The train shot out of the black hole and ground to a stop. Remus got in. Gracie got in behind him.

The train lurched and roared forward. Gracie clenched her fists and kept her lips tightly closed so she would not cry out. Around her everyone else sat stolidly, as if perfectly accustomed to charging through holes under the ground, closed inside part of a train.

They came to the Edgware Road station. People got out, others got in. Remus did not even glance up to see where he was.

The train moved off again.

They passed Baker Street, Portland Road and Gower Street the same way. There was a long stretch to King’s Cross, then they seemed to lurch to the right and roar on, gathering speed.

Where was Remus going to now? What was it that connected Adinett’s trips to Cleveland Street; the girl Annie Crook, who lived there and had been taken away by force, and her lover as well? She had ended up in Guy’s Hospital attended by the Queen’s surgeon himself, who had said she was mad. What had happened to the young man? It seemed no one had heard of him again.

What were the coaches about in Spitalfields? Were they driven by the same man who had run down the little girl Alice Crook and then jumped into the river-after taking off his coat and boots?

The train stopped at Farringdon Street, then very quickly after that at Aldergate Street.

Remus shot to his feet.

Gracie almost fell in her surprise and haste to go after him.

Remus got to the door, then changed his mind and sat down again.

Gracie collapsed onto the nearest bench, her heart pounding.

The train went on to Moorgate, and then Bishopsgate. It stopped at Aldgate, and Remus made for the door.

Gracie went also, and climbed up the steps, hurrying into the darkness where Aldgate Street changed into the Whitechapel High Street.

Which way was Remus going? She would have to keep close to him now. The lamps were lit, but they were dim, just pools of yellow here and there.

Was he going back to Whitechapel again, where he’d been before? He was nearly a mile from Buck’s Row, which was the other end of the Whitechapel Road, beyond the High Street. And Hanbury Street was a good half mile to the north, more if you took into account all the narrow, winding streets and alleys and dogleg corners.

But instead he turned right into Aldgate Street, back towards the City. Where was he going now? Did he expect to meet with someone further? She remembered the look on his face as he had walked away from the man in Hyde Park. He was angry, furiously angry, yet he was also excited and afraid. This was something of monstrous proportion… or he thought it was.

She was unprepared for it when he turned up Duke Street. It was narrower, darker. The eaves dripped in the gloom. The smells of rot and effluent hung in the air. She found herself shivering. The huge shadow of St. Botolph’s Church was just ahead. She was on the edge of Whitechapel.

Remus had been walking as if he knew exactly where he was going. Now he hesitated, looking to his left. The dim light gleamed for a moment on his pale skin. What did he expect to see? Beggars, destitutes huddled in doorways, trying to find a place to sleep, street women looking for chance custom?

She thought of the big black carriages he had asked about, the rumble of wheels on the cobbles growing louder and louder, black horses looming out of the night, the huge shape of the carriage, high, square, a door opening and a man asking… what? For a woman, a specific woman. Why? What gentleman in a carriage would come here at night when he could stay up west and find somebody cleaner, more fun, and with a room and a bed to go to rather than some doorway?

Remus was crossing the street into an alley beside the church.

It was pitch-dark. She stumbled as she followed him. Where in the devil’s name was he going? She knew he was still ahead of her because she could hear his feet on the cobbles. Then she saw him outlined against a shaft of light ahead. There was an opening. There must be a street lamp there, around the corner.

She reached it and emerged. It was a small square. He stood motionless, staring around; for a moment his face was turned towards the yellow glare of the one lamp. His eyes were wide, his lips parted and drawn back in a dreadful smile that was a mixture of terror and exultation. His whole body shook. He raised his hands a little, white-knuckled in the gaslight, clenched tight.

She looked up at the grimy sign on the brick wall above the light. Mitre Square.

Suddenly she was ice-cold, as if the breath of hell had touched her. Her heart almost stopped. At last she knew why he had come here-to Whitechapel, to Buck’s Row, to Hanbury Street, and now to Mitre Square. She knew who he was after in the big black coach that didn’t belong here. She remembered the names: Annie Chapman, known as Dark Annie; and Long Liz; and Kate; and Polly; and Black Mary. Remus was after Jack the Ripper! He was still alive, and Remus believed he knew who he was. That was the story he was going to break in the newspapers to make his name.

She turned and ran, stumbling and gasping back through the alley. Her knees were weak, her lungs hurt as if the air were knives, but she was not staying in that hellish place a second longer. It drenched her imagination with horror, the blinding, paralyzing fear, the blood, the pain, the moment when the women met his eyes and knew who he was-that was the worst of all, seeing into the heart and the soul of someone who had done that… and would do it again!

She collided with someone and let out a scream, thrashing with her fists till she felt soft flesh, heard a grunt and a curse. She tore herself free and pounded into Duke Street and raced down towards Aldgate Road. She did not know or care whom she had struck, or whether Remus was behind her or not, whether he knew she had followed him… just as long as she could get a bus or a train and get away, out of Whitechapel and its ghosts and demons.

An omnibus was going west. She shouted and ran out into the street, startling the horses and making the driver curse her. She did not care in the slightest. Ignoring his protests, she scrambled on board and collapsed in a heap on the first vacant seat.

“Devil after yer?” a man said kindly, a smile of amusement in his broad face.

It was too close to the truth to be a joke. “Yeah…” she said hoarsely. “Yeah… ’e is!”

She finally arrived home at Keppel Street after eleven o’clock, to find Charlotte pacing the kitchen floor, pale-faced and hollow-eyed.

“Where have you been?” she demanded furiously. “I’ve been worried sick for you! You look terrible! What happened?”

Gracie was so relieved to be home safe, in the warmth and light of the familiar kitchen with its smells of clean wood and linen, bread, herbs, and to know that Charlotte cared about her, that now at last she burst into tears and sobbed incoherently while Charlotte held her lightly in her arms.

Tomorrow she would give her a very carefully edited version of the truth, with an apology for lying.