City of Darkness (City of Mystery) (32 page)

Or perhaps…..Jack had been on a
shorter run, two weeks or so.  He had returned to London, sent the kidney, and
sailed again.  Davy wished he had someone to discuss it all with but Trevor,
Phillips, and Abrams had returned to Scotland Yard and Trevor’s outburst at the
crime scene had frightened Davy more than the severed breasts and strands of
intestines.  What would happen to the investigation if its chief coordinator
became too rattled to do his duties, with Abrams bound for Paris and Phillips
so feeble it had taken both of his assistants to lift him into his coach?   
Davy decided he must shoulder more of the responsibility before Trevor lost his
mind completely.  

Davy turned from the waterfront and
began making his way back toward Whitechapel.  The streets were quiet and
deserted – not surprising, perhaps, in light of the fact the afternoon papers
were full of news of the Kelly killing.   He had walked some distance before it
occurred to him that he had passed not a single woman on his route.  It was as
if they had all faded from sight, as if London had become a town with nothing
but wordless, hurrying men. 

Davy stopped for a beer and spread the
papers across the bar to study as he drank.  Nine vessels had been at sea for
the dates that supported his theory, but the problem wasn’t identifying the
ships, it was obtaining a record of the men who had been aboard.  The vessels
running in and out of the East End docks were primarily fishing boats and cargo
ships, angling for a quick profit and with their captains none too choosy about
who came aboard.  Some of them claimed to have set crews but sailors were an
unpredictable lot, prone to drunkenness and whoring on their shore leaves.  If
a captain found himself with a light crew, as was not uncommon, he might stroll
the dock area, hiring extra hands at random.   The official list of who was
aboard any certain ship on any set day was undoubtedly riddled with
inaccuracies.  Still, it was a place to start.

 “Shall I set you up again?” asked
the barkeeper from halfway down the long counter.

“No thank you,” answered Davy.  “I
best be back to work.”

The streets were dark for mid-afternoon
and the rain had given way to heavy mist.  Davy pulled up his collar and
decided to return to Mary Kelly’s house to see if they might have overlooked
some small detail.  Unlikely, for Rayley and Trevor had gone over the hovel
literally on hands and knees, but he had to do something to pass the afternoon,
for he dreaded the moment he must return to Scotland Yard. 

He took several shortcuts through the
East End alleys and soon found himself facing Mary Kelly’s front door.  Davy
stared at the outside for a few moments and decided not to enter just yet but
rather to investigate the alleyways in the area.

He selected one at random.  Although
the bobbies had combed the trash that morning, Davy still looked behind the barrels
and crates for anything that seemed out of place.  He had searched one side for
about a hundred yards and was just about to round the corner to the right when
he stopped suddenly and threw himself against the wall.  Before him was a
slender, dark man peering into Mary Kelly’s front window.

The man did not knock on the door, but
rather stood staring through the glass, his black cape thrown about him and a
felt hat obscuring his face.  Could the Ripper have returned to admire his
handiwork?  Such a stratagem would be bold indeed, but Trevor had repeatedly
warned him that the Ripper worked by unusual methods, and applying normal
principles or reason to him would be fruitless.  The man stepped back and
looked at the numbers on the front of the building, as if to assure himself he
was at the correct address.

Then the man looked up and down the
street and started off into the mist.  Davy gave him a minute to get underway
and then turned out of the alley, nearly colliding with a tall figure buttoned
near to bursting into a tweed jacket.  “Scuse,” he muttered, his chest brushing
against that of the stranger and he looked up to find his eyes locked with
those of Mad Maudy.    

“Scuse me, ma’am,” he said, diverting
his face from the blast of stale breath that emitted from her scowl, but she
appeared to not remember him, or even to register his presence.  She too was
watching Mary Kelly’s door.  Should he stay, observe her reasons for coming to
this address, or follow the stranger?  Davy hastily decided in favor of the
latter and left Maude in the muddy street, her gaze fixated on the scene of the
crime.

Davy tried to keep as close to the
man as possible without making him aware he was being followed, but the
stranger moved swiftly, turning on every corner, and Davy almost lost him twice. 
He tailed him for nearly a half-hour, out of the East End, across several wide
parks which made unobtrusive following especially difficult, and finally to the
middle-class neighborhood of Brixton.  The stranger crossed the street and
walked along a row of identical brownstones, eventually turning at one to climb
the steps and disappear through the door.

Davy sought shelter beneath a tree
and waited for about ten minutes, wondering when or if the man would leave
again.  Eventually a rickety Hansom cab halted across the street and the driver
leaned over to let out his fare.  Davy watched the rider mount the steps to his
home before approaching the driver.

“Need a ride, Sir?” asked the driver.

“No,” answered Davy.  “But could you
kindly tell me who occupies the house across the street?”

“That be the home of Doctor John
Harrowman.”

“Ah,” said Davy, spreading his
palms.  “Then I am quite lost.  Thank you for your help.”  He stepped back
quickly so he would not be splashed as the cab pulled off and returned to the
tree which offered inadequate refuge from the returning rain.  Perhaps better
to go back to the Yard and tell Trevor and Rayley what he’d found.

But just as forty minutes had passed,
Davy heard a door shut and saw the dark figure descending the stairs from the
Harrowman house.  Davy’s heart warmed with excitement, then nearly lurched as
the doctor abruptly turned and started in his own direction.  Instead of passing
him, however, the man hailed a cab, gave some directions to the driver and
rolled off, leaving Davy alone in the street.

Frantically, Davy looked about to see
if another cab was available, but the street was empty.  So he ran behind the
doctor’s Hansom and grabbed hold of the leather belt used to tie down luggage. 
Giving it a yank, he was able to climb onto the small lip where excess bags
were stored.  The driver looked back in indignation but Davy tossed him a coin,
which seemed to sate the man, who clearly had no objection to gaining two fares
for one trip.   

The rain worsened.  Davy held tightly
to the leather strap, drawing his boots beneath him as the cab gained speed and
weaved its way through the streets.  He cursed as the dirty water splashed up
on his already soaked clothing and pulled his cap over his face as best he
could without losing his grip.  Finally the driver began to slow, so Davy
jumped from his perch and stumbled until he could shorten his stride.

He stopped to gather his breath and
watched the cab come to a halt in front of a handsome house in Mayfair.   John
Harrowman paid his fare, ran up the steps, and rang the front bell,
disappearing from view almost immediately.  Davy did not have to ask who lived
in this particular house, for Trevor had taken him by Geraldine Bainbridge’s
home before.  Wet and exhausted, already beginning to cough, he turned and
began the long walk back to Scotland Yard.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

4:20 PM

The note is delivered to his place of
work.  The ultimate insult. 

But there is no mistaking it is meant
for him.  His name is on the envelope.  Badly printed from an unschooled hand. 
His last name misspelled, as it has been before.

He rips it open.

A crude message.  Another ridiculous
attempt at rhyme.  His eye scans the page, fixates on one line.

I saw you.

The words go through him like a
blade.  Stop his breath in his throat, could almost stop his heart.

He has been seen.

He wants to scream, but there are
others around him.  The stupid and the weak, perhaps, but still capable of
observing his discomfiture.  They might ask about the note, might even draw conclusions
he does not wish them to draw.  He struggles to regain control over his
functions.  He inhales slowly.  Exhales even more slowly.

The wolf has found him again.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

4:30 PM

Cecil read the newspaper story of the
Kelly murder a third time, the thumping in his chest growing stronger with each
paragraph.  The dirty dishes lay untouched on the table and he picked up the
crystal bell at his right and rang it with great vigor.

“Save your efforts, darling,” his
mother said crisply, as she entered the dining room.  “Fanny saw it fit to
leave us this afternoon when she overheard your brother telling Cook we’ll have
to suspend wages.”

“Who served tea?” Cecil asked with
some surprise.  It had been awaiting him when he returned from his highly
unsatisfactory afternoon of poker.

“I did,” Gywnette admitted, sinking
into one of the faded Queen Anne chairs.

“Mother!  Things surely can’t be as
bad as that.”

“I’m afraid they are.  Cook is the
only one who is left now and I daresay her presence is more from a misguided
sense of loyalty than anything else.”  Gwynette’s lips were thin and tight. 
“She’s of the old school, believes that servants are members of the family, but
I’m afraid the younger girls…”

“Expect to be paid.”

“Indeed.”

“Who shall do the linens?  Attend to
our wardrobes?  Fetch the water and the firewood, for God’s sake, and manage
the carriage?”

“The horse and carriage were sold
last week.”

Cecil winced.  “Ah yes.”

“The annuities come in again on the
twentieth of the month,” Gwynette said in a matter-of-fact tone.  “Perhaps at
that time we can find some temporary help, at least a girl to do the laundry.”

“The twentieth!  That’s over a week
away!”

“I know what the date is, Cecil.  We
didn’t seem to do very well with our money management this month, did we?”

“It’s inhumane to expect us to
maintain a household on the miserly amount the will allows.”  Cecil lit his
pipe and prepared to expound further but Gwynette suddenly turned to the side
table.

“Did you see the latest letter from
Leanna?”

“No.  Nor do I care to.”

“She seems quite concerned about us. 
This is the second letter this week.  Have you made any effort to correspond
with her, Cecil?  Or with Tom?”

“I’ve been busy…”

“Indeed.  Well, you might peruse the
letter.  She gives a rather droll description of Geraldine and the servants she
employs.  There’s some sort of genetic freak named Gage from what I understand,
and a maid named Emma who seems to have made quite an impression upon your
sister…”

“Good Lord, Mother, what does
Leanna’s London gossip have to do with our present situation?”

“She talks a good bit about the
Ripper…”

“Really?  What does she say?”

Gwynette looked at him in a
reflective fashion.  “So that intrigues you, does it?  Your father had a morbid
turn of mind as well.  If you’re interested, the letter is here on the tea
table.  I suppose I have dishes to wash.”

Gwynette walked slowly out, Cecil’s plates
teetering on a tray, and the room fell silent.  Cecil had seen Leanna’s letter
himself that morning for he made it a habit to rise early enough to be the first
member of the family to intercept the post.  It would never do for either his
mother or his brother to see how many letters were arriving from Pinkernerry’s,
the local lending institution, or how many notices had accumulated from the
bank.  Writing cheques on his mother’s account had been simple enough, for
Cecil had a clever hand and could simulate Gwynette’s signature nearly as well
as his own.  Borrowing against Winter Garden proved a much trickier matter. 
The deed was in William’s name and Cecil supposed he had Edmund Solmes to thank
for pulling a bit of wool there, but if William ever found out…

Cecil sighed.  His hard-won funds had
not lasted very long at the track or the card table, for he was undeniably having
a run of black luck.  Why couldn’t the others see that banker’s interest was
but a mere shilling compared to what a man could earn in a good day of wagers? 
He was trying to lift them all out of penury but his mother and William seemed
willing to accept their new station with nary a protest.  

It was not easy to be the only one in
the family with any ambition.

Cecil carefully extracted a paper
from the inner pocket of his waistcoat.  It was Pinkernerry’s “final notice,”
their third “final notice” to be precise, meaning that he had been frightened
silly by the first two for no reason at all.  But a fourth final notice?  It
seemed too much to hope for.  Cecil placed the letter back in his pocket, along
with the hastily-ripped news account of Mary Kelly’s killing.  The article was
intriguing because this victim had been young and lovely, the artist’s sketch
showing a serene smile which might have belonged to a gentlewoman.  The Ripper
appeared to be changing his style.