Stalking Jack: The Hunt Begins... (Madeline Donovan Mysteries Book 1) (26 page)

“I’s push ‘em around a little, but they likes it. They’re used to it.”

“They don’t like it; that’s absurd. You should be ashamed of yourself for what you did and for not being man enough to even admit your wrongdoing,” said Madeline.

“You know, I’m a solicitor, and this is a prosecutable offense. You picked the wrong man to attack Mr. Motts, and further, you threatened this lady. Both these offenses could bring severe penalties and fines, besides detainment in a cell.”

They both looked frightened now and began to speak at the same time with a flow of excuses and apologies. Madeline didn’t know what Hugh would do. He was the keeper of the law; she didn’t think he would just let them off.

“This is what I will do. You will both cease this despicable behavior. Patrick, the barkeep, will tell me if you bother the ladies. You will sign a contract agreeing to community service and spend time assisting the laborers in cleaning up the streets of Whitechapel.”

His father looked as if he was about to protest when the younger Mr. Motts said, “We’ll do it, governor, we’ll be there. I give you my word.”

“This is the address to my office; I will expect you both there tomorrow,” said Hugh.

Hugh was sweating, and his hand was trembling. The stress of the event had taken its toll on him and her. They walked back to his house, neither saying a word.

Inside he said, “A cup of tea before you go?”

“Yes, I need to calm down after all that. You were wonderful. I didn’t have any idea what you were going to say or do. You are a wise and good man, Hugh Scott.”

“I don’t know about that, but I know the law. It would be difficult to prosecute a case like that. I feel somewhat vindicated that we may have stopped them both from further destructive habits and maybe do a bit of good for the community. Do you still think Motts is a suspect in the Ripper case?”

“If he is, he has the eye of the city shining on him now. I would think he would never commit another crime. I don’t know. Everyone seems guilty. It is a den of thieves and liars that make their home in Whitechapel and yet, somehow, I feel compassion for their actions as if they have no choices left to them in this termite ridden place.”

“I will feel better knowing you won’t be receiving any more notes.”

“And I that you are well enough to return to your office.”

She hugged him good-bye, and he waited outside to see her ride away in her carriage.

They had not traveled very far when she requested the coachman to turn the carriage around and head back to Whitechapel. She had already decided to return and not tell Hugh. She didn’t want him to worry unnecessarily about her. She was wanted to observe if the Motts boys were still there and how they were reacting to Hugh’s proclamation and if it would make a difference at all in their behavior. She had noticed Bob Fielding was there, lurking like always, in a dark corner and she wanted to see him also.

She had wanted to have flowers for her room, and she saw there were some lovely gardenias and violets. The scent and beauty of these flowers would be a welcome change in her hotel suite. She would browse in the market and use this as her distraction for being there.

She was still outside when she saw Harry walk in and once again nod to Rocks. When she finished paying and made her way inside, Harry was seated next to Bob Fielding. She did not care how awkward or unwelcome her presence might be; she would go to speak to them.

“Harry, how are you this fine day. You look as if you are improving. I am assuming Dr. Scott has been beneficial to you. May I buy you a drink and you also Mr. Fielding? Rocks, if these gentlemen are agreeable, I would like to buy them a shot of bourbon.”

“You’re not be needing to buy
money man
any drinks, with all his inheritance, he can buy the lot of us drinks,” said Rocks.

“Did you come into some money, Harry? That is good,” said Madeline.

“Rocks sometimes doesn’t know when to talk and when not to. Not in the way you think, when my wife died, I inherited money that was in trust for her by her father. It’s of no use to me in my grieving for her, but it does allow me to pay for help when I’m too sick to do things for myself.”

“I’m sorry. It is the hardest of all things to lose one’s mate,” said Madeline. “I am a widow and have found each day difficult since my husband passed.”

“I assumed as much as you’re always wearing black. It makes one wonder what it is you’re living for and what purpose all the pain is for. If it wasn’t for the drink and people like Bob who help me on the farm, I don’t know what I would do.”

“That must be a comfort to you, Mr. Fielding, to have extra money in these hard times.”

“Nothing's a comfort to me,” he said with his usual bitterness and turned to face the other way.

They all sat talking for some time while she observed the unspoken connection these three people had with each other. They shared something together; it was an understanding of some sort. She could read it in the way they looked at each other. If there ever were an unlikely motley crew who somehow bonded together, this was it.

She left, forming definite impressions of all of them, and none was favorable.

November 9, 1888

The moon is brilliant tonight. I am glad of it, for it keeps me company like a friend, as it is passed the midnight hour, and I am unable to even contemplate sleeping. My thoughts are of the conversation in the market. The note that Fielding dropped to MM now seems to be referring to Harry Nelson. Rocks referred to him as “money man” several times. She seemed to say it as if it was his name. I can’t imagine what she could do for him that she would be so inclined to call him that. Fielding might work on his farm, but Rocks wouldn’t do that; she’s a butcher. There could be nothing between them of a romantic nature—not that I think so well of her that she wouldn’t solicit, but she seems to enjoy female company over men. Besides, I have never seen Harry look interested in the women when they come around. I will discuss it with Hugh and Jonathan and see what they might think it could mean.

“Madeline, you need your sleep,” said Russell.

“I’m so happy you’ve come to me tonight. My mind is a blur of thoughts. More and more, I believe that it is one of my suspects that is the Ripper, and I am determined to see this to an end.”

“It may be your end instead of theirs. You have become thinner. Perhaps it is time for you to return to America and even time to let go of me. You have Hugh and Jonathan now; they are in the real world, your world.”

“Don’t say that—don’t ever say that, or I will take enough powder that you shall never leave me, and we will be together again.”

“Calm down. Isn’t it true that you have feelings for these men? Do not distress yourself that I do not wish this. I do. I can no longer care for you or protect you. I do not want you to be without love or the protection that a man can give you. Your destiny should not have to be one of solitude. You have suffered enough; there is no need to bring additional suffering and condemn yourself to a life without love or companionship.”

“I do care for them, but not in that way. They are my friends and only that.”

“They remain only that because you cannot let go of me.”

She began to sweat and felt dizzy. She lay on the bed and covered herself with her blanket, shaking violently enough that she could feel the tremor of the bed.

“No, Russell, do not say that. You cannot leave me again.”

The room seemed to move, and her head ached, and she drifted into a restless sleep.

Chapter Twenty-Three

A Deadly Encounter

The morning of the 9
th
brought Madeline little relief from her irritable state of mind and pounding headache. She didn’t want anything to eat, all she wanted was to lay in a hot bath and wash away the sins of Whitechapel from her body and her mind. Still torn about the idea of returning today; she was worn out and wondering when it would all end, this anxiety that gripped her without many moments of relief. If she stayed away from Whitechapel for a while, would it hurt or help her? Would she then think about it anyway, and feel she was idle if she didn’t, at least, attempt to mingle into this jungle and try to find answers.

The gloom of the street seemed to insert itself even further into her bones. The rain had stopped, but the dark sky remained even though it was mid-morning; she had to light the kerosene lamps in her room to be able to read. The wet leaves draped the road in spotty array, like a pox upon the face. She supposed she perceived it this way because of the state of mind she found herself in, which had nothing of pleasantness left in it.

She looked through the books she had purchased and found, on this dreary morning, nothing compelled her to read. She was tired but restless.

When she heard the familiar cacophony of the word “murder” she felt physically ill and found her stomach began to wretch as if someone had pounded their fist into it. She had not yet had breakfast, so her stomach bobbed up and down with nothing projecting out, but painful air. She went to the window to be certain she had not imagined the words. She had transfixed on this misery for so long; the lines had begun to blur.

But as she opened the wet, creaking wooden window, she saw the familiar boy, Tim, a blush coloring his puffy cheeks, calling out in his loudest voice, “Murder—murder—murder in the East End.”

Hugh would be at work and Jonathan would be called into the midst of it to get the story, if she wanted to go to Whitechapel, it would have to be alone.

The patrons in the filled lobby were holding newspapers, their eyes opened in shock and others gathered in circles talking. Even the staff, at a time like this, ceased their duties and was huddled together over a paper. Some of the girls were hugging each other, as perhaps the human touch or feel of compassion might alleviate the repulsion of it all.

Clinton was bustling about, answering questions and responding to people calling for his services. He saw her and attempted to speak with her, but he was then called away. Her heart felt full of steel and grit and had instantly hardened. Her resolve renewed; she would head to Whitechapel.

It seemed as fate had other plans for her than she had for herself. Every time she had mustered the strength to admonish her use of the opium, something would happen that made her free fall from grace and give up that quest for the moment.

She took her powder and dressed in blue, for she needed something to brighten her spirit before she went on with the day. She never left the hotel now without her knife and gun, determined not to be afraid should she be confronted with any danger.

As she had expected, Whitechapel was filled with even more noise than usual. Women could be seen clutching their children; fists were held up in anger, yelling out at Scotland Yard. It was a mixture of fear and anger, and it seemed to touch every citizen, young or old.

Even at this hour of three in the morning, barely approaching the dinner hour, people were intoxicated and wobbling in the streets as if the drink might dull the situation. She pushed into Ten Bells, and found no seats at the bar, so she stood pressed up against the bar with what seemed like a fifty or so people. Patrick was not on duty but was expected to be there by four. She had a drink of bourbon, listening to the random theories that floated through the pub.

“It’s that Motts, he done it—that nasty man, who pushes all us ladies around, and expecting something for nothing just because he was a copper once. He’s a bad man,” said a young, attractive woman.

  Madeline assumed she had not been in the streets long, for most women she saw were ruined in their mental or physical appearance. She spoke with her for a while and informed her of her hope that Motts would no longer be an annoyance, and told her of the agreement he had made with Hugh. She urged her to leave word with Patrick should she ever be harassed by him again. She spoke with several people to hear what the scuttlebutt was, most still believing the Ripper might be Prince William or someone associated with the royal coach that bore his symbol on it. She still had her suspicions about both of them, but they had waned.

She walked to the aunts’ house and found Helen outside on the porch reading a newspaper; no doubt fixated on the latest tragedy. She waved when she saw her and started walking to meet her. “Madeline, it’s so good to see you. We worry for you when we do not see you. Are you eating? You look thin. Come in and have some soup,” said Helen.

When she reached the house, Anna held her arms out to her, and they hugged. She took them both by the arm, and the three went into their home.

“Sit, sit,” said Anna. “I will heat the soup, and I have a bit of stew left over. You will have it.”

“I confess I am hungry. I could not eat after hearing the news, but I am beginning to be light headed now for not having had any food this day,” said Madeline.

They sat and ate together in the dining area, calming candlelight gracing their table.

“Did you hear who it was?” asked Anna.

“There were few words about her except that her name was Mary Kelly,” said Madeline.

“Is the Ripper just to go on picking the girls off like something in a royal hunt? What is Scotland Yard doing? How is it they cannot find him?” asked Helen.

“It is perplexing how he escapes detection, with so many people about in the streets, and a constable every block or so walking his beat. I hope you will stay well. I will call on you again when I come back down here in the next day or so,” said Madeline.

When she returned at the dinner hour, she had received notes from both Jonathan and Hugh. Hugh said he would like to come, but his workload was mounting after his absence. Jonathan was in the thick of interviewing anyone who was about during the murder and also was unavailable. She didn’t mind going alone, although she always welcomed their company.

For the next few days, more details came in regarding the murder of Mary Kelly. If the public had thought the other murders were ghastly, the murder of poor Miss Kelly gripped not just London, but the world. Even the American papers had the Ripper case on its front pages. Mary Kelly’s face had been hacked with a knife until it was unrecognizable. Her organs had been removed and placed behind her head and around the room. He had cut her breasts off and sliced her arms and legs. This murder was different, as it perpetrated in Mary’s room, and obviously gave the perpetrator the time he needed to do his deed. She believed he would have done the same to all of his victims had he had the coverage he had with Mary. Again, very little could be told. A few people reported seeing a man come in and out of her room but said that was common enough. Some people reported seeing her several hours after she had been pronounced dead by the coroner. So once again, eyewitness accounts were unreliable, and one of the most heinous crimes ever reported was done under the watchful eye of a city, but without detection.

She was more diligent than she had ever been. She spent the next few days virtually hounding the trio of Harry, Rocks, and Fielding. She stood watch over the royal coach until it seemed forced to drive away, but she was happy to say she had seen very little of Motts and his father, although, she wondered if they were lying low because they had somehow had a part in it. She had gone to Whitechapel as Jenny, the prostitute, and immediately men approached her. She used those opportunities to question and seek out further information about anyone who was seen with Mary. But almost all were drunks, who could barely stand when they spoke to her, and she felt had no ability to commit such devious acts and still slip away undetected by anyone.

Hugh had asked her to join him for dinner, but she had declined. She went about her task as another one of her addictions. She now was unable to stop herself from her relentless searching; the pictures of Mary Kelly in the newspaper had revolted her to the point that she felt if it were the last thing she did while breathing, it would be a good death.

On the evening of the 13
th
of November, the moon was full and with such a clear brightness, it appeared as a spotlight over the city. It was almost midnight, and she had been walking the streets for over an hour as Jenny. She had taken more opium than usual and felt dizzy and unsteady on her feet, but she thought that might even be an advantage. If the Ripper wanted a victim, who would be better than an inebriated prostitute who appeared weak and ripe for the picking. She had her weapons and found herself periodically reaching down into her boot and around the knife attached to her thigh under her petticoats. She wanted to be sure she could access them without hesitation.

She was walking down Dorsett and going around the bend when it happened.

“Mrs. Donovan, how unusual to see you walking the streets and so poorly disguised that only a fool would not know it were you,” said Harry Nelson.

Before she could speak, he placed his hand over her mouth and pushed her further into an alley that smelled of dead rats. The flies flew at them, buzzing around their heads. She tried to kick him in the legs or free herself, but he was behind her pushing her deeper into the darkness. A few steps further and another figure, dressed in black appeared. “Did you think we would not stop you? You foolish, wretched woman, did you think you could outsmart us?” growled Rocks speaking with such hatred, Madeline could feel the spit from her mouth upon her face.

Harry released his hand for a moment to move her, and though she wanted to scream, all that could come out was, “It is you. I had hoped it was not. I felt compassion for you all along.”

“Compassion for me…it was my wife that deserved the compassion, not me. She died because of me, died of the syphilis, and I give it to her because a whore from these streets give it to me. And now everyone that I can kill before I die is nothing short of God’s work.”

“But you did it, you killed your wife. If you hadn’t gone to the streets, you wouldn’t have caught the disease.”

He took his hands and began to choke her while she tried to reach for her knife. As she continued to struggle, Rocks laughed.

“I seen ‘em do it, and he gave me money to shut up, and I did one even better. I offered to watch out for him if anyone was coming. I liked his work so much; I left money in the blood when he was done. It’s true what he says, it’s God’s work. We won’t stop until the syphilis gets him. You were the only one who figured it out, and you was getting to close to us. You should have just left it alone. You weren’t in no danger before you put your silly nose into it,” said Rocks.

She pushed Harry away, jamming her knee into his groin, and for a moment, he released his grip on her. Harry looked at them both and said, “Yes; no one knows. No one on the earth except for the two of you and nothing will stop me from continuing…nothing.”

  She tried to speak, but he was choking her, and only a barely audible, raspy sound came out, “It’s done Harry, it’s enough. You’ve killed enough. God have mercy on you for what you have done.”

“You have to die, Madeline; you know that, but not before you do,” he said as he turned to Rocks.

With that, he took a silver scalpel from his pocket and turned to Rocks, and with one swift stroke, cut her throat. She fell bleeding, looking at him with shock and horror.

When he turned back to Madeline, his black eyes boring into her, she took her knife and plunged it into his chest. He grabbed his chest where she had struck him, but took the scalpel and lurched at Madeline. It pierced her in her side, but she had moved in time to have avoided it being placed directly into her heart. This time, she would hit her target if it took her last breath. Holding her knife with purpose, she once again struck him, deep into his heart. He moaned a short gurgling moan and fell back over Rocks body. She slumped down onto the street bleeding, trying to remain conscious when she heard a voice.

“Let me at you, I use to be in hospital services,” said Bob Fielding.

She was now fading in and out of consciousness. “You’ll go into shock. I need to get yous somewhere. Tell me where. I have to get you out of here,” he continued.

“Why are you helping me? I thought you were with them?”

“I worked for him, and I sometimes suspected who he was. I will tell you another time—we need to get you somewhere safe and do it quickly, tell me where to take you.”

She gave him the address of the aunts and leaned against him while he put pressure on her wound to stop the profuse bleeding; he spoke to her all along the way.

“I been following you the last few days, I knew you was going to get in trouble. I wasn’t sure about Harry, but he talked awful hate about the women for killing his wife, but he were such a quiet man, I didn’t think he could have done it.”