Stalking Jack: The Hunt Begins... (Madeline Donovan Mysteries Book 1) Page 13

  “I will get it,” volunteered Jonathan.

  He handed it to Hugh and said, “It gave me a great deal of unhappiness to write this news. He is a ghost, this murderous fiend. Everyone I spoke with that was near the area saw nothing, heard nothing; it defies logic.”

  “Let us hope Scotland Yard will turn every detective into the streets of Whitechapel and apprehend this man.”

  “Are you staying, Madeline?” asked Jonathan.

  “No, I think I will return to the Hotel George, but I will first speak with the other ladies, Felicia, and the twins and be sure they will attend to them. I think they will be more comfortable with long-time friends at this time.”

  “I will wait for you and escort you home,” said Jonathan.

  “I would like that.”

  She hugged the aunts who looked to be in a trance, and then upon an impulse asked to speak to the doctor.

  “Doctor, I wonder if you would consider giving me also a small amount of medicine. I feel quite unwell myself. I know it is an imposition, but…”

  “Do not trouble yourself my child. These are terrible times for us all, but I can see that you look a fright and almost in as bad a shape as Anna. I will give you some, but just a small amount. I must warn you; they extract the powder from the plant that produces opium. It is addictive, but not in this small amount, and not if you do not use it again, which I trust from the looks of you is the last thing you would do.”

  “Thank you, doctor—may I count on your discretion with your nephew, Hugh?”

  “Of course, I am a doctor—it will remain between us alone,” he promised as he touched her arm.

  “You are kind. I know now I will be able to bear this terrible news.”

  August 31, 1888

  This day will never be forgotten, although it will always be one we wish we could. It was not so long ago that I wrote in this journal my hopes that I could succeed in finding and protecting the aunts’ niece Polly Nichols. Today I must write that Polly has met her end at the hands of Jack at approximately three in the morning in the area of Buck’s Row. She was brutally attacked by the butcher of Whitechapel, cut in an abhorrent manner, but it has been said that death was swift.

  Anna and Helen are in shock, but through the mercy of Hugh’s uncle, a bone doctor, they have been given medicinal powders to soothe them. Hugh and Jonathan have given me their assurances they will assist the aunts in any way they are able. They have also said they will continue to support me in my effort to seek this maniacal killer. My resolve now is solid, and I will not falter in my quest for this ethereal figure who escapes justice.

  She had become more at ease in her mind now. The powder Dr. Scott had given her had fulfilled its purpose. She did not remember when she was so clear headed or when there was no tremor whatsoever in her hands. If the aunts responded half as well, this medicinal wonder would get them through this. She did not mention the taking of it in her journal, in the event anyone should ever refer to it and think it was an unwise action. This was something private, very private. In the world she now resided, she attempted to deal with as best she could. She did not see the harm in doing whatever she had to do as an escape to the perpetual agony that plagued her.

  She would write father and finally confess to him all that had happened. She knew he would be frantic, but she would try to ease his mind by reminding him of her friendship with the two gentlemen that were, in a sense, her protection.

  The Hotel George bustled with conversation; you could hear the anxiety in people’s voices as they talked about the murder. An unholy aura hovered in the air. She would retire early today so that tomorrow she could pursue again in earnest her quest. She once again sent messages to both Hugh and Jonathan in the hopes that one might escort her to Whitechapel. She felt a peaceful lightness of her body as if she was floating in a fairy tale. She knew now despite everything that had happened that the medicine would give her the gift of sleep.

  September 1, 1888

  This hideous, murderous intruder, who inserts himself into the lives of those we love, those we have befriended, this thing—this horror, sleeps while Polly is dead. Dead she is, dead as hell, dead as nails in a coffin, dead as the dust that is her bones. This creature of mortal degradation walks the same streets as my friends and I. He is pure evil that someone must destroy. How dare he exist and do his ugly deed? How dare life produce this maggot?

  When Madeline woke the next morning, she saw her journal opened with scratchy pen marks drifting in and out of a horizontal line. She read the words with curiosity, as she did not recall writing them. Her head was throbbing, and her stomach ached from not eating anything the previous day but a few biscuits. She called down for room service to bring her a full breakfast of eggs and muffins instead of the jam and toast she had for breakfast. The hot tea soothed her throat, and she rested the hot cup against her forehead, the heat relieving the pulsing vibration that was painful. She reread what she had written, and then took the pen and scratched the notation out. Her words looked to her as if an alien hand had written them. They were still perceptible, and she decided instead to rip the entire page out. She rationalized that the distressing news of Polly, lack of sleep and food, and the medicine had contributed to the state of mind that wrote those words.

  When she appeared later downstairs, Clinton handed her a note from Jonathan.

  “Mum, it is your Polly then? When I heard the news, and I remembered our conversations, I thought it might be the same, but I was hoping it wasn’t. How terrible! Is there anything I can do?”

  “No, Clinton, there is nothing any of us can do now except pray that Scotland Yard sends its finest to find this villain and pray for Polly and all the other poor souls who endeavor to survive this life in such an unsavory way that they put their very life at risk.”

  She went near the fireplace in the foyer to read his note.

  Madeline,

  As you can imagine, the paper has me working late hours to obtain whatever current information there is about this latest situation. I don’t believe I will be available for several days, but I will leave word if I am. I promise you if I get any concrete new leads, you will be among the first to know.

  Jonathan

  There was a small amount of powder left, and she gratefully mixed it in with her absinthe, she didn’t know if mixing it with alcohol would affect her negatively, but she didn’t care. She knew Hugh would also be working and unavailable; she certainly couldn’t ask the aunts so she decided she would brave the streets alone. After all, other women did it, and she was now familiar with the streets.

  Her driver, Conrad, was accustomed to taking her there, but after the recent murder, he felt that she shouldn’t continue her trips to Whitechapel.

  “Are you sure you want me to leave you here, Mum?”

  “Yes, Conrad, you are kind to be concerned, but I will be all right.”

  “But do you want me to wait for you Mum in the event you might need me?”

  “I would gladly say yes, but I have no idea how long I will be.”

  “Please do tell Clinton where I am so that he may inform anyone who may try to reach me.”

  When he left, she shivered for a moment, but the effects of the powder were taking hold, and she felt a new kind of courage she had not felt since Russell was alive.

  She knew what she must do; she would have to go to Buck’s Row. She wanted to speak to anyone that might be lingering around the site.

  There were many people congregating on the street as if they were going to the theater. She couldn’t tell if they were horrified or just fascinated.

  “Miss, have you heard anything at all about that night?”

  “Who are you?” asked the young woman of the streets.

  “I was a friend of Polly’s.”

  “You don’t look like a friend of Polly’s. You ain’t a walker, is ya’?”

  “No, but I was, well, perhaps more of a friend to her aunts. I’m trying to find out anything that I can
for their sake.”

  “I knew her; everyone about here knew her. When she had the drink, she wasn’t pretty or nice. She could be mean, and some of the gents pushed her 'round a bit.”

  “Did you hear any of them speaking about seeing her recently?”

  “That fellow whats calls himself a Bobby, I forget his name, but he’s always flashing his badge about. He was talking at the Queen’s Head last evening and saying he was the last to see her. He said he had warned her about going out.”

  “Do you mean, Mr. Motts?”

  “Yes, hey, I thought you said you weren’t a walker. How’d you know about him?”

  “I’ve been down these streets many times lately seeking Polly; he was someone I spoke to.”

  “He’s a pushy sort of man, always preaching to the likes of us girls about our ungodly ways like he be the better of us, haha. He be no better than any of the sorry men who come here. They say if ya’ cross him, he’s sooner put your eye out than back down. Mean, he is, like most of the men down here.”

  She walked past the area near the stables where they attacked Polly. Just like Martha Tabram, the blood-stained sidewalk was evident, and people were walking over the spot as if they were walking over the chalk of sidewalk hopscotch instead of the life’s blood of a human being. The coldness of it came over her, and she moved away from the site and towards the direction of the pub.

  There wasn’t anything peculiar about seeing an unescorted woman in Whitechapel, if anything; it was more the norm, so she passed unnoticed through the crowds. Mr. Motts was easy to spot as she tended to see him sitting in the same spot at the bar. She took a seat close enough so she could overhear him.

  “What did she think was going to happen to her? Walking the streets drunk, alone and without sixpence in her pocket to give her shelter and with that man about, it’s no surprise to me I tell you, no surprise at all—the likes of her never live long.”

  Several men approached her asking if she was in need of company or anything else, so she decided she needed to insert herself into the conversation and be part of a group instead of being fair game for solicitation.

  “Mr. Motts, these poor women, they have no choice. They did not choose the street; it came to be because of some misfortune in their life.”

  “Do I know you? How is it you know my name?” asked Motts.

  “We met once before. At that time, I was looking for Polly. Someone found her body, and she will be troubled no more.”

  “Oh, yes, I think I do recall. You were with some man. Sorry, didn’t mean to offend ya’ but everyone’s gots misfortunes, but they don’t all end up here.”

  “But you seem to place judgment on them that is harsh almost as if you are glad she has passed.”

  “Her troubles is over, ain’t they?”

  “She had friends and family; I’m sure just as you do.”

  “So we’ll drink to her then. Here’s to old Pearly Poll hopes ya’ rest in peace.”

  The other men and women around them raised their glasses, some of the men had smirks on their faces appeared unaffected, but the women knew it could have just as easily been them, some weeping, and some hugging each other.

  She felt bolstered by the feeling the powder gave her and said, “Mr. Motts, where were you when Polly died? Perhaps you dislike the women of Whitechapel too much?”

  A look of rage came over his face, and he answered, “Is you a copper then, did you gets the right to question the likes of me. What female trickery is this? I’ll not bother with ya’, you’re not worthy getting me anger up.”

  With that, he turned away from her and began a raucous conversation with the two men beside him. She had thought what she said would shock those around them, but no one paid any mind to her accusations or to his reaction. It was more of a joke to them than an accusation.

  A young woman who had heard their conversation touched her arm and said, “Miss, I don’t know about that old man being anywhere near poor Polly, but I heard the royal coach was about that night. I heard one of me lady friends say it was a proper gent who came a calling on her with fine clothes and a grand carriage. She said she thought he might be a doctor as she saw a black satchel bag inside his carriage.”

  “Thank you for that information. I have heard too that a mysterious man comes in a royal carriage to these streets. Do you know anything about him?”

  “She says he prefers the lash and other painful practices. It ain’t many who agree to be with him. Annie’s the one who goes with him. She’s got the addiction, like most of us, but she gots it bad, and she’ll go with him just the same.”

  “Do you know where I might find Annie? I would like to speak with her. Polly was the niece of some dear friends of mine, and I am trying to find out anything I can in the hopes we might get some clues to this person’s identity.”

  “She likes the Ten Bells. It’s better than most round here and treats us kindly.”

  “May I ask your name? You’ve been most kind to help me.”

  “It’s Patty, just Patty. If I sees ya’ and know anything else, I’ll tell ya’. It could have been me what's lying out there dead. I hope they catch him right soon.”

  She had felt more self-assured and steady on her feet than she had ever felt. Before she left Whitechapel, she would stop to visit the aunts. She was strong enough to face them now.

  When she entered the Ten Bells, she was happy to see Patrick Rooney tending bar.

  “Patrick, do you remember me? I’m Mrs. Donovan. You were so kind as to give Polly our message.”

  “Yes, Mum, I remember you well enough. How could I forget? It’s a tragedy; it is.”

  “It is Patrick, but nonetheless, Polly did come home and spent some time with her family and for that we are grateful.”

  “I am seeking more information that you might know about, Patrick. I am looking for a woman called Annie Chapman.”

  Before Patrick could answer, a man came up behind her and whispered in her ear with gravel voice, “Annie, it is you want now. You have a fascination with the low life of Whitechapel, do ya’?”

  She turned, and the face of Bob Fielding was staring at her within an inch of her face. She had never seen his face so plainly before, and her instinct was to turn away. It was gruesome, the twisted flesh and his one drooping eye.

  “Mr. Fielding, good afternoon to you, sir.”

  “I see you have made these parts your second home. Do you not fear the wretchedness of the place?”

  “I would be a fool not to have some fear, but I try to be here in the day only.”

  “Even in the day, there are pickpockets and gruesome hateful people like me,” he said laughing, a cruel laugh.

  She did not push him about his whereabouts like she did Mr. Motts; there was something sinister about him that made her stop.

  Before she left, Patrick said, “Mrs. Donovan, I will tell Annie you would like to speak with her, but as she doesn’t know you, I doubt she will.”

  “Will you tell her I will pay her for her time, six-pence, enough for a night’s lodging?”

  “For that, she might.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The Benefits of Opium

  She left to go to Mumford Street, hoping the same powder that had given her new strength had done the same for Anna and Helen. As she approached their home, she saw Dr. Scott walking away down the street, and she called after him. He turned and walked toward her.

  “Dr. Scott, how are they?”

  “Not well, but surviving as best as they can. They are no longer under my care; our local Doctor Bowman is attending them now, as he is more of a general physician. I dropped in to check on them as a courtesy. How are you, Mrs. Donovan?”

  “I have been renewed by your medicine. I have to say it has been a great comfort to me. If I may ask, do you think I could receive any more from you?”

  He hesitated for a moment, and then laid a hand upon her shoulder in a fatherly manner, “Mrs. Donovan, I don’t presume to know yo
u, but I do know the effects of opium. It is highly addictive and should not be taken without great precaution.”

  She looked down and said, “I understand. I wouldn’t have asked, but it has so relieved me.”

  She didn’t know exactly why, but suddenly found she was telling Dr. Scott about her own personal tragedy. Perhaps she spoke because he was a doctor, perhaps because of his kind eyes and also because he of his relation to Hugh, she decided to trust him. For all these reasons, she told him of things she hadn’t spoken of to anyone.

  After she had finished, he placed his hand in his pocket and gave her a bottle of powder.

  “Mrs. Donovan, used sparingly, it will get you through the next week to ten days, but remember that I warned you about its powers. Please be careful. Hugh has spoken of you in detail and has told me of the high regard he has for you. If he should believe I have caused you harm instead of comfort, he would never forgive me, nor could I forgive myself.”

  “Dr. Scott, thank you. Whatever shall befall me, I could never fault you, but only thank you for these blessed days I will have of a respite from my continued grieving. Thank you, thank you.”

  She grabbed his hand in gratitude and told him how fond she was of Hugh and what a fine nephew he had.

  She proceeded then to the aunts’ home.

  “Dear Madeline, come in,” said Helen.

  Anna was sitting in the kitchen sipping on tea, and they joined her.

  “How are you? Are you coping?” Madeline asked.

  “As much as we can, the doctor has given us medicine, and that has relieved the tremors. We went to see her. The coroner requested we identify her. Madeline, she was bruised over her eye and had other signs that she had been assaulted even before the attack. What kind of life did she have and then to die such a death, it is the saddest epitaph a person could have,” said Anna.

  “It so distresses me to think of how this ended when we had such plans. We have thought of moving from this place, maybe even going to America,” said Helen.