Mrs Darcy vs The Aliens

George Wickham took the hunk of mutton out of his pocket and tore off a mouthful. Then he reached for his hipflask and took a swig of gin. He grimaced at the rough taste and made a mental note to ask provisions to fill it up with Plymouth next time. Still no sign of any movement from the house opposite. Footsteps approached, and he melted back into the shadows of the alleyway.

The footsteps stopped and someone peered in his direction.

“Anybody there?” said a female voice. “I said, is there anybody there?”

In one swift, practised movement, Wickham grabbed hold of her and pulled her into the alleyway with one hand, clamping the other firmly over her mouth.

“Apologies for the rough handling, my dear,” he hissed, as he dragged her further into the alley, “but I haven’t been on the Chivalry Refresher Course yet this year, and my manners are a bit rusty.” When he was well away from the street, he released her. He took out a Chancel match and lit it by dipping it into a bottle of acid. “Well, my dear, who are you?” he said, holding the match up to her. She was a rough sort, evidently ravaged by laudanum, gin and bad sex – known to the medical profession as Harker’s Triple Whammy.

“I’m a simple ’ore, sir,” she said, backing away from the flame, “A simple ’ore, a-going about me honest trade of a night. You after a good time?”

“At this precise minute, my dear, no. But circumstances may change, so give me your card anyway.”

The woman passed him her card, and he examined it by the light of the match.

Annie Chapman

’Ore

Available for weddings, orgies and bar-mitzvahs

“The customer always comes first”

“Glad to hear it,” said Wickham, pocketing the card. The match fizzled and went out. “Bloody French technology,” he said. “Listen, my dear, I work for some … important people – ”

“Ha. Don’t talk to me about important people. D’yer know what I said to the Prince Regent the other – ”

“Er, yes, I’m sure that’s terribly interesting,” said Wickham. “But that’s as maybe. I’m more interested in … reports of … unusual things going on around here?”

“Not sure I get your drift.”

“Disappearances, perhaps? Anyone you know on the street suddenly … not on the street, as it were?”

The woman’s face lit up. “Ooh, funny you should say that, but I was just thinking about old Mary Ann Nichols. We usually meet for half a dozen gins on a Tuesday and she ain’t been around for a few days.”

“Interesting. Do you know anything about the Mission for Fallen Women over there?” He jerked his head in the direction of the street.

Annie Chapman laughed. “You’re not suggesting Mary Ann’s found Jesus, are you? That’d be the day.”

“I’m not suggesting anything. But I’m wondering if anyone you know has ever been there?”

“Ha, no. Once they go in there, you never sees them again. It’s like they’re too good for the likes of me any more.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. It’s as if there was something wrong with being an ’ore. And I don’t know what they get up to in there, I really don’t. You should hear some of the noises.”

“Such as? Hymns?”

“Nah. Wailing, more like.”

“Fascinating. Well, I tell you what. Here’s my card. If you come across anything else unusual, drop me a line, eh?”

“That’ll be tricky. I’m illiterate.”

“Dear me. Have you an amanuensis?”

“Not last time it was checked, no. Listen, I’ll get word to you somehow. Nice meeting you. I like a man in uniform.” She winked at him in what she evidently hoped was a coquettish manner.

“Mmmm,” said Wickham. “Tell me, I don’t suppose you do Prussian, do you?”

Annie slapped him hard. “Filthy bugger,” she said, and strode off into the night. Wickham followed her to the end of the alley, rubbing his cheek. As he reached the street, he noticed a figure looking from left to right before entering the Mission.

“Good Lord,” he said to himself. “Surely not?”