The Sixth Victim Page 4

  Terence Cutler breakfasts alone as he has done every morning for the past few weeks. He takes tea, toast and thick-cut orange marmalade while seated at a large oval table in the first-floor morning room directly above his consulting room and directly under the gaze of his wife. A large, gilt-framed oil painting of Geraldine hangs over the mantelpiece. Cutler contemplates it. Her hair is dark and swept back into a low chignon, with the front curled and frizzled over her forehead. Her skin is quite pale, but the artist has taken rather flattering liberties, giving her high cheekbones, which are, in reality, only to be found behind plump flesh. Nevertheless, the artist has managed to capture that rather haughty expression of hers. It’s as if she feels she has married beneath her class, he thinks. As if to emphasize the point, she is depicted in the grounds of the family mansion, where she lived before her marriage. Her father, Sir Roger Beaufroy, was an eminent surgeon, who regularly attended members of the royal family. He’d wanted sons; so when his wife presented him with their first daughter, the child was named Geraldine. When, much to his disappointment, another one came along three years later, she was christened Pauline.

  Cutler has just finished eating his eggs and bacon while going over his correspondence, or more aptly bills. Such an exercise does not aid his digestion. There are invoices from milliners and drapers, from perfumeries and haberdashers. Bills and more bills. It seems that they are all his errant wife has left him. It is her way of repaying him. He knows that. On their wedding night, he had bestowed upon her a “gift,” which has not only caused her endless suffering, but it seems to have rendered her infertile as well.

  Dora, the maidservant, enters with more toast. She lays the rack on the tablecloth just in front of her master, steps back, then remains, nervously playing with her apron.

  After a moment, Cutler, aware of her presence, looks up.

  “Is something wrong, Dora?” he asks. He has never really warmed to the girl. She is scrawny and awkward and suffers from the most rampant acne. His wife engaged her as soon as they were married, six years ago. Since then, she has not progressed much. Her only virtue, as far as he can see, is that she remains fiercely loyal to her mistress.

  “I’ve just ’eard there’s been another attack, sir!” she exclaims. “A man pulled a knife on a girl, just ’cos she looked at him.” Whether consciously or not, her eyes are fixed on the butter knife in her master’s hand.

  Cutler sets down the implement, takes up his napkin and slowly and deliberately wipes the corners of his mouth, one after the other.

  “That is startling news, indeed,” he replies without emotion. “But why should it concern me?”

  The maid’s pimply cheeks color quickly. “It’s just . . . well . . .”

  “Yes.” He glowers at her.

  “Well, it’s just that . . .” She is looking at the neatly aligned slices of golden toast as she flounders for her words.

  “Yes?” He is losing his patience, with both her and her acne. She really should have grown out of it by now. He knows exactly what irks her, of course, but he allows her to flap, sinking ever deeper into the quicksand of her own anxiety.

  “It’s just that the mistress has been gone such a while, and there’s been no word.” She lifts her head toward the portrait over the mantelpiece, then juts out her chin as if she’s proud of herself for finally saying what she feels.

  Cutler works his jaw again, as he always does when he feels it necessary to stifle his irritation. “Your mistress is staying with her family in Sussex, Dora.”

  “Oh” is all she can manage. He has taken the wind out of her sails, or so he thinks, until she retorts, “But she’s not written, sir.” Her observation sounds more like a protest and she realizes too late.

  “So you are scrutinizing my post now!” Cutler’s tone turns sterner.

  Dora takes a step back. “No, sir. . . . I . . .”

  He picks up the top letter from the pile of correspondence at his side. “Do you know the author of this letter?” he asks angrily, pointing at the writing on the envelope. He picks up another and holds it aloft. “And this one?”

  The maid is on the verge of tears. “No, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

  Cutler flings the letter back down onto the tray. “I think you’d better get back to your duties now, don’t you?” he tells her through clenched teeth. “If, that is, you wish to be here when Mrs. Cutler returns.”

  There’s a faint bleat of submission as Dora curtsies, then hurries from the room. Cutler waits until the door clicks shut, then slumps back in his chair. He glances up at the portrait and I see him hiss out a curse under his breath. “Damn you, Geraldine. Damn you to hell.”

  * * *

  Geraldine, you understand, has put him in this predicament, even though he acknowledges she is only partially to blame. Their legion problems were already close to the surface when an unexpected visitor came into their lives. One morning at breakfast, Geraldine waved a letter about and presented him with a fait accompli. An old neighbor and friend from Petworth was in trouble. She and Pauline, he was informed, had practically grown up together, even shared a tutor. This woman arrived on the doorstep the following day while he was out. Apparently, she was in such dire straits that Geraldine had no hesitation in giving her the best bedroom, which happened to be hers. Naturally, his wife had called upon him to offer his medical opinion on their stricken visitor when he returned home later that day. He agreed and that was what set the disastrous train in motion. He’d hoped that his expression had not betrayed him; that Geraldine had not seen the glimmer of recognition in his eyes. This guest, this hapless woman, was, you see, a frequenter of the infirmary. He was safe as long as she was feverish. If she recognized him, he could put it down to delirium. But as soon as she started to feel restored, he wanted her out of his house before irreparable damage was done, before she could reveal his secret to Geraldine.

  * * *

  The surgeon balls his fist at the thought of it and brings it down on the table, setting the remaining cutlery and crockery clattering. If only the smarmy little vixen had kept her mouth shut, he thinks. If only Geraldine had not been able to put two and two together and make a perfectly rounded four, then she would still be here, now. With that infuriating thought, he rises. He will be late for work at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, or Barts as it is commonly known.

  CHAPTER 4

  Tuesday, September 18, 1888

  CONSTANCE

  “They’ve got ’im!” Flo shakes me awake. Her voice is urgent, almost gleeful. She pulls the blanket off my shoulder. I tug it back.

  “What? Who?” Then I remember and sit up in bed. “Not . . . ?”

  She’s almost breathless as she rushes to tell me the news.

  “He’s been arrested. Threatened a girl with a knife, ’e did, on the High Street. Same one as scared the living daylights out of poor Lizzie Burns.”

  “And they’ve locked him up?”

  “Yes!” She takes both my hands and pulls me toward her in an embrace.

  Ma comes in all breezy. “We can all sleep easier tonight,” she says. She perches herself at the foot of the big bed that I share with Flo and pats my feet through the blanket. She has a lovely, round face and must have been very pretty when she was younger. Of course, to me, she’ll always be pretty, but other people might say she’s looking a bit faded. There are lines round her mouth and she’s lost a few teeth. Her hair is flecked with gray and she walks with a slight stoop, like she’s battling against a strong wind. The arthritis has got to her hands, too, so she can’t crochet no more to earn a crust. She still manages to make a few silk flowers each week. They come in handy, specially this time of year. But we love her no matter what, and so does Mr. Bartleby. I’m sure someday soon he’ll put one of his fancy rings on her finger.

  I lie back on my pillow and see the bedbugs have made a meal of my arms in the night. I take a deep breath and it’s then that Ma asks me if I’m feeling all right. “Been a bit peaky these last few days, y
ou ’ave,” she says to me.

  “Oh?” I reply, scratching my arms. I pretend I don’t know what she’s talking about.

  “You’re not ill, Connie dear?” Ma’s the only person I allow to call me Connie. “Everything all right downstairs?” She points to my privates through the blanket.

  I feel myself flush and sit up again, thinking I must make more of an effort. “Yes,” I say quickly, almost too quickly perhaps. The trouble is, I’m not myself. Ever since we went to see Mr. Mesmer, I’ve felt a little bit queer, as if I’m not really here. There’s a distance between me and the things around me. It’s like I’m floating above it all, in a dream. “I’m fine,” I tell her, and I force a smile. It seems to satisfy her and she grabs hold of the bedpost and hauls herself up off the mattress.

  “Good.” She nods. “Then I’ll let you get dressed.”

  It’s another ten minutes before I manage to rouse myself.

  CHAPTER 5

  Wednesday, September 19, 1888

  EMILY

  Happenings are afoot in Harley Street. It’s late afternoon and a carriage is drawing up outside the Cutler residence. Presently its passenger alights. Dora answers the bell. The door opens wide and the cold blasts the girl’s unsightly face. Despite the chill she smiles.

  “Miss Pauline,” she says, dipping a curtsy.

  “Good day, Dora,” comes the reply. Dark curls peep out from under the woman’s hat, which is trimmed with a rose. Her cheekbones are high and the texture of her skin marks her out as quite young; yet her manner is self-assured. She is swathed in a warm wool coat of muted plum, which is not as brazen as crimson; but in a dull and drab autumnal London, audacious nonetheless.

  “I wondered if your mistress was in?” she asks.

  The question wipes away Dora’s smile as surely as if a damp cloth has just been taken to her face. “I . . . I . . . ,” she stutters. “I shall inquire, miss. Please.” The maid ushers in the unexpected visitor, and leaves her to wait in the hall as she knocks on her master’s study door.

  “Yes,” comes Cutler’s voice from within.

  “Miss Beaufroy is here to see you, sir,” Dora tells him, skittering through the door. Her spotty face is screwed up in an anxious grimace.

  The surgeon, who has been writing at his desk, puts down his pen. “Is she, indeed?” He frowns. “Very well,” he replies. “Show her into the drawing room and bring us some tea.”

  Dora drops an agitated curtsy, but becomes even more anxious when she turns to see that the visitor is already standing behind her on the threshold of the study.

  “Terence,” Pauline greets her brother-in-law breezily. She has told herself to keep calm, that her arduous journey from Sussex was entirely unnecessary, and that all will be easily resolved. There will be, she has been assuring herself all the way from Petworth, a simple explanation for the fact that she has not heard from her only sister for several weeks.

  Cutler leaps up from his chair as soon as he sees her. “Pauline.” He manages a smile, although her arrival has clearly taken him off guard. She shares a striking resemblance with her sibling, he thinks, only she is much prettier. It is as if each of Geraldine’s features has been fashioned with so much more skill and attention to detail by the Almighty before being placed on her sister’s face. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

  His visitor smiles sweetly. “I was in town, running some errands,” she lies. “And I was rather hoping to see Geraldine,” she tells him with a disarming smile. She begins to pull her cream kid gloves from her fingers to signify she is staying.

  Glancing over Pauline’s shoulder, Cutler registers Dora’s startled expression and thinks it wise to be rid of her.

  “Tea, Dora!” he barks. And, as the confused girl scampers off, he continues his charm offensive. “Perhaps we would be more comfortable in the drawing room,” he suggests, motioning toward the door. But Pauline will not be put off.

  “So my sister is not here?” Suddenly there is a little sharpness in her voice.

  Cutler’s eyes scoot away from hers. When he had told the servants that his wife was staying with her family in the country, he had not bargained on a visit from her inquisitive sister. “I fear not.” Just as a sailor trims his sails to suit the prevailing wind, he had adjusted his lie to cater to the circumstances. “She is staying with friends out of town.”

  Pauline’s brows rise in unison. “Friends?” she repeats. “Do I know them?”

  The surgeon is irritated. As if she has the right to know all their friends! He shakes his head. “No. No, I think not.” He realizes he must do more if he is to convince her. “The husband is an old colleague of mine.” Then to furnish a little extra detail, he adds: “They live up north.”

  “Up north?” echoes Pauline, with her gaze skimming the room. There is a cobweb in the corner by the window—a sure sign that her sister has been absent for a while. “It’s strange she didn’t tell me,” she says nonchalantly. “But then, as I said, I haven’t heard from her in quite a while.”

  Cutler nods. “She’s been very busy.”

  Pauline fixes him with an unsettling glare. “Busy?”

  “Yes. Good works and all that.”

  She lifts her dainty chin, but there is a barb underneath it. “I always say that charity begins at home, Terence. I’m sure you’ll agree it is a sad day when a woman neglects her duties to her frail mother and her devoted sister and does not write for almost five weeks.”

  Cutler is slightly surprised by his wife’s omission; he’s slightly surprised by her behavior overall, in fact. He’d genuinely thought that she’d taken herself back to Sussex. Of course, this was not the first time she had walked out on him in high dudgeon. There had been that unpleasantness last year, when it all got a bit fraught. She had taken a leave of absence overnight and then reemerged the following day as if nothing had happened. He had not pressed her about it at the time. He was just grateful that she had returned safely. He shakes his head. If she wasn’t with her family, he secretly agrees that it’s odd his wife has not, at the very least, contacted them. “Geraldine would never slight you or your mother intentionally, Pauline,” he tries to assure her.

  I could tell by her expression that she stifled the urge to say out loud: “But you would, Terence.”

  The truth is, Terence and his sister-in-law have never seen eye to eye. He well remembers that wet June day in 1882, his wedding day. The carriage in which Pauline and her mother were traveling to the church had become stuck in the mud. They had been an hour late, necessitating the postponement of the ceremony to accommodate them. As it turned out, the unfortunate event had been an ill omen.

  Clearly growing exasperated with her brother-in-law, Pauline finds it increasingly hard to hide her frustration. “When do you expect her back?”

  Cutler shrugs. “She only left a couple of days ago,” he lies. “She plans to stay at least two weeks, I believe.” He tugs at the sleeve of his cuff as he speaks.

  “Then I shall return toward the end of the month,” Pauline tells him firmly. She nods, as if to underline her determination, then turns and heads out into the hallway. Just as she does so, Dora appears with the tray of tea.

  “Sadly, Miss Beaufroy will not be staying,” Cutler tells her. His frown conveys to her that he means business. “Show her out, if you please.”

  The puzzled maid deposits the tray on the hall console table and makes for the front door. Pauline pulls on her gloves once more as Dora opens the door wide. Cutler follows her into the hall.

  “I shall be back,” she tells her brother-in-law. Even though she is smiling as she speaks, there is a hint of a threat in her voice.

  “I look forward to it,” he rejoins, forcing a cheery tone, and he bows as she brushes past him.

  Cutler watches as his visitor disappears out onto the hubbub of the street and Dora shuts the door after her. It is only then that he notices the maid’s face, even puffier and redder than usual. She has been holding back scald
ing tears, which suddenly burst forth and cascade down her spotty cheeks. Without waiting to be dismissed, she rushes off below stairs.

  CONSTANCE

  As it’s a Wednesday, we’re expecting Mr. Bartleby. He always comes to supper on a Wednesday. And he always brings cake. He’s good that way. We’ve never gone hungry since he and Ma began courting. She pays the rent and he manages to slip her a few bob each week for our food. Tonight it’s a Sally Lunn. So after me and Flo have cleared away the dumplings and gravy, we get stuck in.

  “You do the honors, Mrs. P,” Mr. Bartleby’ll say, and Ma gives a girly shrug and cuts up the cake. She always doles him out an extra-big portion and he rubs his belly when she sets it in front of him and declares: “I shouldn’t, but I shall.”

  Flo swears that one day she’ll tell him he can’t. She’ll take away his plate to see how he’ll react to that. She doesn’t rate him much. She says he niggles her—the way he hums to himself or strokes his whiskers. But I don’t mind him and he seems to keep Ma happy enough.

  Mr. Bartleby’s shop is in Limehouse, near the docks, along with a lot of other rag and iron shops. And like most shopkeepers in that vicinity, Mr. Bartleby is a fence. When the place is home to so many water rats that steal from the ships, it makes sense, don’t it? I mean, doesn’t it?

  We first met him two years ago, when Flo lifted a particularly fine gold timepiece outside the Bank of England, no less. Ma wasn’t happy to take it to old Jan Kimski round the corner, like we usually do, so we headed off toward the docks and Mr. Bartleby’s was the first shop we came to. He looked at the watch with one of them funny eyeglasses and said how fine it was, but it was clear from the start that he really only had eyes for Ma. And that was it. He took a shine to her, and she to him; and from then on, we saw them billing and cooing in the front room at least once a week. Like a pair of turtledoves, they were. They still are; only nowadays, I’ve seen them have a few cross words, too, like when Mr. Bartleby brought mud in off the street, or didn’t notice when Ma wore her new bonnet for the first time.