Ripper (15 page)

William smirked at his ancestral guilt. “You place too much blame upon yourself. I prefer to help people when I can, but otherwise, I find nearly all people, of
all
classes, disgusting.”

“You're a cynic. You lead a small life.”

William's face flushed at Simon's comment.

I felt surprised that Simon had actually pushed the matter. I realized, at that moment, that although elusive and cool, Simon had all of William's intensity. But while William fought with fire, Simon fought with ice.

“William, it is exactly your cavalier attitude that maintains the ongoing problems that confront us daily in Whitechapel,” Simon continued.

William responded angrily. “And you, dear Simon, are doing everything you can to fix these massive problems during your nighttime surgeries at the hospital, are you not?”

I stared hard at William. “What are you … ?”

“Inappropriate, William,” Simon said. His voice might have smashed porcelain.

I thought of that night at the hospital, when I had walked in on Simon and Dr. Bartlett after they had performed a surgery. No one else at the table was paying attention to us, so I asked, quietly, “What kind of nighttime surgeries?”

Simon kept his angry eyes on William. “Often, many of our second-floor patients have been brought in suffering from crude, unsafe abortions. Dr. Bartlett has, for many years, been working to better and more effectively provide safe abortions for women. This is, of course, illegal, but I have taken care of infants afflicted by their mother's diseases—syphilis, gonorrhea. Both Reverend Perkins and I have found dead, abandoned infants on the steps of his parish church in the middle of winter. So, yes, I believe that it's morally necessary for me as a physician to know how to perform the procedure safely.”

William snorted.

“Have you performed abortions?” I asked him.

William seemed taken aback. “On occasion, and only when necessary. I have performed them on some of Christina's friends. But I certainly do not need to be tutored in the matter.”

None of us said a word for a few minutes. I knew that I was supposed to be shocked by what I had heard from Simon, but I wasn't. I saw the moral complications of the matter as Simon described them.

Suddenly, at that moment, someone removed the headband from my hair. Rough hands, pungent with the scent of Oriental cigar, covered my eyes.

“Who has snatched your lovely headband? Is it a monkey perhaps? One that likes sparkly things?
Lovely
,
sparkly things.”

Max.

“Cut it out, Max,” William said.

The hands lifted from my eyes, but the headband had disappeared.

“Give it back,” Simon said, wearied.

“Or what?” Max said gruffly. “Will you and Dr. Siddal
duel
me for it?”

“Just give it back.” William took a sip of water. He sighed. I knew his thoughts were still involved in the argument he had just had with Simon.

“No.”

It was an invitation.

For me.

The torches had burned down, and the clearing had become darker than it was when dinner began. Most of the party had started meandering back into the house, although Dr. Buck was leading Alistair and Colin toward some of the trees near the front of the area. He seemed swollen with pride over his hothouse collection.

Max locked eyes with me, turned, and walked back into the forest, disappearing into the darkness.

“Abbie,” William said quietly. I could tell by his expression that he thought very little of Max Bartlett.

“He'll get tired of the game in a bit and toss it back to you, Abbie,” Simon said.

“Funny thing about games,” I said, rising from my chair. “I usually win.”

William shrugged and casually helped himself to another piece of bread.

I followed Max, alone. I told myself that I needed to retrieve the headband, but once inside the trees, I admitted to myself that I found him alluring.

Everything in the forest was even darker than in the clearing. The fountain sprayed behind me, and the monkeys screeched from treetops. Narrow trails in the dirt wove in various directions around the thick trunks. Although the whole place was enclosed, I began to panic a little, feeling a bit of the same fear that I would have felt if I had truly been lost in a forest at night. Even the stars above the glass dome did not seem to be separated from me by glass.

“Max?” I could barely hear my voice amidst the monkey cries.

I felt a thick leaf or shrub brush against the back of my neck.

I whipped around.

Nothing.

Arabella.

I thought I had heard my name, but from where, I could not tell. I decided to go right, and plunged down a trail into a thick plot of trees. I then took a narrow trail left.

The place was enormous, larger than I had first imagined. I speculated that I must be near the back wall, but no wall came into my sight.

Something large and furry landed on my shoulder. I shrieked just as the monkey leapt off, and it was then that I felt propelled through the darkness until my back was pressed up against a large tree trunk.

“Abbie.” The whisper came inches from my face, and I saw Max in the darkness, shirtless. His chest and shoulders were muscled, glistening in the muggy hothouse. There was something feral, uninhibited about him in that moment.

My panic dissipated into intoxicating pleasure; he was close enough to kiss. I swallowed as I fought against all of my conflicted feelings: desire, fear, a peculiar curiosity.

Without a word, he moved even closer, and, stroking some loose hair away from my forehead, he placed the headband back into place. With the movement, a dark place on his upper right chest, which I had thought was a shadow, became clear in a spot of moonlight.

I gasped. It was a tattoo of the chalice, with the words
A Posse Ad Esse
across it.

This was why he had brought me back here. To show me this.
Why?

My throat felt parched and dry, and I could barely hear myself as I asked, “What is it?”

He didn't answer, but smiled widely, and his green eyes flicked and glimmered in the darkness. As he leaned closer to me, I felt the warmth of his chest through my bodice. I trembled as he brushed his lips, feather-light, against my cheek, along my jawline toward my left ear. My unanswered question roared inside me and, vaguely, I felt as if I should push him away, but I did not. I was too incapacitated by desire.

Then he whispered, “Goodbye, dollygirl.”

Horror suddenly overtook me, and I staggered. He flashed a wide, satisfied smile and disappeared into the forest.

I sucked in air; my chest heaved. Dizzied, lightheaded, I clutched the tree behind me. I vividly remembered the young pickpocket's changed expression after giving me my brooch back, and the cheeky “dollygirl” comment he had made before running away. Max's use of the same phrase terrified me now, for reasons that I didn't fully understand.

What did he want me to know?

Who was he?

Simon, William, and Branwell found me just as I had regained my composure. I steadied my breathing, but still felt my face burn.

“All is well,” I said casually, adjusting my headband a bit.

There was an awkward pause before Dr. Buck stepped out from behind a tree, holding one of the torches from the dinner table.

“Dr. Buck is about to show us one of his most remarkable collections,” Simon said, taking my arm.

Dr. Buck adjusted his spectacles and held out the torch. “Do please let me go first. This place can be a bit of a maze at night.”

He stepped ahead of us onto the path.

“Miss Sharp, I think you might find this interesting. It is a
private
exhibit. As I have told the others, you must never discuss it with anyone. I only show it to my dearest friends. If you betray me, it might”—he waved one hand in the air like a magician while he pushed a thick branch out of my way with his other hand—
“
disappear
.”

My curiosity mounted.

“Watch the pond.” Simon guided me around a small pool of water as we turned a sharp corner. The pond was only about six feet wide. I saw silver fish flash under the water's surface.

A strange
dee-doo, dee-doo
sounded from nearby. It was high pitched and jarring.

Dr. Buck mounted the torch on a nearby iron pole. “Behold: my
prize pet.”

My heart rose to my throat. Inside a small fenced enclosure was a bird, about three feet tall with a thick, short, curved bill. It sported some of the loveliest plumes I had ever seen. I gasped; it was as if an illustration from a beloved book of my childhood had come alive before me.

“Is it really?” William asked.

“Unbelievable.” Branwell stepped closer and reached out to touch the bird's head.

Quoting the very book that was on my mind, Lewis Carroll's
Alice in Wonderland
,
Simon recited:
“ ‘There was a Duck and a Dodo, a Lory and an Eaglet, and several other curious creatures.' ”

“Yes,” Dr. Buck said in a low voice. “It
is
a dodo bird.”

“But these birds have been extinct for more than a century,” I said.

“Yet here is one before you, alive and well,” Dr. Buck replied.

“How and where did you find him?” William asked.

Dr. Buck smiled. For an achieved naturalist, he looked impish, cryptic in the torchlight. “Oh, I've had him for a few years. Found him in the native environment where he supposedly disappeared, the island of Mauritius in the Indian Ocean.”

“Is he the only one?” Simon asked.

Dr. Buck seemed determined to remain mysterious. “For now. But trust me, when he dies, he will not be the last.”

None of us understood his meaning, but I think we all knew that he would not divulge any more information that night.

I still had another question as I stared at the magnificent bird, which strutted about uttering low coos and
dee-doos.
“Might I see him again?”

“Oh yes, any of you are free to see him anytime. A small handful of people in London do know of his existence. But he is not yet ready to be exhibited to the scientific community. He must stay here now, under the cover of my forest.”

Dr. Buck's mouth creased open in a smile as he dropped a pile of dried pumpkin seeds into the palm of my hand. The dodo stopped strutting and its black marble eyes rolled in my direction. With gentle stabbing motions, it ate the seeds from my hand.

I felt overwhelmed with emotion as I fed the dodo. It was a magnificent impossibility.

“What do you know of Max? Besides the fact that he's Dr. Bartlett's nephew,” I asked Simon, nonchalantly, as we rode back to Kensington in his carriage that night.

In the darkness, his eyes met mine. He was curious, but I knew that he, unlike William, would not ask any prying questions.

“Honestly, very little. I think he travels frequently, along with Dr. Bartlett and the others. But often he comes in and out at Dr. Bartlett's gatherings. He's elusive. A bit odd.”

I settled back in my seat and tried to process what had happened between myself and Max in the hothouse. The chalice symbol, my visions, Max's whisper in my ear … even the existence of the dodo bird. I knew there were connections I needed to make, connections that my mind could not yet comprehend.

Sixteen

A
rabella?
Arabella
, are you listening to me?”

At breakfast the next morning, I was so preoccupied with the events of Dr. Bartlett's dinner party that I had stopped listening to Grandmother.

“Yes, I'm sorry.” I took a sip of hot tea and refocused. In spite of all that was on my mind, I did not want to be rude.

“I was
saying
that I am going to have the walls on the first floor repainted and new wallpaper added in the parlor and this room. I'm also having some renovations done on the second floor.”

“Why? Everything looks fine.” I surveyed the walls—all the paint and wallpaper seemed immaculate as usual.

“
Why
?”
Grandmother looked at me as if I were a half-wit. “Because they look
terrible
.”

“All right.” I shrugged a bit.

“I am telling you all this because the work is going to be so extensive that we will have to be out of the house for a few weeks. The noise, the paint and glue odors, will not be healthy for me, you, or Jupe. Lady Violet has generously allowed us to stay with her during that time”

I did not feel very happy about this, and Grandmother caught my scowl.

“This living arrangement will only be for a short time. Mariah will be there.”

I perked up a bit at this. With great effort, I resumed talking about the renovations.

Grandmother never brought up anything I did in Whitechapel anymore. If she did not outright regret allowing me to work with Dr. Bartlett, I think that my “moral education” had not had the effect she desired. Rather than increasing my gratitude for the life of leisure she had provided for me, I had become preoccupied with my work at the hospital. Also, although she had said very little about it, I knew that my acquaintances bothered her, particularly the friend who was a Rossetti relation. This, in her eyes, was a reckless act that might have devastating ramifications on her social network. All these concerns had become etched upon her face day by day—her worry about me, her worry for herself, and her worries regarding her social position in a fickle world. In the morning light of the dining room, I saw all of these worries in the furrows between her brows.

I listened to her detail the impending renovations for as long as I could stand before excusing myself. I told her that I would be at the library for a few hours, and that, yes, I would be back for late afternoon tea.

As I walked rapidly in the direction of the British Library, I thought about everything that had happened to me since arriving in London and coming to work at Whitechapel Hospital. The first two months had been filled with routine, dull days spent with Grandmother and her friends. Then the chase with the pickpocket—the instance when I had that first vision—changed everything.

I reflected on the order and subject matter of the visions. The very first vision was of the chalice and the ritual of the robed, hooded men. Then I had visions on the nights of the Ripper murders—both of the chalice and of the murderer. I also had a vision of a victim's corpse—Annie Chapman, I think. All of my visions, therefore, involved either the chalice symbol or the Ripper murders. I now knew that the chalice symbol was somehow connected with Max, and with Dr. Bartlett and his friends, given that it had shown up at the hospital
and
on their fountain.
A Posse Ad Esse: From possibility to actuality
…

But I couldn't fathom what the chalice and inscription symbolized or how they might be linked to the Ripper murders. Of course, I had no evidence that they were linked to the murders at all, except that my visions of the chalice always seemed intertwined with my visions of
the murderer.

I bit my lip as I crossed the street. If Mother had seen visions or been psychic, as I now suspected, somehow I had attained her abilities upon coming to London. I would have given anything to ask her about my visions—I didn't know how much to trust them, and I would not have taken them so seriously if they had not been so clearly linked with real happenings.

Once in the library, I sat at a desk with a large stack of books under the glass dome of the Reading Room. I began researching symbols, specifically chalice symbols, and found that the chalice was often linked with the Holy Grail, the cup supposedly used by Jesus at the Last Supper. Often, the Grail is linked to communion and eternal life—immortality.

A Posse Ad Esse.

From possibility to actuality …

I felt crazy for thinking it, but I had seen a dodo bird—supposedly extinct—alive and well and walking about in a London hothouse. The chalice symbol on Max's chest, in the painting at the hospital, and on the Montgomery house fountain
meant
something. It somehow united Max, Dr. Bartlett, and the other housemates. If they were all united around this image, I wondered if they were part of a secret group. Could they somehow be seeking immortality? After all, the chalice
was
linked to immortality.

Could they somehow be immortal?

I felt ridiculous for even thinking this, as it seemed to defy reason. But the thought did haunt me.

Regarding the Ripper murders, even if Dr. Bartlett and his housemates were in some sort of society or organization—which certainly was no crime—I didn't see how they could be linked to the murders. I certainly couldn't understand why they would be involved in the murder of Whitechapel Hospital patients. Dr. Bartlett himself had discussed the “bad publicity” the murders would bring; killing Annie Chapman and Polly Nichols, his own patients, would not make sense. He seemed like such a dedicated physician … I simply could not picture it. And apart from the visions, of course, I had no evidence. Even Abberline did not suspect Dr. Bartlett; indeed, he had told Dr. Bartlett immediately after the Polly Nichols murder that he was not a suspect, and then made him one of Scotland Yard's primary medical consultants in the investigation. Abberline had essentially told me that he suspected one of the other physicians at the hospital. He had, after all, questioned Simon and William several times.

Simon and William.

I shook my head. There was no way either of them could be the Ripper. I could not believe it.

“Abbie
Sharp
.”
I felt hot breath in my hair and whipped around to see Mariah's beautiful face above me. She wore a dark blue walking dress and a wide-brimmed hat.

“Lady Westfield told me that I might find you here. What
are
you doing, walled up in the library on this lovely fall day?”

“Just reading.” I quickly closed the book.

“Well, stop, this instant. Let's go to Harrods. I have some shopping to do for the wedding that will never happen.”

“What time is it?” I asked.

“One o'clock.” She put her arm out, smiling.

I could not believe that I had been here for three hours now. I gave my books one more glance; the chalice research had captivated me. As I took her arm and walked away from the Reading Room, I thought that an afternoon of normalcy—a short shopping trip with a friend—might be exactly what I needed.

I arrived home that late afternoon in a much better mood.

Ellen greeted me almost as soon as I opened the door with a small envelope. She had made a clumsy attempt to reseal it.

I frowned at her as I took the note.

Ellen's face paled. “I hav' some work to finish in the
kitchen, Miss.” She curtseyed and left.

Why did Richard not greet me this afternoon?
I read the note:

Dear Miss Sharp—

Please do come to Whitechapel Hospital tonight if it is not a problem. I am amalgamating/cleaning the pharmacy. Your help [and company] would be warmly welcome.

—Most Cordially,

William

Grandmother was out all afternoon and would then be taking dinner at the St. Johns' house, so I spoke to Richard before I left, assuring him that though I might be late, I would be leaving and returning safely in the St. Johns' carriage. I knew that he would communicate the message to Grandmother, clearly and without any of Ellen's drama. I knew Grandmother would not worry about me if I was in Simon's company, and I felt relieved that I would not have to argue with her.

At nearly eight o'clock, I heard the St. Johns' carriage stop in the street, and I felt relieved that Simon had received my message requesting a ride to the hospital with him. I had not sent it until five o'clock.

As we left Kensington, I saw Grandmother's carriage still parked in front of the St. Johns' residence.

“I see that Grandmother is still at your house.”

Although I had noticed Simon's home before, I studied it closely as we rode past. It was taller and grander than Grandmother's. The outside had been painted an unblemished white color and the windows, tall and wide, were framed by inky black shutters, each displaying gold latches for when the windows were shut from the outside. The bushes had been trimmed to perfection, and I saw not a single weed in the lawn. It looked cold and formidable.

“It is so … ” I tried to think of something nice to say. “Grand and well-kept.”

Across from me, Simon's well-formed mouth smiled. I could never fool him with a false compliment. His elusiveness shielded others from his own thoughts, but his gaze missed nothing. I could not hide even a very small lie. Mercifully, though, he made no comment on my falsehood.

“I enjoyed dining with your grandmother tonight. She is an interesting woman, actually. Most of my mother's friends would not allow their daughters or granddaughters to have a ‘working class' experience in the East End. And yet … she does not seem immune from the social preoccupations that my mother exhibits.”

I stared out the window. Night had settled in; the gas lamps on the street glowed in dewy brightness.

“She has known Dr. Bartlett for many years, and she trusts him,” I explained. “But, as I've mentioned before, her main reasons for allowing me to work are more selfish. She wants me to have a greater appreciation for my Kensington life.”

I kept looking out the window, hoping that the disdain in my voice was not too thick. I felt fondly toward Simon for his silences, for his total absorption of my words and expressions without inquiry into more than I was ready to give him.

I glanced back, through the darkness, at Simon's ivory face—so perfect, with only a few blond locks escaping across his forehead.

“But it has not had the desired effect?” he asked, though I knew he already knew the answer.

I smiled. Shook my head.

“Why are you returning tonight?” he asked. It was a baited question.

“William sent me a note. He is cleaning the pharmacy and requested my help.”

At the mention of William's name, Simon's expression veiled.

I felt oddly exposed, and I blushed.

Gracefully, Simon changed the topic to discuss the hospital. “Dr. Buck and Dr. Bartlett left London today. They are giving a joint lecture at Oxford on Monday. They'll be back on Wednesday, but in the meantime, some of us are working extra hours.”

As we walked into the hospital, Simon told me that he would be working on the first floor. I knew that the first floor was overwhelmed, particularly the nursery. Two days earlier, I had witnessed a set of twins born to a fifteen-year-old mother. Miraculously, the twins and the mother lived, though the infants required round-the-clock care and a supplemental wet nurse.

“Do you need my help?” I asked Simon as he prepared to make his rounds.

“No, go ahead, the pharmacy is in very poor order.”

I paused, thinking I might be more useful on the first floor.

“William is waiting.” Simon nodded toward the stairs.

I did not miss the hint of discord in Simon's voice.