Nine Buck's Row (11 page)

The hall seemed longer, sinister in the darkness. The front curtains flapped loudly, and the night air was laden with whispering voices. Go back, they said, go back. Nonsense. I moved toward the door of the storage room, shadows leaping like black demons as the flame wavered under the glass globe.

The door to the storage room was closed. I gave a sigh of relief. Maggie had locked it yesterday. No one could have gotten in without a key, and I knew there was only one set of keys. Maggie kept them in her apron pocket. There had been noises, yes. Mice, or wind blowing through cracks, or a bird nesting under the eaves. Noises magnified themselves in the night, making strange reverberations as they echoed in the stillness. I could go back to sleep now, satisfied.

There was a tiny click. The door swung open.

I almost dropped the lamp. I closed my eyes tightly, waiting for the hands to seize me, but there was nothing but a rush of clammy air and the horrible sour odor of mildew and dust. I stepped back, staring. The door moved slowly outward, hinges screeching hoarsely, then stepped. It hadn't been closed securely and had swung open of its own volition. But Maggie had locked it! I had watched her do it.

Someone had been in the room. Perhaps they were still inside, hiding behind the stacks of boxes, waiting for me to step a bit closer.… The room was filled with evil, and there was a presence, an impression in the air, overwhelmingly real.

I slammed the door shut, my shoulders trembling.

The floorboards groaned. I whirled around, my heart leaping madly. I saw the man approaching. He was outside the radius of light, a dark form moving toward me through nests of shadows. I backed against the wall, my blood icy cold. There
had
been someone in the courtyard. I
had
heard footsteps. Someone had slipped into the house, and now … I tried to scream but no sound would come.

“What in God's name are you doing out of bed?” he asked sharply.

“I—it's you—”

“Whom were you expecting?” he snapped, exasperated.

“I thought—the door was open. Maggie locked it, I saw her, and now it's unlocked and I heard noises—footsteps on the stairs, and there was someone in the courtyard, I saw, in the fog, and—”

“You're not speaking coherently, Susannah.”

I caught my breath. Nicholas Craig stared at me, his face in shadow, his eyes very dark. He was wearing a dark brown velvet smoking jacket over white shirt and dark trousers, a pair of gleaming evening pumps on his feet. He smelled of alcohol and tobacco.

“Explain yourself,” he said coldly. “It's after four in the morning. What are you doing out of bed?”

“I thought I heard something. Footsteps—”

“Perhaps you heard me coming in.”

“You—you've just come in?”

“I've been here perhaps half an hour.”

“Did you come in the back way?”

“I'm not in the habit of slipping into the house. I came in the front door, as I always do.”

“Something awakened me with a start. I went to the window. I thought I saw someone in the courtyard, and then there were footsteps on the back stairs. At least—at least I thought there were—”

“I came in a short while ago,” he said, cutting me short. “I was in the parlor, having a brandy, when I heard you moving around up here. At first I thought I must be mistaken, then I definitely heard someone in the hall.”

“I had to see—”

“You were obviously having a nightmare.”

“I don't think so,” I said, calmer now, my voice level.

“You heard nothing, Susannah.”

He spoke the words slowly, forcefully, as though giving an order. I started to reply, but something held me back. Nicholas Craig was on edge, and I had the curious feeling that he was trying to conceal something, that he knew more than he was telling me. His face looked tense in the wavering gold light, lines about the mouth and eyes, and he seemed to be defying me to contradict him.

“What about the door?” I asked quietly. “Maggie locked it.”

“I brought some things up this afternoon while you were out. Obviously I failed to lock it behind me.”

“I see.”

He stepped closer, and he was peering at me in a different sort of way now, his eyes as dark as ink, his mouth tight. I was suddenly aware of my state of undress. The bodice of my petticoat was cut very low and the cloth was thin, firm flesh straining against it. Nicholas Craig stared for a moment.

“You're staring, Mr. Craig,” I said calmly.

He clenched his fists. His face went white with anger.

“Is that the only nightdress you have?” he asked harshly.

“It's my petticoat. I always sleep in—”

“Have my aunt buy you a decent flannel nightdress tomorrow. Now go to bed!”

I finally went to sleep, and when I awakened the room was filled with bright silver sunlight. I dressed hurriedly. There was something I wanted to see before everyone else was up and about.

I moved quickly across the courtyard and opened the gate that led into the alley. Three trash bins stood against the wall on the other side. A fat marmalade cat was curled up on top of one. He hissed at me angrily and then leaped away. One of the trash bins was without a lid. It was on the ground several feet away. It had been knocked off. I was convinced that the sound of that lid falling off had awakened me last night.

A cat could have done it, of course, or the wind could have blown it off. There were half a dozen logical explanations, yet somehow none of them satisfied me. I had been tense last night, nervous, but still.… I went back toward the house, my brow creased.

Colleen met me at the back door. Shaggy black locks framed her face. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were as wide as blue saucers. She was hardly able to stand still, so great was her excitement.

“Miss Susannah!” she cried. “'Ave you 'eard? It's 'appened again! 'E got 'im another one last night! They found her a little while ago. In the backyard of a house on Hanbury Street, she was, and all cut up! There was blood everywhere! Oh, Miss Susannah, it was
awful
!”

8

East End was in an uproar, excitement and panic rampaging through the district like a fire out of control. This morning of September eighth was like no other. Business came almost to a standstill as people ran up and down the streets, shouting details of the crime. Crowds gathered on every corner, and Hanbury Street was mobbed with hundreds of avid spectators who hoped to catch a glimpse of the grisly sight of the backyard of number 29. Mercenary neighbors made a tidy sum renting window space, so some were actually able to peer down at the trash-littered yard now swarming with policemen. Before noon there was hardly a soul in all of East London who didn't know what had happened, and a broadsheet entited “Lines on the Terrible Tragedy” was already being circulated by hysterical newsvendors.

The body had been discovered just as the fog lifted and dawn was smearing the sky with a yellow glow. The owner of number 29 ran a packing case business, and the backyard was heaped with rubbish. John Davis, a market porter who lived on the premises, stepped out to take a breath of fresh air when he spied a peculiar bundle of rags wedged in the narrow gully between the back steps and the fence of the house next door. The rags were wet and red and when he went to investigate he found the remains of Annie Chapman, “Dark Annie” as she was known in the district. The body had been horribly mutilated.

It was by far the most gruesome murder yet.

Colleen remained in a state of perpetual excitement all morning, but she managed to give me the basic facts as I came in from the courtyard. The others were already up, she informed me, and Mrs. Henderson had deserted her post and rushed off to join the sightseers at Hanbury Street. The mistress was cookin' breakfast 'erself, and what a shambles that was, while Mister Nicky was fretting and fuming, eager to be off. Yes, he'd been up for 'ours, looking pale and frightfully upset.

I went down to the kitchen to see if I could help Maggie. She looked completely dismayed, very much out of her element. Red ringlets bouncing, fluffy white apron tied over her lilac silk dress, she was anxiously watching the sooty black stove, as though expecting it to blow up at any minute. Bacon sizzled in a skillet, and a mound of bright yellow scrambled eggs was growing cold on the drainboard.

“Imagine Mrs. Henderson rushing off like that!” she cried irritably. “And without so much as a by-your-leave. That woman
thrives
on bloodshed!”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No, no, just—Colleen's setting the table and—oh dear, Nicky's in a fret to be off, and he
would
want his breakfast today of all days. Will you run up and tell him it's almost ready? As soon as these muffins finish baking—did I remember the coffee? Yes, yes, it's boiling—”

Nicholas Craig was pacing back and forth in the parlor, his hands behind his back. His face was pale, ravaged, the dark eyes darker than ever against the pallor. I stood in the doorway a moment, watching him, unduly nervous. He saw me and stopped, an angry scowl on his face.

“Well?” he snapped.

“Maggie says breakfast will be ready in a few minutes.”

He gave a disgusted sigh and stalked over to the window, pushing aside the curtain and peering down at the street. Someone was shouting something, and there was the sound of footsteps running down the block. Nicholas Craig heaved his shoulders, muttering something under his breath. One hand gripped the curtains tightly, fingers crushing the cloth, and his other hand was balled into a fist. He whirled around suddenly and caught me studying him.

I may have blushed slightly, but I didn't look away.

“May I inquire what you were doing out in the alley this morning?” he asked in a calm, lethal voice.

“You—you saw me?”

“I was putting on my boots when I saw you go through the gate.”

“I—I was looking for something,” I replied nervously.

“And did you find anything?”

“No—yes. I mean—”

He waited patiently, one eyebrow arched.

“A lid had been knocked off a trash bin in the alley,” I said.

“So?”

“I think that's what woke me up last night. Someone knocked it off.”

Nicholas Craig studied me for a long moment, the black eyes glowing darkly. He seemed to be reading my mind. His mouth turned down fiercely at one corner. I was uneasy, my pulses leaping, and I half expected him to stalk across the room and smash his hand across my face. He gave another sigh, shook his head slowly and spoke in a quiet, almost tender voice.

“You do have a vivid imagination, Susannah,” he said. “I suppose it's understandable. You've been through a great deal of unpleasantness. It's only natural that you should be tense. You had a nightmare. You woke up in the middle of the night. You imagined a noise.”

“It seemed so real.”

“A cat may have knocked the lid off last night, or the wind may have blown it off, or it may have been knocked off a week ago and never replaced on the bin. There are any number of explanations.”

“I realize that, but—the footsteps on the back stairs.”

“I told you I had just come in. You probably heard me. This house is full of curious echoes and reverberations. It may have sounded as though the noises were coming from another part of the house.”

“That woman murdered last night—” I began.

“Surely you're not implying there's any connection?”

“Of course not,” I said, my voice trembling.

“I want you to forget about last night,” he said sharply. “You woke up in the middle of the night, and you were afraid. It's only natural. This whole damn city's afraid—hysteria mounting. I'm your guardian, Susannah. I intend to guard you. Nothing is going to happen to you.”

He stared at me with that chilling detachment, the dark eyes cold now. I wanted to throw something at him, and at the same time I wanted to burst into tears. Something of what I felt must have shown in my eyes, for Nicholas Craig curled his lips up in a sarcastic smile.

“You
are
an emotional creature,” he said. “You must learn to conceal your feelings, Susannah. It could be dangerous.”

“Dangerous?”

“Some other man might misinterpret what I see in your eyes. He might think all that passion sprang from another source.”

“I don't understand what you mean.”

“It's just as well. I intend to see to it that no other man has a chance to get close enough to read your expression.”

Colleen rushed in to announce the meal. Nicholas Craig took hold of my arm and led me into the dining room. Breakfast was a disaster. The bacon was burned, the eggs cold, the muffins deplorably flat. Maggie fussed and fretted, apologizing for the mess, and Nicholas Craig maintained a stoic silence, ignoring both of us, immersed in his own thoughts. Colleen came in with the pot of coffee, and when she banged it down on the table he gave her such a venomous look that she fled from the room in tears.

“Really, Nicky—” Maggie protested.

He rose from the table, tossed his napkin down and walked out without saying a word. A minute or so later we heard the front door slam. Maggie shook her head, distressed, and I wondered how one man could be so intolerably rude. Maggie and I finished our coffee and then she went down to open her shop, determined to maintain some kind of normality in the midst of all this chaos.

I stayed in the shop with Maggie, attempting to help her with the hats but unable to concentrate. I jabbed my finger with a needle, drawing blood, and later on I knocked over a tray of artificial flowers, scattering them all over the floor. Maggie understood my mood and was the soul of patience, but I could see that she would have preferred to do without my assistance. Shortly before noon a newsboy came down the street, waving the broadsheet and yelling lustily.