Ripped, a Jack the Ripper Time-Travel Thriller

by Shelly Dickson Carr

  Instead, when they descended from the jiggling carriage and hastened down the busy cobbled street, Katie saw shop windows displaying fishing rods, bird cages, blankets, bottle openers, pots, pans, knives.

  Across the street a plump woman, bundled up in several shawls, cried out: “Penn’orth of needles! Get yer penn’orth of needles right here! H’penworth of buttons, farthingworth of thread! Step right up!”

  They moved past a linen-draper and haberdashery, and Katie was over the moon. It looked exactly like Madam Malkin’s Clothing Shop for Wizards! Katie wondered if J. K. Rowling had traveled back in time as well. Is this where she got her ideas for all the magical shops in Diagon Alley?

  Katie tugged at Toby’s sleeve. “Where are we? What’s this place called?”

  “Billingsgate Market.”

  Katie felt disappointed.

  “What’s the name of the street?” she persisted.

  “No proper name. It’s called Diagonal Alley by folks around here, on account of it’s a diagonal to the Market Square and the quay—”

  “I knew it!” Katie made a fist and punched the air. “Rowling must have studied olden-day Victorian photographs.”

  “Olden day?”

  “Er, I mean present-day, black-and-white photographs.”

  Collin scratched his chin. “What other types of photographical picture images would there be?”

  “Perhaps some day there’ll be photographs taken that show vivid colors. The green of your waistcoat, Collin. The deep blue of the sky.”

  The two boys stared at her.

  As they walked farther along, the lane narrowed considerably and Collin managed to step in a saucer-size mound of dung.

  “Bloody hell!” he cried, tugging his patent leather shoe from the muck with a squishy sound. “I say, Toby, this is rawther an unfashionable destination, don’t you think?”

  “You were expecting moneylenders to put up shop in Grosvenor Square?”

  “Well, rich people have to pawn their goods, too, I shouldn’t wonder,” Collin chortled, scraping his sodden shoe against the cobbled stones at the curb. “Especially after a bad round at the races.”

  Minutes later they passed the customs-house quay and emerged in front of a market square that loomed like a crumbling Roman coliseum, all heavy puddingstone and cracked archways leading down a long thoroughfare of secondhand stores.

  Collin jabbed his umbrella into the air. “I say, I don’t much care for these coarse, cheap shops.”

  “Disce aut dicede,” Toby muttered in Latin.

  “Learn or depart?” Collin asked.

  “More like shut up or leave,” Toby answered.

  “To that I say, Jedem das Seine. To each his own. I’ll stick with my posh West End shops, you can have this assortment of . . . of . . . rabble.”

  “It’s a deal, mate, if you’ll just hold your gob. There’s thieves aplenty in the side alleys. You’ll be spotted for a proper toff with loads of the ready, make no mistake. Keep your voice down.”

  The winding lanes were narrowing, making it impossible for carriages to pass. The only horse Katie could see was a bone-thin mare tied to a post up ahead. Branching left and right were pathways and shadowed alleys filled with children playing, dogs barking. And everywhere bells could be heard jangling against the door jambs of secondhand shops selling old clothes, old jewelry, and other wares of all kinds.

  Katie took a deep breath.

  From the hay and straw market to the east came the pungent smell of alfalfa and clover and fresh-cut grass. The biggest difference between her century and this one was the smell of horse dung and hay. She blinked and glanced around.

  Reflecting off shop windows, scattered glints of sunshine threw brilliant colors of fractured light on an amazing array of tangled fishing rods, crooked birdcages, faded blankets, bent corkscrews, old doll houses, and jars full of mismatched buttons. In the milliner’s window on the corner, bolts of crimson silk glistened with a lustrous, blood-red sheen.

  Crisscrossing the busy, narrow street scurried all manner of dock workers, oyster-boatmen, market porter lads, serving maids, shop girls, paupers, and common people. Lean-to sheds were piled high with coal; wheelbarrows brimmed with potatoes and oysters; and tea dens reeked of fried fish and grease-soaked chips. Outside the Boar’s Head tavern, a man in an ankle-length leather apron stood hunched over a kettle-drum cauldron, spearing sausages that sizzled in the fire-flame depths, luring passersby with its strong, smoky aroma.

  Katie’s stomach growled.

  “Fancy a bit o’ beef stew or hot eel soup?” Toby asked.

  The thought of eel soup made Katie’s insides lurch, but she was so hungry, she hastily nodded and pointed to a stall where potatoes lay roasting on red-hot coals in a stone pit.

  Toby scooted across the lane.

  Katie could hear him haggling over the price, and a moment later, Toby returned with three piping-hot potatoes wrapped in newspaper. They sat down on a cobbled stoop below a scrawny tree and unwrapped their prizes. The potatoes had been smile-sliced end to end, the mouthlike opening brimming with melted cheese and grilled onions.

  “Potato pasties for your pleasure.” Toby gave a little nod.

  Collin glanced down at his lunch, wrapped in days-old newspaper, scowled gloomily, and set it on the hump of a bulging tree root. But Katie, knowing that the burnt-toast smell of the baked potato would eventually lure him in, decided to hasten things up by making exaggerated “mmmmmm-goood” sounds as if she’d never tasted anything so delicious in her life. And the potatoes were delicious. In no time at all, Collin succumbed. He snatched up his steaming potato in its ink-smeared newspaper, blew on it several times, and began devouring it with gusto.

  “Why is this place so distressingly unfashionable?” Collin quipped between heaping mouthfuls. “Who knew such rabbit warrens of bare-knuckled life existed?”

  Toby responded with exasperation. “Let’s just follow Sancho’s advice and not look a gift horse in the mouth, shall we, mate?”

  Katie wasn’t sure if Toby was referring to the potatoes or the pawn ticket.

  “ ’Twasn’t Sancho’s advice at all, old sod,” Collin harrumphed with an air of absolute certainty. “It was Byron’s.” He made a pompous show of dusting crumbs from his shirtfront.

  Toby rolled his eyes at Katie and said to Collin, “Byron wrote a poem about Sancho.”

  Collin jumped to his feet, sputtering with anger at being corrected by Toby. “As for a gift horse, if you think we’ve been given a golden egg in the form of a claim ticket stolen off a dead girl, I’ll bet you a farthing your gift horse will turn out to be nothing more than a decrepit old nag.”

  Toby tugged out the claim stub and waved it in the air. “This gift horse could turn out to be of champion stallion lineage and will land us over the finish line and into the winner’s circle! What say you to that, Mr. Doubting Thomas?”

  “I say, don’t call me a Doubting Thomas unless you care to wake up in the middle of next week with your head bashed in.” He made a fist.

  Katie gulped down the last of her potato.

  “Toby, apologize,” Katie ordered, trying hard not to laugh. “Promise never to call Collin a Doubting Tom ever again.” She crumpled the newsprint into a tight ball and cuffed Collin playfully on the shoulder. Then, for no reason she could think of, she hooked first one elbow around Toby’s neck, the other around Collin’s, and hugged them both.

  The two boys froze. Hugging boys in public, Katie knew, was not done by proper young ladies in Victorian England. But here, in this back lane, far from curious eyes, Katie couldn’t help herself. She laughed happily and released her grip, and they both sprang away from her like coiled springs . . . or, she thought wryly, hot potatoes.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Three Bells and Three Whistles say the Golden Bells of Thistles

  Ten minutes later they were bending low, descending the down-under stoop of the Thrice Whistle pawnshop. Toby heaved his shoulder agai
nst the door, and as it swung open, a jangle of bells rang out below the sign of three golden balls, the insignia of all pawnshops.

  Katie had envisioned the pawnshop as being a dark, dusty place where a gnarled old man—like Fagin—would be hunched behind a wooden counter sorting his money while robbing customers of their family heirlooms. Instead, the shop was a long and bright, bustling place with a balconied second floor under a cheerful arched roof. At the ends of the room enormous fires crackled beneath identical hooded fireplaces. Oil lamps dangled from the rafters, and high up on the walls, cross-slits for windows shed bands of light onto the wooden floor below. It reminded Katie of a thriving department store.

  A long glass case, framed in wood, acted as a giant counter, spanning the room end to end, stopping short of the dueling fireplaces with their stump-sized logs. Behind this display counter, half a dozen men, wearing checkered vests and plaid trousers, stood ready to help the long lines of customers. At the rear of the pawnshop, stretching up to the balconied second floor, rose shelf upon shelf of glistening and polished wares. Every shelf was labeled; every item, numbered and accessed by wooden ladders on roller-wheels that squeaked across the floor when summoned by rope pulleys.

  Beneath the glass countertop lay a sparkling array of jewelry, pinned like butterflies on long swaths of blue velvet. At the far end of the counter, Katie saw hundreds, maybe thousands, of wedding bands and row upon row of eyeglasses, watches, cufflinks, necklaces, bracelets, and brooches.

  On the shelves along the far wall could be seen clocks and vases, teapots and kettles, flatirons, pewter mugs, top hats, and an endless procession of porcelain figurines, everything from milkmaids to the queens and kings of England. The higher the shelf, the bigger the item: ship models, busts of famous philosophers, leather suitcases, musical instruments. From one rafter, near the left-facing fireplace, hung a stuffed rhinoceros.

  “Cool!” Katie blurted, glancing around.

  Toby eyed her curiously. “You cold, luv?” he asked, raising his hand to catch the attention of a pawn clerk he knew.

  “No. Sorry. Just an expression,” Katie mumbled. But the shop was cool. It reminded Katie of an old-fashioned general store and an Aladdin’s cave rolled into one.

  “What’s this?” Collin asked, poking his umbrella tip into a tall bin the size of a pickle barrel.

  Toby took a place in line near the left-hand fireplace and glanced over his shoulder. “Looks to be sacks of ladies’ hair.”

  The floor of the pawnshop was crowded with boxes and barrels filled to the brim with toy soldiers, umbrellas, buttons, shawls, books, and tools.

  Katie moved next to Collin and peered into side-by-side barrels. The first held ribbon-bound blond hair; the second, handfuls of darker tresses, some braided and knotted, others balled into spidery webs.

  “Gross,” Katie muttered.

  “Not sold by the gross, Katie,” Toby swiveled his gaze to meet hers. “More likely by the bundle.”

  “Why?” Collin asked, his voice like a hiccough, a deep wrinkle forming between his brows. “Why would someone sell their hair?”

  “For wigs, and braids, and bun clusters,” Toby explained. “Ask your sister. She’s sure to possess elaborate ‘hair adornments’ sold by wigmakers and worn at the opera and fancy balls.”

  “Never,” Collin bristled, joining Toby at the back of the line. “Beatrix would never . . . buy . . . hair. False hair. Who knew you could sell it? What will they think of next? Selling one’s underdrawers?”

  “Yes,” Toby said with tight-lipped annoyance. “People pledge their Eddie Grundies all the time. There’s a warehouse back there filled with clothing: daisy roots, church pews, billy goats, hand racquets, Peckham ryes. Boots, shoes, coats, jackets, ties; and yes, lots of early doors, pairs of underdrawers. People don’t pawn their Eddie Grundies for a lark, Collin. Often it’s a toss-up between food on the table or a warm winter coat. Everything glistens on the shelves here, but a pawnshop isn’t a charitable guild.”

  Collin returned Toby’s exasperated stare. “But it’s a bit like a bank, now, isn’t it? A pawnbroker lends you money and uses your property as security, rather like the lowest common denominator of a bank. The fact that there are people who would stoop to such depths as to pawn their nether garments,” Collin said with a shiver, “makes me grieve for all mankind.” He kicked at a barrel filled with umbrellas, and they clinked and shuffled against one another.

  “Hoy!” shouted a checkered-vested clerk no older than Collin. “Don’t touch the merchandise, my young friend. This ain’t no red ’n’ yella sample shop.”

  “Red and yella?” Katie whispered to Toby.

  “Umbrella,” Toby answered, then turned back to Collin. “Until you’ve lived in the church pews of the poor, Collin, don’t sermonize. But look around, it’s not just the poor who are hocking their goods. Notice the family crest on those soup spoons?” He nodded to a felt-lined case farther down the counter.

  Collin and Katie peered at the contents.

  “By Gad! I know that coat of arms!” Collin sputtered.

  “Pipe down,” Toby said softly, but with an edge to his voice.

  In the line next to them now, two little girls aged about eight and ten were hoisting a music box and Punch and Judy puppets onto the counter.

  “Please, Mama,” wailed the smaller of the two.

  The mother, a slim woman in her twenties, with level, somber eyes in a heart-shaped face, nodded to her daughter and placed a woolen shawl and a rattle-clapper alongside the music box. “Mustn’t fuss, my lamb. Papa will be home soon, I’m right sure of it.” She sighed and swept back a strand of light-brown hair caught under the tilt of her worsted bonnet. With a determined set to her mouth, she reached into her pocket and pulled out two brooches—enamel miniatures—painted with baby faces, younger versions of her daughters.

  Katie drew in a sharp breath. It was wrenching to see this family hock their treasured possessions. Katie touched the strand of pearls around her neck. On her bureau at the Duke’s house sat a jewelry box full of pendants, necklaces, brooches, earrings. Each morning Agnes chose appropriate pieces and pinned, clasped, and fastened them on.

  Katie reached into the small reticule that dangled from her wrist.

  “I tell you, Toby, that’s the Buckleys of Buckingshire’s coat of arms! They would never pawn their silver. Must be stolen! Filched! We shall demand the lot of them back. Surely this shop doesn’t commerce in stolen property? We’ll set this matter right. Follow me.”

  Toby grabbed a fistful of Collin’s jacket and yanked him backward, reining him in by the scruff of his collar like a frisky pup. “You’ll do no such thing. Likely as not, the Marquis of Buckingshire is down on his gambling luck and sent a servant round to pawn the family plate. No doubt he fully intends to redeem the soup spoons in due course.”

  “I should think so! He’s a nobleman. A peer of the realm!” Collin sputtered, the ginger fuzz of his moustache glinting in the cross-slit light from the window above. “Imagine foregoing one’s soup course!” Collin harrumphed indignantly, smoothing down his lapels. “Sir Buckley’s family must have soup come winter. Imagine Christmas pudding and no soup!”

  Toby made a sound in his nose like a snorting bull. “The Cockneys have a saying about the three golden balls hanging over pawnshops. The sign means, two to one you won’t get your goods back. And here’s another laugh for you. Saint Nick is the Patron Saint of Pawnbrokers. So, best watch out, Collin. If you pawn your Adam and ants”—he turned to Katie—“pants,” then swiveled back to Collin—“they’ll nick off yer Mars and Venus—” He stopped in midsentence and glanced sheepishly at Katie. “Er, your candlewick. Sorry, luv. Not acceptable talk in front of the fair sex.”

  Mars and Venus probably meant penis, Katie decided. But what was a Candlewick?

  “By Gad!” Collin cried, balling up his fists. “The Buckleys shall get their soup spoons back, or my name isn’t Collin Chesterfield Twyford, the third. Sunday lun
cheon devoid of soup is like . . . er . . . rhubarb pie without crust . . . unthinkable.”

  “In the words of Marie Antoinette—”

  “Let them eat cake,” Katie’s voice joined Toby’s, who peered at her as if he couldn’t quite figure out who she was and where she came from.

  Katie smiled. I come from a kingdom by the sea . . . far, far away.

  At the front of the line now, Toby held up the pawn ticket.

  “Give it here,” said a gap-toothed, young clerk in a vest two sizes too big, patterned like a large chessboard. Toby extended the pawn stub, and the young man snatched it up and scurried to the far corner through a curtain of beads that plinked and pinged like rain on a tin roof.

  In the next line over, the brown-bonneted mother reluctantly twisted off a ring from her left hand. “This too, sur. If you please, sur.”

  “Your wedding band, mum?” An older, grave-faced clerk enquired.

  “Yussir.” The woman’s voice was quick and determined, but her head was bowed in defeat as she handed over the ring.

  A moment later, when several coins were exchanged, Katie couldn’t stand it any longer. She scooted around Collin, past Toby, and positioned herself next to the young mother.

  “How much to redeem the miniatures?” Katie asked.

  Before the dour-faced clerk could answer, Katie reached into her reticule and tugged out a fistful of coins. The money system in this century was different from that of the twenty-first. If she held out the coins, Katie hoped the clerk would take what he needed.

  “Is it enough?” Katie asked, her voice composed, but her heart thumping wildly.

  A pair of glum, unwinking eyes stared at her. “More ’n’ enough, madam.”

  The clerk’s outstretched fingers opened and closed like the mouth of a snapping turtle as he snatched up six coins from Katie’s outstretched palm. “This will redeem the en-tire lot with interest, save for the ring.” He slid the gold wedding band onto his gnarled pinkie and wagged it in the air. “Let’s see . . .” he continued with exaggerated interest as he clamped a magnifying eyeglass onto his eye and made a great show of peering at the inside of the ring. “Upon my word. I see a wedding date engraved here and a wife’s name. Lizzy. Eighteen eighty-one.”