The Night of the Ripper

~ SEVEN ~

Bracing herself against the worn seat-cushion of the swaying hansom, Eva stared out at the gathering fog.

Over the clop of the horse’s hooves and the rattle of revolving wheels, the bells of St. Mary’s Whitechapel sounded seven times, marking the hour and the end of her holiday.

Eva’s sigh held no regret, only relief. The fortnight with Papa had been more of an ordeal than she’d anticipated, though she might have known what to expect. Papa was an old man, and his retirement offered him nothing but poverty and loneliness. Worst of all, after a lifetime in the pulpit, now he had no one to preach to.

But why must he preach to me? Eva frowned at the thought, hastily summoning excuses. Papa was getting senile, didn’t understand that things have changed, he was afraid of dying.

True enough, yet hardly consolation against his constant whining and complaining. He exaggerated on his age and infirmities to gain sympathy, still trying to wheedle her into returning home.

But even if she wanted to, that was impossible now. Times had changed. She had changed — the last six months proved that. The things she’d learned about the world, the things she’d learned about herself, had taught her there could be no turning back. This time Eva saw Papa through different eyes; a selfish old man whose thoughts dwelled only on death and suffering.

Suffering? Eva glanced up at the sudden sound of a whipcrack and the curse of the cabbie as he lashed the horse forward around a corner. Cruelty and suffering were everywhere; she didn’t need Papa to remind her of the presence of pain. And if she tried to tell him that pain had its uses he’d never understand. The idea of taking a whip to the cabdriver and teaching him a lesson would horrify Papa; he believed that punishment must come only from God.

Eva sighed again. Perhaps he was right. At least she had no intention of carrying out her thought as the hansom pulled to a halt at the curb.

The cabbie climbed down from his perch and came around to open the door. “ ’Ere we are, Miss. Number Seven, Old Montague Street.”

She opened her purse as he helped her out, extending the fare with her face turned away to avoid his beery breath.

“Want me ter give you a hand with yer bag?” he said.

“No, thank you. I can manage.” Eva reached in and grasped the portmanteau resting on the hansom seat.

As the cab rolled off she moved up the walk. The streetlamp at the corner was unlit and no light was visible in the windows of Number Seven. Through the twilight fog the bleak bulk of the building loomed above her.

So did the figure.

A dark shadow rose swiftly from the stairwell beside the entrance. It swooped forward, hand extended, grasping her arm.

The shadow had substance. And a voice.

“Miss Sloane?”

Eva blinked up toward the dim outline of the face before her, then relaxed as recognition came.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” Mark Robinson said.

“Sorry. My train was late.”

The mustached mouth formed a smile. “That’s quite all right. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten our dinner engagement.”

“Oh no—!” Eva shook her head. “As a matter of fact, I did. Please forgive me, I feel like such an idiot—”

“No matter, you’re here now.”

“But you don’t understand. I can’t dine out this evening. Not after the train trip. I’m due to report for duty at six tomorrow morning, and I’ve still not settled in my new quarters here—” As she spoke Eva realized that she did feel like an idiot, but there was no help for it. “Really, I’m so embarrassed — if you could possibly postpone your plans until—”

But she was talking to herself.

Mark had already turned abruptly and now, as Eva watched, the figure of the man in the deerstalker cap vanished in the night.