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Widow Jameson might be a notorious gossip, but she was still the best seamstress in East London, the only one Marietta would trust with her elaborate costumes. It was growing darker outside, the slate gray sky smeared with fading orange banners as I waited impatiently for the widow to finish mending the cloak. Marietta had instructed me to bring it to the music hall as soon as it was mended, and it was a long walk to Garrick’s. I didn’t relish the idea of being out after dark. No one did nowadays, not after the series of murders that were causing all the East End to panic.

Widow Jameson gathered up the heavy folds of honey-colored satin, her needle darting in and out along the hem to secure the black fox fur trim. I glanced around the cluttered shop, eyeing the bolts of cloth and racks of lace without really seeing them. Through the murky glass windows in front I could see the congestion of Charlotte Street, dingy gray brick walls spread with darkening violet shadows, carriages rattling noisily over the cobblestones, pedestrians moving rapidly now that night was falling. Soon the fog would veil everything with a swirling gray-white mist that not even the gaslights could penetrate. I prayed the widow would hurry.

“’Ere, Miss Susannah,” she said, giving the cloak a final pat. “I reckon it’s good as new ’n fit for a queen to wear. Such a lovely color ’n such fine trimmin’. Ain’t many can afford such fancy duds. Your aunt’s gotta real sense-a style. I reckon she don’t have much trouble findin’ the means-a gettin’ such a cloak.”

“I’m in rather a hurry, Mrs. Jameson,” I said coldly, ignoring her sly dig. “Are you finished?”

“She still at Garrick’s?” the widow inquired, reaching under the counter to pull out a large white cardboard box.

“Yes,” I replied, patience wearing thin. Everyone knew Marietta was still at Garrick’s. She was the main attraction at that rowdy music hall, a celebrity of sorts, at least in this part of London.

“Hateful way for a woman to make a livin’,” Widow Jameson continued, “singin’ them risk-kay songs ’n dancin’ them Frenchie dances ’n showin’ the men ’er legs. ’Course, I guess it’s all in th’ eye of th’ beholder. Still, ain’t th’ sorter thing I’d want my daughter to do.”

I frowned, furious with the old gossip yet forced to agree with her. I didn’t approve of Marietta’s way of life, but I was hardly in a position to comment one way or another.

I had been born in Devonshire and brought up in a beautiful red brick house with weathered white slate roof, dark green ivy growing up the walls. There were wild gardens and flagstone walks and a pond with a cracked white fountain. My life was serene, secure, and I was surrounded by love. My father was a lawyer, tall and handsome, full of robust good humor, and my mother was a famous hostess, celebrated for her gracious charm. I grew up in an atmosphere of wit and great warmth, one contented day melting amiably into the next. Then, when I was twelve, the typhoid epidemic of 1882 struck the countryside. Both my parents were taken ill. Both died. I was sent to stay with neighbors until my mother’s younger sister could come for me.

I had never met my aunt, but I had always been curious about her. She had left the family home and fled to London years before, and my mother was always evasive about her. Marietta Clark was the kind of woman polite society spoke of in whispers, a flamboyant creature not very particular about the men she associated with. I knew that she was an actress, though I discovered later that “actress” was hardly appropriate to describe the sort of thing my aunt did on stage.

Marietta came to fetch me. She was dazzling in her elegant satins and curling plumes. In her late twenties, she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, yet there was something hard about her. The lovely features might have been chiseled from smooth white granite, and the sapphire blue eyes were cold. She was the first woman I had seen who openly wore make-up. The lips were scarlet, the high cheekbones rouged, the delicate lids rubbed with soft violet shadow. Her elaborately curled hair was golden brown, too glistening to be natural. I was, of course, fascinated, even though I sensed she was hardly elated to be taking on the responsibility of a twelve-year-old child.

The red brick house was sold to strangers. My father, it seemed, had been making several unwise investments, and he had left very little money. Marietta took me back to London where I was promptly installed in a genteel but slightly down-at-the-heels school for girls. I remained there for the next four years, or until the money ran out, and then Marietta took me in with her for want of anything better to do. For the past two years, I had lived with her in the large, cluttered top-floor apartment on Old Montague Street, doing the cooking, keeping the rooms in order, waiting on Marietta, fetching and carrying, running errands, staying out of the way when she entertained one of her gentlemen friends in the parlor with lilac draperies and the large purple velvet sofa.

Marietta wasn’t cruel, she was just indifferent to me. When she happened to think of it, she was quite generous, seeing that I had plenty of new dresses, though I seldom had occasion to wear them, giving me money for books and sketch pads and paints. Knowing that I loved music, she had replaced the old upright piano with a newer one, although I was forbidden to play it when she had one of her headaches. Marietta was selfish and vain and shallow, incapable of affection. I was little more than a personal maid and housekeeper to her, but we got along well. I had learned how to humor her when she was self-pitying, and I had learned to avoid her when she was in one of her tempestuous rages.

It wasn’t a happy life, but it wasn’t so bad. There were books, and there were my watercolors, and there was my friend Millie who lived downstairs and loved to chatter and share daydreams. Although she was constantly demanding when she was around, Marietta was out much of the time, and I had the place to myself. Then I was free to read and paint and indulge in all those fantasies typical of every eighteen-year-old girl. I visualized a tall, dashing soldier in dazzling gold and blue tunic and white breeches. He would sweep me up and take me away to the country where there were trees and flowers or, better yet, to India where there were marble palaces and silk brocades. Such fantasies were harmless, and they made the bleakness a little more endurable.

In reality, the only men who had shown any interest in me were those every young girl is warned against. East London abounded in them: handsome sports out slumming and looking for a likely lass, jaded roués in monocles and top hats wearily prowling the streets for some kind of diversion, soldiers from the Tower of London searching for excitement, stevedores from the docks, confidence men and worse. I ignored them all, even though Millie assured me I was missing some smashing good times. I might be Marietta’s niece, but I had no intentions of ending up like her.

“For a miss in a hurry you’re certainly gatherin’ wool,” Widow Jameson said primly. “You’ve been standin’ there th’ past five minutes, starin’ at space—”

“Wouldn’t blame you none,” she interrupted, clattering on, “what with all these dreadful things happenin’ right in our own backyard. First that Tabram woman found on th’ stairs of one of th’ George Yard buildings. Thirty-nine times she was stabbed, they say, and blood simply pourin’ down the stairs! And then poor Polly Nicholls, stretched out there near the gutter on Buck’s Row. Throat slit from ear to ear, and her body all cut up—well, some things’re not even fit to mention!”

“Right across th’ street from the slaughterhouse they found her. Last Friday night, it was, and Scotland Yard still ain’t gotta inkling who done it! It’s one of them bloody furriners, I can tell-ya that much. No Englishman’d do such heinous deeds! They’re callin’ ’im The Ripper—”

“I really must hurry,” I said, reaching for the cardboard box containing the cloak. Widow Jameson slapped one large hand down on the box.

I reached into my pink silk reticule and took out the proper amount of money. The hard look left the widow’s eyes as the coins fell into her outstretched palm. She shoved the box toward me.

“Ta ta, dearie. Have a nice walk. Night’s fallin’ fast, ’n th’ fog’s already startin’ to roll in. You won’t catch me steppin’ outside this shop, not on your life! It ain’t safe for a body to be about—”

She was a vicious old woman, trying to frighten me like that. I hurried down Charlotte Street and followed Back Church Lane to Whitechapel Road. It was a busy thoroughfare, carts and carriages joggling along the rough cobblestones, pedestrians crowding the narrow pavements in front of the still-busy shops. Above the soot-blackened walls I could see a darkening sky still faintly flushed with orange. In a quarter of an hour it would be dark, but if I hurried I could make it to Garrick’s before then.

I wasn’t really afraid. I knew these streets well, and I knew how to avoid trouble: walk fast, ignore everyone. During the daytime the neighborhood was boisterous, charged with rowdy energy, but quite safe. After dark it was something else altogether: a jungle of vice and violence. The pubs and alehouses were filled with brawling drunks. The streets were thronged with toughs, thieves, prostitutes and worse. It was no place for a young girl to be. Even the bobbies were dubious about strolling down the narrow, twisting alleys and dingy squares.

Clutching the cardboard box, I hurried down Whitechapel to Osborn. The first tendrils of fog were beginning to swirl in the air, barely visible now but gradually thickening, and all the orange had faded from the sky. I kept remembering tales of the dozens of young girls who vanished each year from this part of London. Millie was quite certain they were bundled off to South America or Constantinople, her eyes wide with fascinated horror as she speculated about such vile abductions.

Reaching the corner of Flower and Dean streets, I hesitated for only a moment. Marietta would be furious if I was much later, and unless I took a shortcut down Flower Street I would have to go around several more streets to reach Garrick’s. Holding my head erect, my stomach fluttering nervously, I hurried down the street. The girls were already out, sitting on the doorsteps or leaning against the grimy brick walls. The looked forlorn in the worn velvet dresses and tattered feather boas that were their uniforms, and I felt pity welling up inside of me. Many of these pathetic women were younger than I, barely in their teens, while others were ancient, faces wrinkled, grotesque under the make-up. Although the sight was disturbing, I wasn’t shocked. Queen Victoria and her tightly corseted ladies could deny the existence of such women, but the past few years had taught me that these creatures thrived on every side. When you lived in East London, you learned to accept it. Our Queen might impose her strict morals on polite society, but her influence didn’t extend to this section of the city.

“What’s your ’urry, ducks?” a wrinkled crone called out. “’Fraid th’ bogey man’ll get-ja?”

“Ain’t she sweet?” one of her companions cried raucously. “Such long yellow hair, such dainty features—reckon she’s aimin’ to move into one uv Black Jack’s rooms? ’E’d be ’appy to nab such a young ’un.”

“Watch out, ducks!” the first woman yelled. “If Black Jack were to catch a glimpse uv-ya, ’e’d clamp a scented handkerchief over your mouth ’n ’ave you in one uv ’is parlors ’fore you could say Boo!”

“Leave ’er be!” a hard-faced blonde told them. “Filthy ’arridans! You ain’t got nothin’ better to do than scare a poor girl? You, lass! Scurry on, ya-hear? Your folks must be outta their ’eads lettin’ a chit like you roam loose. Get on! Get on ’ome ’fore th’ fog rolls in.”

I moved on down the street, painfully self-conscious. Keeping my head down, I hurried on, praying they would let me pass unmolested.

“You better run, lassie!” a girl taunted. “Eddie’s after you now. ’E looks like ’e means business!”

I heard the heavy footsteps behind me, and there was the sound of labored breathing. My heart started pounding rapidly, and I must have gone pale. The footsteps grew louder, closer. I broke into a run, stumbling on the rough sidewalk.

Someone seized my arm. I gave a cry of alarm and whirled around to see a bobby with plump red cheeks and a drooping brown mustache. His helmet was fastened under his chin with a leather strap, and his heavy overcoat hung down in shiny black folds. He gripped my arm securely, his blue eyes full of concern. The fingers of his free hand curled around a formidable cocuswood truncheon stout enough to bash in the strongest head.

“’Ave you lost your mind, lass, traipsin’ around in this neighborhood? This ain’t no kinda place for you to be!”

“Aye, I can imagine what you thought what with all the things ’as been goin’ on ’ereabouts.”

“’Ey, Eddie!” one of the women yelled. “Why’n’t-cha pick on someone your own size!”

“Yeah,” another called, “like me! Wanna give your feet a rest? Come on up, I’ll let-cha put your shoes under my bed.”

The women hooted noisily and made rude comments, but the bobby ignored them, muttering something under his breath. His cheeks were flaming pink, and he swung his truncheon fiercely.

“Garrick’s, is it? That’s several streets away. You’d better let me escort you so none of this riff-raff’ll bother you. Come along now. Don’t pay them no mind.”

We walked to the corner and turned up Commercial Street, a wide, bustling artery exploding with life. Hansom cabs disgorged rowdy passengers in front of gaudy alehouses and pubs, horses leaving deposits on trash-littered cobblestones. Gaily dressed women tottered along on the arms of strapping young soldiers. Men in plum-colored frockcoats brushed shoulders with toughs in shapeless sweaters. Beggars crawled along the sidewalks with tin cups held out. Bawdy music poured out of the pubs, hawkers yelled to call attention to wares displayed on rickety carts, newsboys screamed of bloody deeds and waved the latest extras. Shrill discord assailed the ears. Foul odors assailed the nostrils. The street had a raw vitality, an undeniable fascination, yet it was reassuring to have a bobby moving along beside me.

“You tell your aunt to keep you home nights, miss,” he said huskily, holding my elbow in a firm grip. “She ’ad no business lettin’ you out this late.”

“Aye. No one knows when ’e’ll strike again. Fancies the ladies, ’e does. A pert little thing like you wouldn’t last a minute in ’is ’ands.”

“Doubled th’ force ’ere in the East End, we ’ave, but that ’asn’t done no good. ’E pops up outta no where, does ’is slashin’ and then vanishes into thin air. ’E’s a demon!”

I remembered an account of the latest crime I had read in The Illustrated London News. Polly Nicholls’ body was still warm, the blood still flowing, when she was discovered by a market porter on his way to work at 3:20 A.M., yet no one had heard her scream. Neighbors had heard no cries, nor had the three night watchmen on duty directly across the street at Barber’s slaughterhouse. Police constables had been patrolling their regular beats in the neighborhood, one of them passing the scene of the crime only a few minutes before the body was discovered. The murder had taken place swiftly, silently, and some of the more superstitious East Enders were claiming the killer had supernatural powers.

The crimes were terrible, true, but I saw no reason for the panic that seemed to grip the city. There had been crimes in the East End before, horrible crimes, but they had been taken as a matter of course, accepted with a shrug of the shoulders and a shake of the head. For some reason this new abomination had captured the public’s imagination, and the newspapers were filled with blazing headlines and gory details where ordinarily they would have ignored the story—after all, what was another crime in the East End? People loved horror, I reasoned, they loved to be frightened. Why else would they flock to the waxworks to see replicas of murderers and monsters? Why else would they tell ghost stories and relish every word of novels full of terror? I had very little patience with such tomfoolery. The criminal would be caught. The crimes would stop. There was no reason to panic.

Still gripping my elbow firmly, the bobby led me across Dorset Street, said by many to be the wickedest spot in England. I averted my eyes, not wishing to look down that sordid expanse with its red lights and dingy pubs and brawling humanity. We walked on down Commercial, passing Christ Church, once a majestic wonder of architecture, now a dark, soot-begrimed pile with drunken derelicts sleeping on the benches around it. Further down the street I could see Garrick’s, gold and silver spangles of light already burning, carriages stopping in front to let out elegantly dressed merrymakers. Although located in the East End, Garrick’s catered to a higher class of customer. The liquor was more expensive, the entertainment a bit more refined, the fights less frequent and quickly broken up.

“You’ve been very kind,” I said, disengaging my elbow. “There’s Garrick’s. I can go on alone now.”

“Glad to be of service, lass. You take care, ’ear? I wouldn’t want a pretty thing like you to fall into the ’ands of that fiend.”

I turned down the dark sidestreet that led to the rear of the building. A narrow alley took me to the stage door where Peters sat in a flimsy wooden chair, an unlighted cigar in the corner of his mouth. He got up with a start, peering across the rusty iron railing with frightened eyes when he heard my footsteps.

“Lands-a Goshen, Miss Susannah!” he exclaimed. “You gave me a start, you did! Runnin’ in out of the fog like that—I was sure The Ripper was a-comin’ after me!”

“Bosh, Peters! A big, burly man like you? Don’t tell me you’re afraid of him too?”

“Anyone in their right ’ead ’ud be afraid of ’im, Suzy girl, ’n that’s no joke. What’re you doin’ ’ere at this hour, and by yourself! ’Adn’t you got no sense at all?”

“I had to fetch Marietta’s cloak and bring it to her. I suppose she’s in her dressing room?”

“That she is, and in a tizzy if you don’t mind my sayin’ so. I took ’er a cuppa tea a while ago ’n she darn near threw a vase at me! She ’ad a fight with ’er maid and the poor girl came runnin’ out in tears. Now ’er Ladyship ’adn’t got anyone to ’elp her change costumes ’n she’s furious!”

“I’d step easy if I was you, Miss Susannah. You know ’ow your aunt is when somethin’ goes wrong.”

I smiled at his remark and moved on past. I knew exactly how he felt. A cage full of tigers would seem a mild risk when compared to Marietta in one of her states.

Backstage was a flurry of activity. Chorus girls in wrappers and cold cream came clattering down the iron staircase, babbling like an aviary of nervous birds. The comedian in checked coat and bulbous red nose leaned against a stack of flats, gulping down a last pint of ale before going on to do his turn. I stepped over ropes and moved past racks of spangled gowns, loving this tawdry, earthy atmosphere. There was a smell of grease paint and dust, an aura of tattered elegance and bedraggled glamor. I could hear customers out front talking loudly and rattling dishes as the band played lively melodies in the pit.

I waved at the stage manager and moved down the back hall. While the other performers had to make do with the tiny, drafty rooms upstairs, Marietta had a lavish suite of her own as befitted a star of her caliber. She had done her time in those jammed cubicles with their murky mirrors and icy drafts and now demanded something much more elaborate. The owners of Garrick’s had gone to great expense to satisfy her, and she had plush wine-red carpets and white furniture with gold leaf and many blue satin cushions for her velvet sofa. For all its splendor, the dressing room was always untidy, strewn with feather boas and vivid costumes, spilled powder dusting the top of the dressing table, pots of make-up and bottles of perfume littering its surface. Marietta herself was always perfectly groomed, but she left a wake of domestic destruction. Picking up after her could be a full-time job, as I knew all too well.

I opened the door without knocking. Marietta was sitting at the gold-framed mirror, calmly applying a coat of scarlet paint to her lips. Andrew Crothers was leaning over her, his lips brushing her ear. Both looked up as I entered. Andrew seemed startled. Marietta merely arched an eyebrow and stared into the mirror with deadpan concentration.

He scowled. Andrew was the tenor, a strikingly handsome man with a body of a soccer player and the face of a wicked archangel. Although not much of a singer, he was vastly popular with the female customers and had a rather scandalous reputation. Marietta had warned me never to let him catch me alone in the room. As his eyes swept over me now, I remembered her warning.

“Susannah,” he said in his deep, seductive voice. “How charming you look. Getting prettier every day. That dress is quite becoming—”

“Jealous, my love? Afraid your niece is going to out-dazzle you? I shouldn’t wonder.”

Marietta reached for a bottle, her eyes blazing. Andrew gave her a mocking smile and backed out of the room. I could hear his rumbling laughter as he closed the door.

She leaned forward to examine her face more closely in the mirror, her brow creased. Marietta had a great fear of losing her looks, and every new wrinkle was a cause for panic. The wrinkles were few. At thirty-four, she had a hard, glacial beauty that few would find fault with. She rubbed some violet eye shadow over her lids and, dipping a tiny brush into a pot of paste, began to apply dark brown mascara to her long lashes.

“Don’t be snide, pet. You did, as a matter of fact, and I was quite relieved. Andrew was about to make a touch—or try. He thinks just because he has limpid brown eyes he can ask a woman for anything and get it. He was about to ask for money in this instance. Gambling debts.”

“Not on your life! Men buy me presents, not vice versa. The day I have to pay a man for companionship—well, that day will never come, pet!”

“Several do. These rich, aristocratic women who come to Garrick’s for amusement—bitches, the whole lot of ’em! No need to blush, Susannah! You aren’t a naive young thing, despite that well-bred background. You’ve been in London long enough to know what’s what.”

“I suppose I have. Sometimes, though, I wish—I wish life didn’t have to be so ugly.”

“It’s not like it is in those books you’re always reading. Moonlight and gardenia blossoms and soft whispers. Hell! Men and women—they’re not like that. A woman has to be crafty to interest a man. She has to scheme and stay one step ahead. She has to use all the tricks—” She finished with the brush and put it aside, opening a pot of rouge. “You’d better forget all that nonsense you’ve been reading and face facts, dearie. No good-looking gallant is going to sweep you off your feet, not unless you give him a few prods.”

Marietta laughed and tossed her long golden tresses. She was wearing a thin white cambric chemise, row upon row of ruffles covering the skirt. The bodice was tight at the waist and cut extremely low, her magnificently formed breasts, straining against the frail cloth. Marietta was a gorgeous creature. A century earlier she would have captivated kings and caused revolutions. It was a shame, really, that she had had the misfortune to be born in our Victorian era.

“You are a pretty girl, Susannah. Almost—not quite—beautiful, in fact. That golden-brown hair, those sculptured cheekbones and deep blue eyes—yes, quite fetching. You’re too thin, of course, but your figure is—well, for an eighteen-year-old girl—”

“Watch your step,” she said crossly. “I don’t have any illusions about myself, about my way of life, but you—you’re my niece, Susannah. I want you to have something better. It was rough on you, being brought up the way you were and then being transplanted here in the middle of this—” She made an impatient gesture, indicating the music hall and all that lay around it. “You’ve got education and breeding. Those don’t amount to much around here, but someday they’ll pay off.”

“You wouldn’t have to settle for something like Andrew Crothers,” she continued. “You could get a real toff, a duke, an earl, someone important. I want you to remember that. I want you to—oh, hell! Don’t settle for anything second-rate, like I did!”

Now it was time for Marietta to look embarrassed. She scowled, irritated with herself for having stepped out of character. Although she had always seen that I had enough of everything, Marietta had never shown any genuine concern about my welfare. Women like Marietta rarely show concern about anything but themselves. There had never been any affection between us, just mutual toleration. I tolerated her untidiness and her sulky moods, and she tolerated my presence. It was hard for me to really think of her as an aunt. Fate had thrown us together, and we had tried to make the best of it.

“Don’t stand there like a silly goose!” she cried. “Hand me my dress, the green one—hanging there behind the door, you ninny! That beastly little hussy who helps me dress walked out tonight. The gall! She said that I was impossible to work for! Stupid creature, always fumbling with the hooks and tearing the laces. She’ll probably end up in a sweatshop. Or on the streets, more likely!”

I was almost relieved to have the old Marietta back, the tempestuous, shrewish Marietta I was familiar with. The other—the one who made noises about my welfare—was a stranger, and yet I knew that people were never of one piece. Marietta was vain and selfish and hard, but she must have had dreams once. Once she must have been full of hope and eager to savor all the joys of life. It must have taken a lot of pain and a great many disappointments to form that hard shell around her.

“Tighter!” she screamed as I endeavored to lace up the dress. “I must have an eighteen-inch waist. Ouch! Careful, you fool! There. Thank God that’s over with! You’re worse than she was.”

The dress was dazzling, emerald green satin, the low bodice edged with black velvet bows, shimmering black spangles scattered over the full skirt that ended several inches above her ankles. Marietta perched on the stool, kicked off her shoes and began pulling on the black net stockings she wore with the costume. I watched her smoothing them over the long, shapely legs and remembered what Widow Jameson had said. It wasn’t right for Marietta to show herself the way she did in her numbers, and yet, on the other hand, it would be a shame for so much beauty to perish in a parlor, unseen. Women had displayed themselves in other, less decorous times, so perhaps what she did really wasn’t so wicked after all.

“You’ll have to stay here and help me dress after the show,” she said. “I have an engagement later on. That’s why it was so important I have the cloak. It matches the dress I plan to wear.”

“You can take my cab. Clark’s always waiting for me out front at midnight.”

“Nonsense! Peters will help you into the cab, and Clark will go upstairs with you after you arrive. You’ll be quite safe.”

“Not tonight, pet. This engagement is very important. The gentleman is—I can’t tell you who he is.”

A strange expression came over Marietta’s face. She suddenly looked very serious, almost afraid. Frowning, she sat down at the mirror and began to arrange coils of golden hair on top of her head, fastening them with long pins.

“He’s someone extremely important,” she said over her shoulder. “When I got his card—well, I simply couldn’t believe it at first! Then he sent flowers and this—” Reaching in the drawer, she pulled out a glittering bracelet, tossing it to me. The carefully set gems seemed to burn with a thousand blue and violet fires.

I stared at the gems, amazed. Marietta stood up and took the bracelet from me, fastening it on her wrist. “His carriage will be waiting for me at midnight, on the side street. It’s imperative that we’re not seen together.”

“I can’t reveal that. Not yet. But if things work out, Susannah, if he likes me—everything will be different. I’ll give up this job. We’ll move out of the East End. We’ll have money, lots of it, and you’ll have a chance to meet real gentry and—but I’ve said enough. I’ve said too much already.”

“That’s not fair, Marietta. The way you carry on, one would think you had a secret rendezvous with the Prince of Wales.”

Marietta gave me a curious little smile and turned away to dig her hat out of the closet.

There was a loud rap on the door. The stage manager stuck his head in to announce that Marietta had five minutes left. She waved him out and continued to search for the hat, finally locating it at the back of a shelf. It had a wide black velvet brim, long black and green plumes spilling over the side. She set it on top of her head at a jaunty angle, securing it with long black pins.

We left the dressing room and moved backstage. The comedian was doing his act on stage, lurching around drunkenly and juggling three red balls as the men in the pit played a circus tune. Beyond the footlights, I could see part of the audience sitting at their tables, obviously bored. Waiters in red jackets scurried about with trays of drinks. The noise of the audience almost drowned out the band. Marietta stood beside me, tapping her foot impatiently. When the comedian finally took his bow there was only a feeble scattering of applause. He staggered off-stage, an angry expression on his face.

The band started a lively cancan melody. The audience was immediately attentive, sitting up, nudging one another. Six chorus girls shuffled onto the stage from the other side, all in scarlet and black, lifting their skirts and waving their legs. There was a burst of spontaneous applause as they did their dance, legs kicking higher and higher. Marietta watched with a bored expression. The girls finally pranced off-stage, but the music continued, a bit slower now, less frantic.

Marietta sauntered across the stage, skirts swaying, her expression more bored than ever.

I went back to the dressing room. Marietta did four shows a night, the last one at eleven. Supper would be sent in to us later on. I stood before the mirror, remembering the things Marietta had said about my looks. I also remembered the way Andrew Crothers had looked at me. Was I really attractive? Andrew had thought so. Would other men? I certainly had no desire to parade my beauty as Marietta did, yet it would be nice to believe men found me desirable.

I longed to be home where I could read a new novel or gossip with Millie. Millie’s mother had died several years ago, and her father worked at the docks at odd hours, frequently leaving her alone in the small apartment below ours. She was exactly my own age, eighteen, a vivacious, mischievous sprite with coppery red curls and saucy brown eyes. Wishing she were here with me now to relieve the tedium, I prowled around the dressing room looking for something to read, eventually locating a stack of magazines at the bottom of the wardrobe. Most of them were fashion brochures featuring the latest styles in bonnets and gowns, but there was also a recent issue of the Strand Magazine. I sat down to read it.

Sometime later, I put the magazine aside and strolled over to the window. Holding the drapery back, I peered out, seeing nothing but thick swirling fog, grayish white, one lone gaslight burning at the corner. It looked sinister, and I shuddered, remembering the murders. Somewhere out there a killer lurked in the shadows, lying in wait for his next victim. Was he a vicious thuggee from India come to seek revenge against the white man, as some claimed, or was he one of the Polish immigrants who crowded this section of London? There were many theories about his nationality, but everyone seemed to agree that he wasn’t English. As Widow Jameson had pointed out, no Englishman could commit such foul deeds. I wondered if we weren’t fooling ourselves about that.

Folding my arms around my waist, I let the drapery fall back in place and wandered around the room. This horrible fog seemed to close everything in, making even a room like this seem isolated and cut off from the rest of the world. I could hear the clatter of hooves as carriages passed by on the street outside, and the noise seemed far, far away, strangely threatening. Nonsense, I scolded myself. There was an atmosphere of panic in the city, a kind of silent hysteria in the air, and it would be so easy to succumb to it. Perhaps there wouldn’t even be another murder. Perhaps the police had already apprehended the criminal without knowing who he was. It was utterly foolish to dwell on the subject like this.

I was asleep on the sofa when Marietta came in after doing the last show. She shook me awake and started barking orders, telling me to fetch this and bring that and check something else. She removed her costume and sat down to take off her stage make-up while I took out shoes and stockings and the gown she intended to wear. I handed her a face towel and hunted for the beaded jet reticule she was certain she’d brought. A stage hand came in with an enormous bouquet of roses, petals like shiny red velvet. She yelled at the poor man and tossed the flowers aside, issuing a stern order that no one was to be allowed into her dressing room tonight.

“Marietta! They were such lovely flowers. They may have been from the gentleman you’re seeing tonight—”

“He hates roses. Says they remind him of blood. He always sends calla lilies.”

“Perhaps,” she snapped. “Don’t pry, Susannah! I’ve told you I can’t talk about him. Did you find the reticule?”

“I seem to have lost my eye shadow. Find it for me! It’s in a tiny pink jar—”

“You needn’t be so smug about it! Oh, damn! I’ve spilled the powder again! What’s wrong with me?”

I had never seen her in such a state. Although she flared up at the least provocation, Marietta was calm and collected when it came to dealing with men, always completely sure of herself. Tonight, however, she was like a nervous schoolgirl preparing for her first dance. It wasn’t like Marietta, not at all. I was consumed with curiosity, but after the last tongue-lashing I didn’t dare ask any more questions.

She eventually calmed down enough to put on her make-up. It was much more subdued and subtle than what she had worn for the stage: the lipstick a pale coral, the eye shadow a light brown, only a touch of paste on the lashes. Despite the make-up, her face seemed a little pale, and her dark blue eyes looked worried as she arranged her hair in an elegant coiffure.

The dress had come from Paris, as had the cloak that matched it. It was a magnificent creation of honey-colored satin with long sleeves, an extremely low-cut bodice and a full skirt that fell in glossy folds. The bodice and cuffs were edged with black fox fur and a row of fur ran around the hem. Marietta turned this way and that, examining herself in the mirror. She took hold of the bodice and pulled it a bit lower, revealing even more of her rosy-white bosom. She looked regal, rather like a depraved countess on her way to meet a handsome stable boy.

“This should do it,” she said nervously. “Yes—he won’t be able to resist me.” She glanced at the clock on the mantle. “My God! It’s already twelve! He’ll be waiting—I spoke to Peters during the intermission. He’ll escort you to the cab. Don’t wait up for me, Susannah—”

She seized the beaded jet reticule and rushed from the room. She had only been gone a few seconds before I realized she had forgotten the cloak. She would be furious with herself for having left it behind, furious with me for not reminding her of it. I took it out of the cardboard box and hurried after her.

I moved quickly down the hall, passing the dingy red brick walls that led to the stage door. The chorus girls were coming down the stairs again, dressed for the street now, their faces pale without make-up. They looked startled as I rushed past them. I stumbled over a rope, almost losing my balance. One of the girls laughed shrilly.

Peters was sitting just inside, the unlighted cigar still in the corner of his mouth, the wooden chair tilted against the wall.

“She just stepped outside a moment ago. Want me to get that cab for you now?”

The fog was thick, damp, completely obliterating the alley. I stood on the steps, holding onto the rusty iron railing, peering into that moving white thickness. I thought I saw something moving at the end of the alley. I heard footsteps.

I hurried down the steps, clutching the garment in my arms. I ran into the fog. Tendrils of mist stroked my cheeks like soft, wet fingers, and my footsteps echoed against the narrow walls.

I stopped. I have no idea what caused it. I suddenly stood very still, my heart pounding. I was trembling without knowing why, and my nerves were tingling. The fog swirled around me, and there was no noise, only a curious faint panting that seemed to underline the silence. It was like someone … like someone breathing heavily. I peered through the fog, and I caught a glimpse of movement, the swish of a black cloak as someone stepped around the corner. No, it was merely a shadow.…

I took a few steps forward, and then my foot touched something. Marietta was stretched out on the ground, her, dress torn, and she was covered with scarlet ribbons, lovely scarlet ribbons that flowed onto the cobblestones in pretty streams. What was she doing there? Why were those ribbons flowing, flowing.…

I must have screamed. I don’t remember. Peters came running out of the theater. He didn’t see the thing on the ground. He seized my arms and kept asking me what was wrong, but I couldn’t speak. I could only shake my head, my blood icy cold. Several of the chorus girls rushed out, talking in loud voices, and then they saw the body.

“My God!” one of them yelled. “Oh, my God! It’s The Ripper! The Ripper! Get the police! The Ripper—’E’s done it again!”

It had been a week filled with horror. Marietta’s body had been taken to a dreadful shed behind the workhouse in Old Montague Street for the postmortem, as there was no mortuary in East London, and the surgeons had been indifferent, incredibly sloppy. I had had to go to that sordid shed to identify the body, although I had already done so once, and later on I had to attend the inquest, an amazing parody of courtroom procedure. There was no coroner’s court in this part of the city either, and the proceedings were conducted at the Working Lads’ Institute on White-chapel Road.

I was not called upon to give evidence. I had been interviewed a dozen times by a dozen different policemen, but none of them had shown any interest in what I had to tell them. Marietta had been murdered by a fiend, the same fiend who had butchered the other women, and all this talk of a gentleman and a diamond bracelet was sheer nonsense. The bracelet had been returned to me along with the rest of Marietta’s belongings, and everyone assured me it was paste, a gaudy bauble like those worn by thousands of prostitutes.

After the funeral, I went back home with Millie. I was staying with her until other arrangements could be made, and I couldn’t have endured that week without her. She stood by me, loyal, devoted, sharing my grief and my outrage at the unbelievably blundering way the police were handling the affair. It was almost as though they didn’t want to find Marietta’s murderer. A group of wildly undisciplined children could have conducted the investigation with more order.

Two hours after the funeral Sergeant Caine came to fetch me. He was a tall, slender young man with stern features and thick blond hair that kept tumbling over his forehead. His eyes were bright blue, and he spoke in a low-pitched voice that was little more than a mumble, yet he had an air of unmistakable authority. Caine seemed to be my official escort. He had taken me to the mortuary, to the inquest, to the various interviews, and now he was taking me to Scotland Yard. He gripped my elbow as we went downstairs, grim and protective, keeping an eye out for the journalists who had been plaguing me ever since that dreadful night a week ago.

“Never you mind,” he retorted, holding my elbow firmly and leading me across the shabby foyer.

My name had not appeared in any of the newspaper accounts of the hideous murder, and I had not been allowed to speak to any of the journalists. Once, outside the mortuary, I momentarily eluded Caine and talked to a man named Greene from the Penny News, telling him of Marietta’s rendezvous with the mysterious gentleman and mentioning the diamond bracelet. He had been extremely interested, jotting down notes on a yellow pad, but the story had not appeared. Caine gave Jacob Greene a severe tongue-lashing when he discovered us outside the mortuary, and thereafter he kept a closer watch over me as we went about police business.

They swarmed around now as we stepped outside. Sergeant Caine glared at them, his eyes like blue fire, his fingers resting lightly on the butt of his truncheon. They fell back, grumbling, a tatterdemalion group with unkempt hair and ink-stained fingers.

“Come on, Caine,” one of the journalists shouted, “give us a break. What’s happenin’? Where’re you takin’ her now? We won’t print her name—after what happened to Greene none of us’d dare. Fired he was, his story ripped to shreds. What’s happenin’ now? Somethin’ new developed?”

Caine didn’t deign to reply. He gave them a menacing look and helped me into the waiting carriage. I sighed deeply as it clattered over the cobblestones. The streets were wet, and there were puddles of muddy water. The sky was a soggy gray. Everything looked dismal and sordid, all brown and gray and black, no color to be seen.

“Sir Charles Warren himself,” Caine said, brushing aside the mop of blond waves on his forehead. “He wants to speak to you, Miss Susannah. It isn’t everyone gets a chance to see sir Charles himself. You should feel honored.”

“Indeed? Everything I’ve read about him would indicate that the man’s a fool.”

“Hold on, Miss! You shouldn’t talk that way about Sir Charles. He’s Her Majesty’s Police Commissioner, appointed by the Queen herself. A mighty important man, he is.”

Sir Charles had been a general in the Royal Engineers before Queen Victoria elevated him to his present post, and he was primarily a military man. He had appointed several army officers to executive posts in the police force, and he ran Scotland Yard as though commandeering his own private army. Many people felt it was a less effective organization since his appointment. The public lacked confidence in him, and there was a great dissatisfaction with his methods of enforcing the law, even among the ranks of his own men.

The way he had handled the demonstration last year was a prime example of his methods. Over twenty thousand unemployed men had staged a peaceful demonstration in Trafalgar Square on November third, and Sir Charles had quickly put an end to it with his regiments of guards. Swinging their clubs, the guards had swooped down on the demonstrators as though they were a band of mutinous natives, bashing heads, breaking arms, quelling the “riot.” Two hundred of the demonstrators were badly injured, and two men died of wounds inflicted by Sir Charles’s men. The newly appointed commissioner claimed he had merely been keeping the peace, but many Londoners felt otherwise. Millie’s father, for one, claimed he should be hung from the highest gallows as a traitor to England.