by Ash Krafton
“Mary, I’m not going to run away because of some—”
“You listen to me. He’s a bad one. I don’t know what you think you can handle, but don’t fool yourself into thinking you’re any safer than us.”
“I’ll see you again, Mary. I’m not running out on you.” Senza emptied the remains of the picnic basket onto one of the tables.
The fierce light softened in Mary’s eyes. “You’re a good soul, Senza. Don’t let someone end you. This world would suffer a loss.”
Senza just nodded and cracked the door wide enough to slip out before making a brisk line straight back to her room. Each noise that sounded from behind her sped her pace a bit quicker. By the time she’d rounded the corner of the inn’s stoop, she was completely out of breath, her locket three heartbeats lighter.
She took supper in her rooms, as usual, and spent the rest of the evening perched on a stool next to the lone window.
Could this be the same city? Less than a week ago, her feet had barely touched the ground. Chelsea’s broad cobbled streets and clean sidewalks often wore the sheen of sunlight.
Not that her shoes had often warmed themselves on the false heat of the stone; she travelled everywhere by carriage. Mrs. Branson’s rheumatism demanded it. Indoors, she wore beaded slippers with her dressing gowns, and velvet boots with her gowns.
The last time she’d been in a carriage was the night she’d come here, to the eastern side of a city she thought she knew. Here, the streets would spindle off in every direction, the dwellings cramped and poorly tended. All had a layer of soot upon it—the ground, the buildings, the sky itself, hanging heavy and dark like an ominous fate. No one in this neighborhood had the privilege of pampered feet. Children, shoeless and ragged, seemed to sprout like weeds from the muck of the gutter. And the smell—
Senza longed for a breath of country air, just one sweep of meadow-ladened spring time wind. Here, when the air stirred, it only brought a renewal of the stench from the filthy streets, the crowded markets where butchered swine hung in the open air and offal painted every surface.
Once upon a time, she passed idle afternoons listening to the melodies of birdsong, braiding daisy chains, wishing her mother would relent on her marital pursuits. Now, she trod through crowded alleys, dodging errant fists when a spat sprawled out of a doorway, listening to the whimpers of hungry children who would, most likely, grow up motherless.
Her tiny window only afforded a fraction of a glimpse of Whitechapel, but she knew that fraction would be repeated over and over, along every street, around every corner. This was the world in which she lived now.
This was the only world some people would ever know. Born here, bred here, dead here. Hope, if it existed, was as dingy and as decayed as the poverty-lined trenches that snaked their way through the east end.
What would their heartbeats taste like? Would they have the oily stain of despair, the gritty texture of resignation, the savor of fathomless disappointment in the lot they’d drawn? Or would they taste the same as anyone else’s, identical flavors of days in the life?
She sat motionless for hours, peering out the porthole of a window, equally disappointed and relieved that it could not be opened.
Sometimes, she was grateful for a thin pane of glass that kept the rest of the world at bay. Tonight was one of those nights.
Senza’s eyes flipped open just as she heard the slap of the newspaper outside her door. Wrapped in a thick towel, still warm from the oven, a fragrant biscuit sat on top of the paper.
Senza smiled, knowing Molly had been the one to leave it.
Retrieving the paper and her breakfast, Mary sat down on the bed to read. When she picked up the warm biscuit, she saw the awful headline.
DOUBLE SLAYING HORRIFIES EAST END
The biscuit slipped from her numb fingers, forgotten. Senza scoured the article.
London, Sept. 30.— This morning the whole city was again startled by the news that two more murders had been added to the list of mysterious crimes that have recently been committed in Whitechapel. At an early hour it was known that another woman had been murdered, and a report was also current that there was still another victim. This report proved true. The two victims, as in the former cases, were dissolute women of the poorest class. That the motive of the murderer was not robbery is shown by the fact that no attempt was made to despoil the bodies…
“Dear Lord,” Senza whispered. Dissolute women of the poorest class—why, that could be any one of the women who called this hell “home.” She could not help but continuing to read, fearful of what it would say, yet compelled by the need to know more.
… The woman had been seized by the throat and her cries choked, and the murderer, with one sweeping cut, had severed her throat from ear to ear. A clubman on entering the court stumbled over the body, which was lying only two yards from the street. A stream of warm blood was flowing from the body into the gutter. The murderer had evidently been disturbed before he had time to mutilate his victim…
An unpleasant taste burned in Senza’s mouth. Whoever wrote this story for the newspaper seemed to relish the disgusting details.
…The second murder was committed from three to four hours later, in Mitre-square, five minutes’ walk from the scene of the first crime. Policemen patrol the square every 10 minutes. The body of the unfortunate woman had been disembowled, the throat cut, and the head severed. The heart and lungs had been thrown aside, and the entrails were twisted into the gaping wound around the neck. The incisions show a rough dexterity. The work of dissection was evidently done with the upmost haste…
Butchered. She’d been butchered like a hog, torn to pieces and left in the street like a discarded piece of meat.
…The doctors, after a hasty examination of the body, said they thought it must have taken about five minutes to complete the work of the murderer, who then had plenty of time to escape the patrol…
“So.” Senza’s voice was low and ragged with a kindling rage. “He is still out there. Two more women, dead for no discernable reason, and still the man walked free.”
Her anger animated her, filling her head with impotent shouts of righteous rage, and a strength unlike she’d ever known flowed through her limbs with a tingle. But all the strength of a thousand elephants could not prepare her for the lines she read next.
…The Berners-street victim was Elizabeth Stride, a native of Stockholm, who resided in a common lodging house. The name of the other victim is not known.
“Katey,” Senza whispered, laying the paper aside. She rubbed her eyes, feeling suddenly weary. “Her name was Kate Eddowes.”
A leaden lump had anchored itself in her stomach, dispelling any pretense of appetite. With a sigh, she wrapped the intact biscuit and set it on the table. Mary would need her. She had to leave at once.
In Miller’s Court, the oppressive air hung like a cool wet blanket. Senza hugged herself, wrapping her shawl tighter around her shoulders. It felt like a hundred sets of eyes were upon her as she rapped on Mary’s door.
Mary looked through the window, peering hard to see Senza. Her face disappeared and a loud scraping rumble sounded before the door opened.
“Hurry,” Mary hissed, and pulled Senza inside. Slamming the door shut, she put her backside to the table and pushed it against the door.
Senza paced, one side of the room to the other in a few frantic strides. “They’re talking, Mary. Everyone is in a panic.”
“Both gone. They are both, just…gone.” Mary sank to the bed, her eyes bleary. “Lizzy and Katey, both. I told them to stay together and the ripper took ‘em both.”
“That’s it.” Senza started tugging clothing off the line, tumbling them into haphazard rolls and dropping them on the chair. “Get a bag. You’re leaving.”
“Leaving?” Mary snatched up one of the lumps and shook it back out. “What d’you mean?”
“We are getting out of this place. We can go to the county.” Her mind was set. No matter what the cha
llenge would be to hide her true nature, she would not desert Mary for the sake of a secret. Her life was in danger. “I have money put away and we can find a place to start over—”
“No. I can’t.” She flipped her skirt back over the line. Reaching for the blouse in Senza’s hands, she looked up at her with a grim expression. “There’s people here what count on me. I can’t just run out. And even if I wanted to—I haven’t worked in weeks. What little I had is almost gone.”
“Listen to yourself. You’re being foolish.”
Mary’s face grew red and she bit her lips into a pale, thin line. “I won’t insult you, Senza. I come to like you too much. But don’t you dare call me foolish. Unlike you, I got reason to be here. My girls. My friends. They’re my family, my world. And my world mightn’t be as fancy as the finery you’ve known, but my world is all the good I got. I won’t let some willy-waver run me out. Now, if you don’t mind.”
Flabbergasted, Senza watched Mary push the table aside and yank the door open.
“I got funerals to plan. Hafta get a note to Kate’s sister, tell her about—” Her voice cracked and she frowned, seeming angry at herself for allowing her grief to surface. “I got people to help because ‘round here, life goes on. No matter what happens, life goes on.”
Life goes on? Not for everyone, it didn’t. She had to make her see the danger she was in. “Mary…”
“Please.” Mary jutted her chin to the door, turned her head and wiping the side of her face, trying to hide her tears. “Just go.”
What could she do? Senza shook her head, unable to get her message across without physically grabbing Mary and dragging her with her. Swallowing hard, she walked out.
“Mary? “At the corner, she paused. She poured everything she could into her final plea. “I know you feel like you’ve lost a big part of your world right now but, please, try to remember something. You are a big part of someone else’s world, too.”
Her voice cracked. “And we need you to be careful. Do you understand?”
“I will be careful, as much as any of us can be in this careless world.” Mary crossed her arms and looked away, although her expression lost some of its stoniness. “Now, go. You don’t belong here, Senza.”
She turned and closed the door with a firm hand. Senza caught the sound of the table scraping across the floor, thumping into the door.
Days passed without Senza catching the thinnest glimpse of Mary.
She was not so lucky, however, to avoid being seen.
Night after night, she ghosted through the streets, trying to find her friend. One night, it was after two when she’d given up seeing her. She’d spent six hours in Miller’s Court, waiting for Mary to come back. The single candle remained unlit, the windows lonely and dark.
Disappointed, she walked back to Dorset Street, meaning to go back to her room at the Iron Lion. As she rounded the corner, a massive hand snatched her by the back of the neck and thumped her against the brick wall.
“Knew you’d be back, ginger. I ‘eard there was new tail in town.”
The pain that lanced through her shoulder momentarily stole her breath. Her voice came out, rough and frightened and very, very angry. “Let me go.”
“In ‘alf a mo’. You been ‘anging ‘round with Strickland’s brass. I seen yeh. But you ain’t ‘is girl, are yeh?”
“I’m nobody’s girl.”
“Then you’re nobody. And nobody’s gonna miss yeh. So I’ll give yeh one chance, fanny. I’ll take three pounds, and I’ll let you keep your nose.”
“Three pounds? Strickland only wants two—”
“And Strickland don’t have you by the bleedin’ throat, now, do he? And I bet he don’t have this—” He drew out a long, glinting blade and held it to catch the greasy gleam of the gas lamps. “So I think I can get my premium, now, wouldn’t you agree?”
A whistle blew. “Oy, there! You’ll be lettin’ the lady go, now.”
A trio of policemen clacked toward them, a woman behind. “He’s the one, officer. He’s the gobshite what’s been harrassin’ us girls.”
“Off her. Now,” growled one of the cops, drawing his baton.
Bannick popped his hand off Senza’s neck, releasing her. “Just a misunderstanding, is all. I’m not ‘arrasin’ nobody.”
“Will you be pressing charges, miss?”
“I’m fine,” she said, rubbing her neck. “He was just about to say goodbye. For good.”
The cop gestured with his club. “Then off with yeh, Jack.”
Bannick leaned close to Senza, his voice low and gravely, his gaze flicking toward Mary and back. “Tell yer friend she’ll regret bringing the bizzies along.”
He turned and mockingly bowed to the group. “I bid you all a fair evening, friends.”
Mary grabbed Senza by the arms and pulled her halfway down the alley. “What are you still doing here? You know you shouldn’t be out here alone.”
“Like you were?” Senza reached into her pocket and pulled out a heavy purse. All small pence, so as not to raise suspicions when Mary spent it. Somehow, a bangtail with a fistful of sovereigns would stand out, and not in a good way. “I know you are mad at me for what I said, Mary, but please. Take this. If you won’t leave, then stay at home until this ripper is caught. Don’t go anywhere at night. I worry about you, Mary. You say your friends are all here, well, as awful as here is, you have someone. I have nobody, no matter where I go. All I have is you. And I need you to stay safe.”
She placed the pouch in Mary’s hand. “Take it, Mary. It’ll keep your room for a month, at least. Don’t take a chance with that ripper out there and that low-life looking for you.”
“You’re too good a soul, Senza. You’re too good. And I shouldn’t take it but—I’m in no position to turn down your generosity. It shames me, but I’m scared, and fear goes a long way to bless a shameful act.” She bit her lips between her teeth, perhaps realizing the scope of her statement. “Do you think—really, that I can get out of here? My best mates are all gone. And I can’t go nowhere without seeing the empty place where they once were.”
If only Mary knew just how much Senza understood that feeling.
Senza reached for Mary’s hand and squeezed, careful to control the hunger. She’d never take anything from this woman, not even half a beat. The world had taken enough from her already. “You have me.”
Mary took a deep shuddering breath. “Tomorrow. We’ll talk tomorrow. With the rent paid, I’ll get a good sleep in without the landlord barkin’. I’ll meet you at the Crispin Street pump after I have a chance to wash a few of my things and—we’ll talk.”
“That’s good.” Senza smiled. “Everything will work out, Mary. You’ll see.”
“I’ve never dared to hope for anything more than things workin’ out.” Mary wrapped the strings around the soft purse and stuffed it deep into her corset. “Sweet dreams, Senza.”
“See you tomorrow.”
The girl nodded, seemingly resolute. “Tomorrow.”
Senza went back to her room, wondering if she’d see the telling scrap of parchment, the direction she’d become used to receiving. Her rooms were undisturbed, as usual, but a careful glance about the room revealed no note. Nothing. She tugged the leather journal out of its pocket in her bag but the address still read The Iron Lion.
Troubled, but still hopeful that for once she was going to do the selfless thing. The right thing.
She’d figure it out, parchment or no parchment. Everything she’d done since arriving in Whitechapel, she had done on her own. The cage had been left open the moment she left Mrs. Branson’s place. She was free. Senza packed up her belongings, leaving out only her nightgown, her hair brush, and the next day’s dress before locking the door, bolting the window, and crawling into bed.
Tomorrow. Seemed like such a big thing, for the first in a long time. Tomorrow was unknown but she was going somewhere, doing something, starting over on her own.
She woke before noon, kn
owing Mary never made it out earlier than that. The streets were roiling with horrified buzz. Faces ghastly white and drawn.
Oh, no. Another murder? She caught pieces of whispers and speculation. Another unfortunate woman, this worse than any of them…
Today. Senza pulled her coat tighter around her. They were leaving today. It wouldn’t be soon enough.
She rounded the corner onto Crispin Street and strode to the crowd around the pump. Nowhere was the sight of Mary’s fire-gold hair.
Streams of people, heading to the market.
“Mary?” She called, hoping she’d just missed her. She reached out to grasp at a sleeve. “Mary Kelly. Have you seen her?”
The woman shook her head and disregarded her. But Senza caught the looks that darted her way, the people who’d heard her ask for Mary. They wore the same horrified look as the whisperers had—
Oh, no. Senza reached for another, stealing a heartbeat and seizing their attention. “Where is Mary Kelly?”
“You ‘aven’t ‘eard, ‘ave yeh? Poor fing.”
Senza yanked another heartbeat loose, not caring if the victim felt it, and turned on her heel, running on the power of the adrenaline of the stolen pulse.
She ran three blocks without slowing, straight to Millers Court. Looking down the soiled alley, she saw the crowd of policemen, the milling masses of onlookers. Out of breath, she burst into the courtyard. The acrid smell of sick surrounded her. A young cop stumbled out of Mary’s door, and he noisily retched against the wall beneath her papered window.
The solid wall of spectator that parted when the policemen carried out a stretcher, a lump under a reddening sheet, a mass of matted fire-gold hair dripping out from beneath.
Mary. That was all that was left of Mary.
The funeral was brief, and sparsely attended. But Senza had made sure she had flowers and a proper stone. The girl’s passing had scraped a tremendous scar across Senza’s tattered heart but she dug deep, to that unfathomable well of grace and decorum that masqueraded as strength. Not exactly the calling she’d once thought would come of her years of good breeding.