by Lucas Thorn
Each word sung with horrible slowness.
Slack tune.
John tried again. “Please?”
Then Gerald lunged.
And a shot blasted into the thin man’s cheek. Took out the back of his head with a wet cough. Renfield’s cackled song sparkled in the echo of the boom. “He steals your whole estate.”
Moved his aim.
“No!” John pulled arm up to protect his face.
And took the first bullet to his gut.
As he doubled over, sinking to his knees, Renfield pressed the pistol’s smoking muzzle to the back of the bald head. Cackled; “He steals your whole estate.”
The gun fired another round of death straight down.
Somehow, John managed a groan through his shattered mouth. Snorted blood, then dropped onto his belly and never moved again.
Silence.
A whistle from a few streets across.
“Natch,” Renfield spat. “On your way, constable. On your way.”
Then he reeled down a lane and stumbled through a collection of bins and mounds of spilled trash. Soon lost himself in the fog. Sharp whistles behind him.
Too many policemen lately.
All because of the Ripper.
Mad old Jack.
He tucked the pistol away and hummed before letting out a belt of; “A fox may steal your hens, sir! Whore your health and pence, sir!”
Dancing crookedly up the street. Past a few men crowded around a pair of weary prostitutes. He pulled his hat down low but offered a half-smile as he passed.
Keeping it polite.
Soon found the street he was looking for. The sign hung crooked by a single nail, but he could just make out a few humble letters beneath the coal dust. Craned his neck and saw her pressed against a lamp post.
Hands in front of her belly. Like she was expecting a second child or remembering the echo of the first’s regretful birth.
She looked up as he came round the corner. “Mister Renfield! Over here.”
“Over there?” He swung his hips as he walked. Strutting bold. Hands pushed hard into his pocket. “Why not? Sixpence good enough?”
“What?” She flushed. “Don’t be wicked. It’s frightening enough out here as it is. Two men have already looked at me so peculiar. I was worried it would be him. You know?”
“Leather apron, is it? Old crazy Jack the loon?” He offered his arm. “Never mind, duck. You’re with Renfield now. Mister Renfield. Sir Renfield, if you will. The Gentleman of Whitechapel, who frightens off the boldest of villains with barely a look of casual disregard. No Jack hereabouts. Most likely all tucked abed. Cold night. Frozen night. Like to be tucked myself.”
She linked arms with a tolerant smile and let him lead her away. “Yes, it’s much too cold to be out.”
“To the music hall or the taproom? Taps, I say. The Owl’s Beak’s only just round the way. Here. Cut through Dutfield’s. You fancy a wet whistle? I need a whistle wet. Been a parched day. Thickets and troughs.”
“Did you find him, Mister Renfield? My boy?”
“Aye. And I’ve good news, I’m sure. I’m sure. Watch it. Those crates are empty. Don’t want them to fall.”
“Right.” She stepped clear. “I’m sorry again. I didn’t mean to be a nuisance.”
“No nuisance. No no. All the same to Renfield. Mister Renfield. All the same. Money in the pocket. In the hand. All gone, now. No going back. And his new mum says he’s a bit of a shitter. Can’t stand shit. You know what the rich folk are like. Everything in its place, and shit has no place among the silver-tongued. Wants an older lad. One with a bit of training. Wink wink. Can handle his pisser to at least hit a bucket. Know what I mean?”
Stride shook her head, pursing her lips. “Some people have no patience for babes.”
“Aye. None at all.” He sighed. Looked up at a window across the way. Lights on inside, but curtains drawn. Slit line of yellow. Empty. Looked to the left. Right. Shadows leaking through fog. Grinned as his hand free hand delved into pocket. Came out with a fistful of bright steel. Slashed quick. “Know how they feel.”
She didn’t feel a thing.
Not at first.
The knife, sharpened to its finest edge by his obsessive hand, sank deep into her neck just under her ear. Then with a quick jerk, sent a wave of crimson spraying across the wall. She turned to run, but wouldn’t have got more than a few steps even if he hadn’t been linked to her by her arm.
Blood gushed on a glittering torrent.
A river splashing hard.
His chuckle was nasty as he clapped a hand to her head and pushed her down to the ground. She choked and sputtered, hoarse wet grunt as she tried to get even a single gasp of air down her ruined gullet.
Blood still hissing free of severed windpipe.
Pooling at his feet. Her eyes bulged and stretched almost to the point of squeezing free of their sockets.
“Patience, Miss Stride,” he said. “All be over in a bit.”
She slumped onto her belly and he reached to turn her over. Dying, her leg kicked out and hit a bin. Scattered its contents with a rattle and crash.
Renfield spun, eyes moving to the curtain, which gave a twitch.
“Alas alas,” he muttered. “Jack’s handy, but not reckless. Off with him. Off! Off with you, you silly bugger.”
And he ran again. This time skipping along with his heart pounding in his chest. Fearful of a whistle at any second. Sharp and loud. Or, worse, a howling horde of angry locals roused by the shout of “Jack!”
But no shout came, so he slowed to a droll walk.
Strolled aimless among the tenements, mind bristling with composting emotions.
Rage.
He’d wanted to hurt her. She’d wasted his time. Had she told her mother where she was going? Told anyone else?
Could still be trouble.
“Can’t be helped,” he said to himself. “Can’t be helped. Besides, I showed, but she didn’t. Waited, I did. Waited an age. Silly tart must’ve changed her mind. You know what they’re like, officer. Always changing their daft old minds.”
On Whitechapel Road, he found himself brushing against people spilling out of a music hall. Laughing and cheering. A few gave whistles. A couple tried to belch louder than the other. Someone threw a mug. It bounced in front of Renfield’s feet but hadn’t been sent in his direction for any reason, so he kept walking.
“Come back tomorrow night,” a man shouted from the door. “Come see Marie Tilley! All the way from America, she is! Guaranteed a rowdy old time! Tomorrow night! One night only.”
“Should stay in the colonies,” Renfield muttered. “Too late now.”
He turned into a dull street made morose by the sullen flames of two lamps. The fog was clenched to the middle of the path and he squinted to peer through the bright glow.
A few figures hovered in front of a doorway, but they barely looked at him.
Scratching his head, he started making a beeline for home, heart sinking with each step.
“Couldn’t cap it,” he muttered. “Wanted to cap it. Will they know she was Jack’s black old hand? Maybe. Maybe. But the Mistress won’t be delighted. Won’t be laughing. She’ll pat me head and say Good Renfield. But won’t mean it, will she? Didn’t do the job. Didn’t do it right. Butter and pins. I miss the rats. Rats. Beautiful rats. Much tastier than girls. Easier, too. Plenty around when you want one. Seven of them over there just plump for the picking. No time. No time!”
Sighed.
Couldn’t even bring himself to dance. Instead hunched his shoulders. Hat down low. Slapped his feet as he walked. Anger beginning to boil inside his belly.
Looking left.
Looking right.
A woman ejected herself from a little doorway. Not very young, but still trying hard to give the appearance. Gave a lurch as she fought to keep her balance. Pulling on the shoulder of her dress. A futile attempt to hide the upper mounds of her breasts.
Started wa
lking.
Stopped.
Leaned against the wall.
Muttered something, then looked around and saw him.
Cocked her head. “Here,” she called. “You ain’t the Ripper, are you?”
“No, lass,” he called back. Showed teeth in big grin. “I ain’t ever done no one no harm. You just ask around. Mister Renfield is the soul of charity. The heart of an angel. But the charm of a warthog. That’s what they say. Hoo hoo. You know what a warthog is? I don’t.”
“Oh. Sorry to call you out.” She put a hand to her forehead. “But you were following me, weren’t you?”
“Following? Why, no! I was just headed up the road.”
“Pardon me, I might have had a bit too much to drink.”
“Well, let Mister Renfield help!” He ducked over to her and offered his arm. “No gentleman leaves a lady all stuck out on her own on a night like this. Especially not with old Leather Apron loose off the handle. Come come, dear girl. Which way’s home?”
“Oh, I’m no lady, Mister Renfield.” She snorted a laugh. “Ain’t been a lady for many years it feels like. No. But, look. If you help me get on my way, chance it’ll be I’ll give you a pleasant thanks for your kindness.”
“No thanks are needed, lass. None at all.” He waited for her to link her arm and then led the way down the street. Another small crowd barrelled out of the club behind her. Chatting to themselves like a flock of birds. He gave a grin. “Have you been to the Golden Pitchfork?”
“Golden Pitchfork? Never heard of it.”
“Neither have I.”
“Then why’d you ask?”
“I always like to ask just in case someone has. Sounds like it’d be a fine place to spend a night inside with a drink in hand.”
She laughed at him. “You’re a strange fellow.”
“I’ve been told so many a time. Many a time. Sixes and fives. Look out. Someone’s shit on the floor. Disgusting habit. Who’d do such a thing? Not Mister Renfield, no. Shit on the floor? Nasty little cockroaches around these parts.”
She nodded along, her legs not quite keeping up. “Oh, yes. Terrible.” She blinked a little as he turned her into a lane. She looked around. “Where are we, Mister Renfield?”
“It’s a shortcut.” He smiled. “Real short cut. You didn’t tell me your name?”
“My name?” She pressed fingers to her temple. “Kate. It’s Kate.”
“Is that so? Had me a sister named Kate. Sweet young lass with a taste for common men.”
“Did you just?”
“Sure. Everyone’s got a sister called Kate round here.”
The lane dropped them into a quaint little square. Fog draped the walls.
“I don’t live around here,” she said.
“Don’t you fret, lass. Here. Just over here. Look. Let’s have ourselves a cuddle.”
“What? But I’m not-” Stopped as his hand came out flashing coin. She sucked on her lip and tried a crooked smile. “Sure, Mister Renfield. Why not have a quick cuddle?”
“Why not indeed? Mister Renfield is known all through the land as a man who loves a good cuddle.”
“And here I thought you were a gentleman.” Not quite sad.
“Gentleman?” Shocked expression split his smile into a frown. “Why, lady, I protest. Mister Renfield is the peak gentleman. The gentleman all gentlemen seek to be! He’s polite to ladies. Generous to children. Kind to dogs. He even let a pigeon live beyond supper. But not the bats. No. Never bats.”
“A real gentleman,” she said. Amusement pushed ahead of irritation. “Here will be fine, will it? And what will you want with your cuddle, Mister Renfield? Want something warmer, I bet.”
She started to lift her dress.
He shoved her flat against the wall. Grabbed her bonnet and pulled her head back so he could look down into her terror.
Sneered into her face. Eyes wide, whites gleaming. “No need to give me anything, Miss Kate,” he hissed. “I’ll take what I want and leave the rest, I will.”
“You-”
He hit her in the mouth. To drop her more than anything. As she crumpled in his hand, he slid the knife from his coat and ran it across her neck. Red blood gushed across his fist for the second time. Off the handle slopped a crimson waterfall.
He ducked his head and slurped a mouthful. Giggling as he swallowed it down.
She began to drown then, huffing bloody foam.
He hit her again.
Again.
Watched her crumple onto her back.
And then, with Stride still fresh in his mind, he went to work.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Lucy was waiting for him.
“Miss Westenra.”
“Inspector Abberline. How are you this evening?”
“I can say I am fine. Thank you for asking. And yourself? Your father?”
“Very good so far. Although we do wish we could feel safe, I suppose.” She looked to Kipper, who moved back outside into the hall. “While there’s a certain novelty to having a personal guard, it wears fairly thin after a while. I suppose I was never made to be a Queen.”
He gave a polite chuckle. “I have heard Sir Harold has been busy. He’s authorised me to put more pressure on apprehending Doctor Seward.”
“But not the German?”
“Officially? No. Unofficially, we’re doing door to door checks through Whitechapel as part of the Ripper case. If they spot him, they’ve orders to bring him in as polite as they please.”
“You think he’s definitely part of the Jack the Ripper murders?”
“At this stage, I’d be surprised if they weren’t at least related. In any case, it doesn’t hurt to put them together for now. At least until we can question them, yes?” He smiled. “It might not sound professional, but from where I sit it feels like we’re getting two birds with one stone.”
“Very sensible.”
The Inspector looked up as a young woman came into the room.
“Oh,” Lucy half-rose from her chair along with him. “Inspector, this is my friend, Adele. I have few friends now who understand me. But she is one.”
“A policeman?” Adele put a hand to her throat. “I’m sorry, Lucy. I didn’t know you had company. I’ll come back shortly, shall I?”
“It’s Miss Havelock, isn’t it?” Abberline raised an eyebrow. “I knew your father. A long time ago. Fine man. Much respected by his men.”
She looked at him for a moment, and he couldn’t quite decipher her expression.
Surprise?
“Adele is staying with me for a few days,” Lucy said. “Her father is away, and she’s been lonely. Also, I could use the company. Anything to stop me from clawing at the walls.”
“It must be terrible for you,” Abberline said. Took his eyes away from Adele, who stood just inside the door but made no move to leave or sit. “I simply can’t imagine it.”
“No, I don’t suppose you could.”
A sharp whistle suddenly made Adele jump. She let out a squeak. Then flushed. “Oh, dear,” she said. “I’m sorry. It took me by surprise.”
The whistle again.
Closer.
Abberline stood, looking to the door as it bounced open. Kipper put a hand inside his coat but stopped short as a young constable made a short bow and asked; “Excuse me, sir. Is Inspector Abberline here?”
“I’m in here, constable. What is it?”
“I’m sorry, sir. But, you need to come.”
The Inspector grabbed his hat and nodded to Lucy. “I apologise for this, Miss Westenra. I don’t mean to be rude.”
“There’s no need to explain,” she said. “You’re a busy man. We understand.”
As the Inspector came into the hall, he leaned on his cane and began wrapping a scarf around his neck. Said, a little severely; “This had better be life and death, young David.”
The constable nodded. “It is. There are two of them this time, sir.”
“Two?”
; “That’s right, sir. Two.” Lowered his voice so the ladies couldn’t hear. “Hope you didn’t eat, sir.”
“Is it him?”
“No doubt of that.”
“And he did two? In one night?”
“Yes, sir. First one’s not so bad. Old Fogerty says he figures the Ripper got interrupted on the first. But then he went looking for another, like.”
“Terrible. Just terrible..” The Inspector sighed. Leaned back to the doorway. “Miss Westenra? Do you mind if I trouble you for a moment more?”
“Of course, Inspector.” She drifted past Adele.
“We’ve had word the Ripper’s struck again. No secret about it, as I’m sure it’ll be all over London as fast as word can travel. But there’s something different about it this time.”
“Should you be telling me this?”
“Like I said. Won’t be able to keep this one secret. Young David here tells me there’s been two victims in one night. Now, that’s most unusual. And it disturbs me greatly as it means the man is no longer content with one. I can’t stress how desperate I think he’s becoming. I will arrange more men to do rounds on the streets around your house. Also, I suggest your bodyguards here keep their eyes real sharp.” Now looked to Kipper. “If this is Van Helsing or Doctor Seward, they’ll begin to fancy their chances. Perhaps get too bold. I’d like to talk about putting some men inside the house, too. And perhaps across the street. It’s an ugly thought, but we might have a chance to catch this madman if he thinks he can make an attempt on your life.”
“Isn’t it too dangerous?” Adele asked. Her face was pale. “Inspector, would you really let that monster anywhere near Miss Lucy?”
“I’m still hoping it won’t come to that, Miss Havelock.”
Lucy stared hard at the man. “Do you think he’ll come after me now?”
“You know these men more than I do, Miss Westenra. What do you think?”
“I’m sure Doctor Seward would try to talk to me, at least. I’m surprised he hasn’t already.”
“Perhaps he was frightened away.” He nodded to Kipper. “This one would intimidate most men.”
“Thanks,” Kipper said. Smirked; “I eat all my potatoes.”