“The heart.”
“But where do they come from?”
Eliza looked up to see if any of her classmates were watching. They all appeared to be busy with their own dissections. She wondered why he was so particularly hard on her. It seemed brutally unfair.
“Miss Covington,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Answer the question.”
“They’re from the body, sir.”
“Which part?” He stomped his foot.
Eliza’s heart was racing and her cheeks felt warm. She hated Professor Huxley and imagined plunging the forceps into his eyeball then leaving class to the clapping and cheers of the other women.
“The lungs,” she said, unsure of her answer.
“Amazing,” he said. “And a very lucky guess,” he whispered while walking away.
Certain an envious smile was on his face, Eliza wished she could carve a permanent one there. A sense of power surged through her at the thought it was something she could actually make happen. Killing Annie Chapman was an accident, but making it appear as though Jack the Ripper committed the crime was genius—she knew that. Murdering Catherine Eddowes was a choice and she recognized that as well. Eliza had given in to the dark rage she only recently discovered dwelled within her. It was possible to control, but as long as external factors existed triggering the hate, it would need periodic release. Slaying those who hurt her in their roundabout ways as well as those who hurt the ones she loves most, was the only way to liberate the fury.
* * *
Eliza arrived home and was removing her hat and gloves when she noticed the day’s post on a table in the foyer. A returned letter from Doctor James Riley was on top. Eliza recognized the envelope. “Mrs. Sutton, isn’t this one of my wedding invitations?” Eliza picked up the card and showed it to the maid.
“Yes Miss, I believe it is.”
“Do you know why one was sent to Doctor Riley?”
“Your mother did the invitations, miss. You’ll have to ask her.”
“Where is she?”
“In the parlor.”
Eliza tossed her frock coat over to Mrs. Sutton, then stormed off with the invitation in her hand. “Mother, what is the meaning of this?” She held the envelope up in the air and waved it back and forth.
Lady Covington looked up from the embroidery work she was doing. “Calm yourself, and don’t speak to me that way, it upsets my nerves.”
While crossing the room, Eliza noticed the wool skirts worn for school didn’t rustle. Perfect for stalking—if she were to tiptoe, no one would ever hear her approaching. She held the invitation out for Lady Covington to see. “What of it?” her mother said.
“Are you taunting him? You know he suffers from a broken heart. How could you?”
“Your father made me send it.”
“Why?”
“You should ask him.”
“He’s been so busy with work these past few evenings, I haven’t even seen him.”
Lady Covington laughed.
“What do you find amusing about this, Mother?”
“Your father has been spending his evenings at the gentleman’s club, dear. And not the ones our circle of friends frequent. Says those detectives and police surgeons come together and work on solving the Whitechapel murders. What do you think of it?”
Eliza kept quiet. He couldn’t possibly be out doing something else—bad things. Not when I’m so close to graduating, marrying, and leaving.
“Do you believe that’s what those men are really doing into the late hours of night? Should I be worried? Eliza, are you listening?”
“Yes, Mother, I mean no, Mother, you shouldn’t worry. Father is—”
“I know he is knowledgeable and well-respected, but he’s not getting any younger and needs his rest.”
“I’m going to try and wait up for him tonight. I really want to know why he would send James an invitation. It seems cruel and very unlike Father to do such a thing.”
“All men have their reasons for doing what they do. You should leave it alone.”
“That’s no excuse, and I want an explanation.” Eliza tromped out of the parlor.
Eliza waited in her father’s study for a long while after dinner. She sat in his desk chair and looked over clipped news articles of the murders, a feeling of guilt soured in the pit of her stomach. Certainly not because there was any reproach for killing the women, but she was to blame for keeping her father working so late at night these past few weeks. He was busy trying to help solve crimes she had committed. Some brandy would surely help the feeling pass, so she poured herself a glass. While taking the occasional sip, her fingers flipped through the pieces of paper, and she read clipped articles from The Times in an album Lord Covington made of the murders.
Behind her, on the bookcase wall, were at least a dozen more similar albums he’d put together since her childhood. Eliza was always curious about his fascination with the macabre, but she eventually grew out of it. He’d even handwritten some notes in his latest, Jack the Ripper collection. One in particular stood out. Words that were staggered and scrawled out across a page—“The Juwes are The men That Will not be Blamed for nothing.”
What did it mean? The article on the next page said the chalk writing was on a wall near where they found a piece of bloody apron. Eliza didn’t remember seeing the words while cleaning her knife and instruments, but neither was it something she’d been looking for. The bloody apron piece she remembered tossing to the ground. Then she wondered if it were possible that Jack the Ripper had been where she was. Could he have been hiding in a dark corner? Watching her? Eliza was sure she’d have noticed, but maybe not. The Samaritan gentleman came to mind, which made her lift the brandy snifter and take a bigger sip. Was there chalk on his gloves? It was hard to remember.
Looking up to think more on the subject, her father entered the study. “Father,” she said. “I’m so glad you’re home.”
“It’s late, Eliza. What could be so important? I’m certain it can wait ‘til morning.”
Something in his manner exuded a hint of guilt, which had her too perplexed to reply. He came up to the desk, leaned over, and closed the album. Rife with heady cigar smoke and alcohol, her father reeked of a gentleman’s club. His strong odor made her step back, and what she saw next made her gasp.
“What is it?” he said.
Eliza looked down at his desk where some scattered newspaper clippings still lay. “Seeing all this death, I think it has affected me.”
“It never bothered you before. Take another sip of brandy.” While he was collecting the pieces of shorn rectangles and squares, she glanced at his shirt collar again. And there it was—a finger-length’s smear of red lipstick. Lord Covington looked up and she turned away.
“You’re right, what I wanted to say can wait. I’ll talk with you tomorrow.” He stepped toward her and leaned in. Repulsed to the point of being faint, it took every bit of her will to kiss him on the cheek. “Good night, Father,” she whispered through clenched jaws.
“Get some rest,” he said. “You look very out of sorts.” He gave her a peck on the cheek.
Wanting to run out of the room, out of the house, and down the street screaming, NO! Eliza forced herself to walk calm and slow out of his study. Instead of going upstairs, she went to the kitchen and poured water from the tea kettle into a basin. Eliza washed her face and lips with scalding water and cried.
Chapter
17
Eliza’s head was in a fog when she woke. Her face felt raw against the crisp linen of the pillow. Flinging back the covers, she got out of bed and inspected her skin in the mirror above the wash basin. It was slightly pink compared to the bright red capillaries webbed across her sclera. Sleep had come late, as dreadful thoughts of the previous night’s discovery lingered in her mind and kept her busy thinking, devising. Nanette entered the room to help her get dressed for the day. Without saying a word, she took some powder from the vanity
and dabbed it all over Eliza’s face.
Downstairs at breakfast, Lord Covington was reading the paper while Lady Covington sipped tea when she entered the room.
“Good morning,” her mother said, as Eliza entered the room.
Eliza nodded and smiled.
“You look ill this morning and your eyes are red.”
Her father lowered his paper, looked her up and down. “She seems well enough.”
“To be in a hospital perhaps,” her mother said.
“And that’s where I’ll be Mother, so you have nothing to worry about.” Eliza pulled out a chair and sat down. Mrs. Sutton came over and poured a cup of tea, then added a splash of milk.
Lady Covington picked up a muffin and tore a piece away with her teeth. After swallowing, she glared at Eliza. “Well, did you talk with your father about the invitation?”
“I—”
“What invitation?” he said.
“The one you had me send James Riley.”
“Father, how could you?”
He laughed, shook the newspaper straight and went back to reading.
It was shocking to see this side of him. So heartless and cruel. An adulterer. She raised her tea cup between trembling fingers and took a sip. Her mother smirked, and Eliza wondered if she knew and if she did, for how long? Why hadn’t she reacted to it? Had she ever? It was doubtful. The hate rose, she had to leave. After finishing her last bit of tea, Eliza pushed the plate of uneaten muffin away and stood up.
“Are you leaving?” her mother said. “You’ve had nothing.”
“I’ll have something between classes.”
Lord Covington didn’t say a single word when Eliza left the room.
* * *
During one of many tedious lectures by Professor Huxley that day, Eliza wrote Doctor James Riley a letter. It multiplied a hundred times the love she actually felt for him, but she thought he deserved that after how her father had treated him. The note explained why it was impossible for her to return to London Hospital. There was still too much love in her heart for him and it hurt to be near. James would cherish the words and she wondered how long he would keep the letter—maybe forever.
After classes, Eliza made rounds at the Royal Free Hospital on Henrietta Street, since she’d no longer been permitted to go to the London Hospital at East End. Steady traffic came to and from the small supply room where the linen and medicines were kept. Two hours later, mostly everyone charged off to an emergency on the first floor. Eliza quickly walked into the storage room and closed the door. A strong smell of astringent made her wrinkle her nose. Rows of glass bottles and vials lined the shelves. To the right was a cluster of smaller brown vials with droppers. The paper labels on the outside read laudanum. Eliza took three of the bottles, wrapped a strip of gauze around each one, and then slipped them into her apron pockets before walking out.
Over the next three days, a total of seven vials were collected, brought home, and their labels removed. But it wasn’t until Thursday next, November 8th to be exact, that Eliza carefully lined them upright in her medical bag before leaving the house for classes.
That morning, she’d handed Mrs. Sutton a note with strict directions not to deliver it until dinner. “I won’t be dining here tonight,” she told the maid, “and I don’t want to explain why to Mother just yet.”
Mrs. Sutton nodded and took the envelope.
Eliza also left separate instructions with Nanette. “Let them know you saw me in my room and helped me change my clothes. I told you I was dining out with friends and to expect me home late.”
“Yes, Miss,” Nanette said. When the young maid went back to work, Eliza snuck into the girl’s room and stole a black hat from her clothing chest. It was time to give the servant a bit of extra pay for her hard work and to replenish the supply.
With her bag stuffed so full she had to lay her cloak across the top to conceal its contents, Eliza climbed into her family’s carriage.
* * *
Sitting in class, struggling to stay awake while Professor Huxley lectured on and on about the heart, Eliza thought about graduation exams taking place next week. Feeling confident she would do well—regardless of his hateful remarks about her knowledge or lack thereof—her mind drifted off.
Mary Kelly would be the final victim she’d contribute to the evolution and legacy of Jack the Ripper. Knowing she’d assisted in making the gentleman Samaritan infamous made her smile. Only two days after meeting him, it was resolved in her mind he was most certainly the Whitechapel Murderer—Jack the Ripper as the papers were now calling him. From one killer to another she felt it, the camaraderie of simply knowing the darkness in someone like oneself. Eliza was sure he suspected her as well. He seemed almost protective by telling her not to travel the East End after dark.
By the time she finished classes and rounds at the Royal Free Hospital on Henrietta Street, a dense fog had rolled in on the streets of London. Riding in the hansom made her feel like a normal person again—alive—as though she was going somewhere with a purpose. And what a purpose it was!
After exiting the cab, she put on Nanette’s hat. Most of the working girls at East End knew her as Jane by the dark hooded cloak she wore, and she had no want of anyone approaching her for services this evening.
First stop was the London Hospital on Whitechapel Road. Before walking in, she took the letter for James out of her medical bag. Lowering the brim of the hat down over her face, Eliza entered the building. The receptionist was talking to a young couple at her desk. Then she got up from her station and led them somewhere down the hall. Eliza walked over and set the envelope down in plain sight next to some papers, then left. It was time she let James go and moved on with her life. Eliza had familial and social obligations she could not deny. He’d played an important part when she was young and naïve, but that innocence had long since passed.
It was evening and her hunger required some nourishment. In the dark corner of a pub, Eliza sat and ordered a meat pie. Patrons were busy drinking their pints and hardly noticed her. Their conversations revolved around Jack the Ripper, what the police were doing, and that they were a bunch of bumbling idiots.
Darkness blanketed the East End when Eliza walked out of the pub. Intensifying the sinister mood, the fog had gotten much worse. On cold nights as these, thick, black smoke from chimney stacks filled the streets and appeared green against the dim, yellow lamplights. It was an all-encompassing murky haze that included the odor of a bog. She held her gloved hand out and couldn’t see it. She smiled, thankful for the perfect situation and felt even more forthright in her plan. It was as if some unknown force was aiding her, making it easier to commit the crime and escape unseen.
Her boots tapped against the cobblestone as she walked. A flat echo of the same sound bounced off a nearby rooftop. It would be difficult to know who or what was coming or going from where. The tapping grew more rapid as she picked up her pace, and soon she would be at Miller’s Court knocking on the door of number 13.
This would be a night to remember.
Chapter
18
Alleys lined Dorset Street and all the surrounding buildings of Miller’s Court. There were almost too many places to choose from for hiding, but Eliza settled on a dark corner across the way from Mary’s room. Wanting to be sure the harlot was alone, she watched and waited.
An hour had passed and nothing happened. What if Nanette forgot to tell her mother she was dining with friends? Although, ever since the reigns were handed over for making her wedding arrangements, Lady Covington seemed less worried about where Eliza was or her activities. Lord Covington was out late most nights now. The lipstick on his collar came to mind again and her chest tightened. If it weren’t for the detectives and police surgeons dragging him to gentleman’s clubs with the excuse of working on the Whitechapel case, he never would have been tempted with adultery. His infidelity was their fault, and she would give those men something to keep them all busy for a while.
Some commotion was taking place outside Miss Kelly’s room. The thick haze made it difficult to see. Eliza focused and saw a dark-haired woman with a gaudy red shawl wrapped around her shoulders leaving. Fortunately, it wasn’t Miss Kelly. A man was approaching her. “Barnett,” she said to him. “What are you doing here?”
“None of your bloody business, now out of my way.”
The woman stepped aside and allowed the man access to Mary’s room. He opened the door, went in then slammed it behind him. Eliza took in a deep breath and sighed while she watched the woman walk away. It would be a long night. This particular prostitute stays rather busy. It was tiring but made her angry enough to continue waiting.
Concealed by the fog, she left the confines of her hiding space and approached Mary’s room, crouching down close to a small grimy window. One of the glass panes was broken out and she peeked in. The man, Barnett, had a large build. His physique reminded her of someone who might be a dock worker, and the cap next to his wool trousers with suspenders still attached on the floor reaffirmed it. His wide rear was contracting and relaxing between the whore’s legs while he grunted like a pig. Eliza could see nothing else past his mass, and what she was able to observe made her nauseous, so she crept back to her secret hiding place across the way.
It was over two hours later when the man finally left Miss Kelly alone. After waiting another hour to be sure no one else would be coming, Eliza adjusted her hat, picked up her medical bag and approached the building, leery but thankful for the thick vapors that obscured everything.
After pounding on the door with her gloved fist, she took a step back and waited, hoping she gave Mary enough time after her last visitor to wash up. Miss Kelly opened the door wearing a sheer linen chemise and had an expression of curiosity on her face. “Oh yes,” she said. “You’re the doctor from the Royal Free Hospital. Come in.”
Eliza nodded, stepped into the room and waited for Mary to close the door before she spoke. The room was the smallest one she’d ever seen, dark and void of any life or color except for a copy of a famous painting depicting a grieving widow in front of a grave. It was dreadful but felt appropriate. A rank odor of a salty sea hung in the air, along with smoke, and alcohol. It reminded her of what her father smelled like when he came home from the gentleman’s club that night.
Only the Thunder Knows_East End Girls Page 23