Dover Street, Mayfair, London
“It’s him, I’m telling you,” Eddowes said, his voice hoarse and edged with exhaustion. He looked around the table at the other members of the Whitechapel Club. “I saw it. I saw him. It took Stride. It flowed into him, and filled him and covered him and then he—the others, he—he killed them.” Red memories flowered in his head and he hastily shoved them back down. He’d been in a state of near-panic since things had taken a turn for the wrong in the garret.