Chapter Text
Despite the late hour, the streets of Whitechapel were crowded as ever. It was hard to even feel the chill of the night air through the press of bodies on the main streets. Outside every bar and public boarding house, people huddled in groups, drinking, talking and smoking, the smell and heat of them filling the air. The streets were still teeming with carriages as well, carts of meat and animal hides being shipped out to other, nicer, parts of the city. The roads were thick with mud and horse shit and waste water people had dumped from chamber pots. The air was heavy and humid despite the cold.
Doctor Hannibal Lecter took the step down from his carriage carefully, his shiny shoes sinking shallowly into the muck. He turned and retrieved a large bag made of well cared for black leather from the seat. As he passed under one of the gaslight lamps, his features stood out in sharp relief from the darkness of his jacket and hat. A well formed face with strong cheekbones and a wide mouth stretched in a distasteful grimace. He held a handkerchief with a bit of scent on it over his mouth and nose so he could breath without feeling the need to retch. He took a shallow breath through his mouth and made his way down the road, bag held tight under his arm.
As he made his way down Whitechapel road, he was struck by the obvious poverty in which the denizens of the neighborhood lived. Almost every building had a number of vagrants squatting against a wall, passing back and forth a cheap bottle of liquor or simply smoking a cigarette. One notable fellow had passed out half in the road, empty bottle still clutched in his hand and vomit all down the front of his shirt.
There were a number of lodging houses off of the main road, advertising rooms, or beds, or just spots on a long wooden pew where at least one might sleep out of the rain. The people who could not even afford those meager accommodations settled for bedding down outside, in the parks or churchyards and graveyards. It seemed as though the entire city had overflowed, and people were spilling into the streets like dirty bathwater.
Women stood in little groups like painted pigeons on the corners, smiling fake smiles and batting their eyelashes at any man that seemed like he might have a penny or two to taken them into an alley. Indeed, it was possible to not only hear, but see, people coupling in the shadows, trousers and garters lying in the mud between spread feet. The puddles smelled like beer, urine and human excrement.
One or two of the women took interest in the doctor, sharp eyes noting the quality of his coat and hat and recognizing him as a man of means.
“Hello there luv, would you like a bit of company?” one simpered at him, trying to catch him by the arm with pink painted talons. Under her heavy perfume she smelled like stale beer and sweat.
Hannibal forced a smile and carefully moved his arm away before she could soil his coat with her hand. “Thank you my dear, but not tonight,” he replied in softly accented English.
“Don’t like foreigners anyways,” the woman whispered to her fellow whores as he walked away.
The doctor ignored the comment and continued on his way. It was beginning to drizzle, and the gaslight lamps offered little visibility in the rain. A man, walking with the exaggerated staggering gait of the very drunk bumped into him, nearly falling backwards into the gutter when he bounced off of Hannibal’s shoulder.
“Sorry sir,” he slurred, struggling to straighten himself. “Didn’t see you there.” He made to head off down the road again, but was stopped by Hannibal, who caught him firmly by the arm.
“Hey! Let go of me!” The man squawked, trying to pull his arm back. He jerked backward and his bottle sloshed out an amount of strong smelling liquor.
Hannibal squeezed the man’s arm tighter. “I’m sorry, but I believe you have something of mine.” He tightened his grip further, drawing a yelp from the man. “You should return it.”
“I got no idea what you’re on about,” the man sneered. “I ain’t took nothing of yours.” He winced as Hannibal nearly crushed his wrist in his grasp. “Fucking shite!” He swung his free arm wildly, attempting to smash the bottle into Hannibal’s head.
Hannibal easily ducked the blow and suddenly twisted his wrist, spinning the man’s arm. It crackled loudly at the shoulder and then hung down limp. The man screamed and dropped the bottle, falling to his knees. Hannibal ignored his cries and reached into the man’s front trouser pocket, pulling out a black leather billfold.
“You should not steal from people,” Hannibal said calmly, tucking his wallet back into the inner pocket of his jacket. “It is rude.”
“Rude?” The man cried, clutching at his limp arm with his good one. “You broke my bleeding arm, you arsehole!” He sniffled and gingerly felt at his shoulder.
Hannibal glanced up and down the street and sighed. “It is not broken, it has merely been dislocated. You will need assistance to get it back into place, a doctor would be a good idea.” He didn’t wait for the man to respond and instead set off down the street again, this time, keeping a closer eye out for would be pickpockets. He was glad the man had reached for that pocket. He did not want to lose his wallet, but the money was of little importance. But it would have been harder to deal with situation if the man had instead reached into other pocket, the one deeper in the lining of his coat, that he had sewn in himself. Instead of money the enterprising theif would have found himself with something much more unusual, and more valuable, at least to Hannibal. A leather case with a set of scalpels nestled inside. All kept razor sharp and inlaid with ivory in the handles.
He made his way down the street and then took a sharp turn down an alley. Away from the main street, there were still plenty of people, all enjoying the relative privacy of the darkness. Vagrants slept on the damp streets, blanketed in old coats and nested down in piles of rags like rats. Men and women coupled in the darkness behind piles of trash, their grunts and groans echoing in the shadows.
Hannibal kept his head down and moved quickly through the maze of alleyways and side streets, avoiding the beggars and ladies of the night, and eventually arrived at a door. It was on the back side of a building, in a dead end alley. The door was large and wooden and had been painted what looked like it was once a brilliant red, but had congealed over time to the shade of old scabs.
Hannibal carefully scanned the alley, and finding it empty, knocked on the door. Twice in quick succession and then three more at a slower tempo. After a moment, the door swung open, revealing a dark interior hallway. There was a small table in the entrance, and upon it sat a candle in a holder, and a pack of matches. He looked down the alley one last time, and then quickly stepped inside, swinging the door closed behind him.
Once he had lit the match Hannibal could see the hallways was shorter than it appeared, and at the end was another door, this one painted a dusty black. He carefully approached the door, and tested the handle. Finding it unlocked, he pushed his way through, into the darkness beyond.