The elderly woman presiding over a counter inside the doorway offered Dr. Hume a perfunctory smile. Two shillings changed hands and then Eva and her companion were moving down a short corridor past the draped entry way to the chamber beyond.
Chamber. Eva recalled her evening at the music hall and a snatch of song emerged from memory.
But almost two months had passed since she’d heard those words; things were different now. The song was no longer amusing, and this chamber was real.
On the far side of the dimly-lit room a half-dozen men and their female companions were clustered before a platform against the wall. Obviously these patrons weren’t local residents; their clothing identified them as West Enders, most probably down for a night of slumming in wicked Whitechapel. And the proprietor of the exhibit, a cotton-haired old man in a frayed frock coat, was doing his best to give them what they’d come for.
As Eva and Dr. Hume joined the group, the hoarse voice of the showman rasped through the confines of the small room.
“—and ’ere they are, lydies and gentlemen, just the syme as they appeared in life — the ’elpless innercent victims of a gharstly murderer—”
He gestured toward the platform, and over the shoulders of the spectators Eva saw the display.
Again the words of the song echoed. There’s a beautiful statue of Mother there—
But the trio of figures lining the wall beneath the gaslight’s glare were neither beautiful nor motherly. Each had been mounted against a bare wooden board, as though on separate mortuary slabs uptilted for inspection. The old man stood before them, warming to his work.
“—modeled exactically like they looked at the medical ortopsies—”
“Not really,” Dr. Hume murmured. “More like a knacker’s work, don’t you think?”
And indeed there was a harrowing resemblance to a butcher’s handiwork in the mutilations inflicted on the effigies. Quite obviously they were not actual models of the victims; merely wax dummies that had been hastily bewigged and dressed to roughly resemble the three women, then gashed and daubed with crimson in simulation of their wounds, But even so, there was something unspeakably revolting about the sightless stare of the glassy eyes, the mouths gaping in soundless screams, the white bodies bespattered by a red rain.
The voice went grinding on. “A piterful sight, my friends! Three ’armless creatures, that they were — Martha Turner, struck down and stabbed thirty-nine times by a fiend in ’uman form—’ere in the throat, ’ere in the breast, and ’ere below—”
There were hushed murmurs from the onlookers as the old man continued. But following her initial reaction Eva found nothing disturbing about the dummies themselves; they were, after all, only waxworks, crudely made and clumsily disfigured for show. It was foolish to be moved by the death of what never was alive.
What did disturb her now was the living; the almost feverish intensity of excitement emanating from the spectators as their eyes fastened and feasted on the mock mutilations of the silent shapes before them.
“—Polly Nicholls, she as was done to death in Buck’s Row larst month.” the old man intoned. “They sy as ow ’er abdominabler parts was attacted before ’er throat was cut—”
Eva glanced at Dr. Hume, noting that he too was staring along with the rest, but not at the figures on the platform.
He was staring at her.
“Disgusting, isn’t it?” he said. “One can almost feel the reality.” Eva didn’t reply, pretending to be absorbed by the words of the proprietor.
“—and ’ere we ’ave Annie Chapman, pore soul! The demon worked ’is will on ’er in ’Anbury Street and near sliced orf the ’ead. Then ’e savaged the body. Out of respect for the lydies present I will refryne from mention of the ’orrid details—”
But Jeremy Hume had no respect. The slant eyes stared and he bent to whisper in Eva’s ear. “You know what he’s referring to, of course — the excision of the uterus. It’s highly probable that he had his way with her first; the sight of blood seems to intensify the venereal spasm.”
“Please,” Eva murmured.
Hume drew back, shaking his head. “No need to play coy with me. After all, we’re both members of the same profession. We can face the truth without such hypocrisy.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Eva started to step aside, but he gripped her shoulder, his eyes intent on hers. “Ah, but you do! Even the beasts in the slaughterhouse know. When the butchers begin their work the brutes begin to couple in one final frenzy. We’re all animals, my dear; we know that death prompts desire. I feel its stirrings every time I take my knife in hand for surgery. You feel it too.”
“Let me go—” She tried to break away but his fingers tightened.
“Stop playing the lady.” His voice was hoarse. “I’ve been watching you while I worked, and the signs are there. The eyes grow bright, the respiration quickens. In the presence of death the body comes fully alive, ready for pleasure, just as you and I are ready now. And you are ready, aren’t you? Your pulse is racing, your lips are moist and full, above and below. Come away with me, let me show you—”
Eva shut out the sound of his words but she couldn’t blur her vision. And what she glimpsed in his slitted eyes prompted panic as she wrenched free.
Now his smile shattered into a gargoyle’s grimace. He lunged forward, but it was too late.
Turning, Eva ran blindly from the room, leaving Hume and the Chamber of ’Orrors behind. But there was no escape from the horror she carried with her — the horror behind Jeremy Hume’s smile.
~ TWENTY-ONE ~
Germany, A.D 1604. A Leipzig professor boasted of signing twenty thousand death warrants for accused witches and wizards. A thousand were executed in a decade, including children between two and four years of age. A judge and jury drank seventeen cans of wine and twenty-six of beer while watching the torture of an eighty-year-old woman.
It was well past midnight when Mark turned down Commercial Street. A light rain had just fallen and the cobbled pavements were still wet. Possibly the weather had dampened the spirits as well as the persons of East End pleasure seekers; whatever the reason. Mark encountered few pedestrians and the usual Saturday night carriage traffic had stilled its clamor here. In the distance he heard the ghostly echo of a train whistle rising from the London, Tilbury and Southend tracks, but the street itself stood silent.
Mark quickened his pace, searching for sight of his destination along the rows of darkened shops. It was his resolution, not his feet, which faltered now.
Was it wise to venture here alone? True, he’d given the Fitzgerald woman his word, but perhaps he should have told Abberline of his appointment. On the other hand there was no way of anticipating the inspector’s reaction; if he insisted on coming his presence might frighten her away.
Once again Mark found himself regretting Dr. Trebor’s absence. He’d know the right thing to do under these circumstances and his company would be welcome in the lonely night.
For a moment he wondered if he should turn back. Suppose it was all a fool’s errand? The woman had seemed sincere, yet that proved nothing; even if she told the truth she could be mistaken. If only Trebor were here to advise him!
But Trebor wasn’t here. And it was too late to abandon his mission now as the sign of the Coach And Four beckoned directly before him, swaying under a fan of gaslight.