The Hellgate

Chapter 10

I slept late that Tuesday. There was nothing unusual in that. In fact, that"s the point.

I had begun my new work in Whitechapel, returned to my lodgings afterward, quietly retired, and slept the sleep of the just. I woke refreshed. I rose from bed, conducted my ablutions with a light heart, dressed myself happily – with a growing curiosity – and waited to hear… whatever there would be to hear concerning my initial effort in George Yard.

To my surprise and, I confess, my disappointment, that amounted to nothing. The street outside my window was quiet. All appeared normal to the eye. There was neither sound or sign of alarm visible anywhere. I don"t know exactly what it was I"d been expecting. But I had expected… something.

Of course, my work had taken place a good ways away, more than half-a-mile. The thought occurred that, if I wanted to see and hear what was happening in and around the neighbourhood in which I"d done the job, I should… But that would be reckless, at best, and probably insane. A thinking man did not return to the scene of his…

I was about to say crime. ha ha. That was foolish. I had eliminated crime. I had made my first bold attempt at cleaning up those awful streets.

crimeStill it wouldn"t do to go showing my face about. Not until I knew the situation. Not until I knew whether or not anybody had seen that face. No. What I needed to do was to sit, to dive into a book, and make certain all I did and said at home appeared completely normal. I had to allow things to take shape as they would.

In early evening – very early indeed, as it was a Tuesday – Mrs Griggs brought me my supper.

It may help if I explain.

I was a lodger in a small but tidy and well-kept house, above a now permanently closed shoe shop, on… Well, it wouldn"t be prudent really to say where I lived. Would it? Let me say, in the East End of London, but on a decent street south of Commercial Road and east of Backchurch Lane in the parish known as St George-in-the-East. My landlady was a respectable widow called Mrs Griggs.

And, yes, Mrs Griggs is also a manufactured name. If I don"t protect myself, who will?

I liked Mrs Griggs very much. And do not make the mistake of thinking it was because she mothered me. Precisely the opposite was true. She didn"t say or do anything to remind me of my mother. She didn"t remind me of any woman, thank god, and that is what I truly appreciated about her. Mrs Griggs was quite unlike most women. She was a respectable and logical human being, who saw the world as it was and understood what it was meant to be. She deplored emotional, irrational thought. She valued intelligence. She was a reader of books. She had a firm understanding of moral foundation.

Many women, most women, do not. Women, by their natures, are unmoored and immoral.

Owing to her unique understanding of right and wrong, Mrs Griggs quite rightly despised drink and the many evils alcohol brought to society. She had no kind words for layabouts. She hated the idea of p**********n. She respected the monarchy, but distrusted the government. She was, in every regard, a fine example of an up-right woman.

As I said, Mrs Griggs knocked on my door and entered, moving efficiently with the tray holding my evening meal, as was her habit on her meeting nights. She carried the usual two evening papers to which she subscribed tucked under her arm. (The Times and Daily Telegraph, of course; she was a Tory after all.) “Forgive the meager chop,” she said, depositing the tray on my table and the papers on the top edge of the tray. “It is…”

meetingTimesDaily Telegraph“Tuesday,” I said, finishing her sentence, and accepting her apology, with the same smile. “No chop, prepared by you, Mrs Griggs, could possibly be meager.” Then, as if I didn"t care a wit, I nodded in the direction of the papers and asked, “Any news?”

She breathed an unexpected sigh, then said an unexpected sentence. “Nothing really worth mentioning.”

I paused, trying to think, and could only hope the disappointment which struck my heart that instant had not, in its progression, registered on my face. Nothing worth mentioning?

Evidently Mrs Griggs saw nothing unusual in my expression as she had moved on, vocalizing the substance of the headlines she"d found appealing. “A Select Committee of the House of Lords continues to examine the so-called Sweating systems of these local factories. Deplorable. If you ask me, they should hand the matter over to Baroness Burdett-Coutts and be done with it.”

I hummed my agreement and my landlady went on.

“Thousands, they say, stood in the drizzle at Alexandra Palace over the Bank Holiday, to watch that young American acrobat, Professor Baldwin. We read of him last week. Extraordinary. He ascended 1000 feet in his hot air balloon, then jumped to the ground using only a parachute.”

Without meaning to, I hummed my disinterest (a different sound entirely). “Nothing else?”

“More trouble with the dock workers" union. More trouble, as always, with the socialists. More rain. What Mr __, in particular, were you expecting to hear?”

“Nothing at all, in particular. It"s merely that, in the capital city of the modern world, one would think something of note had taken place.” I began perusing the Times.

“Yes. Well, what is it they say? No news is…”

“There was a murder!” I said, turning the newspaper and tapping the page with my finger to bring the matter to her attention.

“Oh, yes,” Mrs Griggs relented without undue alarm. “I saw that.”

I"m not surprised she didn"t mention it, even having seen it. It was the shortest blip of an article, with the rather small and uninteresting headline: "SUPPOSED MURDER". The poorly informed piece related little more than the fact that an unknown woman had been found early in the morning, dead of an apparent stab wound, in George Yard. Witnesses had seen the victim carousing with soldiers in a public house shortly before her death. That was the lot. “Little to be had in this report,” I said, with perhaps a tad too much dismay.

"SUPPOSED MURDER"“What ought they have said?” My landlady asked, with a sideways glance. “Violence in Whitechapel is hardly front page news.”

“No. I"m certain you"re correct. I thought perhaps… Well, it was a murder, after all. A word with the investigating officers. Something to calm the residents.”

Mrs Griggs had ceased all motion and was staring at me. I shut my mouth. I smiled. She shook her head wonderingly. “Calm the residents of Whitechapel? Really, Mr __. It has always been my opinion that they thrive on turmoil.”

they“Yes. But what about us; the remainder of the East End residents? Doesn"t murder so nearby give you a feeling of insecurity, Mrs Griggs?”

She seemed taken aback. “Certainly not. We"re nowhere near George Yard. It"s blocks and blocks away. The poor woman"s killer is probably further away still. Surely he"s a foreigner and surely he comes from the slums.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “You"re probably right.”

In one way, Mrs Griggs was like every other woman; she liked being right. And, having achieved as much, my landlady chose that moment to wish me a good evening and end our meeting, in order that she might hurry off to hers. She left me.

She left me… If not on pins and needles, certainly disheartened and disgruntled.

One small article, in the combined two newspapers, written with literally no information and no investigation. No thrill. No fear. No message for the community. That was not what I had expected. It most certainly would not do.

I had to go out. Don"t misunderstand; I did not want to go out. In a way, I confess, I was afraid to go out so near to, so soon after… my work. But, risk or no, I had to see if the hoped-for ripple was any larger in any other parts of the East End pool.

Have no fear. I had no intention of venturing anywhere near George Yard. I would head straight north and, quickly and quietly, visit a newsstand with which I was familiar midway in the Whitechapel Road between St Mary"s and London Hospital. I would see what the other papers (there were more, after all, than one would care to count) had to report. I would hear what the word on the street (if word there was) had to say. Then, regardless of my discoveries, would hastened back to my lodgings.

Possessed of my plan, I took the only little precaution available on the spur of the moment. I bundled up, though it wasn"t particularly cold, with collar up and soft hat pulled down, to show as little of me as possible. And set out.

I walked with purpose, and happily without diversion, north up Backchurch Lane, up again on the back side of St Mary"s (that"s St Mary Matfelon, the brightly whitewashed white chapel from which that parish drew its name), and turned east off of Adler onto the Whitechapel Road. I diverted around the professional peddlers (and the multitude of sad women, and their filthy broods) selling their wares from barrows and baskets all up and down the way, walking in the street when necessary, around the unending piles of straw and horse s**t, I quickly reached my sought after newsstand and, in the same instant, found my inner peace.

There, beside the young boy hawking fresh copies of the Star, stood a whiteboard on the curb with the brilliantly lurid headline "MURDER IN WHITECHAPEL" scrawled excitedly across its face.

Star"MURDER IN WHITECHAPEL"Damn the Tories. Thank god for the radical press!

“Murder!” the news boy called out. “Murder in Whitechapel! Horrible Murder in Whitechapel!”

“Good evening, Mr __.” It took an instant to realize my name had been said, and that the speaker was still going on, to me. “What brings you at this hour?”

It was the news dealer, Mr Frogg, who I normally saw late in the evening on my way to hospital. While I"m on introductions, the boy at the curb loudly proclaiming my work was his son, Tad. I"d always wondered, but had never asked, if that was the child"s actual name or a corruption based upon the family surname; had Mr Frogg begot a Tadpole? No matter, certainly not then.

Mr Frogg handled all of the newspapers, local and national, morning and evening, Tory, Liberal and, thank god, those of the radical press. As it turned out, it was only the radicals – always eager to stick a pin in the government or the police – who"d bothered to give the murder story any coverage of note.

I made an excuse for my presence at the odd hour, bought a copy of the Star (which Mrs Griggs wouldn"t allow in the house on a bet), relished their headline, and took in what little story they were able to provide:

Star“A Whitechapel Horror.

A Whitechapel Horror.A woman, now lying unidentified at the mortuary, Whitechapel, was ferociously stabbed to death this morning, between two and four o"clock, on the landing of a stone staircase in George"s-buildings, Whitechapel.

A woman, now lying unidentified at the mortuary, Whitechapel, was ferociously stabbed to death this morning, between two and four o"clock, on the landing of a stone staircase in George"s-buildings, Whitechapel.George"s-buildings are tenements occupied by the poor laboring class. A lodger going early to his work found the body. Another lodger says the murder was not committed when he returned home about two o"clock. The woman was stabbed in 20 places. No weapons were found near her, and her murderer has left no trace. She is of middle age and height, had black hair and a large, round face, and apparently belonged to the lowest class.”

George"s-buildings are tenements occupied by the poor laboring class. A lodger going early to his work found the body. Another lodger says the murder was not committed when he returned home about two o"clock. The woman was stabbed in 20 places. No weapons were found near her, and her murderer has left no trace. She is of middle age and height, had black hair and a large, round face, and apparently belonged to the lowest class.“The murder?” Mr Frogg asked. “That is sad.”

“Yes,” I agreed, taking special care to govern the features of my face. Of course, a look of sadness was out of the question; I"d have never pulled it off. But I did manage neutrality, I think, and something suggesting concern. “Very alarming indeed.”

“They say,” Mr Frogg said, “Inspector Reid"s in charge of the investigation.”

“Inspector Reid?” I asked.

“Head of CID in "aitch Division.”

“CID?”

“Criminal Investigations Department.”

I nodded gratefully, then sheepishly asked, “Aitch Division?”

“Mr __!” Mr Frogg groaned in exasperation. He repeated it slowly as if speaking to an i***t. “The letter "H". "aitch Division. Whitechapel. Ain"t you evah seen the little "aitches on the coppers" collars?” He shook his head at my abominable ignorance. “They say,” he went on, “though I can"t say I recall, this murder occurred only a coupla" blocks from an earlier murder, one what happened last Christmas.”

I held my tongue, resisting the urge to correct the foggy Frogg. It had been one block distant. And Emma Smith had been killed at Easter, not Christmas. It would be my secret.

Mr Frogg didn"t notice my heroic restraint. He"d gone back to sorting his stacks and shuffling his papers. A moment more and he lifted another paper, one of the locals (the East London Observer), and read aloud… an opinion piece he"d obviously read before and with which he clearly agreed:

East London Observer“It is inconceivable that in a great city like London, the streets of which are continually patrolled by police, a woman can be foully and horribly killed almost next to the citizens peacefully sleeping in their beds, without a trace or clue being left of the villain who did the deed.”

It is inconceivable that in a great city like London, the streets of which are continually patrolled by police, a woman can be foully and horribly killed almost next to the citizens peacefully sleeping in their beds, without a trace or clue being left of the villain who did the deed.Mr Frogg looked to me for a reaction. I nodded quietly. Who was I to argue?

He moved on to another local (the East London Advertiser), and again read to me, for free, a story he ought to have been trying to sell me. The murder, it was clear, had gotten under the skin of the news dealer. Perhaps he wasn"t alone? Frogg spent the next ten minutes regaling me with news and opinion from the left-leaning press (the conservatives had taken little interest) concerning the morning outrage committed upon the unidentified woman.

East London AdvertiserThe newspaper editors complained, Mr Frogg complained, that "virulent savagery" had been employed by the killer. That the poor woman had been "literally butchered". Each of his wood pulp rags went out of their way to stress the "feeling of insecurity" that had arisen in the neighbourhoods surrounding George Yard Buildings.

"virulent savagery""literally butchered""feeling of insecurity"Again he paused and examined me for my response. I provided it, in the form of a question. “Tell me, Mr Frogg, do you feel insecure?”

“Bah,” he said, replacing the papers in their stacks. “What d" you expect? It"s Whitechapel.”

Bah