The Ripper's Shadow

by Laura Joh Rowland

  But how could I have been wrong about Warren? He killed the black women in Africa; he has Annie Chapman’s rings. And if he isn’t the Ripper, then why is he so determined to crush me? Why send his flunkies to drown Mick, ruin Hugh, and threaten the Lipskys? Why else except to silence us?

  I still believe to the fiber of my soul that Warren is the Ripper, but Liz’s murder proves that I am wrong. My mistake cost Liz her life. I left her alone with that man because I thought he was harmless.

  Whistles shrill in the distance. The police are coming.

  25

  I run up Berner Street, then west on Commercial Road toward my studio. The police whistles shrill louder. They echo off buildings; they sound as if they’re coming straight at me. I veer in the opposite direction, chased by the whistles, their sound piercing and menacing. The men at the club must have seen me run from the murder scene and sent the police after me. They must think that I am the killer!

  My heart pumps hard; the night pulsates with each beat. I hear footsteps in pursuit. Did the killer see me watching Liz? Does he think I saw him murder her? I imagine a dark-hatted, dark-coated figure chasing me, brandishing a knife whose blade is red with Liz’s blood. My lungs are ready to burst. The whistles shrill from every direction. Shouts answer them as police from all over the East End converge on Whitechapel. I feel as if a giant camera is aimed down at me, my image focused in the viewfinder. I run here and there, in widening circles, for what seems like hours. Desperate for refuge, I rush toward Mitre Square, which is usually deserted at night. I race down Church Passage, a narrow alley dimly lit by a lantern at the entrance. The whistles fade into silence.

  Nobody is after me. I’m alone.

  The instant before I burst into the square, I realize that the Ripper has no magical powers that enable him to escape the scene of a crime. I just did it, and I wasn’t even trying to be quiet. The darkness, the fog, the distortion of sounds, and the police’s ineptitude gave the Ripper the same advantage.

  The small cobblestoned square, surrounded by warehouses, is teeming with police and bright with the light from their lanterns. Some faulty instinct has drawn me straight into their midst. My steps falter. Panting from exertion and fear, I move toward them, again compelled by curiosity. Why are they here and not in Dutfield’s Yard investigating Liz’s murder?

  An ambulance wagon is parked on the other side of the square. The surgeon is carrying his medical bag toward the policemen grouped in the corner, and they part to let him through. Stealing up behind him, I see red rivulets between the paving stones, then a puddle of blood from which extend two feet shod in worn black lace-up boots, attached to spread legs covered in brown ribbed stockings up to thin, white, bare thighs. The woman’s skirts are pushed above her waist, her arms spread. Her jacket, bodice, and white chemise are slashed down the front. A deep cut on her naked torso zigzags up her middle from the dark tangle of pubic hair to the withered sacks of her breasts. Blood and viscera have spilled from the wound. Loops of intestine, like twisted pink and gray rope, lie against her right shoulder. One of the policemen vomits, but finding Liz Stride with her throat cut has numbed my physical reactions. I can look and not be sick.

  This woman’s throat is cut, too. There’s a red wound where her nose should be, and deep cuts carve her cheeks and eyelids. Her face is mutilated beyond recognition, but her black, fur-trimmed jacket, her dark-green chintz skirt patterned in daisies and lilies, and the auburn curls framed by her black bonnet are familiar. She’s Kate Eddowes.

  The surgeon crouches to examine the body. I retreat, stricken by disbelief as much as horror. I just saw Kate at the Prostitutes’ Church, alive and well!

  “This looks like the work of the Ripper,” the surgeon says. “When was she found?”

  “At about one forty-five AM,” someone answers.

  “It’s two fifteen now. I estimate she’s been dead for half an hour.”

  The Ripper murdered Liz only moments before then! Mitre Square is nearly a mile from Dutfield’s Yard. How did he leave it, hunt down Kate, kill her, and mutilate her during that short period? Maybe he really is a ghost who can vanish from one spot without a trace and appear immediately in another. I didn’t believe it, but everything I thought I knew is wrong.

  A heavy hand claps my shoulder. My heart jumps as I gasp. I whirl, expecting to confront the black, faceless shape of Liz’s murderer. I’m not relieved to see Inspector Reid.

  “Excuse me, sir, I have to ask you to leave,” Reid says, fooled by my male costume. Then he recognizes me. His cold eyes glint with surprise. “Well, look who’s turned up like a bad penny.” A grin bares his pointed teeth under his mustache as he looks down his long, sharp nose at me. “Sarah Bain, what are you doing here?”

  Words fail me; I stammer.

  Reid’s gaze rakes my costume. “Why are you dressed like that?”

  In my alarm and confusion, I can’t think of a plausible lie. Reid says, “Never mind. Explain how you happened to turn up at the scene of the Ripper’s fourth murder.”

  Fifth murder, I think wildly. He doesn’t yet know about Liz, and if I tell him, he’ll ask more questions I don’t want to answer. “I—I couldn’t sleep. So I went for a walk.”

  “At two o’clock in the morning?” Reid says, incredulous. “With a killer on the loose?” He grabs my shoulders. “What were you really doing?”

  “Nothing! Let me go!” I glance behind Reid and see PC Barrett watching us, his expression troubled.

  Reid shakes me so hard that my hat falls off and my hair tumbles loose. “Tell me what you know about these murders.”

  Barrett says, “Guv,” and steps forward as if to restrain Reid.

  Whistles blare again nearby. A young police constable runs panting into the square, the tin whistle bouncing on its chain around his neck. “There’s been a murder in Berner Street. It’s the Ripper again!” Then he sees Kate’s body. His eyes goggle; he exclaims, “Another one?”

  Reid and Barrett look astonished to hear that the Ripper has killed twice on this one night. I hope they’ll be distracted and I can escape, but Reid tightens his grasp on me as he orders two constables to assist at the other crime scene. Then he turns back to me, and his face shows surprise because he sees none on mine.

  “How did you know about the other murder?”

  So much has happened tonight; my mind is frazzled; I can’t think of anything to say. A new, even more hostile suspicion creeps into Reid’s eyes. “Are you protecting the Ripper? Is that why you won’t talk?”

  I’m so stunned, I only gape. So does Barrett. Reid isn’t entirely wrong—I am, in a fashion, protecting Commissioner Warren by keeping his secrets. I think of Kate’s secrets that she refused to share with me. Did Kate know who the Ripper is? Did she recognize him before he killed her? If only she’d told me what she knew!

  The night erupts with loud whoops and howls, as if from a pack of savages doing battle. George Lusk bursts into the square, shouting, “We got him! We caught the Ripper!”

  Reid, Barrett, and I turn to stare at the mob of men following Lusk. It’s the Mile End Vigilance Committee. Two of them are dragging a big man by his legs; another two hold his arms. Disheveled and breathless, their faces smeared red with blood from split lips and swollen noses, like war paint, they whoop in triumphant exultation. The man kicks and struggles. Blood stains the gray apron he wears over his dark clothing. His face is so battered that I can’t discern his features, but I recognize his black whiskers and the voice with which he howls.

  “Mr. Lipsky!”

  I pull away from Reid and run toward Mr. Lipsky, but Barrett blocks my path. Reid says, “So you know this man.” He asks George Lusk, “What are you doing here? What happened?”

  “We were patrolling. We met a watchman who said there’d just been a murder in Mitre Square. So we rushed over.” Lusk is smug and preening, happy to be the center of attention. “We saw him running away.” He points to Mr. Lipsky.

  Mr. Lipsky howls
, his voice hoarse. He fights his captors as they wrestle him to the ground, his eyes glazed with panic like a trapped animal’s. This is another bewilderment in a night filled with bewilderments. What was Mr. Lipsky doing on the streets at this hour? For an awful moment, I wonder if he really is guilty, but I know in my heart he can’t be.

  “He’s not the Ripper!” I cry.

  “Yes, he is.” Lusk’s small eyes narrow at me. He’s wondering who I am and how I dare contradict him. “Look at the blood on his apron.”

  “It’s from animals. He’s a butcher!”

  “He fits the description of the man that the witnesses saw after the second murder,” Lusk says. “A big Jew with a black beard. And we’ve had our eyes on him—he’s a person of interest. Now we’ve caught him dead to rights.”

  “You took the law into your own hands?” Inspector Reid frowns at Lusk.

  “Yes, and a good thing. We caught the Ripper while your lads had their heads up their behinds.” Lusk holds up his hand to forestall Reid’s angry protest and says to his own men, “Show the inspector the murder weapon.”

  A committee man with a bruised face holds up a long knife with a discolored wooden handle and a long, gleaming steel blade. “He was carrying it.”

  “There’s no blood on it,” I point out.

  “So he wiped it off,” Lusk says.

  Reid seems convinced, albeit furious, that the vigilantes have caught the Ripper after the police failed. He turns on me. “So it’s him you’ve been protecting! Your Jew friend.”

  “He’s innocent!” I cry in desperation.

  “You knew he’s the Ripper.” Reid seizes me by the lapels of my coat and shouts into my face, “Instead of turning him in, you let him kill two more women.”

  This is more horrifying than any nightmare—good, kind, brave Mr. Lipsky caught in the snare of the law, blamed for the murders. My habitual reticence won’t help him. Only by breaking the habit can I save Mr. Lipsky.

  “I know he’s not the Ripper because I know who is.” My voice wobbles with lack of conviction because everything has changed. Commissioner Warren didn’t kill Liz Stride, and I don’t know who did. But my evidence against him is the only ammunition I have, and I don’t care that he must have obtained Annie Chapman’s rings by some other means than wrenching them off her fingers after murdering her. If I have to choose someone to be wrongfully blamed for the murders, I will choose Warren over Mr. Lipsky.

  “I’ve had enough of your lies!” Reid says.

  “He is the Ripper,” George Lusk insists vehemently.

  Mustering my courage, reckless for the sake of friendship, I say, “The Ripper is—”

  “If you don’t believe me, ask him!” George Lusk points to a man who stands in the shadowy main entrance to the square.

  Commissioner Warren steps forward. He’s in a jacket, trousers, and a bowler hat, not his uniform. His eyes shine brilliantly, as if they’ve caught and reflected all the light from the constables’ lanterns. His flushed face glistens with perspiration; his chest heaves as if he’s been running. My lungs cave in. The vacuum in my chest strangles my voice. My mouth opens wide in a futile attempt to breathe. Shocked to see Warren, I’m also terrified because if I accuse him, I’ll have to do it to his face.

  “He was there with us,” George Lusk says. “He was the first to see the Jew running away. He told us to go after him and helped us corner him.”

  Fresh shock is a thunderbolt to the heart as my understanding of the crimes changes yet again. Commissioner Warren was near Mitre Square moments after Kate was murdered. He couldn’t have been in Berner Street at the same time. Although he didn’t kill Liz, he could have killed Kate.

  His mouth twitches under his mustache, as if with his effort to control his emotions. If he let them loose, he would look as he did in the African photograph—exuberant, wild. I’m certain that he wasn’t arriving at the scene when he met the Mile End Vigilance Committee. He was leaving it. Two murders at far-apart locations within minutes of each other suddenly make astounding sense.

  The Ripper isn’t a single individual. He’s two men.

  The scene goes dark for a moment, then turns surreally brighter. I feel as if I’ve been looking at a photograph and not realizing that it was cropped. Now I see the other half, the whole picture.

  Warren is one Ripper. The man I saw with Liz is the other.

  My heartbeat is a thunderous banging sensation within me. My discovery thrashes every preconceived notion from my mind. My false assumptions are blasted to shards, and a whole new dreadful world rises from the wreckage.

  “Mr. Lusk is correct,” Warren says. “I deputized the Mile End Vigilance Committee.” His exuberance, born of bloodlust satisfied, vibrates through his authoritative tone. “They were acting on my orders.”

  He’s speaking to Inspector Reid, but I sense his attention on me. Even as I imagine myself in the crosshairs of his rifle, I perceive that the fear isn’t one-sided. Has he intuited that I was about to accuse him of being the Ripper? I don’t know whether Warren or the man who killed Liz is responsible for Martha Tabram’s and Polly Nichols’s murders, but I know that Warren’s fear only makes him more dangerous to me. When a rabid squirrel is pitted against a man with a gun, it’s still just a squirrel.

  If I announce that there are two Rippers and Warren is one, what are the chances that these men will believe it? Warren has already ruined Hugh, almost killed Mick, and framed Mr. Lipsky; he’s not going to spare me. But I’ve no other way to fight him. I gather my breath and my courage.

  Mr. Lipsky babbles in Russian, writhes under the committee men holding him down, and shouts, “Him! He is Ripper!” He tears his hand free and points to Warren.

  I’m instinctively horrified that Mr. Lipsky has beaten me to the punch. I look at Warren. The skin of his face goes taut. I’m reminded of a dog laying its ears back when threatened. The other men don’t notice, for they’re all looking askance at Mr. Lipsky. George Lusk stomps on Mr. Lipsky’s wrist. As Mr. Lipsky howls, the constables burst out laughing.

  “Jew-boy’s fingering the guv to save his own dirty neck!” someone jeers.

  Commissioner Warren’s face relaxes into an odd, satisfied smile. Inspector Reid and George Lusk are laughing with their men. The laughter has a shrill, jagged, insane quality. The murders have put them under so much pressure, and this is catharsis. Reid laughs so hard that he lets go of me. These men don’t see Warren for himself. He’s like the sun during an eclipse, and they’re looking at the bright rim that blinds them to the vast darkness alongside it. The only one not laughing is Barrett.

  “It’s true!” I cry, furious because they think Mr. Lipsky is lying. “Commissioner Warren is the Ripper!”

  The laughter fades into hostility directed at me. Reid regards me with contempt. “And you would swear you were the Queen of England to defend your Jew friend.”

  How I wish I’d spoken up before Mr. Lipsky did! I had little chance of having my accusation taken seriously, but a Jewish person of interest, wearing a bloodstained apron and caught near the murder scene, has no credibility at all.

  There’s no blood on Warren’s hands or clothes. He must have been wearing gloves and a coat when he killed Kate and dumped them afterward.

  Desperate, I appeal to Barrett. “You know he’s the Ripper. Tell them.”

  As the other men’s gazes swivel toward him, Barrett looks aghast that I’ve put him on the spot. He shrugs. “I don’t know what she’s talking about.”

  I’ve never hated anyone so much. I also hate myself for thinking he cared about me, for letting him take liberties with me, for hoping he would take my side. I don’t care that it must be as unthinkable for Barrett to side against his brother police as it would be for me to betray my friends. My anger rears its flaming head again, this time at Barrett. For the first time, I experience the violent impulse that drives humans to commit murder. If I had a knife, I could gladly stab Barrett through the heart.

  Com
missioner Warren jerks his chin at Mr. Lipsky and says to the constables, “Take him to Newgate.”

  The constables descend on Mr. Lipsky. George Lusk says, “You’re welcome.”

  Mr. Lipsky roars, struggles, and curses as the constables handcuff him, shackle his ankles, and carry him away. Emboldened by my fury, I run after them, shout, “No!” and try to tear their hands off him. A constable swats me hard across the chest. I reel backward.

  “Go home, Miss Bain,” Commissioner Warren says, his voice replete with cruel mirth, “for your own good.”

  He’s telling me that he’s letting me go so he can enjoy tormenting me further, but if I try to stop the wheels of justice from turning, he will eventually kill me.

  Mr. Lipsky cries, “Run, Sarah!” His next words, as he’s carried out of Mitre Square, are in Russian, but I understand their gist: I’m done for. Save yourself!

  26

  At four o’clock in the morning, Spitalfields is already wakening to life. Men are driving cattle and sheep along Aldgate High Street toward the slaughterhouses as I make my way to the Lipskys’ tenement. My heart heavy, I climb the stairs to their flat. Never have I had such bad news to break.

  Their open door has a huge, splintered hole in its center. Mrs. Lipsky kneels on the floor amid overturned chairs, broken dishware, and the dented copper tea urn. Tears run down her cheeks.

  Horrified, I rush in. “Who did this?”

  “The police.” Mrs. Lipsky’s small, plump body is trembling.

  I stare in bewilderment. The police already have Mr. Lipsky, so why ransack his house?

  Mrs. Lipsky sobs. “They take Abraham’s clothes, and all the knives.”

  I surmise that his presence near the scene of Kate’s murder isn’t enough to convict Mr. Lipsky in a court of law. The police wanted his knives and his clothes—which may have animal blood on them—for evidence at his trial.