The Ripper's Shadow

by Laura Joh Rowland

  When he proposes to treat me to tea at Brown’s Hotel, I demur. Don’t let people put you in their debt, my mother’s voice whispers. Hugh says, “Oh, come on, Sarah!” By this time, we’re on first-name terms. “It’s not like I’m asking you to run away to Tahiti with me.”

  At Brown’s Hotel, we sit at a table by the fireplace, amid the fashionable patrons. The scones with clotted Devonshire cream, the cucumber and the smoked-salmon finger sandwiches, the fruit tarts, and the India tea are delicious. After we’ve reduced the huge spread to crumbs, Hugh smiles and says, “You know my deep, dark secret, Sarah. Suppose you tell me yours?”

  Tit for tat. I feel myself closing up again. I also experience a powerful, long-repressed yearning to spill over to someone. But I can’t tell Hugh about the boudoir pictures. It isn’t that he would be disgusted or report me to the police; it’s that he thinks me a respectable person, and the fact that I can know him and still respect him is a comfort to him. I shan’t take away that comfort. Furthermore, the secret of the photographs isn’t only mine. That leaves me with but one story to tell.

  I take a deep breath, like a swimmer plunging into an unknown sea. “It’s about my father.” Tears sting like salt water in the wound that opens wider. I tell of his photography studio in Clerkenwell, the protest marches, and his beating by the police. Hugh gives me his handkerchief; people at nearby tables glance at us; but I can stop neither the tears nor the words that have been pent up for most of my life. I tell Hugh how my father disappeared and I later learned he’d been killed in a riot.

  Hugh blows out his breath, stricken because he’s elicited such an awful tale and flood of emotion from me, yet compassionate. “Sarah, I am so sorry. Your father was a hero. He sacrificed himself trying to change the world.”

  I can’t recall ever receiving comfort from anyone. My mother kept a stiff upper lip and expected me to do the same. I’m crying so hard I can barely speak. My body hurts as if I’m straining muscles I’ve never used before. People around us smirk; they probably think I’m in love with Hugh and he’s jilting me. I don’t care. It’s such a relief to talk openly about how much I loved my father and miss him, and Hugh’s kindness is a balm to my wound.

  “I can understand why you’re still upset about your father’s death,” Hugh says. “It was a terrible tragedy at a sensitive time in your life.”

  The balm of his kindness dissolves the barrier of secrecy. “But I’ve never been certain what happened to my father. I’ve always wondered if he’s not dead.”

  “How can that be?”

  Hugh’s surprise is nothing compared to my surprise at the fact that I’m about to confide my most private secret to a man who was a stranger to me just hours ago, the last person in the world I expected to confide in. I tell him about never seeing my father’s body, never knowing the location of his grave.

  “That would be a reason,” Hugh agrees. “Have you ever tried looking for your father?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  In truth, I’m afraid of what I might learn if I found him. Did he deliberately abandon my mother and me? Didn’t he love me enough to return?

  Hugh misinterprets my silence. “I see. You would have to go to the police, and they weren’t exactly friends to your family.”

  My adult rationality prevails over childish wishes. “He probably did die, and I just pretended he was alive because I wanted him to come back.” I’ve told Hugh most of the story; I may as well confess my secret guilt. “I’ve always felt that I’m to blame for his death, because I didn’t look hard enough for him the day he disappeared.”

  Now Hugh looks startled and dismayed. He leans across the table, takes my hand, and says urgently, “Sarah, it wasn’t your fault.” His hand is warm, its clasp gentle yet tight. “Nothing you could have done would have made a difference.”

  My tears abruptly stop. Hugh’s plain, sincere words have an unsettling impact. “Nobody has ever said—”

  “Well, somebody should have,” Hugh says. “A man is killed in a riot, and his ten-year-old daughter assumes it was because of her negligence? As if she could have altered the course of fate? If I may be blunt, that’s hogwash.”

  From his objective standpoint, my long-held conviction does sound like a mere figment of a child’s imagination, born of my need to believe I had control over fate. I’m not entirely persuaded by Hugh’s words, but the simple fact that I finally voiced my secret thoughts, and heard them debunked by someone I instinctively trust, has shifted my outlook a few degrees off its axis. I feel cleansed, lighter, and refreshed, but the shift is frightening.

  My conviction has been the anchor of my life. What am I without it?

  My change of mood affects Hugh. We’re both quiet, although no less companionable. He pays the bill, then helps me to my feet as though I were an aged, lame aunt. “I’ll take you home.”

  Picking up my satchel, I remember the Lipskys. “First, I must deliver some photographs.”

  #

  Hugh drives me to Spitalfields and waits in his carriage while I go to the Lipskys’ flat.

  Mr. and Mrs. Lipsky sob over the three enlarged photographs. “Yulia. So beautiful.” Mrs. Lipsky holds her hand above her daughter’s face, wanting to touch but afraid of leaving smears on the prints. “Thank you, Miss Bain.”

  “How much you want?” Mr. Lipsky asks.

  “Nothing.” I can’t accept their money, not after I fainted on them and they were so kind. “The photographs are my gift to you.”

  They protest and try to pay me, but I stand firm. At last, they reluctantly concede. “You stay for dinner,” Mrs. Lipsky urges.

  I’m alarmed because I’ve made the mistake of beginning another friendship. Then comes a sudden, dizzying sense that I’ve been turned upside down. Maybe my father died because of circumstances beyond my control. If it’s true—and I’m beginning to believe it is, thanks to Hugh—then maybe I don’t cast a shadow; maybe I needn’t fear making friends lest I bring harm to them. But my distrust lingers. Stab you in the back.

  Worn out from emotion, I’m glad for an excuse to refuse Mrs. Lipsky. “I would like to stay, but I’ve someone waiting for me.”

  The Lipskys escort me to the street, and there is Lord Hugh in his carriage, looking as out of place in this poor Jewish neighborhood as an orchid blooming on a pine tree. He smiles and tips his hat to the Lipskys.

  Consternation appears on their faces. Mrs. Lipsky whispers, “It is none of my business, but . . . men like that, they no good for you.”

  She thinks Hugh is a rich cad who is sporting with me, a poor, gullible spinster. That’s how it looks on the surface. “It’s all right,” I say, touched by her concern. “He’s just . . . a friend.” The word tastes strange but nourishing.

  Mrs. Lipsky looks unconvinced, and her husband glowers at Hugh as if ready to pummel him if he harms me.

  During the ride to Whitechapel, Hugh says, “I’ve been thinking about your pretty little friend Catherine. I feel bad about snubbing her the other day. I’d like to make it up to her.”

  I have much more to make up to her than Hugh does. Although it goes against the grain, I propose the only remedy I can think of. “Why don’t you come to tea on Saturday? I’ll invite Catherine, too.”

  “In the meantime, we can make up a story about how we met and why I behaved so atrociously.” As the carriage draws up outside my studio, Hugh says, “Excellent idea. I’ll see you here on Saturday.”

  10

  By Saturday morning, 8 September, there hasn’t been another murder. I dare to hope my idea that the Ripper is after my models and won’t stop killing until they’re all dead is wrong. I begin to fret about my tea party for Hugh and Catherine. I’ve never hosted a party before. Even if I haven’t a shadow and therefore am no danger to them, I’m overwhelmed by practical concerns. What shall I feed them? I go to the bakery and overspend on fancy puff pastries cut into half-moon, star, and leaf shapes and filled with raspberry preserv
es. As I wait for the pastries to be boxed up, I hear two women in line behind me talking.

  “Another slag’s been killed in Whitechapel.”

  Coldness trickles through my heart. I turn to the women. “Who was it?”

  Surprised by my urgent tone, they shake their heads.

  “Where did it happen?” I demand.

  “In Hanbury Street. Behind Mrs. Richardson’s house.”

  I grab my bakery box and make haste for Hanbury Street. The house is a three-story building identified by a sign that reads, Mrs. Amelia Richardson, rough packing case maker. Many landlords in Whitechapel operate businesses on their premises, and the house also contains a cat’s-meat shop. A crowd is standing outside. When I reach the door, a man says, “End of the line’s back there,” and points down the street.

  I belatedly notice that the crowd is queued up at Mrs. Richardson’s house. “The line for what?”

  “To see where Dark Annie was murdered.”

  The event I feared has come to pass: another of my models has been killed. When I last saw Annie Chapman, she was fighting with another woman over a bar of soap. She must have taken to the streets last night because she’d again run out of money. Now the scene of her death is a public attraction. I join the queue, ashamed of my own curiosity.

  “It’s three pence,” says an old woman ahead of me. “Mrs. Richardson’s grandson John is giving tours.”

  Some people will seize any chance to make a profit. An hour passes before it’s my turn to enter the door that leads to a long, dim corridor. Past a staircase is a door to the backyard. There stands John Richardson, a pimple-faced boy of perhaps fourteen years. He collects pennies from me and three other women and ushers us down the stone steps to the fenced yard. A cellar door leads to the packing case workshop, from which I hear hammering. A woodshed and a privy occupy the yard’s far corners. Blood is spattered thickly on the ground near the house; red clots dribble down the fence. Bile sours my mouth.

  “That’s where she were killed,” John says, pointing to the blood on the ground, his eyes bright with glee. “She were lying on her back, like this.” He sticks out his tongue, clamps it between his front teeth. “Her skirts were up. Her legs were apart. And her throat were cut.” He draws his finger across his own throat.

  The manner of Annie’s death is similar to Martha’s and Polly’s. Two similar murders of women who posed for my boudoir pictures could be deemed a coincidence, but three comprise a pattern. My fear for Kate, Liz, Mary Jane, and Catherine is unfortunately justified.

  “Her stomach were sliced open. There were pieces of skin lying beside her.” John is so excited, he spits saliva as he talks. “Her guts were pulled out and spread around like sausages.”

  This is even gorier than what happened to Martha and Polly. I still believe that Annie’s killer is the same man, but this time he’s mutilated his victim even more cruelly.

  “But that ain’t all.” John speaks in a low, sly voice appropriate for confiding dirty secrets. “Her female organs was missing. The killer musta stole ’em.”

  Exclamations come from my fellow spectators. One of the women faints. The other two catch her and drag her out to the road. I ask John, “How did Annie get in here?”

  “The door’s always unlocked. There’s seventeen people lives here, and they come and go all day and night. Grandma don’t want to have to keep letting them in. And whores sometimes use the yard.”

  I envision Annie soliciting a man and leading him here; I imagine her terror when she sees the knife. I glance at the windows that overlook the yard. “Didn’t anyone hear her being attacked? Why did no one try to rescue her?”

  “The police doctor said she were strangled, she couldn’t scream. We didn’t know a thing until it were too late.”

  “Have the police caught the killer?” My heart flutters with eager hope.

  “Not that I’ve heard. They looked all around, but he didn’t leave a trail. Not even a single bloody footprint.”

  Once more, he’d dissolved like an apparition in the fog.

  I’ve brought my miniature camera in case I should see anything I wanted to photograph, but as I pull it from my satchel, John says, “Your time’s up, mum. Other people are waiting.”

  “Do the police have any clues or witnesses?” I ask, putting the camera away and mounting the steps.

  “They found a leather apron in the yard. And I heard that Mrs. Long from over on Church Street was on her way to market early this morning and saw Dark Annie talking to a man. She didn’t get a good look at him, but she thinks he were foreign.”

  My hopes are dashed again. The killer, still at large, has neither name nor face yet.

  Catherine and my other models are in such grave danger that I can no longer wait for the police to catch the killer.

  #

  I hasten along Commercial Street, laden with my bakery box and satchel. Carriages clog the thoroughfares, people queue at shops and stalls, and a tout stands outside the waxworks, calling, “See the murder victims for a tuppence!” Giggling, shrieking women come out. Before the door swings shut, I see three wax dummies splashed with red paint. Other folk besides the Richardsons are finding ways to capitalize on the crimes.

  Two police officers come suddenly upon me. One is PC Barrett, the other an older man in a fancier uniform that signifies a higher rank.

  “Miss Bain,” Barrett says.

  “Good afternoon,” I say in a voice that’s intended to be cool but sounds as stricken as I feel.

  “This is Inspector Reid, my superior officer.” Barrett seems nervous yet elated. “He’s head of CID, Metropolitan Police, Whitechapel Division.” He turns to Inspector Reid. “This is Sarah Bain, the photographer.”

  “How convenient,” Inspector Reid says. His quiet voice is more authentically refined than Barrett’s. “We were about to call on you.”

  He holds out his hand, and I am forced to shake it or risk offending him. His hand is soft and pink. So is his face. He has soft iron-gray hair worn in a fringe across his forehead. A fluffy mustache and beard frame his smiling pink mouth, but his teeth are pointed like a fox’s. His deep-set brown eyes crinkle jovially. They’re like autumn leaves under ice. His long nose is as sharp as an accusation.

  “Call on me, why?” I ask.

  “A streetwalker named Annie Chapman was murdered last night.” Reid narrows his eyes, perceiving that it isn’t news to me. “PC Barrett tells me you have information regarding the Whitechapel murders.”

  I regard Barrett with dismay. “You told him about me?” I had somehow expected Barrett to keep our relations to himself, and I have only my foolish naïveté to blame for my sense of betrayal.

  Barrett nods. “This is a murder investigation. You’re a potential witness.” He looks sheepish, as if he, too, thinks he’s betrayed me.

  “He lost some credibility recently during a little fiasco at the Tower.” Reid flashes a cheerful, malicious glance at Barrett. “What better way to regain it than by bringing me a new lead?”

  I suppose that Inspector Reid, too, lost credibility because of Barrett’s mistake, and he needs new clues to appease his own superiors. Barrett flushes; he’s ashamed of using me to buy his way back into the investigation.

  “But I already told Police Constable Barrett I have no information.” I’m angry at myself as well as Barrett; I should have known to expect nothing better from him than this. I hold my satchel and box in front of me like a shield.

  Reid smiles his jovial, sharp-toothed smile. “Sometimes people know things they’re not aware of. Let’s talk and see if we can ferret anything out of your mind.”

  If we talk, he might ask me where I’ve just been, and I don’t want to tell him. That I visited the scene of Annie’s death would signify that I have a suspicious interest in the murders. “I must be getting home.” My voice quavers.

  “We’ll take you.” Inspector Reid hails a cab.

  I tried to prevent Catherine from getting into a vehic
le with a man she hardly knew, and this is a no less hazardous situation, for the police are above their own law. “No, thank you! It’s not far.”

  Inspector Reid opens the door to the carriage. “PC Barrett and I don’t mind short rides, do we?” He gestures for Barrett to enter first.

  With an apologetic, worried glance at me, Barrett obeys. My panic increases because I realize that he’s afraid of what Reid will do.

  “After you, Miss Bain,” Reid says.

  Afraid that if I refuse, Reid will arrest me, I climb into the carriage. I grip the satchel and bakery box on my lap. Reid speaks to the driver, sits beside me, and slams the door. The carriage rackets past my studio. I am wedged so tightly between Reid and Barrett that I can feel their body heat. I press my knees together and my arms against my sides.

  “How well did you know Annie Chapman?” Reid asks in a casual tone.

  “Not very.” At the same moment I answer, I realize that by pretending he already knows I was acquainted with Annie, he’s tricked me into admitting it.

  “That’s interesting.” Reid smiles across me at Barrett. “Miss Bain knew Annie Chapman as well as Polly Nichols and Martha Tabram.”

  I feel Barrett squirm, see his clenched jaws. Reid has already learned something from me that Barrett didn’t. Reid is more expert, and dangerous, than Barrett.

  “I haven’t had a chance to ask her about Annie,” Barrett mutters.

  Reid ignores him and asks me, “How did you meet Annie?”

  I can’t tell him that Kate Eddowes brought Annie to me as a model. While I seek a credible, innocuous lie, anxiety quickens my breathing. I smell the men’s wool uniforms and Barrett’s fresh scent. Reid smells of shaving soap scented with harsh, astringent pine.

  “Did she come to your studio?” Reid asks. “Did she want a cup of tea? Or ask if you needed a charwoman?”

  He’s letting me know that Barrett has told him everything I said about Martha and Polly, that he has a good memory, and that if I lie, he will catch me later.