“She came to my studio,” I say, because people might have seen Annie there as well as Martha and Polly. “She used to crochet antimacassars, and she tried to sell me some.”
Reid notices my discomfiture and smiles; he knows I’m not telling the truth. “What did you and Annie talk about?”
“Not much. She wasn’t there very long.”
“Oh?” His fluffy eyebrows rise. “My sources say that she was inside your studio for more than an hour.”
A mixture of confusion and fear addles me. Have my neighbors told the police they saw her, or is Reid pretending? I look at Barrett, whose expression warns me to tell Reid whatever he wants to know.
Reid nudges my arm. “What did Annie say?”
I can’t say she was nervous about taking off her clothes for the camera the first time. “She talked about her children. Her little boy is crippled. One of her daughters died. The other joined a circus.” As long as I’m talking, Reid can’t ask more questions.
Reid interrupts, “What about Polly Nichols?”
I’ve never been quick at following conversations that take unexpected twists. I try to think of something that’s safe to say.
“Telling the truth is easier than making up a lie,” Reid says with false mildness. “The truth is also easier to remember if you need to repeat it.”
“Polly’s husband left her for her nurse while she was with child for the fifth time.”
“You seem to know Polly and Annie better than you would have me believe,” Reid says. “What gems did Martha Tabram pass on to you?”
I can’t think of anything innocuous. “I don’t remember.”
Reid frowns. I have accidentally hit on the right answer—all I need do from now on when he asks me a question is say I don’t remember, and he will tire of me and let me go. A glance out the window shows me that we’re going in circles around the block. I could be home in an instant.
“Did the women talk about their customers?” Reid asks.
“I don’t remember.”
“Or their boyfriends?”
“I don’t remember.”
Reid turns to me. His face is so close to mine that I can see the pores in his pink skin. “Miss Bain.” His voice is still quiet but threatening. The sourness of his breath mingles unpleasantly with his pine-scented soap. “I think Annie Chapman and the other two victims had a male acquaintance in common—the person who killed them. Any information about their customers or men friends is therefore of utmost importance. Try harder to remember.”
If only I could tell him, I would. My fingers clutch the handle of my satchel. “I’m trying. I can’t.”
“Maybe she really doesn’t know anything,” Barrett says. I can tell he doesn’t believe it, and I’m surprised he’s intervening. He must feel bad because Reid is bullying me. “Maybe we should let her go.”
“Would you like me to stop the carriage and let you go?” Reid swiftly redirects his displeasure toward Barrett.
“No, sir—”
“Then don’t interrupt my interrogation.”
Barrett compresses his mouth. I can feel him thinking that to leave me alone with Reid would be worse than not sticking up for me. He must often be a party to business like this, which is too bad. I think the world lost a nice person when Barrett joined the police force.
Reid asks, “Where have you been today, Miss Bain?”
“To market. I bought cakes.” I untie the string around the box. “Would you like to see?”
“That won’t be necessary. What’s in the satchel?”
My grip tightens convulsively on the handle. “A camera.”
“I’ll have a look at it, if you don’t mind.”
Every instinct warns me not to let Reid touch my most precious possession, but unless I cooperate, he’ll take it by force, and it will break. I give him the camera. He examines its black leather case, aims the lens out the window, and peers in the viewfinder. “Quite a handy invention. You could photograph people without their noticing.”
I wonder if Barrett told him about seeing me at Polly’s funeral. Reid says, “One more question, and then you can go. What else do you know about those women and their murders that you aren’t telling me?”
His soft pink hands hold my camera hostage. I feel like Prometheus, trapped between the rock to which he is manacled and the eagle that devours his viscera. I’m tempted to tell Reid everything, just to stop this interrogation, but if I do, my torment will have only begun.
“I don’t know anything else.” I force myself to look him straight in the face.
Reid stares back at me with angry frustration. Quaking with terror, I brace myself. Then Reid gives me the camera. I feel Barrett draw and expel a deep breath. As I slip the camera in my satchel, my hands are so damp and clumsy that I almost drop it. Reid smirks.
“You’ll have to come to the station and give an official statement.” He calls to the driver. The carriage stops; he opens the door, steps out, and bows. “Good-bye for now, Miss Bain.”
11
Running toward my studio, I drop the bakery box. Raspberry-filled stars, half-moons, and leaves fly out. I’m twenty paces from my door when I see Catherine and Lord Hugh standing outside the studio. Hugh twirls a gold-handled cane, tosses it in the air, and catches it behind his back. Catherine claps her hands and laughs. Hugh must have told her something that satisfactorily explained why he snubbed her. I stagger to a halt, too upset to face them. I’ll have to sneak in the back door and pretend I’m not home. Then I see Mr. and Mrs. Lipsky walking toward my studio. Mr. Lipsky carries a covered basket. They must be coming to see me; there’s no other reason for them to be here. I’m about to turn and run, when two young men come out of the public house and swagger up to the Lipskys.
“Hey, Jews!” one man says.
The Lipskys stop. Mrs. Lipsky draws her shawl tighter around herself.
“What’ve you got there?” The man points to the basket.
“I bet it’s a baby,” his comrade says. “The Jews kill ’em and eat ’em.”
The men grab the basket. Mr. Lipsky shouts in Russian while they try to wrest it from him. I have seen ruffians like these torment Jews, and there’s no telling how far they’ll go. I can’t abandon the Lipskys. As I hurry to their aid, the basket tips. Out falls a bundle wrapped in greasy, bloodstained paper. I smell the savory odor of beef roasted with onions. The Lipskys must have come to reciprocate for the photographs of their daughter, and the meat is a gift from the butcher shop where Mr. Lipsky works.
“Dead baby!” the men yell, then set upon Mr. Lipsky. “Murderer! Cannibal!”
Mrs. Lipsky screams while the men punch her husband. He tries to fend them off without hitting back; a Jew who strikes a Christian is likely to be killed by a mob.
“I say, leave the poor fellow alone!” Hugh wields his cane against the two men, rapping their backs and buttocks. Catherine, amazed, covers her mouth with her hands. The men scream in pain and rage. They turn to assault Hugh, but he smacks their faces with the cane. Blood pours from their noses. “Get lost before I make you eat your teeth.”
The men slink off. The Lipskys politely thank Hugh. Catherine beholds him with stars in her eyes. My help isn’t needed, but my momentum carries me forward. I trip on my skirts. As the cobblestone pavement rushes up at me, I clutch my satchel against my body with my left arm to protect the camera inside. I fling out my right hand to break my fall—too late. My knees, chin, and hand simultaneously strike the pavement. I lie facedown, stunned, struggling for breath.
“Sarah!” Catherine kneels beside me. “Are you all right?”
I roll over and feel warm wetness trickle from my chin down my neck. Catherine cries, “She’s bleeding!”
Overwhelmed by the pain from my fall and residual terror of Inspector Reid, I sob between gasps. Hugh says, “Let’s get her inside.”
Catherine rummages in my satchel for my key. Hugh slings my arm around his neck and lifts me. I’ve never been tou
ched so intimately by anyone except my parents. He carries me through the door, as if we’re a bride and groom. He smells of bay rum shaving lotion—lime and spice. My brief, absurd thought of romance flees while he climbs the stairs. His warm breath against my hair, his steady heartbeat under my cheek, and the rhythm of his steps remind me of my father carrying me to bed when I was a child. I close my eyes for a moment, comforted.
When Hugh sets me down at the top of the stairs, I run inside my bedroom and shut the door. Hugh calls, “Sarah, what’s the matter?”
“Please just go.”
Catherine says, “Not until we know you’re all right. We’ll wait for you in the studio.”
I’m trembling so hard that when I pour water from the jug on the washstand into the bowl, the water sloshes on the floor. My knees hurt. When I look in the mirror to bathe my cut chin, a ghostly white face with hollow eyes stares back at me. I tidy my hair and force myself to go downstairs.
Catherine, Hugh, and the Lipskys are at the table, eating. The beef roast sits on a platter beside a loaf of bread, a crock of mustard, and a jug of beer. Everybody smiles at me with relief. Everybody has invaded my sanctuary at once, just when all I want is my usual solitude.
“Come have some of this delicious meat that Abraham and Rachel brought,” Hugh says.
Mrs. Lipsky smiles at Hugh; his dispatching of the two hooligans has changed her opinion of him, and their shared concern for me has made the Lipskys friends with Hugh and Catherine. I’m surprised to notice that the Lipskys are younger than I thought—in their thirties. Their foreign clothes, accents, and manners made them seem older when I first met them. Mr. Lipsky carves a slice of the roast with his large, sharp knife and puts the meat on a plate for me. I collapse into the chair. I’ve not been at table with so many people since boarding school. I can’t eat. I realize that Inspector Reid didn’t tell me when I must go to the police station. It had to be deliberate; he wants me to wonder and fret. The suspense is worse than knowing for certain when, or how, the summons will come, and when it does, I’ll have to brave a whole building full of police.
“Sarah, what’s wrong?” Catherine asks.
I shake my head. Her I could tell, but not in front of Hugh and the Lipskys.
“Get it off your chest,” Hugh urges. “What are friends for?”
I’m moved by the novel idea that all these people are my friends. Their concern overcomes my reticence. “The police just picked me up and questioned me.”
Hugh’s eyebrows lift in surprise. “Why? What did you do—rob a bank?”
I hesitate, remembering my mother’s warning about friends.
“Come on,” Hugh says, “you can tell us. We won’t rat on you.”
A childhood memory intrudes. I’m skipping up the street to join a group of girls—my bosom companions—playing hopscotch. They yell taunts at me. Their mothers pull them inside their houses and slam the doors. I’m left alone on the street. Stab you in the back.
Catherine regards me with dismayed comprehension. “It was about the murders.”
“Wait, I heard that two streetwalkers were murdered hereabouts,” Hugh says. “But what has that to do with you, Sarah?”
“Three,” I say. “Annie Chapman was just killed.”
“Did you know her?” Hugh says, all the more puzzled. “And the others, too?”
“Yes.”
“Tell him, Sarah,” Catherine says. “Maybe he can help.” She turns starry eyes to Hugh, her knight in shining armor.
Hugh smiles and bows. “At your service.”
“No,” I say firmly.
Catherine rises from her chair. Hands on her hips, she says, “Tell him, or I will.”
“You mustn’t!” I glance at the Lipskys and see a mixture of enlightenment and confusion on their faces: They’re recalling the conversation we had after I fainted at their house. They’ve deduced that my trouble with the police is related to the murders, but they don’t understand the nature of my connection with the victims.
“They won’t tell,” Catherine says, as if that were our only concern. In addition to not wanting to bother them with my problems, it’s wrong to make them privy to a crime. And I don’t want them to turn against me. “Where are the photographs?”
“I don’t have any copies,” I lie.
“You keep copies of everything. I’ll tear your studio apart and find them.”
The secret of the boudoir photographs weighs more heavily on me now that Annie is dead, and I want to believe Hugh can help. “The darkroom. Under a loose floorboard at the back.”
Catherine goes to the darkroom and returns with enlarged prints of the photographs clutched to her bosom. Her expression is a mixture of reckless daring and childish faith in Hugh. She sets the first photograph in front of him as if dealing cards. “Martha Tabram.”
Martha, corpulent and grinning, stands nude with her hip cocked and a silk fig leaf over her pubis. Hugh’s eyes goggle.
“Polly Nichols.” Catherine lays down the photograph of Polly licking her own breast. “Annie Chapman.” There is naked Annie posed like Bernini’s famous statue of St. Theresa, swooning with feigned ecstasy.
“You took these, Sarah?” Hugh is incredulous.
“Yes.” My face is hot with shame.
Catherine slaps down three more prints. “Liz Stride. Mary Jane Kelly. Kate Eddowes.”
Hugh purses his mouth and whistles. Mrs. Lipsky shakes her head and murmurs in Russian. Her husband frowns, glancing from me to the pictures, as if trying to reconcile them with my prim appearance. Now I regret my decision; now my foolish trust shall be punished.
“Sarah, you naughty girl,” Hugh says in a fond, teasing voice.
I sag with relief; he, at least, isn’t offended and condemning me. Catherine still has one print clasped to her bosom, its blank back facing outward.
Hugh examines the prints. “These are quite artistic. Much better than the usual sort I’ve seen. You’ve made the models look alluring even though they’re not exactly great beauties.” He regards me with new respect. “They must fetch a pretty penny.”
“That’s why I took them,” I say, flattered and sheepish. “I needed the money. So did the women who modeled for the photographs.”
The Lipskys nod. They have known poverty; they understand that one does what one must to survive. I am grateful that they’re ready to excuse my moral transgression. “You think the killer has seen these photographs and is picking your models off like ducks in a shooting gallery.” Hugh’s expression turns somber as he regards the images in a new, darker light. “Three down, three to go, and you’re the only person who’s figured it out.”
“Four to go,” I grimly correct him.
“There are only six models, or have I counted wrong? Who . . . ?” Then Hugh sees Catherine holding the last photograph. “You?”
Catherine nods, blushing scarlet. She didn’t care if other men saw her pictures, but now her knight knows she is no lady. The Lipskys look shocked, then sorry for her. Catherine drops into her chair, hugging the photograph, loath to display it, her eyes brilliant with tears of shame.
“It’s all right,” Hugh says gently. “You don’t have to show me.”
He doesn’t think any worse of her. Catherine’s blush fades, and she smiles gratefully. I’m relieved that my photographs didn’t turn Hugh and the Lipskys against Catherine as well as myself.
“Well, I see the problem,” Hugh says. “You can’t go to the police and say, ‘Here’s a big fat clue—the murderer you’re looking for is choosing his victims from my portfolio of smutty photographs.’ They would throw you in jail.” He adds, “But if you show the police the photograph of Catherine, she can be your cellmate. At least you won’t be lonely.”
“This is no time for joking!” I’m offended, and I see that Catherine is, too.
“You’re right. I apologize,” Hugh says, contrite. “I’m always making jokes at the wrong times. So what’s to be done?”
The s
ecret is out, and I feel better for it, but I am still in trouble with the police, and my models are still in danger from the Ripper.
The doorbell jangles. We all start. Mick bounds in through the door. His smile fades as he sees my guests. “Oh.” He’s dirtier than usual, with an oily grime on his neck and a reek like the river at low tide. “You’re busy. I’ll come back later.”
His timing is bad, but I have the oddest notion that something has been missing that is no longer missing. A moment ago, I was overwhelmed by the bounty of all these friends, but now their number seems insufficient without Mick. “Wait,” I say. “Don’t go.”
Mick hesitates; his nostrils quiver; he smells the food. He notices Catherine, and his eyes take on that dazzled look. She beholds him with an unfriendly expression. Distrust of Hugh and the Lipskys narrows his eyes, but he approaches the table, drawn by Catherine and the food.
Hugh sweeps the photographs into a stack and turns them over—too late.
“Holy Mother of God!” Mick exclaims.
Hugh laughs. “I don’t think God’s mother is in there.”
“Are you makin’ fun of me?” Mick turns on Hugh like a new dog in a pack snapping at a stronger, secure rival.
“No, no,” Hugh says. “I had the same reaction when I saw those pictures. Sorry, didn’t mean to offend you.”
“Miss Sarah, did you take them?” Mick’s precociousness deserts him; he looks like a frightened child betrayed by a trusted adult. “What’s going on?”
Aghast that he’s seen the photographs, I wonder how much he knows about matters of the flesh.
“Sit down, Mick.” I pull up an armchair for him. “Have something to eat, and I’ll tell you.”
The armchair is low, and when he sits, his chin is barely above the table. He looks younger than ever. His frightened gaze flits over us and settles on Catherine. She wrinkles her nose. He reddens and hangs his head in misery. When I introduce him to the Lipskys and Hugh, he eyes them with suspicion. Mr. Lipsky scowls. Mrs. Lipsky smiles reassuringly at Mick, fills a plate with beef and bread, and puts it in front of him, but he regards the food as if it’s poisoned.
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