Seventeen

Heaven was pretty much as I always thought it might be, if it existed at all.

I found myself lying on my back at the bottom of a pond of cool, clear water. The shock of the cold water was a pleasant sensation; my skin, indeed every part of my body, felt—sensed—more acutely than ever before. Looking up through the wavy surface of the water at a late afternoon sky, I watched kingfishers cut through my view, slicing through the air just above the water with unbelievable force. Everything seemed colorful, alive—not the slightest bit dreamlike. I began swimming upwards.

Up.

Up.

As I broke the surface, the sharp ammonia smells of Whitechapel Hospital assaulted my nose. I now lay not on my back in the pond, but on my stomach, face down. I could not move or even speak. My muscles seemed dead.

It was then that I felt searing pain in the back of my right thigh, just below my buttocks. I realized I was lying under a light blanket on the third floor operating table. In my peripheral vision, I saw a small amount of early morning, pumpkin-tinted sunlight seeping through a window.

The Ripper. The pain reminded me of what had knocked me unconscious. The last thing I remembered was the smell of the wet brick wall, the blood odor of the Ripper, the thrust of the knife. I began to hear my heartbeat pound in my ears. Was he nearby? I panicked, trying to move, but remained paralyzed.

I felt better when William’s voice broke forth from the other side of the room. “Dammit, Simon. Do you think you might wrap me up without breaking another rib?”

“She kicked you quite hard,” I heard Simon say, more than a hint of amusement in his voice. “This left vertebral rib is broken nearly clear through.”

“How is she?” William asked.

“She will be all right. The stab wound did cause quite a bit of tissue damage. She will not be able to work for several weeks.”

Dear God! I wondered, in my paralyzed state, if I was blushing. Though I felt the blanket covering me, I could not tell if I was even dressed. I felt rising embarrassment that the wound Simon had stitched was so high on my leg. This worry was compounded by Simon’s verdict that I would need some recovery time from the wound.

It was then that I noticed my finger, against the bedsheet, could wiggle a little. I was about to try to speak, but decided to remain silent. I felt certain that neither Simon nor William would tell me all I wanted to know about what had happened last night, or why I was still alive.

“I am angry at myself for letting her go off like that,” William said.

“Drink some cool water. You’ve looked like a ghost since you got back.”

I heard the soft rush of water pouring into a glass.

“Thank you. She ran so fast. With this broken rib, I could not catch up. I ran around for thirty minutes, calling her name like a madman. You have no idea my relief when you told me she was alive. Before she ran away, she was talking incoherently—somehow she knew he was going to murder again.”

“She knew?” Simon’s voice sounded sharper than I had ever heard it.

“She did.”

I hoped that I did not suck in my breath when I heard William’s water glass shatter against the wall. “She might have been killed.”

“William.” Simon voice came out gentle.

“Don’t try to be my priest now. I should have locked her up, stuck her in a bloody kennel. But instead I let her get away from me. She might have been killed.”

Silence.

“In fact, she should be dead now. It does not make sense why he left her alive. Why he left me alive. I told you—he was right behind us near Berner.”

I heard the dry slicing of scissors through cloth bandages before Simon spoke, his tone even. “Keep your voice down, William. I gave her an extra dose of chloroform, but she should be waking soon. Besides, we do not want anyone else to overhear us.”

I felt their eyes on me.

“What happened, exactly?” William asked. “You still have not told me how you found her.”

There was a long pause. I strained to hear Simon.

“She was dropped off at the front doors in a pauper’s coffin, a pinewood box. It is identical to the ones the morgue uses to bury unclaimed corpses, the standard kind we have sent here by Dr. Phillips for many of our deceased patients.”

I had been dropped off in a coffin!

Simon was quiet for a minute before he continued, softly. “After you both ran out of here, I was attending to the first floor but was so distracted by the thought that she was out there, I had trouble pulling myself too far away from the front doors. I was at the doors instantly when I heard the box thump against them—that was shortly after two o’clock.”

“So you found her?”

“Yes.” Another pause. This one longer than the last. “You should heal in a few weeks. Don’t strain your chest too much. And please, put your shirt on. Anyway, the lid fell aside when I opened the front door. My first thought was that she was dead. She lay face up. Her face was so white, she looked almost bloodless. Her clothes were bloodstained. But when I checked her pulse, I felt that she was still alive.”

“My God.”

“I carried her discreetly up here. It was then that I saw that the wound was not fatal, though it bled profusely I had Mary begin cleaning the wound so that I might stitch it. While she was occupied in that task, I disposed of the coffin.”

“Was she … ?” William’s voice trailed off.

I heard the sound of surgical tools clinking on a tray.

“No. There were no other injuries.” The clinking stopped. “I told Mary that Abbie had been stabbed by a deranged vagrant when she stepped outside to dump out a pail of water.”

“So, are you certain that it was him?”

“The wound is perfectly consistent with those of the victims. It was most certainly the same knife, a surgical, thin six-inch blade. Branwell was at the morgue this morning and saw the bodies. These murders are very similar to the other two. Both patients left, voluntary discharged, yesterday. Both were disemboweled. The Ripper spent more time with Cate. Took out all of her intestines, laid them neatly beside her shoulder, removed the left kidney, mutilated her face. He cut off her nose.”

“Disgusting. This is maddening, Simon. We’ve talked of some of my theories. I know you have difficulty thinking ill of anyone, except perhaps the rich.”

Simon cleared his throat a little before continuing, “You know that I am shocked by the unfolding of these events as much as you are, William. I see enough sense in what you have told me lately to agree to keep this conversation between ourselves—to agree not to go to the police with what happened to Abbie. But I know your tendency to be impetuous and hotheaded. I do not want you to make any premature enemies for us.”

“Agreed.”

I wondered what they had discussed that would make them such sudden and unlikely allies.

“So, you are leaving for France tomorrow?” Simon asked.

“Avignon, specifically. The safe is there.”

The safe?

Someone, either Simon or William, began sweeping up the pieces of the water glass.

I had heard enough. Clutching the blanket around me, I said with my best attempt at a groggy voice, “Might I have some clothes?”

Simon was with me in Grandmother’s parlor to tell her that I had been mugged in Whitechapel the night before, stabbed as I left the hospital.

When Simon and I had left Whitechapel early that morning, the police and the press had begun descending upon the hospital in swarms. Like flies. But I was home now, facing Grandmother and away from the crowd.

She was disturbed as she sat across from me, her eyes glassy with tears. Otherwise, her entire demeanor seemed perfectly put together, her dress crisply ironed, her hair smooth. Oddly, in that moment, I knew that she loved me.

“She will be all right?” Grandmother asked shakily.

“Just a flesh wound. The police apprehended the
mugger immediately.”

Grandmother’s face tightened, frightening me.

“I am fine,” I said, reassuring her. “I will be able to return to the hospital in a few weeks.”

Her face hardened; I had said the wrong thing.

Simon cast me a look. “It will be at least four weeks before she should return to work at Whitechapel Hospital.”

Grandmother seemed to accept this. Particularly since it would give her a month to attempt to persuade me (or manipulate me) to not return at all.

My wound throbbed so much I could barely walk. Still, I would get better. I needed to get better. Apart from my desire to heal and return to work, my experience with the Ripper—and what I had seen him do to Liz Stride and Cate Eddows—had sparked a flame within me to stop him.