A QUARTER AFTER TWO, I NOD TO THE FLOP-JOWLED barkeep at the Magic Flute for another, stifling a yawn. “And one for yerself, Freddy. So no one saw nothing?”
Freddy the Pug pours, scratching behind one floppy furred ear. “Not that I heard.”
My gullet burns, rage worse than liquor. Four bleeding hours, I’ve been fishing for the squeak on the Slasher. Prostitutes, publicans in a dozen bars, mountebanks and crossing sweepers and fake beggars on the slam. No one seen nor heard a god-rotted thing. And Miss Lizzie knows why.
All night, in smears of shadow, I’ve glimpsed the Dodger’s sly hand. Not the whale-man himself, to be sure. But I can smell his influence, slick like oil on water. Handsome Tom o’ Nine is surely dead, likewise poor Fishy. If the bloody Sultan’s been bought, who else could be my enemy? At first, I went seeking Johnny—never mind our spat, not with so much at stake—but no one’s seen arse nor eye of him.
Johnny’s in lavender. And that bothers me.
I sink my gin, slamming the cup down with a fiery grin. “And what did you hear, Freddy? Charley Tee-Hee laughing his greasy nuts off while he nailed your arse over the bar?”
Freddy just shrugs, plump black nose glistening. “I owes Charley a pony. I don’t owe you shit.”
“Kiss my arse,” mutters I, and turns away. “And the pony you rode in on, Pug.”
I shove through sweaty bodies and clouds of liquored breath towards the door. The Magic Flute is your down-market flophouse, not so posh as Mrs. Fletcher’s, with clapboarded windows, grime-soaked floorboards, and not much privacy. But at least it’s dry, the girls safe from the freezing night. Better than plying your trade in grim gaslit streets with blood-hungry monsters on the prowl.
The bar and gambling house here below is seedy and humid. Arc-lamps sputter, aether smoke mingling with hash. I squash Eliza’s dirty skirts past a rowdy card game, where a big-nosed dwarf in a red bowler hat roars laughter and hurls down the ace of spades with one pudgy fist.
Opposite, a scrawny cove in a fop’s striped trousers curls a finger up his nostril, digging out a shiny prize. Told you so. It’s Nose-Picker, Dodger’s stinky arse-licker whose name I always forget. I flips him a two-finger salute, and he rolls his milky glass eye at me and eats the snot. Fucking class act.
A ragged little girl skulks from table to table, shyly offering drooping daisies for a penny to men who ogle and drool. The fire sulks, a sullen red glow. Up against the wall, an exhausted whore in faded green skirts filches the purse from a fat cove’s pocket while he’s grunting between her legs.
Suddenly, I feel sick. That’s what I’m doing. Glorying in stealing a few pennies, while the world has its way with me. I spy the empty half of a loveseat, not too rank with spit or puke or whatever else, and plonk my gray-skirted arse down with a despondent sigh.
Time’s a-wasting. Eddie’s life is forfeit. And I’m no closer to catching the real Slasher than before.
“Fine gin-soaked mess you’re in, Lizzie,” announces I to no one in particular, “and no mistake.”
The bloke with his back to mine leans over, offering me his bottle. Finely tailored coat, brushed hat. Too rich a gent for this dive. “Have one on me, miss.”
“Don’t mind if I do, sir, and you’re a real gent.” Now there’s some proper manners, aye . . . but too slender and curved, this cove. Those shoulders too narrow. The light’s dim, but Miss Lizzie ain’t blind.
The lady—for it’s a she—eyes me defiantly. A strange, unearthly face, as if her skin’s pulled taut with pins. Dark waistcoat, silver buttons, gold watch chain with garnets. A fat blond braid curls on her shoulder.
“To each her own.” I raise the bottle to her, and swig, dark brandy burning my tongue—and choke it down the wrong way.
That jeweled watch chain.
Looks like you can afford the best. Out front of Mrs. Fletcher’s, the night Johnny and me found Eddie there. This gent-rigged lady, checking her watch in torchlight.
A toff square-rigged with a funny face. A-waiting the other to get his load off, Saucy May had told Rose. Two girls who’d laid eyes on the Soho Slasher. Two girls who were murdered.
My hackles prickle. Carefully, I hand the bottle back.
She reaches for it. Across the back of her hand shines a trio of angry red scratches.
Saucy May’s fingernails, stuffed with her murderer’s skin. That crackbrain Todd, his mouth twisted with disdain. How careless.
It’s someone who loves him.
I lick dry lips. “Cheers, handsome. I’m for a card game. Top o’ the night to yer.” Casually, I retreat to the back bar, willing my legs steady.
As soon as I’m out of sight, I bolt for the side door, heart thudding.
The Slasher’s here, choosing his next ugly game. And that odd-faced lady’s waiting for him. Covering up for him. Ready to kill any witness to his crimes. His mother? His sister? A lover, even?
Don’t know, don’t care. If I can find him—if I can lure him into my clutches and make him show himself for what he is—then the Slasher’s caught and Eddie goes free.
So long as I can stay alive.
Upstairs to the cathouse, three at a time.
I reach the top, dread boiling black in my heart. Can’t hear no screams or kerfuffle. Perhaps I’m too late, and the Slasher’s next game is already bleeding out.
I burst into a sweat-stinking parlor, where girls are getting down to business. The redhead, the blonde, the fat, the skinny, and the in-between, the Magic Flute has the full house of cards, and follows every suit. Soggy mattresses, scraps of straw, a threadbare coat over splintery boards. Who needs a bed when you’ll only take a minute or two?
One lucky girl’s got a chair, and she spreads her thighs over greasy upholstery and stares dully at the ceiling while she earns her pennies from a pile of heaving male flesh. Drunken drool trickles from her lip.
The scene makes me queasy. Ain’t no pleasure in this. Just animal need, loneliness and desperation and hunger, dumb urges never understood nor satisfied. Ain’t no game. This is survival.
But the Slasher needs privacy for his bloody how-dos. A room of his own with a subject who don’t say no.
From the back floats laughter and a muffled scream.
Shit. I run, dodging jerking bodies and piles of torn flock. One bloke curses at the interruption. The girls don’t even look up. Guess they’re accustomed to a bit of yelling now and then.
At the back lurks a single private room, for those with extra coin. I push the flimsy pasteboard door open. A tiny mold-rotted attic, the cracked window stuffed with rags. A taper sheds thin, wavering light.
The bed boards are strewn with a blanket. On it sprawls a girl, legs bent awkwardly, eyes wet with terror. She screams again, but it’s choked and feeble. A bloodstained scrap of her own skirt is stuffed into her mouth.
Above her lurches a man waving a scrape-whetted knife. Naked but for a fine but dirty frock coat, his mud-brown elflocks hanging. Slobber shines on his half-witted leer. The girl whimpers and struggles, but he’s broken her legs so she can’t crawl away. Subduing his subject. Refining his technique.
It’s Baby-Face, the posh-spoken oral enthusiast from Mrs. Fletcher’s. The cove in fancy britches, what I spied outside my window in Soho that rainy night. My gent-rigged lady’s loved one.
I sprint at him, hoping for surprise. But the girl sees me, and makes frightened grunts, “Mmph! Hnn!” He whirls, that blade slashing.
We collide, and I claw for his eyes.
He howls, face wobbling like a rubber water bag . . . and changes.
Aghast, I stagger back. Flesh stretching, bones contorting into grotesque shapes. His fingers cramp and straighten, soft then gnarly, joints cracking like sticks. His ragged hair slithers, mingling with limp blond locks that thrash and wriggle. Muscles shudder in agony, he shrinks and swells and shrinks again . . . and out falls a pale, shivering, weeping whip of a lad.
It’s Bertie. The King of friggin’ England.