The Ripper's Shadow

by Laura Joh Rowland

  Now I comprehend why he chose to confront me rather than keep his distance, even though a confrontation might induce me to say something that endangers him. He not only wants to intimidate me; he views this as a game that he’s determined to win. With a shock of recognition, I perceive that he’s like me: he’s attracted to danger. The old saying has never seemed so true: It takes one to know one. But even if he fears I have knowledge that implicates him in the Whitechapel murders, my fear is a world greater than his.

  Warren perceives my fear, nods with the satisfaction of a man who has easily won the first round of a duel. “Our conversation is finished . . . for now.” He opens the door.

  He could keep me locked up, but what fun would that be for him? I picture African women screaming and running while he chases them on horseback and fires his rifle. How much more fun if they were allowed to hope they could escape!

  As I lunge for the door, his thick hand closes on my arm, and its heat burns through my sleeve. “Keep this in mind, Miss Bain: unless you behave yourself, you aren’t the only person who will suffer.”

  19

  Liberated from prison, I run. Carriages and people blur past me in the fog. I don’t look where I’m going; I’m so distraught, I want only to flee as far and fast as I can. The fog impairs my sense of direction. I’m lost. Looking skyward, I see the hazy dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral, but I can’t tell which way is home. I trudge past warehouses, around corners, and down alleys for hours, only to wind up outside Newgate Prison again.

  Someone calls my name. PC Barrett hurries toward me. “I heard you were arrested.” He looks glad to see me. “I have to talk to you.”

  Barrett is the last person on earth that I want to see. A resurgence of humiliation adds to my distress. As I run away, Barrett catches up, jogs beside me, and says, “Wait.”

  I stumble to a halt. Facing Barrett, I can tell by his expression how bedraggled I look. I care, even though vanity should be the least of my concerns.

  “Are you all right?” He puts his arms around me and strokes my hair.

  He’s pretending that what happened between us has given him the right to take more liberties with me. I push him away. “Don’t touch me!”

  Barrett reacts with surprise. “What’s the matter?”

  I want to throw it in his face that I’ve discovered his trick, but I mustn’t. How much more humiliating for him to know how upset I am because our “grope and tickle” was a ploy devised by him and Inspector Reid. Instead, I air my other grievance against Barrett.

  “It’s all your fault! If you hadn’t told Inspector Reid about me, I wouldn’t have been arrested.”

  His hands fly up, as if I’m a witch, he’s a peasant boy who wandered up to my cottage in the woods, and I’m putting a curse on him. “I think you’re withholding information. Since you won’t tell me what it is, I had to go up the chain of command. It was my duty.”

  I am not appeased. “Couldn’t you have warned me that I was going to be arrested?”

  “Inspector Reid and Commissioner Warren wanted to take you by surprise. I had to go along with them.” Barrett extends his hand to me. “I want to say I’m sorry.”

  His apology is so useless that I laugh, and my laughter has a crazed, forlorn edge. That I ever let Barrett kiss me! I despise my own lack of self-control. “I’m going home. Leave me alone.”

  As I limp, tired and clumsy, Barrett follows. “You’re going the wrong way.”

  Utterly lost, I stop and burst into tears.

  He looks frightened and abashed, as some men are when faced with a crying woman. “Please don’t cry. I’ll take you home.” He hails a cab.

  Although mortified to break down in front of him, I let him help me into the cab and sit beside me. Swallowing sobs, cold from wandering in the fog, I shiver so hard I can’t speak. When we reach my studio, I huddle in a chair. The studio is frigid; I can’t stop shivering. Barrett lights a fire in the grate, then makes tea. If he’s thinking about our frantic almost-coupling, he shows no sign, but for me it’s as if a huge photograph of it were plastered on the wall. Once a man and a woman have been intimate, everything is changed between them. I can act as if it never happened, but I can’t completely shut myself to Barrett, for my shell is broken.

  He brings two cups, hands me one, and pulls up a chair beside me. I drink. “Better?” he asks.

  The tea is hot, sweet, strong, and bracing. I nod. The coals in the grate whisper and glow, while outdoors the fog is dense and gray. I have to remind myself that I’m onto Barrett and not to be fooled by his pretense of taking care of me.

  “I heard that you stood up to Commissioner Warren.” Barrett’s irritation is tinged with respect.

  The mention of Warren sends another shiver through me. I set down my cup before the tea spills. Barrett says, “Commissioner Warren is a tough one. Last year he put down that demonstration at Trafalgar Square.”

  Thousands of socialists, radicals, unemployed workers, and Irish Home Rulers marched on Trafalgar Square and fought a fierce battle with the police, who eventually chased them away. Why is Barrett mentioning it?

  “It was called ‘Bloody Sunday’ because so many people were hurt or killed. Warren got tons of hate mail. He was criticized in the press. But he hasn’t stopped cracking down on demonstrators. When he makes up his mind to go after someone, he doesn’t let anything stand in his way.” Barrett’s expression is serious, compassionate. “What I’m trying to tell you is that Warren will keep after you. Whatever happened today, next time will be worse.”

  Dread wraps me like an iron chain around my ribs, dragging me downward as if through the cold depths of a lake.

  “There’s only one way to get out of trouble with Warren: admit what it is you’re hiding.”

  I notice that the cut on Barrett’s cheek has hardened into a thin, brown scab. His concern is but a ploy to elicit information. Remembering what Inspector Reid said to him, I laugh bitterly. “Get me to talk—that’s a surefire way to a promotion.”

  “I’m not out to score points with my superiors,” Barrett says, loud and vehement. He sets down his empty cup so hard that the noise makes my ears ring. “I just want you to be safe.”

  The worry in his eyes and the sincerity of his manner are so genuine that if I didn’t know better, I would think he really was interested in me. There’s still a charge in the atmosphere between us, and if he were to touch me, we would take up where we left off the other night, and I’m not sure I could stop this time. The shameful self-knowledge ignites a rage that overrides my inhibitions.

  “You’re doing it again.” I fling the accusation at Barrett.

  Puzzlement draws his eyebrows together. “Doing what?”

  “‘Softening up the spinster.’ What’s next—a little ‘grope and tickle’?”

  “What?” Barrett’s mouth drops as he recalls his conversation with Inspector Reid and realizes that I overheard it. “But I didn’t mean . . .” Alarm fills his eyes; he reaches for me. “It wasn’t what it looked like.”

  I raise my hands to ward off his touch and his protests. “Oh, spare me the excuses!” I’m triumphant because I’ve let him know I’m onto him, but I already regret it. The pity in his expression says that he can see how badly hurt I am. I wish I could hit him back. Now an idea foments within the chaos of my anger, shame, and humiliation.

  I could tell him about Commissioner Warren.

  And I can see other reasons besides my desire to turn the tables on Barrett. What a temptation, to relinquish the burden of my secret! What a relief to stop feeling guilty because I’m hoarding information that could lead to the capture of the Ripper. That my friends and I once thought we should hunt the Ripper by ourselves now seems ludicrous; we’re no match for Warren, and Barrett is our only potential ally, never mind how bitter I feel toward him. Although telling Barrett about Warren would necessitate telling him other secrets, my inclination is to gamble on him. Furthermore, I have proof to support my accusation.


  “All right—I’ll tell you what I’m hiding.” I expel the words past the racing heartbeat in my throat.

  Barrett is startled by the abrupt turn of the conversation and my equally abrupt capitulation. “You will?” His expression and voice are tense with contained excitement.

  I take a deep breath, inflating my lungs, trying to loosen the sudden fear that constricts them like a steel net. “It’s Commissioner Warren.”

  Barrett frowns. “What’s Commissioner Warren?”

  Here is my chance to change my mind. “The Ripper,” I blurt. “Warren is the Ripper.”

  “If that’s a joke, it’s not funny.”

  His reaction is a letdown. Another chance beckons. I ignore it and give in to the urge to wipe the disdain off Barrett’s face. “It’s not a joke.” Even though I know how ridiculous my claim must sound, I’m angered by Barrett’s refusal to take seriously the information that Mick and I risked our lives to obtain. “You haven’t even heard me out.”

  “I won’t listen to lies!” Barrett stands, his face dark with offense. “You’re accusing my superior of murdering those women. That’s just dirty slander.”

  I’m only more determined to convince him. Jumping to my feet, I say, “I can prove it’s true. Just wait.”

  My satchel is in the darkroom. I run there, fetch the three photographs I took in Warren’s house, and spread them on the table. Barrett bends a suspicious gaze on me. “Is this a trick?”

  “I don’t play tricks,” I snap. “You and Inspector Reid do.”

  “Look, I’m sorry if your feelings are hurt,” Barrett says, with an effort at patience and sympathy, “but it’s no excuse to lie about Commissioner—”

  Then he looks at the photographs. He frowns at the ones of the newspaper clippings and blurry boudoir pictures.

  “What the hell?” As he scrutinizes the picture of the soldier standing over the dead, mutilated black women, his face goes blank with shock.

  “That’s Commissioner Warren,” I say.

  Barrett shakes his head and says loudly, “No.” His voice rings false; he recognized Warren. “It can’t be,” he says firmly, as if to convince himself. He squints at the picture of the three brass rings. “What’s this?”

  “Those rings belonged to Annie Chapman, the Ripper’s third victim.” I’m vindictively glad I’ve unsettled Barrett, but maybe I shouldn’t have told him. Whether or not he believes my story about Warren rides entirely on the photographs, and suddenly they don’t seem like such conclusive proof of Warren’s guilt.

  Barrett’s eyes betray his perplexity, his consternation, and his struggle to resist belief. “Did you take these photographs?”

  “Yes.” I have the sensation of skating onto thin ice.

  “Where did you take them?”

  “In Commissioner Warren’s house in Stepney.”

  “His house?” Barrett stares in amazement.

  I give him the address, watch him instinctively commit it to memory. I can almost hear him thinking that what I’ve been up to is beyond his wildest imaginings.

  “How did you get in there?”

  I mustn’t admit that Mick and I broke in. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that the newspaper clippings, the photograph of Commissioner Warren, and the rings are all there. Go and look.”

  He gazes at the photographs, then at me, with naked horror. He understands the story that I, and they, are telling: Commissioner Warren killed and mutilated women while in Africa, and he’s brought his habit to London. He has souvenirs from one of the Ripper’s victims. He takes pride in the newspaper clippings, which describe the public’s fear of him and the futile efforts of his own police force to catch him. The collection of items is a shrine to his sins.

  A look of revulsion comes over Barrett’s face. “They aren’t real! You faked them. You’re trying to frame Commissioner Warren.”

  “How?” I can’t imagine where he thinks I obtained Annie’s rings, let alone found a young Commissioner Warren look-alike or slaughtered Negro women.

  Barrett turns his head from side to side, anxiously seeking an explanation. “I don’t know.” His expression combines anger at me with anger at his inability to discount the evidence that the top police officer is the Ripper. “But you must have.” He’s breathing hard, like a bull in a ring, his fists and teeth clenched.

  The door flies open. Hugh rushes into the studio, followed by Catherine, the Lipskys, and Mick. “Sarah!” Hugh cries. “Thank God! We’ve been looking all over for—”

  My friends see Barrett, and the relief on their faces turns to consternation. Barrett glares at me. “Damn you to hell! I’m sorry I ever—”

  He’s sorry he ever met me. He can’t deny to himself that my evidence against Commissioner Warren is genuine, and he hates me because I’ve saddled him with the heavy burden of knowing that his superior is the Ripper. If he’s also sorry he tricked me, because it led to this, it would be the only good outcome of my revelation.

  Barrett snatches up the photographs and stalks out the door, slamming it so hard that the bell strikes and cracks the glass.

  20

  “I shouldn’t have told him,” I say to Catherine, Mick, Hugh, and the Lipskys.

  We’re gathered around the table in my studio, drinking tea. Hugh told me that he and his solicitor came by for me this morning, and when I failed to appear, he knew something was wrong, and he notified Catherine and the Lipskys. When the four of them came to my studio to see if I had returned, they found only Mick waiting for me. The neighbors told them I’d been arrested. My friends went from one police station to another, trying to find me. They never imagined I’d been taken to Newgate. Now that I’ve described what’s happened, they sit mute, shocked to learn that I discovered that the man in the African photograph is the chief police commissioner and that I told PC Barrett that Warren is the Ripper, all in a few hours.

  “If only I could take it back!”

  “Spilled milk,” Hugh says with a nonchalant shrug, trying to console me by minimizing the disaster. “Look on the bright side: we now know who the Ripper is.”

  A pensive hush descends on us. Rain spatters the window. Machinery in a distant factory pounds a slow, thudding pulse. “Barrett will give the prints he took to Inspector Reid.” I feel an awful sensation that I’m speeding away from my friends, downward to a dark place beyond all help.

  “Maybe he won’t,” Catherine says with her typical naïve optimism. “At the inquest he seemed rather nice, and perhaps a little sweet on you, Sarah.”

  “He certainly isn’t sweet on me now. He won’t protect me.”

  Mr. Lipsky glowers and shakes his head. He knows better than to hope for mercy from the police.

  “Well, we’d better figure out our next step.” Hugh rolls up his sleeves and looks around the table.

  “Maybe we should do what this man Warren told Sarah,” Mrs. Lipsky says. “Mind our own business, keep out of trouble.” Her manner is stoic, resigned; it must have been so when she and her family chose to leave Russia.

  “Let police get away with murder? No!” Mr. Lipsky clenches his fists in a sudden burst of temper.

  “You’re right,” Mick says, afire with eagerness to rebel against the law that he’s always skirted, wanting to show off for Catherine. “We have to take Warren down!”

  Catherine ignores Mick, but she chimes in, “It’s not fair that I have to be afraid of getting murdered.”

  Her safety, and that of my models, is the best reason for pursuing Warren’s downfall.

  “There’s one course of action we can take against Warren,” Hugh says. “Prevent him from killing again.”

  “How?” Catherine asks.

  “Abraham will continue chaperoning you. Sarah, Mick, and I will guard the three other women,” Hugh says. “We’ll follow them and make sure they’re never alone outdoors after dark. Warren won’t attack them in front of witnesses.”

  “But he’ll see us,” I say. “He doesn’t know y
ou and Mick, but he’ll recognize me, and he’ll think it unusual that the same people are always cropping up around the women. He’ll realize what we’re doing.”

  “Not if we’re in disguise.” Hugh sparkles with ingenuity. “Male dress for you, Sarah. I’ll find costumes for Mick and me. Warren will never get wise to us.”

  Mick cheers. “You’re on!”

  Catherine and the Lipskys nod their approval. I look out the window at the deepening darkness and think of following Liz, Kate, or Mary Jane through the fog, my frail self the only thing standing between her and death. But I haven’t a better idea.

  #

  That night, dressed in a jacket and trousers that Hugh purchased at a rag shop, I trail Mary Jane Kelly as she strolls around the Prostitutes’ Church. I watch her solicit customers, I wait outside courtyards while she services them, and I see her safely back to her lodgings at dawn. On the next two nights, I do the same for Kate Eddowes and Liz Stride. It’s less frightening than I expected—in fact, curiously liberating. The absence of my usual corset, long skirt, and cumbersome petticoats makes my body limber and agile, and I can walk alone at night without being accosted by men. Male disguise is akin to a suit of armor.

  In the mornings, I come home to find Hugh and Mick swapping stories of masquerading as laborer and beggar boy while acting as bodyguards. I drowse in bed all day, too tired to open the studio yet too anxious to sleep well. If Commissioner Warren catches us, what will he do? We are merely stalling him, no closer to bringing him to justice. There’s not been another murder, and PC Barrett has apparently not shown anyone the photographs, but this calm is like the space between a lightning bolt and the thunderclap.

  On Tuesday, 18 September, Mick doesn’t show up at my studio. While I’m cooking breakfast, there’s a knock at the door, and I think he’s finally come, but when I answer, it’s a dark-haired boy about ten years old, wearing a tam and ragged clothes.

  “I’m a friend o’ Mick’s. He asked me to tell you he’s in Sick Children’s Hospital. He’s had a n’accident.”