In A Flicker

by George R. Lopez

  There were thirty-one suspects in the Whitechapel murder cases, yet the police never compiled enough evidence on any of them, failing to secure a conviction for even one of the murders committed during the Autumn of Terror. Ethan would be the only person to ever identify this killer but, more importantly, determine whether or not these women all fell under the same knife or if there were different assailants involved. Either way, he felt he’d have an advantage against any adversary, singular or plural. There were only a few more blank pages left to fill in for the history books of the future to be accurate.

  Quite curious about the routes the killer used in and out of each murder scene, circling around his present location where Mary Ann Nichols (also known as Polly) was found by workmen then constables, Ethan paid close attention to all the details in the vicinity. Examining the periphery like a forensics specialist, he was trying to determine which direction the culprit had come from and which way he later exited the scene of the crime. Gaining perspective would give Ethan the best vantage point to observe from while scoping out the one responsible for the carnage. He’d scoured this locale a multitude of times in the 21st Century leading up to his jump but this was different, as he expected. This area had been torn up and rebuilt so many times since then, there was no way to get an accurate “first-person” perspective until now. Bucks Row was eventually renamed Durward Street, paved over in lieu of historic cobblestone. The boarding school remained intact though in considerable disrepair but it was still the best reference point for late night excursions back in the future. Being there in the “present” Ethan could not help but recall those solitary walks. It did not feel the same in 1888 as it had in 2020. Many a night he’d sensed the eerie sadness of the place as if the ghost of Mary Ann Nichols was right there beside him, helping him identify her killer. On this night he felt very much alone. There was no sense of her “presence” because the woman was still alive, dwelling somewhere in the East End of London, but not alive for long.

  Ethan began to feel a few raindrops zapping him on the head. This was, indeed, London in every aspect, including the gloomy weather. Having been there at night, now he was eager to return in daylight to get a different perspective and detect any dangerous obstacles such as loose cobblestone that may later inhibit him during his observations. Ethan smiled, thinking “No stone left unturned!” He could not afford to succumb to any accidental loose footing in his arrival or departure from the scene of the crime on that night. The raindrops began falling in faster succession, causing Ethan to cut short his trip, expecting the miserably moist journey back to his room. He had no intention of retracing the same path he’d taken to Bucks Row. In all his training with The Consortium the one thing its military advisors drove home to him and the other Scopes was their first rule of reconnaissance: always believe someone is watching and never travel the same route twice.

  Deciding to walk the two streets over from Bucks Row to Whitechapel Road, a route where the foot traffic was heavier, he could disappear into a crowd. The road took him back toward a main intersection at Whitechapel Road, Commercial Road and Commercial Street where he turned right toward his destination. Over the time required to travel to his lodging, the skies fully opened up and he was unavoidably drenched. Mud was splashing all over his shoes and newly purchased trousers were wet all the way up to his knees. At least the itching below the knees had subsided. Literally mud-stomping along Commercial Street returned him to his domicile just past midnight. Due to the late hour and a pouring rain, the streets had quieted down considerably. Passing through the door, the old, cranky innkeeper made some snide remark about his tenant being wet to the bone, accusing Ethan of tracking mud into the place. Ignoring the comment, he kept on tracking.

  Up the stinky stairwell he went, leaving a trail behind him. He’d felt guilty until opening the door to his room, met with a worse roof leak than he’d been introduced to earlier in the day. Now the other side of the mattress he flipped over and around was soaked and the original drenching had yet to dry. That corner of the room had standing water on the floor...again. Ethan pulled the water bed farther away from the wall so he could at least attempt to get some sleep on the saturated mattress, one of many hardships the Londoners of this period had to contend with on a daily basis. For Ethan, he was certainly out of his element, conditions he considered roughing it. No electricity. No running water. No indoor plumbing. Candles and oil for light. Peeling off wet clothes, layer upon layer, like moist filo dough, a recipe for disaster if, due to exposure, should he catch a cold! Thankfully, his identification had been spared, tucked securely in a dry inside pocket. Sliding the documents underneath a pile of dry clothing on the desk, his journal had not fared quite so well. Pulling it from his pocket, he tossed it on top of the pile. The towel felt like coarse sandpaper against his soft skin but at least it scratched away the itchiness of his new wardrobe! Like his clothing, he’d have to air dry overnight to be ready for his morning jaunt. Soggy shoes were his greatest concern. No way would they dry! Ethan knew he’d be taking a suction cup-like stroll to the cobbler. He had a flash, a snapshot image of young Maggie heaving her blue satin heels across The Valley.

  Curling his six-foot frame into a ball so to avoid the worst of the wet spots, he’d try to preserve some body heat cocooned in a blanket for the night. Even the pillow was unusable as the half-moon shaped drip from the ceiling focused its attention on the feather-filled head rest. With just over two months of this kind of night to look forward to, Ethan wished he just supervised the project and sent Colin in his place. Grinning in spite of his circumstances, truthfully, Ethan would not have missed this for the world. A few months of sacrifice for a lifetime of literature seemed a small price to pay for the privilege of putting pen to paper, scribing the actual account of the true identity of Jack the Ripper, not to mention his real time experiences in this century. As Ethan slowly drifted to sleep he imagined what his writing would entail, what he would have to share with the world. He dreamt about scratching himself in public, how his tailored pair of pants would feel. At the risk of appearing a bit too posh, perhaps he’d return to his original traveling clothes. It was only a dream.

  Wednesday morning light poured in through the dusty windowpanes as rain had streamed through the ceiling the long night before; a bright and cheerful ray of hope delivered with the sunshine, greeting him cordially. Something Ethan didn’t usually say “hello” to without the accompaniment of coffee, he opened only one eye at first as if afraid it may burn his retinas. Naked as a newborn baby, he was unaccustomed to sleeping in the buff, never knowing when Colin might show up at his flat. There was a dull ache in his neck, no head support due to the waterlogged pillow. Sitting up, wishing he had a mental broom to clear the cobwebs, Ethan stood to take a look around. Assessing the damage done by the free of charge in-house waterfall, other than the ensemble he’d worn the night before, still dripping wet, the clothing Ethan purchased from Clemens was spared this drenching, as was his more formal attire. The “doctor” outfit was draped over the desk, some items folded on the chair tucked beneath it, safe and sound and as dry as a bone. Oh, how he longed to slip his itchy legs back into his luxurious trousers. Then again, he’d stick out like a sore thumb!

  The clothes and hat, even the underwear he’d worn the night before during his inspection of Bucks Row were hours away from wearable again but the concerning part was his shoes, the only pair he had. There was no way around it. He’d have to wear them along with his soaked socks to go and get another pair or two of the local footwear. Gazing at the ceiling and walls, Ethan realized this was not going to work out. The purpose of renting a room was to get out of the elements, not share space with them. He remembered seeing a few boarding houses closer to Bucks Row and the London Hospital on Whitechapel Road. Though he’d be further from Ten Bells and his coffee, he would be more centrally located. Deciding to check out the area once some new shoes were purchased, he’d break them in with a necessary stroll to find a better place to sta
y in the East End. If memory served, he’d seen a rather nice establishment on his way to meet Clemens, the tailor, while over on Osborn Street. Relieved that his pocket watch had been spared a drenching, tucked safely beneath two layers of dry clothing overnight, Ethan checked the time. It was 8:38 a.m.

  Desperate to come up with a plan that would allow him to avoid wearing those scratchy trousers purchased the day before, he had neglected to buy extra underwear when he had the chance. Now he was in a pickle. Itchiness around the leg area was one thing but to have to walk to the tailor with that much chafing was unfathomable. The only thing to do was to compromise. Opening the window to his room, sunlight came beaming through, bursting in with the cooler morning air. Hanging his cotton boxers and undershirt over the curtain rod, it seemed a perfect place to let them dry. In the time it would take to do so, Ethan would suffer the indignity, the torment of going “commando” for his trip to Ten Bells Pub. Coffee was that important. Taking one for the team, he hoped Anson would appreciate the humor in it upon his return. He knew that Colin would! The clothing would dry. It was only a matter of time. In the interim, he intended to write about this episode in his journal for all to enjoy!

  Passing by the innkeeper’s window downstairs, Ethan quickly discovered why the man was scowling at him, stopping this tenant dead in his tracks. He had yet to pay his dues for another night’s stay in this tribute to the rainforest and was heading out the door. Perhaps part of the mumbling he had heard the night before was meant to remind him of such, but the notice was made quite clear by the man currently on duty. Ethan informed him that he would return shortly to take care of the bill, having no intention of doing so. He was rather rudely informed he had until noon to cover another night or he’d need to find another place. That he understood. No problem. Without saying so before departing, Ethan knew he would be moving on.

  Stepping over the threshold, it was brilliant outside with the perfect temperature and breeze to remove almost all the pungent odors that had been holding his nostrils hostage since his arrival. After his marathon walk the night before, this trip to the pub was simply short and sweet except for the scratchiness of the trousers on, well, areas that should not be itchy in public. Arriving at his destination, Ethan found his favorite nook available. It was quiet in the pub; the menagerie from the night before had dispersed and were all likely at home sleeping it off. He was immediately met by the same server from the morning prior. Finding a vacant window seat available, she then introduced him to another cup of coffee. Ethan looked at her as if he was a starving beggar being given a hundred dollar bill. Asking if he could get whatever variation of eggs and potato were available from the kitchen, she knew what he had wanted and went off to place his order. Making the best use of time whilst waiting for breakfast, out came the journal along with the authentic Mordan Arrow pencil donated to the project by a generous collector. Unfortunately, the journal suffered wet edges but the leather cover did its job, protecting the pages. Like his clothing, it too would dry in time, exposed to the morning air and light of day. Staring into the blank page before him, he hardly knew where to begin. Before his arrival, Ethan wondered if it would be a trip interesting enough overall to make a dent in the dense journal. By this time, he was wondering if he’d need to purchase another to record it all!

  ***

  Journal Entry ˜ 29 August 1888

  Having completed the initial night reconnoiter of the Mary Ann Nichols murder location on Bucks Row, doing so gave me a clearer perspective on the best area to witness this first (collectively agreed upon) murder committed by Jack the Ripper. Unfortunately, the weather did not cooperate. I was flustered to have to cut my time there, shorter than expected. It would seem I will have to risk another night recon, hoping neither the police nor the killer are in the vicinity early Friday morning, at the same time I am choosing my best vantage point.

  Before any plans for tonight there are plans for today. You’ll all get a laugh out of the stories I’ll tell you about the fabric torture I’m already being subjected to in this century, but paramount today is the finding of decent undergarments and a new place to lodge as the one I’m in has running water, literally running down the walls. There are some things no amount of research or rehearsal prepares you for and a flood is one of them. There is a tailor I have met by the name of Clemens who may refer me to a cobbler. That is my first order of business on the very busy day ahead.

  There is still a considerable amount of time until the first murder, yet I fear the time will pass too quickly and it will be upon me with sudden impact. I’m ready but “ready” being a relative term in this living history, an era I find myself interacting with in relative ease, all things considered. Keeping my head down and pushing the “fly on the wall” persona to its perfection does not work in a place where everyone seems to depend or prey upon the other. Social interaction is the common place for marketers, racketeers and profiteers which, pretty much, encompasses the vast majority of the population and transients of Whitechapel. Silence seems to denote suspicion. An “eyes front, heads up” image relays to others, power and confidence. Tipping a hat to passing women or saying “no” to barterers on the street integrates me into the background scenery of the land. Perhaps this was what JTR figured out and used in his “cat and mouse” game with the authorities. Perhaps I have seen him and didn’t even realize it because I was looking at the ground in front of me, going about it all wrong. Learn and live, even among the dead. In less than forty hours, I will see Jack’s face. The question is, will it be the first time or have I already passed him on these streets? I have every advantage over him knowing this case inside and out, knowing everything except for his face. Breakfast is served!

  With breakfast behind him and a lengthy, itchy, scratchy journey ahead, Ethan was off. The path was not unlike the direction he took back from Bucks Row in the rain the night before. Starting along Commercial Street once again, he walked until reaching the corner of Whitechapel Road then paused to survey this urban terrain, an immersion in history, decidedly different in the bright light of day. Taking a left, he ambled through the center of town passing London Hospital along the way. The torment was mind-bending trying not to scratch, using mind over matter techniques; by any means necessary. Attempting to walk with a wider stance was unflattering, at best. At worst, it looked as if he’d had an accident. Lifting his legs in a marching mode made Ethan look just plain crazy! Ultimately, he decided to succumb to this overwhelming urge, freely scratching at his lower extremities, all of them, in public. Anyone witnessing him would assume the man had a personal problem. Adding to his discomfort was the annoyance of having to wear waterlogged shoes and socks, a squishing sound made with every step he took. It was all downright undignified.

  Finally reaching Hutton Street he turned right onto the small road until he came to the tailor shop. It was quiet, appearing vacant of customers and proprietor alike. Wondering if it was open, it must have been. The door was unlocked. Much slower this morning, it would, no doubt, gain business throughout the day, at least he hoped so, for Clemens’ sake.

  “Well, you don’t look like a rich man anymore, but at least you don’t look like a naked one!” The familiar voice of Clemens was heard from the back room of his shop. Emerging, cane in hand, he slowly made his way around the sewing machine, on his way to his first client of the day. “Glad to see you! I knew you’d be back!”

  Until that moment Ethan had not realized his own fixation on the prosthetic leg attached to the old man, remembering his vivid nightmare. Equally intrigued by the oak cane, he tried hard not to stare at either piece of wood.

  “Yes, a bit more fidgety of a man due to the fabric, I’m afraid.” Ethan replied, focused on looking into the eyes of the tailor as he stepped farther into the shop.

  “I was wondering how you’d fare with the change. I’m not just a garment maker but a prognosticator! I knew you’d be seeking some resolution. Ah, dare I say your upper class attire will be your downfall, Mr.
Bridgeman.” Mocking Ethan in a most jovial way, somehow Clemens also knew he’d get away with it.

  Ethan smiled, accepting of the ribbing he received but in his mind he could still see the tailor in his dream laying prone on the ground, bleeding out from the severed leg. So embedded was the vision, he’d caught himself turning around, expecting to see the watchmaker Drakes behind him wielding a knife. Clemens seemed to know exactly who Ethan was and his purpose there. Impossible for anyone to ascertain his point of origin without confession, he quickly dismissed the notion, considering it borderline paranoia based on a bad dream, nothing more. Perhaps the old man’s wisdom and experience from so many decades of life enhanced his intuition, simply using the good sense God gave him.

  “I was hoping perhaps you could direct me to a local shoemaker you may know, one not your triplet.” Ethan said, playing along with the tone set by the shopkeeper.

  “And not a moment too soon it would seem!” The old man observed the current condition of Ethan’s formerly valuable shoes.

  Looking down at his shoes, nodding in agreement, Ethan heaved out a sad sigh. “Yes, as you can see, I had a bout with last night’s weather during a roundabout.”

  “And what, may I ask, would’ve had you out fighting the conditions that started so late last evening?”

  Ethan again looked cockeyed at Clemens, wondering why he’d asked about his activities and how he knew just when the rain began to come down. Not wanting to draw any more attention to the subject, he changed it.