The Vampires' Last Lover (Dying of the Dark Vampires Book 1) (36 page)

He walked me in direction of a familiar black police carriage that was to take me forthwith to Whitechapel with consternation. Throughout the journey I quizzed Constable Fletcher, who it appeared was most agreeable to a discussion. “It’s a pickle and a half, this case. He’s a slippery customer alright and he cuts them up good. I reckon he’s enjoying it, the mutilation and all.”

“Do you not think this person has knowledge beyond the layman? His removal of organs, for example?”

“I’d ‘eard that he could be a fancy surgeon or even a royal.”

Our carriage ground to a halt by Duffield’s Yard, a narrow passageway just off Berner Street.

It was here, on the thirtieth of September, that Elizabeth Stride’s body was discovered in the early hours. Due to lack of street cleaning, faint traces of blood remained on the pavement, reminding me just how severe the attack had been.

“He slit the poor woman’s throat, nothing else,” the constable stated.

“Perhaps he was interrupted? Which rendered him incapable of his intention to mutilate the body?”

“Now, the worse is yet to come. I’ll take yer to Twenty Nine Hanbury Street. That’s where they found Annie Chapman on the eighth of September.”

Our carriage took direction to Spitalfields, a borough that had once been home to some of England’s finest weavers. Now its decrepit, crime ridden streets were as dangerous at night as could be imagined. But this was late morning and the area was a bustle with people going about their business. The rag and bone man called out for any used items to sell, the coal man, his face black as soot and his hands worn down, delivered coal to those who could afford it. I observed, through the carriage window, the sights and sounds of the poor trying to make good another day, with no time to think on whether they were to survive or not. Diseases was rife in this area and most were deadly, forcing families to have many children in the hope at least some would survive beyond childhood.

This used to be where Annie Chapman had plied her trade in the dead of night and was brutally slain with no witnesses. Scotland Yard remained unsure all the killings had been carried out by one man, even speculating it was a crazed woman seeking revenge for her husband’s involvement with a prostitute.

As we walked to the backyard of Annie’s former lodgings, there was a grim sense of foreboding. Constable Fletcher guided me to where her body had lain, discovered by a resident of number twenty nine.

“’Er throat was sliced wide open and the poor woman’s abdomen was open wide. ‘e’d cut ‘er so bad that the intestines were out, ‘anging over her shoulders they were as she lay in a pool of blood. There weren’t no sign of the woman’s uterus, neither.”

“Are you a resident of the area, Constable Fletcher?” I enquired politely.

“Nah, not from this neck of the woods. I was born in Mile End, I was. We ain’t ‘ad no victims down there.”

It was as if he possessed a sense of pride the gruesome murders had been contained, that the problem belonged only to the people of Whitechapel and Spitalfields. Yet, a grain of truth lay in his words, for the residents in west London were no more fearful of recent events in east London than they were of a fly intruding into their dining room. There was, I concluded, a true sense of detachment broken only by the experience of standing so close to where he had struck.

Prostitutes, harlots or women of ill repute, I had encountered them along the way. From the high class courtesans of Roman times to the street walkers of Victorian London.

Ladies of the night that pleasured men who might otherwise forced themselves on their wives, men who suffered loneliness and those with perversities too severe to disclose-except to prostitutes. They fulfilled desires and I was certain there was many a wife relieved her husband’s needs were being met elsewhere.

The services these ladies offered may have been judged harshly by puritans and the like, but no matter what, they did not deserve to suffer in such a terrible manner; the killer needed to be stopped.

“Mr. Ortiz, sir. Sir,” Constable Fletcher was calling me, but I had been taken up with my thoughts.

“Mr. Ortiz!”

“Yes, Constable, forgive my rudeness, but I was thinking of something.”

“Penny for yer thoughts?” he asked.

“That Annie knew her killer.”

“We don’t ‘ave any evidence of that, sir. In fact, we’ve got very little.”

“Did you attend any of the crime scenes directly after?”

“Only Annie. It was the worst site of me life I can tell yer, made me proper sick it did.”

I needed to return home and confide in Roderick, whom I was certain would be pleased. I was embarking on what I set out to do, but I was overly concerned of the outcome.

“If you don’t mind my saying, proper mad it is, gentlemen like you in Whitechapel walking on yer tod. The robbers will have yer before you could blink and there ain’t always a copper to call for.”

“I understand your concern, Constable, but I have no fear, they can do me no harm.”

He looked at me in a strange way and I knew he mistook my fearlessness for false bravado. Who could blame him for perceiving me that way? It was the impression I gave.

I, in turn, studied the young man before me. Barely in his twenties, his face yet to be contoured by life and its worries. I doubted he was skilled yet in the art of meanness or prejudice, perhaps he never would and, in turn, become a fine person with good qualities. It was at that precise moment I felt a pang of envy. He was what I wanted to be. Young blood coursing through his veins, about to set out on the journey of life, maturing into adulthood with a wife and children. Becoming a grandfather with wise words for the grandchildren who will sit on his knee. Dying safe and warm, surrounded by cherished loved ones. The dream of a woman to love and comfort me remained a desire that did not diminish. But the end of my life eluded me and I had come to accept that it was to be my penance, to suffer in uncertainty.

“I ‘ave to get back to the station sir, can I drop you somewhere?”

“I would like to go to the Old Bell Tavern in Fleet Street, if that will not be an inconvenience.”

“I’ll ‘ave you there in a jiffy,” he replied jovially and no more was said about Jack as we made our way. I was certain Albert would be there, ensconced in discussion with his fellow newspaper men. The table full of beer mugs as they exchanged information discussed deadlines and quarreled. Jack the Ripper had become a boiling hot potato and every pressman in the country vying for an exclusive front page story. Their days were spent commuting between Whitechapel, Scotland Yard, Fleet Street, a variety of Inns and the office. Each new murder brought more tension as the quest for answers heightened.

“’Ere you are, sir,” said the most agreeable young constable as the carriage drew up to the Inn.

“I wish to express my immense gratitude for the guided tour, Constable Fletcher. I urge you to take care and best of luck for the future.”

“That’s a funny thing to say. Like I’m gonna lose me job or something bad’s gonna ‘appen?”

“Please excuse me, I see in hindsight it was an inappropriate comment to make.”

When he was gone, I thought about my remark and concluded I was, in all intents and purposes, talking about myself. Judas Iscariot wishing himself luck and care in an unknown elongated future. How pitiful I must appear to those who knew the truth. At times I confessed to feeling out of place in such a stiff, repressed society, even though I enjoyed the trappings. The only appropriate thing for me to do to rectify the situation was to drown my sorrows with good ale and, hope Albert would make an appearance by midday. The Inn was not as full as I had expected, making it pleasant to settle in a cozy corner with a half pint of good brew and a plate of freshly caught whitebait. I adored the small tasty fish netted daily in the River Thames, dipped in flour and deep fried.
I could get used to this,
being a gentleman of leisure who did very little except indulge. In part I had done just that, but my lingering thoughts of not to have a moment’s regret for being here was concluded by my reason for being in the Inn. I had a very important request for Alfred and, after consuming two halves of ale, I prepared to win him over with a hearty lunch, plenty of ale and a cigar of his choice.

As my luck would have it, less than three quarters of an hour later, he arrived looking quite dapper. “Albert, your new hat does you justice,” I casually remarked.

“It cost three days of my wage, but I needed it. Have you eaten?” He was sharp enough to notice my empty plate.

“It was a small entrée, a portion of whitebait. Shall we order some lunch?”

“I thought you would never ask!”

I met Albert through a mutual contact soon after I purchased the house in Belgravia. Having sold a property in Regents Park, I was short a footman and needed to place advertisements in The Times. As a way to make extra money, Albert, for a small percentage paid by the newspaper, was the person who sold print space. Our initial contact five years previously was interesting; I found his immaturity extremely annoying, yet his ambition to be more than a salesman, admirable.

For all intents and purposes he had, without formal training, become a newspaper man. Over the years he developed quite a nasty habit. Pushing me for snippets of information on people I was acquainted with. To appease him, I would feed useless pieces of information leading nowhere, but he never gave up trying to dish the dirt on those of stature. When I mentioned my interested in the Ripper case, he was filled with suspicion. I was certain he saw me as yet another curiosity seeking do gooder and I was at a loss to tell him the truth after such a long period of knowing each other. It took a large ingestion of alcohol to confess my true identity that at first he perceived only as a joke.

Albert was not always in good health. He smoked too much and drank far too regularly, seemingly prone to coughs and colds by each winter. In spite of his idiosyncrasies, he was a gem of information who was about to discover how one good turn deserves another.

“The game pie with mashed potatoes and gravy looks good,” said he.

Determined, I was happy to oblige his every need, “Order what ever takes your fancy, I am feeling generous today. Game pie it shall be!” I continued, “I will take something lighter, a pork sausage and potatoes will suffice.”

My metabolism had improved over the centuries, becoming more resilient with time. If I dared to over indulge, there were consequences, mainly nausea and headaches.

“I need you to obtain copies of the files from Scotland Yard. The Chief Inspector has denied me access,” I said directly.

“You jest! How on earth do you expect me to gain entry into an office and, steal files under the nose of coppers?”

“Because you know many people, not all fine upstanding citizens. A little dubious, perhaps a tad shady in character. A policeman who needs a fine bonus for his family, for example?”

“You mean a bent copper? I have to scout around, it’s a mighty tall order with no guarantee.”

“If the price is agreeable everyone can be bought, Albert. Time is pressing now, so I need to have the copies quickly and there
will
be a bonus for you. A finder’s fee. Shall we say two hundred pounds?”

His face was alight with anticipation for what I considered a generous sum, enough to pay for his enjoyments and indulgences for quite some time. That included Miss Nancy Leigh from Pimlico. He had taken a shine to her and, according to Albert, she possessed a bosom he wanted to hide in. To court her properly he needed more than a meager reporter’s wage. Two hundred pounds would enable him to get the ball into his romantic court. There was, it seemed no more hesitation, the money spoke volumes.

“Count me in. I will speak with someone at the local police station, a friend. When, exactly, do you need the files?”

“As soon as possible. The end of the week will do nicely.”

It was hard to ignore the trepidation in Albert’s face. I was unsure if he could deliver, perhaps biting off more than he could chew. He was right, it was a tall order, stealing from Scotland Yard. Pure insanity or genius?

“I’ll do my best and a good cigar will set me in the right frame of mind,” he replied.

If Albert was a book, he would be a simple read. Without complaint, I ordered a fine, fat cigar. It was the least I could do for someone who went so eagerly into the fray.

I left full of renewed vigor. Having the files in my possession would mean a better understanding of who I was tracking down. I was sure they were full of information not known to the public, even some strong leads? I would send an urgent telegram to Bernie just in case and summon Roderick to explain one can never have enough material. His approval of my underhandedness was not needed. I already surmised his view of stealing confidential police files would be one of horror and would urge me to return to America with him forthwith, lest I find myself locked up in chains. I would dig my heels in and firmly disagree. Jack and I would meet very soon in a dark street or alley, and he will know that in the face of God, he has met his match, even if I failed.

Upon my return, the house was alive with activity. The housemaid was busy cleaning. Edward took care of a payment for the food delivery and the chimney sweep was cleaning the fireplace in the dining room. All the furniture was carefully covered to protect from the soot. I made my way downstairs, a rare occurrence in a household of this nature, but I often visited Cook and her assistant, a sweet young girl called Peggy, rescued from the workhouse.

“Good afternoon, sir. I hope you had a fruitful morning,” said Cook. I always thought she imagined my world to be true and my intentions honorable and, after spending enough time in employ, she remained none the wiser.

“Busy in the office as always, and, Peggy, how are you, dear girl?”

She was shy to the point of being crippled whenever in my presence. Her life had been blighted by extreme poverty and misery, and it disabled her confidence. Peggy was put in the workhouse, along with her mother, at the age of twelve. Sadly, not long after they arrived, her mother died of the Consumption leaving her alone to fend for herself. She had no choice but to remain until Mr. Fitzgerald, who had contacts through an east-end charity, assisted her to find paid employment with me. Cook possessed a formidable character with a tyrannical hold over her kitchen. She was also guilty of successfully driving away countless assistants through the decades. For reasons unbeknown to the entire household she softened, gently taking Peggy under her wing as she learned the ropes. I was content to give the poor girl a room at the top of the house, with a clean bed and a small wage. The workhouse was no place for her wounded soul; she did not possess the hardness needed to survive. At fifteen years of age, she seemed grateful enough for the work, although she made little eye contact with me and rarely smiled.