by Tessa Harris
Geraldine inclines her head. “How true.”
“But it’s no use simply helping them,” continues her husband.
“Oh?” She arches her brow.
“We have to address the root cause of the evil before we can be rid of it.”
Geraldine lets out a derisory laugh. “You sound almost noble, Terence.”
Her reaction spurs him on. His wife may have tried to take her own life, but he will not allow her to make a mockery of him, to laugh at him as if he were performing in a cheap sideshow. His jaw works and, this time, his fists clench as he shakes his head. “In your absence, I have been thinking a great deal, about us and our marriage. When you left, I was angry at first, as I have been before, but then, when you didn’t come back after a week, I began to think that you’d left me for good. I couldn’t blame you. Then that night, when I thought you’d returned, and I went to your room, only to find it empty, I was beside myself. I felt so lonely.” He looks at her with a mixture of sadness and hope. “I realized that I really do love you. And despite everything, I still do.”
* * *
Geraldine is silent for a moment, before she reaches for his hand and I see her expression switch unnervingly quickly once more. Her voice becomes thin and apologetic. “When I heard you had been arrested for those terrible murders, I instantly regretted that wretched diary. I was mad with worry for you. I couldn’t bear to think of you in jail, and yet I couldn’t bear to face you.”
Cutler nods and suddenly grasps her hand. “And so you thought the only thing to do would be to end your own life.”
Geraldine lifts his hand and kisses it lovingly, opening his clenched fingers and caressing his palm. He closes his eyes, relishing her touch; seeing that she has him thus enraptured, she speaks to him softly. “I, too, felt so alone. I was in despair. I could see no other way out.” The tears are flowing again. “Please forgive me, my dearest,” she asks. “Please.”
After a pause, Terence opens his eyes, then reaches out to her and strokes her long hair. He believes her tears to be genuine. I have my doubts. She clasps his hand and holds it to her breast.
So now is the time. Moved by her melancholy and the erotic power she still has over him, which he thought was lost, he must deliver his message of hope. All is not lost. “I do forgive you, my love, as I hope you forgive me, and what’s more, I have a plan to help us.”
Geraldine’s head jerks up and she regards him with puffy eyes that are full of questions, as well as tears. “A plan?”
Her reaction is encouraging, but for the moment, he must tantalize without satisfying her. “I cannot tell you about it yet,” he teases. “Suffice to say, I think I know how to make it up to you. All will be well.” He gives her an enigmatic smile—the same smile that made her fall in love with him in the beginning of their courtship. “Everything will be well,” he reiterates, taking her hand in his and kissing her palm.
I fear, however, it will not. But, for now, the moment has surely come for Constance to know the truth. It is time to execute my plan and reveal all. I shall seek her out in Petticoat Lane Market.
CONSTANCE
I stop by a stall selling leather bags. There’s purses and cases and reticules of all shapes and sizes. The seller’s Italian—all swarthy, with a cheeky grin. I catch his eye and he says I’m “bella.” I suddenly feel coy and want to turn away, but then I spot a bag that looks just right—not too shabby, but not so new as to attract attention.
“How much?” I point to the black leather holdall.
“For you, bella signorina, just three shillings.”
“Two.” I suddenly feel bold.
“It is yours.” He grasps it with both hands and delivers it with a gracious bow of his dark head. “Use it wisely,” he adds, as if he’s handing me something with magical powers, like Aladdin’s lamp. I give a little chuckle, thinking it a strange thing to say. But then, I am growing accustomed to strange things happening.
EMILY
There she is. I see her with her new bag. Pleased as Punch, she is. I will let her savor such a feeling of elation for a while longer, because before I break into her short-lived happiness, I must ask something of you. I would ask that you take Constance’s hand and walk with her as I lead her into the valley of the shadow of death.
CONSTANCE
I’m feeling so pleased with my bag that it puts a little spring in my step as I start back for home. I hang it over my forearm. It’s a good-enough size to take a petticoat and a skirt, as well as my nightgown. Not that I’ve got that much to put in it, but there’s enough to fill it. And there’s my hairbrush, too, and . . . The brewery clock strikes four. Darkness is closing in. I must hurry back. I’ve so much to do before my journey. I turn down Crispin Street, leaving the clatter and clang of the market behind me. A wagon passes me along Artillery Row as I head toward Artillery Passage. It’s quieter here. Too quiet. Suddenly I’m alone. I can’t hear the market traders anymore, or the clatter of the poles as they dismantle their stalls. I think it odd. I take a few more paces and then it comes upon me—that same sensation that I felt before, in Brick Lane, the night I saw Miss Tindall. But this time, I’m not afraid, only wary and alert as if all my senses are rallying under me.
Nearby I suddenly hear laughter and voices chanting. “Remember, remember the fifth of November!” I turn to see a gaggle of ragamuffins run off shrieking and whooping with delight; then I nearly jump out of my skin. There’s a blue flash and a crack and something explodes just in front of me. My head splits with the sound and my nose is filled with acrid smoke. The bang knocks me off balance, jerking me back, so that I hit my head against the brick wall. And that’s when I see her. Just as the smoke clears, she’s there, plain as the nose on my face.
“Constance.” She’s saying my name. “Constance.” She’s holding out her arms to me, like she wants to give me a hug.
“Yes,” I reply. “I’m coming!” I rush forward and I feel her enfold me and I smell her smell and I suddenly feel so safe. The tears are streaming down my face. “I was worried you were . . .” I can’t bring myself to say the word.
“I am here,” she says. Softly she pushes me away, but still has hold of my hands, and she looks into my watery eyes. “I am here, but I need you to listen to me.”
I can tell from her expression and her voice that what she has to say to me is important and urgent.
“I’m listening, miss,” I tell her. “I’m listening.”
“I believe you are,” she says in a half whisper.
EMILY
And so I tell her about Dr. Melksham, and how he abducted the girls who went missing and how he took them to a secret hideout in a warehouse near the docks. And I tell her what happened when I saw the last of the men arrive at the building. I watched with trepidation as they descended the stairs and entered through the double doors. A moment later, I heard the bolts slide across. They had locked the doors. That would have been my chance to escape, but then I thought of the reason for my being there, for perhaps even risking my own life. I thought of little Libby. If I went to fetch help—and where would I find it—it might well be too late to save her from whatever unspeakable fate lay in store for her. I decided to act by myself. I edged forward from the shelter of the stairwell to suddenly feel a tug. My heart skipped a beat. I turned and realized the back of my jacket was caught on the handle to a low door. I freed myself from the latch and, to my shock, found the door was unlocked. Gently I eased it ajar, expecting to find a cupboard. However, when my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw before me a spiral staircase. My fortune seemed to have changed. Slowly I made my way up to the top of the stairs, not knowing where they might lead. Soon it was clear that the landing opened out onto a gallery. I was short of breath and the pain in my chest was almost unbearable. But it was then that I saw them.
A dozen or more men, all dressed in the same odd regalia, were standing on either side of a lofty room. It was clearly some type of vault that now appeared more lik
e a sort of courtroom or temple. Large church candles were lit and seemed arranged in what appeared to be a precise formation, while the floor was checkered in black-and-white tiles. Painted on the walls were various symbols: an unsettling, all-seeing eye and a set square and compass. A set square and compass? My mind darted to Mitre Square and I was suddenly reminded of the strange shapes carved into poor Catherine Eddowes’s face. I grew cold.
At one end of the space, I could see a distinguished-looking man seated in an elaborate chair that appeared more like a throne. He seemed to be presiding over the proceedings, a ritual that beggared all belief. In front of him was some sort of altar. But it is what lay on the altar that horrified me most—the dear child, prone and seemingly lifeless.
At that moment, there was a loud rapping at the doors. Three times, they were hit, as if ceremonially, then they were opened. A blindfolded man, escorted by another, entered. He was dressed oddly, in a loose-fitting white shirt that exposed his chest. Round his neck was a noose. I feared for his safety. I was terrified I was about to witness an execution, but he did not seem agitated and made no attempt to escape. He was escorted by the man I had noticed before, the Poet, who guided him past the waiting assembly and toward the throne. Was he a prisoner? I could not be certain.
My anxiety mounted as the escorts introduced him to the man on the throne. “Here is a poor candidate in a state of darkness, Worshipful Master,” one said.
From his throne, the “master” spoke in a loud, assured voice. “Bring him hither.”
The “candidate” duly stepped forward. But candidate for what? It was then that it came to me. I must have unwittingly stumbled upon a Masonic lodge, a place where Freemasons meet to conduct their sacred rituals. It is a secret society, a brotherhood, where, they say, rich and powerful men meet to exercise illicit power out of reach of the law. There were rumors on the streets of Whitechapel that they were even involved in the murders—that Jack was a Freemason and that was why he had cut angular marks into Catherine Eddowes’s cheeks and eyelids. The compass and set square! I’d taken little notice of the gossip at the time when I’d heard some of the women at church speak of “the Masons,” but now I felt myself shake with fear.
The master addressed the prisoner again. “What is the predominant wish of your heart?” He was obviously reciting some form of litany.
After a prompting from the Poet, who whispered in his ear, the candidate replied in a clear, calm voice: “Light.”
The master seemed satisfied. “Remove the blindfold,” he ordered.
This the Poet did, and it is then that I realized, to my horror, that the candidate was familiar to me. It was Robert Sampson.
Reeling from shock, I saw him blink away the darkness to allow his eyes to settle on the altar directly in front of him. I observed closely as his expression changed from one of bemused compliance to horror as soon as he saw the child. His head darted up to the master, a stunned look on his face. His brow crumpled in a frown and his eyes were searching.
The master did not keep him waiting. Again his voice was formal. He spoke with all the authority of a high-ranking priest. “Before you are admitted into our brotherhood, you need to be cleansed of any impurities.” He rose from his throne. “Step forward.”
Robert, clearly bewildered, obeyed, approaching the girl on the altar with evident unease. The air was taut with anticipation. As the other men looked on, not a breath could be heard, until an official, whom I suddenly recognized as Dr. Melksham, stepped forward, carrying a red velvet cushion. On it was a shallow gold bowl. And a knife with a jeweled hilt. My head was spinning as I saw him approach Libby. Throughout her ordeal, she had remained senseless. Bending over her, the doctor rolled up the sleeve of her shift; then he reached for the ceremonial knife. The blade glinted in the candlelight as he held it aloft over her wrist.
* * *
I could no longer be silent. I knew I had to act. “No!” I screamed. I rushed forward and lurched across the balcony. “Get away from her! Get away!” All eyes rose to see me in the gallery and the order was given to apprehend me. I turned to run back down the stairs, but the pain in my chest was so great that I could barely move. I was only halfway down when I was caught and dragged roughly by one of the liveried men. As we reached the bottom of the flight, I saw my captor was none other than the man I had named the Butcher. Struggling in his brutish grasp, I was shoved along the passageway into the temple.
Inside there was uproar. Men were shouting, baying like wolves as I was hauled through their jeers to face the master. In among the mayhem, I searched for Robert. My eyes latched onto him as he remained standing at the altar by Libby.
“Please help me,” I called to him. He simply stared at me.
“So we have an intruder,” boomed the master. He stood glowering over me.
“Let her go!” I screamed. I tried to struggle free from the Butcher’s grip, but the effort robbed me of my breath. I began to cough. “You murderer!” I croaked. I turned to appeal to Robert.
The distinguished-looking man raised his brow and directed a question to Robert. “You know this woman?”
“Yes, Father.” He stepped forward toward me. “I do.”
“Father!” I blurted. “What?” I fixed Robert with an incredulous gaze, but he ignored me.
“She is a teacher.” That is all he said. He did not rush to my aid, or fight off the Butcher, or even tell him to unhand me. “She is a teacher” is all he could muster.
It was then that Dr. Melksham intervened. He approached the man I now understood to be Sir William Sampson. “Aye. A meddlesome one, at that. I knew she might cause trouble. She is the one I told you about, Worshipful Master, the one at St. Jude’s.”
Sir William nodded thoughtfully. “Ah, yes. Miss Tindall.” The way he said my name chilled me.
I was feeling wounded and betrayed, knowing I could not rely on any support from Robert. Yet, from somewhere deep within me, I found the strength to speak again. “I have called the police. They will be here shortly,” I lied.
Sir William darted a look at Melksham. He shook his head. “There was no need for that,” he said with a smirk. He remained remarkably calm.
I did not understand, but he answered my questioning look soon enough. “You see the police are already here, Miss Tindall.”
I frowned. “Already here?”
He nodded and held out an arm. “Step forward, Chief Inspector Shepherd.”
One of the men made himself known. He bowed first to Sir William, then to me. I knew him to be a high-ranking police officer. In an instant, I was both humiliated and defeated.
“I can assure you, Miss Tindall, that we had no intention of harming this child,” the chief inspector tried to calm me.
“Only bleeding her,” butted in Dr. Melksham, “so that this”—he pointed to Robert—“candidate can be initiated into our lodge.”
My eyes widened. “You would drink blood?” I searched Robert’s face for some sort of explanation. In the background, I suddenly became aware of a ripple of laughter from the assembly.
“Indeed not, Miss Tindall. What do you take us for?” Sir William was almost indignant. “It is merely used for the anointing.”
“A virgin’s blood,” I muttered under my breath. I knew it was meant to signify great purity. I knew that some men even held that intercourse with a maiden could cure them of their vile ailments.
My vision began to blur and I thought I would faint at that moment, but Robert caught my eye and began to shake his head. “I did not know. I swear. The ceremony is so secret....”
“Enough.” His father raised his hand. “Too many secrets have been revealed tonight and we must decide what to do with Miss Tindall here.”
At last, Robert intervened. He approached his father and lowered his voice. “Let her go, sir. She can be trusted to remain silent if we allow her to take the girl.” He turned and regarded me with his piercing eyes as if willing me to agree.
“She will not
!” countered Melksham. He had overheard Robert’s suggestion. “She will go to the press and we will all be undone.”
Sir William shook his head. “I shall make no decision tonight, gentlemen.” He looked up. “Mr. Briggs!” he called. The Butcher stepped forward. “Miss Tindall will be our guest for the time being. I will decide what to do with her in the morning.”
Briggs nodded his bald pate and grabbed me by the arm. He shoved me forward, closer to Robert. As I passed him, he managed to whisper, “I’ll take care of the girl.”
* * *
At the back of the hall was a small door. The Butcher pushed me through it. It was a closet, almost like a small church vestry. The only light came from the moon as it shone through a tiny window, high up in the wall. On one side of the room was a row of hooks, where cloaks were hung. On the other was a cupboard. I assumed it was where all the ritual paraphernalia was stored.
“You’ll stay here the night,” growled my jailer.
I knew there was little use in protesting. My only hope lay with Robert. His parting words led me to believe that he might be able to plead on my behalf. Then I thought of Libby. Even if Robert managed to rescue her, what about the others? What about Molly and Gracie? They, no doubt, were in some brothel, satiating the needs of well-to-do hypocrites—pillars of the establishment by day, and deviants with a lust for young girls at night.
I heard the key turn in the lock. I looked around for a chair. There was none, but there were several long cloaks or gowns hanging up on hooks. I took one of them down and wrapped it around me to keep out the creeping cold. I slumped down to the floor, settling myself in the corner, but I knew I would not sleep. Nor did my anger subside as the night wore on. Outside all was quiet. The Freemasons had all left, returning to their fashionable houses and their dutiful wives, but I knew my jailer remained. I could hear him snoring by the door. I wanted to cry out, but my chest hurt me so much that I could barely breathe. The intermittent pain I had experienced before now grew much worse, as if a weight was pressing heavy on my chest. I convulsed into spasms, vainly gasping for air. I felt as if I were drowning.