by Paula Guran
“I believe it’s illegal. Why, Kit, have you come across some gypsy offering to tell your fortune or summon a spirit?” Makepeace chuckled.
“No, sir, just . . . wondering.”
Silence again, then, “Your brother, what’s wrong with him?”
“If I knew that, I’d have had it fixed though it cost me a year’s wages, sir.” Kit rubbed her chin; Makepeace looked at her speculatively and she considered if he was noticing how lacking she was in facial hair. It didn’t matter—some of the other young PCs were in the same boat, mutton chops taking their own sweet time about growing in. “He can’t walk, sir, been paralyzed ever since our father died.”
“Is it in the boy’s head, do you think?”
Kit shrugged. “I don’t know. Could be, but I think Lucius would dearly love to walk again. Doctor Gull studied paralysis especially.”
“Did you bring your brother to him?”
She looked askance at her boss. “Doctor Gull hasn’t practiced for some years, sir, not since his first stroke. I believe he had yet another not long ago.” She didn’t mention how many letters she’d written, unanswered, to the famous physician begging for a moment of his time. “Why are we going to speak to him about Druitt, sir?”
“Druitt’s father was a well-known surgeon, and a friend of Gull’s, who is also Druitt’s godfather. Montague John teaches to make ends meet and was, for a time, tutor to one of Gull’s grandsons. I’m given to understand they—that is Gull the Elder and Druitt the Younger—had a falling out some twelve months since.”
“And you’re hoping Doctor Gull will talk to us more frankly due to what we assume is his newly acquired dislike for Druitt?”
“Very perceptive, Caswell.”
They passed the rest of the journey without further conversation. The motion of the cab almost lulled Kit to sleep, so she jumped rather more than was dignified when Makepeace boomed, “We’re here.”
The large house had a shiny black door, even shinier brass knocker, imposing pillars, and, like all the mansions in the square, faced a tidy private park. The glass in its white window frames sparkled and seemed to magnify the patterns on the sumptuous curtains hanging inside.
To Kit’s surprise, the door was opened not by a maid, but by a tall, thin, sallow man. He did not wear the attire of a butler or the livery of a footman, but was neatly dressed in a charcoal-colored suit with matching vest and a snowy shirt. A silver chain hung from the fob pocket, signifying the presence of a watch on his person. He had a long face, grey eyes and a wary expression touched by superciliousness. He seemed reluctant to let them in, but Makepeace’s best smile and the somber dignity of Kit’s uniform seemed to nudge things in their favor. Still and all, Kit followed hard on the Inspector’s heels just in case the door should be swiftly slammed behind him.
They stood in an impressive vestibule, punctuated by four doors (three closed, one ajar) and a long corridor that led towards an elaborately carved staircase and the back of the house. The walls were covered in a honey-golden silk paper, and any exposed wood was dark and highly polished.
“How may I help you . . . ?”
“Inspector Makepeace. And you are?” Makepeace thrust his hand at the man, who had no choice but to take it or be struck by the blade of the Inspector’s fingers.
“Andrew Douglas, Sir William’s personal secretary,” he said, his voice vibrating a little with the force of the policeman’s handshake. When he was finally released, Kit noticed that Douglas flexed his fingers as if to work out the discomfort of being grasped so securely. She noted the technique for future use, but wasn’t sure she’d have the strength to deliver it as effectively as her boss. “How may I assist you, Inspector?”
“We—myself and young Caswell—are here to see Sir William. It is a matter of considerable importance.” Makepeace was striding around the elegant foyer, craning his neck to see down the hallway, up the staircase, into doorways and didn’t bother to hide the fact that he was doing it. Kit watched as Douglas tried to keep pace with the long-legged Inspector, but succeeded only in looking like a particularly clumsy dance partner.
“I’m afraid that Sir William is not receiving visitors this morning, nor for some time to come. He has been ill—you may not be aware,” said Douglas and, seeming to finally realize he would not win this particular waltz competition, came to a halt and stared at Makepeace in a politely hostile manner. The Inspector ceased his perambulations (not because he was discomfited, Kit suspected, but because he’d seen all he could, all he needed to), and peered at the man in innocent surprise, then broke into a friendly open smile.
“I had no idea—you’ll forgive me, Mr. Douglas, I do not follow gossip. I promise you faithfully young Kit and I shall not tax Sir William, but it is paramount that I speak with him—”
“And I said he was indisposed indefinitely,” interrupted Douglas, a dark red flush creeping up from beneath his collar.
“—and I say again that I shall not leave until I have seen the good doctor.” Makepeace barely paused, but raised his volume so that it was not quite a shout, yet still something that could not be ignored. In the sharp silence that followed the dying of its echoes there came a murmur, almost painfully weak, from behind the only open door. A quavering voice, however one that would not be denied.
“Let them in, Douglas, for God’s sake, man. It’s a police investigation, but I’m sure they’re not here to drag me away.”
Many times Kit had heard Mrs. K describe this person or that as having “a face like a slapped arse,” but this was the first time she actually understood what that meant. Andrew Douglas’ visage was pinched and red, mouth tightly puckered, his Adam’s apple moved like a sphincter each time he tried to swallow his indignation. The man clicked his heels together, stretched his neck—goose-like—smoothed an errant curl back from his forehead and managed a strangled, “This way.”
In his prime Sir William Gull had been a stout man, not tall, with a full head of hair and a dimpled chin; he’d strutted the halls and wards of Guy’s Hospital and traipsed his no-nonsense attitude into royal palaces, making himself a favorite with Queen Victoria, particularly after he’d saved the Prince of Wales from a bout of typhoid fever. A series of strokes had whittled him away to a bag of bones. He still had a head of thick greying locks and a thoroughly dimpled chin, though the muscles of his face seemed to struggle with gravity a little.
He sat, a small man in a large armchair beside the white marble fireplace of a room that had once obviously served as his study. He wore a red quilted robe over a white shirt; a fur rug was tucked around his legs, and his feet were firmly planted on a dark green ottoman covered in scarlet needlepoint roses. For all his diminishment his eyes were bright and blue, and showed no loss of his searching intellect.
“Sir William, I am—” began Makepeace, and found himself cut off.
“A very loud police officer. I heard, Inspector.” He fixed the lanky man with a look that was part-glare, part-amusement, then addressed his employee, “Andrew, thank you, I will see to our guests. You have your duties.”
“Yes, Sir William. Shall I have tea sent?” Kit could tell it almost choked him to ask.
“I think not, they shan’t be with us long,” said the old man pointedly, then added gently, “Off you go, Andrew.”
After the door had closed, Makepeace opened his mouth, but Sir William raised a shaky hand and shook his head, waiting, listening. After a minute, they heard footsteps moving away, and the hand dropped and he smiled wearily. “Andrew is a good secretary and he has been with me a long time, but he does sometimes become over-protective and overstep the bounds of his authority, Inspector. I trust you will keep that in mind next time you’re tempted to visit me?”
Makepeace, visibly chastened, but not seeming too ashamed of himself, nodded.
Sir William continued quietly, “He also sometimes listens at doors as I have learned to my chagrin. Now, how can I help you, Inspector?”
“We won�
�t take much of your time, Sir William, but I do need to ask you some questions about your godson, Montague Druitt.”
Even as Makepeace uttered the word “godson,” Kit saw the old man’s expression change from one of benign tolerance to disgust, which was quickly disguised again. She was impressed at how responsive his facial muscles were even though they seemed so wasted. For a moment she thought he might refuse to answer.
“All I can tell you is that he is a young man without moral compass,” the doctor said, keeping his tone even with effort.
“Can you expand on that?”
The old man pursed his lips and looked away. Makepeace lowered his voice, made it quite soothing. “You may be aware, Sir William, that there have been several murders in Whitechapel, vicious and violent, of which at least two women have been the victims of the same killer. Your godson’s name has been . . . mentioned.”
“Then it is nothing more than an idle mention, Inspector, Druitt has no interest in women.” The old man’s lips thinned and compressed so they almost disappeared.
“I see,” said Makepeace slowly. “He tutored your grandson—”
“I will not speak more of it, Inspector! Suffice to say that no matter what I think of Druitt’s actions and his . . . personal tastes, I cannot in conscience tell you he might have done what you are suggesting. He has no interest in the female of the species, not even enough to dislike them, Inspector. Trust me when I say that Druitt is not your man.” Sir William shook with the force of all the things he suppressed and Kit was concerned that he might have another stroke. A decanter of Madeira and two engraved glasses sat on the corner of a large desk, and she poured out a measure.
“Thank you, young man,” managed Sir William and gulped down the proffered drink. When finished, he sighed and handed the delicate glass back to Kit with the sweetest smile she’d ever seen. “Now, Inspector, will there be anything else?”
Makepeace shook his head and moved to take the old man’s hand. There was a minute hesitation, then Sir William accepted the gesture, somewhat reluctantly, but Kit thought all the more of him for it. He might have been enfeebled, but he was not broken, nor would he be bullied. And no matter how much he disliked his godson, he would not tell lies about him simply for a petty revenge.
“We’ll see ourselves off the premises, Sir William. Thank you for your time.”
They exited the study and let themselves out the front door before any kind of servant had a chance to make themselves known. Makepeace paused on the top step and took a deep breath, hooking his thumbs under his suspenders and surveying the empty park in front of them.
“Well, Kit, I don’t know about you but I don’t think well on an empty stomach. I’m sure we can find somewhere suitable around here to offer us sustenance.” He strode off and Kit followed him towards where the square fed onto a busy thoroughfare. The hairs on the back of her neck crept up and she looked over her shoulder towards the fine house they’d just left. On one of the upper floors, she thought she saw a curtain twitch, but then there was nothing more, and Kit ran to catch up with the Inspector.
VI
“How long has it been now, Kit?” asked Lucius, even though he knew as well as she did.
“Twenty-two days, give or take a few hours,” she answered, settling a bonnet on her hair, then tying its red ribbons beneath her chin. She’d souvenired some of her mother’s old clothes from the bottom of Louisa’s tallboy, things that had not seen the light of day for many years. The high-necked jacket was a deep amethyst, with pearl buttons and red lace trims; around the bottom of a skirt in the same purple hue were intricate frills, punctuated with crimson silk rosettes. The sleeves were three-quarter length and ended in a series of tiered ruffles. She’d had to pad out the chest area—her mother’s assets were grander than her own. On the frame of Lucius’ bed hung a damson velvet evening cape, its peacock feather design beaded in jet.
“Perhaps he’s gone? Finished?” the boy ventured hopefully, but Kit shook her head.
“No. Mary Jane says not. He’s just waiting for things to quieten down, for us to stop paying attention.” She stood, smoothing the fabric—in an uncomfortable imitation of Annie Chapman, she wore several petticoats against the cold. “How do I look?”
Lucius shrugged. His reluctance to hurt her feelings told her she’d succeeded in her aim. She’d found her mother’s face paints when she’d liberated the outfit; her cheeks were now highlighted with slashes of rouge and she’d applied a bright vermilion lipstick, then outlined her eyes with kohl. Personally, she thought she looked like a clown in the shaving mirror on Lucius’ tallboy, but still she’d managed to recreate the appearance sported by most of the streetwalkers she’d seen in Whitechapel. The make-up wasn’t meant to be subtle, it was there as a beacon, a red light, to say This is what I am, get it here.
“Will it be dangerous, Kit?” His voice quavered, and for all the occasions he’d listened with excitement as she’d recounted the tales of the crimes she’d witnessed or examined the aftermath of, this was the first instance of him being afraid. He realized that this time his sister was truly in harm’s way.
She shook her head and lied. “No, my pet, I’ve got my truncheon,” she tapped at it, hidden in her tight sleeve, “and the other PCs will be watching over us. All I’ve got to do is wander up and down the streets. Never fear, I’m not some innocent lamb.”
“What if Mother sees you?”
“Mother has had her medicine, Lucius, she will sleep until morning, and Mrs. K is at her church choir meeting—or is it a séance tonight?” Kit was beginning to regret her decision to change at home, but carting more clothing and accessories to the lock-up had seemed like too much trouble at the time. And she was also beginning to regret having shared her adventures with her brother—it had been an activity designed to distract him from his four walls, not to cause him to worry. She crouched beside the bed and laid a hand on his thin shoulder. “Look at me, love: I will be as safe as houses. I’m alert and I’ll be watched. Never fear. Have I ever lied to you?”
He shook his head.
“I will always come back to you, Lucius, that’s the one thing you can rely on. Besides, anyone who tries to take me on will be biting off more than he can chew.” She smiled and he gave a reluctant grin in return, chuckling. She wrapped her arms around him and he snaked his around her, the strength of his hug belying the frailty of his wasted form.
“Be careful, Kit.”
“Always am. Now, lights out, no reading, it’s late enough as it is.” She opened the door. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Kit trotted swiftly along the streets, staying in the middle of the road so any attacker would have to come out into the open. Her eyes darted into the gloom of the evening, trying to detect movement and form. It was interesting, she thought, how being dressed as a woman made her feel so vulnerable. In her police uniform, with custodian helmet, truncheon swinging and silver buttons all on display, she felt invincible; she missed her bulls-eye lantern, her means of bringing light into dark places.
In the worn velvet drawstring purse were her handcuffs, whistle and the brass knuckles, her notepad and pencil. The length of painted wood in her sleeve meant she couldn’t bend her arm, had to keep it straight. The heels of her shoes seemed to shout “Here I come” in much the same way as a lost lamb might bleat.
Kit shivered with more than cold and it was with some considerable relief that she entered the station to wolf whistles and mostly good-natured ribbing. Four of the other young constables, those without beards and whose skin was still soft looking (admittedly, softer-looking than that of most of Whitechapel’s whores) were all in drag of various quality and degrees of taste. Kit was interested to notice that PC Watkins looked much girlier than she herself did; he also appeared pale, exhausted and troubled. Airedale, standing with the crowd of police designated as the decoy streetwalkers’ protectors for the evening, sneered at each
and every one of the lads, saving most of his disgust for Kit.
“That’s quite enough, Constable,” said Makepeace as he stepped from the stairs, Abberline behind him. “These young men are suffering for their profession and the protection of Whitechapel. There’s no need to denigrate them, especially when they’ve gone to such trouble—lovely frock, Watkins.”
A rumble of laughter rolled through the gathering. Abberline, exchanging a glance and a nod with Makepeace, stepped forward into the circle that formed around the cross-dressed PCs. He cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind his back. The glass moons of his spectacles caught the light and hid his eyes.
“You all know what you need to do, where you need to go, who you need to watch. Take no unnecessary risks, any of you. This man—this monster—has not gone away. He has not forgotten. He is waiting for us to stop attending, men. Do not give him a chance to resume his works.”
Kit was heartened to hear her own thoughts echoed, but it made her shiver. Makepeace saw it, and nodded; she took Chin up, Caswell from the gesture and nodded back. She caught a movement—Airedale had seen the exchange and bared his teeth, apparently revolted. Kit suppressed a sigh: that was all she needed, being taken for the Inspector’s “special” boy. Makepeace, however, didn’t notice. He clapped his hands and shouted, “Out!” and the crowd dispersed.
Thomas Wright moved into position beside her as they pushed through the double doors. He squeezed her shoulder and muttered, “Courage, lad.” She strode off ahead of him towards her allocated starting point on Commercial Road. Wright would find a spot in an alley or a darkened doorway and keep an eye on her. Kit didn’t envy Watkins, who was paired with Airedale; the youngster kept his head down and she could see the large man’s lips moving, pouring forth spite. She looked away, put thoughts of Airedale from her mind, and walked purposefully into the night.