The Sixth Victim

by Tessa Harris

  My words seem to knock the wind out of her sails, but only for a second.

  “That may be,” she says, looking at me with glassy eyes. I think she may burst into tears any moment. “But I firmly believe that you are the one who can tell me if this . . . if the Whitehall remains are those of my sister.”

  I’m confused. “I don’t understand,” I say.

  “Nor do I,” she replies.

  I’m none the wiser.

  She takes a deep breath as if to gulp down her emotions. “This may sound strange, but all I know is that I have been led to you—the flowers at the murder scene, the policeman, the market trader, Mrs. Puddiphatt. It’s all been so easy, as if . . .”

  “As if . . . ?”

  “As if someone has been guiding the way, showing me where to go. I know it sounds strange, but . . .”

  I stop her. This time, I feel myself reaching out to her, as if someone’s telling me to comfort her. I can’t fight the urge to lay my hand on her sleeve, and when I do, she looks at it, wide-eyed. “It’s not strange,” I say softly. “Feelings like that . . .” I search for a way to tell her that I have them, too: odd, unaccountable stirrings that make you think someone is trying to tap into your mind and your soul. “We all have them,” I tell her with a smile, like I’m trying to say it’s the most normal thing in the world. Only I know it’s not. Nor do I tell her that she’s not the only one who’s been fretting over the body in Whitehall. For all anyone knows, it could just as well be Miss Tindall’s torso. I feel sick at the thought. And that’s just it. Everyone is on edge. Everyone’s fears about their missing loved ones are climbing out of the woodwork.

  “So you’ll help me?” She’s suddenly a little brighter.

  I shake my head. “No,” I say firmly. “I’m sorry. I’m a flower girl, not a detective. I don’t want no part of it.” I try to think quickly of a good excuse. “Besides,” I tell her, “I’m looking for someone myself.”

  She frowns. “You are?”

  “Yes.” I swallow hard. I’ve started, so I need to go on. “My teacher,” I tell her, thinking of Miss Tindall and where she might be, even though I know she’s just probably gone back to Oxford. “My friend,” I add forlornly. “She left without saying good-bye.”

  The lady nods. “I am sorry,” she says, then adds out of the blue: “I know what it’s like to lose touch with a good friend.”

  “You do?” I ask, as if I’m the only one in the world who’s ever felt this way.

  “Yes. I do. We grew up together. She gave me this.” She delves into her bag and brings out a scrap of embroidered material to show me. “ ‘Friendship is love without his wings,’ ” she says with a smile.

  My eyes suddenly widen at her words. It’s a line I know well. “It is a precious thing,” I say, as if someone else is moving my lips.

  She tilts her head and frowns slightly. “You know Lord Byron?”

  “He was my teacher’s favorite poet,” I reply with a faint smile.

  “Then you had a very good teacher,” she says softly. “I hope you find her.”

  “And you had a good friend.” Have I spoken out of turn?

  “Yes.” She suddenly becomes reflective again, like she’s gazing back at her own past. “Yes, I did.” In another moment, she’s rallying and her jaw sets firm. “But, of course, you have your own worries. I must not burden you with mine.” She leaves me feeling quite guilty, but not before her hand plunges into her bag once more. “If you change your mind . . .” She leans forward. “Here’s my card. I shall be staying at this address for a few more days.”

  I take the card with what Miss Tindall would describe as “good grace,” but I don’t intend to get in touch again. Instead, my eyes follow her as she glides along the paved path of the churchyard and out onto the street. Only then do I glance down at the calling card. On it is written the name of where she’s staying, Brown’s Hotel, and underneath it says Miss Pauline Beaufroy. I pop it into my apron pocket, even though I don’t plan on contacting her. She’s right. I have enough worries of my own.

  EMILY

  The niggling suspicions that had taken root after my first encounter with Dr. Melksham certainly grew most exponentially when he returned again the following Sunday to observe my lesson, just as he had done before. I watched him nod his approval as, one by one, the pupils recited their various verses. I thought little of it, until the end of the class, that is. As before, all the pupils filed out past him, but this time, Mrs. Parker-Smythe beckoned to Molly Deakin. She was such a fair child and a promising student, too. She’d never missed a class in the past two years and her reading was coming on well.

  “Molly,” said Mrs. Parker-Smythe, laying her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “This is Dr. Melksham and he’d like to have a word with you, in private.”

  I was close behind. “Is something wrong?” I asked. But my inquiry was given short shrift. Mrs. Parker-Smythe eyed me disdainfully, but the gentleman appeared charm itself.

  “On the contrary,” he replied with that disarming smile of his. “We would like to reward . . .” He broke off and glanced at Mrs. Parker-Smythe as he fumbled for a name.

  “Molly,” she prompted.

  “Molly,” he continued, “for her excellent efforts.”

  I felt myself relax. As I recall, I was even aware that my lips lifted in a smile. I regarded my star pupil, a sense of pride blooming inside me.

  “That is good news,” I heard myself say.

  “Yes, indeed,” replied the gentleman; and with that, Molly was ushered into the vestry and the door was shut.

  The following Sunday, she was absent. The one after that, too. The gentleman still sat at the back of the class, still paying great attention to the pupils. But it was when Gracie Arden stood up to recite a poem she had learned that he seemed to take particular note. Her delivery was poor and her stance self-conscious. She twisted the corner of her pinafore between her fingers and mumbled her words to the floor. Nevertheless, the gentleman leaned forward and bent his ear toward her. When she had finished, I watched him give a self-satisfied nod. It was not until the end of the class, however, that a worm of discomfort started to wriggle its way into my brain. Once again, Mrs. Parker-Smythe beckoned the child as she walked down the aisle toward the door of the church. For some reason, she had been singled out for a reward, even though her recitation was not good. I wondered if it was because, like Molly, she was a particularly fair child, with large, brown eyes and perfect teeth.

  “Excellent diction, my dear,” the gentleman told the bewildered girl. “Your efforts shall be rewarded.”

  Constance and I had been gathering books and had just bid the last of the class stragglers good-bye when, from out of the corner of my eye, I caught what was happening. The next thing I saw was little Gracie being shepherded into the vestry, just as Molly had been two weeks before.

  When Gracie didn’t return to Sunday school the following week, nor the week after that, the worm of suspicion resurfaced once more. Up until then, I had kept my concern to myself. I made no mention of it to Constance. Now, however, I decided to ask Mrs. Parker-Smythe if she knew why both Molly and Gracie were absent. I plucked up the courage to mention the fact the next Sunday, while we were setting out the hymnbooks.

  “Molly Deakin and Gracie Arden haven’t attended class for a while now,” I told her. “Do you know if they are ill?” I asked casually.

  For a moment, I saw her tense, then she shrugged. “Goodness knows,” she said, cradling a pile of books. “These waifs and strays are a law unto themselves,” and she continued doling out the hymnals.

  It was true. In Whitechapel, you could never count on full attendance. Children fell ill, or had to work, or mind their younger siblings, all the time. There was always a good excuse not to learn. That was why I had begun to keep a register. It listed the name, age and address of every pupil in my class and recorded their attendance. I checked. Molly had only been absent once when she had the chicken pox, but Grac
ie had never missed a Sunday lesson since she started coming five months ago. Both their absences were totally out of character.

  The following Sunday, Dr. Melksham appeared once more, sitting at the back of the class, and once again the children were asked to recite for him. This time, he singled out Libby Lonergan for special treatment. Mrs. Parker-Smythe shepherded the child toward the vestry, ostensibly to reward her for her recitation. Once again, I followed behind Dr. Melksham, biding my time, in the hope of an introduction. My chance came as I followed him down the aisle. From out of his pocket, something fell onto a pew as he passed. I bent down to retrieve it with the intention of reuniting it with its owner. It was a glove, a gentleman’s white glove, but it was the smell of it that suddenly hit me—a sickly-sweet tang. I lifted it to my nose and sniffed it. I felt a little light-headed and then it struck me.

  Chloroform.

  Clenching the glove in my hand, I watched dumbfounded as the gentleman proceeded to head for the vestry. He must not know I have it, I thought. I stuffed it in my pocket. Nausea was rising in my throat, but it wasn’t the chloroform that made me feel queasy. It was the thought of what it might be used for and on whom.

  CHAPTER 18

  Wednesday, October 17, 1888

  EMILY

  Before I continue relating the story of my missing pupils, I find myself returned to the New Scotland Yard site. It’s shortly after eleven o’clock in the morning on another miserable day. Before me, I see a bowler-hatted gentleman accompanied by a large terrier. The man, a London journalist named Jasper Waring, is with two police officers and his young assistant, a Mr. Joshua Pugh. Somehow he has managed to persuade officials that his hound might be of assistance in the search for more evidence. As they light their lanterns, I join the party in the mire and mud at the entrance to the vault where the torso was discovered.

  The dog is let off its leash and darts straight into the vault. Those who accompany it duck low and strain their eyes in the gloom. They can see very little and have to be guided by the animal’s snuffling. The rest of the party remains in anxious silence outside. They do not have to wait long, however, before the hound starts sniffing suspiciously at a mound of earth.

  “He’s got something,” says Waring, turning on his haunches.

  The announcement sends the small party into a flurry, but it is Mr. Pugh who suggests the next action. “A spade,” he shouts. “We need tools over here!” He signals to a couple of workmen who are nearby and they offer shovels and a pickax, as well as their labor.

  As the work proceeds, the terrier becomes even more excitable, flailing the soil with its front paws. More and more earth is flung out of the vault, until, at length, the dog seizes upon an object that is caked with damp soil.

  “Here! Bring it out here!” the officer in charge calls into the vault. Mr. Waring duly obliges, laying the object on the muddy ground outside.

  “My God!” cries the policeman as soon as the daylight illuminates the grisly discovery. It suddenly becomes startlingly clear what has so excited the hound. It has found, buried under several inches of thick Thames mud, a portion of a human leg, severed at the knee.

  CONSTANCE

  Mr. Bartleby supped with us this evening. He brought four nice chops, which we served with gravy and mash. I managed to eat mine, even though I didn’t feel like it. Afterward, Flo and I cleared away to leave Ma and her beau alone. Flo’s keen to be off to see Danny tonight. There’s something special on at the Egyptian Hall, so I’m left to my own devices. Mr. Bartleby’s given me a penny classic—the first installment of The String of Pearls. It’s about a barber called Sweeney Todd, who kills his customers and puts their meat in his pies. I’m not sure about his choice. He laughs out loud when he sees the look on my face as he hands it to me. Nevertheless, I take it and settle myself down in the kitchen, when I hear them talking. Ma’s voice is raised slightly; then she coughs. It’s clear she’s getting tetchy. So I put my ear to the door and I don’t like what I hear.

  “Is it true, Harold, what they say about George Lusk?” Ma’s known Mr. Lusk for years. They grew up on the same street. Although she’d never say it, she’s always had a bit of a soft spot for him.

  There’s a pause. I imagine Mr. Bartleby drawing on his pipe and crossing and uncrossing his legs while he thinks. After a moment, he says: “That depends what you heard, my dear.”

  There’s a small crack in the door and I squint to peer through it. I can just about make out Ma, looking all fidgety. She’s up from her chair and pacing back and forth across the hearth.

  “I heard a box was delivered to him yesterday evening in the post and that when he opened it . . .” She takes a great gulp of air. “When he opened it, inside there was . . .” She stops and brings her hands up to her mouth, unable to bring herself to utter whatever it is she wants to say.

  I tense and my mind starts racing. What in God’s name was inside the box? The answer is every bit as bad as I’d imagined.

  “Part of a kidney.” Mr. Bartleby puts her out of her misery. His voice is flat and I wonder at his calm. “He showed it to some of us this morning.”

  “So it’s true?” A horrified look pelts across Ma’s face, like a freight train hurtling toward her.

  Mr. Bartleby nods his head. “George thought it was another prank.” I knew poor Mr. Lusk has had many cruel hoaxes played on him since he fronted up the Vigilance Committee. He even felt himself being watched by an odd man with bushy whiskers. Mr. Bartleby shakes his head: “But the doctor we contacted thought it was half a human kidney.”

  My mother lets out a gasp that ends up in a wheeze. She collapses into her chair.

  Mr. Bartleby’s put out. He leans over her. “Don’t fret yourself, Patience. It’s being examined now and there are some that still say it’s a practical joke. Medical students having a bit of fun, eh?” He pats her on the arm.

  I pull away from the door and bring my shawl close round my shoulders. The bile’s risen in my throat at the thought of a kidney—a human kidney. I’m wondering if it once belonged to Catherine Eddowes, who was found missing one of hers. I lean my head in once more.

  “What do you want of me, Patience?” Mr. Bartleby’s asking. Along with his tobacco smoke, his voice is thick with frustration. He’s taken his pipe out of his mouth and he’s pointing the stem at Ma. His big, gold ring catches the candlelight and glints. “We’re doing all we can, but the police . . .”

  Ma nods. “I know,” she snaps, her hands held fast between her clenched knees as if to stop them hitting him. Then, after a moment’s thought, she switches back at him, her eyes wide. “Will this Ripper have your address, Harold? Will he?”

  “Ummgh.” Mr. Bartleby seems taken aback by this terrible thought. I am too. He sucks thoughtfully on his pipe again. “My name’s out there for all to see, I suppose,” he says finally. “But you’re not to worry. You hear, Patience?” He raises his gaze and shoots her a look like a stern father. “Ya hear?” Then he breaks into a smile.

  Ma looks at him and reaches out her hand to him. He kisses it. I ain’t seen them being tender together before and it feels queer.

  “I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you, Harold,” she tells him.

  I’m feeling more afraid than ever.

  EMILY

  Was I wrong not to involve Constance in the whole affair with Melksham? I think not. Dragging her down into the mire that eventually enveloped me would have served no purpose other to ruin her reputation as well. Yet I was soon to discover that no one can ever feel more alone than when they are concealing a most shameful secret.

  I decided to pay a visit to Commercial Street Police Station as soon as I could, while the stink of chloroform was still strong on the glove. It was evidence, I thought, if not proof, of some suspicious deed.

  The sergeant on the desk raised one of his bushy brows when he saw me, perhaps because he was not used to seeing women of my class visit his station unless they had just been robbed or assaulted. I wa
s determined to be quite rational in the face of his skepticism.

  “I wish to report something suspicious,” I began.

  He leaned closer to me, elbowing his counter. “Do you, indeed, Miss er . . .”

  “Tindall,” I told him. “Miss Emily Tindall.” I began to spell out my surname. “T, I, N . . .”

  Instead of taking down my name, however, he was quite brusque. “Hold up, miss,” he told me, lifting his forefinger. “Perhaps you’d like to tell me what worries you before we proceed.”

  I found his attitude irritating. I made certain he heard me sigh before I took out a paper bag from my reticule and presented him with the glove. I laid it on the counter. Sniffing it, I was relieved to satisfy myself that it still smelled of chloroform, albeit weaker than before.

  “A glove.” The sergeant was obviously seeking to be deliberately obtuse.

  “Can you not smell it?” I snapped. I held it up and flapped it under his nose. He did not appreciate the gesture and I immediately regretted my impetuosity. I decided to cover my foolishness by telling him the whole story straightaway, rather than play any more ridiculous games with him. “I am a Sunday school teacher. I teach children up to the age of twelve, and recently three of my female pupils have gone missing.”

  “Missing?” I thought the sergeant was suddenly interested.

  “There is a gentleman who watches the class. It has become his custom to single out girls to interview afterward—the pretty ones—then they seem to disappear. I never see them again. I—”

  I was in full flow when the sergeant stopped me. “This is Whitechapel, miss. Girls go missing all the time.” There was a smirk on his face.

  “But I worry they have been abducted,” I told him. “The chloroform on this glove . . .” I picked it up and waved it in front of him once more. He would have none of it.