Murder as a Fine Art

9

The Separate System



A TRAIN CHUGGED PAST VAUXHALL GARDENS. Beyond the tracks, numerous boats navigated the Thames. Ryan watched the train’s black smoke merge with the fog forming above the river. His summoned-to-meet-Lord Palmerston clothes felt stiff and uncomfortable, especially his high collar and the straps that looped under his boots, keeping his trousers taut.

Those weren’t all that made him uncomfortable. He turned toward the many constables who led the twenty-four prostitutes from the gardens and put them into police wagons. The women were complaining again. But dealing with them was simple compared to the problem with De Quincey.

“I wish I could believe that laudanum hasn’t unhinged his mind,” Ryan told Becker as the Opium-Eater and his daughter emerged from the gardens. “Did any of what he said make sense to you about his two dead sisters and the Wordsworth child? My older sister died when I was ten. She fell into a river and drowned. I grieved for her, but I adjusted. I hardly think about her now.”

“Yesterday, when we crossed Waterloo Bridge to go to the telegraph office, I noticed that you looked uncomfortable,” Becker said.

“What does that have to do with De Quincey? Right now, I’m uncomfortable about a lot of things.”

“Perhaps crossing a river is one of them.”

“Surely you don’t mean because of what happened to my sister. Have you been drinking laudanum also? Last night you seemed to agree with De Quincey that we do things without understanding why. Heaven help me, while he talks, it all makes crazy sense, but a half hour later, it’s like the fog that’s coming in. Oh, my, here comes his daughter. I confess I find her attractive, but she’s as difficult as…”

“Inspector, what will happen to these women?” Emily asked.

“We’ll transport them back to Oxford Street.”

“And nothing else?”

“The gold coins they were paid might last as long as a month if they don’t spend the money on gin instead of food and lodging.”

“But isn’t there some way you can help them?”

“It’s a life they chose. The Metropolitan Police Department isn’t responsible for them.”

“A life that was forced upon them by poverty. You can’t possibly believe any woman would willingly be in their state. Are there surgeons to whom you can send them for their sores and bad teeth? Can you transport them to farms, where they can work in respectable conditions and regain their health?”

“Miss De Quincey, the police department isn’t a charitable association. We’re not equipped to do what you’re suggesting.”

“But if these women were given an alternative to the streets, there would be less crime and men would be less tempted to fall from virtue. Constable Becker, isn’t there any way you can help? Surely we can all come to a solution.”

We? Ryan thought, fascinated by how she always managed to involve others.

Becker answered, “Tonight, perhaps they’ll receive another gold coin from the man who paid them the first two. We’ll have plainclothes constables watch the alley where they’ll wait for the killer to return.”

De Quincey overheard and came over. “The one place in London the killer won’t be is that alley. He wants you to put men there so that other areas of the city won’t be protected. Did you question every customer who was in the gardens? Almost certainly he was here today, enjoying his game.”

“All the people here could account for themselves.”

“A skilled actor would be able to account for himself,” De Quincey pointed out.

“We’re continuing to investigate the possibility that the killer has a theatrical background,” Ryan said. “We might also have a name.”

“A name?” De Quincey raised his head.

“Before I arrived, I received new information that I didn’t have a chance to mention until now. The house where you’re staying is owned by a businessman who travels frequently on the Continent. He uses a rental agent who tries to keep the house occupied while he’s away.”

“My own inquiries determined that,” De Quincey said. “The owner’s name is Westfall. He sells fabric to clothing manufacturers across the Channel. But the rental agent wouldn’t tell me who paid for us to stay in his house.”

“Because the rental agent was given an additional fee not to disclose the name,” Ryan explained. “But as soon as he understood the gravity of the situation, he cooperated and revealed that the man who signed the rental papers is Edward Symons.”

De Quincey’s expression darkened. “No.”

“Do you recognize the name?”

“Is it spelled S-y-m-o-n-s?”

“Yes. Not the common spelling,” Ryan answered. “How did you know?”

“That’s not the name of the man who rented the house for us.”

“But—”

“Edward Symons is dead.”

Ryan and Becker looked at each other in surprise.

“Thirty years ago, Symons committed several murders in Hoddesdon in Middlesex,” De Quincey told them. “He was hanged.”

“Thirty years ago? But how do you—”

“Symons was a farm servant who developed a fondness for his employer’s wife. When he revealed his affections, she responded that the differences in their stations—his lack of education, means, and physical attractiveness—made his suggestion laughably unsuitable. The woman had two sisters living with her, and they joined in his humiliation. His employment was terminated, but although he departed from Middlesex, he did not forget their insults. He brooded night and day until he could no longer resist the impulse to return to the farm. The women had long since forgotten about him when he surprised them in the farmhouse. In a perfect epilepsy of fury, he swung his knife right and left until all three women lay dead and the kitchen floated in blood.”

Ryan noticed that Emily looked away.

“Are you all right, Miss De Quincey?”

“Yes. It seems that I too can be affected by Father’s manner of speaking. Please continue, Father.”

“Just before Symons was hanged, he told the prison chaplain about an odd sensation he experienced in the midst of his frenzy. He claimed there was someone else in the room, a dark figure on his right who kept pace with him during the murders.”

“Someone else?” Ryan asked.

“The chaplain believed that the dark figure was Satan, who urged Symons on. But Symons was so steeped in rage that he didn’t need any devil to encourage him.”

“Then who was the dark figure?”

“His shadow.”

“His shadow?” Ryan frowned. “I don’t understand. From sunlight coming through a window? From a lamp in the kitchen?”

“From Symons himself. In his frenzy, Symons imagined that the dark part of his personality emerged from him and mirrored all his actions.”

Ryan looked at Becker. “This is what I meant. He speaks like the fog coming in.”

“I wrote about Symons in one of my essays. The killer is taunting me again, comparing himself to Symons, threatening to do to me what Symons did to those women.”

“Mr. De Quincey, you provided new ways to look at these murders, and I thank you. But I’m afraid that I now have an unpleasant duty to perform.”

“Unpleasant?”

“Father, I didn’t have a chance to warn you,” Emily said quickly.

De Quincey looked more baffled. “Warn me about what?”

“When Inspector Ryan arrived here, his preposterous intention was to arrest you.”


WHILE RYAN DEBATED whether Lord Palmerston’s orders obligated him to put handcuffs on De Quincey (he decided not to), across the river a seemingly insignificant, elderly woman was on the verge of a dismaying discovery. Her name was Margaret. She slept in a corner of a bakehouse where she worked a few blocks from the notorious rookery of Seven Dials, so called because seven streets intersected in that slum. The bakehouse was filled with ovens to which the poor, who didn’t have access to a stove, took their main meal to be cooked after the day’s bread was removed. They gave Margaret pots filled with bits of raw meat and potatoes. They came back later to retrieve the baked food and carry it to whatever meager shelter they called home.

Margaret cooked her own modest meals in the ovens, and although the bakehouse could be stifling in summer, its heat was welcome in winter and even soothed her aching bones. Her main requirements were so sufficiently met that, except to use the privy in back, she seldom left the building. Thus she wouldn’t have known about Saturday night’s murders if they hadn’t been the main topic of conversation for everyone who visited the bakehouse on Monday. They brought their pots of food earlier than usual, indicating their need to make certain they returned to their hovels before the yellow fog again engulfed the city and the murderer perhaps repeated his terrible crimes.

“There was two sets of murders back then, you know,” a ragged woman said.

“What murders?” Margaret asked. Her left cheek showed a scar from a long-ago fire. To hide it, she had a habit of turning away from people to whom she spoke.

“Why, the Ratcliffe Highway murders, of course. Ain’t you heard? It’s all over the street.”

The mention of the Ratcliffe Highway murders so startled Margaret that she almost lost her grip on the pot the woman handed across the counter.

“No, I haven’t been out,” Margaret said quickly. “The Ratcliffe Highway murders happened ages ago. Why are people talking about them?”

“Because of the murders Saturday night,” another ragged woman said, handing Margaret a pot.

“What murders?”

“You really haven’t heard? Happened again near Ratcliffe Highway. A shop that sells to sailors. Socks and underdrawers, linen and such. The same as the last time, except there was more of ’em. Just after the shop closed, five people had their heads bashed and their throats slit.”

“No,” Margaret said.

“My grandpa remembers back then,” a third woman said. “He told me there was two sets of murders all those years ago. Twelve days later, more people had their heads bashed and their throats slit, this time in a tavern. My grandpa says everybody was so terrified nobody went onto the streets.”

The first woman complained, “The constable on the corner promises he’ll keep things safe, but what do peelers care for the likes of us? I’m not taking any chances. I’ll be back in an hour to get my pot and hurry home. Constable or not, anything can happen in the dark.”

“Margaret, your hands are shaking,” another woman said with concern.

“All this talk of murders. Whose hands wouldn’t be shaking?”

Margaret had an unusual number of customers for most of the day. But by late afternoon, the bakeshop was nearly empty, a few nervous people hurrying in with blankets to carry their steaming pots away. Except for her trembling hands, she managed to conceal how startled she was by news of the murders.

Her worst fear was coming true. It was happening again. Back then, there had been four murders in a linen shop, whereas this time there had been five. That there would be another set of murders, Margaret had no doubt, just as she was certain that the next set of murders would take place in a tavern, the same as the last time.

She was certain of something else. They would come sooner.

And be worse.

She slumped against a back corner of the bakeshop.

“Margaret, are you sick?” one of the other workers asked.

“I need to leave on an errand.”

“But you never leave. The fog will soon be here. Aren’t you afraid to go out?”

“This can’t wait.”

Margaret hurriedly put on her thin coat and emerged from the warm building onto the grim, cold street. Its usual bustle was absent.

“How do I get to Scotland Yard?” she asked the constable on the corner. Again, she turned her head so that the scar on the left side of her face didn’t show.

“The Yard’s a distance, ma’am.”

“I need to talk to whoever’s in charge of investigating Saturday night’s murders.”

“That would be Inspector Ryan. What do you know about those murders?”

“Not them. The others.”

“The others, ma’am?”

“The ones that happened forty-three years ago.”

“The recent ones are what concern us.”

“But I know the truth about the ones that happened back then, and Lord help me, I’m afraid I know who killed those people on Saturday night.”


YOU’RE MAKING A MISTAKE,” De Quincey insisted as the police wagon transported the four of them up Farringdon Road. Having returned to the north side of the Thames, they were only a mile east of the Russell Square neighborhood where the killer had arranged lodgings for De Quincey and his daughter. But the contrast in the areas was extreme. Farringdon Road was dismal, on the verge of poverty. Normally it would have been crowded with dustmen, street sweepers, and costermongers desperate to earn a living by selling fruit, vegetables, and fish from their carts, but with the fog spreading, everyone was hurrying home before an early dark threatened to bring new violence. The nervousness on the faces the wagon passed was obvious.

“I ask you not to do this,” De Quincey protested.

The wagon wheels clattered. High, stone walls loomed as the vehicle turned left onto Mount Pleasant Street. The gray of the approaching fog made the stone wall even more somber.

“Coldbath Fields Prison,” De Quincey said. “No.”

“I don’t have a choice,” Ryan told him. “I take Lord Palmerston more seriously than I do the prime minister. If I don’t arrest you, I’ll be dismissed from the force, and right now, the city needs every detective and constable it can muster to stop the killer from slaughtering more people.”

They reached an ugly, arched, barred entrance flanked by stern-looking guards. A group of men in civilian coats stood impatiently nearby. When the wagon stopped, the men rushed forward, ready with pencils and notepads.

“Is he the Opium-Eater?” one of them shouted.

“Why did you kill all those people?” another demanded.

“Newspaper reporters?” Emily exclaimed. “How did they know we were coming?”

Becker jumped down and spread his arms. “Stay back!”

“Did the opium make you do it?” a third reporter shouted.

The guards near the gate hurried to help Becker.

“Keep away!”

“Lord Palmerston must have spread the word,” Ryan told De Quincey in disgust. “He thinks that by arresting you, people won’t be afraid while we continue hunting for the killer.”

“But it’s good for people to be afraid,” De Quincey said. “If they’re suspicious, it might save their lives.”

“The only thing Palmerston cares about is his political reputation. If you don’t walk in there on your own…”

“No need to resort to the alternative.”

De Quincey stepped down from the wagon, shielding himself behind Becker.

“Did you kill the Marr family and the Williamsons forty-three years ago?” a reporter shouted.

Ryan looked at Emily and then at the commotion. “I hoped you could wait here while we went inside. But now…”

“Even if the reporters were absent, I wouldn’t have agreed to remain outside.”

Emily stepped down before Ryan could help, amazing him with her agility. No woman in a hooped dress could have ridden in the wagon, let alone climbed down easily, so difficult was it to keep a hooped dress from popping up and revealing undergarments.

“After you bashed in their heads, why did you slit their throats?” a reporter yelled.

“Why did you slaughter the baby?”

As Becker struggled to make a path through the reporters, more guards ran from the barred entrance.

“Don’t force us to get nasty!” Becker told the reporters. “Clear the way!”

Doing his best to shield De Quincey and Emily, Ryan guided them past the guards and through the entrance.

Instantly the air became darker and colder.


COLDBATH FIELDS PRISON derived its name from a field in which a spring had once provided the opportunity for bathing on the outskirts of London. But then the metropolis had spread to the north and overtaken the field. The wet ground upon which the prison had been built made the walls feel permanently, achingly damp.

As soon as Becker joined Ryan, De Quincey, and Emily, the barred entrance clanged shut. They stood in a courtyard, the cobblestones of which were dirty and worn. A puzzling rumble vibrated from the center of the complex. On the left was a bleak structure with the sign GOVERNOR’S QUARTERS. On the right, an equally bleak structure had the sign GATEKEEPER’S QUARTERS.

From the former, an overweight man in a tight suit emerged, wiping his mouth with a food-stained cloth napkin. His cheeks were florid.

“Inspector Ryan,” he said in hurried greeting, “Lord Palmerston sent word that you’d be arriving, but I had no idea when. I was just catching a bite. Sorry to keep you waiting. This is the prisoner, I take it.”

“His name is Thomas De Quincey.”

Prison administrators were known as governors. This one was not only taller than De Quincey but three times his girth, making De Quincey seem even smaller. The governor spoke as if De Quincey weren’t present. “The Opium-Eater. Well, when he sees what I have in store for him, he’ll wish he’d kept his mallet and his razor in his pocket.”

“Perhaps there’s been a misunderstanding,” Ryan said. “Mr. De Quincey is here for protective custody.”

“Mister? We don’t call prisoners ‘mister.’ The note Lord Palmerston sent implied that this man is a principal suspect.”

“The newspaper reporters are supposed to think so, yes, but in reality Mr. De Quincey is a consultant whose safety we want to guarantee.”

“This is very irregular.” The governor pivoted toward Emily. “And the presence of this young lady makes the situation even more so. Miss, I’m afraid you’ll need to be escorted outside. This is no place for—”

Becker interrupted. “May I present Miss Emily De Quincey, our consultant’s daughter?”

“You may, but she still needs to be escorted outside.”

“Not with those reporters making trouble out there,” Becker said.

“And who might you be?”

“Constable Becker.”

“Why aren’t you in uniform?”

Before Becker could reply, Emily extended her hand, saying, “Governor, I’m delighted to meet you.”

“Really?” Suspicious, the governor nonetheless appeared captivated by Emily’s bright, brown hair and lively blue eyes as he took the hand she offered.

“You’d do me a great service if you’d explain your responsibilities,” Emily continued. “They must be immense. What are your theories about prison reform? I imagine they’re extremely interesting.”

“Prison reform? Theories?”

“I’ve read Jeremy Bentham. The greatest good for the greatest number and so forth, but I’m sure that your own theories must be equally enlightening.”

“Jeremy Bentham?”

The group stood on a pathway that led to stark buildings from which the low rumble continued to vibrate. As fog gathered overhead, particles of soot drifted down.

“Jeremy Bentham?” the governor repeated, baffled. He wiped the falling soot from his sleeve. “Perhaps we should step inside.”

They entered a clammy structure from which corridors radiated like spokes in a wheel. There were five corridors, for each of which a barred, metal door provided a barrier to the rows of cells. The design allowed an observer to stand in the hub and see any activity in any of the corridors merely by turning to the right or left. Although aboveground, the place felt like a cellar.

In addition to the persistent rumbling vibration, there was now a low clank-clank sound from the cells along the five corridors.

A sharp-nosed guard stepped from a room on the right in which truncheons and manacles hung from pegs. Rare among prison guards, he had a mustache, perhaps a sign that he felt entitled to his own rules.

“Which one’s the lodger? I met Ryan before. It’s obviously not the lady. So it’s either of these two gents, but I’m guessing it’s you,” he said to Becker.

“Actually I’m a constable.”

“But not in uniform?”

“A detective in training.”

“Cushy. So it’s the little man here.”

“The Opium-Eater,” the governor said.

“I love locking up the famous. Brings ’em down to our level. I’ll take your suspenders and neckerchief for starters, gent. Wouldn’t want you to hang yourself. Wouldn’t want you bringing in knives or other unfriendly objects either.”

“The only knife I use is for cutting book pages,” De Quincey said as the jailer felt along his clothes.

“And here it is,” the jailer said, removing the folded knife from De Quincey’s coat. “Ridiculous little thing. Here, what’s this?”

“My medicine.” De Quincey removed his flask from his coat, finished the last few swallows, and gave it to Emily.

“Medicine.” The jailer chuckled. “That’s a good one.”

“Please refill it, Emily.”

“But don’t be in a hurry to bring it back,” the jailer advised. “He won’t be drinking it here.”

The clank-clank sounds continued from the radiating corridors of cells.

“Jeremy Bentham,” Emily said to the governor.

“Yes, you mentioned Mr. Bentham.” The governor wrinkled his brow in concentration. “I can’t seem to…”

“The greatest good for the greatest number. Prisoners who are well nourished, made healthy, and taught a trade can become assets to society when they’re released.”

“We don’t see many assets here,” the jailer said before the governor could respond.

“The theory is that correction is more productive than punishment,” Emily told them.

“As for that,” the jailer replied, again speaking for the governor, “punishment makes them correct their ways, I guarantee it.”

“There are cockroaches on the floor.”

“Indeed. If they weren’t already in residence, we would need to import them to make things even more disagreeable for the prisoners.”

“I saw a rat scurry down a hallway.”

“If you stay here long enough, you’ll see many more,” the governor interrupted, trying to regain control of the conversation, “which isn’t likely to happen because it’s time for you to be escorted to—”

“Through the bars to the corridor straight ahead, I saw a man with a hood,” Emily said. “In fact, several men with hoods. Guards were pulling them on a rope.”

“Your Jeremy Bentham might call it guiding them rather than pulling them,” the governor said, appearing pleased for attempting a joke. “We practice the separate system here.”

“Good. You promised to explain your theories. I’m eager to hear them.”

“The purpose of a prison is to isolate the offender and force him to meditate on his transgressions.”

“Isolate?” Emily asked.

“Each cell has a size that is adequate for only one prisoner. He eats alone. When he is taken out for exercise or work, he wears a hood that allows him to see only toward his feet.”

“What sort of exercise?”

“He and other prisoners walk outside each day for a half hour in a walled yard.”

“I’m such a dunce that I’m sure I’m missing something,” Emily said. “If the prisoners can see only their feet while they wear the hood, how do they stop from bumping into one another?”

“They clutch a rope that has knots tied twenty-four inches apart. A guard supervises them while the line of prisoners walks in a circle.”

“And while they walk, they never see the other prisoners nor, I assume, can speak with them.”

“That’s correct,” the governor said. “The same applies when they are removed from or returned to their cells. The hoods allow us to use fewer guards than we might otherwise be forced to.”

“May the prisoners speak with the guards at least?”

“Good heavens, no.”

“But if the prisoner can never speak to another person, wouldn’t this lead to severe mental stress?”

“Some prisoners do go insane or commit suicide,” the governor admitted. “The point is that we wish them to occupy their minds with thoughts about the crimes that brought them here. As for their souls, each prisoner is provided with a Bible.”

“You say they are removed from their cells in order to work.” Emily made the statement sound like a question.

“In the treadwheel house,” the governor acknowledged.

“That sounds fascinating.” Emily’s tone invited him to explain.

“The prison has a laundry, a carpenter shop, a flour mill, a kitchen, and various other units that make us nearly self-sufficient. All the machines are linked to and turned by a large treadwheel, fifty feet wide, with grooves in it onto which prisoners step, as if they are walking up stairs. But of course, the wheel keeps turning, so the prisoners never actually rise.”

“Is that the source of the vibration I’ve been hearing?”

“Indeed.”

“The noise is wearing on the nerves.”

“The prisoners learn to dislike it, yes. The guards in the treadwheel room put cotton balls in their ears. If the prisoners are unruly, the guards tighten the screws on the wheel, making it more difficult to turn. That is why the guards are sometimes referred to as ‘screws.’ ”

“I have heard the expression. Thank you for explaining it. How many prisoners are on the wheel?”

“As many as necessary to keep the wheel turning so that the various smaller machines linked to it in the bakery, the laundry, and so forth keep turning as well.”

“And how long is each prisoner required to keep stepping on the treadwheel?”

“Eight thousand steps,” the jailer said before the governor could.

Until that moment, Emily’s questions had been rapid, but now she seemed unable to say anything further.

“They climb eight thousand feet each day?” she finally managed to ask.

“Yes.”

“Day after day?”

“It’s like Sisyphus rolling his rock,” De Quincey said, the first time in a while. His tone suggested emotion held rigidly under control as he peered along the corridor.

“I don’t know anything about Mr. Sisyphus any more than I do about Mr. Bentham,” the governor said. “But I do know how to make prisoners regret their crimes.”

“It’s time to show Mr. Opium-Eater his quarters.” The jailer pulled a ring of large keys from his belt.

“May I remind you that Mr. De Quincey is not here as a convicted criminal or even as a suspect,” Ryan said. “He is a police consultant about whose safety we have reason to be concerned. Please treat him accordingly.”

“All I know is, Lord Palmerston wants him locked away, and the home secretary gets what he wants. If there’s anything in the country he doesn’t control, I’d like to know what it is.” The governor motioned for the jailer to open the barred door in the middle corridor. “Stay here, miss.”

“I intend to see where my father will spend the night.”

“And probably a lot more nights after that,” the governor said. “If you’re determined to view what a lady’s eyes were never meant to, very well, come along. We’re understaffed, and I don’t have anyone to watch you.”

Their footsteps echoed as they proceeded along a dank corridor. The cell doors were made of rusted metal, with a peephole and a slot through which objects could be passed. The clank-clank sound kept emanating from each of them.

“What causes that dreadful noise?” Emily asked.

The corridor was filled with it.

“It’s easier to show you than to explain it,” the jailer said.

When he pulled a door open, a clammy smell drifted out.

Emily and De Quincey entered warily, finding there was space barely for the two of them.

The cell was seven feet wide, nine feet high, and thirteen feet long. A tall man, such as Becker, could have raised his arms to touch the ceiling and spread them to touch the walls. For him, pacing the cell would have been impossible. For a short man, such as De Quincey, the room was only slightly less confining.

The cell had shadows, its light provided by a small, barred, grimy window high in a wall. With the fog thickening, afternoon seemed like evening.

The window was at one of the narrow ends, the cell’s other narrow end occupied by the door. Beneath the window, a hammock was folded and attached to a ring on the wall. A blanket and a thin mattress hung inside it.

De Quincey stared at the ceiling. “No pipes.”

“Of course there aren’t any pipes,” the jailer said from the corridor. “Why would there be pipes?”

“In eighteen eleven, there was a pipe across the ceiling. Perhaps in this very cell.”

“What are you talking about?” the jailer demanded. “Were you a guest here in eighteen eleven?”

“Only in my nightmares.”

“Well, you’ll have many more nightmares here.”

The only other objects in the small room were a pail for body wastes, an old chair, a table upon which sat a Bible, and…

“Why is there a wooden box attached to the wall?” Emily asked. “Why does it have a handle?”

In the corridor, the clank-clank sounds echoed from the other cells.

“This is more of the prisoners’ work,” the governor answered from outside.

“Work?” The cell was so narrow that Emily required only a short step to reach the box. “What sort of work is this?”

“Work for the privilege of eating,” the governor replied from the corridor, his voice echoing. “The box is half filled with sand. When the prisoner turns the handle, a cup inside scoops up some of the sand. When the cup reaches the top of the box, it releases the sand. When the cup reaches the bottom, it scoops up more sand.”

“And releases it and scoops up more sand as the handle is turned,” Emily said.

“Exactly.”

“Is there effort involved?”

“The crank is stiff. The sand is heavy.”

“But…”

“Continue, miss. I am happy to answer your questions.”

“I confess to being confused. What does the box accomplish?”

“The work occupies the prisoner’s time.”

“You call it work? But nothing is produced,” Emily said. “At least the treadwheel produces energy for the machines in the laundry and the kitchen.”

“The box produces an incentive to avoid crime when the prisoner is released.”

“Surely, if the prisoners were taught to make their own clothes, that would be more productive and equally time-consuming. In addition, they would be equipped with a trade by which to earn a living when they are released from their bondage.”

“Are these the sort of ideas that your Jeremy Bentham proposes? Teaching prisoners to make clothes? How strange.” The governor looked truly perplexed. “I wonder if these wretches can even be taught.”

“Are boxes like this the cause of the sounds in the corridor?” Emily asked.

“Indeed. In every cell.”

“You say they do this for the privilege of eating. How many times must each prisoner turn the handle each day?”

“Ten thousand times.”

Emily inhaled sharply, overwhelmed by the immensity of the number that the governor had told her.

“Do you have any other questions?”

Emily couldn’t voice them.

“In that case, I’ll bring Mr. Opium-Eater his prison clothes,” the jailer said from the doorway.

“No need,” Ryan told him. “Mr. De Quincey is here for protection. He is not a prisoner and can keep his clothes.”

“Perhaps Lord Palmerston has other ideas,” the governor decided. “I’ll make inquiries.”

“Also Mr. De Quincey will not be required to turn the handle on the box in order to receive food.”

“Again, Lord Palmerston might have other ideas. In any case, the Opium-Eater will find his menu limiting.” The governor still referred to De Quincey as if he weren’t present. “Tonight he’ll receive a boiled potato with some of the water in which it was boiled.”

“My father’s stomach problems prevent him from eating anything more complicated, unless it’s boiled rice or bread soaked in warm milk,” Emily said.

“And if beef is served, it must be thinly sliced diagonally rather than longitudinally,” De Quincey added.

“Longitudinally? What in blazes is he talking about?” the jailer demanded.

“You’ll become accustomed to his method of speaking,” Becker assured him.

“No, you won’t,” Ryan said.

“This is wrong.” De Quincey turned toward Ryan. “Were you able to determine how the killer obtained the mallet that was used in the original murders?”

“It was in what we call our evidence room as an object of historical interest.”

“And yet the killer was able to get his hands on it. If he can do that, what other places does he have access to? We know the killer follows me. I’m not safe here.”

“Tonight, with you in custody, this is the safest place in London,” the governor vowed.

“No,” De Quincey objected. “John Williams, the man accused of the original Ratcliffe Highway murders, died in this prison. Perhaps in this very cell. Supposedly he committed suicide, hanging himself from a bar in the ceiling. But there are theories that he had an accomplice who arranged for him to be murdered, lest Williams attempt to bargain for his life by identifying the accomplice.”

“You’re suggesting that the killer might try to do the same to you here tonight?” the jailer asked, as if he considered the idea preposterous.

“The killer is obsessed with the murders forty-three years ago. And obsessed with me. Inspector Ryan, don’t leave me here.”

“Lord Palmerston himself gave the order,” Ryan pointed out. “There’s no alternative.”

“I beg you. Prisons are designed to keep people inside, not the other way around. It might be a lot easier to break into this place than to break out of it.”

“Well, for certain, you’re not breaking out,” the jailer said.

Emily took charge. “Father, I’ll do my best to make this place comfortable for you.”

She needed only two steps to reach the narrow back wall, where she removed the blanket and thin mattress from the folded hammock. Then she reached up to unhook the hammock and stretched it across the back wall, anchoring it on another hook. Finally, she put the mattress and the blanket on the hammock.

“Good night, Father.” She embraced him, holding him for a long time. She whispered something in his ear. Then she pulled back, her voice unsteady. “Rest as well as you can. I shall see you in the morning.”

“Maybe not,” the governor cautioned. “We’ll find out what Lord Palmerston has in mind. Maybe the Opium-Eater won’t be allowed visitors.”

“Miss De Quincey, I’ll escort you back to your lodgings,” Becker told her.

“I do not think so,” Emily responded.

“I’m sorry. If I did anything to offend…”

“The last place in the world I plan to go is the house where we’re staying. Has it slipped your mind that the killer rented it for Father and me?”

The implications had a solemn effect.

“If Father is in danger, so am I. The killer might decide to torment me as a way of tormenting Father. Inspector Ryan, are you prepared to post guards at the house? How many would be required? Is there any guarantee that the guards would be effective?”

Ryan didn’t have an answer.

“Very well,” Emily concluded, “since we know that the killer has been following Father and me and since the governor assures me that this prison is the safest place in London, I shall remain here.”


BEYOND COLDBATH FIELDS PRISON, the smoke from London’s half-million chimneys mingled with the yellow fog spreading from the Thames, obscuring the city. Ash drifted down. But even without the concealing presence of the fog, the artist of death would not have attracted suspicion. The few people he encountered—unavoidable business forcing them to muster their bravery and hurry along the otherwise deserted streets—gave him a look of gratitude. He nodded reassuringly in return.

He carried a ripping chisel concealed up the sleeve of his coat. Eighteen inches long, it had a sharp edge on one end and a hook on the other, it too possessing a sharp edge. The tool was favored by demolition workers, who swung the hook into walls and then yanked down, tearing out chunks of wood or plaster.

A ripping chisel had been employed in the second Ratcliffe Highway murders forty-three years earlier. Those murders had occurred in a tavern near the shop where the first murders had been committed twelve days previously. Three people had died in the second attack while there’d been four victims in the first, one of them an infant. Already the artist had improved on those events by slaughtering five people, two of them children. But while he intended to demonstrate his talents in a tavern tonight, just as the killer had done forty-three years earlier, this tavern would not be near the shop in which he had performed his skills on Saturday night. No, a great artist needed to expand his horizons, just as he needed to compress the time in which he showed his creations to his public. Twelve days between masterpieces was too long. A space of a mere two days would achieve a greater effect.

A man scurrying through the fog looked frightened when he almost bumped into the artist, but then the man’s tense expression relaxed. Nodding with relief, the man hurried on while the artist walked with a confident, easy, assuring manner. Gas lamps provided only slight halos. Except for the clatter of a few distant carriages, the night was silent.

The artist passed a constable—he’d lost count of the number of policemen guarding the streets tonight—and made a gesture that all was well. As he reached his destination, he nodded to a frantic man hurrying by. The man carried a basket of something that must have been important, perhaps his family’s evening meal. Did the fool believe that the evening meal was worth his life?

The artist saw yet another constable, this one standing beneath a nearby gas lamp. Again, an all-is-well signal was exchanged.

When the artist stepped into the tavern, the occupants jerked their heads up, startled. At the sight of him, however, all except one man relaxed and returned to their conversations or their beer mugs or their pipes.

There were eight occupants in the smoke-filled room. The tavernkeeper, wearing a white apron looped around his neck, stood behind a counter on the right. Two men sat on stools at the counter. In back, a barmaid—also wearing a white apron—brought a plate of bread and cheese to three men sitting at a table near the fireplace. At a table in front, a weary-looking constable jumped to his feet, the only man who wasn’t assured by the artist’s arrival.

“Sorry, Sergeant,” he blurted. “I’ve been outside so long and it’s so cold out there, I couldn’t—”

“Not to worry, Constable. I understand. The truth is my feet are frozen, and I came in here for the same reason you did. What are you having? Tea? Perhaps I’ll join you.”

The tavernkeeper grinned. “Better yet, Sergeant, I’ll pour you a pint. No charge.”

“No, thanks,” the artist replied. “Breaking one rule is bad enough. But drinking alcohol on duty—I don’t think so.”

“You’re on duty sure enough. Keeping us safe. We thank you for it. Hot tea on the house.”

“You’re very kind.”

The constable’s helmet was on the table. It contained a metal liner that strengthened it sufficiently for the constable to be able to stand on it and peer over fences. It was also strong enough to withstand a heavy blow to the head from someone sneaking up behind him. But not when it was on the table.

As the artist walked past the constable, he dropped the ripping chisel from inside his sleeve and swung it, using the blunt part of the hook to crush the constable’s skull. Without stopping, he pivoted and swung three more times, right, left, right, shattering the heads of the three men about to eat their sandwiches. The barmaid gaped. The curve of the hook whacked across the side of her head and drove her unconscious onto the floor.

“Hey!” the tavernkeeper managed to say.

By then, the two men at the counter had blood erupting from their skulls as the iron bar found its targets. The tavernkeeper never had a chance to say another word before the artist swung powerfully.

In a rush, the artist turned the iron bar so that the sharp end of the hook was now available. He toppled the constable off the bench, placed a foot on the constable’s chest, and brought the hook to his throat.

The artist did the same to the men who’d been about to eat their sandwiches. To the barmaid. To the men lying near the counter. To the tavernkeeper.

But the masterwork was not yet complete. After leaving the ripping chisel on the counter, the artist propped the victims over tables or the counter so that, except for the blood, they gave the appearance of having drunk too much and fallen asleep.

His uniform was spattered with blood, but he needed more. He scooped two handfuls from a pool on the floor and smeared it over his face and his neck, obscuring his features.

He opened the back door.

Then he hurried to the front door, took several deep breaths to make it appear he was winded after a struggle, and staggered outside, moaning to the constable under the gas lamp, “Murder!”

“Sergeant!” The constable rushed toward him.

“Help!”

The artist fell to the cobblestones.

Overwhelmed, the constable pulled his clacker from his equipment belt and frantically swung its handle. Its racket couldn’t fail to be heard for a considerable distance, attracting every patrolman in the area.

“Inside,” the artist moaned. “They’re all dead.”

The narrow, fogbound street erupted into chaos, neighbors racing toward the tavern and the clacker’s din, their voices rising in fear.

“What’s happened?”

“My God, look through the door!”

“Butchered!”

“It can’t be! I saw Peter only an hour ago!”

“Martha’s dead also? No!”

Constables charged along the street, their murky forms like ghosts in the fog.

“What’s happened?”

“Murdered? Who?”

“Everybody, keep away from the door! You can’t go in there!”

“Do what he says! Keep away!”

“Sergeant.” The constable who’d sounded the alarm knelt beside the artist, who lay on the cobblestones, moaning, his face and uniform covered with blood. “I sent for a wagon. We’ll get you to a surgeon.”

“Too late.”

“We’ll do everything we can. The man who did this—did you see him?”

“Dressed like a sailor.”

“Did he have a yellowish beard?”

“No beard. He looked like any other sailor.”

“Did you see where he went?”

“Out the back door. Your face is a blur.”

“Here’s the wagon. We’ll get you to a surgeon. You two! Help me put the sergeant into the wagon! The rest of you, the killer escaped out the back! Look for a sailor!”

With his eyes closed, the artist felt arms lift him and settle him into the wagon. Amid the shouting in the street, the wagon bumped forward.

“Easy!” the constable warned.

“You can get him to the surgeon quick, or you can take your time and get him there dead!” the driver shouted back.

The constable made sounds as if climbing aboard. “Well, we don’t want him dead from the damned ride either!”

Two other constables climbed aboard.

“Look out for sailors!” someone in the crowd yelled. “A blasted sailor did this!”

Sailors won’t be difficult to find, the artist thought. The docks are only a quarter mile away.

The wagon bumped over more cobblestones.

“He stopped moaning,” the constable said. “I think we’re losing him! Hurry!”

The clatter of hooves increased, as did the violent motion of the wagon. The angry roar of the crowd receded into the fog.

“The surgeon’s house should be just up ahead,” the driver insisted. “In the fog, I can’t quite… There!”

Someone pounded on the surgeon’s door while hands lifted the artist from the wagon and carried him toward lamplight that he saw through squinted eyes.

“Inside!” a man ordered.

Hands carried him through a doorway, then another doorway, setting him on a table.

“There’s so much blood,” the surgeon exclaimed, “I don’t know where he’s been wounded.”

Through squinted eyes, the artist saw that the surgeon wore nightclothes.

“Is he dead?”

“No, I feel him breathing. I need room to work. You two go outside. You, help my wife bring hot water.”

Footsteps hurried in various directions.

Hands unbuttoned the artist’s coat.

“Can you hear me, Sergeant?”

The artist moaned.

“I’ll do everything possible to save you.”

The artist allowed his eyelids to flicker open. A spectacled, gray-haired man in his fifties leaned over him.

The artist glanced around the room. It was empty.

Resolve and skill meant everything. The artist slipped a dagger between the surgeon’s ribs, piercing the man’s heart. He slid from under the collapsing surgeon and positioned the corpse on the table. At once he heard footsteps in the hallway and stepped to the side of the door.

A constable rushed past him, carrying a bowl of steaming water. A gray-haired, middle-aged woman hurried after him. Since her hands were free and a possible, though unlikely threat, she died first, with a dagger to her right kidney.

Hearing her moan and fall, the constable turned, holding the steaming bowl of water. The artist slashed his throat, incapacitating his voice box so that he couldn’t cry out. As the constable slumped, the artist grabbed the bowl so that it wouldn’t fall and shatter, attracting the two policemen who’d been sent outside.

Unfortunately, blood had gushed into the water, making it useless. But presumably there would be more in the kitchen. After setting the bowl on the floor, the artist hurried toward the back of the house. No one was in the kitchen. More water was in a pot that dangled over the hearth.

He washed blood from his hands and face. He took off the crimson-streaked sergeant’s uniform. Under it, he wore the ragged clothes of a beggar. The double layers had not been conspicuous because the cold forced many people to wear extra garments. From filthy pants, he removed a filthy hat and tugged it over his head, concealing his features.

At the front of the house, a door opened, one of the policemen calling in, “How is he? Will he live?”

The artist opened the back door and stepped outside, disappearing into the fog. From nearby streets, the shouts of hunters and the screams of quarry reverberated through the night. The artist’s masterpiece was already in progress, sounding as if it would be even more splendid than he hoped.


THE GERMAN SAILOR had a workable knowledge of English. That morning, he’d arrived after a six-month voyage from the Orient, the British East India Company’s vessel laden with tea, spices, and opium. After he’d found a rooming house, he paid for a servant to carry a tub and pails of hot water to his room. Sitting with his knees drawn to his chest in the small container, he’d luxuriated in the cleansing heat of the water. Decent food came next, anything that didn’t have fish in it. Tomorrow, he would use his voyage money to buy fresh clothes, but for now, he had greater needs. A woman serviced him at the end of an alley, no language necessary—all he needed to do was extend two shillings.

Then a tavern. By all means, a tavern. The German sailor hated English beer, but he hated gin even worse, and English beer was better than nothing. His pent-up need for alcohol couldn’t be satisfied, no matter how many mugs he drank and how many times he visited the privy behind the tavern. A woman at the bar gave him a look that suggested she also might be in the market for two shillings, but then a man perhaps offered her three shillings because she went upstairs with him. Finally the sailor felt bloated and tired enough to return to the rooming house, provided he could remember which direction to take.

The cold, yellow fog surrounded him as he stumbled along narrow streets. In the tavern, his limited English had made him understand parts of conversations, most of them about killings that had occurred two nights earlier, but he didn’t understand the details, and he was too tired to care, although it did strike him as odd that the mood in the tavern had not been as energetic as he had expected.

Putting a hand to a soot-covered wall to steady himself, he heard a terrible noise in the distance and was slow to identify it as a London policeman’s clacker. Immediately he heard other clackers as well as shouting, a panicked commotion at the end of the street. The din was enormous.

“Murder!” someone yelled.

Someone else shouted something about “Sailors!”

The shouts merged with boots rushing along the street, some of them coming in the sailor’s direction. Dim streetlamps showed the fog swirling as figures charged through it.

The sailor ducked into an alley. The crowd roared into view. Hiding in shadows, he watched the murky shapes run past. They continued to shout something about sailors.

Trembling, he again felt pressure in his swelling bladder. He held it, waiting for the mob to pass. Some had knives. Others had swords. One carried a rifle.

The pain in his bladder intensified. Shifting deeper into the alley, he waited until he couldn’t see the lamp or the street. Urgently he unbuttoned his pants and released a trickle against a wall. Despite the night’s chill, sweat beaded his face as his bladder insisted on being emptied more swiftly.

“What do I hear?” someone asked from the street.

The German sailor’s English was good enough for him to understand. Instantly he stopped.

“I don’t hear anything,” someone said from the darkness at the end of the alley.

“Down there. Sounded like somebody taking a piss.”

“I still don’t hear anything. Without a light and a lot more people, I ain’t going in there anyhow. Even if you’re right, it could be anybody. Could be one of us.”

“I probably imagined it. We’d better catch up to the others. You’re right—it ain’t safe being out here alone.”

Footsteps hurried down the street toward the sound of the mob.

In the darkness, the German sailor trembled and listened and waited and finally the pressure in his bladder was again too great to be denied. Once more, he released a stream against the wall.

At last, he buttoned his pants. Fear purged the effects of alcohol from his mind. He now remembered the location of his rooming house, but he needed to reach it without being seen. Perhaps if he removed his sailor’s coat, that would stop him from attracting attention. The night was bone-chilling, but since the rooming house was only a quarter mile away, he could probably reach there in just his shirtsleeves without becoming numb.

He eased toward the alley’s exit. As the fog-haloed lamp came into view, he dropped his sailor’s coat and stepped into the street.

“See, I told you somebody was in there,” a man said.

Threatening figures emerged from the fog. The sailor gasped.

“What’s that he dropped?”

“A sailor’s coat!”

“He wouldn’t have thrown it away if he was innocent!”

The sailor blurted to them in German that they were making a mistake.

“A foreigner!”

“He’s the murderer!”

The German ran.

The pain that entered his back felt like a punch. He looked down stupidly at a sword protruding from his stomach. As blood streamed down his pants, he tried to stagger forward and instead toppled.

“That’s what you get for killing Peter and Martha, you bastard!”