Chapter 19 #3
Caroline had only bathed twice since she’d come to the Full Moon, and both times were cruel reminders of how drastically her life had changed.
As she lowered herself into the tin tub she and Mrs. Easton used to bleach bed linens, she thought forlornly of the copper basin at Audley House, of the rose and violet oils that marbled the water and scented the steam.
Now, in the boardinghouse’s kitchen, she sat with her knees scrunched against her chest, lathering herself with the same bar of carbolic soap they used on the dishes.
“That was quick,” said Mrs. Easton, looking up from her shopping list as Caroline clambered out of the tub and reached for her drying cloth.
“I’ve caught a bit of a chill, I’m afraid,” Caroline lied. “Would it be all right if I dried my hair by the parlor fire? The men have all gone to bed; if I hear anyone on the stairs I’ll come straight back down.”
“You felt poorly this afternoon,” said Mrs. Easton, frowning, “and now you have a chill. I do hope you’re not catching something, Miss Huxley.”
Caroline forced a smile. “I’ll be fine after a good night’s sleep, I’m sure. And a dose of Mr. Ripley’s medicine.”
She busied herself with dressing as Mrs. Easton unlaced her boots and rolled down her stockings.
When the landlady unfastened the belt from her waist and deposited it on the table with a jangle of keys, Caroline turned away, fearful her face would betray her intentions.
Behind her, the older woman pulled her dress and undergarments over her head, hung them on the chairback, and stepped into the water with a sigh.
Caroline’s mouth was dry as kindling.
“Call up if you need me,” she said.
“Mmm.” Mrs. Easton’s eyes were closed, her hands floating in the water by her sides.
With her back to the tub, Caroline wrapped the drying cloth over the spill of iron keys. She took a breath, held it, and lifted the ring. The keys clinked faintly as she slipped them into her pocket. As she turned toward the staircase, she hazarded a final glance over her shoulder.
She nearly leapt from her skin. Mrs. Easton was looking right at her.
“Miss Huxley.”
Caroline opened her mouth to stutter out an excuse. What had she done? She only had a roof over her head by the grace of this woman’s goodwill. She had nowhere else to go; she would end up like Mary Jane, selling herself on the streets—
“Take my comb. It’s there, on the table.”
Five minutes later, Caroline stood outside the scarred door on the second floor.
Her breath was strident in her ears, her pulse filling her head like a tide.
There was likely nothing of note inside, she told herself for the tenth time.
A room filled with old furniture, perhaps, some of it valuable, or crates of personal documents Mrs. Easton didn’t want Caroline snooping through.
Or perhaps her first guess had been correct, and despite its guests’ seemingly disparate creeds, the boardinghouse was the meeting place for some fringe religious organization, and behind this door lay their place of worship.
Or maybe behind this door she would find the grisly souvenirs the Ripper—Rab—had taken from his victims. Maybe she would find Charlie’s remains.
No. No, no. She was being foolish. Be done with it, Caroline commanded herself. Open the door and be done with these mad thoughts.
She pulled the keys from her pocket, careful not to let them jangle, and tried one at random in the padlock. It did not fit. Nor did the second, nor the third.
When the fourth slipped neatly into place with a satisfying click, something like panic welled inside her, spilling over and causing her hands to tremble as she unhooked the padlock from its chain.
With a final glance at the empty landing behind her, Caroline lifted the iron bar.
The door was heavier than she’d expected and fit tightly to the jamb. She leaned her whole weight against it, her shoulder digging painfully against the wood, until it gave and swung open with a creak.
Caroline stood for a moment on the threshold, staring into the blackness. Then she stepped inside.
In the moment before her eyes adjusted, Caroline felt the room stretching out before her, long and cavernous.
Thin frames of light looked back at her eerily from the opposite wall—the boarded-up windows, she realized, lit hazily from the streetlamps outside—but no walls separated the space, no rows of pews, no altars to a strange god.
The floor was uncovered by carpets, the walls bare to the limewash.
It was empty.
Caroline had the mad urge to laugh. Her nameless fear was baseless, her vague suspicions unfounded.
But then, illuminated by dim light from the lidded windows, something glimmered in the darkness.
She stepped closer.
It was a chain. The steel winked at her as she approached.
No, not one chain, but several, hanging from the wall and ceiling like strange vines.
And each chain ended in a medieval-looking ring of metal.
Her racing mind pulled a word from its recesses: manacle.
That was right. They were manacles, thick cuffs of metal with locks and springs used for restraining prisoners.
There were four of them—two at arm height, two swinging just above the floor.
Terror rose like bile. Caroline raised her eyes.
All along the walls to the distant, boarded windows, iron chains hung at intervals, their empty manacles dangling like the limbs of corpses.