Chapter 2 #3
But she had traveled all the way to London, braved train stations and the streets of Whitechapel alone, and he was not here.
He had not been here for quite some time.
And she was not the first young woman to have come looking for him, not the first to climb the boardinghouse’s steps and lift the brass knocker.
She shuddered now at the memory of what she had seen beyond the black door. The strange collection of men seated in the parlor, watching her with suspicion, with anger.
And then there was Rab.
Rab, who, despite their differences in appearance, reminded Caroline so much of her brother.
—
Charlie’s infrequent and unannounced visits were Caroline’s clearest, brightest memories.
She mentally thumbed through them, recalling times she had asked him about the other boys at St. Mathew’s.
There had been stories. Stories of mischief: a teacher’s stolen toupee, a live lobster in the bully’s bed.
But no names, no faces. Only a vague impression of a crowded dining hall and muddy yard.
There must be some evidence of her brother somewhere in this bloody house. And if there was, she would find it.
A bump followed by a low, animal grunt brought her swiftly back to herself.
She sat up, smoothing her hair and her skirts, as heavy, uneven footsteps fell on the landing.
“Miss Huxley?” It took Caroline a moment to recognize the alias. “Would you open the door for me and Mr. O’Riley, please?” It was Rab’s voice, pinched with effort. She sprang to her feet to oblige.
Two men stood on the landing, sweating under the weight of her father’s steamer. Rab was closer, with his back turned toward her. The other was the man in the cowboy hat.
“Evening, missy,” he said breathlessly, in the flat vowels of American English. Caroline stepped aside to let them through. They deposited the trunk beside the armoire and stood upright, stretching their backs and groaning.
“Thank you,” Caroline said, unsure what to do with her hands.
“Whatcha got in there?” asked the cowboy, massaging a shoulder. “Rocks?”
She smiled apologetically. “Books, mostly.”
Rab gave her a curious look, but the cowboy said, “Good habit, that. Readin’.” He pulled a red paisley kerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. “Keeps ya off the drink, eh?”
Caroline wasn’t sure how to respond to this, but Rab, thankfully, interjected.
“Mrs. Easton asked you to come down for some supper if you’re hungry,” he said, crossing to the door, “and wanted me to remind you it’s an early start tomorrow.”
Caroline winced. Despite the excitement of the last hour, she felt utterly flattened. The effects of the day—of the last few months—were dragging at her, and only a night of likely fitful sleep stood between her and a day of physical labor.
“I open the chemist at seven,” Rab went on. “I’ll knock, if you’d like. To wake you.”
“Thank you.” Caroline forced out the words, for a little frisson of fear had run through her. This man, sleeping across the landing from her. Knocking on her door in the dark. But she was a servant now, and this sort of casual familiarity could be expected.
Rab gestured to the American, who was looking around the room with naked curiosity. “C’mon, Jim. Let’s give Miss Huxley some privacy.”
Mr. O’Riley touched the brim of his hat and made to follow Rab, but before he reached the threshold, he paused.
“Don’t go out wanderin’, now.” In his grin, Caroline counted three gold teeth. “Dunno if you heard, but there’s a murderer about.”
She swallowed. “I won’t.”
“Good.” The cowboy’s smile shrank. “Can’t go the way of the last maid. Bad business, that. Mrs. Easton needs her kitchen maids to stay in once piece.”
Caroline caught the sharp look Rab shot him, the little shake of his head.
Her pulse skyrocketed.
“She…” Caroline stammered, “she was one of the women killed? The last maid?”
Mr. O’Riley seemed to realize he’d made a mistake.
He shifted uncomfortably. “She was a terrible drinker, that Polly. Not that she deserved what happened to her, of course. But as long as you stay off the sauce, and don’t sleep rough on the streets, you’ll be fine.
” He touched his hat again. “Night, missy.”
“Good night, Miss Huxley,” Rab said. The door clicked shut behind him.
Caroline waited until their footsteps had faded down the stairs before tiptoeing to the door and sliding the iron dead bolt across it.
Her fatigue had vanished, replaced by nauseating fear.
The last maid. The last maid had been one of the women killed. The cabbie’s words ran through her head again.
You can still see the blood on the pavement where he gutted her.
She sat on the edge of the bed, wrapped her arms tightly around herself. She took a deep breath, let it out slowly.
She slid another of Dr. Hoffman’s tablets from its tin.
The death of the last maid was a coincidence, she told herself as the rust-red pill dissolved on her tongue. A terrible coincidence. But in a borough such as this, where women walked the streets and men drank until they could not walk, violent crimes were commonplace.
Keep your head down, Caroline told herself. Keep your head down until Charlie arrives.
But the animal of her body, under the layers of crepe and baleen, screamed at her to run.