Stalking Jack: The Hunt Begins... (Madeline Donovan Mysteries Book 1) (20 page)

They talked for a little while longer and then he said, “I best be going, don’t want to keep me girlfriends waiting,” he said and suddenly laughed aloud.

It was the first time Madeline had ever heard him laugh, and it was a cruel, heartless laugh that made her grab Hugh’s hand.

“That chap has a deep-seated hatred for the world, it seems. He has his reasons, though, and what he says is true. How do any of us know how we would behave in the face of unspeakable tragedy?”

Madeline thought about the truth in those words—thinking how her world had evolved to find her at this place in London, with a relative stranger, instead of her husband. She wondered how Hugh would judge her if he knew her truths.

As he walked away, she noticed a crumpled piece of paper that had fallen onto the ground. She picked it up and read it aloud.

“
Meeting with mm
—what do you suppose that could mean?” said Madeline.

“Any one of a million things.”

“Would you be game to follow him?”

“I don’t know, Madeline. That’s very intrusive. I wouldn’t want anyone following me about.”

“Oh, I know you’re right, but this is different. Everything is different; there is a murderer on the loose.”

They waited till he was almost out of sight. He was inebriated and walking slowly. They thought he might not be aware that anyone was behind him. He was grumbling to himself and stopped once on the steps of one of the buildings to rest for a moment. Hugh pulled her into one of the doorways, and they stood there touching as close as lovers. She had a momentary impulse to kiss him, but it vanished when Bob began walking again. They followed him around the corner, and he called out to the man ahead of him, “Harry…it’s me Harry…hold on.”

They pulled back into the shadows as Harry Nelson turned. Hugh whispered to her, “If that isn’t the strangest of things.”

They did not follow any further, feeling it was futile that Harry would surely observe them, even if Bob did not.

When they were in the carriage that was taking them back to the George, she said, “Never would I have thought there could be a connection between Bob Fielding and Harry Nelson. What an odd pair they are. Harry behaves as a lone wolf, a troubled, lonely man, with no real friends. I wonder if Bob had purchased some type of drug for him. It must be purely a business relationship.”

“He does look as if he is in terrible pain, maybe that is it, or maybe it’s as simple as Harry needs someone to help him on the farm because of his illness.”

“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.