Robert Jones

By Robert C. Jones

[Editor's note. Owing to computer difficulties, this column may show up under the poster's byline, which inserts automatically from whichever computer generates it.  It is, however, Robert C. Jones regular monthly column.]

After having sat through a grueling, all-day meeting, Edwin Choat had a headache and had decided to walk to his hotel rather than take a taxi. Being trim and tall, having black hair that was just beginning to accept some grey, and wearing a dark blue suit and a maroon tie, Edwin looked just like what he was, namely, a successful businessman. In fact, he was the investment director of a New York bank and had come to England to attend a meeting with bank officials in the financial area known as the City of London. He had never been to England before and had been surprised to discover that the City of London, often referred to simply as the City, is but a small portion of greater London. Because it occupies an area that measures almost exactly one square mile, the City is also referred to as the Square Mile; and it is only slightly larger than it was during the Middle Ages. At each major entrance to the City, its boundary is marked by a statue of a dragon facing outwardly toward the rest of the world.

The City is now home to financial establishments such as the London Stock Exchange, Lloyd’s of London and more than 500 banks, which, of course, include the Bank of England. The City is reportedly the richest square mile in the world. About 10,000 persons live within the City, but some 340,000 earn their living in the area, and exhaust fumes and noise from their rush-hour traffic was turning Edwin’s headache into a real thumper. He had been walking in a generally northwesterly direction along Duke’s Place and had noticed a long, narrow walkway named St James Passage extending to his left. Desperate for fresh air, he turned into it and, with relief, inhaled deeply.

The walkway led to a small court. The cleaner air and relative quiet eased tension that had been building in Edwin all day, and his headache began to abate. In one corner of the court, low, glazed-brick retaining walls enclosed a rectangular, elevated garden that was filled with flowers. Attached to a garden wall was a sign bearing the words “Mitre Square,” and Mitre Street passed just beyond the court. The court was paved with roughly rectangular stones; but the garden had a curbed margin of larger, flat stones surrounding it. There were recesses in three of the garden walls that provided precisely enough space to contain an elongate, slatted bench in each. Seated at an end of one of the benches was a handsome woman in her mid-forties. She was rather small, surely not more than five feet tall; and she had dark auburn hair and hazel eyes.

Edwin couldn’t help noticing her boots. They were unmistakably men’s boots, and the right one had been repaired using red thread. Extending upwardly from her boots were brown knee socks, and they had been darned with white thread. She wore a black jacket trimmed with poorly simulated fur. It was open to reveal what appeared to be a men’s white vest with white buttons down its front and a brown bodice made from a rough-looking material with a black velvet collar. Her skirt was a dark green chintz and bore a floral pattern. The skirt would have covered the tops of her knee socks had she been standing. As a neckerchief, she wore a length of red gauze silk. Atop it all rested a black straw bonnet trimmed with green and black velvet adorned with black beads.

Her uncommon, uncoordinated garments reminded Edwin, with pangs of guilt and sadness, that it was Halloween and that, were it not for having had to attend the meeting, he would have accompanied his young son while he “trick or treated” their neighbors back in New York. Being a widower, Edwin didn’t like being away from his son and kept his business travels to a minimum.

Although Edwin’s headache had improved a bit, his feet were feeling the wrath of stiff new shoes he had chosen to wear to his meeting. The woman watched him approach, and smiled as he drew near.

“You look as though you’ve been walking a long way,” she said.

“Actually, I’ve not been walking very far, but I have a headache and my feet hurt,” he said. “Would you mind if I sat here for a few minutes?”

“Not at all,” she said, and Edwin eased himself onto the opposite end of the bench.

“You’re an American, aren’t you?” she asked.

“What makes you think so?” he asked.

“Some by the cut of your suit,” she said, “but mostly by your accent.”

That gave Edwin a mild shock of sudden awareness, and it made him laugh. He had never before considered the fact that, to others in the world, he - not they - would have an accent.

Again taking notice of her attire, Edwin said, “I didn’t know that they observed Halloween here in England.”

This time, it was her turn to laugh. “The Celts living here celebrated it several thousand years ago. In fact, that’s why I’m here now. I always come here on Halloween.”

“Ah,” Edwin said, “that explains your costume. Are you meeting friends here before moving on to a party?”

“No,” she said quietly, “and I’m not wearing a costume.”

Immediately regretting his thoughtless statement, Edwin said, “Please forgive me, I didn’t mean to offend you. I just thought that….”

“No offense taken,” she said, smiling, her voice carrying no trace of indignation.

Searching desperately for something to restart their conversation, he said, “By the way, my name is Edwin, Edwin Choat, and I live in New York.”

“My name is Catherine Eddowes,” she said.

“Are you from around here?” he asked.

“I was born in Graisley Green in Wolverhampton,” she said, “but I’ve had a home not far from here for some time. She mentioned the name of the place but, to Edwin, it simply reminded him of the many quaint names that the British bestowed upon various areas and dwellings. The name itself offered him no hint of its location.

Edwin found the woman’s voice and gaze seductive, and he wondered if she might be a lady of the evening. That thought, however, made him feel foolish again, especially when she said, “Speaking of home, I must be getting along.”

An image that had accompanied Edwin’s suspicion of her profession vanished from his mind and was instantly replaced by an image of a family awaiting her return.

“It’ll be dark soon, ” she said, “and I don’t like to be out and about in this neighborhood at night. More than one woman’s been done quite a mischief around here in the dark. It was very nice meeting you, though.”

With that, she stood and walked briskly toward the St. James Passage, leaving Edwin feeling a twinge of regret as he watched her walk away.

Hearing footsteps behind him, he turned to see an elderly man approaching from Mitre Street.

“Is this Mitre Square?” the man asked; and Edwin nodded, pointing to the sign on the garden wall.

The man was carrying a small camera. “If you wouldn’t mind,” he said, “I’d like to take a few pictures while there’s still sufficient light. It should take only a minute or two.”

“Of course, “Edwin said, “I’ll be happy to move out of your way.”

“There’s no need to move. Your being in my pictures will provide them with scale.”

You know, it seems odd;” continued the man, smiling. “I’ve lived in London all my life and have never been here before.”

“What’s special about this place?” Edwin asked.

“I’m a mystery buff,” the man said, “and lately I’ve been reading up on Jack the Ripper. He’s believed to have killed a woman right here in this square.”

“It’s difficult to imagine a murder taking place here,” Edwin said. The place looks so peaceful and inviting, what with the flowers and all.

“She was killed back in 1888,” the man said. “I’ve seen pictures from that period. There was no garden here then. Even in daylight, this place looked grim and foreboding; and the woman was killed after midnight. Old Jack’s thought by some to have killed 11 women, and most authorities agree that he killed at least five. They’re known as the ‘canonical five.’ The woman killed here was his fourth victim, Catherine Eddowes. Jack sliced her up a fair bit and even cut out some of her innards.”

“Well, that’s a coincidence,” Edwin said, “A woman I was talking to just before you arrived said her name was Catherine Eddowes. Is that a fairly common name?

“Perhaps she’s a descendent paying her respects at the place of an ancestor’s death,” the man said.

“She said she had a home nearby,” Edwin said, naming the place she had mentioned.

The man froze in place and stared at Edwin.

“Why are you looking at me that way?” Edwin asked.

“Are you sure she said that was where she had a home?” the man asked.

“Yes. Is there something odd about that?”

“It’s a grave yard, gov,” the man said.

Extra facts:

1. Halloween is one of the oldest celebrations in the world. Its roots date back to the Celts who lived in Britain more than 2,000 years ago.

2. The clothing described as being worn by Catherine was, as recorded in a post-mortem examination report, what she was actually wearing when slain. She was also wearing a gray petticoat, an old green alpaca skirt, an old blue skirt and a white calico chemise as undergarments; but Edwin would not have known them. Her physical description is also as was recorded.

3. Blood patterns indicated that Catherine’s heart was mercifully no longer beating while she was being mutilated.