Ripper (18 page)

Part III

“Unjust! Unjust!”

—Jane Eyre

Eighteen

O
n Monday morning, we moved into Lady Violet Chanderly's house, and my first two weeks there were terrible. I felt totally preoccupied with the murders, with what had happened to me, and with William, wondering whether or not he was all right. But I could do nothing, absolutely nothing, as I was entirely bedridden. The wound had not only cut deeply into my hamstring, but I acquired a mild infection so that whenever I tried to stand, shooting pain coursed from my thigh to ankle. Once the infection set in, I couldn't walk, let alone take stairs, so I was essentially confined to my fourth floor bedroom at Violet's house.

It was during this time that I came to appreciate Mariah even more. Her bedroom was just down the hall from mine and she visited me almost daily, bringing me magazines, gossiping about the goings-on of the house. It was through her that I learned that Lady Violet Chanderly was actually deeply in debt, displaying expensive furnishings while unable to replace badly rotting wall and floor structures throughout the house. Her husband, Sir Bertram, was a drunk and heavily addicted to laudanum, and spent most of his days in his large library doing absolutely nothing. Violet went to great lengths to keep his addictions a secret. They had nothing except their name.

“So there you have it,” Mariah said, tossing the end of her cigar out the window. “One of London's finest families, batty, and only a few steps away from the poorhouse.”

Mariah and I were the only occupants of the fourth floor, which allowed her to talk freely with me about the Chanderlys' dysfunctions, and to smoke.

I lay propped up in bed reading
Wuthering Heights.
It was hard for me to focus. I had planned to start walking around my room the next day; I figured the wound would heal better if I had a little exercise on top of the extra rest.

Mariah exhaled loudly, walking away from the open window and sitting on my bed. “Only a few more weeks until I can leave here for good, never look back. Break away from this life and start my life abroad as a writer.”

I had reread the same paragraph in my book at least three times in the past few minutes, such was my restlessness. “You're still planning on running away?” I asked.

“Undoubtedly. The night before the wedding. Then it's off to Paris.”

Mariah had told me very little about her paramour, Charles. I had the feeling
she
didn't know much about him. She slipped away several nights a week to see him. She knew, I think, that it wouldn't last, but she thrived off romantic peccadilloes. An elopement before her marriage would be quite the scandal, and, I was sure, break her away from the Chanderlys and stuffy Kensington for good. And she would make it as a writer—in Mariah, I saw a bit of a rising star. I had read some of her writings, and she was quite good.

She chattered a bit about her planned elopement and told me about the latest book that she had written, a mystery novel.

My mind wandered.
Mystery
.
I felt caught in such a puzzle regarding my feelings for William and the truth behind Dr. Bartlett and his friends, especially whether they played any role at all in the Ripper murders. But for now, I was stuck in bed recovering, caught in Kensington purgatory.

By mid-October, I began walking around my bedroom a little. The pain was still sharp, but much less than it had been two weeks before, and the infection had healed. I focused on completing small tasks; specifically, it had occurred to me that I might give Mary some of my dresses. She was poor, and I had so many. I began separating them out by colors: two black dresses, a brown one, a mint green one. I bit my lip knowing that it might be a bit of a fight to get her to take them, but I knew, in the end, she would.

A knock sounded at the door.

One of Lady Violet's servants entered with an envelope. My heart quickened, and I hoped that the letter was from William. Perhaps he was safe, back in London.

But it wasn't from William.

A newspaper cutting fell out; it detailed the state of the Ripper investigation. As I skimmed through the article, I saw that dozens of suspects had been brought in for questioning, including some of the morticians examining the bodies, seven young men from prominent families, and, of course, many physicians, surgeons, and medical students. As I scanned the article, I recognized many names including Dr. Bagster Phillips, but neither Simon's nor William's names appeared.

To my disgust, next to the article was a published sketch of one of the murder victims. The illustration, graphic and detailed, displayed one of the victims with blood pouring from her stomach onto the street. Though I knew that the press had a tendency to dramatize or sensationalize events, I found such a portrayal disrespectful to the women, and I knew that had the Ripper's victims been anyone other than the prostitutes, such a picture would never have been published.

Following the graphic illustration and story about the murders was an article about Whitechapel Hospital itself—about the many services the hospital provided for the Whitechapel district. The sender had cut off part of that story, clearly wanting me to read the article regarding the investigation. My anger and irritation increased when I realized the identity of the sender. Abberline's card, complete with his name and the address of Scotland Yard, had been tucked neatly inside the envelope.

Why was he sending me this?

Furious, I thought of how Abberline's men had recklessly searched Londoners' homes and businesses in the vicinity of Liz Stride's murder while the Ripper had already left the area to pursue another kill that same night. Where were the police when the Ripper stabbed
me
,
stuffed me in a coffin, and dropped me off at the hospital? I had, by now, lost any respect that I might have had for Scotland Yard. They were ineffective and bullying. Meanwhile the Ripper was still free, still at liberty to murder.

Part of me felt tempted to throw the letter, card, and newspaper clipping into the trash, but then, a second later, I thought it might be time for
me
to set up a meeting with Abberline. I wasn't, and didn't plan to be, a pawn in his investigation. Perhaps I hadn't made that clear enough before.

I cooled down gradually as I finished setting aside the dresses. By the time Mariah stopped by my room for afternoon tea, my anger had subsided a bit. My intended trip to Scotland Yard gave me even more inspiration to get better. I would attempt to walk downstairs the next day.

That night, I awoke in the curtained darkness of my bed with a desperate wish that I had been dreaming when I had heard the chuckle—the same one from my nightmare, from that night in Church Passage.

But this time, I had heard it in my bedroom.

My heart raced.
Was he in my bedroom?

No.
I told myself.
You were dreaming. You've been having nightmares lately. You've been anxious.

I heard a footstep.

Someone
was
in my bedroom.

In horror, I saw a place on the drawn bed curtains ripple delicately, not by a breeze, but as if a finger had slid gently down the velvet surface.

I held my breath.

After lying frozen for several minutes, not moving, hearing nothing, I made a rash decision. I threw back the curtains.

As I scanned the room, everything seemed dark and quiet. The fire had died down. The windows were shut.

Then I saw that my bedroom door was open. Wide open.

I had not actually locked the door, but it seemed odd that it would have blown open on its own.

Cautiously, I got out of bed and went to close it.

The hall was completely black except for a stream of moonlight. Then I saw that the door at the end of the hall was open. Squinting a bit, I saw a steep set of stairs through the door; they must lead to the attic. My heart beat faster, as I doubted that anyone would need to be up there at this time of night.

Ashamed at my terror, I left my room, shut the door to the attic firmly, and returned to my room, shutting—and this time locking—my bedroom door.

I did not sleep the rest of the night.

They were almost imperceptible, but I heard tiny scratching noises coming from the attic, directly above my head.

Nineteen

T
he next morning, Grandmother stopped by my room to let me know that Simon would be at the house for dinner. In spite of having had very little sleep, this was my impetus to make it down the stairs.

I had many questions for him and hoped that we would have a chance to talk alone. I felt desperate to know about William, whether he had heard from him. I also hoped that perhaps Simon would tell me what William sought in the safe abroad.

In the late afternoon, I descended the stairs slowly. The trip was not as difficult or as painful as I had anticipated, and I knew that I would probably be walking easily by the next week.

Mariah had gone to the opera with Cecil, so dinner was quite dull. It was only me, Violet, Grandmother, and Simon. Simon was all grace and politeness to the two women, but a few times our eyes met, and I knew he wanted to speak to me.

Sir Bertram was away from London for a few days, so the library was empty that evening. After dinner I retired there, hoping that Simon would soon be able to pull himself away from Violet and Grandmother before too long.

Although still limping a bit, I walked slowly around the library to pass the time and to exercise my leg. Bookcases with ladders covered every wall, except for the bottom half of a wall with a great fireplace. The ceiling, three stories above me, had floral designs cut into the plaster. I felt too agitated to read so I paced a bit, then sat on a nearby sofa.

When Simon finally came to the library, he sat next to me on the couch. Formal. Polite. Statuesque.

“Simon, where is William?” I asked almost immediately. “And what is he doing?”

If Simon was surprised by my directness, he showed nothing.

“He is on the Continent. In terms of what he is doing, Abbie, that I cannot tell you.”

Ever since the Ripper had attacked me and I'd returned to Kensington, I had been forced to process everything alone. I felt haunted by the visions and my suspicions. So in spite of Simon's secrecy, I decided to tell him everything. I did it quickly and quietly, before thinking too much about what I was doing. I told him about what had happened in Church Passage, of the visions that I had had in connection with the murders. I even told him about the chalice visions, and then the chalice image I had seen at the hospital, and how Max, that evening in the hothouse, had shown me his chalice tattoo.

As my words poured out, I realized I was crying a little. To tell someone everything brought me a certain amount of relief, but at a great risk. The visions, particularly, might not sit well with rational Simon.

Simon remained perfectly composed at my statements.

His silence was maddening. He was not looking at me as if I were crazed, but the silence made me nervous.

“Talk, please,” I pleaded. “Have you seen the chalice picture at the hospital, and on the fountain?”

Another long, unbearable pause. I could read nothing from his expression.

“Yes,” he said evenly. “I have seen it in both those places.”

“The tattoo?”

Simon said nothing, but handed me a handkerchief.

“And dear
God
.”
I wiped my eyes. “Please tell me you don't think I'm crazy for having the visions. I haven't told anyone about them yet. My mother, I now think, might have seen visions too, and now that these have come to me … I'm afraid.”

“It is all right, Abbie.” His voice cooled me like running water. “I do not think you crazed. In my work, I have seen very … strange things. The human brain is still very unknown, and as a priest and physician, I see so many dimensions of the psyche. In fact, ever since that night at Dr. Bartlett's party, when I found you collapsed upstairs, I have suspected this.”

“
See
,
”
I said quickly. “We're all caught up in this. We have to share
everything
if we're going to make sense of anything.”

He looked into the fire as he said quietly, “William shared some information with me, something that might shed light on these Ripper murders, and confided in me about his trip. Normally we don't speak to each other much, but to his credit, as your friend, he wanted someone working at the hospital who was also your friend to watch over you in his absence.”

Suddenly Simon turned to face me, his ice-blue eyes penetrating. “He was going to tell you everything regarding his trip, our suspicions. I told him that I suspected you were having visions, and that he could tell you he was leaving, but nothing else. When he told me on the night of the double murders that you seemed to see visions, this confirmed my suspicions.”

The realization swept over me and I felt stricken. Their secrecy had something to do with the visions. “They
are
real, then, and have something to do with why you cannot tell me more,” I said. “Is my mind contaminated in some way?”

Simon looked around the library and lowered his voice to a whisper. He leaned closer to me, his breath like a brush of silk upon my temple. “There is nothing wrong with
you
.
But we are
all
in danger. Not just William, but you and me, even possibly now. You must be wary of the visions. If you have any more, send me a message quickly.”

“What are they?” My voice cracked.

“Be careful, Abbie, and we should not talk about this right now. Just keep in contact with me.”

I hardly knew what else to say. We were silent for a few minutes. We tried to talk about the hospital—about the even heavier police presence since the recent murders. He asked about my leg; I told him it was healing well.

But the air was heavy and all of our subsequent conversation felt stifled, unnatural.

Then Simon suddenly smiled, leaning back on the sofa and focusing on the ceiling high above us. He seemed to be debating something in his head. Abruptly, he looked at me, something of mirth in his expression. “Have you picked up any of the novels in here yet?” he asked.

“No, not yet. I have not been in here before now.”

“So you know nothing about the famous Chanderly library?”

“No,” I said, completely unsure what was coming.

“I feel indecent doing this, but it is quite an extraordinary secret.”

He stood and gestured for me to follow him to the nearest wall of the library, the wall with the fireplace.

“Have you noticed
this
on any of the other books?” Simon pointed to a tiny whisk of white chalk on the spine of a volume of
Oliver Twist.

“No.”

“Take the book off the shelf and open it.”

I obeyed. My mouth dropped open at the illustrations and photographs. I felt my face turn hot in a blush as I turned page after page, each photograph seeming more indecent than the previous one. After my initial shock, I let out a laugh. There was not a single word from
Oliver Twist
on any of the pages. I glanced at all the books around me and saw that many with respectable titles had the tiny white mark.

“So all of the marked books have these photographs and … illustrations?”

“Yes.”

I couldn't believe it. I remembered my conversations with Mariah about the Chanderlys' problems, but concealed pornography in the library seemed a bit much.

Simon continued, his voice even. “Sir Bertram has one of the largest, most extensive pornography collections in England. Possibly in all of Great Britain. This is general knowledge in Lady Violet's society, though the women never speak of it.” He smiled gently. “In terms of the
unmarked
books, Sir Bertram does have a spectacular array: Shakespeare, Chaucer, Jane Austen, the Brontës. You just have to be certain to check the spine. Unmarked spines are decent; marked ones are not.”

I wondered out loud why sophisticated Mariah never told me about this.

“Perhaps she assumed that you already knew.” Simon leaned back against the bookcase and stared at me, a curious expression upon his face. I heard the fire crackling loudly in the background.

The diversion had made me feel better, but the questions still roared in my head.

As if reading my mind, Simon said, “I will tell you more when
I
know more and when I know that it is safe. I have not heard from William, but if I do, I will tell you. Do not try to visit Whitechapel Hospital or go anywhere near the East End.”

“What … ” Alarm coursed through me. I could not imagine giving up my work at the hospital.

“You can return to work later, but it is not … safe for you there right now.”

“Is Dr. Bartlett … ?” The questions I had about Dr. Bartlett, his friends, and Max stayed with me.

“Dr. Bartlett knows that you're recovering from the mugger's attack. I don't want to say anything now. But I just don't think it would be wise for you to be near the hospital. Be careful everywhere, but stay near Kensington.”

“I don't know how much longer I can stand this. I
have
to know what's going on, and I hate just sitting around here.”

“It won't be much longer.”

A servant entered the library to attend the fire.

“I promise.”

When Simon left a few minutes later, I had a horrible feeling that much was going on around me yet I could do nothing. It was the worst sort of helplessness.
One thing at a time
, I told myself.
First, I had to get my strength back. If I didn't do that, I would never be able to leave this house.

I tried to go to bed early that night, but everything from my conversation with Simon kept me awake. At nearly eleven o'clock, I heard Mariah's door open. She must have taken one of the back servant stairs, because when I left my bed and went to the window, I saw her leave the house with someone. Nosy about this Charles, I tried to see his face, but I couldn't.

Eventually, I fell asleep.

Sometime, not very long after, I sat up in bed, my heart pounding. The scratching noise from the attic above had woken me up. I felt tempted to peek out in the hallway, to see if the attic door was open again, but I chastised myself. The Ripper murders had made me paranoid and fearful. It was probably rats.

Another week passed. Simon stopped by twice for tea, but each time, Grandmother and Lady Violet were there, so there was no time to talk. I had been diligent about walking around the house and climbing up and down the stairs. Because of this, my leg was almost entirely recovered.

Finally, a week later, on one of the few evenings when Sir Bertram was out, I retired to the library to look at some of the Chanderlys' “unmarked” collections. I began browsing a Shakespeare collection just as a late October storm raged outside. The wind whipped and whistled against the outside of the house while gusts screamed down the fireplace, swirling some of the ashes out onto the hearth. I walked to the fireplace and pushed the ashes back into the fire with my boot.

The instant I finished this task, I heard the library door open.
It was Simon.

His voice was soft as down. “Abbie, I was only just able to leave Whitechapel, and I wanted to talk with you before another day passed.”

I turned from the fireplace and felt my insides tense at his voice. Something seemed thick in the air. Awkwardly, I stepped away from the fire's heat, my back to a bookcase.

He stopped, as if the words had become too heavy to speak.

Then, in a rush, he kissed me. My head slammed back against the books on the shelf behind me. I kissed him back, vaguely wondering if the books against my hair were marked or unmarked.

My mind turned to a summer when Mother and I had lived in Scotland. I was six years old and had wandered into a meadow behind her employers' home. The grass had been tall, nearly as tall as I was. I had felt taken by surprise when a small cloud of yellow butterflies burst out before me. The absurdity and delight of this memory struck me.

Then, amidst the blooms of pleasure and mirth, I sensed something amiss. I knew that after this moment, for better or for worse, my friendship with Simon could never be exactly as it had before. I felt a lump in my gut, knowing that I did not love him, but I could not bring myself to pull away from his kiss.

It was Simon who ended it. He rested his forehead against my own and stroked my throat with his fingers.

“I have fought my feelings for too long,” he said. “I had thought I could do without matrimony, without love. I am too busy. But we fit perfectly, Abbie, and our dedication to the profession goes hand in hand. I have every confidence that you can and will find a way to attain admission to medical school. Then we can continue to work in the Whitechapel area after you complete medical school, or we can go anywhere that you might wish.”

I stared back at his handsome face, and I imagined the life he proposed to me.