CHAPTER 16

The next morning, Hugh and Mick and I run outside and buy a copy of the Daily World. We eagerly read the front-page story while standing in the cold, foggy street. The headline reads, “Did the Baby Butcher Get Away with Murder?” Below Malcolm Cross’s byline, the illustration shows a dark, sinister scene of Amelia sneaking out of Newgate Prison at night. “Only seven people know the truth!” declares the line above a row of portrait sketches. They’re not captioned, and the faces are blank, but one is a woman. One of the men sports a doctor’s white coat, another a minister’s collar. The sheriff’s jeweled brooch adorns the last. The line below the sketches reads, “One was Harry Warbrick, the hangman, murdered the seventh of January.”

“Bloody hell,” Mick says.

“This is already causing a flap,” Hugh says.

Newsboys invisible in the fog shout, “Amelia didn’t hang!” “She’s still alive!” “Read all about it!” I hear our neighbors buying papers, chattering and exclaiming. The story is already being exaggerated, and Mrs. Fry’s allegations bandied about as though they’re facts.

“The article is risky stuff even for the Daily World,” Hugh says. “It virtually accuses the witnesses of subverting justice and covering it up.”

The watchmaker from the shop next door joins us. “Miss Bain, is this you?” He holds up a copy of the Daily World and points at the text.

We take a second look at our copy, and my own name leaps out at me. I read aloud, “ ‘Last night our reporter, Miss Sarah Bain, received a shocking tip from an anonymous source who claims that Amelia Carlisle was never hanged and was instead smuggled out of Newgate Prison alive.’ ” Alarm stuns me. “Malcolm Cross used my name!”

“You’re famous! I can say I knew you when.” Chuckling, the watchmaker returns to his shop.

“That scum Cross is tryin’ to get you in trouble,” Mick says.

If the story isn’t true, I’ll take the brunt of the repercussions even though it wasn’t my decision to print the story.

“A pox on Cross,” Hugh says. “I should have knocked his block off the other day.”

“At least we found out early,” Mick says. “You have time.”

I’m so rattled, I don’t understand what he means. “Time for what?”

“To get lost before Inspector Reid comes after you.”

Reid will be angry at me for not reporting Mrs. Fry’s tip to the police and for the article that puts the entire justice system in a bad light. But he’s not the person whose reaction I fear most. “I have to tell Barrett,” I say.

“Don’t go near the police station,” Mick says. “Reid might be there.”

“Barrett will have seen the paper already,” Hugh says.

I should have told him yesterday, but I was distracted by our argument. Now he’ll think I deliberately kept him in the dark. “I need to apologize.”

“Do it later,” Mick says. “Why don’t you look for your father some more?”

“Good idea. Make yourself scarce until Reid and Barrett have cooled down,” Hugh says.

I doubt that they’re going to cool down any time soon. “But we have to investigate Mrs. Fry’s story.”

“Mick and I will do it,” Hugh says. “Go!”

*   *   *

Before my father disappeared, my family lived in Clerkenwell, about two miles northwest of Whitechapel. I’ve been back only once since then, in 1888, to seek clues to my father’s whereabouts. All I learned was that Ellen Casey’s family still believes he murdered her, and so do the other local folks who remember the crime. There seemed nothing for me in Clerkenwell, but now I have new reason to go back. Now I’m on a hunt for Lucas Zehnpfennig. He and my father crossed paths in Clerkenwell, a logical starting point for my search.

I exit the underground train at Clerkenwell station. The day is so cold that my numb nose can barely smell the yeast and sugar from the breweries. Wagons and carriages skid on frozen puddles in the misnamed, long, paved expanse of the Green, and icicles hang from the eaves of shops and houses. A new sense of purpose arms me against nostalgia and fear, as do the modifications I’ve made to my appearance. This morning I raided the props cupboard in my studio, and instead of my usual plain bonnet, I’m wearing a hat made of indigo velvet, trimmed with blue silk roses, whose little black net veil obscures my face. A blue wool cape covers the top of my gray coat, and I carry a tapestry bag instead of my usual satchel. I feel as if I’m dressed for a masquerade, but there should be little chance of anyone recognizing me as Sarah Bain, daughter of the prime suspect in Ellen Casey’s murder.

Walking along the Green, I avoid the Crown Tavern, where my father once drank with his friends. The last time I went inside was the day before my mother told me my father was dead. I’d gone there to look for him every day for the several weeks he was missing. Loath to revisit the scene of my lost hope, I head for the few shops I remember from my childhood—a clockmaker’s, a confectioner’s, and a jeweler’s, wedged between new warehouses and factories. I peer in the window of the clockmaker’s. The men at the workbenches are all strangers, Jews with beards and skullcaps; the shop has changed hands. At the confectioner’s, the man behind the counter is too young to have known people from my father’s time. But the jeweler polishing his glass case of baubles is Mr. Sanders, still here though now ancient. As I enter his shop, the bell tinkles, and he looks up.

“Good morning,” he says. “May I help you?”

I’m glad he doesn’t seem to recognize me. “Yes. I’m looking for a man named Lucas Zehnpfennig.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve never heard of anyone by that name.”

My query produces the same results at other shops and from people on the streets. Now that I’m chasing the past instead of vice versa, it’s eluding me like a will-o-the-wisp. An hour later, I’m standing outside the Crown Tavern, which occupies the ground floor of a three-story brick building on a corner of the Green. A new sign decorates it, and the frontage that surrounds the windows gleams darkly with fresh varnish, but when I open the door, I smell the familiar odors of tobacco smoke, ale, and the spiced pickles that the publican’s wife used to serve. The Crown’s interior is little changed, the walls paneled with wood that’s stained the same deep brown shade as the bar and furniture. I’m suddenly ten years old again. My heart pounds, and a familiar flood of hope, fear, and desperation makes me feel faint. I look toward the back table where my father and his friends used to sit. It’s vacant. Some dozen customers are having an early lunch of ale, bread, and cheese. On unsteady legs, I approach the only two women, both in their sixties, seated together.

“Good morning.” I nearly blurt the words I spoke the last time I was here: Have you seen my father? His name is Benjamin Bain. He’s lost. “May I have this seat?” I gesture toward the empty bench at their table and sit before they can refuse.

One of the women is lanky and gaunt, her nose curved downward and her chin jutting up. She’s dressed in a black cloak and bonnet that add to her witch-like appearance. The other has a soft, plump face and body and a toothless, caved-in mouth. She wears a green knitted shawl.

“My name is Catherine Staunton.” I say the false name with as much nonchalance as I can manage. “I’m a newspaper reporter.” I pull the notebook and pencil out of my bag and hold them up.

“Are there lady reporters now?” The witch’s genteel voice is oddly familiar.

“Some.”

“What paper?” the plump woman asks.

“The Daily World. I’d like to interview you. May I buy you a drink?”

They accept, and I walk up to the bar. The publican is Mr. Aldrich, with the same curly mustache and red, cheerful face I remember, looking the same age as he was twenty-four years ago. I’m so astonished that when he asks me what I want, I stammer. Then I recall that Mr. Aldrich had a son; this must be him. I’m still shaken as I fish money from my pocketbook. The three glasses of ale slosh in my hands before I set them down on the table. Resuming my seat and struggling to compose myself, I open my notebook.

“What are your names?”

The women puff up, flattered that a reporter wants to interview them. The witch introduces herself as Agnes Hartwell and her friend as Millicent Johnson. I gulp. I know them! Miss Hartwell was my teacher at the local school; Miss Johnson is the parson’s wife’s sister. I desperately hope they won’t recognize me.

“I’m looking for a man named Lucas Zehnpfennig. Do you know of him?”

Miss Hartwell and Mrs. Johnson furrow their brows as they sip from their glasses. I see the gleam of recognition in their eyes, and my heartbeat quickens. “That’s a name I’ve not heard in a while,” Miss Johnson says.

“Wasn’t he that factory worker who always started trouble during the marches?” Miss Hartwell asks.

“You’re right, Agnes. Always started it, always managed not to get caught. Remember the riot in 1865? He threw rocks at the police. That’s why they broke up the march.”

Miss Hartwell nods. “People were arrested, but not Lucas.”

My father must have organized that march. Was that where he and Lucas became acquainted? Miss Johnson glances at my blank notebook and my pencil gripped in my motionless hand; she wonders why I’m not taking notes. I scribble some nonsense.

“He hasn’t been seen here in more than twenty years,” Miss Hartwell says, crushing my hopes. “Good riddance.”

Miss Johnson fixes her shrewd gaze on me. “Why are you interested in Lucas Zehnpfennig?”

I suddenly remember that she was always quick to sniff out people’s secrets—she caught servants at the vicarage stealing food—and now she suspects that I’m not who I said I am. Loath to let her and Miss Hartwell know my true motive, I lean toward them, cup my hand around my mouth, and lie, “This is about the Ripper murders.” Their faces express the fearful thrill that any mention of the Ripper provokes. “I’m investigating an anonymous tip that my newspaper received. It said to look at Lucas Zehnpfennig.”

“Could he be the Ripper?” Awe hushes Miss Hartwell’s voice. Miss Johnson looks disconcerted because this man she knew might be the notorious killer, and she never suspected.

“At the moment, Mr. Zehnpfennig is just a person of interest,” I say.

“The other papers haven’t mentioned him,” Miss Johnson says.

“Mine seems to be the only one that received the tip.” It occurs to me that if Lucas learns he’s been implicated in the Ripper murders, he’ll make himself scarce. “I would appreciate your keeping our talk confidential. If Mr. Zehnpfennig is the Ripper and I’m the reporter who breaks the story, it will do great things for my career.”

“Yes, of course.” Miss Hartwell looks glad to be let in on the secret.

“I don’t think it could be him,” Miss Johnson says.

“Why not?” I ask. “You said he was a troublemaker.”

“Not that kind of troublemaker. He never killed anybody.”

“But Millicent, don’t you remember, we thought he did?” Miss Hartwell says. “When that girl Ellen Casey was murdered, Lucas was the first person we thought of.”

I gulp ale to hide my astonishment.

“The first person you thought of,” Miss Johnson retorts. “I never thought he did it.”

“But you gave me the idea.”

“You’re so forgetful, Agnes.” Miss Johnson says to me, “The police didn’t think Lucas killed that girl. He was never arrested.” Her grimace says she did think Lucas was guilty and would rather forget her mistaken judgment. She frowns at my notebook.

I scribble, Lucas killed Ellen Casey? I press so hard with the pencil that the tip of the lead breaks. My heart gallops under my fancy cape. I came to Clerkenwell to discover what role Lucas played in my father’s disappearances, and here is a connection between him and the crime for which my father was blamed.

Miss Hartwell cringes from her friend’s rebuke. “But the police took him to the station for questioning.”

This is the first I’ve heard that my father wasn’t their only suspect.

“They let him go, didn’t they?” Miss Johnson says with an air of triumph. “They decided it was that photographer—Benjamin Bain.”

I flinch at the sound of my father’s name. My elbow knocks my glass, and I grab it before it can spill. I take a deep drink of the sour ale, to calm my nerves.

“Oh, but it couldn’t have been Mr. Bain,” Miss Hartwell murmurs. “He was such a nice, gentle man.”

I remember that a boy at school wrote “Witch” on the chalkboard in her classroom and I laughed; now I wish I could tell her I’m sorry. Her testament to Benjamin Bain’s good character means so much to me.

“Agnes, he ran away, don’t you remember?” Miss Johnson says, exasperated. “He wouldn’t have unless he was guilty.” Her glance at me is sharp, speculative.

I fear she’s on the verge of recognizing me. “Have you any idea where I might find Mr. Zehnpfennig?”

Both women shake their heads. “He left Clerkenwell at around the same time Mr. Bain did,” Miss Hartwell says. “I always thought it an odd coincidence.”

Here is a hint that someone besides my father went on the run after Ellen Casey’s murder. Then Miss Hartwell says, “I also thought it odd that Mr. Bain and Lucas were friends—a nice man like Mr. Bain and a troublemaker like Lucas.”

If they were friends, why didn’t my father want Lucas in our house? Comprehension strikes as I remember Lucas petting my hair while I sat on his lap. My father thought Lucas was going to molest me! He must have known or suspected that Lucas had an attraction to young girls. Did he also know that Lucas murdered Ellen Casey? I think he must have. But why didn’t he tell the police? Why did he run away instead?

“Well, they came from the same village,” Mrs. Johnson says with another sharp glance at me. “Maybe they both went back there.”

Ambushed by this second surprise, I can’t even pretend to take notes. I always thought my father was born and raised in London. “What village?” I say, breathless.

“I asked Mr. Bain once, and he just smiled and brushed me off,” Miss Hartwell says.

“I always thought that was suspicious,” Miss Johnson says darkly, scrutinizing me. “I managed to get it out of him that he was from Ely.”

I can tell that she’s about to ask me where I’m from and who my family is. I rise, thank the women for their time, and make a hasty exit.

*   *   *

I spent the rest of the day in Clerkenwell, questioning more people about Lucas Zehnpfennig. I considered traveling to Ely, but the railway map shows that it’s some seventy miles from London—a good half day’s journey each way. By eight o’clock in the evening, however, I was sorry I didn’t go, for my inquiries in Clerkenwell were fruitless. Disappointed and weary, I gambled that it was safe to go back to Whitechapel.

There, a few cabs and a lone omnibus roll down the foggy high street. The shops are closed, their ground-floor windows dark except for those of the Angel and the White Hart public houses—and my studio. Apprehension puts me on guard, for my companions are usually upstairs at this hour. From inside the studio, a man’s angry voice blares so loudly that I can hear it even though the door is closed. I see, through the moisture-clouded window, Inspector Reid gesticulating furiously at Hugh and Mick.

Staying away all day wasn’t long enough to hide from the police.

Hugh sees me and covertly waves his hand, shooing me away. Reid notices, turns, and when he spots me, an ugly, wolfish grin spreads over his face. He flings open the door. “If it isn’t the elusive Miss Bain.”

My heart is beating hard, pumping so much energy through me that I’m sure I could outrun Reid, but I can’t leave Hugh and Mick to take the brunt of his anger. When Reid bows with mock politeness and motions for me to enter the studio, I comply with as much dignity as I can summon. He shuts the door. The odor of his pine-scented shaving soap taints the air. My camera, flash lamp, and furniture seem to cower from his hostility. Two police constables lean against the fireplace. Reid knows better than to confront my friends and me alone.

“I’ve had half the police force looking for you,” Reid says. “Where’ve you been all day?”

Holding his gaze, I don’t answer. Hugh and Mick keep quiet. We mustn’t let slip any information that might enable Reid to lay his clutches on my father.

“PC Barrett wasn’t looking too happy today,” Reid says. “What’s the matter—had a lover’s tiff? Or maybe he’s just upset because you’ve been wreaking havoc behind his back.”

My heart contracts. The shaky terms on which Barrett and I parted are getting shakier.

“But never mind,” Reid says. “What I really want to know is, where did you get that tip about Amelia Carlisle?”

“From an anonymous source,” I say.

“Right, that’s what the story in the paper said. Who is it?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

Reid grimaces in disgust. “I think there isn’t any anonymous source. I think you made the whole thing up.”

Hugh and Mick snort in indignation. I say, “I did not.”

“Then tell me who the source is.”

Either I give up Mrs. Fry or I’m a liar. Reid smirks at my uncomfortable silence and says, “That’s what I thought—Amelia Carlisle didn’t escape, and the story in the Daily World is just another of Sir Gerald’s publicity stunts.”

Mick leaps to my defense. “Miss Sarah didn’t make it up.”

“And you can’t know for sure about Amelia,” Hugh says. “You weren’t at her hanging. Besides, I passed by Whitechapel Police Station today, and there were people lined up outside to report sightings of her.”

The newspaper story must have inspired people to think they’d seen Amelia. Even if many are mistaken, perhaps some actually have seen her. I remember that thousands of sightings of Robin Mariner were reported after he was kidnapped. The power of the press is great indeed.

“You oughta be lookin’ for Amelia instead of botherin’ Miss Sarah,” Mick says.

“Amelia could be walking around town, free as a bird.” Hugh adds slyly, “Just like Jack the Ripper.”

The three of us know Jack the Ripper is gone, but Hugh couldn’t resist a jab at Reid’s sorest spot. Reid clenches his fists, and his face is so livid with anger that I think he’s going to strike Hugh. We back away from him, but the constables move in on us from behind, enraged by Hugh’s allusion to the police’s failure to solve their most notorious murder case.

Reid’s expression turns ominously jovial. “We’re about to settle the Amelia Carlisle business. She’s going to be exhumed tomorrow. To prove that she’s in her grave.”

Surprise fills me. The power of the press is even greater than I thought.

“That’s quite an extreme step,” Hugh says. “And all because of an article about an anonymous tip.”

“No, not all because of an article about an anonymous tip,” Reid says, mimicking Hugh’s upper-class accent. “The Home Office has been besieged with telegrams and visits from city officials, members of Parliament, the prime minister, and the rich and famous. Not to mention an envoy from Her Majesty the Queen. All of whom are outraged by the idea that there was a conspiracy to help the Baby Butcher escape justice.”

The story has upheaved society at its highest levels.

“Well, digging Amelia up is the way to find out if she’s really dead,” Hugh says.

“Which brings me to the reason I’m here.” Reid reaches in his coat pocket, removes a folded sheet of paper, and gives it to me by smacking it against my chest.

I gasp at the rude personal contact. Mick says, “Hey!” and lunges at Reid.

The constables grab him. Reid says, “Down, boy, unless you want to spend the night in Newgate.”

Mick shakes the constables off, scowls, and jams his hands in his pockets.

Hugh takes the paper from me and reads, “ ‘To Sarah Bain, Lord Hugh Staunton, and Mick O’Reilly: You are hereby summoned to attend the exhumation of Amelia Carlisle at Newgate Prison on Saturday the eleventh of January’—that’s tomorrow—‘at eleven o’clock AM.’ ”

“Crikey!” Mick sounds awed and tickled.

I quail at the thought of what could happen at the exhumation. “Why do we have to be there?”

“Because you deserve to face the consequences of your mischief.” Reid grins.

“Wait, there’s more,” Hugh says, frowning at the summons. “ ‘Should you fail to attend, a warrant will be issued for your arrest. Signed, James Monro, Chief Commissioner of Police.’ ”

“I dare you not to show up tomorrow,” Reid says.