Sanctuary Fiction
Writing this piece and what will be part 2 kept me awake most of last night and occupied most of today. And I really enjoyed doing it. It's based on the little we know of Amanda Tapping's character Dr Helen Magnus in the new web-based series 'Sanctuary'.
Sanctuary 1: His name is Jack
By Celievamp
Disclaimer: Sanctuary belongs to Damien Kindler and Stage 3 Media Inc. Mina Harker and Dr Seward are from “Dracula” by Bram Stoker. Francis Tumblety, ‘Jack’, Catharine Eddowes, Elizabeth Stride and Jack the Ripper’s other victims belong to history. All other characters are my own.
HIS NAME IS JACK
The night of 30 Sep 1888
Dr Helen Magnus. The Free Clinic. Bucks Row. Whitechapel. London. 11.30 pm.
Helen washed her hands and dried them on the towel. Her last patient, Catharine Eddowes, finished buttoning up her dress and smoothed down her hair.
“So you don’t think it’s anything to worry about, Dr Magnus?” she asked. “It’s not the pox.”
“No. Other than the rash there are no other symptoms of syphilis or any other such disease on you. I think that your skin is simply being irritated by something, perhaps some soap or lotion you are using, or even something you are eating. The chamomile will take the heat out of the rash and lessen the itching. Keep an eye on it though - and if you do notice something that makes it flare again - then stop using or eating that and see if the rash improves. If it does, then you may well have found your culprit.” Helen opened the door of the examining room and followed out into the waiting area. Moses was in his usual position by the door, reading the latest edition of the ‘Star’ newspaper. The headlines blazed out about the latest in the ‘Whitechapel Murders’. Catharine‘s friend Polly Richards was waiting for her. All the girls who worked these streets were going around in pairs for protection now. And more than one kept a knife handy, just in case. Helen was very aware of the small ladies pistol she kept in a holster strapped to her boot.
“All well?” she asked.
“Aye, I’m fine, Pol. Dr Magnus doesn’t think it’s the pox. Probably a rash from that cheap soap we got on the market. Or the blanket in the police cell last night. Got myself in a right state with the drink last night,” she explained to Helen. She felt in her threadbare purse and drew out a shilling. It seemed to be her only coin. “Will this be enough?”
“There’s no charge,” Helen reminded her. “Ladies, be careful, please.”
“Bless you. You watch yourself, Dr Magnus. Old Leather Apron - he’s not too particular. Any woman on these streets is fair game to him, working girl or not.” She poked Moses’s shoulder. “You - you keep an eye on the doctor, okay. We need her safe and well.”
Since early August the area had been in ferment over the spate of brutal murders. First Martha Tabram had been murdered and then Mary Nichols, in this very street. Just a few weeks ago, Annie Chapman’s brutal and sadistic murder had left the area in a ferment. Helen had treated the woman at the clinic on a few occasions when her ‘gentlemen’ had behaved a little less than kindly towards her. Helen’s father and her fiancé had both insisted that she stop the clinic there and then but she had managed to bring him round to allowing her to continue with Moses Applegate in residence as doorman and her personal bodyguard. Helen did not venture into Whitechapel these days without his comforting presence at her side. Moses was well over six feet tall and broadly built. His scarred face and battered nose were testament to his previous career as prizefighter, and were an effective deterrent. His courteous manner and scholarly nature usually came as a great surprise to anyone daring to get beyond his formidable appearance. Not that Helen couldn’t handle herself if necessary. She was an excellent shot.
The two women went back onto the street. There was no one else in the waiting area. Attendance at the clinic had been slow these last weeks with everyone so worked up about the murders.
“We’ll give it another half hour, Moses, and then you can walk me home,” Helen said.
“Mr Francis isn’t meeting you tonight?” Moses asked.
“No, he has another engagement,” Helen said. “A dinner at his club.”
“I was talking to one of Mr Lusk’s Committee men earlier. He wanted to know if you had any surgery instruments ‘ere. Like the ones He’s supposed to have used on that girl. I told ‘em straight that anything like that wasn’t left on the premises and that you were a Lady and wouldn’t have anything to do with owt like these going’s on. Doing good works, that’s what happens ‘ere.”
Helen sighed. Mr Lusk’s Mile End Vigilance Committee meant well and it was always useful to have more watchful eyes on the streets in these dangerous times but as days went by with no new atrocities and apparently no progress in catching the killer she feared their enthusiasm would prove to be more of a liability than a help. Already there had been one arrest, a case of mistaken identity.
Her father’s views on recent events plagued her thoughts. “We are talking about a new species here. A human predator. By our standards, a monster. As our streets become more crowded and our population more diverse with all these incomers, these individuals will arise in the natural course of things. It happens in the lower species every day. The sick and the weak are… culled. If we are indeed to believe Mr Darwin and his theories then perhaps the emergence of these men and the demise of their victims is a process of natural selection.” He held up his hands. “And before you start, my dear, I make no judgment on these women and their natural calling. The association with ‘sin’ has attracted the attentions of those of a more pathological nature throughout history. This is merely the latest manifestation. Dr Seward has made a study of the type. He is most eager that when this latest example is apprehended, as he will undoubtedly be given the resources available, he is incarcerated in an establishment such as his for further study rather than summarily executed for his crimes.”
By contrast, her fiancé, Francis - who usually had an opinion on every subject - had been unusually silent on the subject. Something was bothering him: whether it was their impending wedding, or the fact that Helen had given in to his advances at last and they had made love, but he had been increasingly distant these last weeks. Helen had come to realize how little she really knew about her fiancé. She had only known him for a year after all though he had corresponded with her father for some time over the efficacy of his curative powders for certain degenerative conditions. It had been a surprise when the Irish-American had literally turned up on their doorstep but he had quickly become a part of their household. Her father had been very pleased when Tumblety had asked his permission to court his daughter a little over six months earlier. Francis had some extreme views she knew but he had been nothing but supportive of her efforts and accomplishments. She had decided to accept his proposal when he told her that he would never try to make her stop her medical practice and she could continue to lead her own life and maintain her financial independence once they were married. But now, since it had happened, since she had allowed him into her bed, Helen did wonder, for all his profession of the rights of women whether he truly thought less of her because she had given herself to him. She tried very hard not to think less of herself.
Resolutely, she turned her attention to her journal, writing up her case notes on the people she had treated that evening.
The clock on the mantel chimed midnight. Her eyes were scratchy with sleep. The street outside seemed unnaturally quiet, then she could hear voices raised outside and the door opened. A man she recognized as Paul Lascelles who worked as barman in the inn a few doors up came in, a man’s body draped over his shoulders. Blood was dripping from a wound on his head. “Fight over an unpaid wage,” he explained. “Fool got his head smashed with a bottle.” Moses helped him lay the man down on the couch and brought the lamp closer so that Helen could probe the wound. The man was fighting his way back to wakefulness. Paul kept a heavy hand on his chest to hold him in place whilst Helen carefully picked the slivers of glass out of the wound and staunched the bleeding.
By the time she had stitched the two deepest cuts over his brow and dressed the other wound on his cheek the man had sobered up considerably. It was also near one in the morning. As she accepted the shillings the man thrust into her hand she heard the police whistle sound. Moses went to the door and looked out. “The hue and cry’s been raised,” he observed. “It doesn’t sound good.”
“I’ll go and see what’s what,” Lascelles said. The injured man murmured his thanks again and staggered out after him. Lascelles was back a couple of minutes later as Helen was burning the bloodied cloths and dropping her instruments into a tray of disinfectant to sterilize them before she packed them away. He looked very pale.
“There’s been another murder done, over at Dutfield’s yard. They’re saying its Lizzie Stride and that she’s been carved up, her throat cut. It’s Leather Apron’s work all right.”
“I need to go there,” Helen said. “Moses…”
“Your father won’t like it. Nor Mr Tumblety.”
“She might not be dead. She might need medical help,” Helen said. Moses sighed.
“All right, Doctor Magnus. I’ll take you there.”
A few minutes later, Moses was pushing his way through the crowd, Helen safely in his wake. They were stopped at the yard entrance by a burly constable. "You can't come through here. There's been another murder."
"I'm Dr Magnus," Helen said. "I run the free clinic in Bucks Row."
"Oh yes, I know you," the constable said. "So sorry, miss, but she's beyond your help now."
"Could I just examine the body?" Helen asked.
The policeman recoiled. For a woman to want to do so unwomanly a thing - but then this woman was already a doctor. You couldn't get more unwomanly than that. Not according to his ma. "I suppose... but don't touch anything. The chief is on his way and he'll want to see where it happened."
Helen walked into Dutfield's yard followed by Moses.
Lizzie's body was lying on its side, her face turned towards the wall. Her body was aligned with her feet towards the street. Her left arm was extended a packet of cachous in her hand. Her right arm was wrapped over her belly, her right hand spattered with clotted blood. Her legs were drawn up, her feet close to the wall. Blood still pulsed weakly from the deep wound in her neck, a straight cut, the left carotid artery had been severed. Death, if not instantaneous would have come quickly. Her skin, when Helen reached out a shaking hand to touch her cheek, was still warm.
The chill air stank of blood, the cobblestones and flaking bricks glittered darkly with it. Arterial spray. Helen remembered from her anatomy classes the force with which arterial blood spurted from a living body. Lizzie did not seem to have been mutilated which made her wonder if this was the work of 'Leather Apron' or just a transaction gone wrong. Long Lizzie's bad luck. Helen became aware that someone was talking nearby his voice high and tremulous with shock. "Almost fell over her I did. So much blood, still pouring from her. He must still have been here, no one went past me when I drove into the yard. Must still have been here and made his escape when I went to raise the alarm. So much blood…"
So if it was Leather Apron, he had been interrupted in his work, Helen reasoned. He did not have time to mutilate Lizzie as he had his other victims. There was nothing more she could do here. It was up to the police now to make their investigation.
Helen stepped back and straightened up. She became aware that someone was watching her, not just with the random curiosity of the watching crowd. This was a sharp, assessing gaze. For an awful moment, she wondered if it was the murderer returned to the scene of the crime. She turned and caught the eye of a tall, slender woman, subtly but expensively dressed, as out of place in the squalor of Dutfield's yard as she was. Helen saw dark hair hidden under a hat and veil and light eyes, her skin so pale it was almost luminous. They stared at each other assessingly for a moment then the woman put on a pair of tinted lorgnettes, turned and left the scene.
“Dr Magnus… I think we should go now. Your father and Mr Tumblety will be concerned.” Moses was instantly on the alert.
“Yes, Moses. Just give me a few more moments to collect my thoughts.” Helen had no idea why she had had such a strong reaction to the strange woman.
“I’ll get you a cab, miss,” Lascelles volunteered. “There’s usually someone on the stand about now. You shouldn’t be walking abroad tonight. Not even with Moses here to watch your back.”
“Thank you, Mr Lascelles, that’s very kind of you.”
The cab ride home proved eventful. As they passed close to Mitre Square they were stopped by a policeman and told to go another route. Helen recognized him - she had patched him up after he had broken up a fight near her clinic. She leaned out of the window to speak to him. “Constable Abrams - what’s happened?”
“There’s been another killing - the second tonight by all accounts. Prostitute by the name of Katie Eddowes.”
Catharine… Helen sat back against the cushions in shock. Moses told the driver to do as the constable said. Another twenty minutes and they were home. The house was dark, her father had long since retired for the night.
Helen was too upset to consider sleeping, not without the aid of laudanum at any rate. She prepared herself a dose of the sleeping draught in a glass of burgundy and prepared to go upstairs when the front door opened. It was her fiancé, Francis, his hat, cane and medical bag in hand. He paused when he saw her, a shaft of moonlight sharply illuminating him and she saw what looked like blood on his cheek and in his fair beard and more - a lot more on his dress shirt. “Francis - what on earth happened - you’ve got blood all over you!”
“There was an incident at the club - a brawl between two young bucks who should have known better. You know how head wounds bleed my dear. And you’re not unmarked yourself.” He pointed to the sleeve of her blouse, the cuff of which clearly showed bloodstains from where she had patched up the injured man a few short hours before. “A busy night at the clinic?”
“As you reminded me, my love. Head wounds do bleed so.” Still, she made no move to go towards him. There was something about him tonight, some strange energy that both fascinated and repelled her. “There were two more murders tonight, did you know?”
“So that’s the cause of all the commotion - every police constable in London seems to be on the streets tonight,” Francis said lightly. “Jack has been a busy boy tonight. If you’ll excuse me, my love, I’ll go into the scullery and get cleaned up. Though this shirt’s fit for nothing but burning, I fear. I’ll leave you to your bed. Good night, Helen.”
“Good night, Francis.” Helen turned to go up the stairs but something compelled her to stop. “Francis - who’s Jack?”
“Your prostitute killer it seems. He’s written a letter to the Star and another to the police. It’s in all the early editions. He calls himself Jack the Ripper.”