by Madison Kent
“You’re right. My mind thinks only in a suspicious way of late that I now think only in terms of wrongdoing. Of all things Mr. Fielding is, he doesn’t appear sickly or weak. Actually, he looks like a strong man, as if he takes some care with his physique.”
“There has not been another murder, maybe the person has fallen ill or moved out of the country, and it is the last of it.”
“I suppose there is always that possibility, but fate is never that kind. I believe he, or she, will have to be hunted down.”
“We have arrived. After not seeing you for so long, I wish we could have spent a longer evening together. Tomorrow should prove interesting if Harry shows up to see my uncle. Maybe I can try to speak to him and flush out some news.”
“I will work from home tomorrow so that I can be there when Harry arrives. I will send word round to you as soon as we have met. Perhaps I can come for afternoon tea, and I will tell you what I have found out.”
“I am so curious that I feel we are in the midst of our own novel.”
“I know. I wish we could see Mr. Doyle again and tell him of our progress.”
They both smiled and, this time, he leaned in and hugged her.
Chapter Seventeen
Whitechapel in Hysteria
She was grateful to Clinton, who had now become accustomed to her late nights, and had taken to having the maid draw her late night bath. Whenever she returned from Whitechapel, she had the sensation of wanting to wash away the stain it left upon her. Even though it was a cool night, she opened the window and hung her clothing there to let the wind rustle in and freshen her dress.
She pushed away her sweaters, finding the glove with the opium; she thought, at last, she could now relax. The drug and the hot bath gave her a wonderful sensation of being free of cares and almost removed from her body, as if in another world.
“My darling, you look so beautiful this evening. Your face is not as careworn, and your skin has a glow about it that I remember so well,” said Russell.
She opened her eyes and said, “Russell, I knew you would come. I felt as if I have landed on a cloud, and you are with me once again.”
She gathered her robe around her and sunk under her bedding to warm her body.
“You are surviving despite your new habits. I have been worried about you, but I know you feel you must do these things to survive. They will either kill you or make you come back to life. You have been to that terrible place again?”
“Yes, I have. I have seen so many people and their suffering. It has changed me. I feel I have become more adept at coping with my own personal grief…but, do you think I look beautiful, really?”
“Your beauty will never fade for me. You would even be more beautiful if you stopped wearing that wretched black clothing. It does not suit you.”
“How can you say that it has not even been a year since…”
“A year, ten years…what difference does that make? We cannot be together in this world physically, and your continuing to wear black and grieving so that it ruins your life distresses me. You alone remain of our family, and you must remember us with joy and live for all of us.”
She began to cry and reached out to him, “Russell, no, I cannot live without you and the children. Don’t implore me to do so, please.”
“You must, but I will be there wishing and hoping for you as much happiness as your heart will allow you to have. Live with purpose, no longer just with grief, and you will be able to live even without the opium. Rest now, and I will return, and we will speak again about your progress on this Ripper matter.”
She drifted off into a sleep-like state where she could not perceive what was real and what wasn’t.
When she awoke in the morning, she couldn’t distinguish immediately what had happened. She thought she might be beginning to lose her mind. The picture in her mind of talking to her husband was so real to her. Were there actually such things as ghosts? If there wasn’t then, her mind was taking a turn that was frightening.
September 30, 1888
My visit to Whitechapel produced some results. Hugh and I were fortunate enough to meet with Bob Fielding. We also happened upon Harry Nelson, who again, appeared unwell. Bob Fielding was his usual gritty self, but after a few drinks, he began to talk and softened somewhat in his rhetoric. After a chance finding of a note, Bob had dropped, we followed him and to my surprise, the person he met with was Harry Nelson. Harry has said he will meet with Dr. Scott today; perhaps this will shed some light on the mysterious Mr. Nelson. Hugh will be coming for tea today to bring any news he finds out about Harry.
She was physically weakened by the events of the past weeks, and when she looked in the mirror, she found a woman she did not recognize. Russell has said she was beautiful, but she wasn’t. She looked drawn and pale with some slight darkness under her eyes. The opium she was taking had given her a slight tremor in her left hand that she could hide from others, but not from herself. She had bought several new novels and decided she would spend a peaceful morning reading by the fireplace until Hugh came to see her in the afternoon. She had not spoken to Jonathan or the aunts for over a week, and she thought she would also send them notes.
It was noon by the time she had settled herself by the comforting fire, sipping her Darjeeling tea and gathering her writing materials. It began again, that sound—that sound that brought screams to the throats of many people. She opened her window and looked down into the street.
“Another victim…the Ripper strikes again…Whitechapel in hysteria.”
She began to shake and collapsed on the floor by the fireplace. If it had happened last evening, she and Hugh were right there. She could have easily been in the midst of the perpetrator. This unholy hell must stop. She began to weep for the victim, whoever she was, and all the other victims of this deranged human that had brought so much pain to so many. She went back to that familiar place in her drawer for her medicine and called room service for something stronger than tea. She wanted her absinthe and, if she were a man, she would have reached for a cigar. She decided she would not go down for the paper. In the first news reports, there was such little information. It wasn’t until evening or the next day that dribs and drabs of information would begin to trickle in. Perhaps Hugh would bring the paper with him. She wondered what could be the purpose of her looking for this elusive shadow stalker; he seemed to carry out his crimes with such ease and audacity.
She drifted into a troubled sleep, dreaming a black-hooded figure was chasing her with a bloodied knife. When she awoke, she was sweating, but relieved that it was a dream; and that she was safe in her hotel suite. Hugh should be here soon. She took a soft blue frock she had recently purchased from her closet. She would not wear black today or any further. She would wear a black band around her arm, but she was tired of carrying the weight of living with such a constant reminder of her grief.
There was a knock on the door and Clinton spoke, “Your party is here, Mrs. Donovan.”
She opened the door and instinctively touched his hand, “You’ve heard—there’s been another victim?”
“Yes, all of London I think has heard. One of the maids who resides near there says there are protests in the streets and a great ruckus. They don’t understand how the coppers haven’t caught ‘em and why there aren’t more constables patrolling the streets to protect ‘em.”
“I was down there last night, Clinton; I suppose I could have walked right past him. It’s a nightmare. How does he get so lucky as to not be seen? It doesn’t seem possible.”
“People are truly frightened now. I hope they will increase the patrols. Your visitor, Mr. Scott, is here and waiting for you in the lobby.”
“Thank you, Clinton, please tell him I will be down in a few minutes.”
She went back to the drawer to take what she justified was just a smidge of powder and to touch her photograph of the children.
“Madeline, how are you doing? What a shock…what a shock! I’m sure you
have thought as I did all morning that we may have been a stone’s throw from the murderer or passed him as we were walking,” said Hugh.
“I am happy you are here. It was terrible news; I started to shake when I heard. Do you mind if we have dinner at the hotel? I do not wish to go out this evening.”
“I am glad to hear it. I was certain you would want to be in the middle of the chaos to see what is happening.”
She thought about what he said, “Perhaps you are right; I spoke in haste. It would make sense to see what we could observe or hear. Tongues will be wagging tonight.”
They spoke a while longer about the Ripper and his victim Catherine Eddowes. There was little else in the paper besides that her throat was cut and her name and the location—Dorsett Street in Whitechapel.
“I wanted to mention this earlier, but it didn’t seem appropriate, you look lovely this evening.”
She felt awkward at his words and rushed over his comment, “Thank you. I felt it was time to put away my closet and heart full of black.”
“It suits you—that color blue.”
“With all this other madness, I almost forgot to ask you about our Harry. Did he make the appointment with your uncle?”
“No, he did not. It was somewhat vexing to me, as I implored my uncle to make time for him. I was certain with the way he looked that he would want to see a doctor, but there may be a plausible reason so I will hold judgment.”
“Would it be too much of a burden to go there tonight? I know you just said you were relieved that we wouldn’t travel there, but you are right, it is the best time to be there when everyone is stirred and frightened and might tell something important.”
“The more we speak, the more my curiosity is getting the better of me, and I admit I would like to find out what the scuttlebutt is in Whitechapel.”
The night air was cool, and he had brought a blanket throw with him in the carriage and placed it around her. She had wished she could lean up against him and have his arm around her, but she believed there were too many obstacles for her to ever have a relationship with anyone again.
“Where would you like to begin tonight—Ten Bells, Queens Head or some other pub?” asked Hugh.
“I prefer Ten Bells because we know Patrick Rooney, and he might have heard something.”
Patrick was bartending and waved them over to where he was.
“Mrs. Donovan, it’s been mayhem since the news broke. Everyone thought the demon had left the area. We all had hoped the worst was over.”
“It won’t be over until he’s caught. He can’t stop—whoever he is. There’s something in him that is devouring him and making him wild enough to do these acts,” said Madeline.
“A man was asking for you earlier; he had your name wrong. He called you Donnelly, but by the description he gave, I knew it was you.”
“Did he leave his name or a message?”
“Just said his name was Harry, and he hoped to talk to you and some doctor soon.”
“Interesting…perhaps we’ll see him, and it will become clear,” said Hugh.
“Has the noise level been like this all day Patrick?” asked Madeline.
“It has, ever since the newsboys came round. People were shouting at every constable and shaking their fists, and some of the women flat out fainted.”
“I am shaken by it, Patrick, and feel the same as the people shouting in the streets. How is it possible the Yard has not been more successful in finding him.”
“The women that come here, they think it’s because of their occupation that the police don’t care. They think it’s deliberate in some way—that as long as it’s only women and women of their kind, that it will go on, and they will continue to be in great danger.”
“What do you think Patrick? Has there ever been anyone who comes in here talking of the murders in such a way that they would be suspicious?”
“If I were a constable, I think I’d put half of ‘em in the hole. It’s a place of sinners, and there be many a man who comes out swinging with his words. Fielding is one whose cruel words can bring a woman to tears. He is a strange one, but there are some when they’re drunk that talks as if they're glad of it, that it’s cleaning house. It’s a terrible thing to hear it. Mrs. Donovan, there’s the man now that was looking for you, he’s in the back.”
“Hugh, it is him. Would you mind going over to him?”
“I’ll bring him back if he’ll come.”
Harry walked over, looking bedraggled and confused. “Mrs. Donnelly, Mr. Scott, forgive me for not being able to make the doctor’s appointment. After your generous offer of help, I must seem an ungrateful chap, but it was an unavoidable occurrence. Not only was I not feeling up to the trip to London, but my hired hand did not show up, and I was left to deal with some issues on the farm. I would like an opportunity to meet with him another time if the offer is still open.”
“Not at all—after today’s horrid news, we cannot worry about such trifles as that. We can make it for another day. When do you think you could be there?”
“Would tomorrow afternoon be suitable?”
“I will inform my uncle. Is there a way to reach you if he is not available?”
“That is difficult for me. I am not sure where I will be. As I have said before, if he is unavailable, I will do my marketing. It will be no trouble. I see you are all speaking about the lady. What a shame…I hear she was a good woman with a big family.”
Madeline thought that an odd comment, as reports said that she made her living on the street, but perhaps he was being generous with his comments and had pity on the poor woman.
“I will get us all a beverage. Do you drink ale, Harry?” asked Hugh.
“Yes, that would be good. Excuse me, I see someone I know. I will return shortly.”
Bob Fielding had walked in. He and Harry met, exchanged something then both walked back to the bar.
“It’s a small world; this Whitechapel…you two come down here a lot lately. You’re becoming a couple of regulars,” said Bob Fielding.
“I see we are all acquainted,” said Hugh.
“Bob does some work for me at my farm sometimes. He’s a good man and a hard worker. He’s not as bad as he sounds sometimes, are you Bobby?” said Harry.
“Nor am I as good as what you just said, Harry. I’d sell me own mother if it bought me some ale,” said Bob.
“We’re down here because of what happened again. Somebody must have seen something. We’re going to walk around the area and see what everyone is saying. I hope you are able to make your doctor’s appointment, Harry,” said Madeline. “Is it all right if we go now, Hugh?”
“Of course—good-night, gentlemen.”
After they had left the pub and were onto High Street, Hugh said, “I was surprised you wished to leave when both men were there.”
“It is because both were there. Neither would have anything interesting to say now, besides I wished to get out into the street for a little while—for as long as our breathing can stand the rank smell.”
“The paper said she met her untimely death on Mitre Street, I believe. Should we head in that direction?”
“Oh, I had heard it was Dorsett…but I only read the early report. Yes…please let’s go there.”
Everywhere they went there were groups of people huddled together talking about the Ripper. It was like the circus had come down the street of Whitechapel. As they approached Mitre Street Madeline said, “There’s Jonathan…I haven’t seen him for quite a while now. I have wanted to speak to him many times but have been unable to get in touch with him. You don’t mind if we go over to see him?”
“Why would I? He is as good-natured a man as ever I met and I know you are friends.”
“Jonathan…Jonathan,” she called out.
“Madeline…Hugh…How are you?”
“Fine…fine,” they chimed together.
“I have been meaning to call on you, Madeline but the paper has me working this story f
or long hours into the night. I had thought I might have bumped into you before this,” said Jonathan.
“We are on our way to the scene of the murder,” said Hugh.
“As am I,” said Jonathan. “We can go there together. Have you been to see the aunts recently?”
“No, I have not and feel remiss about that, but perhaps we can all walk over there,” said Madeline.
“It’s right over there, where that small crowd gathers. The dismemberment found with the other victims did not occur with this woman. It is believed a man coming down the street, a street vendor pushing his cart, possibly prompted the Ripper’s immediate exit from the scene. It's thought he might have fled after hearing the sound of the cart,” said Jonathan.
As before, the crime scene was not cordoned off in any way, and people walked over the blood stained area in the street where the body had lain. She did not know what she expected to find but wanted to observe the scene and the people to see if anything would stand out to her.
The three of them each spent the next half hour speaking to passing pedestrians, seeking to learn something. It was the same; they saw a person whose identity had been concealed by his long coat and hat. However, they didn’t wish to talk about vague sightings; they wanted to speak of their outrage and feeling of helplessness at the state of Whitechapel.
“There’s Rocks.”
Rocks was standing up against the wall a short distance from the sight, she and another woman were smoking thick, greasing looking cigars. They all walked over to where she stood.
“Rocks, how are you?” said Hugh.
“Better than that woman, Eddowes,” she said with a blank expression.
Her companion added, “She done owe me money—I seen her right before she passed. She come round to where me and Rocks was to see if we’d give her some money for a night’s lodging at the public houses. She was in a wretched state—drunken and smelling foul.”
“I told ya’ not to help the likes of someone like that. People like that always get themselves done in before their time,” said Rocks.
