I watched from afar as the coffin was removed from its transportation and borne by four men into the church, where presumably Sexton Wilson and the St. Leonard’s parish priest said the proper wording in our tongue and the ancient papal one, sufficient to consecrate the poor bird and send her on the next step.

In and out of the hearse, her journey was lubricated by gestures of universal pain and respect, as hats came off (including my own, for however unholy that may seem, I could not stand against the will of the mass without inviting severe repercussion), and from the women came such a wailing as had never been heard. “God forgive her,” they insisted, as if their words could so convince Him, whereas I believed that though He did not exist, had He, He never would have had need to forgive, for unlike our social lords, he understands that one does what one must to get through the lonely, dark night.

In a short time, it was over. She was transported by the same four back to the hearse and her intimates—the paramour, Joe Barnett, her landlord, McCarthy, and a batch of soiled doves who claimed to know her well—traversed the churchyard to clamber into the mourning carriages the sexton had acquired for their use, and the whole parade began the second part of its journey, to the St. Patrick’s Catholic cemetery in Leytonstone, six miles hence. At this point, the crowd began to fall away, I among them, though I stuck with the procession longer than most. But there seemed no point in watching the final act, as Mary Jane was slipped beneath our planet’s surface, there to begin her sure return to the elements of chemistry we all share.

Besides, I had more important work ahead. My campaign was almost complete. It had but one trick left to be brought off, and it was essential that it be done quickly, that is, within the mourning period, as again, a quarter-moon approached.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Jeb’s Memoir

How much more settled could it be? That discovery lifted tonnage from my shoulders. It was clear at last. Now to action.

At exactly ten P.M. on the night of the full quarter-moon, the colonel emerged from his building, an immense pile of brick and morticed stone called Fenster Mansions, on Finsbury Street, and began that instantly recognizeable walk. I was on one side of Finsbury, the professor on the other, and at first it was easy to keep up and keep in contact with the banty little chap. You would know him in an instant; one wondered how he could pass anonymously on his missions. That walk was the walk of a fellow in full command of all faculties, a stout-hearted, unquenchable fellow, born heroic and determined to beat all schedules to his destinations, actual or metaphorical. I couldn’t get a good look at his face, for he wore his bowler jammed seriously low, almost to the brow line, and he hunched as he proceeded. But it was familiar, I suppose, from a hundred odd nightmares: the man in black, dowdy and anonymous, yet with purpose, the knife concealed, swift of hand and sure of cut. Many a time it had jerked me from sleep. And now: no dawdler he, no meandering fool, no drifting sprig on the current. He plowed ahead, our colonel, cock of the walk.

It was on Bishopsgate that the trouble began, for he had a shrewd way of disappearing into crowds, and being of limited stature, he went invisible or at least under flag of camouflage rather adroitly. At least three times I lost sight, had a cold spasm of fear icicle its way into my colon, cursed myself for stupidity, but then caught sight of him and hastened to reacquire enough proximity to observe and trail but not to give myself away.

As for being followed, he gave no sign of notice. It was not in him to go cautious and look about nervously. At the same time, he didn’t walk directly anywhere. At Bishopsgate, as he coursed through the City, he took a hard turn down Houndsditch, then down another crossing street, evading Mitre Square, where poor Kate had taken the knife, and headed straight to the guts of Whitechapel. It was as if he had a course already set; he knew where he was going, and it was something well prepared for. I thought of the professor’s profile of the man: As a scout and raider, he would be aided by familiarity with terrain, knowledge of police pattern, drift of crowd, density of horse traffic, availability of midnight thrush for the plucking, and having settled those details far in advance, now had no doubt as to destination, approach, and execution.

But if he had a plan—and he must have—it was not evident from his journey through and about Whitechapel on that frosty night, a clear one, with the silver arc of lunar glow above and the soft coal-gas-fired lamps below, and the bright spears into the street and awash the sidewalks from the pubs and beer shops, and the forest of shadows created by the locked-down costers’ stalls and the herds of anonymous citizens, Judys, Johns, walkers, the banal, the afraid, and the drear, who gathered and meandered thickly everywhere. It seemed he was driven to set foot on the pavement of all streets. The names flew by as he rushed along, and I could tell that my physical hardness was eroding, as a rock to wind and sea, and my breath came hard, and yet still they flashed by, it just went on and on. Underneath my layers, the heavy Howdah pistol was flopping against my ribs, bringing bruise, while its strap, around the other shoulder at the neck, weighed into the flesh unpleasantly. I was a disaster in brown suit!

The streets were crowded, the costers’ stalls on the big ones impeded vision and progress, a dip across the lane put a stream of horse traffic as further impediment, I felt the bump and jostle of others on the pavement, it was all too much. I first gave up on Professor Dare, as I could not keep track of both him and the colonel, and the times when I was merely guessing at the colonel’s direction and progress became longer and longer. At least twice, as I sank into despair at my failure, I happened to catch a glimpse of him a block farther along or farther back, and so I was off again. I was huffing, sweating, my knees trembling, most of the world gone to fizz and spark in my vision, and I knew it was only a matter of time before I lost him. Another girl would die, nothing could be done. I guessed he did this on all his forays, against the remote possibility that he had been found out. It was a professional’s edge: Assume you are known and act accordingly, that’s the safe track. Never assume you are unknown and expect success without effort or caution.

The break finally came sometime after eleven. It was the fourth time I had lost contact with him, and when I made a rush across New Road just above Commercial, almost getting trampled in the process, I looked at where I expected him to be and he was not there. I guessed where he’d gone, and when I got there, he was not there. I looked up, down, east, west, south, and north, I changed vantage points, I achieved some height by climbing steps to a stoop, I dashed down a little street, but still: He was gone. I looked for the professor. I could not see him, either.

I cannot tell you what a fool, a failure, I felt. The whole slough of despond emptied its contents upon my head, soaking me in woe. I sat there, feeling the chill as my body temperature dropped in the lack of effort, I sucked for oxygen, having gone without, I yeaned for a sip of water to quench the Arabia that lay behind my lips, I heard the drumming of my heart, I felt the jostle and thud of other passengers in the night as they voyaged by me on the sidewalk, and I faced the reality that he was gone and I had nothing.