The Ripper's Shadow

by Laura Joh Rowland

  “I took those photographs to make money,” I say, “for myself and the women in them. That’s all.”

  Mick nods, relieved because I had no nefarious motive but not altogether reassured. He jabs the photograph of Polly Nichols with his dirty finger. “This one—we saw her dead in Buck’s Row. You knew her.” He sounds put out because I didn’t tell him I knew Polly and he knows there’s more I’ve concealed.

  “Yes. And the two other women who were murdered also modeled for me.” I explain what we’ve been discussing.

  “Gorblimey.” Awe hushes Mick’s voice.

  “Amen,” Hugh says.

  Mick frowns, uncertain whether Hugh is teasing him, then regards me with new, sympathetic respect; I have revealed myself as a fellow outlaw. “What’re you going to do?”

  “That’s the question,” Hugh says.

  “I can’t let the murderer kill more women,” I say.

  “Maybe police catch him,” Mrs. Lipsky says hopefully.

  Mick has begun furtively cramming food into his mouth; he’s not certain it’s safe to eat, but he’s too hungry to resist. At Mrs. Lipsky’s remark, he lets out a disdainful splutter that sprays mustard on the tablecloth.

  “My sentiments exactly,” Hugh says. “One, then two, then three murders, and from what I hear, the police aren’t making any progress.”

  “The police don’t know their arse from a hole in their head,” Mick agrees, but his look at Hugh is still distrustful.

  Catherine makes a moue of disgust at Mick’s vulgarity. Mick notices and looks stricken by the fact that his liking for Catherine is unrequited and will remain so. He resorts to blustering. “When somethin’ needs to be done, you got to do it yourself, that’s what I always say.”

  “Do you mean catch the killer?” Although I’ve been trying to learn as much as I can about the murders, I never equated it with actually hunting down the murderer, which seems such an absurd idea that I laugh. Hugh and Catherine laugh, too. The Lipskys look as if we’ve made a joke that they don’t understand.

  “Sure. Why not?” Our reaction puts Mick on the defensive. “Ain’t that better than sittin’ on your thumbs while the coppers are on your back?”

  I don’t want to hurt Mick’s feelings, and my desperation is so great that I would entertain advice from a twelve-year-old. “I could at least try.”

  He gives me a grateful smile. Catherine says, “Sarah, be serious!”

  “Sarah, no!” Mrs. Lipsky perceives that I am serious the moment I realize it myself. “You could get hurt.”

  The Ripper might find out I’m on his trail and kill me. “But if I can give the police his name and prove that he killed the women, then they’ll arrest him. My photographs need never come into it, and everyone will be safe.” If I were to succeed, it would show PC Barrett that I’m someone to be reckoned with, and I won’t be troubled by Inspector Reid again.

  “I’d love a mystery to solve,” Hugh says. “Why not give it a whirl, Sarah? I’m happy to help.”

  “Me too,” Mick says, eager not to be outdone by Hugh. He obviously cares less about saving the prostitutes than impressing Catherine.

  Catherine throws up her hands. “Have you all gone mad?”

  “It’s not so mad an idea,” Hugh says. “Sarah has information that the police don’t. She knows how the killer selects his victims and who his targets are. And that may not be all.” Excited, he seizes my hand. “Tell me, Sarah—how do you sell your photographs?”

  “I don’t. Kate Eddowes does. The whole scheme was her idea. I give her the prints, and she takes them to a bookshop in Holywell Street. I’ve never been there.”

  “Holywell Street,” Hugh says triumphantly. “Another clue!”

  “I could go there and ask who bought the prints.” I’m carried away by his enthusiasm, giddy with revelation. By flouting my mother’s advice, I’ve learned that not all people repay trust with a stab in the back.

  “I’ll go with you,” Mick says.

  “I have friends in the press,” Hugh says. “I’ll ask them whether the police have any new information we can use.”

  These two have risen to my aid. It’s as if I’ve fallen and a net has appeared.

  Catherine gazes at Hugh’s hand clasping mine. Her brow puckers; she’s wondering what my exact relationship with Hugh is. “What shall I do?” she asks, still skeptical yet not wanting to be left out.

  “Avoid becoming the killer’s next victim,” I say sternly.

  “That’s right,” Hugh says.

  Catherine frowns, distressed because now that she’s seen my portfolio turned into a gallery of murder victims, she finally realizes she’s in danger. Mick looks startled as he gathers that Catherine is among my models.

  “How about a trip home?” Hugh asks Catherine. He turns out his pockets and tosses coins on the table. “This should cover your train fare.”

  “No! I’m not going home!” Catherine seems more alarmed than the idea merits. “I’m just beginning to make my way on the stage. If I leave, I’ll lose my part, and when I come back, I’ll have to start all over. And I love London and my friends. I don’t want to go away.” Her voice is breathless as she piles excuse on top of excuse. “I have to be at the theater soon,” she says, putting on her coat.

  Mr. and Mrs. Lipsky have been politely listening to the conversation. They must regret that they’ve become mixed up with this peculiar photographer and her motley friends. Mr. Lipsky gets to his feet. I think he and his wife are about to make their escape, but he says, “I go with Catherine. I protect.”

  “You needn’t!” It’s not that I don’t welcome his help. These are grieving parents, and I shouldn’t involve them in something that is probably against the law, possibly dangerous, and certainly not their problem.

  “I protect Catherine,” he says, and his wife firmly nods in approval.

  Do they see their daughter in Catherine? Do they think that even though they couldn’t save Yulia, they can keep Catherine safe? These questions are too personal to ask. Perhaps the Lipskys feel they still owe me a favor, but perhaps they share the idea that has lodged in my mind—that we are members of a circle that was completed when Mick arrived.

  “But I don’t want a chaperone,” Catherine protests, obviously thinking it will curtail her social life.

  “It’s the perfect solution,” Hugh says. “Nobody will attack you with our Russian strong man by your side.”

  Catherine argues until we refuse to let her out the door unless she agrees that Mr. Lipsky will be her bodyguard and bring her straight home after the shows. Outside, dusk is falling. I light the gas lamps. They illuminate the somber faces around my table. I feel as if I’ve stitched together a cloak from random scraps of fabric that the wind has blown in my direction. The cloak is blessedly warm.

  “We’re all in, then,” Hugh says with a strange inflection, as if our impulsive plan has taken on a gravity he never foresaw.

  Mick, Catherine, the Lipskys, and I nod. I feel a sudden foreboding as I recall that my association with Martha, Polly, and Annie began in similar fashion—because I unwisely let them into my life. I wonder if I will bring harm to my new circle of friends. I should warn them not to step into my shadow . . .

  Then comes a sudden, unsteadying sensation like the one I experienced when Hugh told me I wasn’t to blame for my father’s death. Maybe he’s right. I’m almost ready to believe it. I’ve already flouted my mother’s advice without harm; why not risk challenging the notion that I cast an evil shadow? In for a penny, in for a pound. But there is danger for my new friends, even if not from me.

  “If you get involved with this, the killer could come after you,” I say. “So could the police.”

  “Let ’em come,” Hugh says, flexing his muscles.

  “Yeah!” Mick says, and Mr. Lipsky grins. Catherine and Mrs. Lipsky smile admiringly at their bravado.

  I concede because I have an inkling that what Hugh said about himself and me is true for all of u
s: fate must have some reason for throwing us together. Perhaps the purpose of our circle is to venture into the shadow of the Ripper and hunt him down.

  12

  On Monday morning, a brisk, fresh wind disperses the fog. As Mick and I set out for Holywell Street, the sun seems brighter than ever before, the odors of food and garbage more intense, the noise from hawkers, carts, and carriages louder. It’s as if a protective skin was stripped off me yesterday, and I’m open to a world whose full intensity I never experienced. I have high hopes for today, but I’m uneasy about conducting secret inquiries in stark daylight. I miss the fog’s concealing veil and the melancholy yet familiar comfort of solitude.

  I glance at Mick, skipping along beside me. Banding together to hunt the Ripper seemed so right yesterday, but my new friends are virtual strangers, and my lifelong caution toward people hasn’t been entirely rooted out.

  Mick suddenly lets out a loud whoop. Alarm catches my breath. He runs after a carriage, jumps on the back, and rides to the next block. He laughs as he runs back to me. My heart is still pounding as we continue on our way. Enlisting the help of a twelve-year-old daredevil now seems like a foolish idea.

  When we reach Holywell Street, we find many bookshops. Mick asks, “Which is it?”

  “Kate wouldn’t tell me.” I’m worrying about what mischief he’ll make next. “She was afraid that if I knew, I would sell the photographs there myself and cut her out of the deal.”

  We stroll up and down the street. The shops occupy old, grimy buildings; books are displayed behind smudged windows. Other people are few, mostly male, with a furtive air.

  As we stop outside a bookshop, Mick whispers, “Remember, it’s not just the customers we have to beware of.”

  The bookseller who bought my photographs might himself be the killer. My hands grow clammy with nerves as we enter the shop. I wish I could put a leash on Mick, the better to keep him under control. A hunch-shouldered man is arranging books on shelves.

  “May I help you?” he asks, peering down his beaked nose at us.

  I clutch the handle of my satchel. “I should like to see . . .” I clear my throat. “Some photographs of women.”

  The proprietor glances suspiciously at Mick, then opens a book. “How about these?”

  The pictures show ladies’ fashions. “Er, no.”

  “You got any where they’re naked?” Mick says.

  A muzzle, too! He was supposed to let me do the talking.

  The proprietor seems shocked that a lady of my respectable appearance would want what Mick is asking for. He’s probably also wondering what our relationship is. “Ah. I understand.” His manner turns sly. He must think I’m among those women who like other women. He locates a clothbound portfolio and shows me the photographs. They are similar in subject matter to mine, but they’re not ones I took. I understand what Hugh meant when he said mine were better than the usual. Although the models are prettier, the pictures are poorly composed, lit, and focused.

  “I’m sorry, these won’t do.”

  Mick and I try three more shops, with no luck. When we come out of the third, I spy a strange figure on the sidewalk. It has a small head on a square, truncated body. As we draw closer, I discern that it is a man seated in a wheelchair. A plaid blanket covers his legs. He has a round face as pink as a baby’s and reddish hairs fringing his bald crown. Gold-framed spectacles magnify his blue eyes.

  “I’ve been watching you,” he says with a cheery smile. “You evidently aren’t satisfied with the wares offered by my colleagues. I think you’ll find a better product here.” He wheels himself through a shop door. The sign over it reads, Russell’s Fine Books.

  “Don’t let your guard down,” Mick whispers as we follow. “He might be the one.”

  “He’s crippled,” I whisper.

  “Maybe not really. I knows some beggars who just pretend to be.”

  The shop has pretensions to elegance. A worn Turkey carpet covers the floor; plaster busts of Roman emperors serve as bookends. Mr. Russell leads us to his back room, lights a gas lamp with a stained-glass shade, and seats us on a threadbare green brocade divan. He opens a safe. It contains three albums covered in maroon velvet. He places one in my lap. Mounted on the first page is a familiar photograph of Polly Nichols undressing.

  “The photographer is a genius,” Mr. Russell says. “His models aren’t pretty, but observe the lighting and the composition and the mood. His work could be considered art.”

  Never have I experienced so little pleasure in hearing my work praised or so fervently not wanted credit for it. I turn pages. My models are all there. Mick gulps at the sight of Catherine posing nude as Venus. I shut the album in which Mr. Russell has compiled my latest collection of photographs and glance at the other two albums in the safe. I gave Kate three copies of the collection to sell. The only other prints, and the negatives, are in my studio.

  “I would like to buy this album and all other work by this photographer.” I must remove them from circulation, lest they come to the attention of the police and the police somehow connect them to me.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sold out of his earlier work. These photographs are spoken for, and the customers are coming to fetch them today. But I can order a set made for you.”

  “She’ll pay you more,” Mick says. “How much do you want?”

  “Well, I don’t like to renege on a deal . . .” Mr. Russell ponders, then says, “They’re yours for a hundred pounds.”

  I haven’t that much money in the world! Mick says, “How about ten?”

  Not ten, either!

  Offense wipes the smile from Mr. Russell’s face. “I’m afraid not.” He takes the album from me and sets it on the desk beside a black ledger. Mick and I reluctantly rise. As Mr. Russell maneuvers his wheelchair, herding us out to the front of the shop, I ask, “Who has purchased photographs like these?”

  “I can’t divulge that information. It’s confidential.”

  Mick sidles around behind Mr. Russell and makes a rotating gesture with his hand. I frown; I don’t know what he means. Then he tiptoes into the back room. He wants me to distract Mr. Russell while he steals the albums! Even as alarm petrifies me, I wish I could tell Mick to steal the ledger, too; it must contain the customers’ names, the killer’s among them. I’m so nervous that the only thing I can think to do is bluff. “The police would be interested to know what you are selling here. Tell me who bought the photographs, or I will report you.”

  Mr. Russell’s pink face reddens with anger. “Get out of my shop!”

  Mick bursts from the back room, clutching the three albums and the ledger against his chest. “Run!” he shouts.

  Panicking, I speed out the door, but Mr. Russell rolls his chair between it and Mick. As Mick tries to push him out of the way, Mr. Russell grabs Mick’s arm. Mick lunges for the door. His momentum yanks Mr. Russell from his wheelchair. They fall onto the sidewalk. Albums and ledger go flying. Mick scrambles to retrieve them while Mr. Russell cries, “Stop! Thief!”

  People in the street turn and stare. The blanket is wadded under Mr. Russell. His legs in their flannel trousers are withered, paralyzed. “Help! Police!”

  “Mick! Never mind!” I call as I back away from the shop. “We must go!”

  We race down the street, around corners. Breathless, we take refuge in a marketplace, among the crowd. “Mick, you shouldn’t have done that. You could have gotten us arrested!”

  Chagrined, he says, “Yeah, well, I thought it was worth a try. Sorry I dropped the goods. At least we found out he really is a cripple.”

  “Yes. He couldn’t have killed the women and run away afterward.”

  “What do we do now?”

  “I have a new idea.” I lead Mick down an alley. From the end, looking across Holywell Street at an angle, we have a clear view of Russell’s Fine Books. I reach in my satchel and take out my miniature camera.

  “I get it,” Mick says. “When the customers come to get the pictur
es, you’ll take theirs!”

  “Yes. The killer is likely to be one of them, and maybe his picture will help us discover his identity.”

  At ten o’clock in the morning, the sun shines on Holywell Street. Shadows immerse the alley. Mick subsides into morose silence. I don’t want to pry, but I ask, “What’s wrong?”

  He avoids my gaze. “Those people at your studio last night.”

  “Do you mean Catherine?” I wish I could make it up to him for the way she treats him.

  “No.” Mick turns red to the tips of his ears. He doesn’t want to talk about her or his feelings for her. “I mean the Jews. You shouldn’t trust them.”

  “Why not?”

  “Jews ain’t like us. You never know what they’re thinking.”

  His prejudice reflects a common attitude. “They’re not so different. And the Lipskys are good people. When you get to know them, you’ll see.”

  Mick shakes his head. “I know him already. He works in Butcher’s Row. He once threw me in a mud puddle.”

  I recall how frightening Mr. Lipsky’s temper was, and I’m alarmed to hear of his violence against Mick, but a reason for it occurs to me. “Did you steal something?”

  “It were just a measly lamb chop,” Mick hurries to defend himself. “I was hungry.”

  “Mr. Lipsky was just protecting his merchandise. Let’s hope he didn’t recognize you.”

  “He recognized me. I could tell,” Mick says darkly.

  I’m distressed to learn that there’s bad blood between two of my new friends and that our group is far from as unified as it seemed yesterday.

  “And that Lord Hugh is worse than the Jews,” Mick says.

  “He wasn’t trying to tease you. You mustn’t take offense at what he says.” I want everyone in the circle to get along with everyone else.

  “It’s not just that. He goes around pickin’ up men. I seen him. He’s a nancy boy.”

  I’m even more distressed because someone else knows Hugh’s secret. Bringing my acquaintances together has created a whole set of new problems.