There was nothing to find, no bloodied knife, no evidence. As I turned to leave, I held the candle up one last time, not expecting to see anything. But what did catch my eye scared me half to death. A woman was standing in front of me, stiff and staring. I thought it was Mrs Wiggs and let out a yelp and pinched my mouth closed. The woman didn’t flinch or move.
After a moment I realised it was only a tailor’s dummy, dressed in ratty old torn clothes. I put a hand on my heart and felt it thump. I was shaking.
The dummy was wearing dark burgundy skirts and a blue velvet jacket with a high collar and black brocade buttons. Balanced wonkily on its head was a cheap black straw bonnet adorned with paper flowers and berries – poor, sweatshop stuff, similar to the fripperies sold at Mabel’s milliner’s. There were dark, stiff patches on the skirt, as if the woman who’d worn them had spilled a drink, and the velvet jacket had lots of rips and random slashes as well as some crusty dark brown stains.
Why on earth would Thomas dress it up and have it loom over him like that?
At the foot of the dummy there was a pile of clothes. I bent down and pulled a white petticoat out, also torn and slashed. When I held it up, I saw more stains, the familiar brown-red I knew to be blood. I threw it back down and stood up, and then I saw the heart-shaped pendant. The one that Thomas had ripped from my neck, the one I knew had belonged to someone else. Now it hung around the dummy’s neck. My stomach lurched and my knees went weak. Hadn’t Little Lost Polly been wearing a fancy black bonnet when she was knifed? I wracked my brains, tried to remember other details, things about Dark Annie and the other women too. Had I mentioned Dark Annie’s clothes in my writing? Could the blue velvet belong to her?
I was feverish with fear, quivering uncontrollably. Could this mannequin be the ‘woman’ Thomas had muttered about earlier, the one who whispered to him non-stop? Was she an amalgamation of his victims, twisted into a single vengeful spirit he’d dressed up in the dark to relive the memory of each kill? Was this some depraved arrangement of his clever crimes, so he could congratulate himself daily?
I inhaled the fuggy attic air, tried to calm my thoughts, stop my mind from running away with itself. I had no proof these were the clothes of the Whitechapel women – and there weren’t that many items here anyway. Besides, the newspapers had said nothing about the murderer having taken clothes from his victims as well.
I hurried out, locked the door and stole back down to the landing. When I reached it, I saw that something had been placed at the top of the main stairs. My heart thumped as I tiptoed over. Aisling’s hairbrush! There was no mistaking it – the sterling silver, the yellowing boar bristles splayed out, the shining copper hair still wound about the handle.
Tears came to my eyes and I had just crouched down to pick it up when I felt a sudden push in the middle of my back. Next thing I knew, I was rolling headfirst down the stairs. I instinctively pulled my arms about my head and dropped the candle. The flame was snuffed out. I landed in a heap at the bottom, winded and in agony.
A dim morning light was coming through the glass either side of the front door. My eyes returned to the stairs, where I saw the amber haze of another candle as it hovered across the landing, like a fairy. I swear I caught the swish of a long plait and the white of a nightgown. It had to be Mrs Wiggs. I struggled to focus. Everything hurt, but I knew I could not be caught with the key. I managed to slide it away from me, across the floor, and it came to a halt underneath the sideboard by the front door. Then I passed out.
27
‘I want her gone,’ I said. I didn’t shout. I sat in the armchair in the front dining room while Thomas wore down the carpet in front of me like a Prussian soldier stomping across Europe. He was still wearing those piss-stained trousers he’d dragged himself home in.
I was bruised and sore from my fall down the stairs but not badly injured. No doubt Mrs Wiggs was bitterly disappointed about that. Of course, I had been fortuitously found by her resourceful self. How could we ever survive without her! I’d come round as I was being dragged by my arms along the floor into the front dining room. I saw my own white feet poking up at the heavens and couldn’t understand why the rest of the world was moving away from me. I thought I was dead. Mrs Wiggs groaned with the strain of heaving me into the armchair as I struggled against her. It must have been seven or eight o’clock, because it was as light as it was going to get on a dreary London day now we were nearly in October.
Mrs Wiggs left me there while she went to rouse Thomas, which she attempted to achieve by slapping his face and then applying smelling salts, but it was another hour before she was successful.
My only injury was a green, egg-shaped lump on my forehead that shone like a beacon and throbbed like I’d drunk a bottle of brandy. After Mrs Wiggs had dealt with Thomas, she came at me with a cold compress.
‘Get away from me,’ I hissed. ‘I saw you! It was you who pushed me. You put the hairbrush there to trick me and it was you who pushed me down the stairs.’
Still holding a wet washcloth in one hand, she had the audacity to look at me like I was the lunatic. She had only two expressions in her repertoire: the haughty owl and the startled horse. Both made me want to smack her. She wore the startled horse now; her head began to wobble and she looked as if she might cry. She said I must have either dreamed it or imagined it altogether and then walked in my sleep and fallen down the stairs. After all, I had fainted before. That was how she tried to brush the whole incident away.
I told her plainly that I knew it was her, that she had done it on purpose because of the secret I’d shared. The shock on her face enraged me. It was as if I’d taken a shit on the rug and was now asking her to eat it. She ran up the stairs clutching her nightgown like a little girl. I sat back in the chair and felt the familiar cramps. When I pulled up my nightgown and saw prints of bright red stuck on either side of my thighs, I knew the blood had started to come. Perhaps something had been alive inside me after all and been damaged by the fall, but I couldn’t be sure, for, since I’d married, my routine was not to be relied upon. Mrs Wiggs would now have the reassurance she craved: there would be no new intruders in her house.
When she emerged again, the owl was back – dark grey dress, hair swept back into a bun – and she entered the room two feet behind Thomas with a rather smug expression. Thomas looked bloody awful, far worse than me. I barked at Mrs Wiggs to leave us so I could talk to him alone, and I told him without hesitation that I wanted Mrs Wiggs gone, fired, sent back to Abbingdale Hall, whatever, I didn’t care, but she was to leave our house.
It was more than Thomas was able to bear. He collapsed into a chair and held his head in his hands, his long fingers tangled in his greasy black hair like crooked spikes. When I told him what had happened, he guffawed. I was sure he was still drunk.
When he’d finally stopped laughing, he said, ‘Why on earth would Mrs Wiggs feel the need to push you down the stairs?’
‘She hates me, always has. She doesn’t think me good enough.’
He laughed again, then stopped. His face grew dark and he slunk down lower in the chair. ‘If only you knew…’ he began, rubbing at his jawline, dragging the skin down so I could see the red of his bottom eyelids. ‘If only you knew how difficult things are… at the moment. I have a lot going on at the minute, Chapman. I’m going to need you to be a good and patient wife for the time being. Do you think you could do that? The truth is, I can’t afford to spend time on such petty concerns as the perennial bickering between my housekeeper and my wife. I’m going to have to ask that you get along – it’s essential. If you knew the… intricacies of what I’ve been having to deal with, you would understand.’
‘Then tell me, Thomas. You can start by telling me where you disappear to.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Then I want her gone.’
‘For the love of God!’ he shouted, and jumped up out of his chair. He paced up and down some more and then stopped and pointed a hostile, shaking finger in my face.
‘You seriously believe that Mrs Wiggs would steal a fucking hairbrush and… place this… hairbrush at the top of the fucking stairs, just so she could push you down them? There are easier ways of killing someone, Chapman.’
‘Oh, how so?’
‘You are aware of how ridiculous you sound, Susannah?’
‘I don’t care how you think it sounds; it’s true.’
He wouldn’t have it. He kept going on about this other work, how he was under such immense pressure, that this was not what he needed right now – again: distraction, dismissal, disbelief. When I asked him to tell me what was weighing so heavily on him, he said I wouldn’t understand.
‘It’s better if you don’t know – trust me. Sometimes I wish I bloody didn’t.’
‘Is it something to do with the woman in the attic?’
I couldn’t help myself, but I knew I’d pushed him as soon as I said it. The nerves fluttered in my stomach. It was as if I’d thrown a bucket of cold water in his face.
‘What?’
I smiled. ‘You don’t remember what you told me last night, do you?’
‘What… what did I say?’
‘No matter. I’m sure it’s nothing. Are you going to fire her or not?’
He patted down his trousers and looked about the room in a pink-cheeked panic, which, given his sweaty pallor, made his face somewhat blotchy. His eyes darted about, trying to remember what he’d done with the attic key, but it was not in his trouser pocket and I doubted he remembered wetting himself.
‘Where is it?’ He glared at me.
‘I don’t know,’ I lied.
He came at me, loomed over me with his disgusting breath in my face. I shifted away, but he grabbed my chin and pinched my cheek and turned it back towards him. He looked at the lump on my head and laughed.
‘That’s quite a bump you’ve got there, Susannah. Now, where is the key?’
I thrust my nose close to his and whispered, ‘I. Don’t. Bloody. Know.’
‘Stupid bitch.’ With the palm of his hand across my face, he shoved me backwards.
As he walked towards the door, I called after him. ‘Well? Are you going to fire her or not?’
‘I’ll see you gone first,’ he said, then he swung the door open so hard, it bounced off the wall and hit him on the back as he tried to walk through it. I tried to hide my sniggering, but he turned round and saw me. This made him so angry, he punched the door and made a crack in it. He must have near broken his hand, but he only swore and stomped off.
*
Later that week, on the last day of September, I approached the front door and, like my dungeon gaoler, Mrs Wiggs appeared.
‘Mrs Lancaster, Dr Lancaster asked that you stay inside the house at all times following your fall.’
‘I’m going to see my physician,’ I told her.
‘I can send for a doctor; you only have to ask.’
‘I wish to see my own physician. Please move.’
I pulled the door open, and she hopped out of the way. She knew from past experience I was willing to shunt her if necessary.
‘And the er… baby?’ she said, as I put a foot into the outside world.
I stopped. That was as close to an admission that she’d pushed me down those bloody stairs not in order to kill me or even hurt me but because she feared what might be growing in my belly.
‘It won’t be a concern any more,’ I answered, still with my back to her, and stepped onto the path.
‘Not everyone can be a mother,’ she said. ‘It demands enormous self-sacrifice. Some women don’t have it in them.’
I did turn around then, to see her grinning at me. I had never seen that face before: a smug grin, the superior cat, to join the horse and the owl. A triumphant smile, as if she’d won this particular battle, and would always win.
*
Dr Shivershev’s elegant housekeeper was walking too fast for me up the staircase.
‘You’re lucky he lives here,’ she said, not even remotely out of breath.
I had to rush to keep up with her. It was me that was huffing and puffing, yet she must have been twice my age.
‘He lives here?’
‘He owns the building, lets out the other rooms. He has several properties actually, but he lives on the top floor. I know it seems unlikely, but the doctor is quite the speculator. He talks of investing in manufacturing. He’s always lecturing me about how the English rely too much on imports and neglect their own industry. Have you not heard him ranting about inadequate technical education systems or the English obsession with excessive overseas investment?’
I shook my head, unable to get a word in edgeways.
‘Then you are one of the lucky ones, my dear. Yes, he lives frugally and isn’t the sort to spend. If it was left to him, this entire house would be unfurnished, only filled with instruments and those morbid specimens he insists on collecting. You’ve seen his office. He is not a believer in this new fashion for travelling to and from work, thinks it a pointless waste of precious time.’
She turned back to look at me now, flashed me her most charming smile.
‘Here I am, babbling on at you! Now, he told me he must see you, so I arranged his diary to accommodate this appointment. But please understand, Mrs Lancaster, he does not have long.’
I nodded. I was too conscious of catching my breath and noting how she’d expended comparatively little effort while I felt as if I’d run a hundred-yard sprint. I saw her take in the sweat on my upper lip and her expression changed. She seemed suddenly uncomfortable in my presence. I had the feeling that something about me had struck her as odd. I’d checked my reflection that morning and noticed that I was dull around the eyes, that my skin was dry and grey, and my egg-shaped lump still green. I began to worry I’d been spending too much time in my own company, unaware that my lips moved during my imaginary conversations, arguments I always won, with no one to point out my bizarre habits.
She opened the door to reveal Dr Shivershev behind his desk, spinning around on the spot, his head moving in all directions as if he were trying to swat a fly but first needed to find it.
‘Come in and sit down, Mrs Lancaster.’
His housekeeper shook her head, irritated by him instantly, showing that over-familiar fatigue one gets from close proximity. She closed the door behind her and I approached his desk.
‘I had both gloves in my hand only a second ago, how on earth could I lose one? It makes no sense, no sense at all,’ he said, still looking as if the missing glove could be found floating in mid-air.
I spotted it on the floor, picked it up and handed it to him.
‘Ah! Thank you. Please, sit down. Now, I suppose Irina told you…’
‘That you don’t have long, I understand,’ I said.
We locked eyes as I handed him the glove and he looked at me with the same expression as his housekeeper. I pretended not to notice. It felt strange enough being somewhere other than my bedroom, let alone out in the world beyond. It was most unsettling. We both stood there holding the black glove, until I realised I was the one who was supposed to let go. I think perhaps we were both recalling the moment we had last laid eyes on each other, in the Ten Bells. Of course, this would not be mentioned, neither of us could have a good explanation for being in there, so we would ignore it. This was an important part of our culture, after all: to understand when it was expected of us to ignore the glaringly obvious and politely pretend things were as they should be.
He asked how I had come about the lump on my head and sat forward, eager to listen, taking in all the bruises I wore in various states of healing.
‘My housekeeper pushed me down the stairs.’ I wasted no time. ‘I’ll come straight to it, Doctor. I am sorry if I appear out of sorts, but I fear for my life. It is not my intention to burden you, but I suppose it is your bad luck I have no one else. You’re the only person I’ve really had any conversation with outside of that house since I married, so I’m afraid I’m forced to confid
e in you. Please, this needs to be written down; otherwise, if anything does happen to me, no one will ever know. This way, there’ll be a record of this conversation and you can be a witness.’
I had his attention. He nodded, then took out fresh paper and a pen and gestured for me to continue.
I explained all that had led to my being seated in his office at that moment. How Thomas had changed after we married. How the scab on the back of my head had really come about and how I’d lied to protect him and not embarrass myself. I even confided in him that Thomas had come home with blood all up his arms and all over his coat and shirt.
‘Did he tell you what happened?’
‘No, only that he’d been in a fight with a man who owed him money.’
I blurted out this rambling, garbled mess and he tried to scrawl as fast as I spoke. I told him about our violent argument after the Café Royal, about Thomas’s subsequent disappearance and about how when he did eventually return home, he cried like a child begging for comfort and talked gibberish about a woman in the attic.
‘I’m sorry, what woman? I don’t understand – there is a woman in your attic?’ said Dr Shivershev.
‘No, of course not.’ I explained again, in more detail, about the attic and the dummy and the heart-shaped pendant. ‘And I’m now convinced that the necklace had belonged to someone before me. It had scratches, and it was also inlaid with a piece of peridot, which the woman at the Café Royale commented on, because—’
‘I’m sorry, I’m lost. What woman? The woman in the attic or the Café Royale?’
‘When we were leaving the restaurant, Thomas bumped into a gentleman – tall, grey whiskers, medals on his lapel – and that gentleman irritated Thomas by telling him that he was getting a reputation for… Well, it doesn’t matter. Anyway, the gentleman’s wife noticed my necklace and asked me if I’d just had a birthday because peridot is the birthstone for August.’
‘I’ll take your word for it – I have no understanding of such things. You said Dr Lancaster seemed agitated after speaking to this gentleman, the man with the medals. What did he say?’
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