"The Casebook Of Lorraine Rokket, Victorian Detective, Part 1: The Ripper & The Slum Roses (Chapter 2)"...

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Chapter 2. 

Jack Pritchard sat across from Lorraine at the absurdly small table in the tearoom section of Mannie's eatery. 

She had paid for their tea and scones and the treats, --- tea and scones with the addition of chocolate and caramel fudge, for his men too. Jack jiggled his foot, his legs crossed, a position he didn't assume very often.

"Drink your tea, Inspector," Lorraine said. "It's getting cold. I'll have to send for a fresh pot. "

Jack Pritchard leaned across the table. "May I ask you what we're doing sitting here when we should be on our way to Whitechapel?"

Lorraine smiled like a pussycat who has a mouse cornered. "Mister Pritchard, am I correct in assuming that since Commissioner Warren declared I was to be given all help and co-operation with this case that you are to assist me in any and all suggestions I might have?"

Jack cleared his throat. "Well..."

"I distinctly heard Deputy Commissioner Lowery tell you just that right before we left Scotland Yard."

Jack's face reddened. "He did... My men are restless, Miss Rokket!"

Lorraine looked over at the bobbies sitting at a long table, eating apple scones and fudge with their tea. "I'm sure they would rather lift some pints of ale, but they look content enough. We need them sober."

Jack didn't answer. Did she think he was an idiot, that he didn't know that?

"Look, Inspector," Lorraine said, "we're on the same side. We all want to see these grotesque murders stopped and this horrific case solved. I have some ideas I'd like to run by you. I'd like your opinion on them."

"Fine," Jack replied, a bit stiffly. 

Lorraine took a sip of tea, "First, I think we should go into Whitechapel incognito, in the type of clothing residents of the area wear. We should discreetly ask questions that way."

"Do you think we haven't tried that?"

"I'm sure you have, but humor me. I will go in dressed as a man, and believe me, with my height, it's easy for me to be taken as male."

"I believe it." Jack didn't say that Lorraine Rokket was the tallest woman he'd ever seen. 

"Once I'm in, with you too, and after we both flash our identifications as official investigators, I'll reveal that I'm a woman. I'll talk to the prostitutes, and to the men of the area. I've discovered most folks are less intimidated by a woman asking questions."

"Hmmm..." Jack shrugged. "Different approach, --- why not? What's to lose?"

"Exactly. We can buy used clothing at a big market nearby."

"For just you and me?'

"Of course, Inspector."

"What will we do with the men?"

"You can think of some errand for them to do, I'm sure."

Jack smiled. "I can, Miss Rokket."

"We'll take the clothes to my lodgings. We can change there."

"We can?'

"Naturally, Mister Pritchard."

"I change in your room."

"In the bathroom of my room."

"Won't the management think it strange that you're going to your room with a man in the middle of the day?"

Lorraine's eyes crinkled. "Immoral, you mean? It's been my experience that the more expensive the lodging place the more rigorously the staff protects the privacy of it's guests. And, anyway, do you care what they think?"

"No."

"Neither do I, none of their business."

"You're a most unusual woman, Miss Rokket."

"I am."

Jack Pritchard took several large swallows of his almost full cup of tea while Lorraine ate the last of her scone. He rose and went to the table where his men were sitting, briefly talked to them. The bobbies rushed out of the eatery. Jack returned to Lorraine, sat down.

"They did ask if you had the full permission of the Skipper to direct things." 

"The Skipper? Does that mean Deputy Commissioner Lowery?"

"Yes."

"They call him the Skipper?"

"Uh, yes. He commands a lot of respect in the Metro, Miss Rokket. They're used to him."

"I see, --- loyalty, good."

"I told them to go to The Punchello, that we might be gone for a while, but not to get drunk or their pay would be docked for this week."

"And, you think they'll obey you on that, --- ummm, threat?"

"I do. Constables don't make that much. They'll probably just have a pint and play cards till we arrive. They seemed happy to comply."

"Good. Do you know any of the prostitutes who work the streets of Whitechapel, Mister Pritchard?"

"Miss Rokket!"

"Mister Pritchard, if this investigation is to make any progress at all we must be absolutely honest with each other. I consider us to be partners. I greatly value your expertise in all things. I take it you are a sophisticated gentleman."

"I am."

"And, such gentlemen have wide ranging interests."

"Yes..."

"Then, tell me. I assure you anything you say to me regarding this investigation that you do not want put into a report will not be included. I am a professional."

" I know --- some girls."

"Like who?"

"Names?"

"Yes."

"There's Molly Carstairs. She's one of the youngest and prettiest. a little desperate since she's had a baby and still has her two little brothers to support. She won't give the baby up."

"Do you think she would know vital details about the killings?"

"They all do, but they're scared. Even the brothel madams are scared. Dee Terwilliger is fretting her bowels into fiddle strings, afraid she's going to lose her girls."

"Do you think that lots of money would loosen their tongues?"

"Maybe, if it was enough money. They'll do almost anything for the right amount of money. And, --- they're like a nasty Sisterhood. They all know each other intimately, the best-of-friends-and-the-best-of-enemies, if you get my meaning, all the wh---, prostitutes in the East End are like that with each other. They do it to survive. They're like starving mice."

"You can call them whores, Mister Pritchard."

"If you're going to talk in the way they do in the slums of East End, Miss Rokket, you might as well know they're also called chippies, soiled doves and lots of worse things."

Lorraine thought it was rather sweet that Jack was trying to "protect her ears". "Do you know other girls?," she asked.

"There's Judy Ripple, Sue Stall, Bess Simpson, Tilly Lipton, Nettie Leakey."

"Leaky."

"It's spelled with a second 'e'. That's her real name."

"Is there an informer, someone we can get to tell wild secrets for enough cash?"

"Miss Rokket, you know all us coppers want to work with such like, but 'peeches,' as they're called in the East End, are hard to find. And, the good ones aren't cheap. There's Racking Sid. He claims to be fatally ill with consumption. Says it's in his lungs, of course, but also in his spine, liver, kidneys, even his brain, but he's the heathiest dying man I've ever seen! He doesn't even cough! Sid is very expensive. He's a professional Underworld king, --- in Paris, Venice, Berlin, Rome, Malta, Singapore, Istanbul. He travels a lot, but his home base is London, but where, --- we have no idea. He's, uh, --- organized, has armies of apprentices. He can look different; from one time you speak to him to the next. He even looks shorter or taller, older or younger."

"A criminal genius chameleon."

Jack nodded. "The Police can't afford him, could never afford him."

"I'm sure I can, and I'm intrigued. Let me guess... The London Police have never had him in custody?"

"Not even once, as I said, we don't even know what he looks like."

"Do you think he would know the identity of Jack The Ripper?"

"Sid knows everything about the Underworld, all the big and little sh---, scum."

'You were going to say shite. Do you know where we can find him?

"No, Sid finds you, if he needs to, if he wants to."

Lorraine had been leaning forward in her eagerness and interest, her knees almost touching Jack's. Now, she sat back, sighed deeply. "That's really too bad. But, fine, Mister Pritchard, more than fine, --- most excellent. I greatly appreciate your valuable help. You should know too that confidentiality is my stock in trade as a private detective. I would not be where I am today if I blabbed!"

"You are successful, Miss Rokket?"

Lorraine was almost used to being insulted, practically everywhere she went, almost. "Of course, I'm very successful! I think you've guessed that!"

"How long have you been a private detective, --- if I might ask?"

"Twelve years."

"And, then you are___?"

"Thirty-three."

Jack was thirty... She was very successful. It was hard for him to grasp, --- a very successful female detective. Well, he supposed that in America businesses might be more liberal. Perhaps, a female detective would be accepted more readily. No doubt her father had helped her become established. And, Lorraine was obviously bright and well educated, --- and, as he was coming to quickly realize, she had a resourceful nature. She certainly talked as if she knew what she was doing. Plus, she was unnaturally bold and confident for a woman; with her size, she was formidable. Hmmm... Jack frowned, impressed in spite of himself. Damn. he hated to be wrong about anyone or anything!

As if she was reading his mind about her size, Lorraine said, "I'm six, one. Both my parents are very tall." Jack was five feet, nine. His frown deepened.

Lorraine's hazel eyes, with glimmers of green, were sparkling. "So, after we purchase the clothing we'll go to my lodgings, change, and be off! The residents of Whitechapel speak with a certain accent, --- correct, Mister Pritchard?"

"Yes, a sort of Cockney."

"Can you do it?"

Jack grinned. "Sure."

"I think I can pull it off too. I have a quick ear and I'm used to going disguised. Of course, I won't know the slang words, but that shouldn't matter much."

"I can tell you some of the expressions are 'Oi!,' 'Cor!,' 'Blimey!,' and "Crikey!'."

Lorraine grinned. "Hmmm... Say something to me in the speech."

Jack leaned forward. "Cor, me missus is bleedin' pissed wi' me fer stayin' ot a' night. She'll be 'untin' me tail feathers fer 'er bonnet, sure as dogs does it in the street."

Lorraine threw her head back and laughed. "Oh, most rich, Mister Pritchard!" 

Jack smirked. "They talk coarse in the slums, Miss Rokket."

"Yes, yes, yes, naturally, America has terrible slums too and so does Paris, where my father was born.

Some of the Parisian slum dwellings don't even look like houses."

"We have that here too, in the docklands, where folks sleep on planks and pallets and piles of rags and lean trash against anything to make a bit of shelter. London is the biggest city in the world, has the biggest slums."

Lorraine was sure that London didn't have the biggest slums in the world. She had been all over the world; yes, London slums were hardly the biggest. "Well, let's go," she said. "It's about a ten-minute walk from here to Covent Garden Market." 

Lorraine quickly left the eatery, followed by Jack. She walked very fast; her stride was enormous. Jack was embarrassed, but, of course, he said nothing; he was having too much trouble keeping up. The Covent Garden Market was always full at midday, all sorts of tables, stalls and stands, carts and wheelbarrows. Lorraine charged along the market's rows. She rushed past myriads of booths and multitudes of vendors vigorously hawking their wares and produce, --- leather goods, costume jewelry, hair ribbons and toiletries, knickknacks, linens and fabric, beverages, vegetables, fruit, breads, fresh meats and seafood. There were many flower sellers; --- charming and pretty flower girls with sprigs of blossoms were even running after ladies and gentlemen, beseeching the people, --- "Please, buy my mums! Buy my lovely roses! Look at these carnations! Look, madame! Look, sir! These daisies will stay fresh on your table for days!" 

Equally attractive girls sold plump and delicious oranges, and fat lemons and limes imported from the south of France. They cried: "Oranges, sweet as honey, --- the jewels of fruit, lemons for pies, limes for delicious drinks, --- I have them all! Come, see and buy! Come, see and come buy!"

Lorraine ignored rolled cones and little packets of newspaper practically shoved in her face, the cones and packets filled with fried eels and chips, fried pork and lamb chops, pasties, tarts, little fried cakes sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon, --- their sweet or greasy smell tantalizing. One man had steamed clams, clam broth and shucked oysters on the half shell with sauce. Jack especially liked oysters. In spite of the fact that he wasn't at all hungry, his mouth almost watered. 

At last Lorraine found what she was looking for, --- carts and wheelbarrows piled with used clothing. One of the sellers, a pleasant-looking woman wearing layers of knit shawls and a shapeless gray wool skirt, immediately began showing her some quite nice women's clothes, but Lorraine explained that she wanted shabby men's clothing that would fit her. The woman looked puzzled, but between them they soon had selected a jacket, shirt, pants, socks, a big floppy cap, which would hide her hair, and shoes. Lorraine, totally without embarrassment, had slid her arms into various shirts and held up pants to her body. She even tried on men's scuffed brown brogans. Jack stared at the sight of the elegant Lorraine doing all this.

Finally, she turned to Jack with annoyance. "Don't just stand there gawking, Mister Pritchard! Pick yourself a suitable outfit!" 

Jack shook his head, as if he'd just waked, grabbed some clothes that he knew would fit him. Lorraine paid the seller, and just as fast as she'd entered the market, zoomed away. Jack rushed after her. She was out in the street, putting one finger and a thumb in her mouth, producing a very shrill whistle that immediately brought a cab.

They set off for her lodgings. arrived in the elegant and exclusive West End, in the very heart of it, --- Westminster, Belgravia... They exited their cab, looking up at rows of huge, towering Georgian architecture, some of the magnificent red brick and white gingerbread trim Mayfair residences. Of course, Jack had never been inside such opulent and tremendously expensive dwellings! Jack's father was a postal worker, his mother a seamstress. 

Lorraine and Jack exited the cab, paid the driver and entered one of the row houses. A porter, wearing a red cap and uniform trimmed with silver braid and buttons and wearing white gloves, came forward, smiling. He exchanged some pleasant words with Lorraine, then took the twine wrapped bundles of clothing from her. The porter began ascending a wide and graceful white and gold staircase. Lorraine and Jack followed him.

"I know what you're thinking," Lorraine took Jack's arm and whispered to him as they walked upward. "Lady Pollister-Howard's husband died, leaving her with unsuspected debts, --- gambling and women, you know... She, --- Hillary, confided in me. She's rather lonely, poor thing. Her sister, her only living relative, lives in Edinburgh. Well, Hillary was forced to let out rooms in this house. Although, she spends most of the warmer months at her beautiful Yorkshire country estate, in the wilderness of the dales, --- the rolling hills, the little streams... But, now she's here because it's Fall, and the winters are so fierce in Yorkshire, with heavy snow blocking the roads. Well, I'm glad she's doing fine again, thanks to her accountant and her lawyer. Oh, yes, here Mister Kitchner would be called a solicitor, --- right? It was Hillary's maid who told me where I could get good used clothing. She loves the Covent Garden Market! I almost wish we could have spent more time there! It looked so interesting!"

"You didn't look interested," Jack said.

"Oh, I was, Mister Pritchard! Among all that costume jewelry, did you see the man selling what looked like real Baltic amber, --- a beautiful cognac amber necklace?"

"No. How did you manage to see anything like that, as fast as you were walking?"

"Oh, I have an excellent eye, Inspector! And... Who doesn't love a bargain? I'm seriously thinking of sending Hillary's maid to get that cognac amber necklace for me! But we have business to do now!"

 

--- Copyright 2023 by Antoinette Beard.