The Sixth Victim

by Tessa Harris

  Her next master stroke was to visit Whitehall and the site where the mysterious rotting torso was discovered. She knew the area well. Terence and she would walk regularly along Victoria Embankment. Her mission was to plant the brooch that Terence had given her on their wedding day. She thought she’d lost it a while back, but had found it only recently, snagged on the lining of a jacket. She had conveniently forgotten to mention the discovery to her husband.

  As luck would have it, she’d heard that a journalist planned to set his hound on the site with the aim of sniffing out any of the remaining corpse that might be buried there. Mr. Waring’s assistant had been very amenable. For the sum of three pounds, young Mr. Pugh had taken the brooch and “found” it close to the severed leg, which the dog uncovered. A little detective work on the part of Mr. Troutbeck, the coroner, had led him to Terence. She could not have wished for anything to go better than it had.

  At around midday, the ward sister enters. “You have a visitor, madam,” she tells her patient.

  * * *

  Geraldine Cutler knew that her husband would come. She had, of course, facilitated his visit. She had told the police that his incarceration was, in fact, a terrible mistake. They had read far too much into her diary, which had never been intended for anyone’s eyes but her own. And as for the other so-called evidence—the brooch and the initials on the dead woman’s arm—mere coincidence and purely circumstantial. Oh! How her poor, dear, blameless husband must have suffered. In light of her statement, he was freed on bail.

  The meeting, or rather reunion, was her idea, too. Her doctors would never have agreed to it otherwise. They would have deemed it too upsetting for her, too psychologically disturbing. But she had insisted.

  Terence Cutler had also been eager to see his wife, though for obviously different reasons. He had been questioned and considered that he could be trusted not to agitate or distress Geraldine in her present state of mind. So everything was arranged, under supervision, of course.

  Geraldine turns toward the door to watch Terence walk toward her. Her heart leaps a little as he nears. She still finds him attractive, even after everything he has put her through. There is something in his bearing: that hint of danger she so admires in a man, that glint in his eye that makes her imagine he might draw a sword at any moment and fight for her honor. His sandy hair is made darker by the Macassar Oil, but now she notices streaks of silver among it. Had those been there when she left in the summer? She thinks not. Had her absence turned his hair gray? she wonders. She feels almost flattered at the notion that her disappearance could have had such a profound effect on his features. If it has done that to his physical appearance, what might it have done to him mentally? Terence has always reminded her of a swan—stately and serene on the surface, but underneath he is paddling frantically to keep his head above water. He has been damaged by her actions, most certainly, she can tell.

  * * *

  I watch as he approaches her. To my surprise, he manages a smile. I think it a magnanimous gesture, but there is more.

  “Geraldine,” he greets her.

  “Terence.” She meets his gaze.

  He bends low and I think he is about to embrace her, when he suddenly recoils in horror. He had not been warned of the restraint. The doctor, hovering in the background, watches the reunion. Cutler frowns and turns.

  “Is this necessary?” he snaps, pointing to the straps on the garment that are revealed beneath the shawl.

  The doctor, now at Cutler’s shoulder, veers away from Geraldine and addresses her husband out of the corner of his mouth. “A precaution, sir, given the circumstances.”

  The surgeon shakes his head. “I will take responsibility for my own safety, Doctor,” he replies. “Remove it, if you please.” The doctor gestures to the nurse, who carries out his bidding. Buckles are unbuckled, straps unstrapped; in a few moments, Geraldine’s arms are free once more. Remaining seated, she stretches them out in front of her and wiggles her fingers, as if she has never noticed her limbs or digits before. It’s as if they are something strange and new to her. Then she does something odd, I think. She holds out her hand for her husband to kiss. For a moment, he simply regards her. I wonder if he might shun her; yet he does not. Instead, he bends low, sweeping her hand up in his, and kisses it.

  The nurse draws up a chair for him and he sits at his wife’s side. They are almost touching. Almost, but not quite. Terence speaks first.

  “How are you?” he asks in a guarded tone.

  She nods and her eyes fill with tears. Suddenly she is overcome. “Forgive me,” she sobs. “Please find it in your heart to forgive me. I never meant . . .”

  He turns toward her in his chair; then looking deep into her eyes, he wipes away the tears on her cheeks with his thumb and swallows back his own.

  “I understand. The police are fools. They read too much into your diary. Let us not talk of it now,” he tells her. “You are alive. I am free, for the time being. You need to rest.”

  “Yes,” agrees Geraldine. “I am so very tired.”

  I shall leave them now, oddly relaxed in each other’s company, saying nothing, but relishing the silence. It is time, however, to break mine. I have waited too long to tell Constance what I should have told her a while back. It has taken some time for her to come this far on her journey, but now I believe she is ready to hear what I have to say and ready to accept the burden of responsibility that I must place on her young shoulders. I pray she takes it willingly.

  CHAPTER 33

  Monday, November 5, 1888

  CONSTANCE

  So I am to leave for Oxford tomorrow. Once there, I am to find Miss Tindall, or at least seek her out. I’ve heard Oxford is a very fine city, with its dreaming spires and great libraries. It’s not grimy like London, either. There’s not so much soot in the air. And not so much fog, neither. All the buildings are made of honey-colored stone. Miss Tindall once told me that a lot of the undergraduates ride bicycles there. Ladies do, too. Can you imagine?

  Anyway, that’s why I’m in Petticoat Lane Market now, buying a big bag. Ladies would call it a portmanteau, I believe. That’s French for coat carrier, I think, although don’t ask me how I know. I don’t speak French, but that’s what’s so odd these days. I seem to know things that I’ve never learned. Still, I’m glad it worked out all right for Miss Beaufroy’s sister, Mrs. Cutler. What a to-do! Give Old Bill an inch and he’ll take a mile at the moment. The police are so desperate to catch Jack, they’ll start nabbing grannies next. If you ask me, I’d say that Mrs. Cutler’s a few bob shy of a quid. She was in a right state, but Miss Beaufroy says she’s seen her in the asylum and that she’s on the mend. She’ll be taking her back to Sussex with her, in a day or two, so that she can recover in the fresh air. All’s well that ends well, as the Bard would say. I only hope I’ll be saying the same thing after my visit to Oxford. I only hope I can find Miss Tindall. And to think that Miss Beaufroy and I both know her so well. What are the chances? Of course, Miss Beaufroy believes that she’s brought us together somehow. That she’s willed us to meet. I believe she has, too, but, in a way, I also hope she hasn’t, because I’m worried that can only mean one thing....

  * * *

  Miss Beaufroy has given me five shillings for the market, so I’m planning on buying something half decent. Once I’ve bought my bag, I might even have enough left over to get Ma a little something—a scarf or even a pair of gloves.

  It’s Guy Fawkes and everyone’s in a chirpy mood. Tonight there’ll be bonfires and fireworks and Whitechapel’s getting in the swing. Funny that—celebrating saving the Houses of Parliament from being blown sky high by a bunch of Catholics, nigh on three hundred years ago, with more bangs and crackles. Of course, there’s food as well: a pig roasting on a spit and pies and jellied eels. Gingerbread, too, and hot roasted chestnuts on a glowing brazier and the smells are making my mouth water. I hold out my cold hands as I walk by the heat, but I’ve no time to loiter.

 
It’s growing dark, so I better be sharpish. The fog’s rolling in again and the traders are starting to pack up. The days are short in November. Short, dark days and long, dark nights. And he’s still lurking.

  “Penny for the Guy?” calls a crippled boy on the pavement as I pass. He’s with another urchin, sitting by a huge doll that they’ve made of rags. It lies sprawled across a wheelbarrow, its newspaper limbs stuffed into filthy old trousers and its body covered by a ragged shirt. It’s sprawled all higgledy-piggledy, like a grotesque old man in his death throes. It wears a cardboard mask, and its painted mouth is open with blood dripping from it. It’s gross. Round its neck hangs a handwritten sign: Jack the Ripper.

  “Penny for the Guy?” squeaks the gutter rat again as I walk past, trying not to look. I fix my eyes straight ahead, then narrow them. There’s something going on at the far end of the street. A small crowd is jostling along. There are shouts. “It’s ’im! It’s ’im!”

  I feel my feet quicken beneath me. More people are gathering around something or someone near the police station. My own curiosity pulls me along to the edge of the crowd. It’s then that I notice the big woman standing on tiptoe next to me, straining her neck for a better view. It’s Mrs. Puddiphatt.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  She looks down at me, her eyes all beady. “Oh, Connie,” she says as soon as she recognizes me. “There’s a man with his face blacked up with soot. They’re saying ’e’s Jack!”

  EMILY

  Terence Cutler is calling on his wife in the asylum for the second time. His visit yesterday went as well as he could have expected. He thought he might have been angrier with her than he was. After all, she was surely to blame for his arrest for murder, making up those ridiculous lies about him in her diary. But, after their reunion, he congratulated himself on his self-restraint. He still loves her, you see. He realized that in her absence. He had suspected it before, but on that night when he thought there was a grain of a chance that she had returned to him of her own volition, he knew it to be true. And although he also knows that she is mentally unstable, he still admires—in a perverse way—her intelligence and her ferocity. Pity and guilt are fighting inside him. Her entries into the diary, bemoaning his long hours away from her, opened his eyes to her loneliness. To think that his work blinded him to her feelings and needs. To think that he almost lost her!

  Today he finds Geraldine much more alert, almost agitated. Her expression is engaging and her neatly manicured fingernails scratch at her own palms. He is glad to see there is no sign of the straitjacket as he sits at her side.

  “Thank goodness you have come,” she tells him. He notices she is wearing a little rouge today and her hair is swept back to accentuate her strong features. “I owe you an explanation,” she goes on, suddenly clutching his hand in hers.

  “Dearest, no. It is I who owes you one,” Cutler says candidly. He lets out a long, deep sigh, as if he has not exhaled for the past ten weeks. “But not now. Later.”

  Geraldine shakes her head, then lifts her eyes heavenward, as if seeking divine inspiration. It is clear she is about to launch into a heartfelt speech. She inhales a long breath through her nostrils. “I was deeply unhappy.” Now she looks in front of her, out of the large window and over the green, mottled heath that stretches before her. Then she corrects herself. “I am still deeply unhappy.”

  Cutler sucks in his cheeks and stiffens his back. “That is very evident.”

  Keeping her gaze ahead, and her face expressionless, Geraldine tells him, “You see, I now have proof of what you do at the infirmary.”

  Cutler’s brows shoot up simultaneously. Shocked, he switches round to meet her face. His eyes latch onto hers. He fears he has been caught out, but he must not beat the pistol. He feigns ignorance. “What on earth are you talking about, dearest?”

  “Do you think me stupid, Terence? You denied it before, but I knew you were lying.”

  The edges of her mouth twitch slightly. A smile? She has taken aim and now she fires her salvo. “Your friend Dr. Holt has a loose tongue, especially if one offers him a bottle of whisky,” she tells him flatly.

  He arches a brow. After a moment’s reflection, he says: “So that is how you came up with the name Polly. It was no coincidence.”

  She remains silent, her chin prominent, her gaze boring into his very soul. He, on the other hand, drops his head, then shakes it as he contemplates this act, or acts, of domestic treachery. Yet, he does not seem entirely surprised. At least her admission explains the presence of a carriage he had noted on more than one occasion when leaving the infirmary late at night. “I underestimated you, my dear.” He struggles to suppress the hurt child in his throat that is fighting to sound resilient.

  Geraldine, however, remains implacable. She gives a little snort as she shrugs her shoulders. “You have to admit if the situation weren’t so tragic, it would be almost humorous—” She breaks off, her eyes suddenly welling up. It is as if her hard shell has slipped to reveal a fragile belly beneath. As she turns to her husband, her lips start to tremble. “I cannot give you a child and yet you . . .” Clamping a handkerchief over her mouth, she looks away, although her attempt to stifle a sob fails. She has laid herself bare and spoken the unspeakable truth that has dogged their marriage for the past three years—the sullen greetings over breakfast, the cheerless welcomes after a hard day’s work. The pendulum clock in the drawing room had so often been the only sound as they sat on opposite sides of the hearth. They had both known that it was ticking away the seconds of any hope that Geraldine might ever have of conception and yet nothing was ever said. And now it must be acknowledged. Her childless state is the reason for her unhappiness, the excuse for her behavior, the cause of all their problems.

  Cutler’s face falls and he closes his eyes. His own wretchedness at being discovered as an abortionist has tempered his muted anger toward her. Now he feels a surge of pity rush through him. His anger is drowned in a tide of compassion and solicitousness felt only once before—when he rid that poor waif of a wicked man’s unborn babe on the operating table in Whitechapel.

  “I . . . I am so very sorry. You were never meant to find out.”

  Geraldine dabs her eyes with her handkerchief. “I was devastated when I discovered what you were doing to those women, Terence. Don’t you see that they are the cause of our misery, and your lust for them the cause of my barrenness?” Her voice burns like acid. “I had to get away.”

  He nods. He accepts her rationale. He is guilty. “Where did you go?”

  “A guesthouse in Chelsea.” She straightens her back. “I was there for more than a month before Polly Nichols was murdered.”

  “Ah,” he says knowingly. “Jack the Ripper.”

  She coughs out a caustic laugh. “When I heard about the first murder and that the woman was”—she cannot bring herself to say “a prostitute”—“from Whitechapel, I wondered if you knew her.” She switched back to face her husband. “I imagined you with her, Terence. I couldn’t help it. I hate myself for thinking of it, but I could picture you with these . . . these whores.” She is shaking her head. “Then when Dr. Holt told me that you had . . . that you had helped Polly Nichols. . . .”

  Already wounded, he bows his head again. He cannot deny his weakness. He vividly remembers the night he got infected. His encounter had been a vertical affair just before their marriage. He had been anxious about their union and had doused his worries at one of the grubby taverns on a street corner, becoming almost senseless. He remembers very little of the sordid coupling, only that it took place in a back alley, up against cold, wet walls, and lasted a matter of seconds. Little did he then know that its legacy would stay with him for the rest of his life.

  “And then”—Geraldine’s reproachful voice brings him back from the fetid streets of Whitechapel to the moment—“And then when I found out that you kill other women’s unborn children, when we cannot have one of our own . . .” Her shoulders heave in another gre
at sob. “Well, it sent me mad with envy.”

  She has aimed her shots well. He cannot deny he had rid Polly Nichols of her unwanted child. He should never have trusted that drunkard Holt. He wants to double over so that he does not have to face her. It takes all his courage to lift his gaze and shake his head. “I am not proud of what I have done,” he tells her, but he also wants her to know that, despite welcoming the extra income, there had been a smidgeon of moral rectitude in his actions. “You must understand that I believed I was helping these women out of poverty.”

  “What?” There is principled indignation in his wife’s voice. “You are not above the law, Terence!”

  He works his jaw. “Perhaps the law should be changed,” he counters.

  “What?” she repeats incredulously.

  He shakes his head and tries to offer some justification. “Why feed another unwanted mouth when it so very often means that the older children starve?”

  She is dumbstruck with anger. She has no answer. There is a long pause before she picks up on something he has said previously, as if she’s been replaying his words in her head. “You believed ?”

  “What?”

  “You believed you were helping these women? Are you saying you no longer perform abortions?”

  Cutler sighs heavily, but still hopes to salvage the situation with his news.

  “I have resigned from the infirmary. I will no longer carry out terminations.”

  Geraldine keeps him on tenterhooks for a moment, then nods emphatically, as if she has achieved a small victory. “I am glad of it,” she tells him eventually. Her voice is a little sharp, but the edge on it is blunt. “May I ask what changed your mind?”

  Cutler’s mouth suddenly feels dry as he recalls the frightened child lying on the table in the infirmary. The image of her face remains with him still. “I realized that the poor and the vulnerable will always be exploited.”