All Fool’s Day. 1890

It was a memorably raw winter’s night. The sun had slid below London’s dirty river and the only light I could see beyond my basement window was the diluted glow of the constable’s brazier. It warmed him and melted the frosted cobbles around his black leather boots. I envied him the comfort of the glowing coal, but not the grim streets he patrolled.

We hadn’t yet shaken off the desperate winteriness, even though Easter had arrived. There was very little to make us happy at that time; the whooping cough and the Ripper had taken their toll. It was said that many had gone directly to heaven, and some the other way, depending on which side of the great hall of Westminster you supported.

The unruly politicians and the unholy clergy both stated prostitutes were on the road to hell. Sometimes it felt like we were already there.

One Whig in particular, the squealer Sir Robert Montague Fortunatus, Chancellor of Her Majesty’s government, is complacent at best to the plight of the poor. His belief is that the impoverished are a curse on society and deserve everything we get. For myself, I got a silver crown from his very own lecherous hand.

If there is one thing Sir Robert hates more than the immoral poor, it's the educated poor. We scare him. Revolution had swept across most of Europe, and Britain was next, according to him.

He lays on my bed, attired in just a red woman’s corset with his privileged tackle hanging free. He believes I adore his manhood, but in truth, it reminds me of the neck of a perfectly plucked chicken, hanging head-down in a butcher's shop window. You would expect a well-to-do fella like him to visit a Park Lane hooker, but his predilection is a bit too special for those posh tarts.

Sir Robert or Two-Bob, as he’s known among the lower classes, has an inexhaustible talent for talking about himself and his great status. I have worked hard on his status to make it even greater, but it remained softer than a silk slipper.

I stood between his fat thighs and pushed my strapped manipulator into his well-spanked ass, “You've been a naughty girl, haven't you Roberta."

His perverted smile made me cringe. “Yes Mistress, I’ve been very naughty.”

I kept slapping his cock with the back of my hand until there was just enough life in the old man's - old man, to fuck and wank him into an erection.

After, what seemed like an eternity, I managed to get a tiny squirt of spunk from his dick, and he lay back exhausted. I licked him clean and pantomimed myself in fake delight at how delicious he was. But all I could think about was the silver coin I’d hidden under my cushion and the goodies I would buy at Mrs Goggins Pie and Gin Shop.

Had he not been so drunk, he would have walked over to the sideboard and poured himself a large glass of claret. He called it his post-coital reviver, but the man could barely stand unaided, so I poured it for him. When I’d left him on the bed, he was gulping deep vibratos that made his gelatinous belly wobble like a swine in labour, but when I returned his breathing had stopped. I looked towards his face and expected to find his disgusting pink snout, but all I saw was his empty eyes and deathly blue lips.

The Deed is done.

“Clean him up; get him dressed, and wrap his body in some bed sheets, and we’ll lug him upstairs when the coast is clear,”

“This is awful Sid. Where will you dump him?” I asked.

“Well, I guess it doesn’t really matter much to you or to him.”

Sid-the-shoveler was my very first regular. He looked out for me and the bastard sprog. For a man who collects horse shit for a living, I found him beguiling. I'd heard he was once handsome and had a good job at the abattoir in Smithfield, but a kick in the side of his face from a cow had permanently changed his good looks.

It had left him with a sloped face, a hole where his left eye used to be, and a crooked mouth that made him look sad, even when he wasn’t. He lost his job when he started an addiction to laudanum.

“I’m going out West in the early hours, with a load of horse manure; I got a good price for it too. I’ll stick him in the back and tip him out in Belgravia on the way to Kensington Gardens. Most likely, he won’t be discovered till the next day.”

"Gord, blimey Sid,” I say. "There's going to be a big stink in Westminster when he’s found dead.” Sid’s single eye glistened with joy, and he roared with laughter at my unintentional joke.

For a few moments, I grimaced, finding Sid’s cachinnation in poor taste. After all, the cadaver was still warm, and at worst, he was still someone’s husband or father. Even a half-hour gentleman like Sir Robert deserved a little bit of respect.

“Now listen here, Sidney Scuttle; I might be a Judy, but I ain’t without honour. He was one of my regulars, all said and done.”

A bit later, when the street was empty, we pulled the fat lump onto the back of Sid’s cart and covered him in a couple of coal sacks. I’d grown to enjoy spending time with Sid; he’s one of my best clients. The sprog liked him too; he brought her stolen books so she could practice her reading.

Alone in the darkness, I imagined Sid in the hours before dawn, trundling his horse and cart through the lonely streets and alleyways. The freezing fog swirling around him, a dead politician hidden in the back.

In the first light of day, I imagined Sid in a different way. ‘I’d like to have an orgasm again soon’ I say, as I run my fingers between my legs and polish my pearl.

The last edition

“Extra – Extra, read all about it. Chancellor found dead in Belgravia!”

The call rang out, as I turned into Dean Street. The Costa’s ink-stained fingers held a copy of the Daily Herald above his head.

“Only three ha'penny a shout; read the latest news here first.”

I throw my coins in his tin and grab a copy.

“Bloody hell!" he shouted. “Who knew a scrubber like Molly Cumquat could read, ay folks?” The gathering group of men gawked at me as I folded the newspaper into my drawstring bag.

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me, Mickey Sparrow,” I replied, loud enough for his audience to hear. “Now tell me, does your boyfriend know you’re out here selling your wares... as normal?"

His “Fuck you!” was lost in the laughter of the crowd. I slowly turned into Commercial Street and shook my ass for the hell of it. The wolf-whistles made me smile.

Inside my digs, I grab my reading glass and scan the front page. I don’t like people knowing I’ve been educated; it’s not good for business. My clients like to imagine I'm a rough bit of stuff, who doesn't know my left from my right.

The sketch at the top of the page shows a young and slim Sir Robert, playing happy families with his wife and kids. A huge chunk of poetic-licence had been used, as most of the country knew him as an overweight and cantankerous old pig. A man who would happily hold a candle for the devil if there was something in it for him. His wife, so they say, is built like a heavyweight boxer but has the demeanor of a dormouse. Sid would have said it had to do with all that noble inbreeding.

The paper's headline opens with ‘Chancellor dies in London Square’. Our country’s Chancellor of the Exchequer, sixty-three-year-old Sir Robert Fortunatus, was found dead yesterday, close to his home in Belgravia Square. He leaves a dutiful wife, a forty-year-old son, and two beautiful grown-up daughters. A statement from police inspector ‘Knocker’ Chadwick of Scotland Yard believes there was no evidence to suggest foul play.

“A man fitting the description of Sir Fortunatus was found dressed in evening wear; his wallet, which carried a large sum of money, was found in his dress coat. We believe he may have been dead for over twenty-four hours prior to his being discovered”. The police are asking for anyone who may have seen Sir Robert in the days leading up to the second of April to come forward and contact their local constabulary’.

The pages inside spoke fondly of his service to Her Majesty’s government and his long career in politics.

They obviously didn't know the real Two-Bob. Sometimes there were quiet times when he’d get me to read to him from the London Gazette, a dubious weekly rag that he couldn’t even bear to touch, but mostly he was a wrong-un.

His delectation for dressing as a woman and being fucked like a milkmaid never bothered me; I’d done much worse than that. But he could be a mean-spirited man and a little too handy with his cane for my liking. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my line of work, ‘the posher the punt, the meaner the cunt’.

Around the East end at that time, there was an awful tension in the air. Revolutionary red flags hung from dark alleyways. Bright crimson contrasts, against the soot-covered despair of the bricks.

The next day the sprog and I went for a walk out by Spitalfields and bought a dozen candles and a bag of kippers. There was gossip on the streets, mainly about Sir Robert's death. Some said his wife would be throwing a party to celebrate, and others said he was often seen around Whitechapel at night, and was he the Ripper? That evening I swapped a bag of coal for a tit-wank with Dusty Collins, the coal merchant.

Later, the sprog and I huddled around the fire, ate our fish supper, and toasted some bread. Simple pleasures in a hard time.

That night, as if to scotch the gossip, the Ripper struck again. Despite the danger, some desperate Judy’s still needed to work the streets. Lizzie was a local face, and I knew her by sight, but not well enough to call her a friend. We shared the same streets. It made me shiver thinking of her unanswered screams as she was dragged into an alley, just a ten-minute walk from my own gaff.

My most vivid memory of that awful winter was the daily dread of who would be next. The fear of the shadow that hid in the dark streets and haunted our dreams was exhausting. The horror didn't just appear in my sleep; there were times when I felt eyes following me as I worked the streets.

Seven lonely nights.

Sid placed a warm shilling in my hand, but he didn’t say a word. His easy, sexy, charm had evaporated since our last meeting. Something was causing him pain, and I knew exactly what it was. We were co-conspirators in the bad we had done. Being together for the first time since that dreadful night reminded us of our awful crime.

I slipped off my drawers, passed him a linen sheath, and bent over the piano stool, just the way he liked me. I watched the beautiful upward curve of his hardness from between my legs. I was desperate for the terrible beauty of our sex, so for a short while, I wouldn't be scared.

“Where have you been? I haven’t seen you in days.” I quizzed, as he pushed into me, making me shiver with excitement. Goosebumps rose the tiny hairs on my arms.

“Hold your tongue, misses; I haven’t come here for conversation.” He growled.

Sometimes there was a hateful malice in his words. He scares most people with his distorted face, and even the thick-armed Navis give him a wide berth when he's got a drink in him. But for all of that, he's never laid a spiteful hand upon me.

“You said you’d come and see me last Monday; it’s been seven lonely days.” My words came in breathless gasps as his balls slapped my dripping cunt.

His strokes became faster and harder, to the point where my arms collapsed under his power and my burning face rubbed deep into the fabric of the stool. I knew it was his way of shutting me up.

The heat of him inside was overwhelming. He feeds my hunger like no other man, and I overindulge in the joy of it. Deliciously drunk on my lust.

His rough, calloused hands on my naked hips and his thick cock full in my box, are the only things that tether me to this miserable world and stopped me from floating away like a child’s wayward balloon.

My fingers raked my minge and hammered my button, his hot cream exploded inside me and in that delightful, angry, beautiful moment I found a place I’d never known before. A place where there is no death and no killings. A place where the overpowering heat in my toes ran up my legs and devoured his cock. A place where my brain pushed all my pain into a venereal safe box and locked it away. A place where my silent, breathless scream questioned all the hate of my past.

“Mum! Why the fuck didn’t you save me?”

A million beautiful spasms later, and just as quickly as he’d entered me, he was gone.

I dropped naked and exhausted onto the threadbare rug, and I curled into myself, happily ashamed of my own fierce satisfaction.

With half-closed eyes, I watched dazed from my own pleasure, as he pulled on his britches, slipped his dirty clothes under his arm, and quietly walked out of the room. I didn’t bother to ask why he was going; I knew he wouldn’t answer. There was something broken within him that neither I nor my accommodating body could repair.

I heard him close the front door precisely and carefully, and in that single flawless action, I knew he would never return. For the first time since my father kicked me out, tears burnt my eyes.

The Informant.

The evenings were becoming lighter and warmer, and we street girls hoped it might stop the killings; we were wrong. The Ripper struck twice in May, making the area uncommonly quiet. The police say he is powerful enough to easily subdue a prostitute and slash her throat. The residents of Whitechapel already knew that.

More coppers are drafted into the area, but it doesn’t stop the murders. The London News claimed the Metropolitan police were less enthusiastic in their work because the murdered women were all prostitutes and criminals. It doesn’t state that half the local police are our customers.

The rumours spread quickly around the pubs about Sir Robert's death. Some say the police believe he didn’t die in Belgravia and that his body had been moved. One of my clients, Steven Crimble a desk clerk at Scotland Yard who enjoys some backdoor action, is always good for some inside information, and a half bottle of gin.

I gave him the full works and he sang like a canary. “The coroner says there were traces of coal dust and horse dung on Sir Robert's clothes. He had a large amount of alcohol in his system; he could have easily fallen, in his drunken state. His wife said his engraved gold pocket watch was missing, but nobody believed he was robbed.”

Later, as we lay in post-coital pleasure, his wet cock resting perfectly between my ass cheeks, he added. “Strangely, Sir Robert's heart had been cut from his body. The coroner believes this happened postmortem and wasn’t the cause of his death. It made things more suspicious. Later that week the Prime Minister visited Scotland Yard, and after that, the coroner certified Sir Robert had died of natural causes.”

After Crimble left, I poured two more glasses of gin and repeated what he’d told me to the sprog. She reckoned the Prime Minister wouldn’t want a controversial death with an election on the horizon. My daughter is way too clever for her own good. 

The Letter

One day in June, I received a letter. I had received one before, it was both worrying and exciting at the same time. I hoped it might be from Sid, or at least someone writing on his behalf, but I was wrong.

I paid the postboy a penny, then sat under the light from the window, and broke the red seal.

28th of June 1890

Lady Fortunatus

Belgravia

London.

Dear Mrs. Cumquat,

Please forgive this unsolicited intrusion. I suspect your belief is that I intend to cast scorn and shame upon you. Nothing could be further from the truth. It is I who must feel ashamed.

My husband’s sudden death has given me the strength, courage, and freedom to do what I should have done many, many years ago.

Living with my husband was never easy, as I suspect you can understand, knowing, as you do, his abhorrent deviations in the bedroom and his constant infidelity. As if that wasn’t enough, there was also his urge to dish out his own drunken form of retribution without cause or expectation.

For my part, I only have myself to blame. I willingly entered the marriage, knowing my husband’s failings, but like many women, I thought I could iron out my man’s creases. I was wrong. My husband was a weak man; there were too many temptations for him to refuse and too many wrongs for me to repay.

Of course, I overlooked all my beatings and his depraved ways for the lifestyle his status, and money provided. I could and should have walked away from my awful life much earlier, but the truth is, I loved him greatly. His heart will always belong to me.

I suspect you are asking yourself; how did I find you? The truth is, I have been searching for you for many years, and by some strange twist of fate, my husband’s whoring led me to you.

So, let me begin. I know your real name is Olivia Hollinghead, and you have a daughter named Charlotte.

Twelve years ago, Reginald Cumquat, my darling nephew and godson had made a poor young woman pregnant and intended to marry her. I was distraught about his future. He was a bright lad, and too young to waste his life on a poor Vicar’s daughter.

I quickly bought him a commission in the British Army. I believed at that time I was doing the right thing. Something I now deeply regret.

What I didn’t account for was that the Vicar would beat the girl and force her into the streets alone and pregnant. I foolishly believed a devoted father would be understanding, godly, and kind. I had stupidly misjudged human nature. Of course, that girl was you.

Your father probably said it was God’s will. That same God that took Reg from me, at the battle of Sebastopol, one year later.

I can never make amends for the pain I caused you. I know a plain apology would never suffice. In my despicable way, I was too cowardly to do what I knew to be right, just as I was too cowardly to avoid doing what I knew to be wrong.

However, in the hope this will go some way to alleviating your hardship and giving you and Charlotte a better future, I have enclosed a banker’s cheque for seven hundred pounds, a share of my dead husband’s vast estate.

We will never meet, dear Olivia. By the time you read this, I will be on my way to America with a new name and a new life.

Wear your name with pride, Mrs. Cumquat.

Emily Fortunatus.

The worst of times and the best of times.

The sprog and I walked to the new London Bridge. The August sun had brought out the crowds as we queued for our turn to ride on the new public railway. The rush of air as we sped along the track frightened me, but Charlotte giggled fit to burst all the way to Greenwich. The smoke from the engine stung our eyes and we ladies held onto our bonnets for the worry of them sailing away into the cloudless sky.  

I was keen to show my daughter, what was soon to become our new home. I had seen the advertisement in the Gazette. ‘Just £209! Newly built two-up, two-down premises close to the fields of Deptford. Each one has a water closet at the rear, two bedrooms, a kitchen, and an entertaining south-facing lounge. There are also several schools close by for the discerning young adult’.

She never asked how we could afford such luxury; her only excited thoughts were having her own bedroom and going to school. We joyfully talked about it all the way back to Whitechapel.

Later that night in my lonely bed I slipped back into my lugubrious melancholy. I should have been extremely happy, but something was haunting me, and I needed to find the devil before he found me. Two evenings later I sent word for him to meet me in the Prospect Rooms down by the docks at Wapping.

Trapping the man.

I ordered a jug of stout and a quart of rum then slid into my booth and waited. He arrived dead on time, which was rare because he was never normally punctual. I pulled the curtain around us for privacy.

“Rum or beer?" I asked. He tapped the jug, and I poured a full glass.

“Cat got your tongue, Sid?”

“Just scared, that’s all. I’m expecting the rozzers to arrive any minute.”

“Why? You done something wrong?"

“Oh, I’ve done plenty of wrong misses, but doing you a favour and moving that body was probably the worst as it happens,” he looked up, and the obvious unease on his face was clear to see. “Have you done a deal with the police? Is that what this free ale is about? A convict's last drink.”

“You’re wrong Sid, I’m no grass, but I have lots of unanswered questions. No matter how bad it is, I need to know the truth." I studied his face for the inevitable lie. “You say you like plain talking, so I’m going to come right out and say it. Are you the Ripper?”

The shock on his face was real, he wasn’t smart enough to be a good liar. “Are you fucking serious? How can you, of all people ask me that question? Look, I might be dodgy, but I’ve never killed anyone.”

I stuck my face right into his. “I want to believe you, Sid, but what if the rozzers find out about us moving the body and start doing some digging? And what if someone saw us that night or worse still, saw you dumping the body in Belgravia?”

The colour drained from his face. He was scared, and to be honest, so was I. “We’ve got to look at the facts and the evidence. The Ripper likes to take a body part as a souvenir; he’s clever with a knife. The police reckon he could be a butcher or maybe a slaughterman. Did you know Two-Bob had his heart cut out? Then there’s the missing gold watch. I asked around the local pubs and heard Pocket the pawnbroker was selling a gold fob that’s hotter than Marie Lloyd's knickers, and who do we know who’s a good friend of Pocket? Someone called Sidney Scuttle a former slaughterman, that's who.” I let the words hang over the table like a stinking cloud rising from the Thames. He was hiding something; I could see it, and the rozzers would see it too.

He dropped his sad face. “You're right, misses; I feel guilty about that bloody watch; the temptation to nick it was too strong for me. A dead man wouldn't need a lovely timepiece like that would he." He shuffles his feet awkwardly. “It’s been eating me up for weeks. For two pins, I wish I’d have slung it in the fucking river, but Pocket offered me a fiver for it. I ain’t ever had a fiver before.”

In that second, I knew he was telling the truth. I can tell when a man is lying; I’ve had enough experience.

He leaned in closer, and I hoped he might kiss me, in fact, I wanted it more than anything, ever since our last time together I’d done nothing but think about him.

He laid his huge hands on the table and whispered just loud enough for me to hear, “I don’t cut people! That’s not my style. But I’ll tell you this much: when I dropped Two-Bob in Belgravia Square, I caught a glimpse of someone following me. A big fella, stocky, smart-looking too, wearing a dark hooded cloak. I stopped the horse around the corner and crept back into the bushes. He was slumped over the corpse as if he knew who it was. Then I saw him pull a blood-covered knife from the body, and that shit me up. I fucked off quicker than a Greyhound I can tell ya."

The fear in his voice was obvious. I wanted to reach out and touch him and tell him it was alright to be scared. I should never have doubted him, and I knew the damage was done, he'd never trust me again. The day my father kicked me out, he said I didn’t know when to keep my mouth shut. He was probably right.

Sid rose from the table and towered above me. "Now, if you’ll excuse me, misses, I’m going to pack my bags and clear out before all of this shit lands at my door. If your intention is to dob-me-in, you better do it fast.”

“Where will you go?” I said quickly, scared I’d lost him forever.

“I don’t know, maybe out East, or perhaps America. Make a fresh start.”

His words splintered in my head, like thorns they scratched at my brain. And in that single moment, I knew something I didn’t want to know.

“Please don’t go, Sid. I promise on my Charlottes life, I ain’t going to the police. I’ve got just as much to lose as you have.” I searched his face for any sign of forgiveness, anything that might give me hope. “Greenwich, that’s out East, isn’t it?”

He turned and looked at me with a strange curiosity. “Well, it's South of the river, but yes, it's East. Why Greenwich?”

“Me and Charlotte are moving there. Like you, we’re looking for a fresh start,” I reached out and slid my hand across his, “Come with us, Sid,” I spoke without thinking, but I knew it was what I wanted.

“Fucking hell, Molly! In one breath you accuse me of being the Ripper, and in the next, you're asking me to live with you?"

“Look, you’re not the Ripper, I know that for sure now, just like I know we would be good together; the three of us in Greenwich. What ya say, Sid?" I squeezed his hand. "Let’s get married!”

“Woo! Are you fucking serious?" I nodded hopefully and his crooked smile lit up his face. "Shit Molly Cumquat! I came here thinking I would be apprehended by the rozzers, and it turns out it's you who wants to put the cuffs on me."

His infectious laughter filled the space between us, and I jumped into his strong arms. It was a good job the curtain was drawn. I had him naked in seconds.

Later that night, as I lay in his arms, I read him the letter. We said there would be no more secrets. But I held on to just one.

We found our own bright shadow.

Nine months later, our son was born, and we called him Prospect for obvious reasons. It was a bad delivery; touch and go for me and the baby. The doctor said I’d never be able to have children again.

Sid carried our dreadful sin like an imaginary chain, and he dragged it around with him for a long time. He was a simple man and couldn’t quite make sense of it all. Some days he was lost to me, and he'd go out drinking and get into fights. But mostly he was just Sid; kind, caring, and strong.

My daughter Charlotte went to London University, the first one to offer women a placement. She got a degree in medicine and became a doctor, she worked at the local hospital. While at university, she made friends with the Pankhurst sisters. On many occasions, they got arrested for their suffrage, which made me extremely proud.

The day Asquith, became Prime Minister, Sid passed away. The doctor said his heart packed up. I never knew how old Sid was, and he never knew either;  he seemed ageless to me. When we first met, I was seventeen and pregnant, and he was in his thirties. I fell in love with him very quickly. Somehow, I thought he’d live forever, and in a way, he did, in the beautiful smiles of our grandchildren.

The killings had stopped by the time we left Whitechapel. The police believed Jack-the-Ripper was dead, probably killed by vigilantes or a pimp. I didn’t tell anyone my only secret. The Ripper was most likely residing in America and he… was a she. I wondered if she still had her husband’s heart.