When Bob Bones dropped Daniel and Abigail off at home, they were both fast asleep within minutes of them falling into bed; but not before Daniel managed to murmur ‘I love you, Abigail’, and Abigail responded with, ‘I know, but not tonight, Daniel.’
The sun was streaming in through the gap in their bedroom curtains when they awoke, and as Daniel started to get out of bed to go downstairs and put the kettle on the range for tea, Abigail reached out and pulled him back. She pulled his head down to hers and kissed him.
‘Now,’ she whispered, ‘I can enjoy it.’
Chief Superintendent Armstrong was waiting impatiently for John Feather when the inspector arrived for work at Scotland Yard. ‘Well?’ he asked. ‘Did you get Sickert’s address in Dieppe?’
Feather nodded and took a piece of paper from his pocket, which he passed to the chief superintendent.
‘I must admit, I thought you might have difficulty in getting her to give it to you,’ he said.
‘Initially she wasn’t going to, but when I arranged for a constable to be on guard overnight outside her sister’s house where she’s staying, she relented.’
‘A guard?’ asked Armstrong, bewildered. ‘Why did you do that?’
‘Because she and her sister are both concerned,’ explained Feather. ‘Two women who used to model for Walter Sickert have been killed, then his drinking companion is also murdered at his studio. They wonder if they might be next.’
‘Yes, that’s a good point,’ mused Armstrong. ‘Well done, Inspector.’ He looked at the address in Dieppe on the piece of paper. ‘And now we know where to get hold of him, if needed. It might even be worth getting in touch with the French police in Dieppe and asking them to keep an eye on him. Do we have anyone in the squad who can write in French?’
When Daniel and Abigail came downstairs they found an envelope on their doormat.
‘It’s from Sergeant Whetstone,’ said Daniel, opening it. ‘The address of the tailors in Bethnal Green where Henry Nichols works.’
‘So that’s our next port of call,’ said Abigail.
‘No, first I think we go to check out Sickert’s studio at Robert Street, the scene of the crime, so we can return the keys to John Feather. At the same time, we can tell him about Karl Ramsden and Joe the butcher. Then we’ll go to Bethnal Green.’
Sickert’s studio in Robert Street was on the third floor of the tall, narrow building.
‘It’s similar to the one he had in South Hampstead,’ commented Daniel as they unlocked the door of the studio and entered.
There was a strong smell of turpentine mixed with oil paints. Two skylights in the ceiling let in daylight. There were two easels in the studio, each with unfinished paintings on them. One seemed to be of a man sitting at a table with a pint of beer in front of him; the other of a woman bathed in stage lights, her arms aloft as if she was singing out loud.
‘I may not like him, but even at these stages, he’s got talent,’ conceded Abigail.
‘Fortunately, the cleaner hasn’t got around to mopping up the blood,’ said Daniel. ‘Maybe she decided she didn’t want to,’ said Abigail. ‘At least, not until she’d arranged for extra payment with the landlord.’
Careful to avoid the patch of blood that had spread across the wooden floor, Daniel took his magnifying glass from his pocket and knelt down to examine the floor. Very slowly, he worked his way from the patch of blood towards the door. Suddenly he stopped.
‘There’s part of a boot print here,’ he said. ‘It’s just one part of the boot, where the killer must have trodden in the blood.’
‘You sure it’s a boot and not a shoe?’ asked Abigail.
‘See for yourself,’ said Daniel, offering her the magnifying glass.
She took it from him and looked through it at the red-brown smudge. Yes, there was a clear tread of a boot in the blood, rather than the smooth flat surface to be expected from the sole of a shoe. She peered closer.
‘What have you seen?’ asked Daniel.
She got up and handed the glass back to Daniel. ‘There’s a speck of something stuck in the boot print.’
‘Yes, I see it,’ said Daniel. He took a penknife from his pocket and gently teased the speck out of the blood and examined it closer.
‘Have you got a piece of clean paper?’ he asked.
Abigail took a notepad from her bag and tore a sheet off.
‘Make a kind of envelope from it,’ said Daniel.
When Abigail had done that, Daniel dropped the bloodstained speck inside it, closed it and put it safely in his inside pocket.
‘What do you think it is?’ asked Abigail.
‘I think it’s sawdust,’ said Daniel. ‘But I need to check.’
‘The man who attacked you?’ said Abigail. ‘The butcher?’
‘We need to get it looked at under a microscope,’ said Daniel. ‘But not just anyone. We need someone who knows how to identify what this is.’
‘We need Sherlock Holmes,’ smiled Abigail.
‘That’s an idea,’ said Daniel.
‘That was a joke,’ said Abigail.
‘I know, but your friend, Mr Conan Doyle, must have based Holmes’s scientific work on something. I remember there was talk of creating a science lab at Scotland Yard to do exactly that sort of thing. We’ll have a talk to John Feather and see if there’s been anything like that set up. If so, we’ll get them to look at it.’
John Feather was in his office, along with Sergeant Cribbens, when they arrived at Scotland Yard. Cribbens had his faithful pipe going, which gave off a thick, foul-smelling smog, and the sergeant was quick to open the window when he saw the expression of distaste on Abigail’s face.
‘Sorry about that, Miss Fenton,’ he apologised. ‘It’s my one pleasure, but I’ll let it go out while you’re here.’
‘No, no,’ said Abigail. ‘This is your office, Sergeant, as well as the inspector’s. It would be impolite of me to expect that.’
‘Thank you, miss, but allow me to do it. I can soon get it going again after you’ve gone.’
‘Unfortunately,’ muttered Feather under his breath. Then he smiled at Cribbens. ‘Only joking, Sergeant.’
Daniel took the keys to the Robert Street address from his pocket and put them on Feather’s desk.
‘Here you are, John.’
‘What did you find?’ asked Feather, putting the keys into his desk drawer.
‘You remember we told you about the man who attacked me, and I said I had the idea he was a butcher in his late teens or early twenties?’
Feather nodded. ‘You were going to Smithfield at some unearthly hour this morning to check out young butchers.’
‘And we did, and I think I may have spotted him. Or, rather, he saw me and hurried off very quickly.’
‘Did you find out who he was?’
‘According to the butcher on whose stall he was working, a man called Karl Ramsden, he was just some occasional casual worker called Joe. Ramsden said he didn’t know where he lived or anything about him.’
‘That sounds like this Ramsden is protecting him.’
‘My thought exactly,’ agreed Daniel. He produced the handmade envelope with the blood sample inside it and put it on the inspector’s desk. ‘While we were at the studio, I found something in a bloodstained boot print.’
Feather opened the envelope and peered inside. ‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘I think it might be sawdust.’
‘Your butcher again.’
‘Possibly. If so, this could be the man who killed O’Tool, and also possibly Anne-Marie Dresser and Kate Branson. This Joe character is about twenty, and he’s from Whitechapel, as is Ramsden, which fits with my theory that the killer may have been a child of one of the Ripper’s original victims. I don’t think Abigail and I will get anywhere with Ramsden, we have no official authority to demand anything. But you can. And if this Joe character is the murderer, you and Armstrong will get the credit for catching the killer.’
‘Yes, I can see the chief super going for this,’ said Feather.
‘One thing I didn’t mention before,’ added Daniel. ‘If you find this Joe, take a look at his left wrist. The man who attacked me had a tattoo in blue on his left wrist, with a capital L as part of it.’
Feather picked up the envelope and peered inside at the speck in the dried blood inside it.
‘The reason I brought it in is because I wondered if anything ever happened about that idea for a science lab here,’ said Daniel.
Feather looked at him and smiled. ‘Have you been listening at doors?’
‘No.’
‘I ask because just two weeks ago such a science laboratory was imposed upon us.’
‘How?’ asked Daniel. ‘I have to say I’m delighted, but I thought there was a great deal of resistance to the idea from the senior people here.’
‘There still is, but the commissioner was pressurised by the home secretary. Evidence now has to be examined scientifically.’
‘The home secretary’s been reading Sherlock Holmes stories,’ said Abigail, amused.
‘You may be more right than you think,’ said Feather. ‘As you can imagine, the chief super wasn’t happy when he was told. As far as he’s concerned, all this newfangled stuff takes money away from what he calls “real policing”.’
‘I’d hardly call science newfangled,’ observed Abigail. ‘Leonardo da Vinci was carrying out experiments on carcasses hundreds of years ago. And look at the work of Joseph Lister. It’s all investigative science.’
‘That’s what the new man says, Dr Robert Snow.’
‘Doctor?’ queried Daniel.
‘Yes, he’s a fully qualified doctor, but he decided he wanted to use his scientific skills to solve crimes rather than treating patients.’ Feather smiled. ‘It helps that he’s also a nephew of the home secretary, so regardless of what Armstrong feels about it, the science laboratory looks here to stay.’ He made for the door. ‘If you come with me, I’ll introduce you to him and we’ll see what he makes of this. Hold the fort, Sergeant. If anyone wants me, I’ll be with Dr Snow.’
‘Right-ho, sir,’ said Cribbens, and he picked up his pipe from the ashtray where he’d deposited it and began to blow life into the still-glowing embers.
Dr Robert Snow was a short, thickset man in his late twenties with a mass of unruly ginger hair. The science laboratory was actually a small former storage room in the basement of Scotland Yard whose shelves were now packed with different sorts of chemicals in jars. On a bench were two microscopes, a Bunsen burner, glass retorts and other pieces of equipment more usually found in a chemist’s laboratory. Snow greeted Daniel and Abigail with a broad smile of welcome and firm handshakes.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘I’ve read about your work as the Museum Detectives and your analytical processes. I suppose yours comes from exploring the mysteries of the pyramids, Miss Fenton, and making calculated deductions from the evidence you find.’
‘I think you give me too much credit, Doctor Snow,’ said Abigail. ‘All archaeological expeditions are team efforts where we pool our thoughts.’
‘But it’s the expedition leader who has the final say, I believe. And that will be you on your forthcoming trip with Conan Doyle to Egypt.’
Abigail shot an accusing look at Feather, who gave her an apologetic smile.
‘I couldn’t resist boasting about it,’ he said. ‘I understand a woman leading such an expedition is a first.’
‘Almost a first,’ Abigail corrected him. ‘There have been one or two before me.’
‘But I’m guessing you haven’t come down here to discuss Egyptology,’ said Snow quizzically.
‘No,’ said Abigail. ‘Mr Wilson has a sample from a crime scene.’
‘It’s a speck of something that was in a bloodstained boot print,’ said Daniel, offering the handmade envelope to Snow. ‘I’d like to know what it is. I think it might be—’
Snow held up his hand to stop him.
‘No,’ he said. ‘If you tell me what you think it is I might be unconsciously influenced to reach that same conclusion. Leave it with me and I’ll report back.’
‘When?’ asked Feather.
‘Later today,’ said Snow. ‘First, I need to leave it to soak in a solution to separate it from the blood.’ He opened the envelope and peered at the contents. ‘Excellent!’ he said happily. ‘Real work. So far, most people here at Scotland Yard seem reluctant to involve me in their investigations.’
‘It’s early days,’ said Feather. ‘And once you’ve identified this, who knows – that might influence others to bring you their evidence to be examined.’
Daniel, Abigail and Feather left Dr Snow dealing with the blood-clotted speck.
‘He’s not going to find it easy,’ said Daniel as they walked along the basement corridor. ‘Remember, I worked for the Metropolitan Police, I know how hard it can be to introduce new ways of thinking here at Scotland Yard. He’s lucky he’s got you on his side, John.’ He gestured at the sign that said: ‘Mortuary’. ‘While we’re here …’
‘I know, Edwin O’Tool’s body. Let’s hope that the chief superintendent doesn’t waltz in while we’re there.’
‘Is he in the building?’
‘I believe he has a meeting with the police commissioner and the home secretary at the Houses of Parliament,’ said Feather. ‘They’re both on edge about these murders. I believe the home secretary is on the Board of Trustees of the National Gallery.’
‘So, more pressure from the top,’ said Daniel wryly.
They reached the mortuary and went in. Feather asked for the body of Edwin O’Tool to be brought out for them. The mortuary attendant, a man in his early sixties, looked with doubt at Abigail, and then turned to Feather.
‘This is a woman,’ he said.
‘A woman who has seen many dead bodies before,’ said Feather. ‘And many of them in a far worse condition than the late Mr O’Tool.’
Reluctantly, the attendant led them to a table where a cadaver was laid out on a table, covered with a cloth. The attendant lifted the cloth away from the face and peeled it down to the middle of the dead man’s chest. He then shot a challenging look at Feather and Abigail, prepared to resist removing the cloth completely and exposing the man’s genitals. Daniel, Feather and Abigail ignored his looks and concentrated on the wound in O’Tool’s neck.
‘It’s a deep cut done with some force,’ said Daniel. ‘It’s gone through the jugular vein and the carotid artery.’ He leant forward and examined the wound closer. ‘It’s a straight edge, not serrated. A long narrow blade. Very sharp.’
Feather nodded. ‘Your butcher again, do you think?’
‘Possibly,’ said Daniel. He looked at the waiting attendant. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
The attendant, still with an expression of disapproval on his face, looked at Feather, who nodded, and the attendant replaced the cloth over the dead man.
They left the mortuary and Abigail commented: ‘He’s not very fond of having women in his territory, is he?’
‘As we said about Dr Snow, some attitudes can be hard to break down. Where are you off to next?’
‘Bethnal Green. One of the sons of one of the original Ripper’s victims is working for a tailor there.’
‘You still think one of their children might be responsible? As with this butcher of yours?’
‘It’s a possibility,’ said Daniel.
‘And tailors use very sharp shears,’ added Abigail.
‘By the way, I put a guard on Jane Cobden’s house last night after I visited Ellen Sickert there,’ said Feather.
‘Why?’ asked Daniel, puzzled. ‘Has something happened?’
‘Two women dead, both of whom were models for Walter Sickert. A friend of Sickert’s has his throat cut in Sickert’s studio. The two women were both concerned that whoever’s behind it is targeting people close to Sickert, and there’s none closer than they.’
‘You really think they’re in danger?’ asked Abigail, alarmed.
‘I hope not, but they believe they might be,’ said Feather. ‘And that’s what matters.’