ONCE BITTEN

TWO: OLIVIA NOVA

i

With no firm trace of death for Mercedes Grabowksi's murder and no solid trace evidence, Inspector Bitten's investigation bore little fruit. His initial report made some significant waves however, and two days later became assigned to a new small investigative unit based on St John's Street, leading to Smithfield Meat Market, and just beyond St Bartholomew's hospital.

Constable Wilk and Dr Loup were amongst a handful of individuals seconded to this unit, dubbed the Special Investigative Division, or SID. The unit remained outside the regular CID chain of command, in that it reported directly to a particular agent of the Home Secretary's office.

That agent made it abundantly clear to all involved that Jack the Ripper had vanished off the face of the public Earth for good, but that their job would be to stop him. The agent explained that the consequences of failing the trust placed in them were too dire to merit elaboration.

Not that it would all be stick, of course. The dangling carrots of success were equally generous. One well knew the importance of balancing threat and blandishment.

Early in the morning of the 28th of January 1890, some ten days after the birth of the SID, Inspector Bitten sat at his desk, blearily poking at some lukewarm toast with cooling tea. Constable Wilk shook him out of his reverie, by approaching his desk, with an odd mix of unhappiness, diffidence, and excitement.

"Pardon me, Inspector. I've got... There's been another one, sir."

Bitten sagged in his seat a moment before forcing himself to straighten.

"I see. What do we know?"

"She is known at the local station. Olivia Nova, a working girl from Yorkshire. They found her body a little after midnight in a storeroom by some drunkard looking for a place to doss down. Local uniforms have kept a tight lid on it so far, as best they can, word's gone out about us, but they say the bloke what found her blundered around a bit before raising his hue and cry. The lads who responded had a little look-see as well. But that's how we know who she was. One of them knew her. There's some basic information on her here, from notes we had on a some of minor infractions. Says here in the notes they gave me that she'd been in town for less than six months, and on the streets for only two. She had a dream of singing on the stage, by all accounts."

The Inspector grunted.

"This is not a kind city for dreamers. Associates?"

"Two friends, other girls. We have an address for one."

"Very well. Let's take Dr Loup to go to examine the body."

The three men made their way to Noel Street, where Olivia Nova had been found. Constable Wilk spotted the location of the storeroom first. A young constable, even younger than Wilk, stood stationed in front of a thick pair of doors, which stood slightly ajar. They looked to be made of stained oak, banded for security. A heavy lock had been set into the wood, its key jutting out with pride, and their brushed steel gleaming in the morning light.

Dr Loup went inside to begin his examination of his patient. Bitten eyed him for a moment, then sighed.

"Wilk, see if you can find the fellow who uses this store and gather him up. I'll want a chat with him. First, I'm going to see if I can rouse this friend of the victim's."

January Seraph lived on Long Lane, north-east of Bitten's new office. It remained a gloomy morning, and by the time he'd made his way into the hinterlands between Whitechapel and Bethnal Green he felt cold. The bleak impoverished surroundings did little to help.

The address on Miss Seraph's file turned out to be little more than a room with intact walls and a roof within partly collapsed shell of a larger structure. She responded quickly enough to his calls, however and appeared at the curtained doorway wrapped in blankets, as wary as any wild doe.

The Inspector took a step back to give her a little more space.

"Are you Miss January Seraph?"

Her eyes narrowed.

"What if I am?"

"I'd like to ask you a couple of questions about Olivia Nova."

"I ain't saying nothing against Olivia. If that's all, y'can..."

He held up a hand.

"I'm afraid it's not like that."

Miss Seraph's face crumpled, and she sagged against the doorway.

"Oh. Oh, God. Is she...?"

"Yes, I'm afraid she's passed away. I'm sorry."

He gave the woman a moment or two to collect herself.

"Did you see her last night?"

The woman nodded.

"We were working Magnolia Close. Some fancy lad came up to her around ten-thirty. Tall, posh clothes, long coat, topped, the works. Made his way straight to her through the crowd. I didn't take much of a look at his face. I mean, it's not done, is it? Why didn't I take a look at his face? I thought this was all over, damn it."

"It is."

Bitten lied bleakly.

"Jack is gone, and we'll get the scum who killed your friend, too. Was there anything else you noticed?"

"I watched Olivia and her feller go off arm in arm, and head towards Aldgate. I remember he had a cane. I supposed he was about five foot nine without his boots or hat. Something whereabouts. I wanted to follow them. Make sure she stayed safe."

"Why didn't you?"

"From the shadows came a dog, yet he looked more like a wolf. It looked at me, staring with almost human eyes. The only sound is his breathing, his flaring nostrils, sniffing the air. He curled up his gums to reveal yellow stained teeth and then let out a low rumbling growl."

"What did you do?"

"I yelled waving my arms about and it ran off."

I deliberated for a few moments.

"Very well. If you hear anything else, tell a bobby you want a word passed to Inspector Bitten. They'll get a message to me."

"I will."

Her voice sounded fierce all of a sudden.

"Nail that bastard, Inspector. Crucify him!"

He nodded and left.

Inspector Bitten picked his way back westwards, the streets seeming even nastier than they had twenty minutes earlier. When he got back to the murder site, he found himself in a foul mood.

Wilk waited for him outside the storeroom with a pale, sweaty man dress in clothing better than his shoes suggested he should afford. A tailor, most likely. He looked to be about five foot eight.

Bitten approached the fellow.

"Detective Inspector, thank God! Nicholas Stratton. You have to believe me."

The man babbled flat-out.

"I don't know a thing about any of this. You do believe me, right? I was nowhere near here last night. I hardly ever even need to use this storeroom. My main workshop is Charterhouse Street, and that's got all the space I need at the moment. In truth, I lost the key to this store six months ago, somewhere in St James's Park, I think. I go to visit my granddad there sometimes. I can't imagine how anyone found it and opened the place up to use for a murder. God, you have to believe me."

"Why should I? Frankly Mr Stratton, I suspect that you're a liar."

"What? I swear to you I am telling you the truth."

"Mr Stratton. You claimed to have lost the key in a park six months earlier, but even setting aside the difficulty someone discovered it would have to find the lock that it fits, it's still gleaming. If it had been out in the open for that length of time, it would be rusted and dirty."

ii

Nicholas Stratton stared at Inspector Bitten, eyes bulging. His skin tone faded further shading towards grey. His mouth worked a few times, but little noise came out. The Inspector shook his head.

"Mr Stratton, I think we should move this discussion to me headquarters. You might have information useful to our inquiries. I'm not arresting you right now, not if you agree to come down voluntarily. Are you prepared to co-operate?"

"Yes."

Stratton managed.

"Capital. Wilk, please take Mr Stratton back to the SID and furnish him with a cup of tea. I'll follow you back in a little while."

            "Of course, sir."

            Wilk said.

            "Mr Stratton?"

The tailor nodded dumbly and permitted the younger man to lead him off. The Inspector watched as they made their way down the alley and out of view, and shook his head.

            A moment later, Dr Loup stuck his head around the side of the storeroom door.

"An interesting development, Inspector?"

The Doctor whispered.

            "Not especially."

Bitten said.

"He doesn't really seem self-possessed enough to be out fellow. Probably not even for this particular victim. But I'll have the truth out of him."

            "Well, I suspect this morning's patient is the work of the same hand as the previous."

"Oh?"

            "The strokes forming the numbers are similar. There are other indicators, but that is the cleverest for the laity, I'd say."

            "I'm hardly an amateur, Loup."

            "Quite so, Inspector. Quite so."

Bitten sighed.

            "So, there's another message?"

            "Yes. This one is carved down the length of the spine after death, from the back of the neck down to the coccyx."

"What does it say?"

"26-02-1890."

"Jesus Christ."

"What do you think it means, Inspector?"

Bitten shook his head.

"Trying to decipher such communications means buying into the killer's games. It's a good way to end up tied in knots."

"As you say, Inspector. Would you like to examine the patient?"

"Once you've had her transported back to the SID's facilities, yes. I'd rather save my examination of the scene for when it's a little quieter. It's not as if there haven't already been several people messing it around already."

Loup's eyes gleamed oddly.

"Certainly, Inspector. I'll ensure that the scene is as well-preserved as possible when my patient is removed."

"I'm sure you will, Doctor."

Bitten left him to it with a certain feeling of relief. He took a circuitous route back to his de facto station. The crowds were thick on Charterhouse Street, thronging to and fro. Lots of smallholders and shopkeepers were out trying to tempt passers-by with their wares, with limited signs of success.

Stratton's main premises were a fairly small shop, the facing painted in royal blue with 'STRATTON AND SONS, TAILORS' blazoned over the door with silver paint. Various persons were visible within, but who were staff and who were customers was unclear from the outside. From the stock on show, Stratton had a particular line in waistcoats. There seemed little benefit to entering the shop, at least on this occasion, so he continued on his way.

The Inspector meandered southwards and eastwards, trying to get a feel for the mood of the public. Old Street seemed very subdued, but the fire that had destroyed Angelo's Clocks, the Corn Exchange and the Farriers House had only been four days earlier.

One of Angelo's men had died trying to protect the delicate stock, and his funeral was due this weekend. With the blackened timbers still fresh, it remained no surprise the people on the street were quiet. Otherwise, the area appeared to be its usual boisterous self.

The evening would tell a great deal more whether word had started to spread amongst the working girls, but so far, the populace were unaware. It the Inspector had mixed feelings about the benefits of ignorance, he kept them well buried, out of the way of his conscience.

And the whole time he walked, he felt someone, or something was watching him. Prowling like a predator, waiting to pounce. It made him feel uneasy. But there again everything about this case made him feel uneasy. Frightened even.

When he got back to the SID station, the tailor had been waiting for him in the interview room, nursing what Wilk said was his second cup of tea. The man gave the impression of being somewhat more composed than he had earlier, but he still had a sheen of sweat on his brow, and a touch of wildness about the eyes.

            "How has he been?"

Bitten asked.

            "Quiet, sir."

            Constable Wilk replied.

"A little jumpy, though, sir."

            "Well. Maybe he's ready to talk some sense."

Bitten poured himself a mug to tea and joined the tailor in the interview room. The fellow flinched as he entered but forced himself back to a regular sitting position, twitching only now and again.

"Good morning, Mr Stratton."

"Detective Inspector. Good to... That is, I hope you, um. I hope you enjoyed your walk. Back here, that is. Um..."

Stratton tailed off.

"Very instructive."

Bitten said, keeping his voice calm.

"Oh. Um."

"I'm sure this won't take long. Perhaps you could talk me through your movements last night, Mr Stratton."

"I stayed in the shop until seven p.m. That's easy. Plenty of lads saw me there. I close up when I leave unless someone needs to finish up a piece, so I ushered them out and locked up. Then, well, I have a house in Mile End."

"You're married?"

"No. Engaged to a lovely woman from Highgate."

A smile flickered across his face.

Bitten nodded.

"Is that where you went after leaving work?"

"I, um, no. No, I went for supper. They do a lovely bit cod at the Corn Exchange. Then I got a cab back home, and went down to my local, the King's Arms, for a few jars of ale. Busy night, and busy everywhere. I got chatting with an old friend of mine, Peter Smith. Been ages since I saw him last. He moved out of the area, and came back for some sort of work thing. Must have been well past midnight by the time I staggered home."

"I see."

Bitten said.

"And what can you tell me about the storeroom where the body transpired to be."

"The body. Right. Um. Yes. Well. My father bought it you see, maybe thirty years ago. Barely a junior back then. We kept fabric and liners in it. Keep. We still do when we need the space, but we don't, at the moment. Not for few years now. There's a bunch of crates of old stuff there, mothballed and tarped up. Last forever, give or take. We work smaller quantities of better stuff than in my Father's Day. Fewer curtains and bedspreads, more cravats, and waistcoats. So, we don't need the extra space. Hardly ever. It's not all that convenient, since it's a good hundred-and-fifty yards from the shop. Not as if it's out the back, you know? I can't remember the last time I went inside the place. Not for sure. Three years ago, maybe? We had some livery for Buckingham's indoor men. The devil of a lot of fabric, that turned out to..."

"Mr Stratton."

            Bitten cut in.

"Um, yes?"

"I'll be frank with you. You have a much better chance of avoiding the noose if you stop prattling and tell me the damned truth. This is your last warning."

"What do you mean, Inspector?"

"The corn exchange burned down four days ago. There is not a cat in hells chance you could have been meeting up with an old friend last night.

Iii

Stratton stared at the Inspector for a long moment, and then sagged. When he spoke again, he whispered.

"I don't have an alibi."

            I nodded.

"I know."

The little man stared at him for a long moment, then shuddered.

"I went straight home last night. Got in by seven forty-five. I didn't see anyone. My fiancée is off with her parents at the moment. I had a sandwich, read for a while, and went to bed. The first thing I knew about any of this was when your man hauled me up to the storeroom and suggested that I'd killed some w***e!"

"Ah, yes, the storeroom. Tell me about that."

"We use it. Not every day, but every week or two. We keep cheaper bulkier stuff in there. I didn't lose the key, I had left it in the shop yesterday. It lives on a nail on the wall, near the till. We've never treated it as a secret. I didn't notice it gone yesterday, but I did this morning. I've got no idea who swiped it. I saw twenty or thirty people in the shop myself yesterday, and happened to be out the back much of the time."

"Do you keep a register of customers?"

"Of course."

Bitten nodded.

"We can have a look at it?"

"If you want."

"It might be that the killer bought from you. He must know your storeroom somehow."

"You...you don't think it's me?"

Bitten gave Stratton a long, careful look.

"You're a dreadful liar, Mr Stratton, and you panic far too easily. I very much doubt you've ever done anything worse than slightly inflate a price here or there. It might be a very, very act of course, but...no. I don't think it's you."

The tailor sank in his seat as the tension poured out of him.

"Please don't lie to the police though, sir. We always know, and it makes you seem extremely suspicious. Once we can prove a lie...well, it's like you're giving us the rope to tie your noose. Lucky for you, I want to catch the scum who did actually do this, not fit up some poor sod to make me look good to my boss."

"Sorry. I'm sorry. Really, really sorry."

            Bitten pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Just don't do it again. I'll send someone round to look at your register. Good day."

            "Y-yes. Thank you. Good day, Inspector."

Stratton leapt out of his chair in his rush to get out of the room.

"Good day, Constable."

He fled the interview room, and then the front door banged.

Bitten left the small room, and saw Constable Wilk standing in the main office with a bemused expression.

"Panic makes people do very stupid things, Wilk. I think he'd learned his lesson, though."

"I'd say, sir."

"For the moment, I want you to come with me back to the storeroom."

"Right you are, sir."

Wilk tried to hide his lack of delight.

Ten minutes later, Bitten found himself back at Stratton's storeroom. Several other constables were there, waiting around outside. Dr Loup finished up, and every so often the man would pop out of the room like a jack-in-the-box, with a canvas bag for some minion or other to cart back to the SID for him.

Finally, he was done. His dismissed the remaining local bobbies, and with a cheerful greeting set off back to his facilities.

Bitten opened up the storeroom and went in, stopping just inside the door. It turned out to be another dusty room, not especially large. Wooden crates and large burlap sacks were the main features. The floor had simple planking, cleaned once or twice a month by the look of it. An old mound of crates towards, were spread out in a way that drew the eye. Shards of glass were on the floor near it. There were splashes of blood on some central mound of crates, and one on a heap of sacks to one side of the room. A puddle of reeking vomit lay on the floor next to it.

"Wilk, did you see the victim before Dr Wilk moved her?"

The constable nodded, clearly not enjoying the memory.

"What did you see?"

"Um. She laid on her front on a sheet of tarp on those boxes there, in the middle. Very bloody. The killer left her spread, like...and her throat had been ripped, just like last time. Numbers ran down her back."

He swallowed.

"Her posterior had been slashed into little slices, like pages of a book. Her hands and feet had been removed, and they were stacked on top of those sacks, all neat."

"What about the rest of the room?"

"The broken bottle and the vomit, but I didn't see anything else that stood out. It was...tidy. If such as blasphemy can ever be tidy."

            "Didn't see a dog, then?"

"No sir. I did feel like someone, or something was watching me."

"Yes, I felt the same when I walked around Charterhouse Street. But, putting that feeling of uneasiness aside, what are your thoughts?"

"Mine, sir?"

I nodded.

"Yours, Wilks."

"Well, the killer is absolutely mad, sir. There's no other way to look at it. Clear round the bend and off into the distance. He must have bought the girl in here with the promise of an assignation, then done her in once he laid her down on the tarp."

"And why do you say he killed her in there?"

"There's no blood on the floor. If he'd slashed her throat outside then dragged her in, there'd be a trail of blood."

"I like the way you're thinking, Constable Wilk. You're wrong, but good work."

"Wrong, sir?"

"After death blood on the body dries, and blood still inside the body settles in the lower extremities. If Olivia Nova had been killed outside somewhere and the murderer happened to be patient enough to wait awhile before moving her, there would not necessarily be any obvious blood trails. On top of that, blood from a slashed throat would tend to spray, and even if she had been held down and the boxes covered, there would still be spatters of blood in the rest of the room."