So, they was all on board and we was all poring over a map, showing the route from Whitechapel to the Heath and Kipper was marking it with little crosses and telling each magician which was his spot. I was sent around all the pubs on the route to get the word out to all the dollymops what worked that patch to keep a low profile, which didn’t take much doing because most of them was already avoiding Whitechapel like the bleedin’ plague on account of them wanting to keep their insides where they was.
It all seemed to be going quite well and we was almost ready for the orf, when Sergeant Adams came into the office, only this time it wasn’t to wield his feather duster.
“Sir!” he said and his face was all pale. He had decided not to grow his beard back, it looked like. “There’s been another one.”
Kipper swore and thumped the table. “Men,” he cast a look around at me and the magicians. “This just makes it all the more imperative that we catch this bastard.”
“Oh, no!” Sergeant Adams interjected before Fishface could launch himself into a stirring speech to fire us all up. “There’s no need to catch the bastard, sir.”
We all looked at him like he had gone out.
“On account of he’s already here,” Adams explained. “He’s only bleedin’ gone and turned himself in.”
***
Oh, the consternation and confusion that caused! Kipper couldn’t get to the door fast enough and he trampled the toes of several magicians on his way out. I followed, only I was more polite and apologetic as I shoved and trampled, because manners don’t cost nothing.
Kipper yanks open the door to the interrogation room and I looks over his shoulder, half-expecting the room to be full of fog. There was a bloke sitting at the table. He was wearing a top hat and cloak but his head was bowed. He was staring at his gloves - at first I thought he was wearing red gloves but then I realised they was white, or had been to start with, only now they was drenched in blood. Kipper stepped in and I edged my way in behind him. It was a dangerous thing to do, getting into an enclosed space with a violent killer and especially one what had supernatural powers and all.
“...Jack?” ventured Kipper, for want of anything else to call him.
“I’m afraid not,” said the bloke and he lifted his head. I let out a gasp, on account of it weren’t Foggy Jack sat sitting there but a boat I recognised all too well. He didn’t half look mournful as he looked from the inspector’s eyes to mine. It was him, wasn’t it?
Edward, Lord bleedin’ Beighton.
***
He let out a roar like a lion what’s had its tail trodden on and he lunged himself at me. “This is your fault! You and that doctor!” he said, in-between the shouts and the curses. His cloak fell open and I saw that the white of his shirt and weskit was all red and his trousers was all wet. Blood, of course. Well, the inspector was quick off the mark. Him and a couple of bobbies grabbed hold of Beighton and forced him back to his chair.
“You’d better go,” Kipper said to me but to our surprise it was Beighton what spoke against this suggestion.
“No,” he said, calmly but his breath was heavy. “Let him stay. He needs to hear this.”
“You’ve got a brass neck,” said Kipper.
“I don’t think it’s his neck we need to worry about,” I said.
Lord Beighton looked at me. “I am sorry,” he said. “Please, sit down.” He said it with that easy grace that toffs have sometimes, as if he was inviting me to take tea in his bleedin’ parlour. So, we sits down, the inspector and me, across the table from the toff. He’s made quite a mess of the table top already; there’s blood pooling, dripping from his cuffs. I tried not to look at it but it turned out to be better than looking into his woebegone eyes as he told us his tale.
“A man - even a gentleman,” he began, having to clear a lump in his throat, “– has... needs. And such needs may be met quite readily on the streets of a city like London. One does not have to go far or look too hard. In Whitechapel, one may meet a certain type of, ah, businesswoman, who-”
“Bloody hell,” Kipper interrupted. “We’re going to get nowhere if you’re going to beat around the bush like this. Just tell us what happened and speak as plainly as you can. We’re all men of the world here.”
“Very well,” said Beighton, steeling himself. “I went looking for a shag - it’s something I have done from time to time; I’m not proud of it but I’m not ashamed either. If one has the money, why not?”
It was Kipper’s turn to clear his throat. It brought His Lordship up sharp.
“I digress,” he admitted. “I shall endeavour to stick to the facts. I found a young lady - I use the term loosely - and after brief negotiation of, ah, activity and price, we entered an alley between the pub and the fire station.”
I nodded. I knew the place - not the young lady, I hasten to add.
“I asked her to perform certain proofs - I needed to know she was a real, flesh-and-blood dollymop and not one of the Doctor’s automata. Once bitten, and all that, what!”
He laughed grimly. We didn’t.
“So I gave her a thorough inspection; she was the genuine article, all right and, in the process I found myself becoming thoroughly aroused. The new, ah, appendage the Doctor had fitted, rose to the occasion, shall we say? I was eager, of course, to try it out. But when, she, ah,” he squirmed, “put her hand into my undergarments, her eyes grew wide with horror. ‘It ain’t half cold,’ she observed, backing away. I should have - would have let her go - but by then it was too late. The, ah, device was activated and there was no going back. It was as though the thing had a mind of its own. It telescoped from my clothing and began to whirr and rotate, snaking its way toward the dollymop’s nether regions. She was backed against a wall, you understand; I was blocking her egress.”
“Dirty bastard!” I breathed until Kipper told me what that meant.
It was becoming harder - I should say ‘more difficult’ - for His Lordship to get his words out. We was getting to the nitty-gritty of the incident. I could see he was horrified and sickened by what he had done.
“I couldn’t stop it; you must believe that!” his eyes were wild and desperate. “You’ve seen how my leg can run away with me? It’s the same with this - this thing! Once it was activated, there was no stopping it. It was hell-bent on having its way. Run, I told the girl, but there was nowhere for her to go. The thing would not let her pass. I tried to leave the alley but it pulled me back in as though I was magnetised. The power of the thing was more than I could withstand. Look at my hands; see how I clawed at the walls, trying to find purchase, trying to hold on so the girl could make good her escape - but the thing was relentless.
“And then it - it entered her, pounding repeatedly like some sort of piston. She screamed and I thought someone would come and tear me away from her, but no one did. Then she passed out. Still the thing would not stop and - and - then...”
He looked pale and sickly; he was sweating like a chunk of cheese what’s got the flu.
“Go on!” Kipper urged.
“And then - it opened her up. Like a can opener - you are familiar with such a device? It - what did the Bard say? - unseamed her from the nave to the chops. The gore was flying everywhere. I am drenched in it, as you can see. Please, I beg you, let me get out of these contaminated clothes. I know that I cannot scrub the stain from my soul. What I have done is indelibly marked on my conscience. But please, let me try to get even the smallest comfort, I-”
He broke down completely then. Huge, wracking sobs shook his body. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. And perhaps he was right. Perhaps Doctor Hoo was partly to blame for that dollymop’s demise. I don’t know; perhaps the man what sells the gun is as guilty as him what shoots somebody with it.
Inspector Kipper got to his feet. He was a little shaky on his pins and, I must confess, s
o was I, having heard the gruesome details. We left him there, sobbing and broken. I heard the inspector whisper to Sergeant Adams to take him in some blankets and a bucket of water.
“Bloody hell...” said Kipper. “What a mess!”
“Poor bastard,” I nodded in the direction of the interview room. “How’s he going to live with himself after all that?”
Kipper shook his head. He had about as many answers as I did - which is to say, not a bleedin’ one.
“We must press on with the plan,” he said, straightening his spine. That glint, that spark of obsession was back in his minces again. “After this incident, the dollymops’ll clear out of Whitechapel, making it easier for us to lure Foggy Jack away to Hampstead Heath...”
“Oh, you reckon, do you?”
“I do,” he said. “We carry on. You make sure the Doctor is ready with our metal friend at the end of the line, and I’ll make sure Foggy Jack gets there.”
He could probably tell from the look on my boat that I was less than convinced. He clapped his hand on me shoulder.
“It will work,” he said, with his chin jutting out with determination. “It bleedin’ well has to.”
Thirty
Sergeant Adams professed his keenness to take part. Kipper was loath to put him in the firing line. What if Foggy Jack recognises you, he asked? Adams shrugged and said he’d wear a different colour syrup and a completely new outfit. You need somebody reliable for the last leg, he told the inspector, somebody to deliver the killer to the last stop on the line. Adams didn’t think the magicians, who had been pressganged into service, would be able to pull it off.
“What about Scotland Yard?” he asked, risking the wrath of his superior.
Kipper treated the suggestion with scorn. “They’re too busy getting ready to move house,” he sneered. “Besides which, they can’t do the disappearing trick - although I wish they bloody well would.”
Deacus pored over the map. “We get one chance at this,” he said. “I ain’t confident.”
“You don’t have to be,” said Kipper. “You just get Doctor Hoo there and then keep your head down.”
“We don’t know what we’re dealing with.”
“Which is why I need you to talk to that Sprite creature. Anything she can tell us about Foggy Jack, you can relay back to me. I’ve got magicians to drill.”
Deacus grinned.
“What?” Kipper frowned.
“You need me! The coppers need me!”
“Desperate times,” said Kipper. “One false move...”
“One false move and we’re all in the shit.”
“Not half,” said Kipper. “Sergeant Adams will sort you out a cab.”
***
In the yard behind Bow Street nick, a dozen stage magicians shifted uncomfortably in their new attire. Sergeant Adams walked along the line, carrying out an inspection and making minor adjustments, prior to Inspector Kipper giving them the onceover.
“Here,” said one, who operated under the stage name of Amazo the Amazing. “It don’t feel right being stood here with no trousers on.”
“But you’ve got lovely legs,” teased Adams. “Put on an extra petticoat if you’re feeling the cold. And you - Startling Boffo - get a shave, will you?”
Startling Boffo looked scandalised. “My legs?”
“I was thinking more of the handlebar moustache.”
“But it’s my pride and joy! It’s my trademark.”
“I thought your trademark was being shit,” said Amazo, deriving laughter from the others.
Startling Boffo waved his fist. “Come here and say that.”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” Sergeant Adams intervened. “Let’s keep things civil, shall we? Comport ourselves like ladies? Which brings us to the next part. The way we walk. Observe.”
He paraded from one end of the yard to the other, sashaying and mincing as though wearing heels. The magicians wolf-whistled and catcalled and made suggestive remarks.
“Of course,” said Adams, “It ain’t the same with me uniform on. But give it a go. Not too much, mind. Keep it real. You’ve got to advertise your wares while at the same time looking raddled and jaded as though you’ve been on the streets for donkey’s. Mickey Marvel, you first.”
Mickey Marvel, a tall, gangling fellow, was reluctant at first. His peers giggled and jeered as Mickey tottered a few steps, with one hand on his hip and the other on his breastbone.
“Hoi, Mickey. How much, darlin’?”
“Here, Mickey. How much for the back door?”
Sergeant Adams waved at them to shut up. It was too much for Mickey Marvel. He returned to the line and put his shawl over his head. The others brayed their ridicule.
“Gentlemen!” Sergeant Adams roared. “You are forgetting the grave circumstances, the serious reasons behind this charade. And if that ain’t enough for you to make an effort, look at it like this: you’re being paid, gentlemen, to put on a performance. See these skirts, these blouses and shawls as your costume - your work clothes, gentlemen. You’re playing to an audience of one and this geezer, if he don’t like the show, well, he won’t just chuck a few rotten tomatoes, if you get my meaning. You’ve got to convince him, if only for a couple of seconds, that you are the real deal. Or you could end up wearing your insides on your outsides. So start strutting, fellows; start selling yourselves. Get ready to put on the show of your lives!”
Half an hour later, Inspector Kipper went out into the yard to find twelve prancing prostitutes, parading up and down. Some leaned against walls in provocative poses. Others looked him up and down and winked lasciviously. Kipper scoured the painted faces.
“Adams? Which is Sergeant Adams?”
“Here, sir!”
Kipper turned to find a vision of commercial femininity before him. Adams was sporting a black wig, piled high. Paste earrings dangled like chandeliers. A sapphire brooch winked at his collarbone. His outfit of velvet and lace was elegantly cut. He peered at the inspector through a lorgnette.
“Shag me!” Kipper gasped.
“It’ll cost you,” said Adams.
“No, what I mean is, what are you like? All tarted up like minor royalty or something.”
“I thought I’d go high end,” said Adams.
“I bet that costs more,” jeered Startling Boffo.
“High class, I mean,” Adams glared at him. “He don’t just go after the gutter trade, you know.”
Kipper nodded; Adams had a point. “I think you’re enjoying this a bit too much. My concern is, can you run in that skirt?”
“Let’s hope we don’t have to find out,” said Adams.
“Right, you lovely lot,” Kipper clapped his hands. “Let’s see you disappear.”
Thirty-One
I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it one little bit. What was I doing, caught up in police operations? I should rather be legging it out of the city and lying low for a while until it all blew over. Let them catch Foggy Jack on their own! But, of course, he had a hold over me, didn’t he, that Inspector Kipper? If I didn’t cooperate, he’d bang me up again. My liberty in exchange for Doctor Hoo’s help - that was the deal. I could do it now, do a runner and never look back - only of course I couldn’t, on account of I couldn’t let Doctor Hoo down, could I? Not after all he’s done for me, not after all what we’ve been through together.
So I went back to the gaff on Harley Street where he was repairing Coppélia, who was to play an important role in proceedings - or rather, it was that Sprite creature living inside of her that was the important one - I don’t really know no more. All this talk about sprites and mechanical dollymops and killers what was made out of fog, I arsk you! Not your everyday experience, is it? Well, it might be yours, I don’t know, do I?
Hoo didn’t look pleased
to see me. Well, I wasn’t expecting him to turn cartwheels, but then on the other hand he didn’t try to strangle me neither, so I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt and say he didn’t mind me being there.
“Hello, Damien!” said the voice from inside Coppélia, without moving her mouth, which I thought was a bit creepy.
“Hello, ah, Sprite,” I nodded, trying not to stare. “How’s tricks?”
“That’s rather a question you should arsk the magicians, ain’t it?” Sprite shot back and laughed. I laughed too, out of politeness more than anything else.
Doctor Hoo kept busy. I felt a little bit in the way, to tell you the truth, so I went and had a sit-down on a chair. And while I’m being perfectly honest, I didn’t want to see what he was doing. Yes, I know it wasn’t a real woman sat sitting there on the table but it still seemed indecent somehow, so I kept my minces averted. It didn’t help that she kept talking to me while he was working. Now, if she’d been a real patient, he’d have knocked her out with gas or something. Well, I would hope so, anyway.
“It ain’t half exciting!” Sprite enthused. She really was like the child she’d been pretending to be for Gawd knows how many years. But then she brought herself up sharpish and said it was also the most serious thing we could ever be involved with in our lives. She meant ridding London of Foggy Jack once and for all, of course. “Perhaps, when he’s gone,” she sounded more reflective, “it will be an end to it.”
“End to what?” I arsked.
“An end to all this horror and violence. Against women. You might have noticed all his victims have been women? Well, they have. And it was always like that, all along the line. Now, why do you think that is?”
“I don’t know... Here, didn’t you say something about him thriving on fear? Perhaps women is easier to frighten - is that it?”
“Not at all! If anything, women are much braver than men. Could a man tolerate the pain and responsibility of bearing a child? Not for a bleedin’ second, mate. No; you see, Foggy Jack - well, there’s more to him than that. He’s doing all the blokes a favour, ain’t he? He’s helping them to keep things the way they are and have always been, ain’t he? By demonstrating male dominance over the female. Don’t you get it?”
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