The Sixth Victim

by Tessa Harris

  CHAPTER 30

  Wednesday, October 31, 1888

  CONSTANCE

  As I lie in the lumpy bed at home, I think I might be losing my mind. The books I read are full of women who have: Mrs. Rochester in Jane Eyre, poor Miss Havisham in Great Expectations and Mr. Collins’s Woman in White. I think I am joining them. I am Alice down a rabbit hole. Colors are sharper. I see things differently. Shapes are better defined. Certain objects fall into clearer relief. It’s as if my physical world is mirroring my mind. There is lucidity. There is enlightenment. I keep turning over the past few days in my head—my dreams, the strange happenings. Do I really have the power to see into the future, or have I imagined everything?

  There are so many things that don’t make sense to me. Why did Mrs. Cutler try to kill herself, and how did I manage to save her just in time? Did I lead Miss Beaufroy to her, or would she have found her, anyway? If the torso in the vaults isn’t Mrs. Cutler, then who is it? Did the poor victim die by the same hand as the women of Whitechapel? And, most important, where, oh where, is Miss Tindall? There are so many questions that are whirling around in my brain, and yet I can’t help wondering how I became involved in the whole terrible saga in the first place.

  Or have I just imagined everything?

  EMILY

  We shall leave dear Constance to ponder, while you and I make our way to Whitechapel. Or, more precisely, to Miller’s Court. It’s only a few streets away from Constance’s home in White’s Row and it is where Mary Kelly lives with her lover Joseph Barnett. This Barnett is not a bad man, not truly bad, although he is inclined to drinking and subsequent violent behavior. He and Mary met when he was a porter at Billingsgate Fish Market. They began to cohabit shortly afterward and have lived in various rented rooms in the area. A few weeks ago, however, Joseph lost his job; since then, he and Mary have quarreled incessantly. Tonight, however, she is hoping they will not row, for she has some important news to tell him. Mary hopes it will please him.

  Joseph has been tramping around Whitechapel all day, looking for work. He’s tired and he’s had a couple of pints. Returning to the cramped and drafty single room he shares with Mary, he slumps onto the chair in the corner. She eases off his boots for him.

  “There, there, my love,” she soothes as she rubs his sore feet.

  He reaches out and strokes her blond hair as she does so. It feels thick to the touch and coarse like rope.

  There’s a loaf on the table and a wedge of cheese. “Let’s eat, shall we?” she says, heaving herself up from the floor.

  Joseph cocks his head. “Bring it over ’ere,” he grunts.

  She goes to the table and, taking the long knife, cuts a thick slice of bread for him and a second, thinner slice for herself before putting both slices onto wooden platters. Next she cuts into the wedge of cheese and lays it on the bread. She hands the plate to Joseph and sits opposite him on the corner of the bed. He tucks into the food with gusto, as if it’s his last meal. Mary, on the other hand, is more circumspect. She watches him for a moment and he feels her eyes on him. He looks up, his mouth full.

  “What’s up with you?” he asks. A sodden ball of crumbs escapes from his lips as he speaks.

  Mary pauses. It’s as good a time as any, she thinks. “I’m with child, Joseph.”

  For a moment, he says nothing, but continues to chew his bread and cheese. Then, looking her straight in the eye, he asks: “Is it mine?”

  She’s not sure, but she nods. “Yes,” she tells him.

  She thinks he’ll be all right. It’ll take a while, but she thinks he’ll get used to the idea. But she’s wrong. Suddenly he throws down the platter to the floor and leaps up from his chair.

  “You stupid slut!” he screams at her, and slaps her so hard across the face that she’s knocked back onto the bed.

  Momentarily stunned, she rights herself and rubs her cheek. “It’s yours, I said!” she protests.

  Joseph paces up and down. “I don’t care whose it is. Get rid of it!” He picks up one of his boots and hurls it at her. She swerves to avoid the missile and it hits the window, smashing the glass. It’s followed, a second later, by a platter. It breaks another pane.

  Huffing like an angry bull, Joseph stoops to pick up a leather bag from under the bed, then unhooks his coat from the back of the door. He hobbles on one foot as he wrestles to put on a boot. The other remains outside. He flings wide the door.

  “Don’t go, Joe!” calls Mary, launching herself at him. But he pushes her back again onto the bed without another word and walks away.

  She remains prone for the next few minutes, sobbing. Of course, they’ve rowed before, but not like that. She wonders if she’ll see him again and her sobs grow louder. Soon they break into wails; meanwhile, all around her, the air in the room grows increasingly cold as the night air creeps in through the broken windowpanes.

  CHAPTER 31

  Friday, November 2, 1888

  CONSTANCE

  I sit in the tearoom of Brown’s Hotel, dressed in my new smart clothes and surrounded by opulence and luxury. I am that different person again, the one who is self-assured, composed, knowledgeable. The East End flower seller is nowhere to be seen. My pale cheeks are subtly rouged; my lank hair swept under a stylish hat and my ragged petticoat is hidden underneath a full taffeta skirt. I am even wearing gloves to hide the telltale chapping on my hands. I fit in well with my surroundings. No one tried to turn me back at the door and out onto the street when I arrived today. I am perfectly at ease among the coiffed and perfumed ladies and gentlemen of the West End who sit at the tables surrounding me.

  Presently I am joined by Miss Beaufroy. I rise to greet her, a habit borne from years of being lowly and deferential. She looks a little drawn, a little flustered, too. She raises her hand to bid me to sit, then catches the eye of a passing waiter and orders tea for us both.

  “My dear Constance, forgive me for being late, but I bring news.” Her delivery is fast. She loosens the fur stole about her shoulders and lowers herself down onto her chair amid a waft of lavender.

  “Mrs. Cutler?”

  “Yes, indeed.” She removes her gloves.

  “How is she?”

  “Well enough, but exhausted, of course.” She shakes her head. “Her mind . . .”

  “And Mr. Cutler?”

  “He has returned to Harley Street, poor man. He seems to be bearing up, but obviously he has endured a terrible ordeal.” She throws her naked hands up in a gesture of incredulity; then she leans forward toward me. “I have suggested that as soon as Geraldine is ready that she returns home with me to Sussex. Just for a few weeks, to rest. She has been through so much.” She pauses reflectively. “We all have.”

  I wonder how Mr. Cutler will react to his wife. Will he take her back after the way she has behaved? Could he find it in his heart to forgive her for those lies she made up about him in her diary that led to his arrest? The woman is so obviously sick in the mind that he could surely not be blamed if he shunned her or even had her committed to an asylum. I say nothing, but nod in agreement. We have, indeed, been through so much, and my own personal quest is far from over.

  Tea arrives and Miss Beaufroy takes charge.

  “Milk?” she asks.

  “Please.”

  “Sugar?” The tongs are poised in her hand.

  The old me wants six lumps. I crave the sweetness. “Two, please,” I say.

  She pours the brew in silence and I take the opportunity to raise the burning question that has been playing on my mind for the past two days, ever since I found out. “You say you know Miss Tindall, miss. Miss Emily Tindall?”

  A quirk of her lips signifies fond memories. “Ah, yes,” she says, handing me my cup. “Dear Emily. We were neighbors as children. We even shared a governess.”

  “Is that so?” I say, intrigued. I feel the blood draining from my face.

  “And you?”

  I know this can’t simply be a coincidence. “She was my Sunday
school teacher, first, then she became . . .” I trail off. I am about to say a friend, but that is not right. She was not a friend. She was—is—more. She was a mentor, an inspiration. She was a mother and a sister to me. I felt as close to her as the gloves on my hands, and still do, but since she disappeared, I have felt bereft.

  “Yes?” Miss Beaufroy presses me.

  “My private tutor,” I say. I can’t believe the words that have tumbled from my mouth, as if they have not come from me at all; it is as if they were put there by someone else. What would Flo say if she could hear me now? It’s not me talking.

  “Where do you think she is?” She takes a sip of tea.

  I shake my head. “They told me at the church they didn’t know. But I don’t believe them. I can’t,” I say. I am close to tears. “Any more than I believe that you and I met purely by chance.”

  She places her cup and saucer back on the table and fixes me with an earnest look. “You think Emily has brought us together.”

  “I do,” I tell her. “With all my heart, I believe that she guided you to me.”

  She nods, as if I have just commented on the weather or the price of a loaf. There is a tacit understanding between us. This is how it was meant to be. This is our fate and we are facing it together.

  Miss Beaufroy stares into her cup, as if pictures from her past are floating on the surface of the tea. “Emily and I were so very close,” she begins wistfully. “Then I met a soldier, a dashing young officer.” She smiles at the recollection. “We were engaged to be married. I fear my letters to her became less frequent when my fiancé was posted overseas. I wrote to him daily. He wrote to me, too.” She pauses, her eyes growing watery. “Some of his letters only reached me after his death. He was killed at Khartoum, you see.”

  I’d read about the siege at the time and how General Gordon and his men fought and died heroes. “I’m sorry,” I say weakly.

  She does not notice, but carries on. “I retreated from the outside world.” The wound is still open, I can see that. “I couldn’t bear to speak with anyone, apart from my mother and Geraldine.”

  I nod slowly, showing that I understand. “She must have missed you very much,” I venture.

  She nods. “I know I missed her.”

  “So do I,” I agree. And then it dawns on me. “It’s almost as if she has brought us together for a purpose.”

  “A purpose?” she repeats.

  “Because of our meeting, we saved your sister’s life,” I tell her slowly.

  Miss Beaufroy puts down her cup and saucer on the table. “And her husband’s!” she exclaims. “Yes, you’re absolutely right.”

  It’s true, I realize. Without our intervention, Mr. Cutler may have been found guilty of murder and executed. “It’s as if our mutual friend has been watching events unfold and guiding our actions,” I say.

  “Your actions, my dear.” She pats my hand. “You are the one she speaks to in your dreams.”

  I, however, frown at the suggestion. A little shiver runs down my neck, as if a draft is caressing my skin. “But how can that be if she has not passed to the other side?”

  Miss Pauline allows herself a smile. “But we know she has not.” She shrugs. “Mr. Cutler told us that she recovered from pleurisy. You heard it yourself.”

  She is right. I did. Yet, still, I have that terrible feeling deep inside me. The dark thought is screaming on the edge of my mind. “But that was in the summer.”

  “And on her recovery, perhaps she returned to Oxford?” Miss Beaufroy’s voice is so assured that I’m almost willing to accept what she says.

  “That is most likely,” I agree. “But why didn’t she tell us?”

  There is no answer to my question.

  And there it is again, the doubt that nags away at my subconscious. I feel the fear as it creeps like a shadow across my face. “I worry that something has happened to her,” I tell her. “Something bad.”

  Miss Beaufroy narrows her eyes. “Then there’s only one thing for it, my dear,” she tells me with great conviction. “You must go to Oxford.” She places her palm on my knee. “You must find her. Neither of us can rest until you do.”

  I swallow down my mouthful of tea. “I wish with all my heart that I could,” I reply. How many times have I considered such a journey? I want to find Miss Tindall more than anything, but I know it’s impossible. I don’t have the money for a bed for the night, let alone the train fare. And even if I made it to Oxford, it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack unless . . . unless she guided me. Then, as if she is following my thoughts, Miss Pauline says: “I shall pay all your expenses, of course. And a fee.”

  “A fee?” No one has ever suggested paying me “a fee” before.

  “For your talents. You have great”—she pauses, looking intensely into my eyes—“perception,” she says finally. “If Emily is alive, you will find her.”

  It is a strange thing she has just said, like an admission that perhaps I am right. That all hope may be lost. “And if she is not?” I ask.

  Do I see resignation in her look? “Then she will find you,” she says softly.

  I think she might have already—nevertheless, I swallow down my tea and with it my doubts. Miss Tindall is still alive, I tell myself. She has to be.

  CHAPTER 32

  Saturday, November 3, 1888

  EMILY

  In a private asylum in Hampstead, Geraldine Cutler sways to and fro in a rocking chair. Dressed in a simple robe and swathed in a woolen shawl, she sits in the conservatory. Her dark brown hair flows loosely down her shoulders, so that a casual visitor would not realize she is wearing a straitjacket and that her arms are restrained under her ribs. A nurse is in attendance just a few feet away. The doctor has ordered that in view of her mental fragility and her attempt to self-murder, his patient must not be left alone.

  The autumn sun has made a rare appearance today and Geraldine Cutler is enjoying the rays. Lifting her face up to the light, she closes her eyes. She seems calm, contemplative even. There is not a trace of the anguish that was etched on her features only two days before as she relives the past few weeks in her mind.

  She recalls walking out of her Harley Street home that August morning as she had done twice before in her marriage. Of course, she had returned after a day or so on both previous occasions. But this time, it was different. This time, she had evidence to back up what she had suspected all along and which she found impossible to bear. Her small private income meant that she could stay in comfortable lodgings until she could decide what course of action to take. And then the murders began. The first one was followed just three weeks later by another. The third happened the week after that; then there were two on one night. She was reading the account of the autopsy on the fifth victim, Catherine Eddowes, when she noticed a single sentence buried deep in a column in the Star. According to the report, the initials TC were tattooed on the victim’s left forearm. And that’s when it struck her, like a bullet. She lowered the newspaper. TC, she thought—the initials of her husband, her philandering, arrogant husband, who frequented the East End and regularly tended to women of the night. He’d thought she did not know. He’d thought she believed him when he told her he was working at St. Bartholomew’s every Friday evening. But he had not bargained on her finding that envelope containing his fee. When she had confronted him, he had denied that he was responsible for terminating the lives of unborn children, but she’d known he was lying. With her own eyes, she had seen him leave the Whitechapel Workhouse Infirmary shortly before midnight. Then and there, she began to plan just how she would exact her revenge.

  The diary was a stroke of genius, she mused. Written in retrospect, it covered a period of three months before her “disappearance.” Among the tedious tea parties and general gossip that she recorded, she had managed to couch some incriminating tidbits.

  July 10

  A young woman of the lower class called in deep distress. She said she was a patient and aske
d to see Terence, but when I told her he was not here, she seemed most put out. I asked her name. She said it was Polly.

  July 15

  Yet another woman called asking for Terence. I must tell him not to give out our address to such women. It is not seemly to have such callers.

  July 28

  I am in a state of shock. While looking for some papers in Terence’s study, I stumbled across several photographs of a most vile and shocking nature. They were in his locked bureau, but I found a spare key and now wish to God I had not.

  August 7

  Terence did not return until the early hours this morning. He is working far too hard.

  August 8

  A horrific murder in the East End has put fear in the hearts of all women in the area.

  That was the last entry in her diary, written from the comfort of her Chelsea guesthouse in early October. Martha Tabram’s mutilation served her purpose so well. The day after her killing, she’d left Harley Street. The only problem had been how she could return to the house undetected to secrete the journal in her bedroom. It would, she calculated, be found by the police when they conducted a search after she had been reported missing. She still had her house key and had managed to slip inside, but she had almost been caught out. Terence had heard her on the stairs. He had ventured out of his room and onto the landing. She had cowered behind the door, not daring to breathe. Then he had whispered her name. There was a tenderness in his voice that she had not expected. And when he did not see her, he had cried. She had not expected that, either.