“I think I got a little more that time,” Kipp said, panting, as he pulled up. “He obviously wants to make a name for himself, scaring people, hoping little children will to go to bed at night fearful that their bad behaviors will bring on the devil.” After a moment, he added, “I don’t think he lives in this area because he momentarily seemed confused about which escape route to take.”
Kipp obtained more than had I, which was little to nothing. Our telepathy allows us to communicate as well as detect thoughts over short distances, but trying to latch on to the mind of a stranger when there were so many other divergent thoughts circulating was difficult. While on the Titanic, Kipp sorted through the crowds to locate an individual and did this with greatest success when that person was not a complete stranger to him.
Our next encounter followed soon after. The air was crisp, and my hopes for a relatively fog-free evening were granted so that visibility would be at the maximum possible. With some directions given by a couple of helpful, if slightly inebriated, workmen who were on their way home, we made our way to the location of Blackheath Fair, which was really no fair in the usual sense, and a place to stay clear of unless one was in search of trouble. I hadn’t mentioned this particular excursion to Miss Logan, who would have been horrified, since no lady should go near the place, which was characterized by drunkenness and debauchery. As Kipp and I proceeded towards Shooter’s Hill, we were passed by groups of young men who were drunk enough to call out vulgar remarks to me, none of which were particularly novel or creative.
“You know, in over four hundred years, the general tone of catcalls has not changed a bit, except for some of the actual wording,” I remarked to Kipp. It was cool that evening, and I hugged my arms more closely to my body to preserve warmth. Overhead, the silvered disc of a fading moon was suspended against the blackened sky.
“Well, that last guy was a little over the top, and it took all my self-control to not bite him on the fanny,” Kipp replied, grumbling over my admonishments that he not react to things he heard.
Laughing softly, I reached down and tousled the thick fur on his head, tweaking his right ear gently. “My hero,” I replied affectionately.
We were actually on the outskirts of the fair when Kipp’s head lifted. “I think I’m picking up on him,” he said, holding his breath for a moment while he concentrated. “Let’s move to the southeast.” Kipp’s abilities served him almost like radar would for humans, and he began to hone into the thoughts of the man, but there was still too much distance and chaos for him to latch on to anything of depth.
A trio of young women passed us, and my attention was drawn when I heard one refer to the middle girl as “Polly”, since the attack would be made on a girl named Polly Adams. Without being overly conspicuous, we made a subtle loop around some large shrubs and began to follow at a distance. The road, which was a packed mixture of dirt and rock, led down a gentle incline before angling behind a copse of trees that seemed darker than the night itself. The women disappeared from our view when they took that path, the trees and underbrush concealing them. We heard a series of high pitched screams and darted forward, Kipp ahead of me as usual. The other two girls who’d been accompanying Polly almost knocked us down as they raced past, retreating in the direction from which they’d come. It was clear, in their terror, they had abandoned the girl to her fate. Then we saw Polly, who’d been accosted by the man, dressed as before in black. He was tall, much taller than was she, and he bent over her, using one arm to hold her while he used the other to tear at her blouse. Even though our purpose was not to interrupt the attacks, Kipp was caught up in his outrage over the mistreatment of a lady and gave a loud, involuntary bark. The man glanced up, and recognition of us flooded his thoughts.
We were caught in a deeply shadowed place, and I peered through the gloaming to try and better see his features, which were somewhat hidden under the brim of the hat he wore. I was convinced he wore a half mask on the top part of his face, leaving his mouth and chin uncovered. Spring-heeled Jack had been rumored to breathe blue fire, and I was waiting for such a display so that I could determine the mechanism, since it was clear this was a human man with no more powers than the rest of the species. As the man’s eyes from behind the mask met mine, he put his hand up to his mouth, and a moment later, a flame of blue fire shot out, about a foot in length, only serving to terrify poor Polly even more, if possible, as she slumped in a swoon.
The man dropped her abruptly and roughly to the ground and began to run, with Kipp in hot pursuit, making it a foot race. There was a long, uninterrupted fence ahead, and the man took one amazing bound to clear the fence, as Kipp pulled up short with no route to follow. Dashing forward, I bent over poor Polly, who was babbling hysterically. As I helped her to her feet, she tried to pull together the remnants of her blouse, which had been shredded. The soft skin of her belly was scored as blood began to well along the cuts.
As others began to gather, drawn by the commotion, I quietly allowed myself to be absorbed by the crowd, and signaling Kipp, we faded into the darkness before a constable could arrive. I didn’t need an interview of one Petra Goodgame to be recorded in the annals of history.
“He has a gas cylinder up his sleeve, attached to his forearm.” In my mind, I formed a diagram so Kipp could follow my thoughts. “Then, he uses a fire starter with a flint to get a spark, and, whoosh, he creates the blue flame that we just saw.” I felt satisfied I’d figured out the mechanics of one part of the theatre. Now we were left with the why behind it all.
Five
The sightings of Spring-heeled Jack were intermittent for a while, sometimes branching out from the southeastern districts beyond London’s outer boundary into the rural countryside. Even with the contacts we’d made, Kipp was still a little stumped as to the workings of the man’s mind. As talented as was my partner, he needed a moment of stillness so that he could focus and get past the superficial thoughts milling in the brain of the attacker. Once he established some degree of familiarity, the process opened up significantly. But there was another encounter on the horizon, and we remained quiet, not wanting our presence at every appearance to change the timeline and affect Jack’s behaviors. The next highly recorded incident would not occur until February of 1838, so we spent our time helping Miss Logan in her shop. Although I hoped never to use a needle and thread again, she taught me some new skills as Kipp dozed in the corner of the room. Symbionts mark the passage of time differently from humans, and the waiting game was nothing new for me. I’d spent a couple of years in one past time-shift, so this interval was not impressive by my standards. However, I considered changing my return time so that I wouldn’t be absent from Fitzhugh for so long but decided against such a move when Kipp began to analyze my motives.
“You’re worried about him,” Kipp observed, as I began to patiently rip out a line of seaming that I’d screwed up royally. “You don’t want him to be alone.”
I think it was Kipp’s words that made me even more determined to wait out this particular adventure and be gone from home for the entire four months, despite the fact I could have returned the following day after my departure if I’d wished.
“And now you’re gonna be stubborn and prove you don’t care by staying gone the whole time,” Kipp continued, yawning, as he stretched on his side.
Looking up from the pile of fabric, which seemed to stretch endlessly across my work table, I stared at him, trying to give him my most impressive stink eye in my expansive repertoire. Failing, I tightened my lips as I returned to my seam ripping. Kipp laughed softly and thumped his tail on the wooden floor of the shop.
“He’ll be okay, you know,” Kipp remarked with the wisdom of one so young. “Philo will look after him as well as Peter and Elani.”
“Yeah, I know,” I grumbled. “It’s just….” I began, before letting my words drop off, unfinished.
“You miss the ritual of the morning tea,” Kipp completed my thoughts.
“Yeah, I
guess.”
“And maybe the Pop-Tarts?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
The time actually went by quickly, and I don’t think I boast to say that our presence made Miss Logan’s Christmas holiday a little more festive, since it was a busy time for her skills. We served as a mild distraction, and I helped her as much as possible, handicapped with my limited abilities. I even purchased some holly branches as well as cedar and created a festive display with some discarded ribbons along the sill of the front windows. The evergreen fragrance managed to override the strong smell of coal fire and tallow, providing a welcoming atmosphere to visitors.
There was one early, frigid morning when we ventured out, the frost-crusted street crunching beneath the soles of my boots, and brought home a holiday cake I’d purchased from a community bakery. Miss Logan was predictably delighted, since she had a bit of a sweet tooth, and promptly had cake for breakfast accompanied by a steaming pot of tea. I’d also, as a little present, purchased her some tins of more expensive tea blends, and she happily experimented each morning, to discover a new experience on the tip of her tongue.
Meanwhile, Kipp and I still kept to our nocturnal prowling but maintained more of a distance from some of the scattered sightings and followed after to see what we could glean from the reports of victims as well as the impressions Kipp gathered from the memories of the victims while fresh in their minds. I was determined we not scare away our prey from the very well documented February attack that was on the horizon. The winter that year was colder and harsher than usual, and we were content to spend time in the shop with Miss Logan, where Kipp would stretch out in front of her coal-burning stove, his eyes blinking sleepily. Our landlady had made him a comfortable nest of discarded fabrics to create a barrier between his body and the cold floor. The upstairs loft was not heated, and Kipp and I cuddled together with my body benefiting from his heavy warmth. In the early morning when it was still dark outside, and the sunrise was hesitant to arrive at such a cold world, the window to the room would be frosted over, and I could feel the ice fragments on my side of the glass, coating the panes with delicate patterns that resembled fine lace. Between Kipp, however, and the woolen undergarments I’d created with the tutoring of our hostess, I stayed relatively comfortable, except for my nose and ears.
One day, I heard the bell tinkle over the door to the shop while I was putting away some dishes in the tiny kitchen behind the main room. I could hear voices at a murmur, distorted by the wall. Being a telepath comes in handy, and I turned my head, although such was not necessary, but seemed natural somehow. Kipp, too, tilted his head to the side as might a curious dog.
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Kipp murmured, his thoughts escalating into a growl in my head.
Indeed, it seemed the man in the room was of the local society of hoods and criminals and was attempting to, uh, shakedown Miss Logan for some cash. She was bravely trying to send the man on his way when Kipp and I appeared in the doorway. The man, who was dirty, the smell of his unwashed body threatening to overwhelm the scent of the lavender candle I’d lit, stared at me first from red, bloodshot eyes; he’d been drinking and was more than a little intoxicated as he slurred his words, some of which were rude and definitely not appropriate in the setting. Kipp was and is a gentleman, first and foremost, and was predictably offended by the harshness of the language in the presence of ladies. As the man’s eyes flickered downward, Kipp began a slow, prowling walk, and I realized the man thought he was about to be attacked by a wolf. Kipp played the moment well, pulling back his lips to expose a full rack of teeth, uppers and lowers, and that cinched the moment. The man backpedaled, falling over a pile of fabrics that were stacked by the work table. With a faint scream, he scrambled up, awkwardly, and stumbled for the door. He had the misfortune to almost fall into the arms of the local constable.
“I’ve been looking for you, mate,” the constable exclaimed, as he yanked the traumatized man by the arm and began to prod him down the street, using his nightstick as a motivator.
“Thank you, Kipp,” Miss Logan said, smiling at him as he approached and let her stroke his massive noggin. “What a fine dog you are!”
“Okay, that does it,” Kipp said to me, rolling his eyes to stare at me from the corners. “We’re going to find her a dog today!”
It was grievously cold, but Kipp managed to nag me into leaving the warmth of the workroom, where the heater blazed, the coals winking red behind the slats of the grate. Miss Logan had given me an old hat of hers that provided some warmth, and after bundling as best I could, Kipp and I hit the streets. After walking a few blocks, Kipp’s head lifted with interest, and he led me down a narrow walkway where small, poor dwellings were nestled side by side. The curbs were littered with accumulated trash, and a narrow gully acted as the local open sewer. At the end of the lane, we stopped as a small party of men began to walk towards us, a crude stretcher being carried by two of them. The body it contained was covered, but it was obvious one of the residents had died. As they passed us, we watched a small dog follow the procession, whining, lost in the activity.
“She,” Kipp said, looking at the dog, which sat shivering on the cold walkway, “lived there all her life with an old man. He died, and she is confused, not certain what to do.”
The man obviously had no relations, and the neighbors were moving in and out of his tiny shack, removing items for their use. I shrugged, looking at Kipp. It could be seen as callous or just a smart way to enhance one’s meager grasp on survival. A woman, who was walking past with a treasure trove of battered cooking pots, nodded at us.
“Poor little dog,” she said, stopping to point at the dog, which looked like a mix of terrier and some other mystery breed. “My landlord won’t let me have a dog, but I’ve always liked little Queenie and hate to see her live on the streets. I’m not sure she’d know how. She’s not very old, that one.” The woman chugged past, breathing out pursed lips that were slightly blue-tinged; she probably had heart failure herself.
“Call her,” Kipp instructed me.
“Queenie,” I crooned, stooping down in what I hoped was a welcoming posture. The little dog was really quite pretty, with a white coat covered in large, liver-colored patches. The dark eyes staring at me looked clear, and I surmised the animal was reasonably healthy. Her sides were well filled out, and I suspected the old man had shared his food regularly with her.
Kipp, using his dog whisperer mind meld, managed to help plant the idea in her dog brain that we were wonderful folks to know, and that she should just be happy to make our acquaintance. So, it took little effort for her to come bounding to my arms. She was heavier than she appeared, and I grunted a little when lifting her.
“Eating too many pasties,” I remarked as Queenie began to vigorously lick my chin. It was obvious she enjoyed my serving as her transportation versus her paws having to touch the frosty, cold-hardened ground.
“Quit griping,” Kipp replied. “This is the perfect companion for Miss Logan. She’s not so young that she will be an annoying puppy but not too old that she will be dying off in a week or two. She’s just right.”
“Like Mama Bear,” I observed.
“What does that mean?”
I knew that a full storytelling would be occupying our evening before we fell asleep since Kipp had not been introduced to the concept of fables and fairy tales. But Miss Logan was delighted, and Queenie, with the subtle telepathic work of Kipp, fell in love immediately, and the bond was cast. Even if we left London empty-handed in terms of learning more about Jack, we would leave behind one happy elderly seamstress and a pup which could have been left to grieve herself to death down a narrow lane where poverty ruled, and people—and dogs—either survived or failed.
Kipp and I attempted to make our paths coincide with Spring-heeled Jack on February 19th but to no avail. On February 20th, we returned to the general vicinity of Bearbinder Lane, which stretched between the villages of Bow and Old Ford in East Lo
ndon. It took little effort to locate the cottage where Jane Alsop and her family lived, and after hiding around the corner of a tumbledown shed across the narrow road, we tucked in to wait. A crescent moon split the night sky, which seemed vacant of any stars due to the cloud cover blocking large swaths of the view in thin wisps of pale gray that served as the veil on a dowager.
“He’s close by.” Kipp’s words were a whisper in my mind, his breath warm on the back of my neck. It was still quite frigid, so anything to warm me was welcomed, even Kipp’s breath, which was fragranced with garlic from a meat pasty he’d had earlier that day.
“I heard that, and my breath does not stink,” he protested, clamping his mouth shut.
“I thought you didn’t like garlic,” I began but hushed as a figure came into view.
A tall, slender man wrapped in a long cloak that flapped halfway down his legs, paused at the small walkway that led to the front door of the cottage. With a movement that seemed preternatural, he turned, looking in the direction where we were concealed, but I managed to pull my head down just in time, and the man relaxed. Kipp, in a moment of stillness, could focus without the disruption of screaming women and general pandemonium.
A Conspiracy to Murder, 1865 Page 5