Chained in Time

by David Waine

CHAPTER 4

  Sunday, September 9th, 1888

  The day dawned grey and slightly chilly, but dry. As it was the Sabbath, at least for Christians — the East End’s numerous Jews having observed theirs the day before — it began at a more leisurely pace than the previous six days. Amid the steady trickle of worshippers on their way to church, however, a new note of hysteria was already evident, for a fresh rumour was sweeping the streets. By ten thirty a small crowd of assorted folk had gathered outside Commercial Street Police Station, eager for news.

  They did not have long to wait. The door swung open and a tight knot of reporters rushed out, falling over one another to be the first into a waiting cab. Those working for the nationals inevitably won as they had the thickest wallets. That left those working for the local papers sprinting to their offices on foot.

  After that things quietened down as the crowd continued to wait expectantly, nervously second-guessing each other with their various unfounded theories, until the reporter from the Police Gazette emerged to pin his hastily written transcript to the notice board beside the main door. The fully fleshed-out version would appear later in the next edition of the newspaper.

  Immediately the crowd huddled about him, craning their necks over his shoulder, which annoyed him because he knew that many were illiterate and would have been none the wiser had he held the paper before their faces.

  “All right, all right, be patient!” he cried elbowing his way out of the crowd to return to his office to work on the definitive version. Immediate requests were passed back and forth for someone who could read to be allowed forward.

  That man was George Lusk, a local resident who later went on to form his own group of vigilantes to assist the police in their quest to track down the killer. Positioning himself in front of the hastily scrawled notice, he read it aloud slowly so that all could hear his voice.

  “Right,” he began, “it says, Police statement given by Inspector F. Abberline, of the Metropolitan Police, at Commercial Street Police Station.” He paused to allow the last couple of chatterers to quieten down and pay attention. Turning back to the notice, he continued, “Regretfully, it is my sad duty to confirm the report of the discovery of another female victim, this time on Hanbury Street. The discovery was made early this morning. The victim has been identified as Annie Chapman, also known as “Dark Annie”, because of the colour of her hair. Death was caused by the cutting of her throat, with two strokes, followed by the most dreadful mutilation of the body.

  ‘When asked if the victim was a woman of the streets, Inspector Abberline replied that it was his information that she was. A different reporter then asked if it would be fair to assume, therefore, that this slaying was also the work of the killer of Polly Nichols. Inspector Abberline agreed that it would be a fair assumption, and one with which he concurred. The essential manner of both murders was the same. If anything, this attack was even worse than the other.

  ‘When asked if he had any indication of the sort of man he was trying to find, Inspector Abberline replied that whoever carried out these attacks is obviously a maniac, possibly recently released, or escaped, from an institute for the criminally insane. They were checking into that. The discovery of a bloodstained leather apron near the body may also be of significance. These aprons are common enough in the slaughterhouses and tanneries, which proliferate in the district. He was confident that an arrest was imminent.'”

  Mr. Lusk turned to face the throng gathered behind him and nodded grimly to indicate that he had finished his task. Donning his bowler hat, he elbowed his way through them to make his way to church. As he passed, the majority edged closer to the notice to see if they could decipher much of it for themselves. Two who did not were women, hovering on the perimeter and shunned by the others, all of whom knew, or at least guessed, what they did for a living.

  One was taller than average for a woman, stringy and in her late forties, although she looked older. The other was marginally taller still, prettier with her flowing auburn hair and deep green eyes, and little more than half of her companion’s age. She also bore visible signs of having endured more than her fair share of hardship than could be expected in one so young. Both were dressed in shabby everyday garments, inexpertly patched and darned in too many places.

  The older woman spoke with an odd accent. The predominant influence was cockney, as it was for anyone who lived thereabouts, but it was tinged with a strange foreign cadence, which she maintained was her sole remaining link with the country of her birth, Sweden. The other, whose own accent was coloured with a certain Welsh lilt, had no idea where Sweden was, but had never thought to question her friend about it.

  “Did you hear that?” asked the older woman.

  Her companion nodded miserably. A slow tear was trickling down her left cheek. “Dark Annie,” she murmured.

  The first woman, whose name was Liz, spoke again in a wistful manner. Wistful, but forlorn. “I saw her last night outside the Princess Alice. She was throwed out. Said she was short for her lodgin’s.”

  The younger woman, trudging along at the elder’s side, grimaced mournfully. “Aren’t we all? That makes two.”

  Liz turned her head away, lest her companion see the tears that were forming in her own eyes. “No, Mary Jane, don't say that. I don’t want to know.”

  Mary Jane shuddered, but was not to be deterred. Her mounting terror was too great to allow that. Stopping in her tracks, she took the other by the arm and made her face her. “Are you thinking the same thing as me, Liz?”

  Liz was, as was painfully evident in her expression. Mary Jane saw her gulp and her eyes roll in panic before attempting an answer. “Of course I am.” The words came out in a whisper. She tore herself away and began to stride off, talking rapidly as she went, the Swedish element of her speech becoming more pronounced with heightened emotion. “I can hear them saying it: Mary Anne Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride…”

  “And Mary Jane Kelly.” The younger one caught her up and finished the sentence for her. “Don’t forget me, Liz, because I’ll bet he won’t. Oh, what are we going to do?”

  Liz saw the terror in her companion’s eyes matching her own, and felt for her even more deeply than she felt her own fear. “What can we do?” she asked with an impotent shrug of her shoulders. The only thing in this world that she was certain of at that moment was that she had no adequate answer. What could either of them possibly do, squalid, hopeless, desperate sluts that they were? “Keep our fingers crossed and hope we get lucky, I suppose. What else is there? There's no easy road for us. We have to take life on our backs and not care about who’s payin’. Or are you so rich you don’t need to work again?”

  Mary Jane shook her head tearfully. Unlike the older women of the streets, her youthful looks kept her in more regular employment, but that brought in barely enough to rent her poky little room in Miller’s Court.

  “You must be joking,” she admitted in a whisper.

  “Just fishing,” said Liz with a smile she did not feel. “You could’ve helped me, if you was.”

  Mary Jane felt something light land on her bonnet and automatically reached up to touch it, only to withdraw her hand a moment later in case it was a passing bird leaving its mark like they did on buildings all over the city. It was not a bird, as it turned out, but rainwater. Several more large drops fell on the cobbles at their feet. “It’s starting to rain,” she said. “Do yer think he might not bother coming out in the wet?” She was ready to clutch at any straw to preserve her sanity and her life.

  “I dunno,” replied Liz. “I wouldn’t if I was him. But I’m not him, so I can’t tell, can I? Anyway, Polly and Annie was both done at night and it’s morning now, so I reckon we’re safe enough for the moment. No need to start worrying till tonight. God, Mary, I don’t want to spend my life looking over my shoulder with my fingers crossed.” Her eyes squeezed tight shut as she clamped a hand over her mouth and choked back a sob as a further tear tri
ckled between the compressed lids. Her shoulders shook convulsively.

  Mary Jane laid a consoling hand on her friend’s arm, adding support to calm the convulsion. “Me neither,” she said softly.

  Together they walked on in silence through the gathering rain for what seemed an age until they reached the junction with Whitechapel Road, where they instinctively turned left and headed east, splashing through freshly-formed puddles towards the Royal London Hospital. This took them to the corner of Court Street, which in turn gave onto Buck’s Row, where Polly Nichols’s body had been found. Taking one look up the dim, narrow alleyway, now running with soiled, muddy water, both turned away with an instinctive shudder and crossed the road towards the hospital. A sudden clatter of hooves, punctuated by a shrill whinny and a guttural curse, made them start and flee for the opposite kerb in the same movement. The driver of a hansom cab had to haul on his reins to avoid trampling them, swerving the cab and sending a small wave of spray over their shoes. Both flinched and looked him up and down on reaching the far side. He whipped his reins and continued on his way, muttering obscene oaths about suicidal tarts under his breath.

  Liz suddenly stopped and looked her companion straight in the eye. “We've got to get inside, Mary Jane,” she wheezed, “we'll drown out here.” Stopping suddenly, she stared her companion full in the face, reading her expression. “It’s not just him, is it?” she asked suddenly.

  “What do yer mean?” asked Mary Jane defensively, her hand reaching automatically for her throat where she could already feel cold rainwater trickling down the inside of her bodice. Her simple mind, however, had already divined the likely import of that question.

  “You’re worried about somethin’ else too, aren’t yer?” asked Liz. “I can tell. It's been on yer mind a while.”

  Faced with that, Mary Jane could dissemble no longer. She had tried to conceal it from those she knew, but now she realised that she had failed and nodded her head miserably.

  “You up the duff again?” asked Liz sharply.

  Mutely, Mary Jane nodded, a tear trickling down her own cheek.

  “How long?”

  “Missed last month,” replied the younger woman. “Too early to be proper sure, ain’t it, Liz?”

  She was looking for assurance, but received none. The streets were cruel places to earn a living at the best of times, but far worse when other complications intruded. “Well, you’ll be sure soon enough,” Liz replied, “and then you’ll have to decide. Dolly Crumb’ll get rid of it for a sovereign.”

  “I ain’t got a sovereign!” cried Mary Jane. “Where am I going to get a sovereign?”

  “Or you can do it yerself with a knitting needle.” Liz sounded almost complacent as she recalled the memory. “Sit in a hot tub, noggin of gin and one quick stab. Does the job. I did it once.”

  Mary Jane had heard of girls doing that and dying of the injuries they had inflicted on themselves. Both were oblivious to the irony of discussing such a subject right in front of a hospital that neither of them could ever hope to visit for treatment. The tears coursed harder, as did the raindrops. Liz felt sorry for her younger companion, but decades of vicissitude and harlotry had long since excised most traces of sympathy from her tone. “Failing that, you’ll just have to use yer arse till you heal up,” she said finally. “Will yer put it on the parish?”

  Mary Jane nodded mutely.

  Liz stood up straight, her head held high. A new look of resolution was fixed on her face. “I’ve just decided what I’m going to do,” she announced.

  “What?” asked her companion hopefully.

  Liz turned to her, the faint grimace of a smile creasing her stretched, parchment-like face, now fairly dripping with rain. “You heard what the copper said. A maniac, maybe a leather worker or a slaughter man. There’s yer danger. He’s a scruff. If we keep away from them, we might be safe enough.”

  ‘Easier said than done,’ thought Mary. Neither of them was in any position to be selective. “Oh, yes?” she responded. “And how are you going to pay for a doss?”

  “I’m going to be choosier,” announced Liz with renewed strength in her voice. “High class trade only. Pays better. Keep it safe. Polly and Annie was done at weekends, so he works during the week and goes home nights. We got till Friday night at least. A few more nights of anybody, and staying off the mother’s ruin, and I’ll have enough to pretty myself up a bit. Then it’s toffs only. They don’t beat you half dead afterwards neither. A few months of that and I can earn enough to get out of the trade altogether. Turn respectable. Maybe open a shop.”