With shaking hands I tucked the strip of cloth away in my pocket and forced myself to concentrate on the routine of making tea. The big kettle was already out; but when I went to fill it with water, it felt heavy. I lifted the lid and found myself looking at a pile of human intestines.
I did not faint…most probably because I was past all feeling by then. I tried to think. The piece of cloth Edward could have used to wipe off the knife; then he would have put the cloth in the wood box with the intention of burning it later. But why wait? And. the viscera in the tea kettle…was I meant to find that? Was this Edward’s way of asking for help? And where was the knife? Systematically I began to look for it; but after nearly two hours’ intensive search, I found nothing. He could have disposed of the knife on his way home. He could have hidden it in the church. He could have it under his pillow.
I went into the front parlor and forced myself to sit down. I was frightened; I didn’t want to stay under the same roof with him, I didn’t want to fight for his soul. Did he even have a soul any more?
The Edward Wickham I had lain beside every night for twelve years was a counterfeit person, one whose carefully fabricated personality and demeanor had been devised to control and constrain the demon imprisoned inside. The deception had worked well until we came to Whitechapel, when the constraints began to weaken and the demon escaped. What had caused the change — was it the place itself? The constant presence of prostitutes in the streets? It was beyond my comprehension.
The stresses of the past twenty-four hours eventually proved too much for me; my head fell forward, and I slept.
Edward’s hand on my shoulder awoke me. I started, and gazed at him with apprehension; but his face showed only gentle concern.
“Is something wrong, Beatrice? Why are you sleeping in the afternoon?”
I pressed my fingertips against my eyes. “I did not sleep last night.
The Macklin baby was born early this morning.”
“Ah! Both mother and child doing well, I trust? I hope you impressed upon young Macklin the importance of an early christening.
But Beatrice, the next time you are called out, I would be most grateful if you could find a way to send me word. When you had not returned by midnight, I began to grow worried.”
That was the first falsehood Edward had ever told me that I could recognize as such; it was I who had been waiting for him at midnight.
His face was so open, so seemingly free of guile…did he honestly have no memory of the night before, or was he simply exceptionally skilled in the art of deception? I stood up and began to pace. “Edward, we must talk about last night…about what you did last night.”
His eyebrow shot up. “I?”
I couldn’t look at him. “I found her intestines in the tea kettle.
Mary Kelly’s intestines.”
“Intestines?” I could hear the distaste in his voice. “What is this, Beatrice? And who is Mary Kelly?”
“She’s the woman you killed last night!” I cried. “Surely you knew her name!” I turned to confront him…and saw a look of such loathing on his face that I took a step back. “Oh!” I gasped involuntarily. “Please don’t…” Edward? Jack?
The look disappeared immediately — he knew, he knew what he was doing! “I killed someone last night, you say?” he asked, his rational manner quickly restored. “And then I put her intestines…in the tea kettle? Why don’t you show me, Beatrice?”
Distrustful of his suggestion, I nevertheless led the way to the kitchen. As I’d half expected, the tea kettle was empty and spotlessly clean. With a heavy heart I pulled the piece of brown plaid cloth out of my pocket. “But here is something you neglected to destroy.”
He scowled. “A dirty rag?”
“Oh, Edward, stop professing you know nothing of this! It is a strip from Mary Kelly’s petticoat, as you well realize! Edward, you must go to the police. Confess all, make your peace with God. No one else can stop your nocturnal expeditions — you must stop yourself! Go to Inspector Abberline.”
He held out one hand. “Give me the rag,” he said expression-lessly.
“Think of your soul, Edward! This is your one chance for salvation!
You must confess!”
“The rag, Beatrice.”
“I cannot! Edward, do you not understand? You are ac-cursed — your own actions have damned you! You must go down on your knees and beg for forgiveness!”
Edward lowered his hand. “You are ill, my dear. This delusion of yours that I am the Ripper — that is the crux of your accusation, is it not? This distraction is most unbefitting the wife of the vicar of St.
Jude’s. I cannot tolerate the thought that before long you may be found raving in the street. We will pray together, we will ask God to send you self-control.”
I thought I understood what that meant. “Very well…if you will not turn yourself over to the police, there is only one alternate course of action open to you. You must kill yourself.”
“Beatrice!” He was shocked. “Suicide is a sin!”
His reaction was so absurd that I had to choke down a hysterical laugh. But it made me understand that further pleading would be fruitless. He was hopelessly insane; I would never be able to reach him.
Edward was shaking his head. “I am most disturbed, Beatrice.
This dementia of yours is more profound than I realized. I must tell you I am unsure of my capacity to care for you while you are subject to delusions. Perhaps an institution is the rightful solution.”
I was stunned. “You would put me in an asylum?”
He sighed. “Where else will we find physicians qualified to treat dementia? But if you cannot control these delusions of yours, I see no other recourse. You must pray, Beatrice, you must pray for the ability to discipline your thoughts.”
He could have me locked away; he could have me locked away and then continue unimpeded with his ghastly killings, never having to worry about a wife who noticed too much. It was a moment before I could speak. “I will do as you say, Edward. I will pray.”
“Excellent! I will pray with you. But first — the rag, please.”
Slowly, reluctantly, I handed him the strip of Mary Kelly’s petticoat. Edward took a fireplace match and struck it, and the evidence linking him to murder dissolved into thin black smoke that spiralled up the chimney. Then we prayed; we asked God to give me the mental and spiritual willpower I lacked.
Following that act of hypocrisy, Edward suggested that I prepare our tea; I put the big tea kettle aside and used my smaller one. Talk during tea was about several church duties Edward still needed to perform. I spoke only when spoken to and was careful to give no offense. I did everything I could to assure my husband that I deferred to his authority.
Shortly before six Edward announced he was expected at a meeting of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee. I waited until he was out of sight and went first to the cupboard for a table knife and then to the writing table for a sheet of foolscap. Then I stepped into the pantry and began to scrape up as much of the arsenic from the rat holes as I could.
23 February 1892, Whitechapel Charitable Institute for Indigent Children.
Inspector Abberline sat in my office, nodding approval at everything he’d seen. “It’s difficult to believe,” he said, “that these are the same thin and dirty children who only months ago used to sleep in doorways and under wooden crates. You have worked wonders, Mrs.
Wickham. The board of trustees could not have found a better director. Are the children learning to read and write? Can they learn?”