She worked herself into a tizzy. The monitor that kept track of her heart rate beeped faster. I took her hand and squeezed it.
“Try to relax,” I said quietly. “The important thing is that you are alive. That’s what matters.”
The monitor quieted as she took a deep breath and relaxed against the pillows. “What were you doing in Mitre Square so late?”
“Looking for the Ripper,” I answered. “Since the police aren’t doing their job, I thought I’d handle it for them.”
“Alone?”
Once more, I thought of Evelyn and wondered if she was awake yet. “No, my best friend was with me. Speaking of, do you remember anything about your attacker? Did you see his face?”
Eira tried to shake her head then apparently remembered the bandages holding her skin together. “No, he was behind me the whole time. I never saw him.”
“What about his voice? Did he say anything to you?”
“Not a word.”
I sighed. “If you remember anything, can you ask someone to come find me? I’ll be in my friend’s room. 209. She’s here too.”
Fear filled Eira’s eyes. “Because of the Ripper?”
“No,” I said. “Because of me. I hope you have a quick recovery, Eira.”
Outside Eira’s room, I ran right into Officer Stowick.
“Sorry. Excuse me.”
Stowick grasped my arm. “Hold on a minute, miss. Did you think I wouldn’t recognize you?”
“If you don’t mind, I need to get back to my friend.”
Stowick’s grip tightened. “What were you doing in Ms. Kent’s room?”
“Making sure she was okay,” I replied acidly. “I was the one who saved her, remember?”
“You were also the only other person in that alleyway at the time of the attack,” he said. “My officers swept all of Whitechapel for the lad you described. No sign of him. I’m starting to think you made him up.”
I twisted my arm out of his hand. “I’m starting to think you’ll do anything to find a suspect. Have you seen the riots in the streets, Officer Stowick? The public are doubting your abilities to track the killer. Is it making you nervous?”
“Don’t go too far,” Stowick called after me as I stalked off. “We’re not done with our conversation.”
Fuming, I returned to Evelyn’s room. She still lay sleeping, and I couldn’t keep my anger contained within the white hospital walls. I needed fresh air, and Evelyn would likely want clean clothes to wear and decent food—not the junk they served at the hospital—when she woke up.
Avoiding the officers outside Eira’s room, I dashed out of the corridor, down the steps, and out of the hospital. I’d intended to catch a cab back to Evelyn’s flat, but with the riotous crowds in the streets, hailing one was impossible. I squinted across the shouting congregation, but there were no pathways to get through those who had gathered. More police officers were stationed in front of the hospital, trying to keep the riot from getting out of hand.
“Justice for William!” the protestors chanted. “Justice for Rosie! Catch the killer!”
An officer with a megaphone called over the crowd. “You are blocking the path of emergency vehicles! Please disperse and be on your way.”
One of the protestors seized the megaphone from the officer and threw it over his shoulder. A woman behind him caught it and shouted through it: “The people of London demand action!” The crowd roared its approval. “We will not stand for inept or corrupted police! We want our friends and family safe!” Another thunderous yell erupted from the speaker’s supporters. “Find the Ripper before he kills again or the people of Whitechapel will be on your doorstep, Officers!”
Another policeman ripped the megaphone away from the woman who shouted through it. When she fought against him, she accidentally whacked the officer in the face with the back of her hand. Anyone close enough to see it knew it wasn’t intentional, but the officer brought out his handcuffs anyway.
“You’re under arrest,” he said. “For assaulting a member of the London police.”
The mob didn’t like that. As they descended on the arresting officer, a space cleared on the outer edges of the horde. I made a break for it, darting toward the opposite side of the street, but another group of locals pushed me back toward the center of the throng.
The yelling increased. People pushed and shoved. As short as I was, I could barely see, let alone breathe. I elbowed someone in the ribs and thrust a larger woman away from me with both hands, fighting for room. The woman shoved me back and forced me into the person behind me. That person, a scrawny man about my height, raised his fist before looking at who he was about to hit. I dodged the blow, and out of pure self-defense, punched the small man right in the nose, using my first two knuckles as Evelyn had taught me.
A whistle blew shrilly in my ear, and the cluster sprang apart. Fingers pointed in my direction as two police officers stepped forward. The small man’s nose bled freely.
“She assaulted me!” he shouted, clutching his face.
Officer Stowick reached me first and clasped my hands behind my back. Cold handcuffs encircled my wrists. “Right this way, miss. You’re under arrest too.”
15
The police let me stew for three hours. They left me in a holding unit at the closest station with a few other protestors, two men recovering from a drunken night out, and a woman who carried on a full conversation with herself. As everyone commiserated about their situation, I sat alone, arms crossed, in the farthest corner, my mind on Evelyn. Surely, she had woken up by now and most likely wondered where I had gone.
Officer Stowick arrived, but I didn’t jump to my feet this time. Every half hour, he strolled through to tease us about
