Read sample A Deadly Deception

CHAPTER 1

It was the footsteps that woke me. From the cradle of my deep sleep, I supposed the noise to be rain splattering the window, or maybe even a trotting horse. Opening my gritty eyes, I looked up at the square of light on our mouldy ceiling and thought perhaps I’d dreamed the sound. But then I heard the cry—the cry that we all know round here too well. That’s when I knew it was real. “Murder! Murder!”

Scrambling out of bed, I rushed over to pull up the sash and there he was, in our street, a little nipper, shouting at the top of his voice. “Murder! Murder!” Cupping his hands round his mouth, he called out once and then he cried again. He hollered words that turned my blood even colder, and everyone else’s, too. “Jack’s back!” he bellowed, and a chill ran down my spine quicker than a rat along a drainpipe.

For a moment I was numb. I couldn’t believe it. Still can’t. Just as we were all feeling safe in our beds, just when we dared leave our windows ajar at night on account of the warmer weather, just when we could walk out at twilight again, we hear there’s been another killing. Of course, the cry made us all sit up and take notice. If Jack is back, none of us are safe.

Flo was quick off the mark. Pushing me out of the way, she shoved her head through the window.

“Where?” she yelled. “Where’s the murder?”

The lad turned and, still running backward, gulped and yelled up, “Castle Alley, by Goulston Street Wash’ouse.”

Ma shuffled in with her shawl drawn round her shoulders and a frown on her brow. “What’s amiss?” she wheezed, all blurry-eyed.

Flo and me swapped glances. We knew she wouldn’t take it well.

“There’s been another killing,” I said as soft as I could, but it still didn’t stop her from gasping for air, like a fish out of water. I feared the shock would bring on another attack, and it did. I rushed over to her and sat her down beside me on the bed.

“I’ll go and see what’s what,” Flo told her, pulling on her skirt. She tried to act all cocky, as if she could make things right, but, of course, she couldn’t. We both knew that if Jack was back to work, then no amount of brave words would help soothe the terror that’d return. There’s been nothing since November; not since Mary Jane Kelly was found on the day of the Lord Mayor’s Parade. She was Jack’s fifth—or, some say, sixth victim. After her, of course, came poor Rose Mylett. At first, we all thought she was one of his, too. With the help of my friend Acting Inspector Thaddeus Hawkins, I proved Rose’s murder wasn't Jack’s handiwork, after all. So that’s why, eight months on from the foulest murder of all, it’s come as the most terrible shock to everyone to think the fiend stalks among us again.

Yes, eight long months have passed since Jack last struck. Eight months in which the people of Whitechapel and beyond have tried to rebuild their lives. Yet, the brutal killings still cast their shadow. I well remember the morning they found the body of what everyone prayed would be the Ripper’s last victim: Mary Jane Kelly. In a squalid room in Miller’s Court, it was. I was there when the rent collector first put his eye to the broken pane, but couldn’t quite comprehend the scene at first. He’d been banging on the flimsy door for the past few seconds, fearing it might splinter under his fist. He’d even called the tenant’s name. “Mary Kelly! Mary Jane!” He was used to her scams—the way she’d pretend she didn’t know what day of the month it was, or how she’d sometimes just flutter those long lashes of hers and beg a favour. Her wiles were enough to make a grown man weak at the knees. Or how she’d call him “dear Tommy” in that singsongy voice of hers, which reminded him of a skylark on a spring morning. But six weeks is a long time in any landlord’s book, and Mr. McCarthy wasn’t having any more of her shilly-shallying, so on this occasion the rentman, Thomas Bowyer, was under instructions to return with the rent, or not at all.

His knocking having met with silence, Bowyer went around the corner of the premises to where he knew the windowpane was broken. Carefully he reached through the jagged glass and drew back the curtain so that he could see inside. It was a sight that would come to haunt him for the rest of his days. He withdrew his hand so quickly from the broken pane that his skin was caught and torn by the glass as he staggered back. Yet, he did not make a sound, save for a violent retch in the gutter nearby. Despite his dizziness and nausea, he managed to alert his boss to what he had just seen—to the two pieces of cut flesh on the table and to the blood on the floor and to the fact that the body of Mary Jane Kelly, the prettiest and sweetest of the street girls he knew, lay mutilated beyond all recognition.

That was last November. On the ninth day of the month, to be precise. Not that time means anything to me. It is but a ticking of a clock. I am no longer of this earth, you see. I am a revenant. I died, or, more accurately, was murdered, because I tried to expose a secret society of powerful men that preyed on my young pupils. I was handed over to a cruel bully, who I now know went by the name of the Butcher, and paid the ultimate price for my discovery when he cracked my skull against a wall. Now, however, I have returned to right the wrongs committed against me and so many others who cannot defend themselves against the powers that control their lives.

London’s East End, where this shocking crime against Mary Jane Kelly was perpetrated, is where I usually roam. Unseen by nearly all, I am to be found underfoot in the cobbles of Whitechapel, on the panes of grimy glass, in the fabric of people’s clothes, on wood and on brick, even floating on the air you breathe. There are traces of me all around—of what was, what is, and what will come—but only the chosen few can sense them. Constance Piper is one of them and I am able to live on through her.

This time the killing’s even closer to home, just a couple of streets away from us. The washhouse is where Ma, Flo, and me go for a bath now and again. ’Course we have to go second class: a cold bath and a towel for your penny. Someday I’ll treat myself to first class: that’s two towels and warm water. Someday.

“Let’s get the kettle on,” I say, guiding Ma downstairs. I sit her in our one good, horsehair armchair by the empty hearth just as Flo steps over the threshold to find out what’s what.

“I won’t be long,” she calls back to Ma, trying to reassure her; only, she’s wheezing so much, I’m not sure she’s heard. So we sit and we wait.

Already there’s a dreadful brouhaha outside. People are coming down our way to get to Castle Alley. You wouldn’t ever catch me down that dingy rat hole. Never gets any sun, even when there’s some to be had. In shadow all day, it is. It’s where some of the local costermongers park up their barrows for the night. You get all sorts coming and going and all manner of diseases lurking there, so they say. Some ragamuffins and unfortunates even kip down under the carts. If you can put up with the stink, I suppose it’s out of the rain. But I need to hold my breath just when I’m passing, the stench is that bad.

At least half an hour goes by before Flo’s back. She takes off her shawl as she blusters through the front door. “It’s Bedlam out there,” she tells us, like she’s the one who’s having it hard. “There’s crowds all round the mortuary, as well as where she was found.” 

It’s been raining in the night and there’s mud on her boots. She’s all flushed as she sits down to ease them off. I’m watching her and I’m waiting for her to say something more. It’s like she’s trying to think of how to get something off her chest. But she just gives me the eye and bites her lip.

“Oh, God!” I mutter, watching her stand up real slow, like she’s trying to put off what she knows she must do. “It’s someone we know, ain’t it?” I keep my voice low, but Ma, still in the chair, senses something’s amiss.

“Well, Flo?” she puffs.

Dread flies up like a black crow from somewhere deep inside me. My whole body tenses as I watch my big sister stand in front of Ma, take a deep breath, and say, “Word is it’s Alice Mackenzie.”

Florence is correct. Indeed, it is Alice Mackenzie who has been slain, and it was her imminent murder that brought me back to Whitechapel last night, shortly before the attack happened. Like all the other barbarous murders I have witnessed, I recall the event vividly.

It may be mid-July, but last night was unseasonably chilly. Earlier in the evening, skies had threatened rain, and building up to midnight they began to deliver in heavy intermittent bursts. The potholes and muddy ruts quickly filled with rainwater. It was not a good night to be abroad and Police Constable Joseph Allen was not relishing pounding the beat. Such was the reputation of Castle Alley that, up until last month, there’d been extra police patrols in the area. A filthy cut-through that harboured the twin evils of disease and vice, it is no place for God-fearing souls. The patrols had, however, been stood down, even though the police were still vigilant in the vicinity.

Shortly after the midnight bell sounded at St. Jude’s, during a dry spell, PC Allen decided to stop for a snack in an archway that leads off Whitechapel High Street. Standing under the glare of a lamppost, he took from under his rain cape a paper parcel containing a sausage roll. As he munched away contentedly, he looked around him. He neither saw nor heard anything suspicious. Making light work of the pastry, he proceeded to walk on in the direction of Wentworth Street, passing the Three Crowns public house. The landlord, he noticed, was shutting up for the night. Shortly after, he met a fellow constable, PC Walter Andrews, heading toward Goulston Street. The two men exchanged greetings; then they proceeded to go their separate ways. Five minutes later, PC Andrews was plodding down Castle Alley when the beam from his bull lantern picked up the figure of a woman slumped on the footpath between two wagons. At first, he thought she was just sleeping off the drink, like so many of her sort do. It was only when he raised his lamp that he could see her sightless eyes gazing back at him. Her throat was slit from ear to ear. But perhaps, most telling of all, her skirt had been pulled up to expose the lower half of her body. It was covered in blood.

Two blasts were sounded on his police whistle and within seconds more officers arrived at the scene. Yet, in their haste to give assistance, not one of them noticed what I saw quite clearly in the nearby darkness. As the constables stared wide-eyed at Whitechapel’s latest murder victim, my own gaze was firmly fixed on a shadowy figure creeping quietly away with all the stealth of a professional assassin.

I’m glad that Ma is sitting when she hears the news; else I’m sure she’d have keeled over. Her lips fly apart in a gasp. She holds her hankie to her mouth and I see her horrified eyes fill with tears.

“Oh no! Oh no!” she blurts. I put an arm around her and feel a shudder building up in her chest, like an Underground train, until it breaks out into a full-blown sob.

“They’re not sure,” insists Flo, trying to put on a brave face. “Her old man and Betsy Ryder from the lodgings have still to see her.”

But the thought of her friend lying cold on a slab is enough to set Ma off. “Oh, Alice! Alice,” she wails until, a moment later, it strikes her. She darts up at Flo, a look of terror twisting her face. “Was it…?”

It’s like she can’t bring herself to say his name. Flo doesn’t have to. I can tell by the fear on that pretty face of hers that it’s what we all dreaded as soon as we heard. Jack’s wielded his knife and left poor Alice bloody as a butcher’s shambles.

“I need to go!” coughs Ma, all of a sudden. She’s heaving herself up from her chair.

“Go where?” says I with a frown.

“I can tell them if it’s Alice or not.”

Flo’s scowling, too. “You want to go to the dead house?”

Ma looks put out and seems suddenly stronger, like she’s had a slug of hard liquor. “Well, I ain’t just going to stay here and twiddle my thumbs, and that’s a fact,” she counters, reaching for her bonnet.

We watch helplessly as she ties the ribbons under her chin.

“Well, are ya coming with me, or not?” she asks, stomping toward the door, huffing and puffing. She’s got the wind in her sails, and that’s for sure.

All three of us make our way through Fashion Street to Old Montague Street, where they’ve taken the body. The mortuary is where Polly Nichols and Annie Chapman have lain, too, but mortuary’s a grand name for a place that’s little more than a brick shed. I know some of the medical men have complained about having to do their business in there, so cramped and dirty and dark, is it.

In ten minutes we’ve reached the gates at Eagle Place. There are two or three coppers trying to keep order, but the crowd’s growing by the minute. There’s a lot of jostling and a fight breaks out a few yards away from us. I spot a couple of the usual suspects from down our way: nosey Mrs. Puddiphatt and Widow Gipps. Keen as mustard they are, to find out who’s copped it this time. But there’s another familiar face that I’m happy to see. Gilbert Johns towers above most people. Flo sees him, too, and by jabbing both her fingers into each corner of her mouth, she whistles as loud as any docker can. It does the trick and Gilbert whips round. His face cracks into a grin when he clocks us and he plows toward us through the crowd.

“Can you get us to the front?” yells Flo above the din.  

He bobs down and cups his ear as he looks to me for an explanation.

“Ma wants to know for sure if it’s her friend,” I tell him.

“I’ll do my best,” says he, straightening himself; then taking Ma by the hand, he shoves some blokes out of the road and leads her toward the gates.

“Clear the way. Coming through!” Gilbert booms in a voice deep as a mine shaft.

The crowd parts like the Red Sea for Moses, and me and Flo follow, marching straight to the mortuary gates. I don’t recognise the coppers on duty, but I tell Flo to keep her trap shut and leave the talking to me.

“Excuse me,” says I, all polite. “My mother thinks she may know the victim.” I cock my head toward the mortuary.

The older copper narrows his eyes. “Does she now?” says he, looking me up and down with a snarl on his lips. But before he can answer, a man wearing a stained apron appears from the shed. He’s young, with thick, dark hair that’s wavy as seaweed. Leaning in toward the copper, he asks: “Any news on the inquest jury, yet, Officer?”

I feel Flo nudge me in the ribs. “He’s a looker,” I hear her whisper in my ear. “And a Yank by his voice, I’ll wager,” she adds. As if he can feel we’re giving him a good old butcher’s hook, I mean look, he turns and throws us a look with a pair of brown eyes bright as garnets.

“Any time now,” replies the copper to the man in the apron.

Barely has the news been delivered, when I see the crowd part again and a man and a woman are coming through the press of people with two blues on either side. The bloke looks dazed; the woman seems scared and pale.

“Mind your backs. Mind your backs!” cry the coppers. The pair can’t be some of the jury—it’s only men allowed, see—but it suddenly dawns on me who they are.

“John!” Ma calls, her voice cracking. John McCormack is Alice’s other half. They’ve been living together as man and wife at Mr. Tenpenny’s lodging house for the last few months. With him must be Betsy Ryder, the landlady there. We all know the reason they’ve come, to identify the body. It makes it real again. But neither of them can hear Ma’s plea over the din and she starts to weep once more as we watch the two of them go through the gates.

The man in the bloody apron fixes them with a stare, nods solemnly, and then lets them pass before shutting the gates behind them. For a few minutes the crowd, while not silent, is quieter. We’re all waiting expectantly for news, but we’re respectful at the same time. Gilbert stays with us and for that we’re glad. He tells us what we already know—that the body was found in Castle Alley by a policeman in the early hours.

“You all right?” he asks me, all caring. He’s looking into my eyes like a lovesick puppy and then suddenly I feel his big hand press on my shoulder and give me a squeeze, but it don’t feel right to me and I shrug it off. Thankfully, we’re not kept long before John McCormack and Betsy Ryder are back out. She’s got an arm around him as he fights back the tears. It’s his Alice, all right, and the sight of his grief sets Ma off again, too.

Clay Pipe Alice, we called her. She was partial to her pipe. People said she was a surly old crone because she didn’t smile much. Once I even heard a bloke order her to perk up. “Put a roof tile on your boat race, love!” he’d called. But anyone who knew her would tell you it was because the ’baccy had left her with a head full of rotting teeth. The few pearlies she had were stained yellow. Hers wasn’t what you’d call a girly grin.

Ma met her when she was cleaning at St. Jude’s. That’s the church that me and Ma go to, just on Commercial Street. A few extra pennies never go amiss and Alice was always short for her doss. A while back, she took up with John. He worked for a Jewish tailor in Hanbury Street, but between them they still never seemed to have two brass farthings to rub together. Jack certainly wasn’t after her money, and that’s for sure.

Back home in White’s Row, I don’t bother putting on the kettle. I reach, instead, for the bottle in the brown paper bag on the top shelf in the kitchen. At times like these, tea’s not strong enough. It’s gin that consoles when the shock’s so great.  So we sit there, in the front room, cradling our mugs of mother’s ruin, thinking on what’s happened. For the next few minutes we say very little, when suddenly there’s a knock at the door that makes us all jump out of our skins. Before I can scramble up to answer, there’s a face leering in at the window that damn near frightens the life out of me. Then I realise it’s Flo’s best pal, Sally Richardson.

Next thing we know, she’s sticking her head inside the door. “You ’eard?”

Flo rushes up to her. “’Bout Old Alice? Yes.”

“Opening the inquest this afternoon they are, at the Working Lad’s Institute on the High Street, if you’re up for it.” There’s a grin on her face and a gleam in her eye, like she’s just told us Dan Leno’s going to be playing the Cambridge Music Hall. It’s entertainment to her, but not to me.

“I’m up for it.” Flo jumps in. She looks at me. “Con?”

“Yes,” I say, but it’s not for the fun of it that I’ll take my seat. I hold no truck with the appetite for ghoulish stories and bloody tidbits that are filling people’s bellies these days. I’ll not lick my lips when I read about women’s wombs being ripped out and their kidneys being eaten. The newspapers love Saucy Jack and they’re whipping up all of London into a frenzy of fear. They’ll be rubbing their hands in Fleet Street, hoping that this latest killing bears his usual trademarks. But there’s some of us who won’t be forced to bolt our doors and stay off the streets. There’s some of us who’ll fight tooth and nail to get to the bottom of this cesspit of evil.

I’m hoping I can count on Miss Tindall to stand by me, even though I’ve not seen nor felt her near me for a while. She was my best friend and my mentor. She showed me that there’s a way out of Whitechapel if you make up your mind to better yourself, learn your lessons, read lots of books, and talk proper. A shining light, that’s what she was—and still is—to me. But to everyone else she is dead.

Miss Emily Tindall was a teacher at the ragged school and St. Jude’s Sunday School. Dead she may be, but there’s no fancy way to dress up the fact that she was murdered—cut up by a brute and buried on the banks of the Thames.  Her murderer’s still not been brought to justice and that’s why she’s chosen to speak through me. I’m her spirit guide and she visits me in times of strife and turmoil. Through me she lives on; she guides me and helps me do the right thing from beyond the grave. She comes to me when life becomes a trial. But there’s someone else now, too. Someone I’ve come to know and trust. Someone who’s still flesh and blood. More important, he trusts and believes in me, too. I’m hoping he’ll be at the inquest, and I’m hoping he’ll call on my special gifts to help solve this latest ghastly murder.

The Working Lad’s Institute is so crowded I have to stand at the back. Our old friend Mr. Wynne Baxter, him that’s done Polly Nichols, Annie Chapman, and the other inquests before, is in charge, so I know Alice will be in good hands. There’s some bigwigs come to watch on behalf of the Old Bill’s Criminal Investigation Department, too. Sounds grand, don’t it? Or doesn’t it, as Miss Tindall would have corrected me. Truth be told, I was half hoping Acting Inspector Hawkins would be here. Last time I saw him, when we had tea together at Euston Station, he said I could call him Thaddeus and I said: “I’m Constance," and he repeated it. The way he said my name, like he was sipping French wine, made me sound so special, like a real lady. But I can’t spot him here this evening.

We settle down and the jury’s sworn in. They’ve all seen the body. First up is John McCormack, Alice’s old man, and he’s asked all about her: where she lived, what she did the time before she was killed, all the usual. The coppers who were on the scene come after and then it’s the turn of Sarah Smith, who takes the money at the bathhouse. Her bedroom backs onto the alley and she was awake and reading, the time they say Alice was attacked, but she didn’t hear nothing above her old man’s snoring. Nothing at all. Same ol’. Same ol’. It’s like the killer’s a ghost or a spectre. He leaves nothing behind but death. Yes, it certainly seems that Jack’s back, all right.

At the end of the first session, I’m filing out of the hall with everyone else, when I suddenly see a familiar face, standing near the door.

Flo nudges me. “There’s that fancy detective of yours. You ain’t seen ’im in a while, have ya?”

I shift uncomfortably. It’s true. I haven’t seen Thaddeus for a few weeks, since April, in fact. Truth be told, I’m gutted he hasn’t been in touch again, but I know that now he’s taken charge of Commercial Street Police Station—even though it’s only for a short while until his boss returns—he’s got no time to be sociable with the likes of me. Even so, as soon as I set eyes on him, my heart gives a little leap. I don’t think he’s seen me, so I sidestep and hope I can wheedle my way into his view. I pretend to be going about my business, closing in on him with every step I take, until we’re only a few feet apart. It’s then that I look up, all casual like, and it does the trick. His gaze latches onto mine and there’s a flicker of a smile. I smile back, but I just can’t help myself; mine’s more of a big, wide grin. I’m that happy to see him.

“Miss Piper.” He doffs his hat at me, passing his hand over his slicked-back hair. I understand he can’t call me Constance when he’s on duty. But the trace of the smile I detected before swiftly disappears. He looks worried, strained. Those bags are back under his lovely brown eyes. Nevertheless, he asks me how I fare and I tell him I’d be better if Jack hadn’t returned.

Instead of agreeing, he counters with a frown. “We should leave such matters to the coroner, Miss Piper,” says he, with a shake of his head. “The same man may not be responsible.”

I’m just about to quiz him, to see what reason he offers for saying such a thing, when a gent I recognise as Inspector Reid, from the Leman Street police headquarters, comes up behind me.

“Ah, there you are, Hawkins,” says he, and with that, Thaddeus gives an apologetic shrug and turns to follow his new master. I watch him go, sensing that behind those hard-to-fathom eyes of his is a knowledge, something not known to the public. It sets me thinking what manner of circumstances the police are keeping to themselves.

CHAPTER 2

As Acting Inspector Thaddeus Hawkins walks up Commercial Street toward the police station, he carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. His normally quick step is slowed by thought, and his invariably pleasant, yet serious, demeanor has been severely compromised.

It’s nine o’clock in the morning. He managed to grab just a few hours’ sleep in the section house last night. This latest murder has put everyone back on their mettle. All his men had finally returned to their normal beats after the terror that the depraved killings of the previous year had wrought. Petty theft, drunkenness, and the usual abhorrent abuse to which women are continually subjected by their menfolk were all habitual crimes starting to occupy his constables’ time once more. Most of the men were relieved to return to the basic business of policing; the policy of “prevention rather than the cure” is what the new police commissioner, James Monro, is so keen to pursue. But Alice Mackenzie’s murder has certainly set the cat among the proverbial pigeons again.

 Nevertheless, despite this latest killing, life continues as normal on Commercial Street.

“Parnell Commission latest. Read all about it!” shouts a young newspaper vendor. Hawkins stops to buy a copy of the Telegraph. He will peruse it later. These days the goings-on at the Parnell Commission appear to have replaced talk of Jack the Ripper in the fashionable clubs and drawing rooms of the West End. It seems the Establishment has put the Irish nationalist leader Charles Stewart Parnell “on trial” for allegedly supporting violence to further the cause of Irish Home Rule. The Times newspaper, Hawkins knew, had published some articles that showed him to condone outrages committed by the Fenian Brotherhood, and these were subsequently proved to be forgeries. Politics is a messy business, the detective knows, but he’ll read about it later.

Folding the newspaper under his arm, Hawkins continues down the road, passing deliveries of fruit and vegetables to the greengrocer and crates of fish to the nearby fishmonger.

“’Morning, Inspector,” greets Mr. Bardolph as he guts a herring on a marble slab outside his shop. His sharp knife slits the fish’s gullet with a ruthless efficiency that is all too familiar to the detective. The sight of the blade triggers an old and unwelcome feeling in him. Although he tries to conceal his unease, the shock comes again, the stab in his abdomen. He’d thought he’d be able to consign that terrible, sickly reaction, which he used to suffer during these awful cases, to the recesses of his memory. But in the past two days those old presentiments of dread and the rising nausea have returned. He knows he must inure himself to them. He touches his hat and manages a smile.

“Good morning, Mr. Bardolph.”

Thaddeus Hawkins is a familiar face to most of the shopkeepers and costermongers round here. He’s made it his business to get to know the local community, to share their concerns and fears. Up until two days ago he’d been convinced that the world had heard the last of this Jack the Ripper. He’d seen for himself the conviction held by Commissioner Monro that Montague Druitt was the fiend behind the killings and that his suicide last December had put paid to his nefarious deeds once and for all. Rumour had it, however, that any public announcement on the subject had been barred by the suspect’s brother. William Druitt, it was said, had threatened that if his brother was exposed, he would reveal that there were homosexuals in high positions in the army, in Parliament, at the bar, and in the Church.

Now, however, with this latest unfortunate’s murder, that whole hypothesis had been thrown into the air. It has come as a huge blow and, Hawkins is convinced, will resurrect the terror felt by so many East End residents last autumn. Of course, it is not yet proven that Alice Mackenzie was felled by the same killer. Indeed, within the force itself, there are conflicting opinions—some say Jack the Ripper is returned; others that this murder is unrelated. Whatever the veracity of either claim, the press is already sharpening its metaphorical knives and pointing them at H Division once more. 

Events, however, are about to take an even more challenging twist. Sergeant Halfhide, with his unfeasibly large whiskers and bluff manner, is behind the duty desk as Hawkins walks into the police station.

“’Morning, Inspector,” he greets the young detective, but his eyes, shaded by bushy brows, are brighter than usual. There is something conspiratorial in his look that makes Hawkins linger. And then it comes. A white envelope slides across the counter. “I’m to personally see you get this,” says Halfhide, his tongue suddenly bulging against the inside of his mouth in a show of self-confidence. “Came not an hour ago.”

Hawkins picks up the envelope, looks at the back, and as soon as he registers the crest of the Metropolitan Police, his head jerks up again in shock. “From the commissioner!”

Sergeant Halfhide nods, raising his brows simultaneously. “From the very top, sir.”

Wide-eyed, the young detective also nods and, letter in hand, marches into his office, shutting the door firmly behind him. Such is his curiosity he can’t even wait to sit down. Standing over his desk, he takes a paper knife and slices into the top of the envelope with surgical precision. Extracting the contents, he unfolds the single sheet of paper. The handwritten letter reads thus:

Hawkins leans on his desk and considers this rather unorthodox summons from his superior. He wonders why he, an acting inspector, not even a full-fledged one to boot, should be singled out for such a confidential briefing. His former boss, Inspector Angus McCullen, has been on leave since earlier in the year, citing stress due to the exertions of the Ripper investigations. Yet, there are others far more senior than him: Fred Abberline and Edmund Reid, to name but two, whose knowledge of the Whitechapel murders is just as detailed as his own. Nevertheless, who is he, he asks himself, to turn down such a request? An urgent one at that. Whatever the commissioner has up his sleeve, he clearly doesn’t want to involve any senior officers.

CHAPTER 3

I’m on my way to Mr. Tenpenny’s in George Yard. It’s where Alice used to lodge. Business is slow at the moment. No one is keen to buy my blooms. Or maybe it’s just me. My heart’s not in selling flowers after this latest killing.

On the other side of the street, I spot two girls, sellers like me, squabbling over territory. Truth is, I’m hardly ever in one place long enough to fight over a patch. Flo’s line of work, relieving ladies and gents of their handkerchiefs, pocket watches, and, if she’s lucky, banknotes, means that we’re always on the move.

Coming or going, my head’s a mess right now. Earlier on, I shifted a few blooms at the corner of the High Street and Commercial Street and made a shilling or two, but as the bell of St. Jude’s struck ten, I decided to call it quits and do some digging. Old Bill is making inquiries, as they always do, but just like before, there don’t seem to be any strong clues to follow. That’s why I’m wanting to know what Alice did in her last hours before she was killed. Like I said, the police have been ferreting and taking witness statements, but they can’t read people as I can. Faces are like books to me in this neighbourhood. Miss Tindall used to say it was my “intuition.” I can sense when a person’s lying, or keeping something back, just like I knew Thaddeus was holding his cards close to his chest. I need an excuse to visit him, so I’ll do some poking myself on Alice’s old stomping ground and tell him what I’ve gleaned. Seeing him yesterday with that haggard look on his face makes me think he can do with all the help he can get.

Mr. Tenpenny’s is a big building, spreading over about four houses. A lot of people lay their weary heads there of a night. I knew Alice and her man, John, had dossed there on and off for the past year. I’ve come under the archway that leads from the High Street to George Yard and I’m just by the lodging-house gates when I recognise the large woman carrying a pail of water up the front steps.

“Mrs. Ryder?” I call out. Her hair’s the colour of baked bread and she wears it in a bun. Reminds me of a cottage loaf, it does.

She stops and turns to take a look at me. “Yes, my dear?” she says, giving me a good shufti, but her face is friendly enough.

I summon up my courage and start with a smile. “It’s about Alice,” says I. “Alice Mackenzie.”

Mrs. Ryder puts down her pail. She squints at me, but she’s still seeming decent. “You’re Patience Piper’s girl, ain’t ya?” she says.

“Yes. Yes, I am,” I reply.

She nods her head. “I thought so. Knew Alice, did ya?”

“My ma did,” I answer. “They were friends.”

She tilts her head in a nod. “Bad business,” she replies. But just when I think she might start loosening her tongue, she tells me, “Anyway, I said all I had to at the inquest.” She’s turning, and I think I’m losing her, when, all of a sudden, a little lad appears at the top of the steps in front of her. He can’t be more than six. There’s snot running down his face and his curly ginger hair is all awry. He’s dressed in rags and his feet are bare and grimy. 

“I’m hungry,” he groans.

“I’ll give you hungry, Timmy Kelly,” she chides, picking up her pail once more. “You’ll eat me out o’ house and home, you will.”

Timmy Kelly. The name echoes in my head and bounces about in my skull. It can’t be, can it? Mary Jane had a son. Six or seven, he was. Like so many women forced onto the streets round here, she was married and respectable once. The boy’s father was a miner who died before Mary Jane came to London. They say little Timmy was out the night Jack came for his mum. Thank the Lord he didn’t see what the fiend did to her. With that thought planted in my brain, I jump in before the door’s slammed in my face.

“That’s not Mary Jane’s boy, is it?” I ask.

Mrs. Ryder stops suddenly at the top of the steps and the pail swings round. “What if it is?” She’s suddenly all defensive now.

“I knew his mum,” I say, thinking on my feet. “Poor little tyke.”

Mrs. Ryder looks at me and nods, as if I’ve just reminded her of the boy’s terrible circumstances, as if she feels less inclined to be angry with him on account of them.

“In yer go. I’ll get you something in a minute,” she tells him before switching back to me. Her lips flatten. “I mind ’im now and again. As a favour for Lizzie.”

“Lizzie Albrook?” I ask. “Weren’t she Mary Jane’s friend?”

I remember the name from the newspapers. It was Lizzie Albrook who was one of the last to see her in Miller’s Court that night.

“That’s right. Mary Jane asked her to take care of him, if anything should happen to her, but she’s got to earn her crust and …”

She shakes her head again, and closes her eyes, as if trying not to think about what became of poor Mary Jane. For a second I think of her, too, and before I know it, Mrs. Ryder is turning again to go inside.

“I’d best be off,” she mumbles, and she’s shutting the door on me before I’ve a chance to ask her any more.

“Wait up!” I call after her, but it’s too late. She leaves me standing there in front of the lodgings, thinking on what she’s just said. “If anything should happen to her.” Does that mean Mary Jane knew someone wanted her dead? That she feared someone was out to get her? I’m just contemplating the notion as I about-face and begin to walk back toward the High Street. I’m thinking of having a word with Lizzie Albrook next, to hear her version of events, when someone catches my eye. I suddenly see a woman, dressed in black from head to toe, stepping out of the shadows of the nearby archway. I’ve a strange feeling that she’s been watching me, or, at least, the lodging house.

“Miss Tindall,” I mutter under my breath. I feel my heart beat faster in my chest as I think of my teacher. Is it her? Could she be back? It’s been so long since I felt her comforting presence. When she’s near, I get a warm glow inside me. She shines light into my darkness. Time seems to slow when she guides me, but right now, I don’t have that feeling. I am numb. I turn back to see if Mrs. Ryder and the boy are still there, but they’re long gone and the door’s shut. I turn again and a carriage, drawn by two horses, rattles along in front of me. It only takes a second or two to pass, but by the time it has, the woman has vanished. There’s no sign of her. She’s just disappeared.

Acting Inspector Hawkins has spent a decidedly uncomfortable half hour in the back of a hansom cab. The driver’s propensity to weave in and out of the London traffic has done nothing to calm his nerves. In fact, it has only added to his anxiety at being summoned to a personal meeting by no less a person than the commissioner of the Metropolitan Police himself. Hawkins knows James Monro only by reputation. A deeply religious man, Monro had resigned his post as assistant commissioner just before the murder of Polly Nichols in August last year. He was subsequently appointed to head up Special Branch, but promoted three months later following Mary Jane Kelly’s murder. His sudden rise has made him unpopular with certain of his ex-colleagues.

Scotland Yard stands among buildings designed as bastions of the British Empire, bulwarks of security and stability. The grandiose architecture only adds to the sense of duty felt by Acting Inspector Hawkins. As he follows a secretary along one of the many corridors of power in this august institution, his anxiety is almost overwhelming. The secretary knocks. A voice booms. The secretary enters. Voices are heard until finally comes admission.

“Hawkins.” James Monro stands to greet his nervous guest. His handshake is firm, confident. With his skin bronzed from his days as a missionary in India, and his eyes dimmed by years of dazzling sunshine, he cuts an imposing figure. Yet, he possesses an understated authority that warrants the deference paid to a favourite armchair; the commissioner is both sturdy and dependable. Hawkins also knows him to be hugely popular among the rank and file of the police force. Monro, it’s said, places his faith in the ability of officers to reassure law-abiding citizens by their visible presence on the streets; in other words, he’s an advocate of so-called bobbies on the beat. Not for him the cloak-and-dagger approach to policing eschewed by some in the Home Office and in the Special Branch in particular. That is most definitely not his style; so why, wonders Hawkins, has he been summoned for this confidential and highly unorthodox meeting? 

“Sit down, won’t you? Tea. Coffee?”  The commissioner would never offer any alcohol.

The young detective is too nervous for either. “No, thank you, sir.” He has just spotted the nest of tubes, like indolent snakes, at the side of the commissioner’s desk. Monro is clearly in speaking connection with the home secretary on matters of urgency. It’s not just the radical press but also the queen herself who continues to lambast both the police and the Home Office for failing to catch the perpetrator of the Whitechapel murders.

 They both sit. Monro begins. “Very well. Let’s get down to business, shall we?”

Hawkins appreciates a man who doesn’t beat about the proverbial bush. “Yes, sir.” But the commissioner’s first question is not one for which he is prepared.

“Tell me what you know about the Fenians.”

“Sir?” Hawkins frowns. Straightaway the question knocks him off guard.

“You heard me. The Fenians.” Monro leans back in his chair, trying to appear less intense. Like Inspector Angus McCullen, he is a Scot, but unlike McCullen, Monro comes from the Lowlands. His character has been shaped by the softer curves of the hills, rather than the craggy peaks of the Highlands. He tents his fingers.

“They’re Irish nationalists, sir,” comes the reply. Hawkins thinks of the commissioner’s background as the former director of the Special Branch. Until very recently James Monro was at the vanguard of the fight against Fenian terrorists.

“Go on.”

“They seek an independent Ireland and are prepared to use violence to achieve their aims.”

“Good. Go on.” Monro twiddles his thumbs.

“They are well-funded by American sympathisers who supply not only money, but also weapons and, in particular, dynamite.” Hawkins wracks his brain. “In 1882, a breakaway group calling themselves the Invincibles murdered Lord Frederick Cavendish, the chief secretary for Ireland, and Thomas Henry Burke, the permanent undersecretary, in Phoenix Park, Dublin.”

“Very good, and …” Monro’s hand gestures in a circular motion, as if cranking a wheel.

Hawkins’s brain whirls into action. “And a few years later, they proceeded to wage a dynamite campaign on the United Kingdom mainland.” His delivery speeds up with each sentence, like a schoolboy reeling off facts he has learned for an examination. “Several targets were blown up, including the London Underground, the House of Commons, and the Tower of London. Then two years ago they devised a plot to blow up Westminster Abbey during the Jubilee celebrations, with the aim of killing Her Majesty and half the cabinet. Two men were jailed and, I believe, are still serving sentences.”

Monro gives a satisfied nod. “Ah, yes. The Jubilee Plot.” There is a faraway look in his eye, as if he is reminiscing, although there is no fondness in his memory. “Eighteen eighty-seven was a most stressful year. It was a dreadfully anxious time, trying to bring about those arrests. Up until two days ago I thought we had succeeded in wiping out the benighted Irish terrorists.” His tone suddenly changes and he switches back to the detective. “Now, however, I cannot be so sure.”

“Sir?” Hawkins leans forward on the edge of his seat, eager to hear what the commissioner has to say next.

“I fear, Inspector, this latest Whitechapel atrocity is not the work of a lone psychopath, this so-called Jack the Ripper, but of a Fenian.”

“A Fenian!” the detective exclaims, a little too loudly than he knows he should.

Monro nods. “Perhaps one of those who plotted to kill Her Majesty, but who escaped arrest.”

Hawkins feels the breath that he has unknowingly been holding for the last few seconds escape from his chest. For a moment he remains speechless. “With respect, sir, this sheds a very different light on matters.”

“Indeed, it does, Hawkins,” the commissioner agrees, leaning forward. “The Phoenix Park murders, to which you referred—”

“Yes, sir.”

Monro knuckles his desk and heaves himself up to walk over to a safe, which stands in the corner of the room. He turns the combination dial once, twice, three times and the lock gives a satisfying click. The door is opened and from inside the safe comes a long, thin box. He strides back to his desk and places the wooden case in front of Hawkins.

“In there is our evidence that links two of the most notorious murders of the decade,” says the commissioner, grimacing as he taps the box with his forefinger.

“Sir?” Hawkins is not following.

“Open it.” Monro stares at the case. “Go on.”

The young detective leans toward the plain wooden box and slowly lifts the plain metal clasp to open the lid. The contents shock him. His head lurches up.

“Sir?”

Monro’s shoulders heave in a sigh and he interlaces his fingers as he eyes the contents.  A long surgical knife lies on a blue cushion. Beside it is an empty depression, presumably where another once lay. “One of the twelve knives purchased by an American surgeon and used to carry out the dastardly Phoenix Park operation,” he explains.

Hawkins searches his memory once more. He remembers that the murder weapons were surgical knives.

“So this was found at Phoenix Park, sir?” he asks quite reasonably.

The commissioner shakes his head. “Oh, no, Hawkins. And here’s the rub. This knife”—he points to the box—“this murderous blade was found at Number 13 Miller’s Court.”

“Miller’s Court!” Hawkins is suddenly dumbfounded. “Where Mary Jane Kelly …” His jaw drops.

Monro nods as he pushes the box away from him, as if he cannot bear to look at the object, knowing where it has been. “Your expression is an absolute picture, if I may say, Hawkins.”

Yet Hawkins barely registers the remark. From the back of his mind, the young detective seizes upon the memory of a report into Mary Jane Kelly’s death. He recalls that the head of the Ulster Constabulary visited the ghastly scene shortly after the murder. He did not understand the connection at the time. Now its significance is becoming clearer.

“So the knife used to butcher Mary Jane Kelly was similar to the ones used in the Phoenix Park murders?” He stares at the blade in the box once more.

Monro raises his brows and nods. “I confess when I was shown the knife, I, too, was, flabbergasted,” he admits. 

“So this could mean that both these violent killings were perpetrated by the same associates?” Hawkins speaks slowly, as if the shock has temporarily paralysed his facial muscles. He feels his body brace against any more revelations that he believes might follow. If the commissioner thinks, as it seems he has grounds to, that this latest Whitechapel murder of an unfortunate is the work of a Fenian, then it is tantamount to an assassination, a murder carried out for political purposes. What good can the Fenians possibly think they’ll achieve for their cause by killing a fallen woman, such as Mary Jane Kelly, and drink-addled Alice Mackenzie—desperate, penniless nobodies, both? Hawkins asks himself. As if reading his mind, Monro comes back at him with the answer.

“By perpetuating the terror seemingly wrought by this Jack, the terrorists are making the police look helpless,” he explains. “In the meantime they are regrouping in order to commit more mainland atrocities.”

The notion jolts Hawkins back into the moment and he takes up the thread. “You crushed their network before, but now they are planning to make a comeback. The Whitechapel murders are decoys.”  

Monro jabs a finger at the air. “And there you have it,” he replies with an emphatic nod of his head. “But to draw attention to such perpetrators would only give them oxygen.”

“So no one must know of the possible Irish-American connection,” suggests the detective.

Another nod from the commissioner. “You understand me, Hawkins. As I’m sure you are aware, I have no time for the amateur sleuths favoured by the so-called Special Branch.” He picks up a pencil from his desk and brandishes it at the detective, as if it were a sword. “Bernard Royston and his ilk I regard as below my contempt.”

The name is unfamiliar to Hawkins. “Royston, sir?” he queries.

“Let’s just say my deputy and I did not part on the best of terms when I left Special Branch. His spies called themselves policemen, but they were of no more assistance than novelists in solving crime. Such secrecy may be favoured in Russia, but we are not a police state and, as long as I have breath in my body, will never be.”

“No, sir. Of course not, sir,” agrees Hawkins.

Then, as if his rousing speech has drained his energy, the commissioner’s voice dips confidentially. “You must work only with your most trusted men. Word of this must not reach the press and you must communicate with me directly, in person. There are those who make it their work to know other officers’ business,” Monro tells him cryptically, although it is clear to Hawkins that he is talking about Royston. “They will only damage our mission. You follow me?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

“Good man.” Reaching into the top drawer of his desk, Monro next brings out a thick folder. He lays it in front of Hawkins. The young detective regards it suspiciously.

“A dossier of suspects with possible Fenian connections,” the commissioner explains. “They will all need following up. I shall leave it to you to establish priorities.”

Hawkins draws the folder close and opens it. Leafing through quickly, he needs only a moment to realise that he has been handed a chaotic collection of typed reports, handwritten memorandums, newspaper cuttings, and several lists.

“This is what we have to go on,” says the commissioner, his tone registering an apology. Hawkins is unsure if this refers to the state of the paperwork or the quality of the information it contains.

“I’ll do my very best, sir,” he tells Monro as he rises from his seat.

“You have my full confidence, Hawkins,” replies the commissioner, also rising. The two men shake hands, and with his commanding officer’s words still ringing in his ears, Acting Inspector Hawkins returns to his station. The weight he now bears is even more onerous than before. Not only is he tasked with tracking down the fiend or fiends behind the Whitechapel murders, he has also become, to all intents and purposes, a secret agent.

I’m lying in my bed, my mind raking over events, and my grim thoughts stray to poor little Timmy Kelly and the day they found his mother’s body. Ma, Mr. Bartleby, her beau, and Flo, my big sister, and me were watching the Lord Mayor’s Parade by Ludgate Hill. Everyone was dressed in their Sunday best, and you couldn’t hear yourself think for the cheering. It didn’t matter that it was cold and rainy. Not to me, at any rate, although I’m sure Mr. B would rather have been in the snug room at the Britannia, downing his whisky.

Anyway, all eyes were on the procession that was bringing the new Lord Mayor back to the Guildhall in his coach. He’d just met our dear queen and the judges of the High Court in the Strand. Up front were the guards, looking so fine in their blue and gold. Then there was this pompous old duffer—the city chamberlain, someone said—all done out like a Christmas tree in his cocked hat with tassels at his shoulders. Sat astride a big white horse, he was. Thought he was God’s gift. ’Course we poked fun at him. A few even jeered. We Londoners are hard to impress when there’s a murderer on the loose. Jack the Ripper had been putting the fear into every woman’s heart around these parts for many a long month, but no one had been caught. And for that, we blamed Old Bill and the top brass in the government. Even Her Majesty was losing patience with the police. Wrote to them, she did, wanting the fiend caught and quick about it. By this time most reckoned there were already four dead by his knife: Polly Nichols, Annie Chapman, Liz Stride, and Catherine Eddowes, even before Mary Jane.

Soon as we caught sight of the procession, there were loud cheers and we’d all raised our flags and banners.

“Here he comes!” Mr. B had cried. Even Flo took her eyes off the sailor she’d been sizing up to look at the procession. We all surged forward, but the coppers on horseback kept us back. There was such a palaver that at first I didn’t notice what was happening. Somehow two young lads had managed to break through the crowd and fight their way toward the front, sandwich boards around their necks. They’d scampered out in front of the procession and begun to dance and lark about, just ahead of the prig on his pony.

I recall Flo crying out: “What the hell are they playing at?” and Mr. B saying that they needed “a damn good hiding.” I remember, too, that the horse took fright at the boys’ shenanigans. The crowd took fright, too. The last thing they wanted was for the beast to run wild. For an instant everyone was relieved when the old duffer brought the poor creature under control, but our attention was soon diverted again.

Flo, a full two inches taller than me, nudged me. “What do them boards say?” she asked, looking at the two nippers.

I stood on tiptoe to have a butcher’s, but as I did, I remember a hush falling on the crowd. The rain had started again and was slanting into my eyes, so I had to squint to see proper. Blinking the drops away, I could read what was written clear as day.

“Oh, my God!” I’d muttered as, all around me, the crowd fell silent.

“What is it? What do they say?” Flo’d urged.

I’d turned to her, a terrible feeling in my stomach. There was no other way to break the news, so I told her straight. “They say, ‘Another Whitechapel Murder.’”

It’s a little over eight months since that day and for most people life has moved on. Ma says they’ve pushed the bad memories to the back of the cupboard to gather dust. For many, the horror of last autumn seems to be fading. For some of us, though, especially us girls and women who need to be about our business, Jack still casts his eerie shadow over our neighbourhood.

I knew Mary Jane, see. Whenever she had a spare penny, which in truth wasn’t often, she’d buy a bloom from me and wear it in her hair. A cheerful soul, she was, always singing. So when, all those months ago, I dreamed that something terrible had happened to her, I took myself to her lodgings. Only, I never made it to her door. I saw Mrs. Maxwell, a friend of hers. She told me she’d just seen her, looking the worse for wear, but alive at least, and that I wasn’t to fret. So I didn’t. I went home and even joined the crowds to watch the Lord Mayor’s Show without a care in the world—well, hardly. Little did I know that all the while Mary Jane was lying there, all sliced and cut like a piece of meat on a butcher’s block. 

These dreams of mine: I think I ought to tell you about them. They all began after I saw a showman at the Egyptian Hall who put some of the audience into a trance. He managed to work his magic on me, and all, and I’ve not been the same since. Some say they’re not dreams I have, but visions, or, to give them an even fancier name, premonitions. I think I’m what they call a spirit medium. That means I can see things that most people are blind to, and sometimes I can foretell the future. For such a gift I have my spirit guide, Miss Tindall, to thank.

So, like I said, Whitechapel seemed to have settled back all comfy into squalor, like a pig in its own filth. It doesn’t matter that brawls and scrimmages break out every minute outside pubs, or that so many babes die before they reach five. Who cares if a wife is bludgeoned to death by her drunken husband on a Friday night, or that children are sold to wicked men to pay the rent? It’s Whitechapel. It happens. Only, when it comes to Jack, it’s a different matter.