by Tessa Harris
It must have been way past midnight when I could bear the pain of the coughing no longer. Heaving myself across the floor toward the door, I lifted my arm and started to bang on it, but my strength was so diminished that my fist could barely be heard above my convulsions. In the corner, I spotted a candlestick. I managed to reach for it and hit the door. Once. Twice. Three times. Then came a voice.
“Shut it!”
The Butcher was awake.
“Please, water!” I pleaded between coughs. “I need water.”
“Shut it!” he shouted back.
Each cough made my body heave, and with each heave came a great wave of pain. Worse still, my lungs began to expel blood. I cried out in agony.
“Shut it!” came the voice again, only this time the door flew open. The Butcher stood on the threshold. I thought he might at last show me some compassion.
“Please!”
But instead of helping me, he stooped down, bent over and grabbed me by the throat. “Shut it, you stupid bitch!” he cried. I felt his grip tighten around my neck as he shook me. “Shut it, will ya?!”
The last thing I remember doing was battling for breath. My lungs were flooding. The last thing I remember seeing were his eyes, so full of hatred, as they looked into mine. The last thing I remember feeling was the cold plaster of the wall as my head was hurled against it and my skull hit it with a tremendous crack. My world flickered out of focus.
CONSTANCE
“No! No, it can’t be true! No!”
“Connie? Connie. You all right?”
I feel a hand on my shoulder. A man’s hand.
“It’s me,” says a voice through the blackness.
It’s like I’ve been falling through the air and suddenly I land with a start. I try and shake away the clouds from my head. Then the voice starts again.
“It’s me. Gilbert. Gilbert Johns.” I look up through bleary eyes to see a familiar face looking down anxiously on me. “They’ve gone.”
“Who?” I manage to ask.
“Them street Arabs with the firecrackers.” I feel his big arms hook under mine and scoop me up. His large hands dust down my skirt and I’m jerked back to life.
“I’m fine, really,” I say, smoothing my own skirts, which have rucked up round my thighs.
“I’ll walk you back home,” he volunteers, and he crooks his arm. I hesitate at first, but feel woozy and take it so as to steady my shaky legs. I have to admit I feel safer with Gilbert. We start off and it’s only then that I remember. I pull up short.
“What is it?” he asks. “You wanna sit down somewhere?” He stares at my face. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I sway a little as I recall what has just happened. “Miss Tindall,” I say.
Gilbert frowns and pulls me back toward him as I weaken. “Who?”
I suddenly feel alone again. A terrible sense of despair is gnawing away at my heart and I think it will break at any moment. I look into his eyes and see there is very little understanding in them. “She’s gone,” I tell him.
Gilbert shrugs. “You’ve had a bump on your ’ead. Let’s get you ’ome.” He takes hold of me once more, but I feel my knees buckle under me, so he gathers me up in his huge arms and somehow manages to carry me all the way back to White’s Row. Just before we come to the door, I ask him to put me down.
“I don’t want no fuss,” I tell him.
Obligingly, he sets me gently on the cobbles and I walk the two or three paces to my own front door. The ragged drapes are already up at the window, but there’s a candle glow beyond, so I know that someone’s home. I turn the handle and open the door and suddenly there’s an almighty racket.
“Surprise!” shouts Flo.
“Surprise!” chorus Ma and Mr. Bartleby in unison. They’re standing in front of me, great smiles plastered on their faces; but as soon as Flo sees my expression, her mirth vanishes and, ignoring the other’s merriment, she rushes up to me. “What’s up, Con?” She puts her arm through mine.
“We thought we’d give you a good send-off,” says a cheery Mr. Bartleby, his thumbs hooked through his braces, “before you went to Oxford, like.”
Ma joins in, oblivious to my state. “There’s Sally Lunn cake and lemonade . . . ,” she clucks. Then she spots a bemused Gilbert loitering on the threshold. “Gilbert. Come on in and help us celebrate our Con’s adventure. Has she told you, she’s off to Oxford tomorrow?” She curves her arms in a great swooping gesture, like a mother hen marshaling her chicks around her.
I manage a few more paces into the room. “I’m not going,” I say.
“She’s taking the train,” Ma gushes as Gilbert walks inside.
“What you say?” Flo asks me.
I summon up my last ounce of strength. “I’m not going to Oxford tomorrow,” I manage to tell them.
“You what?” Mr. Bartleby’s face turns gray.
“I’m not going to Oxford,” I reiterate, only my voice has grown fainter. It’s struggling to leave my mouth.
“Why not, Con?” asks Flo, her comforting arm around me.
“Because,” I say, “Miss Tindall is dead.”
CHAPTER 34
Tuesday, November 6, 1888
EMILY
It’s strange to me how those who remain nearly always refer to those of us who have passed over as “dead,” or, at best, “passed away.” Yet, some of us are still very much alive, albeit in a different dimension. And for those of us who return, usually because our earthly lives were cruelly or unjustly cut short, we have often left unfinished business. We are the Returners, you see, the Revenants. We return to where we met our fate, and reach out to others who might continue what we aimed to achieve in our own lives. I have chosen Constance, but you know that already. What you do not know is how my earthly remains finally ended up on a building site in Whitehall.
My latest encounter with Constance did not go to plan. I thought it only right that I tell her before I told you just how it happened, but we were interrupted. I had not counted on Gilbert Johns being in the vicinity and scaring off the young louts who had given me my opportunity to reveal myself to poor Constance. I was only able to tell her half my sorry story; and because of this, she now languishes upstairs in her bed in a deep state of sorrow and despair. It pains me to see her sob so, but I shall reveal myself to her shortly, and she will be filled with hope once more. But first, I must fulfill my duty to you. Together we shall return to the asylum in Hampstead.
* * *
It has all been agreed. As soon as the doctors are of the opinion that Geraldine Cutler is no longer a danger to herself and fit enough to be discharged, she will go straight to Petworth to stay with her mother and her sister, Pauline. There, restored to the bosom of her family, she will be able to recuperate in the fresh Sussex air. Bracing country walks will be the best medicine, while a trip or two to Brighton might also work wonders. Terence agrees that such an arrangement will be beneficial to his wife. It also gives him the opportunity to set in train his plans.
Geraldine is notified of the proposal and is more than happy with it—but for very contrary reasons. Her sojourn in the asylum has given her a chance to formulate her own plans. She has long known that no one is above being corrupted and that a small inducement can produce very large returns. For half a crown, for example, she was able to bribe an orderly to smuggle a note to that nice Mr. Pugh, Mr. Waring’s helpful assistant. He had proved his worth before when he had “found” her brooch in Whitehall, and would, no doubt, be invaluable again. Along with the note, she enclosed a letter, purporting to be from Pauline and countersigned by Terence. She knew that all those hours whiled away copying his signature would one day reap rewards. The letter, addressed to the senior consultant at the asylum, requested her release into the custody of another consultant known personally to the family. Sir Cuthbert Wilkinson was, after all, a personal friend of her late, and most eminent, father. Dr. Jacob Frankel, a Jew recently arrived from Vienna, and an expert in
the intimate workings of the female mind, is happy to oblige.
So, on the eighth day of her incarceration, Geraldine Cutler is discharged, supposedly into the care of Sir Cuthbert, thanks to the masterly efforts of the charming Mr. Pugh, who poses as the eminent specialist’s assistant. Expertly fielding any questions that come his way with the alacrity of a good county cricketer, his performance is a triumph. Within the hour, Geraldine is in a carriage, traveling away from Hampstead. Her conveyance does not, however, take her south toward her native Sussex, but southeast, through the ever-burgeoning suburbs of London and back to St. Bartholomew’s Hospital and, unbeknownst to him, back to her guileless husband.
* * *
Once again, it is foggy, and the fog is much thicker here than in Hampstead. However, it is not so thick that she cannot see, quite clearly, the large Tudor gates of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. It is, nevertheless, very cold. For the past hour, Geraldine’s cab has been parked outside and her driver is chilled to the bone. Were it not for the fact that this lady had paid him handsomely in advance for his services, he would assuredly have told her to “sling ’er ’ook.” Or, at least, that is what he is thinking to himself as he paces up and down by his horse, rubbing his nicotine-stained hands and watching the London skyline as evening closes in. He lights himself yet another smoke, cupping his hands around the flame that flickers in the brisk easterly. He’s just about to take that first luxurious drag when his passenger pops her head out of the carriage window.
“Quick about it, man!” she tells him in an odd voice, which is certainly not as loud as an exclamation, but not as soft as a whisper.
Alarmed, he looks longingly at his cigarette; then, in an act of defiance, he takes one long inhalation before he reluctantly snuffs it out with his thumb and yellowing forefinger and stuffs it back in his pocket. He heads to his perch, calling, “Yes, ma’am” as he goes.
His passenger is irate. “You see that gentleman over there,” she tells him, pointing her gloved hand. The driver squints in the direction of the gate. A man is bidding the porter a good evening. He is well-dressed and carries a case. A doctor, perhaps, he thinks.
“Yer . . . ss,” he replies.
“You are to follow him until I tell you otherwise.” The driver hesitates and Geraldine rightly takes it as a signal that he wishes to up his price. “There’s another crown in it for you if you hurry.”
He thinks of all the cigarettes he could buy with that extra cash and nods his head in agreement. In another moment or two, he’s climbed back onto his perch and they’re off in hot pursuit. Not that the horse breaks into a trot. Terence Cutler sets a sedate pace. He intends to walk the two miles or so to Whitechapel and does not wish to tire himself too soon. He begins south on Giltspur Street toward Cock Lane, then turns left onto Newgate Street, having no idea whatsoever that his progress is being tracked.
In half an hour, Cutler reaches Commercial Street. His wife is not surprised that, instead of coming home to Harley Street, he is taking advantage of her continued absence and has veered way off course. The traffic, always busy, seems to have come to a halt. It appears a horse has taken fright up ahead with dire consequences for its load. Timber is strewn across the street; the wagon is in pieces and the cartman unconscious. Geraldine decides it’s time she made a move. Keeping an eye on her husband on the opposite side of the road, she jabs at the carriage ceiling with a stick, then cranes her head out of the window.
“Let me off here,” she tells the driver. He’s only too happy to oblige.
* * *
Geraldine Cutler alights gracefully onto a thoroughfare where grace is a rare commodity. At this hour of the day, Commercial Street is chock-full of working men and women. The nearby factories are disgorging their weary workers: weavers, ale tunners and soap boilers, all traipsing back to homes they cannot afford to heat. But Geraldine has no care for them. She is a woman on a mission, and her husband is still, mercifully, in her sights. In this, she is assisted by the fact that he is slightly taller than average and it’s easier to follow his bobbing top hat in the crowds as he heads toward Christ Church.
Opposite the familiar landmark, he crosses the road and turns down the narrow thoroughfare of Dorset Street. Now that she is off the main road, Geraldine experiences, for the first time, a frisson of fear. This is no place for a woman of her class. She bows her head so as to remain anonymous; yet, if her deportment doesn’t betray her, her clothes might well. She is diving into the swamp of the notorious rookeries, a hangout of cutthroats and villains, a quagmire of the doomed and the damned, where even the police dare not venture. And yet there is also something within her that is enjoying this illicit excursion; there is something thrilling in the fact that despite being only a few yards behind her husband, he has not the faintest inkling that she is metaphorically several steps ahead of him. At the asylum, he had the gall to tell her that he had changed his ways. She suspected he was lying, of course, and she was being proved right. He was obviously on his way to some Spitalfields whore! In the past, she would have credited her husband with a little more taste. Nevertheless, she would not be dissuaded, despite the fact that this is a place of constant shadow. This Stygian district is most unsettling for her. Even before Jack was abroad, she was all too aware that the streets of Whitechapel were inviting only to those who had nothing to lose.
Up ahead is a gas lamp that throws out an eerie yellow glow onto the filth-strewn pavement. Under it, she can make out a figure, lolling on the lamppost. She holds her breath as her husband approaches the trollop. She hears the figure—a woman— call after him, her voice so rough it would rasp rough-hewn wood. The brazen hussy asks him if he wants for anything, and Geraldine sees, to her gratification and surprise, that he ignores her. “There can only be one explanation,” she speaks aloud. “He has a special whore—someone who will do to him things that I could never imagine doing to him, lewd, depraved acts to satiate his lewd, depraved appetites.”
Their courtship had promised much: a brush against a sleeve, a pat under the table, even a stolen kiss in the garden once. Yet, after their nuptials, reality had set in. Their lovemaking, although very formal at first, had rapidly become quite thrilling, but a few weeks after their marriage, Geraldine developed a fever and severe abdominal pain. Not wishing to compromise his own professionalism, Cutler had called in another specialist, who confirmed his worst fears. Despite the fact that he, himself, had experienced only mild symptoms, he had infected his wife with gonorrhea. Unbeknownst to him, the infection had spread not only to her fallopian tubes, but to her bloodstream as well. The specialist, a close personal friend and therefore an ally, was sworn to secrecy. Geraldine’s suffering would be passed off as nothing more than a “female ailment.” When intercourse became too painful, it stopped altogether, much to the relief of both parties. It was only when she consulted another specialist of her own volition that she discovered the truth. Terence had infected her. She confronted him and he denied that he had caused her sufferings. She, however, remained unconvinced. Yet, a man is a man, she would tell herself. It is only natural that her husband, deprived of his conjugal rights, should seek solace elsewhere, but she had not thought he would return here, amid the flotsam and jetsam of humanity that had cursed their union in the first place.
As if to echo her sentiments, Terence Cutler stoops low. He stops in front of an archway that leads off the street and ducks down into a flagged passage, disappearing out of sight into Miller’s Court. Geraldine follows at a decent distance and catches sight of him standing outside a door to one of the lodgings. She supposes he will be there for a while, but she knows that revenge is a dish best served cold. She will bide her time.
Meanwhile, I shall return to White’s Row to see how Constance is faring after her terrible shock. Come with me, please.
CONSTANCE
“But how do you know she is dead?” Flo asks me for what seems like the tenth time. She’s perched on a chair by my bedside. The room is as cold as an iceho
use and her breath comes out in puffs. She’s tucked a blanket up under my chin, but the coarse fibers are scratching my neck. They prickle even more when I shake my head.
“Why won’t you listen to me?” Her constant questioning is making me grow weaker by the second. “She told me herself.” I can hear my voice grow thin as gruel.
Ma sits at the foot of the bed, her stooped frame swaddled in a thick shawl. “You’ve had a nasty do, love,” she tells me, patting my feet. “Ooh, if I ever laid my hands on those louts.” She balls her fists, but her anger spills over into a wheeze and sets her off, coughing again.
“Why don’t you go downstairs and I’ll light a fire?” suggests Flo. Ma, her eyes narrowing as she gasps for breath, nods and shambles off, leaving us alone. Flo gives me a look that’s full of love, but there’s pity in it, too. Her hand reaches out and gently she starts to stroke my forehead.
“You think I’ve gone round the bend, don’t you?” I say.
Slowly she shakes her head. “I know you’ve changed,” she tells me after a moment’s reflection. “There’s something going on in there.” She taps my temple and smiles. “But I’m not sure what it is.” I open my mouth to tell her, as I’ve told her a dozen times since yesterday, that Miss Tindall has passed over into another world. She’s dead, but not as we know it. There’s still life in her and she wants to speak to people through me. But poor Flo doesn’t seem to have taken it in. “What is it? What’s wrong?” she persists, looking deep into my eyes.
It’s then that I feel her. Miss Tindall comes to me again. I don’t see her, but she’s in the room with me, I know she is. I can sense her. It’s like a warm breeze fluttering in on a spring day, or the first ray of light at dawn. She loosens my tongue and then the words come.