Yes. I was immediately certain of my answer.
“What?” the barkeep asked, and I realized I’d spoken out loud.
“Just that I’d like that ale,” I said, forcing a pleasant expression.
“All right, friend,” the barkeep said amiably as he shuffled to one of the many taps that lined the back of the bar.
“Here you go.” The barkeep pushed a glass of frothy brew toward me.
“Thank you,” I said, tipping the glass toward me as though I were drinking. But I just barely let the liquid cross my lips. I needed to keep my wits.
“So you’re not a newspaper boy, but you’re not from around here, are you?” the bartender asked, leaning his elbows on the bar and gazing at me curiously with his bloodshot gray eyes.
Since I spoke to so few people, except for the Abbotts, I forgot that my Virginia accent instantaneously gave me away. “From America,” I said briefly.
“And you came here? To Whitechapel?” the barkeep asked incredulously. “You know we have a murderer on the loose!”
“I think I read something about that in the paper,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Who do they think it is?”
At this, the barkeep guffawed, slamming his beefy fist on the bar and almost causing my drink to tip over. “You hear that?” he called to the motley crew of men on the other side of the bar, who all seemed deep into their drinks. “He wants to know who the murderer is!”
At this, the other men laughed, too.
“I’m sorry?” I asked in confusion.
“I’m just having a laugh,” the barkeep said jovially. “It’s not some bloke who pinched a purse. This is an unholy killer. If any of us knew who it was, don’t you think we’d go straight to Scotland Yard or the City of London police and let them know? It’s bad for business! That monster has all our girls half-terrified!” He lowered his voice and glanced at the cluster of women in the corner. “And between you and me, I don’t think any of us are safe. He’s going for the girls now, but who’s to say he won’t go for us next? He takes his knife and like that, you’re gone,” he said, drawing his index finger across his throat for emphasis.
It doesn’t have to be a knife, I wanted to say. I kept my gaze locked on the barkeep.
“But he doesn’t start at the neck. Why, he cut that girl’s innards right out. He likes to torture. He’s looking for blood,” he said.
At the mention of the word, my tongue automatically slicked over my teeth. They were still short and even. Human. “Do they have any leads? The murder sounds gruesome.” I grimaced.
“Well . . .” The barkeep lowered his voice and raised his eyebrow at me. “First off, you promise you ain’t from one of those papers? Not the Guardian or them other ones?”
I shook my head.
“Good. I’m Alfred, by the way,” the barkeep said, reaching out his hand to me. I shook it, not offering my name in return. He continued, hardly noticing. “I know the life we live here doesn’t seem prim and proper like what you might be used to across the ocean,” he said, taking in my brand-new Savile Row outfit, which made me wildly overdressed for this establishment. “But we like our way of life. And our women,” he added, waggling his salt-and-pepper eyebrows.
“The women . . .” I said. I remembered the article had said that the victim had been a woman of the night. Just the type of woman Damon had enjoyed at one point. I shivered in disgust.
“Yes, the women,” Alfred said grimly. “Not the types of ladies you’re going to meet at church, if you know what I mean.”
“But the type of women you pray to meet in bed!” guffawed a ruddy-complexioned man two seats down, holding up his whiskey glass in a mock toast.
“None of that talk! We’re a respectable establishment!” the barkeep said, a wicked spark in his eye. He turned his back to me and filled two glasses with several inches of amber liquid. He then turned and ceremoniously placed one in front of me.
“For you. Liquid courage. You need it around these parts, what with the murderer walking the streets,” Alfred said, clinking his glass with mine. “Although my best advice is to stay here until sunrise. Maybe meet a nice lady. Better than meeting the Ripper.”
“‘The Ripper’?”
Alfred smiled. “That’s what they’re calling him. Because he doesn’t just kill, he butchers. I’m telling you, stay here for your own protection.”
“Thanks,” I said uneasily. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to stay. The smell of iron hadn’t lessened in my time in the bar, and I was growing increasingly sure it was emanating from the walls and floor. The man in the corner kept staring at me, and I found myself staring back, trying to see any glimpse of fangs or blood-flecked chins. I could hear the women behind me whispering, and I wondered what they were discussing.
“Did Mary Ann . . . the most recent murder victim . . . did she ever drink here?” I asked hopefully. If I couldn’t find Damon, then I’d just do the next best thing and find out all I could about Damon’s victim.
“Rest in peace,” the barkeep said reverentially. “She was a good girl. Came in from time to time, when she had enough pennies for gin. This ain’t a charity, and the girls all knew they needed to pay the proper fee in order to spend time here. It was a system that worked out. The locals left the girls alone while they were out on the streets, unless they were striking a bargain. The girls respected the rules of the bar. And now, everything’s fallen apart. If I ever find the bloke who did it, I’ll rip his throat out,” Alfred said savagely, pounding his fist against the table.