The Sixth Victim

by Tessa Harris

  “Perhaps you haven’t heard, miss, but five women have been murdered round these parts in the past few weeks. I’m afraid my men are too busy to investigate a crime that may or may not have been committed when Saucy Jack’s still out there.” He pointed to the door as if to signify that there was an awful lot going on outside in the real world and that I should rejoin it as soon as possible.

  I could see that I would make no further progress in the face of such derision. I returned the glove to its bag and walked away.

  CHAPTER 19

  Thursday, October 18, 1888

  CONSTANCE

  Flo didn’t half give me a fright just now. I was kneeling at the grate in the front room, brushing up the ashes, when the front door flings open and in she rushes, all out of breath. For a terrible moment, I thought he must be chasing her; but when she gets her breath back, she says: “House to house. The coppers! They’re at number twenty-nine already.”

  Ma’s come through from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea towel. “Did I just hear right?”

  Flo nods and lurches toward the stairs. “I’ve got that pendant, remember?” she shouts.

  I do. It was a nice one, heart-shaped with a ruby in the middle. She got it from a young lady in Mayfair last year and didn’t want to give it over to Mr. Bartleby, so she put it in the upstairs chest.

  Ma’s wiping her hands harder now, even though they’re dry. “Anything else you can think of, Con?” she asks, casting her eyes around the room.

  “The clock!” I cry, lunging at the mantelpiece. It was so obvious I didn’t think of it at first. Mr. Bartleby gave it to Ma last Christmas. It sits all grand and stately among our other lowly nicknacks, like a gold ring in a magpie’s nest, and, of course, it’ll have been lifted from someone else’s home.

  I chase up the stairs with the clock clasped tightly to me. Flo’s looking out of the front bedroom window, craning her neck to peer down the street. I can hear a knocker being rapped. Old Bill must be close.

  “They’re asking about the Ripper, ain’t they?” I say, opening the lid of the chest.

  “Yes,” she replies curtly.

  “They’re not interested in stolen stuff,” I tell her as I hide the clock under a pillowcase and an apron.

  She turns round and looks at me as though I’m a half-wit. “If it’s easy to nab us, they will,” she says. “So best not give them a ’and, eh?”

  Her words put me back in my box, good and proper. I wind my neck in as she passes me and walks back downstairs. I glance, once more, into the chest and spy the corner of a leather-bound book. I reach in and bring it out, the copy of Little Dorrit that Miss Tindall gave me. It’s one of my favorites. Like little Amy, I fancy one day that I might discover I am the heiress to a vast fortune. I open up its leaves and the smells of leather and paper dance in front of me. I turn to the inscription on the flyleaf, where Miss Tindall has written in her neat hand:

  To dear Constance

  Always know I am never far away, should you need me.

  Your faithful friend,

  Emily

  I remember the day she came to deliver it to me here, in person. It was her first visit to the house and I hadn’t expected her. It was one evening this spring and still light. Ma and Flo were out buying the leftovers at market, but I stayed behind. I was in the middle of Pride and Prejudice and couldn’t put it down. I was so surprised to see her standing there, I can tell you.

  Of course, I panicked. I bid her sit in one chair, then realized its leg was broke, so I bid her move to the other. I offered her a cup of tea and found we had none. I looked down at my feet and saw I had no shoes on. Yet, through all my awkwardness and eagerness to impress my teacher, she remained calm and polite and that saintly smile of hers never left her face.

  “Please don’t fuss on my account, Constance,” she said, looking at me direct. “I am come to see you, not your house. And I am come to give you this.” She held out the book.

  These words put me more at my ease and I sat down beside her on the chair with the wobbly leg and took the book from her.

  “Thank you, miss,” I said, studying the cover in delight.

  “I thought you would enjoy it. It’s a romance, but a witty one,” she told me.

  As I thumbed through the volume, my eyes snagged on the dedication. My head darted up and I saw that she was looking at me, as if to gauge my reaction.

  “You are very kind, miss,” I said.

  “Nonsense,” she replied. “You deserve a reward for all your hard work at the Sunday school.”

  We talked then, about the lessons and what we might study in the next class; then she began to mention some of the pupils by name. “Charlie Phipps is coming along nicely, isn’t he?” she said. I recalled the sad little urchin who first appeared last year, who now knew his alphabet. “And the girls,” she said suddenly. “Molly Deakin and Gracie Arden.” I thought of poor Molly, delicate as a twig, then of Gracie, pretty as a picture, with golden ringlets and large, brown eyes. “Come to think of it, I haven’t seen Molly for a few weeks. Have you?” she asks me.

  I give a little shrug and think for a moment. “No,” I say. “No, I haven’t, miss.”

  EMILY

  I will have to tell Constance soon, although I know she has a notion. I recall the look on her face when I visited her in her own home and questioned her about the missing girls. Yes, I must tell her the whole story very shortly, but not before I have finished telling you.

  After my abortive visit to the police station, I consulted the school register. I found Molly Deakin’s address easily enough. Flower and Dean Street. It was a notorious hangout of criminals and prostitutes. A girl from there stood little chance of ever making anything of herself. That was one of the reasons I was so eager for Molly to continue to better herself, so that she could escape a life of squalor that seemed preordained for her because of her family’s impoverished circumstances. I vowed, there and then, to get to the bottom of her disappearance. I would visit her home and speak with her mother.

  The Deakins lived in a narrow row of blackened brick cottages just off Whitechapel Road. I remember the cold rain, funneled by the wind, stinging my cheeks as I turned into their street. I was thankful for my trusty green umbrella that shielded me from the worst of it. From beneath the cover of my brolly, I searched for number 23. I found it halfway down the street, with a scuffed wooden door and a broken pane in the front window that had been patched with a square of wood. Two ragged children brushed past me as I waited for someone to answer my knock. I am ashamed to admit that for a moment I feared they had snatched my reticule. They had not.

  The door was answered by a woman. She looked old. Her face was crumpled like a worn shoe; yet I was sure she was no more than in her midthirties.

  “Yes?” Her dull fish eyes were suspicious. Perhaps she thought I had come to collect her overdue rent.

  “Mrs. Deakin?” I said with a smile. I tried not to seem threatening.

  “Yerrrr . . . s.” The suspicion in her voice remained. “You ain’t from Mr. Sampson, is ya?”

  Sampson. The name was familiar. Then I remembered.

  “No, I’m not here to collect your rent, Mrs. Deakin. I am come about Molly.” I kept my voice light and made sure that the smile did not leave my face, even though my cheeks were tingling with the cold. It had the desired effect.

  “You’d best come in, then,” she told me, opening wide the door.

  The front room was dingy and damp, like a dozen other such homes into which I had ventured during my time in the East End. There was black mildew in the corners and the wallpaper had peeled to reveal bare plaster. There was no one else in the room, and for that, I was grateful.

  Mrs. Deakin limped toward a chair with a sort of rocking gait and, using her apron as a cloth, wiped the seat. I thought it rude to refuse her after she had gone to so much trouble, so I sat down, even though I feared the chair so rickety that it might break beneath me.

  “It’s
just that she’s not been to Sunday school lately and I was worried she might be unwell.” I was circumspect, hoping against hope that there was some reasonable explanation for her absence.

  Mrs. Deakin remained standing, her hefty weight supported almost entirely on her left side. “I thought they’d’ve told ya,” she said, raising her brows.

  My heart beat a little faster. “Told me what?” I managed to retain my smile.

  “That she’s gone into service.”

  “Service?” The word almost stuck in my throat.

  “That teacher of ’ers, Mrs. P . . .”

  “Parker-Smythe?”

  “That’s the one. She found her a place at a big house in Mayfair last month.” The woman seemed proud to tell me of her news.

  “Ah!” I said. Perhaps my fears were misplaced. “And how is she getting on?”

  Mrs. Deakin shrugged. “I’ve no idea, miss. . . .”

  “Forgive me,” I replied. “I am Emily Tindall. I taught Molly.”

  The woman nodded. “She spoke fondly of you, Miss Tindall.” A smile flickered across her cracked lips. “It’s thanks to you she can read.” I felt a little shot of pride well up inside me, but it was short-lived. “It’s thanks to you she might make a lady’s maid.”

  I tried to hide my disappointment. Molly could have gone far—certainly much further than a lady’s boudoir.

  “Do you have an address for her?” I asked, adding: “I would like to write to her.”

  It was then that my fears resurfaced. Mrs. Deakin shook her weary head and sucked in her flaccid cheeks. “I’m sorry, miss,” she replied. “I was told I weren’t to contact her. It’s up to her to get in touch.”

  I felt my stomach knot at the news. Perhaps Molly had gone to Mayfair to be a lady’s maid, but there was also a chance that she had been pressed into service of a very different kind.

  CONSTANCE

  I’m just about to close the lid of the trunk when I notice something in the pocket of the apron that’s hiding the carriage clock. My hand reaches inside. It’s the calling card the lady gave me. “ ‘Pauline Beaufroy,’” I whisper to myself.

  Just then, there’s a loud rap on the door. Even though I’m half expecting it, it makes me jump. Quick as you like, I shove the card back into my apron pocket. Miss Beaufroy will have to wait.

  It’s PC Tanner, our local bobby. He keeps his eye on Flo and me and it’s not the first time he’s set foot in our front room. I’m thankful I remembered the clock—although, as the constable looks around the room, my own eyes settle on the telltale ring of dust it’s left on the mantelpiece. Luckily, he doesn’t notice it. We’re all lined up like the proverbial three wise monkeys and he just asks us if we’ve seen anything suspicious lately. We shake our heads in time.

  “No, Constable. We ain’t seen nothing,” says Flo, all coy. “But we’re very afraid.” She flutters her lashes.

  “I’m sure you are, miss,” he says, his cheeks flushing slightly. Flo’s the mistress of her art. He wants out as quick as possible. “We’re doing everything we can to find the killer,” he says, all flustered and heading toward the door.

  Ma opens it to let him out, and he’s just about to step over the threshold when I suddenly get this terrible urge. I don’t know what comes over me, but I have to ask him.

  “Any more news on the Whitehall Mystery?” I say, out of the blue.

  PC Tanner stops dead and fixes me with a frown. “Why d’ya ask?”

  Flo stands on my toe and takes over. “We read about it in the papers. He’s getting everywhere, this Ripper fella!” she says with a little roll of her head.

  “As a matter of fact,” replies PC Tanner, his back stiffening with his own self-importance, “there was a new development just yesterday.”

  “Oh?” says Flo, now genuinely keen to know.

  “Yes. Between you and me,” he says, leaning forward all confidentially, “they found a leg to go with the torso.”

  “No!” gasps Flo.

  I instantly think of poor Miss Beaufroy and clamp my hands over my mouth.

  “You all right, miss?” asks PC Tanner.

  “She’s fine,” Flo comes back at him. “Just gets upset easy, that’s all.” She points to her head as if to signify I’m a little soft, and the copper understands her straightaway. He takes his leave without further ado.

  As soon as Ma shuts the door behind him, Flo’s down on me like a ton of bricks. “What you want to do that for?” she scolds.

  “I’m not sure,” I say. And I’m genuinely not.

  CHAPTER 20

  Friday, October 19, 1888

  EMILY

  Terence Cutler sits alone by a sickly fire. In his hand, he cradles a brandy. It is his third this evening. His sister-in-law’s visit has rattled his nerves even further. He was worried before, but now he is constantly on edge. So much so, that the sound of rapping on the door past eight o’clock at night makes his stomach lurch. He holds his breath as he hears a man’s voice; then Dora’s light footsteps approach. A knock and she enters.

  “Sir, there’s a Mr. Troutbeck to see you.”

  “Troutbeck,” repeats Cutler. He wonders what on earth the Westminster coroner could possibly want with him. He was a friend of his late father’s. The prickly middle-aged gentleman was even a guest at his wedding, and he knew that in his professional life he did not suffer fools gladly, especially journalists. Yet, he doubts his visit is a social one.

  “Show him in,” he orders. He stands, grabs his jacket from a nearby chair and hurriedly pulls it on to add a formality to the occasion, just before his unexpected guest appears in the doorway.

  “Mr. Troutbeck.” Cutler offers his hand. The coroner, a somber-looking man, with curly, gray hair and spectacles, steps forward and takes it.

  “I am sorry to call on you so late, Cutler, but I felt it a matter of urgency.”

  “Oh?” The surgeon motions to a nearby armchair.

  Troutbeck seats himself on the edge, as if he is about to conduct important business. “I shall come straight to the point,” he says, flapping away a proffered glass of brandy. “You will know I am presiding over this most ghastly business in Whitehall.”

  “The torso?” Cutler seats himself opposite.

  “Precisely,” he says with a nod. “Well, as if that weren’t enough, they’ve found more remains.”

  “What?” Cutler frowns and reaches for the brandy decanter. “Do you mind?” He lifts up his glass.

  “Go ahead,” says Troutbeck. “Yes, another leg. A bloody journalist, it was. He set a dog on the site and the bally beast uncovered it!”

  Cutler shakes his head in disbelief. “And it belongs to the torso?”

  Troutbeck nods. “Bond says so.” He eyes the brandy decanter. “Damn me, I’ll have one.”

  Cutler jumps to it, pouring the coroner a glass and giving it to him. He hopes he doesn’t notice that his hand is shaking.

  “Makes a mockery of the police, of course. They were supposed to have searched the site thoroughly after the discovery of the torso.” He takes a large gulp of the brandy.

  Cutler agrees. “Of course.”

  Troutbeck, his eyes playing around the room, has spotted a framed photograph of Geraldine on a nearby console table. Suddenly the coroner rises and stalks across the room to study it.

  “Fine-looking woman,” he pronounces, picking up the frame.

  “Yes,” Cutler agrees. Only that morning, I know, he toyed with the idea of placing it in a drawer. Troutbeck’s intrusive manner surprises him.

  “But I digress,” says the coroner, placing the frame gently back on the table. “The leg’s not the only thing Scotland Yard seems to have overlooked, either,” he says, resuming his place on the chair.

  “Oh?” Cutler’s curiosity is piqued.

  “No.” The coroner hotches to his left and reaches into his waistcoat pocket to produce a small paper packet. He sets it down on the low table in front of him and unwraps it. “The bally j
ournalist found this, too.”

  Cutler stares wide-eyed at the object. It is a gold bar brooch, studded with three rubies. His expression gives him away.

  “It is familiar to you?”

  “Why, yes,” says the surgeon, his voice registering alarm. He reaches for the jewelry to inspect it. Turning it over, he looks at the back.

  Troutbeck nods. “As soon as I saw the inscription, I feared it might be your wife’s.”

  Cutler stares at the inscribed words: To dearest Geraldine on the occasion of our marriage, 3rd June 1882. Forever, TC.

  “Where was this found?” Cutler feels the bile rising up in his chest. He sets down the brooch before him.

  “Just by the leg. The journalist handed it to an inspector, who thought I should see it.”

  Cutler reaches for his handkerchief from his pocket and holds it to his mouth.

  The coroner looks at him anxiously, but presses on. “Of course, I told the pencil pusher I’d make inquiries straightaway. I’m assuming your good wife is about.”

  The surgeon has turned an odd shade of gray. “I fear not.”

  “Out then?” The coroner grows more wary. “Away?”

  Cutler is silent.

  “When was the last time you saw your wife, Cutler?” The coroner grows impatient.

  The surgeon can barely breathe. “A while ago,” he wheezes. “She went away.”

  “Away? How long ago?”

  “Eight weeks, ten weeks perhaps.” He thinks a lie may be called for. “We quarreled. She went to stay with friends, but I have not heard from her.”

  Troutbeck’s stern expression relaxes. He does not pry further, for the time being. A man’s relationship with his wife is a private matter. “And this is hers?” He points to the brooch.

  Cutler simply nods at first, then finally manages to find words. “Yes. It is Geraldine’s.” He pauses, as if steeling himself to ask the question that burns his mouth. He bows his head. “So you think the body is hers?” he mumbles.