Ripper Page 12

  Her mood was getting under my skin a bit, and I felt a little mischievous.

  “Hello!” I yelled, prying open the window. Dried paint had sealed the lower part of the sill.

  I ducked a little as a stone narrowly missed my head, bouncing to the floor behind me.

  “Oh … sorry, miss!”

  “Can I help you?” I shouted.

  “Tell Mary … ”

  Before he could finish, a constable shouted from down the street, “You! You! Stop there!”

  In a sudden, stupid panic, Scribby ran.

  “Scribby!” Mary shouted, suddenly beside me, leaning out the window. She had transformed from indifferent to concerned.

  “He wasn’t bothering us!” I shouted. But it did not matter. The constable seemed intent on picking on someone that day.

  Scribby ran, narrowly dodging carriages as he raced down Whitechapel Road. The constable had a hard time keeping up.

  “He’ll get away,” I said to Mary as I began to shut the window.

  But then I saw a small child, no more than seven, look up from playing on the side of the street. With a fiendish smile, he shouted, “Hey! Hey ! He’s chasin’ the Ripper! He’s chasin’ the Riiiipper !”

  Two women, sweeping out the guttering in front of a shop, shrieked. One shouted, “The Ripper! It’s the Ripper!”

  A burly man, unloading produce in front of a store, dropped his boxes and joined the chase, shouting to others that the constable had the Ripper in sight. He began running after the constable, who was still in hot pursuit of Scribby.

  I could not believe how quickly mass chaos ensued on an otherwise ordinary Thursday afternoon.

  Faces leaned out of windows. A few people, and then many, began flocking out of shops, workhouses, and even carriages—all intent on catching the Ripper. Whistles sounded as I saw police making their way through the growing crowd, trying to restore order. But the police force seemed too small in contrast to the enraged crowd at that point. By the time Scribby disappeared from my view, a full-blown mob was chasing him. I watched the scene unfold, unbelieving.

  “No! No! ” Mary shouted, pushing past me to get to the stairs. “We have to help him! They’re going to kill him.”

  Nurses and even some patients ran down the stairs with us, slowing our pace. Sister Josephine, William, Simon, and several other hospital workers blocked the front doors, barring anyone from leaving.

  I heard shouts and cries grow louder from the streets.

  “Let me through,” Mary screamed, elbowing her way through the small indoor crowd. William remained her final obstacle. He stood his ground, his back firmly against the doors. “No one can leave, Mary. The crowd out there is too dangerous.”

  “He’s her friend,” I said, pushing my way toward them. “William, please, Mary and I can take care of ourselves,” I added calmly.

  “Abbie.” William pulled me aside, all while maintaining his vice grip on Mary. Josephine’s sharp voice rang out behind us in an attempt at restoring order. A few curious nurses still loitered near the front doors, hoping to get a glimpse of the excitement outside. “For once, Abbie, listen to me. It would be madness to go out there. No good can come of it.”

  The shouting continued in the streets. I heard glass shatter somewhere. I had no idea how we could help him, but Mary and I could not just stay in here, leaving him alone to the mercy of that mob.

  William’s brow arched as he studied my expression. He knew he had not convinced me. Was he relenting, I wondered, or was he just rethinking his tactics?

  “Mary, I want to help you.” He still held her firmly around the shoulders. I noticed Mary relax a little. At the same time, William placed his hand on my back reassuringly. “Let’s step over here and talk rationally.”

  Rationally? I prickled at the word. My neck grew hot. I felt a small fury toward William that I had not felt since my first day in the hospital. He led us a few steps away from the entrance, toward a side hall.

  When he turned me toward him in the narrow hall, I felt a quiver in my stomach and a bloodrush in my cheeks, despite my anger.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I cannot let you go out there.”

  Instantly, he opened a door and shoved Mary and me through it.

  I heard a lock bolt us in.

  “No!” I screamed.

  Mary cursed, kicking at the door. “If we could just get outside !” she screamed. “I think I might know where Scribby is heading. He works at the docks. He was running in that direction. There’s a warehouse there that he might be in … ” She continued to kick.

  Frantically, I looked around, trying with much difficulty to put a lid upon my angry feelings toward William. I needed to focus on escaping. I saw buckets, bedsheets, and boxes stacked along the wall and then along shelves on the other wall. The room was tiny, about the same size if not smaller than the laundry room upstairs. Though it was mostly dark, light seemed to be coming from somewhere in the closet other than from the crack under the door.

  It seemed the light was streaming down from above the shelves.

  Mary continued to kick the door, cursing William to hell in the process.

  “Mary! Stop ! I think there’s a window.”

  She hoisted me up, and when I reached the top shelves, I saw a giant box blocking a small window. With much effort I tried to move it, but then just pushed against it.

  “Watch out!” I yelled as the box crashed to the floor.

  The window was small and narrow, but I thought we could fit through.

  Mary had already climbed to the top shelf and crouched beside me.

  “Kick it!” she said.

  I did, and shattered the glass with surprising ease. We slid out, one at a time, into the alley beside the hospital.

  The riot sounds continued, though they had moved away from the hospital.

  “I know a back way to the docks!” Mary shouted as we ran out of the alley. “I’m nearly certain that Scribby is heading for that warehouse. It’s huge, five floors at least, most of them empty. But there are plenty of places to hide from the police and the others.”

  Mary led me away from the crowd’s shouts. “We’ll figure out how to smuggle him away when we get there,” she yelled back at me.

  “Abbie! Abbie! ” I heard William’s enraged voice shouting from the front steps.

  “Hurry! ” Mary shouted. “Don’t let him catch up with us.”

  We cut through alleyways, jumped over steps, and climbed over alley gates. I had no idea where we were, but I trusted that Mary knew the route. She was fast and light-footed.

  Suddenly, after going through many narrow alleyways, we emerged into an enormous, dirt-packed lot. Shouts roared, though I did not see the crowd. The warehouse, gigantic and seemingly abandoned, loomed ahead of us. We appeared to be at the back of the building. It was then that I understood Mary’s plan. The crowd had just reached the front of the building. Giant wooden fences flanked both sides of the warehouse, connecting to the sides of nearby buildings; and, at least for the time being, effectively sealing the crowd away from the back lot in which we stood.

  All the back windows were either broken or boarded up. Padlocks on the two visible back doors had been snapped.

  “I was right. He’s in here,” Mary said, running toward one of the broken but unboarded windows. “The crowd is in front, so he must have gotten in somehow.”

  We crawled through the open window. A musty smell assaulted my nose. Cat-sized rats scurried along the base of the walls. Water dripped from large cracks in the first floor ceiling.

  Luck seemed to be a bit on our side. Every one of the front-facing windows on the first story had been boarded up tightly. If the windows had had only glass as a barrier, the crowd would have already been in the warehouse. Still, the sturdy boa
rds could be broken down with moderate effort. We had to hurry; I knew it was only a matter of time before the crowd either broke in through the front or breached the high side fences.

  “Over here,” Mary said. “He’ll be upstairs.”

  On the far side of the room, a steep iron staircase twisted upward into the ceiling. We ran toward it.

  “Scribby! ” Mary shouted. “Scribby! I’m here.”

  “Abbie!” I heard a shout from somewhere behind us, on the first floor, after we had ascended.

  William!

  “Scribby! Where are you?” Mary shouted.

  Several open rooms lined the damp, darkened hallway of the second floor.

  “Here!” Scribby shouted from the room immediately to our left.

  He was crouched underneath a large wooden table. He had lost his hat and his clothes had been torn, his right pant leg tattered and blood-soaked. Blood streamed from his temple.

  “Scribby, Scribby,” Mary whispered in a soft voice. “We’re here now. It’s going to be all right. I know a way out.”

  He nodded at me: “I’m so sorry for getting the both of you into this mess. You didn’t have to follow me here.” He sucked in his breath from the pain. “I can’t run. I think there’s something broken in my leg. I barely made it here, Mary. They got me for a moment. Thought I was going to die then. A big guy took a hammer to my leg. But I broke away—got in here through a side crawlspace.”

  “Abbie! Mary!” William ran into the room, his face scarlet. He looked angry. Terribly angry.

  Ignoring William, I peeked through a crack in the boards across a nearby window. The crowd below was enormous now. Several policemen blew whistles and lined up against the front of the warehouse, attempting to block the crowd. Still, it could break through. We did not have much time.

  “William, you need to do something for his leg!”I yelled.

  “I cannot,” William said in quiet anger as his eyes cut into me. He crouched down by Scribby, who winced as William examined the bloody part of his leg. “It’s fractured—maybe broken clear through. It must be set, but I don’t have any medical equipment here, obviously.”

  He sighed loudly and stood up. “This was a foolish and futile endeavor, Abbie. I tried to prevent you from doing this.”

  Mary glared at William. “You locked us in a closet.”

  Gunfire erupted outdoors.

  William and I ran to the crack in the boarded-up window. Police reinforcements had arrived. Scotland Yard carriages lined the street. Inspector Abberline stood amidst the crowd, his gun raised to the sky.

  “Everybody leave now! Stop this nonsense! ” his voice boomed out. “We are pursuing a petty criminal, not the Ripper murderer. I repeat: Not the Ripper murderer! Leave! All of you leave at once! ”

  The portly but sturdy inspector made his way through the crowd to the padlocked doors. Gunfire erupted again as he shot off the locks. Much of the crowd scattered.

  “Open this door!” Abberline shouted to the constables beside him. Then, turning to the crowd again: “If anyone, anyone other than one of my designated constables follows me in here, he will be arrested.”

  Many, who seemed disappointed that no Ripper had been caught, hanged, or torn apart, left. Still, several of the most angry onlookers remained, eager to get a glimpse of their object of hatred.

  “Come out at once!” Abberline shouted up the stairs from the first floor. “You have caused more than enough trouble today. We will escort you safely out now, but you must surrender. Now!”

  A rusty tin basin in the corner of the room quivered with the vibrations caused by Abberline’s voice.

  “He needs to surrender. He’ll have a safe escort now,” William said quietly.

  “But he’ll be arrested,” Mary snapped.

  “He can’t escape, Mary,” William replied irritably. “As I said before, his leg is fractured. If he hides, or waits until the police leave, he might be dead. Some of those still down there will want a shot at him. Furthermore, in case none of you have noticed, the police have guns downstairs. There is nothing to keep them from storming up here and shooting us all to high heaven.”

  “He’s right,” Scribby said. “I’ll go. They can’t book me too long for breaching the peace. And”—Scribby struggled as he stood up, leaning against the table—“I’ll go first. It’s my fault that we’re all here anyway. I should never have run away in the first place.”

  “We’ll all go,” Mary said. “You need my help to get down there, anyway.”

  Leaning awkwardly against Mary while standing protectively in front of her, Scribby led the way down the stairs. William and I followed.

  “Keep your hands up! Hands on the back of your head!” Abberline yelled from below as Scribby, with Mary’s help, began descending the stairs.

  William smirked sideways at me as we put our hands on the backs of our heads. “Congratulations, Arabella Sharp. You just got us arrested by Scotland Yard.”

  “I can’t believe that you locked us in that closet.”

  “What the … ” I heard a constable shout below.

  The scene below became visible to us as we descended the stairs. At least thirty cops stood in the large, dripping, rat-infested first floor, their guns pointed straight at us.

  “He’s got others with him!” another cop shouted.

  Abberline stood in front of all of them, his gun still pointed at us, but his face was flushed in confusion. They had been chasing one criminal and now there were four. “Lower your guns,” he said evenly to the cops behind him. The inspector’s bulgy, shrewd eyes landed on my face, and I saw that he remembered me from the hospital. Did he remember William also? But his gaze remained on me, calculating. Something bothered me about his expression.

  “We were trying to protect him!” Mary yelled at every constable in the room. “It’s not like you all were doing a good job. He’s got a broken leg.”

  “Silence! Everyone! ” Abberline shouted. He had made a decision. “Handcuff all of them and take them all to the station!”

  I felt humiliated as several cops raced over and pulled me away from William, put my arms behind me, and clicked the metal cuffs into place.

  “Your grandmother is not going to be very happy about this,” William said under his breath as we sat with Mary, still handcuffed, in Abberline’s office.

  I desperately hoped that she wouldn’t find out; fortunately, everything had happened too quickly for the journalists to arrive. Grandmother would disown me if a photograph of me handcuffed appeared on the front page of the Times.

  The office was surprisingly small for a Chief Inspector’s office. It had the oppressive atmosphere of being the den of someone who worked hard for long hours at a time. A stack of papers towered on one side of the desk, while dirty, half-empty teacups were piled on the other side. A bookshelf with more stacks of papers and only a few books flanked the left wall. A water-stained map of London, with different districts highlighted, was precariously pinned to the wall behind the desk. The only personal, non-work-related item in the entire office was a small watercolor painting propped up near the pyramid of half-drained teacups. The little portrait portrayed a woman, middle-aged like Abberline himself, with the name “Emma” scripted in charcoal directly under her face.

  Detective Inspector Frederick Abberline, as his nameplate proclaimed, walked heavily into the office with a steaming cup of tea. He sighed as he sat down and rubbed his calves as if they ached.

  “Uncuff them,” he said to a nearby constable. “You can let Dr. Siddal and Miss Kelly go.”

  “Where is Scribby?” Mary asked.

  “In the London Hospital. I went ahead and released him from our custody. I apologize. He should not have been throwing stones, but my constable was over-vigilant when he pursued your friend for disturbing the
peace.” Abberline raised his eyebrows. “You must understand, my men have been a bit on edge since the Ripper murders commenced.”

  “So, I can leave now?” Mary asked pertly.

  “Yes.”

  “And Miss Sharp?” William asked as he stood to leave.

  “She’ll be out in a little while. There is no need to wait for her. I’ll have a police escort take her back to Kensington.”

  William paused, casting me a glance. I nodded a little to let him know that Abberline’s proposal was fine with me. He left.

  “Miss Sharp.” Abberline leaned back a bit and took a long sip of tea.

  As I smelled the tea steam—orange, with a hint of mint—I became uneasy. From the moment I had met Inspector Abberline, after the Polly Nichols murder, I had felt that he was watching me intently. I couldn’t imagine what possible role I might play in his investigation, but it seemed as if he wanted something from me. I had an intuitive notion that this day had unfolded conveniently for him—he finally had an opportunity to corner me.

  Trying a bit too hard to sound casual, he said, “This Jack the Ripper case is becoming the most aggravating case in my career. Extraordinarily baffling.”

  He paused. Looked at me.

  “Do you like your work at Whitechapel Hospital?”

  “Yes.”

  He waved his hand as if we had an established, unspoken contract between us. “There is no need for Lady Westfield to know about this. I have emphasized the necessity for discretion to my constables.”

  “Thank you.” I felt closed. Guarded.

  He waved his hand again, signaling that the gratitude was unnecessary.

  I knew this must be part of his professional tactics. He had emphasized to Mary that Scribby was free and safely in the hospital—he maintained the perfect balance of sternness and politeness, so that he always remained in control.

  “Do you know, Miss Sharp, that Whitechapel Hospital is a key point of interest in this case?”

  I said nothing.

  “Both victims had recently left the hospital. The murders are unlike anything I have ever seen in nearly twenty-five years of work.”