Tug and the Ripper

The Hotel is still there 130 years later. But, it has been refurbished numerous times and is now called the Andaz. We had selected it because it was luxurious and modern for the time, and a half mile walk to Whitechapel High Street.

One guy was blatantly leering at her from around his copy of the Times. He looked exactly like an aging satyr. He was old by Victorian standards, well into his sixties, and dark complected. But he had stalwart height, and a heroic build.

His handsome face featured, twinkling eyes, a wealth of snow white hair, and light cavalry muttonchop whiskers that were probably last in style during the charge of the Light Brigade. He couldn't take his eyes off my wife. And he was making his interest obvious.

Maria handled our arrival flawlessly. Of course, she knew every one of the staff's thoughts, which is one more advantage of having a wife with psychic powers. Our room was one of the best in the place, meaning it was a suite with a sitting room as well as a bedroom.

The burly porters delivered our trunks and we were officially residents of Victorian London. I was thinking, all-in-all, with a little help from Carlos's Atlantean horse tranquilizers, I just might make it.

I checked out our new residence. It was full of Victorian bric-a-brac, heavy curtains, and plush everything else. The wood of the furnishings was heavy and dark and the wallpaper disturbingly intricate. The "water closet" as the Victorians called it was up the hall but the suite DID have a working bathtub. The water was cold but it was a LOT better than not bathing at all.

Maria unpinned her hat and began to undress. She said, "I HAVE to get a tub."

I said, "It's sea water. The brochure says that they import it every day from the Channel. It's supposed to be a feature for people who want the benefit of going to the ocean shore."

She looked incredulous. I said brightly, "They bring it right here to our room. I think they believe that you aren't risking your health if you're soaking in salt water."

Maria looked disgusted. She said, "We'll see about that." Then she pivoted and stomped out of the room. She returned fifteen minutes later with three porters carrying steaming pails of FRESH water, which they proceeded to pour into the clawfoot tub. Maria added some bath salts, stripped and stepped into the tub.

She went, "Ahhhh" and proceeded to relax with her head back, bliss etched on her face. All I could see were those magnificent tits floating on top of the water. I was about to join her when I heard a voice in my head say, "Don't even think about it. I want some uninterrupted bath time!!"

Busted!! She DID let me use the tub after she'd soaked in it for a half hour. The water was tepid. But it was a lot better than having the downstairs help pour cold salt water over you. No wonder the Brits have stiff upper lips.

We'd arranged to have the tub filled with hot water every morning promptly at 8:00. It was one of the advantages of being a rich Victorian couple. Human life was cheap back then. I decided that most of the British Empire rested on the backs of inexpensive labor.

That also reminded me of why we were there. So, after a delicious dinner in our rooms, we dressed for an evening of slumming.

We knew who we were looking for and we knew where the Ripper murders happened. So, it just seemed reasonable to stroll over to Spitalfields to get acquainted. If we bumped into any stray Athenians, more-the-better. That meant that I could get back to civilization sooner than I expected.

I had avidly studied the Ripper murders in my youth. It was the sort of thing that would inspire the warped imagination of an adolescent nerd. So, I knew a lot about the setting. Spitalfields was originally settled by Huguenot weavers, who had moved there from the continent. Thus, Whitechapel was initially middle class. The buildings reflect that. They were built almost on top of the road. They were mainly three stories. So, the entire area had a sense of looming menace.

Most of those 1880s buildings are gone now, courtesy of the Third Reich. Nazi bombers leveled a lot of the East End in the 1940s. We were back in the 1880s, sixty years before that event; to prevent them from winning this time.

In 1888 those buildings were dens of iniquity, populated by what Eliza Doolittle's dad called "the undeserving poor." Jack London, who visited Whitechapel during that era, called it "the abyss." Alcoholism was epidemic. All you had to do was look around and you'd understand the reason why the denizens of that area tended to overmedicate.

Because, most of the population were alcoholics, Whitechapel life centered on public houses. You could get a tall glass of gin in one of them, for three pennies. Not surprisingly that was also the price for a bout with a Whitechapel whore.

Our target was a joint called the Ten Bells. It got its name from the number of bells in the tower of Christ Church, Spitalfields. Which was paradoxically located next door.

In 1888 the Ten Bells was a classic Whitechapel establishment; if by "classic" you mean thugs, drunks and hookers. The pub is still there today. Except, now it's a place to fleece the tourists.

We were dressed for the evening, me in a sack coat, flat hat and linen shirt, Maria in a dress without petticoats. The Victorians might consider it scandalous, since Maria wasn't disguising her body. But we both thought that she might need to move quickly and she didn't want any encumbrances. She was even wearing men's boots, which were hard to distinguish under the length of the dress.

The Ten Bells was a short walk up Bishopsgate. That street was not materially different in size and shape in 1888. We turned east onto Brushfield street; which has the Spitalfields Market on your left. You then walk the 300 or so yards down to Commercial Street.

We had waited until full dark, because that's when the denizens of Whitechapel began their day. Most of them lived in four penny common lodging houses and gathered in the pubs to socialize. So, they were out in force by 10:00 PM.

The romantic concept of the gas-lit streets of London is a myth. There were indeed gas street lamps. But in that area, those were far apart. So, most of the walk along Brushfield was in complete darkness. Just the ambient light filtered down between the buildings.

The temperature was somewhere in the 50s, and a hundred fireplaces were burning. Between the pervasive fog, and the coal fumes, it was anybody's guess what was lurking in the alleyways and the nooks and crannies of buildings.

The gloom was one of the reasons why prostitution was so widespread in the east end. A Victorian male could get his ashes hauled against a building wall without fear of discovery. It also explained why it was so easy for the Ripper to vanish.

I wasn't concerned about any of the 1888 conditions. I had my right hand on the Asp and my little halogen flashlight in my left. I was shining it in our path as we walked. Maria was scanning the dark with her psychic radar. Nobody was going to surprise us.

The Ten Bells was lit up like a Jack-O'-Lantern and it was rip roaring drunk in there. Outside, I noticed a woman loitering in the space in front of the pub windows. She was young, buxom and beautiful and she was clearly cruising for clients.

I knew from the books that this was Mary Kelley. That's because the front of the Ten Bells was her turf, and woe be unto any other hooker who tried to work that space. I also knew that Mary Kelly would be a gruesome corpse in a mere two months. The last official victim of Jack.

Mary Kelley wasn't in Maria's league. But she was beautiful by Victorian standards. I stifled the urge to stop and tell her to be anywhere but Miller's Court on the night of November 9th. But that would have produced an alternative timeline and God only knew where that would lead.

So, I tipped my cap to her as we passed. Her expressive grey eyes gave me a hungry look. It made me think that she wasn't in the prostitution business for the money.

I had begun to get used to entering Victorian buildings. But the Ten Bells housed a different class of people. As we walked in, the wall of drunken noise that hit me was only rivaled by the smell of the occupants. It was disorienting.

The people who were sober enough to notice, realized that we were slumming and gave us resentful glances. We made our way to the bar and paid our thruppence. In return, we were served a brimming glass of the unhealthiest liquid I had ever seen. The smell of juniper berries almost masked the stench of the people drinking it. There was no way I was going to take a sip of what I was holding. I'd rather take a chance with jet fuel, which it resembled.

There were no tables so we stood against a wall with a crowd of jovial drunks. The wall itself, was covered floor to ceiling by dirty blue and white floral pattern tiling. There was also an ornate tile mosaic behind the bar. It was clear the owner liked tile.

As I scanned the room I noticed a short stout woman. She was old for a whore and very drunk. I knew that this was "Dark Annie" Chapman. I had seen her autopsy photos. She would be dead exactly one week from today, lying gutted in a yard behind 29 Hanbury Street. I would've liked to warn her, since the Ripper was becoming more vicious. But I couldn't mess with the timeline.

Annie was sitting with two men and another woman. The other woman was hawk faced and a little younger. But she was clearly in the same profession. Then I turned my attention to the two Johns sitting across from them.

Both were wearing top hats and scarfs like they didn't want to be recognized. That made sense. There was a category of upper class Victorian male who had a kink for the streetwalkers of Whitechapel. Those fellows often came down from the West End dressed like these two were.

I moved a bit, so they were easier to see. To my surprise, I discovered that one of the men was the horney old reprobate from yesterday's check-in. He was full of good cheer as he regaled the women with tales of his sexual prowess. His companion was clearly not interested in sex. He seemed to be there to keep an eye on the older man.

I finally worked my way to a point where I could get a look at the companion under the brim of his top-hat. What I saw chilled me to the bone. I sent a one-word message to Maria, "Shields!!" Instantly, we were shrouded in the impenetrable anonymity of my wife's Atlantean psyche.

It wasn't a second too soon. The man looked directly at me. He had a pair of eyes that were as cold and pitiless as a rattler. We had found the Athenian.

I didn't want to make any sudden moves, ones that might draw our adversary's attention. I also didn't want to risk communicating with Maria. Because Athenians are almost as psychic as Atlanteans. I took her by the arm and steered her out the door. It was like we were bored with watching the animals. She gave me a questioning glance. But, she let me lead her.

I didn't know how far the Athenian's reach was. So, I didn't say anything until I had hustled Maria all the way down Brushfield, almost to Gun Street. As we walked I said, "I spotted the Athenian." I could feel her tense. Atlanteans fear and loath Athenians. I said, "How far do their psychic powers reach?"

Maria said mildly, "Perhaps ten feet, they are nowhere near as powerful as Atlanteans are."

A wave of relief washed over me. When we were in Canada, I had been the victim of one of those Athenian mind-melds. It wasn't pleasant. But the Athenian who did it was standing next to me. I said, "Let's go back to our rooms. We have a few pieces of the puzzle to assemble.

*****

We had no desire to alert the Athenian to our presence. So, we decided to concentrate on the old guy. I didn't think it was a coincidence that he was sitting with an Athenian and one of the soon-to-be Ripper victims.

I had first seen the old dude in the lobby, I was hoping that a Sovereign would coax his name out of the fellow working reception. So, the next morning I sauntered up to the manager with my best hail-fellow-well-met smile plastered on my face.

The guy was polishing the top of his desk. He looked up, his rodent eyes eyed me suspiciously. I produced a gold Sovereign. His glance changed from distrustful to avaricious. He came around the desk rubbing his hands together and bowing, "How may I help you sir?"

I said, "I am looking for information about a fellow who I saw here yesterday morning. He was wearing a stroller, and sitting in that chair over there." I pointed to the spot where the old reprobate had been leering at my wife.

The clerk got a beatific look and said, "Why that bloke was Sir 'arry. 'Es a 'ero, sir. Been in every bleedin' war since Afghanistan." The First Afghan War was 1842, 46 years prior. So, Sir Harry was somewhere around sixty-five years old.

I said, "What's his surname?"

The clerk said, "E's Harry Paget Flashman, Sir. 'E's got 'imself a Victoria Cross from his time wit de Sepoys." He added eagerly, "And 'e's got the Order of the Bath."

THAT information set me back on my heels. I read a lot when I was a kid and I don't forget anything. One of those books was "Tom Brown's School Days," which was the definitive portrayal of English Public-School life.

It was set at Rugby in the Arnold era. That kind of elite educational setting was way beyond the prospects of a high-school dropout, which I was; but anybody can dream.

Anyhow, the villain in that book had the same name as Sir Harry. If Brown could be believed, Flashman was a first-rate bully, lecher, scoundrel and coward. So, how did this guy become the beau sabreur of the British Army?

However, none of that mattered right now. What mattered was that he seemed to be chummy with a fellow whose primary objectivel was the extermination of humanity. I went back up to the room. Maria was puttering around in the Victorian version of shorts and a t-shirt, meaning she was wearing pantaloons and a corset. She was right out of a fetishists wet dream.

The corset narrowed her long waist to something ridiculous. And it put her boobs on a shelf. Maria's tits are proportionally large. But served up like that they looked like two torpedoes, with two big brown aureoles as the warhead. It was simultaneously a ridiculous and stirring sight.

She had her hair up in that Victorian style that emphasized her shoulders and long shapely neck. It isn't a style I favor, only because her hair is so thick and gorgeous. But it was something different.

The voice in my head said, "Don't even think it!! It's hard enough getting into these things. I don't want to do it twice." It didn't require mind reading. She could tell by the look on my face.

I waited while she finished dressing. Another thing that people don't realize about that era is how slow paced everything was. Obviously, a car would be faster than a horse and there were no airplanes. But actions like getting dressed, which we take for granted these days, were a major production back then; especially for women.

Once she was dressed we walked the short distance down Bishopsgate to Leadenhall and thence the Ship and Turtle Tavern. Maria was holding onto my arm in a docile and demure Victorian manner. That was a laugh. In the 21st Century, my wife is as independent as Bastet and twice as ferocious; and Bastet is the Egyptian goddess of war.

The place specialized in turtle steaks, which sounded disgusting, but were delicious. They kept the turtles in tanks in the back. So, like everything else in that Century, they were super-fresh. As we were tucking into the turtle, with a good dry-white on the side, I told Maria about what I had discovered. I said, "Flashman is a good starting point for unraveling this. Since he must be the mastermind." If I only knew.

Maria favored me with an amused look and said, "I suppose you want me to make Sir Harry's acquaintance?"

I said, "Unfortunately yes, just don't be too brutal if he crosses the line."

She said, "I'll have everything out of his head before he even gets TO the line."

I said, "What about the Athenian? What will you do if he's with him?"

She looked grim and said, "They enslaved us for centuries. We developed our mental capacities during that period. They have nothing like our cloaking powers. Obviously, the first thing we had to learn was how to disguise our abilities."

She added bitterly, "The only reason why those two Athenians overpowered me in the Grail crypt was because I didn't know they were there. That won't happen here."

She shuddered and said, "I would rather sit next to a Cobra than be near an Athenian. But I'll have to overcome my hate and revulsion if our contact with Sir Harry leads us there."

I took her hand and said as bravely as I could, "That eerie mother-fucker will have to deal with both of us baby."

I didn't even convince myself, let alone my wife. She knew that I wasn't a match for an Athenian. The one I killed was cumming at the time. That tends to take your mind off other things.

I was hoping that our target would be lurking in the lobby when we returned. As soon as we got to the front doors, two doorkeepers swung them open. I stumbled as I reached for the handle, which had unexpectedly disappeared. I almost arrived in the lobby face-first. I still had to get used to being treated like a member of the upper-crust.

As I recovered from that embarrassing moment, I spotted Flashman lurking behind his paper. It was like that was his regular post; while he ogled all the ladies. He looked like a spaniel on point, as we sashayed past him. He wasn't even trying to hide his interest. It wasn't until later I discovered that lechery was the least of Sir Harry's vices.

We were on the sixth floor of the hotel, Europeans would call it the fifth. That made the Great Eastern a very tall building by the standards of the time. So, we took the steam elevator up to our rooms. When we first arrived at the hotel I had been surprised to discover that elevators were in common use in places like the Great Eastern. I suppose they had to have them to encourage guests to occupy the upper floors. Six stories of stairs, is a long walk.

I said, "How do you want to handle this?" Maria would have to lure Sir Harry into the net. So, I was going to let her call the shots.

She said amused, "That won't be difficult, with the thoughts that were going through his mind. All I'm going to have to do is give him an excuse."

So, ten minutes later, Maria appeared in the lobby and walked up to the desk. She stood there as if she was seeking directions. Then she turned and stood hesitantly, as if she was trying to decide whether, or not, to walk to wherever she was planning to go.

As she stood there a cultured baritone voice said, "I say Milady, do you need assistance?"

Maria doesn't use her mind-reading ability in these situations. She says that it spoils the authenticity of her reactions. The voice startled her and she turned abruptly. Standing in front of her was a formidable hunk of man; no matter his age. He was wearing a derby that he had jauntily slanted over one eye. He tipped his hat in appreciation of her beauty.

I was standing in the shadows of the lobby. The man was at least six-two, and a slim 180 pounds. He had a jolly, insolent face. He was utterly certain of his own entitlement. His eyes were as black as his hair must have been. His thick shock of hair was snow white now. His bushy, slightly out-of-style, light cavalry muttonchops stood out against his coloring. He was browned by suns in faraway places. I could tell that Maria liked what she saw

Maria did a convincing job of tittering girlishly. She said, "I'm from Lancashire kind sir. My brother and I don't know our way around a big confusing city like London."