Jack the Ripper Victims Series: The Double Event

by Alan M. Clark

  Upon her return, the tale seemed to be winding down. She moved about the room, offering more brandy to the guest whose glasses were almost empty.

  “Inga had given me the fine jacket as a birthday present,” Herr Kirschner said. “Looking much more heroic, Hans was able to lift me to safety. The jacket was ruined, torn against the rock.”

  “It was much more expensive than you deserved, anyway!” Inga shouted in drunken mock-anger.

  “Now, gentleman,” Her Kirschner said, standing and bowing slightly, “that is how to impress your woman.”

  The guests agreed with great guffaws.

  Elizabeth decided she hadn’t missed much. Seeing the exaggerated reactions of the audience, she concluded the story was meant to appeal to intoxicated listeners.

  They seem to think that because they’re in the theatre, the things they say are entertaining, Liza said.

  Elizabeth rejected the bitter thought. She liked the Kirschners. Their marriage was one of true love. They treated her with respect. She had been encouraged to feel comfortable enough to speak her mind within their household.

  “You seemed a little uncomfortable last night, Elizabeth,” Frau Kirschner said the day after the party.

  “No, Frau Kirschner, not at all.”

  “Inga, please.”

  “Yes, Inga.”

  “During parties, though you are serving, you should relax and feel free to talk to the guests,” Inga said. “As long as you don’t have too much and become foolish or clumsy, you should have a drink.”

  “Thank you, Frau Kirschner—I mean, Inga,” Elizabeth said, “but I don’t care much for the way I act with drink.”

  “I understand about drinking. Some of us have difficulty. I should not drink as much as I do.”

  Elizabeth smiled shyly. In the short time she’d served in the household, she’d helped Inga to bed more than once when the woman had had too much to drink. Alternately attracted to the drinking and repulsed by it, Elizabeth became increasingly uneasy with amount of drunkenness within the household. She hadn’t had a drink in several years, and remembering the consequences from times past kept her from it.

  With time, Inga offered up her history to Elizabeth as if to a close friend. Both she and her husband told more stories of their adventures and their rather tame improprieties. Elizabeth became uncomfortable with her own reticence and thought that she should express herself more. Perhaps she should tell them something of her past.

  Yet she didn’t have daring and humorous adventures to tell. They would not want to hear about her prostitution, her bout with venereal disease, and the loss of her infant. Ultimately, she had trouble feeling worthy of their confidence and good graces.

  Yes, excitement and beauty had come into Elizabeth’s life, but she could only stand in the wings and watch. Her existential delight had been short-lived.

  It seems that something better has it’s limits, Liza said.

  ~ ~ ~

  Almost a month later, while Elizabeth was cooking dinner, Inga came to the kitchen to ask for a cup of coffee. “You make a most wonderful cup, my dear.”

  “I have heard that before, Inga. Thank you.”

  As the lady of the house sat at the big oak kitchen table, Elizabeth put a pot of water on the stove, measured out finely ground coffee from an earthenware jar with a wide cork in it, and dumped them in.

  “Do you recall meeting Herr Godvin Bohlander last week?” Inga asked.

  “Yes,” Elizabeth said, “the handsome actor.”

  “Yes. Do you know that he kissed me in the hallway when no one was watching?”

  Elizabeth didn’t know what to say. She remained silent for a moment, then simply smiled.

  “He wanted to take me to his bed,” Inga said with a girlish giggle, “I wouldn’t let him because I love my husband.”

  A question had been nagging at Elizabeth, and, remembering that she’d been invited to speak her mind, she spoke up. “Inga, you and Herr Kirschner are very good to me, but why do you treat me like such a good friend when you don’t truly know me?”

  “I hope I haven’t shocked you,” Inga said, a look of concern on her face.

  “Not at all,” Elizabeth said. “I have had experience with men.” She looked for a new way to ask the question. “Customarily, those who have been hired to serve are not considered to be the friends of those they serve.”

  Inga’s face became sad. “You’re asking why we don’t treat you as an inferior from a lower class.”

  Elizabeth nodded uncertainly, and Inga pinched her lips together as if the answer was difficult to formulate.

  “Well, my husband is a follower of the writings of Karl Marx.” She paused. “I don’t understand all of it, but…we don’t believe there should be separate classes. We don’t believe some are better or worse than others. We think that…everyone should be treated equally.”

  Elizabeth didn’t find an answer in what the woman had to say—not one that she understood—and it must have shown on her face.

  Inga became flustered. She stood and approached. “Oh, you are so serious, my dear.” She cupped Elizabeth’s chin in one hand and smiled. The motherly gesture was more than a little uncomfortable for Elizabeth since she was two years the woman’s senior.

  She treats you like a little girl, even as she says you’re equals, Liza said.

  She’s being affectionate, Bess said.

  Elizabeth kept an even gaze.

  “You are our servant,” Inga continued. “You’re also our friend.” She laughed and rolled her eyes as she stepped back. “I don’t tell about my dalliances to just anyone. I know you’re not judging when you look at me. I can say anything to you!”

  Elizabeth took the boiling pot from the stove, and poured the woman a cup of coffee.

  “Thank you, dear,” Inga said.

  “What I meant to ask,” Elizabeth said, “is why do you befriend me in particular.” She regretted the question immediately.

  “And why not?”

  Elizabeth choked on her words. She didn’t want to admit the truth—she didn’t want to face it herself—but the lady of the house was still waiting for an answer. Finally Elizabeth decided to take a big risk. “I have done a terrible thing,” she said quietly.

  “Nonsense!” Inga waved her hand in the air as if she could dispel blame for the worst deeds with a simple gesture. “You’re a charming person. We’ve all done things we regret.” She smiled brightly, picked up her cup of coffee, and headed for the door to the hallway.

  “What I did to Fru Andersdotter…,” Elizabeth said.

  The lady of the house gave no indication that she’d heard. She left the kitchen and moved down the hall.

  Elizabeth felt abandoned. She would have opened up for the woman. She could see that Inga didn’t take her seriously enough to want to listen. Elizabeth lost her courage—she would never again reveal feelings of any real importance to the woman.

  She doesn’t want to know, and you shouldn’t tell her, Liza said.

  You can’t blame her for not wanting to hear the worst, Bess said. She wants to think the best of you. That’s the way of friendship.

  ~ ~ ~

  A month later, as the year of 1865 came to a close, and Inga announced that she was expecting, Elizabeth found herself inexplicably wanting out of her employment. After only two months with the Kirschners, she began to think about other opportunities outside their home.

  Am I so afraid of the alcohol, she asked herself, or am I merely foolish and ungrateful again?

  You fear the newborn will remind you of your loss, Bess said.

  You know that if you stay, you’ll end up having to raise her whelp, Liza said cruelly.

  Looking for a reasonable explanation for abandoning a perfectly good position, for a time she entertained the excuses provided by her two selves, although neither was at the heart of her desire to leave. She tried to tell herself that at the age of twenty-two, she didn’t want to watch others go on about their li
ves while she merely served and had no life of her own. When that didn’t fit, she tried out several more excuses, yet none of them stood up to scrutiny and the truth pressed in.

  A few months earlier, when the wreck of Elizabeth’s life was going down and she was drowning in a sea of misery, Herr Olovsson had thrown her the lifeline of employment with the Kirschners. She would not have met Herr Olovsson without Herr Rikhardsson’s goodwill toward her. Herr Rikhardsson’s trust in Elizabeth was in deference to Fru Andersdotter. If not for the friendship Hortense had had with members of Elizabeth’s family on her mother’s side, the old woman would not have taken her in. The unbroken lifeline of goodwill ran straight through the good hearts of those generous souls and all the way back to Fru Beata Carlsdotter. Indeed, her mother continued to look out for her, even from the grave. For all that, Elizabeth had frequently shown her mother little but tolerance.

  Lying in bed one night, she spoke to the darkness. “Thank you mother for all the many things you did to give me life. Thank you for protecting me and showing me the goodness in the world.” She had no sense that anyone listened. Her expression of thanks had come too late, and a nagging feeling of unworthiness began to plague her.

  If any of the people who had helped her knew what she’d done, they would be horrified and scorn would replace their goodwill. In her worst moments, she considered herself Hortense’s murderer. Elizabeth’s weapon had been ingratitude and callous neglect. Along with those thoughts, came the belief that she had indeed been rejected by her own infant daughter. In those moments, nothing Liza or Bess said would help her break free from the cycle of regret and recriminations that wound around and through her thoughts like a venomous snake ready to poison any good notions that might arise.

  The kinder the Kirschners were to Elizabeth, the more wretched she felt. Her employment had become a continuing reminder of that goodwill she didn’t deserve. She knew that if she ever hoped to feel worthy of happiness and friendship again, she had to get away from them, and build a life of her own.

  If Inga were your friend, she’d have been willing to listen to your troubles, Liza said. The Kirschners are theatre people. They want an audience for their drama. They treat you well because they want to be loved.

  In the future, when you have friends of your own, Bess said, friends of your choosing, you won’t be troubled. True friendship should bring you nothing but satisfaction and joy.

  Ada and Leena were my friends.

  Ada and Leena are whores, Liza said. You cannot expect people to offer you respect if you are friendly with prostitutes.

  I have been a prostitute.

  Yes, Liza said. You don’t have to tell people about it, though. If you get to England, you’ll leave your past behind.

  The last bit of advice seemed the only reasonable one. Elizabeth cultivated her dream of London, and the one about the coffee house Herr Olovsson had suggested, yet she couldn’t see either in her future with the wages she earned.

  On Christmas Day, 1865, she received a present from her father that she believed would make all that possible. After his sale of the family farm, Elizabeth’s father sent her a share of what he’d earned. Once more, her mother looked out for her from the grave—the farm had belonged to her, and was sold to her brother. And again, Elizabeth felt undeserving, but she did her best to set the feeling aside. The Sixty-five Swedish Crowns would not last long. However, it would get her to London and hopefully give her a chance at a new life, at something better.

  Chapter 13: Passage

  Elizabeth presented to the Kirschners her exit from service as the beginning of a longed-for adventure to visit and begin life anew in London, England. The Kirschners saw her dream as a romantic notion well worth pursuit.

  “I have a good friend who would serve you well in my stead,” Elizabeth told the lady of the house. “Her name is Ada.”

  “I’ll bring the matter up with Carl,” Inga said. Shortly thereafter, Herr Kirschner asked Elizabeth to organize an interview with Ada.

  Elizabeth didn’t know if the woman would truly be suited for the job, but wanted to give her a chance to get away from prostitution. She visited Ada, and did her best to prepare her for the interview. Elizabeth made sure the woman cleaned herself up and wore fresh, sober clothing. The most difficult aspect of the preparation involved training Ada to hold her features in some semblance of hope. although satisfied with the results in the short term. Elizabeth worried that the woman might not be able to maintain her appearance and manner for long. Still, she felt good about trying to help. The rest was up to Ada.

  Herr Kirschner wrote to one of his friends—a British musician named Lawrence Pimberton who played cello in the orchestra at the Standard Music Hall in London—to tell him about Elizabeth, and ask if she might be taken into his service with room and board. The answer came back that he had no immediate need, but that if she were to call on him at his home, he might find something for her. In any case, he was willing to pose as her employer to smooth her immigration, and provide her with lodging for a fortnight upon her arrival.

  Elizabeth applied for and received her change of address certificate from the Church of Sweden. Herr Kirschner provided Elizabeth with a letter of introduction addressed to British Immigration, explaining his release of her service into that of Mr. Lawrence Pimberton at 30 Ledbury Road, London. Herr Kirschner took her to his bank to have her inheritance converted into British currency.

  ~ ~ ~

  Elizabeth left for England on the Steamship Ahlberg on February 7, 1866. During the two and a half day passage across the North Sea, she rode on the between deck, just below the main deck of the ship. The cramped area had a six foot ceiling height. The bunks for the steerage passengers were temporary wooden structures built along the sides of the ship. She shared her bunk with four strangers. Her few possessions, packed into a recently purchased carpet bag, were stored under the bunk with the luggage of her bunkmates.

  With the constant, slow pitching motion of the ship, Elizabeth quickly became seasick and slept little throughout the voyage. Her bunkmates wanted nothing to do with her. She sat on the edge of the bunk and hung her head. Even if her nausea had allowed her to sleep, the rumbling and vibration of the steam engine would’ve made slumber difficult.

  A young steward with a pocked face named Bilford provided her with a bucket in which to be sick. He stooped as he moved about the ‘tween deck on his rounds, checking on the passengers and replacing the bucket with an empty one when needed. The steward was English, as was most of the crew.

  No food was provided in steerage. Elizabeth had brought with her bread and cheese, but she hadn’t had an appetite. The last sleepless night of the voyage, she spent sitting on the deck and leaning back against the structure of the bunk. She dragged her carpet bag out from under the bunk to use as a pillow and dozed fitfully.

  One of her bunkmates climbed down to seek the privy and stepped on Elizabeth’s left hand. No real damage was done. When the woman returned, she glared before climbing back into her bed. Elizabeth paid her no mind. As miserable as she felt, she had hope for her future that kept her in good spirits.

  Much later, she awoke as the rhythm of the engine changed. The pitching motion of the ship had greatly diminished, and Elizabeth felt no forward momentum.

  A small, black, prick-eared dog approached in the dim light provided by the swaying lanterns. The animal sniffed her empty bucket.

  “That’s Perry,” Bilford said in English. She hadn’t heard the steward approach. “Thought you two might give each other some comfort.”

  His accent got in the way of her understanding. If Elizabeth had been able to read his words, she’d have been more confident about his meaning. When she frowned to show her confusion, he repeated himself slowly and used a more Swedish pronunciation for the word “comfort.”

  Elizabeth nodded, though she had little interest in anything other than attempting to sleep. Perry nuzzled her hand until she lifted it and ran it across the top of hi
s head and down his back.

  The steward is after something more than light conversation, Liza said. Otherwise, his time would be occupied with the needs of the first class passengers.

  He has little duty among the steerage passengers, Bess said, yet he’s a friendly Englishman who takes pride in his work.

  “He’s very insistent,” Bilford said slowly in English. “He’s a schipperke—means ‘little skipper.’ Perry is the captain’s dog. He helps keep the ship clear of rats and mice.”

  The dog had only a nub for a tail. Her fingers explored the soft, extra thick ruff around his neck. Perry clearly enjoyed the petting.

  “We’ve entered the Thames and await a river pilot,” he said, “Once we’re underway again, the passage will be smoother.”

  When the steward had gone, Perry remained. He curled up beside Elizabeth. The petting took her mind off her nausea and the dog kept her company until she fell into a light sleep. When she awoke with a sore backside, Perry was gone. She heard a commotion on the deck above, including men shouting in English with accents so heavy she couldn’t understand the words. Early light spilled through the opening to the main deck. The sharp fish-rot-odor of a riverbank and raw sewage reached her nose. The rhythm of the engine was faster, but the pitching motion of the ship remained light.

  The steerage passengers were up and around, checking their luggage and talking. Elizabeth felt several shudders run through the vessel as if it were bumping against a fixed object.

  Bilford, stepped onto the ‘tween deck. “Be prepared to disembark,” he said loudly.

  Elizabeth began to shiver.

  “You must wait until I’ve received the order from the captain before you can climb to the main deck,” he continued. “You will file before the customs and immigration officers who will meet you on the quay. We have arrived at the London Docks, and it shouldn’t be more than a quarter of an hour wait.”

  Elizabeth tried to tell herself that she trembled in excited anticipation. Sitting on her carpet bag, she tried again to imagine what life would be like in London. The photographs she’d seen over the years had given her the barest glimpse, one that she didn’t trust because the tintypes and daguerreotypes, mostly of famous landmarks, looked more like paintings in soot by artists with failing sight. Powerful, unpleasant odors, polluted air, the booming sounds of steam-powered machinery, and the distant rumbling of the city’s bustling humanity were already discernible from the ‘tween deck. She tried to shut it all out and imagine the shining city she’d seen in her mind’s eye so many times, but the sounds and smells put her in mind of another notion, one of London as a hungry beast. The foul air was its breath, the stink rose from its filthy hide, and the sounds came from the lurching of its joints and the churning and grinding of its digestive system. Swallowed whole, the SS Ahlberg had slid down the snaking river-throat to the gut of the great metropolis. Soon Elizabeth would be ejected from the ship onto the streets to fend for herself within the body of the beast.