She Be Damned

by M. J. Tjia

  His eyes are fixed upon me. “But you’re not here to blackmail me?”

  “No. I wanted to show the police that diary.”

  “What for? There’s nothing actually incriminating in there. Just a list of former patients.”

  “Who you’ve been following,” I point out. “That’s pretty sinister in itself.”

  He shrugs. “What of it?”

  “I’m going to prove to the police that you were behind the deaths of local prostitutes.”

  “What deaths? You don’t mean…” He frowns at me, starting up from his chair. “The murders written up in the newspapers?”

  I nudge the gun in his direction. “Yes. I mean the girls you’ve been slicing up and leaving to bleed out.”

  He stares at me through his thick glasses, his mouth ajar.

  “I don’t know what you think I’ve done,” he says, eventually.

  “I think you weren’t satisfied with scraping babies out of girls like –” I almost say ‘me’, but clamp my mouth down on the word, “– like the street girls and the parlour girls. I think you went one step further and ensured they’d never bear children again. And you snipped off their bits that made it bearable to be grinded by all you bastards. But being the incompetent culley you are, the poor women bled to death.”

  “You’re mad,” he says. “Hysterical. I should have you committed.”

  Always an arsehole’s ultimate threat, that one. Oh, I’ve detested and feared this man for so long. Suddenly, my hatred for him is almost blinding. “You really don’t recognise me, do you?”

  “I told you last time that you looked familiar, but a lot of women come through my doors.” He looks me up and down. “You are covered in fine clothes and costly jewels now, but you girls never quite lose the shine of your former life.” He clicks his tongue in exasperation. “What do you expect? I see too many of your type.”

  “But do you leave all of them barren, like you left me? Do you scour them out so that they lie in a fever for days, only to waken to a life of never being able to conceive a child again?”

  “That’s always a risk,” he says.

  “You should have told me.”

  “And what? You would have kept the baby? Where? How? In the backstreet brothel where you worked day and night on your back?”

  I glare at him, but my fury won’t allow the tears that are scorching my chest and burning my eyelids to surface. I’m speechless, as both anguish and the acceptance of the truth of his words grapple inside me. What indeed would I have done with the child, had I had her? What choices did I have then? Not many at all, and not one of them enticing. I was so young, and alone, and I’d had the abortion as routinely as the other girls did. But that didn’t mean I didn’t hope for a future of abundance and stability and love and babies. Scrapes were supposed to be temporary, not for life. I remember Amah’s words to me when I announced I’d keep Eleanor and her baby; how that old harridan knows me so well. Amah had immediately guessed that I wanted a child in my household. That I wanted to feel the baby’s fat fist grasp my finger. That I wanted to cuddle her when she was asleep. But maybe Amah was right. I’d be bored with it soon enough. And it’s never to be, anyway.

  “And do you know what else I think?” I say to Mordaunt, finally. “I think one of your last entries in the notebook was about the young woman who was the latest victim.”

  There’s a flash of hesitation in his eyes. “What woman?”

  “The one in the photograph I showed you last time. Eleanor Carter. I’m sure you did know her, even though you denied it when we spoke.”

  “Latest victim?”

  “Yes. She was murdered last night.” There’s surprise on the doctor’s pugnacious features, and I feel a flicker of doubt. “But you knew that already.”

  Mordaunt ignores me. He lifts the bottle of whisky to his mouth but pauses over it. “The poor young lady.”

  “So you did know her?”

  He drops the bottle to the desk again with a clunk. “Yes. Mind you, I did not know her as Eleanor Carter. She was introduced to me as Ellen Campbell.”

  “How did you come to meet her?”

  “She came to me about five or six weeks ago. She was in trouble.”

  “But you didn’t…”

  Mordaunt shakes his head. “No, not at the time. She was extremely agitated. There was nothing I could do then, but they were supposed to return when she was in a calmer frame of mind.” His words are becoming slurred and he rests his forehead in his hand.

  “I wondered when I read an entry about a fair, young lady if it could be about Eleanor. Or the girl you knew of as Ellen. Why did you follow her?”

  He waves his hand briefly before resting on it again. His gaze is unfocused. “As you can imagine, many of my patients stay… anonymous. Which was fine by me, I assure you.” He takes one last drink from his bottle of whisky, and tosses the bottle into the second drawer of the desk where it rattles against other empty bottles. “But then a charming fellow a few years back blackmailed me. I’d performed a procedure on his wife – if we can call her that – and he made it clear to me that he was willing to disclose to the police what I had done.” He looks up at me. “But for a tenner, he’d shut his mouth and move away.”

  “And you paid him?”

  “Of course. I might be a – what did you call me? – an incompetent culley, but that’s how I make my living, after all. However, you have to keep in mind that what he was willing to report to the police endangered his own position too. It was just as illegal for his woman to have the procedure as it is for me to perform it. But I didn’t know who he was, or who his woman was for that matter, or else I could have turned the tables on him and reported them to the police for soliciting an abortion from me.” His mouth slackens. “Therefore, in order to cover myself from blackmail, I make sure I know exactly who I operate on. And if I’m suspicious, I get Ignatius to follow them to find out their true circumstances. You know? My assistant?” I think of the doctor’s obnoxious clerk. “Hence the diary.”

  “So you have power over them?”

  He shrugs again. “Yes. But I don’t use it.”

  I run my eyes over him: his bulky shoulders and large, meaty hands, the hard mouth wet from alcohol.

  “I don’t know if I believe you.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you believe because you don’t have the notebook anymore,” he jeers. “And if she really was murdered last night, then I couldn’t have done it. I was attending an old patient of mine in Newington. I was with him most of the night.” He grabs paper and, spilling ink as he scrawls upon it, says, “I’ll write down the name and his direction so that you and your precious police can verify my whereabouts.”

  He holds out the scrap of paper and I snatch it from his hand. I keep the gun on him as I edge my way to the door.

  He watches me from below his thick eyebrows as I back out of the room. “You blasted girls. You blasted girls.” He bends forward and grips his head in his hands once more. “You come hollering at me when you get in trouble and then you treat me like the devil when it’s over.” He lifts his head and jabs a finger at me. “Where would you all be if I hadn’t helped you out? Where? It’s bloody dangerous for me to go on, you know. It’s only a matter of time before a blasted moralist reports me to the police. And I can assure you I don’t do it for the measly money I get out of it either.”

  “Well, what do you do it for?” I stop in the doorway, curious despite myself.

  The doctor leans back in his chair and sighs. I can smell the alcohol on his breath from where I stand.

  “It’s just part of my life now. I’m used to it.” He gives a drunken shrug and almost topples from his chair. “And what would the girls do if I didn’t operate on them or give them medicine? They’re a lot safer with me, I can assure you, than with the old sow in the alleys who pierces them with a rusty knife.”

  I don’t want to feel sympathy for this man. I drop my gaze and, teasing the cords apart of
my reticule, I put away my gun. My voice is level when I speak.

  “You said ‘they’. When you were talking about Eleanor, you said ‘they’ were supposed to return. Who was she with?”

  “He said he was her husband.”

  There’s derision in his voice. “You didn’t believe him?”

  Mordaunt shakes his head.

  Who’d brought poor Eleanor to this place for an abortion. Was it her father, as I’d suspected? Or Eleanor’s music master?

  “Did he have a French accent?”

  Again the doctor shakes his head. “No, he spoke his English as well as you or me,” he says. “Better, in fact.”

  “Do you think he could have been related to her? Her father perhaps?”

  He frowns, concentrating. “No, I’m almost sure he was not, although he was old enough to be. Ignatius reported that they didn’t reside together, for when he followed them, the gentleman escorted Miss Carter to a house near Russell Square after which he went on to another home in Goodge Street. Ignatius found out from a newsvendor that he lives there with his wife and five children.”

  “What did this older gentleman look like?”

  The doctor leans his head back against the chair-back and closes his eyes. “Thin prig of a man. Big ears.”

  LI LEEN

  Finally, hollowed, I decided to bathe. Mother had been dead for exactly twelve days when I peeled aside the stubborn frog buttons of my smock and lay it beside the mandi. I washed with the cold water, shivering with each splash and when I returned to my mother’s room and Mother’s maid brought me a clean smock I told her I would not wear it. “Fetch me a sarong. A sarong like the village girls wear. I do not want to answer to your Chinese gods anymore. Bring me a sarong and I’ll be a local girl.” The maid laughed at me at first, and then grew impatient, but in the end she had to do what I asked. She brought me a brown sarong, made of the plainest weave and a kebaya for my bodice, although the fabric was so sheer my dark nipples and the curve of my breasts whispered against the silk. I sat slumped on the side of the bed when my stepfather entered the room and sat by my side, his bulbous weight pressing the mattress down so that I leaned in towards him. I hadn’t seen him in days. Since before my mother passed.

  “What is this I hear? You won’t leave your room?” he asked.

  I didn’t answer.

  “You won’t come out into the world, so I have to come to you,” he persisted.

  Still I said nothing. I had nothing to say.

  “Beloved, are you afraid of what will happen to you now that your mother has died?” he asked, his toad face serious, the saggy bags under his eyes drooping. He waited a minute then continued. “I have a plan. Stay with me, my little fox-fairy. You can take your mother’s place in the house. Won’t that be the best way?”

  He reached across and slipped his hand through the opening in my kebaya and drew his fingertips slowly across my bare midriff. It felt as though his fingertips had burnt a trail across my skin. I was surprised they didn’t leave a welt in their wake.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I peel off my soiled gown and petticoats and kick them aside. The warmth from the fireplace is a comforting relief after such a cold, long day. For once I ignore the sheer, silk peignoirs I would normally drape around myself and pull on a cosy, velvet dressing-gown, dusky grey with swansdown ruffles. I make my way to the drawing room on the floor below and pour myself a scotch.

  “Mrs Chancey,” says Bundle, from the doorway. “Monsieur Agneau would like to know if you are in need of supper.”

  “Thank Agneau for me.” I take a sip of my drink. It’s almost painful how the heat of the alcohol relaxes the muscles in my shoulders. “And let him know a light soup would be welcome.” Really, I can’t stomach a thing but I know the cook must be impatient to create a menu after so many days idle.

  “Also, a note arrived for you not long ago from Sir Thomas,” says Bundle as he leaves the room. “I left it on your desk.”

  I hurry to my desk and snatch up the missive, tearing it open at the edges.

  My Dear Mrs Chancey,

  What truly distressing news you conveyed to me earlier this sad day. I have since had the difficult task communicating between the police and poor Miss Carter’s father. I have not time to go into much detail here, but please know that due to the police’s involvement in this case, Mr Carter does not believe it is necessary to prolong your services. I am truly sorry you had to be a part of this tragic situation. I blame myself for involving you in a man’s business. I really do pray that this violent event has not forever damaged your womanly, delicate senses. I will call upon you as soon as I am able.

  Yours Sincerely,

  T. A.

  I read through Sir Thomas’ letter, and I take a large gulp of scotch, and then another. I’ve truly bungled this affair and sweet, young Eleanor has lost her life in the bargain. Sitting down at my desk, I read the note over and over again. Sir Thomas really is a fool. I’ve seen more horrifying things in my short life than he would ever know, although I have to admit the sight of Eleanor’s gouged body was one of the worst. I frown over the letter once more then crumple it into a ball.

  I tap my fingernail on the desktop and swing lightly, to and fro, on the swivel chair. How is it I’ve always had to follow the directions of the men in my life? Have I accumulated all this wealth and security for nothing? Certainly the pleasure’s gone from this detecting game, but I’m not ready to stop just because Sir Thomas and Eleanor’s father have ordered it so. Just because Bill has turned his back on me. I feel a dip of regret that I hadn’t had the chance to ease him into my life, but what can I do?

  And what of Amah? I won’t be left at home, wringing my hands and sniffing smelling-salts, while I can help Amah. I’ll keep searching for the murderer. I know I have as good a chance to catch him as any of the others. And when I do – I curl my fingers into a fist until my fingernails leave crescent marks in my palm – I’m going to shoot a big, deep hole into the bastard, in a very manly fashion.

  Pulling open the side drawer I take out a wad of paper and dip my pen in ink. The pen hovers over the page and a drop of the ink plops onto its surface.

  For me, before I’d found Eleanor, the butcher who was murdering pregnant prostitutes could have been anyone in the vicinity. Anyone. But now, with Eleanor’s death, I’m sure I must know the murderer personally. How else would the murderer have known Eleanor was in the house on Frazier Street, and that she was pregnant? Guilt worms its way through my stomach again, but I resolutely press on with my thoughts.

  And who took Dr Mordaunt’s diary? The only person who makes sense is Dr Mordaunt himself, although I’m almost persuaded he was telling the truth when he denied taking it. Regardless, I write his name down.

  Under this I jot the name Priestly. It has to be him who Mordaunt had met with Eleanor in his rooms, and hadn’t Chat and Amah seen him watching the Waterloo house? I write these points against Priestly, wishing I’d taken more notice of Amah’s words. But what of the other women who were murdered? Surely Priestly’s not responsible for all the deaths? But he did know of the methods used to kill the earlier victims… Could he have copied the earlier murders to get rid of Eleanor? But why? Why would Priestly want Eleanor dead? I stare at the wallpaper of my study, my eyes following the line of the branches, leaves and the occasional blue bird, until a possible motive for Priestly becomes clear to me, which I write against his name.

  I sit back. Who else knew of Eleanor’s presence in Waterloo? Of course Tilly and Katie Sullivan knew, but I swiftly dismiss them. I write down Dr Blain’s name, ignoring Bill’s assurances of his innocence. I’m bloody sure the doctor had the opportunity to murder all the women. I list this against a note of his passionate reaction to Eleanor. I write of him as I consider the dreadful Mrs Sweetapple. She’d also known of Eleanor’s predicament. Could she be involved? The woman’s detestable, but I’m really not convinced that she had a hand in the murders.

  And
what of Mme Silvestre, sitting high in her tilbury.

  “I have laid out a tray in the drawing room, Mrs Chancey, by the fire,” says Bundle from the doorway.

  “Thank you, Bundle.” I add the madam’s name to my list. Gathering up the pages, I move into the drawing room. On a low table by the sofa in front of the fireplace, Bundle has set out a fine repast. Next to a miniature, china tureen is a plate of chicken quenelles. I feel a little forlorn as I lift the lid of the tureen, releasing the clear consommé’s fragrant steam. Agneau has prepared one of my favourite dishes and I’ve absolutely no appetite for it. What will Amah be eating in her cold, damp prison cell?

  I reach for the crystal decanter of claret and pour myself a generous amount before sinking onto the sofa. Taking a few sips, I glance over the list I’ve made. My eyes rest upon Mme Silvestre’s name. Was it smugness I’d seen spread across the madam’s large face when we both realised that Henry had been locked up during the latest murders? Or was the madam hiding something all along? I can’t be sure. I take another sip of the dark wine and close my eyes to recall my last encounter with Silvestre. Immediately I feel the pull of sleep, all thoughts of Mme Silvestre slowly dispersing. My hand twitches, spilling some of the wine onto my dressing-gown, and I’m awake again.

  Not having a pen and ink at hand, I trace the name Henry upon its surface with my fingertip. Henry. I mustn’t forget that Eleanor had recognised him – that she had seen him with one of the victims. And Bill was sure of Henry’s guilt too, before Eleanor’s death. What if Henry was the real murderer and someone had murdered the girls in Frazier Street to cover for him? Someone like Silvestre. Or bloody Mordaunt. I always come back to him.

  Swallowing the last of the wine I lean forward to pour some more. The warm alcohol leaves a sudden void in my belly and I kneel in front of the small table and pick a quenelle up between my fingers and take a bite from one end. I lick the warm sauce that streaks down the side of my hand and then take one more mouthful before dropping the rest back onto the platter. I feel around in my pocket for Eleanor’s handkerchief I’d salvaged from the house in Waterloo and wipe my fingers. Picking up my wine glass, I lean back into the sofa.