City of Darkness

Chapter THIRTY

2:50 PM





Davy spent the rest of the day along the docks. Despite the ghastly images of the morning, his mind kept going back to the more mundane issue of the dates on which the murders had occurred. The first four – five if Trevor was correct about Martha Tabrum – had occurred in rapid succession. There had even been the sense of acceleration, of a killer becoming either bolder or more desperate, a man whose appetite for violence was growing with each subsequent crime. And then, over five weeks of silence. Had the Ripper spent that time lying in wait? Mocking them? Lulling them into a false sense of security so that this last killing would strike with the force of lightning on a sunny day?

Or….was the killer simply forced to wait five weeks?

Forced….perhaps because he was not in London?

Davy had gone from one dockmaster to another, trying to find a record of a ship that had been at sea for five weeks. Granted, this would not explain the arrival of the kidney in mid-October, and this was a troubling piece of the puzzle. But perhaps the killer could have packed up the kidney and arranged to have it delivered at a set date while he was at sea, and that would have been clever, would it not?

Or perhaps…..Jack had been on a shorter run, two weeks or so. He had returned to London, sent the kidney and sailed again. Davy wished he had someone to discuss it all with but Trevor, Phillips, and Abrams had returned to Scotland Yard and Trevor’s outburst at the crime scene had frightened Davy more than the severed breasts and strands of intestines. What would happen to the investigation if its chief coordinator became too rattled to do his duties, with Abrams bound for Paris and Phillips so feeble it had taken both of his assistants to lift him into his coach? Davy decided he must shoulder more of the responsibility before Trevor lost his mind completely.

Davy turned from the waterfront and began making his way back toward Whitechapel. The streets were quiet and deserted – not surprising, perhaps, in light of the fact the afternoon papers were full of news of the Kelly killing. He had walked several blocks before it occurred to him that he had passed not a single woman on his route. It was as if they had all faded from sight, as if London had become a town with nothing but wordless, hurrying men.

Davy stopped for a beer and spread the papers across the bar to study as he drank. Nine vessels had been at sea for the dates that supported his theory, but the problem wasn’t identifying the ships, it was obtaining a record of the men who had been aboard. The vessels running in and out of the East End docks were primarily fishing boats and cargo ships, angling for a quick profit and with their captains none too choosy about who came aboard. Some of them claimed to have set crews but sailors were an unpredictable lot, prone to drunkenness and whoring on their shore leaves. If a captain found himself with a light crew, as was not uncommon, he might stroll the dock area, hiring extra hands at random. The official list of who was aboard any certain ship on any set day was undoubtedly riddled with inaccuracies. Still, it was a place to start.

“Shall I set you up again?” asked the barkeeper from halfway down the long counter.

“No thank you,” answered Davy. “I best be back to work.”

The streets were dark for mid-afternoon and the rain had given way to heavy mist. Davy pulled up his collar and decided to return to Mary Kelly’s house to see if they might have overlooked some small detail. Unlikely, for Abrams and Trevor had gone over the hovel literally on hands and knees, but he had to do something to pass the afternoon, for he dreaded the moment he must return to Scotland Yard.

He took several shortcuts through the East End alleys and soon found himself facing Mary Kelly’s front door. Davy stared at the outside for a few moments and decided not to enter just yet but rather to investigate the alleyways in the area.

He selected one at random. Although the bobbies had combed the trash that morning, Davy still looked behind the barrels and crates for anything that seemed out of place. He had searched one side for about a hundred yards and was just about to round the corner to the right when he stopped suddenly and threw himself against the wall. Before him was a slender, dark man peering into Mary Kelly’s front window.

The man did not knock on the door, but rather stood staring through the glass, his black cape thrown about him and a felt hat obscuring his face. Could the Ripper have returned to admire his handiwork? Such a stratagem would be bold indeed, but Trevor had repeatedly warned him that the Ripper worked by unusual methods, and applying normal principles or reason to him would be fruitless. The man stepped back and looked at the numbers on the front of the building, as if to assure himself he was at the correct address.

Then the man looked up and down the street and started off into the mist. Davy gave him a minute to get underway and then turned out of the alley, nearly colliding with a tall figure buttoned near to bursting into a tweed jacket. “Scuse,” he muttered, his chest brushing against that of the stranger and he looked up to find his eyes locked with those of Mad Maudy.

“Scuse me, ma’am,” he said, diverting his face from the blast of stale breath that emitted from her scowl, but she appeared to not remember him, to scarcely register his presence. She too was watching Mary Kelly’s door. Should he stay, observe her reasons for coming to this address, or follow the stranger? Davy hastily decided in favor of the latter and left Maude in the muddy street, her gaze fixated on the scene of the crime.

Davy tried to keep as close to the man as possible without making him aware he was being followed, but the stranger moved swiftly, turning on every corner, and Davy almost lost him twice. He tailed him for nearly a half-hour, out of the East End, across several wide parks which made unobtrusive following especially difficult, and finally to the middle-class neighborhood of Brixton. The stranger crossed the street and walked along a row of identical brownstones, eventually turning at one to climb the steps and disappear through the door.

Davy sought shelter beneath a tree and waited for about ten minutes, wondering when or if the man would leave again. Eventually a rickety Hansom cab halted across the street and the driver leaned over to let out his fare. Davy watched the rider mount the steps to his home before approaching the driver.

“Need a ride, Sir?” asked the driver.

“No,” answered Davy. “But could you kindly tell me who occupies the house across the street?”

“That be the home of Doctor John Harrowman.”

“Ah,” said Davy, spreading his palms. “Then I am quite lost. Thank you for your help.” He stepped back quickly so he would not be splashed as the cab pulled off and returned to the tree which offered inadequate refuge from the returning rain. Perhaps better to go back to the Yard and tell Trevor and Abrams what he’d found.

But just as forty minutes had passed, Davy heard a door shut and saw the dark figure descending the stairs from the Harrowman house. Davy’s heart warmed with excitement, then nearly lurched as the doctor abruptly turned and started in his own direction. Instead of passing him, however, the man hailed a cab, gave some directions to the driver and rolled off, leaving Davy alone in the street.

Frantically, Davy looked about to see if another cab was available, but the street was empty. So he ran behind the doctor’s Hansom and grabbed hold of the leather belt used to tie down luggage. Giving it a yank, he was able to climb onto the small lip where excess bags were stored. The driver looked back in indignation but Davy tossed him a coin, which seemed to sate the man, who clearly had no objection to gaining two fares for one trip.

The rain worsened. Davy held tightly to the leather strap, drawing his boots beneath him as the cab gained speed and weaved its way through the streets. He cursed as the dirty water splashed up on his already soaked clothing and pulled his cap over his face as best he could without losing his grip. Finally the driver began to slow, so Davy jumped from his perch and stumbled until he could shorten his stride.

He stopped to gather his breath and watched the cab come to a halt in front of a handsome house in Mayfair. John Harrowman paid his fare, ran up the steps, and rang the front bell, disappearing from view almost immediately. Davy did not have to ask who lived in this particular house, for Trevor had taken him by Geraldine Bainbridge’s home before. Wet and exhausted, already beginning to cough, he turned and began the long walk back to Scotland Yard.