The Whitechapel Girl

by The Whitechapel Girl (retail) (epub)

  ‘Ettie,’ she said, her voice raw from weeping. ‘I’m so glad you’ve come.’ She returned her gaze to her lap. ‘I was hoping you’d do something for me.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Ettie, sitting down and taking Celia’s hand in hers. ‘That’s why I’m here. I’ll do whatever I can.’

  She let go of Celia’s hand and placed a small brown paper packet on the table between them.

  ‘It’s only a cold bacon sandwich,’ she said. ‘It’s all I could get. But you’ve got to eat something.’

  Celia looked down blankly at the grease-stained packet. ‘You’ve been very kind to me, Ettie. I don’t know how I would have got through all this without you.’

  ‘Don’t thank me too soon,’ said Ettie, swallowing back her tears and trying to arrange a smile on her face. ‘You haven’t tried the sandwich yet.’

  ‘What I want,’ said Celia, suddenly looking directly into Ettie’s eyes, ‘is for you to go to the house for me. I need you to fetch some of my things.’

  ‘All right,’ said Ettie cautiously, wondering if Celia’s father was still safely out of the way.

  ‘You seem worried,’ she said anxiously. ‘It won’t take very long.’

  ‘I didn’t really want to bump into your father.’

  Celia hesitated. ‘I can’t lie to you, Ettie, he is due back today, but he’ll go straight to the hospital, I promise. He’s a creature of habit.’

  Ettie nibbled her lip. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I truly wouldn’t ask you unless I was,’ Celia replied anxiously.

  ‘Well, if you say so.’

  Celia managed a smile.

  ‘It’s fine, of course I’ll go.’

  ‘Oh Ettie, thank you.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. Now, what is it you want? I know you could do with some soap, but I’ve already thought of that.’ Ettie dug into her pocket and produced a thin slice of soap that she’d bought from a passing bride whom she’d delighted by giving her a half-crown for the almost transparent fraction of the original, once rectangular cake.

  Celia picked up the soap and examined it as though it were a precious jewel. ‘Thank you. Again. But what I was really hoping was that you would fetch me a phial from my father’s pharmacology cabinets.’

  Ettie looked alarmed.

  ‘Even though I’m exhausted, I’m finding it impossible to sleep in here. This tincture would help me.’ She handed Ettie a scrap of paper. ‘The cabinets are kept in his operating room,’ she explained, ‘up in the attics.’

  ‘I can’t make head nor tail of this,’ said Ettie, frowning at the strange words.

  ‘It’s in Latin. But it’s all right, his pharmacy is organised in a very simple way. You’ll be able to go straight to what I want.’ Celia was beginning to sound desperate, her voice betraying her concern that Ettie might be reconsidering whether she would help her. ‘My father is obsessively tidy with his things. Everything is kept in strict alphabetical order.’ She paused. ‘Oh, is that a difficulty?’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Ettie assured her. ‘I do know my alphabet.’

  ‘Of course, it was very rude of me to think otherwise.’

  ‘I think we’ve got beyond all this apologising, Celia,’ Ettie said softly, then added more briskly: ‘I’ll sort it out.’ She tucked the paper safely into her bag. ‘Now, what else was it you wanted?’

  ‘A packet.’ She looked at the now grease-soaked covering of the sandwich. ‘Not unlike the one you were kind enough to bring me. You’ll find it in the drawer of the writing desk in my bedroom.’ Celia handed her a tiny, golden key. ‘Thank you, Ettie. Thank you.’

  Neither Ettie nor Celia knew that, on the other side of the stout brick wall, only a matter of feet from where they were sitting, Bartholomew Tressing was being invited to take a seat by Inspector Grainger.

  ‘I’m sorry to have brought you here at such an early hour, Mr Tressing,’ said Grainger.

  ‘I should think so,’ fumed Tressing. ‘I return to the hospital after a week’s leave of absence doing research and you immediately come in and disturb me, prevent me from getting on with my work. I’m a busy man, Inspector Grainger, extremely busy.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the inspector said flatly, ‘we all are. But I’m afraid it was unavoidable. You see, your daughter is being held in custody.’

  ‘She’s what?’ exploded Tressing, looking round at Jennings and Miller who were posted by the door. ‘I thought your men said it was to do with a hospital matter.’

  ‘Well, in some ways it is,’ said Grainger, searching around for the right words.

  ‘Look, inspector, I don’t have the time to play these ridiculous games. I’m in the middle of a very complicated piece of work which has to be finished before I go to America in the New Year. Do you understand me?’

  Grainger decided that he had better come straight out and say what he had to say. ‘Mr Tressing, your daughter has been making some extraordinary claims and, not to put too fine a point on it, we are quite concerned for her mental state.’

  ‘What sort of claims, man?’ demanded Tressing.

  ‘It has to be said, sir, that your daughter, Miss Celia Tressing, has been making all kinds of accusations about you.’

  ‘Accusations about me? What do you mean, accusations?’

  ‘That you, well, knew her. In the carnal sense.’

  ‘What?’ he yelled. ‘Has the damned girl taken complete leave of her senses?’

  ‘That’s exactly what we are concerned about, Mr Tressing.’ The inspector wiped the sweat from his palms on his handkerchief. ‘She is also claiming,’ he continued, ‘to be responsible for the murders in Whitechapel, sir. The murders that are being associated with the person known as Jack the Ripper.’

  Tressing’s face was crimson. He levered himself unsteadily to his feet and paced over to the window.

  ‘We were wondering about your using your powers to certify patients as insane, sir,’ said Grainger in an appeasing, controlled voice, as if he were trying to subdue a crazed bear.

  ‘Under the ’43 rules?’ asked Tressing, staring down at the now busy street below.

  ‘I don’t think that would be necessary, Mr Tressing,’ Grainger said as evenly as he could manage. ‘We could, if you wish, keep this a private matter. It would prevent any scandal. Keep it out of the papers. That sort of thing.’

  ‘That would seem to be satisfactory,’ said Tressing.

  ‘It has been suggested, by a colleague of yours, in fact, that arrangements might be made in this establishment,’ said Grainger, holding up a sheet of headed writing paper.

  ‘A colleague of mine,’ thundered Tressing. ‘You mean…’ ‘Please, don’t alarm yourself, sir. Dr Jackson’s advice…’

  ‘Dr Jackson?’

  ‘His advice,’ Grainger persisted, ‘had already been sought regarding Miss Tressing, when it transpired that he knew you. We thought that the fewer people who were involved in all this, the better it would be for all concerned.’

  Seeing that Tressing was almost bursting with rage, Grainger hurriedly carried on speaking.

  ‘All you would need to do,’ he continued, ‘is sign your agreement to pay the fees as her parent and guardian. And, of course, to certify her, in your capacity as a man of medicine.’ Tressing strode over to the inspector’s desk, snatched a pen without asking from the ink-stand, and signed the paper with a, but without so much as a glance at the contents of the letter.

  ‘I knew she’d finally lose her grasp on reality,’ he sneered, shoving the signed document towards the inspector. ‘Same as her mother before her.’ He leaned across the desk. ‘Quite insane, you see, Grainger. Exactly like her mother.’

  Grainger said, ‘I see.’

  Tressing looked over his shoulder at Jennings and Miller, then turned back to the inspector and said in a low, conspiratorial voice. ‘She actually claimed that she saw someone…’ He hesitated for a brief moment. ‘A colleague of mine, kill a slum child.’

  ‘I see
,’ Inspector Grainger said again.

  Then Tressing straightened himself up, pulled on his gloves and walked, almost casually, over to the door. As he waited for Jennings to open it for him, he added, ‘Organise any other paperwork and send it over to me either at my house or my club.’

  He handed Jennings a card without bothering to look at him.

  ‘I’ll be going home later this morning, staying until about noon, and will return late tonight after dining at my club.’

  Jennings stood to attention as Tressing brushed past, then he followed him, closing the door behind them.

  ‘Hard man, that,’ said Grainger, ‘visiting his club for dinner.’

  ‘Shock maybe?’ said Sergeant Miller.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Grainger.

  Ettie hurried along the corridor that only hours earlier Jacob himself had strode along with the same intention – to leave the police station as quickly as possible.

  As Ettie came to the wide central office, she heard the unmistakable voice of a man loudly addressing someone whom he considered to be his inferior.

  ‘Take your hand from my sleeve, constable, I am quite able to leave the office without your assistance.’

  ‘My apologies, Mr Tressing, sir,’ said the hapless Jennings as he stepped aside to let him through.

  Tressing… Ettie shrank back at the name, ducking behind a green painted pillar from where she watched the man who had driven his own daughter insane by his violation and abuse of her.

  ‘I’ll be expecting to receive personally any news regarding my daughter’s committal,’ he said insistently. ‘You are absolutely clear where to find me?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Jennings.

  ‘And I don’t expect to read a single word about it in any of the newspapers. That is also quite clear, is it, constable?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Jennings timidly. Then, in an effort to ingratiate himself he added, ‘And don’t worry yourself, sir, Miss Tressing will be quite safe here with us.’

  Tressing looked at the constable as though he were also in need of certifying. ‘Do you think I care?’ he said scornfully, and strode through the wide doors and out on to the street.

  Ettie rushed up to the young constable and simpered in her most elegant voice. ‘Constable, wasn’t that Miss Tressing’s father?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Smith,’ he said, with what he felt and hoped was an irresistible smile – it wasn’t often that he came across good-looking, elegant young ladies like her in the Leman Street nick.

  ‘Is he going home, do you know?’ she asked shyly. ‘I should very much like to speak to him about Celia. To see if I might be of some assistance.’

  ‘As I recall,’ said the constable, flamboyantly producing his notebook. ‘Ah yes. He said he’d be going home for a bit later on this morning, then he’s off to his club this evening. For a spot of supper. If that’s of any help.’

  ‘Thank you, constable,’ whispered Ettie, touching his arm with her gloved fingertips. ‘I’m very grateful to you.’

  Little did he realise how grateful; even though her mind was racing with other problems and sadness – about her mother’s death, about making up with Jacob, about her life in general and what she was going to do with herself – at least the information had given her the peace of mind of knowing when it would be safe to go to the house.

  Chapter 41

  ‘Ivy!’ wailed Flo. ‘Come on, girl, It’s bloody freezing out here.’ She held up her bag and shook it, making it jingle as a few loose coppers rattled around inside. ‘Look, I’ve got more than enough for the two of us. Come on. Let’s go down the Butcher’s and have a few for our breakfast.’

  Ivy was hanging around at the far end of Fournier Street looking for trade, but Florrie’s powerful bellow of a voice easily carried from where she was standing hollering at the other end by the corner of Brick Lane.

  ‘No,’ Ivy shouted back emphatically, her fists tucked into her slender waist. ‘I told yer, I wanna get that little blue bonnet I saw in the pawn shop window. I only need another couple of bob and I’ve got enough. And put that bloody bag away before you go and get yourself coshed.’

  ‘But Ivy…’

  ‘Listen, Flo,’ she shouted back, pausing only to stare down the nosy cow who’d stopped to listen to their row. ‘I reckon yer’ve still got a skinful from last night. You poured more than enough down yer gullet to get the both of us pissed.’ Ivy’s tone softened. ‘So why don’t you get off home? Go on, and I’ll fetch yer a couple of pig’s trotters later on. With loads of vinegar on ’em.’

  Florrie pouted. ‘I want you to come home with me.’

  ‘Florrie, I said no.’

  ‘Is that person bothering you?’

  At the unmistakable sound of a gentleman speaking, Ivy turned round and placed a pert smile on her face: this could well be her pretty blue bonnet standing there. ‘You talking to me, darling?’ she said, her head cocked cheekily on one side. She had him weighed up in a flash: he was out slumming, always a good bet for paying over the odds.

  ‘Are you working?’ he asked haughtily.

  ‘Looks like I might be,’ she replied saucily.

  ‘Have you a room we can go to?’ he said, consulting his watch.

  ‘How about the railway arches?’ she asked, swinging her shoulders flirtatiously.

  ‘And how about you coming home with me?’ demanded Florrie.

  ‘What do you want?’ snapped Ivy, her smile disappearing when she turned round to find Florrie standing right behind her.

  ‘I told yer, I want yer to come home with me,’ said Florrie. She sounded unusually serious.

  ‘Get on your way before I lose my temper, you run-down old hag,’ snarled Tressing.

  ‘Oi,’ said Ivy. ‘Who d’yer think yer talking to?’

  ‘Your grandmother?’ he asked maliciously.

  ‘You bleed’n…’ Florrie raised her hand, but before she could bring it stinging round his smugly sneering face, Tressing had grabbed her wrist.

  ‘If you won’t go,’ he said evenly, ‘then I’m going to have to make you.’

  Tressing jerked Florrie by the arm as though she had no more substance than a rag doll, and sent her reeling into the narrow roadway. She lost her balance and, trying to save herself from going under the wheels of a passing wagon, she lurched sideways and fell into a steaming heap of freshly deposited horse droppings.

  ‘Flo!’ screeched Ivy, running to her friend’s rescue, all thoughts of the new bonnet completely forgotten.

  ‘I’m all right,’ said Florrie, impatiently scrambling to her feet. ‘Blimey,’ she said, turning her nose up at the realisation of what she’d been sitting in. ‘Where’s that bastard? Let me get me hands on him. I’ll have him, all right.’

  They looked around, but Tressing had disappeared.

  ‘I’m sorry about yer bonnet,’ said Florrie, in a surprisingly deflated voice, as she brushed half-heartedly at her skirts. ‘I didn’t mean to spoil everything for yer.’

  ‘S’all right,’ said Ivy shrugging. ‘Plenty more punters where he come from. Anyway, I didn’t really like the look of him.’

  ‘I’m glad yer said that,’ said Florrie. ‘He seemed monkey to me and all. Did you see that bag he was carrying?’ She pulled a face. ‘I’ve never liked doctors. They give me the creeps.’

  She shivered violently.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Ivy. ‘You all right, Flo?’

  ‘Aw, I hate that,’ said Florrie, hugging herself. ‘Someone just walked over me grave.’

  ‘Come on,’ Ivy said. ‘Let’s get down the Butcher’s for our breakfast.’ Then she burst out laughing. ‘If they let you in, that is. You don’t half stink, Flo.’

  Chapter 42

  Ettie stood across the square, staring up at the dark windows of the Tressings’ house. The cloudy winter sky had faded into night over an hour ago, and still no lights had been lit, but Ettie wasn’t taking any chances. She waited for another ten minutes to satisfy herself
that the elegant town-house was truly empty before crossing the road and walking up the flight of ornately railed stone steps then letting herself in through the heavy wooden front door.

  Following Celia’s instruction and remembering her earlier, equally strange visit to the house, she felt her way along the pitch-dark hall until she came to the broad staircase. Grasping the banister rail, she went carefully up to the first floor, then made her way up to the second landing where she crept to the end of the corridor; there she took the narrow back stairs intended for the staff, and finally found herself at the very top of the house in the attics.

  Ettie’s heartbeat drummed in her ears as she went through the fourth door on the right of the corridor which led into the operating room, the room where Celia had told her she would find the pharmacy. She had to be quick – she knew Tressing would be returning from his club after he had dined – but she didn’t want to be too hasty: she couldn’t risk making a noise. Even though the house was empty, she could almost feel a presence, as though she were being watched.

  Her eyes were becoming accustomed to the gloom, but she still couldn’t see clearly enough to find what she was looking for, so, with shaking hands, she rummaged in her bag and took out the matches and the candle she had brought with her.

  The match flared and the wick of the candle burst into a yellow and blue flame. What Ettie saw in the shadowy candlelight made her gasp with horror. Her hands flew up to cover her face and she threw herself back against the wall, sending her bag and everything in it scattering across the scrubbed wooden floor. There, on the other side of the room, was a glass sided coffin. No, she was wrong, it was worse, there were three of them. Each contained a dark-haired woman stretched out as though she was sleeping.

  Ettie’s mind was racing almost as fast as her heart was beating. Surely Celia wouldn’t have left such blatant evidence of her crimes, she thought wildly. This would mean the hangman’s noose for sure. It was as though she wanted to be punished.

  She had to gather her thoughts, think what to do.

  Desperately trying to keep her mounting panic under control, Ettie first set the candle down safely on one of the bizarrely hinged wooden tables, and then scrabbled around the floor collecting all her things – she wanted no trace of her visit left in this terrible place.