Nine Buck's Row (28 page)

During one hour, Jack The Ripper had murdered two different women with a boldness and derring-do that revived the rumors that he was supernatural. How could he possibly have done it without being caught? Elizabeth Stride had been brutally butchered not ten steps from a club full of men, yet none of them had heard a sound. Leaving Berner Street, the fiend had hurried to Mitre Square, an eight-minute walk, where, sometime between 1:30 and 1:45, he had murdered Catherine Eddowes, cut off her ear and disappeared into the shadows, pedestrians moving through the area all the while. It was uncanny, almost impossible for him to have done it without being seen or heard. Was he indeed a black force from the underworld?

Police were active all during the night after the two grisly discoveries, following up every lead, and it seemed for a while that they might actually succeed in running him to ground. One police official, hot on his trail, discovered where the fiend had washed his hands in a public sink on the infamous Dorset Street. All the bloodstained water hadn't even finished gurgling down the drain when he spotted it.

An even more spectacular discovery was made in Goulston Street. A bit of Catherine Eddowes' dress was found at the foot of a staircase leading to a block of flats. A crudely written message, undoubtedly from Jack himself, had been chalked on the black pedestal immediately above the blood-soaked scrap. There was great excitement over this, the single most important clue yet uncovered, and police photographers were sent for so that the message could be photographed. Before they could get there, Sir Charles Warren arrived and rubbed the message out with his own hand, deliberately obliterating the evidence!

The public was enraged when this was revealed. Irate citizens threatened to string him up on the nearest lamppost if he dared show his face in the East End. The more radical among them didn't hesitate to suggest that Sir Charles himself was the fiend and pointed out that these abominations hadn't begun until he took office as Her Majesty's Police Commissioner. It was preposterous, of course, but Sir Charles' inexplicable and inexcusable conduct certainly left him open to such accusations. What was he trying to cover up?

Monday passed, and Tuesday, and Scotland Yard was still no nearer to an arrest. Literally hundreds of people rushed to police headquarters to provide “information” and relate suspicious things seen or overheard Saturday night. Each report, however dubious in nature, had to be followed up and checked out, and this served only to waste police power and hinder the investigation even more. The newspapers had a jolly time reporting various police follies. Horror wearing off and indignation setting in, the public clamored for results, demanding an arrest with vociferous fury. Scotland Yard was like a great, ponderous giant, bound and gagged and made ridiculous by one invisible and bloodthirsty gnat.

It was late Wednesday afternoon before Nicholas finally returned. I was in the parlor, reading, when I heard his footsteps in the hall. I dropped the book and hurried out. Nicholas stood at the top of the stairs, looking at me. Neither of us spoke. He was so weary that it took an effort for him to stand without support. His boots were dirty, his suit incredibly rumpled, his shirt limp, the dark maroon tie hanging loosely around his neck. Deep mauve shadows underlined his eyes, and his face seemed to sag, forehead lined, unruly waves spilling over it. He started to say something and then shook his head. I feared he was going to pass out.

“Nicholas—” I cried, rushing to him.

“I'm all right,” he protested, his voice barely audible. “So tired. Just so tired—”

“Let me help you to your room.” I took his arm, but he shook my hand away, rising to his full height and summoning some of the old icy dignity. When he spoke the second time his voice was crisp.

“I'll be all right. I'm going to my quarters. I am not to be disturbed for any reason whatsoever. Unless the house is actually burning down, I'm not to be disturbed.”

He went to his room. He slept the rest of the day and was still asleep when Colleen went to see if he wanted any luncheon Thursday. Late Thursday afternoon he went down to the kitchen, had Mrs. Henderson prepare a tray of food, took it to his study and didn't come out again.

Friday was a dazzling day, the sky a pure, clear blue, silvery sunlight burnishing the mahogany wainscoting in the hall. It was unseasonably warm as well, one of those all too infrequent autumn days that precede a long, frosty winter. Nicholas joined us for breakfast. The rest had done him a great deal of good. He had never looked so fit, so full of vitality. He ate with a hearty appetite. It was as though some great burden had been lifted from his shoulders, leaving him a new man.

“I'll be expecting visitors this afternoon around three,” he remarked to Maggie. “Please see to it that the parlor is vacant and not cluttered up with ribbons and pincushions.”

“Visitors?” Maggie said.

He nodded, refusing to divulge anything further. Conversation at the breakfast table had been about inconsequential things. Neither Maggie nor I had dared to inquire about his reasons for being gone so long, and Nicholas quite plainly had no intention of discussing it. He buttered another scone and poured another cup of tea, a preoccupied look in his dark eyes. Maggie pouted, consumed with curiosity.

“Most unusual,” she said when he had left the table and retired to his study. “In all the time he's been staying with me he's never had a visitor before. I wonder why anyone should be coming
here
.” She reached for a pot of marmalade, her brow creased.

“Perhaps it has something to do with his book,” I remarked.

“I wonder.” She spread marmalade on her scone, examined it for a moment and then put it on her plate, a puzzled look in her eyes. “He seemed so
different
this morning. Almost chipper, he was, and those dreadful shadows under his eyes completely gone. He actually
smiled
at me when he came in this morning, and I must say, that's not like Nicky at all. He's been so grim of late.” She shook her head and folded her linen napkin carefully, fussing with it until it was a neat white square.

“I
wish
I knew what was going on,” she said irritably.

“I suppose he'll tell us eventually.”

“I shouldn't count on it! Infuriating man—the Craigs always were a close-mouthed breed, and Nicky's the worst of the lot. Never tells a soul anything.”

I took Scrappy out and spent almost an hour with him in the courtyard. Horses' hooves clattered on the street in front of the house, heavy wheels rumbling, and there was a commotion as the vehicle stopped. I wondered idly why it should be stopping in front of number nine. Scrappy was bounding after a fuzzy blue caterpillar, and he let out a mew of protest when it wriggled at him. He jumped backward, his tiny body shaking nervously as the caterpillar vanished under a pot.

It was almost ten when I brought Scrappy back in and started upstairs. Heavy footsteps clambered down the stairs as I reached the hall in front of the parlor. I was startled to see two brawny men in leather aprons coming from the third floor, heavily laden with crates. As they passed on their way to the street door, I noticed that one of the crates was filled to the brim with canvases. Stepping to the front window, I peered down to see a lorry standing in front of the house, two sturdy dappled grays stamping impatiently in jangling harness. The men loaded the crates onto the lorry and came back into the house.

“There you are,” Maggie said, stepping out of the parlor, a long paper in her hand. “I thought perhaps you were in your room.” She paused as the men stamped down the hall and headed back to the third floor. “Clumsy oafs! Leaving black marks all over the carpets! You'd think they'd have sense enough to wipe their boots. Dear me, they
do
make a racket.”

“What's going on?” I inquired, puzzled.

Maggie waved the paper, and I saw that it was some kind of legal document.

“Mr. Lord. He's up and left us, just like that, without so much as a fare-thee-well. It seems his family have gone to Scotland and persuaded him to go with them. The family lawyer, a Mr. Cleveland, came this morning and handed me this paper. It authorizes him to gather up Mr. Lord's belongings. Nicky's up there in the attic with him now, helping sort things out. I must say, this is highly unusual.”

“He's really gone?”

Maggie nodded, short red curls bouncing, and tucked the paper in the pocket of the short white apron she wore over her sapphire-blue taffeta. “I was startled, to say the least, but everything seems to be in proper order. Mr. Cleveland gave me one full month's rent—in cash, mind you—although nothing was actually due. ‘Remuneration for any inconvenience,' he informed me, crisp and businesslike. I'm sure I'll miss Mr. Lord.”

“He told me he thought he'd be leaving soon,” I said. “I—I rather expected him to say goodbye. I suppose his family finally wore him down. They weren't at all happy with his bohemian life here in the East End.”

The men came down again, this time laden with clothes and boxes of art supplies. Maggie watched them, a sad look in her eyes. She had been fond of Daniel Lord, even if he had kept to himself most of the time.

“I'm sorry things worked out this way,” she said, sighing heavily. “He wanted so desperately to succeed as an artist, and his family was so dead set against it. Won't have much chance to paint in Scotland, I'll wager. According to Mr. Cleveland, the Lords own a famous distillery there, and the father wants his son to take over the business and run things for him. Sad, isn't it? I suppose commerce will always take precedence over art. Well, dear, I must get back down to the shop. I didn't lock up, and for all I know someone's looting the till at this very moment.”

The men in leather aprons came back in, muscular bronze arms glistening with perspiration. Maggie watched them go back up, looked disapprovingly at the scuff marks on the carpet and went back down to the shop, blue taffeta skirt rustling over her petticoats. I started up to the third floor but paused on the stairs three-forths of the way up. Nicholas was standing in the hall, talking with a tall, thin man in a tight black suit. The stranger had limp blond hair and a pale, aristocratic face. He wore a worried expression.

“That's the last lot,” he said. “You think there's something in the storage closet, you say?”

Nicholas nodded, his face set in grim lines. “I know so,” he replied. “I checked myself earlier on. He kept the bag there, a small black gladstone. There are some souvenirs.”

“Wretched business, this,” Cleveland said, a heavy crease between his fine golden brows.

Nicholas made no comment. His sleeves were rolled up, and there was a smear of dirt on his cheek. He thrust his hands in the pockets of his tight gray and black checked trousers and peered up toward the attic, the lock of silver hair tumbling on his forehead.

Sensing my presence, Nicholas turned to see me standing on the stairs. He looked extremely displeased. I went on up the rest of the way, affecting a calm, casual manner.

“You wanted something, Susannah?” he asked coldly.

“I was on my way to my room,” I replied.

“Very well. Don't stay around here. You'll only be in the way.”

He didn't bother to introduce me to the lawyer. Mr. Cleveland eyed me with considerable suspicion, as though he feared I had overheard important state secrets. Irritated, I went on into my bedroom. I could hear them prowling about in the storage closet a short while later. It seemed to take an inordinately long time to fetch one small gladstone bag, but perhaps it was stored away behind those trunks. It was after eleven before the men finally left the house. The lorry rumbled loudly as it pulled away.

Nicholas didn't join us for lunch. Maggie said he had gone out on some errand he wanted to attend to before meeting his visitors in the parlor at three. We discussed Daniel Lord and his sudden departure. I was sorry that I hadn't seen him before he left. He had been kind, an amiable, thoughtful young man whose flippant manner and breezy charm belied the introspective, self-critical artist within. I tried hard to imagine him managing a distillery, poring over ledgers, filling out shipment forms and counting cases of Scotch, but it was impossible. He would be miserable, longing for the canvas and paint brushes his family denied him.

“Friday, it was, he left,” Maggie said. “Colleen said he wasn't in when she went up to do his room, and he never returned. Tinned food on the shelves, a painting half done—you'd think he'd at least have come back to gather up his things.”

“He probably wanted to make a clean break,” I replied, “or perhaps his family was so anxious to get him away they didn't leave him time to return. Maybe they feared he'd change his mind once he got back to the studio.”

“It's a sad business,” Maggie said. “Few of us have the opportunity to be what we'd like to be. Poor Mr. Lord has my sympathy.”

I was in my room shortly after 2:30, trying to read, when noisy footsteps rang merrily on the staircase and Millie swept into the room like a tempest, resplendent in a new emerald green frock and matching cape with rows of silver gray fur around collar and hem. She whirled around to show off the outfit, emerald skirt billowing, deep copper curls flying, and then she seized my hands, her brown eyes sparkling.

“Isn't it divine! I made it myself, fur trim and all! The fur was a bit dear, but it's only rabbit, not chinchilla. This is my traveling outfit—the one I'll wear to Brighton. That's where we're going on our honeymoon: Brighton. I've been sewing all week—my poor fingers, worn to the nub and
riddled
with needle pricks! I just had to come show you. I finished it this morning. Isn't it
smashing
, Suzy?”

“One thing at a time, Millie.”

“I'm so excited I can hardly stand still. Jamie's promotion is coming through in less than two weeks. We're to be married almost immediately afterward. We've been making such
plans
.”