>>> A glimpse of the story...
Chapter 1.
Scotland Yard Building, London, Friday, October 19, 1888, ten o'clock in the morning...
There were two police forces of London, the Metropolitan Police and the City Police, --- who watched over all of the city, plus the unique, two-thousand-year-old, one mile square, heart of the city. London's proud Metropolitan Police put their best men, including Detective Inspector Frederick Abberine, fourteen-year, revered veteran of multiple investigations,
on the grisly murders of London's lowest class prostitutes, the shabby, needy streetwalkers of the dark doors and alleyways in the wild and dangerous East End.
And, they were disgracefully flummoxed, as were the City Police, who eventually entered the fray. Uh, yes, they were totally stumped.
It wasn't as if heinous things didn't happen daily in the slums. but these uniquely gory murders were a departure from the usual shocks in London's disgusting shite-towns, Deputy Commissioner Martin Lowery thought. He scratched his chin, remembering how the constable with him, burly George Uttley, a good man, had turned pale, then heaved at the sight and the stink of the grossly disemboweled body of Catherine Eddows on the mortuary slab.
These memories were interrupted when the beautiful, stylish and very tall young woman entered the room, claiming to be a private detective. The men raised their bushy eyebrows, almost laughed. Then, they shut their grinning mouths, --- didn't. Lorraine Rokket's demeanor prevented them. They summed her up; you could see it in their narrowed, red-rimmed eyes. They disliked her, instantly.
The room too warm, even with all the windows opened. The building's furnaces were big modern ones and someone had been overly enthusiastic with the coal. The men were sweating. But, Miss Rokket, looked comfortable. She said her name was not pronounced "Rocket;" it was "Rock-kay" since her father was well-known Parisian journalist Michel Rokket, owner of "Paris Sync," the popular weekly news magazine. Lorraine Rokket stated this casually; she didn't mention that her famous former fashion model mother Cora Lukasik and her maternal Grandma, whose maiden name was Sophie Fothering, in her youth a famous society beauty and horniculturist, called her Lorry-Lorry. Lorraine flipped out a business card engraved on heavy, cream-colored stock. Martin Lowery took the elegant card, placed it on his cluttered desk, slipped under his meerschaum pipe. Hmmm... So, her father was a journalist; he had a sissy name, --- Michel.
Martin detested the Press, always poking into things that didn't concern them, getting in the way of investigations. And, her mother was in the world of fashion, privileged, money, money, money. And, of course, her family had influence too. Martin had been told by his boss, the Commissioner, Sir Charles Warren, to expect and welcome her, and to assist her in any way she deemed necessary.
Lorraine Rokket's intelligent hazel-green eyes were cool and her stare level. Yes, very cool; she wasn't sweating at all, in spite of her prim, high-collared white and black striped blouse and dark blue, form-fitting linen suit. The skirt of it was narrow, as were her hips, no bustle. A little black bowler hat trimmed with dark green silk ruffles was perched on her upswept shining mass of black hair. A glimpse of gleaming black patten leather high heeled, high button shoes showed under her blue skirt; the shoes increased her height to six feet, four inches. Her shoes were more like boots; they were very sturdy, the toes of them round, the heels wide. There were pearl drop earrings in Lorraine's ears. The pearls were large and had the soft luster that shouted, --- REAL! A gold watch was pinned to her jacket's snug waist. A black leather case, like a postman's bag, but trimmed with silver, was slung over one of her shoulders, the wide strap across her full, but high bosom.
Yes, Martin thought, sure, sure, why not accept Lorraine Rokket's offer to work with them on the case, free of charge? She had said she would work for "fame". With her unnecessary meddling Miss Rokket just might provide some diversion. She was certainly good to look at, a pleasant change from the groups of bewhiskered, jostling, scowling bobbies or constables, and inspectors. She might even, by luck, turn up a smidgen of useful information. Who bloody knew?
Yes... Martin Lowery took a sip of his tea and almost spit it out. He hated piss-warm tea! He gazed at Miss Rokket with his deep-set gray eyes. For a moment his short, thick lashes veiled those clever eyes. No, Lorraine Rokket definitely wouldn't trot out to fetch tea from "Manfred's," or as it was more often called "Manny's," the eatery nearby, not the type, so not the type! If asked, Miss Rokket would probably laugh and want a bracing cup of coffee! He would send Polly Kittle, one of the Yard's secretaries. Yes, a pot of delicious and hot Earl Grey tea and some fresh-baked biscuits or crumpets or scones too; shortbread biscuits would be just fine, even without jam. His stomach was grumbling. Leah Dougherty made breakfast at six o'clock, way too early. This morning it had been fried eggs, ham, stewed apples and prunes with raisin toast, strawberry jam and cocoa. But, Martin had a robust appetite. He had a compact body, even in middle age, showing no belly bulge, and he never seemed to be full.
He smoothed a lock of salt-and-pepper hair back to the top of his head. It immediately fell forward again. He blew it upward, no affect either. Martin had very unruly hair, thick, wavy, shaggy, with a bushy mustache to match. His hair even hung a little over the back of his collar and the tops of his ears. He was forever forgetting to get regular hair trims. Martin's face was pitted from the bad acne of his youth, now far behind him at forty-one; his jaw and chin were still square, his nose well-formed and straight. He was handsome in a rough, craggy way, if he cared about that sort of thing, which, of course, he didn't. Martin aimed for looking effective and being very good at his job, not necessarily being attractive. Now, he didn't think he was at his best... His clothes, white shirt with collar unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and trousers, were rumpled; he'd slept in them again, for the second night in a row. He yawned hugely, showing most of his excellent square teeth.
There had been a startling rash of women brutally murdered since April, all working as prostitutes. They came to be known as the Whitechapel murders. However, police opinions were varied as to whether they were committed by the same murderer.
Emma Elizabeth Smith was robbed, then attacked on April third on Osborn Street in Whitechapel. She was struck brutally about the face and head, a blunt object shoved into her vagina, probably what was called in the slang a cosh, a club. Perhaps, she was assaulted by an East End gang of thugs. She died the next day of peritonitis at London Hospital. Martha Tabram was killed in George Yard, Whitechapel. She was stabbed a shocking thirty-nine times in the lungs, stomach, spleen, liver and other places with a short dagger, perhaps a pocketknife. She was not raped.
The press and some of the police wanted to link these killings to the Jack the Ripper murders because of the savagery in which they'd been committed. But, although the murders of Emma Elizabeth Smith and Martha Tabrum were horrid and grotesque, they didn't have slashing mutilations and disemboweling. Martin doubted these two murders were committed by Jack The Ripper.
Yes, the Ripper's victims had been working as prostitutes. Prostitution was totally legal; although there were certain strict rules.: a prostitute couldn't loiter, had to keep moving, the men approached them, not the other way around. The oldest profession was easy money for many desperate women trying to survive and living in the hovels of crime-filled London slums. And, all the victims were alcoholics, chronic gin drinkers, always trying to earn those four pence, the cost of a pint of gin.
Mary Ann was trying to earn those four pence for the night's lodging. She was seen walking toward Whitechapel Road. Later, stable lads Charles Cross and John Paul found her murdered and severely mutilated in the horse yard of Pickford's livery in Buck's Row, and very shocked, they rushed away to try to find a constable. Her throat had been deeply slit twice, from left to right and back again, scored completely around to her vertebrate at her nape. Then, the killer opened the front of Mary Ann, cutting down, making an enormous, jagged opening, then continuing to slice deeply to her spine. Her bowels spilled out. Her vagina was pierced twice, and several deep cuts were made on both sides of her abdomen in a very hard stabbing way.
Forty-eight-year-old Annie Chapman was a long-time Whitechapel resident, used to fighting to survive. Actually, she was used any type of fighting. Annie had brawled with another prostitute shortly before she was killed, losing her bottom teeth in the slugging. Her autopsy also showed that she had advanced tuberculosis. She was murdered on Saturday, September eighth. Martin spoke with her mother Elizabeth Long who saw Annie at about five thirty a.m. with a man at the door of twenty-nine Hanbury Street, Spitalfields.
About ten minutes later, Albert Cadosch, who lived upstairs at thirty-one Hanbury Street, heard her say, --- "I will". Then, Albert heard scuffling in the building's courtyard, as if a woman was struggling with an assailant, and, "No!," finally, a thud. Albert didn't interfere, maybe out of fear, or because those sorts of things happened routinely and few thought anything of it. About twenty minutes later, Annie Chapman was found dead by another building resident, elderly John Davis, on the back doorsteps of twenty-nine Hanbury Street, her throat violently slit in the same hideous manner as Mary Ann Nichol's. The same brutal cutting and mutilation was all the way through Annie's spine. Her anus and vagina were severed; her intestines and stomach were removed. Her uterus and parts of her bladder were cut out. The killer took her uterus with him when he left.
Martin was very angry, more grotesque details that yielded no useful information! Now, there were two extra victims to add, --- Elizabeth Stride, shortly followed by Catherine Eddows!
Forty five year old Elizabeth Stride was born in Gotenburg, Sweden. She worked there as a prostitute, but when she her inheritance from her mother came through she moved to London. She met and married John Stride; they set up a coffee shop, but John suddenly died for no apparent reason and at a surprisingly young age. So, Elizabeth went back to what she knew best, --- prostitution. She was seen by Police Constable William Smith near Berner Street, Whitechapel, at about twelve thirty a.m. on September thirtieth. Then, at about one in the morning she was found on Berner Street, murdered in the double-throat-slashing Jack The Ripper way, but not disemboweled. It's thought Jack was interrupted by a man called Louis Diemschutz before he could finish his work. Louis with his wife owned and operated a pub, The International Men's Educational Club. Louie saw that Elizabeth's wounds were fresh; she had been very recently killed. The Ripper wasn't the only one who confronted Elizabeth that night. Before she was killed she was seen with a man identified as Israel Schwartz outside of the International Men's Educational Club. A witness shouted at Schwartz who ran away.
At about one forty-five that morning and two miles away Jack The Ripper struck again. The victim was forty-five-year-old Catherine Eddows. Catherine had been arrested for being drunk and disorderly that night and taken to the Bishopsgate Police Station, but she was soon released. Her body was found by Police Constable Edward Watkins in a corner of Mitre Square where there were many warehouses, her throat slit, her abdomen slashed to her spine, her organs, a kidney and her uterus, torn out and placed on her corpse, her intestines wrapped around her body. Two triangles of skin were cut, one in each of her cheeks and the flesh removed; plus, her eyelids were incised. The end of her nose and part of her right ear were cut off. Amazingly, Catherine had been seen alive about ten minutes before her body was discovered, showing that the killer worked extremely fast and his quickness and efficiency at locating all her organs in absolute darkness indicated medical, and perhaps, surgical knowledge.
Part of Catherine Eddows' blood-soaked apron was found in front of a building on Goulston Street in Whitechapel. Directly above the piece of apron in bold red lettering was written, --- The Juwes are the men That Will not be Blamed for nothing.
There had been a great influx of people from eastern Europe to London in the late eighteen hundreds. This huge incoming of ethnic peoples into neighborhoods that had been strictly British before tended to breed distrust of foreigners, of those who had different customs, who spoke unknown languages. Racism and bigotry were rife and deep suspicion of anyone looking different or unusual, or even walking in a shuffling, sneaky way was everywhere, especially on London's East Side. Many citizens of the East End were afraid of an almost legendary figure who was called Leather Apron. It was rumored he was a sly madman butcher, hence his name Leather Apron, and that he was capable of literally anything! Many Whitechapel residents claimed to have seen Leather Apron skulking around, following and harassing women. A man called John Pizer whose nickname was Leather Apron was thoroughly questioned and even accused by a newspaper of being Jack The Ripper,
but he was eventually exonerated. However, the pubic was livid that this foul murder was still free, and tempers flared, with shouted outrage, --- "A FOREIGNER DID THIS! NO ENGLISHMAN COULD DO THIS!"
The word "foreigner,' of course, implied Jew. But, whether "The Juwes..." on the wall was written by the killer or because of fear of and bigotry toward Jews, it would be impossible to say. Commissioner Warren was worried that the hateful words on the wall would aggravate the already tense situation surrounding the Ripper murders, so he and Inspector Abberine wiped "The Juwes" away before dawn.
What did Jack The Ripper look like?... He was incredibly fast. Any movement, by anyone anywhere in his vicinity, and he was immediately gone, like a puff of smoke, or like a ghost! This was one of the main reasons why Jack The Ripper was still at large. The Press dubbed him "Red Jack" and the public's imagination concerning him was running wild!...
He was a sinister hulking figure who slipped out of the fog, muscular and well over six feet tall! His head was completely wrapped with gauze so he couldn't be identified! He wore an elegant black top hat, flowing black opera cape and carried a big black leather bag for his knives and surgical instruments! He even had a brass walking stick with a big glass knob! People were bloody scared-out-of-their-minds!...
Red Jack will get you! It was well-known that he killed low class female prostitutes; he had a deep hatred of women, but maybe he would branch out, murdering others! There was always that possibility! Red Jack, Red Jack, Red Jack was still KILLING, KILLING, KILLING, KILLING!
In reality, those who saw retreating glimpses of "Red Jack" said he had "a shabby genteel appearance;" also that he seemed to be a suspicious character and had a menacing 'foreign appearance". He was between twenty-five to thirty years old, about five feet, six to five feet eight inches in height, of stocky build, with fair skin, dark hair and a bushy mustache. He wore a long dark coat or a gray tweed coat and sometimes a brown deerstalker hat. Otherwise, Jack was quite ordinary looking! He could be any one of thousands of men!
Countless people showed up at police stations to give their suggestions, eager to help. Crowds clogged the streets where the murders took place, along with vendors selling pasties, which were meat, gravy and vegetable filled turnovers, and biscuits, candy and hot tea! One enterprising woman was hawking souvenir booklets and Jack The Ripper dolls! Many, many strangers sought to attend the victims' funerals, so many that one mortician had to wrangle a clever a way to secretly take a victim to her burial! Missus Richardson, the landlady at the twenty-nine Hanbury Street rooming house where Annie Chapman was killed, was charging spectators a penny to view the steps of her back door! Male citizens dressed as women in hopes of luring the killer out and catching him. Even constables on their days off dressed as women to do this! And, of course, newspaper reporters went disguised as women into Whitechapel.
Yes, the damned bleeding Press had a lot to do with creating the frenzy surrounding the Ripper, --- and all the police politics, the newspapers quoting Commissioner Sir Charles Warren, making it seem as if he was totally ineffectual! They fueled the jostling between the liberal Warren and the conservative Home Secretary Henry Matthews as to who was right and who was so wrong! Then, the inspectors all had their theories, dashing into the field, making their individual, random investigations!
Martin grimaced in pain; he was getting a headache in his left eye...What a muddled mess! BLOODY, BLOODY, BLOODY HELL!
The vile murderer's name, --- Jack The Ripper, came from what was thought to be a hoax letter. The letter, in neat handwriting, was signed, --- Yours Truly, Jack The Ripper. That name was surely a genius creation by a professional writer, perfectly designed to be memorable!
But... Now, there was this "From Hell" letter, of all the likely phony letters from nutty fake Rippers, this one, Martin felt, was truly genuine. Yes, this letter, coming in a box with a desiccated kidney, had such a vicious aura that Martin felt it was written by the real Ripper. Martin was holding the scrap of wrinkled, limp paper in his big hands. George Lusk, head of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee got the letter only three days ago and had given it to the Metropolitan Police.
He could feel Lorraine Rokket peering over his shoulder, could smell her lavender perfume. Her voice was composed. "I've discovered that two more murders have been committed by this madman killer, --- this Jack The Ripper. I believe the victim's names are Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddows, killed within an amazingly short time of each other on September thirtieth. What a shame it takes about two weeks to travel from New York City to London! I wish I had arrived earlier! It seems you could use some help! This is big enormously big, world-wide news., Mister Lowery!"
"I don't need any bleeding help," Martin said tersely, slowly.
Lorraine raised her eyebrows. "Oh?... Well, it seems that the case is not moving forward with, --- uh, maximum efficiency. I'm here to give you help, regardless, and I truly do want to help! Your Commissioner, Sir Charles Warren,
such a charming, interesting man, was most delighted that I offered my services!"
Of course, of course, he bloody was, Martin thought. He could imagine the conversation between Lorraine Rokket's wealthy, cagey, eloquent journalist father and the clever, sophisticated Commissioner. Lorraine Rokket's father probably gave an extremely generous donation to Scotland Yard, just out of civic duty, surely... Martin gritted his teeth. Money ran the world! He was being forced by Commissioner Warren to endure Miss Rokket and to assist her in anything she decided regarding the case, but he would not say he was grateful for her help, --- no, never-never-never!
What the hell was such an attractive woman in her prime doing in any sort of business, anyway, let alone crime investigation! Crime was dangerous and rough shite. It was man's work! Lorraine Rokket should be doing what she was constructed for, --- homemaking and having babies! Would women like her never learn their true place in life?
"I know something of handwriting analysis, " Lorraine Rokket was saying, looking at the paper Martin was still holding. "Those smudges, the uneven lettering, that was written with a great deal of venom, and those sharp and long down strokes of the 'ys' and 'fs', those are 'daggers'."
"Oh, really?," Martin replied. In spite of himself, the black hairs stood up on his forearms, but, naturally, he hid it well.
"Yes, definitely a remorseless killer's daggers. So...," Miss Rokket continued in her clipped American accent, "I would very much like to view the crime scenes."
Martin squinted at her. "You haven't been to Whitechapel?" He glared at Miss Rokket. She thought she could take on anything!
Snooty, Martin thought. He definitely didn't like the brash Miss Rokket, no, no, not at all. "Just arrived... I see," he said, barely able to stand talking to her. Then, Martin looked down at the scribbles he had made on multiple sheaves of paper, more notes, in his practically illegible handwriting. "London has many slums. Whitechapel isn't the only one, you know."
"Ah, naturally," Miss Rokket said.
"There's Southwark, Devil's Acre, Frying Pan Alley, Saint Giles Rookery, Jacob's Island, Bethnal Green, Fenian Barracks... There's the Piggeries and Potteries out in the docklands."
"What quaint interesting names those places have!," Lorraine Rokket said.
"Quaint and interesting? I suppose. 'Rookery' is a slang term for slums. Rook is the British word for crow. The Potteries are where bricks are made. The Piggeries are slaughter yards. I'd say ninety percent of the men livng in the slums have worked as butchers, meaning they're bleeding good with a knife. Fenian Barracks, --- I wouldn't even go in there unless I looked like I belonged there, spoke with an Irish accent, or an Irish-Cockney accent, which is Irish and English mixed up together. The last bobbies who were there, --- ten bobbies, seven of them ended up in the hospital, two died... Miserable, bleeding shite."
"Mmmm...," Lorraine Rokket said, frowning.
"The slums are a major problem here in in London."
"Of course, of course, I see."
"Yes, very, very, very bloody dangerous.
Miss Rokket, have you read any of Charles Dickens' books?"
Lorraine looked surprised. Well, thought Martin, is she truly astonished that a police officer should read for pleasure? Are all us civil servants assumed to be Neanderthals? But he said," If you do, maybe you'll remember that Dickens had nasty Bill Sikes of 'Oliver Twist,' shot, killed and left hanging by a rope, in the slums of Jacob's Island."
"I have read 'Oliver Twist,' with delight, and you're exactly right." Lorraine smiled a little, and there was some respect in her eyes. "He beat poor Nancy to death
and attempted to drown Bulls-eye, his own dog. Although, I think Bill was fond of Bulls-eye. He just didn't want to be identified by having the dog with him."
Martin huffed loudly, as if sorry that he revealed his literary side, and went on, "Nobody in their right mind would want to live in London's slums, but, naturally, thousands of hapless people do, and where there's that much rough humanity packed tightly together, there's virulent crime. Coppers, like us, have to go and check it, our job."
"Naturally..." Lorraine Rokket shifted the bag on her shoulder, then, removed it, placed it on Martin's paper-strewn desk. It looked heavy.
Martin rubbed the side of his nose. "Uh, --- I seldom go into the field. Inspector Pritchard will take you to Whitechapel, along with three other men. We go in groups. Anything can happen. Strength in numbers, right?"
"Probably," Miss Rokket said.
Martin frowned. She said, "probably"... So, she was inferring that the Metropolitan Police was incompetent?... How incredibly obnoxious she was!
And, Martin could never, ever forget his past. It was like a boulder he could never quite climb over. He loathed the slums, any slums. He was born there, in Whitechapel, where the humble and honest working poor crowded in and even cuddled with the foul underworld, --- the usual types, multitudes of hopeless prostitutes, and with the wasted and dying diseased, the insane, the staggering drunks, the sprawling bums and bounders, the thieves, cads, swindlers and murderers. There was every sort of vice and cruelty. Seldom did the innocent remain innocent for very long, or the beautiful retain their beauty. Anything of value was quickly gobbled up.
And, truly, it was one of the most sorrowful horrors of the slums, --- adorable, sweet children forced to work so hard, like miniature adult slaves.
You saw them everywhere, like ants rambling to survive, especially doing petty crime, their little agile fingers perfect to pick pockets, and their sad, grubby little faces turned up to passersby, begging. Of course, there were the child prostitutes, always and ever.
He'd lived with Maggie and Louie, working with them selling their vegetables to hotels and eateries, eventually, getting a name for having the best, the freshest produce available. Maggie and Louie had a good friend. a man as kind as them. He was a copper, a constable, --- Harry Jergens. Harry saw Martin as a fine young fellow, big and strong, smart and hardworking, eager to advance. Martin jumped at the chance to be part of the Metropolitan Police. And, as soon as he could afford it, he learned to read and write, to do sums, hiring Irwin Jones, a retired Welsh school teacher. Few born and raised in the slums were literate and Martin would no longer be one of them! That was intolerable!
He even made a great effort to get rid of his Cockney accent and to educate himself, because he discovered that people immediately judged you by the way you spoke, the words you used and your basic knowledge. It was hard to get rid of the habit of saying, "Cor!," "Oi!," and "Blimey!," "Crikey," plus other common expressions, and to learn not to drop the "H' on words starting with "H". And, to say "my coat," instead of "me coat," to use the words "doesn't," and "anything," and never say "ain't," but he'd managed it. And, he liked it that way.
Martin seldom offered any information on his private life, and never on his past life; he asked the questions as a policeman, not the other way around. Oh, yes, it was now much easier to remembering to call a fellow a chap, instead of a bloke or a cove, to say, --- "go along," instead of "push off," etcetera. Martin had corrected and corrected his speech until he developed a neutral-sounding, middle class accent; few would have guessed he came from an area of grinding poverty and squalor. Still, there were worse slums than where Martin had lived.
At times, he dreamed of his boyhood in Whitechapel. Mostly what emerged from those awful nightmares was the rats. There were thousands and thousands of rats in the damned slums, cunning, fat rats. They were incredibly vicious and bold. They'd leap at you. In Martin's bad dreams those rats were the size of mastiffs! He'd wake sweating, heart pounding. Oh, yes, Martin was terrified of rats! That's one of the reasons why he developed a friendship with Leah Dougherty's terrier Joanie. Joanie was death on rats and Leah was very proud of her.
Leah's round face was all creases and smiles as she said, "Joanie killed her first rat when she was only nine months old and not a bite mark on her, Martin, such a good, brave girl!" Joanie was very smart and knew when Leah was talking about her. She'd wag all over, then chase her stubby tail for pure joy.
What happened to Martin's younger brother and sister? His little brother Sammy died of a sudden, strange fever a year after they came to live with the Billingsley's. It was difficult to avoid those things, living among general filth, but the Billingsley's were very careful to be as clean as possible. They even boiled all their drinking water. Sarrie just disappeared one day, ran away, was taken? Martin and the Billingsleys and others, searched and searched and searched, never found her. Martin assumed she was dead, both his siblings dead before they were eleven years old. But, that was the way it was in the East End; half those born there never reached adulthood.
Now, Martin narrowed his eyes, looking at Miss Rokket. Oh, yes!... She was most obviously of the gentry, if America even had a gentry. He suspected they did. Although, they had no nobility, no lords, --- no barons, no dukes, no counts, but he'd never given it a thought, till now. Surely, they were like the upper and middle class of London, who believed that slums were filled with non-humans, rather than people who might have dreams of hope.
"Prostitution isn't illegal, although we try to put some control on it." Martin shrugged. "Us and medical personnel try, but there are over a thousand sex workers in London's East End. It's the highest paid shite for a female, reliable work, consistently decent pay. And, if you're good at it, attractive, young, clever and careful," he-said, "there's a bloody lot of money to be made."
Martin thought of his friend, --- pretty redheaded Emmanuella-Primrose Grommery, who was simply known by most as Posy. She had been thrown out at seventeen by her father who was a groom on Lord Michael Eddington's country estate. Posy spent less than a year on the streets before returning to her father. They reconciled and she now lived with him in a charming squire's cottage on the Lord's property. Posy wrote freelance erotica under her male pen name, Castleton J. Phillips, making a surprisingly large amount of extra cash.
Martin continued, "Then, there are the expensive mistresses of the gentry.
"You've read plenty about the murders, certainly."
"Daily in the New York Times and other papers. I speak and read French. My father sends me Parisian newspapers."
"Yes, of course, it's damned front-page news in big headlines of every bleeding London paper too,
especially in the scandal sheets. Those are having a great deal of bloody fun with Ripper-ism and the public gobbles it up. But, reading secondhand knowledge is not the same as coming across a disemboweled corpse."
"Surely not, Mister Lowery!"
"Do you know one bleeding shite-rag paper actually printed that Sherlock Holmes was going to hunt for Jack The Ripper?
The stupidity, --- Sherlock Holmes is a fictional character! But, maybe, --- yes, surely, they know that, anything to sell a newspaper!" Martin laughed, his rich deep, basso profundo chuckle, and Lorraine was immediately struck by how attractive the sound was. She almost smiled; then, dismissed the laugh from her mind. Martin Lowery, --- attractive?... He was a gruff and coarse misogynistic primitive, not the type of man she was used to! Absolutely not!
"Were the victims raped, Mister Lowery?" Then, Lorraine felt instantly very silly for having asked the question. She knew the answer.
"Maybe, but with the most recent killings, the five we're thinking were done by Jack The Ripper, there was too much damage to ascertain... We're wasting valuable time, Inspector Pritchard was going to Whitechapel, anyway, sometime today," Martin said. He whistled to be heard over the constant murmuring of strong male voices. "Pritchard!," he also yelled.
A lean, good looking man of medium height with sandy blond hair looked toward them through the crowd of men. He sauntered over.
"Pritchard, this is Miss Lorraine Rokket, a private detective from America."
Jack Pritchard's blue green eyes widened, and he pressed a forefinger to his mustache suppress a laugh that was trying to break out of his mouth. A female in police work, --- ludicrous! When she was making an arrest did she subdue the culprit with kisses? But, then he gave her a toothy grin.
Martin was continuing. "Miss Rokket will be helping us. She'll be going with you to Whitechapel."
Hell and damnation!, Pritchard thought. I'll have to protect her in addition to anything else I find there! What did this foolish woman think she was playing at! Jack Pritchard couldn't stand women who presumed they had the intelligence and capabilities to do men's jobs!
But, Pritchard offered his hand, as if Lorraine was a man. She wasn't wearing gloves, as most women did. Her hands were big and long-fingered, her grip strong, but comfortable. Her hands were not soft, like a woman's hands should be.
"Jack Pritchard," he drawled, "pleased to meet you, and to work with you." Another beautiful smile.
Miss Rokket's lips turned up, slightly, at the corners. "Yes, delighted, Mr. Pritchard."
"Jack, please."
She nodded, curtly. "You may call me Miss Rokket, or Detective Rokket, or Detective. I prefer to keep things on a more formal, business-like basis, Inspector."
"Of course, Miss Rokket, of course." Lesbian?, he thought. Jack Pritchard wasn't used to women un-wowed by his charm! And, he also noticed, as Martin had, that Miss Rokket, even without her shoes, would be much taller than he was. However, he did chuckle now. "Since we're keeping things very formal, my name is Jonathan Oliver Pritchard."
"And, mine is Lorraine Fothering Rokket."
Jack laughed again. "Your handshake is very firm for a a woman."
"My father wanted a boy," Lorraine said.
Jack nodded. "Do you have brothers or sisters?"
Lorraine raised her chin. "None."
"And, your father wanted a boy... He didn't even come close!"
Lorraine didn't smile at Jack's small jest. "I've been taught things most women are never taught."
"Oh?
"Yes, --- Mister Pritchard!"
"Really?"
"Most definitely, Mister Pritchard!"
Extra education isn't going to help you in the criminal underworld, Pritchard thought. He wanted to laugh again. Maybe if womanly pursuits, like being a wife and mother, weren't good enough, Lorraine Rokket should have become a teacher at an exclusive female academy. She was quite beautiful, but she had the bluestocking personality, for sure.
Martin scowled, his thick black eyebrows almost coming together. "I appreciate that you and Miss Rokket are enjoying each other's company very much, Inspector Pritchard," he said, "but would you mind keeping to police business? Otherwise, --- WHAT THE HELL! BLEEDING SHITE! GET BLOODY, BLOODY, BLOODY CRACKING!"
Enough...! Now, Lorraine looked white hot fury at Martin Lowery. She knew from being raised as a lady that Martin's free and continued use of vulgarity and swear words in front of her was a definite sign of disrespect for her. He was treating her as if she was a low-class woman, --- even a prostitute, brought in for questioning! Lorraine straightened her back, haughtily looked down at Martin, purposely using her greater height to intimidate. She had acted like a lady, but he was NOT, DEFINITELY NOT a gentleman! What an insufferable boor he was!
Martin knew an unspoken challenge when he saw one. He stood as straight as he possibly could, picked up Lorraine Rokket's bag. It was very heavy. No wonder she wanted to set it down, if only for a few minutes. What the hell was in there, --- a nice big pistol, a couple of pairs of handcuffs, a cosh? Martin couldn't have her bag searched; --- could he? Actually, he would be within his rights to do so, since Miss Rokket was working within the Metropolitan Police department. But, then she might tell Commission Warren that he'd searched her bag, not trusting her. Martin raised one eyebrow as he handed it to Lorraine. She settled it on her shoulder, which was very broad for a woman, Martin noticed. Lorraine Rokket was just plain too damned big for a woman! It was bloody unfemale!
Martin held her gaze with an equally hard stare of his own. "I would remove those lovely pearl earrings and your expensive gold watch. They'll be safer in your bag," he remarked, stiffly.
Lorraine did so, her lips blanched and very tight.
"Oh, and one more thing, Inspector Pritchard. Commissioner Warren has directed that the Metropolitan Police give Miss Rokket's suggestions any and all support that we can provide. Do you totally understand?"
"Yes, Sir." Jack could hardly believe what he was hearing!
Lorraine smiled and nodded. She raised her chin, turned and walked away with Jack Pritchard. Jack conferred briefly with some me and then, the group of six left the room, the door, as usual, banging and rattling loudly behind them.
--- Copyright 2023, by Antoinette Beard. (Chater 2 of this story can be accessed by using the "Search Box".)
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(All details of the Jack The Ripper murders, places, the names, the information about victim's lives and murder suspects, witnesses, etcetera used in this story are historically real and accurate. Yes, the London Police of this time kept wonderful, amazingly detailed records! Sir Charles Warren was Commissioner of the London Metropolitan Police at the time of the murders. But, he later resigned, and Johm Munro took over as Metropolitan Police Commissioner. However, the main characters are my invention, ---Detective Lorraine Rokket, of course, and Deputy Commissioner Martin Lowery, with his duties and power, and Inspector Jack Pritchard, plus a few others. After all, this is a work of fiction, --- and great fun to write! 😁)
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