by Tessa Harris
“Of course,” I reply.
* * *
We travel to King Street Police Station together. Miss Pauline makes a statement to the duty sergeant, who informs his superiors straightaway. Dr. Bond, the medical examiner, is summoned and Miss Beaufroy is escorted to the mortuary to identify the torso. I am allowed to accompany her, even though I have no wish to go. We both brace ourselves for the vile sight. That, and the smell, will stay with both of us for the rest of our lives. Dr. Bond tries to assist us as best he can, advising us to cover our mouths and noses prior to entering the room, but it is still the most horrendous thing I’ve ever had to do in my life. Squinting through half-closed eyes, Miss Pauline asks if she might see the portion of flesh under the left ribs. Dr. Bond obliges and skillfully covers up the rest of the remains to show only a small area of decay. Yet, sure enough, the little crescent scar is there, clearly visible under the purpled skin, just below the ribs on the left side.
Miss Pauline shuts her eyes as soon as she is able, then turns and starts to sob. My heart goes out to her.
“Come,” I tell her in a whisper, looping my arm through hers. “Remember, she is not there.”
Leaving the mortuary, we return to the duty sergeant’s office to find Inspector Marshall waiting for us. He stands up as we enter. He’s been smoking a pipe and the air is thick with tobacco smoke, but I know we both welcome the fug of it after the stench of the mortuary.
“That can’t have been easy for you, ladies,” he tells us. “I am most grateful to you both.” He points to a large, leather-bound folder. “Our investigations can now resume, thanks to you. We will make every effort to apprehend the fiend who did this to Miss Tindall.”
“Like you have with the Ripper,” I want to blurt. Of course, I do not. Neither Miss Pauline nor I have faith in his words, but we thank him, nevertheless.
EMILY
I am so very proud of Constance. She has handled herself extraordinarily well. She has also exercised her discretion, sparing Pauline the gruesome details of how my mutilated remains ended up on a building site in Whitehall. I fear I shall spare you no such details.
After Sir William and his son left me alone with the Butcher, another man, almost as brutish and muscular, arrived with a sack. My body was bundled into it and I was carried to a waiting wagon. The journey to the cat meat shop in Hanbury Street was a short one. Ironically, it lay opposite the place where Annie Chapman met her fate. We entered by the back. The room was cold, even though I could not feel it, although I could see the men’s breaths wreathing their own heads when they spoke. There was no one else about. They locked the door behind them.
“On ’ere,” directed the Butcher.
My body was dumped on the wooden chopping slab and I watched as the men took their cleavers and began hacking at my limbs. First my legs. Next my right arm. Then my left. Finally, and most brutally of all, the Butcher claimed my head, just below the bruising on my neck. As it left my body, it slipped backward, almost rolling off the table and dropping onto the floor, but the Butcher, perhaps through guilt, or remorse, accorded me the dignity of catching it before it fell.
All that remained was to distribute my mutilated body. My severed head, which had been saved from a fall, was, nevertheless, burned ignominiously. My torso, however, was wrapped in the remnants of my black dress and some old newspaper that was to hand. The rest of me was swathed in sacking. I was then loaded onto a wagon and taken under cover of darkness to the building site where Sir William Sampson was the main contractor. His men had easy access and knew the area well. My torso, one leg and an arm were secreted in various muddy recesses, while another leg was thrown into the Thames. And there I was to remain for several weeks.
CONSTANCE
Miss Pauline offered me a lift back to White’s Row in her hansom, but I declined, preferring to walk through the City. I want to clear my head, unclutter my thoughts. After all, there are two people living inside me now. Granted, Miss Tindall is a guest, not a resident, but she can visit me at any time and I need to be prepared to act on her instructions.
From the police station in King Street, I head back east. My journey takes me along the Victoria Embankment, past the place where Miss Tindall’s dismembered body had lain for all those weeks. The thought of it sickens me, even more now that I know what happened to her and how. To think that the men who caused her to die in such terrible circumstances, and who disposed of her body in such a despicable way, are still at large, fills me with despair. For a while, my footsteps are heavy as I trudge along the pavements, carrying the weight of the world’s injustices on my shoulders. I am angry. How can anything be the same from now on? The omnibuses and carts and horses pass in a blur. Big Ben strikes the hour. Life goes on, and yet, for me, everything is changed.
It’s almost three o’clock by the time I reach the City. I turn down Cornhill and into Mansion House Street to find they’re putting out the bunting. Flags of blue, white and red festoon the route. It’s then that I remember Friday is the Lord Mayor’s Show. A big procession will leave from the Guildhall, taking in Ludgate Hill and Fleet Street, and go as far as the Royal Courts of Justice before returning. Thousands are expected to line the streets, like they do every year. There’s a big meat tea in the Tower Hamlets Mission Hall, and I recall Flo reckoning that if we couldn’t get the food, at least we might see the entertainment afterward. But I’m in no mood for such frivolities. All I want to do is get home safe and go to bed.
CHAPTER 36
Thursday, November 8, 1888
CONSTANCE
The following morning, I go downstairs to find Flo already in the kitchen. She looks up from tending to the kettle on the hob. I can tell from her expression she’s still mad at me.
“I’m sorry for running off like that,” I say.
She looks up, brushing back a stray lock of hair off her face. “It’s Ma you need to worry about. Started off an attack, you did, when you wasn’t ’ere.”
I feel wretched, thinking of poor Ma. “It’s just that—” “Save your breath,” jibes Flo, showing me her palm. “I’m not sure what’s going on in that head of yours at the moment, but you best get over it.” I’m gladdened when I catch her lips twitch in a smile. “How about a nice cup of tea?”
“I could certainly do with one,” I reply.
“So how’s that Miss Belfry of yours, or whatever her name is?” she asks, pouring hot water into the teapot.
“Beaufroy. Miss Beaufroy,” I correct her. “She’s . . . she’s not good.” I do not volunteer more, but when Flo hands me a chipped cup a few moments later, she can tell that events have taken a turn for the worse.
“Streuth, you look peaky!” She clamps a palm onto my forehead to see if I have a fever. I haven’t. She sits herself down opposite me at the table in the front room. “Lord Mayor’s Show tomorrow,” she reminds me. “Ma and me are going. You’ll come, too, won’t ya?”
I start to shake my head. “I don’t . . .”
“Oh, come on, Con. It’ll do ya good. The music, the flags, those old farts in fancy hats—not to mention the booze. There’ll be free beer at the Britannia!” She’s patting my knee and it’s hard to refuse her. “What do ya say, eh, Con?”
I blow on my tea, watching the surface ripple like wind on a muddy lake; then I take a gulp. I feel the hot, soothing liquid trickle down my dry throat and instantly feel a little revived. “Maybe,” I tell her after another sip, but inside I wonder how I can ever be happy again.
EMILY
Once more, we find Terence Cutler at breakfast. The table is laid with a white lace cloth as the surgeon takes tea, eggs and toast in the morning room. For once, he is in a good mood. For once, he has some positive news. Not only have the police dropped charges, but he also has something he can look forward to. He wonders how Geraldine will take it, or, if indeed, she is ready to take it at all. While their rapprochement has gone well, so far, he knows it will take time to heal the wounds mutually inflicted over the past fe
w months. They have held hands, twice, and Terence has even managed to peck his wife on the cheek as he bid her farewell on his last visit before Pauline was due to take her back to Petworth. A month or so in Sussex will be just what she needs, after which she will return to Harley Street revived and refreshed. Who knows, he tells himself, they might even share a bedroom again? It’s far too early in the healing process to return to the conjugal bed, of course, and besides, with his brilliant plan in place, the need to perform the act on his wife has become redundant, even if she would welcome him. She will have her child; Mary Kelly will have her food; he will be relieved of any pressure to perform.
Breakfast has passed off well and Terence is just dabbing his moustache to make sure no wayward crumbs have hooked themselves onto his bristles, when Dora enters to clear the breakfast detritus. He can tell straightaway, however, that all is not well. The girl is agitated and clumsy. A cup clatters sideways in its saucer; then a fork falls on the floor.
“Really, Dora!” chastises Terence.
“Begging pardon, sir,” pleads the girl. Now on her hands and knees, she is mopping up the fragments of fried egg that were knocked to the carpet by the wayward fork.
“Whatever is the matter with you?” He will not tolerate this sort of behavior.
Still clutching the plate, Dora straightens herself. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s just that Cook says her best knives have gone missing.”
Terence is sanguine. “And why should that be of such concern to you, Dora, unless, of course, you have taken them?” He looks at her pointedly and she sizzles under his gaze.
“Oh no, sir!” She shakes her head like the child that she is. “It’s just there were that many visitors to the house yesterday—the butcher, the baker and . . .”
“The candlestick maker?” Terence thinks his witticism is worthy of remark, but remembers it is lost on the servant. “So the knives were stolen?” he continues.
“Yes, sir.” The girl nods, glad of a serious ear at last.
“And Cook has conducted a thorough search?”
“Yes, sir.”
Cutler folds his napkin deliberately into a triangle and pats it down flat.
“Then you are right to be worried, Dora,” he tells his servant. “With this Jack the Ripper about, we must all be on our guard.”
The girl balks at her master’s mockery and has just turned tail with a tray of empty crockery when there comes a loud and urgent ringing of the doorbell. She switches round, looking for guidance from her master.
“Don’t just stand there!” he barks.
She deposits the tray and rushes to the door, the ringing persisting all the while. The source of this frantic bell pulling is Pauline Beaufroy.
“Miss Beaufroy,” Dora gasps as the unexpected visitor marches into the hallway.
“Is your mistress here?” Pauline’s eyes dart left and right.
Terence, by now on his mettle, ventures out of the morning room and into the hall. “Pauline! What on earth . . . ?”
“Is she here? Please tell me she is here!”
“Geraldine? No, I thought she was with you. I thought you were supposed to collect her,” he replies, shaking his head.
Pauline steadies herself on the console table and raises a forlorn hand to her brow. “I was, but she’d already left. She’s gone, Terence.” The realization that her sister has discharged herself from the asylum, and is now at large again, saps all her strength.
Temporarily lost for words, Cutler suddenly finds his voice. “No! No! This cannot be.” He shakes his head, then brings a balled fist to his mouth to bite his knuckle. “How can this have happened?”
Pauline suddenly bursts into tears. “A man, an impostor, took her away!” she wails. Producing a handkerchief, she buries her face in it.
Embarrassed and angry in turn by both his sister-in-law’s distress and her inadequacies, Cutler lays an awkward arm on her shoulder and guides her into the morning room.
“We shall find her. We shall hunt down this scoundrel,” he tells Pauline, patting her on the shoulder, although just how he proposes to do this at the moment is anyone’s guess.
CHAPTER 37
Friday, November 9, 1888
CONSTANCE
I sit bolt upright in bed. Flo screams. She sits up, too.
“What in God’s name . . . ?” she shouts at me with eyes still halfway closed. In my panic, I’ve pulled the bedclothes off her and she yanks them back.
My chest heaves, and as I lay my hand on my forehead, I feel it is clammy with sweat, even though the room is bitterly cold. “Oh, God!” I say. “I think there’s been another murder.”
“What!?” Flo rubs her eyes. “Oh, Christ!”
I jump out of bed and pull on my pantalettes and stockings.
“Where are you going?”
Dawn is edging its way across the London skyline, but its progress is marred by thick fog and our room is still in darkness. I fumble to find my shift and frock.
“I’m going to Mary Kelly’s house,” I tell her.
“Mary! Oh, my God, you don’t think . . .” Her hand flies up over her mouth.
I suddenly remember that she and Flo know each other. “Let’s hope not,” I say as I tug on my boots. Within two minutes, I am out of the door and rushing along, heading for Miller’s Court. The streets are muffled by the fog. The sounds of horses being harnessed, of carts being loaded, of warehouse doors opening—all the music of a new day in the East End—are deadened by the fog. Yet, despite the filthy curtain that’s drawn across these parts, I know my way around and it doesn’t take long before I’m in Dorset Street.
I narrow my eyes to see the archway up ahead that leads to Miller’s Court. I’ve never been down the alley before—only in my dream—and I’m filled with a terrible sense of dread. In my nightmare, I saw a scene straight from hell. Blood was everywhere and at the center of my vision lay poor Mary, horribly cut. With every step I take, my heart beats faster. Only a few more paces and I will be at the passage. But then, just as I draw almost level with the entrance on the opposite side of the street, I see a figure appear from the archway, not ten yards in front of me. A tall woman. She’s wearing a brown linsey skirt and a red knitted shawl over her head. My heart leaps. It’s Mary and she’s in a hurry; head down and walking fast, she seems not to notice me waving to her.
“Mary!” I call.
At first, she doesn’t respond. I call again. “Mary!” This time, she looks round, pauses for a second to see who’s hailing her, then waves back. But she doesn’t stop. She just hurries on toward Commercial Street. I do not mind. I’m just relieved that I’ve seen her. My nightmare was clearly just that. A nightmare, not a premonition. I turn and head toward home. It’s then that I see someone else I know. It’s Mrs. Maxwell, the wife of one of the lodging-house keepers. I helped teach her little boy to read. I cross the street for a chat.
“Well, if it ain’t Connie Piper,” she says with a smile. She’s carrying a basket of firewood. “What you doin’ here at this time o’ the mornin’?”
I return her smile, while trying to drum up an excuse. “Mary Kelly borrowed a bonnet of mine last week and I was wanting it back for the show today,” I lie. Too late do I remember that Mary never wears a hat, but I think I’ve got away with it.
Mrs. Maxwell chuckles and shifts her heavy basket to her other arm. “Oh, bless you, you needn’t bother going down there. Mary’s already up and out. I saw her not a minute ago.”
Again my heart leaps a little. “Really?” I think I must sound too relieved. She’s just confirmed what I’ve already seen with my own eyes.
“Looking the worse for wear she was, an’ all,” adds Mrs. Maxwell, swinging her basket onto her hip. “She told me she’d ’ad a right night of it!” She tips me a wink.
I thank her for sparing me the journey into Miller’s Court and we part. I see her enter her home opposite the archway and I begin to retrace my way back to White’s Row. This time, there’s a spring
in my step. If Mary didn’t stop to talk, it was because she was feeling the effects of drink. The explanation is simple. Perhaps I will go to the Lord Mayor’s Show, after all. I’m hoping it’ll take my mind off all the terrible things that’ve gone before.
* * *
“Well?” Flo asks anxiously as soon as I’m back in the house.
I throw her a reassuring smile. “It’s all right,” I say, walking toward her as she makes tea in the kitchen. “I saw her.”
Her shoulders heave as she sighs with relief. For a moment, I think that perhaps she might believe me when I say I have premonitions, and that I’ve seen Miss Tindall since she passed over. I’m hoping she’ll be an ally. But she spoils it all by saying: “You and your dreams, eh! What are you like?”
EMILY
There is a tension in the air, an anticipation mixed with fear. I sense it as I gaze at the crowds lining Ludgate Hill, waiting for the great Lord Mayor’s procession to pass. It is cold and it is raining, but that doesn’t seem to dampen the mood. The sky is generally gray, with the odd patch of blue appearing now and again between the sodden clouds. To get a better view, young boys have scrambled halfway up lampposts, as if they were ships’ masts. Children straddle their fathers’ broad shoulders. Women stand on tiptoe and wave flags, even though the procession has not yet come round the bend. Along one of the side streets, a brass band plays marches and small boys keep time, parading up and down, much to the amusement of the nearby onlookers.
Yet, for all this show and merriment, the people of London prefer to throw brickbats at their dignitaries rather than bouquets, and the Metropolitan Police’s handling of the Ripper murders has made most figures in authority a laughingstock. The mounted policemen who line the route at intervals also come in for mocking from the common horde.
“Shouldn’t you be looking for Jack?” shouts one wag to an officer.