Anno Dracula

23

HEADLESS CHICKENS

It was as if the city were on fire!

Beauregard was at the Café de Paris when the cry went up. With Kate Reed and several other reporters, he ran to the police station. The street was full of people running and shouting. A masked lout, a dozen assorted crucifixes strung about his neck, drunkenly smashed windows, yelling that the Judgement of God was at hand, that vampires were Demons of the Pit.

Sergeant Thick was minding the shop. A come-down for the detective, but a responsible position. Apparently, Lestrade was at the murder site and Abberline off duty. Kate dashed out to find Dutfield’s Yard, but Beauregard decided to stay.

‘Nothing we can do yet, sir,’ the sergeant said. ‘I’ve put a dozen men out, but they’re just blundering in the fog.’

‘Surely the murderer will be covered in blood?’

Thick shrugged. ‘Not if he’s careful. Or if he wears a reversible.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

Thick opened his grey tweed coat and showed a tartan interior. ‘Turns inside out. You can wear it both ways.’

‘Clever.’

‘This is a bloody messy job, Mr Beauregard.’

A couple of uniformed constables dragged in the window-smasher. Thick hauled off the struggling man’s flour-sack hood and recognised one of John Jago’s fearless Knights of Christendom. The sergeant cringed away from the Crusader’s whisky breath.

‘The unholy leeches shall be...’

Thick balled the hood and shoved it in the vandal’s mouth.

‘Lock him up and let him sleep it off,’ he ordered the constables. ‘We’ll talk about charges when the shopkeepers get up tomorrow and see what damage he’s done.’

For the first time Beauregard was at hand when the murderer was about his business, but he might as well be safe in bed in Chelsea for all he could do.

‘Headless chickens, we are, sir,’ Thick said. ‘Running around in bloody circles.’

Beauregard hefted his sword-cane, and wished the Ripper would come out and fight.

‘Cup of tea, sir?’ Thick asked.

Before Beauregard could thank the sergeant, a warm constable, out of breath, shoved through the doors. He took off his helmet, gasping.

‘What is it now, Collins? Some fresh calamity?’

‘He’s gone and done it again, sarge,’ Collins blurted. ‘Two for a penny. Two in one night.’

‘What!’

‘Liz Stride by Berner Street, now a bint called Eddowes in Mitre Square.’

‘Mitre Square. That’s off our patch. One for the City boys.’

The boundary between the jurisdictions of the Metropolitan and City Police ran through the parish. The murderer, between crimes, had crossed the border.

‘It’s almost as though he’s trying to make us look complete bollock-heads. He’ll be ripping them outside Scotland Yard next, with a note for the Commissioner written in scarlet.’

Beauregard shook his head. Another life wasted. This was no longer just a commission from the Diogenes Club. Innocent people were being killed. He felt an urgent need to do something.

‘I had the news from PC Holland, one of the City blokes. He said this Eddowes...’

‘Name of Catharine, I reckon. A familiar face around these parts. Spent more time sleeping it off in our cells than wherever she was lodging.’

‘Yeah, I reckoned it’d be Cathy,’ said Collins, pausing to look upset. ‘Any rate, Holland says the bastard finished his job this time. Not like with Liz Stride, just a slash at the throat and a scarper in the dark. He was back to his usual, and gutted her proper.’

Thick swore.

‘Poor bloody Cathy,’ Collins said. ‘She was a dreadful old tart, but she never did anyone no harm. Not real harm.’

‘Poor bloody us, more like,’ Thick said. ‘After this, unless we get him sharp-ish, it’s not going to be the easy life being a copper in this parish.’

Beauregard knew Thick was right. Ruthven would have someone important’s resignation, maybe Warren’s; and the Prince Consort would probably have to be restrained from impaling a few lower-ranking policemen, pour encourager les autres.

Another messenger appeared. It was Ned, the fleet-foot from the Café de Paris. Beauregard had given him a shilling earlier, pressing him into the service of the Diogenes Club.

Thick glowered like an ogre and the child skidded to a halt well away from him. He had been so eager to bring Beauregard a message that he had dared venture into a police station. Now, his nervousness was reasserting itself; he trod as gingerly as a mouse in a cattery.

‘Miss Reed says you’re to come to Toynbee ’All, sir. Urgent.’