Trencher

by Richard Armitt

  She took a firm hold of his shoulder. “Everything I can to stop the sick bastard”, she gave him a sly look, “Do you have a map?”

  “Why, where are we going?”

  “I, my educated friend am going hunting.”

  Herbert moved toward the Drawing Room and beckoned her to follow. “How much time do you have, do you know when the next murder will occur?” He pulled a roll of maps from a shelf.

  “Should be a couple of days, but I need to remember clearly. The who, where, when exactly”, she sat down heavily, “Time travel is great and all, but it sloshes your short-term memory. Got any coffee?”

  Herbert sat down opposite her. “Two days, oh my.”

  Later that afternoon, Trencher stood in a dirty gutter outside a dilapidated Pub. The creaking sign called it The Broken Drum, but the soot and grime made that hard to read. As she watched and waited a stream of Whitechapel unwashed wandered in and drunken fools stumbled out. In time she shrugged, glanced a wary eye up and down the street then ventured inside.

  Inside the building was living up to its façade, low ceilings and a permanent fog of smoke creating the impression of a dank dungeon. She brushed past a parade of dirty faces, mostly amazed at the confident woman in their midst. Trencher made it to the bar and waved attention from the barman. He was a beanpole of a man, lank greasy hair and weasel eyes, he looked her up and down suspiciously.

  “Can I get a drink?”, asked Trencher.

  “What kind of drink?”

  Trencher flicked her head towards her fellow patrons, “It looks like beer to me”, she waited a beat, “Please.”

  The barman sighed audibly, wiping his filthy hands on a filthy apron. “One beer, coming up.” He grabbed a barely clean glass and started filling it with thick brown ale. Trencher dropped some money on the bar as he slid the drink over.

  His hand clamped down over the cash, followed by her hand clamping down on his. She leant in close so he could hear her. “Looking for some help. Some knowledge from a man that might notice things. You that man?”

  They locked eyes. “Might be. Depends.”

  “On?”, she asked.

  “What you wanna know miss.”

  “I’m after a man, a fair haired stranger new to town. He has a very particular scar. Might have been a new face around here the last few months.”

  The man’s eyes flickered across the crowd behind her. “Trouble?” He nodded quickly; she relaxed the grip on his hand. “Keep the change, I’ll be back to finish our talk.”

  Trencher wheeled slowly around, taking in the landscape of the bar, there was a change in the air since she’d arrived. In the centre of her view, literally face to face was an angry looking man sporting a bushy ginger beard.

  Angus Barrelman was an organiser of crime in Whitechapel, his reputation travelled before him and his hired muscle stood at his shoulder. His throaty Scottish burr betrayed his Highland upbringing, this wasn’t a bruiser from Glasgow. He spoke first, his thick accent taking its time with the vowels. “So.” He looked her up and down, “Who might you be and why do you think you can drink in here?”

  Trencher sipped her drink and gazed over the rim of the glass. “I really don’t see it as any of your business. Mr.…?”

  A ripple washed over his face; people didn’t speak to Angus like this. “Mr. Barrelman”, he said with a cool tempo, “Call me Angus if you like.” Angus snaked a hand up towards her hair, brushing it away, his tone softened. “You see, nothing really happens here in the Chapel that I don’t know about. That includes you too miss, never seen you before and believe me I’d remember such a pretty face.” Trencher pushed his hand away, he let her, “Now, who you are working for and what are you doing here?”

  “Me. I’m having a drink and minding my own business. Do the same.” She lifted her drink to her lips and gave him a lazy wink.

  “Feisty?” Trencher nodded.

  “That’s one way to put it.”

  He let a smile cross his face, “Oh, I like a woman with spirit.” He glanced left and right at his thugs, “Makes breaking them so much sweeter.”

  He stepped back and pushed his two thugs forward. Trencher launched her glass into the face of the nearest then took a fast swing at the other and he rocked backwards. She bolted for the nearest door, elbowing drinkers aside, coat flapping.

  A rubbish strewn alleyway outside the pub was the muddy site for a dirty fight. The sound of fists meeting flesh was quite clear over the hubbub of Whitechapel.

  A big body slammed face down in the mud, Trencher stepped back over it, squaring up to the man she glassed. He wiped his bloody face, peering through pained eyes.

  “You got blood in your eyes”, Trencher said calmly. The man stumbled forward, flailing wildly in her direction. Trencher stepped in, dodging smoothly and launching a blitz of punches into his ribs, followed by a huge blow to his chin. Any other day she’d have seen his eyes roll back, today he just crumpled silently.

  She wheeled around to a slow applause coming from the doorway, Barrleman stepped out into the mud. “Feisty, like I said, I like it”, a knife glittered into his hand from his coat. “Sadly Miss, I have a reputation to keep around these parts and I can’t let just anybody come and spoil it.”

  Trencher wiped mud from her face with her sleeve, “All you had to do was leave me alone.”

  “Can’t let this slide lady.”

  “You’re going to have to, I’m not here to waste my time on the likes of you.” Barrelman stepped closer. “Don’t.” She said with a heavy toned warning. His next step was met with a blur from her coat.

  Barrelman froze mid step as he found himself face to muzzle with her gun, a hand cannon of brass and steel. He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes, taking in the weapon, basking in it. A long, slow whistle sang from his teeth.

  “Well.” He said, “That’s a beautiful piece, something I’ve never seen before. Nice.” He took another involuntary step forward.

  Trencher refocused her aim. “I have no quarrel with you Angus.” She paused, “You can turn around and leave, or I can blow a hole in your head. Right here.”

  He licked his dry lips through his beard, “Let me see it.”

  “No.” She slowly reached into her pocket with her spare hand, palming the Timekey, getting ready for a quick exit. Angus wasn’t paying heed to Trencher; his eyes were all over the gun. “This doesn’t need to end badly for you Angus.”

  He raised a staying hand; his index finger wagged her attention. “Okay, Miss…?” He cocked his head to affect the unsaid question.

  She sighed before answering, “Trencher.”

  He took a moment to process it, “Okay.” He scanned her attire up and down, “Look, I get you’re not a proper typical lady.”

  “Been called worse.”

  His wagging finger turned into a point, “And you ain’t the law, else there’d be Runners all over us.”

  “That’s just perspective but go on.” He dropped his hand, his body language relaxing, the knife vanished from view.

  “No. You, you’re something else.” He scanned his inert men with furtive eyes, “Let’s start over, how about a deal?” Trencher relaxed her aim a little. “How about, I offer to help you? And, once I do, when you feel like it, I get a closer look at that beautiful gun of yours?”

  Trencher let the Timekey fall back into her pocket. “I don’t trust you Angus.”

  “I’m hurt.”

  She looked up at the sky and took a deep breath, “But I do need help.” One of Barrelman’s men moaned in distant pain.

  “Excuse me Miss.” He winked, then took a step towards the prostrate man and took a swinging kick at the mud-covered head. The man went silent, flopping over face up. “Sorry Princess”, his face was all trust and smiles now, “Yes, where were we. What do you need?”

  Trencher slipped her gun away and held out her hand. “Cross me and you’ll wish I’d killed you.”

  He shook her hand firmly with both of his, then
spread them wide. “We’ll just agree to our differences for now, eh?”

  “Lets.” She cast a glance up and down the dirty alley, then leant in close. “I’m looking for a man, a most dangerous man.”

  Later that day, the uncommon allies Trencher and Barrelman stood together in the lee of a building on Bucks Row, Whitechapel. The grey skies threatened rain, through the light covering of smog they both watched a Policeman on the opposite corner.

  “What was her name?” Asked Trencher.

  “Mary. Mary Nicholls, local drunk by account.”

  Trencher cast a glance his way, “One of yours?”, Barrelman shook his head vigorously.

  “No. One of my boys was here though, saw it all. She was slit right open, throat cut too. Right fucking mess.”

  “Right out in the open, no witnesses.”

  “You think it’s your man?”

  “It has to be.” Trencher was stoic, Barrelman watched her jawline clench in anger.

  “We’ll find him Princess. And when we do, he’ll learn a Whitechapel lesson”, Trencher held his gaze and grabbed his arm for effect.

  “You find him, you find me”, Angus went to retort, but she held up a steadying finger, “This man isn’t the kind you’re used to.”

  “He’s just a man and men bleed.” He nodded over her shoulder across the road, “Time to go, Mr. Plod is watching us now. You can always find me at the Drum”, he turned on his heels and walked away.

  Trencher looked at his retreating back, then at the Policeman who was now accompanied by another well-dressed man. She took them in for a few seconds, pulled up her collar and walked in the opposite direction to Angus.

  Across the road Inspector Edmund Reid of the Whitechapel Police stroked his immaculate moustache as he watched the two figures walk away. He checked his pocket watch and leant into the younger Policeman. “Who was that watching you at your work Constable?”

  “Mr. Angus Barrelman Sir, the lady is a mystery to me.”

  “Yes. Yes, I know Barrelman and his antics well. The woman though, have you seen her before?”

  “No Sir.”

  “What is her game do you think? Press snooping around perhaps, or a mystery relative of the victim?”

  “She’s too well-heeled to be known to this unfortunate Sir.”

  “Excellent observation Constable, I’ll make a man of you yet.” Edmund straightened his hat as he watched Trencher vanish around a corner.

  “Choices. Choices.”

  “Excuse me, Sir?” Reid took a step after Trencher and called over his shoulder, “Barrelman’s haunt? The Drum, isn’t it?”

  “Correct Sir, not far from here.”

  Reid broke into a trot in the direction of Trencher, he called over his shoulder. “Well done, Constable, as you were.”

  Early evening had drawn in, dusk was giving way to darkness and the streetlights were being lit. On the street outside Herbert’s house a dour and dirty Trencher stood. Not moving she gazed at the house, her thoughts were a thousand years away. The front door swung open, and Herbert trotted down the steps to her side. Once he’d caught her eye he spoke, “Mrs. Watchet says you have been standing here for half an hour at least. What happened?”

  Trencher’s eyes were fixed on the house again, Herbert looked back, and the curtains twitched. “I’m angry, I didn’t want to come in.”

  “Nonsense, you silly girl. You’re a guest here, angry or not you can come in”, Herbert stood in front of her to fix her attention, “Why so angry?”

  Trencher looked at Herbert, feeling the warmth in his concern. “Because I missed him, the bastard, last night.” She looked to the sky for a second, “I should have been back two days ago, but Brig overshot, except Brig doesn’t miss like that.” She paused a beat, “Unless…”

  “Unless what?” Asked Herbert, fully knowing the answer that was coming.

  “She wanted me to miss, she wanted Mary murdered. She knew.” A random passerby took a double glance as their ears pricked, but a glance from Trencher sent them away.

  “Oh, I see.”

  “See what Herbert? How. How do you see?”, her voice was rising, “This is my chance to fix things, to get my partner back from a fate worse than death.”

  Herbert stepped in close to speak calmly, “Your past is sacrosanct, knowing the details of the victim doesn’t give you the right to change history Costigan.”

  “With respect, I’m on a ticking clock here. If I see an opportunity, I have to take it”

  Herbert shook his head strongly, “No. You have to respect history, it’s yours, mine and everybody’s. For all you know, you’ve always been here”, he tapped his forehead, “Think on that, live by the laws of time.”

  Trencher let a reluctant smile cross her eyes, “You and your fanciful brain Wells, it must be a burden sometimes.” The tension relaxed; Trencher looked up the street. “I need a cab.”

  “You need a clean-up, you stink. Looks like you’ve been rolling in Whitechapel shit.”

  Trencher looked down at herself, “You know what, you’re right. I guess a shower wouldn’t hurt.”

  Herbert checked the sky, “A shower? It doesn’t look like rain again.”

  Trencher couldn’t help laughing, “Forget it caveman, I’ll take a bath.”

  He gentlemanly looped his arm around hers and led her toward the house.

  “And food and rest, you need to think this through my dear. Make a plan and stick to it.”

  “And be a good girl?” She said with a touch of venom.

  “In some respects.”

  “Herbert, history doesn’t remember good girls.”

  The next day early morning sunshine streamed into the Drawing Room of Herbert’s house. Trencher, rested and clean was hanging on the open windows, gazing out at the goings on of Victorian London. Behind her Herbert sat in his chair, newspaper on his lap, glasses perched on his nose and sipping tea.

  “The victim, Mary Ann Nicholls was found in Bucks Row, Whitechapel during the early hours of Friday morning”, Herbert read aloud, breaking to sip quietly and scan the next paragraph. “Her wounds were many, two deep cuts sever the throat, a jagged wound to the abdomen amongst others.”

  Trencher looked back over her shoulder, “Was there anything missing?”

  “Sorry, I don’t quite und…”

  “Body parts, organs? Did he take anything?”, she cut in.

  Herbert scanned the article again, murmuring. “Not that I can see here, but there is a limit to the Press”, he removed his glasses for a clean, “Good God woman, he really is a monster.”

  Trencher swung away from the window and sat opposite him, fixing her attention on him. “She was a working girl?”

  Herbert nodded, but held up a finger, “She was a known alcoholic, down on her luck and also known for prostitution. So, yes”, he folded the paper, “She appears to have been drinking up until midnight, but where she was between then and three in the morning is anybody’s guess.”

  Trencher clasped her hands, looked away and then back. “I can’t just sit by and watch this unfold.”

  “You must. This man, monster or whatever he is has a part to play. Your involvement is just as crucial and all those years people have studied this history, these days here in London, nobody would ever guess that you were here to stop him.”

  “I’m on the clock.”

  “I know, you’ve explained that already, but you can’t change your history. You just have to be ready at the right time.” He dropped the newspaper to the table beside him, “Which makes this a perfect opportunity to cast aside our worries. It is the weekend after all and I request, no, demand that you accompany me on a walk.”

  “Where to, the pub?”

  “No. London has splendid parks, and you are coming to enjoy one with me.”

  Trencher was visibly not happy about the suggestion. “You’re kidding?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Are you trying to take me on a date Herbert?”


  “Just humour me, Costigan.” She took a moment to consider.

  “Well, I could do with a drink I suppose.”

  Herbert had a wry smile, “We’ll see.”

  Late summer sun beat down on the green of the park, Trencher and Herbert sat outside a Tea Shop under the trees. They watched the life of the park amble by. Trencher smiled gently at Herbert, laughing quietly to herself and looked away.

  “What is it”, he asked.

  “This. Quite serene, isn’t it? Nothing like the dirty streets of Whitechapel that I’ve become accustomed to. Almost bizarre.”

  Herbert cut a piece from his cake with his fork. “This.” He waved his fork around them, “Is quite normal for a Saturday afternoon. Your reason for being here is far more bizarre.”

  She raised her china cup and winked a cheers, “Touché.” She went on, “I’m not complaining Herbert, I’m enjoying myself. Whoever would have thought I’d be sitting in the sunshine enjoying tea and cake with you.”

  They both took a quiet moment to drink; Trencher popped a piece of cake in her mouth. “I’m happy for you seeing it that way. It must be a burden for you, the mission.”

  “Has its moments”, she offered.

  Herbert shuffled nervously. “I’m pleased”, he licked his dry lips, “You really are quite special, you know.”

  Trencher smiled; some would say sheepishly. “Be careful Mr. Wells, you might make me blush.”

  “I really don’t believe a woman of your character would know how to blush.” He caught the attention of the waitress and she came over, “Excuse me, may I settle the bill please?” He stood and felt around for his wallet.

  “So, what’s next? On our day off.”

  The waitress was back, and Herbert handed over the money. “Oh, a treat. A visit to the Botanical Gardens, for tropical plants and humidity. I am seeking inspiration; I need a new Aspidistra for my collection.” He checked his watch, “Then, home for supper.”

  Trencher bounced from her seat, “Well then, lead on my good man.” She stepped alongside him and comfortably offered the crook of her arm.

  less than seven minutes to the event

  London, 2088