The Night of the Ripper

~ FORTY-TWO ~

London was going home for the night.

Underground transported packed-in passengers; the streets above were aswarm with horse-cars, cabs, carriages, carts and barrows.

Mark swore softly as his own cab moved slowly through the tangle of traffic. Damn the C.I.D.! One would think that a city of seven million would be protected by a police force with better means of communication than telegraph messages and runners. True, a new Scotland Yard was being planned, and it would be linked by telephone throughout all the stations. But that didn’t help the situation now.

Nor did it mend matters when he finally reached the Yard. There he had reason to swear again as the sergeant at the reception counter told him that Abberline was out.

“I must see him,” Mark said. “Where can he be reached?”

The sergeant scanned the duty roster resting on his desk. “He’s with Commissioner Monro. They’re dining with Home Secretary Matthews at the Savoy Club.”

Mark consulted his watch. Seven-thirty. It would take him a good half-hour just to get over to the club rooms and he’d promised to meet Eva at eight—

“If it’s of any help to you, sir, he left word he’d be back by eight-thirty.”

Relieved, Mark pocketed his watch. The problem was resolved; if he picked up Eva as planned, they could be back here together by the time Abberline returned.

He nodded at the sergeant. “Tell the inspector that Mark Robinson was here to see him. I’ll come by again at eight-thirty or shortly thereafter. Please ask him to wait for me — it’s urgent.”

Once outside Mark had no difficulty in hailing a cab, and to his relief the flow of traffic was abating. In the rising fog streetlamps glowed dimly on darkened shops and shuttered windows.

Now the carriage jolted into narrower, less-traveled thoroughfares. Here in Whitechapel there were few vehicles to impede progress, but the fog seemed to swirl more thickly along the empty pavements. Even the light was different here; corner gas-lamps flickered like distant candles guiding his way through the gray gloom to Old Montague Street.

Mark left the cab as it halted, nodding to the driver. “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll be right out.”

He moved up the walk to the door, glancing again at his watch with a smile of satisfaction. Three minutes past eight, and all is well—

But a minute later his smile had vanished.

The landlady was a plump middle-aged woman with a friendly look about her; it was her words that set him scowling.

“Sorry, sir. Miss Sloane’s not in.”

“Are you sure? We have an appointment—”

The landlady shook her head. “She left about a ’arf-’our ago.”

“But she promised to wait. Didn’t she leave any word where she was going, some kind of message for me?”

“It was a message by late post that sent ’er orf. Some kind of medical business, I reckon, seeing as ’ow it come from a Dr. Robinson.”

Mark stood stunned in the doorway. The fog was clammy but it wasn’t chill that made his flesh crawl. “I’m sure you must be mistaken,” he said. “I am Dr. Robinson. I sent no message.”

The landlady frowned. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but are you sure? That’s ’ow it was signed — Dr. Mark Robinson.”

“Did you read the message yourself?”

“God’s truth. I ’ave it on the ’all table right where she left it.”

“May I see it?”

The landlady stepped back. “Not so fast. ’Ow do I know—”

“Here.” Mark reached for his wallet and pulled out his passport for her inspection. “Satisfied?”

She nodded, then drew back, opening the door wider. “If you’ll step in, I’ll fetch it for you.”

Standing in the hallway Mark stared down at the crumpled sheet of notepaper which the landlady removed from its envelope and placed in his hand. The scribbled note was brief.

The landlady peered over his shoulder. “You see, sir? Got your name on it, just like I said.”

“That’s not my handwriting,” he murmured.

“Then ’oo sent it?”

Mark didn’t reply. But he knew the answer — knew it the moment he saw the jagged, sprawling scrawl. He’d seen it before, on two letters and a note. Even with a false signature, he recognized the sender.

It was a message from Jack the Ripper.