‘I get nothing!’ he shouted in my face. Then he spat at me.
I flinched and shut my eyes. He stormed out, stomped up the attic stairs and slammed the door behind him.
I burst into tears, and Mrs Wiggs quietly retreated, taking the light of the candle with her. I was left alone to feel my way back to bed. After that, I locked my bedroom door at night.
14
I was woken by Mrs Wiggs rattling my bedroom door. Her thin voice called out to me between huffs of frustration at the new barrier between us. The memories came flooding in, making me shiver. I threw off the bedclothes, sat up and touched the skin at the back of my head. It was pulled taut into a tender, scabby seam. Mrs Wiggs continued pestering the door handle as if it would change its mind about being locked. In a daze, I stomped over and released it. She swooped in like a buzzard circling for rabbits: all grey skirts and pointed features. I sloped back to bed and pulled the blankets over me. It was Saturday and I had decided I would not get up again that day.
‘It is gone midday, Mrs Lancaster. I was concerned that something might be wrong. Are you well?’
It appeared my fragile health was a concern for the servants now. ‘I am well, Mrs Wiggs. What could possibly be wrong with me?’ I gave her my best wide eyes, and was met with a narrowing of hers.
‘You haven’t eaten since Thursday evening. Neglect of one’s appetite can make a person… hysterical,’ she said. ‘You’ve not emerged from this room since—’
‘Since the early hours of Friday morning. When my husband dragged himself home.’ I lay down and stared at the ceiling. ‘Is he here?’
‘No, Mrs Lancaster, he went out early this morning. I shall have the mirror replaced today, and take some of these clothes to the laundry. I assume that is why they are on the floor?’
I was not a tidy mistress and left my clothes scattered about my room. Having the privilege to do so was a novelty I still enjoyed.
‘You should leave the mirror, if only to remind us to agree on who should get the bad luck, Thomas or myself. It was my head that cracked it, after all.’
‘It will do no good to make a catastrophe of a silly accident, Mrs Lancaster. We shouldn’t punish ourselves.’
‘Not when we have others to punish us,’ I replied.
My comment was met with silence as dense as any Embankment mud. Eventually she sighed and said, ‘I shall send Sarah up with breakfast.’ She walked towards the door with an armful of laundry.
‘No need for breakfast. Just send Sarah, please.’
‘What for?’
‘I have an errand for her.’
‘I can tell her.’
‘No. Thank you.’
More silence.
‘Very well.’ Then she departed, and I locked the door behind her.
Two minutes later, Sarah knocked and I gave her my instructions and sent her away. While I waited for her to return, I worried. My security depended on being sure of Thomas’s affection. My position as his novelty had been tenuous, I knew that, but it seemed my day in the sun was over already. I had not even managed a brief spell in the territory of the comfortably familiar, hadn’t had the chance to insinuate myself like a pair of worn slippers he would be hesitant to throw away. I had travelled straight to inconvenience; surely exile or death would follow. My young husband had a dreadful temper, and I feared for the person who had been on the receiving end of it the night he returned home wearing their blood. No, I couldn’t leave my room that day. I had too much to think over, too many possibilities to consider.
I remembered the shirt, leapt up and scoured the room for it, but it was gone. Of course! I had to laugh. Mrs Wiggs had only come to retrieve Thomas’s shirt from where he had thrown it.
Blood didn’t pour like that from punches; there must have been a knife, and Thomas’s bare chest hadn’t had a mark on it. What if the man he had fought with was now dead? The police might even be on their way. What would I say if they should question me?
Finally, Sarah returned.
‘Here, Mrs Lancaster,’ she said, struggling with the load. ‘Mrs Wiggs said you weren’t feeling right. She did give me a look when she saw me bringing these up – she doesn’t approve, you know, thinks it morbid. Anyway, I told her it would do you good, get the heart beating, because everyone’s in such a state over it. See, it’s on every front page. It’s what you and the rest of London’s been waiting for, missus. I don’t know how you read it – gives me the shivers.’
She heaved the bundle onto the top of the dresser and I snatched the top one: The Daily News from the first of September.
ANOTHER BRUTAL MURDER IN WHITECHAPEL
Another woman was found brutally slaughtered in Whitechapel yesterday.
Shortly before four o’clock in the morning, Police Constable Neil discovered the woman lying in her own blood in Buck’s Row. Her throat had been savagely cut from ear to ear. PC Neil raised the alarm and a doctor was summoned.
Dr Llewellyn of Whitechapel Road inspected the body and pronounced the woman dead. The corpse was swiftly removed to Bethnal Green Police Station and upon further examination the horrifying details of the crime were revealed. The poor woman’s lower half had been mutilated by deep gashes.
The body was taken to the mortuary of the parish in Old Montague Street and the police made efforts to identify the woman.
CAST OUT OF LODGING HOUSE
A petticoat worn by the woman was marked with the stamp of Lambeth Workhouse and the only personal effects found in the pockets were a comb and a piece of looking glass.
As news of the crime travelled, it was discovered that she met the description
