The Sixth Victim

by Tessa Harris

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “And, naturally, I told them you treated women’s diseases. No more.”

  Cutler’s expression relaxes. “I am grateful to you.”

  “I’m sure I’ll have cause to call in the favor ere too long,” replies Holt, raising one of his brows.

  There is an awkward silence as both men consider their own predicaments. For a moment, the labored coughs from the women’s ward are all that can be heard.

  “Polly Nichols . . . ,” Cutler blurts suddenly, as if a thought had just hit him.

  Holt raises his hand. “There is no record. I made sure of that.”

  Cutler nods and lets a pent-up breath escape through his mouth.

  “Drink?” Holt holds up the bottle of whisky.

  “No,” replies Cutler sharply, then adds as an afterthought: “Thank you.”

  “Ah,” says Holt with a smile. “The lovely Mrs. Cutler. Do give her my regards, won’t you, old chap?”

  “I will,” answers the surgeon with a nod. What he neglected to say was that he has neither seen nor heard from his wife, Geraldine, in over a month. He opens the office door and walks the few paces down the corridor toward the main entrance, where an elderly porter presides at a desk.

  “Good night, Mr. Cutler,” chirps the man with a nod of his bald head.

  Cutler acknowledges him, but almost reluctantly, it seems. Can he trust him to stay silent? The trouble is, he is known to too many people in these parts, he tells himself. Plumping his top hat on his head, he is just about to cross the threshold out onto the street when his progress is halted by the sudden approach of two women. One, quite young in appearance, is leaning on another, obviously in considerable distress. Blood is flowing freely from her mouth and she is clutching her jaw.

  “A doctor, please! Help ’ere!” squawks the older woman as soon as she sets foot in the infirmary. She flaps her free arm frantically. Cutler notes her sleeve is covered in blood.

  The porter answers her call immediately. “Let’s be ’aving you,” he says, ringing a bell behind his desk to summon help. He is clearly used to receiving such visitors and there is little urgency in his actions. But as soon as the young woman lifts her bruised and bloodied face, he shakes his head disapprovingly.

  “Well, well. If it ain’t Mary Jane Kelly . . . again.” The resignation in his voice is verging on disdain.

  At the mention of the woman’s name, Cutler, who has been standing motionless watching the drama play out in front of him, seems to hone in on her. Just as the porter is directing her toward the wards, she, too, looks up and sees the surgeon’s gaze clamped on her face. There is a flicker of recognition in her eyes. For a brief second, I think she might say something. Her swollen lips part, but her companion tugs at her arm.

  “Come on, my girl,” she urges. “You’re making a mess on the floor.” She points to the blood dripping on the tiles.

  It is a good moment for Cutler to leave. He sidesteps the women and makes a dash for the street. Outside, it is a crisp evening and his own breath suddenly wreathes him in great whorls. He surveys the thoroughfare. There is still traffic—several carriages and four or five carts, but few pedestrians. And those who venture out on foot seem to be walking faster than usual. He has no wish to join them. He will hail a hansom cab and in less than an hour he will be a world away from this violence and squalor, back in his comfortable home in Harley Street. But few cabs will answer his whistle in Charles Street. He knows it will behoove him to walk a few hundred yards toward Whitechapel Road. Stopping under a gas lamp, he flips open his pocket watch and strains his eyes to look at the face. A quarter past nine. He pulls up his coat collar against the creeping cold and sets off, just like everyone else it seems, at a fast pace.

  I, on the other hand, remain a moment longer. I linger where others would not. You see, Terence Cutler has failed to notice what I have remarked. In his haste to leave the infirmary, he has not spotted a carriage parked directly opposite the entrance. Or, if he has noticed it, he has not given its presence a second thought. I, however, have and am just about to peer inside when I hear two loud taps on the roof. In a trice, the driver tugs at the reins and moves off. Whoever is in the carriage was keen not to be discovered.

  CONSTANCE

  So Danny leads us in through this tatty-looking door and into a dark passage inside. It’s so narrow that when we meet a stagehand coming the other way, we three have to press hard up against the wall to let him pass. I suddenly feel Danny’s hand clamp my thigh. He’s like that, but then I catch a whiff of the lad as he jostles past. I wrinkle my nose and he lets his hand drop when he cops a load of it, too. But there’s another smell in the air. Flo clocks it as well. She sniffs.

  “What’s that pong?” she asks as we squeeze along the passage backstage.

  It’s like there’s been a fire, just how our grate smells in the morning when we’ve had enough cash to buy coal, that is.

  “Ashes,” mutters Danny. He’s speaking in a low voice and puts his finger to his greasy lips to tell us we should do the same. “It’s part of Mr. Hercat’s act.” He makes his eyes look bigger and goes all leery. “The Mystery of She,” he whispers hoarsely, raising his arms like a ghost. Flo lets out a giggle.

  The musicians in the orchestra pit are starting to tune up. The violins sound like strangled cats. There’s a hum, too, as the audience begins to spill into the theater. Up ahead, we can make out the stage. The curtain’s down and Danny says we can stand just at the side, in the wings, but that we’re not to make a sound. If we do, he’ll be out on his ear. If anyone asks, we’re to grab a broom and look busy. So, as the noise grows louder from the stalls, we stay quiet and wait. We’re excited, so it’s difficult to keep still. Flo’s a fidget at the best of times and she strays once or twice to look round, but I pull her back again. It’s then we see a funny little bald man with a big moustache, in a tailcoat, just in front of us. Looks like a penguin, he does, or maybe a walrus. He’s standing on the side of the stage, pulling at his cuffs. Flo nudges me and lets rip one of her cackles and my hand flies up to cover her big mouth. She’s got away with it this time, but a second later the lights dip. The noise from the audience dies down and the air is electric. It feels like something fantastic is going to happen. And it does. The orchestra strikes up and the big red curtain rises. And the little man strides out into the center of the stage and the spotlight shines on him, making him look bigger. I think he’s grown at least six inches.

  “Ladies and gentlemane,” he says. Not “men,” but “mane.” When I sees Miss Tindall again—if I ever do—I’ll ask her if that’s how I should say it. Anyway, he welcomes everyone and says that this amazing Mr. Hercat will be performing his new and startling illusion tonight, when the ashes of Ayesha will be burned in the presence of the audience, and “She” will rise from the flames. Ayesha, we are told, will be played by Miss Fay Rivington. So he gets us all excited, winding us up like clocks, and then he says: “But first for your delectation . . .” My heart sinks. There’s a warm-up act. We’ve all been secretly wishing the trick will go wrong and Miss Rivington, or whoever she is, to get singed, at the very least, and we’re that pumped up that we don’t want no one else to get in the way. “Boo!” shouts a few of the audience. But no.

  “Ladies and gentlemane, I give you Mesmer the Magnificent!”

  For a moment, I feel let down, like a burst balloon, but most of the punters don’t seem to mind too much. There’s loud applause as this Mesmer bloke sweeps onto the stage like a great colored bird in a long, flowing robe of yellow-and-blue silk. He flaps his arms like they’re wings. The orchestra plays a tune that’s a bit creepy and you can tell nobody knows what to expect. When everything settles down, the magician, or whatever he is, asks for volunteers to come on stage.

  “Greetings!” he says loudly. He sounds foreign. “Greetings to you all. I am Mesmer ze Magnificent, and tonight, ladies and gentlemen, I will show you how I
can control ze human mind wiz my voice.” That raises a few eyebrows, I can tell you. But there’s more: “Who, among you, will help me in my challenge?” He drops his gaze and the people sitting in the front row hotch in their seats under his glare. “I would seek volunteers from among you,” he says. He makes another great sweep with his arm. There’s a murmuring in the audience, and, lo and behold, if Flo doesn’t dart forward, waving her hands in the air, but I manage to grab her sleeve and pull her back again.

  “What do ya think you’re playing at?” I croak. She just doesn’t think sometimes. She fends me off with a cross shrug.

  Anyhow, we watch from the wings as two gents and two ladies go up on stage. Everyone is applauding them. The men, one lanky, the other with a mop of yellow hair, are laughing. Their faces are red and they look as though they’ve had a few. The women are more nervous and hold on to each other as if they’re off to the chopping block at the Tower. By the looks of them, they’re sisters.

  “Ladies, please.” Mr. Mesmer lines them up in a row, pointing like a sergeant major. Raising his arms, he calls for quiet. The orchestra goes silent and you could hear a pin drop, except for an old man who coughs.

  “Face the audience, if you please,” he tells them on stage. “Ze hands up, like zis.” He raises his own and clasps them on top of his head, interlocking his fingers. The volunteers do as they’re bid. Flo looks at me and titters; then she puts her hands on her head. I roll my eyes at her. But then she nudges me and says: “Go on.” And I think, Why not? and do the same. All the time, Mr. Mesmer’s doing his patter, like he’s down the market at Spitalfields. But he’s good and I’m hooked. And he tells the ones on stage to look up at their hands, and after a moment, a woman, the younger one, starts to blink and he’s onto her, like a fly on horse muck.

  “Your eyelids are heavy. You feel sleepy,” he tells her in his scary voice.

  You can see the others’ eyes are closing, too. They’re still standing, but I see a yellow head bobbing. Then I start feeling sleepy, too. My arms are heavy, like Mr. Mesmer says they are. But I still hear his voice. It’s like it’s in my ear. “Go to sleep,” he’s saying. “Go to sleep.” And I want to. I really do. Then he tells them on stage to push their hands together as hard as they can, then pull them apart. Flo’s hands come down straightaway, but when I try to unlock mine, they stay put. I shoot a look back to the stage. Both men and one of the women have taken their hands down, but one hasn’t. Like me, she just can’t pull her fingers apart. It’s as if some invisible force is holding them where they are.

  “Give them a big hand, if you please!” says Mr. Mesmer, and the audience applauds the other volunteers as they’re ushered off stage, wreathed in smiles. But the woman, still with her hands clasped, is left there. Like me! Flo, meantime, grabs hold of my fingers and tries to pull them apart. “Hold still!” she tells me, but I jerk away from her.

  * * *

  Truth is, I don’t remember any of it after that. I have to leave it to Flo to tell me what happened next as we start our journey back home. It’s even colder now as we walk sharpish toward Leicester Square. Danny has stayed behind to clear up, so we’re on our own. For now, there’s plenty of people about.

  “I know I felt hot and thirsty,” I say as I try to remember anything about the evening.

  Flo stops dead, her eyes big as owl’s. “Well, I’ll be! Mr. Mesmer told the lady she was in the desert; said to her that she was wandering about all forlorn.”

  “No!”

  “She were that hot she tried to undo her blouse buttons!”

  I can’t believe my ears. “Then what happened?”

  Flo starts walking again. “He circles her, and then from behind he asks her to stand with her feet close together and cross her arms over her chest like she’s wearing one of them straitjackets.”

  “Like what lunatics wear?” Now I’m the one who’s stopped dead.

  “Yes, that’s it. And that’s what you did. You unclasped your hands, and put them across your front.” She puts her arms around herself. “Like so.”

  As we walk down the Strand, I’m deep in thought, trying to recall the last thing I heard Mr. Mesmer say to the lady on stage. “When I count to three, you will wake up,” I blurt out.

  “That’s it,” she cries. “Shaking you, I was, for a good minute or so. Frightened the living daylights out of me, you did,” she tells me. She lifts her hem as we jump over a large puddle. “You woke up when the bloke counted to three.”

  It’s coming back to me now. I remember that strange feeling, like someone’s been inside my house and rummaged around in my upstairs rooms. They’ve ruffled through my drawers, but they haven’t stolen anything. Nothing’s been taken, just rearranged a little. I feel different, but not disturbed. But I don’t tell Flo that I’ve changed. I just smile.

  “I’m fine now,” I say with a nod, and I slip my arm in hers.

  It’s true. We’ve made it to Fleet Street and I’m no longer tired. I’m wide-awake, but still I’m nervous. We’re leaving the safer West End, where there’s gas lamps aplenty and wider pavements, heading for the shadow lands of the east. The landscape is changing. The buildings are closer together: lower and slanted, like drunken men leaning on each other. The sounds are earthier, louder. Voices boom; babies bawl; engines rumble; machines thud. Women’s laughter doesn’t tinkle like it does in Kensington and Chelsea. Instead, it scratches on the filthy air. The light is yellower, the shadows deeper. The street stink, always there, grows stronger.

  We know we’ll get propositioned; two girls like us, it’s only normal. Three sailors standing outside a pub call out to us. Flo gives them a cheery “ ’ello!” but I pull her away.

  “Don’t you know there’s a killer out here!” I say. I bite my lip as soon as I say it. She only laughs at me, then pulls a serious face.

  “Oh, Con! The world’s not going to end!” she teases me. She bursts into laughter again and starts to sing. She’s always one for a tune and strikes up with “Champagne Charlie.” Well, as you can imagine, I try and hush her up. I tell her people’ll think she’s had a few too many; so, instead, she just hums.

  There’s another couple of smart alecs a bit farther on when we reach the Minories. “Evening, ladies,” one says, doffing his billycock. He’s swaying a bit and I catch the stink of beer on his breath.

  His mate’s the worse for wear, too. “Want to show us the sights, gals?” He belches loudly.

  We pretend not to notice them and skirt around them, but they start to follow, calling after us.

  “Playing’ard to get, eh?”

  When it’s clear we’re not available, they change their tune.

  “Sluts!” the belcher calls after us.

  We walk on, when suddenly something comes hurtling through the air, narrowly missing my right shoulder. In an instant, a beer bottle shatters on the cobbles nearby. We stop in our tracks and look back.

  “Why, you little shit!” screams Flo, trying to break free from my grip. But I hold on to her.

  “Don’t be stupid,” I hiss. “It’s just what they want!”

  She stops struggling, but growls at them, baring her teeth.

  “Whores!” cries the one with the billycock. “I wouldn’t give you one if you paid me!”

  We’re glad to see a copper up ahead of us as we turn down City Road. He’s plodding along, twirling his truncheon. We follow in his footsteps for a while until we cross Whitechapel High Street and go down Middlesex Street. An old drunk moans in the gutter and a rat scuttles across our path. It smells different here.

  “Not far now,” whimpers Flo. She’s changed her tune. I feel her squeezing my arm.

  I know what she’s thinking. I’m thinking it, too. Both murders were just a few hundred yards away from where we are now and he could be lurking nearby. Our eyes are darting like fish to the right and left, following any sound, any movement. A dog barks nearby and we jump. The bell at St. Luke’s strikes midnight and we hurry our pace. It’s the
n that we see two men cross the road up ahead of us. We stop. My heart is pounding in my ears. They both carry something long and thin in their hands. I’m thinking we ought to wait till they’ve gone. Flo looks at me and puts the brakes on, tugging at my arm, when one of the men calls out. “All well, ladies?” they ask, walking toward us.

  Flo breathes again. “The Vigilance Committee,” she says to me under her breath. And I remember the patrols they’ve just started in the area.

  “All well, gents!” she replies. She can be too cheeky. “We’re going home.”

  As they come nearer, I see it’s Gilbert Johns. Big and stocky, he used to work as a slaughter man before the abattoir burned down last month. The other bloke—younger, with a loping gait like he’s walking through mud—I don’t know. Gilbert smiles and calls me by my name.

  “Miss Constance,” he says, touching his cap. He’s looking at us like we’re naughty schoolgirls. “You shouldn’t be out at this hour. Let’s walk you back, then.” And he does.

  Flo gets all skittish again. “Oh, Gilbert. You’re a proper gent. And Mick, isn’t it?” She leans across and touches the younger one on the arm. I see his eyes widen at the attention. She’s a flirt, all right, is our Flo, but I just want to get to bed safe.

  The lads stay with us just long enough to see us to our door a couple of streets away in White’s Row. It’s a two up, two down, and we’re the lucky ones. Most gaffs our way are four or five to a room. Flo puts the key in the lock.

  “Good night,” says Gilbert Johns as we step over the threshold.

  Mick raises his cap. “Take care now, ladies.” By the sound of it, he’s Irish.

  “Thank you,” says Flo.

  “Good night,” says I.

  We shut the door behind us. Flo turns the key again, the bolt clicks in and we can breathe once more. We’re safe for another night, at least.

  CHAPTER 3

  Monday, September 17, 1888

  EMILY