Shadows Fall Away

by Forbes, Kit

  But the last week of September was about to start and bad news was going to be the word of the day.

  I knew that and yet I kept on strumming my guitar in the evening before cruising the area to see if I could figure out who the Ripper really was. That Palmer character topped my list but I couldn’t find out anything aside from him being a resident or whatever they were called now. But I planned to keep an eye on him. If he snuck out of the infirmary late on the twenty-ninth, I’d be following him.

  Then again I wasn’t sure if I’d make it to the twenty-ninth. I knew that infamous “Dear Boss” letter was due to make the rounds. My slip up to Ian in using the word Ripper was far in the back of my mind, but when a mean looking cop came to haul my ass into the police station the night of the twenty-seventh I knew I was knee deep some bad shit.

  The constable grabbed the back of my shirt and shoved me through Ian’s partially opened door, not caring that half my face connected with the solid oak. He propelled me forward and pushed me into a wooden chair so hard my tailbone screamed in protest.

  “Here he is, Inspector, got him right at the back of the Russian’s. Singing songs ‘bout murder he was.”

  “It was just a song. It wasn’t about committing murders; it was about…oh, screw it.” I shifted on the hard seat, wondering if I got hanged as the Ripper if I could go forward in time to haunt my dad and uncle for making me learn the nineties tune to fill in the empty spot in their cover band.

  Ian got up from his chair and came around to stand between his desk and me. “Sergeant Fletcher, you may go.”

  I’d been interrogated by a lot of cops and Ian definitely ranked right up there. It wasn’t what he said, in fact he didn’t say much, but his bleak silence and steel cold stare showed what had helped him move up the ranks.

  He shoved a handbill under my nose that showed a handwritten copy of the original letter. “Read it.”

  Dear Boss,

  I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they won’t fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. I am down on whores and I shan’t quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now? I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I can’t use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope ha ha. The next job I do I shall clip the lady’s ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn’t you. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work, then give it out straight. My knife’s so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good Luck.

  Yours truly

  Jack the Ripper

  Don’t mind me giving the trade name

  PS Wasn’t good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands curse it. No luck yet. They say I’m a doctor now. Ha ha

  “I didn’t write that. I don’t sound anything like that and you know it.”

  Ian let the handbill flutter to his desk. He leaned in, his jaw tense, his eyes hard and sharp. He looked very much like my dad did the last time I got busted. Like he’d had all he was going to take and if I ended up behind bars then so be it. Only here, in this time, if they thought I was the killer it wouldn’t be years of jail and court appeals I’d get. It would be a one-way trip to the gallows and rope with my name on it.

  “What I know, young man, is that you appear out of nowhere less than twelve hours before the body of a murdered woman is found. What I know is that this mysterious traveling companion of yours, this Agatha, is nowhere to be found. What I know is that no ship manifests have you listed as a passenger.”

  He paused, lifted my chin with a prod of his finger, and delivered his last shot like a line drive down the center of PNC Park.

  “What. I. Know. Is that you referred to the Whitechapel murderer as ‘the Ripper’ in this very office.”

  “I did not write that! I may be a major screw-up and a piss-poor son but I am no killer!”

  He grabbed the handbill and shoved it in my face again. “What’s the signature say, Mark? What’s that trade name he speaks of?”

  I gripped the seat edge so hard my knuckles hurt. It was either that or punch Ian in the face. “I did not write that. I never called myself Jack the Ripper.”

  “But you used the term so smoothly.”

  “Maybe, but how many other people have? I’ve seen the newspapers. How many articles have mentioned Annie Chapman being ‘ripped’? I didn’t do it, any of it. I’m innocent.”

  I don’t know how long we went round and round the mulberry bush like the monkey and the weasel in the nursery rhyme, Ian bringing up his “facts” me telling him I was innocent.

  When he suddenly backed off and left the room I thought this day was finally done. I looked at the old pocket watch. One in the morning. Crap. No wonder my ass was numb.

  I got up and stretched, jogged in place a minute to loosen my muscles and get the blood flowing again. I debated on telling Ian the truth about me, about what I knew. The “double event” was going to happen Saturday night. If I told him and they caught the Ripper and I was in Ian’s sight the entire time, he’d know I was innocent—

  Or think you’re an accomplice trying to score points.

  I couldn’t tell him the truth. The truth was beyond crazy. Crazy was not looked on in any caring, pity-the-sick-person way in 1888. With no forensic evidence or hot shot CSI team to produce the real facts, I was screwed. No. Telling the entire, absolute truth would just make things worse for me.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Mark

  When seven a.m. rolled around and they finally let me go, I was tired, hungry, thirsty, and sore all over. That last bit thanks to the detectives who relieved Ian. While they didn’t try to beat a confession out of me with their fists, they shoved me around pretty good, making sure not to leave any visible bruises in case I decided to rat them out.

  A blast of cold damp air froze me just inside the entry of the police station. Shit. It had been getting chillier since the weekend but it must have dropped twenty degrees overnight. A shove from a couple constables heading out on their rounds made me exit the building. I scrunched myself against the wall just outside the doors, beneath the enclosure above the steps. And that would be rain coming down like a cold shower stream meant just for me.

  Sure, why not. Pneumonia and no antibiotics would be just the thing I needed.

  Gathering up what manly macho I could, I lowered my head a little, stuffed my hands into my pants’ pockets, and trotted down the steps and almost had my eye poked out by Genie Trambley’s umbrella.

  Cursing, I jumped back and tripped over the edge of the bottom step and sent a constable sprawling over me to the sidewalk at Genie’s feet.

  My luck being what it was, more cops appeared out of nowhere and hauled my back inside for being “disorderly.”

  On the upside, I was out of the rain.

  On the downside, Ian arrived as I stood in front of the sergeant on duty and Genie was pleading my case while the cop I’d tripped tried to shout her down.

  Ian gave me a hard look, massaged his temple, and pointed to the doors. “Out the lot of you! You, back to your patrol and you two, anywhere but here.”

  I stayed on the steps under the cover of the arched entry while Genie unfurled her big black umbrella. “Thanks for speaking up. I could have handled it, though.”

  “Undoubtedly.” She cast me a disbelieving look.

  I shoved my hands into my pockets. “I guess I’ll see you around, then.”

  “Would you like to walk with me under here? We are going the same way.”

  “It’s entirely your call.”

  “Come along then.”

  “Do you want me to carry it?”

  �
��As long as you keep it squarely in the middle.”

  “Scout’s honor.”

  With a little shake of her head, she handed me the umbrella. “You say the oddest things.”

  I grinned at her and started down the steps. “I’m not from around here, remember?”

  “As if I could forget.”

  She tried to keep her tone icy, but I saw the corners of her mouth lift a bit. And when she took hold of my upper arm as we neared the corner I almost forgot how tired and sore I was. But I didn’t forget that it was September twenty-eighth and that the Ripper was going to hit, and hit hard with his “double event” tomorrow night.

  “You’re exceptionally sullen this morning,” Genie said when we stopped at the next corner to let a hired carriage and cart passed.

  “Being questioned as a murder suspect will do that.” I led her around a steaming pile of horse crap. Her grip on my arm tightened and I glanced over. “Apparently someone reported me for singing and the word murder happened to be part of the lyrics.” Her grip loosened.

  “It is bordering on hysteria, isn’t it? Though I imagine it’s not unfounded.”

  I guided her close to a building as a guy with a pushcart of boxes came down the sidewalk toward us. “Exactly. It won’t be over until the guy is caught. What about you? That doctor friend been seeing you to work? Why didn’t he take you home this morning?”

  “Jack has been waiting promptly at half past seven every evening. He wasn’t feeling well this morning, I’m afraid. He had the most awful headache.”

  “Headache, huh? That’s too bad.” Sleazy looking guy conveniently named Jack having a migraine the day before a murder. So, it looked like I was shifting from living a Tim Burton movie into an episode of Law & Order SVU.

  “I’m going to pop into Mrs. O’Connell’s for a spot of tea and something to eat.”

  I felt around in my pocket. Not much in there for more than a crumb. Maybe I could have her throw an extra on Gurov’s tab.

  “Don’t you two look like something the cat dragged in” was how Mrs. O’Connell greeted us when we entered the shop.

  “I feel more like something the cat threw up.” The revolted looks of the guy paying for his stuff and the lady waiting to order made me feel like the bad kid being given an authoritative look of doom by the school principal. “Sorry, been a rough night.” I slinked off to a little table near the kitchen.

  “I’ll have Mr. Gurov’s things in a moment, dear.”

  “Take your time,” I said without looking back to the counter. I held my head in my hands and studied the weave of the thin cloth covering the table. So freaking tired…

  A light thunk of something being set on the table roused me from my half-doze. “That was quick—” I stopped short seeing Genie set down a teapot and two cups. “What’s this?”

  “Breakfast. I’m starving. I feel the need to do a few good works so I’ve decided to offer the same to a poor unfortunate soul such as yourself.”

  “I can pay for it—”

  A dismissive wave of her hand stopped me mid-lie.

  “Does it get any easier?” she asked quietly before filling our cups. “Being on one’s own.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know about easier but I suppose you get more used to it. And I’m thinking once you get off that night shift it will help.”

  Mrs. O’Connell came over with some sausages and warm buttered bread. I was in heaven. “Marry me.”

  She laughed and poked my shoulder. “A scofflaw like you? Never.”

  “It was a false arrest.”

  Mrs. O’Connell’s smile faded. “Rather a lot of that going ‘round. Crazy days these are. You two watch your steps.”

  Genie and I both gave her the same noncommittal nod.

  “She’s right, you know. Abut you being careful. That nutcase is still on the loose. Just be careful, especially around guys you don’t know very well.”

  “Like yourself?”

  “Funny.” I took advantage of the free meal and kept my big mouth shut while the face of Jack Palmer kept coming into my mind. That migraine thing could mean something and if it triggered some whacked part of his brain to kick into gear then he could definitely be the man. Thing was, would Ian’s guys be keeping a close watch on me or was he going to accept the truth?

  Why did I have to let that Ripper thing slip? If I was being tailed it would be awfully hard to hang around the places where the next murders were going to happen and not risk having some disruption throw the real killer off his original path. Mrs. O’Connell came over with Gurov’s morning munchies and took that as my cue to finish up and hit the road.

  “Thanks for the breakfast, Ge—Miss Trambley. If you want, I can walk you to work later and tomorrow, anytime, really. I don’t mind.”

  “I imagine Jack will stop ‘round but if he doesn’t I’m perfectly capable of taking myself to the infirmary. If it’s still raining I might take the tram car.” She took a long sip of her tea. “I can’t very well become accustomed to things the way they are now if I rely on others.”

  Bitchslap score

  Genie-1 Mark-0

  “I guess I’ll see you around, then. Thanks.”

  ***

  Genie

  I was exhausted, beyond belief if such a thing were possible, and the dismal weather only made it that much worse. Not even the delicious smells and cozy warmth of the tea shop helped. Yet I lingered, not wanting to retreat up to my room to sleep until it was time to do it all over again.

  When the bustle in the shop quieted down, Mrs. O’Connell came over with a fresh cup of tea for me and one of her own. Placing the cup before me, she patted my hand. “And where’s that handsome young doctor of yours? He get called away to hospital?”

  “No. He wasn’t feeling well so he went home early. And he isn’t my doctor. He’s merely a colleague who seems to be trying to get on Mother’s good side.”

  “A girl could make a worse choice, having a lad trying to impress her parents.”

  “Oh, do stop!” I banged the table hard enough to slosh hot tea across the crisp, clean cloth. A pang of conscience struck like a slap to the face bringing me back to my senses. “I’m sorry. I’m just so tired. I’ll take this up and wash it up for you straightaway.”

  “It’s fine, dear. You go on up and get some rest.”

  While I fell asleep within minutes of undressing and climbing into the narrow hard bed, I didn’t feel very well rested when I woke much later in the afternoon. And I was certain it was that bone-deep weariness that had my thoughts turning to things I’d always abhorred.

  “And where’s that handsome young doctor of yours? He get called away to hospital?”

  “No. He wasn’t feeling well so he went home early. And he isn’t my doctor. He’s merely a colleague who seems to be trying to get on Mother’s good side.”

  “A girl could make a worse choice, having a lad trying to impress her parents.”

  Should I be more attentive to Jack Palmer? This was to be his last night of being the on call doctor at the infirmary. Father was certain to be pleased with him, especially if Mother’s glowing recommendation came along. It would appear Jack Palmer’s star was on the rise in the medical profession and it was quite possible that the strength of his ascension might very well pull others along in his wake.

  I shifted on the bed and looked about the cold dreary room.

  Perhaps it was time I amended my thinking. Helping those less fortunate was still a priority but before one could effectively help others, one had to help themselves, didn’t they?

  It was certainly something to think about.

  However, all thought vanished from my mind when I left my rooms later that evening to find a carriage out front. It had been one thing to speculate on trying to make the most of Jack Palmer’s interest but quite another when confronted with the opportunity to do so.

  But then I realized that the coachman coming down to
open the carriage door was none other than our Harry. Father had come to his senses at last and had come to take me home on his way from the hospital.

  Harry opened the carriage door and I took a deep breath before lowering my umbrella.

  “Oh do hurry, Eugenia. I’m getting wet.”

  Phoebe. Well. Of course neither Father nor Mother would admit they were wrong. Of course they would send an intermediary.

  “Eugenia!”

  I stepped into the carriage, pulled the umbrella in after me not giving a whit that the water spattered the hem of my sister’s new fur-trimmed cloak.

  “Please do hurry, Phoebe. I mustn’t be late for work.”

  My sister pursed her lips. I tried to study her face in the dim light coming from the lamp nearest the tea shop. She looked even more worn than usual and I hoped her illness hadn’t progressed quicker than we thought it would.

  “Did Father send you?”

  “No.”

  “Mother?”

  “What do you think?”

  I sunk back against the carriage seat. So I was not to be forgiven after all. “What do you want, Phoebe?”

  “I want you to come to your senses. You must stop this nonsense about independence. Why can’t you just tell Mother and Father you were wrong, misguided by those radical newspapers you read? Why can’t you beg their forgiveness and ask them to come home? You know you want to. You can’t like living like this. Look at you. You’re so thin, you look like you’ve aged a dozen years in a few short weeks.”

  I clutched the handle of my umbrella, counting silently in rhythm with the patter of rain upon the carriage roof. “I haven’t done anything wrong. They are the ones to blame. They cast me out without a second thought. It is they who should apologize to me.”

  “But they won’t.”

  It was strange to hear the unusual softness in Phoebe’s voice, so very odd to have her scoot forward down her seat and place her hand over mine.