Ripper Page 15
I listened to her detail the impending renovations for as long as I could stand before excusing myself. I told her that I would be at the library for a few hours, and that, yes, I would be back for late afternoon tea.
As I walked rapidly in the direction of the British Library, I thought about everything that had happened to me since arriving in London and coming to work at Whitechapel Hospital. The first two months had been filled with routine, dull days spent with Grandmother and her friends. Then the chase with the pickpocket—the instance when I had that first vision—changed everything.
I reflected on the order and subject matter of the visions. The very first vision was of the chalice and the ritual of the robed, hooded men. Then I had visions on the nights of the Ripper murders—both of the chalice and of the murderer. I also had a vision of a victim’s corpse—Annie Chapman, I think. All of my visions, therefore, involved either the chalice symbol or the Ripper murders. I now knew that the chalice symbol was somehow connected with Max, and with Dr. Bartlett and his friends, given that it had shown up at the hospital and on their fountain. A Posse Ad Esse: From possibility to actuality …
But I couldn’t fathom what the chalice and inscription symbolized or how they might be linked to the Ripper murders. Of course, I had no evidence that they were linked to the murders at all, except that my visions of the chalice always seemed intertwined with my visions of
the murderer.
I bit my lip as I crossed the street. If Mother had seen visions or been psychic, as I now suspected, somehow I had attained her abilities upon coming to London. I would have given anything to ask her about my visions—I didn’t know how much to trust them, and I would not have taken them so seriously if they had not been so clearly linked with real happenings.
Once in the library, I sat at a desk with a large stack of books under the glass dome of the Reading Room. I began researching symbols, specifically chalice symbols, and found that the chalice was often linked with the Holy Grail, the cup supposedly used by Jesus at the Last Supper. Often, the Grail is linked to communion and eternal life—immortality.
A Posse Ad Esse.
From possibility to actuality …
I felt crazy for thinking it, but I had seen a dodo bird—supposedly extinct—alive and well and walking about in a London hothouse. The chalice symbol on Max’s chest, in the painting at the hospital, and on the Montgomery house fountain meant something. It somehow united Max, Dr. Bartlett, and the other housemates. If they were all united around this image, I wondered if they were part of a secret group. Could they somehow be seeking immortality? After all, the chalice was linked to immortality.
Could they somehow be immortal?
I felt ridiculous for even thinking this, as it seemed to defy reason. But the thought did haunt me.
Regarding the Ripper murders, even if Dr. Bartlett and his housemates were in some sort of society or organization—which certainly was no crime—I didn’t see how they could be linked to the murders. I certainly couldn’t understand why they would be involved in the murder of Whitechapel Hospital patients. Dr. Bartlett himself had discussed the “bad publicity” the murders would bring; killing Annie Chapman and Polly Nichols, his own patients, would not make sense. He seemed like such a dedicated physician … I simply could not picture it. And apart from the visions, of course, I had no evidence. Even Abberline did not suspect Dr. Bartlett; indeed, he had told Dr. Bartlett immediately after the Polly Nichols murder that he was not a suspect, and then made him one of Scotland Yard’s primary medical consultants in the investigation. Abberline had essentially told me that he suspected one of the other physicians at the hospital. He had, after all, questioned Simon and William several times.
Simon and William.
I shook my head. There was no way either of them could be the Ripper. I could not believe it.
“Abbie Sharp.” I felt hot breath in my hair and whipped around to see Mariah’s beautiful face above me. She wore a dark blue walking dress and a wide-brimmed hat.
“Lady Westfield told me that I might find you here. What are you doing, walled up in the library on this lovely fall day?”
“Just reading.” I quickly closed the book.
“Well, stop, this instant. Let’s go to Harrods. I have some shopping to do for the wedding that will never happen.”
“What time is it?” I asked.
“One o’clock.” She put her arm out, smiling.
I could not believe that I had been here for three hours now. I gave my books one more glance; the chalice research had captivated me. As I took her arm and walked away from the Reading Room, I thought that an afternoon of normalcy—a short shopping trip with a friend—might be exactly what I needed.
I arrived home that late afternoon in a much better mood.
Ellen greeted me almost as soon as I opened the door with a small envelope. She had made a clumsy attempt to reseal it.
I frowned at her as I took the note.
Ellen’s face paled. “I hav’ some work to finish in the kitchen, Miss.” She curtseyed and left.
Why did Richard not greet me this afternoon? I read the note:
Dear Miss Sharp—
Please do come to Whitechapel Hospital tonight if it is not a problem. I am amalgamating/cleaning the pharmacy. Your help [and company] would be warmly welcome.
—Most Cordially,
William
Grandmother was out all afternoon and would then be taking dinner at the St. Johns’ house, so I spoke to Richard before I left, assuring him that though I might be late, I would be leaving and returning safely in the St. Johns’ carriage. I knew that he would communicate the message to Grandmother, clearly and without any of Ellen’s drama. I knew Grandmother would not worry about me if I was in Simon’s company, and I felt relieved that I would not have to argue with her.
At nearly eight o’clock, I heard the St. Johns’ carriage stop in the street, and I felt relieved that Simon had received my message requesting a ride to the hospital with him. I had not sent it until five o’clock.
As we left Kensington, I saw Grandmother’s carriage still parked in front of the St. Johns’ residence.
“I see that Grandmother is still at your house.”
Although I had noticed Simon’s home before, I studied it closely as we rode past. It was taller and grander than Grandmother’s. The outside had been painted an unblemished white color and the windows, tall and wide, were framed by inky black shutters, each displaying gold latches for when the windows were shut from the outside. The bushes had been trimmed to perfection, and I saw not a single weed in the lawn. It looked cold and formidable.
“It is so … ” I tried to think of something nice to say. “Grand and well-kept.”
Across from me, Simon’s well-formed mouth smiled. I could never fool him with a false compliment. His elusiveness shielded others from his own thoughts, but his gaze missed nothing. I could not hide even a very small lie. Mercifully, though, he made no comment on my falsehood.
“I enjoyed dining with your grandmother tonight. She is an interesting woman, actually. Most of my mother’s friends would not allow their daughters or granddaughters to have a ‘working class’ experience in the East End. And yet … she does not seem immune from the social preoccupations that my mother exhibits.”
I stared out the window. Night had settled in; the gas lamps on the street glowed in dewy brightness.
“She has known Dr. Bartlett for many years, and she trusts him,” I explained. “But, as I’ve mentioned before, her main reasons for allowing me to work are more selfish. She wants me to have a greater appreciation for my Kensington life.”
I kept looking out the window, hoping that the disdain in my voice was not too thick. I felt fondly toward Simon for his silences, for his total absorption of my words and expressions without
inquiry into more than I was ready to give him.
I glanced back, through the darkness, at Simon’s ivory face—so perfect, with only a few blond locks escaping across his forehead.
“But it has not had the desired effect?” he asked, though I knew he already knew the answer.
I smiled. Shook my head.
“Why are you returning tonight?” he asked. It was a baited question.
“William sent me a note. He is cleaning the pharmacy and requested my help.”
At the mention of William’s name, Simon’s expression veiled.
I felt oddly exposed, and I blushed.
Gracefully, Simon changed the topic to discuss the hospital. “Dr. Buck and Dr. Bartlett left London today. They are giving a joint lecture at Oxford on Monday. They’ll be back on Wednesday, but in the meantime, some of us are working extra hours.”
As we walked into the hospital, Simon told me that he would be working on the first floor. I knew that the first floor was overwhelmed, particularly the nursery. Two days earlier, I had witnessed a set of twins born to a fifteen-year-old mother. Miraculously, the twins and the mother lived, though the infants required round-the-clock care and a supplemental wet nurse.
“Do you need my help?” I asked Simon as he prepared to make his rounds.
“No, go ahead, the pharmacy is in very poor order.”
I paused, thinking I might be more useful on the first floor.
“William is waiting.” Simon nodded toward the stairs.
I did not miss the hint of discord in Simon’s voice.
I ascended the dark stairs, not seeing any light past the second floor. When I stepped onto the fourth floor I was shrouded in darkness except for a single stream of light coming from the laboratory at the end of the hallway. I heard bottles rattling and crashing amidst mild curses. I prepared myself for William’s intensity. Although he attracted me, he was always a force I had to brace myself for.
He was on his knees in the dust and dirt when I found him. He wore a pair of reading spectacles. A box lay before him, filled with empty and near-empty glass bottles. The large closet had been lit by several candles set on various shelves.
It was evident that the pharmacy had not been cleaned or organized in ages. The bottles were sloppily arranged on the shelves, some so near the shelves’ edges that they looked as if they could fall over at any moment.
“I will never understand,” William said, pulling more bottles off the shelves, clattering them loudly in the process, “why so many nurses insist on returning empty bottles to the shelves.”
He held up an empty glass bottle for me to see. “I mean, what good will this do for anyone?”
I noticed, in the candlelight of the pharmacy, that even though William was still unspeakably handsome, he seemed paler than before. Even rage could not darken his cheeks. I guessed his poor coloring resulted from some sort of exhaustion. Perhaps he had been working too many hours.
“Sometimes I feel as if Josephine and Mary are the only competent nurses left in this hospital.”
His eyes flashed toward me. “Sorry, Abbie. I do not think of you as a nurse, so I’m not implying that you are incompetent. You are more of an honorary physician.”
I said nothing. It was impossible to respond when he was in such a mood. Taking a nearby broom into my hands, I began sweeping the floor.
He thrust some strips of paper at me and a jar of glue. “Please ignore the floor for now and glue these strips to the bottles. We need to put new labels on everything.”
He continued to curse and complain as I began putting on the new labels. I wondered if he had quarreled with Christina. But his mood was getting under my skin, so I stopped what I was doing and glared at him. It was my turn to be angry.
When he saw my expression, he stopped and ran his fingers through his sweat-drenched curls. “I’m sorry. It’s just … ”
“Why did you ask me to come here?”
I knew now, intuitively, that he had not just asked me here to help with the pharmacy.
After a moment of indecision, his brows furrowed, William kicked a box of empty medicine bottles aside. He glanced around the laboratory and quietly shut the pharmacy door, closing us inside. He lowered his voice to a near whisper.
“Abbie, I wanted to see you tonight, but there are things that I cannot tell you.”
“What?”
He ran his fingers through his curls again. “I cannot tell you some things because I cannot understand them all myself. There is a large, looming puzzle that needs solving.”
My heartbeat quickened. William’s words seemed to mimic my own recent thoughts. Had he also noticed the chalice symbol and inscription, not only here at the hospital but on the fountain, and perhaps in other places? Did he have knowledge or evidence about the murders? Part of me wanted to tell him everything. Perhaps if I told him of the visions, about Max’s tattoo, about my research, we could piece together these clues. But I still feared confiding in anyone about the visions; I still felt terrified of looking insane. Also, William had not told me nearly enough for me to assume that his anxieties and questions were remotely related to my own.
In that second, I cleared my mind and decided that William was still too much of an enigma for me to confide in him. I would keep my thoughts to myself.
“You’re not making any sense,” I said.
William’s face brimmed in frustration. “I know.” He closed his eyes and paced a few feet. “I want to tell you more, but I do not want to loop you into any mess that you would be safer staying excluded from. Please don’t ask any questions.”
His eyes were pleading, so I nodded.
“I cannot tell you much, but some information has arisen … ” His voice trailed off.
My heart quickened again, and I wanted desperately to know what was going on.
He continued his agitated pace. “The bottom line is that I must go abroad to look into some things.”
My mind swirled with questions:
For how long?
Where exactly?
Why?
The last question I thought might burst out of me:
Will you miss me?
“Here is what I can tell you.” He stepped forward. The pharmacy had become warm; the candles’ heat had no vent, no outlet. And some of the bottles, I thought vaguely, might be flammable. We would have to open the door soon. William whispered so softly in my ear that I could barely hear him.
“There are dangers here in London, even in this hospital, for us. You need to be careful.”
He had to be talking about the Ripper murders. I felt dizzied, as if I were on a cliff, about to plunge forward. William’s closeness to me also brought about a thunderbolt of feelings, new and indecipherable.
A candle singed the fourth finger of my right hand.
“Ouch!”
William jumped back a little.
“It’s fine,” I said quickly. The tip was only reddened. “This has to do with the Ripper murders, doesn’t it?”
“I said to not ask me questions.” William stepped forward again.
“You cannot expect … ” I whispered. We were both speaking in whispers now. “You cannot expect to drop such information on me—that I’m in ‘danger’ and that you are leaving—and then forbid me to ask anything.”
He sighed and relented a bit. “Yes, it is about the murders. But I cannot tell you more. For your own safety. You have to trust me. And, like I said, I don’t understand everything myself. When I get back, I should be able to tell you everything.”
The air was heavy with questions—not only about William’s mysterious journey, but now, I sensed, the invisible questions about us. What did we mean to each other? I felt as if I stood on the cliff’s edge again, and I still feared the fall.
“I don’t know exactly. Maybe a few weeks. But the reason I’m telling you all of this is to warn you to be careful. You must trust me about that.”
Did I trust him?
Did I love him?
I felt such confused feelings; hot tears stung my eyes. Ashamed, I turned away, facing the shelves of freshly filled bottles, their new labels inches from my nose.
“Abbie … ” William’s finger pushed aside some loose strands of hair around my temples. He stood directly behind me, stroking my ear with his fingertip. My lobe tingled. I felt my chest heave. “I have to leave. But, truthfully, my biggest drawback, my biggest weight, is going to be leaving you here, knowing some of what I know.”
Then why wouldn’t he bloody tell me what he knew?
I turned to face him. “Will you be safe abroad? Aren’t you in danger also?”
He ignored my question. “Will you just believe me and be careful?”
The air had become intolerably hot. I felt a drop of sweat slide down my forehead.
“Yes, yes.”
William’s eyes burned into mine for a few seconds before he relaxed. It seemed he felt that he had communicated to me a little of the seriousness of my situation.
“We won’t talk about this again … at least not tonight,” he whispered. “From the moment I open this door, we must not speak of anything that I have said. I have simply told Dr. Bartlett that I have an ill relative I need to be with on the Continent. I told him that I hope to return before too long.”
His expression changed, and I thought for a second that he might laugh. I did not know what was so funny.
William explained. “We had better open this door before we burn ourselves to death in here. And it does not look good to have ourselves shut in here for so long. Sister Josephine would be quite put out.”