Chapel Noir (32 page)

I glanced askance at the empty third chair around our table. I did not care to have any odd Whitechapel witnesses in our presence, innocent though they might be of any wrongdoing.

“He saw the woman with the flower with a man five-foot-five, around thirty, dark hair, small mustache, fair complexion, wearing a dark jacket and trousers with a black peaked cap. This is the man who tried to throw her down, and succeeded. She screamed,” Irene noted.

“I believe that she was the only Ripper victim to scream.”

“I believe that you’re right. But here is where it gets astounding. Mr. Schwartz also saw a man across the street watching this scene. He was five feet eleven inches tall and around thirty-five years old, smoking a clay pipe. Fresh complexion, light brown hair and mustache. Dark overcoat and an old black hard felt hat with a wide brim.”

“He is the tallest man in the case.”

“Indeed. The man who was accosting Liz Stride called out ‘Lipski’ at him.”

“Then he knew him,” I concluded.

“That’s what Israel Schwartz thought. He took them for accomplices at robbery and ran away, fearing they wanted no witnesses and that the first man had warned his partner ‘Lipski’ to take care of Schwartz.

“But no one followed the fleeing laborer, who fled to a nearby railway arch.”

“Here it is! Look, Irene!” I cried. “The incident is in the
Police Gazette
for October 19, 1888. But the only description given is of the man who was assaulting Liz Stride. There is no mention of this man across the way he called Lipski. Do you think the papers were suppressing any Jewish connection because they feared attacks on the community?”

“Possibly.” Irene’s lips pursed. “It’s true that within hours Sir Charles Warren would order erased the fascinating assertion that ‘The Juwes are the men That Will not be Blamed for nothing,’ which was found near the body of the evening’s second victim, Catharine Eddowes. She, by the way, lived with a porter named John
Kelly
at Flower and Dean Street.

“But you must understand in what connection the word lipski’ was used in that quarter at the time. I remember reading in one of Godfrey’s newspapers of a man named Israel Lipski, a Jew who murdered a woman named Miriam Angel in 1887. No doubt it had become an East End taunt to call any Jew, who were often accused of murdering Christians, lipski.’ ”

“I thought you were above reading news of sensational murders in the newspapers.”

“Not above, Nell, simply pleased to be removed from such violence. And the Rothschilds have supplied us with every word.”

I let my eyes fall back to my list of suspects. “So the man who was abusing Liz Stride called out the name of the notorious Jewish murderer, and Israel Schwartz ran?”

“He was Jewish. He knew the name was a prelude to further abuse.”

“But the man he feared, the second man, did not run.”

“No. Was it because he was an accomplice, or because he was not Jewish, and therefore not alarmed? The newspapers did not even bother to put him forth as a suspect, only the first man.”

I considered what Irene was saying.

“That is because this second fellow was too tall to be the Ripper. All of the witnesses describe a man no taller than five-foot-seven, and considerably less and those seen with Liz Stride averaged five-foot-six.”

Irene nodded encouragingly. I know she was giving me rope enough to arrive at my own solution, for hers had been reached even before I came upon the scene. But she enjoyed testing her conclusions against the sounding board of other minds.

Indeed, I found it rather exhilarating to know that I had arrived at the same end as Irene.

I looked at my newest list. “Then you are convinced.”

Her finger nailed the almost-six-foot-tall nicotine addict with the clay pipe. “That is Sherlock Holmes. And I must wonder how, if he was there, he was unable to prevent the killing of Liz Stride fifteen minutes later.”

“Perhaps he drove off the man who was abusing her and . . .”—well, I never
had
liked the
man—“killed her himself.”

33.
With Bated Breath

Women are never to be entirely trusted—
not the best of them.
—
SHERLOCK HOLMES, “THE SIGN OF FOUR”

I awoke with shattered memories of a tall, storklike man pursuing me through endless catacombs until we reached the sewers, whose murky waters flowed red.

There I saw a woman’s form, elevated above the flood, her hands folded like a Catholic saint’s.

When I turned, there was no one behind me but an alleyway of white-marble statues, as in a garden, save their faces had no features.

I was glad to open my eyes and find them gazing upon the overly ornate plasterwork common to French hotels, respectable or not.

The playful putti surrounding the ceiling rosette reminded me of the gantlet of statues in my dream, but these smiling cherubs could hardly be construed as ominous.

I heard the click of breakfast china from the other room and hastened to don my dressing gown.

When I entered our common chamber, Irene and Pink were drinking coffee from an urn, the Paris newspapers spread all around them. Of the Ripper materials there was no sign, and Irene greeted me with a cup lifted as for a toast.

“Welcome, lazybones. There is tea in that china pot that is disguised as a Shropshire sheep and there is a letter from Godfrey for you, not to mention an assortment of pastries.”

“A letter from Godfrey? For me? Why?”

“I don’t know, Nell. Apparently he felt moved to write you for a change. He has arrived in Prague, at least. I am so glad that I had our post transferred from the country to our city quarters.”

“I am amazed the postal service managed to follow our perambulating address,” I murmured as I sat down, shook out my serviette, and accepted the cup of tea Elizabeth had charmingly prepared for me.

“Milk?” she asked.

I nodded, and she poured the creamy liquid into my half-filled cup as if she knew my preferences from such slight acquaintance. I added two lumps of sugar and took a soothing sip. From their cups wafted a bitter aroma of coffee that smelled like a poison.

There was indeed a plump envelope at my place, and I was so excited I used the butter knife to open it, after first verifying that Irene’s and Elizabeth’s eyes were on the papers.

My dear Nell
,

It is pleasant to be in Prague again and to recall our interesting outings in this city of golden spires not long ago
.

I will send a letter to Irene in the next post, never fear, but wanted to tend you greetings from this city that has been your only foreign landscape besides Paris and Monaco
.

Also, I thought that you would be wildly interested in the fact that some of the folk here believe our friend the Golem has risen yet again
.

This time his reputed appearance has stirred even more panic than before, for it is a particularly bloody murder that they attribute to this automaton
.

Of course, you and I and a few others know that the Golem’s previous appearance was not what everybody assumed it to be, and that it is extremely unlikely that this medieval legend has bestirred itself to spread terror in the residents’ hearts once again
.

So the city is its charming self wrapped up in its own legends like an ancient mummy in its winding cloths. We who know better can laugh at their quaint superstitions
.

My business meetings will shortly bring me to Prague Castle. I am looking forward to seeing the Queen again, if not the King. And I am sure that Irene will want detailed reports on both, so I will save my hand for a later, more fulsome report more befitting a barrister abroad
.

This is merely a note to remind you of our mutual sojourns in Bohemia, and to assure you that all is well, although I greatly miss your valued company
.

As always
,
Godfrey

“Oh, dear,” I said.

“What is it, Nell?”

I could hardly admit how dreadful I felt that Godfrey was so far away, thinking of me, when I was happily ensconced in Paris working to prove that Sherlock Holmes was Jack the Ripper, and missing him not a jot.

“Godfrey has arrived safely.”

“So I deduced from the postmark.”

“He is sending you a letter in the very next post.”

“He had better. What did he say in this one?”

“Only that the poor superstitious residents of Prague are still nattering about the Golem being loose and on the rampage and that he will begin business meetings shortly.”

“Do they involve the Castle?”

“I . . . gather they do.”

“A pity we could not spare you to report from the scene, but you are of far more use here.”

“I am?”

“Of course.” She smiled and idly wound a long lock of her hair around her forefinger.

Elizabeth watched her as closely as I did. Irene girlish was an Irene to beware of.

“I have decided on a battle plan.” Irene pushed away her coffee cup as if realizing its bitter aroma. “You may finish your late breakfast, Nell,” she added, eyeing my empty plate. “But as soon as you are done, we will divide our forces and scatter like pigeons among the stones of Paris.”

“Scatter?” I asked faintly.

“Pink and I are off to the Eiffel Tower and the international displays at the World Exposition to investigate Red Indians.”

“And I?” I asked even more faintly, for it was clear that I was to venture forth alone, on my own, once again unescorted.

“Back to the bordello to investigate the matter of the
siège d’amour
upholstery.”

“They will not heed me, or answer any questions I may have.”

“Nonsense. I have great faith in your powers of persuasion, Nell. You need only obtain the name of the designer of the . . . couch and the address of his studio. They will understand that you were with me on the previous
visits
and that I—we—are serving persons too highly placed to ignore.”

“They will not remember that I was with you before, Irene! They never do. I shall undergo the humiliation of being driven out of a house of ill repute!”

She considered me for a few silent moments. “If you do not wish to go alone, there is an alternative.”

“Yes?”

“I doubt you would find it any more pleasant.”

“Anything! Even Inspector le Villard, if he must accompany me. I know you can persuade him, Irene.”

“Oh, we need not subject you to anything so unpleasant as that.”

“You are thinking of Sarah Bernhardt. You know I detest her even though she is your friend.” I sighed and sat up straight enough to pour tea for the Queen. “But I will tolerate her, if she will smooth the way for my awkward questions in that dreadful place.”

“No, I would never send you into such a situation in the company of a person you regarded as so scandalous.”

“I am relieved, but who is left?”

“No one, really, which is why I am afraid we must draw Sherlock Holmes into our equation again.”

“Him! But he may be a—” I glanced at Elizabeth just in time. She had been watching our conversation with the eager snapping glance of a cat engaged in following the short, futile flight of a canary in a cage. “—a rival in our investigation. We do not wish him to know what we do.”

“That is why I have already sent a note to his hotel advising him to expect you, with some evidence that might be of interest to him.”

“Evidence? What evidence? Only of your insanity and my absolute bewilderment.”

“La, Nell, this is simply a small exercise”—the fingers of Irene’s right hand rippled off a silent glissando on the immaculate table linens—“in using a rival to our own ends. You will bring him the container with the substance we plucked from the carpet at the, er,
maison de rendezvous.”

She glanced at Elizabeth as she avoided the word “bordello,” although the girl had the grace to flush nevertheless. I was beginning to wonder whether Elizabeth pinked so often out of shame, or simply frustration.

“I believe,” Irene went on, “that Mr. Holmes is irresistibly fascinated by minuscule bits of evidence, so the contents of your etui should occupy him for some time. And I am sure he is an authority recognized enough to demand cooperation at the
maison
when you question the madam about the provenance of the
siège d’amour.”

“I am thinking now, Irene, that I would rather carry out this task alone.”

She shook her head. “You needn’t worry that you will be providing our archrival with ammunition. From what you said of your interview yesterday, he had already admitted that your visit had been of some small use. What else would he have gleaned except the oddity of the
siège d’amour?
Only Mary Jane—once and briefly Marie Jeanne here in Paris, according to her own somewhat suspect testimony—was permitted to die upon her own bed, the only victim the Ripper killed indoors and supine. So were these two women killed in Paris. Indoors and supine. The London Police believe the Ripper is no longer on the loose because the killing of Mary Jane Kelly so far exceeded his previous violence that they think he either killed himself or went so mad he was sent to an institution.

“They underestimate the ability of the monster to be monstrous. I believe that the Kelly murder only whetted his taste for further excess.”

She smiled and handed me a buttered roll. “Now eat your breakfast.”

Of course I had no appetite at all after this discussion of the murders.

“You will need your strength,” she went on, “if you are going to outwit Sherlock Holmes at his own game.”

At least I knew the way to the man’s hotel, improper as such knowledge and such a journey was. At least I had taken an omnibus by myself before. And how strange it was, as I traveled alone amid the alien chatter and the subtle perfume of horse manure, for I began to be able actually to eavesdrop now and then. Sentence fragments suddenly flashed as clear as stones at the bottom of a shallow stream. Before the words had been obscured by audible murk with only an occasional pair understandable, and by the time I had recognized them and converted them into English, the foreign sentences had bounded into the next paragraph.

I tried not to think of Irene and Elizabeth exploring the exhibitions at the World Exposition, particularly the Wild West Show of Mr. Buffalo Bill.

Buffalo Bill! There you had everything that was immature and ridiculous about America bundled up into two words, into a single name. What kind of name was that for a man whose representations showed long white hair and a snowy goatee, like some skimpy American Santa Claus?

Imagine calling an Englishman . . . Hereford Harry! Or Guernsey Godfrey! The very thought made me burst into solitary laughter, which caused my fellow passengers to stop jabbering and stare at me, instead of me staring at them.