Everyone but John Bowyer, worse luck.
Way past ten o’clock it was, and him still grabbing away at the chandler’s office, waiting for His Nibs to stop mucking about and give him leave to go.
If he hurried he might still get to the Strand in time for the ceremony. They said the Lord Mayor — James Whitehead, whatever his bleeding name was — would be tossing money to the crowd from his coach. Not bloody likely, but if he did throw a bit of nicker about, John Bowyer was ready to come by with a shovel and scoop it up.
Instead he stood there like a ninny whilst the ships’ chandler totted up his books. Not marine affairs this morning, mind you, but rental payments. The old skinflint made a nice thing out of letting rooms in the stews he owned in Miller’s Court. He sat mumbling over his ledger, then looked up. For a moment Bowyer took heart; maybe the silly sod heeded the procession and meant to tell him to go off. But no such luck.
“Blast the bitch!” he said. “I’ve warned her before.”
“Who, sir?”
“The Kelly woman. Four bob a week is all I’m asking for her room, and she’s run up thirty in arrears without payment. Serves me right for listening to hard-luck stories from that one.” He thumped his fist down on the open ledger. “Now then, John. I want you to pop over to Number Thirteen straightaway and see if she’s going to give me some money. If not, I’ll have the bailiffs on her. Mark you, this time I mean it. Tell her that for me.”
Bowyer nodded. “Right you are, Mr. McCarthy.”
He picked up his hat and off he went, round the corner to Dorset Street, whistling all the way. It was a trick he’d learned whilst soldiering; when the going is rough, no sense pulling a long face. Keep a smile on your dial and a merry heart will see you through. So he’d miss the procession, but no help for that. God knows it wasn’t the end of the world.
“Two Lovely Black Eyes”—that was the tune. Heard Charles Coborn do it at the Empire Theatre in Leicester Square. Fancy hall, with electric lights at the entrance and all those juicy tarts on promenade behind the dress stalls. A pity he couldn’t afford a fling with one, but Kelly was every bit as tasty. Black eyes. Black Mary, they called her.
Mary Jane Kelly. A saucy piece, and no mistake. No wonder McCarthy let her lag so far behind on payments; chances were he was getting a bit of it on the side. John reckoned he wouldn’t mind having a go at that himself. She had a proper handful, fore and aft. Still young and pretty, too — not like the fat haybags in the pegging-crib he was passing now.
Nobody in sight there, not even the jock-gagger who usually lounged in the doorway ready to pounce when a likely customer hove in view. Come to think of it, all Dorset Street was empty this morning, and not a soul scoffing in the greasy slap-bang or hoisting a pint over at the Brittania suckcrib on the corner. All off to see the Lord Mayor at Guildhall they were, and celebrating the Prince of Wales’ birthday to boot.
God, how he’d love to boot that one! Fat old swine, him and his Jersey Lily. And his sod of a son, the one they called “Collars and Cuffs”—queer as snow in June. That’s all they did in high places, muck about with anyone willing to drop their pants; man, woman or child. What was it like to take champagne with one of those fine ladies, pull down her petticoats, gamahuche her—
John Bowyer wasn’t whistling now. Here he was, walking down Dorset Street with a lump in his britches, come all over randy.
And here was Miller’s Court, at Number Twenty-six, just past the archway; houses on either side and others at the rear. Bowyer moved down the passage looking for the door to Mary Kelly’s room which was marked thirteen. Some said it was an unlucky number, but not for him.
Not for him, because he’d already made up his mind. Ask after the rent, yes, but in a quiet way, conversation-like. And if she pleaded for more time, he’d not insist, just play the proper gentleman. Give her to understand she might have another day, provided she was willing to show a bit of gratitude. A favor for a favor, you might say.
Somewhere in the distance guns were booming from the Tower, either for the Lord Mayor or the Prince of Wales. No matter which; Bowyer didn’t give a fig about either now. There were better sights to see than a bloody parade.
Suppose when he knocked that Mary Kelly was still abed, all fresh and ready after a good night’s rest? And she’d come to the door in a hurry without thinking to put on her robe, just wearing her nightdress? A long, filmy nightdress, but sleeveless and cut low in front, cut low so you could see the big beauties peeking through the tangle of her dark hanging hair. Oh God and when he put his hands on them…
Instead he put his hand on the door and knocked.
No answer.
So he knocked again, but still no answer, not a sound from inside. He tried the knob but the door was locked. Either she was asleep or lying doggo, hoping he’d shove off.
Bowyer swore softly to himself. Stupid bloody bitch — if that was her game, he’d show her. There’s more than one way to skin a cat.
He moved to the window beside the door. The muslin curtain was drawn so he couldn’t see in, but luck was with him; the pane was broken and there’d be room to poke his arm through the hole at the bottom. He reached in, taking care not to cut his hand on the jagged edges of the glass, and pulled the curtain back.
Now he could see. See the little room with the fireplace grate on one wall. See the chair, the two small tables, the clothes folded up at the foot of the bed. See the bed, and what was lying on it. See Mary Jane Kelly.
Black Mary, lying on her back with her shift up and her legs spread, lying ever so quiet and still in all that blood.
Blood from her throat, cut clean across from ear to ear, so the head was dangling from the tip of her spine. Blood from the torn forehead, the raw red holes where her ears and nose had been sliced off. Blood oozing from the opening ripped in her stomach. Blood from the left arm, slashed so that it was only attached to the shoulder by a ragged piece of flesh. Her right hand was pushed into the great gash between her legs, which were stripped of flesh down to the feet. There’s more than one way to skin a cat.
Did the cat yowl when its thighs were cut through? Did the cat screech when its guts were torn out? No matter, the cat was silent now. And the room was silent, except for the drip-drip-drip of blood.
Drops of blood dribbling off the bed where the liver lay between the scarlet-spattered legs. Blood trickling from the table-top heaped with horror — the nose, the shreds of skin, the bleeding blob of the hacked-away heart. The mincemeat mass which was all that remained of the amputated breasts. And on the walls, more blood, lacing the strands of intestines looped over the picture nails.
Blood everywhere, bathing what was left of the butchered body and the crimson ruin of what had once been a human face.
John Bowyer turned and ran, but there was no escape from what he’d seen; the flayed figure, the faceless head. And that was the worst — not because of what was missing, but because of what remained.
Everything else had been ripped from Mary Jane Kelly’s face except for the twin horrors that would haunt his dreams.
Two lovely black eyes…
~ THIRTY-THREE ~
San Domingo, A.D. 1805. When black revolutionary general Henri Christophe captured Santiago, most of its inhabitants sought refuge in the church. There they were massacred, and the priest was burned alive in a bonfire of prayer books and his own vestments.
As Mark watched, London went mad.