Friday, September 28, 1888
With no one but Simon and my mother to keep her company, Simon’s young stepmother and her growing belly graced our parlor chaise on a regular basis, at least three times per week. Simon and I joined Beth and my mother for dinner at her home once a week, but Beth was usually silent in front of her. When with Simon and I, she was significantly different.
“I like the name ‘Frederick’ or perhaps ‘John’, but ‘John’ is so common but then ‘Frederick’ is not terribly uncommon either,” she prattled quickly. “Maybe something from the classics could be unique—something like ‘Ulysses’ or ‘Apollo’ or ‘Atlas.’ Of course, those are just names for boys. It could be a girl. I suppose I have no way of knowing until the day of.” Beth looked at Simon with large, concerned eyes. “Do you think your father would agree to a name like ‘Athena’ or ‘Iris’ for a girl?”
Simon blinked at her and then looked at me with pleading eyes. I could tell he had not been listening and had no idea what Beth had just asked.
“Perhaps, if the baby is a girl, you could consider naming the baby after Joseph’s mother. I believe he would appreciate that,” I said, stirring my tea.
Simon crossed his long legs, sliding down a little into his armchair. “Oh, please do not consider naming that poor child ‘Dorcas.’ She was a wretched woman and my father loathed her.”
“Oh.” Beth sipped her tea. “Well, it does not matter. I think it will be a boy. Do you think your father would be happier if it is a boy?”
This poor girl.
She obviously did not know Joseph very well before they married. Then he just left her in Britain, away from her family, while pregnant. It seemed exceptionally heartless to me.
“I think he will be happy no matter what, as long as the child is healthy,” Simon said with an encouraging nod.
“Of course.” She bit the corner of her lip. “I hope I will be a good mother.”
“You certainly will be,” I said. “You are sweet and-and-and—”
Naïve. Dim. Child-like.
“—you will be wonderful,” Simon added. “What you cannot handle, Ivy can assist with and there will always be servants around, and a governess when the child is old enough, of course.”
Beth nodded. “I just wish I could ask my mother for advice.”
“Perhaps you could invite her to stay for a while so she can attend the birth,” I suggested, beaming. “My mother, I am sure, would love to meet her and wouldn’t mind another guest. There is more than enough room—”
“I do not believe so. Rather, I know so,” Beth remarked quietly. “She is dead.”
“Oh.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” Simon added with a knowing and somber nod.
Simon’s own mother had understood him far better than his father ever would and her death had sent him to a very dark place for quite some time.
“Consumption.” Beth smiled wearily. “I was twelve.” She took a moment to stare out the nearby window before looking back at me. “I read that article you wrote in the newspaper about Madame Pringle, the spiritualist. You are such a terrific writer.”
I smiled.
“But,” she continued, biting her lip again, “I think you may have been a little harsh.”
I frowned.
“You wrote the article as if you knew for certain that Madame Pringle had no abilities at all.”
“I did so because she does not,” I said firmly.
“You only went to a single session with her and you mislead her. No wonder the reading was not accurate—you lied to her. It probably caused the lines of communication to get muddled.”
“The lines of communication?” I winced, my whole face tensing. “You believe Madame Pringle and people like her can actually speak with spirits from the other side?”
Simon looked from me to Beth, drank his tea, and stayed silent.
“I do,” Beth said. “In fact, I plan to meet Madame Pringle and see if she can contact my mother.”
“Oh, I do not know if that is such a good idea,” Simon said. “Not in your delicate condition.”
“My sources have actually told me that she is no longer offering her unique services,” I said, doing my best to hide my triumph.
The last time I had been in that area, I had checked in with a nearby barkeep and he told me she had been evicted for offering her unique services out of their flat. The barkeep had not seen her around there since then. It was a promising bit of news and I was pleased to hear it.
Beth sipped her tea. “Oh, I know. I wrote to her. My letter was received by a neighbor who gave me her new address. I have an appointment to see her next week.”
I stared at her.
“Oh, and she does not go by ‘Madame Pringle’ anymore,” she added. “She calls herself ‘Lady Selene’ now.”
“‘Lady Selene,’” I repeated flatly, nodding slowly. “Lovely.”
My thoughts raced.
Perhaps I need to do a follow-up article. Seeing her again myself would be too risky though—I would have to get detailed notes from Simon in my stead, or maybe from Beth herself if she would agree to such a thing.
I put aside my ambitions for a moment. “I do not think that is a good idea, Beth.”
“I know you think she is a fraud—”
“I know she is a fraud,” I said. “She cons vulnerable people for financial gain.”
“You have no proof that she is not speaking to spirits—”
“She has no proof that she is!” My voice had raised suddenly. “I find behavior like hers abhorrent. I do not want to see someone in my family hurt by her lies and trickery.”
“How can you believe spiritualism is just lies and trickery when so many intelligent people have found comfort from it?” She paused to consider her argument. “Arthur Conan Doyle—he’s a spiritualist and one of the most clever men in Britain.”
I rolled my eyes and shook my head at her. “I really must insist you not see that imposter.”
Beth glowered, and she was quiet for a long while. “I was not asking for permission. I am going to see her.”
“What a foolish waste of time and money,” I blurted.
“Amelia,” Simon snapped, glaring at me.
I squared my shoulders. “My apologies, Beth. I went too far.”
She lowered her eyes. “You do not know as much as you think you do.” She stood, avoiding eye contact with me. “I feel tired very suddenly. I think I will return—” she hesitated “—home.”
Simon bolted to his feet. “I will get a hansom for you and travel with—”
“That is quite alright, Simon. I am fine to travel alone,” she said, one hand resting protectively on her belly. Her eyes met mine for a second. “I am not a child.”
Simon saw her to the door. Once she had left he returned to the parlor doorway. “Was that entirely necessary?”
I sipped my tea, staring straight ahead at the spotless mantle above the fireplace. “She is a guileless little girl who has accidentally stumbled into adulthood.”
“She is not just some young cousin you can tease,” he clarified. “She is my stepmother and your mother-in-law. You ought to remember that and you ought to know better.”
Guilt stung me all over like a swarm of jellyfish. Before I could apologize for speaking out of turn Simon stormed off, leaving me alone in the parlor to wallow in my remorse.
I did not have time to indulge in my self-pity for long. The following night the Whitechapel killer struck again, and the news spread through London like the Great Fire.
I knew Mr. Granville would likely run a special edition ahead of our usual Wednesday print run and I needed to get a story together and show up for work on Sunday to show him I was a better and more determined reporter than Mr. Turner would ever be. Our newspapers featuring stories about Martha Tabram, Mary Ann Nichols, and Annie Chapman had all sold out. I needed this one.
“Please come with me,” I begged Simon early on Sunday morning from my perch at the foot of his bed.
He blinked at me and propped himself up on his elbows. “Woman, what are you on about?”
“He killed two women last night. If we are quick, we can get to Whitechapel and beat the rush before every other reporter in London gets there.”
“Why do you need me?” His voice was hoarse and one of his eyes had fallen shut.
I hesitated. “Because Mr. Granville will be angry with me if I go alone.”
Mr. Woodacre finally rolled over and looked up at me. “Did you say two?”
Simon sighed. “Won’t he be angry that you went to Whitechapel with or without your big, tough man to protect you?”
Mr. Woodacre gave Simon a curious smile. “Wait, are you supposed to be the big, tough man?”
“Obviously.”
Mr. Woodacre wiped at his eyes. “If what you are saying is true, then the entire city is about to start panicking.” He slid out from under the sheet and grabbed his pants from the nearby armchair.
“At least stay for breakfast, Wright,” Simon pleaded.
I added, “Unless you would like to escort a lady to—”
“No, no, no, no thank you. Although going to the scene of a horrible double murder sounds like a lovely way to spend a Sunday morning—”
“Two separate scenes. Not even that close by,” I corrected, pausing to think. “Depending on the times they were found, the killer must have had access to a carriage.” I looked up at Mr. Woodacre as he buttoned up his shirt. “This is no East End tradesman.”
Mr. Woodacre’s fingers stopped mid-button. “I believe you have your headline, Mrs. Baxter.”
I leapt off the bed and rushed to get ready to leave. As I scurried out of the room I heard Simon add, “Wait, what is happening?”
I arrived at the Weekly Gazette office at lunchtime. Both crime scenes were overflowing with reporters, as I feared they would be, but I managed to get a couple of quotes from some local residents as well as a short quote from a police officer who was able to confirm my suspicion about the distance between the two murders. Simon, anxious to get back to familiar territory, hovered behind me as I gathered my notes and cursed myself for not owning a camera.
I was already typing madly at my desk when Mr. Granville arrived. He stopped in place beside me and watched as the letters combined into words before his eyes. He sighed loudly.
“Mrs. Baxter—”
“Not to worry, sir, Mr. Baxter came with me. I was entirely safe.” I gestured to the page. “I am on to something here though, don’t you think? The killer must have had some kind of transportation. It is not like he could have hailed a hansom in the middle of the night. One of the constables I spoke to this morning said the first murder may have been interrupted and so he just hopped in his carriage and found another unsuspecting victim a few minutes away.”
“A man with a carriage? A man of wealth?” Mr. Granville considered this, a subtle smile creeping onto the corner of his mouth. “That would surely sell some papers.” He drummed his fingertips on my desk as he thought. “Keep going with that. Good work, Mrs. Baxter.”
This is it. This is my chance. Finally!
“I have it on good authority that Scotland Yard has received a letter from the killer,” he said.
My eyes widened. “Really? What does it say?”
“My source would only say the details made him shudder,” he said. “And believe me, he is not the shuddering type under most circumstances. Hopefully we’ll know its contents in a day or two.”
A letter from the killer sent to Scotland Yard with gruesome details was an enormous story. This murderer was truly a monster.
We both looked up as the office door opened and Mr. Turner arrived, slightly out of breath, his notebook under his arm.
“Oh. Mrs. Baxter,” Mr. Turner said. “I didn’t know you would be in today.”
“Well, I am. I almost have a story about the two new victims complete.”
Mr. Turner glanced at Mr. Granville. “You have a story?”
“Yes. I do.”
Mr. Granville gave a single nod. “One of the on-duty constables is on record saying the killer might have money or, at the very least, ready access to a carriage.”
“Killer?” Mr. Turner repeated. “As in singular?” He sat at his desk and flipped to his page of freshly taken notes. “I just spoke with a constable who told me he expects two killers are working together. One person couldn’t have murdered all these women alone.”
I blinked at him. “What? No. Your source must be mistaken.”
“It is quite possible neither constable is right and both are just trying to get their name in the paper,” Mr. Granville mused. “However, given the area of London where these murders are occurring and given the social status of the victims and given that a man of wealth would never do anything so ghastly, Mr. Turner’s source is likely right.” He sauntered toward his office. “You can have that done before two?”
Mr. Turner nodded as I bolted to my feet. “You are not serious.”
The two men turned to me, puzzled.
“What makes you think a man wealthy enough to have a carriage could not carry out these murders? Rich or poor, they are the actions of an individual who is quite disturbed. Income has nothing to do with it.” The words spilled out of me, fast and without hesitation. “All of the details we have show a very distinct pattern with each victim and no evidence that it was more than one person.” I blinked at Mr. Granville, not quite believing what was happening. I had been so close. “You just said it was a good angle, that I should keep going.”
Mr. Granville gave me a pitying look. “The constable you spoke to was likely just trying to impress a lady. A man is more likely to tell the truth to another man.”
Mr. Turner nodded in agreement and said, “Mm,” as he loaded his typewriter.
“He was quite sincere, I assure you,” I said, my words clipped. “And what about this letter from the killer? Was it written by one person or two? Do we know what kind of education level the killer might be from this letter?”
Mr. Turner glanced up at our editor, barely interested in what I had just blurted out. “Hmm? What letter?”
“Never mind the letter, Mrs. Baxter,” Mr. Granville said with a shrug. “It’s probably a hoax anyway.”
I stared at him, my jaw clenched. “Unbelievable.” I made a show of ripping my story from my typewriter, crumpling it up and throwing it in the nearby bin. I pointed to Mr. Turner’s typewriter. “We are going to look like bloody blind fools.”
I grabbed my coat and stormed out. In the back of the hansom I took home, I finally let my angry and frustrated tears out.
I had been so close.