City of Darkness (City of Mystery) (39 page)

The gangplank was now hauled onto the
ship and the dock keepers untied the heavy ropes that lashed the boat to the
pier.  Abrams was on his way.

Trevor turned to Davy, shrugged, and
the two men started back down the long pier.

“Sorry it isn’t you that’s going,
Sir?”

“Glad it’s someone.  He’ll do the
job.  Perhaps not in time for this particular madman, but on the morrow there
shall be others.”

“Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,”
Davy said, “Creeps in this steady pace from day to day.” 

Trevor looked at him quizzically.

“Shakespeare, Sir.  My mum quotes him
while she does the laundry.”

Trevor laughed as the two men came to
the end of the pier and stepped back into the cobblestones.  “Ah, Davy,” he
said. “You’re full of surprises.” 

10:10 AM

Cecil asked the driver to pull over and
let him out.  He was meeting with Georgy that morning on Commercial Street,
where the slaughterhouses were located, and he certainly did not want the
little man to know he was wealthy enough to hire coaches.  Wealthy, he supposed
was a relative term since between the train, the inn, and this coach, he had
made a surprisingly large dint in the money he had found in William’s pocket. 
But he figured his coffers would be replenished soon enough.

Cecil rounded a corner and, to his
relief, saw Georgy resting on a barrel on the opposite side of the street.

“Morning, Guv’ner,” Georgy greeted
him.  “Found ‘ol  Micha.”

“Good work.   I knew I could count on
you.”

“Tis Mary who can count on me, no
offense to you, mate.  Right this way.”  The two set off toward the water.  “You
send the letter?”

“It will be delivered within the
hour.  You’re going to have to make a few stops before the Pony Pub.  They’re
ladies, and I thought they might be more likely to meet you if I chose a tea
room in a more middle-class part of town.”

 “Me?  You wanna be there?”

“It’s my damn pale eyes, Georgy, you
know they make me too easy to pick out of a line,” Cecil said.  “But you have
that nice common face, you know?  Hard to describe in case the coppers get
nosy.”

“And two of ‘em?  Mary just had one
sister, dinna she?”

“Society ladies never go anywhere
without a companion,” Cecil said, thinking he was certainly betting heavily
that Leanna’s guilt would compel her to come along.  “Now here’s the plan.  When
you meet them you’ll say the baby is in a different place, a different part of
town.  By then we have them hooked and I have no doubt they’ll follow to
another bar, and then another, and finally back to the Pony Pub.  Sometimes you
have to do these things in stages, Georgy, give the fish a bit of slack line
before you pull it in.  Micha and I will be waiting.   I want to make
absolutely sure he knows who his victims are.   Micha follows them out and does
his job, then we have the money and they have a lesson they won’t soon forget.”

Georgy’s brow puckered.  “It’s a
fancy plan.”

“The letter couldn’t invite them into
the bowels of Whitechapel,” Cecil said, failing to hold back an exasperated
sigh. “I know ladies like this. We can lure them to a tea room easily enough,
but they would never set out alone for an establishment like the Pony Pub, no
matter how persuasive the letter.”

Georgy sighed too.  “‘ope this
works.”

“Trust me, everything will be fine.”

Cecil would smell the slaughterhouses
before he could see them.  He made Georgy stop while he covered his nose with a
handkerchief, but the stench seemed to have no effect on the smaller man, who
pushed a door open and motioned for Cecil to follow. 

This, Cecil reflected, must be what
the waiting room for hell looks like.    Blood was everywhere and they passed
ten or so young boys who were completely covered in it.  Sides of beef and pork
hung from the rafters, dripping.  The butchers, whose heads jerked up at their
arrival, were cutting the carcasses into pieces and loading them on carts to be
sold to shops all over the city.  Every man in the building looked capable of
doing the job Cecil had in mind, and half the boys as well.

When they reached the back of the
slaughterhouse, Cecil saw a huge man with his arm around the neck of a struggling
cow.  As Cecil watched with a fascinated horror, the man twisted the cow’s head
and it popped with a sound that rang through the crowded, noisy room.  Cecil
staggered a bit, and Georgy and the other workers laughed.  They had seen the
same reaction many times from people first witnessing Micha’s specialty.  As Georgy
approached, the giant let loose of the now-limp cow, which fell to the floor
with a thunderous thud.

“’ello, Micha.  ‘ow are you this
morning?”

The giant grunted something back at
Georgy.

“I wanna you to meet a friend of mine
and Mary Kelly’s.  This is…” a puzzled look came across Georgy’s face.  “Excuse
me Guv’ner, but I don’t think you’ve ever told me your name.”

“Nice to meet you,” Cecil called out,
nodding toward the bloodied giant and praying it would not be necessary come
closer, or, God forbid, to shake hands.  After a moment’s pause, during which
Micha looked him over with impudence, it became apparent this would be the
case.

“Well there, Micha,” Georgy spoke up,
still anxious to play the proper host.  “We came wonderin’ if we might have a
word outside.  We’d like to ‘ire ye for some work.”

Micha mumbled something to a worker
and started for the door, grabbing a remnant of raw meat from a butcher block
as he passed.  He popped it in his mouth like a candy and Georgy grinned,
knowing this was all mostly for show.  Cecil shuddered and scurried after them,
his feet sticking to the cement floor with each step. 

In the alleyway, Micha stopped and
turned toward them with his bloody mouth.  “What you want?”

“Remember sweet Mary Kelly?  Murdered
by Jack a few days back?” asked Georgy.  The man nodded thoughtfully.  “Well
she ‘ad wealthy family in Mayfair who snubbed ‘er for years.  Dinna even come
to ‘er wake.  We wanna show them a thing or two.  We’ll set a trap to pull ‘em
down to Whitechapel tonight and we want you to rough them up a bit and steal
their purses.  There’d be ten pounds in it for you.  Can you ‘elp us?”

“They?”

“Two people,” Cecil said.  “But both
ladies.”

“Twenty.”

“Twenty pounds?” Georgy said,
genuinely shocked.   “You think we be royalty, do you?”

“Twenty’s fine,” Cecil said, for his
brief observation of Micha had convinced him the man was perfectly suited to
carry out his whole plan, not just the aspects understood by Georgy.  He dug
into a pocket and extracted a handful of silver.  “Here’s ten as a show of good
faith.  The rest tonight, when you meet me at the Pony Pub at seven.  You know
the place.”

 Micha took the coins, turned his
massive frame, and started into the building.

Cecil was left to stare after him.  “That’s
it?  Is he even going to do it?”

“Don’t think so, Guv’ner.  Better go
in and get yer money back.”   Georgy burst into laughter at the panicked
expression that came over Cecil’s face. “’ad you going there, mate, sure but I
did.  Yeah, Micha will be there. But where we gonna get the other ten pounds,
that’s what ole Georgy needs to know.”

“Leave that to me,” Cecil said.  They
both turned and headed back toward the smokestacks of Commercial Street.

10:14   AM

Tom sent two telegrams that morning. 
One was to Galloway, requesting the prompt delivery of his grandfather’s
medical journals.  The other was to Cambridge, this one asking for a leave of
absence for the remainder of the school year.  From an academic standpoint, the
term had been a lost cause. His grandfather’s funeral, the ensuing legal
problems, now the murder of Emma’s sister….Tom had decided his place for the next
few months was here in London.  Who could concentrate on craniums when his
whole world was falling apart? 

Trevor’s accusations about John
Harrowman weren’t true, the delivery of the twins was proof of that.  But Tom
was further determined to prove that Trevor was wrong about the Ripper being a
medical man and he believed he knew just how to do this.  He didn’t have a
surgical scalpel himself – he was at least four classes away from the point
where he could do dissections.  But Tom knew where to find one. 

11:15  PM

“Thirty?” Cecil said, his voice gone
soft and low in disbelief as the pawnbroker lifted his mother’s diamond and
opal brooch to the light.  “Look again, man, because you’re mistaken.  The
weight of the center diamond alone –“

“Would fetch a much higher price if
you cared to take the piece to a pawnbroker in a different part of town,” the
man said agreeably.  “But something tells me you don’t want to do that.”  He
gently placed the brooch on the square of black velvet he had spread across the
table and gave Cecil a little smirk.  “Thirty’s fair enough when you consider
that it’s thirty with no questions asked.”

He thinks I stole it, Cecil thought
with disgust.  Thinks I’m some sort of highway bandit or, more likely, a grave robber. 
Why else would a man waltz into a pawn shop in the saddest alley of the East
End with a handful of diamonds?    Cecil turned to look at Georgy, pacing
outside the pawnshop window.  He had obviously been curious about the purpose
of this particular mission and had wanted to follow Cecil inside the shop.  But
Cecil had insisted he stand guard outside and something in the word “guard” had
appealed to the man’s ego.

“It’s a ludicrous offer,” Cecil said,
turning back to the pawnbroker with as much dignity as he could muster.  Ever
since the trip to the slaughterhouse his clothing had assumed a peculiar
smell.  The smell of poverty, he supposed, but poverty smelled much differently
in the city than it did back in Leeds.  There the farmers carried the faint
odor of earth and sun and sweat on their clothes.  Not so unpleasant really,
nothing like the smoky stink of the city.  How quickly he had fallen into the
gutter.  Thirty-two hours out of Winter Garden and here he stood, as rank and
malodorous as any man in London. 

“A ludicrous amount,” he repeated. 
“And an offer I would not normally accept. I will be back for the piece within
the week, you understand.”

“It will most likely still be here,”
said the pawnbroker, still as pleasant as if they were taking a stroll in the park. 
All the advantages were on his side and he knew it.  “Not much call for such
jewelry in this part of town.   Thirty now…..and fifty to take It back next
week.”

“Barbaric,” Cecil said.  “No wonder
they warn against your kind in the Bible.  Keep it safe, you hear me?  And I
want a receipt.  Because if you think you’re keeping jewels of this value for a
mere thirty pounds, you’re a madman.”

The pawnbroker pulled a small ledger
pad from a drawer.  He filled out the amount and pushed the receipt toward Cecil. 
“Can you write your name?”

“Of course I can write my name.  Dear
God,” Cecil said.  He hesitated a moment, then signed with a flourish.  “My
father bought this brooch for my mother in Italy, you know.  Florence.  They
were on their honeymoon.” 

And for the first time since
childhood, he felt the urge to weep.

11:15 AM

Tom had never followed anyone in his
life but he flattered himself that he must have a natural gift for subterfuge,
for John had not appeared to notice him at all.  He’d had very little trouble
locating him in Whitechapel, in the quiet alleys where the pubs were sleepy in
the morning.  Tom envied the ease with which John moved among the people there,
how relaxed he seemed in conversation with the working girls.   

John had steered a couple of the
women into a pub, making a great show of holding the door for them, as if they
were ladies. Tom gave them a few minutes to settle and then pulled down his hat
and walked by the window, glancing through the glass as he passed.  John must
have ordered the women bowls of stew because he was simply sitting opposite
them at a table, watching them eat.  This should, Tom thought, occupy him at
least for an hour, and the important thing was that John didn’t appear have his
medical bag with him. 

Ten minutes later a coachman dropped
Tom a few streets from Brixton and he walked the remaining distance.  He’d
gotten the address from Geraldine earlier that morning, on the excuse he
planned to call on John and borrow a textbook.  The neighborhood was neither as
fashionable as Mayfair nor as squalid as Whitechapel and seemed nearly
deserted.  This is where the tradespeople live, Tom thought, the rising working
class, not yet able to afford servants and conveniently gone to work during the
day.  Tom found the house number – a brownstone in a row of others just like it
– and rang the doorbell, on the off chance John employed a housekeeper.  But,
just as he’d suspected, no one answered.  He slipped around to the back and
used a drainpipe to climb as far as the top of the porch.  From there it was a
bit more frightening to inch his way across the sharply-pitched roof to the
windows, but luck was with him.  The second one he looked in was John’s bedroom
and he could see a study located beyond.  Presumably the man’s medical bag
would be in one of these rooms. 

The house was in a bit of a shambles,
Tom noticed, as he used the blade of his pocketknife to chip away a layer of
paint around the window.  The bed was unmade, with clothing draped over the chairs
and books stacked on every table in the room.  Even the small garden below him
looked poorly tended and dispirited.  Apparently this was

what
he had to look forward to as a bachelor doctor, a mess of a home and meals in a
pub with whores.  Tom was prepared to break a pane of glass if necessary, but
once he had cracked through the heavy layer of paint, it had proven simple
enough to wrench the window open.  Whatever fears troubled John Harrowman,
robbery was not among them.  Glancing around to confirm no neighbor was watching,
Tom crawled inside.