Stalking Jack: The Hunt Begins... (Madeline Donovan Mysteries Book 1) (13 page)

“Oh, of course not—Hugh and Phillip live but a short distance from here. If you stay with the aunts, I will take a carriage there.  He should be still at home at this hour; he will know what to do.”

“Madeline, Anna is so unwell; I don’t know how I will tell her.”

“If she still sleeps, perhaps you can wait until I have been able to bring a doctor.”

“Yes, I will wait. There is nothing left to do now.”

She looked at Jonathan, and they exchanged grim glances, both their faces filled with sorrow. Helen looked to be in shock. Her eyes looked glazed, but she did not cry—she was lost now in the deep grieving that would probably be there for a long while.

She would not cry in the presence of the aunts. She could do that for them; she could somehow find the strength to be their shoulder.

Within minutes, she arrived at
Hugh’s home.  He did not answer, but she remained knocking at the door, believing he was probably sleeping. Then after ten minutes or so, he answered, sweetly disheveled in a maroon robe.

“Madeline, come in, come in.”

“Good morning. You know I would not be here if it wasn’t important.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Do you have some tea?”

“Yes, give me one moment to collect myself. Phillip is gone to sea as you know, but has left me supplied with tea and cakes.”

She sat waiting, twisting her gloves and fighting the tremendous urge to break down in tears despite her resolve.

He touched her hands and lifted her face to his.

“Whatever it is, please tell me.”

“Hugh, the very worst thing that I could have ever imagined has happened.”

She paused as if she could not bear to say the words.

“Polly..., that monster from hell has killed her. He sliced her throat to the bone.”

Hugh’s mouth dropped open and for a moment, all he could do was bite his lip.

“When, when did it happen? Are you sure it is her? Are you sure?”

“Yes, Jonathan was at my door this morning. He was at the scene. He saw her. She was still lying on the pavement. But I did not come just to tell you, I came hoping you knew how to bring a doctor to the aunts’ house. I am terribly worried that the shock will be too much. I am sure they will need something to calm them.”

“Of course, at once, I have an uncle who is a doctor. He has medicine at his home; I have seen it. I know my uncle will come. I will order a carriage and take you back to the aunts and then return with my uncle. He lives but a mile from here. My dearest friend, this is a blow. What shall we do? How can we go on and conduct our lives in the midst of this horror?”

Horror
, she thought,
it was horror
. No other word quite depicted what was happening in Whitechapel.

Chapter Eleven

A Healing Powder

She returned to Mumford Street
to find Anna sitting with Helen. She was, as Madeline might have suspected, nearly to the point of hysteria. She was weeping loudly and pounding her fist into the divan. Helen attempted to calm her, but she also was in a state of shock.

Madeline and Jonathan tried their best to speak to them, but they looked wild-eyed and appeared to pay no mind to what they were saying.

“Perhaps we should step outside and let them be alone together,” said Jonathan.

“Yes, there is little we can do or say now. There is no consoling them. The doctor is the only one who can help them now.”

They paced outside on the walkway, the silence between them somehow comforting as there was little to say that would not stir pain and discomfort.

“Jonathan, there is Hugh and a man is with him. Thank goodness, it is the only small comfort we can give to them now.”

“Madeline, this is my uncle, Travis Scott.”

“Good morning, please excuse me. I must go to the grieved ladies.”

“Yes, please—I will not detain you.”

There would be no pleasantries or small talk. They all had a feeling of helplessness, as to what it was they could do to alleviate any of the aunts' suffering.

“I will go in and introduce him,” said Hugh. “Hello, Jonathan. I am sorry to be here under these circumstances, but I am happy you have been here for Madeline and the aunts.”

Jonathan nodded but said nothing. His lips tightened together, and she could see it had affected him as much as the others.

After just a short while had passed, Hugh came out and said, “My uncle has given them each a powder that will calm them. They will be all right for at least the next several hours. I have sent word to their regular physician as to what has transpired. I am sure he will make his way here before the day finishes.”

“Thank you. It is such an ugly occurrence. There is little else we can do for them. I have a copy of Jonathan’s article if you would like to know the details of what happened.”

“I will get it,” volunteered Jonathan.

He handed it to Hugh and said, “It gave me a great deal of unhappiness to write this news. He is a ghost, this murderous fiend. Everyone I spoke with that was near the area saw nothing, heard nothing; it defies logic.”

“Let us hope Scotland Yard will turn every detective into the streets of Whitechapel and apprehend this man.”

“Are you staying, Madeline?” asked Jonathan.

“No, I think I will return to the Hotel George, but I will first speak with the other ladies, Felicia, and the twins and be sure they will attend to them. I think they will be more comfortable with long-time friends at this time.”

“I will wait for you and escort you home,” said Jonathan.

“I would like that.”

She hugged the aunts who looked to be in a trance, and then upon an impulse asked to speak to the doctor.

“Doctor, I wonder if you would consider giving me also a small amount of medicine. I feel quite unwell myself. I know it is an imposition, but…”

“Do not trouble yourself my child. These are terrible times for us all, but I can see that you look a fright and almost in as bad a shape as Anna. I will give you some, but just a small amount. I must warn you; they extract the powder from the plant that produces opium. It is addictive, but not in this small amount, and not if you do not use it again, which I trust from the looks of you is the last thing you would do.”

“Thank you, doctor—may I count on your discretion with your nephew, Hugh?”

“Of course, I am a doctor—it will remain between us alone,” he promised as he touched her arm.

“You are kind. I know now I will be able to bear this terrible news.”

August 31, 1888

This day will never be forgotten, although it will always be one we wish we could. It was not so long ago that I wrote in this journal my hopes that I could succeed in finding and protecting the aunts’ niece Polly Nichols. Today I must write that Polly has met her end at the hands of Jack at approximately three in the morning in the area of Buck’s Row. She was brutally attacked by the butcher of Whitechapel, cut in an abhorrent manner, but it has been said that death was swift.

Anna and Helen are in shock, but through the mercy of Hugh’s uncle, a bone doctor, they have been given medicinal powders to soothe them.  Hugh and Jonathan have given me their assurances they will assist the aunts in any way they are able. They have also said they will continue to support me in my effort to seek this maniacal killer. My resolve now is solid, and I will not falter in my quest for this ethereal figure who escapes justice.

She had become more at ease in her mind now. The powder Dr. Scott had given her had fulfilled its purpose. She did not remember when she was so clear headed or when there was no tremor whatsoever in her hands. If the aunts responded half as well, this medicinal wonder would get them through this. She did not mention the taking of it in her journal, in the event anyone should ever refer to it and think it was an unwise action. This was something private, very private. In the world she now resided, she attempted to deal with as best she could. She did not see the harm in doing whatever she had to do as an escape to the perpetual agony that plagued her.

She would write father and finally confess to him all that had happened. She knew he would be frantic, but she would try to ease his mind by reminding him of her friendship with the two gentlemen that were, in a sense, her protection.

The Hotel George bustled with conversation; you could hear the anxiety in people’s voices as they talked about the murder. An unholy aura hovered in the air. She would retire early today so that tomorrow she could pursue again in earnest her quest. She once again sent messages to both Hugh and Jonathan in the hopes that one might escort her to Whitechapel. She felt a peaceful lightness of her body as if she was floating in a fairy tale. She knew now despite everything that had happened that the medicine would give her the gift of sleep.

September 1, 1888

This hideous, murderous intruder, who inserts himself into the lives of those we love, those we have befriended, this thing—this horror, sleeps while Polly is dead. Dead she is, dead as hell, dead as nails in a coffin, dead as the dust that is her bones. This creature of mortal degradation walks the same streets as my friends and I. He is pure evil that someone must destroy. How dare he exist and do his ugly deed? How dare life produce this maggot?

When Madeline woke the next morning, she saw her journal opened with scratchy pen marks drifting in and out of a horizontal line. She read the words with curiosity, as she did not recall writing them. Her head was throbbing, and her stomach ached from not eating anything the previous day but a few biscuits. She called down for room service to bring her a full breakfast of eggs and muffins instead of the jam and toast she had for breakfast. The hot tea soothed her throat, and she rested the hot cup against her forehead, the heat relieving the pulsing vibration that was painful. She reread what she had written, and then took the pen and scratched the notation out. Her words looked to her as if an alien hand had written them. They were still perceptible, and she decided instead to rip the entire page out. She rationalized that the distressing news of Polly, lack of sleep and food, and the
medicine
had contributed to the state of mind that wrote those words.

When she appeared later downstairs, Clinton handed her a note from Jonathan.

“Mum, it is your Polly then? When I heard the news, and I remembered our conversations, I thought it might be the same, but I was hoping it wasn’t. How terrible! Is there anything I can do?”

“No, Clinton, there is nothing any of us can do now except pray that Scotland Yard sends its finest to find this villain and pray for Polly and all the other poor souls who endeavor to survive this life in such an unsavory way that they put their very life at risk.”

She went near the fireplace in the foyer to read his note.

Madeline,

As you can imagine, the paper has me working late hours to obtain whatever current information there is about this latest situation. I don’t believe I will be available for several days, but I will leave word if I am. I promise you if I get any concrete new leads, you will be among the first to know.

Jonathan

There was a small amount of powder left, and she gratefully mixed it in with her absinthe, she didn’t know if mixing it with alcohol would affect her negatively, but she didn’t care. She knew Hugh would also be working and unavailable; she certainly couldn’t ask the aunts so she decided she would brave the streets alone. After all, other women did it, and she was now familiar with the streets.

Her driver, Conrad, was accustomed to taking her there, but after the recent murder, he felt that she shouldn’t continue her trips to Whitechapel.

“Are you sure you want me to leave you here, Mum?”

“Yes, Conrad, you are kind to be concerned, but I will be all right.”

“But do you want me to wait for you Mum in the event you might need me?”

“I would gladly say yes, but I have no idea how long I will be.”

“Please do tell Clinton where I am so that he may inform anyone who may try to reach me.”

When he left, she shivered for a moment, but the effects of the powder were taking hold, and she felt a new kind of courage she had not felt since Russell was alive.

She knew what she must do; she would have to go to Buck’s Row. She wanted to speak to anyone that might be lingering around the site.

There were many people congregating on the street as if they were going to the theater. She couldn’t tell if they were horrified or just fascinated.

“Miss, have you heard anything at all about that night?”

“Who are you?” asked the young woman of the streets.

“I was a friend of Polly’s.”

“You don’t look like a friend of Polly’s. You ain’t a walker, is ya’?”

“No, but I was, well, perhaps more of a friend to her aunts. I’m trying to find out anything that I can for their sake.”

“I knew her; everyone about here knew her. When she had the drink, she wasn’t pretty or nice. She could be mean, and some of the gents pushed her 'round a bit.”

“Did you hear any of them speaking about seeing her recently?”

“That fellow whats calls himself a
Bobby
, I forget his name, but he’s always flashing his badge about. He was talking at the Queen’s Head last evening and saying he was the last to see her. He said he had warned her about going out.”

“Do you mean, Mr. Motts?”

“Yes, hey, I thought you said you weren’t a walker. How’d you know about him?”

“I’ve been down these streets many times lately seeking Polly; he was someone I spoke to.”

“He’s a pushy sort of man, always preaching to the likes of us girls about our ungodly ways like he be the better of us, haha. He be no better than any of the sorry men who come here. They say if ya’ cross him, he’s sooner put your eye out than back down. Mean, he is, like most of the men down here.”

She walked past the area near the stables where they attacked Polly. Just like Martha Tabram, the blood-stained sidewalk was evident, and people were walking over the spot as if they were walking over the chalk of sidewalk hopscotch instead of the life’s blood of a human being. The coldness of it came over her, and she moved away from the site and towards the direction of the pub.

There wasn’t anything peculiar about seeing an unescorted woman in Whitechapel, if anything; it was more the norm, so she passed unnoticed through the crowds. Mr. Motts was easy to spot as she tended to see him sitting in the same spot at the bar. She took a seat close enough so she could overhear him.

“What did she think was going to happen to her? Walking the streets drunk, alone and without sixpence in her pocket to give her shelter and with that man about, it’s no surprise to me I tell you, no surprise at all—the likes of her never live long.”

Several men approached her asking if she was in need of company or anything else, so she decided she needed to insert herself into the conversation and be part of a group instead of being fair game for solicitation.

“Mr. Motts, these poor women, they have no choice. They did not choose the street; it came to be because of some misfortune in their life.”

“Do I know you? How is it you know my name?” asked Motts.

“We met once before. At that time, I was looking for Polly. Someone found her body, and she will be troubled no more.”

“Oh, yes, I think I do recall. You were with some man. Sorry, didn’t mean to offend ya’ but everyone’s gots misfortunes, but they don’t all end up here.”

“But you seem to place judgment on them that is harsh almost as if you are glad she has passed.”

“Her troubles is over, ain’t they?”