The Devil of Whitechapel (Under Editing)

i-i. Haytham √

ACT I: THE TRIUMVIRATE

"We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy is when men are afraid of the light."

-Plato
          

Liu Ping's place was a den of vice, where people of all tastes could find a poison just for them. Prostitutes, gambling, alcohol; all of it was down there, and all of it served to make the Chinaman the richest secret millionaire in London.

And what was Haytham Fletcher's poison of choice? Opium, to which Liu Ping's cellar was dedicated. The walls were lined with bunks, the floors covered in pillows. There were only ever a few people down there at a time, so Haytham was always able to snatch one of the bunks. He could curl up, light up his pipe, and let the darkness and the opium was everything away. Everything from the events of the previous day to the events to the Burmese War was forgotten, replaced by a warmth that couldn't be matched by anything in the world.

"You have Liu's money?"

Haytham groaned and rolled over to his other side, away from the wall that had helped him to wipe his mental slate clean. One of Liu's grunts was standing there, another chink who spoke better English than his boss. He was young, might've been handsome if it weren't for those squinty eyes of his, and he even dressed like a boy who fancied himself an Englishman. He was popping his knuckles, like every other grunt who ever harassed him about other people's money.

He took another puff from his pipe. "What's it to ya? You know, you're far prettier than the other people Liu Ping keeps sending' my way. Must go for a pretty penny, indeed."

One of the knuckles on the grunt's fist popped especially loud. Haytham might have been amused by his own comment, but this grunt certainly wasn't. In fact, he looked like his want to punch him had gone from being a business matter to being a personal one.

"You didn't answer my question, inspector," the grunt said. "You have Liu Ping's money or not?"

Haytham took another puff of opium. "How much do I owe?"

"Ten pounds, including what you've got in our pipe, now."

He just about choked on the smoke. He hadn't thought he'd owe nearly that much.

The grunt scoffed. "I'll guess that's a no."

Haytham pulled out his wallet and took a look inside. "I've got... two pounds on me, right now. And... a few pence. You can take it all."

The grunt shook his head. "Ain't gonna be enough, boy. Liu Ping wants his money back, and he wants it back now. Sick of people like you refusing to make good on their tabs."

"Hate to break it to you, but he isn't going to have that money back, today. Now, if he'd just wait a week-"

"He ain't gonna wait: you're going to give him his damned money, or else-"

Haytham pulled out his pistol and took aim at the grunt before he could finish his sentence. "You'll listen here, and you'll listen good. I ain't got his money, today. He's just going to have to wait for another week until I get it. You understand, or do I have to say it in Chinese for you?"

"For the love of God, Haytham; will you put that gun away before you hurt somebody?

Haytham groaned, lowering the weapon. He knew that voice full well.

He could see Doctor Ezra Ireland behind the grunt, looking far too prim and proper for an opium den: silk waistcoat, pressed slacks, delicate-looking glasses; he looked more like he was getting ready to go to an opera than he was getting ready to drag somebody out of an opium den.