Annie and the Ripper

by Tim Champlin

  "Pleased to meet'ya," Ruth said, eyeing Annie as if more competition wasn't welcome. "You know what's been going on here?"

  "I know."

  "Well, we're not catching any business standing around in a group," Ruth said abruptly, moving on without a backward glance.

  Beth and Annie continued walking slowly to Buxton Street, then turned right and ambled in a large, rough rectangle around Baker's Row. On each corner, the ornately-lettered street names showed up distinctly in the glow of the gas lamps.

  Where are they? Annie wondered. If the police are watching me, they're well hidden. Why did I agree to do this? I'm out of my element.

  But it was too late for second thoughts. She was into it now, and would see it through, come what may. The two women meandered along in silence. When they turned onto Old Montague Street, a clock in the distant Spitalfield tower began to strike.

  "Midnight," Beth said. "The witching hour." She laughed. "We'll see some workingmen getting off late shift now."

  Sure enough, within ten minutes, a stocky man in a soft cap stopped Beth. He said something quietly to her while Annie held back out of earshot.

  "Why, yes." She turned to Annie. "I'll see you later. Back at the Three Bells." She moved away, holding the man's arm.

  Annie continued on alone, feeling much more vulnerable without her companion. In the bright moonlight and inky shadows, she noticed men walking singly, and in twos and threes, going to and from jobs at places like the produce market, bakeries, warehouses. Perhaps some were dock workers and night watchmen. She could see no one's face; they were dark figures only, and none of them approached her. Did she not give off an aura of an available woman? Or did they have their own families to go home to? Beth was right; this was a job that required a lot of experience. And it was a most dangerous job—subject to disease and violence, dealing intimately with total strangers, many of them drunk.

  She walked with her head down, picking her way across the street, stepping carefully to keep from slipping on the wet cobblestones. She thought of all the women in Whitechapel who were trying to keep body and soul together with this ancient occupation. To escape the fear and hopelessness of such a perilous life, many of her "sisters under the skin" slid into drugs and alcohol, creating even more problems for themselves.

  "Hey, you wanta go?"

  "Oh!" She jumped sideways, startled, her heart leaping at the sudden voice at her elbow.

  "Didn't mean to scare you." The man stopped, holding out one hand.

  "That's okay…I didn't see you…" she gasped, her heart rate beginning to slow.

  "Are you up for it?" he asked.

  "Yes." She scanned him in the bright moonlight. Did he fit the description? No. He was too big by half. At least a two-hundred pound man, dressed in rough work clothes, smelling of fish.

  "Where? You have a favorite place?'

  She had to get rid of this man quickly. "We haven't agreed on a price."

  "Figured it was the going rate."

  "Half a crown."

  "What? I didn't want to buy it—just rent it."

  "That's the rate."

  "You're working the wrong neighborhood. I wouldn't pay that much for a virgin."

  "Take it or leave it."

  "Don't get huffy. You got a funny way o'talking. You ain't from these parts," he grumbled, moving away. "You'll learn soon enough." He melted into the shadows.

  Annie found she was perspiring under the heavy clothing. She slipped a hand beneath her coat and touched the reassuring ivory grip of the Merwin Hulbert pocket pistol.

  "Crofe, she's picked up a client," Matt said to his Sioux friend as the two of them crouched behind a fence in the side yard close to a darkened brick building a half block away.

  "Big man," the Indian grunted, sliding a Bowie knife from a scabbard on his belt.

  "Hold it. That might not be The Ripper."

  "Police not around."

  "How do you know? Bet there's a constable or two nearby. Maybe even Chief Inspector Abberline."

  "I do not feel them," Crowfoot whispered.

  "Huh! You're so far removed from your Indian roots, you'd have a hard time sensing if you were barefoot."

  "Insults not hurt Crowfoot."

  Matt grinned in the dark as the pair continued watching Annie and the big man conversing in the middle of the street.

  A few seconds later, the man threw up his hands and lumbered off.

  "She got rid of him."

  "If she keeps doing that, and the Ripper is anywhere around, he'll get wise to her," Matt said. "But she can't really take on paying customers. This is all for show."

  They waited until Annie had strolled on another two hundred yards before they moved to follow. Crowfoot crept along in soundless moccasins, but had shed his Sioux show garb in favor of dark cotton pants and a faded blue shirt. His long black hair was fixed in a short, thick braid in back and he wore a black felt hat.

  Matt was dressed in worn Levis, red woolen shirt and brown felt hat. Neither boy was encumbered by a coat.

  Chief Inspector Abberline and one uniformed constable were also observing Annie from the other side of the street. Constable Carrington was the best marksman in the precinct, and carried a short, lever action carbine, .32-20 caliber. If The Ripper showed up and they couldn't get to Annie quick enough, he was to try a shot as a last resort to save her life. In place of his helmet, the constable had donned a close-fitting blue woolen stocking cap that effectively hid his blond hair.

  Abberline had left his long ulster at The Three Bells, and wore a thick sweater. On his feet were the rubber-soled canvas shoes he wore at the athletic club. They were light, flexible and gripped better than his leather-soled street shoes. His black felt hat shaded his eyes and face.

  "Inspector, we could get a better view and angle of fire from that iron balcony up there," Carrington said, pointing at the stairway leading up to the second floor overhang on a lodging house.

  "As long as she's moving, we have to be mobile. It'd take too long to get down from there if something happened out of range," Abberline answered softly.

  Keeping to the deep black shadows cast by the full moon, the two lawmen slunk along behind a row of buildings, trying not to lose sight of her for more than a few seconds at a time.

  "Wish I could signal her to walk slower," Abberline panted as the two men slid up to the corner of a warehouse and peeked around.

  "Only one man's approached her so far," the constable said, lowering the carbine.

  The Spitalfield clock tower chimed the quarter hour, then the half hour and Annie continued to stroll the mostly empty streets—along Thrawl Street, then across Osborn to Finch Street.

  Abberline noted she seemed to move with a much more relaxed gait, similar to the other prostitutes. Now and then another woman would appear, walking alone on the other side of the street. One at a time, three more were accosted and disappeared into darkened alleyways.

  The two men trailed Annie in silence and blackness until nearly three o'clock when, as instructed by Abberline, she worked her way back to her starting point at The Three Bells.

  "Appears we've had no luck tonight," Abberline said as their decoy reentered the pub. "You're dismissed to go back to your beat."

  "Yes, sir." The young rifleman faded into the darkness.

  A good man, Abberline thought. Disciplined, efficient, and a crack shot.

  The Chief Inspector went into the pub.

  "Closing time, gentlemen!" The barman jangled his keys, ready to call it a night. "Drink up and be off to your beds."

  The last stroke of three echoed from the distant clock tower.

  "Harry, I'll get permission for you to stay open until eight in the morning for the next week. We need your place to meet."

  "Fine by me, inspector. I could use the extra business from all the fellas who get off at four. Lots of men work odd hours in the East End," the balding barkeep said.

  Annie and Beth sat at a table, heads together,
ignoring them, and conversing in low tones.

  No word passed between Abberline and Annie, but, by prearrangement, she was to leave, pick up a waiting cab the inspector had hired just outside, and go back to the Metropole Hotel where Cody had reserved a room for her and Frank Butler.

  The Wild West Show had packed up the day before, and the train pulled out for Southampton this morning. Cody moved into the Metropole for a few days, indicating he'd catch up with the show before they embarked.

  Matt and Crowfoot had purposely missed the train to deal themselves into this dangerous experiment. They'd used their savings to put themselves up in a cheap lodging house for a few days before they were forced to leave for Southampton, or risk being stranded this side of the big water. No one knew they had knowledge of Annie's role as decoy.

  The next night was a repeat of the first, except that Annie extended her time on the street until 4:00 a.m. By then, Abberline was beginning to fear The Ripper had somehow sensed a trap and gone into hiding. Yet, the killer had previously allowed several weeks to pass between murders. Abberline redoubled his efforts with Constable Carrington to be sure they were not observed.

  The third night of fishing also produced no results.

  Abberline sat in The Three Bells just after midnight nursing a pint of bitters. The radical experiment had started out with high hopes. They were now beginning to fade as each night passed. Perhaps the horrible Mary Kelly murder and dismemberment had sated the monster's blood lust for now, or possibly for good. Even if the man wasn't caught, if this was the end of his atrocities, so be it. Abberline would heave a great sigh of relief and be satisfied. Not every case came to a neat conclusion or was solved. If it faded away like the Black Death of earlier times, he'd be grateful.

  Annie and Beth came in and sat down at the table with Abberline. The pub was crowded just after midnight, and the hum of conversation, laughter and clinking of glassware made it possible for them to talk in normal low tones and not be overheard.

  "Did you really say that?" Beth laughed as they pulled up their chairs. "Annie—I mean, Constance—you've really caught on quick."

  "What's this?" Abberline asked.

  "Well, last night I had four prospective clients," Annie said. "I knew none of them fit the Ripper's description, so in case anyone was watching, I took them into the alley but told them it was my time of the month. Two of them I even paid a shilling each to go about their business and keep their mouths shut, or I'd have them arrested for attacking me. With this Ripper scare on, they took to their heels, so they wouldn't be accused. Likely went looking for fair game to spend my shilling on."

  Abberline smiled. At least Annie was not as tense as she'd been a few nights before. He hoped she didn't get too relaxed, thinking this was all a game. She'd decided not to wear a hat during her nightly forays. Abberline thought the look of her dark brown glossy hair, flowing to her shoulders, was an added allure. But he had to admit he was thinking like a normal man. And The Ripper had shown he was anything but normal. If Annie wanted to cover her head, she'd use the shawl she wore about her shoulders. In case of emergency, she could use the knit shawl to entangle the arms or knife of an assailant.

  "Ladies, before we started this, I resolved to give it a go for eight straight nights," Abberline said. "If we can't lure him out of hiding in that time, over the course of the full moon, it's not likely to happen at all." He looked at one and then the other. "This is the fourth night of our quest, one night past the full moon. But the moon won't be visible tonight." He jerked his head toward the door. "A real pea-souper out there now. I've seen these before. It's not likely to clear off before noon, if then."

  "Inspector, I have a suggestion," Annie said. "Since several of these murders were committed in the darkest hour or two just before dawn, why don't I start out after two o'clock and go until daylight? Sort of vary up the routine. Maybe he's on the prowl in the wee hours."

  "Good idea. It's worth a try. But this fog's so thick, don't move too fast, and try to stay near the street lamps as much as you can, so I don't lose you."

  "Okay."

  "I'll leave you two alone now. I'll be at the bar. Slip out of here a bit after two and I'll follow." He nodded to them, got up and edged through the crowd, thinking it was nearly as smoky inside as out. He helped himself to a pickled herring from the free lunch. The salty food was guaranteed to stoke a thirst, but he didn't care. His mind was on other things. He tried to count how many people were in on this ploy. He and Annie and Beth, Buffalo Bill Cody and Frank Butler, and Constable Carrington. As far as he knew, that was all—the minimum number required to make this work. He'd sworn them all to secrecy, and had no reason to think anyone would betray his trust. He knew Beth was bursting to tell someone, so he'd assured her she could say anything she wanted after it was over and the experiment had failed. If it succeeded, then she'd likely be a celebrity.

  He moved toward the front window, but the outside light over the pub's door penetrated only a few feet into the dense fog that had flowed in just before dark. As the seasons changed from autumn to winter, the warm and cold air often clashed over the sprawling city, roiling down an impenetrable fog. At the far end of the block where the lamplighter on stilts had earlier touched off the gas flame, the streetlight struggled to produce a fuzzy glow in the murk. This would make it nearly impossible for him and Constable Carrington to keep a constant surveillance. The weather might just provide the edge The Ripper needed. Abberline cringed at the thought that'd been nagging him—what if the killer ignored Annie and picked on some other victim entirely? There was no way the police could assign a surreptitious guard to every one of several hundred prostitutes in Whitechapel. Again he wondered if Janelle Stafford's assessment of female musk attracting male killers had any validity. Women knew a lot more than men about things like that. But he'd never heard of any scientific experiments being conducted in that area—unless it had to do with wild animals. Where humans were concerned, it was very likely just another of those folk tales, like the widely-held belief that an image of the killer was recorded on the dead victim's eyes.

  As Abberline stood staring out at the swirling mist, he almost wished this night would pass as uneventfully as the previous three. Did the Ripper work in fog? He didn't recall any of the murders being committed in a thick fog. There'd been some late night and early morning mist, but nothing this heavy. Perhaps this murk would be a hindrance to the slasher in making a quick escape. Anyone attempting to commit murder tonight would have to get away in a waiting carriage or else be very familiar with the byways of Whitechapel if fleeing on foot. He was convinced the Ripper lived somewhere close by and went afoot. He could hardly have hailed a Hansom if he were covered in blood. Besides, all the cab drivers had been questioned more than once. If The Ripper lived in the neighborhood, the police had certainly scooped him into their net—unless he'd quickly left the city and maybe the country right after each murder to avoid the resulting search. That possibility gave even more credence to Queen Victoria's theory that it could be a butcher from one of the cattle boats on the Thames.

  He drained his beer. A dull headache was coming on—as it usually did when he spun a mental go-round with all the possible suspects. The description he'd given Annie was very likely accurate, leaning heavily as it did upon Hutchinson's description. It was the best they had to go on, and it blended with the general descriptions of most other witnesses.

  Bong…Bong!

  The muffled hour of two struck from the Spitalfield clock tower. As the last stroke sounded, Annie, Beth and another prostitute rose from their table. As Abberline watched, the three women pushed out the door and were immediately folded into the swirling white mist.

  CHAPTER 17

  The three women had gone only a half block in the thick fog when Beth stopped. "We'd best split up here. Olive and I have to earn our doss money."

  Olive wasn't in on the secret, so Beth was making sure it stayed that way. "Sorry to leave you alone, Annie, but I thi
nk it's best for all of us."

  "You're right," Annie said. "In case you come up short, take this." She pressed a coin into Beth's hand, then handed one to Olive.

  "God bless you, Annie," Beth said, apparently forgetting Annie's cover name of Constance. "I'm going to miss seeing you around here. And not just because of this. I really like you."

  "Yes, I have to leave for America," Annie said, for Olive's sake. But she had to blink back real tears and was glad for the darkness and the fog. Her throat constricted, and she finally managed to say, "I'll see you back at the pub come daylight. We'll get some breakfast." She gave Beth's hand a quick squeeze and Beth faded from sight and touch.

  Annie stood still a few moments, trying to get her bearings, and feeling as she did one night on the deck of the steamer that brought the show from New York. They'd been fogbound in the North Atlantic, and she recalled the sensation of being the only person aboard a ghost ship that was floating in space. She had that same feeling now. A carriage horse clopped along the street only a few rods away, but she could see nothing of it and could hardly tell which direction it was headed because of the distorted sound.

  She began walking. With no watch she'd rely on the clock tower to chime the hours and quarter hours. It would seem like a long time until daylight. She'd never really thought of what a handicap lack of vision would be. In order to stay on the sidewalk, she fixed her gaze on the ball of fuzzy light from the gas street lamp on the next corner and walked toward it. Abberline would never be able to keep her in sight tonight. He should have given her a lantern, but it was too late for that now. On the other hand, she didn't have to worry about The Ripper either. Nearing the street light, she could just make out the dark silhouette of a man and a woman crossing the intersection and heard their subdued voices. At least it was good to know that others were abroad in the fog. She wasn't completely isolated. She had to get a grip on her emotions and concentrate on filling time until daylight. To that end, she let her mind relax and drift, conjuring up scenes from past shows, the cheering crowds, the long train rides, soaking in a hot tub of water in her collapsing canvas bath tub, eating in the mess tent with Frank and all the cast members of the show—cowboys, stock handlers, Indians, roustabouts.