Friday, November 2, 1888
“Your article has caused quite the scandal,” Mr. Granville said, sipping his tea and grinning mischievously, fat raindrops hitting the thick glass of his office window. “The spiritualists have condemned poor Ambrose Spellman as a closed-minded buffoon. They are demanding his resignation immediately.”
“Of course they are.” I rolled my eyes. “Funny how they condemn the writer but not the Fox sisters for their decades of manipulation. Or, at the very least, Maggie Fox for telling an audience about how they tricked people all that time.”
“The spiritualists are claiming Miss Fox was forced to lie on stage for money or fame or the like.” He slid his tea onto his tidy desk. “No matter. Mr. Spellman’s job is secure for the time being.”
I snickered. “I will certainly let him know. I am sure he will be most grateful.”
As I returned to my desk, my smug satisfaction quickly faded at the sight of Mr. Turner hammering on his typewriter. I knew he was working on yet another story on the Whitechapel murders. I was determined to pretend I had moved beyond my frustration, but the envy still stung with every letter pressed.
I did not have time to dwell on my jealousy, however, because it was in that moment that the office door whipped open, thrown wide so roughly that teacups jingled against their saucers and the glass in the nearby windows shook.
“Ambrose Spellman,” roared the fire-haired woman in the doorway, storming right by Mrs. Davies’ desk. “Where the devil are you, Mr. Spellman?”
Her angry eyes darted around the quiet office before landing first on Mr. Turner. “Are you Mr. Spellman?”
Before he could answer, her gaze flicked over to me and then widened with realization.
Madame Pringle had found me out at last.
The tips of her nostrils flared as she approached my desk, her eyes narrowing, her full lips puckering.
“You.”
I swallowed and rose from my desk. “Amelia Baxter.” I glanced at Mr. Turner. “Lovely to see you again, Mrs. Pringle. How do you do?”
Mr. Granville appeared in the doorway of his office and winced when he saw who was glaring directly into my face.
“My tour was cancelled because of you,” she hissed. “I have gone from admired to despised … because of you.”
“All I did was reveal the truth,” I said, straightening my back. “If people despise you because of your manipulation and subterfuge, well, that is no concern of mine.”
“You know nothing of what I do for people.” Flames flickered in her pupils as they bore into me. “And you have no idea who you are dealing with.”
“Oh, I know exactly what kind of person you are, Mrs. Pringle. You use your wiles to fool susceptible people into believing your tricks.” I smirked. “You are not the first person to play this game and I am sure you will not be the last.”
She opened her mouth to respond but Mr. Granville cut her off.
“Mrs. Pringle, please leave this office or I will have the police remove you,” he said, sounding bored. “Do you wish for even more bad press?”
I could have hugged Mr. Granville just then.
Mrs. Pringle shot a look at him and then continued glaring at me. “You will regret this.”
She marched back the same way she came, her heels loud on the scuffed wooden floor.
“Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Davies as Mrs. Pringle slammed the door shut behind her. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.”
Mr. Turner rose, sliding his arms into his jacket and grabbing his notebook. “Do you expect she will seek retaliation? Does she seem the type to you?”
Absolutely.
I waved my hand at him. “No, I should not expect so.”
My eyes flashed open as Simon flung my bedroom door open. I winced at him in the dark, my head heavy with confusion, before glancing out my window. Going by the quiet outside and the sky’s particular shade of dark gray, I guessed it to be at least two or three in the morning.
“What is it?” I croaked, my mouth dry.
“Someone just threw something through the front window downstairs,” Mr. Woodacre said, appearing behind Simon, his hands fumbling with his shirt. “Matilda has already sent someone to fetch the police. I have to go.” He disappeared into the darkness of the hallway.
“Please, you must stay,” Simon said over his shoulder before chasing after him.
I could hear their argument as I slid out of my bed and Matilda appeared out of the darkness to help me into my dressing gown.
Mr. Woodacre seemed very determined to leave.
“You know perfectly well why I have to leave,” I heard him say. “What am I supposed to tell the police, that I am your wife’s…” He struggled to choose the appropriate word. “…companion?”
I looked at Matilda, her eyes lowered. She was paid extra to keep Simon’s relationship with Mr. Woodacre a private matter. I just hoped she had kept her promise to stay silent about it.
After Matilda helped me into a pair of boots, the upstairs gas lamps were lit and I made my way downstairs to inspect the damage. The rug in the sitting room glimmered with shards of glass, sparkling like an early winter frost. Stepping down from the stairs, glass crunched and cracked under my boot.
Mr. Woodacre, now fully dressed, jogged down the stairs and stopped at the bottom step. “Do be careful, Amelia.”
“Thank you for your concern but I am quite well. If you are going to go, you best do so now.”
He tipped his head to me and made his escape out the back garden like usual. Simon, now wearing pants, joined me at the bottom of the stairs, Matilda close behind him.
Matilda advanced to go light the gas in the sitting room, but I put my arm out to stop her.
“Wait,” I said. “Do you hear that?”
The noise from the street was naturally louder because of the large hole in the front window, but I thought I heard something else coming from that direction.
I squinted with tired eyes, trying to focus in the darkened room. Suddenly, a flash of movement by the curtain caught my attention. I grabbed Simon’s arm and Matilda grabbed mine and we all let out three different levels of a shriek.
“What was that?” Simon whispered.
I leaned closer to him. “Why are we whispering?”
“I don’t know,” he hissed back. “It seemed like the proper thing—”
As the bottom of the curtain fluttered, we all shrieked again.
“What is that on the floor over there?” Matilda pointed over to the darkest part of the room that lay in shadow.
I squinted. “A wooden crate perhaps? Is that how they broke the window?”
Feeling the crunching and cracking of the glass shards under my boots, I stepped slowly and carefully towards the crate, wishing my eyes would adjust to the darkness more efficiently.
Simon and Matilda edged away from the stairs, following me into shadow. The wooden crate was perhaps two feet long, a brick tied to each side of it with twine. Just as I tipped the crate over to inspect the inside, Matilda lit the gas in the sitting room, and everything went from bad to worse.
Gasping, my eyes bulged as a rat screeched at me from inside the wooden box and tumbled out as I tossed the crate over, flinging it in absolute shock and terror. The scream that escaped my lips was like no other sound I had ever made before.
The sudden illumination of the room must have startled the other uninvited guests, as they scurried out from their hiding places—out from the curtains, out from under the armchair and sofa, and out from the fireplace. I am certain there were other hiding places involved but I was too preoccupied dashing to the staircase to notice. I was later told by Simon that I shoved him out of the way and nearly knocked Matilda over, but I did not recall doing such a thing. Simon’s scream was just as loud as mine. Matilda got close enough to one of the rats to kick it away. She climbed up onto the easy chair and burst into tears, erupting into whiney sobs as the furry fiends scampered around the legs of the chair.
A loud knock on the door startled all of us.
“Scotland Yard,” they announced from the other side of the door.
The three of us inside all looked at one another.
“Matilda,” I said, nodding at the door, and pulling my dressing gown tighter around myself.
“Please, Mrs. Baxter,” Matilda said with a pathetic sniff. “Please don’t make me.” She gave another sorrowful squeal as one of the rats stopped and stared up at her.
I looked at Simon but he just shook his head firmly. “Oh, I am not leaving these stairs. Perhaps never again as long as I live.”
With a tiny reluctant whimper, I stepped down from my place on the stairs and quickly unlocked and opened the door. I immediately returned to the stairs, trying my best to fake a pleasant smile at the police officer, puzzled as he was.
“Evening,” he said, raising his eyebrow at me. “We were notified of a disturbance. May I come—”
Seeing the opportunity, one of the rats made a dash for the open door, running over the officer’s foot on its way out.
“Bleedin’ Christ,” he blurted, lifting his foot and stumbling sideways. He looked back at us, his disgust quite clear on his ruddy face. “My apologies.” He craned his neck to peer into the sitting room. “What on earth…?”
“Someone threw a crate of rats in through the window!” Simon blurted.
The officer frowned at Simon. “Yes, I gathered that.” He inched into the sitting room, watching the floor, towards Matilda. “Miss, can you get down from there?”
Another rat streaked across the carpet, making its escape from our home on tiny pink feet. Matilda shook her head frantically.
As the policeman coaxed Matilda down from her perch, Simon glanced at me and then looked back at the sitting room floor, his eyes darting whenever a rodent came into view.
“So, who did you anger this time?”