The Whitechapel Conspiracy - Anne Perry [95]
The train stopped at Farringdon Street, then very quickly after that at Aldergate Street.
Remus shot to his feet.
Gracie almost fell in her surprise and haste to go after him. Remus got to the door, then changed his mind and sat down again.
Gracie collapsed onto the nearest bench, her heart pounding.
The train went on to Moorgate, and then Bishopsgate. It stopped at Aldgate, and Remus made for the door.
Gracie went also, and climbed up the steps, hurrying into the darkness where Aldgate Street changed into the Whitechapel High Street.
Which way was Remus going? She would have to keep close to him now. The lamps were lit, but they were dim, just pools of yellow here and there.
Was he going back to Whitechapel again, where he’d been before? He was nearly a mile from Buck’s Row, which was the other end of the Whitechapel Road, beyond the High Street. And Hanbury Street was a good half mile to the north, more if you took into account all the narrow, winding streets and alleys and dogleg corners.
But instead he turned right into Aldgate Street, back towards the City. Where was he going now? Did he expect to meet with someone further? She remembered the look on his face as he had walked away from the man in Hyde Park. He was angry, furiously angry, yet he was also excited and afraid. This was something of monstrous proportion … or he thought it was.
She was unprepared for it when he turned up Duke Street. It was narrower, darker. The eaves dripped in the gloom. The smells of rot and effluent hung in the air. She found herself shivering. The huge shadow of St. Botolph’s Church was just ahead. She was on the edge of Whitechapel.
Remus had been walking as if he knew exactly where he was going. Now he hesitated, looking to his left. The dim light gleamed for a moment on his pale skin. What did he expect to see? Beggars, destitutes huddled in doorways, trying to find a place to sleep, street women looking for chance custom?
She thought of the big black carriages he had asked about, the rumble of wheels on the cobbles growing louder and louder, black horses looming out of the night, the huge shape of the carriage, high, square, a door opening and a man asking … what? For a woman, a specific woman. Why? What gentleman in a carriage would come here at night when he could stay up west and find somebody cleaner, more fun, and with a room and a bed to go to rather than some doorway?
Remus was crossing the street into an alley beside the church.
It was pitch-dark. She stumbled as she followed him. Where in the devil’s name was he going? She knew he was still ahead of her because she could hear his feet on the cobbles. Then she saw him outlined against a shaft of light ahead. There was an opening. There must be a street lamp there, around the corner.
She reached it and emerged. It was a small square. He stood motionless, staring around; for a moment his face was turned towards the yellow glare of the one lamp. His eyes were wide, his lips parted and drawn back in a dreadful smile that was a mixture of terror and exultation. His whole body shook. He raised his hands a little, white-knuckled in the gaslight, clenched tight.
She looked up at the grimy sign on the brick wall above the light. Mitre Square.
Suddenly she was ice-cold, as if the breath of hell had touched her. Her heart almost stopped. At last she knew why he had come here—to Whitechapel, to Buck’s Row, to Hanbury Street, and now to Mitre Square. She knew who he was after in the big black coach that didn’t belong here. She remembered the names: Annie Chapman, known as Dark Annie; and Long Liz; and Kate; and Polly; and Black Mary. Remus was after Jack the Ripper! He was still alive, and Remus believed he knew who he was. That was the story he was going to break in the newspapers to make his name.
She turned and ran, stumbling and gasping back through the alley. Her knees were weak, her lungs hurt as if the air were knives, but