One of the men raised a fist to her face, “You got spit up on my shoe, slag! I’ll crush your skull in!”
The other one held up his hand, “Leave it. Richie said we could have a go at her, but that he did not want her tussled up.”
“Mummy?” Abigail was standing at the doorway, staring at the men.
Louise groaned, rolling over. “Abbie, me love? Come here.” She steadied herself on the ground and wiped her mouth, spitting a mouthful of foul regurgitated liquor onto the floor. Abbie came through the door, racing to her mother and clinging to her.
“Abbie? Where’d you go, me love?” Richie, the owner of the Blue Comet Boy, came around the corner. He looked at the two men standing over Louise and Abigail, then wiped his hands across his apron. “You two are all finished, then? So sod off,” he said, cocking his head toward the door. As the men left, Richie helped Louise get to her feet and held her steady. “The little one ran off on me, Louise. Were you all done back here?”
Louise straightened herself. “All finished. You have me money?”
“Yes,” Richie said, reaching into his pocket. He dropped five coins in Louise’s palm, counting them as he did.
“You’re joking, right?” Louise said.
“Sorry?”
“What is this, Richie, some sort of an effin joke?”
“Oy, shut your bone box or I’ll pop you one across the lip, get me?” He looked down at Abigail’s innocent eyes and sighed. “You know I got a soft spot for little ones, Louise. She ate four plates of food and I only charged you for one. She guzzled down enough bread and meat to stuff a longshoreman. Poor thing was starving.”
“Why did you let her?” Louise cried. “You let a child’s greedy stomach swindle you out of my money, you twit!”
“She was starving when you brought her here! And like I said, I only charged her for one meal. You drank the rest of it away.”
“I only had a little brandy, Richard. How much could that have cost?”
Richie snorted, “A little? You only drank a little? You can barely stand up straight. Look at yourself, Louise. For God’s sake, you used to be so pretty. Tell you what? Get yourself cleaned up and I will make you something to eat.”
“You think I need pity?” Louise growled, pushing him out of her way. She dragged Abigail through the door. As they left the bar, the cool November air cleared her senses as she breathed it in deeply.
“I want to go to sleep, mummy,” Abbie said, tugging on her mother’s hand. “Carry me.”
“Mummy can’t carry you.” Louise looked up and down Dorset Street for the police, knowing that if she got nibbed for being too drunk to walk, they’d put Abbie in some god awful orphanage and it would be hell trying to get her out again. “Can you walk just a bit more, my love?”
“I want to go home,” Abbie whined.
“I know. And we can go home, right after Mummy makes one last stop. A friend of mine is waiting for us at the Oxford. He wants to give us a present if we hurry.”
“A present?” Abbie said, lighting up. “What kind?”
“Something to make Mummy feel better and a piece of sweet treacle for you for being such a big girl. I love you, Abigail. No matter what, always remember that.”
~ * * * ~
Montague Druitt sat in the darkness of his room for an hour after the hallways of the Valentine’s Boarding School went quiet. Druitt walked to the door, stopping to listen for anyone who might be lurking outside. He looked through his instruments and chose several of his sharpest knives and a long, thin, saw. He placed the tools inside of his medical bag except for one knife, which he placed inside his coat pocket.
Druitt folded a pair of trousers into a tight square and laid it inside the bag over the instruments. He then did the same with a fresh, clean shirt.
The fourth killing had left his clothing covered completely in blood and Druitt had barely managed to hide it from the prying eyes of the carman who drove him back to the school.
He checked the lids of his specimen jars and made sure they would seal tight enough to contain the intended contents. His salivary glands ached dully in the way one anticipated a much-needed meal. He relished the memory of his previous victim’s organs. Druitt put on a dark overcoat and his father’s top hat.
The boards creaked from down the hall just as Druitt emerged from his room. He leaned back into the shadows and watched Mark Mann exit from the bathroom. Mann scratched his belly for a moment and looked down in Druitt’s direction. Druitt lowered his head to keep the broad brim of his hat down so that it cast his face in shadows. His coat covered the rest of him, allowing him to blend perfectly into the shadows. It was a technique perfected by standing in the alleyways of Whitechapel, watching people walk past without noticing.
Mann yawned and went into his room, shutting the door. Druitt made his way down the stairs silently, heading out through the hall and front door to Eliot Place. He breathed in the crisp November air, glad to be out in the night to roam, to hunt. Dark swirls of fog surrounded the gas lamps above him and he resisted the urge to throw back his head and howl.
~ * * * ~
People crowded the street corner near the entrance to the Brittania. Inspector Lestrade tried saying “Excuse me” several times, but finally began pushing people out of his way when no one moved. New Court sat halfway down the block on Dorsett Street, and it was a sea of people from where he stood to the small, dismal courtyard. Everyone felt the excitement and panic that came with being at the center of the country’s most important event. Another body. Another victim.
“Good evening, Inspector,” Constable Wensley said. “Looks like it’s just a false alarm after all.”
Lestrade peered at the woman lying face-down in the middle of the weeds. “What, she ain’t dead?”
“She’s dead all right,” Lamb said. “Just not murdered. Poor bunter looks like she drank herself stiff.”
“No use for me then?”
“Unless you want to help find her missing little girl. You know that bunter that always walks around with the kid? Well, that’s the bunter there,” Lamb pointed at the body, “and her kid ain’t nowhere to be found. People around here are nervous that somebody might have snatched her up and put her to bad use.”
“Louise?” Lestrade said, feeling the breath go out of his chest all at once.
“I think that was her name. You know her?”
Lestrade slid past Lamb, standing over the woman’s body. Louise’s eyes were open, staring in wide-eyed wonder. Her clothes were filthy and torn, and her legs were set apart at odd angles, with one bare foot turned inwards toward the other. “No,” he said softly. “No, of course not, I mean, other than to have seen her wandering town with the little one in tow. What happened?”
“People said she staggered in here and dropped. Some bastard stole her shoes and went into the Brittania bragging about it. He said she wasn’t moving, and when a few others came out here to see if there was anything else to steal, they realized she was dead.”
Lestrade nodded, feeling the muscles in his jaw tighten. “And the little girl?”
“Nobody’s seen her,” Lamb said. “Vanished. Just more fodder for Whitechapel, I suppose.”
Lestrade sucked in air between his clenched teeth. He left the courtyard and waded through the crowd, going back toward the Brittania. People now steered clear of him, bumping into one another to clear his path. He opened the doors and walked to the barman, who was busy filling a mug of beer and laughing. Lestrade grabbed him by the collar, yanking him forward. “Good evening, mate. Who came in with the dead woman’s shoes?”
“Who the bloody hell do you-“
Lestrade grabbed the back of the barman’s head and slammed his face against the bar. He looked up at the other patrons, who were muttering among themselves and beginning to close in on him. “Who brought in the dead woman’s shoes?” he said loudly.
“You came in the wrong place alone, copper,” one of the men said. “We got more
here `an you got.”
“Yes,” Lestrade said. “Except I’ll have all the doors locked and burn this place to the ground with all of you inside it if one of you so much as speaks another bloody word other than to say who took the dead woman’s shoes.”
No one spoke, but enough people turned to look at the man sitting in the corner of the bar behind a tall glass of beer. He looked at Lestrade and scowled, “Aw, screw all o’ you disloyal batards.”
Lestrade let go of the barman and began walking toward him. “Look, I didn’t know the bunter was stiff, I swear it,” he said, pulling the shoes out of his jacket and putting them on the bar. “You can have them back. Look, here they are. Safe an’ sound, sir.”
“Safe and sound?” Lestrade said. He picked up one of the shoes and inspected it. They were men’s shoes, with the soles worn through so that he could stick his finger through them and touch the other side. Worthless. Probably something Louise found in the street, or worse yet, made a trade for. “You see her daughter?”
“No, I swear it,” the man shook his head quickly. He tried sliding a half-finished glass of beer behind his back, out of Lestrade’s sight. “Just the bunter.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
“All right,” Lestrade nodded. “What were you going to do with the shoes?”
“Sell ‘em to get some money for food. I got two kids an’ they ain’t eaten in days. I was desperate.”
“But you had enough money for that beer you’re hiding behind your back?”
The man turned and looked at the glass, eyes widening. “That isn’t mine, sir. I just sat down, and it was already here.”
Lestrade picked up the glass, “You should finish it.”
“I don’t want it, sir. It ain’t mine.”
Lestrade leaned so close that his spittle landed on the man’s quivering lips. “You must be thirsty though. Coming in here, after a hard night of stealing the shoes off a dead woman. Two kids at home who ain’t eaten. Seeing all these people making merry. Bet that does one in, right?”
“No, sir. I was just leaving in fact.”
The man stood up and Lestrade slammed him back down into the stool. He shuffled in his pocket for a few coins, and slapped them on the bar. “Barman, give us a full pitcher!”
The barman came quickly over with a pitcher. As he set it down, he said, “Listen, Inspector. We don’t want no trouble here, we’re a quiet little neighborhood place. Would you mind—”
Lestrade picked up the pitcher by the handle, “My friend here is going to have his drink and then I’ll leave. Open your mouth, mate.”
“No, I don’t—”
Lestrade snatched him by his hair and yanked his head backwards. The man’s mouth opened as he cried out. Lestrade tipped the pitcher into his mouth, filling it with beer. It bubbled past his lips and spilled across his face. “Drink up, mate. Drink up,” Lestrade said, making sure the beer went into the man’s nostrils and tearing eyes. “Better start swallowing faster or you’ll drown.”
“Leave him alone!” one of the women cried. Others in the crowd began to cry out as Lestrade continued pouring. The man gagged and choked, splashing Lestrade with his disgorge.
“Almost finished, lad. Don’t stop now. Don’t waste it,” Lestrade growled, struggling to hold the man in place as until the last of the beer was down his throat. Finally, it was done. He tapped the bottom of the pitcher, watching the last of the foam trickle down its sides into the man’s vomit-caked face. Lestrade slammed the empty pitcher down on the bar and wiped his hands. “There you go. Now you’ve had your drink.”
TWENTY FOUR
The Christ Church of Spitalfields was now a rundown respite for wandering drunks and bunters looking to get out of the bad weather, but it had not always been so. In 1850 some bastard named Ewan Christian gutted the interior of the once-beautiful church and blocked up all the windows.
Kind of like the East End itself, Lestrade thought. “Used to be a pretty nice place till some nutter came in and started gutting everything in sight,” he muttered. From a distance, the church still looked impressive. Its tall, towering steeple and Tuscan columns set it high above any other building in that part of the city. From far away, Christ Church looked like a beacon of light to all weary travelers. A House of God that stood tall and proud even in a place as awful as Whitechapel.
“Here is the church…and here is the steeple,” Lestrade said. “Open the doors…Jack’s killed all the people…heh…heh….” He put his hand against the entryway and waited for the ground to steady. Six pints at the Princess Alice had gone down easily, but the rum he’d chased it with was threatening to make a sizzling reappearance on the church threshold. Lestrade sucked in gulps of air and righted himself. He headed stiltedly down the aisle toward the altar, trying to get past the rows of shifting pews before dizziness overtook him.
Some local tramp was dutifully sweeping the aisles. The Church probably paid him a penny to each night to clean up the place and keep an eye on it so nobody defiled the altar. He nodded at Lestrade as he staggered down the aisle, but Lestrade waved at him and said, “Piss off. Mind yer own business ‘if’n yeh knows what’s good for yeh.”
Lestrade collapsed into the pew with a grunt. He was just about to lie down on its hard wood surface when he realized there was a group of four women seated across the aisle from him.
Each of them was dressed in black veils and mourning cloaks. Lestrade could see the imprint of their faces beneath the thin black fabric, but they did not move or speak. “Pardon me interrupting, ladies. Real sorry,” Lestrade said. He grabbed the back of the pew and leaned forward, trying not to vomit.
The women sat with their hands folded, looking toward the statue of Christ harnessed above the altar. There was a stained glass portrait behind the statue that showed Christ hunched over, bearing an enormous crucifix on his shoulder. Lestrade squinted in the dim candlelight to see the portrait, but the tramp came to stand if front of him, looking concerned. “Sorry mate,” Lestrade said. “I did not know there were mourners in here. Didn’t mean to make a fuss.”
The tramp shrugged and came around the side of the pew to sit beside him. “Long night? Came to seek a little solace in the presence of the Lord?”
“The only solace in Whitechapel is for the dead, friend.”
“Perhaps not even then, eh?”
Lestrade regarded the man carefully. His vision was blurry, but he blinked, trying to focus on him. “I’ve had a bit to drink tonight, but if you don’t mind me saying, you look familiar to me. Do I know you?”
The tramp shrugged and wiped a dirty hand across his sweaty forehead. “I been spending quite a bit of time around here lately, though I keep to myself, mostly. I might know yeh, but yeh might not know me, right?” He held out a filthy hand, nail-bitten fingers wiggling in front of Lestrade’s face, “It’s a pleasure.”
“Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard,” Lestrade took the man’s hand firmly in his. “Pleased to meet you.”
“A police officer? That sounds exciting. Mind if I sit here with yeh for a bit? ”
Lestrade shrugged and the tramp let his broom rest on his shoulder. There was an unusually strong smell about the man but it was not the stale booze and vomit that most vagrants reeked of. Lestrade finally recognized it as the incense the priests used for consecration during Mass. He chuckled, imagining Joseph probably had found a pot of the stuff in a storage closet behind the altar and filled his pockets with it. Screw it, Lestrade thought. Let him have a little bit of this place to carry around with him.
The women still had not moved. Lestrade frowned as he watched them, trying to clear his mind enough to make sense of why four women dressed in funeral garb were sitting in the Spitalfields Church in the middle of the night. “What are they doing here?” Lestrade whispered.
The tramp looked at the women sadly. “They’re waitin’ for their sister. Sad story, really. One a’ the worst I ever did hear.”
; “I’m all spent on sad stories for now, mate,” Lestrade said. “Not to be rude or anything, but I’ve had enough of dead people for one evening.”
The lights dimmed inside the church. Everything went dark except for five flickering candles lit across the lowest step leading up to the altar. The women mourners all lowered their head.
“The bloody hell?” Lestrade whispered, sitting up in his seat and looking around.
The tramp shook his head sadly. “Their sister is nearly arrived and they are afraid for her. It is a time of great darkness in the world.”
“I can understand that. I certainly wouldn’t want my sister wandering around this cesspool at this hour. Tell you what. I’ll go find her and escort her here, all right? I should be out looking for a lost little girl anyway, instead of sitting in here.”
“There is hope for you yet, Inspector Lestrade. I think yeh are a good man who’s just lost his way, lad.”
Lestrade laughed at that. “Is that right? You know all that from a five minute conversation? Tell you what, mate. You go back to your job and I’ll go back to mine.”
The tramp smiled gently. “I am sure the torment and cruelty yeh deal with every day has seeped into yer being. Don’t let it steal your faith.”
“Faith?” Lestrade said. “Faith is for children. The sort of thing you tell them so they don’t piss themselves at night for fear of growing up in a world where nothing matters and God is either dead or oblivious.”
“Do yeh truly mean that?”
“Did faith do Annie Chapman any good when her guts were lying across the sides of her belly? “Should I have had faith when I was trying to find poor Catherine Eddowes’ nose in the shadows of Mitre Square? Some lunatic is racing around chopping women to bits and stealing their organs. And the sad fact is that nobody cares. Nobody really gives a damn when all is said and done. Little Abigail might be dead by morning, and all anyone will say is there goes another life wasted in Whitechapel. Who can possibly have faith in a God that lets a beast like Jack the Ripper come into creation? Here’s how I see it. If there is a God, and it’s him that lets all this madness happen, he’s a right sadist. I hate him. I hate him and I’d spit in his face if he ever had the nutmegs to show it to me. Goodbye, sir, and stay clear of me the next time our paths cross.”
Whitechapel: The Final Stand of Sherlock Holmes (Gentlemen's Edition) Page 21