“Elizabeth Stride is supposedly an attractive woman,” I whispered to Austen as we turned onto Berner Street and walked slowly. “She was seen with at least three different clients the night she was killed. The first was around eleven o’clock, somewhere here on Berner Street. The second was at quarter to twelve near 58 Berner Street. And the third is supposedly Jack, who was seen with Elizabeth around 12:35 and 12:45 by two separate individuals here on the corner. Then, according to contemporary eyewitness accounts, though the police never took official statements, they were seen by a fruit seller—” I paused as we passed a grocer on the right. The building was dark, but there was a half window on the main level with an oil lamp burning, displaying fruit and sweetmeats. “There, a man named Matthew Packer said that a man and woman, the woman meeting Elizabeth Stride’s description, purchased grapes from him at quarter past twelve. Then, they stood across the street for some time in the rain eating them.”
“Why didn’t the police take his testimony?” Austen asked as we passed the fruit seller, who was standing at his window. He nodded at us as we walked past.
“Because he got a good look at Jack,” I whispered, “and the chief of police, Sir Charles Warren, couldn’t have an eyewitness to the murderer. If he did, and Jack was caught, then people might connect him to Freemasonry.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“It makes sense. Eyewitnesses will claim that Elizabeth had grapes clutched in her hands the night of the murder, and two private detectives later open a grate in Dutfield’s Yard and will find grape stalks that were washed into the drain from all this rain. But if the police can deny that there were grapes involved, which they do, then they won’t have to call on Matthew Packer or get his testimony.”
The hem of my worn skirt was heavy with rain and mud as we walked along Berner Street, passing the gated entrance intoDutfield’s Yard near the International Working Men’s Educational Club. Music seeped from the building, and several windows were filled with lights. The gate to the yard was open.
I shivered, thinking that Elizabeth would soon be killed there.
A woman and a man exited the alley coming from the yard. I paused and Austen stopped, looking in the direction I was staring.
“That’s her,” I whispered. “And one of the men she was seen with that night—this night.”
Austen walked me closer to the building on the opposite side of the street from Dutfield’s Yard, and we stopped again.
“She must know it’s a quiet place to bring her clients,” I whispered.
The man and woman parted ways. I knew it was Elizabeth because the reports had said that she was wearing a black skirt, a black jacket, a black crepe bonnet, and a red posy in her lapel. Even in the darkness, the red flower stood out.
She walked to the end of the street and stood on the corner, probably waiting to find another client.
Every muscle in my body was tense. I wanted to call out to her, tell her to find a safe place to sleep for the night. In about an hour, she would be dead. Her life snuffed out by a madman.
Austen’s muscles tightened around my hand, and when I looked up at him, he shook his head. “It’s not your place to stop this from happening.”
“It seems like—like a sin,” I whispered, trying to control my emotions. “To know that something horrible is about to happen and not be able to stop it.”
“It’s the burden that all time-crossers bear,” he said. “You told me stories about your mama in Salem. I’m sure it was hard to watch as the accusers and magistrates put innocent people in jail.”
I thought of Mama and all she’d endured. I couldn’t imagine the horrors. “I don’t give her enough credit,” I said softly. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who has had to endure this weight, but others have had to face more difficult situations than this one.”
“I hope you take comfort in knowing you’re not alone, Kate.”He was watching me as he spoke. “God gives us encouragement from those who have gone before us. Sometimes it’s the only reason I can find for suffering. That perhaps my experiences with suffering will help someone else down the road.”
I placed my free hand on his forearm. “You’ve suffered more than most, Austen. I hope there have been people in your life to ease your suffering.”
“Some who don’t even know how much they’ve eased it. Like you.”
“Me?”
“Does it surprise you?”
“Indeed. I thought I made your life more unbearable.”
He smiled. “That’s what I wanted you to believe.” He motioned to a coffee house down the street. “Let’s get some hot coffee to warm up. We’ll come back in about a half hour to see if we can spot Jack.”
I let him guide me toward a coffee shop, pleased that I had brought Austen comfort.
Thirty minutes later, we were back on Berner Street. This time, we stood under the alcove of a door across the street from the gate at Dutfield’s Yard. Austen had closed the umbrella and laid it next to the building, not wanting to attract attention.
I was shaking from the cold and from my nerves, despite the warm coffee we’d just drank. Thankfully, the alcove offered a respite from the rain, though the damp air was still uncomfortable.
“Your hands are like ice,” Austen said as he took my hands between his and rubbed them gently. “I hope you don’t get sick.”
I loved the feel of his hands engulfing mine. And I suddenly realized how close we were standing. Berner Street in Whitechapel was the furthest thing from a romantic setting I’d ever experienced, but I was beginning to see that no matter where Austen and I were together, the air felt electrified and tense.
