“Surely not, after so long,” I replied, which occasioned fresh mirth. I sighed in mock heaviness. “Ah, well, I fear me even so we may go without a game as often as not. But tell me more of the new one, Martin, so as to permit me to indulge my idle fancy.”
“You will understand I was upon my own occasions, and so not able to make proper enquiry of him,” Martin said, “but there can be little doubt of the matter. Like calls to like, as we all know.”
“He noted you, then?” Arnold asked, rising to refill his goblet.
“Oh, I should certainly think so. He stared at me for some moments before proceeding down Buck’s Row.”
“Buck’s Row, is it?” said Titus with an indulgent chuckle. “Out chasing the Whitechapel tarts again like a proper young buck, were you?”
“No denying they’re easy to come by there,” Martin returned. In that he was, of course, not in error. Every one of us in the Club, I am certain, has resorted to the unfortunate “widows” of Whitechapel to slake his lusts when no finer opportunity presented itself.
“A pity you did not think to have him join you, so you could hunt together,” remarked Arnold.
The shadow of a frown passed across Martin’s countenance. “I had intended to do so, my friend, yet something, I know not what, stayed my hand. I felt somehow the invitation would be unwelcome to him.”
“Indeed!” Titus rumbled indignantly. “If this individual spurns the friendship of an honoured member” (“You honour me, sir,” Martin broke in. “Not at all, sir,” our Senior replied, before resuming:) “—an honoured member, as I say, of what is, if I may speak with pardonable pride, perhaps the most exclusive club in London, why then, this individual appears to me to be no gentleman, and hence not an appropriate aspirant for membership under any circumstances.”
Norton had not taken part in the discussion up to this time, contenting himself with sitting close to the fire and observing the play of the flames. As always when he did choose to speak, his words were to the point. “Nonsense, Titus,” he said. “Martin put it well: like calls to like.”
“You think we shall encounter him again, then, under circumstances more apt to let us judge his suitability?”
“I am certain of it,” Norton replied, nor in the end did he prove mistaken. I often think him the wisest of us all.
The evening passed most pleasantly, as do all our weekly gatherings. Our practice is to meet until midnight, and then to adjourn to seek the less cerebral pleasures the night affords. By the end of August, the sun does not rise until near on five of the clock, granting us no small opportunity to do as we would under the comforting blanket of night.
For myself, I chose to wander the Whitechapel streets. Past midnight, many London districts lay quiet as the crypt. Not so Whitechapel, which like so much of the dissolute East End of the city knows night from day no more than good from evil. The narrow winding streets that change their names from block to block have always their share of traffic. I sought them for that, as I have many times before, but also, I will not deny, in the hope that I might encounter the personage whom Martin had previously met.
That I did not: I supposed him to have sated himself the night before, and so to be in no need of such peregrinations now—here again, as events transpired, I was not in error. Yet this produced in me only the mildest of disappointments for, as I have said, I had other reasons for frequenting Whitechapel.
The clocks were just striking two when I saw coming toward me down Flower and Dean Street a likely-seeming wench. Most of the few lamps such a small, dingy lane merits were long since out, so she was nearly upon me before realizing I was there. She drew back in startlement, fearing, I suppose, me to be some footpad, but then decided from my topper, clawhammer, and brocaded waistcoat that such was not the case.
“Begging your pardon, guvnor,” she said, smiling now, “but you did give me ’arf a turn, springing from the shadows like that.” She smelled of sweat and beer and sausage.
I bowed myself nearly double, saying, “It is I who must apologize to you, my dear, for frightening so lovely a creature.” This is the way the game is played, as it has been from time immemorial.
“Don’t you talk posh, now!” she exclaimed. She put her hands on her hips, looking saucily up at me. She was a fine strong trollop, with rounded haunches and a shelflike bosom that she thrust my way; plainly she profited better from her whoring than so many of the skinny lasses who peddle their wares in Whitechapel. Her voice turned crooning, coaxing. “Only sixpence, sir, for a night to remember always.”
Her price was more than that of the usual Whitechapel tart, but had I been other than I, I daresay I should have found her worth the difference. As it was, I hesitated only long enough to find the proper coin and press it into her hand. She peered down through the gloom to ensure I had not cheated her, then pressed her warm, firm body against me. “What’s your pleasure, love?” she murmured in my ear, her tongue teasing at it between words.
When I led her to a wall in deeper darkness, she gave forth a tiny sigh, having I supposed hoped to ply her trade at leisure in a bed. She hiked up her skirts willingly enough, though, and her mouth sought mine with practiced art. Her hands fumbled at my trouser buttons while my teeth nibbled her lower lip.
“ ’Ave a care,” she protested, twisting in my embrace. “I’d not like for you to make me bleed.” Then she sighed again, a sound different from that which had gone before, and stood stockstill and silent as one made into a statue. Her skirts rustled to the ground once more. I bent my head to her white neck and began to feed.
Were it not for the amnesic and anaesthetic agent contained within our spittle, I do not doubt that humans should have hounded us vampires to extinction a long age ago. Even as is, they remain uneasily aware of our existence, though less so, I own to my relief, in this teeming faceless metropolis of London where no one knows his neighbour, or cares to, than in the hidden faraway mountains and valleys whence our kind sprang and where folk memory and fear run back for ever.
When I had drunk my fill, I passed my tongue over the twin wounds I had inflicted, whereupon they healed with the same rapidity as does my own flesh. The whore stirred then. What her dreams were I cannot say, but they must have been sweet, for she declared roundly, “Ah, sir, you can do me any time, and for free if you’re hard up.” Greater praise can no courtesan give. She seemed not a whit perplexed at the absence of any spunk of mine dribbling down her fat thighs; doubtless she had coupled with another recently enough beforehand so as not to miss it.
She entreated me for another round, but I begged off, claiming adequate satisfaction, as was indeed the case. We went our separate ways, each well pleased with the other.
She had just turned down Osborn Street towards Christ Church and I was about to enter on Commercial Street when I spied one who had to be he whom Martin had previously encountered. His jaunty stride and erect carriage proclaimed him recently to have fed, and fed well, yet somehow I found myself also aware of Titus’s stricture, delivered sight unseen, that here was no gentleman. I could find no concrete reason for this feeling, and was about to dismiss it as a vagary of my own when he also became aware of my presence.
His grin was mirthless; while his cold eyes still held me, he slowly ran his tongue over his lips, as if to say he was fain to drink from my veins. My shock and revulsion must have appeared on my features, for his smile grew wider yet. He bowed so perfectly as to make perfection itself a mockery, then disappeared.
I know not how else to put it. We have of course sometimes the ability briefly to cloud a mere man’s mind, but I had never thought, never imagined the occasion could arise, to turn this power upon my own kind. Only the trick’s surprise, I think, lent it success, but success, at least a moment’s worth, it undeniably had. By the time I recovered full use of my faculties, the crass japester was gone.
I felt angry enough, nearly, to go in pursuit of him. Yet the sun would rise at five, and my flat lay in Knightsbridge, no smal
l distance away. Reluctantly I turned my step toward the Aldgate Station. As well I did; the train was late, and morning twilight was already painting the eastern horizon with bright colors when I neared home.
The streets by then were filling with the legions of waggons London requires for her daily revictualing. Newsboys stood on every corner hawking their papers. I spent a penny and tucked one away for later reading, time having grown too short for me to linger.
My landlady is of blessedly incurious nature; so long as the rent is promptly paid and an appearance of quiet and order maintained, she does not wonder at one of her tenants not being seen abroad by day. All of us of the Sanguine Club have digs of this sort: another advantage of the metropolis over lesser towns, where folk of such mercenary nature are in shorter supply. Did they not exist, we should be reduced to squalid, hole-and-corner ways of sheltering ourselves from the sun, ways in ill accord with the style we find pleasing once night has fallen.
The setting of the sun having restored my vitality, I glanced through the paper I had purchased before. The headlines screamed of a particularly grisly murder done in Whitechapel in the small hours of the previous day. Being who and what I am, such does not easily oppress me, but the details of the killing—for the paper proved to be of the lurid sort—did give me more than momentary pause.
I soon dismissed them from my mind, however, being engaged in going up and down in the city in search of profit. Men with whom I deal often enough for them to note my nocturnal habit ask no more questions on it than my landlady, seeing therein the chance to mulct me by virtue of my ignorance of the day’s events. At times they even find their efforts crowned with success, but, if I may be excused for boasting, infrequently. I have matched myself against their kind too long now to be easily fooled. Most of the losses I suffer are self-inflicted.
I could be, I suppose, a Croesus or a Crassus, but to what end? The truly rich become conspicuous by virtue of their wealth, and such prominence is a luxury, perhaps the one luxury, I cannot afford. My road to safety lies in drawing no attention to myself.
At the next gathering of the Club, that being Friday the seventh, only four of us were in attendance, Martin having either business similar to mine or the need to replenish himself at one of the multitudinous springs of life abounding in the city. By then the Whitechapel slaying was old news, and occasioned no conversation: none of us, full of the wisdom long years bring though we are, yet saw the danger from that direction.
We spoke instead of the new one. I added the tale of my brief encounter to what Martin had related at the previous meeting, and found I was not the only one to have seen the subject of our discussion. So also had Titus and Norton, both in the East End.
Neither appeared to have formed a favourable impression of the newcomer, though as was true with Martin and myself, neither had passed words with him. Said our Senior, “He may eventually make a sixth for us, but no denying he has a rougher manner than do those whose good company now serves to warm these rooms.”
Norton being Norton was more plain-spoken: “Like calls to like, as I said last week, and I wish it didn’t.”
Of those present, only Arnold had not yet set eyes on the stranger. He now enquired, “What in him engenders such aversion?”
To that none of the rest of us could easily reply, the more so as nothing substantial backed our hesitancy. At last Norton said, “He strikes me as the sort who, were he hungry, would feed on Hignett.”
“On our own servant? I should sooner starve!”
“So should we all, Arnold, so should we all,” Titus said soothingly, for the shock in our fellow’s voice was quite apparent. Norton and I gave our vigorous agreement. Some things are not done.
We decided it more prudent for a time not to seek out the newcomer. If he showed any greater desire than heretofore for intercourse with us, he could without undue difficulty contrive to make his path cross one of ours. If not, loss of his society seemed a hardship under which we could bear up with equanimity.
Having settled that, as we thought, to our satisfaction, we adjourned at my urging to cards, over which we passed the balance of the meeting, Arnold and I losing three guineas each to Norton and Titus. There are mortals, and not a few of them too, with better card sense than Arnold’s. Once we broke up, I hunted in Mayfair with good enough luck and went home.
Upon arising on the evening of the eighth, my first concern was a paper, as I had not purchased one before retiring and as the newsboys were crying them with a fervour warning that something of which I should not be ignorant had passed during the hours of my undead sleep. And so it proved: at some time near 5:30 that morning, about when I was going up to bed, the Whitechapel killer had slain again, as hideously as before, the very least of his atrocities being the cutting of his victim’s throat so savagely as almost to sever her head from her body.
Every one of the entrepreneurs with whom I had dealings that evening mentioned of his own accord the murders. An awful fascination lay beneath their ejaculations of horror. I had no trouble understanding it. A madman who kills once is frightening, but one who kills twice is far more than doubly so, the second slaying portending who could say how many more to come.
This fear, not surprisingly, was all the worse among those whom the killer had marked for his own. Few tarts walked the streets the next several evenings, and such as did often went in pairs to afford themselves at least what pitiful protection numbers gave. I had a lean time of it, in which misfortune, as I learned at the next meeting of the Club, I was not alone. For the first time in some years we had not even a quorum, three of our five being absent, presumably in search of sustenance. The gathering, if by that name I may dignify an occasion on which only Arnold and I were present, was the worst I remember, and ended early, something hitherto unknown among us. Nor did my business affairs prosper in the nights that followed. I have seldom known a less pleasant period.
At length, despite our resolutions to the contrary, I felt compelled to visit the new one’s haunts in the East End. I suspect I was not the first of us driven to this step. Twelve hundred drabs walk the brown-fogged streets of Whitechapel, and hunger works in them no less than in me. Fear of the knife that may come fades to insignificance when set against the rumbling of the belly that never leaves.
I did then eventually manage to gain nourishment, but only after a search long and inconvenient enough to leave me rather out of temper despite my success. Not to put too fine a point on it, I should have chosen another time to make the acquaintance of our new associate. The choice proved not to be mine to make: he hailed me as I was walking toward St. Mary’s Station on Whitechapel Road.
Something in the timbre of his voice spoke to me, though I had not heard it before; even as I turned, I knew who he was. He hurried up to me and pumped my hand. We must have made a curious spectacle for those few people who witnessed our meeting. Like all members of the Sanguine Club, I dress to suit my station; moreover, formal attire with its stark blacks and whites fits my temperament, and I have been told I look well in it.
My new companion, by contrast, wore a checked suit of cut and pattern so bold as to be more appropriate for the comedic stage than even for a swell in the streets of Whitechapel. Of his tie I will say nothing save that it made the suit stodgy by comparison. His boots were patent-leather, with mother-of-pearl buttons. On his head perched a low-crowned billycock hat as evil as the rest of the rig.
I should not have been surprised to smell on his breath whisky or more likely gin (the favoured drink of Whitechapel), but must confess I could not. “Hullo, old chap,” he said, his accent exactly what one would expect from the clothes. “You must be one o’ the toffs I’ve seen now and again. The name’s Jack, and pleased t’meetcher.”
Still a bit nonplussed at such heartiness where before he had kept his distance, I rather coolly returned my own name.
“Pleased t’meetcher,” he said again, as if once were not enough. Now that he stood close by, I had the chance to
study him as well as his villainous apparel. He was taller than I, and younger seeming (though among us, I know, this is of smaller signification than is the case with mankind), with greasy side-whiskers like, you will I pray forgive me, a pimp’s.
Having repeated himself, he appeared to have shot his conversational bolt, for he stood waiting for some response from me. “Do you by any chance play whist?” I asked, lacking any better query.
He threw back his head and laughed loud and long. “Blimey, no! I’ve better games than that, yes I do.” He set a finger by the side of his nose and winked with a familiarity he had no right to assume.
“What are those?” I asked, seeing he expected it of me. In truth I heartily wished the encounter over. We have long made it a point to extend the privileges of the Sanguine Club to all our kind in London, but despite ancient custom I would willingly have withheld them from this Jack, whose vulgarity disbarred him from our class.
This thought must have been plain on my face, as he laughed again, less good-naturedly than before. “Why, the ones wiv dear Pollie and Annie, of course.”
The names so casually thrown out meant nothing to me for a moment. When at last I did make the connection, I took it to be no more than a joke of taste similar to the rest of his character. “Claiming yourself to be Leather Apron, sir, or whatever else the papers call that killer, is not a jest I find amusing.”
“Jest, is it?” He drew himself up, offended. “I wasn’t jokin’ wiv yer. Ah, Annie, she screamed once, but too late.” His eyes lit in, I saw, fond memory. That more than anything else convinced me he spoke the truth.
I wished then the sign of the cross were not forbidden me. Still, I fought to believe my fear mistaken. “You cannot mean that!” I cried. “The second killing, by all accounts, was done in broad daylight, and—” I forbore to state the obvious, that none of our kind may endure Old Sol.
The Big Book of Jack the Ripper Page 135