Only a week had passed since Wynne Baxter had convened the public hearing on the death of Annie Chapman—and yet, it seemed as though an entire abyss separated those two moments.
On the previous occasion, the atmosphere had been marked by curiosity and a certain diffuse discomfort. Now, however, the air was heavy. There was no longer any room for innocent doubt. Fear had taken shape.
Baxter stood once again before the jury, prepared to conduct another public inquiry—but this time, the gaze of those present did not seek clarification, but protection. There was tension in every gesture, suspicion in every silence. Panic, still contained, insinuated itself like a living presence among the wooden benches.
Even some of the policemen who had come into direct contact with Annie Chapman's body showed evident signs of disturbance. Their expressions bore something deeper than shock: there was in them the hint of an unsettling realization—that they were confronting something that escaped ordinary logic.
Inside the building, whispers moved through the room like subterranean currents. Outside, restraint had entirely collapsed. People spoke openly of a murderer at large in Whitechapel—a man who not only killed, but defied. The more agitated demanded immediate police action, while others, quieter, merely watched with the vacant gaze of those who had already begun to fear the night.
Sebastian Harrow was present.
This time, he had chosen anonymity. Disguised as a journalist, he blended into the crowd with ease, absorbing every nuance of that seething environment. He wished to feel—more than to understand—the pulse of the city. He sought to capture what was not spoken aloud.
Of those present, only Inspector Frederick Abberline knew his true identity.
As the hearing progressed, Harrow confirmed an impression he already held regarding Wynne Baxter. The man possessed no medical training—he was a lawyer. And this was reflected in every gesture, in every carefully shaped question. Baxter did not conduct a technical investigation; he constructed a case. He interrogated as one weaves a narrative, seeking coherence where there might be only disconnected fragments of truth.
The first to testify was John Richardson.
In a firm voice, though slightly trembling, he stated that at approximately 4:50 a.m. he had been in the yard of the residence to check the cellar lock. He asserted that, at that moment, he had sat upon the steps to clean his boot—and that there had been no sign of a body.
The testimony was recorded with care. Yet, in the air, the inevitable doubt lingered: had he truly observed with the attentiveness he claimed?
Next came Timothy Donovan, manager of Crossingham's, the lodging house where Annie Chapman frequently spent her nights.
Donovan declared that, at approximately 1:45 a.m., Annie and other occupants had been required to leave the establishment's kitchen for not possessing the four pence necessary to rent a bed. According to him, prior to that, the woman had consumed beer and eaten—possibly potatoes.
John Stevens, the handyman of the establishment, confirmed the account with a minor discrepancy: he insisted that Annie had eaten a sandwich.
A trivial detail, at first glance. But Harrow knew—in such cases, it was precisely such details that later became decisive.
Then came Matthew Packer.
The street vendor appeared eager—perhaps even flattered—to occupy that position. He claimed to have seen Annie Chapman after her departure from the lodging house, accompanied by a well-dressed man.
He described the individual with a certain enthusiasm: elegantly attired and carrying a small parcel, something like a gift wrapped in coarse paper, approximately six inches in length. He further added that the man had purchased grapes and had even offered them to the woman.
But as he spoke, his narrative began to fragment.
There were inconsistencies. Hesitations. Small deviations which, taken together, weakened his credibility.
Baxter was already showing impatience and seemed inclined to dismiss the testimony when Harrow discreetly approached Abberline. He murmured something into his ear and handed him an object.
The inspector examined it, nodded, and without delay addressed Baxter, requesting permission to intervene.
"You mentioned that the individual was carrying a parcel?" Abberline asked, turning to Packer.
"Precisely," the man replied.
"Could you describe it more accurately?"
Packer scratched his chin, reflecting.
"It was not exactly a parcel… more like an object wrapped in paper. Something simple. Like what we use to wrap goods."
Abberline then revealed the item Harrow had given him: a piece of wrapping paper, similar in size to a sheet of newspaper.
"Would it be something like this?"
Packer leaned slightly forward, observing it carefully.
"I cannot be certain it is the same… but it is very similar."
It was not a confirmation. But neither was it a denial.
And, in that context, that was enough to keep doubt alive.
The next witness was Albert Cadosch.
His testimony brought a perceptible shift in the atmosphere.
He stated that at approximately 5:20 a.m., he had been in his yard—adjacent to that of number 29—when he heard a female voice exclaim an emphatic "No!" Shortly thereafter, he heard the dull sound of something striking the fence.
A pause.
"I did not investigate," he added, somewhat embarrassed. "Such noises were common."
The banality of the remark passed through the room like a chill.
How many crimes might be concealed behind what one learns to ignore?
John Davis was called next.
Visibly shaken, he reported that at approximately 6:00 a.m. he had gone to the yard intending to use the privy. It was then that he saw the body.
He described the scene with difficulty. The words seemed to escape him, as though they refused to give form to the horror.
"I ran to the street…" he said, swallowing hard. "And I cried out: 'There's a person lying dead here!'"
Finally, Elizabeth Long—also known as Mrs. Durrell—was called.
Her demeanor contrasted with that of the others. There was in her an almost unshakable composure, as though she were accustomed to being heard.
In a firm voice, she declared that the church clock had just struck 5:30 when she saw a woman—whom she believed to be Annie Chapman—speaking with a man in front of number 29 Hanbury Street.
She described him as a man of about forty years of age, with the appearance of a foreigner. His manner was coarse, though his clothing suggested an attempt at elegance.
"He was holding something," she said. "An object wrapped… in paper."
The room seemed to contract.
"I heard him say: 'Will you?'"
A brief pause.
"And she replied: 'Yes.'"
The silence that followed was absolute.
Long added that she had not remained to observe the outcome, but had the impression that the man departed in the opposite direction shortly thereafter.
Her testimony, though solid, left an unsettling margin for interpretation—and, like the others, contributed to a picture that seemed increasingly fragmented.
When Dr. George Bagster Phillips took the floor, the expectation was for technical clarity.
What followed, however, was even more disturbing.
Phillips estimated the time of death at approximately 4:30 a.m.—far earlier than the witnesses suggested.
The discrepancy created an impasse.
If he were correct, much of the testimony became irrelevant—or worse, misleading.
With no possible consensus, Wynne Baxter rendered the final decision: he formalized 5:30 a.m. as the most probable time of death.
The choice was immediately contested, both by Phillips himself and by officers of Scotland Yard.
But at that moment, the need to conclude the hearing outweighed absolute precision.
When it ended, the public dispersed slowly, as though each person carried with them a fragment of that mystery.
Abberline, however, wasted no time.
He summoned Whitcombe and Harrow—separately—and ordered them to meet him in his office within twenty minutes.
When they arrived, they found the inspector seated, a cup of coffee in his hands. The strong aroma seemed to be the only stable element in that landscape of growing uncertainty.
Whitcombe spoke first, visibly excited.
"I am astonished!" he declared. "In all my career as an alienist, I have never encountered a mind so… extraordinarily perverse."
Abberline did not share his enthusiasm.
"You two…" he said, his voice tense, "how could you be so certain he would strike again?"
Harrow perceived Whitcombe's almost febrile energy and made a subtle gesture, allowing him to respond.
"Elementary," the alienist began. "The clues. The pattern. What we saw in Buck's Row was not a debut… it was a stage. An experiment. He is learning. Refining."
Abberline then turned to Harrow.
"And you? And that paper?"
Harrow leaned lightly against the table.
His eyes were more alive now—almost illuminated by an unsettling understanding.
"Audacity," he said, in a low tone.
"How so?"
"Absolute audacity. That is what defines this man."
He paused, as though organizing his own thoughts.
"He chooses the setting. Prepares the ground. Lures the victim. And executes everything… under the potential gaze of witnesses. This is not impulsiveness. It is control. It is calculation."
The silence deepened.
"He operates at the limit," Harrow continued. "Because he believes himself to be beyond it."
Whitcombe leaned forward, adding with enthusiasm:
"And there is more. He operates with almost mechanical precision. In ten, fifteen minutes… he performs complex mutilations and disappears. Likely covered in blood—and yet invisible."
Abberline remained still.
Slowly, he set the cup down upon the table.
For the first time, he did not seem merely to be listening.
He seemed to be beginning to believe.
And that possibility… was, perhaps, more frightening than any other.