The Whitechapel Girl

by The Whitechapel Girl (retail) (epub)

  Next, taking the candle in her trembling hand, and with a cold sweat breaking on her forehead, she walked directly over to the dreadful caskets.

  Had she not been so terrified of being discovered, she would have laughed out loud with relief. Inside the coffins were not three dead women, but wax models with peculiar, apparently removable lids to their torsos. She was not surprised that she had been mistaken in the flickering candlelight: the figures were far more realistic than any she had ever seen in the penny gaffs or even in the travelling shows.

  Her chest rose and fell more slowly as her breathing calmed, and the welcome relief of her discovery that they were only effigies let her go about her task more easily.

  She found the cabinets lined with jars and bottles of strange-coloured substances, exactly as Celia had described. And, checking the label against the paper on which Celia had written the Latin words, Ettie took out the glass phial with the matching label. Then she closed the cabinet and hurried down to Celia’s room on the second floor – the room in which only a few days ago she had been drugged and held prisoner. It all seemed such a long time ago.

  She went to the writing desk, turned the tiny golden key, and took out the oblong packet from the long, central drawer. Apart from its surprising heaviness, it might have been a wrapped slab of cheese from the corner shop. Ettie put the parcel in her bag, which she tucked under her arm – she couldn’t trust the handle not to break under such a weight - then made her way back down the stairs and into the front hall.

  She blew out the candle before opening the front door just a crack and, peering out into the square, checked that her exit was clear. Then she slipped out into the square and ran as though she were fleeing for her life.

  As soon as she was satisfied that she wasn’t being followed, Ettie slowed down and, instead of running, she now wandered slowly through the streets back towards the East End. Although she had the packet in her bag and the phial in her pocket, she was in no hurry to get to Leman Street. And even though she took almost two hours to get there, she still felt that she had arrived all too soon. No matter what Celia had done, the thought of seeing her sitting there in her madness, pale-faced and hollow-eyed, was almost more than Ettie could bear; but she had promised to help her.

  ‘I’m sorry it’s so late,’ she said simply to the young constable behind the desk. ‘But I’ve come to see Miss Tressing.’

  ‘They’re planning to take me away in the morning,’ Celia said through her tears as Ettie sat down. ‘To an asylum. Oh Ettie, even though I’m sure now that I’m ill, that I contracted that terrible disease from my father, I still don’t think I’ll be able to survive in a place like that.’ She wiped her nose on her already soaking-wet handkerchief.

  Ettie took out her own handkerchief from her sleeve and handed it to Celia.

  Celia took it with a brief nod of thanks and continued speaking. ‘My own father has certified me insane.’

  ‘Oh Celia,’ Ettie reached out to her across the table.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Celia sniffed. ‘In a way it’s easier for everyone. At least they don’t have to believe that I’m a monster, a barbarous, unnatural beast.’

  Ettie looked down at her bag which she had propped on her lap. She couldn’t face this girl who had called her her only friend. She couldn’t stand seeing her in so much pain.

  ‘Is it really any wonder that you’re unwell?’ Ettie said, her voice cracking with the strain of holding back her own tears. ‘What he did to you, what that man forced you to do. That would drive anyone from reason.’

  ‘But you have to see, Ettie, especially you, that I’m not completely mad.’

  ‘Please, Celia, don’t upset yourself.’

  It was as though Celia didn’t hear her. “They just need to believe I am. It’s the only explanation they can find for what I did. Why can’t they see that I did what I honestly thought was for the best?’ She took in a long, slow breath. ‘I wish you hadn’t persuaded me to put the razor down, Ettie, then you needn’t have become involved with this whole sorry business.’

  ‘Don’t say that, please Celia. I feel guilty enough as it is, convincing you to give yourself up, and now they’re sending you to that place.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ettie, I didn’t mean to make you feel responsible in any way. You’ve been a good friend to me.’

  Ettie rubbed her hands over her face. For a moment she was distracted by how soft her hands had become. But the moment passed and she began to speak, slowly finding the words to try and explain to Celia her own confusion, and how other people would feel about her terrible crimes.

  ‘You have to understand something, Celia,’ she said. ‘Everyone realises that it’s only the toughest who survive where I come from. You have to be hard, vicious, just to get by from day to day. Even the police know that, and treat us almost with kindness at times. But you Celia, what you did, and coming from where you do; for them, in their eyes, it makes you more savage than anyone. All they see is a pretty fair-haired girl dressed in fashionable silks and ribbons. And when they think of what you did…’

  Celia bowed her head. ‘I was helping those women, Ettie, I promise you. No matter what anyone thinks.’

  Ettie drew in a sharp breath. ‘You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Celia. I know what you went through and that you think what you did was right.’

  ‘My father has arranged for me to go into a very nice private asylum.’ Celia giggled for a brief, hysterical moment. ‘But I can’t go to that place. You know that, don’t you, Ettie?’

  ‘I know.’ Ettie’s voice was a barely discernible whisper.

  ‘Did you bring what I asked?’

  Silently, Ettie took the thin brown bottle from her pocket and handed it across the scarred and rickety table. Their eyes met and their fingertips touched as Celia took it from her.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Celia, and slipped it into her bodice. ‘At last I’ll be able to rest.’

  Then Ettie lifted the weighty, paper-wrapped parcel from her bag and thudded it down on the table between them.

  Celia shook her head. ‘That’s for you,’ she said, pushing the packet back towards Ettie. ‘And this.’

  She took a letter from under her shawl and gave it to Ettie.

  ‘The sergeant was kind enough to fetch me some writing things.’

  Ettie started to unseal the letter.

  ‘No. Put it away. And the packet. Look at them later.’ She gazed around the dingy room with its single gas jet. ‘I think you should go now,’ she said.

  Celia stood up and walked round the table to Ettie. She placed her hands on Ettie’s shoulders, raised herself on tiptoes and kissed her tenderly on the forehead.

  ‘Thank you, Ettie,’ she said. ‘You have been a true and dear friend.’

  Then she went over to the door, paused briefly, then knocked on it firmly with her knuckles.

  Two police officers entered the room.

  ‘I’m ready to return to the cells now,’ said Celia with quiet dignity. ‘And my visitor is leaving. Please see that she has a hansom to see her safely home.’

  Ettie mouthed a hasty, ‘Goodbye, Celia. God bless,’ and let the police constable lead her by the arm out of the mean little room.

  Less than eighteen months ago, Ettie would have jerked away at a policeman’s touch; she would have acted the bold little madam with the constable just to show him that she wasn’t scared of him, no matter who he was, although inside she’d have been trembling. But now she was a ‘lady’ and she knew who was really in control, and it wasn’t some trumped up little rozzer. Now she was a lady, she couldn’t give a damn about him. All she could think about was Celia being buried away in an asylum; even though she knew Celia had done those terrible things, it was still a dreadful fate to be locked away in one of those places. But that was the lot of the insane.

  When she reached the big upstairs office, Ettie paused and looked back along the corridor where she’d last seen Celia. She thought she would
probably never see her again, the thought made her unspeakably sad; and yet, she had to admit, she was relieved that the whole terrible episode was over.

  ‘This way, miss,’ said the constable solicitously, urging her along. ‘Nasty old business, seeing someone in the nick.’

  Ettie nodded wordlessly.

  ‘You’re looking a bit peaky, if you don’t mind me saying. Would you like me to fetch you a drink of water or something?’

  Ettie looked at him and wondered to herself if he’d have been so nice to her when she was the old Ettie Wilkins. Some hope, she thought. But what did it matter?

  ‘I would like some water,’ she said, ‘thanks,’ and dropped down exhausted on the hard, wooden bench which, the previous night, had been her bed.

  The constable returned with her drink. ‘Sorry it’s only a tin mug,’ he apologised, ‘we don’t run to fancy china here.’

  Ettie smiled weakly and sipped at the metallic-tasting water.

  ‘You sit there a minute,’ he said kindly. ‘Give yourself a chance to recover.’

  Ettie thanked him again, then leaned back against the wall. With her eyes closed, she remembered the times she’d been in that very same police station, trying to get her mother released from charges of drunkenness or assault or common prostitution or the endless other charges they’d brought against her at different times. Remembered how she and her mother had been abused and mocked by the officers.

  She couldn’t sit there in that place for a moment longer. She put the mug down on the bench beside her, gathered her things and stood up to leave.

  But she hadn’t even finished fastening her cape round her shoulders before she was running back down the corridor towards the sound of a woman’s terrible screams and of excited male voices shouting for help, followed by the echoing sound of heavy boots pounding along the stone floors.

  A police officer, not quite as tall as Ettie, barred her way. ‘No, miss, you can’t go though there,’ he said, holding up his hands. He looked over his shoulder to see what was happening. ‘Now, go back upstairs. Please, miss. Do as you’re told.’

  Ettie tried to push past him, but he wouldn’t budge.

  She could hear the loud voices, more and more agitated, coming from just along the passage way.

  ‘It’s Tressing,’ shouted one. ‘She’s swallowed this whole bottle of something or other.’

  ‘Give it here.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Aw, Christ! Sniff that.’

  ‘What? What is it?’

  ‘Prussic Acid. Can’t you smell the bitter almonds?’

  ‘Shall I go for the doc?’

  ‘No, leave her. There’s no helping her now, the poor cow. What a way to go.’

  ‘God rest her soul.’

  ‘You’re joking. Straight to Hell that one.’

  ‘What?’

  The loud male voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Didn’t you know? She’s the Ripper.’

  ‘Her? Are you saying Whitechapel Jack’s a woman?’

  ‘Well done,’ said the other officer sarcastically. ‘You should join the detectives, mate.’

  * * *

  Outside in the street, Ettie took great gulping breaths that formed moist clouds in the late night air. She hadn’t slept properly since she couldn’t remember when, but she didn’t want to hail a cab. She wanted to walk; she needed to clear her head of the stink of the police station far more than she needed sleep. And where would she tell the driver to take her anyway? She didn’t even have a bed to go to. Not until she could be sure how Jacob would take her apologies for doubting him.

  But eventually exhaustion overtook her and she came gratefully to the churchyard of St Jude’s. She knew she would have to share the cold and damp place with the homeless and wayward inhabitants for whom it provided their only shelter at night, but she had seen far worse than a few tramps slumped together in a drunken haze. There wasn’t much left that could still hold fear for Ettie Wilkins.

  She found herself a damp stone seat in the deep shadows of the church wall, wrapped her cloak around her and soon, in her exhausted distress, fell into a disturbed, dream-troubled sleep.

  The next thing Ettie knew about was the sight of bright winter sunshine slanting across the moss-covered headstones and monuments marking the graves.

  She shivered and pulled her cape more closely round her. She stretched her aching limbs slowly, trying to relieve the cold stiffness. As she rubbed at her calves and ankles, Ettie looked across at the memorials. They seemed so beautiful to her in the clear winter light: solemnly grand last resting-places of loved ones who had been buried properly, with a dignity which had been denied her own mother.

  Ettie stood up and was surprised at the heaviness of her bag. Then she remembered the letter and packet. She sat down again on the damp stone seat to see what it was that Celia Tressing had wanted her to have.

  First she opened the packet. In it was a soft leather pouch, and when Ettie loosened the drawstring to look inside she could hardly believe what she was seeing. Never before had she seen so many gold sovereigns together.

  Hurriedly Ettie gathered up the packet and shoved it deep into her bag, which she slipped under her cloak. She might have been tired, shocked, and even confused by what had happened but she wasn’t stupid: she knew better than to flash money about. She had changed a lot, but she hadn’t forgotten the lessons she’d learned in the gutter.

  Next she tore open the letter to try and find some explanation as to why Celia had given it to her.

  The words were so deftly penned and the paper was so smooth, it couldn’t have been more unlike the scruffy note that was all she had left of her mother.

  She brushed a dark, stray curl away from her eyes and started to read:

  My only true friend [it began]

  I need you to know that I never intended anything other than good when I performed those abortions. Some might believe it to be murder, but I think they are wrong. If I hadn’t offered my help to those desperate women, what would have become of them? Burdened with yet another mouth to feed, they would have been forced back out on to the streets to find money, and so the whole sorry process would begin again.

  I admit that at first I did blame the women for the lives they lead, but I trust that I have come to understand them better and the necessities which drive them to their life of shame and sin. Maybe I was mistaken to think it was the right thing to do, to help them, but it might have been better had I used my time speaking out for them at public meetings. Maybe the madness I fear is creeping upon me would have prevented such work. I do not know the answer to that. I only know that, even though it was a crime and I must pay for it, doing the abortions was what the women themselves wanted me to do.

  I hope that I will be forgiven now you understand why I did what I had to do. I also like to think that you have forgiven me for keeping you against your will that night. I didn’t want you to go out in the night and become another victim of that fearful creature who stalks the night.

  You, Ettie, have given me so much, but most important of all you have given me the strength to escape. By showing me that there is a world beyond the veil, I know now that I have no need to fear death.

  The packet contains money that was to finance my escape in this world rather than the next. That was not to be. So I hope that it is of use for whatever escape you feel that you might need to make.

  I thank you, my dear friend, from the bottom of my heart.

  Celia

  Ettie screwed the letter up and flung it from her as hard as she could.

  ‘What have I done?’ she moaned to herself, burying her face in her hands, sickened at the thought of Celia’s pale, haunted face staring at her. She had thought her such a privileged, silly girl at one time. Now she was dead, her lovely body poisoned with acid and the disease that had driven her to madness, and Ettie had completely misjudged her.

  She let her head drop back against the cold stone of the church wall, but almost immedi
ately she sat up straight again. A look of horror crept over her face as it slowly dawned on her: if Celia really hadn’t done the murders, then – while she was lying dead on a cold marble slab in a mortuary – the killer was still roaming free.

  Ettie jumped to her feet and began hurrying towards the gate. She had to get away from the graveyard, from that place of death and decay.

  As she rushed along the gravel-covered path, an old woman, bent almost double with age, came shambling towards her, a mean little posy of wax flowers grasped in her hand.

  ‘Don’t be in such a hurry, dear,’ the old woman said kindly as she shuffled past her. ‘No matter how fast yer run, yer can’t escape the reaper man, yer know.’

  Ettie turned and watched her.

  With enormous effort she lowered herself on to her knees beside an ill-carved, ivy-covered angel. When she eventually settled herself on the damp, dew-covered grass, she let out a loud gasp of relief and placed her little bouquet at the base of the memorial.

  She put her hands together and mumbled a few indistinct words and then lifted her eyes to Ettie. Tears were finding their way through the wrinkled crepe of her skin.

  ‘Visiting one of yer family were yer, sweetheart? Yer never forget them yer love, do yer?’

  She rose painfully to her feet, gladly taking Ettie’s offered hand to steady herself.

  ‘Do you want to sit down for a bit?’ asked Ettie.

  ‘I could do with a sit-down,’ she said. ‘But them old stone benches they’ve got here don’t do yer rheumatics no good, do they? They chill yer right through to yer bones.’

  She brushed some flakes of mud from her threadbare coat.

  ‘Dead nearly three years, my Georgie,’ she said. ‘And d’yer know what? What I’m really sorry about is that I never treated him decent when he was still around to appreciate it. It’s a terrible thing to be left alone with no one. If only we thought a bit more about what we do eh? Then perhaps we wouldn’t make such a pig’s ear out of things. There’s so much I wished I’d have told him.’ She shook her head. ‘And things I wished I’d asked him.’