Hot Seat ~ Pt. 2

Warren, sitting stone-faced, looks at the man who got him into the detective branch and wonders what or how much can be told. Sugden was not an unreasonable man, but he has limitations and time travel surely would be one.
Giving only bare details, of the past two weeks, Warren explains his undercover idea and the lead regarding the fight between the 'drunk' (Jack) and Mr. Ó Seachnasaigh; he further explains his trip to the hospital to visit the injured man.
OK, Warren, I see where your going with the Petticoat Lane leads and that is good ground work, although you don't seem to have turned up anything concrete.  You need to interrogate the prisoner and see what you can find out about him. Assume he has information that is related to the case and push him to talk. Seems doubtful, given he is a drunk and probably unreliable, but maybe that is a rouge.
Before Warren can steer his boss away from that thought, Superintendent Sugden asks again about the hospital lists. Well, sir, if the chatter is to be believed, then it's possible our murderer is a doctor or nurse at The London Hospital. Don't forget, Dr. Openshaw, who examined the package containing part of a kidney, is practicing there. Also, the case for patients is still an option since there hasn't been an attack for several weeks; he could have taken ill or been in a fight, like Mr. Ó Seachnasaigh and gotten severely injured.
Yes, yes, I see where you're going with this as well...good thinking detective. Sugden finally smiles. He wasn't wrong to push Warren's promotion after all. I'm glad to have you on the case, but you need to keep me abreast of what you're doing and any progress --- positive or negative. Do you understand me?
Yes sir, you've made it clear. Good. Now head over to the Whitechapel Station and see what you can do with our drunk. Right away sir!
Warren leaves Sugden's office smiling. Whoa! That was a very near escape. Wiping the sweat off his brow, Warren makes his way through The Yard. Running into Constable Crane, an eager new policeman with his eye on becoming a detective himself. Calling after Warren, Sir, Inspector Warren... Yes, Crane, what is it? Excuse me sir, but a package came for you about an hour ago, while you were in the Super's office; the courier said it was urgent. Oh? Yes, I left it on your desk; I just grabbed it for you, since I saw you passing by. Constable Crane hands the parcel to Warren. I noticed there wasn't a complete return address; just a name. Looking down to read the label, Warren feels himself go pale. Not wishing to fuel the young policeman's curiosity any further, he quickly thanks him and dashes out the door.
Unknown to Warren and Crane, the contents of the parcel mean life or death for Jack.

 

Hot Seat ~ Pt. 1

Sitting in Superintendent Sugden's office, at The Yard, Warren is getting his ass chewed. Walter Sugden is a large man, slightly over weight from sitting behind a desk for a decade. A shock of black hair with touches of grey, at the temples, sets off the pale skin of his face, which is now turning red from anger. Flashing blue eyes, begin to bulge, he starts in...
What the bloody hell are you doing Warren? I get a call from the hospital director over at The London, telling me that you demanded a list of all patients and employees. He gave me a right ear full and I didn't even know what the hell it was all about! This police department doesn't need to be caught with it's pants down. You know the heat we are under with these Ripper murders; the public is outraged and fear is rampant in the city. I need you to keep me informed. I even questioned the other detectives and they haven't seen you in two weeks! They thought I put you on special assignment. Now where did they get that bloody idea? You better start explaining man or I will have to suspend you. Sugden finally runs out of breath and now it's Warren's turn have diarrhea of speech.

Curious Indeed

Still baffled at his encounter with Norman, Warren makes his way to the bedside of Mr. Ó Seachnasaigh. Seeing his condition, he realizes there is little danger of Jack facing the gallows. The ward nurse confirms that diagnosis and explains the extent of the injuries. Warren notes it all down and asks if he has any relatives. Oh, yes. The nurse smiles. A nice gentleman was here just before you; said he was his brother-n-law and stayed about 15 minutes. Did he give a name? Warren holds his breath, waiting her response. Let's see now, what did he say...oh, yes...Mr. Namron. If you'll excuse me Inspector. One more thing nurse, if Mr. Ó Seachnasaigh's condition changes, please contact me at The Yard. Warren passes her his card. Certainly sir.
Warren spends a few minutes looking around the patient's bed area and on the side table, seeing nothing. Maybe I was wrong in thinking he came here to see this man. Could there be someone else here he visited; maybe not a patient or was he looking for something else entirely? Damn it, there has to be a connection somewhere.
Making his way back down to the reception desk, he stops on the middle landing of the turning staircase, closing his eyes, he pictures Norman there and tries to remember exactly what he saw. Norman was wearing a long coat, top hat, and carried a cane; typical of the day. He descended in a casual, non-threatening way. Body language says he was very pleased about something; he saw or did something successfully. Warren continues down the stairs; a very young attendant rushes into him and drops a tray of medical supplies. I am so sorry sir, I beg your pardon. No harm done, let me help you. Miss Havershome! A big red-faced nurse approaches and scolds the young girl. You've been told many times not to rush around the halls. You might have knocked this man down for heavens sake! I...I'm sorry miss. Pick up this mess immediately and get to your station. Yes, miss. Warren helps Miss Havershome put the items back on her metal tray. Seeing a syringe, Warren is careful not to touch the needle end. You should be careful of this; you're lucky the glass didn't break in the fall. Oh, but sir...I wasn't carrying anything like that.

Chance Encounter?

Warren arrives at the hospital mid-morning, the long night and built up stress wore him out; he over slept. Checking in at the reception desk, he asks if he can see the man who was brought in yesterday with knife wounds. He discovers the man's name, Ó Seachnasaigh and makes a note of it in his small leather book. The nurse has an attendant show Warren where he can find the patient.
As they ascend the turning staircase, another man comes down. Warren begins to feel a slight tingling sensation as they pass; there is that feeling again. There is no eye contact between them, but Warren turns to see the back of the man's head; nothing familiar about him though. At the top of the stairs, the attendant says, down the hallway on your left and last ward on your right inspector. You'll find Mr. Ó Seachnasaigh in the last bed nearest the window. Thank you. The attendant moves off, down the other hallway. Just as Warren turns to proceed on his investigation interview, he hears a voice from below. Oh! Inspector...Warren looks down the staircase opening and sees the man he just passed looking up at him. Give my regards to Jack, will you? Smiling, he walks away. Warren stunned at this encounter comes to his senses, runs down the stairs. Good God! That must have been Norman! Looking around the lobby, he doesn't see the man; continuing to scan the visitors as he moves towards the hospital entrance, still no sign of him. Why would he speak to me at all? Why take the risk? The bigger question...Why was he here?

The Visit

The London Hospital, established 1740, stands ready to help the sick and victims of all kinds of injury. How wonderfully clean and orderly it all appears. Nurses coming to the aid of those poor souls in need; Doctors using the latest treatments and performing surgeries to save lives. It warms my heart just seeing it.
This way please. A nurse in crisp white and a funny little hat perched on to of a braided bun, at the back of her head. He may be sleeping, but you can at least see him. Talking is difficult, due to all the stitches and bruising on his face and neck.
Yes, I understand nurse. I am happy to do all the talking. A sly grin slides across his face. The nurse shows him to the ward. You'll find Mr. Ó Seachnasaigh in the last bed, on the left, next to the window. You are too kind and thank you for taking such good care of my brother-n-law. My dear, departed, sister would be pleased.
The room is bright and the white linens glow with sanitized purity. A hulk of a man prostrated and bandaged sleeps silently. In a low, whispered voice, close to his ear, speaks a man bent on retribution. You went too far my friend and I am none too pleased with your damaging actions. Why didn't you follow my instructions; they were clear and precise. I am very disappointed with you and now I am forced to take drastic actions; an outcome not advantageous for you. Standing up and pulling a familiar syringe from his breast pocket, he lifts the sheet, covering the torso of Mr. Ó Seachnasaigh, and injects the liquid, housing the microscopic creature, into the lower abdomen of its new victim. Good-bye and happy day my brutal friend. As he straightens the sheet, the nurse approaches the bed; seeing the patient asleep still, comments. Oh, I am sorry, but in his current condition, he needs all the rest he can get. It's quite alright; I said what I needed to say and I am sure he heard me. The doctor feels certain he'll make a total recovery and be fine to leave the hospital in a couple of weeks. That is good news. I am sure he will recover...expert care is hard to find. 
Exiting, Norman turns and tips his hat to the unsuspecting nurse. Ah, what a pretty smile she has...reminds me of sweet Mary Kelly at #13.

Threads of Sanity

The morning light shines through the thin curtain material. Grace stirs uncomfortably in the hard wood chair. Waking fully, she realizes Stella has wiggled partially out of the bonds confining her; carefully she reties them, not wishing to wake her. Stella still has a fever, but her color is improved. Smearing blood paste on the forehead of her sickly sister, Grace wonders if any of this will help. With several glasses of the drug/blood liquid left, she makes a fresh fire and tries to warm herself, watching the flames lick the dry wood. As it sizzles and pops, she prepares another dose of medicine for Stella. Starring into the glass of blood, she wonders what Jack is doing; what would he say now? 
Stella, woken by the sounds of the fire, stares at Grace coming towards her; she moves over to the bedside, with the lovely crimson liquid. Oh! more sweets for me then? I'm ready for it---all of it! Opening her mouth wide, she lets Grace pour the warm and tingle making concoction down her eager throat. Ha-ha-ha! You know who's fault this is don't you, dear sister...why I am like this now...and you know how I am going to repay him for it? Ha-ha! Stella you need to rest; I promise it will be alright. Please try to stay calm.
Oh, it will be alright, alright. You just wait and see how alright I can make things. Yes, everyone will see...everyone.

Dream or Nightmare

Blood. Rivers of blood flowing around her. Slowly, she dips her finger tips, creating little valleys in the path of crimson liquid. She giggles.
Look. See how beautiful...so deliciously beautiful and thick, like melted chocolate. Dripping it on her face, mouth opening wide, letting drops fall on to her tongue...it tingles! Did you know that? When I taste another's blood, it tingles. A strange sensation really and its always the same...men, women, and animals. Something in their blood mixes and reacts with my saliva and zing! I want more, I need more, I MUST have more...blood!  A low throaty growl escapes from Stella as she sleeps and dreams. A danger is growing inside and it's nearly ready to lash out.

Formulating Freedom

As fate would have it, the Doctor who took care of Warren was now administering to Jack's ailments. Using a quietly methodical method, he checked Jack out completely. Other than the head trauma and bruising with minor abrasions, he was fit. Dr. Watson instructed the duty officer to check the prisoner every hour and wake him; failure to do so could mean an unnecessary death and the young constable would be held responsible. 
With his face washed and bandaged, Jack looked improved. Warren watched him for a while and then went to find out about the other man. The desk Sargent told him which hospital (The London), but it was too late for visiting hours.
Still besotted with worry, Warren sat behind a desk, chewing on a pencil. I need to come up with a plan, some way to get Jack out of here and not get caught in the process. Time to use my detective skills in reverse. Making a rough sketch of the building layout, Warren maps out potential escape routes and the problem areas of each. Creating a log of man power and known schedules, he could see a possibility, a glimmer of hope for this mad escape plan to rescue Jack.
Checking on Jack, one more time, he suddenly remembers his important discovery; desperately wishing he could tell Jack the news, he writes a note and then places the paper in the pants pocket of his slumbering friend. Giving the keys back to the constable on watch, instructs him to call, should anything change in the prisoner's condition.
Warren leaves the police station and heads for home; nothing left to be done at 2 a.m., except sleep and heaven knows he could use a week of that!

Revelation

The washroom in the police station is a small space, but the basins are large enough to rinse off the remaining vomit from his patrol boots. It wasn't going to be so easy to wash away what happened to Jack. Not knowing yet the extent of the other man's wounds or if he was dead or dying makes Warren's heart pound with fear. If this were a normal situation and the man lived, Jack would be sentenced for assault and if the man died...death by hanging. But this wasn't normal and he had to get Jack out of jail, before things went much further and he ends up at the Yard. Realizing his career was soon to be over, Warren contemplates the outcome of a successful extrication for Jack and the fact he himself would become a wanted criminal; a fugitive from his own belief in justice. How...how could all this be happening...and why am I not grieved at the prospect of this looming situation?
Starring into the mirror, light glinting from air movement around the lanterns, Warren understands why. A smile that has never found a place on his face before begins to appear... I'll be leaving with him...The Ripper of Time!

Hell of a Headache

And it started out as a good day too. Oh! A searing pain shoots through Jack's beaten head. Thinking really hurts right now, but I can't stop going over what happened. It doesn't make a damn bit of sense...
I had staggered over to my usual spot, near my favorite grog wagon, and played my part to the hilt. My drunken performance was beginning to become legend, on that part of the street, I even took to spouting a bit of o'l Shakespeare, to entertain the passers by, just to break up the wallowing act. I was actually enjoying myself and that may have been my own undoing.
Trying to be clever in my quotes, I attempted to query the regulars about Stella and Grace, using lines like

"All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages."

and also,

"Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and 
Are melted into air, into thin air.
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like the insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and out little life
Is rounded with a sleep."

to see what reaction I would receive about my own 'ghosts.' It would, painfully, appear I hit my target today or should I say, he hit me, repeatedly. All I really remember was fists flying and the man built like a brick chicken house saying through breath of rotted meat...so, you 'da bloke ask'n all them questions; he said ta watch out fer ye. This 'ill fix ye up! I saw metal glint in his hand for a second; this was turning ugly and with all the might I had left, grabbed his family jewels; jerking them with a twist, I heard a scream from that foul mouth and wrenched the knife out of his boxing glove sized hand.
Now, we had made enough commotion, that a crowd was gathered and in a fit of rage, he lunged at me; I welded the knife and slashed at him, another cry, but he didn't stop. I only managed to cut his arm and that fueled his anger more. Yelling obscenities at me, he came at me again, this time my aim was more damaging and I got his face and neck. Someone in the crowd yelled, look it's Jack The Ripper! What happened next is a mystery, as I either passed out or was knocked unconscious from crowd swell.
Waking up in a cell was a small relief, but I can't recommend the accommodations. The smells turned my stomach, worse than meat breath, so I attempted to bury my throbbing head into the material of the cot mattress to block it out. I must have been drifting in and out of consciousness, no doubt suffering from a concussion, for what seemed like days (later to discover only hours.)
It had been relatively quiet, some moaning next to me or maybe I was the one doing it. Now I could hear someone yelling, behind me. Can't quite focus...something about 'getting up'...'shite can'...'will regret it'...Hell! I'm passed that. Trying to get up, but my head is swirling around...voice seems familiar, why? 'Turn around'...another command; I can do this. Seems lighter in front of me now. I will try to walk closer to it. God! my head hurts...can't see well...hair in my face. Closer, closer...must stay standing. Almost there...I think I see a man. Oh god! all this walking, my head throbbing...I'm...I'm going to be sick... Escaping spew comes from Jack, out towards Warren standing on the other side of the cell door; eyes rolling up, Jack falls against the bars and slides to the floor, unconscious.
Stepping out of the pool of beer and food scrapes covering his boots, Warren quietly says to Jack, Everything will be alright Jack; I'll get help. As the duty officer arrives at the inspector's side, Warren stands up and demands a doctor be brought in immediately!

Poultry and Potions

The fog seems extra dense tonight and much so to my benefit, for I do not wish to be easily observed, thinks Grace. Pulling her cloak tighter and over her head like a shroud. 
First stop, the chemist shop. 
Grace uses a specialized lock pick and having scouted out the least security wise shop, enters quietly, shutting the door silently; the door bell will never joyfully wave and tinkle a visitor again. Waiting to hear any sounds that might mean the owner heard her entrance and was coming down to investigate, she proceeds with caution should the situation change unexpectedly, making a quick escape necessary. Carefully draping the long cloak over the counter, preventing any accidental sweeping of shelves, she moves like a Ninja, all in black from head to toe. Pulling out a flash light, one benefit in time travel is the ability to pick up useful gadgets, she scans the shelves for the ingredients needed to make the powder for Stella. Using a combination of Arginine, Lysine, and Potassium Chloride, she grinds them together, using a mortar and pestle, into a fine powder. Not an easy task when trying to make no noise at all, the potassium was only in crystal form and the risk was necessary since they had no tools sufficient in their rooms; besides, there is a limit to what she can carry. Now, carrying all the powder in another future invention, the zip-lock bag, she hides it in the waistband of her pants. Trying to leave things as close to when she started, Grace dawns her cloak and exits. The fog is even thicker than before, the street lamps look like tiny glowing globes and the clopping of horse hooves is heard in the distance. 
Next stop, the butcher's yard. This task will be even more of a challenge, but the potion will not work without blood. Robbing a hospital is out of the question and she would get caught. No, this is the only way and it must be done tonight. Creeping along the streets, Grace finally finds the yard of the butcher and scales the tall fence. One ability her kind has is strength and agility is her specialty, a very useful combination of skills in these situations. Jumping into the yard she startles the animals nearest the fence, rather unavoidable, but they soon settle down as she pats their furry bodies. There is not one lamp lit, so she switches on her flashlight and slowly shines it around. The various farm animals are in small pins, waiting for the morning slaughter no doubt. Seeing what she needs, she cautiously moves toward the small building, careful not to upset the animals again. Standing at the door of the coop, she pulls out a small sack form the lining of her cloak. Pushing the outer door open and holding her breath, she proceeds to the small house where all the chickens are asleep. Pausing, as she knows it has to be done in one swift motion, she readies the sack; the chickens will squawk an alert that will rouse everyone in the yard, including the household. Lifting a flap, she reaches in with one hand, feeling the soft warm feathers and grabs as close to a neck, pulling it towards her and the sack. Success! The chicken got out a strangled squeak, but it was enough to set off a wave of cackles; by now she was across the yard, headed towards the gate. Just then, she hears a low growl and realizes a dog is coming up on her, followed by a man's voice calling to the animal. What is it boy? Someone in the yard? In a split second, Grace is at the gate, opening the latch with one hand and bagged chicken in the other; turning to face the approaching dog, she lets out a hiss that makes the dogs hair stand on end. Whimpering in fear it turns tail. Nothing is stopping me now! Running several blocks before she stops to catch her breath, squirming chicken under her arm, she makes her way back to Stella, who despite being tied up, is still asleep. Grace lays out the bagged powder and lets her cloak drop, looking at the bewildered chicken, she rings it's neck and cuts off the head. Blood pours out into the large bowl for the purpose of blending all ingredients. Using a large spoon, she stirs the blood and powder together until it forms a paste. Part of the concoction will be used in the paste form. Stoking the fire back to life, she heats the remains in the bowl until the contents begin to liquefy; allowing it to cool slightly, she pours it into all the glasses she can find. The smell of heated blood wakens Stella and she struggles against her bonds. Bringing one of the glasses over, Grace helps her sister choke down the bloody mixture. More, give me more... another glass down, Stella falls asleep again. Grace, exhausted from the whole ordeal, slumps in a chair and drifts off into her own kind of slumber. As she begins to relax, her mind wanders into a dream...a dream with swirling fog and shadowy figures...with one coming closer and closer...

Caught

Red faced and out of breath, Warren tries to get information from the duty officer. Why inspector, you're in a coppers suit, what'cha up to? Trying to breath in a normal rhythm, Warren asks about the incident in Petticoat Lane Market. Oh, yea, got one fellow in the clink and the others in the hospital, said Sargent Wilcox. Warren, trying not to loose total control begins to ask, Who is... just then the desk phone rang, Warren couldn't stand to wait, he went to the cells to discover first hand the bad news; either way, Jack was in serious trouble. Dying or up for murder.
Trying to calm himself and not draw anymore attention to the situation, he slowed his pace and as nonchalantly as his weak legs could muster, strolled down the long hall to the rear of the building. They held prisoners, recently arrested, for questioning and then moved them to Scotland Yard for further action, if the situation called for it. 
A growing fester of bile begins to churn in Warren's stomach and when he reaches the locked door to the cell rooms, he has to choke down the beginnings of vomit. Beads of sweat had formed on his skin, hands damp as he knocks on the door. Calling out, Duty Sargent, are you there? A freckled and blotchy face appears in the only opening, the size of a small child's head, of the sold wood door, the bars covering the opening preventing any attempt to gain access or escape the space houses behind it. Pulling out his ID card, Warren asks for admittance. Who are you looking for inspector, access is limited right now, per the commander. Clearing his throat and regaining control of himself, Warren once again feeling like an officer of the law, demands to see the man arrested in Petticoat Lane. He may be a suspect in a case I'm working on with the Yard; it could be vital in closing the case. Oh, Yessir. The lock clicks and the door swings slowly inward on heavy hinges. Please sign the sheet sir, he's in cell 8. Thank you Sargent. Warren forces himself to walk and begins the journey down the corridor between the cells; little light comes from the slits in the place of windows and air flow is practically non-existent. The smell of tallow candles and dirty flesh makes his nostrils flinch. Occasional moans greet him as he passes by, suspects who have been recently interrogated and found uncooperative, a practice Warren does not agree with.
Standing in front of cell 8, attempting to see clearly through the smoke the tallow makes, there is barely enough light to see the hunched form balled up on the bare cot at the back of the cell. Realizing he can't show any sign of familiarity to this suspect, Warren yells out, Hey! You there on the cot...get up and come over here...now, if you know what's good for ye. Are you listening #8? If you don't get a move on, I'll throw the shite bucket at you and its full. The mass of human flesh stirs and becomes a man, but his back is facing the cell door. Turn around man and face me-- are you stupid? Warren wants to yell out Jack's name so bad, he grabs the bars that make up the door. Hearing the rattle, the duty Sargent calls out, Is there som'em the matter inspector? Realizing his anxiety is beginning to show, Warren steps back from the cell, letting go of the bars and more of the precious sanity he clings to.
The prisoner begins to turn and face the inspector; the man struggling to straighten up, shifts the matted hair back away from his cut and swollen bruised face. Once again, the only thing Warren recognizes in the man walking towards him is the mismatched eyes...

Tied in knots

The grayness of the day begins to turn lavender with the setting sun, a pale hue creating a surreal glow around objects. Waves of heat still rise from the cobblestone ways in the city, like the dying breath from embers on a fire nearly extinguished. Darkness will soon settle over everything, like a black velvet cape.
Grace sits on the side of the bed, watching her sister now resting easier after eating a little; which was a challenge since the delirium made her want to strike out and resist ingesting the fish and raw beef. Knowing this calm would be fleeting, Grace makes restraints from sheets. Tying Stella's hands behind her back, Grace draws up her sister's feet to be bound together as well, a similar form to being hog tied. She then straps her to the iron bars of the bed posts. This should last long enough to allow the acquisition of the drugs and blood needed to create the concoction to cure Stella, if its not all ready too late.
Grace watches the change in light and will wait until the sky becomes an inky black beneath the fog that thickens like gravy.
Why hasn't Norman returned yet runs through her mind as she continues to watch Stella, bound to her prison bed...what sanity lies here, I wonder.

Shocking discovery

Damn it! Why can't I find Jack? Warren curses under his breath. Of all the days, any other time I see him several times and now he has become invisible; could he have changed his disguise and not told me? 
Locating the booth where Jack buys a bottle to aide in his drunken appearance, Warren discovers some unpleasant news. Hey, Mister Mitchell, have you seen that drunken reprobate Jackson? Yessir, I indeed did. I'm surprised you'r ask'n me tat. Why do you say that? We'll'en he got arrested 'bout an hour, t'was now. What?! He got'n a fight with a man 'bout som'n and stabbed'em or got stabbed his self. Holy Shite! It t'was a mess. Folks got tup'set and t'wer saying things like he'a be'en The Ripper, way he swung the blade and stabb'en at the fell'er. 
Warren stood there with his mouth open, like a bird house with out an occupant on it's perch. How the hell can this be happening?! Not now, not the f--- now! Warren takes off running towards the station...this could be the end of everything.

Bloody mess

Grace, scared and angry, pushes against the door, finding resistance gives it a shove that would knock an adult male to the ground; stepping into the room, she expects to see Stella and doesn't. Using her foot, pushes the door shut behind her. Calling to her sister, Stella where are you? I could use some help with the packages. A faint moan comes from the floor behind her. Wheeling around she finds Stella laying on the floor, blood on her face and hands, along with splatter on her blouse. Oh my god...Stella! Falling to her knees, sending the packages flying in all directions, Grace bends over her sister to see what is wrong. Seeing no cuts, she helps her sister up and to a bed. Stella reclines, whimpering in pain and seems delirious in her ramblings. Grace tries to get through to her, but Stella is incoherent. Once Stella had been cleaned up and quieted down, Grace determines what to do. First, she must get some food into her sister, fish and raw meat will help, but not stop the present condition completely. A trip to the chemist and a slaughter house is necessary or Stella will bleed to death.

Prey Spotted

Petticoat Lane Market, in Spitalfields Parish, near Commercial Street has been Jack and Warren's stomping ground for nearly two weeks. Their hopes have dimmed since the 'from hell letter' was published; expecting something else to occur, their heightened awareness has gone to a dull and somewhat faint roar;they are not ready to give up though.
Warren thought he had spotted their quarry several times since they started the covert operations, but he lost her in the crowds. The market was its usual lively self today with buyers and sellers jostling over clothing, ware, and food. The grog sellers seemed to fare the best and no surprise. Warren enjoyed strolling through the carts and crates, watching and chatting to some peddlers to pass the time. He seemed to blend in rather well considering he was a copper on the beat. Folks seemed comforted by the easily recognized man in navy blue, blonde shock of hair beneath his hat and sporting a temporary moustache; Jack teased him about the peach fuzz under it, but he never could grow much facial hair. Stopping to inspect one of the fish mongers booths, he felt the air become electrified. The last time he experienced that sensation was the first time he saw Jack and the women. His mind automatically went into high alert and keeping up his appearance of disinterest and lack of attention to goings on, he purposefully turned slowly in a 180 to catch as much of the view as possible.  Through the sea of bodies and bobbing heads there was a familiar silhouette, a woman's exquisite figure even in the drab and colorless outfit dawning it currently. To clench the confirmation, delicate blonde tendrils peeked from under the bonnet of the wearer. Fearing his penetrating gaze would alert her, he trained his eyes to the man standing to her left, still able to see her in his peripheral vision. The woman made her purchase and moved on. With his target squarely in his sites now, Warren becomes the stealthy hunter and tracks her down the street. Unlike before, he never looses site of her; strange, since before she was able to escape detection, maybe his skills were improving. Still not 100% certain, Warren continues the pursuit. Eventually, she leaves the market and heads to where he expects to be what he and Jack were looking for; where they are and probably have been living, at least recently. Letting her get ahead of him a bit, he carefully pursues her. Realizing this could be a trap, he has to watch all around, in case the madman is going to jump him. The trip was uneventful and when she stopped in front of a door, he ducted into a large doorway alcove a few hundred yards away. He could hear the door rattle as she shook the knob. There seemed to be some distress and he had the urge to come to her aide, but restrained himself. The next sounds he heard were the panicked voice calling out a name, Stella, Stella, please open the door...its OK, its Grace! The door slowly opened a crack, just enough for the frantic woman outside to escape into the room it concealed. The door shut with a bang...silence. Warren stood in the alcove for nearly half an hour. No activity in or around the door that had played a part in a most informative and revealing scene. Quietly, Warren crept out of his hiding place and back to the market to find Jack...they have finally found Grace and Stella!

© Mary Evans Picture Library, used with permission.

Hunger Pains

I don't think I can take much more of this Grace. Where the hell is he?! Has something happened...oh, god, maybe the police... Stella you must get control of yourself or I will need to restrain you. Please don't force me to do that. Grace hugs her sister and pulling away, looks into her bloodshot eyes, please do it for me, I will never desert you. I know Grace, thank you. With heads bowed together, the two frightened sisters hold onto what little sanity is left between them.
I'm hungry Grace, I don't think I can hold out much longer. I know, but you shouldn't come with me to get food, the risk is too great and one of us needs to be here when Norman returns. Can you hold out for about an hour, at most? Yes, there is some wine left and that will help calm me. Can you get some more? Of course. Petticoat Market will have everything we need. Please hurry Grace!
Tears start to roll down Stella's face as she watches her sister, from the curtained window, disappear down the lane. Wiping her face with her hands, Stella sees the liquid is not water but blood. Oh God! Running to the mirror, she sees blood coming from her eyes...fear grips her like a vise and she gasps for air, falling in a heap on the floor; writhing in pain, the room spins and Stella falls into a black abyss of nothingness...barely a whisper, she utters, someone please help me...Norman...

Mr. Schmidt lends a hand

The Daily Telegraph, located on Fleet Street in London, is a decorative five-story building of brick and mortar, topped with cornice along the roof line; a solid structure, built to stand against the wear and tear of time.
Standing across the street, Norman peers up at this container of people, knowledge, and information. Some of the answers he seeks should be in there and he doesn't have any more time to waste now. Zigzagging across the dusty street, avoiding carts and horse shite, Norman enters the building and puts on the charm, which comes so easy for him...like sleep itself, natural and a habit of a lifetime. Tipping his hat along with a slight bow, using an open manner, asks, Could you kindly direct me to your news archive? The harried attendant, unaffected by the requester, waves his hand toward the stairs. Yessir, third floor, last door on the left, ask for Schmidt. Feeling like the cat among the pigeons, Norman makes his way to the archive and finds Mr. Schmidt; a short and stout man with greying curly hair, whats left of it, standing in the isles of shelves stacked with papers. With bulging eyes, Schmidt takes measure of this tall, thin young man standing in his domain; there is something aristocratic about him, but his eyes do not give away any further information. An interesting persona no doubt and in the old days, he would have invited him for a drink to uncover the secret depths of this man's character. A game most sublime. Coming back to reality, he asks, in a gruff tone, What are you needing here sir? Norman assess this man and determines the best approach is to be overtly friendly, this individual is tired of being stuck in this job and would enjoy a congenial diversion. Well, kind sir, may I call you Schmidt? I find using names so much more...personal. Norman steps in closer and sets his hat down on the man's desk and unbuttons his coat. You may call me Norman. Schmidt's curiosity peeked, also closes the gap between them. How can I assist you today, Norman? A smile begins to appear on his face as he waits for his reply; this may be interesting after all, he thinks. My dear Schmidt, I need to find the obituary of an old family friend, for I am unable to locate him at his last residence, which sits vacant, leading me to believe my fears... he may have died in the last two to four years. I really don't know what to do and it was so important you see. Norman begins to act as though he were just a bit desperate and play on the sympathy of the elder man. Oh, certainly, I can help you with that, Norman. Yes, yes, certainly. Please have a seat, at the table in back; I'll pull the volumes for you. Would you care for a cup of tea? As he saunters back to where he was directed, Norman pours on the charm and replies, Only if you have it with me Schmidt, I would enjoy your company. Norman glances back, grinning widely, this is too easy.
Large books piled in his arms, teetering from his haste, Schmidt makes it to the table with a loud thud. The volumes slide in all directions and he scrambles to keep them on the wooden surface. Without lifting a finger, Norman sits and watches this animated creature in front of him. An amusing thought creeps across his deviant mind...What ever would this man think, if he knew The Ripper was seated at his table... It takes all his effort not to laugh out loud at the thought. Schmidt had assembled the bound volumes of newspapers covering 1882-1887 and trotted off to put the kettle on. Norman realizes this could be tedious and time consuming; he had to get Schmidt to help him search. Opening 1887 he started reviewing all the deaths, it would be so much easier with a digital archive!
Soon the tea cups were clanking in his direction and he deployed phase II of his plan. Schmidt was an easy and eager mark, especially when Norman reached out and patted his hand in gratitude for the tea. Ah, my dear Norman, it is my profound pleasure to assist you in this important endeavor. It is rare to find a man, such as yourself, and I am all too pleased to help you. Smiles exchanged all around by this comment and Norman's eyes twinkled with success. Whom, may I ask are we searching for? Oh, didn't I say, my apologies, of course, the family friend I am searching for is Doctor Jeykell.

Missing?

It's been several days and Norman hasn't returned. Stella is nearly out-of-her-mind and for once, I am concerned as well. I had expected a final showdown between them, once the letter was published in the papers. Stella had wanted that; some reaction to stir emotions and a declaration of...love. We both knew he was incapable of love now, it wasn't always so. Instead, he read the paper, without expression, not even an eyebrow moved. A quick glance to Stella, as I needed to see her face as well, and her expression was of wonder and anticipation; like a child waiting for some amazing discovery to unfold. Hearing the paper being folded, I shot my gaze back to Norman, I am not sure what I expected, but he looked straight at me, avoiding Stella's gaze and while laying the paper down said, I need you two to stay here, do not go out, unless its for food. I will be gone for a few days. Be ready to leave when I get back, we are finished here. With that, he put on his coat and hat and left. Neither Stella or I moved, for what seemed like an eternity, just starring at empty air and that closed door. As if coming back to my senses, I turn and move towards Stella, her face is dark and her head slowly droops; turning her back on me, she moves her hands to the back of one of the ladder back chairs. I stop and my arm moves up, so I can put my hand on her shoulder. As if she could feel my hand coming towards her, she recoils, arching her back,leaning forward over the chair, with a death grip squeezing her nails into the hard wood...I could hear the splintering and groaning of the chair as it received the anguish from my brokenhearted sister. I drop my arm and just stand in the silence, my head also bowed and realizing the great danger here, one which even I will not be able to control, let alone tame the beast coming to life in the body before me. Stella will never forgive Norman now.

East London Observer

Saturday, 20 October 1888. 
 

THE WHITECHAPEL HORRORS.
Another Series of Atrocities.
Is the Murderer a Cannibal?
Shocking Revelations.

Three weeks have now passed since Elizabeth Stride was murdered in Berner-street, and Kate Eddowes was butchered and mutilated in Mitre-square, by - so far as circumstantial evidence can prove it - the same ruthless hand which had previously dispatched, and mutilated Emma Smith, Martha Tabram, Mary Ann Nicholls and Annie Chapman, and yet to all appearances the police are as far off the scent of the murderer as when the discovery of the Buck's Row victim first set them seriously to work. That so many murders should have been committed with impunity; that very nearly a year should have elapsed since the first "unfortunate" fell a victim to the destroyer's hand; and that the murderer should still remain undiscovered, is a condition of things - taking into consideration the vastly increased efficiency of the police force - absolutely without a parallel in this country. Williams, the Welsh lawyer's clerk, who, about a century ago, went about stabbing indiscriminately at women in the public streets, was speedily caught; John Williams, better known as "the Marr murderer" of Ratcliff, was caught within a comparatively short time after the commission of his fifth crime, and even Burke, of Edinburgh, only managed to dispatch his third victim before the law had its iron hand round his throat. Indeed, to find anything like a parallel to the present atrocities and the present circumstances, it is necessary to go to Texas in the early days of primitive civilisation, when two white women and several negresses of loose character were found with their throats cut, while the question as to who was their murderer was as much a mystery then, as it remains to the present day. One curious feature of the Texas atrocities, was that the murders were invariably found to be committed when the moon was full, from which fact it was generally believed that the murderer was a lunatic.

The history of the week has been little more than a repetition of previous weeks - a series of false alarms, false arrests, fruitless theories, and useless house to house visitations on the part of the police. The only startling event worth chronicling is the following: From inquiries made at Mile End, we are enabled to give particulars, on the most reliable authority, concerning the receipt of certain letters and a parcel at the house of a member of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee. A letter, delivered shortly after five o'clock on Tuesday evening, was accompanied by a cardboard box containing what appeared to be a portion of a kidney. The letter was in the following terms: "From Hell. - Mr. Lusk. - Sir, - I send you half the kidney I took from one woman. Prasarved it for you. Tother piece I fried and ate; it was very nice. I may send you the bloody knife that took it out, if you only wate whil longer - (Signed.) CATCH ME WHEN YOU CAN, MR. LUSK." The receiver was at first disposed to think that a hoax had been perpetrated, but eventually decided to take the opinion of the Vigilance Committee. Mr. F. S. Reed, who is assistant to Dr. Wiles, on Thursday examined the contents of the box in the presence of several members of the committee, and declared the substance to be the half of a human kidney, which had been divided longitudinally; but in order to remove any reason for doubt, he conveyed it to Dr. Openshaw, who is Pathological Curator of the London Hospital Museum. The doctor examined it, and pronounced it to be a portion of a human kidney - a "ginny" kidney - that is to say, one that had belonged to a person who had drunk heavily. He was further of the opinion that it was the organ of a woman of about 45 years of age, and that it had been taken from the body within the last three weeks. It will be within public recollection that the left kidney was missing from the woman Eddowes, who was murdered and mutilated in Mitre-square. On Thursday, two members of the committee took the parcel to Scotland Yard, but the police authorities there referred them to the detectives at Leman-street. At the latter place the officer who is directing inquiries took down the statement of the receiver. The box and its contents were left in the care of the police pending further investigation.