They returned to Scotland Yard and found that John Feather was engaged in a meeting with Chief Superintendent Armstrong, but Sergeant Cribbens was able to give them the information they were after.
‘Police Constable Pete Wurzel,’ he said. ‘Decent bloke. You’ll find him at the Strand police station. If he’s not there, they’ll be able to tell you in which part of his beat you’ll find him.’
As Daniel and Abigail headed for the Strand, Abigail asked ‘Is prostitution legal in certain parts of London?’
‘Not to my knowledge,’ said Daniel. ‘Not unless the law’s changed since I left the force.’
‘I ask because this Constable Wurzel knew where Kate Branson operated, at Charing Cross Station, but there was no talk of him arresting her.’
‘Ah, that’s a grey area,’ said Daniel.
‘What, Charing Cross Station?’
‘No, the whole business of the police and prostitutes, at least at beat level. Prostitutes can be valuable sources of information to the local constable, able to bargain with stories they pick up, like who may have carried out a robbery recently, or even committed a murder.’
‘And is it possible that this mutually benevolent relationship extends to other mutual benefits?’ asked Abigail, her tone heavy with sarcastic innuendo.
‘It has been known,’ admitted Daniel. ‘A lack of prosecution in exchange for … er … intimacy.’ Then he added hastily. ‘But I assure you I never indulged when I was a copper on the beat. Offers in kind are just as much a bribe as cash or other favours.’
‘But some do.’
‘Some do,’ said Daniel. ‘And not just beat coppers. Some senior officers were known for it.’
‘Chief Superintendent Armstrong?’ asked Abigail amused.
‘No,’ said Daniel firmly. ‘He may be many things, but he’s not corrupt, I’ll give him that.’
‘But he got a promotion for stopping you and Abberline investigating Sir William Gull and Prince Albert Victor.’
‘If he hadn’t, the police commissioner would have stopped us. Or the home secretary, or someone equally important.’
‘It’s still corruption.’
‘It’s the way it is,’ said Daniel wryly.
‘I’m sure the police constable having sex free of charge with a prostitute would say the same thing, if challenged,’ commented Abigail.
PC Wurzel was having his tea break at the Strand police station when Daniel and Abigail arrived, and was thrilled to sit in the canteen with them and engage in conversation with the famous Museum Detectives.
‘Yes, I knew Kate Branson,’ he told them. ‘You, Mr Wilson, as a former policeman yourself, know it’s a good thing to keep a friendly eye on people involved in underworld activities, particularly those on what could be called the fringes, because they’re the ones who often know what’s going on.’
‘Information,’ nodded Daniel.
‘Exactly!’
‘What we’re looking for are people who would have known her.’
‘The other prostitutes?’ asked Wurzel.
‘If they’re the best ones.’
‘They are,’ said Wurzel. ‘They look out for one another.’
‘They didn’t do that very successfully this time,’ commented Abigail.
‘No,’ agreed Wurzel with a sigh of regret.
‘Where can we meet these women?’ asked Abigail. ‘We need to talk to them, find out if Kate Branson ever mentioned difficult clients to them. Violent ones.’
‘They start working early evening,’ said Wurzel. ‘I’m on duty from seven tonight. If you meet me at Charing Cross Station around that time, I’ll introduce you to the ones who knew her most.’
‘Seven o’clock,’ nodded Daniel.
‘I’ll be by the ticket office.’
As they left the police station, Abigail asked: ‘Well, does he or doesn’t he?’
‘Engage in sex with prostitutes?’ asked Daniel. ‘I think it highly likely. Although, if challenged, he’d deny it. But it’s the sort of inside information that could well be useful to us.’
‘I think his name should be Weasel, not Wurzel,’ said Abigail in deep disapproval. ‘He’s a sex pest, preying on those women.’
‘Who are in turn preying on this obviously corrupt beat constable to avoid being arrested,’ countered Daniel.
‘I think it’s sordid,’ said Abigail.
‘It is,’ agreed Daniel. ‘But now to meet someone on the force I think you will approve of: my old friend, Sergeant Whetstone at Whitechapel.’
Their journey by bus to Whitechapel took what seemed like hours. Traffic on all the roads going east was packed, hansom cabs, buses and wagons nose to tail in a stop-start procession. The going was made slower because two horses collapsed in the road, one pulling a brewery dray, and the other hauling the very omnibus Daniel and Abigail were on when they were in the narrow streets of the City of London by Liverpool Street Station.
‘We’ll walk,’ decided Daniel. ‘It’s not far from here.’
Sergeant Stanley Whetstone was still based at Whitechapel police station, and was on duty at the reception desk when Daniel and Abigail walked in.
‘Sergeant Wilson!’ he said, his face lighting up with pleasure. ‘Or, rather, Mr Wilson now.’
‘Indeed, Stanley,’ grinned Daniel. ‘And this is Miss Abigail Fenton.’
‘A pleasure, miss,’ beamed Whetstone, shaking her hand. ‘We already know about you here, of course, from the papers.’ He chuckled. ‘The Museum Detectives.’
‘You don’t need to believe everything you read in the papers,’ smiled Abigail.
‘Very true, miss. My old man used to say the only thing you can rely on in the papers is fish and chips, and even then it has to be taken with a pinch of salt.’ He laughed. ‘What can I do for you? You’re a bit off your patch, and these murders by the New Ripper are up west.’
‘Is that what they’re calling him?’ asked Daniel. ‘“The New Ripper?”’
‘The people around here are calling him that, so my guess is the papers will jump on the bandwagon sooner or later.’
‘In a way it’s connected,’ said Daniel. ‘Do you remember the original investigation when Fred Abberline and I were here?’
‘I’ll never forget it!’ said Whetstone. ‘It was the biggest thing that had ever happened here. The biggest thing in the whole country, and there’s been nothing like it since. Even these latest ones, the two up west at the National Gallery, don’t compare, although it’s like whoever did ’em is copying him.’
‘The thing is, we’re starting to wonder if these new murders aren’t connected to the previous ones,’ said Daniel. ‘We were wondering if one of the original victims’ kids might be involved in some way.’
Whetstone looked at Daniel, stunned. ‘You’re not serious?’
‘It’s just a line of enquiry that might well lead nowhere. But if you remember, the first time we looked into everything, no matter how mad it seemed.’
‘Leather Apron,’ nodded Whetstone. ‘Jill the Ripper. Montague Druitt.’
‘The ones we’re interested in are the sons of Mary Ann Nichols, Percy and Henry.’
‘Why?’
‘Just a hunch at the moment. Are Percy and Henry still around?’
‘Percy joined the navy. As far as I know he’s on some ship far away, serving Queen and country. Henry moved away. I heard he’d got apprenticed to a tailor in Bethnal Green.’
‘Do you know which tailor?’
‘No, but I can find out. Do you think he’s involved in this latest business?’
‘It’s clutching at straws, to be honest. Someone mentioned that maybe someone was doing it out of revenge over what had happened to the earlier victims.’
‘A bit odd,’ frowned Whetstone. ‘Why would killing those women be revenge in any way?’ Then his face lit up. ‘Wait a minute! A few days ago, the papers said that Walter Sickert had been arrested for the first woman who was done at the National Gallery, but then he was released. I remember you and Fred Abberline were quite keen on Sickert at the time. The word on the street was that him and his two posh mates – very, very posh mates – were the ones, but they got off. And Sickert’s two posh mates died. So is that what this is about? Someone who’s got it in for Sickert over what people reckoned he did and is bumping these women off and trying to put Sickert in the frame.’
‘It’s a theory,’ admitted Daniel. ‘A bit far-fetched, I agree, but we have to look into everything.’
‘If you give me your address, I’ll try and find out which tailor Henry’s working for and drop you a note. Are you still in Camden Town?’
‘I am,’ said Daniel. He took a pencil and wrote their address on a piece of paper and passed it to the sergeant. ‘The other thing is, do you know if any of the Ripper’s victims’ children became butchers?’
‘Butchers?’ said Whetstone. He shook his head. ‘Not as far as I know. But, again, I’ll ask around and if I hear anything it’ll be in the same note.’ He studied them. ‘You think a butcher did it?’
‘It’s possible,’ said Daniel. ‘If none of the women’s kids went into the butchery trade, how about relatives? Someone who was about ten or so during the original enquiry, so they’d be about twenty now.’
‘That’s very specific,’ observed Whetstone. ‘Have you got hold of some good information?’
‘Yes and no,’ said Daniel. ‘I’m not sure how good it is, which is why I’m checking it out.’
Whetstone looked thoughtful, then he asked: ‘Are you still in touch with your old guv’nor, Fred Abberline?’
‘We exchange Christmas cards,’ said Daniel. ‘To be honest, when he retired from the force, I got the impression he didn’t want anything more to do with the Met, and then when I left the Met and went private I was busy building up my new practice. We sort of lost touch.’
‘Is he still in Clapham?’
‘He was last Christmas, according to his card.’
‘It might be worth going to see him, or at least drop him a line,’ suggested Whetstone. ‘Remember, he was an inspector for quite a few years here at Whitechapel before he transferred to Scotland Yard. That’s one of the reasons they put him in charge of the Ripper enquiry.’
‘I knew he’d served in Whitechapel before we came here from the way he knew his way about, but I didn’t know how long for. I only joined his team six months before the Ripper murders started. He never talked much about his time here before the Ripper investigation.’
‘He transferred here from Highgate as a local inspector in 1878. I was just a young copper then, but we were all very impressed by him. He was here for nine years. He moved to Scotland Yard in 1887. We were pleased for him, the promotion to Inspector First-Class and everything, but sad to see him go. We were dead chuffed when we knew he was coming back to lead the Ripper enquiry, coming home, so to speak.’
‘Yes, he did seem to know everyone, and every place around here.’
‘He knew most of the butchers.’ He grinned. ‘He was always partial to a pound of sausages, was Fred.’
‘Yes, I remember,’ nodded Daniel.
‘I know he was upset you didn’t land him,’ said Whetstone. ‘The original Ripper, that is. I got the impression he was fairly sure who it was, but someone was pulling strings somewhere.’
‘Yes, that’s the impression I got,’ said Daniel carefully.
As they walked away from the police station, Abigail observed: ‘Tailors use very large and very sharp shears.’
‘Yes, I was thinking the same,’ agreed Daniel. ‘We’ll have a word with Henry Nichols once we get his address from Sergeant Whetstone. In the meantime, there’s this mysterious butcher to find.’
‘Which is going to be like looking for a needle in a haystack,’ said Abigail. ‘There must be thousands of butchers in London.’
‘I think we’re looking for one based in Whitechapel,’ said Daniel. ‘Most working-class people stay where they were born and brought up.’
‘Like you, still in Camden Town,’ said Abigail with a smile.
‘Guilty,’ Daniel smiled back. ‘I suppose it’s where we feel safe. Surroundings we know. I suggest we have a word with our local butcher, Bob Bones. He knows most of the butchers because they all congregate at Smithfield to buy their meat. We can ask him to introduce us to butchers around twenty years old who come from Whitechapel.’
‘Yes, but before we do, I suggest we make contact with Ellen Sickert and let her know about Walter leaving for the Continent,’ said Abigail. ‘She’s as much our client as he is. More so, if she’s the one paying the bills.’
‘Yes, good point,’ said Daniel. He took the piece of paper that Sickert had given him from his pocket with the address of Ellen Sickert’s sister, Jane. ‘10 Hereford Square, Kensington,’ he said. He looked inquisitively at Abigail and asked: ‘Do you fancy taking the underground railway? It will get us all the way to Kensington and be quicker than getting a succession of buses, especially at this hour when the roads are packed.’
‘Yes,’ said Abigail. ‘It’s something I’ve been meaning to do since I moved to London, but somehow never managed.’ Suddenly her face lit up as she spotted a large sign over a series of open doorways, which bore the legend ‘Whitechapel and Mile End Station’. ‘We’re in luck, we’re right by the station.’ She smiled. ‘But then, you knew that already, which is why you suggested it.’
‘Not exactly,’ said Daniel. ‘Whitechapel and Mile End is on the District Railway Line, and all the changing at different stations we’d have to do can be a pain in the neck. It’ll be easier to walk to Aldgate and get a train there. Aldgate is on the Inner Circle Line, so we’ll just have to board one train and get off at South Kensington.’
A short while later they were walking down the stairs of Aldgate Station to the platforms.
‘It’s strange,’ mused Abigail, ‘as an archaeologist I spent so much of my time in tunnels inside the pyramids, but this is the first time I’ve tried it in London. If, as you say, it’s quicker, I’m surprised you haven’t suggested it before.’
‘I must admit, I prefer to be above ground,’ said Daniel. ‘And mostly you and I have been able to get wherever we wanted to by walking, or on a bus or a cab. But today, as we’re going from one side of London to the other, it seemed a good idea.’
‘I keep thinking of the underground railway as new, but it’s not, is it?’
‘It’s been around since 1863, when the world’s first ever underground railway opened. The Metropolitan Line between Paddington, or Bishops’ Road as it was called then, and Farringdon Street. It’s expanded since, and the District Railway Line opened in 1868. The line we’re taking, the Inner Circle Line, was finally operational in 1884, just thirteen years ago. The City and South London Railway opened in 1890, so it is relatively new, when compared to the above ground railways.’
Abigail looked up at the arched ceiling high above them.
‘The ceiling’s much higher than I expected it to be,’ she commented.
‘That’s so the smoke from the engine can rise up to the air vents and avoid suffocating the people on the platforms.’ There was a mechanical clanking sound from deep in the tunnel and the metal rails began to vibrate. ‘Here’s our train.’
The engine appeared, belching smoke, and pulled to a halt at the platform with a screech of brakes and a hiss of steam. There were three windowless wooden carriages. A guard stationed in each carriage opened the doors of his carriage to let the passengers off, and then Daniel and Abigail joined the waiting passengers in boarding. The carriages were narrow, with wooden slatted seats, and with gas lamps for lighting.
The guard pulled the door of their carriage shut and the train began to move, jolting and shaking on its way.
‘No windows,’ said Abigail as they took their seats.
‘That’s because otherwise the smoke from the engine would blow back and creep in through them. The City and South London Railway run electric trains to get away from the problem of smoke filling the tunnels. They say that one day the whole of the underground system will be electrified in some way, either by making an electric train, or electrifying the rails. Also, the rail company said that underground travellers don’t need windows as we’re in tunnels, so there’s nothing to see.’
‘Except when you come to a station,’ said Abigail. ‘How do you know where you’ve come to?’
Daniel gestured to where the guard sat beside the door of the carriage.
‘His job is to open and close the doors and shout the name of the station the train’s just arrived at.’
‘Say he gets it wrong?’
‘He won’t,’ said Daniel confidently. ‘They do this all the time, it becomes second nature to them.’
As if to prove his words they could feel the train slowing down, then pulling to a halt. The guard shouted ‘Tower Hill!’, and when the train pulled to a juddering halt he opened the carriage door.
In what seemed a surprisingly short time, they arrived at South Kensington Station.
‘I must admit, it’s quicker than by bus,’ said Abigail as they came out into the open air. ‘No traffic jams. No horses dropping dead in the road. I can see this as the way to travel across cities in the future.’
Hereford Square was an upmarket location made up of tall, four-storey houses built of white stone.
‘Very desirable residences,’ commented Abigail.
‘I did say that Ellen and her sister inherited a trust fund from their father,’ Daniel reminded her.
They went to Number 10 where a housekeeper opened the door to them, and after they’d given her their names, they were shown into a plain but expensively furnished drawing room, where they found Ellen Sickert sitting on a settee, with two other women in their thirties. One of the women rose to her feet and came towards them, a welcoming smile on her face.
‘Abigail!’ she beamed. She held out her hand. ‘How lovely to see you again after all this time.’
‘It is indeed,’ Abigail smiled in return as she shook Helena’s hand. She gestured towards Daniel. ‘Daniel, this is Helena Swanwick. We were at Girton together. Remember, I mentioned her to you?’
‘Walter Sickert’s sister,’ nodded Daniel. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Swanwick.’
‘You must be Daniel Wilson. The other half of the famous Museum Detectives,’ said Helena, amused, as they shook hands.
The other woman got up from the settee. ‘I’m Nellie’s sister, Jane,’ she introduced herself, but there was a wariness about her that echoed the decidedly cool reaction from the still seated Ellen Sickert as she looked at them, which was in stark contrast to the warm reception they’d received from Helena Swanwick.
Helena, suddenly contrite, gave Ellen Sickert a look of apology. ‘I’m so sorry, Nellie. These are your guests and I’m hogging them quite unfairly.’
Ellen Sickert regarded them warily.
‘I am assuming you have come with news of Walter?’ she said.
‘We have indeed,’ said Abigail. ‘He’s left the country, ostensibly for Venice, but in actuality he will be staying in Dieppe. He caught the boat train from Victoria earlier.’
‘I see,’ said Ellen Sickert, but her manner remained distant and aloof. ‘Was there a reason why Chief Superintendent Armstrong gave him permission to leave? I understood he had been told he had to remain in the country after the latest outrage.’
‘Something happened that persuaded the chief superintendent that it would be best for everyone if Mr Sickert was allowed to leave the country.’
‘What?’ asked Jane.
‘We were threatened,’ said Abigail.
‘Threatened?’ asked Helena, puzzled.
‘By two men who said we were interfering with their scheme to implicate Mr Sickert in the murders, and they wanted us to stop our investigation. The chief superintendent agreed that this shone a new light on the culprits and exonerated Mr Sickert.’
‘I would have thought that Walter would have called Nellie here to tell her this first, rather than rush off to the Continent,’ said Jane. ‘He could have left going until tomorrow.’
‘I’m sure that’s what he would have preferred to do, but we asked him to leave the country as a matter of urgency, and make sure his departure was noted in the press,’ said Daniel diplomatically.
‘Why?’ asked Ellen.
Daniel explained about the attack on him and the threats to Abigail. ‘It struck us that as long as Mr Sickert was still in the country there was a danger of the real culprits killing either Abigail, as they threatened, or some other unfortunate woman with the intention of your husband being blamed for it.’
Ellen Sickert sat down heavily on the sofa.
‘Thank you,’ she said, and for the first time her face softened as she looked at them. ‘For believing in him, and for persuading him to leave, for his own safety and that of others.’
‘It’s what he asked us to do,’ said Daniel.
‘Yes, but … I wasn’t sure of you at first,’ said Ellen. She got to her feet and walked towards them, and then – to their surprise – gave Abigail a hug of gratitude. ‘Thank you.’
‘We’ll leave you now with your family,’ said Daniel. ‘But, if we hear of anything new occurring, we’ll report to you.’
Ellen released Abigail and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘I haven’t even offered you tea,’ she said.
‘That’s not important,’ smiled Abigail. ‘We have another visit to make to check on something else that has arisen.’
‘You are continuing with the case, despite being threatened?’ asked Jane.
‘Abigail is not easily deflected,’ said Daniel.
Helena gave a light laugh. ‘No, indeed. I remember her at Girton flooring a member of the University rugby team with a right hook when he refused to stop his overzealous attentions to her.’
‘He was drunk,’ said Abigail. ‘Too drunk to listen to words and reason.’
As Daniel and Abigail made for the door, they were stopped by a call from Helena Swanwick: ‘One moment!’
They turned back to Helena as she said to Ellen: ‘I’ll be off as well, Nellie. This is an opportunity to catch up with Abigail. It’s been many years since we’ve seen one another, we lost touch after Girton. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Not at all,’ said Ellen. She turned to Abigail and Daniel and said with deep sincerity: ‘Once again, thank you both for everything.’
Outside in the street, Helena asked: ‘Where is your next port of call?’
‘Smithfield meat market,’ said Daniel.
‘In that case, I won’t join you,’ said Helena. ‘Though I wanted to talk to you about Walter.’ She gave a sigh. ‘The reason I came to see Nellie was because Walter asked me to. He begged me to entreat Nellie not to divorce him.’
‘You’re aware of that?’ asked Abigail.
‘Everyone who knows them is aware,’ said Helena with a sigh. ‘The sad thing is that Walter is not the bad person people think he is. Most of it’s bravado. He’s actually a kind person.’
‘Kind?’
‘He’d never hurt anyone. Not intentionally.’
‘But unintentionally. Can you think of anyone who would feel so much anger at him they’d go to these terrible lengths to implicate him as a murderer?’
Helena hesitated, then said: ‘There was a situation about a year ago. Edmund Heppenstall, a well-known surgeon, commissioned Walter to paint a portrait of his wife, Catherine, and – unfortunately – things went further than they should have.’
‘He seduced her?’
‘The rumour was that it was she who seduced Walter.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought she found that too difficult,’ commented Abigail.
‘True,’ Helena admitted sadly.
‘What happened? Did Mr Heppenstall divorce her?’
‘No. She left.’
‘Left?’
‘She just left one day and never returned. Whether it was because he’d got angry and was violent to her in some way, although I think that unlikely. Mr Heppenstall was one of the gentlest of men, his patients considered him almost a saint. I can’t imagine him striking anyone, certainly not his wife.’
‘Where did she go?’
‘No one knows. She just vanished.’
‘And there’s been no trace of her?’
‘None.’
‘Did she have family somewhere?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Helena.
‘How long had she and Mr Heppenstall been married?’
‘About two years.’
‘Did you ever meet her?’
‘Yes. I visited Walter at his studio, and he was doing some studies of her.’ She frowned, thoughtfully, then said: ‘I think Walter said she was originally from Clapham. She was a singer. I understand Mr Heppenstall had met her when he went to a cabaret where she was appearing, and she gave up her idea of a career and settled down with him.’
‘How old was she?’
‘Young. In her twenties. Younger than Mr Heppenstall, who’s in his fifties.’
‘Did Mr Heppenstall make any attempt to trace her?’
‘Not to my knowledge. All I know is there was a scandal and Walter did what he always does, he ran away. I believe he went to Dieppe. I imagine you already know he has a place there.’
‘Indeed,’ nodded Abigail.
Helena reached into her handbag and produced a pasteboard calling card, which she handed to Abigail. ‘Please take this. It’s my address. I know you’re working for Nellie and reporting to her, but if anything comes up that you think I can help with, do get in touch with me. I’m absolutely sure Walter didn’t do these murders.’
‘We don’t believe he did, either,’ said Abigail. ‘Our job now is to prove it by catching the real murderer.’