Ripper (12 page)

Thirteen

G
randmother,” I asked as I nonchalantly buttered a roll at breakfast the next morning, “why did you not tell me that my mother associated with the Pre-Raphaelites?”

Her fork clattered to the floor. She stared at me, unbelieving. After summoning Richard to bring her another fork, she flicked her eyes once again at Mother's portrait above us. Her eyes returned to me, and she said nothing.

Now I felt angered. I deserved the truth.

“Your estrangement from my mother was not only about her elopement with my father, was it?”

Richard returned with the fork.

“Thank you, Richard. Would you shut the door please?”

As soon as Richard left, Grandmother turned to me. I could tell that she was deciding how much to tell me. But then her eyes flashed angrily.

“I
knew
this would happen. I feared it. But I hoped that Rossetti woman would not know you were Caroline's daughter, or that she would have the good sense not to bring up Caroline's
brief
connections with them.” Her face quivered with rage. “Your mother's interest in painting became particularly serious when she connected to that Pre-Raphaelite circle. It was a wild phase, one that I am convinced led her to her hasty elopement with that
Frenchman
,
an amateur poet in the group.”

“You mean my father.”

At least, I had
thought
he was my father.

“Yes.” If her anger toward my mother had softened over the years, I could tell that Grandmother still bitterly hated my father. She was silent for another minute before continuing. Her eyes were glazed with tears.

“Abbie, you have
no
idea how tolerant I tried to be. I tolerated so much, until … ”

Her voice cracked and she paused.

“Until she eloped,” I said.

“No. Until I heard from a reliable source that she had modeled for a Rossetti painting.”

She had known!
Grandmother was no fool; she would know that this implied a love affair between Mother and Gabriel.

“When I heard from my London circle that she had done this, you can imagine my horror and embarrassment. We argued late into the night. Your mother had never been so angry at me.
I
had never been so angry at her.” Grandmother paused, her thoughts elsewhere. “The next morning, Caroline had run away with Jacque Sharp.”

“Did she ever write to you after that?”

Grandmother said nothing.

“She did,” I said angrily. “She
did
.
But you never wrote back until Sir Edgeworth sent you that note informing you that she was dying. She had disgraced you too much!”

When I saw the way Grandmother's face contorted into grief, the venom of my words caused me to recoil. She had never looked so vulnerable. She was like a wounded animal.

I might as well have struck her in the face.

“Do you think I'm not paying for that?” she said, so softly I could barely hear her. “I see her every time I look at you.”

“But you still try to force me to live like you.”

“I have given you liberties, Arabella.” Here she wagged her finger at me. “Although I dislike it, I have allowed you to see this William Siddal, to go to the Rossetti house, and to work in that East End hospital, excessively and at strange and even obscene hours. I wish that you might see how difficult all of this is for me, after what I went through with your mother.”

Full tears fell from her eyes at that moment.

She stood up and took a few breaths to regain composure. She wiped her eyes with a handkerchief, left abruptly, and went upstairs.

It was Saturday, so I was not scheduled to work at the hospital that day.

Simon stopped by briefly in the late afternoon to take tea with me and to examine Jupe. Rain poured outside, pelting against the windows and the guttering. I had still not seen Grandmother since that morning. I felt bitterly angry toward her, but I also felt guilty for hurting her so badly. I had not expected her to cry. If she did not make an appearance at dinner, I would try to talk to her.

After tea, Ellen brought Jupe downstairs to the parlor. Simon cut away most of the bandages and pronounced the dog better, prescribing only plenty of rest.

“Although finding time to rest should not be a problem for Sir Jupe.” He smiled.

I smiled too, weakly. It was difficult to summon humor in that moment.

Simon had so far gracefully tried to ignore my glumness and Lady Westfield's absence. But now he met my eyes. “Lady Westfield … ” he murmured.

“She is unwell.” I spoke too quickly, and I saw that Simon knew there was more to it.

We briefly discussed some hospital business. My spirits rose a little when he told me that he had weighed Lizzie that morning and that she had put on sufficient weight. He said that her survival was likely and that he did not think the nightly feedings were necessary any longer. Regarding other news, the victim Annie Chapman had been buried the day before. Simon had attended the small funeral and said that both Dr. Bartlett and Dr. Buck were there and were very gracious to her family.

Through the parlor window, I watched carriages slosh through great muddy puddles. Recalling my vision of Chapman's naked body, I thought of all the surgeons who had been poking, prodding, and cutting at her during the post-mortem examinations.

“I'm glad that she's finally buried, that she's at peace now,” I said out loud, still watching the carriages.

“Yes, finally,” Simon said, his voice cool as running water. Although he was reserved at times, Simon's friendship meant a great deal to me, and his demeanor was always calming even at the worst of times. I felt grateful for him now.

Grandmother did come down to dinner. She asked me about Jupe and wanted to know everything Simon had said about the little dog's health, but she said nothing about what had happened between us that morning. During dinner, she talked as if everything was normal, and I said nothing about our confrontation. In spite of my anger, which I still felt was justified, I decided it would be best to follow her lead.

That night as I slept, I dreamt of Mother. I was a child again, and we were on an outing near a beach. The sun burned hot on my face, and the ocean roared in the distance. Mother stood on top a large dune, her face shaded by an enormous hat, and she smiled, beckoned for me to come to her. I climbed, but the sand kept slipping out from under my feet and fingers. After grabbing onto roots and snatches of grass, I finally made it to the top of the dune.

“Mother!” I called.

But she had disappeared, and although I scanned the horizon, I could not see her anywhere.

When I awoke, it was the early hours of the morning, and my face was wet with tears.

On a Thursday almost two weeks later, as I stepped out of the carriage to walk up the steps of Whitechapel Hospital, I noticed that the air seemed strangely muggy for a fall day. The sky that morning was bright pink streaked with dark clouds, dark like liver spots on aged skin.

The
Times
and other newspapers had been trying to maintain public interest in the recent murders; some journalists even claimed to have received letters and bloody souvenirs from the murderer. Furthermore, the papers went so far as to name the killer—Jack the Ripper. But there had been no more murders, and, because of this, I had only vaguely followed these stories. I thought that most were probably sensationalized, trumped up by journalists to sell papers. Even though the Ripper still lingered for many as a public menace, at least at Whitechapel Hospital the general environment in the wards seemed more relaxed.

I had continued to assist Dr. Bartlett in delivery and surgeries, taking in all the information that I could about organs, illnesses, and procedures. That particular morning, I attended a surgery of one of the second floor patients who had been afflicted by upper abdominal pain and fevers. She had been in a carriage accident shortly before coming to us, and William feared that she might have an undiagnosed broken or cracked rib that had possibly poked or punctured an organ, causing pain and infection.

William was the operating physician in this case, and, as in many surgeries, Dr. Bartlett stood nearby, saying very little but making himself available if William needed assistance. He also explained to me what was happening as William went along. Except for two assisting nurses, I was the only other person in the operating room.

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” William said, frustrated when the rib proved to be merely cracked from the accident trauma.

I saw Dr. Bartlett watching William carefully from across the patient's body. “Nothing, William?”

William stared into the woman's open abdomen. I had watched him in many surgeries, and although skilled, sometimes he became flustered, missing something directly under his nose.

Fever. An infection must be going on. She had been in an accident, had experienced trauma. Upper abdominal pain.
My mind ached as I sorted through all the information I could remember about her.

“Spleen,” I said quickly. “Have you checked her spleen? A ruptured spleen from the accident might have brought on bleeding and asplenia.”

Dr. Bartlett caught my eye across the bed and gave a small nod. “Check it, William.”

William probed a bit in the opening. “Ah-
ha!
Congratulations, Abbie Sharp. There
is a small splenic rupture. Not serious, but the rupture might compromise her ability to fight infection, and there is a bit of bleeding. Here it is, Abbie, look. I don't think we should take the spleen out … ”

William glanced up at Dr. Bartlett, who nodded in confirmation

“Will she be all right?” I asked.

William nodded as he prepared to close the abdominal opening. “If she can beat this infection. Taking out the spleen entirely seems excessive given the small size of the rupture, which is already healing. This bit of bleeding should cease and reabsorb soon, as long as she stays off her feet for a while. The pain should go away at that point, too.”

As William stitched the patient up, I saw Dr. Bartlett's eyes settle upon me. The look was layered, undecipherable.

Fourteen

I
mmediately following the surgery, as he washed blood off his hands, William thanked me for bringing the spleen to his attention. He showed no sign of wounded pride for missing it. William had so many sides—he could be sardonic and easily flustered, yet display these shining moments of kindness.

Just before we left the operating room to go about our other work, he caught my arm. “Christina wants you to come over again. And frankly, so do I.”

I felt a rush of warmth and worry. Well aware of my attraction to William, I feared that I was plunging down a path from which I could not return. I had never experienced such feelings for anyone, and I felt split between trusting my desires and halting everything.

In that instant, at least, I sided with my desires. “I would love to visit—with both of you again.”

William seemed pleased, and we both returned to our more mundane work for the afternoon.

The second floor remained quiet that day, so I joined Mary in the laundry room. Laundry at Whitechapel Hospital was a task never fully conquered. With all the dirtied sheets, clothes, and beddings, the baskets in the tiny room seemed always full. I often spent an hour or two every day folding laundry, but
washing
days were unchallenging, tedious days spent scrubbing foul rags, towels, and nightgowns against a metal washboard. At the end of every washing day, I spent the evening trying to hide my raw and bloodied fingers from Grandmother. I feared the rest of this day would be devoted to washing.

Mary was scrubbing the laundry with speed and ferocity against the washboard. Soapy bubbles spilled over onto the floor. Then I noticed what seemed like small hailstones striking the window pane.

“Mary, Mary!” The shouts came from the street, two stories below.

Mary continued washing the laundry, ignoring both the shouter and the pebbles.

“I think someone is trying to get your attention,” I said.

“That would be Scribby. I haven't talked to him for two days.”

I peered out the window to see the same young man I had seen with Mary on the street that very first day I met her, enthusiastic about his new job.

“Argument?” I asked.

“Yes. And I thought I might see him today, Thursdays being his day off.”

“What did you argue about?” I asked. Perhaps it was a nosy question, but I was a bit curious. Mary didn't wear a wedding ring and she lived with Liliana, not with Scribby, so I assumed they weren't married. Nonetheless, I guessed the relationship was amorous in some way.

My nosiness must have annoyed her; Mary paused in her washing just long enough to flash me a look of fire.

I peered out the window once again. Scribby looked like a nice fellow, possibly one who didn't deserve Mary's foul treatment.

“Mary!” he called again.

Her mood was getting under my skin a bit, and I felt a little mischievous.

“Hello!” I yelled, prying open the window. Dried paint had sealed the lower part of the sill.

I ducked a little as a stone narrowly missed my head, bouncing to the floor behind me.

“Oh … sorry, miss!”

“Can I help you?” I shouted.

“Tell Mary … ”

Before he could finish, a constable shouted from down the street, “You!
You
!
Stop there!”

In a sudden, stupid panic, Scribby ran.

“Scribby!” Mary shouted, suddenly beside me, leaning out the window. She had transformed from indifferent to concerned.

“He wasn't bothering us!” I shouted. But it did not matter. The constable seemed intent on picking on someone that day.

Scribby ran, narrowly dodging carriages as he raced down Whitechapel Road. The constable had a hard time keeping up.

“He'll get away,” I said to Mary as I began to shut the window.

But then I saw a small child, no more than seven, look up from playing on the side of the street. With a fiendish smile, he shouted, “Hey!
Hey
!
He's chasin' the Ripper! He's chasin' the
Riiiipper
!”

Two women, sweeping out the guttering in front of a shop, shrieked. One shouted, “The Ripper! It's the Ripper!”

A burly man, unloading produce in front of a store, dropped his boxes and joined the chase, shouting to others that the constable had the Ripper in sight. He began running after the constable, who was still in hot pursuit of Scribby.

I could not believe how quickly mass chaos ensued on an otherwise ordinary Thursday afternoon.

Faces leaned out of windows. A few people, and then many, began flocking out of shops, workhouses, and even carriages—all intent on catching the Ripper. Whistles sounded as I saw police making their way through the growing crowd, trying to restore order. But the police force seemed too small in contrast to the enraged crowd at that point. By the time Scribby disappeared from my view, a full-blown mob was chasing him. I watched the scene unfold, unbelieving.

“
No! No!
”
Mary shouted, pushing past me to get to the stairs. “We have to help him! They're going to kill him.”

Nurses and even some patients ran down the stairs with us, slowing our pace. Sister Josephine, William, Simon, and several other hospital workers blocked the front doors, barring anyone from leaving.

I heard shouts and cries grow louder from the streets.

“Let me
through
,”
Mary screamed, elbowing her way through the small indoor crowd. William remained her final obstacle. He stood his ground, his back firmly against the doors. “No one can leave, Mary. The crowd out there is too dangerous.”

“He's her friend,” I said, pushing my way toward them. “William,
please
,
Mary and I can take care of ourselves,” I added calmly.

“Abbie.” William pulled me aside, all while maintaining his vice grip on Mary. Josephine's sharp voice rang out behind us in an attempt at restoring order. A few curious nurses still loitered near the front doors, hoping to get a glimpse of the excitement outside. “For once, Abbie,
listen
to me. It would be madness to go out there. No good can come of it.”

The shouting continued in the streets. I heard glass shatter somewhere. I had no idea how we could help him, but Mary and I could not just stay in here, leaving him alone to the mercy of that mob.

William's brow arched as he studied my expression. He knew he had not convinced me.
Was he relenting,
I wondered, or was he
just rethinking his tactics?

“Mary, I want to help you.” He still held her firmly around the shoulders. I noticed Mary relax a little. At the same time, William placed his hand on my back reassuringly. “Let's step over here and talk rationally.”

Rationally?
I prickled at the word. My neck grew hot. I felt a small fury toward William that I had not felt since my first day in the hospital. He led us a few steps away from the entrance, toward a side hall.

When he turned me toward him in the narrow hall, I felt a quiver in my stomach and a bloodrush in my cheeks, despite my anger.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I
cannot
let you go out there.”

Instantly, he opened a door and shoved Mary and me through it.

I heard a lock bolt us in.

“No!”
I screamed.

Mary cursed, kicking at the door. “If we could just get
outside
!”
she screamed. “I think I might know where Scribby is heading. He works at the docks. He was running in that direction. There's a warehouse there that he might be in … ” She continued to kick.

Frantically, I looked around, trying with much difficulty to put a lid upon my angry feelings toward William. I needed to focus on escaping. I saw buckets, bedsheets, and boxes stacked along the wall and then along shelves on the other wall. The room was tiny, about the same size if not smaller than the laundry room upstairs. Though it was mostly dark, light seemed to be coming from somewhere in the closet other than from the crack under the door.

It seemed the light was streaming down from above the shelves.

Mary continued to kick the door, cursing William to hell in the process.

“Mary!
Stop
!
I think there's a window.”

She hoisted me up, and when I reached the top shelves, I saw a giant box blocking a small window. With much effort I tried to move it, but then just pushed against it.

“Watch out!” I yelled as the box crashed to the floor.

The window was small and narrow, but I thought we could fit through.

Mary had already climbed to the top shelf and crouched beside me.

“Kick it!” she said.

I did, and shattered the glass with surprising ease. We slid out, one at a time, into the alley beside the hospital.

The riot sounds continued, though they had moved away from the hospital.

“I know a back way to the docks!” Mary shouted as we ran out of the alley. “I'm nearly certain that Scribby is heading for that warehouse. It's huge, five floors at least, most of them empty. But there are plenty of places to hide from the police and the others.”

Mary led me away from the crowd's shouts. “We'll figure out how to smuggle him away when we get there,” she yelled back at me.

“
Abbie! Abbie!
”
I heard William's enraged voice shouting from the front steps.

“
Hurry!
”
Mary shouted. “Don't let him catch up with us.”

We cut through alleyways, jumped over steps, and climbed over alley gates. I had no idea where we were, but I trusted that Mary knew the route. She was fast and light-footed.

Suddenly, after going through many narrow alleyways, we emerged into an enormous, dirt-packed lot. Shouts roared, though I did not see the crowd. The warehouse, gigantic and seemingly abandoned, loomed ahead of us. We appeared to be at the back of the building. It was then that I understood Mary's plan. The crowd had just reached the front of the building. Giant wooden fences flanked both sides of the warehouse, connecting to the sides of nearby buildings; and, at least for the time being, effectively sealing the crowd away from the back lot in which we stood.

All the back windows were either broken or boarded up. Padlocks on the two visible back doors had been snapped.

“I was right. He's in here,” Mary said, running toward one of the broken but unboarded windows. “The crowd is in front, so he
must
have gotten in somehow.”

We crawled through the open window. A musty smell assaulted my nose. Cat-sized rats scurried along the base of the walls. Water dripped from large cracks in the first floor ceiling.

Luck seemed to be a bit on our side. Every one of the front-facing windows on the first story had been boarded up tightly. If the windows had had only glass as a barrier, the crowd would have already been in the warehouse. Still, the sturdy boards could be broken down with moderate effort. We had to hurry; I knew it was only a matter of time before the crowd either broke in through the front or breached the high side fences.

“Over here,” Mary said. “He'll be upstairs.”

On the far side of the room, a steep iron staircase twisted upward into the ceiling. We ran toward it.

“
Scribby!
”
Mary shouted. “Scribby! I'm here.”

“Abbie!” I heard a shout from somewhere behind us, on the first floor, after we had ascended.

William!

“Scribby! Where are you?” Mary shouted.

Several open rooms lined the damp, darkened hallway of the second floor.

“Here!” Scribby shouted from the room immediately to our left.

He was crouched underneath a large wooden table. He had lost his hat and his clothes had been torn, his right pant leg tattered and blood-soaked. Blood streamed from his temple.

“Scribby, Scribby,” Mary whispered in a soft voice. “We're here now. It's going to be all right. I know a way out.”

He nodded at me: “I'm so sorry for getting the both of you into this mess. You didn't have to follow me here.” He sucked in his breath from the pain. “I can't run. I think there's something broken in my leg. I barely made it here, Mary. They got me for a moment. Thought I was going to die then. A big guy took a hammer to my leg. But I broke away—got in here through a side crawlspace.”

“
Abbie!
Mary!” William ran into the room, his face scarlet. He looked angry. Terribly angry.

Ignoring William, I peeked through a crack in the boards across a nearby window. The crowd below was enormous now. Several policemen blew whistles and lined up against the front of the warehouse, attempting to block the crowd. Still, it could break through. We did not have much time.

“William, you need to do something for his leg!”I yelled.

“I
cannot
,”
William said in quiet anger as his eyes cut into me. He crouched down by Scribby, who winced as William examined the bloody part of his leg. “It's fractured—maybe broken clear through. It must be set, but I don't have any medical equipment here, obviously.”

He sighed loudly and stood up. “This was a foolish and futile endeavor, Abbie. I tried to prevent you from doing this.”

Mary glared at William. “You locked us in a
closet
.”

Gunfire erupted outdoors.

William and I ran to the crack in the boarded-up window. Police reinforcements had arrived. Scotland Yard carriages lined the street. Inspector Abberline stood amidst the crowd, his gun raised to the sky.

“
Everybody leave now! Stop this nonsense!
”
his voice boomed out. “We are pursuing a petty criminal,
not the Ripper murderer.
I repeat:
Not the Ripper murderer! Leave!
All of you leave at once! ”