Anatomy of Evil Read online

  It was Death, you see, which had brought us out here in the middle of the night. The Age Old Mystery. Nothing makes us so alive as seeing that another has died while we yet live. After five or six millennia to deal with the matter, we still had come no closer to understanding or accepting it, that we too are mere mortals and sometime our own number will come, and after … what?

  “Are there many unfortunates along this street, so close to a school?” I asked.

  “They don’t ply their wares during daylight, if that’s what you mean.”

  “But they actually perform their business right here in the street?”

  “In the alleyways nearby, where it is dark as pitch,” Israel said, pointing toward a narrow court.

  “Without a bed, or walls, or privacy?”

  “This isn’t Claridge’s, Thomas. Privacy is expensive and a bed is what these women are attempting to make the money to afford. It’s fourpence for a bed in the tenements around here. Well, not a bed, per se. A blanket on a hard floor in a doss-house, more like.”

  “These women lead very pathetic lives,” I said.

  “Until they meet very pathetic ends. But most of them are drinkers, you see. If they didn’t need the drink to begin with, they’d have stayed with their husbands and been respectable. The need made them go out in the streets after midnight and ply their foul trade.”

  “What about their fancy men? What do you call them? Pimps?”

  “This type of woman wouldn’t have any. No pimp would waste his time on a woman past forty on her way out of this world. Too much trouble keeping them sober, you see. And it’s no use trying to extort them for money because this kind rarely has a penny. When they do, it’s right into the nearest establishment, like the Britannia, for a glass o’ gin, please. Their only purpose in life is to get drunk as swiftly as possible. Their only solace is oblivion.”

  “And there are hundreds of such women in Whitechapel?”

  Israel nodded. “Perhaps thousands. Odd women. That is, without a mate to care for them, on their own, forced to fend for themselves any way they can. Living in the city without a skill to fall back on. They haven’t the talent of a Bernhardt, or the beauty of a Langtry. When they finally struck the ground, it was a hard fall, I’m sure.”

  Suddenly, this didn’t seem as much a lark as I had hoped it would be. It was tragic. “So, have you ever…?”

  “No!” he said, shaking his head at the idea. “The Torah forbids it. And what if you catch a dose? Who wants to end one’s days in a madhouse because of a few moments’ pleasure? No, no, believe me, these women, worn out and unappealing, and half inebriated as they are, could only attract a certain sort of man. Someone who, like themselves, has fallen in life to a state of brutality. A man just holding on to his life, perhaps already a victim of vices and diseases that have softened his brain. A brute with a fierce temper, or as you said already, a lunatic.”

  “This district looks to me like a prime example of natural selection. The weak, the aged, the infirmed, all fall prey to the wolf culling the herd.”

  “You had better not let your Baptist employer hear you quoting Darwin.”

  “And you, I suppose, believe the best solution against the fate of such women is socialism.”

  “Of course!” he cried. “Decent housing and regular food. An occupation, leading to pride in work. A spirit of community here in Whitechapel, providing improvements such as regular street lamps. Did you know, Thomas, that there are streets in Whitechapel so dark and dangerous that even the police travel in pairs? In this, the most modern city in the world!”

  “It’s a pretty speech,” I said. “Unfortunately, our theoretical drab will throw over her decent housing and free food in order to step into a pitch-dark alleyway with a perfect stranger to make enough money to get herself roaring drunk. Until such time as there is a cure for John Barleycorn, all the speeches by the Worker’s Union won’t make a bit of difference.”

  “You’re a harsh critic, Thomas Llewelyn.”

  “Perhaps, but then I don’t see General Booth’s Salvation Army turning the East End into a Paradise with fountains and swans, either.”

  “There it is, just up ahead,” he said, opening the lantern again. He was out of breath, though only twenty-four. He spent much of the day seated in a chair and never took exercise, save when I dragged him out on an errand. “We are in Spitalfields now.”

  “I don’t know how you keep these districts straight,” I said.

  “You’re one to talk. Is your office in Whitehall, Charing Cross, or St. Martin-in-the-Fields?”

  “All of them, I think.”

  “Tut-tut. Rozzers. We’d better go this way.”

  I looked ahead and saw two constables waving people away from a doorway. I feared we wouldn’t get to see where the second victim was slain that very morning.

  “Come with me,” Israel whispered.

  He led me down a series of alleyways until we found ourselves in a dead end.

  “Help me up,” he said.

  I cupped my hands and lifted him against a fence. After a moment, he tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Right. The victim was found on the other side of this fence, between the steps and the fence itself. Let me help you.”

  Eagerly, I peered over. The blood was still fresh, dark and slick as ink, for the murder was less than a day old. It was a deserted stoop in a back yard connecting several buildings together. Until that morning it had been an anonymous spot people passed without thought. Now the police had to keep people away from it.

  “Oy! You lot! Get down from there!” a constable cried, and Israel and I beat a hasty retreat. We ran through a warren of streets in the north of Whitechapel, an area known as Mile End New Town. If the police had pursued us, they gave up rather easily. Eventually, we collapsed against a brick wall in Underwood Street, huffing and puffing, with sore feet and stitches in our sides. We had the street all to ourselves.

  “My word,” I said, when I caught my breath, “what is that stink?”

  “What do you think? No one has an extra penny for the street sweeper here. Anyone with a proper broom goes into the City and tries to take over a corner there.”

  “Is it all as bad as this?”

  “No, some of it is just neglected. Sort of shabby-genteel, you know. It’s mostly our crowd here, the Jews. The Ashkenazi from the Jewish Pale in Warsaw, or Moscow, or Berlin, chased out by the pogroms of the tsar and the kaiser. We are struggling, but give us time. Some of us will rise, and when we do, we’ll put a fresh coat of paint on these buildings and mend the fences and sweep these odiferous streets. There is no more gentrifying power than a synagogue full of worshipers.”

  “Israel, I came here to catch a killer. If you’re going to start preaching, I’d rather be sleeping at home in my nice, cozy bed.”

  “I’m sorry, Thomas, but the Whitechapel Killer is not a jack-in-the-box, to pop out of his hole at command.”

  Just then I sensed that we were not alone in the darkness. The street was empty, and I heard no sound that suggested someone was there. It was more a feeling. The hackles on the back of my neck rose. Had Mary Nichols had such a feeling before the blade cut into her throat? Did Annie Chapman realize she was not alone right before her life was snuffed like a candle?

  Israel suddenly lifted his dark lantern in my face, blinding me with the light.

  “Thomas, look out!” he cried.

  A crushing hand seized my neck in a viselike grip, cutting off all air to my lungs. The last thing I saw was the lantern falling to the ground, as my friend fought off the figure in black that was choking the life from him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  We were lifted bodily, both of us, and shaken like rats in a terrier’s jaws. Granted, neither of us is over nine stone, but still, we were two grown men. He was real, I told myself; the Whitechapel Killer is real! We had come in search of him, but he had found us instead! He carried us, still hanging by the collars of our jackets, into the light p
rovided by a sputtering gaslight from a nearby tenement.

  “And what are you rascals up to, capering about in the middle of the night?” Cyrus Barker demanded in his low Scots accent.

  If it is possible to collapse without actually touching the ground, then we did. I went limp with relief, and would have spoken if he didn’t actually have me by the neck.

  “Well?” he demanded. “What have ye to say for yourselves?”

  “Sorry, sir,” I squeaked.

  He set us both down. I leaned against a wall and coughed, but Israel actually sat down upon the pavement. He is terrified of my employer, and I supposed I could see why. Emerging suddenly from a dark alley in the middle of the night, Barker was terrifying.

  “Explain,” said the Guv.

  The words tumbled out of my mouth, which was just as well, since Israel was still speechless. I told Barker about the article my friend was writing for the Jewish Chronicle and how I had offered to help him since it was dangerous to travel Whitechapel alone. Most of it was true.

  “Why the subterfuge?” he asked. “Why feign a lack of interest in a case you intended to investigate within an hour or two?”

  “I thought you might not let me go out,” I admitted.

  The Guv broke into a smile, albeit a chilly one. He shook his head. “Thomas, you are an adult, not that you’re acting like one. You may come and go as you like. My only concern would be if you investigated a case we are working on together without my presence. This, however, is not my case, as much as it pains me to admit it, and probably never shall be. I followed you because I had no idea where you were going. Now that I am here, allow me to warn you. These are dangerous streets, gentlemen. Be careful where you go and don’t be afraid to use your Webley if you need to, though only as a last resort.”

  I had not mentioned the pistol, so either he inferred that I would bring it or he noticed that I carried it under my coat. To ask him which would only give him satisfaction.

  “You really think the killer would dare attack us in the street? We are full-grown men, not soiled doves,” Israel said. It would have sounded better if his voice hadn’t cracked.

  “No, Mr. Zangwill, I am referring to the street gang members and disgruntled workers who have lost their situations recently to Jewish immigrants. I understand there is a so-called vigilance committee afoot in the area. My associate is as Welsh as Tintagel Castle, but he could be mistaken for a Jew while in your company.”

  “You don’t think I can handle myself?” I asked.

  “I do, but it would be folly to attempt to find out either way without a better reason than an assigned article in the Chronicle. No insult to your esteemed journal intended.”

  “But we Jews have nothing to do with these murders,” Israel continued.

  “Perhaps, but one cannot rely on vigilantes to use logic or accept your assurances at face value. Would they sympathize with your people’s history of ill-treatment?”

  Barker was referring, of course, to the pogroms which had occurred in Russia, Poland, and Germany, which had sent tens of thousands of Jews fleeing to England and the United States.

  “How would I know?” Zangwill asked. “You create a straw man and warn us against it. Have you witnessed this committee you speak of? Do you know what kind of men it comprises, or how many? For all I know, it may be a figment of your imagination.”

  My employer stared at him blankly. That is, I could not read his expression behind the thick mustache and black spectacles he wore at all hours of the day or night, even in darkest Whitechapel. He might be ready to throttle Israel again for having the gall to question his veracity. Barker seemed to grow taller then, and more menacing, like some sort of ogre or troll from a Norwegian storybook. Just as quickly, he receded back to his normal size, which is formidable enough at any time.

  “You did not tell me,” the Guv said to me, “that your friend is educated in the debating arts, but then I would suspect such nimbleness of mind from a socialist. ‘Straw man,’ indeed. Very well, Mr. Zangwill, I admit the existence of such a committee is only hearsay, and I have not spoken to any of its members. Well argued, sir.”

  My jaw must have dropped. Israel arguing with Barker and besting him? Barker humbly accepting that he had been beaten? We had fallen down the rabbit hole.

  “Were it not past midnight I would treat you both to a pint of stout,” the Guv said.

  Israel arched his brows in my direction. “I have a better suggestion, if Thomas will approve.”

  I understood what he meant. He was speaking of the Barbados Coffeehouse, where the two of us met frequently. I was not certain how I felt about having my public and private worlds collide, as it were. Offhand, however, I could think of no reason why we should not invite him.

  “There is a coffeehouse in Cornhill Street, sir, called the Barbados. Have you heard of it?”

  “Is that in St. Michael’s Alley?” he asked. “I believe I’ve seen it, but I’ve never been inside. Is it fine?”

  “You may see for yourself, sir. They stay open late on nights when the Yiddish Theater is performing, if you are interested. We could just as easily try another time.”

  “None like the present,” Barker said. “Lead the way, gentlemen.”

  It was a walk of close to a good mile, through many streets and neighborhoods, from where we stood to the relative harbor of the City and Cornhill Street, but I felt safer with my employer, and he set a brisk pace. There is nothing he enjoys so much as a good walk, which he calls “the most social of exercises.” No one ever got to know a street from the perch of a hansom.

  The Barbados had been around for two hundred years, tucked among the warehouses where coffee is unloaded from ships in the Caribbean. It was a way, as I recall, for the West India Company to take money away from their rival, the East India Company, who was making a fortune importing tea from China and exporting opium. Coffee has never found a toehold here the way tea has, but it developed a following that has never gone away among the law clerks, civil servants, and intellectuals. Many government decisions have been made in coffeehouses, and inquests and other minor bits of business are still performed there. I have been in many of them, but none are a patch on the old Barbados, in my humble opinion.

  It’s not much to look at from the outside, its windows dark, its walls a faded terra-cotta. Once inside, however, you immediately step back two centuries. The floors, ceilings, and tall booths are carved out of black maple. The ceiling is low, and it bristles with mismatched tankards hanging down like fringe. Each table has a hollow in the center where pure Virginia Cavendish is kept for the visitor’s pleasure. When we were seated, Barker naturally reached for the traveling pipe he kept in his pocket. We both stopped him.

  “How is this?” he asked. “Tobacco, but no smoking?”

  Just in time, the proprietor arrived. His name was Frobisher, and his family had run the place for nine generations. Frobisher was entirely bald, not so much as an eyelash, and he and I had had our skirmishes at one time or another.

  “We would like to recommend this gentleman for membership,” I said.

  “On what grounds?” Frobisher asked, eyeing Barker with something approaching concern. There is a Magwitch-like element to his appearance that I suppose I’ve grown accustomed to over the years.

  “On the grounds that if you do not consider his membership, he might reduce this building to rubble within the hour,” Zangwill said.

  “He’s joking,” I assured Frobisher. “Mr. Barker is well known among the law courts and is well spoken of in government circles. I can offer references. In fact, I have one here.”

  So saying, I pulled out my watch, which was actually given to Barker by the Prince of Wales, after we stopped an assault on his life by the Irish Republican Brotherhood. There aren’t many references better than the Prince of Wales in London. Offhand, I could only think of one.

  A form was brought forward, Barker dipped a quill in the inkwell, and he gave his signature which never
varied: a capital C followed by a squiggle, like a man’s scrawl left when dying, followed by a capital B without flourish, and a similar scrawl. In his defense, I have heard that his Chinese is practically legible, but only to the Chinese.

  “What’s going on?” Barker asked.

  I handed a pound note to Frobisher and I explained to my employer that he had just joined the club, where for one pound a year they kept a churchwarden on the premises for his exclusive use. He would get a plum pudding at Christmastime, and should he ever pass away, his pipe would be ceremonially broken and hung overhead in his memory. There was something Pickwickian about it; it simply could not be passed over.

  Soon his pipe was brought out and Barker charged and lit it. Then a cup followed and he dutifully took the first sip. Zangwill leaned forward. It was true; there was no better coffee in all the British Isles than in this place. However, if he was awaiting a reaction from Barker, he would be disappointed. My employer has no taste buds to speak of. One could put a hornet in his mouth and he would not give the satisfaction of a reaction. He’ll eat anything placed in front of him and never knew the good from the bad. In restaurants I’ve known him to order the oddest things, like a stranger who doesn’t speak English. I suspect the stronger something tastes, the better he likes it.

  “Mmmph,” he said, which was the closest Zangwill would get to a compliment. It was like a verbal writ, acknowledging flavor. I’ll give Israel this: he recovers well and he knows what questions to ask, a fine quality for any reporter.

  “What do you make of these murders, Mr. Barker?”

  Fine thing, I thought. Get someone else to do your thinking for you, Israel.

  “I would say that this killer is enacting some sort of ritual. The cutting of the throat, possibly after near strangulation, followed by the second cut of the abdomen. The exact moves both times. This was not a frenzied attack, but carefully planned out and possibly rehearsed.”