanor, coupled with his almost ludicrously thick spectacles, had earned him the nickname “professor” around the Yard. But unlike Trevor, Abrams knew how to outthink his superiors without annoying them, how to make a suggestion without it sounding more like an accusation. Some predicted he’d make the rank of Chief Detective by the close of the year, at least if he managed to attach himself to a high profile case. And no case in the Yard was drawing more attention than this one.

The doctor glanced at Eatwell, as if looking for guidance.

“Tabrum was stabbed thirty-nine times,” Trevor blurted out, aware that he was repeating information well known to everyone in the room, but still determined to make his point. “That indicates a killer in a frenzy, exactly the sort of man we’re looking for.”

“Our inquiry only concerns these two women,” Eatwell said. “If we included every unfortunate in the East End we’d fill up the walls.” He stood to flip over the slate. It read:

Mary Ann “Pretty Polly” Nichols

Age: 42

Killed August 31, Shoreditch



Anne “Dark Annie” Chapman

Age: 47

Killed September 8, Hanbury Street





“Now, Doctor,” Eatwell said, “would you care to specify your findings?”

Phillips advanced to the podium. “My efforts were hampered by the fact the bobbies who originally found the bodies were rather, shall we say, overzealous. Nichols was moved to a workhouse mortuary, cleaned and washed before a doctor was even called in. Who can say how many vital clues were literally swept down the drain?” Eatwell looked at his fingernails with sudden interest as the coroner went on. “Things were not much better with Chapman. Her body was carried to a shed before it could be properly examined and again, by the time I arrived, a good bit of evidence had been destroyed. It’s been said before but must be repeated. A body should not be lifted and moved.”

In his seat, Trevor inwardly groaned. Despite the papers beginning to circulate on the importance of proper forensic procedure, the bobbies were notorious for trampling the evidence. Their casual manner toward bloodstains, fibers, and body position was not surprising, for even a few of the high-ranking inspectors had utterly failed to grasp the significance of physical clues. Eatwell, one of the worst offenders in Trevor’s view, frowned at Phillips.

“You’re suggesting we leave the body as we found it, lying in a public street with a crowd mulling around? Perhaps you somehow managed not to notice it as you arrived, Doctor, but we have a mob on the front lawn that’s growing by the hour. The public is in a panic, and the sight of these bodies…let us just say it wasn’t exactly death by natural causes.”

You don’t calm a panic by moving the bodies, you fool, Trevor thought. You rope off the area and move the crowd.

“What I’m suggesting,” Phillips said calmly, “is that the best solution to public panic is bringing the killer to justice. And part of that task is to preserve every shred of evidence.”

“I agree,” Eatwell said, with such an audible sigh it was plain he did not. “Despite the difficulties, I assume you did learn some things?”

“Of course,” Phillips said, glancing down at his papers. “We feel safe in saying the same person committed both crimes. The killer is most likely left-handed, for the wounds on both victims were made in a left to right pattern.” He illustrated with a trembling diagonal slice of the air. “If not left-handed, then he’s as skillful with the left as he is with the right. Both women had their throats slashed from ear to ear, as the papers so gleefully reported, and in Chapman’s case the head was almost severed. These mutilations were deftly and skillfully performed on both victims.” The doctor looked up, his aged eyes sharp and piercing.

“It is impossible to overstate the significance of this last point. It suggests a killer with anatomical knowledge. Chapman had her kidneys and ovaries removed and apparently taken. The murder weapon was a knife about four to six inches in length and extremely sharp. As sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel.”

A tickle of excitement began in Trevor’s throat. “You’re saying the killer could be a physician?”

Inspector Eatwell slapped a palm to the table in protest. “I hardly feel a beast such as this could be a man of medicine, nor a gentleman of any sort, for that matter.”

“Educated at Cambridge!” scoffed a detective from the back of the room. The other men snickered.

Trevor scribbled in his journal: ”Doctor?”

“Were they raped?” The voice came from the back. Abrams.

“No,” Phillips said. “Whatever his game, that’s not it.” He looked directly at Trevor. “Earlier you said the killer had been in a frenzy, which I’ll admit is a logical assumption, but one the facts don’t support. Our killer is vicious, certainly, but methodical. The victims showed no signs of struggle and there was very little blood at the murder sites.”

Trevor looked up from his journal. “But there were mutilations, even organs removed…. Why no blood?”

“There’s very little bleeding after death, Detective. Once a heart stops beating, blood begins to gel in the veins and arteries of the body. Perhaps they were smothered or strangled first, or it’s possible that the first wound was so well-placed the victims were dead by the time they hit the ground. In the Chapman case especially, there was far less blood that one might expect, so quite possibly the killer drained blood from the body.”

“Drained blood from the body?” Rayley Abrams asked the question that everyone else in the room was thinking. “Wouldn’t that take a rather long time?”

“Anywhere from twenty minutes to an hour,” Phillips said. “Depending on his skill and experience level.”

The room sat in silence while the detectives digested this information.

“Could the two women have been killed someplace else and their bodies dumped at the site where they were found?” Trevor finally asked. “Draining blood would take a certain kind of equipment wouldn’t it? Something less portable than a knife?”

“I doubt even a madman would risk being seen dragging a dead body about the streets of London, Detective.” Inspector Eatwell interjected coolly, as again snickers arose from the back.

“Tubes and hypodermics are really all that’s required,” said Phillips. “A bottle or pan to catch the blood, of course. It’s more a matter of having the skill to tap the right vessels in the right places and the ability to find them quickly in the dark.”

“So we are speaking of a doctor,” Trevor said.

“It’s a strong possibility, but one I present reluctantly,” Phillips answered, his face suddenly looking old and tired. “It’s hard to accept that such barbaric crimes could have been committed by someone who has undertaken the Hippocratic Oath.”

“This line of thinking utterly circumvents the issue of motive,” said one of the detectives in the front row, his voice sharp with protest. “People kill for a reason.”

“Indeed,” said the man seated beside him. “Jealousy, greed, lust, revenge…something logical that one can understand. But who could possibly benefit from these deaths? There has to be some way, beyond the obvious similarity of their profession, that these women were connected.”

Not necessarily, Trevor thought. The strong have always preyed upon the weak, perhaps for no other reason than because they are weak. And there were few creatures in London more vulnerable than an aging East End prostitute.

“In this particular case,” Phillips said, “I’d say that method trumps motive. Why these women died isn’t as important as how.”

An uneasy buzz ran through the crowded room. Trevor printed “method over motive” in large letters in his notebook, then glanced back at Abrams, who was still leaning against the wall. For the briefest of moments, the eyes of the two men met.

“Motive is quite naturally the beginning of all criminal inquiry,” Eatwell said, ignoring the doctor and directing an adamant nod toward the detectives in the front row, like a professor congratulating a promising pupil. “It will narrow the list of suspects faster than rounding up every man in London who happens to have skill with a knife.”

“I only know this,” Phillips said, beginning to cram his notes back into his over-stuffed satchel. “Working at top speed it would have taken me forty-five minutes to drain a body and remove four organs. True, this fiend may not be a gentleman, but he does have knowledge of the surgery. Now, if there are no further questions, I’ll be excused, for I do have other cases to contend with.”

Eatwell watched him shuffle out with obvious relief and waited until the door was safely shut before he again addressed his detectives.

“Gentlemen, on the table before me, you will find the physical evidence gathered at the site of the Chapman murder,” Eatwell said. Trevor scribbled down the meager inventory as his fellow detectives rose and milled around the table.

-Three pennies

-Two farthings

-Two brass rings

-Portion of bloodstained envelope bearing the name SUSSEX REGIMENT and postmarked August 28

-One leather apron



“Not exactly the purse of a duchess, was it?” Rayley Abrams said softly. “Poor wretch. What do you make of this Sussex Regiment post?”

“A client, perhaps,” one of the men said. “Or a brother.”

“More likely a son, given her age,” said another.

“I can’t see what the letter would have to do with the death,” said a third. “Some bloke wrote her…lover, son, brother, what does it matter?”

“The significance is not that she happened to have a letter,” Abrams said. “But the fact that most of that letter is missing. I’ll see if any men with the last name Chapman are stationed with Sussex.”

“And what of this?” one of the men asked, lifting the leather apron gingerly from the pile. “It’s the kind they use in slaughterhouses to keep the blood from their clothes.”

“There are at least two slaughterhouses in Whitechapel,” said Abrams. “A butcher would have access to knives by the dozen.”

“And the skill to dissect a human body?” Trevor asked, arching an eyebrow.

“At least a butcher would know how to drain blood,” Abrams said.

“And would he be able to remove organs as skillfully as these were removed? Phillips as much as said it was too well done to point to an amateur.”

“Phillips has a love for drama,” one of the detectives said, leaning between Trevor and Abrams to idly flick a penny with his fingertip. “When you two have been with the Yard as long as the rest of us, you’ll see that he can’t resist throwing in some bizarre theory with each coroner’s report.” Most of the men were filing out by now and, after a pause, Abrams turned to join them, leaving Trevor to gaze thoughtfully at the items before him.

“Expecting to find his calling card, Welles?” Eatwell asked, as he was erasing the blackboard.

“It could very well be here, Sir, if we knew where to look.”

“Hmmm, nice to know murder is so simple for our first-rank detectives. I’m sure you and Abrams will have our killer off the streets before tomorrow teatime.”

Trevor stood hesitantly. He’d never known how to respond to Eatwell’s sarcasm. “We’ll try, Sir,” he finally said, backing out of the room.

“Better do more than try,” snapped Eatwell, and he beat his erasers until white dust flew across the table, slowly settling over the last worldly possessions of a woman named Anne Chapman.