ONCE BITTEN

i Miss Mercedes Grabowksi died on the night of the 29th of December 1889. Detective Inspector Benjamin Bitten of Scotland Yard received a call to attend early on the morning of Saturday the 30th. Miss Grabowski had rented a room on the ground floor of a house, in Crescent Road and this is where she died. Whitechapel was hardly a salubrious district to begin with, and its southern reaches were far from the happiest and most prosperous. Much of Crescent Road had been given over to the trade between the city and the county of Essex, where a fair amount of industry, shipping and agriculture is located. It is a poor, hard-working road, used by poor, hard-working people. Those who lived there did so because they had few options open to them. There were worse locations to be washed out to while still remaining functional distance of London, of course. Most of them were south of the Thames. But a rented room on Crescent Road spoke volumes about lifestyle and experience. Benjamin Bitten is not, by nature a fastidious man. However, he does like to maintain a certain minimum standard of tidiness and deportment required to be considered for membership of and advancement within the new Criminal Investigation Department of the Metropolitan Police. It is wise to ensure one remained comfortably inside the standards if one intended to pursue a career there. After the scandalous corruption trials which had resulted in the creation of the CID, is seen as being of paramount importance to avoid any possible hint of disrepute. So, as he approached his destination, he paused to give himself the old once-over. He tucked in an errant shirt tail, firmed up his tie knot and rubbed a small drop of mud off one sleeve of his heavy overcoat. Finally, satisfied with his appearance the Inspector cross the road to arrive at his destination. He checked his pocket watch. 4.46 a.m. A goodly stretch before dawn. His body is far from shy of informing him of the face, but he resisted the urge to yawn, focusing on his aching calf to distract from the fatigue. The house where Miss Grabowksi had lived and died, is one of a terrace, an unhappy place of the sort that could be found all over the poorer regions of the city. It is clearly cared for, but the owner's efforts in those regards were just as plainly limited by time or health or some other constraint. The brickwork is deeply smoke-stained, but that contrasted with the recently painted green door and the well-scrubbed flagstone that served as a doorstep. The scrap of front garden is somewhere unkempt, but free of detritus, with only a smattering of litter tossed in overnight by passers-by. A shower of broken glass spread out beneath a shattered window. Heavy curtains kept the room hidden, but the slaughterhouse stink emanating from within is unmistakable. The entrance to the house is guarded by Constable John Wilk, a tall man in his early twenties. Wilk is a familiar face. The lad is hoping to join the CID himself once he had enough years under his belt to apply, and he often managed to finagle assignments on the edges of serious cases. Despite his resolve and dedication, this morning he appeared cold, unhappy and a little green from the stench, but he visibly brightened when the Inspector opened the small iron gate. "Inspector Bitten!" "Good morning, Wilk. I understand there's been a murder?" Wilk swallowed. "Yes, air. A right bloody one, too. Why, the poor girl's liver is still hanging from..." Bitten held up a hand. "Thank you. I'll get to the details of the scene in a minute or two. First, I want a solid feel for background. So, tell me what you know about the victim and her circumstances." "Of course, sir. Victim's name is Mercedes Grabowksi . Twenty-three years of age. Her family are from Barnet, but she came to East London seven years ago to become a prostitute. She's been living here, in these lodgings, for four years. If she has a pimp, we don't know his identity. The landlady, Mrs Amanda Friedland, rents our six room, and they're all taken by working girls." "Anyone saw or hear anything?" "Not a thing, sir. Of the girls, only Miss Grabowksi  was at home, on account of feeling a bit poorly. The landlady is in, but she goes to bed at ten p.m., and everything seemed okay then. The killer broke the window to get into the dead girl's room, probably using the clatter of the road to disguise the sound. Crescent Road doesn't get quiet till gone eleven, not over the weekend." "Maybe." Bitten said. "Maybe not. Getting a solid time of murder is often key, so it's important not to put the cart before the horses. How many of the tenants are home now?" "Not one, sir. Three of them approached, then turned around smartish and walked away when they caught sight of me. One of them happened to be as drunk as a skunk, too, barely able to take two steps in the same direction. The other two haven't put in any appearance." "For the best if I'm being honest. I see no clear benefit to interviewing them after a night's work. They'll be exhausted and far from sober, and this whole business will be highly alarming for them at the best of times. The quieter this all stays, the happier they'll be with us upstairs. So, I'm going to need you to stay out here for now. I summoned a coroner earlier to inspect the body, so let me know when he arrives, but the most important thing is to keep anyone from walking on anything but the garden path. After dawn, it might be possible to get a firm idea of how the killer got in and out." "You don't think he broke the window to get in then, sir?" "No." Bitten said. "He did not." "How come, sir?" "The glass shattered out from the window, Wilk. That mean it had been broken from the inside, if it had been broken from the outside the glass would fall into the room." "Of course, sir. I see, sir." ii The landlady of the house, Mrs Amanda Friedland, busied herself in the kitchen. A striking good-looking woman in her late thirties, Bitten put her at about five-foot-three, with beautiful blonde waist-length hair, and clear green intelligent eyes. Her face defied the natural ageing process, with cheeks and chin sharp and well-formed. Despite her obvious fatigue, her countenance appeared grim, and she glared at him as he entered the room. "I am Inspector Bitten. I am here to investigate the murder of Miss Grabowksi  earlier this morning." "Is that so?" Mrs Friedland did not look impressed. Bitten nodded, mostly to himself. "I have no interest whatsoever in offences committed under the Criminal Law Amendment Act of 1885 at this time or, indeed, of making life any harder for you or yours than it already is. My remit is to apprehend the villain who killed your tenant and deliver him to the justice he richly deserves." "Easy words to say." However, the landlady's eyes did soften a little at the corners. "My actions will bear me out." Bitten said. "On that i give you, my word." Mrs Friedland shrugged. "As you say." "Thank you. It would be of assistance if you tell me something about Miss Grabowksi  recent activities and moods. Perhaps there was something that struck you as out of sorts." "Not as such, no." She said. "I'm not holding out on you, neither. Mercedes was a pleasant enough girl. A little prone to unhappiness, but who isn't? But she'd been very frightened of Leather Apron over the last couple of years, all the girls are, but fear's part of the lifestyle. You learn to live with it, or you sink without a trace. It's been a bitter period, even by usual standards of the game. But she put on her face and went out into the dark, she kept current on her room, and she didn't go hungry, and every so often she managed to take a bit of coin back to Barnet to her ma. Not much more you can ask for. If she had any hint that her fate appeared to be rushing towards her, she didn't let it show, not a crack." "Any regulars?" "Of course, Mr Inspector Bitten. What girl doesn't? None that I could point to in the street, though and no boyfriend she ever mentioned. The girls aren't allowed to bring men back here. With more than one girl living in a place, letting clients visit is a recipe for absolute disaster. So, it's all strictly taken care of outside my domain. No exceptions, ever. She gossiped a little sometimes, but nothing that would be of much use to you, and nothing I'd want to swear was true anyway. It was all the usual stuff: kindly judges and interested businessmen and 'Oh, I swear he must be a Lord,' and that sort of daftness. The sorts of things you say to try to half-convince yourself that we have a gleam of hope on the horizon. She frequented several pubs-- the Black Dog, the Swan, the Miller's Arms, the Brick Lane Tavern -- but it wasn't she had a specific patch or anything so far as I knew. Become set in your habits, stake out a spot, and trouble will tend to come calling." "Yes, I understand . Well, more generally, any unusual disturbances over the last seventy-two hours?" "Been plenty of disturbance all right, but nothing I'd call unusual." She paused. "We are pestered by a dog." "A dog?" "Looked more like a wolf to me, but Mercedes said it had taken a liking to her and some other girls. Heard the bloody thing howling earlier." "Anything else?" "No odd men hanging around, bar the usual moon calves who wait over the road. No uncommon tensions. Not one any more scared or excited than any of us nowadays. My girls are decent sorts, but sometimes friction starts up. Not surprising when you've got six under you roof and most of them like a taste of the odd drop of gin of an evening. I'm well-used to enthusiasms and disagreements and other loud, drunken foolishness, and it doesn't often wake me. I sleep hard. That said something did happen." "Oh?" "The kettle did rouse me this morning, a little before...before poor Mercedes had been found. I gave it a half-minute of grace for the culprit to shut its whistling up. Then I threw on a robe, came downstairs, and found it screeching away on the stove, totally ignored, and the icebox open a crack to boot." She paused for a bit. "I closed the box, turned off the stove, moved the kettle to a cold plate, stamped around a little to show how unhappy I was, and went back to my bed. I was only just dozing back off again when your man started hammering at the door.” "Is that unusual?" Bitten asked. "Most definitely. That damned thing whistles like the devil calling his hounds to heel. It's not for use once, I've turned in for the night. If they want a cup of tea after that, the girls all appreciate that they must use a pot. Every so often someone gets a little too sloshed and forgets, but I make a very firm point of reminding the whole house when that happens. At length. In the twenty years since I kept this house, only one girl remained too stupid to remember that rule and the others threw her out into the street for me after a straight week of my scolding's. Long time ago, this was." "Did Miss Grabowski ever break any of your other rules?" Mrs Friedland thought for a moment and then frowned with suspicion. "Not once in her whole four years. Which makes the kettle seem right fishy, now I come to think about." "What time did the whistling wake you up?" "A little after two fifteen. On the warm plate it takes about ten minutes to boil. A few more when the night and the water chill down. But, even so, she couldn't set it going any earlier than two on the nose." Mrs Friedland went very pale. "Sweet mother of God! I missed that butchering bastard by minutes. Maybe ..." "Mrs Friedland, please don't alarm yourself. That kettle could quite easily sat there for hours." Mrs Friedland looked at him bemused. "I don't understand, Inspector." "When you came down, as well as the kettle being on, the icebox had been left open. Packing a kettle with ice will greatly slow down the time it takes to boil, particularly on a low heat. Although it could be an indication of time, it could just as be a distraction." iii An apologetic knock on the kitchen door interrupted Mrs Friedland in her reluctant summary of details about the remaining residents of the house. Bitten turned to see Constable Wilk in the doorway, his hat tucked under his arm. "Yes, Wilk?" "The coroner is here, Inspector." "Ah, thank you. Please show him in." Bitten glanced at his notebook. "I think I've taken enough of your time, Mrs Friedland. If I can think of any further questions for you or your girls, I'll come back at a more reasonable time." "I'll be here, Inspector. I suppose as you might even find one, or perhaps two, of the girls still lodging here if you come back tomorrow evening. Skittish, girls are. Like racehorses. Not to downplay what's happened to poor Mercedes, but it's going to be a thin season or two." "I suppose it will." He said, careful to keep his sympathy well hidden. The landlady nodded with abruptness. "I think I might return to my bed. Close the door behind you when you and your men leave, Inspector. No sense chilling the house down any more than necessary." She rose and brushed past Constable Wilk to head upstairs. As she clattered off, Wilk stood aside to allow the entry of a neatly slicked man in his thirties with intense eyes. He carried a medical briefcase with him. "Peter Loup." The man declared. "A pleasure, Detective Inspector. A pleasure." He gave Bitten a perfunctory smile that could be mistaken for a grimace. "I believe there is a patient for me, I understand." The Inspector felt an eyebrow rise, and brought it back under control. "I don't think that patient is the right word, Doctor." "Oh, but it is." Loup said with sternness. "Until death is definitively pronounced as irreversible by a trained professional, all are patients. Even after that point, retaining that designation permits a dignity absent from other, more disdainful terms." "I...see." Bitten acknowledged. "Good. Now, where is she?" Wilk spoke from just inside the room. "Through the door to your left, Doctor. If you don't need me anymore, Inspector?" "One thing, Wilk. According to Mrs Friedland, the locals have seen a big dog seen about these parts. Took a particular liking to Miss Grabowski. See what you can find out?" "Yes, sir. Of course, sir." The coroner headed to the doorway in question and opened it. The charnel stench quadrupled. Steeling himself, Bitten followed Dr Loup into Mercedes Grabowksi 's shattered bedroom. A gust of icy wind through the broken window made the room's curtain flap as they entered, drawing his attention unpleasantly for a moment. But there appeared to be no one there; just the night. As it died down, the stink returned like a hammer blow. The coroner busied himself with various preparations. The girl's remains laid out on the bed in a small lake of blood. The corpse had been arranged in a manner that suggested the mockery of the crucifixion, body, and legs straight, with ankles crossed and arms stretched out to either side. The ruins of face tilted downwards, in an attitude of suffering. The torso had been opened from the base of the neck, right down to the navel with one jagged cut, the flesh parted like the doors of the cabinet. Even to Bitten's untrained eye, it seemed quite clear that much of the contents had been removed. A ghastly rope of entrails had been pulled out of the body, and stretched to run along the base of one wall, beneath the window and back along the opposite wall before returning to the body. Large pieces of internal organ sat at the two corners of this grim border. More disturbing than this appeared to be the damage done to the front of the head. The face had been sliced off from the muscle beneath it. The mask of skin had had been laid over the groin, an unholy focus to the c*****e. The eyes had been removed from their sockets and set in their usual place below the face mask. Tearing his gaze away from the horror, the Inspector noticed some scratching on the outstretched hands. Looking closer, he saw that the palms had a special message carved into them. 28-01-1890 A steady pounding started in the Inspector's temples. "The patient is indeed quite dead." Loup pronounced. His voice calm. "The cause of death would appear to be a deep cut to the neck, severing both carotid artery and jugular vein, inflicted from left to right." He pointed at the neck. "Lack of spatter suggests further mutilation appears to be cosmetic and inflicted post-mortem." He paused to remove a thermometer from the woman's anus. "Temperature of a little over eighty-four degrees shows that death occurred about eight hours ago, around nine p.m. last night. There is a little firm sign of rigor mortis but, given the thorough tissue damage, that does not permit a clear estimate of the time of death. Internal viscera removed. The liver is set as a pillow for the head. The lungs slashed into strips, but remain in situ. The location of the heart is not readily apparent." "Her used her liver as her pillow?" Bitten's head swam. "Indeed, he did. Quite clever. You realize of course, that if this is the work of the Ripper, he seemed to be having a bad day?" "How do you mean?" "This attack appears to be visceral, animalistic. No pattern at all. Not the structure I came to expect from our friend Jack." The Inspector frowned. "I'll thank you to avoid speculating on the criminal responsible, Doctor." Bitten paused for a moment. "You're making incorrect assumptions about the time of death, too." "Am I?" The Doctor appeared offended. "You know as well as I do, Doctor. Although internal reliable predictor of time of death, it assumes that the air temperature is around average. The window to this room is broken, and it is a cold night, and the body had been left open. The residual temperature would fall much faster than normal. In this instance, enough to make time of death almost impossible to ascertain."