Only the Thunder Knows_East End Girls (20 page)

Chapter

7

Professor Huxley stood in the
center of the room with a scalpel in one hand and the decapitated head of a man
in the other. He made a circular incision around one of the cadaver’s eye
sockets then set the blade down on the table. “Move in closer, ladies. Mr.
Smith here won’t bite. He just wants to get a better look at you is all.”

Everyone
stepped in while Professor Huxley dug his fingers into the dead man’s orbit.
There were wet slushy sounds as he moved his digits about. When he pulled the
eyeball out, it made a small pop. He proceeded to walk around with the head and
the eyeball, showing everyone the ocular nerve and muscles.

All this time
and the professor still continued to try and elicit some form of dramatic
reaction from the women in class—perhaps with the hope some of them might
change their minds. None of them would. They were all determined, just maybe
not as much as Eliza, but who knew. Maybe she didn’t give them enough credit.
The university accepted students from near and far and from every walk of life.
Anyone
could apply, which was why her mother had been so against it. But
the world needed more female physicians who understood and cared about the
human condition as well as physiology and pharmacology. Doctoring encompassed
so many facets of life, and Eliza knew she had what it took to be one of the
best. Nothing would stop her from obtaining that goal. The title would earn her
respect among her peers. Maybe other high-society women would take notice and
try to further their education. It wasn’t enough to be a lady from a good
family who was destined to marry well. Not anymore. Times were changing.

After class,
Eliza gathered her things and left the schoolhouse on Handel Street in search
of a hansom cab to ride home. As she walked past the side of the old red brick
building, she felt as though someone down the alleyway, between buildings, was
watching her. Moving quickly and often looking behind her, Eliza had the sense
of being followed and stalked. When she finally hailed a cab, it had never been
such a relief to get in one. Eliza knocked on the underside of the roof with
her fist to get the driver moving. As soon as they rounded the corner, she felt
safe again. The sensation of being watched—gone. She sat back and sighed in
relief, and wondered if it was her imagination. Who would wish to seek her out?
Then she thought of her father and the detectives. Perhaps they were having her
followed for safety reasons. She wouldn’t put it past her father.  It couldn’t
possibly be because they suspected her.

*   *   *

Upon arriving
home, then entering her mother’s parlor, Eliza had stepped back in time. Long
panels of glorious white and ivory silks and laces were strewn across every
piece of furniture. Strands of pearls and sparkling beads hung from the backs
of chairs. Having gowns custom-made and sewn by hand was a regal indulgence. In
an era when too many clothing factories were popping up and putting out
ready-to-wear attire, and most ladies of society were traveling to Paris for
their gowns and wedding clothes, superior London seamstresses such as Mrs.
Plympton, were becoming more rare with each passing year. The Covingtons would
never use anyone else, and her father insisted on spending their money in
England. They preferred traditional methods and Eliza supported their ideas
wholeheartedly.

“Good
afternoon, Miss. It’s good to see you again.” Mrs. Plympton stepped up and
shook hands with Eliza.

“What took you
so long? We’ve been waiting nearly an hour,” Lady Covington said from across
the room.

Eliza rolled
her eyes and Mrs. Plympton smiled. “Shall we get started then?” the seamstress
said. “Oh my, what a lovely broach.” She reached her hand up and gently touched
it.

“It’s my
great-grandmother’s.”

“Will you be
wearing it on your wedding day? I can design a special place for it on the
neckline with some small ruffles encircling the piece, perhaps.”

“That sounds
lovely, Mrs. Plympton.”

The broach was
a bouquet of flowers made of fancy-cut diamonds and pearls. Eliza received it
from her mother for her sixteenth birthday. The party was a glorious affair.
Hard
to believe that was only two years ago.

With the help
of Mrs. Sutton, who was already there eyeing the fabrics, Eliza removed all her
clothing except for her corset and drawers. Lady Covington sat in her favorite
chaise, sipping tea, and nibbling on biscuits in between ordering everyone
around.

“Your daughter
has a very muscular build, Lady Covington,” Mrs. Plympton said, sounding
slightly shocked. She measured the length of Eliza’s arms and legs, her waist,
and every other part of her body with a measuring tape she uncoiled from an
ivory case.

Lady Covington
rose from the chaise to have a look. She put her hand around the bicep muscle
of Eliza’s right arm. “It appears you’re right, Mrs. Plympton. What have you
been doing girl, rowing boats down the river?”

“Tennis,
Mother. And the archery events, when I can attend.”

“Eliza is
quite the archer, Mrs. Plympton. She has several winning pins. Tennis offers no
such trophies,” Lady Covington said the latter with less enthusiasm. She’d
never been a fan of Eliza playing lawn tennis, always said it was much too
physical a sport for a lady.

“Indeed, more
active women tend to have bigger muscles.”

“This won’t
affect the sleeves of her gown will it?”

“Not at all,
Lady Covington, unless she carries a bouquet of iron flowers down the aisle.”

“That is not
the least bit amusing, Mrs. Plympton. You don’t know how I’ve toiled over this
wedding. I’ve done nothing but plan, organize, and worry for months. My
daughter here shows no interest, and it wouldn’t surprise me the slightest if
she were to carry iron flowers.”

“Is that so?
Why do you put the task all on your mother?” Mrs. Plympton asked Eliza.

Lady Covington
pulled a lace-edged handkerchief from up her sleeve and used it to dab her
forehead as though she were overworked and perspiring. Eliza couldn’t think of
a time when she ever saw her mother do a bit of work, so the act was ridiculous
and typically overdramatic. “Ouch,” Eliza said. One of Mrs. Plympton’s pins had
stuck into her side a bit.

“Sorry,” Mrs.
Plympton said.

Lady Covington
walked back over to the chaise and sat down.

“You’ve known
my mother for years now, Mrs. Plympton,” Eliza said in a soft voice.

“Why yes,
nearly two decades.”

“Then you of
all people should know my mother has been planning this wedding for all that
time.”

Mrs. Plympton
giggled and quickly put her hand over her mouth. When she was done, she went
back to draping and pinning. “How right you are, Miss.”

“I am simply
my mother’s daughter.”

“Well said.
And what’s this I hear about you going off to America after the wedding?”

“It’s true.
Henry’s father wants him to start up one of their banking establishments.”

“I’m sure
you’ll be fine.”

“It’s not
England, though. I will miss…everything.” Eliza sighed.

“I’m sure you
will.”

With the mood
turned melancholy, Mrs. Plympton began chatting with Lady Covington about some
of the other ladies in town. Eliza stared off into space, her mind empty of
thought.

Chapter

8

Dinner was early at the
Covington house. Eliza joined her father in the study afterward and they had
hardly begun to discuss the day when Mr. Sutton knocked on the door to announce
the arrival of Inspector Frederick Abberline and a Doctor George Phillips.

Two men
entered the room and immediately removed their hats at the sight of Eliza.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” Lord Covington said. “I was sure to dine early this
evening in case you came again. This is my daughter, Eliza.”

The inspector
gently shook hands with her as did the doctor. Then they stared at one another,
then at Lord Covington, and then at Eliza.

“My daughter’s
studying to be a physician at the London School of Medicine for Women,” Lord
Covington said, when the silence grew awkward.

“Interesting,”
said Inspector Abberline. He was a portly man, like Detective Godley. What
little hair he had was a mix of red and gray. His moustache, beard, and
sideburns were overly bushy as if to make up for the lack of it on top of his
head. “Does she know of the murders in East End?” He said in a soft-spoken
voice. The inspector’s demeanor reminded Eliza of Henry’s father, the banking
magnate.

“Why don’t you
ask her?” Lord Covington said. He looked at her and winked.

“Well, Miss,
have you thoughts on the Whitechapel killings?”

“Yes,
inspector.”

“And do you
think it’s possible a woman could have had a hand in it?”

“Inspector!”
Lord Covington said. “What are you suggesting?”

“Doctor
Phillips and I think there’s a slight possibility a midwife would have what it takes
to dissect these women the way we’ve been finding them.”

“The
knowledge, yes,” said Lord Covington, “but the strength? Just look at Eliza.
She has the skills to perform surgeries, but under a different set of
circumstances entirely. Her patients are anesthetized, sedated. Even a drunkard
puts up a fight, and she hasn’t the build.”

“Unless the
victim has blacked out,” said Doctor Phillips.

“Let her
speak,” said the inspector. “Answer the question please, miss.”

“If they’re
already unconscious by strangulation,” Eliza said. “Why bother stopping the job
to slit their throats? It seems to me the perpetrator prefers to see the blood
spilling out of his victims. More male in nature, I would think.”

“Yes, I see
your point. Thank you, Miss,” the inspector said. He turned toward her father.
“It was simply a theory, but after taking into consideration the barbaric
nature of the crimes and the appearance of your daughter here, Lord Covington,
I’m beginning to think it isn’t possible. Her figure is so slight a strong wind
might knock her over.”

“Not all women
are frail and weak, sir, no matter their physical appearance,” Eliza said.

“Now this I
know firsthand, Miss; my wife is neither one of those, but nor does she appear
to be.” All of the men roared with laughter. “However more masculine her figure
may be compared to yours, Miss, she is also incapable of the heinous brutality
exhibited by this madman.”

“So, you are
convinced the killer is a man now?” said Lord Covington.

“Yes, indeed I
am.”

“Good. Then
the timing for your visit here was just right and my daughter’s presence was to
your benefit.”

“It wouldn’t
be anything but, Lord Covington. Such a lovely girl.”

“Eliza, pour
us some brandy if you please, and then leave us to the rest of the evening. I
will catch up with you on your progress tomorrow.”

“Yes, Father.”

Eliza did as
she was asked, and the men became more involved with conversations about the
murderer. When Inspector Abberline mentioned that the most recent victim’s name
was Annie Chapman, Eliza was a bit surprised, yet her hand remained steady as
she poured. She listened closely while they surmised that perhaps it might be a
butcher, maybe even a doctor. But then Lord Covington mentioned the Hippocratic
Oath.

“That doesn’t
rule out a failed doctor,” Abberline said, and the others agreed with nods and
‘ayes’ that it was a possibility to consider.

Eliza left the
room, relieved the inspector no longer had his sights on the possibility of a
woman being the murderer. The next step was to find Catherine, the friend of
Annie Chapman.

*   *   *

It was early
afternoon when Eliza left the Royal Free Hospital. All week she sensed someone
watching her, following her through the streets as she searched out a hansom.
Eliza even started making the cab drivers take different routes and circle the
park. Most of the time, it was only when she was on foot that she felt stalked.
Still assuming it was someone her father had convinced to protect her, she did
her best to ignore it.

Having time,
Eliza took a cab to the London Hospital in East End to make some inquiries.
After she paid the driver, Eliza pulled the hood of her cloak over and joined a
crowd of factory workers heading back to work after their break. She walked
past an open doorway and suddenly stopped when something inside caught her
attention. The workers passed her by, and jostled her a bit as she stood there
and stared at a blazing hearth fire. The image of a burning, sizzling uterus
filled her vision, until someone inside closed the door. She blinked several
times to clear the sight from her head then walked on.

Distracted by
the grisly image, along with the feeling of being followed, Eliza inadvertently
walked toward Spitalfields, near where she had killed Annie Chapman. Unnerved
by her choice of direction, she turned around on Thrawl Street and walked back
toward London Hospital when a scruffy young boy ran up to her in a fit of
hysterics. Eliza jumped back.

“Miss!” the
boy said. “My mother needs help. It’s a baby.”

“Where?” The
fear and panic in the boy’s voice charged Eliza.

He started
running back toward Spitalfields and Eliza followed, glad now she kept herself
active with sports, despite her mother’s protests.

They arrived
at one of the small shanties that lined Brick Lane. The boy came to a wooden
door that was nearly falling off its hinges, flung it wide open, and pulled
Eliza in.

“Mum, please
help.”

There was a
small cot in the corner of the room where a woman was lying, moaning, and
rolling back and forth. Eliza hastily removed her cape and frock coat, threw
them over a chair, and rolled up her sleeves. She went up to the bed and saw
the woman’s face frozen in what at first appeared to be a smile and then
resolved into a grimace of pain as Eliza drew closer. The woman’s hands
clutched the bed sheets in a death grip. Beaded sweat covered her forehead and
her nightgown appeared damp, clinging tight to her bulging pregnant belly.

“Boy! Run to
the London Hospital as fast as you can and find a Doctor James Riley. Tell
him…”
Tell him what? I can use my influence to help this woman, but father,
I don’t know…oh bloody hell!
“Tell him Miss Covington sent you to fetch
him. He needs to bring a carriage. Go now!”

The boy ran
and slammed the door shut on his way out. The top hinge broke, and the door
fell to one side leaving an open corner above. Eliza turned back to the woman
and pulled the bed sheet down. Below the waist, her gown was soaked with blood,
sweat, and amniotic fluid.

“What is your
name?” Eliza said. There was a basin on a small table nearby.

“Louise,” the
woman said between grunts.

“Is this water
clean?”

The woman
nodded.

“How long has
it been since the pain started?”

“’Bout three
hours.”

Eliza put her
medical bag at the end of the cot and opened it. She pushed Louise’s legs up,
and they fell open and apart. “This is going to hurt,” she said. “You will feel
a lot of pressure. Try very hard to be still.”

Louise nodded.

Eliza brought
her fingers together into a point as best she could, then inserted them into
Louise’s vaginal opening. The woman let out a bloodcurdling scream that made
Eliza see stars for a moment.

“Shush,” Eliza
said. “We don’t want anyone barging in here thinking I’m hurting you. Pull the
sheet up and bite down on it.”

It didn’t take
long for her to feel the baby was breech. “Take quick short breaths,” Eliza
said. “That’s good. And do
not
push. The baby’s turned around.” Eliza
felt movement inside. “It’s alive!”

Louise
attempted a smile that quickly became a grimace, which was followed by a series
of pants and grunts.

“I’ve got to
rotate it,” Eliza said. With her right hand still up inside the woman, she
toppled her doctor’s bag with her left hand and fingered through the items
until she found a small leather case. Eliza popped it open and pulled a scalpel
from its sheathed location. She looked up over the woman’s belly to see her
face. “I need to make a cut first. Brace yourself.”

Eliza brought
the scalpel forward and made an incision from where her forearm was inside
Louise, nearly all the way down to her anus. The skin pulled apart and blood
quickly filled the exposed area of open flesh. The woman screamed through the
sheets and Eliza felt her pain—the pain only women seem to know and can relate
to one another through.

“You’re going
to feel more pressure now,” Eliza said as she pushed her other hand into
Louise. She felt resistance. “Stop it! Don’t push!” It let up and she
continued.

Slowly, Eliza
turned the baby until she felt its head. Louise was a hardy woman and did
rather well considering Eliza was nearly up to her elbows with both hands and
forearms inside her. She continued to scream, then grunt, and take quick short
breaths.

“We’re close,”
Eliza assured her, knowing she needed to work fast. She repositioned her hands
and moved out just a bit. A contraction was beginning. “Push now, Louise.
Push!”

The woman
pushed, the contraction did its job, and Eliza had to pull the baby’s head very
little as her arms and hands were expelled from Louise’s vagina, the infant
right behind them.

Eliza caught
the baby, held it up, and slapped it. When the newborn made its first wail,
Louise let out a sigh and collapsed her legs onto the bed. Instruments in the
open leather case at the foot of the bed flickered in the candlelight. Eliza
pulled the case closer and removed a clamp. She put the umbilical cord between
its metal teeth and brought them together. Then she took out a pair of scissors
and cut the cord. It seemed she worked well under pressure, but she’d always
known this. Delivering a breech baby was part common sense.
What do you do
if a baby’s positioned backwards? Turn it around.
Still, she was thankful
for the midwifery classes at the university.

Louise tried
to look up and see what Eliza was doing. For a moment, it was Annie Chapman’s
face she saw. Her eyes opened wide as saucers and she looked down expecting to
see a bundle of gore in her arms, but instead saw the newborn. Eliza cut a
clean piece of bed linen, wrapped it around the baby, and then handed it to the
woman. “It’s a girl,” she said. “I’ve got to sew you up now.”

Eliza stood
and brought several more pieces of the cut bed linen over to the basin. As she
wet the rags, the broken front door swung open on the one hinge and the boy
barreled through it with Dr. James Riley close behind. “Thank goodness you’re here
at last,” Eliza said.

“Looks like
you’ve done just fine on your own.”

“Yes, but…”
Eliza thought about what to say. “I’ve got to get home, James. My father…I’m
not allowed to be at London Hospital, the East End, because of the murders.”

“And we’ve
missed you very much.” There was a slight smile on his face. Eliza knew he
meant it. James had always been in love with her, but her father didn’t
approve. “But why—”

“Please,
James. The baby was breech but I turned it around. She seems fine now. I was
just going to sew her up. I thought she might need to go to the hospital.”

“Don’t worry
about it. Take the carriage home.”

“But how will
you get back?”

“I’ll walk, or
take a hansom. You go on ahead.”

“Oh thank you,
James. You’re a true friend.”

He took a step
closer to her. “It was good to see you again.”

“And you too,
James.” Eliza leaned in and quickly pecked him on the cheek.

He smiled.

Eliza gathered
her things and left without saying goodbye.