by Kim Wright
Trevor raised his bushy brows. “You work there?”
“I’m an obstetrician.”
“Indeed? You must be the Dr. Harrowman I’ve heard so much about. Some of the women we’ve interviewed in connection with the case have mentioned your name. Saint John, I believe they call you and I must say your plan of a clinic is commend-“
“Blast that clinic,” Fleanders snorted, drops of borscht in his white beard. “Tell us what you know.”
“Not much,” Trevor said bluntly. “The doctor is right, with the first case they had no idea they were dealing with a serial killer – “
“Serial?” Geraldine asked, frowning.
“Serial, as in a series. Multiple killings at the hand of one person, with the victims chosen apparently at random. It’s a new term, there’s no reason you should have heard it.” Trevor turned back to John. “The body was moved and washed before we could even inspect it. The whole area was hosed down, wiped clean by the local coppers…”
“Well of course they wouldn’t leave the mess for their superiors,” Madame Renata said.
“Actually Madame, they left us a bigger mess. Any evidence that may have been in the area was washed away. There’s no respect in the force for forensic detail, they just rush in topsy-turvy and mop up the crime scene as if it were a ballroom after a party. So there’s no way of knowing what we might have missed. For example, perhaps there were footprints in the blood which would have given us some indication of the killer’s shoe size.”
“Frustrating for you, I can imagine.” John said.
“Maddening,” Trevor confirmed. “And the second case was handled nearly as badly. But this time I think the killer wished to leave us a bit more of a clue.”
“A clue? What do you mean?” said Leanna.
“It’s odd, but it seems we’re being teased a bit. The second unfortunate woman- I’m almost finished with the soup, yes, thank you, Emma…” Leanna looked up, surprised Trevor knew Emma by name. “The second woman had been worked on a bit more thoroughly than the first.”
“Do tell, tell us everything,” Tess said. “Good heavens, this is exciting and the papers are so incomplete in their descriptions. When will there ever be another story like this one in London?”
Trevor nodded vigorously. “I agree. It’s the case of the century, in my humble opinion. In the second woman, Annie Chapman , both the ovaries and her kidneys were missing…”
“Dear lord,” gasped Gerry. “We’re dealing with a madman.”
“No, no, not totally,” Trevor said. “That’s the interesting part. The organs were removed with great skill, with very little trauma to the outer tissues, as if the person doing the job was a professional of some sort. There was a washed leather apron found nearby, quite devoid of evidence, unfortunately, but it was an apron of the type used by people who work in slaughterhouses. And there are two in the area.”
“Ah, I see, so you think the killer may work in one of them,” said Gerry. “A butcher would have some anatomical knowledge.”
“That was our first thought, yes,” Trevor said, leaning back to allow Emma to take his soup dish and replace it was a steaming plate of lamb.
“But that seems almost too obvious, doesn’t it?” Leanna said, so absorbed in the story that her shyness had disappeared. “To leave a slaughterhouse apron is almost like a joke.”
Trevor turned to her, his eyes piercing. “Yes, yes, Miss Bainbridge, that’s precisely as I see it. I believe he meant us to think of the slaughterhouse, just as you say, as a type of nasty joke, but I don’t believe the killer would leave an apron in sight if he actually worked there. My superiors cling to the idea and in fact the papers originally called the killer Leather Apron, before he himself provided us the far more memorable moniker Jack the Ripper. But just as you say, Miss Bainbridge, I think the apron is a planted clue. Meant to throw us off the true scent.” Trevor sighed. “And the killer had more than just some anatomical knowledge. To remove four bodily organs so quickly…”
“….would take a surgeon,” John finished. A brief silence fell on the party as they all sat absorbed in their private thoughts.
“I think so too, as does the police physician who did the autopsy on the body,” Trevor said. “A bit of his report was printed in the paper.”
“But a doctor wouldn’t be in those streets and wouldn’t commit such savageries,” protested Fleanders. “It’s almost as if you’re saying you think the Ripper is…a gentleman.”
Trevor laughed. “Well he was hardly a gentleman, was he? But I think it’s possible he could be of the upper classes, could be an educated man.”
“Balderdash,” roared Fleanders.
“Yes, that’s pretty much what my superiors say,” Trevor conceded. “Geraldine, this rack of lamb is a marvel.” Everyone else looked down at their untouched plates.
“Yes,” Leanna said hollowly, picking up her fork. “Tell Gage it looks wonderful.”
“But if you’re saying that the Ripper is an educated man,” Tess protested, “I must say that for once I’m in agreement with Fleanders.”
“I’m only repeating what the autopsy revealed,” Trevor said with equanimity. “A body couldn’t be drained of blood that quickly unless -”
“Drained of blood?” everyone howled in unison. Even Tiny Alex, perched precariously on a stack of books, looked appalled.
“Yes, that’s the oddest thing of all,” Trevor said. “Both bodies had been nearly completely drained of blood. There were few bloodstains around them, but very little when you consider the severity of the wounds.”
“They were killed somewhere else and moved,” Leanna ventured.
“You think like me, Miss Bainbridge,” Trevor said, clearly paying her what he considered to be the ultimate compliment. “But there were no trails of blood, no stains anywhere else.”
“If they were strangled before the butchering began,” John said thoughtfully, “that would have reduced the bloodflow when the throats were cut.”
“Exactly as Dr. Phillips saw it.”
Leanna slumped down, dismayed. John and Trevor were literally talking over her head.
“But the spill would still have been significant,” John went on. “Unless Leanna is right and the body was moved, I don’t see how it could have been drained on the spot without leaving behind bloodstains.”
“A madman,” Gerry repeated. “A maniac.”
“He’ll never be found,” Madame Renata intoned. Everyone paused and stared at her.
“This Jack the Ripper,” she said. “He will never be apprehended.”
“I’m set to prove you wrong, ma’am,” Trevor said.
“Oh don’t be dismayed by her, Inspector,” Tess said. “An hour or two ago, she told me women wouldn’t receive the vote until the 1920’s. She’s not so gifted a clairvoyant as she thinks.”
“It’s not the purpose of my gift to just tell people what they wish to hear,” Madame Renata said, delicately picking at her rice pilaf.
“And I’m not an inspector.” Trevor said, more to himself than anyone else.
“With so much attention is there any chance Jack will simply move on?” John asked. “He has to be aware he’s the priority of Scotland Yard.”
“All the more reason we think he won’t stop,” Trevor said. “He enjoys the stage he’s built for himself.” Trevor was aware that the “we” he referred to was not the whole of the Yard but rather just himself and Abrams, but he nodded with confidence as he spoke. “There was a definite sense of escalating violence between the murders, even though they were only a week apart. In the first case, Nichols, the throat was merely cut. In the second, not only did Chapman lose several body organs but the initial slash was so deep that her head was nearly severed from her body…”
Leanna lunged for her water glass, feeling light headed and queasy. Even Tess had paled a bit in this last description and Trevor looked around the table, suddenly embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I have such a mania for this
case that when I begin talking I must confess I lose all reason. I’ve forgotten the ladies.”
“Hmmm,” said Fleanders, looking none too hale himself. “Let’s talk of Jenny Lind.”
“Indeed,” John said, lifting his wine glass. “Let’s talk of Jenny Lind. Did you hear Barnum is asking sixty pounds for a ticket to hear her sing at the Palladium? Did you command those fees on your tour, Alex? That’s a crime of robbery, wouldn’t you say?”
Leanna took another gulp of water and looked around the room. The group had grown subdued and Trevor was looking down with reddened cheeks, cutting into his lamb with – there was no other way to say it - the concentration of a surgeon.
Later, in the kitchen, Emma stood scraping bones into a pail while Gage busied himself with the tea. Despite the delay in serving, Emma thought dinner had gone well. She was so preoccupied with her chores that it was a minute before she heard the rapping. Wiping her hands, she walked over and squinted out into the darkness but the small glass plate in the center of the door revealed no one. She cautiously unbolted the door to find a young boy, cowering in the darkness and compulsively wiping his nose on a raggedy sleeve.
“He’s heard of Geraldine’s charity,” Emma thought, prepared to bring him in and warm up a plate. “All the stray dogs of London know about Geraldine.” But before she could speak the child blurted out, “Is Saint John ‘ere?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Saint John, ma’am, ‘is cook said he’s come ‘ere. Me Mum, she’s awful bad with a baby…” He broke off, wild-eyed, and Emma took his arm and drew him inside.
“Yes, just take a breath. Dr. Harrowman is here and I’m sure he’ll come with you. Gage?” But the butler had already disappeared into the dining room, returning in a matter of seconds with John.
“It’s me Mum, Saint John,” the child stammered, bursting into tears of relief. “She said I was to find you.”
“So the baby’s come calling a little early, um, Bobby?” John said, pulling on this black cape and tying a red scarf loosely around his throat. “We’ll find a cab and be across town in an instant.” He put an arm around the boy’s thin shoulders and handed him a handkerchief, as they stepped out into the night.
“Thank you Emma, Gage,” John called back. “Lovely dinner. Please give my apologies to Miss Bainbridge and Geraldine.” Emma stood in the doorway, watching the two until their backs were obscured by the mist, occasionally catching scraps of John’s voice gently saying “Hush, Bobby, your mum’s come through this sort of business before.” Emma’s chest tightened as she remembered how frantically she and Adam had gone from house to house seeking the county doctor when her mother had begun her own death rattle. But there had been no doctor, no carriage, no hope.
I suppose it’s true, she thought to herself, staring after the dark man in the dark cape disappearing into the dark night. He really is a saint.
CHAPTER NINE
Winter, 1872
The snows came, and it was time to go back to school. The boy was a good pupil and most days he had finished the problem while his classmates were still struggling over their slates. Sometimes he even caught his teacher in small mistakes, although he was careful to never let this awareness show on his face.
One Sunday he protested a sore throat so that he would not be required to walk to the village church with the rest of his family. He wanted to take his father’s gun and go hunting by himself. He sat at the foot of an oak for an hour, neither moving nor hiding and, just as his father had promised, the birds soon ceased to register his presence at all. He watched as a covey of quail trotted no more than a meter before him, one of them straggling behind. Was it his imagination that the bird looked willing, that it seemed to somehow self-select? He sent it a silent message in his mind. Slow down. Even more. Yes, that’s it. Separate yourself a bit farther from the group.
A snapping twig. His awareness snapped too, back to the broader world of the clearing and when he looked up he saw to his horror that a wolf was standing opposite him, wary and crouched at the top of the bank. It was a huge and hulking beast, dark, its mouth stretched into a horrible parody of a human smile. How long it had been there or what had kept it from springing he could not say. He scrambled to his feet, fumbled with the gun, shot wildly into the air. The wolf disappeared into the underbrush and the boy fell trembling to his knees.
How quickly the hunter can become the hunted. How quickly the hungry can become the meal. It was a lesson he would never forget.
He spent three Sundays searching before he found it. When he did, he opened fire and heard a long low bellow of pain when the bullets found their mark. Followed the bloody stagger until the beast dropped, and then ran across the field to its body. Its final expression was a grimace of surprise. So this is death, the wolf’s face seemed to say. Not at all as I’d imagined.
Should he bring it home, mount its head or clean its pelt? No, there was no way to explain this to his parents, who had forbidden him to go into the deepest parts of the forest, had forbidden him to take the gun, who were growing suspicious of this fever than only seemed to befall him on holy days. And besides, now that he was observing the wolf up close, he was disappointed. It was not the great rival he’d pictured. In fact it was a shaggy, malnourished creature, with clotted hair and protruding ribs, not even a proper trophy. He looked down at it sadly. Everything seems smaller when it’s dead.
The bullet marks seemed a violation of the wolf’s flesh and he knelt, impelled by something he did not fully understand, and pulled his knife from the pocket of his jacket. Its dull blade made ragged progress across the animal’s belly, but the rising blood briefly delineated the cut, creating a perfect and elegant line before it began to spill. He said something aloud. A word he would not later remember. He felt the heat emanating from the wound, felt the promise of something more profound beneath the mottled skin. Felt himself being called, like a priest to the altar or a sailor to the sea.
Throughout the long winter, while the other pupils read the lesson, their brows furrowed and their lips moving, the boy would practice sitting completely still. Monitoring his breathing to the point of silence. Controlling the many small impulses the flesh is prey to – the desire to scratch, to yawn, to blink. The clock on the wall ticked away the seconds, measured the times between blinks, between exhalations, between the movements and fidgets that would betray lesser men. He understood. He saw it all. His family was poor, nondescript. Their limited funds would go to educate his oldest brother, to provide his sister with a dowry. The village they lived in was dying. Anyone with any wit left as soon as he could, headed for the city where the newborn factories and mills offered a sort of brutal hope.
If he was to attend the University, to become a physician, it was up to him. If he was to have a life, he must author it himself.
By the time spring came, the boy could go ninety-four seconds between blinks.
CHAPTER TEN
September 30
12:36 AM
It was well after midnight, but Leanna wasn’t sleepy. She’d been wearing both her hair and her corsets looser since she’d come to London, so she’d been able to undress herself without Emma’s assistance and she now lay sprawled across the puffed pink bedspread in her camisole and bloomers, with her hair tousled down around her shoulders.
Emma rapped twice on the door and, not waiting for a response, entered. She was exhausted herself and Leanna’s languor was an irritating reminder that she still had plenty picking up from the party to do. Leanna rolled over and propped herself up on her elbows. “It was a wonderful evening, wasn’t it, Emma?”
“Seemed to be.”
“I’m just sorry John couldn’t stay to the end.”
“Poor girl. Left with only one adoring male and not a matched set.” Emma signaled for Leanna to stand and pulled the corset over her head, a little more roughly than usual. “It was a child who came for John, scared out of his wits because he thought his mother was dying in childbed
. If you could have seen the gratitude which swept him when John walked into that kitchen you wouldn’t be so sorry that you lost an escort.”
Leanna sat down and began to unlace her slippers, face flaming. At home, it would have been inconceivable for a maid to speak to her in such a tone, but things in London were not so clearly delineated. Gerry introduced Emma as her companion, surely one of the most conveniently vague words in the English language, and Emma most often dined with the family. But not tonight, not on the more formal occasion of Leanna’s launch into society. Tonight she had served them, had fastened the innumerable hooks of Leanna’s plum silk and then gone to button up her own black cotton, had watched John and Trevor contend to pull out Leanna’s chair while she gulped down a few bites in the kitchen with Gage, had carried plates and serving trays rather than gay conversation. No wonder that the girl sometimes showed temper.
“Besides,” Emma went on, her voice softening almost as if she had read Leanna’s thoughts, “it wasn’t as if Trevor didn’t remain to dance attendance.”
“You like him, don’t you?” Leanna asked, not raising her eyes. “He comes here more often than you and Aunt Gerry said.”
“He’s a fine man,” Emma said shortly. “Easy to talk to.”
“Exactly my thoughts, and I found him quite fascinating. In a different way from John, of course. But Trevor speaks to me…” Leanna paused, “As if I were a human being.”
“And how does John speak to you?”
“As if I were a lady.”
Emma shook out the plum gown. “I didn’t realize the two were mutually exclusive.”
Leanna watched Emma adjust her dress on the hanger and thought back to the day they had bought it, how differently the shopkeeper had treated the two girls. He had approached her with – well, she supposed the word was “respect” but it didn’t feel like respect, it had felt like a refusal to speak directly to her at all. But Emma he had treated like an equal. Men categorized women very quickly, that was clear, but what was the basis of the sorting?
