by M. J. Tjia
Silvestre. Would the old cow go that far to free her lover? I can’t bring myself to believe it. I’m sure the old woman’s callous enough to tolerate a certain amount of violence inflicted upon her girls, but these mutilations? And the thought of Silvestre exerting herself to go to the extreme effort of murdering and butchering two women? It’s laughable.
Which leaves Henry in jail at the time of Eleanor’s murder, and most probably innocent of the other deaths.
So maybe Eleanor didn’t see him standing over the Dutch girl’s body after all. But then where did she see him? Was it just at the brothel? Or was she mistaken? I swallow another mouthful of the wine and lie my head back against the sofa. My thoughts are unfocused and I just want to sleep.
Lifting the cranberry snuff bottle to my nostrils, repulsion sweeps over me. I can’t just lie here and inhale my way to oblivion, and the faint, sickly scent of violets with which Bill drenched his snuff mixture makes my stomach quail, which reminds me of Eleanor, enshrouded in her own blood. I sweep a hand across my eyes to blot the image, and take another gulp of wine.
The handkerchief lies upon my lap and the embroidered letters in one of the corners catches my eye. XI. I hold it before myself. An X and I. It’s not the handkerchief Eleanor picked at, after all. And it’s certainly not mine. XI? I toss it onto the floor. It must belong to one of the policemen who tramped around that bedroom. Or maybe it’s Dr Featherby’s – the doctor who attended poor Eleanor’s body? Inspector Kelley’s? I think of their conversation about the vile men who stole women’s pleasure. That B, B man – something Brown? And the other one. Xavier. I nudge the handkerchief with my toe. Flip it over. IX. Someone Xavier. I Xavier. And I think of the last time I noticed these letters. The number nine. The roman numerals circled in Mordaunt’s notebook. But this Xavier Dr Featherby spoke of is dead. He said he died of shame.
Gazing out the long windows into the inky darkness, I wonder if Bill is still at the morgue or the police station at this time of night. I must tell him of my ideas. I think of his strong hands, his crooked smile. Really, I shrink from seeing him again, but I must. I need to look him in the eye, let him see that I am unaffected by his disdain for me. I must find him as soon as possible, but the warmth of the fire and the wine, and maybe even the muddled insights forming in my mind, leave me feeling unusually languid. I hope no more girls will die violently overnight while I sit here paralysed with uncertainty in my comfortable drawing room. Surely the killer will not strike again with Amah safely tucked into a cell acting as scapegoat. Pulling the sheets of paper against my breast I resolve to make a plan of action, but promptly fall fast asleep amongst the sofa cushions.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The police station’s chilly entrance hall is so crammed with men – some bleeding, all caked in dirt – that I’m jostled on my way to the front desk. Muddy boots tread upon my skirts, interrupting my progress, and at one stage I have to duck out of the way of a falling body. The constables’ batons weave through the air and the prisoners, stale liquor on their breath, holler abuse.
I’d woken in the middle of the previous night, shivering on the sofa. I had a crick in my shoulder and a beating headache from the wine. Finding little rest since then, I filled the intervening hours with determined plans to free Amah. As soon as the milky morning light filtered through the curtains I made my way to the police station. The sight of the unruly mob in its vestibule did not dampen my ambition.
I finally see a uniformed policeman at the station’s front desk. He’s a young man with cropped brown hair and earnest eyes and as I reach him, I grab his sleeve and tug.
“Madam, this is no place for a lady,” he says. His baby face looks horrified on my behalf. “Allow me to take you away from this commotion.” He leads me past the closed doors of the back offices and into a room that appears to be a makeshift kitchen.
“Why are there so many men here?” I ask. I widen my carefully accented eyelashes and pretend to be fearful of the filthy men being led away by the constables. I sense the young policeman expects a certain level of femininity from me. “Who are these brutes?”
I allow him to settle me into a chair, away from the melee.
“Don’t worry about them now, madam. I wouldn’t sully a lady’s ears with their doings in any case,” he answers.
I peer around the open doorway at the departing captives, guessing they were participants in an overnight brawl or fighting match. “Where will they be taken?”
“They’ll be confined in the lockup out back.”
“But, how many lockups do you have?”
“Just the one,” he says, leaning against a table. “One space is enough to cram those thugs into.”
“But this won’t do.” Alarm has made my voice strident. “My maid is confined there. She cannot be expected to wait amongst those men.”
“Your maid?” He looks confused.
“Yes. She was brought here on ridiculous, trumped up charges yesterday. I have come here to ask for her release.” I draw a sheaf of paper from my reticule. I know most of this paperwork is next to bloody useless, but I’ve forged Amah’s names onto one ticket of passage and against two receipts. “I have brought what I can to try to prove her whereabouts over the last few months.” I twist around in my chair and look around the station. “Where is Sergeant Chapman? William Chapman? He will know why I am here.”
The young constable gapes at me for a few moments. “Do you mean the foreign woman who was here last night?”
“Yes.”
“She is your maid?”
“She is.”
He stares at me some more, before shaking his head slowly. “She’s murdered many women, madam. There will be no freeing her.”
“But you don’t understand.” I shove the papers I have crushed between my fingers towards him. “She did not murder those women. I have brought proof. She cannot be left with those drunkards.” I can’t think of any other way to free Amah. It’s been years since I’ve felt so utterly helpless. Anxiety constricts my chest as I think of the older woman, wondering if she’s frightened or just plain angry at me for not getting her out of this mess. I imagine her cowed in the corner of the cell surrounded by the pack of abusive men.
The young policeman looks dubious. “Madam, you will have to wait for the Inspector to be free as he is the only one you can speak to of this matter.”
“Well, where is he?”
“He is interviewing a witness at this very moment. He could be a long while.”
“Can you at least have my maid wait in here? With me? Have her wait with me for the Inspector.”
“I am sorry,” he says, averting his eyes from mine. “Our orders are to leave her in the lockup and, come this afternoon, she will appear before the magistrate and then be sent to Newgate.”
I slump back into the chair as I squeeze my eyes shut. I feel sick to the stomach. Amah will be tried for murder and hanged before we know it.
The policeman moves to my side swiftly. “Madam, are you ill?”
“I must be strong,” I say. I allow for a staged, tremulous note to creep into my voice but, truth be told, maybe it wasn’t all acting. “I have had so many frights lately, but your Sgt Chapman has been such a friend to me.” I look up at the young man, my eyes pleading – ‘shimmering pools of melancholy, making thy heart ache’ after all. “Do you think he is available to see me now?”
“I will check for you.” The policeman returns after what seems only a few moments.
“I’m afraid he isn’t,” he answers, apologetically.
I bite down on my lower lip and taste blood. I can’t be sure if Bill really can’t meet with me or if he just refuses to.
Leaving the papers, the handkerchief and a note for the Inspector in the policeman’s care, I summon a cab to take me to an address in Waterloo. The initials on the handkerchief have given me an idea. I’m going to hunt the killer down to his own lair. I know I should have someone accompany me, but the police have prov
en of no help and I don’t have time to track down Taff. Briefly I think of taking Chat along with me, but I can’t upset him any more than he has been already. I have something far more useful anyway. My hand folds over the handgun which is now in a hidden pocket of my gown, its bulk reassuringly heavy against my thigh. The only thing on my mind is the immediate release of Amah, which means I have to find the murderer. And shoot him, if I’m lucky enough.
As yet, I’ve not actually shot at anyone with my handgun. A young lover gave it to me two years ago and had trained me in its use at his hunting box in Essex. Before that I’d made do with a pretty, pearl-handled switchblade. Amah had taught me well in the use of that blade, but today I feel the handgun is more favourable.
The cab driver lets me down on the corner of where Emery crosses Morley Street. Pulling an organza veil over my face, I pass a horse yard and stables until I reach a row of small shops. Between a milliner’s and a tobacconist is a butcher’s shop, its wide shopfront filled with gleaming, pink carcases hanging from hooks. I pop into the milliner’s, which sells cheap, unfashionable headwear, and ask directions from the young shopgirl, who points to the alleyway that runs down the side of the horse yard.
The brick wall of the shop looms high to one side of the alley, while on the other side the tall, timber fencing of the stable yard cuts out most of the grey light. The alleyway is so narrow my skirts brush against the side walls, and a brisk wind whooshes past my exposed neck, making me shiver. The rims of my shoes stick in the mud as I pick my way through to the row of small, two-storey dwellings that are adjacent to the rear of the shops. The stench of the cluttered yard grows stronger as I approach – the smothering sweet smell of open flesh and manure mixes with the pungent odour of rotten meat. I press a handkerchief to my nose as I round the corner. The dripping end of a newly-slaughtered sheep nudges my shoulder from where it hangs over a bucket. A stream of fresh, port-coloured blood streaks through the filthy cobblestones and two more sheep tethered to a stake watch me, dancing on skittish hooves, ignoring the hay at their feet. A skinny lad carries a straw cage of chickens to a chopping block. He looks enquiringly at me as he lifts a hen by its feet from the cage. Its squawking and flapping make conversation difficult so I just point at the house nearest to the butcher’s.
Knocking on the front door, I’m not sure if my rapping can be heard over the screeching of the chicken. The din stops abruptly with a loud thud so that my second round of knocking rings out loudly across the small yard. I wait through the raucous deaths of two more chickens, but no-one answers the door. Turning the door handle, I find it locked. I watch as the butcher’s lad carries the chicken carcases through the back entrance of the butcher’s shop, and quickly pick the lock. Stripping my gloves from my hands, I stuff them into one pocket while pulling my handgun from the other. I slip into the small house.
I find myself in a large, dimly lit area. There’s only one small window at the back of the room, the daylight muted by a grubby, muslin curtain. The furniture, although aged, is surprisingly fine in its dreary surrounds and the two paintings upon the walls appear quite valuable. A lovely crystal bowl encrusted in dust stands upon a side-board, yet the table is set with cheap crockery. I’m still as I survey the room, my senses heightened to hear any movement from behind or above. Along the wall is a make-shift bookcase, constructed from bricks and planks. My eyes are drawn across the spines of the books, reading the titles – there are several university anatomy books and home doctor journals – and my breath catches as I glimpse the book at the end of the row. It’s black without a title across the spine, and a red ribbon pokes out between the pages. I spring forward and, lifting the notebook, open its pages. It’s Dr Mordaunt’s missing diary.
My fingers tremble as I replace the book against the others. The uncomfortable beating of my heart echoes loudly in my head. I’m in the right place. I’ve tracked down the man who’s murdered all the women; who’s murdered poor Eleanor. Where is the bastard? I grip the handle of my handgun, my fingertip resting on the trigger.
I gently step across the grimy floorboards, pausing to look at a framed document upon the wall. Royal College of Surgeons curves across the top of the page, over a coat of arms. At the bottom of the page, written in curling script, 1830. Ignatius Xavier.
The name of the surgeon the doctor had spoken of; the surgeon who thought he could operate on women bits to keep them from hysteria. I mouth the name – Ignatius Xavier. If only I’d caught on earlier.
I move across to a poky stairwell, and peer up into the shadows. I can’t see the half of the staircase that turns off from the landing. I place my foot on the first step, quickly withdrawing it when I notice the dark smudge ingrained into the wood. I crouch low in order to see it more clearly. The thickish stain runs down the middle of the lowest four steps. Is it blood?
Someone shouts in the butcher’s yard, and a cow clip-clops its way across the cobblestones, lowing. I grasp the stair’s handrail, listening. Another male voice joins the first. Perhaps the butcher and his assistant? The sound of steel scraping across whetstone muffles their voices. Feeling a little reassured at their close proximity, I stare up into the stairwell again and begin to climb the steps, keeping to the side to avoid the stains.
I reach the landing. It’s even darker than it is below. Turning to my right I look up the remaining stairs. At the top is a door, ajar.
The cow is bellowing in earnest now. I can just hear it over the loud whooshing of my heartbeat. Perspiration prickles the skin above my upper lip and at my hairline. I make my way slowly up the final stairs, gripping the handgun so tightly I have to be careful it doesn’t go off prematurely. I reach forward. Lightly push open the door.
In the centre of the room, illuminated by a single lantern, is a chair – just like the one in Dr Mordaunt’s rooms – a reclining chair with stirrups.
I gape at it for some moments before I notice the baleful silence. No voices, no cow.
By the time I hear a rustle behind me, it’s too late. He pries the gun from my grip as he holds me in a strangle hold with his other arm. He presses a wad of linen soaked in a familiar, acerbic substance to my mouth and nose. I struggle in his arms, scream, bite and scratch, but the more I try to call out, the more I breathe in the ether. My heartbeat clamours in my ears and I feel I might be sick, when all goes black.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I heave back into awareness. I struggle to sit up but my ankles are bound in the chair’s stirrups and my wrists are tied to its arms. I’m groggy, panting with the effort of righting the spinning room.
Ignatius steps in front of me. Mordaunt’s slimy assistant. He smiles, and his wet lips make my skin crawl with loathing. “Awake?” He points my handgun at me. “If you dare make a noise I’ll finish you so quickly your screams will be taken for a hen’s squawk.”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” My mouth’s dry from the ether, my tongue numb, sunken in my mouth, slurring the words.
“I think you know exactly what I’m doing, Heloise.” He holds my gaze until I know what he means. “How did you find me?” he asks.
“I watched you leave Mordaunt’s. You always turned into this alleyway.” My words come slowly.
“Well, what a lovely surprise to find you here. How do you like my humble abode? It suits me very well, I must say – the noisiness from the slaughter yard, its remoteness from others. But do you know the best part?” He breathes in deeply. “The smell. That metallic stench of blood. Of course, mostly it’s from the cows and the sheep, but once in a while the blood from a whore’s body mingles with the rest.”
“You’re a bastard.”
An ugly expression settles across his smooth features. “I’m no bastard.” He moves to a side-table. “I can account for both my parents, which I’m sure is more than you can do.” He neatens some objects on a cloth, metal jangling against metal. “In fact, my father left me these,” he says, holding up a scalpel, shiny in the yellow lantern light. �
�They’re instruments from his surgery. He had no more use for them, and then he died anyway, so I have appropriated them.” He places the scalpel back on the cloth and picks up what appears to be a butcher’s knife. “Have you worked out that part yet?”
I nod, the words sticking in my throat. I stare at the mottled grey of the knife. “Yes. Ignatius Xavier. Baker-Brown’s associate. The one discredited for mutilating women. I assume you’re his son,” I finally croak.
His jaws clench and he stabs the point of the knife into the table top. “I didn’t ever train to be a doctor, you know. I wanted to be on the stage, trained to sing opera in Venice. But when the pricks struck my father off, leaving him with no income, I had to support myself. Had to find work in a fucking doctor’s office.” He scowls, moves to my side. “I found my father’s body, you know. It had rotted away for weeks before that. The poor fellow had been deserted – deserted by his friends, by his family, by the medical fraternity – all because he tried to help you crazy women.”
I long to turn my head away, shut my eyes, but I’m mesmerised by his knife hand. I can barely comprehend what he’s saying.
“What gave me away? What brought you to my home?”
“I found your handkerchief. I noticed the monogram. Same as in Mordaunt’s notebook.”
His eyes narrow as he gazes at me. “Clever little bitch, aren’t you? Now you know the real me. Of course, I’ve known the real you for a while now too. When you first came into Mordaunt’s office I thought I’d seen you before, but I couldn’t place you. I only truly recognised you when I glimpsed you eating supper at the fair by the river. It was when you stood amongst all the other fancy-pieces in their gaudy jewels and painted faces, that I realised. I saw it then. She’s the infamous Paon de Nuit of the stage and of the bed, I thought. Heloise Chancey. Peacock of the Night. The woman who ventures out in all her finery to attract and trap unwitting suitors.” He reaches down and caresses between my legs with his free hand. I squirm to the side so he tweaks me hard and laughs at my yelp of pain. “I’ve seen you often at the opera, my dear. But of course, I don’t venture past the lowly stalls. You would never notice the likes of me.” He’s still smiling but there’s an unpleasant glint in his eye.
