Stanford Beckett arrived for his day’s work at the National Gallery just after nine o’clock to find his chief security guard, Ian Millen, waiting for him in the reception lobby, looking so agitated that alarm signals sounded in Beckett’s head.
‘What’s the matter, Ian?’ he asked.
‘I’m afraid there’s been a tragedy here during the night, Mr Beckett,’ said Millen.
Beckett stared at him, horrifying images filling his mind as he asked: ‘Not another murder?’
‘No, sir, but almost as bad.’ He walked off, Beckett following him, dreading what he was about to see.
Millen went through into the modern British gallery and stopped in front of Sickert’s portrait of Anne-Marie Dresser.
‘There, sir,’ he said.
Beckett gasped in horror. The canvas had been slashed with what appeared to be a sharp knife and the image of Anne-Marie hung down in shreds.
‘My God!’ he burst out.
‘I didn’t know whether I should call the police, but I decided to wait for you to arrive.’
‘No police,’ said Beckett firmly. ‘We’ve already had enough bad publicity with these dreadful murders, I’m surprised the public keep coming.’
‘It’s the ghoulish side of them, in my opinion, sir. They want to see the spot where the bodies were put.’
‘Yes, but this happened inside the gallery. Can you imagine how people will react if they feel there’s a knife-wielding madman at large inside the gallery? No one will come!’
‘What do you want me to do, sir?’
‘Send a messenger to my office. I’ll write a note to Mr Wilson and Miss Fenton and he can take it to their address. In the meantime, remove the damaged painting and take it to my office, and clean up the area here. When that’s done, we’ll open to the public as normal. But no word about this must get out, is that understood?’
Frederick and Emma Abberline lived at 41 Mayflower Road, Clapham. Daniel remembered the house from the times he and his then chief inspector had shared a cab or a police van heading back to Whitechapel during the Ripper investigations. Now, as their bus rolled along Stockwell Road, he and Abigail were on the final leg of their convoluted three-bus journey to his old boss’s home.
‘How long is it since you’ve seen Abberline?’ asked Abigail.
‘Five years ago. 1892, when he retired from the police force.’
‘And you’ve not seen him since, even though he’s just across the river from you?’
‘No. Like I told Sergeant Whetstone, at first I got the impression Fred was happy to stay away from police business, and what else was I going to talk to him about if I called on him? And we were never great social people with one another, not like some coppers who spend all their time with one another.’
‘What was he like? As a boss?’
‘Excellent. Intelligent. Honest. He was a teacher as well as a detective. He taught us how to look at things, at the whole picture, not just small parts. The police force would have been a better organisation if he’d been given the promotion he merited. He did make chief inspector, but he deserved chief superintendent, or higher.’
‘What’s his wife like?’
‘Emma? Very nice. They always seemed to me to be a very devoted couple. She’s actually his second wife.’
‘What happened to his first wife?’
‘Martha. She died in 1868, just two months after they married.’
‘Two months!’
‘He mentioned it to me only once, so it’s not something we talked about. He and Emma married in 1876, so they’ve been together a good many years now.’
Inspector Feather left the local constable on duty outside the butcher’s shop in Whitechapel, while he walked in to talk to Karl Ramsden. The five customers waiting in the shop took one look at Feather before exchanging glances and mouthing the word ‘copper’ silently at one another. Two of the men waiting immediately left the shop. The middle-aged man behind the counter wearing a long white coat spotted Feather and gestured for him to come to the front of the waiting customers.
‘Copper, eh,’ he grunted.
Feather produced his warrant card and held it out to the butcher.
‘Inspector Feather from Scotland Yard,’ he said. ‘Are you Karl Ramsden?’
‘I am,’ said Ramsden.
‘I believe you have a butcher who works for you called Joe. About twenty years old.’
‘Who says I have?’ demanded Ramsden.
Sensing trouble, the remaining three customers made their way out of the shop and into the street, though Feather noticed they didn’t go far but congregated on the pavement. Feather gave the butcher a steely look.
‘Mr Ramsden, we can do this the easy way, or we can do it the hard way. The hard way is where I take you to Scotland Yard for questioning, and I have your shop locked up while you’re there. And there’s no way of knowing how long that could be. An hour. A day. Two days. Or the easy way is where you answer my questions straightforwardly, and I go away and leave you alone. The choice is up to you.’
The rattled and unhappy Ramsden studied the inspector.
‘What’s all this about?’ he asked plaintively. ‘What’s so important that you threaten my livelihood?’
‘We’re investigating a murder,’ said Feather. ‘Two murders, in fact.’
The butcher stared at him, shocked. ‘Not those women at the National Gallery?’
‘At the moment we’re just following some enquiries, talking to people.’
‘Not Joe!’ burst out Ramsden passionately. ‘He couldn’t do a terrible thing like that. He’s a nice bloke. A good family man. Married, and proper. Two lovely kids him and his missus have got.’
‘I’m not saying he’s guilty of anything. We just want to talk to him. So he does work for you?’
‘Only casual, like – some nights when we’re at Smithfield. He comes and gives me a hand. He’s got his own job the rest of the time.’
‘Where?’
Ramsden hesitated, then said reluctantly: ‘Higgins butchers in Cable Street.’
‘And what’s Joe’s surname?’
‘Wallace,’ muttered Ramsden.
‘Next, do you have an address for him?’
‘Number 10, Nelson Place,’ said Ramsden, even more reluctantly. ‘It’s one of the turnings off the Commercial Road.’
‘Thank you, Mr Ramsden,’ said Feather. ‘One last question, does he have a tattoo on his left wrist?’
Ramsden shrugged.
‘No idea,’ he said. ‘I don’t pay him that much attention. Just so long as he works hard. Which he does.’
Walter Sickert sat on the sea wall overlooking Dieppe’s pebbled beach. Beyond the beach was the Channel, and beyond that, England. He read Ellen’s recently arrived letter through again. Edwin O’Tool dead, killed in his studio. And now there was a police guard on Jane’s house in Kensington. Sickert shuddered. Whoever had killed Anne-Marie, Kate and poor Edwin was now after them. And therefore, it followed logically, Sickert himself. He was the one person that connected the other victims, and the potential victims.
Why? Who was doing this? Who hated him so much to want to destroy everyone in Sickert’s life, the people that he cared for and was close to? And when would they come for him? After they’d killed Ellen and Jane, and heaven knows who else?
When he’d stood on the platform at Victoria, he’d announced that he was heading for Venice. Was that where his would-be assassins were at this moment? Searching for him to dispose of his body in the maze of canals?
Or were they here in Dieppe? Had they followed him? Were they watching him even now, waiting for the moment to strike?
Nervously he looked at the people on the beach, families with children playing, a group of men playing boules. Were those men really playing boules – or, more precisely, pétanque, in which the balls were thrown, as opposed to bocce, the other version of boules, where they were rolled? The men looked genuine enough, typical Normandy peasants and fishermen. Or were they using the game as a way of keeping watch on him?
He put Ellen’s letter back in the envelope, got up and began to walk back into the town towards the small house and studio he kept there. He threw a quick glance over his shoulder. The men seemed intent on their game of pétanque, no one seemed to be following him. But then again, they didn’t need to. Most people here in Dieppe knew him by sight, and they knew where he lived.
I need to move, he decided. But where?
Neither Abberline nor Emma had changed much in the five years since Daniel had last set eyes on them. Abberline, now in his mid-fifties, still sported his familiar moustache that curled along his cheeks to join his bushy sideburns, giving him a sporting air.
Emma had grown slightly plumper since Daniel had last seen her, but she still seemed to have the same happy air about her.
Daniel and Abberline shook hands, and Emma gave Daniel a peck on the cheek, before giving Abigail a hug of welcome and shepherding them into the front parlour, where they settled themselves down on the comfortable, florally cushioned armchairs.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Fenton,’ smiled Abberline.
‘Call me Abigail, please. Daniel’s told me so much about you I feel I already know you.’
‘Abigail,’ nodded Abberline. ‘I’m referring particularly to your work in Egypt. The pyramids and that. It was Emma who spotted an article about you in one of her magazines.’
‘It had photographs of you at some of these places. In one of them you were holding a shovel.’
‘They don’t call them digs for nothing,’ smiled Abigail.
‘So you do the work as well?’ asked Abberline. ‘You don’t just give orders?’
‘The only way to find out things is to get your hands dirty,’ said Abigail.
‘Sounds like life in the police force,’ chuckled Abberline. ‘Right, Daniel?’
‘But in a much hotter climate. Abigail’s off to Egypt again in a few months. This time she’s actually leading the expedition. It’s being set up by Arthur Conan Doyle.’
‘The Sherlock Holmes man?’ Abberline looked at Abigail, impressed. ‘You certainly move in exalted company, Abigail.’ He turned to Daniel. ‘As I said, in a way I was half-expecting you to get in touch, once the newspapers said you were looking into the murders for the National Gallery.’ He chuckled. ‘I bet that upset old Armstrong.’
‘Everything we do seems to upset him,’ said Daniel ruefully. ‘What I wanted to ask you about were the original Ripper’s victims.’
‘You know their names as well as I do, Daniel.’ He ticked them off on his fingers. ‘Mary Ann Nichols. Annie Chapman. Elizabeth Stride. Catherine Eddowes. Mary Jane Kelly.’
‘What I’m looking for is if any of them had nephews or cousins or any family who were children at the time who might have gone into the butchery trade.’
‘Butchery?’
Daniel nodded.
‘We’ve got a lead that our suspect may be a butcher. Aged about twenty. And I think he might have been connected to one of the original victims in 1888. Which would make him about ten when the original murders happened.’
‘A butcher,’ said Abberline thoughtfully. ‘None of the five women who were murdered had anyone in their family in the butcher trade, as far as I know. And you know, Daniel, that in working-class areas, kids tend to follow their parents into whatever trade they’re in.’ He gave a grin. ‘Whether it’s legal or not. Pickpockets. Burglars. Sons learning the trade from their dads and uncles, same as if it was butchery or driving a wagon.’
‘The other lead we had was with the second victim.’
‘Kate Branson,’ nodded Abberline. He smiled when he saw their expressions of surprise. ‘Like I said, I’ve been following the case in the papers. Anne-Marie Dresser the first one, Kate Branson the next. Both prostitutes?’
‘Yes, although they also worked as models for artists, notably for Sickert. The thing is that Kate Branson seemed to have one particular client who she called “the rich toff”. He used to pick her up at Charing Cross in his carriage and then just talk to her, nothing more. But he still paid.’
‘Different people have different needs,’ commented Abberline. ‘You know that, Daniel, from talking to people during the Ripper investigation.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘So you’re looking at the sons of the Ripper’s victims, that one of them may be behind these latest killings. Why?’
‘It’s because of Sickert. There’s feeling in Whitechapel that Sickert, along with Sir William Gull and the prince were the ones who did the killings, but that they got let off because of who they were. Now it’s just talk on the street …’
‘But talk on the street carries weight,’ finished Abberline. ‘More weight than whatever facts may have been.’
‘Perhaps one of them wants revenge now he’s older. Gull and the prince are dead but Sickert’s still alive. Everything so far looks as if whoever’s doing it is trying to frame Sickert. We’ve looked at the children of the victims, and so far none of them fit. Which is why we’re looking at relatives.’
Suddenly, Abigail asked: ‘Were there any other victims apart from the five that were reported? Women who were killed around the same time who might have been Ripper victims, but weren’t listed as such.’
Abberline looked at her with new admiration, then at Daniel.
‘That’s good thinking,’ he said. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t think of that, Daniel.’
Daniel looked uncomfortable at this, and Abigail said smoothly: ‘I’m sure Daniel has, he just hadn’t said it yet.’
Abberline chuckled. ‘No, I know Daniel. You were ahead of him in that thought, Abigail. There were other women who disappeared about that time, or were killed – but not mutilated in the same awful way – that some people said the Ripper was responsible for as well. But because the injuries were very different, sometimes just a cut throat or a battering, they weren’t included.’ He sat in thought for a moment, then asked Daniel: ‘Did you keep your old notebooks?’
‘I did,’ said Daniel.
‘So did I,’ said Abberline.
Abberline got up and headed out of the room.
Higgins’ butchers in Cable Street had the same smell about it and the same sawdust spread over the floor as Ramsden’s. It also had the same sort of customers, who looked warily askance when Inspector Feather entered, and two of the men waiting decided to leave.
I don’t think I look like a copper, thought Feather. I’m in plain clothes, but somehow they know.
There were two butchers behind the counter, a middle-aged stout man with a bald head and ginger mutton-chop whiskers, and a younger and slimmer version of the same, down to the ginger mutton-chop whiskers. Father and son, thought Feather. The older man gestured for Feather to come forward to one side of the counter, keen to get rid of him.
‘Inspector Feather from Scotland Yard,’ he introduced himself, showing his warrant card. ‘I’m looking for Joe Wallace, who I believe works for you.’
‘He does, but he didn’t turn up this morning. Nor yesterday. He must be sick.’
‘Does he often not turn up?’ asked Feather.
‘No. He’s usually reliable. Like I said, I can only think he’s sick.’
‘No word from his family?’
‘No.’
‘Well, if he comes in, will you give him this and ask him to get in touch with me?’ And Feather handed over a card with his details on.
Higgins nodded and put the card in a drawer below the counter. All eyes followed the inspector as he walked out of the shop.
‘No luck, sir?’ asked the constable waiting outside.
‘No,’ said Feather. ‘Not that I expected him to come out if he was there, I just wanted to see what the reaction was.’
‘D’you think he was hiding out the back?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘Do you want me to go round the back and take a look?’
Feather shook his head.
‘No, it’s enough to let him know we’re looking for him. Next, we’ll go to his home and stir things up there. Once he realises we’re looking to flush him out, he’ll have to make a bolt for it.’
Abberline returned carrying two notebooks.
‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘The key ones from 1888. You can borrow them, but promise me you’ll send them back when you’ve finished.’
‘I promise,’ said Daniel, and he carefully placed a book in each of the big pockets of his coat. ‘By the way, do you know a Catherine Heppenstall? We heard she came from Clapham.’
‘As a matter of fact, we do,’ said Abberline. ‘Although Emma knows more about her than me.’
‘Catherine Watts, as she was,’ nodded Emma. ‘Not that we actually know her. More like we know of her. She was a well-known performer here, and when she married Mr Heppenstall it was big news in the local paper. Clapham singer marries top London surgeon.’
‘Did you know they’d parted?’
Emma looked shocked. ‘No. Why?’
‘Apparently Mr Heppenstall discovered that Catherine had a romantic entanglement with Walter Sickert.’
‘The painter again,’ murmured Abberline.
‘The very same. We were wondering what happened to her. If she returned to this area.’
Emma shook her head. ‘Not that I heard of, and if she had come back people would have known about it. She wasn’t one for hiding her light under a bushel.’
Abberline looked at Daniel and Abigail and asked: ‘Do you think something’s happened to her?’
‘We don’t know,’ said Daniel carefully. ‘We’d just like to know where she is.’
‘Perhaps her family knows,’ said Emma. ‘They still live in Clapham. Not that I know them,’ she added hastily. ‘But I know where they live. When Catherine married Mr Heppenstall, they put her family’s address in the article.’ She got up. ‘I’ve still got the paper somewhere. I used it to line the larder shelves.’
She bustled out of the room.
‘Are you thinking Mr Heppenstall may have … done something to her?’ Abberline asked. ‘And then killed these women to frame Sickert for the affair with his wife?’
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Daniel. ‘It would help if we could find out if Catherine Heppenstall was still alive.’
‘One thing intrigued me when I was reading about the case,’ said Abberline. ‘First, Sickert gets arrested, then he’s freed. Then the latest I read, he’s off to Venice.’ He looked at Daniel inquisitively. ‘I sense Armstrong’s hand in all this. What’s he up to?’
‘It wasn’t all Armstrong’s doing,’ explained Daniel. ‘Yes, arresting Sickert after the first woman was killed was his doing, but then he had to let him go. He wanted to keep him in England after the second woman was murdered, but then something happened to change it all.’
Emma Abberline re-entered, holding a page from the local newspaper. ‘Here it is,’ she said, handing the page to Daniel. ‘That’s their address there. Pulver Street. Fred can give you directions, if you wanted to talk to them.’
‘Yes, I think that’s a good idea,’ said Daniel. ‘Thank you.’
‘You were saying that Armstrong wanted to keep Sickert in England, but then something happened to change that,’ said Abberline, intrigued.
‘Daniel was attacked,’ said Abigail.
‘Attacked?’ echoed Emma, shocked.
Daniel told them about the attack on him, and the threat to Abigail. ‘So it seemed to me the best way to ensure Abigail’s safety was to get Sickert out of the country.’
‘Yes, clever thinking,’ nodded Abberline in approval. ‘If he’s not here, they wouldn’t kill any more women thinking they could frame him for them.’ He smiled at his wife. ‘I told you Daniel was a clever one, Em.’
‘You’re living very dangerously, with some very dangerous people,’ commented Emma, concerned.
‘It goes with the job,’ said Abigail, trying to appear casual.
‘It may do, but that’s why we didn’t have women detectives in the police,’ said Abberline.
‘Do you ever miss it?’ asked Daniel. ‘The job?’
‘I do, but I don’t miss the Yard and all the politics,’ said Abberline. ‘That Cleveland Street business did it for me, the people at the top protecting their own.’
‘Have you ever thought of setting up on your own?’ asked Abigail. ‘Like Daniel and I?’
Abberline looked at Emma, and when she gave a shrug and a nod, he turned back to them, lowering his voice to a whisper as he said, ‘It’s funny you should mention that, because recently I’ve been approached by a private firm about working for them.’
‘Oh? Who?’
Abberline smiled. ‘I shouldn’t say, but I think I can trust you to keep it to yourselves. They’re quite a large outfit.’ He gave a proud smile as he whispered: ‘Pinkertons.’
‘Pinkertons,’ whispered Daniel in awe, forcing himself not to utter the famous name out loud. ‘My God, Fred, they’re the biggest there is!’
Abigail looked puzzled.
‘Who are Pinkertons?’ she asked.
‘Surely you’ve heard of Pinkertons?’ said Daniel, shocked.
‘No,’ she said. ‘We’ve never come across them in our investigations.’
‘That’s because our investigations were in Britain,’ Daniel explained. ‘The Pinkerton Agency are American. They first came to fame protecting Abraham Lincoln.’
‘Not very successfully,’ observed Abigail.
‘Pinkertons weren’t looking out for him when he was assassinated,’ said Abberline. ‘And they’re not just big in America. They’re in continental Europe. Australia. They’ll be here soon, you mark my words.’
Walter Sickert sipped at his brandy as he contemplated his half-completed letter to Ellen. What could he say? That he was sorry? He’d said that already; too often, he admitted regretfully. He’d heard nothing from his sister, Helena, which was ominous, suggesting that Helena’s appeals to Ellen not to go ahead with the divorce had been unsuccessful.
He looked around the small bar. The rest of the clientele seemed to consist of rough-looking men, fishermen and farmers. Most of them ignored him, he was a familiar figure in here, but he noticed that three men sitting at a table on the other side of the bar were watching him, and their expressions were not friendly. In fact, they were looking at him with serious hostility, and muttering in low tones – presumably about him.
Fear struck him. Were they here to kill him, as Anne-Marie, Kate and Edwin had been killed? Their faces gave them away as being Normandy locals, but what was to say that they hadn’t been contacted by someone from London and hired to kill him? Sickert had noticed a few English in Dieppe these last few days. Perhaps one of them had been the messenger of evil intent. Money had changed hands and now these three men were here, watching him, waiting to make their move.
Sickert put his half-finished letter back inside his pocket, drained the last of his brandy, rose and made for the door to the street. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the three men also get to their feet. Yes, they were definitely coming after him.
As soon as he was outside, he quickened his pace, half-walking, half-running. The police station, he decided. It was only a small local commissariat, but he would be safe there. Fortunately, over the many years he’d been coming to France he’d learnt to speak and understand the language, although the dialect of Normandy was different from Parisian French. He’d tell the local gendarmerie that three men were after him with murderous intent and he needed protection. The police might even be able to force the men to tell them who had hired them, and he’d be able to pass this back to London, and the police would be able to arrest the people behind them, who obviously were also behind the killings of Anne-Marie, Kate and Edwin.
Suddenly he heard the sound of running boots on the cobbled road surface behind him, and he shot a quick glance over his shoulder and was terrified to see two of the men from the bar closing on him, one a large, burly, bearded man, the other small and wiry.
His chest hurting with running, Sickert desperately tried to accelerate away from them. He wasn’t far from the police station now, if he could just reach it and stagger in through the door …
Suddenly another man appeared in front of him, emerging from a narrow lane to his left. It was the third man from the bar, and as Sickert tried to dodge past him the man’s fist lashed out and crashed into Sickert’s face, sending him tumbling to the ground.
‘No!’ he yelled in fear. ‘Non! Au secours! Au secours!’
Then a kick from a boot smashed into his back and he screamed out in pain.