The Return of Moriarty Page 8

  At the corner of Aldgate High Street there was a man, though she could not seem to focus her eyes properly and was using one hand to assist her in walking, placing it flat against the wall. Still, drunk as she was, Catherine Eddowes never turned down a chance.

  “Hallo, darling, you’re out late. How d’you fancy Miss Laycock, eh?” She called out.

  “Why not.” The prospective customer called back.

  Eddowes, still elated, drew closer to him.

  “Cost you a gen. But you’ll not regret it. I’ll give you a good stand-up.”

  “Where?”

  She was now close to him.

  “Come on, I’ll show you.” Eddowes knew where she was now. “Real quiet. Nobody’ll disturb us. Come on, darling, come with Kate.”

  So she led him up Duke’s Place, through the dark and narrow Church Passage and into Mitre Square. As they entered the square she remembered, through the fog in her head that she had to be at The Lamb by two o’clock in the afternoon. She also remembered why … and who … the man … was … behind … her.…

  There was nothing else for Catherine Eddowes to remember. When they discovered her, only fifteen minutes later, her throat and face were mutilated, her right eye smashed in, the eyelids nicked, a portion of the right ear lobe cut off. The belly was ripped open and the intestines removed and draped over the right shoulder. Her left kidney was missing and she was the second victim of that night, the first being a Swedish girl, Elizabeth Stride, known as Long Liz, whose body was discovered about half a mile from Mitre Square, next to the International Workmen’s Educational Club in Berners Street.

  Paget, full of enthusiasm, and also lurid details of the double killing—he had, with many others, visited both the murder sites early on Sunday morning—returned to Moriarty’s house on the dot of midday. It was hardly a convenient time, as the Professor and Miss Fenning had decided to breakfast late and together. When Paget went down the area steps and in through the trademen’s door, he could hear the sound of laughter from upstairs and had to remain in the kitchen until a little before one o’clock when, following prolonged farewells, Mildred Fenning was escorted to a hansom, clutching various presents.

  After allowing enough time to elapse, Paget went up the stairs and, crossing the hall, tapped on Moriarty’s study door. He found his employer in good humor, though looking a little tired, a state that was seemingly rectified once Paget told him, in serious tones, of Eddowes and her story.

  “I knew we would find him,” the Professor smiled grimly. “Get the woman and bring her here as quickly as you can. I want Spear, your man Davis, and the colonel as well. See to it.”

  Paget set the operation in motion, going last to The Lamb, where he waited with Davis until almost half-past-three. Rumor was rife everywhere, but the two murder victims had not yet been named, and neither Paget nor Davis even suspected that Eddowes could possibly be one of them.

  “Like all the others,” Paget remarked bitterly. “A cunning lush.”

  “I could have sworn she knew.”

  Davis was well aware of what they might expect from Moriarty. In the end Paget ordered Davis to stay at The Lamb until he had at least talked to the Professor about the turn of events.

  Moriarty was cool, Spear and Colonel Moran having waited with him, in some expectation of their problems coming to a fruitful conclusion. By seven in the evening, Paget and Spear both had their men out in some force, making inquiries about the whereabouts of Kate Eddowes, but to no avail. Their reports were indeed depressing, for the whole Whitechapel-Spitalfields area was alive with police, uniformed and plainclothed, while local inhabitants thronged the streets—a great deal of ill feeling had been brewed by this last atrocity—and by late on Sunday evening Moriarty was conscious that things were getting out of control. Both Paget and Spear reported that they did not know how long they could really hold their own men and women, for even the closest had been emotionally roused.

  Moriarty, by this time, had lapsed into anger, for he knew there was but one way of gaining his former hold on the territory—to dispose of the murderer and rid the streets of the constant patrols and lurking police officers. Thinking they were so near to success, with the news of Eddowes’ seemingly firm knowledge, her swift and sudden disappearance had brought about a classic elation followed by depression. The Professor had but to sit down and think clearly to see how far and how sadly his business interests were being hindered. In many ways he now regretted having used this poverty-stricken breeding ground as a focus for much of his work. On the other hand there was no place better in London for recruitment—hunger, lack of means, degradation and filth bred a desire among the young, particularly the lads, to better themselves, and a large number of the men, operated through Paget and Spear, had been culled from the awful streets of that territory to be willingly trained in the many arts of the cracksmen, dippers, patterers, operators of Moriarty’s long firms, protectors, whores’ cash carriers, procurers of anything from young lithe flesh to extra amounts of laudanum, the price of which was always at a premium.

  However, the world that thrived so well below the surface of high-flown morals and respectability, the thin veneer of the age, had taught even Moriarty a certain fatalist philosophy, and by Monday he had accepted the fact that Catherine Eddowes had maced both Davis and Paget.

  On Tuesday the body at the mortuary in Golden Lane was identified by Eliza Gold (Eddowes’ sister) and John Kelly as being that of Catherine Eddowes, alias Kate Conway, Kate Kelly, Kate Gold and Kate Thrawl.

  Within an hour of the news getting out, Moriarty had Paget, Spear, Davis and Colonel Moran at his Strand house, going through what little evidence Eddowes had passed on to Paget.

  After much conversation, a great deal of which became mere theorizing, Moriarty said:

  “It would seem that we may well be onto something more substantial after all. Our obvious course of inquiries should start at Toynbee Hall, and I think I will undertake that duty myself.”

  Toynbee Hall, under the aegis of the Reverend Samuel Barnett, was the focal point for missionary zeal and political ideals that set to bridge the gulf between the classes. To the hall, set in the heart of Whitechapel, came undergraduates from Oxford and men of good will from other aspects of life. So, toward the end of the first week of October in 1888, a prosperous-looking cleric arrived asking to see the Reverend Barnett. This gentleman, whose clothes and demeanor appeared to befit a man of some private means who had received the call and taken the cloth, announced himself as Canon Brewster of Bath, confiding in Samuel Barnett that he had heard much of the work which was being done by those who had been “called to the East” and, finding himself in London, had availed himself of the opportunity to see for himself.

  As the good Canon’s first gesture was to donate one hundred guineas to Barnett’s fund, he was made most welcome, and it was only toward the end of the afternoon that Canon Brewster, whose fat and jovial manner set everyone at their ease, broached the subject of a young man, with whom he had lost touch, who had undoubtedly been of great help to Barnett.

  “We have a mutual acquaintance then?” proffered Barnett.

  “Indeed.” The Canon smiled. “But, for the life of me I cannot remember his exact name. He came to me for advice while visiting relations in Bath and the picture he drew of your work here has remained in my mind ever since. I believe he was called Drew, or perhaps Drewt. Something of the like.”

  Barnett could not recall the name. He sent for the record of residents, but failed to find any similar name on it. However, one resident spoke of a Montague Druitt.

  “Montague John Druitt,” he said. “Why, I saw him only the other day. He was from New College and is a barrister, though at present he teaches in a school at Blackheath.”

  “And he has been here recently?” gasped the Canon. “How sad that I have missed him.”

  “Not here at Toynbee Hall,” replied the resident. “I met him in Bishopsgate last week.”

  The
Canon’s head performed a strange oscillating motion while he muttered, “Oh, dear me, oh dear me, I would so have liked to see him again.”

  Not many minutes lapsed before the Canon announced suddenly that he would have to take his leave, and he was escorted out by Samuel Barnett himself, full of thanks for the generous gift.

  An hour later, Paget was helping Moriarty out of the clerical clothes and the padding with which he had disguised himself.

  “His name is Druitt,” Moriarty announced with a grim, thin smile. “He is a barrister at present teaching at a school in Blackheath. Get your people on to it. I need to know all there is to know. I want it all.”

  It took Paget’s people the better part of a week to track down the school at which Druitt was employed at Blackheath, the area being well noted for its cramming shops. Paget reported the facts to his employer.

  “He’s at a school run by Mr. Valentine at Nine Eliot Place, but since quitting practice as a barrister he has still retained his chambers in the Inner Temple: Nine King’s Bench Walk.”

  Moriarty felt the excitement of the chase coming to a close and gave orders that Druitt should be watched and followed constantly. This was done, and in the weeks that followed Druitt made three journeys to London, always shadowed by one of Paget’s men. On each occasion the barrister-turned-teacher went straight to his chambers in the Inner Temple, where he appeared to stay, alone.

  In the meantime the specter of Jack the Ripper—as the Whitechapel murderer had now come to be known—lowered over the dismal streets of the East End. But as week followed week and no other victim fell under the Ripper’s blade, a false sense of security settled on everyone, from Paget’s men to the police and vigilantes who patrolled the streets, and the loitering ladybirds who walked them.

  On the evening of November 8 Montague John Druitt made a fourth sally from the school at 9 Eliot Place, Blackheath, and took the train to London. Paget’s man on duty was an experienced watchdog by the name of Frederick Hawkins.

  Moriarty had devised an ingenious system for Paget’s watchers. They worked on a rota system, and each man had a runner—usually a young boy being trained for other work, either as a dipper or cracksman’s mate: a snakesman, as they were called—who, because of his youth, build and turn of speed, could be sent to warn of any sudden change of movements by Druitt.

  On this occasion Druitt took a train from Blackheath to Cannon Street, Hawkins actually traveling in the same compartment, while the runner, a lad of some ten years, was on the same train.

  Druitt acted true to form, taking a hansom from Cannon Street to the Inner Temple, entering by the Gatehouse at Middle Temple Lane. Once he was in, Hawkins took up his lonely vigil, sending the lad off to report the movement to Paget, suggesting that his relief should take over from that point at eight the following morning. Paget had been uneasy during the previous three occasions when his men had followed their quarry into London itself, for he was well aware that Druitt could enter the Inner Temple by one gate and slip in and out with ease through another. He knew that he should at these times have quickly provided men to watch the other entrances, but as nothing untoward had occurred at other times he did not press Moriarty about it.

  Hawkins was relatively fresh, having relieved the day man only fifteen minutes or so before Druitt left for Cannon Street. He remained awake through the night, taking what shelter he could during the bouts of rain that fell heavily in the early hours.

  Dawn broke, cloudy and overcast, but at seven in the morning Hawkins was amazed to see a figure he recognized hurrying through the early light toward the Gatehouse. It was Druitt, dressed in a long rust-colored overcoat and a deerstalker hat. Hawkins was able to see that he wore a red neckerchief and that his face, adorned only by a sandy mustache, was, as he put it later, “as white as death.” Druitt walked quickly, though with a gait that suggested extreme fatigue. He was also carrying a package that appeared to be wrapped in American cloth.

  Hawkins, in fear, realized immediately that at some point during the night Druitt must have left the Temple by either the Embankment or Tudor Street and was now returning through the normal entrance. Immediately, Hawkins sent his runner off to pass the information to Paget. At eight o’clock his relief arrived with another runner and Hawkins quickly made his way to the house off the Strand, where he found Paget.

  By half-past nine Paget, Spear, Colonel Moran and Moriarty, together with Hawkins, were gathered in the drawing room. The mood was anxious and grim as it was now quite plain that Druitt had managed to evade their surveillance for some unspecified period during the night. Both Paget and Spear had sent men into the Whitechapel area so that any untoward incident could be reported as quickly as possible.

  It was the morning of the Lord Mayor’s show, but down in Whitechapel there were many who were disinclined to go up to the City to watch the parade. One of these was John M’Carthy, who, besides keeping a chandler’s shop in Dorset Street—the most evil street in London—owned several properties in the area, including six depressing cribs in the gloomy Miller’s Court. At number thirteen there lived a relatively young whore, Mary Jane Kelly, who sometimes came the Rothschild about her past, calling herself Marie Jeannette Kelly. She was twenty-five years old and her rent was overdue to the tune of thirty-five shillings.

  At about ten forty-five on this Friday, November 9, M’Carthy sent his assistant, Thomas Bowyer, to 13 Miller’s Court to extract what he could in the way of cash from Miss Kelly. Instead of money, Bowyer got a fright he would remember to the grave. On getting no answer to his repeated knocking, he pulled aside some sacking that covered a broken window pane and peered into the room. Mary Kelly was there, scattered all over the room. She lay dead on the bed, her head almost severed from the body, ears and nose cut off and the face slashed almost beyond recognition. There were bloodstains everywhere. On a table beside the bed were her breasts, heart and kidneys, while pieces of her intestines hung from the picture-frame nails.

  It was half-past one before the police and doctors broke in the door, but Moriarty and his men had received the news, complete with gruesome details, before midday.

  “So now we know,” Moriarty said, in a voice as cold as the grave. “There must be no more of this.”

  “You want me to arrange it?” asked Paget.

  “It has to have some hint of subtlety. Yes, when it has all been done, I would like you, Paget, to arrange it, but first I think Moran had better give him the stone jacket.”

  The men talked of the plan for the next three hours, interrupted only by the shouting of newsboys in the street below, calling, “Murder in Whitechapel. Another ’orrible murder. Terrible mutilations. Read about the Ripper’s latest victim.”

  The watch on Druitt was doubled, but he did not make any more journeys from Blackheath to London before the term ended at Mr. Valentine’s school. He did, however, have a visitor on November 30, the day before the end of term. He arrived at 9 Eliot Place just before five o’clock in the late afternoon and did not give his name, just asked if he could see Mr. Druitt on a private matter of some importance. It was, of course, Colonel Moran, and when the two men faced each other in the staff parlor on the ground floor, he had little to say.

  “Mr. Druitt,” he began, “I will say this once and once only. I know who you are and you do not know me. I know what you have been about in the East End and I have proof.”

  Druitt, who looked pale and drawn, stared about him wildly.

  “Nobody else need know,” Moran continued. He had made certain that his back was to the door and had one hand in his pocket, gripped around the butt of a Shattuck .32 rimfire revolver. “Today is Friday. On Monday evening at six o’clock you will meet me at the Howard Arms, which you know is not far from your chambers in the Temple. You will be alone and tell nobody. When we meet, I will hand over my evidence for the sum of sixty pounds. It is not much to ask and well within your means. I shall see you on Monday, Mr. Druitt.”

  With that, Moran gave a
curt bow, opened the door behind him stepped back into the hall and was out of the door and away before Druitt could make any answer.

  There was much rain over the weekend. On the Saturday Druitt left 9 Eliot Place and moved into 9 King’s Bench Walk, his lodgings in the Temple. As before, he was shadowed by Paget’s men, and this time all the Temple entrances were watched.

  It is fact that Druitt was seen alive on the blustery morning of Monday, December 3, but nobody observed him making his way toward the Howard Arms off the Embankment a little before six o’clock in the evening.

  Moran sat at a table in the small, pleasant, paneled taproom. There were not many people abroad on that evening because of the inclemency of the weather, but two other men sat in deep conversation at another table. The men were Paget and Spear. Moran was waiting for his guest and had in fact already ordered two glasses of brandy, one of which he sipped quietly as the time moved slowly by.

  Druitt arrived a few minutes after six and went straight over to Moran.

  “I have the money. A check and gold.” Druitt said quietly, his hand moving toward his pocket.

  Moran made a fast motion with his hand.

  “Not in here. Sit down, my dear Jack, and have a little brandy. It will warm you.”

  Reluctantly, Druitt seated himself, looking very nervous. He drank quickly, just as Moriarty had told them he would. Nobody had seen Moran pour the white powder into the brandy as he carried the drinks to the table.

  Druitt spoke only three times.

  “Where is the evidence?” he asked—to which Moran replied, “In good time. I have it here,” patting his pocket.

  When he had almost finished the brandy, Druitt remarked, “There was good reason for it.”

  “I am sure,” nodded the colonel.

  “Those poor wretches living in filth. Someone had to draw attention to it. Perhaps they will do something good about it now.”