Death at Whitechapel (22 page)

“So we can prove that the photograph is a counterfeit,” Kate said excitedly, “and if any other copies appear, they can quickly be shown to be fraudulent.” She paused, frowning. “How difficult would it be to establish that it was Finch who created the forgery?”

“Not difficult at all,” Charles said. “As a rule, photographers don't wear gloves. It's very likely that the negatives have Finch's fingerprints all over them.” His grin was ironic. “It would be rather a bother to dig him up to get confirmation, but I can try matching the prints against those on the glassware in the darkroom.” He replaced the negatives and the photograph in the envelope. “I should say that we've got what we came for,” he said with satisfaction. “Bless those sharp eyes of yours, Kate. And thank you.”

“You're welcome, my lord,” Kate said. As Charles turned off the gaslight and they left the studio, she glanced back one last time, at the photograph of the pretty dark-haired girl in the ragged dress.

 

 

T
he rain had temporarily halted, but the sky had grown so dark and gloomy that the gas lamps inside the confectionery and tobbaconist shop had been lit. It was a homey-looking place, Kate thought, with a scrubbed tiled floor, ruffled curtains in the window, and shelves and polished glass display cabinets filled with the shop's wares. A heady odor of rich tobacco and sweet chocolate filled the air, and from the rear of the shop came a woman's voice, singing something in Gaelic, with a high, light melody.

“A good mornin' t' ye, Mrs. O'Reilly,” Kate called.

The singing stopped and a stout, middle-aged woman in a navy blue dress and white ruffled apron and cap came around the partition, wiping her hands on a red-and-white checked towel. “An' a good momin' to ye, m‘dear,” the woman said with a cheerful smile that showed tobacco-stained teeth. “What'll ye be 'avin' today? Some chocolates, p'raps?”

“I'll have a pound o' yer finest chocolate,” Kate said. “It's t' carry home with me t' Ireland, t' the mother of someone ye used t' know.”

“Someone I knew, miss?” the woman asked, opening a case in which were displayed several large bars of dark chocolate. She took one out and tipped it onto a silver scale. It weighed slightly over a pound. “ 'Ow's this?”

“That'll do nicely,” Kate said. “It's fer Mary Kelly's mother, ye see. She's dyin'.” She paused, watching Mrs. O'Reilly's face, and added, gently, “I'm Mary's cousin, Kathryn Kelly, and I've come t' ask yer help.”

Mrs. O‘Reilly's eyes grew large and one fat hand went to her mouth. “Oh, but I couldn't!” she exclaimed. “I—”

“I understand that this is hard fer ye, Mrs. O‘Reilly, but 'tis harder yet fer Mary's mother, who longs t' know why her daughter died.” Kate held the other woman's eyes with her own. “How would ye feel if yer dear daughter was dead, an' people said terr'ble things about her, an' ye knew the things weren't true?”

There was a long, painful silence. Mrs. O'Reilly blinked rapidly. “Why didn't ye come
then?”
she whispered. “All those years ago?”

“I did,” Kate lied. “But I din't know t' come t' Cleveland Street. I din't know that part of it until I talked t' Mary's landlady, Mrs. McCarthy, just yesterday, in Dorset Street Duval, they call it now.”

“Mrs. McCarthy talks too much, she does,” Mrs. O‘Reilly said bitterly. “I always told Mary t' watch out fer that woman. ‘McCarthy's too free with ‘er tongue,' I allus said. ‘She'll cause ye a deal o' trouble some day, she will,' I said.” There was a silence. “An' what did Mrs. McCarthy tell ye?”

“About Annie an' Mary workin' in this shop an' bein' good friends, an' Annie marryin' an' lit'le Alice bein' born, an' Mary livin' with them as nursery maid, in the basement o' Number 6. Then poor Annie bein' taken away t' the madhouse.” Kate took a deep breath and let it out. “An' Mary an' the others bein' murdered by the Ripper, just because they knew who Annie was married to.”

“Well, then,” Mrs. O‘Reilly said, partially recovered. “Ye know it all a'ready. There's nothin' I can tell ye, more than that.” She eyed Kate suspiciously. “‘Oo wuz th' gentleman 'oo wuz 'ere yesterday, showin' that pitcher?”

“I don't know anything about any gentleman,” Kate lied again. “But I hope ye can tell me where Annie is, an' the child.” She sighed. “I'd like t' tell Mary's mother that I've laid me eyes on 'em, an' that they're all right.”

“All right!” Mrs. O‘Reilly snorted contemptuously. “Annie's mind's gone, poor girl. They locked her up for six months an' cut something out o' 'er brain, an' when she came back, she couldn't scarcely remember ‘er name. She 'ad fits, too.” Her voice took on a deep sadness. “She wuz such a pretty girl, an' always so chipper-like. ‘Twasn't right, wot wuz done to 'er. An' all becuz of marryin' ‘oo she shouldna'.”

Cut something out of her brain! Kate shuddered. Who would have done such a ghastly thing? To whom could Annie Crook's secret marriage pose such a terrible danger that she had to be treated in such a way?

“Where is she now?” Kate asked.

Mrs. O‘Reilly gave a despairing shrug. “ 'Ere an' there. Saint Pancras Work‘ouse, most likely. Or Saint Giles, in Endell Street. I 'aven't seen 'er for a year or more. Last time, she didn't know me, though we wuz good friends once.”

“And the child? Alice?”

“Ye'd ‘ave t' ask Mr. Walter Sickert 'bout ‘er,” Mrs. O'Reilly said. “ ‘Ee's the man 'oo paid Mary t' take care o' the child. When Annie was stolen away, ‘ee took the babe an' gave 'er a ‘ome, out of respect for 'is friend.” She twisted her mouth. “Mr. Sickert, ‘ee's 'ad nothing but trouble in this. But it's wot ‘ee gets for 'ob-nobbin' wi' the ‘igh an' mighty.” She snorted contemptuously. “A. V. Sickert, 'ee called ‘is friend, like 'ee wuz 'is brother.”

“You mean,” Kate said, trying to get it straight, “that Alice's father called himself Sickert, but that he was really someone else?”

Another snort. “That were th' name ‘ee
went
by, all right. But we all knew 'oo 'ee wuz.”

“Well, then,” Kate said, “who was he?”

Mrs. O‘Reilly's face turned stony. “Now
that,”
she said firmly, “ye're not gettin' out o' me, miss. Not arter wot 'appened to Annie. 'F ye take my advice, ye won't try t' learn it. An' if ye do, ye'd best forget it.” She stuck out her hand. “Three shillings fer th' chocolate, if ye please.”

And when Kate handed the money over, Mrs. O'Reilly thrust it into her apron pocket and disappeared behind the partition.

 

Saint Saviour's chapel was an annex to Saint Saviour's Infirmary in Osnaburgh Street, scarcely a stone's throw from the top of Cleveland Street. The building, delicately proportioned and built of gray stone, sat at the rear of a walled courtyard with a carefully tended rose garden laid out in a geometric design centered around an empty fountain. Even though it was almost mid-November, a few of the roses were still in bloom, their blossoms shining sweet and pure in the gritty fog.

Kate tried the carved wooden doors in the front of the chapel, but they were locked tight. She was standing on the cobblestone walk, wondering whether she should go in search of a custodian or return to the coffee house where Charles was waiting for her, when a small nun in a black habit and cowl, hands clasped and head bowed, came striding around the corner of the building and bumped into her.

“Many pardons,” she exclaimed, raising her apple-cheeked face. “I'm afraid I wasn't looking where I was going!” She adjusted her gold-rimmed eyeglasses, which had slid down her nose. Her hands were large and capable-looking, rough with ordinary work. “Are you waiting for someone, my dear?” she asked solicitously.

“I should like to know about a wedding that took place here some time ago,” Kate said. She paused. “Quite a long time ago, I'm afraid, Sister. But perhaps there is a chapel register I might consult.”

The wrinkles in the nun's forehead smoothed out, and she smiled. “God has sent you to the right person, Miss—”

“Kelly,” Kate said. “Kathryn Kelly.”

“And I am Sister Ursula.” The nun reached into a pocket of her habit and extracted a key, fastened to her waist by a long ribbon. “I have been mistress of Saint Saviour's chapel for going on twenty-six years now, and one of my responsibilities is keeping the register.”

“Twenty-six years,” Kate exclaimed, doing a rapid calculation. The wedding, if there had truly been one, was well within that framework. “That's a very long time!”

“Indeed it is.” The nun beamed. “I was appointed by dear Mother Agnes—may she rest in eternal peace—when I first came to Saint Saviour's to work in the hospital. I did my novitiate at the mother house in Kent, you see, and arrived directly here, green as a new leaf.” She paused and assumed a modest expression. “Mother Agnes's appointment of a sister so young and inexperienced as chapel mistress seemed quite extraordinary to me then, although I suppose I should be more humble. Pride is one of my worst failings.”

“I think it was quite a remarkable achievement,” Kate replied in an admiring tone. She was about to prompt with another question, but Sister Ursula didn't seem to require any special encouragement to talk.

She went on, in a pious tone, “The Sisters of Mercy believe that each of us has an important gift to give to God, you see, and we are all urged to yield ourselves completely to His service through whatever gifts we have been generously given.”

“And your gift is overseeing the chapel?”

“Exactly, God be thanked. He has placed me precisely where I can serve Him best.” Sister Ursula gave a delighted laugh. “Isn't that quite miraculous?” She inserted her key in the lock and the heavy door swung silently open. Inside, the air was chill and faintly sweet with the scent of incense and old leather-bound hymnals. The Gothic arch of the ceiling seemed to reach toward the heavens, and the stained glass windows on both sides of the nave shone like jewels set into the stone wall.

“It is a lovely chapel,” Kate said, genuinely impressed.

“The Sisters were the first order established after the Reformation,” Sister Ursula said, lowering her voice, “and we have a long tradition of service within the Anglican Church. But for all that we are quite ecumenical here in Osnaburgh Street. The dear lady who founded our hospital and built this chapel in 1872, God bless her sweet and loving spirit, was quite insistent upon our serving
all
the people. Saint Saviour's receives the sick of every denomination, and we never interfere in the practice of their religion.”

Kate made an effort to turn the flow of the nun's words in the direction of her inquiry. “The wedding I wanted to ask about—the bride was Roman Catholic, I understand.”

“Well, then, there you are.” Sister Ursula turned down her mouth. “You see? Even the Popish are welcome here. Reverend Mother even permits them to have their priests, if they insist.”

The Popish? Kate caught the barely disguised dislike in Sister Ursula's tone. She knew the English anti-Catholic sentiments well enough, for she herself had been raised Roman Catholic. Perhaps Annie's secret marriage posed a threat to her husband's family because
she
was Catholic.

The moment the thought came to Kate, though, she knew it had to be wrong. A family might not be happy to receive a Catholic daughter-in-law—Charles's mother had certainly put up a fuss, even though Kate was not a practicing Catholic. But if the couple were determined, the parents usually accepted the marriage and put the best face on it. It might have been different a century before, but in this modern day, surely no father would so fear a Catholic connection that he would have his son's wife committed to a lunatic asylum or countenance the murders of five women to keep the marriage a secret. Unless the family's rank and prestige were so delicately balanced that—

“The register is in the alcove,” Sister Ursula said, closing the door and pocketing the key. “What year did the wedding take place?”

“It was 1885, I believe,” Kate said. She felt a great, heavy sense of anticipation, almost of foreboding, settle like a mantle over her. Miraculously, she had followed the trail of clues this far, from Bloomsbury to the East End to Cleveland Street and Saint Saviour's, and at each station along the journey she had learned something new, had been given some new revelation. What would she learn from the register? Nothing at all? Or everything—the date of the marriage, the names of the witnesses, the name of the bridegroom. And if she were to learn the bridegroom's name, what would that reveal about the terrible crimes of Jack the Ripper? Which of the ancient families of England would destroy lives to keep their name and reputation inviolate?

A moment later, she was standing in front of a large, heavy book, open on a table. The gold-bordered ivory pages were ruled into lines and columns, each numbered and filled with names and dates, the ink fading to sepia. Reverently, Sister Ursula turned the pages. “ 'Eighty-nine,” she murmured. “ 'Eighty-eight.” She paused. “ 'Eighty-six—ah, here we are, 'eighty-five. What was the date, my dear?” “Early in the year, I believe,” Kate said. “Certainly prior to April. The ceremony was witnessed by my cousin, Mary Kelly. The bride's name was Annie Crook. I don't know the name of the bridegroom.” The name of the bridegroom, it now seemed to Kate, almost certainly held the key to this whole tragic thread of events, from the secret marriage to the murders.