THE BAD SAMARITAN

It can be cold in London; damned cold. On such a night as this, fifty years ago, I was in the Limehouse district, down by the river, heavy fog wreathing everything in vagueness, mingling with the foul smoke of coal fires drifting past to make a choking, almost unbreathable atmosphere. I had my scarf wrapped around my face but it had little effect. I began to cough. I needed to get away from this poverty-stricken area of the City. I tried to find a hansom cab, but none were likely to come into this area. Haggard prostitutes lined the damp streets, in alcoves or doorways. One approached me, bedraggled, toothless. A yellow light from the windows of a nearby pub, muffled by the fog, lighted her face. ‘Looking for a good time, dearie?’

‘No, thank you. I’m just after a cab.’

I was feeling more nervous by the minute, understandably. I was too well dressed for this part of town. I looked like a potential source of wealth for anyone with a knife. I carried a stick, but I could see that against a determined opponent, or a group of them, I would stand little chance. Why had I come here in the first place? It was madness to set out so late in the day, particularly in so thick a fog. Dusk had come much faster than I had expected, and I had lost my way early. What had seemed a simple, easily accomplished journey had turned bad remarkably quickly.

My mission seemed pointless now. I should at least have waited till morning, and have come accompanied, perhaps with a bodyguard. As it was, I doubted that I would find my destination in the obscurity that surrounded me, and my situation seemed to be becoming more precarious and dangerous by the minute.

A man approached me, his wrinkled, rat-like face grimacing in what he probably thought was a winning smile. ‘Spare a shillin’, guv? I’m down on my luck; just need a little to tide me over, ‘ave summat to eat, maybe somewhere to sleep.’ I recoiled in horror. I shuddered to think what would happen if I reached for my wallet. Too much temptation there. But I had a few coins in my fob – perhaps I could help this man, and perhaps he could help me find my way out of this labyrinth of narrow cobbled streets, overhung on both sides by run-down, derelict housing, which should have been condemned and pulled down years ago, but which certainly housed many people in poverty and squalor; men, women, children with too little to eat, too little space, too little money, scraping a living somehow, not too careful about legalities when it was a case of steal or starve. And life was cheap, my own included. Could I trust this man? Or if I gave him a coin, would it attract a host of other beggars, all insistent on getting their share of this unexpected windfall? And if a toff vanished one foggy night, his body to be retrieved sodden and stinking from the nearby Thames a day or a week later, who was to know how that had happened or who was responsible? Policemen, if they ventured here at all, would have done so in pairs or in gangs, for self-protection. And anyway, who would care?

The man became insistent. ‘Wot, you got no money for a poor man, a toff like you?’ And then, like wolves around a cornered deer, other men began to join him. ‘Wot you doin’ in a place like this, pal?’ asked one, fingering something in his coat pocket. ‘I reckon you could afford a bit of money for a few downtrodden coves like us. Eh, fellers?’ he asked smiling at the other men, grimy, tattered clothing, dirty faces, missing teeth, an evil look on their faces. I felt like turning and running, but I felt that would be the worst thing to do. I grabbed hold of my stick, but I could see I was in bad trouble. The men began to converge on me. I could tell that it would only be a matter of moments before one or more of them would be behind me, and that would be the end. I was young, but no fighter. I fully expected to become a police statistic. ‘Poor feller. Dunno what he was doin’ in a place like that, a toff like him. A form of suicide, if yer ask me.’

Then all at once a coach came down the narrow cobbled street, almost scraping the rotting buildings on either side. A hand appeared out of the window and scattered coins onto the cobbles. Not mere shillings, either – golden sovereigns! The men dived to grab them, squabbling over the spoils. They weren’t looking at me any more.

‘Quick! Get in!’ came a voice, as the door swung open. There was a coat of arms on it, but I couldn’t make it out in the dark.

I immediately climbed inside, and the coachman whipped the horses to a gallop. I was safe!

I turned to thank my rescuer - richly and expensively dressed, well groomed, bearded, handsome, smiling. Over his clothes a black cape with a scarlet lining. Obviously a gentleman, and considerably better off than me. Perhaps in his late forties or early fifties.

‘Thank you very much. I was beginning to get very concerned - this is not a very safe place; I hadn’t intended to be here this late – or at all, in fact. I got lost.’

‘Where were you trying to get to? Perhaps I could help.’

‘It’s on the docks. I thought I knew how to get there, but obviously I was mistaken. I’m a ship’s chandler. There’s a ship tied up at the docks – the Grosvenor. I was to see the captain and the purser to arrange provisions and equipment for them.’

‘That’s a coincidence. I know the Grosvenor. And where she’s docked. I can certainly take you there. It’s not far from here, but with all these lanes and alleys I can fully understand you getting lost.’

‘I’m very grateful,’ I said. ‘I was surprised to see someone like you in an area like this by choice. Oh, I’m sorry. That sounds like I’m prying, and I certainly had no intention of doing that.’

‘Not at all. I find this area of London very interesting. I’m a medical man, a surgeon, and I am extremely interested in the effects of the conditions these people live under on their physical development. Some terrible deformations, I’m afraid, and of course all the expected diseases – rickets, poliomyelitis, malnutrition. I interest myself particularly in the so-called ladies of the night. They live harder lives than most – out in all weathers, dominated by their pimps, addicted to strong drink to make their miserable lives a little more tolerable. I can do little to help them, I’m afraid, but I do what I can to relieve them of their misery.’

‘Well, I’m very grateful to you. I believe those men meant business.’

‘Oh, they certainly did. It’s fortunate I arrived when I did. Otherwise you would most certainly have ended up in the river, stripped naked and dead as a doornail.’

I blanched at his words.

‘I’m so sorry. We surgeons have a rather grim sense of humour, and we sometimes indulge it at inappropriate times. Those men interested me, though. You can call them scum, or gutter-scrapings, but they’re human beings for all that. Do you have a philosophical frame of mind?’

‘I suppose so, to the degree I’m able. I doubt that I’m a very deep thinker, though.’

‘Do you ever ponder the riddle of existence? Why people cling to life when it’s so unpleasant? Is life then so precious that we are willing to put up with poverty, with pain, with brutality and addiction and starvation, just to live a few more brief moments? What kind of life can these people look forward to? More of the same for the rest of their lives, until they can no longer drag out their miserable existences for themselves, and end up in the workhouse, or starving to death miserably in some gutter? Surely death would be better – a release from such suffering. I often wonder about what these poor women who walk the streets have to look forward to, what they can possibly gain from lives of such misery and squalor. Wouldn’t it be kinder to free them from such torment?’

‘Well, of course, but how to do it? The government can do only so much, the Church helps to a certain degree. But how does one deal with such widespread poverty?’

‘Very true. But perhaps we can relieve individuals, one at a time - individuals sunk so far into degradation that anything – anything – would be a release. Even death.’ He smiled, but his smile was not reassuring.

The coach turned a corner with a squeal of iron-rimmed wheels against the cobbles, and there were the docks, the Grosvenor tied up right in front of us. I smiled and thanked my rescuer, shaking him by the hand. I noticed his medical bag on the seat next to him. ‘Off to help another unfortunate, I gather?’

‘Yes, you could say that. Can I advise you to stay aboard the ship overnight? I think it would be considerably safer, and perhaps ask for an escort in the morning. You’re right – this is not a good area.’

‘I’m sorry, I never thought to ask you your name. Mine’s Cartwright.’

‘Well, I’m glad to make your acquaintance Mister Cartwright. For my own reasons I prefer to remain anonymous. You can call me Jack.’

‘Well, thank you again – Jack. I am very grateful for your help.’

‘Think nothing of it. It’s a gentleman’s duty to help ease people’s lives, to relieve their suffering. Otherwise, what would the human race come to?’

Smiling, he knocked on the ceiling of the coach and it moved off. The fog was still thick and I was glad to enter the warmth and safety of the ship. I took his advice and once our business was done, I begged the captain’s indulgence to allow me to spend the night aboard and leave in the morning with an escort. He was only too happy to oblige.

It was not until I got to the office next day that, as was my wont, I picked up the newspaper that was placed upon my desk every morning. I had been intending to go straight to the shipping pages to see what ships had arrived and those that were ready to leave, as I did every morning. But the large headline on the front page caught my eye ‘RIPPER STRIKES AGAIN! ANOTHER WOMAN MURDERED. WHO IS JACK THE RIPPER?’

I’m an old man now, but to this day I wonder about the identity of the man who helped me that night. Surely just a coincidence. Surely.