“Oh, I am sorry!” he exclaimed, steadying her on her feet. His accent marked him as a foreigner.
“Give me a fright, you did,” she gasped, managing a smile for him.
“You are not hurt, then?”
“No, I’m fine, honest. I don’t suppose you’d know anybody hereabout who reads Welsh?”
The young man looked startled, but shook his head. “No, I’m afraid I do not. I am Hungarian, have not been long in England.”
“Oh. Well, maybe you might walk me back to my rooms, eh? It’s not far and I’m that nervous, with this madman walking about the streets . . .”
“Of course, madam.”
He escorted her across the street, straight toward Maybrick’s hiding place. Maybrick all but crushed the handle of his knife under his fist and shrank back into the darkness of the doorway he stood in. God above, would this lousy whore never spend two minutes alone? If she made it all the way back to her doss house with the blasted Hungarian, they’d never have a chance at her! Then another set of footsteps coming along the pavement sent Maybrick even deeper into the shadows. Holy Christ, it’s a bloody police constable! Pulse thundering, he stood paralyzed, watching the constable approach Stride and her Hungarian. The constable frowned at her, moustaches twitching. “ ‘Ere, now, move along, Liz, none of your dirty business along ‘ere.”
Liz Stride drew herself up, drunk and beginning to show the effects of her own night’s frustration. “I never asked this gentleman a thing like that! He nearly knocked me down, coming out that door.” The Hungarian doffed his hat nervously and muttered something about getting home, then fled down Berner Street in the opposite direction from the constable. The policeman shrugged and moved on, leaving Stride to mutter a curse after him.