by Jean Rabe
Nope, Jack the Ripper it was. I’ll be fine, she thought, as long as I stick to the plan.
“Oi, guvnor! ’Ow’s about it?”
Celeste nearly jumped out of her skin as a filthy figure suddenly accosted her from the shadows. The light from a pub’s frosted-glass window exposed a haggard woman wearing a ratty shawl over a rumpled brown frock that smelled like it hadn’t been washed since the Queen’s Jubilee the year before. Greasy black hair, liberally streaked with gray, was piled beneath a dilapidated straw bonnet. Sunken eyes winked at her. A toothless smile made Celeste’s skin crawl. The woman’s breath reeked of gin.
“Er, no, thank you.” Celeste recoiled from the grotesque apparition, who was obviously one of the countless prostitutes infesting Whitechapel in this era. According to her research, the East End was home to at least twelve hundred so-called daughters of joy. It was upon women like this, selling themselves for shillings just to stay alive, that the Ripper had preyed. Celeste hadn’t expected to have to fend one off herself.
Apparently, there were drawbacks to disguising herself as a man.
She tried to hurry away, but the rancid hooker would not take no for an answer. “Don’t be like that, laddie.” The harlot blocked her path. “Old Nellie knows what you need.” Rheumy eyes squinted at Celeste. “Only a shilling for a pretty young boy like yourself.”
“Leave me alone, please,” Celeste pleaded, lowering her voice to sound more masculine. She wasn’t into girls herself, but even if she had swung that way, she wouldn’t have been remotely tempted by Nellie’s offer. The decrepit old bag was about as sexy as a leper. Celeste tightened her grip on her umbrella. “I’m not interested . . . really!”
“Half a shilling!” Nellie persisted. “A bargain.”
Lifting her skirts, she grabbed at Celeste’s trousers.
“Don’t touch me!” Celeste yelped. Panicked, she poked Nellie in the gut with the point of her bumbershoot. Nervous fingers pressed a button concealed in the grip, activating the high- voltage stun baton built into the umbrella. A bright blue spark jolted Nellie, who dropped onto the cobblestones, twitching and convulsing, before curling up into a fetal position. A low moan escaped her lips.
Yikes! Celeste yanked back the umbrella. Guilt stabbed her as she contemplated the downed prostitute. She had brought the stun umbrella with her for her own protection, but maybe she had overreacted a little. I didn’t want to zap her, but she wouldn’t leave me alone!
Thankfully, Nellie still appeared to be breathing. Celeste glanced around nervously, afraid that someone might have seen her stun the old woman. Bobbies and plainclothesmen were swarming Whitechapel these days in hopes of snaring the elusive Ripper, but nobody seemed to have observed her encounter with Nellie. She doubted that the woman’s sprawled form would attract much attention either. What was one more inebriated whore passed out in the street?
Nevertheless, she made tracks toward Dorset Street, leaving Nellie behind. A bobby at the corner nodded as she passed. Celeste felt a little safer knowing that the police were out in force tonight, even though their attempts to catch the Ripper were doomed to failure. Scotland Yard had been hunting Jack since August, but at least four women had been butchered nonetheless. Despite their best efforts, the police were no closer to solving the mystery than they had been when the murders began.
But Celeste had an advantage over the frustrated coppers. She knew exactly when and where the Ripper was going to strike next.
Miller’s Court was an enclosed yard just off Dorset Street, accessible via an arched gateway. Mary Jane Kelly, the Ripper’s last known victim, lodged in a one-room apartment on the ground floor of a rooming house that catered almost exclusively to prostitutes. Whitewashed brick walls hemmed in Miller’s Court, which looked more like an alley than a court. A broken window was left over from an ugly fight between Mary and the man she lived with, Joseph Barnett, who had moved out more than a week ago, perhaps because Mary had starting working the streets again. A thin muslin curtain hid the interior of the room from view. A number by the door identified the address as number 13. The unlucky number would certainly prove so for Mary Kelly. The Ripper had taken his time with her . . .
The infamous locale looked just as Celeste had imagined it. Miller’s Court had been (would be?) demolished in 1920 and renovated several times since. Celeste still remembered how disappointed she’d been when she had first visited this neighborhood in her own time; it had been all office buildings, parking garages, and warehouses. A modern loading dock had been built over the site of Mary Jane Kelly’s grisly demise. All traces of the gaslight horror had been swept away and gentrified out of existence.
But not here, not now. Celeste had hardly been able to contain her excitement when she’d discovered that the “Gaslight & Greasepaint” tour coincided with one of the Ripper murders. Talk about a lucky break! She had been prepared to sneak away from the tour and hole up somewhere, maybe for days, until the closest convenient killing came along, but, as it turned out, the timing couldn’t have better. It was almost as though Timeshares had gone out of its way to make things easy for her.
She made a mental note to thank them in the acknowledgments.
Big Ben tolled one A.M. in the distance. Celeste breathed a sigh of relief. In theory, she should be in plenty of time to catch Jack the Ripper in the act. The coroner had placed Mary Kelly’s time of death at around four in the morning, but having little faith in nineteenth- century forensics, Celeste had allowed herself plenty of leeway, just in case the murder had taken place earlier than anyone had realized. She secreted herself in a shadowy doorway facing the entrance to number 13 and popped in a pair of night vision contact lenses. The lenses gave the scene an unearthly green glow, but they would allow her to observe the proceedings unseen. Miller’s Court was dark and unlit, making it ideal for both her and Jack the Ripper.
The rain started up again, and she took shelter beneath the doorframe. The winter chill began to seep into her bones, and she hugged herself to keep warm. She was in for a long, cold vigil, but she couldn’t complain. Mary Jane Kelly was going to have a worse night.
Much worse.
At the moment, the doomed prostitute was still alive. Smoke rose from the chimney of number 13. Candlelight escaped the broken window. Celeste could hear Mary singing inside her pitiful hovel, sounding tipsy and off-key. An Irish accent betrayed her roots in County Limerick. Celeste couldn’t quite make out the words, but Mary’s neighbors would later testify that she had been singing “A Violet I Plucked from My Mother’s Grave” well after midnight.
She was only twenty-four years old.
A man’s voice joined in the singing, and a chill went down Celeste’s spine as she realized that Mary might already be entertaining her killer. Jack the Ripper was only a few yards away, on the other side of a bolted wooden door.
Who are you? Celeste wondered. Her brain ran through the usual list of suspects. Sir William Gull, the Queen’s physician? The celebrated painter Walter Sickert? Montague Druitt, the suicidal lawyer? Francis Tumblety, the quack American physician? John Pizer, a.k.a. “Leather Apron”? Prince Albert Victor, the Queen’s grandson? More than a century of Ripperology had produced a plethora of theories and suspects, but no definitive answers.
She fought a temptation to try to peek through the window. It was too early; she couldn’t risk scaring the Ripper away or, worse, putting herself in danger. What if she didn’t recognize his face? It was possible the Ripper was someone completely unknown to history whose face would mean nothing to her. Better to trail him home after he was done with Mary and get an actual name and address before heading back to her own century. Hell, maybe she could even snag a sample of his DNA later on . . .
Mary’s song was cut off abruptly. A strangled cry briefly disturbed the night.
Celeste flinched. She tried not to think about what was happening inside number 13 right now. This is all ancient history, she reminded herself. Mary Jane Kelly was murdered over a centu
ry before I was born. Celeste was here to observe history, not change it. Who knew what kind of butterfly effect she might set off if she tried to intervene on Mary’s behalf? I could return to a future in which Charles Manson was the first man on the moon, or maybe I was never born . . .
Mary’s murder, and subsequent mutilation, had to happen. It was part of history.
“Rest in peace,” Celeste whispered. “It will be over soon.”
Long hours passed as she huddled in the doorway, waiting for the Ripper to complete his savage work. Because the final murder had taken place indoors, and not out in the open, Jack had been free to indulge his blood-thirsty predilections as never before, and he had taken full advantage of that opportunity. By now, Mary Jane Kelly was in pieces.
Don’t think about it, Celeste thought. Instead, like countless Ripperologists before her, she wondered why the murders had apparently stopped after tonight. What had become of the Ripper afterward? Had he died of natural causes, committed suicide, been imprisoned on other charges, confined to a lunatic asylum, moved away from London, or simply retired? Was Scotland Yard truly clueless, or had there been some sort of official cover-up?
She couldn’t wait to find out.
Her vigil was briefly interrupted around three in the morning when an older woman entered Miller’s Court, calling on one of Mary’s neighbors. The woman glanced uneasily at the darkened doorway where Celeste was lurking before hurrying inside.
Ohmigod, Celeste realized. That was Sarah Lewis. At the inquest, Lewis would later testify that she glimpsed a suspicious figure loitering outside Mary Kelly’s flat in the wee hours of the morning. All at once, Celeste understood whom that mysterious figure was. Me. I’m the one Sarah Lewis saw. I’ve been part of history all along—and I never knew it!
This proved it. She was doing the right thing. The revelation strengthened her resolve to stick it out, despite the wet, miserable conditions.
I was always meant to be here. It’s my destiny to expose Jack the Ripper—over a hundred years from now.
Finally, about five in the morning, her patience was rewarded. Jack the Ripper slipped out of number 13, closing the door behind him. Celeste glimpsed a furtive figure wearing a heavy Inverness coat and carrying a leather bag. The brim of a felt hat obscured his face, much to her frustration. She held her breath, retreating as far as she could into the murky doorway. This was the tricky part: she needed to shadow the Ripper back to his lair to find out who he really was. Maybe even steal a piece of his mail.
Wonder if he keeps a diary—or trophies of his kills?
She would love to get her hands on those!
The Ripper exited Miller’s Court, turning left onto Dorset Street. Celeste hurried to follow him, but she had only gone a few steps before she was grabbed roughly from behind. A gloved hand was clasped over her mouth. The cold edge of a knife pressed against her throat.
“Drop the umbrella!” a harsh voice whispered into her ear. “Or I’ll rip you to bits.”
Celeste froze in fear. Who?
“The umbrella!” the voice urged her again. The knife pricked her jugular.
The rigged bumbershoot clattered to the ground, leaving her unarmed. Celeste remembered the emergency locator button she had left behind at the Carlton and kicked herself for her recklessness. Was she about to become the victim of a random nineteenth century street crime?
It’s not fair, she thought. I’m not even born yet!
Her assailant shoved her toward number 13. Was it just her imagination, or did his voice sound vaguely familiar? “Inside!”
The door was unlocked. The mugger hustled Celeste into the apartment. She braced herself for the horror she knew was waiting.
Mary Jane Kelly’s cheaply furnished room now resembled a slaughterhouse. Most of the murdered woman rested on her unmade bed, but choice bits were displayed on a rickety wooden table a few inches away. Her clothes were neatly folded atop a chair. A crimson flood soaked the sheets and floorboards. A blazing fireplace consumed various articles of clothing. Celeste had seen grainy black-and-white crime photos of the butchery, but that barely prepared her for the nauseating sight and stench of the bloody spectacle. Her gorge rose.
What kind of person could . . . dissect . . . another human being like this?
A strong hand shoved her into the corner. “Don’t even think about screaming,” the man warned, “unless you wanted to end up like her.”
Gasping, Celeste spun around to confront her attacker. In the flickering light of the fire, it took her a second to recognize him.
“Ramsey?”
The tour guide stood only a few feet away from her, brandishing an eight-inch hunting knife. Like her, he had discarded his formal attire for less ostentatious period attire: an Inverness coat and felt hat. Perspiration dotted his face.
An overwhelming sense of relief washed over her. “Thank God!” she exclaimed, clutching her chest. “You really had me going there. For a second, I almost thought you were Jack the Ripper himself!”
“I am Jack the Ripper, you stupid cow!” Spittle sprayed from his lips. He viciously slashed the air between them, driving her back into the corner. “Or should I call you ‘Jordan Pinkerton’?” He sneered at her startled expression. “Yes, I know who you are. I recognized you right away from the author photo on your books. I’ve read them all, you know. And I knew exactly what you were up to the minute you showed up for the tour.” He snorted derisively. “Like you were really interested in Richard Mansfield or Gilbert and Sullivan!”
She blinked in confusion. “I don’t understand. I just saw Jack the Ripper leave, right before you grabbed me.”
“That was me all right,” Ramsey said. “From the last time I was here. One of the singular advantages of time travel. You can visit the same time twice. Be in two places at once. Take an actual trip down memory lane.”
Celeste tried to keep up. “Jack the Ripper is a time traveler, too?”
“Astounding, isn’t it?” He grinned devilishly. “I was always obsessed with the case, ever since I was a kid. I read every book and Web site, saw every movie. You obviously don’t remember me, but I actually saw you speak at that Ripperology conference in Glasgow a few years back. You even gave me your autograph!”
She remembered the conference, but not the man. “You’re a fan?”
“Of Jack the Ripper,” he insisted. “Not you. Would you believe I used to dream about being the Ripper? Almost every night. I would wake up panting in excitement. Then, when I got this gig with Timeshares, the proverbial lightbulb went off over my head. I didn’t have to be just a spectator to history. I could make my dreams come true!”
Was he serious? Celeste struggled to make sense of what he was saying. “But who was Jack before you? Sickert? Druitt?”
“No one! You’re still not getting it. You can’t hold onto that old-fashioned linear thinking where time travel is concerned.” He gestured grandly at the dingy brick walls surrounding them. “This is November 9, 1888. I was always here. It always happened this way.” Bloodshot eyes gleamed with madness. “That’s the sublime paradox of it all. I inspired myself!”
He’s insane, Celeste realized. Her momentary relief gave way to renewed terror. Had too many trips through time warped Ramsey’s brain chemistry? The waiver she had signed had mentioned minor unpredictable side effects . . .
“How do you think the Ripper avoided getting caught?” he gloated. “I always knew where the bobbies and undercover cops weren’t going to be, where history said it would be safe to strike.” He fished his locator button from his vest pocket. “Plus, of course, I always had my ace in the hole. If ever I found myself cornered, I just zapped myself back to the future before I could get nabbed!”
She eyed the locator button avidly. If only she could get hold of it, just for a second!
“I think I understand,” she humored him. “So what now? What happens next?”
“You’re the murder expert. What do you think?” He leered at her.
“You’re doing me a favor, actually. I had run out of Ripper victims. To be honest, I’m seriously considering putting in for a transfer to the 1960s and starting over as the Zodiac Killer. You can be my swan song as the Ripper.”
Celeste gulped. “But I’m not a prostitute.”
“No, you’re a money-grubbing writer who cashes in on murder and bloodshed.” He stepped forward, backing her up against the blood-soaked bed. “Close enough.”
“Wait!” Celeste appealed frantically to his vanity. “You don’t want to kill me. I can make you famous, reveal your identity to the world.” She nodded at the door. “You can just disappear into the nineteenth century, knowing that someday the entire world will remember your name.”
He laughed in her face. “Nice try, but no dice. You reveal my identity and I’m just another boring slasher to be psychoanalyzed and dissected by hack writers like you. Don’t you see? It’s the mystery of Jack the Ripper that will keep people fascinated for generations to come. That what’s make him a legend. What makes me a legend.”
She tried another tack. “But you can’t kill me. You’d be changing history. Mary Jane Kelly died alone!”
“Not anymore.” He shrugged. “So there’s one more body found at Miller’s Court, a mystery woman for people to puzzle over for the next hundred years or so. It just adds a new wrinkle to the story.” His knife gleamed in the firelight. “By the time I’m done with you, not even the future will recognize you . . .”
He raised the knife.
A loud sneeze, coming from under the bed, startled them both.
“What the hell?” Ramsey faltered, looking away from Celeste just for a moment.