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  I assured her I would be ready for the carriage by one o’clock, and that yes, I would have plenty of time to wash before we left for Violet’s house. This would be easy, as Violet lived even closer to us than Catherine did—on our street, in fact.

  As I resumed eating my scrambled eggs, I privately wondered if Violet suspected anything about Mariah’s planned elopement. Although Mariah had confided in me, the whole affair was none of my business. I had no plans to interfere—either to expose Mariah or to cover for her, should she choose to involve me.

  Our time at Lady Violet’s proved to be more interesting than I had thought it would be. Instead of taking tea inside, Mariah and I drank elderberry cordials outside as we played archery in the small, walled courtyard behind Violet’s house. Grandmother and Violet remained indoors, protesting that it was too cold for us to be outdoors, but after being inside the stuffy hospital all morning, the cool air felt wonderful.

  Unfortunately, I had never played archery in my life.

  “Your aim is terrible, Abbie,” Mariah said as she shot a perfect bull’s-eye.

  I shot my arrow again; this time it didn’t hit anywhere near the target. It merely clattered against the high stone wall behind the targets.

  “Didn’t you ever play sports?” she asked.

  In Dublin, I had been quite active in fighting sports and knife-throwing competitions, where we took aim at wooden targets. By sixteen, after much practice, I had become a bit of a champion in the neighborhood, winning several of our organized street competitions. I had thought that archery could not be much different from knife throwing; I had been very wrong.

  “I have played sports in the past,” I responded, missing the target again. “Just not archery.”

  Mariah shot an almost-bull’s-eye, rubbed her arm, and took a long sip of cordial. Our breath puffed out in the cold air.

  “So,” she began in a low voice, “as I told you the other evening, I’m going to run away from here, elope. I write, and I’m going to be a writer somewhere, anywhere but here. How are you going to escape?”

  I smiled as I adjusted my bracer, loaded my bow, and prepared to take aim again. That is why I felt so drawn to Mariah. Although this was only my second time speaking with her, she represented a break from the ridiculous rules and rituals of Kensington. We were sudden allies in our desperate attempts to live a bigger life.

  “Education,” I said. “I’m thinking about going to medical school.”

  I had not yet told anyone about my possible plan, and it felt wonderful to finally say it out loud. Mariah smiled widely as a light wind pulled at her curls and small flecks of rain began to fall on us. She looked gorgeous in the cloudy late afternoon.

  “I’m finding you more and more interesting, Abbie Sharp.”

  “So, are you going to tell me about this lover?” I asked, pulling my arm back and squinting—I felt determined to at least hit the target this time. I released the arrow.

  “Perhaps another time … ” Mariah’s voice trailed off in horror as the arrow sailed over the wall.

  I heard a screech, followed by two seconds of silence. Then came a bloodcurdling scream.

  “Oh God, I’ve killed someone,” I murmured.

  Mariah grabbed her skirts up and ran from the courtyard toward the front of the house. I ran after her. She saw my victim before I did, and an expression of horror and amusement spread across her face.

  “Bloody hell, Abbie,” she said.

  “What?”

  “You’ve shot your grandmother’s dog.”

  Mary was in a foul mood on Wednesday morning as we began working in the second floor ward. I had hoped for a little more gratitude from her, particularly since, to my relief, Dr. Bartlett had agreed to allow her to continue working at the hospital.

  I knew that even with this job, Mary still had money troubles, but I hoped she could believe that life wasn’t exactly rosy for me that morning either. Jupe had, fortunately, survived the hit. Grandmother had just stepped outside with him when the arrow sailed down, grazing his back. However, the wound bled profusely and Grandmother summoned Simon, who had recently arrived home from the hospital. After he assured Grandmother that Jupe would live and bandaged the pug until it looked like a pet mummy, Grandmother shrieked at and lectured me for no less than two hours—after which she settled into an angry silence. I had received the cold shoulder at breakfast and had wanted nothing more than to get to the hospital today.

  William entered the ward.

  “Oh … it’s you,” Mary grunted. She hadn’t much taken to William, describing him to me as “bossy and arrogant.”

  William looked serious and a little tired. He ignored Mary. “Abbie, Dr. Bartlett wants to see you in his office.” He seemed preoccupied and spoke very little as we walked up the stairs.

  Then he cast a sideways glance at me. “You look weary.”

  “I’ve had a difficult morning.”

  “Wha—”

  “Nothing,” I said, cutting him off. “It’s a long story.”

  I would have felt like a fool telling William that I had almost killed my grandmother’s dog. Before he could press me further, I changed the subject. “Should I be nervous? Maybe Dr. Bartlett thinks it’s too dangerous for me to work here after the murders.”

  “No … I doubt that. You’re too valuable here.”

  William had none of the flatterer in him, so I took his compliment to heart.

  As we approached the fourth floor, William’s mood lighted a bit. “My aunt wants to meet you.”

  “She does?” I felt a little thrill at the idea of meeting Christina Rossetti.

  “Yes. I promised her that I would bring you to her soon. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No, I would love to meet her.”

  We had just reached Dr. Bartlett’s closed office door.

  “Well, I’ll leave you here. Christina needs my help this afternoon.”

  After bidding me goodbye, he left.

  I knocked, and then opened the door quietly when Dr. Bartlett called for me to come in.

  He stood behind his desk, staring out the window. His thoughts seemed far away too, and I wondered if his mind was on the murders—perhaps dwelling upon a recent interaction with Abberline or Bagster Phillips. But almost immediately, he became attentive.

  “Abbie, do please sit down.” He nodded toward a leather chair in front of his desk, then sat down behind the desk and removed a cigar from a small top drawer.

  “Lady Westfield only required that you work here one week—but I see that you are back,” he began. He lit the cigar. “I know, I’m a physician, but please pardon my vice.”

  “Yes, of course.” I felt myself smile. Dr. Bartlett could be enigmatic and yet, frequently, he put me at ease.

  “So,” he said, blowing the smoke away. “Why are you continuing to work here?”

  “Because I love the work.” I thought this might be as good a time as any to bring up the subject of medical school. “Actually, since I’m in your office, I wanted to tell you that I’ve been considering medical school. But I haven’t the first idea of where to start.”

  A glint sparked in Dr. Bartlett’s eyes, and he tapped some of the ash from the cigar into a nearby dish. “You, Abbie, have read my mind. Your future is exactly why I called you in here to this meeting. You have remarkable control during surgeries and difficult births, and I have heard from Dr. St. John that you are both caring and creative when it comes to patient care.”

  I knew that Simon must have told Dr. Bartlett about my suggestion that Rose Elliot nurse Lizzie. My heart sank a bit as I thought of how little good had come from my idea. I still planned on returning to the hospital some nights.

  Dr. Bartlett leaned back in his chair a bit. “The field is still extraordinarily resistant to wo
men. Oxford and Cambridge are both closed to giving women medical degrees.” He emitted a disgusted chuckle. “Of course, they’re closed to giving women any degrees at all. However, there is a women’s medical college, recently started here in London. I know the founder, Dr. Elizabeth Garrett Anderson. She is excellent, and a highly dedicated physician. You can attain a medical degree through that college, and I would be happy to help you along the way if that would be something you would like to consider.”

  “Of course.” The news of the women’s medical college excited me.

  “Continue to work with me here now, gaining experience. Then I would like to introduce you to Dr. Anderson, and perhaps you could go ahead and apply to her school.”

  I had so many more questions, but at that moment, Dr. Buck stepped into the office.

  “Inspector Abberline is here again to see you, Julian. He is waiting downstairs.”

  Dr. Bartlett sighed and threw away the end of the cigar. “I’ll be there in one minute.”

  The moment Dr. Buck left, Dr. Bartlett stood up from his desk. “I expect I’ll be at the mortuary for a few hours. The inquest was on Monday and everyone’s pressed for time, as the body must be buried soon.”

  “Inspector Abberline is no closer to solving the crimes?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid not. Such murders are not incredibly uncommon in the East End, but there are some perplexing elements to these two. Because of this, journalists are already picking up on the story, and I am certain that if yet another patient of ours is murdered, the papers will be covering the story in even more detail. Three Whitechapel Hospital patients killed in this horrific way would seem to be beyond coincidence. We will have … ” Dr. Bartlett raised a graying eyebrow. “Unwanted publicity.”

  “Do you think there is going to be another murder?”

  Dr. Bartlett looked at me, distracted once again, his thoughts seemingly elsewhere.

  “No.”

  But his tone was far from convincing.

  PART II

  “Women are supposed to be very calm generally; but women feel just as men feel; they need exercise for their faculties and a field for their efforts as much as their brothers do; they suffer from too rigid a restraint, too absolute a stagnation, precisely as men would suffer; and it is narrow-minded … to say that they ought to confine themselves to making puddings and knitting stockings, to playing on the piano and embroidering bags.”

  —Jane Eyre

  Eleven

  The moment I entered her home after work the next afternoon, Grandmother called me into the parlor with her.

  A still-bandaged Jupe lay across her lap and her cup of tea steamed from the tray on the sideboard beside her. Before even greeting me, she thrust the Times into my hands.

  I had assisted in three deliveries and then helped staff the nursery that day. I felt particularly tired because I had not slept the night before while secretly attending to Lizzie.

  However, I skimmed the several newspaper articles discussing the recent murders. When I reached the editorial section, a specific letter caught my eye.

  If anything beneficial is to emerge from these recent Whitechapel murders, it will be to expose the rampart poverty of those forgotten in the East End: men who work seventeen hours at a time to bring a little bread and fish to the table, children who die before the age of five from starvation, cold, and disease, women, forced to abandon virtue to buy food. These are the forgotten, the sad, the lonely. Fiend though he may be, this murderer has brutally slashed open the already dying and destitute souls in Whitechapel, for all of London to see. No longer will they be ignored.

  —Reverend John Perkins

  I stared hard at Perkins’s name.

  Dr. Bartlett’s prediction—that a journalistic frenzy might occur—seemed to be coming true. At first, I felt some bewilderment as to why Perkins, as Dr. Bartlett’s friend, would publish such a letter, but then I realized that it was probably the right thing for him to do, considering his profession as a clergyman. He should pull the focus away from the sensational factor a bit and draw attention to the area’s poverty. My dislike of Perkins’s manner was clearly prejudicing me.

  Grandmother snatched the newspaper back, placed her spectacles above her nose, and skimmed the upper section again. “One of these articles describes both victims as being Whitechapel Hospital patients. I did not know about this fact.”

  “A coincidence, Grandmother. I would very much like to continue working there.” My heart quickened for fear that she might not let me return.

  Her eyes darted in the direction of the dining room, where Mother’s portrait hung. This quick glance settled my fears a bit. She did not want the break with me that she had had with her daughter, and I knew she feared losing me more than anything.

  “You always take Dr. Bartlett’s carriage to and from the hospital?”

  “Yes,” I lied. I hated lying.

  “Still, I might speak to Dr. Bartlett about the matter, just to make certain that you are safe. He has excellent judgment.” Her expression relaxed. A little. “I have known Julian Bartlett on and off for about twenty years—mostly through donation dinners,” she added.

  I sighed inwardly; it appeared that Grandmother wanted to talk. In spite of my exhaustion, I felt as if I should converse with her for a few minutes. I assumed an interested expression.

  “When I met him, he had just returned from the Continent—Germany, Vienna, or somewhere—and had decided to stay in London permanently.”

  “The Continent?” I remembered hearing Max Bartlett conversing in German with Dr. Buck.

  Grandmother’s face darkened a bit, irritated that I would interrupt her remembrances. “You know, Arabella, how fond he is of travel. He lived the first part of his life in England, but then he spent several decades abroad. He is highly respected in the best social circles.”

  Jupe woke himself with a startled bark and promptly fell off Grandmother’s lap.

  She emitted a small shriek and picked him up. The conversation was over at that point, as Grandmother fussed about the little dog.

  Yet now I wished that she would keep talking—not about her past with Dr. Bartlett, but about my mother. I wanted to hear more of what Mother was like before her “ruinous” elopement with my father. What she was like as a child, as a young woman like me. When she became interested in painting. I paused, briefly wondering if I should bring it up. But then, considering Grandmother’s fears about the recent murders, I decided against it.

  Once again, I slipped out that night to go to the hospital. As before, I did not see any nurses in the first floor ward.

  Almost immediately, however, upon my settling in a rocker to feed Lizzie, the nursery door opened noiselessly.

  It was Simon.

  “Abbie, how did you come here?” His voice was quiet. Reproachful.

  I felt like a naughty child. Caught.

  “I walked.”

  “Why? Do you know how dangerous it is walking through this district at any time? And it seems sheer madness to do it at this time, with the murderer still loose.”

  I had no defense.

  “Lizzie was weakening—not getting enough milk from Rose. I wanted to give her the care she deserves. She needs to be bottle fed at night as well as during the day.”

  “I am here on many nights.”

  “Yes, but I know that you’re busy.”

  Simon gave up, dropping his reprimand for a moment. Empathy for the baby won out. Gently, he took Lizzie from me for a minute. “She is looking better. I noticed that earlier today.” He hesitated for a second, his ice-blue eyes assessing me with a bit of mirth. “You are welcome to work here at night.”

  I had indeed hoped that Simon, the persistent humanitarian, would not argue about me working at all times if I wished.

  “B
ut you must not walk here alone,” he added.

  An infant fussed as Simon quietly unlocked a small cabinet to retrieve a bottle of iodine. Before leaving, he turned back to me. “I’m assisting in a surgery on the third floor. We will be finished soon. Why don’t you come upstairs when you want a break and we can discuss safer means of transportation?”

  He cast me a small smile and left.

  I thought that two o’clock in the morning was an odd hour to be conducting a surgery. I hoped that it was not an emergency surgery.

  Lizzie made greedy sucking noises on the bottle. My concern about her immediate survival had eased a little. Nonetheless, I worried about her future. She would probably go to an orphanage like so many others.

  After a bit, when she finished the bottle, I laid her in her cradle and walked out of the nursery, in the direction of the stairs. Light streamed down from the third floor. I wondered if the surgery was still in progress.

  I had not spent much time on the third floor. Although there were some patients there, the floor was mostly reserved for surgeries and post-surgical care. Two large doors stood open immediately to my right. A nurse hurried away from the doors with a chamber pot. She looked a bit startled to see me but nodded politely before descending the stairs.

  When I entered the large room, I saw a single patient, Liz Stride. She lay in a bed, still asleep from the surgery.

  Simon and Dr. Bartlett stood by her bedside, speaking in low voices before they noticed me.

  “Abbie! Excellent timing,” Dr. Bartlett exclaimed. “We have just finished surgery. Dr. St. John has informed me of your nightly ventures to the East End. Your actions were nothing short of foolhardy.”

  I felt my face redden even though his reprimand seemed oddly mixed with compliment.

  “You are welcome to come here anytime you wish, but I am going to require that you ride here by carriage. Dr. St. John is willing to send his family’s carriage at night.”

  I winced a little. With a late carriage arriving, I would have to inform Grandmother that I would be working