The Ripper's Shadow

by Laura Joh Rowland

  “Your friends have experienced some trouble lately, I hear. The boy almost drowned, and Lord Hugh Staunton has been exposed as a homosexual.” Warren is letting me know, without actually admitting it, that he’s responsible for their troubles.

  Does he ever regret the blackness in his nature? One might feel sorry for him if he does, but I don’t believe that is so. My anger flares hotter on behalf of Hugh and Mick, expands my courage. “My friends aren’t the only people who know what I know.”

  A flicker of dismay in his expression tells me that Warren understands I’m saying that whatever I know about him, I’ve told other people besides Mick, Hugh, Catherine, and the Lipskys. And he can tell I’m not lying because my voice rings with conviction.

  It’s true; another person I’ve told is standing not fifteen feet from us.

  PC Barrett’s face registers alarm. He thinks I’m going to blab the whole story of the African photograph and Annie’s rings and say that he knew and kept mum. I feel a gleeful, vicious sense of turnabout. I could make Barrett pay for bringing me to the attention of his superiors and tricking me, for standing uselessly idle while Mr. Lipsky was dragged off to jail.

  Warren looks around, searching the street for my confidantes. Barrett fades into the crowd, out of our sight. Warren says with quiet menace, “You are playing a dangerous game.”

  It would be dangerous if he were only the chief commissioner of police. It is all the more dangerous to antagonize a killer who slashes women’s throats, has Mr. Lipsky in jail, and could attack Hugh, Mick, Catherine, Mrs. Lipsky, and me at any time. The light from his eyes is like the hot African sun; it burns and bleaches the familiar street scene. The crowd’s chatter becomes the sound of black women screaming and running. My mind reels with the panic that they must have felt, and my anger diminishes like fire when the wind dies. I cross my arms, defiant yet suddenly cold with terror.

  “Suit yourself, Miss Bain,” Warren says. “So far the Ripper has only killed prostitutes, but that could change.”

  He eyes me as if he can see the viscera and blood in me that he’ll spill. “If your father is alive, I’ll find him. And woe betide both of you.” Then Warren rides off.

  I turn to enter my studio, but a thick, stubby hand slams against the door, holding it shut. The hand belongs to Mr. Douglas, my landlord.

  “You didn’t tell me that you’re related to a criminal.” His face is so close to mine that I can see the red veins in his eyes, which bulge with anger.

  The embers of my anger flame up again. “My father isn’t a criminal!” My automatic defense of him is so vehement that Mr. Douglas steps back. “Commissioner Warren is lying.” I cling to that thought like a shipwrecked sailor to a rock during a storm at sea. But I can’t help hoping there’s truth embedded in Warren’s lies, that my father is alive. “And you’re a fool to believe everything you hear!” I wish to believe that my dearest wish has been granted.

  Mr. Douglas looks at me as if I’m a rabbit that’s bared fangs like a dragon’s and roared. Then his gaze moves to the departing Warren, and it’s clear which of us he believes. “First you bring whores and street urchins and Jews onto my property. Now this.” He flings his arm at the police questioning the neighbors. “I’ve had enough. You’re evicted!”

  The ground seems to liquefy and shift under my feet. “You can’t do that! My lease doesn’t end until November thirtieth.”

  He laughs. “Just try to hold me to it.”

  I am losing my beloved studio! But despite the anguish that brings tears to my eyes, I don’t crumble. Mr. Douglas is a dwarf compared to Commissioner Warren. “Very well, evict me, but you won’t get another tenant while people still think the Ripper is at large, and the police are swarming this street. You’ll lose money.”

  He scowls; he knows I’m right. Thrusting his stubby finger at my face, he says, “You have until the end of your lease. Then you’re out,” and stalks off.

  #

  Alone in my studio, I make tea. My hands tremble, the pot bangs against the cup, and the spout chips. My throat constricts, and I feel too sick to swallow the hot, bitter liquid. I put the “Closed” sign on my door and mull over what Commissioner Warren said. Most likely his story is but a ploy to shake me up. Despite being a rabble-rouser, Benjamin Bain was a gentle, honest, decent man; surely he’s not a fugitive, and there’s no warrant for his arrest. He’s probably dead, and Warren could look for him for all eternity and not find him. I should put the story out of my mind, be glad that Warren didn’t do something worse to me, and concentrate on tracking down Ripper Number Two and finding a new studio.

  But Warren has dealt me a severe blow indeed. Doubts leak into my mind like floodwater seeping under a dam.

  This is what Warren must have intended—that I should wonder and suffer. Mental torture would be more fun for him than killing me outright.

  Loath to face neighbors who heard Commissioner Warren malign my father, I don’t leave my studio until early evening, and then only because my larder is empty, and I need to buy food unless I want to starve. I forgot my plan to visit Hugh, and when I return home, I’m surprised to find a note from him slipped under my door. It reads, Meet me in York Street 8:00 AM tomorrow.

  31

  Mick and I arrive in York Street a half hour early. In the gray gloom of another foggy morning, well-dressed people stream out of the mansion blocks, and carriages roll to and fro. We loiter across the street from York Street Chambers and read newspapers, which we hold up to conceal our faces from the doorman.

  “An experiment was performed at Regent’s Park,” I say. “Bloodhounds were sent to hunt a man who’d been given a fifteen-minute head start. They tracked him for a mile and were successful for several trials. Commissioner Warren was present, and twice he acted as the hunted man, but he didn’t say whether he’ll use the bloodhounds to track the Ripper.”

  “He won’t,” Mick says, “unless he wants their teeth in his own backside.”

  “He must be under pressure to try everything possible to catch the Ripper. I think he’s enjoying a private joke, conducting the experiment when he’s the one the dogs would be employed to hunt. What a nerve!”

  As I think of what Warren said about my father yesterday, my anger starts to boil again. It cools when Hugh, impeccably groomed and handsome, joins us. We smile at each other, and my heart feels lighter. As I tell him what Mick and I learned from John Kelly, we watch two smartly attired young women come out the door of York Street Chambers.

  “It’s a residence for educated, single working women,” Hugh says.

  “How did you suss that out?” Mick asks.

  “I followed two of them into Harrods and struck up a conversation.”

  I’m glad he hasn’t lost his talent for sleuthing but afraid to look too closely at him for fear of seeing a crack in his normalcy, a sign of permanent damage. I steal glances at him, and he notices.

  “I’m all right,” he says. “Do you know, I feel rather good. The thing I was afraid of has happened. It’s actually a relief. And when I tried to off myself, it didn’t work, so there must be a reason I’m still kicking.”

  I smile, reassured. But now that I know how vulnerable he is, I’m afraid he’ll be hurt again.

  Mick, restless from waiting, ambles down the street. Hugh asks, “Anything interesting happen lately?”

  I can hardly bear to think about my father, but I feel the same impulse to confide in Hugh that I did when we went to tea the day we became friends. After I tell Hugh, he reacts with surprise and excitement.

  “Of course Commissioner Warren could have been lying, but if it’s true, how wonderful! Your father may be alive, just as you thought. Are you going to look for him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “For God’s sake, you should! Why would you not?”

  I shrink from Hugh’s enthusiasm. “I don’t know where to start.”

  “I could make a few suggestions—”

  “Not now. There’s
too much else going on. Maybe later.”

  These are just excuses; the fact is, I’m more afraid to look for my father than I’ve ever been in my life. Commissioner Warren planted in my mind the malignant notion that my father isn’t the man I thought he was. Questions plague me. When my parents quarreled, was it really because my mother hated my father’s rabble-rousing or because of something else he did? What was the real reason for his night in jail? I’m afraid of what I might learn if I found my father. If he isn’t dead, why didn’t he get in touch with me to let me know he was alive?

  I change the subject. “Did you learn anything about Ida Millbanks?”

  Hugh looks perplexed, then nods sympathetically; he understands my inner turmoil. “Do bears defecate in the woods?” he replies, trying to lighten my mood with humor. “Ida is a nurse, and she leaves for work at eight fifteen every morning . . .” Hugh looks at his watch. “Right about now. Here she comes.”

  An older woman dressed in an outdated, voluminous gray cloak and black bonnet, carrying a large black handbag, emerges from York Street Chambers.

  “Yeah, that’s her!” Mick whispers.

  I recognize Ida Millbanks from the picture he took at the bookshop. Her bonnet frames a sort of face I find difficult to photograph. With her heavy cheeks, her thin, prim lips, her small eyes too close together, and her lack of a chin, it would require magic to make her look good. A pleasant expression can redeem even ugliness, but Ida’s expression is pensively sad.

  She walks up the street, her gait slow and stiff. We follow her to Marylebone Road. In the busy thoroughfare of shops, businesses, and cafes, she boards an omnibus, and so do we. I sit in the only empty seat, directly behind Ida; Mick and Hugh stand beside me. I reflect that Ida and I have things in common—we’re both single working women—but our circumstances are so different. What is it like to be affluent enough to live in a mansion block? I envy her security. She reaches into her handbag, takes out a book, and holds it close to her face as she reads. I lean forward to read over her shoulder. It’s a romantic novel; the hero and heroine are about to kiss.

  Perhaps her needs are not so different from mine.

  Ida puts away her novel, and we all disembark at Harley Street. Harley Street is lined with Georgian-styled terraced houses. Classical details adorn their stone, redbrick, and painted stucco façades. Although it’s even more elegant than York Street, I don’t feel intimidated because I’m with Hugh. His presence legitimizes Mick and me. As we trail Ida Millbanks, I whisper, “Stay back; she’ll notice us following her.”

  “No, she won’t,” Hugh says. “Didn’t you see how close she was holding her book? She’s nearsighted.”

  Ida enters a three-story white stone house with a bow front on the ground floor. The black-painted door is framed with Roman pilasters and topped by a fanlight. Twin brick chimneys on either side of the house flank three arched dormers above the parapet.

  “This must be where she works.” As we pause to study the house, I experience a thrill of hope that we’ve tracked down Ripper Number Two.

  “Her employer must be a physician,” Hugh says. “Harley Street is all physicians.”

  “The sort that cuts into people and sews ’em up,” Mick suggests.

  Unlike the houses on either side, which have wall plaques that announce the names and specialties of the occupants, the one Ida Millbanks entered bears no identification. Curtains inside cover the windows. Carriages stop to let people out at nearby buildings, but we spend half an hour strolling back and forth in front of the house, and nobody arrives there. I sense none of the darkness that I did in Commissioner Warren’s den.

  “Maybe he’s not in.”

  “Let’s have a look around back,” Hugh says.

  We circle the block. An alley separates the terraced houses on Harley Street from the mews. High brick walls, too smooth for even Mick to climb, hide the rear gardens of the houses, and the gate to Ida’s employer’s house is locked. When we return to the front, Hugh says, “Shh!” and points at the door.

  Ida Millbanks is coming out. As she walks slowly up the street, we follow at a discreet distance. She returns to Marylebone Road and enters a bakery. We watch through the window as she purchases éclairs. Burdened with her handbag and a large white bakery box, she leads us back down Harley Street.

  At a corner, Hugh says, “You keep going. Wait for me near the house.”

  He quickly backtracks and vanishes around the block. I’m suddenly afraid to let him out of my sight.

  “What’s he doing?” Mick asks.

  “I suppose we’re going to find out.” I reassure myself that Hugh has been fine on his own for days, and he’ll be all right now.

  We trail Ida to the next corner. Hugh comes hurrying around it and bumps smack into her. The bakery box flies out of her arms, falls, and spills éclairs onto the ground.

  “Oh, I say, I’m terribly sorry!” Hugh exclaims. As Ida picks up the éclairs, Hugh crouches beside her and says, “Here, let me help.”

  Her face is hidden by her bonnet, but her hand clasps her throat; she’s stunned by Hugh’s handsomeness. Hugh says, “Oh, dear, your éclairs are all dirty. Let me buy you some new ones.”

  As they walk toward me, heading for the bakery, he smiles down at her. She looks up at him as if her eyes are dazzled by flash powder. Hugh leads her past Mick and me without a glance at us. We could be invisible for all Ida notices. We station ourselves across the street from the house and wait.

  An hour passes before Hugh and Ida reappear. He carries the new bakery box. They’re chatting together like friends. Either Hugh gave her a false name, or Ida hasn’t read the scandalous story about him in the newspapers. Her cheeks are pink, her eyes glowing. I imagine her thinking about the novel she was reading. Hugh must seem a romantic hero straight out of its pages. But he’s only doing to Ida what Barrett did to me—softening up the spinster. I feel ashamed, and sorry for Ida. She and Hugh stand by the steps to the house, talking. I can’t hear their words, but she’s visibly anxious not to say good-bye. He hands her the box and gestures toward the door. She reluctantly shakes her head. He looks into her eyes and asks some question to which she reacts with delight. Then she opens the door, and he saunters away. She stands dazed at the threshold. He turns to smile at her; she smiles, sighs, and disappears inside the house.

  Hugh, Mick, and I reunite on Marylebone Road. Mick says, “Where were you?”

  “I took Ida for a cup of tea.”

  “You’re already on a first-name basis with her, and you have her eating out of your hand?” I say. “That was fast work.”

  “I’ve been faster. My best time is three minutes.” Hugh looks tired despite his humor; he’s not entirely recovered from his ordeal, and now it must cost him more effort than ever to seduce women, to pretend to be someone he’s not.

  “What’d you find out?” Mick asks.

  “Ida doesn’t have any family or close friends, and she’s lonely. She’s a nice woman, and I hated taking advantage of her. I had to think of Mr. Lipsky in jail the whole time.”

  “What about the important stuff? Like who she bought Sarah’s pictures for?”

  “I’m getting to the rest,” Hugh says. “Ida works for a physician named Henry Poole. He specializes in female disorders.”

  “A doctor!” I’m delighted with Hugh’s success. I feel as if we’re centering our quarry in my camera’s viewfinder, bringing his blurry image into focus. “He could have performed an operation on Kate Eddowes and sewn up the cut.”

  “That’s not all. Dr. Poole has a private laboratory in his house.”

  “Blimey!” Mick says. “He’s got to be Ripper Number Two!”

  I hate to pour the cold water of caution on our excitement. “But we need proof. Can you get inside the house?”

  “I tried. Ida says Dr. Poole gave her strict orders not to let anyone in unless he’s authorized them. But I think I can get around her. Next Thursday is her day off. I invited her to tea with
my sister. She was thrilled to accept.”

  So that’s what he said that made her look as if she’d received a precious gift. “Your sister? But I thought your family is disowning you.”

  “They are.” Hugh’s expression is mischievous, but the sadness I saw in him on that first day, when he talked about his life, is closer to the surface now. “I didn’t mean my actual sibling.” He points at me, and the affection in his eyes warms my heart. “I meant you.”

  32

  The news that Benjamin Bain, father of the proprietress of Bain & Sons, is wanted in connection with the Whitechapel murders spreads fast. Neighbors won’t look at me when we pass on the street. No customers come to my studio on Friday or Saturday. I’m to be evicted next month, but Commissioner Warren has already destroyed my livelihood. I am a pariah—not for the first time. I think of how my mother and I lost our friends the same year my father disappeared. Was it really only because friends are fickle?

  It’s as though for twenty-two years, I’ve been looking at a photograph that was taken from one angle, and now Commissioner Warren has shown me another photograph of the same scene taken from a different angle. I tell myself that I shouldn’t take his story about my father as gospel. He’s an expert at deception—how else could he commit murders and the police force be none the wiser? But my doubt about my family’s past has grown to the point where I’m forced to think that my mother’s version of it doesn’t hold water.

  On Monday, 15 October, a loud banging startles me. Gray daylight filters through the window curtains. A man’s voice outside shouts, “Police! Open up!”

  Heart-pounding alarm launches me out of bed. Commissioner Warren must not be satisfied with ruining my reputation and business, and he’s sent the police to arrest me! There’s no time left to identify Ripper Number Two and save Mr. Lipsky. I hurry into my clothes, compelled by an absurd need to be presentable when catastrophe strikes. Then I pull back the curtains and look down at the street.