The Sixth Victim

by Tessa Harris

  In March and April, I sell oranges. They’re the best. You don’t throw them away like you have to with the blooms sometimes. This late in the year, it gets harder. There’s not much left. I managed to buy the last of the lavender today and tied some up in bunches. The ladies like them, they do, to sweeten their cupboards and chests. Moss roses too. Make them up nice myself, I do. I get the rush to tie them for nothing; then I put their own leaves round them. The paper for a dozen costs a penny, sometimes only a ha’penny, if Big Alf’s feeling kind. He’s a gentle giant, he is. Used to work on the railways till his accident, but he’ll do me a deal if I flash my pearly whites. And rosebuds. They always go down well with sweethearts—and when they come to buy from me, Flo slips her hand in their pockets, and relieves them of a few pennies, or of their watches or anything else we can sell. Once or twice, she’s done it too brown and been rumbled. The coppers have gone after her, and almost nabbed her, but somehow she’s always managed to dodge them at the end of the day. She’s slipped into a front room or a shop doorway and just disappeared.

  Me? I don’t like that sort of thing. I’m keeping my head down right now. But ’cos—sorry, I should say because; I know my letters, Mr. Bartleby—he’s Ma’s beau—he buys a penny dreadful of an evening and we all sit round and I read out the latest news from the Sun or the Star. I’m the only one in my family who reads proper, you see. My old man, God rest his soul, he taught me how when I was no more than seven. I’d sit on his knee and he’d make the sounds of the letters and point to the page. By nine, I was reading to him; by twelve, I was off with the Pickwick Papers. I used to have a good giggle at that Mr. Pickwick, I did. Miss Tindall, at the church mission, loaned me her books each week: Pilgrim’s Progress and Gulliver’s Travels. I didn’t care for them too much. The words were too fancy, but then she gave me a dictionary and taught me how to look up what I didn’t understand. Then it was like someone switched on one of them big electric lights in the theater and everything became crystal clear. Soon I found books about girls, Clarissa and Vanity Fair. Becky Sharp—now, there was a gal who knew her mind. Miss Tindall said that although I oughtn’t to praise her behavior, it was good for a woman to have—what was the big word she used?—espir . . . aspiration. Yes, that’s it. She told me I’ve been given a great gift and that I’d “set foot on the path to betterment.” She said there’s some that’s happy to stay in the gutter, but there’s a few, like me, who’s looking up at the stars. So I started to help out at Sunday school, teaching the youngsters their letters, and, in return, Miss Tindall, well, she’s been helping me to be more of a lady. You can always tell a lady, Miss Tindall says, and not just by her clothes. It’s the way she walks and holds herself and the way she talks, too. So Miss Tindall started to teach me to talk proper. Or should it be properly? There are all sorts of rules about how you ought to speak if you’ve any hope of being a lady, so I try and follow them. Well, some of the time.

  I think I’m doing well. Of course, I slips back to the ol’ Cockney when I’m with my own kind; but when I’ve a mind, I can put on airs and graces as good as Sarah Siddons and the like. The thing is, I ain’t—I haven’t—seen Miss Tindall these past six weeks. She’s not taken Sunday school and no one will tell me where she is. Anyhow, that’s why I pronounce my aitches and say “them,” instead of “’em,” like Flo, when I remember. She says I’m getting stuck-up, but I’m not. I just want a better life, and someday I might get to be a shopgirl and work in Piccadilly at Fortnum & Mason, or at Harrods, and leave Whitechapel behind. Of course, Miss Tindall says, I should set my sights even higher and aim to study at her old Oxford college, Lady Margaret Hall. Well, you’ve got to laugh. But she reckons I can make something of myself, and that means a lot to me. It means I can get out of the East End for a start.

  Well, I can tell you, it’s a scary place to be right now. It gives me the creeps, reading out loud ’bout what he done to them poor souls; the last two have been the worst. Some call him the Whitechapel Murderer, or Leather Apron, because he was a nasty piece of work already known round these parts. Everyone thought it was that Jew, John Pizer, but the coppers nabbed him earlier this week and let him go again because he had good alibis. Anyway, I have to read out to Flo and Ma and Mr. Bartleby how he slit Polly Nichols so deep that his knife ripped through her stomach. And, Lord help me, how he made off with Annie’s womb. Imagine that! And I says this out loud and everyone listening goes “errgh” and “aargh,” and then they says “go on” and I’m expected to read it like it was a nursery rhyme or a fairy tale. But it’s not. It’s real and it gets in my head, it does, like a bad dream, and I can’t shake it off.

  So that’s how these rascals manage to terrify the living daylights out of me. That’s why I hate walking all the way to the West End to pretend to sell flowers to ladies and gents outside the theaters when all I really wants to do is stay at home with the door bolted. But tonight’s different, because tonight, now I’ve got rid of my flowers and my basket is empty, we’re going to the theater ourselves. I’m just waiting for Flo, you see. Her sweetheart, Danny Dawson, is the doorman at this here Egyptian Hall. He’s greasy as an old frying pan. His hair’s slicked back with oil and his moustache is waxed sharp at the ends. He’s always trying to steal a kiss from Flo—and from me when he’s had a few too many—and I don’t like him. The Lord knows what Flo sees in him. She could have her pick of any man she flutters her peepers at. She’s that pretty. But Flo says she and Danny’ll get wed next year, once they’ve put a bit aside, and then he’ll be family. I’m hoping that means she’ll give up thieving. Ma’ll have one less mouth to feed, at least. Her eyes aren’t good with all the sewing she takes in. She needs to rest them or she’ll go blind.

  Anyway, that’s why I’m standing on these theater steps in the West End, under the glare of the streetlamps, surrounded by crowds of people packing the pavements before they go in to watch the show. We’re going to see a famous American illusionist. Mr. Hercat is his name, and we’re in for an evening of Mirth! Mystery! Music!—at least that’s what the poster says. There’s a nip in the air and I pull my shawl around me. But I’m still shaking, not with the cold, or with excitement, but with fear. Them boys have reminded me that afterward Flo and me have got to walk back through Whitechapel in the dark.

  “Come on, Con!” Flo says, grabbing me by the arm. She gives me that much of a fright that I gasp. I forget, too, that I usually tell her not to call me that. I always says to her: “My name is Constance.” And she always goes: “La-di-da, fat cigar!” and pulls a face, telling me I’ve got ideas above my station. She says I’m silly to have my dreams and silly to let Miss Tindall turn my head so. She can upset me sometimes. But tonight I’m just glad to see her. I’m glad when she puts her hand in mine, and I’m even gladder that when we go round the back of the hall to the stage door in the alley with all the rubbish and the rats, that it’s Danny waiting for us, his face glistening in the lamplight, and not a man with a knife stepping out of the shadows.

  EMILY

  The streets of Whitechapel have been much quieter this week, since the murders. Few respectable women venture out after dark and even men seem more cautious, a little too eager to accompany one another in an unspoken show of solidarity, yet not wishing their eagerness for companionship to be misconstrued as weakness. Into the stead of the common throng step the policemen, the men of the Metropolitan and City of London police forces. They do their shambling best, but it is really not good enough, and at the Whitechapel Workhouse Infirmary the business of life—and death—continues as usual.

  It is Friday evening and every Friday evening Terence Cutler, an obstetrician and fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons, pays his weekly visit. Tall, in his midthirties and with sandy-colored hair that is thinning slightly, he possesses—on the surface, at least—an air of calm efficiency, which is so often mistaken for arrogance. Normally, he appears a gentleman who is confident of his own professional abilities, although his personal qualities are a
little more precarious. His youthful activities with the women he was later to treat have left an unfortunate legacy. On this particular evening, it is evident to me that he is deeply troubled, although not by irksome symptoms of a purely physical nature. The room is cool, verging on cold, but there is sweat on his forehead.

  “Just the one tonight, Mrs. Maggs?” he asks as he steps away from the shivering girl lying on the table. Her skirts are rucked up around her waist and her bent legs are spread wide.

  The midwife, a solid, woman, with a frizz of gray hair escaping from her dirty cap, is disposing of the contents of a chipped enamel bowl down the sluice.

  “Aye, sir,” Mrs. Maggs replies in her brusque Scottish manner. She returns to the girl and lowers her limbs onto the table, one after the other, restoring a vestige of dignity to someone who has lost all else. And there, the patient remains motionless, either too drugged or too afraid to make a move. It is not clear which.

  The surgeon glances back, rather wistfully, I think, and studies his charge as she lies submissively, like a sacrificial lamb on an altar. She is a waif and her blond hair, made darker by sweat, is plastered around a small head. Her complexion is almost as white as the wall tiles.

  “She’s but a child,” I hear Cutler mutter. His voice is despairing, almost tremulous. I know he is wondering how it ever came to this.

  “Aye, sir,” replies Mrs. Maggs, cheerful as a housewife at a market stall. “She’s a wee one. They seem to get younger every year,” she replies, leaning over the girl. She tilts her head in thought, then adds: “It’ll take more than a change in the law to stop it.” A large flap of loose skin hangs down from her jaw, hiding her neck and reminding me of a turkey. It wobbles as she speaks again. “Another drop o’ laudanum’ll see her right.” She produces a dark glass bottle from her apron pocket, jerks round to make sure the surgeon is occupied, then takes a swift swig from it herself before offering it to the girl.

  Cutler, his back turned on such misdeeds, shakes his head and glances at his hands. The lines on his palms are red with blood, as if someone has taken a pen and drawn them in ink. The rims around his nails are red, too. He reaches for a brush and begins to scrub them, taking even more than his usual care. It is as if he is trying to slough off something particularly vile. The trouble is, he knows he has become as corrupted as the diseased flesh he so often treats. He had started off with such high ideals. He would rid the world of the scourge of syphilis. But the French malady, despite its Gaelic soubriquet, is not fashionable, at least not among the moneyed classes who could further his career.

  Meanwhile, the old midwife pats the girl’s clenched hand as it settles on her chest. “Och! But you’ll live, won’t ya, dearie?” She switches back to the surgeon with a smile. “And you’ll be able to get on your way sooner tonight, sir.”

  “What?” replies Cutler, deep in thought.

  “You’re finished for tonight.”

  “Yes, indeed.” His reply is halfhearted. He does not bother to turn round to address her. Why he would want to go back home sooner defeats him at the moment. There is nothing and no one for whom he needs to return. A well-connected wife had been necessary at the time, so his research into venereal disease, while not stopping, needed to be conducted in secret. Upon his marriage, his papers and the lurid photographs of infected patients, so vital to his research, suddenly became incriminating to the lay eye. He was forced to keep them under lock and key, as if they were pornographic—a guilty and perverted secret.

  The midwife’s gray brows dip in reflection as she turns away from the table to busy herself. “No one wants to hang around Whitechapel at the moment.”

  “No, indeed,” Cutler agrees. He nods at Mrs. Maggs over his shoulder, then turns back to finish washing his hands with carbolic soap. As he does so, I see his large moustache twitch as if his features have relaxed a little. He seems relieved that he will not be called upon again this evening.

  The midwife takes another surreptitious swig of laudanum as if to give herself courage. “These terrible murders are making all of us fret,” she continues. Her tone remains cheerful and I suppose the laudanum is having an effect on her mood.

  “I am sure,” Cutler replies without conviction. He is clearly humoring the woman out of his innate politeness. Shaking his hands over the basin, he turns to take the towel left out for him on a nearby rail. The chipped enamel dish has been deposited nearby. I see his eyes collide with it accidentally, then deliberately veer away, his face registering an expression of mild disgust. Next he divests himself of his spattered apron as if it is riddled with plague. Throwing it into the nearby laundry basket, he strides toward the frock coat that is hanging from a peg on the back of the door. He waits a second to allow the midwife to do him the service of passing it to him.

  Mrs. Maggs continues unabashed: “Och! The women are all beside themselves with fright.” This time her tone is more measured, as if even the laudanum could not expunge the threat that hung over the district.

  “We must all be vigilant,” replies Cutler as the midwife suddenly realizes what is expected of her and helps him ease on his coat.

  We are in a long, narrow room. The light from the gas lamps bounces off the white tiles on the walls. A large, low cabinet with a marble top sits to one side. On it, various implements lie—a curette spoon and leather tubing—while a row of bottles is lined up neatly on a shelf above. The acrid smell—a sharp tang that might usually sting the nostrils and claw at the back of one’s throat—was quite overwhelming at first. Now, however, it seems to have dissipated.

  “Thank you, sir,” says the midwife, handing Cutler his case. Her cheerful tone suddenly reemerges and her jowls wobble.

  The surgeon is just about to gather his things when the girl on the table draws up her legs, pulling them toward her, and lets out a little moan. Cutler pauses at the sound. Turning around, he casts a concerned look at his young patient. “She will need plenty of rest,” he tells the midwife.

  The woman nods smugly. “Her guardian is sending a carriage for her later,” she replies, folding her arms across her stained apron. “He’ll be sure to see to her care.”

  I can tell Cutler has to force down his feelings on the matter. I see him bite his tongue. He manages an ironic smile. “I am sure he will,” he mutters as he reaches for his medical bag on the marble-topped cabinet. As he does so, the sleeve of his coat rides up to expose the blood on his shirt cuff. He pauses for a moment, as if to study it.

  “I almost forgot,” chimes in the midwife. It is clear that she did not, but she intends to appear nonchalant. She reaches into her apron pocket and waves an envelope under the surgeon’s nose. The handwriting appears educated. Mr. Cutler, for services rendered, it reads. “From her guardian,” she tells him. Her eyes flick to the table and back.

  Cutler relieves her of the envelope. “Of course,” he replies, taking out a coin from his own pocket and handing it to the eager midwife. “Thank you, Mrs. Maggs,” he says, opening his case and dropping the envelope into it, as if it were a fetid rag. As he picks up his hat, he glances at the girl one final time, and his shoulders heave from an audible sigh.

  “Do we know her name?” he asks, not really expecting a reply.

  The midwife snorts. “Best not to, sir,” she tells him, covering the shivering child with a coarse blanket. He accepts the wisdom of the drink-addled old crone. But from the table, the girl stirs.

  “Molly,” she croaks through chattering teeth. “My name is Molly.”

  The surgeon pauses. It is clear he hadn’t expected the child to speak for herself. He walks forward a couple of paces and leans toward her. Her eyes flicker as she regards him through a blur of tears. Cutler’s mouth opens, but then words fail him. He had intended to offer her some morsels of comfort, but he can find none. It’s as if his breath has suddenly deserted him. He simply pats her cold arm and turns away.

  I follow him out into the corridor. It is dark by comparison. Only a single lamp burns. The sme
ll is different, too. The walls of the Whitechapel Workhouse Infirmary are damp with mildew and the plaster is crumbling. The surgeon knows where to go. He turns right toward the main entrance, past the woman’s ward, where the constant coughing seems to drown out all other noise. Just as he comes to within a few yards of the door, however, he hears a familiar voice.

  “Cutler!” It is James Holt, the infirmary’s medical director. He appears at the doorway of his office. His dark hair is disheveled and his eyes are bloodshot. Here is a man who has fallen from grace. An unfortunate misjudgment with a scalpel as he performed surgery on a society heiress has led him to his present position. He’s found comfort in the bottle, but very little elsewhere. It seems to Cutler, and to me, that he has just woken from a deep sleep.

  “Good evening, Dr. Holt.”

  The director clears his throat and beckons Cutler into his office, glancing furtively down the corridor to ensure they are not seen. He shuts the door behind them.

  “Have the police spoken to you yet?” he asks anxiously.

  Cutler can smell whisky on his breath and his eyes stray to the half-empty bottle on his desk. He doesn’t even try and hide it anymore, he thinks. He shakes his head. “They’ve been here?”

  Holt nods. “Oh yes,” he replies emphatically, slumping back onto the edge of his desk. “They’ve been here, all right, questioning some of the women and all the staff.”

  I see Cutler’s jaw start to work a little. “Did they ask . . . ?”