“Not quite.” Reid speaks with scornful condescension. “Just because he has an alibi for this murder doesn’t mean he’s not guilty. Our theory of the crimes has changed. We now believe that they were committed by different people. There are two Rippers.”
The police have finally arrived at the same truth I did on the night of the double murders.
“Lipsky is one,” Reid says. “He killed Kate Eddowes. The other is still at large. He killed Liz Stride and Mary Jane Kelly. We believe he and Lipsky have been working together, stalking the women and taking turns killing. That’s how the double murders were committed within such a short time frame. They’re partners.”
I hear whispering in the darkroom; Hugh and Mick are as outraged as I am. I speak loudly to drown out their voices and to vent the anger that’s boiling up inside me again. “That’s ridiculous. Mr. Lipsky isn’t partners with the killer!”
“That’s not what Lipsky says.” Reid grins at the shock on my face. “He says over and over, ‘There are two! There are two!’”
I comprehend what’s happened. Mr. Lipsky learned about Liz’s murder, probably when the police interrogated him about it. He’s realized, as I did, that there are two Rippers, although he doesn’t know about Dr. Poole.
“But he didn’t confess to the murders.” I’m certain. Mr. Lipsky didn’t cease battling the Russian police until after his children were burned to death during the pogroms. He wouldn’t knuckle under to the London police when it’s only his own life at stake.
The anger in Reid’s eyes burns hotter, but he says, “We’ll break him eventually. And you’re going to help us.”
Now I understand why he came: he thinks I’ll be easier to break than Mr. Lipsky. I’m terrified because of what Reid might do to force me to incriminate Mr. Lipsky, because of what Hugh and Mick might do in an attempt to defend me. And Catherine is helpless upstairs.
Reid pulls a chair away from the table and says to Barrett, “Sit her down and handcuff her.”
The terror leaps in me like a whirlwind.
Barrett blinks. “Guv?”
“You heard me.”
As Barrett reluctantly unhooks the handcuffs that dangle from his belt and moves toward me, I glance at the darkroom and see the doorknob turning. “No!” I shout, at Hugh and Mick as well as Barrett. I lunge toward the front door. If I run, Reid and Barrett will chase me, and my friends will be safe. But Reid grabs my arm, shoves me into the chair, and pulls my arms around its back. I feel the thirst for vengeance that went unsatisfied when Mrs. Lipsky prevented me from hitting the keepers at Bedlam and Mick prevented me from hitting Dr. Poole. But if I start a fight, Hugh and Mick will join in. For their sake, I restrain myself from kicking Reid. Barrett locks the cold steel cuffs around my wrists. He knows I’m not hiding evidence that Mr. Lipsky is guilty, and he believes Commissioner Warren is the Ripper, but he’s not going to say so, because he’s duty-bound to go along with Reid.
“Who is Lipsky’s partner?” Reid demands. “Another friend of yours?”
“There’s no partner! Mr. Lipsky is innocent.”
Reid says to Barrett, “Hit her face.”
Barrett looks from side to side, as if he hopes Reid is talking to someone else.
“Yes, you,” Reid snaps. “That’s an order.”
Outrage fills Barrett’s expression. “I won’t do it.”
I’m amazed and grateful that he’s openly disobeying Reid. Then Reid says, “If you don’t, I will, and you can be sure I’ll hit her harder than you would.”
Barrett bites his lip. He looks at me; he shakes his head to express his reluctance; his eyes brim with apology. I return his gaze, and, in a moment of bizarre, intimate conspiracy, I nod to give him my permission. Barrett inhales, tightens his mouth, and draws back his hand.
The ceiling creaks as Catherine stirs upstairs.
The slap explodes against my cheek. Although Barrett meant to be gentle, the impact is stunning. I thought he couldn’t hurt me any worse than he already has, but this feels like a personal insult, a declaration of my utter worthlessness, no matter that it wasn’t intended. The spirit of my anger changes; now it’s weak and helpless, like a body whose skeleton has been crushed.
Hugh bursts from the darkroom, shouting, “Stop!”
As my ears ring and my cheek throbs, Reid and Barrett turn to Hugh in surprise. Reid demands, “Who the hell are you?”
I’m less relieved that Hugh has interrupted than horrified that he’s put himself between Reid and me. I sense his fear even as his brazen smile challenges Reid. My fear for him gnaws away at my courage.
“I’m Miss Bain’s solicitor,” Hugh lies in his most aristocratic manner. “I’ve been watching your disgraceful abuse of my client, and I shall file a complaint against the police department. Undo those handcuffs at once!”
Intimidated by the threat or Hugh’s social class or both, Reid blusters, “She has information about the Whitechapel murders. It’s my job to get it out of her.”
“By torturing her?” Hugh’s voice embodies a nobleman’s scorn for the ignorant peasantry. “You’ll make her say whatever you want her to say, but it won’t be true.”
“She knows who Lipsky’s partner is,” Reid insists.
“Bosh! You can look for this partner from here to Timbuktu and never find him, because he doesn’t exist. And if you think that hanging Abraham Lipsky will put an end to the Whitechapel murders, think again. There’ll be more after he swings.”
“Why should I listen to you?” Reid scoffs, but I see that Hugh has touched a nerve. Reid thinks Mr. Lipsky is one of two Rippers, but he’s afraid he’s wrong. He takes a closer look at Hugh. “Have we met before?”
“Sorry, I haven’t had the pleasure. You should listen to me because I know who the Ripper really is,” Hugh says.
“How would you know?”
“I was told by Miss Bain.”
Barrett’s and Reid’s surprised, indignant gazes turn from Hugh to me. “So you were withholding information,” Reid says. “Why didn’t you just give it to us at the start?”
I’ve no idea what to say or what Hugh is doing. Hugh says, “Because it just came into her possession. She consulted me first, and I advised her that I should be the one to hand it over to you.”
Reid scowls. He suspects a trick, but he takes the bait. “Well then, put your money where your mouth is.”
“Uncuff Miss Bain first,” Hugh says.
Reid hesitates, then nods to Barrett.
As Barrett unlocks the cuffs, we both hold our breath. His hands are warm, sweaty, and shaking. Released, I flex my aching arms and rise. Barrett drops the open handcuffs on the floor as if they’re distasteful to him. His damp fingerprints cool on my skin as I stand beside Hugh.
Like a magician, Hugh produces a folded, thick paper from his inner coat pocket. He opens it and slaps it down on the table. As Barrett and Reid examine it, I’m no less dumbfounded than they are. It’s the photograph of Dr. Poole and his fellow physicians in the operating theater. How . . . ?
Mick stole it.
“There.” Hugh points at Dr. Poole. “That’s your man.”
“Who is he?” Reid asks.
“Dr. Henry Poole. He’s a neurologist.”
Reid shakes his head. “His name’s never come up in our investigation.”
“But we’ve been thinking the Ripper is a physician, because of the way he cuts his victims.” Barrett’s voice is eager with hope that it’s not Commissioner Warren.
Reid gives him an incredulous glance, then addresses Hugh. “The man in this picture could be any random physician. Why should I even believe his name is Henry Poole?”
“He lives and practices at number forty-one Harley Street. Go see for yourself.”
“Some of the witnesses saw a man carrying a black bag near the crime scenes.” Barrett can’t contain his excitement. “It could have been a physician’s medical bag.”
“That’s enough, Constable!” Reid chews h
is mustache. He seems as annoyed by his own doubts as by the points Barrett raised. I desperately hope he’ll believe Dr. Poole is the Ripper and arrest him. “Supposing this Dr. Poole is real, why do you think he’s the Ripper?”
“He was a consultant at Bedlam until they dismissed him for doing this to a patient.” Hugh pulls another photograph from his pocket and lays it on the table.
It’s the one of Emma Forbes’s gutted corpse. Barrett curses under his breath as he and Reid stare.
“He can’t stick his knife into the patients at Bedlam anymore,” Hugh says, “so he’s taken his show on the road to Whitechapel.”
Reid’s obstinacy deflates, but he says to me, “Where did you get these photographs?”
“We can’t reveal her source,” Hugh says. Never have I been so thankful for his talent for fast talk. “The authorities at Bedlam hushed up the matter of Dr. Poole, but if you lean on them, they’ll admit he murdered and dissected a patient.”
“Guv, we should go investigate Dr. Poole,” Barrett says urgently.
“The hell I will!” Reid turns on me. “I think you faked these photographs.”
The accusation is so absurd, I laugh. “How could I?”
“With dead animal parts you got from your friend Lipsky the butcher? You’re the photographer, you tell me.”
“Your knowledge of human female anatomy is sadly lacking, Inspector.” Hugh taps the woman’s naked breasts in the photograph. “These ain’t cow udders.”
“You spliced together different pictures, then. This is all a scheme to fool me and save Lipsky.”
“Guv, I think it’s real,” Barrett says.
“Oh, do you?” Reid turns on Barrett. “I think you’re sticking up for Miss Bain because you’re sweet on her.”
Barrett flushes and stammers. He says, “We can’t ignore a lead. What if they’re right about Dr. Poole?”
Reid jabs his finger against Barrett’s chest. “When you flubbed that lineup after the Martha Tabram murder, I gave you another chance. You were supposed to romance Miss Bain to make her talk, but instead, she wrapped you around her thumb. And now you’re contradicting your superior officer. You’re fired.”
“Sir!” Alarmed indignation raises Barrett’s voice.
“Get lost.”
Barrett looks devastated. As he walks out of the studio, his straight back radiates wounded, angry pride. I feel sorry for him. He stood up for me, and it has cost him dearly. He’ll never forgive me; I’ll never see him again. I regret it even though I should be glad. The door slams behind Barrett. More glass shatters on the floor. I’ve just lost my only ally in the police force as well as a man I care about more than I like to admit.
Hugh says to Inspector Reid, “You’re going to wish you’d listened to him, the next time the Ripper kills while you’re chasing your tail.”
An odd look comes over Reid’s face. “Hey. I know why you look familiar. I’ve seen you around town. You’re Lord Hugh Staunton.”
My heart vaults into my throat.
“Sorry?” Hugh feigns quizzical confusion.
“One doesn’t forget a pretty mug like yours. You’re no solicitor.” Reid’s eyes gleam with sudden awareness. “You’re the pervert from the Thousand Crowns Club!”
Hugh’s laugh has a reedy, alarmed sound. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”
“Don’t bother denying it.” Startled as if by further enlightenment, Reid says, “You’re not just trying to protect Miss Bain and Abraham Lipsky—you’re trying to protect yourself. And she’s protecting you. You’re Lipsky’s partner! You’re the other Ripper!”
The accusation is so unexpected, Hugh and I are dumbstruck.
“You weren’t satisfied with buggering men, so you switched to slaughtering women.” Reid is desperate enough to believe in the baseless scenario that’s just occurred to him. “I’m arresting you both.” He points at Hugh, says, “You, for murder,” then at me. “You, as an accomplice.”
He doesn’t have any evidence to back up his accusation, and he doesn’t care. He’s going to railroad us the way he did Mr. Lipsky. I’m so horrified to see Hugh sucked into the abyss of the police’s misguided hunt for the Ripper, I hardly mind about myself. Hugh looks stricken, terrified. Even though he’s innocent, even if he’s acquitted, he’ll suffer. There’s no telling what the inmates in jail will do to him should they learn that he’s a homosexual—which Reid will make sure they do. And if Hugh and I are incarcerated, we won’t be able to save Mr. Lipsky, protect Catherine, or stop Dr. Poole or Commissioner Warren.
“You and who else are arresting us?” Hugh puts his arm around me. Trembling with fright, we stand our ground.
Reid’s breathy chuckle sounds like a train accelerating. “Come along easy, or you’ll be sorry.” He reaches for me.
My hand reaches out, and without thinking, I shove Reid, elated by my own nerve. Reid stumbles backward. Glowering, he pulls a silver whistle on a chain out of his pocket, says, “I’ll have every policeman in Whitechapel all over you in a minute,” and heads for the door.
Hugh looks appalled by my foolhardy action and the consequences. Mick comes running out of the darkroom, lunges at Reid, and tackles him. Reid yells as he crashes to the floor.
“Don’t let him get help!” Mick shouts.
Astonished by this turn of events, I snatch the whistle from Reid. Reid thrashes his legs free of Mick’s grasp. Hugh runs to Reid, kneels on his back, grabs him by the hair, and slams his head against the floor—once, twice, three times. Reid lies still.
Mick gets up, grinning. Hugh climbs off Reid and says, “Who’s sorry now?”
I hear a whimper. Catherine stands on the stairs, her hands clapped over her mouth. She stares at the unconscious Inspector Reid, then at us.
The heat of the moment fades. I say, “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Neither should I,” Hugh says, “but I couldn’t resist giving the police a taste of their own medicine.”
“Nor me. And we had to stop him,” Mick says.
Catherine drops her hands. “Is he dead?” she whispers.
Hugh rolls Reid over onto his back. Reid’s eyes are closed, and blood trickles from his nose. Hugh puts his ear to Reid’s chest. “His heartbeat’s strong.”
My relief is as short-lived as my satisfaction that Reid got what he deserved. “He’ll be furious.” We all look at one another in alarm. There’s naught to do but improvise. I point to the corner. “Move him over there.”
Hugh and Mick drag Reid. I pick up the handcuffs that PC Barrett dropped, then I lock one cuff around Reid’s wrist and the other around the gas pipe that runs up from the floor through the ceiling.
“Good thinking, Sarah. That’ll buy us some time.” Hugh searches Reid’s pockets to make sure Reid hasn’t a key.
“Time for what?” Catherine asks.
“To run,” Mick says.
38
I pack up my photography equipment. It’s more precious than anything else I own. Hugh carries my large camera and tripod, Mick the flash lamp and stand. I have my pocketbook, my satchel full of miniature camera and lenses, and a trunk containing negative plates, flash powder, and photographic paper. Catherine lugs a carpetbag of books, tools, and sundry items. I wish I could bring the enlarger, but it’s too big and heavy. So are my father’s framed photographs. As we slip out the back door and hurry down the alley, I can’t bear to look back. I feel a pain in my chest, as if my heart is wrenching away.
I’m leaving my beloved studio sooner than I expected, and forever.
“We’ll go to my house,” Hugh says. “Then we’ll figure out our next step.”
Commercial Street is clogged with thousands of people amid carriages, wagons, and omnibuses full of passengers. “The Lord Mayor’s Show.” I’d forgotten about it. “That’s where everyone’s going.” In almost seven hundred years, neither wars, fires, nor the Black Death have ever stopped the Lord Mayor’s Show. It’s not going to stop for Jack the Ripper.
“I’ll get us a cab,” Hugh says.
They’re all occupied. Hugh opens the door of one whose passenger is a fat, prosperous-looking man. “Excuse me, we need this cab. It’s an emergency.”
He and Mick pull the fat man out of the cab, and we all climb in. Hugh shouts his address to the driver. As the cab begins moving, the fat man yells, “Bastards!” We close the windows so the police won’t spot us. It’s dark in the cab, and cold. While we inch through traffic, Hugh checks his watch.
“It’s past noon,” he says. “At this rate, we won’t get there until tomorrow.”
The Lord Mayor must be swearing his oath of loyalty in the Royal Courts. I hear distant music from a brass band. The cab comes to a complete stop.
“Roads into the city are closed,” the driver calls to us. “Can’t go no farther.”
“We’re better off walking.” Mick flings open the door. “Come on!”
Laden with my equipment, we plunge into the crowd of chattering, laughing people who fill Aldgate High Street. They don’t seem to care that they can’t get near the parade; they’re enjoying a holiday. Boys wave flags and blow noisemakers. Shopgirls in feathered hats shoot passersby with squirt guns.
“This way!” Hugh heads up a side lane, wielding my tripod like a baton to blaze a trail.
None too soon, we’re free of the mob, but rain starts to fall—a cold, windy downpour. We trudge west on London Wall Street. The Church of St. Bartholomew the Great looms above the rooftops. Too tired to walk any farther, we make for it like pilgrims lost on a journey. We push through the massive double doors of the ancient Norman edifice and drop ourselves and my equipment onto the hard wooden benches that face the long central aisle. The dank, cavernous space is empty but for us. Drenched to the skin, we sit shivering and miserable. I feel as if a black line has been drawn around me in a small circle that contains only the present moment and its troubles. Everything else—my past, my mother and father, Jack the Ripper—is outside. My anger is like a flame licking at the circle’s perimeter. I feel distanced from my friends; they’re isolated in their own black circles.
The Ripper's Shadow Page 30
