Chained in Time
Page 38
CHAPTER 16
Friday, November 9th, 1888 (12.30 am)
A haloed moon rode in a stellar black sky over Whitechapel, flooding the district with an unreal clarity that it rarely saw by night. The shadows were as deep as ever, but the moonlit gables stood out as cold, stark ridges. The clear, starlit sky retained none of the warmth of the thousands of bodies and hearths below, so the night was bitterly cold. There would be thick frost everywhere by morning. The streets, as had become typical, were almost deserted, most people staying indoors to avoid the frozen air, others out of fear.
Through these tumbledown alleyways shuffled a lonely, desolate, shivering Mary Jane Kelly. She was touting for business for the first time in nearly six weeks, selling herself in an icy, deserted warren of bricks and cobbles, equally devoid of competition and opportunity. She clutched her shawl ever more tightly about her shoulders and head to keep out the cold, but the gesture had only minimal effect. Half an hour of hunched, huddled tramping through the empty ways around Brick Lane had taught her that there was little chance of earning anything there. She had wandered in a circle, scurrying from lamp to lamp, pausing under each and staring into the gloom that surrounded her in the vain hope of sighting another human being, or of perhaps absorbing a little warmth from the burning mantle above her head. Both hopes were forlorn. She was back where she had started having made no progress other than towards freezing to death.
Changing direction, she reached the junction of Brick Lane and Hanbury Street, scene of Annie Chapman's slaughter. With a shudder, she looked round slowly, searching the shadows for a lurking figure, lest he had returned to write another grisly chapter in his book. Having satisfied herself that she was alone, she turned right. That would take her past number twenty-nine, where Annie's disembowelled body had been found, but she had no choice if she were to score that night. Cautiously, she made her way towards Commercial Street and her traditional haunt, the Ten Bells pub.
The Ten Bells was on the corner of Commercial Street and Fournier Street. To reach it, she had to turn left out of Hanbury Street. Looking around again as she reached the corner, she ascertained that she was still alone and silently calculated the bitter irony of her situation in her head. If she was alone, she could not fall victim to the monster in the dark, but neither could she earn a brass farthing. Either she had to put her fear behind her and find a man to approach or she may as well tramp her weary way back up Brick Lane to Joseph and yet further destitution. She could see the hostelry, barely fifty yards to her left, its frosted windows glowing with the lamplight within, but the expected sounds of raucous laughter and a tinkling piano were absent.
The saloon bar of the Ten Bells was a muted place that freezing Friday night. Instead of the expected forty of fifty swaying bodies taking up every square inch of the floor, a paltry fifteen or so customers stood at the bar or sat around tables. Instead of the usual noisy banter and harsh laughter, the mood was subdued with groups of men conversing quietly and seriously beneath a canopy of yellowish tobacco smoke, or simply slurping their beer in studied silence. Such was the situation every night these days and every publican in the district could tell the same tale. The landlord surveyed his domain worriedly and returned to polishing glasses until the next order for a pint to be pulled reached his ears.
Until the Ripper's reign of terror devastated business, he had not realised just how much his trade relied on whoring. Although, like most publicans, he placed an absolute ban on any skirt hoisting on his premises, he had always taken a tolerant approach to the trollops themselves. There was no law against them talking to men and, equally, no law against men entering the snug and striking up a conversation with one of them there, although the ladies were most definitely not allowed in the bar.
The whores respected his rules and never concluded their assignations on his premises. Their effect on his turnover was very measurable, as he had recently discovered to his dismay.
Since the Ripper swept the streets clear of loose women, the whole area had slumped into recession generally and the pub trade particularly. Only those who saw it as their mission in life to convert the sinful to the ways of righteousness had any reason to rejoice, and even they did so in a rather shamefaced manner. What bitter irony was that, he reflected miserably? Every Sunday he saw lay preachers on the street corner declaiming self-righteously about the evils of drink and loose morals. Alcohol was the fuel of the Devil and harlots his willing disciples. If only those orators, the more hypocritical of whom turned up for a quick pint in his pub after their sermons, knew just how much their leisure-time comfort depended on both.
The door opened and an unfamiliar figure entered the bar. Instead of the expected cloth cap and muffler brigade who formed the bulk of his customers, this man was well dressed, wore a gleaming top hat and a smart frock coat with a covering cape to keep the cold out. His shirt was snowy white and he wore an equally fresh silk cravat, pinned with what looked suspiciously like a ruby. He was not tall, but was of adequate build and stature, and walked with a smooth casual elegance. He had a moustache waxed at both ends, making it stick out sideways in the fashionable manner that the rich toffs in Chelsea and Hampstead often adopted. Casually, without looking to left or right, he removed his hat and made his way through the down at heel regulars, most of whom set down their glasses and looked at him open-mouthed. Reaching the bar, he deposited a golden guinea thereon. Conversation had now stopped as all eyes turned to gaze at the newcomer. He seemed not to notice the sudden silence, but smiled at the landlord, who hurriedly put down the glass he was polishing and fairly sprang to serve him. The man ordered a double malt whisky, adding that it was bitterly cold outside and he needed to warm up. His voice had a husky quality that seemed slightly at odds with his appearance.
Receiving the glass, he turned round to survey the room with a languid smile and raised it to his fellow customers. Immediately the low hubbub resumed as glasses were raised to mouths and heads bent together to confer.
“Cruel cold night indeed, sir,” ventured the landlord cheerily. “Keeping a lot of people indoors.”
“Yes, it certainly seems to be,” returned the man pleasantly. “Nobody about at all as far as I can see. My cab is outside and the driver is shivering, bless him. Will the guinea cover the cost of a pint sent out to him?”
“Of course, sir, and more besides,” replied the landlord with a smile, pulling the pint himself and sending it out on a tray carried by a menial.
“I might have been indoors myself,” went on the man in a casual manner, “except that I had business to conclude in the area. Only just finished. Tedious, but business is business.” The landlord gave a poorly disguised double-take and thought to himself for a moment. Although the man spoke well, it was evident that he had not been brought up to riches and breeding. He covered his accent quite effectively, but it was still there under the acquired layers of polish. This man had been born as much a cockney as the rest of them. A self-made man therefore. The landlord found himself warming to this stranger. As a man of business, he was always impressed to meet someone who had succeeded in bettering himself.
“I don't think I've seen you in here before, sir. Are you recently arrived?” he asked pleasantly.
“Not exactly,” replied the man with a smile, “but I haven't been in these parts for a long time. I was born and brought up just a few streets from here, but worked away from the age of twelve. Been abroad for years.”
“You made your fortune abroad, then?” enquired the landlord.
The man nodded, finishing his whisky and holding out his glass for replenishment. “Only got back a few months ago. Still looking for a suitable house. I went back to my old home yesterday, but it seems to have gone to seed while I was away, or perhaps I recall it as being better than it was. Either way, I don't think that anything could persuade me to buy it back again, and certainly not to live in. The East End seems a lot quieter than it used to be.”
“Ah,” said the landlord know
ingly with a slow, solemn shake of his head. “That'll be the murderer.”
The man looked up from his whisky in evident surprise. “The murderer?”
The landlord, polishing a glass again, leaned over the bar towards the newcomer with a conspiratorial air. “Been going on for over two months now,” he muttered surreptitiously. “Four women of the streets done to death in the most vile, cruel manner, sir. Swept the area clear, it has, and I don't mind telling you that it's affected my trade. Everybody's frightened. Don't know what the men are scared of, mind you. He doesn't go for them.”
“I see,” said the man thoughtfully, taking a sip of his whisky. “Perhaps they are worried that if they employ such a woman and her corpse turns up in the morning, they may be implicated,” he suggested.
“Well, there is that, sir,” admitted the landlord, reaching for another glass to polish, “perhaps you're right. Three of them used to be regulars here. Sat right there in the snug.” He indicated the small, cosy room to the side of the bar, a place where women were welcome, even though only one category of woman ever used that particular snug. “Not that I allowed them to do any business while they was in there, you understand, sir, I'm very strict about that. I have my reputation to consider. But while they behaved themselves and paid for their drinks, they was welcome to stay. What they did elsewhere was their business.”
“Of course. A wise policy,” agreed the man, holding out his glass again. “Need to put a little fire into my bones before braving the cold night air again.”
While refilling the man's glass, the landlord saw, through the corner of his eye, the snug door open and a slight figure, distorted through the frosted glass, enter the room and sit down. Sure enough, a moment later the bell tinkled.
Handing the man his drink with a smile, and depositing the payment in the till, the landlord excused himself. “Would you excuse me for a moment, sir? A lady’s come into the snug. I'll just go and serve her.”
The man smiled and nodded his farewell. Putting down his glass, the landlord went through to serve this new 'customer', only to stop when reaching the adjoining door and looking in. The newcomer was Mary Jane Kelly, alone and shaking. She unwrapped her shawl from around her head and draped it over the back of a chair before seating herself. She looked cleaner and better fed than she usually did, although her cheeks were ruddy from the bitter chill outside and her hair a little windswept.
Bad times didn't last for ever, any more than good times, he told himself. Things were looking up. His one remaining regular trollop had returned to her old hunting ground at last. He would have to make it worth her while, he thought to himself.
“Evening, Mary,” he said unctuously, unable to quite avoid looking down his nose at her, out of long-established habit, but trying hard to keep the disdain out of his voice, “funds run out, have they?”
“Not quite,” she answered with a scowl, looking at him sharply, “I still got enough for a glass of mother's ruin.” She waved a threepenny bit before him. “It's cruel cold out there and I need warming up,” she finished.
The landlord fetched her gin and set it before her. He noticed that her eyes kept straying to the street door as if she was expecting someone to come through it. “You're looking well,” he ventured.
“Not so bad,” she replied coyly, darting him a quick look, “but a girl has to work sometimes.” She handed over the money, received three ha'pence change, and took a grateful sip. She had not replaced the glass on the table when she noticed that it was joined by a second, this one filled to the brim.
“What's that for?” she asked, warily. “That's a full glass. I'm not payin' for that.”
He leaned over her and whispered into her ear. “Course not,” he smiled ingratiatingly. “On the house.”
She looked at him askance acute doubts kindling in her brain. “Since when did you give away free drinks?” She set her own empty glass down next to the full one, but did not pick it up, although the publican could well see the trembling in her hand and the longing in her eyes.
“It's a welcome back,” he lied. “Ain't seen you in a long time, Mary Jane. It's good to see a lady in the snug again. Nice to have a bit of female company.”
She fixed him with a baleful look. “I ain't no lady, as well you know, Mr. Kneckwith,” she hissed back at him. “Ladies don't come here, not the sort you mean anyway. There's three ladies ain't never coming back no more. If you think you can get yourself a bit of you know what by bribing me with free drinks, think again. I'm available, but it'll cost you coin. Gin's all very well, but I need food in my belly and I've got other things to think about as well.”
The landlord held up his hands in righteous indignation. He had no idea what the 'other things' were and would never have guessed that they included setting up home with Joseph Barnet somewhere in the country. “Mary Jane, really!” he admonished. “I'm a married man, a man of business. I most certainly am not on the look out for a bit of that, thank you very much.” Leaning closer to her, he pressed the free drink on her and whispered earnestly, “Actually it's more of a mark of gratitude.”
“Gratitude?” She pulled away, her nose wrinkling. “What for?”
He looked around nervously. Already the general rumble of talk in the bar was beginning to get louder. Nobody was demanding a fresh drink yet, but that would change soon. He could see the shape of the well-dressed newcomer, still at the bar, distorted in the frosted glass. If he didn't know otherwise, he could have sworn that the man was listening. He was certainly looking their way, his head inclined forward towards the glass attentively. Leaning back towards Mary Jane, he placed the drink in her hand and whispered, “Have the gin, Mary Jane. There's no charge and I don't want no special services neither.” Moving his face very close to hers, he spoke softly lest he be overheard. “Keep it to yourself 'cause I don't want it put about, but business is bad since…”
She looked at him sharply. “I can't help that,” she muttered back. “It's not my fault.”
“Course not, course not,” he assured her, taking the opposite chair with a glance over his shoulder. “What I meant was,” he explained, “it's good to see you again. With you back here in the snug, things might return to normal now. You're always welcome here, Mary Jane, you know that.”
Realisation dawned. This was the sort of welcome that the fatted cow received at the slaughterhouse. She was simply a means to an end, all that she ever had been. “Oh, I get you,” she said with a bitter smirk, “you mean punters might come in if it gets round that a bit of tail can be picked up here, that it?”
“I wouldn't put it in so many words myself,” he replied, abashed, and looking pointedly away.
“I'll just bet you wouldn't!” she cried, rising to her feet and knocking the second gin back in the same moment. “Thanks for the gin,” she spat back at him. “It'll help keep me warm when I have to hoist my skirt. It's all right for the likes of me to risk our necks on the street, just so you can have plenty of trade, ain't it? A free gin sounds like a real investment then, don't it?”
“Mary Jane,” he cried, affronted, holding his hands out in supplication, “I didn't mean that; you know I didn't.”
“Cry over my grave, then,” she hissed at him on her way out, slamming the door behind her, “'Course that's where you’ll find me tomorrer!”.
He sat back. Her onslaught had knocked the stuffing from him. He had never known her to be so aggressive. Polly Nichols had been and so had Long Liz, but never Mary Jane. She was always the quiet one, the one he would have chosen to go with if his circumstances had been different. With a marriage as unhappy as his, however, he knew that any straying from his nuptial vows would bring unprecedented retribution in its wake, so he trod the straight and narrow meticulously where women were concerned. It was only the cry for replenishment of beer from the bar next door that brought him back to reality. When he returned there, a harassed expression on his face, the well-dressed newcomer had gone.
Crossing the end of Fournier Street, she continued along Commercial Street, unconsciously passing Dorset Street on the other side of the road, off which lay her mouldy old resting place of Miller's Court, dark and silent this freezing November night. She hunched her shoulders as she walked past the tall, pale columns of Christ Church, its gaunt steeple pointing proudly to God. She looked away. It wasn't that she had anything against churches, and had even been known to pray in them during her most desperate moments, but it simply didn't sit right with what she needed to do this night. She was so very ashamed of her profession — most whores were — but it was a question of do that or die. Make some money, that was all, and help Joseph to get off his back so that they could build a future together. For the first time ever she was pursuing her enforced calling out of charitable motives instead of raw survival. A wry, involuntary smile crossed her face as she realised that she had never done such a thing before. She offered up a tiny, silent prayer of thanks to the Almighty, amplified by the great white spire, adding her promise that she would be a very good girl from tomorrow onwards if He would only give her a bit of luck tonight.
Directly opposite stood the Britannia, while the Princess Alice was a short walk further down the road. She knew, and was known in, both pubs. Hope there, perhaps, but she had to be careful with her money. Too much spent on mother's ruin and not replaced by work would undo all her night's efforts.
She saw the door of the Britannia open and a man stagger out. Hope kindled in her heart. Calculating her moment carefully, she tripped lightly across the quiet thoroughfare to appear out of the gloom at his side unexpectedly.
“Hello, dear. Want a good time?” Her heart was pounding and her voice sounded unnaturally high-pitched. The man gave a start and turned, fists at the ready. He had not seen her approach.
“It's all right,” she cried, jumping back in alarm herself, hands held out in front of her defensively, “I won't hurt you. I just want to make you happy.”
The man blinked at her stupidly for a moment before lowering his fists. 'Poor sod,' she thought, 'can't hardly see straight. We'll get this one.’ She slowly linked his arm, only to be shaken off immediately as the man turned up his collar and stumped off into the darkness muttering something in a guttural foreign tongue.
'Bloody Pole,' she thought to herself, 'never know when they're on to a good thing.'
Another man was approaching, a shambling figure with a shuffling gait and a cloth cap pulled down tight over his eyes. Again her heart leapt into her mouth as the thought of the risk she was taking flashed through her brain, and again she forced the panic down out of sheer desperation. “Scuse me. Have you got fourpence, I’m short for my lodging?” The man walked straight past without acknowledging her presence at all. “Toff!” she shouted after his disappearing back, “Am I not good enough for yer?”
All the same, the rebuff brought a measure of relief to her quailing soul. At least the man had not been him. She gasped hurriedly and backed against a wall with her hand to her breast, waiting for her heart to settle. Only when the pounding had decreased to a more manageable level did she look up again. A sudden bright glow, a door opening fifty yards up the other side of the street, beyond Christ Church, told her that someone was leaving the Ten Bells. Hurriedly, heart hammering again, she gathered her skirts ready to make the dash across the road to accost him, only to discover that there was no need. He was crossing towards her. He had seen her! Hope soared, and then terror took over. She was alone and unprotected. What if this was him? His head was down and his shoulders hunched in the way that all men adopted in those parts, but he was walking straight towards her.
“Hello, you look a likely lad,” she trilled through gritted teeth, her fingers crossed desperately behind her back. “Bet you could do with a nice girl. What about me? I’m clean.”
Like the man before him, he walked straight past with his shoulders hunched and his cap pulled down over his eyes, vanishing into the gloom in the direction of the Princess Alice.
Mary Jane watched him go, her shoulders sagging in despair and a tear forming in the corner of her eye. After more than an hour of fruitlessly searching deserted streets, to be spurned three times in a minute was more than she could bear. The utter precariousness of her situation bore down on her again and crushed her. As far as she could see, Commercial Street was now empty and she was truly alone. Alone to freeze. Alone to die. The Ripper would not get her because the cold would do the job for him and who was left to care? A distraught Mary Jane Kelly sank to her knees in tears.
“Bastards,” she wept, “bastards. Don’t do this to me. I’m desperate.”
She squatted there in her desolation on the corner of Commercial Street and Dorset Street, yards from the black, narrow archway that led into Miller's Court. Tears trickled slowly down her cheeks and blinded her eyes, making the cobbles shimmer and swim before her in the flickering yellow light of a gas lamp reflected in a pool of rapidly freezing dirty water. The tears continued their flow, unhindered, to hang, quivering, on her chin then drop into the receiving fabric of her bodice. The bitter cold seemed to carry its own particular silence, so she did not hear the approaching hoof beats at first and it was a moment before she realised that the light had been cut off by a shadow.
The cab rolled to a halt right in front of her. It was tall and dark, drawn by a huge black horse and the driver was a silent silhouette against the sky, facing directly forwards, away from her. She saw the blind twitch and the handle turn slowly. The door opened, revealing a soft, flickering glow from within, and a quiet voice reached her ears. “I am looking for a nice girl.”
She straightened herself by sliding up the cold brick wall at her back. “Oh, er…”
Inside was dimly lit by a flickering lantern, but she could make out the shadowy form of a gentleman sitting there. He wore smart trousers and polished shoes. She could see the reflection of the lantern's flame dancing in the toecaps. He had white gloves on. A gentleman indeed.
“You are available, I presume?” There was something about his voice. Well-spoken, certainly, as she would have expected from the carriage trade, but there was a husky tone and a hint of cockney twang there as well. This gentleman wasn't born to money. This was a self-made man. There was something familiar about his voice, not simply the accent, but the huskiness as well.
“Oh, yes sir, I’m available,” she replied gratefully. Long Liz's words came back to her, about how she was going to pretty herself up and work the carriage trade from then on. The murderer was a scruff, so they said, and this was a gentleman. Hope soared within her breast and the hammering of her heart receded at last. One carriage trade job might pay better than all the back yard flops she could muster in a whole night if she played her cards right. 'Be a nice girl, Mary,' she told herself ruthlessly. 'Don't scare him away. Do what you're good at.'
As she reached the door, he opened it further and leaned forward so that the dim light fell on his face. He removed his top hat, laying it on the seat beside him and, with a start, she realised that she knew him, albeit much changed and with a new waxed moustache.
“Oh, it’s you,” she cried, amazed. “Well, fancy seeing you here.”
The man smiled and extended his gloved hand for her to take. “Yes, Mary, it’s me. After all this time. Are you still as available now that you know who I am?”
She hung back for a moment, her heart hammering again, but for a different reason. The last time she had seen him, he had be
en as humble as she then was. Taking the proffered hand, she allowed him to guide her into the carriage and sat opposite him.
“My, times have changed,” she said with wonderment. “Look at you. You said you were going to make something of yourself and, lor, you have. How'd you do it?”
“Joined the army,” he replied simply with a reflective smile. “Posted abroad. India. Did well. You can line your pockets quickly out there if you know what you're doing. Rose through the ranks. Left as an officer and a gentleman. When I came out, I went into business and, as you see, I did all right.”
“You did!” she replied in awe. “You’re a toff.” The sudden realisation of the disparity in their situations, coming, as they did, from similar roots hit her hard. “And look at me.” She hung her head. “I feel ashamed talking to you like this. Especially to you, after what went before. You've made something of your life, and what have I done? These days I’m always available to a gentleman like you.” She felt a small glow spark in her loins and smiled at him.
“What do you charge?” he asked in a matter of fact tone.
“Fourpence,” she replied immediately, hoping that the darkness would cover the blush flooding through her cheeks.
He smiled quietly and nodded knowingly. “What would I get for my fourpence?”
“Quick one up against the wall. Or do you want something fancier? That would cost more.” Her fingers were crossed again, although not out of hope that he was not her feared nemesis, but that he would want, and pay for, the best service that she could sell him.
He leaned back, considering. “How fancy do you get?”
If ever there was an opportunity, this was it. Leaning forward, she took his hand and pressed it, staring imploringly into his eyes. “If you’ve got the money, dear, I’ll do whatever you want. I don’t care what it is. I'll be truthful with you, and this isn't a lie, I promise.” She steeled herself to tell him things that she would never have divulged to any other punter. “There's a man, a good man, who has taken me in and is trying to get me a fresh start in life. He wants to marry me and move to the country. Only now he's lost his job for taking a tart into his lodgings — me.” She looked away in embarrassment, the pronoun catching in her throat. “He was only doing me a good turn and they've taken away his livelihood because of it.” He could clearly sense the suppressed tears in her voice. “Now we've got no money and I'm desperate to help him. I love him, you see. Like I once loved…” she looked away in sudden embarrassment at the confession. “You're my only hope,” she went on softly. “How much did you want to pay?”
The man considered for a moment, retreating into the shadowy corner of the cab, where she could not make out the expression on his face. “So, if I am generous, not only would I receive what I wish this night, but I would also help a couple of lost souls on their road to recovery?”
She nodded fervently. “Yes, please, sir.” She felt ridiculous calling him 'sir' after what had happened between them years previously, but she was clutching at straws.
“So an assignation with a prostitute becomes at once a philanthropic gesture as well as a licentious one?” The thought seemed to amuse him. She didn't understand the words, but nodded anyway, smiling desperately. “What would you do for twenty pounds?” he asked at last.
Her eyes gaped as wide as her mouth.
“Twenty pounds! That’s a fortune!” It was. Enough to pay the rent on Miller's Court for years. More than enough to keep Joseph and her with a roof over their heads until he could find new work. Enough even to fund that move to the country and safety. Enough to buy happiness.
“Not to me,” he replied gently and wafted the banknote in front of her face.
“I could come off the streets for that,” she said, deliriously happy, stowing the note in her bodice. “Joseph and me could get away and start again. You serious?”
He nodded and she thought she saw him smile. “I let you take the note, didn't I?”
Mary Jane Kelly fell to her knees in front of him, weeping and kissing his hands in gratitude. “God bless you, your honour. Seems strange calling you that, but it’s not just time that comes between us now. I’ll make it worth every penny, I will. Anything you want.”
He leaned forward over her. “I would, however, prefer it to be discreet.”
“I’ll take you to my lodgings,” she replied happily. “It’s not far. The landlady won’t mind. She won’t interfere. You can take as long as you like. All night if you want.” She had not felt so happy in weeks. The thought of returning to Joseph in the morning with a crisp twenty pound note clutched in her hand was overwhelming and made even the prospect of how she would earn it bearable. Even that wouldn't be so bad. It was to be done indoors in her bed: a squalid encounter, but a definite step up from a quick ram in an inn yard, followed by the usual beating.
He smiled, releasing her hand and indicating that she should join him on his seat. “Shall we go?”
She settled next to him happily, snuggling into the warmth of his cape. Reaching over, she took his right hand in her left and placed it gently over her breast. His fingers worked their way easily under the bodice to the flesh beneath and he felt the nipple bud to his touch.
She giggled softly. “First archway on the right,” she murmured, “be there in twenty seconds.”
He tapped to roof of the carriage smartly with his walking cane and cried “First archway on the right!”
The driver whipped the back of the single horse and the vehicle lumbered off slowly into the darkness.