thereafter, alone in my bed; yet I was a virgin still. I had never experienced the ultimate fulfillment that Katerina was experiencing. Choking on rage, jealousy, and tears, I was halfway up the stairs when she began to scream.
Her screams were piercing, shrill, loud enough to hurt my ears. I realized then that my perceptions had been distorted by my jealousy, that those screams expressed not rapture but terror and agony. These were not the sounds of a couple enjoying an amorous encounter. Rather, they conveyed the impression of a woman being tortured. I was so startled that I tripped on the stairs. I fell hard on my knee, with a resounding, painful thud. I exclaimed before I could stop myself. Then I heard rapid footsteps pounding down another set of stairs at the back of the house. A door slammed. The man must have left; I could no longer hear his voice. Katerina shouted words in Russian between her screams, calling for help.
Should I go to her aid and expose myself as a trespasser, or steal away and avoid trouble?
The daughter of a parson cannot turn her back on someone in need. I rushed up the stairs, to a chamber at the top, and almost fell across the threshold. A bizarre sight greeted my eyes. I thought it was a Crucifixion from a medieval painting. A naked figure lay on a background of gold, arms spread out and legs extended, like Jesus Christ on the cross. Sheer white fabric twisted around its groin. Its limbs and torso were marked with red gashes that oozed blood.
As I squinted through my spectacles, trying to make sense of what I saw, the figure groaned and writhed. Its chest heaved, and there I saw female breasts. It was Katerina, on a bed covered by a gold quilt. Her wrists and ankles were tied with ropes to the wrought-iron bedstead. Her head tossed. Her dark eyes were huge with fright.
She saw me and gasped out inarticulate pleas. I rushed to her and tried to untie the ropes that restrained her hands. She struggled so frantically that the knots tightened. “Be still,” I said.
But she fought like a trussed wild beast. I looked around the room for something to cut her bonds, and noticed a knife on the rug. Its black handle and long, narrow steel blade were smeared with blood. It was the weapon used to wound Katerina. The thought of touching it made me ill, but I snatched it up; I cut the ropes. Katerina moaned, her hands clutching her deepest wound-a cut across her abdomen.
“I’ll fetch help,” I said.
She reached out and grabbed my wrist. “No! Don’t leave me!”
Her grip was as strong as a bear trap. I tried to break free but could not. I tried to convince her that she needed a physician.
“It’s no use,” Katerina said. “I am dying.” She breathed in short, uneven gasps. “Please stay with me. I do not want to die alone.”
I snatched up a white shawl that lay upon a chair and pressed it to the wound on her stomach. As I desperately tried to stanch the bleeding, I saw that so much blood had already flowed that the bed was drenched. I noticed that Katerina was also bleeding from between her legs. Although suffering twisted her face, she tried to maintain her self-control. I stared at her, stricken. When I had seen her on stage, she had reminded me of my sister Emily, and now the resemblance was stronger than ever. When Emily took ill with consumption, she never uttered a complaint. She insisted upon going about her business despite the pain in her chest, the violent coughs, and the crippling shortness of breath. She fought for life until the end, when bodily weakness triumphed over her strong spirit; then she faced death with dignity.
As I stood beside Katerina and held her hand, I saw Emily lying on the sofa in the parsonage. I remembered watching helplessly as she declined. Katerina coughed; blood spilled from her mouth. That had happened to Emily, her lungs ravaged by the disease. Now I wept for her all over again. But I was not so lost in memory or grief that I forgot why I’d come. I did not overlook the possibility that Katerina might have information that I wanted.
“Who did this to you?” I asked.
Her lips moved, but no sound came out.
I thought of the women mutilated and murdered in Whitechapel. “Was it John Slade?”
A word emerged from Katerina in a fit of coughing. “Stieber…”
That was the name Slade had mentioned. “Wilhelm Stieber? The Tsar’s spy?” When Katerina nodded feebly, I said, “Why did he do it?”
Katerina mumbled in Russian. Had she forgotten how to speak English? I tried another question: “How do you know Stieber?”
She moaned; her eyes rolled. She brought to mind a horse I’d once seen on a farm outside Haworth. It had fallen and shattered its leg. Its eyes had rolled just like Katerina’s just before the farmer shot it. “I work for him.”
“Doing what?”
“I go with men… I…” Katerina lapsed into Russian again, words that smacked of vulgarity. “… They tell me secrets.”
I pieced together a story influenced by what I’d learned from Slade. “Russian men? You seduce them? And they tell you secrets about plots against the tsar?”
Her head tossed. “Not just Russian. English. Stieber want to find man.” In her agony, her English had deteriorated.
Excitement quickened my pulse. “Is it Niall Kavanagh?”
Katerina gripped my hand harder. I winced. She said, “Man… have gun. Stieber want.”
The scientist’s invention was a gun, I deduced. It must be unique in design, and so powerful that it could guarantee Russia a victory in a war with England. Wilhelm Stieber meant to obtain it for the Tsar. Wilhelm Stieber had ordered Katerina to use her charms on British men who might know where Kavanagh was. And if I could believe Slade, he meant to stop Stieber and keep the gun out of Russian hands.
“Did Stieber find Niall Kavanagh?” I asked. “What about the gun?”
Katerina didn’t seem to hear me. Her face was pale and waxen; she gasped out bloody saliva. When repeated attempts failed to elicit the answers, I reverted to my previous question: “Why did Stieber do this to you?”
She spoke in a whisper so faint that I had to lean close to hear. “Because I betray him.”
“You betrayed him? How?”
“… I told…”
Urgency agitated me, for her strength was fading. “Told whom?”
She sighed, her breath moist and feverish against my ear. “Josef.”
That was the Polish name Slade had been using. Katerina appeared to have been his informant as well as Wilhelm Stieber’s. It must have been she who had told Slade about Stieber’s comings and goings at Bedlam. Yet these explanations didn’t tell me whether that was all there had been to Slade and Katerina’s relations. That they had also been lovers was not my only horrific thought. If she had betrayed Stieber in the service of Slade, she might also have betrayed Slade to Stieber, and Slade might have retaliated by torturing and stabbing her. Perhaps I had misinterpreted a garbled story from a mortally injured woman. So many people had lately expressed doubts about my mental capacities; I had begun to doubt them myself.
Katerina muttered something that I hopefully took for, “Stieber say I must die.”
“But why torture you?” Why not just kill Katerina rather than make her suffer? I couldn’t believe that even a spy for the Tsar would be so cruel. Maybe the torturer was Slade, a homicidal lunatic according to the police.
“… want know…”
“Know what?” I demanded, avid for information that would exonerate Slade.
She whispered, “Where is Josef.”
I surmised that Stieber was on a hunt for Slade and meant to do to him what I believed he’d done to Katerina. “Did you tell him?” I cried. “Where is he?”
Her body began trembling violently; her grasp on my wrist broke. Gurgles and moans erupted from her. Her long-lashed eyelids fluttered.
“Katerina!”
Her trembling and utterances rapidly diminished until she lay still, her eyes half-closed. She could tell me no more. I could not save her. She was dead.
So stunned by shock, disbelief, and horror that I hardly knew what to do, I heard noises inside the house. They were footsteps, coming stealthily up the stairs.
