The Whitechapel Demon

by Josh Reynolds

  The more she thought about it, the more galling it became. Not that it wanted to take her life, or that it had taken Jadwiga’s, but that it wasn’t fussy about whom it mauled. She’d seen as much, only moments ago. It wanted them because it did, the way a child wants or an animal wants, not for any esoteric purpose or ruthless cosmic destiny. They weren’t fated to die this way. It was just happening. It was the equivalent of being run over by an omnibus. That wasn’t the way the stories went at all.

  It wasn’t fair.

  Then, if it wasn’t fate, if it wasn’t fair, did that mean she could cheat?

  She was good at cheating, at beating the odds. That was how she’d come as far as she had, after all, with as miserly a portion as God had given her.

  Maybe she could send it back. There had to be some way to do that. She’d brought it here after all, hadn’t she?

  So she could send it back.

  She would send it back. Or she’d die trying.

  7.

  Bow, the East End, London

  “So why’s it called Bow?” Gallowglass said as she squirmed back in her seat and cocked her legs up on the dashboard of the Crossley 20/25. The car was the same make and model used by the Flying Squad of the London Metropolitan Police, and it had carried them from one end of Britain to the other. It was a durable, dependable little auto. St. Cyprian looked at her as he guided the black auto around a lumbering double-decker bus with a double advertisement for a London firm of licensed caterers mounted on its upper berth.

  “Do you actually care, or are you making conversation?” he said. She batted her eyelashes at him and he shuddered. “Please don’t do that,” he said. “‘Bow’ is an abbreviation of Stratford-atte-Bow, which was itself a reference to a bridge built sometime in the 12th Century, I believe.”

  “Fascinating,” she said, looking out the window.

  “It is, isn’t it?”

  “No,” she said. “I’d rather be in Dartmoor. Why didn’t you want me to mention the woman around Morris?”

  “Ah,” he said. He looked at her. “You’re not really tops with the whole subtle conversational segue.” She made a face and he sighed. “Fine; I have the feeling that if Morris knew what I knew, we wouldn’t just be racing the Ripper to get to her, savvy?”

  “You mean he’d stick her in a dark hole somewhere and forget about her?” Gallowglass said, grinning nastily. She made a rude gesture out the window as someone honked at them. When the honking continued, she thrust her head and shoulders out the window in order to shout rapid-fire abuse in a variety of languages, some of which he hadn’t realized that she knew.

  “Morris is a good enough egg. I doubt he’d put it that way, but yes,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the shouting. “And please refrain from antagonizing our fellow motorists, if you’d be so kind.”

  Gallowglass pulled herself back in the window. “Who’s antagonizing? I was just sharing my opinions in a clear and forthright manner,” she said.

  “I don’t even know what some of those words you were shouting mean,” he said.

  “Do you want to?” she said, grinning.

  “Not even remotely,” he said. “I’m a firm believer in the ignorance-is-bliss school of philosophy. How long since you’ve been to the bakery?” he added, changing the subject. The Bow Road Bakery was a bit of an open secret amongst the bohemian set. Aside from tea-cakes and tarts, it was known to be a quiet spot for would-be political agitators to catch their breath in between trying to set off a class war or handing out the latest round of political pamphlets.

  St. Cyprian had never been much of one for politics of any stripe. His sympathies, such as they were, were invariably with the underdog, but by and large that was as far as it went. He’d known a good many friends who’d trodden down those mean streets, however. Some leaned right while others drifted left, and most fell squarely in the ‘how much would an MP for Loamshire bring in, d’you think?’ camp.

  “A few weeks,” Gallowglass said. “What about you?”

  “Longer than that,” he said, tapping the horn as they approached a crosswalk. “Several young ladies of my acquaintance in my university days were quite big on votes for women and ju-jitsu, though not, I think, in equal measure. I haven’t been back since the bolshies took over, and I fancy they’re happy enough not to have my bourgeois shadow darken their doorway.” He glanced sourly at her. “You, however, probably fit right in, what?”

  “Up the worker,” she said blithely.

  “You’ve never worked a day in your life,” he said.

  “But if I did, I’d want to be treated fairly,” she said.

  “Yes, well,” he said. “You’re in the wrong queue for fair, I’m afraid. It’s the sharp end and state funeral held in secret for our lot.”

  She said nothing. Despite her caustic demeanour, Gallowglass didn’t much care for discussing the inevitable, at least in regards to him, he knew. He’d tried to broach the subject once or twice early on in their acquaintance, as was right and proper, but she’d gone stone-faced every time. Gallowglass could face death in a dozen different ways before breakfast and her grin would never droop, but she went stiff and flat if she had to consider it in the abstract for even one second. He felt a flush of guilt for bringing it up and tried a change of tack. “I’m told the tea-cakes are dashed tasty,” he said hurriedly.

  Gallowglass nodded. “Better than most,” she said.

  Relieved to have avoided the rocky shoals of mortality, St. Cyprian said, “When we get there, I’ll do the talking, shall I?”

  “Have at it,” Gallowglass said. She crossed her arms and bent her head. “But don’t blame me when they decide to give you the old heave-ho for being too posh to live.”

  The bakery was set back from the main road on a narrow lane opposite a fairly well-to-do restaurant which, incidentally, was also owned by the socialists, if the rumours were true. There were worse ways to raise funds, St. Cyprian thought. The bakery had a cheerful Victorian facade, with wide windows and a bell over the door that jangled with authentic stridency when they stepped inside. The air smelled of rising bread and was several degrees warmer inside than out. There was a soft ‘bump’ as Gallowglass pressed her face tight to the glass front of the display counter. It was rather like watching a cat try and get at fish in a bowl, he thought.

  And speaking of cats, he thought, as a ginger moggy padded across the counter, a purr rumbling in its chest. Cats were a common enough feature in bakeries. Anywhere where food was made, really, be it a pub or a butcher’s. He stroked the cat gently, smiling as its purr intensified. “Hello puss. Come to welcome us pilgrims to the church of pastry?”

  The cat hissed. Gallowglass, startled, looked up and returned the hiss with interest. Cat and woman glared at one another, their respective teeth showing in fierce grimaces. He scooped the unresisting animal up and deposited it on the floor, and it vanished around the counter, tail fluffed and ears flat. He looked at Gallowglass. “Better?”

  “I hate cats,” Gallowglass said, shuddering.

  “I know, hence my careful extradition of said feline,” St. Cyprian said, gesturing vaguely towards the vanished cat.

  “Good. Because I bloody hate cats,” Gallowglass insisted.

  “So you said.”

  “Just reiterating for future reference,” she said, glaring around her, as if to remind the world of its place. She shuddered again.

  He was about to bop the service bell on the counter when a familiar voice said, “Charley, is that you?” The inquiry was delivered in a distinctly icy tone and St. Cyprian felt a moment of dread, as deep and as yawning as any polar chasm.

  “What-ho, Bobbie!” he said with forced cheeriness.

  Roberta Wilde, with eyes like flints and a face like a drawer full of sharp things, but still pretty beneath the scowl, leaned across the counter on her forearms. She delivered the sort of glare that made St. Cyprian regret his continued survival. “Was that you who scared poor Lord Peter?�
��

  “Lord Peter,” St. Cyprian asked.

  “The cat,” Wilde said. “You frightened him.”

  “Please pass on my apologies to Lord Peter,” he said.

  “Why are you here, Charley? Come to join the revolution?” she said.

  “Not—ah—not quite,” he said, stepping back from the counter.

  “It’s always ‘not quite’ with you, isn’t it Charley?” Wilde said with silky menace. “When was the last time we spoke, I wonder? Not that I expect you to remember, you unmitigated ass,” she added, thumping the counter with her fist. “I ought to box your ears!”

  “Dash it all, that’s hardly fair,” he said, trying to ignore the amused gaze that his assistant was levelling in his general direction.

  “What was it you were saying earlier about fair, something about the wrong queue?” Gallowglass murmured. She nodded brusquely to Wilde, whose eyes narrowed at the sight of the young woman.

  “I’d have thought she’s a bit young, even for you, Charley,” she sniffed.

  “I’ll have you know that Ms. Gallowglass is my assistant,” he protested.

  “Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Wilde said archly.

  “Oh leave off, would you,” St. Cyprian said. “I’m not here to pick a fight.”

  “Then why are you here? Not to buy bread, certainly. Or to contribute to the workers fund, not a parasite like you,” Wilde said.

  “I’m looking for a woman,” he said, stung.

  Wilde’s face went blank. “I rather think you’re in the wrong part of the East End for that, Charley.”

  “Not quite,” St. Cyprian said. He lowered his voice. “Her name is Aife. Not sure of her sur-whatsit, but she’d be looking for somewhere safe. A…friend of hers pointed us in this direction, and, well, knowing what I know about this particular bakery, I thought it might be wise to pop by.”

  “Oh you did, did you? And even if I did know something, why should I tell you?” Wilde said.

  “Because she’s in grave danger, and I might be the only fellow capable of getting her out of it, skin intact,” St. Cyprian said.

  “And how would you do that, exactly,” someone said, “Because I’d dearly love to hear it.” St. Cyprian looked past Wilde as the latter whirled and saw the woman he’d seen in his vision in the garret. She looked more rumpled than when he’d seen her, and tired. There were circles beneath her eyes and her face looked thinner than he recalled. She also looked as if a stiff wind might send her sliding across the floor. It was obvious that Wilde thought similarly, for she sprang towards the newcomer, as if to catch her.

  “Aife, I told you to rest,” Wilde chided.

  “She looks she could do with one,” Gallowglass muttered. She glanced at him. “That her?” she asked, quietly.

  “I believe so,” St. Cyprian said, straightening his tie. Without waiting to be invited, he stepped around the counter. He opened his mouth to greet the woman, when she looked at him and said, “Jadwiga’s dead, isn’t he?”

  He paused, nonplussed. “I—yes, I’m afraid so.”

  “And you saw what killed him, then?” she said. “What’s coming to kill me?”

  He nodded. “I’m afraid I did, and do. I said you were in danger, and I meant it.”

  Wilde looked back and forth between them. Her face settled into an expression of resigned exasperation as she said, “You’d best take this to the back, I think, Charley. I’ll make some more tea, shall I?”

  She led them into the back of the bakery, to a door cleverly constructed to resemble part of the wall panelling. The only sign that it wasn’t simply part of the wall was the pull ring that acted as an exterior handle. Gallowglass whistled as Wilde opened it up and hustled them in. “I take it that you’ve been staying here, Miss…?” St. Cyprian said, when Wilde had left, and closed the door behind her.

  “Andraste,” she said as she sat on the bed. “Aife Andraste. And Bobbie called you Charley. I’m guessing that’s short for Charles?”

  “Indeed. Charles St. Cyprian, at your service,” he said. He gestured to Gallowglass, who had grabbed the lone chair in the room, spun it about and sat down. “And this is my assistant, Ebe Gallowglass.” Gallowglass touched two fingers to the brim of her cap insouciantly.

  “And are you a policeman, Charley?” Andraste said.

  “Not as such, no.” St. Cyprian smiled crookedly. “I’m what you might call a special consultant.” She really was quite pretty, he thought. He wondered what her relationship to Jadwiga had been, and then felt a flush of guilt for even considering it. The guilt was soon replaced by curiosity. How had she known he was dead?

  “And what do you consult on?” she asked, smiling slightly. It wasn’t a cheerful expression. Curiosity and guilt gave way to pity, though he was careful not to let it show on his face. He had a feeling that Andraste might not appreciate it. “Let me guess—ghosts?”

  “Among other things,” he said. “Psychic matters, for instance. Séances and such,” he added, hoping to see what her reaction would be.

  Her smile faded and her eyes went flat. “You’re here about last night,” she said, as if reminding herself.

  “I’m afraid so.” He eyed her. “But you knew that already, or expected it, at least.”

  “Dreaded,” she corrected. She covered her face with her hands for a moment, as if composing herself. “I dreaded it. And I hoped for it too, ever since last night.” She lowered her hands and looked at them. “I rather think I’m in trouble.”

  “That’s putting it lightly,” Gallowglass snorted. St. Cyprian shot her a warning glare.

  “It might be for the best if you were to start at the beginning,” he said gently. “We know that you were conducting a séance last night. What was its purpose?”

  “They wanted to know something,” Andraste said, hesitantly.

  “What?”

  Andraste swallowed and said, “A name.”

  8.

  “A name,” St. Cyprian said. He scratched his chin. “I think I can guess which one. Did they say why?”

  “Not as such, though when I balked, they pulled a gun,” she said. “I think—I think they’d been preparing for it for a long time. I think maybe they had a lot invested in it.” She swallowed, and closed her eyes. “They used me. They called out, through me and something answered them. I felt it,” Andraste said, touching her chest. “It wasn’t a voice, not exactly, more like a—a sick feeling, coming on me all at once. I felt as if I were ill and hungry and dying all at once and then—Mr. Stride, he—then he screamed and I screamed and it was like something stepped out of me into him. And then he wasn’t Mr. Stride anymore.” She looked at him. “It was the Ripper.”

  “Not quite,” St. Cyprian said idly. “A good deal worse, frankly, though depending on your view of such matters, it might be a good deal better. Whatever crawled down out of the black in response to this Stride’s call wasn’t the real Ripper.”

  “How do you know?” Andraste demanded.

  “I have it on good authority from a friend of mine—a peer, you might say—that the Ripper isn’t so much dead as…transubstantiated. And whatever trace of him remains on this plane of existence is safely contained, where it can do no harm. No, the unfortunate Mr. Stride called down something else.” St. Cyprian looked at her. “Which, ordinarily, he wouldn’t have been able to do. But you’re a cut above the usual run of medium, I’d say.”

  Andraste looked away. “Didn’t do me much good, if I am, did it?” she said.

  “On the contrary, it’s likely the only reason you’re still alive.”

  Wilde chose that moment to enter, carrying a tray of tea-cakes and tea to go with it. If she’d heard his statement, she gave no sign other than a nominal glare in his general direction. She unfolded a small portable service table and set the tray down. She paused only to squeeze Andraste’s shoulder before leaving. St. Cyprian watched her go. Andraste looked at him.

  “Bobbie’s all icicles and frost a
round you,” she said. “What did you do to her, Charley?”

  “Yes, let’s talk about that, Charley,” Gallowglass said, leering at him.

  “Please, call me Charles. And it’s nothing. I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that,” he protested. It sounded like an excuse, even to him. He waved that particular train of thought off from its station and said, “Ectoplasm.” He poured the tea and handed out the cups.

  “Gesundheit,” Gallowglass said, as she took her cup. He glared at her and she subsided.

  “What about it?” Andraste said. She gave a quick, half-hearted smile. “My mum said we were meant for better things, my sisters and I. She said we had the blood of Melusine in our veins, whatever that means.” She looked around the room. “All I know is that ever since I was a girl, I could control the stuff.”

  “The stuff,” St. Cyprian repeated. “By which you mean ectoplasm, I presume.”

  “Whatever you want to call it, I’ve got it in spades,” she said. She looked at them challengingly. “I wasn’t always a medium, you know,” she said. “I’m from York. I worked as a seamstress before I decided to put what my mum called my God-given talents to good use for something other than scaring off the occasional overly-persistent would-be suitor.” She clutched her cup of tea closer. “Easy decision to make, really—I hate sewing. Always have.” She looked at him challengingly.

  St. Cyprian spread his hands. “Can’t be bothered with it myself,” he said.

  “If he gets a spot on his jacket, he has to buy a new one,” Gallowglass said, filching a tea-cake. “If one gets torn, he goes into a brief period of mourning and then buys two more to honour its memory.” She bit the pastry in half and chewed noisily. “We spend almost as much on tailors as we do bullets.”

  “Well one of us does, certainly,” he said, glancing at her. “I’m not even certain you own a dress, frankly.”