Ripper Read online

  I wondered what else he had seen. Then I focused again; he was trying to pry information from me.

  “Do you mind?” Abberline had removed a pipe from a hidden drawer.

  “No.”

  He lit the pipe.

  I said nothing and instead focused on keeping my breaths even. I knew as much from Dr. Bartlett, William, and Simon, but why was Abberline telling me about the investigation? Did he suspect William? Simon? Anyone specifically among the physicians?

  “Julian Bartlett—and I know that you will keep this conversation confidential from him—has been most helpful as a medical consultant. He is brilliant. Experienced. But he is more trusting toward humanity than I am inclined to be. He refuses, absolutely refuses, to consider any of his physicians as suspects. He has made it quite clear to me that he will consider them nothing short of co-consultants when it comes to the investigation. This has become frustrating lately, and I am finding myself confiding in him less and less.”

  I decided to confront the inspector head-on.

  “What do you want from me?”

  He gave the slightest cough before regaining his composure. Then he leaned forward, so far across the desk that I could see the small red veins in his eyeballs.

  “I want several things, Miss Sharp. I want to know why our Ripper seems so intent on murdering Whitechapel Hospital patients. What is his purpose in targeting them? And yes, I do believe he has a purpose. I want to know why a physician, or someone with anatomical knowledge, would do this. I want to know why, but, more importantly, I need to know who. Because he will strike again, Miss Sharp. We are not dealing with an ordinary killer. The character is a psychopath, pulling me into a puzzle that I have yet to solve.”

  He leaned back in his chair again. “What do I want from you? I want you to cooperate, to inform us. I have watched you, Miss Sharp. You are shrewder than most ladies your age; most ladies of any age, for that matter. But I do hope that you will not allow yourself to be blinded.”

  I cocked my head. “What do you mean?”

  “Overly trusting of anyone. Confiding too much in anyone. Loveswept.”

  I exhaled in exasperation and began to stand, intent on leaving. I felt offended at what he was trying to imply.

  Abberline coughed, choking a little on the pipe smoke, and sat up straighter. He was irritated and flustered.

  “Miss Sharp, sit. Hear me out.”

  I sat. Part of me felt as if I should hear him out.

  “I am so bold for a few reasons. First, this is a polite, professional warning—if anything should happen to Lady Westfield’s granddaughter, I will have more, much more trouble to deal with than the riot in the East End that you witnessed today. Actually, it would be much easier on myself, must less of a risk to this investigation, if I had a discussion with Lady Westfield herself and put an end to any and all of your work at the hospital.”

  My blood stopped flowing. If Grandmother knew about my arrest and if Abberline told her anything regarding the details of the case, my time at the hospital, and my work, would certainly be ended.

  “However, my first loyalty is to the city of London, to fulfill my duty to uphold dignity and order, as much as possible, on the streets. To this end, I must find Jack the Ripper. If you might reveal to us anything said, or done, that even seems suspicious, among any of the workers at Whitechapel Hospital, it would be most beneficial. This is not common knowledge, but we’re finding very few leads in this case. I think you can help me. You are perceptive, intelligent, and if I might say so, attractive. You, I believe, can be the most helpful when it comes to probing the secrets of that hospital.”

  He wanted me to be an informant. A spy among my co-workers. I felt an awful astonishment. Such a role was beneath me. He wanted me to use my education, my gender, and my position to deceive my friends. If I agreed to what he wanted, I would have a double agenda in all my work and work relationships.

  I knew my answer.

  “I can’t.” I stood again. “I must leave now.”

  “Arabella Sharp.” It was the first time that Abberline had used my first name, and a distinct thread of anger infiltrated his words.

  Would he talk to Grandmother? I felt slightly panicked. No, Abberline was above using blackmail to get what he wanted.

  He stood. “I do not think you fully know what a dangerous game you are caught up in. You have no idea that you work within a hotbed of suspects. You have no idea how sick this game is turning!”

  I had never seen Abberline discomposed, and my feelings of unease rose.

  “There is something I want to show you before you leave,” he said. “I think, when I show this to you, you will see how wise it would be to cooperate with me.”

  I followed him out of his office and down several halls. The must and gloom of Scotland Yard felt overwhelming. Small offices, similar to Abberline’s, lined many of the hallways we walked through. At the end of a particularly dark and narrow turn, we came to a large, locked room. Abberline took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door to reveal a large room containing numerous shelves, on which sat hundreds of boxes and stacks and stacks of paper.

  Evidence? Open cases? Cold cases?

  He led me down several aisles toward the back. He stopped at a shelf against the back wall, very near an enormous, mold-stained desk, and pulled down a huge box. Dozens of letters and envelopes filled it.

  “Miss Sharp, in case you’re not certain yet about what a smash this Ripper is among the London public, all of these letters are either from concerned citizens, believing they have information on the Ripper, or from people actually claiming to be the Ripper.”

  I felt astonishment at his last statement. “What do you mean? I can’t believe that anyone would claim to be the Ripper.”

  “Believe it.” Abberline began taking out whole handfuls of letters and tossing them onto the nearby desk. “I have everyday lunatics, fame-seeking journalists, and the delusional, all of whom would like nothing more than to be Jack the Ripper. We’ve had several confessions from blokes almost daily here at the station. They are willing even to die in a public hanging if it means that they can claim the glory of going down in history as the Ripper.”

  “You don’t think any of these confessions are real?”

  “All of them are nonsense. Garbage. Trash.” Abberline began tossing some of the letters one by one back into the box. “I have had my best detectives and handwriting experts go through each and every one of these, and all of them believe the citizens’ information to be worthless, and each and every confession nothing more than a hoax. However … this”—Abberline reached for an unmarked box on the very top shelf—“is what I wanted you to see.”

  His red-veined eyes bulged again. “Needless to say, no one must know of this. By divulging the contents of this box, I am showing you how much I need and trust you. But more importantly, I’m showing you the cat-and-mouse element of this case.”

  The box, when he opened it, contained a letter. Abberline unfolded it carefully on the desk. Evening had begun to close in, and the room had darkened. He moved a candle closer so that I might read the letter. It had been addressed to Abberline, with the return address referenced merely as FROM HELL.

  In the shadows of the box, I saw a jar of liquid. Abberline saw my glance at the jar. “Do first read the letter, Miss Sharp.”

  In the light of the candle, I read, feeling Abberline’s intense gaze on me.

  Sir, I send you half the kidney I took from one woman and preserved it for you. The other piece

  I fried and ate. It was very nice. I may send you

  the bloody knife that took it out if you only wait a little longer.

  —Catch me when you can Inspector.

  My head swam and an acidic taste rose in my mouth.

  “You think this is real?” I asked
.

  “Oh, yes. This one is. No one except the Ripper would have known that Annie Chapman’s right kidney was missing. This was not information shared with the public. Dr. Bartlett, of course, knows nothing about this. But one of our other forensic consultants has affirmed with near certainty that it matches the victim’s other kidney. Chapman’s left kidney manifested Bright’s disease—the kidney half the Ripper sent me shows signs of the disease, in the same state of progression as the other one was at the time of Chapman’s death.”

  “You have the part of the right kidney that he sent?”

  Abberline reached into the depth of the box, toward the jar. It was then that I noticed a small blob, jellied, dark, floating in the liquid.

  “No, I don’t need to see it.”

  Abberline nodded. He lowered his voice and leaned toward me. “You see, this is a game, Miss Sharp. He is taunting us, mocking us, cannibalizing for pleasure to show us that he has no moral boundaries.”

  My stomach turned.

  “You are already in the middle of this, Arabella. And I will be your friend throughout, but you would be smart to cooperate.”

  “I must leave.” I averted my gaze, not able to look at his penetrating expression. I walked away. Without looking back, I said, “My answer to your proposal is unequivocally no. I am a worker at Whitechapel Hospital. Nothing more.”

  Then I stopped and turned to face him, quickly, hoping that he could not see the nausea I felt to my core. “And you needn’t worry, Inspector, about me sharing any information you’ve discussed or shown me tonight, with anyone.”

  “I know,” Abberline replied quietly. In the darkness, I could no longer see his expression. “You know where to find me if you change your mind.”

  He began sealing the box and its contents. “Your escort home will be at the front door.”

  I focused on making it out the front doors of Scotland Yard before vomiting. The heaving, the purging, brought me some relief from the thoughts I could not face.

  Fifteen

  T he next morning at the hospital, I tried to push the meeting with Abberline out of my mind—that image of the floating kidney—and focus instead on my tasks. But that letter, and the writer’s claim that he had eaten half of the kidney, saving and mailing it … I shuddered every time I thought of it. The killer was certainly more than a lunatic to be able to murder, escape the police this easily, and then taunt them as he was. Abberline was probably right that the killer was a psychopath, someone shrewd, cunning, and methodical.

  But I didn’t understand why Abberline was so convinced that the Ripper worked at Whitechapel Hospital. Like William, I did not believe that anyone I worked with was the Ripper. I didn’t want to be stupidly naïve; if the Ripper was as much of a mastermind as Abberline supposed him to be, he would blend in—he would be able to charm. To amuse. But at Whitechapel Hospital, we were all too busy to plan and carry out such a game. Furthermore, everyone had such excellent rapport with Dr. Bartlett and Dr. Buck—why would someone who worked there want to soil the hospital’s reputation by killing its patients?

  I wondered why Abberline felt so adamantly that the Ripper worked in Whitechapel Hospital specifically. London had other hospitals, and dozens of medical students and physicians. Certainly Abberline, with all of his years of detective experience, must have thought of this. Perhaps he had withheld something from me, some further proof that the murderer worked at the hospital.

  I did not trust him. Inspector Abberline had said that he would be my “friend” if I worked with him. But after leaving Scotland Yard, I didn’t regret for an instant my refusal to work with him. His first and foremost concern was not me, and certainly not Whitechapel Hospital. What he wanted most was to catch the killer.

  Although there had not been any more killings, Scotland Yard police were still patrolling in and around the hospital. I vowed to avoid Inspector Abberline whenever he appeared there. I understood that he was interested in me because I was involved with the staff, patients, and happenings at Whitechapel Hospital at a level that he could not be. Nonetheless, I still did not want to involve myself.

  Ironically, publicity from the killings was bringing us more volunteers. We had more nurses now than before. Several volunteers came from local parish churches. The newspaper stories and letters to the editor, such as Perkins’s, were raising awareness of life in the East End. This had not only inspired the extra volunteers, but we were also receiving significant money and supply donations. Even New Hospital was sympathetic, sending us a large shipment of medical supplies. I hoped rather than believed that this outpouring of generosity would continue even after the papers finally grew tired of covering Whitechapel stories.

  That morning, I finally got a chance to confront William about his behavior prior to our arrest with Scribby. I found him seated by a bed, pulling bloody bandages off a female patient who had come in with an abscess on her arm. Before he saw me approaching, I studied his profile. He looked even more weary than he had previously; his expression seemed troubled, strained.

  I brought him a bucket for the bandages, half-filled with soapy water. I dropped it heavily on the wooden floor at his feet.

  “Did you have a nice chat with the Inspector?” William did not look up from his work.

  “That’s none of your business.” The patient was sleeping, but I spoke in a whisper. “We have not yet addressed how you locked Mary and me in the closet downstairs. Bad form, William.”

  He smirked. “Yes. It was. But I wanted to save your life. I knew you wouldn’t listen to me.” He looked up at me for the first time in the conversation, dropping the bloody cloths into the bucket. “And you did not listen. By running out in the middle of that riot, your leg, instead of Scribby’s, might have been broken. Or worse.”

  “You know I can take care of myself. For goodness sake, William, you have seen it.”

  “I do, Abbie. But you should know your limitations. There is a difference between bravery and the conceited independence you seem to enjoy—walking through the East End at night, running outside amidst a rioting crowd. All of this will get you killed someday.”

  Perhaps it was the stress. Perhaps it was the pressure of the hospital work. It might have been the tension broiling around the wards ever since the murders began. But I could no longer ignore that cord between William and myself. I was angry, and I wanted to test its strength.

  “And why would you care?”

  William remained silent as he finished removing the last of the bandages. Then he stood and pushed his chair back, skidding it hard into the wall.

  I jumped back a bit. Like a startled rabbit.

  “I’ll take this.” William snapped up the bucket of bloody, wet bandages.

  He left the ward, and I did not see him for the remainder of the day.

  That evening I arrived at Dr. Bartlett’s house for a dinner party.

  I had been invited along with a few other physicians—only his favorites, William had told me. There were less than six of us. Since this would be a bit more formal than the first time I was at his house, I wanted to wear something nicer than usual. On a whim, I had chosen one of Mother’s more formal dresses, a lavender gown that bustled in the back. The bodice fit tightly, providing a dramatic contrast to the bell sleeves; cream-colored lace framed the inside of the sleeves and the neckline of the bodice. I had also found the faux-diamond headband Mother had worn with the dress—it was in decent shape except for one gem gone, like a missing tooth.

  When Dr. Bartlett opened the front door, he looked a bit startled, which was odd for him. But he regained his typical demeanor within seconds. “You look lovely.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. So much like Caroline.”

  His eyes lingered on me for a second before he looked away. Mother and I did have the same coloring and height, but in that moment I felt insecure, as if wearing the
dress had been a mistake. I was a duller, less attractive version of her.

  The Montgomery Street house looked more resplendent than I remembered it. The globelike aquarium cast so many prisms of light around the drawing room that it gave the illusion of the room being underwater—the shadows of jellyfish glided along every inch of the green walls. The potted foliage seemed even more lush and abundant than before.

  Dr. Buck nodded at me from behind Dr. Bartlett. He looked as stiff and bookish as ever.

  “John, Marcus,” Dr. Bartlett called, waving his cigar toward the other men who stood near the bookcases. “You remember Miss Arabella Sharp? She has become my prize student, and, I believe, a future physician.”

  Reverend Perkins put a glass of wine in my hand. Although polite, he still had not thawed toward me. I had seen him once or twice in recent weeks, in his clergy collar visiting patients at the hospital. Each time, he had barely acknowledged me.

  “Thank you,” I said as I took the glass, unnerved by his demeanor.

  Dr. Marcus Brown was all politeness and kindness. He immediately put me at ease, lamenting cheerfully that I was choosing the medical profession as opposed to his area of study, history and philosophy.

  “But I do love to read,” I said. “Particularly the Brontë sisters’ works. Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights are my favorites.”

  “Ahhh … the Brontës!” Dr. Brown clapped his hands together. “Quite ahead of their time, actually! So perceptive about the situation of women, about the blindnesses that still exist in our patriarchal society.”

  He flashed a look at Reverend Perkins and I instantly realized that he was not talking about the Brontë sisters’ fiction, but rather was making some other point entirely to Reverend Perkins.

  “Let us not keep Abbie from the other guests,” Dr. Bartlett said abruptly, stepping aside. “Dinner is about to begin.”

  I felt a bit bewildered as I tried to figure out what had just happened between Dr. Brown and Reverend Perkins. But Dr. Bartlett ushered me toward the back of the house.