Tales of Jack the Ripper (22 page)

On this particular night, one lone figure, different and apart from the others, remained in the deepest shadows, quickening his pace only when forced into view by the dull luminescence of distantly separated gaslights. For over an hour, he continuously stalked a small area around Church Street, slipping from doorway to alley, intent on remaining unseen without losing sight of the main entry to the Ten Bells Public House. His was a very different mission, a mission indeed unique. Arthur Belmont would not have thought to call himself a hero, but if someday someone should call him one, he could not disagree. But in fact no one would ever call him that.

He had taken his name years earlier, not so much to conceal his identity as to sever all connections with his past. Unlike most, he did not despise everything and everyone in this urban hellhole; he knew the vast majority of people who populated these streets yearned for better lives and living conditions but were able to do little or nothing to bring about such improvements. This knowledge had been personally ingrained in him during the first eight years of his life, which were spent in Whitechapel before a stroke of luck brought him to better station elsewhere. He still retained deep and jagged scars within his soul from those early years, scars that relentlessly reminded him not only of what he himself had suffered in this place but of the countless other youngsters whose lives were still being destroyed on a daily basis. And yet he himself had performed terrible, unspeakable things in these very streets.

Every fifteen minutes, he stopped, momentarily standing motionless despite the chill and dampness of the night air that seeped into his flesh. Thus he had contrived, these many nights, to escape detection whenever the light of a bullseye lantern signaled the familiar patter of a stalwart police constable’s boots passing uncomfortably near.

It was equally vital that he remain alert to sweet little Mary’s anticipated exit from the Ten Bells. She would not be in good condition after an evening of heavy drinking and, if he were lucky, she would be alone. She had already taken leave of the place once, nearly two hours earlier, taking just enough time to service a staggering client in a nearby alley before hastily returning to the pub. Arthur had observed her actions but decided to do nothing until he could get her alone.

Fleeting glances of her since that tryst revealed her carousing in the pub, surrounded by friends, while clasping a pint of bitter.

Arthur was reminded of the first time he had seen Mary and how difficult it had been for him to believe anyone could look so much like his late mother. He took it as a sign from, if not on high, then below. After all, Hell for many, including himself, began with “mother.” He had followed Mary to her home that very day, only to discover she resided in Miller’s Court, in the very same room in which he had spent the first eight years of his life. All of this seemed so far beyond the realm of coincidence that he immediately dismissed any and all lingering doubts about including her in his plan. It was almost as if he was being guided by some unseen hand beckoning him toward a preordained destiny.

The very next day, he had returned to the doss house at Miller’s Court in an effort to collect as much information about Mary and her habits as he could without arousing suspicion. He learned she had lived in her rented bedsit with a man for more than a year. According to neighbors, the man had recently moved out, apparently fed up with Mary’s constant drinking and whoring. Arthur’s father, a merchant seaman by trade, had left Arthur’s mother for the same reasons when the boy was only five years of age. He remembered how he had often prayed his father would return for him until the day news arrived that his father’s ship had gone down with all hands somewhere in the vast Atlantic. She continued to receive a portion of her seafaring husband’s pay for a time but, when it ran out, Arthur’s mother was compelled to seek some other means to pay the rent and keep food on the table. Decent-paying jobs for untrained laborers were exceedingly rare, so mother and child struggled endlessly just to make ends meet, and too often the ends were left dangling. In time, like so many before her, Arthur’s mother had taken to walking the streets each night. Here was one skill she could turn to her advantage. It was disgusting and degrading work and, as time passed, she felt obliged to consume more and more alcohol to fortify her tolerance for it. That was the only way it ever got easier.

As a mere child, Arthur did what he could to bring in extra money, but he could earn a mere tuppence per week at best. Thus, it was inevitable that, in the end, his desperate mother felt compelled to follow the example of her gaggle of cronies, all low-grade prostitutes living, like her, in Miller’s Court, or in nearby Dorset or Thrawl streets. What she did was to force her terrified son to submit to loathsome sexual encounters with some of the strangers she brought back to her room. With this added thrill for clients who were pederasts, she was able to double and, at times, even triple her nightly income. For the next three years, Arthur suffered abuse he considered worse than anything Hell could offer. Plying herself with boozy assurances that it was for her son’s own good, since otherwise he should most likely starve, his mother soon became stolidly immune to his suffering. Sometimes she would hold the struggling boy down as a client buggered him. The most unnerving part of the ordeal was the way his mother seemed fascinated by the agony young Arthur endured, staring intently into his eyes as it occurred. She would cover his mouth with her hand to stifle his screams until they died away from weakness. Afterward, both mother and son avoided each other’s gaze while she washed the blood from his legs and torn behind. He never forgave her the betrayal, refusing to be in the same room with her when she chose to drink away the extra earnings rather than use them to buy food. The boy made no serious attempt to run away because he knew he would likely fare even worse by himself in the streets. And so he drifted day to day in a waking coma of dull despair.

To his great astonishment, Arthur had eventually been rescued, albeit due to very dismal circumstances. One night after drinking more than usual, his mother brought a novice client home with her, hoping the man would be interested in a more expensive session that included her son’s unwilling participation. She assured the fellow he need not fear anyone interrupting them as her husband was deceased. When she suggested the boy join in, the man was shocked and repulsed. As he prepared to depart, his self-loathing was palpable, and he refused even to listen to any alternative offer the woman stammered out. When Arthur’s mother realized she was not about to change the man’s mind, she launched into a mad rage and lunged upon him with an upraised butcher’s knife she kept under the bedclothes. Shocked and terrified, young Arthur witnessed a life-or-death struggle for which he was ill prepared.

Instinctively he grabbed his mother’s arm in an attempt to stop her from stabbing the man. Moments later, man and woman were struggling on the bed, entangled in blankets and sheets, all in a semi-darkness relieved only by the dim illumination of an oil lamp. When the lamp toppled from the bedside table, the combatants were deprived of all light. The breathless, sweat-soaked man eventually managed to extricate himself from the covers and rekindle the lamp, only to find himself staring at a fount of dark blood gushing from a horrendous slash across the woman’s throat. Her jugular vein had been severed. The knife lay beside her, having fallen from her hand in the darkness. Taking great care to avoid getting blood on his clothing, the man carefully checked to see if she was still breathing while the boy sat calmly to one side of his mother’s body. He found neither signs of breathing nor a pulse. Although he had no clear sense of what had occurred once the light was extinguished, he very much feared that he might have accidentally knocked the blade into the woman’s throat while attempting to fend off her clumsy assault.

Suddenly recognizing the position in which he found himself, the man panicked, unsure if, despite all the chaos, he might be held responsible for the woman’s demise. He was nearly out the door before he glanced back briefly at the pathetic little boy still poised helplessly by his mother’s motionless form. Fortunately for Arthur, the good-hearted gentleman found himself incapable of leaving an innocent child alone with a corpse. He knew the boy would inevitably be relegated to some foul orphanage, forced to fend for himself on the streets or, worst of all, be charged with matricide should his recounting of events not be believed. Fighting the natural urge to flee, the man encouraged Arthur to go with him, promising him a good home in the country where he would be treated as if he were the man’s own offspring. Perhaps in this way the man sought to atone for his uncharacteristic yielding to the temptation of infidelity.

What choice had Arthur than to trust the man and believe his promises? After pulling from a stinking heap a threadbare coat to protect the already shivering youth from the chill outside, the would-be rescuer hurriedly shoved a few necessities into a pillow case; they then fled the scene together. Hailing a hansom cab, they headed for the train station where both slept until morning. They boarded the first train from London to the man’s family residence in Reading.

While on the train, the first he had ever ridden, Arthur learned his benefactor’s name was Robert Ornin. He owned a small but thriving demolition and clearance concern based in London. The pair put their wits together, devising a story they hoped Ornin’s wife would find believable. The couple had no children of their own, despite their great desire for a family, so it might work if Ornin introduced Arthur as a half-starved street urchin who had won his heart begging on a cold street corner. The boy, they would tell her, had been abandoned by his father after his mother died of consumption, and had survived by totting, rummaging through garbage and refuse for salable items. Unfortunately, Ornin would say, they dare not attempt to legally adopt Arthur for fear of his step-father returning and making trouble. The man and the boy agreed not tell Ornin’s wife the truth of how Arthur’s mother had died, fearing any slip of the tongue by either of them might lead to Ornin being accused of murder. Both of them knew Ornin had not intentionally harmed the woman but, for Ornin, the details of those crucial moments would forever remain unclear in his mind. He and the boy believed that the less his wife knew, the better it would be for all concerned.

After learning something of the horrors the lad had endured, Ornin found himself yielding to a warm, parental attitude toward him. The more Ornin thought about it, the more he dismissed all possibility that his wife would receive the boy with anything other than a lovingly embrace. Together they would provide Arthur with a fine home and a good education. And, assuming all went well, they would eventually make him their legal heir.

Arthur, realizing he was being offered a far better life than he could ever have hoped for, he readily consented to the plan. Ornin’s ready kindness and generosity quickly won the boy’s loyalty and affection as well.

It came as no surprise to Ornin when his wife took to little Arthur instantly. At last she had a child to love and nurture, the single missing element in her otherwise happy life. Arthur initially reacted with guarded caution, but he soon found in her the motherly love for which he had always longed. She and her husband were a decade older than his actual parents had been, but that meant nothing to him if he even noticed the fact. They loved him, and that was more than enough. For the first time since his real father had vanished from his life, Arthur was truly happy. This gave him the strength to repress much of the pain and trauma he had experienced, although the memories would continue to haunt him for the rest of his life. He and Ornin avoided referencing the night they had met, apart from those infrequent moments when Mrs. Ornin gently probed for more information. She stopped her prodding after a while, fearing her curiosity, if carried too far, might somehow ruin the happiness of her newly established family.

As the months and years went by, Ornin let it be known that he hoped Arthur would eventually take his place as the owner of his successful business enterprise. He did not force the issue, even after he and his wife made Arthur their legal heir. He knew it would be best for his new son to choose his own path once his interests and abilities should blossom. And that path, it seemed, might as easily lead him into medicine as into business. His “grandfather,” Damon Ornin, M.D., had taught anatomy and physiology for many years at a local medical college after retiring from private practice. He grew so fond of his clever “grandson” that he encouraged the youth to follow in his footsteps. In private sessions, Dr. Ornin taught young Arthur much about the human body and the surgical methods required should he choose to pursue medicine. When the boy reached the age of sixteen, old Dr. Ornin invited him to assist him in performing a series of autopsies for the benefit of his students. Much to his disappointment, however, Arthur, though an able apprentice, evinced only a passing interest in medicine. Nonetheless, some years later, the knowledge he gleaned from the anatomical demonstrations would prove quite invaluable once his true path finally became clear.

The dark memories buried deep in his subconscious did not prevent Arthur from enjoying his new life to the fullest. Yet, having no one with whom he could share his inner turmoil, he kept to himself much of the time. He made friends easily, but inwardly he brooded over the past. He never doubted that someone must do something to prevent other innocent children from enduring such abuse as he had suffered, but he failed to contrive a remedy. It was a dark period in England’s history, when the poor, both young and old, became mere fuel to fire the engines of the country’s booming industries. But amid that smoke-choked darkness some small sparks appeared, as prominent men like the popular writer Charles Dickens used their influence to bring attention to the plight of the destitute. Arthur wished he had some influence to bring to bear, but he had none.