The Hanged Man and the Fortune Teller

by Lucy Banks

  Elizabeth Stride snorted, then straightened her bonnet. “Don’t bother denying it. Fred sent you to track me down. Well, you tell him that—”

  “—Really, I must protest,” I interrupted, hand raised to silence her. “We were merely taking an evening stroll, I had no notion that you would be here, and—”

  “My foot you didn’t. I know how persistent your brother is. It’s harassment, that’s what it is. Regardless of my standing in life, he has no right, no right at all, do you hear me? It’s frightening, and I’ve got enough to be concerned with, without him stalking after me like that. I’ll go to the police, tell him that I will. He’ll get thrown back in gaol again, where he belongs.”

  “Now, hang on a minute,” I said, confounded by her words. “What are you trying to say? That Fred has been bothering you? Why would he do such a thing to someone like you?”

  The words came out more scathingly than I’d meant them to. A brief flicker of hurt crossed the woman’s face, before her expression hardened again.

  “I may be poor, but that doesn’t mean a man can mistreat me as he likes,” she muttered, glaring at us both as though daring us to disagree.

  “Dearest Elizabeth,” Eleanor said, choosing her words carefully, “why don’t you come with us, let us buy you some food or something? You look half-starved, you’re much thinner than when we last saw you. And I don’t like to see you looking so alarmed. You keep glancing over your shoulder as though someone’s going to attack you at any moment.”

  My heart warmed with the kindness of the sentiment. It was so like my wife, to think of someone’s welfare, no matter how disreputable or unpleasant they may be. And she was correct. Elizabeth Stride’s posture was tense, alert, much like a terrified animal, ready to flee at a minute’s notice. What on earth has Fred been up to? I wondered. I felt ill-equipped to deal with a situation such as this.

  Unfortunately, Eleanor’s generous offer failed to have the desired effect. Instead, Elizabeth Stride’s mouth tightened, lips narrowing to a single harsh line. “Is that your trick, then?” She sneered, taking a step back. “Take me somewhere where Fred’s waiting for me? Is that right?”

  “No,” Eleanor protested, looking at me in alarm. “Of course not. I only meant it kindly.”

  “Very well. Whether you did or not, I’ll decline your offer. You tell Fred that he needs to leave me be, do you hear? I’m back with Thomas, I’m married to Thomas, and that’s all there is to it.”

  Heavens, she’s a married woman, I thought, groaning inwardly. That idiot brother of mine, he was courting another man’s wife. How had it happened? Had Fred known, or had this woman deceived him? What sort of life had Fred been living, to end up in a situation like this?

  “Mrs Stride,” I said, sensing that she was about to depart, and swiftly too. “Please, before you leave, could you tell me where Fred is at present? We hear very little from him, contrary to what you might believe. And your words cause me concern.”

  I met her gaze evenly, watching a range of emotions flit through her grey eyes; suspicion, confusion, doubt. Perhaps even a hint of compassion, concealed somewhere in the depths.

  “Last I heard,” she said quietly, leaning closer, “he was in with a bad crowd.”

  I grimaced at her words. “What, criminals, do you mean?”

  She shook her head. “Worse than that. There are people in this city that do terrible, evil deeds. Do you understand?”

  “I understand the notion of evil, but not what you mean by it.” Her words alarmed me. What were her implications? That Fred was involved in something unspeakable? It didn’t tally with the brother I knew. Fred could be thoughtless and ignorant at times, but he wasn’t a bad person, and he certainly wasn’t capable of serious wrongdoing, unless time had changed him in ways I couldn’t conceive of.

  Eleanor tugged at my arm, nodding to the people around us. “I’m not sure we should be having this conversation, especially not here, out in public. Can we—”

  “—No, I need to know.” It was true, though I hadn’t meant to remove my arm quite so brusquely. Eleanor looked hurt, but said nothing. “Mrs Stride, can you tell me where Fred is? I need to try to find him, it sounds as though he may be in danger.”

  She stared at the ground, then finally shook her head. “I can’t. I won’t be a part of this, it’s too risky. You find him on your own; I’m sure you’ll manage, with all your money and fancy acquaintances.”

  “Please, just a few more questions, I…” My sentence trailed into nothing as I watched Elizabeth Stride shake her head, then continue her determined march up the street. We stared after her, waiting until she’d disappeared around the corner, then turned to one another.

  “How peculiar,” Eleanor commented, biting her lip. “What on earth do you make of all that?”

  I raised a hand to my cheek, feeling somehow bruised by the encounter. “I don’t know,” I mumbled eventually, watching as the lamplighters started the business of illuminating the darkening street. “But I didn’t like it, not one bit.” The words terrible and evil ran through my head, insistent as clanging bells, daring me to probe further, to imagine the full weight of their implications.

  Eleanor tapped my arm, trying to rouse me from my thoughts. “She was probably speaking falsely.”

  I wasn’t so sure. Although Elizabeth Stride undoubtedly was not a woman to be trusted, there had been something about the urgency of her expression, the force of her claims, that made me believe her. Behind that blustering, aggressive façade, I’d caught a glimpse of a frightened female, and that worried me more than anything.

  “What do you suppose she meant, about Fred being involved with people who were worse than criminals?”

  Eleanor shook her head firmly. “I don’t think we should be having this conversation, darling. After all, this is the ranting of a low woman we’re talking about. Why not confide in Arthur, if you’re concerned? He’ll know what to do.”

  I frowned at the comment, offended by the suggestion that my younger brother would have better ability to address the situation than I, despite the fact that she was probably right. Money has an uncanny knack of uncovering the truth, I thought bitterly, thinking of my own dwindling funds. And Arthur has plenty of it.

  “I’ll look into it myself,” I said firmly, then nodded back the way we’d come. A couple of hansom cabs were lined beside the pavement, waiting to return weary people to their houses. “Come on, let’s go home, shall we?” The whole experience with Elizabeth Stride had soured the mood, leaving me oddly disquieted.

  Eleanor peered down Oxford Street, her gaze flitting from window to window, before sighing. “Yes, I suppose so,” she agreed. “It’s getting rather late, and Miss Stride has proved that this area can attract rather unsavoury types.”

  “Mrs Stride, you mean.”

  She covered her mouth, stifling a horrified laugh. “Gosh, yes. Isn’t it terrible? Whatever was Fred thinking?”

  “As long as Mother never finds out.” I clicked a finger at the nearest driver, who whipped his horse obligingly, trotting it along to meet us. “The shock would kill her, I’m sure.”

  “Not your mother, she’s invincible, isn’t she?”

  I smiled, welcoming the flippancy after such a shocking encounter. “I rather think you’re right, my dear. Though my goodness, had Father still been alive, he would have had something to say about it.” The driver flipped the lock on the door, and we climbed aboard gratefully.

  Surely Elizabeth Stride can’t have meant what she said, I thought, scanning the street for signs of the unfortunate creature. She could have gone anywhere, down any narrow alley, through any door. I realised that I knew virtually nothing about her, only a vague mixture of rumour and the occasional fact. Who was she? Where did she live? If she was married, did she have children? Was she a woman of the streets, as I had long since suspected? She certainly had the look about her.

  She’s sure to come to an unfortuna
te end, I thought, and shivered. I caught sight of Eleanor’s expression and guessed that she’d been thinking much the same thing. But then, was there any point worrying over such a person, when there was nothing to be done to help her?

  Still, I worried all the same. And I worried about Fred too; and for some strange reason, which didn’t make any sense, I worried for myself too.

  Sacrifice, the fortune teller in the tent had said, staring down at the image of the Hanged Man card. Lost at sea. Cast adrift forever. Why was it that that particular encounter still haunted me, when it should have been regarded as a trifling matter, of no importance whatsoever?

  But still, her words often tormented me, and now, more so than ever.

  A sacrifice will be made, she had said.

  I shivered, despite the warmth of the evening, then firmly forced the memory from my mind.

  EIGHTEEN

  — 1888 —

  THE GHOST CANNOT think. No, that is not entirely true. He cannot bear to think.

  He saw George again today, tousle-haired and dirty-kneed, feeding ducks by the pond with Mother, who is older now, of course, her spine starting to noticeably hunch and twist. He’d stayed with them all afternoon, watching George, watching his Mother, plus Martha with her new beau, a thin-faced man with kind eyes and red hair. And Arthur too, who is stouter now, but somehow wearier, his eyes less affable than before.

  My family, he’d thought, and the words had caught in him like a fish-hook, twisting his insides, causing his vision to blur. It had been too much for him, and he had departed, blind to his surroundings, desperate to silence the agony in his heart.

  Now, he wanders, and his only instinct is to escape, to get as far away from the pain of it all. They have forgotten him, they have all continued with their lives. Martha, still a girl in his memory, has become a woman in his absence, with a prospect of marriage on the horizon. Does she ever think of me? he wonders, and knows that he would weep, had he eyes to cry with. Does she ever lie awake at night, and think of the brother she lost? Does Mother still tend to my grave? And Arthur? How does he feel?

  George, he says to himself sadly, knowing the boy will never think of him, that his name is merely a distant mist in the darkness, a blot on an otherwise joyous young life. For young George has everything a child could ever want; toys in abundance, a governess to teach him, the finest sweets to tempt him. He is coddled, humoured, adored. What more could a boy possibly need in life? Bitterness swamps him like mud, along with the knowledge that Arthur has the ability to provide his son with everything. He is the father every child deserves, and this only makes the ghost feel more of a failure. He thinks back to Eleanor, and to her first miscarriage. So much blood, so many tears, he remembers. And nothing to show for it after. He thrusts the memory away, rejecting it, consigning it to the darkest, most unreachable recesses inside himself.

  What use is memory, anyway? He curses, drifting from street to street, heedless of where he is going. It only causes me pain, remembering these things, when the living have already forgotten.

  It comes as no surprise that he ends up in Whitechapel. He often finds himself here, among the ruffians, the beggars, the lewd women with their loosened stays and shabby dresses. He passes The Ten Bells; a notorious public house even when he was alive, which is crawling with people, their combined breaths misting the windows.

  How welcome it would be, to drink myself into an oblivion, he thinks, imagining the rich warmth of wine at the back of his throat, or a cool ale on a summer’s day. He remembers himself and Arthur, toasting one another at his wedding. Hastily, he stifles the memory down, thinking not now, not while I am like this. Forgetfulness is everything at present. And so, he strives to keep his mind blank, focusing only on the here and now; the surrounding street, the people passing him by. It is a poor way to survive, but it will have to do.

  Quite how he finds himself in the next public house, The Princess Alice, he does not know. The name itself is enough to make him shudder, the irony not lost on him. The perfect place for a dead person such as I to linger, he thinks, and eases himself onto a bench, beside a whiskered old man and a woman with few teeth left in her head.

  If I try hard enough, I could almost imagine the press of the wood against the back of my thighs, he thinks, biting back a dull laugh. I could smell the cheap alcohol and pipe-smoke, feel the heat of all this human flesh, compressed into one space. I could dream I was really here, breathing, sweating and laughing like the rest of them.

  How he wishes he could forget it all. He would give anything to forget. God, grant me the gift of memory loss, he thinks, leaning into the old man beside him, sneering as he shivers. It gives him pleasure, to see that he can still affect people, albeit on a meagre level. He still matters, a small amount. He is still here.

  A glass shatters, cutting through the drone of voices, glittering tiny shards across the floor. A violent act it appears, judging by the shouting that follows, then the shoving, the leery bellow of drunken, swaying men. Someone laughs, grating and guttural as a raven. The worst of humanity is here, it would seem, and that is exactly what he needs; to be surrounded by aggression, commotion and confusion.

  Indeed, there is more tension in the atmosphere than usual; a sense of apprehension and poorly concealed suspicion. It is due to the recent spate of murders, or so he believes; prostitutes, either stabbed or mutilated in some terrible manner. Not that he follows the news much anymore, only the snippets of hushed conversations that he hears as he drifts through the city; the mutterings of street-traders, the frightened prattle of women, pushing their babies in rattling perambulators. Leather Apron, they whisper, no doubt referring to some miscreant in the area; or more lately, Jack the Ripper, though goodness knows where the name has come from. Some fanciful journalist or other, no doubt.

  He watches the brawl, keen to absorb it all. A man stumbles, then falls across a table, only to be shoved unceremoniously to the floor. Somewhere in the crowd, a woman shrieks a name, over and over, John, John you silly beggar, pick yourself up, John! Perhaps a wife, a sister, a mother. A woman who hasn’t forgotten a loved one, he thinks darkly, studying them all.

  Then he sees her by the bar, a woman he hasn’t set eyes on in years. It is undoubtedly her; she has the same long face, wide-jawed, though the hair is greying at the temples, just slightly. As for that steadfast, dispassionate gaze, he’d remember it from anywhere.

  Elizabeth Stride. Fred’s woman. No, not his woman, he’s remembered that wrongly. She was married to someone else, she’d once shouted the information at him on a busy London street. He peruses the men surrounding her, wondering which one is her husband, if he is with her at all. If he ever existed, he thinks cruelly. She hadn’t been a woman to be trusted then, and he doubts she is now.

  The chaos subsides. John, whoever he may be, picks himself off the floor, rubbing his back. Someone passes him an ale. Normal conversation resumes. The ghost rises, gliding closer, magnetised by the prospect of hearing Elizabeth Stride’s heavy, rolling accent after all this time.

  She is talking to a man, with a stutter that he doesn’t remember her having before. Her black jacket and skirt are incongruously dark in the lively surroundings, giving her hawkish form a severity that suits her fierce expression. He edges closer, though why he’s attempting surreptitiousness, he’s not sure. It’s still instinctive, even after so much time spent being dead.

  They do not know one another well, that much is obvious. It is an arranged, yet awkward meeting; her posture is largely uninterested, going through the motions, the man’s nervous, agitated even. He wonders what the nature of their relationship is. The man continues to raise a hand to his short moustache, tweaking the sides as though seeking solace from it. He clutches a parcel against his lapels.

  Finally, she leans into the bar, fixing him with a look that means only one thing; raw, defensive, and inevitable.

  “Shall we go somewhere more private?”

  Th
e man coughs, then looks over his shoulder. “Pray tell me,” he whispers, moving closer, lit up with anticipation. “How much might this encounter cost me?”

  She hisses a price under her breath, the exact amount lost under the general hubbub. The ghost shakes his head, horrified and fascinated. He’d always suspected her of this low sort of behaviour, and here it was, tangible evidence. Distaste rises within him like bile.

  “I’ve a room, over in Berner Street. Shall we?”

  The man drains his glass, then jumps visibly at the sudden hand on his shoulder; a large, strong hand, laced with protruding veins. The ghost glances up, intrigued at this sudden turn of events, then freezes.

  Fred. He finds himself face to face with the brother he thought he’d lost in the swathes of time; now here before him, leaner, hollow-faced, and ferocious as a wild animal. For a moment, the ghost is frightened, even though no harm can come to him. The echo of a long-forgotten conversation returns to him. Terrible. Evil. Is this what his elder brother is? Certainly, he cannot reconcile this rage-filled, sinewy man with the amiable boy of his youth.

  “Elizabeth,” Fred mutters without blinking.

  The ghost can see that she has paled, turned an odd shade of green, even. He wonders if she is going to be sick.

  “I thought your name was Anne?” The moustached man pipes up, grasping his parcel more tightly.

  “Fred,” Elizabeth whispers, pressing herself against the bar. Her body language worries the ghost, because it is the frightened movement of a creature trapped by a predator; not the self-assured stance she normally adopts. He wishes, as he has so often before, that he had a physical form to use, that he could influence the situation, rather than impotently watching it unfold before his eyes.

  “I told you the other day not to run from me.”

  “Not here, not now. We’ll t..talk later, honestly, but this isn’t the t…t…time…”

  “She’s with me,” the other man says grandly, though his hitched breathing reveals his anxiety.