His carriage flows deliberately along the cobbled road, a brisk November breeze in tow. By now he has travelled far off the beaten path, so to speak - his cozy trappings long since vanished in the night. He fiddles with the horseshoe pin that adorns his necktie, mumbling tawdry nothings to himself with a devilish grin. As carriage and driver near the East End, the chimes of Big Ben roll out across all of London. Twelve strokes ring in the midnight hour.
Shortly thereafter, he leaves his transport at a nearby pub and makes a quick visit inside. He smiles at the owner, orders a drink, and then slips out again. It is a routine, one of many in his life. He goes back to his carriage and grabs his tiny black bag, heading off down to Thrawl Street with a a cheery whistle. He stops briefly to shine his boots, watching them gleam in the moonlight. He is in no hurry, though he knows he must succeed tonight. On nights like this, failure is not an option for him. It begins to rain lightly, and he pulls his fur coat a little tighter around his shoulders.
It takes an hour of idle walking to find her, the Irish girl he had met the week before. They had exchanged pleasantries, nothing more, but enough so that he knew what she was. This had inspired him, and he had planned many a night by his spacious fireplace for just such a rendezvous. He calls out to her and waves her over. She smiles conspiratorially.
It turns out she needs money - they always do - and they come to an agreement. His finely groomed moustache ruffles gently across her cheek, and she is nothing short of cheeky in return, giggling almost apologetically so for the nature of their companionship. As they walk back to her place, she listens attentively as he tells her of his work as a doctor, the many rigors of life and death, the deep philosophy of his occupation. His words almost bring him to tears, and even she, with her heart hardened against pity, weeps a little at his nobility. Then they are silent, their lonely footsteps echoing down Dorset Street amongst the bubbling raindrops.
They arrive at her roomings, a meager existence in Miller's Court. The lights in her neighbors' houses are out. They slip in to her place, and as she lights a candle, he sets his bag down on a small end table. She watches with fascination as he pulls out a tiny ring. He had mentioned this in passing the first time they had met, the ring that had once belonged to the Queen of Spain, and he had promised to show it to her. She is hesitant to look at it, it was so bright, and even moreso to try it on, despite his insistence. She sits down upon the bed and gazes at the ring on her hand, encrusted with so many tiny diamonds it glows almost as much as the candle. She grins and looks up at her most recent benefactor, but he is already digging through his bag once more ...
He walks back to his carriage now, his whistle impossibly more cheerful than before. His coat is gone, burned in the fire, as is his hat and the small bag. Its contents he has stowed carefully in his pants pocket, along with a small lock of the girl's lovely red hair, a small bit of scalp still gracelessly attached. He once again stops to shine his spats, the specks of red flowing out harmlessly onto the street. Finally, he makes it to back to the pub and his horse, who looks appropriately disgruntled and wet. He takes one last look back towards the north as he makes his way out of Miller's Court, out of Whitechapel, and out of London, back to his home, where he will sit by a warm fire and relive the memories of this night forever and ever.