by Paula Guran
“Anyone in particular?” she asked, painfully aware of the weight of the revolver in her pocket. It seemed to her that it stuck out a mile. He shook his head, and the moved into the foyer.
“Couple of old biddies arrived and demanded to speak to “Whoever is in charge, my good man” and wouldn’t let up until Abberline himself heard the racket and took them up to his office.”
Kit raised her brows. “They must have been raising hell—I’m amazed he didn’t throw them in the cells for the night.”
“I think he would have liked to, but they didn’t appear to have been drinking and claimed to have important information for him. May have said he’d rue the day if he ignored them.”
Kit guffawed and Wright began to speak, but was interrupted by Airedale, who stood halfway up the stairs, yelling, “Caswell!”
Kit looked at the man’s face, creased into folds and red as a rolled roast, and didn’t like the smile on his thick lips.
“The Inspector wants to have a word with you, immediately.”
Kit exchanged a look with Wright, who shrugged that this was news to him, and Airedale shouted, “Quick smart!”
She set off, squeezing past the leering bobby who didn’t follow her, just watched as she climbed. It made her nervous, but she tried to shrug off the feeling—she knew she was hyper-alert. She turned her thoughts to Makepeace and what he might want.
Since they’d taken the first four murders out of the investigation, two of the killers from the non-Ripper pile had been found, and watchful eyes were being kept on the grenadier who’d been seen last with both Tabram and Smith. Makepeace was very pleased with that progress, but less so with the Ripper case’s lack of movement. Hundreds of men had been shuffled in and out of their doors for questioning, even more had given tips and leads, but none of them led anywhere but to dead-ends. She wished she could tell him that after tonight, the Ripper at least would no longer be a problem for the Met.
She knocked on the door of the Inspectors’ office and opened it.
The cluttered billet showed no sign of Makepeace, but Abberline sat in his place, and in Abberline’s usual spot were two women, respectably dressed and, as they looked at her, horribly familiar. Kit felt the blood drain from her face. Abberline regarded her coolly.
“Ah, PC Caswell. These ladies have an interesting tale to tell. Perhaps you can assist with some of the finer details?”
Louisa stared at her daughter, utterly distraught. “Oh, Katherine. How could you?”
Kit’s first thought was that it seemed her mother was more upset by this than if she’d gone on the game, but she didn’t answer. She didn’t say anything except, “Where’s Makepeace?”
“Inspector Makepeace is otherwise engaged. You are not a problem of sufficient priority.”
She felt as if she was being dressed down by an outraged grandfather. The only person who didn’t seemed affronted by her disguise, but rather impressed, was Mrs. K, whose countenance was that of someone who realized they’ve done something very, very wrong.
“I think,” said Abberline in a measured tone as if he was a reasonable man taking reasonable steps, “that some time in the cells might make you more talkative.”
A large hand clamped on Kit’s shoulder and she didn’t need to turn around to know it was Airedale, smiling as though he’d won a fortune at the races. Her mother’s expression changed to one of uncertainty and she began with, “Surely, Inspector Abberline, this isn’t necessary. Surely, I can simply take my daughter home and—”
“Your daughter has been committing fraud, Mrs. Caswell. She won’t be going anywhere until I get to the bottom of this and establish precisely how much she has compromised investigations by her actions.”
Kit wanted to defend herself, wanted to shout and scream, but the very idea of giving Airedale an excuse to either hit her or throw her over his shoulder so he could carry her to the cells like a sack of coal was enough to infuse her with an icy dignity.
He marched her to the stairs and her mother’s voice, instead of fading with the distance, grew louder and more piercing. Kit almost smiled: Abberline had bitten off more than he could chew. Wright, standing behind the front desk, stared at her as she passed by and Airedale knocked the custodian’s helmet from her head.
“Find Makepeace,” was all she said and was roughly pushed in the square of her back for her troubles.
“Don’t bother,” sneered Airedale and shoved her towards the stone steps that led down.
She thought suddenly of Mary Kelly, all alone at Miller’s Court while Kit sat cooling her heels. She thought of the terrible man bearing down on the woman who was trusting Kit with her life. Kit turned and opened her mouth to shout at Wright that he must find Makepeace, that he must go to Miller’s Court, to tell him that the killer would be there and they could get him. It didn’t matter anymore, what they knew about her, all that mattered was keeping Mary Jane safe.
Before she got a word out, Airedale’s huge open palm slapped into her face, slamming her into a wall and knocking her senseless.
XII
When she came to, she was curled on the cold stone floor. He hadn’t even bothered to put her on the pile of straw that passed for a bed in the tiny space. She didn’t know how long she’d been out, had no idea how many of her erstwhile colleagues had wandered in to stare at her in disbelief.
She could feel the shape of the revolver pressing into her thigh—he hadn’t thought to search her, to take away anything she might use. The truncheon was hanging at her belt, though her helmet was, she presumed, still sitting in lonesome fashion on Wright’s desk.
What would he think, her mentor? What would he say? And Makepeace. What would the inspector say? Do? It occurred to her that she didn’t care what anyone thought apart from them.
“Awake are we?” Airedale loomed in front of the bars. “Ready for some correction?”
“Where’s Makepeace? Airedale, I have to speak to Himself, I have to get out of here. You don’t understand—”
“I understand that you’ve been where you shouldn’t, been meddling in things you shouldn’t have. Don’t you know what happens to little girls who get themselves into bad places? Little girls who don’t obey the rules? Little girls who wander off the path—they get what’s coming to them, that’s what.”
He unlocked the cell door, then pulled it closed behind him. He didn’t lock it because it didn’t matter—her speed was irrelevant when she couldn’t get past him. He began removing his tunic and Kit backed up against the furthest wall. “Little girls who don’t follow the rules learn hard lessons, Katherine.”
He was so certain of himself, so focused on unbuttoning his trousers, that he just laughed when she cringed away. When she spun back around and sprang at him, he was utterly unprepared. Kit swung the truncheon at the side of his left knee and heard the crack. Airedale went down with a scream, and she leapt over him as he fell. He managed to grab at her ankle and she fell too, striking her elbow on the ground so hard that it went numb. She kicked out and caught his ruddy face with the heel of her boot and heard teeth give way with a satisfying snap.
Kit scrambled to her feet and bolted, up the stairs and burst into the foyer. Wright was still at the desk, still looking perplexed. She shouted at him as she went past—no one tried to stop her—“Thirteen Miller’s Court! The Ripper.” Then shouldered her way out through the doors and into the night, every pump of her arms, every pound of her boots on the cobbles a prayer.
Kit didn’t wait to hear if there was a rabble of coppers following her, either to give chase or assistance. She flew along the ill-lit streets, desperately trying to recall all the shortcuts she’d ever learned in her time policing Whitechapel. She got turned around twice and had to retrace her steps, sobbing and cursing, words she’d never used herself, but heard so many times from the mouths of the locale’s denizens.
Miller’s Court was part of the Spitalfields rookery, so dangerous it was double patrolled. It ran off the “wi
cked quarter mile” of Dorset Street. It was highly populated—people would hear an attack, she thought. The voice in her head reminded her it hadn’t helped any of the other murdered women. It wasn’t an area where people ran towards screams or offered help. They walked quickly the other way to avoid getting themselves into trouble.
The bulk of the Christ Church came into sight and it gave her some kind of hope—she was close. She still didn’t know what the hour was. She didn’t know how much time she’d lost—she should have stopped to ask before she charged off, she thought, then considered herself an idiot—as if she had any seconds to spare. And if she was too late . . . well, then time was irrelevant, wasn’t it?
She threw herself to the left into Dorset Street, barely slowing down and almost slipped on the wet paving. She righted herself, kept running until she found the tiny aperture, barely a yard wide, that was the opening of the Miller’s Court blind alley.
The space broadened as she got through the passage, and saw number 13 on her right. It had its own entrance, Kelly had said, and her common-law husband—no longer so—would be happy to vacate for an evening if Kelly took care of the rental areas. It stretched Kit’s meager reserves, but she’d handed over the outstanding twenty-nine shillings.
Kit slowed as she approached the corner. There were two windows looking out into the court, both had rough Hessian sacks hung as curtains and the sight of the orange glow from inside calmed her for a moment—a fire meant warmth and comfort, it meant a home and a hearth. For the briefest breath of a second, Kit thought it would be okay. Then she noticed the corner of one of the windows was broken and a rag was stuffed in the gap, a piece of bleached cloth with dark stains on it.
She reached for the handle and turned it, pushing the door gently inwards.
Kit had never smelled anything like it—the other women had died outside and the scent of their deaths had been somewhat dissipated by that general condition. The air in Mary Jane Kelly’s room was thick with the stink of iron and shit and piss. The dancing glow from the fireplace made it seem that what was left of the woman’s chest still moved, but Kit knew that was impossible—Mary Jane had been opened up from gullet to groin. There was so much blood that Kit couldn’t tell what remained on the body and what had been taken. She could tell that the breasts were gone and the legs spread, and it appeared as if most of her abdomen was scooped out. Her head was turned towards the door and the crater where her face had once been seemed to stare at Kit accusingly. Incongruously, Kelly’s clothing was neatly folded on the chair beside her bed. The two rickety tables were mostly bare.
She tried not to breathe too deeply, tried not to swallow. Couldn’t force herself to approach the bed, just let her eyes roam around the room, trying to take in every detail she could, everything she might be able to examine in her memory later because she knew her days with the Met were done.
There was clothing burning in the fireplace and she thought it must have come from the empty basket on one of the tables, a sign Kelly had brought her mending to occupy her; the boot prints in blood and dirt; the lack of an obvious struggle which suggested the girl had been rendered unconscious very quickly.
By the time Makepeace, Wright, and six other out-of-breath officers poured through the passage into Miller’s Court, she’d seen all she ever wanted to see and taken up position on one of the old barrels that cluttered up the yard.
When her Inspector looked askance at her and asked, “How did you know?” all she could do was shrug and gesture towards the open door. What could she say, after all? That she had caused this? That she’d risked a woman’s life and then lost it after she’d promised not to? He pointed a finger at her and said, “This isn’t over.”
“Never a truer word spoken,” she muttered to his departing back.
He and Wright disappeared into the small room, and their entourage crowded around the entrance, swearing and staring. More than one of them found somewhere to throw up. When a very pale Makepeace returned, and managed to find words, they were, “Why? Why like this? It’s not him, is it? Someone—something—new?”
Kit shook her head. “It’s him.”
“But . . . ”
“He did this because she eluded him for so long. It made him angry and resentful. He could have taken someone else, but she became an obsession simply because he couldn’t find her.” Kit stood and rubbed at her arms, which had gone numb out in the cold. “This became personal and he doesn’t like being defied.”
She passed her gloved palms over her face, smelling the leather.
Makepeace was caught between watching his officers variously look into the slaughter room, then hurry out, and the sight of Dr. Bagster Phillips waddling along the passage from Dorset Street, almost eclipsing the entire space. The doctor’s assessing gaze told her he’d heard the news. She was in no mood to be subjected to further interrogation or speculative glances, and stood.
“Where do you think you’re going?” demanded Makepeace.
She looked at him. “You’ve got your hands full for the rest of the night, I’d imagine. I’m no longer under your control and I’m going home.”
“I have questions you need to answer, Caswell.”
“You know where to find me.” Kit turned and walked away. The men around her stopped briefly what they were doing and watched her, but no one made any move to stop her, not even Abberline as he moved towards the scene with the gait of a condemned man.
They didn’t see her the same way, she knew; somehow she’d become a criminal. She wondered if she’d find Mary Kelly’s bloody shade waiting beside her bed when she got home.
XIII
Time had never passed like this, she was certain.
Each second was an hour, each hour an eternity, and the day simply stretched on as if it had transformed, somehow become an unfathomable distance. She’d lain on her bed forever it seemed, moving her gaze from the intricacies of the rug, to the painting on the wall, to the wood grain of the wardrobe, to the floral pitcher and bowl on the washbasin, to the embroidered cushion on the chair in the corner.
She did not sleep; she’d not slept in so long but still it would not come. Every so often the bubble around her was punctured by the sound of Louisa screaming, sometimes throwing the lockless door back against the wall in fury and screeching from the hallway, sometimes from elsewhere in the flat. That only stopped when Kit heard Mrs. K’s soothing voice coaxing her mother away with promises of tea and something to calm her nerves. Kit hoped it was laudanum, a heavy dose, that Louisa would sleep for a very long time and perhaps forget what her daughter had done.
That was the thing, though: Louisa didn’t appear to remember precisely what Kit had done. She was enraged, she was ashamed, she was utterly certain that her child had brought opprobrium down upon them, but it didn’t seem that she recalled what her daughter had actually done. Indeed, it was apparent she’d substituted another sin altogether. As far as Kit could decipher from her mother’s rants, Louisa believed Kit had become a fallen woman.
There were more accusations, each more outlandish than the next, but that was the core of it: Louisa believed Kit was a harlot and nothing anyone said could convince her otherwise. Wasn’t that why she and Mrs. K had gone to the police station? To ask for an investigation? For the police to stop her daughter from doing such terrible things? Hadn’t Lucius—dear sweet Lucius, concerned only for his sister’s soul—sworn that was what Kit was doing?
Since arriving home in the early hours Kit had not gone to see her brother. She’d heard him through their shared wall, calling for a while, but had not been able to bring herself to answer. She could not bear to look at him and know that his actions, intended to save her, had damned Mary Kelly. She couldn’t, she knew, speak to him yet without crying out all the grief building in the pit of her. If she opened her mouth, she would let something awful out, she would push a little of it—oh, just a little!—onto him just to lighten her own burden. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—speak to him until s
he could keep all her anger, her guilt, to herself. Until she could lie to him and swear he hadn’t played even a tiny part in the tragedy that had reeled itself out last night.
At some point she heard Louisa’s snoring begin, the nasal thunder that meant she’d had her “medicine.” Soon after there was a tentative knock and it was all Kit could do to drag her attention away from the watercolor of a field of flowers—a gift from the Reverend Caswell. Mrs. Kittredge hovered tentatively on the threshold as if unsure she was welcome. Kit cleared her throat, finally found her voice.
“What is it, Mrs. K?” She’d not spoken since bidding Makepeace farewell the night before. Night? Morning? Did it matter?
“Katherine,” began the woman, then stopped, moved into the room and shifted the chair beside Kit’s bed so she could look directly into the girl’s face, as if that was important. “Kit, I’m . . . ”
Kit raised an eyebrow, unsure she was ready for any kind of interaction, but Mrs. K wasn’t screaming at her, wasn’t irrational, wasn’t lost in the prison of her own mind. Mrs. K wanted to have a conversation, so Kit felt the least she could do was listen.
She sat up, leaning against the pillows, aware she’d not changed out of her uniform—and that it would need to be returned to the station at some point, as would the truncheon, the overcoat and whistle, and the bullseye lantern. She sighed at the thought. The boots lying in a corner, at least, were hers—or rather her father’s, the Reverend having had rather small feet and Kit rather large ones.
“Yes, Mrs. K?”
“Kit, I am sorry.”
Kit blinked. An apology had not been amongst her expectations.
“I’m so sorry for what we did. I thought it was right, we—your mother had her suspicions, then your brother told us what you were really doing—oh, I know she doesn’t know which way’s up at the moment but she’ll come around—we thought we were looking after you. Only,” she paused, sniffling, “only when I saw you in that room, in that uniform, so tall and proper, I knew you didn’t need saving. I knew you were doing the saving and we’d ruined it. We’d ruined everything.”