The Sixth Victim

by Tessa Harris

  CONSTANCE

  Today I am not myself. I do not mean I am ill, although I may be. I simply feel different. It’s as if all the nerves in my brain have suddenly connected and I can make sense of things that held no meaning for me before. I suddenly know things, too. I know how to deport myself, how to hold a teacup, how to be a lady.

  I am also in a different place. Another world, peopled by fine ladies who hold their shoulders back and titter politely and say things like, “Oh, my goodness” and “Simply marvelous.” There are potted palms and long mirrors and a string quartet plays in the corner. I know I should feel like a fish out of water, surrounded by all these toffs who are savvy about minding their p’s and q’s, but I don’t. I feel right at home.

  We—that is Miss Beaufroy and I—are sitting in the elegant Victoria Tea Rooms, just round the corner from Westminster Abbey and a few paces away from the Sessions House. The tables are covered in starched linen cloths and the bone china is the very finest. All about us, people are nibbling chocolate cake or smothering scones in jam and cream, but we’re in no mood to eat. Not after what we’ve just heard. Miss Beaufroy orders a pot of Darjeeling.

  I don’t just feel different. I look different, too. Instead of my usual woolen shawl, I’m wearing a smart jacket, and my old linsey dress has been replaced by one made of taffeta, with a frill round the hem. I’m even trying to get used to a bustle, although it’s hard to sit down. And I’m wearing gloves, like every other lady in the place. Miss Beaufroy has kitted me out so that I look like a fitting companion for her, on the outside, at least.

  I catch sight of myself in the mirror and I hardly recognize me in my new attire. I appear older, more self-assured, and, of course, I am no longer marked out by my clothes as a working girl. For a moment, I even think I have a look of Miss Tindall about me—the way I hold my head, the way I smile. But then I dismiss the thought—how foolish I am.

  The notebook lies open on the table between us, and Miss Beaufroy is glancing at it and frowning. “The description is of Geraldine,” she says, shaking her head. “Over twenty-five years of age, a well-nourished woman, fair skin and dark hair. No indications that she had borne a child, tall, not used to manual labor.” She steels herself to say it. “It is she.”

  I, on the other hand, am not convinced. I glance around me before I pipe up: “It’s her and at least a thousand other ladies in London.” She seems a little taken aback by my forthrightness. I still have a long way to go to be a real lady, I know.

  She pauses for a moment, as if she’s just thought of something important, then reaches for her portmanteau.

  “Here,” she says, handing me a small photograph.

  I see a round-faced woman with a strong jaw. Her hair is dark and curled over her forehead. She reminds me a little of Miss Tindall—similar eyes, that same faraway look. I smile and hand it back after I’ve saved the image in my head. “There is a certain likeness with you,” I tell her, although I don’t say that Miss Beaufroy is by far the prettier of the two sisters.

  “May I?” I ask, politely this time, as I point to the notebook. She slides it over to me and I scan the neat writing. As she sips her tea, I thumb through the notes she took at the earlier proceedings. She watches me inquisitively; yet there’s a calm acceptance in her manner. It is as if she is confident that I will find the needle she has missed in this haystack of evidence. She is putting her faith in me. I read Dr. Bond’s detailed description of the woman’s torso. It contains words that are new to me: “incisions,” “debris” and “preservation,” but somehow I understand their meaning. It’s as if someone is translating them for me in my head. Less than a minute later, something strikes me.

  “No uterus,” I say. It’s a word I’ve never said before. It sounds queer bouncing off my tongue.

  Miss Beaufroy looks shocked and glances about her, hoping no one else heard me.

  Not to be put off, I jab at the page. “Annie Chapman and Catherine Eddowes had theirs cut out, too.” There is no refined way of putting it.

  Miss Beaufroy whispers her startled response. “So you think the same maniac, this Jack . . .”

  “It’s possible,” I reply.

  Another minute passes. She’s jotted down the ramblings from some of the workmen. Most of them swore the torso was not there the day before, but Dr. Bond disputes that. He said that “decomposition” must have happened in the vault. And I know, for a fact, that it was crawling with maggots. It’s then that I suddenly hunch over the page and my eyes latch onto a word in the notes, and it’s as if my finger is being guided toward a certain passage: The victim had suffered from severe pleurisy. I point to the phrase, then look up.

  Miss Pauline meets my gaze with wide eyes. “I quite forgot.”

  “So, did she?”

  “Have pleurisy?”

  “Yes. Did your sister have pleurisy?”

  “No. I don’t believe so.” Miss Beaufroy shakes her head. “She had a slight cough the last time I saw her, but then don’t most people who live in London?”

  Of course, she was right. My own dear mother and my sister were testament to that. The smog was no respecter of age or class.

  I feel excited. “Then this is good news. The woman in the vault did suffer from pleurisy. Look here, it says, ‘one lung was healthy, but the other lung was adherent.’ ” My mouth widens into a smile. “Don’t you see? It’s a negative proof. It’s not your sister.” I hear the words coming from my mouth and I can’t believe I am saying them. I’m talking like a scientist now.

  Miss Beaufroy smiles, too. “You’re right,” she says excitedly. “She is so like the description given in every other respect, except in the most telling of all.”

  “Exactly!” I cry.

  She lunges forward and grasps hold of both my hands.

  “I can’t tell you how happy this makes me,” she says, her eyes clamped onto mine.

  “Me too,” I say, and suddenly we are united in a shared moment of relief and joy.

  I fear, however, it is short-lived.

  CHAPTER 24

  Tuesday, October 23, 1888

  EMILY

  Terence Cutler is taking his weekly clinic in the Whitechapel Workhouse Infirmary. It’s toward the end of the evening and he’s craving a brandy. He’s seen the usual string of unfortunates with their repulsive complaints—their rashes and warts and chancres. There are those who regularly poison themselves, too, sluicing out their intimate and much-abused orifices with warm water mixed with alum and sulphate of zinc. They come to him when all else fails; these poor, pathetic creatures are so utterly without hope. Young and old women alike lift up their skirts and splay their legs for him as if they were simply opening their mouths so he can examine their tonsils. His mind sometimes drifts to that young girl, Molly. He regrets asking her name. It comes back to haunt him far too often.

  Now that Jack’s stalking Whitechapel, however, the women come to him with a new ailment. Fear. Many of them are worried sick. Yet, sometimes he’s tempted to think they deserve all the ills that befall them. He knows of some men who even applaud this Ripper character because he’s helping to rid the streets of such filth. They certainly agree with that sentiment at his club, despite the fact that several of its members often avail themselves of the women’s services on a drink-fueled evening, then complain of burning groins a few days later. But then, he tells himself, it’s far easier to appear to have principles than to live by them.

  So he’s tended to the usual stream of wretches and is about to tell the midwife that he’ll only see one more, when his next patient causes him to say her name out loud. “Mary Kelly!” he exclaims, his voice tinged with surprise, or is it delight?

  Certainly not many of his gentlemen acquaintances would turn their noses up at Mary Jane Kelly, given the chance. Whereas most of the women Cutler treats wear the scars of the street on their drink-bloated faces, Mary Kelly is still pretty enough. With her fair hair, large blue eyes and clear skin, she’s the darling of
the whores. Despite her Irish name, she’s spent years in Wales and speaks with the singsong dialect of the Valleys. She’d married a miner, but her husband had been killed in a pit accident and she’d eventually found her way to London and into the mean streets of Whitechapel. Earlier in the year, she’d come to him, asking for an abortion. He had duly obliged—for a fee, of course. Then, last month, he had seen her again; her face all bloodied as she sought help at the infirmary. He assumed that her common-law husband, and the one she claimed was responsible for her unwanted child—although she could not possibly be certain—was to blame for her injuries. Like most men of his ilk, Joseph Barnett—no relation, of course, to the Reverend Samuel—is a bully and a brute whose idea of sport is to beat a woman until he draws blood. And for some reason, Mary Kelly tolerates him, although not for much longer. But tonight, at any rate, sees her back at the Whitechapel Workhouse Infirmary once again.

  “Miss Kelly,” he says more formally. Instead of her usual jaunty air, however, her shoulders are slumped and there’s a sheepish look on her face, he notes. “Take a seat.”

  Her movements are slow, labored even. She nods by way of acknowledgment, but does not speak at first.

  The surgeon regards her face with a professional eye. “Your injuries have healed well,” he remarks. She never wears a hat, so it is easy to see her cheek that needed dressing a little over a month ago.

  Mary touches her jaw lightly. “Yes, sir,” she mumbles.

  Cutler leans forward over the desk and softens his tone. “But I dare say you have come to see me on another matter.”

  She swallows hard and bites her lips. “I’m in the club again, sir,” she says, her cheeks flushing pink.

  He’d guessed it the moment she’d walked in, of course.

  “I see.” He pauses. It is not his place to judge, but he does and he despairs. He waits for her to continue. He wants to make her feel uncomfortable, ashamed.

  “The pennyroyal didn’t work,” she tells him, spitting out the words in a sudden show of panic. Her lips tremble. Her eyes dip to the floor.

  “How far gone are you?”

  “I ain’t been on the rag for five months.” A tear rolls down her cheek.

  “Five months?” He tuts and shakes his head. “You are too far, Mary,” he tells her, abandoning all formality.

  Her face puckers. “What? No!” She lurches forward and slaps her hand on his desk. “I can’t be. You did it before!” Her voice is warped with anger.

  Cutler is forced to retreat into his chair. “That is precisely why, Mary. Less than six months ago. It is too dangerous to do it again, so soon.” He meets her gaze as she glowers at him over the desk. But then her shoulders heave in a sudden sob and she takes a step back.

  “I’ve got the money.” She pulls out a handful of coins from her tatty apron pocket. One by one, she counts them out on the desk. “Two, three, four shillings. There. I’ve got enough, see.” Her voice is as bitter as aloe.

  Cutler remains unmoved. He shakes his sandy head and strokes his moustache in thought. “The money is irrelevant, Mary.” His tone is conciliatory. “We are talking about your life.”

  A curious smile curls her lips and suddenly she rises from her chair. “My life?” she snorts. “I know it’s already over, either way.” She punches her own belly with her fist. Her simmering anger mounts. “There’s not enough to feed just me, let alone a babe. I’ll die this winter, Mr. Cutler, and there’s the truth of it.” With a look of despair on her face, she pivots and storms out of the room without so much as a backward glance.

  Cutler watches her bluster toward the door and slam it behind her. He rolls his eyes; then he slumps forward on his desk, hiding his face in his hands. He cannot blame her. He has seen it all before, but it never gets any easier. Time and again, he asks himself why he works among these godforsaken women without hope of redemption. It’s hardly for the money, although the extra does come in handy to service Geraldine’s extravagant tastes in French perfume and fashionable hats. He plunges back into his chair and strokes his moustache in thought. Perhaps it’s because there is something deep within him that tells him he needs to leave a legacy to this wicked world. He cannot father a child with his wife, so he is compelled to compensate for such inadequacy in his own small way. And that is when the idea suddenly strikes him. I see his eyes light up, like an electric bulb. A thought has planted itself in his head and he drums his fingers on the desk. His plans will take shape over the course of the next two weeks. He will ruminate and procrastinate. And he will grab the opportunity when it arises. Yes, his idea is a small seed, but soon it will germinate. And it involves the desperate young woman who has just flown from his surgery in such mortal danger.

  CHAPTER 25

  Thursday, October 25, 1888

  CONSTANCE

  “Well, hark at you!” Flo sizes me up and down as I walk through the door and I wonder why. I freeze to the floor. “Aren’t you the lady?” she mocks.

  Ma squints up from her sewing by the hearth. She’s wearing her spectacles and peers over the top of them to get a better look. “What nice boots, dear,” she says.

  I follow her eyes and look down at my feet to see I’m still wearing the pretty Tavistock button boots. My heart sinks. I thought I was being so careful, but I’ve forgotten to take them off. I’d left home that morning in my old clothes. I’d made up some excuse about helping Old Joe Marsden’s wife shift some of her fruit and veg. Only I didn’t, of course. I met Miss Beaufroy at a ladies’ outfitters and she footed the bill for my new togs. On my return, I stopped off at St. Jude’s and changed back into my old clothes, which I’d hidden at the back of the cupboard where we keep the Sunday school books. I wasn’t ready to tell Ma and Flo, you see. It’s probably because I don’t really believe what’s happened myself, but now I feel I owe them some sort of an explanation. Even if it is a lie.

  “A lady at the church was giving them out,” I tell them. “Fancy, aren’t they?”

  “I’ll say,” chimes in Flo. “Too fancy for Whitechapel, at any rate.”

  I’m saved by a knock at the door. We all jump, but then we hear a familiar voice.

  “Have no fear, dear ladies!” It’s Mr. Bartleby. I glance at the clock on the mantelpiece. Six o’clock. He’s come for his weekly tea.

  I’m nearest the door, so I open it and greet him. I even manage a smile.

  “Come in, Mr. Bartleby,” I say.

  As he enters, he brings with him a cold, smoggy blast from the street, which sets Ma coughing again. He hands her the box he’s carrying.

  “Bakewell tart,” he tells her with a wink. She titters and coughs even harder.

  “Put it on a plate, there, Flo,” she directs as soon as she gets her breath back. Flo obeys.

  I help Mr. Bartleby off with his big coat and relieve him of the Evening News he’s carrying under his arm. I catch sight of the headline: THE QUEEN AND THE EAST END MURDERS. He tracks my gaze.

  “You signed the petition, didn’t ya, Connie?” he asks tongue in cheek.

  “I heard about it,” I say, hanging his coat on the peg. I know a group calling itself the Women of the East End has managed to get over four thousand signatures on their petition to close all brothels.

  “Bunch of gospel-grinders, if you ask me,” butts in Flo.

  “Nobody did, dear,” says Ma, waddling through to the kitchen.

  “If they close all the knocking shops, then where will all the toffs go?” Flo carries on with a snigger.

  The table is already set, so we bid our guest to sit and offer him a stout. I go and fetch the pot of a stew from the range. Flo brings the plates and ladles out the dumplings and gravy and a few scrag end bits of meat.

  Our talk is of the murders, of course. The inquest into poor Liz Stride opened today. Then we get onto what Mr. Bartleby labels “the business.” That’s when we show him what we’ve pilfered over the week, but it’s slim pickings tonight. He’s looking at a gold watch, a cuff link and a bra
celet.

  “This all?” he asks, taking out his loop from his waistcoat pocket.

  “It’s quiet these days. People don’t loiter on the streets no more,” protests Flo.

  “Two shillings the lot,” he says, flinging down the cuff link. Clearly, he’s not impressed. He drums his fingers on the table as if to say what’s next, then spies the newspaper he’s left on the arm of the chair and draws it toward him.

  “‘Suicide caused by dreams of Jack the Ripper,’” he reads out loud. “What’s this?”

  “Read it to us, will ya, Con?” urges Flo.

  I clear my throat and begin. “ ‘An inquest was held at Sheffield, yesterday, on the body of Mrs. Theresa Unwin, who committed suicide on Monday morning by cutting her throat.’ ”

  “Poor dear,” says Ma, shaking her head.

  “Go on,” says Flo, elbows on the table.

  “ ‘Her husband, a man of private means, said his wife had for some time been low-spirited, and on Monday morning she told him that she had had a nasty dream, and thought “Jack the Ripper” was after her. A little while afterward, Mrs. Unwin was found dead with her throat cut. A verdict of temporary insanity was returned.’ ”

  I look up to see Mr. Bartleby with an odd grin on his face. “A nasty dream, eh?” He chortles; I frown. “You ’ad one o’them, just before the Saucy Jack downed two in one night, didn’t ya, Con?”

  My head darts to Flo and I feel betrayed. She glances down. At least she feels bad about it, I tell myself.

  “Yes.” I jut out my chin to show I’m not ashamed. “I did have a dream about the murders, as it happens. It’s all this gruesome talk.” I try to brush it off.

  Mr. Bartleby cocks his head and fixes me with a stare. “You better watch yourself, my girl,” he warns. “We don’t want you ending up with your throat cut, un’ all.” He draws his forefinger across his neck and sticks out his tongue.

  “Harold!” exclaims Ma. She’s shocked by his behavior. I think we all are, even Flo.