Stalking Jack: The Hunt Begins... (Madeline Donovan Mysteries Book 1)

by Madison Kent

  “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow, Madeline.”

  “You are too kind, Hugh. I will see you tomorrow.”

  Chapter Seven

  Saving Polly

  August 22, 1888

  Mary Ann “Polly” Nichols has come home. Our efforts to bring Anna and Helen’s niece home to safety and back to the love of her family have come to fruition. When I received the news today and met with Polly, I had a great sense of accomplishment. When I was able to witness the joy on Anna and Helen’s face, it made me believe again that good things can happen--that life does not always have to have some tragic end.

  I dined with Hugh tonight at a cozy little restaurant, and we had a meaningful conversation about things in our lives, and about my quest to uncover more clues on the Ripper case. He and Jonathan have been most helpful to me in this. Now that Polly is home safe, I will concentrate on obtaining further information on my suspects. I would like to speak to both Rocks and Bob Fielding again.

  “Good-night, my dearest ones, it is a tumultuous time here in London. I wish I could hold you and speak to you of my thoughts about everything that has happened. I am thinking of you and carry you with me in my heart, always.”

  At a quarter past the noon hour, Hugh arrived at the Hotel George to find Madeline waiting for him, reading the London Times and the latest Ripper news. The hotel did not provide The New York Times. There were few places to find a paper from the states. She had to rely on Jonathan bringing her a copy of the paper to be able to read his articles.

  “Good afternoon Madeline, our carriage awaits us. Shall we go?”

  She took his arm and ascended into the fine Hansom that he had secured for their afternoon outing.

  “There seems to be no noticeable progress in finding any murder suspects. Still it is a good sign that there has not been another occurrence,” said Madeline. “I met a lady butcher that I would like to see again. She works in the market, a short distance from the Bells.”

  “Good, we will begin there. What is it you are hoping to achieve?”

  “Catch the Ripper, of course.”

  He smiled and said, “You are not serious, of course?”

  “No, sir, I am indeed in earnest. Have you not read A Study in Scarlet? There is a way through deduction and reasoning that one might be able to find a murderer. Do you not think it possible?”

  “Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, yes, they have provided us all with an entertaining story, but that is all it is. It is a matter for the police.”

  “Yes, but sometimes people are more likely to talk to a civilian rather than a constable, especially in Whitechapel.”

  They were let off a few blocks from their destination as Madeline wished to talk with anyone in the crowd that was willing to talk to her. A young boy hawking newspapers proclaimed to her, “I knows who’s done it, Miss. It’s old surly Mr. Motts. He be a retired copper who hates the ladies here, he says they brought down Whitechapel and done in many a good man. He says when he was still patrolling; he’d like to have locked up the lot of them, but no jail being big enough for the likes of them, all the coppers gave up.”

  “Thank you, Tommy, do you know where we might find Mr. Motts?” said Madeline.

  “He done go to the Queens Head almost every day I sees him there when I’m selling me papers.”

  “Perhaps we can look into that also before we leave for Wickham’s,” said Hugh.

  “We’re near the market where Roxanne works.”

  As they approached, Hugh said, “There is a client of mine at that fruit stand. I have been trying to contact him for several days. Would you mind waiting for me while I speak with him?”

  “If you don’t mind, I would like to continue to the butcher’s, it just a block down this way. Could you meet me there when you finish?”

  “That would be fine. I don’t imagine anything could happen to you within that short distance.”

  “Hugh, you are kind to worry so after me, but I am a grown woman, and I can manage these things. Please, do not concern yourself over me.”

  “That will be difficult because…let’s just say, I’ll try.”

  Madeline was within a short distance from the market when she saw Rocks on a side street, yelling loudly at a scrawny young girl with red hair. She hurried her steps to see what was happening. Rocks had the girl’s arms pinned behind her, calling out that the girl was a thief. She and another gentleman momentarily collided, and he said, “Beg your pardon, Miss, I’m trying to get to that lady, she seems to be in distress.”

  “Yes, let’s go,” Madeline said.

  As they arrived, Rocks had her butcher knife gripped in her hand and was holding it near the girl’s throat. The stranger beside her grabbed the knife while Rocks struck him in the face and began cursing at him. Madeline restrained Rocks grip on the girl, and she ran screaming away.

  Rocks yelled after her, “You dirty, thieving whore, you not be seeing the last of me!”

  So angry, she was spitting out her words, she said to Madeline, “You, you’re the one asking me all those questions.”

  She pulled away from the man she struck and said, “Leave me alone, you dirty mongrel. Don’t you ever put your hands on me again, or I’ll call the constable.”

  “Roxanne, what happened, what did she do?” asked Madeline.

  “She done stole a package of good meat, my best cuts I had wrapped for one of my customers. I seen it in her bag.”

  “What is the cost to reimburse you for it? I will pay for it; the poor girl looked as if she hadn’t eaten for a while.”

  “Them whores, they gots money to eat all right. They gets enough money from their whoring, but they use it to buy the liquor and the drugs.”

  “I’m sure you know more about that than me, but I will pay for what she stole.”

  Rocks held out her hand as Madeline put the coins in it to cover the theft of her food.

  “Maybe you ain’t so bad,” Rocks said to her with a feeble half smile. “I wasn’t going to cut her, just threaten her,” she then continued speaking to the man who had taken her knife.

  “Beg your pardon, Mum, but you looked serious about it and I was worried,” he said as he handed her back her knife.

  “My name is Harry, Harry Nelson.”

  “I’m Mrs. Donovan, and this is Mrs. Thompson.”

  “How do you do? I’m sorry for interfering Mrs. Thompson; please accept my apology.”

  “It’s all right governor; things gets rough ‘round here all the time. Most people here that knows me would know better than to steal from me,” she said with a laugh.

  “Mr. Nelson, you seem to be flushed. Are you well? Please have a seat,” said Madeline.

  He sat down on a hard wooden chair outside one of the storefronts.

  “I think you are right. Maybe it is just the work on my farm. It is long hours I keep, and it is hard on the body.”

  Hugh was approaching them with a quizzical look on his face and said, ““Madeline, what’s happened?”

  “I’ll explain later, but this gentleman, Mr. Nelson, seems to be in need of some rest and some fluids.”

  “Go inside,” said Rocks, “I’ll get you all a nice cup of hot tea.”

  “That would be lovely, Mrs. Thompson, and greatly appreciated,” said Madeline.

  “Thank you—I believe all the excitement must have weakened me. I have of late had the consumption and have not had proper rest. I had come to buy grain for my sheep and a few other sundries when I happened to see the woman with the knife. The aggressive way she had the other woman’s arm pinned back, and her angry words made me believe she had truly meant her harm,” said Harry.

  “I had come down here to speak to her as I heard she might be considered a person of interest in the Ripper case. Several people mentioned her quick temper and strong arm. She told me she had contempt for the ladies that solicited men in Whitechapel. I am happy you were here to deter her,” said Madeline.

  “You are looking for the R
ipper, Mrs. Donovan? Are you in some way connected to the police?”

  “No—no, I’ve just taken an interest in it and have just recently attempted to save one poor girl from these streets. We must stop the person committing these crimes before there is another murder. These people suffer enough.”

  “I agree—there is suffering to go around for everyone. There is no one who escapes it. It is not just the Ripper who brings terror to Whitechapel. Look at this place, filth, disease, and every sort of affliction imaginable is here,” said Harry.

  “The pea soupers alone, the air thick with gaseous odor and pollution, are enough to try and endure. When I am here, I find it difficult to breathe,” said Hugh.

  “It is a hard time for people to be at peace with this world. Everywhere you look, there is more bad than good, more sadness than happiness,” said Harry.

  “I agree with you. I suppose that is why it is so necessary to celebrate the small victories. If you are all right now, Mr. Nelson, we will take our leave as we are looking to speak with someone who we believe might shed some light on the Ripper,” said Madeline.

  “I will be all right. I wish you success in your quest and a good day.”

  They left Harry and discussed what had just occurred. Madeline told Hugh the events that involved Mr. Nelson and Rocks.

  “She was one of the people you thought might have motive and opportunity? She is a woman, though, and generally speaking, women do not commit murder. Murder seems to be a man’s job,” said Hugh.

  “I have not discounted her. She is large enough to be a force against these women; most are in a state of inebriation, or under the influence of drugs, that gives them a slowness of mind. Do we ever know what goes on beneath the surface of people who have perceived life to be against them and that they have borne injury they feel they cannot endure?”

  “These are savage crimes, committed by someone who has revenge and hatred of some kind, at least, those are my views.”

  “On to the Queen’s Head then and hopefully, we will meet Mr. Motts,” said Madeline.

  All of the pubs existed within a fifteen or twenty-minute walk. Hugh, being a resident of London, could attest that consumers knew the Queen’s Head leniency towards the practice of solicitation and the selling of substances within its walls. If a person had a drug addiction, they could most likely purchase their drug of choice at the Queens Head. Besides alcohol, opium was widely used by the patrons of Whitechapel. It was just steps from the Ten Bells. There were so many pubs and such debauchery present it was no wonder it was called the wicked quarter mile.

  It was only two, but at the Queen’s Head, it may as well have been ten at night. Crowds of people pushed up against the bar and openly traded substances wrapped in a waxy looking paper. There were bobbies that walked openly outside but did not interfere unless a brawl began. Crime existed within Whitechapel as a virus that just intensified and gathered momentum.

  “We are looking for a retired policeman, so let’s say maybe fifty years of age or perhaps late forties. Tommy said he was big as thunder so to a child that might translate to about 6 foot. He also said he had a handlebar mustache, so those factors narrow the field a little,” said Madeline.

  They walked through the bar that was no more than long tables filled with mostly drunken men with a few ladies seated atop their laps. Most people did not respond to their questions regarding Mr. Motts, but one person said she thought she knew the old copper, and when he wasn’t here, he was likely to be at Kings Row. It was yet another pub she had not heard of; she wondered that anyone did anything in Whitechapel but drink.

  While walking to the Kings Row, they saw Tommy again diligently selling his papers, “Miss, Miss, I seen ‘em, the bad man with the mustache. He done just walk into Kings.”

  “Thank you, Tommy,” Madeline said and gave Tommy the rest of the few coins she had in her bag.

  They spotted him easily, for his voice was loud, and he was regaling a few men with tales of his arrests and life as a constable. The men listened intently while he talked. They took a seat not far from him so they could overhear him speak.

  “I hauled her pretty little arse in, and she tried to slap me, and I gave her what for,” said Mr. Motts.

  “Did you hit her?” asked one of the men.

  “I hit her straight away in the jaw and pushed her into the cell. I’s got not use for them. I’d be liken to lock every one of them up if I could.”

  “But hitting a woman, governor—that ain’t right,” the man continued.

  “It’s right as rain, I tell you when they got its coming to ‘em, a woman should be home having babies not pulling up her drawers in the backs of alleys.”

  Hugh took his cue from Mr. Motts, “I couldn’t agree with you more, sir, a woman who takes to the streets should be locked up.”

  Hugh squeezed her hand, and Madeline knew he was attempting to allow himself entrance into the conversation and get Mr. Motts to talk.

  “A fellow after me own heart. I’m Frank Motts, and you, sir?”

  “Hugh Scott… and this is my friend, Mrs. Donovan.”

  “What brings ya’ down here to Whitechapel?”

  “I’m a newspaper reporter looking for stories on the Ripper, and this is my assistant.”

  Madeline thought, he thinks on his feet. He was using Jonathan’s occupation and she approved that he had adapted and used the information to their interest.

  “That’s a sad piece of work—I don’t care for ‘em, but it’s a fright to have ‘em cut up.”

  “I see you have a constable’s badge inside your waistcoat, sir.” asked Madeline.

  “Retired, Miss, and glad of it. The crime in this city is too much for anyone.”

  “Did you know Martha Tabram?”

  “Yep, most of the gents knew Martha. She was a happy sort for living such a life, but she kept herself filled with liquor. That probably helped.”

  “It must be terrifying for a girl to have to make a living by the ways of the street,” she said.

  “Most of ‘em don’t care; they’re just bones walking around with no life in ‘em.”

  “That sounds rather harsh, Mr. Motts.”

  “Not by my account it don’t.”

  They continued talking for another quarter hour and then excused themselves as Madeline had whispered to Hugh that she would also like to see if she could find Mr. Fielding again.

  “What do you think of him?” asked Hugh.

  “He’s certainly bitter about life in general, and perhaps he saw too much as a constable that it made him hardened.”

  “Yes, but do you think he’s a potential candidate for the Ripper?” he said, half-joking.

  “He could be. He has the badge; he could have used it to waylay Martha. Whitechapel is a dark place; it seems it holds many secrets within its crumbling walls. Are you game to see if we can find Mr. Fielding? He is the man I told you about with the scarring on his face or would you rather just go to Wickham’s now. I am content with either you choose.”

  “No, let’s push on. The day may still have more surprises in store for us.”

  “I have not yet been to Blue Coat Boy or the Frying Pan.”

  “The Frying Pan is on Brick Street. I know where that is. We’re just two streets away if you would like to go there first.”

  “Yes, but perhaps that will be the last for today. I would like to get Polly her dresses and see how she is doing. I have had her on my mind. So many of the women we remind me of her. I am glad she is safe with the aunts.”

  They moved through the crowd, unnoticed, as everyone else was. Invisible among the invisible, they were probably over a hundred patrons in the pub with no one paying any heed to anyone else unless they were soliciting them. She saw Mr. Fielding again in a corner at the end of a long wooden table. She wondered how receptive he would be to her or if he thought she was stalking him. He did not have a congenial personality.

  “Hugh, I see him, but I don’t want to approach him dir
ectly. Perhaps we can sit near him and see if he speaks to me.”

  Her resolve slackened as she once again saw his disfigurement and felt compassion for him. She felt guilty for suspecting him, but yet knew he had all the qualifications to be the perpetrator. She would do this, for Martha and all the girls like Polly.

  “Mr. Fielding, how are you this afternoon?” asked Madeline.

  “I see you remembered me, not hard with a mug like mine. I’m sure you talks to all the handsome men in here,” Bob Fielding spit out the words with a harsh voice.

  “Mr. Fielding, this is my friend, Hugh.”

  “Don’t have your newspaper man with ya’?

  “No, but I am still looking for clues. Isn’t everyone concerned with finding him?”

  “That’s for the coppers, not for you or me. I don’t see it; it’s got to be something else. Why would the likes of a lady like you be down here in the filth and the sewage?”

  “I do it for the woman, to be the voices of the slain women and to help the ones still alive Mr. Fielding and to have a purpose.”

  She was surprised that she had revealed something so personal to a stranger and someone who was a suspect. His pain was laid out for the world to see and maybe hers was also.

  “There is no purpose in it; you should let it be. Whoever done this, maybe they did them women a service. They got ‘em out of Whitechapel, didn’t he?”

  The man next to him chuckled and didn’t seem at all to think this was a disturbing comment. She did not balk at his comment because she had assumed that at some time he might make such a comment. He had contempt for the world on a grand scale.

  “Did not Martha Tabram deserve to decide for herself how the rest of her life should go?” asked Madeline.

  “She did decide. She chose to become a prostitute and open to all that come with it. That’s where we are all right, in the Frying Pan and that’s where my face has been, is that why you came here to look for me?” asked Fielding.

  “I’m in Whitechapel to see many people, Mr. Fielding. You have suffered and still do, I’m sure. But you are still alive, these two girls are not and if they do not catch Jack, how many others will find the same fate?”