‘Mrs Lancaster, I hope you understand. I know I am not… I don’t set out to offend you, Mrs Lancaster, I really don’t… May I ask a question? And of course, please do not feel obliged to answer it.’
‘Go on.’
‘When you fainted, I thought… Could it be what I think it could be?’
‘Please don’t tell Thomas, Mrs Wiggs – you know how disappointed he was last time.’
I hadn’t planned to lie, but I was interested to see if she would act differently towards me. I didn’t think I was pregnant. I doubted anything could survive in my body the way I’d been treating it.
‘I thought so,’ she said.
Though she smiled, it was hard to glean anything from her expression. She didn’t appear happy or excited, but then why would she? She was just a servant. A baby would only mean more work for Mrs Wiggs. She remained quiet, gazed past the walls of the room. A dark thought appeared to cast a shadow over her face before she swiftly whipped back on her servant’s mask.
‘Of course, I won’t say a word to Dr Lancaster. It is not my place, after all, and he will return shortly.’
‘You know where he is?’
‘I only know he was called away on business.’
‘He’s been called away?’
‘Yes. He has these other interests he pursues. I’m sure he’ll be home shortly.’
‘Mrs Wiggs, I must ask you something, and I want you to tell me the truth. I will not be angry.’
‘Of course.’
‘Did you take the wooden sewing box from my wardrobe?’
I fixed her dead in the eyes. If I could discern the tiniest flicker across her owl-like glare, I would know she was lying.
‘Mrs Lancaster, I promise you, I would never remove anything without your permission.’
I didn’t discern a thing.
26
‘Susannah, let me in.’
Pale light lined the gaps around the curtains.
‘Susannah!’
It was early morning. A yellow flash bounced off the brass door handle and came into focus. Someone was trying to turn it from the other side.
I sat up in bed and stared at the glinting metal, wondering if I’d imagined the voice. A child appeared to be whimpering outside the door.
‘Susannah! I’m sorry…’
It was Thomas.
My stomach sank. He hadn’t fallen in the Thames and drowned, nor had he been murdered in a fight. He had in fact come back safe and sound and was now scratching at my bedroom door like a mangy old cat. Was he trying to trick me with his sobbing? If he thought I would feel sympathy for him, he was very much mistaken.
I crept over and put my ear to the door. The sound came from low down; he was sitting on the floor on the landing. I crouched down so only inches of wood separated us. He was talking to himself, muttering. He sounded drunk and God knows what else. I considered ignoring him but knew that would only sustain the bad blood between us. Ultimately, he would win whatever fight I started.
He fell through the door as soon as I opened it. Tumbled through in a sweaty mess and wearing neither a jacket nor a coat. Perhaps he’d part undressed on his way up the stairs – entirely possible in his state. As I stood looking down on him, he rolled onto his back like a beetle and tried to focus his glassy eyes on me. He grabbed the hem of my nightdress, balled the fabric into a tight fist, and with his other hand flailed around as if to steady himself.
‘Chapman… will you…? You have to help me…’ he said.
I pulled him up onto his knees. I could smell as well as feel the cold sweat from his damp body. It was disgusting. I struggled to assist him onto the bed. His usually angular face was swollen and puffy, eyes red from crying. He clearly hadn’t shaved, and his whiskers looked as if they’d broken out of their meticulous borders days ago. When I asked him where he’d been for the past week and more, he wouldn’t say.
I sat next to him on the edge of the bed and sighed. I would have to suffer his stupefied presence for the night, and no doubt his pig-like snoring too. I could smell urine. I touched his trousers and he’d wet himself. I yanked my hand away and then shook him by the shoulders, but it did nothing, he only stirred a little. I was reminded of my grandmother, how she used to soil herself near the very end. I would clean up after her and change the bedclothes only for her to do it all over again. Now I’d be doing the same for my young husband. Aisling would have found the humour in this somehow.
‘The woman in the attic,’ he mumbled. ‘She won’t leave me. Help me! Tell her to stop talking! It’s the talking… All the time…’ he said, or at least that’s what it sounded like.
‘What woman, Thomas?’ I whispered close to his ear. I put my hand, still wet with his urine, on his bare chest and shook him. ‘Tell me about the woman. Who is she?’
For a moment I thought he might confess to the Whitechapel murders, if I could only get him to talk.
He repeated those same words – and other words, equally unintelligible.
‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘Do you mean women, Thomas? Do you mean the women? What happened to
