Ethan’s plan was to take a nonchalant stroll, wandering the path to Buck’s Row where the murder took place, but first he had to scratch his itchy legs. Noticing the streets were still quite congested at 9:19 in the evening on the chilly Tuesday night, under cover of darkness, Ethan felt an advantage of anonymity that the daylight had robbed him of earlier, as he’d felt exposed to the eyes of all he had passed by. Now, shrouded in the shadows of dimly lit streets and alleyways, it didn’t trouble him to have his fancy physician shoes on. Sadly, they would still have to go, to be replaced by lesser quality footwear of these times, more prevalent in Whitechapel.

Having taken countless walks in a London of the future, sometimes attempting to deliberately get lost then find his bearings once more, to familiarize himself with every major road and narrow alley, his safety was not an issue in the 21st Century. Most of the areas he now walked would eventually be cleaned up and restructured for businesses to thrive and tourists to enjoy. What he found in this time was a need to be more aware of his surroundings because of the depravity, destitution and sheer desperation running rampant. The local gangs in the vicinity were also a major issue for anyone holding valuables. A dark alley and one club to the head and possessions were gone along with the assailants, perhaps a life lost in the process. Walking these side streets was the quickest route to Bucks Row. Traveling by Old Montague Street onto Bakers Row then onto Whites Row (which turned into Bucks Row) took Ethan roughly ten minutes, his brisk pace maintained, interrupted only by a few brief stops to scratch his tortured legs.

Once Ethan reached the location of the first murder it all became quite clear. It was “real” even in the dark of night. Walking through this narrow passage, workers’ housing on the left and large warehouses on the right, it was easy to see the strategic value of committing a violent murder in this area of town. For a predator of women, this environment was superb. A series of sick acts diagnosed as cowardly in nature, the obscurity of the dark not only allowed the assailant to remain unseen but added to the fear of his victims leading to the horrific attacks. In the distance, Ethan saw shadows moving through the rolling fog, a backdrop of lights coming from an open window or one of the few streetlamps. Scratch the legs. Scratch the legs.

According to detailed historical accounts, the corpse of Mary Ann Nichols was discovered on Bucks Row between 3:40 and 3:45 a.m., 31 August 1888. Found near the gate of an immense building being used as a boarding school, Nichols was first spotted by a warehouse worker by the name of Charles Cross who thought her body, because of the lack of light, was a discarded packing tarpaulin he’d hoped to use or flip for profit. Ethan could only imagine his surprise when realizing it was the body of a woman. Cross then waved down another workman on his way to a warehouse. Robert Paul and Charles Cross approached the victim, crouching near the woman’s body which lay prone on her back, the layers of her dress pulled up to her waistline. They both felt her face, which was still warm, but the hands and feet were cold. Her lack of a response confirming the woman had expired, neither of them had noticed the brutality of her demise, only that she was dead. Both men went in search of the police, leaving the body which would soon be discovered by Police Constable John Neil. Walking his Whitechapel beat, the constable wasn’t half an hour into his shift before coming upon the corpse, a rude awakening in the wee hours of the morning. Using his lamp he could see the blood and cuts to her throat.

Ethan knew this story like it was his own biography. Neil spotted a uniformed colleague passing the end of Bucks Row. Using his lamp to signal Police Constable John Thalin, letting him know of the gruesome discovery, he sent him to fetch Dr. Llewellyn. Meanwhile, the two warehouse workers, Paul and Cross, located Police Constable Mizen, alerting him to the location of the body. PC Mizen arrived shortly after PC Thalin went for the doctor who’d arrived at the crime scene at four o’clock. Examining the woman on site, he declared her deceased.

Having read all the reports, all the books, having seen each autopsy photograph released by the coroner’s office, imagery of these five victims branded on his brain, the history was ingrained in the man. Having studied every documentary made on the subject gave him a familiar sense of Whitechapel, not to mention the meticulous recreations conducted during numerous Flicker trials at The Valley. No arrogance to Ethan’s persona, in fact, quite the opposite, his natural humility was an attractive characteristic, a trait known to all. However, when it came to his knowledge of this case, there was no one dead or alive who knew it better. Ethan was confident in his belief that he had the upper hand, able to observe, even second guess a coldblooded killer, doing justice to due diligence of his research. It mattered not whether “Jack” had been street vermin (which was doubtful) or somebody politically connected or, by conjecture, someone in the medical profession, it was entirely irrelevant.

There were thirty-one suspects in the Whitechapel murder cases, yet the police never compiled enough evidence on any of them, failing to secure a conviction for even one of the murders committed during the Autumn of Terror. Ethan would be the only person to ever identify this killer but, more importantly, determine whether or not these women all fell under the same knife or if there were different assailants involved. Either way, he felt he’d have an advantage against any adversary, singular or plural. There were only a few more blank pages left to fill in for the history books of the future to be accurate.

Quite curious about the routes the killer used in and out of each murder scene, circling around his present location where Mary Ann Nichols (also known as Polly) was found by workmen then constables, Ethan paid close attention to all the details in the vicinity. Examining the periphery like a forensics specialist, he was trying to determine which direction the culprit had come from and which way he later exited the scene of the crime. Gaining perspective would give Ethan the best vantage point to observe from while scoping out the one responsible for the carnage. He’d scoured this locale a multitude of times in the 21st Century leading up to his jump but this was different, as he expected. This area had been torn up and rebuilt so many times since then, there was no way to get an accurate “first-person” perspective until now. Bucks Row was eventually renamed Durward Street, paved over in lieu of historic cobblestone. The boarding school remained intact though in considerable disrepair but it was still the best reference point for late night excursions back in the future. Being there in the “present” Ethan could not help but recall those solitary walks. It did not feel the same in 1888 as it had in 2020. Many a night he’d sensed the eerie sadness of the place as if the ghost of Mary Ann Nichols was right there beside him, helping him identify her killer. On this night he felt very much alone. There was no sense of her “presence” because the woman was still alive, dwelling somewhere in the East End of London, but not alive for long.

Ethan began to feel a few raindrops zapping him on the head. This was, indeed, London in every aspect, including the gloomy weather. Having been there at night, now he was eager to return in daylight to get a different perspective and detect any dangerous obstacles such as loose cobblestone that may later inhibit him during his observations. Ethan smiled, thinking “No stone left unturned!” He could not afford to succumb to any accidental loose footing in his arrival or departure from the scene of the crime on that night. The raindrops began falling in faster succession, causing Ethan to cut short his trip, expecting the miserably moist journey back to his room. He had no intention of retracing the same path he’d taken to Bucks Row. In all his training with The Consortium the one thing its military advisors drove home to him and the other Scopes was their first rule of reconnaissance: always believe someone is watching and never travel the same route twice.

Deciding to walk the two streets over from Bucks Row to Whitechapel Road, a route where the foot traffic was heavier, he could disappear into a crowd. The road took him back toward a main intersection at Whitechapel Road, Commercial Road and Commercial Street where he turned right toward his destination. Over the time required to travel to his lodging, the skies fully opened up and he was unavoidably drenched. Mud was splashing all over his shoes and newly purchased trousers were wet all the way up to his knees. At least the itching below the knees had subsided. Literally mud-stomping along Commercial Street returned him to his domicile just past midnight. Due to the late hour and a pouring rain, the streets had quieted down considerably. Passing through the door, the old, cranky innkeeper made some snide remark about his tenant being wet to the bone, accusing Ethan of tracking mud into the place. Ignoring the comment, he kept on tracking.

Up the stinky stairwell he went, leaving a trail behind him. He’d felt guilty until opening the door to his room, met with a worse roof leak than he’d been introduced to earlier in the day. Now the other side of the mattress he flipped over and around was soaked and the original drenching had yet to dry. That corner of the room had standing water on the floor...again. Ethan pulled the water bed farther away from the wall so he could at least attempt to get some sleep on the saturated mattress, one of many hardships the Londoners of this period had to contend with on a daily basis. For Ethan, he was certainly out of his element, conditions he considered roughing it. No electricity. No running water. No indoor plumbing. Candles and oil for light. Peeling off wet clothes, layer upon layer, like moist filo dough, a recipe for disaster if, due to exposure, should he catch a cold! Thankfully, his identification had been spared, tucked securely in a dry inside pocket. Sliding the documents underneath a pile of dry clothing on the desk, his journal had not fared quite so well. Pulling it from his pocket, he tossed it on top of the pile. The towel felt like coarse sandpaper against his soft skin but at least it scratched away the itchiness of his new wardrobe! Like his clothing, he’d have to air dry overnight to be ready for his morning jaunt. Soggy shoes were his greatest concern. No way would they dry! Ethan knew he’d be taking a suction cup-like stroll to the cobbler. He had a flash, a snapshot image of young Maggie heaving her blue satin heels across The Valley.

Curling his six-foot frame into a ball so to avoid the worst of the wet spots, he’d try to preserve some body heat cocooned in a blanket for the night. Even the pillow was unusable as the half-moon shaped drip from the ceiling focused its attention on the feather-filled head rest. With just over two months of this kind of night to look forward to, Ethan wished he just supervised the project and sent Colin in his place. Grinning in spite of his circumstances, truthfully, Ethan would not have missed this for the world. A few months of sacrifice for a lifetime of literature seemed a small price to pay for the privilege of putting pen to paper, scribing the actual account of the true identity of Jack the Ripper, not to mention his real time experiences in this century. As Ethan slowly drifted to sleep he imagined what his writing would entail, what he would have to share with the world. He dreamt about scratching himself in public, how his tailored pair of pants would feel. At the risk of appearing a bit too posh, perhaps he’d return to his original traveling clothes. It was only a dream.

Wednesday morning light poured in through the dusty windowpanes as rain had streamed through the ceiling the long night before; a bright and cheerful ray of hope delivered with the sunshine, greeting him cordially. Something Ethan didn’t usually say “hello” to without the accompaniment of coffee, he opened only one eye at first as if afraid it may burn his retinas. Naked as a newborn baby, he was unaccustomed to sleeping in the buff, never knowing when Colin might show up at his flat. There was a dull ache in his neck, no head support due to the waterlogged pillow. Sitting up, wishing he had a mental broom to clear the cobwebs, Ethan stood to take a look around. Assessing the damage done by the free of charge in-house waterfall, other than the ensemble he’d worn the night before, still dripping wet, the clothing Ethan purchased from Clemens was spared this drenching, as was his more formal attire. The “doctor” outfit was draped over the desk, some items folded on the chair tucked beneath it, safe and sound and as dry as a bone. Oh, how he longed to slip his itchy legs back into his luxurious trousers. Then again, he’d stick out like a sore thumb!

The clothes and hat, even the underwear he’d worn the night before during his inspection of Bucks Row were hours away from wearable again but the concerning part was his shoes, the only pair he had. There was no way around it. He’d have to wear them along with his soaked socks to go and get another pair or two of the local footwear. Gazing at the ceiling and walls, Ethan realized this was not going to work out. The purpose of renting a room was to get out of the elements, not share space with them. He remembered seeing a few boarding houses closer to Bucks Row and the London Hospital on Whitechapel Road. Though he’d be further from Ten Bells and his coffee, he would be more centrally located. Deciding to check out the area once some new shoes were purchased, he’d break them in with a necessary stroll to find a better place to stay in the East End. If memory served, he’d seen a rather nice establishment on his way to meet Clemens, the tailor, while over on Osborn Street. Relieved that his pocket watch had been spared a drenching, tucked safely beneath two layers of dry clothing overnight, Ethan checked the time. It was 8:38 a.m.

Desperate to come up with a plan that would allow him to avoid wearing those scratchy trousers purchased the day before, he had neglected to buy extra underwear when he had the chance. Now he was in a pickle. Itchiness around the leg area was one thing but to have to walk to the tailor with that much chafing was unfathomable. The only thing to do was to compromise. Opening the window to his room, sunlight came beaming through, bursting in with the cooler morning air. Hanging his cotton boxers and undershirt over the curtain rod, it seemed a perfect place to let them dry. In the time it would take to do so, Ethan would suffer the indignity, the torment of going “commando” for his trip to Ten Bells Pub. Coffee was that important. Taking one for the team, he hoped Anson would appreciate the humor in it upon his return. He knew that Colin would! The clothing would dry. It was only a matter of time. In the interim, he intended to write about this episode in his journal for all to enjoy!

Passing by the innkeeper’s window downstairs, Ethan quickly discovered why the man was scowling at him, stopping this tenant dead in his tracks. He had yet to pay his dues for another night’s stay in this tribute to the rainforest and was heading out the door. Perhaps part of the mumbling he had heard the night before was meant to remind him of such, but the notice was made quite clear by the man currently on duty. Ethan informed him that he would return shortly to take care of the bill, having no intention of doing so. He was rather rudely informed he had until noon to cover another night or he’d need to find another place. That he understood. No problem. Without saying so before departing, Ethan knew he would be moving on.

Stepping over the threshold, it was brilliant outside with the perfect temperature and breeze to remove almost all the pungent odors that had been holding his nostrils hostage since his arrival. After his marathon walk the night before, this trip to the pub was simply short and sweet except for the scratchiness of the trousers on, well, areas that should not be itchy in public. Arriving at his destination, Ethan found his favorite nook available. It was quiet in the pub; the menagerie from the night before had dispersed and were all likely at home sleeping it off. He was immediately met by the same server from the morning prior. Finding a vacant window seat available, she then introduced him to another cup of coffee. Ethan looked at her as if he was a starving beggar being given a hundred dollar bill. Asking if he could get whatever variation of eggs and potato were available from the kitchen, she knew what he had wanted and went off to place his order. Making the best use of time whilst waiting for breakfast, out came the journal along with the authentic Mordan Arrow pencil donated to the project by a generous collector. Unfortunately, the journal suffered wet edges but the leather cover did its job, protecting the pages. Like his clothing, it too would dry in time, exposed to the morning air and light of day. Staring into the blank page before him, he hardly knew where to begin. Before his arrival, Ethan wondered if it would be a trip interesting enough overall to make a dent in the dense journal. By this time, he was wondering if he’d need to purchase another to record it all!

***

Journal Entry ˜ 29 August 1888

Having completed the initial night reconnoiter of the Mary Ann Nichols murder location on Bucks Row, doing so gave me a clearer perspective on the best area to witness this first (collectively agreed upon) murder committed by Jack the Ripper. Unfortunately, the weather did not cooperate. I was flustered to have to cut my time there, shorter than expected. It would seem I will have to risk another night recon, hoping neither the police nor the killer are in the vicinity early Friday morning, at the same time I am choosing my best vantage point.

Before any plans for tonight there are plans for today. You’ll all get a laugh out of the stories I’ll tell you about the fabric torture I’m already being subjected to in this century, but paramount today is the finding of decent undergarments and a new place to lodge as the one I’m in has running water, literally running down the walls. There are some things no amount of research or rehearsal prepares you for and a flood is one of them. There is a tailor I have met by the name of Clemens who may refer me to a cobbler. That is my first order of business on the very busy day ahead.

There is still a considerable amount of time until the first murder, yet I fear the time will pass too quickly and it will be upon me with sudden impact. I’m ready but “ready” being a relative term in this living history, an era I find myself interacting with in relative ease, all things considered. Keeping my head down and pushing the “fly on the wall” persona to its perfection does not work in a place where everyone seems to depend or prey upon the other. Social interaction is the common place for marketers, racketeers and profiteers which, pretty much, encompasses the vast majority of the population and transients of Whitechapel. Silence seems to denote suspicion. An “eyes front, heads up” image relays to others, power and confidence. Tipping a hat to passing women or saying “no” to barterers on the street integrates me into the background scenery of the land. Perhaps this was what JTR figured out and used in his “cat and mouse” game with the authorities. Perhaps I have seen him and didn’t even realize it because I was looking at the ground in front of me, going about it all wrong. Learn and live, even among the dead. In less than forty hours, I will see Jack’s face. The question is, will it be the first time or have I already passed him on these streets? I have every advantage over him knowing this case inside and out, knowing everything except for his face. Breakfast is served!