Ripper (14 page)

I followed him out of his office and down several halls. The must and gloom of Scotland Yard felt overwhelming. Small offices, similar to Abberline's, lined many of the hallways we walked through. At the end of a particularly dark and narrow turn, we came to a large, locked room. Abberline took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door to reveal a large room containing numerous shelves, on which sat hundreds of boxes and stacks and stacks of paper.

Evidence? Open cases? Cold cases?

He led me down several aisles toward the back. He stopped at a shelf against the back wall, very near an enormous, mold-stained desk, and pulled down a huge box. Dozens of letters and envelopes filled it.

“Miss Sharp, in case you're not certain yet about what a smash this Ripper is among the London public, all of these letters are either from concerned citizens, believing they have information on the Ripper, or from people actually claiming to
be
the Ripper.”

I felt astonishment at his last statement. “What do you mean? I can't believe that anyone would claim to be the Ripper.”

“Believe it.” Abberline began taking out whole handfuls of letters and tossing them onto the nearby desk. “I have everyday lunatics, fame-seeking journalists, and the delusional, all of whom would like nothing more than to be Jack the Ripper. We've had several confessions from blokes almost daily here at the station. They are willing even to die in a public hanging if it means that they can claim the glory of going down in history as the Ripper.”

“You don't think any of these confessions are real?”

“All of them are nonsense. Garbage. Trash.” Abberline began tossing some of the letters one by one back into the box. “I have had my best detectives and handwriting experts go through each and every one of these, and all of them believe the citizens' information to be worthless, and each and every confession nothing more than a hoax. However …
this
”
—Abberline reached for an unmarked box on the very top shelf—“is what I wanted you to see.”

His red-veined eyes bulged again. “Needless to say,
no one
must know of this. By divulging the contents of this box, I am showing you how much I need and trust you. But more importantly, I'm showing you the cat-and-mouse element of this case.”

The box, when he opened it, contained a letter. Abberline unfolded it carefully on the desk. Evening had begun to close in, and the room had darkened. He moved a candle closer so that I might read the letter. It had been addressed to Abberline, with the return address referenced merely as
FROM HELL.

In the shadows of the box, I saw a jar of liquid. Abberline saw my glance at the jar. “Do first read the letter, Miss Sharp.”

In the light of the candle, I read, feeling Abberline's intense gaze on me.

Sir, I send you half the kidney I took from one woman and preserved it for you. The other piece
I fried and ate. It was very nice. I may send you
the bloody knife that took it out if you only wait a little longer.

—Catch me when you can Inspector.

My head swam and an acidic taste rose in my mouth.

“You think this is real?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. This one is. No one except the Ripper would have known that Annie Chapman's right kidney was missing. This was not information shared with the public. Dr. Bartlett, of course, knows nothing about this. But one of our other forensic consultants has affirmed with near certainty that it matches the victim's other kidney. Chapman's left kidney manifested Bright's disease—the kidney half the Ripper sent me shows signs of the disease, in the same state of progression as the other one was at the time of Chapman's death.”

“You have the part of the right kidney that he sent?”

Abberline reached into the depth of the box, toward the jar. It was then that I noticed a small blob, jellied, dark, floating in the liquid.

“No, I don't need to see it.”

Abberline nodded. He lowered his voice and leaned toward me. “You see, this
is
a game, Miss Sharp. He is taunting us, mocking us, cannibalizing for pleasure to show us that he has no moral boundaries.”

My stomach turned.

“You are already in the middle of this, Arabella. And I will be your friend throughout, but you would be smart to cooperate.”

“I must leave.” I averted my gaze, not able to look at his penetrating expression. I walked away. Without looking back, I said, “My answer to your proposal is unequivocally
no
.
I am a
worker
at Whitechapel Hospital. Nothing more.”

Then I stopped and turned to face him, quickly, hoping that he could not see the nausea I felt to my core. “And you needn't worry, Inspector, about me sharing any information you've discussed or
shown
me tonight, with anyone.”

“I know,” Abberline replied quietly. In the darkness, I could no longer see his expression. “You know where to find me if you change your mind.”

He began sealing the box and its contents. “Your escort home will be at the front door.”

I focused on making it out the front doors of Scotland Yard before vomiting. The heaving, the purging, brought me some relief from the thoughts I could not face.

Fifteen

T
he next morning at the hospital, I tried to push the meeting with Abberline out of my mind—that image of the floating kidney—and focus instead on my tasks. But that letter, and the writer's claim that he had eaten half of the kidney, saving and mailing it
…
I shuddered every time I thought of it. The killer was certainly more than a lunatic to be able to murder, escape the police this easily, and then taunt them as he was. Abberline was probably right that the killer was a psychopath, someone shrewd, cunning, and methodical.

But I didn't understand why Abberline was so convinced that the Ripper worked at Whitechapel Hospital. Like William, I did not believe that anyone I worked with was the Ripper. I didn't want to be stupidly naïve; if the Ripper was as much of a mastermind as Abberline supposed him to be, he
would
blend in—he
would
be able to charm. To amuse. But at Whitechapel Hospital, we were all too busy to plan and carry out such a game. Furthermore, everyone had such excellent rapport with Dr. Bartlett and Dr. Buck—why would someone who worked there want to soil the hospital's reputation by killing its patients?

I wondered why Abberline felt so adamantly that the Ripper worked in
Whitechapel
Hospital specifically. London had other hospitals, and dozens of medical students and physicians. Certainly Abberline, with all of his years of detective experience, must have thought of this. Perhaps he had withheld something from me, some further proof that the murderer worked at the hospital.

I did not trust him. Inspector Abberline had said that he would be my “friend” if I worked with him. But after leaving Scotland Yard, I didn't regret for an instant my refusal to work with him. His first and foremost concern was not me, and certainly not Whitechapel Hospital. What he wanted most was to catch the killer.

Although there had not been any more killings, Scotland Yard police were still patrolling in and around the hospital. I vowed to avoid Inspector Abberline whenever he appeared there. I understood that he was interested in me because I was involved with the staff, patients, and happenings at Whitechapel Hospital at a level that he could not be. Nonetheless, I still did not want to involve myself.

Ironically, publicity from the killings was bringing us more volunteers. We had more nurses now than before. Several volunteers came from local parish churches. The newspaper stories and letters to the editor, such as Perkins's, were raising awareness of life in the East End. This had not only inspired the extra volunteers, but we were also receiving significant money and supply donations. Even New Hospital was sympathetic, sending us a large shipment of medical supplies. I hoped rather than believed that this outpouring of generosity would continue even after the papers finally grew tired of covering Whitechapel stories.

That morning, I finally got a chance to confront William about his behavior prior to our arrest with Scribby. I found him seated by a bed, pulling bloody bandages off a female patient who had come in with an abscess on her arm. Before he saw me approaching, I studied his profile. He looked even more weary than he had previously; his expression seemed troubled, strained.

I brought him a bucket for the bandages, half-filled with soapy water. I dropped it heavily on the wooden floor at his feet.

“Did you have a nice chat with the Inspector?” William did not look up from his work.

“That's
none
of your business.” The patient was sleeping, but I spoke in a whisper. “We have not yet addressed how you locked Mary and me in the closet downstairs. Bad form, William.”

He smirked. “Yes. It was. But I wanted to save your life. I knew you wouldn't listen to me.” He looked up at me for the first time in the conversation, dropping the bloody cloths into the bucket. “And you
did not
listen.
By running out in the middle of that riot,
your
leg, instead of Scribby's, might have been broken. Or worse.”

“You know I can take care of myself. For goodness sake, William, you have seen it.”

“I do, Abbie. But you should know your limitations. There is a difference between bravery and the conceited independence you seem to enjoy—walking through the East End at night, running outside amidst a rioting crowd. All of this
will
get you killed someday.”

Perhaps it was the stress. Perhaps it was the pressure of the hospital work. It might have been the tension broiling around the wards ever since the murders began. But I could no longer ignore that cord between William and myself. I was angry, and I wanted to test its strength.

“And why would you care?”

William remained silent as he finished removing the last of the bandages. Then he stood and pushed his chair back, skidding it hard into the wall.

I jumped back a bit. Like a startled rabbit.

“I'll take
this
.”
William snapped up the bucket of bloody, wet bandages.

He left the ward, and I did not see him for the remainder of the day.

That evening I arrived at Dr. Bartlett's house for a dinner party.

I had been invited along with a few other physicians—only his favorites, William had told me. There were less than six of us. Since this would be a bit more formal than the first time I was at his house, I wanted to wear something nicer than usual. On a whim, I had chosen one of Mother's more formal dresses, a lavender gown that bustled in the back. The bodice fit tightly, providing a dramatic contrast to the bell sleeves; cream-colored lace framed the inside of the sleeves and the neckline of the bodice. I had also found the faux-diamond headband Mother had worn with the dress—it was in decent shape except for one gem gone, like a missing tooth.

When Dr. Bartlett opened the front door, he looked a bit startled, which was odd for him. But he regained his typical demeanor within seconds. “You look lovely.” He cleared his throat. “I'm sorry. So much like Caroline.”

His eyes lingered on me for a second before he looked away. Mother and I did have the same coloring and height, but in that moment I felt insecure, as if wearing the dress had been a mistake. I was a duller, less attractive version of her.

The Montgomery Street house looked more resplendent than I remembered it. The globelike aquarium cast so many prisms of light around the drawing room that it gave the illusion of the room being underwater—the shadows of jellyfish glided along every inch of the green walls. The potted foliage seemed even more lush and abundant than before.

Dr. Buck nodded at me from behind Dr. Bartlett. He looked as stiff and bookish as ever.

“John, Marcus,” Dr. Bartlett called, waving his cigar toward the other men who stood near the bookcases. “You remember Miss Arabella Sharp? She has become my prize student, and, I believe, a future physician.”

Reverend Perkins put a glass of wine in my hand. Although polite, he still had not thawed toward me. I had seen him once or twice in recent weeks, in his clergy collar visiting patients at the hospital. Each time, he had barely acknowledged me.

“Thank you,” I said as I took the glass, unnerved by his demeanor.

Dr. Marcus Brown was all politeness and kindness. He immediately put me at ease, lamenting cheerfully that I was choosing the medical profession as opposed to his area of study, history and philosophy.

“But I do love to read,” I said. “Particularly the Brontë sisters' works.
Jane Eyre
and
Wuthering Heights
are my favorites.”

“Ahhh … the Brontës!” Dr. Brown clapped his hands together. “Quite ahead of their time, actually! So perceptive about the situation of women, about the blindnesses that still exist in our patriarchal society.”

He flashed a look at Reverend Perkins and I instantly realized that he was not talking about the Brontë sisters' fiction, but rather was making some other point entirely to Reverend Perkins.

“Let us not keep Abbie from the other guests,” Dr. Bartlett said abruptly, stepping aside. “Dinner is about to begin.”

I felt a bit bewildered as I tried to figure out what had just happened between Dr. Brown and Reverend Perkins. But Dr. Bartlett ushered me toward the back of the house.

“We're dining outside. It's such a lovely night.”

I felt perplexed. Late September in London was too cold for an outdoor dinner.

Then, when I saw where Dr. Bartlett was taking me, I realized that “outside” was not quite an accurate term for the dinner setting. He led me through the drawing room to the two great French doors I had seen Max exit through the last time I was at the house, and then into a sort of magnificent hothouse containing nothing less than an indoor forest. It was bordered by high stone walls covered with ivy. Exotic flowers blossomed from the greenery in orange, pink, and yellow puffs.

I looked up and saw a glass dome high above us and the clear, starry night sky beyond. The dome must have been at least level with the fourth story of the house. Birds dashed back and forth under the dome. Many were rainforest birds—toucans, parrots, and others that I could not identify. Undoubtedly many had been brought here by Dr. Buck.

Trees, many of which were tall with thick leaves and not native to England, had been planted throughout the area. Small monkeys dangled and jeered at us from above, and snakes slithered along the ground. A very large fountain stood immediately in front of the forest, and a long table sat just in front of the fountain. A few torches surrounded the table for lighting, but beyond that, past the fountain, the only light in the entire place came from the moonlight above.

Everyone except for Dr. Bartlett's housemates and myself were already seated, ready to dine. A giant platter of stuffed roast mutton and bowls of bread and baked beets had already been placed on the table. Dr. Bartlett guided me to an empty seat at the end of the table, near Simon and William and just in front of the fountain. Aside from Dr. Bartlett, Dr. Buck, Reverend Perkins, and Dr. Brown (I had not seen Max Bartlett anywhere), there were three other young physicians whom I did not know so well: Colin, Alistair, and Branwell. William stood quickly when he saw me approach.

“You look beautiful,” he said, pulling out my chair for me.

Simon nodded; his sea-glass eyes emitted only a polite gesture of greeting. I briefly wondered if he had noticed me in the same way that William had.

As I had observed before, in the course of the dinner Dr. Bartlett and his housemates seemed to have no hired servants—not even one. Dr. Bartlett himself, or Dr. Brown, removed dishes throughout the meal; Reverend Perkins and Dr. Buck refilled wine and water glasses. Dr. Buck, I imagined, was the sole gardener of the surrounding forest. He rose at least twice to shoo away curious monkeys.

The conversation among the guests mostly involved medical-related issues—specifically, the benefits of the profession's recent merger of practicing medicine and conducting surgery. I listened to this conversation carefully, but when the subject turned to politics, I became bored. I cared about political issues, but I found debating them useless.

I took a look at the stunning fountain directly beside me. Nearly concealed in patches of dark green mold on the round stone base of the fountain were the engraved words
A Posse Ad Esse,
followed by the symbol of a chalice.

My surprise and confusion at this recurring symbol—whether in my visions or in the utility room painting at the hospital—struck me like a thunderbolt. What did it mean?
From possibility to actuality.
Was there something significant about the inscription?

My thoughts were interrupted when Dr. Brown and Reverend Perkins brought out dessert: pineapple ice in champagne glasses. I tried to focus on the conversation. Unfortunately, it had become monopolized by Alistair, a Conservative who viewed the poor as “idle,” and Colin, who believed more government money should be given to the parishes.

The noise of the fountain just behind me and the increasing intensity of the conversation at the other end of the table isolated William, Simon, and me at our end.

“Ridiculous,” William muttered. “More money will not fix anything.”

Simon disagreed quickly. “We spend so much money on wars, on these brutal battles around the world, but we let England's poor fall by the wayside.”

“I agree with you, Simon. But you think too highly of people. You think that the poor, just because they are poor, are
good
.
Frankly, the East End riot I witnessed last week was a demonstration of bloodlust and ignorance.”

Simon was not finished. “I find the wealthy disgusting, too. I am
from
a wealthy family. We accumulated our fortunes only a few decades ago—through the slave trade.”

He took a drink of wine as a
bit,
just a bit, of pink colored his otherwise white face. “Sometimes I feel as if my very life is atonement for their sins.”