The Sixth Victim

by Tessa Harris

  “I’m a spirit medium.”

  Flo jerks back, like she’s just been kicked by a horse. Her hands fly up and she pushes hard against her chair, tipping it backward. It’s like I’ve confessed to being Jack the Ripper.

  “A spirit medium!”

  I find the strength to sit up in bed, easing myself up on my grazed elbows. “You don’t believe me.”

  “A spirit medium! Gor, blimey!” She’s looking at me all goggle-eyed. “Well, I never!”

  I remain silent for a while, letting her digest the notion like it’s a gristly piece of meat; then, when I think she’s ready for more, I explain further. “You can’t see Miss Tindall anymore, but she’s here and she still wants to speak to people and she wants to speak through me.”

  Flo is still ruminating. I watch her in silence as she takes my words and chews them over. After a moment, she narrows her eyes and asks: “So how did she die?”

  I sigh and the effort of it hurts my chest. “It’s a long story,” I tell her. I have neither the energy nor the inclination to divulge all the lurid details.

  “Hmm,” she replies. She is still not sure she can believe me. Just like Thomas the Doubter, she wants proof. It’s something I don’t have, but I do know someone who will not question my word. And I shall see her tomorrow.

  EMILY

  Now that I’ve seen how Constance is baring up, I return to Miller’s Court to find Terence Cutler pausing before he knocks on the door to room 13. It’s dingy, but he sees to his left that the passage opens out into a small yard. All around, there are noises—ordinary noises from ordinary people—voices, some raised; babies bawling; dishes clattering. A water tap drips away in the corner of the yard. It is a sorry state of affairs, he thinks as he looks at the windows round the corner. He sees a candle glow emanating from behind a torn piece of brown cloth that offers a modicum of privacy to the dwelling’s inhabitant. As he looks, he spots two of the glass panes are broken. There’s a hole bigger than a man’s fist. Bending in, he puts his ear closer to the smeary window. Heaven forbid she is with a customer, he thinks. That would be most embarrassing all round. He waits a moment and hears no sound, save for—what is that?—the rake of a hairbrush through long hair perhaps? Taking his courage in both hands, he knocks. After a moment, the ragged muslin drape is drawn aside and a disembodied eye appears squinting through the broken pane. A woman’s voice breaks across the jagged glass. “Who’s there?”

  This is precisely what Terence Cutler wanted to avoid, attracting attention to himself. His anonymity must be preserved. Taking off his topper, he lowers his mouth to the window. “An acquaintance,” he says in a whisper.

  The eye, which is large, blue and heavily fringed, blinks; a second later, the door is opened wide to admit the unexpected visitor.

  “Well, this is a surprise!” greets Mary Kelly. She is in a state of dishabille, wearing merely her shift in a room where the temperature can be only a little above freezing. The large bed that takes up most of the space is as disheveled as its usual occupant. The dirty sheets are all awry and Cutler recognizes the familiar fishy smell only too easily. A client has not long left.

  There’s a difficult pause; then she grabs a red shawl on a nearby table and holds it up to her ample bosom in a show of mock modesty. “Have a seat, sir,” she says, waving a free hand toward the bed. She’s cheery, as she is most times. “I didn’t think to see you ’ere, Mr. Cutler. What can I do for ya?” Both her arms are suddenly thrust aloft as she twists her blond hair on top of her head and secures it with pins.

  Terence loosens the scarf at his neck. He will keep his coat on if he doesn’t want to freeze to death. He has not yet smiled at her, nor said anything, and this makes her a little fidgety. She reaches for her linsey frock, which is draped over the table, and climbs into it, jabbering as she does so.

  “Caught me unawares, you did. Can’t be too careful with Jack around, can you?” He does not respond to her question, but she persists in that sing-song Welsh accent of hers. “Just sorting myself, I was. That accounts for the mess. Lucky, you just missed one of my regular gentlemen.”

  He is studying her. She is young, perhaps a little younger than Geraldine. Quite pretty, too, for a Whitechapel whore. A fresh complexion is, however, marred by a purple bruise on her left cheek, as if it has been recently slapped. He sees her blush slightly under his gaze. He knows she has broken the unwritten rule not to talk about her gentleman to other clients. But Terence Cutler is not a client. True, he has come to ask for a service, but it is not the conventional sort offered by a prostitute.

  “How are you keeping, Mary?” He throws a nod toward her belly, which she’s squeezing into her dress.

  “Oh, that,” she says nonchalantly, patting her bodice. “We’re doing all right.” She shrugs and adds: “Considering.”

  Cutler detects a caveat. “Considering what?”

  She sighs heavily and, turning her back toward him, offers him the row of buttons that needs doing up on her dress. He knows what is expected of him and his slender fingers get to work.

  “Joe’s left me,” she tells the wall after a moment.

  Cutler’s hands drop and she turns to face him. “We had a row. That’s how I got this.” She points to the bruise on her face. “Walked out on me last week, he did.”

  Cutler stifles a smile. He could not have wished for better news. “So how will you support the child?” he asks, his face the model of concern.

  Giving up on dressing, Mary slumps down by her visitor on the bed, her shoulders still uncovered. “I’ll get by, I suppose,” she says, patting her torso. “But it won’t be easy. It never is,” she says a little ruefully.

  Cutler looks at her beautiful shoulders in the light cast by a candle on top of a broken wineglass on the bedside table. Her blond hair, swept up, shimmers in the glow. He wishes he could trace the nape of her neck with his finger. Instead, he says to her: “Mary, would you like me to check that everything is as it should be?”

  She follows his eyes to her belly. For a moment, she is surprised; then she hugs herself and smiles. “Thank you, sir,” she replies, suddenly strangely submissive. “I would like that.”

  Cutler reaches out to the row of buttons on the back of her dress, which he had just started to fasten. He unfastens them again and Mary pulls her arms out of the stiff sleeves.

  “If you please,” instructs the surgeon once she is back down to her shift. He is patting the bed.

  She stretches out on the rumpled sheets, her arms by her sides. The doctor leans over her and begins to feel her swelling torso. Under his expert fingers, he can detect the mound of the uterus as it blooms. There is a fetus in there, sure enough. He feels a sudden jerk at his touch. Mary giggles.

  “It’s a kicker, all right!” She chuckles.

  Six months, he would estimate. Seven, perhaps. The child should be born in early spring. That suits him well.

  “Thing seems to be in order,” he says after his short examination.

  Mary takes a deep breath. “Good,” she replies. He is not sure if she means it. He, on the other hand, is delighted. She rises from the bed and starts the lengthy process of dressing once more.

  Cutler watches her struggle into her frock; then, just as she presents her buttons to him once more, he tells her: “I wish to put a proposal to you.”

  She turns her head slightly. Her hands are on her hips. She’s been waiting for the catch, the compensation. In return for checking her bump, he would want a wank, at the very least, she thinks.

  “A proposal?” she repeats, playing the innocent.

  “Yes, a plan. A way out of your”—Cutler searches for the word while looking at her belly—“predicament.”

  Mary breaks away from Cutler’s fingers and taps her abdomen. She is frowning. “You said it was too late.” There is mild reprehension in her tone as she recalls how the surgeon refused to give her the abortion she so wanted.

  Cutler nods. “It was too late for that.” Thoug
htfully he tilts his head. “What if I were to tell you that I had found someone who wishes to adopt your baby?”

  Mary gasps audibly, then slumps back down on the bed. “Adopt ’im?” She pats her belly again.

  “Yes,” replies Cutler, enlivened by her—he thinks—positive response. “He, or she, would be taken care of—fed, clothed and educated—and you need never worry about their welfare again.” He finds it hard to read her expression. It’s one of shock, but, might he venture, relief also? He carries on. “Naturally, I would deliver the child, so you would have the very best care, at no charge. Then I would take it away and place it in the arms of a loving woman who has the deepest of maternal longings, but who has never been blessed with children of her own.” He pauses and dips his head to see if he can read her eyes.

  Suddenly she turns to him. “Do I get to hold him before he goes?” There are tears in her eyes.

  “Of course,” he replies. “Not only that, but you would be paid for your pains, too.”

  “Paid?” Her voice is bewildered.

  “I propose two guineas for your trouble.”

  He can see her calculating the numbers in that pretty head of hers. She need not work for two months or more. She could even buy some decent clothes, a new bonnet, eat out at a chophouse now and again.

  “What do you say?” Cutler persists, watching for signs of agreement.

  Another moment passes before Mary starts to shake her head, slowly at first, as if she is listening to an argument. The side for adoption is winning.

  “Yes,” she says finally, her face lifting into a faint smile. “Yes, I will give my baby away,” she tells him. “It will be best for all concerned.” And with that, she throws her arms around Cutler’s neck. “Thank you!” she cries, as if she’s suddenly released from her shackles.

  The surgeon, although elated by her response, is taken aback by her exuberance and lets out a laugh. It’s then that the ragged drape suddenly falls to the floor with a loud clatter. It’s been secured to a piece of doweling that’s somehow come loose.

  “Good God!” Cutler leaps up from the bed. “What’s that? Who’s there?”

  Mary lays a comforting arm on his and pulls him back down to the bed. “Don’t worry about that, Mr. Cutler,” she replies with a giggle. “That happens all the time,” she tells him. And her bawdy laughter masks the footsteps that are retreating up the passage. Geraldine Cutler has seen all she needs to see.

  CHAPTER 35

  Wednesday, November 7, 1888

  CONSTANCE

  Miss Beaufroy is not expecting me. I’m standing nervously in the foyer of Brown’s Hotel. The concierge alerted her to my arrival, and now, as she descends the stairs swathed in purple, I can see her puzzlement grow with every step she takes.

  “Constance dear,” she greets me, before detecting that something is amiss. She frowns. “But why aren’t you in Oxford?” she asks, taking both my hands in hers. Searching my face for an explanation, she quickly finds it. “Something terrible has happened, hasn’t it?” She bites her lip and withdraws.

  “I fear it has.”

  Her gloved hand flies up to her face.

  “Shall we walk?” I suggest. And so we do. She puts her arm through mine and we leave the hotel as sisters.

  The day is cold, but crisp, and for once there is blue sky. We head toward a small square opposite the hotel that is bordered on all sides by trees and bushes. The berries on the holly bush are bloodred and plentiful. Pa would say that so many would be a sign of a harsh winter to come. A neat square of lawn lies at its center and there are beds, now brown and bare, that will, no doubt, be dressed gaily in spring. On each side of this square, there is a bench and we plump for the one farthest from the main entrance so that our conversation is less likely to be overheard.

  “Your news concerns Miss Tindall?” Miss Beaufroy’s brow is crumpled.

  “It does.” For the past few hours, I have been rehearsing my message; now that the time to deliver it is here, I find it does not leave my mouth easily. “I’m afraid . . .” I am choking with grief. “I’m afraid Miss Tindall has passed over.”

  Miss Beaufroy jerks away from me in shock. “Passed over? You mean . . . ? How do you know? Are you sure? But you have not been to Oxford! How can you know?” Questions tumble out from her lips like a torrent. She rises, then sits again. She is distraught. Tears well up and brim over.

  This time, it is I who take her by the hand. I become like a parent, addressing an anxious child. I look her in the eye. “I know because she told me herself.”

  “What?” Her brows lift. “You don’t mean . . . ?”

  It is so much easier explaining such things to a believer. Miss Beaufroy understands straightaway. “You have seen her?” she asks.

  I nod. “She came to me in a vision in the street, yesterday.”

  Miss Beaufroy casts her gaze around her, as if she is suddenly seeing everything with fresh eyes. “But this is wonderful. I knew it. Oh, dear Constance, I knew you had the gift. I just knew it.” She is like a child at Christmas, wildly excited and completely overwrought. “What did she say? Tell me, please.” Her hands are clasped together in supplication. Of course, I do not refuse. I tell her the whole story: about the Sunday school and Dr. Melksham, about the disappearing girls, about the disciplinary action against Miss Tindall and about the fateful night she stumbled upon a depraved Masonic ritual that led ultimately to her death.

  There is much to take in. I do not expect her to absorb it all at once. She asks many questions, but I am able to answer them, with Miss Tindall’s help, of course. She is hovering around me, making sure I leave no pertinent details out. I do not tell Miss Beaufroy that she is present. I have no wish to alarm her, but my account of her last few weeks is rendered all the more accurate by having her close by. Yet, I save the last and most alarming piece of information until the end.

  “There is one other thing,” I say when Miss Beaufroy’s exhausted expression tells me she thinks I have finished.

  “There is more?”

  I nod, dreading delivering my final message. “The torso at Whitehall . . .”

  EMILY

  Once again, I’d visited dear Constance as she slept. I had to finish telling her the whole, sorry truth. It was not easy to relate how they discovered my body the next morning.

  “Won’t nuffin’ to do wiff me, guv’nor!” protested the Butcher, scratching the back of his bullish neck.

  Sir William brushed him aside to look at my lifeless corpse. He bent down and studied my face; then I felt his warm fingers on my neck as he checked for a pulse. On finding there was none, he shot back up in a fury. He ranted at his henchman. “You bloody fool! How could you let this happen?”

  Robert, standing by the doorway, seemed in a state of shock. Leaning low over me, he brushed my cold cheek tenderly, before he noticed the blood on the wall. “My God!” His father followed his horrified gaze. I had been hurled back with such force that my skull had cracked. A crimson smear remained on the plaster.

  Sir William lunged at the brute. “You idiot!” he yelled, heaving him up by the collar.

  Robert managed to pull him off. “It will serve no purpose, Father,” he told him.

  Coming to his senses, Sir William backed away and tugged at his waistcoat. “You are right,” he said, straightening himself. “What matters now is how we dispose of the body. The quicker, the better.”

  CONSTANCE

  Miss Beaufroy’s eyes widen; then she shakes her head as she thinks of her friend dying such a lonely, terrible death. “Oh no! Dear God, no!” The color deserts her face. It looks all the whiter against her vivid purple coat. “What should be done?” she asks after a moment.

  I have thought long and hard on the question. And, of course, I have sought—and received—guidance. There’s a terrible pang in my heart. “A conviction for murder will not be possible,” I tell her reluctantly.

  She scowls. “But, surely, justice—”

 
I break her off. “We need evidence and there is none. Besides,” I say after a pause, “who would believe me if I went to the police? A flower girl who claims she’s in touch with the dead. They would say I was mad.”

  Realizing the futility of the situation, Miss Beaufroy’s shoulders droop. It’s as if she is standing on a cliff, about to throw herself off. I try and pull her back from the brink.

  “There is something we can do,” I tell her.

  Her eyes latch onto mine. “Yes?”

  “We can identify her remains, so that she can, at least, have a decent burial.”

  She closes her eyes, as if to try and blink away the vision of a naked, rotting torso on a coroner’s slab. I see her swallow hard, but when her eyes reopen, I think the idea might have taken root. Her mouth lifts a little. “I would do it if I thought it would bring my dear Emily peace,” she tells me.

  “I know it would.” I reach out for her hand. “She told me it would.”

  Miss Beaufroy nods. “If that is so, then, of course, I will. But how? You were at the inquest with me. There are no distinguishing marks.”

  I lift my hand to stop her. “Apparently, there were.” Miss Tindall has told me about a childhood accident that left her with a scar just below her ribs. “Do you remember when you were playing in the wood on the edge of your estate? Miss Tindall was climbing an oak tree and she fell?” I ask.

  “Good God!” The memory is triggered. “Yes,” she blurts, clutching my hands to relive the incident. “I warned her against it. The bough gave way. It was rotten and she fell at least six feet to the ground. She tore her dress and cut her side. She was lucky she did not break a rib.”

  I nod. “But the injury left a scar, a small, crescent-shaped scar on her left side. The medical examiner must have overlooked it.”

  Miss Beaufroy takes a deep breath. She knows what she must do. “Will you come with me to the police station, Constance?”