The conversation in Abberline's office did not end—it dissolved.
Not for lack of arguments, but from an excess of unease.
There was something in the air, something none of the three could name with precision, yet all felt with equal intensity: the sense that they were always one step behind. That the murderer did not merely act—he anticipated.
Whitcombe still murmured hypotheses, pacing back and forth as though pursuing an idea that refused to be fully captured. Abberline remained silent, his gaze fixed upon an indistinct point on the desk, as though he might find there a flaw, an overlooked detail, anything that could restore his advantage.
Sebastian Harrow, for his part, approached the window.
Outside, Whitechapel pulsed—but not as before.
There was a subtle yet undeniable change. People moved more quickly. They avoided eye contact. Small groups formed at corners, speaking in low tones, falling silent at the slightest sign of approach. Fear had ceased to be an impression—it had become a habit.
Then something caught his attention.
Across the street, in front of the police station, the café—normally frequented by local tradesmen and businessmen—displayed an unusual activity. Carriages aligned themselves in almost ceremonial fashion. Well-dressed men arrived in succession, some alone, others in pairs, all bearing the same rigid expression of those who were not there by chance.
Harrow narrowed his eyes.
"Inspector…" he said, without taking his attention from the scene. "It seems the city has decided to act on its own."
Abberline rose slowly and walked to the window.
He observed in silence for a few seconds.
"I heard of it this morning," he said at last, in a grave tone. "Sixteen tradesmen. Owners of businesses in the district. They are forming… a committee."
Whitcombe let out a brief exclamation, a mixture of surprise and interest.
"A committee?"
"A vigilance committee," Abberline completed. "And, it would seem, a rather well-funded one."
Harrow did not respond immediately.
His eyes remained fixed on the café door, where yet another man had just entered, removing his gloves with an impatient gesture.
"When fear organizes itself," he said at last, "it ceases to be merely fear."
Abberline cast him a brief glance.
"It becomes pressure," he replied.
"Or something worse," Harrow added.
A heavy silence fell upon the three.
Outside, the café door closed.
And with it, it seemed, a phase of the case also came to an end.
For from that moment on, it would not be only the police hunting the murderer.
Whitechapel was beginning to hunt… on its own.
And that, Harrow knew, changed everything.
While they were still reflecting upon the matter, the door opened without announcement. A man entered with the naturalness of one who did not need to ask permission.
He had a round face, greying mustache, and blond hair—thin and carefully disciplined. A long strand—once, no doubt, a striking forelock—was now carefully drawn across his forehead in a not entirely convincing attempt to conceal advanced baldness.
Although Frederick Abberline had ordered that they were not to be disturbed, the newcomer was Edmund Reid, head of H Division—and until recently, directly responsible for everything concerning those crimes. Reid did not require permission to enter.
Abberline hastened to introduce him to his two companions in the investigation. Reid, however, did not grant them immediate attention. His gaze moved about the room with a reserved scrutiny. He did not approve of seeing men involved in the case who did not answer directly to his authority.
It was not vanity—or, at least, not only that—but a rigid sense of responsibility. Before the intervention of Scotland Yard, it had been he who had conducted every stage of the investigation. Nor did he view Abberline as a rival, but he had not hesitated, on more than one occasion, to criticize the direction taken.
As one who wishes to establish firm ground before proceeding, Abberline remarked, by way of preamble:
"We were discussing a possible profile of the murderer."
Reid raised his eyebrows slightly.
"And to what conclusion have you gentlemen arrived?"
He posed the question even as he handed Abberline a bundle of newly developed photographs. The inspector received them with visible enthusiasm, tapping them against the palm of his hand like a man anticipating an imminent discovery.
"I intend to send them to a clinical laboratory," he said, "so that they may be examined under the microscope…"
But upon lifting his eyes, he encountered Whitcombe's disapproving expression. In certain circles of Scotland Yard, there still lingered the belief that the last image perceived by a victim might remain imprinted upon the retina. Whitcombe regarded such an idea as an almost mystical remnant, unworthy of serious investigation.
"Optography?" he said, with polite incredulity. "With all due respect, Inspector…"
The remark was enough to cool Abberline's enthusiasm, who suddenly appeared less certain of his course.
Reid resumed, with firmness:
"It is precisely this kind of diversion that has kept the investigation stagnant."
"And what would you have me do?" Abberline retorted, containing his irritation.
"That we concentrate our efforts on the man, not on the scattered traces he leaves behind."
Whitcombe leaned slightly forward.
"That is precisely what we were discussing before your arrival."
"Then proceed," Reid said curtly.
"I was maintaining that—"
Harrow interrupted him, with barely concealed impatience:
"Spare us Cesare Lombroso, Professor. This is not a matter of identifying a type, but of understanding a mind."
Whitcombe stiffened visibly. He considered himself, not without a measure of pride, one of the more attentive disciples of Lombrosian theory.
"The ideas of Lombroso, Mr. Harrow, are not so easily dismissed," he replied, with restrained acidity. "The born criminal, according to him, presents unmistakable signs of atavistic degeneration: cranial asymmetries, pronounced brow ridges, malformed ears… traits that betray a regression to primitive stages of human evolution. To ignore them is to close one's eyes to science itself."
Harrow crossed his arms, impassive.
"Or it is to refuse to confuse appearance with intention," he countered. "The danger of such theories lies in making us search for visible monsters, when the true horror may present itself in impeccable respectability."
Whitcombe regarded him coldly.
"And what do you propose, then?"
"For the moment, very little beyond the obvious," Harrow replied. "Reinforce surveillance and wait. With luck, we may catch him in the act."
"Luck?" Whitcombe returned, with a faint, scornful smile. "Is that your finest resource?"
Reid intervened before the tension could escalate:
"I agree as to increasing personnel, particularly in the most vulnerable areas."
He paused briefly, as though organizing his thoughts, then continued:
"And I believe we should pay closer attention to Mrs. Long's testimony. It may be more valuable than it appears."
Whitcombe reacted at once:
"With all due respect, Detective Reid, it is unwise to assign absolute value to what a witness believes she has seen. Certainty, in such matters, is often more misleading than doubt."
To everyone's surprise, Harrow nodded.
"Professor Whitcombe is correct. Thus far, what has most hindered the progress of the investigation has not been uncertainty, but premature conviction. I do not intend to disrespect Drs. Llewellyn and Phillips, but both were mistaken regarding the times of death of Nichols and Chapman. And, as if that were not enough, their conclusions have helped fuel the myth of a left-handed killer endowed with extensive anatomical knowledge—a supposition that lacks solid foundation."
Reid remained attentive.
"Even so, Mrs. Long described a man…"
"A man who appeared to belong to a higher class than herself," Harrow completed. "Yes. But let us consider the reverse: what if we are dealing with someone who deliberately wishes to appear inferior to what he is?"
Abberline let out a low grunt of disbelief.
"A gentleman disguising himself as a wretch? That strikes me as unlikely."
Reid, however, inclined his head, thoughtful.
"Not as unlikely as we once supposed, perhaps. While our men search the alleys for butchers and lunatics, the true murderer may be comfortably seated before a fireplace, a glass of wine in hand."
Harrow took a step forward, as though leading them to a point yet neglected.
"There is, however, one question that remains untouched."
The three turned toward him.
"The motive," he said. "Why prostitutes?"
The answer seemed to form instinctively in each of their minds—simple, immediate, almost vulgar. And yet, none dared to speak it.
And in that sudden silence, it became evident that the question was far from trivial.