“I have a job I can go back to,” she said. “I’ll manage.”
“What about your mother and me? What will we do if Granny decides to withhold her support?”
Annie shook her head. “Get a job, Papa. They’re wonderful for buying not only what you need to live on but also a nice measure of freedom. Maybe one of your friends in the Black Midnight could help.”
She returned to the palace and sent a message that she wished to update Granny. The response was for her to wait in the Blue Room. Annie complied but after a while tired of waiting.
“I will be in my room,” she told the footman. “Please let Her Majesty know that I will be sending a note with an update shortly.”
Then she went up to her room, closed the door, and kicked off her shoes. Padding over to her desk, she picked up a piece of stationery and wrote the queen about the afternoon’s adventure.
Moving that letter aside, she drafted another one to Granny:
Please forgive Beatrice. She is marrying for love just as you did, Granny. And while you’re at it, please forgive me as well, for I encouraged her to do it. I will marry for love soon too. I will not ask forgiveness for that, because I believe it is what I am meant to do. We ask nothing of you but your blessing. Should you wish to forgive Mama and Papa for raising daughters who follow their own minds, that would also be very much appreciated. In lieu of this, perhaps a job at the palace for Papa is in order.
Kitten
Annie called for the maid and had her draw the curtains. If Granny thought she was resting, perhaps she wouldn’t send for her quite so quickly. It was a poor attempt at stalling the inevitable, but it was all she could think to do.
With the curtains closed, the room plunged into darkness. Walking across the room by memory was easily done. Finding the lamp beside the bed proved a little more difficult.
Finally, her fingers managed the feat and a circle of light rose around the little table. She reached for a book but saw a movement from the corner of her eye.
The armoire door.
Annie froze. Was someone in the armoire?
Ridiculous.
This was Buckingham Palace. There were no intruders here. Though it might be possible that she had interrupted a maid or footman who panicked and hid.
She decided the direct method was best. “Whoever you are, come out.”
The door flew open and a glint of silver caught the light. “Who are you?” Annie demanded. Her thoughts raced toward the list found in the Malay cook’s flat. Had he come for her?
Surely not.
“That is the question, isn’t it?”
“Dr. Langston? What are you doing here?”
“Eliminating the obstacles to my freedom,” he said. “You and Ike are the only people in London who can identify me. I cannot let you live.”
“No,” she said. “You’re wrong. I can’t let you hurt me. Or him.”
“Too late for him, Annie. I got him first.”
Her heart lurched. Then she looked into his eyes. “No,” she said. “You’re lying.”
“That’s the funny thing,” he said. “You really can’t tell if I am or not. No one can. I’m very good at what I do. Even that idiot cook had to admit that, although it was under duress.” He shrugged. “I might have had a knife to his throat at the time. His fault for trusting me and coming to London when I asked him to. A pity though. He truly did make the best steak I’ve ever had.”
The professor lunged toward her, and Annie jumped out of his way. He was standing between her and the door, so escape was impossible. Besting him was not.
He lunged again, and the knife cut the fabric of her sleeve. Her arm stung, likely just a flesh wound. She ignored it.
“Come on, Annie. Stop fighting me. Accept the inevitable.”
“Come get me, you coward,” Annie taunted as she backed up until she felt the fabric of the window coverings behind her. She threw open the window, blinding the doctor.
Before he could react, Annie kicked him soundly in the stomach. Dr. Langston groaned and fell backward, causing the knife to skitter across the floor. She skirted the doctor and picked up the knife on the way to the door. Once outside, she ran down the hallway and shouted for help.
Her Majesty’s footmen came running, and though Dr. Langston attempted to bully his way past them, he failed. He also failed at spinning a tale of getting lost in the palace and looking for his dear friend Annie.
When the queen arrived to see what the commotion was, even the professor was struck dumb. “We are grateful you are unharmed, kitten.” She turned her imperious gaze to Dr. Langston. “Were we a queen of another time and place, we might order off with his head. Instead, we will banish him into the care of the Metropolitan Police.”
When he was gone, Granny turned to Annie. “Were you frightened, child? You are bleeding.”
“It’s nothing,” Annie said. “The truth is, I was more frightened of you.”
Her Majesty laughed. “I assure you, kitten, if anyone has earned the right to know her own mind and choose accordingly, it is you. We will approve on one condition.”
“Anything, Granny,” she said.
“You will see that your young man does not forget our boots.”
Isaiah turned the corner and raced toward her. “Annie, you’re bleeding,” he said as he gathered her into his arms.
Granny cleared her throat. Isaiah ignored her.
“Young man,” Granny said. “Show the appropriate deference to us.”
Isaiah stood. “Ma’am,” he said. “I have stopped wearing boots on your carpets and ordered a nice pair from Texas that’ll be here in a few months. I have behaved as I should, and I have not pursued your great-granddaughter even though I wanted to.”
Her brows rose, but she said nothing.
“It is true,” Annie said. “I told him I loved him first this time.”
“She did,” Isaiah said, “but as to deference, you seem to be overly concerned for your carpets. Right now I am keeping Annie from bleeding on yours. How is that for appropriate deference? Oh, and I love her. Very much. Enough to marry her and stay in England so she can be close to you if that’s what you want.”
One side of Granny’s mouth turned up in a half smile. “You will have to ask Annie what she wants. We are in agreement with whatever that is.”
“Actually I would like a proposal, Isaiah. I didn’t let you offer me a proper one last time.”
“These things take time,” Her Majesty said. “Think carefully, and if we may be of assistance, do mention it.”
Isaiah grinned. “Duly noted, even if I’m not sure how long I can wait.”
Annie frowned as the hallway tilted. “I might be bleeding more than I thought. I’m feeling a little dizzy. Mind the carpets though.”
Annie’s next recollection was of Granny seated at her bedside. “You were given something to sleep,” she said. “The physician says you will be fine in a few days.”
“Thank you, Granny.”
She dismissed the statement with a regal wave. “We are due elsewhere. Rest, dear.”
Granny kissed her forehead and left. Annie lay back on the pillows and tried to sleep.
But she couldn’t.
She dressed as best she could without calling the maid and made her way downstairs to the Yellow Drawing Room where, as she hoped, Isaiah was alone at his desk.
How long he’d pretended to work on the report, Ike couldn’t say. Simon would have to handle this one. He had his mind elsewhere.
With Dr. Langston in custody, the question of whether he was the Whitechapel Murderer loomed large. If he confessed, there would be an answer. But what of the cook and his knives? Who in his right mind would accept the identification of the cook by a man who attacked a member of the royal family right under the queen’s nose? Dr. Langston might be telling the truth, or he might not.
Then there was the question of whether the professor was a member of the Black Midnight. The consensus between Ike an
d Simon was that he was, but Ike also wondered about his connection to the killings in Austin. If this arrest solved two sets of murders—possibly many more than that—and put a secret society on notice that they could not successfully hide one of their own, he would be very happy.
So would Annie.
He looked up, and there she was. She’d scared him when she was bleeding on him in the hallway, but the way she looked at him now was a memory he never wanted to forget.
Ike had promised the queen he would take his time and offer up a proposal befitting this woman, and he intended to do that. Why then did he want to haul her in front of the first preacher who would marry them and make her his wife?
“I’d ask what you’re doing here, Annie, but I figure you’re going to tell me anyway. Get on with it,” he said with a grin.
She remained where she stood, regal as any queen and still the prettiest woman he’d ever seen on either side of the Atlantic. “No, Isaiah,” she told him. “You get on with it. The proposal, I mean. Because if I am going to give up any possibility of nobility and a comfortable inheritance, which still might happen, I would like to think I might at least be entitled to a proposal from the man who caused it.”
Ike rose, though he wasn’t sure if his knees would keep him standing for long. She wanted a proposal. Oh, he would give her the best proposal any Texas man had ever made.
But first he would kiss her.
So he did.
Author’s Note and Bent History: The Rest of the Story
As a writer of historical novels, I love incorporating actual history into my plots. As with most books, the research behind the story generally involves much more information than would ever actually appear in the story. In truth, I could easily spend all my time researching and not get any writing done at all!
Because I am a history nerd, I love sharing with my readers some of that mountain of research I collect. The following are just a few of the facts I uncovered during the writing of The Black Midnight. It is my hope that these tidbits of history will cause you to go searching for the rest of the story. From a period beginning on December 30, 1884, and ending on December 24, 1885, a serial killer—eventually known as the Servant Girl Annihilator or Midnight Assassin—murdered eight people in the city of Austin, Texas. The killer, who was presumed to be a man based on eyewitness accounts, always struck at night and, until the last two murders, always chose servant women and their companions as his victims. Though a number of suspects were arrested, all were released. The killer was never caught.
Between August 31 and November 9, 1888, five women were killed in the Whitechapel district of London by a man who was never identified. These are known as the Canonical Five, the five whose murders are most likely related, though similar murders continued to occur up to November 1891. Today we think of this killer as Jack the Ripper, but in the vernacular of the day, the man was identified as the Whitechapel Murderer or Leather Apron. The term Jack the Ripper came from the signature on a letter sent by the purported killer to the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee, along with a preserved human kidney.
Due to the violence involved in the murders and the fact that the killer preyed on women of a certain class, some believed the Whitechapel Murderer and the Midnight Assassin were the same person. This theory has been argued for more than one hundred years—from early newspaper accounts in the 1880s to a 2014 episode of a PBS television show called History Detectives—but there has never been a conclusive answer.
I base my novel, which is purely fiction, on fact but draw fictional conclusions. Personally I am more likely to fall into the same category as author Skip Hollandsworth, who wrote The Midnight Assassin, a fabulous book about the murders. Hollandsworth speculates that the answer to the killer’s identity is still out there waiting to be found.
Desperate to put an end to the serial killer’s reign of terror, Austin mayor John W. Robertson sent a telegram to the Pinkerton Detective Agency’s headquarters in Chicago, asking for help. Unfortunately, the telegram was delivered not to the internationally famous agency as it was intended but to the similarly named Pinkerton United States Detective Agency, founded by Matthew Pinkerton (no relation to the other Pinkerton family), which was also based out of Chicago.
The mayor did not discover the error until the agency, which touted their mail-order course as a means of employment with the firm, had been paid and the detectives had arrived in Austin in late December 1885 or January 1886. By then the citizens of the city were so relieved to see what they thought were real-life Pinkertons coming to their assistance that the mayor elected not to correct the costly mistake. Unfortunately, the men did not produce an answer to the question of who was killing Austin’s women.
The mayor’s secret was out when the Austin American Statesman ran an article in February 1887 regarding the city aldermen’s investigation of the fees that the mayor had paid to Matthew Pinkerton’s detectives. An open letter from William Pinkerton, director of the famous Pinkerton Agency, appeared in their March 4, 1887, issue stating that the mayor had hired the wrong Pinkertons. There is no evidence, however, that he sent any of his agents to investigate; thus that story line is pure fiction. Also, this would have happened later than the timeline in my book suggests, so I have “bent” history a bit to accommodate the story.
While Temple Houston, his wife, Laura Houston, and Comptroller William Swain are real people, the dinner party where they appear as guests of Governor John Ireland and his wife is a purely fictional event. Also fictional is the New York Daily Gazette and its reporter Cameron Blake and the professors Dr. Joplin and Dr. Langston. Slanton’s Department Store, its owner, and the very sweet matchmaking clerk Lucy are also products of my imagination.
The quote Annie loves in chapter 14 is from Louisa May Alcott’s novel Little Women. The newspaper article Ike is reading was an actual headline in the December 24, 1885, edition of the Austin American Statesman.
Eula Phillips’s husband was tried and found guilty of her murder. The Texas Court of Appeals reversed the decision in November 1886, stating there was insufficient evidence to support the verdict. The court remanded the case back to the lower court. Eventually the case was dropped. To date no one has been convicted of Eula’s murder or of the murder of any of the other victims.
Details of the murder of Eula Phillips were taken from the transcript of Jimmy Phillips’s appeal of his conviction, a matter called Cause No. 2271; James O. Phillips v. The State, a transcript of which is readily available in the archives of the legal compendium The Southwestern Reporter. Testimony of the witnesses called by the prosecution and the defense offers a detailed (possibly too detailed for someone with a delicate stomach) explanation of what happened the night Eula died. It makes for fascinating reading.
One noted difference in the actual history of this case and my novel is in the weather on the night of December 24, 1885. Unlike my story where a blue norther came through and the ground was slushy with ice and snow, that sort of weather actually happened a year earlier on the night of the first murder: December 30, 1884. I thought the weather fit the scenes; thus I bent history for that purpose.
Details of the New Year’s Eve party thrown by the Marshall Field family appear courtesy of an article in the Chicago Tribune. The party, thrown in honor of the couple’s seventeen-year-old son and thirteen-year-old daughter, was dubbed the event of the century with two private railroad cars full of silver, china, linen, and food being brought in by Sherry’s, a premier New York catering company. The rumor was the party cost $75,000.
Descriptions of the Yellow Drawing Room on the first floor (second floor if you’re using the American manner of describing the palace’s floors) of the southeast corner of Buckingham Palace are taken from multiple sources, but my favorite is an 1855 painting by James Roberts that shows the brilliant jewel box colors of the room: the gold silk of the walls and drapes that contrasts with the blue carpet strewn with red roses rimmed in gold, and pieces from Edward IV’s Brighton
Pavilion, including a pair of Chinese porcelain pagodas on Spode bases that stand nearly as tall as the ceiling. The Yellow Drawing Room was redecorated and hung in richly figured yellow silk for the state visit of the Emperor Napoleon III and the Empress Eugénie in 1855. According to the royal family’s Instagram posts, the room is currently undergoing restoration.
Robert Gascoyne-Cecil, 3rd Marquess of Salisbury, was prime minister from 1885 to 1892 and again from 1895 to 1901. Since the duties of the prime minister would not have overlapped with any sort of project the queen might have created, whether real or fictional, Lord Salisbury is represented in the fictional meeting with my detectives on an unofficial basis. Fun facts: To date he is the only British prime minister to sport a full beard, and at six feet four inches tall, he was also the tallest prime minister.
In another case of bent history, the theory that Prince Albert Victor could possibly be Jack the Ripper did not appear until the 1970s. For the purposes of this novel, however, I elected to make that rumor something that was whispered about at the highest levels for a brief time. It is true that the prince’s datebook did indicate he was not in London during any of the killings. Researchers believe it is unlikely that he committed the crimes.
Many experts over the years have taken on the question of the identity of the Midnight Assassin and Jack the Ripper. Some think the two are the same man—be it the Malay cook or someone else—and some think they are two different men. Whatever the case, as of this writing, these murders remain unsolved.
It is my hope that someday the names of these killers will be known and justice will finally be had for the victims of their crimes. I believe the evidence is out there waiting to be found.
Kathleen Y’Barbo is a multiple Carol Award and RITA nominee and bestselling author of more than one hundred books with over two million copies of her books in print in the US and abroad. A tenth-generation Texan and certified paralegal, she is a member of the Texas Bar Association Paralegal Division, Texas A…M Association of Former Students and the Texas A…M Women Former Students (Aggie Women), Texas Historical Society, Novelists Inc., and American Christian Fiction Writers. She would also be a member of the Daughters of the American Republic, Daughters of the Republic of Texas, and a few others if she would just remember to fill out the paperwork that Great Aunt Mary Beth has sent her more than once.
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