Karen Essex

by Karen Essex

  I stepped into the shadows to hide my astonished face as Lucy unfurled an amazing story. I soon realized that she was purloining my own experience on the banks of the Thames and placing herself in the roll of victim. She illustrated in detail the madman I had described, using my own words and images. “Red eyes like a monster!” she said, explaining how she had been in the churchyard looking for me when a man jumped out of nowhere—“was he man or fiend?”—and fell upon her, biting her and sucking at her neck and throat and bosom while he held her hands and legs down with his limbs.

  The watchman took a small pad from his pocket and began to scribble furiously as Lucy spoke, occasionally stopping her to clarify a detail. “And you say he smelled of drink?”

  “I suppose so. Though it was so acrid and horrible that I wondered if he was a corpse escaped from the grave!” Her eyes were huge now and gleaming in the lamplight. The watchman sat on the divan next to Mrs. Westenra so that he could put his pad on the little table and write faster. I could see little prickly light-colored hairs sprouting above his pouty crimson lips, not thick enough to grow a proper mustache. His acorn-brown eyes were fixed alternately upon Lucy and his notes, his head bobbing up and down trying to keep up with her words. The deeper Lucy got into her story, the more convincing she sounded, her confidence and dramatic inflection rising parallel to the interest of the watchman.

  Mrs. Westenra sat terribly calm through all this. I would have thought that any mother, let alone one with a nervous condition, would have shown more emotion listening to the details of an attack on her daughter, but Mrs. Westenra took in the story with uncharacteristic serenity. “However did you evade this monster, Lucy?” she asked.

  “It was Mina who saved me,” Lucy said, gesturing to me with her arm as if I were being presented onstage like a performer.

  All eyes turned upon me, leaning against the fireplace mantel, hugging the lap robe tight around my shoulders, thankful to have been forgotten until this moment. I knew that Lucy wanted me to play a part, but I was frozen.

  Lucy rescued me from responding. “Before the madman could do any, well, any irrevocable harm, Mina wandered into the cemetery and saw us. Her screams frightened him, and he ran away like a coward!”

  The night watchman pressed Lucy for more details, but she claimed that shock prevented her from getting a good look at the attacker. He explained that he might have to return with further questions if the chief constable was not satisfied with his report. “We will do everything possible to find this vermin and bring him to justice,” he assured us.

  When he left, Mrs. Westenra ordered me to wash my face and my feet and go to bed. I was surprised at the commanding tone in her voice. “Lucy will be along shortly, Mina.”

  I did as she said, pulling the curtains tight against the breaking dawn, and climbed into the bed, stretching out on the cool linens, eager for sleep, but I heard Lucy and her mother arguing.

  “I have told the truth,” Lucy said, to which I heard Mrs. Westenra groan.

  “I was a married woman!” she said. “Why does every generation believe it is the discoverer of pleasure? Your father was a spectacular lover.” Even through the wall, I could hear the triumph in her voice.

  From Lucy’s mouth came a groan that matched her mother’s. “I am going to bed,” she said as if it were a proclamation. When I heard her footsteps approach, I turned my back toward the door so that when she entered the room, she would think I was already asleep.

  Chapter Six

  25 and 26 August 1890

  Monster, Murderer, or Madman in Whitby?’”

  Lucy flashed the Whitby Gazette at me and then continued to read from it. “‘Miss Lucy Westenra of London was the victim of a mysterious attacker so horrible in appearance and odor that the terrified young lady mistook him for a corpse risen from his grave in St. Mary’s Church cemetery, a popular setting of many of Whitby’s infamous ghost stories. The monster left the young lady bruised about the neck and shoulders. Fortunately, the brutal attack was interrupted when Miss Mina Murray, a schoolteacher, also of London, wandered into St. Mary’s churchyard.’”

  The article went on to caution ladies to refrain from venturing out of doors unescorted. “‘We who wish for the continuation of the peaceful and secure atmosphere of our idyllic seaside community must remind our readers that the Whitechapel butcher who so terrified the capital city was never apprehended. If he has come to our locale, he will have found the sort of female of ill repute upon whom he preys in short supply in Whitby, and may be casting his evil intent toward genteel ladies such as Miss Westenra. We urge an attitude of vigilance and prudence from residents and visitors.’”

  “Who reported this to the papers?” Lucy asked, looking at me as if I had committed the deed.

  “Kate says that reporters get most of their leads from the police,” I said.

  “This is sure to bring Arthur Holmwood here! I don’t want to see him!” Lucy said when her mother was out of earshot.

  We passed the rest of Monday without incident, but on Tuesday morning, we heard a rap at the door. Lucy jumped out of her seat.

  Hilda answered the door, and Dr. John Seward walked in with his medical bag. He tipped his hat to both of us before removing it. Mrs. Westenra rushed into the parlor.

  “I came as quickly as I could,” he said to Mrs. Westenra, who greeted him extravagantly. She was not surprised to see him.

  “Look at our girl, Dr. Seward,” she said to him, taking Lucy by the arm and presenting her. “Pallid and thinner than ever before! And look at these bruises. I daresay they have faded since the attack, but they are ugly reminders of her ordeal.”

  Seward lifted Lucy’s chin so that he could examine her neck. “I imagine that her psyche is more bruised than her body. That is what happens in cases of violation.”

  “I was not violated!” Lucy protested.

  “When a lady is physically accosted, she feels mentally violated. Your sense of safety has been shattered. But do not worry; I am here to treat you. Your good mother sent a telegram to Arthur in Scarborough, and he insisted we come immediately. He is finding us rooms and will be arriving soon.” He gave her a broad smile. “See there? All shall be well. Now, if you don’t mind, would you please lie down, either on the divan or on a bed, so that I can examine you?”

  Lucy looked irritated. “I am not ill. I am as well as I have ever been. John Seward, you are wasting your time. Surely there are lunatics in London who need you.”

  “Lucy! The doctor has inconvenienced himself for your sake!” Mrs. Westenra was outraged. “You are insulting not only Dr. Seward but Arthur as well!”

  Dr. Seward put a hand up to Mrs. Westenra, politely silencing her. He spoke patiently to Lucy. “Dear Miss Lucy, this sort of hysteria is a common response to what you have endured. The first thing we must do is to settle those nerves.”

  He opened his satchel, releasing a whiff of something bitter, some chemical odor that I had to turn away from, as he sorted through bottles of medication.

  “My nerves are settled!” Lucy said in a shrill voice that contradicted her words. Seward ignored her and asked Hilda to bring him a spoon and glass.

  He poured two spoonfuls of liquid from a bottle into the glass and filled it with water from a pitcher, making a cloudy potion. He handed it to Lucy. “Now be a good girl and take your medicine. Then I will examine you so that I might fully assess the state of your health.”

  Lucy looked exasperated. “But I am not nervous. I do not have a condition! I merely wish to be left alone. Tell them that I am well, Mina!”

  I remembered what Mrs. Westenra had said about Seward’s infatuation with Lucy. It did not seem appropriate to have such a man as one’s doctor. “I think Lucy is mending,” I said. “She was very calm yesterday and she slept well last night.”

  “Mina, are you trained in the medical arts?” Mrs. Westenra asked, barking her words at me. She looked quite hostile. “If you are not a doctor, then you must leave the medica
l decisions to Dr. Seward.” She turned to Seward. “Perhaps you should have a look at Mina as well, John. These incidents of noctambulism can be very dangerous. One such incident was the death of my dear late husband.”

  My body went cold thinking of submitting to an examination by John Seward. But seeing how Lucy’s defiance was not helping her situation, I remained calm.

  “I appreciate your concern, Mrs. Westenra, but I have had only two episodes. When I return to London, I will see Dr. Farmer, Miss Hadley’s physician, who has cared for me since I was a child.” I was not sure that Dr. Farmer was still alive, but hoped that the mention of another physician would divert the attention from me.

  “Both you and Miss Lucy have the constitution of a lady, Miss Mina, and therefore are more susceptible to nervous conditions,” Dr. Seward said. “A strapping girl from the working classes may survive the sort of attack made on Miss Lucy, or may wander about in the night air half asleep and remain unscathed. But ladies like the two of you with refined sensibilities must but be looked after carefully,” he said.

  “Lucinda, I am your mother and guardian, and I am morally and legally responsible for you. If you are as well as you claim to be, I suggest you do what the doctor says and allow him to confirm it,” said Mrs. Westenra.

  “You must do it for your mother, Miss Lucy,” Seward said. “You don’t want her worries over you to provoke another attack of angina.”

  “Well, then, I will cooperate, if only so that you may discover for all your troubles that I am in perfect health!” Lucy said. She picked up the glass containing the concoction Seward had mixed and swallowed it down theatrically, arching her back and raising the glass high into the air so that her neck was long and her curls dipped down the length of her backbone. She reminded me of a poster I had once seen of an actress playing Lady Macbeth. Then she turned to me and spoke in a perfectly controlled voice. “Mina, will you help me undress and get into a dressing gown?”

  I followed her into the bedroom, whereupon she closed the door and sprang on the bed like a panther. “You must go to Morris and tell him what is happening,” she said, hushed and hissing. “Tell him that I will meet him at some arranged place tonight, and we will go off together where no one will find us.”

  “Lucy, be rational.” I sat with her on the bed and stroked her arm. “Do you really want to give Morris Quince control over your life? You will be at the mercy of his feelings, and men’s feelings are not to be trusted.”

  “This is no time to remind me of your old-fashioned doctrine of love, Mina.”

  Before I could put reply, we heard men’s voices outside. Lucy jumped up and looked out the window, and I followed, looking over her shoulder. Standing on the pavement below, Seward was conversing with the red-haired man, whom we had seen on the night of the shipwreck. He was holding a copy of the Whitby Gazette and demanding an audience with Lucy.

  “It’s that theater manager from London,” I said.

  “Why does he want to see me?” Lucy asked.

  I put my finger up to silence her so that we could hear their conversation.

  “No, you may not see her. I am a doctor, she is my patient, and she has suffered a trauma. She is in no condition to answer your questions.” Seward spoke not harshly but in no uncertain terms.

  From our vantage point above, the man’s hair was like a thicket of ginger-colored hen’s feathers. He spoke softly, and his back was to us so that we could not hear what he was saying. But we could hear Seward’s reply. “Yes, I am familiar with the good reputation of your theater, but that does not alter my patient’s condition. She is sedated, and I will not allow her to receive company.”

  “How dare John Seward decide who I can and cannot speak with!” Lucy was indignant. “I shall give him a piece of my mind,” she said, turning toward the door. But I grabbed her arm.

  “Do you really want to tell your tale to a stranger, Lucy? The man is a writer looking for ghoulish stories to put on the stage. He might make any use of whatever you tell him.”

  The red-haired man spoke again, but his words were carried away from us on the wind, whereas Seward’s rose into the window.

  “The lady is in a state of hysteria, sir. Do you actually believe that a corpse broke through its coffin and attacked her? I might add that there is no reason to believe that her attacker should be identified with Jack the Ripper. That is a newspaper’s way of selling copies. I am sure you are aware of their tactics.”

  The red-haired man shrugged his broad shoulders and said something else, and Dr. Seward took a card from his pocket. “I would be delighted to help you in your research,” he said, extending his hand to the other fellow, who shook it firmly. “Send me a note with an appointed time, and I will see you at the asylum in Purfleet.”

  Distraught, Lucy turned away from the window. “That man outside—I do not trust him. What if he is a reporter? What if he starts investigating and finds out that I am a liar?”

  Lucy leaned against the bedpost, taking little bird breaths through her mouth. It seemed that the medication was taking effect.

  “I know someone who is acquainted with him. I will get more information about him to put your mind at ease. Now you must rest, Lucy. Let me help you out of your clothes. After John Seward takes a look at you, you can go to sleep.”

  “Please, Mina, go to Morris. Tell him that we must leave tonight. Tell him what they are saying about me. I am not hysterical! I am a woman in love, and I cannot have my love, and that is what makes me act this way.”

  I helped Lucy into a satin gown the color of pink champagne, with a wide collar of white lace and tiny pearl buttons. She had worn it a year ago when I visited her, and I remembered how the pink blush reflected the color of her cheeks and made her skin, already radiant, rich with rosy hues. Now it had the opposite effect and seemed to drain what vestige of color was left in her pallor and highlighted the marks on her neck. Her eyes were heavy with the medication. She placed one hand upon her chest as if she wanted evidence of her continuing heartbeat. I did not want to leave her looking so helpless, but she would be under the care of her mother and a doctor. Who was I to interfere with their authority?

  “Rest well, my darling Lucy. Things will look better when you wake up.”

  He lived in precisely the sort of dwelling one would have expected, a weatherworn stone cottage by the sea built for a fisherman and repaired haphazardly by his own hand through the many decades of his occupancy. It was protected from the inhospitable rock-strewn beach by a roughly built low wall that looked as if the stones had leapt from the shore and tossed themselves one atop the other. I rapped on the door and, receiving no response, knocked on a window, noticing the few flecks of paint that remained on the otherwise worm-eaten wood of the windowsill.

  An old woman came to the door. More stooped than her father, her spine bent sharply like the tip of a crochet hook. She stuck her head out and up like a tortoise stretching from its shell. I told her that I was an acquaintance of her father’s and that I had missed him today at the churchyard.

  “Oh, he is there,” she said. I saw by the little random pickets that stuck out of her mouth that she had retained the same amount of teeth in the same pattern of loss as her father. “He won’t be leaving the churchyard again. There is no stone up as yet, but we put him in the ground yesterday.”

  “I am so sorry,” I said while she looked me up and down “How did he die?”

  “Don’t be joking with me, young lady. How did he die? He was a few years shy of the century mark. The good Lord got tired of turning him away. He left us on the night of the shipwreck, as was fitting, him being an old man of the sea.”

  She beckoned me inside, and it took a while for my eyes to adjust to the dark room from the stark light of the afternoon. She bade me sit on a rickety chair pulled up to a solid pine table.

  “That was his chair,” she said. She poured me a cup of lukewarm tea and gave me a piece of cold toast slathered with honey. “He would be pleased to se
e you sitting in it. He talked of you, miss, of your green eyes and hair like jet. He said that had you known him as a young man you would have fancied him.”

  I smiled at the thought.

  “Though seeing you now, I don’t agree. You are a fine lady from the city, and, even in his youth, he carried the stench of the fishing boats.” She did not sit but leaned on the other chair while she talked.

  I saw his pipe resting on the mantel and my eyes started to well up, knowing that I would not see him again. “I hope he did not suffer,” I said.

  “That day, he took to his bed after his breakfast and would not get out of it, even to sup, but once the storm started, I heard him go outside. I found him facing the sea, screaming into the waves. I tried to coax him back into the house, but he said that his friends who had died at sea had come for him. They were standing on the shore talking to him, and he was calling them by name.”

  “Yes, he told me that he imagined that sort of thing,” I said.

  “Imagined? There is no imagining, miss, when voices call to you from the sea. If you heard them just one time, you know that they are as real as this table.” She thumped her fist on it to make her point, rattling my teacup in its saucer. “Did I imagine it when, as a little girl, Pap and me walked to the abbey at night, much against the wishes of my mother—God rest her soul—and we listened to the cries of Constance.”

  “Constance? He only told me of St. Hild.” I remembered that sunny day when I was too hot to let him finish his tale.

  The whaler’s daughter sat down on the chair opposite me, wrapping her teacup in her bony hands. She had short fingers with prominent joints that reminded me of the talons of birds of prey. “Constance of Beverley was a wicked nun who forsook her vows to take up with a lover, a French knight with a bad reputation. As penance, she was buried alive in the walls of the convent. Some nights, you can still hear her scream for release. But St. Hild keeps her there as a warning to women who might succumb to temptation.”