Ripper (10 page)

I had so many more questions, but at that moment, Dr. Buck stepped into the office.

“Inspector Abberline is here again to see you, Julian. He is waiting downstairs.”

Dr. Bartlett sighed and threw away the end of the cigar. “I'll be there in one minute.”

The moment Dr. Buck left, Dr. Bartlett stood up from his desk. “I expect I'll be at the mortuary for a few hours. The inquest was on Monday and everyone's pressed for time, as the body must be buried soon.”

“Inspector Abberline is no closer to solving the crimes?” I asked.

“I'm afraid not. Such murders are not incredibly uncommon in the East End, but there are some perplexing elements to these two. Because of this, journalists are already picking up on the story, and I am certain that if yet
another
patient of ours is murdered, the papers will be covering the story in even more detail. Three Whitechapel Hospital patients killed in this horrific way would seem to be beyond coincidence. We will have … ” Dr. Bartlett raised a graying eyebrow. “Unwanted publicity.”

“Do you think there is
going
to be another murder?”

Dr. Bartlett looked at me, distracted once again, his thoughts seemingly elsewhere.

“No.”

But his tone was far from convincing.

PART II

“Women are supposed to be very calm generally; but women feel just as men feel; they need exercise for their faculties and a field for their efforts as much as their brothers do; they suffer from too rigid a restraint, too absolute a stagnation, precisely as men would suffer; and it is narrow-minded … to say that they ought to confine themselves to making puddings and knitting stockings, to playing on the piano and embroidering bags.”

—Jane Eyre

Eleven

T
he moment I entered her home after work the next afternoon, Grandmother called me into the parlor with her.

A still-bandaged Jupe lay across her lap and her cup of tea steamed from the tray on the sideboard beside her. Before even greeting me, she thrust
the
Times
into my hands.

I had assisted in three deliveries and then helped staff the nursery that day. I felt particularly tired because I had not slept the night before while secretly attending to Lizzie.

However, I skimmed the several newspaper articles discussing the recent murders. When I reached the editorial section, a specific letter caught my eye.

If anything beneficial is to emerge from these recent Whitechapel murders, it will be to expose the rampart poverty of those forgotten in the East End: men who work seventeen hours at a time to bring a little bread and fish to the table, children who die before the age of five from starvation, cold, and disease, women, forced to abandon virtue to buy food. These are the forgotten, the sad, the lonely. Fiend though he may be, this murderer has brutally slashed open the already dying and destitute souls in Whitechapel, for all of London to see. No longer will they be ignored.

—Reverend John Perkins

I stared hard at Perkins's name.

Dr. Bartlett's prediction—that a journalistic frenzy might occur—seemed to be coming true. At first, I felt some bewilderment as to why Perkins, as Dr. Bartlett's friend, would publish such a letter, but then I realized that it was probably the right thing for him to do, considering his profession as a clergyman. He should pull the focus away from the sensational factor a bit and draw attention to the area's poverty. My dislike of Perkins's manner was clearly prejudicing me.

Grandmother snatched the newspaper back, placed her spectacles above her nose, and skimmed the upper section again. “One of these articles describes
both
victims as being Whitechapel Hospital patients.
I
did not know about this fact.”

“A coincidence, Grandmother. I would very much like to continue working there.” My heart quickened for fear that she might not let me return.

Her eyes darted in the direction of the dining room, where Mother's portrait hung. This quick glance settled my fears a bit. She did not want the break with me that she had had with her daughter, and I knew she feared losing me more than anything.

“You always take Dr. Bartlett's carriage to and from the hospital?”

“Yes,” I lied. I hated lying.

“Still, I might speak to Dr. Bartlett about the matter, just to make certain that you are safe. He has excellent judgment.” Her expression relaxed. A little. “I have known Julian Bartlett on and off for about twenty years—mostly through donation dinners,” she added.

I sighed inwardly; it appeared that Grandmother wanted to talk. In spite of my exhaustion, I felt as if I should converse with her for a few minutes. I assumed an interested expression.

“When I met him, he had just returned from the Continent—Germany, Vienna, or somewhere—and had decided to stay in London permanently.”

“The Continent?” I remembered hearing Max Bartlett conversing in German with Dr. Buck.

Grandmother's face darkened a bit, irritated that I would interrupt her remembrances. “You know, Arabella, how fond he is of travel. He lived the first part of his life in England, but then he spent several decades abroad. He is
highly
respected in the best social circles.”

Jupe woke himself with a startled bark and promptly fell off Grandmother's lap.

She emitted a small shriek and picked him up. The conversation was over at that point, as Grandmother fussed about the little dog.

Yet now I wished that she would keep talking—not about her past with Dr. Bartlett, but about my mother. I wanted to hear more of what Mother was like before her “ruinous” elopement with my father. What she was like as a child, as a young woman like me. When she became interested in painting. I paused, briefly wondering if I should bring it up. But then, considering Grandmother's fears about the recent murders, I decided against it.

Once again, I slipped out that night to go to the hospital. As before, I did not see any nurses in the first floor ward.

Almost immediately, however, upon my settling in a rocker to feed Lizzie, the nursery door opened noiselessly.

It was Simon.

“Abbie, how did you come here?” His voice was quiet. Reproachful.

I felt like a naughty child.
Caught
.

“I walked.”

“Why? Do you know how dangerous it is walking through this district at
any
time? And it seems sheer madness to do it at this time, with the murderer still loose.”

I had no defense.

“Lizzie was weakening—not getting enough milk from Rose. I wanted to give her the care she deserves. She needs to be bottle fed at night as well as during the day.”

“
I
am here on many nights.”

“Yes, but I know that you're busy.”

Simon gave up, dropping his reprimand for a moment. Empathy for the baby won out. Gently, he took Lizzie from me for a minute. “She
is
looking better. I noticed that earlier today.” He hesitated for a second, his ice-blue eyes assessing me with a bit of mirth. “You are welcome to work here at night.”

I had indeed hoped that Simon, the persistent humanitarian, would not argue about me working at all times if I wished.

“But you
must not
walk here alone,” he added.

An infant fussed as Simon quietly unlocked a small cabinet to retrieve a bottle of iodine. Before leaving, he turned back to me. “I'm assisting in a surgery on the third floor. We will be finished soon. Why don't you come upstairs when you want a break and we can discuss safer means of transportation?”

He cast me a small smile and left.

I thought that two o'clock in the morning was an odd hour to be conducting a surgery. I hoped that it was not an emergency surgery.

Lizzie made greedy sucking noises on the bottle. My concern about her immediate survival had eased a little. Nonetheless, I worried about her future. She would probably go to an orphanage like so many others.

After a bit, when she finished the bottle, I laid her in her cradle and walked out of the nursery, in the direction of the stairs. Light streamed down from the third floor. I wondered if the surgery was still in progress.

I had not spent much time on the third floor. Although there were some patients there, the floor was mostly reserved for surgeries and post-surgical care. Two large doors stood open immediately to my right. A nurse hurried away from the doors with a chamber pot. She looked a bit startled to see me but nodded politely before descending the stairs.

When I entered the large room, I saw a single patient, Liz Stride. She lay in a bed, still asleep from the surgery.

Simon and Dr. Bartlett stood by her bedside, speaking in low voices before they noticed me.

“Abbie! Excellent timing,” Dr. Bartlett exclaimed. “We have just finished surgery. Dr. St. John has informed me of your nightly ventures to the East End. Your actions were nothing short of foolhardy.”

I felt my face redden even though his reprimand seemed oddly mixed with compliment.

“You are welcome to come here anytime you wish, but I am going to require that you ride here by carriage. Dr. St. John is willing to send his family's carriage at night.”

I winced a little. With a late carriage arriving, I would
have
to inform Grandmother that I would be working
at night.

“Do you usually perform surgeries this late?” I asked, trying to change the subject.

Before Simon spoke, I caught the brief glance he cast Dr. Bartlett. “Only some surgeries.”

I left shortly thereafter with Simon, in his carriage.

During the ride home, I noticed that although Simon had been up all night, he seemed wide awake, completely alert. I could barely keep my head up. I watched him through drowsy eyelids, his pale face angelic in the dark carriage.

“How is Jupe?” Simon asked, amused.

I felt myself blush deeply. “Better. He's walking about the house like a little wretched mummy.”

“Has Lady Westfield forgiven you?”

“Mostly. Although I am banned from playing archery for my whole life.”

At some point along the way, the jolting of the carriage put me to sleep. “You are home, Abbie,” I heard him say quietly. I had not even noticed when the carriage stopped in front of Grandmother's home.

I quietly opened the front door.

Richard sat on a bench in the entranceway, immediately in front of me.

I could not speak.

“Do you realize what your grandmother would say if she knew about
this
? An hour ago, Jupe opened your door and when Ellen went into your room to retrieve him before he could wake you, she saw that you were gone. Vanished.”

Damn. I must have forgotten to shut my bedroom door completely
.

“I
lied
for you, telling Ellen that I had seen you downstairs drinking a glass of water. She went to bed. But since then, I've been sitting here debating whether or not to call Scotland Yard. I know that you can usually take care of yourself, and I had a feeling that your absence had something to do with your work. But Abbie, you typically have more
sense
than leaving the house like this at night!
Why
did you leave?” His eyes blazed in an unusual display of emotion. “Am I correct? Does this have something to do with your work at the hospital?”

“Yes.” I could not lie to Richard. “I must work some nights now.”

Richard tilted his chin a bit. Exasperated.

“It won't be all the time, just sometimes,” I said quickly.

Richard remained silent for a few moments.

I thought some truth and humor might lighten the moment. “Richard, I'm rather fierce. Did I ever tell you about my knife-throwing days in Dublin?”

His forehead tensed momentarily as he considered a negotiation to present to me. “Whatever your hours might be at the hospital, I
do
require that you tell your grandmother about this. As soon as possible.” He stood to leave. “At breakfast, in fact.”

“I will.”

Richard looked at the grandfather clock in the entranceway. “You had better go to bed. You only have two hours before Ellen wakes you.”

Before leaving, he turned around. “Knife-throwing?”

“Yes. I was a bit of a local champion.”

Richard smiled, scratched his chin, and left.

“Nights
too
!”

Grandmother's voice might have broken glass.

“Just
some
nights. And I'll come and go with Simon in the St. Johns' carriage. He lives near us. He said it would be no inconvenience to escort me when I leave.”

“I suppose I am simply going to have to be all right with you running back and forth from the East End! Day
or
night.”

She began slicing at her egg ferociously. I felt confident that Grandmother would let me work, although she would rage on for a good while.

I heard Dr. Bartlett's carriage approaching.

“I should have
known
that this would happen!” Grandmother was saying. “I am only trying to protect you.” She slammed her cup of tea down on the table. “Not that
I
have any say in the matter.”

As I left, Richard stood in the hallway facing me, his back against the wall. He looked highly amused. I smiled at him and glanced back toward the dining room, where Grandmother rattled the marmalade jar in her fury.