by Tessa Harris
Cutler acknowledges the offer with a grudging nod. “Yes. I shall be very late for work.” He proceeds to make his way to the main entrance, when Detective Constable Hawkins suddenly appears at the doorway. His eyes are bright as he bobs a telling nod at his boss.
“Well, if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Cutler,” says Marshall as Hawkins approaches him.
The surgeon allows himself to take a moment before he walks toward the open door, where a police officer awaits him to arrange his transport.
“I need to get to St. Bartholomew’s,” he tells him haughtily. “And quick as you like,” he adds.
The constable is just about to do as he is bid, when a voice stops him short. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” calls Inspector Marshall from behind.
Cutler frowns and turns to see the two detectives regarding him in a very odd way. He suddenly feels disconcerted. “And why not, may I ask?”
Hawkins, newly returned from searching Geraldine Cutler’s bedroom, lifts up a leather-bound black book. “Because of this, sir,” he replies.
The surgeon screws up his eyes. “And what is that, pray?”
Inspector Marshall snatches it off his junior. “This, Mr. Cutler,” he says, leafing through the notebook, “is your wife’s diary. And it makes very interesting reading.”
The surgeon jolts backward, as if he has just been punched in the stomach. “A diary? Geraldine didn’t keep a diary!”
Inspector Marshall shakes his head. “Apparently, she did. And it seems there’s enough evidence in here to make a conviction,” he counters, holding the book aloft and glaring at the surgeon.
It’s then that the younger officer steps forward and places his hand on the surgeon’s shoulder. Cutler’s eyes dart first to Hawkins, then to Marshall in disbelief, before the junior detective utters the dreaded words.
“Terence Cutler, I am arresting you for the murder of Geraldine Cutler. Anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence against you.”
CONSTANCE
Much against my better judgment, I find myself at Miss Beaufroy’s side in a carriage heading toward Mr. Cutler’s home in Harley Street. A messenger came to our house late this afternoon. We were just sitting down to tea when there was this knock on the door. Well, when I was handed this message in front of Ma and Flo, asking for a meeting at Brown’s, I had to come clean, didn’t I? I had to tell them that I was helping Miss Pauline look for her missing sister and that she needed me urgently.
“I hope she’s paying you for all this tommyrot,” says Flo as she watches me tug on my old bonnet. There’s no time to stop off at St. Jude’s for my fancy clothes. I’ll be a Whitechapel flower girl in a toff’s town house. I squirm at the thought.
“Yes,” I lied. “She’ll pay me at the end of this week.”
“Good,” she’d said with a sneer. She’s making her feelings very plain.
It’s been nearly four weeks now since Saucy Jack last struck, but everyone’s still on edge in Whitechapel. We’re all on our guard and no respectable woman likes to be out after dark.
“You take care, now,” warns Ma, pouring herself another cup of tea.
“I will,” I say. It’s strange, but ever since my funny turn in Brick Lane, I’ve got this sense that Miss Tindall is looking out for me, wherever she is. Like she’s my guardian angel, which is silly, I know, because to be an angel you have to be dead. And she’s not dead. She can’t be dead. “I’ll be back by midnight,” I tell them.
* * *
So, here we are on our way to Harley Street. Miss Beaufroy’s right vexed, but she says she knows how to find out one way or the other if her sister is alive or dead. At first, I don’t press her, but I can tell she’s got something up her sleeve. And then, just as we turn down the street, it all comes out.
“You remember, dear Constance, we spoke about a séance.”
“A séance?” I repeat. And then I do remember. Back in Brown’s Hotel, it was. And now it doesn’t seem such a good idea.
She’s matter-of-fact. “We shall hold it in my sister’s bedroom. We shall try and contact her.”
I’m inclined to holler at the cabdriver to turn round and take me straight home this instant. If I was Madame Morelli, it wouldn’t be a problem. I’d sit in a darkened room and say I could see Geraldine and even speak with her. But I’m not. I’m no charlatan. You won’t catch me going into one of them fancy cabinets, or spewing ecto . . . ectoplasm, or whatever it’s called. If it’s theatricals she wants, she’s best off going to the Egyptian Hall, or paying her money to see the famous Florence Cook turn into Katie King. I don’t believe in all that nonsense. Floating hands and heavenly voices, indeed! I can’t perform like a circus pony, and I don’t know any tricks like these fraudsters do. But how do I tell her that? I say nothing.
It’s five o’clock and dark when we arrive at the Cutler household. Miss Beaufroy knocks and is answered by a maid she seems to know well.
“Dora, is your master in?” she says, blustering into the hallway. I follow behind.
It’s clear for all to see that this maid, Dora, has been crying. Her eyes are red and underneath they’re puffy as plumped-up cushions.
“Oh, miss!” she wails.
“What on earth is it?” asks Miss Beaufroy. “What has happened?”
“The police came, miss,” she sobs. “They asked the master to go to the mortuary.”
Miss Beaufroy gasps. “Oh, dear Lord!” she mutters. She closes her eyes for a second, then asks Dora: “Where is Mrs. Jones?” She looks at me. “The housekeeper,” she explains.
“She went out,” simpers the maid. “She’s visiting her sick aunty and won’t be back till late and it’s Cook’s night off.”
“Good, so you’re alone?”
The girl nods. “That I am, miss.”
Miss Beaufroy nods. “It’s probably for the best.” She darts a look at me. “Then we must get to work quickly.” Suddenly she sounds feisty, like she’s up for a fight, but I’m not ready for how she introduces me to the maid. “Dora, this is Miss Piper and she is a spirit medium.”
She’s never called me that before. I’m not sure I like it. A spirit medium. I roll the words round on my tongue silently: “A spirit medium.” But they prickle, like so many thorns. They feel uncomfortable. I know what this “work” is, too, and I’m not happy about it.
“Come along, Constance,” she tells me, motioning to the stairs. “Dora will lead the way.”
We traipse up the stairs behind the maid, who’s holding a lit candle. There are gas lamps on the stairs and on the landing. I’ve never seen them in a private house before. I think this Mr. Cutler must be very rich.
Dora stops outside a door and looks behind her for reassurance. Miss Beaufroy gives her a wordless nod and the girl opens it into a bedroom. The door creaks on its hinges, making me shudder. We stand on the threshold, our own shadows creep onto the floor, making us look like tall ghouls. Dora edges in farther, her candle aloft, and my eyes grow accustomed to the gloom. But as I look about me, a shudder suddenly darts down my spine, as if someone is running icy fingers along my backbone. It’s because I’ve suddenly realized that this is the very room I saw in my dream. I clap eyes on the bed. It’s the one—the one with the carved fish and shells. In a panic, my head whirls round to the window. There’s the chaise longue under it. The dressing table, too, with a mirror stand on top. And the smell. That perfume. I sniff the air. Yes, I have been here before, in my mind, and it scares me.
“My dear Constance. Are you quite well?” I hear Miss Beaufroy’s voice by my left ear, but it sounds far away, like she’s in the next room. Quickly I shake my head.
“Yes. Yes, thank you, miss,” I say.
“Good,” she replies, and she takes off her gloves, lays them down on a nearby chest of drawers and begins to direct Dora.
In the diffused light from the gasoliers on the landing, the maid shifts a small table in front of the chaise longue. On it, she sets down the single cand
le in its holder. As the candle flickers, strange shadows leap into life around the room. There’s another small button-back chair by the fireplace and I drag it up to the table, too. Miss Beaufroy bids us both to sit.
Dora’s not happy. “Me, miss?” asks the girl in a strangled whisper. I can see her eyes are wide with terror. “But, miss, I . . .”
“Come, Dora. Surely, you want to help us find your mistress?”
“Yes, miss, but . . .”
“Then don’t be so ridiculous and sit down. No harm can come to you.”
Reluctantly the maid, trembling like a leaf, does as she is told.
“Close the door, Constance,” orders Miss Pauline. I obey.
* * *
My action has plunged the room into almost complete darkness. I edge my way back to the table, guided by the light from the flickering candle. I take my place opposite them. I am so nervous that I think I will be sick all over the floor. I am not a fraud. Everything that I have felt and seen is real—to me, at least. I cannot conjure spirits from thin air any more than I can conjure a rabbit from a hat. I want to cry out, to tell Miss Beaufroy that this is a mistake. She’s been reading too many novels by Mr. Poe and Mr. Collins; ghostly apparitions and disembodied skulls are not real. Instead, I bite my lip.
“Let us hold hands,” says Miss Beaufroy. She leans over the table and I feel Dora’s clammy fingers clasp mine. She’s still shaking. Miss Beaufroy’s hands, on the other side, are dry and her hold is firm, as if she’s determined I won’t be able to escape her clutches. “Constance, it’s up to you now. You must make contact.”
I feel my chest tighten. I have no idea what to do, other than close my eyes and think of Mrs. Cutler. I remember her photograph—her hair and the line of her jaw. I picture her in my mind’s eye and hope an image might suddenly appear.
“Mrs. Cutler,” I say. My voice sounds thin, like watery broth. “Geraldine,” I call, only a little louder. Silence. “If you are there, please let us know.” I hate myself for what I am about to say, but say it I must. “Knock on the table if you can hear us.” I hold my breath. Dora lets out a little squeal. The candle flame sputters. Nothing. Outside a fox barks. It’s an unearthly sound, like a howl from the grave. We sit firm. Still nothing. I try again. “Mrs. Cutler. Are you there?”
In the darkness, Miss Beaufroy lets out a sigh so heavy that she almost blows out the candle flame. Is she getting tetchy with me?
“Geraldine, it’s Pauline,” she says in a low voice. “If you can hear us, then please give us a sign.”
I’m tempted to kick the table leg or crack my toe joints, like I’ve heard some mediums do, to fake a spirit visit, but I resist. Still, nothing, apart from the oppressive blackness of the room that feels like it’s growing smaller by the second. I don’t want to be part of this madness anymore.
“She’s not there,” I say a few moments later. “I can’t feel her.” My words slice into the darkness and break the spell. I uncouple my hands from Miss Beaufroy’s and from Dora’s and lean back. Dora wastes no time in rushing to the door and opening it, letting the light from the landing flood back in.
“She’s not there,” repeats Miss Beaufroy. But she isn’t angry. In the candle glow, I see she looks calm. “She’s not there,” she says again.
“I can’t hear her,” I say, as if I feel the need to explain myself again.
“But don’t you see, that’s a good thing,” counters Miss Beaufroy.
“Is it?” I ask. I don’t follow her. I can’t understand why she’s not angry with me.
“If you can’t reach her on the other side, perhaps it’s because she’s not there,” she says, patting my hand.
I pause for a moment, taking in what she’s just told me. “You mean she’s not dead?”
I see her lips curl in a smile. “Could not that be the case? Geraldine may not be dead.”
The thought is such a relief that I hear a little laugh escape from my mouth. “Maybe not!” I seize on the idea like a hungry dog on a bone. “Maybe she’s alive and well.”
Miss Beaufroy nods, but then I see her expression switch suddenly. She turns away, picturing another scene. A moment later, she asks: “What if she has been kidnapped? Or tortured? Or both?”
Dora lets out another horrified squeal. I think Miss Beaufroy’s imagination has been fired by those Gothic novels where brides are banged up in dungeons or locked in spiked coffins.
“Lord save us” is all I manage.
Miss Beaufroy rises from the table. “Perhaps we should resume another time. The conditions are obviously not right tonight,” she suggests, as if she’s just been chairing a business meeting that hasn’t gone well.
I’m eager to follow her lead. “Another time,” I say, even though I really hope there won’t be another.
I start to make my way toward the door. Dora has already reached the landing and Miss Beaufroy is walking by my side when she suddenly grabs hold of my hand. “We will find her, won’t we?” she pleads, her eyes so urgent they almost burn my face.
Yes,” I reply, a little taken aback. “Of course.”
From out of the corner of my vision, I see that in her haste to depart the room, Dora has left the flame burning on the table. As Miss Beaufroy continues onto the landing, I retreat once again into the gloomy room to retrieve the candle. Swiftly I snuff it out and begin to make my way back toward the door. Just as I do so, I pass the dressing table and glance into the mirror. Something makes me stop in front of it for a moment. My warm breath mists the surface; but then, just as quickly, it clears. As I stare into the dark glass, I suddenly become aware that it is not my reflection that stares back. Someone else is regarding me from inside the mirror. Someone I know. Instead of me, I see Miss Tindall gazing out. She’s right there. Looking at me. I reach for her, trying to touch her. “Miss Tindall,” I call, the glass cold beneath my fingers. I see her lips move, as if she is trying to tell me something, but then the mist returns. In the blink of an eye, she’s gone and I’m alone again.
CHAPTER 27
Saturday, October 27, 1888
EMILY
I will have to tell her soon, although I know she has a notion. She was calm when I stared out at her from the looking glass. She neither took fright nor swooned, as I feared she might. I must tell her the whole story very shortly, but not just yet. For now, we must away to the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police’s A Division in King Street. Or, more precisely, to a room within it. It is small. Deliberately so, I suspect. It enables the interrogator to skirt the small table with just enough berth so as not to touch the prisoner. But Terence Cutler can feel Inspector Marshall, all right. He looms over him, smells his stale breath on his neck and the reek of tobacco on his coat.
There is a single small window high up in the bare brick wall. Three vertical bars stripe the gray London sky. It is morning and the surgeon has spent his first night in a police cell, deprived of both freedom and sleep. He is a man of secrets. However, in this cramped space, where the walls are covered in mildew and the corners festooned with cobwebs, there is nowhere to hide. He fears his secrets will slip through his fingers like sand eels.
Seated opposite him at the table is a young constable who is taking down his words in a neat, but labored, hand. Inspector Marshall is relentless in his questioning. “So you had no idea that your wife kept a journal, let alone what she might have written in it?” He is wearing a heavy overcoat as he paces round and round, flapping the diary in his hand. The temperature in the room is barely above freezing; yet there are beads of sweat on Terence Cutler’s forehead.
“I told you. None at all.”
Marshall huffs, then nods. “It is hardly surprising, given the contents of it,” he acknowledges. “Let me read you an extract. It is a sort of foreword, if you like, before she starts making entries.” He produces a monocle from his waistcoat pocket and reads, “ ‘To whoever may find this diary: If you are reading this, then it is likely I am dead.’
“What
say you to that, eh, Mr. Cutler?” The inspector closes the journal and bends low so that his face is no more than two inches away from the surgeon’s.
Cutler lifts his red-rimmed eyes to meet his inquisitor’s. His gaze is unflinching. “I’d say they are the ramblings of a poor, deluded woman who intends to take her own life, sir, and you and your men would be better off looking for her rather than detaining me here.”
“Would you, indeed?” Marshall flips open the journal once more at a place he has previously marked with a length of string. “And what about this? ‘Friday, April fifteenth: We lunched with the Pattersons. We saw their new baby son, Raymond, for the first time. He was adorable, but I must confess that seeing him upset me very much. I saw the look in Terence’s eyes as he watched the child grasp hold of his father’s forefinger and hold it tight. Then he looked at me and I swear I saw contempt in his expression.’ ” The inspector slams the journal shut. “Contempt, Mr. Cutler. It’s a strong word. Did you have contempt for your barren wife?”
The surgeon shuts his eyes for a moment, as if to blink away this nightmare that he is living through. “Of course, I didn’t,” he hisses.
“It’s ironic, is it not, that in your profession you assist women to conceive and yet you are unable to help your own wife?”
The jibe is a cruel one. Cutler does not rise to the bait. “The irony is not lost on me, Inspector.”
“And you don’t deny that your marriage wasn’t a happy one?” Marshall thrusts in the knife with an easy jab.
Cutler pauses, rather touchingly, I think, before he replies: “We were happy at first.”
The inspector nods. “Ah, yes. The brooch.” He signals to the constable to unwrap the small packet lying on the table. He picks it up and holds it to the window to catch what little daylight there is. He squints to read the inscription: To dearest Geraldine on the occasion of our marriage, 3rd June 1882. Forever, TC. He completes another circuit of the table in silence. “TC,” he states. “That’s you, yes?”