Only the Thunder Knows_East End Girls

by Gord Rollo, Rena Mason

  After class, Eliza gathered her things and left the schoolhouse on Handel Street in search of a hansom cab to ride home. As she walked past the side of the old red brick building, she felt as though someone down the alleyway, between buildings, was watching her. Moving quickly and often looking behind her, Eliza had the sense of being followed and stalked. When she finally hailed a cab, it had never been such a relief to get in one. Eliza knocked on the underside of the roof with her fist to get the driver moving. As soon as they rounded the corner, she felt safe again. The sensation of being watched—gone. She sat back and sighed in relief, and wondered if it was her imagination. Who would wish to seek her out? Then she thought of her father and the detectives. Perhaps they were having her followed for safety reasons. She wouldn’t put it past her father. It couldn’t possibly be because they suspected her.

  * * *

  Upon arriving home, then entering her mother’s parlor, Eliza had stepped back in time. Long panels of glorious white and ivory silks and laces were strewn across every piece of furniture. Strands of pearls and sparkling beads hung from the backs of chairs. Having gowns custom-made and sewn by hand was a regal indulgence. In an era when too many clothing factories were popping up and putting out ready-to-wear attire, and most ladies of society were traveling to Paris for their gowns and wedding clothes, superior London seamstresses such as Mrs. Plympton, were becoming more rare with each passing year. The Covingtons would never use anyone else, and her father insisted on spending their money in England. They preferred traditional methods and Eliza supported their ideas wholeheartedly.

  “Good afternoon, Miss. It’s good to see you again.” Mrs. Plympton stepped up and shook hands with Eliza.

  “What took you so long? We’ve been waiting nearly an hour,” Lady Covington said from across the room.

  Eliza rolled her eyes and Mrs. Plympton smiled. “Shall we get started then?” the seamstress said. “Oh my, what a lovely broach.” She reached her hand up and gently touched it.

  “It’s my great-grandmother’s.”

  “Will you be wearing it on your wedding day? I can design a special place for it on the neckline with some small ruffles encircling the piece, perhaps.”

  “That sounds lovely, Mrs. Plympton.”

  The broach was a bouquet of flowers made of fancy-cut diamonds and pearls. Eliza received it from her mother for her sixteenth birthday. The party was a glorious affair. Hard to believe that was only two years ago.

  With the help of Mrs. Sutton, who was already there eyeing the fabrics, Eliza removed all her clothing except for her corset and drawers. Lady Covington sat in her favorite chaise, sipping tea, and nibbling on biscuits in between ordering everyone around.

  “Your daughter has a very muscular build, Lady Covington,” Mrs. Plympton said, sounding slightly shocked. She measured the length of Eliza’s arms and legs, her waist, and every other part of her body with a measuring tape she uncoiled from an ivory case.

  Lady Covington rose from the chaise to have a look. She put her hand around the bicep muscle of Eliza’s right arm. “It appears you’re right, Mrs. Plympton. What have you been doing girl, rowing boats down the river?”

  “Tennis, Mother. And the archery events, when I can attend.”

  “Eliza is quite the archer, Mrs. Plympton. She has several winning pins. Tennis offers no such trophies,” Lady Covington said the latter with less enthusiasm. She’d never been a fan of Eliza playing lawn tennis, always said it was much too physical a sport for a lady.

  “Indeed, more active women tend to have bigger muscles.”

  “This won’t affect the sleeves of her gown will it?”

  “Not at all, Lady Covington, unless she carries a bouquet of iron flowers down the aisle.”

  “That is not the least bit amusing, Mrs. Plympton. You don’t know how I’ve toiled over this wedding. I’ve done nothing but plan, organize, and worry for months. My daughter here shows no interest, and it wouldn’t surprise me the slightest if she were to carry iron flowers.”

  “Is that so? Why do you put the task all on your mother?” Mrs. Plympton asked Eliza.

  Lady Covington pulled a lace-edged handkerchief from up her sleeve and used it to dab her forehead as though she were overworked and perspiring. Eliza couldn’t think of a time when she ever saw her mother do a bit of work, so the act was ridiculous and typically overdramatic. “Ouch,” Eliza said. One of Mrs. Plympton’s pins had stuck into her side a bit.

  “Sorry,” Mrs. Plympton said.

  Lady Covington walked back over to the chaise and sat down.

  “You’ve known my mother for years now, Mrs. Plympton,” Eliza said in a soft voice.

  “Why yes, nearly two decades.”

  “Then you of all people should know my mother has been planning this wedding for all that time.”

  Mrs. Plympton giggled and quickly put her hand over her mouth. When she was done, she went back to draping and pinning. “How right you are, Miss.”

  “I am simply my mother’s daughter.”

  “Well said. And what’s this I hear about you going off to America after the wedding?”

  “It’s true. Henry’s father wants him to start up one of their banking establishments.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

  “It’s not England, though. I will miss…everything.” Eliza sighed.

  “I’m sure you will.”

  With the mood turned melancholy, Mrs. Plympton began chatting with Lady Covington about some of the other ladies in town. Eliza stared off into space, her mind empty of thought.

  Chapter

  8

  Dinner was early at the Covington house. Eliza joined her father in the study afterward and they had hardly begun to discuss the day when Mr. Sutton knocked on the door to announce the arrival of Inspector Frederick Abberline and a Doctor George Phillips.

  Two men entered the room and immediately removed their hats at the sight of Eliza. “Good evening, gentlemen,” Lord Covington said. “I was sure to dine early this evening in case you came again. This is my daughter, Eliza.”

  The inspector gently shook hands with her as did the doctor. Then they stared at one another, then at Lord Covington, and then at Eliza.

  “My daughter’s studying to be a physician at the London School of Medicine for Women,” Lord Covington said, when the silence grew awkward.

  “Interesting,” said Inspector Abberline. He was a portly man, like Detective Godley. What little hair he had was a mix of red and gray. His moustache, beard, and sideburns were overly bushy as if to make up for the lack of it on top of his head. “Does she know of the murders in East End?” He said in a soft-spoken voice. The inspector’s demeanor reminded Eliza of Henry’s father, the banking magnate.

  “Why don’t you ask her?” Lord Covington said. He looked at her and winked.

  “Well, Miss, have you thoughts on the Whitechapel killings?”

  “Yes, inspector.”

  “And do you think it’s possible a woman could have had a hand in it?”

  “Inspector!” Lord Covington said. “What are you suggesting?”

  “Doctor Phillips and I think there’s a slight possibility a midwife would have what it takes to dissect these women the way we’ve been finding them.”

  “The knowledge, yes,” said Lord Covington, “but the strength? Just look at Eliza. She has the skills to perform surgeries, but under a different set of circumstances entirely. Her patients are anesthetized, sedated. Even a drunkard puts up a fight, and she hasn’t the build.”

  “Unless the victim has blacked out,” said Doctor Phillips.

  “Let her speak,” said the inspector. “Answer the question please, miss.”

  “If they’re already unconscious by strangulation,” Eliza said. “Why bother stopping the job to slit their throats? It seems to me the perpetrator prefers to see the blood spilling out of his victims. More male in nature, I would think.”

  “Yes, I see your point. Thank you, M
iss,” the inspector said. He turned toward her father. “It was simply a theory, but after taking into consideration the barbaric nature of the crimes and the appearance of your daughter here, Lord Covington, I’m beginning to think it isn’t possible. Her figure is so slight a strong wind might knock her over.”

  “Not all women are frail and weak, sir, no matter their physical appearance,” Eliza said.

  “Now this I know firsthand, Miss; my wife is neither one of those, but nor does she appear to be.” All of the men roared with laughter. “However more masculine her figure may be compared to yours, Miss, she is also incapable of the heinous brutality exhibited by this madman.”

  “So, you are convinced the killer is a man now?” said Lord Covington.

  “Yes, indeed I am.”

  “Good. Then the timing for your visit here was just right and my daughter’s presence was to your benefit.”

  “It wouldn’t be anything but, Lord Covington. Such a lovely girl.”

  “Eliza, pour us some brandy if you please, and then leave us to the rest of the evening. I will catch up with you on your progress tomorrow.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  Eliza did as she was asked, and the men became more involved with conversations about the murderer. When Inspector Abberline mentioned that the most recent victim’s name was Annie Chapman, Eliza was a bit surprised, yet her hand remained steady as she poured. She listened closely while they surmised that perhaps it might be a butcher, maybe even a doctor. But then Lord Covington mentioned the Hippocratic Oath.

  “That doesn’t rule out a failed doctor,” Abberline said, and the others agreed with nods and ‘ayes’ that it was a possibility to consider.

  Eliza left the room, relieved the inspector no longer had his sights on the possibility of a woman being the murderer. The next step was to find Catherine, the friend of Annie Chapman.

  * * *

  It was early afternoon when Eliza left the Royal Free Hospital. All week she sensed someone watching her, following her through the streets as she searched out a hansom. Eliza even started making the cab drivers take different routes and circle the park. Most of the time, it was only when she was on foot that she felt stalked. Still assuming it was someone her father had convinced to protect her, she did her best to ignore it.

  Having time, Eliza took a cab to the London Hospital in East End to make some inquiries. After she paid the driver, Eliza pulled the hood of her cloak over and joined a crowd of factory workers heading back to work after their break. She walked past an open doorway and suddenly stopped when something inside caught her attention. The workers passed her by, and jostled her a bit as she stood there and stared at a blazing hearth fire. The image of a burning, sizzling uterus filled her vision, until someone inside closed the door. She blinked several times to clear the sight from her head then walked on.

  Distracted by the grisly image, along with the feeling of being followed, Eliza inadvertently walked toward Spitalfields, near where she had killed Annie Chapman. Unnerved by her choice of direction, she turned around on Thrawl Street and walked back toward London Hospital when a scruffy young boy ran up to her in a fit of hysterics. Eliza jumped back.

  “Miss!” the boy said. “My mother needs help. It’s a baby.”

  “Where?” The fear and panic in the boy’s voice charged Eliza.

  He started running back toward Spitalfields and Eliza followed, glad now she kept herself active with sports, despite her mother’s protests.

  They arrived at one of the small shanties that lined Brick Lane. The boy came to a wooden door that was nearly falling off its hinges, flung it wide open, and pulled Eliza in.

  “Mum, please help.”

  There was a small cot in the corner of the room where a woman was lying, moaning, and rolling back and forth. Eliza hastily removed her cape and frock coat, threw them over a chair, and rolled up her sleeves. She went up to the bed and saw the woman’s face frozen in what at first appeared to be a smile and then resolved into a grimace of pain as Eliza drew closer. The woman’s hands clutched the bed sheets in a death grip. Beaded sweat covered her forehead and her nightgown appeared damp, clinging tight to her bulging pregnant belly.

  “Boy! Run to the London Hospital as fast as you can and find a Doctor James Riley. Tell him…” Tell him what? I can use my influence to help this woman, but father, I don’t know…oh bloody hell! “Tell him Miss Covington sent you to fetch him. He needs to bring a carriage. Go now!”

  The boy ran and slammed the door shut on his way out. The top hinge broke, and the door fell to one side leaving an open corner above. Eliza turned back to the woman and pulled the bed sheet down. Below the waist, her gown was soaked with blood, sweat, and amniotic fluid.

  “What is your name?” Eliza said. There was a basin on a small table nearby.

  “Louise,” the woman said between grunts.

  “Is this water clean?”

  The woman nodded.

  “How long has it been since the pain started?”

  “’Bout three hours.”

  Eliza put her medical bag at the end of the cot and opened it. She pushed Louise’s legs up, and they fell open and apart. “This is going to hurt,” she said. “You will feel a lot of pressure. Try very hard to be still.”

  Louise nodded.

  Eliza brought her fingers together into a point as best she could, then inserted them into Louise’s vaginal opening. The woman let out a bloodcurdling scream that made Eliza see stars for a moment.

  “Shush,” Eliza said. “We don’t want anyone barging in here thinking I’m hurting you. Pull the sheet up and bite down on it.”

  It didn’t take long for her to feel the baby was breech. “Take quick short breaths,” Eliza said. “That’s good. And do not push. The baby’s turned around.” Eliza felt movement inside. “It’s alive!”

  Louise attempted a smile that quickly became a grimace, which was followed by a series of pants and grunts.

  “I’ve got to rotate it,” Eliza said. With her right hand still up inside the woman, she toppled her doctor’s bag with her left hand and fingered through the items until she found a small leather case. Eliza popped it open and pulled a scalpel from its sheathed location. She looked up over the woman’s belly to see her face. “I need to make a cut first. Brace yourself.”

  Eliza brought the scalpel forward and made an incision from where her forearm was inside Louise, nearly all the way down to her anus. The skin pulled apart and blood quickly filled the exposed area of open flesh. The woman screamed through the sheets and Eliza felt her pain—the pain only women seem to know and can relate to one another through.

  “You’re going to feel more pressure now,” Eliza said as she pushed her other hand into Louise. She felt resistance. “Stop it! Don’t push!” It let up and she continued.

  Slowly, Eliza turned the baby until she felt its head. Louise was a hardy woman and did rather well considering Eliza was nearly up to her elbows with both hands and forearms inside her. She continued to scream, then grunt, and take quick short breaths.

  “We’re close,” Eliza assured her, knowing she needed to work fast. She repositioned her hands and moved out just a bit. A contraction was beginning. “Push now, Louise. Push!”

  The woman pushed, the contraction did its job, and Eliza had to pull the baby’s head very little as her arms and hands were expelled from Louise’s vagina, the infant right behind them.

  Eliza caught the baby, held it up, and slapped it. When the newborn made its first wail, Louise let out a sigh and collapsed her legs onto the bed. Instruments in the open leather case at the foot of the bed flickered in the candlelight. Eliza pulled the case closer and removed a clamp. She put the umbilical cord between its metal teeth and brought them together. Then she took out a pair of scissors and cut the cord. It seemed she worked well under pressure, but she’d always known this. Delivering a breech baby was part common sense. What do you do if a baby’s positioned backwards? Turn it around. Still, s
he was thankful for the midwifery classes at the university.

  Louise tried to look up and see what Eliza was doing. For a moment, it was Annie Chapman’s face she saw. Her eyes opened wide as saucers and she looked down expecting to see a bundle of gore in her arms, but instead saw the newborn. Eliza cut a clean piece of bed linen, wrapped it around the baby, and then handed it to the woman. “It’s a girl,” she said. “I’ve got to sew you up now.”

  Eliza stood and brought several more pieces of the cut bed linen over to the basin. As she wet the rags, the broken front door swung open on the one hinge and the boy barreled through it with Dr. James Riley close behind. “Thank goodness you’re here at last,” Eliza said.

  “Looks like you’ve done just fine on your own.”

  “Yes, but…” Eliza thought about what to say. “I’ve got to get home, James. My father…I’m not allowed to be at London Hospital, the East End, because of the murders.”

  “And we’ve missed you very much.” There was a slight smile on his face. Eliza knew he meant it. James had always been in love with her, but her father didn’t approve. “But why—”

  “Please, James. The baby was breech but I turned it around. She seems fine now. I was just going to sew her up. I thought she might need to go to the hospital.”