Jack the Ripper Victims Series: The Double Event

by Alan M. Clark

  She ate the grapes slowly. Seven remained in the sack she held in her left hand. One stem of the fruit lay on the wet footway at her feet. As she wiped grape juice from her lips with one of her handkerchiefs, Elizabeth peered into the gloom, looking out for her gentleman among the people moving about the area. The lane seemed busy for such a late hour. Her vision wasn’t what it had been in her youth, and she saw most clearly near rather than far. Despite the numerous street lamps, people walking along the lane were almost upon her by the time she saw them. Accustomed to the risks of waiting on the street, however, she restrained her unease.

  The dampness from the scattered rains brought out an ache in her old leg injury. Elizabeth bent and rubbed the unevenness of her right shin, where the bones had not been set correctly after her fall in the barn so long ago. Wanting a drink right away to ease her aches and pains, she thought about going into The Nelson and trying to find a fellow to buy her one.

  No, I might miss my client. She could kick herself for not trying harder to get the gentleman’s name.

  There will be plenty of time for that, Bess assured her.

  The words from her innocent voice were exactly what Elizabeth needed to hear. She welcomed the hopeful perspective.

  He’s worth the wait, Bess continued, because he’s a different sort. There’s something special in his eyes, his manner, something that says he cares deeply about you. He’s an educated gentleman, a fellow with taste and—

  —and most importantly, an income, Liza added. It doesn’t matter much what sort he is, as long as he spends his money on you and you get away in the end.

  So, Liza did still have some enthusiasm for the gent.

  The liaison will lead to a warm, clean bed and plenty to eat, Bess said.

  With your luck, you won’t get anything so grand, Liza said. Although he might be something better, it doesn’t take much to be superior to Mr. Kidney.

  She tries to take my courage away, Elizabeth thought, just when I need it the most. Ever since she had promised herself that she’d always listen to the opinions of both her voices, Liza’s black tongue had become increasingly cruel, testing Elizabeth’s resolve to keep the pledge.

  You made that promise for your own protection, Liza said.

  Protection indeed, Elizabeth thought. At what cost? How many opportunities have your warnings kept me from enjoying over the years?

  How many dire straits might you have avoided by ignoring the child? Liza asked.

  Elizabeth didn’t want to know the answer to either question. What she wanted was distraction from her own thoughts.

  She put a grape in her mouth and tore the peel off with her teeth and spat it out. She extracted the seeds and spit them out, then rolled the globular fruit pulp around with her tongue, slowly crushing it and extracting the sweet, delicious juice.

  As she spit out the depleted pulp, she saw a young couple in quiet conversation pass through the open gates across the street beside the International Working Men’s Educational Club, perhaps coming out from the tenement behind it. They moved slowly down the street, touching and laughing.

  A man emerged out of the darkness to the South. Seeing that he had a mustache and wore a small, peaked cap, Elizabeth knew with disappointment that he wasn’t her returning client.

  He saw her and approached. “Do you want company?” he asked.

  “No, not tonight,” she said. Not wanting to squash a future opportunity, she added, “some other night.”

  He grumbled and backed away slowly, reluctantly, and stumbled off into the night toward the North. She could tell he’d been drinking heavily.

  You’re better off without him, Liza said.

  Still, if he’d made an offer, Elizabeth thought, I should have gone with him.

  Earlier in the evening at the Hoop and Grapes Pub, she had spent the six pence earned working for Mrs. Tanner. Elizabeth didn’t have the price of a night’s doss. She had confidence, though, that if she knocked up the deputy at the common lodging, the woman would let her in, and allow her to sit in the kitchen through the night.

  Elizabeth leaned against the brick building behind her and gave another glance up Berner Street toward the South, the direction her client had taken when he’d departed. She put another grape in her mouth and repeated the long process of taking it apart, swallowing the juice, and spitting out the rest.

  With a flicker of yellow flame, a man she hadn’t noticed before caught her attention. He stood partly in shadow across the street, lighting his pipe.

  She put another grape in her mouth as she watched him.

  Since Bess had said favorable things about her client, Elizabeth would have to listen to what Liza had to say about him. Indeed, Elizabeth felt the cynical voice rising up. She knew Liza would likely insist that he wouldn’t return. Even if she agreed that he might come back, she’d say that he merely wanted to fornicate, and that he was just another adulterer who had no interest in her wellbeing

  But before Liza could have her say, Elizabeth’s thoughts were interrupted as the mustachioed drunkard with the peaked cap returned.

  “You’re coming with me,” he said, grabbing her left wrist and yanking her into the street. The sack of grapes hit granite paving stones, and he accidentally kicked it away into shadows.

  “No,” Elizabeth cried. “No.” She twisted out of his grip. “No!”

  She saw a bearded man walking up the lane behind the mustachioed man, and thought perhaps he’d help her. Instead, the bearded one moved to the other side of the road and continued on his way.

  The drunkard reached for her shoulders, held her for a brief moment, and looked her in the eyes.

  Don’t show fear, Liza said.

  “You’re no’ such a fine Judy,” he hissed. Then he spun Elizabeth around and shoved her down onto the damp footway.

  She cried out in pain as her knees struck paving stones.

  The drunkard turned and shouted something she couldn’t make out, possibly to the man smoking the pipe in the shadows or to the bearded fellow. Both reacted as if threatened, and hurried away toward the South, while the drunkard disappeared into the night, back to the North.

  Elizabeth had endured worse from clients on other occasions. Shortly after the danger had past, her calm returned. She didn’t know what had become of her bag of grapes. One piece of the fruit remained in her right hand, and she placed it in her mouth. As she got up and dusted herself off, something nagged at her—she knew she’d forgotten to do something of great personal importance. With increasing unease, she struggled unsuccessfully to recollect.

  She backed up against the wall of the brick building behind her, straightened her clothing, and tried to adopt a dignified stance. Since she’d lost a couple of the grapes in the scuffle, she considered rescinding her promise to give up on her client if he didn’t return before she finished the fruit.

  Rolling the pulp of her last grape around in her mouth and trying to decide how much longer to wait, Elizabeth realized what had been bothering her: She hadn’t heard what Liza wanted to say about the gentleman.

  Again, the cynical voice rose up, but suffered another interruption. Before Liza could have her say, Elizabeth’s client appeared out of the gloom on the opposite side of the street, carrying an oblong package wrapped in newspaper. He had yet to see her. She quickly spit out the remains of her last grape.

  Why would he wrap the wine in newspaper? Liza said. This fellow is up to no good.

  I won’t have it, Elizabeth thought. Your black tongue will not dissuade me from taking up with this man.

  He waved to her as he approached.

  He’ll—Liza began.

  “Enough!” Elizabeth said, cutting her off.

  Startled, the gentleman stopped. He glanced to either side as if looking out for danger.

  She repeated the word, “enough,” as if coughing; as if that were the sound of her cough.

  Silencing Liza was a serious breach of her promise to herself, but at the moment Eli
zabeth could not listen to endless warnings. She needed hope.

  She walked quickly across the street to meet the gentleman at the gates beside the International Working Men’s Educational Club.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said.

  He had calmed quickly.

  “For your cough, my dear,” he said, offering her a small packet.

  She could feel pills inside—cachous, perhaps.

  They embraced and kissed, leaning back. The gate gave a little as they pressed against it. The gentleman pushed on the doorway and it opened further. “Let’s go in for some privacy.”

  Elizabeth nodded enthusiastically, and followed him through the opening into the darkness beyond. She heard a fumbling as if he’d stumbled and felt him grab for her. She tried to steady him and he grabbed her by the neck and squeezed so hard Elizabeth felt her eyes bulge from their sockets. She clutched at his arms to break his grip, but they held firm as the limbs of an oak. She tried to cry out, to gasp for air. Nothing flowed in either direction.

  She looked toward her client’s face, hoping he’d see that she suffered and relent. His features were hidden in shadow. Elizabeth couldn’t believe he meant to harm her. They were having such a good time together. Somehow, his grip was a mistake.

  Blackness crept into the edges of her vision. She had finally reached the darkest bowels of the London beast, and as her thoughts dimmed, she knew that at least she wouldn’t have to face the inevitable and final insult.

  ~ ~ ~

  Elizabeth lay on damp paving stones. Lightheaded, she found she couldn’t rise. Her client had released her.

  Elizabeth’s neck felt strange. She placed the back of her hand to her throat, and felt a warm flow. Pulling the hand away, she saw dark liquid on her knuckles. Even in the dim light, the droplets were red.

  Elizabeth tried to cry out. The effort brought a pain to her throat.

  No, I haven’t been cut! Elizabeth screamed within. Her panicked thoughts came in a rush, looking for a way out.

  If the man had cut someone, that would be her twin.

  The wound was meant for Lettie! The fellow belongs to her. I don’t know him. I should be safe in bed at this hour, not with a stranger. Let it be Lettie.

  The silhouette of the man—her client—crouched over Elizabeth.

  Though she tried to picture Lettie lying beneath him, though she tried to see her twin’s throat cut, Elizabeth couldn’t wish such cruelty on her friend. No, she would accept the wound rather than that.

  His shoulder rolled, his arm flexed, and his hand drew a long blade into the air. The gleaming metal point hung just above her abdomen, ready to strike.

  Frozen in terror, Elizabeth knew she couldn’t avoid the next wound. She could only close her eyes in denial.

  She heard a pony and trap moving along the paving stones on the street outside. The sounds ceased just beyond the gate.

  Elizabeth felt the stranger shift, and she glanced up.

  The gate rattled, and he went rigid, his hand trembling slightly, the knife’s sharpened edge catching and reflecting a flickering orange light.

  The man, her client, the shadow, withdrew the knife, rose, and fled away from the gate, deeper into the yard.

  She let out a ragged, gurgling breath through the wound in her throat. The gash stung. The warm blood cooled quickly. A hollow grew in her head, in her thoughts as the dark liquid ran away into the gloom.

  You’re merely weary, Bess said. Rest until help comes.

  Unable to feel Liza’s presence, Elizabeth had a frightening thought: She’s gone because my battles are over.

  With each excited pulse, her heart dumped more of her life onto the pavement.

  Turning onto her left side, Elizabeth tried again to rise. One struggle—one with herself—remained unsettled.

  Liza stirred—she had not fled.

  Bess is right, Liza said as if fighting to speak, as if the wound were in her throat. You’re strong. You’ll recover.

  Still, Elizabeth fought weakly to lift herself.

  The old woman would have forgiven you, Liza said. You gave her what she needed. You gave her—

  —rest, Elizabeth thought, and the word itself calmed her. She ceased to fight, and gratefully closed her eyes.

  Bess drew her into a comforting embrace.

  The gash in Elizabeth’s neck would heal and she’d resume her search for something better tomorrow.

  ~End~

  Of Thimble and Threat

  A novel by

  Alan M. Clark

  Chapter 1: A Thimble

  Bermondsey, London 1855

  Katie took the silver-plated thimble from the sewing kit on the table and palmed it to conceal it from her mother, Catherine. Once it was in the folds of cloth in her lap, she removed the old, dented black thimble from her finger and slipped on the silver one. If she kept her hands busy, Catherine might not notice. The metal, cool to the touch at first, warmed quickly and was smooth and cozy on her finger.

  After a lunch of half a potato, Katie’s hunger still nagged. She would say nothing about it to save her mother’s feelings, but her growling stomach said everything. As it became louder, Catherine smiled grimly. “You’re a good girl,” she said, “always so willing to help your mum.”

  Katie could distract with small talk too. “Since Father died, you work too hard. If I didn’t help, you’d work your fingers to the bone.” She spoke with feigned sternness, tempered with a sweet smile. “And...I like having you all to myself.”

  Spending afternoons and evenings together was pleasant, sitting at the table, talking and mending the clothes Catherine’s employer sent home with her each day; replacing buttons lost in the wash or stitching torn seams.

  “I work harder now, but we’re more comfortable than we were in the attic room, and I don’t have to walk so far.”

  Five years of walking to Bermondsey from their old room in South Bermondsey had taken its toll on her mother’s feet. Laboring as a scourer, Catherine had been employed in this very room for those years. Visiting the place before it became their home was fun for Katie because of the laundry’s bustling activity and sweet smell of scented soap. A glad day came in the summer when her mother’s employer moved his laundry operations to a new location not far away, and Catherine had been able to get the room for a good price. Autumn had come now, and for all the mold and filth, it still smelled of fresh soap.

  “I could leave school to help more.”

  “No, we’re lucky to have the charity school. You’ll need your education, and I don’t mind the work.”

  Her mother’s response was pleasing, for Katie loved school.

  Catherine tied off the blue thread she was using and cut it with her crooked, yellow teeth.

  “If you take good care of yourself and your family,” she said with a reflective sigh, “there will always be something of beauty in your life, something sterling.” She leaned toward Katie and cradled the girl’s chin in her hand. The hand of a scourer, it was rough, but Katie didn’t mind. “I have you,” Catherine said with a fragile smile. Her face held deep lines and a permanent look of worry, but it was the most warm and loving face there ever was.

  Katie smiled. When her mother said, “something sterling,” she meant a thing good and pure, but because Katie liked the shine and high worth of silver, she always imagined it was the metal Catherine was talking about. Merely touching the silver of the thimble on her finger brought a thrill.

  “Perhaps Christopher will bring something home for supper,” Catherine said. Katie’s brother and sisters, Christopher, Emma and Margaret, had gone to the West End to work as crossing-sweepers. When their earnings were good, they brought home fish.

  Katie pushed the thought away to concentrate on sewing instead of hunger. Although it was foolish to think a silver thimble worked any better than a tin thimble, the silver one definitely made pushing the needle and thread through cloth and buttons easier. She did a better job than before and she w
as faster. Something about silver spoke of swiftness, but she couldn’t remember what it was. If she had her own silver thimble, what couldn’t she accomplish?

  Catherine’s work as a scourer was never enough. She took odd jobs where she found them and Katie helped any way she could. Although Katie was thirteen years old, she knew her contribution to the welfare of the family was what kept her mother going. She was happy to help Catherine, but she also had ideas of her own to improve their situation.

  “If we took in mending work from Aunt Elizabeth—”

  “You know I won’t,” Catherine said, her words bitten off short.

  “Yes, but I don’t understand why.” Katie said it calmly, hoping her mother would soften her tone.

  “I will have nothing from that man.” Clearly Catherine struggled to maintain her composure.

  “Uncle William?” He was usually in his cups, but was harmless.

  “That’s enough of that,” Catherine said. “I cannot expect you to understand.” The crackling tension in her voice turned into wet coughing and she bent forward. Her hacking spells were at their worst on days like today when the dense, yellow fog, known as London Particular, hung over the city. Alarmed by the duration of the spell, Katie set aside her sewing and hugged her mother.

  Finally Catherine sat back and wiped her mouth on a stained handkerchief.

  “Do you feel better?” Katie asked.

  Catherine waved away her concern. After a moment, she said, “I love my sister, but her husband is not a good man. We’ll leave it at that.”

  “Yes, Mum. I don’t mean to upset you.” Katie reached to take her mother’s hand.

  No, she’ll see!

  She tried to abort the gesture, but it was too late; the bright silver had caught her mother’s attention.

  Katie expected her to be angry, but Catherine gently removed the thimble from her finger and returned it to the sewing kit. “You know you should use a more sensible one. The tin thimbles work just as well. But if you must have something fancy, use the porcelain one.”