by M. J. Tjia
“Where were you last night?” he asks. His face is rigid with anxiety.
“I went to the opera. I didn’t return here, I stayed at home.”
He pulls me into a quick, tight embrace, and then holds me at arm’s length again. “Do you realise that if you were here you could have been murdered just as these two poor women have been?”
I stare into his bloodshot eyes. It hadn’t yet occurred to me that I’d been at such risk too. I flinch at the thought of that sharp blade which had gone to work on Eleanor.
“And what of that heathen servant of yours? Where was she last night?”
I shake my head to clear it. “Don’t be ridiculous, Bill. She was with me, anyway.”
“All night?”
I’m anxious, can’t keep the annoyance out of my voice. “No, of course not. I was at the opera, and when I returned home, she slept in her own quarters. But whatever you’re suggesting, it’s ridiculous. Amah did not sneak out in the middle of the night to murder these poor women.”
He crosses his arms. “Well, I’m not so sure.”
“You’re wasting your time.” I press my fingers to my temples. “Let me think.” What was it I wanted to tell Bill the night before? My mind feels spongy, my thoughts skittling out of reach. Something about Henry? “Where’s Henry? Mordaunt?”
“We still have Henry locked up, but we never really arrested the doctor. He was free to leave last night.”
I stare at him, aghast. Free? “Then he has done this.”
“That’s a possibility.”
“But why else was Henry at Mordaunt’s so often? They’re obviously in partnership.”
“Well, Henry says it was just to clear up a case of the clap.”
“Can’t you see that’s just a cover up?”
Before he can answer, a tilbury, drawn by two horses snorting with exertion, creaks to a halt outside the house. Arranged across the whole length of the bench seat, arrayed in festoons of velvet the shade of moss, is Madame Silvestre.
“Get me ‘Eloise,” she shrieks at a constable. “Where is that dratted woman?”
I snatch up a parasol and hurry to the carriage, Bill on my heels.
“What are you doing here, Mildred?”
“What ‘as ‘appened ‘ere? Quick. You must tell me.” Silvestre’s neck and face are flushed puce, and as she gasps out the words, her bulbous bosom heaves. “What ‘as ‘appened to Agnes?”
As I hesitate over an answer, Bill steps forward. “How do you know something has happened to Agnes, madam?”
She sniffs in anger and her eyes become as hard as cold, glass marbles. “You ‘ave ‘alf the constabulary ‘ere, and you ask me ‘ow I know something is amiss? Are you simple? You’ll ‘ave ‘alf the neighbourhood ‘ere soon wanting to know what’s ‘appened.”
Even as we speak, a crowd of people gather along the road. Women wander out from their homes, children in tow, and labourers and clerks stop on their way to work to peer in at the commotion. They stare at us curiously, and crane their necks over and around each other the better to see the house and the attendant police.
A young constable runs out from the house and calls for Bill. The sergeant seems loath to leave us but, on being called upon again, reluctantly leaves.
“Well, ‘Eloise, what ‘appened?”
I grip the side of the tilbury as I look into the madam’s face. “I’m sorry, Mildred, but she’s dead,” I say quietly, so that only she can hear me. “She was hit on the head.”
“Do the police know why?”
I glance at the people who hover close by. “There was another girl murdered here too.” I say, keeping my voice low. “She was butchered like the others.” I watch Silvestre’s face closely for her reaction. When I’d originally asked her about the gruesome murders of prostitutes in the area, she’d laughed it off, but I find it puzzling that a woman of the madam’s stature in the world of prostitution did not know what was happening in her own vicinity.
Mme Silvestre’s fat face is expressionless. The high colour slowly drains from her cheeks and throat. “Their lives were taken by the same person ‘oo murdered the others?”
“Yes.” I fold the parasol down as the rain has petered out.
She relaxes against the back of the seat. “Therefore the police must know that ‘Enry could not possibly have killed them as ‘e spent all last evening and today safely in their gaol.” A satisfied smile settles on her face. “Which means the police must now know ‘e could not ‘ave killed the others either.”
An enterprising costermonger drums his pot of eel soup as he wheels his cart through the watching throng.
Silvestre sits forward again, peering over my shoulder. She says, over the din of the costermonger’s call, “It looks like they’ve finally nicked the real culprit. I’m not surprised either. Dirty chink.”
I spin around. Three uniformed constables march a shackled Amah along the front path to a waiting police buggy. My legs weaken and I stumble across the cobblestones towards her. “What’s happening?”
The crowd jostle closer and murmur ‘yeller’ and ‘coloured’. Amah gives me a telling look and, the chains of the shackles rattling, she draws the black veil over her face. I reach for her, but Bill stands between us.
“She had a switchblade on her,” he says, in a low voice. “It was secreted away in a pocket of her bodice.”
“But you’re mad.” I frown up into the sergeant’s stern face. “She didn’t use it to murder these women. Amah uses it to slice fruit or to cut off loose thread. She would never hurt someone with it.”
“Until we’ve examined it carefully, and interviewed her, she must stay in our custody.”
“Well, I must accompany her to the police station,” I answer, pushing forward towards Amah.
“That will not be necessary, Heloise,” he says, holding me back by the arm.
The constable who’s leading Amah opens the door of the police buggy and as Amah lifts her skirt to climb in, a fresh, foul wad of manure plumps against her chest. A lanky boy with boils spotted across his chin and the filthy evidence smeared across his hands whoops with delight. Some of the crowd noisily approve and a squat woman with greasy wisps of hair falling from her bonnet picks an egg from her basket and prepares to pelt it.
For a short moment I’m frozen in shock. Then a fierce, blind rage takes over. I pitch my parasol at the boy, clocking him on the forehead with the handle. I fly at the woman, but Bill catches hold of me around the waist and holds me at bay. “You bitch,” I holler, clawing at Bill’s hands to free myself. I manage to swing my leg forward, kicking the woman’s basket to the ground, where the eggs smash upon the muddy cobblestones. In amongst all this commotion the constables bustle Amah into the waiting buggy and Bill drags me into the house where he firmly pushes me down onto a chair in the sitting room.
“You must calm yourself, madam.”
I struggle to get back on my feet, the weight of my wet skirts and petticoats slowing me down. “You should be out there arresting those bastards who assaulted my maid,” I shout.
“If that were the case, I should need to haul you down to the station too, for attacking bystanders.”
I collapse back against the chair’s cushions and fold my arms. I glare at the empty fireplace.
He waits a few moments and then says, “You have a fine throw, Heloise. Great precision. You could have taken the lad’s eye out if you’d tried a little harder.” He crouches down in front of me, and tugs my skirt until I shift my gaze to his face. “And that kick… Such a pretty fighter belongs down at the London Boxing Club.” He’s smiling at me now.
But I’m too anxious to smile back. I know he’s trying to placate me, and I realise it’s in my best interests – in Amah’s best interests – if I calm down, if I charm him again. I lean forward and grasp his lapels. “Can’t you see how ridiculous it is to suspect my maid of these murders?”
Bill sits back on his haunches. “Heloise, we have to investigate her ju
st as we would any other suspicious character.”
“But these murders are obviously connected to the others.” Eleanor’s wounds flash to mind. I press my eyes shut. “Obviously.”
“That hasn’t been confirmed yet. And what of Henry then? Are we to set him free? For if this is the work of the man mutilating prostitutes, then obviously he is innocent for he’s been locked up all night.”
He’s right. I cover my eyes with the heels of my hand, my fingers kneading at my hairline.
“Inspector Kelley will be here soon with the doctor,” Bill continues. His voice is kind. “I must go to the morgue now and make sure they are prepared, but I’m afraid you will need to stay here so the Inspector can have a word with you about Eleanor.”
“But if Eleanor has been murdered just as the other women were, then it couldn’t have been Amah who murdered them.”
“Are you so sure, Heloise?”
“Of course I am. What reason would she have, anyway, to butcher these poor girls?”
“If I provide you with the dates of the other murders, do you think you can vouch for her movements? Provide evidence of some sort.”
“Of course. I’m sure of it.” I swallow as he leaves the room. I’m not sure at all, but I’ll have to try.
I push myself into my seat. There’s no-where to go. Poor Agnes’ body is still in the kitchen, and what’s left of Eleanor – my heart skips a beat – still lies above. I stroke the cool glass of the cranberry pendant Bill had given me. How nice it would be to sniff some of its relaxing elixir of opium and forget the ghastliness of the morning. I could lie down and fall asleep, oblivious to the misery that’s ready to engulf me. Better yet, I could return to Mayfair and hide away in the folds of my bedcovers with the rosy bottle of snuff clutched to my nose. But I can’t do that. It would leave me too bleary to find a way out of this mess. I close my eyes, wishing the fire was alight to dry my cold, damp skirts.
“What are we to do’m, Miss Heloise?” Taff asks from the doorway.
“I don’t know.” I reply, truthfully.
I stride across the room and fill two glasses to the brim with madeira. “Here, take one,” I say, holding a glass towards Taff. I throw my own wine back in one swallow and, clinking the decanter noisily against the wineglass so that a crack slithers down its side, I fill my glass again. This too I gulp down, until I feel the familiar warmth in my chest and my stomach’s initial recoil. I hold the decanter out to Taff who sweeps his half-finished drink away, placing it on the low table.
“It’s no help to Amah if we sit’m here and get corned, Miss Heloise,” he says, softly.
I rub my face. “You’re right.” I lean both hands on the side-table and feel the wine quicken my senses. “It’s so frustrating. I need to return home and find some way to prove Amah was not responsible for these deaths, yet I have to wait here for Inspector Kelley.” I turn to the coachman. “You must follow Amah to the station and find out what’s happening. Take the coach.”
Taff nods and rushes from the room, leaving me at a loss for something to do. I fret over Amah’s predicament for several minutes, pacing back and forth in the small, cramped room, until the unpleasant sensation of my soggy petticoats penetrates my anxious thoughts. Kneeling on the hearth, I arrange kindling in the fireplace and I’m just ready to light a heavy log when I hear the sound of a carriage and voices from the road. I run to the front window and, peeping past the muslin curtains, see Inspector Kelley alight from a coach. He’s closely followed by an elderly man with grey whiskers, who wears a tweed cape and carries a plump, leather doctor’s bag.
The two men greet the constable who guards the front door while another constable comes forward and guides them to the kitchen where Agnes’ body remains. The Inspector exclaims and the doctor tuts. They are some time, murmuring between themselves. I pop my head around the sitting room doorway in the hope of hearing what they’re saying, but encounter the stern gaze of the young constable on duty.
“When may I see the Inspector?” I ask with a friendly smile, to account for my curiosity.
“I’m not sure, ma’am,” he says. I wait for more, but he continues to stare at me in a baleful manner.
I wait several more minutes before hearing voices in the hallway. The Inspector directs the constables to help the undertakers remove Agnes’ body from the kitchen, and he and the doctor make their way up the stairs. As I stand by the doorway of the sitting room I remain unnoticed amongst the flurry of activity. There’s a moment of quiet while the constables are in the kitchen assisting the undertakers when I hear the Inspector swear loudly from above. Revulsion rushes through me, and I want to cover my ears, my eyes, in the hope of blotting out the horror I know the Inspector is witnessing at this very moment.
The constables and undertakers march past with poor Agnes’ body upon a stretcher. Her apron is draped over her head to conceal the wounds. She’s anonymous, finished with. She will never again have to scrub the dolls’ sheets, never be a doll herself. Whatever life she had before her has ended.
The hallway’s clear, so I step forward. Peeping out the front door I spy the constables, gathered around the undertaker’s carriage, smoking. I climb the stairs to the bedroom, moving slowly to minimise the creaking of the stairs and the rustle of my gown.
About three steps from the top I hear the Inspector ask, “But why on earth mutilate them in this way, Dr Featherby?”
“Well…” replies the doctor slowly, “well, there’s been an interesting theory put forward lately by a set of physicians who believe that relieving women of a certain part of their sexual apparatus helps them become more whole – more rational – able to live fulfilling and sedate lives that hitherto had evaded them. Ever heard of the surgeon, Isaac Baker-Brown?”
“No.”
“Have you ever heard of a clitoridectomy? Or, for that matter, of the woman’s clitoris?”
“No,” says the Inspector, sounding flummoxed.
The doctor makes a grunting noise. “Well, this Baker-Brown and his crony – Ivor, Isaiah, something like that – Xavier were taking ‘em from women against their will. Looks almost like you have an imitator here. Except Baker-Brown and Xavier managed to keep their patients alive.”
“Could one of them be causing these deaths?’
“No, that’s not likely. Baker-Brown was discredited by the medical fraternity and I think he may have moved across the Atlantic to a more sympathetic audience. And Xavier hid himself in the wilds of Wales, then took his own life. The disgrace seemingly too much.”
I’m so immersed in what the two men are discussing I fail to notice they’ve moved closer to the bedroom’s doorway. Almost too late I realise that they are upon me, at which point I pretend to be hurrying up the stairs.
“Mrs Chancey,” says Inspector Kelley, looking down at me in surprise. He’s paler than the last time I’d met him, and he mops the back of his neck with a handkerchief. “I did not know you were still here.”
“Oh, yes, Inspector, I have been waiting all this morning. Sgt Chapman informed me that you would need to have a word with me.” I touch my brow. “I was just coming up to ask you if it would be alright to collect some of my belongings before I return home.”
“Of course, of course,” he answers, taking my elbow and guiding me back down the stairs. “But first let us go into the sitting room. You don’t want to go into the bedroom with… er… the… right now.”
We return to the cold sitting room.
“Terrible business, Mrs Chancey, terrible business,” he says, wiping his handkerchief over his face. “It must have been quite a shock to find… er… her. Your cousin. In such a state.” He peers at me with concern.
I take a seat on the chair that faces the doorway. “I’ve never seen anything so ghastly,” I reply, honestly. I watch the doctor lead the constables and undertakers up the stairs.
“Sgt Chapman told me you were out last night?”
I drag my eyes from the other men back to the Ins
pector. “Yes. I returned to my home in Mayfair so that I could attend the opera. I only came back here this morning.”
“And this foreign woman that Sgt Chapman has in custody? She is your maid?”
“Yes, that is correct. But she could not have murdered these girls. She was with me all evening.” My voice rises with agitation. “When I return home later today I will find some way to prove she could not have been in the vicinity during any of the murders.” I pause, for over the Inspector’s shoulder I can see the men come out from the bedroom at the stop of the stairs. Between them they carry the stretcher down awkwardly, but this time the body is completely shrouded in a white sheet.
We both watch in silence as Eleanor is carried from sight.
I wonder what’s to become of her small body, and when I’m going to have a chance to inform Sir Thomas of this disastrous outcome. How could I have left the poor girls alone? My heartbeat skips uncomfortably again. Maybe the police have already told Eleanor’s family. My thoughts lack coherence as I gaze at the Inspector. “Sorry, what did you ask me?”
“What was it you needed to find in your room, Mrs Chancey?” he repeats.
“Only some personal belongings. Toiletries. Clothing.” I draw my distracted thoughts back to the moment.
“Please,” he gestures for me to follow him. “Come, we’ll go together to fetch your things.”
We trudge back up the stairs. I hesitate only a moment on the landing before entering the bedroom. My eyes rest on the bed, which is now stripped of all its bedding. The mattress, already soiled with bygone cloudy patches, carries a dark stain so large and deep it couldn’t possibly be removed. I collect my brush and hair pins from the dresser, placing them in a case. My fingers are trembling. Gazing through the open doors of the wardrobe I survey the gowns within. I’ll leave them behind. I never want to see them again, or remember this terrible place. But behind the dove-grey gown I catch a glimpse of fresh, pale blue, and pull out the taffeta gown Amah had given Eleanor. I slip it from its hanger. This I will take. I’ll make sure Eleanor is dressed in it when… Or, at the very least, I’ll keep it in memory of the girl.
