Anatomy of Evil (36 page)

“Not to my knowledge. He doesn’t go into any buildings. They’d toss him out because of the smell. Mostly, he just wanders about in his own little world, listening to what the voices tell him.”

“How sentient is he? Does he communicate with you?”

“Of course. He understands Yiddish, German, and some English, though he doesn’t speak the latter. He cannot read, but when Sarah bought him a primer to learn his letters, I think he was insulted that it was for a child. He gave it back to her immediately.”

“It cannot be easy caring for a full-grown adult.”

“It isn’t, believe me. At times he can be manic, too full of energy. He’s harder to control then. For the most part, however, he is docile, like today.”

“Poor fellow,” I said.

“So, will you accept the position?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Good. We could use an extra pair of hands. I’ll show you to your table, and one of our workers will instruct you in how to put together a mantle.”

“It is difficult?” I asked. “Compared to, say, a coat?”

“If it were not difficult, we would not be able to charge so much for one, but I think you are capable enough of the work. This way.”

A mantle, I learned that day, or a mantlelet, as it is sometimes called, is a close-fitting coat for women, generally made of silk, that is longer in the front but gathered in the back to allow a bustle to project outward. The sleeves are either dolman or sling sleeves and are adorned with jet beads or embroidery. They are gilding for such lilies as require it. Younger women may have no need for it, but many who are older have acquired the wherewithal for seed pearls, jet beads, and other ornamentation, working under the assumption that if one cannot be a work of art, one can wear one. I never noticed such a garment before I entered the shop that morning, but I noticed plenty of them afterward.

The owner passed me into the hands of the seamsters, who began to show me the stitches I would need to learn in order to produce the finished product. I still could not believe I was working as a plainclothes police officer. If in my final year in public school I had been able to list a hundred possible occupations for my future that possibility would not have been on it.

As we set to work and I began to build my first mantle, I turned over in my mind what I had learned about Aaron Kosminski, knowing for certain that Cyrus Barker would not care for a single word on the subject of women’s mantle making. What was my opinion regarding Kosminski as a possible suspect in the Ripper murders? I had to admit to having serious misgivings. He was so small, while Jack the Ripper was larger than life. The only thing offensive about him was his odor. He would not speak to anyone in the street, not knowing their language, so how could he approach someone like Catherine Eddowes or Long Liz Stride, who would have towered over him? How could he overpower Dark Annie Chapman who was twice his weight? I could not imagine it. Prince Eddy, Stephen, or someone connected to the palace seemed a much more viable candidate than a speechless immigrant who didn’t bathe and could not even look one in the eye.

Near noon we were given a short break to use a public lavatory down the street, and to eat lunch. I had none, of course, but Mrs. Kosminski was kind enough to feed me a potted meat sandwich, rather than risk that I might go out to some sort of restaurant or public house and not return. After fifteen minutes we returned to work, which continued until seven o’clock. By that hour, all my fingers had bled from being pierced by needles, my shoulders were shivering from exhaustion, and my feet were cramping from standing so long.

It occurred to me then that I must have the best situation in London, working with Cyrus Barker. While others flogged away at work like this, I was sitting in a well-appointed chamber, reading a newspaper necessary for my position, taking light dictation, and typing the odd letter. All right, so occasionally I was shot at; the thing was, I was paid ten times the salary for less than half the work. It seemed to defy logic. Someone’s mathematical calculations were off. Unless, of course, the difference was simply a matter of address. Whitehall was not Whitechapel and never would be.

Aside from my personal revelations, only one thing of any note happened that evening, and that was that Aaron Kosminski went out for his walk. Those poor words do little to describe the actual event. Wolfe knocked at the door of the youngest Kosminski, who came out in a pea jacket and broken hat not in keeping with a family of mantle makers. After eating a few bites, he seemed so excited, he was shaking. Wolfe crossed to the front door and Aaron shot out of it in a pair of stout boots, leaving behind a ghastly breeze of effluvia that we workers did our best to wave away.

A few minutes later, an old woman entered, who proved to be the elder Mrs. Kosminski. The younger came down from the apartment above, greeted her with a kiss, and they spoke together in what I assumed was Yiddish. Then they went upstairs to finish dinner for the brothers who did not take their nourishment in the street. We continued to work.

Near seven o’clock, Aaron returned, looking a good deal calmer, and Wolfe came down from supper. Windows were locked, projects put away, and the tables cleared of anything valuable that might be viewed from an outside window. We were shown to the door.

“You did good work today, Thomas,” Wolfe said to me. “I’ll see you in the morning at seven.”

While agreeing, I calculated in my head. It was a twelve-hour workday. As I stepped outside, and the door closed behind me, I heard the sharp sound of a bolt being drawn on the door. There would be no mantle stealing on these premises tonight.

The workers wandered away one by one. I proceeded down Goulston Street, wondering whether I might find a hansom in Commercial Road who could take me to the Frying Pan. I could not walk more than a few feet.

Then Cyrus Barker stepped into a nimbus of gaslight from an alleyway and gestured to me. I turned and followed him, hoping our destination was not far away. He led me down a narrow court until he stopped at a door and opened it with a key. The muscles in my limbs jumped as I climbed a flight of steps to the first floor. I didn’t know where I was, nor was I curious. The Guv led me down a hall to a flat and let me in. A room had been set up with two beds and a table and chairs. There was a fire in the grate, and when I looked down, I recognized the boric acid sprinkled on the floor. While I was working, we had changed residences. There was a cold selection on the table, and some bottles of ale.

Curious, I moved to the window. The room overlooked the Kosminski Mantle Factory. As I looked down through the skylight of the factory, Aaron Kosminski shuffled by under my gaze.

“So,” Barker asked. “How was your day?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

I was fortunate that once I began working for the Kosminskis, Barker no longer considered it necessary to march around Whitechapel until midnight. Instead, he followed the youngest brother about the district at a discreet distance from the time he left the factory until his return a few hours later, when he was locked in by his brothers for the night.

“What does he do while he is out and about?” I asked over a breakfast of water and day-old bread.

“He lopes about for the most part. He has a quick, hopping step that makes his head bob up and down as he walks. Perhaps he is partially lame but has overcome it. Anyway, he doesn’t interact with anyone. Sometimes he just stops as if he had thought of something important, or is receiving instruction from those voices in his head. He may not move for ten minutes, then he’ll suddenly lope off again. His eyes dart from side to side, but they do not fix on any person or object for very long. To be truthful, I assumed he would fixate upon a particular female, or females in general, but I saw no sign of it. His eyes followed whatever passed him by. But that wasn’t what struck me most.”

“Oh, really? What was that?”

“No one looked at him, or paid any attention. It may have something to do with English manners. They studiously avoided looking at someone so malodorous and unpleasant, as if not willing to cause embarrassment. Either that or they have ceased to notice him at all. He comes, he goes, he does not interact with anyone, and he is not in a position of authority like a policeman, so he is a nonentity. He stands there and is not noticed, like a servant in a drawing room.”

“Do you suppose anyone knows who he is?”

“I imagine the Jews know. After all, he is one of them. The Kosminskis are respected within their community and perhaps simultaneously pitied, as well, for having an apparent imbecile as a family member.”

“Apparent?”

“Aye. We have no real understanding of his intelligence. I really must discover how clever he is. Has he ever had any sort of conversation with his family in front of you?”

“They speak to him, but mostly it’s just orders or questions he can answer with a nod or shake of the head. ‘Are you hungry? Did you remember your jacket?’ Sometimes he responds with a word or two, but I can’t make heads or tails of what it is. It may be slurred or he might have an accent or impediment to his speech. It’s mostly just mumbles, and it has a peculiar quality, as if it were coming from someone else, the way a music hall ventriloquist throws his voice. It’s the strangest thing.”

“I feel I must either discover some sign of real intelligence in Mr. Kosminski or pull you from the premises and have us go back to our former routine. I’m starting to be concerned that this is a false lead. I dare not pull any other constables or inspectors into the investigation unless I have more proof. Can you think of some way to get into his room in the factory and toss it without attracting attention to yourself?”

“Not offhand,” I admitted. “He’s nocturnal. Doesn’t get up until two o’clock in the afternoon. He stays in his room for the most part until five o’clock. I would have to get in between five and seven when he returns. The problem is others may be watching, and Wolfe Kosminski passes in and out.”

“It would have to be during those two hours. We must imagine some sort of ruse you might employ to get inside.”

“If I could stand a sewing dummy in front of the door, I might be able to conceal myself from view for a few moments, but I’d be taking a risk of being caught and sacked. Then we wouldn’t have a pair of eyes inside to evaluate whether he’s the Ripper or not.”

“That might be worth the risk if a quick tossing turns up anything worthwhile.”

“What am I looking for, precisely?” I asked.

“Bloody rags. The missing organs of those poor women, preserved or otherwise. The knife he kills with. A bag of some sort.”

“But you thought it unlikely he’d carry a bag.”

“I was wondering how he lugged those bloody organs home. He couldn’t just put a fresh kidney in the pocket of his trousers.”

“That’s disgusting,” I said. “But then, everything about this fellow is disgusting. His room smells like a charnel house. But how shall I get in?”

Barker rubbed his chin. “Rather than following after Mr. Kosminski again, perhaps I could provide the distraction.”

“That would certainly work. If you were someone looking for an address or wanting to place an order, that might give me enough time to look for something.”

“Excellent. I’ll wait until our suspect is safely down the street and away before I arrive. Don’t move until you see me pull your notebook from my pocket.”

“I will. Tonight, after five? I’ll be ready.”

It was a long day in anticipation of his arrival. I pulled my sewing dummy rather close to Aaron’s malodorous door, where most of the workers were loath to go. Young Aaron came out of his room around three and looked vaguely in my direction without actually looking me in the eye. He was scratching his chest and hair. I’ll get fleas, I thought, on top of possibly getting caught. He went upstairs where the family dwelt and came down again at five. Wolfe made him put on his coat and he shot out the door, running in that gangly way of his.

About five minutes later, a familiar figure came looming through the door.

“Is Mr. Wolfe Kosminski on the premises?” the Guv asked in a loud voice.

“I am he,” the elder Kosminski stated, as he got up from a table where he was sitting and went to greet the visitor.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance. I’m from the
Clarion Herald
.”

“Not another reporter! Out, sir!”

“Hear me out, if you will. We understand your factory was singled out for public humiliation due to a rival’s inflammatory article, which we consider to have been racially motivated. It has been said a Jew cannot receive proper treatment in the town. We wondered if you would be willing to tell me how this has affected your business, in terms of sales and in finding willing workers. I don’t claim that we can rectify the situation you find yourselves in, but it may stimulate business for you.”

“I suppose I could answer some questions for you, yes,” Wolfe Kosminski replied.

Barker reached into his inside pocket and retrieved my notebook. I looked about me. All the workers in the room were focused on his arrival. I stepped back toward the forbidden door.

I squeezed too quickly into the space and forgot to hold my breath. The odor assaulted me. My eyes watered and I resisted my body’s attempt to gag. My stomach somersaulted and tried to contort. To keep from making a sound I was forced to jam my handkerchief into my mouth. Slowly, my eyes cleared.

The room was rectangular, built against the back wall as a kind of lumber room. It was perhaps ten feet long, but only six feet wide. A bed was there, covered in large sacking with a pillow and a blanket. No white sheets had ever touched this bed. The pillow was blacked where lank, dirty hair lay for hours each night. There was a small desk with a mismatched chair of cane, worn thin and broken. On top of the desk was a collection of objects arranged in a rough circle: the limb of a child’s doll; a pencil stub; a penknife with no blade; a foreign coin, possibly Swiss; a piece of rope. I need not go on. They were items picked up from the gutter, things even the people here had no use for. Perhaps the voices had told him to pick them up. The interesting thing was the arrangement. Everything had been placed just so, forming a circle, but evenly spaced. It was a kind of altar.