Stalking Jack: The Hunt Begins... (Madeline Donovan Mysteries Book 1) (22 page)

“It is changed since I first went down there to report and conduct random interviews. People thought, at first, it might have been a revenge killing, disgruntled husband or lover. There wasn’t the fear that is there now. Everyone believes the victims were chosen indiscriminately, and therein personifies the terror of it, thinking they are all at risk equally. I have spoken to some men that think it doesn’t affect the male population, and that only prostitutes are at risk, so it doesn’t frighten them. The basic compassion for the ladies is lost to some, but for the most part, it is a frenzy of fear.”

“There must be something, something we can all do together—or apart,” said Madeline.

Chapter Nineteen

The Note

October 1, 1888

Jack, the black dog, has wielded his deadly knife, and once again taken from their family and friends, the life of two women. Catherine Eddowes and Elizabeth Stride, both already unfortunate victims of poverty, now brutally murdered.   

As before, very little in the way of eyewitnesses has been uncovered so far. We shall see, in the days ahead, what will transpire. Hugh and I spent the evening of the 30
th
canvassing the area, asking questions, and stopping in for drinks at the pubs. We found that there is still no convincing evidence that points to one person, but everyone had suppositions as to who the Ripper is.

I will continue with my previous plans and hope something will reveal itself.

It had been almost two weeks since the two women were slain. Again, there was silence from Jack, while everyone else spoke of little else. She had visited the aunts several times since then.  When she saw them, she was happy to see Anna was improving, but once again, they both voiced their concerns about the way she looked and urged her to see a doctor. She had now completely given in to her substance abuse and was no longer even attempting to delude herself that it was justified. It was what it was. This was what she needed to do to survive, to make it through each day. She thought her life purposeful now, trying to find this killer. There were moments of relief, and sometimes almost happiness that the opium provided for her. She could see the physical side-effects of withdrawal when she did not partake, but as long as the opium was as available as a flower from the cart of a poor, wretched child; she no longer believed she had the willpower to stop.

Mr. Motts did not appear to remember the encounter she had with him, and the next time she saw him, was even pleasant. He was a different man when he was sober. She noticed, however, the torn edge of the pocket on the policeman’s uniform. The stories continued to be heard from the ladies about the royal carriage that solicited on side streets, coming and going in the very late hours. The man, whoever he was, was seen only after midnight.

Her days remained busy, filled with writing notes, and speaking to as many people as would agree to converse with her. She took her calming beverage and sat by the fireplace writing in her journal. The days had been cooler, and she coveted the sweet warmth that came from the fireplace. When she sat by the hearth, she felt peaceful. Plus, it was her favorite place to be when writing in her journal.

October 14, 1888

The authorities have posted reward money now. The pressure is accelerating to find Jack, and I am hoping, just like Judas and his silver, that someone must know something and will betray him.

She stopped writing and said aloud, “Of course, why had I not thought of it before. It is so obvious; the odd-shaped circle in the blood is a coin. It must be. The killer dropped it there for some reason, to show perhaps how insignificant she was, a payment for the killing. It was then taken by someone who walked passed. It may prove to be nothing, but it is worth thinking on.”

Russell had begun to appear now, almost at will, and she relished his company.

“Russell, it is good to see you in the day. We hardly ever speak during the day.”

“As you grow weaker, I become stronger.”

“What do you mean, Russell, I am not weaker. My medicine has made me see things more clearly. I can almost feel joy sometimes.”

“You were never one to give yourself over to self-denial. You even have acknowledged that I am a product of your opium, so then why do you continue to believe you have not put yourself in great danger. To be clear, I do not mean Whitechapel. I mean you are losing your health to this drug.”

“We mustn’t quarrel. I treasure our time together. It must be productive, so much else is not. I will go to the streets in the midnight hour. That is all there is to it.”

She was continuing her discussion with Russell when someone knocked at the door. In fear that they might have heard her, she said, “Good afternoon. I was just practicing a speech I plan to give at a ladies event at the library.”

An elderly gentleman, with a short manicured beard, whom she had not seen before, handed her a note, “This has just arrived for you, Mum, and the caller said it was urgent. Otherwise, I would have just left it in your mail slot.”

She went back to the fireplace and opened the note sealed with black wax. It read:

Stop now or you will regret it. The victims are not your business. You risk everything.

She sat down on the floor near the fireside and clenched the note. She felt some fear, but the pervading emotion she felt was fascination. Someone not only knew about her actions but where she resided. Had she then accidentally stumbled upon some clue or information that might lead to Jack? She got up and rushed to the window. She should have looked immediately to see if there were any familiar figures walking from the hotel. She saw nothing unusual, but she would ask the man who brought up the message to her.

Clinton was not on duty as of yet. Clinton was night manager, and he knew everything and everyone. If one wanted to find something out, he was the person to go to. She would wait to speak to him. She sent a note to Jonathan and Hugh regarding her unexpected written threat. She preserved it between the pages of her journal, turning it over and over. She had the old newspaper that had the letter from Jack in it, hoping to compare the handwriting. There was nothing similar at all in the writing, and she did not  think it had come from him. The writing was a deliberate hand, strong, bold letters, but the letters were not uniform and had the resemblance of having been written either in a hurry or by an unsteady hand.

When Clinton arrived at four in the afternoon, she had already heard from Jonathan, and he was on his way to the Hotel George. Hugh had not responded yet, but she was certain she would hear from him also.

She showed Clinton the note the old man had given her.

“Mrs. Donovan, this is unacceptable these anonymous threats should burden you. Are you planning to go to the police?”

“I don’t know, Clinton. I would like to question the man who delivered the note, and then go from there.”

She described the man again.

“I regret to say I don’t know who you are speaking of. He could be a new hire, but generally new hires are not given such intimate tasks as to speak directly to the residents. It is a mystery to me, but I will ask our day manager to see if I can find out anything more. We overlap by one hour and have meetings to inform each other of the events going on in both shifts.”

Now she was more confused about the message because not only was the note a mystery, but also the man who delivered it. She was, even more, determined to go into Whitechapel this very evening. She had disturbed someone’s life, and she wanted to find out who that was. She also needed to replenish her opium.

Jonathan arrived, and she met him in the foyer. The small café bar was open, and they went there for tea.

“Madeline, you have stepped on someone’s toes, and it has become a real threat. It is no longer the case that you are just innocently playing at being a sleuth. You may be in danger,” said Jonathan.

“But I am not playing, Jonathan. My intentions are true, and I mean somehow to make a difference in this case.”

“The note does not contain much detail, and it doesn’t use aggressive or cruel language.”

“That is why I am certain it is not from Jack. It is from someone who feels I have unsettled or made them uncomfortable while I have been exploring in Whitechapel.”

“But the greater mystery is how they knew who you are and where you reside. You have given your name to few, and I don’t believe you have ever told anyone where you reside, have you?”

“No…never. The only people who know those details are Hugh, the aunts and you. Is it possible that someone followed me back here? It does unnerve me that someone knows where I am. I thought of changing my room, but if the person has that intimate knowledge, they will follow me and find me out. I will have to be aware at all times, but I do have my revolver and can protect myself.”

“It seems you have placed yourself in a precarious situation. I think you should leave The George and find another hotel.”

“It is my home now, and I know the place intimately, the way the light comes through at certain times of the day. I know the shadows on the wall, and I know the footsteps of the different maids and Clinton and…”

“All right, I understand that, but I hope you will inform the staff of the note so that they might keep an eye on anyone who might be about on this floor that looks unfamiliar.”

“Far from being frightened, I am encouraged. Something happened to stir such an emotion that they should seek me out. I do see the note as a warning, but not a threat.”

“Let me come with you the next time you go. Perhaps together we will have more luck.”

“I would welcome your presence. Today is Sunday, maybe mid-week sometime. The sun is shining on the city today. It is a day to rest our theories and be friends. Will you join me for lunch? I do so enjoy hearing about your interviews.”

They spent the next few hours talking about the case and America. They both missed their families, and now were thinking about the return to their country. It set her mind at ease that now someone else knew about the note and its supposed threat. As the day went on, she thought less about that and more about going to the streets that evening. She did not hear from Hugh and hoped that he was not once again down with some malady.

She hoped Clinton would not see her steal away in the carriage. It was getting more difficult to disguise what she was doing. A gnawing feeling began inside her, as she wondered if she was going to Whitechapel to search for Jack, or to search for opium. Her desire for the drug was now prevalent in her thoughts.

The wheels bumped along and rocked her body, and somehow it was a familiar peace to her. She knew she was still alive, when her body felt something. She hoped someday she could feel something in her heart, also.

She hobbled along the street, this time asking to purchase her
medicine
. She thought if she appeared in a weakened state, it might attract Jack. She was huddled together with a lame man, and a woman with one arm, conducting her transaction, when she saw Mr. Motts, once again, pushing a woman along—almost as if he had a stick in her back. The woman did not yell out or protest, so Madeline did not call out but kept her hand near her revolver. With her powder purchased and now tucked in her satchel, she could concentrate on Motts. He had stopped the woman and began to try and kiss her. She was about to confront Motts when she felt an arm upon her shoulder.

A tall man with a scarf covering all of his face, except for his eyes, said, “I told you to stop, didn’t I. I warned you, but here you are again.”

She was about to scream, but he put his hand over her mouth. She had her hand on her revolver, but that wasn’t an action she felt she could proceed with. She didn’t feel her life was in danger. She kicked his groin with her knee with as much strength as she could, fleeing in the opposite direction.

She hurried inside to the safety of Ten Bells, her hair falling about her face, and now, truly looking every bit like a low woman. Patrick saw her walking in and brought her a glass of bourbon.

“Mrs. Donovan, you worry me. What is it? What happened?”

She told him what had occurred, and he said, “You must guard yourself. You are getting close enough to some truth that someone is willing to hurt you to protect it.”

“I know, Patrick. It is wonderful, isn’t it? Finally, something has happened. It is not the Ripper, for he could have sliced me right there, but perhaps an accomplice, or someone who is in some way connected to the crimes.”

She was not brave enough to venture back to the streets and stayed close to where Patrick could see her, in the event she needed help. Bob Fielding was there, in the same spot as he always was, and he was looking directly at her. She was too far away from him for him to speak to her, and she never saw him openly solicit a woman, so she did not feel threatened by him, just uneasy. Still, he was staring directly at her, and she wondered if he knew who she was. A few minutes later, when she looked up in his direction, he was gone.

After the bourbon and a little powder, she once more had settled into that wonderful feeling of liberty, where she thought she was no longer vulnerable and could do anything. She would walk to the Queens Head and the Princess Alice.

She did the same hobbling along, touching the walls of the buildings as if she needed help, all the while keeping her hand on her revolver. She heard the wheels of a carriage behind her, and as she walked, they continued alongside her without passing her.

“Woman, would you be in need of a ride, you look ill,” said a baritone voice coming from the direction of the carriage.

“I need some money for a night’s lodging, but I don’t be needing a ride,” said Madeline, keeping her face as hidden as possible while still trying to observe the inside of the carriage.

“Do you feel like working for your money, do you mind the whip?”Her reserve all but dissolved, but she went on, “I ain’t never had it, but I might think about it if there’s more money in it than I usually gets.”