by Laird Barron
As he passed by St. Mary’s Church on Commercial Street, he noticed a figure standing in the middle of the street ahead of him. He could not explain it, but something about it just felt wrong to him. As he drew nearer, he realized it was a woman standing quite still with her back to him. She was wearing a flimsy nightgown and no shoes, so she must be freezing. Perhaps she was the victim of a crime or was mad. He approached her slowly, not wanting to spook her. If she did not have all her wits about her, something not so uncommon in this neighborhood, she might even attack him.
When he was within three meters of her, she emitted a jarring, “Stop!” without so much as turning around. Damn the Met’s hard-soled police shoes, he thought to himself; had they just switched over to footwear of a different material, as had been repeatedly proposed, he could have approached her without being heard.
Constable Setlock did stop, just as she whirled around to face him. A great dark stain marked the front of her clothing; there was not enough light for him to be certain, but intuition told him it was a terrible stain of blood. Had he stumbled over another of the killer’s victims, one who had somehow managed to escape before Red Jack could finish the job?
He began to move closer to her, but after he had accomplished only one step, she again insisted he stay where he was. “I’ve been waitin’ for you,” she said. “I’m pleased to see yer on time.”
Still puzzled, he asked if she needed help. When she didn’t answer, he proffered further inquiry. “When you say you’ve been waiting, do you mean you have been waiting for a constable to come along or do you mean you’ve been waiting for me in particular? I’m not sure if I can help you, but I’ll do whatever I can. Shall I blow my whistle to fetch more help? Another constable is surely close by, so it’s guaranteed to bring an all but immediate response.”
“Put y’ whistle away,” she ordered him. “It’s you I been expectin’. There’s no other Bobby what can serve me purpose. I aim t’ help you as well, I might add. You boys’ve been seeking this mad killer, this ‘Red Jack’? Well, I mean t’ take yer directly to ’im.”
“You don’t say!” he exclaimed with genuine surprise, betraying a high degree of skepticism in his voice, “and how might you know his exact whereabouts?”
She laughed at his foolish disbelief, then blurted out, “I need some facks which only ’e’s got, and you must help me obtain ’em. Don’t worry; I guarantee you and yer uncle, the high and mighty Sir Charles, ’ll get to ’ear the bloke’s confession in person so’s you can clap ’im in old irons an’ do yer worst. But I’ll do th’ questions, got that? Me and my friends, that is. Once he’s told us what we need to know, we leaves ’im to you an’ Sir Charles. That’s fair tit-fer-tat, wouldn’t you say?”
Young Setlock now knew the shadowed form must be that of one of the many who sought to lend some color to their dull lives by inserting themselves into the events of the day. Scotland Yard’s men regularly bemoaned the amount of wasted time such false leads cost them. Before he could mollify her with a polite declining of her assistance, the woman rushed at him with surprising speed, stopping only when her face was a hand’s width from his own. Startled, he jumped back until further escape was impeded by the brick wall now immediately at his back. To his displeasure, she kept pace with his every move. The flurry of events drove from his mind the momentary thought: How could she have known of his personal connection to Sir Charles?
“So, ducky, do we have a deal or do we not?”
Her behavior made her less credible, not more. She was obviously a nutter, yet he found himself stammering, “As to this deal, just exactly what is it you require of me?” He was distracted as his eyes narrowed in an attempt to get a closer look at her features, which were somehow still obscure even up this close.
She seemed happy to have intrigued, even intimidated, the young man, but she could tell he needed further convincing. “I ’ear yer uncle resigned ’is office two days ago, right before last night’s awful murder. Can’t say as I blames him, not wi’ th’ way Scotland Yard and the lot have ’ounded him for not catchin’ no killer, and at the same time ’oldin’ back th’ facks they got on their own. Poor old sot’s been set against the lot of ’em, though they’s few wot knows it, which puts you ’n me ahead o’ th’ game, if ye takes me meanin’. Now, do ye spose yer can convince Sir Charles to meet yer a few blocks from ’ere, over by that block uv old buildin’s they been tearin’ down for th’ last few weeks?”
“I know the block you mean, and I’m familiar with the house you’ve indicated. I pass it on my nightly beat. But I’m going to need something more if I’m to convince Uncle Charles to meet us there. I’m sorry, but he’d insist on more than your word to motivate him. And, by the way, how do you know he’s…?”
She gave him a churlish smile. Drawing her right arm back, she suddenly rammed it into and through his chest until the palm of her hand was resting flat against the wall.
Setlock gasped. Slowly overcoming his shock, he dared to look down. She had thrust her arm, nearly to the elbow, into his body, yet he felt nothing. Confused and on the verge of total panic, he looked to her for some kind of explanation. He tried to speak, but found he could not utter a single word.
“’ow’s that fer a reason t’ believe I speaks the truth?”
Still short of breath, he finally managed to stammer, “What… How…?”
Feigning compassion, she pretended to comfort him. “Now, now, don’t fret yer pretty little ’ead; you’re just fine.” Looking down at her arm, she continued, “I should think this’d be enough to convince you that I’m t’ be taken serious. Don’t yer agree?”
“But I… I don’t understand!” he managed to exclaim, his eyes wide, fixed once again on the arm protruding from his sternum.
“Calm down, luv. I said yer just fine an’ I meant it. Watch this!” She slowly withdrew her arm from his body, waiting until her hand began to emerge before snatching it away with a nerve-racking squeal of delight.
Setlock nervously permitted himself to exhale, slowly.
Glaring at him now, she said, “That’s better. So, that should convince you I know what I’m sayin’. Seems pretty clear one of us is dead, a ghost, an’ since yer still breathin’, it must be me that’s the goner!”
Once he showed signs of relaxing, she added, “Now there’s a good lad. So like I told yer, go to th’ only ’ouse still standing in all th’ mess an’ wait just outside until I lets yer in. Your Jackie will be inside, along with me and me gals. It oughter be quite th’ lovely reunion, eh? You and Sir Charles can jot down all wot ’e says befo’ ’e even knows yer there; I’ll see to that. After that, as far as I care, you can send the bastard to prison or to Hell. I’ll have no use for ’im after ’e spills th’ beans we needs to know.” She stared at him for a moment. “Yew keepin’ up wiv all this, dearie?” She emitted an eerie chortle, a half-humorous, half-maudlin moan such as one hears from drunks reluctantly facing the dawn, or the noon.
Putting his fear aside, Setlock reminded himself that he was an official representative of Her Majesty’s police, not some driveling idiot. “Yes,” he proffered, “I’ve got it, all of it. I know where Uncle is right now, and I could try to get him to meet us, but it is quite late. He’s in his office packing things up at present as he wants to elude the press once news of his resignation is made public. But since you already seem to know about that, I guess he’s wasting his time. Are you absolutely certain you know the exact whereabouts of Red Jack, Jack the Ripper or whatever you choose to call him?”
She nodded affirmatively.
“Then give us an hour to get there. So, if that’s agreeable, you have a deal.”
“Deal,” she firmly acknowledged. “I’ll expect you two in an hour. Keep out o’ sight somewhere nears th’ house ’til I fetch you. I’ll make a grand entrance for yer uncle’s sake, I will. Now, get your arse moving. Fetch me Sir Charles.”
He turned away a moment at the sound of a child’s shout from up the
street, and when he turned back, the peculiar old crone was gone. He looked up and down the street. He was absolutely alone. He briefly wondered what he might have gotten himself into, but he could not deny he relished the thought of what the rest of the night would bring. In all honesty, he wouldn’t miss the opportunity to attend this little get-together for the world. And here was a chance to vindicate Uncle Charles as well as to secure his own reputation.
He paused long enough to gather his thoughts before breaking into a trot. Two blocks later he stopped, anxiously scanning the street around him. He was sure that Henry, an orphan who haunted the dismal area, would be around even at this late hour. He was a good lad despite his lowly circumstances, and he was clever enough never to pass up a chance to make a few coins in return for an errand. It was the only way to keep himself fed.
“Henry!” the PC called out, hoping not to attract unwanted attention. After all, he had abandoned his beat. “Henry boy, it’s Setlock. I must talk to you right now. Come out! I know you’re here somewhere. Nothing to fear, chum. I need you to deliver a note for me in exchange for enough shillings to make your eyes shine.”
He didn’t have long to wait for a return call of “Set, that you?”
Receiving an affirmative answer, the ten-year-old manifested, stepping out from the shadows and into the light. “What’s all this you say about a packet of shillings?” he eagerly inquired.
Five minutes later, Henry dashed off with the note Setlock had given him with express instructions to deliver it personally to Sir Charles Warren. The police station was not far, and Setlock trusted the lad would find his way to Uncle Charles’s office without problem. The boy was resourceful, even sneaky when necessary, and he was always reliable. The contents of the note should do the rest.
Setlock made his way to the meeting place. This was most definitely going to be a night he would long remember. His immediate concern was how he was going to explain all of this to his uncle.
Just a few streets from his destination, he spied some all-too-common nocturnal activity occurring in a reeking alley behind a pub. A man was engaged in riding a heavy-set prostitute who had simply pulled up her skirts as she bent over a barrel. Such public sexual activity always unsettled Setlock, but to interfere would be overstepping his boundaries. He could only ignore the scene and keep walking. Such was the law, at least for certain parts of the City.
Nearly an hour passed before Setlock heard the clatter of horses’ hooves on the pavement a block or so away. He stepped out into the open a few meters from the predetermined meeting place. The dog-cart came to a halt directly in front of him. His uncle, Sir Charles, along with a grimy-faced Henry, descended from the buggy. He noted his uncle did not look particularly pleased, although Henry was grinning from ear to ear.
“Here he is, guv, just like as you asked. Now how’s about those lovely shillings you promised?”
Setlock politely nodded to his uncle, as he shoved his hand into his pocket. He handed a number of coins to the lad, thanking him profusely and promising to give him more the following night.
“Blimey!” Henry whispered. He had not expected so much, and more coming. He felt as if he had just won the Sweepstakes.
“Sorry you have to wait for the rest,” Setlock explained, “but I try not to carry too much coin on my person while on duty. You know I’ll do right by you. Now you’d best run along, my lad. There’s danger ahead and it wouldn’t do for you to be involved.”
With a cry of “Right oh! I’ll be a lookin’ fer you tomorrow night!” Henry retreated once again into the dark.
Sir Charles glared at his nephew impatiently. “Now, Edmund, would you care to explain what is so urgent that you found it necessary to drag me away from my duties in the middle of the night? I might add that this had better be good.”
The older man’s features, now habituated into somewhat of a perpetual scowl, remained impassive as his nephew related the details of his brief encounter with the street harridan. Even as Setlock spoke he began to feel foolish, sure his uncle would think him foolish for taking an old woman’s fanciful promises at all seriously. He found it even more difficult to confess he truly believed the woman was a ghost.
To his considerable relief, it was soon evident that his improbable narrative was being accepted, at least to a certain extent, by the great man without so much as a probing question.
“Are you quite certain, Edmund, that you are not the brunt of some master trickster using cheap chicanery to fool you?”
Setlock paused, seriously considering Sir Charles’s legitimate concern. After a few moments, he bucked up, replying, “Yes, sir, I’m sure.”
His uncle expressed his acceptance with, “Very well, then.” Setlock suddenly felt quite proud of both his uncle and himself.
The pair continued their discussion, Sir Charles requesting further details. This went on for a few minutes before being brought to an abrupt halt when a light suddenly appeared at the door of the one-storied house in question.
Although startled, the two men slowly and quietly approached the house, making their way through the wreckage of wholly and partially destroyed buildings. No one was visible at the door, which remained closed. Sir Charles stopped a few meters from the door and watched. His nephew followed suit. Neither of them knew what to expect, so each braced himself in his own way for almost anything, attention fixed unflinchingly on the door. They did not have long to wait.
The white door seemed to blur about a third of the way from the top, but the ubiquitous fog was so thick and the night so dark, that this did not seem too far out of the ordinary. Young Setlock reminded himself that his uncle standing next to him was scarcely more distinct. A few seconds passed before the hazy image became clearer and more complete as the drifting miasma became momentarily thinner. Intrigued, Sir Charles fixed his eyes on a woman with long, curly blonde hair. He detected a degree of beauty in her pale, hard-set features. As more of her came into view, he realized she was somehow manifesting through the still-closed door. She took one step forward, her entire body now coming into view, before raising one arm in a beckoning motion, as if welcoming guests otherwise too shy to come nearer.
Sir Charles turned to Setlock and nodded, a look of wonder on his face. Together they moved closer to the house, hesitating only long enough to glance at the ground every few steps to avoid stumbling over loose bits of brick and debris. The strange apparition smiled at them before turning to open the door for her guests. She then led them into the dimly lit interior of the house and down a large hall. In total silence, she approached a doorway to the left, gesturing for the men to enter what appeared to be a study. A single candle cast the only light. Shadows danced and loomed about them as they followed her across the room to a second door. The woman raised an index finger to her lips, calling for silence, before opening this second inner door ever so slightly, just enough to allow her companions to peer into a bed chamber. A fire smoldered gently in the grate near a poster bed they could see was currently occupied. Once both had noted the main elements of the room, she closed the door slowly so as not to disturb the sleeper.
With the door to the bed chamber closed, she finally spoke, inviting the two gentlemen to take seats in the overstuffed chairs facing the desk behind which she sat as if she were the authority before whom they had been brought for questioning. “You gentlemens must ’ave many questions to ask, but I’m afraid we ain’t got time for all that. That man you saw in the connecting room? I believe you like to call ’im Jack the Ripper, the mad butcher of whores. His real name ain’t important right now. You can get that from ’im later on. But ’e changed his name early on, taken in by a family in Reading when he was eight years old.
“His victims, including Mary Jane Kelly, the poor child he cut to shreds less than a day ago, are here and they ’ave their own questions to ask him.”
Sir Charles was confused, quite sure that either he or the garrulous woman had got something out of order. He made to ask for clarif
ication, but she raised an index finger to her lips and silenced him once more.
“All this should prove quite useful to you coppers, so go on and take as many notes as y’ like. Me, I can’t neither write nor read. There won’t be much light, but I’m sure you’ll manage. He mustn’t know yer listening before we ladies obtains the answers we wants. Y’ see, we’ve a bit of a trip to take, an’ we’re runnin’ outer time. We got to know some fings first. Wot a relief to be free of all this rot! Once we get wot we wants, you kin ’ave ’im to do wiv as yer please. We wants ’im stopped, but ’at’s your job, not ours.”
“Quite so, dear lady,” Sir Charles said, just beginning to feel this bizarre woman might possess real information, that he and his nephew might actually be on the verge of capturing the Ripper. And if she could really elicit a confession from this man, her delusions about his victims were neither here nor there. So he asked her where they were to stand while listening to the questioning.