by Tessa Harris
So Madame Morelli glides onto the stage like a stately swan and it’s all eyes on her as she sits behind the table. She plays the part well, I’ll grant her that: a black veil and gloves, the very picture of a fragile woman in mourning. When Ma goes to visit her for her reading, she’s always in black, too. Older Italian women wear it all the time, so I’ve heard. She’s quite a pretty woman with olive skin and dark hair, flecked gray at the temples, although it don’t show tonight. Tonight she’s all in shadow. She’s pulled out all the stops for her audience, all right. I’m expecting quite a show. We all are. You can hear a pin drop in here. It’s like we’re holding our breaths. Then she speaks. Her voice is quite low; but like all Italians, she sings instead of talks. Normally, it’s quite gentle on the ear. But tonight, she’s putting on a special voice for the punters. She knows that if she plays her cards right, she’ll have them as putty in her hands, so she goes all out to impress.
“Ladies and gentlemen of Whitechapel,” she says, moving her head slowly, scanning the gloom. “I ask you to be silent as I endeavor to make contact wiz zose who have died at ze brutish hand of ze murderer who calls himself Jack . . .” She pauses for effect. “Jack ze Ripper.”
Ma suddenly reaches for my hand and holds it tight. She’s scared, or excited, or both. I am too. Silence falls once more like a thick blanket on the room until another clever Dick shouts out: “Get on with it!”
He breaks the mood and I turn to the door to see Gilbert dispatch him quickly, amid all the cursing from the audience. It takes a few more seconds for everyone to settle again, but once Madame Morelli has composed herself, I can see that she closes her eyes and lays her palms flat on the table.
“Spirits, we mean you no ’arm,” she sings out. “We would speak wiz Martha Tabram, or Polly Nichols, or Annie Chapman. We would speak wiz Liz Stride or Catherine Eddowes, or wiz ze unknown woman in Whitehall. We would speak wiz any victim who ’as died at ze ’and of Jack ze Ripper.”
It’s still and quiet as the grave. No one dare move.
“Spirits,” Madame Morelli calls out again. “Rap ze table if you are zere.”
We catch our breaths; then after what seems an age, it comes. A knocking from the table. I suspect it’s Madame Morelli stamping her foot, but, judging by the breathless squeals, most of the audience thinks it’s for real.
“You are a victim of Jack ze Ripper?” asks Madame Morelli. “One knock for ‘no,’ two for ‘yes.’”
One knock. Silence. Another. More gasps.
“You will speak to us?”
Two knocks.
From out of the corner of my eye, I see there’s movement. Suddenly one of the women who had been standing swoons. Gilbert comes to the rescue again and carries her out. The room is all aflutter, anxious and unsettled.
“You will speak to us?” repeats Madame Morelli, as if to make sure the spirit hasn’t been put off by the fainting woman.
Two knocks.
“Who are you, spirit?” she asks. “Reveal yourself to us.”
So, by this time, everyone’s nerves are on tenterhooks. I’m tight as a drum myself. Then, just when I think I can’t take it no more, there’s something moving in the darkness. And then I see it; we all see it. A white figure coming from the shadows that seems to hover on the stage. There are screams as the shape approaches. It’s a woman, I can see. Or rather a girl. She is swathed in white, and her face is pale. She seems to be floating in the air just behind the table.
Madame Morelli is undaunted. She doesn’t even turn to look at the ghostly specter that’s suddenly appeared on stage. She lets the din die down before she asks: “Make yourself known to us. What is your name?”
The girl whimpers something and I smell a rat. All the dead women were at least in their late twenties. Even I can’t make out what she says in the front row.
“We mean you no harm,” repeats Madame Morelli. “You are among friends. Speak up.”
The figure does as she is bid. “I am the one they found in Whitehall,” she says shakily. Her voice is a breathless whisper.
A sigh escapes from my lips and the penny suddenly drops. It’s a clever move to have the mystery woman appear to an audience of people who knew all the others. Polly Nichols was a regular at the Frying Pan and the others were well-known in these parts. “Welcome,” greets Madame Morelli. “Step forward, and tell us your name, please.”
So the spirit makes to move forward when suddenly there’s this terrible renting sound, like a great tearing of material. There’s a sharp intake of breath from the audience and a squeal from the spirit as the white floaty drapes that surround her are pulled tight and fall to the ground.
“Oh, my Gawd!” wails the girl, suddenly doubling up like she’s naked. Only she’s not. She’s wearing a tatty old dress and her dark hair hangs down in straggles. She dares to look up for a second, then dashes off the stage. Before anyone has the wit to grab hold of her, she’s out of the door, quick as you like, screeching like an alley cat. She’s left the room in an uproar. There’s people leaping up and down like Jack-in-the-boxes. Some are shaking fists, calling for their money back; a few are chuckling. Some go after poor Madame Morelli. The bulldog bouncer appears from nowhere and puts his big beefy body between the old fraudster and a couple of fishwives, who want to knock ten bells out of her. Someone lights a lamp or two, so that the commotion becomes clearer for all to see. Gilbert is ushering people out as fast as he can, and Red Pat is calling for calm while being buffeted by angry punters.
Ma gives me a sheepish look, as if to ask me how she could ever have been so stupid as to put her trust in such a fake. I squeeze her hand, then pat it with my other. She don’t need to say nothing. It’s not her fault she was taken in and fleeced. And, as I said, it gave her some comfort regarding courting Mr. Bartleby.
“Home?” I ask her.
She nods and coughs a little. I worry that the shenanigans might bring on one of her nasty attacks.
We’re walking toward the door, past all those calling for their money back. Old Bill’s got wind that something’s up and Constable Tanner appears to see what all the fuss is about. This is his beat and he knows Flo and me and what we get up to. He’s never caught us red-handed, but we know he’s a mind to, one of these days. Ma’s ahead of me and I tug on her sleeve. She hasn’t noticed our lanky copper friend.
“Hold up, Ma,” I says to her, as more people press toward the exit.
My words cause the woman standing by the door to look at me. I say woman, but as soon as I see her, I can tell she’s a lady. I know from her bearing and from her hat—the hat with a rose on it that I’ve seen before, in St. Jude’s. She’s the lady I bumped into in the aisle, the morning I was asking after Miss Tindall. So she’s standing by the door, having a word with Mrs. Puddiphatt, who nods at me when she sees me, as if she’s been waiting for me; then she shuffles off. The lady looks up. Our eyes latch onto each other and she smiles at me. For a moment, I don’t know whether I should curtsy or scarper.
“Miss Piper?” She’s saying my name in her lovely voice with her consonants crisp as linen sheets. “Miss Constance Piper?”
I want to come back at her: “Who wants to know?” But I hear Miss Tindall’s voice in my ear, telling me that would be rude. Instead, I say: “How can I help you, ma’am?” She’s in her midtwenties, I’d guess, so she’s likely married, although I can’t see a ring because she’s wearing gloves. There’s something else she’s wearing, too—a worried expression.
“I am so very glad to have found you,” she tells me. She’s leaning forward, and if I let her, I swear she’d give me a hug. I can see relief on her face as her lips widen into a smile. “Mrs. Puddiphatt pointed you out to me. It’s about . . .” She hesitates. “I understand that you were in Whitehall the other day.”
“Whitehall?” I croak. It’s like she’s just gone for my jugular. I can barely swallow. How the hell does she know? Has she been following me? I frown and switch round to see Ma. She’s stopped t
o talk to Mrs. Bardolph, the fishmonger’s wife, and hasn’t seen my strange encounter. I’m glad of it.
“What if I was?” Suddenly finding my voice, I give up all my polite intentions, but my expression betrays me.
She nods and slides her eyes toward Ma. “I understand,” she says in a low voice. “Tomorrow? Can we meet?”
My heart’s in my mouth. I don’t want Ma to see. I think quickly. “Christ Church. The graveyard. Eight in the morning, sharp,” I say through gritted teeth. I don’t know what she wants, but I need to find out. Quickly I spin round to see Ma approaching. I put my arm through hers to shepherd her away from this place, and as I do, I realize that I don’t even know the name of the stranger I’ve just agreed to meet again.
As we make our way home as fast as we can through the ill-lit streets, the trussed-up torso, writhing with maggots, flashes into my mind for the second time this evening. Even though it’s cold and our own breath wreathes around us like smoke, my fear makes me break out into a sweat. Neither of us says a word. We’re both paying heed to the night noises of Whitechapel: the trains rumbling, the carriages clattering, the doors bolting, the babies bawling, and the cats mewing. But most of all, we’re listening for the footsteps behind us, the heavy breathing at our shoulder and the knife being drawn.
I know I won’t be able to sleep tonight.
CHAPTER 17
Friday, October 12, 1888
CONSTANCE
As luck would have it, Flo started her monthly early this morning. Rolling on the bed like a loose barrel, she is. So I seize my chance.
“Don’t you worry about the market. I’ll go alone,” I tell her.
She looks at me, clutching her belly, then suddenly dives over the side of the bed and throws up into the pot.
“Bless you, Con,” she says a moment later, heaving herself back onto the mattress. “You’re a proper star.”
Of course, I feel bad. I haven’t told her about this mysterious lady or my secret meeting. She’d warn me off. She’d tell me not to go. But I have to. I need to. I’ve got this odd feeling worming away at me and I won’t be able to rest until I know what this lady wants.
So I do my business at Spitalfields Market with Big Alf. He’s got a few winter pansies and some bunches of herbs, but there’s not much round at the moment. I buy a sprig or two of sage and a dozen roses he’s put by for me, and just as I’m about to be off, he says to me: “Did the lady find you, then?”
The question stops me in my tracks. “Lady?” says I, all innocent like.
“Nice red coat. Hat with a rose in it.” He pats his own bald head. “She says you weren’t in no trouble.”
I can’t look him in the eye. “Yes,” I reply; then I add: “It weren’t nothing important,” just to get him off my back.
So that’s how she tracked me down, I think to myself as I trudge over the road toward Christ Church with my full basket. But it still don’t explain how she knew to look for me at the market and how she figured I was at Whitehall when they found the body.
The church is over the road from the market and I’m not the only flower seller standing outside. There’s a girl, can’t be more than six, shivering barefoot by the railings. She gives me the eye and I bend down to reassure her.
“Don’t you worry, sweetheart,” I tells her. “I’m not here to steal your trade. Just to meet someone.” She smiles nervously, then cheekily offers me a bloom. I’m just about to give her a mouthful for her sauce, when I hear a voice behind me.
“I’ll take that.” And there she is, my mystery lady, bending low, delving into a black dolly bag and offering the little urchin a sixpence for her rose. And so she lifts it from the girl’s grubby hands and gives me a smile as she slots the stem behind a brooch that she’s wearing on her lapel. “Shall we sit?” she asks, gesturing her gloved hand toward a bench in the churchyard.
There’s an old drunk sleeping it off, not five feet away on a tombstone, but she’s not put off. Leastways she doesn’t show it. I look at her properly for the first time as she brushes away the golden beech leaves that have fallen onto the bench before she sits. She’s pretty. She’s got high cheekbones and a small, neat nose. Peeking out from under her large, black hat, the sweep of her chestnut hair is visible, and her delicate earlobes have little pearl droplets hanging from them.
“So,” she says finally, smoothing down her skirts as we sit side by side. She’s looking friendly, but I’m still wary. She knows she owes me an explanation. I can tell it from the way she looks at me, as if to say: “I’m sorry, but . . .” So I let her do the talking.
She takes a deep breath and begins. “This is all about my sister,” she starts. “She’s missing, you see.” The tight feeling in my stomach loosens a little, but I still don’t understand. “She’s been missing for nearly two months. No one has heard anything from her and I’m so very worried.”
I shake my head and shrug. “I’m sorry, but . . .”
“Please”—she stops me and lifts her hand to show me her palm—“hear me out.” She takes a deep breath. “Then, when these terrible murders began, I naturally grew more anxious. I knew, everyone knows, that this terrible man, this Jack, only kills . . .” She hesitates. “He kills ladies of the night.” Her words make me open my own mouth to protest. It’s like Polly Nichols and Annie Chapman and the others don’t count as much as ordinary women ’cos they’re on the streets, but she gives me another of her looks to tell me to be quiet. “But then, I heard about this Whitehall murder and that the postmortem had found that the”—she pauses again—“that the victim was not . . . was not . . .”
“A prostitute.” I say the word that tastes so sour on her own tongue for her.
“The postmortem said that they thought the woman was about five and twenty years old and that she was well-nourished.”
“And that she had fair skin and dark hair and had never borne a child,” I add.
Her mouth opens slightly in wonderment. “You know of the report?”
“Yes,” I say, not bothering to tell her that I’ve read every word of it, over and over again, in the Daily News three days back.
“Then you’ll know the medical examiner also believes the victim had been dead for between six weeks and two months before she was found.”
“And that’s when your sister went missing?”
“Yes.” She looks up and into the distance. “When I heard about this latest atrocity, I decided to come to London, to Whitehall, to see for myself the scene of the discovery. My late father was a good friend of the police commissioner, you see, and so I was allowed access to the site. And that’s where I found this.”
Her hand’s back in the dolly bag and she brings out a small enameled box this time. When she opens it up, I feel my eyes pop out of their sockets.
“Blimey!” I blurt out. It’s the remains of one of the posies I made for the Whitehall toffs.
She doesn’t take it out because she’s knows it’ll fall to pieces. The petals are wilted and dirty and the paper’s all soggy.
“It was crushed underfoot in the mud nearby. I picked it up, and the constable with me told me he remembered seeing two girls near the site at the time of the body’s discovery. There’d been reports of pickpockets in the area and so he’d been sent to investigate. Apparently, up until he was called to help retrieve the body, he was watching you and your sister very carefully.” The tone of her voice has suddenly changed. It’s like she’s got one up on me and she knows it. I squirm a bit on my seat at the thought that Old Bill might still be after us. But as if she can read my mind, she goes on: “The Metropolitan Police have limited resources, but my time is my own. I went to Covent Garden and asked the traders if they’d sold any yellow rosebuds to a couple of young flower sellers and, in particular, any of this.” She lifted a corner of wet paper with its blue edging. “They couldn’t recall two girls fitting your description, but told me to ask at Spitalfields Market. My inquiries soon paid off. From there I went to St. Jude�
�s, where I found someone who knew you.”
“Mrs. Puddiphatt?” I ask, wanting to break every bone in that nosey old crone’s body.
“Yes,” she replies with a nod. “She told me you would be attending a public séance at the Frying Pan public house. It all came together so easily.” She shrugs and shakes her head at the same time. “Remarkably easily,” she says, as if she can’t believe her luck.
I’m still in the dark. “So now you’ve found me, what do you want to do with me?” I hear myself ask. I sound anxious. I worry she might even try and blackmail me.
She raises her head and fixes me with an odd look. “Do with you?” she says, as if I’ve just asked a really stupid question. “I don’t want to do anything with you, Miss Piper.” It’s odd being called Miss Piper. She smiles and says: “I am asking for your help.”
“Oh” is all I manage at first.
“You see, you were at the scene. You saw where she . . . where the victim was found. And you clearly know all about the case. You know, too, about the other women. You are interested, engaged in it all. You went to the séance, you want to see this monster behind bars as much as any woman—”
“Hold up!” I say. This time, it’s my turn to put my palm between us. “Some people say that this Whitehall woman isn’t one of Jack’s at all. Didn’t you see the letter to the chief constable?” From somewhere at the back of my memory, I recall the finding of a torso in Rainham, in Essex, the year before, too.