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The Hospital for Sick Children, on Great Ormond Street, is a tall brick building that resembles a Gothic castle. The ward is a sunny, high-ceilinged room, cozily warm, unlike other charity wards, which are so squalid that the patients often end up dead instead of cured. Young patients occupy cribs ranged against opposite walls decorated with pictures of scenes from nursery rhymes. A table in the center aisle holds cut flowers in vases. The smell of the flowers and disinfectant mask the sickroom smells. Nurses wearing pink uniforms and starched white caps and aprons carry in trays of food. Visiting families cluster around many of the beds. Conversation and laughter echo. A few patients lie still and pale, but others don’t seem very ill. Two little girls in nightgowns are having a dolls’ tea party.
Mick is propped up in his bed, a meal tray on a table attached to the railings, a nurse seated by his side. If not for his red hair, bright as a flame against the white pillows, I wouldn’t have recognized him. Scrubbed clean, he wears a blue cotton nightshirt. A gauze bandage covers his left temple, his right arm wears a white sling, and as the nurse spoons tapioca pudding into his mouth, he eats obediently. I’ve never seen him so passive.
“Miss Sarah!” Mick seems ashamed for me to see him treated like a baby. His face firms up into its usual precociously mature, confident expression—his armor against the world.
The nurse is a buxom woman in her forties with a handsome, stern face. “Are you his relation?” she asks me.
“No, just a friend.” I’m glad he’s all right, but I feel a pang of regret because he never trusted me enough to let down his armor in front of me.
“I’m the matron of this ward. How good of you to come.” Her tone implies that I took my sweet time.
She couldn’t make me feel any guiltier. “I came as soon as I heard.” I shouldn’t have let Mick roam about Whitechapel at night guarding my models. “What happened to Mick?”
“He almost drowned in the Thames this morning.”
Alarm besets me. “How?”
“I saw an anchor stickin’ up out ’o the river,” Mick says. “It must ’ave broke loose from some ship. I thought I could sell it, so I waded out to get it. Then a ship come along, an’ the wake swept me into the current.”
“His little friend saw him floating unconscious in the water and called for help,” the matron says. “He’s lucky to be alive, with only a bump on his head and a dislocated shoulder.”
I sense this isn’t the real story. Uneasiness creeps into my heart. “Matron, may I have a private word with Mick?” When she’s gone, I ask, “What really happened?”
“After I left Mary Jane at her house, I saw two coppers comin’ toward me. I ran. They chased me and cornered me by the docks.” Mick sounds disgusted at himself for not managing to evade them. “They grabbed me an’ threw me in the river. I must’ve hit my head and passed out, ’cause the next thing I knew, I was lyin’ on the dock, and a bloke was pushin’ on my chest, and I was throwin’ up water, and my shoulder hurt somethin’ awful.”
I stare in horror and bewilderment. “Why did the police chase you?”
As I wonder if they saw him stealing, Mick says, “Before they threw me in the river, one of ’em said, ‘From now on, mind your own business. And tell Sarah Bain to mind hers.’”
A sharp chime of dread resonates through me as I remember Commissioner Warren’s warning: Unless you behave yourself, you aren’t the only person who will suffer. He’s found out who my friends are. By trying to protect Liz, Mary Jane, and Kate, I’ve almost gotten Mick killed. The ward spins into a blur of light, distorted voices, and nauseating smells of flowers, food, and disinfectant. I breathe deeply to relieve my sudden faintness.
“Those police must have been sent by Commissioner Warren. He must have been stalking my models and seen you, Hugh, and me following them.” Another possibility disturbs me just as much. “Or PC Barrett showed him my photographs and told him what I said.”
A strange expression comes over Mick’s face. “Maybe it ain’t because he saw us or because Barrett ratted on you.”
“What else could it be?”
Mick gazes down at the pudding, milk, and stewed apples on his tray. “I think he knows we were in his house.”
“How could he? We didn’t disturb anything, and we closed the window and locked the door before we left. And the neighbors couldn’t have seen us sneak in. The fog was so thick.”
Mick hunches his shoulders. “I took some money from the desk.”
“What? When was this?”
“When I was lookin’ around the house by myself.” Mick sees the appalled expression on my face. “It were three quid ten shillings,” he says, wretched with guilt. “I couldn’t resist.”
“Where is the money now?”
“In your darkroom. Behind some jars in the cupboard.” Mick says, “I’m sorry.”
Spilled milk, as Hugh would say. “It’s all right. Commissioner Warren can’t possibly know it was you who took the money.”
Relieved, Mick settles against his pillows. But I fear Warren does suspect Mick. Maybe he thinks one of my models told me something about him that led me to his house and I enlisted the aid of my friend the street urchin who is clever at burglary. But I don’t tell this to Mick because I don’t want him to blame himself when I never should have involved him in this scheme. It’s my nightmare come again: my actions have brought harm to someone I care about. When Hugh helped me shed my notion that my father’s death was my fault, I thought I’d been wrong in believing that I cast a shadow and anyone who came near me was in danger. I decided it was safe to open myself to the friendships I craved so badly. But I was right all along: I do have a shadow—created by Commissioner Warren—and my friends are in jeopardy.
The matron returns, all efficiency and starched skirts. “Time for you to finish your lunch and take your nap, young man.” She says to me, “I’ll see you out.”
“As soon as I’m better, Miss Sarah, I’ll get out of here and help you with you-know-what,” Mick says.
But I can see that he’s not eager to leave the hospital, where he’s fed, pampered, and safe. I don’t blame him. Wherever he lives can’t be as comfortable, and after a brush with death, he’s unwilling to pit himself against Commissioner Warren—not even for Catherine’s sake.
“Such a sad case,” the matron says as we walk down the hall. “His mother was an unwed fifteen-year-old girl. Mick doesn’t know who his father is. When he was six, she ran away with another man. His grandfather was a drunk, and his grandmother had too many other children to take care of, so they gave Mick to St. Vincent’s orphanage. But I suppose you knew.”
I bow my head. I trusted Mick in my studio, with my possessions, but he didn’t trust me enough to confide in me. I’m not the only one of us to keep secrets about the past.
“Those Irish Catholics.” Her manner is stiff with disapproval. “Shiftless. No morals. Popping out babies as if they’re relieving themselves.”
I’m offended on Mick’s behalf, but before I can protest, she says, “Mick is a good, clever boy. He deserves a future. I spoke to the nuns at St. Vincent’s, and they’re willing to take him back. If you care about him, you’ll persuade him to go there and stay put.”
Now I feel ashamed because she, despite her prejudices, is a better friend to Mick than I. As I leave the hospital, I make up my mind that even if Mick wants to help me, I won’t let him; it’s too dangerous. Commissioner Warren must indeed be afraid of me; why else would he set his dogs on Mick? Not just because he enjoys hurting my friends, but to scare us off his trail. I can’t let Mr. Lipsky and Hugh help me protect my models. It’s dangerous for them, too. If I have to choose between their safety versus that of Kate, Mary Jane, and Liz . . .
I selfishly decide in favor of my friends. I’ll do the best I can by myself for my models. They won’t look after themselves, and they’ve been rude to me, but I feel guilty because they’ve drawn the short straw. Before I go out to guard one of
the women tonight, I’ll tell Hugh and Mr. Lipsky that their services are no longer needed. I must find some other way to keep Catherine safe.
21
Three days later—on Friday, 21 September—I return to my studio at just before eight o’clock in the morning. Hugh and I have been shadowing Liz Stride, Kate Eddowes, and Mary Jane Kelly. The two of us can’t be in three places at the same time, but Hugh pointed out that it was better than if I tried to protect all of them by myself.
“I’m not quitting,” he said after I told him what happened to Mick. “Even if Commissioner Warren set his dogs on Mick, they won’t dare throw me in the river.”
Catherine and Mr. Lipsky are equally impervious to my pleas to protect themselves. Catherine still won’t go home, and Mr. Lipsky refused to stop guarding her. My friends and I have a trait in common: hardheaded stubbornness. None of us wants to capitulate.
This morning, somebody is huddled in my doorway—a woman in an emerald green taffeta frock. She lies curled on her side, turned away from the street. Her long, wavy blond hair is disheveled. Her hands are covered with black velvet gloves that extend above her elbows. One of her feet wears a high-heeled, rhinestone-studded slipper; the other is bare. She’s trembling, and she reeks of liquor. She’s drunk. I nudge her with my foot.
“Excuse me. Please go somewhere else.”
She whimpers and lifts a face that’s smeared with pink powder, black mascara, and red lip rouge. Blood clots her nostrils and drools from her swollen mouth. Her wide, blank green eyes are shockingly familiar.
She is Hugh in female dress and a blond wig.
My first reaction is horror laced with confusion. Why is Hugh dressed as a woman and lying battered and bloody on my doorstep? My second reaction is a fierce urge to protect him. I look around and see men standing outside the pub, watching us.
“Come inside!” I whisper as I hurriedly unlock the door. “Quick!”
Moaning, he crawls into my studio. I lock the door, then say, “We have to get you out of those clothes and cleaned up. Can you walk?”
Hugh weeps as he struggles to his feet and trips on his skirts. I help him up the stairs, recalling how he helped me only days ago. In my bedroom, I undress him and take off his wig. Beneath the green frock, he’s wearing a corset padded to simulate a bosom, petticoats, garters, and silk stockings. As I remove the clothes, we’re both too distraught to care if I see him nude again. His beautiful body is covered with reddish-purple bruises. I wrap him in a blanket, sit him on the bed, and sponge the makeup off his face. He cries and trembles the whole time.
There’s a loud knocking at the door. A man’s voice calls, “Miss Bain!”
“Is that the police?” Hugh groans. “Oh, no.”
“It’s Mr. Douglas, my landlord. If I don’t answer, he’ll use his key to get in.” I rush downstairs and open the door.
With his crooked nose and heavyset build, Mr. Douglas looks like the boxer he was twenty years ago. His face is red with anger. “You let a whore inside my building.” He also owns the pub down the street. He must have been among the men watching me and Hugh.
“She’s not a whore,” I say. “She’s my friend, and she, er, had an accident.”
“Don’t lie to me. You have all kinds of whores coming and going.”
My heart sinks; I was right to fear that Annie, Polly, and the others were seen.
“I let you get away with it because I’m a nice guy, but I just heard that you’ve been bringing in Jews and street urchins, too. I don’t want that kind of scum on my property. This is the last straw. If that whore’s not out of here in ten minutes, I’ll bring the police to get her out.” Mr. Douglas huffs away down the street.
Catherine comes running up to me. “Sarah, what was that about?”
This is a fine time for her to visit! I pull her into the studio, lock the door, and say, “Hugh is here. He’s been hurt.”
“How? What happened?”
“I’ll explain later.” I have ten minutes to relocate Hugh. “Wait here.”
But she follows me upstairs and sees Hugh curled on my bed. With the makeup washed off, the injuries to his face are glaringly apparent. Purple bruises circle both his eyes.
“Hugh!” Catherine cries. “What happened to you?”
“I was guarding Kate Eddowes. She went home early, so I went to a party.” Hugh’s swollen lips muffle his voice. “It was raided by the vice squadron.”
Dismay fills me as I comprehend that the party was one of the illicit, all-male affairs that men of Hugh’s persuasion attend. The vice squadron often raids these affairs. Guests caught engaging in forbidden carnal acts are put on trial and, if convicted, sentenced to two years of hard labor in prison. The dark side of Hugh’s life is darker than I imagined.
“The police beat me up,” Hugh says.
“What party? Why did they raid it?” Catherine notices the wig, green frock, and undergarments lying on the floor. “Hugh, are these yours? Were you dressed as a woman?”
“Yes.” Hugh turns away, embarrassed. “I do sometimes.”
Catherine’s pretty mouth falls open. I, too, am surprised to learn this detail about Hugh. Here is another of my friends’ secrets exposed. Catherine says, “Are you . . . ?”
“Do I need to spell it out?”
“Oh.” Catherine’s expression alters from shock to enlightenment. “You’re like Frankie and Maurice.” I gape at her in confusion. “The costume-makers at the theater,” she explains. “They’re the dearest fellows, but some people don’t like them because they like men instead of women. I don’t see why it matters who does what in private, when they’re not hurting anybody . . .” Distracted by her own thoughts, she frowns, shakes her head, then demands, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was afraid of what you would think,” Hugh says. “I didn’t know I had the good fortune of an acquaintance with two open-minded women.”
Catherine turns on me. “You knew! And you let me make a fool of myself!”
“I’m sorry. It wasn’t my secret to tell.” I’m glad because I can see that only her pride, not her heart, has been wounded. She smiles as she comprehends why Hugh isn’t romantically interested in her.
“Why didn’t the police arrest you?” Catherine asks Hugh.
“Damned if I know.”
“How did you get here?” I ask.
“They put me in a carriage. The driver dumped me at your door.”
This is another shock, a second cruel blow after Mick’s brush with death. “They knew who you are. Commissioner Warren must have ordered the raid.”
Hugh closes his eyes, as if this news is too much for him to cope with. Catherine frowns. “How could Commissioner Warren have known about the party and that Hugh would be there?”
“He must have seen Hugh guarding Kate and followed him.” Breathless with fright and anger, I slump against the wall. “He had Hugh brought here as another warning to me.”
He could have had me beaten up, but that wouldn’t have titillated him enough. He could have just shot the African women, not tortured and mutilated them. Now he’s having fun with me, at my friends’ expense. A terrible guilt sickens me.
“Well.” Catherine looks unconvinced. “It could be just a coincidence.”
She doesn’t think Commissioner Warren was behind the attack on Mick or Hugh’s mishap; she thinks all policemen are the friendly constable in her home village. But I have no doubt whatsoever. Now a different emotion sends tremors rising up in me. They’re not the helpless, debilitating tremors of fear; they’re the fierce, hot energy that makes flames crackle, twist, and roar. The emotion is anger of an intensity such as I’ve never experienced. The anger is directed at Commissioner Warren. It’s as if he set off an eruption in a deep pit of volcanic lava I never knew I had in me.
“What shall we do about Hugh?” Catherine asks.
“My landlord gave me ten minutes to get him out before he calls the police. And it’s not safe for him to be around me.
” Warren is not just threatening me by hurting my friends; he’s also forcing me to cut myself off from them lest he hurt them again. He’s isolating me, the better to weaken me, as ruthlessly as a lion separates an antelope from the herd. It’s not safe for Catherine or the Lipskys, either, but there’s no time to discuss that.
“Hugh, you have to go home,” I say.
“No!” Hugh begins weeping again. “I can’t face my family.”
I didn’t realize until this moment how big a risk his way of life posed for him. For his own good, I steel my heart, cuff his shoulder, and say, “Get up! Now!”
Hugh gazes at me, his blackened eyes streaming tears, shocked and hurt because I’ve never treated him so roughly before. He pushes himself upright.
“I’ll find something for him to wear,” Catherine says.
She rummages in the cupboard and finds a dark-blue wool dressing gown that belonged to my father. It’s soft and thin from wear. For months after he died, I slept with it. His smell comforted me. Now I let Catherine give it to Hugh. He stands naked, his back turned to us, and groans as he forces his sore, stiff arms into the gown.
Catherine ties the sash around his waist. “How are we going to get him out of the house?”
“Mr. Douglas will be watching for a woman in a green dress to leave.” In the throes of shock and anger, I can’t think anymore.
“I have an idea.” Catherine hastily strips down to her undergarments and puts on Hugh’s green dress and blond wig. I wonder if she remembers the costume she wanted to wear to the Duke’s ball. “I’ll run out the front door. You take Hugh out the back. Bring my clothes. I’ll go hire a cab and meet you at the end of the alley.”
While she’s gone, I help Hugh down the stairs. By the time we reach the alley, Catherine is waiting in the cab. Hugh and I climb aboard, and as the carriage rattles down Whitechapel Road, Catherine says, “Your pig of a landlord told me never to come back. He thought I was the woman he saw lying outside your door. We fooled him.” She strips off the wig and green dress, puts on her own clothes, fluffs her hair, and asks Hugh where he lives.
The Ripper's Shadow Page 17