The Witch’s Daughter (29 page)

‘Who asked you for that tune?’ she demanded.

‘What?’ The bearded man’s eyes widened in his whiskery face at the urgency of her request.

‘You were playing “Greensleeves.” Who paid you for that melody? Where is the man who requested it?’ She looked about her at the anonymous shapes looming in and out of the fog.

‘ “Greensleeves” you say?’ The organ grinder shook his head. ‘I haven’t got that one. Could play you a nice waltz if you like.’

‘But I heard it. I heard “Greensleeves,” ’ Eliza insisted.

‘Not from me you didn’t, love.’ He shrugged and began to turn the handle again. The jarring notes of a military march began to assault Eliza’s ears. ‘Here you go, something to stir the blood and chase away this damp ol’ weather, eh?’

Eliza stared at him, shaking her head. She backed away, all the time searching, searching, searching the fathomless faces about her. At last her nerve failed her, and she ran to the door, slamming it shut behind her. Ignoring Mrs. Garvey’s inquiries as to her well-being, she tore upstairs and threw herself on the bed, her hands over her ears, her legs curled up, wondering if the nightmare would ever end.

6

Eliza sat at her desk in Dr. Gimmel’s room, poring over reports of the Whitechapel murders. The details made gruesome reading. The killer had not been content with merely ending the lives of his wretched victims but had also horribly mutilated them. Martha had dozens of slashes and stab wounds. Mary Ann Nicholls had been partially disemboweled. Poor Annie Chapman had had her head almost cut from her body. Certainly these killings had been the work of an evil and deranged mind, yet there was skill here too. These were not the wild slicings of a frenzied knife but incisions made with deliberate precision. Care, almost. Eliza thought of Gresseti’s sword. Certainly such a weapon could have caused some of the broader wounds, but it would not have allowed for the careful removal of specific organs. An instrument far more exact would be required. As would a fair knowledge of anatomy. There had already been theories put forward that the Ripper might be a butcher. Or a surgeon. In Eliza’s mind there was no doubt that the man responsible for these terrible crimes must be someone with medical skills and training. The thought made her feel sick. What would drive a person to use knowledge acquired to heal for the purpose of such barbarity and cruelty? What evil mind could conceive of such cold-blooded and brutal treatment of defenseless women?

Eliza knew of just such a mind. Of just such a person. A man who would stop at nothing to achieve his goal. To claim her. Not simply to kill her; he was not interested in revenge. He wanted her to be his. He wanted her soul. Could it be that Gresseti was Gideon? Could it be that these women were dying as a result of his persecution of her? If she stayed, how many more women would be slain? But if she left, who would save Abigail? Eliza let the newspaper fall onto her desk and rubbed her temples. She had to find a way of getting rid of Gresseti, but who would help her? Dr. Gimmel still believed him to have been recommended by Professor Salvatores. Perhaps if she could show his credentials to be false, he would be sent away. She took a sheet of writing paper from the drawer and picked up a pen. She dipped it into the inkwell. She would write to the institute herself, asking them to confirm some detail about Gresseti. As soon as she received a reply showing that they did not know the man, she would alert Dr. Gimmel. It could be that her deep-seated fear and wariness of strangers had warped her judgment. Gresseti might not be Gideon. But even if he were not, she did not trust him. The sooner he was sent away, the better. If the killings stopped, she would have her answer. As long as he remained unaware of how close she was to exposing his lack of bone fides, she felt reasonably sure he would not confront her.

She began to write, fighting off a feeling of panic that Gresseti himself might appear at any moment and discover what she was doing. She chided herself for not having thought of contacting the institute sooner. Her pen scratched its way across the vellum. Abruptly, she stopped. She stared at the words she had just written. For formality’s sake she had written his name in full—Signor Damon Gresseti. She snatched up another sheet of paper and wrote the letters of his first and second name in a rough circle, leaving out his title. Her mind raced as she rearranged the letters, crossing them off one by one until she had used them all up to form a different name. A perfect anagram. Precisely the sort of game he would delight in playing. She dropped her pen as if it had burned her fingers and gasped at the words she had formed on the page: Gideon Masters.

Eliza arrived at number 4 York Terrace less than half an hour after her discovery. She was certain now that Gresseti was indeed Gideon and that he had been responsible for the Whitechapel murders. She was tortured with guilt and despair at the thought that the killings had been somehow her own fault. If she had not been living in Whitechapel, if she had not set up her clinic there, Gresseti … Gideon, would never have known the place. And Martha, Mary Ann, and Annie would still be alive. By the time she reached Abigail’s bedroom, Eliza was beyond concealing her distress. Simon rose from his seat at the bedside, alarmed at Eliza’s distraught appearance.

‘My dearest Eliza, whatever can have happened? Come, sit by the fire. Tell me what has brought you to this state.’ He took her hands and led her to the small sofa on the far side of the room.

‘I must tend to Abigail,’ Eliza protested.

‘My sister is sleeping happily. She will wait a little longer. It is you who needs care at this moment.’ He took her bonnet from her head and tenderly stroked her cheek. ‘Won’t you tell me what is wrong?’

Eliza closed her eyes against the tears that were threatening to spill from them. Tears! The first in so many years. The first since she had stood with her mother in the Batchcombe jail. She had promised her then there would be no more. But now, with Simon so supportive, so attentive, so willing to take on her troubles, now she felt more vulnerable than she had all the long decades that she had dwelled alone.

‘I cannot tell you,’ she said. ‘I wish with all my heart I could, but…’ She shook her head.

‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

‘There is nothing.’

‘Even so, you might find that sharing your worries with another, that is, with me, well, there is some solace to be had. I would not see you alone in your suffering. I have allowed myself to believe we are friends. Close friends. Friends who should be able to confide in each other. To offer support.’

‘All I can tell you is that there is someone I fear. Someone who is not what he claims to be. And I believe him capable of terrible things.’

‘Who?’

Eliza shook her head.

‘Dearest, you must tell me. I cannot bear to think of you afraid. How can I protect you if I do not know from which direction the danger comes?’

Eliza took a breath. ‘Promise me you will not act rashly if I give you his identity. He must not know I have discovered the deception. Do you give your word you will not confront him?’

‘Very well, reluctantly, yes. You have my word.’

‘It is Signor Gresseti.’

Simon’s face darkened. A small muscle at the corner of his left eye began to twitch.

‘The Italian at the Fitzroy? But Dr. Gimmel speaks so highly of the man. Are you certain?’

‘Yes. Beyond any doubt. The man is an impostor, and he is dangerous. Do not ask me to explain further, I beg of you.’

‘Have you voiced your fears to Dr. Gimmel?’

‘I cannot, before I obtain proof. I have written to the Institute in Milan. I am awaiting their reply. In the meantime…’ She trailed off, her voice faltering.

Simon let go her hands and stood up.

‘In the meantime you must come to stay here with us. No, I will hear no objections. What manner of friend would I be to allow you to traverse London alone daily while you fear this man? Whatever he has done, whatever his intentions, he will not assail you here. I am sure of it.’

‘But my clinic…’

‘Can do without you for a short while until this creature is exposed and sent packing. As soon as you have the proof you require and have alerted Dr. Gimmel, I myself will take great delight in booting the villain all the way back to the Mediterranean if necessary.’ He held up a hand, ‘Say nothing further, Eliza. I will not be moved on this matter. I will send a carriage to your lodgings this day to collect what belongings you require.’

Eliza felt such relief at the idea of living under Simon’s protection that for a second time she thought she might weep. She met Simon’s determined gaze.

‘Very well,’ she said quietly, ‘I will accept your kind offer. Only send your carriage late this evening. I must open the doors of the clinic once more so that I can inform my patients I will be away for a few days. It would not be fair to simply disappear.’

‘But you will come? The minute the clinic is closed?’

‘I will.’ She stood up and stepped into his open arms, resting her head against his chest as his gentle hands smoothed the back of her gown. ‘I will.’

It had been Eliza’s intention to go straight home after seeing Simon, but she realized there were medicines she required from the apothecary. If the clinic was to be closed for a short time, she would need to ensure that her patients had their medicaments in sufficient quantities to last until her return. She browsed the shelves of the pharmacopoeia, selecting bottles and jars until her bag was almost too full to shut properly. While she was helping herself to a bundle of bandages and dressings, Roland appeared behind her.

‘Dr. Hawksmith, what a surprise to find you here.’ His grin was pleasant enough, but Eliza caught the chiding note in his voice.

‘Roland. I am aware I have not been spending as much time with my patients here at the Fitzroy as I should of late. I have had duties elsewhere.’

‘So I understand.’ He let the subject drop and passed her a packet of lint. ‘Supplies for your clinic? It must be a fearful place to work at the moment. I understand some of the victims were among your patients.’

It was a measure of the widespread horror at the Ripper’s actions that Roland did not have to mention whose victims he meant. The murders were the talk of London. Of the world, indeed.

‘Yes.’ Eliza clipped her bag shut. ‘Two of them were, certainly. I am not sure about the third.’

‘The third? Then, you have not heard?’

‘Heard what?’

‘There have been more killings.’

‘More?’

‘Why yes, last night.’ Seeing how shocked she was, Roland sought to explain himself. ‘I am sorry, Dr. Hawksmith, I assumed you knew. It was in the papers this morning. Two women this time. Yes, two in one night. Both dreadfully cut up … the most awful business.’ Roland was left talking to an empty space as Eliza snatched up her bag and ran from the room.

The journey home gave her time to form a plan, so that when she arrived back at Hebden Street Eliza knew exactly what she was going to do. Gideon had to be stopped. And she had to stop him. There was no time to wait for letters from Milan. No time for half measures. She would confront him herself. She would do whatever was necessary to rid the world of this evil being. No more women would die because of him. Because of her. No more.

The clinic was not busy. The fog had been replaced by steady rain. The bad weather and the fear that washed the streets along with it kept all indoors who did not have a need to be abroad. Even those women whose livelihoods depended upon their tramping the alleyways and side roads had largely decided the risk was too great. The girls all knew one another. Some had lost close friends. The nature of the killings was well known and the horror too terrifying to face. Eliza waited until only one patient remained in the small room. A painfully young girl with a heartbreaking cough. Eliza touched her sleeve as she was about to go.

‘Wait,’ she said, ‘just a moment.’

The girl regarded her with shadowy eyes.

‘Connie, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, Doctor.’ The girl’s voice was hoarse.

‘I have a favor to ask of you. I know it may seem strange, but, well, I hope you will simply accept that I have my reasons for asking. Will you help me?’

‘Yeah, course I will. Don’t see as I can do much, but you just tell me what you want, Doctor.’

‘Look,’ Eliza said, ‘look at this.’ She took from the corner table a pretty green dress of fine cotton with lace at the collar and cuffs. ‘It is your size, I think. The color would suit you. Will you swap your clothes for this dress?’

‘What, these old scraps? What use are they to you?’

‘Never mind that. Just say you will.’

Connie reached out and touched the fresh fabric, her face brightening as her fingers glided over the embroidered detail at the waist.

‘Go on then,’ she said. ‘Beats me why you want to, but, yeah, I’ll do it.’

‘One more thing.’ Eliza pulled the dress away from the girl. ‘You must go straight home tonight. Do you understand? No working. Straight home. Promise?’

‘All right.’ Connie shrugged and nodded. ‘I promise.’

Within the hour, wearing Connie’s shabby but gaudy clothes, with her hair piled up beneath a flowery hat, Eliza was strolling the darkest streets of Whitechapel, the rain quickly seeping through her shawl. She walked slowly, waiting, listening, knowing he would find her. She did not have to wait long.

As she turned into a narrow cul de sac, she could plainly hear footsteps behind her. She passed a cat crouched low at the sight of her. It wailed as the man following her drew nearer. Eliza reached the dead end and turned, keeping her head bowed, her face hidden in the darkness beneath the brim of her hat. A tall figure came to stand only a few paces in front of her. The rain was warm but incessant, puddling the streets. It provided an unnerving, relentless sound, the hissing of a hundred angry snakes. In the distance hoofbeats could be heard as a hansom cab hurried over the cobbles. Somewhere piano music and drunken singing drifted on the night air. With her head lowered, Eliza could see only her pursuer’s feet, his highly polished shoes, the fine cloth of his trousers, the hem of his silk-lined cape. And his black cane, its silver top reflected in a puddle by the dull light of a nearby gaslamp.