Page 93 of When We Touch

And again, the way that he had looked at her.

She winced, wondering what on earth was the matter with her. He had never claimed any affection for her. He’d not wanted her to marry Charles. Perhaps, the night before . . . perhaps that had been his way to prove that she shouldn’t marry, and not even the great longing for her that she had imagined.

Strange, in the days before, he had been in the house, and she had not thought of him so much, other than that he was there. But then, she had been taking the laudanum.

And she really needed to take it now, if she was ever going to sleep.

She rose, and walked for the bottle. With it in her hand, she hesitated, and winced, remembering the poor women of the East End. There was a monster loose. And still, they had gone running for their gin.

She set the bottle down and went back to bed. She swore at herself, for when she wasn’t thinking about the horror that was occurring, her thoughts turned to those of the man. And she remembered, and burned, and was haunted by the memory. She had married, and her husband had just died, and already, it was true, her memories of Charles were receding, while the memory of one night with Jamie was vivid beyond reason....

At last, she slept. And in the middle of the night, she woke with a scream. She was sweaty and shaky. In her dreams, there had been a figure stalking in the dark. And she had followed, seen when he had attacked, tried to scream, tried to stop him . . .

And when she had reached the struggling victim at last, she had looked down. In her dream she had been terrified that she would see herself.

But she did not.

It was Arianna, Arianna prone on the ground, blood oozing from the bright red gash that slashed across her throat.

Chapter 13

The first night, Jamie walked the streets.

And it was amazing how many others were about as well, no matter what the hour.

Many women worked late. It wasn’t much of a surprise that at midnight men and women both were crowding the pubs. In a number of places, the gaslights were out. The area was filled with gates, walks, and alleyways.

In the pubs, they talked about the Whitechapel murderer, and did so with whispers and fear, and he heard the women talking about the fact that they were afraid, and still, what were they to do?

He heard talk of the many letters sent to the police, so many, already, that they said the coppers were inundated with them.

And then, as he listened, everyone had a theory. One prostitute wedged by his side at a pub, and suggested, “Why, he might even be a bloke like you, mister!”

She gave him a smile. Toothless. “Were ye in the mind for a bit o’ fun, eh?”

And so he had adjusted his collar around his throat and lifted his hands. “I’m out. Just bought my last gin.”

“Why, there’s time a woman might be thinkin’ that it’s not only the money wots important, my fine fellow. Haven’t seen the likes of you around here, not lately, and that’s a fact!”

He’d slipped away from the bar, the fear, and the stench.

At two A.M., the streets were quieter, and still, men and women moved disparately about in the darkness. Mute light continued to burn from some of the houses. Peddlers returned to their homes, their carts banging with their wares.

By three A.M., laborers were beginning to rise. Men who worked in the slaughterhouses, women who had found jobs in the factories. By five, before the darkness had lifted, the streets began to fill again.

He could find no fault with the police. He had seen them about constantly, walking their beats. No matter what streets he traveled, there was never a period of more than ten or fifteen minutes that passed in which a constable didn’t follow his tracks.

He was stopped himself several times, but proved to them that he carried no weapons, and was allowed to pass by.

Randolph awaited him, doing his part, nursing a gin through the night at the pub, and listening.

They spoke after they returned to the town house.

“If this monster were an anarchist,” Randolph told Jamie, “he’d be getting where he wanted to go. The mood in the streets is ugly, indeed, I cannot tell you how ugly.”

“I’ve seen.”

“In the pubs, they call for the head of Sir Charles Warren, swearing that he don’t care enough, that if it were a finer class of woman being murdered, they’d have the bloke by now. And the theories! It’s an American, out to sell body parts—after the inquest, you know, the coroner stated that there were clues aplenty, that the police should be looking for this fellow who wanted to buy the body parts. Then, of course, there are the other rumors.”