Stalking Jack: The Hunt Begins... (Madeline Donovan Mysteries Book 1) (2 page)

She liked to mix the
green fairy
, as the emerald green absinthe had been nicknamed, into her cup of tea. She knew she would feel an immediate relief when the soothing liquid made its residence within her. She had once only been an occasional drinker of wine, on holidays and special occasions, but now she had developed the habit of partaking of this delicious warming absinthe on a regular basis. It had become a part of her daily routine to sip it gingerly by itself or drip it into her tea.

She had been in such a fragile state that it might have deterred her to another port of call. But she was here now, and she could always leave London and go to Paris or another European city if she felt threatened.

When Phillip returned, she was trembling, and he steadied her hand as he placed the cup there.

“Gruesome, Mum, just gruesome—I’m sorry to see you reading it. I hope you’ll not think of it. It is too much for a lady like you and all alone. It just won’t do to have your mind troubled with this...this…well; I don’t know what it is. I never heard the likes of it before.”

“You are right. I did not think it would disturb me so. It has made me feel physically ill, that poor woman. If you have time later, Phillip, come when you are off duty and tell me of the news of this in London. I’d like to know what your peers have to say.”

“I will be glad to, Mum, but if you don’t know, Mr. Franks is a newspaper man, and he might be able to tell you more than I.”

She smiled to herself, so much for my powers of observation.

“Phillip, did you tell Mr. Franks I had declined his act of kindness yet?" Madeline asked.

“No, I have not seen him.”

“Will you please tell him that I thank him for paying for lunch and request he join me for dinner?”

“I will. There is an orchestra playing in the dining room, in case you might like some music.”

“Thank you, I think I will stay and finish reading the news and write some letters. If you are as attentive to all the passengers as you are to me, you will be purser soon.”

Phillip stated, “I hope so, but I do take great satisfaction in watching over you.”

She read every page in the newspaper Phillip had brought her about the Ripper and then walked about the deck looking for any other discarded newspapers. In the Star, the details read like the diary of Dracula. It was an evening chronicle with a reputation for shocking their readers with graphic details. The inked pictures portrayed a monster at work. Her planned day of enjoying the sun with some brisk walking and studious letter writing was now for another time. She thought about Sherlock and wondered what it would be like if he did exist and could hunt down this villain called Jack. Life was not like that, the tragic ending pervasive in its conquest of us. She was in her twenty-ninth year, and she did not remember anything happening similar to this in her hometown of Chicago. There were murders, of course, but none that she remembered that was so repugnant as if a demon came from the underground to commit them.

“Mrs. Donovan?” said a neatly tailored steward.

“Yes?”

“Phillip described you perfectly and asked me to give this to you.”

“Thank you.”

Gently breaking the black wax seal on the white card, she read:

Mrs. Donovan,

I gladly accept your invitation for dinner, and will meet you promptly at eight in the Grand Saloon area
.
If this is not to your convenience, please reply.

Mr. Jonathan Franks

“Is there any answer, Mrs. Donovan?”

“Please kindly tell Mr. Franks I will see him tonight at eight.”

The sun was high in the sky by the time she looked up from her reading. She decided to dedicate a section of her journal to
Ripper Notes.

August 12, 1888 – Jack the Ripper

I read with scrutiny the particulars of this man the newspapers have labeled “Jack the Ripper”. Perhaps because of my own recent tragedy, or perhaps because of the influence of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the detective in Arthur Conan Doyle’s novel, I find myself trying to see if I can glean any clues from the many articles I have read. Of the few Londoner’s that I have spoken with, I find they are more than willing to tell all they have heard of this devil man. The accounts all vary, and I only have my recollection of what they have said, because it would not be seemly to have written down their words as they spoke. That would never do.

I must say that after so long from refraining from conversation in polite society, I find it was not as painful, as I thought it would be. Although, I can probably attribute that to the subject matter which left no one with awkward silent hesitation or feeling that it was necessary to inject mundane questions about one’s health or family.

On further investigation, it appears the murderer himself wrote to the newspapers a letter that he signed, “Jack the Ripper”. It is uncertain if the killer himself is the actual author of this letter, but the name will now probably be immortal. It is a fitting name. They say he stabbed Martha three-hundred times; he sliced her into pieces. As for now, he is attributed to having murdered several woman, all being in the prostitution business. That to me explains how easily he would have confronted them, as they were most likely soliciting him. I hope to ascertain more information from Mr. Jonathan Franks during our dinner engagement this evening.

She would write Father now, deciding it would not be prudent to include any references to Jack and allow her father to believe she had no knowledge of this news.

Dearest Father,

I hope this letter finds you well and in good spirits. If I know you, you will not be the best company, as you will be worrying about your only daughter. I am fine, Father, and trying to take in all the wonder of this voyage. In the past, I think I was too busy when on a voyage like this, and that I did not see all the life around me, and now I am observing it with new eyes. I am reading A Study in Scarlet by Arthur Conan Doyle for the second time; it is that amusing.

I am taking advantage of the activities available and having peaceful evenings listening to the orchestra.

She went on for some three pages more, filling the white space with chatter that meant nothing and continued to fabricate her daily romps of playing cards with other passengers and other past times. It would put his mind at rest.

She would lay out her clothes for tonight and attempt to take a quick nap before she met Mr. Franks. She only had one dress that had a splash of color besides black; it was gathered tightly around her waist which showed how petite she was and had a white cowl neck. She gazed at herself in the tiny mirror in her cabin and wondered what she would do with this pile of auburn hair that was unkempt and frizzy from the ocean’s spray. The streak of white hair on the left side of her head that began a little above the temples she now looked at proudly as her badge of honor. She thought once of cutting the thing off but realized how much it symbolized everything that had happened.

She looked at their picture again. It was one of a very few that had been spared by the fire. She was at peace with the knowledge that she would be in London for Christmas and hung onto the thought that this, somehow, would save her.

It was last Christmas that the event happened. The thing that made her mouth paralyzed, if she even attempted to speak of it.  She had been assisting her father in his office that day. His staff had dwindled due to the holiday, and she accepted without question when he asked her to come and help him. Growing up as a doctor’s daughter, she had learned at an early age how to give an injection, do suture and do other tasks to keep the business of the small office running smoothly.

Russell was with the two boys, Nate, and Will. They had recently traversed into the forest to chop down a tree for Christmas but had yet to begin to clean and trim it. She had told them she would come home to participate in the festivities as soon as she was able to leave her father with some sense of order.

It is not clear what happened next, for she received conflicting reports from her neighbors. Perhaps Will, only three years of age, had lit a candle too close to the tree, and that had started it or maybe he was playing with Nate—just two—and had let him hold the candle, and it dropped. Maybe the tree had been too dry, there were many maybes and many ifs, but none of them would ever bring back her beloved family. The only thing she knew for certain is that Russell was some distance from the boys and appeared to be crawling on the floor when the blaze finally subsided, and she could see the area. The boys' bodies did not appear charred like Russell’s but looked to be sleeping near the door. It appeared that they had tried to get out of the door, but without Russell’s help, neither would have been tall enough to reach the door handle. The smoke had overcome them. Sometimes she felt sick if she even looked at a pine tree, blaming it for their fate. She hated the idea of Christmas most of all that there should even be such a symbol of a tree, for if not for the damned tree, she believed it would never have happened.

Everything―her mementos, and the treasures she had saved so carefully now lost forever in the hellish blaze would haunt her perpetually in her dreams. Her father had a few photographs, but he wasn’t much for that sort of thing as he said he would see the boys on a daily basis and that he preferred to see them and not just a photo. He and Russell both thought she spent too much time and money on photographs already. For the first month after it happened, she was inconsolable in her grief. She moved back into her father’s home, living for the most part, in and out of stages of delirium. Many had suggested that she go into the home for the mentally ill, but her father had fought against it, preferring to be the one to bring her back into life.

Her father, knowing her like no other, began giving her tasks again like when she was a teen. With each new responsibility, she grew stronger, for it was in the work that she began to feel purposeful again. So she did begin to recover, as well as she could until the calendar showed that autumn would soon be approaching and with that, Christmas. This was when she decided the only answer for her now would be to leave the environment of her deepest anxiety. She had been to London once before and something about the balmy weather, the fog that rolled in like a blanket of snow and covered all she wished to experience again. The weather matched her state of mind. She would busy herself with travel and the discovery of another culture and a world she did not know.

She didn’t look attractive; she knew that. Perhaps someday when the ashen pallor of her grief subsided, she would once again be attentive to her appearance. She did, however, manipulate her hair enough to put a few pearl pins around the tendrils that laced her face. It will do, she thought, it will do. As she left her cabin to begin her stroll to the Grand Saloon, she wondered why he had shown an interest in her. She dressed in black and was unaccompanied; he must have assumed she was a widow. She looked undernourished, unadorned with accouterments to accent beauty in any way. Perhaps there was some other reason, besides the fact she was of the female gender, for she believed there was nothing in her demeanor that would be appealing to the opposite sex at this time in her life. When she and Russell and the boys walked down State Street in Chicago, for a Sunday stroll, she would be adorned in finery, alive with happiness, and the anticipation of a desirable future. Russell always bragged that his male friends thought she was a catch, and he would say there was no one who knew that more than he. She glowed at that heady praise, and enjoyed her shopping trips on those Sundays, seeking the latest hat or dress that would enhance her appearance. That girl who once existed was now a distant memory to her. Material possessions to her now meant the basic necessities to live; all else seemed frivolous and unimportant. Her world was then forever altered, and she knew the only way she had a chance to live was to find a defining purpose. She also hoped this trip might help her secure the peace that had eluded her in Chicago. As a young girl, she had a short love affair with painting, but it had dwindled when she met Russell. Maybe she would consider spending some time in Paris receiving art instruction.

As she approached the entrance of the Grand Saloon, she could see that Mr. Franks was waiting for her.

Dressed in formal attire, she looked again at this man she had dismissed earlier. Maybe he was attractive; his slicked black hair shone in the sun. He stood at perhaps six foot or so, slender with a thin-lipped boyish smile. She, in her drab attire, did not fit in with this festive crowd of people, but she shrugged and accepted that fact.

Mr. Franks said, “Mrs. Donovan, I am happy to see you. Thank you for accepting my invitation to dinner.”

“It is my pleasure, sir. The night, I’m sure, will prove to be enjoyable in this fine place.”

“It is indeed all splendors, and I have heard the food is equal to the best eateries.”

She took his arm as he escorted her into the dining area. A plump male waiter, with ruddy cheeks, said, “I will be happy to seat you. Please follow me. If you have not yet experienced dinner here, may I recommend the pheasant and truffles? It is the chef’s most notable dish and has received praise from our patrons.”

As he pulled the chair back at the end of the long expansive table, he nodded and added, “A most pleasant evening to you both,” he said as he departed.