But then someone proper knowledgeable would be able to tell, wouldn’t they?
A new thought sent a shiver of comprehension down her back, as if a fellow passenger had gently lifted the collar of her coat away from her neck and lightly blown inside it.
The Queen’s son fucking a whore? Producing a bastard with her? It didn’t take a lot of brainwork to figure out there’d be merry hell to pay if that kind of story ever made it into the news stands. The sort of merry hell that would put mobs on the streets.
Liz listened to men do their talking over an ale. While there was an affection for ‘dear ol’ Victoria’ – that came as a caveat before ever discussing the royals – there was little love for the rest of them ‘Bavarian scroungers’. Least of all the privileged and pampered Eddy, who seemed to be making it his life’s mission to thumb his nose at every hard-working man with coal dust, nicks-n-cuts and calluses on his hands. Liz had even heard men muttering scary words like ‘revolution’ into the froth of their beer.
Mr Babbitt had been hired to kill all those who knew about Eddy’s carelessness. And now, so this Babbitt appeared to be claiming, these same Mason gentlemen working hard to safeguard Eddy’s reputation wanted to be absolutely certain that their hired killer, their ‘Ripper’, was going to be entirely silent on the matter.
Oh, god ’elp me. And now I know . . .
She felt her legs waver beneath her. For a moment, it was nothing but the swaying press of fellow passengers that was holding her on her feet. Her friend Cath knew none of this, only the few sentences she’d blurted out loud in the room; that Mary was sharing rooms with the killer of those two women – Jack the Ripper.
And Mary clearly hadn’t the first clue about any of this.
Instinct told her to ring the tram’s bell and jump off, to head the other way. To walk away from this right now. Not just this Ripper to fear. God help her, it was powerful men, too. She should get off, walk away. Get out of London. Disappear into some faraway country retreat and never speak to another soul as long as she lived. But then she wondered what it would do to her if she was to read in tomorrow’s paper of a young woman by the name of Mary Kelly found in some yard with her throat sliced back to her spine and her innards pulled out and scattered about the place. And all she’d needed to do to save her was knock on the door and scream to Mary to get out now!
Just knockin’ for ’er, that’s all I’m doing. Ain’t goin’ inside, that’s for sure.
CHAPTER 44
1st October 1888 (11.40 am), Bayswater, London
Now, here’s the thing, Mary . . . it’s going to happen, sooner or later. She realised there was going to come a moment when she said something to John that was a complete contradiction to some earlier lie she’d told him. She imagined he would be polite about it, ponder on it awhile, before calmly asking her to resolve the contradiction. Oh yes, he would be awfully polite about it, not angry, but that was not the point. The point was, too much of that and he would finally figure out that she had been telling him lies and her game would be up. The trust he offered her without question would be gone.
She watched a little boy chasing pigeons around the bandstand in the small park. Fat hands and chubby pink legs tormenting the pigeons eager and impatient to touch down and peck at bread crumbs someone had thrown on the ground.
She wondered if John had actually been curious enough to try the cellar door. No . . . he wouldn’t, though. That was the thing; she was getting used to his little ways. He never seemed to be particularly curious; happy to take the face value of everything she told him. She’d explained it was just dusty bags of coke down there. Dirty, dark and plenty of nasty creepy crawlies. If he really wanted to go take a look, she’d take him down and show him. All the same, she wished she’d pocketed the key instead of sliding it back under the clock’s stand like she had. Almost certain he hadn’t seen her doing that. Almost certain.
She bit her lip.
Should have taken the key.
It was playing on her mind now.
Maybe if he did find the key, he’d unlock the door, open it, and stare down at the steps leading into the blackness. But that’s all he’d do. Like a child, he hated the dark. Whether that was a fear remembered from before or whether it was all part of the damage to his mind, there was no way to know. But she was almost certain he wouldn’t venture down there on his own. Still . . .
Should have taken the key.
Her thoughts drifted onto the other key; a far more important one. The one she hoped was going to tell her – for good or bad – more about who he is.
Who he was, Mary, she corrected herself. Who he was.
Liz said she’d come by some time in the next couple of days with any news she had. Mary was half-hoping that Liz would not turn up. That she’d just taken the money and tossed away the key, laughing at Mary’s gullibility behind her back. At least there’d be no bad news. No definite end to her little fairytale.
‘I’m sorry, Mary, love. It’s like this: his family was up there in that room. Wife an’ kids an’ all. They asked me ’ow I got ’old of this key. I’m sorry, Mary . . . I ’ad to tell ’em straight; they got coppers out on the beat lookin’ for ’im. They been puttin’ missin’ person notices in all the papers. Game’s up, girl; best you let ’im go. I told ’em you been treatin’ him well, carin’ for him like a nurse. But they’re goin’ to be comin’ to get ’im any time now. Might be best if you make a quick exit, love.’
That’s how it was going to end, wasn’t it? Maybe the smart thing to do would be to go back home right now, go straight down into the cellar, grab that bag of money, and leave sharpish, just like she should have done at the very beginning.
Oh, god . . . but the thought of doing that to him. He’d be standing there looking at her, vexed, with puppy dog eyes that asked what he’d done to upset her, wanting to know when she would be back.
‘I can’t do that,’ she muttered.
But maintaining this fiction: it wasn’t going to last forever. At some point, he was going to catch her out, or some memory would surface that completely, unambiguously, contradicted all that she’d told him. And running off with his money? Leaving him all alone? She couldn’t bring herself to do that either.
That leaves telling him the truth. The thought of doing that terrified her. However, it would be far better she sat him down and told him all she knew, than him one day soon catching her out. At least then, with her being honest with him like that, he might still trust her in some small way. There might still be a thread of trust left; just enough for them to start over with. To start from scratch and perhaps, perhaps, find their way back to where they’d been last night.
Always was going to be this way anyway, wasn’t it? Having to tell him.
She got up off the park bench, her arm looped through the handle of her wicker shopping basket. Things to do: a shirt to pick up from the launderette, some groceries to get.
Tonight. Tonight, over a nice supper, she decided she was going to tell him everything and hope that when she was done, he still wanted her. Then perhaps there was still a chance of that fairytale ending.
CHAPTER 45
1st October 1888 (1.00 pm), Whitechapel, London
Warrington curled his lip in disgust at the squalor of the lodging house. Its dark entrance hallway and stairwell reeked of stale piss, and more. He turned to look at Orman, who met his gaze with a likewise wrinkled nose.
‘Me room’s up along ’ere,’ said the tart. They had her name now: Catherine Eddowes. She fumbled in a tatty bag and finally her keys, which jangled in her shaking hands. She jammed it in the lock and opened the door to her room.
The noise she was making caused someone to stir inside a room further up the dimly lit hallway. A door was wrenched open and a small woman in a shawl stepped out into the hall. She was followed by the faintest odour of cooking opium.
‘That you, Mary! Where the pissin’ ’ell’s my money?!’
‘It’s me, Marge; it?
??s Cath!’
‘Fuck!’ She spat the word out like it was a fly flown into her mouth. ‘So where’s yer fuckin’ mate? This ain’t a fuckin’ charity shop. She owes me—’
‘Marge,’ Cath cautioned. ‘We got visitors.’
The woman scowled down at the dark end of the hall, just inside the closed front door. ‘You workin’ already?’ She sounded impressed.
‘No, it’s the police.’
Marge’s challenging stance and tone vanished in an instant. ‘Oh, good morning, genty-men!’ she smiled, a mouth of gums and black teeth. ‘Can I ’elp you two loves with anythin’?’
‘It’s good afternoon now,’ said Warrington dryly. ‘And no. We’re here to talk with Catherine.’
Marge shook her head and tutted. ‘Oh, yer bloody silly cow! Whatcha fuckin’ gone an’ done now?’
‘It’s about that Jack the—’
Warrington cut her off. ‘It’s actually none of your business, love.’ Warrington gestured at her door, leaking the faintest twist of pipe smoke into the hallway. ‘Why don’t you go back inside before I send my inspector in there to turn over your rooms?’
Her head disappeared and the door slammed shut behind her. Warrington hesitated a moment, wondering whether the woman might now be a potential problem to clear up later. Just the two words she’d heard: ’Jack the—’. But quite possibly two words too many.
Later.
‘In you go,’ he said to Cath.
She shuffled across darkness and a moment later scratched a match and lit a paraffin lamp in the corner of the room. Orman entered behind him and closed the door on a suffocatingly small space. A bed, a wardrobe, a tiny corner table with one wooden stool beside it, and barely room to walk between them.
‘Why don’t you sit down, Catherine?’ Warrington gestured at the end of her bed.
She did so.
‘Now . . . I’m going to need your full co-operation if we’re going to help your friend. Do you understand?’
She nodded, eager as a jackdaw.
‘Now, you were saying earlier, the tall woman you were with this morning—’
‘Liz Stride.’
‘You said she’s gone to warn your friend about the chap she’s sharing rooms with? Is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the address of these rooms you say you don’t—’
‘It’s somewhere in ’olland Park is all I know. Liz got the proper address off of ’er.’
He nodded thoughtfully. ‘I see.’
He hoped Hain was still following the woman. If so, then they were going to have an address. But that wasn’t going to do them a lot of good if this Stride’s impromptu visit spooked the gentleman in question. He wished he’d had Hain follow this one and he and Orman were with the other, then he could take charge of the situation over there. But this was what it was; he’d have to rely on his man. Hain wasn’t stupid. He’d know to identify the address, then take the initiative and quickly pull the woman to one side before she could knock on the door and alert the occupants.
The other matter was the hotel room back at The Grantham. He desperately wanted to go back there and take a look for himself, to be sure this was the suite the Candle Man had been using.
So very slippery of him to be this patient. To actually be able to do that. To not panic and try and make a run for home. For the week following that night at the warehouse, Rawlinson had pulled some favours in from amongst their Lodge members. They had pairs of eyes on the ports and the ship booking agents – just in case their unfortunate dead colleague, Smith, had been mistaken and the blow he’d landed with his pickaxe had just been a glancing blow and not fatal.
‘Orman?’
‘Sir?’
He ought not to have used his man’s name in front of her. Except, of course, that wasn’t going to matter. This ugly bitch was already dead; she just didn’t realise it yet. ‘Go and get hold of our other chap, Robson. I want him guarding that room. And then I want you outside The Grantham in case Hain returns there with the other woman.’
‘Liz tol’ me she was goin’ to bring Mary back ’ere,’ Cath cut in. ‘To this place.’
Warrington smiled politely at her. ‘Which is why you and I shall be staying put here in this charming room of yours this afternoon.’
Orman nodded. ‘Right you are, sir.’ He turned to go.
‘And if Hain does turn up at the hotel with an address, call Henry at the club immediately and let him know what’s happened this morning. We may need some extra pairs of hands on this.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good man.’
Orman closed the door behind him, leaving the two of them alone with the creaking of floorboards coming from the room above and the skittering sound of rats behind the plasterboard walls.
‘I don’t suppose you have a kettle?’
She shrugged and offered him an apologetic smile. ‘I got nothin’ much in ’ere, sir.’ Then her shoulders lifted. ‘Oh, but I do got some tack biscuits an’ a bit of cheese!’
‘Splendid. Shall we . . . ?’
CHAPTER 46
1st October 1888 (1.00 pm), Holland Park, London
Five steps up off Holland Park Avenue, flanked on either side by a knee-high wall, barely a lip of stone to prevent the unwary dropping down the stairwell either side that led to basement rooms and coal cellars. Five steps leading up to a dark blue front door.
Liz checked the scribbled writing on her scrap of paper. Number 67.
To the left of the front door was a bay window: tall, wide windows filled with patterned lace that looked like they once held a rose hue. A hint of movement from behind there. She saw some of the material swinging gently, as if something inside had moved swiftly, causing a draft.
She took the five steps up slowly, a part of her arguing on each step for her to turn and run as far and as fast as she could. She felt like Little Red Riding Hood approaching her grandmother’s house. But unlike Red Riding Hood, actually knowing what lies behind the door. The difference was, though, that she wasn’t alone in the middle of some forest. There was that.
At the top step, she turned to look over her shoulder. Holland Park Avenue was busy with both wheel and hoof traffic and pedestrians on either side. As long as she stayed on the top step in full view of all these passing strangers, she was going to be safe, she assured herself. Safe.
A steadying deep breath to calm her jangling nerves. She cleared her throat, lifted the knocker on the front door and rapped several times.
Her mind rehearsed what she was going to say to Mary. She needed her friend to step outside, she needed her to feel at ease enough to do that so they could move further away from the door, to talk without being overheard. He could be in there, behind the door, standing in the hallway, trying to earwig what they were saying. She needed Mary to step over the threshold and be standing outside.
Oh, Jesus.
She was so nervous, she wanted to pee.
‘Hullo, Mary. Nice place, love! Yer fancy takin’ a bit if a walk?’ she practised with a muted whisper. ‘I got one or two things me an’ you need to talk to about, love.’
She heard the rattle of a door chain and quickly put on a friendly smile as the door creaked inwards.
‘Hullo, Mary—’ she started.
A man stared out of the gloom of the hallway at her. ‘Yes?’
Her mouth flapped uselessly as the words she’d had lined up and ready to use completely abandoned her. A sudden spasm of fear released a trickle of urine down one thigh.
Jack the Ripper.
His craggy, gaunt face gradually loosened into a smile. Eyes, dark beneath the hood of his thick brow, seemed to glint with moisture. ‘A friend of Mary’s, are you?’
‘I . . . uh . . . yes. I’m a friend. C-can I speak to her, p-please?’
‘Oh, I’m afraid that won’t be possible,’ he said slowly, the smile never leaving his lips, showing a tidy row of small white teeth.
All the better for e
ating you with, my dear.
‘Why n-not? Why c-can’t I s-speak with her?’ Liz tried to steady her voice. Fear, mortal terror, was giving her away.
The man, Babbitt – she remembered his signed name – cocked his head curiously. ‘Are you all right? Hmmm? You look . . . unwell.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Mary? Oh, I told you, didn’t I? It’s not possible. She’s out right now.’
He’s lying. Her mind filled with a vision of her restrained in this house somewhere. Whimpering through a gagged mouth at the sound of her friend’s voice at the front door.
‘Mary!’ she called out. ‘MARY!! You in there?!’
The cordial expression vanished from his face. ‘I told you she’s not here!’ His polite smile became a snarl. For a fleeting second, she thought she saw the amber glint of Hell’s fires in his dark eyes; thought she heard the deep growl of a big bad wolf underscoring his voice.
I’m safe outside. I’m safe outside. Mary’s inside. Help her!
‘Mary! It’s Liz! Come out here! Do you hear me? Get out—’
She felt a gust of air against her cheek and instinctively clenched her eyes shut. Her lips mashed hard against her teeth. She felt herself being lifted off her feet, and a moment later the painfully hard smack of wooden floorboards against her side that left her dazed and winded. She heard the door slam with the sudden realisation that she was now on the inside of it. Inside. Her bladder emptied in the darkness. All she could hear was the sound of his laboured breathing, the ticking of a clock and the muted clatter of cartwheels outside; the world passing by, oblivious to what had just happened in the blink of an eye.
Argyll stared at the woman at his feet. She was stunned by the impact with the hall’s floor. In shock, still. He’d just wanted her to stop shouting for Mary like that . . . but . . . his arms seemed to flex with a mind of their own and now here the pair of them were in this calm and quiet space. He realised the poor woman was terrified. He wanted to apologise.