by Kim Wright
Phillips waved his hand. “And he shan’t. Would you like to take a final look at Stride? She’s going in the ground tomorrow.”
Just part of the job, Trevor thought, walking resolutely toward the small room at the back of the mortuary where the mortuary assistants were beginning the embalming process. The body lay on the table, wrapped in its muslin shroud but Trevor noted that burial clothes were draped over the camera tripod. Presumably after her blood was drained and the embalming fluid was pumped into the woman’s veins she would be dressed, lowered into her coffin, and photographed.
“Stride is coming along smoothly enough, but Eddowes took us half the morning,” Phillips said, coming up behind him, a cup in his shaky hand. “Even after we stitched her up tight, her wounds were so numerous and profound that the embalming fluid continued to leak. She went into the box rather wet, I’m afraid. Would you like tea?”
Any number of graceless jokes sprang to Trevor’s lips, but he bit them back. Detectives thrived on dark humor, and he considered their sarcasm and perversity a defense against the horrors of the street, and thus necessary to their calling. Upstairs, the Yard was a bit of a boy’s club, and, if unchecked, the boisterous spirit among the bobbies could lead to disrespect bordering on the edge of desecration. Trevor made it a point not to think of what had happened to one girl, by the looks of her likely no more than fifteen, whose naked and violated body had been found on the outskirts of London last Christmas morning - and who then had the additional misfortune of traveling to the morgue by means of a paddy wagon full of coppers angry over having drawn a holiday shift. Inspectors turned a blind eye to certain matters. The policy of releasing minor offenders “at the discretion of the arresting officer” had led to thieves bribing their way out of jail with the very goods they had just stolen, or prostitutes who, with a few minutes on their knees before a bobby, found their way back to the streets almost immediately.
And so it was an imperfect system, one created and maintained by imperfect men. Trevor did not consider the police force especially corrupt or particularly blameworthy and instead viewed this myriad of small lapses as the natural resort of a group of men left entirely too much on their own. Men deprived of female company quickly became fearsome creatures, and Trevor believed you could argue that civilization was in fact the invention of women, or at least the invention of the men who wanted to please them. If it were not for the ladies, Trevor often proclaimed, especially after a few beers, humanity would doubtlessly still be roaming the forests in animal skins.
But here, here in this small brightly lit room far below the surface of Scotland Yard, things were different. The atmosphere was as hushed and decorous as a classroom – no, Trevor decided, as he seated himself in the lone wooden chair in the corner. No, it was more like a chapel. The young assistant named Severin treated the long thin body of the woman beneath the shroud with a palpable dignity, careful to cover the parts not necessary to his work, lifting and lowering each limb with a gentle touch. He had slipped needles into various veins at her ankles, throat, wrists, and somewhere between the strips of cloth draped about her torso while the even-younger lad, whose name Trevor could not recall, was moving from one spot to another, checking the tubes. The blood was flowing out of her, flowing fast, and since this was the one that the Ripper didn’t have his fair time with, there was plenty left to give. Severin and the assistant circled around the table in a ritualistic manner that reminded Trevor of a priest and altar boy.
Could he work in this room? Or would the very solemnity drive him mad? He would have to remember to tell Davy there could be no laughing down here, deep in this inner sanctum, no tobacco or belching or scratching, no whistling or passing of gas. The tubes running from the woman’s body were changing from red to pink and her slender white feet, poking from beneath the shroud, glowed like marble. Severin removed the needle from her ankle and pulled the sheet over that part of her body too, hiding her soles from the insolent eyes of men. Something in his manner made Trevor ashamed of himself.
The insertion of the embalming fluid seemed to go well enough, although it did require a towel to be tightly tied around the woman’s throat to make sure that everything that was flowing in did not just as swiftly flow back out. Severin asked if they needed photographs and Phillips said “Not now. When she’s dressed.” Glancing back at Trevor he added, “I thought it would be prudent to record the full extent of the wounds exhibited by Eddowes.” Trevor nodded automatically, although it took him a moment to understand the doctor’s meaning. They must have photographed the Eddowes woman’s naked form. Trevor guessed she lay in the other coffin in the room, the one that had already been nailed shut.
Once the fluid was in, Severin began unrolling the cloths that bound the body. An arm tumbled free. It was strange - an abrupt, spontaneous gesture, as if the woman had moved of her own accord, and Trevor abruptly stood, wavering uncertainly on his own feet. It seemed vulgar to remain to see them bare her and dress her and the complete silence of the room was beginning to unnerve him. The clank of the hypodermic needle against the steel tray sounded as loud as a scream. Phillips approached the table, glancing over at him again.
“What exactly did you need?”
“Hair samples. A scrape of skin and fingernail cuttings.”
Phillips did not ask him what he planned to do with these things, which was lucky since Trevor could not have answered. He had read that the French police used samples from the victims as well as the suspects, so he wished to have them at the ready.
“From both women?” Phillips asked.
Trevor nodded, although he knew that his request meant prying the nails from the coffin in the corner and revealing what he could only assume was the horrifying visage of Catherine Eddowes. Her hollow-eyed face had visited his dreams for two nights as it was, but considering what Phillips and his assistants went through on a daily basis, he supposed he could muster up the courage to pull a strand of hair and clip the woman’s fingernails.
“I’ll get them,” Severin said quietly. Was it just Trevor’s imagination, or had the younger man looked at him with sympathy? I haven’t fooled them at all, Trevor thought. This is a fine business, for the chief coordinator of the Ripper case to sway on his feet at the sign of a woman’s bare arm, for the man in charge to show such weakness in the presence of subordinates.
“Excellent,” he said briskly. “Hair, skin cells, fingernails, and if you’ll fold them in paper and mark them with each victim’s name, I’ll be in my lab.”
It was a rather grand statement, since his lab consisted of a bare wooden table, and Trevor turned back into the main mortuary filled with doubt. As he heard the unmistakable groan of nails being pulled from a pine coffin he sat down in a chair and stared straight ahead at the empty chalkboard. Ah, but wouldn’t this be the ultimate joke? If a man moved heaven and earth to get a forensics lab, only to find he didn’t have the stomach for the job?
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
October 9
8: 17 AM
The sun was rising brightly over Mayfair, unusual for an October morning in London. Gage had opened the draperies early to allow the rays to heat the house before Geraldine and the girls awakened for the day. He had returned from his errands with a box of fresh baked tarts and an armful of newspapers. At nine, Gerry descended the stairs still in her bedclothes and robe, as she enjoyed doing on certain lazy days such as this. A clear day seemed to cheer up almost everyone, she noted, for even Gage wore a smile as he greeted her at the bottom of the stairs.
“Morning, Madame. Tea, tarts, and newspapers in the parlor as you wished.”
“Thank you, Gage. I see your walk agreed with you.”
“Yes, Madame,” answered Gage, again with the corners of his mouth curling up. “Seems we have the start of a lovely day.”
He disappeared into the kitchen and, musing that if they lived in Tahiti, Gage would be absolutely mirthful, Gerry poured herself a cup of tea and nestled herself into her favorite c
hair. She picked up a copy of the London Times and glanced over the headlines before serving herself the plumpest apricot tart.
“Good morning, Aunt Gerry,” Leanna said, entering the parlor dressed in her robe and bedclothes also. “Have you seen Emma this morning?”
No sooner had she asked the question, when Emma entered from the kitchen, fully clothed, but as cheery as all the others. She took a plate and the closest newspaper and sat down herself. The women were in the habit of scouring the morning news for a mention of the Ripper or a quote from Trevor. For the last few days, however, the story seemed to have died down a bit and Leanna tossed aside the Star with a sigh. “Most of the accounts are just being repeated.”
“Listen to this,” Geraldine said, waving her own paper. “’The police still do not know who he or she is and seem to be as baffled as the public.’ Imagine that. ‘He or she’. Do you think there really is a chance the Ripper is female?”
“Oh, I doubt it,” Leanna said. “More likely just some reporter trying to get a new column out of the same tired old information. Raising the possibility of Jill the Ripper is just another way to sell issues, nothing more.”
“Whatever they’re doing, it’s working, for people never tire of violence and gore,” Geraldine said piously, managing to ignore the fact that she purchased more papers than anyone. Leanna shot Emma a conspiratorial smile which went unnoticed, for Emma was intent on a letter to an editor of the Times concerning anti-vivisection, and a familiar sounding phrase had caught her eye.
“Gerry! Gerry! They’ve printed it. The Herman Strong letter. It’s here. And it’s on the editorial page, too,” Emma cried, jumping to her feet and showing the section to Geraldine.
“Herman Strong?” asked Leanna. “Who’s he?”
“Let me see! Let me see!” exclaimed Aunt Gerry, snatching the paper from Emma’s hand and spreading it across her plate. Emma and Leanna gathered around her and read along with her, Geraldine’s face slowly filling with glee.
“Marvelous,” she sighed. “They printed every line.”
“Herman Strong?” Leanna asked again. “Who is he?”
“I’m Herman Strong,” Gerry said. “I send all my letters to editors under a male pseudonym, so they’ll print the blasted things. For years, I sent them with my own signature only to be rejected. Then one day while I was at a newspaper office arguing with an editor, a funny thing happened. They were in the process of removing me from the premises when a very polite clerk whispered that I should sign a man’s name to my letters and they would have a better chance of making the edition. So I did and at last I’m in print,” she explained with an ever-widening grin. “Her-man Strong. Do you get it, darling? I’m the ‘her’ who is as ‘strong’ as any ‘man’.”
“Um, very clever, but I can’t believe you’d…”
“Oh, I’m not happy to have to play these silly games, but it’s a case of the message being more important than the messenger. If an editor believes a man wrote a letter against vivisection, he deems it a worthy topic for public debate, and in the end that’s all that matters. People rename emotions, darling, when men have them. What they once called ‘hysterics’ becomes ‘compassion.’” Gerry squinted down at the paper. “Scientific experimentation on live animals! It’s absolutely repellant! I understand that even the Queen is against it.”
Leanna slumped back in her chair. So many things were bothering her lately. When Tom had visited, his ease in Gerry’s home had made it quite clear that he had traveled to London numerous times during his first year of school. The aunt who had been only a shadowy presence to Leanna, had been a friend to him. The city she had only glimpsed on rare occasions, had been his holiday playground. And, although she had considered her younger brother her closest confidant, it was clear he had kept many things from her. Mostly the fact that he enjoyed – merely because he was male – a richer, fuller, more exciting life.
Why had her family not taken her to London more often? During her years growing up in the country, she had rarely questioned the small scope of her daily activities but now she was renaming things herself and what she had once called simplicity was beginning to seem more like monotony. Her grandfather she could understand, for Leonard hated the bustle of the city and probably would never have ventured there himself if it hadn’t been for the museums and galleries. But why hadn’t her mother realized how much a jaunt to London would thrill a young girl?
Leanna’s mind drifted back to her first week in London, an afternoon when she and Emma had been out looking at dresses. When the shopkeeper had noticed Leanna’s interest in the wine-colored silk, he had slipped over to her side. But when she had asked him the price, he had only laughed and said not to worry. The bill would not be enough to drive her husband or her father to despair.
“I don’t have a husband – or a father,” she had said. “But I do have money and I’m asking how much of it you’d expect in exchange for this dress.”
A hush had fallen over the already-hushed shop and the man had literally backed away from her, as if she had suddenly sprouted horns. Emma had merely looked up from the gloves she was admiring and said “The price, Sir?” and the man had said promptly, “Seven pounds.”
At the time Leanna had been unable to understand where she had gone wrong. She and Emma were the same age. Leanna’s mourning clothes did not indicate she was a woman of means and Emma’s cultured voice did not indicate that she was a servant. So how had the man so swiftly placed them in their respective categories, decided that Emma was someone capable of discussing money while Leanna was not? She had tried to talk to Emma about it on the way home but Emma had been no help. Leanna had shaken the bundle which held her new dress – Emma had been able to talk the shopkeeper down to six pounds – and asked “Why wouldn’t he tell me the price?”
“He could see you were a lady,” Emma had said shortly. “Ladies may shop, in the sense that they select, but they don’t haggle on the price and they don’t pay.”
“But how could he possibly know that – “
“That I wasn’t a lady?” Emma had jerked her chin so violently that Leanna had fallen silent. “Shopkeepers always know these things, Leanna. They can smell money from two blocks away.”
So I have money, but I can’t just go out and spend it, Leanna thought. Someone else has to spend it on my behalf. I can’t feel coins in my palm, I can’t vote, or think for myself, or kiss a man, or row the Thames. And the worst part of all is that I never knew all the things I couldn’t do until a few weeks ago. I’ve been deliberately held back from my own life. Preserved, like one of Grandfather’s specimens. But for what? To what great end did they all plan to use me?
“Emma, this is cause for celebration,” Geraldine said, pulling Leanna’s thoughts back to the present. “Will you assist me in selecting my clothes for the day? I wish to take a walk, perhaps call on Tess and then Fleanders. Won’t he paw the ground when he hears of this?”
“Today calls for the peacock silk,” Emma said, following Gerry out of the room. Leanna sat alone in the parlor. How unfair it was, when a woman as intelligent and educated as Aunt Gerry cannot be taken seriously enough that her opinion can be printed in a simple newspaper, she thought, reaching for a second roll. She remembered John’s words about his clinic, that nothing was fair, and the tart tasted a bit sour in her mouth.
Grandfather lied to me, she thought grimly. Trying to teach me and Tom that the world has a natural order, that everything’s for a reason and it can all be understood, even mastered, if we put our minds to it. A big wretched lie. Our lives are all a matter of circumstances of birth, mere accidents of chance. Leanna set the tart aside on the nearest table and walked to the window, gazing out at the manicured gardens on each side of the street, the neat brickwork, the symmetry of the houses. This was a lie too. The whole street was a lie, an implication that the people who lived there deserved to live there, that they were kept safe within these gardens and gates for a reason, that they were somehow b
y birth entitled to this pretty, pleasant life. But, Leanna thought, what have I done to deserve any of this? A different spin of the wheel and I could be one of those women walking the streets of the East End.
Men were so pragmatic. Trevor and John and Tom all of them saying that it didn’t matter how things are done as long as they’re done. But, still, it was shocking to learn that even Aunt Gerry was willing to obscure her identity in order to serve a higher purpose.
“Evidently I’m the one who’s wrong,” Leanna said aloud. But she didn’t really think so.
1:20 PM
“So, Neddy, you can see why we’re a bit desperate,” Cecil Bainbridge said, settling back awkwardly in the spindle chair. “The best legal minds that promises can buy have all insisted Grandfather’s will is unbreakable. We’re left to find another way ‘round.”
Edmund Solmes pursed his lips. “You could play on your sister’s sympathies. I’m sure if you both went to her, asked for a hundred pounds apiece or so…”
“A hundred pounds!” Cecil exploded. “Scarcely a drop in the bucket to what I need, and when that’s gone I shall have to go back and beg and wheedle for a hundred more and then a bit more. It’s endless, Neddy, just as it was when Grandfather was alive, only more degrading this time because ‘tis my baby sister who is clutching the pursestrings. Try to understand my position…”
“It’s actually your position, isn’t it?” Solmes said to William. “You’re the eldest, the one deprived of his natural expectations.”
William shrugged his beefy shoulders. “Unlike my brother, I’ve come to terms with the situation. In fact, I’ve recently made a decision. I plan to study the science of estate management.”
“Estate…management?” Cecil said, his tone as incredulous as if William had announced plans to become a priest.
