On the yard’s eastern side is the slaughterhouse. Leo, the owner, opens the wide double doors. Light spills into the yard. Five burly Jews who work for Leo walk out to meet us. They carry my equipment into the slaughterhouse, a huge, cold room with a flagstone floor and plaster walls. Hooks for hanging carcasses dangle from rails that traverse the ceiling, above troughs and workbenches. Mops, brooms, and buckets stand in a corner. The walls and floor are brown with old blood spatters, and I smell the foulness that no amount of scrubbing can eradicate. Hugh covers his nose with his handkerchief. Mick runs into the slaughterhouse, jumps up, and grabs two hooks. I set up my large camera in a place about ten feet inside and to the right of the door. There’s another distant door behind me, secured with an iron bar, which leads to an alley that opens onto Aldgate High Street. Leo’s men move the workbenches and troughs to the edges of the room, clearing the center.
“Do you think Dr. Poole will show?” Mick asks, swinging from the meat hooks.
I load negative plate cartridges into the camera. “I hope so.”
Yesterday, Hugh dictated to Catherine a letter inviting Dr. Poole to meet her at the Ten Bells public house tonight, and Leo sent someone to deliver it to Harley Street.
Catherine is the bait in a trap.
She and Hugh stand outside the slaughterhouse. As I pour flash powder into the tray, her anxious voice says, “What time shall I go?”
“Eleven thirty should do,” Hugh says. “We told Dr. Poole midnight.”
“And you’ll come with me?”
“No, Leo’s men will. Mick and I will wait here with Sarah.”
“So I go into the Ten Bells . . . ?”
“You don’t go in. You wait outside for Dr. Poole.” Impatience sharpens Hugh’s voice. We’ve gone over and over the plan with Catherine, and she still forgets the details.
“When he comes, what do I say to him?”
“Nothing. You just smile, beckon him, and start walking to the slaughterhouse. Let him follow you. Remember?”
“Oh. Yes. Of course.”
She’s memorized all the songs and dance steps she performs at the theater, yet she can’t keep her part in our plan straight. Her fear, or Dr. Poole’s treatment, or both, is impairing her concentration. As I attach the flash lamp to its stand, I glance uneasily at Catherine.
She clutches Hugh’s arm. “What if he attacks me before I get here?”
Hugh pats her hand. “He won’t. Leo’s men will be nearby in plain sight. Dr. Poole won’t lay a hand on you in front of witnesses.”
“And after I bring him here?” Catherine is breathless, agitated. “What then?”
“He’ll attack you. Sarah will take a photograph.”
The photograph will prove that Dr. Poole is the Ripper. Leo and his men will help Hugh and Mick apprehend Dr. Poole and keep him at the slaughterhouse until I’ve developed and printed the photograph. Where I’ll develop it is yet to be determined, a hole in our plan; I can’t risk going back to my studio. Then we’ll turn the photograph and Dr. Poole over to the police. They’ll have to arrest him, and after they investigate his business at Bedlam, he’ll surely be hanged for the murders. Even if Mick, Hugh, and I go to jail for what we did to Inspector Reid, and Commissioner Warren remains free to kill again, one out of two Rippers down will be far better than none. Women will be safe from Dr. Poole. Mr. Lipsky will be released because there won’t be evidence to connect him to Dr. Poole; the neurologist and the Jewish butcher belong to different worlds and aren’t acquainted. If the police still think there are two Rippers, they can keep looking for the other.
“What if I get lost in the fog?” Catherine asks.
“You won’t. It’s only a hop, skip, and a jump.” Hugh talks her through the route. He has her repeat the sequence of streets and turns, and it takes her three tries to get it right.
Mick drops from the hooks, comes to me, and whispers, “You think she’ll mess up?” His faith in her perfection has waned; he looks anxious, scared.
“No, don’t worry.” But my faith in our plan is waning fast.
Hugh checks his watch. “Time to go.” Catherine clings to him. He kisses her cheek. “You’re the star of the show. Break a leg!”
Two of Leo’s men escort her from the yard. She looks so small and fragile. My fear for her grows into alarm that whines in my ears like machinery spinning out of control. Hugh’s and Mick’s faces wear the same aghast expression that I feel on mine. Then we’re running out of the yard, down winding Harrow Alley, past a railway depot and warehouses. We see Catherine and her two escorts walk out of the alley, onto Aldgate High Street. They turn right and disappear. As we hurry after them, two policemen carrying lanterns stride into view. We flatten ourselves against a wall. The police pause, shining their lanterns down the alley, looking for Mr. Lipsky’s imaginary partner or looking for the three wanted fugitives. The light doesn’t find us. The police move on in the same direction as Catherine. Mick, Hugh, and I exchange helpless, distraught glances; we can’t bring her back without drawing the police’s attention to ourselves.
“Spilled milk,” Hugh says mournfully.
#
In the slaughterhouse, a gas lamp on the ceiling casts a dim, greenish pool of light on the middle of the bloodstained floor. The periphery of the room is in darkness that conceals me where I stand with my camera. The doors are open just wide enough for Catherine to enter. Hugh and Mick, stationed on either side, walk into the light to check Hugh’s watch every few minutes. Fog drifting through the doors swirls. The cold numbs my hands and face.
“Eleven forty-five,” Hugh says.
Waiting, we breathe the odor of rotten meat and listen to the night. Factory machines pulse; water gurgles in drains; a dog barks. Despite my fear for Catherine, there’s a beautiful simplicity to this moment, like a photograph of a single object—an egg, perhaps—with a plain background and stark light and shadow. It’s the simplicity of living in the present with a single goal. I feel sharp, focused, and alert. I picture Catherine walking up to the Ten Bells while Leo’s men loiter across the street. I’m concentrating so hard on this vision that when Hugh says, “Twelve o’clock,” I jump.
Church bells throughout the city toll, dissonant and ominous. We face the doors, entranced by a mutual vision of Dr. Poole, dressed in a black overcoat and hat, taking shape under the gas lamp near the Ten Bells. He is Whitechapel’s incarnated nightmare of the Ripper. Catherine’s eyes flare with panic as he walks with his unhurried, deliberate gait toward her. His face is shaded by his hat; he doesn’t want anyone else to see it clearly enough to describe it later. Catherine cocks her head, smiles at Dr. Poole, and crooks her finger. She turns, sashays down the street, looking over her shoulder. Her smile sparkles with flirtatious invitation. It’s the best performance of her life. It’s possible that none of this is happening.
In my mind’s eye, I watch Dr. Poole follow Catherine. He stays twenty paces behind her; he wants no one to see them together. As he watches Catherine’s slim figure stroll through the fog, in and out of the light from the streetlamps, his breathing quickens; his mouth trembles; sweat leaks from him. His hand grips the knife in his pocket. Is he thinking about the scientific advances that will justify her death, or the release he’ll experience when he cuts her throat? He must be sorely tempted to attack her now, but he sees Leo’s men loitering on the streets. He never kills in front of witnesses. He’ll wait until she brings him into the slaughterhouse.
“It’s twelve fifty-nine,” Hugh says, and a chill runs through me. “Something’s wrong.”
We gaze at the door, as if by sheer will we could make Catherine appear. The night has never been darker, the fog never thicker, nor the dawn further away.
A sudden burst of voices comes from outside—two men arguing. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but one is English, the other foreign. The foreigner is Leo. He was supposed to hide nearby until we need his help, but he must have met someone coming down Harrow Alley. I surmise th
at he’s trying to make the Englishman leave before Catherine and Dr. Poole come.
The Englishman raises his voice. “Not until you tell me why you’re lurking round here.”
“That’s George Lusk from the Mile End Vigilance Committee!” I whisper.
Leo mutters. George Lusk says, “The hell you were on your way home. I think you’re the Ripper’s partner, looking for another woman to kill. I’m taking you to the police station.”
I hear the sounds of a scuffle. Mick says, “Shit!”
“Help!” George Lusk yells. Then comes a shrill blast from a whistle.
“We have to get rid of him before he brings in the whole cavalry,” Hugh says.
We run to Harrow Alley. There George Lusk and Leo are punching each other. Hugh and Mick yell and wave their arms. Lusk, disconcerted, backs away from Leo. Footsteps pound down Harrow Alley. Five men roaring and brandishing lanterns and sticks charge at us. It’s the Mile End Vigilance Committee. I pull Hugh and Mick into the cattle yard as Leo runs down Harrow Alley with Lusk and the other committee men after him. He’s drawing them away from the slaughterhouse, clearing the scene for Catherine and Dr. Poole.
“Pray to God they don’t catch him,” Hugh says as we troop back into the slaughterhouse. “Now where the hell is Catherine?”
We listen anxiously. A train rumbles. As the sound fades, I hear screams. Catherine’s voice cries, “Help!”
Startled, we peer out the door. She’s nowhere in sight. A banging noise rackets through the slaughterhouse. “Let me in!” Catherine screams.
“The other door!” I rush across the room toward it.
“She went down the wrong alley,” Hugh says. He and Mick race ahead of me. They fumble with the bar on the door while Catherine bangs and screams, “He’s going to kill me!”
Dr. Poole didn’t wait for Catherine to lead him into our trap.
“Damnation!” Hugh says. It’s so dark at this end of the room, he and Mick can’t see.
“Hurry!” Catherine screams.
Accustomed to working in darkness, I feel the bar, twist, and pull. The door, shoved by Catherine, flies open and slams against me. Thrown backward, I bump Hugh and Mick, and we scatter. Catherine falls into the slaughterhouse on her hands and knees, panting.
“He’s coming!” she cries. “Where are you?”
Mick calls, “We’re here, it’s all right.”
She crawls toward the pool of light on the floor. Rapid, heavy footsteps pound down the alley. It’s Dr. Poole. Catherine’s panic is contagious. I can’t move. Catherine staggers to her feet, into the light. She’s drenched with rain, her hair hanging limp around her stark white face. Her eyes are wild with terror. Vapor puffs from her open mouth. She’s at center stage, but she’s not acting now.
Hugh pushes me. “Sarah, get ready to take the photograph.”
I regain my wits and my place behind my camera. Hugh and Mick hide in the darkness. Dr. Poole’s rapid footsteps are coming closer. Catherine wrings her hands, moans, and staggers. I’m trying to center her in the viewfinder when Dr. Poole bursts into the slaughterhouse. His breaths sound like a bear’s—punctuated with growls, thick with saliva. His reek of sweat and arousal overpowers the slaughterhouse smell. I feel air blowing, like the wind that an oncoming train pushes in front of it, as he charges toward Catherine. She screams. I see, through the viewfinder, her figure set upon by a shape like a crow—Dr. Poole in a black overcoat, arms spread. The image is all movement and confusion.
“Hurry, don’t let him kill me!” Catherine shrieks.
The photograph will be blurry unless they stand still. They’re not going to stand still.
“Stop!” I shout.
As he seizes Catherine, Dr. Poole turns toward the camera: he realizes they’re not alone, and he’s trying to see who spoke.
My pounding heart beats faster. I press the shutter control.
41
The powder in the tray ignites with a bang like an overheated boiler exploding. The white fireball illuminates Dr. Poole’s and Catherine’s images in the viewfinder. Time stops; all motion is suspended. Dr. Poole grips Catherine by her throat with his left hand. His hat has fallen off, his whole face is visible, and he’s looking straight into the lens. His eyes, behind the glass ovals of his spectacles, brim with rage. His full lips are drawn back from his small, pointed teeth in a snarl. His raised right hand holds a knife. The edge of its long, sharp blade gleams red. Catherine’s terror-stricken face is also turned toward the camera. Her up-flung hands are marked with bleeding slashes.
The photograph condenses the story of the Whitechapel murders into a single frame.
It shows the truth about Dr. Poole as clear as glass. No one who sees it could doubt that he is Jack the Ripper.
It’s the best shot I’ll ever take.
Darkness extinguishes the flash. Catherine shrieks. I look up from the viewfinder, but all I see is a black rectangle—its afterimage. Blinded, I hear Dr. Poole growling and panting, and violent motion. My eyes adjust, and I see Hugh holding the back of Dr. Poole’s collar with one hand and his right wrist with the other. As Dr. Poole tries to stab Catherine, Hugh twists his arm behind his back. Dr. Poole yowls, releasing Catherine. She falls on the floor, holding her throat, gulping. Dr. Poole turns on Hugh, punches his ear, and yanks himself free. Hugh stumbles.
“Look out!” I call as Dr. Poole slashes at Hugh.
Hugh dodges, then kicks Dr. Poole’s thigh. Dr. Poole staggers. Hugh grabs for his hand that holds the knife, but Dr. Poole slashes at him again. Hugh clutches his left upper arm and drops to his knees. The horror on his face says he’s badly wounded.
“Hugh!” Aghast, I run to him.
Mick bursts out of the darkness and jumps on Dr. Poole’s back, knocking him away from Hugh. Hugh’s face is gray, and he’s wheezing, but he says to me, “I’m all right. Help Mick.”
“I can’t leave you like this!” I frantically unbutton his coat, trying to get at the wound, desperate to stanch the flow of warm blood that wets my hands.
Dr. Poole hobbles backward and slams Mick against the wall in the darkness where I can’t see them. I hear a yell from Mick, then a thud. Hugh topples onto his side. Dr. Poole rushes at Catherine.
“Sarah!” Catherine screams.
I look for a weapon to use against Dr. Poole. Where were those mops and brooms I saw? It’s too dark to locate them. I run to my light stand, disconnect it from the camera, and pick it up by the metal pole. I position myself between Dr. Poole and Catherine.
Dr. Poole’s spectacles are steamed over from his body heat. With his eyes invisible, he seems inhuman—a killer without a soul. Terror immobilizes me, but when Dr. Poole raises his knife at me, the anger flashes through my muscles like a reanimating current. This is a man who’s killed my models and hurt my family. I swing the light stand, hit him across the chest, swing again, and smite his thighs. Dr. Poole totters. The third time I swing too hard. The momentum spins me. I hear a hissing sound and feel a line of pain across my back as Dr. Poole slashes through my clothes. He grabs the pole, wrenches it from me, and swings.
“Run, Catherine!” I cry. The powder tray clangs against my head, breaks off the pole, and clatters on the flagstones. My brain judders inside my skull.
Catherine is limping toward the door. Dr. Poole swings the pole at me and bashes my legs. I drop to the floor and see the pole rushing down upon me the instant before a black starburst of pain explodes across my face. Tasting blood, I curl up, my arms clasped around my head. How grievously we underestimated him and overestimated ourselves! I hear the pole clink-clink on the bricks and Catherine screaming. Only my rage at Dr. Poole tethers me to consciousness. Dizzy and nauseated, my head aching, my face a sore, swollen mask, I push myself up on one elbow. Catherine is at the edge of the circle of light, struggling with two black-clad figures. I’m seeing double. I’m too weak to get up. The despair that floods me is deeper and blacker than any I’ve ever known.
Two of my f
riends may be dead while the other fights a losing battle for her life. This is the umbra of the umbra, the darkest place of all. I succumb to the terrible, shameful temptation to give up and wait for Dr. Poole to kill me, too. If my friends are done for, I neither deserve nor want to live.
The figures reel into the full light. Dr. Poole has hold of Catherine’s bodice. He’s raising the knife, the blade pointed at her throat. Another man has hold of Dr. Poole’s wrist, his left arm locked around Dr. Poole’s neck. Dr. Poole twists in his grip, Catherine tries to pull free of Dr. Poole, and the three stagger and whirl. Dr. Poole’s face is red, his mouth wide. The other man clenches his jaws with his effort to choke Dr. Poole.
He’s PC Barrett.
Shocked, I blink my eyes. How did he get here?
Barrett is fighting to hold Dr. Poole’s hand and knife away from Catherine. “Police!” he shouts. “Let go of the knife. You’re under arrest!”
Joy lifts me above the pain that wracks my body. Barrett will save Catherine for us!
Dr. Poole gurgles. His grip on Catherine loosens. She falls on the floor moaning. Dr. Poole throws himself backward. He and Barrett crash to the floor. Dr. Poole lands on Barrett, untangles himself, and sits up. Barrett lies motionless—stunned or killed by the fall.
I clamber to my hands and knees. The room spins, and I vomit. As the retching and spinning abate, I see Dr. Poole crawl toward Catherine. He seizes her ankle. She screams. My groping hand finds the light stand. I rise unsteadily and walk to Dr. Poole, using the light stand as a crutch. My vision is still blurred, but my anger is an internal compass that keeps me on course. Catherine kicks Dr. Poole’s face and knocks his spectacles off. I raise the light stand over Dr. Poole, swing, and hit his shoulder. He doesn’t seem to notice. He stabs at Catherine’s skirts. I swing again and bash the floor with a clang that echoes in my aching head. Catherine screams and kicks; her skirts ride up to her waist; there are bleeding gashes on her legs. I feel the light stand taken from my hands.
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