Read sample The Whitechapel Mystery | A gripping historical crime novel set in Jack the Ripper’s Victorian London

CHAPTER 1

Near me, a big man shouts over my head to a friend on the opposite side of the road, cupping his hands round his mouth. “By the cat meat shop!” he yells over the traffic’s din. Past the tight-packed rows of dwellings I go, through Princelet Street, until I reach the place. Sure enough, a big cluster has gathered outside Mrs. Hardiman’s Cat Meat Shop. More and more people are pressing around me now, slavering and baying. They’re craning their necks to see. Some men are even hoisting their little ones on their shoulders to get a look. There are a few newspaper hacks here, too, dressed better than the rest of us, all trying to snuffle up the juicy details.

In the crowd, I spot people I know. There’s Widow Gipps and her creepy half-wit son, Abel. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. And Bert Quinn, the knife grinder, skin like a roasted chestnut—he’s here, too. And Mrs. Puddiphatt. She lives on our street. Where there’s trouble, there’s Mrs. Puddiphatt. Sniffs it out, she does, with her big nose. There’s Jews, too. Plenty of Jews. They’re selling jellied eels from a barrow like it’s a carnival, not a killing we’ve all come to see. But I’m looking for Flo, my big sister. I lost her somewhere down Wilkes Street. I bet I know where she’s gone. She’s friends with Sally Richardson, whose ma has a lodging house that backs onto Brown’s Lane. She’ll blag a favor and hope to get a good view of the backyard where they say it happened. Them that lives here are charging sixpence a pop, just for a gander. You can’t blame the poor beggars, but you won’t catch Flo parting with her money when she can get a good view for free.

Truth is, I don’t want to see it. The body, I mean. If it’s anything like the last one, I know I’ll want to retch. I read about Polly Nichols in the papers, see. What did the Star say? She was “‘completely disemboweled, with her head nearly gashed from her body.’” What sort of maniac could do such a thing? I ask you. And now this one.

A shout down our street woke us all up this morning, Flo and me and Ma. Dawn it was. Barely light. Nippy too. Flo stuck her head out the window. A moment later, she’s back.

“There’s been another!” she tells me, eyes wide as saucers. So she drags me out of my bed, all bleary, and says we’re going to see what’s what. That’s how it is around here. We look out for each other. Everyone knows everyone’s business in these parts, so when one of your neighbors is murdered, then it’s your business, too. And this, this madman—well, he seems not to care who he picks on as long as they’re on the streets.

Maisie Martin was in the Frying Pan on Brick Lane the other night. Flo told me that her friend had been sleeping with her babes not five yards away from where the fiend did his work on poor Polly. She’d heard a scream, then thuds, like someone was hitting her front door. But she froze. She didn’t even dare to look out the window; she was that scared for her little ’uns. And, well, she might’ve been. They found Poll a few paces away, her throat slit and her guts ripped from her body like tripe on a butcher’s block.

Now there’s four women dead since April and the last two’ve been filleted not three streets away from us. When that happens, then you sits up and takes notice, don’t ya? No one’s been done for them, so he’s still on the prowl. There are suspects, of course. They say a Jew did both of the latest ones. Or that it’s the Fenians, them Irish blokes. After Polly, Old Bill started asking us all questions. Did we see anyone acting funny? Did we know them that was done for? But no one’s behind bars, waiting for the hangman. And I don’t mind telling you, that no woman round Whitechapel feels safe.

Anyway, Hanbury Street and Brick Lane is crawling with coppers. There’s a ring of dark blue round Number 29. They’re telling people to keep back. One or two of the rossers are even waving truncheons about, showing they mean business. There’s an ambulance, too. The horses don’t like the crowd. They’re getting restless.

Rumors are racing round like fleas on a dog’s back.

“It’s Dark Annie,” I hear someone growl.

“Annie Chapman?”

“So they say.”

It’s no one I know. I’m feeling relieved when I hear someone yell my name. “Con!” I switch round. “Con!” It’s Flo, a few feet away from me, standing in a doorway. She beckons me to come quick. I break free from the huddle around me.

“Did you see anything?” I ask, scuttling across the street.

She shakes her head. “All I sees was a pair of laced-up boots and red-and-white–striped stockings. Sticking out of a piece of old sack, they was. Then they came to take her off.” She jerks her head over to the waiting ambulance. Her voice is flat, like she’s missed the star act at a variety show. Then, as if she’s trying to make up for her own disappointment, she adds with a cheery shrug: “I ’eard ’er innards ’ave been ripped out, too.”

I cringe at the thought. “You reckon it’s Leather Apron again?” I ask, but before she can answer, a roar goes up. I wheel round to see the crowd craning and pointing. Old Bill’s telling everyone to move back. They’re sliding the body on a stretcher into the ambulance to carry it off. We watch as they shut the doors and slowly the cart pulls off down the street. It takes a while. There’s idiots who cling onto it. Lads mainly. But a few sharp blows with a copper’s truncheon soon sort out that problem and off the ambulance goes to the mortuary.

“Come on,” says Flo, taking my arm. “We’ve seen all we can, for now.”

I’m glad she’s not going to try and sneak another peek of the yard. I’ve had quite enough excitement for one day.

She has not seen me. I wanted to reach out and touch her from here, in the cold shadows, but I did not. Not yet. I’ve been away, you see. Not for long. Five weeks and three days, to be precise. But much has changed since I left. The district is in the grip of a new terror. The horrors that I knew were different in nature, but daily: the starveling in the gutter, the homeless old man dying of cold, the young widow poisoning herself to death on gin. But, unlike poverty, this new horror is not slow and insidious. It’s swift and brutal. It’s barbarous and depraved. It’s murder of the most vile and visceral kind. And, what’s more, it is happening on the streets I know so well. It’s happening in Whitechapel.

The rumors among the crowd are true. Annie Chapman – or Dark Annie as she was known because of her hair color - is the latest victim. I knew her in life. She was a harmless soul. She used to scrape by doing crochet and making artificial flowers. But when she didn’t have enough money to feed herself, she did what most other women in her position had to do, she took to the streets. And, like most women in her position, she also took to the bottle so that the next day she might not remember the sunless alley or the stairwell, nor the grunting and the thrusting and the insults that so often came her way.

Yes, I knew Annie Chapman and I knew she was not well. I could tell by the pallor of her skin and the cough that she so often stifled with the back of her hand that she was suffering from a serious malaise. A few weeks before she was murdered, she came into St. Jude’s. She just sat in a pew at the back and took in the beauty of the place and then she bowed her head. It was hard to tell if it was in prayer or because she felt unwell. Either way, she found a sanctuary in the church. I hope she took away with her a little of the tranquility that she seems to have enjoyed that day. I wish I could have shared that peace with her, too. But it was not to be and the early hours of September 8 were to be her last on earth.

And I witnessed them.

I was in Hanbury Street as dawn was breaking. A stiff wind helped chase away the dark clouds, but still poor Annie had not had a wink of sleep. Turned out of her lodging house because she did not have enough money to pay, she’d roamed the streets all night, touting for business. None had come her way, so far. Barely able to stand because of the giddiness she felt, she’d lurched from one corner to the next. Her poor hands were numb and the nausea was rising in her throat. Little wonder she’d had not a single customer—until then.

From out of the shadows, he appeared and approached her. Of course, she did not know him. To her, he was just another lusty man whose urges needed satisfying. But I knew. I saw her nod in agreement at his words and I saw her being led through a doorway down a long passage. I followed with dread in my heart. I was powerless to help as I saw her walk down the steps into the yard beyond. I watched as she bunched up her skirts and leaned against the fence, splaying her legs in readiness. It was then that he loomed over her and then that I think poor Annie knew something terrible was about to happen. I heard her call, “No!” But it was too late. His hand was already pressed against her mouth. She flailed her arms and scratched at his hands as they tightened round her throat. She must have felt the cold steel on her neck then, because soon the warm syrup of her own blood was coursing through her fingers. I pray she fell insensible immediately. I pray that she was spared any knowledge of what he did next when he lifted her skirts and ripped her with his knife.

After that, I only stayed long enough to see a man open the back door of his home and stumble across the body in his backyard. Wild-eyed, he turned, shambled down the passage, then staggered out onto the street to summon help. And I? I had seen enough, too. But the questions that swirled around in my head reared up once more, just as they did after Martha Tabram and Polly Nichols. Could I have done more to stop this? Should I have done more to stop this? Sometimes I wonder if my own weakness has betrayed my sex, my own cowardice condemned these women? The answer to these questions is that, despite all that has happened to me, I am still powerless to change the minds of evil men. I can only guide those who are willing to listen and through them hope to exert an influence for the good.

The first policeman had been summoned as I took one more look at poor Annie Chapman, her blood still pooling on the ground. There was no more I could do.

CHAPTER 2

They’re leering at me, in their ragged clothes, with snotty noses and grins on their dirty faces. None of the draggle-haired nippers can be more than twelve, but I’m scared as hell. I know I shouldn’t be, but their stupid rhyme sends me all ashiver.

“Get away!” I growl through clenched teeth.

“Three whores is dead, and soon you’ll be, too,” they repeat.

“Bugger off!” I lunge at them and shout so loud I startle a passing gent. His monocle pops out of his eye socket in surprise. Anyway, my bawling does the trick. The mangy urchins turn and scuttle off like the sewer rats they are.

This may be swanky Piccadilly, where the ladies and gents dress up to the nines, and it could be a million miles away from Whitechapel, but still my heart’s beating twenty to the dozen and my mouth’s dry as sandpaper. Bold as brass they were, all cocky and brave. And they can be, ’cos they’re not the ones he’s after. He’s after girls and women who work on the streets. The ones who are out at night, drinking their gin by the gill, so they don’t feel the pain as much; so they don’t have to think on what they’ve become.

You’ve got to pity them. I do, at any rate. Miss Tindall’s taught me that. Most of them were once wives or mothers and fate’s dealt them a cruel hand. They’ve all got their hard-luck stories to tell; how their masters had their way with them and landed them with a bun in the oven—I mean, with child—or how they lost their husbands or were beaten by them and forced to leave their homes. Men, eh? Can’t live with them, can’t live without ’em.

I don’t go with ’em, myself. My ma says we’re not that desperate … yet. I can tell you there are plenty of poor souls that do round here. Amelia Palmer, Mary Kelly, Pearly Poll. I know ’em all. Salt of the earth, by and large, they are. Granted, some of them are out to fleece their gents for an extra bob or two, but then I can talk. That’s what we do, see. Well, when I says “we,” I mean Flo, really. I don’t like helping her out, only I do, ’cos thieving’s not as bad as selling your body. But I’m still out at night, earning a living, of sorts. That’s why I’m outside this theater tonight with my basket of posies.

In March and April, I sell oranges. They’re the best. You don’t throw them away like you have to with the blooms sometimes. This late in the year, it gets harder. There’s not much left. I managed to buy the last of the lavender today and tied some up in bunches. The ladies like them, they do, to sweeten their cupboards and chests. Moss roses too. Make them up nice myself, I do. I get the rush to tie them for nothing; then I put their own leaves round them. The paper for a dozen costs a penny, sometimes only a ha’penny, if Big Alf’s feeling kind. He’s a gentle giant, he is. Used to work on the railways till his accident, but he’ll do me a deal if I flash my pearly whites. And rosebuds. They always go down well with sweethearts—and when they come to buy from me, Flo slips her hand in their pockets, and relieves them of a few pennies, or of their watches or anything else we can sell. Once or twice, she’s done it too brown and been rumbled. The coppers have gone after her, and almost nabbed her, but somehow she’s always managed to dodge them at the end of the day. She’s slipped into a front room or a shop doorway and just disappeared.

Me? I don’t like that sort of thing. I’m keeping my head down right now. But ’cos—sorry, I should say because; I know my letters, Mr. Bartleby—he’s Ma’s beau—he buys a penny dreadful of an evening and we all sit round and I read out the latest news from the Sun or the Star. I’m the only one in my family who reads proper, you see. My old man, God rest his soul, he taught me how when I was no more than seven. I’d sit on his knee and he’d make the sounds of the letters and point to the page. By nine, I was reading to him; by twelve, I was off with the Pickwick Papers. I used to have a good giggle at that Mr. Pickwick, I did. Miss Tindall, at the church mission, loaned me her books each week: Pilgrim’s Progress and Gulliver’s Travels. I didn’t care for them too much. The words were too fancy, but then she gave me a dictionary and taught me how to look up what I didn’t understand. Then it was like someone switched on one of them big electric lights in the theater and everything became crystal clear. Soon I found books about girls, Clarissa and Vanity Fair. Becky Sharp—now, there was a gal who knew her mind. Miss Tindall said that although I oughtn’t to praise her behavior, it was good for a woman to have—what was the big word she used?—espir … aspiration. Yes, that’s it. She told me I’ve been given a great gift and that I’d “set foot on the path to betterment.” She said there’s some that’s happy to stay in the gutter, but there’s a few, like me, who’s looking up at the stars. So I started to help out at Sunday school, teaching the youngsters their letters, and, in return, Miss Tindall, well, she’s been helping me to be more of a lady. You can always tell a lady, Miss Tindall says, and not just by her clothes. It’s the way she walks and holds herself and the way she talks, too. So Miss Tindall started to teach me to talk proper. Or should it be properly? There are all sorts of rules about how you ought to speak if you’ve any hope of being a lady, so I try and follow them. Well, some of the time.

I think I’m doing well. Of course, I slips back to the ol’ Cockney when I’m with my own kind; but when I’ve a mind, I can put on airs and graces as good as Sarah Siddons and the like. The thing is, I ain’t—I haven’t—seen Miss Tindall these past six weeks. She’s not taken Sunday school and no one will tell me where she is. Anyhow, that’s why I pronounce my aitches and say “them,” instead of “’em,” like Flo, when I remember. She says I’m getting stuck-up, but I’m not. I just want a better life, and someday I might get to be a shopgirl and work in Piccadilly at Fortnum & Mason, or at Harrods, and leave Whitechapel behind. Of course, Miss Tindall says, I should set my sights even higher and aim to study at her old Oxford college, Lady Margaret Hall. Well, you’ve got to laugh. But she reckons I can make something of myself, and that means a lot to me. It means I can get out of the East End for a start.

Well, I can tell you, it’s a scary place to be right now. It gives me the creeps, reading out loud ’bout what he done to them poor souls; the last two have been the worst. Some call him the Whitechapel Murderer, or Leather Apron, because he was a nasty piece of work already known round these parts. Everyone thought it was that Jew, John Pizer, but the coppers nabbed him earlier this week and let him go again because he had good alibis. Anyway, I have to read out to Flo and Ma and Mr. Bartleby how he slit Polly Nichols so deep that his knife ripped through her stomach. And, Lord help me, how he made off with Annie’s womb. Imagine that! And I says this out loud and everyone listening goes “errgh” and “aargh,” and then they says “go on” and I’m expected to read it like it was a nursery rhyme or a fairy tale. But it’s not. It’s real and it gets in my head, it does, like a bad dream, and I can’t shake it off.

So that’s how these rascals manage to terrify the living daylights out of me. That’s why I hate walking all the way to the West End to pretend to sell flowers to ladies and gents outside the theaters when all I really wants to do is stay at home with the door bolted. But tonight’s different, because tonight, now I’ve got rid of my flowers and my basket is empty, we’re going to the theater ourselves. I’m just waiting for Flo, you see. Her sweetheart, Danny Dawson, is the doorman at this here Egyptian Hall. He’s greasy as an old frying pan. His hair’s slicked back with oil and his moustache is waxed sharp at the ends. He’s always trying to steal a kiss from Flo—and from me when he’s had a few too many—and I don’t like him. The Lord knows what Flo sees in him. She could have her pick of any man she flutters her peepers at. She’s that pretty. But Flo says she and Danny’ll get wed next year, once they’ve put a bit aside, and then he’ll be family. I’m hoping that means she’ll give up thieving. Ma’ll have one less mouth to feed, at least. Her eyes aren’t good with all the sewing she takes in. She needs to rest them or she’ll go blind.

Anyway, that’s why I’m standing on these theater steps in the West End, under the glare of the streetlamps, surrounded by crowds of people packing the pavements before they go in to watch the show. We’re going to see a famous American illusionist. Mr. Hercat is his name, and we’re in for an evening of Mirth! Mystery! Music!—at least that’s what the poster says. There’s a nip in the air and I pull my shawl around me. But I’m still shaking, not with the cold, or with excitement, but with fear. Them boys have reminded me that afterward Flo and me have got to walk back through Whitechapel in the dark.

“Come on, Con!” Flo says, grabbing me by the arm. She gives me that much of a fright that I gasp. I forget, too, that I usually tell her not to call me that. I always says to her: “My name is Constance.” And she always goes: “La-di-da, fat cigar!” and pulls a face, telling me I’ve got ideas above my station. She says I’m silly to have my dreams and silly to let Miss Tindall turn my head so. She can upset me sometimes. But tonight I’m just glad to see her. I’m glad when she puts her hand in mind, and I’m even gladder that when we go round the back of the hall to the stage door in the alley with all the rubbish and the rats, that it’s Danny waiting for us, his face glistening in the lamplight, and not a man with a knife stepping out of the shadows.

The streets of Whitechapel have been much quieter this week, since the murders. Few respectable women venture out after dark and even men seem more cautious, a little too eager to accompany one another in an unspoken show of solidarity, yet not wishing their eagerness for companionship to be misconstrued as weakness. Into the stead of the common throng step the policemen, the men of the Metropolitan and City of London police forces. They do their shambling best, but it is really not good enough, and at the Whitechapel Workhouse Infirmary the business of life—and death—continues as usual.

It is Friday evening and every Friday evening Terence Cutler, an obstetrician and fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons, pays his weekly visit. Tall, in his midthirties and with sandy-colored hair that is thinning slightly, he possesses—on the surface, at least—an air of calm efficiency, which is so often mistaken for arrogance. Normally, he appears a gentleman who is confident of his own professional abilities, although his personal qualities are a little more precarious. His youthful activities with the women he was later to treat have left an unfortunate legacy. On this particular evening, it is evident to me that he is deeply troubled, although not by irksome symptoms of a purely physical nature. The room is cool, verging on cold, but there is sweat on his forehead.

“Just the one tonight, Mrs. Maggs?” he asks as he steps away from the shivering girl lying on the table. Her skirts are rucked up around her waist and her bent legs are spread wide.

The midwife, a solid, woman, with a frizz of gray hair escaping from her dirty cap, is disposing of the contents of a chipped enamel bowl down the sluice.

“Aye, sir,” Mrs. Maggs replies in her brusque Scottish manner. She returns to the girl and lowers her limbs onto the table, one after the other, restoring a vestige of dignity to someone who has lost all else. And there, the patient remains motionless, either too drugged or too afraid to make a move. It is not clear which.

The surgeon glances back, rather wistfully, I think, and studies his charge as she lies submissively, like a sacrificial lamb on an altar. She is a waif and her blond hair, made darker by sweat, is plastered around a small head. Her complexion is almost as white as the wall tiles.

“She’s but a child,” I hear Cutler mutter. His voice is despairing, almost tremulous. I know he is wondering how it ever came to this.

“Aye, sir,” replies Mrs. Maggs, cheerful as a housewife at a market stall. “She’s a wee one. They seem to get younger every year,” she replies, leaning over the girl. She tilts her head in thought, then adds: “It’ll take more than a change in the law to stop it.” A large flap of loose skin hangs down from her jaw, hiding her neck and reminding me of a turkey. It wobbles as she speaks again. “Another drop o’ laudanum’ll see her right.” She produces a dark glass bottle from her apron pocket, jerks round to make sure the surgeon is occupied, then takes a swift swig from it herself before offering it to the girl.

Cutler, his back turned on such misdeeds, shakes his head and glances at his hands. The lines on his palms are red with blood, as if someone has taken a pen and drawn them in ink. The rims around his nails are red, too. He reaches for a brush and begins to scrub them, taking even more than his usual care. It is as if he is trying to slough off something particularly vile. The trouble is, he knows he has become as corrupted as the diseased flesh he so often treats. He had started off with such high ideals. He would rid the world of the scourge of syphilis. But the French malady, despite its Gaelic soubriquet, is not fashionable, at least not among the moneyed classes who could further his career.

Meanwhile, the old midwife pats the girl’s clenched hand as it settles on her chest. “Och! But you’ll live, won’t ya, dearie?” She switches back to the surgeon with a smile. “And you’ll be able to get on your way sooner tonight, sir.”

“What?” replies Cutler, deep in thought.

“You’re finished for tonight.”

“Yes, indeed.” His reply is halfhearted. He does not bother to turn round to address her. Why he would want to go back home sooner defeats him at the moment. There is nothing and no one for whom he needs to return. A well-connected wife had been necessary at the time, so his research into venereal disease, while not stopping, needed to be conducted in secret. Upon his marriage, his papers and the lurid photographs of infected patients, so vital to his research, suddenly became incriminating to the lay eye. He was forced to keep them under lock and key, as if they were pornographic—a guilty and perverted secret.

The midwife’s gray brows dip in reflection as she turns away from the table to busy herself. “No one wants to hang around Whitechapel at the moment.”

“No, indeed,” Cutler agrees. He nods at Mrs. Maggs over his shoulder, then turns back to finish washing his hands with carbolic soap. As he does so, I see his large moustache twitch as if his features have relaxed a little. He seems relieved that he will not be called upon again this evening.

The midwife takes another surreptitious swig of laudanum as if to give herself courage. “These terrible murders are making all of us fret,” she continues. Her tone remains cheerful and I suppose the laudanum is having an effect on her mood.

“I am sure,” Cutler replies without conviction. He is clearly humoring the woman out of his innate politeness. Shaking his hands over the basin, he turns to take the towel left out for him on a nearby rail. The chipped enamel dish has been deposited nearby. I see his eyes collide with it accidentally, then deliberately veer away, his face registering an expression of mild disgust. Next he divests himself of his spattered apron as if it is riddled with plague. Throwing it into the nearby laundry basket, he strides toward the frock coat that is hanging from a peg on the back of the door. He waits a second to allow the midwife to do him the service of passing it to him.

Mrs. Maggs continues unabashed: “Och! The women are all beside themselves with fright.” This time her tone is more measured, as if even the laudanum could not expunge the threat that hung over the district.

“We must all be vigilant,” replies Cutler as the midwife suddenly realizes what is expected of her and helps him ease on his coat.

We are in a long, narrow room. The light from the gas lamps bounces off the white tiles on the walls. A large, low cabinet with a marble top sits to one side. On it, various implements lie—a curette spoon and leather tubing—while a row of bottles is lined up neatly on a shelf above. The acrid smell—a sharp tang that might usually sting the nostrils and claw at the back of one’s throat—was quite overwhelming at first. Now, however, it seems to have dissipated.

“Thank you, sir,” says the midwife, handing Cutler his case. Her cheerful tone suddenly reemerges and her jowls wobble.

The surgeon is just about to gather his things when the girl on the table draws up her legs, pulling them toward her, and lets out a little moan. Cutler pauses at the sound. Turning around, he casts a concerned look at his young patient. “She will need plenty of rest,” he tells the midwife.

The woman nods smugly. “Her guardian is sending a carriage for her later,” she replies, folding her arms across her stained apron. “He’ll be sure to see to her care.”

I can tell Cutler has to force down his feelings on the matter. I see him bite his tongue. He manages an ironic smile. “I am sure he will,” he mutters as he reaches for his medical bag on the marble-topped cabinet. As he does so, the sleeve of his coat rides up to expose the blood on his shirt cuff. He pauses for a moment, as if to study it.

“I almost forgot,” chimes in the midwife. It is clear that she did not, but she intends to appear nonchalant. She reaches into her apron pocket and waves an envelope under the surgeon’s nose. The handwriting appears educated. Mr. Cutler, for services rendered, it reads. “From her guardian,” she tells him. Her eyes flick to the table and back.

Cutler relieves her of the envelope. “Of course,” he replies, taking out a coin from his own pocket and handing it to the eager midwife. “Thank you, Mrs. Maggs,” he says, opening his case and dropping the envelope into it, as if it were a fetid rag. As he picks up his hat, he glances at the girl one final time, and his shoulders heave from an audible sigh.

“Do we know her name?” he asks, not really expecting a reply.

The midwife snorts. “Best not to, sir,” she tells him, covering the shivering child with a coarse blanket. He accepts the wisdom of the drink-addled old crone. But from the table, the girl stirs.

“Molly,” she croaks through chattering teeth. “My name is Molly.”

The surgeon pauses. It is clear he hadn’t expected the child to speak for herself. He walks forward a couple of paces and leans toward her. Her eyes flicker as she regards him through a blur of tears. Cutler’s mouth opens, but then words fail him. He had intended to offer her some morsels of comfort, but he can find none. It’s as if his breath has suddenly deserted him. He simply pats her cold arm and turns away.

I follow him out into the corridor. It is dark by comparison. Only a single lamp burns. The smell is different, too. The walls of the Whitechapel Workhouse Infirmary are damp with mildew and the plaster is crumbling. The surgeon knows where to go. He turns right toward the main entrance, past the woman’s ward, where the constant coughing seems to drown out all other noise. Just as he comes to within a few yards of the door, however, he hears a familiar voice.

“Cutler!” It is James Holt, the infirmary’s medical director. He appears at the doorway of his office. His dark hair is disheveled and his eyes are bloodshot. Here is a man who has fallen from grace. An unfortunate misjudgment with a scalpel as he performed surgery on a society heiress has led him to his present position. He’s found comfort in the bottle, but very little elsewhere. It seems to Cutler, and to me, that he has just woken from a deep sleep.

“Good evening, Dr. Holt.”

The director clears his throat and beckons Cutler into his office, glancing furtively down the corridor to ensure they are not seen. He shuts the door behind them.

“Have the police spoken to you yet?” he asks anxiously.

Cutler can smell whisky on his breath and his eyes stray to the half-empty bottle on his desk. He doesn’t even try and hide it anymore, he thinks. He shakes his head. “They’ve been here?”

Holt nods. “Oh yes,” he replies emphatically, slumping back onto the edge of his desk. “They’ve been here, all right, questioning some of the women and all the staff.”

I see Cutler’s jaw start to work a little. “Did they ask… ?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And… ?”

“And, naturally, I told them you treated women’s diseases. No more.”

Cutler’s expression relaxes. “I am grateful to you.”

“I’m sure I’ll have cause to call in the favor ere too long,” replies Holt, raising one of his brows.

There is an awkward silence as both men consider their own predicaments. For a moment, the labored coughs from the women’s ward are all that can be heard.

“Polly Nichols… ,” Cutler blurts suddenly, as if a thought had just hit him.

Holt raises his hand. “There is no record. I made sure of that.”

Cutler nods and lets a pent-up breath escape through his mouth.

“Drink?” Holt holds up the bottle of whisky.

“No,” replies Cutler sharply, then adds as an afterthought: “Thank you.”

“Ah,” says Holt with a smile. “The lovely Mrs. Cutler. Do give her my regards, won’t you, old chap?”

“I will,” answers the surgeon with a nod. What he neglected to say was that he has neither seen nor heard from his wife, Geraldine, in over a month. He opens the office door and walks the few paces down the corridor toward the main entrance, where an elderly porter presides at a desk.

“Good night, Mr. Cutler,” chirps the man with a nod of his bald head.

Cutler acknowledges him, but almost reluctantly, it seems. Can he trust him to stay silent? The trouble is, he is known to too many people in these parts, he tells himself. Plumping his top hat on his head, he is just about to cross the threshold out onto the street when his progress is halted by the sudden approach of two women. One, quite young in appearance, is leaning on another, obviously in considerable distress. Blood is flowing freely from her mouth and she is clutching her jaw.

“A doctor, please! Help ’ere!” squawks the older woman as soon as she sets foot in the infirmary. She flaps her free arm frantically. Cutler notes her sleeve is covered in blood.

The porter answers her call immediately. “Let’s be ’aving you,” he says, ringing a bell behind his desk to summon help. He is clearly used to receiving such visitors and there is little urgency in his actions. But as soon as the young woman lifts her bruised and bloodied face, he shakes his head disapprovingly. “Well, well. If it ain’t Mary Jane Kelly … again.” The resignation in his voice is verging on disdain.

At the mention of the woman’s name, Cutler, who has been standing motionless watching the drama play out in front of him, seems to hone in on her. Just as the porter is directing her toward the wards, she, too, looks up and sees the surgeon’s gaze clamped on her face. There is a flicker of recognition in her eyes. For a brief second, I think she might say something. Her swollen lips part, but her companion tugs at her arm.

“Come on, my girl,” she urges. “You’re making a mess on the floor.” She points to the blood dripping on the tiles.

It is a good moment for Cutler to leave. He sidesteps the women and makes a dash for the street. Outside, it is a crisp evening and his own breath suddenly wreathes him in great whorls. He surveys the thoroughfare. There is still traffic—several carriages and four or five carts, but few pedestrians. And those who venture out on foot seem to be walking faster than usual. He has no wish to join them. He will hail a hansom cab and in less than an hour he will be a world away from this violence and squalor, back in his comfortable home in Harley Street. But few cabs will answer his whistle in Charles Street. He knows it will behoove him to walk a few hundred yards toward Whitechapel Road. Stopping under a gas lamp, he flips open his pocket watch and strains his eyes to look at the face. A quarter past nine. He pulls up his coat collar against the creeping cold and sets off, just like everyone else it seems, at a fast pace.

I, on the other hand, remain a moment longer. I linger where others would not. You see, Terence Cutler has failed to notice what I have remarked. In his haste to leave the infirmary, he has not spotted a carriage parked directly opposite the entrance. Or, if he has noticed it, he has not given its presence a second thought. I, however, have and am just about to peer inside when I hear two loud taps on the roof. In a trice, the driver tugs at the reins and moves off. Whoever is in the carriage was keen not to be discovered.

So Danny leads us in through this tatty-looking door and into a dark passage inside. It’s so narrow that when we meet a stagehand coming the other way, we three have to press hard up against the wall to let him pass. I suddenly feel Danny’s hand clamp my thigh. He’s like that, but then I catch a whiff of the lad as he jostles past. I wrinkle my nose and he lets his hand drop when he cops a load of it, too. But there’s another smell in the air. Flo clocks it as well. She sniffs.

“What’s that pong?” she asks as we squeeze along the passage backstage.

It’s like there’s been a fire, just how our grate smells in the morning when we’ve had enough cash to buy coal, that is.

“Ashes,” mutters Danny. He’s speaking in a low voice and puts his finger to his greasy lips to tell us we should do the same. “It’s part of Mr. Hercat’s act.” He makes his eyes look bigger and goes all leery. “The Mystery of She,” he whispers hoarsely, raising his arms like a ghost. Flo lets out a giggle.

The musicians in the orchestra pit are starting to tune up. The violins sound like strangled cats. There’s a hum, too, as the audience begins to spill into the theater. Up ahead, we can make out the stage. The curtain’s down and Danny says we can stand just at the side, in the wings, but that we’re not to make a sound. If we do, he’ll be out on his ear. If anyone asks, we’re to grab a broom and look busy. So, as the noise grows louder from the stalls, we stay quiet and wait. We’re excited, so it’s difficult to keep still. Flo’s a fidget at the best of times and she strays once or twice to look round, but I pull her back again. It’s then we see a funny little bald man with a big moustache, in a tailcoat, just in front of us. Looks like a penguin, he does, or maybe a walrus. He’s standing on the side of the stage, pulling at his cuffs. Flo nudges me and lets rip one of her cackles and my hand flies up to cover her big mouth. She’s got away with it this time, but a second later the lights dip. The noise from the audience dies down and the air is electric. It feels like something fantastic is going to happen. And it does. The orchestra strikes up and the big red curtain rises. And the little man strides out into the center of the stage and the spotlight shines on him, making him look bigger. I think he’s grown at least six inches.

“Ladies and gentlemane,” he says. Not “men,” but “mane.” When I sees Miss Tindall again—if I ever do—I’ll ask her if that’s how I should say it. Anyway, he welcomes everyone and says that this amazing Mr. Hercat will be performing his new and startling illusion tonight, when the ashes of Ayesha will be burned in the presence of the audience, and "She" will rise from the flames. Ayesha, we are told, will be played by Miss Fay Rivington. So he gets us all excited, winding us up like clocks, and then he says: “But first for your delectation …” My heart sinks. There’s a warm-up act. We’ve all been secretly wishing the trick will go wrong and Miss Rivington, or whoever she is, to get singed, at the very least, and we’re that pumped up that we don’t want no one else to get in the way. “Boo!” shouts a few of the audience. But no.

“Ladies and gentlemane, I give you Mesmer the Magnificent!”

For a moment, I feel let down, like a burst balloon, but most of the punters don’t seem to mind too much. There’s loud applause as this Mesmer bloke sweeps onto the stage like a great colored bird in a long, flowing robe of yellow-and-blue silk. He flaps his arms like they’re wings. The orchestra plays a tune that’s a bit creepy and you can tell nobody knows what to expect. When everything settles down, the magician, or whatever he is, asks for volunteers to come on stage.

“Greetings!” he says loudly. He sounds foreign. “Greetings to you all. I am Mesmer ze Magnificent, and tonight, ladies and gentlemen, I will show you how I can control ze human mind wiz my voice.” That raises a few eyebrows, I can tell you. But there’s more: “Who, among you, will help me in my challenge?” He drops his gaze and the people sitting in the front row hotch in their seats under his glare. “I would seek volunteers from among you,” he says. He makes another great sweep with his arm. There’s a murmuring in the audience, and, lo and behold, if Flo doesn’t dart forward, waving her hands in the air, but I manage to grab her sleeve and pull her back again.

“What do ya think you’re playing at?” I croak. She just doesn’t think sometimes. She fends me off with a cross shrug.

Anyhow, we watch from the wings as two gents and two ladies go up on stage. Everyone is applauding them. The men, one lanky, the other with a mop of yellow hair, are laughing. Their faces are red and they look as though they’ve had a few. The women are more nervous and hold on to each other as if they’re off to the chopping block at the Tower. By the looks of them, they’re sisters.

“Ladies, please.” Mr. Mesmer lines them up in a row, pointing like a sergeant major. Raising his arms, he calls for quiet. The orchestra goes silent and you could hear a pin drop, except for an old man who coughs.

“Face the audience, if you please,” he tells them on stage. “Ze hands up, like zis.” He raises his own and clasps them on top of his head, interlocking his fingers. The volunteers do as they’re bid. Flo looks at me and titters; then she puts her hands on her head. I roll my eyes at her. But then she nudges me and says: “Go on.” And I think, Why not? and do the same. All the time, Mr. Mesmer’s doing his patter, like he’s down the market at Spitalfields. But he’s good and I’m hooked. And he tells the ones on stage to look up at their hands, and after a moment, a woman, the younger one, starts to blink and he’s onto her, like a fly on horse muck.

“Your eyelids are heavy. You feel sleepy,” he tells her in his scary voice.

You can see the others’ eyes are closing, too. They’re still standing, but I see a yellow head bobbing. Then I start feeling sleepy, too. My arms are heavy, like Mr. Mesmer says they are. But I still hear his voice. It’s like it’s in my ear. “Go to sleep,” he’s saying. “Go to sleep.” And I want to. I really do. Then he tells them on stage to push their hands together as hard as they can, then pull them apart. Flo’s hands come down straightaway, but when I try to unlock mine, they stay put. I shoot a look back to the stage. Both men and one of the women have taken their hands down, but one hasn’t. Like me, she just can’t pull her fingers apart. It’s as if some invisible force is holding them where they are.

“Give them a big hand, if you please!” says Mr. Mesmer, and the audience applauds the other volunteers as they’re ushered off stage, wreathed in smiles. But the woman, still with her hands clasped, is left there. Like me! Flo, meantime, grabs hold of my fingers and tries to pull them apart. “Hold still!” she tells me, but I jerk away from her.

Truth is, I don’t remember any of it after that. I have to leave it to Flo to tell me what happened next as we start our journey back home. It’s even colder now as we walk sharpish toward Leicester Square. Danny has stayed behind to clear up, so we’re on our own. For now, there’s plenty of people about.

“I know I felt hot and thirsty,” I say as I try to remember anything about the evening.

Flo stops dead, her eyes big as owl’s. “Well, I’ll be! Mr. Mesmer told the lady she was in the desert; said to her that she was wandering about all forlorn.”

“No!”

“She were that hot she tried to undo her blouse buttons!”

I can’t believe my ears. “Then what happened?”

Flo starts walking again. “He circles her, and then from behind he asks her to stand with her feet close together and cross her arms over her chest like she’s wearing one of them straitjackets.”

“Like what lunatics wear?” Now I’m the one who’s stopped dead.

“Yes, that’s it. And that’s what you did. You unclasped your hands, and put them across your front.” She puts her arms around herself. “Like so.”

As we walk down the Strand, I’m deep in thought, trying to recall the last thing I heard Mr. Mesmer say to the lady on stage. “When I count to three, you will wake up,” I blurt out.

“That’s it,” she cries. “Shaking you, I was, for a good minute or so. Frightened the living daylights out of me, you did,” she tells me. She lifts her hem as we jump over a large puddle. “You woke up when the bloke counted to three.”

It’s coming back to me now. I remember that strange feeling, like someone’s been inside my house and rummaged around in my upstairs rooms. They’ve ruffled through my drawers, but they haven’t stolen anything. Nothing’s been taken, just rearranged a little. I feel different, but not disturbed. But I don’t tell Flo that I’ve changed. I just smile.

“I’m fine now,” I say with a nod, and I slip my arm in hers.

It’s true. We’ve made it to Fleet Street and I’m no longer tired. I’m wide-awake, but still I’m nervous. We’re leaving the safer West End, where there’s gas lamps aplenty and wider pavements, heading for the shadow lands of the east. The landscape is changing. The buildings are closer together: lower and slanted, like drunken men leaning on each other. The sounds are earthier, louder. Voices boom; babies bawl; engines rumble; machines thud. Women’s laughter doesn’t tinkle like it does in Kensington and Chelsea. Instead, it scratches on the filthy air. The light is yellower, the shadows deeper. The street stink, always there, grows stronger.

We know we’ll get propositioned; two girls like us, it’s only normal. Three sailors standing outside a pub call out to us. Flo gives them a cheery “’ello!” but I pull her away.

“Don’t you know there’s a killer out here!” I say. I bite my lip as soon as I say it. She only laughs at me, then pulls a serious face.

“Oh, Con! The world’s not going to end!” she teases me. She bursts into laughter again and starts to sing. She’s always one for a tune and strikes up with “Champagne Charlie.” Well, as you can imagine, I try and hush her up. I tell her people’ll think she’s had a few too many; so, instead, she just hums.

There’s another couple of smart alecs a bit farther on when we reach the Minories. “Evening, ladies,” one says, doffing his billycock. He’s swaying a bit and I catch the stink of beer on his breath.

His mate’s the worse for wear, too. “Want to show us the sights, gals?” He belches loudly.

We pretend not to notice them and skirt around them, but they start to follow, calling after us.

“Playing ’ard to get, eh?”

When it’s clear we’re not available, they change their tune.

“Sluts!” the belcher calls after us.

We walk on, when suddenly something comes hurtling through the air, narrowly missing my right shoulder. In an instant, a beer bottle shatters on the cobbles nearby. We stop in our tracks and look back.

“Why, you little shit!” screams Flo, trying to break free from my grip. But I hold on to her.

“Don’t be stupid,” I hiss. “It’s just what they want!”

She stops struggling, but growls at them, baring her teeth.

“Whores!” cries the one with the billycock. “I wouldn’t give you one if you paid me!”

We’re glad to see a copper up ahead of us as we turn down City Road. He’s plodding along, twirling his truncheon. We follow in his footsteps for a while until we cross Whitechapel High Street and go down Middlesex Street. An old drunk moans in the gutter and a rat scuttles across our path. It smells different here.

“Not far now,” whimpers Flo. She’s changed her tune. I feel her squeezing my arm.

I know what she’s thinking. I’m thinking it, too. Both murders were just a few hundred yards away from where we are now and he could be lurking nearby. Our eyes are darting like fish to the right and left, following any sound, any movement. A dog barks nearby and we jump. The bell at St. Luke’s strikes midnight and we hurry our pace. It’s then that we see two men cross the road up ahead of us. We stop. My heart is pounding in my ears. They both carry something long and thin in their hands. I’m thinking we ought to wait till they’ve gone. Flo looks at me and puts the brakes on, tugging at my arm, when one of the men calls out. “All well, ladies?” they ask, walking toward us.

Flo breathes again. “The Vigilance Committee,” she says to me under her breath. And I remember the patrols they’ve just started in the area.

“All well, gents!” she replies. She can be too cheeky. “We’re going home.”

As they come nearer, I see it’s Gilbert Johns. Big and stocky, he used to work as a slaughter man before the abattoir burned down last month. The other bloke—younger, with a loping gait like he’s walking through mud—I don’t know. Gilbert smiles and calls me by my name.

“Miss Constance,” he says, touching his cap. He’s looking at us like we’re naughty schoolgirls. “You shouldn’t be out at this hour. Let’s walk you back, then.” And he does.

Flo gets all skittish again. “Oh, Gilbert. You’re a proper gent. And Mick, isn’t it?” She leans across and touches the younger one on the arm. I see his eyes widen at the attention. She’s a flirt, all right, is our Flo, but I just want to get to bed safe.

The lads stay with us just long enough to see us to our door a couple of streets away in White’s Row. It’s a two up, two down, and we’re the lucky ones. Most gaffs our way are four or five to a room. Flo puts the key in the lock.

“Good night,” says Gilbert Johns as we step over the threshold.

Mick raises his cap. “Take care now, ladies.” By the sound of it, he’s Irish.

“Thank you,” says Flo.

“Good night,” says I.

We shut the door behind us. Flo turns the key again, the bolt clicks in and we can breathe once more. We’re safe for another night, at least.