The barmaid drew more mild ale, filling their pints halfway and mixing in bottled brown ale.
“Cheers, guv.”
“If not the Ripper, who?” asked Bell.
“How do you mean?”
“I get the impression that you don’t fully accept Yard’s solution that Barrister Druitt was Jack the Ripper.”
“Before you read too much into your impression, mind you, the list of ‘official’ suspects reported by the assistant chief constable of the Criminal Investigation Division included the suicide.”
“Who else was on the list?”
“A Polish Jew named Kosminski.”
“What made Kosminski a suspect?”
“He lived in Whitechapel.”
“That’s the only reason?”
“He was a foreigner. And a Jew. And in and out of the lunatic house. It added up. In the mind of the assistant chief constable.”
“Any more?”
“A Russian confidence trickster called Ostrog.”
“Another foreigner,” said Bell. Joel Wallace’s assessment of Scotland Yard was beginning to sound generous.
“Another regular guest of the lunatic house and Her Majesty’s prisons,” said the old man, and fell silent as he sipped his beer. The division bell finally stopped ringing.
“Did the C.I.D. assistant chief constable favor one suspect over the others?”
“He was not in the habit of confiding in constables, which was still my rank in 1888,” the old man answered drily. “But I do know, guv, that he struck from the list the insane medical student, and the doctor avenging his son who died of the clap, as well as a duke, a peer of the realm gone to ground in Brazil, and a horny painter.”
“Who was the woman buried in New Scotland Yard’s cellar?”
“No one knows.”
“Isn’t it odd she was never reported missing?”
“London’s gigantic. Still, she couldn’t have been from Whitechapel. Someone would have said, ‘Oh, that must be Maud or Betty, she’s gone missing.’ No one did.”
“Unlike when Barrister Druitt was pulled out of the river.”
“Right you are, guv. His family had reported him missing. It was in the record. They had people to identify his clothing . . . I thank you for the brown and milds, governor. I’m going to toddle along home now. Past me bedtime.”
“Do you know anyone who could tell me more about the girl in the cellar?”
The old man scratched his chin and eyed Bell speculatively. “Well, if you really care about her . . .”
“I do.”
“I’d talk to Nigel Roberts.”
“Who’s Roberts?”
“Retired early from the Yard. Used to be C.I.D.”