Catherine Eddowes didn’t exactly bare her teeth, but it was as if she had. “Now you listen to me, Dora Fowler! It bloody well is my concern. I needs to know what sort of entertainment I’m being hired for. I’m no swinging door, taking money and not returning honest work in kind.”
“Honest work? Foh!” Dora scoffed. “Me dog has better scruples than you, Cathy Eddowes, tha’s what me mum says!”
“And me toffee-nosed dog chewing on a wasp has a better boat race than you, Dora Fowler. So you can kiss my buttered parsnips of a buttocks! Everyone knows you’re nothing but a soppy little bird swindler who was born on the wrong side of the sheets! And you’d have more chance of plaiting fog than getting one of them parrots of yours to say ‘cock a snook’!”
Dora looked at Catherine Eddowes, and her face turned prickly crimson as if her cheeks had been stung by bees. She sank down on one of the Oriental chairs, her eyes wide with disbelief.
“How could you say that to me, Cathy Eddowes?” Dora wailed. “You’re me Uncle Thaddeus’s second wife’s niece! How could you?” Clearly Catherine Eddowes had broken some unwritten Cockney law about not airing dirty laundry.
“Look here, Dora Fowler,” Catherine hammered. “I was sucking eggs long afore you was even born. So don’t go tellin’ me my kettle is black, when yours is full of sooty coal. And don’t think I don’t know why you’re wiff this redheaded lad.” She poked her finger in Collin’s direction. “He gots pots of money, tha’s why. So come down off your high horse.”
Collin positioned himself between the two. Dora looked as if she would cry. Her face was pinched, and her lips trembled. Katie felt instantly sorry for her.
Outside the long windows came the hollow clop of hooves as horses swept past.
“I quite see your point, madam,” Collin said in a placating voice. “But all we want in return for your company tonight is . . . well . . . nothing.” Collin couldn’t very well say he was trying to save her from Jack the Ripper. If Catherine Eddowes thought there was even the slightest chance she might die tonight, she would seek out Jago’s protection. And Jago could be Jack the Ripper.
“All we want,” Katie said, acting on inspiration, as she stepped forward, “is the pleasure of hearing you sing. It’s Collin’s birthday,” she lied, “and all he wants is to hear you sing. He loves your voice.”
Catherine Eddowes, Katie had determined, wasn’t used to receiving money and giving nothing in return. But like Courtney and every other musical performer Katie had met in LA, Catherine Eddowes had an ego bigger than the state of California. But the real problem was that Collin had no money left to negotiate. He’d used it all to pay for the private room.
But Collin surprised Katie. With a sort of magician’s exaggerated flair, Collin drew a trump card from his hip pocket—in the form of a jeweled watch fob. He held it up leisurely, taking his time to consult the gold watch face, all the while letting the tiny emeralds and rubies encrusted in the fob glisten and sparkle in the candlelight.
And like a cat spotting a juicy mouse, Catherine clamped greedy eyes on the jeweled fob and all but started to salivate.
“If you throws in that worthless little bauble chain,” she said, coyly raising her glass. “I’d say you and me got a right fine deal.”
“This little bauble chain is worth a king’s ransom. But for the pleasure of hearing you sing—until half past the hour of midnight — it is all yours, madam. You strike a hard bargain.” Collin turned and winked at Katie. That had been an hour ago.
Now, sitting on the wine casket outside the private little room, Katie listened to the distant clock tower strike twelve midnight. The ringing gong notes were loud in the small confines of the passageway. She shivered a little but then gave a long sigh of relief. Catherine Eddowes was safe.
Hearing footsteps approach, Katie glanced up.
Oscar Wilde, a large crimson flower flapping in his lapel, was motioning frantically.
“Ma cherie!” Oscar cried.
Katie jumped off the wine barrel. “Major Brown? Is he here?” she asked, breathlessly. Oscar had promised to keep an eye out for Brown and tell Katie if he entered the tavern.
“Non, ma petite jeune fille.” Oscar shook his head. “Not Major Brown, but one of his minions from Scotland Yard. A repugnant man with a meat-cleaver mouth and ham-hock fists. He barged in, not five minutes ago, demanding to know if anyone had seen you. I directed the dragoon-faced officer to commence his search down the street at the Swan and Whistle.”
Oscar pantomimed taking off a wide-brimmed hat and making a low, sweeping bow. “Reverend Pinker is here, too,” he said, straightening up. “Looking for you. And that odious Bram Stoker arrived with the glorious James Whistler. But when Bram—the little beast—set eyes on me, he scuttled away like a frightened March hare. Pitiful scribbler that he is. Claims he’s here doing ‘research,’” Oscar harrumphed.
Katie bit back a smile. Oscar Wilde was here as a reporter as well. Everyone was trying to write about Jack the Ripper—who he might be and where he might be hiding. The Ten Bells Tavern had been frequented by Mary Ann Nichols, the first victim.
Oscar leaned closer and whispered, “Some men, such as Mr. Whistler, cause happiness wherever they go. Other men, such as Mr. Stoker, cause happiness whenever they go.” He flashed Katie a wide smile. “I was ecstatic when that odious stealer of vampire lore turned tail and scurried away.”
“Thank you so much, Oscar, for keeping watch.” Katie moved down the narrow passageway and peeked out from behind the brown staircase.
In the far corner near the dartboard on the wall, Katie could see James Whistler in his floppy, red beret talking to Reverend H. P. Pinker in his white dog collar.
She turned her head and scanned the tavern to the right.
But it was too late.
Major Brown’s man—the beefy one with the bristle-brush moustache from the underground railway—had spotted her.
Chapter Forty-eight
Don’t Let Them Fool Ya say the Bells of Saint Julia
Brown’s man came tearing around the corner. He jerked to a stop when he caught sight of Katie. For a moment his moustache bristled, then his shrewd, dark eyes lit up.
“You’ll not get away from me this time, missy!” he shouted triumphantly. “Where’s your daft boyfriend, eh? Makes no never mind. You’re coming wiff me. Major Brown wants a word wiff you.” He strode forward, meat-cleaver arms outstretched ready to seize her.
Without hesitating, Katie shoved the wine barrel onto its side. It landed with a resounding thunk, and she pushed with all her might. Like a bowling ball, it was supposed to ram into the man, tripping him up—a fast-action maneuver that always worked in the movies. But the wine barrel didn’t roll. It quivered and bounced to the side like a bowling ball into a gutter.
Oscar raised his arm over his head in a Statue-of-Liberty gesture, and stepped between Katie and the man.
The man snorted like a disgruntled bull. “Move aside! In the name of her Majesty the Queen, move aside.”
“Move aside yourself, little man!” Oscar retorted, his right arm held high as if clutching a torch.
“Who’re you calling little?” The man grasped Oscar’s velvet lapels and gave a hard shake and an even harder shove. Oscar fell arse-over-teakettle over the wine barrel, legs splayed in the air, the ostrich plume in his glossy top hat sticking straight up like the tail of a spooked cat.
Oscar groaned loudly.
The man hoisted him back up by the scruff of his velvet collar and waved a menacing fist in his face.
“Hoy there!” James Whistler came striding around the corner with Jago in tow. “Unhand my friend!”
“Shove off!” the man snarled at Whistler, twisting Oscar’s collar like a tourniquet until the poet’s face became suffused in an ugly, purplish wash of color. “I’ve got orders to—”
“Shut your mug, or I’ll shut it for you!” Jago stepped closer, fists raised. “Let go of me friend or you’ll be sorry for a
long grease and grime.”
“I’m an officer of the law!”
“I don’t care if you’re an officer of the devil! You ain’t welcome here. Bluebottles ain’t never welcome at the Ten Bells. It’s you what needs to shove off, mate—or get down on your chips and peas and start praying!”
“I don’t take orders from the likes of you!” The man released Oscar, and began throwing punches at Jago. Oscar stepped away from the fray, clamped both hands dramatically to his throat, and began coughing loudly.
Hearing commotion, Collin cocked his head out from behind the door of the small, private room. “God’s elbow, Katie! What’s going on?” He was breathing hard and his carrot-red hair hung limp over one eye.
Katie wasted few words explaining the situation. “We’ve got to get out of here!”
Collin nodded. “It’s past midnight. Dora and Catherine—er, I mean Madam Eddowes—are safe. But I’ll have Dora stay with her here all the same.” He ducked back into the room.
When Collin returned, closing the door behind him, James Whistler was shouting and beckoning. “Follow me! I’ve got a horse trap waiting out back.”
Collin grabbed Katie’s hand, and they moved swiftly down the back hall to the rear entrance.
Katie glanced over her shoulder. Jago had wrestled Major Brown’s officer to the floor, and Oscar Wilde was charging down the passageway to join them, the ostrich plume in his hat quivering.
Tethered outside the back door of the Ten Bells Tavern stood a speckled horse harnessed to an open-air carriage.
“Jump in!” Whistler called to Collin and then helped Katie climb aboard onto the front-facing seat. It was a two-wheeler with front- and rear-facing seats. Oscar Wilde flipped up his velvet cut-away coat and clambered onto the back-facing seat. James Whistler flicked a long-handled whip, and the horse trotted into the mist.
“Where to, young pup?” Whistler asked Collin. “Twyford Manor?”
Collin’s mouth pinched together at the word “pup.” He slanted his eyes to Katie sitting next to him. She nodded and answered, “Berner Street, Whitechapel. Can you take us there, Mr. Whistler?”
Berner Street was where a pregnant Molly Potter would be lying dead if Toby hadn’t been able to protect her. As the carriage swept southward along Osborn Street, Collin pointed ahead. “Turn left onto Whitechapel Road.”
James reined the horse sharply around the next corner.
Katie grabbed the padded side rail. The open carriage was like a teacup carnival ride, swiveling them this way and that. The cold night air whipped her bonnet sideways and her hair across her face. She buttoned her wool coat up to her neck and thought about Toby. The plan was to meet him at Traitors’ Gate if anything went wrong. So far so good. But the logical next step was to go to Berner Street to make sure Molly Potter was not lying eviscerated with her womb slashed open and the fetus missing.
Katie shuddered. Toby’s too resourceful to let Molly die, she assured herself. But Toby was being pursued by the police. What if he was in jail right now? No, I won’t think about that. If Toby wasn’t able to save Molly Potter, the scene they were about to come upon would be gruesome beyond words.
The night was eerily quiet except for the thump of the trap’s iron-rimmed wheels clattering over cobblestones.
“Not to worry, my young friends!” James Whistler said with a chuckle as they turned down a narrow, gritty lane of crooked cottages with laundry hanging in side-yards. “I know a shortcut to Berner Street. Indeed, I was there earlier this evening.”
“You were?” Katie and Collin exchanged glances.
Whistler nodded. “At the Working Men’s Institute—it’s an educational club. I exhibited a landscape painting there last year when the Royal Academy banned my work in their hallowed halls. Claimed my art was indecent! High-brow cretins. They’ll regret their caustic barbs, their condemnation! Mark my words!”
Katie inwardly smiled. James Whistler would indeed have the last laugh with the artistic elite. His paintings would be priceless in the twenty-first century.
“Giddyup, Gulliver!” Whistler shouted to the horse, then turned to Collin. “Speaking of artwork, how are your drawings coming along, young cub?”
Collin winced. “I’ve been studying the books you gave me, James. But perhaps you could oblige me on one small, insignificant matter . . . I’d prefer it if you didn’t call me ‘cub’ or ‘pup.’ ”
“What shall I call you then?” Whistler laughed, and the beret on his head—like a colorful, large pizza—flopped up and down.
“You can call me the Archbishop of Canterbury, for all I care, just don’t call me—”
“Splendid! Splendid!” cried Oscar from the rear seat. “We shall call you Archie, after the Archbishop!”
Snapping the reins, Whistler turned to Katie and began telling her about the club he had visited earlier on Berner Street. He explained that every Saturday night the Working Men’s Institute held lively debates—religious, political, educational—that often went far into the night. Saturday night was the only time members were allowed to bring their wives or lady friends.
“Look! There’s the club, up ahead.”
Katie glanced into the gloom to where James Whistler was pointing. It was a brick and timber building with a large, wooden, gatelike door. On the opposite side of the narrow enclosure leading up to the club’s front facade were several shops—a tallow shop, a mirror-maker, a tailor—with brass plates on the front doors and iron bell handles hanging down. A high stone wall loomed at the end of the lane, intersecting with the triangular wedge of a clock tower, giving the illusion that the narrowing street came to a dead end.
The only illumination, aside from slivers of moonlight, was the faint gleam trickling out from the club’s first floor windows.
“I came here earlier,” Whistler continued. “Because the members espouse ideals I’m rather fond of. They believe in worker ownership and equal access to resources for everyone.”
Oscar laughed from the backseat. “Are you spouting more of your proletariat claptrap?” he asked in a teasing tone. “Friedrich Engels would do better to stop preaching his working class drivel — that wealth through exploitation creates an unequal society. Of course it does! A toddler in knee-breeches knows as much. Who needs an equal society in which every plebeian fancies himself the equal to an aristocrat; every aristocrat to a god! Imagine a world where all musicians believe they’d be better suited as politicians, and politicians yearned to be poets!”
“You mustn’t mock those of us who wish to make the world a better place,” James Whistler shot back.
“Why mustn’t I? The height of selfishness is not living as one wishes to live, but asking others to live as one wishes to live.”
“The members of this club are sincere in their sentiments, as am I, Oscar.”
“Of course you are, James! But a little sincerity is a dangerous thing, and a great deal is absolutely fatal!”
Just then the horse shied.
Whistler muttered a curse. “There’s an obstacle in our path. Jump down and poke around with this.” Whistler handed Oscar his long-handled whip.
“Wait!” Collin cried. “I’ll go with you.”
They jumped down and Collin lit a match.
Oscar peered into the gloom, then back at Katie and Whistler in the carriage. He looked troubled as he drew in a long breath, and his eyes appeared almost black in the moonlight.
“You don’t suppose . . .”
“Of course not.” Whistler wound the reins around the whip-stock. “Looks like a bundle of clothes left in a heap. Something’s dropped off a costermonger’s cart, I’ll wager. A bundle of firewood or some rags perhaps.” Notching the wooden drag-break, he climbed hastily down from the carriage. Before he could mutter for Katie to stay put, she had scrambled down herself.
In the distance, the clock in the tower struck a long, single, plaintive note.
One o’clock.
“Looks to be a tailor’s dummy
or a mannequin used for dressmaking,” Whistler said, taking off his floppy beret and running a hand through his dark hair.
The horse pranced and whinnied, ears flicking.
Oscar Wilde took a deep breath and strode forward, Collin at his side. Katie and James Whistler followed behind. Oscar poked at the heap with the long-handled whip.
It wasn’t a bundle of clothes, or twigs, or a tailor’s mannequin.
Peering down at the figure lying in the street, Collin’s hand shook so uncontrollably, the match flame wavered and guttered out.
With unsteady fingers, he lit another.
The dead girl lay on her side, knees drawn up, feet pressed against the curb, a straw hat partially covering her face. Her clothes were wet, and her head rested in line with the carriage’s right wheel. Blood had seeped into the paving stones around her head, saturating the ground like a dark glistening halo. A blue jacket with a white fur collar was buttoned tightly across her slender waist, but gaped open at the neckline. And her dress, of a dark green material, had forget-me-nots embroidered into the fabric. A long, white petticoat peeked out from under the edge of the hem. She was not visibly pregnant.
Katie felt an irrational flood of relief.
“She doesn’t look—”
“Eviscerated?” Collin gulped hard. “She isn’t.”
James Whistler knelt down next to the body.
“It appears as if a knife or other sharp instrument has been drawn across her throat, severing her windpipe and carotid artery. The blade may have cut open her esophagus.”
“From whence cometh this extraordinary wealth of medical knowledge?” Oscar Wilde raised an eyebrow.
Whistler shot his friend an annoyed look. “I’m an artist. In order to paint live people one must first study dead ones—which I did extensively in St. Petersburg. I learned to draw the human body from plaster casts, live models, and an occasional cadaver. I got a first class mark in anatomy.”
Ripped, a Jack the Ripper Time-Travel Thriller Page 36
