by Paula Guran
She’d been on her first corner for only a few minutes before Mary Jane Kelly appeared from the swirling mist. “You’re too pretty, too fresh and you don’t look anywhere near scared enough for new meat.”
“I feel scared enough, believe me,” muttered Kit. Kelly laughed.
“Only an idiot would come near you, you’re so clean and neat!” She leaned against the brick wall casually, eyes scanning the area before them, and continued, “Men as want new young flesh don’t come to the street. They go to the brothels where that can be arranged by reliable madams. People who want that sort of thing know they need to pay for it and pay a lot. A man knows that by the time a girl’s taken to the alleys it means she can’t find a place in a nice cozy bordello, that she’s probably not going to be charging a premium price.”
“This is all very fascinating, Miss Kelly, but you’re not really helping. You’re probably chasing the men away,” said Kit, but she was glad for the company, however brief. With another laugh, the woman drifted off, and Kit settled into a rhythm of rambling through streets and byways, hidden squares and secret laneways known only to locals. When midnight finally passed, she had been approached by precisely no one, just as Mary Kelly had predicted. She wondered if the other PCs had had any better luck.
At the corner of Rope Walk, she bent to rub at her aching ankles through the leather of her boots. Surveying the murk she tried to divine Wright’s hiding place, but failed. The air just beyond her moved suddenly and a figure ghosted through the fog. Kit straightened, fumbled with the baton in her sleeve, wishing she’d hung the whistle from her neck. Her heart clenched cold, then began to beat again as the shape resolved itself into the smallish Chinese boy who often watched the lock-up in Limehouse.
Kit pushed out a breath and leaned down so his whisper would not escape. The message made her feel ill, but she did not hesitate. With a nod to him, she set off at speed, the clatter of her heels on the pavement no longer a lamb’s bleat, but a battle hymn. She surged through the streets, Wright’s shouts dwindling somewhere behind her.
By the time she’d found the address—Duffield’s Yard on Berner Street—it was closing on one in the morning, and a man driving a pony and trap was almost at the break in the fence that served as an ingress. The horse shied and refused to go further though the man yelled various threats. Kit stood beside the beast, put her hand on its back and felt the shudders coursing through the animal. The streetlight from outside did not reach the corners of the yard, but the pony knew something was not right.
“Hold your lantern up,” Kit shouted at the driver. Grumbling the man pulled the lamp from where it hung beside him and stood, raising it as high as he could. The flame inside the glass flared and wobbled feebly with the movement, then settled and set the shadows in front of them to dancing across the old furniture, sheets of metal and general rubbish that littered the space. Kit stepped into the enclosure, searching the gloom as best she could until she spotted a supine form against the far wall.
“Hellfire,” breathed the man.
Kit made her way towards the shape. Even as she crouched and pulled the whistle from her drawstring bag she knew it was too late. The woman was blond, in her forties, face hardened by the life she’d lived, and her throat was a gaping second mouth beneath a tightly pulled checkered scarf. She lay on her side, legs drawn up almost to her chest and her left hand, lying limp in a dark pool on the ground, was missing the pinky finger.
Kit blew long and hard, but before she finished the blast a figure broke from the darkest corner and rushed towards the entrance. He couldn’t avoid passing Kit and struck out hard as she tried to rise. She managed to avoid falling onto the dead body, but scraped her face against the bricks of the wall before springing up and racing after the assailant.
She saw a flash of something silver—a knife—that he ran along the flanks of the horse. Kit heard the animal scream as it reared up—she wasn’t able to arrest her progress quite fast enough, although she’d managed to begin the process of throwing herself backwards, so the blow the animal caught her on the shoulder was a glancing one. Nevertheless, the pain made her see stars, and she staggered away to sit before she fell beside the dead woman.
Sobbing, she found the silver whistle that she’d dropped and blew on it over and over again. She was still at it when Wright finally caught up with her, drawn by the shrilling. He pulled the thing from her mouth and gently wiped away the tears before anyone else saw Kit Caswell, one of Leman Street’s up-and-comers, crying like a girl.
It wasn’t long before Duffield’s Yard was full of police, and the street beyond undulating with gawkers. The local doctor, Blackwell, who’d been called to the scene was soon shuffled aside when Dr. Bagster Phillips hove into view, having been rousted, on this rare occasion, from the bed of his wife.
She gave her statement to Wright, ashamed to admit that she’d not seen the murderer’s face, which had been wrapped tightly in a dark-colored scarf, and a bowler hat had been firmly wedged on his head. The only thing she’d glimpsed, ever so briefly, was the pale band of flesh around his eyes, and she couldn’t even remember the color of those. All she could think of were black holes, but she wasn’t sure that was right.
Dr. Blackwell, not quite ready to be moved along like a common onlooker, made a point of cleaning the blood and dirt from the grazes on her cheek, and examining her shoulder. Terrified that his hands might stray lower than they should, she spent a tense few minutes lying about the amount of pain she was in, before Makepeace appeared and sent her home with orders not to return to work for an entire day.
VII
“And I tell you I’m her friend and she will see me!”
The yelling was loud enough to penetrate Kit’s laudanum-fuelled sleep. Upon her return home she’d taken a dose of Louisa’s favorite tipple and happily passed out. When her mother had come in to rouse her the next morning, she’d shrieked over the state of Kit’s face and the specks of blood on the pillow. Her daughter, wanting only to keep slumbering, managed a mumbled explanation of women’s problems and dizziness that had caused her to faint and fall. In the end Louisa left her alone.
There was no window in her room and, as she sat up groggily, she realized she had no idea what time it was, or indeed if she’d slept a full day and into the next. It was Louisa’s voice, as strident as the first one, that propelled her out of bed and down the hallway. The front door was open, but just barely, and it was obvious that her mother and Mrs. K were trying their best to shut it. In the gap, Kit could make out a wilted bonnet that had once been very fine, and dark curls bouncing around with the force of their owner’s umbrage. The familiar tones of mingled singsong accents told her who her visitor was.
“It’s all right. She’s a friend.” Kit reached out and touched her mother’s shoulder. Louisa rounded on her, eyes enormous in a bloodless face, an expression that said all her worst fears had come to fruition; as if she knew what the caller truly was.
“How can she . . . this . . . ”
“Mary Jane works with me at Mistress Hazleton’s.”
“You’ve never spoken of her,” hissed Louisa.
Kit fixed her mother with a long look. “And when have you ever asked me about my job, Mother, except to see if I’ve been paid?”
Louisa bit back a retort, all the wind taken out of her sails. Kit pushed the advantage and said, “We’ll chat in the parlor. Mrs. K, won’t you take Mother to the kitchen and make her some tea, please?”
Mrs. Kittredge pursed her lips in disapproval, but nodded. The two older women reluctantly receded down the hallway towards the back of the flat. Mary Jane Kelly, dressed in a peacock-blue frock and black jacket stood on the doorstep with all the dignity of a ruffled chicken. Kit half-expected to see tail feathers sprouting from her bustle in the late afternoon gloom. She wondered if the woman had made a special effort to appear “respectable” but had simply lost the knack.
“Come in, Mary Jane, please. I’m sorry for that.”
Now that they were alone, Mary Jane seemed uncertain how to start the conversation she’d so desperately sought. She cleared her throat and led with, “You’re more like one of us now, the face on you. And you’ve got that look in your eye—a woman never looks quite the same after she’s been hit, no matter that it might only happen once.”
“Did you know her? Elizabeth Stride?” Kit asked, having heard the name before she’d been sent home.
“Long Liz. Swedish. Not a bad sort,” replied Kelly, looking around the tiny parlor at the ambrotypes (all the Caswells in happier times) on various pieces of fine mahogany furniture jammed into the room, the loudly ticking clock on the mantelpiece, the petite point antimacassars on the wing-chairs, the lace and damask curtains over the front window with its seat that looked out on the street. Perhaps it was the nicest room Kelly had ever been in—or at least in her recent history of boarding houses and the like. “Knew Cathy Eddowes, too, her as called herself Kate Kelly.”
Kit frowned. “But there was only one body in the yard—if there’d been another, I’d have noticed.”
“He got Cathy at Mitre Square, about an hour after you chased him off Lizzie. That young Watkins found her—he found poor Annie, too, didn’t he? He’ll be a wreck.” Kelly leaned back in the armchair, nestling into its folds and lumpy cushions as if it were a throne of some sort and she a displaced grandee.
Kit put her head in her hands and sobbed. She’d been too late to save Elizabeth Stride and, in failing to catch the bastard, she’d given him the opportunity to go and carve Cathy Eddowes. Mary Jane didn’t comfort her—all her own tears had been wept far too long ago—just waited for Kit to pull herself together. Then she said, “He’s written to the newspapers, I’m told, given himself a name. Jack. Jack the Ripper, Saucy Jack. The papers published the letter.”
“If it’s from him.” Kit sniffed, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. “Why would he write, draw attention to himself? He’s not doing it for that, you said.”
Kelly shrugged. “Maybe it’s not him, not our one. Maybe it’s some Bedlamite playing games.”
“Or a journalist, trying to sell more papers.”
“My, what a suspicious mind you’ve got, little miss.” Kelly picked at a speck of dirt under her nails. “Heard anything else from your Inspector?”
Kit shook her head. “We didn’t really have much time to chat last night.” She took a deep breath. “We spoke to Sir William Gull about his godson after Annie was murdered, but the godson’s since turned up in the Thames with stones in his pockets.”
“Ah, Sir William, he’s an old love,” sighed Kelly. Kit tilted her head.
“You know him?”
“Oh, he used to visit Whitechapel regular-like back before he got sick. Comes out sometimes, though he can’t do anything but talk. Still and all, he’s a darling and a great supporter of us working girls.” Mary Jane snorted. Kit sat quietly for a moment.
“So, Liz and Cathy were both . . . ”
“Witches? Yes.” Kelly sighed. “All women are balanced somewhere on the witch’s scale, Kit Caswell, but some barely make the weight requirement. Like you.”
Kit nodded. “I’ve got nothing. No second sight or sixth sense. Mrs. K does like her séances, but I suspect she just goes for the port and biscuits afterwards. Sometimes I think my mother might see things, but that’s probably just the laudanum . . . ”
“She’s of a type, your mother,” said Mary Jane lightly, then changed the subject before Kit could ask her what she meant. “What are you going to do now, PC Caswell? You said you’d help.”
Kit didn’t answer. Mary Kelly watched her, face darkening.
“Well?”
“What can I do? I let two women die last night. What use am I to anyone? What difference can I make? We don’t know anything about him, we’ve got no clues, no direction.” She shrugged.
Kelly stood, haughty as a queen. “When you’ve finished your wallowing, come and find me. All your self-pity isn’t going to assist anyone—and he’s got one more that he wants, needs. So don’t take too much time about it.”
Kit trailed her to the door and stood on the stoop as Mary Jane stepped into the night-draped street and finally disappeared, turning a corner. Kit waited, arms wrapped around herself, as if the other woman might come back, might relent. She’d not felt this hopeless or helpless, even when her mother fell apart; then she knew what she had to do, it was not only obvious but a matter of survival. Now she couldn’t even begin to think where to start with the Whitechapel witches.
The evening cold crept through her and it was a while before she became aware of someone watching her. She scanned the area, eyes probing the scant spaces between houses, the corners, the alleys, desperately trying to pierce the darkness. She found no one and convinced herself that it was Mary Jane Kelly, peeking at her from afar. Even as she retreated inside and latched the door, though, the chain and bolt seemed nowhere near sturdy enough.
Kit stepped into the parlor to warm herself by the fire; firstly, she pulled the curtains across against prying eyes. She was still standing there, hands outstretched when she heard the mail slot rattle a little, as if someone was trying to be very quiet. Then there was the light sound of something hitting the carpet.
Padding into the corridor in her bare feet, Kit saw a creamy envelope lying there. The card of it was thick and expensively made. The flap was secured with red wax, but there was no seal stamped into it, no hint as to who it might be from. She wondered briefly if Kelly had doubled back to deliver it—then she realized she didn’t even know if Mary Jane could read and write.
She fumbled with the lock and chain, and threw open the door in hopes of finding the letter’s owner, but the street was empty by the time she managed to do so. Kit waited for long moments, looking up and down the thoroughfare, trying to discern if there really were eyes on her or if she was imagining it. All it did was make her certain she had not even the slightest sixth sense.
“Katherine?”
Louisa’s voice traveled from the kitchen, although her mother did not show herself and Kit took the opportunity to pick up the letter and slip it into the sleeve of her nightgown. She closed and secured the door once more, moving stiffly as her injury made its position more firmly known.
“Yes, Mother?”
“Come and have some supper, if you’re feeling better. You must be famished.”
Kit didn’t think she’d ever have an appetite again, but decided that it was in her interests to let her mother think normalcy had taken up residence in their home once more.
“Yes, Mother,” she said, aware of the letter burning against her skin; she must hide it for now. “I’ll just get my robe.”
VIII
Watkins, thought Kit, looked worse than she felt. The deep navy of his uniform made his pallor even more striking and the circles beneath his eyes gave him the appearance of a corpse that, refusing to believe it was dead, insisted upon walking around. On her way towards Leman Street, she’d spotted her fellow PC and intercepted him as he shambled up Commercial Street in what passed for morning sunshine.
“All right, Watkins?” she asked and the young man started like a skittish horse; he peered at Kit as if unsure who she was, then seemed to relax, his shoulders dropping as he recognized her.
“Oh. It’s you,” he mumbled, not really looking at her but past her.
“You found the other one? Eddowes?”
He nodded. “She was cut. She was cut so bad.” He began to sob. “Why didn’t you catch him? You were so close, Caswell, why couldn’t you just have
got him so he didn’t . . . so I didn’t . . . ”
Kit was frozen, horrified, aching with guilt and concern for Watkins, who stood before her on a crowded street, weeping like a child as people buffeted past them. She couldn’t put her arms around him as she would Lucius, she couldn’t walk away, and she certainly couldn’t tell him to pull himself together and go to work. She hated to think what Airedale would say if he saw the youth in this state. She wondered what he’d said the night of the decoys, and where he’d been when Watkins had found Cathy Eddowes.
“I . . . I tried, Ned. I did try,” she said lamely. He swallowed with effort.
“I see the other one. I seen her since I found her. Then this morning, this new one appears beside her, right next to my bed. They don’t say anything, they just stand there, staring at me.” He grabbed Kit’s shoulders and shook her—the pain almost made her pass out. “What do they want? I’ve got to make them go away!”
She wrenched herself from his grip, desperate to not have his fingers clawing into the tender injured flesh. “Ned! Ned, you need to go home. You need to have a rest.”
“I’ve not been sleeping,” he said, “not since I found Dark Annie. And Airedale just keeps on at me and on at me, talking about it all the time, talking about how they come apart so easy, that it’s just like butchering a cow . . . ”
“Ned,” she said, and gently grasped his upper arms, made him focus on her, look her in the eyes. “Ned, you need to go home. I’ll talk to the Inspector, I’ll let him know you’re sick.”
“You can’t tell him! He’ll think I’m mad and no one will ever let me forget it. Airedale—”
“Bloody Airedale won’t bloody know!” she snapped. “Ned, I’ll just tell Himself you’re ill, that you’ve eaten something to make you sick. That’s all. No more than a dodgy stomach, mate, yeah? We’ve all suffered from those pies at Stout Aggie’s.”