Nine Buck's Row (13 page)

Maggie closed the shop at five, and we had tea together in the parlor. The afternoon papers had come out, filled with details of the murder, but she refused to read them. Maggie had the agreeable knack of simply shutting out unpleasant things, facing reality with squared shoulders but avoiding the less pleasing aspects whenever possible.

“I've got
better
things to talk about,” she said, sipping her tea and reaching for one of the cucumber sandwiches. “Did you and your friend have a nice visit?”

I nodded, watching Scrappy lap up his saucer of milk. There was something on my mind, something I had been intending to ask her all day. I set my cup down and casually brushed a crumb off the tablecloth.

“Maggie, did you give your nephew the key to the storage room yesterday?”

“What? The key? I could have, dear. I'm sure I don't know. I was frightfully busy—Mrs. Rowlands wanting her green felt immediately and all those supplies being delivered at once.
Dreadful
time sorting out all the invoices. Nicky
did
come into the shop while you were gone. He said—just a minute now, let me think—oh yes, he said he had some things he wanted to store. I guess I
must
have given him the key. Any particular reason why you wanted to know?”

“No,” I said evasively. “I just wondered. The—the door was unlocked last night. I thought I heard noises, and when I went to investigate the door just—swung open. I distinctly remember you locking it.”

“Nicky
never
remembers to lock a door behind him,” she said peevishly. “Noises, did you say?”

“Yes. I had a nightmare, and I thought I heard something—”

“Mice, probably,” she interrupted me. “Mrs. Henderson tells me the house is swarming with them, though I'm sure she's exaggerating. Anyway, this old house is full of noises. You'll soon get used to it.”

9

On Monday, September tenth, the diabolical fiend was finally arrested, and the population was jubilant.
LEATHER APRON CAPTURED
, the headlines blazed, and throughout the East End prostitutes held drunken celebrations and danced in the streets. The celebrations were to be of short duration. The fiend was a gentle, retiring little man named John Pizer, a Polish Jew who lived with his seventy-year-old stepmother and made ballet slippers for a living. He had been arrested solely on the strength of having a leather apron and several sharp instruments in his possession, things almost any cobbler might own.

“Why, I
know
the man!” Maggie cried, indignant. “One of the kindest souls in the district, always feeding crumbs to the pigeons, never a harsh word to anyone. They must be out of their minds!”

“Undoubtedly,” her nephew agreed, buttering his roll at the breakfast table. “Warren needs a scapegoat, all right, but he's picked the wrong man for the job.”

Shy little John Pizer proved to have an unshakable alibi for the night of the murder. Aware of the mob hysteria raging through London and the suspicion all foreigners were under, he had taken to his lodgings and remained there for several days, afraid he might be subjected to the humiliations a number of his fellow Jews had suffered at the hands of unruly citizens. The police paraded him along with other suspects in front of several women who claimed to have seen The Ripper, and when none of them pointed him out he was finally released. The police gave him a public clearance, but the poor man was still afraid to venture out alone.

This was understandable. Cheated out of a criminal, the mobs were more unruly than ever. All the Hebrew population in the East End was in danger. Convinced the bloody foreigners were responsible for this menace, shabbily dressed bums and ale-drinking stevedores and quite a number of respectable businessmen tried to take the law in their own hands, mercilessly persecuting any Jew they happened to chance upon. It took a great many policemen to quell these disturbances.

“I don't know what they can be thinking of,” Maggie said one morning as we worked in the shop. “All this violence, as if those dreadful murders weren't enough. It seems as though some people are just looking for an excuse to be mean.”

She shook her head and moved over to the window to rearrange the hats on display. “I'm sure those poor Jews are no more responsible than anyone else. Conditions breed crime. If people would do something about the slums and the congestion, maybe there wouldn't be so much ugliness. Nicky's report should help.”

“I wonder when he will be finished with it?” I said.

“There's no telling, dear,” she answered vaguely, removing a lavish pink velvet chapeau and replacing it with a beribboned gray bonnet.

Her nephew spent very little time at Nine Buck's Row. He left early and came home late, his face lined and exhausted, rarely in time to join us for dinner. In the week that followed the Chapman murder, I didn't exchange half a dozen words with him. On the occasions when I saw him, he was aloof and detached, preoccupied with grave matters. This made his appearance at my bedroom door that Thursday morning all the more surprising.

I had only been up a short while and, still sleepy, was sitting at the dressing table, brushing my hair. Sunlight came through the open windows, making bright silvery patterns on the worn carpet, and Scrappy was asleep on the bed, a tiny gray ball snugly curled up on top of the lavender counterpane. Cheeks still flushed with sleep, faint shadows under my eyes, I methodically pulled the brush through waves of golden brown hair, wincing when it met a tangle.

“Sleep well?” he said.

I was so startled that I dropped the brush, whirling around to see him lounging nonchalantly in the doorway, shoulders against the frame, arms folded over his chest. My alarm seemed to amuse him. A wry smile flickered at the corners of his mouth, and the gleam in his dark eyes might almost be called good-natured.

“You're quite nervous, Susannah.”

“I—wasn't expecting you.”

“Your face is pale, and there are two very faint spots of pink on your cheeks. Not rouge, I trust. You look as though you expected to be throttled.”

He spoke the words in that wintry voice, watching me closely all the while, yet the remarks were almost bantering. The sartorial elegance was missing this morning. He wore polished black shoes, closely-fitting green and gray checked trousers and a rumpled white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the tails of his emerald green tie dangling loosely from the opened collar. Hair in casual disarray, he looked less remote, more human.

“Any more nightmares?” he inquired.

“Not recently,” I said.

“No more nocturnal wanderings about the house?”

“I'm sure you would have heard me, Mr. Craig.”

“Undoubtedly.”

His long, lithe body leaned against the doorframe with an insufferable arrogance, his eyes taking in every detail of my appearance, and I was extremely uneasy under that piercing stare. I felt vulnerable, defenseless, and he knew it. He seemed to take a perverse delight in the knowledge.

“We haven't seen much of each other, have we?” he said.

“No,” I replied. My voice was surprisingly calm.

“I suppose you're happy about that.”

I didn't deign to answer. Nicholas Craig curled his lips into a sarcastic smile, dark eyes gleaming. I picked up the brush and turned back to the mirror. I could see him in the glass, lounging there in the doorway, watching me. I finished brushing my hair. He strolled casually across the room and stood behind me, peering down at the reflection of my face.

“I haven't been a very attentive guardian, I'm afraid.”

“What makes you say that, Mr. Craig?”

“I've neglected you. I've been very busy.”

“That suits me fine,” I replied.

“You're an impertinent lass, aren't you? I think I like that. Meekness isn't at all attractive, though you could use a bit more of it. Relax, Susannah. You look like a frightened bird. I didn't come here to harm you in any way.”

“Do you still fancy I'm afraid of you?” I asked icily.

“I think you are, rather, though I can't imagine why. Am I really so formidable?”

“Not at all,” I replied.

He moved away from me and sauntered about the room, examining things, touching surfaces, clearly enjoying himself. He knew it was making me nervous. I stood up, the flowing skirt of my tight-bodiced robe spilling over my petticoat in cascades of yellow ruffles. He sat down in the overstuffed brown velvet chair, leaning back against the cushion and pressing the tips of his fingers together as though making a steeple.

“I see you still haven't got a proper nightdress,” he said.

“Does that really concern you, Mr. Craig?”

“Not really,” he admitted. “Your taste in clothes is a bit too flamboyant. That dressing gown, for example—”

“My aunt gave me this robe,” I said angrily.

“It's the kind of thing she would have chosen,” he replied, taunting me, clearly relishing my anger. “Quite unsuitable, though I must admit you look fetching. Have you ever read Robert Louis Stevenson?”

The abrupt change of subject surprised me.

“He's one of my favorite authors,” I replied.

“That's to your credit. I should have thought you'd prefer Ouida and the other one—Marie Corelli?”

“Millie reads those novels. I'm a bit more demanding.”

“I should hope so. At any rate, an acquaintance of mine gave me two tickets to
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
. It's based on the Stevenson novel, and they say the American actor is quite good. It might be amusing. We'll go tomorrow night. I believe breakfast will be ready shortly. I suggest you hurry up and dress.”

Nicholas Craig thrust his hands in his trouser pockets and strolled on out of the room, totally indifferent to my reactions. I was both puzzled and surprised, and I wasn't quite sure what to make of this early morning intrusion. His manner had been as condescending as ever, yet he had shown an interest in me that hadn't been there before. Was he actually beginning to think of me as a human being instead of merely a tiresome obligation? I wondered. I wondered, too, why he was taking me to the theater instead of one of the glamorous women he must surely know.

I removed the robe and hung it in the wardrobe, taking down a simple pink and tan striped cotton with puffed sleeves. Scrappy woke up, watching me with sleepy eyes as I dressed. I sat down on the edge of the bed to slip on my patent leather pumps, still thinking about the curious incident. His dark eyes had studied me carefully, and he had said I looked fetching. Had he seen me as a child or as a woman? The age difference wasn't really all that great, and for all his bitterness Nicholas Craig still wasn't immune to female beauty. Did he think me beautiful? Was that why he was taking me to the theater?

I took Scrappy out to the courtyard, and by the time I had brought him back in and given him his saucer of milk I was late to the breakfast table. Nicholas Craig had put on a brown satin vest and the green and gray checked jacket that matched his trousers, the emerald-green tie carefully knotted under a fresh collar. He gave me a frosty glance as I joined them, as remote and chilly as ever. He might never have been in my bedroom this morning.

“Good morning, dear,” Maggie said, pouring the coffee into thick blue cups.

“I'm sorry I'm late,” I said, slipping into my chair. “I had to take Scrappy out and then give him his milk.”

“Dear little creature,” Maggie said with a vague smile. “I must ask Mrs. Henderson to chop up some meat for him.”

Nicholas Craig immersed himself in his newspaper, ignoring us. Maggie and I chattered about unimportant things, and after a while he turned the page of his newspaper and folded it noisily, giving a snort of disapproval. His expression was dark, brows lowered and forehead lined.

“Something wrong?” Maggie inquired.

“These damned bleeding hearts!” he snapped. “They write articles about the plight of ‘our unfortunate sisters' and carry on about the squalor most of them live in, but no one does a damned thing. Whores are very fashionable just now, all the prim matrons in their corsets and bonnets expressing shocked concern—”

“Really, Nicky, I'm not sure that's a proper subject for the
breakfast
table—”

“They make me sick,” he continued, paying no attention to her protest. “They come trooping down here in prim little groups and distribute largess and derive great satisfaction from playing Lady Bountiful. They shake their heads and express horror at what they see and then rush back to their warm, cozy homes and feel virtuous for a month. It gives them something to talk about at their next tea parties.”

“Your study on the sweatshops accomplished a great deal,” Maggie said soothingly. “Perhaps this one will too.”

“I doubt it,” he said crossly, sweeping the newspaper off the table.

Mrs. Henderson came in with a platter of kidneys and toast, slamming it down with a loud clatter and marching back out of the room as though she feared contamination. Nicholas glared at the swinging door and made a bitter comment about impudent servants and spineless employers who tolerated such brass. If
he
were in charge, Mrs. Henderson would have been run out of town a long time ago. Maggie gently reminded him that he was a guest in
her
house, passing the strawberry preserves with a beneficent smile. Nicholas Craig consumed his breakfast in sullen silence and then left the house in a foul temper.

“Poor Nicky,” Maggie said, “he's so
testy
these days. Overwork, of course. He came in dreadfully late last night, then sat up for hours in the study, transcribing notes or something. I don't think he got any sleep at all.”

“He's quite serious about this work, isn't he?”

“Oh yes, dear, always has been. Nicky's one of these
committed
people, a natural-born reformer. He's done some very impressive things. His report on the sweatshops, for example—shocking reading, I don't mind telling you—came to the attention of Queen Victoria herself and helped initiate much needed reforms. He was offered several very important posts, but he turned them all down. Wisely, I'd say.”