Nine Buck's Row (10 page)

“Oh, there you are,” he said, blinking. “Suzy with you? I'm goin' to work now, be back after midnight. Behave, ya-hear? Did I remember my leather gloves? Yes, here they are. Stay in th' flat and don't let anyone in. Awful things goin' on nowadays.”

He gave Millie an awkward hug, kissed her forehead and went lumbering on down the stairs, muttering to himself. Millie loved her father dearly and felt protective toward him, taking care of him and treating him as a mother might treat a bumbling, overgrown child.

“So I suppose I
will
give up my other beaux,” Millie informed me as we settled down in the shabby front room. “The others were just amusing boys, but Jamie's a
man
. He's maddeningly attractive, of course, but he's got
character
as well. But I've talked long enough! I want to know everything that's happened, and don't you dare leave anything out.”

Millie curled up in the corner of the faded gray sofa and spread her green skirt out, tucking her feet beneath her. I sat in front of the sooty white marble fireplace, refusing the chocolates she offered and describing Nine Buck's Row. I told her about Maggie and Scrappy and Daniel Lord, and Millie listened impatiently, winding a long copper curl about her finger. When I finished, she gave an exasperated sigh.

“What about
him?
” she inquired.

“Who?”

“You know very well who I'm referring to. You haven't even mentioned his name. That's highly significant, Suzy. People frequently say a lot by not saying anything. Now
tell
me.”

“He didn't join us for dinner, but he came into the parlor later on while I was playing the piano. I was alone, and he stood in the doorway, watching me for a long time before making his presence known. I was rather nervous—”

“And?”

I described the scene with some reluctance, knowing Millie would interpret it to suit her own romantic ideas. She listened with a knowing expression, nodding now and then like a clairvoyant who knew exactly what was coming next. She bombarded me with questions, and I told her about Valerie and the divorce, repeating what Maggie had said about her nephew's bitterness. Millie nodded sagely.

“I knew the minute I laid eyes on him there was something like that in his past. Such a smoldering man, so arrogant and aloof—he's going to fall in love with you, Suzy! It's a foregone conclusion.”

“Millie, that's preposterous! Just because—”

“And you're already a little in love with him,” she continued, ignoring my outburst. “If you could see the look in your eyes when you speak of him. I know all the signs, Suzy. The situation is just
fraught
with possibilities.”

“He's an intriguing man,” I admitted primly, “and of course I'm curious about him—it's only natural. But that doesn't mean—”

“You may be able to fool yourself, Suzy, but you can't fool
me
. If you want to know what I think, I think it's high time you fell in love with someone.”

It was growing late, the sky turning a deep gray, and I realized that I had better start back. Millie decided to walk part of the way with me. I suspected that she hoped to run into Jamie Caine. A newsboy was shouting and waving a news sheet as we started down the street,
FIEND STILL AT LARGE
the headline blazed, and people were rushing over to snatch up the latest extra. Millie joined them, tossing the newsboy a penny and hurrying back with the still-damp sheet.

“Still no clue,” she said, pausing to read the first few paragraphs. “Scotland Yard is incredibly bumbling. You'd think they'd at least have a lead. Jamie thinks Sir Charles is completely off the track,” Millie said, folding the sheet up and sticking it in the pocket of her dress.

“You've discussed it with him?”

“We talked about it last night. He knows all about Marietta's midnight engagement, of course, and while he doesn't put any stock in
your
theory, he does think they're looking for the wrong man. All this talk about foreigners and homicidal maniacs—he says The Ripper is a cool, collected individual, in control of himself at all times. He's a maniac, all right, but Sir Charles is looking for someone wild-eyed and raving. Jamie says he probably
seems
as sane as anyone.”

Millie gave a delicious shiver, thrilled by the idea. We walked slowly on down the street, passing carts laden with fruit and shops with bloody carcasses hanging from the rafters. I was reluctant to discuss the crimes, but I couldn't help but be interested in what she was saying.

“What does
he
think?” I inquired hesitantly.

“He's very modest about it, says it's just an
idea
, but—anyway, he thinks The Ripper is a toff, at least someone with an education. As you know, several people claim to have seen him, and they say he spoke in a refined voice and was carrying a black gladstone bag. That bag's very important—it's the kind of bag doctors use to carry their surgical instruments. Do you follow me?”

“I think so. All the victims were mutilated.” I shuddered, remembering.

“And it was done so
neatly
. Jamie believes The Ripper has some knowledge of surgery. He suspects it might be a doctor. The London Hospital is right around the corner, you know, within easy walking distance of all the places where murders were committed.”

London Hospital was a huge, towering collection of bleak, soot-covered brown buildings between Whitechapel Road and Oxford Street. The huge black iron gates and dark windows gave it a sinister look, and at night the feeble gaslights only intensified the shadows in the vast courtyard. An atmosphere of death and decay hung over the place, and East Enders were leery of it even though hundreds of lives had been saved within those forbidding walls.

“A doctor—” I said, thinking aloud.

“They're
always
cutting people up,” Millie said.

“They perform surgery, yes, but—”

“It sounds like a logical theory to me,” Millie continued, “although Sir Charles Warren would probably scoff at it.
He
's keeping his eyes on all the immigrants.”

“I just hope they catch him soon,” I said quietly.

We parted at the corner of Baker's Row and Old Montague, Millie waving as I darted across the street between the passing horsecarts and carriages that rumbled over the stones. Dark stains streaked the sky as I turned down Buck's Row and hurried toward number nine.

Nicholas Craig wasn't back in time to join us for dinner. Maggie and I dined alone, and immediately afterward she immersed herself in her accounts, adding up columns of figures and making notations on vouchers. I went up to my room and tried to read, but it was useless. I kept thinking about the man who was roaming the streets of East London, striking terror into the hearts of decent people, and I wondered what he was like. Was he a foreigner as Sir Charles believed? Was he possibly a surgeon from London Hospital or, as several believed, a religious fanatic punishing women whose lives weren't proper? I frowned, wishing I could think of something else, but those questions kept coming into my mind.

On impulse, I took the diamond bracelet out of the bureau drawer where I had placed it yesterday. It was heavy on my fingertips, diamonds sending out sparks of blue and violet and dazzling silver. Sir Charles had called it a cheap bauble, but he hadn't actually seen it, and the men at the mortuary surely hadn't the wits to know real diamonds from paste. They had assumed the diamonds were false, but I knew differently, even if no one else chose to believe it. I peered at the sparkling prisms, wondering about the mysterious man who had given Marietta this bracelet. Who was he, and what had become of him? Had he, too, stumbled upon the body and fled in panic, not wanting to become involved, or had he been waiting there in the fog, knife in hand?

I remembered how evasive Marietta had been about the man. She had never before refused to discuss her gentlemen friends. He was someone very important, she told me, and if things worked out, if he was pleased with her, all our problems would be solved. She had been so excited as she rushed out to meet him, and then …

I put the bracelet away, my face hard. I had to put it out of my mind. The police would find the man who killed Marietta, and I could do nothing. I knew nothing of crime and criminals. I couldn't afford to let my imagination run away with me. If Marietta's engagement had been important, surely they would have paid more attention.… I blew out the oil lamps and climbed into bed. Misty gray-black darkness filled the room, and there were strange silver patterns on the ceiling as the breeze caused the curtains to part and moonlight seeped in. This was the bad time. During the day I could forget, but at night, in the darkness, it all came back, and I had to fight a terrible battle to keep that scene from reappearing in my mind.

I eventually drifted off into a troubled sleep, and it was much later when I awoke with a start. Something had awakened me. I had been having a nightmare, and then some noise or movement had jerked me abruptly into consciousness. Every nerve was taut. I might never have slept. The room was cold. I was shivering. Icy fingers seemed to stroke my bare arms and shoulders. I had left the window open as I always did, and the night had grown colder, but that wasn't why I shivered.

My heart was pounding. I was paralyzed with fear. Why? What had caused it? It was very real, holding me in its grip. I had been dreaming of a dark alley filled with fog, and there were footsteps, drawing nearer, and then there was a loud clattering noise, as though a lid had been knocked off the top of a trash bin. The noise had awakened me. I was certain it hadn't been part of my dream.

The bedclothes rustled at the foot of the bed. Something gripped my knee tightly. My blood seemed to turn to ice, and I don't know why I didn't scream. Scrappy mewed sleepily, moved across my legs and curled himself up on the covers.

“You silly cat!” I exclaimed. “You frightened me half to death.”

I shook my head and smiled at my own foolish alarm as Scrappy nestled up under a fold of the counterpane and gave a sleepy grunt. The curtains billowed, making a stiff rustling noise. I got up to close the window, moving carefully so as not to disturb the kitten. Pushing the curtains aside, I reached up to pull the window down, and then I peered into the courtyard below. My hand froze on the window frame. I stood very, very still. The fear returned, sharper than before, pressing all around me.

The courtyard was dark, tall gray walls closing around it, thick tendrils of fog filling it with a moving, swirling whiteness. Something moved behind the cover of fog. I was certain of it. Behind the mist there was a dark form, barely visible, moving stealthily toward the house. I strained to listen, and over the whisper of wind it seemed I heard footsteps on the flagstones. Wind stirred the fog. Tendrils broke and parted, revealing a section of the wall, part of the ground. I saw a pair of legs, the hem of a cloak, then whiteness floating cloudlike, obscuring everything.

There was nothing more. I must have stood at the window for at least five minutes, peering into that basin of fog, the cold night air stroking flushed cheeks and blowing wisps of hair against my temples. I had imagined it all. Of course. It had been my imagination. I had awakened in the middle of the night, shaken by a nightmare, my nerves on edge, receptive to the suggestions of an overwrought mind. I closed the window and sat on the edge of the bed, frowning, trying to convince myself that I hadn't seen anything.

The house was silent. The room was still cold. I knew I should get back under the covers and try to go back to sleep, but I couldn't. I sat there waiting. I realized all at once that that was what I was doing: waiting for another noise. It came a few minutes later.

The stairs creaked. If I hadn't been straining to hear I wouldn't have noticed the sound. A creak, a pause, another creak, barely audible, and then a soft shuffling sound as though someone were moving down the hall outside my bedroom. Soft blue-black shadows glided over the walls, and I could see the outlines of furniture, the silvery blur of the mirror. A ray of moonlight touched the side of the large white wardrobe. Scrappy stirred in his sleep and nestled deeper under the covers. I listened, every fiber of my being taut with concentration, but there was only silence now.

This is utter nonsense, I told myself harshly. There had been nothing in the courtyard, and there had been no footsteps on the stairs. Yes, I had heard something: the normal noises of an old house creaking and settling. There they were again, soft, rustling sounds as though someone were moving something in the storage room across the hall.

I knew I should go back to sleep, and I knew I couldn't.

I remembered moving the trunks into the room across the hall yesterday and the feeling of apprehension I had had as the cold fetid air stirred the dust and made the cobwebs billow like fragile sails. I remembered the dark shadows cascading over the walls like silent black waterfalls. Colleen was afraid of the place, Maggie had told me. She
heard
things in the room and wouldn't go into it for a million. Maggie had laughed at the maid's fears, yet she, too, had been sensitive to the atmosphere and eager to close the door and lock it.

I had to see for myself that the door was still locked. I couldn't go back to sleep until I was absolutely certain.

I moved silently across the room and found a box of matches. Striking one, I held the flame over the wick of the oil lamp and a golden blossom of light began to spread, casting reflections on the wall, intensifying the darkness. I wasn't really nervous, yet the oil lamp shook in my hands. I heard another noise, a loud creak as though a door were being opened, then the sound of cautious footsteps moving down the hall.

I hadn't imagined the noises. Not this time.

I gripped the oil lamp tightly, summoning a calm I didn't really possess, and, leaving the bedroom, moved silently across the small sitting room that joined my room with Maggie's. Her door was open, and she was in bed, fast asleep, a white lace nightcap pulled over her red ringlets. I frowned and stepped into the hall, the worn carpet soft against my bare feet. Someone had left the front window open. Cold night air scurried down the hall. The skirt of my petticoat fluttered against my legs.