Jack the Ripper Victims Series: The Double Event

by Alan M. Clark

A steam-powered fire engine with bells and a whistle would get their attention. She’d seen one come screaming up the lane to put out the fire she accidentally started at Palmar’s common lodging a couple years ago.

  Katie ran back and forth, up and down the street, making chugging, huffing and puffing sounds, shouting “Clang, clang, clang,” and blowing a shrill whistle between two fingers. Soon a crowd had gathered to watch. Some laughed and clapped. Some shouted “Faster, louder before the house burns down.” One fellow called out, “Quick, spray water on the fire.” She must be doing a good job if they knew what she was imitating. She tried spitting, but it wasn’t ladylike. That was laughable.

  Employees and management had come out of the pub and stood with arms crossed, watching with angry eyes.

  Finally, winded and dizzy, Katie’s energy had run out. She slumped to the paving stones in the middle of the road. The section of pavement was smooth and fairly comfortable. She lay back and rested, closing her eyes as the crowd began to disperse.

  That was all she remembered until she awoke in the Bishopsgate Police Station.

  Katie sat in a chair in an office before a desk. A blurry figure sat at the desk while another stood by a window, perhaps reading something. Cells occupied the area to her right. The foul odor of old fish and the flatulent smell of stewed cabbage on the air—perhaps the remains of someone’s dinner—might have turned Katie’s stomach if she weren’t hungry, but she hadn’t eaten anything but a crust of bread scrounged from the floor of one of the pubs.

  She stirred in her seat, almost falling out of it, and that attracted the attention of the one by the window. As the figure approached, it became a uniformed constable. “What is your name?” he asked.

  A moment passed before she understood his words, but then Katie didn’t want to answer.

  “What is your name?” he asked again.

  “Nothing!” she slurred.

  “She’s good for nothing in this state.” He turned to the figure behind the desk. “Sir, would you help me get her into a cell?”

  The man behind the desk got up and approached. He was a police sergeant. The two men helped her to stand and guided her into a cell and placed her on a wooden bench. Then they left the cell and closed the door. She curled up, using the pocket in which she carried her rags as a pillow, and fell asleep.

  ~~~

  Katie awoke coughing and sat up. She had no idea how long she’d been asleep.

  The sounds of a conversation came from beyond the bars of her cell. Her vision had improved and the station’s front office could be seen clearly. A different constable, a young one with a weathered face and a short beard, stood by the desk, listening to the police sergeant who sat behind it.

  “At least the killings have brought more attention to conditions in the East End,” the Sergeant said. “It breaks my heart to see women like this one.” He gestured with his thumb in the direction of Katie’s cell.

  “A nuisance is what she is,” the constable said dismissively.

  The Sergeant cocked his head to one side as if trying to get a different view of the younger man. “She’s probably somebody’s mother.”

  “Not like my mother,” the constable huffed.

  “Maybe not so different.” The Sergeant said it slowly, giving it an ominous tone. “Lost her husband, perhaps. Now, down and out…nobody will hire her…got nothing, no future.”

  The response came too quickly, with a youthful authority that fell flat. “These people don’t want a future, don’t want to work.”

  “So high and mighty….”

  “My mother—”

  “Has had a good life!” the sergeant said, cutting him off.

  “You don’t know.”

  “Nor do you!”

  Emotions were rising, but it wasn’t Katie’s business. She’d heard it all before. Still, they should know she could hear them.

  “So a few beggar women turn up dead. It’s not unusual. They won’t be missed.”

  “Ah, but these murders are different.”

  Katie began to sing softly “The Awful Execution of Charles Colin Robinson.”

  The policemen paused in their conversation.

  The ballad was a sad song, a song of death, but somehow it filled Katie with joy. Death was not to be feared—it would be her release. She would join her mother. Perhaps she would see Charles again.

  “Listen to her,” the Sergeant said. “You call that a nuisance?”

  “Common as soot,” the young man said, dramatically brushing at the shoulders of his uniform with his hands. “All beggar women sing.”

  “Not like that, they don’t,” the Sergeant said.

  The two men became silent for a time as she continued her song. The constable’s expression softened as he became more relaxed. “It is a fine voice,” he conceded.

  A long silence descended on the station when she was finished, then the sergeant said, “Opinions are changing. All of London is looking in our direction. People don’t like what they’re seeing. When they get irritated enough, there’ll be big changes. You wait and see. With your views, take care you’re not one of those changes.”

  The young constable huffed. “I have my beat.” He lit the lantern at his belt, took up a billy club and headed for the door.

  “Careful out there,” the sergeant said, and the younger man went out and shut the door behind him.

  As the officer leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes, Katie realized she was sobering quickly. I have to get out of here. I am willing, but I don’t want to be sober.

  “Sergeant,” she called, “when will I be released?”

  He turned toward her as if surprised. “When you’re able to take care of yourself,” he said.

  “I can take care of myself.”

  He got up and moved toward her cell door and unlocked it. He stood looking at her for a time, then asked, “What is your name?”

  “Mary Ann Kelly,” she replied.

  “Where do you live?”

  “Cooney’s, in Flower and Dean Street.”

  “All right, then.” He stood aside and Katie emerged from the cell.

  “Will you tell me what time it is?”

  “It’s one o’clock in the morning, the thirtieth of September,” he said, then smiled grimly. “Too late for you to get another drink.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll get a good hiding when I get home.” The word “home” sounded strange. In the past, having a home had been important, but that time was long gone.

  “And it’ll serve you right,” he said. “You have no right to get drunk like that at your age.” He sounded stern, but there was something warm in his voice.

  Katie smiled and nodded her head in agreement as he showed her the door. “Good night old cock,” she said, passing through the doorway and turning left.

  “Flower and Dean is the other way,” she heard him say behind her, but she kept walking. Cooney’s was locked up for the night.

  ~~~

  At random, she turned left on Houndsditch. To the left at street crossings, still close to the horizon, the one-third crescent of the moon rose between the buildings in the distance. Shrouded in foul air, it was a baleful orange.

  The streets were deserted and gloomy. She would walk for a while longer and, if nothing was found, if nothing happened, she would call it a night and go to the casual ward. Her being willing might not produce immediate results, and it would be better to have more drink in her anyway.

  Katie turned right on Aldgate, then right again. As she headed up Mitre Street, an orange ember emerged from the shadows. Quickly it became the glowing end of a cigarette or cigar, and then the silhouette of a man appeared behind it, beyond the entrance to one of the buildings. Katie turned in his direction, entering Mitre Square.

  He was bundled against the night air, with a scarf around his neck and lower mouth, his broad collar turned up to keep the wind off his ears and his hat pulled down low over his face.

  He was the one. Ka
tie wanted to flee, but instead slid her right hand into her pocket and slipped the thimble on her finger. Reaching for her mother for comfort and courage by touching the silver inside, she continued to put one foot in front of the other. When quite close, she was startled as he cleared his throat.

  “I’m sorry to alarm you,” he said. The voice sounded somewhat familiar.

  “Not a-at all,” Katie stammered, moving closer.

  She coughed and took out her handkerchief to cover her mouth.

  “You might think anyone out this late must be up to no good,” he said, “but I just needed to step out for a smoke and collect my thoughts.”

  “I understand. A chi-chill, dark night has a way of clearing away much of the day’s troubles.” Again the stammer. If she wasn’t careful, she’d give herself away. But what was she trying to get away with, and why should he care?

  The only light was within a swirl of mist above and behind him, making it impossible to distinguish his features.

  Katie coughed again, and when she pulled the handkerchief away from her mouth, there was a spot of blood on it, almost black in the dim light.

  It doesn’t matter now. She put the handkerchief away.

  “I take it you have an appreciation for the dark as well,” he said.

  “It can be welcoming…when you’re troubled.” Katie struggled with the fearful hitch in her voice. “A long sleep…can do wonders…to unburden the soul.”

  If he knew she was afraid, he might attack her—or he might not attack her. Suddenly she didn’t know which she wanted.

  “Don’t be frightened,” he said, approaching.

  Katie panicked. She reached for the table knife she’d carried for so many years. In its bed ticking pocket under her top skirt, it was difficult to get to and hung in a fold. Her hand came free from her skirt and the thimble slipped off and fell to the pavement.

  Her sudden movements set him off. He moved quickly, with a flash of bright metal.

  Katie stumbled back feeling only a slight pressure and then a cool breeze on her neck. Reaching for it, her hand came away with wetness.

  She was lightheaded and her legs went out from under her.

  Then she was lying on the pavement, her thimble just beyond her reach. She hadn’t felt any of it. She was being let down easily and gently to join Catherine in peace. Annie would embrace her memory. Conway would rediscover her worth.

  It’s just as Mum said it would be.

  Her blood pooled beside her. A thread of silver spilled into it in graceful loops. Was it reflected moonlight? No, the moon was orange and too low in the sky.

  A bit of silver inside after all.

  Katie was long gone before the murderer began to play.

  Chapter 30:A Body at Mortuary

  Report following postmortem examination:

  Female, approximately forty-five years of age. The body was on its back, the head turned to left shoulder. The arms by the side of the body as if they had fallen there. Both palms upwards, the fingers slightly bent. A thimble lay upon the pavement just beyond the second finger of the right hand. The left leg extended in a line with the body. The abdomen was exposed. Right leg bent at the thigh and knee. The throat cut across....

  …She wore a black straw bonnet with green and black velvet, black beads, and black strings; a black cloth jacket trimmed with fake fur at the collar and cuffs and 2 outside pockets trimmed with black silk braid and fake fur; a chintz skirt—3 flounces with a brown button on the waistband; A worn green silk dress bodice with a black velvet collar and brown metal buttons down the front; a grey stuff petticoat with a white waistband; a very old green alpaca skirt; a very old ragged blue skirt with a red flounce and light twill lining; a white calico chemise; a man’s white waistcoat with green revers; she had no drawers or stays.

  Possessions:

  1 thimble

  1 mustard tin containing two pawn tickets: One in the name of Emily Birrell, 52 White’s Row, dated August 31, 9d for a man’s flannel shirt. The other is in the name of James Birrell of 6 Dorset Street and dated August 28, 2S for a pair of men’s boots. Both addresses are false.

  A pair of men’s lace up boots with mohair laces, right boot fixed with red thread

  1 red gauze silk (worn about the neck)

  1 large white handkerchief

  3 abalone buttons

  1 blue stripe bed ticking pocket with waist band and strings

  1 white-handled table knife

  1 cork

  2 unbleached calico pockets

  1 white cotton pocket handkerchief with red and white birds-eye border

  1 pair of brown ribbed stockings with white mended feet

  12 pieces of white rag, slightly bloodstained

  1 piece of white coarse linen

  1 piece of blue and white shirting—three cornered

  2 small blue bed ticking bags

  1 short black clay pipe

  1 tin box with tea

  1 tin box with sugar

  1 piece of flannel

  6 pieces of soap

  1 small tooth comb

  1 pewter tea spoon

  1 red leather cigarette case with white metal fittings

  1 empty tin match box

  1 piece of red flannel with pins and needles

  A ball of hemp

  A piece of old white apron.

  A printed handbill

  A printed calling card for Frank Carver, 301 Bethnal Green Road

  A portion of a pair of spectacles

  1 red mitten

  Chapter 31: Epilogue

  Conway sat in his windowless room trying to compose a ballad. Sitting and smoking his pipe, obsessively sharpening the point on his pencil with a knife, as if that might sharpen the effect of his words, he would grumble and scribble a line or two, and then want to read it to Katie to get her reaction.

  Since before Katie’s death, nearly a month ago, the Whitechapel murders had been a source of intense interest throughout the Kingdom. Because he had known her so well and for so long, he should be able to write a chapbook, with a ballad about Katie’s murder, that would sell many thousands of copies. While it was sad what had happened to her, there was no reason he should not capitalize on having been such a large part of her life, after supporting her for so many years. He would become rich if he succeeded.

  The prose about her life had been easy enough, but the ballad was difficult. Conway had not written a good ballad since Katie left him. He bore the burden of that as he wrote. His lines were either too distant and cold or sentimental and sweet. He couldn’t strike the right balance as he shifted from anger toward her for abandoning him and destroying her life to sympathy for the warmhearted woman with the hot temper.

  If she were here, she would suggest a line or two that would pull all his efforts together into a brilliant success.

  His left eye stung as he thought of the beautiful, innocent girl at her first hanging, a red silk kerchief around her neck.

  Conway could write anything and it would sell, but couldn’t allow himself to do a poor job of it. Katie deserved better and he’d have to live with it.

  The stinging increased and a tear formed. The drop spilled down his cheek onto the page beneath him, blurring his words.

  Am I that sentimental about my lost Katie?

  No, it’s just a cinder. He rubbed his eye and shook the thought from his head.

  Conway bent over his work fruitlessly.

  ~End~

  About the Author

  Author and illustrator, Alan M. Clark grew up in Tennessee in a house full of bones and old medical books. He has created illustrations for hundreds of books, including works of fiction of various genres, nonfiction, textbooks, young adult fiction, and children’s books. Awards for his illustration work include the World Fantasy Award and four Chesley Awards. He is the author of fourteen books, including eight novels, a lavishly illustrated novella, four collections of fiction, and a nonfiction full-color book of his artwork. He is an
Associate Editor for Broken River Books, a Portland, Oregon publisher of crime fiction. Alan M. Clark and his wife, Melody, live in Oregon.

  www.alanmclark.com

  Connect with the Author Online

  You can email the author or find out more about him through the following websites:

  http://www.ifdpublishing.com

  Other eBooks from IFD Publishing

  You can find the following titles at most distribution points for all ereading platforms.

  Novels:

  Beyond the Serpent’s Heart, by Eric Witchey

  Lizzie Borden, by Elizabeth Engstrom

  Lizard Wine, by Elizabeth Engstrom

  Northwoods Chronicles: A Novel in Short Stories, by Elizabeth Engstrom

  Siren Promised, by Alan M. Clark and Jeremy Robert Johnson

  To Kill a Common Loon, by Mitch Luckett

  The Blood of Father Time: Book 1, The New Cut, by Alan M. Clark, Stephen C. Merritt & Lorelei Shannon

  The Blood of Father Time: Book 2, The Mystic Clan’s Grand Plot, by Alan M. Clark, Stephen C. Merritt & Lorelei Shannon

  Candyland, by Elizabeth Engstrom

  How I Met My Alien Bitch Lover: Book 1 from the Sunny World Inquisition Daily Letter Archives, by Eric Witchey

  Baggage Check, by Elizabeth Engstrom

  Death is a Star, by Christina Lay

  D. D. Murphry, Secret Policeman, by Alan M. Clark and Elizabeth Massie

  Black Leather, by Elizabeth Engstrom

  Novelettes:

  The Tao of Flynn, by Eric Witchey

  To Build a Boat, Listen to Trees, by Eric Witchey

  Children’s Illustrated:

  The Christmas Thingy, by F. Paul Wilson. Illustrated by Alan M. Clark