Blood in White Chapel

Chapter One

Pipe tobacco filled the air in the already cramped pub. He pulled a glass full of amber liquid to his lips as he glanced around. At least the smoke drowned out the rancid stench of the East End. Men and women alike had gathered in the pub. It was easy drinking their sorrows away. From broken homes to broken marriages, White Chapel was without a doubt the poster city of the poverty. He was losing himself in his drink and thoughts as another man approached his table.

"Mr. Spencer."

The way he had been addressed was so formal. With a grandeur of agitation, a pale hand gestured to the empty seat across from him.

"It's Myron, Hayes."

He returned the greeting, yet, he lacked the decent formality of it. Civility made his skin crawl. His companion smirked as he removed his hat and coat, draping across the back of the rickety wooden chair.

"It will always baffle me why you choose the slums as a meeting location. There are much better pubs in London."

Without missing a beat, Myron scoffed.

"The setting is quite a perfect fit for our little line of work, Hayes."

Hayes removed his gloves and placed them on the table beside his hat as the bar wrench approached.

"Might you fancy yourse'f a drink, sir?"

"A pint will suffice."

She smiled a toothless grin as she moved back to the bar, bar patrons hustling her along the way. Hayes removed a slip of paper from his pocket and put it on the table. With his fingers still on the white parchment, his brown eyes bore into his "co-worker".

"You aren't going to enjoy the last name on this list."

Myron's blue hues stared back, curious about why Hayes would inform him of such an unusual statement. Hayes shrugged before he released the paper. He then reached into his coat pocket to remove matches, a pipe and paper bag with tobacco in it. Blue hues rolled as he grabbed up the folded list.

His hand was unsteady. His nerves were never rattled. It comes with the work. There was an air of mystery that bothered him about Hayes's warning, intuition one might call it. The bar wench jostled him from his thoughts as she set a pint glass on the table heavily in front of Hayes.

"T'ere you are, sir!"

Her voice was cheerful, it was clear she hadn't been in White Chapel long. The East End was not a place of happiness. It was a pit of despair and disease. Myron got up as the bar wench squeaked, he noticed Hayes's hand on her arse. He was out the door before his companion could register he had left. He pulled on his cap and made his way into the filth covered street. Whore and drunkards were everywhere, as were vermin, both in humankind and animal. Myron sighed as he fiddled with the piece of paper in his pocket. He picked up the pace, the sooner he made it back to his little flat, the sooner he could examine the list of names.

He plucked a key from his other pocket, nodding his head towards the policeman at the corner. Myron came to stand at a door marked 242b Wentworth Street. It was one of the main roads in White Chapel, lit by the new-fashioned street lights. His fingers fiddled with the lock before he got the wooden door open. It took a moment before his eyes adjusted to the darkness within his room. He snagged the box of matches from their familiar location on his desk beside the door. Myron made his way through the room to the lamp beside his bed. He struck a match and lit the wick, a small drizzle of light illuminated the room.

It was a studio flat in the nicer sections of White Chapel. It had a bed, a nightstand, a desk with a chair, two small lamps and a washroom, which in the East End was a luxury. He hung his hat on the hook beside the door before he fell to a sit on the wooden chair. He had taken care when he removed the note from his pocket.

His hands were shaking again.

"God damned intuition..."

He hissed to himself as he forced with an ounce of willpower to steady his hands. He unfolded it to find it was two sheets of paper. He looked over the top note.

'Good Evening Mr. Spencer,

You know we would not call on you unless the situation was dire. White Chapel has now become a literal breeding ground. We've tracked a movement and it has led us to the East End. You will be working with several others in this extermination.

We compiled this list with you in mind.
Regrettably so.

Sincerely, The Association.'

Myron took a deep breath into his chest before he moved the top paper to the side to reveal the list of names below. Much to his surprise, they were all names of women. His mind almost didn't allow him to read the final name. His gaze turned red and with the unwavering of his focus, he felt he could set the paper ablaze. His fists hit the desk and the wood cracked and splintered beneath the force. It was a name he had not read since his youth when his father was teaching him about their particular trade. He grimaced at the pain of own his stupidity. His room caught the gaze of passerby's through the curtains.

Myron grumbled as he almost ripped the desk drawer from its caddy and pulled free the map of White Chapel.