The Witch’s Daughter (27 page)

‘As I have already told Abigail, it is far from a duty for me to come here. Your sister has been a solicitous hostess, despite my best efforts to remind her she is my patient and I should be the one looking after her.’

Abigail took her brother’s arm and looked up at him with affection.

‘I am sorry, my dear brother, but it simply is not possible for me to think of Eliza as my doctor when I know we are going to be true friends, first and foremost.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ he said, patting her hand. ‘You see, Dr. Hawksmith, your very presence may be the best medicine Abigail could wish for. And I confess to finding my own spirits lifted by your being here. Can I persuade you to dine with us this evening?’

Eliza felt an unfamiliar quickening of her pulse, a rare flutter of excitement. For an instant, she considered accepting the invitation but shook her head.

‘Regrettably I cannot,’ she said. ‘I have my Whitechapel clinic. This is one of our busier evenings.’

‘Another time perhaps?’ He cocked his head slightly.

Eliza smiled.

‘Another time,’ she agreed.

That night Eliza’s sleep was troubled by dreams. She dreamed she was at a fabulous ball wearing a gown of the finest cream silk. All around her, love-struck couples swirled and turned to the urgent tempo of a tarantella. Suddenly a man of proud bearing and noble features took her in his arms and spun her onto the dance floor. They danced and danced and danced, her own feet a blur in silver slippers, the music growing faster and louder. Soon the other dancers had melted into a chaos of whirling colors, and Eliza was overwhelmed with dizziness. Her partner held her tight, pulling her body firmly against his. He pressed his cheek against hers, then leaned forward to nuzzle into her neck. Still they danced. Eliza felt his hot breath on her skin, and then his wet tongue sliding across her throat. She struggled to pull away from him. When she succeeded in gaining a small space between them, the sight which met her eyes drew from her a terrified scream. Her dancing partner still retained his strong, lithe body, but his head had been replaced by that of a wolf. Its foul breath forced its way into Eliza’s nostrils, and bitter saliva drooled from its mouth into her own as she screamed.

4

In the weeks that followed Eliza came to enjoy her visits to the Astredge household more and more. In Abigail’s company she felt more relaxed than anywhere else, and she had even admitted to herself that her affection for Simon was deepening. It quickly became obvious to her that he too had a high regard for her. As was her habit, she fought against such a connection, afraid of the heartache it could bring. But, on occasions, there were moments when she allowed her emotions to overwhelm caution. She longed to be loved. To allow herself to love another. Years could pass where she would put such ideas into some locked place in her heart where they would not trouble her. Then someone would step into her life who held the key, and the yearning of years was set free. She wanted to give in to her desire for Simon. A desire she had not felt in such strength since she was a teenager—since Gideon. Now here was a good man, a kind man, well thought of by those who knew him, a loving brother with a gentle heart. A man Eliza could lose herself to in an instant if she allowed herself.

By the first week in September, Eliza spent more time at number 4 York Terrace than she did at the Fitzroy. She often stayed to dine with Abigail and Simon, no longer the doctor but a dear friend. She was on the point of leaving her office to make her way to the house for just such a visit when shouts from the street caught her ear. She looked from the window and saw a newspaper boy doing brisk trade on the pavement below. He continued to yell out the news as he handed over papers and pocketed coins.

‘Latest News! Read it ’ere! The Ripper strikes again. Another woman cut to pieces!’

Eliza closed her eyes, her fingers tightening around the curtain. Another murder. The third, apparently, in the unstoppable killings of the man they had nicknamed Jack the Ripper. Eliza could not face the thought of reading the hideous details, though she knew she would have to. She knew there would be gruesome descriptions of the exact and awful way the poor woman had been slain. She knew also, with a dreadful certainty, that the victim would be another of the girls who visited her clinic. Was it coincidence? Could it be? How long could she go on convincing herself that these poor women were randomly selected, thrown into the murderer’s path by chance, nothing more? How many more would die before she allowed herself to think the unthinkable—that they were all connected to her. That their violent deaths had something, somehow, to do with her.

That afternoon Abigail felt strong enough for a short walk. It was a sweet autumn day, warm enough for a light shawl, and the two women made their way through the entrance to the park and along the little path that wound its way through the trees to the ornamental ponds.

‘Oh, Eliza, how such a gleaming afternoon lifts the spirits. It is so long since I have taken the air; I have spent too many days shut up in the house. Surely exercise can only improve my health. Will you not prescribe a short walk for me every day? Then I should have to take one, come rain or shine.’

‘Light exertion is indeed beneficial to the circulation and to a person’s general well-being,’ said Eliza, ‘but those benefits must be weighed against the risk of fatigue. Your strength is needed to combat the disease that has you in its grip, Abigail. To put yourself in a weakened state would be to undermine your body’s ability to win that battle.’

‘Oh, pish.’ Abigail linked her arm through Eliza’s. ‘Do not speak to me of disease when the sun is shining and those silly ducks are waddling across the grass, and adorable children are playing among those magnificent trees. I feel my legs could carry me for days without rest. And besides’—she smiled—‘I have my very own doctor at my side. What possible harm could befall me?’

‘It is good to see you smiling again.’ Eliza squeezed her friend’s hand. She wanted to enjoy the day, to revel in the peacefulness of the moment, but her mind would not empty itself of thoughts of the murdered women. Terrible thoughts and even more terrible images.

‘Oh, do look.’ Abigail pointed across the lawn to a gaggle of children clamoring around a cow. The animal stood half asleep, a white-smocked farmer seated on a three-legged stool beside it. He finished milking and stood up. The children arranged themselves into a disorderly queue, ushered by their nursemaids, nannies, and mothers. The cow chewed quietly while the farmer ladled milk into tin cups.

‘Let’s have some.’ Abigail pulled Eliza across the grass. ‘Come. Put your fears of fatigue from your mind. A drink of milk is surely just the restorative your patient requires. Do you not think so?’

Abigail took a penny from her purse and handed it to the farmer. He filled another cup and handed it to her. Abigail drank deeply, the frothy milk leaving a delicate line of white above her top lip. She beamed and passed the cup to Eliza. ‘It’s delicious. You try,’ she said.

Eliza put the cup to her mouth and took a sip. Her face contorted and it was all she could do not to start retching. The milk was undrinkably sour, curdled, and ruined.

‘Oh, but Abigail. This milk is bad. It has turned sour.’

‘What nonsense, Eliza. I have just tasted it.’ Abigail snatched back the mug and sniffed at what remained of the milk. She frowned. Her face darkened for a moment in a way Eliza had not seen before. Suddenly she tipped the liquid onto the grass and returned the cup to the farmer. ‘I can’t think what you mean,’ she said. ‘It tasted perfectly fine to me. Come along.’ She took Eliza’s arm once more and marched her away from the cow. ‘Let us take a stroll beside the zoo.’

Eliza was at a loss to make sense of what had just taken place. She had seen Abigail drink the milk, but she herself could not take down so much as a sip it was so rancid. Why had Abigail not noticed it? And why had she sought to pretend it was good when it wasn’t? It was a small, seemingly insignificant incident but one which bothered Eliza. She found the day had lost its golden glow and was relieved when they completed their circuit of the park and returned to the house.

Two days later, Eliza entered Dr. Gimmel’s rooms to find Gresseti already there.

‘Ah, my dear Eliza.’ Dr. Gimmel sprang to his feet. ‘We were on the point of leaving.’

‘Oh?’

‘I am taking Signor Gresseti to meet a Sir Edmund Weekes. During his stay here, our visitor has developed an interest in circulatory disorders and there is no finer surgeon in the field than Sir Edmund.’ He took his hat from the stand and gave her a wave as he disappeared through the door.

‘We shall return before afternoon surgery, have no fear,’ he called back to her.

Gresseti bowed low before replacing his hat and edging past Eliza. She moved aside, not wishing to have the slightest unnecessary contact with the man. Gresseti paused, clearly aware of her reluctance to be near him.

‘I see you are still cross with me, Dr. Hawksmith. I fear I am paying for my outspoken nature. Please, I wished no offense. It is merely my manner, which might seem strange to you. I implore you, do not let a poor beginning spoil our working relationship.’

Eliza feigned brightness. ‘Rest assured, Signor, our working relationship remains unaffected.’

‘Gresseti? Come along now, we must not keep Sir Edmund waiting.’ Dr. Gimmel summoned him from Mr. Thomas’s reception room.

Gresseti paused, seemingly about to say something more, then changed his mind and went after the doctor.

Eliza found she had been holding her breath in his presence. She shook her head. What was it about the man that unsettled her so? Was it merely his unfamiliar manner? A thought occurred to her. She opened the door and leaned through.

‘Mr. Thomas, has Signor Gresseti signed our register at any time during his visit here?’ she asked.

‘Why yes, Dr. Hawksmith, I believe he did so on his first morning with us.’ Mr. Thomas licked a finger and leafed through the pages of the register on his desk. ‘Yes, thought so. Here we are.’ He turned the book around and pointed to Gresseti’s name written with an elegant flourish.

‘Let me have this a moment, would you?’ Eliza took the book back into the other room before Mr. Thomas could ask why she wanted it. She shut the door and sat down behind Dr. Gimmel’s desk. After a moment’s hesitation, and quelling her uneasiness about what she was about to do, Eliza began to search through the drawers. Minutes later she held in her hand the letter of introduction from the Milan Institute. It was written as if by Professor Salvatores and signed by him, but the writing matched that on the register exactly. The letter must have been written by Gresseti himself. His credentials were fake. Eliza was sure of it. Of course, there was a small chance that the professor had asked Gresseti to pen the letter to save himself the trouble, but then surely he would have had his clerk do it. Eliza leaned back in the wide leather chair. She had always harbored suspicions about Gresseti but had quelled them, reasoning his references were impeccable and she had nothing to fear beyond his rudeness. Now, however, things were different. If his letter of introduction was bogus, then they knew nothing about him at all. Who would bother to forge a letter to gain access to the hospital? A rival surgeon? Someone sent to check up on Dr. Gimmel’s capabilities? As Eliza’s mind teemed with possibilities, she spotted a cane in the umbrella stand. Gresseti’s black, silver-topped cane. The sound she had heard in the alley behind her clinic came back to her. The sound made by someone hiding in the shadows. The sound that had spooked her on the night of Martha’s murder. Eliza hurried over to the cane and picked it up. It was heavier than she had expected, the wood warm beneath her fingers, the silver top cool. She shook it gently and heard a faint rattle, a minute vibration in her hand. It was hollow. There was definitely something inside. It must, therefore, have a removable lid. She was on the point of lifting it when the door was flung open and Gresseti strode in. When he saw the cane in her hand, he stopped and frowned. He quickly rearranged his features and smiled politely, his eyes remaining unmoved by the gesture.

‘Ah, Dr. Hawksmith, I returned for my cane, and here you have already found it. You see how forgetful a man can be when he does not have a wife to train him?’ He reached out and gently took the cane from Eliza. ‘Thank you so much. Until later…’ He touched his hat and was gone.

Eliza stood where she was for some time, her heart thumping loudly.

That night Eliza worked late at the hospital. There were only so many hours in the day, and her increasingly lengthy visits to Abigail were causing paperwork to mount on her desk and patients to have passed from her care to that of other doctors. By the time she stepped off the omnibus and made her way down Whitechapel High Street, the day was old and a choking fog had descended. The gas lamps on the broader streets gave at least small pools of light, but the back alleys and side streets were thick with gray air and gathering darkness. Because of the lateness of the hour, the usual muddle of people had dwindled. The weather kept all indoors who did not need to be outside.

Eliza pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and quickened her step. Droplets of fog gathered and fell from the brim of her bonnet. As she hurried down Marchmont Street, she became aware of footsteps behind her quickening to match her own. She turned the corner around the draper’s shop, closed and shuttered, its friendly proprietor having called an end to the day’s business hours before. As she turned, she glanced backward and was convinced she saw a figure moving swiftly, close to the wall, his step purposeful. Eliza licked foggy moisture from her lips into her dry mouth. It took all her will to resist the urge to run. She searched for signs of other people, anyone, but the cobbles were deserted. The fog thickened, a bitter concoction of dirty water, dampened smoke, and the sour smells of the street. The distance left to her lodgings was but a few minutes walk, but it was as though the ground stretched away beneath her feet. Her pursuer was closer now. She dared not look back. She hurled herself around a corner and walked straight into the solid chest of a burly drunk.