Read Online Ripper by Amy Carol Reeves - Free Book Online

personally.”
    â€œStill, I wished they would ask their questions and leave. They could at least take suspects to the station to question them. Have they questioned you?”
    â€œTwice, actually. They interviewed me in Dr. Bartlett’s office on Monday, then again yesterday. They have spoken to all of the male workers here. I think there are no leads, and I am inclined, like you, to think that they should move on, or at least maintain a more discrete presence.”
    I watched Simon as he turned to examine another baby. He possessed a cool handsomeness, his forehead marble-smooth, uncreased even when he concentrated. Since yesterday, besides working alongside of him, I had assisted him in three deliveries, and his perpetual control even in stressful moments impressed me. He seemed dedicated and kind, spending more time with patients than most of the physicians did. Perhaps because of his kindness, or perhaps due to our bond from the morning when he returned with me to Kensington, I felt more comfortable with Simon than I did with William. And yet oddly, in spite of all this, there was an enigmatic strain to him, a veil in Simon beyond which I could not see.
    The baby Lizzie, when we reached her, concerned us both. She had continued to lose weight, even just since Monday.
    â€œHas Josephine found a wet nurse for her?” I asked, after Simon had listened to her chest with a stethoscope.
    â€œI do not believe so.”
    â€œRose Elliot? Is she still here? She just had a child, perhaps she still has milk. I know she needs to rest, but after losing her own child it might help her to care for Lizzie.”
    Simon straightened, paused. A flicker crossed his gaze momentarily.
    â€œAn excellent idea, Abbie.”

    Later that same day, I assisted Dr. Bartlett during a surgery on the third floor.
    He had congratulated me, the day before, on my triumph over Rose Elliot’s husband. That incident, to my relief, had gone mostly unnoticed—I think due to the overall chaos in the ward and also the general preoccupation of staff members with the Polly Nichols murder.
    The particular patient Dr. Bartlett was operating on was a middle-aged woman, an alcoholic, who was one of the second floor patients. She was anesthetized with chloroform. I stood beside Dr. Bartlett at the operating table and gazed into the woman’s open abdomen.
    â€œHere is the mass, Abbie,” he said, removing a lumpy substance from the woman’s liver. After placing it in a metal pan held by one of the attending nurses, he explained to me that the woman suffered from tumor growths in the liver. Although he had removed this one, the tumors would probably continue to return more aggressively until she succumbed to the disease.
    I listened intently as Dr. Bartlett explained the surgery. He was an expert in surgeries and conventional deliveries, and he was not afraid to attempt new surgical practices. At one point the previous day, Simon had explained that Dr. Bartlett not only taught at various universities but also traveled a great deal; according to Simon, the horizontal-cut caesarean I had seen the previous week was not practiced widely in Europe. Dr. Bartlett had learned the practice from African midwives, and believed that it caused less blood loss and abdominal trauma in an already dangerous procedure.
    I watched as Dr. Bartlett stitched up the liver and then slowly, carefully, stitched up the woman’s abdomen. Many of the attending nurses had left for their other tasks. Our conversation moved away from the details of the surgery to more personal matters. He asked after my grandmother and how she was doing.
    â€œQuite well.”
    His eyes met mine very quickly before refocusing on his continued stitching, the long needle moving in and out of the skin tissues.
    â€œYou look remarkably like Caroline, Abbie.”
    I had forgotten that one of the reasons I was here was because Dr. Bartlett was a family friend. I swallowed,