City of Darkness

Chapter THIRTY-FIVE

5:40 PM





The second note is more direct. She wants money.

Part of him is relieved. He has lain awake the last two nights wondering at her intent. Did she plan to reveal him to the authorities? Set herself up as some sort of heroine, the woman who single-handedly learned the identity of Jack the Ripper? But of course not, he’d tried to console himself, as he tossed among the sheets of his narrow bed. If she planned to go to Scotland Yard she would have already been there. She certainly would not have alerted him to her identity, placed herself in the sites of his rifle.

Of course she wants money. That is all her kind can think to want.

He has written back, arranged to meet her in this bar. It is early and the place nearly empty, as he knew it would be. He notes her arrival by the mirror that hangs behind the whisky bottles. The jagged crack down its center distorts the woman’s image, makes her look, if possible, even larger and more malformed than she is. Their paths have crossed before in Whitechapel, many times, and after a quick scan of the room, she walks toward him without hesitation. Where he prides himself on invisibility she is somewhat a legend in these parts. Strange in appearance, stranger still in behavior and while she always seems to be present, hovering on the periphery of the drunkenness and whoring, few have ever caught her in the act of conversation.

Nor does she talk now. Simply hefts herself to the stool beside his. They both stare straight ahead, as if fascinated by the familiar sight of the stacked beer steins and rows of gummy glasses. He puts the knotted handkerchief on the bar and she places her broad palm over it. She has not asked for much, but he suspects she will ask again. And yet again and again and indeed this is a problem, something he must address in the very near future. He is amazed by her boldness, at the fact she would attempt to blackmail a man she knows to be capable of murder. Does she believe that her size offers her protection? Her reputation for violence? Her own reputed skill with a knife?

Most likely she had been startled to see him leaving Mary Kelly’s house, to realize with the publication of the next day paper’s precisely what it was she had witnessed. Undoubtedly her plan of blackmail is in its infancy, evolving just as his is. She merely wants money now, but she may want something more later.

He gulps his beer, ashamed that she has rattled him. Normally the Kelly girl would have been enough, would have sated him for weeks. Still plenty of juice left in that memory, still plenty of souvenirs to fondle and consider. The days after a kill were normally the sweetest and most tranquil of his life. But this new complication has agitated him, has shattered his sense of well being. He gives a quick, furtive glance toward Maud. His knife is small, designed more for precision than depth, and this woman is well insulated, armored in muscle, swathed in layers of fat. Could he penetrate her, even if she wished? A stab to the torso would fall short of any vital organs and approaching her from the front could invoke hand-to-hand combat, a fight he may not win. Even a throat slice from behind would be tricky. She is taller than most men.

She shoves the handkerchief into her pocket. Grunts. Whether the sound was an attempt at communication or merely an indication of how hard it was to move her bulky arse from the bar stool, he cannot say. He has paid her this first time because she startled him, came at him before he could formulate a plan. But he will not be threatened again and again. He will not walk the streets expecting to see her beady, pig-like eyes at every turn.

Something will have to be done about Maud Milford.