Anno Dracula - Kim Newman [68]
Suddenly cold, she stood away. She rubbed the obstruction from her eyes and wiped back her hair. There was a basin of water on a stand. She washed her face clean, looking at the clean grain of the wooden frame which had once held a looking-glass. Turning from the basin, she realised there were people in the room. She must have made enough commotion to excite considerable alarm.
Arthur Morrison stood by the open door with Amworth behind him. There were others outside in the hall. People from outside, from the streets, nosferatu and warm alike. Morrison’s face was dumbstruck. She knew she must be hideous. In anger, her face changed.
‘We thought you should know, Geneviève,’ Morrison said. ‘There’s been another murder. Another new-born.’
‘In Dutfield’s Yard,’ said someone with the hot news, ‘off Berner Street.’
‘Lizzie Stride, ’er as only turned last week. Teeth not yet through. Tall gel, rorty-like.’
‘Cut ’er froat, didn’t ’e?’
‘Long Liz.’
‘Stride. Gustafsdotter. Elizabeth.’
‘Ear to ear. Thwick!’
‘She put up a barney, though. Sloshed ’im one.’
‘Ripper was disturbed ’fore ’e could finish ’is job.’
‘Some bloke with an ’orse.’
‘Ripper?’
‘Louis Diemschütz, one o’ them socialisticals...’
‘Jack the Ripper.’
‘Louis was passin’ by. Must of been the moment Jack was a-rippin’ Lizzie’s throat. Must of seen ’is rotten face. Must of.’
‘Calls ’isself Jack the Ripper now. Silver Knife is gone and done.’
‘Where’s Druitt?’
‘Damn bleedin’ busybodies, them socialisticals. Always pokin’ into a bloke’s business.’
‘Haven’t seen the blighter all evening, miss.’
‘Speakin’ agin the Queen. And them’s all Jews, y’know. Can’t trust an Ikey.’
‘Bet ’e’s an ’ook-nose. Jus’ bet ’e is.’
‘Ripper’s still on the streets, ’e is. The coppers is givin’ chase. By sun-up, they’ll have ’is carcass.’
‘If ’e’s ’uman.’
23
HEADLESS CHICKENS
It was as if the city were on fire!
Beauregard was at the Café de Paris when the cry went up. With Kate Reed and several other reporters, he ran to the police station. The street was full of people running and shouting. A masked lout, a dozen assorted crucifixes strung about his neck, drunkenly smashed windows, yelling that the Judgement of God was at hand, that vampires were Demons of the Pit.
Sergeant Thick was minding the shop. A come-down for the detective, but a responsible position. Apparently, Lestrade was at the murder site and Abberline off duty. Kate dashed out to find Dutfield’s Yard, but Beauregard decided to stay.
‘Nothing we can do yet, sir,’ the sergeant said. ‘I’ve put a dozen men out, but they’re just blundering in the fog.’
‘Surely the murderer will be covered in blood?’
Thick shrugged. ‘Not if he’s careful. Or if he wears a reversible.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
Thick opened his grey tweed coat and showed a tartan interior. ‘Turns inside out. You can wear it both ways.’
‘Clever.’
‘This is a bloody messy job, Mr Beauregard.’
A couple of uniformed constables dragged in the window-smasher. Thick hauled off the struggling man’s flour-sack hood and recognised one of John Jago’s fearless Knights of Christendom. The sergeant cringed away from the Crusader’s whisky breath.
‘The unholy leeches shall be...’
Thick balled the hood and shoved it in the vandal’s mouth.
‘Lock him up and let him sleep it off,’ he ordered the constables. ‘We’ll talk about charges when the shopkeepers get up tomorrow and see what damage he’s done.’
For the first time Beauregard was at hand when the murderer was about his business, but he might as well be safe in bed in Chelsea for all he could do.
‘Headless chickens, we are, sir,’ Thick said. ‘Running around in bloody circles.’
Beauregard hefted his sword-cane, and wished the Ripper would come out and fight.
‘Cup of tea, sir?’ Thick asked.
Before Beauregard could thank the sergeant, a warm constable, out of breath, shoved through the doors. He took off his helmet, gasping.
‘What is it now, Collins? Some fresh calamity?’
‘He’s gone and done it again, sarge,’ Collins blurted. ‘Two for a penny. Two in one night.’
‘What!’
‘Liz Stride by Berner Street,