Ethan had slept so soundly, when he woke up he absolutely forgot where in the hell he was and jumped up in somewhat of a panic, the kind of sleep when he didn’t even remember dreaming. It was dark already. He hadn’t lit the candles in his room prior to laying down, assuming he would awaken within a couple of hours. Leaving him to find his way in the dark, in search of the stick matches, once located, he lit his lodging and immediately looked at his timepiece. It was 6:40 p.m. Disoriented, Ethan hoped it was still Wednesday and he hadn’t missed his date at Ten Bells Pub. Deciding to run downstairs to the first floor and find someone to verify the date, he had to be discreet about it so no one would think he was insane. Redressing into an acutely uncomfortable outfit, it felt like being imprisoned, again.

Approaching the manager’s window he found a night watchman instead. Done for the day, Maggie’s friend Nigel had gone.

“Good evening, sir.” The man was alert, acknowledging his tenant at once.

“Hello, sir.” Ethan said with a nod. “I am a bit curious. For a Wednesday night, the common area downstairs seems very quiet. Is that typical?”

“Well, sir, most stayin’ ‘ere work ten or twelve hours a day and ain’t home yet. Those who are mostly go right to their rooms and right to bed. Usually picks up on the weekends but normally its quiet ‘ere.”

“I see.” Ethan felt relieved knowing he hadn’t slept through to Thursday night. Now he needed to get to the pub for dinner, as he’d promised Maggie he would.

Returning to his room, Ethan could now gather an ensemble from an assortment of shirts, pants, socks and shoes plus a few accessories for his evening out. He used the wash basin to clean up, already having been filled with fresh water for the new tenant, a nice touch and much appreciated. Dressed and ready, Ethan found this inn secure enough to leave his medical bag behind as he headed out to Ten Bells Pub.

Travel to the pub was now a longer walk, about ten minutes to eat safe food. He fit right in, tipping his hat to the ladies as he passed, picking up the pace when he passed one he’d presumed to be a lady of the evening, lest she pay him some mind. Arriving at his destination, it was even more crowded than the previous night. There really wasn’t much to do for entertainment in the era but to drink, socialize and play cards. Filtering through the crowd, he felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Maggie.

“Beginnin’ to wonder if ya was comin’. Missed ya tea. D’ya oversleep?” She’d had to shout to be heard above the rowdy crowd of patrons getting drunk.

“My apologies.” Ethan said.”That may be the most comfortable sleep I’ve had in a long time!” His enthusiasm was infectious. She considered it a compliment.

Maggie laughed, taking Ethan by the arm. She held a table for him in the corner away from the drunkards. Seating him, she told him she had a surprise for his dinner then went to the kitchen straightaway, returning only minutes later with a fresh cup of coffee and a glistening game hen surrounded with roasted potatoes, a sumptuous platter prepared just for him.

“You didn’t pay for this, I hope.” Ethan asked.

“Bloody hell, no!” Maggie laughed as heartily as he was about to eat. I’d o’ had to if ya hadn’t showed up! Oh no, you’re a payin’ for this and then some! I figured ya was hungrier for somethin’ besides rabbit stew. It’s been keepin’ in the oven.”

She was right. He hadn’t eaten a thing since breakfast and had worked up quite an appetite, incredibly hungry after his long walk. Diving right into the meal, Ethan began consuming the delicious food with a primal fervor. Maggie stood there at the table for a bit, enjoying him, satisfied that she’d made a good choice on his behalf. Another one. He was so focused on the food, he didn’t even notice that she was still there until she spoke again.

“Me shift’s almost over. I’ll be back with the beer yer buyin’ me.”

Waving a drumstick her way, he smiled, his mouth too full to speak. He would later feel a pang of regret, realizing he had not thanked her yet, feeling obliged. Her kindness toward him had warmed his belly, a direct route to his heart.

Watching him from a distance, this server took her charge seriously, returning to the table to clear what miniscule scraps remained the moment he was finished.

“Thank you, Maggie, it was wonderful and so are you. Absolutely wonderful.” Ethan glowed with gratitude. Wiping his mouth with his hands, his only option, not a napkin in sight, he rubbed them together then laid them on his stomach, a gesture indicating his complete satisfaction with the meal. Sublimely sated, he punctuated his pleasure. “My compliments to the chef...and the server.”

Maggie glowed with perspiration and a hint of embarrassment. “Tell me, what bloke talks like that, I ask ya? An odd bird, Arthur Bridgeman, that’s what y’are.” The feisty middle-aged woman talked back, blushing like a schoolgirl.

Paying his bill along with a generous tip for her, Maggie went into the back of the pub to clear the debt then sign off her shift, returning with a pint in hand and a few more colorful stories to tell. Her memory served him well. Receiving quite the education, Ethan soaked it in the same way he’d sopped up the juice from his plate with his last piece of bread. Absorbing every word, committing it to mind, making memories of his own, Ethan was entranced and enchanted by living in the history.

Once again the two of them sat for hours and chatted. This time Maggie had fun pointing out different patrons in the pub and telling Ethan some of the dirty laundry about them she had picked up over time. No names, just the faces and their stories. He found it all quite entertaining to hear about these people, making mental notes, intrigued by how similar the tales were to the people he knew from the 21st Century. Infidelity, corruption, embezzlement, frauds and con artists would stand the test of time. “The more things change....” Ethan thought then shook his head, a believer.

Ethan was amazed by the transformation in Maggie from a midday sober, sunny lady to a woman who could adeptly put away four to five real ales without showing any sign of inebriation, although she was a trifle more flirty and sociable than usual. He wondered how much she would have to drink to actually get drunk. They spoke metaphorically of life and death, love and pain. Ethan continued savoring his coffee while Maggie ordered yet another beer. Offering to buy her own after the third pint, he refused to hear of it, knowing she wasn’t trying to take advantage of his generous nature. It was simply the way she lived, assimilating alcohol into her system as if it was water, as if immune to the effects.

Monitoring his time on the pocket watch, he needed to be on his way by 10:00 p.m. and it was already ten minutes past the hour. It was time to do one more check of the Bucks Row region of Whitechapel...time to go. Disappointed, Maggie took notice of his need to leave.

“I know.” Slurring her words, “You’ve someplace to be. I wish ya could stay.”

Maggie seemed a bit tipsy, sentimental in the way drunks sometimes get before they fall asleep, though he didn’t think of her at all that way. In fact, he thought she held her beer remarkably well, better than he ever could. Impressive! However, by sheer volume, the beverage she’d ingested was beginning to take a toll on her senses and her speech. Rising from his chair, Ethan left another tip on the table, thanking his gracious hostess again for all she did for him then bowed out with a reasonable explanation and was soon through the door and down the road.

Looking up into the night sky, he saw nothing but stars above, giving him hope that this night’s weather would be more favorable than the last. No need for another drenching. Returning to the street where his lovely newfound quarters were located, at Bakers Row, Ethan was only a street or so away from Bucks Row, where destiny would unfold. He actually liked this arrangement better. A nice walk to and from a meal at the pub, a quick route to and from his first research vicinity, it seemed quite convenient, giving new meaning to the phrase “falling into place”.

Taking Whites Row then crossing Thomas Street, passing Court Street and then reaching the old boarding school, he would again find himself at the future murder scene of the distant past. His pocket watch read 10:36 p.m. Ethan knew he had to take his time on this expedition, planning to stay later. He had to see who came and went in the area. Perhaps the killer was surveying it, as well. He would not be able to identify who it was but could certainly tell if somebody else was conducting the same type of surveillance, quickly moving in and out of dark shadows, scoping out the best vantage point from which to observe...or to strike.

As a few commoners passed by or a constable came strolling along on his beat, Ethan would determine if he could remain unseen in the shadows as they passed. If he were to be spotted and questioned he had his credentials at the ready, prepared, a story to tell. His only worry, an incessant itching and scratching, a dead giveaway. No proper doctor would be caught dead looking or acting the way Ethan did. It was an awful distraction at a time when he needed to maintain complete focus on a job unlike any other, stuffed inside an outfit he could not tolerate and a reaction to it he could not control. Though he was becoming more accustomed to the annoyance, it was on his mind; distraction could spell disaster. Deciding to heed Maggie’s advice, he’d purchase some protective stockings as soon as possible. With this addition to his wardrobe, he might just survive his trip to the 19th Century, after all. Maggie’s presence was a comfort to him in many ways, his only friend. She’d proved a good ally in his battle to adapt to this century’s discomforts. Certainly the new room and a steady source of coffee should sustain him for the duration of his stay.

Ethan remained out in the area until 3:40 in the morning, the time around when Mary Ann Nichols’ body was found. He was now less than twenty-four hours away from witnessing the actual event as it occurred, the thought of which sending a chill through the man. Needing to head back to his lodging for some rest, his prolonged nap might interfere with that process but he had the utmost confidence in a magical new bed ready and waiting to wrap its arms of comfort and security around him and sing him a lullaby of silence and solitude. Arriving at his new digs, the manager on duty never even peaked out to see who was coming in, probably not as necessary to be quite as diligent at his post as on the busy Commercial Street, or he was just too lazy to look out from the office.

Back in his room, Ethan lit only one candle then disrobed for bed. He peered out the window onto Bakers Row. There were only a few people walking by then, most likely on their way to an early work shift, others staggering home inebriated. Then there were those who had no money for lodging, which was all too common a theme during these times. Far too many homeless souls had no choice but to locate a quiet doorway or a dirty gutter to sleep in, no way to live. The night had its many secrets and just as many tragedies. In the summer or early autumn living in the streets really had no elemental dangers but as days passed and winter approached, the conditions quickly became a far more prolific serial killer than Jack the Ripper, claiming more lives than any murderer in history. Blowing out the candle, Ethan crawled into bed. Though he’d meant to write in his journal, fatigue won in the end.

That night he dreamed of music. He was a conductor of a symphony orchestra, playing Tchaikovsky’s “Waltz of the Flowers”. Some of the faces were familiar to him as they followed his direction with clockwork precision. There was Anson on the Tuba, Drakes and Clemens on tympani, Colin on the harp and Sparks on piano. As for the young, 21st Century Maggie, she held the violin as 19th Century Maggie played the flute. Other faces obscured by shadows, their music was sublime, yet he knew and felt the eyes of all the orchestral members directly on him, watching every motion of his hands. When he awoke at one point in the night, Ethan saw his hands outstretched across the quilt, still conducting as he was coming out of this dream. He laughed, turning onto his side then fell right back into an even deeper slumber, surrendering his subconscious mind to sleep.

Waking to a far less pressing day of activity, Ethan knew it from the start; there could be nothing hectic about it. This was the day to relax and focus: breathe. Today was more of an exercise in psychological preparedness for tonight, or so he thought. He knew it was necessary to walk Bucks Row at least one time in the daylight. He’d truly be meticulous in his search for loose stones or any hazards posed by moving in the dark of night, as footing could cost him an injury or worse, detection. Tonight, he thought, with any luck the risks would be minimal and the observation would go without a hitch. First he was going to check on something that may be a time saver. Once dressed, he went downstairs to the public area on the first floor. There were three people either having a late breakfast or early lunch, the time being 10:33 a.m. There was a pot of coffee one of the men was pouring into a cup.

“Good morning.” Ethan approached the stove. “Is the coffee complimentary?”

All three tenants snickered beneath their breath at Ethan’s peculiar question.

“The manager’s got grounds and tea for sale.” The man pouring his own looked at Ethan, assuming his funds were meager. “Here, have some of mine, old chap.”

“How very kind, sir. Thank you.” Ethan lifted a cup and saucer from the table. The brew had a bit of a bite to it, but then again, the only bad coffee is no coffee so he was happy to have it, thanking the gentleman again as he left.

Feeling brave, he decided to take a stroll over to Whitechapel Road. Perking up his appetite, the coffee got him moving. Ethan had seen a few eateries in his travels, some serving food much closer to where he now resided. Ten Bells Pub would have to wait for dinner. He’d likely see Maggie for a bit while he dined before his Scope work began in earnest. For the time being he’d be content to purchase something to take with him on his trip over to Bucks Row.

There is a trick to finding good food in a new town. Follow the line. Just beyond Turner Street on Whitechapel Road was a place that only had a window. The locals staying at his lodging told Ethan they cook the best bangers and mash in the entire area and the line for orders was always a dozen people deep. It was run by a family; mother and daughter cooked and the father ran the concession window. It took him almost ten minutes to reach the window, almost ten whole seconds to eat it. Another example of all the additives of the future tainting the full flavors of food, he savored the delicacy because he had more than his share of bangers and mash in and around Oxford, yet this was perhaps the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted. Enjoying his meal ever so much, Ethan indulged himself, doing something Colin Bishop would do. He got back in line for a second helping. Asking the proprietor to double wrap it, he bought a bottled lemonade for the journey.

One road down was Corner Street which took him directly back to Bucks Row. Ethan located a secluded spot across from the boarding school and sat on the ground with his back up against the wall of row houses. Nibbling on a second order of food, he washed down the bits with his beverage. All the while Ethan was thinking. Every last detail of the murder engrained in his memory, he visualized the timeline like a calendar leading up to and after the death of Mary Ann “Polly” Nichols. He’d seen the months passing before his mind’s eye, coming to this day, 30 August 1888, the day before the night of her death.

Suddenly those bangers and mash were not sitting so well. Ethan dreaded the actual event so much, the thought of it was literally turning his stomach. Before the jump he had been totally detached from the reality of these brutal slayings. Having interacted with Drakes and Clemens and Maggie and other assorted living persons from this time, it gave him pause, reconsidering the concept. What he was about to witness tonight was very real. Now, more than ever he needed to apply his logical, disciplined training, the scientific mindset to get through what would be a horrible scenario happening in real time in front of him. He had to remind himself to detach from the reality and objectively watch it unfold. He could not afford to care.

As he sat there, a small boy who was passing by stopped and stared at his food. The lad was all of seven or eight. Big brown eyes and brown hair with bangs draped across his cheeks, pants too short and shoes too large, he licked his lips as he stared, obviously an orphan living on wits alone. Ethan thought of Oliver Twist and could not resist offering the young boy what remained of his meal, a gesture of kindness. Snatching it from Ethan’s hands lest the man change his mind, the poor boy ran off yelling “Thank you, sir!” as Ethan thought, “The guttersnipe I’ve just fed may have been Tony Blair’s great grandfather!” He smiled sadly, seeing such a desperate act of self-preservation or the epitome of self-service. Either way, it broke his heart to see a child suffering on the streets, the plight of too many children in this dark era. He seemed to Ethan to be a survivor. There but for the grace of God. Who to bless them and keep them safe?

Standing, sipping the last of his lemonade, he intended to walk the area in front of him one more time. Scrutinizing this place was imperative. He had to know each cobblestone in every alleyway, especially along the main drag of Bucks Row where history recorded the location of the body’s discovery. There could be no obstacles, no debris visible that may endanger his mission in the early hours of tomorrow. He should be able to slip in and out of the zone with ease. His knowledge of constables on duty and their standard shift routes provided Ethan with an accurate timetable in which to maneuver into place without risk of detection. He’d recalled a memorable moment from his past, serving to remind him of the solitary nature of his work.

Ethan began reminiscing about times when he’d taken Colin to this spot, having him play the role of Jack the Ripper. Colin enjoyed it when Ethan invited him along. He would look for lovely female tourists in the area and tell them he was portraying Jack the Ripper and needed a “victim” for his research while Ethan scoped out the different vantage points from which to observe. He appeared so sweet, so innocent, they would always agree to play along. As the “Bishop” on the chessboard, moving his angular strategy to coerce the pretty players, he was a caractère naturel for the part, even the devilish grin Ethan supposed the truly fiendish killer donned during his brutal attacks. At The Valley Colin reprised the role and used the same approach on the young female Flicker trial staff. Sometimes he wished Colin had come back with him, as a second pair of eyes and his lighthearted attitude would go a long way toward easing the gravity of the task, the weight of its inherent responsibilities, but there was no way Colin would ever cope with these trousers or the living conditions. Ethan thought, “No way Colin would come here!” Scratch that thought. Scratch that leg. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. He knew tonight would not be an opportune time to be itchy anywhere. His next stop would have to be on Thomas Street to purchase some undergarment stockings. As the time was fast approaching, Ethan could sense the darkness of it now, no laughing matter.