"So your nurses might have been the last witnesses to see her alive before she met the murderer?"

"That's very likely."

"Might we see all medical records that you have on Polly Nichols?"

"Of course. They are in my office. Please follow me."

Before leaving, Dr. Bartlett gave me instructions to help Josephine in the newborn nursery.

As Dr. Bartlett and the constables turned to ascend the stairs, I saw Abberline pause to stare at me, penetratingly, as if I had suddenly become significant to him. He was too focused, an incarnate bloodhound caught up in a scent. The scrutiny unnerved me, and before turning to pull an ap.r.o.n off a peg, I frowned at him.

As I struggled to tie the strings, I heard a voice near my ear.

"And Lady Westfield's granddaughter finds herself suddenly in the midst of a real-life penny dreadful novel: a patient in the hospital where she volunteers is murdered. Disemboweled instantly, throat sliced open to the spinal cord, the killer so quick in fact that Miss Polly Nichols did not even have time to scream."

I turned to find myself facing Dr. William Siddal.

"But what will young Abbie Sharp do? Is she safe? Will the killer come for her?"

I took a deep breath, gathering my mental weaponry. I needed to deal with William Siddal. Immediately.

"I have read many penny dreadfuls, William, but find most to be highly flawed."

I tried to pa.s.s him.

He blocked me.

I tried to get around him again, but he stepped to the other side and blocked me.

I felt my face redden.

He narrowed his eyes. "Don't lie, Miss Sharp, it's not becoming. My guess is that you do read many penny dreadfuls, but exclusively the ones written for ladies."

"Never."

"Vampires?" he asked skeptically.

"Always. Most recently, I've read John Polidori's The Vampyre, and I'm getting ready to start another novel about a female vampire. Carmilla, I think it's called."

He smirked, still testing me. "So you like it when women bite?"

I leveled my gaze at him so that he would know I understood his insinuation exactly.

"Perhaps."

His eyes widened-a little wickedly, I thought.

"Now, will you excuse me?"

A small smile twisted upon his face, and he stepped aside.

I felt more than a little satisfaction when I walked away. After my terrible day last Thursday, my confidence was returning in small spurts.

When I reached the nursery, which was through the door behind the delivery area, I found Sister Josephine dressing the body of a dead baby. As she slipped the tiny white arms through a frock, she shook her head. "Mother died during the birth last night. The baby lived only for five hours afterward. Too small, born too early."

I felt a small shock when the always efficient Josephine kissed the infant's forehead before placing her in a small pine box.

But then Sister Josephine became herself again. As another worker took the box away, she turned and surveyed my dress critically.

"Your ap.r.o.n is clean."

"Yes."

She chuckled. "It won't be when you're finished here. Select a bottle and let's get started. We have twenty to feed and change before noon."

The room surrounding us was full of squalling infants. Most were newborns, but the oldest looked to be around one year-almost at the age to walk. I picked up one of the milk-filled bottles-a gla.s.s bulb with a rubber tube extension. I would have to learn how to maneuver the contraption. All the infants screamed, and it was difficult to decide where to start.

"Where is the child of the girl who died after the caesarean last Thursday?"

"Right in front of you."

I looked down into the nearest crib at a red-faced and crying baby. Her wail rang out raspy, less strong than the others.

"That one had a name. Dr. Siddal named her before he left last Thursday-Lizzie is what he called her."

I found it mildly surprising that William would take the time to name an infant, but Lizzie seemed like a good name. I took her into my arms, and, sitting in one of the hard rocking chairs next to Josephine, I began trying to get her to suckle the bottle. But she pursed her mouth into a tiny "o" and grasped the air with her lips, not quite getting a tight-enough suck on the tube. She struggled and kicked her legs in frustration.

Josephine shook her head. "She was born too early. She'll suckle best from a breast. I'll try to find a wet nurse for her."

"What will happen to her?"

Josephine shrugged. "She needs to eat. I'll try her with the bottle when I'm done with this one, but, like I said, she's too young."

The baby in Josephine's arms had already gulped its entire bottle. She pa.s.sed that infant to me and I gave her Lizzie. Sister Josephine had no better luck with Lizzie than I had. She finally gave up, saying that when we were finished she would set about trying to find one of the lactating mothers on the first floor to nurse the child.

When I emerged from the nursery in the afternoon, I felt exhausted. My shoulders reeked of spit-up, and my hands, though I had washed them several times, still seemed saturated by the smell of feces. A foul urine stain marked my ap.r.o.n, a souvenir from a baby boy I had bathed.

The ward of women and children seemed just as chaotic as the nursery. I saw William, with several other physicians or medical students, walking hurriedly in and out of the ward, inspecting patients and writing notes. Nurses chased children, changed bedsheets, and administered medicine. As I scanned the room, I saw in the bed farthest away from me, nearest to the front entrance, a woman holding a too-still infant. She seemed to be in despair.

Simon St. John sat in a chair by her bed.

I had not seen him since the day I fell. I remembered how kind and attentive he had been to me, and I watched him with interest. Though I could not hear what he said to the woman, I saw his long, graceful fingers smoothing the swaddling blanket of the dead infant she held. After a moment, he took the baby from her and began walking toward me.

"Abbie, I am glad to see you back at work. Your ankle is mostly healed?"

"Yes, it hurts very little now." I tried not to look at the dead baby in his arms.

"Would you mind sitting near Mrs. Rose Elliot?" He nodded back in the direction of the infant's mother. "She is heartbroken. This is her third stillborn child. And her marriage is truly terrible. Dr. Bartlett is trying to find a way to help her."

"Yes, certainly."

He took the baby back to the nursery area.

When I sat in the chair by Rose Elliot's bed, I did not say anything. She had begun sobbing again, and I did not see how any words of mine could help the situation. But I was there, and I hoped that my presence mattered.

She lifted one hand to wipe her eyes. It was then that I saw the bruises on her arm.

At almost the same time, the front hospital doors slammed open.

"You can't be in here, Mr. Elliot!" I heard a nurse shouting at the intruder as he pushed past her.

"Yes I can! You have my wife in here!"

The man spotted the woman in the bed beside me and began storming toward us. He was tall, burly, and sported a thick mustache.

"Get up! Get up, Rose!"

"No, Jess," Rose replied meekly.

I scanned the room. Dr. Bartlett was nowhere in sight, nor the constables who had accompanied him this morning. I saw several medical students in the far part of the ward, but they looked inadequate for a confrontation.

"Get up, Rose! Now!"

Then I saw William sprinting toward us.

As Jess lunged at Rose, William restrained him, pinning his arms behind his back. Jess cursed and shook him off.

Calmly, William spoke. "Sir, you have to leave. Now. She is under our protection."

"I will not leave! Rose, you can't just run away and think that I won't find you. Two days away is too much! Get up, now!"

He lunged at her again, this time to grab her out of

the bed.

I stood.

William once again tried to pull Jess away from us, but the big man swung at William, who ducked instantly, barely avoiding the blow.

"Get out of my way!" I felt spittle hit my face when Jess shouted at me.

"No."

"Abbie!" William hissed from behind the enraged man. Then, through clenched teeth, he mouthed, "Don't be foolish."

Jess swung at me, and I ducked. Before he could swing again, I sent the heel of my hand into his lower jaw. The jaw cracked and he fell backwards onto the floor.

Constables Barry and John had finally arrived, rushing forward to arrest him, but then they saw that he was unconscious.

Everyone in the scene around us moved quickly-the nurses attended to Rose, and another young physician tried to revive Jess. He would need medical attention before he could be arrested. Curious children crowded close to see the excitement.

Only William stood frozen, staring at me-a delighted bewilderment marked his expression.

"Where did you learn that?"

"Dublin."

I had made an impression upon William, and, strangely, I did not care. It was time to leave. I took off my ap.r.o.n and placed it on a nearby peg.

Six.

A.

s I stepped outside the hospital, I saw Dr. Bartlett's carriage approaching from far down Whitechapel Road. My heart still beat wildly from my confrontation with Jess, and I could not stand still. I decided to walk down the street to meet the carriage.

I walked rapidly, stepping over puddles of water, broken gla.s.s. Remembering my chase with the pickpocket, I clutched my bag close to me.

Although I tried to stay focused upon my surroundings, I also thought about my nightmare. I had dreamt it early in the hours of Friday morning-the same time that the murder had happened. It had been vivid, lacking the fuzziness of other dreams. I had smelled and felt everything around me so clearly. Though the crawling man's face had been hidden in the shadows, I remember hearing his fingernails sc.r.a.pe on the gritty bricked front of the hospital. I had felt his breath on my neck. Even now I shivered thinking of it, and I clung to the hope that the timing of my nightmare had been mere coincidence.

Remembering Mother's episodes, those moments when she seemed trancelike, I wondered again whether she had seen visions. I had never been superst.i.tious, and now I felt odd even considering the possibility that she might have had the "third eye," as I had heard some call it in Dublin. The vision I had experienced with the pickpocket, of the strange ritual, had jolted me, but the nightmare-the coincidental timing of this dream with the murder-frightened me into thinking that perhaps my visions might be rooted in real happenings.

Someone slammed into me so hard that I almost fell into the busy street.

"Get out of my shop, girl!" a grocer shouted at a young woman. He had just shoved her out of his shop into the street. "I will call the police if I catch you in here again!"

"Sorry, miss." As the girl apologized to me, she brushed some dirt off her skirt. I saw lumpy, heavy objects in her pockets-apples or plums. Her eyes narrowed at me when she saw that I had noticed her loot.

"Yes, I did just steal. But don't judge me. I haven't eaten in three days and that grocer and his porky wife can spare a few apples."

"I'm not judging you." I turned to resume my walk.

I heard her sniff. "Whatever."

I stopped as my own stomach growled. The girl seemed like a caustic tart, but I could not help feeling badly for her. Finding food was not a problem for me.