Page 75 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

‘With the whole constabulary searching for him,’ he began, ‘of course.’ Bram didn’t understand my qualms, which were echoed by Ellen and other women. How could any man? ‘He must be.’

Newspapers were snatched up as fast as they were printed as each new edition carried more lurid stories, many with illustrations and graphic photographs. It became an itch I couldn’t scratch. Connections were made to earlier deaths, to bodies that had been found in the river, in tenements, in the streets. Descriptions of the areas where the women were found abounded. I was appalled to read about the living conditions in the east of London. It was a different world.

Winter arrived with blasts of snow and bitter cold, yet still no-one was caught. Rumours circulated that the killer (or killers – some felt whoever it was must have accomplices) was either a butcher or a surgeon. Women were afraid to step out alone, or to be abroad when night fell, no matter where they lived. During the day, I paced the house, staring out every window and searching the faces of the figures who walked past. Bram insisted I ensure either George or Gilbert accompanied me on any outing. I lost sleep, started at the slightest noise. Exhausted, I tried to maintain an outward calm, a serenity I didn’t feel, all while my imagination was like a wildfire, scorching rational thought. Noel would look at me peculiarly when I jumped if a visitor came to the door, or when floorboards creaked. Fear took up residence in my very bones.

When Macbeth finally opened on 29 December, there’d not been another murder for weeks. The make-believe of the theatre was such a welcome relief from all the horror-snatching headlines, even Macbeth, with its bloody themes. I willingly agreed to attend opening night, and the Beefsteak Room supper afterwards.

The play was a resounding success with its magnificent backdrops and rich costumes (Ellen’s alone had been stitched with beetle wings and gilded thread, and the crowns she and Henry wore were made of real gold). The number of people invited to celebrate afterwards meant the supper had to be moved to the stage again. There, beneath white canopies adorned with floral arrangements and sparkling candelabras and against backdrops featuring Scottish castles and blackened heaths, we dined. Bram had invited George and his wife Agnes. Tables were laid with sumptuous food, glasses brimmed with ruby wine, laughter and chatter filled the auditorium as Henry, Ellen and the entire cast were congratulated. I caught Bram’s eye briefly as he stood to one side, watching everyone with a smile on his face.

As we found our seats, George whispered in my ear, ‘I can’t help but notice that no-one offers my brother commendations or thanks.’

‘No,’ I said, softly. ‘As usual his contribution is overlooked.’

‘And I note Henry does naught to alter that.’

Our eyes travelled to Henry, sitting like a contented cat lapping up the praise.

I asked Bram once, after Faust was first performed and everyone rushed to honour Henry, how he felt. He brushed it off. ‘Proud,’ was all he said. But now I’d seen firsthand how the Americans recognised the essential role he played in making the productions a success, all the stories about him in their press, was it easy for him to slip back into the shadows? Or did he wish just a smidgen of limelight would shine on him? I most certainly did.

I’d hugged and congratulated Ellen (who’d been completely magnificent, despite Henry’s efforts to minimise her character’s importance), made sure to tell Henry how fine he was, and greeted Oscar, who much to my delight was there that evening too, though his wife was not. I was seated between George and Hall Caine. Conversation and laughter flittered around us, and the backs of our chairs were regularly bumped as people pushed past, eager to reach Henry and Ellen.

I’d scarce seen Hall since our return from Scotland as he’d been preoccupied with an American doctor he’d befriended, a man Bram disparaged as a quack. I think Bram was hurt that Hall had all but disregarded him in favour of this new associate.

Hall and I caught up on our news, carefully skirting one subject until it inevitably arose – the Ripper murders.

‘Where’s your friend, the good doctor?’ I asked, accepting a refilled glass of wine from a waiter. ‘Francis, isn’t it?’

‘Dr Francis J Tumblety,’ he said with strange emphasis, gulping his drink. He lowered his voice. ‘You didn’t hear? Bram didn’t tell you?’

Another tidbit Bram had kept, protecting my sensibilities; perhaps my inner turmoil was more evident than I believed. ‘Hear what?’

I could see Hall hesitating.

‘Hall …’ I said sternly. ‘If you don’t tell me, I’ll ask Mr Gladstone.’ The prime minister had just joined the table, amid much back-slapping and congratulations for Henry.

Hall sighed. ‘Turns out, Bram was right about Francis.’

I raised my brows.

‘The man was a mountebank. He was not only arrested on charges of gross indecency but —’ Hall paused.

‘What?’ I urged.

Hall flashed a look around the room and then placed his lips near my ear. ‘He was also suspected of the murders in Whitechapel.’ He withdrew slightly, giving me a meaningful look, then threw back his wine.

A chill washed over me; a low keening filled my ears, growing in intensity. ‘Your friend, he was Jack the Ripper?’ My voice sounded strange, small. Dread engulfed my body, turning it to lead. I’d met this man, dined with him. He’d been to our house.

‘I … I don’t know.’ Hall’s cheeks flooded with colour. ‘Before they could prove it one way or another, he fled the country.’ He paused, then went on, ‘Strange, don’t you think, that the killings ceased after he left? But, if he is the Ripper, he’s still at large. Only now he’s haunting other shores.’

I swayed in my seat, tried to grasp hold of the edge of the table, but the cloth made it impossible. Good Lord. I shut my eyes briefly. Faces paraded in my mind’s eye, like the kings before Macbeth: Henry as the Thane, his face streaked with a king’s blood; Jack the Ripper, poised over the maimed bodies of those doomed women; Dr Tumblety, with his huge moustache and piercing eyes, loomed large, eyes which began to transform into glowing red coals …

I opened my own. There, in the gloom of the wings, lurked a familiar figure.

I raised a trembling finger. He smiled, lips pulling back to expose those long, gleaming teeth. Only now they were sharp and pointed, a row of miniature daggers. I gasped and his vermillion eyes fixed onto mine.

‘Florence. Florence.’ Hall’s voice came from far away.

‘Florrie, are you alright?’ It was George.