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The TIMES of London, TUESDAY, DECEMBER 14, 1880.
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MURDER OR SUICIDE?
Yesterday the body of a man was found floating in the Thames. About noon attention was drawn to a dark object floating on the ebb tide near the Horseferry Stairs at Lavender Pond. A Thames Police galley rowed to the spot, and the object proved to be the body of a man, apparently about 40 years of age and fitting the description of the missing mortician Mr Alexander Easy. He was floating face upwards, and his clothes were found disheveled by the action of the tide. The body was secured by a tow rope and taken to Regent’s Canal. It was subsequently moved to the St George-in-the-East mortuary to await identification and an inquest.
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❧
‘After the external examination I can exclude physical violence as the cause of death. For now.’ Dr Johnston stretched his aching shoulders. He felt the familiar knots of pain beneath his scapula and wished he could insert one of his tools there and pound the hard flesh to a soft dough.
Coroner Sévère looked up from his notes and Chief Inspector Height bent his neck to see what Sévère had written.
‘No signs of injuries caused by a corrosive on the lips, in the mouth or rectum, and no peculiar odour emanating from the body — all of which would indicate the use of poison. The deceased has no stab wounds, bite marks, or any signs of blunt force trauma. He shows no defensive wounds, has no blood, skin or hair under his fingernails or in his mouth. All clothes were in order, no tears or cuts. Even the cravat was neatly tied. Are you able to tell me if Alexander Easy was suicidal, Sévère?’
Sévère lowered his head and narrowed his eyes, recalling his meetings with Mr Easy, which had always occurred in the mortuary and always when matters other than the mortician’s emotional state were demanding his attention.
He looked up. ‘Can we ever say with conviction that a man is not suicidal? I doubt it. To me, Mr Easy did not seem overly melancholic. He was quiet, but that means little. His landlady, Mrs Dobbins, said that he was a widower of six years and was still mourning his wife, but why would he jump into the river now, and not a year ago? Or six years ago?’
‘That is the question.’ The doctor frowned, and ran his sleeve across his chin. ‘I can make one more conclusion which I will corroborate presently. Write this down, Sévère: No visible signs of putrefaction. The subject seems to have entered the freezing cold water around the time of death. It would be advisable to measure the temperature of the Thames. For now, I will assume it to be approximately three to five degrees centigrade. I will now commence the internal inspection.’
Johnston bent forward, pressed his index finger against the hollow of Alexander Easy’s throat, aimed his scalpel, and began to cut. The frozen skin crackled. He stopped at the pubic bone.
Height turned his head away when Johnston sawed open Easy’s ribcage and enlarged the resulting gap with a pull and a grunt.
‘After the primary incision of the abdominal parietes, no peculiar odours can be detected,’ Johnston said and threw a glance at Sévère to make sure the man was writing it all down.
Then he stuck his hands deep into the corpse, rummaged around and muttered, ‘No signs of inflammation of the peritoneum…hum…the peritoneal aspect of the stomach…or the viscera. As visible thus far.’
Johnston picked up several short pieces of thread from the table. ‘Placing a ligature around the lower end of the oesophagus and a double ligature at the commencement of the duodenum. If you don’t know how to spell this, Sévère, write it down anyway. I’ll know what it means.’
‘Hm,’ grumbled Sévère. Pencil rushed over paper.
Johnston nodded once and grabbed his knife. ‘Dividing the oesophagus and the duodenum now.’
Huffing, he lifted out the stomach and placed it into a rectangular porcelain dish. ‘Opening the stomach at the lesser curvature.’
In went the knife, and out came a mixture of red wine and acid. Johnston bent over the mess and sucked air through his nostrils. He smacked his lips. ‘Tut-tut. Red wine on an empty stomach. And still no signs of putrefaction. And look at this, Sévère!’
He nodded encouragingly at the coroner, who stepped closer and gazed at the tip of the doctor’s knife.
‘Do you see the blood?’ Johnston asked, running the blade along the cuts he’d made.
‘It didn’t coagulate? How is this possible? He must have been dead for days.’
‘More evidence that Mr Easy’s body entered the cold water around the time of his death. Except if… Was the man a bleeder?’
‘I don’t know. But his general practitioner should know,’ Sévère answered.
‘Inspector, please find Mr Easy’s general practitioner and ask him if the man was a bleeder,’ Johnston said without looking up.
‘Now?’
‘Tomorrow will suffice.’
Johnston picked up a magnifying glass and examined the contents of the stomach. After a few moments, he said, ‘No plant material. No pigment particles or crystals, no notable amounts of river water.’
Johnston worked his way down along the intestines, examined Easy’s genitalia, then moved back up to extract the lungs and cut them open. Water gushed out of them.
‘No signs of haemorrhaging. The smell indicates that it is Thames water that has entered the lungs.’
‘So he drowned?’ Height enquired.
‘Not necessarily. In fact, it is difficult if not outright impossible to ascertain if a floater was dead or alive when entering the water. The lungs of a submerged body will fill with water simply due to the external pressure. Easy’s larynx did not spasm, so his lungs were bound to fill up.’
Again, Johnston picked up his magnifying glass and examined the contents of the lung. After some humming and mumbling, he said, ‘Small dirt and plant particles, as well as the smell, confirm that this is Thames water. Excellent. I will examine the heart now.’ He wrapped the fingers of his left hand around Alexander Easy’s heart, and with the knife in his right hand he sliced through blood vessels and connective tissue.
Squinting, he held up the organ, turned it in the light, and placed it into a dish.
Once again, Sévère was surprised by how small a human heart was. Romantics should be required to attend autopsies, he concluded. They would stop making such a fuss about matters of the heart.
The doctor began to cut sections. A large amount of blood oozed out of the organ, flooding the dish.
‘Aha!’ he exclaimed and pointed to a yellowish area. ‘Complete occlusion of the left main coronary artery.’
‘Excuse me?’ Height said.
‘The coronary arteries supply oxygenated blood to the heart muscle. Lack of oxygen can lead to tissue death and myocardial infarction. Mr Easy had a heart attack, inspector.’
‘Did he die of it?’
‘Extremely likely, but let me finish the postmortem examination before I come to my final conclusions.’
It took another hour of re-examining the cross-sections of all organs before Johnston finally announced, ‘The cause of death was a heart attack. He had it coming. There is no evidence for violence or poison triggering the attack. How he got into the river is another question. However, you will remember the small card I found during my external examination. It was inside a peculiar little pocket of the subject’s waistcoat. I believe the pocket was made to hide something, perhaps money. A pickpocket would have problems finding it. Did you look at it, or were you so intent on staring at the corpse?’
Height cleared his throat.
‘Well then,’ said Johnston. He wiped his gory hands on a handkerchief and picked up the card. Sévère and Height stared down at it, then at each other as if to wrestle for the right to be the first to interrogate the suspect.
‘We’ll do it together,’ Height suggested, and Sévère mentally prepared himself for yet another botched investigation.
❧
Mary tapped her fingers against the windowsill when she spotted the four-wheeler down on the street. A police vehicle. She pressed her nose against the cold windowpane, trying to catch sight of the brothel’s entrance, but without success. She opened the window, leant out and peeked down. A constable guarded the door, holding on to his rattle as though a crime could be witnessed that needed reporting at any moment.
She shut the window. Sweat itched on her palms. Her being a whore would negatively influence the police’s judgement. But what if one of these men was a client? Would that make matters worse or better for her? Her fingers fidgeted and crumpled her dress. She pulled herself together and exhaled. The windowpane clouded, her breath froze and blocked her view. Just as well, she thought, and turned to face the door.
Several long moments later, a man entered her room without knocking. He was quite unremarkable. His cane supported part of his weight. His left leg was weaker than the right. Not by much, though. Dirty-blonde hair, smoothed back, and most of it hidden by a top hat. No moustache or beard. Blue-grey eyes, a straight nose. Well-groomed and fashionably dressed, but not overly so. It was as if one’s gaze rolled right off him like water from a goose’s plumage.
His gaze connected with Mary’s. Her heart tumbled in her chest. She felt a chill. Sharp, highly intelligent eyes, fluid body, coiled muscle. He was exuding an air of authority and mercilessness. This man wasn’t police. But what, then, was he?
Mary felt the annoying urge to shrink away. She broadened her shoulders and lifted her chin. Just then, a second man walked in — reddened cheeks, dark hair, dark moustache. Taller than the first, but slouching a little. A plainclothes policeman, probably an inspector. She relaxed her pose and retreated to her armchair.
❧
Sévère and Height found themselves in a room with floral wallpaper, dark green velvet curtains, red armchairs, and a large, virgin-white bed. The suspect lowered herself onto one of the two armchairs, her hands demurely folded in her lap, her face unnervingly calm. Sévère felt something creeping up his spine. It was the same feeling he got when he faced murderers in court or gaol: the feeling of one beast recognising another.
‘I am Chief Inspector Height, this is Coroner Sévère. We will take your statement on the death of the mortician Alexander Easy. May I sit?’
She nodded and rose. ‘Coroner Sévère might wish to rest his leg. I will sit on the bed.’
Sévère cursed himself. He’d made an effort to conceal his weakness — obviously to no avail. He nodded his thanks, not because he needed to sit, but because he wished to use the opportunity to bring himself down to the level of the inspector. To pretend camaraderie, cooperation, sameness. Since the moment Johnston had announced Easy’s death to be of natural causes, the coroner had lost jurisdiction of this case.
Sévère sat, and moved the armchair so that he faced the suspect. He extracted a notepad and a pencil stump from his waistcoat pocket.
‘Your full name, please.’ Height asked, also armed with notepad and pencil.
She regarded them both, a smile tugging at her lips, as if to say, “Aren’t you cute,” and then spoke with a soft voice, ‘Miss Mary.’
‘Your real name,’ Sévère said.
Her eyes began to shimmer where the lower lid touched the iris. It made her look vulnerable. ‘I can’t remember my name. I was…soiled when I was very young.’
From the corner of his vision, Sévère observed the loss of colour from the inspector’s face. He probably assumed the suspect had been seduced before the legal age of thirteen. How could a man of his profession be so naïve?
The coroner exhaled, leant back, crossed his arms over his chest, and smiled. ‘Miss Mary, may we enquire your age?’
‘Sixteen.’ Her gaze slid down to the rug, her shoulders heaved. A moment later, she looked up at Sévère, blinking the moisture from her dark eyes.
Unfazed, Sévère said, ‘I assume I don’t need to ask about your date of birth, because you’ve probably forgot that, too?’
‘Indeed I did.’
‘Occupation?’ Height asked.
‘Prostitute.’
‘Place of residence?’
‘You are sitting in it.’
‘Obviously,’ Sévère muttered and wrote down the address, remembering to add the day’s date to the top of the page.
‘Would you be so kind as to inform me why a coroner and a chief inspector are calling on me at this time of day?’
Oh dear God, what a voice! shot through Sévère’s mind. The timbre seemed to reach out to him and softly caress his balls. Involuntarily, he crossed his legs. Shutting his eyes for a moment, he fought to pull his attention away from his crotch and back to the business at hand.
Before the inspector could utter a peep, Sévère asked him, ‘May I?’
‘Certainly,’ Height answered, a little perplexed.
‘Miss Mary, we know that Alexander Easy paid you a visit on the night of Friday, December 10, to Saturday, December 11. He died of a heart attack in your room, most likely in your bed. His corpse was thrown into the Thames. All I want to know before we apprehend you is why you did it.’
Slowly, the woman blinked. Her cheeks paled a little. When she parted her lips to speak, Sévère couldn’t help but think of a vulva.
‘Who?’
I’ll be damned, Sévère thought. His instinct told him that this woman had yet to speak a single word of truth. But his analytical mind — despite being distracted by his animalistic urges (or perhaps because of them?) — told him she was sincere.
‘Alexander Easy,’ Sévère repeated the name calmly. ‘Five feet, nine inches, aged forty-two, weighing eighteen stone and five pounds at the time of the autopsy — of course before his organs were removed. He had brown hair and a large moustache. He wore…’ Sévère consulted his notes. He knew precisely what Easy had worn that night, but he needed a moment to take his eyes off the woman and collect himself. ‘Black wool coat, yellow waistcoat, top hat, white shirt, striped trousers, brown patent leather shoes.’
‘Mr Sévère, please correct me if I’m mistaken, but I do have the impression you believe my clients are in the habit of telling me their name, weight, and age?’
Height cleared his throat. Sévère threw him a glance, shook his head slightly, and pointed his pencil at the suspect. ‘I believe you are intelligent and observant enough to be able to tell a man’s age, height, and certainly, his weight.’ He paused for effect. ‘As for their names, no, I doubt they would tell you the truth.’
She held Sévère’s gaze until he began to feel awkward. ‘Would you please grace us with an answer, Miss Mary?’
‘Oh, your question must have escaped me.’
That was when Sévère lost it. Blood rose to his cheeks as he leant forward. ‘I doubt you are as dimwitted as you wish to make us believe. I will tell you how it stands for you: Several men have testified that Mr Alexander Easy entered two public houses in Whitechapel, enquiring about a Miss Mary at Madame Rousseau’s. One witness stated that he gave Mr Easy a card of your establishment, the same card that was later found on his body. Mr Easy then entered this establishment, died here, and was discarded like a mangy dog. You will be contained for up to three years for fraud. Chief Inspector Height, arrest Miss Mary for concealing the death of Mr Alexander Easy and the unlawful disposal of his body.’
‘Erhm…’ said Chief Inspector Height and drew himself up to his full six feet. ‘Will that be all, Coroner Sévère?’ There was an edge to the inspector’s voice, enough to let the other man know he’d crossed the line once too often.
Height held out his hand to Mary. She cleared her throat and said, ‘May I collect my belongings?’
‘If it’s not too much.’
‘It is not.’ She retrieved a box from under the bed, threw in what she found in the drawer of the nightstand, as well as her undergarments and a simple dress from the wardrobe. She didn’t spare her expensive dresses a single glance. She was certain they would be taken away and sold, and her room rented to another woman before she returned. If she returned. She stared down at the rug in front of the window, then kicked it aside.
‘I will now take a knife from beneath my mattress to move a floorboard,’ she said and looked at Height, who took a step back and drew a revolver. That was when she knew the inspector wasn’t as easily fooled as she’d previously believed. She smiled, because she liked that in a man.
She inserted the blade into the cracks in the floor, ran it around one of the boards and then jammed it in. The board gave and revealed a hollow space beneath. Eleven guineas, five shillings, and a few pence. The bulk of her savings was hidden elsewhere. She pocketed her money and stood.
‘The knife,’ Sévère said.
She flipped it in her hand and held it out to him, handle first. He took it from her and gingerly dropped it into his coat pocket.
They walked her down the stairs and through the entrance hall. She didn’t look at the madam, else she might have jumped at her and scratched her eyes from their sockets.
Silently, she exited the brothel and came to an abrupt halt. She tipped her face at the sky and shut her eyes. Small droplets of half-rain, half-snow caught in her lashes.
Sévère felt his skin come alive.
Height harrumphed, took Mary’s elbow and helped her into the police carriage. He followed and sat down next to her.
Sévère held open the door and said, ‘Inspector, I must apologise for my lack of respect earlier. You allowed me to interview the suspect although I have no jurisdiction in cases of fraud.’
Height nodded once. ‘Apology accepted. You knew Easy. It must be unpleasant to have to stand aside.’
‘Thank you. Yes, we…were friends,’ Sévère answered, lowering his gaze to demonstrate a gratitude he didn’t feel.
‘You don’t have friends,’ Mary said, her voice so soft Sévère wasn’t sure he’d heard her speak. Her profile revealed nothing to him; her eyes scanned the other side of the street.
‘Pardon me?’ He gripped the door handle tighter.
Slowly she turned and addressed him with politeness. ‘Coroner Sévère, as your involvement in this case has ended, perhaps you can refer a colleague to take my case? I need an attorney. I pay well.’
He arched an eyebrow. ‘For all I know, you could be a coldblooded murderess. But, as you so aptly observed, my involvement in this case has ended.’ He shut the carriage door and nodded at the driver.
❧
Mary found herself in a holding cell of Division H Headquarters. She kept telling herself to remain calm, but the not-knowing made it hard. No one had told her when or if she would be transferred to Newgate, and how long she had to await trial.
She did not need to fret for long. An hour or two later, she was taken before the magistrate of Division H who sent her to the House of Detention with the words, ‘The bill of indictment will be submitted to the Grand Jury and, if found true, you will be tried for fraud at the Old Bailey on February 28, 1881.’
❧
After a week of living in a small cell with women in various states of ruin, feeding on gruel and dry bread, pissing and shitting into a common bucket, she was brought up again before the magistrate. He didn’t bother to look up from his papers as he muttered, ‘The jury has rejected the bill; you are to be discharged immediately,’ He scribbled his signature at the bottom of a page.
‘Why was it rejected?’ she asked.
Confused, the man looked up. ‘The normal reaction would be to whoop and run, not question the decision of the jury.’
‘I am curious.’
‘The police failed to provide sufficient evidence. The drunkards who testified to have seen Mr Easy could not even describe him when asked a second time. The pickpocket who said he’d given Mr Easy the card to your establishment was detained for pickpocketing and could not tell who or what Madame Rousseau’s is, let alone remember if or when he gave the card of your establishment to a heavy-set, moustached man. The card being found on Mr Easy’s body did in no way indicate that he had visited you, died in your bed, and had then been deposited in the Thames by you. And your madam testified that no such man had ever entered her establishment. Hence the jury rejected the bill.’ The magistrate shrugged, flapped his hand at her and said, ‘Off you fly, dove.’
❧
Mary entered her room and softly closed the door behind her. She leant against the wall, her eyes scanning the bed, the nightstand, coffee table, armchairs, wardrobe. It was as if she’d never left, as if her days in gaol had never happened. The bell struck three o’clock in the afternoon. Time to bathe, take a nap, and make herself presentable before her new client arrived.