The Good therefore may be said to be the source not only of the intelligibility of the objects of knowledge, but also of their existence and reality; yet it is not itself identical with reality, but is beyond reality, and superior to it in dignity and power.

—Plato, The Republic, Book VI Jack. You’re quite perfect, Miss Fairfax.

Gwendolen. Oh! I hope I am not that. It would leave no room for developments, and I intend to develop in many directions.

Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest, Act I Spring, 1894

London, England A stream of shit and piss fell from the second floor of the Avondale house to the street below, where it mixed with the piss, shit, and mud that already littered the avenue. From the second-floor window of Mr. Avondale’s dressing room, Shirley Dobbins put down the chamber pot belonging to Mr. and Mrs. Avondale and picked up the one belonging to their daughter, Miss Lucinda. A pungent odor wafted out as she removed the lid. Shirley wrinkled her nose and quickly dumped the contents into the street.

Now that’s how you get it done, she thought with a sense of satisfaction. Closing the window and replacing the lids on the pots, she peeked out the door to make sure the coast was clear before rushing along the hall and down the stairs with the pots tucked under her arms. Her employer, Mrs. Avondale, would be mortified if she knew one of her maids threw her family’s nightsoil out her husband’s dressing room window. However, she also wanted her maids to empty, wash, and replace the pots quicker than either maid could manage. Going that pace threatened to spill nightsoil onto the carpet, and Shirley didn’t even want to consider the consequences of such an occurrence.

Hence, she and Nellie dumped the nightsoil out the windows in the morning, a practice common amongst homes not fitted with the new flushing toilets she had heard about. And why not? Doing so was efficient and allowed more time for other tasks.

As she passed by the parlor, Shirley slowed her pace to an unobtrusive amble. Among other things, Mrs. Avondale disliked her maids walking by the parlor too fast while she was in there. Even if those maids were holding chamber pots under their arms and needed to wash them out as soon as possible. Thus, Shirley always had to slow down until she was well past the room.

When she thought she had gone far enough, Shirley quickened her pace. No screech from Mrs. Avondale or stomp of her shoes followed after her, filling the young maid with relief. Down another flight of stairs, through the kitchen, and Shirley entered the scullery. Nellie Dean, the other maid-of-all-work, was elbows-deep in scrubbing the dishes from breakfast and was going much too slow about it.

“Nellie, let me take over,” said Shirley. She did not wait for the younger girl to move, but instead pulled a plate out of Nellie’s hand and started scrubbing. “Look, this is how you hold the brush. See? Scrubbing like this gets everything off faster.”

Nellie suddenly became very interested in her feet. “I-I’m sorry,” she murmured.

Shirley ignored the apology. Apologies and forgiveness took up valuable chore time. “Go wash out the chamber pots and take them back upstairs. And remember what I told you about going past the parlor when the missus is in there.”

Nellie nodded, picked up the pots, and hurried into the back yard. As soon as she was gone, Shirley heaved a sigh. She had not meant to be short with the girl. She was only twelve, and this was her first position serving a family. She was still learning how to do all the chores required for the upkeep of a home, as well as attend to the needs of her employers. Shirley, on the other hand, had begun working when she was ten and had served in two homes prior to the Avondales. After six years as a maid, she should know better than to get annoyed with Nellie, who looked up to her both as a mentor and as an older sister of sorts.

But even with two maids, there was much to do in this house. Too much, if Shirley was honest with herself. While not a mansion, the house had more rooms than those owned by families of comparable class to the Avondales. And the Avondales, wishing to impress all who visited with their wealth and status, made sure no room went unused.

And all those rooms, with their furniture and knickknacks and whatnot, had to be cleaned at least once a week. And that was in addition to emptying the fireplaces, buying food and preparing meals, sweeping the front stoop, polishing the banisters, washing the windows, and, on Mondays, collecting and washing the laundry. Which, even with the help of a local washerwoman who came by on Mondays to assist with the washing, could take a whole day to complete.

This, and several dozen more tasks, had to be completed every day. And every day, Shirley and Nellie had to complete them while also factoring in time to change their uniforms, caps, and aprons for each task. And they had to change in a small closet by the entrance to the back yard at least three to four times a day without poking each other’s’ eyeballs out with their elbows because the Avondales didn’t have servants’ quarters on the top floor.

It was no surprise that, by the time all those chores were completed, both maids would collapse in front of the oven in the kitchen and doze right off. After all, without a servants’ quarters, they needed a warm place to sleep, and the kitchen was warm. Sometimes they were too tired to even remove the cockroaches they crushed as they fell. And there were always crushed cockroaches as they fell.

Of course, the burden of maintaining this house would be greatly alleviated if Mrs. Avondale or Miss Lucinda helped. In most homes, the mistress and her daughters usually assisted the servants with the workload in some capacity if simply hiring more servants was not an option. Shirley would have been thrilled if her mistresses deigned to help her. Work would not be so exhausting, and she would have more time to tutor Nellie in the finer points of housekeeping.

Unfortunately, the Avondales were aspiring to a higher class than they currently occupied. Thus, it was unthinkable for Mrs. Avondale, the wife of the founder of a successful drill and corkscrew manufacturer, or her daughter, who would probably marry a fine gentleman, or even a baron’s son, to do housework! After all, what would the neighbors say?

If Sarah Fagan, the previous maid who had served alongside Shirley, had still been working, it would not be so bad. Sarah had been experienced, and Shirley had worked well with her. But Sarah, dear woman, had retired to her daughter’s in Suffolk for her health, technically making Shirley the head maid of the house. And with a younger maid to train, it often felt like Shirley was the only one doing any of the work.

Well, at least the Avondale’s son, Griffin, was away at Eton. Shirley had to be grateful for that. If she had to deal with him and his antics on top of everything else, she might scream.

She heaved another sigh as she wiped the last of the pans dry and hung them in the cabinet. Just fight through it, she reminded herself. One day, you’ll be the head housekeeper of a large manor with a large and well-trained staff working under you, and you can use this story to show the new maids how one rises to the same position as you.

Her stomach rumbled then. She was hungry. Breakfast was not something indulged in by women of her profession. Instead, they ate bites of whatever leftovers from the family’s breakfast were available and made do on that. Shirley left the scullery to see what was available and instead found Lucinda Avondale stuffing the last rasher of bacon into her mouth. She caught Shirley’s look of surprise, smirked, and made satisfied chewing noises.

“Absolutely delicious,” she said, her Queen’s English as distinct from Shirley’s London cockney as day was to night. “You know, I thought I had my fill at breakfast. But that bacon you and the other girl prepared was so tasty, I just had to have more.”

Shirley’s anger flared. Not for the first time, she wanted to give this pampered young woman a good kick in the backside. However, she managed to keep her temper in check and cleared her throat. “Is there something I can do for you, Miss Lucinda?”

“Oh, I am content,” Lucinda replied, laughing in that loud, contemptuous way she had. “Seeing that ugly face of yours was pleasure enough! Oh, but you and Billie or whatever her name is should pick up the pace. Mother is becoming rather annoyed that the beds have not been made yet.”

“Nellie and I will take care of it now,” Shirley replied as the younger girl returned from placing the chamber pots upstairs again. “Right, Nellie?”

The younger girl was confused, as would anyone upon walking in midway through a conversation, but nodded her head and uttered a quiet, “Yes, miss,” anyway.

With a loud hmph!, Lucinda swept past Nellie and back into the hallway, probably to the drawing room to work on her sewing. Pushing her temper deep down so she would not have to deal with it, Shirley grabbed Nellie by the wrist and pulled her upstairs again.

That was a low blow, she thought, remembering how Lucinda had snatched up the last shred of bacon. Wanted more, my foot! And does she always have to bring my looks into it?

Shirley was well aware she was far from the most beautiful young woman in London. While her brown hair was unremarkable and her face alone was far from horrible, she had a lazy eye that was always looking out to the side. And while her vision still worked well enough for her to clean, cook, read, and write, that one eye tended to offend and horrify some people. In fact, whenever the Avondales held dinner parties, she was often relegated to the kitchen while Nellie and a servant hired for an evening’s work waited on the guests so as not to upset them.

Lucinda, however, had a perfect face and eyes, which she loved to brag about in front of Shirley whenever she got the chance. And while the obnoxious brat had red hair, a color most certainly out of fashion with high society, it was more of a wine-red than an orange-red. In some lights, it even looked black, which instantly made her more desirable.

With her looks, along with being the daughter of the president of a drill company, it would not be unreasonable to expect Lucinda to marry into the upper classes, or maybe into the peerage! Because of these factors and Shirley’s position relative to Lucinda, the young woman believed with all her heart that it was not only her privilege to constantly mock Shirley, but her right.

Hard to believe she’s only a year younger than me, Shirley thought, the way she acts. I wonder if she uses those same manners when suitors come to call. She allowed herself a private smirk. Well, even if she manages to get a husband, I’m certain he’ll be upset when he realizes how much nightsoil she passes most nights.

***

Somehow, despite how the morning had gotten away from them, both maids managed to complete their morning chores in time to serve Mrs. Avondale and Lucinda a light luncheon in the dining room. As Shirley placed a platter of cold pheasant from last night in the center of the table, she checked Mrs. Avondale’s expression. Her employer ignored her, focused entirely on studying and making notations on a piece of paper in front of her. Good. That was a good sign. When Mrs. Avondale paid attention to her at lunch time other than to ask for seconds, it was usually because she was displeased with something her maid had done.

Nellie set down a bowl of greens and stepped back. Like clockwork, Shirley stepped forward to pour the ladies some water.

“Shirley,” said Mrs. Avondale, still perusing her paper.

Shirley stiffened. Just her name. No request for a certain food or anything else related to the meal. Either Mrs. Avondale had a task for her, or Shirley was about to be punished for something she did wrong. And experience had taught her that it was usually the latter.

Gulping, she turned towards her employer. “Yes, ma’am?”

For a minute, her mistress did not reply, instead taking some cuts of pheasant and placing them on her plate. Then Mrs. Avondale thrust the paper she had been writing on a moment ago at Shirley. “Mr. Avondale and I are hosting the Martins tomorrow evening. I want you to go to the market after luncheon. Purchase everything on this list. I will give you the funds for it all before you go. Do not leave a single thing out.” She placed extra emphasis on the last sentence.

While she kept her face impassive, Shirley exhaled with relief as she took the page, which turned out to be a menu. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”

She examined the menu. Mock turtle soup, venison, lobster, pheasant—goodness, the Avondales did enjoy their pheasant, didn’t they? Ice cream for dessert. Various wines, sherry, and coffee. This would be a rather exorbitant dinner party. She would need to consult Sarah’s recipe book in the kitchen before going out to be certain, as well as what was in the pantry, but she had a fairly good idea of what she would need and which shops she would have to visit.

Having assigned Shirley her task, Mrs. Avondale turned her attention to a slice of pheasant. “I will be heading out after luncheon to visit Mrs. Simon. My husband will be accompanying me there, so there is no need to call a carriage. Is that understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Shirley.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Nellie.

“I will not be gone long. When I get back, I expect tea to be ready.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her orders given, Mrs. Avondale finally began eating, conversing with her daughter in between bites on the latest gossip in their social circles and plans for an upcoming trip to Germany the family were to take next year, should Mr. Avondale’s business continue to do well. Shirley and Nellie took their opportunity to step out and get started on the afternoon chores, returning to the dining room every few minutes to refresh Mrs. Avondale’s and Lucinda’s glasses and see if they needed anything else.

Finally, with luncheon done and the plates in the scullery for cleaning, Shirley consulted Sarah’s recipe book before entering the closet to change. With her apron hung up and her coat slung over her arm, she left the closet and dipped into the scullery. Nellie was already washing the dishes and was doing it the correct way this time.

“Excellent work,” she said, stepping beside Nellie. The younger girl jumped and turned to Shirley with startled eyes.

“O-oh! Thank you,” she said nervously.

“You remember what’s for supper tonight?”

Nellie nodded, a glint of confidence in her eyes. “Cockles and lamb, with boiled and seasoned potatoes. I’ll get started on them as soon as I’ve finished with the tea.”

Shirley smiled. Nellie may have been inexperienced when it came to maintaining a house, but she was born for cooking. No matter the dish, the ingredients, or the preparation involved, she took them all in stride and cooked them to perfection, even if she had never seen the recipe before. Shirley had no doubt that one day, Nellie would be the head chef of a large household. Perhaps even a noble family, if life was kind to her.

Though I won’t tell her that, she thought as she went to find her employer. It won’t do to give Nellie too big a head at that age.

After receiving the funds to purchase the ingredients for tomorrow’s dinner and a lecture on what should happen should she come home without even one item, Shirley went out the back door in the kitchen and into the back yard. She then strolled around to the front of the house and then took off in the direction of the Underground. This was another requirement for working for Mrs. Avondale: family members and guests used the front door. Servants and handymen used the back door. Shirley had no idea if this was some oddity of Mrs. Avondale’s, as the last two homes she’d worked for had not cared which door she’d used, but she didn’t care enough to ask. Or was it that she was too wary of punishment to ask?

As she made her way down the block, she heard horses’ hooves and glanced behind her. A hansom cab had stopped in front of the Avondale house, and a man in a suit had stepped out. It was Mr. Avondale, right on time to escort his wife to her friends’ home and then go about whatever business he had. Paying it no further mind, Shirley headed off, unaware of the significance of that last glimpse of her employer’s husband.

***

Things were certainly noisier than usual when she arrived at Covent Garden, which in Shirley’s opinion had the finest produce and meats in all of London for the best price. It was also fun to walk through: up until about sixty years ago, Covent Garden had been a sprawling open-air market filling up all the streets and creating crowded and unsanitary conditions. To help alleviate this issue, the market was reorganized in a brick-and-glass building. While this had helped for a while, the market had continued to grow and was now back to spilling out onto the surrounding streets.

Shirley visited here as often as she could for groceries, and when she did, she liked to look around at the many shoppers, the stalls hawking everything from food to clothes to tea sets and even a variety of exotic animals, and imagine the consternation of the politicians who had hoped their big building had forever rid the city of this disorganized market.

Today, though, something seemed different. Crowds at Covent Garden were nothing new. In fact, it was the crowds that kept the market growing and continued to cause traffic problems. But today, it seemed even more crowded, especially by one of the entrances to the building. Shirley approached and saw that everyone had gathered around a raised platform in which a man with a pointy beard, a bright red coat, and a top hat was speaking to the crowd. Some sort of performance was occurring.

“Now, watch closely ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls!” the entertainer called with an American accent. Beside him on a table was a clear glass tube about a meter tall and rounded at the top. The entertainer picked up the tube and showed it to the audience, revealing the bottom end of it was attached to a pump. “This process is how they create the lightbulbs Mr. Edison produces in America! You see, they burn out quickly if oxygen is within the bulb! Oxygen, as you might well know, is what is in the very air we breathe! But remove it, and the bulb will glow bright enough to keep your streets lit at night for over a year. Observe!”

The entertainer began to pump, explaining what he was doing over the loud sucking noise the instrument made. “I will draw out the oxygen from this tube. I will then disengage the tube from the pump.” He did as promised, being careful to keep the tube vertical before pulling an egg out of his pocket and pressing the palm of his hand against the tube’s opening, the egg resting inside. “And now!”

The entertainer turned the tube over, and the egg fell. Instead of breaking at the bottom as Shirley had expected, however, the egg slowed to a stop midway down the tube. Nothing had caught it or slowed it down, at least not as far as Shirley could see. It had just stopped in midair of its own accord.

The audience oohed and aahed in appreciation while the entertainer showed off the mysterious floating egg, a big, toothy grin on his face.

“That’s right, ladies and gentlemen. What you are witnessing right now is known as a vacuum. So long as the tube remains free of air, the egg will slow and stop before it can hit the bottom and break. And do you realize what these vacuums can do? Why, some of the greatest inventors and businessmen in this glorious empire are using vacuums to pump well water from deep beneath the Earth! The principles behind the vacuum and the pump are what allow the trains in the Underground and throughout the country to move from one place to another so fast. They suck and pull all the material in a space out until even the tiniest motes of dust are unable to stay in it! In the case of trains and wells, they are sucking and pulling water to create movement or to slake your thirst! That, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, is the wonder of the vacuum! The wonder of science!”

The audience, including Shirley, clapped enthusiastically. The entertainer beamed and bowed. “And over the next hour,” he continued, “I will continue to demonstrate for you the wondrous scientific principles behind many things you take for granted! Perhaps someday, you’ll take what you learn here and become the next great scientist or inventor! Now observe!”

While the entertainer set up his next science trick, Shirley slipped away and made her way inside. The science the man was demonstrating was interesting, but she had errands to run, and what he was showing people did her no good, anyway. It was not as if his vacuums would help her clean any faster or anything useful like that.

Shirley went about her shopping, moving between booths and shops as she sought out each item. To her relief, all that was required for Mrs. Avondale’s dinner party tomorrow night was in stock, fresh, and even discounted in some places. By the time she left an hour later for the Underground, Shirley had plenty of change left. She was certain Mrs. Avondale, who could be quite tight-fisted at times, would be happy to receive so many coins back. She might even let Shirley keep a few. Doubtful, but one could hope!

As Shirley neared the station, a man pushing a cart piled high with books called out to her from the other side of the street. “Hello, pretty miss! Interested in some literature? We have the best romance novels, the latest stories from Robert Louis Stevenson and Jules Verne, and the pick of the lot for penny dreadfuls, both individual and collected!”

Despite knowing better—Shirley would be drawn into a conversation she was frankly uninterested in if she looked and that might lead to being coerced into buying something off the cart with her own pocket money just to get rid of the bookseller—she turned her head in the cart’s direction. Even from across the street, the books’ titles jumped out at her in big, bold letters: Claudius Bombernac, Poems by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, The Complete Works of Edgar Allen Poe, Carmilla, Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre, A Christmas Carol, The Mudfrog Papers, No Thoroughfare, and many more. However, it was the little bound booklets on tan or yellow paper with their lurid artwork underneath lurid titles, the penny dreadfuls, that drew her eye. How could they not? They were just so horrid.

A String of Pearls; or the Story of Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street: a demented-looking man with a twisted smile and a bloody straight razor in his hand grinned out at the world from the front cover. Varney the Vampire; or the Feast of Blood: a skeletal man wearing a sheet stood over a sleeping woman with a look somewhere between thirst and carnal lust on his face. And—

Mrs. Ripper, the Bloody Queen of Whitehall. The picture on the covered showed a beautiful, blushing bride linked arm-in-arm with a man whose face was half-human, half-demon. In his free hand, the man held a large butcher’s knife dripping with blood. A subtitle underneath the picture proclaimed, The True Story of Jack the Ripper, as Related by His Wife.

Jack the Ripper.

Panic burst like a volcanic eruption in Shirley’s chest and seized hold of her heart and lungs. Blood rushed loudly in her ears, and a cold sweat broke out over her. “Um…no, thank you, sir,” she stammered to the bookseller. “I have to be off now. I’m needed at home.”

She turned and ran towards the entrance to the Underground, ignoring the concerned cries of the bookseller and the stares of passersby. She nearly stumbled down the stairs, pushing her way through the crowds to get to the gate, pay her fee, and rush through the gate. By the time she was on the train, her breathing was quick and shallow.

It took a few moments for her to realize that the other passengers were staring at her. A few were even whispering. She had to calm herself down, lest she bring shame upon herself and, by extension, the Avondale household for causing trouble in public. Closing her eyes, she tried to focus and steady on her breathing. From what she had heard as a girl, there were men in India who could breathe like this and achieve a state of grace on par with the divine bliss of the sainted. She had no idea if this was true, as she had never met an Indian man to ask, but it helped her calm down enough that she was able to breathe normally. More importantly, it stopped her from drawing stares.

This is all that bookseller’s fault, Shirley thought, leaning back against her seat. He called me pretty. I get called that so rarely. Even as she thought that, though, she knew it was not true. It was not the bookseller’s fault, but the fault of those horrid books. Especially that bloody volume she had noticed. Mrs. Ripper; the Bloody Queen of Whitechapel. That illustration. The Ripper.

Shirley rubbed her forehead as if to clear it. Even six years after those murders, they still had a hold over her. Especially after she had read those articles in The Sun last month. All her memories of those days came back to her so easily lately. Even cheap, silly books trying to profit off someone else’s tragedy could send her into terror and remind her of when she lived in the Whitechapel area with her mum. Could force her to remember things better left not thought of.

As the train rocked back and forth, she checked her bag to make sure none of the groceries had been disturbed, and that took her mind off the Ripper. Satisfied that all her purchases were still there and intact, she continued to quietly focus on her breathing until she reached her station. By the time she had emerged into the daylight again, Shirley had managed to push all those bloody thoughts away and was even able to hum a little as she made her way back to the Avondale house.

Then, she spotted the police wagon in front of her place of employment. Her heart went cold.

Ignoring the normal rules which required her to enter through the back entrance, Shirley raced along the street, holding her skirt up in front of her as she went. By the time she reached the front stoop, her hair had come undone from under her hat, and she was panting. Nevertheless, when she noticed the front door was unlocked and slightly ajar, her strength returned tenfold, and she burst through the front entrance, determined to find out what had happened.

Two surprised bobbies stared at her as she lost her balance and nearly fell to her knees. One of them asked who she was. She ignored them both as she saw Nellie and Lucinda sitting on the stairs, the latter sobbing and holding a handkerchief to her face. Lucinda’s eyes fixed on Shirley, and a fresh wave of tears gushed from her eyes.

“Oh, Shirley!” she wailed, jumping up and running to her. Shirley had just enough time to straighten herself before Lucinda threw her arms around her and buried her head in the maid’s bosom. Grabbing the wall for support, Shirley mechanically embraced the sobbing girl with her free arm. She had expected—well, she had not known what to expect. She had seen the police wagon sitting out front and had assumed the worst, she guessed. But Lucinda hugging and seeking support from her? Entirely unexpected. Shirley was unsure of how to react.

She turned to Nellie. “What happened?”

The younger maid, who looked to be on the verge of tears herself, sniffed and cleared her throat. “It happened just after you left,” she explained. “The master picked up the missus. They left to see the missus’s friend, turned onto another street and then…”

But whatever happened, Nellie couldn’t continue and instead dissolved into tears, hiding her face in her sleeve. One of the bobbies finished for her. “There was a crash. It appears the axle on the cab was rotted through and chose that moment to break. The wheels fell out, the carriage went over and rolled down the street. Both…both occupants were pronounced dead at the scene.”

Lucinda’s wails gained new energy as the bobby finished, and she squeezed Shirley tighter. Shirley rubbed her employer’s daughter’s back, unable to respond. Once again, death had come for someone she knew, and, while it was nowhere near as horrible, it had been just as unexpected.