Shadows Fall Away (34 page)

The streets were still abuzz about the murders and the inquests. It made me realize how isolated I’d been. I hoped the police caught the madman responsible soon. I didn’t relish the thought that I might very well be back here and on my own before long.

But at least I’d be here because I
wanted
to, not because I was forced to.

And I wouldn’t be entirely alone, would I? I had a friend, a true, real friend. A friend that cared enough about me to defend my honor at the risk of his own injury.

Despite the chill in the air and the sodden grayness of the sky, I felt a lightness I hadn’t in weeks. I smiled at everyone I passed in the hospital corridors but my smile slowly faded when they stared, their expressions forlorn. What on earth?

Father came out of his office just as I was about to knock. He had on his overcoat and hat as if he was about to leave. Odd he didn’t have any at home appointments scheduled.

“Eugenia? What are you doing here?”

“I need to speak with you about Jack—”

“You’ve been told? By whom? I shall have them sacked this instant!”

“Told what, Father?”

He stared at me then quickly ushered me inside.

“What is the matter? Does this have anything to do with why everyone was staring at me in the halls? Where is Jack? What’s happened to him?”

“Eugenia, sit down.”

“I don’t need to sit. I’m not some frail child. Tell me.”

Father gave me a stern look but his expression quickly softened. “Jack is dead. I was on my way home to tell you when you arrived.”

“Jack Palmer is dead? But how?”

Father shrugged. “I don’t know. We were talking about your mother—”

“Why were you and Jack talking about Mother?”

“That’s not important.” He paused and took a long, slow breath. “He suffered a seizure of some kind. I did all I could but he was gone in an instant. The post-mortem should tell us the exact cause. I’ll perform it myself.” He rubbed his temple. “What did you want to speak with me about?”

“It doesn’t really matter now.” Jack was dead. I supposed I should have been upset but I wasn’t. I decided the sadness would come but for now there were things to do. Arrangements to be made. “I suppose I’ll send word to his family and see what they want us to do about burial.”

***

Mark

My ankle was swollen so badly when I woke up I thought I might have broken it. I forced myself to get up and put weight on it. It held but the stab of pain made the room spin. Another reason to hate Jackass Palmer. I lay back on the bed and propped my ankle on my pillow. I grabbed my watch off the nightstand and gave it its daily wind before opening the cover. One o’clock? Geez. I knew I felt wiped out when we got back but I didn’t think I’d sleep this late. No wonder I felt like crap. In fact, I felt like I’d gotten totally hammered but all I had was the one glass of champagne. Must have been some kickass champagne.

Lucky for me, Mrs. O. came up before I motivated myself enough to go down or toddle to my little kitchenette and scrounge up something to eat.

“What’s wrong? That champagne give you a headache, too?”

“Go on, you. A couple glasses of la di dah wine ain’t enough to give me a bad mornin’ after.” She looked at me as if she wanted to say something but didn’t know if she should.

“Something’s wrong. Tell me. Please. Is it Genie? Is she okay? That Palmer didn’t do anything to her, did he? If he did I’ll—”

“He’s dead. Keeled right over at hospital, he did. This very day.”

“Couldn’t happen to a bigger bastard if you ask me.”

Mrs. O’Connell gasped and I apologized. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t like the guy. He was bad news. Bad, bad news.”

But was he Jack the Ripper? I was still here so ending the murder spree obviously wasn’t the magic ticket home. And it wouldn’t be if exposing the killer was what needed to happen. It was the mystery that sparked the Ripperologist convention and it would still be a mystery, right? Maybe if I told Ian he could search Jackhole’s apartment or where he lived and find some evidence. Of course, without modern forensics the evidence could be staring them in the face right now and they’d never know.

“How’s Genie taking it? Have you seen her?”

“She’s the one who brought the news. Poor girl. She’s holding up something fierce but I imagine the shock ain’t worn off yet.”

Or maybe she was relieved he was gone? And that would be a good thing as far as I was concerned.

I think Mrs. O. was still cheesed that I wasn’t mourning Palmer but I wasn’t going to cry crocodile tears for the guy. I finished off the bowl of soup and tea she brought then settled back to try and get a handle on the new Plan A for catching Jack on the off chance Palmer hadn’t been the killer or if he’d only been part of a team.

But man, I was tired as hell.

Nap first. Planning after.

November 7

Genie

It was all rather gruesome but I supposed it made sense that Jack’s family would request we have his remains cremated and sent to their home in Kent. I had to admit that part of me was relieved. At least I wouldn’t have to play the grieving fiancée during a church funeral or at an after-burial luncheon. The day following Jack’s death, we had a simple service in the hospital chapel for Jack’s medical friends who wanted to attend then Father accompanied the remains to the crematorium in Woking. From there the Cremation Society would see Jack’s urn be sent on to his family’s home.

Mother reached across the table and patted my hand as we had a quiet lunch at home. “Not to worry, Eugenia. There are plenty of fish in the sea.”

Phoebe nearly choked on her tea. “Mother, honestly. Can you be more morbid?”

“I’m merely stating fact, nothing morbid in that. Jack had a brain hemorrhage; it isn’t anything that could have been foreseen. If it was due to some inborn weakness then Eugenia is far better off not to risk any such ailment being passed onto any children they might have had.”

I frowned. “I don’t usually agree with Phoebe, but I think I have to this time, Mother. Can we finish our meal with a new topic of conversation?”

Mother offered us an odd, banal smile and collected the morning mail from the sideboard. “You girls chat. I’m going upstairs.”

“Would you like me to come read to you when I’ve finished eating?”

“No, Eugenia. I’m fine.”

When her footsteps retreated, I turned to my sister. “She does seem fine, doesn’t she? Compared to how upset she was when Father brought me home. I think she’s almost back to normal.”

“Oh, let’s hope not,” Phoebe said. “She’s a lot more pleasant, if you ask me.”

It seemed Phoebe had spoken too soon because Mother was anything but pleasant by teatime. She wasn’t in a state of nervous exhaustion as she had been but she was definitely on edge much the same way she often got during violent storms when the thunder and lightning reminded her of her ordeal in the Crimea.

Father sent word that he would be away for the rest of the evening and that didn’t help her mood any. When the rain started early in the evening I realized that was the reason for her behavior. She refused to come down to dinner. When I took a tray up to her she barely ate, insisting she wanted to have some quiet time alone because she felt a headache coming on.

“Let me give you some of the medicine Father—”

“No!” Mother took a deep breath and lowered her voice. “I don’t need that now. Perhaps later before I go to sleep.” She smiled. “Why don’t you keep your sister company or turn in early? It’s been a trying few days for you. You should rest.”

I kissed her cheek. “I might turn in early. I’ll stop in before I go to my room.”

But I didn’t turn in early at all. Phoebe had a gentleman caller and I curled up in Father’s study to read through the previous year’s
Beeton’s Christmas Annual
to reread the novel by A. Conan Doyle. I’d given Inspector Fraser a copy last year and I wondered if he’d read it.

Midnight had come and gone long before I came out of the study to see Phoebe’s friend was only just leaving. I ducked behind the stairs as she walked him to the door. They shared quite a long kiss. I cringed as I remembered that night with Jack. I needed to pay a call on Mr. Stewart tomorrow to thank him for stepping in the way he had.

When the door closed, I came out of hiding and gave my sister a long look.

“What? I may be a sickly widow, but I’m not dead yet.”

Laughing, we linked arms the way we’d done as girls and made our way upstairs. Phoebe continued on to her room while I stopped to knock on Mother’s door. The room was dark save for the fire in the grate and I assumed she was sleeping until I stepped closer to the bed. It was empty, the bedclothes mussed. Perhaps nature called.

I went to my own room and slipped into my nightdress then went back. Mother still wasn’t there. I checked Father’s room then the privy but she wasn’t anywhere. It wasn’t likely she was with Phoebe but I checked anyway.

“Perhaps she went to get a brandy after the privy, or to the kitchen to get something to eat.”

I ran back down but she wasn’t in the den or Father’s surgery or the dining room or parlor. She wasn’t in the kitchen. Sarah said she hadn’t heard a single sound. I rushed back upstairs. The attic. Maybe the rain got her to thinking about her nursing days again. The door was unlocked but it was dark. I grabbed a lamp from my room and made my way up the narrow stairs.

Her old trunk was opened, the contents in disarray, as was another trunk with some of the old clothes Father was going to donate to the charity wards. “What on earth?” I wondered aloud when the papers caught my eye. The bottom of the trunk was filled with pages on the Whitechapel murders. The pages were riddled with slices as if someone had slashed through them. And there was dried blood, fingerprints.

What was this? What on earth?

On the floor, an undamaged piece of paper caught my eye. It was a letter addressed to Father. It had been posted yesterday.

Three months and I’m tired of waiting. Had to sell the bauble you gave me. Maybe I should of sold it back to her. The way I see it, you got two choices. Pay me to keep my mouth shut or you take out what you put in.

Your Fair Emma

Fair Emma. Mother’s name was Emma but this wasn’t her handwriting. The paper fluttered from my hand and I swallowed hard. Mary Kelly called herself Fair Emma. She once said her best customer once loved a girl named Emma but that girl was long gone and a stranger had taken her place.

Oh dear Lord. It was true. Father and Mary Kelly. The bauble was that brooch. The one Mark bought in the market. The one that got Mother so upset.

I rushed back to my room, threw on clothes, grabbed my cloak, and hoped I found Mother before she got to Whitechapel.

***

Mark

What the hell was wrong with me? Why was I so effing tired? Shit. It was pitch black. I fumbled on the nightstand for my watch. I fell out of bed, cursed worse than all the dockworkers combined when I hit my ankle. I grabbed the watch, crawled to the window, and angled the face until it caught the faint glow from the closest streetlamp.

Shit! It was three a.m. The murder happened at four!

I nearly set myself on fire trying to light the bedside lamp. I splashed water on my face, threw on my shoes, and laced them tight. Why the hell was I so freakin’ groggy?

I half fell down the steps but refused to give in to the pain. I had to catch him. I had to get home. I did fall on the last landing and made enough MF-ing noise in the world to wake up Mrs. O’Connell.

“Get back to bed. You can’t go out on a night like this!”

“I have to go! He—never mind. Please move out of the way!”

She tried to grab my arm. “Come on, have a nice cuppa, and let me give you more of that medicine to make you sleep.”

“What medicine? How long have you been giving it to me? You drugged my food?”

“The doctor said to. He said you needed rest to mend that leg of yours.”

I MF’d Jack Palmer to hell and back with each stab of pain as I made it down the last set of stairs.

***

Genie

I saw Mary Kelly near Thrawl Street talking to a man. I froze when they turned and I recognized the waistcoat. It was Father’s. I’d given it to him one Christmas when I was small. I’d embroidered the watch pocket myself. But it wasn’t Father wearing it.

Wiping the raindrops from my eyeglasses, I followed them to Miller’s Court. I debated for what seemed an eternity before tapping on the door. “It’s Eugenia Trambley.”

Mary Kelly opened the door and laughed in my face. “Come on an’ join the party. Too bad yer old man ain’t here.” With a smirk to Mother, she patted her belly. “Oh wait, a part of him is.”

“You whore! Whore of Babylon, whore of Satan sent to tempt righteous and good men.”

I grabbed Mother’s arm. She shoved me away so hard I tripped over my wet skirts and hit the floor. My spectacles fell and I groped to find them. Mother pulled a knife from inside father’s coat. She brandished it at Mary.

“You are a snake, an evil serpent who must be destroyed the way St. George slay the dragon.”

“Murder!” Mary screamed.

Mother’s voice came out like a growl. “Die, you filthy whore.” She backed Mary to the bed, slashed at her. Mary fell back, hit her head on the headboard. Mother grabbed her neck, pinched the artery, and knocked her out.

“Mother, no! Come with me, please.” I grabbed her arm. She lashed out and hit me in the head, knocking me back into the mantle. I crumpled.

***

Mark

I wasn’t going to make it. I couldn’t dodge the cops and the vigilance patrols and get there in time with this ankle. But I kept going, ducking out of sight when I could, slowing and making like I was just a guy heading home when I couldn’t. Finally, I hit Miller’s Court and looked for number thirteen. I gagged when I pushed the door open enough to see inside. Blood guts everywhere. Kelly’s face was slashed off, the skin on her leg was cut off exposing bone—