Jack the Ripper Victims Series: The Double Event (9 page)

A few months earlier, when the wreck of Elizabeth’s life was going down and she was drowning in a sea of misery, Herr Olovsson had thrown her the lifeline of employment with the Kirschners. She would not have met Herr Olovsson without Herr Rikhardsson’s goodwill toward her. Herr Rikhardsson’s trust in Elizabeth was in deference to Fru Andersdotter. If not for the friendship Hortense had had with members of Elizabeth’s family on her mother’s side, the old woman would not have taken her in. The unbroken lifeline of goodwill ran straight through the good hearts of those generous souls and all the way back to Fru Beata Carlsdotter. Indeed, her mother continued to look out for her, even from the grave. For all that, Elizabeth had frequently shown her mother little but tolerance.

Lying in bed one night, she spoke to the darkness. “Thank you mother for all the many things you did to give me life. Thank you for protecting me and showing me the goodness in the world.” She had no sense that anyone listened. Her expression of thanks had come too late, and a nagging feeling of unworthiness began to plague her.

If any of the people who had helped her knew what she’d done, they would be horrified and scorn would replace their goodwill. In her worst moments, she considered herself Hortense’s murderer. Elizabeth’s weapon had been ingratitude and callous neglect. Along with those thoughts, came the belief that she had indeed been rejected by her own infant daughter. In those moments, nothing Liza or Bess said would help her break free from the cycle of regret and recriminations that wound around and through her thoughts like a venomous snake ready to poison any good notions that might arise.

The kinder the Kirschners were to Elizabeth, the more wretched she felt. Her employment had become a continuing reminder of that goodwill she didn’t deserve. She knew that if she ever hoped to feel worthy of happiness and friendship again, she had to get away from them, and build a life of her own.

If Inga were your friend, she’d have been willing to listen to your troubles,
Liza said.
The Kirschners are theatre people. They want an audience for their drama. They treat you well because they want to be loved.

In the future, when you have friends of your own,
Bess said,
friends of your choosing, you won’t be troubled. True friendship should bring you nothing but satisfaction and joy.

Ada and Leena were my friends.

Ada and Leena are whores,
Liza said.
You cannot expect people to offer you respect if you are friendly with prostitutes.

I have been a prostitute.

Yes,
Liza said.
You don’t have to tell people about it, though. If you get to England, you’ll leave your past behind.

The last bit of advice seemed the only reasonable one. Elizabeth cultivated her dream of London, and the one about the coffee house Herr Olovsson had suggested, yet she couldn’t see either in her future with the wages she earned.

On Christmas Day, 1865, she received a present from her father that she believed would make all that possible. After his sale of the family farm, Elizabeth’s father sent her a share of what he’d earned. Once more, her mother looked out for her from the grave—the farm had belonged to her, and was sold to her brother. And again, Elizabeth felt undeserving, but she did her best to set the feeling aside. The Sixty-five Swedish Crowns would not last long. However, it would get her to London and hopefully give her a chance at a new life, at something better.

Elizabeth presented to the Kirschners her exit from service as the beginning of a longed-for adventure to visit and begin life anew in London, England. The Kirschners saw her dream as a romantic notion well worth pursuit.

“I have a good friend who would serve you well in my stead,” Elizabeth told the lady of the house. “Her name is Ada.”

“I’ll bring the matter up with Carl,” Inga said. Shortly thereafter, Herr Kirschner asked Elizabeth to organize an interview with Ada.

Elizabeth didn’t know if the woman would truly be suited for the job, but wanted to give her a chance to get away from prostitution. She visited Ada, and did her best to prepare her for the interview. Elizabeth made sure the woman cleaned herself up and wore fresh, sober clothing. The most difficult aspect of the preparation involved training Ada to hold her features in some semblance of hope. although satisfied with the results in the short term. Elizabeth worried that the woman might not be able to maintain her appearance and manner for long. Still, she felt good about trying to help. The rest was up to Ada.

Herr Kirschner wrote to one of his friends—a British musician named Lawrence Pimberton who played cello in the orchestra at the Standard Music Hall in London—to tell him about Elizabeth, and ask if she might be taken into his service with room and board. The answer came back that he had no immediate need, but that if she were to call on him at his home, he might find something for her. In any case, he was willing to pose as her employer to smooth her immigration, and provide her with lodging for a fortnight upon her arrival.

Elizabeth applied for and received her change of address certificate from the Church of Sweden. Herr Kirschner provided Elizabeth with a letter of introduction addressed to British Immigration, explaining his release of her service into that of Mr. Lawrence Pimberton at 30 Ledbury Road, London. Herr Kirschner took her to his bank to have her inheritance converted into British currency.

~ ~ ~

Elizabeth left for England on the Steamship Ahlberg on February 7, 1866. During the two and a half day passage across the North Sea, she rode on the between deck, just below the main deck of the ship. The cramped area had a six foot ceiling height. The bunks for the steerage passengers were temporary wooden structures built along the sides of the ship. She shared her bunk with four strangers. Her few possessions, packed into a recently purchased carpet bag, were stored under the bunk with the luggage of her bunkmates.

With the constant, slow pitching motion of the ship, Elizabeth quickly became seasick and slept little throughout the voyage. Her bunkmates wanted nothing to do with her. She sat on the edge of the bunk and hung her head. Even if her nausea had allowed her to sleep, the rumbling and vibration of the steam engine would’ve made slumber difficult.

A young steward with a pocked face named Bilford provided her with a bucket in which to be sick. He stooped as he moved about the ‘tween deck on his rounds, checking on the passengers and replacing the bucket with an empty one when needed. The steward was English, as was most of the crew.

No food was provided in steerage. Elizabeth had brought with her bread and cheese, but she hadn’t had an appetite. The last sleepless night of the voyage, she spent sitting on the deck and leaning back against the structure of the bunk. She dragged her carpet bag out from under the bunk to use as a pillow and dozed fitfully.

One of her bunkmates climbed down to seek the privy and stepped on Elizabeth’s left hand. No real damage was done. When the woman returned, she glared before climbing back into her bed. Elizabeth paid her no mind. As miserable as she felt, she had hope for her future that kept her in good spirits.

Much later, she awoke as the rhythm of the engine changed. The pitching motion of the ship had greatly diminished, and Elizabeth felt no forward momentum.

A small, black, prick-eared dog approached in the dim light provided by the swaying lanterns. The animal sniffed her empty bucket.

“That’s Perry,” Bilford said in English. She hadn’t heard the steward approach. “Thought you two might give each other some comfort.”

His accent got in the way of her understanding. If Elizabeth had been able to read his words, she’d have been more confident about his meaning. When she frowned to show her confusion, he repeated himself slowly and used a more Swedish pronunciation for the word “comfort.”

Elizabeth nodded, though she had little interest in anything other than attempting to sleep. Perry nuzzled her hand until she lifted it and ran it across the top of his head and down his back.

The steward is after something more than light conversation,
Liza said.
Otherwise, his time would be occupied with the needs of the first class passengers.

He has little duty among the steerage passengers,
Bess said,
yet he’s a friendly Englishman who takes pride in his work.

“He’s very insistent,” Bilford said slowly in English. “He’s a schipperke—means ‘little skipper.’ Perry is the captain’s dog. He helps keep the ship clear of rats and mice.”

The dog had only a nub for a tail. Her fingers explored the soft, extra thick ruff around his neck. Perry clearly enjoyed the petting.

“We’ve entered the Thames and await a river pilot,” he said, “Once we’re underway again, the passage will be smoother.”

When the steward had gone, Perry remained. He curled up beside Elizabeth. The petting took her mind off her nausea and the dog kept her company until she fell into a light sleep. When she awoke with a sore backside, Perry was gone. She heard a commotion on the deck above, including men shouting in English with accents so heavy she couldn’t understand the words. Early light spilled through the opening to the main deck. The sharp fish-rot-odor of a riverbank and raw sewage reached her nose. The rhythm of the engine was faster, but the pitching motion of the ship remained light.

The steerage passengers were up and around, checking their luggage and talking. Elizabeth felt several shudders run through the vessel as if it were bumping against a fixed object.

Bilford, stepped onto the ‘tween deck. “Be prepared to disembark,” he said loudly.

Elizabeth began to shiver.

“You must wait until I’ve received the order from the captain before you can climb to the main deck,” he continued. “You will file before the customs and immigration officers who will meet you on the quay. We have arrived at the London Docks, and it shouldn’t be more than a quarter of an hour wait.”

Elizabeth tried to tell herself that she trembled in excited anticipation. Sitting on her carpet bag, she tried again to imagine what life would be like in London. The photographs she’d seen over the years had given her the barest glimpse, one that she didn’t trust because the tintypes and daguerreotypes, mostly of famous landmarks, looked more like paintings in soot by artists with failing sight. Powerful, unpleasant odors, polluted air, the booming sounds of steam-powered machinery, and the distant rumbling of the city’s bustling humanity were already discernible from the ‘tween deck. She tried to shut it all out and imagine the shining city she’d seen in her mind’s eye so many times, but the sounds and smells put her in mind of another notion, one of London as a hungry beast. The foul air was its breath, the stink rose from its filthy hide, and the sounds came from the lurching of its joints and the churning and grinding of its digestive system. Swallowed whole, the SS Ahlberg had slid down the snaking river-throat to the gut of the great metropolis. Soon Elizabeth would be ejected from the ship onto the streets to fend for herself within the body of the beast.

She knew she trembled in fear.

Elizabeth offered Herr Kirschner’s letter of introduction and her change of address certificate to the Customs and Immigration officers. The Customs officer concluded his business with her quickly. Standing before the Immigration Officer, she filled out two forms and signed both. Her hand shook as she did so. When the Officer asked where she would be staying, she lied, saying that she intended to reside in the Swedish Parish of London because that was what her change of address certificate stated.

“That isn’t near your employer,” the officer said, pointing to the address in Herr Kirschner’s letter.

“I will be staying in the home of my employer for now,” Elizabeth said, “I hope to one day live in the Swedish Parish.” Although she had no desire for such an eventuality, she would say anything that might end the interview.

The officer had a long face that betrayed no emotion. He looked at Elizabeth in silence for a moment. Her heart beat so powerfully in her chest that she feared he might somehow notice and become more suspicious. Instead, he nodded and returned her documents. Relieved, Elizabeth assumed that he didn’t see her presence in his country as any sort of threat.

More to the point,
Liza said,
they don’t consider Sweden a threat.

The Immigration Officer gestured for her to proceed, and allowed her to walk away. She didn’t look back. She wished she’d asked for directions, but had wanted to appear to know what she was doing.

The docks teemed with life and activity, cranes lifting cargo from ships, wagons drawn by giant draft horses maneuvering into position to receive cargo, coal deliveries for the steamships, victual and fresh water deliveries, porters pushing barrows, and a multitude of boys hurrying in all directions on various errands. Dockworkers shouted to each other in order to be understood over the hubbub of voices that rose from those who milled about with less purpose, to be heard over the hiss of steam, the crash and rumble of heavy objects colliding, the creak and groan of rope and metal cable, the clomp of hooves and the shuffle of countless leather soles on paving stones.

The address she had for Mr. Pimberton placed him near Hyde Park, at 30 Ledbury Road. Elizabeth struggled to think about how to proceed while distracted by the sounding of a ship’s whistle and those of slightly more distant trains, while startled by sudden laughter on her right and a cry of pain from one whose foot she’d trod upon. Struck by the elbow of a child blundering through the crowd, she felt a rising panic.

The London beast is trying to digest you,
Liza said.
You must get out of the tumult, now!

Elizabeth turned away from the water and pushed forward. The crowd gave way with little resistance. She would ask for directions when she found an area with less commotion. Keeping a firm grip on her carpet bag, she followed people moving with purpose along a lane between two massive stone and brick warehouses. Beyond the buildings, she crossed several sets of railway tracks, passed between more brick structures and came to a road full of wagon and carriage traffic. Her panic had subsided. She kept to the footway that ran alongside the southern edge of the thoroughfare, and approached a gentleman leaning against a brick wall reading a newspaper.

“Please sir,” she said haltingly in English, her heart in her throat, “can you tell me where to find number thirty, Ledbury Road?”

“Swedish?” he asked with a Prussian accent.

“Yes,” Elizabeth said, and he smiled. She took a deep breath and her fear diminished a bit.

“Five or more miles that way.” He pointed west, then turned back to his newspaper.

He‘s very friendly,
Bess said.

Elizabeth walked, thinking the day would warm through the afternoon. The sun shone brightly, but the air held a thick haze and remained chill. Breathing deeply, she felt a tightness in her chest. Taking shallower breaths helped to ease the tightness. Now that she stood on solid ground again, her appetite had returned. She ate some of her bread and cheese.

The types of structures along the road varied dramatically, from dwellings—both houses and tenements—to industrial buildings and places of business—warehouses, factories and shops. Sometimes the lane afforded a footway and sometimes not. The heavy traffic along the road frightened her, especially the fast moving carriages. Occasionally, Elizabeth pressed herself up against a building and waited until the road clear some before continuing.

The Tower of London—a famous structure she’d seen in a dark photograph—came into view on her left, and she smiled at her foolish thinking. In the back of her mind, she’d entertained a fear that that somehow she’d misunderstood everything and everyone, all the way back to the purchase of her passage, and she’d been delivered to the wrong city. Seeing the landmark settled the issue.
I am indeed in London.

Yes,
Bess said,
you have arrived in the place where your life can begin again, without the burdens of your past.

Elizabeth negotiated streets running in a westerly direction, until she had traveled about a mile. Then she asked for directions from a woman who had stepped out of a small stone building. The structure, perhaps a large kitchen of some sort, had numerous smoking chimney pots and smelled of pastry and broth. The woman had emerged with her arms full of parcels wrapped in newspaper and tied with string. She didn’t immediately understand Elizabeth, but was friendly enough. When she seemed certain about what Elizabeth asked, she pointed to the west.

The Clock Tower that Elizabeth knew rose above Westminster Palace, the seat of British government, came into view to the South and dropped away as she continued. Elizabeth passed along streets through good and bad neighborhoods. One rookery in particular held wooden structures in worse condition than any she’d ever seen; houses with partially collapsed roofs, with destruction from fire and rot, with broken windows and boarded up doorways. Despite the damage, the structures were clearly still inhabited. Smoke rose from dangerously crooked chimney pots, holes in roofs or even windows. Clothes lines ran from window to window between the buildings. Items rested on windowsills. Voices emerged from the interiors.

Smells of cooking cabbage and potatoes made her stomach growl. She considered eating more bread and cheese, but the foulness of horse dung and slops in the road, churned together by hoof and wheel and swarmed by flies, discouraged her appetite.

As she moved through the rookery, she glanced fearfully at the slovenly inhabitants. Their clothing and their flesh spoke of disease and decay, yet their eyes did not. The Women on the street were not unfriendly, although some looked at her with suspicion.

They are gently warning you off to protect their own
, Bess said.
They would become friends if they got to know you.

The men, mostly elderly, sitting on stoops, gave her appraising looks and tipped their hats. Elizabeth lost some of her fear as she continued.

Men,
Liza said,
ever hopeful of finding a way under your skirt.

A filthy small boy ran by, trying to pluck her carpet bag from her as he went. Instead of breaking her grip, he was brought up short. As Elizabeth stepped back and broke free, his momentum, spun him around and he almost fell. Several more small, raggedy boys across the road shouted insults at him. A woman sweeping soot from a doorway, paused and shouted something angrily at the little thief. The boy turned his dirty face to Elizabeth and gave her a crooked grin full of good humor. The expression seemed to say, “Yes, you’re tough enough for London.”

Elizabeth smiled. He nodded to her and ran to join the other boys. They laughed and poked at him playfully.

They’re having fun,
Bess said.
What happy people Londoners are.

They might be having fun,
Elizabeth thought,
but as thin as they are, they must be hungry.

She asked for directions several more times as she walked. Only one person turned her away rudely. Within a short time, she gained a confidence about what route to take. Walking along Oxford Street, she came to the northern edge of Hyde Park. Looking through the leafless trees along the edge, Elizabeth saw lawns with manicured paths. She imagined how beautiful and green the park would become in springtime. The street had changed its name to Bayswater Road. She followed it west beyond the park to Pennbridge Gardens, where she turned right. Past a small garden square full of dormant trees and withered plants, she turned left at Ledbury Road and eventually found a tiny house with two doors. The door on the right had the number 30 painted on it, and the door on the left bore the number 30 1/2.

Elizabeth knocked and waited, but no one answered.

The long walk and recent lack of sleep had left her exhausted. Her feet hurt. She sat on the stairs that led to the door of number 30, and rested her head against an upright for the railing. She was relieved to put down her bag. Her left hand, which had done the bulk of the carrying, ached. She wrung the pain out of it with a few shakes.

Elizabeth knew from his correspondence with Herr Kirschner that Mr. Pimberton worked on Friday evenings, going in after supper. Looking at the position of the sun overhead, she estimated that the time to be about three or four o’clock in the afternoon. Had she missed him? If so, night would descend and the temperature would drop as she waited.

You are tired out,
Liza said.
If you wait here and fall asleep, you might not awaken. If the temperature plummets or ruffians find you, you’re as good as dead.

Elizabeth didn’t have the energy for such alarm. Mr. Pimberton was expected to be staying at his home that night, so he would eventually appear. If need be, she’d open her bag and don extra clothing. The neighborhood seemed a moderately good one, and she decided she had little to fear.

Elizabeth propped herself against the railing as best she could and closed her eyes.

The London beast had not succeeded in digesting her—not yet.