Whitechapel

November 27th, 1888

The flickering of gentle flames enclosed by lanterns makes the paisley lavender wallpaper appear ashen. Upon an immaculately sparkling oakwood table lay a journal, ajar. Bent over the black leather journal sits James Maybrick, staring into the pages marred with crimson ink as though they were a mirror portraying all of his sins. He takes another sip of his water---the third since his arrival only an hour before---eyes flickering to the window across the room wearily. He stared into the darkness past the window as if a million eyes were peering into his soul. His leg bounces beneath the table, frantic enough that the room nearly shook as though a gentle earthquake had struck the Druitt residence.
Within the closet stands Druitt, on his knees as he scavenges for a secret treasure of his. Beneath the color-organized coats and cloaks of various lengths and design, he kneels, setting pairs of shoes aside pair by pair. Quickly enough, a little hidden trap door becomes evident. Gleaming, he unlatches it with haste, reaching inside of the cube-sized hole to bring out a string of lockets. Six carvings of the Virgin Mary are strung together ornamentally, a few follicles of hair peeking out from the clasps of each. Brunette, blonde, blonde, blonde, brunette, brunette. The beautiful, lustrous colors of their victims.
Thrown across the dining table lay Kominiski, drowning himself with the finest liquors. A few feet away stands a towering cupboard of the most respectable of alcohols. By his side lay an emptied bottle of brandy. In his hand, a bottle of champagne. "Sur' is lucky tha' yer a bartend'r, Druu," he slurs, rubbing his eyes roughly. "Got'll th' good shit."
Glancing up from his book, Klosowski chuckles at the sorry man's sorrier state."You do have a fine home, Druitt," snapping the book shut, he stands from the sofa with graceful ease. "Lovely furniture. Reasonably sized rooms. A wall of liquor," he hums, strutting over to the bookshelf with a blithe smile. "It would be a shame if you lost it. You know, being jailed and all." Maybrick winces, eyes flicking to the window then back at the men in the room.
"Severin! An interrogation means nothing! They were able to gather not a single clue from me! My word sounded as pure as a fair virgin," Druitt frowns, holding the lockets to his chest as he rises to his feet. "Speaking such foul thoughts might jinx the whole lot of us!"
"I've nothin' t' lose," Kominiski drawls to himself, staring at the ceiling. He takes another swig from the bottle mindlessly. Maybrick fidgets with his pen, unaware of the singular red droplet falling from the nib.
Ignoring Kominiski, Klosowski turns to Druitt, "Have you not a worry about being found out?"
Kominiski crudely laughs, baring his filthy teeth for all to see, "Wh't've I got to lose? They gon' take my dog? Th' demons in me head?" Rolling in laughter, his fingers unfurl from the bottle in hand. It shatters on the oakwood floor, erupting into a million fragments soaking in pale yellow. Maybrick pales, his eyes flicking between the mess and window.
"Oh! For bloody Christ, Aaron!" Druitt cries, gently nestling the lockets within his breast pocket before rushing over to sop up the carbonated mess. Kneeling beneath the table he briskly picks up each individual shard of glass, "You ought to be more careful."
"Ah, hell," Kominiski grumbles, struggling to lean himself up so he can peer down at the mess. "Did I piss m'self again?"
Druitt glances up at the filthy drunk with wide, horror-stricken eyes. "I most certainly hope not." It is too late, as droplets of amber liquid trickles onto the floor, dripping into the alcohol.
"M'bad." Maniacal laughter follows, thundering across the room before abruptly pausing. The drunk had passed out, dead to the world  Klosowski gives the drunk a deeply displeased look. Druitt merely busies himself in cleaning, tears encroaching his vision.
"I paid nearly my entire wage last month on that table..."
    Snickering, Klosowski flits through the linen closet, pulling out a few worse-for-wear cloths before ambling over to the mess. "Well, I suppose that the police are mighty idiots to not have caught this fine fellow," he laughs, handing the cloths down to Druitt. "I suppose that if they got nothing out of him, we should be perfectly fine." A devil-may-care smile adorns his lips, but his eyes lock onto Maybrick, sat alone and silent at the desk. They darken a shade too dark, malintent evident. Maybrick quivers beneath the stare, shrinking back into the chair like a mouse being eyed by a jaguar. "James! My good pal, come help us with the mess, yeah?"
    "Ah, yeah. Pardon my inconsideration," Maybrick nods, gently shutting the journal. He sips his water slowly. Taking his time, he slowly rises and saunters over to the kitchen, struggling to sit up Kominski. Every few seconds, his eyes flick to the journal, then the door, then the window. His fingers twitch uncontrollably. His eyes are wide, his skin pale as though he is surrounded by a million phantoms ready to steal the little black journal with red ink.
    "Got him?" Klosowski affirms, to which Maybrick gives a slight nod. He saunters away from the kitchen, glancing back at Maybrick with a devilish smile. His eyes gleamed with hatred, with mischief. "Superb! Now what do you have in that journal of yours?" He begins to walk apace, headed straight for the journal.
    "Wait! That's private!" Maybrick cries, dropping Kominiski onto the floor. He chases Klosowski, running as fast as a rotund man can run, which quite frankly, it is not quick enough.
    "My floor!"
Klosowski steals the journal, flipping it to a randomized page and begins to read an excerpt, just to taunt him. "Tonight I stabbed a woman five times in the chest. She couldn't make a scream before Kominiski slit her throat. Her death preserved the life of that bitch of a wife of mine. That whore denied me for the last time, I say it. It took all I had not to ri---," Maybrick snatches the journal back, cheeks rosier than a newborn's arse.
"You had no right!" Maybrick growls, shoving Klosowski back into the table.
Scoffing, Klosowski feigns horror, knowing full well that Druitt's full attention is on the commotion they are creating. "Is it that you've written a murder diary?" He pauses dramatically, listening amusedly to the soft gasp from the queer man across the room. "Have you written a record of our misdeeds for police viewing?"
"A rat! A rat among us!" Druitt cries, dramatically throwing his hands in the air. Glass shards rain down onto the ground again as he releases them, the alcohol-piss towel flying in Maybrick's direction, landing on his shoulder. The stout man shrieks, shaking the forbidden towelette off of himself. It falls to the ground with a soggy thump. "You are trying to frame us! You intend to sell us out to save your own bloody arse!"
Kominiski, lay, all but dead, a bruise already forming on his forehead from where he landed when dropped. He soaks in a pile of piddle, trousers soaked through.
Klosowski follows suit, "Traitor! A bloody traitor!"
"No! No! Not at all!" Maybrick begs, "Be quiet or the neighbors will hear!"
Druitt, flustered, grapples at his hair, pulling out two full lumps of tawny blonde. "I can not be found out. I have to go! I have to go!" Hysterical, he grapples through the drawers of the table. He rips a page from a random journal, grabbing an inkwell and pen. Hair falls to the floor in two thick lumps. "I will not be caught! I will never be caught with the likes of scum like you!" A hysterical glisten in his eye. "I am a Druitt! I am better than all the likes of you lot!"
Like a tornado, Druitt is there one moment and gone the next. By the time Maybrick flees after the crazed man, he is halfway down the block with the door thrown open so hard that the knob leaves a crater in the lavender wallpapered walls.
Then, there were two. Really, only one. Klosowski grins, a maniacal grin, letting out a huff of laughter. "They've all turned on one another, haven't they?" He waltzes over to Kominiski, kneeling beside the drunken fool. "Though I suppose it was I who turned on the lot of you first," he confesses, admiring the tobacco-coloured drool leaking down Kominiski's cheek. "My pals, my scapegoats. Where would I be without you?"