Death at Whitechapel (13 page)

“I know,” Kate said softly. “Charles told me. I am so dreadfully sorry.”

Jennie sighed. “I was desperate to keep it private because of the boys, and for myself, of course. His family denied it—his mother insists to this day that Randolph died of a brain tumor. But I had known for some time. He confessed it when we—” Her mouth felt dry and she took another swallow of tea. “When he ceased to seek intimacy with me, and I begged him for an explanation. Later, his doctors confirmed it.” She stopped, thinking of the terrible irony of appearances—that Lord Randolph, so suave and elegant, so aristocratic, should have been destroyed by a disease so shameful that she could not speak its name.

“You have a great deal of courage.” Kate's tone was gravely admiring.

“Courage!” Jennie laughed bitterly. “At the end, I felt that my courage was all that was left to me, Kate. I lost my sense of wifely loyalty long before, and certainly Randolph left neither of us any dignity. He insisted on being a public spectacle to the very end, mortifying his friends and fellow party members by speaking in the Commons when he could scarcely manage to formulate a sentence. He was unreasonable and unpredictable and often driven by violent rage, especially toward women of the sort who, he said, had signed his death warrant. He hated them, and he often spoke in Parliament about the need to clean up the East End.” The words so long suppressed were pushing up in a nauseating, convulsive rush and she was powerless to hold them back, even though each was an indictment of the man she had once loved. “Was he capable of killing? Yes, I fear he might have been. And once—sometime during those months, I don't know when—I found a good deal of blood on his shirt. He said he had got it at a cockfight.”

Kate, who was watching her closely, said nothing.

“But could he have butchered those women in the way that the newspapers described? I cannot believe that, either.” Suddenly, Jennie heard herself giggling hysterically. “Randolph could not even carve a joint. How could he possibly cut up those poor—” She stopped, pressing the back of her hand against her mouth, feeling the horror like hot bile at the back of her throat.

Kate took the cup from the desk and handed it to her. “Drink this,” she commanded.

Jennie drank. She was sickened by her own ugly words, but beneath the distress was a paradoxical relief, as after a purging. For better or worse, she had at last given voice to the terrors that for a decade had rotted within her.

“Charles says that whoever mutilated those women was skilled in the craft of cutting,” Kate replied, with a forced briskness. “Some have blamed the killings on a mad medical doctor, which makes a certain kind of sense.”

Jennie sat for a moment. The nausea had passed, and she felt stronger, more able to be reasonable—and reason, she knew, was her only bulwark against the fear. “The chief difficulty is,” she said, “that Randolph's erratic behavior was so public and notorious that it would be easy for some to believe him to have been the Ripper. The photograph deceived me. It would certainly deceive others. Unless it is
proved
to be a forgery—”

Kate nodded. “Charles agrees with you there, too. He plans to go to London to have a look at Finch's lodgings, with the idea of finding a clue to the whereabouts of the negative. Then he expects to go on to Bournemouth, to talk to a retired policeman who knows something of the Ripper case. He has instructed me to stay here with you.” Her eyes glinted and her mouth took on a determined set. “But I have it in mind to do some investigating on my own, and I wondered if you might agree to accompany me. I should be glad of the company.”

“Investigating?” Jennie asked, surprised.

“Yes. You may think it rather odd, but I feel a sort of special relationship to the women who were killed.” Kate rose and went back to the tea urn to refill her cup. She turned, fixing her eyes steadily on Jennie's face. “You have been honest with me, and I shall be truthful with you. I grew up in New York City. My uncle O‘Malley was a policeman and my aunt O'Malley took in laundry, and they lived with their little O'Malleys and me, in a tenement.” Her lips twitched and her eyes held a secret, almost mocking, smile. “The rest of Manhattan regarded our Irish settlement in the same way that you Londoners regard Whitechapel.”

Jennie stared at her, dumbfounded. She had known that Kate was an American with Irish blood, and from New York City—which had once been her home, too. But her father had built his family a magnificent mansion on Madison Square and sent his daughters to Paris to be educated. It was almost unthinkable that Kate, so cultured, so polished, so well-married, could have been brought up by a policeman and a washerwoman in the squalid poverty of a New York slum!

But of course she had lifted herself above her background by becoming a writer, Jennie reminded herself, as astonishment was swiftly replaced by admiration. The writers she knew, even the women writers, were like artists. They lived unorthodox, often daring lives, making choices that were forbidden to other people and moving across social boundaries as easily as someone else might cross a street. Perhaps it was Kate's very upbringing that made her so fearless, that gave her the ability to choose her destiny for herself, rather than allowing circumstance to choose for her.

“I ... see,” Jennie said at last, and then, impulsively, added, “How much I admire you, Kate! To have come so far, to have done so much, requires a spirit of extraordinary boldness and resolution.” Suddenly, Jennie was wrenched by a great desire. If only she could be as bold as Kate, could loosen the constraints Society had bound about her like the wretched lacings of a corset! People called her free and said that she acted with daring. But that was where men were concerned—George, for instance. Perhaps, if Maggie were a success, she should one day be remembered for that particular boldness, for no other woman had ever founded a literary magazine. But even Maggie was nothing, compared to Kate's achievements.

Kate's mouth was grave but her eyes still smiled. “If you think me bold and resolute, then perhaps you won't be surprised to hear that I intend to go to Whitechapel and see what can be learned about the last Ripper victim.” She paused. “Mary Kelly,” she amended softly. “She was an Irishwoman, and a Kelly. As I am.”

“You?” Jennie was startled.

“My mother's name was Aileen Kelly,” Kate said. Her mouth curved slightly. “And all Kellys in Ireland are kin, if one goes back far enough.” She gave Jennie a searching glance. “Would you care to go with me to Whitechapel, to see what can be learned about my kinswoman?”

“To Whitechapel!” Jennie exclaimed. Women she knew—Margot Asquith, for one, Daisy Warwick for another—occasionally made sorties into the East End out of some charitable motive, while men of Society went there often, for reasons that were well known although never discussed. But to go with the purpose of learning the sordid details of the life of an Irishwoman who had been murdered a full ten years before—

Suddenly feeling the weight of Kate's quiet gaze, Jennie sat quite still. The Ripper had killed Mary Kelly, and despite what she had said, she knew in her heart that it was possible that Randolph had been somehow involved. Did she dare—

“I also aim to search out a certain Mr. Lees,” Kate went on. “I read of him in a newspaper article some time ago. He is a clairvoyant—quite well-known, it appears—who claims to have led the police to the killer, a lunatic physician. The article did not name this person, but perhaps Mr. Lees will tell Mary Kelly's cousin who it was.”

“Mr. Robert Lees?” Jennie regarded her with some interest. She herself was fascinated with spiritualism and had attended several séances. “I am not personally acquainted with the man, but he is highly respected as a medium. It is said that when he was just nineteen, he was called before Queen Victoria to make contact with Prince Albert, who had died some while before. Presently, he heads up a spiritualist group in Boswell Street, not far from the British Museum. My sisters have seen him once or twice.”

“Then you know where to find him,” Kate said. “It is a slim chance, a very slim chance—but a place to begin. After that, who knows where the trail might lead us.” She straightened her shoulders and met Jennie's eyes with a level, challenging gaze. “Of course, the inquiry might not be to your liking, Jennie. In the East End, we will no doubt see sights we would rather not see, and smell terrible smells, and hear of terrible things. There might even be danger. I have no fear for myself, since there was a time in my life when I was accustomed to living in such a place. However, I shall certainly understand if you choose not to come with me.”

It was the challenge in Kate's hazel eyes that decided her. “I don't know what you are looking for or what you hope to learn about this woman,” Jennie said, “but of course I shall come with you.”

“I am looking for the truth about her killer,” Kate said very quietly, “and it is possible that I shall learn it. Are you sure you are willing to join me, or would you rather not know?”

Jennie sat, scarcely breathing. Did she dare to join Kate's search? Was she willing to accept whatever truth they might learn? And if that truth involved Randolph, would it get out to the rest of the world? What then would become of Winston and his ambitions?

And with this thought, a small, hard resolve began to form inside of her. She would go to London with Kate, not just to learn the truth, if it could be learned, but also to stake a claim to it, on Winston's behalf. For if she were involved in discovering the truth, she would be in a stronger position to suppress it, if that proved necessary.

“I'll go,” she said.

 

“
A
word, please, Mrs. Pratt,” Lady Charles said.

Sarah Pratt, caught up in her troubled musings, turned from the kitchen range, where she was pressing cooked peas through a colander for the luncheon soup—not as good as straining through a cloth, but that required four hands, and Mary Plumm was still in the garden. “O' course, m'lady,” Sarah said. Her attempt at self-possession was destroyed when the spoon dropped into the hot soup.

Her ladyship, whose pretty mouth wore an unusually firm look, glanced around the kitchen. “Where is the new maid?”

Now, Sarah was even more flustered. Where was Mary Plumm? Under the grapevines, probably, in the arms of the stableboy. Under ordinary circumstances, Sarah would have stormed after her long ago and dragged her back by her ear, but the circumstances were not ordinary. Mary Plumm had the upper hand, and Sarah knew it.

“Well, no matter where she is,” her ladyship said decidedly, “as long as she isn't here. I prefer this conversation to be between the two of us.” She paused and gave Sarah a thoughtful look. “I've come to inquire about some boots, Mrs. Pratt, and a few pieces of clothing.”

Sarah Pratt's knees were suddenly weak and her belly filled with a sick apprehension. Oh, sweet Jesus. Mary Plumm had betrayed her! Her heart gave way and the tears began to start to her eyes. She was ruined forever, her character destroyed. She would never find another place as nice as Bishop's Keep, with her own dear kitchen and her own private quarters with a window over the garden, and a pretty little plot of flowers she had planted beside the kitchen door. Indeed, she was likely never to find another place at all, except of the very worst sort. If she were fortunate enough to escape prison, she would likely be forced to join Pratt under the bridge or the nearest haystack. And at this last, most terrible thought, Sarah Pratt's shoulders shook and she began to cry in great, gulping sobs.

Lady Charles put her hand on Sarah's arm. “My dear Mrs. Pratt, I have no idea what I have said to make you cry. Whatever it is, I am sorry, and I shall try to make it up to you. But what I want is a simple matter, really. Lady Randolph and I are off to London tomorrow, and we need to borrow some apparel.”

Sarah gasped for breath. “A-a-apparel?” she asked faintly.

“Amelia has fitted us up with suitable skirts and waists,” Lady Charles went on, “and I hoped that you might have a woolen jacket or a cape. A hat, too, if you please, and I should be grateful if you have a pair of boots that Lady Randolph might try on for a fit. I promise that no harm shall come to them, other than a little wet.”

“Boots,” Sarah said, now incredulous. “And a ‘at?
My
'at?”

“Yes, please.” Frowning, her ladyship focused on her face. “Is there something wrong, Mrs. Pratt? You are very pale. I hope you are not unwell.”

“N-n-n-no, mum,” Sarah managed. “It's just that—” The relief she felt was so great that she thought it would sink her. “I was just tryin' t' think about the ‘at, yer ladyship. I've got a green one, wi' a cabbage rose on the crown. I made it fer the last Girls Friendly Society meetin'. It's quite ‘andsome, it is, or so I wuz told by the vicar, 'oo ‘as a special likin' fer pretty 'ats.” She knew she was babbling, but she couldn't seem to stop. “An' as fer a cape, I've got a green plaid that matches the 'at, an' me green wool jacket wi' braid trim, which is very nice, an' a black coat that sheds the rain like a duck. Yer welcome t' wotever ye want.”

“Thank you, I do indeed want as many pieces as you are willing to lend us,” Lady Charles declared, a sudden smile lighting her face. “I'll send Amelia to bring the clothes to my room.” She looked around the kitchen with a puzzled air. Sarah knew why, for there was no evidence of preparations for tonight's dinner party, let alone luncheon. “I hope you've remembered that we are four for dinner tonight. The vicar is joining us.”