In the Footsteps of The Whitechapel Slasher (Edwin Scott Crime Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  In the Footsteps of

  The Whitechapel Slasher

  Felix Bruckner

  Part I - First Steps in Dissection

  Chapter One - October, 1955

  Nineteen-fifty-five was an eventful year. It saw the resignation through illness of Winston Churchill as British Prime minister, to be replaced by his deputy, Anthony Eden; a national state of emergency was declared when sixty thousand dock workers went on strike; the deaths occurred of the physicist Albert Einstein and James Dean - film star, rebel and cult figure for a whole teenage generation.

  In that year, the film Doctor in the House conquered the nation. I, Edwin Duncan Scott, identified with its hero, who, overnight, had turned the actor Dirk Bogarde into a household name. Much to my surprise, like Simon Sparrow, from being a poor and insignificant schoolboy, I had been transformed at the age of eighteen into an eminently eligible (though still impecunious) bachelor - a Medical Student!

  Monday, 10th October: It was half-past nine on my first morning at the London Hospital Medical College; I sat near the back of the Old Lecture Theatre, awaiting the arrival of the dean for his introductory talk to the new students. The theatre was semi-circular, steeply sloping, and I gazed down at the lectern a long way below with a mixture of anticipation, apprehension and vertigo; the wooden benches were filled, and the buzz of excitement was cut off as the dean entered.

  “Good morning, Ladies and Gentlemen. Welcome to The London ... It’s good to see so many eager new faces - and welcome back a few old ones! You start your medical school careers with the hopes of your parents and friends resting on you. With hard work and perseverance, you can fulfil these aspirations ...

  The London Hospital opened its doors to patients in the year 1757; it has a long and distinguished history, home to such eminent doctors as James Parkinson, Jonathan Hutchinson, Sir James Mackenzie and Sir Frederick Treves. Treves, as you may know, was knighted for removing the appendix of King Edward VII in 1901. It is said that the King pleaded with him to postpone the operation so that he could be crowned in Westminster Abbey at the appointed hour. However, Treves was adamant: ‘Sir, if I delay your operation, you will travel to your coronation in a hearse ...’”

  I had last seen Dr Turnbull-Clark at my interview for a place at medical school: he was tall, slim, grey-haired, but now seemed more erect and animated than I recollected; he spoke well, his voice filling the large old-fashioned lecture theatre effortlessly, without need of amplification; he had the habit of taking off and replacing his spectacles for emphasis. Was that a Medical College tie, which he wore with his pin-stripe suit?

  After a while, my attention wandered … my gaze travelled around the theatre, noting the sombre suits, blazers and sports jackets of the men; and the splashes of colour from the ten or twelve young ladies in the audience. My heart leapt unexpectedly, as a longed-for image floated into my field of vision: yet when I focussed fully I found it was not Jill - none of these girls remotely resembled her. I wondered with a pang where she was, what she was doing at this moment, whether she had even got into medical school. I had looked for her during the recent Freshers’ Dance at the University of London Union (but in vain). Maybe she has chosen a provincial University - such as Oxford or Cambridge! I thought to myself with a wry smile.

  I recognized a few in the audience from the day of my interview - they all looked very serious and intense. I wondered how I would fit in here …

  “Remember at all times that you have a vocation for Medicine, that it is no ordinary job, but demands from you all high moral and ethical standards ... If you work hard, you will find it an immensely rewarding career. Note, however, that if you fail your 2nd MB examination twice you will be ejected from the medical school forthwith!”

  With a flourish, the dean turned and left the lecture theatre. I wondered whether to clap, but decided against it.

  I stood outside the office of Professor Buchanan, Head of Anatomy; the smell of formalin was pungent, almost overpowering; the office was approached through the dissecting room, and I could see the partly-covered cadavers lined up on metal tables awaiting dissection (rather like the dogfish from my A-level days, but on a much larger scale): they had a pallid, curiously waxy appearance, but I found myself gazing at them with interest rather than horror.

  A little in front of me in the queue, a young lady had turned almost as pale as the corpses, and I could see a sheen of sweat on her forehead and upper lip; she was visibly relieved when she was called in to see the professor.

  “We’re going to have to get used to this sort of thing, if we want to proceed ... I’m Hugh Lloyd Thomas.” Immediately ahead of me was another student whom I recognised from my interview of the year before; he held out his hand for me to shake, but was called into the office before I could comply ...

  During my brief meeting with the professor of anatomy, I was given a time-table for the first term, and a list of books to purchase; I was exhorted to “work hard and play hard”, and found myself outside once more. Hugh had waited for me, and together we took an exploratory stroll around the medical school to get our bearings.

  Beyond anatomy were the physiology and histology departments; on the next floor down we found the biochemistry laboratory, the New Lecture Theatre, the library balcony, and the pathology museum, whose shelves were crammed with glass jars of diseased human organs. In a separate area of the museum was a section devoted to Joseph Merrick, the Elephant Man; he had been discovered by the surgeon, Frederick Treves, in a freak-show at a fair, with hideous deformities of his head and trunk; out of pity, Treves had given him shelter in a garret room at the London Hospital. When out of doors, he wore a hood to hide his terrifying features from the public gaze. The museum displayed Merrick’s hood, his skeleton, old sepia photographs of him in life, and the chair in which he slept (as his head was too large and heavy for him to lie down). We perused the explanatory notes; we gazed at the display in horror and fascination. I learned that Merrick suffered from the rare condition, Von Recklinghausen’s neurofibromatosis.

  This is Medicine, I thought exultantly. This is what I’ve come for!

  Together we descended the grand marble staircase to the entrance hall.

  We sat in the almost deserted gentlemen’s common-room, in comfortable though shabby cracked-leather armchairs, absorbing the atmosphere, and conversing in low voices; the large ground-floor room was cluttered with chairs, settees, leather pouffes, coffee tables and card tables; scattered around were newspapers, magazines, medical journals, partly filled ash trays, and packs of playing cards. From the windows I could see the statue of Queen Alexandra, at the back of the hospital; there were four tennis courts (one in use), a well-tended lawn, and a deserted netball court; the sun was high in the sky, reminding us that the day was progressing, and lunch beckoned. We joined the queue in the refectory, next door.

  I found I was quite hungry; while we tucked into a meal of sausages, mashed potatoes and mushy peas, Hugh was recounting his life in Brecon, and his love of rugby football: he had played scrum-half for his school, and lived for the sport. I was mesmerised by the musical Welsh cadences of his speech, which brought back vivid memories of my early childhood.

  “Do you know Llangammarch Wells, Hugh? I was evacuated there as a child during the war …”

  We were joined at our table by a small knot of first year students, whom we had already encountered in this morning’s queues.

  “Mind if we join you? I’m Robert Parsons - Bob.” And without waiting for a reply he sat down.


  “Hugh Lloyd Thomas and Edwin Scott … Please do …”

  “Hello, I’m Heather Smythe - with a Y.”

  “David Feldman - with a D!” He treated us to a foxy grin.

  “Another David - Dave Wallis.” (I must think of him as Dave II, I decided.)

  “Hi, I’m Malcolm - Malcolm Conway.”

  Though I concentrated hard, I doubted I’d remember all these names; not first time around, anyway!

  “That dissecting room was a bit gruesome ... all those yellow corpses. One girl almost fainted.” Heather Smythe was not classically beautiful; however, she left the top three buttons of her blouse undone to reveal a pleasing cleavage - which drew one’s entire attention.

  “I was more bothered by the smell.” David Feldman wrinkled up his nose. He had wavy gingery hair, acne, and gold-rimmed spectacles; he adopted an ironical manner, which I found appealing.

  “I expect we’ll soon get used to it, once we start dissecting … It’s probably not that much different from the dog-fish or rabbit.” Bob Parsons was tall and slim; he was extremely clean-shaven, with the sort of rosy cheeks that suggested a fairly recent acquaintance with the razor. I liked him instantly.

  We compared notes on this morning’s activities. We had all seen the professors of anatomy, physiology and biochemistry, who had given us very similar pep-talks, and then lists of books to get from Lewis’s; we had yet to meet Dr Brown - head of histology.

  Apart from Dave Wallis and myself, all had secured places at the students’ hostel; I had been promised a room there from next October.

  “Cheer up! The year will soon pass …” Hugh consoled me.

  “Actually, I don’t mind living at home; it’s not that far.” Dave II was - like me - slight and fair. “My mother has just bought me a brand new Ford Popular saloon, as a prize for getting into medical school, and I can drive up in no time ... I could give you chaps a lift, if you’re ever in need ...”

  After an eventful day, I left The London at five o’clock, and returned home to our terraced Edwardian house on the north side of Clapham Common; I had travelled on the Northern Line, in the rush hour - crushed and uncomfortable most of the way, an experience I would have to get used to in the coming weeks and months.

  Mother and my six-year old sister awaited me, and welcomed me with unaccustomed warmth, bombarding me with questions almost before I was through the door. Lucky, our Kerry Blue bitch, was not to be left out: she jumped all over me, licking my hand, wagging her tail in a frenzy of joy. The only one missing from the scene was my father, a head chef who worked nights; I would not see him until the week-end.

  I went to my room, threw my brief-case on the bed, and changed from my sports jacket into an old baggy jumper; there was just time to wash my hands before supper …

  Tuesday, 11th October: The imposing grey-fronted Lewis’s Medical Bookshop and Lending Library was just around the corner from University College; I had travelled to Euston Square Station on the underground straight from home, and then walked in the early morning drizzle down Gower Street to reach it.

  Inside, the large shop was overflowing with medical textbooks: on a stand in the entrance hall were stacked the latest editions of Gray’s Anatomy and The Merck Medical Manual; behind the central displays stood shelf upon shelf of pristine new books, rising to a height of ten feet from the ground. Further back, on a mezzanine landing and extending down into a dusty basement, was the second-hand book section: this had a lower ceiling, and was almost deserted. Here I browsed, fascinated, absorbing the musty smell of old books, losing all track of time; when I consulted my watch, I was amazed to find that the morning was gone, and it was almost noon; I selected a twenty-seventh edition of Gray’s Anatomy (Descriptive and Applied), still in good condition though it had been printed in nineteen thirty-eight - human anatomy won’t have changed much in the last seventeen years!

  Next, back in the new book section, I quickly purchased a set of Illustrations of Regional Anatomy, Cunningham’s Dissection Manuals, and Samson Wright’s Textbook of Physiology.

  Finally, I approached the busiest part of the shop - the lending library; at the counter, three smartly-suited young men were efficiently serving about a dozen medical students, who - unlike me - seemed to know exactly what they wanted; when my turn arrived, I gave a rambling account of my 2nd MB curriculum, laboriously explaining my needs and my previous acquisitions. Fortunately I was the last in the queue, but nevertheless I was impressed by the patience and good humour of the assistant, as he heard me out to the end.

  “Buy only two library tickets,” he advised. “You are unlikely to need more than two books at a time, beyond those you’ve just purchased …”

  With my tickets I borrowed the final two volumes on my list - Hewer’s Textbook of Histology, and Hamilton, Boyd and Buchanan’s Textbook of Embryology. I would exchange these when I started my clinicals.

  Wednesday, 12th October: The anatomy dissecting room was a huge chamber at the top of the medical school: high windows and sky-lights gave excellent natural light in which to work; there were twenty tables of stainless steel, with retractable wheels, but only about half were in use. All the cadavers were male; they lay uncovered on their backs; there was a yellowish tinge to their skin, white stubble on their chins, and hair poked out of their nostrils; ours still possessed a few teeth. Through an open door I glimpsed a corpse in the adjacent embalming room, with tubes attached to him: this appeared to be the source of the pungent and all-pervading odour of formalin.

  How does the medical school get its supply of bodies? I mused. Were these vagrants with no next-of-kin; or were they convicted murderers?

  There were four pairs of students at my table, dissecting the limbs. We were poised to tackle the right arm.

  My dissecting partner was a slim young man with slicked brown hair, a blue bow tie and a diffident manner.

  “Hullo. I’m Sebastian Clark.”

  “Edwin Scott ...”

  We shook hands, rather self-consciously; I hoped that we would be friends.

  Hugh Lloyd Thomas had left The London after only two days: he had been homesick, and unhappy with the rugby facilities; he had been allowed to transfer to Cardiff, to continue his medical studies, and I had lost a potential “best friend”!

  Nervously, I opened my canvas roll, removed a pair of coarse forceps and a large scalpel, and attempted a long sweeping incision in the forearm. Sebastian made encouraging noises and grimaces, but I found I was unable to cut through the skin - it just seemed to slip away as I applied pressure; eventually, after a lot of sawing with the scalpel, I succeeded in puncturing the skin, and then used scissors to extend the incision.

  I had visited the medical school shop the previous day, and purchased dissecting instruments: large and fine scalpels, three pairs of toothed forceps, scissors, probe, Spencer Wells forceps; all fitted inside a roll-up canvas container. I was assured that, though these were the minimum recommended, they would satisfy my needs. On the main notice-board, I had seen several advertisements for skeletons, from senior students who had recently finished their Anatomy courses. For ten pounds, I bought what amounted to half a skeleton (but with a complete skull and a full spine). I had had a nerve-racking journey home on the underground with my large cardboard box, held together with string; I feared it might burst open at any moment - revealing me as a murderer, in the process of disposing of my victim’s remains!

  Heather Smythe was dissecting the left arm with a pretty olive-skinned young lady; on the right leg were the Sikh and African gentlemen I had seen at my admission interview with the dean. Attacking the left leg were a man and woman with clipped upper-class voices; though a mild stammer marred the man’s delivery, the couple maintained an unending stream of languid conversation; they pointedly ignored everyone else at our table, and I flushed with embarrassment as I was made forcibly aware of my own South London accent ... Looking around, I saw that everyone else had made good progress - as usual, I trailed far behin
d with my dissection. To my relief Sebastian Clark took over, and had soon exposed a sizeable area of subcutaneous tissue; a few deft strokes, and muscle bellies appeared, as if by magic …

  “Must be careful not to cut any nerves or blood vessels.”

  Sebastian admitted reluctantly that his father was Dr Victor Turnbull-Clark, dean of the medical school, yet he hoped this accident of birth wouldn’t deprive him of my friendship! He had been rather dragooned into studying medicine, and was not yet entirely sure whether he would enjoy it.

  “Pater had been here as a student, so naturally I was expected to follow him …”

  The haughty Etonian raised an eyebrow in mild approval at this short speech.

  We examined Cunningham’s Dissection Manual for the Arm and Leg, to discover how to proceed: the pictures were beautiful, the text clear and succinct; we made good progress …

  “Well done … I’m Bill Chop, your anatomy demonstrator. You fellows seem to be forging ahead pretty well.”

  He was in his late twenties with receding hair, a heavy frame, a jutting jaw, and merry eyes; clamped between his teeth was an unlit pipe, which made his speech a little indistinct.

  “When you have completed this section, we’ll have a viva on it, which - unfortunately - you will have to pass before you can start the next section.” He moved quickly from pair to pair, examining their handiwork; then on to the next table.

  Thursday, 13th October: There was an expectant hum of voices - this was the first biochemistry lecture of the term, and the department had a high reputation. The New Lecture Theatre was spacious and well-lit, with comfortable seats of red padded leather; the rows were less vertiginously tiered than in the Old Theatre, and provided excellent vision and acoustics throughout. There were black-boards, roll-up white boards, and a selection of screens for projection; incorporated into the lectern was an efficient microphone system.