Lost In Time

by W M Wiltshire

  Rich looked at Daric and whispered, “Have you ever just looked at someone and knew the wheel was turning but the hamster was dead?”

  The two men chuckled as they headed home to a delicious, hot meal.

  134

  After dinner, the group retired to the drawing room for a little brandy to aid in the digestion of a wonderful mutton roast that Elsie had prepared. Daric and Rich sat in the two wingback leather chairs while Dani joined Mary on the sofa. The warmth of the fireplace was a welcome contrast to the dampness that lurked outside and was trying to penetrate the walls and invade their space.

  Everyone was enjoying their after-dinner drinks and the soft crackle emanating from the fireplace, when the comfortable silence was broken.

  “I don’t like Clara working in that area. It’s not safe,” Daric stated emphatically.

  “Daric, we’ve been over this before. It’s where she needs to be to complete her work. It’s only for a month or two more.” Rich shot him a weary glance.

  “I agree with Daric,” Mary jumped in. “I’m worried about her, all alone in that horrible part of town.”

  Dani was mentally comparing times and dates to what she knew about this time period. One or two more months; that would make it November at the latest, she thought.

  “Clara is an intelligent woman, she knows what she’s doing, and she knows how to take precautions,” Rich assured them.

  * * *

  After finishing their drinks, they bade each other good night and retired for the evening. Daric followed Dani to her room, understanding her discreet signal to him as the evening wound down.

  “Daric, we have to be careful,” Dani cautioned.

  “I know we do. But I won’t stand by and let anything happen to Clara, if I can help it,” Daric said adamantly.

  “Relax. We know that Clara wasn’t one of the Ripper’s victims.”

  “Do we? You don’t know what happened to Clara. Neither do I! Maybe she was one of the Ripper’s victims,” Daric retorted. “Weren’t there murders before and after the canonical five? Didn’t you say they never identified some bodies and that there were some murders where only pieces of the bodies were found? No one knows for sure how many were victims of Jack the Ripper.”

  “I understand your concern, but remember, in our time period, all these people are dead, and how they died, at this point, is irrelevant.” Dani couldn’t believe how cold she sounded until she heard her words out loud.

  “It doesn’t make it any easier,” Daric groaned.

  135: Tuesday, September 4, 1888

  The routine had been the same every morning since Mary Ann Nichols’ murder. Today was no exception as Rich and Daric arrived early at the station. They would stay for only a few minutes before heading to the Frying Pan pub where they wanted to have a conversation with Clara.

  “What on earth?” Rich muttered.

  There was Frank, sound asleep, curled up on the floor under his desk, surrounded by a bunch of crumpled and ripped pieces of paper.

  It was still relatively early. Not all the station’s seventeen staff had arrived yet. Thank goodness, Rich thought.

  “Detective Sergeant Borto!” Rich bellowed.

  Frank sprang awake, hitting his head on the underside of his desk and letting out a yelp.

  “Sir,” Frank answered dutifully, pulling himself to his feet and standing erect. A soft moan escaped between his pressed lips. His back was killing him.

  “Have you been here all night?” Rich asked. Frank wasn’t a young man anymore; sleeping under his desk couldn’t have been comfortable for him.

  “Aye. These interview notes are as useless as a chocolate teapot,” Frank snapped back. “I’ve been trying to make some sense of them, but there’s none to be had. There are too many contradictions.”

  Daric was finding it extremely difficult to keep a smirk from developing. Frank looked ridiculous. What little hair he had, was standing on end. His shirt was pulled out of his trousers on the left side. And his suspenders were halfway down his arms, impeding his flailing hand gestures. It must be his Italian heritage, Daric thought.

  “What are you laughing at?” Frank snapped at Daric.

  “Nothing, Frank.” Apparently, Daric had failed miserably at suppressing that determined smile.

  “Well, keep at it,” Rich said, before wandering into his office. Daric was right on his heels. On his desk was the latest edition of The Star. Its headline read:

  ‘LEATHER APRON’

  THE ONLY NAME LINKED WITH THE

  WHITECHAPEL MURDERS.

  The Strange Character who Prowls About Whitechapel After Midnight–Universal Fear Among the Women–Slippered Feet and a Sharp Leather knife.

  * * *

  An hour later, Rich and Daric arrived at the Frying Pan pub. Clara had not yet arrived, according to William. Daric pointed out George Lusk and Fred Best to Rich; it wasn’t hard to understand what Daric had earlier conveyed.

  “What are the police doing? Have you seen any results yet?” Lusk shouted to the crowd that had gathered.

  “It’s been four days since that poor woman’s murder and nothing, absolutely nothing, has happened,” Lusk ranted.

  The crowd was growing louder as Lusk stirred their distrust of the police. Most people still considered them a threat to their civil rights. They associated the police with martial law and the government’s way of spying on and bullying them.

  Best had planted this seed of animosity in Lusk and was thoroughly enjoying watching it blossom. Best was determined to get his sensational story even if he had to create it himself.

  “Why don’t they offer a reward for the capture of this murderer? Maybe that way we can finally get him off our streets and behind bars, and our women folk will be safe again.” Lusk got louder as the encouragement grew in volume.

  “Keep an eye on this situation for me, Daric. I’m going to give the superintendent an update. He’ll want to know about this,” Rich instructed, then left the pub and its volatile crowd.

  136

  “How are you feeling?” Mel asked Annie when they met outside Christ Church on the corner of Commercial and Church Street.

  “Not any better than yesterday, I’m afraid,” Annie replied wearily.

  Mel noticed how pale Annie looked. She was wondering whether Eliza had really hurt Annie and Annie was hiding it from her.

  “Have you had anything to eat today?” Mel asked. She was thinking maybe Annie was just a little malnourished. Maybe a hot bowl of soup would do her a world of good.

  “Not even a cup of tea,” Annie replied distractedly.

  Mel was not going to let Annie’s vague answer go unnoticed; something was definitely wrong.

  “Here.” Mel took Annie’s hand, turned it over and placed two pence in her palm. “Go buy something to eat. And don’t go spending it on rum, either. Do you hear me?” Mel warned. The Ten Bells pub was directly across the street and the Britannia pub was just one block down.

  “Yes, I do, and thank you,” Annie replied more clearly. Annie had a weakness when it came to drinking, but, at the moment, that was the furthest thing from her mind. “I may check myself into the hospital for a few days; see what’s wrong with me.”

  “That’s not such a bad idea,” Mel agreed. She placed a peck on Annie’s cheek before they went their separate ways.

  Annie walked down Commercial Street and turned left onto Fashion Street. She had to stop and rest for a minute even though she had covered no great distance. She knew something was wrong with her, but she didn’t know what. After a brief rest, she continued on her way, turning down Osborn Street, then left on to Whitechapel Road. She could see the large three-storey red brick building looming in the distance. It seems so far away, Annie thought. But she knew she had to keep going. The London Hospital was where she needed to b
e right now.

  137: Wednesday, September 5, 1888

  When Mary had finished her shift, she went searching for Dani. It had been an extremely difficult and emotional day for Mary. One patient she had been taking care of over the past several weeks and had become quite close to passed away that afternoon. Mary was thankful, though, that she had been there to provide some comfort during his last few hours. Now, she was emotionally drained and exhausted and just wanted to get home.

  Mary knew where to begin her search because Dani had been spending every spare moment she had in the same place. Mary walked down the hall until she was in front of a door at the end of the wing. She knocked twice. There was no answer.

  Mary turned around, when she heard footsteps behind her, to find Dr. Treves coming down the hall.

  “Mrs. Case, I believe you’ll find them out in the garden,” Dr. Treves offered, eyes sparkling with mirth.

  “Thank you, Dr. Treves,” Mary said.

  “Mrs. Case. Mary?”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  “I want to thank you for letting Miss Delaney spend so much time with Joseph. I’ve noticed such a tremendous change in him. It’s like he’s transforming from a hunted creature to a thoughtful, caring, affectionate man,” Dr. Treves said gratefully. He believes, for the first time in Joseph’s entire life, he was actually enjoying himself.

  Dr. Treves had brought Joseph to the hospital and set him up in a couple of rooms at the end of a hospital wing where Joseph would spend the rest of his life. Dr. Treves noticed during the past two years that Joseph possessed a vivid imagination and had romantic ideals. He also had the curiosity of a child.

  “Don’t thank me, Doctor. You should be thanking Miss Delaney,” Mary replied cheerfully, making her way back down the hall to the door leading out into the inner garden.

  Dr. Treves was right. There, sitting in the shade of a large cherry tree, were Dani and Joseph. Mary observed for a moment, not wanting to disturb them.

  “Just once, I’d like to be like other people: to be able to sleep lying down, to be able to settle my head into a nice soft pillow,” Joseph said sadly.

  “Why can’t you?” Dani asked, even though she knew the answer.

  “My head is too big and too heavy. I tried it once, years ago, and found I couldn’t breathe properly. My head has only gotten bigger and heavier since,” Joseph explained resignedly. “I have to sleep sitting propped up against a wall, knees drawn to my chest, where I can then rest my head.”

  “You never know what tomorrow will bring, Joseph,” Dani reassured him. “Maybe Dr. Treves will find something that will help you. You have to think positively, okay?”

  Joseph had always dreamed of being like other people: to have a normal life, to marry a beautiful woman, to have children, and to live in a real house. But they were all just dreams.

  “I wrote a poem. Would you like to read it?” Joseph asked timidly as he quickly changed the subject.

  “I’d love to.” Dani beamed.

  Joseph reached into his inner vest pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. He gently unfolded it and handed it to Dani.

  Dani looked at the artistic penmanship. She marvelled at the fluid grace that seemed to dance along the page. The poem read:

  “Tis true my form is something odd,

  But blaming me is blaming God.

  Could I create myself anew,

  I would not fail in pleasing you.

  If I could reach from pole to pole

  Or grasp the ocean with a span,

  I would be measured by the soul;

  The mind’s the standard of the man.”

  Dani tried subtly to hide the tear in her eye, reaching up casually to brush it away. What a beautiful soul, she thought. Dani knew Joseph’s dream to be like other people would eventually be his demise and it saddened her.

  “You don’t like it.” Joseph was crestfallen.

  “No, on the contrary, Joseph. It’s beautiful,” Dani reached for Joseph’s hand. Her melancholy thoughts were conveying the wrong message.

  “Then, why do you cry? I thought you cry only when you are sad or you are hurt.”

  “There are also happy tears, Joseph,” Dani explained. “Like when someone surprises you with something special that touches your heart. That’s what you did for me.”

  “That’s good, then?”

  “That’s extremely good,” Dani said, smiling brightly and giving Joseph’s hand a little squeeze for emphasis.

  138: Thursday, September 6, 1888

  The day started out with a ray of sunshine, but it only lasted a few minutes. Clouds rolled in, masking the light and throwing a damp misty rain upon all who dared to venture out. It was the kind of dark, damp, dreary day that echoed the sombre mood of those who had gathered to mourn the loss of a loved one. Or more accurately, those who had gathered merely to gawk.

  Since the murder of Mary Ann “Polly” Nichols, the gossips, the loafers and the curious had come to see the crime scene for themselves. They had all hoped to find a small speck of blood they could point out to all who were present. They didn’t realize that their morbid fascination only heightened the horror of this brutal murder.

  The small funeral procession consisted of a hearse, driven by Mr. Henry Smith, the undertaker, and two mourning coaches. The mourners were Edward Walker, Polly’s father, and William and Edward John Nichols, Polly’s husband and son. The procession turned onto Baker’s Row, passed the corner of Buck’s Row and turned onto Whitechapel Road, where neighbors had gathered to pay their last respects.

  The polished elm coffin bearing a plate inscribed with the words “Mary Ann Nichols, aged 42, died August 31, 1888” was buried in the City of London Cemetery, London. The Times later reported that the expenses for the funeral “were borne by the relatives of the deceased, her father, husband, and son”.

  139

  There was a loud pounding on the front door at 22 Mulberry Street. Standing on the front stoop was a man of medium height and slight build, with a small mustache, side whiskers and grey hair, insistently hammering to get the attention of the occupants.

  Samuel cautiously pulled open the door to see who was causing all the ruckus, only to be thrown aside by the man rushing past him into the house.

  “Hurry, close the door!” the man ordered.

  “John!” Samuel exclaimed, peering up and down the street before closing the door.

  John leaned against the wall as he struggled to catch his breath.

  “Have you seen the papers? They’re looking for you, John,” Samuel warned, as he escorted his unexpected visitor into the kitchen. After Samuel had gotten a drink for them both, they sat down at the kitchen table. Samuel pushed the latest edition of The Star toward John, plus some articles he had clipped out of other newspapers.

  John Pizer, a.k.a. Leather Apron, was wanted for questioning by the Metropolitan Police. All the articles in front of him claimed Leather Apron was the prime suspect in the murder of Mary Ann Nichols. Several eyewitness reports recounted that he was known for bullying prostitutes at night. They said he would wait outside a public house and accost them when they left. The papers also claimed he kicked, bruised, injured and terrified his victims.

  One article also said he sometimes threatened his victims with his knife, which he always carried and used as part of his trade. John Pizer was a slipper maker and was always seen wearing a leather apron; hence, the nickname ‘Leather Apron’. Many only knew him by that name.

  “But I didn’t do it! I wasn’t even here at the time of the murder,” John cried.

  “I know you didn’t do it, but I think you should stay out of sight for a while. People are looking for someone to blame for the murder and, right now, you’re their target.”

  John slumped down in his chair.

  “Look, you’re safe here a
nd at least off the streets,” Samuel stated. John was, after all, his older brother.

  140

  “Think about it, Frank,” Daric pressed, straddling a chair and leaning over the backrest. He’d been trying to get a point across to Frank for the past hour, with little success. Daric had finished at the pub and was waiting for Rich to return.

  “I am, but I don’t see what you’re getting at.” Frank never did quite follow Daric’s logic.

  “Okay, let me go over it one more time.” Daric slowed the pace down so Frank’s brain could absorb what he was about to say, again.

  “You told me, before, that every constable on the beat had a specific route he had to cover. Correct?” Daric wanted to get Frank’s confirmation of every point along the way. He hoped that, by doing so, he would finally get his line of thinking across to Frank.

  “That’s correct.” Frank replied, stifling a bored-induced yawn.

  “And you said that there was an expected length of time for a constable to cover his entire route. Correct?”

  “Not anymore,” Frank corrected, quite pleased that he had one-upped the smart-ass in front of him. “The time is no longer stipulated.”

  “Okay, granted. But it had been stipulated for years, correct?”

  “Yes,” Frank grunted, still not seeing where Daric was going.

  The exchange had caught the attention of the other officers in the station. They were going about their business, but listening discreetly to the discussion, anxiously awaiting its outcome.

  “Good.” Daric was hopeful he was making progress. “So, let’s use Constable Mizen as an example. Constable Mizen’s beat is the region of Baker’s Row and Hanbury Street, interconnecting with Constable Thain’s beat from J Division. Correct?”

  “Correct,” Frank replied, shifting papers on his desk. Daric could see Frank’s attention span was reaching its limit. He needed to drive his point home, now.