Stalking Jack: The Hunt Begins... (Madeline Donovan Mysteries Book 1) Read online

  “Mostly because of you, Madeline.”

  She smiled up at him, and for a moment she thought he would try to kiss her, but then he took her hand gently and touched his lips to it.

  “Till tomorrow then,” said Madeline.

  Chapter Ten

  Victim Two

  August 29, 1888

  It was a long, disappointing evening. Though I did not hold out much hope that we would find Polly, the search was, at least, a way of using our energy in a positive manner, instead of pacing or being restless, with no sleep at all.

  We saw the royal carriage, and I saw Rocks at the Horn of Plenty. Of course, she still had blood splatter on her. It was unfathomable to see such abandon in the way Whitechapel inhabitants live their life. Perhaps Polly might come back of her own volition if she needs money or is too unwell to stay on the streets. I don’t know what the aunts will do if Polly does not return.

  Hugh arrived in the early afternoon, and they went directly to the aunts’ house to inform them that they would be in the area. Anna and Helen felt uncomfortable accepting their help but knew they had to try to find Polly after seeing how unwell she was and that she had no means of support but the little cash they had given to her.

  “Of all the places I had thought I might spend time in before I set sail for London, it never occurred to me that one might be a place I had never heard of before and after I had seen it the first time, never wished to return,” said Madeline.

  “Why did you, Madeline? I know what you have said, but there’s got to be more than being an amateur sleuth or living out a Holmes fantasy.”

  “You make it sound as if it is some foolish, silly indulgence. Hugh, I know you realize I am a widow, but you have been gracious never to question me. But I will tell you now.”

  She spoke to him as they walked in the fog and inhaled the foul smelling scents. It was an unlikely place to have chosen to speak. When she finished, he was silent, but pulled her towards him in an embrace, not a romantic embrace, but a compassionate one. She accepted it and leaned against him.

  “So you see, for me this is a purpose that keeps me alive. Perhaps there is something I can contribute to life besides unrelenting grieving. If I can help in any way to shed some light, or perhaps find a clue to who this murderer is, or if not, at least, help poor Polly, and then my life will have purpose again.”

  “But what of your father, what if something should happen to you?”

  “I have thought of that, but Father is strong and has his practice, that is why I am here because Father can live independently of me.”

  “I’m sure you know your father, but I cannot imagine anyone living without you, let alone a father. I understand now what drives you.”

  She was comforted by his sentiments, but this was not about her, it was about Polly and all the other women in Whitechapel.

  “I know you will have to return to your position tomorrow, but please send word whenever you might be available. I know I can’t come out into these streets alone in the night.”

  “It has not been a happy day, but you must be strong for the aunts, and I will try and help as I am able.”

  The Hotel George was now a home to her. She liked seeing the familiar faces and knowing the names of the staff who had become her friends. Walking through the doors, they all greeted her and now weren’t surprised when she came in at such a late hour.

  She was exhausted from the stress of it but knew she had to continue. She would go again after her breakfast in the morning.

  August 30, 1888

  I will go on searching for Polly, even if it is a futile task. The streets of Whitechapel have severely depressed me. I can’t imagine, if I had to reside there, what the quality of my life would be. I do not profess that I would be any different than any of the thousand or so the papers report solicit there.

  She did not have any further news to report about her suspects, so she decided the most productive way to spend her time was to return to Whitechapel.

  This time, both Anna and Helen accompanied her. Anna had not been down the unsavory part of her neighborhood in almost a year. She had stopped coming when the smell and the chaos made her ill.

  “My Polly, to think she is lost somewhere in this mess,” said Anna.

  “I know. There is little comfort to give you. It is a kind of hell if you will excuse my saying it so bluntly,” said Madeline. “There is Harry, the man who came to rest at your home.”

  They had walked onto Commercial Street and, as always, it was brimming with people shoving and talking loudly.

  “Harry,” Madeleine called.

  He turned and waved and walked towards them.

  “I see you are back at your sleuthing,” said Harry.

  “No, not this time—the lady you met recently at our home has returned to these dangerous streets, and we are looking for her. Do you remember what she looks like? Perhaps you have seen her.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Madeline, but I don’t recall precisely what she looked like, and I have yet to return to proper thinking as I am still somewhat ill.”

  “You look better, though. What brings you here? You seem to be here as often as we are.”

  He looked at her with squinted eyes as if she had said something inappropriate.

  “I am getting supplies for the farm.”

  “Please let us know if you should hear of her. Her name is Polly Nichols; she sometimes goes by Penny.”

  She jotted down her name and where she could reach her, and gave it to Harry before they departed.

  “Was it me or did Harry seemed a bit agitated that I had asked him why he was here?” said Madeline.

  “He’s just British and doesn’t like anyone to question him about person matters,” said Anna.

  “I think we’ve done all we can today. The barkeeps have our contact information and so do the constables. I am not feeling that well myself today, and I hope you will forgive me if I return to the hotel.”

  “We did not sleep either. I think we should all rest. We will contact you if we hear anything.”

  August 30, 1888

  It was another dreary day, only softened by the faces of my friends. Mr. Motts, Mr. Fielding and, of course, Roxanne are a constant figure seen in Whitechapel, and though I personally think they might be suspects, I can’t help but wonder how many more that make Whitechapel their haven might easily fit the same profile. There is a bitterness that resides upon their tongues, and an anger that seems to live in the hearts of those that I have spoken with. I think most people there would rather rob you than help you in any way. I am frustrated with the lack of progress by Scotland Yard.

  She would try to rest so that tomorrow she could think more clearly.

  She awoke to a rapid, loud beating on her door. Throwing her bed coat on, she hurried to answer the door.

  “Clinton, what is it?”

  “I’m not sure, Mum, but Mr. Franks, the gentleman who has called on your before is downstairs waiting for you.”

  “My goodness, Clinton, it is early, barely six, it must be important. Please tell him I will be right down.”

  She dressed in such a flurry, her mind thinking all manner of thoughts. They’ve found The Ripper—that must be it.

  Jonathan sat in the foyer, and she rushed to greet him.

  “Jonathan, please tell me what is it? It must be of great importance for you to come at this hour.”

  “It is, Madeline. Let’s go to the café and have some tea.”

  “Yes,” she said as she took his arm, hurrying him along.

  She ordered an absinthe instead and braced herself for his news. She stared at him, his face troubled, and his forehead tightened.

  “Madeline, I was woken in the night by a newsboy that I have paid to assist me if he hears anything on the street of relevance. He has been of help to me before. He directed me to Buck’s Row, and when I arrived, there were a great many people milling about. There were a dozen constables and other spectators
.”

  He hesitated and looked down.

  “Go on, Jonathan, go on. It’s the Ripper, isn’t it? They’ve caught him.”

  “No, I’m afraid…I’m afraid it’s, Miss Polly. He’s…killed her.”

  She gripped the end of the table, feeling dizzy, and uncertain of what she had just heard.

  “Jonathan, are you sure? There must be a mistake; it can’t be. Fate cannot be so cruel as this.”

  “It is true. I had already written the accounts in an article that I submitted to the paper before I came here. You will hear it before long, as soon as London is awake. The newsboys are already outside hawking the papers, yelling her name into the wind.”

  “If you would like to read about the details, I have brought a copy of the article that I have submitted.”

  “Jonathan, how will I tell the aunts? It is too impossible of a task.”

  “If you would like, I will go with you. That’s another reason I came straight away to see you. I thought it would be better if someone they know tells them before they see it in the morning news. There had been some talk at the paper that this monster had hit and then ran to another country when the heat came down in Whitechapel, but now the terror returns.”

  “Everything, everything we had feared, every horrible thought I had has somehow come true. This life is hell.”

  “I grant you, it is for everyone who is forced to find survival in Whitechapel. It makes New York look like the city of angels.”

  “Don’t feel uncomfortable to cry in front of me,” he said as he looked at her face contorting.

  “The time for my tears has already come in my life. Now it is time for action.”

  As the carriage drove them to Anna’s house, Jonathan sat close beside her as she read his article.

  August 30, 1888

  Pearly Poll-Latest Victim in Whitechapel’s Series of Murders

  In the early, foggy morning of August 30th, at approximately three in the morning, the work of a heinous murderer was found in Buck’s Row. The police discovered the mutilated body of Mary Ann “Polly” Nicholas near a gated horse slaughterhouse. The two men, who work at the slaughterhouse, thought she was unconscious until they drew nearer to her and saw the horrific slices in her throat. The throat, it was noted, was cut from left to right, with a jagged blade. Her abdomen virtually dissected with deep cuts, and the wounds appeared to be struck with unusual force and violence. Her body was warm as if it had been recent, maybe within moments that she had become deceased. The believed they moved the body, as there was little evidence of blood, but then upon moving the body, a massive amount of congealed blood lie beneath the layered clothing of Polly Nichols.

  Two constables, who had walked by the area within the last 20 minutes, stated they had neither heard nor seen nothing.

  She went on reading the rest of the article, which contained information about Polly’s five children and some information about her next of kin, including the aunts. The article ended noting that the schedule for the autopsy would be the next day.

  When she could read no more, she handed the paper back to Jonathan and leaned against him.

  “Life has handed the aunts a blow that some do not recover from. I do not know them well enough to know if they will be able to cope.”

  “We are here for them, but I don’t know how much help we will be to them. This will be a day they will never forget,” said Jonathan.

  Helen answered the door in her night clothes and looked paralyzed when she saw them. Madeline assumed that she knew their presence at this early hour at their door was not for any social purpose. Anna was still asleep, having become ill with consumption.

  “Oh, dear, why are you here? I mean, I’m glad to see you, but I don’t believe you would be here at this early hour without a dire reason.”

  Madeline sat next to her on the divan that Polly, just a few days ago, had lingered with her comforting shawl. She put her arm around her.

  “You are right. There is no easy way to say this, and even though I have thought and thought of the right way, I believe there is no right way. It is Polly; she has become one of the Ripper’s victims.”

  “What do you mean? Someone attacked her?”

  “She is no longer with us, Helen. I am so sorry. I am without words, but to say I love you, you and Anna, and I wish with all my heart the news about Polly wasn’t true. We all had such hope that she could begin her life anew with the promise of happiness.”

  Helen looked at them both as if she was trying to comprehend what she had said. After a few minutes of terrible silence, she said, “She’s dead. Our Polly is dead. My poor sister, what will we do now?”

  Her voice trailed off, and she walked woodenly into the kitchen and put a pot of water on for tea. Her ghost-like expression chilled Madeline, and she remembered not so long ago that feeling when a neighbor had come to her father’s business seeking her out.

  “Jonathan, perhaps we should bring a doctor here. They are older, and I think perhaps will need some form of sedative.”

  “Madeline, I don’t know how I will do that. I am not familiar with this area in that sense.”

  “Oh, of course not—Hugh and Phillip live but a short distance from here. If you stay with the aunts, I will take a carriage there. He should be still at home at this hour; he will know what to do.”

  “Madeline, Anna is so unwell; I don’t know how I will tell her.”

  “If she still sleeps, perhaps you can wait until I have been able to bring a doctor.”

  “Yes, I will wait. There is nothing left to do now.”

  She looked at Jonathan, and they exchanged grim glances, both their faces filled with sorrow. Helen looked to be in shock. Her eyes looked glazed, but she did not cry—she was lost now in the deep grieving that would probably be there for a long while.

  She would not cry in the presence of the aunts. She could do that for them; she could somehow find the strength to be their shoulder.

  Within minutes, she arrived at Hugh’s home. He did not answer, but she remained knocking at the door, believing he was probably sleeping. Then after ten minutes or so, he answered, sweetly disheveled in a maroon robe.

  “Madeline, come in, come in.”

  “Good morning. You know I would not be here if it wasn’t important.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Do you have some tea?”

  “Yes, give me one moment to collect myself. Phillip is gone to sea as you know, but has left me supplied with tea and cakes.”

  She sat waiting, twisting her gloves and fighting the tremendous urge to break down in tears despite her resolve.

  He touched her hands and lifted her face to his.

  “Whatever it is, please tell me.”

  “Hugh, the very worst thing that I could have ever imagined has happened.”

  She paused as if she could not bear to say the words.

  “Polly..., that monster from hell has killed her. He sliced her throat to the bone.”

  Hugh’s mouth dropped open and for a moment, all he could do was bite his lip.

  “When, when did it happen? Are you sure it is her? Are you sure?”

  “Yes, Jonathan was at my door this morning. He was at the scene. He saw her. She was still lying on the pavement. But I did not come just to tell you, I came hoping you knew how to bring a doctor to the aunts’ house. I am terribly worried that the shock will be too much. I am sure they will need something to calm them.”

  “Of course, at once, I have an uncle who is a doctor. He has medicine at his home; I have seen it. I know my uncle will come. I will order a carriage and take you back to the aunts and then return with my uncle. He lives but a mile from here. My dearest friend, this is a blow. What shall we do? How can we go on and conduct our lives in the midst of this horror?”

  Horror, she thought, it was horror. No other word quite depicted what was happening in Whitechapel.

  Chapter Eleven

  A Healing Powder

  Sh
e returned to Mumford Street to find Anna sitting with Helen. She was, as Madeline might have suspected, nearly to the point of hysteria. She was weeping loudly and pounding her fist into the divan. Helen attempted to calm her, but she also was in a state of shock.

  Madeline and Jonathan tried their best to speak to them, but they looked wild-eyed and appeared to pay no mind to what they were saying.

  “Perhaps we should step outside and let them be alone together,” said Jonathan.

  “Yes, there is little we can do or say now. There is no consoling them. The doctor is the only one who can help them now.”

  They paced outside on the walkway, the silence between them somehow comforting as there was little to say that would not stir pain and discomfort.

  “Jonathan, there is Hugh and a man is with him. Thank goodness, it is the only small comfort we can give to them now.”

  “Madeline, this is my uncle, Travis Scott.”

  “Good morning, please excuse me. I must go to the grieved ladies.”

  “Yes, please—I will not detain you.”

  There would be no pleasantries or small talk. They all had a feeling of helplessness, as to what it was they could do to alleviate any of the aunts' suffering.

  “I will go in and introduce him,” said Hugh. “Hello, Jonathan. I am sorry to be here under these circumstances, but I am happy you have been here for Madeline and the aunts.”

  Jonathan nodded but said nothing. His lips tightened together, and she could see it had affected him as much as the others.

  After just a short while had passed, Hugh came out and said, “My uncle has given them each a powder that will calm them. They will be all right for at least the next several hours. I have sent word to their regular physician as to what has transpired. I am sure he will make his way here before the day finishes.”

  “Thank you. It is such an ugly occurrence. There is little else we can do for them. I have a copy of Jonathan’s article if you would like to know the details of what happened.”