The Ripper's Shadow Page 7

“Sarah.” Catherine sounds surprised. “Did you tell him about—”

  I kick her foot before she can mention the boudoir photographs. Fortunately, Barrett doesn’t notice because the jury is signaling Mr. Baxter that they’re ready to give a verdict. An expectant hush descends. The jury foreman whispers in Mr. Baxter’s ear.

  “The jury has returned a verdict of willful murder against some person or persons unknown,” Mr. Baxter announces. “This inquest is hereby concluded.”

  Everyone rises. I hurry Catherine out of the room, leaving PC Barrett behind. I do not want him to see that I am distraught because the inquest and its verdict have dashed my hopes that police will soon catch the killer. Nor do I want him to wonder why I care so much.

  8

  During the days that follow, I dread news of another murder, and I crave another encounter with PC Barrett as much as I fear it. My keyed-up state has various effects. On the Saturday evening after the inquest, I develop the photographs of the Lipskys’ daughter, but on Sunday morning, I cannot achieve prints of good quality and ruin many sheets of paper. On Sunday afternoon, Catherine drops by. I again beg her to give up men until the killer is caught, she again refuses, and we quarrel. She thinks bad things only happen to other people, and she suspects I’m hiding something related to Lord Hugh Staunton. Mick is a daily visitor who chatters, eats, and runs. My orderly world has become chaotic. On Monday, while photographing customers, I drop and break three negative plates. By Tuesday evening, I’m rattling around my studio like a pebble in a shaken cup. I’m also more concerned than ever about Kate Eddowes. Needing action, I put on my coat and go outside, never mind that I may run across PC Barrett.

  #

  The tower of St. Botolph’s Church vanishes into the fog that fills the darkening sky. The church is nicknamed “Prostitutes’ Church,” for the streetwalkers who parade around it at night, soliciting customers. Dressed in ragged finery, they appear under the haloes of the gas lamps. A bright dyed-green feather adorns a bonnet here; a red taffeta petticoat swishes above mismatched shoes there. Men lurk and watch before taking their pick.

  One of them could be the killer.

  Liz, Annie, Mary Jane, and Kate are nowhere in sight. It’s futile to hope they decided to heed my warning. Has one of them gone off with the Ripper?

  The night echoes with disembodied voices. The rattle of wheels on cobblestones announces the jakesmen, who shovel waste from the privies and transport it to the countryside in carts. A vicious stench trails them. Loath to be mistaken for one of the prostitutes, I stand outside the church and ask each, as she passes by, if she’s seen Kate Eddowes.

  A toothless redhead says, “I saw her today at Cooney’s Lodging House on Flower and Dean Street.”

  Kate is alive; I can warn her; it’s not too late.

  Flower and Dean is a short, narrow road crowded with people queuing for beds at the lodging houses. I squeeze past men and women who wear layers of soiled, ragged clothes and carry their few possessions in sacks. Their odor is foul from living on the streets as often as not. Coughs rattle from bad lungs. I try to avoid touching the people. The line between solvency and poverty is thin, and I don’t want their bad luck to rub off on me. At Cooney’s, the deputy at the door, who takes fees, assigns rooms, and keeps order, is muscled like an ox.

  “Wait your turn,” he orders me as he accepts eight pence from a woman with a crutch.

  I’m disconcerted because he’s mistaken me for one of those who need lodging. “I’m here to visit Kate Eddowes. Is she here?”

  “Second floor, room three.”

  The house is noisy with people settling in for the night. Their odor permeates the stairwell and passages. As I knock on Kate’s door, I think of Lord Hugh Staunton and wince.

  “Go away,” a man’s rough, slurred voice calls. “We’re trying to sleep.”

  “It’s Sarah Bain,” I call. “I have to speak with Kate.”

  Inside, rustling sounds accompany muttered conversation. The door opens to reveal small, thin Kate in a woolen dressing gown. Dark auburn hair straggles around her face, whose pitted complexion and carved lines make her look older than her forty years. Her hazel eyes are puffy, she exudes the stale smell of sleep, and she’s a far cry from the laughing minx who wiggled her bare bottom at my camera, but rarely have I been so glad to see anyone. If I had to pick a favorite from among my models, she would be second to Catherine. She’s cheerful, clever, and resourceful. The boudoir photographs were her idea, and although they’ve put me in a compromising position—and possibly endangered all my models—I admire Kate’s initiative. If not for bad luck, she might have become a more successful businesswoman than I.

  “Where have you been?” I exclaim.

  “Picking hops in Kent,” she says with a drowsy smile. “We just got back today.”

  Many London folks go to the countryside for the hops harvest, a sort of paid working holiday with fresh air. Kate was safe; I worried needlessly.

  “What are you doing here, Miss Sarah?” Kate asks.

  “I’ve something to tell you. May I come in?”

  “Kate!” the man calls. “Get rid of whoever the hell that is! Come back to bed!”

  She mouths his words, mimics his annoyance, smirks, and lets me in. John Kelly, her companion, is sitting in bed in a small chamber cluttered with strewn clothes and miscellany. He looks sleepy and disgruntled. I say hello and try not to look at his bare chest, which is matted with hair the same reddish color as the shaggy mane on his head. Kate snuggles against him and motions me to the chair.

  I experience a pang of envy. John Kelly is no prize, but Kate’s bed, unlike mine, is warm at night. I sit on clothes piled atop the chair. “While you were gone, there were two murders.”

  “You woke us up for that?” John says. “Christ!”

  “It was Martha Tabram and Polly Nichols,” I say.

  “Oh?” Kate blinks, sits up straight, and glances at John. When she introduced us some months ago, she told him I had hired her to clean my studio. Now she flashes me a look that says he still doesn’t know about the photographs and I shouldn’t tell him. She wants to keep the money for herself.

  “You knew them?” John is interested now.

  “Just to say hello,” Kate lies, then asks me, “So what happened?”

  “They were stabbed to death.”

  Kate has a habit of holding and rolling her tongue in her open mouth like a pink marble. “So they met up with the wrong blokes. That’s too bad.”

  “I think it was the same one,” I say.

  “Why’s that?” John asks.

  I seek a way to tell Kate without giving away our secret. “Because of the connection between them. You could be next.”

  “What’re you talking about?” John demands, baffled by the undercurrent he senses in the conversation.

  Kate rolls her tongue faster as comprehension glints in her eyes: she’s gotten my hint that the killer could be a man who’s seen the photographs of her, Martha, Polly, and my other models and that that is how he is choosing his victims.

  “I’m talking about the fact that there’s a killer on the loose,” I tell John, then address Kate. “Be careful. Stay indoors at night. Don’t go with strange men.”

  “She don’t need to go with ’em,” John says. They’ve lived together in poverty for seven years, he knows Kate is a prostitute, and he can’t afford to care. “We made enough picking hops to last us awhile.” He puts his beefy arm around Kate. “I’ll keep her in.”

  Kate pushes him away. “You’ll do no such thing, John Kelly. You don’t own me.”

  The left sleeve of her robe slides up, and I see, on her forearm, the tattooed letters—“T. C.” They are the initials of Thomas Conway, a soldier she once lived with, by whom she had three children. He left her because she has a willful, independent streak, and when she drinks—which is often—she can be mean. Her relationship with John is rocky for the same reasons. She is estranged from her married daughter, gro
wn sons, and two sisters, who dislike her drinking, her streetwalking, and her demands for money.

  I attempt to sway Kate by detailing what could befall her. “Polly’s throat was cut so deeply that her head was almost severed.”

  Kate chuckles. “A horse slaughterer probably mistook her for a gimpy nag.” John laughs, too.

  “This is serious!” I say, angered by her flippancy. “Polly’s stomach was cut open!”

  Kate’s eyes go still like thrown dice when they stop rolling. “Cut open?” Her voice contracts to a whisper.

  “Yes.” I am so glad I have finally put fear of the killer into Kate, I don’t bother to ask why she finds the thought of Polly cut open more disturbing than Polly almost decapitated. “That’s why you must be careful.”

  Her tongue circles inside the O of her mouth. “Are the police offering a reward?”

  “Reward for what?”

  “For information about who killed Polly and Martha.”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “What do you care if there’s a reward?” John asks Kate. “The coppers won’t give you nothin’. You don’t know squat.”

  Even as she pouts at his scornful tone, I see a gleam of cunning in her eyes. “Do you have information?” I ask.

  “Course not.” But her tongue rolls faster, and her gaze skitters away from me.

  “You should tell the police even if there’s no reward.” I’m insistent, hopeful that she can direct them to the killer and that my models will be safe.

  “I just said I don’t know anything.” Kate hugs herself, as if holding in something she’s afraid I’ll snatch away.

  “What is it?” I demand, clutching her wrist. “Do you know who the Ripper is?”

  As we tussle, John says sharply, “Hey! Leave her alone!”

  “Forget about money,” I plead. “Lives could be at stake.”

  Kate wrenches free of me and shouts, “Go fuck yourself, stupid cow!”

  “Your life especially! If you know, he’ll come after you and kill you to keep you quiet!” I don’t mention that he may think Kate told me who he is and he’ll kill me, too. She won’t care; she’s never considered me a friend.

  She spews a stream of loud obscenities. People in the other rooms yell at her to be quiet.

  “See what you done?” John glares at me. “You set her off. Now there’ll be hell to pay.”

  I am so desperate that I ignore his temper. “Please, Kate, tell me!”

  “Get out!” John Kelly clambers out of bed like a bear disturbed while hibernating, yanks me up from my chair, and shoves me out the door. “Don’t come back!”

  9

  I decide to let Kate ponder my warning and hope she’ll change her mind about sharing her information with me. On Thursday, I finally print satisfactory photographs of the Lipskys’ daughter. I put them and my miniature camera in my satchel and head for Spitalfields to deliver them and photograph the scenery along the way.

  Whitechapel Road is blocked by crowds and the police pushing them back to clear the way for a black hearse, two coaches following it, and an escort of mounted policemen. Curiosity overcomes my fear of the law, and I join the crowd.

  “What is this?” I ask a woman beside me.

  “The funeral for Polly Nichols.”

  Spectators trail after the hearse and coaches. I have heard that criminals haunt the scenes of their crimes; why not their victims’ funerals? Maybe Polly’s killer is here. On impulse, I hail a cab, say, “Follow the hearse!” and jump in.

  The cab takes me to the City of London Cemetery, where I rush through the gates. The funeral cortege has already gone in; all I can see of it is the police guard at its rear. In the vast cemetery, grave monuments line a broad avenue over which trees arch, their leaves turning red and gold. The air is cooler and cleaner here, the sky blue between patches of cloud. The fresh, earthy, tangy scent of autumn transports me back to my childhood. My father and I often traveled to the countryside and took photographs. I managed to save the few that now hang in my studio. My mother destroyed the others—and most of his work—after he died. Those trips were precious to me, an enchanted time that my father and I shared as kindred spirits. Now the autumn air, the birdsong, and the peacefulness evoke a sense of his presence. I can almost feel his gentle hands on my shoulders as we peered into the viewfinder of his big camera together.

  The funeral cortege stops in an area of graves marked by simple stones or plaques. Mourners emerge from the coaches and gather around a freshly dug hole. I recognize Polly’s husband William Nichols. The police eye the spectators; I suppose they, too, hope to spot the killer. The crowd seems composed of ordinary people, some I know by sight, and no one looks like a murderer, but I step behind a tree, open my satchel, and take out my miniature camera. It is a metal box covered with black leather, small enough to hold in one hand. The lens protrudes from the front. Technical problems easily solved in the studio loom large in the field, and estimating the length of the exposure is guesswork, ambient light less reliable than flash powder. When I photograph people without their knowledge, I can only hope they stand still long enough for me to capture their images.

  Men lower the coffin into the grave. The mourners stand like soldiers. I peer through the viewfinder at the crowd . . . and see PC Barrett looking straight at me. My heart leaps of its own inexplicable volition, then sinks because he must be wondering why I came to Polly’s funeral. I drop my camera in my satchel and run into the woods. Trees with gnarled trunks flash past me, their roots lump up through the ground, and I don’t dare look backward, lest I trip. I hear footsteps crunching the dried leaves, gaining on me.

  “Sarah Bain!” Barrett calls.

  I’m running from the feelings he provokes in me as well as his suspicion. I emerge into a vast tract of tall monuments arranged in rows, a city of the dead. As I run, carved angels spread their wings above me. I veer around tombs until I’m too breathless to run anymore. Crouched behind a monument topped with a praying cherub, I hear Barrett curse, his footsteps recede, and then nothing but the wind that blows petals from roses in urns. Now Barrett will wonder why I ran away. I feel a pang of contradictory regret. I can’t help wishing I’d let him catch me. I’ve only made things worse for the next time I see him—and no doubt there will be a next time.

  Abandoning my plan to photograph Polly’s funeral, I trudge toward the gates and come upon a stone chapel built in Gothic style, with an octagonal tower and a rose window. A funeral party exits the chapel and moves toward the carriages and footmen waiting along the road. The people are elegantly dressed, a sharp contrast to the mourners at Polly’s funeral. One gentleman, blond and handsome, calls farewells to his friends and walks briskly toward me.

  Here, once more, is Lord Hugh Staunton.

  We gape at each other, chastened by the realization that we are doomed to meet again and again.

  We both burst out laughing.

  “I hoped never to see you again this side of hell!” Lord Hugh cries as he doubles over.

  “I could say the same about you!” Mirthful tears roll down my face. Maybe this isn’t as funny as it seems, but I’ve never laughed so hard. Catharsis releases the tension that has built up in me since Polly’s murder.

  Our laughter stops as suddenly and simultaneously as it began. In the long, solemn silence that ensues, thoughts pass between us as clearly as if spoken. Lord Hugh intuits that I am tolerant of his habits and will not tell tales on him. I intuit that he is someone I can meet frankly as an equal despite the difference in our stations.

  Lord Hugh says, “Fate must have some reason for throwing us together, Miss . . . ?”

  I know his name; it’s only fair that he should know mine. “Sarah Bain.”

  “I think we’re meant to be friends, Sarah Bain. May I give you a lift back to town?”

  But this is too much, too fast, and my habitual caution and distrust chills the warmth of our rapport. I shrink from Lord Hugh like a sensitive plant from a brui
sing touch. “Thank you, but no.”

  His face falls; he thinks he’s misread the situation and my refusal means I’m disgusted by him after all. “I see. Well, never mind.” His eyes, which are crystalline green, fill with hurt.

  I stare in disbelief. How could anything I do hurt a rich, handsome aristocrat? Sudden insight dismays me: My rejection of people may be just as painful to them as if I’d physically struck them. I’m sparing them the danger of associating with me, rejecting them before they can reject me, but they don’t know that. I think guiltily of Catherine, who must think I dumped her because I was tired of her. And my standoffishness has surely repelled customers from my studio.

  Lord Hugh turns away. I say, “Wait, please!” All my life I’ve tried to avoid hurting people, and I don’t want to hurt this man who I do want as a friend. “I would like a lift back to town.”

  He looks surprised, then relieved. His smile is brilliant. “Right this way, then.”

  During the ride in his carriage, he tells me about himself. “I’m the youngest son. My family is rich enough that I can indulge in drinking, fashionable clothes, clubs, balls, and gambling, but not rich enough to marry me to a girl with a good pedigree and a big fortune. They’d like an American heiress for me, but they haven’t been able to find one whose family wants to take me on. It’s just as well.”

  He’s silent and pensive for a moment, and I glimpse a sadness beneath his blithe manner, the dark reality beneath the smooth surface of his privileged existence. He can never enjoy a normal marriage, never share his private self with his friends and relations, and never love openly where he wishes. In a way, he’s as lonely as I.

  Then he cheers up and regales me with hilarious stories about his social set. I talk about my photography business. His flattering interest renders me more articulate than usual. He shines, and in his presence, so do I. The subject of whose funerals brought us to the cemetery never comes up. Neither do the feelings a woman might experience toward such a handsome, charming man. Lord Hugh and I are meant to be friends, nothing more nor less. He is a man from whom I need never fear advances, and I am a woman who won’t demand them from him. We’re free to be ourselves.