As much as I tried to convince myself it wasn’t my problem, I kept feeling Mabel’s pain, and I cursed her. The next evening, I caught Thomas alone, without the cloying Mrs Wiggs. He was in the bathroom, tending to his precious whiskers, which were becoming sparser by the day, making his face thinner and drawn.
‘Thomas, do you remember a red-haired nurse from the hospital, pretty little thing called Mullens?’ I asked.
He turned a soapless patch of upper cheek to me, so I might kiss him. I stood with my back against the wall, next to the mirror, and faced him as he continued shaving.
‘No, not sure I do,’ he said.
‘You must remember her. Everybody knew Mabel Mullens: small, pretty, freckles, red curls, the most brilliant green eyes, always flashing them at the handsome doctors. I would be disappointed if she hadn’t flashed them at you.’
His pursed lips cracked into a small smile, and I understood he knew exactly who I was talking about. If only I could have suffered the pain of being a creep, my marriage might have been more successful.
‘I saw her in a shop on St James’s Street. She told me she’s left the hospital. I think she’s fallen on some hard luck, Thomas, and she asked for my help.’
‘What did she say to you?’
‘You remember her?’
‘I remember hearing about her. I assume she wants money.’
‘I thought it might be the charitable thing to do.’
‘You are most certainly not to give her any money, Chapman. If you give these people money, they’ll only come back for more.’
I smiled and swallowed down the lump of paternal condescension. There, I had tried. Mullens would have to find her own solution. I didn’t dare discuss the subject any further.
Thomas walked to where he had hung his jacket, took something out of a pocket, and pulled me by the arm to stand in front of him and face the mirror. He placed a heavy gold necklace around my neck and kissed me below the ear as he clasped it. I was ready; I did not flinch.
‘No more silly arguments between us,’ he said. ‘We are both as bad as each other. Call it a peace offering, if you will. I hope you like it. Look, I’ll even ignore your choice of physician, but honestly, only you, Chapman, would choose Shivershev. He’s the most arrogant, rude physician, and of debatable talent. Though, paradoxically I might add, he has the most superior attitude I’ve ever had the displeasure of working with. But if it makes my darling wife happy, I’ll suffer it.’
I was so preoccupied by how to play the good wife and what expression I should wear, it took me a while to focus on the necklace. It was a heavy pendant of a gold heart, a solid ball of yellow gold with a small sphere of green peridot in the middle, a bulky object that weighed me down, as if I was wearing an anchor. It was an odd piece of jewellery and I was not the sort to favour shapes like hearts or bows. It had scratches. It struck me as something an older woman would admire for being weighty and therefore of quality, though there were of course far more delicate designs that were just as expensive.
He wrapped an arm across me and pulled me backwards into his chest. I could feel the heat of him behind me.
‘You know he has a weakness for whores, don’t you?’ he whispered into my ear.
The hairs on my neck stood up and I prayed he didn’t feel them brush against his lips. ‘What?’ I said. If my reaction was the wrong one, would he smash my head into the mirror?
‘Your Dr Shivershev,’ he said. ‘He collects them – whores, I mean. He gives them money, so they keep coming back, the way whores do.’
‘No, I promise you, I never heard anything of the sort,’ I said. Then I remembered how I had seen Dr Shivershev at Itchy Park, walking among the vagrants.
‘Surgeons’ gossip, most likely. You know there is also a rumour he performs abortions. Not on his own kind, I doubt. Why else would such women come to his office, apart from for the money, of course?’ he said. ‘I can’t imagine they could find him attractive, could they, Susannah?’
‘Oh no, absolutely not.’
He let me go, and I could breathe. He picked up a towel and threw it on the floor, as he had with his bloodied shirt the night of Polly Nichols’ murder. Then he turned me to face him with both hands on my shoulders and I don’t know why but I had thoughts of spitting in his eye.
‘Look, Chapman, I want you to know I do think of you. Always. I love you. I hope you like it.’
‘I adore it.’