A Taste for Monsters

by Matthew J. Kirby

  For a few endless moments, fear and confusion immobilized me, and it was as though I were watching Charles assault a waxwork figure of myself, but before he was able to have his way with me, a primal will to fight rose up through me. I slugged him, driving my fist deep into his broken rib. I heard his grunt, and then he staggered away from me and dropped to one knee, gasping for breath and clutching his side.

  I ran from him, straight down the road to the hospital gate, where the porter, unaware of what had just happened, let me through.

  “You all right, Miss Fallow?”

  “Don’t let Charles in,” I said. “Whatever you do. He’s not himself. He’s crazed with drink.”

  “Very good, miss,” the porter said, and without hesitation he locked the hospital’s gate.

  I stood shaking in the middle of Bedstead Square, crying, and then I dropped to the ground and shook on my hands and knees. In the time I’d lived on the streets, I’d come that close to such intimate violations before, but never by someone I’d let myself trust, even a little. Though I hadn’t ever fully believed Charles’s sincerity, I also hadn’t suspected him capable of harming me in such a way. He may not have been Leather Apron, but there’d been a monster lurking inside him, and I should’ve heard it rumbling in its den.

  That mistake was mine. I shouldn’t have trusted Charles. I shouldn’t have listened to Professor Sidgwick, or Dr. Tilney, or Mr. Merrick. None of them knew what they asked of me. I had known, but I had ignored what I knew, and I vowed never to let that happen to me again. The streets had tried to reclaim me, but they had failed, and I would not give them another chance. I would stay hidden away in the hospital with Mr. Merrick, and I wanted no pity from anyone for that. I simply wanted to be left alone where I belonged.

  I took several long breaths, and after the shaking in my body had subsided, I got back up on my feet. I knew Mr. Merrick would be up worrying, and I didn’t want that, so I wiped my eyes dry of tears and went to his room.

  He was reading in his armchair when I entered, but immediately closed the book and set it aside. “How was your outing?” he asked.

  “It was …” I wrestled with myself over which words to use. For Mr. Merrick to learn of his friend’s betrayal would undoubtedly cause him pain, and I didn’t want to bring additional pain to a man who’d already endured more than anyone should. “It was fine, Mr. Merrick,” I said. “But I shall not be going on another outing with him.”

  “Oh?” Mr. Merrick said, with noticeable cheer in his voice. “Why is that?”

  “I don’t fancy Charles in that way.”

  “You don’t?” he said. “But I thought—”

  “He … was helpful to me in his way,” I said, though it galled me to speak of him even that favorably. “I know he is your friend, and I don’t want to disappoint you. But Charles and I will never see eye to eye.”

  “I’m not disappointed,” he said, quietly, and his skin flushed in those parts of his face without his growths. “I wish you and I could go on an outing.”

  I took his hand in mine. “I wish that, too,” I said, and I meant it with all sincerity, for there could not have been a more gentlemanly figure in all of Whitechapel that night than he. “In fact,” I said, as an idea formed in my mind, “why don’t we? Let’s have an outing of our own.”

  “What? How … how could we do that?”

  “You leave that to me,” I said. “For now, it’s late, and we should both get to sleep. You’re still getting your strength back, remember?”

  I helped him into bed, and then I went to my own, though it took me some time to fall asleep, and even then I woke frequently from nightmares about Charles. In my dreams he was Leather Apron, and with a surgeon’s scalpel he stabbed into me and sliced me open. The only way I found any true rest was to think of Mr. Merrick and the outing I wanted to plan for him.

  The next day, when Dr. Treves came for a short visit with Mr. Merrick, I pulled him aside and spoke of the plan I’d conceived.

  “Are you suggesting we turn the hospital into a common street market?” he asked.

  “I thought perhaps we could simply bring a few sellers and performers into Bedstead Square. They could use the gate on East Mount Street. It would not disrupt the hospital, sir, and I think it would help Mr. Merrick continue his recovery. I believe it would mean a great deal to him.”

  Dr. Treves fiddled with the topmost button on his coat. “This is highly irregular, Miss Fallow.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “But it seems you feel strongly about it.”

  “Mr. Merrick desires more than anything else to live life as a normal man and do those things a normal man does. I shouldn’t think the cost would be too extravagant.”

  “There are certainly funds enough, but I must act as a wise steward,” he said. “I shall consider your request.”

  “Very good, sir,” I said. “If you decide in favor of it, I was thinking it might be best a surprise.”

  “Noted,” he said, and then he left.

  That night at dinner, Beatrice returned to her old habits of recounting what the papers said about the murders, cursing the police for incompetence, and speculating wildly as to who or what may have committed the crimes.

  “He must be supernatural,” Beatrice said with a shrug. “That’s the answer. He’s got satanic powers.”

  “He doesn’t have satanic powers,” I said.

  “Then how do you explain it?” Beatrice asked. “He’s doing these deeds with the police around the corner! Is he invisible? Is he some demon?”

  “He’s an evil man,” Becky said. “Ain’t that enough?”

  “Coppers catch evil men all the time,” Beatrice said. “But you can’t catch the devil, now, can you?”

  It did surprise me that after so many weeks and four victims, Scotland Yard and the police seemed no closer to apprehending the fiend than they had been with the first murder. That meant Leather Apron was still out there in the city somewhere, perhaps stalking another victim even then, and I carried with me the silent prayer that I wouldn’t ever feel another pain in my jaw, nor Mr. Merrick endure the torment of another haunting.

  Two days passed before Dr. Treves came to me privately and announced he would agree to the market in the square, and he would make the arrangements. He did stipulate Mr. Merrick would have to wear his special cap and hood, for the vendors and performers couldn’t be trusted to react with decorum upon seeing him. That did not seem too great a concession, and we set a date for our ersatz market the following week.

  My excitement for the event mounted as a few of those days went by, brought low only when one evening Mr. Merrick inquired about Charles.

  “He hasn’t been to visit in some time,” he said. “Ever since the two of you went on your outing.”

  “That’s true,” I said, wondering what he suspected or implied. The mention of Charles’s name and the memory of that night had turned me cold with sweat, and caused my breathing to fray.

  “Why do you suppose he hasn’t come?” Mr. Merrick asked.

  “I’m … afraid I don’t know his mind,” I said, the lie quite comfortable in the coat of truth it wore.

  “I hope he is well,” Mr. Merrick said, “and that he has got himself a new violin.”

  “That is thoughtful and kind of you,” I said, and moved the topic away from Charles, but I knew the matter would not lay dormant for long, and two days later, Mr. Merrick brought up the subject of his friend once again.

  “I do hope Charles is well,” he said. “Perhaps his injuries were worse than we knew.”

  “I don’t think it’s that,” I said, although I had no idea how my blow to Charles’s rib might have further wounded him.

  “Then what is it?” Mr. Merrick asked.

  I sensed his worry, and I wasn’t free of guilt over it. I had it in my power to relieve some of his distress, but I’d refrained from answering him for fear of causing even greater distress with the truth.

  Mr.
Merrick asked, “Do you suppose it’s something I said to him?”

  “Not in the least,” I said. “You put that thought right out of your head.”

  “But perhaps I offended him in some way. My manners are poor.”

  “Mr. Merrick,” I said. “Your manners would surpass those of the highest-born gentleman, and that’s a fact.”

  He ignored me. “I can see no other reason for his not coming,” he said, and then he looked directly into my eyes. “You would tell me, wouldn’t you? If you knew what it was I said or did? Perhaps … did Charles say anything about it?”

  “No, Mr. Merrick,” I said, “there is nothing you did to keep him away, nothing at all,” but I could plainly hear in my voice the turmoil I felt. I could still feel Charles squeezing my breast, and his breath burning my ear.

  “Evelyn,” he asked, “what is the matter?”

  “I don’t …” It was still true that I didn’t want to cause Mr. Merrick pain, but it seemed to be causing him pain regardless by withholding the truth, and I respected him too much to lie to him. “The night of my outing with Charles, he … did an evil thing.”

  Mr. Merrick paused a moment, and then asked, almost in a whisper, “What thing?”

  “He became drunk and he …” My throat tightened and my voice broke. For Mr. Merrick’s sake, I did manage to put down the rebellious tears that fought their way outward. “He laid his hands on me,” I said, crawled over by revulsion. “Against my will.”

  Mr. Merrick touched his malformed lips. “Charles?”

  “Yes.”

  “Charles did this?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  I watched Mr. Merrick as the revelation seemed to settle over him, and then he made a fist with his good hand at his side. The fury I saw in him had the same purity and innocence as every other feeling he’d demonstrated. It was the righteous and certain anger of a child. But then he started punching his head with his own hand. “He is a wicked man. A wicked man!”

  “Mr. Merrick, stop!” I said, reaching for his fist.

  He let me pull it away from his head, which he hadn’t bruised too terribly, and then he looked up at me in utter confusion.

  “He has wickedness in him,” I said. “But he was always kind to you, and you ought not to forget that.” It angered me to defend Charles in that way, but that anger didn’t make what I had said untrue, for I still believed Charles’s friendship with Mr. Merrick to be real in some manner I didn’t understand anymore.

  Mr. Merrick let out a sound like a growl. “If you should see Charles again—”

  “I very much doubt Charles will ever come back here,” I said. “And now you know why.”

  “Let us hope not,” he said. “But if you should see him, when you’re out—”

  “I’m never leaving the hospital again,” I said.

  He loosened the fist he’d made. “Do you mean that?”

  “There’s nothing for me out there,” I said. “Would you leave the hospital, if you could go back to the showman’s stage?”

  “No,” he said. “But … that is a strange question.”

  I hadn’t yet shut the sluice against my honesty, so I went on. “Jimmy Fiddle gave me a message for you. The Silver King sent him.”

  “What was the message?” Mr. Merrick asked.

  “I gathered he wants you back with his show, and he promised you the best halls, the best food, and a generous share of the proceeds.”

  Mr. Merrick chuckled, and there was a wistfulness to it. “The word generous means something different to the Silver King than it does to you and me.”

  “Does the offer tempt you?” I asked.

  He appeared to be thinking about it. “No,” he said. “But I suppose it feels good to be valued.”

  “I suppose it would,” I said. “But look around at all the cards and gifts. You are certainly valued here.”

  “And so are you,” he said. “This is where we both belong.”

  Again he had read my thoughts.

  The rhythm and routine over the next several days bore that out, and Mr. Merrick and I settled again into our easy way, rising in the morning, taking meals, bathing, cleaning, day after day, putting away all thoughts of ghosts and Leather Apron and Charles, until the time came for Mr. Merrick’s private night market.

  When the sun had gone down, I told him there was a surprise waiting outside in Bedstead Square for him, and then I helped him dress in his suit, along with his long coat and the cap and hood specially made for him. Not once did he object, but he did seem somewhat quiet and nervous.

  “What is the surprise?” he asked.

  “You shall see,” I said. “Don’t be frightened.”

  “But what will I see?”

  “You’ll know it when you see it,” I said, pulling on my shawl to hide my face.

  When we left his room, I helped him labor up the steps into the courtyard, where Dr. Treves stood waiting for us, the market spread out behind him. The surgeon had created a wonderful parallel to the street I’d seen the other night. His bazaar was smaller, naturally, but just as vibrant, with perhaps half a dozen stalls and carts arranged in a crescent moon around the middle of the square. Naphtha lamps burned bright among them, and the smells of cooking meat and sounds of buskers filled the square. Some of the other hospital staff already milled about among the vendors, no doubt invited by Dr. Treves so as to give the tableau a natural quality and provide the sellers more customers. Upon seeing the display, Mr. Merrick stood perfectly still, and beneath his hood I imagined his astonishment.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  “It was Miss Fallow’s suggestion,” Dr. Treves said. “A proper market experience for you.”

  “You said you wanted an outing,” I said. “Since that isn’t possible, I decided to bring the outing in.”

  “Do you like it?” Dr. Treves asked.

  “This is … for me?” Mr. Merrick asked.

  “Naturally,” Dr. Treves said. “Do you like it?”

  Mr. Merrick’s head nodded. “Oh yes. I like it very much.”

  “Wonderful,” Dr. Treves said. “Here is some money for you to spend.” He placed a handful of bills and coins into the palm of Mr. Merrick’s good hand.

  “Well?” I said.

  “Well, what?” Mr. Merrick asked.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me to walk with you?” I asked.

  “Oh yes. I’m sorry.” He extended the crook of his arm. “Evelyn, would you do me the honor of a stroll about the market?”

  “Of course,” I said, linking my arm with his. “I would be honored.”

  With that, we made our way slowly to the first vendor, a man selling oysters, and with my aid in translation, Mr. Merrick bought us a dozen to share. The coster eyed Mr. Merrick warily but not too obviously, and I was sure Dr. Treves had done work to prepare those vendors he’d invited in. After we’d eaten the relishes, we moved on to a man playing on a hurdy-gurdy, a small monkey dancing at his feet wearing a blue vest. Mr. Merrick laughed with delight at the antics of the little animal, and after several tunes tossed a generous coin into the performers’ hat. Next, we came to a potato man, and we each ate one, which brought back an unpleasant memory of Charles for me. Mr. Merrick, however, seemed to fall easily into the fiction that had been created for him, and before long his back appeared a whit straighter, as though he walked as tall as he could, and his garbled speech took on the lofty tone of a man about town. I could but smile at his earnestness and do my best to join his fantasy.

  The next coster wore boots stitched with red hearts and flowers, and sold sausages about which Mr. Merrick said, “We used to call these bags o’ mystery in my days on the stage. The kinds of sausage we could afford, at any rate. But these are good.”

  “They are,” I said, eating one.

  After that, we came to a man selling shoes and other leather goods. Mr. Merrick purchased a pair of shiny riding boots, even though they would never be used or even fit his feet, and afte
r that we stopped at a woman with a cart of jewelry and fancies. Here, Mr. Merrick paused and leaned in close to examine the wares with a grave interest.

  “I would like to buy something for the lady,” he said to the seller.

  I shook my head. “Mr. Merrick, I—”

  “Please, Miss Fallow,” he said, “allow me.” He then repeated himself to the woman, who looked baffled, obviously unable to understand his speech.

  I could not let him be embarrassed, so I said to her, “He wants me to choose something,” at which she smiled and nodded. I looked down at the pendants and brooches, the rings and other trifles, their cheap jewels of glass catching the sharp naphtha light. “Mr. Merrick,” I said, “I truly don’t need anything.”

  “Nonsense,” he said. “We’re on an outing, and I will buy you a gift. Do you not see anything you would like?”

  Among the ornaments I found an inexpensive ring, likely made of tin, embellished with a simple filigree. Mr. Merrick bought it for me, and when I put it on, he asked, “Do you like it?”

  “Very much,” I said.

  “It is butter upon bacon, on your hand,” he said.

  “Thank you, Mr. Merrick.” I then spied a man’s dressing case not unlike the one in the advertisement he’d clipped from the newspaper. When I pointed it out to him, he purchased it immediately. To conclude our market stroll, so like and yet utterly unlike my time with Charles, we ate some ice cream and drank a ginger beer as we watched a man swallow swords, and then an Italian man perform a fantoccini puppet show. Mr. Merrick enthusiastically applauded the latter’s outsized drama overflowing its miniature stage.

  Dr. Treves walked up beside us, also clapping his hands. “I thought you would like the marionettes,” he said to Mr. Merrick. “I wonder if you’d like to go to a real theater?”

  “Oh yes,” Mr. Merrick said. “Is it possible?”

  “It is,” Dr. Treves said. “I spoke with Mrs. Kendal about it, and she has used her connections on your behalf. We shall attend the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane and watch the pantomime from the private box of the Baroness Burdett-Coutts, who has graciously allowed us its use.”