Stalking Jack: The Hunt Begins... (Madeline Donovan Mysteries Book 1) (5 page)

When she returned to her cabin and the picture that anchored her to life, she no longer felt sad because of their parting because she knew she would continue to be in contact with all of her new acquaintances, of course, with the exception of her dear boy, Phillip. But she would do her best to send him letters occasionally of the news from London.

“Good-night, my darlings. Tomorrow we will be in London.”

Chapter Three

Whitechapel

August 17, 1888

The SS City of New York is awake and in such a mood as if it was New Year’s Eve. The excitement over our pending arrival can be heard and seen everywhere. I can just see the sun, its’ head just peeking above the water, but even at the early hour, the sound of creaking cabin doors opening and closing and footsteps can be heard in quantity. I am anxious to be on land again; it has been an effort not to give into sea sickness and headaches. My sweet, green fairy has been a saving grace to me these days and helped me over the sloshing of the sea.

She hurried to get ready, worried that she might miss seeing her new friends and also to say her goodbyes to Phillip, Mr. Bonneville and the other wait staff who had treated her with such kindness.

She carefully wrapped her picture of her family, in her best lace handkerchief, and placed it in the satchel she carried. Looking around her tiny cabin before she left it for the last time, a tear ran down her face. She was grateful for the time she had spent in it, for it had proved to be more friend to her than she had imagined.

Rushing past her were throngs of purposeful feet seeking their destination; attempting to exit the lovely ship. She watched for her new found friends but did not see them. Phillip scurried past once reminding her, “Don’t forget, I’ll be here for ten days. Don’t lose my address.”

She waved as he was busy carrying luggage under his arm and trying to assist in keeping some sort of order, already hordes of people had lined up near the exit ramp. There would still be nearly two more hours till they would dock in London. She was certain she would see Jonathan and the ladies before then.

She did not wish to sit, but walk about the grand lady, examining every detail that she might have missed, locking it into her memory. What an honor it had been to have been the first to walk on her decks, her newness almost feeling sacrilege to light upon her. Whenever she heard the laughter or cries of small children, she would brace herself against the rail, holding on for dear life. She still could not escape the cold chill that came over her when this happened. Children’s voices, when laughing, all sounded almost imperceptibly alike, it could have been Will or Nate. It could have been, but it wasn’t. Would she ever be able to get beyond her grief?

She thought again of Anna and Helen’s niece. She could not save her children and her husband, but she’d be damned if she didn’t try to save Mary Ann. That sense of freedom from self-desire possessed her again; she had nothing left to lose. She was determined to do this. She would go down to Whitechapel, and find Mary Ann if she had to sleep in the alley ways until she found her.

She had never quite realized how sardine packed the ship was. With the passengers all having their separate quarters and parts of the ship, it did not seem to be crowded at all. But now as they converged onto the main deck, it appeared as if there were anthills of people. She began to wonder if she would be able to find her friends among the hundreds of people milling about.

When she finally saw Anna, she was already exiting from the ship, Madeline called out to them, “Anna, Helen, I will be round to see you soon, very soon. As soon as I settle in, I will find my way to your home. Stay well.”

A man touched her on the arm, and she turned to see Jonathan.

“How disappointing to not have seen them,” said Madeline.

“It is. I had hoped to see them, also. I searched for all of you, but the ship has turned into a cattle run. It feels more like a stampede than an exit. My editor has telegraphed me that he expects some type of story by the end of the day. He wants me to get something in writing. So it begins—we all will go our separate ways. I hope you enjoy your stay at the Hotel George. I have heard it is a fine place,” said Jonathan.

“Thank you and I as well hope to begin my work in trying to find Miss Mary Ann.”

“Please be careful, Madeline. I am sure that I will worry for your safety. I don’t believe that you are prepared for the type of lifestyle that exists in Whitechapel.”

“Thank you for your concern, but I am young and healthy and do not have the terrors of when I was a girl. I am a woman now, and fully able to care for myself and hopefully can assist in caring for others. But I do agree that men can move more freely and with greater safety than us, so if I may have your company sometimes when I venture into the area, I will be most grateful.”

“I will say farewell and not good-bye for I hope to see you soon.”

With that; he kissed her gloved hand and walked away.  She did not mind that he had done that; it seemed appropriate. They were now friends, and she did trust him, in a way. Mr. Bonneville had secured a Hansom cab for her. It was mid-morning, and London appeared as she had it imagined it in many ways. The mist from the morning fog lingered in the streets and gray clouds muddled the sky. There was a noxious odor that when inhaled immediately set her to coughing.

“Where to, Mum?” said the portly driver with the handlebar mustache.

“The Hotel George, sir.”

“Mum, you might be keeping a handkerchief over your mouth. That’s the gas you’re smelling—it’s a menace.”

The cab bumped along the cobbled road while her eyes gazed upon the city. It was dirtier than she had expected, and foul smells lingered in the air. Crowds of people shoved each other, and the loud noise of vendors were calling into the wind. Children running in the street, squealing and laughing added to the cacophony. But the visual and audio distraction was welcome and in many ways reminded her of Chicago. Her hotel was in the West End of the city. It was well known, even to foreign travelers, that the East End of the city was the unsavory part of London. Like most cities, in Chicago, it was the Northside that was the elite and the Southside's reputation was perpetuated by stories of crime. But though she had never given it a thought that she would traverse into the East End, now it was prominent in her thoughts and plans. She found herself already missing the English ladies she had met and would be glad to see them again.

“Welcome to the Hotel George, Mum”, said a handsome young man, impeccably dressed out in black dress uniform with white bow tie.

“I am Clinton, and I will be happy to be of service to you during your stay.”

“Thank you, Clinton; I am Madeline Donovan from the States. It is good to be on land. I have just come from the
SS City of New York
.”

“I heard it was her maiden voyage. How did you enjoy your crossing?”

“We were fortunate to have had calm seas throughout our days. She was a lady, Clinton, a beauty that I will never forget. Of course, the news of your predator,
the Ripper
, was talked of nonstop by just about everyone. Do you have any news of an apprehension?”

“There are several different newspapers that are available in the foyer that will have the latest, but to answer your question; there is only speculation and no arrests. I can tell you no one feels safe right now.”

“Clinton, is it very far from here to Whitechapel?”

“It’s about a thirty-minute cab ride, Mum, but I wouldn’t recommend you go there. It’s a bunch of savages what lives down there.”

“I have heard some very unpleasant things, but I have friends who live there, and I mean to see them.”

“The concierge will see that you have a Hansom called for you when you’re ready. They might even be able to arrange an escort.”

“I’ll be all right. I will go directly to my friend’s front door. Thank you.”

The hotel was adequate; the main lobby was decorative and spacious. However, the rooms were small but clean. The type of accommodations she would have on a trip had once been important to her, but now they were just a place to create a writing area where she could compile her thoughts in her general notebook and her journal. Her room number was 313, and for some reason, it gave her a start. She wasn’t superstitious, at least, she didn’t think so until she saw the room number, but she shrugged it off to
Ripper
mania.

She would spend the rest of the day unpacking and reading the newspapers available so that she might know of any current information about Jack. She thought that it would be too soon to show up on Anna and Helen’s door this very afternoon, but she would go tomorrow, for she felt it was important to start the search for Mary Ann.

Placing her family picture on the table near her bed, the room became softer and more a part of her. She began to add some of her possessions so that it did not feel so impersonal. She had gone down to a street vendor and ordered some simple fare to bring to her room for supper. She decided to have a long, hot bath and then delve into the newspaper reports. She managed to procure several newspapers and began taking notes about Martha Tabram. She had a separate notebook that she had started for Jack.

August 18, 1888

I’ve read the articles in the Star, The London Daily and others detailing the accounts of the stabbing of Martha and the reports are conflicting. The ranges run from 39 to 8 knife wounds. The brutality with which the stabbing occurred and the deliberate horror of the attacks leaves me cold in my thinking. I am not a doctor that deals with the mind, but what manner of demon could do this? Would it be enough just to be a misogynist to conflict such pain? There must be some other purpose.  It is also evident that the East End problems of crime, poverty, and general conditions are unacceptable to decent human existence. Although I am still determined to spend time there, I am much more level headed about the possibility of danger.

On the morning of the 19
th
, Madeline hurriedly dressed and took breakfast in the hotel café. The concierge had accommodated her, and her Hansom was ready. She had Anna’s address and gave it to the driver. He gave her a stern look, and questioned if she was sure she wished to go to Whitechapel in the midst of all the mayhem, but she said it was her aunts that lived there to assure him of her safety. They lived on Mumford Street, which according to the map she had, appeared to be in the heart of Whitechapel.

After a scenic jerky ride, the smell overtook her before the area even came into view. She did bring her handkerchief as suggested. She wasn’t prepared for the sight of the swarms of haggard people, shuffling about, mostly looking gaunt and hapless. The haunting look in their eyes, of being lost, was in many faces. She recognized that look, for it was in the eyes in her own mirror for many months now.

She did not have a weapon but thought she would acquire one. She had learned to shoot as a child, as most parents prepared their children to be self-reliant in a city that could be, at times, prove to be dangerous. She decided she would also get a small knife to put inside her walking boots.

She had arrived unannounced at Mumford St., believing that if she were unable to be received, she would take to the streets for her assessment and return later to her hotel.

She had asked the coachman to stay, in the event that the ladies were not home. She knocked several times, and when the door opened, Anna met her with outstretched arms.

“Madeline, we had hoped you would come, but often, words spoken at the moment are sometimes a person being gracious and not always to be taken in earnest,” said Anna.

“We are grateful you are here. It is not much to look at, our humble living quarters, but it has been our home these many years and a place filled with happy memories,” said Helen.

“I could think of nothing but your niece and your safety. Have you thought of doing anything that might ensure you are not in danger?” asked Madeline.

“Probably to move, that is all I can think of. With our inheritance, we can finally afford to leave here, but not until we know Polly is safe,” said Anna.

“Polly?” said Madeline.

“Mary Ann’s nickname is
Polly
. Her father always called her that. Although Helen and I were born here, we also are part Polish. Our father was English with the name of Nichols, but our mother was a Polish immigrant from Warsaw. Whitechapel is made up primarily of immigrants that fled Poland and other areas such as Russia. We are Polish Catholic, but there are many Polish Jews that live in Whitechapel. Our father was Protestant but allowed our mother to bring us up in the Catholic religion. It is difficult to break the poverty bonds that hold us here. The immigrants overflow into England, most looking for opportunity, but finding poverty.

Our uncle Walter, they called him Slim, moved to America. Being single, he was able to travel freely, hoping one day to see us all again. We heard little from him and assumed he was dead until we received the news from the solicitor that he had left us money in his will. Although they did not mention Polly, as we are the only surviving children of the brothers, we would like to share what we can with her, and hope she might be able to make a new start of it,” said Anna.

“I understand completely. It was very difficult for my father to support us before he became a physician. I remember my mother saying they both worked at many things to bring income. That included sewing, baking, shoeing horses, and anything to provide while he was instructed in medicine. Even now, he is solvent, but nothing in the way of a lavish living by any means.