Ripper Page 19

  I saw, then, tears in Mary’s eyes, and she bit her lip. I looked away quickly, knowing how proud she was.

  “Thank you, Abbie,” Scribby said again, very kindly. He was walking well now, but I saw that the lower part of his leg was tightly bandaged. “Mary appreciates the job and the clothes. The fact is, we will be able to afford to get better rooms at some point, but we’re sending money to her family. She has a sick younger sister, so we’re pretty poor right now.”

  Without glancing back at Mary, who was saying nothing, I nodded, said goodbye, and left.

  First thing on Monday morning, I went to Scotland Yard.

  Walking through the maze of offices, I found Abberline. His office door was open and he sat behind his desk. The odor of dirty teacups and pipe smoke immediately assaulted my nose. The large highlighted map behind him now had four red pins, marking the site of each Ripper murder.

  “I thought I had made my answer clear,” I said, placing the card and newspaper clippings on his desk. “Why did you send me these? Do you think you can bully me into playing along with your investigation?”

  He looked up, his face pale, his eyes bloodshot. He seemed surprised by my sudden presence. Weary and unprepared. The case was becoming a great burden to him, I could tell, but I pushed all my sympathetic thoughts aside.

  “Miss Sharp. Do sit down.”

  “I prefer to stand. Now, why did you send me this after I told you that I wanted to play no part in spying on my friends? I work at Whitechapel Hospital, and I won’t be a pawn in your investigation.”

  Everything I said was true, but what I didn’t say was that I believed his inquiries were futile. I thought of the chalice symbol, of my vision of that odd ritual, of Max’s tattoo, of all the pieces that didn’t fit together yet. I remembered the police chasing Scribby, the heavy police presence in the hospital, and I suspected that Scotland Yard’s search was going in the wrong direction. Their investigation and tactics would be fruitless. And given my cryptic conversation with Simon in the library, I feared that something larger was behind all of this. With all that I might have before me, that was something I had to figure out on my own. I did not need Scotland Yard’s watchful eye upon me.

  Abberline looked stunned, for once unable to speak.

  “Will you leave me alone now?” I asked once more.

  There was a small hesitation; he looked as if he wanted to say something before deciding against it. “Yes. Certainly, if that is what you wish.”

  “It is. Good day, Inspector Abberline.”

  “Good day.”

  That was, I felt certain, the last I should hear from him. He was used to getting his way. I just had to act a little galling, a little troublesome, and he would leave me alone.

  By Tuesday evening, I felt particularly agitated. Mariah had been out so frequently, with Cecil or with Charles, that I didn’t see much of her. I had hoped that she would stop by my room that evening. I hadn’t seen Simon since his proposal the week before. I missed his friendship, and I felt lonely. William still loomed in my thoughts, and I would have given anything to know where he was. Eventually I resolved to go to bed early, and at some point, after several hours, I fell asleep.

  A giggle woke me. It came from somewhere in the hallway. Then silence.

  My first thought was that Mariah had come back from a rendezvous with Charles drunk. She also might have Charles in her room. That was more likely. Whatever she was doing, it was none of my business, so I turned over and tried to sleep again.

  More silence. I began to think that I might have dreamt up the giggle.

  Then there was a loud bang. The attic door had slammed opened.

  I bolted upright in my bed.

  I heard it—the trudging footsteps. This time they were not above me in the attic, but came from the hallway. I heard them very clearly—too clearly.

  Just as I calmed myself with the certainty that I had locked my door, I peeked through my bed curtains.

  My bedroom door was wide open.

  I commanded myself to stay calm and took deep breaths as I put on my slippers and rose to close my door. I reached the open doorway. Just as I began to shut the door, something white flashed past me in the darkness.

  I swallowed and suppressed a scream. Then, as I reached out to pull the doorknob and shut myself in my room, I saw it—the bottom trail of a white nightgown ascending the attic stairs.

  Of course. It was Mariah sleepwalking. She must have been the one making the noises above me those nights. I felt so foolish, thinking of my mind’s absurd and terrible fantasies.

  I didn’t want her to fall down the attic stairs or to get hurt on something up there, so I took a candle from my room and went to find her. I would speak to a servant in the morning about securing the attic door.

  When I reached the top of the steps, I could no longer see her. The attic was larger than I had imagined, a huge, mazelike place that seemed to sprawl over the entire house. I could not locate Mariah anywhere.

  The only light came from the moonlight breaking through a few high, small windows near the ceiling. Cobwebs swooped across everything like drapery. Sheets covered old furniture, creating enormous white lumps in the darkness. I saw empty portrait frames, old portraits spoiled by burns and spills. I saw wooden chests and piles of foul-smelling clothes.

  The slough of a foot from several yards away caught my attention.

  “Mariah.” I spoke quietly, stepping toward the sound.

  When I stretched my candle out in front of me, I saw that nothing had been placed in the large middle section of the attic floor. I wondered if that was one of the weakened structures of the house. Only spiders scuttled through the thick dust in that square portion of floor.

  “Mariah.” I hoped to find her quickly and lead her back to her bedroom.

  I continued walking, seeing what looked like the back of a large dark wig poking above the back of a sheet-covered armchair.

  “Mariah.” I sighed in relief.

  Her head did not turn.

  Perhaps she had fallen asleep in the chair.

  “Mariah,” I said again when I reached the armchair. I laid one of my hands upon her shoulder.

  The head turned toward me.

  I screamed.

  Twenty-one

  The body was Mariah’s, but it was not Mariah’s gaze that met my own.

  I stared in disbelief at the eyes. They were not the vague eyes of a sleepwalker. Somehow they shone not with Mariah’s spirit but with cunning, with bloodlust. I thought of my visions, of the pickpocket’s changed expression, and then of Max’s “dollygirl.”

  Although my bewilderment and confusion mounted, I suddenly knew who the Ripper was—and he had found a way to meet with me.

  “Hello, Abbie.”

  In horror, I recognized the strong, tinkling ring of Mariah’s vocal chords, but they were now distorted, made rude by the parasite inside her.

  My horror quickly gave way to rage. “Leave her alone. Leave us all alone!”

  I wanted to strike out, to hurt him. After all, he did not have his knife now. I could fight him. But to do so would mean injuring the body of Mariah.

  “How are you able to do this?”

  I heard the cluck of a tongue as “he” stood, positioning himself toward me like a coiled snake. I backed instinctively away.

  “I have no plans to hurt you, Arabella Sharp, at least not tonight.” He stepped forward.

  I now heard the familiar sloughing sound, the scraping of Mariah’s slippered feet moved by the heavy force that possessed her.

  “Who are you?” I asked, but his name was on my lips.

  He did not answer, just continued to move forward.

  I did not believe in spirits possessing people; I did not believe even now, with this “creatur
e” before me.

  Yet I was seeing it with my own eyes.

  I still could not speak his name out loud. But if this was truly Max, how could he not be limited by a body?

  The hot wax from my candle dripped onto my finger. The sting reminded me of what I must concern myself with right now: survival.

  “Go away!” I shouted, thrashing the candle toward him as he advanced. I stopped the flame just before it met my friend’s body. I could not hurt her.

  The being paused, laughing softly—that chuckle from my nightmares. His predatory gaze proved such an awful contrast to Mariah’s lovely figure. The violation disgusted me.

  “Let us talk, Abbie Sharp.”

  It was an invitation that I could not stomach.

  “Leave her alone! Leave Mariah now !”

  He paused in his advance, cocking his head to one side.

  My heart pounded in my ears.

  “I’ll oblige your request, Miss Sharp. Your friend can have her body back.”

  He bowed slightly, mockingly. I wondered what he was up to. As I watched, he leapt back with unnatural force, landing, on his feet, dead center in the middle of the empty section of flooring. The boards creaked loudly under the thud.

  “No!”

  “Goodbye, Abbie.” The eyes flickered a bit. “For tonight … ”

  I ran to where the boxes and furniture stopped, just on the perimeter of the space. I knew this part of the attic must stretch over the library—if the floor gave out, Mariah would fall three stories to the library floor.

  “Abbie?” Mariah was confused and sluggish.

  I could see that she had no idea where she was.

  “Don’t move, Mariah,” I pleaded, in what I hoped was a calm voice. She could not weigh much. I estimated her to be only ten yards away from where I stood.

  I stifled a scream when the entire floor under Mariah trembled, as the beams under the floorboards shifted.

  Dear God. It was more unsteady than I had thought.

  In Mariah’s expression, bewilderment gave way to understanding. But she was not one to panic or to go hysterical, and, after taking a deep breath, she took two steps cautiously toward me.

  “You were sleepwalking. Just walk light-footed toward me.”

  She took three more steps.

  The groaning again. Then a violent cracking noise.

  A few more cautious steps. More cracking. She was only about three yards away now.

  “You’re almost here, Mariah. Take my hand.” I stretched out my arm toward her.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. She would make it.

  But then, all at once, the floor gave way, starting from the center of the section and rippling outward—instantaneously creating a large crater. I heard the sounds of crashing beams and floor pieces falling far down onto the floor of the library.

  “Jump!” I screamed at Mariah. But the flooring under her gave out so that before she could make the leap toward me, she slipped, and clutched onto a dangling piece of flooring.

  “Hang on, Mariah!” I shouted.

  Anyone but Mariah would have fallen already, panicked. But Mariah, even as she dangled above a three-story drop, remained focused, struggling to pull herself to safety.

  “Hurry, Abbie! Get a sheet. Something. Anything. I can make it up. But my hand—it will slip soon.”

  I glanced around and saw that the nearest piece of draped furniture was too far away to grab in time.

  “There isn’t time, Mariah. I’m going to anchor myself and give you my hand.”

  She was so close to me.

  Lying on my stomach across the sturdy flooring, I buried the toes of my slippers into the floorboard seams so that I could inch forward.

  I slid on my belly toward the edge of the crater. I could then see more clearly—both my friend and the scene beneath her.

  Far below, Sir Bertram was still on his sofa, just beyond the enormous pile of wood, floor beams, and clouds of dirt. He was looking up at us in a drug-induced stupor. I’m certain that he thought the entire scene far above him was part of a laudanum nightmare.

  Servants began to swarm into the library.

  “Help! ” I screamed down at them as they stared at us in disbelief.

  Then, miraculously, I strained myself downward and clutched one of Mariah’s hands as she clung to the beam with her other hand.

  “I won’t die, Abbie.” She fixed a hard look upon me.

  “No, you won’t.”

  She seemed reassured as she let go of the beam to grab my hand with her other hand. I knew that if I had both of her hands, I could gingerly ease her from the pit.

  As I tightened my grip on her hands, I strained backwards.

  Lady Violet had arrived on the scene below.

  Her scream did it.

  Mariah slipped from my grip and plunged toward the splintered pile three stories below.

  I lay frozen in place on the attic floor.

  My thoughts tunneled toward a chamber that ran deeper than the pit in front of me. Mariah’s last look of horror when she fell would be forever cemented onto my consciousness. Her death was a great loss, a waste.

  If she had never known me, she would still be alive. I thought of the patients at Whitechapel Hospital who had been murdered. I had known most of them. William and Simon were already in danger.

  Was Grandmother in danger? Would all those that I love die?

  Richard was the first to find me in the attic, and he gently pried me off the ground before placing a blanket around my shoulders and leading me away from the crater. I told him in words that did not seem to be my own that Mariah had sleepwalked upstairs, that I had tried to save her but she had fallen through the floorboards.

  He hushed me gently as he led me down the narrow attic steps.

  Grandmother and several of the servants ran to me when he brought me downstairs, but I could not bear any words of consolation or give any out myself. I felt detached, exhausted.

  Cursed.

  Twenty-two

  I stayed in bed until late the next morning, unable to move. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t cry. Fury overwhelmed me, along with the grief and guilt. It had been over a month since the Ripper had attacked me in Whitechapel, and now he wanted to show me what he was capable of, what he could do. That he could not be limited even to a body. I felt certain now that he had possessed the pickpocket, that he had lured me to the hospital. And now he had possessed Mariah.

  I thought of Max’s mysterious tattoo, of his connection with Dr. Bartlett and the other housemates, of his apparent possession of some sort of supernatural powers. But why was he terrorizing me? Why did he not just kill me? What did he want?

  I heard the morgue carriages pull away with Mariah’s body, and hammering sounds echoed from somewhere downstairs. Fleetingly, I wondered if there would be an investigation, and then remembered that everyone thought this was a terrible accident. How many more people had to die?

  Grandmother knocked on the door around noon. She wore black and held Jupe in her arms. To my mild surprise, she said nothing about me still being in bed; I had thought that the stress might make her particularly fussy. Instead, she sat in a chair by my bed and said nothing for several minutes. Her eyes looked puffy; I knew she had done her mourning in private.

  The hammering sounds grew louder.

  “Lady Violet demanded that the library be boarded up for now. It is too terrible.”

  I said nothing; I just lay on my bed staring at the ceiling.

  Grandmother stroked Jupe’s back. “I inspected our house with Richard yesterday. The renovations are nearly finished. I told Violet that we would return home today so that we would not be any trouble to her.”

  She then spoke a bit about how nice her house looked. B
ut as she continued, almost to herself, I knew her thoughts were elsewhere.

  Then suddenly she became quiet. I felt her eyes on me. And I broke my gaze from the ceiling to look at her.

  “I watched Mariah grow up,” she said suddenly, distractedly. “She never sleepwalked.”

  I snapped fully out of my reverie. Was she just thinking out loud or did she have other suspicions?

  Unable to read her expression, I said nothing. I couldn’t have told her the truth of what I had seen anyway.

  With Jupe still in her arms, she stood up and smoothed the bedcovers around me. This was her awkward attempt at being compassionate.

  “The funeral will be Friday afternoon, Arabella.”

  Then she left.

  I stayed in the bed all afternoon, watching the day progress. Afternoon slipped into dullish evening as shadows lengthened across my room. With every passing hour my anger rose, dominating even my feelings of grief. The Ripper had taken over my friend’s body to get to me. It was unfair. Awful. Mariah had been a beautiful girl, an aspiring writer, bright, vibrant, driven. She was a mere stepping stone for the Ripper, a piece in the puzzle he had laid out for me.

  I jumped, startled, when one of Violet’s servants knocked on my door to help me collect my things. Grandmother’s carriage already waited outside.

  The moment we returned to Grandmother’s house, I went straight to bed again without a word to anyone. I stayed in my bedroom all day on Thursday, both mourning for Mariah and trying to figure out what to do. Unable to sleep on Thursday night, I stared at my freshly painted ceiling. I had to know what was happening. I couldn’t put it off any longer.

  Moonlight broke through my curtains as the night deepened. Dr. Bartlett’s Montgomery Street house, with its gallery, its eccentric occupants, and all of its mysteries, beckoned me. Grandmother’s house was quiet—everyone was asleep. Silently, I got out of bed, dressed, and slipped out the front door, in the pitch of night.