The Ripper's Shadow

by Laura Joh Rowland

  “None of your business.” Mick taps his shoulder. “The combination to the safe?”

  Mr. Russell hesitates. I swipe the photograph, hold it out of his reach. His gaze filled with longing for it, he mutters three numbers. While I hold the wheelchair so he can’t escape, Mick runs to the back of the shop and soon returns with the ledger. Mr. Russell turns pages and points at three entries in a column of thready handwriting. They’re dated 10 September, the day Mick and I photographed the customers. Mick tears out the page, I drop Annie’s photograph in Mr. Russell’s lap, and we run from the shop. The sky has clouded over, and the icy wind blasts us. We shelter in a church doorway and examine our prize.

  “‘A. Palmer, St. John’s Wood,’” I read aloud from the list. “That’s the Duke of Exford. We already ruled him out.”

  “‘William Smith.’” Mick reads the address of the second customer; it’s Commissioner Warren’s house in Stepney.

  “This is the one we want,” I say, pointing to the third name. “Ida Millbanks, York Street Chambers, Marylebone.”

  “The woman I took a picture of? How could she be Ripper Number Two?”

  “Not her.” I voice the idea that I wish I’d thought of earlier. “I think she bought my photographs for the man who is.”

  #

  York Street Chambers is one of numerous stately mansion blocks near the Marylebone Road. The sun shines on this affluent neighborhood where London’s hordes of beggars, buskers, peddlers, and the poor don’t intrude. The few people about are well-dressed ladies and gentlemen; the carriages coming and going look expensively smart.

  “Ida Millbanks must be one rich bitch,” Mick says as we gaze up at York Street Chambers—four stories of solid red brick pierced by many shining windows, crowned by a pitched roof studded with white dormers and tall chimneys.

  I can’t imagine who Ida Millbanks is or what relationship she could have with a man who kills and mutilates women. As Mick and I wait, hoping she’ll appear, I feel as out of place as a crumpled page of newspaper that I see blowing in the wind.

  A uniformed doorman comes out of the building. “Are you looking for someone?” His manner is courteous but cold.

  “Yes,” I say, emboldened by my need to save Mr. Lipsky. “Ida Millbanks.” After four murders, I’ve lost my patience for covert spying. If I can meet Ida Millbanks face-to-face, I will ask her outright who she bought the photographs for and where he is. “Is she home?”

  The doorman says without words that he’s duty-bound to protect her from unwelcome visitors. “You’d best move along.”

  #

  “It’s all right,” I tell Mick as we ride in an omnibus toward Whitechapel. “We’ll try Ida Millbanks again tomorrow. In the meantime, let’s talk to Kate Eddowes’s friend John Kelly.”

  “What for?”

  “I think she knew something. I’m hoping she told John and he’ll tell us.”

  “Something like who Ripper Number Two is? But he didn’t kill her. Commissioner Warren did.”

  “They both saw her pictures,” I remind Mick. “They both may have been her customers. It could be just by chance that Warren got to her first.”

  At Cooney’s Lodging House, the tenement where Kate lived with John, my knock on the door brings forth the deputy who let me in last time. “Does John Kelly still live here?”

  “He’s moved out.”

  “Do you know where he went?”

  “No.” The deputy shuts the door.

  Mick flexes his shoulder; it must hurt. He shouldn’t have left the hospital. “I’ll look around for John Kelly.” He looks tired, and very young in his new clothes. “But first, I’ll walk you home. You shouldn’t be by yourself. Don’t forget, Commissioner Warren’s still out there.”

  And Warren isn’t the only threat. Now I’m afraid that Ripper Number Two knows I took the boudoir photographs, and he’s afraid I know who he is. I must identify him and report him to the police before he can come after me.

  “Walk me to the omnibus,” I say, grateful for Mick’s concern. “I’ll look in on Hugh.”

  28

  At Hugh’s house, I’m about to enter the parlor when I hear raised voices. Hugh and Catherine are quarreling. I don’t want to butt in for fear that my ineptness at resolving disagreements and my new tendency to lose my temper would only make things worse. I stand in the vestibule and eavesdrop.

  “Do you know what a bore you are?” Catherine asks.

  “I do now. Thanks for telling me.” Hugh’s voice drips sarcasm.

  “You won’t play cards, you won’t even bother to make conversation with me!”

  Hugh laughs nastily. “I might bother if you had anything intelligent to say.”

  “Well, excuse me, Your Hoity-Toity Highness.” Skirts rustle as Catherine rises from her seat. “I’m not the one who was stupid enough to be caught in a police raid!”

  I’m appalled. This is how Catherine means to cheer Hugh up?

  “With friends like you, who needs enemies?” Hugh says bitterly.

  “I’m just sick of watching you do nothing!”

  “I didn’t ask you to stay. If you want better company, go scare up one of your stage-door Johnnies.”

  “Do you know what I think?” Catherine asks.

  “I didn’t know you could think,” Hugh retorts.

  I peek through the door. Hugh, in his pajamas, is lying on the yellow chaise lounge; Catherine stands over him with her hands on her hips, her blond ringlets quivering with ire. “I think you would rather feel sorry for yourself than do something. Because you’re lazy.”

  “Go away, Catherine.” Hugh’s voice is suddenly tearful. “Leave me alone.”

  “Leave you alone to wallow in your misery?” There’s a thud as Catherine plops herself into a chair. “Hah! I’m going to nag you until you get back on your feet!”

  Her intentions are good, but she’s only making Hugh feel worse. I muster the courage to interrupt.

  “It’s no use,” Hugh says in a tone replete with self-pity. “My life is over.”

  “Your life?” Scorn infuses Catherine’s voice. “I know what you’ve been through, but Mr. Lipsky is in real trouble. His life will be over for real unless we save him.”

  “No, you don’t know,” Hugh shouts, furious. “Your life is all flowers and songs and pretty dresses and charming beaux. How could you possibly know what I’ve been through? You spoiled little bitch!”

  Shock freezes me. I didn’t think Hugh would go so far. Catherine is silent, as if physically struck down.

  Before I can go in and try to make peace, Catherine inhales and expels a deep, audible breath. “You’re right—I don’t know what it’s like to be beaten by the police and exposed in the newspapers. But I know what it’s like to be hurt.” She sounds sad, wise, not her usual self. Hugh protests, but she talks over him. “My father is a tenant farmer. I’m the third of six children. My mother died having my youngest brother. There was never enough money, never enough to eat.”

  Now Hugh is silenced by this story that both of us can tell won’t get better.

  “I went into service in the squire’s house. I made the fires, and cleaned, and washed the dishes and the laundry, and carried out the slops. I worked from dawn until late at night. I was tired and hungry all the time. One night, I was building up the fire in the hearth in the library, and the squire came in. He talked to me, and said I was pretty, and he gave me some mince pie and cheese and milk.”

  I hear in Catherine’s voice the memory of how good the food had tasted to a starved girl. I listen with a growing sense of dread.

  “I thought the squire was nice. He told me to come to the library every night, and so I did. He always had food for me. While I ate, he would ask me about my family, and I liked talking to him. The third time, he gave me wine.”

  Catherine pauses; she’s breathing fast, as if filling her lungs before diving underwater. Hugh releases a mournful sigh, as do I. We both know what happens to pretty, innocen
t girls who work for unscrupulous rich men.

  “After drinking the wine, I fell asleep. I woke up with my clothes off and him touching me. I screamed and tried to push him away. He told me to lie still and be quiet or he would evict my family from our farm.” Catherine’s voice slides up and wobbles. “It hurt so much, I cried. When he was finished, he wiped the blood off me and told me to come again tomorrow.”

  This is why she wouldn’t talk about her past. She let me think it had been all sweetness and light and never hinted at the darkness.

  “I had to come, or my family would be turned out to starve. He did it to me every night. He taught me to do things he liked.”

  This is also certainly why she is promiscuous: she learned the habit of being with men, and it is apparently a habit difficult to break.

  “He paid me money not to tell anybody. He didn’t want to get himself in trouble with the missus.”

  She also learned that her beauty gave her power over men, the ability to take financial advantage of them.

  “A few months later, I started getting sick in the mornings. I knew what it was, I’d seen my mother, and I grew up on a farm. But I didn’t know what to do.” Catherine sniffles. “Then the missus noticed that my stomach was getting bigger. She knew, too. She fired me and sent me home. My father was so angry. He said it was my fault, that I must have led the squire on.”

  Catherine sobs as she speaks. “That same day, I lost the baby. My father said I’d disgraced our whole family. He threw me out of the house and told me never to come back.”

  This is why she can’t go home. My own face is wet with tears, my heart filled with sorrow for Catherine. Hugh says nothing, but I can imagine his stricken expression.

  I’m ready to rush into the room and comfort Catherine, but she gulps air, clears her throat, and says, “I took the money the squire gave me, and I got on the train to London. And here I am.” Her voice is strong now, although hoarse with tears. “So don’t tell me I don’t know what trouble is.”

  A peek into the room shows her sitting straight in her chair, pointing at Hugh. “You’re the one who’s spoiled! One beating, one scandal, and you’re ready to give up? Pooh!”

  “Catherine.” Hugh’s tone is gentle, contrite, and respectful. “I had no idea. Thank you for telling me.” He sounds moved to tears. “I’m sorry.”

  I feel the same new respect for Catherine. I’d thought her silly and naïve and never imagined her strength or wisdom. By speaking from her heart, sharing her woe, she managed to snap Hugh out of his self-absorbed misery.

  Hugh chuckles.

  I’ve enjoyed his knack for finding humor in any situation, but I’m horrified this time.

  “What’s funny?” Catherine demands.

  “If this is a contest to see who’s had it worse, then you win,” Hugh says.

  There’s a long, ominous silence. I want to smack him.

  Catherine giggles. Then they’re both laughing uproariously. I sigh with relief. Catherine and Hugh laugh until they’re both crying. They cry long and hard for all the pain they’ve suffered. After they’re finished, Hugh says, “I suppose it’s time to get off my duff. If you’ll excuse me?”

  I hide behind an armoire as he comes out of the parlor and goes upstairs. I wait a few minutes, then go into the parlor, pretending I’ve just arrived. Catherine stands in front of a mirror, powdering her face. She’s breathing hard, still distraught. Then she sees me, and her reflection smiles. Except for her swollen eyes, no one else would know she’d been crying.

  “Where’s Hugh?” I ask.

  “He went to dress.”

  I feign surprise. “What happened?”

  Catherine shrugs and feigns perplexity. She’s hidden her inner darkness as if with bright stage makeup. I think her acting career may have a future. I am more determined than ever to see that she lives to enjoy the future.

  When Hugh returns, he’s shaved, elegantly dressed, still pale, but handsome again and surrounded by the clean lime-and-spice fragrance of bay rum. His shirt cuffs cover the bandages on his wrists. I can barely contain my joy; Catherine has mended a big rift in our circle.

  “Sarah.” Hugh smiles at me. “Good evening. How can I be of service?”

  29

  I send Hugh to investigate Ida Millbanks. He looks as if he belongs in York Street, and no one will be suspicious of him. Mick pursues John Kelly. I spend the next nine days working in my studio. After all the time I’ve spent on things other than earning money, I’m nearly too broke to feed myself and Mick. Every evening, I visit Mrs. Lipsky and tell her the latest news: “An artist made colored chalk drawings of the murders, on the pavement of Whitechapel Road. Liz Stride’s funeral was a quiet affair, but a big crowd turned out to see the hearse carrying Kate Eddowes’s coffin.”

  The Jewish community rallies to give her moral and practical support. Her flat is always full of neighbors and the food they bring. The idea that her husband is truly Jack the Ripper and that they should shun her never seems to occur to these people, and their sympathy extends to me. They welcome me, feed me, and chat with me in their broken English.

  One is her husband’s employer, Leo Markov, a muscular, bearded Russian who owns the butcher shop. He tells me, “Abraham Lipsky is innocent victim of police persecution. Just like in old country.”

  A thick, unrelenting fog—a devil’s brew of smoke, chemical fumes, and the smells of fish and decay from the river—descends on the East End. Days are barely distinguishable from nights. At four o’clock on Wednesday, 10 October, it’s already pitch-dark. Frigid dampness pervades my studio, and I keep my coat on rather than light a fire; I can’t afford to waste money on coal. I warm my hands on a cup of hot tea while the tramp of footsteps heralds the Mile End Vigilance Committee patrol. Carrying lanterns and stout sticks and wearing whistles on strings around their necks, the men march past my window. They, like the police, seem not entirely convinced that Mr. Lipsky’s arrest has put Jack the Ripper out of action.

  Mick arrives and says, “I know where John Kelly is!”

  Thankful for good news, I pour tea for Mick and serve him bread and sausage that Mrs. Lipsky’s neighbors gave me. He eats ravenously. His haircut is growing out, and his new clothes are dirty. I worry about him living on the streets again, but he’s bright-eyed with happy excitement.

  “Kelly’s been stayin’ in the casual wards,” he says.

  Casual wards shelter vagrants, itinerant laborers, and the local folks who can’t afford even the cheapest lodgings. These “casuals” receive bed and board in exchange for work. No one with any other choice goes there. John Kelly must have fallen on hard times.

  “I talked to a guy who knows him.” Mick gulps tea. “He’s on the circuit.” The wards provide one night’s shelter. The casuals aren’t allowed to return to the same one for thirty days, and some make a continuous circuit of the wards. “He’ll be at the Whitechapel Casual Ward tonight. It’s no place for a lady. You still got them men’s clothes?”

  #

  Whitechapel seems an alien place, its landmarks dissolved into the fog that diffuses the glow from the gas lamps. I wear a scarf wrapped around my nose and mouth, but the smoke and fumes burn my throat. As Mick and I hurry along, I hear people coughing before I see them coming. Horses pulling wagons and carriages are led by boys who kick the curb at each step to make sure they don’t wander off the road. Two cabs collide, and one overturns. Whistles shrill, and I hear confrontations between the Mile End Vigilance Committee members and men they’ve stopped to question. Prostitutes huddle in doorways. One yells at me, “Are you the Ripper? If you cut me, I’ll cut you!” and brandishes a knife.

  Constables herd Gypsy men and Asian sailors into the police station. The newspapers say the police are investigating the possibility that the Ripper is one of these folk. Mick and I pause at a poster on a notice board. The poster displays facsimiles of two letters handwritten in slanted script. The first reads,

  Dear Boss

&nb
sp; I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they wont fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. I am down on whores and I shan’t quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I cant use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope ha. ha. The next job I do I shall clip the lady’s ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn’t you. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work then give it out straight. My knife’s so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance.

  Good luck.

  Yours truly

  Jack the Ripper

  Dont mind me giving the trade name wasnt good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands curse it. No luck yet. They say I’m a doctor now ha ha

  The second reads,

  I wasnt coddling Dear old Boss when I gave you the tip. youll hear about saucy Jackys work tomorrow double event this time number one squealed a bit couldn’t finish straight off. Had not time to get ears for police thanks for keeping last letter back till I got to work again.

  Jack the Ripper

  Above the letters is a message requesting anyone who recognizes the handwriting to contact the police.

  “Do you think them letters are real?” Mick asks as we walk away.

  “They don’t sound like Commissioner Warren, but maybe he faked them to seem as if they were written by an uneducated person.”

  “He could’ve sent them to rib his men,” Mick suggests.

  “Something in the second letter is definitely false. Liz Stride didn’t squeal while she was attacked. I was there; I would have heard. If Ripper Number Two is the author of the letters, he’s embroidering the facts.”