by Tessa Harris
Pauline lets out a strange whimper at the thought. Her expression is one of anguish. “You have seen the body!?”
Cutler nods. “I have.”
“And? Please tell me it wasn’t her.” She has raised her hands and is clutching at her chest.
There is a pause, as if the surgeon wishes to tug at every fiber in her being before releasing her. “No, it wasn’t her,” he blurts. “It wasn’t Geraldine.”
I think Pauline will swoon. She suddenly goes limp and lowers her head to the table. One of the constables rushes to her aid, as does Constance, who puts her arm around her shoulder.
“Miss Beaufroy!” She looks up at the young constable. “Water,” she says. But Pauline points at her reticule. “I have smelling salts,” she says, and Constance rummages inside and pulls out a small vial. Uncorking it, she holds it under Pauline’s nose and she quickly revives. Blinking rapidly, she straightens her back once more.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you,” says Cutler while Pauline composes herself.
Constance retreats, shifting her weight from one side to the other. She is listening intently, reading the situation, showing great perception. Yet, she does not contribute. She is worrying me slightly.
“I am most relieved to hear that you did not identify Geraldine,” says Pauline, holding her handkerchief up to her mouth. “But I do not understand. . . .”
Both Pauline and Constance wonder, why should Cutler be arrested if he was able to confirm that the torso was not that of his wife? They are puzzled.
As if reading their minds, Cutler nods. “I can assure you I was most relieved, too. But I’m afraid the police do not believe me.”
“Oh?” queries Pauline.
“They searched Geraldine’s room. It was just routine, they told me, but they found a diary.” He fixes Pauline with a stare. “Did you know she kept a diary?”
Pauline shrugs. “Not until earlier today. No, I did not,” she tells him.
Cutler shakes his head. “Well, apparently, she did, and she wrote all manner of lies in it.” He has suddenly become aggressive. His tone is aggrieved. He is a man wronged.
“What manner of lies?”
The surgeon swallows down his rising anger. He leans forward and lowers his voice, as if in a vain attempt to exclude the prison guards from his conversation. “Mainly about me. How I hated her.” He rakes his fingers through his normally well-oiled hair. “She even accuses me of consorting with one of the whor . . .” He stops himself. “One of the women who was murdered.”
Pauline’s face, already pale, now drains completely. “The Whitechapel murders?”
Cutler nods. “The woman is mad, deluded!” He turns his head away, shaking it vigorously. His arrogance returns momentarily, as if Pauline’s reaction has emboldened him. Constance moves forward and lays a hand on her shoulder to comfort her. Pauline responds by clasping it tightly.
“I do not know what to say” is all she manages.
It is then that Cutler remarks Constance, standing behind Pauline. He has noticed her before, but evidently chose to ignore her. It is only now that he inquires about her identity.
“Who is that?” He nods his head derisorily in Constance’s direction.
Pauline glances round and beckons to her to stand nearer. “This is Miss Constance Piper,” she announces. “She is my companion.” There is a slight pause before she adds: “And she is a spirit guide.”
“What?!” Cutler’s brows shoot up in unison. He snorts. “A spirit guide! Please don’t tell me you have enlisted the help of a ”—he smirks at Constance as he searches for a word to describe her—“a fake to find Geraldine. I credited you with more wit, Pauline.”
I’m mildly offended by the rebuke. I see Constance is, too, but she is unbowed. She stands tall. Pauline remains remarkably composed. She tilts her head slightly. “You are hardly in a position to ridicule others, Terence. It seems to me you need all the help you can get—spiritual, as well as temporal—right now.”
Cutler is calm for a moment; then his features harden. He lifts his eyes to address Constance. “So what do you see in your crystal ball, eh? Me, standing on the scaffold with a noose around my neck, most like!” he sneers.
I can tell his words wound her. But will she answer him? Does she have the courage I think she has? I will her to be brave.
“The dead woman suffered from pleurisy, sir,” she tells him in an unfaltering voice.
The smirk is suddenly wiped from his face. “What?”
“I had a dream, sir.”
Instead of the expected sneer, however, Cutler is intrigued. “Go on,” he urges her.
“And in my dream, I saw your wife, lying ill in her bed carved with fishes. You and a doctor were in attendance. The doctor shook his head and told you that she was suffering from pleurisy.”
He listens, spellbound, to Constance’s words, but now he shakes his head. “My God,” he says. “You are right. There was a woman lying in that bed.”
“There was?” Pauline looks elated.
“And she had pleurisy,” he adds.
Constance sways a little and steadies herself on the table. She has been vindicated. She is shocked that her dream was no ordinary dream; it was, in Pauline’s words, a “vision.”
“But it was not Geraldine,” says Cutler.
“It wasn’t—” Pauline does not have the chance to finish her question before Terence breaks in.
“No. It was your missionary friend.” He shrugs, as if the incident were of no consequence, as if my illness and brush with death were a meaningless trifle to him. “She recovered well enough to leave us the following week.”
Constance is confused. She leans toward Pauline. “Who . . . ?” But she is waved away by a firm hand as Pauline shakes her head at her brother-in-law.
“Even so, do you believe me now, Terence? Surely, you must agree that Miss Piper is not a fake, after all.”
Cutler switches back round to her, his face set in a scowl. “For all I know, Geraldine put you up to this. You expect me to trust you and this”—he sneers at Constance—“this charlatan!?” By turn, he appears both angry and wounded. “I am the victim here,” he snaps. “I am the one being unjustly accused of these unspeakable crimes, and I am completely innocent.” He brings up his cuffed hands, jabbing at his own chest, then bangs them on the table. It is the sign for the guards to step in.
“Enough now!” barks the older constable. He nods to the other officer and together they approach Cutler, scooping their arms under his and lifting him from the chair. He does not struggle, rather I see his back stiffen.
“You have a good lawyer?” asks Pauline as Cutler is led away.
“Not good enough,” he replies ruefully, being escorted to the grille.
Time is running out. Constance remains holding back. I want her to act. I will her to ask the question of Terence. I send my thoughts to her in a great wave and suddenly she stirs.
“Mr. Cutler!” she calls.
“Have courage,” I tell her.
The constables stop by the grille. One is jangling his keys. She persists as Cutler cranes his neck and turns his head to face her. “Mr. Cutler, do you know the name of your wife’s friend? The one with pleurisy?”
“Come on, now,” scolds the older constable as he bundles his prisoner through the bars.
“Turnbull. Miss Turnbull,” he shouts as he is led away.
“Tindall,” says Pauline quietly. “It was Emily Tindall.”
The question is asked and answered. My faith is restored. Constance, however, appears in shock.
“Miss Tindall,” Constance repeats in a feeble voice.
“What is it?” asks Pauline, sensing that all is not well.
Constance seems in a daze. She lifts her face. “I know her.”
“You know Emily Tindall?”
“She is my teacher.”
“The one you were telling me about?” Now Pauline’s eyes widen at the seeming coincidenc
e. The connection has been made.
An enigmatic smile graces Constance’s lips. “Yes. Yes.” She has grown flushed with excitement. It is gratifying to see.
Pauline, her face suddenly lit up, shakes her head. “But this is incredible. I know Miss Tindall, too. We practically grew up together!” She grabs hold of Constance’s hands and clasps them tightly. “Do you know where she is?”
Such a reaction gladdens me. It is good to know that her affection for me is as deep as it ever was. I decide to act. Constance gives a little shudder, as if Pauline’s question has, once again, triggered her fears for me. She seems anxious as she folds her woolen shawl close over her breasts. And as she does so, I make her feel my presence.
“Ah!” she cries out in pain.
“My dear, what is it?” exclaims Pauline.
Constance withdraws her hand from under her ribs and holds out her forefinger. Stuck deep into the fleshy pad is a darning needle. A red bloom of blood is already rising.
CONSTANCE
The pain comes sudden and sharp. I hear myself shriek and then I see the needle that’s pricking my finger. I pull it out with my other hand and suck the blood that spreads in red rivulets down my palm.
“But you are hurt!” cries Miss Beaufroy.
“It’s nothing,” I tell her, clutching my finger. Ma must have dropped the needle on my shawl when it was on the chair, I tell myself. It is my own fault for not hanging it up. But then something else occurs to me. The idea sweeps over me, blocking all else out of my vision. My insides begin to twist and tumble. I know that a moment of great clarity is about to come upon me. Then I see it: the word written on the windowpane suddenly flashes before me, and the strange shape in the toast, too. I also remember that on our journey here, we passed a tall obelisk on the Victoria Embankment.
“That’s it!” I cry.
“That’s what?” Miss Pauline asks as I brush past her.
The constable looks alert and tenses. He can see something is wrong.
“The way out!” I say. “I need to get out of here.”
Thinking I’m going to swoon, he acts sharpish, quickly unlocking the great clanking gate and rushing to open the door that leads to the main entrance of the station. I can hear my feet pitter-patter across the tiled floor in the hall, and my heart pound in my ears; then I’m out onto the steps and onto King Street. Behind me, Miss Pauline is calling, but I ignore her. Miss Tindall is the only person in the world who matters to me right now and I know she is near. I can sense her; I can feel her. Turning right from the police building, I break into a run, heading toward the river. In a few minutes, I’m dodging cabs and carts in Covent Garden; then I’m across the road and on the embankment.
I look straight ahead of me and there it stands, tall and mystical above the traffic, Cleopatra’s Needle. Miss Tindall was trying to tell me something. The signs. They were pointing to Cleopatra’s Needle. She will be there. She must be. I can barely breathe and my legs feel like lead. I pause for a second. There are people milling all around. Porters and boot boys, nannies, pushing perambulators, and gents in bowlers. Horns are blown; men shout. I think my head will burst, but as I take a breath, I turn to my right and see her. She has just passed me, walking in the opposite direction. For a moment, I am stunned. I blink, but she remains. I have to convince myself that she is real, that she is not a vision, that she will not disappear in a bright light when I approach her, as she did in Brick Lane the other night. I start to follow her.
“Miss Tindall!” I call. She does not turn round, but I recognize her hat and the way she moves and she’s carrying her green brolly. It’s her. I know it is. “Miss Tindall!” I call again, breaking into a trot.
We’re heading toward Westminster and the pavement becomes more crowded. There’s a barrow boy, selling fruit, and a cluster of people are queuing by his stall. I try and sidestep them, but a man shoulders me and knocks me back, sending me clattering into a crate of apples, which spill all over the pavement. I don’t stop. I mustn’t, but I feel a press of people around me. I crane my neck and I can still see Miss Tindall, only she’s moving away from me fast. I can’t lose her again. Not now. Now I need her more than ever.
“Miss Tindall.”
Big Ben strikes ten o’clock as I near Westminster Bridge. I think I have lost her; then I see her hat bobbing along on the sea of humanity once more. She is turning left at the bridge. I hurry, pushing past a couple of ragamuffins, who want to get their hands in my pockets. They try to block my way. I stumble on a loose paving stone, then right myself. Where is she? I can’t lose her. I spot her once more, only this time she seems to have risen slightly above the crowd crossing the bridge. What is she doing? I stagger toward her.
“Miss Tindall!”
She cannot hear me above the din. Wagons and omnibuses clatter across the bridge. Horses neigh. People shout. Breathlessly I draw closer and then, to my horror, she is gone. Frantically I peer along the balustrade of the bridge. There is no one, only a small huddle clustering up ahead. They are looking at something, or someone. With mounting dread, I take a few steps toward the spot where the others are gathering. Their heads are angled down toward the river, but it is not the water that draws their attention. A woman has hoisted herself up over the balustrade and climbed down onto the parapet. For a moment, I freeze, trying to take in what is happening. I’m not sure if they’re goading her to jump or coaxing her to come back to the safety of the bridge. My heart is about to burst. I edge closer, tears starting to well up. It can’t be Miss Tindall. She’d never do such a thing. Never! I have to reach her. I just have to.
I make a grab for the balustrade and lean over. I see her. It is her. Her body looks so slight against the cold slate gray of the Thames. It’s hard pressed against one of the cast-iron lamp standards above a pier. With her hands behind her, she’s clinging on, but for how much longer? A sudden gust of wind blows off her hat and it falls into the river. Her hair is suddenly released like a mainsail on a ship and it flies and flaps like a brown flag in the wind. It’s only then that I realize it’s not Miss Tindall, I’m watching. It’s not Miss Tindall who’s standing on the parapet waiting to hurl herself off into the murky depths. It’s some other woman—a lady scorned in love or life, who cannot see a reason to go on, like so many in this fetid city. My heart sinks. I’ve duped myself again.
I turn, sniffing away my tears, steadying the breath that is burning my poor lungs. Then something makes me retrace my steps. It’s like a voice inside me, urging me not to abandon the woman. She may not be Miss Tindall, but she needs help, nonetheless. Behind her are the baying crowds, in front of her the blackest of rivers. Something tells me I need to show her she has a choice. I turn and elbow my way through the crowd, stamping on feet to make the people part. I draw close to her side. The way she’s standing with her arms behind her back, clutching onto the lamp stand, reminds me of Joan of Arc about to be burned at the stake. She is perhaps the same age as Miss Tindall. Perhaps a little older. Tall, too, like her, and smartly dressed. She is a lady, I can tell, and then, as the wind whips round, she turns toward me and I catch a glimpse of her face. I can hardly believe my eyes. It is the face in the photograph.
“Geraldine,” I mouth. “Mrs. Cutler!” I cry, my voice battling against the wind. “Mrs. Cutler!”
The sound reaches her ears and I see her suddenly tense. I call out again and she follows my voice. Her startled gaze latches onto mine. The crowd murmurs. The entertainment has taken a different twist.
“Here, take my hand,” I tell her, reaching toward her.
Her chest heaves. “How do you know my name?” she shouts.
“I know your sister,” I tell her. I think it’s best not to mention her husband. “She is very worried about you.” She is still, gazing down into the blackness. “Pauline,” I say.
Her eyes grow round. “Pauline,” she repeats. I see her lips lift a little at the thought of her sister.
“She has been looking for you,” I t
ell her.
“Looking for me?” She repeats my words slowly and deliberately.
“She wants to know you are safe,” I say, stretching out my hand. “Here.” I offer it to her and she grabs at it, holding it tight. Someone in the crowd puts a looped rope in my other hand. “Hold me,” I tell the broad-shouldered man standing next to me. I stretch out toward her and gently slip the loop over her head and under her arm. At least now if she jumps, or slips, she will not drown. “Come now. Easy,” I tell her. I force a smile and slowly she starts to move her feet, but there is green slime on the parapet and suddenly she loses her footing and slips. She screams. I scream. The crowd gasps.
“No!”
EMILY
Alarmed by Constance’s erratic behavior, Pauline followed her out of the police station. She saw her skirt a bookstall before disappearing down Bedford Lane. In a panic, she hurried back inside the station to enlist the help of a constable, who, in turn, summoned a cab. We join her as she travels along Victoria Embankment, past Cleopatra’s Needle, toward the Houses of Parliament. As the carriage draws closer to Big Ben, however, Pauline, her eyes trained for Constance, notices something amiss up ahead on Westminster Bridge. A crowd is clustered on the pavement and now spills out onto the road, much to the annoyance of cabdrivers being held up. She alights from her own conveyance and walks along the pavement, when she suddenly realizes the cause of the congestion. There is someone standing on the parapet of the bridge, clinging onto a lamppost. Someone is about to throw him- or herself off into the Thames. The notion suddenly seizes her, drags her by the throat and pulls her toward the melee. She does not need my thoughts or direction to know that her sister is in need of her. She ups her pace; then as soon as she knows her voice will not be wasted on the wind, she calls out. “Let me pass, please! I know her. I know this woman!”
In an instant, she draws near. “Geraldine. Oh, my dear Geraldine. Please. Come to me!” she calls out. But the wind from the river flies up and pushes back her words so they are lost. Yet, it does not matter. Geraldine’s gaze has already latched onto Constance. She has seen her and her despair melts away. Nobody hears it, but me. Nobody hears her whimper “Emily” as she reaches for her, her short cape flapping wildly around her head. My only sorrow is that she did not die that day. I wish she had. It would have been better for all.