‘Goodnight,’ called a woman outside. ‘I’m going to sing.’
The others visibly relaxed. It was Mary.
The door opened and in she came, her slender frame slipping easily through the gap.
‘Who were you speaking to?’ Dr Shivershev asked her.
‘Only Margaret from the last house, the one in front of the privies.’ Mary had an accent, it could have been Welsh or Irish, with London coarseness, I couldn’t be sure.
I stood up as she came in, embarrassed to be sitting on her bed, and conscious of what might have taken place on it, likely with my own physician. The movement made everyone turn towards me, as if I were about to make a toast. I blushed.
Mary looked me up and down and gave a small smile, the type a woman reserves for a competitor. She kept her pretty eyes on me as she walked over to where Dr Shivershev was sitting, bent down and held his grizzly head in both hands to plant a lingering kiss in a display of affection for my benefit. I fought the compulsion to tell her there would be no threat from me. I could only imagine she thought my status as a middle-class lady might usurp her looks. Dr Shivershev, for his part, had that smug expression men adopt on such occasions. I wasn’t sure which one made me feel more nauseous. I had the horrible shivers of opium withdrawal, not to mention I had stabbed my housekeeper that afternoon and seen my husband murdered. I was hardly in the mood to jostle for male attention.
‘What are we to do now?’ I asked, eager to get on with the next part of the plan.
Mary started to sing ‘A Violet from Mother’s Grave’ and set about making sure the only window in the room, which faced the courtyard, was covered. She used a scrappy old cloth nailed to the wall above it, and, bizarrely, a black coat.
No one answered me, so I let out an exasperated sigh and sat down on the bed again. It creaked and squeaked like the string section of an orchestra. If Mary was a whore, I pitied her poor neighbours.
‘Mary, would you light the fire, and one or two of those candles,’ said Dr Shivershev.
She did as she was asked. She wore a bright white apron, spotlessly clean, and a linsey frock with a red shawl about her shoulders. She didn’t have a bonnet. Come to think of it, on none of the three occasions I saw her had she worn one. Her fair hair hung a long way down her back and bobbed up and down as she moved. It made me think of Mabel. Mary had a similar charm, her open, wide-eyed face seemingly stuck in perennial girlhood. I didn’t doubt men found her attractive. They would surely describe her as ‘sweet’ or ‘fair’, but girls like Mary and Mabel had no need of words, they had adoration enough and no sense of what it was to be plain. They could remain oblivious as long as they still had their looks to fall back on. For the rest of us, it made no sense to build a world around something as fleeting as beauty anyway.
It was obvious by the dwelling, her attractiveness, and the state of her clothes and furniture that Mary made a better than average living, and she didn’t look like she spent much time on her knees charring to me. On her knees maybe, but certainly not scrubbing.
‘Mary, what time do you have to meet our man?’ asked Dr Shivershev.
‘Oh, not till two, Robbie. We have plenty of time. Are you ready enough?’
Robbie? Urghhh.
‘Right, I’ll be off, I’ll see you later,’ said Walter. He gave a wink to Mary, a nod to Dr Shivershev and a wary blank-eyed stare to me before he slipped out of the door. I was definitely the spare wheel in this arrangement.
Mary moved the nightstand in front of the door and started singing again. In between phrases, she looked me over once more and said, ‘Sorry, it is my habit.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘To sing… When I’m nervous. It’s a habit of mine.’
She stood over the trunk and Dr Shivershev joined her.
‘Right, are we ready, Susannah?’ he asked.
‘Ready for what?’ I said.
‘For surgery.’
*
At first I didn’t understand what he meant.
The plan was to put Mrs Wiggs in Mary’s bed and forge a Ripper murder. I had assumed it would be arranged when I was out of the room. That was as much thought as I’d allowed myself. But now I understood that they meant me to take part in it. I actually laughed when I realised that.
‘Do we have long enough?’ asked Mary.
‘Yes. It’s not as if we’re trying to keep the woman alive. We can work quickly,’ Dr Shivershev said.
‘Good.’ Mary threw an anxious glance at me, then turned to him. ‘Will she be all right?’
‘She will.’ Addressing me, he said, ‘Pretend we’re in theatre again, albeit in even worse conditions than at the London. Now, Susannah, help me move the body to the bed.’
‘I thought we were using Mrs Wiggs to replace Mary? Are we to take organs from her too… here?’ I said.
Mary had dragged out a large wooden box from underneath her bed. She opened it, and inside was a full kit of surgeon’s knives, tools and apparatus.
‘We can’t leave Mrs Wiggs as she is, Susannah. It’s very clear she is not Mary. Even our inept Metropolitan Police Force will see that. We will make adjustments so that it is impossible to recognise her as Mary or anyone else. We are to set the scene for the next Whitechapel murder. This was your idea, Susannah – remember?’
‘I was defending myself,’ I said.
‘Ha! Good luck telling that to the peelers,’ said Mary.
I glared at her, but she turned her back and moved to the window. She kept checking it, over and over, as Walter had, and then
