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ISBN: 978-1-936564-82-8 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-940161-16-7 (hc – limited edition)
ISBN: 978-1-936564-79-8 (ebook)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013935628
Printed in the United States of America
JournalStone rev. date: June 7, 2013
Cover Design: Denis Daniel
Cover Art: Alan M. Clark
Edited By: Norman Rubenstein
Dedication
for Rob, Gehret, and Parker
—the West End Boys
Endorsements
“Historical fiction is difficult to write, because the writer must carefully attend to period language, culture, events, and avoid anachronisms—all this while telling a compelling story. In East End Girls, author Rena Mason accomplishes all this with ease. In addition, her story is woven into the time and events of the most intriguing of serial killers—Jack the Ripper. Believe me: This is an exciting read by a young star on the rise. East End Girls has my strongest recommendation.”—Gene O'Neill, Dance Of The Blue Lady And Other Stories (coming June of 2013, Bad Moon Books)
“East End Girls takes the story of Jack the Ripper and turns it upside down and inside out with the precision of a surgeon. It is a marvelous read from beginning to end, with delightfully bloody twists and turns that are as dark and dangerous as an East End alley. With this book, Rena Mason proves she is a rising new voice in horror.”—JG Faherty, author of The Burning Time, Cemetery Club, Carnival of Fear, and the Bram Stoker Award® nominated Ghosts of Coronado Bay.
“I hadn’t read any work by Rena Mason before but I’ll certainly be following her now. East End Girls shows she’s a very talented newcomer with a very inventive story about Jack the Ripper. I loved everything about this book and was just sorry to see it end. It’s very evocative and entertaining, and I can’t wait to see Mason’s next book.” – John R. Little
Acknowledgements
A big thanks to Gene O’Neill and Gord Rollo, the “Burke and Hare” of horror writers, Alan M. Clark, Norman Rubenstein, Christopher C. Payne, JG Faherty, R.J. Cavender, and Chris Marrs.
"It is the same woman, I know, for she is always creeping, and most women do not creep by daylight." —Charlotte Perkins Gilman
Chapter
1
Steam rose from Eliza’s gloves as hot blood continued to gush out of the wailing prostitute. “For the love of God, hold her still,” Eliza said to the prostitute’s friend, who nodded and strengthened her grip. “It’ll be the end of us if a copper hears.” The end of me anyway, my life, and good family name.
She had been christened Catherine Elizabeth Covington on June 3, 1870. Her parents, Lord and Lady Covington of Northumberland call her Eliza, but the East End prostitutes knew her simply as ‘Jane.’ Where or how she got the nickname, Eliza never learned or cared to find out.
It was times such as this that made her wonder why she was wearing a hooded cape like a villain, kneeling in a back alley of the loathsome Whitechapel District with her hands between the legs of someone so far beneath her both metaphorically and literally. Then she would remind herself it was in pursuit of finishing up at the London School of Medicine for Women to become a physician like her father, and this thought alone was enough to keep her going. Eliza dreamt of being the first female doctor to care for a member of the Royal Family. Why not? Times were changing fast, and she was ready to do whatever it required to see her dream realized—even despicable things such as what she was doing now. The vile creatures of the East End had been a way to advance her knowledge, and they got something out of Eliza’s charity and studies, too.
The uterine curette had slipped from Eliza’s grasp and she’d inched her fingers further up inside the harlot in search of the bulbous metal handle. The other end was shaped into an open oval. Sharp around all its edges, the instrument was perfect for scraping the inside of a uterus. The woman squealed and clamped her legs together, making the task more difficult.
“Keep her calm,” Eliza said, looking up and around for anyone who might be passing by.
The woman repositioned her hands on her friend’s legs, held them firm, and then spread them farther apart. “You sure you know what you’re doin’ Miss Jane? Seems a lot of blood for such a little thing.”
The prostitute patient began squirming again.
“It’s perfectly normal,” Eliza said. “But there would be less of it if she were to just keep still!”
The friend turned her head toward the patient and whispered. “Be calm now. She’ll be done soon enough.”
Up to her elbow in filth, Eliza thought of the mess that would be left on the sleeve of her frock coat. Granted, it was one she wore specifically for university and these ventures in the East End to blend with the residents of the area, but still, she would have to wash most of it herself before handing it off to the servants. She knew choosing a black one would be smart, because she was smart and of superior intelligence regardless of what Professor Huxley had to say. He could go hang himself.
“I got it.” Eliza said. With a firm grip on the handle, she roughly circled the instrument inside the prostitute one last time, then she pulled it out. A warm gush of bubbling crimson and gore followed.
“Ugh,” the friend leaned away and gagged. “It’s done then?”
“Yes. She should rest for the night.” Eliza said.
“I’ll make sure of it Miss Jane. And er…I ain’t got nothing to pay for your services, less you want a little piece of me.” The woman smiled, exposing her yellow teeth and furrowing the dried dirt caked over her brow and on her cheeks.
“That won’t be necessary, but see to it this doesn’t happen again.” Eliza pulled strips of fabric from her medical bag and stuffed them into the patient’s vagina using the curette she had removed a moment earlier. She’d been stealing the servants’ undergarments and shredding them for just this purpose over the last few months, and if any of them had noticed, they’d never mention a thing about it to her. Eliza knew it was a very clever idea—superior intelligence.
“I swear this dollymop won’t be seeing the likes of ‘ya again, Miss Jane.”
“That goes for you, too.”
“You know I got experience compared to her. Not like me to get knocked up.”
“Fine then.” Eliza stood, looked around to be sure she had all her things.
“And what about that mess on the ground between her legs?”
“Clean it up or leave it. I’ll have no part.”
“And the pieces? What am I to do with those?”
“Scoop them up and get rid of them. Here’s some cloth.” Eliza unlatched her medical bag once more and handed the prostitute a larger swatch of fabric. “Burn it all if you can.”
Eliza stepped into the fog and made haste.
London haze in general was abysmal, but the murk that permeated the East End was rife with smoke and a wretched stench of the poor. A few blind turns past derelicts and common people coming and going from whatever business occupied them and soon the more familiar look of Wentworth Street would come into view. The busier thoroughfare would make it possible for her to catch a hansom cab back to London Hospital. During the ride, she would remove her cape and frock coat, change her shoes and tidy up. When Eliza was really a mess, she’d go into the hospital and wash before taking another cab from the hospital back home to Queen Anne Street, near Regent’s Park. Until then, she was fortunate the despicable fog hid her from the police and criminals alike.
Some nights she would walk along the wet, rugged cobblestones and ponder her future, which appeared dimmer than the East End lamplights that were useless in the fog, their glow seemingly miles away. Her wedding, set to take place in several months to Sir Osborne
’s son, Henry, however, felt close enough to smother her. As dismal as the walks in the area were, the people of the East End had an unexplainable energy about them that was missing from her own life, and she envied it. So many East Enders had a bad criminal nature and without a care. It seemed hardly fair sneaking around to further her education.
If I became a vile, loathsome creature, the East End would welcome me into its bosom.
Chapter
2
Because of the hour, Eliza used the servants’ entrance when she arrived home. It also gave her the opportunity to rinse the sleeves of her frock coat and cape before exchanging them with Margaret for a plate of cold supper. Margaret was married to Mr. Daniel Sutton, the Covington’s butler. Together the couple took charge of the other servants and gardeners.
After dining, Eliza visited her father in his study and poured him a glass of his favorite brandy. It had been a nightly tradition since she could remember. As a young girl, Eliza wanted so much to understand his work, be a part of it. She was fascinated by his knowledge of medicine and his dedication to the Royal Family. If any of them fell ill or were injured, he was called for at all hours, even if he was exhausted after seeing other patients all day. A phaeton carriage would arrive and be waiting outside to speed him away. There were quite a few physicians that cared for royalty, but it was well-known that Lord Covington was one of Queen Victoria’s favorites.
However, it wasn’t until Eliza showed medical interests in her later studies that Lord Covington finally took notice of her pursuits and approved. Since then, they would spend hours at night discussing new procedures, illnesses, and medicine in general. Nothing made her happier.
This evening was different, though. The air was heavy and grave as Eliza approached her father’s study. She could hear other men in the room, so she gently leaned against the door to listen. Their voices boomed and vibrated through the solid mahogany, but she couldn’t discern any of the conversation. No longer able to stand it, she rapped on the door with her fist.
“Who is it?” Lord Covington asked.
“It’s me, Father. Can I come in?” Eliza could hear some protest from the men in the room. “Is that Henry in there with you?”
“Come in, Eliza,” her father said.
She turned the knob so quickly she almost fell into the room.
“Close the door behind you. We wouldn’t want your mother to hear. Gentlemen, this is my daughter, Eliza.”
Two men quickly stood from chairs by the fireplace.
“Eliza, this is a colleague and old friend from my university days you’ve never met, Doctor Rees Llewellyn.” His name was said with great reverence. “And this is Detective Sergeant George Godley.” His introduction was made with little to no sentiment. “Please gentlemen, continue. Don’t let her looks fool you. More than likely, she’s brighter than the three of us together.”
“But sir,” the detective said.
“That’s Lord Covington to you, Godley.”
“Gentlemen, please,” Eliza said. Seemed she came at the right time. Eliza walked over to the brandy tray, poured some into a snifter then brought it to her father who was seated at his desk. He acknowledged her with a nod and they stared into each other’s sky blue eyes for a moment, his expressing seriousness and hers curiosity.
Eliza turned her head toward Detective Godley and Doctor Llewellyn. “Would either one of you care for some brandy?”
“No thank you, Miss. We’re here on business,” Detective Godley said.
“Quite the beauty she is,” Doctor Llewellyn said. “I hear congratulations are in order, Miss Eliza.
She looked up at him with no idea of what he meant. For a moment she thought perhaps her father had told him about her progress toward becoming a physician.
“For your upcoming nuptials to Henry Osborne,” he said.
“Oh yes, thank you doctor.” She sat down and made herself comfortable in a high-backed chair next to her father’s desk. For several moments, the rustling of her starched skirts, the occasional crackle from the fire, and Godley’s labored breathing were all that could be heard.
“Come now gentlemen, let’s get on with it. We haven’t all night,” Lord Covington said. “We’re discussing murder, Eliza.”
Detective Godley gasped. The shortness of breath suited him. He was a stout man stuffed into an old jacket that was far too small. The plaid, tan vest underneath was pulled so tight, it protruded his rotund belly. The man’s face was flushed, and his hair, black as night, was matted to his head with some kind of cheap tonic that reeked of wet animal.
Doctor Llewellyn, who was tall and lean in comparison, turned to face her. “A few women have been found with their throats slit this summer at the East End. But this last one…this last one had her abdomen cut as well.” When he spoke, his face appeared worn, as though he’d had a rough life. But otherwise, he was clean-shaven, and his dark blue suit was kempt. He looked much older than her father did, even though he had said they’d been university colleagues.
“They think perhaps this fiend is evolving, Eliza,” Lord Covington said. “It happened near the London Hospital.” He gave her a stern look, but mentioned nothing to the men of the volunteer work she sometimes did there. Fortunately, her father knew nil of the loathsome deeds she endured in order to learn the female anatomy, for he would never approve.
“Are you certain it is the same murderer?” she asked.
Detective Godley gasped again and plopped himself down into a chair. The color in his face had gone, and he was quite pale.
Doctor Llewellyn walked over to the brandy tray and poured some into a glass. He stepped over to the detective and handed it to him. “Drink this, Godley. For heaven’s sake man, pull yourself together. This woman is practically a physician already from what I hear, and surely she’s cut a few bodies open herself. We speak of nothing she hasn’t done or seen.”
Eliza glanced at her father and they both smirked. The detective took the glass with a shaky hand, downed the brandy in two hardy swallows, then handed the snifter back to Doctor Llewellyn.
“The cuts are always the same,” Doctor Llewellyn said. “From left to right.”
“So either your villain is left-handed, or he gets at them from behind,” Eliza said.
“See, Rees, I told you she was sharp,” said Lord Covington.
Doctor Llewellyn raised the empty glass in his hand and nodded at his colleague. “That is correct, Miss Covington.”
“Was there anything else, besides the abdominal cut?” she asked.
“She had been drinking and was probably strangled first. There was little blood loss at the scene. Her innards were protruding from the open wound, and there were numerous slashes crisscrossing her abdomen,” Doctor Llewellyn continued.
Detective Godley began coughing. Then he stood upright. “Please, sirs, and lady,” he said. “You’ll have to excuse me. I’ve been feeling a bit under the weather.”
Doctor Llewellyn took the detective’s empty glass and set it down next to the brandy tray. “Yes, it is getting late. I suppose we’ve overstayed our welcome.”
Lord Covington rose from his desk. “It was good to see you again Rees after all these years. Don’t be a stranger. I’ll be sure to have Lady Covington add you to the wedding party, and please consider joining us for Michaelmas.”
“Thank you, Thomas. Please give my regards to Lady Covington. And if you can think of anything else that might help with the case…or even you for that matter, Miss Eliza,” he turned toward her and bowed slightly. “Do send us a message. But I’m hoping this is the end of it. I look forward to seeing you again in September under more celebratory circumstances.”
“Until then, Rees,” said Lord Covington. He came out from behind his desk and shook hands with Doctor Llewellyn.
“It was a pleasure to meet you both,” Eliza said.
“The pleasure was all ours young lady.” Doctor Llewellyn raised her hand to his lips and kissed it gently.
/> Detective Godley stood by the door, looking a bit green in the face. He held up his hat. “Good evening Lord Covington. Miss Eliza.”
Godley opened the door and Mr. Sutton, the butler, who’d been waiting just outside the study, motioned for the two men to follow him out.
Eliza walked over and shut the door after they went. “Father, why haven’t I met Dr. Llewellyn until now? Does Mother know him? You’ve never mentioned him before.”
“He was a good friend at University, but he had some problems his last year. Got addicted to laudanum from what I heard. It was a sad business, too. Rees was one of the brightest students who ever walked those halls. Seems he pulled through after the rest of us had finished up and moved on. Was never able to recover his reputation, though.”
“Why was he here with the detective?”
“He’s a police surgeon now.”
“What a shame,” Eliza said.
“Indeed.” Lord Covington looked over to his wall of books and appeared to study them for a moment. “I don’t want you anywhere near London Hospital in the evenings. It’s too dangerous.”
“But Father, I’m only there twice a week, and I have my wits about me.”
“I know that, but it’s of little help when there’s a maniac on the loose.”
“It sounds like he’s after drunken East End girls anyway, not medical volunteers who help the sick and the poor.”
“I won’t speak any further on this subject, Eliza. You are not permitted to go to the East End. I will have a meeting with Professor Huxley and that Miss Anderson first thing tomorrow.”
She lowered her head, turned around, and started for the door.
“Is there anything else you’d like to say to me young lady?”
Only the Thunder Knows_East End Girls Page 15
