by Kim Wright
Davy turned from the waterfront and began making his way back toward Whitechapel. The streets were quiet and deserted – not surprising, perhaps, in light of the fact the afternoon papers were full of news of the Kelly killing. He had walked several blocks before it occurred to him that he had passed not a single woman on his route. It was as if they had all faded from sight, as if London had become a town with nothing but wordless, hurrying men.
Davy stopped for a beer and spread the papers across the bar to study as he drank. Nine vessels had been at sea for the dates that supported his theory, but the problem wasn’t identifying the ships, it was obtaining a record of the men who had been aboard. The vessels running in and out of the East End docks were primarily fishing boats and cargo ships, angling for a quick profit and with their captains none too choosy about who came aboard. Some of them claimed to have set crews but sailors were an unpredictable lot, prone to drunkenness and whoring on their shore leaves. If a captain found himself with a light crew, as was not uncommon, he might stroll the dock area, hiring extra hands at random. The official list of who was aboard any certain ship on any set day was undoubtedly riddled with inaccuracies. Still, it was a place to start.
“Shall I set you up again?” asked the barkeeper from halfway down the long counter.
“No thank you,” answered Davy. “I best be back to work.”
The streets were dark for mid-afternoon and the rain had given way to heavy mist. Davy pulled up his collar and decided to return to Mary Kelly’s house to see if they might have overlooked some small detail. Unlikely, for Abrams and Trevor had gone over the hovel literally on hands and knees, but he had to do something to pass the afternoon, for he dreaded the moment he must return to Scotland Yard.
He took several shortcuts through the East End alleys and soon found himself facing Mary Kelly’s front door. Davy stared at the outside for a few moments and decided not to enter just yet but rather to investigate the alleyways in the area.
He selected one at random. Although the bobbies had combed the trash that morning, Davy still looked behind the barrels and crates for anything that seemed out of place. He had searched one side for about a hundred yards and was just about to round the corner to the right when he stopped suddenly and threw himself against the wall. Before him was a slender, dark man peering into Mary Kelly’s front window.
The man did not knock on the door, but rather stood staring through the glass, his black cape thrown about him and a felt hat obscuring his face. Could the Ripper have returned to admire his handiwork? Such a stratagem would be bold indeed, but Trevor had repeatedly warned him that the Ripper worked by unusual methods, and applying normal principles or reason to him would be fruitless. The man stepped back and looked at the numbers on the front of the building, as if to assure himself he was at the correct address.
Then the man looked up and down the street and started off into the mist. Davy gave him a minute to get underway and then turned out of the alley, nearly colliding with a tall figure buttoned near to bursting into a tweed jacket. “Scuse,” he muttered, his chest brushing against that of the stranger and he looked up to find his eyes locked with those of Mad Maudy.
“Scuse me, ma’am,” he said, diverting his face from the blast of stale breath that emitted from her scowl, but she appeared to not remember him, to scarcely register his presence. She too was watching Mary Kelly’s door. Should he stay, observe her reasons for coming to this address, or follow the stranger? Davy hastily decided in favor of the latter and left Maude in the muddy street, her gaze fixated on the scene of the crime.
Davy tried to keep as close to the man as possible without making him aware he was being followed, but the stranger moved swiftly, turning on every corner, and Davy almost lost him twice. He tailed him for nearly a half-hour, out of the East End, across several wide parks which made unobtrusive following especially difficult, and finally to the middle-class neighborhood of Brixton. The stranger crossed the street and walked along a row of identical brownstones, eventually turning at one to climb the steps and disappear through the door.
Davy sought shelter beneath a tree and waited for about ten minutes, wondering when or if the man would leave again. Eventually a rickety Hansom cab halted across the street and the driver leaned over to let out his fare. Davy watched the rider mount the steps to his home before approaching the driver.
“Need a ride, Sir?” asked the driver.
“No,” answered Davy. “But could you kindly tell me who occupies the house across the street?”
“That be the home of Doctor John Harrowman.”
“Ah,” said Davy, spreading his palms. “Then I am quite lost. Thank you for your help.” He stepped back quickly so he would not be splashed as the cab pulled off and returned to the tree which offered inadequate refuge from the returning rain. Perhaps better to go back to the Yard and tell Trevor and Abrams what he’d found.
But just as forty minutes had passed, Davy heard a door shut and saw the dark figure descending the stairs from the Harrowman house. Davy’s heart warmed with excitement, then nearly lurched as the doctor abruptly turned and started in his own direction. Instead of passing him, however, the man hailed a cab, gave some directions to the driver and rolled off, leaving Davy alone in the street.
Frantically, Davy looked about to see if another cab was available, but the street was empty. So he ran behind the doctor’s Hansom and grabbed hold of the leather belt used to tie down luggage. Giving it a yank, he was able to climb onto the small lip where excess bags were stored. The driver looked back in indignation but Davy tossed him a coin, which seemed to sate the man, who clearly had no objection to gaining two fares for one trip.
The rain worsened. Davy held tightly to the leather strap, drawing his boots beneath him as the cab gained speed and weaved its way through the streets. He cursed as the dirty water splashed up on his already soaked clothing and pulled his cap over his face as best he could without losing his grip. Finally the driver began to slow, so Davy jumped from his perch and stumbled until he could shorten his stride.
He stopped to gather his breath and watched the cab come to a halt in front of a handsome house in Mayfair. John Harrowman paid his fare, ran up the steps, and rang the front bell, disappearing from view almost immediately. Davy did not have to ask who lived in this particular house, for Trevor had taken him by Geraldine Bainbridge’s home before. Wet and exhausted, already beginning to cough, he turned and began the long walk back to Scotland Yard.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
4:20 PM
The note is delivered to his place of work. The ultimate insult.
But there is no mistaking it is meant for him. His name is on the envelope. Badly printed from an unschooled hand. His last name misspelled, as it has been before.
He rips it open.
A crude message. Another ridiculous attempt at rhyme. His eye scans the page, fixates on one line.
I saw you.
The words go through him like a blade. Stop his breath in his throat, could almost stop his heart.
He has been seen.
He wants to scream, but there are others around him. The stupid and the weak, perhaps, but still capable of observing his discomfiture. They might ask about the note, might even draw conclusions he does not wish them to draw. He struggles to regain control over his functions. He inhales slowly. Exhales even more slowly.
The wolf has found him again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
4:30 PM
Cecil read the newspaper story of the Kelly murder a third time, the thumping in his chest growing stronger with each paragraph. The dirty dishes lay untouched on the table and he picked up the crystal bell at his right and rang it with great vigor.
“Save your efforts, darling,” his mother said crisply, as she entered the dining room. “Fanny saw it fit to leave us this afternoon when she overheard your brother telling Cook we’ll have to suspend wages.”
“Who served tea?” Cecil asked with
some surprise. It had been awaiting him when he returned from his highly unsatisfactory afternoon of poker.
“I did,” Gywnette admitted, sinking into one of the faded Queen Anne chairs.
“Mother! Things surely can’t be as bad as that.”
“I’m afraid they are. Cook is the only one who is left now and I daresay her presence is more from a misguided sense of loyalty than anything else.” Gwynette’s lips were thin and tight. “She’s of the old school, believes that servants are members of the family but I’m afraid the younger girls…”
“Expect to be paid.”
“Indeed.”
“Who shall do the linens? Attend to our wardrobes? Fetch the water and the firewood, for God’s sake, and manage the carriage?”
“The horse and carriage were sold last week.”
Cecil winced. “Ah yes.”
“The annuities come in again on the twentieth of the month,” Gwynette said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Perhaps at that time we can find some temporary help, at least a girl to do the laundry.”
“The twentieth! That’s over a week away!”
“I know what the date is, Cecil. We didn’t seem to do very well with our money management this month, did we?”
“It’s inhumane to expect us to maintain a household on the miserly amount the will allows.” Cecil lit his pipe and prepared to expound further but Gwynette suddenly turned to the side table.
“Did you see the latest letter from Leanna?”
“No. Nor do I care to.”
“She seems quite concerned about us. This is the second letter this week. Have you made any effort to correspond with her, Cecil? Or with Tom?”
“I’ve been busy…”
“Indeed. Well, you might peruse the letter. She gives a rather droll description of Geraldine and the servants she employs. There’s some sort of genetic freak named Gage from what I understand, and a maid named Emma who seems to have made quite an impression upon your sister…”
“Good Lord, Mother, what does Leanna’s London gossip have to do with our present situation?”
“She talks a good bit about the Ripper…”
“Really? What does she say?”
Gwynette looked at him in a reflective fashion. “So that intrigues you, does it? Your father had a morbid turn of mind as well. If you’re interested, the letter is here on the tea table. I suppose I have dishes to wash.”
Gwynette walked slowly out, Cecil’s plates teetering on a tray, and the room fell silent. Cecil had seen Leanna’s letter himself that morning for he made it a habit to rise early enough to be the first member of the family to intercept the post. It would never do for either his mother or his brother to see how many letters were arriving from Pinkernerry’s, the local lending institution, or how many notices had accumulated from the bank. Writing checks on his mother’s account had been simple enough, for Cecil had a clever hand and could simulate Gwynette’s signature nearly as well as his own. Borrowing against Winter Garden proved a much trickier matter. The deed was in William’s name and Cecil supposed he had Edmund Solmes to thank for pulling a bit of wool there, but if William ever found out…
Cecil sighed. His hard-won funds had not lasted very long at the track or the card table, for he was undeniably having a run of black luck. Why couldn’t the others see that banker’s interest was but a mere shilling compared to what a man could earn in a good day of wagers? He was trying to lift them all out of penury but his mother and William seemed willing to accept their new station with nary a protest.
It was not easy to be the only one in the family with any ambition.
Cecil carefully extracted a paper from the inner pocket of his waistcoat. It was Pinkernerry’s “final notice,” their third “final notice” to be precise, meaning that he had been frightened silly by the first two for no reason at all. But a fourth final notice? It seemed too much to hope for. Cecil placed the letter back in his pocket, along with the hastily-ripped news account of Mary Kelly’s killing. The article was intriguing because this victim had been young and lovely, the artist’s sketch showing a serene smile which might have belonged to a gentlewoman. The Ripper appeared to be changing his style.
After a moment of reflection, Cecil added Leanna’s most recent letter to his pocket as well. He checked his pocket watch and noted that, with the carriage gone and the family reduced to foot travel, he didn’t want to be late for his meeting with Solmes at the track. The ponies waited for no man.
4:35 PM
Hearing the front bell ring, Leanna went to the door and opened it. “John,” she gasped, almost stumbling forward as she wrapped her arms around his neck. “It’s awful.” Her eyes were red and swollen with weeping.
“There, darling,” said John, reaching toward her. “I had no idea you would still be so upset, but I had to return, had to. Couldn’t bear the way I left you. I want to explain myself.”
“You have to go to Emma.”
“Emma? What’s wrong with Emma?”
“You don’t know? You haven’t seen the papers?”
“Leanna, whatever do you mean?”
“The Ripper -”
“Yes, I read that. Another victim, a girl I knew myself, a former patient. But what does that have to do with Emma?”
“Mary Kelly was her sister.”
John rocked back on his heels. “Dear God, it can’t be.”
Leanna wiped her eyes and sat down on a footstool. “None of us, not even Aunt Gerry, knew she had a sister. Evidently she couldn’t bring herself to admit…” Leanna straightened her shoulders. “But she must have loved her, John. This girl was all the family Emma had in this world and she’s distraught.”
“Take me to her,” John said quietly, his shock evaporating and his doctor’s manner returning. “I was on my way to do rounds, so I have my bag.”
Leanna led John up the flights of stairs to the third floor, where, in the hall, Geraldine and Gage were pleading with little success for Emma to open the door. Gerry too had been weeping, and Gage was making ineffectual jabs at the bolt with a butter knife.
“Oh, John, can you do something?” wailed Geraldine who suddenly looked every one of her seventy years. “The poor girl is in pieces.”
Nudging Gage aside, John rapped lightly on the door. “Emma, this is John Harrowman. I just want to talk to you, dear. Please.” The response was thundering silence. Leanna bit her lip.
John glanced at Gerry. “Is there another key?”
“Oh, I’ve taken leave of my senses,” Gerry muttered. “Extra keys, of course. Gage, go to my room. On my dresser there is a jewelry box. In the bottom drawer there are some spare keys. Bring all of them.”
Gage hurried as fast as his feeble body could carry him and soon returned with about half a dozen keys in his hand. John tried them in sequence and with the fourth the lock sprang free. Geraldine started to rush in, but John stopped her at the door.
“Leave me alone with her. I know about these matters,” he said in a tone that made the others freeze in their tracks. He shut the door behind him and removed his hat and cape, draping them both over a chair and walking to the bed, where Emma lay sobbing. He sat down beside her and gently put his arms around her and let her cry, holding her in silence until she seemed to calm. He helped her lie back upon the bed, and stood gazing down at her face, so bloated with tears that he would not have recognized her had he passed her on the street. She looked back at him trustingly.
“Emma, I’m going to give you something to help you rest. I know you’ve been through a lot, but you must be strong. Losing someone dear is a terrible thing, I know for I’ve lost loved ones. But I knew your sister, Emma. She was intelligent and strong as well as beautiful. You can be proud of her.”
Emma considered this in silence but at least the dreadful wracking sobs had left her. John pulled the sheets and blankets up, then went to the door and asked Gage to collect his black satchel from the entry. Leanna and Gerry looked at him beseechingly, but he sho
ok his head.
“No visitors yet.”
John returned to the bed and held Emma’s hand until Gage came in with the bag. He filled a syringe with morphine and injected it into Emma’s arm.
“I want you to sleep now, Emma,” said John, brushing her forehead with his hand, knowing that within minutes she would have no choice in the matter. “You’re among friends here.” He waited at her side for a few more minutes until her chest began to rise and fall with the deep, profound breaths of a drugged sleep.
John found Geraldine and Leanna downstairs in the parlor, sitting as still as two stone statues. “She’ll rest,” he said. “And when she wakes she’ll seem a bit confused. Just give her some hot soup and tea and keep her relaxed. I’ll stop in again to check on her.”
“And I’m going to send a message to Cambridge,” he went on, when there was no response to his directions. “Under the circumstances, perhaps Tom could stay a fortnight or so until things are better.”
“I want Tom,” Leanna wailed, like a child.
“Of course you do, darling, and you shall have him,” John said.
“You’ve been an invaluable help already and we’re not so rattled as we seem.” Geraldine attempted to sit up straighter, to reassure him with a smile. “If I’d known Emma had a sister, I would have…”
“Spare yourself, Geraldine, for there was nothing any of us could have done for Mary Kelly,” John said. “Now that I stop and think of it, she was very much like Emma. Always seemed out of place, if you know what I mean.” He looked from Geraldine to Leanna. “I have my patients,” he said helplessly.
“Of course,” Gerry said. “Tess told me you were up all of last night with her daughter. Twins, I take it. She’s over the moon.”
John nodded. “A long labor and Margory is quite depleted. I was headed there when I got your note. But she’s young and will recover and yes, Tess is now the proud grandmother of two fine boys.”
