City of Darkness

Chapter THIRTY-FOUR

November 11, 1888

4:40 PM





Trevor watched the mortuary assistants lower the torso inside the regulation coffin. The girl’s clothing had all been burned so they had wrapped her in the same mummy-like white muslin the coroners used to bind wounds. One leg had never been found and the other had been reserved for research.

“Should we put in the face?” Trevor asked hopelessly, thinking of the neatly-trimmed oval of skin he had found on the bedside table.

“There’s nothing to be gained by keeping it,” Phillips said. “But since we’re bereft of a skull….”

“Perhaps this, Sir?” Severin said, holding up a wooden head and neck. “I knew she was going in the box today and I fetched it from a hatmaker.”

“Good thinking,” Phillips said, and they stepped back as the man laid the wooden head at the top of the torso and deftly draped the leathery skin of a woman’s face across it. Trevor bit his lip to hold back a bark of hysterical laughter. This was the point in the process where they normally photographed the dead, but in this case no one suggested they do so.

Everyone said that Mary Kelly had been beautiful. The newspapers had paid for a sketch artist to reproduce her features from the memories of friends. It was this image of a pretty, smiling girl that Trevor tried to focus on as Severin lowered the coffin lid for a final time. Presumably Geraldine, with her ample funds and even more ample tendency for guilt, would replace this pauper’s box with a handsome coffin and Trevor did not envy the unsuspecting Mayfair undertaker who would pull out the nails and open the lid to find what was waiting for him inside.

Of course he would have to talk to Emma eventually. It was wrong of him not to have gone to Kingsly Street already, but he hoped his work would serve, as it always had in the past, as a readily accepted excuse for social laxity. For he knew that Emma, when he did finally see her, would demand the same assurances that family members always sought in these circumstances – she would want to be told that her sister didn’t suffer and that Scotland Yard would catch the killer. Trevor could offer no comfort on either score. He had kept Mary’s books. After a suitable time he would bring them to Emma and hope that was enough.

This morning he arrived at his lab early, and went into the back storage area where the left leg of Mary Kelly was waiting, packed in ice. He had kept this part of the body specifically because of a long slash wound that ran diagonally above the ankle, as if the killer had considered peeling back the skin there or perhaps severing the foot. Either way, the wound was deep and clean, the first real sample Trevor possessed of the Ripper’s handiwork since he’d begun to read up on the French blade identification methods. He had melted wax over the little laboratory flame at one end of the table and now he pushed aside the sheet to take a closer look at the leg, to make sure it was free from any stray fibers or hairs.

“Detective Welles? Do you mind if I come in?”

Trevor automatically dropped the white cloth back over the leg, as if protecting its owner from public scandal, and looked up to see Thomas Bainbridge standing in the hall outside his office. “Tom,” he said with surprise, “I was just thinking I wanted to talk to you. Come in, have a seat, and please, call me Trevor.”

Tom plopped his lanky form into the nearest chair. “So this is Scotland Yard, eh?” he asked, glancing around the dim, small room. “I must say it’s exciting to be here.”

“Oh, the Ritz, to be sure. How are things at Geraldine’s?”

Tom made a pained face. “Emma is adrift on a sea of tranquilizers, while Leanna is hovering outside in the hall. Aunt Gerry is distressed she couldn’t have done something for Mary while she lived, although of course it would have been impossible for even Aunt Gerry to rescue a person she did not know existed.”

“It doesn’t appear the girl wanted to be rescued,” Trevor said. “Evidently she liked her way of life well enough.”

Tom indicated the cloth on the table. “Might I ask what you’re working on?”

Trevor hesitated for a second, but the boy was a medical student, after all. “Very well,” he said, and pulled back the sheet.

Tom stood slowly. “Is that what I think it is? Or rather, I suppose I should say, did it come from the body of – “

“I’m afraid so, and it’s precisely why I wanted to talk to you. I recently had a conversation with your sister and we discussed a new methodology the French have to identify weapons. The report says they’re using wax but I’m having no luck getting a clean imprint. Leanna seemed to remember your grandfather once make impressions from animal bites.”

Tom nodded. “He did, but it was plaster, not wax.”

“Leanna said he learned the technique from a taxidermist.”

“Really? I thought it was a dentist. Either way, he adapted it. I wish I could tell you how. She and I were children at the time….”

“Did he keep notes on his experiments?”

“Indeed, copious ones.” Tom looked at Trevor curiously. “Are you asking for my help?”

“Only unofficially. See this slash above the ankle. If we could find out what sort of weapon….”

“If I can help at all, I’m in,” Tom said with enthusiasm. So much, in fact, that he seemed to realize his reaction may have been a bit too eager under the circumstances, for he lowered his voice to the point of a whisper. “I’ll have our solicitor collect the journals from Rosemoral and send them here by courier. Grandfather was quite systematic in his studies, so if there’s anything helpful there at all, we shall have it by the end of the week.”

Trevor smiled at the young man. “Excellent, but that’s not the only reason I’m glad you’re in Mayfair. I hope the ladies can bring themselves to understand why I haven’t called to offer my condolences. During the last few days I’ve been forced to face things…”

“Don’t be absurd, Trevor,” Tom broke in. “No one expected you to leave your work at a time like this and Emma did rouse herself long enough to admire the flowers you sent. Yellow roses were Mary’s favorite, by chance, and Emma commented on it.”

“I noticed that her bedclothes had yellow roses when I was in her room,” Trevor said, trying not to think back too clearly upon that place. “How did you hear of the tragedy?”

“John Harrowman wired me on the very day the body was found. Leanna said he was a rock, a true rock, the only one who could get through to Emma at all.”

Trevor frowned. “John Harrowman wired for you?”

“Yes, he’s visiting at this very moment, which is why I stepped out for a bit.”

“Tom, I suppose there’s something else I must tell you. Coming to the lab during the day would be most helpful, but I’d prefer it if you stay close to home at night. We have coppers on surveillance, but there’s no substitute for a man inside the house. John Harrowman is a suspect.”

“You’re joking,” Tom said slowly.

“Do you think I would joke about this? He’s a skilled surgeon that frequents the East End, he knew at least some of the victims, he’s ambidextrous… ”

“Those facts could apply to other men!” Tom cried. Trevor raised his hand.

“Hear me out. Two days ago, the day of the killing, my assistant was watching the Kelly house. He spotted a well-dressed man poking about, a man who loosely fit the description two prostitutes gave us after the night of the double murders. Davy followed the man to an address that turned out to be Harrowman’s , then on to Geraldine’s.”

“I know why he was there, he told me himself,” Tom said, his voice rising in anger. “Mary Kelly was one of his patients. When he learned she was the one who had been killed he went to her home as a kind of tribute, to pay respects. That was before he knew she was Emma’s sister, of course. And certainly you can place him in close conjunction with the women of the East End, his profession explains that. I won’t hear any more against him.”

“I don’t blame you for being upset. I’ve had trouble accepting it myself.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed. “I know what this is about. The evening we were together playing charades you couldn’t keep your eyes off Leanna. I saw it, we all did. Teased her about it later. But it’s just as plain that she’s smitten for John, which is why you’ve concocted this ridiculous case against him.”

“I don’t hate John, no matter what you think…”

“Do you have real evidence? Enough to arrest him?”

Trevor sat back with a sigh. “No.”

“I didn’t think so. And you expect me to be the one to give it to you, by identifying that this wound was made from a surgical knife. As if he’s the only man in London who might possess such a thing.”

“You don’t have to like it, Tom. I don’t like it myself. I’ve got the best detective I know out on the streets right now working to determine John’s whereabouts during the five dates in question. And no doubt he will establish a perfect alibi and I will most humbly beg your pardon for this whole conversation. But in the meantime, humor me and stay close to the ladies.”

“I’ll stay close to them, you know I will. You don’t have to fabricate stories about John Harrowman to press me into my duty.”

Before Trevor could reply, the door swung open and Davy entered. “Sorry, Sir, didn’t know you had a guest.”

“This is Thomas Bainbridge, Davy, nephew to my friend Geraldine and a medical student at Cambridge. He has come to volunteer his services on the case. Tom, Davy Madley, my assistant.”

His face still flushed, Tom rose to shake Davy’s hand.

“What’s that?” Trevor asked, indicating a small white box Davy was carrying.

“Just came, Sir,” Davy replied, glancing meaningfully at Tom. “Another message from the Ripper and a pretty grisly one at that.”

“Let’s hear it,” Trevor said.

“Let’s see it, is a bit more like it, Sir,” Davy said, gingerly setting the box before Trevor.

Trevor unknotted the twine and pulled back a bit of paper to reveal, to his disgust, another human kidney, this one undoubtedly from Mary Kelly. “Oh Christ,” breathed Tom. Trevor reached below the paper for the crumpled note.



“’HERE’S A FINE KIDNEY. I ATE THE OTHER ONE. IT WAS DELICIOUS! –JACK’”



“Kidneys seem to be his favorite, right Sir?” asked Davy who was rapidly becoming immune to horror.

Tom gripped the top of Trevor’s desk, his face pale. “So you honestly think John Harrowman is capable of cannibalism?” he asked incredulously. “How can you believe for a second that you are not dealing with a total lunatic, a madman devoid of any human feeling?” Tom stepped back, his eyes never leaving Trevor’s face. “And yet you expect me to help build your case? That shall never happen! I admire him, Detective, just as I once admired you.” With this Tom spun and fairly ran from the room, his heavy boots clattering down the hallway. Trevor gazed after him pensively.

“You told him, Sir?” Davy asked with surprise. “Told him I followed Harrowman?”

“He’s in the house where Harrowman visits and in the perfect position to observe and report, so yes, I told him,” Trevor said grimly. “But evidently I misjudged his ability to handle the information.”

“And should I try to ascertain his whereabouts, Sir?” Davy spoke with grave formality, which was marred only by the fact he mispronounced “ascertain” by putting the emphasis on the second syllable. Otherwise, the statement sounded precisely like something Abrams would say. Trevor supposed it would make sense, that the boy would choose to imitate the man who seemed polished and unflappable rather than the one who swayed and cursed and roared, but on another level he felt a pang of remorse. He was not doing an especially good job of maintaining his professional dignity and his underlings seemed to realize that. Trevor glanced around. There was virtually no privacy in the lab and Severin had been cleaning up loudly during his argument with Tom, washing his tubes and trays with such uncharacteristic clatter that he were probably just struggling not to overhear the fight. Who could guess what the mortuary assistant truly thought of him and Tom’s words had stung too, that phrase “just as I once admired you.” Perhaps it wasn’t Trevor’s job to mentor the younger men in his life, but it was still sobering to be reminded he was failing so spectacularly in the role.

“Abrams is working on alibis for Harrowman,” he gently reminded Davy.

“Not Harrowman, Sir. Tom Bainbridge. He’s a medical student, didn’t you say?”

“Tom? But he’s –“ Trevor caught himself before he could make the same mistake twice, could claim that the fact he’d met a man socially eliminated him as a suspect. “He wasn’t in London for the murders,” he amended.

“Wasn’t staying at his aunt’s house, isn’t that what you mean, Sir?”

“Yes, I suppose it is.” Now the bobbies were schooling him. Davy was right. Not spending the night at Geraldine’s was hardly proof the Bainbridge boy hadn’t been in London. Trains ran between Paddington and Cambridge on the hour. “All right, ascertain his whereabouts” – Trevor took care to enunciate the word correctly – “and report back to me.”

The boy nodded and left, and Trevor signaled to Severin to come and fetch this latest kidney. He could scarcely feature Tom as a serious suspect, but neither could he picture John in that role, and his instincts, he must admit, were proving no more valuable than a confession from Hoppy Darby. Friendship wasn’t an alibi and neither was education nor breeding nor a Mayfair address. He had been struggling to teach these lessons to others and it was perhaps time he learned them himself. In the future there would be no feelings in this room, only facts.

Trevor sighed as he pulled back the cloth to once again reveal the lonely leg of Mary Kelly. Sometimes he hated being a modern man.