The Night of the Ripper

~ THREE ~

It was still dark when John Reeves stumbled down the steps of his lodgings in the George Yard buildings early on the following morning.

Early? Five o’bloody clock it was, and him off to the bleeding market without so much as a wash or a cuppa tea.

The stale reek of fried fish filled the hallway and through the thin walls he could hear the sound of snoring from the tiny rooms on either side; their occupants were sleeping off the after-effects of Bank Holiday celebrations.

No sleep for Johnny Reeves, worse luck. No sleep, nor even a taste of kipper — though the notion fair put him off this morning, seeing what lay in his gut from last night.

Just putting one foot before the other was a bit of a rum go, let alone dodging through the dark like this. Johnny started down the stone staircase and almost went arse-over-teakettle as he slipped on a spot of wet at the first-floor landing.

What the flaming hell was this? Most likely some drunken sod who couldn’t wait to get rid of his gatter, using the stairs for a muzzpot. What a stink!

But not the smell of piss. And now, as he blinked down in the dim dawn light, not the look of it either.

His eyes widened as he stared at the dark design staining the stone.

Then he saw what lay huddled against the wall beyond — the body of a woman, with blood oozing in rivulets of red from under her upraised brown skirt.