Whitechapel: The Final Stand of Sherlock Holmes (26 page)

I tied the ends with thick suture cord as Irene held her hair up, pressing back against me. Irene tied a black scarf around her neck over the leather, and I smiled. “There you are,” I said.

Irene touched her neck, feeling the leather. She drew a finger across her neck like the blade of the Ripper would and nodded satisfactorily. “I’m ready.”

The local tavern was crowded, but we managed to find a table in the corner where we could hear one another without shouting. “The way that I see it, we have several options. We can pick a likely location and wait in the shadows in hopes of seeing him in the act. Or, we can pick a likely victim and follow her in hopes of him attacking her while we are close by. Or, we can do this properly and lure him into a trap he cannot hope to escape.”

I gently sipped my beer, looking around the ale house. No one paid either of us any attention. I barely recognized my own face in the mirror. “What does luring the Ripper entail, exactly?”

“The right bait, obviously,” she said. “We will give him a victim standing in exactly the right place, at exactly the right time. A woman he cannot resist, in a place so dark that he can easily use that blade of his to open her up and play with her innards. But in that darkness, he will find something altogether different. For the first time, Jack the Ripper will know what it is to fear.”

I rubbed my bare lip, feeling the stubble with the tips of my fingers. “I am not quite sure what he will fear about us, my dear. What I am sure of is that he will try his damndest to kill you.”

“Let him,” Irene said, eyes flashing, “I want him to fight, John. Before this hunt is ended, more blood will run in the streets of Whitechapel. If some of mine must be spilled in order to put an end to this monster, I’ll gladly give it.”

“Do not say that,” I said. In that moment I pictured Irene sprawled out on the mortuary table at the London City morgue, her belly cut open and devoid of all its contents. Her eyes stared up at me dim and cloudy.

Irene patted my hand. “You are a good man, John Watson. I wish I knew more like you.”

We set out into the night, as Irene listed the murder sites one by one, “Polly Nichols was killed on Bucks Row, at the northeast corner. Annie Chapman was killed on Hanbury, in the northwest. Liz Stride was killed in the southeast, and Katie Eddowes was killed in the southwest.”

“All of the victims were killed in a geometrical square, then?”

“Somewhat,” she said. “What if we bisect that square? Wentworth and Montague Street run somewhat through the middle. They seem as good a place as any.” We travelled Commercial Street, passing Flower and Dean, then Thrawl, and I noticed that the neighborhood was becoming more decrepit and menacing with every step. Buildings at either end of the streets were abandoned and dark, but in the shadows I could see eyes peering out at us. A small group of men gathered down on Thrall Street, watching us. “Stay calm, John,” Irene whispered. “Do not make eye contact with them and keep walking.”

I checked my waist. The gun Irene had given me was secured in my waist band. As the men came to Commercial Street and began following us, I put my hand on the handle, ready to draw. “Turn left,” I said, leading her down Wentworth Street. More men emerged from George’s Yard. “Isn’t that where that woman was killed? Emma Smith?”

“Yes,” Irene said, beginning to walk faster. “Keep your head down and keep moving.” The men followed us, matching our pace.

“Out for a stroll, eh, love?” one of them called out to Irene.

I turned, seeing the men were getting closer and cursed. “Bloody hell, I recognize him. He was one of the bastards that attacked me.”

“I doubt they can recognize us now, John,” she said, pulling her bonnet tight. “We look too different. Remain calm.”

“Oy, slow down, bunter. Did you pay your tax, old girl?”

“What tax is that, love?” Irene said, continuing to walk.

Several men stepped out of the shadows ahead of us, blocking our passage. Irene and I froze in place. “The tax that allows you to whore in this area without us doing you like that other bunter. The one that got the broom. She refused to pay her tax, you see.”

“I can pay,” Irene said quickly. “Just tell me how much it is, and be on your way.”

“A half crown.”

Irene shuffled in her bag and pulled out the coin, showing it to him. “Here, take it and leave us be. This gentleman does not have all night-”

“Bring it over here,” he said.

Irene walked over to them and put the coin in the man’s outstretched hand. He snatched her by the wrist, “You are a fine right one, I reckon. I think we might need to charge you a bit more than a half crown.”

“Now see here,” I said, starting forward.

“Have no fear, friend,” he said, holding Irene tight. “We’ll not use her too hard. You can have your go with her when we’re done.”

The other men began grabbing at Irene, reaching between her legs and pulling on the buttons of her coat. “Unhand her at once!” I shouted.

“Piss off, mate,” the man said to me. “What do you care, anyway? Surely we ain’t the first to fill her sockets tonight.”

The one holding Irene reached under her skirt, and she cursed at him, kicking him and slapping his hands. I reached into my waistband for the handle of the gun and was about to pull it when the sharp, piercing sound of a whistle erupted from the far end of the alley. Four constables came running toward us.

“You Nichol bastards had better learn to lie low when we’re about,” the first constable said. He stopped directly in front of me and grunted. “Is that you, Dr. Watson? What the bloody hell are you doing out here?”

I recognized Constable Lamb as one of the ones who had come to arrest me at Baker Street and lowered my head, “Yes, constable.”

“Watson? Dr. Watson?” the Nichol boy said. “Wait till Mickey hears about this. Tried to disguise yourself, eh?”

Constable Lamb turned and cracked the man across the face with his nightstick, dropping him to the ground instantly. Lamb wiped blood from his nightstick and smiled, “There you go, Dr. Watson. Reckon this bastard will not be giving you any more trouble tonight.”

I grabbed Irene by the arm and we walked directly back to Crossingham’s. She was shaking as we entered our room. I untied her bonnet and undid the leather strap and scarf from her neck. She tried undoing the buttons of her coat but her fingers were trembling too much. I undid them for her, then I turned my head aside and undid her bodice.

As I laid her clothing on the table, I saw she had not moved. She was holding herself, shivering. “Come here,” I said, putting my arms around her. “I would not have let them hurt you. My gun was ready the entire time. If the police had not come, I would have started putting bullet holes in the lot of them.”

“Thank you, John,” she said, looking up at me. I had never seen her look vulnerable before. She was always in command, always so strong, and now she looked like nothing more than a nervous child.

“I would do anything for you,” I said.

Irene unbuttoned my coat and took the gun from my waist. Her hands slid across my pelvis as she removed it, stirring me. She removed my coat from my shoulders and let it fall onto the ground. “What are you doing?” I said.

“I need to feel alive, John.” She kissed my fingers, then the inside of my wrist. “Before it is too late.” She kissed my chin, my neck, and my lips. Her nipples swayed against my bare chest through the thin cloth of her gown. I caressed her, opening my mouth to intertwine our tongues. She turned us toward the bed. She pushed me onto it and undid my trousers.

TWENTY THREE

“Wake her up, mate. She’s had it.”

“She ain’t movin’. She look all right to you?”

“`Cept for the extra half pint o’ mettle.”

“Well, wake her up and get her out of here. I think her little girl is sitting out in the bar somewhere.”

“Her what? Oy, what a dirty little puzzle! She’s been back here all evening, getting knocked by every tickle tale in Whitechapel while her daughter is sitting at the bar? With the bastards around here, it’s lucky the little girl weren’t put to task as well.”

Louise’s eyes flickered open as the two men grabbed her by the ankles and began dragging her across the floor toward the storeroom’s door. The shelves of flour and salt spun wickedly, and bile spilled out of her mouth. “Get off of me,” she shouted.

One of the men raised a fist to her face, “You got spit up on my shoe, slag! I’ll crush your skull in!”

The other one held up his hand, “Leave it. Richie said we could have a go at her, but that he did not want her tussled up.”

“Mummy?” Abigail was standing at the doorway, staring at the men.

Louise groaned, rolling over. “Abbie, me love? Come here.” She steadied herself on the ground and wiped her mouth, spitting a mouthful of foul regurgitated liquor onto the floor. Abbie came through the door, racing to her mother and clinging to her.

“Abbie? Where’d you go, me love?” Richie, the owner of the Blue Comet Boy, came around the corner. He looked at the two men standing over Louise and Abigail, then wiped his hands across his apron. “You two are all finished, then? So sod off,” he said, cocking his head toward the door. As the men left, Richie helped Louise get to her feet and held her steady. “The little one ran off on me, Louise. Were you all done back here?”

Louise straightened herself. “All finished. You have me money?”

“Yes,” Richie said, reaching into his pocket. He dropped five coins in Louise’s palm, counting them as he did.

“You’re joking, right?” Louise said.

“Sorry?”

“What is this, Richie, some sort of an effin joke?”

“Oy, shut your bone box or I’ll pop you one across the lip, get me?” He looked down at Abigail’s innocent eyes and sighed. “You know I got a soft spot for little ones, Louise. She ate four plates of food and I only charged you for one. She guzzled down enough bread and meat to stuff a longshoreman. Poor thing was starving.”

“Why did you let her?” Louise cried. “You let a child’s greedy stomach swindle you out of my money, you twit!”

“She was starving when you brought her here! And like I said, I only charged her for one meal. You drank the rest of it away.”

“I only had a little brandy, Richard. How much could that have cost?”

Richie snorted, “A little? You only drank a little? You can barely stand up straight. Look at yourself, Louise. For God’s sake, you used to be so pretty. Tell you what? Get yourself cleaned up and I will make you something to eat.”

“You think I need pity?” Louise growled, pushing him out of her way. She dragged Abigail through the door. As they left the bar, the cool November air cleared her senses as she breathed it in deeply.

“I want to go to sleep, mummy,” Abbie said, tugging on her mother’s hand. “Carry me.”

“Mummy can’t carry you.” Louise looked up and down Dorset Street for the police, knowing that if she got nibbed for being too drunk to walk, they’d put Abbie in some god awful orphanage and it would be hell trying to get her out again. “Can you walk just a bit more, my love?”

“I want to go home,” Abbie whined.

“I know. And we can go home, right after Mummy makes one last stop. A friend of mine is waiting for us at the Oxford. He wants to give us a present if we hurry.”

“A present?” Abbie said, lighting up. “What kind?”

“Something to make Mummy feel better and a piece of sweet treacle for you for being such a big girl. I love you, Abigail. No matter what, always remember that.”

~ * * * ~

Montague Druitt sat in the darkness of his room for an hour after the hallways of the Valentine’s Boarding School went quiet. Druitt walked to the door, stopping to listen for anyone who might be lurking outside. He looked through his instruments and chose several of his sharpest knives and a long, thin, saw. He placed the tools inside of his medical bag except for one knife, which he placed inside his coat pocket.

Druitt folded a pair of trousers into a tight square and laid it inside the bag over the instruments. He then did the same with a fresh, clean shirt.

The fourth killing had left his clothing covered completely in blood and Druitt had barely managed to hide it from the prying eyes of the carman who drove him back to the school.

He checked the lids of his specimen jars and made sure they would seal tight enough to contain the intended contents. His salivary glands ached dully in the way one anticipated a much-needed meal. He relished the memory of his previous victim’s organs. Druitt put on a dark overcoat and his father’s top hat.

The boards creaked from down the hall just as Druitt emerged from his room. He leaned back into the shadows and watched Mark Mann exit from the bathroom. Mann scratched his belly for a moment and looked down in Druitt’s direction. Druitt lowered his head to keep the broad brim of his hat down so that it cast his face in shadows. His coat covered the rest of him, allowing him to blend perfectly into the shadows. It was a technique perfected by standing in the alleyways of Whitechapel, watching people walk past without noticing.

Mann yawned and went into his room, shutting the door. Druitt made his way down the stairs silently, heading out through the hall and front door to Eliot Place. He breathed in the crisp November air, glad to be out in the night to roam, to hunt. Dark swirls of fog surrounded the gas lamps above him and he resisted the urge to throw back his head and howl.

~ * * * ~

People crowded the street corner near the entrance to the Brittania. Inspector Lestrade tried saying “Excuse me” several times, but finally began pushing people out of his way when no one moved. New Court sat halfway down the block on Dorsett Street, and it was a sea of people from where he stood to the small, dismal courtyard. Everyone felt the excitement and panic that came with being at the center of the country’s most important event. Another body. Another victim.

“Good evening, Inspector,” Constable Wensley said. “Looks like it’s just a false alarm after all.”

Lestrade peered at the woman lying face-down in the middle of the weeds. “What, she ain’t dead?”