From Hell (4 page)

He lifted the liquor and offered it
once more. I declined again, drawing a chuckle from him. George
ignored the glass altogether and took a draught straight from the
bottle, letting the brandy spill down his throat. After a moment,
he set it on the desk, but kept his fingers clasped about the
bottle’s neck for a moment. He sighed deeply, the scent of the
brandy drifting to my nose before he finally released his
hold.

A forced smile at his lips, George
reached into the drawer opposite the one that held the liquor and
pulled out a photograph. He slid it across the desk to me. “I
apologize that it is not the original document, but the police felt
it best they keep that.”

“
Of course.” Having
already been told of the letter and what it said, I cast only a
causal glance at the photo to examine the writing itself.
The
From Hell
stood out in the top right, the phrase that started all this.
I slid it back to him after a moment. “I was told there was
possibly further communication from the killer, marked upon the
wall at Goulston Street?”

George nodded. “The bobbies found a
bloodied scrap of that poor woman Eddowes’ apron beneath the
graffito but determined it nothing more than a coincidence, the
piece of cloth caught by the wind perhaps.” He mopped his brow with
his palm, glimmers of moisture sparkling there.

“
Still, I’d like to see
it, please.”

“
I can take you there, but
the police washed the wall clean just hours after the graffito was
discovered. There won’t be—”

I raised a hand to cut him off.
“Indulge me, if you would, and bring the picture along.”

Baalth had been convinced there was
more to the crimes than simple murder, the excessive cruelty
visited upon the women a sign that the Ripper hid his motives
behind brutality, and I had to agree. Anyone so incensed as to cut
the uterus out of a woman and carve up her face as the killer had
done wouldn’t lurk in the dark and taunt the police from a
distance. These murders appeared to be crimes of fury, acted out in
abject rage. To have killed four women in such a brutal fashion
over the span of months and not be caught gave the lie to that
perception. There was more to the Ripper than he let on. Maybe the
graffito would cast a light on something the bobbies had
missed.

George tucked the photo into his
pocket and stood, taking one last pull at the brandy, and nodded as
he struggled to cap the bottle after setting it down. His trembles
had begun shakes. He drew a deep breath and ushered me toward the
study door with a weak wave after he’d managed the task. “Then let
us have a look.”

I nodded, letting him go first before
following along. George’s back was slumped, his shoulders hunched
now that the liquor had worn at his resolve. Gone was the stiff and
cultured man I’d met at the door. In his place stood a gaunt, tired
man at the end of his wits. I knew then what his angle was and felt
a pang of guilt at presuming the worst of the man.

Though he stood apart from the horror
in Whitechapel, there was no doubt it tore at his heart as though
it were an infection. I believed then he volunteered to lead the
vigilance group not because he sought fame or political advantage,
but because he truly wanted to bring an end to a killer who’d
spilled more than his fair share of blood in the place George
called home.

My mother smiled her approval of him.
That was good enough for me.

Five

Despite it still being early, Goulston
Street was quiet, nearly deserted. The alley where Eddowes’ apron
had been found had been scoured by the police and the Londoners
living nearby had left it as such. There was none of the trash or
debris that littered the rest of the streets nearby. There were
also no tributes or monuments set about to honor the murdered
woman. It was as if people were simply too afraid to even enter the
alleyway, perhaps in fear of becoming the Ripper’s next victim. I
let my senses loose but there was no resonant magic affixed to the
area. It was a ghost town of mystical energy.

“
It was here,” George told
me, pointing a dancing finger at the wall just a short distance
inside the alley. He too hovered near the street, taking no more
than a step or two inside.

I looked to where he motioned and saw
the vague outline of the words that had been written on the wall.
Though the police had washed them away, they hadn’t done a thorough
job of it. My eyesight degrees better than most humans, I was still
able to make out much of what had been there, the paint having
soaked into the porous bricks, leaving behind a kind of outline
where the words had been.

“
The graffito was said to
blame a Jew for what was committed here but there was no record
taken of the exact words.”

As George talked, I picked out the
word Jew from the faded mess, the general statement, from what I
could tell, confirming the rumor he’d heard. “Can I see the photo
of the letter again?”

George dug in his pocket and passed
the photo to me. His hand was cold where our fingers grazed. It was
more than just the morning’s chill. I gave him a casual smile
though I knew there was nothing I could do to ease his mood except
for kill the Ripper. And while that was exactly what I intended,
the graffito didn’t appear to bring me any closer to my
goal.

Several quick glances between the wall
and the photo made it clear the graffiti and the letter had been
penned by different people. While differences were expected between
the two given the mediums, there was no mistaking the writing of
the letter for the style scribbled on the wall. The graffiti
appeared to written carefully, each letter formed consistently with
the others, but the curves were smooth, flowing from what I could
tell. The “From Hell” letter had also been written with a calm hand
but the edges were sharp, the penmanship heavy handed and almost
guttural in its approach. The killer had carved his words onto the
page the same as he had carved his message into the women he’d
killed.

I shook my head and passed the photo
back to George. “It seems the police were right about—” before the
last of my sentence slipped free of my mouth, a sharp pressure
speared my back, ominous tingles spreading down my spine. I snapped
my head about and spied a man glaring at me from the other end of
the alley. He stood several feet inside the crime scene with no
apparent fear. His features were hidden within the looming shadows.
Before we’d even locked gazes, I was after him.

Two dots of white exploded on his
face, and he bolted. He was a blur of elbows and ass, a vague shape
as he scrambled around the corner. His footsteps sang out against
the cobblestones. I followed after, kicking up wet gravel as I
rounded the corner in pursuit. George shouted something at my back
but I couldn’t make it out. I didn’t even bother to slow
down.

The man was about a block ahead of me,
the shadows no longer concealing him. Though his coat fluttered
behind him as he ran, distorting his shape, it was clear the man
was built thickly. His legs were stumpy tree trunks that slammed
into the street with insistence. Hair cut short, shorn close to the
scalp, there was nothing to hide the roundness of his head or the
waves of neck fat that looked to form a grimace on the back of his
skull. His breath billowed into the morning air like a freight
train climbing a hill. Nothing between us but space, no pedestrians
on our side of the walk, I closed fast.

He wheezed as I came up behind him,
not even realizing I was there until my arm was in his face. The
man growled and reached for my hand but it was too late. My forearm
slipped beneath his wobbly chins, and I dug my feet into the
asphalt.

There was a sudden,
blubbery impact and a muffled
squawk
and the runner was in the
air, feet flailing out in front of him. His eyes were wide as his
lower body swung upward like a pendulum. Then he hit. His back
slammed into the street and blasted the remaining breath from his
lungs. I heard the melon thump of his head striking the
cobblestones, and then his feet followed, meaty slaps ringing out
one after another. He rolled to his side, cradling his
head.

“
Going somewhere?” I
asked.

The man groaned and tried to peer up
at me through his forearms. His eyes wobbled in their sockets as he
tried to focus. I patted him down quickly, just to be sure, but he
wasn’t carrying anything more than a small blackjack stuffed into
an inner pocket. Not worth my effort, I left it there and rolled
tubby onto his back.

“
Who are you?”

“
Wait!” George shouted at
me from the corner. He caught up to us and shuffled to a stop.
Deep, heavy breaths spilled from his mouth. Tangy wafts of his
brandy breakfast filled my nose. “Wait,” he repeated, hands on his
thighs as his chest heaved.

“
For?” I asked, keeping an
eye on the downed man. Red faced and cheeks puffed out like a rabid
squirrel, he didn’t look dangerous but you can never be
sure.

“
He’s one of us; part of
the Vigilance Committee.” George dropped down beside the man and
helped him to a seated position, both grunting with the effort.
“This is Hans Keller.

I sighed. “Then why did he run?” My
gaze drifted to Hans, turning the question to him.

He looked back and forth between
George and me until his eyes settled and he caught some of his
breath. A sneer pulled his upper lip back. Yellowed teeth stared
out at me like a weathered picket fence. “He shouldn’t be here,
Lusk,” he said with a distinctly German accent, ignoring my
question completely. Though still winded, there was a haughty
sharpness to his tone that wormed uncomfortably into my
ears.

“
That’s a matter of
opinion.” George helped the man to his feet. I stood back and
watched as they battled gravity, just barely managing to win
out.

Hans pulled free of George and brushed
at his coat once they were up. His eyes locked on mine. “We don’t
need you.”

I looked to George. “What’s this all
about?” Hans’ attitude had me wanting to knock him down
again.

George stepped away as if trying to
distance himself from the man while stuffing his hands into his
pockets. “We’re of two minds, certain members of the committee and
I.”

“
Damn right,” Hans huffed.
“We don’t need any outsiders stepping in and making a mess of
things.”

“
Four confirmed victims
over several months’ time? That sounds pretty damn messy to
me.”

George waved me off. “We all want to
bring an end to the Ripper’s bloodbath, but Hans here, and more so
his sponsor, Charles Braun, would prefer it be the Vigilance
Committee that claimed all the glory.”

“
It isn’t about glory,
Lusk. It’s about opportunity.” Hans straightened his collar and
glared at George. “Should the committee stop this killer then our
charter would continue and—”

“
And the money will flow,”
George finished. “Yes, yes, I know all about Charles’ grand plans
for the committee, Hans, but our priority must be stopping the
Ripper. Nothing else matters.”

“
But it does. You’re just
too blind to see it. Were Charles to—”

I gave a wet, throat clearing
harrumph, drawing their eyes to me. “Gentlemen, not to intrude, but
I really don’t give a rat’s furry ass about the politics of who
does what. I’m here to do a job. You two can hash the rest out
after I’m done.”

“
You will not interfere in
our business.” Hans puffed out his massive chest and stepped toward
me. Only about an inch shorter than me, he was easily twice my
width. His eyes narrowed as he approached, giving his features a
severity that loomed larger than the whole of him. It wasn’t the
first time Hans had intimidated someone. He was good at
it.

Too bad he was muscling up to a demon.
Had I been human, he might have had a chance but I woke up every
morning to stare Lucifer in the eyes. My uncle’s poop face was more
fearsome than Hans could ever hope to muster. He wasn’t
intimidating shit.

I reached into my jacket and pulled
the Webley out just enough so Hans could see the grip. He swallowed
hard and froze in place. “Again, I don’t care about your pissing
match.” I let the pistol slip back into my pocket. “I’ve got a job
to do, so stay out of my way, Hans.” I shook my head and started
off down the street. “I’ll leave you gormless pricks to sort it
out. Talk to you soon, George.”

I left them to argue and made my way
through the East End gloom, turning toward the heart of
Whitechapel. The first thing I needed was a coat. After that, it
was time to hit the taverns. The bobbies didn’t have anything on
Jack and it certainly didn’t seem like the committee had very much,
so that left it up to me. And if anyone had their finger on the
pulse of the slums, it would be the folks living in it. What better
place to start than where the poor and unwashed masses
congregate?

Besides, what better way is there to
start an investigation than a stiff drink?

Six

Despite the hour, I had no problem
finding an open bar. In fact, I found a number of them scattered
throughout Whitechapel. In many cases, I could have thrown a stone
from one and hit the door of another, they were that close. It was
a sign of how bad things were in the East End.