Stephen Hunter - I, Ripper

At first we had no idea what the places were, and thought they might be brothels, but he stayed way too long for a brothel visit. Professor Dare volunteered to wait him out while I went back home to catch up on sleep.

The next day the professor reported that after the colonel had left, he himself entered to ascertain the nature of the vice and discovered it to be an opium den, where men of all races paid to lie on divans and a Chinaman would bring them long-stemmed clay pipes; they would imbibe (is that the term?) and pass into a trancelike stage, not quite sleep but more a tranquil semiconsciousness with their eyes locked on infinity, their bodies still, their breathing imperceptible, their minds voyaging to wherever. Since the drug was more of the sort that stilled the body than animated it, it would never act as an enabler of the kind of vigorous action that Jack demonstrated.

As the end of the first week of November approached, we had nothing except a load of information on three heroic officers guilty of only the petty sins of human yearning for various denominations of comfort. But if Professor Dare had lost faith in the veracity of his thesis, he never admitted it to me. Quite the opposite, he was adamant that it had to be one of these three, and as he pressed his case, perhaps I saw a hint of the violent zealotry of the kind that Harry Dam had reported. I do not mean there was threat in his behavior, just dogma. He knew, he knew, he knew. He could not be wrong. That was the bedrock of his conviction.

Iwrite this one quite drunk, ha ha. I felt I needed to real relacks relax. The pressure is building, I am crushed between lives, I am so close, but yet there is much to do. I will allow myself some diversion.

One place, ha ha ha, I knew to be safe was the Tailor’s Thimble, in Marylebone, far from the slough of despond called Whitechapel. It is uncharacteristic of me to let go, as I subject myself from long habit, long, long, long habit, to the utmost of disi discipline and letting go is is not a thing I do easily.

But the Thimble, in the afternoon, is largely empty, and so I sat and had three glasses, then a fourth, of champagne.

“Celebrating then, are we, sir?” a feller asks.

“Indubitably, friend. Feeling generous. Care for a glass?”

“Wouldn’t mind if I did, and thanking the gentleman kindly.”

So he scootched up on a stool and I nodded to the barkeep and soon enough my new friend was having a quaff of bubbly as well.

“Never had it before,” he said. “It tickles the nose.”

“It tickles more than that after time,” I said.

“What business is yours, sir?” he asked.

“I handle rearrangements,” I said. “Business is good. There’s a lot of rearranging to do. And you, sir, what would yours be?”

“I was a rigger. That is, sir, I rigged the ropework on the construction cranes we used in the digging of the tunnels of the Underground. Not just tunnels, sir, but buildings, too, bridges, anything requiring heavy weights moved and placed. Raised in the trade, trained by my father, who was trained by his before him. People take it for granted, but it’s a tricky business and, done wrong, can spell all sorts of mischief.”

“So when I sail blithely from the City to Marylebone or cross over a river wide and deep enough to drown a battalion, you’re the lad who made it happen?”

“A tiny part of it’s my work, sir. It was good work. I raised three kiddies and now all are in trade or honest labor.”

“Well, by God, sir, you’ve provided civilization with a long ton and a half more than I have. Here, porter, the bottle. This man drinks to his fill on my tab!”

The bartender scurried over, made a bottle ready with ceremony, and Mr. Hoyt, for such was the name, and I had a merry time together. He was quite a decent man and laughed at my bad jokes and puns, never grew intemperate even though the company had jettisoned him at sixty-five without so much as a farthing or a fare-thee-well. We both wept a tear for his wife, and agreed that liquor eased the pain.

“And you, sir? If you do not wish to speak, I understand. But somehow the burden is less when you share it, even for a bit, even with a stranger.”

“There was a woman, I lost her. There was a friend, I lost him. I hate them for the pain they caused, I miss them for the love they provided. It’s a banal story. Commonplace, pitiful. I try not to get all weepy, because in other respects, I was so lucky.”

“But it’s love that’s most important, now, isn’t it. When all is said and done, love is what lasts, or the pain of it missing, that lasts as well.”

“It’s surely so,” I said, turning to more bubbly.

Suddenly, it was November 6, which was just in advance of the high-water mark of the quarter-moon and the run of days most likely for Jack to express himself once again. We had to make a choice on which man to follow if indeed he went one of those nights.

“Tell me,” Dare said, “which of our three boys we should pick for our game, given that either he’s cleverly disguised his intentions or none of the three has a thing to do with this.”

“I would say we could abandon Major MacNeese. With his job’s long hours, his children underfoot, his wife’s love and engagement, he’s the least likely candidate. Leaving out of it how his brain works, the chap is too busy for Jack’s kind of all-night action.”

“I had hoped you would reach that conclusion. So of the others, Major Pullham and the heroic Colonel Woodruff, VC, which do you prefer?”

“The case for Woodruff is strongest.” I said. “He is alone all nights or in an opium den. His life is Spartan, dedicated to a duty that, it seems to me, is of dubious usage to the world, and therefore has more discipline for controlling himself for as long as he can. He comes and goes and reports to nobody. He does not drink with friends or hang about with other old soldiers. It’s as if he’s in mourning. So he, of the three, has by far the most ample opportunity, and given his battle experience and his long service s/ID, the most exposure to the sort of violence and carnage of which Jack is so happily author. He would be by far the most auspicious choice.”

“I have reached the same conclusion,” he said.

“As for the adventurous rake Major Pullham, he is clearly a kind of sex maniac, but not our kind of sex maniac. He lives to have intercourse.”

“He does indeed.”

“So he engineers such a thing at each opportunity, plus keeping up a busy professional life and being a willing partner in Lady Meachum’s ambitious social plans, which means he must be all ritzied up for suppers, brunches, weekends in the country, even the odd ball or masquerade, as those of that class are so idiotically inclined to do. So the question must be asked: How would he have time? He’d have to plan like a genius, and though he’s clearly a gallant sport, there’s no indication he’s a genius.”

“It would not seem so.”

“However …” I said.

“Yes.”

“The rings. We are forgetting that Jack took Annie’s wedding rings.”

“Your point?”

“Rings are treasure. Goods. Material things. Clearly, Major Pullham needs to prosper. Though he is not primarily a thief, he could not help but snatch something there that he thought had value. For Woodruff, there seems to be little of the material world in his mind. He does not have, he does not acquire, he has no interest in things. They insult him. His acts are pure.”

Dare considered. “The point is well constructed. I would not have thought of it.”