Ripper Read online

  As my words poured out, I realized I was crying a little. To tell someone everything brought me a certain amount of relief, but at a great risk. The visions, particularly, might not sit well with rational Simon.

  Simon remained perfectly composed at my statements.

  His silence was maddening. He was not looking at me as if I were crazed, but the silence made me nervous.

  “Talk, please,” I pleaded. “Have you seen the chalice picture at the hospital, and on the fountain?”

  Another long, unbearable pause. I could read nothing from his expression.

  “Yes,” he said evenly. “I have seen it in both those places.”

  “The tattoo?”

  Simon said nothing, but handed me a handkerchief.

  “And dear God.” I wiped my eyes. “Please tell me you don’t think I’m crazy for having the visions. I haven’t told anyone about them yet. My mother, I now think, might have seen visions too, and now that these have come to me … I’m afraid.”

  “It is all right, Abbie.” His voice cooled me like running water. “I do not think you crazed. In my work, I have seen very … strange things. The human brain is still very unknown, and as a priest and physician, I see so many dimensions of the psyche. In fact, ever since that night at Dr. Bartlett’s party, when I found you collapsed upstairs, I have suspected this.”

  “See,” I said quickly. “We’re all caught up in this. We have to share everything if we’re going to make sense of anything.”

  He looked into the fire as he said quietly, “William shared some information with me, something that might shed light on these Ripper murders, and confided in me about his trip. Normally we don’t speak to each other much, but to his credit, as your friend, he wanted someone working at the hospital who was also your friend to watch over you in his absence.”

  Suddenly Simon turned to face me, his ice-blue eyes penetrating. “He was going to tell you everything regarding his trip, our suspicions. I told him that I suspected you were having visions, and that he could tell you he was leaving, but nothing else. When he told me on the night of the double murders that you seemed to see visions, this confirmed my suspicions.”

  The realization swept over me and I felt stricken. Their secrecy had something to do with the visions. “They are real, then, and have something to do with why you cannot tell me more,” I said. “Is my mind contaminated in some way?”

  Simon looked around the library and lowered his voice to a whisper. He leaned closer to me, his breath like a brush of silk upon my temple. “There is nothing wrong with you. But we are all in danger. Not just William, but you and me, even possibly now. You must be wary of the visions. If you have any more, send me a message quickly.”

  “What are they?” My voice cracked.

  “Be careful, Abbie, and we should not talk about this right now. Just keep in contact with me.”

  I hardly knew what else to say. We were silent for a few minutes. We tried to talk about the hospital—about the even heavier police presence since the recent murders. He asked about my leg; I told him it was healing well.

  But the air was heavy and all of our subsequent conversation felt stifled, unnatural.

  Then Simon suddenly smiled, leaning back on the sofa and focusing on the ceiling high above us. He seemed to be debating something in his head. Abruptly, he looked at me, something of mirth in his expression. “Have you picked up any of the novels in here yet?” he asked.

  “No, not yet. I have not been in here before now.”

  “So you know nothing about the famous Chanderly library?”

  “No,” I said, completely unsure what was coming.

  “I feel indecent doing this, but it is quite an extraordinary secret.”

  He stood and gestured for me to follow him to the nearest wall of the library, the wall with the fireplace.

  “Have you noticed this on any of the other books?” Simon pointed to a tiny whisk of white chalk on the spine of a volume of Oliver Twist.

  “No.”

  “Take the book off the shelf and open it.”

  I obeyed. My mouth dropped open at the illustrations and photographs. I felt my face turn hot in a blush as I turned page after page, each photograph seeming more indecent than the previous one. After my initial shock, I let out a laugh. There was not a single word from Oliver Twist on any of the pages. I glanced at all the books around me and saw that many with respectable titles had the tiny white mark.

  “So all of the marked books have these photographs and … illustrations?”

  “Yes.”

  I couldn’t believe it. I remembered my conversations with Mariah about the Chanderlys’ problems, but concealed pornography in the library seemed a bit much.

  Simon continued, his voice even. “Sir Bertram has one of the largest, most extensive pornography collections in England. Possibly in all of Great Britain. This is general knowledge in Lady Violet’s society, though the women never speak of it.” He smiled gently. “In terms of the unmarked books, Sir Bertram does have a spectacular array: Shakespeare, Chaucer, Jane Austen, the Brontës. You just have to be certain to check the spine. Unmarked spines are decent; marked ones are not.”

  I wondered out loud why sophisticated Mariah never told me about this.

  “Perhaps she assumed that you already knew.” Simon leaned back against the bookcase and stared at me, a curious expression upon his face. I heard the fire crackling loudly in the background.

  The diversion had made me feel better, but the questions still roared in my head.

  As if reading my mind, Simon said, “I will tell you more when I know more and when I know that it is safe. I have not heard from William, but if I do, I will tell you. Do not try to visit Whitechapel Hospital or go anywhere near the East End.”

  “What … ” Alarm coursed through me. I could not imagine giving up my work at the hospital.

  “You can return to work later, but it is not … safe for you there right now.”

  “Is Dr. Bartlett … ?” The questions I had about Dr. Bartlett, his friends, and Max stayed with me.

  “Dr. Bartlett knows that you’re recovering from the mugger’s attack. I don’t want to say anything now. But I just don’t think it would be wise for you to be near the hospital. Be careful everywhere, but stay near Kensington.”

  “I don’t know how much longer I can stand this. I have to know what’s going on, and I hate just sitting around here.”

  “It won’t be much longer.”

  A servant entered the library to attend the fire.

  “I promise.”

  When Simon left a few minutes later, I had a horrible feeling that much was going on around me yet I could do nothing. It was the worst sort of helplessness. One thing at a time, I told myself. First, I had to get my strength back. If I didn’t do that, I would never be able to leave this house.

  I tried to go to bed early that night, but everything from my conversation with Simon kept me awake. At nearly eleven o’clock, I heard Mariah’s door open. She must have taken one of the back servant stairs, because when I left my bed and went to the window, I saw her leave the house with someone. Nosy about this Charles, I tried to see his face, but I couldn’t.

  Eventually, I fell asleep.

  Sometime, not very long after, I sat up in bed, my heart pounding. The scratching noise from the attic above had woken me up. I felt tempted to peek out in the hallway, to see if the attic door was open again, but I chastised myself. The Ripper murders had made me paranoid and fearful. It was probably rats.

  Another week passed. Simon stopped by twice for tea, but each time, Grandmother and Lady Violet were there, so there was no time to talk. I had been diligent about walking around the house and climbing up and down the stairs. Because of this, my leg was almost entirely recovered.
r />   Finally, a week later, on one of the few evenings when Sir Bertram was out, I retired to the library to look at some of the Chanderlys’ “unmarked” collections. I began browsing a Shakespeare collection just as a late October storm raged outside. The wind whipped and whistled against the outside of the house while gusts screamed down the fireplace, swirling some of the ashes out onto the hearth. I walked to the fireplace and pushed the ashes back into the fire with my boot.

  The instant I finished this task, I heard the library door open. It was Simon.

  His voice was soft as down. “Abbie, I was only just able to leave Whitechapel, and I wanted to talk with you before another day passed.”

  I turned from the fireplace and felt my insides tense at his voice. Something seemed thick in the air. Awkwardly, I stepped away from the fire’s heat, my back to a bookcase.

  He stopped, as if the words had become too heavy to speak.

  Then, in a rush, he kissed me. My head slammed back against the books on the shelf behind me. I kissed him back, vaguely wondering if the books against my hair were marked or unmarked.

  My mind turned to a summer when Mother and I had lived in Scotland. I was six years old and had wandered into a meadow behind her employers’ home. The grass had been tall, nearly as tall as I was. I had felt taken by surprise when a small cloud of yellow butterflies burst out before me. The absurdity and delight of this memory struck me.

  Then, amidst the blooms of pleasure and mirth, I sensed something amiss. I knew that after this moment, for better or for worse, my friendship with Simon could never be exactly as it had before. I felt a lump in my gut, knowing that I did not love him, but I could not bring myself to pull away from his kiss.

  It was Simon who ended it. He rested his forehead against my own and stroked my throat with his fingers.

  “I have fought my feelings for too long,” he said. “I had thought I could do without matrimony, without love. I am too busy. But we fit perfectly, Abbie, and our dedication to the profession goes hand in hand. I have every confidence that you can and will find a way to attain admission to medical school. Then we can continue to work in the Whitechapel area after you complete medical school, or we can go anywhere that you might wish.”

  I stared back at his handsome face, and I imagined the life he proposed to me.

  It did seem perfect. Even Grandmother would approve of the match. But I could attain all that Simon suggested without his help, without marrying him. The only reason I would marry him would be if I loved him. And that was not how I felt, at least in that moment.

  A crack of lightning sounded from outside. I had to give Simon an answer, but I did not want the kissing to stop.

  “I cannot marry you.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t love you. We don’t know each other.”

  As I spoke the words, I realized the truth of what I said. There was something not quite flesh and blood about Simon. Even in that moment, he was an enigma to me.

  I thought about William. I didn’t really know him, either, but there was more transparency about him. Furthermore, the very fact that I thought of William during this moment with Simon helped me sort through my feelings.

  “We have many years.” Simon leaned in to kiss me again.

  “I’m sorry, but I still say no.”

  “But we are so dedicated to the profession.”

  His words helped me pinpoint another unsettling part of the proposal. “You seem to want a companion for your work rather than a lover, a wife,” I told him. “I consider you a friend—a dear friend, Simon—but I do not know you enough or love you enough to marry you. So, my answer must be no.”

  I hoped that my words didn’t hurt him too much. His face remained expressionless. I admired him so much: he was driven and had strong character. But I simply could not accept a proposal from him, and I had to remain firm in that.

  Another flash of lightning.

  Simon’s glassy eyes momentarily searched my own. I remembered how well he could discern my thoughts. I knew what he suspected, and I winced under the gaze. But if he wondered if William was a factor in this rejection, he said and asked nothing.

  “I’m sorry, Abbie.” He turned to leave.

  “Don’t be.” My words sounded weak as cobwebs.

  But he did not turn around again as he left the library.

  That night, I felt awful. I had a terrible time falling asleep.

  Still, I knew that I had made the right decision. At least for now, I could not make a promise of engagement to Simon. That much was very clear. But I mourned the loss of my friendship with him.

  A tinny noise, sounding like a scrape of metal, jolted me away from my thoughts. I had locked my door, but I felt certain that I heard my doorknob rotate. I peeked through the curtains and saw, in horror, the knob turning slowly one way and then the other.

  It stopped.

  My blood ran cold, but I told myself that it was probably nothing—a servant accidently thinking that my door was the one to the attic. But as I tried to fall asleep, I heard the faint scratching noise begin from the attic above me. I pinched myself to make certain that I was awake.

  I was.

  Then, unmistakably, the scratching turned to footsteps above me. They were slow, faint, deliberate. Someone was up there.

  I chastised myself, thinking that I was letting superstition affect my reason. After all, Mariah had told me that many of the floors needed to be reinforced. The floor structure might be particularly creaky after the earlier thunderstorm.

  I turned fretfully in my bed, sleeping very little.

  The next morning when I awoke and came downstairs for breakfast, I felt tired and glum, and sitting at the far end of the long dining room table, heard very little of Violet and Grandmother’s conversations. Mariah, because she kept late hours, almost never came down to breakfast.

  One of the servants presented a note to me. It was only when I thanked him that I saw who it was.

  “Richard!” I said, excitedly. I hadn’t seen him since we had left Grandmother’s. “I didn’t expect you to be here.”

  He cleared his throat and said quietly, “I am only needed to supervise at the house during the hours when the workers are there. I decided to help out here a bit. For the company.”

  “Of course.” The conversation at the far end of the table had stopped, and I saw Grandmother’s eye upon me. Lady Violet looked at me as if I were a wolf child. Chatting with a servant—unacceptable.

  I groaned. “It’s good to see you, Richard.”

  He bowed and left.

  Tearing open the envelope, my eyes watered when I read the contents.

  Dear Abbie,

  I do apologize for any awkwardness that might

  arise from my proposal last night. I misread your affections for me, and I am sorry about that. Do

  not let this affect our friendship or your adherence

  to my warnings. I still admire you and care for

  you warmly.

  —Sincerely,

  Simon

  The strokes had been written in a careful hand. I felt a wave of sadness as I carefully folded the letter and left the dining room. I felt Grandmother’s eyes on me as I left.

  Twenty

  On Saturday, I felt suffocated. I had to get out of the house.

  I told Grandmother that I was going on a walk and left before she could question me. I took the four dresses, folded in a large bag, and started out early, just after breakfast. I felt mildly guilty, as Simon had warned me not to go to the East End, but it was broad daylight, so I walked a few blocks and caught a carriage.

  Once in Whitechapel, I left the carriage and, clutching the bag close to me, walked until I found Miller’s Court, right off Dorset Street in the Spitalfields district of the East End. The
area seemed even more poverty-stricken than the nearby Whitechapel Road. The air on Dorset reeked of urine, vomit, and spilled alcohol, and when I entered Miller’s Court, I saw enormous rats scurrying through the passage even in the noon hours.

  “No, I won’t accept them,” Mary said when I opened the bag and laid the dresses out for her to see.

  The place where she lived was a small, single room with one bed and a fireplace. In spite of the fire, the room was freezing. One of the windows had been broken, a rag stuffed into the pane’s hole. The bed in the room had only two very thin blankets. Mary was alone when I found her, and I saw embarrassment on her face as she let me in. I knew her financial situation was strained, but I had no idea how much.

  “I’ll just leave them here. Give them to someone else if you don’t want them,” I said, turning to leave.

  “Take them with you. I’m doing fine.”

  At that point I felt irritated. True, I had never lived in a room like this, but I wished she could know that I was not always so privileged—that there had been times, particularly between Mother’s governess jobs, when we had no money. I wish she had seen my life in Dublin, the youth I played with in the streets, the orphans and pickpockets. I wanted to tell her about all of this, but it seemed foolish. She could only see me as I was now—Lady Westfield’s Kensington brat granddaughter.

  “Fine. I’m trying to help. It’s a simple matter. I was going to get rid of some dresses, so I thought I would give them to you.”

  She still looked angry.

  “Take them, Mary,” someone said behind me, and I jumped. Scribby stood in the doorway with a bundle of firewood under his arm. When Mary crossed her arms, her shawl fell a bit and I saw how sharp her shoulders were.

  “Thank you, Miss Abbie, for helping Mary get that hospital job,” Scribby continued. “Mary knows”—here he cut her a hard glance and began feeding some wood into the fire—“how fortunate we three are to have jobs at all, being immigrants.”