Gideon Smith and the Mask of the Ripper (14 page)

“You think you can take me to where you saw her?” asked Lizzie. The girl nodded. “I think we need to have a word with Little Miss Got-All-Her-Own-Fucking-Teeth, then.”

*   *   *

“Is Gideon not back yet?” asked Bent as he stamped the ice from his boots on the mat. “At least it’s stopped effing snowing out there.”

“No sign of him yet,” said Mrs. Cadwallader, waggling her eyebrows toward Maria, who looked quite bereft.

Bent consulted his fob watch. “Hmm. It’s getting on for five. I think we might have to assume that he isn’t keeping away of his own volition.”

Maria wrung her hands. “You think harm has befallen him?”

“’Course not!” said Bent with a forced joviality that rang insincere even to himself. “He’s the Hero of the bloody Empire, ain’t he?”

“Perhaps we should call the police?” asked Maria.

“Thing is, Miss Maria, what would they say?” said Bent gently. “He’s not been gone a whole twenty-four hours yet. He’s a strapping lad of twenty-four, and a hero to boot. Come on, now, he’s got to have a good reason for staying away.”

“What news of Miss Fanshawe?” asked Mrs. Cadwallader, by way of changing the subject.

“Not good,” said Bent, unwinding his muffler from about his neck. “She’s in Holloway and due up before the courts tomorrow morning. They wouldn’t let me see her. Walsingham was no help, so I’ve procured the services of a lawyer acquaintance of mine, William Siddell. I’ll get to the Old Bailey at cock-crow tomorrow, and we’ll have to take it from there.”

“I’ll make some tea,” said Mrs. Cadwallader. That was her answer to everything. Bent would have preferred gin.

“Where has Gideon gone?” asked Maria. “Aloysius? Where was he going?”

Bent bit his lip. Gideon hadn’t wanted to tell her about the Elmwood girl, but things had taken something of a turn. He didn’t really want to turn up at court tomorrow and have to tell Rowena that Gideon was missing, but he didn’t see how he was going to find the fool boy himself before then. “Let’s take the tea in the study,” he said.

While Mrs. Cadwallader poured the tea, Bent told them about the Elmwoods’ visit. Then he handed over the portrait that Gideon had stashed in the bureau in the drawing room.

“Oh,” said Maria, her hand at her breast. “Why that’s … me.”

“That’s what I said.” Bent nodded. “Apparently it’s Charlotte Elmwood. The missing girl.”

Maria stared at the picture for a long time before handing it back. “And this is why Gideon took the case?”

Bent shrugged. “Presumably. We don’t bother with missing persons as a rule. Perhaps he thought there might be some link to your Professor Einstein.”

“And where did Gideon go to observe this Markus Mesmer?”

“The Britannia, in Hoxton, I think,” said Bent. “Mesmer has a short run there.”

“Then I will go tonight,” said Maria.

“I thought you might say that. There’s no show on Sunday; I checked. If he’s not back tomorrow, we’ll go along after Rowena’s been up in the dock.”

Maria nodded, then said, “I think I will retire to my room.”

When she had gone, Mrs. Cadwallader asked, “Do you think Gideon will be all right? Really?”

Bent sighed. “I’m not happy about him being out all night, but it’s like I said … he’s a grown man. We’ll just have to wait it out.”

“I do hope Miss Maria doesn’t get any strange ideas about going out alone.… You
will
go with her tomorrow, Mr. Bent?”

Bent stretched his legs and waggled his toes at the fire blazing in the hearth of the parlor. “’Course I will. But you ain’t seen her in action, Sally. It’s easy to forget that she ain’t a flesh-and-blood girl, but you ought to see her punch.… She laid one of them horrible Children of Heqet flat out at the Embankment, and old Louis Cockayne, God rest his soul, nearly had his jaw broken by her. She can look after herself.”

Mrs. Cadwallader puttered around the parlor, turning up the gas lamps. Bent watched her for a moment and patted the sofa next to him. “Why don’t you clock off, Sally? Come and sit down.”

She sighed. “I wish you wouldn’t be so forward, Mr. Bent. It’s not appropriate for you to speak to me with such familiarity.”

“Oh, tosh, Sally,” said Bent. “Come on, we’re both adults. We’ve both been around the block.” He paused then said, “We’re both lonely.”

She raised an eyebrow in horror. “Oh, Mr. Bent! All this … the flowers, the baths … Oh, Lord. I do believe you’re courting me!”

He shrugged. “What of it, Sally? You’re a damned handsome woman. I have
needs,
Sally. We both do.”

“Needs, Mr. Bent? I thought you sated your hunger at—oh. Oh, now it all becomes clear. You think I don’t read the newspapers, Mr. Bent? Think I don’t know that those harlots you frequent in the East End have withdrawn their services?”

Bent put his hand on his chest. “Sally, no, it’s not that—”

She laid a frosty gaze upon him. “I believe it most certainly is, Mr. Bent. I have never been so insulted in all my life. I think I will, as you suggested, clock off now. I will be in the study, listening to some music. I trust you can see to your own
needs,
whatever they may be, for the rest of the evening. There is food in the pantry and drink in the icebox. I’m sure you can sort yourself out.”

Mrs. Cadwallader slammed the door to the parlor shut as she left. Bent stared at the flames in the grate for a long moment, until the thunderous strains of Wagner struck up from the study, and then murmured, “That went well.”

*   *   *

I’m going to die without even knowing my own name.

He struggled, of course, and gave a good account of himself, taking down at least two of the thugs with his well-placed blows. But there were more of them, and the weight of their numbers pressed on him, pulling the noose tight. One of them tossed the rope up and over the lamppost in one fluid movement. The windows of the dingy tenements looked down on him, blankly. If there was anyone watching from behind the shutters, they didn’t offer any help.

“Say your prayers to whatever god you fancy,” said the one called Henry.

But a sharp whistle, sounding three times, put any peacemaking on hold.

“Shit, the coppers,” spat one of the mob.

“Run!” yelled Henry, and the rope went slack. He pulled it loose and over his head, and without really knowing why, fled in the opposite direction from the approaching footsteps and the scattering thugs.

He didn’t stop until he was back on the street where he’d met the girl, ducking into a tight alley and peering out from the shadows at the two policemen who had paused in the small square, shining their lanterns up at the bodies that hung like grisly Christmas baubles from the gas lamps.

Why had he run from the police? He had done nothing wrong. He was the victim of that fracas. But something they had said … Jack the Ripper. The memory bobbed tantalizingly around, just out of reach, like an apple in a barrel at a children’s party. They had thought him to be Jack the Ripper. But he couldn’t remember who Jack the Ripper was, or guess why Henry and his thugs would have thought he had anything to do with it.

His heart leaped as he spied, across the square and beyond the knot of policemen, an unmistakable shape framed in lamplight. That girl, Lottie. He felt a surge of something, desire and … more. He felt fiercely protective of her, felt as though his heart would melt at the mere sight of her. Was this love at first sight? He seemed to know her, deep inside, but she had showed no recognition of him.

And then another figure loomed behind her, thick and black, even its head, as though it was covered by a tight hood or cowl. And the dull lamplight glinted off something in its hand. A blade.

Suddenly, he remembered all about Jack the Ripper.

“He’s there!” he yelled. The policemen looked up in unison, squinting through the darkness at him. He pointed frantically to the alley far behind them. “Over there! Jack the Ripper!”

Incredibly, they didn’t turn to pursue the villain, but began to lumber toward him, blowing their whistles and raising their lanterns. He ducked back into the alley. Damn. Stupid, stupid idiots. Jack the Ripper was getting away, and now they were pursuing
him
. He ran back into the darkness, tripping over a metal dustbin and sending foul-smelling rubbish spilling across the alley. He picked himself up and ran on, skidding on the icy metal circle of a manhole cover, before he came up tight against a solid brick wall.

A dead end. The whistles of the policemen drew nearer, and he saw flashes from their lanterns at the end of the alley.

“Who’s down there? Come out, now. No funny business,” called one.

He could hear other voices, as well. Where the street had been as quiet as the grave before, people had seemingly arrived from nowhere.

“Who are the coppers after?” shouted a man.

“Only Jack the bleeding Ripper!” answered a woman.

The wall was straight and bare and hanging with sheets of ice. He would never get up it. And somehow he trusted the police about as much as he would put himself at the mercy of Henry and his mob again.

Before him, in the ground, was the manhole cover. If he couldn’t climb up …

The footsteps were shuffling cautiously down the alley, behind the lantern light, by the time his frozen fingers finally pried the iron disc from its housing. He scraped it back and glanced into the utter darkness below. There was the sound of sluggish water and a stench so foul as to wake the dead. But the police and the mob that had assembled were picking over the rubbish he had disturbed earlier. He slung his legs over and his feet found the rungs of an iron ladder. Quickly and quietly he let himself down into the underworld, dragging the manhole cover back over him and shutting off even the meager light from above.

It is only when you are in complete darkness,
he thought,
that you miss so much, even the tiniest flame.

The odor was almost more than he could bear. Carefully he began to descend the ladder. Perhaps he would only have to wait here moments while the police search moved on. But even as he thought it, the ladder pulled away from the curved wall with a sickening lurch and a shower of brick-dust. He felt himself hanging in air for a moment, before his weight brought down the ladder and he fell heavily to a hard, filth-slicked surface, banging his head and losing consciousness.

*   *   *

Across the square, the girl watched the commotion with interest. Lottie. She rolled the name around her tongue. Lottie. It wasn’t right. Almost, but not quite. The police were there. She half-thought that she should go to the officers, ask them for help. But help for what? She was nothing but a common prostitute! Why should she need the help of the police?

A common prostitute. Again, that didn’t quite feel right. Besides, weren’t prostitutes supposed to earn money? She didn’t have a penny in her purse. And she was hungry. Lottie didn’t remember much before Wednesday, when she’d run, run, run from that place where the mad people had locked her in a room and brought doctors and all sorts of others to look at her. Rich men, mainly, and she’d tried to come on to all of them, but none had given her the time of day.

She counted off on her fingers. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday … four nights she’d been out on the streets, so that made today Sunday. She suddenly thought she should have gone to church, and that made her upset. She pushed it away. Common prostitutes didn’t get upset. They were hard as nails, tough as old boots. Still, she was hungry and cold. And nobody had done with her what prostitutes do for money. People were scared. And it occurred to her, distantly, that this thing that prostitutes do … she wasn’t quite sure what it was, exactly. But that was silly, wasn’t it? She was a common prostitute. Of course she must know.

She had to get some money soon. She’d slept in doorways, glad of her thick skirts and jacket, but felt as though she might be getting a chill. She’d found a place giving soup out to homeless wretches a few streets away, and been back every day. But it hadn’t been there today, probably because it was Sunday.

Lottie felt like someone was watching her. She looked around sharply, but she couldn’t see anyone. But when she turned back to the square there was suddenly a face up against her that made her shriek.

“’Ello, darling,” said the man. He had a big head that put Lottie in mind of a potato, his mouth full of black stumps of teeth.

She looked him up and down. A common sort. But then, so was she. “Hello yourself.”

She tried not to flinch as the man took a pinch of her hair in his dirty fingers. “Pretty little miss, ain’t you?”

“I get by. What’s your name?”

“Henry. Henry Savage. What do they call you?”

“Lottie,” she said. And even as she uttered the next words, she felt suddenly sick to her stomach. “Do you want to do the prostitute thing with me, Henry Savage? For money?”

He grinned, his warm breath washing over her. “You don’t half talk funny.”

He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her back into the shadows. “Do the prostitute thing, eh, Lottie?”

And suddenly he was grasping at her skirts and pushing himself against her. She wanted to cry out, but that wasn’t what common prostitutes did, so she let him force his knee between her legs and part them roughly, while his hands crawled over her, grasping at her bosom.

“Please,” she said, suddenly very afraid. “I don’t—”

“Get your hand down there, Lottie,” he grunted, pushing his face into her neck. “Get a good hold of that, it’s all right, I’m nearly hard, just need a little…”

“Henry Savage, you stick that thing in that girl and I’ll chop it off and shove it up your arse.”

The man was off her quicker than a dog out of a trap, or so she supposed, not being sure if she’d ever seen such a thing. Behind him was a woman with a face as mean as the tarnished hatchet she was carrying, her hair piled up on top of her head, the cut of her tattered frock showing more flesh than Lottie had ever seen before. She was flanked by three other women.

“Lizzie,” said the man, suddenly as meek as a kitten. “I wasn’t going to pay her, ’onest.”

“So you was going to
rape
her then, Henry Savage?” said the woman, crossing her arms.