Ripper (5 page)

When I emerged from the nursery in the afternoon, I felt exhausted. My shoulders reeked of spit-up, and my hands, though I had washed them several times, still seemed saturated by the smell of feces. A foul urine stain marked my apron, a souvenir from a baby boy I had bathed.

The ward of women and children seemed just as chaotic as the nursery. I saw William, with several other physicians or medical students, walking hurriedly in and out of the ward, inspecting patients and writing notes. Nurses chased children, changed bedsheets, and administered medicine. As I scanned the room, I saw in the bed farthest away from me, nearest to the front entrance, a woman holding a too-still infant. She seemed to be in despair.

Simon St. John sat in a chair by her bed.

I had not seen him since the day I fell. I remembered how kind and attentive he had been to me, and I watched him with interest. Though I could not hear what he said to the woman, I saw his long, graceful fingers smoothing the swaddling blanket of the dead infant she held. After a moment, he took the baby from her and began walking toward me.

“Abbie, I am glad to see you back at work. Your ankle is mostly healed?”

“Yes, it hurts very little now.” I tried not to look at the dead baby in his arms.

“Would you mind sitting near Mrs. Rose Elliot?” He nodded back in the direction of the infant's mother. “She is heartbroken. This is her third stillborn child. And her marriage is truly terrible. Dr. Bartlett is trying to find a way to help her.”

“Yes, certainly.”

He took the baby back to the nursery area.

When I sat in the chair by Rose Elliot's bed, I did not say anything. She had begun sobbing again, and I did not see how any words of mine could help the situation. But I was there, and I hoped that my presence mattered.

She lifted one hand to wipe her eyes. It was then that I saw the bruises on her arm.

At almost the same time, the front hospital doors slammed open.

“You can't be in here, Mr. Elliot!” I heard a nurse shouting at the intruder as he pushed past her.

“Yes I can! You have my wife in here!”

The man spotted the woman in the bed beside me and began storming toward us. He was tall, burly, and sported a thick mustache.

“Get
up!
Get up, Rose!”

“No, Jess,” Rose replied meekly.

I scanned the room. Dr. Bartlett was nowhere in sight, nor the constables who had accompanied him this morning. I saw several medical students in the far part of the ward, but they looked inadequate for a confrontation.

“Get up, Rose! Now!”

Then I saw William sprinting toward us.

As Jess lunged at Rose, William restrained him, pinning his arms behind his back. Jess cursed and shook him off.

Calmly, William spoke. “Sir, you have to leave.
Now
.
She is under our protection.”

“I will
not
leave! Rose, you can't just run away and think that I won't find you. Two days away is too much! Get up, now!”

He lunged at her again, this time to grab her out of
the bed.

I stood.

William once again tried to pull Jess away from us, but the big man swung at William, who ducked instantly, barely avoiding the blow.

“Get out of my way!” I felt spittle hit my face when Jess shouted at me.

“No.”

“Abbie!” William hissed from behind the enraged man. Then, through clenched teeth, he mouthed,
“
Don't be foolish
.”

Jess swung at me, and I ducked. Before he could swing again, I sent the heel of my hand into his lower jaw. The jaw cracked and he fell backwards onto the floor.

Constables Barry and John had finally arrived, rushing forward to arrest him, but then they saw that he was unconscious.

Everyone in the scene around us moved quickly—the nurses attended to Rose, and another young physician tried to revive Jess. He would need medical attention before he could be arrested. Curious children crowded close to see the excitement.

Only William stood frozen, staring at me—a delighted bewilderment marked his expression.

“
Where
did you learn that?”

“Dublin.”

I had made an impression upon William, and, strangely, I did not care. It was time to leave. I took off my apron and placed it on a nearby peg.

Six

A
s I stepped outside the hospital, I saw Dr. Bartlett's carriage approaching from far down Whitechapel Road. My heart still beat wildly from my confrontation with Jess, and I could not stand still. I decided to walk down the street to meet the carriage.

I walked rapidly, stepping over puddles of water, broken glass. Remembering my chase with the pickpocket, I clutched my bag close to me.

Although I tried to stay focused upon my surroundings, I also thought about my nightmare. I had dreamt it early in the hours of Friday morning—the same time that the murder had happened. It had been vivid, lacking the fuzziness of other dreams. I had smelled and felt everything around me so clearly. Though the crawling man's face had been hidden in the shadows, I remember hearing his fingernails scrape on the gritty bricked front of the hospital. I had felt his breath on my neck. Even now I shivered thinking of it, and I clung to the hope that the timing of my nightmare had been mere coincidence.

Remembering Mother's episodes, those moments when she seemed trancelike, I wondered again whether she had seen visions. I had never been superstitious, and now I felt odd even considering the possibility that she might have had the “third eye,” as I had heard some call it in Dublin. The vision I had experienced with the pickpocket, of the strange ritual, had jolted me, but the nightmare—the coincidental timing of this dream with the murder—frightened me into thinking that perhaps my visions might be rooted in real happenings.

Someone slammed into me so hard that I almost fell into the busy street.

“Get out of my shop, girl!” a grocer shouted at a young woman. He had just shoved her out of his shop into the street. “I
will
call the police if I catch you in here again!”

“Sorry, miss.” As the girl apologized to me, she brushed some dirt off her skirt. I saw lumpy, heavy objects in her pockets—apples or plums. Her eyes narrowed at me when she saw that I had noticed her loot.

“Yes, I did just steal. But don't judge me. I haven't eaten in three days and that grocer and his porky wife can spare a few apples.”

“I'm not judging you.” I turned to resume my walk.

I heard her sniff. “Whatever.”

I stopped as my own stomach growled. The girl seemed like a caustic tart, but I could not help feeling badly for her. Finding food was not a problem for me.

“Here.” I turned back around toward her and dug in my bag for money.

“Don't take charity.”

“But you'll steal?”

Her eyes burned in fury. I could see that she was torn between her own pride and her very real need for the money.

I shrugged and started to put the coins back in my purse.

“All right! I'll take them. But I'll find you, and I'll pay you back.”

As she took the money, I noticed the raggedy state of her shawl and the sharp, thin nature of her features. Her accent was Irish, and I wondered how long she had been in the city.

A young man with a cap ran up to her, caught her elbow.
“
There
you are, Mary! I got the job at the docks!” He picked her up and swung her around in the air three times. “We aren't goin' to starve.”

He also had an Irish accent. Recent immigrants, I assumed. I wondered how long they had been here. Finding a job was certainly something to celebrate.

I had finally reached Dr. Bartlett's carriage. I waved at the driver and he stopped for me. Quickly I stepped into the carriage, so as to not interrupt the happy scene.

Once inside the carriage, my mind plunged back into thoughts of my mother and the visions. I was hungry and exhausted, but everything in me recoiled from going to Kensington at the moment. It was Monday afternoon, which meant that Violet and Catherine would be at the house for tea and cribbage. I would be expected to visit with them, at least for a little while. Even five minutes seemed like too much.

But where to go?

I needed to be alone with my own thoughts for a little while. As the carriage progressed, I knew I had to make a decision. Highgate Cemetery, one of the quietest places in London, instantly came to mind. Without thinking any further, I called out to the driver, telling him I had plans to meet Lady Westfield in the Highgate area that afternoon. I felt relief when he asked no questions.

I entered the open front gates of the west part of the cemetery. The place was heavily shrouded in trees, encircled by a wrought-iron fence and thick shrubbery. The busy noise of the streets disappeared as I stepped inside.

I began wandering along the first path in front of me and observed the haunting, quirky beauty of the cemetery. I stood within a plethora of chalky, looming, unusually shaped tombstones. Gingerly, I touched a giant grave marker shaped like a lion before I spotted another one shaped like a dog. I had seen the place once before, immediately after arriving in the city with Grandmother. Even then, I had felt an immediate attraction to Highgate Cemetery; it had a strange aura about it, as if it channeled the cryptic, the unbidden.

I took side paths that meandered haphazardly, and, as I pushed away branches and brambles, I only vaguely worried about becoming lost. I saw and heard no one. After so much time in the city, where even the parks seemed crowded, I embraced the solitude.

Mother had mentioned Highgate Cemetery a few times. The tomb architecture had intrigued her, and she had shown me some of her sketches of the place. I felt her haunt me now, felt deeply the void she had left for me. I knew I was enough like Mother that I could not calmly accept the path in life that Grandmother would have for me: the upcoming dinner party, the person she wanted me to meet. I saw my life before me, flimsy and uncertain as a house of cards, and I knew that it was up to me to fight for what I wanted for my future. Mother had been an artist. I was not inclined in that direction, but I knew that I needed responsibilities and activities that stretched beyond running a household. I had only worked at Whitechapel Hospital for two days, but I felt excited about the challenges there and wondered about the possibility of working in a hospital for my vocation.

Many of the side paths I took led to isolated clusters of graves, lone family plots, or single mausoleums. These hidden graves were less attended to; some had even toppled. Yet these ruinous family plots particularly fascinated me.

Just as I pushed through a particularly brambly side path, emerging into a tiny clearing, I froze, mortified.

William Siddal crouched near me, pulling weeds away from the base of a tall headstone.

I tried to back away, back onto the path from whence I came before he saw me, but it was too late. He whirled around. Startled amusement spread across his face.

We said nothing as he stood abruptly, wiping some dirt off his hands with his shirttail.

“I … I was just leaving.” I blushed and turned to return to the path.

“No, please don't go.”

“How did you arrive here so quickly?” It was a stupid question. He must have come directly from the hospital; I could smell upon him acidic hospital odors—ammonia, chloroform. But I had
not
expected to find him here.

“Carriage,” he smirked. “Same as you.”

Even now I felt taken by his handsomeness. In spite of his stained and smelly clothing and his mildly disheveled appearance, William Siddal might have been a portrait model. I felt myself hold my breath at his approach. He made me self-conscious now in a way that I had never felt before.

Then William's arch expression reminded me that I would have to stay focused.

He reached his arm out toward my ear.

I bit my lip to keep from trembling, and I felt my cheeks burn as if they were on fire. I had never felt such a powerful attraction to anyone. My body's reaction to William was even more disturbing given that I did not fully trust him.

Or even
like
him.

“A leaf.”

He withdrew a crisp oak leaf from my hair, and when I saw his dark eyes shine a little, I felt horrified that he might have suspected my thoughts.

I took another step back, away from him.

I suddenly felt foolish. In my desire for solitude, I had arrived here, so many blocks away from Kensington, and the long quest had been futile. I had stupidly catapulted myself into an awkward encounter with William Siddal.

I moved to leave again, but he gently caught my elbow.

“Don't go. This is actually a pleasant surprise. You left the hospital too quickly, and I have felt ignited with curiosity about how you acquired, in
Dublin
,
such a skilled knowledge of fighting. What you did today was superb.”

I stared at him, trying to discern his tone—I thought I sensed a tinge of openness, perhaps even some friendliness.

“Come on, Abbie. Calm down a bit. You can talk with me while I finish pulling away these weeds from my father's lover's grave. The bloody workers never seem to make it back here.”

I decided that nothing could be hurt by talking to William for a little while. I leaned against a nearby tomb, watching him pull weeds.

“Your father's lover?” I felt my interest piqued.

He didn't even look up. “Dublin
first
,
Abbie.”

“Friends in Dublin taught me to fight. We have dodgy streets there, just like any city.”

“What kind of
friends
did you mingle with there?”

I chuckled a bit, but my memories of Dublin were still too weighted by Mother's death. I felt my eyeballs sting, and I swallowed. I could not cry in front of him.

William had taken a rag from his pocket to begin wiping away bird droppings and dirt from some of the writing on the grave marker. I could make out, over his shoulder, the name
Elizabeth Eleanor
.
Then I saw the name
Rossetti
on the marker, as well as on other surrounding stones. My heart skipped a beat as I wondered if William had any connection to the Rossetti family, well-known for its writers and painters. It was not a common name.

But before I could ask anything, William continued with his questions.

“And why were you in Dublin?”

“I lived there for seven years.”

“Why?”

I wished he would stop. “My mother was a governess for a family in that area.”

“Lady Westfield's
daughter
had to find governess work in Ireland?”

“Enough.”

He stood up, finished with the grave. As he examined my face, I saw perplexity cross his features. Then his expression turned slightly apologetic. I felt softened toward him, a little regretful for being so clipped.

“Your turn.” I nodded toward the grave marker. “Who is she?”

He smiled roguishly before looking upward toward the sky.

“It is nearly five o'clock. Where does Grandmother Westfield live?”

“Kensington.”

“That's what I thought. You have come a long way to find solitude, Abbie Sharp. Can I tell you the story on the way home?”

“I already know that you like to read, but do you enjoy twisted love stories?” William asked me.

We had just reached Swain's Lane, immediately outside the cemetery gates.

“Particularly.”

We crossed the street into busier traffic, and William signaled a hansom cab for us. “My father was the writer and painter Dante Gabriel Rossetti—one of the founders of the Pre-Raphaelite group. Are you familiar with them or their work?”

My heart thumped loudly. “I adore Pre-Raphaelite art, both the paintings and the writings, although unfortunately I have not seen any of the actual paintings—only copies in books—but my mother taught me about their work. I love the paintings based on myths and stories, particularly the paintings of Ophelia and of Pandora opening the box.”

William looked sideways at me. “So you know about the Pre-Raphaelites' shocking use of colors. You know of the accusations against them for heresy and eroticism in their portraits.”