ONCE BITTEN

FOURTEEEN : VIVIEN NEVES

i

The days following the Duke of Clarence’s rather laboured attempt at espionage, became unusually busy for the SID.  The specialists that had been loaned to the team were extremely thorough, at Barham House, where they were able to collect a vast amount of physical trace evidence to be examined carefully.

            By the time they were done, the entire house had been examined, amongst the Duke’s personal effects, were set of discarded manacles. Minute examination was required to rule out as an actual location where Marie Massoli might have been held captive.  Much to the relief of the Royal family, it seemed another part of the Ripper’s elaborate masquerade.

            Bitten and Wilk went through such properties of the dead woman as had yet to be disposed of both at her lodgings and at October Entertainments.  They found nothing of any use, including no note.  Whoever had summoned her for an assignation their identity and their degree of involvement went undiscovered. 

            Stephanie Clifford had been unable to provide any further information about the woman that Marie Massoli had met in the wall, eventually accepted that it might have been an optical illusion.  The day after Marie Massoli’s funeral, Stephanie Clifford left London for good.

            Dr Loup eventually ascertained that while Marie Massoli had been the Ripper’s prisoner she had been starved, fed only milk, to be precise, but not otherwise tormented or ill-treated.  Her death had been the customary butchery, and the creature had taken epiglottis as a trophy, but otherwise her body had been used as a canvas.

            The designs carved into her raised alarm eyebrows amongst particular specialists in the employ of the Crown, but in the end, they decided that there would be little advantage to burdening the Inspector further with their possible implications.  Even if there had been a correlation, it would have been of little use in his hunt for his quarry.

            By the time the hullabaloo had faded, all that Inspector Bitten had actually gained for his pains were a broken briefcase and a recurring nightmare of the dead woman’s grotesque carcass hanging in the endless void.  His mood deteriorated steadily, which is probably why he did not realize the import of the pains his quarry had been going to, a costly oversight, all things considered.

            At the end of January, on the morning after the full moon, Bitten received another case.  The murdered woman turned out to be Vivien Neves, whose real name had been Lynn Livermore, the girl who had been in cahoots with the Duke of Clarence during the attempted robbery at Barham House.

            Under the name of Vivien Neves, she turned out to be well known to the constabulary.  According to her file, she had been twenty-four years old, and had been working the streets of the East End on and off for a decade.

            In that time, she’d been arrested a dozen times for a range of minor offences, including affray, violent drunkenness, nudity, pilfering and, on one occasion, throwing another girl through a plate-glass window.

            Despite the arrests, she had never been prosecuted, and the notes speculated that she might have an influential lover somewhere behind the scenes.

            The body had been found in the store room of a greengrocer’s on Mablethorpe Road, and when Bitten got to the address with Loup and Wilk, he found it to be a particularly unprepossessing place. 

The building, old and filthy.  The glass of the shop front, grubby and smeared, and the frontage in desperate need of a coat of new paint.  The whole area remained depressed, but even so Rice’s Greengrocery stood out as a particular eyesore.

An alley of churned mud led away from the paved road and down the side of the building,  towards a small stockyard.  Bitten and his men made their way down to the rear of the grocer’s, where a police constable stood visible outside a pair of large wooden doors.

An empty cart with a knackered old horse had been parked up along one side, under a bit of cover.  At the read of the yard stood a primitive stable, with a heap of wet, dirty broken wooden crates piled up against it.

The man saluted as Bitten approached.

“DI Bitten, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Constable Usher out of Whitechapel.  The…”

He swallowed nervously.

“The, uh, victim is in this back room here, sir.  It’s grim work.  No one’s been in since word went out to your office.”

“Thank you, Constable. Doctor Loup, if you please?”

“My pleasure, Inspector.”

The doctor made his way into the store room.

A door opened in the wall of the grocer’s proper.  A slovenly-looking fellow with unkempt hair, damply mud-caked shoes and cheap, grimy clothing stood in the doorway.  He looked to be in his forties.

“You the police?”

He demanded.

Bitten exchanged a look with Wilk and made his way over to the fellow.

“I’m Detective Inspector Bitten.  Are you Mr Rice?”

“That I am.”

“Was it you who found the body, sir?”

“Screaming hells, no.  I ain’t been back there.  I haven’t even been outdoors today.  I got up and just set to work about the shop.  It’s the lad what helps me, Ted Langley, he’s the one who found it.  And it ain’t the tart I’m worried about, is it?”

Bitten sensed the urge to say something when Wilk approached.

“Sir, Dr Loup thinks you should come and examine the site.”

Bitten nodded.

“Very well, Constable.  Please excuse me for a moment, Mr Rice.  I’ll be back shortly.”

They left the untidy grocer standing there, and walked back towards the stock room.

“He’s going to be trouble, Wilk.”

Bitten said.

“He’s barely spoken three words to me and already he’s lying his arse off.”

“Is he, sir?”

“Yes, Wilk.  Rice said that he hadn’t been outside, but his shoes are caked in damp mud.

ii

Bitten took a stiff breath of the supposedly fresh air and went into the stock room.  Even at first glance he could see it looked like the Ripper’s handiwork.

            The dead woman was posed on top of some crates of produce as if squatting on her heels, with a stack behind her helping to support her body in an upright position.  Her arms were spread out on either side, held there by what appeared to be oranges, and her head was tilted back against a sack of something that might have been potatoes, so that she looked upwards.  What appeared to be a carrot had been placed beneath her, giving the impression that she had been in the throes of passion.

            Her skin had been ripped into long vertical strips, starting around the collarbone and under her armpits, and running down to her hips.  The cuts were such, Bitten could almost imagine the werewolf tugging at the skin, as you would seen a domestic dog pulling on a toy in your home.

            Some of the savagery of the attack had been so structured, that the beast had allowed for the curvature of her breasts and stomach, giving the overall impression she wore a rather fashionable top.

            Her neck gaped widely open where her throat had been torn, and although her head faced away and the light was fairly dim in there, Bitten could see that her eyes were just ruins, with evidence of extensive damage to her arms, despite the way that they had been carefully set up.

            “Ah, Inspector.”

            Loup said.

            “You’ll like this.”

            “I doubt it.”

            Bitten managed.

            “Miss Neves is not as ambitious or as lovely as my last, of course, but she’s still uncommonly witty.  Look here.”

            He pointed to the bloody mess of the arms.

            “The pose, of course, is at the root of the matter.  Miss Nevers has had her ulna, radius and humerus removed on both sides.  The bones have been replaced with carrots.  Not only this is a play on the notion of the embrace that she is reaching for, but it also engages with the ‘bone’ itself, particularly when seen in the light of the carrot placed to…”

            “Thank you, Doctor.”

            Bitten said quickly.

            “You did see the excised arm bones, yes?  The extension of the embrace to become a feast of the senses, the…”

            “Arm bones?”

            “Over there, Inspector.”

            Bitten looked at here the Doctor pointed.  The bones that had been removed from the corpse were set on top of a crate, arranging leaning against each other to form a gristly pyramid.  Shreds of sinew still clung to the bones in places.  Inside the shape, lying on top of the crate, were the woman’s eyeballs and tongue, arranged in such a manner as to mimic a phallus.  He blinked as the image sank in, then staggered back a step.

            “Ah, yes.”

            Loup gloated.

            “It’s extremely clever, isn’t it?  He’s really opening up to us now, Inspector.  We’re finally getting to see the real man behind the knife.”

            “What is wrong with you?”

            Bitten snapped.

            “Me?”

            Loup asked, surprised.

            “It’s just a little cough. Thank you for your concern, but it’s nothing to worry about.  I should have known you’d notice.  Very thoughtful of you, Inspector.”

            Bitten ground his teeth together and closed his eyes for a moment, pulling himself together.

            “That’s a relief.”

            He said finally.

            “Is there any apparent trace evidence anywhere else in the room?”

            “I’ve only really had eyes for my patient so far and her eyes, ha-ha.  There are many footmarks in here, plenty of muck traced in from the yard outside.  I can tell you what I haven’t seen, however.  A stitch of the victim’s clothing.”

            “Like last time?”

            “Yes, but this time she was killed here.  Look at the blood there, and there, and there.”

            He pointed at splatters of gore on crates and a wall, and a pool of sticky blood partly covered by a small heap of broken crates.

            “She did not arrive completely naked.”

            Bitten frowned.

            “No.  You’re right, it’s highly unlikely.”

            “When you consider the lack of mud on her feet, it seems certain.”

            “Maybe the killer left with the clothes, but perhaps they are here somewhere.”

            He looked around carefully, forcing himself not to flinch from the dead woman and the vile shape that had been made from her bones.  There appeared to be a significant amount of blood splattered across the room.  The traces had typically splashed onto multiple surfaces, making it unlikely that those items had been distributed prior to the killing.  The broken crates were rain-damp, and had no clothing within them.

            “We’ll have to examine the containers carefully.  Complete your investigations, Doctor.  I am going to speak with the owner again.”

            Skin crawling, Bitten left the store room.  Wilk stood outside with the other constable.  The Inspector clapped him on the shoulder.

            “Brace yourself, Wilk.  It’s not as horrific as the last time, but it’s still bad.  I need you to look through the crates and barrels in there.  Anything you can open.  Make sure that the victim’s clothing hasn’t been stashed.  While you’re at it, see if you spot any boot prints or paw prints that fit with our earlier samples.  I’ll be with the owner.”

            Bitten made his way back to the grocer’s side door, where Rice still waited.

            The man watched him approach, glowering.

            “Well, Inspector?  What are you going to do about my valuables?”

            He blinked.

            “I’m not sure I understand, Mr Rice.”

            “I told you before man.  Whoever dumped that dead hussy stole from me.  He knew exactly what to go for as well.”

            Bitten stared at him for a long moment.

            “Didn’t you see the busted-up crates?  He filched my life savings.  I’m ruined!”

            “Nonsense!”

            Bitten snapped.  The fellow goggles at him.

            “If you insist on lying to me, it will go poorly for you.”

            “I don’t know what you’re talking about?”

            The man remained defiant.

            “The pool of blood is partly covered by the crates, so they were placed on top of it after it had formed, and had been there long enough to at least congeal, otherwise the wood would have displaced the pool, rather than partly cover it.  They’re also damp with water, so they weren’t even in the stock room originally, they’ve been brought in from the stack of broken crates that are in the yard.”

iii

The grocer gave Inspector Bitten a cold look.

            “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

            “Perhaps we should talk inside?”

            “Yeah, OK.”

            He turned round and started wandering into an untidy preparation room.  Several long tables were arranged in the middle of the room, covered with partially empty boxes of fruit and vegetables, empty presentation trays, packing paper and a number of thick wooden chopping boards, each with at least one sharp-looking knife.

            The produce did not seem particularly appealing, but it remained less disastrous than the rest of establishment might have suggested.  About halfway down the preparation room wall, a beaded curtain led through to the shop itself.  A woman of middle years appeared to be taking care of the establishment.

            They walked through the room, winding between crates and sacks, and through an open door at the far end.  This opened on to a small bleak room, with a small oven that combined heating and a plate for boiling a kettle.  A battered table sat against the wall with a few chairs around it.  The grocer took the furthest seat, and waved a hand vaguely at the others as he did.

            “Very well.”

            Bitten said, putting a bland expression. 

            “First, I would like a little information about you, for our records.  If you’d be so kind.”

            He pulled out a notebook.

            The man squinted at him, then shrugged.

            “Albert Rice, forty-two years old.  Born in Edmonton.  I inherited this place about ten years ago.  My wife and I live above the shop here.  Her name’s Ethel.  My son’s in the Navy.  What else do you want?”

            “Is Albert Rice your full name?”

            “It’s Albert George Rice.”

            “Thank you, Mr Rice.  Now, you said you live on these premises.  Did you notice any disturbance last night, or anything otherwise unusual?”

            “Too right, I did.  About three in the morning, I woke up.  That’s not unusual.  My legs are a right old stare, the amount of standing around and carrying I have to do, it’s always painful, and they make a sleep a bit of a trial.  Doesn’t take much to set them to stabbing at me, that’s for sure.  I don’t know how I’m expected…”

            He must have seen something in Bitten’s face, because he trailed off.

            “Anyway, I remained awake, and I heard voices in the yard.  It happens sometimes.  Filthy, the people around here are.  Horrible buggers.  So, I didn’t think much of it.  But there might have been a voice I thought I recognized, this bloody mick who lives in the next street and is always trying to make my life a misery.  He’s a thief and a bruiser, total scum, neck like a bull and a nose like a tea-plate.  The sort you must see all day, every day.  He’s had it in for me since I took over this place.”

            “Oh?”

            “Damn right, he has.  Nasty-minded little bastard, and I won’t apologize for saying it.  But he’s got a pack of mates, and they’re all thick together, so didn’t want to risk my hide down there to tell him to bugger off.  I looked out the window and as best I could see the stable remained locked up tight.  I figured he might stagger off with a crate of potatoes or something, you know what they’re like.  I didn’t know he would be down there carving up some slattern with his mates.  Why the hell would I imagine that?  I knew he could be bad, right.  I knew that.  But I didn’t know he might be sick in the head with it.  But I guess the girl might have been an afterthought/”

            “Afterthought?”

            “Yeah.  That’s what I am telling you, Inspector.  What’s all this about is my mother’s jewellery.”

            Bitten blinked,

            “I don’t understand your meaning, I’m afraid.”

            “My old mum left us a bunch of jewellery when she died, lovely things she had from her own mother, who had been a real proper lady before her husband died.  We didn’t have the heart to sell it, so we hid it.”

            “In your vegetable store.”

            “Of course. Where else? You take a crate and hide it in amongst a lot of other identical crates.  Who’s going to wade through fifty boxes of apples?  Besides, the stock room is covered by the shop insurance.  Makes it safe.  And a good thing, too.”

            “I see.”

            The Inspector said.

            “I dunno how they found out about it.  A careless word my stupid wife, probably.  Doesn’t take much to clue in rat like that one, does it?  He’s got a nose for it.  Probably why he brought the tart round, so his lads would get some recreation in while he searched through my store.”

            “And then he what, just killed her after?”

            “Sure.  Keep her quiet, turn her into a dirty joke for laughs.”

            “I see.”

            Bitten said again.

            “Look, I can prove it.  They left this behind.”

            Rice twisted round in his chair and pulled a bundle of cloth from the shelf.

            “This is where Mum’s stuff was.”

            He unfolded the cloth to reveal a wooden box, about a foot square and six inches high.

            “This is my Mum’s jewellery case. When we got it, we cleaned it all up, wrapped it in this here cloth, then put it in a wooden crate like what most of the stuff comes in.  We ain’t touched it since, until I found it this morning, on the stock-room floor, its crate all broken up.  The mick cleaned it right out.”

            He opened the box.  It was indeed empty, apart from a thick scattering of dust.  The inside was scored in places, but the wood looked of reasonably good quality.  It could certainly have held a significant amount of jewellery.

            “And do you know his name, this thief and murderer?”

            “Of course, I do.  Patrick Fitzgerald.  I think he called one of his mates Frank, as well.  They’re all bloody Irish, the whole lot of ‘em.”

            “I’m sure they are.  So let me just confirm: are you certain of all the facts that you have explained to me?”

            “Of course.”

            Bitten offered the man the notebook and pencil.

            “Would you just sign these notes to confirm that?  Feel free to read over them first.”

            Rice peered at him for a moment, then shrugged.

            “Sure.”

            He glanced over the notes, then scrawled a signature beneath them.

            “Capital.”

            Bitten said pleasantly.

            “Albert George Rice, I’m arresting you for criminal felony fraud, for tampering with evidence, and for false testament regarding a capital crime.”

            He paused as the thunderstruck grocer gawped at him.

            “Great God, man.  That box was stored full of jewellery?  How stupid do you think I am?  There’s dust inside the box.  If it’s been closed and wrapped, with just jewellery inside, where did the duct come from?”