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

  “And whether you reside in London or Chicago, you will always remain my friend. May I hold you for a moment?”

  He looked at her, still somewhat pale from his injury, warmth in his eyes, and she walked without hesitation into his embrace. They stood together for several moments, holding each other, her head lying gently upon his shoulder. The memory and feeling of someone loving her came crashing back to her, and she saw the vision of her family all around her, but she did not move away, clinging to him through the wash of pain.

  “I could not imagine not being your friend. I feel now you will always be a part of my life,” said Madeline.

  “I will hold you to that remark. Will you venture into Whitechapel before returning to the George today?”

  “I think I will.”

  “Then I will go with you, this time, and I will count on your gracious disposition to not resist this injured man you are with.”

  She was about to protest, but she did want his company and although she wanted him to rest, he was an adult and like her would make his own decisions.

  She took his arm, more to steady him and he leaned against her. She liked that he needed her; it was a pleasant feeling to have someone need you.

  When they took their seats at the bar of Ten Bells, Patrick came almost immediately to them.

  “Hugh, it is good to see you here. Madeline told me what happened. I think I may be able to help you. I think I may have seen him…the old man. He was talking with the old codger, Motts. It looked like he was trying to get him to leave, but they definitely knew each other.”

  “That’s excellent. Did you see him just the one time?” asked Madeline.

  “Yes, and like I said, I’m not positive, but I’m relatively certain.”

  There was no sign of Motts or the others they usually saw, and after an hour or so, Hugh was feeling the pain from sitting up, and from having been so active for several hours.

  “Do you mind terribly if we leave? I think I might need to lie down again,” said Hugh.

  “We have spent too much time down here, but it has been for a good cause. If we never find him, I will still feel better that we tried,” said Madeline.

  He leaned once more against her, and they walked back towards his home. They turned down High Street and there he was. They both noticed him at once. “That’s him,” said Hugh. “I’m certain that’s the old man.”

  “He is familiar to me, also. I think that’s the man who delivered the note.”

  “I cannot walk or run with any speed, go ahead, Madeline. I will wait for you here.”

  She squeezed his hand and although she did not run, she walked with great speed towards him. When she was almost upon him, he exited into the market and there mingled with a multitude of people, but then she saw him again and gave chase, this time with a full running gait.

  He finally noticed her and began to dart through the crowd. When he became momentarily blocked by a heavy-set couple, he stopped, and Madeline confronted him.

  “You, sir, you are the man who delivered a note containing threats to me, and you assaulted my very dear friend. You will stay here. I will have these men detain you while I call the constable.”

  “You must be daft. You cannot prove that, and no one’s calling the coppers on me. You leave me son alone, or you’ll be sorrier for it, do you hear? You’ll be sorry.”

  With that, he hobbled off out of sight.

  She returned to find Hugh seated on a bench near the market.

  “It was him. We did have the right man. I tried to detain him, but he got away. He said we didn’t have any right to hold him. I suppose we could never prove it was him.”

  “He is probably right. Now that he has been found out, it is unlikely he will try anything again.”

  “He said something curious. He said to leave his son alone. I can only surmise from his words that he is the father of Mr. Motts. Patrick said he saw the old man talking to him. So, for some reason, the old man believes that we have been troubling his son and wants us to stop. What does the son have to hide, I wonder?”

  “Do you think he might be involved with the Ripper case?”

  “I have always thought Motts could be involved, but recently had put that to rest and had dismissed him as a suspect.”

  “Do you mind if we go back to Ten Bells? I think I will give Patrick my address. I live close enough and could make it back here quick enough if Patrick should send word he has returned,” said Hugh.

  They were back at Ten Bells within minutes.

  “Madeline, is that him?”

  The old man had his back turned towards them and hunched over while speaking to the younger Motts, who was once more dressed out in his police uniform.

  “They are deep in conversation, we may be able to come up behind them without anyone noticing,” said Hugh.

  Before either man was aware, the two of them were behind them. There was no exit for either of them, and Hugh tapped the older man on the shoulder.

  He had the look of any guilty man at being caught―fear. The younger Motts, unaware of why they were there stood and began to push Hugh back.

  “Is this your father,” asked Madeline.

  “What’s it to you?” asked Motts.

  “It means quite a lot to us. Your father attacked me recently and sent threatening notes of doing harm to Mrs. Donovan.”

  “What? Is this true father?” said Mr. Motts, the son.

  “I did it for you son, only for you,” said the father.

  “What do you mean you did it for me? What’s this all about? Will someone tell me? Patrick another whiskey…for me and me father.”

  “If you look at this gentleman, you can still see the marks from the attack on this man. I can only say that perhaps when we were asking questions about you with regards to the Ripper, your father didn’t like that. Or perhaps, your own father thinks you are the Ripper because of the way you manhandle the women around here, treating them like dirt, pushing them around,” said Madeline.

  “My son’s no murderer, don’t even speak it, or there will be blows, I tell you,” said the old man.

  “What have you done? Did you do it…hit this man?” asked Mr. Motts.

  “I’m not saying anything; I did what any father would do for his boy.”

  “You can go to jail for what you did and how do you think you would survive as old and frail as you are. Do you expect me not to press charges?” said Hugh.

  “Look…what can I do to make up for what my father did. He’s an old man; he didn’t know what he was doing. Please, I’m begging you not to take him to jail.”

  “Why did your father think you needed protecting? Is it because of your mistreatment of the women of Whitechapel?” Hugh continued.

  “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 9th 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 colorin
g 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.