Nine Buck's Row Read Free

street had a raw vitality, an undeniable fascination, yet it was reassuring to have a bobby moving along beside me.
    â€œYou tell your aunt to keep you home nights, miss,” he said huskily, holding my elbow in a firm grip. “She ’ad no business lettin’ you out this late.”
    â€œYou mean the murders—”
    â€œAye. No one knows when ’e’ll strike again. Fancies the ladies, ’e does. A pert little thing like you wouldn’t last a minute in ’is ’ands.”
    â€œSurely he’ll be apprehended soon. I mean, Scotland Yard is—”
    â€œDoubled th’ force ’ere in the East End, we ’ave, but that ’asn’t done no good. ’E pops up outta no where, does ’is slashin’ and then vanishes into thin air. ’E’s a demon!”
    I remembered an account of the latest crime I had read in The Illustrated London News . Polly Nicholls’ body was still warm, the blood still flowing, when she was discovered by a market porter on his way to work at 3:20 A.M. , yet no one had heard her scream. Neighbors had heard no cries, nor had the three night watchmen on duty directly across the street at Barber’s slaughterhouse. Police constables had been patrolling their regular beats in the neighborhood, one of them passing the scene of the crime only a few minutes before the body was discovered. The murder had taken place swiftly, silently, and some of the more superstitious East Enders were claiming the killer had supernatural powers.
    The crimes were terrible, true, but I saw no reason for the panic that seemed to grip the city. There had been crimes in the East End before, horrible crimes, but they had been taken as a matter of course, accepted with a shrug of the shoulders and a shake of the head. For some reason this new abomination had captured the public’s imagination, and the newspapers were filled with blazing headlines and gory details where ordinarily they would have ignored the story—after all, what was another crime in the East End? People loved horror, I reasoned, they loved to be frightened. Why else would they flock to the waxworks to see replicas of murderers and monsters? Why else would they tell ghost stories and relish every word of novels full of terror? I had very little patience with such tomfoolery. The criminal would be caught. The crimes would stop. There was no reason to panic.
    Still gripping my elbow firmly, the bobby led me across Dorset Street, said by many to be the wickedest spot in England. I averted my eyes, not wishing to look down that sordid expanse with its red lights and dingy pubs and brawling humanity. We walked on down Commercial, passing Christ Church, once a majestic wonder of architecture, now a dark, soot-begrimed pile with drunken derelicts sleeping on the benches around it. Further down the street I could see Garrick’s, gold and silver spangles of light already burning, carriages stopping in front to let out elegantly dressed merrymakers. Although located in the East End, Garrick’s catered to a higher class of customer. The liquor was more expensive, the entertainment a bit more refined, the fights less frequent and quickly broken up.
    â€œYou’ve been very kind,” I said, disengaging my elbow. “There’s Garrick’s. I can go on alone now.”
    â€œGlad to be of service, lass. You take care, ’ear? I wouldn’t want a pretty thing like you to fall into the ’ands of that fiend.”
    â€œThank you, officer,” I said, smiling prettily.
    I turned down the dark sidestreet that led to the rear of the building. A narrow alley took me to the stage door where Peters sat in a flimsy wooden chair, an unlighted cigar in the corner of his mouth. He got up with a start, peering across the rusty iron railing with frightened eyes when he heard my footsteps.
    â€œLands-a Goshen, Miss Susannah!” he exclaimed. “You gave me a start,