He mutters an address in Belgrave Square. Slumped miserably between Catherine and me, he drools blood onto my father’s robe. I try not to think beyond the task of conveying him home, but I can’t ignore the troubles that gather around us like wolves in the shadows outside a campfire. In Belgrave Square, couples stroll, children roll hoops, and nannies push babies in prams along paths below trees resplendent with brown, gold, and red autumn foliage. Around the square rise tall, elegant townhouses with white marble steps and brass railings. The Staunton family home has marble urns filled with marigolds outside its glossy, black-painted door. Catherine gazes, fascinated, out the cab’s window.
“It’s so beautiful,” she murmurs, “and so clean and quiet!”
The ubiquitous stench of cesspools is fainter here, and the sun shines. Wealth encloses Belgrave Square in an invisible dome that excludes the smoke and noise from the factories. Hugh buries his face in his hands and weeps. This is his world, but his illicit desires and my need for his friendship brought him to my dirty, dangerous one. He can’t help his desires, but I had a choice. That day we met at the cemetery, I should have walked away from him and not looked back.
I don’t notice the crowd of men outside the Staunton house until Catherine, Hugh, and I climb out of the carriage. Armed with notebooks and pencils, they rush upon us, shouting.
“Lord Hugh! Is it true that you were caught in a police raid?”
“Where are your clothes? Were you dressed as a woman?”
They are reporters. They know what happened to Hugh last night. “Commissioner Warren must have tipped them off,” I say in dismay.
“Oh, God.” Hugh covers his head with his arms.
The reporters surround us.
“What were you doing when the police caught you?”
“Were you buggering some fellow or taking it up your windward passage?”
As Catherine and I pull Hugh toward the house, my anger at Commissioner Warren spills onto the reporters like hot lava that burns anything in its path. I yell at them, “Go away! Leave him alone!”
People in the square gather to watch. The reporters follow us, crying, “Lord Hugh, what have you to say for yourself? Aren’t you ashamed?”
We drag Hugh up the steps. The glossy black door opens. There stands a handsome man, dressed in a velvet smoking jacket, who looks like Hugh will in thirty years. Behind him hovers a blond woman faded by age but beautiful; she has Hugh’s eyes. The Duke and Duchess of Ravenswood gape at their cowering, disheveled son.
“My lord and lady! Did you know your son is a pervert?”
Hugh’s horrified parents back away. A slight, gray-haired man with a worried face steps up to the door and pulls Hugh inside the house. The door closes. As Catherine and I run to our cab, the reporters chase us.
“Who are you ladies?”
“How do you know Lord Hugh?”
We jump inside the carriage. They pound on it, yelling questions as it rolls down the street, then fall behind. Catherine and I look at each other, shaken.
“What will Commissioner Warren do to the rest of us?” Catherine asks. She finally believes that Warren is responsible for Mick’s and Hugh’s troubles. “And who’s next?”
22
That night, I stayed home instead of guarding any of my models, much as I hated to let them shift for themselves. If Warren were to catch me at it, he would punish my friends as well as me. But my guilty conscience, and the simmering pit of my new anger, kept me from sleeping.
On this cold, smoky Saturday morning, 22 September, I buy a newspaper and read the front-page story during breakfast.
Dark Annie Still Unavenged by Justice
Jacob Isenschmid, arrested on suspicion of committing the Whitechapel murders, will shortly be released. His brother has given him an alibi for the time of Dark Annie Chapman’s murder. It is held in several local influential quarters that all has not been done that might have been done. Great indignation has been expressed because the Government will not offer a reward for information that could lead to the murderer’s capture. The inhuman murderer still comes and goes about our streets, hiding in his guilty heart the secret known only to him, Heaven, and the dead.
So much for the suspect PC Barrett mentioned at the Mile End Vigilance Committee meeting. At least there’s not been another murder; all my models have survived the night.
On the next page is this article:
Raid at the Thousand Crowns Club
The Thousand Crowns Club in Fitzrovia was raided by the vice squadron during the early-morning hours of Friday, 21 September. Police surprised 35 men, dressed in female clothing or naked, engaged in indecent acts. Some were rent boys from a nearby brothel and soldiers from the Horse Guards. They were arrested and charged with sodomy. Others were quietly let go. A source within the vice squadron said that one of those was Lord Hugh Staunton, son of the Duke of Ravenswood. This statement could not be confirmed. Lord Hugh is not in police custody.
A sickening sensation washes through me as I perceive the real story between the lines of this article. Hugh’s presence at the Thousand Crowns wasn’t confirmed, and he is officially accused of nothing, but people will believe the insinuation that he is guilty. His dark secret has exploded into the cruel spotlight of scandal, and the fact that he’s the only person named in the article leaves me no doubt that the raid was an attack targeted at him. Commissioner Warren must believe I have compromising knowledge about him, he must think I’ve shared it with my friends, and he wants to silence all of us. He could probably get away with killing Mick, Catherine, the Lipskys, and me, but not Hugh, a member of the aristocracy. Even if he made Hugh’s death look like an accident, pressure to investigate it would come down from on high. Instead, Warren destroyed Hugh’s reputation.
Should Hugh accuse Warren of murder, no one who matters will listen.
The anger flushes such heat through me that I sweep all my floors to burn it off. Then I spend the day photographing customers in my studio. I resist the temptation to visit Mick and Hugh. As much as I long to see how they’re faring, I’ve already brought them enough harm; I must keep my distance from them. They probably won’t want to see me anyway.
At six o’clock that night, the doorbell jangles. I untie the bell from its hook; lately it heralds little except trouble. My visitor is a breathless, anxious Mr. Lipsky.
“What’s wrong?” I ask as I let him in.
“When I go to take Catherine to theater, she not home. She already leave.”
“Why didn’t you go to the theater and wait to bring her home after the show?”
“I did. Catherine not there. They say she have night off.”
Catherine has seized the chance to roam free. Alarmed by her reckless stupidity, I grab my coat. “We have to find her.”
We search in vain at every tavern, music hall, and supper club that Catherine frequents. In the early morning, we go to her boardinghouse. The landlady and other tenants don’t know where she is. Sunday and Monday, I shuttle between my studio and her house, hoping she’ll turn up at one place or the other, but she doesn’t. In the evenings, I check the theater. She’s not there. I grow certain that Commissioner Warren has murdered Catherine. If only I had never photographed her! A vision of Catherine lying on blood-drenched cobblestones with her throat cut sends me into frenzies of terror and guilt.
On Tuesday morning, just after nine o’clock, Catherine glides into my studio, as fresh, pretty, and gay as usual.
“Catherine!” I exclaim. “Where have you been?”
“With my friend Derek.”
The powerful anger rekindles in me. “Mr. Lipsky and I searched all over for you. You shouldn’t have gone out without him. It’s dangerous!”
“But now that we know Commissioner Warren is the Ripper, you needn’t fear that it’s one of my beaux. And look at this.”
Catherine hands me a newspaper. I read the story she indicates.
Monday, 24 September 1888. Horror at Gateshead
Yesterday morning, the dead body of Jane Beatmoor was found on a railway siding five miles south of Newcastle. Her throat was cut, and her bowels were spilled from a gash in her abdomen. There were no clues as to who perpetrated this ghastly deed, but its resemblance to the crimes in London suggests that the Whitechapel Ripper has traveled to the north of England to pursue his fiendish vocation.
“The Ripper has moved on,” Catherine says triumphantly. “Everybody says so.”
I throw the newspaper on the floor. Catherine looks surprised; she’s never seen me in such a temper. “I don’t care what everybody says! Suppose Commissioner Warren did commit this murder in Gateshead—maybe it was a ruse to make the London police decide the Ripper isn’t their problem any longer, and he’ll come back for you after they stop hunting him in Whitechapel.”
Obstinacy tightens Catherine’s mouth. “I’m through with having a chaperone, and I’m through worrying about Commissioner Warren. I want to live again!” Flinging out her arms, opening herself to the whole dangerous world, she spins around and laughs at her own dramatic extravagance.
I should convince her to be reasonable, but my anger rages beyond the point of self-control. “Mr. Lipsky has sacrificed so much of his time to keep you safe. So has Mick, and he was almost killed. So has Hugh, and he’s ruined. And all you care about is yourself! You’re the most stupid, frivolous, selfish creature that ever lived!”
Catherine stares, openmouthed and gasping, as if I’ve turned into a monster. She bursts into tears and runs out the door. Horrified at myself, I press my hands against my head and wonder what’s gotten into me. Now Catherine is out in London by herself, easy game for the Ripper.
#
That evening, I go to Spitalfields. The streets are abnormally quiet; people rush instead of pausing to chat; shops are closing early. A woman leaving a grocer’s drops a beet from her loaded basket and doesn’t stop to pick it up. It lies red on the cobblestones, like a blob of blood. Police constables rove. They must still think the Ripper is a Jew. Wondering if Barrett is among them, I pull my shawl over my head to blend with the other women. I slip through the door of the Lipskys’ tenement and hurry upstairs. Dim light and a low male voice issue from the open door to their flat.
Inside, Mrs. Lipsky stands by the entrance to their bedchamber. She sees me, puts her finger to her lips, and shakes her head.
“So we’re conducting our own investigation,” the man’s voice says. It’s English with an East End accent, pompous, and familiar.
I press my back against the wall of the passage and look into the room. Mr. Lipsky sits in a chair, lit by the oil lamp on the table. Puzzlement and wariness lurk behind his customary scowl. Opposite him are three Englishmen dressed in black overcoats and bowler hats. Two of them stand behind the third—the spokesman. The chair he sits on is so close to Mr. Lipsky that their knees touch. I recognize his muttonchop whiskers. He’s George Lusk, president of the Mile End Vigilance Committee.
“We’ve been going door to door, asking if anyone’s seen or heard anything that might be a clue as to who the Ripper is,” he says.
The Mile End Vigilance Committee must have decided that raising money for a reward wasn’t a strong enough action to take. Now my friends and I aren’t the only self-appointed detectives investigating the Whitechapel murders.
George Lusk points at Mr. Lipsky. “We’ve identified you as a person of interest.”
And the police aren’t the only danger to us. This isn’t just a routine visit from the committee, and Mr. Lipsky isn’t just another possible witness; he is their suspect in the murders. My heart sinks.
“What is ‘person of interest’?” Confusion deepens Mr. Lipsky’s scowl.
“A person of interest is someone whose name has come up during our inquiries, someone that people have reported as behaving suspiciously.” George Lusk speaks slowly and patiently, but the edge of menace on his voice sharpens. “Your name came up.”
“Who report me?” Mr. Lipsky demands. Horror appears on his and his wife’s faces as they, too, realize that he’s a suspect.
“I can’t tell you. Our sources are confidential.”
It must have been Commissioner Warren. He’s not satisfied with attacking me through Mick and Hugh. He’s after the Lipskys, and he’s sent the Mile End Committee to do his dirty work. It’s been three days since my clash with Warren, since I guarded my models, since I or my friends did anything to provoke him, but he’s not through with us.
George Lusk leans toward Mr. Lipsky. “You’ve been seen leaving home in the evening and returning late at night. Where did you go? What were you doing?”
Rearing back in his seat, frightened yet defiant, Mr. Lipsky says, “Not your business.”
He could tell Lusk that he was escorting a friend to and from work, but he’s afraid that if he does, the whole story of my photographs, our clandestine investigation, and Commissioner Warren will come out, like knitted fabric unraveling when a single thread is pulled.
Lusk smiles thinly, both vexed and pleased by Mr. Lipsky’s refusal to answer. “If you were a law-abiding citizen, you would provide an innocent explanation. But then you’re not, are you?” The Lipskys’ faces are pictures of guilty distress. Lusk chuckles. “You’ve been arrested three times—twice for drunken disorderliness, once for fighting.”
I didn’t know. Events are exposing other secrets besides Mick’s, Hugh’s, and mine.
“Here’s what I think,” Lusk says. “You’re the Ripper.”
Aghast, Mr. Lipsky stares.
“Where were you on the nights of August six, August thirty, and September seven?”
Those are the nights during which Martha Tabram, Polly Nichols, and Annie Chapman were murdered. Mrs. Lipsky cries, “He was home!”
Lusk favors her with a scornful glance. “Of course a wife would lie for her husband.” He stands, grabbing Mr. Lipsky’s shirt collar. “You killed those women.” He’s much smaller and older than Mr. Lipsky, but the presence of his two friends lends him nerve. “You’re roaming about at night looking for other whores to kill.” He shakes Mr. Lipsky. “Admit it!”
Mr. Lipsky rises, seizes Lusk by the wrists, breaks his grip, and shoves him. Lusk stumbles backward, upsets his chair, and falls into his friends’ arms. Mr. Lipsky roars, “Get out!”
He looks so fierce that the three men hasten to the door. George Lusk pauses. “Quite a temper you’ve got there, Abe. You must’ve given those whores a real scare before you cut their throats.” Shaken yet gratified because Mr. Lipsky has added fuel to his suspicions, he jabs his finger at Mr. Lipsky. “We’ll be watching you.”
When Lusk and his men come out the door, I experience another fit of hot, consuming anger, and I’m tempted to push them down the stairs, but I don’t because they could take their revenge, on the Lipskys as well as myself, too easily. I rush into the Lipskys’ house. Mr. Lipsky is slumped in his chair like a boxer who’s lost a match. Mrs. Lipsky wrings her hands. They look at me with the same expression of shock and helplessness they must have worn when their house in Russia burned down.
“This is my fault.” Guilt weighs like an anvil on my heart. “I never should have let you become involved in this business. I’m sorry.”
They nod a wordless acceptance of my apology. There’s no reproach in their eyes, but they can’t deny that if they’d not joined forces with me, Mr. Lipsky wouldn’t be George Lusk’s person of interest. The Lipskys, as well as Hugh and Mick, have come to grief because of me, and I must remedy the situation the only way I know how.
“It’s best if I sever my ties with you.” My voice wobbles. I’ve only known them for a few weeks, but I feel a connection to them that is stronger than the short time we’ve spent together would forge under ordinary circumstances.
“No, Sarah!” Mrs. Lipsky clasps my hands. “We are friends.”
Her hands are warm, like the last summer day before an endless winter. Tears sting my eyes. I’ve come to love the Lipskys for
their kindness and generosity, and I thought that after my parents died, I would never love anyone again. This is what loving means—losing. I’ll miss the Lipskys, and Mick and Hugh and Catherine. I see what Warren is doing. He’s not only isolated me because I can’t stand against him on my own; he’s inflicting pain on me by attacking my friends. I wonder if, in Africa, part of his thrill was watching the black women suffer when they saw their friends hurt and killed.
Mr. Lipsky staggers to his feet. “You find Catherine? I go, take her to theater.”
“Yes, I did, but you can’t guard her anymore,” I say at the same time Mrs. Lipsky cries, “Abraham, those men, they will get you!”
“I not hide from them! I not let Ripper kill Catherine!”
“Catherine won’t have a chaperone,” I say. “That’s why I came—to tell you. She thinks she’s safe because there’s been a murder in the north and people are saying the Ripper has left London.”
Mrs. Lipsky murmurs in distress. Mr. Lipsky clenches his fists, pants, and turns around in the room, like a bear in too small a pen. “I not criminal! I not coward!”
He and his wife begin arguing in Russian. He punches the wall and roars with pain and frustration. I notice spider-shaped cracks in the plaster; this isn’t the first time he’s punched it. Mrs. Lipsky says, “This is like Russia. When pogroms start, Abraham and his friends fight back. They throw rocks at police who come to chase Jews out of Moscow. They beat up men who break windows and loot shops.” She sighs, sad yet proud. “It is same here—he was arrested for fighting English men who attack Jews. He will not let this committee push him down.”
So the Lipskys have been helping me not just because they like me or they owe me a favor. Mr. Lipsky is a man who pits himself against injustice, and his wife stands by him. Even though I admire their courage, my battle with Commissioner Warren isn’t theirs to lose.
“Russian police, they want to get rid of troublemakers. That is why they set our house on fire. Abraham and I escape with Yulia.” Tears fill Mrs. Lipsky’s eyes. “Other two children—” She chokes on sobs.
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