“I am.”
“Good. Ah…Emma here’s got a little problem she needs you to take care of.” The prostitute patted Emma’s belly and giggled.
“Do you have a doss for the night?” Eliza said. “A room is best to do the work.”
“No miss, we spent it on drink. Besides, looks like the rain’s lettin’ up.”
“Is there any place else?”
“Right around the corner will do. Emma here’s not picky. Not a lot of folks out this time of night.”
“Fine then, let’s get to it.” Eliza walked about 20 yards until a street pump for water caught her attention. This would be good for cleaning up afterward, so she turned left and walked down a long corridor behind a three-story building that was partially lit up from a lamplight in the rear yard. She figured it was as good a place as any, and she would have plenty of room to work. Two small outbuildings weren’t too far off in the backyard and she hoped one was a lavatory where things could be discarded. “Lie down here,” Eliza told the prostitute, Emma. “Use the bottom doorstep to rest your head. Help her—what’s your name?” she asked the other prostitute.
“Catherine, miss,” she slurred, then belched.
“Not your real name!” Emma scolded.
Catherine shrugged her shoulders and both women giggled.
“Keep your voices down, or I’ll leave this minute!” Eliza said. Catherine looked properly chastised. Eliza often wondered why these stupid, disgusting animals worried so much about using their real names. She didn’t care one way or the other who they were because it was unlikely she’d ever see them again. “We must keep quiet unless you want trouble from the tenants.”
Once they had Emma positioned correctly, Eliza lifted the prostitute’s skirts and readied her instruments. First, she took out a piece of wood wrapped in cloth that was a little longer than a finger and just as thick. “Here,” she told Emma. “Bite down on this to keep quiet when the pain comes.” Emma nodded and put the stick in her mouth.
Eliza pulled down the woman’s filthy drawers. She left her gloves on and inserted two fingers deep into Emma’s vagina while pressing the woman’s abdomen with her other hand. She was sure she felt a lump that wouldn’t normally be there. The patient grunted and her musculature stiffened. “Try and calm her,” Eliza told Catherine. “It will make things go easier.”
While Catherine patted her friend’s head and whispered everything would be all right, Eliza pulled the long curette from her bag and slowly inserted it into Emma. The woman wriggled and bucked like a wild animal and her friend was worthless at holding her still. Emma bit down hard and grunted, swinging her head back and forth. Tears streamed across her temples. “I can’t do this,” Catherine said. She got up and ran off with her hands over her mouth. Eliza heard the prostitute’s footfalls tap loud and quick at first, then they grew faint, until they faded to nothing.
“Don’t worry,” Eliza told Emma. “We don’t need her, but you’ve got to hold still.”
Emma nodded and Eliza continued circling the curette. She grabbed another instrument with a sharp hook at the end, inserted it, and pulled when she felt it had caught on something. Emma’s eyes bulged and she screamed with the bit still in her mouth. “Almost done,” Eliza said. She yanked hard and a glob of tissue came out with a rush of bubbled blood that reeked of feces. “Dammit,” Eliza said, knowing she’d hit bowel.
Emma began to scream louder and louder. Eliza was in a panic, didn’t know what to do. She thought first of what Professor Huxley would say. He would tell everyone he knew she was a horrible surgeon. Her father would be so disappointed. Her mother would be ashamed, and Henry would never take her as his wife. Eliza leaned forward and tried to shush Emma, pinning her arms to her sides to keep her from flailing about. They struggled, and when that didn’t work, she grabbed hold of the sides of the bit in her mouth and pushed down. Emma freed herself and reached into her pockets for something. Eliza grabbed her hands, tore the fabric of Emma’s dress, and loose junk from the pocket flew up into the air then landed scattered about. Emma tried to fight. Eliza twisted up the scarf Emma had around her neck and began choking her, used her thumbs to push hard against her trachea until Emma passed out. Crazed, Eliza searched in her bag for the surgeon’s knife. She held it up and stared at the glinting blade just as Emma started coming to.
Eliza leaned over her body then used the scarf to turn her head to the right. With little life left in her, Emma didn’t put up much of a fight when Eliza took the surgeon’s knife and cut across her throat from left to right. Eliza let go of the handkerchief and quickly began her work down below. There couldn’t be any evidence left behind and she would have to move fast.
It was fortunate she’d been there to hear the details Dr. Llewellyn gave when he and Detective Godley came to visit her father—almost as though it was meant to be. And her own father gave her the best bit of advice. If the killer was evolving, then this would be his next step. Taking a thing—a prize.
Eliza opened Emma up and heaped her innards on top of her chest to get to the uterus. It had to go. Everything that could lead back to this failed abortion had to be taken and discarded. The extraction took less than a quarter of an hour. Then she wrapped the uterus and other parts of incriminating evidence, into a large swatch of fabric from her bag and tied it off with a piece of string. Quietly, but very alert, she went up to the front of the building, set the organs down next to the water pump and rinsed her hands off best she could. It started to rain again. Eliza put the bundle into her bag and hurriedly walked down the street. Every footstep was a loud splash against stone. She caught a hansom cab that delivered her close to Regent’s Park, where she got out and walked the rest of the way. Eliza clutched her medical bag hard against her chest as though it might open and spill out her horrible secret.
When she got home, Eliza used the servants’ entrance, went down into the kitchen, took the bundle from her bag and placed it onto the fire along with her gloves. The flames grew to life with her offering, but she added two more logs to be sure. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. What if the police don’t believe my cover-up? That won’t, and can’t happen. Before anyone in the house woke up, Eliza rinsed her cape and frock coat best she could then went upstairs to change for breakfast.
Despite all the feelings roiling inside, hunger rose above all else.
Chapter
6
“You look flushed this morning, Eliza. Are you feeling all right?” Lady Covington said.
“The other day I was too pale, and now I’m flushed. Are you sure it isn’t your eyes?” Eliza sat down at the table and thanked Mrs. Sutton for a cup of tea.
“That’s no way to speak to your mother,” Lord Covington said.
“See how she treats me, Thomas?”
Eliza rolled her eyes. “Oh Mother, you know I don’t mean it.”
“Then don’t vex me like that,” Lady Covington said. “After church will you go over the flower arrangements with me?”
“I can’t today. I’m playing tennis with Henry, Henrietta, and her husband, Arthur.”
“How is his sister getting along since her marriage?”
“I’ve not heard much about it.”
“That’s because you’ve got your nose in books all day. It would be to your advantage after your own wedding to listen to what’s happening in society.”
“But I don’t really care what happens with society.”
“You will when it pertains to your husband, dear.”
“Ladies, please, might a man have a piece of toast without the bickering?”
Mrs. Sutton entered the room, placed fresh jams on the table and set a folded paper down next to Lord Covington. “I thought you might like this right away, sir.” He nodded. Then she stepped over to Eliza and poured more tea. The maid leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Nanette says your frock coat and cape are soaking wet. What would you have her do?”
“Wash them,” Eliza said. “I decided to walk ho
me yesterday and got caught in the pouring rain.”
“Yes, Miss.”
“Did you say you walked in the rain yesterday?”
“Yes, Mother.” Eliza watched and waited for her father to open the paper.
“Are you trying to catch a death of a cold?”
“No, Mother. What news, Father?”
He looked up from the paper. “Walking is a healthy thing,” he said. “It’s good exercise.”
“Yes, but in the rain, Thomas?”
“Well, maybe when it’s pouring out take a cab next time, Eliza.” He went back to reading the paper. “Hmm…seems there’s been another murder in Whitechapel.”
“That’s horrible,” Eliza’s mother said. “Must we discuss this while we eat?”
“Thank you, Father,” Eliza said. “May I be excused to dress for church?”
“Yes, you may.”
Eliza took the stairs down toward the basement washroom and found Nanette, one of her best servant girls, standing over a large wash basin. Eliza picked up a can of soap on the shelf next to her and threw it against the wall in front of the maid. White powder exploded everywhere and the young girl screamed and turned around.
“Was there a problem with my coats, Nanette?” Eliza said with clenched fists.
“No, Miss, they were just so wet and heavy like they’d been left outside in the rain. They smelled funny, too. I thought that perhaps you’d want to throw them out.” The maid trembled and rattled off her words.
“You know those are the clothes I wear to school and to work in.”
“Yes, Miss.”
“Well, they’ll have to do until I’m finished then, won’t they?”
“I’m sorry, Miss.”
“Don’t be sorry, Nanette. I’m a bit out of sorts this morning, that’s all. Please, just wash the clothes when I bring them to you, with no comments to Mrs. Sutton or anyone else. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Miss.”
“Then hurry up and clean this mess before someone sees, and don’t tell a soul what happened here, either.” Eliza walked upstairs and dressed for church. No doubt the news of the murder had spread throughout all of London. She meticulously scanned over images in her mind regarding the night’s event. Eliza could think of nothing she might have forgotten or left at the scene in her rush to clean up and leave.
During the entire sermon, she kept her eyes down and thought of the other prostitute, Catherine. What if she told someone? Eliza doubted a woman of her nature would go to the police. Still, she would have to find her somehow and figure out a way to strike a bargain to her keep quiet.
A match or two of tennis would help her think things through. Her mind was always more clear when she was active. Sitting stagnant in church with her thoughts running in circles did nothing to help. It was suffocating, which made her think of the grip she’d had on Emma’s scarf when she was strangling the girl. Her hold had been firm; so much so, she could hardly believe her own strength. Eliza moved her hand over her bicep muscle and marveled at the definition in her arm. All the tennis matches and archery competitions had made her stronger than she realized. She looked up from the pew and smiled.
* * *
Henry took Eliza home in his phaeton carriage and she wondered where her heart was. Would she ever fall in love with him? Her mother told her it would come with time, but shouldn’t she feel the least bit for him now? Love and marriage are useless things. Life and death, those are real.
Eliza knew that once she became a fully-pledged physician she’d have some control over what was real. But losing control, like she did last night, had also been liberating. This kind of freedom without conscience could get her into a great deal of trouble. She had to be careful. Perhaps someone at the Royal Free Hospital would know of a prostitute named Catherine.
“What occupies your thoughts so, Eliza? Say it’s me.”
“Of course it is.” Eliza was pleased with her increasing ability to lie so easily. “You, our wedding, our future lives in America.”
“I hope you’ll be happy, dear.”
“I’m sure I will.”
“Good. Good.”
Henry’s driver brought the carriage to a halt in front of the Covington residence then helped Eliza step out. “I’ll see you soon,” Henry said from the door.
“Goodbye, Henry.”
Eliza sensed unease when she walked through the front door. She removed her hat and gloves. Mrs. Sutton came into the foyer and took them from her. “Lady Covington would like to speak with you.”
“Is there someone else here?”
The maid looked from one side to the next then whispered. “More detectives and the police surgeon have come again. Something to do with the Whitechapel Murderer, I presume.”
Eliza started for her father’s study.
“Miss Covington, your mother is waiting for you in the parlor.”
“Yes, of course, but—”
“Trust me when I say you wouldn’t want to be in the same room with that severe bunch. Even your father looks more stark than usual. Best you be on your way to see what Lady Covington requires.”
“Thank you Mrs. Sutton.” Eliza headed for the parlor, slowing her pace when she passed her father’s study. Men’s voices boomed through the closed doors, making Eliza’s heart race. Perhaps they’d caught on, which hastened her steps. If anyone knew what was happening in the house, it would be her mother.
“There you are, Eliza. Where have you been?”
“I told you earlier Mother, with Henry playing tennis.”
“Oh, yes, now I remember. These events have me so distraught I hardly know what to think. It’s horrible of these men to keep your father from his dinner. A man needs his nourishment, and he’s not getting any younger or healthier.”
“Mother, it’s important. They need his help.”
“His help? Why on earth do they need his help?”
“Well, he’s esteemed, Mother. They trust him.”
“I suppose, but it is very inconvenient.”
“Who is here speaking with him? Are they the same men from before?”
“How would I know?”
“Mother, you must have some idea.”
“I can’t believe you’re more concerned about what is going on in that room full of men than the reason I called you here.”
“All right, why did you send for me?”
“The dressmaker is coming tomorrow afternoon.”
“Oh, mother, how can you think of such things when father is in his study talking to detectives about murder?”
Lady Covington raised her voice. “If I don’t, it will be your wedding day, and you’ll be walking up the aisle in your nightclothes. What is murder to humiliation? I won’t have it. You need to be home early tomorrow for the dressmaker, and I’ll have no more talk of death or detectives.”
“Yes, mother.” Eliza had never seen her so upset. No sense in vexing her any further. At least she could be at ease knowing none of them suspected she was guilty of murdering a prostitute. If they had, she was certain her mother would hysterically inform her.
* * *
Dinner was served late that evening, and Lady Covington made sure to tell everyone she suffered from a cruel headache, so most of the conversation centered on her health. After pudding, Lord Covington returned to his study and Eliza followed. She could no longer contain her curiosity. The door was barely closed when she spoke. “Father, please tell me, what news of the Whitechapel Murders?”
Lord Covington furrowed his brow. “You shouldn’t concern yourself with these matters; although I can tell you that I knew this kind of thing would only get worse. They’ve got Inspector Abberline on it now. Expect to have it wrapped up soon.”
“He’s that good?”
“I’ve never heard anything other than exceptional remarks about him.”
“Hmm…”
“What is it? You seem a bit out of sorts. Your mother again?”
“I have to be h
ome early tomorrow to meet the dressmaker.”
“Is it all that bad? You are getting married soon.”
“No, that’s not it.”
“Second thoughts are normal. You’ll get over it eventually, and you know I’d love nothing more than to have you practicing next to me. But as it is, I’m up half the night listening to your mother worry about your future.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Truly?”
“Yes, Father. Good night.” Eliza went around the desk, leaned in and kissed his cheek. He looked more tired tonight than usual. She was sure his mind was occupied with thoughts on how to catch a madman, and so she did not want to keep him from his bit of solitary peace and quiet.
In her room, Eliza noticed her cape and frock coat hanging over the cabinet door of the armoire. Nanette had done a good job getting them clean. Eliza sighed. She’d be unable to walk the East End tomorrow in search of the prostitute, Catherine, but at least there’d be time to ask around the Royal Free Hospital. Degenerates from many London districts came there at one point or another for care. Someone was bound to know of one or two women named Catherine.
She hoped.
Chapter
7
Professor Huxley stood in the center of the room with a scalpel in one hand and the decapitated head of a man in the other. He made a circular incision around one of the cadaver’s eye sockets then set the blade down on the table. “Move in closer, ladies. Mr. Smith here won’t bite. He just wants to get a better look at you is all.”
Everyone stepped in while Professor Huxley dug his fingers into the dead man’s orbit. There were wet slushy sounds as he moved his digits about. When he pulled the eyeball out, it made a small pop. He proceeded to walk around with the head and the eyeball, showing everyone the ocular nerve and muscles.
All this time and the professor still continued to try and elicit some form of dramatic reaction from the women in class—perhaps with the hope some of them might change their minds. None of them would. They were all determined, just maybe not as much as Eliza, but who knew. Maybe she didn’t give them enough credit. The university accepted students from near and far and from every walk of life. Anyone could apply, which was why her mother had been so against it. But the world needed more female physicians who understood and cared about the human condition as well as physiology and pharmacology. Doctoring encompassed so many facets of life, and Eliza knew she had what it took to be one of the best. Nothing would stop her from obtaining that goal. The title would earn her respect among her peers. Maybe other high-society women would take notice and try to further their education. It wasn’t enough to be a lady from a good family who was destined to marry well. Not anymore. Times were changing.
Only the Thunder Knows_East End Girls Page 17