Stalking Jack: The Hunt Begins... (Madeline Donovan Mysteries Book 1) (16 page)

“Do not worry yourself, it was just a thought.”

That pulled up their chairs by Patrick, and he nodded to her, taking a piece of paper from his waistcoat, he said, “Mrs. Donovan, Annie’s been in several times looking for you. She left you this.”

She opened the note and left it on the bar so they both could read it.

Mrs. Donovan,

He came to me the other day—scratched he was on his face and in terrible humor. He said he was tired of me, and he was meaner than ever. If you would like to speak to me, I’ll be at Ten Bells most nights; 'round ten—his name is John, that’s what the driver called ‘em.

Annie Chapman

Patrick was wiping the bar and came back upon them, “Mrs. Donovan, one of the girls that goes round with Annie said she probably won’t be back this way tonight. She said she heard she had a brawl with someone over at Britannia Public House. It was like two cats fighting; she says Annie and some other women went at each other over some man. Imagine that, as if any of the men down these parts is worth fighting over.”

“Thank you again, Patrick. We’ll go down there and see if we can find her. She might need help,” said Madeline.

They walked to the Britannia, Madeline holding onto Jonathan’s arm, “My fantasies sometimes collide with reality. When I think of what I said about coming down here alone, it does seem rather foolish now. I am finding it difficult to be here even by your side. It’s that feeling of hopelessness and the dire needs of everyone who passes, it creates such a haunting look of loss in their eyes, and I seem consumed with trying to help somehow.”

“To say nothing of the fact that every time someone walks by me, I feel for my wallet to see if it is still there. I keep a weapon on me now. I didn’t when I first came here, but I’ve been down here enough times now to know better.”

“Look, over there, you can see the remnants of a fight, there’s a lady leaning up against the wall who looks like someone took a fist to her all right.”

When they questioned some of the people there, one said, “You won’t see the likes of her again tonight. That woman over there threatened her if she come back, she’d give 'er what for.”

They attempted to speak to the injured woman, and Jonathan said, “Mum, we’re looking for Annie Chapman, and we heard you might have had words with her tonight?”

“Words, more than words, sir, I done punched her in the eye, and she deserved every bit of it, but you see she scratched me all about and ripped my dress. If I see her again tonight, I’ll hit ‘er again.”

“What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?” asked Madeline.

“We both likes the same man, but he ain’t hers to like. He’s my man and always has been, not hers, but she’s been thieving me things from my room. One would have been enough for me to cock her, but two, well, she deserves it,” said the battered lady.

“Do you know where she went; we need to speak with her?” asked Madeline.

“I hope she went to hell, that’s all I got to say.”

“I’m sorry you’re hurt. We’ll be on our way,” said Madeline.

“This is a rough way to live. The smell alone from all the decaying garbage is enough to make you sick,” said Jonathan.

“I know. Annie was supposed to give me some information on the man in the royal carriage.”

“Really?” he said with surprise.

“I was going to tell you tonight to see if she might let you interview her. She’s one of this man’s favorites, and no one else that I’ve spoken with knew anything about him. I hope she’s in one of the public houses, and not in the streets if she’s injured.”

“I think that’s all we can do for tonight. It has been a fruitless task looking for this man.”

He dropped her back at the George and said, “I hope one day we can meet and not for the purpose of only going to Whitechapel. It would be nice to leave it behind once.”

“You are right; I have become obsessed with it, especially after what happened to Polly.”

“Good-night, be well.”

When she arrived back at The George, she waved to Clinton, pondering on the words Jonathan spoke,
be well
, such a simple wish and yet so unattainable. She did not feel well as she tumbled into her bed.

She opened the curtain to her window to let the moon show through. It was like a friend, with its round face and bright light, in the midst of this dreary night. She half expected that Russell would walk back through the window when she opened it. She did not take the powder today and had only one glass of absinthe. She was proud of herself for that, but somehow knew within her mind it was not to last.

Chapter Fourteen

Victim Three

September 8, 1888

When I reflect on my life and see how it has turned, it hardly seems possible that only a month has gone by. Life has changed for me and all those around me in a negative way. The friendships I have made have had a positive impact on me, but they remain clouded by the events that have occurred in the misery of Whitechapel. I fear I do not significantly appreciate them, because of the wretchedness all around us.

There was no trace of Annie. I regret that I was unable to speak with her. She apparently had been in some sort of fight with another one of her fellow prostitutes over the attentions of one of their customers. It is a sordid business. I do not know how they do it, but I do understand why they drink to forget that they are doing it.”

It was nearly two before she drifted into sleep, she had hoped Russell would appear to comfort her and discuss what she was thinking, but without her medicine, life was once again dreary.

When she awoke on the morning of the eight; it was to whistles and loud noises. She had cracked her window a bit to let the night air in, and now she could hear all manner of racket in the street. She pressed her face to the window to see people gathered around a newsboy who was peddling his papers, and yelling in a shrill staccato voice, “
Another murder in Whitechapel-The Ripper strikes again
”."

She put both her hands to her face and a slight scream escaped from her lips. “No, it cannot be—it just cannot be.”

But in her heart, she knew it would be. Why would the murderous fiend stop, when he had so easily eluded Scotland Yard, who employed the greatest detectives known around the world. If newspaper men, street constables, and the Yard could not find him, wouldn’t that make him all the bolder for having gotten away with it right under the noses of all of them. He (or she) would be not anguish over their deeds. The only female that might be capable of such an act was Rocks, although unlikely, she still thought of her as a suspect.

“Oh, Russell, he has struck again. Something must be done.”

She dressed quickly, hoping to be on the streets within the half hour so that she could procure the Daily News. She would try to get the Daily Telegraph also, for they tended to offer more description. Jonathan’s paper was always last to get the news out. Being an American paper, they sometimes were not privy to the latest facts that had transpired.

It was only seven, and the hotel had few patrons lingering. Many of the staff stood at the concierge desk reading the news and talking in hushed tones. They didn’t hurry to disperse, as even the head of the staff was there reading and listening to the details about this latest murder.

Clinton saw her approaching and extended the paper he had in his hand, “Mrs. Donovan, another day of disconcerting news. I believe all of Whitechapel will not sleep well again until this…this person is caught. There is not much news, just a few sensational headlines. The murder had just occurred a few hours ago. I don’t think we will learn much more until the evening paper arrives.”

Across the two papers were similar headlines-
Another Murder in Whitechapel/Third Victim Found.
According to the Telegraph, at around four in the morning, a body of a woman was found by John Davis in the backyard of his home on Hanbury Street. She had dark wavy hair, blue eyes and was of medium height. Once again, the perpetrator had sliced open the neck of his victim, but, this time, the brutality was fierce. She had been cut open and disemboweled, her organs thrown over her shoulder.

She sat down in the parlor area of The George and could read no more. She left the paper on a table and returned to her room. She opened her drawer and felt for the familiar feel of the glove, taking the bottle of powder from it. This is a world without peace, she thought, I will find a little for myself.

She paced around her room, and then sent a note to Jonathan to see if he had further information.  She believed that Hanbury Street was not far from Buck’s Row, where they found Polly.

Within a short time, she was feeling better, and although she was dismayed by the events, she began to think of it as a challenge that she had to do more to find Jack. The noise in the street continued from the newsboys. It would go on for the rest of the day she was certain.

“And what are you to do now?” Russell asked.

“You have come back. I was so hoping you would. You know he has struck again.”

“Yes. What is it you intend to do now?”

“I am going into the streets. I will have to go alone. It will not do to have someone follow me; it would be too obvious. I think I had already made up my mind to this plan, but now I am certain.”

“You look better today. I see more of the darling girl I loved so well.”

“Why is it that Fate is so unkind to so many people, Russell?”

“We all ask that during our lifetime. I doubt if there are many who have not felt that way at some point during their time on this earth. We can only fight back as well as we can. I see your drawer is open. You have taken the opium again?”

“Yes, I have. Does it matter really? I have no one left that should care if I do. It helps me.”

“I know you believe it does, and so shall I then believe it, because that is what your mind is wishing me to say.”

“Don’t speak in riddles, please.”

“It is not a riddle. It is the window you peer into every day. Go and get yourself something to eat. I will be here for you, whenever you want. I will come to you.”

By afternoon, she had received word from Jonathan that he would meet her for dinner at her hotel that evening.

“I have brought my notes with me. I have not finished the article that I will be submitting. I’ve been on the streets throughout the day. It is mayhem. It has now escalated into a noticeable fervor of anxiety,” said Jonathan.

“Do you know any more than was reported this morning?” asked Madeline.

“I have just read the first-morning report, which said knife wounds had all but dissected a woman, and that they found her in the backyard of a home on Hanbury Street. I think they said a man named John Davis had found her. After that, I spent time writing to father and reading again my
Study in Scarlet
. I thought it would calm my mind.”

“Waiter, could you bring us some wine, please?” Jonathan said.

She thought of refusing the wine but did not.

“Don’t you know? When you sent me the note, I suppose I just assumed…,” said Jonathan.

“Assumed what, Jonathan, what is it you are trying to say?”

“The victim…it is Annie, Annie Chapman.”

Her eyes widened, and she moved her hand over the table to reach for his hand. She closed her eyes tightly, then opened them and said, “It is some treacherous hand at work that we are now speaking of Annie when it was just days ago we were speaking of Polly. She was a poor soul, lost to society, and there was no one in her corner, least of all herself. She put herself in the thick of danger at every turn. The poor, dear woman, I will pray for her.”

“Did you know that I heard Scotland Yard will be calling on Arthur Conan Doyle for consultation on this case?”

“His mastery of detecting the obvious that everyone misses may be fiction, but in practice who knows what mysteries could unravel.”

“Now for some interesting news, that is of a less depressing nature—the paper’s dignitaries have some kind of connection somewhere, and they have scheduled a meeting with me and Mr. Doyle at The Plaza Hotel. Apparently, they have paid him handsomely to give us his time. He is unknown in America, but with the success of Sherlock Holmes, he will be. They are trying to beat the competitors in this vain. Now…I have asked permission to bring a guest, and that guest will be you, Madeline, if you so desire.”

She smiled at him, the first honest smile she had felt in a while, “Jonathan, to meet this master of imagination and speak with him, that would be a memory for a lifetime.”

“Then it is settled. We have the dinner scheduled for eight on Saturday. It is something, isn’t it, something to think about besides the goings on in Whitechapel.”

“Yes, it is, but it is difficult to tell the mind to stop thinking and have it listen. Annie was unwell and had the most difficult of lives, but still she fought for that life, in the only way she knew how, and then to have it taken in this terrible way is too heartbreaking. Conan Doyle’s epitaph will herald him for creating this wonderful Sherlock, and hers written as the victim of the Ripper. One cannot help but weep for her.”

“You were to come to London to alleviate some of your own personal grief, and you have added to it instead. Try, Madeline, try to think on this evening with Mr. Doyle. It will relieve your mind for a while.”

“You are right. I have not thought of anything pleasant in, well, I don’t remember.”

He kissed her hand in parting and looked at her in what she thought was a loving way. She smiled back, but she was transfixed on her mission to find Jack and had no kind emotion to give to Jonathan, other than gratitude for his friendship.

September 10, 1888

The Ripper has claimed his fourth victim, Annie Chapman. At least, that is the assumption that it is his fourth. The first may not be attributed to him because the body was not desecrated as the others were. For now, I will contend from what I have heard and read thus far, that the victims are Martha Tabram, Polly Nichols, and Annie Chapman. All these women were of the street and survived by means of solicitation. They all had a problem with drink and were frequently seen alone. Either he knew them all, and had been a customer, or picked them because of their ease of accessibility, or had perhaps had a neurosis about their being women of ill repute. It would only make sense that I should present myself as one of them if I am to getting any closer to an answer.

Now that she had returned to taking the powder, she was feeling better. If she were to continue with this quest, she believed she could not do it without the aid of this pain relieving drug. It had some negative side effects, but many more benefits.

Tomorrow she would meet the author she so admired. She would not wear black, but the dark crimson dress she had recently purchased. It had almost been a year since her family passed, and though she could never imagine a time that she would not grieve, she thought it was time to leave the daily ritual of wearing black in the past.

She had received a message from Helen inquiring into her health, and requesting that she come to see them sometime soon. On the same day, Hugh had written asking to come to see her for lunch. She missed seeing the aunts and would respond that she would come soon. She hadn’t thought of Hugh because her mind had been on Jack, but when she did, her heart softened. He was handsome and kind; when she was with him, she felt the closest thing to happiness. She would send a note telling him of her plans with Jonathan, and that she would be at the hotel all day today should he wish to visit with her.

By the time she began dressing for her dinner engagement, Hugh had not returned her message. She thought it just as well as she wouldn’t have wanted a rushed meeting with him, and then have to tell him she would have to leave for her meeting with Jonathan. If these events had not happened in Whitechapel, and she had met them both in different circumstances, she wondered if perhaps her heart may have allowed her to develop real feelings for one of them. But it was useless to think of that now, her mind was in turmoil, and she had given her body over to opium. She didn’t feel she had a prayer of ever having a relationship again.

As the time grew nearer, she felt excited. She had not felt the normal emotion of joy for such a long time; she had barely recognized that she was in good spirits. Their reading of
A Study in Scarlet
on the SS City of New York now seemed an eternity ago. Tonight, somehow life’s events had turned in such an unusual way, that they would be meeting with the author they had all agreed was superlative in his story telling.

She took just a pinch of powder to be certain her mood stayed elevated. Wearing her new dress gave her a sudden burst of confidence. Despite all the disparity, there was good still left to find and enjoyment that existed for some.

When Jonathan arrived, he looked at her with an approving eye.

“Madeline, how wonderful you look tonight. This will be a night to remember. It was not so long ago we had begun our first meeting conversing about Doyle’s book, and now we shall be meeting him together over dinner. Life holds so many surprises,” said Jonathan.

“While I was preparing for this evening, my thoughts mirrored those of yours. It is amazing that through all this sadness, still there are good things also. The friendships that have developed between the aunts and with you, I treasure as an unexpected and wonderful gift. Now, this dinner, I will also speak about for as long as anyone will listen. I have already filled three pages of a letter telling father about it. My personal journal also reflects this news.”