Stalking Jack: The Hunt Begins... (Madeline Donovan Mysteries Book 1) Page 17

  She had not seen herself in anything of color since Russell was alive. She had purchased a bright green frock with painted red roses. She added large white beads and had brought some flowers for her hair. She laughed when she looked at herself in the mirror and once again hesitated; then she thought again about Polly and the other women and knew she must proceed. She took her powder and placed her money in her boot in the event someone tried to steal her satchel. She had her revolver and a knife strapped to her leg under her dress.

  “Well, Russell, this is it,” she said as she touched their photo. “I hope we will talk later about my adventure.”

  She fidgeted in the carriage and knew her heart was beating in a strange thumping way. Her nerves could not be calmed even with her powder. When she stepped into the streets and put her hat on and took her coat off, she felt as if she had changed into another person. As she began to walk towards the Ten Bells, she felt the impact immediately. People shoved her and said unkind things under their breath and in no way treated her as if she were a lady or anyone deserving of respect or simple human courtesy.

  If she saw Mr. Fielding or Mr. Motts, she thought they might still recognize her so she would try to be as near to them as possible them seeing her. She would be obscure now as she looked like the other woman that walked the streets.

  It was still early, nine; she planned on staying in the area till midnight, but would base that on the level of safety she could attain.

  Men approached her, but she turned her into the bar, “Bourbon, please,” she said in hushed tones and did not look up into the face of Patrick Rooney.

  She slipped her money on the bar, and he said nothing. In the crowded place, he was hustling the drinks as fast as he could make them. He didn’t show any recognition of her at all. Within the hour, Mr. Motts was with a group of men at a table talking loudly and smoking a foul cigar. She moved closer so she could observe him.

  “Come here, girly, and sit on me lap,” he said as he dragged one of the girls to him.

  “I’ll sit here all night if you gots six pence for me,” replied the drunken lady.

  He pushed her off and said, “Begone, you dirty little tramp.”

  He turned to the man on his left and said, “I think there’s not a woman left in Whitechapel that’s not selling herself. It isn’t holy, I tell you, it just isn’t right.”

  She was wearing an old pair of glasses she had found in a shop. They were ornate with large rims that made her look ridiculous, but she thought it fit her purpose. She had colored her cheeks and let strands of hair fall across her face. If he didn’t look directly at her, he might not recognize her.

  She began a conversation with a woman next to her, “Look, Miss, you’re not going to get nowhere sitting here. You got to mingle with the gents.”

  “No, I’m not looking, just out for the night to drink, that’s all, got to have me drink,” said Madeline.

  “I see you dones got your money already. Hope you have a fine night.”

  “Look at that one over there,” Mr. Motts said pointing to her. “Sits there so quiet like, I guess she thinks she’s a lady.”

  With that, all the men in earshot started laughing, and she decided to move away.

  “I didn’t mean to offend ya’, come here,” he said as he reached out from his seat and tried to grab her arm.

  She pulled away from him with her head down, now wondering how she was going to accomplish her mission if everyone poked and picked at her. She started to move towards the door thinking she might go to the Queens Head when Bob Fielding appeared and began to push through to the long bar. She would stay a little longer now and observe them both.

  Bob Fielding always looked at her as if he could see through to her soul, and she thought if anyone recognized her, it would be him, so she kept some distance between them.

  She watched him scowling and yelling at everyone, as usual, but the noise level in the pub was such that no one paid much attention to him. She saw he drank his ale with his left hand but cut his meat with his right. As he used both hands to navigate, she wasn't sure if he was right or left handed. When Mr. Motts got up to leave, it was nearly midnight. She was thinking of returning to the George but then thought she might wish to follow him and leave Mr. Fielding be for the time being.

  He wobbled in his gait, the drink asserting itself upon him. Now she could follow closely for he was inebriated to the degree that he didn’t seem to notice his surroundings. She walked behind, closely gathered to a group of three women who didn’t seem to mind she was tagging along beside them. Walking around a corner into a narrow side street, two girls stood in doorways pandering to him. He walked over to one and tried to touch her breast, but she screamed, and he backed away. Several other men were also approaching the young woman; one man looked to her to be Harry Nelson. She was so near to him now; she could touch him. She turned to walk in the other direction when he touched her sleeve.

  “Miss, I go in search of a lady called Margaret Dobson. Do you know her?”

  She kept her head down and replied “no”. She watched him continue down the street speaking to everyone in the dimly lit gangway. Then he disappeared around a corner, and she could see him no more. Mr. Motts had slumped onto the street pavement and now was passed out against the wall.

  She decided to go in search of a Hansom to take her back to the George, but then she saw a woman hand a man a small package. She approached her. “I’m looking to buy some medicine for what ails my wretched back. Do you have such a pain reliever?” asked Madeline.

  “I do, Miss, but just a little and I dare not want to part with it. It helps me to sleep.”

  “Oh, I see.” She was about to depart when the woman said, “But I will for a price.”

  “Name it.

  She concluded her transaction and felt she had accomplished that at least. She would have the substance to alleviate her sweating and recurring trembling.

  When she was arrived safely back at the George, all she could think of was a hot bath, but it would have to wait till morning. She crawled into her warm bed after lighting the fireplace, lying awake still with thoughts of the night.

  She called Russell’s name into the night, lying half between slumber and wakefulness, restlessly moving about the bed…searching.

  “Calm yourself, I am here. You must be at peace in your heart, or you will not do well, Madeline,” said Russell.

  “I have needed you; I have needed you so, and you did not come to me.”

  “But I am here now, and you must rest. You know I cannot appear at any random time. Our visits will be rare and short, but still they will continue as long as you consume the opium and tonight I see you have taken more than usual.”

  “No…that is not so. I have taken only what I need. You cannot understand what it is like to be alive without you and the children. You cannot fault me for it. You cannot…please.”

  “Oh, my dear, do not weep. I could never fault you for anything. I am just worried about you; that is all. I see by your discarded apparel that you went to Whitechapel as a low woman.”

  “I did. It was an experience. The way people pushed me and treated me as if I was either invisible or like unwanted garbage, it was terrible. These women go through this, night after night, and then some end with their throats slit. I saw Mr. Motts and Mr. Fielding. I followed Motts, but he passed out from drink. I abandoned walking behind Fielding so that I could follow Motts, but Russell, the person I didn’t expect to see, was Harry Nelson. He is the man who…”

  “Yes, I remember you speaking of him. What do you suppose he was doing there? He is a farmer, right?”

  “Yes, I don’t know much more than that other than he appears to be sickly, but a fine, gentle sort of man. He was looking for someone. He didn’t appear to be soliciting, but it was strange.”

  “There is your answer. He was looking for someone and someone who probably walks the street at night, and that is why he is there. You went looking for Polly; p
erhaps it is a similar situation.”

  “Yes, that could be why.”

  “How are you feeling? You look better than last time, but you do not look at all like the Madeline I remember.”

  “No, that carefree young girl is gone forever. Russell…I wish I could hold you…”

  She began to drift into sleep, and Russell once again exited by the window, the moonlight streaming in and his wispy vision intermingling as she closed her eyes.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Rocks and Jenny

  September 18, 1888

  These past days have proven to be difficult; sometimes I feel fine, and other times that a sickness in me consumes me and that does not seem to dissipate. I have taken some medicine, but its effect is not the same unless I consume more of it than before. This is troubling to me, as I cannot concentrate as well. It is definitely a different point of view going into Whitechapel as a woman of the evening. It makes me uncomfortable that people view me as a low woman, but still there is a peculiar freedom in the blending in and being part of this disturbing world. I will be going back again soon.

  She had not seen Jonathan for over a week now, and Hugh for even longer as he continued to remain in poor health. She wrote him that she wanted to come to see him, but he declined, stating he didn’t wish for her to be contaminated by his illness. She wondered if she should visit the aunts and tell them what she was about but then thought better of it. They were distressed enough over Polly and everything that had already occurred in their neighborhood.

  Clinton had called for her carriage, and she found her way back to Whitechapel. She went to the market, this time, to see if she might still see Rocks. She saw her in her usual blood-soaked apron, although she was about to leave, she reconsidered, deciding to stay and observe her. Madeline purchased some tea and chocolates, following a short distance behind Rocks. She was walking with her arm around a shorter, stocky woman and was speaking to her in a strange way. Madeline wondered if Rock’s experience with her husband had somehow changed her to the degree that she now sought out female company. She continued to walk behind them as they entered the Ten Bells, the closest pub in distance to the market.

  She sat a few chairs down from them.

  “Martha, have yourself an ale, it’s me treat. Ya’ done a good days work—you’re a good woman. You didn’t go down the path of these women, like her,” said Rocks to the shy lady beside her as she pointed towards Madeline.

  Madeline had to cover her mouth to hide her smile.

  She had ordered some bourbon from Patrick Rooney. She tried to keep from directly looking at him, but she had been turned towards him to look at Rocks. This time, he lingered in front of her but said nothing. She had hoped to see Fielding or Motts, but neither were there, at least, not yet.

  She moved closer towards Rocks and said, “So you don’t like me. You probably didn’t like Annie Chapman or Polly Nichols, but did you not like ‘em enough to hurt ‘em.”

  Surprisingly she laughed and said, “Sure I could of killed ‘em with my bare hands, that’s me all right, the ax murderer, Rocks the Red.”

  “You’re the butcher at the market, I seen ya’ there. You’d know how to slice someone up,” said Madeline.

  “I might even enjoy it. One less woman like that in the streets makes this a better place. I’d say the Ripper done us a service.”

  “Maybe you’re the one who’s done the service.”

  “That’s a big accusation coming out of a mouth so small. You ought to be careful what you say ‘round here—course not that I care about the likes of someone like you.” Rocks ignored her after that, but Patrick didn’t. “Compliments of the house,” he said as he brought her bourbon, the leaned in and said in whispered voice, “Mrs. Donovan.”

  “Oh...don’t give me away, please.”

  “What are you playing at, Mum?”

  “The same as before, Patrick—trying to find out anything I can.”

  He shook his head and said, “Be careful, Mum, it’s a dangerous thing to be alone and looking like that in Whitechapel. I’m afraid for you.”

  “I know there is some risk, but I will take it. I will always remember Polly when I think I am afraid, and that will stiffen my reserve.”

  “Rocks, she’s a hot-tempered, foul-mouthed woman, but murder?”

  “I don’t know either, but that’s what I’m hoping to find out.”

  “If Scotland Yard can’t find him, what makes you think you can?”

  “I have the advantage that no one knows I’m looking.”

  Rocks began to stagger with her friend out of the bar; they were singing and leaning on each other.

  She followed closely, feeling that she was too drunk to notice her. They rounded the corner, when suddenly Rocks swirled around and confronted her, a small knife in her hand, “What in hell do you think you’re doing, are you following us?”

  “I’m just going in this direction. I have family I’m going to.”

  “You’re a queer one. I saw you looking at me at the bar. Ain’t you supposed to be looking for men, not women?”

  “I’m not looking for anything. I told you, I’m going to my family’s home.”

  She pushed her slightly back and said, “Then keeps your distance from me. I don’t like ya’. Better be careful the same thing don’t happen to you as whats happen to Chapman.”

  She said nothing, but let them walk ahead. She realized she was not very good at being a detective, but she hoped to get better.

  She was leaning up against the building wall where Rocks had pushed her when she saw the carriage arrive and stop. A tall, burly man stepped out and motioned to her to come forward. The carriage had the royal markings Annie described. As she began walking towards it, every nerve was jangling in her. She wanted to run the other way but felt compelled to go forward.

  “Miss, the gentleman would like to know if you’re in need of company.”

  She wanted to get a look at him, but he did not leave the carriage.

  “What exactly do you mean, sir? I mean, I might need a bite to eat.”

  “Come sit in the carriage a moment, and we’ll see if we can come to an agreement.”

  Her leg was shaking as she placed it inside. She looked at him dead-eyed. He wasn’t the monster she thought he would be. He had dark eyes, but his face was clean shaven except for a handlebar mustache. He had silver streaks through his dark hair for what she could see of it under his hat. He wore gold spectacles and had a small scar on his left cheek. He was thin, to the point of being gaunt, but still had color on his face.

  “Would you like company this evening?” he said with the softest of voices, almost inaudible.

  “I’m very hungry, sir, and would like something to eat, but I don’t have enough money.”

  “If I pay for your food, what would you give me?”

  “I’m not a low woman, sir. I’m sorry if you think that of me. I earn me money by selling flowers.”

  “You’re not a wise woman then. Why would you come into my carriage?”

  “I was cold, sir, and wanted to warm my hands and hoped you’d buy me flowers?”

  “Where are your flowers?”

  “There on the step outside, sir.”

  She said this because she knew he would never bother to see if she were telling the truth.

  He took her by the wrist and held it tightly, a scowl coming over his face, “What do you think you are doing? I could take you away from here right now and pay you nothing.”

  “Oh, no, sir, I knows you be a gentleman that’s why I come into your carriage. I see you are of noble birth.”

  “Get out…get out and never bother me again.”

  She jumped from the carriage, making mental notes of what she observed. She ran until she found a cab. The driver, after appraising her attire had first declined her entrance, thinking she wouldn’t have the money to pay the fare. She took her money out to show him she would have the fare and then jumped into the coach. She pu
lled off her garish hat and placed her coat over her. Taking a handkerchief, she wiped off her makeup. She was shaking, not understanding why she had taken the risk of getting into the carriage. There had been other people about, but she doubted if they would have come to her aid if she needed it.

  The sight of the Hotel George and the doorman standing properly outside gave her such a feeling of joy; she almost cried. She was home, a kind of a home—certainly a safe place where no fear resided within its walls.

  “Mum, you look a fright. May I help you to your room? The hour is very late,” said Clinton.

  “Thank you…yes, please walk with me. Clinton, may I confess something to you?”

  “Of course, Mum.”

  “These nightly jaunts I have been on, I have been in Whitechapel trying to find out information on Polly’s death and the other poor girls. I had to tell someone, but I must have your word it will stay with you.”

  “I will, but I give it with reluctance. Please call on me, if I can be of assistance to you.”

  “You work here at The George the same hours that I go there, so you would never be available, besides I don’t intend to put you in any danger. This is something I am bringing to myself.”

  “Do you need a late bath; I can do that at least? I will send the night maid up.”

  “Oh, yes, Clinton that would be wonderful. Thank you.”

  Her clothes smelled of the noxious gas and smells of Whitechapel. She hadn’t been aware while she was there, but now, in the clean, fresh aired suite, she wanted to discard them out the window. She took them and hung them near the open window, trying to air them out. The clothing blowing in the wind, with the room dimly lit, appeared as a person’s shadow moving about in the moonlight.