While telling the driver to wait for us, Hugh drops the bottle of wine he’s brought. Glass shatters; liquor splashes on the pavement. “Damn! It’s too late to get another.”
Ida opens the door. She’s wearing the paisley shawl over a black dress. Her hair is pinned up in a clumsy facsimile of the style Catherine created, but she’s not attempted makeup. “Come in.” Her eyes are bright with excitement and apprehension. She looks like a woman who is about to give up her virginity and already regrets it.
The vestibule has shiny gold-and-cream-striped wallpaper and black-and-white floor tiles. Everything looks clean, opulent, and normal. That in itself is disturbing: women who come here to see Dr. Poole are oblivious to the danger. Ida hangs our wraps on a mahogany coat tree. Her unease, and ours, casts a pall over the evening.
“Where is Rachel Lipsky?” Ida asks, fidgeting with the fringe on the shawl.
“She couldn’t come. She’s ill,” I say. After our trip to Bedlam, Mrs. Lipsky had a fainting spell. The Jewish doctor says her worry about her husband is weakening her health.
Catherine attempts to put our hostess at ease. “How lovely you look, Ida.” Eager to explore, she wanders down the hall. The rest of us follow. On the right of the staircase is a parlor; on the left, two open doors with a closed one between. The first room is a waiting room, furnished with plush chairs for Dr. Poole’s patients. The far door belongs to his office. Our gazes speed past the desk to the mantle over the fireplace. There, a round tin box glows. It’s only reflecting light from the hallway, but I imagine the laboratory key inside shining like the Holy Grail.
Framed photographs decorate the hall. We study the groups of men—dressed for playing cricket; seated in rowing shells on a river; posed in academic gowns outside a columned building; white-coated in an operating theater. We stop at the portrait of a man dressed in a formal dark coat, seated at a table upon which sits a microscope, with a diagram of a human skeleton behind him. He gazes past the camera, his mind apparently occupied with grave scientific matters.
“Is this Dr. Poole?” I ask.
“Yes,” Ida whispers, as if afraid he can hear us.
The man we’ve been seeking is neither handsome nor ugly, perhaps forty years old. His brow is wide and high; his features seem crowded into the bottom half of his smooth-complexioned face. Rimless spectacles frame pale, intelligent eyes. His hair, of indiscernible color, is short and sleek. A sparse goatee surrounds a mouth that’s broad and full-lipped but compressed. I feel no sense of recognition; I didn’t get a good look at him before he murdered Liz. I’m surprised because he looks so conventional, so devoid of the hot passions I perceived in Commissioner Warren. But it makes sense that Dr. Poole isn’t the sinister, black-mustached foreigner described by witnesses. That he doesn’t fit anyone’s image of a killer has surely helped him escape notice when stalking his victims and leaving the scenes of their murders.
“There he is.” Mick points to a younger Dr. Poole in the photograph of the rowing crews. His limbs bulge with muscle in his shorts and sleeveless jersey.
“He was an outstanding athlete as well as a top medical student at Oxford.” Ida seems puzzled by our interest in Dr. Poole.
The front door opens. Startled, we turn. Dr. Poole himself, accompanied by a whiff of the cold fog, walks into our horrified midst.
“Miss Millbanks.” His voice is upper-middle-class, educated, and quiet. He’s older than in his portrait; his neat hair and goatee are iron gray; but his black overcoat covers a body still muscular and vigorous. As he hangs his hat on the rack, irritation animates the features that are so sedately composed in his photograph. “Who are these people?”
Even more horrifying than his unexpected arrival is the fact that we didn’t sense him coming. We’re as caught by surprise as his victims must have been when this normal-looking man attacked them with his knife.
“Dr. Poole!” Ida’s hand grips her throat. “These are my friends. I—I invited them to dinner. I thought you were in Cambridge.”
“I decided not to go.” His skin, which appears smooth in the photograph, is stippled with large pores. Dark spots fleck the pale gray irises of his eyes. “You know you’re not supposed to bring anyone here. This is grounds for dismissal.”
Ida extends clasped hands to him; tears fill her eyes. “Please forgive me! I’ll never do it again.”
We’re dumbstruck. Our scheme is ruined, and we’ve gotten Ida in trouble for nothing. Dr. Poole’s disapproving gaze skims over Hugh, Mick, and me, and halts on Catherine. He seems not just taken by her beauty, but startled by recognition. Catherine automatically smiles and bats her eyes, then looks aghast as she recalls who he is. I thought things couldn’t get worse, but they have, and I see Hugh and Mick realize it too.
We’ve brought Dr. Poole and Catherine together.
“Very well,” Dr. Poole says to Ida, his attention still on Catherine, his expression now bemused. “Just this once, I’ll let it pass. Will you introduce me to your friends?”
“Oh! Thank you!” Ida gasps with relief. “This is Catherine Price. She’s an actress at the Oxford Music Hall.”
Dr. Poole extends his hand to Catherine. “My pleasure.”
Now he knows her name and where to find her. Mick growls softly, like a watchdog whose mistress is threatened. Hugh and I are too alarmed to speak. Catherine shakes Dr. Poole’s hand and murmurs politely. She withdraws her fingers from his grasp, her smile frozen; she holds her hand stiff at her side, as if it’s contaminated by the blood on his.
“This is Sarah Bain,” Ida says. “She owns her own photography studio in Whitechapel.”
And now Dr. Poole knows who I am and where I’m to be found. Does he suspect that I took the boudoir pictures of Catherine and his victims? Does he fear that Kate told me about his experiments on her? I’m afraid to look into his eyes and see if he does; I can’t bear to touch him. I curtsey; he bows. Ida introduces Mick and Hugh. As they and Dr. Poole shake hands, Mick’s expression is frightened and hostile, Hugh’s grin sickly.
“Welcome.” Dr. Poole’s manner has the suave, practiced courtesy that he must use on his patients. “Please stay for dinner as my guests. Would you like some sherry?”
Glances fly between Hugh, Catherine, and me. If we hope to carry out our scheme, we must accept his invitation. Hugh recovers first. “That’s very generous of you.”
Dr. Poole hangs up his coat. He’s wearing an expensive black suit over a starched, pristine white shirt. He ushers us into the parlor and pours sherry, serving Catherine first, as Ida chatters nervously about how she and Hugh met and the tea party at my studio. “Whitechapel has lately been much in the newspapers,” he says. “As a neurologist, I have an interest in aberrations of human behavior, and I’ve been following the murder case.”
He’s speaking so nonchalantly, as if he has nothing to do with his own crimes. His murderous nature is concealed inside the smooth, high dome of his head. I picture a bell jar that encases a tableau of preserved scorpions and cobras.
“Would you give us the benefit of your professional opinion?” Hugh asks. “What sort of man do you think the Ripper is?”
“In my professional opinion, he is a sexual deviant who hates women in general and women of immoral character in particular. He may be impotent. If so, stabbing is a substitute for penetration, and he obtains gratification from killing.” Dr. Poole conveys in a matter-of-fact tone the sort of information that normally isn’t spoken in mixed company. “He views his victims as fair game, and he enjoys the thrill of the hunt.”
This might describe Commissioner Warren. Is Dr. Poole also describing himself, or is science his sole motivation? It’s unfair to leave the whole conversation to Hugh, so I venture, “The newspapers have said the Ripper could be a medical man. Do you think so?”
Catherine, Hugh, and Mick start in alarm at my veiled accusation. Ida smiles because we and Dr. Poole are getting along so well.
“The wounds on his victims exhibit more
brutality than surgical precision.” Dr. Poole sips his sherry. “The Russian butcher who’s been arrested seems the probable culprit.”
He’s blaming his own crimes on Mr. Lipsky. I’m too indignant to speak. Hugh compresses his lips; anger sparks in Catherine’s eyes; Mick glowers. Ida looks disturbed; she senses something amiss.
“Shall we go in to dinner?” she says.
“A capital idea.” Hugh offers her his arm.
Dr. Poole offers his to Catherine. Mick starts forward to put himself between them. I hold him back. We follow the others to the dining room. Seeing Dr. Poole walking arm in arm with Catherine jolts me back to the night of the double murders. The shape of his body viewed from the back, his unhurried but determined gait . . .
He is the man I saw in Berner Street with Liz.
I feel a sudden, overpowering urge to run. It’s the self-preservation instinct of a sparrow that feels a hawk’s shadow fall over it. My muscles quiver, my heart races, and sweat chills me. To get away from Dr. Poole, if only for a moment, I offer to help Ida with the food. As we serve the mock turtle soup, I almost drop the bowl I put before Dr. Poole, seated at the head of a table laid with a white linen cloth, burning candles, heavy silverware and crystal, and flowered china. Catherine is on his right, Mick beside her. Ida takes the place at the foot of the table. My seat is beside Hugh, on Dr. Poole’s left. When I try a spoonful of rich, sherry-laced soup, it threatens to come back up. Hugh and Catherine praise Ida’s cooking, but not even Mick is hungry. Only Dr. Poole eats with relish. Ida pretends not to notice that our soup plates are still full when she removes them. She and I serve the roasted duck with sage-and-onion stuffing and mashed potatoes. The duck on my plate is red at the bone. I can’t manage a single bite.
We are dining with Jack the Ripper. The blood that our host has spilled taints the atmosphere like a nauseous gas, but he looks so much the civilized, law-abiding pillar of the medical community. Our scheme to expose Dr. Poole now seems absurd. I remember the night of the double murders, running through the dark streets, thinking the Ripper was after me. That same terror reawakens, stripping away the boldness that I’ve developed during these past months. I’m shrinking back into my shell, although it’s no safe place to hide.
But my friends are bolder by nature than I, they didn’t experience the terror of that night, and even if they’re afraid of Dr. Poole, they’re reassured by our safety in numbers. Hugh talks while he, Catherine, and Mick push food around on their plates. “Pardon my ignorance, but what exactly does a neurologist do?”
“I treat diseases of the nervous system.” Dr. Poole eats tidily, often dabbing his full lips with his napkin, alternating bites of duck, stuffing, and potatoes. Ida nibbles, watching us anxiously. “My specialty is hysteria.”
“What is that?”
“Hysteria is a disturbance of the uterus—the womb. It’s caused by fluids accumulated due to stress. The symptoms include faintness, bloating, shortness of breath, muscle spasms, melancholy, erratic behavior, and delusions. It’s common in nuns, widows, and other single women.”
So I am a prime candidate for hysteria. Indeed, I am experiencing faintness and shortness of breath, although it’s from fear, not accumulated fluids. My behavior certainly has been erratic, and I must have been deluded to think our scheme was a good idea!
“How is hysteria treated?” Hugh asks.
“By inducing a phenomenon called hysterical paroxysm. It disperses the excess fluids. I’m conducting research at Bethlem Royal Hospital to determine whether the treatment can cure insanity.” Dr. Poole speaks as if he still has his post at Bedlam; he lies without visible discomposure. “The results are quite promising. The women are calmer, happier, and less fractious after the treatment.”
Maybe it’s good that I didn’t tell PC Barrett about him. He could easily lie his way through an interrogation by the police. They would never believe he’s Jack the Ripper. He has that much in common with Commissioner Warren.
“But that is only one aspect of my research. The other involves determining why the treatment works. My theory is that during hysterical paroxysm, the uterus produces a substance that spreads through the body and promotes healing. My aim is to identify the substance.”
“How?” Hugh asks.
“By inducing a hysterical paroxysm, then removing the uterus and extracting and analyzing its fluids.”
Mick looks confused by the technical language. Catherine pushes her plate away. Hugh and I try to hide our shock. Here is the reason Dr. Poole dissected Emma Forbes, operated on Kate Eddowes, and cut open Polly Nichols.
“Isn’t it a problem getting specimens?” Hugh manages to say. “Wouldn’t many women be unhappy to part with their, er, uteruses?”
“Some women would benefit from the surgical removal of their uteruses,” Dr. Poole says calmly. “Those who have had too many children, for example.”
Ida serves the dessert—ladyfingers topped with whipped cream and red strawberry sauce. Portions sit untouched on all the plates except hers and Dr. Poole’s.
“Society would benefit if some women were relieved of their ability to reproduce,” Dr. Poole says. “Women who are indigent, immoral, or insane, for example.”
Now he has justified killing prostitutes. I wonder when he decided that science outweighs morals. Was there ever a time when he viewed women as fellow humans he wanted to cure instead of as material for experimentation? What flaw in his nature drove him to employ his talents in such a terrible fashion? I don’t suppose I’ll ever learn the answers. Analyzing Dr. Poole is like photographing him from a distance. His aspect would be blurry no matter how much I enlarged the print, because I don’t want to get close enough to bring him into focus.
“There must be thousands of women of that type.” Hugh valiantly hides his revulsion toward Dr. Poole. “How do you pick your subjects?”
“The ideal subjects are the ones in which multiple hysterical paroxysms are easily induced.” Dr. Poole must think my models fall into that category, and that, plus the fact that they were vulnerable on the streets at night, is why he chose them to kill. “They would produce the greatest quantity of the substance.”
“How are these hysterical paroxysms induced?” Hugh asks.
“With a special technique.” Dr. Poole asks Catherine, “Would you like to try it?”
36
“No, she wouldn’t!” Mick blurts.
I’m so alarmed by the idea of Catherine subjected to treatment by Dr. Poole that I can’t find the breath to object. Hugh says, “Oh, but we wouldn’t want to impose on you.”
“It would be my pleasure,” Dr. Poole says.
Catherine rises. She looks as she did the day I found her at Euston Station—innocent, frightened, and excited. “I would like it very much—if Sarah and Ida may keep me company.”
The covert glance she flashes at Hugh and Mick says that while Dr. Poole and Ida are occupied, and I am there to protect her, Hugh and Mick should sneak into the laboratory.
“Of course they may,” Dr. Poole says, although I perceive he’d rather be alone with Catherine.
Hugh and Mick reluctantly assent. I admire Catherine’s ingenuity, but I wish there were some other way. Debilitated by my fear, I’m in no shape to stand between her and the Ripper. There’s no element of attraction for me in this danger. I can only hope that Ida’s presence will prevent Dr. Poole from hurting Catherine.
Ida also seems reluctant; she would rather stay with Hugh. Hugh winks at her and says, “Hurry back.”
Blushing and smiling, Ida accompanies Dr. Poole and Catherine across the hall. I slip my miniature camera from my pocket into Mick’s hand before I follow them to the treatment room, which is furnished like a lady’s chamber, with floral wallpaper, rosy carpet, and a Chinese lacquer screen. A pink plush fainting couch is elevated on a platform about two feet high.
“Please lie down,” Dr. Poole says.
Catherine obeys, giggly with her own daring. Ida stands by the co
uch. I sidle to the door to the adjoining office and surreptitiously close it. Behind the Chinese screen is a large contraption made of discs, rods, gears, and cylinders. My heart pounds with dread, for the contraption is similar to the one I saw at Bedlam, the one that killed Emma Forbes.
“What is that?” Catherine says loudly, to cover the sounds of Hugh and Mick sneaking into the office and stealing the key.
“An electric generator,” Dr. Poole says. It’s connected by wires to a smaller machine on a cart that he wheels over to the couch. “This is a pelvic massager.”
The massager consists of a black, leather-covered box the size of a suitcase, connected to the generator by cables. The top is studded with dials and switches. A thicker cable attaches to an instrument with a cylindrical handle and a bulbous, riveted metal head that tapers to a short snout. It looks like an instrument of torture.
“I built the equipment myself,” Dr. Poole says with pride. He approaches Catherine and flips up two metal loops attached to the sides of the couch. “Put your feet in the stirrups, please.”
Lying on her back, feet in the stirrups, legs spread and knees raised, Catherine looks like she’s posing for a boudoir photograph, albeit fully clothed. Dr. Poole opens a leather case that contains flesh-colored rubber caps of different sizes. He selects one, fits it onto the snout of the instrument, then moves a lever on the generator. Discs spin; belts and gears turn. A hissing sound and a mechanical pulsation begin. Dr. Poole lifts the instrument by its handle and flips a switch on the black box. The instrument vibrates. Dr. Poole adjusts dials, then stands at the foot of the couch facing Catherine’s spread legs.
“I shall insert the massager under your skirts and apply it to you,” Dr. Poole says.
When he does so, Catherine jerks and says, “Oh!”
Ida soothingly pats her shoulder. “The vibration can be disconcerting at first.”
“Just relax,” Dr. Poole says.
Catherine’s eyes widen as the massager hums under her skirts. I try to imagine what she is experiencing, and I feel a twinge in my own crotch. It is the same pleasure I feel when I touch myself. Dr. Poole’s procedure is but a mechanically enhanced, clinically applied version. I can’t believe that the medical profession has styled it as a treatment for a disease! But the so-called hysterical paroxysm won’t harm Catherine.
The Ripper's Shadow Page 28
