I will leave you now, Black Mary said. We are all grateful to you, Evelyn.
“And I am grateful to you,” I said, for I still strode without a shawl or covering of any kind to hide my scars.
Farewell, Black Mary said, and then her presence rushed out of me.
The absence of her left me somewhat thrown, and I gasped. I’d grown accustomed to her strumming my sinews, the whisper of her voice against my thoughts, and the sudden stillness of my body and silence in my mind required that I stop in the sidewalk to recover my footing.
A few moments later, I resumed my walk back, and before long came to the same gate I’d left through that morning. The porter nodded as I entered. “Welcome back, Miss Fallow,” he said. “You get done what you needed?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Glad to hear it,” he said. “Shoulda taken a rain napper, though. You’re wet through.”
“I’m afraid you’re right,” I said, and only after I’d reached Bedstead Square did I realize he hadn’t remarked or stared at my scars.
Before going to Mr. Merrick’s room, I bathed and dressed in a clean uniform and took my breakfast with the other maids, though I ate not a single bite. I waited for Beatrice to report news of Black Mary’s murder, but the papers said nothing about it. It seemed the remains of her body hadn’t yet been found. Nothing was said of the omnibus accident, either, and I doubted anyone would ever forge a connection between the dead midwife and the sudden cessation of Leather Apron’s evil work.
When I went to Mr. Merrick, he seemed to be completely unaware that a fifth ghost had come to the hospital at all. From the moment I entered his room, he spoke of nothing but the pantomime he’d attended the night before.
“Oh, Evelyn,” he said. “You should have been there!”
“Tell me what I would’ve seen,” I said.
“You would have seen the way the cat, Puss, outwitted that Ogre and gobbled him right up! And the King and Queen, with their court of knights all dressed in silver and gold, and the fairies in their realm … it was simply perfect.”
“You make it sound enchanting,” I said.
“It was,” he said.
“I wish I had been there,” I said. “If you go again, I hope to attend with you.”
“Truly?” he asked.
“Yes, Mr. Merrick.”
“Then I shall ask Dr. Treves! This is wonderful! Perhaps we can go to another pantomime at Christmastime, and then we can find out what the Prince did after we all left the theater.”
“That would be lovely, Mr. Merrick.”
“May I ask,” he said, “what has changed your mind?”
I considered telling him about what had happened with Black Mary that morning, but thought better of it, for I didn’t want to disturb his reverie and joy. One day, I would tell him everything and let him know Leather Apron was dead and there would be no more hauntings, but that day I simply said, “A change of heart is all.”
“I am so glad,” he said. “It was so kind of Madge Kendal to arrange it for me.”
“Yes, it was.”
“I would like to write to thank her, and send my model church as a gift.”
“I think she would appreciate that,” I said.
I helped him move to his table, where he sat with his stationery and wrote a letter with his good hand in pleasing script. When he was finished with it, he asked, “Would you read it? To make sure it is well written?”
“I’m certain it is thoughtful and kind,” I said. “That is what matters.”
“But I want it to be as it should. Will you read it?”
“Yes, Mr. Merrick,” I said, and picked up the piece of his stationery, in the corner of which was printed the small picture of a nobleman and lady dancing.
Dear Mrs. Kendal,
Many thanks indeed for the pantomime at the theater which you so kindly arranged for me to attend. The performance left me spellbound, and is not something I shall ever forget. As a token of my appreciation, I have sent along this model church, which I hope shall bring you joy and remind you of my admiration. I am yours very truly,
Joseph Merrick
London Hospital
Whitechapel
“Mr. Merrick, it is a perfect expression of thanks,” I said.
“You think so?” he said.
“I do,” I said, and noticed that he had written something on the back side of the paper as well. “What is this?”
“It is a poem,” he said. “I often include it in my correspondence.”
“May I read it?”
“Of course,” he said, and so I did.
’ Tis true my form is something odd,
But blaming me is blaming God;
Could I create myself anew
I would not fail in pleasing you.
If I could reach from pole to pole
Or grasp the ocean with a span,
I would be measured by the soul;
The mind’s the standard of the man.
I put the letter down upon the desk, the paper quivering with the shaking of my hand. Tears wet my eyes enough to glisten, but not enough to fall with a blink. “It is beautiful. Did you compose that?”
“No,” he said. “I adapted it from a poem called ‘False Greatness’ by Isaac Watts.”
“It is perfect.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“You are perfect,” I said.
He shook his great head. “I am not, Evelyn.”
“You say you want to be measured by your soul and your mind, Mr. Merrick. Well, that is my standard, too.”
He reached out his good hand, and I took hold of it. “Would you like to know how I think of you?” he asked.
I laughed. “Of course I do.”
“I think of you as my mother.”
“What?” I let go of his hand, feeling somewhat affronted. “Mr. Merrick, you think me your mother? That all my care for you makes you my—my child?”
“No,” he said. “You misunderstand. Do you not remember what I told you? My mother is an angel, Evelyn.”
His meaning finally reached me, and then my tears fell freely. “Mr. Merrick,” I whispered.
“You are an angel, Evelyn,” he said. “You are light to me.”
I breathed deeply before rapping my knuckle upon the matron’s door, and she then called for me to enter. Her office still remained as it had been on my first time entering it, though it had been nearly two years since that day.
“Miss Fallow,” she said from her desk, setting aside the papers she’d been reading. “Please, won’t you sit down?”
“Thank you, Matron,” I said, and took one of the seats in front of her.
She interlaced her jeweled fingers. “Miss Ireland of Blizzard Ward tells me you have been a great asset to them.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” I said. “Miss Ireland is a very good nurse.”
“She is, indeed. With good judgment, I should add.”
I accepted that compliment with a bow of my head.
“I also hear that the absence of your shawl has not caused an unacceptable degree of alarm or disruption.”
“I hope that is so, ma’am, for I’ve no wish to wear it.”
“How are you getting on, Evelyn?” she asked. “It was hard for all of us, but you had a special friendship with him.”
I checked the stanchions around my heart for weakness before I spoke. The matron allowed for emotion, but to cry in her office would be seen as unprofessional. “I miss him, ma’am,” I said. “I still wake up some mornings and walk to his room. I stand there at the top of those stairs, like I’m lost, and then I remember he’s gone …”
“I am sorry,” the matron said.
Mr. Merrick’s death had happened so suddenly, and had shocked everyone. I’d thought nothing at all amiss that day as I’d taken him his lunch. He complained he hadn’t slept well the night before, and wanted to nap, so I’d left him alone. Dr. Hodges had found him a little over an hour later, and the d
octors determined that somehow, his head had fallen backward as he slept, and he had suffocated.
“He had a kind soul, did he not?” the matron said.
“Very kind,” I said, and felt the braces groaning, my throat constricting.
“It has been quite difficult for Dr. Treves,” she said. “He insisted he alone be the one to mount Mr. Merrick’s skeleton. Some might think that ghoulish, but I think we both know it to be a sign of affection, for there isn’t anyone else to whom Dr. Treves would entrust such a task.”
“No, ma’am,” I said. I’d heard they were preparing Mr. Merrick’s bones for future scientific examination, but I’d vowed never to look upon them. It did not seem right to me that, even in death, he would be on display. For my remembrance of him, I’d asked for but one thing, which Dr. Treves had given to me, and that was the portrait of Mr. Merrick’s mother.
“What was it you wished to speak with me about?” the matron asked.
I sat forward, both sad and grateful to speak of something else. “I was wondering if you might write me a letter of reference.”
“And for what would I be recommending you?” she asked.
“I plan to apply to Newnham College at Cambridge.”
“The women’s college?” the matron asked.
“Yes. Professor Sidgwick once invited me to attend.”
“When was this?”
“A year and a half ago, now.”
Her eyes flicked as if counting back the months on a calendar. “Ah, yes.” She nodded. “I remember him coming. An unpleasant time.”
“Yes, it was, ma’am.”
“I must confess, Miss Fallow, I am disappointed.”
“Ma’am?”
“You have impressed me greatly. Upon the recommendations of Dr. Tilney, Miss Doyle, and now Miss Ireland, and based upon my own observations, it is my intention to admit you with the next class of probationers. If memory serves, that is what you wanted when you first came to me.”
“It was, ma’am.”
“And now?”
“I … I don’t know, ma’am.” I’d not thought it possible for me to be a nurse. Though I had made peace with my scars, I’d not expected the matron ever would, and after Mr. Merrick’s death, I’d decided to attend the women’s college to make something more of myself than a maid.
“You don’t know?” the matron asked.
“It’s just that …” Even as a nurse, I still didn’t think I could stay there, where memories hung as thick as carbolic in the air, burning my eyes with tears at unexpected turns. “He was … more than a patient to me.”
Matron Luckes propped her elbows on her desk and raised her many rings to her chin. “I see. And you think it would be too painful to remain here. Is that it?”
“That is it exactly. But I am grateful for your offer, Matron. Truly.”
“I am sorry to lose you, Miss Fallow. But I think I understand. I shall write a letter of reference to Professor Sidgwick directly.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“It is my pleasure.”
I rose from the chair to leave, but as I reached her door, she called to me, “Miss Fallow?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“He was quite singular, wasn’t he?”
I smiled, wishing that all grief could be so alloyed with joy. “He was, ma’am,” I said. “In every way.”
It would not have been possible for me to write this story without the help and support of many. First, I would like to thank the large community of “Ripperologists,” and in particular the casebook.org website, which was an invaluable and inexhaustible resource. My editor, Lisa Sandell, first heard me describe the idea for this book in 2010, and she knew when the time had come for me to write it. As always, I’m grateful to her for her friendship, wisdom, and guidance, and also to my copyeditor, Starr Baer, and to our production editor, Rebekah Wallin, for their careful insights. Many other friends at Scholastic have supported me over the years, including, but not limited to, David Levithan, Ellie Berger, Lizette Serrano, Emily Heddleson, Charisse Meloto, Monica Palenzuela, Tracy van Straaten, Caitlin Friedman, Bess Braswell, Lauren Festa, Ed Masessa, Emma Brockway, and Lauren Felsenstein Bonifacius. Utah’s community of writers, the Rock Canyon group, remains something completely unique and deeply meaningful to me. I would also like to thank my family, extended and immediate, by birth and by choice, for their ongoing support. I couldn’t do this without the love and patience of my wife, Jaime, and my stepkids, Stuart, Sophie, and Charlie, who understand when I have writing to do.
Finally, I would like to thank Joseph Merrick, whose brief life touched and inspired so many, including me.
Matthew J. Kirby is the critically acclaimed author of the middle-grade novels Icefall, which won the Edgar Award for Best Juvenile Mystery and the PEN Literary Award for Children’s and Young Adult Literature; The Clockwork Three, which was named a Publishers Weekly Flying Start; The Lost Kingdom; Cave of Wonders, the fifth book in the Infinity Ring series; The Quantum League: Spell Robbers; and Last Descendants, an Assassin’s Creed novel. He was born in Utah and grew up in Maryland, California, and Hawaii. Matthew lives in Utah, where he is currently at work on his next novel. Learn more about Matthew at www.matthewjkirby.com.
Also by Matthew J. Kirby
The Clockwork Three
Icefall
The Lost Kingdom
Infinity Ring Book 5: Cave of Wonders
The Quantum League: Spell Robbers
The Dark Gravity Sequence #1: The Arctic Code
The Dark Gravity Sequence #2: Island of the Sun
Last Descendants: An Assassin’s Creed Novel
Copyright © 2016 by Matthew J. Kirby
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, SCHOLASTIC PRESS, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Kirby, Matthew J., 1976– author.
Title: A taste for monsters / Matthew J. Kirby.
Description: First edition. | New York : Scholastic Press, 2016. | Summary: In 1888 seventeen-year-old Evelyn Fallow, herself disfigured by the phosphorus in the match factory where she worked, has been hired as a maid to Joseph Merrick, the Elephant Man—but when the Jack the Ripper murders begin she and Merrick find themselves haunted by the ghosts of the slain women, and Evelyn is caught up in the mystery of Jack’s identity.
Identifiers: LCCN 2015048826 | ISBN 9780545817844
Subjects: LCSH: Merrick, Joseph Carey, 1862-1890—Juvenile fiction. | Jack, the Ripper—Juvenile fiction. | Phosphorus—Physiological effect—Juvenile fiction. | Neurofibromatosis—Juvenile fiction. | Ghost stories. | Serial murders—England—London—History—19th century—Juvenile fiction. | Murder—Investigation—England—London—History—19th century—Juvenile fiction. | London (England)—History—19th century—Juvenile fiction. | CYAC: Merrick, Joseph Carey, 1862-1890—Fiction. | Jack, the Ripper—Fiction. | Disfigured persons—Fiction. | Neurofibromatosis—Fiction. | Ghosts—Fiction. | Serial murderers—Fiction. | Murder—Fiction. | London (England)—History—19th century—Fiction. | Great Britain—History—Victoria, 1837-1901—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.K633528 Tas 2016 | DDC 813.6 [Fic] —dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2015048826
First edition, October 2016
Cover art © 2016 by Jeffrey Alan Love
Cover design by Ellen Duda
e-ISBN 978-0-545-81794-3
All rights re
served under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
Matthew J. Kirby, A Taste for Monsters
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