Red Jenny was what she called herself. Her Christian name was Harriet Pickering. She had always hated the way that sounded coming off the tongue, and in her line of work, the tongue was very important.
All the lecherous men of Spitalfields knew of Red Jenny. She was the prize prostitute in the area. She could bed several men a night with time to spare, and always went home with several pounds lining her garters.
It was a particularly lonesome night tonight. Jenny had been strolling Market Street, ambling her way towards Bishops Square. It was rare to not have been solicited by any man yet. It was well past midnight, and on any normal night, Jenny would have been with at least three men by now. She shrugged off the thought and chalked it up to just a rare, bad night.
Jenny stopped in front of the old Charnel House. The stone building had been a part of London since the time of the Roman Empire, and it had always given Jenny an ill feeling. Anytime she had to pass by it, she held her breath for fear that there was some malignant entity that might possess her lest she even sniff the air around the structure.
“Fancy a roll, love?”
The voice seemed to come from nowhere and gave Jenny a terrible start. She flinched, turning away from the Charnel House and casting her eyes on the tall, dark man that stood before her.
He was a towering fellow with a bit of a stoop at the shoulders. He wore a bowler hat and waistcoat and a blue silk puff tie. He was much more fashionable than Jenny’s regular clients. Her thoughts quickly turned to money, as she calculated what she could make from this one. Jenny flashed the man a smile.
“If you have the money, I’ve got the time, deary.”
The man reached into his lapel and produced a massive roll of banknotes. He waved the notes in front of Jenny, who had now all but forgotten about her aversion to the Charnel House and thought only of her inclination of money.
“I assume this will suffice?”
The man gave Jenny a toothy smile. There was something unsettling about the way he grinned at her, but she was used to men seeing her as nothing but a possession, so she paid it no mind.
“Of course, sir. Do you have a place in mind?”
He pocketed the wad of money and held out his arm, indicating a direction across the street.
“I have a place yonder. After you madam. I am a gentleman, after all.”
Jenny smiled, a lusty, greedy smile. She nodded slightly and proceeded to start towards the direction the man gestured to. As she walked she thought of the money he had waved about. She began to imagine just how much was in the roll, and how much she could pry from his pockets. She also began to wonder about the devious acts that this man must want performed. The rich ones were usually the more “creative” in their sexual desires.
A sharp pain suddenly radiated from the back of her head, causing Jenny’s vision to blur. She stumbled forward, going down to one knee. She reached her hand back to touch the back of her head. It was wet and sticky.
“Has no one condemned you?”
Jenny was woozy and bewildered. She couldn’t understand what the man was talking about. In her dazed state, she managed to rise to her feet and turn round to face him. His face was no longer smiling. He now wore an expression of cold, unfeeling apathy.
“Sir?” Jenny was able to manage a whispered query to the man’s question.
“Then I shall condemn you.”
With that, the man stooped down slowly, methodically, and picked up a good sized rock. Jenny looked at the man in abject horror. The man, with no change in expression, threw the rock at Jenny, connecting with her forehead with a wet, sickening thud. Jenny’s vision went white, stars blinked in her eyes as she stumbled backwards and fell flat on her back, her head bouncing off the cobblestone street.
Jenny’s head was swimming, the pain was searing and unbearable. She writhed around on the street, groaning, trying desperately to cry out for help, but found that her voice would not come. She began to cry, unable to understand why this was happening to her.
Her vision cleared, and Jenny could see the night sky of London, cloudy and drab. Then, a dark shadow obscured the stars. It was the man. He held aloft a piece of stone, wide and thick and very heavy. With still no emotion on his face, the man hefted the stone high above his head, and brought it down with all his might down towards Jenny’s head.
Jenny’s last thought was of the Charnel House, and how she always thought that there was a dark entity that lived within. Then there was a brief moment of pain before Red Jenny thought no more.
The man knelt down, almost as if in prayer. He took a pair of gloves from his waistcoat and slipped them over each hand. Gently, delicately, he removed the stone from his victim’s head. He took his index finger and dipped it in the gore that was once Red Jenny’s beautiful face. With blood on his finger, the man began to write on the ground.
After a moment, the man stood. He looked upon his work.
“Such lovely meat,” he whispered. He looked at what he had scribed on the ground in her blood. He nodded matter-of-factly. He removed his gloves, taking care to not stain his good clothes.
The man turned to leave the scene of the crime. As he did, he spoke to himself.
“The first stone is cast.”