What Alice Knew

by Paula Marantz Cohen

  For a moment, he felt prompted to tell Abberline that he must turn back; he could not view the body after all. But as soon as the thought occurred to him, he knew that he would not act on it. His fears were psychic phantasms, and horrifying though they were, his rational will could dispel them. If he could face down his imaginary demons, then he could face the remnants left by what a real one had done.

  The main area of the morgue was poorly lit, the air heavy with the odor of must and incipient rot. Death was palpable, not just in fact but in that more pervasive sense that reached out to include oneself. One felt not only that the people taken here were once alive and now were dead, but that this would be one’s own fate too. It was rare that one believed, more than abstractly, that death would come, but here one understood, felt in one’s bones and sinews the inevitability and certainty of it.

  In the large dim room, two bodies were in the process of being “prepared.” One, a young woman who had drowned, lay on a wooden plank, her nightgown still tangled with her limbs. Her long, lank hair covered most of her face. The very struggle that she had endured in the act of dying was there, dramatically rendered in her face and body. The other, an old man, lay on a table, wholly exposed to view. He was being washed down like a side of beef by an emaciated young man with an iron around his leg.

  “Who’s that?” asked William, glancing at the man, who appeared to be neither a nurse nor an orderly.

  “One of our convicted felons,” said Abberline matter-of-factly. “They do the rounds of mortuary duty, cleaning the corpses and whatnot.”

  William looked surprised. “Are they trustworthy for matters of such…delicacy?”

  “That’s debatable.” Abberline shrugged. “If I could, I would discontinue the practice, but it’s been mandated by Sir Charles as the most efficient use of criminal labor. It’s had some unfortunate repercussions in this case, I should note. I was not here when the first victim was brought in, and it seems she was washed and her clothes discarded, valuable evidence lost. Since then, I’ve given strict orders that nothing be touched or done away with, but these people have a tendency to ignore what they’re told.”

  William looked with distaste at the disreputable fellow washing the corpse and gazed around the room, with its worn and grimy appurtenances.

  Abberline nodded, following William’s gaze. “Yes, the facility is not good. But changes in this area happen slowly here. We make do with what we have. Step this way, please.”

  He led William through a small recess to another room, where bodies that needed to be specially photographed for purposes of record keeping were displayed before being removed for burial. This room was even more oppressive than the outer area, the sense of claustrophobic enclosure added to the foul odor of rotting corpse. As William entered, he noted that a curtain had been hung in the corner. Abberline walked over to it and then motioned to a chair in front for William to be seated.

  “Best to get off your feet for this,” he noted. “It’s not a pretty sight, and I’ve found that viewers take it better sitting down.”

  William sat, and Abberline pulled the curtain.

  The image took a few seconds to take in. At first it looked like a fancy leather jerkin was hanging from a hook, but a moment brought the recognition that it was not a coat, but a body suspended from a collar around the neck. It was Catherine Eddowes, who had been hung in this way for the purpose of photographic recording. What made the body hard to identify was the maze of stitching, where it had been reassembled, in light of the extensive slashing. Black thread crisscrossed the abdomen and breasts, the neck, and most grotesquely, the face, delineating the gashes that the murderer had made under the eyes. There was a zigzag of black thread at the left side of the head as well, where a severed ear had been reattached.

  “As you see, she was cut up considerably,” said Abberline without inflection. “None of the others were so extreme.”

  “Do you agree with Warren, that the cuts show…facility…in the use of a knife?” asked William haltingly, after taking a few seconds to gain his bearings. He concentrated his attention on the crisscross of stitches on the abdomen of Eddowes’s body, which struck him, despite his limited experience with surgery, to be excessive for the purpose of removing internal organs.

  Abberline walked over to the body and paused. “No,” he said finally. “This is not the work of a trained surgeon or even a butcher. The cuttings are not directed toward the excision of the organs, though that is the result. They are largely gratuitous, vicious, and undirected, as far as I can see.”

  “But they seem to reflect a certain pattern,” said William, forcing himself to stand and move closer to the body to examine the stitching, which seemed to move out in spokes from the navel. He kept his head down and tried to take small breaths from his mouth, not wanting Abberline to see that the mixture of the odor and the image before him was making him faint and nauseated.

  “It’s true the lines repeat themselves here,” said Abberline, his finger tracing the parallel lines of the stitching, “almost like the killer were stabbing rhythmically, operating in a trance or a methodical sort of frenzy, which I suppose would conform to a certain style of lunacy. It’s what may have caused the medical examiner to assume some sort of medical expertise. The slashes under the eyes, too, are symmetrical, and for no apparent reason. Dr. Phillips postulates that he may have had in mind removing the eyeballs, but then the slashes would have been higher up, and gouging rather than slashing would have been in order.”

  “It’s a ghastly sort of evisceration,” noted William, standing back and forcing himself to gaze squarely at the grotesque spectacle of the hanging body. “Perhaps the goal was to appall future viewers. Like us.”

  “It’s possible.” Abberline nodded. “The letters suggest an inclination to frighten and taunt. It’s confusing and one of the reasons I thought that your psychological expertise might be of help.”

  William looked at Abberline and felt a wave of affection course through him. He knew that a portion of his regard for other people came from knowing that they held him in regard. He also knew he was not unique in this; most people responded well to those who responded well to them. It was how bonds beyond the family were established and how altruistic action often received its impetus. “I will do what I can,” he promised.

  The two men stood silently staring at the body before them. So strong was the underlying force of human physiognomy that, despite the massive mutilation, William felt he could discern what Catherine Eddowes had once looked like. She was about his age, in her early to midforties, and would have been an attractive enough sort of person, correcting for poor nourishment and dissipation. Indeed, it struck William, as he gazed at the figure before him, that he could make out not only what this person had once looked like as a woman, but also what she had looked like as a child before that. Perhaps he saw the child in the woman’s corpse because his dead son was so present to his imagination. Or perhaps it was having just seen his sister and having recalled the child she once had been behind the bedridden woman she had become.

  It occurred to him as well that Catherine Eddowes might have been such a child as his sister, a little girl who tagged behind an older brother, pushed aside when other, more enticing forms of entertainment diverted his attention. Girl children were often neglected and ignored, so it might have been with Katie Eddowes (hadn’t the sign referred to her that way?), but with the added element of poverty to degrade her. As she grew older and began to develop as a woman, she would have been drawn to men for money and a fleeting sense of intimacy; the inevitable abuse would have followed. In her squalor and desperation, she would have turned routinely to strangers, and finally, to one who might have seemed kinder and more interested than usual. This man would have led her into a dark alley, where suddenly, his gentleness disappeared: a vicious look in the eye, a glint of a knife, and then the sudden pain of being cut, before the blankness of unconsciousness set in.

  An imagined life and d
eath for this woman flashed through William’s mind, and he recalled the placard over the pail: “Arms for her chilren.” If she had had children, where were they? Would they know that their mother was a grotesquely stitched corpse hanging from a hook in a London morgue?

  He sat back down on the chair, leaning forward, his head in his hands, knowing that he was close to being sick.

  Abberline stood respectfully silent for a few minutes. Finally he spoke in what was a surprisingly passionate tone for a man normally so formal and inexpressive. “It makes you wonder about the nature of human beings,” he said. “Made in the image of the divine, they tell us in church, but no God made the one who did this.”

  William looked up. For all the disgust he felt at the image before him, he was roused to oppose Abberline’s words. “I must differ with you there,” he asserted with surprising force. “It is my conviction that a divine spirit exists in us all, which transcends—even redeems—such viciousness.”

  Abberline gave a dry laugh. “I’d like to believe you,” he said, closing the curtain on Catherine Eddowes’s corpse, “but I can’t say I do.”

  Chapter 7

  Had Philip Wilkinson—Henry crossed out “Wilkinson.” Something more Dickensian, he thought.

  Had Philip Wiltingham not been sent to Algate Market (check spelling) by his wife…No, not his wife. That would suck the life out of the character before the story got started.

  Had Philip Wiltingham not been sent to Algate Market (check sp) by his sister to buy the lamb chops for her dinner party that night, and had he not ducked into the building when he saw Joseph Donner (Donning? better), an insufferable bore to whom he had lost fifty pounds at cards…too much information there, about the losing at cards.

  Had Philip Wiltingham not been sent to Algate Market (check sp) by his sister to buy the lamb chops for her dinner party that night, and had he not ducked into the building when he saw Joseph Donning, an insufferable bore to whom he owed fifty pounds, approaching in the other direction, he would never have found the body.

  Henry paused and took his watch out of his pocket. It was after seven o’clock, time to prepare for dinner at…he must check his date book to see where he was invited to dinner that night.

  He put down his pen and surveyed the parlor of his flat, where his desk had been set up in the corner. The room was to his liking, with its silvery damask chairs, pale gray wallpaper, and long, elegantly draped windows.

  He got up and crossed the room, touching the peonies in the vase on the mantel and straightening the bust of Benjamin Franklin that William Dean Howells had sent him as a reminder of his American roots. It was dusty, Mrs. Smith being remiss again. He proceeded to his room, passing the spare room that William was occupying during his stay. He could see that clothes were strewn on the floor and the daybed was unmade.

  He went into his dressing room and rinsed his face in the china bowl with its sprinkling of wilted rose petals (not replaced, he was dismayed to note, since the morning). He changed into his dress shirt, taking care with the fastening near his neck where he had once pinched himself and drawn blood. He chose a dark gray waistcoat, black trousers, and a pearl gray cravat. He recalled the charcoal striped trousers from the other night, which he had to discard in the trash bin behind his building. No need to think about that.

  He knew that Mr. Smith, retained in the combined role of valet and butler, ought to be on hand to help him dress. There was no denying that the two who served him, for all their exemplary qualities, were not up to par when it came to doing what they were hired to do. Secretly, however, he was pleased for the opportunity to dress himself. It was an aesthetic pleasure to put his outfit together—an elegant, leisurely assemblage of pieces, not unlike the assemblage of words in the construction of a well-turned sentence.

  He chose the silver cuff links that had belonged to his father. He had worried that William would want them, but William did not appear to care. As they moved into middle age, his older brother had become even more oblivious, if possible, to everything except his work and, at sporadic intervals, his family. The patterns of their boyhood had persisted but mutated as well. William had always been the more daring and insouciant of the two, but Henry, once timid and negligible, had come into his own. He was proud to think that his brother occasionally took notice of how well regarded he had become in certain circles, how nicely his particular brand of courtliness conformed to the manners of the British gentry among whom he had chosen to live.

  He heard the door open and a rustle of garments in the front hall. Mrs. Smith had come in. He glanced at his watch…late again. He must have a talk with her about her laxness with regard to hours—and other things. As for her husband, his chronic absence was certainly annoying, especially since he was being paid a considerable stipend to be present.

  Henry walked tentatively into the front hall, where Mrs. Smith was busily hanging up her mackintosh and shaking out her umbrella. The umbrella was leaving a large puddle near the door.

  “Don’t worry, sir. I’ll mop it up,” said Mrs. Smith cheerfully. She was always promising to do things that she never got around to doing.

  Henry looked at his watch and coughed. “Your husband is…indisposed?” he asked.

  “He’s walking Mary home,” said Mrs. Smith blithely. “Worries himself sick with that Jack the Ripper loose. Can’t say I’m not without worries myself. Mary’s the age he likes, you know.”

  Henry considered this. “Doesn’t Mary live in Lambeth?” he asked. “This Ripper creature…operates…in Whitechapel.”

  “For now he does,” said Mrs. Smith, “but he’ll be in Lambeth soon enough. He’ll be wanting a wider berth.”

  Henry nodded at this geographic logic. “But he’s killing women of a certain type,” he added. “Mary’s not…” He paused. Perhaps Mary was. He didn’t know much about Mr. and Mrs. Smith’s daughter beyond the fact that she was often their reason for being elsewhere. He had met her once. She was a blowsy, unkempt young woman; the word “slatternly” came to mind, which was why he had stopped himself so abruptly in noting that Jack the Ripper’s victims tended to be of an unsavory sort.

  “For sure, he’s killing off those types now,” said Mrs. Smith, as though she had access to the modus operandi of the killer. “They always start low and work their way up.”

  “Ah!” said Henry, wondering how far up Mrs. Smith imagined Mary was.

  “These sorts aren’t easily satisfied,” Mrs. Smith continued sagely. “There’s the lustful part, of course, but they don’t go after us women just for that.”

  “No?” said Henry. He was uncomfortable with the line the conversation was taking but still eager to hear more.

  “No,” asserted Mrs. Smith. “It’s for we’re weaker and more sensitive-like, as sets ’em off. I once been with a man who beat me most every night, not ’cause I did him no harm, but as he thought to be rid of his own weakness that way. Couldn’t be the man he wanted, so he blacked my eyes to make him feel strong. Thank God I got away afore he killed me. Mr. Smith’ll drink himself to a stupor, but he don’t see no need to beat me, God bless ’im.”

  Henry coughed uneasily, wondering if he was expected to praise Mr. Smith for this. Still, there was something to what Mrs. Smith said. “Manliness”—he disliked even the term—had always been a source of frustration and difficulty for him. He had found ways to cope, but he supposed there were others whose resources were less…developed.

  “It’s an interesting observation, Mrs. Smith,” said Henry, nodding absently. “I’ll have to tell my brother to consider it in his investigation of the case for Scotland Yard.” He spoke without thinking, instinctively trying to assert his authority, only to realize that he had been dreadfully indiscreet; this was hardly a matter to be shared with a servant, or with anyone for that matter. Why couldn’t he keep his mouth shut? Mrs. Smith’s eyes had opened wide in hearing of William’s involvement in the case, and Henry hurried to change the subject. “I’ll be going out now, Mrs
. Smith. I don’t know when my brother shall be back, so please have his room made up as soon as possible.”

  “I was just about to do that,” said Mrs. Smith with a touch of huffiness. “By the by, sir”—she resumed a more congenial tone—“there’s a note dropped off for you yesterday by Mr. Wilde’s man. I kept it with me for safekeeping.” She reached into her pocket and drew out a small envelope, which she handed over with a flourish.

  Henry removed the note from the envelope. It was an invitation to a dinner party next week at Wilde’s club. At the bottom was a scrawled message. “Surprise guest!—and music hall turns, as promised.” What was that about? Oscar was always making allusions to things one was supposed to know, but didn’t. Though, of course, he would accept the invitation. Whatever surprises Wilde had in store, there was also sure to be good conversation and good wine—both tended to flow copiously in Wilde’s proximity.

  “Will you be dining at home tonight?” asked Mrs. Smith obsequiously.

  She knew he was not dining at home, thought Henry; he had said he was going out and was dressed for the purpose—without the help of Mr. Smith, he noted to himself. But his mood had improved, and he was willing to play along. “No, no, not tonight,” he assured her. “But please prepare something for my brother. No need to make a fuss. Professor James is parsimonious in his diet.”

  “As you like, sir,” said Mrs. Smith, as though she would have been glad to prepare an elaborate meal. “I’ll go make up his room now if you’ll excuse me. I hope I’m not being forward to say this, sir, but it’s a shame the professor don’t share your habits.” She cast a sly glance at Henry, who could not hide that he was pleased by the remark. He had always been neat, where his brother, to be frank about it, was slovenly.

  After Mrs. Smith left the room, Henry took a cloth from the kitchen and wiped up the puddle from her umbrella. He then went to his desk, glanced down at the sentence he had written, crumpled the paper, and threw it in the basket near his chair. Why should he write about something like that? He had been instigated to do so because William was being so smug about working for Scotland Yard. And there was the lady at Gosse’s (was it Gosse’s?) who had encouraged him. His mind veered off. The ghastly events of that night remained cloudy in his memory. It was fortunate that his consciousness had been muted by drink (the irony of this was not lost on him), and that he was free of any vivid recollection of pain or fear that might have derailed his social relations or, worse, his work.