Ripper. Part 14

"Keep your hands up! Hands on the back of your head!" Abberline yelled from below as Scribby, with Mary's help, began descending the stairs.

William smirked sideways at me as we put our hands on the backs of our heads. "Congratulations, Arabella Sharp. You just got us arrested by Scotland Yard."

"I can't believe that you locked us in that closet."

"What the ... " I heard a constable shout below.

The scene below became visible to us as we descended the stairs. At least thirty cops stood in the large, dripping, rat-infested first floor, their guns pointed straight at us.

"He's got others with him!" another cop shouted.

Abberline stood in front of all of them, his gun still pointed at us, but his face was flushed in confusion. They had been chasing one criminal and now there were four. "Lower your guns," he said evenly to the cops behind him. The inspector's bulgy, shrewd eyes landed on my face, and I saw that he remembered me from the hospital. Did he remember William also? But his gaze remained on me, calculating. Something bothered me about his expression.

"We were trying to protect him!" Mary yelled at every constable in the room. "It's not like you all were doing a good job. He's got a broken leg."

"Silence! Everyone! " Abberline shouted. He had made a decision. "Handcuff all of them and take them all to the station!"

I felt humiliated as several cops raced over and pulled me away from William, put my arms behind me, and clicked the metal cuffs into place.

"Your grandmother is not going to be very happy about this," William said under his breath as we sat with Mary, still handcuffed, in Abberline's office.

I desperately hoped that she wouldn't find out; fortunately, everything had happened too quickly for the journalists to arrive. Grandmother would disown me if a photograph of me handcuffed appeared on the front page of the Times.

The office was surprisingly small for a Chief Inspector's office. It had the oppressive atmosphere of being the den of someone who worked hard for long hours at a time. A stack of papers towered on one side of the desk, while dirty, half-empty teacups were piled on the other side. A bookshelf with more stacks of papers and only a few books flanked the left wall. A water-stained map of London, with different districts highlighted, was precariously pinned to the wall behind the desk. The only personal, non-work-related item in the entire office was a small watercolor painting propped up near the pyramid of half-drained teacups. The little portrait portrayed a woman, middle-aged like Abberline himself, with the name "Emma" scripted in charcoal directly under her face.

Detective Inspector Frederick Abberline, as his nameplate proclaimed, walked heavily into the office with a steaming cup of tea. He sighed as he sat down and rubbed his calves as if they ached.

"Uncuff them," he said to a nearby constable. "You can let Dr. Siddal and Miss Kelly go."

"Where is Scribby?" Mary asked.

"In the London Hospital. I went ahead and released him from our custody. I apologize. He should not have been throwing stones, but my constable was over-vigilant when he pursued your friend for disturbing the peace." Abberline raised his eyebrows. "You must understand, my men have been a bit on edge since the Ripper murders commenced."

"So, I can leave now?" Mary asked pertly.

"Yes."

"And Miss Sharp?" William asked as he stood to leave.

"She'll be out in a little while. There is no need to wait for her. I'll have a police escort take her back to Kensington."

William paused, casting me a glance. I nodded a little to let him know that Abberline's proposal was fine with me. He left.

"Miss Sharp." Abberline leaned back a bit and took a long sip of tea.

As I smelled the tea steam-orange, with a hint of mint-I became uneasy. From the moment I had met Inspector Abberline, after the Polly Nichols murder, I had felt that he was watching me intently. I couldn't imagine what possible role I might play in his investigation, but it seemed as if he wanted something from me. I had an intuitive notion that this day had unfolded conveniently for him-he finally had an opportunity to corner me.

Trying a bit too hard to sound casual, he said, "This Jack the Ripper case is becoming the most aggravating case in my career. Extraordinarily baffling."

He paused. Looked at me.

"Do you like your work at Whitechapel Hospital?"

"Yes."

He waved his hand as if we had an established, unspoken contract between us. "There is no need for Lady Westfield to know about this. I have emphasized the necessity for discretion to my constables."

"Thank you." I felt closed. Guarded.

He waved his hand again, signaling that the grat.i.tude was unnecessary.

I knew this must be part of his professional tactics. He had emphasized to Mary that Scribby was free and safely in the hospital-he maintained the perfect balance of sternness and politeness, so that he always remained in control.

"Do you know, Miss Sharp, that Whitechapel Hospital is a key point of interest in this case?"

I said nothing.

"Both victims had recently left the hospital. The murders are unlike anything I have ever seen in nearly twenty-five years of work."

I wondered what else he had seen. Then I focused again; he was trying to pry information from me.

"Do you mind?" Abberline had removed a pipe from a hidden drawer.

"No."

He lit the pipe.

I said nothing and instead focused on keeping my breaths even. I knew as much from Dr. Bartlett, William, and Simon, but why was Abberline telling me about the investigation? Did he suspect William? Simon? Anyone specifically among the physicians?

"Julian Bartlett-and I know that you will keep this conversation confidential from him-has been most helpful as a medical consultant. He is brilliant. Experienced. But he is more trusting toward humanity than I am inclined to be. He refuses, absolutely refuses, to consider any of his physicians as suspects. He has made it quite clear to me that he will consider them nothing short of co-consultants when it comes to the investigation. This has become frustrating lately, and I am finding myself confiding in him less and less."

I decided to confront the inspector head-on.

"What do you want from me?"

He gave the slightest cough before regaining his composure. Then he leaned forward, so far across the desk that I could see the small red veins in his eyeb.a.l.l.s.

"I want several things, Miss Sharp. I want to know why our Ripper seems so intent on murdering Whitechapel Hospital patients. What is his purpose in targeting them? And yes, I do believe he has a purpose. I want to know why a physician, or someone with anatomical knowledge, would do this. I want to know why, but, more importantly, I need to know who. Because he will strike again, Miss Sharp. We are not dealing with an ordinary killer. The character is a psychopath, pulling me into a puzzle that I have yet to solve."

He leaned back in his chair again. "What do I want from you? I want you to cooperate, to inform us. I have watched you, Miss Sharp. You are shrewder than most ladies your age; most ladies of any age, for that matter. But I do hope that you will not allow yourself to be blinded."

I c.o.c.ked my head. "What do you mean?"

"Overly trusting of anyone. Confiding too much in anyone. Loveswept."

I exhaled in exasperation and began to stand, intent on leaving. I felt offended at what he was trying to imply.

Abberline coughed, choking a little on the pipe smoke, and sat up straighter. He was irritated and fl.u.s.tered.

"Miss Sharp, sit. Hear me out."

I sat. Part of me felt as if I should hear him out.

"I am so bold for a few reasons. First, this is a polite, professional warning-if anything should happen to Lady Westfield's granddaughter, I will have more, much more trouble to deal with than the riot in the East End that you witnessed today. Actually, it would be much easier on myself, must less of a risk to this investigation, if I had a discussion with Lady Westfield herself and put an end to any and all of your work at the hospital."

My blood stopped flowing. If Grandmother knew about my arrest and if Abberline told her anything regarding the details of the case, my time at the hospital, and my work, would certainly be ended.

"However, my first loyalty is to the city of London, to fulfill my duty to uphold dignity and order, as much as possible, on the streets. To this end, I must find Jack the Ripper. If you might reveal to us anything said, or done, that even seems suspicious, among any of the workers at Whitechapel Hospital, it would be most beneficial. This is not common knowledge, but we're finding very few leads in this case. I think you can help me. You are perceptive, intelligent, and if I might say so, attractive. You, I believe, can be the most helpful when it comes to probing the secrets of that hospital."

He wanted me to be an informant. A spy among my co-workers. I felt an awful astonishment. Such a role was beneath me. He wanted me to use my education, my gender, and my position to deceive my friends. If I agreed to what he wanted, I would have a double agenda in all my work and work relationships.

I knew my answer.

"I can't." I stood again. "I must leave now."

"Arabella Sharp." It was the first time that Abberline had used my first name, and a distinct thread of anger infiltrated his words.

Would he talk to Grandmother? I felt slightly panicked. No, Abberline was above using blackmail to get what he wanted.

He stood. "I do not think you fully know what a dangerous game you are caught up in. You have no idea that you work within a hotbed of suspects. You have no idea how sick this game is turning!"

I had never seen Abberline discomposed, and my feelings of unease rose.

"There is something I want to show you before you leave," he said. "I think, when I show this to you, you will see how wise it would be to cooperate with me."

I followed him out of his office and down several halls. The must and gloom of Scotland Yard felt overwhelming. Small offices, similar to Abberline's, lined many of the hallways we walked through. At the end of a particularly dark and narrow turn, we came to a large, locked room. Abberline took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door to reveal a large room containing numerous shelves, on which sat hundreds of boxes and stacks and stacks of paper.

Evidence? Open cases? Cold cases?

He led me down several aisles toward the back. He stopped at a shelf against the back wall, very near an enormous, mold-stained desk, and pulled down a huge box. Dozens of letters and envelopes filled it.

"Miss Sharp, in case you're not certain yet about what a smash this Ripper is among the London public, all of these letters are either from concerned citizens, believing they have information on the Ripper, or from people actually claiming to be the Ripper."

I felt astonishment at his last statement. "What do you mean? I can't believe that anyone would claim to be the Ripper."

"Believe it." Abberline began taking out whole handfuls of letters and tossing them onto the nearby desk. "I have everyday lunatics, fame-seeking journalists, and the delusional, all of whom would like nothing more than to be Jack the Ripper. We've had several confessions from blokes almost daily here at the station. They are willing even to die in a public hanging if it means that they can claim the glory of going down in history as the Ripper."

"You don't think any of these confessions are real?"

"All of them are nonsense. Garbage. Trash." Abberline began tossing some of the letters one by one back into the box. "I have had my best detectives and handwriting experts go through each and every one of these, and all of them believe the citizens' information to be worthless, and each and every confession nothing more than a hoax. However ... this"-Abberline reached for an unmarked box on the very top shelf-"is what I wanted you to see."

His red-veined eyes bulged again. "Needless to say, no one must know of this. By divulging the contents of this box, I am showing you how much I need and trust you. But more importantly, I'm showing you the cat-and-mouse element of this case."

The box, when he opened it, contained a letter. Abberline unfolded it carefully on the desk. Evening had begun to close in, and the room had darkened. He moved a candle closer so that I might read the letter. It had been addressed to Abberline, with the return address referenced merely as FROM h.e.l.l.

In the shadows of the box, I saw a jar of liquid. Abberline saw my glance at the jar. "Do first read the letter, Miss Sharp."

In the light of the candle, I read, feeling Abberline's intense gaze on me.

Sir, I send you half the kidney I took from one woman and preserved it for you. The other piece

I fried and ate. It was very nice. I may send you

the b.l.o.o.d.y knife that took it out if you only wait a little longer.

-Catch me when you can Inspector.

My head swam and an acidic taste rose in my mouth.

"You think this is real?" I asked.

"Oh, yes. This one is. No one except the Ripper would have known that Annie Chapman's right kidney was missing. This was not information shared with the public. Dr. Bartlett, of course, knows nothing about this. But one of our other forensic consultants has affirmed with near certainty that it matches the victim's other kidney. Chapman's left kidney manifested Bright's disease-the kidney half the Ripper sent me shows signs of the disease, in the same state of progression as the other one was at the time of Chapman's death."

"You have the part of the right kidney that he sent?"

Abberline reached into the depth of the box, toward the jar. It was then that I noticed a small blob, jellied, dark, floating in the liquid.

"No, I don't need to see it."

Abberline nodded. He lowered his voice and leaned toward me. "You see, this is a game, Miss Sharp. He is taunting us, mocking us, cannibalizing for pleasure to show us that he has no moral boundaries."

My stomach turned.

"You are already in the middle of this, Arabella. And I will be your friend throughout, but you would be smart to cooperate."

"I must leave." I averted my gaze, not able to look at his penetrating expression. I walked away. Without looking back, I said, "My answer to your proposal is unequivocally no. I am a worker at Whitechapel Hospital. Nothing more."

Then I stopped and turned to face him, quickly, hoping that he could not see the nausea I felt to my core. "And you needn't worry, Inspector, about me sharing any information you've discussed or shown me tonight, with anyone."

"I know," Abberline replied quietly. In the darkness, I could no longer see his expression. "You know where to find me if you change your mind."

He began sealing the box and its contents. "Your escort home will be at the front door."

I focused on making it out the front doors of Scotland Yard before vomiting. The heaving, the purging, brought me some relief from the thoughts I could not face.