Yulia isn’t the only child they lost, and the others were murdered. This is a tragic story I didn’t know about them. Mr. Lipsky starts crying. That he blames himself for his children’s deaths is heartbreakingly plain to see. His grief and guilt are magnitudes worse than I deserve to feel on account of Mick or Hugh, than I ever should have felt for my father. Mr. Lipsky grabs a wine bottle, uncorks it, and gulps the liquor.
“When he thinks about Russia, he drinks.” Mrs. Lipsky’s expression turns grave with fear. “You should go, Sarah.”
23
Early the next morning, I ride in an omnibus through pouring rain to see Hugh. I must find out how he is, and truth be told, I need advice. The threat of Commissioner Warren’s wrath doesn’t excuse me from the responsibility of protecting my models. My knowledge that he’s the Ripper comes with the obligation to deliver him to justice, but I don’t know what my next step should be. I miss Hugh; he’s the only person I can talk to, and I hope my visit won’t make things worse for him in any way.
When I arrive at his family’s townhouse, the reporters are gone; the house is silent, the white marble steps streaked with rain, and the flowers in the urns flattened. Hiding under my umbrella, I walk down the alley behind the houses and knock on the back door. A maid in a white apron and cap and black uniform answers. She’s some fifty years old, with a hard, plain face.
“I want to see Lord Hugh.”
“He don’t live here anymore.” She starts to shut the door.
I hold it open and say, “I’m a friend of his. Please, I have to find out if he’s all right.”
She scrutinizes me. “Was it you that brought him home?”
“Yes.”
Her face softens. “I’m obliged to you, then. Poor Master Hugh. It’s terrible what happened.” Glancing over her shoulder, she whispers, “Number seventy-six Argyle Square, Bloomsbury. Tell him Margaret sends her love.”
#
Argyle Square is not in the fashionable part of Bloomsbury that contains beautiful Georgian mansions and the British Museum. Argyle Square is hard by St. Pancras Station, outside of which I alight from the omnibus amid the rumble of trains and clouds of cinder-laden smoke. I proceed on foot, through mud puddles that soak my shoes, reluctant to waste the pennies that the crossing-sweepers charge to walk on boards they’ve spread across the streets. Outside hotels on Euston Road loiter prostitutes dressed in vulgar finery, but Argyle Square itself retains a vestige of respectability. Terraced brick houses rise four stories high. The white paint on the trim around their windows and arched doors and the black paint on their iron fences isn’t peeling, but the central garden of leafless plane trees, empty paths, and bare flower beds is as cheerful as a graveyard, and I can imagine what a comedown Argyle Square must seem to Hugh.
As I open the gate of number seventy-six, my umbrella blows inside out. I ring the doorbell while the rain drenches me. The man who opens the door is the gray-haired, serious fellow I saw at the Staunton townhouse.
“Yes?” he says cautiously. He doesn’t recognize me.
“My name is Sarah Bain. May I see Lord Hugh?”
His manner becomes hostile. “Are you from a newspaper?”
Hugh’s voice calls from inside the house, “It’s all right, Fitzmorris.” He sounds tired, apathetic. “Let her in.”
In the cramped vestibule, Fitzmorris takes my wet coat and umbrella. He escorts me to the narrow parlor, where Hugh is reclining on a chaise lounge by the fire. Hugh wears a blue wool robe over striped pajamas, and a blanket covers his legs. His blond hair is lank and uncombed; the bruises on his face are the greenish color of moldy bread.
“Sarah.” A listless version of his smile quickly vanishes. “Thank you for coming. Please sit down.”
Even in his sorry state, he hasn’t lost his manners. My heart aches for him. I perch on a green brocade chair whose upholstery has greasy stains on the arms. The yellow silk chaise lounge where Hugh lies is threadbare; the red Turkey carpet has worn patches; and the gold silk curtains are faded. The house is furnished with castoffs.
“I’ve been worried about you,” I say. “Are you in much pain?”
“It’s getting better. The doctor says I haven’t any broken bones or internal ruptures. And the bruises are fading. Pretty soon I’ll look like my usual self.”
But nothing else will be the same for him. “Hugh, I’m sorry. It was wrong of me to put you in danger.”
Hugh shrugs off my apology. “Don’t blame yourself, Sarah. I don’t blame you. It was my decision to join in the investigation, just as it was my decision to live the kind of life that put me in the Thousand Crowns Club that night.” He broods in glum silence.
I would feel better if he did blame me for his troubles rather than himself and his own nature.
“I never thanked you for taking care of me,” Hugh says. “So I thank you now.”
He and the Lipskys are far too generous. Ashamed, I nod wordlessly.
“By the way, how did you find me?” Hugh asks.
“I went to your family’s house. Margaret sends her love.”
A brief, sad smile crosses Hugh’s face. “I’m glad there’s somebody over there whose affection I haven’t lost. Did she also tell you that my parents banished me to this house and decamped to their country estate to get away from the reporters and the gossip?”
“Oh, no.” My heart sinks deeper.
During the awkward silence, Fitzmorris brings in a silver tray laden with bowls and spoons, a tureen of beef tea, and ramekins of rice pudding—an invalid’s meal. He sets the tray on the table by Hugh.
“Fitzmorris is my valet and my companion in exile,” Hugh says to me, then addresses Fitzmorris. “There’s no need for you to share my disgrace. I fired you yesterday.”
“You can’t get rid of me that easily, my lord.”
Hugh waves away the tray. “I don’t want any.”
“My lord, you must restore your strength.”
“I can’t eat. You have some, Sarah.”
“I will only if you will.” I’ve no appetite, but I let Fitzmorris serve me.
With great effort, Hugh sits up. We sip the beef tea, a hearty broth flavored with meat, butter, salt, and onions. We nibble the sweet, rich rice pudding. When Fitzmorris leaves, Hugh stops eating and so do I.
“My parents are in the process of disowning me,” Hugh says. “My father told me that I can stay here, and he’ll support me while I find a way to earn my own living. He’s given me a year. When it’s up, he’ll cut me loose. In the meantime, I’m not to show my face in society.”
Indignation fills me. “That’s terrible!”
“It’s better than it could be. My father wanted to send me to America, but my mother wouldn’t let him. I’m lucky I wasn’t put on trial and convicted. I wouldn’t last through two years of hard labor in prison. But enough of that. What’s been happening in the world?” Hugh sounds more eager to change the subject than to hear news.
“Not much.” I can’t tell him about Catherine or the Lipskys and the Mile End Vigilance Committee. I mustn’t burden him when he has so many problems of his own. “Hugh, is there anything I can do for you?”
His smile is genuine but brief. “Sarah, it’s enough to know you’re still my friend.” He pulls the blanket up to his chin. “I’m tired. Do you mind if I rest?”
I sit with him as his eyes close and he twitches in an uneasy sleep. Leaving the house, I blink away tears. I’ve come to love Hugh, and I fear he won’t recover. He is the friend I feel closest to, but I must sever my ties with him no matter what he says. I shouldn’t feel sorry for myself, but my own future looks as bleak as Argyle Square in the rain.
Our circle is broken. I didn’t want to admit it when first Mick, then Hugh, then the Lipskys were attacked, but I must admit it now. If I’m to save Catherine and my other models and expose Commissioner Warren as the Whitechapel Ripper, I must do it entirely on my own.
24
Disguised in a man’s
cheap overcoat, trousers, and hat, I loiter outside a tenement on Flower and Dean Street. The door disgorges women, their shabby skirts puffed out with petticoats and their bonnets decorated with tatty cloth flowers. Their reflections gleam in the puddles left by the rain that drips though the fog.
It’s Saturday, 29 September, and this is the fourth night I’ve singlehandedly guarded my models. My logic is becoming less solid as fatigue wears me down. I’m no longer sure that my presence as a witness would deter the Ripper from killing again, and the idea that I could defend Kate, Liz, or Mary Jane if he attacked them seems ludicrous. Catching Commissioner Warren in the act would prove beyond doubt that he is the Ripper, but would the police accept my testimony as proof? Will my efforts only call Warren’s attention to the fact that I’m defying him and provoke more attacks on my friends? But I’m carrying on, like a traveler walking in a deep rut in a road surrounded by impassable jungle toward an unknown destination.
The women glance suspiciously at me, as if they wonder whether I am the Ripper. Liz Stride comes out of the house. The red silk rose pinned to her black jacket is like a splash of blood. Tonight she also wears a black-and-white checked scarf. She doesn’t notice me following her to St. Botolph’s church, where she joins the other prostitutes on parade. Men emerge from the fog, like wolves scouting a cattle herd. I don’t see Commissioner Warren; I don’t expect him to show himself in public. He corners his victims on deserted streets when they’re alone.
What am I doing here? What can I hope to accomplish? The answers elude me, but even aimless action seems better than none.
Someone plucks at my sleeve. Startled, I turn and see Mary Jane Kelly.
“Hello there,” she says, smiling her saucy smile. Her long, wavy brown hair, crowned by her straw bonnet, is jeweled with droplets of mist. Her coat is unbuttoned to show off the ample white cleavage above her green velvet bodice. “Are ye lookin’ for a little fun?”
I avert my face, for if she recognizes me, she’ll blurt my name and cause a scene, and if Warren is near, he’ll learn that I’m defying his orders—if he doesn’t already know.
I mutter in a deep-pitched voice, “No, thanks,” and walk away.
“Come on, don’t be shy!” Mary Jane hurries after me. I hear the desperation beneath her wheedling tone. A customer means a warm bed rather than a long, cold night outdoors. “I’ll make you feel like a man!”
I think of her sad life that she revealed to me while I photographed her. Married at sixteen, her husband killed in a mine explosion before she was twenty-one, she came to London and worked in a West End brothel. A client took her to France, but soon they parted company, and she returned to England. She’s had a series of unlucky affairs, and in between them, she resorts to prostitution. I feel sorry for her; we are both alone tonight. Should I reveal who I am and warn her again that her life is in danger? I could tell her and my other models that I know who the Ripper is and what he looks like, so they can beware of him, but it wouldn’t keep them off the streets and out of his reach. I could take Mary Jane home with me, even though my landlord has been watching me like a hawk. But I guarded her yesterday. It’s Liz’s turn tonight.
I walk faster. Mary Jane yells after me, “I bet you’re a wanker! Like to look, but can’t get it up with a woman when push comes to shove!”
People laugh and jeer. I watch Liz, some ten feet ahead of me. She thrusts her face at the men, grins widely to show her toothless upper gums, and yells, “I can give your plugtail a good suck!”
A man exclaims in disgust. “You look like me old granny!”
Hooting and laughter echoes. Couples drift away; there goes Mary Jane. The diminished parade winds round the church. A preacher carrying a wooden cross recites Bible verses and shouts at the women, “You’ll burn in hell for your sins!”
“Shut up, you damn fool!” It’s Kate Eddowes, walking toward me. In the dim light, the pits and lines on her face don’t show. With her curly auburn hair and small, slim figure, she looks quite pretty. A man accosts her, and they flit off together.
Liz is also leaving the parade, alone. I follow her to the Britannia Public House and wait outside while she goes from table to table, asking men to buy her a drink, until the proprietor throws her out. The scene repeats at five other pubs. Ejected from the last, Liz looks desperate. It’s almost midnight, and she hasn’t earned money for lodging. I take a deep breath, and cold mist tainted with smoke, chemical fumes, and the reek of the slaughterhouses sinks into the well of exhaustion inside me.
I can’t keep up this surveillance forever. I can’t abandon my models, either, but as I trail after Liz, I realize anew the futility of trying to protect them by myself. I wonder where the others are.
Are Kate and Mary Jane safe?
Are they worth trying to protect?
I can’t help thinking they’re not worth what happened to Hugh or Mick, or the threat to Mr. Lipsky, and I’m sorely tempted to give up. But these are the sick, selfish thoughts of a disturbed mind. I have to keep on because my hope of saving the women is all I have left, because I’m like a lame horse that will die if it lies down.
Perhaps Commissioner Warren knows what I’m doing. Perhaps he’s lying low, waiting me out, and when I do give up, he will strike.
Liz turns onto Berner Street. This section of Whitechapel is inhabited by Poles and Germans. The tailor, shoemaker, and cigarette shops on the ground floors of the tenements are closed, but sometimes Liz finds a customer in the taverns. As she crosses the street at an intersection, two constables stroll between us. I duck into a doorway, my heart pounding.
They pass out of view.
My exhaustion overwhelms me.
How much longer must I play hide-and-seek with the police? My despair verges on the limits of endurance. How much I miss Hugh, Mick, Catherine, and the Lipskys! That I once had friends makes the night seem darker and colder. The ache of loneliness, temporarily eased, is more painful than ever. I’m living in the umbra, the darkest realm of existence. If I had kept to myself, none of this would have happened. Resisting the urge to collapse and weep, I hurry after Liz. The mist has swallowed her up. I run, spy her standing under a gas lamp on a corner, and halt. A man walks toward her—a darker silhouette in the dark fog.
“Hey!” Liz calls. “Want a ride up Cock Alley?”
On other nights, when I watched her pick up a man, I felt an initial panic, then relief when it wasn’t Commissioner Warren. Truth be told, I didn’t know what I would do if it was. Mick, Hugh, and I never discussed it. I suppose we were afraid to face the fact that we had no plan beyond guarding the women. Now the fog blurs the man’s dimensions, his hat brim shades his profile, and his long coat conceals the shape of his body. Panic surges.
When he joins Liz in the pool of light, I see that he’s too short to be Warren. The relief is immense.
Liz takes his arm and walks him through the wooden gates of a yard. On the gates, painted in white, are the words “A. Dutfield, Van and Cart Builder.” Light from within illuminates the fog. The yard also contains the International Working Men’s Educational Club, from which I hear male voices singing a jolly tune in a foreign language. I wait outside the gate, knowing that the transaction between Liz and the man will take less than ten minutes. I try not to think of PC Barrett and myself as I picture them coupling against a wall. Afterward, the two will go their separate ways. If the money is enough to pay for her lodgings, Liz—and I—will be finished for the night. I will see her safely home and not worry yet about tomorrow.
I count out seconds by the clanging beat of the machinery, lean on the gate, and doze. I snap awake to realize that more than ten minutes have passed, and Liz and her customer haven’t come out of the yard. They must have left by a different exit, and Liz is walking home alone. I hurry in through the gates, to a narrow courtyard. The fog luminesces glaringly in the light from the windows of the International Club. There’s no sign of Liz or the man. I can’t hear their footsteps; the machinery and the
men’s singing are too loud. I turn back to the gate. Did they slip past me while I drowsed? Should I retrace Liz’s route along Berner Street? As I vacillate, I see, beside the wall of the club, a dark heap lying on the cobblestones.
It’s Liz, turned on her left side to face the wall, her legs drawn up inside her skirts, the black-and-white checked scarf around her neck.
I gasp. I hurry to her, crouch, and touch her shoulder. She doesn’t move. Now I see the long gash in her throat and the blood that trickles from it down a gutter. The blood is as red as the rose pinned to her lapel. Her mouth is open; blood pools between her upper gums and her jagged bottom teeth. Her lifeless eyes glisten dully. I reach out my trembling hand and feel her cheek; it’s still warm. I don’t see any mutilation on her body—I must have interrupted the killer; he heard me coming and ran away. A high-pitched ringing in my ears drowns out the sound of the machines and the men’s song. My mind flounders in bewilderment.
Liz must have been killed by her customer. She was out of my sight too briefly for him to finish with her and for someone else to find her and cut her throat. But the man wasn’t Commissioner Warren! How can this have happened?
A racket of wheels and trotting hooves interrupts my frantic thoughts. A barrow drawn by a pony rolls through the gate and stops in the yard. I mustn’t be caught here. Before the driver spies me, I sneak around his barrow, crouching while I move toward the gates. He jumps off the barrow; his boots thud on the cobblestones. As I flee the yard, he screams.
He’s found Liz.
While I pause in the foggy darkness of Berner Street, the singing abruptly stops. Then comes a stampede of footsteps. Men’s voices exclaim in foreign languages. Someone shouts in heavily accented English, “Murder! Police!”
Dizziness spirals through me. The ground under me tilts; my knees buckle. I grasp the cold, damp, rough brick wall of a building for support as I face the truth I am desperate to deny. Commissioner Warren isn’t the Ripper. The Ripper is the man I saw with Liz. He cut her throat and dissolved into the fog like a ghost.
The Ripper's Shadow Page 19
