then."
Jacob nodded, and Michael quickly had his kettle on the boil.
"You go and clear the coffee table, eh?" he said to Jacob, who dutifully returned to the living room and swept the assorted magazines and old newspapers from the surface of the dirty glass-topped coffee table in the centre of the room. As he did so, Michael took the opportunity to drop two tranquilisers into the hot steaming mug of Bovril that he was about to present to his guest. The hot beef extract drink would easily mask any taste of the tiny tablets, once dissolved, that would give Michael the opportunity to carry out the first part of his plan.
When, twenty minutes later, Jacob at last fell into a deep sleep on the sofa, where Michael had insisted he sit and put his feet up, (after all he needed the rest), Michael at last had his chance. He rummaged through the contents of the rucksack, where he soon found out as much as he needed to know. As he'd thought, 'Jacob' was not really Jacob at all, and it didn't take long for Michael to decide that with a bit of tutoring, his new houseguest could be just the man he was looking for. Before he finally placed the rucksack down and crept off to his own bed for the night, he did, however, find one more item of interest tucked away at the very bottom of the bag, under a small pile of underwear of socks. What he found there quite appalled and intrigued him, and he wondered just how he could put what he'd learned to good use.
It hadn't taken him long to formulate a revised plan. His original idea to use Jacob as a runner and a messenger for some of his less than legal activities were rapidly revised into one where Jacob would provide him with something far more important. He knew someone who just might find Jacob a useful pawn in a little game he was playing.
Now, as he watched the sleeping figure snoring peacefully in the bed opposite his own, Michael smiled to himself. Yes indeed, his chance meeting with Jacob had been a sign from the gods, a message to Michael that things were about to start going his way. All his past cares and troubles were about to evaporate, thanks to Jacob. So what if it wasn't his real name? If the poor sod wanted to be known as Jacob, that would do for Michael. After all, Michael wasn't his real name either.
Any minute now, Jacob would be awake. Michael had plans to make, but for now, he'd play the genial host as ever, and have a good breakfast ready for Jacob when he woke.
Chapter 8
Escalation
Allow me to now trek back in time once more, back to the dark and murky, crime-infested streets of the East End of London, in the year 1888. Such a time slip is necessary in order for me to illustrate the odd connections that began to come together in the beautiful seaside town of Brighton in our own time. Of course, as events began to unfold no-one made any connection between the events in London so long ago and what was taking place in Brighton. At least, not in the beginning.
In the early hours of the morning of 31st August 1888, the body of forty three year old prostitute Mary Ann Nichols, known locally as 'Polly', was discovered by two men, Charles Cross and Robert Paul in a doorway on Buck's Row, Whitechapel. Three police constables were on the scene within five minutes, and one of them, Police Constable Neil, was able to ascertain immediately, with the aid of the light from his lantern, that the woman's throat had been cut. Her skirt had been pulled up, though it wasn't evident at that time that the victim had been subjected to a series of mutilations. The police surgeon, a Doctor Llewellyn, was summoned. He pronounced the victim dead and ordered the body to be taken to the mortuary shed at Old Montague Street Workhouse Infirmary. It was during the stripping of the body at the mortuary that the mutilations to Polly Nichols's body were discovered and Doctor Llewellyn was subsequently summoned to carry out a further examination of the remains.
Though not identified immediately her
Jacob nodded, and Michael quickly had his kettle on the boil.
"You go and clear the coffee table, eh?" he said to Jacob, who dutifully returned to the living room and swept the assorted magazines and old newspapers from the surface of the dirty glass-topped coffee table in the centre of the room. As he did so, Michael took the opportunity to drop two tranquilisers into the hot steaming mug of Bovril that he was about to present to his guest. The hot beef extract drink would easily mask any taste of the tiny tablets, once dissolved, that would give Michael the opportunity to carry out the first part of his plan.
When, twenty minutes later, Jacob at last fell into a deep sleep on the sofa, where Michael had insisted he sit and put his feet up, (after all he needed the rest), Michael at last had his chance. He rummaged through the contents of the rucksack, where he soon found out as much as he needed to know. As he'd thought, 'Jacob' was not really Jacob at all, and it didn't take long for Michael to decide that with a bit of tutoring, his new houseguest could be just the man he was looking for. Before he finally placed the rucksack down and crept off to his own bed for the night, he did, however, find one more item of interest tucked away at the very bottom of the bag, under a small pile of underwear of socks. What he found there quite appalled and intrigued him, and he wondered just how he could put what he'd learned to good use.
It hadn't taken him long to formulate a revised plan. His original idea to use Jacob as a runner and a messenger for some of his less than legal activities were rapidly revised into one where Jacob would provide him with something far more important. He knew someone who just might find Jacob a useful pawn in a little game he was playing.
Now, as he watched the sleeping figure snoring peacefully in the bed opposite his own, Michael smiled to himself. Yes indeed, his chance meeting with Jacob had been a sign from the gods, a message to Michael that things were about to start going his way. All his past cares and troubles were about to evaporate, thanks to Jacob. So what if it wasn't his real name? If the poor sod wanted to be known as Jacob, that would do for Michael. After all, Michael wasn't his real name either.
Any minute now, Jacob would be awake. Michael had plans to make, but for now, he'd play the genial host as ever, and have a good breakfast ready for Jacob when he woke.
Chapter 8
Escalation
Allow me to now trek back in time once more, back to the dark and murky, crime-infested streets of the East End of London, in the year 1888. Such a time slip is necessary in order for me to illustrate the odd connections that began to come together in the beautiful seaside town of Brighton in our own time. Of course, as events began to unfold no-one made any connection between the events in London so long ago and what was taking place in Brighton. At least, not in the beginning.
In the early hours of the morning of 31st August 1888, the body of forty three year old prostitute Mary Ann Nichols, known locally as 'Polly', was discovered by two men, Charles Cross and Robert Paul in a doorway on Buck's Row, Whitechapel. Three police constables were on the scene within five minutes, and one of them, Police Constable Neil, was able to ascertain immediately, with the aid of the light from his lantern, that the woman's throat had been cut. Her skirt had been pulled up, though it wasn't evident at that time that the victim had been subjected to a series of mutilations. The police surgeon, a Doctor Llewellyn, was summoned. He pronounced the victim dead and ordered the body to be taken to the mortuary shed at Old Montague Street Workhouse Infirmary. It was during the stripping of the body at the mortuary that the mutilations to Polly Nichols's body were discovered and Doctor Llewellyn was subsequently summoned to carry out a further examination of the remains.
Though not identified immediately her
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