“I’m Mary Ann Kelly,” she told the woman, smiling, “and this is my husband, Jon Kelly. We’re going home to London.”
“I am Emily and my husband is James Birrell. We’re from London too, but we’re going to Cheltenham to Mr. Birrell’s family.”
Mr. Kelly and Mr. Birrell greeted one another, but didn’t have much to say.
Katie asked Emily about her life in London, and Mr. Birrell’s family.
“My husband is a dustman,” Emily said, “and I have been charring. But it has become such occasional work that even with the households we service granting us pig wash, there’s never enough and the children remain hungry.”
Katie was used to eating food scraps that had been left behind on the tables of patrons of taverns, then rejected by the establishments’ staffs and put out for the dustman and bone-grubber to collect. She knew when several of the public houses in Whitechapel put out their refuse and she made the rounds, sometimes competing with others for the scraps. But she knew they were relatively fresh compared to pig wash. Most households only rejected a joint or stew when it was going bad.
“We’ll stay the winter with his family, and hope for better from London in the spring.” Emily said.
Katie told a story about herself that left out most of what caused her shame and suggested some stability in her life with Mr. Kelly in London. He gave her a questioning look a couple of times, but didn’t interrupt. The two women made small talk for the next hour on the road. Walking in the warm sun and talking to another mother was good. When they came to a fork in the road, the Birrells said their goodbyes and headed up the road to the right. Katie and Mr. Kelly moved to the left, but had not got far before Emily called out and ran back to Katie.
“Take these,” she said, handing her two pawn tickets. “They’re for a shirt and pair of boots. We won’t be back soon and it would be a waste. You should have them.”
“Thank you,” Katie said.
“Yes, thank you,” Mr. Kelly said. He waved to Mr. Birrell, who was waiting on his wife up the lane.
When she was gone and they resumed their trek to the train station, Mr. Kelly said, “I haven’t seen you so bright and happy for some time. It’s good to have you back.”
Katie’s face held a smile of hope and promise.
Chapter 27:A Black Cloth Jacket, a Chintz Skirt with Flounces and a Grey Stuff Petticoat
After paying for the train tickets and having a good meal at a tavern upon their return to London, Katie and Mr. Kelly had little more money than when they left to go hopping. Because they didn’t have enough to both stay at Cooney’s, Katie insisted that he stay there while she went to the Mile End Casual Ward.
The superintendent at the casual ward, who knew her quite well, but whose name could not be remembered, asked where she’d been. Katie responded that she’d been hopping, and then something strange came out of her mouth: “But I’ve come back to earn the reward for turning in the Whitechapel Murderer. I think I know him.”
Where did that come from? Was that Mum saying that?
“Mind he doesn’t murder you too,” the superintendent said, chuckling.
“Oh, no fear of that,” Katie said, troubled, but hiding it with feigned mirth.
“One of the girls died last night,” the superintendent said. “No family. Have a look in the clothes bin and see if there’s anything you want.”
Katie found a warm woolen petticoat, a chintz top skirt and an old jacket with fake fur collar and cuffs.
~~~
On September 28, when she went to Holborn to Annie’s home, Katie was still sober, despite craving a drink for every waking hour since leaving the hops garden. Suffering the shakes and her abdomen cramping in withdrawal, she kept her desire at bay by practicing what she would say to Annie and imagining her daughter’s positive response to her words. Having washed herself and her new clothes and donned them, she was quite presentable for the visit. She would knock on Annie’s door this time. She would beg to be heard and then make the best case for herself she could. She wouldn’t ask for money, merely patience.
As Katie was about to take the steps to the door of their house, Mr. Phillips came out, followed by Annie. No doubt they had seen her approach.
Mr. Phillips hurried menacingly down the stairs. The impulse was to run, but Katie held her ground.
He came too close and leaned over her with an angry, beetling brow and balled fists. “You will not come here again.”
“I will go away, if you’ll hear me out.” Katie said, looking at Annie and maintaining her calm.
Her daughter remained by the door. She folded her arms before her and stared coldly.
“There is nothing you have to say we want to hear,” Mr. Phillips said.
The conversation wasn’t anything like what she imagined. Katie panicked. “I’ve stopped drinking,” she blurted.
Annie’s lips became pinched, she shook her head slowly, her eyes filled with disbelief.
“How many times have you told us that?” Mr. Phillips shouted. “We cannot believe you. Even if it were true, we know what you do to earn your crust. We cannot keep company with such as you.”
How can they know about the prostitution? The shame took the strength from her legs and back and she sagged a little, her head hung low. There is no way out of this life. Annie’s love is no more.
She pulled herself back upright, trying to look proud. Tears spilled down her cheeks. “Please,” Katie cried, “you must listen to me.” She looked again to Annie, but her daughter remained immobile, her eyes glistening with moisture, but still hard and impenetrable.
Windows opened along the street. People leaned out to get a better look at what was happening. Annie glanced up and around at her neighbors, her expression bearing the unmistakable mark of shame.
Mr. Phillips violently pulled a purse from his waistcoat, ripping the pocket as he did so. He emptied it into his right hand. He dropped the purse, grabbed Katie’s hand and hastily spilled the coins into it. “Take this and go,” he said through gritted teeth. “Don’t ever darken our door again.” Several of the coins fell to the pavement and Katie’s tear-blurred eyes reached for each and every one of them.
She pulled her eyes away from them to look at her daughter.
“I don’t leave the house anymore for fear of meeting you,” Annie said with bitterness, tears finally flowing over her cheeks. “You’ve killed my mother.”
With that, she turned and crossed over the threshold into the house. Mr. Phillips followed her, but stopped just inside. His back still to Katie, he said, “Don’t come back or you’ll be sorry you did.” Then he shut the door.
Katie stood alone on the street for a time weeping, periodically breaking into a great hacking cough.
She can’t know what I’ve suffered and what it’s done. Annie has nothing left for me.
The desire for drink became overpowering.
There’s no way out. I can’t be anyone but this drunken whore.
While the neighbors watched, she got down on her hands and knees. Mucous dripping from her mouth and nose onto the paving stones as she wept, Katie scrambled after each of the fallen coins. When she’d found them all, an amount totaling nearly two crown, she got to her feet and fled toward the East.
Chapter 28:An Old White Apron
Katie spent the evening in the Hoop and Grapes Pub, drinking all sorts and singing poorly with other drunkards and prostitutes. Desperation had introduced her to the drink several years ago, for it was often the only thing she could afford. Before the night she’d tried it, she’d been disgusted watching it being assembled over the course of an evening, with the barmaids rounding up all the drinks left on tables and the barman dumping them into a firkin and stirring it. After surviving the drink the first time, she’d allowed her imagination to work on the idea. Now, it was her way of having a bit of everything. If she concentrated, she could taste the beer, the wine, the whiskey, and even, occasionally, a little brandy. She enjoyed one afte
r the next and was able to ignore the small thickenings of mucous, and the bits of tobacco, ash and other debris that sometimes floated up to the top.
With Mr. Phillip’s money, she could afford much better, but there was no way to know what would be needed tomorrow.
Katie sang and drank and smoked with strangers. She smiled and laughed and cavorted with the women and flirted with the men, all to suggest she was having a good time—to convince herself—and forget what happened that day with her daughter. She drank until she was so drunk it was doubtful she’d make it back to Cooney’s common lodging.
The clock over the bar said it was already too late as she was leaving the pub; the doors at Cooney’s would be locked by the time she got there. Thrusting a hand into her pocket for the protection of her thimble, she turned and headed for the Mile End Casual Ward. After a few paces, Catherine fell in beside her.
Her mother’s presence had a sobering effect. Memory of Katie’s recent experience with Annie returned, along with self-pity and loathing. If that was what spending time with her mother was going to be like, she could do without her company.
She almost said as much, but then she was sitting with Catherine by the fire pit in the hops garden again. Her mother pointed the stick toward the jumble of orange embers. But as Katie’s steps continued to sound on the pavement at her feet, it was clear she was merely remembering something from several nights ago, a part of their conversation she’d blocked because it was too horrible.
A log settled in the pit. Among the shifting embers, Katie could see an orange view of Annie sitting in a chair, being questioned in something like a courtroom.
“You know how she feels,” Catherine said.
And indeed Katie did; after all, Annie was her second chance to live. She’d always been able to see the world through her daughter’s eyes.
Annie had been called to identify Katie’s body at the mortuary adjoining the Coroner’s Court and later to answer questions at the Coroner’s Inquest. The belief was that Katie had died at the hands of the Whitechapel Murderer.
She was mesmerized by the sight of her own corpse as seen through Annie’s memory. Annie was in pain over the loss of her mother, and she was relieved. But it wasn’t a selfish relief. Annie was glad for Katie to be released from the prison her emotional torment had made of her flesh.
“I am a burden to her,” Katie said. The chill air pushed the warmth of the fire pit back, and she shivered from the cold as well as the terrible vision in the fire.
As Katie became aware she was walking along the Whitechapel streets again, she turned to her mother. “Will this truly happen?” she asked timidly, tears in her eyes.
“Yes,” Catherine said.
“I’m afraid.” Her throat tightened and the words were difficult. “The mutilation…the terror.”
“Look to her memories of the inquest.”
When the doctor who examined Katie’s body was deposed, he stated, “The cause of death was hemorrhage from the throat. Death must have been immediate.”
“Annie will go on to have a good life,” her mother said. “She will have a little girl named Catherine. She will call her Katie.”
“When?”
“When you’re willing.”
Shaken and quaking in the chill night air, Katie found herself at the entrance to the casual ward. Catherine was no longer beside her. Breathing shallowly, she struggled to compose herself. Finally, she entered, signed in, found an empty stall within one of the cells and lay in the straw bedding unable to sleep for some time.
Such as I am, I’m miserable. My life is not worth anything; not to me, nor anyone, save perhaps Jon Kelly. But he doesn’t need me. He’d get along. If I were not afraid, I would willingly give up my life.
But what am I afraid of? Is it Hell?
Living in abject poverty had left her unable to believe in that.
No, not Hell, but perhaps the idea of my being emptied into darkness as if by some grim dustman. Becoming nothing. It’s only the idea, here and now, that is frightening—if I become nothing, I will not be aware of it...nor the darkness.
Was it fear that she’d miss out on some good that would eventually come to her?
No, I have no worth to anyone. No one considers me deserving now. I am already nothing.
With that, resentment rose in Katie, along with thoughts that she tried not to give full voice in her head. Still, they persisted, vague and doubtful at first, but with a definite theme: If she were the White Chapel Murderer’s next victim, there would be sympathy. As with the first victims, the story would be everywhere in the city overnight. Her name would be on everyone’s lips.
Yes, I am like those poor women who were murdered. There are many of us. As Mum would say, poor women are like the soot that falls on the city, unnoticed until it piles up and becomes a nuisance. Yes, hardly noticed...until you get a cinder in your eye!
If I were the next victim, the whole of London would be thinking about me and Conway would know it. I would be the burning cinder in Conway’s eye.
And Annie and Mr. Phillips....
No, she would not entertain resentments toward her daughter.
Such petty, unworthy thoughts. All of it. There must be more.
Have I done no good?
Yes, I helped Annie to have a good life. She knows. It took sacrificing my own desires to do it....
And there was the idea…the justification, a decision pending. She touched the idea lightly, turning it to look for flaws, wanting to reject it, but knowing she would not.
I have one more sacrifice to make for Annie.
With that came a welcomed sense of relief and she slept.
~~~
The next morning, September 29, she was awakened before it was light by a disturbance in one of the other cells. Incoherent shouting resolved itself into someone clearly shouting, “Fire!”
Katie fled the casual ward and made her way to Cooney’s to help in the kitchen. Sometimes Carole would give her a little something to drink for her hangovers in lieu of the food she normally earned for her help.
at the kitchen door as the sun lightened the sky in the East. Carole answered it and let her in. Katie was given a pint of stale beer, and then she donned an apron and helped Carole prepare for the morning’s breakfast.
Mr. Kelly showed up early. He helped Mr. Wilkinson with a load of coal and then the two men came into the kitchen and sat down with cups of tea. While Mr. Wilkinson was distracted speaking to his wife, Katie gave Mr. Kelly the money she still had, holding back only enough for one more evening of roaring drunkenness.
“Where...” he began, his brow furrowed.
“Annie and Mr. Phillips,” she whispered.
“But this is yours then,” he said, offering it back to her.
If nothing else, he is an honest man. I could have treated him better.
Unexpected tears welled up in her eyes. She pulled out her handkerchief, turned away and pretended to sneeze to provide an excuse to be wiping her face. Turning back to him, it was clear he hadn’t noticed her reaction. He still held the coins out to her. She smiled and touched his cheek gently. “You save it for me.”
He grinned and nodded, put it in his pocket and left the room.
Mr. Wilkinson raised his cup of tea to her and asked. “How are you this morning, Mrs. Kelly?”
“I am doing quite well,” she said brightly. “Today I’ll find the Whitechapel Killer and turn him in for the reward. I know who he is.” Fully aware of what she meant, she said it joyfully. Catherine was right: she must find him or allow him to find her.
Mr. Wilkinson brow rose in surprise.
Well, at least part of what I said is true. Katie winked at him.
An uncertain smile touched his lips as he sipped his tea.
Chapter 29: Nothing
Katie spent the evening of September 29 much the way she had the night before, but did her carousing in several different pubs. By chance, she met up with Carole Wilkinson. “I wa
s looking for a partner,” Carole said. “I mean to explore the lusheries of Petticoat Lane.”
“Well, I’m game,” Katie said.
Carole’s features took on a curious expression, and she began to laugh as she pointed to the apron around Katie’s waist. “You’re still wearing the flag you put on this morning!”
Katie looked down. “So I am,” she said with a chuckle. She had been drinking beer throughout the day and simply not noticed the apron. With all the layers of clothing she was wearing, it hardly mattered. She lifted the edge of it and curtsied.
Carole laughed, and ordered more whiskey for them both.
“I heard what you said this morning about knowing who the White Chapel Murderer is,” she said.
“It’s true.” Katie grinned.
“Who is it, then?” Carole was wide-eyed.
“If I told you, you’d turn him in and I would lose out on the reward.”
They both laughed. Carole thought it such a funny story, she helped Katie tell it to people in all the pubs they visited. Time passed in a blur of drunkenness as they danced with each other, rollicked with the women and flirted with the men, laughing and joking with everyone they met.
Because the pubs had younger, prettier women, most of the men weren’t interested in Katie, but that was okay. She was interested in just one man in particular. Would she recognize him when she saw him? Knowing who he was didn’t matter.
By eight o’clock, they had managed to get themselves kicked out of The Hoop and Grapes Pub by being a nuisance asking men to buy them drinks. Saying she felt ill, Carole fled home to Cooney’s, while Katie remained out front, mocking the customers coming and going from the establishment. People weren’t paying much attention to her, and that was fine most of the time, but not tonight.
Jack the Ripper Victims Series: The Double Event Page 31