The House at Baker Street (20 page)

‘Which way?’ Mary asked, looking around.

‘This way,’ I told her, taking her arm and leading her down Leman Street towards the tiny square at the end.

I hardly noticed Whitechapel this time. Not the stench, not the dirt, not the poverty. The tiny streets and narrow alleys were already bustling with life, but there were no cheerful calls, no
shouts, no arguments, not this time. Everyone watched each other, warily, suspiciously. It was utterly quiet in Whitechapel, almost safe, apart from the whisper ‘Ripper’. No one
bothered us. They were too afraid for themselves to think about us.

We came into the square to see a man walking down the steps from the Whitechapel Lady’s home, a man who obviously did not belong in Whitechapel. He stepped fastidiously over the dirt, his
boots shining brightly, his trousers pressed and brushed and achingly clean. He was of middle height, slightly plump – I doubted he had ever gone hungry in his life. He had dark hair,
smoothed down with pomade on either side of a pudgy, unhealthy-looking face. His small nose was wrinkled against the smell we were now immune to and his golden pince-nez pinched the bridge of it.
He would have been unnoticeable in Baker Street or Oxford Street, but in Whitechapel he stuck out a mile, as the residents would have said.

Mary picked up her skirts and ran to him.

‘Are you the police?’ she demanded.

‘No, they left. Who are you?’ he said, quailing slightly before her anger.

‘Friends of the murdered woman,’ I said calmly, as I walked towards him. He looked us up and down, saw the quality of clothes, and the way we carried ourselves, and the bloom of
health on our cheeks, and knew we were not Whitechapel friends. He sniffed.

‘I see,’ he said, a touch reluctantly. ‘Well, I am . . . was . . . her solicitor. Richard Halifax, at your service,’ he added mechanically, holding out a card to Mary.
She only glared at him. I reached past her and took it. ‘I can tell you now she left all her money to the clinic, and left behind no papers, so your search is pointless.’

‘We’re not here for papers!’ Mary snapped. ‘We’re here to pay our respects.’ She pushed past him and ran up the stairs and into the room. Mr Halifax looked
deeply disconcerted. He held on tight to the shaky wooden banister as he descended the last few steps.

‘My friend is very upset,’ I explained. I too was upset, but I seemed to hide it better than Mary. That was a new discovery for me, that I could remain so cool and calm whilst inside
my emotions churned. ‘Have you had many people come to look for her papers?’

‘One or two, Mrs . . . ?’

‘Smith,’ I lied blithely. ‘I hope you sent them away?’

‘Quite away, with a flea in their ear to boot!’ he told me. Then he looked at me, and decided, like so many people have, to confide in me. ‘Truth to tell, there’s nothing
left. Nothing to be found. She had destroyed everything that spoke of her former life, and what caused her to leave it. And the few papers that she was obliged to leave with me, I shall, by the
terms of her will, burn unseen.’ He looked up the stairs at the Whitechapel Lady’s last home, and then around at the shabby cobbled, dirty square. ‘I knew her, before. A fine
lady, a great lady I should say. That she should end so horribly, in this place . . .’ He shuddered, then replaced his grey bowler hat on his head. ‘For her sake, for her memory, I
shall follow her instructions exactly. Nothing shall be left. Good day to you, Mrs Smith.’

I watched him exit the square onto St George Street, where a carriage stood waiting. His face was pinched and unhappy. Then, once he was gone, I heard Mary come out of the room and stand at the
top of the stairs.

‘Is that vile man gone?’ she called.

‘Quite gone. He was only doing his duty, Mary.’

‘It doesn’t matter. Martha, come and see, do come.’

She held her hand to me, beckoning me up. I hesitated. I did not want to see that room full of blood. I pictured the lurid illustration in the
Police News
, but full of colour, full of
browns and reds and blacks, dried blood. I didn’t want to see that.

‘Martha, you should see,’ Mary said softly, still holding out her hand. She was right, I should. I walked up the stairs and looked at Mary.

Her face was wet with tears. She took my hand and led me into the room where the murder had taken place.

The room was full of flowers. They lay over an inch deep on the floor. They were piled up in the corner. They were scattered thickly on the bed and table. Not a drop of blood was to be seen.
Instead the room was full of yellow and bright pink and delicate blue and the softest, most exquisite petals.

‘They’re not expensive flowers,’ Mary said from behind me, her voice breaking. ‘They’re the kind you buy from girls on the corner, or that you scavenge from Covent
Garden. Some of them are wild flowers. I cannot think where they found those.’

‘Who . . . how . . . ?’ I asked breathlessly. I stroked the petals of a daisy, so beautiful and pure in the morning light.

‘There aren’t many notes,’ Mary told me, as she walked into the room. The flowers caught on her skirt, and tumbled on the floor. ‘I don’t think many of the people
who left the flowers can read or write. Or perhaps they felt that nothing needed to be said. But there are one or two. They speak of her kindness, and her gentleness. They call her a saviour. And
they are sorry that they could not protect her. All the flowers, Martha, all of them, they’re from people who live here. All of Whitechapel has given her flowers. Whitechapel loved
her.’

I hope the Whitechapel Lady knew. I hope that somewhere in her sad and lonely life she knew she had a place, and was honoured and treasured and loved. I was so afraid she had not known. I looked
around. They must have searched long and hard for these flowers. Some must have gone without a meal, or two, to pay for a bunch of peonies. Here and there I saw a bright yellow dandelion that must
have pushed its way up through the cracks in the pavement. The sweet, soft, pure scent of them pushed away the stench of the blood. These flowers were a far better monument than any massive stone
sarcophagus could have been. I knelt on the floor, took off my glove, and ran my fingers over the flowers, silently adding my sorrow for her loss. My shame that we could not save her, my anger that
someone could have done this to her, my promise that he would pay.

I pushed aside the flowers, and then I saw the blood. Everywhere beneath the delicate petals was stained in dark, harsh blood. It had even splashed onto the walls. This room had seen something
horrific. I looked up at Mary. She stood by the window, staring intently about the room, her face pale and set and hard as a statue.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I saw the blood too. It’s horrible.’

‘It’s insane,’ I replied, standing up. ‘This isn’t right.’

Mary looked at me, her eyes burning in anger. She had misunderstood.

‘No, I meant . . . this doesn’t fit!’ I explained quickly. ‘I presume we both believe that the man who drove her to this place is the same man who killed her? The same
man we are hunting.’

Mary nodded mutely.

‘Then this does not fit,’ I repeated. ‘From what we have learnt, this has always been a man who prized control. He got his pleasure from controlling others and himself. He
enjoyed being powerful in the background. He enjoyed being unsuspected, unseen. This,’ I knelt down and pushed aside the flowers again to reveal the ugly stain. It still felt slightly sticky
to the touch, ‘is an utter lack of control. He doesn’t do this. He kills by proxy.’

‘He kills, though,’ Mary said, in a low, grating voice.

‘Not like this,’ I insisted. ‘I’m not saying he has never had blood on his hands. He probably did, I think perhaps he would want that experience, that feeling of
another’s life in his hands, but I regret to say it would be some poor girl from the slums that no one would miss. It would be quiet, unnoticed. This – ’ I pushed aside more of
the flowers. The stain had spread all over the floor, ‘ – this is screaming “look at me!”. There is no control here whatsoever. This is the very antithesis of all we know
about him.’

‘You think she was killed by a different man?’ Mary asked, pushing her hair away from her forehead. I sat back on my heels and thought for a moment.

‘No,’ I said finally, shaking my head. ‘It’s too much of a coincidence that she should be so violated by two different men. Besides, think of him hurling Wiggins down the
stairs.’

‘Probably not the first time he’s tried to get rid of a witness,’ Mary pointed out.

‘In broad daylight? In front of other potential witnesses? No, this and the attacks on Wiggins and Mr Shirley were impulsive acts. I think his control is slipping. I think his control is
breaking down.’

Mary suddenly leaned forward and seized a pale pink rose from the flowers on the floor. She grasped it, squeezing it in her hands.

‘All those years,’ Mary whispered. ‘He kept himself under such a tight rein. No one knew him or saw him for what he was. He made himself seem so ordinary, but underneath he was
still there. Still evil, still mad, still wrong. It must have been such a strain, keeping up that pretence all the time. Even in his darkest, vilest moments, he could never let it entirely slip.
And now . . .’ She looked at me. The rose in her hand was torn to pieces. ‘Jekyll is taking over Hyde.’

I nodded. It was an apt analogy. I had seen the play, though not read the book. I remembered that horrific moment of transformation.

‘But why now?’ Mary demanded, letting the crushed remains of the rose fall between her fingers.

‘Something has changed,’ I speculated, still kneeling on the floor amongst the flowers. ‘Something is different, something new and uncontrollable has entered his life . . .
oh.’ I suddenly realized what I meant. ‘Could it be us?’ I whispered. ‘We’re the something new!’

Mary blanched, looking round the room.

‘We caused this?’

‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘He did this. He lost control. All we did was investigate, and we haven’t even done much of that, not really.’

‘We’re the new player in the game, as Sherlock would say,’ Mary said.

‘But we’re not that important!’ I insisted again. I had never been that important.

‘We’re uncontrollable by his usual methods,’ Mary said, striding round the room, her skirt disturbing the flowers and sending up wafts of fragrance. ‘We have no one who
is likely to believe any lies he tells about us. We have no secrets – well, I have none beyond fabulous but lost Indian treasure and some stories about the mutiny. I presume you have no dark
secrets?’

‘Not one,’ I said ruefully.

‘So here we are, two women – and he hates women – interfering in his life, and no way to control us. It must drive him insane.’

I shook my head. It didn’t make sense. I couldn’t see myself as anyone’s implacable enemy.

‘No, I don’t think it’s us,’ I disagreed. ‘There’s something else here, something, someone we’re not seeing. A different factor we know nothing about.
If we’re that dangerous, why not just kill us?’

Mary laughed, a harsh shout of laughter.

‘Kill Sherlock Holmes’ housekeeper and Dr Watson’s wife? That would be a huge mistake!’

‘Maybe he doesn’t see us as his new opponent,’ I said. ‘Maybe he thinks his new enemy is Mr Holmes?’

Mary stopped pacing.

‘Perhaps. Although I’m not sure if I’d be relieved or insulted if that were true.’

I bent my head for a moment, looking at the flowers.

‘Well, we can ask him when we find him,’ I murmured. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mary glance at the book on the table. I knew she was imagining the Whitechapel Lady sitting
here all alone, night after night, her life destroyed in so many ways by this man. And then, just when she had found some measure of peace, he had destroyed it again, utterly this time. And
perhaps, just perhaps, it was because of us.

‘He’ll get worse,’ Mary said quietly. ‘He’ll be like Jack the Ripper, and become more and more steeped in blood.’

‘Or until we stop him.’

‘No one stopped Jack.’

‘He is not Jack,’ I insisted. ‘I know he isn’t. Don’t ask why.’

‘But . . .’

‘No, Mary,’ I insisted. ‘I can’t tell you, not today.’ Perhaps in the future I would, but it wasn’t my story to tell her. A good housekeeper had to keep so
many of her employer’s secrets. I would tell Mary one day. I couldn’t keep even that secret from her, but not on this day.

I slowly got up from my knees and walked over to the fireplace. The grate was cold now, but full of ashes. A great deal of paper had been burnt here. I leaned over to look. There was the tiniest
scrap of white, just a corner of something left, right at the back.

When I turned, Mary was by the window. The harsh cold daylight cast deep shadows on her set white face. She stared at me, and I had never seen a look like that in
her
eyes before.

‘It’s not about finding him any more,’ she said, in a low voice. ‘It’s not even about stopping him. I want him punished, Martha. I want him to burn.’

We didn’t want to leave Whitechapel right away. To scurry away from the Whitechapel Lady’s home would have seemed like a betrayal. Instead we wandered through the
narrow alleyways and courts, listening to people talk. Most of them mentioned her, and her kindness and her generosity, and her sensitivity and her deep need for privacy. They talked of how they
had gone to her for help, and she had never turned them away, nor preached to them. But amongst the tributes to her were other whispers. Ripped. Cut. ’88. He’s back. Him. Jack. The
Ripper. Ripper.

‘What did you take from the fireplace?’ Mary asked, her voice low. I handed her the scrap.

‘It fell down the back. Bits of paper often do when they are burnt. People always forget to look,’ I said. She turned it over in her hand.

‘A visiting card.’

‘Yes, and yes, I read the name on it.’

There had been just a corner of a name, just the four letters:
lant
.

‘Adam Ballant,’ Mary guessed.

‘Not necessarily,’ I warned her, but I too had jumped to the same conclusion. Mary stopped suddenly on the street, grasping my arm, and getting in the way of an old woman in grey,
who swore fluently at her. Mary ignored her.