Stalking Jack: The Hunt Begins... (Madeline Donovan Mysteries Book 1) (17 page)

“I’ve heard this hotel is in the baroque style, lavish and ornate, designed for the visits of world dignitaries. That, in and of itself, will be something to see. We are here.”

Two men opened the large mahogany doors into The Plaza. There was beautiful artwork, large candle lit chandeliers, and all manner of plush surfaces you could touch with your eyes, they were so lovely.

They were seated at their table, awaiting the arrival of their guest. “If he is anywhere near as entertaining in person as he is in print, what a treat this will be,” said Madeline.

“I have to say that there is not much that makes me nervous, but I confess to feeling a definite humbleness to have this opportunity.”

“Look, Jonathan, it must be him.”

A tall man, with glasses and handlebar mustache, appeared, dressed out in a fine tweed suit, standing erect as a pillar. The maître d' brought him to their table, and Jonathan stood and shook his hand with such bravado that for a moment, there was an awkward silence.

“What an honor, sir—what an honor, indeed, please sit,” said Jonathan. “This is my friend Madeline Donovan, whom I have invited to the interview. She is a great admirer of your book.”

“I am delighted to be here. Please, be at ease. It pleases me to discuss Mr. Holmes, and I was surprised to have the Yard request my assistance, in this case, but I will gladly give it.”

“Have you drawn any opinions about the Ripper?” asked Jonathan.

“A great many. However, the scenes of these crimes have been compromised by a multitude of constables and local people walking over them and touching everything. I feel certain that the murderer will prove to be a frequent visitor to Whitechapel. That he or she is right-handed and will be nurturing a grievance upon the low women, as they are named.”

“We have also discussed similar theories,” said Madeline.

“Yes, with keen observation, the things I speak of can be perceived by anyone seeking them. It is as Mr. Holmes says '“elementary”.’

“Why is it that you believe they are right handed?” asked Madeline.

“From what I have seen, all the wounds inflicted on the neck have been cut across from left to right. The victim would have most likely were accosted from behind, with the murderer reaching around the neck with his right hand, and cutting across from left to right. It would be impossible for a left handed person to inflict such a wound.”

“But what if they were ambidextrous and could use either hand?”

“It is a possibility, but there are few people with that ability.”

“Your Mr. Holmes—is he based on anyone?” asked Jonathan.

“Yes, indeed, a mentor of sorts, a professor who taught me many things, Dr. Bell. His powers of observation are astonishing, and yet, when taken apart are nothing short of sensible.  Confronted with so much information at any given moment; our mind sometimes doesn’t stop to take in the small details that create the larger picture. Even if it may seem obvious afterward, it is not perceived beforehand. It is like a light being turned on in a room that was  present, but was not observed until the moment of someone pointing to it.”

“I would imagine it would be something you would have to train yourself to see,” said Jonathan.

“Exactly, if you begin to observe things in this fashion, the mind will comply, just as playing an instrument; a muscle memory will begin to form. It is a talent we can all have for the asking, but it must be used to excel at it,” replied Doyle.

“Some good friends of mine lost their niece Polly Nichols to this person Jack, and I am of a mind to see what I can find out. Even though it may sound frivolous, I am determined to make a difference if I can,” said Madeline.

“I think we can all do more than we think we can. We use our powers of deduction every time we safely cross a street or do anything that might present a risk. It is within you if you wish it. The biggest hurdle is the safety, or lack thereof, of the place you must find the information from,” said Doyle.

“Madeline has been to Ten Bells and some of the other pubs. Besides being unsavory; people there tend not to speak about others, and those that do, exaggerate. It is difficult to know what is story to believe,” said Jonathan.

“Remember to eliminate anything that you are certain is false, and then begin putting the pieces of the truth together,” Doyle said.

Jonathan took out his notebook after the dinner and continued with his interview with Mr. Doyle. Madeline sat fascinated by all he said and believed that she had never met anyone quite like him. His mind seemed to embark on a puzzle as if it were seeking buried treasure; he unearthed for them new ideas about how to discover obvious truths, hidden in plain sight.

When they took their leave of Doyle, Madeline was quick to thank Jonathan, “You have given me an extraordinary evening. I shall not forget it or you for making it possible.”

“I am happy you shared this with me. I have pages of notes that need turning into an article, so I will say good-night. Until I see you again, I wish you well.”

“You will send over a copy of your article?”

“I am flattered that you asked and yes; I will.”

For a moment, it looked as if he were going to bend to kiss her, but then abruptly stood back and nodded his good-bye. She had been caught up in the night and thought perhaps if he had, she just might have kissed him back, but the moment passed.
Life is like that
; she thought,
the moments pass and an opportunity or a hope is lost forever.

September 12, 1888

I have decided to go ahead with my plan. Perhaps I shall begin a third journal where I shall devote the content to detailing my undercover operations. The dinner with Conan Doyle was as wonderful as I had anticipated it would be. He believes we should live using all our faculties and putting them to purposeful use. Listening to him reminds me of the slivers of light there are in the world and that not all is dark. The pleasure he has given to so many through his character Sherlock is one of those joys. He has stated he will continue writing these murder mysteries, and I will be first in line at the bookstore to immerse myself in his adventures.

Several days passed without her leaving the hotel. She had heard from Hugh, and he stated that he was ill with fever. He would contact her when he had recovered. She was mulling over and making lists of her reasons for why it might be effective to risk going into Whitechapel as a prostitute. There was still a part of her that felt terrified of trying this deception. But on the day of the 20
th
, she went to purchase some clothing that would give her the appearance of a low woman. She knew she couldn’t leave the George dressed as a low woman, so she bought herself a long coat that would cover her garments. She would carry the garish hat she bought for
Jenny
and apply lip paint in the carriage. She would carry her coat with her after she arrived in Whitechapel so that all saw her outfit.

She had not seen herself in anything of color since Russell was alive. She had purchased a bright green frock with painted red roses. She added large white beads and had brought some flowers for her hair. She laughed when she looked at herself in the mirror and once again hesitated; then she thought again about Polly and the other women and knew she must proceed. She took her powder and placed her money in her boot in the event someone tried to steal her satchel. She had her revolver and a knife strapped to her leg under her dress.

“Well, Russell, this is it,” she said as she touched their photo. “I hope we will talk later about my adventure.”

She fidgeted in the carriage and knew her heart was beating in a strange thumping way. Her nerves could not be calmed even with her powder. When she stepped into the streets and put her hat on and took her coat off, she felt as if she had changed into another person. As she began to walk towards the Ten Bells, she felt the impact immediately. People shoved her and said unkind things under their breath and in no way treated her as if she were a lady or anyone deserving of respect or simple human courtesy.

If she saw Mr. Fielding or Mr. Motts, she thought they might still recognize her so she would try to be as near to them as possible them seeing her. She would be obscure now as she looked like the other woman that walked the streets.

It was still early, nine; she planned on staying in the area till midnight, but would base that on the level of safety she could attain.

Men approached her, but she turned her into the bar, “Bourbon, please,” she said in hushed tones and did not look up into the face of Patrick Rooney.

She slipped her money on the bar, and he said nothing. In the crowded place, he was hustling the drinks as fast as he could make them. He didn’t show any recognition of her at all. Within the hour, Mr. Motts was with a group of men at a table talking loudly and smoking a foul cigar. She moved closer so she could observe him.

“Come here, girly, and sit on me lap,” he said as he dragged one of the girls to him.

“I’ll sit here all night if you gots six pence for me,” replied the drunken lady.

He pushed her off and said, “Begone, you dirty little tramp.”

He turned to the man on his left and said, “I think there’s not a woman left in Whitechapel that’s not selling herself. It isn’t holy, I tell you, it just isn’t right.”

She was wearing an old pair of glasses she had found in a shop. They were ornate with large rims that made her look ridiculous, but she thought it fit her purpose. She had colored her cheeks and let strands of hair fall across her face. If he didn’t look directly at her, he might not recognize her.

She began a conversation with a woman next to her, “Look, Miss, you’re not going to get nowhere sitting here. You got to mingle with the gents.”

“No, I’m not looking, just out for the night to drink, that’s all, got to have me drink,” said Madeline.

“I see you dones got your money already. Hope you have a fine night.”

“Look at that one over there,” Mr. Motts said pointing to her. “Sits there so quiet like, I guess she thinks she’s a lady.”

With that, all the men in earshot started laughing, and she decided to move away.

“I didn’t mean to offend ya’, come here,” he said as he reached out from his seat and tried to grab her arm.

She pulled away from him with her head down, now wondering how she was going to accomplish her mission if everyone poked and picked at her. She started to move towards the door thinking she might go to the Queens Head when Bob Fielding appeared and began to push through to the long bar. She would stay a little longer now and observe them both.

Bob Fielding always looked at her as if he could see through to her soul, and she thought if anyone recognized her, it would be him, so she kept some distance between them.

She watched him scowling and yelling at everyone, as usual, but the noise level in the pub was such that no one paid much attention to him. She saw he drank his ale with his left hand but cut his meat with his right. As he used both hands to navigate, she wasn't sure if he was right or left handed. When Mr. Motts got up to leave, it was nearly midnight. She was thinking of returning to the George but then thought she might wish to follow him and leave Mr. Fielding be for the time being.

He wobbled in his gait, the drink asserting itself upon him. Now she could follow closely for he was inebriated to the degree that he didn’t seem to notice his surroundings. She walked behind, closely gathered to a group of three women who didn’t seem to mind she was tagging along beside them. Walking around a corner into a narrow side street, two girls stood in doorways pandering to him. He walked over to one and tried to touch her breast, but she screamed, and he backed away. Several other men were also approaching the young woman; one man looked to her to be Harry Nelson. She was so near to him now; she could touch him. She turned to walk in the other direction when he touched her sleeve.

“Miss, I go in search of a lady called Margaret Dobson. Do you know her?”

She kept her head down and replied “no”. She watched him continue down the street speaking to everyone in the dimly lit gangway. Then he disappeared around a corner, and she could see him no more. Mr. Motts had slumped onto the street pavement and now was passed out against the wall.

She decided to go in search of a Hansom to take her back to the George, but then she saw a woman hand a man a small package. She approached her. “I’m looking to buy some
medicine
for what ails my wretched back. Do you have such a pain reliever?” asked Madeline.

“I do, Miss, but just a little and I dare not want to part with it. It helps me to sleep.”

“Oh, I see.” She was about to depart when the woman said, “But I will for a price.”

“Name it.

She concluded her transaction and felt she had accomplished that at least. She would have the substance to alleviate her sweating and recurring trembling.

When she was arrived safely back at the George, all she could think of was a hot bath, but it would have to wait till morning. She crawled into her warm bed after lighting the fireplace, lying awake still with thoughts of the night.

She called Russell’s name into the night, lying half between slumber and wakefulness, restlessly moving about the bed…searching.