THE LOST WORLD
The Last Victim
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The bittersweet tears shed over graves
Are for words left unsaid and deeds
Left undone.
Harriet Beecher Stowe
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Marguerite tried to stay awake as she held his usually energetic but now lax and sleeping body against her own. "Head above water." she whispered, kissing him yet again on his damp forehead. Distracted, she brushed away a few straying dark hairs and silently vowed to not leave him again.
Inspector Anderson had deceived her, actually both of them, but Roxton knew something was not right from the very first moment they saw the man. She should have had more faith in his intuition but Marguerite was so sure Roxton's attitude was an over-reaction. Jealousy, she thought, was clouding the hunter's usually clear thoughts.
Marguerite was no fool. She knew what she meant to John and did not purposely go about making him green-eyed but these days it wasn't that difficult a feat to accomplish. It seemed any time a man outside the treehouse had the nerve to speak with her, Roxton got surly.
First, there was that well-built warrior in the Zanga village who, after a successful hunting trip, presented Marguerite with a wild pheasant. He had been like a young, love struck school-boy, giving a gift to the girl of his dreams. Marguerite couldn t help but feel flattered. Roxton, on the other hand, was not at all amused. Then later, just two weeks ago, Trico - an elderly Nambu merchant - took a piece of Marguerite's worthless costume jewelry and gave the treehouse inhabitants enough salt to last six months. Trico was known far and wide as a tough sell but Marguerite was easily able to negotiate a beneficial trade. Roxton accused her of flirting. She and Roxton argued for two days over Trico then finally, deciding he may have misinterpreted the matter, (could Marguerite really help it if these men were smitten with her?) Roxton apologized and the topic was dropped.
When it came to the suggested promise of escaping from the plateau perhaps she was easily seduced, Marguerite allowed. Yet, to go home after two and a half years of living in this hell posing as paradise, who wouldn't be a little anxious and make allowances? She was willing to pet a bit if it would help accomplish their goal.
Marguerite looked down at him. Roxton was almost too still and she, examining the handsome sleeping face, experienced not just a little pride that he could feel so completely comfortable and sure in her embrace. Roxton was allowing himself the luxury of sleep because he knew she would protect him. He trusted her.
Stricken, Marguerite looked up and into the sparse woods around them. She could hear the roar of a far off dinosaur, possibly a raptor, and was leery, it was miles away and - hopefully - traveling in a different direction. Nevertheless, Marguerite patted her hip to be certain her pistol was still available. She felt relief at its comforting bulk.
Once again, Marguerite gazed at Roxton. The things he must have thought last night as he lay here, unable to move, powerless to defend himself, and knowing that the woman he loved was in that murderous monster's clutches. Then, the following day, to hear her calling to him in the early morning, having her think he had abandoned her ... The despair!
Marguerite hugged him all the tighter, so deeply sorry she had misjudged Roxton. She pledged it would never happen again. "I'll not let you down, my love. I swear." she murmured, knowing he could not near her. Then, a little sadly, she closed her eyes. As much as she cared for Roxton she knew she would not keep her promise. Men had hurt her in the past and occasionally, without knowing it, Roxton did the same. He did not mean it. He didn't know any better ... but it sometimes happened.
If only she could open up to him and tell Roxton everything that he needed to know about her. Yes, she was going to disappoint him and badly one day. Poor man. "I'm sorry." Marguerite whispered. One day, she prayed, she might be as sure of him as he was of her. Such a misguided man.
With a sigh, Marguerite leaned back on the large fallen tree she and Roxton were positioned next to. They had been there like this for nearly two hours and she wanted, more than anything, to stand and stretch but did not dare. The tide had not yet moved out and any disregard on her part could mean his death by drowning.
Still, she was weary and wanted so much to sleep, when Marguerite closed her eyes she saw a deep blue fog and could hear a man and woman's voice ...
"You want someone to take care of you? Don't you?" he whispered.
"W … what do you mean?"
"You want to be given jewels and money and be kissed by a man who knows how to do it right. You don't want just passion ... you want forever!"
"Yes ...oh yes." her accented voice whispered back, sounding more like a plea, "I want that. I want to be …" she faltered.
"... remembered. " he offered.
"Yes ... No ... I want to be ... loved."
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1874 - Limerick Town , Ireland
Her Father had money but also another family; a legitimate wife and two fair haired daughters who looked down on her and Mum whenever they had the nerve to step foot into their home, which was only twice that Mary Jane Kelly could recall. She remembered the true Mrs. Kelly, looking more like a venomous scorpion than a woman, screaming at her Dad, telling him if "that whore" showed face again on their property again his uptown friends would know all. Father said nothing. He simply stood, looking down at his shoes, weak and immobile. He was hardly a man at all.
Mum, her Irish temper simmering, stared at him for a very long while. She was awaiting something - possibly acknowledgment - but it never came. They left then, Mum brave-faced but sobbing inside, as she took her young daughter, Mary Jane, by the hand.
That evening they stayed with a man of Mum's acquaintance. Mary could hear them in the room next to hers. She could not sleep for all the pleasure moans, mostly from him.
Mum had promised Mary things would get better. Her eleven year old daughter hoped it was true.
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Marguerite's head lolled as she dozed.
why did that child look so much like she when Marguerite was just a girl?
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1876
They lived with him for over two years and he promised, when times were better, to wed Mum and adopt Mary as his own. Mum relied on it and her gratitude knew no bounds.
Mary thought him a cruel and unkempt bastard, often hitting Mum when he was drunk, but she remained silent and dutiful because while they lived together Mary was schooled and, besides that, it seemed Mum might have actually fallen in love with the beast. He often ogled Mary out of sight from Mum and told the girl that he had the power to throw her out into the streets whenever he saw fit. Mum was blinded but Mary was not.
Then one evening, when Mary was nearly thirteen years old and just beginning to bloom, he sent Mum out for wine. He came for young Mary then, in her small bedroom, and she was petrified. Hs grimy hands were on her and he spoke such filth as to frighten the impressionable new teen out of her wits, when he tried to kiss her Mary screamed.
Mum arrived in time to rescue her daughter's virtue. However, she got the beating of her life as a result. She and Mary left the following day and Mum, swallowing her pride, took her daughter to England, to live with Aunt Emily.
Poor Auntie, nearly dead with tuberculosis and nothing to call her own but the roof over her head, but she was still better off than Mum.
"Goodbye, Mary." Mum had said and promised to return soon.
Mary Jane Kelly never saw her mother again.
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Marguerite opened her eyes wide and looked around.
A little frightened, she held Roxton tightly in her arms but he remained unconscious
and unaware. The tide was finally going out but they were still both soaked and she clung to him for warmth. It would be ironic; after all they had gone through to lose
Roxton to hypothermia. "Not funny." Marguerite murmured. No. It wasn't funny at all.
Soon Roxton would awaken, she was sure, and get to his feet. They would walk home to the treehouse together and, when resting in their own beds, they could forget about this horrible nightmare.
"John." Marguerite, concerned when she felt his shivers, touched his cheek, tracing a damp finger up the tanned skin to his hairline. She watched his lashes flutter open.
"Okay?" he asked with a voice still gruff from the curare that Anderson had slipped into his tea. "T-Too heavy for you to hold?"
Marguerite smiled, "No." she whispered with feigned sarcasm because she knew he would expect it, "Light as a feather, milord." She then smiled warmly, "Just get better." She lowered her head and brushed his lips lightly with her own.
"For you ..." he promised and, worn out, closed his eyes yet again.
Marguerite, try as she might, could not keep her own eyes from closing.
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1877 - England.
"Listen Mary love; be kind to the gentlemen when they call. Be sure to tell them how handsome they are, whether it be true or not. You have a pretty face and a young, ripe body. It will take you far."
"But Auntie, I dunna think ..."
"Sh, now. When they pay ya coin hide it in your boot then bring it home ..." She patted her niece's dark hair. Too bad it wasn't red. Men liked Irish lasses with flaming hair. It was especially sought after in Mary's new profession.
"What if I dunna like it?' Mary nearly begged.
"Well, just try it out tonight, love. If you don't like it you can stop."
"''ow many men should I see? the girl asked, a small tear sliding down her left cheek.
Emily took a moment to cough, fighting her illness, then turned back to her niece. "My darling," She placed a finger under the girl's chin and lifted so she could meet her eyes, "Only as many as you think you can manage." She placed the lace bonnet on her head, managing to make the fourteen year old look even younger than her true age. Some men liked that. "But remember, lass, without you and the money you bring to our home I don't get medicine and we don't eat."
Mary averted her eyes. It was all up to her. And one day, when she made her fortune, Mum would come back and take her away from this horrid life .…"
"There's my girl." Emily stood and looked down at her niece, only a few inches shorter than herself. "Just remember, if they say filthy things to you or threaten to hurt you, it's just the way men are. Some of those gents have had hard lives. Be careful and be understanding, pet. Now go. Be good. I'll be waiting for you when you come home, dearest." She licked her thin, pale lips. "Perhaps tomorrow we'll have enough money to pay our rent - and get a sweet for dessert."
The smile faded as the girl turned away. Emily watched morosely but with a cheeky exterior as Mary approached her diminutive home's front door and put a small hand on the knob. Emily's heart skipped as she paused and looked back again at her Aunt, over a slim and slightly shaking shoulder.
"Will we 'ave stew tonight when I get home?" she asked.
"Oh yes, love, as much as you want." Emily enthused.
Mary Jane Kelly turned the knob and made her exit. Now - and for ten years to come -
she walked the wet and inhospitable streets of Whitechapel.
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"That horrible witch ..." Marguerite snarled as she dozed, "How could she do that to a child?"
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September 30, 1888 - 7:16pm
In the pub, Mary leaned back in her chair, staring sullenly out of the window into the busy courtyard. It was always robust with activity after a good rain. She nursed a short, warming drink, raking occasionally at her disarrayed mop of hair, and tried to make the liquor last.
Mary s most recent client had. been a bit more of a gentleman than most, wanting to be with her in a private room rather than in an alley but, in the end, when he had finished with her, he did what so many of the men did. He pitched her coin on the floor, forcing her to get down on her hands and knees before him to pick it up. Why did so many of the men do that?
She had grown hard and far more knowing than that little girl who had been sent out by a now long dead relative so many years ago. Now twenty five years of age Mary could see how Emily used her, almost as badly as the me it Mary had been forced to keep company with. Still, as much as she wanted to, Mary could not blame her Auntie exclusively. It had really been her own Mum that forced her into this life. She never came back to claim her daughter. She didn't want her, not in the long run, just like her father and all these men who came and went ...
"Mary! Oiy, Maryl" came a female cockney drawl.
She heard the tinkling chime of the pub door as it opened then saw the attractive and slightly unsteady blond woman approach. "Buy me a drink, hon?" she called over the drone of an out of tune player piano.
Mary sighed as her friend took a seat across from her, "Cathy girl, what you do'in?"
"Been a slow night." Catherine Beddowes smiled sheepishly and tipped the empty glass on the table before her, "Blokes aren't will'in to part with a penny to keep a lady warm, 'ow about you?"
"Slow for meself as well." Mary smiled mildly, sympathetic, "'aven't got a coin to spare. Guess you'll 'ave to get some fine young gent to buy you a pint."
"Cheap bastards, all of 'em." Cathy whined then smiled when Mary pushed her own glass, with a bit of tempting liquor, her way. "But with things being as they are in Whitechapel these days, I don't wanna spend too much time out there either." She pointed a finger to the window beside Mary, indicating the dark night. She then picked up the glass and downed the rest of her friend s drink.
There wasn't a street walker in this part of England who hadn't heard of the Whitechapel murders. "Certainly not fit for the likes of us that's for sure." Mary agreed, "But what are we go'in to do? The rent is need'in to be paid."
"Well, I'm stay'in in here all night iffin I 'ave to. Who knows, maybe I'll get lucky and a gentle bloke will be want'in my company." She looked into her now empty glass, "Maybe buy me a drink."
"You should go home. I tink you had e'nuff tonight." Mary cautioned.
"Only an hour or two more." Cathy promised.
Mary nodded and stood. "Be careful then, girl. Only gents. No riff raff,"
"You too, Mary. You too."
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"Damn it." Her arms ached from embracing him but she would do it all night if necessary. The tide would be rolling back in an hour or two. Marguerite first instinct was to push Roxton aside, now that the tide was lower and attempt to build a makeshift stretcher. She could do it with the long, stripped branches of the trees which dotted their surroundings, perhaps tear strips from her own blouse to hold it together, but Roxton stubbornly insisted she wait. Marguerite didn't know if it was the curare affecting his mind or male pride ... or perhaps he just wanted her close.
Roxton tried to stand but his legs just would not cooperate. He did have limited use of his hands, however, and could speak gruffly. Marguerite thought of dragging Roxton to an area where the water would not reach him then going after Challenger, Malone and Veronica on her own - but that meant leaving Roxton defenseless, to face danger without use of his arms and legs, what if the raptor she heard earlier made a sudden appearance?
But - even more frightening - what if that terrible Inspector Anderson regained consciousness and followed her tracks? Roxton wouldn't stand a chance in his current condition. She simply could not leave him unprotected!
With a silent, secret sob of frustration Marguerite prayed that challenger and the others would come searching for them by tomorrow.
"Marguerite ..." His eyes were open and he was looking up at her stricken expression. He smiled, attempting to ease her disappointment. "I'm beginning to feel my feet." He said, "Soon." Roxton promised.
"It will take awhile, John. No rushing it or you could get hurt." Marguerite brushed a hand through his hair.
He thought about this a moment, then grinned. "When I'm better perhaps we could indulge in a few acts from the book of Kama Sutra?" He said this, expecting the woman to ask him what he was talking about. However, to Roxton's dismay he watched as Marguerite's eyebrow arch, obviously enlightened.
"We can talk about all your Hindu adventures later, Lord Roxton, but - for right now - sleep. Get your strength back."
"When I sleep, I have bad dreams." He said, suddenly disturbed. "A woman. She looks like you. I see her in flashes but cannot hear what she's saying ... A sad life ..." He drifted.
Again, she touched his hair and looked down at the slumbering face. How strange. Roxton was also dreaming about a woman who looked like Marguerite ..."But no,"
Marguerite reconsidered, 'On this plateau it's not so strange.'
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September 1888 - 9:20pm
"Oh Cathy!" Her heart leapt into her throat the moment she heard a blond woman had been struck down, her body resting in a dark alley near her home. Mary raced to the spot on Mitre Square. Then, once there, with so many others gawking at the dead prossie, Mary took a deep breath and pulled a cigarette from her bag. Her personal flask was empty and she needed something to calm her nerves.
'First Polly then Annie; then Bettie and now Cathy.' She lamented. They were being picked off, one by one, and the bumbling law could do nothing. They were so uncaring, cruel and worthless!
Mary puffed on her cigarette madly and pushed back on her boiling emotions. She had gotten good at that, preventing those on the outside from seeing how stoe truly felt about lost friends and her own intolerable situation.
She watched as the inspector leaned over her friend's body, examining her as if she were dirt, and placing the sheet over her once again. He picked up something, probably the weapon that had done the horrid deed, and Mary could not keep her mouth shut when he, oh so casually, said: "Poor girl."
"What would you know about it?" She threw her cigarette down, annoyed.
He looked up.
Mary expected to see a different face but, for his kind, the inspector was quite
handsome. He reminded her of ...
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"Roxton?" Marguerite asked, jolted from her sleep.
Twilight had come. She shivered.
What type of bizarre delusion was this? That Beddowes woman looked just like Veronica and now the Inspector looked like ...
She glanced down at Lord Roxton but, because of the semi-dark, could not see his features clearly. Marguerite did, however, feel his steady breathing. He was well
asleep.
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He pushed her into the alley, away from the scene, away from Cathy's body and safety.
"Lay a hand on me and I'll scream!" Mary threatened.
The inquisitive and arrogant inspector, with his good looks and acid tongue, grew angry with her and had turned into a brute. He wasn't the first and would not be the last but there was something even more frightening than usual about him. Those green eyes were just so cold and because he was "the law" his brutality held a sort of weight that was perplexing - and repulsively exciting.
When he kissed her it was like an animal; hard and uncaring. He was hungry. Yes, he wanted her. Men had wanted her before. But he was ... powerful. Mary was intrigued but she also despised him. Frantic, she pushed him away with as much force as she could muster.
He then reached into his pocket.
Mary Jane recalled the knife and, for a very brief moment, she became terrified. Then flustered when a few coins were deposited into her hand. She looked down at the money. This was more coin than she could earn in a week. Her hand closed instinctively and greedily into a fist.
"There's plenty more where that comes from." Anderson commented, looking at her intently.
What was he saying? The police would pay her for information? Or was he conducting ... business? "Der better be." Mary moved away, deciding on the second option.
He watched her, pulled the knife from his pants pocket, and followed.
Mary could hear Anderson's expensive shoes against the cobblestone. She was petrified and walked all the quicker.
"Miss Kelly, I'm not finished with you yet!"
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To be continued …