The Sixth Victim

by Tessa Harris

  I fear I found myself gazing at them, wondering what on earth they were doing in such an area. It took a moment for me to realize they were going from house to house, speaking to the residents, by which time they had grown much closer. It was then, when he was but a few feet away, that the gentleman turned, looked at me, then raised his hat, not through familiarity but out of courtesy. In an instant, I realized where I had seen him before and my look sparked his own memory.

  “Good day to you, again, Miss . . . ,” he greeted me.

  I confess I was a little nonplussed at seeing him again. I think I smiled. “Tindall. Miss Tindall,” I replied, feeling the color rise in my cheeks at being taken off guard. There was an embarrassed, yet cheerful, silence between us, both of us smiling at each other, but not really knowing what to say. In the end, we both blurted out the most obvious question in unison. “What brings you here?” Then we both laughed nervously.

  “I teach, here,” I said, turning and waving at the austere building behind me. I waited for him to volunteer his own business, but in the end, I needed to prompt him. “And you?”

  “Me?” he asked self-effacingly. He was wearing a formal gray frock coat. “Robert Sampson, at your service.” He gave a gallant bow. “I’m here on some business for my father.”

  “Business?” I asked, having no inkling as to what business a respectable gentleman could possibly have in these parts.

  “Yes. He insists that I should learn the ropes. Start on the bottom rung, as it were.” His tone was jovial, but I remained in the dark. It was only when I turned to the man standing next to him, who was clearly no gentleman at all, that I understood. They were collecting rent. It also accounted for the slight embarrassment I detected in Mr. Sampson’s manner, for his companion seemed, in fact, more like a henchman. Heavily built and with a thick neck, around which was tied a kerchief, he appeared like a brute, no more or less. He was bareheaded and his pate was as bald as a boiled egg, while his face seemed to be set in a permanent scowl. I dipped my eyes to his belt to see what might even have been a cosh dangling from his waist. Then, as if Mr. Sampson felt my curious glance deserved some sort of explanation, he added: “Mr. Butcher, here, works for me.”

  The brutish-looking man gave a shallow bow. Even then I wondered if his name was a soubriquet; but despite that, my naivety still had the better of me. I wanted to see righteousness in everyone. There were good landlords and bad landlords—weren’t there?—even though I was yet to find a good one in Whitechapel. With hindsight, I confess part of me was a little taken with Mr. Sampson. But then, as I have discovered to my cost, I fear I was a very poor judge of character.

  CONSTANCE

  The first thing I see as soon as I arrive back home from the ragged school is Flo, on her hands and knees on our front doorstep. She’s been scrubbing it and it’s covered in suds. She’s looking flushed as she brushes a wayward strand of hair back from her face with the back of her hand. “So?” she sneers, like she’s expecting me to deliver some choice nuggets of news.

  I look at her and wonder how she can seemingly take such pleasure in other people’s pain. “So,” I repeat, if only to bait her.

  “What did your fancy lady say?” She springs up and stands in front of me, barring my way. She shifts from one leg to the other, but she keeps her voice low. I hear the clatter of pans in the kitchen and know that Ma is up and about.

  “She wasn’t there.” I suddenly bite my tongue. Something stops me from telling Flo that she might’ve gone away. I feel my chest tighten and I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because I’m worried. Something isn’t right. Maybe I’m afraid I’ve lost the only person whoever made me feel that there is more to life than Whitechapel.

  Flo senses my hesitation, but instead of goading me and trying to prize out my anxiety like a pearl from an oyster, she leaves me be. Perhaps she has seen something in my eyes that tells her I might burst into tears if she presses me.

  “She’ll come back,” she says encouragingly, letting me pass.

  I nod my head and start to untie my bonnet ribbons from under my chin.

  “I hope so,” I reply, even though the bad feeling inside me has grown a whole lot worse.

  EMILY

  Molly Deakin is sleeping now, albeit fitfully. She lies in a comfortable bed, but goose down and cotton sheets do not assuage a fever. The heavy drapes are drawn and a single oil lamp burns at her bedside. An elderly nurse sits by her, dozing, but her nap is interrupted as the door is pushed ajar and a gentleman looks in. I recognize him from that fateful night. His chestnut hair flows from his crown like a romantic poet’s. He is proud of it, and clearly vain. Yet his business is anything but the stuff of love poetry. It is dark and dirty; a business so vile that most right-minded people shut their eyes and ears to it. Yet, oddly, I no longer feel the sense of outrage that propelled me into my current state. That is because I am certain in the knowledge of what lies beyond for him and his kind.

  “Any change?” he asks in a low rumble, his gaze not even straying to the child herself.

  The nurse, stirred from her light slumber, looks at him with rheumy eyes. She shakes her head. He glances back to the girl. He will give her another week. If she is not available after that, then he will have to turn her out, just as he has the dozens of other young girls before whose maiden wares are now too soiled to be of any use.

  CONSTANCE

  Later that evening, when Flo and me are in bed, I snatch the dictionary, which I keep on the little bedside table. By the light of my candle, I thumb through the pages until I find the d’s. It takes me a while, squinting at all the words. At first, I can’t find one that fits the sound—“disi”—then I imagine what Miss Tindall would say.

  “Break down the word into parts.”

  “I’ve done that. It don’t work,” I say.

  “Doesn’t work,” she corrects me. “Does it sound like any other word that you do know?” she asks.

  Quick as a flash, I come back at her: “Disciple.” I scan the pages and, sure enough, in the same column I find the word “disciplinary.” Eagerly I read the definition: concerning or enforcing discipline. I’m really still not much wiser, then I read the example they give in a sentence: A soldier will face disciplinary action after going absent without leave. Once again, my guts start to roil.

  “That can’t be,” I mutter under my breath. Miss Tindall would never do anything bad, I tell myself. Never.

  “Blow that bleeding candle out, will ya?” mumbles Flo, tossing down at the other end of the bed and pulling the blanket over her face. “Go to sleep.”

  She’s right, of course. It’s past midnight, but I know there’ll be little shut-eye for me tonight. I won’t be able to rest until I know what’s happened to Miss Tindall.

  CHAPTER 8

  Sunday, September 30, 1888

  EMILY

  The night is as black as pitch, although, of course, that no longer troubles me. I can read the poster clearly as it flaps forlornly in the wind. It’s nailed to a warehouse door on Berner Street, but there’s a jagged tear down the middle. Whether or not it was torn deliberately, I cannot say. Perhaps it was an accident, or even a sick joke. Perhaps someone has taken a knife to it, just as they did to Polly Nichols and Annie Chapman. I read it. Ghastly Murder, it says. Dreadful mutilation of a woman. The words cause me to ponder. It seems that this, now, is my task: to see things done in the dark, executed in the shadows; acts that are so terrible that they are perpetrated in secret. I must shine a light on them, expose calumny and sin. That’s why I am in Berner Street tonight. I am come to see another slaughter.

  Once again, it is cold and rainy; once again, we’re in the early hours. It is the sort of night that seems interminable: a night where the damp penetrates your bones and chills your marrow and you long for it to be over. And for Elizabeth Stride, it soon will be. I know that before it is out, she will lie dead, her throat slit and her blood spilling out over the cobbles.

  We join her as she stan
ds in Dutfield’s Yard. He is already with her. They are facing each other, arguing. Above the din, however, I detect footsteps. I switch round to see a man approaching from Berner Street. Hearing the cross words rise into the air, he looks in the couple’s direction. To his horror, he sees him grab Elizabeth and hurl her to the ground. She lets out a scream, and then another, and, for a second, I think the passerby might act. I think he might at least challenge the attacker, but no. He simply quickens his pace and keeps on walking, crossing over the street. My eyes follow him. I want to call after him, but, of course, I cannot. But wait! There’s another man, standing on the pavement nearby, smoking a pipe. I glance back. Elizabeth is still struggling, although her screams are being stifled. Suddenly he bolts up and shouts at the two men as they glare, transfixed by what is happening. “Lipski!” he cries. It shocks me to hear his voice, and shocks me that he should be so audacious as to berate the men. I know that Israel Lipski, who’d been executed last year for the murder of a young woman, was a Jew. If his intention is to frighten them away, he achieves his goal. The two men make off in haste, one breaking into a run to escape any further threat. Swiftly he resumes his gruesome work. Elizabeth has become insensible. The one chance that she’d had to be rescued has now gone. And so he begins. I cannot watch.

  A stiff breeze has got up and is whipping the rain, slashing it diagonally. Yet despite this, I still hear the clatter of hooves. A pony and cart is being driven down the street. It turns onto Dutfield’s Yard. Then something strange happens. The pony suddenly veers to the left, shies and refuses to go any farther. I hear the man cuss, then watch as he leans forward in his seat, his whip in his hand. He is prodding something on the ground, but still the pony will not budge. That’s when I see him shooting away. The driver doesn’t spot him. But I do. I see him slip silently back out of the yard and disappear into the night just as the driver jumps down to investigate what troubles his pony. The murderer has been interrupted and I know I have to follow him.

  I am about to leave when I see the driver strike a match to get a better view. The squally wind blows the flame out almost immediately, but the second or two of flickering light is enough to tell him that what he sees is a woman lying crumpled by the wall. I know her throat has been cut. The flower that she wore pinned to her jacket is now drenched in blood.

  “My God!” I hear the cartman mutter, before I see him hurry into a nearby building to call for help from friends. I do not stay around to wait for their arrival.

  They say this woman was his fourth victim: Martha Tabram, Polly Nichols, Annie Chapman and now Elizabeth Stride. But Long Lizzie, as she was known round these parts, has remained relatively unscathed. She’s escaped his evil artistry to a large degree because he’s been interrupted. There’s been no time to lunge and rip and rearrange. That is why I’m afraid there’ll soon be another. And I’m soon proved right. A few minutes later, I catch up with him in Duke Street, two miles away. This time, I’m afforded a better view. He’s of medium height, with a moustache. On his head, he wears a peaked cloth cap. He’s already talking to a prostitute. This time, there are a few other men around. I see three of them leaving a nearby club. I tell myself it’s too public. Surely, he won’t do it here? I am right. As the other men disappear from view, he leads the woman by the arm along Duke Street. Her name is Catherine Eddowes, and she is wearing a black straw bonnet and a black jacket trimmed with fur. She seems to go willingly and the pair turns onto Mitre Square. It’s then that he strikes so quickly even I am shocked. There is a soft gurgling sound and the woman falls where she stood. Immediately he sets to work, lifting her muddy-hemmed skirts over her head, then taking his fiendish knife to her, slashing and hacking and disemboweling with such inhuman brutality that I am thankful no one else witnesses it. Not content with drawing out her intestines and placing them over her right shoulder, he takes his knife to her face, slashing it with such savagery that I can no longer bear to look. Despite this, his vile work is completed in just a few short minutes. Forcing myself to look once more, I discover, to my horror, that he’s even taken trophies—a kidney and part of her womb. And the rain keeps falling, sluicing the blood off the flagstones and into the gutters of the human abattoir the courtyard has become. Even though I am now above such things, I can stand no more.

  CONSTANCE

  When I do finally drift off, it must be the early hours and there’s a nightmare waiting for me in the shadows of my sleep. I’m walking along Duke Street. I know it’s Duke Street, ’cos there’s the synagogue on my left. It’s a nice-enough day, and there’s people about, but suddenly a cloud covers the sun and it goes dark and I start to feel afraid. I’m afraid because I’m all alone. Everyone’s gone and then I hear footsteps behind me. I glance round, but there’s no one there. Then I look in front of me and I sees this man, dressed from head to toe in black and he’s blocking my way. And when I try to pass, he raises a great dagger and I turn and run, but he starts chasing me. I run onto Mitre Square, but he’s still after me. I’m trapped and I cry out. And then I wake up, but I’m too afraid to move. All I can hear is the sound of my own heart pounding in my ears. It takes me a long while before I dare close my eyes again.

  EMILY

  It is still dark when I return to Catherine Eddowes’s body an hour or so later. I feel compelled to be with her. Even though I had been powerless to help her in the yard when she was being so brutally attacked, at least now she would know that I was there. My presence, I thought, might be some small comfort to her as she lay on the slab at the City Mortuary in Golden Lane.

  They’ve already gone through her pockets before the doctor arrives. The search has yielded a bewildering array of tins, fragments of material, chunks of soap and a small-tooth comb. Dr. Brown, a portly man with an efficient manner that brooks no dissent, walks in and takes charge. He orders her poor body to be stripped and washed down. To the muted disgust of one of the morticians, a piece of Catherine’s ear drops from her clothing as he undresses her. He retrieves it from the stone floor and holds it at arm’s length before depositing it in a kidney dish for later examination. Resuming his task, he removes layer upon layer of clothing from her blood-soaked body. First a black cloth jacket trimmed around the collar and cuffs with imitation fur, next a dark green chintz skirt, then underneath a man’s white vest. Below that Catherine has worn a brown linsey bodice. There are more undergarments: a gray petticoat, an old green alpaca skirt, another ragged skirt with red flounces and a white calico chemise. It’s like watching the layers of an onion being peeled away. Each time something different is revealed, and each time Catherine becomes smaller and more vulnerable, until there is only her bloody corpse lying like a cut of meat on the slab.

  Looking at the forlorn collection on the table and the sodden clothes, it occurs to me that these were all the possessions she had in the world. She had carried all that she owned around with her, like a nomad, never knowing where she would lay her head that night. She wore all her clothes not simply because she needed protection from the cold, but because she had nowhere else to put them. Like so many of the women of Whitechapel, she never knew when, or if, she might earn her doss money; and, as so often happened, even when she did have a few pennies in her pocket, she’d spend it on gin rather than a bed for the night.

  As they uncover her bloody nakedness, I try not to look on the tangle of intestines that the fiend has placed over her right shoulder. I try to ignore the fact that her ear has been cut off and her nose severed, and the slits that have been carved into her sad, weather-beaten cheeks. I find my gaze hovering over strange, inverted V’s. They bring to mind . . . I blink, suddenly reminded of the place and the symbols on the walls. Surely, not the compass and set square? I banish all thoughts of that night and push them to the back of my mind, where they must remain until later, until it is time to tell you and, of course, dear Constance.

  I return to poor Catherine, and for an instant, I feel my own heart wrenched out of me, just as he had yanked out part of
her womb, as I ponder on not just how she died, but how she had lived, too. Once she was a daughter, a sister. Once she was a wife, not a pile of scarified skin and bone, stripped of what little dignity the streets of Whitechapel had left to her. But I pull myself together and make myself focus, instead, on the person she had been, less than two hours before, and I seek out a place that he had not mutilated. My eyes find the palm of her left hand as it lies facing upward on the slab. When I touch it, it is still warm and limp. The death stiffness has not yet set in. But there is something else, too, although Dr. Brown is yet to discover it. I peer closely as they take the sponge to her other side. When he comes to examine Catherine’s right side, he will turn her over and note that on her forearm, tattooed in blue India ink, are two letters. Together they make up the initials TC.

  CONSTANCE

  I wake to the sound of church bells. It’s a Sunday. I’m thankful that the Lord’s come to my rescue. This morning, the market’s closed. But, try as I might, I can’t put that nightmare out of my head. It’s still there, in the back of my mind, hanging around like a bad smell from Fleet Ditch, and I’m thinking about lying low today, bunking off church and saying I’m sick. The Almighty’ll understand, won’t he?