'Catch me when you can...'

‘Catch me when you can…’

 

Dr. A. Sippitt washed his hearty breakfast of green figs and yoghurt down with a lukewarm cup of tea and slipped his overcoat on.  He stacked his mug, plate and cutlery into the sink and rinsed them.  The doctor produced his pipe, puffed on it longingly for a few moments before checking his pocket watch and leaving for work three minutes earlier than usual.  It was a Sunday however.  He pushed the door open and closed, locking it, then strolled to the top of Fournier Street and made a right onto Commercial, passing his local, The Ten Bells.  He considered taking a growler to work but soon dispensed with the idea, preferring a brisk walk and taking in the murky city air instead.  He had plenty of time.  Sippitt walked at a quick pace and maintained it on account of the sort that lived in this borough.  For him, his lodgings were solely for the sake of his convenience and his hobby, nothing more.

            Sippitt was in his mid-thirties and led a staid existence.  He had no wife or kin and only an ailing mother in Essex.  He was average in every sense of the word, he wore a fair moustache and navy jacket always with a red knitted scarf tucked inside of its collar.  He wasn’t poor but not of considerable affluence.  But passing, he looked to be someone easily taken for a ride.

            As he navigated the cobbled streets he manoeuvred through children kicking balls about, mothers beating welcome mats and strong workers heading down to the docks.  A stone’s throw away from the coach station, leaning at the junction of an alley was a snub-nosed, dirty little juvenile with the airs and graces of a ‘gent’ and when Dr. Sippitt hastened the boy realised he had found himself a mark.  His quick little eyes burned with excitement and approached the gentleman.  He marched at him and rounded him, appearing along his left side and nudged the man into some bins. 

The boy’s mouth fell ajar and he helped get the passer-by back to his feet. 

‘Sorry guv’nor!’ he cried.

‘That’s quite alright,’ Sippitt sneered.

The ruffian tilted his cap and fled through the breach.  The doctor patted himself down, scraps of food and bin grease clung to the fibres of his jacket.  Then he realised and cried.

‘Stop!  Thief!  The boy has my watch!’

Sippitt swung right and sprinted down the narrow and muddied alley that was impregnated with filthy odours and the ghastly sort of people you could expect to imagine in them.  Naturally they shrugged him off as he weaved through the army of ‘Toms’.  He found himself at crossroads and took the path winding off to the left, leaping down a small flight of steps and found himself in a fenced off corner.  Two tall men stood with their backs to him, the little boy pointed in his direction and scarpered. 

            At first glance one would recognise them for the fighting men that they were, complete with canes, bald heads and bowler hats, wilted collars and the odour of liquor.  The shorter of the two smiled, displaying a trio of yellow teeth a piece of red meat stuck in between two of them.

‘All right cocker?’ he said, rubbing a thumb slowly and carefully over the head of his cane; his back straightened.

‘Sorry,’ Sippitt licked his dry lips.  ‘I uh-I’m afraid I seem to have taken the wrong turning.’

‘Well then, you best be getting on with it eh?  I wouldn’t be seen going down here for a stroll, if know what I mean?’

‘I quite agree,’ Sippitt said, getting the message.

      The bruiser pocketed the pocket watch and turned to his conversation.  Tutting away, Sippitt re-evaluated his journey to work and thought the better of his stroll, he hailed a growler; emerging defeated from the alley and bundled himself into the tomb-like carriage.

 

***

 

Sippitt arrived with two minutes to spare at the morgue, it smelt of chemicals and the walls were somewhat clean and dirty at the same time.  There was a body on the slab underneath a thin white sheet in the middle of the room.

‘Hullo Aiden,’ Dr. F. Brown mumbled as Sippitt hung his coat.

‘Good morning sir, may I be allowed to ask as to why I was called in today?’

‘Today?’ he growled.

‘Yes sir, it’s a Sunday?.’

‘I know it’s a bloody Sunday, I’ve been on the go since two.’

‘Two sir?’ Sippitt asked.

‘Yes.  Two more girls were killed last night.  The Ripper’s still out there.’

‘Terrible,’ he replied, turning away from his boss.  

‘No point beating about the bush, let’s get on with it.’

Carefully Brown removed the sheet, Sippitt produced his clipboard and began to take notes.  Brown spoke in clear unemotional tones.         ‘Name of deceased: Catherine Eddows.  Aged forty six. No immediate signs of semen but will run further tests to know for definite.  The deceased has V shaped lacerations procuring from her cheeks, typical with that of a Chelsea grin.  The killer has removed her kidney and sliced the tip of her nose of.  An inch below the crease of the thigh I see a cut extending to the anterior spine of the ileum obliquely down the side of the leg.  Estimated time of death placed between 1:35 and 1:45 AM.’

            There was a knock at the door and before Sippitt could pull the handle Chief Inspector Abberline rushed into the room. 

            ‘Oh hello Freddy,’  Sippitt gasped.

            ‘Hello Aiden, anything you can tell me?’

He glanced back at Brown.  The doctor shrugged his shoulders and growled, Sippitt recanted his notes to the boss.  Once he had finished Abberline began to ponder leading Sippitt responding with:

            ‘What did he look like Fred?’

            The Chief of the Met shrugged.  ‘A witness gave a statement that he saw a man with a cap, concealing the better part of his face and wore a big jacket and red scarf.’  He looked past his old colleague and pointed at the hook.  ‘Not dissimilar to yours Ade.’

            Sippitt’s face wrinkled into a smile.  ‘All right, you’ve caught me!’ he laughed.  The two men shrugged and turned to more trivial matters.

            ‘How’s your mother?’ Abberline asked.

            ‘Oh she’s fine, still up in Essex, moved to a nice cottage in a little village called Wivenhoe as it happens.  I’m glad you asked, I haven’t written to her in some time.  I’ll make a point of doing that this evening.’

            ‘Well you do that, anyhow, must be off.  I have an interview.  Take care of yourself’ he lowered his voice, ‘and try not to pester him.  He’s a had a rough time this past month.  Remember who got you your job as a police surgeon and how it looks bad on me.’

            Sippitt winked and promised to behave, Abberline bid Dr. Brown farewell and left the room.  As Brown droned on about the thieving bureaucrats affecting their department Sippitt noticed a red speck underneath his right thumbnail.  He put it in his mouth and sucked it.

 

***

 

Sippitt took the frying pan from the stove, plating its contents and serving it with mashed potato and two halves of an asparagus.  He considered gravy but refused to ruin the taste of the kidney.  It had been cooked for a minute too long anyhow and was now medium rare, soon he sat himself down at the kitchen table.  Laying out his knife and fork either side of the mat, a small glass of red wine to his right and took a mouthful from it.  Taking the steak knife in hand he sliced into the meat, the pressure of the blade opening it up with the precision of a scalpel, squeezing the blood from the rest of it.  He saved the other half on a plate on the kitchen side.  He devoured it, tearing and ripping at it, chomping away before washing the fine meal down with another chilled mouthful of wine.  He stacked his plate and cutlery into the sink and rinsed them.  The doctor produced his pipe, puffed on it longingly for a few moments before taking the pen and paper in hand and writing:

 

From Hell

Mr Lusk,

Sir,

I send you half the kidney I took from one woman, reserved it for you.  The other piece I fried and ate, it was very nice.  I may send you the bloody knife that took it out if only you wait a while longer. 

Signed catch me when you can,  Jack