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

  I sat between Sebastian Clark and Dave Wallis; Dave II chatted quietly to me, while Sebastian remained mute, his eyes focussed on the empty stage. The biochemistry senior lecturer made a vigorous entrance, commanding instant silence; Dr Edward Lancing was tall and fair; he wore a crisp white lab coat, and in his hand he carried a beaker of orange liquid.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. We will start with a lesson in observation, this being an essential prerequisite not only for biochemistry, but for all subjects connected with the practice of medicine ... I hold here a specimen of urine from a patient with diabetes mellitus.”

  Without further ado, he dipped his finger into the beaker, withdrew it, and then concentrated deeply whilst he sucked it; he gazed around the audience briefly, before beckoning on to the stage from the front row the handsome haughty gentleman from my dissecting table.

  “Your name?”

  “Michael Ffrench.”

  “Well, Mr Ffrench; you observed carefully what I did? Now I would like you to replicate it exactly.”

  Slowly and reluctantly, the student placed his finger in the beaker, withdrew it; then, with obvious distaste, he inserted it in his mouth; he considered for a while.

  “It t-tastes sweet,” he eventually observed.

  “I’m afraid that you failed your test of observation, Mr Ffrench: you should have noticed that I put my index finger into the urine, withdrew it, and then sucked my middle finger.” (Hoots of laughter from the audience.) “Actually, the sample was not from a patient. I passed it myself, not ten minutes ago.” (More laughter.) The student sat down, face a beetroot red, but otherwise keeping his composure.

  “Biochemistry is an extension of organic chemistry, with which you will be familiar from your A-level work. During the next five terms, you will receive a systematic course of lectures, which will cover the 2nd MB syllabus fully. Your lecture notes should be all you need to get through your exams, so you will not require any textbooks to supplement your knowledge. Today, we will start with simple sugars and the Krebbs cycle: contrary to popular opinion, this is not a bicycle for crustaceans ...”

  The lecturer radiated charisma; the lecture was clear and concise, illustrated with coloured slides, and laced with humour to hold the interest. I found that I managed to take adequate notes; however, at the end we were all presented with a summary hand-out, anyway.

  May all our lectures be like this, I wished fervently.

  I’ve met him at last - my new best friend, oh yes! We’ll stick together during our medical studies through thick and thin from now on, I just know it. He’s not quite as elegant as I, but then you can’t have everything. Anyway, he’s slim and delicate, perfectly formed, fair hair shimmering like gold, blue eyes to drown in, to kill for … and, oh, those eye-lashes! I could have hugged him on the spot - I didn’t, of course! I’ll see you in my dreams, Edwin Scott.

  And who am I? Well, you may call me “Joseph”. Today I am about to start on my plan of campaign. I certainly don’t wish to be recognised, oh no. First I buy a red beard and wig at a theatrical costumier’s in Covent Garden. Wearing these, together with a smart suit and camel-hair coat, I join the crowds for the Harrods’ early pre-Christmas rush. In the bedding department I find exactly what I want - chocolate brown pillow-cases.

  I purchase a pair (they’re not available singly), and melt into the crowd.

  Next I take the underground to Oxford Circus, and make my way to John Lewis’s Department Store. Casually I wander over to the haberdashery department. Perfect. They have everything I need: a pack of needles and a reel of dark brown cotton, a thimble and a pair of dress-making scissors. I pay; the helpful assistant - is she just a little too helpful, does she suspect? - wraps everything up and places it in the carrier bag for me; I leave unobtrusively.

  Friday 14th October: Tuition fees - paid by my State Scholarship - included membership of the Students’ Union, which entitled me to join any of the medical school clubs; I perused the clubs’ notice board, placed outside the Athenaeum (the fanciful name of the men’s common room):

  “Rambling Association, Judo Society, Badminton Club, Ski-club …”

  I might join any or all of these. Finally, I saw what I was after.

  “Chess Club: New student wanting to join? Contact Charles Witherspoon (Hon. Secretary).

  For chess ladder - Print and sign your name at the foot of the ladder.”

  The chess ladder consisted of about two dozen names; I printed and then signed my name at the bottom.

  Thursday, 20th October: Chess Club took place on Thursday evenings; a game was in progress in the Athenaeum when I arrived just before five o’clock, and I strolled over to watch. On the previous day I had found a note in my pigeon-hole from the chess secretary, inviting me to play the person immediately above me on the ladder - Mr Hawthorne. The room was warm, and both men were in shirt-sleeves, moving their pieces briskly about the board, deeply absorbed in their game; after a few minutes, one of the players looked up and caught my eye.

  “Are you Edwin Scott? Good, I’m Charles Witherspoon.” He was tall, and looked slightly cramped on the small chair; he had untidy hair, horn-rimmed spectacles, and a friendly smile. He continued playing.

  After a while, an older student arrived; the chess secretary introduced us; he interrupted his own game in order to bring out another - rather more battered - chess set from a locked cupboard, and assembled a fresh card table for us; finally, he returned to his own game, while we started ours. I won easily in five moves; Mr Hawthorne thanked me courteously, and left.

  “That was quick.” The chess secretary came over to my table. “Let’s try someone a bit higher up the ladder, for next time.”

  While Witherspoon’s opponent waited patiently, we moved into the hall to examine the chess ladder on the notice board: “Some of these haven’t played for years - and some have qualified and left The London ... Hmm … Try Mr Speed - number eight on the ladder. He should give you a better game.”

  I wait a whole week before making my final purchase. I travel by tube to Camden Town, on the Northern Line. I wend my way slowly down the High Street, until I find what I’m searching for: a hardware shop. Here I select a pair of medium size pink washing-up gloves, a decent fit, but sufficiently roomy to slip easily on and off my hands. I am happy; I have covered my tracks well; they won’t trace any item back to me.

  Returning to my room, I lock the door and set to work. With the scissors, I cut a rectangular hole for my eyes in one brown pillow-case. Using blanket-stitch, I sew around the cut edge to prevent it fraying. I pull the finished pillow-case over my head and examine myself in the mirror. Perfect. An uncanny resemblance to the Elephant Man! Now I must find a safe hiding place for the kitchen gloves and my new hood, oh dear me yes.

  Friday, 21st October: “Another half of bitter, please.”

  After my disastrous introduction to beer on my Belgian holiday two years ago, I was being cautious. I was in the saloon bar of the Good Samaritan pub, just around the corner from the London Hospital Medical College. A group of my new friends - all first year medical students - had gathered to explore the social life of Whitechapel. Usually I was home for supper; however, today I had phoned Mum to say I would be eating out, and would be back late.

  It was six-thirty: I was on my second half-pint, and was tucking into a second round of ham and tomato sandwiches. The place was beginning to fill, and our group had moved to stand in the corner furthest away from the door; it was an old Jacobean inn, with blackened oak beams and two small grimy windows; the counter was stained with the beer of many years; there were three high stools at the bar, and the rest of the tiny space was crowded with tables and chairs, which wobbled on the uneven floor; all the seats were occupied.

  A happy smile played around the corners of Sebastian’s mouth; he sipped his shandy, gazed short-sightedly into the distance, and appeared lost in thought. He, Bob, David, Dave II, Heather, Sandra, Chris and I made up our company. Chris Platt was a bi
g-boned gangling lad with a lantern jaw and booming voice. He had been chosen for the rugby team trials, and now the rest of us were discussing animatedly his chances of making the first team. Sandra Sunalingam (“Call me Sandy!”) was Heather Smythe’s dissecting partner, a pretty, dark-eyed Sinhalese girl, with a cut-glass Roedean accent; she was elegantly dressed in a long Cashmere coat over an ankle-length silk dress in royal blue and gold, with ruby rings on her fingers, and gold bangles at her wrists. I was surprised to see her drinking alcohol, but she was putting away Remy Martin cognac as if there were no tomorrow - so far with scarcely any effects!

  When the decibel level became too high for us to continue our conversation, we decided to move: Murphy’s was only a stone’s throw from the Sammy, and was far more spacious. The saloon bar of this Victorian pub was Spartan, with dirty white walls, a few posters, a sprinkling of shamrocks, green woodwork, large frosted windows, and a dark interior; the counter was long, with a brass foot-rail and numerous tall stools placed before it; patched leather benches and white-painted chairs were grouped around the half dozen tables.

  Though the bartenders were doing a brisk trade, the noise level was comparatively low, and the background hum was punctuated by only an occasional shout or laugh; for the most part, the regular customers were occupied drinking their pints of black frothy Guinness or pale bitter; at this time of evening they were still sober, spoke in monosyllables, and hadn’t yet started singing; the majority were Irish - middle-aged men with soft Southern accents, in soft caps, scarves, and long drab overcoats; most rolled their own cigarettes, and the room was misty with smoke.

  We had just settled down at a table, when four young men entered, surveyed the scene, and then took up prime position by the bar; they stood out in their jackets and ties, and stethoscopes could be seen, protruding from their pockets.

  “Housemen?” I suggested.

  “No … they’re clinical students - perhaps final year.”

  The confident young men exchanged greetings with several customers, and allowed one to buy them a round of drinks; they nodded their thanks, buried their faces in the froth from their pints, and resumed their discussion.

  As the evening drew on, the voices around us grew noisier; the atmosphere became warmer and more smoky; snatches of song could be heard, mournful but surprisingly melodious; on my third pint of bitter, I was feeling mellow. The sound of shattering glass interrupted our conversation: a scuffle had broken out at the far end of the bar; now a small pinched man stood there, bemused, grasping a broken bottle; bright blood poured onto his grubby raincoat from a long gash, which extended from his forehead diagonally across his cheek, but miraculously missed the eye; he was making no attempt to stop the bleeding. Of his adversary there was no sign.

  Two of the clinical students were quickly off the mark: one sat the victim on a stool and supported him, while the other staunched the blood with his own handkerchief; after a brief pause to examine him and assess his condition, he slowly walked the patient - still dazed - out of the pub doors, heading towards the London Hospital receiving room, the handkerchief still clasped to his face; he had earned his free Guinness! The rest of the group resumed their seats and their drinks; the spilt beer and blood were wiped up, the glass was swept away, and the conversation and singing resumed.

  I am having a dress rehearsal. I tried a reconnaissance this afternoon, minus costume of course, and even found a place in a cobbled byway, where I could change, unobserved, this evening. Now it is dark, and no lights are visible in the windows of the surrounding houses. I check that nobody is about; I slip into the shadowy doorway; swiftly I take the hood from my brief-case, and slip it over my head. Next, I make my way to Hanbury Street. I hunch my shoulder, and walk with a lopsided gait; I am the picture of Joseph Merrick, the Elephant Man. That should give them all a real scare, oh dear me, yes! I lollop down the street, looking sharply to right and left - still nobody. My footsteps echo in the narrow alleyway. In the distance, I hear a clock strike two.

  Without warning, a couple of tarts, arm in arm, emerge, chatting, from an open doorway, and almost bump into me. I don’t know which of us is more startled, but I hold my ground. We stand for a few moments, staring at each other. Then sense returns. I make a sound between a chuckle and a roar, and lunge towards the women. They scream, and run away. I follow them with my lolloping run for a few paces; then turn on my heel, and make for my dark doorway, where I have left my briefcase; I slip off my hood, placing it straight into the case. The alley, thankfully, remains quiet and empty. I pass out of the far end, now walking normally, holding myself erect, and head for the Whitechapel Road.

  That wasn’t bad for a first try. But, next time, I must remember to put on my kitchen gloves.

  Tuesday, 25th October: We sat in the Athenaeum, drinking coffee during our mid-morning break: David, Dave II, Sebastian, Chris and I. Dave II had picked up the Whitechapel Gazette, and was leafing through it, whilst the rest of us chatted about the forthcoming rugby season, and the prospects for the London Hospital in the United Hospitals’ Cup. Chris Platt had made the first team as a prop forward, and was giving us inside information …

  “ Listen to this, chaps: ‘MASKED PROWLER TERRORISES THE STREETS OF WHITECHAPEL’,” Dave’s soft voice cut through our conversation, as he read from the Gazette. “ ‘Around two o’clock on the night of Friday, 21st October, Miss Fay Bradley and Miss Maureen Tonks suddenly came face to face with a hunch-backed monster in a dark hood, as they emerged from a friend’s house in Hanbury Street, Whitechapel. He shouted something in a foreign language. The ladies screamed and fled. He pursued them, but they escaped. They thought he was going to kill them!’ ”

  Chapter Two - November, 1953

  It was a bitterly cold evening; clouds blotted out the moon and stars, and I wondered if it would snow. We were on our way to our first Inter-Sixth Form dance - at Streatham Boys’ Grammar School. We boarded the bus, welcoming the warmth of the upper deck …

  The school hall was crowded and noisy; after depositing our coats and scarves, we split up to search for dancing partners. When my eyes had adjusted to the subdued light, I found a gorgeous girl in a striking burgundy dress on the opposite side of the hall; I observed her for a while, before approaching.

  “May I have the pleasure of this dance?” She scrutinised me briefly but minutely.

  “Oh, I think I’ll just sit this one out, you know,” she drawled in an offhand manner.

  “But …” I faltered.

  Ladies had never refused me at Maureen Upton’s School of Dancing - it was considered most impolite!

  “Get lost, Buster,” and the paragon terminated our encounter.

  I felt disconsolate: my first event outside dancing school had turned into a nightmare. I moved away a few paces, and sat down again; I wished fervently I had stayed with my friends, or stayed at home; I thought dark thoughts; time passed.

  After a while, I became aware of the outside world again. Sitting next to me was a girl with frizzy brown hair and no make-up, who appeared as unhappy as I; she wore a plain white blouse, a fawn skirt and sensible shoes.

  A wall-flower, I thought. I’ll try her.

  Once more I stood up. “Will you honour me with this dance?”

  “Oh, yes please.” She gazed up at me; then rose to her feet with obvious pleasure. Now that she was standing, I saw that she had a pleasing figure and was just my height!

  “I’m Jill - Jill Pritchard.”

  “Edwin Scott.”

  As we danced, she leaned backwards from the waist, in the approved ballroom-dancing stance - yet I could still feel the soft touch of her breasts against my chest.

  “What school d’ you go to, Edwin?” she enquired after a while.

  “Clapham Grammar …”

  “Oh yes, I know it. And which courses are you taking at A-level?”

  I discovered that she was at Mayfields School in Putney, studying my subjects.

  “I want to read Medicine,” she
continued to my delighted surprise. “You see my mother’s in general practice, and I intend to follow in her footsteps.”

  Jill seemed just as pleased to learn of my medical ambitions. After a few moments of silence, whilst we concentrated on some difficult steps, I found myself telling her about Uncle Tom:

  “He had thinning sandy hair and a most attractive soft Scottish accent,” I recollected. “He had been a doctor in Oban, on the West Coast of Scotland, but emigrated to New Zealand when I was still a boy …”

  “Once I had a secret love …”

  She was an excellent dancer, and our foxtrot surpassed my wildest dreams. However, I couldn’t keep this up for ever; gradually the adrenaline surge passed, my concentration lapsed; imperceptibly our momentum slowed. I became aware of a faint scent of forget-me-nots, as our cheeks drew closer.

  “… my secret love’s no secret any more …” Doris Day’s dreamy voice trailed off.

  The lights came on, and, as we came to an uncertain halt, I found myself gazing into the depth of her violet-grey eyes.

  Intermission, I thought to myself. Just my luck! But no …

  “Can you fetch me a lime juice, Edwin?” She was staking her claim to me! With renewed optimism, a smile on my face, and a spring in my step, I joined the rapidly forming queue; I brought back two lime juices - as alcohol was not served - and a small plate of biscuits. Across the hall I spied my three friends with three girls; they waved, beckoning me to join them, but I pretended not to see; I sat down next to Jill. Soon we were discussing books, and finding to our further joy that we shared the same literary tastes.

  “Have you read A.J. Cronin’s Hatter’s Castle?”