The Butcher of Berner Street Read online

  We followed an omnibus along Commercial Road, stopping every couple of hundred yards for ladies to hop on and off with their baskets, bustling into the shops on either side. The awnings that lined the street were as colourful as any in the city, advertising magazines, medicines and tobacco, but as soon as we turned off the main thoroughfare, the prosperous atmosphere faded, and those few people we could see were barefoot children or idle men watching us through clouds of bacca smoke, their clothes as grey as the buildings and factory fumes.

  From the road, the gaff resembled a large shop with bay windows. I was perturbed to see that a small crowd had gathered outside, jostling to peer between the posters covering the windows. This was going to be hard enough without an audience, especially one which might take offence at the presence of a newspaper man.

  Over everyone’s heads, I was surprised to see Pallett in his constable’s uniform, blocking the doorway and keeping everyone out. We were far from his normal domain.

  I pushed through the crowd, keeping Rosie close behind me. One of the fellows was telling another that he’d seen the corpse personally and there’d been a terrible mistake: it wasn’t Oswald Drake at all, but a different man, far less handsome and altogether smaller in stature who’d been dressed to resemble Mr Drake to mislead the police, who, in his opinion, were prone to jump to conclusions, not having much familiarity with the notables of Whitechapel. I wondered if he was correct or if he was just wishing it to be true, unable to conceive that a man of Mr Drake’s standing could possibly be dead.

  ‘You can go through, sir,’ said Pallett. He tipped his helmet to Rosie. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Flowers. How are you?’

  She gave him a rare smile. ‘I’ve asked you before to call me Rosie. And I’m quite well, thank you, Norman.’

  I admit, I had forgotten that Pallett had a Christian name, though if I’d remembered, I might have guessed at Norman. He was exactly like a Norman.

  ‘And how is Cecilia?’ I asked him.

  Cecilia was the poor sap who’d given up the name Rasmussen to become Mrs Pallett. She’d been a nurse at the hospital where I’d previously worked.

  ‘She’s very well indeed, sir,’ beamed Pallett, and seemed about to expand on the theme when he stopped himself, seeming to realise this wasn’t the moment for personal revelations. I could guess what he’d been about to announce; there would shortly be an infant Pallett in the world who, within a very few years, would no doubt be keeping his or her schoolmates in line and hauling miscreants off to the headmaster to answer for their transgressions. Good for you, Norman, I thought. He was born to be a father.

  Inside the gaff, a young woman was seated in the centre of the hall on a wooden chair. Her face was white as chalk, as if she was unable to weep for shock. In her arms, a baby was fast asleep.

  The dandy, Mr Coffey, was sitting on the stage, his head in his hand.

  Beside him was the body.

  There was no doubt it was Drake. He’d been laid out on his back, eyes closed, arms placed along his sides. The skin of his neck had been lacerated, staining the collar of his shirt red. Above him, a rope was dangling, moving slightly in the breeze, the end curled and twisted.

  ‘Mother of God,’ whispered Rosie, and crossed herself in the Catholic manner. I wondered whether I should have left her behind, but supposed she was tough enough to look upon a corpse without fainting. After all, she had killed two people, attempted to kill another and strongly advocated leaving a fourth to die. None of these acts were the result of ill intent, but they would surely harden one’s constitution.

  ‘Ah, Stanhope,’ said a familiar voice. ‘I’m glad you’ve turned up, though I’m sure I won’t be so for long.’

  Detective Sergeant Ripley slouched towards us with his hands in his pockets. As ever, he spoke slowly, one eye half closed, his jacket covered with crumbs and smeared with what I thought at first was butter, but might have been egg. I knew not to be fooled by his appearance though; he had a mind as sharp as any in London.

  He removed his hat and scratched his head. ‘Constable Pallett tells me you were here a couple of days ago. You got a tip there’d be a crime.’

  ‘Yes. A letter. But it turned out to be a deception. Mr Drake wanted publicity, nothing more.’

  He scratched his ear. ‘Pallett said you were rather upset and chose to remain here and take up the issue with the deceased.’

  I frowned, getting his meaning. ‘You think I killed him? Out of embarrassment?’

  ‘Why not? Men have killed for less.’

  I could tell he was testing me, looking for a reaction. I was determined not to give him one.

  Rosie wasn’t so reticent. ‘That’s ridiculous. How would a man of Mr Stanhope’s slender build force Mr Drake, who must weigh two hundred pounds if he’s an ounce, into a noose? Did he ask him nicely, do you suppose? Please place your neck into here and be kind enough to pull on the rope while I cleat it off. Is that how it was?’

  Ripley rubbed his fingers together and pulled a cigarette box from his pocket. ‘I didn’t say he worked alone.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘You can’t mean me?’

  He had the decency to look abashed. ‘Of course not, Mrs Flowers. You’re a respectable lady and he’s lucky to name you a friend. But he has other acquaintances with more greed and fewer scruples.’ He squinted at me, one of his eyes almost shut. ‘What happened to your face? Looks like you’ve had a misfortune since we last met. Did someone burn you?’

  I chose not to answer him, instead pinching the skin between my thumb and forefinger, letting the pain wash away my agitation.

  ‘May I take a closer look at the body?’

  I had examined dozens of corpses, whole and partial, young and old, intact and spilled across the slab like tripe. But I had never grown completely comfortable with such proximity. Death should always be awful, a hole in the world where a unique and irreplaceable person used to be. No one should ever grow comfortable with that.

  Ripley waved a hand. ‘You can look, but don’t move him before the surgeon gets here.’

  I knelt beside Drake and felt the skin on his forehead with the back of my hand, almost a caress. He was as cold as the room, so must have died some hours ago. I gently bent his wrist and fingers and felt a stiffening, a resistance. Rigor mortis was on its way.

  ‘Most likely he died very early this morning.’

  ‘You mean he was murdered, Stanhope.’

  I shook my head, still looking at Drake’s face. Some corpses sagged as their muscles lost tension, gravity tugging at their flesh. But Drake looked much as he had in life, with high cheekbones and a strong, broad jaw. Aside from the paleness of his skin, one could believe those eyes would open and he would burst out laughing and tell us it was all a joke.

  ‘What happened to you?’ I whispered to him.

  ‘Pardon, Stanhope? Speak up, will you? I worked at the plant as a kid and can hardly hear a damn thing any more.’ Ripley took a pull on his cigarette. ‘Though it’s a blessing on occasion.’

  ‘I said, it’s most likely this was an accident. My guess is he decided to have another go at hanging himself and something went wrong.’

  The palms of Drake’s hands were rough – he was a working man – but there were no lesions or signs that he’d desperately clawed at the rope. He hadn’t wrestled with death. I remembered how easily he’d hoisted himself up, his arms like dock cranes, and how gracefully he’d alighted back on the stage. Why hadn’t he been able to free himself this time?

  ‘Who found him?’

  ‘His wife.’ Ripley nodded towards the woman in the chair.

  She was gently rocking her baby, and might have been singing to it too, though I couldn’t hear her voice above the racket from outside. Knuckles were rapping on the windows, and I could see a man’s silhouette as he cupped his hands against the glass and tried to peer between the advertisements. But the widow had eyes only for her baby. For all the notice she took of us, she might have been enjoying
a breather on a park bench after a pleasant walk.

  Rosie pursed her lips. ‘Poor thing. Too young to be a widow.’

  I glanced at her, but she mulishly refused to meet my eye. She’d been widowed at just twenty-five, and not a day went past when she wasn’t glad of it.

  ‘She’ll inherit all this, more than likely,’ Ripley muttered. ‘She’s sitting pretty.’ He cracked his knuckles. ‘Right, now, down to business. I’ve told you what I know, it’s time for you to return the favour. Hand over that letter.’

  I found his tone galling. Like all policemen, he believed his own needs and demands were paramount and the rest of us should simply do as he instructed.

  ‘Why? It’s not relevant.’

  He took another deep draw on his cigarette and blew a smoke ring, which hovered and faded between us.

  ‘I’ve been told I have to tolerate you newspapermen, though Lord knows why. It’s not as though you ever print anything close to the truth. But all the same, if you don’t hand over that letter, I’ll arrest you and put you in a cell overnight. If I remember correctly, you didn’t like that too well last time.’

  I dug the letter out of my pocket and handed it to him, trying to keep the resentment from my face. He thought me pampered, afraid of a little hardship, but he was wrong. I’d slept on scores of steps, pavements and the stone floors of strangers’ basements, listening to the rats scratching in the walls, unable to move in case someone heard me. I just couldn’t risk spending a night in jail with other men and a pail in the corner to piss in. And I couldn’t withstand a search. I would be discovered for certain.

  Rosie cleared her throat and looked up at the rope. ‘How was it tied?’ she asked. ‘Was it a slip knot or a bowline?’

  The detective frowned at her. ‘If I’m honest, Mrs Flowers, I can’t see how your expertise in rolling pastry qualifies you to ask questions about a hanging.’

  She didn’t blanch. She didn’t even feel the need to sharpen the edges of her voice. ‘Detective Sergeant Ripley, you come to my shop once in a while and I sell you a pie, not worrying about the odd farthing or two you might be short. And the same for Mrs Ripley, who’s a good-hearted lady and often inclined to stay for a chat about this and that.’

  Ripley started to answer, but she hadn’t finished.

  ‘So, if I want to ask a sensible question about a knot, you’d do well to answer it, or you’ll be paying full price for my pies and your wife will be hearing a great many more of my opinions on a wide range of topics.’ She paused for a moment, but he was too startled to respond. ‘A slip knot would strangle a man, would it not, by tightening at his throat? And if Mr Drake was practised at his act, as we believe, then he would know that. He’d tie a knot that wouldn’t slip, like a bowline, enabling him to extricate himself when the time came.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Ripley sounded like a boy caught with his hand in the biscuit tin. ‘The knot was undone when we arrived.’ He indicated Coffey, still sitting on the edge of the stage in his foppish clothes. ‘His mate and one of the wrestlers had already taken Drake down. They said they couldn’t bear to see him dangling like that.’

  I looked down at the body and wondered what went through a man’s mind in those final moments. Probably nothing. Was it not strange? Through all of life, the body is servant to the mind, but in that extremity the body takes charge, thrashing to keep itself alive, no matter that the mind has accepted death. On its last journey, the mind is nothing but a passenger.

  I touched Drake’s jawline and the coarseness of his beard, running my fingers down to his throat where the skin had been ripped by the rope. If we’d been alone, I would have talked to him again. I wouldn’t have expected an answer – I wasn’t mad – but it gladdened me to think that a soul might be comforted by a kind voice as it drifted towards the afterlife.

  I turned Drake’s head gently. At the base of his neck, a hole had been made in his flesh, no bigger than the pupil of an eye. A smear of blood proved it was recent.

  ‘I was wrong,’ I said, looking up at Ripley. ‘This wasn’t an accident.’

  3

  Ripley knelt beside me and peered at Drake’s neck. ‘Did that pinprick kill him? It must’ve nicked his artery, the one where you die if it’s cut. The carrot one.’

  I didn’t know why, even after all these years, I was still surprised by the paltry level of knowledge the average policeman held concerning the body. They learned a single fact, be it about the arterial system or the effects of arsenic, and spouted it religiously – and usually erroneously – at every murder scene they attended.

  ‘The carotid arteries, and it would take a remarkably accurate insertion to hit one of them. It certainly wouldn’t be a reliable method for murder.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘A hypodermic needle, I suspect.’

  ‘Poison, then? Bad way to go.’

  ‘Not necessarily. At least it’s painless.’

  In my time, I’d considered all the methods by which one might die: slicing open my wrists; crushing my body under train wheels; falling from a balcony; drowning myself in the river near my childhood home, the bag of rocks I’d cinched around my waist tugging me down to the darkness and the weed. But surely the worst of all choices was dancing on the end of a rope, writhing and kicking for a breath that would never come. Any poison would be preferable to that.

  I dug my thumbnail into my wrist.

  ‘It was a large needle,’ I said. ‘He bled where it was inserted.’

  Ripley stared down at the stage, which was stained with black and brown blotches. ‘The perfect spot for a murder, isn’t it?’ He wiped a finger across the wooden floorboards, but the stains were old and long-since dried. ‘A place where men fight. No way to tell whose blood is whose.’

  ‘And women.’

  He peered at me through his half-closed eye. ‘What?’

  ‘Not just men, they have women’s bouts here, too.’

  He rubbed his chin, not believing me, until he saw I was serious. ‘Jesus. This blasted city. Not enough to be lousy with murderers and thieves, we have to watch women fighting for sport as well.’

  ‘Why would any woman agree to such a thing?’ asked Rosie, her voice rising incredulously. ‘Why follow men into such foolishness?’

  I was amused that Rosie and Ripley were on the same side in this. ‘The women wrestlers were quite spirited. Two of them fought each other and then one of them took on a man from the audience. She beat him soundly too. It was all over in seconds.’ In my mind’s eye, I could picture Miss Vostek’s broad smile as she celebrated victory, and Drake’s hand slapping her backside. ‘She didn’t seem to like Mr Drake very much.’

  Ripley looked sceptical. ‘She beat a man? How?’ He drew his own conclusion without waiting for me to answer. ‘Ah, of course. A plant. When I was a kid, there were contests in the pub up our street. They’d stick a big man up against some scrawny milksop and watch the bets come in, and then the big ’un would keel over at the first punch. Easy money.’

  I pictured the man Miss Vostek had defeated, curled up and squeaking like a baby squirrel.

  ‘I honestly don’t think it was part of a ploy.’

  Ripley was still examining the wound on Drake’s neck. ‘If you’re right, then someone’s tried to hide how he was killed. Made it look like one thing when it was another. That takes some planning, I’d say, and knowledge of chemicals and the like.’

  His glance fell on Drake’s widow, but my attention was elsewhere: on Mr Coffey, who was sitting on the stage, his opera hat in his hand, tears falling into his bright blue waistcoat. He looked piteous, but I’d learned to distrust such displays of emotion. Killers were always liars, and the fellow had some expertise in medical science. He’d offered the wrestler, Trafford, laudanum, and his stitches had been neat and evenly spaced.

  I caught Ripley’s eye and nodded towards the dandy. Ripley frowned, looking at the fellow’s empty sleeve, clearly doubting he had the physical capability for murde
r by hanging. Still, the detective climbed to his feet and tossed his cigarette on to the floor, where it glowed, a thin curl of smoke rising and dissipating in the draught.

  ‘You got any experience with medicines, young man?’

  Coffey started like a hare and made a wild dash for the door, his tailcoat flapping behind him, but he had reckoned without Pallett. The young constable reached out a giant arm and shoved the dandy back towards us. Coffey tottered and fell on to his behind, and Pallett stooped to grab him, but for once his bulk was a disadvantage. Coffey twisted and scuttled away on all fours or rather, missing a hand as he was, on all threes. Pallett set off after him like a farmer trying to catch a chicken, unwisely leaving the door unguarded.

  Immediately, men started pouring in, twenty or more, spreading out across the room and eyeing the body. Within a few seconds the place was chaos. Two of them jumped on to the stage and shoved me out of the way, pulling at Drake’s clothes and rolling up his eyelid in the hope that a still-living man might be staring back at them.

  ‘Stop that,’ I demanded. ‘You’ll disturb evidence.’

  The larger of the two men, a docker by the look of him, whirled round. ‘Evidence of what?’ he growled.

  I backed away, feeling my heels rocking as I reached the edge of the stage. ‘Mr Drake was murdered.’

  He looked up at the rope and down at the corpse, and then at me. ‘It ain’t possible. No one could do that to Oswald Drake. No army, even. Who are you, anyway?’

  Things might have gone badly had not Rosie stepped to my side. ‘We don’t know what happened,’ she declared, lifting her chin. ‘We had some questions for that gentleman over there, but he was reluctant to answer them.’

  The fellow looked at where she was pointing. Coffey’s blue velvet jacket was easy to track. He was attempting to get out through the door even as everyone else was trying to get in, finding himself repeatedly buffeted to one side, eventually clinging to the door jamb like an infant to its mother’s skirts.