44

They got to the house at dusk.

A compact two-storey wood-frame in Queen Anne style; looking along the road Jameson could see at least eight similar amongst the mixed two- and three-storey houses.

Argenti looked at the brass plaque by its front door. Equine Physician.

“In layman’s terms, horse doctor,” Jameson said.

Argenti rapped on the door hard twice. No answer. No lights visible inside or coming on in its hallway. No discernible movement inside. He rapped again, and after another full minute with no answer or movement inside the house, he beckoned the locksmith they’d brought with them.

Behind them stood Brendan Mann and John Whelan, three uniformed policemen by the front gate and another five in a wagon parked in front. They weren’t taking any chances.

They’d emptied the gun drawer at Mulberry Street. Argenti noticed Brendan Mann’s hand tense on the pistol inside his jacket as the locksmith finished picking the lock and opened the door.

A long hallway with doors on the right to the lounge, kitchen and a dining room at the back which Dove appeared to use as an office. On the left, stairs led up to the bedrooms and a bathroom while another narrower flight led down to the basement.

They started searching, paying particular attention to Dove’s office. As they went through the last few drawers in his desk, Jameson looked up.

“Do you notice anything unusual?”

“What? Apart from the fact that there’s hardly anything here to find, unusual or otherwise?”

“Exactly. It’s particularly spartan. Minimal displays of silverware and porcelain. No newspapers or clippings and hardly any books. And, most importantly, no photos.” Jameson indicated a side table. “The only photos are like these, a couple of racehorses, probably belonging to clients. No photos of himself or family. Nothing to say he’s the Ripper, or indeed any hint of who he is at all.”

“Perhaps we’ve got the wrong man. Perhaps Dove’s not our man after all.”

Jameson shook his head. “No, I disagree. I think the lack of photos and other paraphernalia points more to it being him than not being him.” As Jameson saw Argenti’s forehead knit, he held out a palm. “Think about it. Normally there’d be college diplomas or graduation class photographs on the wall, or something of him with friends or family. We know he’s from Hoxton, only a mile from Whitechapel – but how many people in New York or indeed this street or neighbourhood know that? And if they saw a photo of him with Big Ben or the Hackney Empire in the background, they might start asking questions.”

“You have a point.”

“Look around you. He’s buried his background. Become all but invisible.”

Argenti dutifully looked, his eyes fixing finally on the horse anatomy chart behind Dove’s desk denoting flanks, fetlocks, carpus, patella, short Pastern bone.

“And apart from charts like this,” Jameson pointed, “and the rolled cloth of veterinary instruments in his desk’s bottom drawer, the indicators of his current profession aren’t strongly evident, either. Almost as if he’s ashamed of it – reminds him too much of his downfall and what has passed.”

As they made their way down to check the last room in the house, the basement, Jameson added an amendment.

“Well, indeed, more evidence of his work here, buried out of sight where nobody can see it.”

Thirty or more specimen and bell jars were lined in a row on a bench table that ran one side of the room. Jameson put one hand to his mouth. The smell of formaldehyde was strong, reminding him of the morgue.

Inside the jars were different organs. Spleen, liver, pancreas, stomach, heart. By their size, Jameson guessed they were equine, but as they came alongside a few small specimens, Argenti pointed.

“Do you think these are what I fear they might be?”

“I doubt it. The organs never accounted for were the uterus of Mary Anne Nichols, the left kidney of Catherine Eddowes and Camille Green’s liver. But these specimens are the wrong size and form to be human organs. I believe they’re either from sheep or horse foals.”

On the wall behind the bench were more detailed anatomical charts. Mostly of horses, but Jameson noted also one of a bull, a greyhound and a cat. Then at the end, as if a token acknowledgment of Dove’s past medical practice, the bone chart of a human skeleton.

Below the bench row were a series of drawers. Jameson started opening them.

Row upon row of animal bones – tibias, fibulas, ulnas, femurs, tarsals, metatarsals, metacarpals – all numbered and dated and laid out on red baize. The smaller bones were in slim upper drawers, larger ones in deeper bottom drawers. One large centre drawer proudly displayed a horse’s skull.

It was impossible for Jameson to tell if any of the bones were human. At first glance, few of them looked the right size and shape and, besides, he couldn’t recall bones being missing from any past victims.

He looked towards the end of the room where Argenti had opened the only door leading off. Jameson joined him as he looked in, a cubbyhole three-feet square, nothing there but a few gardening tools and the gas meter.

Argenti closed the door and they stood for a moment in silence, looking around for anything they might have missed. Argenti shook off a shiver. The aura of the room was unsettling with its heavy stench of formaldehyde and hundreds of bones, whether human or not. From above came the creaking of floorboards and muffled voices as Mann and Whelan double-checked the upstairs. Argenti indicated the jars.

“Do you want to take some of these for analysis?”

“Perhaps only one. Any more than that and he’ll know we’ve been here.”

Argenti smiled tautly. “Yes. Though perhaps if he appears later while we’re still waiting for him, that won’t particularly matter.”

The shadows in the street seemed to get darker as they waited.

Not just the dying dusk and heavier cloud cover shrouding a half-moon, but the fact that lighting in the street was so poor. The nearest gas lamp was over thirty yards away from the house, and the more they strained their eyes into that darkness, the more imaginary shapes seemed to form out of it.

Jameson rubbed at his eyes and checked his pocket watch.

Two hours they’d been sitting outside the house now with no sign of activity or movement, and only three men approaching who might have been Dove to make them tense and hold their breath – until those men walked to other houses.

One man had got out a hansom almost directly in front, then had walked to a house two away, the others had approached by foot along the road.

Jameson and Argenti sat with Mann and Whelan in an unmarked black wagon with no driver and its interior curtains all but closed.

Tailors, milliners and morticians used such wagons, so it shouldn’t draw undue attention. Another similar wagon with four uniformed policeman was parked out of sight around the corner, with the arranged signal that they’d sound the klaxon at the first sign of activity.

They tensed in anticipation as a man in a top hat appeared, but again he walked by. So when only two minutes later another man approached, this time in a dark navy suit and derby, they were half lulled into complacency, and amongst the shadows didn’t discern that he’d suddenly turned towards the house until he was halfway down its pathway.

Argenti shook Jameson’s arm. “He’s here! It’s him!”

They leapt out the wagon and Mann sounded the klaxon as he followed with Whelan.

They moved swiftly, drawing their guns as they went. Dove was already at the door, opening it. They’d reached the front gate as he shut the door behind him. He didn’t look back.

They saw the light go on in the hallway as they ran the last few yards up the path. Argenti rapped on the door with the butt of his gun.

“Eugene Dove! Police!”

Through a frosted glass pane in the door, it was difficult to tell whether Dove looked their way or not. But they saw him clearly open the door at the side and go down to the basement.

“I said, police! Open up!”

Dove wasn’t going to reappear. Argenti waited only ten more seconds before shooting out the lock. They burst through the front door and ran towards the basement.

But only four steps down, all the lights went out. Jameson and Argenti froze. It was pitch black. They couldn’t see a thing.

“Get the oil lamp,” Jameson hissed.

He heard Argenti stumbling back up for it, but couldn’t see him. Argenti grabbed the lamp from Mann in the hallway, but they had to move back towards the front door for some weak moonlight to even be able to light it.

Waiting those seconds, Jameson felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. He could hear movement close by. He drew his sword cane and swished the blade in the darkness. But he knew he didn’t stand a chance. He’d only been in the basement once, whereas the Ripper knew it blindfold. He’d be able to run him through in a second and be gone.

His breath felt trapped in his throat, his heart pounding wildly as he heard the rustling draw closer. Then, as Argenti finally swung down with the arc of light from the oil lamp, they saw a rat scurrying away.

Argenti lifted the lamp higher as they made their way down. The arc of light was weak and seemed to dim more as they descended with the cool, damp air. The end of the basement was shrouded in darkness.

They edged forward cautiously, and as the end of the room finally came into view, they looked at each other, perplexed. No Dove in sight, yet they were certain they’d seen him go down to the basement.

Then they remembered the small cubbyhole at the end of the room. He must be there. They edged even more cautiously towards it, breath held. Argenti pointed his gun straight at the door as Jameson swung it open and stepped back.

It was empty.

Jameson glanced at the gas meter to one side. At least they’d worked out what he’d done. “Looks like he turned the gas off. That’s why the lights went.”

“Yeah.” Argenti nodded, eyes scouring the cubbyhole. “Then where the hell did he go?”

Jameson stepped forward, started patting the walls. Solid stone. But then at the back he suddenly hit a patch of wooden board, part of which had a hollow sound.

He knocked and pressed, knocked and pressed. Finally he felt a part of it give. He pushed and it swivelled open to reveal another small cubbyhole no more than two-foot deep. Some coal was piled to one side and at its back iron steps led up to a manhole cover.

Jameson became aware of the light hissing sound in the same instant that Argenti gripped his arm.

“Finley! Dove didn’t turn off the gas. He severed the pipe!”

The gas hadn’t built up sufficiently yet to ignite, but any second it would. They bolted back towards the stairs, desperate to put as much distance between the kerosene lamp and the escaping gas as possible.

But three steps from the top, Argenti stumbled and cracked the oil lamp against the steps. He still had hold of it, but its side had split open and they watched in horror as the flaming liquid seeped down the stairs.

They ran on, and the burning kerosene met the escaping gas as they were halfway back down the hallway, spewing a fireball up from the basement. They felt the lick of its flames and the intense heat singe their backs as they burst back through the open front door.

After the initial explosion, the flames quickly took hold of the house’s wood frame, pushing them even further back. Argenti and Jameson stood helplessly by the front gate as they watched it burn. Mann, Whelan and the four uniformed policemen just behind them, the flicker of its flames playing across their faces.

Whatever clues might have been in there were now lost, which was obviously what Dove had intended.