Chapter 20
Sunday, 30 September, 1888
Somewhere, a door closed and footsteps echoed in the hall.
Cynda jolted out of her sleep, rising from the bed in slow-motion.
Muzzy, she dragged herself to the window. A shadowy figure paused under the gas lamp. It was the doctor.
Don’t you ever sleep?
Retrieving the pocket watch from under the pillow, she pried it open. 12:30.
No, no, you idiot! What the hell are you doing? Within a half an hour, another woman would be dead. He couldn’t be on the streets now.
Unless he’s…
There it was: the question that had taunted her from the moment Keats mentioned the doctor and the killer in the same breath. There was only way to find out if the saint possessed the twisted soul of a madman. Frantic she’d lose him, she dressed in a blur, battling her wet stockings. The sodden bootlaces refused to go through the holes. Swearing, she wound them as tightly as possible around her ankles and tied them in a bunchy knot. The damp petticoat and navy dress slipped over her body, generating goose bumps. As if knowing it was best not to fight her, the bodice buttons closed without much effort. Stashing the pocket watch into its hiding place, she grabbed the cloak and fled the boarding house, heedless to the noise she made.
Alastair was gone by the time she reached the rain-sluiced street. The pavement glistened from the downpour, but gave no indication which direction he’d gone.
Where are you? she murmured. Davy’s? No, you weren’t carrying your bag. Clinic? Maybe… Cynda slammed her open palm against the cold lamppost in aggravation. She could make guesses all night and still not find him.
Use your head, Lassiter.
She knew where the murders would be committed; all she had to do was go to the crime scenes and pray Alastair Montrose wasn’t anywhere near them.
But he’s a shifter. How will I know it’s him?
By the time she reached Whitechapel High Street, she knew her makeshift arrangement with the boots wasn’t going to work.
Choosing a reasonably dry set of steps, Cynda sat and fiddled with the lacing, blowing on her fingers to warm them. All the while, her heart hammered in her chest. She had no reason to be out on a night when two women would die; one who would be ripped up like a pig in the market, according to the constable who would discover the body. Being a Time Rover gave Cynda no immunity from a blade. If she arrived too early, catching the killer at his handiwork, she could become a victim of old Jack.
That’d piss off TIC, she muttered. Talk about buggering history. A Time Incursion of epic proportions. Once an event became embedded, it was damned difficult to reverse— especially if there was a body.
Cynda angled onto Commercial Street at the intersection where it met Whitechapel High Street. Despite the earlier rain, people were going about their business, headed home after a long day of work or seeking entertainment of the liquid or female sort.
And there were females to be found. After three weeks and no further deaths, the prostitutes appeared to be weighing practicality with safety. Coins had to be made for food, rent or gin.
It wasn’t until Cynda hurried along Back Church Lane that her doubts resurfaced with stunning intensity. What the hell am I doing? Does it really matter if Alastair’s the killer? By tomorrow night she’d be home, and all of this would be behind her. Knowing that the doctor wasn’t the Ripper would make no difference.
Or would it?
She leaned against a brick wall to give one of her boots a vicious tug.
Curiosity and cats, she said. One way or another, she had to know. It was just one of those things.
A couple years back, right before she’d started her travel into Victorian England, she attended a presentation on the Whitechapel killings. The lecturer, a dull, graying academic with a stultifying monotone, had rambled on for two hours about the deaths. His dry recitation had stuck with her solely because it had sounded so devoid of emotion.
‘Elizabeth Stride, found at one in the morning between No. 40 and 42 Berner Street, throat cut. No mutilations. Catherine Eddowes, found at 1:45 a.m. in Mitre Square, throat cut, extensive bodily mutilation.’ A grim recitation of statistics, rather than lives lost. It had grated on her then. Now, on the streets of Whitechapel, it felt obscene.
She hesitated at a narrow passageway connecting the lane to Berner Street. Though there was a gas lamp mounted on the wall at the entrance, further in was far too dark for her liking. It would make an ideal escape route for the killer once he’d finished his work a block away.
I have to know, she said.
After a deep breath, she inched into the passage, sliding a hand along the rough wall to navigate. She took one cautious step at a time, her knees shaking.
She’d gone a short distance when something snarled in the dark. She jumped in fright, swearing under her breath. The luminescent glow of cat’s eyes glared back at her, a dead rat hanging from its mouth.
Cynda sighed in relief. It’s all yours. I’ll get the next one.
The cat skittered away. Cynda continued to make slow progress, twitching at every sound.
There was another snarl, followed by a high-pitched yowl.
Someone had just stepped on the beast.
Cynda crammed into a doorway, the bustle digging into her back. Steps grew closer, hurried, but not running—solid footfalls, like someone wearing heavy boots.
And then they stopped.
Cynda held her breath. A lag hallucination? Not likely. Why doesn’t he move? Had he heard her?
As if in betrayal, her injured shoulder cramped, causing her to gasp aloud.
Silence. A halfsecond later, a shout cut the air. She slammed herself back into the niche.
Murder! Police! a man’s voice cried.
Liz Stride’s body had been discovered.
No sound from the passageway. She edged outward. If the body had been found, would the killer be loitering? Most likely he’d be headed toward Mitre Square and his second engagement.
Unless there were two killers.
Knowing she could stay rooted in fear until dawn, Cynda summoned her courage and hurried back the way she’d come. As she fled, she listened for the sound of pursuing footsteps. There were none.
Once she reached Back Church Lane, her nerves collapsed.
Nauseous, she leaned against a wall, swallowing repeatedly to keep from vomiting. There was no need to check her watch; it would be just past one in the morning.
The shrill howl of a police whistle rent the air: Constable Lamb summoning aid. Shortly, Berner Street would be chock-full of the morbidly curious.
Cynda retraced her steps along the lane. She’d been too late to glimpse Liz Stride’s killer. If she hurried, there was still a chance to learn the truth.
Jonathon Keats stood at the edge of the crowd attempting to appear innocuous, his gut in knots. En mirage as a sailor, he had no desire to trigger the interest of the numerous constables prowling between him and Whitechapel’s latest murder.
Moving around for a better view, he tipped up on his toes to peer at the victim. A man was kneeling beside the body, examining it in the light of a bull’s-eye lantern. The dead woman was lying on her left side with her feet drawn up in a fetal position, blood clotting at the neck. She wore a black cloth jacket, and pinned to the right side were red and white flowers. Her bonnet lay on the ground nearby.
He sighed in relief as he lowered himself. It wasn’t Jacynda.
Someone near him asked, Who’s the bloke looking at her?
A doc from up on Commercial Road. Blackwell’s his name,
another answered.
Was she done like the others?
The first man nodded. Cut her throat.
Bless her soul, a woman murmured, crossing herself.
Keats slid away. His night had been filled with unpleasant choices. To his supreme irritation, the Fenian remained elusive.
Despite covering a halfdozen pubs and dozing through a spiritless lecture on Socialism and the Common Man at a workers’ hall, he’d not encountered a whiff of Flaherty.
Hiking along Whitechapel High Street in a foul mood, he’d spotted Alastair loitering under a lamp. He’d intended to challenge him, but his friend set off at a brisk clip toward Aldgate Station. That was when Keats spied Jacynda inexplicably heading east, into the heart of Whitechapel.
It had been an ugly choice: Alastair or the pretty lady. His choice of the latter now put him squarely in the middle of a crime.
What are you doing out here? Keats growled under his breath. I would have thought the other night had cured you of this sort of nonsense.
He caught sight of his target near the brewery on Commercial Street. The way she walked, it appeared her feet were hurting.
Her shoulders drooped. He tensed when a man approached her.
There was a brief exchange, and she walked around him with a shake of the head. The fellow continued along the street until he encountered another woman, this one more amiable to his proposal. She nodded, and they walked away together.
In his heart, Keats preferred not to think that Miss Lassiter stole along the streets earning her room and board, but as a cop, he’d seen worse. He once questioned a well-bred young woman from Knightsbridge who dressed in shabby clothes and made her way to Whitechapel, earning coins from filthy men in exchange for sexual favors. When he asked her why in God’s name she would do such a dangerous thing when she obviously did not need the money, the response had stunned him. For a lark, Sergeant,
she’d said. Life is so dull in Knightsbridge. A few months after he’d spoken with her, she’d been committed to an asylum to shield her family from public ridicule. He shuddered at the memory even now.
Jacynda sped up her footsteps, sensing his presence. To her credit, she did not look backward in panic. After a brief hesitation at New Castle Street, she turned toward the boarding house. He paused, watching her disappear into the distance.
Thank God. Now stay there, he said, flipping open his watch.
1:18. As he closed the lid and tucked it away, his stomach growled, reminding him he’d not had any food since that afternoon. There was a chandler’s a few blocks away; he’d eat and then try to locate Alastair. Hopefully his friend had a realistic alibi, or there would be more questions come morning.
The man who’d trailed behind her continued on his way, reducing one worry. If Cynda’s mental map of Whitechapel was accurate, she could go north for a bit, angle west and then south toward Mitre Square. A quick peek at her watch told her she’d have to hustle. The roundabout way would chew up precious minutes, and history wasn’t inclined to wait for anyone—even a Rover.
Despite a wrong turn, Cynda’s timing was nearly perfect. She positioned herself at the north end of Duke Street, checking the watch every few seconds in nervous distraction. The door to The Imperial Club at No. 16 opened. A trio of men exited, talking amongst themselves. Unaware of her presence, they sauntered south, toward the main road.
Hiding the watch, she took a few tentative steps forward. It was vital she not be seen or her description would be splattered across the morning papers. The men continued on, chatting back and forth, ignorant of the role they would play over the next few minutes.
In the distance, past the synagogue on the right, a couple loitered near Church Passage. As the trio passed by, one of them hung back to study the pair. As if satisfied, he caught up with his companions and they walked on toward Aldgate High Street, leaving the couple behind.
Cynda crept forward. If she were lucky, she could pass by Kate and her killer right before they entered the passage to Mitre Square. If luck were with her, the man wouldn’t be Alastair Montrose.
What if it is? If he’d shifted, how could she tell?
Her folly reared its head. What if he hadn’t changed form?
What did she expect him to do when she recognized him—nod as if to say ‘You caught me,’ and then go about his infernal business?
It’s not him, she whispered like a mantra. It can’t be.
The couple continued their conversation, oblivious to her approach. Kate looked in better shape than earlier while on the way to the police station.
Why didn’t you go the doss house? Why are you here with him?
Cynda grew closer. She kept her pace, as if in no particular hurry. The man appeared to be roughly the same height as Alastair. He had a moustache as well, though fuller than the doctor’s. He held himself differently. Wouldn’t a shifter do the same, mimicking the illusion he or she had created?
It can’t be him.
The man braced himself against the wall with his left hand, leaning toward Kate as he spoke to her in hushed tones. She nodded and tapped his shoulder lightly, laughing at whatever he’d said.
‘Come into my parlor,’ said the spider to the fly.
As Cynda walked by, the man averted his face. He leaned further in toward his victim, the loose salt and pepper-colored jacket swinging forward. Cynda’s eyes were riveted on the red handkerchief at his neck: the perfect way to clean the blade after he’d finished.
Kate looked over, recognized her and winked, then returned to her conversation.
Cynda forced herself not to look back until she reached the main road. When she did, the street behind her was empty. An electric shudder surged through her. Had Kate reached the darkest corner of the square with her john? Were his hands around her neck, snuffing the life out of her? Or was he drawing the long blade from its hiding place beneath the loose coat and cutting away her clothes?
Cynda fled, tears burning her eyes. The man with Kate Eddowes couldn’t be Alastair—not unless his arm had miraculously healed to permit him to so casually loiter against a wall, allow him to strangle another human being. Her morbid curiosity had been fed.
The truth was poor consolation for the woman dying in Mitre Square.