Chapter 2

Scotland Yard

September 4th, 1888

Abberline paced back and forth in front of Sir Warren office, to the quiet but disapproving eye of a young secretary. He had never seen this one before. Either the previous one hadn't been able to handle the Chief Commissioner or he had gotten himself fired. Both would have been understandable; Sir Warren was difficult at the best of times; or so he had heard.

"Would you like some tea, sir?" asked the secretary in a desperate attempt to make the inspector sit down.

Abberline stopped in his tracks and glared.

"This is no time for tea, boy. People are dying."

"Are they, now?" said a voice.

Abberline turned and saluted Sir Warren who stood in the doorway of his office, the door ajar.

"Sir, pardon the intrusion, I have urgent matters to discuss."

The other man looked left and right.

"You're Inspector First-Class Abberline, correct?"

He nodded, surprised that someone like him should know his name.

"Where is your superior? What's his name again… Dunst… No… Duhrer?"

He carded his fingers through his dark, lush hair.

"Dew, Sir," offered Abberline.

Sir Warren nodded.

"Yes, Dew," he said in a voice that betrayed the fact that he had no idea who Dew was. Abberline put aside that new memory, intending to enjoy it fully later.

"Couldn't make it, Sir. Someone needs to run the precinct."

The Chief Commissioner opened his mouth as if to speak but thought better of it.

"Well Inspector Abberline you better come in. Your timing couldn't be more perfect. We need to talk. Stuart," he turned to the secretary. "I'm not to be disturbed under any circumstances. Even if the queen drops by for tea. Am I making myself clear?"

Someone guffawed back in the office. The secretary nodded.

"After you," invited Warren.

Abberline stepped into the room and froze when he found himself face to face with the prince of Wales. The door closed behind him and Sir Warren took a seat at his desk.

"Your highness, this is Inspector First-Class Abberline. Inspector Abberline, his Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales."

Abberline bowed, his heart pounding in his chest so loudly he feared everyone present could hear it. Emma would never believe this.

"Please, stand up straight, Inspector."

He complied.

"Come now, take a seat," said the future king.

Abberline first sat down then shot back up. He possibly couldn't sit if the prince stood.

The Prince of Wales laughed and put his large hands on the man's shoulder, pushing him back down. To make things less awkward, he sat on the armrest of a fauteuil. The furniture creaked under his weight.

"You are here I'm sure to talk to me about the murder which is under the jurisdiction of J Division," said Sir Warren.

"His highness also seems to believe there is a connection with the previous two murders. As we speak, the body of Mrs Nichols is being released and sent to H Division."

Abberline let out a sigh of relief but the sudden realisation that he might have had to plead his cause in front of royalty still made his head swim for a moment.

"We have one condition, however, Inspector First-Class Abberline."

"Of course!" he responded, too fast for his own taste. "Anything."

The Prince of Wales slid his heavy body from the armrest to the fauteuil proper. He leaned back, pulled a silver cigarette case from the inside pocket of his sack coat, offered one to Abberline (who refused) and put one in his mouth before lighting it with a golden lighter he grabbed from a side table. He took a long drag.

"Don't tell my mother," he said as he exhaled, a twinkle in his eyes.

He suddenly grew serious.

"Tell me, Inspector Abberline, what do you know of the Men of Letters."

Whitechapel

Near the Alma Pub

Drake looked at his watch; they had been looking for that bloody American for almost two hours. He took out a cigarette.

"Hobbs."

The young man turned around. He offered him the cigarettes.

"Want one?"

The constable shook his head. Strange lad, thought Drake. He took one himself and lit it with a match. He took a long drag. It didn't calm him down. Where was that bloody man!

He watched as Hobbs turn the corner into a dark alley lined with doss houses, the four penny coffins as the people of Whitechapel called them. He doubted Jackson had ended up in one of those; he much preferred whorehouses. Unlucky for them, however, they hadn't found him in any of his usual spots. He took another drag and looked up at the sky. It was going to rain soon and he didn't relish the idea of looking for that idiot in a downpour.

"Sergeant! Sergeant!"

Hobbs came running back, a smile on his face.

"I found him, Sir!"

Drake smiled. That man was like a puppy. He prayed that the job wouldn't destroy him but he knew it eventually would. He took one last drag of his cigarette and crushed it under his boot before walking to meet up the constable. When he turned the corner, he covered his mouth and nose to protect himself from the overpowering stench of raw sewage, refuse, and human filth. Although he didn't look forward to freezing for months at the precinct, he still would welcome the colder months; winter had a way of masking the stench. As his eyes got used to the dim street, he noticed a few children huddled by the entrance of a hovel, their curious eyes observing them at a safe distance. Hobbs crouched near stairs leading to an area, gently trying to raise a sleeping Jackson from his stupor. Drake squatted next to the PC.

"I saw the children poking at him with sticks," he explained.

Drake looked at Jackson. The man's hat partially covered his face, there was sick in his beard and on the front of his shirt. His cutaway jacket was missing a button. If he had had a watch, it was long gone. Even by slum standards, he reeked.

"Mr. Jackson. Wake up, Mr. Jackson," said Hobbs as he shook the man by the shoulder.

Drake let out a dry laugh.

"That won't do, lad," he said.

The sergeant got up and faced the children.

"Hey, you!"

Some of the younger children scampered.

"I have a haypenny for the first of you who brings me a bucket of water."

A sloshing bucket was soon provided by a brown-eyed street urchin so dirty it was hard to tell his race. As promised, Drake handed the coin. The boy lingered, now curious to see the show. Drake winked at him and poured the water straight on Jackson's face. The American gasped loudly and flailed. The sergeant kicked him softly in the ribs. The man bent forward and groaned.

"Goddammit, Drake!," he coughed. " How many times will I have to tell you not to do this."

Hobbs looked on from a few paces away, a look of horror mixed with guilty amusement on his face.

"Dunno," said Drake, with a smirk. He held out his hand to help Jackson get up. "Maybe I'll learn not to do it when you learn not to pass out in the streets like a tramp."

The American grabbed the older man's forearm and got up to his feet. He winced and brought his hand to his temple. He leaned on the wall, almost stepping in the stairwell. Drake pulled him forward at the last minute.

"Mr. Reid needs you. So you have about 15 to get it together."

Jackson groaned.

"He's not my boss," the man complained.

"No, but the money he gives you pays for all that disgusting whisky and those whores you like so much, so come on."

He grabbed the surgeon by the back of his collar and turned to Hobbs.

"Dispatch a runner to H precinct with a message for Mr. Reid. I need to clean this animal up before he does anything."