Jack the Ripper Victims Series - Book Tour and Giveaway

Alan M. Clark’s Jack the Ripper Victims Series is comprised of five novels, one for each of the canonical victims of the murderer. These stories are not only meant to appeal to those interested in the horror that was the Autumn of Terror, but also those interested in the struggles of women in the 19th century. They are well-researched, fictional dramatic stories meant to help readers walk in the shoes of the victims and give a sense of the world as each of the women may have experienced it. The timelines for the stories run mostly concurrently, so it doesn’t matter in what order the books in the series are read. They are simultaneously drama, mystery, thriller, historical fiction, and horror. They are novels concerning horror that happened.

A Brutal Chill in August
The First Victim of Jack the Ripper
by Alan M. Clark
Genre: Crime Horror
Print Length: 348 pages
Publisher: IFD Publishing
Publication Date: December 7, 2019

We all know about Jack the Ripper, the serial murderer who terrorized Whitechapel and confounded police in 1888, but how much do we really know about his victims?

Pursued by one demon into the clutches of another, the ordinary life of Mary Ann "Polly" Nichols is made extraordinary by horrible, inhuman circumstance. Jack the Ripper's first victim comes to life in this sensitive and intimate fictionalized portrait, from humble beginnings, to building a family with an abusive husband, her escape into poverty and the workhouse, alcoholism, and finally abandoned on the streets of London where the Whitechapel Murderer found her.

With A Brutal Chill in August, Alan M. Clark gives readers an uncompromising and terrifying look at the nearly forgotten human story behind one of the most sensational crimes in history. This is horror that happened.



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​Chapter 21
A Need for Worry


Polly took books, paper, and pencils to the Dews family lodging to help her teach Estell to read and write. Clearly impatient as he waited through the first lesson, Tom paced quietly. Even so, he didn’t show an ill-temper.
“Thank you, Polly,” Estell said.
Tom smiled. “My little sister, turned bookish. Look at your happy lamps.”
Bashful, Estell punched him lightly in the chest.
While the girls got ready to go out, Polly spoke to Tom quietly so the others couldn’t hear her. “Bill has caught me out three times now. He has forbidden me to drink. I cannot go to pubs any longer.”
“He doesn’t know how to find you here,” Tom said. “You’ll have your drink here.”
For fear that he might take his fine hammer to her husband, Polly didn’t tell Tom about Bill’s threats of violence.
Before leaving for market with Nancy, Estell placed her hand on Polly’s pregnant belly. “Your child has got big. Don’t let Tom poke a hole in her.”
Tom swatted at Estell, but she dodged out of the way. “You shall not talk like that!”
“Why not?” Estell said.
Polly liked the girl’s pluck. She smiled, realizing that Estell had referred to her infant as female. She probably looked forward to having another little girl around.
“Young ladies ought not speak of such things,” Tom said, eyes wide with outrage.
Polly made a calming gesture toward him, while Estell stood with her hands on her hips.
“Oh, that’s a rule, is it?” the girl said. “Well, if you needn’t follow the rules, why should I?” She saw Polly smiling and grinned. “I know what you two are about. I like Polly, and want her baby to be safe.”
Tom covered his face with a hand, groaned, and turned away.
“I shouldn’t worry,” Polly said. “We won’t hurt her.”
“Somebody has to worry,” Estell said, too reasonably. She took Nancy by the hand, grabbed her basket and sack, and left the room.
Yes, the child on the way was a matter Polly hadn’t fully sorted. If Bill found out about her adultery and divorced her, he might require her to turn her unborn over to him after the birth. She wouldn’t want the child to grow up without a mother, and yet, she thought resentfully, the infant would prolong the years she must remain with Bill. Perhaps she would be better off if he took the child and divorced her. She had considered making certain Bill discovered her adultery. The potential consequences for her choices and actions seemed to grow increasingly complicated and difficult to consider.
How could the happiest time in her life also be the most distressing?
Knowing the infant had no responsibility for her feelings, she said a prayer for her baby, followed by the penitent prayer.
For the well-being of her unborn, she must keep Tom a secret, but that didn’t mean she’d give him up.


​

Music video of the song sung by the ghost that haunts Mary Ann “Polly” Nichols

Apologies to the Cat's Meat Man
The Second Victim of Jack the Ripper
Print Length: 158 pages
Publisher: IFD Publishing
Publication Date: June 9, 2017

This novel is part of the Jack the Ripper Victims Series. Each novel in the series is a stand-alone story.

Annie Chapman led a hard, lower class life in filthy 19th century London. Late in life, circumstances and and her choices led her to earn her crust by solicitation. After a bruising brawl with another woman over money and a man, she lost her lodgings and found herself sleeping rough. That dangerous turn of events delivered her into the hands of London's most notorious serial killer, Jack the Ripper.

Contrasting her last week alive with the experiences of her earlier life, the author helps readers understand how she might have made the decisions that put her in the wrong place at the wrong time



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​Chapter 6: Cat’s Meat


Around age twelve, Annie cut her right hand while helping her mother slice bread for an evening meal. Over the ensuing muggy summer days, the wound became red and hot. The hand swelled and the wound began to suppurate.
Early evening of one of those days, when their room above the cobbler shop had grown unbearably stuffy, she lay miserable and wet from sweat in bed, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in her right hand, and an increasing need to get up and use the chamber pot.
“You must get better so we can play Old Maid,” Emily seemed to say to the doll cradled in her lap, though clearly she meant the words for Annie. The two sisters didn’t get along most of the time, possibly because Emily knew Dadda looked upon Annie as his favorite. Still, she sat in a chair beside the bed and held Annie’s left hand. “I’m no good alone, and Mum’s too busy to play.”
Their father came clomping up the stairs. Annie heard him hop over the two rotten treads beneath the roof leak and the room shook a bit. She ceased to moan and writhe for fear of disappointing him. Mum, preparing supper, greeted Dadda, then he moved to the bed to have a look at Annie. Over top the odors of old leather and shoe black, he smelled most strongly of drink.
“If it worsens,” he said, turning toward Mum, “she’ll lose the hand.”
“No, Dadda!” Annie cried as he turned back to her.
Emily made a face and climbed down from the chair. She dropped the doll as she backed away toward Mum.
Hot tears poured from Annie’s eyes. She shifted uncomfortably in the bed and the rough straw inside the mattress bit into her painfully. Her bladder let go and she urinated there in the bed. He would discover the urine later, but she could not worry about that yet.
“Should they take your hand,” Dadda said, “they’ll give it to the cat’s meat man. You don’t want that, do you?”
Emily buried her face in her mother’s skirts.
“He’s teasing you,” Mum said. “Don’t believe your father.”
Busy, her defense of her daughter was weak and did not prevent the girl’s imagination from providing further torment. Annie saw the cat’s meat man, Mr Stewart, in his broad, brightly colored neckerchief, selling her severed fingers, dyed green and stabbed onto wooden skewers, to Mrs. Salter, who lived in the building next door. The woman kept a dog and a cat, and bought meat regularly from Mr. Stewart to feed her animals.
Thinking that one hand might satisfy the takers as well as the other, Annie frantically tried to pull herself together enough to say, “Tell them to take the other one, Dadda. It doesn’t work as well.” Sobs came out instead, drowning in the salty fluids of her mouth and nose.
“Cease your blubbering, girl,” Dadda said. “I’m trying to make you fight for that hand. We would not give it to the cat’s meat man.” Then he smiled with mischief. “Yet if you don’t fight to keep it, he may come in the night for it all the same. I’ll leave the padlock off the door to make it easier.”
“You are a drunken lout, George Smith,” Mum said, “terrorizing your own young the way you do.” She threw a wooden spoon. The implement smacked into Dadda’s head with a loud knock and bounced off. Unfazed, his mischievous smile remained.
Too late, Mum moved to settle Annie’s fears and calm her.
Although the wound healed and she kept her hand, afterward she knew she wasn’t up to the hardships life would throw at her. As she grew, Annie found her squeamish and fearful response to the world an increasing source of distress. She would have to become someone else if she wanted to survive.
The cat’s meat man seemed to follow her around and pop up in her imagination when Annie felt vulnerable.

​

Say Anything But Your Prayers
The Third Victim of Jack the Ripper
Print Length: 224 pages
Publisher: IFD Publishing
Publication Date: June 11, 2017

This novel is part of the Jack the Ripper Victims Series. Each novel in the series is a stand-alone story.

An imaginative reconstruction of the life of Elizabeth Stride, the third victim of Jack the Ripper. The beast of poverty and disease had stalked Elizabeth all her life, waiting for the right moment to take her down. To survive, she listened to the two extremes within herself--Bess, the innocent child of hope, and Liza, the cynical, hardbitten opportunist. While Bess paints rosy pictures of what lies ahead and Liza warns of dangers everywhere, the beast, in the guise of a man offering something better, circles ever closer.


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​Excerpt from Chapter 13


Elizabeth left for England on the Steamship Ahlberg on February 7, 1866. During the two and a half day passage across the North Sea, she rode on the between deck, just below the main deck of the ship. The cramped area had a six foot ceiling height. The bunks for the steerage passengers were temporary wooden structures built along the sides of the ship. She shared her bunk with four strangers. Her few possessions, packed into a recently purchased carpet bag, were stored under the bunk with the luggage of her bunkmates.
With the constant, slow pitching motion of the ship, Elizabeth quickly became seasick and slept little throughout the voyage. Her bunkmates wanted nothing to do with her. She sat on the edge of the bunk and hung her head. Even if her nausea had allowed her to sleep, the rumbling and vibration of the steam engine would’ve made slumber difficult.
A young steward with a pocked face named Bilford provided her with a bucket in which to be sick. He stooped as he moved about the ‘tween deck on his rounds, checking on the passengers and replacing the bucket with an empty one when needed. The steward was English, as was most of the crew.
No food was provided in steerage. Elizabeth had brought with her bread and cheese, but she hadn’t had an appetite. The last sleepless night of the voyage, she spent sitting on the deck and leaning back against the structure of the bunk. She dragged her carpet bag out from under the bunk to use as a pillow and dozed fitfully.
One of her bunkmates climbed down to seek the privy and stepped on Elizabeth’s left hand. No real damage was done. When the woman returned, she glared before climbing back into her bed. Elizabeth paid her no mind. As miserable as she felt, she had hope for her future that kept her in good spirits.
Much later, she awoke as the rhythm of the engine changed. The pitching motion of the ship had greatly diminished, and Elizabeth felt no forward momentum.
A small, black, prick-eared dog approached in the dim light provided by the swaying lanterns. The animal sniffed her empty bucket.
“That’s Perry,” Bilford said in English. She hadn’t heard the steward approach. “Thought you two might give each other some comfort.”
His accent got in the way of her understanding. If Elizabeth had been able to read his words, she’d have been more confident about his meaning. When she frowned to show her confusion, he repeated himself slowly and used a more Swedish pronunciation for the word “comfort.”
Elizabeth nodded, though she had little interest in anything other than attempting to sleep. Perry nuzzled her hand until she lifted it and ran it across the top of his head and down his back.
The steward is after something more than light conversation, Liza said. Otherwise, his time would be occupied with the needs of the first class passengers.
He has little duty among the steerage passengers, Bess said, yet he’s a friendly Englishman who takes pride in his work.
“He’s very insistent,” Bilford said slowly in English. “He’s a schipperke—means ‘little skipper.’ Perry is the captain’s dog. He helps keep the ship clear of rats and mice.”
The dog had only a nub for a tail. Her fingers explored the soft, extra thick ruff around his neck. Perry clearly enjoyed the petting.
“We’ve entered the Thames and await a river pilot,” he said, “Once we’re underway again, the passage will be smoother.”
When the steward had gone, Perry remained. He curled up beside Elizabeth. The petting took her mind off her nausea and the dog kept her company until she fell into a light sleep. When she awoke with a sore backside, Perry was gone. She heard a commotion on the deck above, including men shouting in English with accents so heavy she couldn’t understand the words. Early light spilled through the opening to the main deck. The sharp fish-rot-odor of a riverbank and raw sewage reached her nose. The rhythm of the engine was faster, but the pitching motion of the ship remained light.
The steerage passengers were up and around, checking their luggage and talking. Elizabeth felt several shudders run through the vessel as if it were bumping against a fixed object.
Bilford, stepped onto the ‘tween deck. “Be prepared to disembark,” he said loudly.
Elizabeth began to shiver.
“You must wait until I’ve received the order from the captain before you can climb to the main deck,” he continued. “You will file before the customs and immigration officers who will meet you on the quay. We have arrived at the London Docks, and it shouldn’t be more than a quarter of an hour wait.”
Elizabeth tried to tell herself that she trembled in excited anticipation. Sitting on her carpet bag, she tried again to imagine what life would be like in London. The photographs she’d seen over the years had given her the barest glimpse, one that she didn’t trust because the tintypes and daguerreotypes, mostly of famous landmarks, looked more like paintings in soot by artists with failing sight. Powerful, unpleasant odors, polluted air, the booming sounds of steam-powered machinery, and the distant rumbling of the city’s bustling humanity were already discernible from the ‘tween deck. She tried to shut it all out and imagine the shining city she’d seen in her mind’s eye so many times, but the sounds and smells put her in mind of another notion, one of London as a hungry beast. The foul air was its breath, the stink rose from its filthy hide, and the sounds came from the lurching of its joints and the churning and grinding of its digestive system. Swallowed whole, the SS Ahlberg had slid down the snaking river-throat to the gut of the great metropolis. Soon Elizabeth would be ejected from the ship onto the streets to fend for herself within the body of the beast.
She knew she trembled from fear.

​

Of Thimble and Threat
The Fourth Victim of Jack the Ripper
Print Length: 168 pages
Publisher: IFD Publishing
Publication Date: September 28, 2017

In Victorian London, the greatest city of the richest country in the world, the industrial revolution has created a world of decadence and prosperity, but also one of unimaginable squalor and suffering. Filth, decay, danger, sorrow, and death are ever-present in the streets. Catherine Eddowes is found murdered gruesomely in the city's East End. When the police make their report, the only indicators of her life are the possessions carried on her person, likely everything she owned in the world. In Of Thimble and Threat, Alan M. Clark tells the heartbreaking story of Catherine Eddowes, the fourth victim of Jack the Ripper, explaining the origin and acquisition of the items found with her at the time of her death, chronicling her life from childhood to adulthood, motherhood, her descent into alcoholism, and finally her death. Of Thimble and Threat is a story of the intense love between a mother and a child, a story of poverty and loss, fierce independence, and unconquerable will. It is the devastating portrayal of a self-perpetuated descent into Hell, a lucid view into the darkest parts of the human heart.



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​Excerp from Chapter 6: A Red Gauze Neckerchief


They traveled in an omnibus to Newgate Prison for the hanging. The vehicle was so crowded Conway placed Katie in his lap. A woman sitting across from them glared disapprovingly.
She’s dressed to the nines, while the man next to her is square rigged. He’s with her, but they should be more at home in a carriage.
As they were beginning to get stares from others, Conway stated loudly that she was his new bride. He held up his hand to display as proof a brass ring on his left ring finger that she had not noticed before. Katie blushed. Laughter and good cheer filled the coach.
While the gentleman next to her smiled, the elegantly-dressed woman turned her face away and buried her nose in a sachet. Her suddenly pale skin, pinched lips and rolling eyes suggested she might faint from the foul order of unwashed bodies surrounding her.
She must not be a Londoner. Everything has smelled so fresh and new since the end of The Great Stink.
Conversations among the passengers became louder and less private, inviting all within to respond and contribute. Through all the talk, it became clear that many of the passengers were on their way to the hanging. As news and witticism were shared, it was as if all within the coach were together as one on a great adventure. A jolly fat man named Ellis bragged that he and his wife and eight children, all of whom he introduced one at a time, had managed to get on the same omnibus. He told a humorous tale of a previous hanging they had attended and of the dreadful fate of the condemned at the hands of body-snatchers and medical gentlemen.
His stories made it more difficult to imagine where they were going and what it would be like.
Conway had asked Katie to help him sell chapbooks to the crowd attending the hanging of Michael Buseman. The chapbook consisted of several broadsheets folded together, containing information about the man’s life, crime and trial and a gallows ballad Conway had written meant to be sung to the popular tune, “The Siren’s Harp,” by Arnold Scott. The chapbooks were to be sold for a penny apiece.
“If we work hard,” he said, “we might sell a thousand copies. You’ll earn a twentieth of the proceeds.”
That’s four shillings and more!
An erection grew in Conway’s trousers as the coach bumped along. If he’ll share that with me, what more will he share? He paid for us to ride the omnibus! He’s a generous soul with income more than sufficient for his needs. Perhaps I will have a new life.
When the vehicle bounced over uneven road, she allowed it to cover a little extra movement of her own against Conway’s lap. Clearly aware of what she was doing, he planted a moist kiss on her lips. Katie smiled. Her heart raced and she struggled to catch her breath as the coach erupted in cheers.
An image of Aunt Elizabeth’s angry face came unbidden. She will be so angry with me, but I don’t care. I’ve taken so little time for myself.
~ ~ ~
Throngs of people filled the street where they departed the omnibus near Newgate Prison. Never had there been so much confused noise.
Conway paused to tie a beautiful red gauze silk kerchief around Katie’s neck. “There you are,” he said. “A fine billy to enhance your beauty and make you easier to find in the crowd should you become lost.”
“A gift?” she asked. “It’s too much.”
No, he might take it back!
“I intend you shall work it off.” He said with a warm smile.
“Is it a romantic gesture,” Katie asked, with beguiling eyes, “part of a business deal or merely useful?”
“Couldn’t it be all three?” Conway asked.
He is clever indeed. “Yes, I suppose it could.”
Conway touched her cheek tenderly before turning back to business. “We’ll make our way along Newgate Street to Old Bailey.” He pointed toward the corner of the ugly stone prison building. “That’s where my printer will meet us with my chap books.”
The people were a river of conflicting currents filling the street. Some time would pass before Katie and Conway arrived at their destination.
“Is everyone in the world here today?” she asked, her eyes wide.
“No, lass,” he said with a straight face. “So many didn’t know you were coming.”
Katie grinned and then he did as well, with a slight bow to his head and a twinkle in his eye.
Few gentlemen and ladies occupied the street. Most of the crowd were laborers, with a few vendors mixed in, and children were everywhere, shouting at the top of their lungs and moving swiftly between the adults. Eyes were everywhere. While some expressed a festive mood, other eyes held anger, mistrust, lust or even hatred. The whole was a pandemonium of sound, color and movement. Dizzy, Katie closed her eyes momentarily, but Conway caught her by the arm as he began to move.
“Keep your wits about you,” he said. “The crowd is full of pickpockets, ruffians and thieves who cause no end of mischief. Don’t worry about what you’re stepping on. Keep your eyes up and looking around. Don’t let the children get too close. They’ll rob you blind and you won’t know it until it’s too late.”
Katie followed, doing as she was told.
I have nothing of value but the silk neckerchief. If they can take it without me knowing, they can have it.
“When we arrive at Old Bailey, you’ll see the portable gallows. They erect it in front of the Debtors’ Door. We’ll not get too close to it because that’s where the crowd does its worst violence. We’re not here to see the man dangle. We’re here to sell poetry!”
The printer, a thin, ink-stained man, who smelled of bad fish and had no teeth, stood at the corner of Newgate and Old Bailey as promised. He passed Conway several bundles of chapbooks tied with yellow string. Once paid, the man disappeared into the crowd. Conway cut the string on one bundle and handed it to Katie.
“You’re to shout ‘A Sorrowful Lamentation of Michael Buseman, just one penny,’” Conway explained. “If we remain at this corner, the crowd will move around us. We’ll stand back to back. You’ll face south. I’ll face east. Keep the extra bundles beneath you, under your skirts. If someone gives you trouble, I’ll be right here. When you make a sale, turn and discreetly place the penny in this slit.” He indicated an intentionally split but finished seam in the side of his long brown top coat. “Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she said. Again, her heart raced. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach and a thrill ran along her spine. Was it fear or pleasure? She couldn’t decide. It’s always like this with Conway.
Katie had hardly spoken her sales pitch when a young man offered a shiny, new penny. As sales of the chapbook became routine during the next few hours, she became calm again. Too calm, perhaps, as her lack of vigilance may have shown in her eyes.
A man in a long, blue coat and black bowler hat stepped up, made as if to draw a coin from his pocket and instead came up with a knife. Brandishing his weapon, he gave her a hard look, then grabbed for the bundle of chapbooks in her left hand.
Are they that valuable? At a penny apiece, they were, if he could sell them. Katie was not going to let him take them. She held on and cried out, but perhaps she could not be heard in the surrounding maelstrom of noise.
The man swung with the knife, but Katie dropped down onto the bundles beneath her skirt and leaned away to the right and raised her left arm inside the arc of the weapon. Her wrist took a slice against the bone as the thief pulled back for another strike. Katie drew her arm away, rolled off the bundle onto the pavement, her hip grinding painfully against the table knife in its pocket under her skirt. She could use it for defense, but she wouldn’t be able get to it in time. She rolled again, then looked up to see Conway take a swing at the man. The expression of surprise on the thief’s face exploded into one of pain as Conway’s fist struck him in the eye. He staggered back, rebounding off a young couple holding hands and nearly knocking them down. The bowler hat fell from his head and he dashed off into the crowd.
Conway helped her to her feet. Katie held up her bundle of chapbooks.
“Good Girl. You defend my merchandise—” He stooped to pick up the bowler, which was old and worn, but much finer than his own hat. “—and win me a bowler too. Aren’t you a find?” His laugh was large and powerful and his eyes were those of a kind father.
Katie blinked away rising tears of relief. Pride swelled in her chest as he looked upon her with such tenderness.
Conway saw the wound on her arm and his features became pinched with concern. “You’re hurt.”
Heart beat pounding in her neck, Katie’s ears buzzed and her vision, painting everything with unusually vivid colors and crisps edges, shivered with each pulse. Again, looking for quicksilver in her blood, she watched the rapid drip from her wrist while Conway took a white handkerchief from his coat. If the silver liquid flows now, he will think I am very special indeed. But what a silly thought! I must be out of my mind from the fear.
He wrapped the handkerchief about her wrist to stanch the flow of blood. “There now,” he said. “You’ll be as good as new.”
“I’m all right,” she said. “Let’s continue with our sales.” Truly, she didn’t want to turn away from him and lose sight of those warm eyes, but that was what he’d want.
Midway through the afternoon of selling, a bell began to toll. A cry of “Hat’s off” went up and passed around the crowd. Some of the people became still and stood clutching their hats with their heads bowed. A commotion at the gallows drew most everyone’s attention for a time and then a great cheer rose up from the horde. After that the crowd slowly began to disperse.
Conway’s coat was heavy, Katie was exhausted and her shoes were filthy with horse dung and other substances she could not identify. They had sold eight-hundred and seventy-nine copies of the chapbook. Conway was pleased.
“If you are willing,” he said, “I’d like your help with sales again soon.”
“I would help now if I could,” Katie said.
“No, you must go home. I’ll collect you in a week for an execution at Southwark.”
She did not look forward to the inevitable confrontation with Aunt Elizabeth. “But I don’t have to return right away.”
“Yes, you do. I cannot take you with me. We must protect your reputation against the unkindness of the world.”
His concern was thoughtful, but Katie was not happy about it. She was quiet as he escorted her back to her aunt’s home in the early evening, first riding the omnibus and then walking. Perhaps her five percent earning of the day’s sales would be sufficient to soften Elizabeth’s heart.
When they arrived, sitting beside the back doorstep was her old travel bag stuffed to overflowing.
It might have been taken! Katie plunged her hand into it and felt around. She took a deep breath and relaxed when her finger located her thimble. The bag held all her possessions except for her mother’s pillow.
Katie tried the door, but it was locked.
I have no home! Images of the workhouse, conjured by Emma’s descriptions, filled her head.
Her knock at the door was rapid and loud. With no response, she ran to the front of the house. The door was locked. She knocked, and when no answer came, she rattled it mercilessly.
Katie tried to look through the curtained windows when Conway caught up with her, toting her travel bag. “Come with me,” he said.

​

The Prostitute's Price
The Fifth Victim of Jack the Ripper
Print Length: 342 pages
Publisher: IFD Publishing
Publication Date: August 30, 2018

A novel that beats back our assumptions about the time of Jack the Ripper. Not the grim story of an unfortunate drunken prostitute killed before her time, but one of a young woman alive with all the emotional complexity of women today. Running from a man wanting her to pay for her crimes against his brother, Mary Jane Kelly must recover a valuable hidden necklace and sell it to gain the funds to leave London and start over elsewhere. Driven by powerful, if at times conflicting emotion, she runs the dystopian labyrinth of the East End, and tries to sneak past the deadly menace that bars her exit.

Although THE PROSTITUTE'S PRICE is a standalone tale, and part of the Jack the Ripper Victims Series, it is also a companion story to the novel, THE ASSASSIN'S COIN, by John Linwood Grant. The gain a broader experience of each novel, read both.



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​Excerpt from Chapter 12


On November 5, Mary Jane and Joseph sat together, having a meal at the Cock’s Crow Tavern in Mile End Road.
“Our efforts will clear the way for a theft at the Deptford Victualing Yard,” Joseph said, pushing his plate away and finishing off his glass of ale, “the ordinary-looking cove I told you about is the client. I don’t have his name to give you. On the night of the theft, there will be two night rounders, Sims Overton and Roy Nagel, who stand in our client’s way.”
Mary Jane repeated their names to better fix them in her memory. She took another a bite of her rump steak pudding.
“Though they are Government employed,” he said, “as are the stevedores, much like lumpers, they are organized at a local pub. Their master works out of the Evelyn Arms just across Grove Street from the entrance to the Deptford Victualing Yard. They are required to eat and drink at the pub before their shifts. Often they spend breaks there as well. Their shifts are twelve hours long, eight o’clock at night ’til eight o’clock in the morning. They take breaks around midnight, one at a time for fifteen minutes. On Saturday nights, during his midnight break at about a quarter to twelve, Overton goes to the Evelyn Arms, hires a Judy and takes her back to the south gatehouse. The small building is part of the gated entrance to the yard, and has a back door, so she can slip out should anyone come. The hire is prearranged, so you’ll have to attract his attention in the week before, then be available that Saturday night, November 20. Overton and Nagel each take a turn with the woman, one having his way with her while the other stays outside to act as crow, ready to signal should someone approach the gatehouse.”
“They’re helping us without knowing,” Mary Jane said with a smile. Though she had little enthusiasm for the job, she wanted Joseph to see her willingness. She had agreed to help because of the money offered, ten pounds, and because both Joseph and Thomas were important to her.
“Very nearly. You’ll spend some time at the Evelyn Arms. Some sort of story for how you wound up there will be needed.”
“I’ll have to talk with Mrs. Buki,” Mary Jane said. “She’s acquainted with most of the ladybirds and their minders along the docks and can make what introductions I might need to smooth the way.”
“You will hear distant alarms shortly after midnight. We’ll be setting fire to a barge on the Surrey Canal that we will have wedged under the Blackhorse Bridge to the west. Also we’ll set fire to a rail car on a siding in the Brighton & South Coast Railway depot just north of the victualing yard. That should draw the police of R Division away and give them something to do. You’ll need to find a way to occupy both men for about ten minutes in one of the gatehouses. You ought to be out of the yard by half past twelve.”
“Both men at the same time?” Mary Jane asked. “You said one watches as the other has his pleasure. They shan’t both want to be in the gatehouse at the same time.”
Joseph frowned, then smiled. “You are much more captivating than any of the other ladybirds in that neighborhood. I think you shall not have too much trouble.”
Mary Jane did not have his confidence. He could be a leg when need be, good at pulling a ruse. With the right mark he had no difficulty swindling. Even though he had a good heart, he’d grown up hard on the streets of London—“a gormless shit of a guttersnipe,” he’d said. He expected she’d been made of similar stuff perhaps, but all she could think of was how their plan could go awry if she didn’t keep her two pigeons sufficiently entertained.
After so many years of solicitation, she had little trepidation about tupping strangers for money: yet doing so as part of a scheme designed by Joseph to satisfy the needs of a client of Thomas’s was several steps removed from the sort of control she preferred to have over her work. Joseph had told Thomas that her part of the lurk would not have to include actual prigging.
“If we see success,” she said. “it will be because of my willingness to dab it up with the night rounders, whether it comes to that or not. Will you promise not to tell Thomas if it does come to that?”
“Yes,” Joseph said, “but you’re a bricky girl. I have every confidence in your ability to play the crooked cross. Just look at the way you’ve got me under your thumb.” With the smile that followed, he seemed to be saying that he knew she’d been playing him, and he remained happy to have her.
Were I that obvious with my wheedling before? Well, yes, she supposed she had been. That was part of the problem with love—she’d become comfortable enough with him to allow her facade to slip from time to time.
Somehow, they had both changed after she professed her feelings for him. He’d begun to say things to her that he might have held back before. Afraid of too much familiarity, she’d found herself wanting to manage his impressions of her even more than she had before. At present, she held back her lack of confidence concerning her part in the lurk, and the continuing discomfort she experienced in her withdrawal from laudanum.
In the week and a half since they’d made their deal, she’d kept her word to herself—the dose of laudanum she’d had that night after he’d gone to sleep had been her last. She meant to stay with the decision, even though doing so had been far more difficult than she could have imagined. She silently cursed Blanche Sayers, the prostitute in Paris who had provided the first taste of the drug.
Mary Jane’s part in the deal with Joseph had been compromised two days earlier when he’d discovered the bottle of laudanum she kept with her jewelry. They’d had a row. She’d left the box open—almost, she thought, as if she’d wanted him to find the tincture.
“I’d forgot about that bottle,” she’d protested.
He’d given her a look that said he didn’t believe her. “Should you want my help recovering your necklace,” he said, “you know you’ll have to give it up.”
That he’d dispensed with the charming phrasing that suggested laudanum was a woman told Mary Jane how serious he’d become.
“Would you dump what remains in the privy?” he asked.
She agreed to do that and went to the water closet on the landing.
Foolish that he didn’t come with me to watch.
Standing alone beside the toilet, considering the laudanum, she decided she shouldn’t waste what amounted to a couple of soothing doses. She’d paid for the drug, after all.
No, I must give it up for his help, and for my own well-being.
She had poured the tincture in the toilet and pulled the chain to wash the amber liquid away.
At present, sitting at dinner in the tavern with Joseph, she couldn’t help wishing she hadn’t done that. Fearing that she’d fail to keep the two night rounders entertained, an indispensable part of the scheme, left her feeling weak and cowardly. She wanted the escape from those feelings the drug could provide. The insidious craving had taken hold of her thoughts again.
Of course, she could always go to a chemist’s and buy more.
No!
Mary Jane considered the remains of her meal. The bits of sodden pastry, the coagulated fat and gravy didn’t look tasty now that the food and her gut had gone cold. She looked around the tavern at the other diners, most of them laborers eating inexpensive meals. She alone experienced severe unease, while those around her enjoyed their food and drink, talked, and laughed.
Earlier, when she’d expressed doubts about the scheme, Joseph’s frown had told her he expected more than a smile to confirm her willingness to take part.
Mary Jane decided that if she wanted him to take a risk for her, to find a way to secretly recover the emerald necklace from the Phoenix gay house, then she should not question his plan further. She would find a way to do as he asked on November 20 at the victualing yard because that would go a long way toward restoring his trust and motivating him. The ten pounds offered would add considerably to her savings and bring her closer to making a fresh start out of London.
Being gone to Deptford for a week also had its advantages. Even though she believed the notion emerged from the realm of fancy, she couldn’t help thinking that Gabriella Gorse had followed her home the night of October 23, and that the bitter prostitute might relay the location to Stuart Brevard. Mary Jane would feel better getting away from Globe Road for a while.
She gave Joseph another smile and nodded. “Yes, I can do that.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, “we’ll go over the lay again once you’ve been there and had a look around.”

​

Author and illustrator, Alan M. Clark grew up in Tennessee in a house full of bones and old medical books. His awards include the World Fantasy Award and four Chesley Awards. He is the author of seventeen books, including twelve novels, a couple of novellas, four collections of fiction, some of them lavishly illustrated, and a nonfiction full-color book of his artwork. Mr. Clark's company, IFD Publishing, has released 42 titles of various editions, including traditional books, both paperback and hardcover, audio books, and ebooks by such authors as F. Paul Wilson, Elizabeth Engstrom, and Jeremy Robert Johnson. Alan M. Clark and his wife, Melody, live in Oregon. www.alanmclark.com Visit his blog: https://ifdpublishing.com/blog



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Here are portraits I did of the victims based on mortuary photos. In most cases there are no other photographs of thewomen. There is no photograph of the last victim, Mary Jane Kelly, that shows her facial features. The black and white photo in each image is the original mortuary photo. The color ones are my photo manipulations meant to “breath” a little life into them. The images of the women on the covers of the books, except for those of Kelly and Nichols are inspired by these portraits. The effort for the covers was to regress them in age some to show figures fully alive.

Mary Ann “Polly” Nichols

Annie Chapman

Elizabeth Stride

Catherine Eddowes

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