Ripper (9 page)

He shouted something in German back to Dr. Buck before descending the stairs.

As I walked past the office doorway, I saw Dr. Buck sitting behind a desk, bent over several books laid out in front of him. “Hello, Miss Sharp.”

He awkwardly adjusted his spectacles and seemed uncomfortable. A great taxidermied horned owl, perched on a nest on the short bookshelf behind him, caught my eye.

“I hope that your work on the second floor is going well, Miss Sharp.”

“Yes, quite. I have help now.”

“Excellent. Let me know if I can do anything.”

“Thank you.”

As I proceeded toward the laboratory, I wondered about what I had overheard. Neither Dr. Buck nor Max had any hint of a German accent. Why were they speaking in a foreign language?

The laboratory was larger and more interesting than I had imagined. Shelves lined with glass tubes, bottles of colorful fluids, and odd-looking instruments covered every inch of the walls. I saw dozens of labeled glass jars containing what looked like organs—though from humans or animals, I could not determine. One long shelf displayed jars of various fish specimens, such as shark and stingray fetuses, each organism suspended in blue liquid. Formaldehyde. The odor permeated the room.

My eyes stopped at a giant, slablike table, on which a woman's naked white corpse lay. Her hair was shaved off and her chest cavity opened. A stack of notes and a journal lay on the counter behind the table.

I felt my body stiffen as an image of another corpse flashed through my mind. The vision lasted only a few seconds—I saw a woman's naked, pale corpse floating in a large metal tub. The water surrounding her rippled red. Crude dark stitches stretched across her lower belly, along various places on her chest, and across her throat, and her graying brown hair billowed out like gritty tentacles from her face. Blurred figures shuffled around the body.

The vision faded as I clutched the slab table and refocused on the corpse before me. I knew intuitively that in the vision, I was seeing one of the victims. Perhaps Annie Chapman, moments after her autopsy.

Still shaking, not having had time to process too much of what I had seen, I heard water running loudly from a side room.

William stepped out. He seemed surprised to see me. “If it were any woman up here other than Abbie Sharp, I'd be worried about her fainting,” he said.

“As
a woman, I take issue with that compliment,” I replied lightly, taking a deep breath and forcing myself to stop trembling.

William returned to examining the chest cavity, alternating between looking at the open chest, checking his lightly bloodstained notes, and scribbling more notes into the journal.

Something in the corpse's left lung area interested William. He peered closer. “Interesting. This is what killed her. She has a blackening tumor in the lung. Small but
quite
malignant.”

He wrote some notes.

“Who is she?”

William shrugged. “A corpse, donated to science. Family gave her to the medical school, so now she's part of my own anatomy studies.”

He moved across the table to where I stood. “Excuse me. I need to have a look at the right lung.”

He bent over the corpse. I tried to ignore the cracking sound as he began breaking each rib with his hands. William turned around once again, his mouth twisted
in amusement.

Although I had seen plenty of blood and organs in Whitechapel Hospital, I could not feel unaffected by the sound of the breaking ribs, and this did not go unnoticed by William.

“Don't worry. When you become a surgeon, you'll get used to it.”

I thought that conversing might make me less queasy, but as I stared at the body, my mind had a difficult time getting away from the grotesque. I swallowed. “Dr. Bartlett and Dr. Buck took Simon to the mortuary to look at the latest victim. Dr. Buck is already back—I just saw him in his office. Do you know why Abberline would want them with him at the morgue?”

William went back to writing notes.

“Yes.” He peered again into the lung, and then began sketching a section of the lung into his notes. “Bagster Phillips, the district surgeon, seems to think that the murderer is a physician, or at least someone with anatomical knowledge.” Without looking up, absorbed with his sketch, he continued. “The speed at which the killer struck both victims was incredible, and he knew the exact locations of the organs he mutilated, particularly when he killed Annie Chapman. He removed her uterus, cutting it cleanly away from her abdominal cavity. Also, Dr. Phillips is nearly certain that a surgical knife was the murder weapon, similar to the one I am using here.”

I stared at the sharp surgical blade laid on the table beside the corpse. A shudder swept through me as I recalled my vision of the victim, the long, stitched slashes across her body.

“So why would Abberline bring Dr. Bartlett and Dr. Buck and Simon to the mortuary? Is he questioning Simon again? Does he consider Dr. Bartlett a suspect?”

William clucked his tongue and lowered his voice before casting a glance toward the door. “No, no. Dr. Bartlett and Dr. Buck are above reproach. Abberline wanted them to view the body merely to confirm Phillips' suspicions. I think that Abberline trusts Dr. Bartlett so much that he is confiding in him at every turn of the investigation. If anything, Dr. Bartlett has become an unofficial
medical
consultant.”

“But why bring Simon?”

William put down his notes, picked up the knife, and began slicing a small piece away from inside the lung tissue. “One of the reasons Dr. Bartlett
is
so respected, so admired as a physician, surgeon, and medical lecturer, is his unique relationship with his novice physicians. As you're aware, he treats us, particularly his favorites, as
colleagues
rather than the subordinates that we are. He believes that he learns from us as much as we learn from him. I imagine that when Abberline asked Dr. Bartlett and Dr. Buck to accompany him, Dr. Bartlett insisted on including the fresh, unbiased eyes of one of his young physicians.”

“Doesn't that get a bit dicey, considering that Abberline has been questioning all of the physicians and medical students here?”

“Probably,” William said, digging at something again in the lung tissue.

“Dr. Bartlett is confiding in students … so I assume he does not suspect any of his own physicians in these murders?”

“Exactly. He confides in all of us too much. That's why I know all that I do about the murders. And
I
don't think the murderer is anyone here, either.”

Finally, William looked up from the corpse. “No one here is that interesting, strong, or clever.” He smiled at me. “Except perhaps
you
.
”

I heard a throat clear in the doorway.

William's eyes narrowed. “Why hello, Simon.”

I turned to see Simon's long figure in the doorway. I had never seen him cross. Mary stood beside him, equally angry. Staring from me to William, and then back again to me, she snapped, “I couldn't find you anywhere.”

Simon finally spoke.“William, don't you think it's completely unnecessary to dissect a corpse in front of Miss Sharp? None of our female staff would welcome this scene.”

I spoke up in William's defense. “I came here on my own accord, to get some supplies. The corpse really doesn't bother me.”

“Still,” Simon said, continuing to glare at William, whose hands and forearms were now very bloody as he probed deeper into the corpse's lung. “You might have ceased your anatomical studies with Miss Sharp up here. Have a
little
decency.”

Crack!

Without breaking his gaze from Simon's, William flashed a large smile as he cracked the last rib of the corpse.

I
suppressed a laugh with such difficulty, my chest ached.

Simon merely turned to me. “Abbie, would you mind coming with me? We have a delivery downstairs.”

After bringing the infant that Simon had delivered into the nursery, I stopped to check on Lizzie. Her crib lay in a stream of sunlight, and she was kicking her feet weakly.

“How is she doing?” I asked Josephine.

She came to stand beside me in the front of the crib. “She is not feeding well. Rose Elliot's milk has dried up. Also, particularly at night, we are short-staffed and cannot give her all the special care that she needs.”

My heart sank.

Then a reckless plan entered my mind.

Ten

T
h
at night, after Richard, Ellen, and Grandmother had gone to bed, I slipped out of the house. Near the Thames, I hopped onto the back of a carriage heading east and reached the hospital before too very long. Although I saw constables patrolling sporadically along Whitechapel Road and Commercial Street, no one questioned me about being out at night. I cynically observed that Scotland Yard seemed more interested in catching the murderer than in making sure women were safe from him.

When I entered the hospital, patients slept soundly, and I did not run into a single nurse. Some light streamed down the stairs. Perhaps the few night nurses were busy up there. Either way, I made my way to the nursery, took a bottle, and fed Lizzie until about four o'clock in the morning, when I made my way home.

The next morning, I could barely keep my head up at breakfast. I needed to find more time to sleep. Perhaps, after these nights that I worked at the hospital, I could leave a little earlier in the afternoons. Dr. Bartlett's carriage would soon arrive for me and I felt as if I had already worked a full day.

“Arabella? Are you unwell? Did you hear me?”

I was so tired, I think I might have fallen asleep briefly at the breakfast table.

“I asked you how you have liked your work at the hospital.” Grandmother's thin lips pursed. After a quick look at my face, she put her morning spectacles on and resumed reading her morning mail.

“You look awful, Arabella,” she added. “Absolutely
awful.
I only required that you work at the hospital for one week.”

“I'm going to continue.”

The eagle-eyed gaze and pursed lips again. “Very well. I'll have my carriage bring you home at one o'clock today.”

“Why?”

“My official answer is that we are invited to tea at Lady Violet's house.”

“And the unofficial answer?”

A great pause, as Grandmother put down her mail and took off her spectacles. She glanced toward the doorway and lowered her voice.

“Lady Violet's ward, Mariah, has been quite restless as her wedding approaches. When Mariah is restless, she … misbehaves.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Don't let your imagination run too wild, Arabella. Violet is just concerned. That is all.”

I assured her I would be ready for the carriage by one o'clock, and that yes, I would have plenty of time to wash before we left for Violet's house. This would be easy, as Violet lived even closer to us than Catherine did—on our street, in fact.

As I resumed eating my scrambled eggs, I privately wondered if Violet suspected anything about Mariah's planned elopement. Although Mariah had confided in me, the whole affair was none of my business. I had no plans to interfere—either to expose Mariah or to cover for her, should she choose to involve me.

Our time at Lady Violet's proved to be more interesting than I had thought it would be. Instead of taking tea inside, Mariah and I drank elderberry cordials outside as we played archery in the small, walled courtyard behind Violet's house. Grandmother and Violet remained indoors, protesting that it was too cold for us to be outdoors, but after being inside the stuffy hospital all morning, the cool air felt wonderful.

Unfortunately, I had never played archery in my life.

“Your aim is terrible, Abbie,” Mariah said as she shot a perfect bull's-eye.

I shot my arrow again; this time it didn't hit anywhere near the target. It merely clattered against the high stone wall behind the targets.

“Didn't you
ever
play sports?” she asked.

In Dublin, I had been quite active in fighting sports and knife-throwing competitions, where we took aim at wooden targets. By sixteen, after much practice, I had become a bit of a champion in the neighborhood, winning several of our organized street competitions. I had thought that archery could not be much different from knife throwing; I had been very wrong.

“I
have
played sports in the past,” I responded, missing the target again. “Just not archery.”

Mariah shot an almost-bull's-eye, rubbed her arm, and took a long sip of cordial. Our breath puffed out in the cold air.

“So,” she began in a low voice, “as I told you the other evening, I'm going to run away from here, elope. I write, and I'm going to be a writer somewhere,
anywhere
but here. How are
you
going to escape?”

I smiled as I adjusted my bracer, loaded my bow, and prepared to take aim again.
That
is why I felt so drawn to Mariah. Although this was only my second time speaking with her, she represented a break from the ridiculous rules and rituals of Kensington. We were sudden allies in our desperate attempts to live a bigger life.

“Education,” I said. “I'm thinking about going to medical school.”

I had not yet told anyone about my possible plan, and it felt wonderful to finally say it out loud. Mariah smiled widely as a light wind pulled at her curls and small flecks of rain began to fall on us. She looked gorgeous in the cloudy late afternoon.

“I'm finding you more and more interesting, Abbie Sharp.”

“So, are you going to tell me about this lover?” I asked, pulling my arm back and squinting—I felt determined to at least hit the target this time. I released the arrow.

“Perhaps another time … ” Mariah's voice trailed off in horror as the arrow sailed over the wall.

I heard a screech, followed by two seconds of silence. Then came a bloodcurdling scream.

“Oh God, I've killed someone,” I murmured.

Mariah grabbed her skirts up and ran from the courtyard toward the front of the house. I ran after her. She saw my victim before I did, and an expression of horror and amusement spread across her face.

“Bloody hell, Abbie,” she said.

“What?”

“You've shot your grandmother's dog.”

Mary was in a foul mood on Wednesday morning as we began working in the second floor ward. I had hoped for a little more gratitude from her, particularly since, to my relief, Dr. Bartlett had agreed to allow her to continue working at the hospital.

I knew that even with this job, Mary still had money troubles, but I hoped she could believe that life wasn't exactly rosy for me that morning either. Jupe had, fortunately, survived the hit. Grandmother had just stepped outside with him when the arrow sailed down, grazing his back. However, the wound bled profusely and Grandmother summoned Simon, who had recently arrived home from the hospital. After he assured Grandmother that Jupe would live and bandaged the pug until it looked like a pet mummy, Grandmother shrieked at and lectured me for no less than two hours—after which she settled into an angry silence. I had received the cold shoulder at breakfast and had wanted nothing more than to get to the hospital today.

William entered the ward.

“Oh … it's
you
,
” Mary grunted. She hadn't much taken to William, describing him to me as “bossy and arrogant.”

William looked serious and a little tired. He ignored Mary. “Abbie, Dr. Bartlett wants to see you in his office.” He seemed preoccupied and spoke very little as we walked up the stairs.

Then he cast a sideways glance at me. “You look weary.”

“I've had a difficult morning.”

“Wha—”

“Nothing,” I said, cutting him off. “It's a long story.”

I would have felt like a fool telling William that I had almost killed my grandmother's dog. Before he could press me further, I changed the subject. “Should I be nervous? Maybe Dr. Bartlett thinks it's too dangerous for me to work here after the murders.”

“No … I doubt that. You're too valuable here.”

William had none of the flatterer in him, so I took his compliment to heart.

As we approached the fourth floor, William's mood lighted a bit. “My aunt wants to meet you.”

“She does?” I felt a little thrill at the idea of meeting Christina Rossetti.

“Yes. I promised her that I would bring you to her soon. I hope you don't mind.”

“No, I would love to meet her.”

We had just reached Dr. Bartlett's closed office door.

“Well, I'll leave you here. Christina needs my help this afternoon.”

After bidding me goodbye, he left.

I knocked, and then opened the door quietly when Dr. Bartlett called for me to come in.

He stood behind his desk, staring out the window. His thoughts seemed far away too, and I wondered if his mind was on the murders—perhaps dwelling upon a recent interaction with Abberline or Bagster Phillips. But almost immediately, he became attentive.

“Abbie, do please sit down.” He nodded toward a leather chair in front of his desk, then sat down behind the desk and removed a cigar from a small top drawer.

“Lady Westfield only required that you work here one week—but I see that you are back,” he began. He lit the cigar. “I know, I'm a physician, but please pardon my vice.”

“Yes, of course.” I felt myself smile. Dr. Bartlett could be enigmatic and yet, frequently, he put me at ease.

“So,” he said, blowing the smoke away. “Why are you continuing to work here?”

“Because I love the work.” I thought this might be as good a time as any to bring up the subject of medical school. “Actually, since I'm in your office, I wanted to tell you that I've been considering medical school. But I haven't the first idea of where to start.”

A glint sparked in Dr. Bartlett's eyes, and he tapped some of the ash from the cigar into a nearby dish. “You, Abbie, have read my mind. Your future is exactly why I called you in here to this meeting. You have remarkable control during surgeries and difficult births, and I have heard from Dr. St. John that you are both caring and creative when it comes to patient care.”

I knew that Simon must have told Dr. Bartlett about my suggestion that Rose Elliot nurse Lizzie. My heart sank a bit as I thought of how little good had come from my idea. I still planned on returning to the hospital some nights.

Dr. Bartlett leaned back in his chair a bit. “The field is still extraordinarily resistant to women. Oxford and Cambridge are both closed to giving women medical degrees.” He emitted a disgusted chuckle. “Of course, they're closed to giving women
any
degrees at all. However, there is a women's medical college, recently started here in London. I know the founder, Dr. Elizabeth Garrett Anderson. She is excellent, and a highly dedicated physician. You can attain a medical degree through that college, and I would be happy to help you along the way if that would be something you would like to consider.”

“Of course.” The news of the women's medical college excited me.

“Continue to work with me here now, gaining experience. Then I would like to introduce you to Dr. Anderson, and perhaps you could go ahead and apply to her school.”