A/N – Thank you to BBC America for airing S3 of Ripper Street this month! Now, if we're very, very good, is there any chance Amazon UK will pony up for S4? Pretty please?
This story was inspired by the YouTube video of our favorite trio trying to remain serious during a photo shoot for S2 and failing miserably. (To his credit, Jerome holds out the longest but Matthew is apparently a VERY infectious giggler.) You know the drill – if you have thoughts to share, click the tab below and share them. (Mint Milano cookies are also acceptable in the way of feedback.) I own nothing in this world including these characters so don't sue either. Cheers!
A woman knows the face of the man she loves like a sailor knows the open sea. Honore de Balzac
They honeymooned by the seaside.
Of course, they were married fully six months by the time they were finally able to go, for she was long committed to a six week spring tour of the Paris music halls and his duties at Leman Street were (as ever) unrelenting, his commitment to his work total.
The only commitment he took more seriously than that of being chief inspector was the one he made to Rose on their wedding day, however, and thus on the fourth occasion she raised the subject over a summer supper one late evening – this time with a raised and confrontational eyebrow over pursed lips in the manner that usually indicated her lit fuse had neared its explosive end – he acquiesced. The next day, she gleefully arranged transport and accommodations while Inspector Drake spent the better part of his afternoon quizzing a newly-minted Sergeant Grace within an inch of his young life about how he would (and should) address any and all crises that might arise during his Inspector's absence.
(Sergeant Artherton was also subject to examination and only when both were able to give satisfactory responses to all questions posed did the onslaught cease.)
The honeymoon was but three days – short days made longer only by the wealth of daylight available that time of year - but once free from the web of Whitechapel, the couple stretched each hour they spent together to breaking. They strolled by the water and watched the gulls swoop and dive in the evening, dined on fresh seafood at lunch and supper, and stayed in bed late in the mornings, dozing and making love until the afternoon sun was well overhead. It was a blissful interlude to their daily routine and both felt the lapping waves begin to roll away their own rough edges as the holiday neared its inevitable end.
When she first planned the trip, Rose insisted to Bennet that they reach out to Edmund Reid and his daughter Mathilda to let them know they would be in town. A visit, Rose though, would be good for her husband, who missed the camaraderie he shared with his old friend and, though it was meant to be a holiday for husband and wife, it was unknown when they might travel that way again and the opportunity to meet shouldn't be missed. She thus sent a letter to the Reids and received a quick and enthusiastic response that arranged for the four to meet for afternoon tea at the Reids' own cottage by the shore.
The day of the visit was idyllic – sunny and mild – and after tea, the four walked the shoreline, where the cacophony of the gulls overhead and the crash of the waves provided accompaniment to the laughter of Rose and Mathilda as they hunted for shells, spoke of music and fashion, and became the fastest of friends. Behind them at a polite distance, the policemen (current and former) ambled and observed, entranced and amused by the antics of the women. As ever the men exuded air of protectiveness that was engrained from years of police work, but it was matched equally by a sense of wonder, as both had long lived in fear that the beloved ones before them were forever lost and each was only recently in receipt of the miracle of that loved one's return. For two who had endured such depravity and disappointment in their working lives, the idea that they could experience such extraordinary happiness personally presented an unfamiliar sensation, but one that was certainly welcome.
There was young Mathilda Reid, once thought dead and surrendered to the water, now darting along its lapping edge in her bare feet, hair ribbons streaming behind her.
And beside her was Rose, once borne away from Bennet by misfortune, now wearing his ring and squealing with glee upon sighting another perfect shell peeking from beneath the damp sand.
The reunion eventually concluded over a supper of fresh fish at a local eatery where, as the evening wore on and the plates emptied, a sense of lightness and humor overcame Bennet and Edmund that had rarely been witnessed by any who knew them more formally as Inspectors Drake and Reid. It was as if their trials were borne away on the evening tide and they became carefree. The pair bantered and laughed as they soon spun stories of their early days coppering in Whitechapel together. Chief Inspector Abberline proved a foil for more than one tale, as did a younger, beardless version of Don Artherton, but the Ripper's name never arose, nor did the names of Long Susan or Captain Jackson, for it was a night for the humor of history of a more ancient variety, not a time to dwell on more recent failures or losses.
Odd stories and even odder people – situations and characters seemingly so wild that they almost seemed fictional – were recalled and recounted between final bites of fish and swigs of ale. And as each new story was stoked within the embers of the one previous, the men's laughter became more and more lavish until the tears freely flowed down reddened faces.
Across the table, Rose and Mathilda stared in rapt amazement at the stark transformation in two men they so often saw stoic and somber. The daily toil of police work had not been kind to either – lives had been lost, tremendous sacrifices made, and as a result, Reid and Drake were both known to regard life with the most reserved air both on duty and off.
That night was the exception.
That night, the famous star of the London stage, the queen of the costers, Rose Erskine, did not perform a single note, nor cause heads to turn in her direction. Instead, she and young Mathilda Reid provided an ample and attentive audience to the pair of gypsy storytellers before them, their shining faces aglow in the light of candles that burned lower and lower.
"…and he had a wooden leg hollowed out that he kept filled with cheap brandy," Bennet reminded Reid as one story came to its conclusion. "I never saw 'im that he wasn't half in his cups."
"He wasn't any use as an informant when he was sober if you recall," Reid shook his head, then lit the flame for the next tale from the embers of the previous when he asked, "What about the printmaker's riot?"
"The printmaker's…" Bennet looked perplexed, then realization dawned and a grin split his face.
Reid cupped his own bare chin with one hand and gestured to Bennet's neatly trimmed beard with his other. Eyes shining in the candlelight, the two men clearly locked onto the same memory at the same instant.
"Mathilda shouldn't hear that one, sir – what'll she think of her uncle Don?" Bennet winked at Mathilda across the table and she leaned forward with renewed interest.
"What about Uncle Don?" she demanded, grabbing at Bennet's hand to implore him. After a brief second of thoughtfulness wherein she appeared to replay the last few moments in her mind, she tilted her head and inquired, "Is this about why he wears that beard?"
The instantaneous fit of laughter that overtook both men provided her answer and Rose spoke up on behalf of the audience of two to say, "Well now you must reveal the story to us, good sirs. We're all a-twitter."
"You're responsible for this if it makes it back to Don," Bennet told Reid pointedly.
"I think these ladies deserve the truth, Bennet – don't you agree?" Reid asked mischievously.
"It's on your head is all I'm saying," Bennet told him before he began, his expression still a bit dubious. "So this printmaker made quite a tidy living and had his daughter married off to a shopkeeper who did all right on his own but wasn't wealthy. The son-in-law was bitter because he figured that the old man should be sharin' the wealth with him since he and the daughter were part of the family and all."
Reid jumped in: "The son-in-law concluded that, should he wish to gain a cut for himself without resorting to murder or waiting for the old man to die, his best course of action was to pay a friend to kidnap his wife and hold her for ransom. He assumed, naturally, that the father-in-law would step in to cover what was demanded and that he could then reap the reward."
"He did promise to cut the friend in for half the profits," Bennet added.
"Well it was the very least he could do - wouldn't you say, Bennet?" Edmund asked.
Bennet nodded in agreement as he hoisted his empty glass in half-salute. "The very least."
"And so, as agreed, the friend took the wife from the street right in front of their home," Reid paused to check from the corner of his eye to see if Rose and Mathilda were following along. Mathilda's features were so intently trained on him that he gave her a quick poke across the table that elicited first a start, then a giggle.
Bennet said: "What the son-in-law didn't know was that the printmaker had a side business making snide out the back of his shop."
"That fact, of course, accounted for his substantial wealth," Reid pointed out as Rose raised a hand to cover her mouth, lest any stray laughter escape and throw off the telling of the tale.
The trade-offs in narration quickened:
"So of course dear old dad paid the ransom – he just didn'tpay in exactly legal tender," Bennet began.
"Meanwhile, when the son-in-law went to rescue his wife from where she was being held and paid his friend for his services…"
"…he paid him in snide…"
"…and not only did the wife recognize the truth of the plot – that her husband was conspiring against her father - but the friend somehow recognized that the money was fake…"
"…and the two of them set to beating the husband in the middle of the street!"
"We were called to break it up and by the time we got there, the father-in-law and his men had arrived and the whole thing had become a riot – we had to arrest everyone on the scene!" Reid finished with a flourish.
"It took four Marias to get the lot of them back to Leman Street!" Bennet added.
"But what about Uncle Don and his beard?" Mathilda wanted to know.
Bennet shook with silent laughter and could not summon enough breath to form words, so Reid – nearly gone himself - responded:
"Artherton took the lead for all of the bobbies and declared that he would pull the wife away from her husband because – and I quote – 'she's a tiny whisp of a thing – what harm could she possibly do?' She was no bigger than you, Rose, and as riled up as anything I've ever seen and when he snatched her collar she whirled around and fought him with everything she had. She punched him, clawed him, kicked him, and – I believe – even bit him on the hand at one point."
"She fought harder than all of her father's men combined," Bennet added ruefully. "In fact, we had all of the men in irons and sitting in the Mariahs before Don even got one hand on her that wasn't in defense of himself."
In feigned seriousness, Reid lowered his voice and said, "One of the blows struck Sergeant Artherton on the chin and her fingernail opened a wound that was several centimeters long and bled as though she'd hit a major artery. A second scratch ran squarely down his left cheek."
"His chin was redder then than it is now," Bennet managed to squeak out.
Reid added in a voice suddenly an octave higher than its usual timbre, "When he finally brought her over to the Mariah, every man asked him in unison, 'What harm could she possibly do?'"
"And he's worn that beard to cover the scars ever since, lest anyone inquire where he got them!" Bennet snorted and the two surrendered all control of themselves - Bennet heaving with silent guffaws, his face red and shoulders quaking, while Reid descended into a fit of giggles that ill-befitted a man of his size, even removing his glasses to prevent them from becoming soaked with his tears.
The opposite side of the table was far quieter as Mathilda and Rose exchanged delighted glances at the performance they had witnessed. It was one for the ages that neither would soon forget – as though the two men before them had transformed into some manner of sea creature and shed their rigid and restrictive dwellings on the sands so that they might move about freely for a brief and shining moment. Later those same creatures might slip into a new structure that restrained their movements once more, but always they would carry with them the memory of freedom and that was the hope that Rose carried home with her for her Bennet – that he might feel lighter as he went about his work, that he might remember the freedom of laughing with his friend by the seaside when his daily toil seemed too much for him to reconcile.
Back at the music hall in London, Rose placed a jar full of the seashells she collected with Mathilda in her dressing room – a singular souvenir to remember the holiday by. Spiraled and smooth, the shells possessed whorls that were a rainbow of blues, grays, and browns as well as oranges, pinks, and purples. All shapes and sizes were represented – turrets and clamshells and snails – and each long ago had its irregularity and unevenness rubbed away by the regular roll of the tide. The shells served as a reminder of the night on which she saw the same smoothness, the same untroubled air about her beloved Bennet.
The world of Whitechapel would not allow him to experience prolonged levity, she knew. Something would happen – a crisis, a tragedy, an inhumane act – and the evil of men would call for him once more. But she also knew what she would do the next time. Thus, when the humor seems to have drained from him completely, when she sees the darkness creep over his features and he holds her hand just a little longer before he goes to work in the mornings, Rose will take action. A few arrangements – train tickets and accommodations, a little bit of money pulled from her savings jar – and she will take her husband back to the seashore and there they will remain until she is able to collect his laughter up once more like so many scattered shells.
FIN