Sixteen

Arabella? Arabella, are you listening to me?”

At breakfast the next morning, I was so preoccupied with the events of Dr. Bartlett’s dinner party that I had stopped listening to Grandmother.

“Yes, I’m sorry.” I took a sip of hot tea and refocused. In spite of all that was on my mind, I did not want to be rude.

“I was saying that I am going to have the walls on the first floor repainted and new wallpaper added in the parlor and this room. I’m also having some renovations done on the second floor.”

“Why? Everything looks fine.” I surveyed the walls—all the paint and wallpaper seemed immaculate as usual.

“Why?” Grandmother looked at me as if I were a half-wit. “Because they look terrible.”

“All right.” I shrugged a bit.

“I am telling you all this because the work is going to be so extensive that we will have to be out of the house for a few weeks. The noise, the paint and glue odors, will not be healthy for me, you, or Jupe. Lady Violet has generously allowed us to stay with her during that time”

I did not feel very happy about this, and Grandmother caught my scowl.

“This living arrangement will only be for a short time. Mariah will be there.”

I perked up a bit at this. With great effort, I resumed talking about the renovations.

Grandmother never brought up anything I did in Whitechapel anymore. If she did not outright regret allowing me to work with Dr. Bartlett, I think that my “moral education” had not had the effect she desired. Rather than increasing my gratitude for the life of leisure she had provided for me, I had become preoccupied with my work at the hospital. Also, although she had said very little about it, I knew that my acquaintances bothered her, particularly the friend who was a Rossetti relation. This, in her eyes, was a reckless act that might have devastating ramifications on her social network. All these concerns had become etched upon her face day by day—her worry about me, her worry for herself, and her worries regarding her social position in a fickle world. In the morning light of the dining room, I saw all of these worries in the furrows between her brows.

I listened to her detail the impending renovations for as long as I could stand before excusing myself. I told her that I would be at the library for a few hours, and that, yes, I would be back for late afternoon tea.

As I walked rapidly in the direction of the British Library, I thought about everything that had happened to me since arriving in London and coming to work at Whitechapel Hospital. The first two months had been filled with routine, dull days spent with Grandmother and her friends. Then the chase with the pickpocket—the instance when I had that first vision—changed everything.

I reflected on the order and subject matter of the visions. The very first vision was of the chalice and the ritual of the robed, hooded men. Then I had visions on the nights of the Ripper murders—both of the chalice and of the murderer. I also had a vision of a victim’s corpse—Annie Chapman, I think. All of my visions, therefore, involved either the chalice symbol or the Ripper murders. I now knew that the chalice symbol was somehow connected with Max, and with Dr. Bartlett and his friends, given that it had shown up at the hospital and on their fountain. A Posse Ad Esse: From possibility to actuality …

But I couldn’t fathom what the chalice and inscription symbolized or how they might be linked to the Ripper murders. Of course, I had no evidence that they were linked to the murders at all, except that my visions of the chalice always seemed intertwined with my visions of
the murderer.

I bit my lip as I crossed the street. If Mother had seen visions or been psychic, as I now suspected, somehow I had attained her abilities upon coming to London. I would have given anything to ask her about my visions—I didn’t know how much to trust them, and I would not have taken them so seriously if they had not been so clearly linked with real happenings.

Once in the library, I sat at a desk with a large stack of books under the glass dome of the Reading Room. I began researching symbols, specifically chalice symbols, and found that the chalice was often linked with the Holy Grail, the cup supposedly used by Jesus at the Last Supper. Often, the Grail is linked to communion and eternal life—immortality.

A Posse Ad Esse.

From possibility to actuality …

I felt crazy for thinking it, but I had seen a dodo bird—supposedly extinct—alive and well and walking about in a London hothouse. The chalice symbol on Max’s chest, in the painting at the hospital, and on the Montgomery house fountain meant something. It somehow united Max, Dr. Bartlett, and the other housemates. If they were all united around this image, I wondered if they were part of a secret group. Could they somehow be seeking immortality? After all, the chalice was linked to immortality.

Could they somehow be immortal?

I felt ridiculous for even thinking this, as it seemed to defy reason. But the thought did haunt me.

Regarding the Ripper murders, even if Dr. Bartlett and his housemates were in some sort of society or organization—which certainly was no crime—I didn’t see how they could be linked to the murders. I certainly couldn’t understand why they would be involved in the murder of Whitechapel Hospital patients. Dr. Bartlett himself had discussed the “bad publicity” the murders would bring; killing Annie Chapman and Polly Nichols, his own patients, would not make sense. He seemed like such a dedicated physician … I simply could not picture it. And apart from the visions, of course, I had no evidence. Even Abberline did not suspect Dr. Bartlett; indeed, he had told Dr. Bartlett immediately after the Polly Nichols murder that he was not a suspect, and then made him one of Scotland Yard’s primary medical consultants in the investigation. Abberline had essentially told me that he suspected one of the other physicians at the hospital. He had, after all, questioned Simon and William several times.

Simon and William.

I shook my head. There was no way either of them could be the Ripper. I could not believe it.

“Abbie Sharp.” I felt hot breath in my hair and whipped around to see Mariah’s beautiful face above me. She wore a dark blue walking dress and a wide-brimmed hat.

“Lady Westfield told me that I might find you here. What are you doing, walled up in the library on this lovely fall day?”

“Just reading.” I quickly closed the book.

“Well, stop, this instant. Let’s go to Harrods. I have some shopping to do for the wedding that will never happen.”

“What time is it?” I asked.

“One o’clock.” She put her arm out, smiling.

I could not believe that I had been here for three hours now. I gave my books one more glance; the chalice research had captivated me. As I took her arm and walked away from the Reading Room, I thought that an afternoon of normalcy—a short shopping trip with a friend—might be exactly what I needed.

I arrived home that late afternoon in a much better mood.

Ellen greeted me almost as soon as I opened the door with a small envelope. She had made a clumsy attempt to reseal it.

I frowned at her as I took the note.

Ellen’s face paled. “I hav’ some work to finish in the kitchen, Miss.” She curtseyed and left.

Why did Richard not greet me this afternoon? I read the note:

Dear Miss Sharp—

Please do come to Whitechapel Hospital tonight if it is not a problem. I am amalgamating/cleaning the pharmacy. Your help [and company] would be warmly welcome.

—Most Cordially,

William

Grandmother was out all afternoon and would then be taking dinner at the St. Johns’ house, so I spoke to Richard before I left, assuring him that though I might be late, I would be leaving and returning safely in the St. Johns’ carriage. I knew that he would communicate the message to Grandmother, clearly and without any of Ellen’s drama. I knew Grandmother would not worry about me if I was in Simon’s company, and I felt relieved that I would not have to argue with her.

At nearly eight o’clock, I heard the St. Johns’ carriage stop in the street, and I felt relieved that Simon had received my message requesting a ride to the hospital with him. I had not sent it until five o’clock.

As we left Kensington, I saw Grandmother’s carriage still parked in front of the St. Johns’ residence.

“I see that Grandmother is still at your house.”

Although I had noticed Simon’s home before, I studied it closely as we rode past. It was taller and grander than Grandmother’s. The outside had been painted an unblemished white color and the windows, tall and wide, were framed by inky black shutters, each displaying gold latches for when the windows were shut from the outside. The bushes had been trimmed to perfection, and I saw not a single weed in the lawn. It looked cold and formidable.

“It is so … ” I tried to think of something nice to say. “Grand and well-kept.”

Across from me, Simon’s well-formed mouth smiled. I could never fool him with a false compliment. His elusiveness shielded others from his own thoughts, but his gaze missed nothing. I could not hide even a very small lie. Mercifully, though, he made no comment on my falsehood.

“I enjoyed dining with your grandmother tonight. She is an interesting woman, actually. Most of my mother’s friends would not allow their daughters or granddaughters to have a ‘working class’ experience in the East End. And yet … she does not seem immune from the social preoccupations that my mother exhibits.”

I stared out the window. Night had settled in; the gas lamps on the street glowed in dewy brightness.

“She has known Dr. Bartlett for many years, and she trusts him,” I explained. “But, as I’ve mentioned before, her main reasons for allowing me to work are more selfish. She wants me to have a greater appreciation for my Kensington life.”

I kept looking out the window, hoping that the disdain in my voice was not too thick. I felt fondly toward Simon for his silences, for his total absorption of my words and expressions without inquiry into more than I was ready to give him.

I glanced back, through the darkness, at Simon’s ivory face—so perfect, with only a few blond locks escaping across his forehead.

“But it has not had the desired effect?” he asked, though I knew he already knew the answer.

I smiled. Shook my head.

“Why are you returning tonight?” he asked. It was a baited question.

“William sent me a note. He is cleaning the pharmacy and requested my help.”

At the mention of William’s name, Simon’s expression veiled.

I felt oddly exposed, and I blushed.

Gracefully, Simon changed the topic to discuss the hospital. “Dr. Buck and Dr. Bartlett left London today. They are giving a joint lecture at Oxford on Monday. They’ll be back on Wednesday, but in the meantime, some of us are working extra hours.”

As we walked into the hospital, Simon told me that he would be working on the first floor. I knew that the first floor was overwhelmed, particularly the nursery. Two days earlier, I had witnessed a set of twins born to a fifteen-year-old mother. Miraculously, the twins and the mother lived, though the infants required round-the-clock care and a supplemental wet nurse.

“Do you need my help?” I asked Simon as he prepared to make his rounds.

“No, go ahead, the pharmacy is in very poor order.”

I paused, thinking I might be more useful on the first floor.

“William is waiting.” Simon nodded toward the stairs.

I did not miss the hint of discord in Simon’s voice.

I ascended the dark stairs, not seeing any light past the second floor. When I stepped onto the fourth floor I was shrouded in darkness except for a single stream of light coming from the laboratory at the end of the hallway. I heard bottles rattling and crashing amidst mild curses. I prepared myself for William’s intensity. Although he attracted me, he was always a force I had to brace myself for.

He was on his knees in the dust and dirt when I found him. He wore a pair of reading spectacles. A box lay before him, filled with empty and near-empty glass bottles. The large closet had been lit by several candles set on various shelves.

It was evident that the pharmacy had not been cleaned or organized in ages. The bottles were sloppily arranged on the shelves, some so near the shelves’ edges that they looked as if they could fall over at any moment.

“I will never understand,” William said, pulling more bottles off the shelves, clattering them loudly in the process, “why so many nurses insist on returning empty bottles to the shelves.”

He held up an empty glass bottle for me to see. “I mean, what good will this do for anyone?”

I noticed, in the candlelight of the pharmacy, that even though William was still unspeakably handsome, he seemed paler than before. Even rage could not darken his cheeks. I guessed his poor coloring resulted from some sort of exhaustion. Perhaps he had been working too many hours.

“Sometimes I feel as if Josephine and Mary are the only competent nurses left in this hospital.”

His eyes flashed toward me. “Sorry, Abbie. I do not think of you as a nurse, so I’m not implying that you are incompetent. You are more of an honorary physician.”

I said nothing. It was impossible to respond when he was in such a mood. Taking a nearby broom into my hands, I began sweeping the floor.

He thrust some strips of paper at me and a jar of glue. “Please ignore the floor for now and glue these strips to the bottles. We need to put new labels on everything.”

He continued to curse and complain as I began putting on the new labels. I wondered if he had quarreled with Christina. But his mood was getting under my skin, so I stopped what I was doing and glared at him. It was my turn to be angry.

When he saw my expression, he stopped and ran his fingers through his sweat-drenched curls. “I’m sorry. It’s just … ”

“Why did you ask me to come here?”

I knew now, intuitively, that he had not just asked me here to help with the pharmacy.

After a moment of indecision, his brows furrowed, William kicked a box of empty medicine bottles aside. He glanced around the laboratory and quietly shut the pharmacy door, closing us inside. He lowered his voice to a near whisper.

“Abbie, I wanted to see you tonight, but there are things that I cannot tell you.”

“What?”

He ran his fingers through his curls again. “I cannot tell you some things because I cannot understand them all myself. There is a large, looming puzzle that needs solving.”

My heartbeat quickened. William’s words seemed to mimic my own recent thoughts. Had he also noticed the chalice symbol and inscription, not only here at the hospital but on the fountain, and perhaps in other places? Did he have knowledge or evidence about the murders? Part of me wanted to tell him everything. Perhaps if I told him of the visions, about Max’s tattoo, about my research, we could piece together these clues. But I still feared confiding in anyone about the visions; I still felt terrified of looking insane. Also, William had not told me nearly enough for me to assume that his anxieties and questions were remotely related to my own.

In that second, I cleared my mind and decided that William was still too much of an enigma for me to confide in him. I would keep my thoughts to myself.

“You’re not making any sense,” I said.

William’s face brimmed in frustration. “I know.” He closed his eyes and paced a few feet. “I want to tell you more, but I do not want to loop you into any mess that you would be safer staying excluded from. Please don’t ask any questions.”

His eyes were pleading, so I nodded.

“I cannot tell you much, but some information has arisen … ” His voice trailed off.

My heart quickened again, and I wanted desperately to know what was going on.

He continued his agitated pace. “The bottom line is that I must go abroad to look into some things.”

My mind swirled with questions:

For how long?

Where exactly?

Why?

The last question I thought might burst out of me:

Will you miss me?

“Here is what I can tell you.” He stepped forward. The pharmacy had become warm; the candles’ heat had no vent, no outlet. And some of the bottles, I thought vaguely, might be flammable. We would have to open the door soon. William whispered so softly in my ear that I could barely hear him.

“There are dangers here in London, even in this hospital, for us. You need to be careful.”

He had to be talking about the Ripper murders. I felt dizzied, as if I were on a cliff, about to plunge forward. William’s closeness to me also brought about a thunderbolt of feelings, new and indecipherable.

A candle singed the fourth finger of my right hand.

“Ouch!”

William jumped back a little.

“It’s fine,” I said quickly. The tip was only reddened. “This has to do with the Ripper murders, doesn’t it?”

“I said to not ask me questions.” William stepped forward again.

“You cannot expect … ” I whispered. We were both speaking in whispers now. “You cannot expect to drop such information on me—that I’m in ‘danger’ and that you are leaving—and then forbid me to ask anything.”

He sighed and relented a bit. “Yes, it is about the murders. But I cannot tell you more. For your own safety. You have to trust me. And, like I said, I don’t understand everything myself. When I get back, I should be able to tell you everything.”

The air was heavy with questions—not only about William’s mysterious journey, but now, I sensed, the invisible questions about us. What did we mean to each other? I felt as if I stood on the cliff’s edge again, and I still feared the fall.

I heard my voice crack as I asked, “How long will you be gone? You can at least tell me that.”

“I don’t know exactly. Maybe a few weeks. But the reason I’m telling you all of this is to warn you to be careful. You must trust me about that.”

Did I trust him?

Did I love him?

I felt such confused feelings; hot tears stung my eyes. Ashamed, I turned away, facing the shelves of freshly filled bottles, their new labels inches from my nose.

“Abbie … ” William’s finger pushed aside some loose strands of hair around my temples. He stood directly behind me, stroking my ear with his fingertip. My lobe tingled. I felt my chest heave. “I have to leave. But, truthfully, my biggest drawback, my biggest weight, is going to be leaving you here, knowing some of what I know.”

Then why wouldn’t he bloody tell me what he knew?

I turned to face him. “Will you be safe abroad? Aren’t you in danger also?”

He ignored my question. “Will you just believe me and be careful?”

The air had become intolerably hot. I felt a drop of sweat slide down my forehead.

“Yes, yes.”

William’s eyes burned into mine for a few seconds before he relaxed. It seemed he felt that he had communicated to me a little of the seriousness of my situation.

“We won’t talk about this again … at least not tonight,” he whispered. “From the moment I open this door, we must not speak of anything that I have said. I have simply told Dr. Bartlett that I have an ill relative I need to be with on the Continent. I told him that I hope to return before too long.”

His expression changed, and I thought for a second that he might laugh. I did not know what was so funny.

William explained. “We had better open this door before we burn ourselves to death in here. And it does not look good to have ourselves shut in here for so long. Sister Josephine would be quite put out.”

He opened the door, effectively sealing our conversation in the pharmacy.

Then he took the box of empty bottles into the utility room in the adjoining laboratory. I heard the bottles being thrust around in the sink. As I glued labels to the jars and re­labeled the bottles, tears slid down my face and my hands trembled. I felt deeply affected by something. But I could not sort out my feelings. I felt fearful, for him and for myself. Confused about what was going on, and if I was doing the right thing by not telling him about the visions. But then again, he was withholding information from me.

I tried to dry my face with my apron. I took a few deep breaths. William had not returned to the pharmacy. I did not want him to see me crying.

“Abbie.”

It was too late.

He set the box of dripping bottles down.

“Don’t cry.” He said this in a voice he had never used with me before. It was a voice he reserved for hushing infants in the nursery. I had heard him use the tone with his aunt a few times, that evening when I had visited.

I turned around, past the point of caring if William saw me cry. He wiped the tears from my cheek. His finger brushed the tears away as he would remove a gnat, an eyelash. Before I knew what I was doing, I kissed his finger.

“Oh God,” I gasped. The cliff again. I had fallen.

William jumped back, jolted, and stumbled a little against the shelves. At that point, a bottle from the rows of herbal medicines crashed to the floor.

“I’m sorry.” Overwhelmed with embarrassment, I knelt and began wiping the strong-smelling herbs and glass fragments into my hands. I hardly knew what to do with the irrational surges of emotion coursing through me.

Then came a horrible moment where we both looked at each other. William, who was always so transparent, became closed off. A sealed book. I felt terrible that my action might have caused him to react in that way. So I returned my focus to scooping up the particles on the floor, and William remained still, frozen, with his back against the shelves.

“These herbs are certainly contaminated now. I am sorry to have wasted them.” My voice cracked.

William said nothing as he knelt beside me to help scoop up the pieces, and I was afraid to look at his face.

The situation began to feel a bit ridiculous, and I laughed a little amidst tears.

He established eye contact with me, and smiled.

“Don’t worry, Abbie. I was the one who knocked the bottle to the floor.” He laughed a little.

There was a moment of awkwardness, neither one of us knowing how to move on from what had just happened. But slowly, tediously, we meandered back into small talk and the immediate tasks at hand. We worked late into the night. William was thorough and meticulous. The hours ticked away. The pharmacy closet gradually returned to order.

By the time Mary showed up at the pharmacy door, it was well after midnight. She seemed a bit hurried. In her hands she clutched a piece of paper that she thrust at William. I knew she was still a little angry at him for locking us in the closet during the riot. I made a mental note to ask her about how Scribby was doing when I got the chance.

“Dr. St. John needs these medicines. Soon if possible.”

“Does he need my help?” I asked.

She eyed William and then me. “He might. If you can pull yourself away from Dr. Siddal.”

William merely smiled at Mary’s sarcasm. “I’ll be fine here. Abbie, go see if you can give Simon a hand.”

After Mary left, William put Simon’s requested medicine bottles in a small box for me.

I began to descend the dark stairs with the box of bottles in my arms. My time with William had been emotional and puzzling. I felt a rising fear, and I wondered about the web in which we were caught up. I also worried that my feelings for William were too strong. I blushed as I thought of my actions in the pharmacy—to act as I had was unlike me.

I had almost reached the second floor landing when the vision struck me. I clutched the banister to keep from falling and dropped the box, shattering the bottles upon the stairs.

In my vision, Liz Stride laughed near a street­lamp in a small courtyard somewhere. I saw the long shadows of a wrought-iron fence pass across her face in the lamplight. A figure, shrouded in a black cape and wearing a tall dark hat, gave her small bag. She ate from the bag. She laughed and stroked her hair. A bright red carnation had been pinned to her greasy dress lapel.

She was about to die.

I had to move. Fast.

I felt my way down the staircase. The vision stayed with me, pulsating up and down within my consciousness of my immediate surroundings.

He was with her—the Ripper. I had to find her.

I ran down the stairs and out the front door of the hospital, searching my mind. Whenever the vision mushroomed up, I clung to it, trying to pinpoint Liz’s destination.

Where were they?

If I could just see a landmark in my mind, a business name or a street sign.

Liz’s nearly toothless smile flashed in my mind.

She was still alive.

They stood just inside a fenced court on a dark street. Where? Where?

While running away from the hospital, I heard a few shouts behind me but ignored them, grasping at the vision. My brain hurt as I stretched to see beyond Liz’s face, to see and hear her surroundings. In the vision, I heard a train. Guessing that she must be near the railways, I began running in the direction of Commercial Street.

As I ran, I realized that I had no idea how to protect Liz or myself. I had no plan except to fight. I didn’t even have a weapon. My stomach sank in fear.

After I had run a stretch of Whitechapel Road, I came to Commercial Street. Along the way, I passed cottages, warehouses, pubs. Few East Enders were out. Once I passed the last pub on Commercial, the streets were mostly abandoned, and I heard the increasingly close rattle of a train. I had no idea where they were and hoped that I was close to their location.

The vision swirled in my mind again—a street sign, first blurry and then clear: Berner Street. They were one block away—very close.

Silently, taking care not to make noise, I eased quickly through a connecting street—more of an alley in its darkness and smallness—and paused against the side of an abandoned sweatshop. The entire time, I tried to remain in the shadows.

I stepped carefully onto the next street. It was Berner.

The hair stood up on my neck when I saw Liz and the Ripper. They were directly across the street from me, about fifty yards away in a darkened courtyard. The vision had stopped now that they were in front of me. I remained in the shadows of the sweatshop and squinted, trying to see their faces. But I could see very little.

It was then that I heard Liz bid the stranger goodbye and turn away from him. She had not quite reached the streetlamp when he lunged from behind, pulling her back into the shadows.

No! I tried to scream, but only a croak escaped from my lips.

He must have cut her windpipe before she could cry out. I heard the knife slashing through fabric and then skin.

My stomach wretched and before I could stop it, a soft splash of my vomit hit the concrete at my feet.

The ripping noises stopped.

The shadow across the street looked up, directly at me. The rest of his figure was too shrouded for me to see anything else.

He straightened up.

I gasped and backed into the shadows of the sweatshop.

When I looked in the Ripper’s direction again, he was gone. This frightened me almost more than seeing him across the street.

He might be anywhere.

Noise broke out from somewhere in the depths of the courtyard where the body lay. It was the creaking of a cart, perhaps a railway worker’s cart, bringing supplies to an early morning shift.

I was torn. Part of me felt as if I should run to Liz; I hated leaving her on the street. But I knew she could not have survived that attack, and in the back of my mind I thought I should run back to the hospital.

The person pushing the cart stopped as his cart hit the body. It made a soft thud.

“Dammit, you drunken … ” The cart-pusher must have seen blood, because within seconds he shouted, “God! ” and then “Police! Police!”

As I cowered near the building, I felt a bit of relief at the whistles of constables. The man with the cart shouted to them.

“Body here! There’s a body here !”

But I seemed too far away from the comforting noise of police whistles and shouts. The Ripper had seen me, and I felt as if I was still in danger. I stood near my puddle of vomit, afraid to scream. I had just witnessed the speed at which he could murder and escape. If he was anywhere near me, no constables, even if only yards away, could reach me in time to save me.

Several policemen had already arrived on the scene.

“She’s still warm!” someone shouted. “He can’t be far.”

Then I heard Abberline’s voice. “Search all the surrounding buildings!”

Someone grabbed me from behind, pulling me back into the shadows, and then thrust my back against a closed door at the side of the sweatshop.

I tried to scream, but a hand clamped tightly over
my mouth.

I saw William’s face, inches from my own.

“Don’t speak,” he mouthed, though no sound came out. “He’s here.”

Rainwater dripped from the broken guttering above us into a nearby puddle. I tried to see beyond William, to see anything. My eyes ached with the strain.

I heard footsteps—steady, sharp.

He had to know we were there. He must know.

My vomit lay only a few feet away. It was then that I heard splashing sounds, very light ones, in the puddle of rainwater.

Then I saw him.

The Ripper stood in front of a doorway, not facing us, but wiping his hands on what looked like a handkerchief. Though he was so close we could hear him breathe, I could not see his face; he was only a darker outline against the already dark night.

William smashed me flatter against the door. My chest was pressed so hard against his body that I could barely breathe.

I held my breath when the Ripper paused, still in the doorway, his back toward us. At that point, he tilted his head slightly, very slightly, toward us.

He knew we were there.

William tensed.

Then he turned and walked away from us. I heard his steps proceed, unhurriedly, away from Berner Street.

After several minutes, William relaxed. He released me and I reeled.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“He murdered Liz. Liz Stride.” I was breathless, trying to push away the image of her murder.

“Liz?” William said. And then, suddenly, “My God.”

Lights were quickly going on in the windows of the houses behind the courtyard. And I heard shouts and orders coming from the street. They were searching the homes and buildings. Abberline’s force thought the killer might still be there. They had no idea that he had already eluded them.

“Come on. We have to tell them which direction he went,” I said.

“It won’t do any good. The police cannot and will not catch him.”

I looked at William, not knowing what he meant. But it did not matter. I had to talk to the police myself. I hated involving myself in the investigation; I had sworn since my meeting with Abberline to keep uninvolved with Scotland Yard. But this time, I had witnessed a murder, of a patient I had cared for. I owed it to Liz to try to do whatever I could to help in the investigation. The least I could do was tell them what I had seen and that the Ripper was no longer anywhere near Berner Street.

I pushed past William, but then stopped in my tracks. The puddle of rainwater was clouded with blood.

My voice came out hoarse. “He washed his hands, or possibly the knife, in this puddle.”

“Abbie, why were you out here?”

I had no logical answer. Should I tell him about the visions?

Suddenly another image rushed over my mind, so quickly and with such force that I doubled over. I thought I might wretch again.

“He’s not done. He is not done!”

“Abbie? What’s going on? Are you sick? What do you mean … ” William seemed more fearful now than he had when the Ripper was standing near us.

To my horror, I saw Cate Eddows in my mind, a smile on her face as she greeted someone. The shadowed figure placed a small bag, identical to the one offered to Liz, in her hand.

“We have to find her. He’s going to kill her!” I yelled.

William looked at me as if I were out of my mind. I ignored him and tried to focus on the vision, which had left me as quickly as it came.

“We need to get you back to the hospital. You’re not thinking clearly. You might be in shock.”

A square—an open square—appeared in my head. Flagstones. Mitre Square!

I began to bolt in the direction the Ripper had gone.

“Abbie, no!” William held my arm in a vice grip and blinked at my rage. “Let’s stop this nonsense and go back to Whitechapel Hospital. I cannot leave you alone on the streets now.”

I saw that he was not going to let me go.

He should have known better.

“I’m sorry William.”

I disengaged his grip with a sharp kick to the groin, followed by a single kick at his chest. I heard a small crack and winced, knowing that I might have broken, or at least cracked, a rib.

He doubled over in pain. But I knew that he would be fine. Eventually. I bolted in the direction toward Mitre Square.

As I ran, the vision returned.

Cate still had no idea that she was in danger. Underneath her mold-stained black bonnet, she smiled. I noticed, as I had when I’d brought her medicine in the hospital one time, that she had a prominent scar on her lower jaw. I saw the back of the caped figure, who, maddeningly, never clearly revealed his face to me in these visions. And I saw what she did not—a knife in his hand, gleaming.

I sucked in my breath in horror as I saw the Ripper snatch her into the shadows before she could make a sound.

I had reached Church Passage, which opened out into Mitre Square. I stopped halfway down the road, knowing that I no longer needed the vision when the crime unfolded in my immediate vicinity. And this time, the Ripper was doing his bloody work even closer to me. I dared not step out into the court. I heard him breathing. I heard the ripping of skin, the wet tearing of organs. I clamped my hand over my mouth, fighting the overwhelming feeling of fear, of nausea. Of loss. He gutted his victims as if they were animals in the slaughterhouse.

I tried to back away, silently, back up into Church Passage. I held my breath when my heel accidently kicked a bottle, sending it loudly against a brick wall. This time, the Ripper did not stop at the sound. I felt horrified when I heard him emit a chuckle. I was certain, at that point, that the Ripper knew I was near him.

It seemed as if the visions were nothing less than invitations. I shuddered.

After what must have been only five minutes but seemed like an eternity, he stopped. The sounds ceased completely. I heard him leave, this time not with steely steps but with swifter, silent movements. I heard the air catch under his cape, and he was gone.

Everything remained quiet as I crouched against a building. As before, I hesitated, having no idea which direction I should run.

Other footsteps, not the Ripper’s, entered the square; the footsteps of a night watchman. I heard the rattle of a whistle and more footsteps, panicked now. A shout: “For God’s sake, mate, come to my assistance! It’s another murder.”

Then someone grabbed my shoulder, throwing me face-first against the wet, dirty side of the building. I smelled the tangy, yeasty odor of blood and heard the chuckle I had heard only minutes earlier.

He was behind me now.

I felt oddly giddy, caught off-guard like this. It would be very difficult to fight. I wondered how Grandmother, amidst her real sorrow at my death, would handle the despair and humiliation of me being murdered in a little dirty passage by the Ripper. Killed in the same manner as the common prostitutes.

I thought about all of this with bitter humor as I felt the knife stab into me.

Then all became blackness.