And yet, as if Satan himself had become my sponsor, what should I spy as I moseyed drearily up Aldgate past the pump, past Houndsditch, but a lady herself. Judy or no? Difficult to tell, as she was in dark and the streets were not well lit, as all the newspapers continued to point out, but in an instant my mood transfigured from the blackest of black to the sudden blast of high engagement. I watched her meandering along, as if a bit unsteady, and noted that outside her skirts she wore an apron, a wide white expanse of milled cotton that marked off her whole front. It was most useful for my purposes, and seeing it, I decided her fate in an instant.
It took no speed or athleticism to catch up to her, and when she sensed my heat as I placed myself at her left shoulder, I in turn sensed her drunkenness, or should I say, her recent close acquaintanceship with liquor, for she fairly reeked, poor lass, of the devil’s favored beverage. But not then or consequently did she seem impaired as regarded her faculties.
Her first response was quite sensible, that being fear, but when she saw how fair of face I was, how kind of countenance, how much a gentleman stroller out for a bit of rogue notch and nothing else, she forced a smile to her worn and plain face. She was no beauty, as had been the last unfortunate to cross my path, and one would not notice her in any crowd except those more interested in notch than face. She was a short one, too, even shorter than the first, and rather square of face, a solid block of a gal.
“Good evening, madam,” I said.
“Just put off a drunken sailor,” she said. “All over me, that one was. You’re not that sort, is you, guv’nor?”
“My dear,” I said, “I’m a gentleman, I assure you, I only do that which is allowed, when it is allowed, where it is allowed, and I pay generously, not the usual thruppence for a night’s favor but a full fourpenny, good for both a gin and a night in a doss house.”
“No more gin for me, as I taxed my limits earlier. But a soft bed is worth a little putting out for such a fine man as yourself, sir.”
“Then lead on, and I’ll give you a swag you’ll not forget.”
She even giggled. “They all say that, they do.”
She led me another half block up Aldgate, and though it was late of hour, that avenue was still lit and bore some traffic. As was the way in the larger polity, no one paid us a bit of mind, since gentleman-and-Judy was such a common sight.
We reached a corner that led off to darkness, and not knowing what it could be, I glanced at the sign, learning that it was Mitre Street.
“A nice quiet square down this way for our business,” sang the nightingale. “Come on, then, don’t be shy.”
She lead me down this Mitre Street, and indeed there lay another passage, off to the right, between what appeared to be commercial buildings, maybe a dwelling or two, though I could not tell, as it was so dark. We followed the passage but a short bit, and it led us into a square, bulked up on either side by larger buildings that appeared to be of commercial nature. It was a tiny oasis in so vast a metropolitan desert, being barely if at all twenty-five yards on a side. I could make out in the dim light—our parsimonious city fathers allowed only two gas lamps for the entire square—some white lettering of the kind that usually heralds an owner’s name, but it was so dark and far that I could resolve no meaning for it. Besides, we were not to tarry. She took a direct right once within the square and led me, again not far, into its darkest corner. No light from the two wan lamps reached us, yet there was enough ambient illumination from our vantage point to see that the square was empty. I had no idea how long it would so remain, for I had not reconnoitered it and was not entirely sure where I was or how I would get out if danger appeared. But the opportunity was here, and fortune, it is said, always favors the bold, and I am by nature bold, and so I went ahead.
We stopped in the corner against a wooden fence that seemed to cut off some more room, perhaps forming a yard within a square. I had no idea why it was there or what its function was. There was no illumination from the usual quarter-moon, as clouds covered and produced a fine mist, near to but not quite a drizzle. She halted, pivoted to face me, and upped her skirts.
“There now,” she whispered—we were so close—“let’s get it done, Old Cock, and be on our ways, you a fourpenny lighter, meself the same heavier.”
Of the stroke I will not say much. It was better than some and worse than others, being a passing middling effort. It was not nearly so poetic as the Spanish duelist’s thing of beauty back against the Anarchists’ Club wall forty-odd minutes ago, but it was solid, straight on, dead to target. She stepped back, seemed to lose balance, coughed delicately, looked at me with beseeching eyes, which in eight seconds’ time, as the blood emptied from her brain, ceased to beseech and commenced to lock hard on a faraway nothing. I did not strike her a second time because I felt that the first had been so solid, going deeper than most, and there was no need of the redundancy. Down she went, quiet as a mouse, me nursing her to earth. And there she lay on her back, her sightless eyes open and not a trace of pain nor fear on her square face. She could have been asleep as easily as freshly murdered.
I had much to accomplish and no idea how much time I had. It was better, I knew, to assume little and discover much, rather than the other way around. The first business was her apron. With my knife, I opened a cut at the bottom, then ripped upward, almost halving the thing, and when, near her waist, I encountered a seam, I nicked another bit to change the direction of the rip, and continued to pull it apart. I daresay the noise of the cloth ripping was greater than the noise of the woman dying.
Once I got the rather large segment free, leaving the missing piece so obvious that even the most obtuse copper idiot would be sure to notice, I wetted it with blood, then wadded it into my pocket. Now to the night’s real work.
I situated myself at her middle, perpendicular to the body’s length, and rolled up her garments to lay bare that which was indecent. She was a scrawny thing, ribs all slatlike against her skin, breasts like shrunken cookies. These poor girls are rarely heavy because their access to food is so inconsistent. I put the knife into her and cut her good, straight down the middle, and laid open her guts. I had need to make a show, as my mad plan required an increase in frenzy at each stop along the way. Gloves on, of course, I reached in and disconnected the guts. It was slippery and squirmy in there, and nothing seemed stable at all; organs squirted from my fingers as if unwilling to be cut. But cut I did, sawing through tubes whenever I came upon them, and when I adjudged my efforts enough, I set down the knife and reached both hands into the slithery mess, took a heaping handful in both left and right, and pulled them out, dripping, and flung them over her shoulder, where they made a kind of a wet plop against the stones when they hit. The smell of feculent matter reached my nose, as did the tang of urine, and I realized that a nick somewhere had let those unpleasant reminders of the biological reality of our species out to play. Where once it had thrilled me in its perfervid illicitness, I was by now so old-salt at this business that it meant nothing. I looked and a long tangle remained, evidently untouched in my butchery, so I sliced it through at one end and laid it like a dead snake between her body and her arm.