Chương 15: Chapter Fifteen: Everyone Is Very Polite and It Is Awful

Mrs. Hatch hovered in the doorway with lips pressed tightly and wringing her hands. Alice spied tea on the table through the door, but it seemed untouched. When Alice came in the parlor, she looked between the two of them, decided something, and excused herself with a murmur about lunch.

"May I?" Alice asked, looking at the available seats, and Rowe nodded his assent but remained standing himself. He had been sitting for some time, waiting for her, she suspected, but had stood when she came in. It would have been polite for a gentleman to stand for a lady, but as they were now… She had the armchair. He had the floor. He was taller than she was and he hadn't closed the distance, and the resulting effect of their respective postures and standings was not something she appreciated.

Rowe waited until the landlady's footsteps had gone down the hall before he opened his notebook.

"I'll try not to take too much of your day," he said.

"I have a few questions about the district."

"Of course." She kept her posture open. Cooperative.

"I'll help however I can."

"You've been on the Row since September," he said. It wasn't a question.

"Since the ninth," she answered anyway.

"I came back as soon as I was well enough to work."

"Quite soon after the attack." Rowe said everything without any particular inflection, which made him quite hard to read.

"I needed the income." She let a small, practical shrug settle into it.

"I couldn't afford otherwise." He accepted this with a nod and looked at his notebook, though she had the distinct impression he had no need to look at it.

"There have been a number of deaths in the district over the summer. Women, mostly. Connected to the Aldgate area. You'll have read something about it in the papers, I expect."

"The East-End Ripper," she said, making a pretense of confused hesitancy. She saw his expression pinch at the name, as if he found it a ridiculous moniker. Alice wouldn't disagree there.

"I… I have, yes."

"Mm." He wrote something.

"The press have been enthusiastic." He did not hide how… irritatingly inconvenient he found that, which was the most emotion she had ever seen out of him.

"I'm trying to build a picture of who these women were and where they frequented in the area. Whether their paths crossed with others who might have noticed them." He paused and settled against the wall.

"I'd like to mention some names. Tell me if any of them are familiar." [Feign Ignorance] – Passive.

"I'll… try," she said, lowering her eyes and taking out a handkerchief. She started fidgeting with it as if nervous and scared.

"My memory is still–""Of course," he responded. Easy, patient.

"Just tell me what comes." She watched his face but it gave her nothing. [Observe] – Passive. She took a deep breath and nodded.

"Please."

"Ellen Marsh," he said. [Lie] – Passive. She let her brow pull in slightly. As if making an effort to search her memory.

"I… don't think so. Should I?"

"She worked in the district. Sold pieced lace from a basket on Whitmore Lane, among other places," Rowe said.

"It's possible she came through the Row."

"It's possible. I meet a lot of people." A genuine-enough shrug, then she pretended to have just realized, "How long ago was this? I still have difficulty recalling things before the… before the attack," she said softly.

"It was recent," he said and nothing gave him away but Alice suspected it was a lie.

"I am sorry, I don't always catch names."

"Of course." He wrote.

"Agnes Dowd." Damn, was he going to go through the whole list that Alice had hidden under the boards? What on Earth was that list? She hadn't seen these names in any paper. Rowe had them, though, which meant the police had information that wasn't published, yet. She would make sure to be very careful here. Alice made sure her face showed only the effort of trying to recall, before letting out a little bit of joy.

"I'm not certain," she said hesitantly but with a bit of optimism.

"The name sounds faintly familiar, however. There is an Agnes at Gant Street Yard, I think."

"Different woman, I am afraid."

"Ah," she made her disappointment clear.

"No, then."

"Harriet Fenn."

"No. I'm sorry." He didn't react. He moved on at the same pace, as if he wasn't watching for a specific response to a specific name. But how she held herself across all of them. She straightened slightly in the chair. Not too still. Not too restless.

"Frances Cole."

"No." She shook her head, gently.

"I'm sorry. I wish I could be more help." [Bluff] – Passive. It seemed like all of her social skills were going to be used to survive this conversation. He looked at the notebook for a moment. The silence between them during that time was so heavy, that Alice started to genuinely fidget with the handkerchief.

"Ruth Calder," he said, finally. She had been expecting it. She let it land differently this time, with recognition, with stress. After an initial slight pause, her eyes widened. Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"She was in the papers," Alice said more quickly than the other times.

"The missing gentlewoman."

"Yes. You mentioned you'd read about her case." He suddenly moved to the armchair opposite hers and sat down. Alice was surprised by this, and then immediately realized he was trying to ruffle her.

"Had you seen her before you read about her? At the market, perhaps? She was reported to have visited the Aldgate Row area in the weeks before she disappeared."

"I read that." Why did he move now? Why try to discomfort her at the only name everyone in the East-End would recognize? What was different now?

"I've been trying to think about it," she said.

"There was a woman who dressed quite well who stopped at the pitch a few weeks back, and Nell, a match-girl who works close to my pitch, mentioned it. But I couldn't say with confidence it was the same person. I don't even really remember her." She met his eyes, then let her gaze drop slightly, the posture of a woman giving what little she had.

"It must have been too close to my attack. I'm sorry. There are so many customers." Rowe watched her carefully throughout and wrote nothing this time. The room was quiet enough that she could hear the fire settling in the hall behind the door. He took his time before continuing.

"Miss Darling," he said.

"You've been very patient with my questions."

"I want to help." She let a small, hesitant smile.

"These women… are they connected to what happened to me? Is that why you're asking?"

"We're exploring a number of possibilities," he said, smoothly, which meant yes.

"We want to make sure we have a full picture of who may have known whom, in the area." She nodded as if this were reassuring.

"Of course."

"It is possible you may have known any of these women previously? Before the attack, I mean. Especially given your work, there were plenty of opportunities, and you may simply not remember it clearly." Before her attack? Why ask her about her the period she supposedly had amnesia for? And what did he mean by work? Why did it sound strangely different from mere flower-selling? Skill [Observe] has leveled up. She ignored the notification but her heartbeat spiked.

Alice was starting to become convinced that skill level-ups had less to do with what she thought or did, and more with the situation she was in. There definitely was something more to this questioning. She tried to act as a young, uneducated woman, in her situation would act, hesitant, confused, and scared. Not scared of him, but scared for herself, her safety.

"It's possible," she said some moments later.

"My memory of before September is very incomplete. I might have met any of them and simply not have it. I'm sorry I can't be more useful." He didn't even hesitate.

"Do you recall where you spent your Thursday evenings, in the period before your attack?" The question landed like a stone into still water. Thursday evenings. The list under the floorboard had days beside every name. Thursday, mostly. One Tuesday. And two with no day at all… until Ruth Calder. Five names. He had given her five of the six names from the cloth bag under the third floorboard. He had not said Eleanor Mercer.

Either he didn't have that name, because she was not missing or dead yet, or he had chosen not to use it. Please don't be a kill list, Alice internally pleaded. She kept her face confused.

"I'm sorry… I don't really know. I would have been working, I suppose, or at home." She paused.

"Is that important?"

"Possibly." He wrote something.

"Have you ever been to Whitmore Lane, whether before or after the attack? It's a market street, not far from here." Whitmore Lane. The place the original Alice Darling had been going during the summer months, late at night. A place that had frightened her and had brought her a great deal of money according to Nell.

"... Several of these women had connections to it," he continued, meeting her eyes, waiting for something. She let none of this show in her face. [Maintain Alias] – Passive.

"I don't think so. Not that I remember." She kept her voice apologetic.

"Should I have been?"

"Not necessarily." He looked at his notes.

"Is there anyone in the district, anyone you knew before September, or have come to know since, who might have had a personal connection to any of these women? Someone who spoke of them, who knew them, who met them at Whitmore Lane?" What was this question? Alice Darling was a flower girl. A mere witness at the wrong time and place. What connections would she have with anyone in any way that– No. She instantly felt a chill. These were not questions that you asked an amnesiac witness.

He does not think I am one in a series of victims, she thought with alarm. But what then? The suspect? No. She denied that quickly, the original Alice had died to someone in the streets from stab wounds. She ran quickly through the alternatives. A victim who knew more than she'd said? Possible; however the amnesia was a double-edged sword now, as she couldn't know how damning the knowledge, or lack thereof, would appear.

A person of interest with suspicious connections to the dead women, also possible, and deeply uncomfortable. But what would connect a flower girl to a lacemaker in Whitmore Lane and a gentlewoman from Clerkenwell? Nothing truly of interest. And the last option. An accomplice. Someone who had helped the killer identify targets. That settled at the bottom of her stomach like lead. The original Alice had been in the same area.

Probably around the same time as the other victims, that was likely what the police were keeping under wraps but the newspaper had got hold of the information for the last victim, this Ruth Calder who was only presumed missing but was most likely dead. Alice had had similar wounds to the other victims when she was found, but was the only one to survive them. Oh, she thought, very quietly. The police did not know there were two different Alices.

They knew one Alice Darling had been found, had recovered, and had gone back to the pitch, with a convenient story and markedly changed behavior. They did not know she was a different person from the one who had lived on Pell Street before September. To them it was the same woman. The one who had known, possibly, several of the victims, who had spent her Thursday evenings somewhere she couldn't account for, who had connections to Whitmore Lane she was now denying. The original Alice hadn't just been a victim.

To the police, she looked very much like something else entirely.

"You've been helpful," he said, after several more questions of the same nature. And then, standing, "I hope you feel well soon, Miss Darling. If anything comes back to you, a face, a name, anything, the constabulary on Aldgate Row will take a message."

"I'll make sure to let them know," she said. She stood too, because it was the polite thing to do, and saw him to the parlour door. He reached for his hat from the side table, and then paused. He was looking at the bag at her feet. The geography volume sat at the top, its spine facing up.

"Interesting selection of books, Miss Darling." [Threat Detection] – Passive. Alice wanted to throw her hands in the air, but controlled herself.

"I've been trying to re-learn the city," she said softly.

"My memory of the streets is still incomplete. I thought it might help to read about it."

"Geography." He looked at the bag a moment longer.

"And history, it seems."

"I find context useful."

"Yes," Rowe said pleasantly, picking up his hat.

"I'm sure you do." He left. She listened to Mrs. Hatch see him out. The front door closed. Alice stood in the parlour with her bag of books at her feet. Mrs. Hatch appeared in the doorway, not long after.

"Lunch is ready, dear."

"In a moment," Alice said.

"I just need a moment."