Eighteen

On Monday morning, we moved into Lady Violet Chanderly’s house, and my first two weeks there were terrible. I felt totally preoccupied with the murders, with what had happened to me, and with William, wondering whether or not he was all right. But I could do nothing, absolutely nothing, as I was entirely bedridden. The wound had not only cut deeply into my hamstring, but I acquired a mild infection so that whenever I tried to stand, shooting pain coursed from my thigh to ankle. Once the infection set in, I couldn’t walk, let alone take stairs, so I was essentially confined to my fourth floor bedroom at Violet’s house.

It was during this time that I came to appreciate Mariah even more. Her bedroom was just down the hall from mine and she visited me almost daily, bringing me magazines, gossiping about the goings-on of the house. It was through her that I learned that Lady Violet Chanderly was actually deeply in debt, displaying expensive furnishings while unable to replace badly rotting wall and floor structures throughout the house. Her husband, Sir Bertram, was a drunk and heavily addicted to laudanum, and spent most of his days in his large library doing absolutely nothing. Violet went to great lengths to keep his addictions a secret. They had nothing except their name.

“So there you have it,” Mariah said, tossing the end of her cigar out the window. “One of London’s finest families, batty, and only a few steps away from the poorhouse.”

Mariah and I were the only occupants of the fourth floor, which allowed her to talk freely with me about the Chanderlys’ dysfunctions, and to smoke.

I lay propped up in bed reading Wuthering Heights. It was hard for me to focus. I had planned to start walking around my room the next day; I figured the wound would heal better if I had a little exercise on top of the extra rest.

Mariah exhaled loudly, walking away from the open window and sitting on my bed. “Only a few more weeks until I can leave here for good, never look back. Break away from this life and start my life abroad as a writer.”

I had reread the same paragraph in my book at least three times in the past few minutes, such was my restlessness. “You’re still planning on running away?” I asked.

“Undoubtedly. The night before the wedding. Then it’s off to Paris.”

Mariah had told me very little about her paramour, Charles. I had the feeling she didn’t know much about him. She slipped away several nights a week to see him. She knew, I think, that it wouldn’t last, but she thrived off romantic peccadilloes. An elopement before her marriage would be quite the scandal, and, I was sure, break her away from the Chanderlys and stuffy Kensington for good. And she would make it as a writer—in Mariah, I saw a bit of a rising star. I had read some of her writings, and she was quite good.

She chattered a bit about her planned elopement and told me about the latest book that she had written, a mystery novel.

My mind wandered. Mystery. I felt caught in such a puzzle regarding my feelings for William and the truth behind Dr. Bartlett and his friends, especially whether they played any role at all in the Ripper murders. But for now, I was stuck in bed recovering, caught in Kensington purgatory.

By mid-October, I began walking around my bedroom a little. The pain was still sharp, but much less than it had been two weeks before, and the infection had healed. I focused on completing small tasks; specifically, it had occurred to me that I might give Mary some of my dresses. She was poor, and I had so many. I began separating them out by colors: two black dresses, a brown one, a mint green one. I bit my lip knowing that it might be a bit of a fight to get her to take them, but I knew, in the end, she would.

A knock sounded at the door.

One of Lady Violet’s servants entered with an envelope. My heart quickened, and I hoped that the letter was from William. Perhaps he was safe, back in London.

But it wasn’t from William.

A newspaper cutting fell out; it detailed the state of the Ripper investigation. As I skimmed through the article, I saw that dozens of suspects had been brought in for questioning, including some of the morticians examining the bodies, seven young men from prominent families, and, of course, many physicians, surgeons, and medical students. As I scanned the article, I recognized many names including Dr. Bagster Phillips, but neither Simon’s nor William’s names appeared.

To my disgust, next to the article was a published sketch of one of the murder victims. The illustration, graphic and detailed, displayed one of the victims with blood pouring from her stomach onto the street. Though I knew that the press had a tendency to dramatize or sensationalize events, I found such a portrayal disrespectful to the women, and I knew that had the Ripper’s victims been anyone other than the prostitutes, such a picture would never have been published.

Following the graphic illustration and story about the murders was an article about Whitechapel Hospital itself—about the many services the hospital provided for the Whitechapel district. The sender had cut off part of that story, clearly wanting me to read the article regarding the investigation. My anger and irritation increased when I realized the identity of the sender. Abberline’s card, complete with his name and the address of Scotland Yard, had been tucked neatly inside the envelope.

Why was he sending me this?

Furious, I thought of how Abberline’s men had recklessly searched Londoners’ homes and businesses in the vicinity of Liz Stride’s murder while the Ripper had already left the area to pursue another kill that same night. Where were the police when the Ripper stabbed me, stuffed me in a coffin, and dropped me off at the hospital? I had, by now, lost any respect that I might have had for Scotland Yard. They were ineffective and bullying. Meanwhile the Ripper was still free, still at liberty to murder.

Part of me felt tempted to throw the letter, card, and newspaper clipping into the trash, but then, a second later, I thought it might be time for me to set up a meeting with Abberline. I wasn’t, and didn’t plan to be, a pawn in his investigation. Perhaps I hadn’t made that clear enough before.

I cooled down gradually as I finished setting aside the dresses. By the time Mariah stopped by my room for afternoon tea, my anger had subsided a bit. My intended trip to Scotland Yard gave me even more inspiration to get better. I would attempt to walk downstairs the next day.

That night, I awoke in the curtained darkness of my bed with a desperate wish that I had been dreaming when I had heard the chuckle—the same one from my nightmare, from that night in Church Passage.

But this time, I had heard it in my bedroom.

My heart raced. Was he in my bedroom?

No. I told myself. You were dreaming. You’ve been having nightmares lately. You’ve been anxious.

I heard a footstep.

Someone was in my bedroom.

In horror, I saw a place on the drawn bed curtains ripple delicately, not by a breeze, but as if a finger had slid gently down the velvet surface.

I held my breath.

After lying frozen for several minutes, not moving, hearing nothing, I made a rash decision. I threw back the curtains.

As I scanned the room, everything seemed dark and quiet. The fire had died down. The windows were shut.

Then I saw that my bedroom door was open. Wide open.

I had not actually locked the door, but it seemed odd that it would have blown open on its own.

Cautiously, I got out of bed and went to close it.

The hall was completely black except for a stream of moonlight. Then I saw that the door at the end of the hall was open. Squinting a bit, I saw a steep set of stairs through the door; they must lead to the attic. My heart beat faster, as I doubted that anyone would need to be up there at this time of night.

Ashamed at my terror, I left my room, shut the door to the attic firmly, and returned to my room, shutting—and this time locking—my bedroom door.

I did not sleep the rest of the night.

They were almost imperceptible, but I heard tiny scratching noises coming from the attic, directly above my head.