Ripper. Part 15

Fifteen.

T.

he next morning at the hospital, I tried to push the meeting with Abberline out of my mind-that image of the floating kidney-and focus instead on my tasks. But that letter, and the writer's claim that he had eaten half of the kidney, saving and mailing it ... I shuddered every time I thought of it. The killer was certainly more than a lunatic to be able to murder, escape the police this easily, and then taunt them as he was. Abberline was probably right that the killer was a psychopath, someone shrewd, cunning, and methodical.

But I didn't understand why Abberline was so convinced that the Ripper worked at Whitechapel Hospital. Like William, I did not believe that anyone I worked with was the Ripper. I didn't want to be stupidly naive; if the Ripper was as much of a mastermind as Abberline supposed him to be, he would blend in-he would be able to charm. To amuse. But at Whitechapel Hospital, we were all too busy to plan and carry out such a game. Furthermore, everyone had such excellent rapport with Dr. Bartlett and Dr. Buck-why would someone who worked there want to soil the hospital's reputation by killing its patients?

I wondered why Abberline felt so adamantly that the Ripper worked in Whitechapel Hospital specifically. London had other hospitals, and dozens of medical students and physicians. Certainly Abberline, with all of his years of detective experience, must have thought of this. Perhaps he had withheld something from me, some further proof that the murderer worked at the hospital.

I did not trust him. Inspector Abberline had said that he would be my "friend" if I worked with him. But after leaving Scotland Yard, I didn't regret for an instant my refusal to work with him. His first and foremost concern was not me, and certainly not Whitechapel Hospital. What he wanted most was to catch the killer.

Although there had not been any more killings, Scotland Yard police were still patrolling in and around the hospital. I vowed to avoid Inspector Abberline whenever he appeared there. I understood that he was interested in me because I was involved with the staff, patients, and happenings at Whitechapel Hospital at a level that he could not be. Nonetheless, I still did not want to involve myself.

Ironically, publicity from the killings was bringing us more volunteers. We had more nurses now than before. Several volunteers came from local parish churches. The newspaper stories and letters to the editor, such as Perkins's, were raising awareness of life in the East End. This had not only inspired the extra volunteers, but we were also receiving significant money and supply donations. Even New Hospital was sympathetic, sending us a large s.h.i.+pment of medical supplies. I hoped rather than believed that this outpouring of generosity would continue even after the papers finally grew tired of covering Whitechapel stories.

That morning, I finally got a chance to confront William about his behavior prior to our arrest with Scribby. I found him seated by a bed, pulling b.l.o.o.d.y bandages off a female patient who had come in with an abscess on her arm. Before he saw me approaching, I studied his profile. He looked even more weary than he had previously; his expression seemed troubled, strained.

I brought him a bucket for the bandages, half-filled with soapy water. I dropped it heavily on the wooden floor at his feet.

"Did you have a nice chat with the Inspector?" William did not look up from his work.

"That's none of your business." The patient was sleeping, but I spoke in a whisper. "We have not yet addressed how you locked Mary and me in the closet downstairs. Bad form, William."

He smirked. "Yes. It was. But I wanted to save your life. I knew you wouldn't listen to me." He looked up at me for the first time in the conversation, dropping the b.l.o.o.d.y cloths into the bucket. "And you did not listen. By running out in the middle of that riot, your leg, instead of Scribby's, might have been broken. Or worse."

"You know I can take care of myself. For goodness sake, William, you have seen it."

"I do, Abbie. But you should know your limitations. There is a difference between bravery and the conceited independence you seem to enjoy-walking through the East End at night, running outside amidst a rioting crowd. All of this will get you killed someday."

Perhaps it was the stress. Perhaps it was the pressure of the hospital work. It might have been the tension broiling around the wards ever since the murders began. But I could no longer ignore that cord between William and myself. I was angry, and I wanted to test its strength.

"And why would you care?"

William remained silent as he finished removing the last of the bandages. Then he stood and pushed his chair back, skidding it hard into the wall.

I jumped back a bit. Like a startled rabbit.

"I'll take this." William snapped up the bucket of b.l.o.o.d.y, wet bandages.

He left the ward, and I did not see him for the remainder of the day.

That evening I arrived at Dr. Bartlett's house for a dinner party.

I had been invited along with a few other physicians-only his favorites, William had told me. There were less than six of us. Since this would be a bit more formal than the first time I was at his house, I wanted to wear something nicer than usual. On a whim, I had chosen one of Mother's more formal dresses, a lavender gown that bustled in the back. The bodice fit tightly, providing a dramatic contrast to the bell sleeves; cream-colored lace framed the inside of the sleeves and the neckline of the bodice. I had also found the faux-diamond headband Mother had worn with the dress-it was in decent shape except for one gem gone, like a missing tooth.

When Dr. Bartlett opened the front door, he looked a bit startled, which was odd for him. But he regained his typical demeanor within seconds. "You look lovely." He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. So much like Caroline."

His eyes lingered on me for a second before he looked away. Mother and I did have the same coloring and height, but in that moment I felt insecure, as if wearing the dress had been a mistake. I was a duller, less attractive version of her.

The Montgomery Street house looked more resplendent than I remembered it. The globelike aquarium cast so many prisms of light around the drawing room that it gave the illusion of the room being underwater-the shadows of jellyfish glided along every inch of the green walls. The potted foliage seemed even more lush and abundant than before.

Dr. Buck nodded at me from behind Dr. Bartlett. He looked as stiff and bookish as ever.

"John, Marcus," Dr. Bartlett called, waving his cigar toward the other men who stood near the bookcases. "You remember Miss Arabella Sharp? She has become my prize student, and, I believe, a future physician."

Reverend Perkins put a gla.s.s of wine in my hand. Although polite, he still had not thawed toward me. I had seen him once or twice in recent weeks, in his clergy collar visiting patients at the hospital. Each time, he had barely acknowledged me.

"Thank you," I said as I took the gla.s.s, unnerved by his demeanor.

Dr. Marcus Brown was all politeness and kindness. He immediately put me at ease, lamenting cheerfully that I was choosing the medical profession as opposed to his area of study, history and philosophy.

"But I do love to read," I said. "Particularly the Bronte sisters' works. Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights are my favorites."

"Ahhh ... the Brontes!" Dr. Brown clapped his hands together. "Quite ahead of their time, actually! So perceptive about the situation of women, about the blindnesses that still exist in our patriarchal society."

He flashed a look at Reverend Perkins and I instantly realized that he was not talking about the Bronte sisters' fiction, but rather was making some other point entirely to Reverend Perkins.

"Let us not keep Abbie from the other guests," Dr. Bartlett said abruptly, stepping aside. "Dinner is about to begin."

I felt a bit bewildered as I tried to figure out what had just happened between Dr. Brown and Reverend Perkins. But Dr. Bartlett ushered me toward the back of the house.

"We're dining outside. It's such a lovely night."

I felt perplexed. Late September in London was too cold for an outdoor dinner.

Then, when I saw where Dr. Bartlett was taking me, I realized that "outside" was not quite an accurate term for the dinner setting. He led me through the drawing room to the two great French doors I had seen Max exit through the last time I was at the house, and then into a sort of magnificent hothouse containing nothing less than an indoor forest. It was bordered by high stone walls covered with ivy. Exotic flowers blossomed from the greenery in orange, pink, and yellow puffs.

I looked up and saw a gla.s.s dome high above us and the clear, starry night sky beyond. The dome must have been at least level with the fourth story of the house. Birds dashed back and forth under the dome. Many were rainforest birds-toucans, parrots, and others that I could not identify. Undoubtedly many had been brought here by Dr. Buck.

Trees, many of which were tall with thick leaves and not native to England, had been planted throughout the area. Small monkeys dangled and jeered at us from above, and snakes slithered along the ground. A very large fountain stood immediately in front of the forest, and a long table sat just in front of the fountain. A few torches surrounded the table for lighting, but beyond that, past the fountain, the only light in the entire place came from the moonlight above.

Everyone except for Dr. Bartlett's housemates and myself were already seated, ready to dine. A giant platter of stuffed roast mutton and bowls of bread and baked beets had already been placed on the table. Dr. Bartlett guided me to an empty seat at the end of the table, near Simon and William and just in front of the fountain. Aside from Dr. Bartlett, Dr. Buck, Reverend Perkins, and Dr. Brown (I had not seen Max Bartlett anywhere), there were three other young physicians whom I did not know so well: Colin, Alistair, and Branwell. William stood quickly when he saw me approach.

"You look beautiful," he said, pulling out my chair for me.

Simon nodded; his sea-gla.s.s eyes emitted only a polite gesture of greeting. I briefly wondered if he had noticed me in the same way that William had.

As I had observed before, in the course of the dinner Dr. Bartlett and his housemates seemed to have no hired servants-not even one. Dr. Bartlett himself, or Dr. Brown, removed dishes throughout the meal; Reverend Perkins and Dr. Buck refilled wine and water gla.s.ses. Dr. Buck, I imagined, was the sole gardener of the surrounding forest. He rose at least twice to shoo away curious monkeys.

The conversation among the guests mostly involved medical-related issues-specifically, the benefits of the profession's recent merger of practicing medicine and conducting surgery. I listened to this conversation carefully, but when the subject turned to politics, I became bored. I cared about political issues, but I found debating them useless.

I took a look at the stunning fountain directly beside me. Nearly concealed in patches of dark green mold on the round stone base of the fountain were the engraved words A Posse Ad Esse, followed by the symbol of a chalice.

My surprise and confusion at this recurring symbol-whether in my visions or in the utility room painting at the hospital-struck me like a thunderbolt. What did it mean? From possibility to actuality. Was there something significant about the inscription?

My thoughts were interrupted when Dr. Brown and Reverend Perkins brought out dessert: pineapple ice in champagne gla.s.ses. I tried to focus on the conversation. Unfortunately, it had become monopolized by Alistair, a Conservative who viewed the poor as "idle," and Colin, who believed more government money should be given to the parishes.

The noise of the fountain just behind me and the increasing intensity of the conversation at the other end of the table isolated William, Simon, and me at our end.

"Ridiculous," William muttered. "More money will not fix anything."

Simon disagreed quickly. "We spend so much money on wars, on these brutal battles around the world, but we let England's poor fall by the wayside."

"I agree with you, Simon. But you think too highly of people. You think that the poor, just because they are poor, are good. Frankly, the East End riot I witnessed last week was a demonstration of bloodl.u.s.t and ignorance."

Simon was not finished. "I find the wealthy disgusting, too. I am from a wealthy family. We acc.u.mulated our fortunes only a few decades ago-through the slave trade."

He took a drink of wine as a bit, just a bit, of pink colored his otherwise white face. "Sometimes I feel as if my very life is atonement for their sins."

William smirked at his ancestral guilt. "You place too much blame upon yourself. I prefer to help people when I can, but otherwise, I find nearly all people, of all cla.s.ses, disgusting."

"You're a cynic. You lead a small life."

William's face flushed at Simon's comment.

I felt surprised that Simon had actually pushed the matter. I realized, at that moment, that although elusive and cool, Simon had all of William's intensity. But while William fought with fire, Simon fought with ice.

"William, it is exactly your cavalier att.i.tude that maintains the ongoing problems that confront us daily in Whitechapel," Simon continued.

William responded angrily. "And you, dear Simon, are doing everything you can to fix these ma.s.sive problems during your nighttime surgeries at the hospital, are you not?"

I stared hard at William. "What are you ... ?"

"Inappropriate, William," Simon said. His voice might have smashed porcelain.

I thought of that night at the hospital, when I had walked in on Simon and Dr. Bartlett after they had performed a surgery. No one else at the table was paying attention to us, so I asked, quietly, "What kind of nighttime surgeries?"

Simon kept his angry eyes on William. "Often, many of our second-floor patients have been brought in suffering from crude, unsafe abortions. Dr. Bartlett has, for many years, been working to better and more effectively provide safe abortions for women. This is, of course, illegal, but I have taken care of infants afflicted by their mother's diseases-syphilis, gonorrhea. Both Reverend Perkins and I have found dead, abandoned infants on the steps of his parish church in the middle of winter. So, yes, I believe that it's morally necessary for me as a physician to know how to perform the procedure safely."

William snorted.

"Have you performed abortions?" I asked him.

William seemed taken aback. "On occasion, and only when necessary. I have performed them on some of Christina's friends. But I certainly do not need to be tutored in the matter."

None of us said a word for a few minutes. I knew that I was supposed to be shocked by what I had heard from Simon, but I wasn't. I saw the moral complications of the matter as Simon described them.

Suddenly, at that moment, someone removed the headband from my hair. Rough hands, pungent with the scent of Oriental cigar, covered my eyes.

"Who has s.n.a.t.c.hed your lovely headband? Is it a monkey perhaps? One that likes sparkly things? Lovely, sparkly things."

Max.

"Cut it out, Max," William said.

The hands lifted from my eyes, but the headband had disappeared.

"Give it back," Simon said, wearied.

"Or what?" Max said gruffly. "Will you and Dr. Siddal duel me for it?"

"Just give it back." William took a sip of water. He sighed. I knew his thoughts were still involved in the argument he had just had with Simon.

"No."

It was an invitation.

For me.

The torches had burned down, and the clearing had become darker than it was when dinner began. Most of the party had started meandering back into the house, although Dr. Buck was leading Alistair and Colin toward some of the trees near the front of the area. He seemed swollen with pride over his hothouse collection.

Max locked eyes with me, turned, and walked back into the forest, disappearing into the darkness.

"Abbie," William said quietly. I could tell by his expression that he thought very little of Max Bartlett.

"He'll get tired of the game in a bit and toss it back to you, Abbie," Simon said.

"Funny thing about games," I said, rising from my chair. "I usually win."

William shrugged and casually helped himself to another piece of bread.

I followed Max, alone. I told myself that I needed to retrieve the headband, but once inside the trees, I admitted to myself that I found him alluring.

Everything in the forest was even darker than in the clearing. The fountain sprayed behind me, and the monkeys screeched from treetops. Narrow trails in the dirt wove in various directions around the thick trunks. Although the whole place was enclosed, I began to panic a little, feeling a bit of the same fear that I would have felt if I had truly been lost in a forest at night. Even the stars above the gla.s.s dome did not seem to be separated from me by gla.s.s.

"Max?" I could barely hear my voice amidst the monkey cries.

I felt a thick leaf or shrub brush against the back of my neck.

I whipped around.

Nothing.

Arabella.

I thought I had heard my name, but from where, I could not tell. I decided to go right, and plunged down a trail into a thick plot of trees. I then took a narrow trail left.

The place was enormous, larger than I had first imagined. I speculated that I must be near the back wall, but no wall came into my sight.

Something large and furry landed on my shoulder. I shrieked just as the monkey leapt off, and it was then that I felt propelled through the darkness until my back was pressed up against a large tree trunk.

"Abbie." The whisper came inches from my face, and I saw Max in the darkness, s.h.i.+rtless. His chest and shoulders were muscled, glistening in the muggy hothouse. There was something feral, uninhibited about him in that moment.

My panic dissipated into intoxicating pleasure; he was close enough to kiss. I swallowed as I fought against all of my conflicted feelings: desire, fear, a peculiar curiosity.