by Forbes, Kit
She clung tightly, inhaled deeply. “You smell manly, did you know that?”
“Seeing as how I’m a man, that’s a good thing.”
She giggled.
Damn but that tipsy smile was pretty. Of their own accord, my hands settled themselves around her waist.
“I’ve been told I should get you to marry me.”
I dropped my hands, pried Genie’s arms from my neck, and took a step back. “Is that so?”
“It is.” She moved closer again. “I know it’s a foolish notion but then I thought…”
I waited for her to continue, my mind fighting the tiny half notion that encouraged me to look at her as a lead in to an us.
Genie pressed close once more, touched my cheek. “It’s all a foolish, foolish notion and yet, I wondered.”
Oh hell. I was losing the fight against the attraction of her appealing blue eyes, her totally kissable mouth.
She went stiff when I slid my arms around her but relaxed and melted against me the instant my lips pressed against hers. Her response was awkward, inexperienced, but that made it more exciting. I teased her lips with mine, coaxed her into responding in kind. I let my tongue caress her lips, part them.
I pulled her closer, drinking in the tiny murmur she made when I slid my hands up her back. The stiff corset was a barrier I wanted to breach. I drifted my hands down until they collided with the metal bands and padding of her bustle.
Then it really hit me. Genie wasn’t just a girl who turned me on and was obviously turned on in return. She was a prim, proper Victorian Lady. She was naïve. Vulnerable. And too drunk to realize what she was getting herself into.
I pulled away and stepped back, my hands up in a defensive posture. “I can’t. I won’t.”
Her expression shifted from confusion to hurt to anger. “Am I not attractive enough? Not experienced enough? Are you the ‘discriminating type’? Is that it?”
I ran my hand through my hair. “I have to go. I have to find somebody.”
“I’ll bet you do, Mr. Stewart, I’ll bet you do,” Genie muttered as I eased the door shut behind me.
Of all the stupid things I could have done, letting Genie Trambley get to me had to be the stupidest. Of course, it could have been worse. If she hadn’t been wearing all that Victorian armor there’s no telling if and when common sense would have kicked in.
And I wasn’t sure which was worse—almost doing it or not doing it. There was something exciting about the idea of her wearing just that corset and…no! I pounded my fist on a wall and let the flare of pain stop that train of thought.
I didn’t have time for that. And later, it wouldn’t matter. What mattered was finding Jack the Ripper tonight.
I looked at my pocket watch. It was a quarter past three. I hadn’t seen a glimpse of Annie Chapman. Damn it. For the hundredth time I wished I’d paid more attention to the pamphlets I’d leafed through at the Ripper convention with Agatha. They’d had accounts of the victims’ last known whereabouts and all I could remember was that Chapman was found dead in a yard in Hanbury Street about six in the morning with the time of death estimated around four.
I walked the streets as if I had a destination in mind, not wanting to rouse the suspicion of residents or patrolling constables. I stopped now and again to bend down as if adjusting the laces on my shoes to get a longer look at those coming and going from the shadows.
Crossing the road near Hanbury Street, I tried to get a glimpse down the yard. A man passed by quickly. The profile was familiar, yet not. And I couldn’t put a finger on where I’d seen it before. Probably someone I’d seen on the streets or at the tea shop or buying one of Gurov’s papers. And yet my gut told me to follow.
Before I took more than a few steps, a familiar voice cursed a quick moving carriage hit my ears. It was Annie Chapman. I made a note of the short walking guy’s direction then headed towards the right.
“Well, well, look who’s ‘ere. Had enough of our Miss Priss have we?”
“Look Annie, I need to talk to you—”
“Ain’t got time for talk, lad.”
“I’ll pay you if you wait right here and don’t move for a minute. Will you?”
She looked doubtful. “Pay me? To talk? It best be full price.” She tapped her foot then nodded. “I’ll wait for ya for a few minutes. Don’t be dawdlin’ though, t’aint safe for a lady out alone.”
I turned and hurried after the man I’d passed earlier. I heard the footsteps ahead. They stopped. I stopped then ducked into a doorway, tripping over a broken brick and hit the ground. Crap. My right hand landed on a cat enjoying the remains of a dead rat. The cat was pissed and scratched me, the rat a bloody mess. I scrambled to my feet, wiped my hand on my pants without thinking, and headed towards the corner where the guy had been headed. There was no sign of him.
Damn it. I hurried back to where I’d left Annie but she was gone. The Prince Albert wasn’t far. Maybe she’d headed there to get a quick drink.
I glanced at my watch. Nearly four o’clock. No, I’d better head back to Hanbury Street. She’d be meeting the Ripper about now. In a few minutes, she’d be dead.
Unless I got there in time.
Chapter Nineteen
I hadn’t gotten more than a dozen steps from the door of the Prince Albert when a strong hand clamped down on my shoulder.
“Hey now, lad, let’s see your hand,” a man’s voice said.
I turned, ready for a fight. I had no time to play games with the local “gangstas.” Not with Annie Chapman’s life in the balance.
The man shoved me roughly back against a wall and held me at arm’s length. I was about to knee him in the junk when I realized he was a cop.
“Be a good lad and it won’t go against you,” he cautioned.
I slumped against the wall, wondering whether I should risk making a run for it.
If I caught the Ripper, I’d be back where I belonged and wouldn’t have to worry about the consequences of running from a cop. But if I didn’t, there’d be hell to pay. However, if I led the cop to the scene while the Ripper was still there…
The arrival of another constable made the decision for me. With him was a woman.
“Oh, aye, that’s him I just seen,” she said. “Right ‘orrible ‘e was and with blood all over ‘im. Scared me ‘alf to death, ‘e did!”
“C’mon you.” The second constable grabbed the collar of my coat. “Let’s go and have a wee chat, shall we?”
Ian sat behind his desk and fumed at me. “Wrong place at the wrong time?” Ian asked. “That’s what you’re saying? Just bad luck had the constable haul you in?”
I shrugged. “Luck, timing, judgment. Yeah. That’s about it Uncle Ian.”
“You will address me as Inspector Fraser,”
“Yes, sir, Inspector Fraser. Sorry, sir.”
Ian stroked his mustache and scowled.
I knew even though Whitechapel had over a hundred thousand inhabitants, it was in many ways a small town or even as close knit as the neighborhood where I grew up. Most of the neighbors knew each other’s business.
Ian probably already knew I escorted a very drunk Genie Trambley down the High Street. To a man like Ian that kind of behavior said a lot my character and worse about Genie’s. I was sure I’d heard the constable tell Ian I’d been seen not once, but twice talking with Annie Chapman, the second time within a hundred yards of where her mutilated body had been found.
I told Ian all I’d done was take Genie back to her boarding house went back to talk to Annie Chapman. We’d gone over the story a dozen times. I had enough practice back home in keeping my stories straight but I knew Ian realized I wasn’t telling the entire truth.
And I couldn’t. I couldn’t tell him I’d taken Genie back to my place. Yeah, he might find out if he decided to talk to that old crone at the boarding house but I wasn’t wrecking Genie’s reputation just to save my ass.
“Wha
t did you want to talk to the Chapman woman about?” Ian asked again.
“To make sure Genie—Miss Trambley would be all right. I wanted to make sure she wasn’t going to end up…like them.”
“Like them?” Ian snapped, leaning forward. “Murdered? Mutilated? Is that it? Or did you go looking for her for that very reason?”
He was accusing me? “Now wait just one damn minute!”
“You keep a civil tongue in your head!” Ian shouted back.
“You accuse me of being the Ripper and expect me—”
“What did you say?”
Oh shit. “I said you accused me of being a killer.”
Ian scowled. “That’s not what you said. You said the Ripper.”
“It’s what we call killers that use knives in the States.”
Ian’s expression took on an uneasy tint. I knew he was trying to work out all the logistics in his head.
He stood slowly and I swallowed. “You sit right there and don’t move a muscle.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ian left the office, the door not quite closed. He called the constables. I heard their rapid footfalls and I eased out of the chair and took a couple steps closer to the door.
“Honestly, sir? I don’t think there’d been time for him to kill and cut anyone in the span between accosting the woman on Commercial Street and when I cocked him up at the Prince Albert.”
“And the scratches on his hand and neck do seem to be from cat claws and not a woman’s fingernails,” Ian said.
The constable who first nabbed me spoke. “I just ‘eard tell a Henry James had been seen outside The Forrester’s Arms in possession of a large knife and a Mrs. Fiddymont saw a bloodstained man outside the Prince Albert.”
“Fiddymont’s the one who brought me ‘round.”
Ian grumbled nothing in particular and I hurried back to the chair
I gave him my best contrite son look and hoped it worked. “I’m sure you’re hiding things. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was a lot of things. But I seriously doubt any of them include murder. Get out of here. And stay out of trouble.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
***
Genie
I woke, fully dressed, with bile rising in my throat. I sat up, felt a pounding in my head, and flopped back down. I couldn’t decide whether the prospect of vomiting on myself or enduring the headache as I made my way to the privy was worse. But the longer I lay there, the more I wanted to vomit for the smell of unwashed bodies and urine clung near the bed and my dress emitted the smell of stale cigar smoke.
“Just keep yerself bent over,” I heard someone say. “It’ll help.”
I looked at the speaker through slitted eyes. Her gray hair and wine-bloomed cheeks proclaimed her to have experience in this matter so I decided to try.
Hunched over in misery, I staggered down the steps to the over-used privy in the back of the doss house. I very nearly made it.
I vomited onto a pile of rubble next to the back door. No one paid any attention as I leaned heavily on the wall, strands of hair falling into my face as I heaved up what little was in my stomach.
My handkerchief had disappeared, probably stolen, and I had to wipe my mouth on the back of my hand. I groped inside the top of my corset and was much relieved that my coin purse was still there. Annie had mentioned that trick but I knew full well in my state of inebriation a thief could have half undressed me and I wouldn’t have stirred. A wretched feeling of shame overwhelmed me. Oh Lord had anyone…no. I would know. I was certain of it.
Despite the lingering pain I pulled myself upright. The day was thankfully overcast but nonetheless I had to shield my eyes from the light. I had headache powders in my room at the boardinghouse but it was such a long walk I wasn’t sure I could make it.
Not far away, I found a pharmacy and the chemist handed me a packet of headache powders without my even asking. I had to turn to the wall to avoid his eyes as I retrieved my coin purse. I was sure he thought I was just another whore who’d had too much to drink and was seeking a remedy other than gin.
I took the packet and hurried out of the shop as quickly as I could. My mouth felt like cotton wool and I desperately needed a cup of tea. There was a shop next to the pharmacy but the hot stares of the rough men inside chased me away.
Passing the Ten Bells pub, I hesitated. The smell of greasy food made my stomach reel and I stumbled down the street again, heedless of those I ran into and deaf to their insults and complaints.
It was not until I reached the High Street that I decided to go to Mrs. O’Connell’s tea shop, despite the questions it would raise. It was the only truly safe place I could think of.
“Miss Trambley, are you all right?” Mrs. O’Connell took one look at me then took me by her arm and led me to a chair in the back of the shop. She didn’t utter another word but her pinched mouth would have spoken volumes if I’d had the courage to meet her gaze for more than a moment.
Mrs. O’Connell delivered a steaming cup of tea, noticed the packet in Genie’s hand, and poured its contents into the cup. “You drink that down, girl. Then you can tell me all about it.” She paused. “When you’re ready.”
But I didn’t know what to say. That I’d been an utter fool? That I’d been taken in by an American boy who seemed to want nothing more than to watch me fall to the level of a common whore? What other motive could he have had for enjoying me as he did then leaving me? I thought he was being a gentleman but that wasn’t it. He played some sort of game, seeing just how far I’d go without having to pay the consequences. Once he knew he could have had me, he left to find a woman with more experience, a real whore, not just a pretend one.
I pushed my hair back from my face and made a half-hearted attempt to tuck it into a bun before giving up.
It was all just too much. Too much.
I sat there sobbing as her tea cooled.
***
Mark
I leaned back against the front of the police station in a daze. I’d been through some tough interrogations from my dad but I’d never come out feeling like this. Not even after my last joyride in a stolen car, which had made the six o’clock news.
This time I was a potential murder suspect and I’d stupidly used the term “the Ripper” without thinking. I didn’t think the famous “Dear Boss” letter, the first use of “Jack the Ripper” had even been sent yet. When it was, I knew Ian would bust my balls again. But I couldn’t worry about it now.
Even meeting one of the Ripper’s victims wasn’t helping. Of course, if it wasn’t for Genie Trambley and her predicament, it would be a lot easier. But if it weren’t for Genie Trambley, I’d never have met Ian. It seemed like some kind of a mixed blessing. Or curse.
I needed to be a lot more careful about what I said and did. And that was going to make catching the Ripper even tougher.
At least I’d managed to sidestep the issue of Genie.
I looked up and down the street. The early morning traffic was building as people went to their jobs and the merchants set up shop. My growling stomach reminded me I hadn’t eaten in hours. I glanced up the street at the tea shop then decided against it. Genie might be there. Or she might still be in my room. And I was not in any condition to deal with Genie whether she was amorous, angry, or hungover. Or all of the above.
Even if Mrs. O’Connell discovered Genie in my room, her reputation would be safe because I hadn’t been there. At least I had an ironclad alibi for my whereabouts last night.
I pushed myself away from the wall and headed towards the docks. It seemed to be the safest direction to go.
The stink of the Thames near the docks helped clear my head. The smells of the brackish water, sewage, rotten fish, tar, and paint were as strong as any smelling salt.
I finally decided things weren’t as hopeless as they seemed. The next murder was three weeks away. I had more than enough time to get it right. I’d missed the earli
er opportunities because I was still learning the peculiarities of the Victoria era East End. Next time, I’d be ready. I’d catch the Ripper. The only thing I couldn’t figure out was what to do about Genie.
The best thing was probably to not see her. Not worry about her. Not care about her.
Too late for that, dude.
“Ahoy Mr. Stewart!” The Boston accent snapped me out of my pity party. I waved back to Tim Ferguson from the Agathos.
“Sure you haven’t changed your mind? We’re heading out this morning. Just getting the last provisions on board now.”
I pushed my way through the throng of sailors, ship-fitters, and draymen. “No thanks.” I probably should consider signing on for a one way to America at some point. If I couldn’t catch the Ripper I needed a Plan B. Going back to the States, back to Pittsburgh where I’d feel more at home might be the wisest course.
But I wasn’t ready for Plan B just yet. “Look me up next time. I might be more than ready by then.”
***
Genie
“That father of yours is no gentleman if you ask me, which you haven’t. But I’ll say it anyway” Mrs. O’Connell said.
I stared at my empty cup. “He’s a good man.”
“If he’d stand up to them twin banshees of your mother and sister.” Mrs. O’Connell’s tone sharpened. “It’s no wonder he spends so many nights at the Hospital when he’s not needed.”
“He is needed,” I insisted. “He takes care of the poor, you know.”
“Oh, sure and he does that.” Mrs. O’Connell placed her hands on her hips, a knowing look playing across her face. “But he’s a man, so I can’t fault him for seeking pleasanter company. Not with a wife like your mother.”
I looked up, not willing to believe what Mrs. O’Connell implied. That the horrid things the women insinuated were true. “Surely not!” I sputtered, “Not my father. He’s a doctor.”