The Sixth Victim Page 5

  * * *

  So we’re eating cake, and, as usual, talk turns to the murders.

  “Mrs. Puddiphatt says she saw a man looking all shifty, with blood on ’im in the Prince Albert,” divulges Flo.

  “That woman would dob her own son in if she thought she’d get a reward,” Ma declares with a shake of her head.

  “He’s a German,” says Mr. Bartleby through a mouthful of dried fruit.

  “Mrs. Puddiphatt’s son?” queries Flo. We all ignore her.

  “I ’eard he’s a hairdresser,” chimes in Ma.

  “You can be both,” says I, and everyone looks at me like I’ve gone cuckoo. “He’s a German hairdresser,” I tell them.

  Mr. Bartleby shakes his head and strokes his whiskers thoughtfully. “Never trust a German, that’s what I say. Or a Jew.”

  “He’s that, too,” Ma informs him.

  “There’s a surprise,” says Mr. Bartleby sarcastically. He licks his forefinger and presses hard on a wayward currant on his plate. “Come to think of it, never trust foreigners, eh, Mrs. P?” He sticks out his tongue and flicks it at the currant, which disappears instantly from his finger.

  Ma smiles and starts cutting him another slice of cake.

  Once Flo’s polished off her helping, she spies the folded copy of the Sun that Mr. Bartleby has brought with him. He catches her eyeing it. “Tell us what they’re saying, Connie,” he prompts.

  I open my mouth to protest at him calling me Connie, but close it again. I let it pass and pick up the newspaper from the arm of the chair. Not surprisingly the arrest is on the front page. I read aloud what it says, “ ‘A German called Charles Ludwig has been arrested, in connection with the recent ghastly murders in Whitechapel.’ ”

  Mr. Bartleby, stroking his whiskers, grunts. “What did I tell ya?” He nods at my ma. “A foreigner.”

  I lay down the paper on the table and smooth out the creases. I feel Mr. Bartleby’s eyes on me. “Talking of foreigners, how was that American you went to see the other night?” he asks. He waves his hands and wiggles his fingers with his great gold rings on them and puts on a funny voice. “The illooosionist!”

  I feel uncomfortable. A pungent smell suddenly fills my nostrils as I vaguely remember the flames on stage that night. Through the haze of my memory, I see a woman rising up from them accompanied by a dramatic crescendo from the orchestra. But my recollection of what happened after Mr. Mesmer put that lady in a trance is fuzzy. It’s all a blur to me now, and I’m not sure why.

  Flo comes to the rescue. “It was a good laugh,” she replies.

  Mr. Bartleby raises a brow. “Was it supposed to be a comedy?”

  Flo shakes her head. “No!” She giggles. “But there was this big red curtain around this woman, and by mistake, this geezer lifts it up, so everyone in the front sees the priestess, or whatever she was, scarpering down through a trapdoor!” Her telling of the tale makes me smile, even though I may as well not have been there. Then she puts me on the spot. “But Con was most taken with Mesmer the Magnificent.”

  “Mesmer the Magnificent!” Mr. Bartleby repeats in a haughty voice. “Were you, indeed?” He turns to me and his voice goes all upper class. “And what did Mesmer the Magnificent do, pray tell?”

  Before I can say anything, Flo pipes up: “He puts people into trances.” Mr. Bartleby frowns; so, by way of explanation, Flo adds: “Like Madame Morelli.”

  The knife clatters on Ma’s plate. Flo’s let the cat out of the bag.

  “Madame Morelli?” he repeats. “Who’s she when she’s at home?”

  My dear sister’s gone and done it good and proper this time. Ma’s been going to Madame Morelli’s séances for the last few months—ever since she met Mr. Bartleby, in fact. She wanted to contact my pa to find out if it was all right to see another gentleman. Madame Morelli says her spirit guide is in touch with the Old Man and that he’s happy for her. It’s been three years since he’s passed and it’s time to move on. That’s the message that he’s sent to her. I know it comforts her to hear this, but Mr. Bartleby doesn’t know about it.

  He strokes his bushy, black whiskers. “A medium, eh?” He looks at Ma oddly, then shakes his head. “You can’t . . . ?” And then he sees from the expression on her face that she can, and does, believe; he shakes his head. “It’s a scam, my dear. A nice little earner, but money for old rope.” He reaches for her hand, but she pulls it away, like an oyster shell shuts up. He smiles and carries on like he’s talking to a little child. “Madame Morelli is no more in touch with the spirit world than Connie here.” I feel a little slighted that I should be the one he singles out, and I feel I ought to stand up for Ma.

  “You don’t know that I’m not,” I say with a shrug.

  Instead of backing me up, Flo adds fuel to the fire. “That why you been acting strange of late?” she asks with her cheeky look.

  “No, I ain’t!” I protest. I forget I should’ve said, “I haven’t,” but my grammar goes out the window when I’m riled.

  “Yes, you have,” insists Flo, leaning across the table and pointing at me. I’m taken aback by her attack. “All weird, you’ve been. Dreaming all day long.”

  “Daydreaming, eh?” says Mr. Bartleby, ejecting a currant from his mouth as he speaks. “That’s what girls her age do, don’t they, Mrs. P?” He winks at her. “Dreaming about your sweetheart, eh? Who is he, then?” He nudges my elbow and I lean back in my chair, out of his reach. “She’s gone all shy,” he says, like I’m not in the room, then adds cheerfully: “We’ll find out soon enough, I dare say.”

  Flo slides me a saucy sideways look as if to say she’s won.

  * * *

  It’s already growing dark outside and Ma tells me to draw the patched-up curtains to keep the heat in the room. We clear the table of the dirty dishes and it’s then that Flo and I usually go into the kitchen to wash up. We leave Ma and Mr. Bartleby alone to talk, or do what they do. But not tonight. I can tell Mr. Bartleby’s in a mischievous mood. Just as we’re stacking the plates to wash, he calls us back through.

  “Let’s have our own séance, shall we, ladies?” he says, sticking his tongue into his cheek so that it bulges. “Come and join us.” And he pats the chair beside him. The idea gives me the creeps at first. I look at Ma and I can tell she’s miffed, but she nods gently.

  Flo and me sit down and Ma tells us to put our hands on the tabletop, with our little fingers touching the person’s next to us. I don’t like the idea of touching Mr. Bartleby’s digits, but I do. We blow out the candle and sit in silence.

  Mr. B takes the lead: “Is there anybody there?” he asks in a creepy voice.

  We wait for what seems like ages and then Flo suddenly gasps and I think she’s playing silly beggars, but she lets out a big sneeze and we all giggle.

  “Serious now,” barks Mr. B, and we’re quiet again. After what seems like an age, I start to think that Mr. Bartleby might be taking it all seriously until, that is, the table starts to shake and lifts a little, and I can tell it’s him that’s moving it.

  “Let’s ask about Leather Apron,” he suggests in the dark. I can’t see his face, but I bet he’s smiling. “Go on, Mrs. P,” he cajoles, but Ma’s floundering.

  “What should I say?”

  I hear him tut-tut in the darkness. “I’ll do it, then,” he says with a chuckle. His voice goes all ghostly.

  “Spirits of the other world,” he starts. “Will you tell us who Leather Apron is? One knock for ‘yes,’ two for ‘no.’ ”

  I feel him jerk his knee and tap the floor with his foot. Flo goes “ooogh” at the sound. She’s encouraging him to make a fool of Ma, and I don’t like it.

  “Is it Aaron Cohen?” he asks. Silence, then two taps. “Is it Jacob Minski, the barber?” Two more taps. I knew they would be two of the Jews who’ve been hauled in by Old Bill. Then he asks: “Is it Charles Ludwig?”

  The answer comes back again, only this time there’s just one tap. “Yes.” Mr. Bartleby starts to
laugh and we all lean back from the table and you can feel the tension melt away. There’s relief in the air. We know it’s only larking about, but in our heart of hearts, we all hope it’s true. We all hope they’ve caught him.

  EMILY

  At Brown’s Hotel, in fashionable Mayfair, the bellboy places the leather suitcase onto the stand, takes a step back and flattens his palm. His gesture sends Pauline Beaufroy reaching for her purse.

  “Ah, of course.” She pulls out a sixpence and hopes it’s enough. She does not wish to seem too mean, but she really cannot afford to be overly generous. This room, with its sumptuous drapes and elaborately dressed bed, is costing her enough. Her father used to stay here regularly when he came up to town, and her mother insisted that she should continue the custom. The latter, however, has no idea that the family is not as well-off as it used to be since Sir Roger’s death.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” The boy, seemingly satisfied, whips round and closes the door behind him, leaving Pauline alone to survey the luxury that now surrounds her. Her eyes wander over to the walnut dressing table to feast on the array of treats for her delectation: a silver dish of bonbons, a small mirror in a mother-of-pearl frame and a bowl of potpourri, which she holds up to her nose. Lily of the valley—her favorite.

  Standing in front of the cheval mirror, she unpins her hat and lays it on the silk bedcover, before she unbuttons her coat and it joins her hat. Next she sits on the edge of the bed. There are several perfectly comfortable chairs in the room, but she eschews them, choosing instead the bed on which to perch. Sitting in that inviting armchair might lower her guard and she is on a mission. Terence is such a poor liar. It would be bad enough if he were covering up his wife’s whereabouts, but she has the distinct impression that he has no idea where she is, either. She puts her arms around her torso, hugging herself, as if she is feeling a chill. However, the room is quite warm.

  How I long to put a comforting arm around her, too. Then, as if she knows that I am thinking about her, she delves into her reticule and brings out a letter. As she unfolds it, I see the signature on the bottom of the brief note. Dated July 15, it is from Geraldine. It reads:

  My Dearest Sister,

  I write, albeit hurriedly, to tell you we are about to welcome a very special guest into our home. Yesterday I received a wholly unexpected communication from our dear friend Emily Tindall. As you know, she has been living in London for the past few months, based at St. Jude’s, in Whitechapel. However, I fear she has run into a spot of bother and is most unwell. I have offered her accommodation until she is recovered. I am hoping that you will take this opportunity to come up to grimy old London within the next few days to visit us. We can reminisce and enjoy each other’s company, just as we used to.

  I do hope to see you soon, dearest Pauline.

  Yours ever in sisterly affection,

  Geraldine

  The single sheet is refolded. Pauline sighs deeply. Naturally, she replied to Geraldine’s letter straightaway. She almost found herself wishing to point out that I had always, in fact, been her dearest friend, not her sister’s. Ah, I have let it slip, but you have probably realized already that I am Emily Tindall; the Emily Tindall whom Constance seeks and the Emily Tindall who is a close friend to Pauline Beaufroy. In fact, if you were to pry a little deeper into that reticule of hers, you’d find a bookmark I gave her a decade ago. I embroidered it myself with my favorite quotation from Lord Byron. It says: Friendship is love without his wings.

  During our childhood, Geraldine, as the older sibling, was always a little aloof from Pauline and me. She expressed no desire to join in our silly games, preferring instead to read her father’s anatomy books. However, the bond between Pauline and me lasted into adulthood, until it was broken, or rather loosened, two years ago when we finally went our separate ways.

  Pauline replaces the letter in her bag. Unfortunately, she could not accept Geraldine’s invitation at such short notice. Such impetuosity was, she believed, typical of her flighty sister. As she well knew, their mama was recovering from yet another severe bout of bronchitis and could not be left for the time being. Please pass on my fondest regards to dear Emily, she had written. I am so sorry to hear that her health is poor and I wish her a speedy recovery. She finished her reply with the assurance that she would come up to London: as soon as circumstances permit. As fortune would have it, however, she has left it far too late.

  CONSTANCE

  Flo and me are both in bed and I’m thinking about the rapping game we played with Mr. Bartleby, and I says to her: “What if there is such things as spirits?”

  “What?” Flo’s head is at the bottom of the bed. We sleep top to toe. I lift my head and look down to see she’s lying on her side. “You mean ghosts? Like in A Christmas Carol?” I’d read it out loud to everyone last year.

  “Yes,” I reply. “What if you can really talk to people who’ve died, like Ma thinks you can?”

  I see her shoulders move, as if she’s shrugging under the covers. “You mean like the Old Man?” She goes quiet. She’s thinking, but after a moment she says: “Well, that wouldn’t be such a bad thing, would it?”

  I am thinking, too. My eyes are closed and I suddenly see a picture of my pa, bathed in a bright light and he’s smiling and holding out his hand to me. And it gives me a warm, comforting feeling, like I’m sitting in front of hot embers in a grate with a mug of cocoa in my hand, and I say: “No. No, I suppose it wouldn’t be bad at all.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Thursday, September 20, 1888

  EMILY

  The notion is in her head. Tentatively, I have reached out to Constance and she has accepted my approach, albeit unconsciously. Only a few are chosen, you see. And she is one of them. She is the reason I have returned to this place—the place where I used to trudge around the streets for hours, going from one reeking doss-house to the next, or stopping at corners to talk to the poor benighted souls who let themselves be used for the price of a large glass of gin.

  Whitechapel. They knew me in these parts. They called me Lady Emily, although I had no real title. I just had a vocation. I’d heard about the poverty and the suffering in the East End from the Reverend Samuel Barnett and his wife, Henrietta, while I was at Oxford. Such a fine, upstanding couple, with noble ideals and hearts so full of compassion. I wish I could have made them proud.

  The need to reach out to these poor unfortunates was what brought me here in the first instance and perhaps that’s why I’ve returned, although really it feels as though I’ve never been away. It’s only been a few weeks, but I thought something might have changed. The streets are still filthy, the urchins still beg barefoot and the lost women still ply their trade. I suppose I’d hoped for too much. It takes someone to care to change a place like this. And nobody cares for Whitechapel.

  CHAPTER 7

  Friday, September 21, 1888

  CONSTANCE

  The cold fingers of an easterly wind rattle the window frames and set the threadbare drapes of the front room all aquiver. I’m edging my way to the door, tying my bonnet ribbon under my chin as I go. I’m so intent on being quiet that I don’t see Flo on her hands and knees about to brush the hearth. “Where you off to?” she asks, giving me the once-over.

  I stop dead in my tracks and feel my heart leap in my chest. She leans back on her haunches, and as my eyes grow accustomed to the light, I see her twitch a little smile to show she’s quite pleased about giving me a fright.

  “To St. Jude’s,” I tell her. Lying don’t come natural to me, not to Flo, anyway. She looks put out and her mouth droops at the corners.

  “But it ain’t Sunday. I thought we was doing the West End today.”

  Of course, I know it’s only Friday. I shake my head and hear a sigh escape my lips. “I need to see Miss Tindall.”

  Flo dips her brows and grabs hold of the arm of a chair to heave herself up. She just looks at me and it’s enough to make me crumble.

  “I have to talk to
her,” I say. What I want to tell her is that I feel like I’m carrying this terrible weight on my shoulders and my heart is really heavy, but I don’t know why. My voice sounds all vexed and breathless and I feel I’m drowning. But I don’t think she’ll understand.

  “Why don’t you sit down and I’ll make you a nice cup of tea?” she suggests, walking toward me. Her voice is all sing-songy, like she’s talking to a little ’un, like she’s not taking me seriously. She doesn’t get how I feel. How can she? Whitechapel is her world, but it’s not mine anymore. It’s my prison. Miss Tindall has shown me what lies beyond its walls. She’s told me about a better life and I need to escape this miserable patch of squalor to find it, but how can I tell Flo? That’s why I can’t wait until Sunday.

  “What’s amiss?” Ma suddenly shouts down from the top of the stairs, her chamber pot cradled in her arms.

  I tense, thinking Flo will give me away. She’ll say something like “Connie’s come over all queer” or “Connie fancies skiving off today.” Only, she doesn’t. Our eyes lock and it’s as if she suddenly realizes how badly I need to see Miss Tindall.

  Flo pads over to the foot of the stairs and cranes her head around the door. “Nothing!” Ma’s chest is all tight again, so she’s kept to her bed a bit longer than usual. “Stay there and I’ll bring you up some tea.” Then she looks over her shoulder at me and whispers, “Back by nine, you hear.”

  My mouth bursts into a smile and I hurry on my way, careful to close the door quietly. I have to be quick if I’m to be home before Ma misses me.

  Even though it’s not yet eight o’clock, the streets have long been stirring. There are cartmen heading for Pickford’s warehouse and brewers’ drays are leaving the breweries. Errand boys weave in and out of the workaday folk and nothing seems amiss, only I know it is. My legs are feeling like lead. They’re slowing me down. The moment slows, too, and as I look about me, I try to swallow, but my throat seems all tight, like I’m being choked. I shiver and retreat into my shawl, until, in less than five minutes, I emerge from the side lanes, from White’s Row onto Commercial Street. It’s broad here, but the highway’s a mess. All the traffic’s been diverted for the next few weeks. Navvies are swarming everywhere, digging up the road for the new tramway. But I feel safer here. I start to walk toward St. Jude’s. I always see Miss Tindall when I help out with the little kids at Sunday school. We have our chats after that. I miss them. Course she hasn’t been there the last few weeks. Come to think of it, she was a bit out of sorts the last time I saw her. I’m praying she’ll be there today. I know she often works outside of the church with the Reverend and Mrs. Barnett on the streets sometimes. One of their Oxford ladies, she is.