Part 5 of 7
Miller's Court
Richard Poole is adequate with a police baton but he doesn't have one, and knives have never been his forte. All he's got against the monstrous thing in this shadow of Miller's Court is his brain, and his forensic research tells him this: Jack the Ripper's MO is to attack from the front, first by strangulation while his victim's hands are busy raising her cumbersome skirts, then with the knife. No exact surgical knowledge is necessary; having a sharp six-inch blade as a friend is all you need.
Such is the theory, based on the evidence and very useful in determining what crime has been committed by a certain criminal, but it does not take into account that an MO can change with the selection of victim, as it does now.
Poole raises his hands to the thing as it approaches, anticipating it reaching for his throat, while at the same time gauging its speed and judging what his must be. If it gets just that much further from the passage… He ducks, dodges away and makes to escape at a scrambling run but he's too slow. Something solid snags him, bringing him to the ground, something else wraps around his shoulders and hoists him skyward, while something more closes on his chin, wrenching it upward. He's trapped.
Dimly, Poole registers the fact that Jack may LOOK insubstantial but he FEELS real enough, and alarmingly like a man with certain extra appendages and a terrifically strong grip. The elbow at his larynx elevates, forcing his chin higher toward the cloud-shrouded sky, but the knife isn't at his throat. The tip of it is at his groin, gently stropping. Poole dares not move now, or he and his privates could be estranged forever.
Jack whispers a sickly croon, "Oh, we're gawna unzip you and see what falls out. Yaw'll squeal, me fine little piglet, and pule and beg for release but we're gonna play and play and play. I craves a memento, a little trinket to call me oawn, and I think yawr oysters'll do, dawn't you?"
It is at this precise moment Camille pounds down the brick passage to Miller's Court only to see Richard, his feet nearly off the ground, arched back into some kind of half-human half-creature, hands grappling with a ropy arm-like thing around his neck, lifting his chin, exposing his throat. But the knife… the knife isn't up; it's down, the glittering tip brushing Richard's trouser front most obscenely as Jack's lips press against Richard's temple in almost a lover's attitude.
A ragged scream cuts through the Court then, making both figures jerk. Jack's elbow shifts, freeing Poole's throat a fraction. Poole can't see the screamer but, in the next moment, he knows beyond doubt who it is – and the knowledge is horrifying. Camille! Oh gods, it's Camille! His heart swells monstrously and his blood turns to ice.
"Oi!" the voice shouts in the French-laden treacle tones of an avenging angel, "YOU! Get away from him, you disgusting piece of English filth!"
Poole can barely see her in the dim light but Camille is standing just where the woman's shade had been, in the entrance of the passage to freedom. Poole urks and chokes, trying to warn Camille away as the echoes of her furious words ring off the walls of the shabby Court, with the faint overtones of a chorus of other voices.
Jack almost drops Richard, then squeezes back harder on his victim's strained tonsils as he levels the knife onto this interloper. "Oi yawrself, y' interferin' wagtail, 'oo do ya think yawr talkin' to? And, besides, 'oo invited ya? This is MY realm and I says 'oo comes and goes. 'aow did you get in? Smokies ur drawn 'ere like flies to filth but yaou; yawr live. 'aow'd ya do it?"
But the blood lust calls and Jack is not one to wait on his appetites. He swings the knife back to Richard's throat, waggles it, drawing beads of red onto creamy skin, making Camille sick with dread. "Come t' see the show, have yawr? Like t' 'ave a turn, would yawr, ducky? That's fine, the more the merrier!" Jack rocks his captive playfully, nearly throttling a Poole already choking in disgust and fear for Camille. "Never was one fawr an audience, we weren't, but look on 'em all crowdin' in t' see!"
Sure enough Poole's vision, dimming from lack of oxygen, sees smudges dropping down from the clouds, landing in places beyond his sight in the Court. More are slipping in from around corners, over the roof tops. Jack ignores them all; he only has eyes for the living. Now he speaks to his victim, fouling Poole's ear with his damp, slithery speech. "'oo's this, then, me fine buck? Yawr mollisher, maybe?" Jack's cloudy face now sports a salacious grin which reflects in his voice but it slackens as he finally notices Camille's defensive stance. "'oo are ya anyway?"
She grits out venomously, "I'm Detective Sergeant Camille Bordey of the Honoré Police Force and I'm here to spoil your day in a major way."
Jack brays gleeful spittle. "YOU?! A lady copper? I don't believe it! What's yawr job, polishin' billy clubs?" His grip loosens briefly, just enough for Richard to whoop in a choked breath before he's clamped even tighter as Jack hisses into his ear, "What goes on in the old warld, hey? Is she really a rozzer? I seen progress happenin' but ain't this a hinch too fawr?"
Richard struggles furiously, hands straining on the too-solid arm across his windpipe. "No, it isn't! She's an excellent officer and a credit to her sex and her profession!"
Jack listens to this with growing glee. "Oh, fancy the cat, do yawr?" He jerks Richard right off his feet and swings the knife back upon an advancing Camille. "Well, whatever ya are in the Back There, this is MY place! They's only one 'prahfession' fawr ya here! And I sees ya other skirts hidin' back there behind 'er. Found yawr guts again finally, hey? Come t' watch knowin' I can't slice yawr twice? That's fine, ya can just enjoy the show! I'm sure it'll bring back happy memories, fawr me!"
Richard is beginning to turn blue. Camille starts circling. Jack turns to face her, the knife back at Richard's exposed throat. "Naow then, ducks," he croons, "yawr act like a bully trap but all ya done is upset me careful plans. We was about t' play with this popinjay just t' see if me darlin' likes the taste of his innards but naow, naow I've a fancy t' do you first an' make 'im watch. Blokes don't like t' see other blokes doin' a thrupenny upright on their personal property, awter all..."
Richard's starved brain sparks and he gargles a chuckle. "You? Perform a sex act on an actual live woman? Don't make me laugh! Everyone knows the Whitechapel killer was impotent. Limpsey in the dingus, that's you. That's why you needed a knife to..." Jack cuts off Richard's words with a vicious twist but Camille has caught Richard's thought, sees what he intended, a major psychological distraction, and she wades right in! The monster must be provoked into attacking her, dropping his guard just long enough for Richard to escape!
Her voice dripping with scorn, she scoffs, "He's right, isn't he? Let me guess, your mother was a prostitute and you hated her, right? Or did you catch the English pox and blame women for that too, instead of yourself, you snivelling coward?" She sees Richard pause in his struggles for just a moment as his lips soundlessly mouth "ENGLISH pox?" Ordinarily, this would lead to a rousing and energetic spat. but now is not the time. She continues, "You're a loathsome psychopath... a sick narcissist... a schizoid sociopath. Oh, we've got lots of words for a waste of skin like you in the 'old world'! I bet DI Poole is right, though, you're impotent, useless, a dud, and that toy sword is your substitute for an undersized penis, if you even have one, which I doubt!"
She can see her words hit home pretty hard as Jack now shakes the knife at her, and not just as if he was making an obscene point. Ignoring the urging of the women inside to rush that blade, Camille crosses her arms and smirks, sullying her voice to match that of the thing she's infuriating. "Perhaps you're a sodomite and that's our fault too, hmm? I see you're holding DI Poole just a bit too intimately. He's very handsome, isn't he? Don't you just love his eyes? Does he turn you on? I don't blame you; you're not the first love-sick fool to want him, desire him."
Jack snarls at this, pushing Richard off slightly. "Yawr fulla fancy words, cunny, but I'll not be way-sided. I aim t' slice and dice both a yawr." The voice is calmer now, the gleaming knife snugged at Richard's throat. "And 'oo was it said we was Brits? I never claimed that, never once! 'oo wants t' be a poxy ponce in a powdered wig forever drinkin' awf tea outa china cups? Not me."
Richard Poole has been slandered, humiliated, smothered, throttled, cut, and yanked two ways at once, but at this particular insult, his left leg automatically jerks up and slams back, seeking a shin or, better still, a solid kneecap to shatter, only to meet with what might as well be smoke. He loses balance and stumbles. Jack cackles laughter and hoists him upright and clamps his throat so tightly Poole's head begins to swim…
END – part 5
Notes:
We know the term 'mollisher' nowadays by its short form, as in a gangster's moll.
The first female Metropolitan police officer with full powers of arrest was mother and midwife Edith Smith (1876-1923). She was warranted in August 1915.
'Cat' as a word for a prostitute, 'bully trap' for a natural fighter and 'limpsey in the dingus', no explanation necessary, are all slang terms which will prove telling in the next exciting installment.