by Tessa Harris
The coroner purses his lips. “It is the obvious answer, dear boy, and the one that you least want to hear. I hate to be the bearer of such awful news.” He pauses before adding: “But I shall say nothing, of course.”
Cutler’s bowed head shoots up. “What?”
Troutbeck looks grave. “What has passed here this evening shall remain between you and me for the time being. Neither of us wants the press on our doorsteps, do we, eh? If it was up to me, I’d ban the whole bally lot of them.”
The surgeon takes a slug of brandy. “So no one will know?” He fingers the brooch.
“Not for the moment,” says Troutbeck. He drains his glass. “It shall remain between us two until there is a positive identification.”
Cutler’s face pales again. “An identification? You mean . . .”
Troutbeck nods. “I’d make every effort to contact Geraldine, if I were you, Cutler. If you can’t . . .”
“. . . I will be called upon to identify the remains.”
The coroner nods. “Precisely. But in the meantime . . .” He lifts the brooch from Cutler’s grasp—and with it, any hope that the surgeon might not be implicated in a murder. “I shall need to return this to the police.”
Cutler’s jaw drops. “Can I not keep it, sir?” He is pleading innocence, faking the worried husband, even though he is genuinely at a loss as to how the brooch might have arrived at the building site in Whitehall.
Troutbeck brooks no nonsense. “’Fraid not. Evidence, dear fellow. Evidence,” he tells him firmly, pocketing the brooch, then adds ruefully: “I’m sure it will be returned to you in due course.”
CHAPTER 21
Saturday, October 20, 1888
CONSTANCE
Last night, I had another dream. I was back at the building site at Cannon Row in Whitehall and the torso was on the ground. Lying next to it was the leg. A woolen stocking clung to part of it and the rest was crusty with dirt. Miss Beaufroy was at my side, weeping, and I was comforting her. I was sad, but then my sadness turned to terror when a great black dog suddenly came bounding from nowhere and started digging in front of our very eyes. It dug and slavered, flinging earth into the air, until suddenly it seized upon an object and began to growl and snarl. It had something in its jaws and it tossed it about like a plaything. Then I realized what it had in its grip. The beast was holding Miss Tindall’s head. I could see her features clear as day; her eyes were wide and her mouth moved, calling out to me. That’s when I screamed. I screamed myself awake. Yet wakefulness doesn’t seem much better.
EMILY
I cannot be certain how my investigations into the missing girls were uncovered. I think, perhaps, that someone must have followed me to Flower and Dean, to the Deakins’ home. Of course, that is irrelevant now, but at the time, I felt betrayed and angry. It happened one morning in May. I had just arrived at the ragged school shortly after half past seven. It was my custom to be in my classroom half an hour earlier than my pupils so that I could further prepare for my lessons. On this particular morning, however, the principal, Mr. Antrobus, a stern man with huge muttonchop whiskers and spectacles so thick that everyone assumed he was half blind, was waiting for me. As I opened my door, I was shocked to see him standing on the raised dais at the front of the room. Hands clasped firmly behind his back like some sergeant major, he was looking out of the window. The children were not allowed such a privilege. Their desks were on a lower level and all that the fortunate ones who sat at the front could see were the gables of nearby dwellings and the occasional handkerchief of hazy sky. From my chair behind the desk, I, however, could view the tangle of squalid dwellings that surrounded the school like skeins of dirty wool. It was on this scene that Mr. Antrobus was now brooding through his jam jar glasses.
“Miss Tindall,” he greeted me sharply, not bothering to turn round. “Shut the door, if you please.” He was a man who rarely smiled, but sometimes his tone would be almost jovial. On this occasion, however, it was far from it. There was a gravity in his manner that delivered a sense of foreboding; on reflection, I might even dare to say a hint of menace. I felt the hairs on my neck rise.
“Yes, sir,” I managed to blurt, closing the door and moving toward the headmaster. Suddenly I was a child again, forced to look up to my superior who loomed above me.
Clasping my own hands in front of my waist, I tried to stop them from shaking. I had no wish to show any weakness. As I said, Mr. Antrobus did not turn immediately, clearly preferring to allow me to stew in my own confusion and anxiety. I glanced at the large clock, placed at the back of the room. It was purely for the teacher’s benefit, and out of the sight of the pupils, some of whom would gladly watch time tick past rather than pay attention to their lessons. After several seconds of silence, I decided to take the initiative.
“Is anything wrong, Headmaster?” I asked, my voice quavering in my throat.
Mr. Antrobus allowed another few seconds to elapse before he finally turned. Through his huge lenses, I saw him narrow his steely eyes. “I ask the questions here, Miss Tindall,” he barked. “And it would seem that you ask far too many.” From his high perch, he pointed an accusing finger at me. The sudden motion caused his glasses to slip down his bulbous nose.
I froze. Had someone reported my visit to the Deakins’ lodgings? I kept my counsel. I must remain calm and not incriminate myself.
“Sir?” I played the innocent.
“Come, come, Miss Tindall.” Clearly, my feigned ignorance would not wash. “We have received complaints.”
“Complaints?” The news came like a thunderbolt, wrong-footing me. I had no idea what he was talking about. “I’m afraid I am at a loss, sir.” My mouth was suddenly so dry that I struggled to form my words.
I watched Mr. Antrobus put his hand into his waistcoat pocket and retrieve a letter. Clearing his throat, he pushed his spectacles back up the bridge of his nose, then unfolded it. He read out loud: “ ‘It has come to our attention that one of your teachers, Miss Emily Tindall, has engaged in conduct that is both unbecoming, and possibly even criminal, in her dealings with the parents of certain pupils at St. Jude’s Sunday School.’ ”
Mr. Antrobus peered at me over the rims of his spectacles. “Well? What have you to say for yourself, Miss Tindall? According to this”—he waved the letter at me—“you have been demanding money for your services from parents who can ill afford to pay.” The shock of such an accusation must have registered immediately in my face. Suddenly I felt light-headed and had to put out a hand to steady myself on a chair. “So you deny you approached Mrs. Deakin at her home?”
My head was swimming. Mr. Antrobus’s voice seemed distant. My vision began to blur. “I . . . I . . .”
“Well?” He showed no mercy.
Leaning heavily on the chair, I forced myself to address him. “I did visit Mrs. Deakin, but never to ask for money. I was concerned.”
“Concerned?” He pushed back his wayward glasses once more. “Concerned?”
“Her daughter, Molly, had been absent from my Sunday school class for several weeks. I wanted to—”
The headmaster broke into my explanation before I could finish it. “Enough, Miss Tindall!”
“But, sir . . . ,” I pleaded.
“Enough. You can state your defense at the hearing.”
“Hearing?”
“There will be a full disciplinary hearing when you will be given a chance to defend your actions. Until then, I have no choice but to suspend you from your post at this school.” He may as well have delivered the news with a black square on his head. But there was more. “It goes without saying that you are also suspended from your teaching duties at St. Jude’s by Mrs. Parker-Smythe.”
The name echoed around the room and bounced off the walls. Parker-Smythe. I should’ve known that she was behind this, although I had no idea at the time that she would stoop so low. She was acting not out of sheer malice, but out of fear. She was afraid that I might uncover something and had been pr
essured to act. I suddenly suspected Dr. Melksham’s white-gloved hand in all this, although at the time, as I stood under the great vaulted ceiling of my classroom, I could think of very little, save that it may as well fall in on me and crush the life out of me. My world had suddenly ended.
“But, Mr. Antrobus.” I suddenly found the strength to rush toward him, but, I am ashamed to say, that by this time my reason had deserted me. I tugged at the hem of his topcoat as he towered above me on the dais.
“Please. No. It’s lies. All lies!”
I must have appeared to him as a demented woman, deprived of any vestige of sanity. I felt his cold hands reach down and prize off my grasping fingers, as if I were a yapping terrier. He swiped at me with the letter. “Control yourself! Have you lost all sense?” At that moment, I probably had. My mind was a maelstrom; my breast a seething cauldron. I was railing at the injustice of the situation, but my innocence was no shield and my impetuosity forced the headmaster to act. Suddenly he bent low and pushed me back with such force that I staggered, colliding with a desk as I struggled to maintain my balance. The jab to my chest momentarily robbed me of my breath, but it meant my sanity was restored. As I gulped down lungsful of air, my reason seemed to return. My racing heart steadied. My head cleared a little—just enough to compose myself. I picked up the chair I had just knocked over and set it straight, then tucked a lock of wayward hair, which had broken loose in the fracas, behind my ear.
“Forgive me, sir,” I croaked. “I will leave this instant.”
Mr. Antrobus regarded me warily, like a lion tamer might a wildcat that he has temporarily managed to subdue. I picked up the pile of books that I had earlier placed on a nearby desk, then bobbed a curtsy. He acknowledged it with a nod, his eyes appearing larger than ever through his thick lenses. Just as I was halfway to the door, however, I turned. From somewhere deep inside me, a little well of courage suddenly sprang forth.
“I am innocent, sir,” I told him through clenched teeth. “There are powerful forces at work here—dark forces. I am certainly not the guilty one in all of this and I intend to prove it.”
CONSTANCE
“Fancy a drink?” says Flo later. She knows the nightmare has rattled my nerves. I’ve been on edge all day. “It’ll do you good. I’m meeting Danny later on. He’s bringing a friend.”
The thought of an evening with Danny Dawson fills me with dread, especially if he brings a friend along, and Flo tries to pair us up.
Ma looks up from her sewing and rubs her tired eyes. “Go on, love,” she urges. “Mr. Bartleby’s coming over soon. I’ll be fine.”
I picture her holding hands with Mr. Bartleby while we’re out. It’s clear she wants time alone with him. And Flo’s right. I need to stop thinking. My head is whirring constantly and my mind is filled with horrible visions. Suddenly before me appear the faces of the girls Miss Tindall mentioned to me: Molly Deakin and Gracie Arden. There were others, too: Maudie Dalton, twelve going on twenty, and Libby Lonergan, face of an angel and a singing voice to match. What has happened to them? Are they missing, too? Are they missing just like all those other girls and women? Just like Miss Tindall? And there’s this shadow. It’s him. He’s there, moving silent and unseen in the swirling fog, leaving no echo, leaving no trace but the bloody remains of his kill. He’s looming over me the whole time, breathing down my neck, making my flesh creep. Maybe I do need a little escape. A little fun. A little tipple.
“You’re on,” I say.
In half an hour, we’re linking arms down Brushfield Street like a couple of swells. It’s just gone eight of the clock and dark. The week after the two killings in one night there was hardly anyone around. We all shut ourselves away. Nearly three weeks on, women are still avoiding the side streets and the dark alleys—unless they get paid to go there, if you get my meaning—but it seems that most are going about their normal business, or pleasure. I even heard gobby Mrs. Morton, from down our street, say the Ripper had buggered off up to Gateshead now, after a poor girl was found filleted there.
We cross Commercial Street, but I balk as Flo steers me toward the Ten Bells on the corner. I know that Annie Chapman drank in there on the night it happened and I start to panic.
“What’s the matter?” asks Flo sharply.
“It’s, well, there’s brass nails in there,” I hear myself say. Brass nails is what we call loose women, and I fix my eyes on an old pro propped up against the bar.
Flo snorts and tugs at my arm. “My, my, we are getting up ourselves these days!” she chides. “This is Whitechapel, there’s brass nails everywhere.”
Inside it’s smoky. The thick fug of tobacco hits me like a wall. There’s a fiddle player in the corner and all the tables are full. Flo pushes past a handful of dockers standing by the entrance, like she owns the place. There’s a few comments and a whistle, but they soon stop as soon as they see that Flo’s meeting up with her beau. Danny’s already sitting down, but he gives us a wave and stands up like a real gent.
“No seats in the lounge bar,” he tells us above the din. He’s wearing his Sunday jacket and tie. There’s another lad with him, but his back is facing us and it’s only when I’m in touching distance of him that he turns round. It’s Gilbert Johns. He rises and smiles at me and I feel myself blush. I shoot a look at Flo that says: “You’ve set me up.” I’m embarrassed and a little cross with her, but I manage to nod my head politely.
“Miss Constance,” he says, holding out my chair for me. At least he’s not calling me Con, I tell myself, although if I let him take liberties, I know it’ll only be a matter of time.
“You two know each other, then?” chimes in Danny. I slide a look at Flo again, but butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.
Gilbert smiles. He’s wearing a tweed jacket, but the sleeves are too tight and cling to his bulging biceps. In the low gaslight of the pub, he’s not bad looking, neither, although I still think his eyes are too close together. “Sort of,” he says, keeping his gaze on me.
“Gilbert lives down our street,” explains Flo, adding, “Saw us home the other night, didn’t ya?”
Danny rolls his eyes knowingly. “The Vigilance Committee.”
Flo nudges him, but addresses Gilbert. “I keep telling him he ought to join,” she tells him. It’s like she’s playing one off against the other, but that’s just her style. She reaches over to Gilbert and feels his forearms. “Right muscly, aren’t ya!”
“Oi!” says Danny. I’m worried things could get nasty.
Gilbert manages to bring it back from the brink of a row. He stands up, scraping his chair across the sawdust: “My round,” he says. “What’ll it be, Miss Constance?”
Flo looks up at him and I swear she flashes her lashes. “Mine’s a port and lemon,” she butts in.
“I’ll have the same,” I say, but I add a “please,” and it makes Gilbert smile.
We watch him elbow his way to the bar. There’s plenty of seamen in tonight, all right: a rowdy crew from America by the sounds of them. They’re banging on the bar and shouting at the tops of their voices. Danny waits until Gilbert is swallowed by the crowd before he starts in on Flo. I don’t blame him.
“Some of us have jobs at night. We can’t be going round the streets looking out for this Saucy Jack, or whatever he calls himself,” he tells her, his face like thunder.
I’m feeling like a gooseberry and can’t wait for Gilbert to come back with the drinks. Flo and Danny are sparring with each other, jabbing with snide remarks and sarcastic barbs. So I’m looking all around me, anywhere but at them. It’s then that I think I see her—a glimpse, a flash in the corner of the room. Could it be? I leap up suddenly and crane my neck. I feel my pulse race.
“What’s up?” Flo breaks off from her quarrel with Danny to look at me.
“Miss Tindall,” I reply. “I’ve just seen her.” I flap my hand over in the direction where I think I spotted her out of the corner of my eye. She was heading into the lounge bar.
�
��Oh!” is all she says and turns back to Danny, leaving me free to go and see if I was right. I worm my way through the seamen. One of them puts his hand on my bum; another, with an earring, presses against me and I smell his beer breath.
“Leave her alone,” booms a voice, and I look round to see Gilbert carrying a tray of drinks above his head. Earring moves away and I retreat back to the table with Gilbert at my side.
“You find her, then?” Flo asks me after she’s taken a gulp of her port and lemon.
I shake my head. “I couldn’t get to the lounge.”
“If she’s there, she’ll have to come back this way,” says Flo wisely.
“Who?” asks Gilbert. He’s taken off his jacket and draped it on the back of the chair.
“A friend,” I reply.
“Her old teacher,” chimes in Flo.
“Teacher’s pet, eh?” says Danny with a sneer.
The lads down their pints of ale quickly and Danny’s soon getting in another round. Flo’s acting merrier by the minute, but I’m feeling on edge. I keep glancing at the entrance to the lounge bar every five seconds. I don’t want to miss her. From somewhere in the corner, the Yankees are making even more noise. They’ve settled round a table and are thumping it and braying like donkeys. Danny’s away at the bar again and comes back with news.
“They’re arm wrestling,” he tells us as he hands me my third port and lemon.
“Arm wrestling?” Flo perks up at the words, then shoots a look at Gilbert. “I bet you could beat ’em,” she says.
The ale has already flushed Gilbert’s face and he shakes his head. “Naa,” he says, shaking his curly head. “I don’t . . .”
“Go on!” jumps in Danny. “You afraid, or somefink?”
“Look at them forearms,” says Flo, patting Gilbert’s sleeve again as he stands at her side. “Like ham hocks.”
“You’re not scared, are ya?” jabs Danny. He’s laid down the gauntlet.
