The Secrets of Whitechaple

Chapter 1

As the Queen's physician it is my responsibility to see to the health of anyone she wishes me to. Today I had an appointment with a Mr. Matthew Arnold. He was a poet; one of the Queen's favorites, which was why I was on my way to his home in Liverpool. 

When I arrived, the house was sullen and dark. I knocked on the door. 

Mr. Arnold's wife, Frances answered the door. She's beautiful, as always. She's wearing a long grey dress with black satin gloves. Her hair is pinned up in a bun out of the way. It's been a while since I have last seen Frances; it must have been close to 3 years but we have known each other much longer. We were only kids when we first met. We grew up and apart but I never forgot about her. Never. Not even when she broke my heart and married him.

"Hello, Mrs. Arnold, I trust you are well?" I greeted.

"Um yes," She said softly and quietly, "Matthew is upstairs. Please see to him." 

"I will." I walk through the doorway and a catch the sent of her perfume. Lilacs, at least I know somethings will always be the same about her.

We walked slowly and quietly up the stairs, Frances in the lead and me following close behind her. The entire walk to the room was silent. Ever since my confession to her, Frances has kept our friendship completely platonic and professional. But even still I couldn't help but love her. 

She opened the door and we entered. She went to sit in a chair placed beside the bed. I began setting up my equipment on the opposite side of the bed. As I was doing this, I thought back to Frances, She looked quite different from the last time I saw here. She seemed very tired, she walked slowly, almost as if she were in pain. But that wasn't worried me about her, it was how quiet she spoke. As long as I have known her, Frances Arnold never spoke quietly. She was always sure anyone who could hear always heard her. But she seems so different now. What happened?

I look towards Matthew, he was once my friend. Now he's just the man who stole the love of my life from me. I move closer to him, something is wrong. Shouldn't he have moved by now, a twitch or at least let out a sound. I lean down and place my ear near his chest in order to hear his heart. When I don't hear anything I place my two first fingers below his chin, next to his esophagus.

Nothing. 

I felt nothing there. No pulse. Not even a faint one. The man was dead. 

"He's dead." I quietly inform Frances. 

"Oh?" She replied coldly. Shouldn't she be hysterical? Her husband is dead. The man she loved. The man she chose over me. Why is she not screaming to God to bring him back?

"Frances. What did you do?" Frances was too calm. She always had something to say, an opinion to share. She was never this cold. She had to have done something to him, it's the only explanation. 

"He was in pain." She offered numbly.

"What did you do?" I said more firmly. 

"I gave him something."  

"What did you give him?" I needed to know. if she was responsible for this she could be hanged. Murder of a nobleman, especially by the woman sworn to stay by his side, was punishable by death.

"Cyanide." And once more it was like it was when we were young. She confided in me. She told me what she had done. 

She told about how Matthew was in excruciating pain for the longest time. How he was slowly dying. How she met a man in an alley and bought a pill that he swore would make all of Matthew's pain go away. She just wanted to spare him, save him. So she did the only thing she could think of. She killed him. 

                                                                               *     *     *

We are now sitting in the parlor, sipping tea. "Why was Matthew in so much pain?"

"He was sick." She answered shortly.

"Yes, I know that much. But sick from what?"

She mumbled something. "What?" I couldn't hear her.

"Syphilis." She spoke a bit louder and clearer and this time I heard her. 

I sat for a little while, shocked. How did  man who seemed so devoted to his wife get that disease?

"Did he have a mistress?" I pull myself together and calmly ask my question.

"Of sorts." Once again her answer was short and vague.

"What does that mean?" Now she was just confusing me.

"He was seeing many women." This time her tone was more clipped and hard.

"Frances. I'm so sorry." My sympathy is true. For it is for Frances, not the man who has betrayed her.

"Don't be. It's not like I had any reason to be jealous. They were not better than me, richer than me, or prettier than me. It was the scum of the earth he was crawling to, useless trash. Him and his playthings." She spits angrily. 

I set my tea cup down as a great realization comes over me. "He was seeing prostitutes." She nods sullenly.

"He contracted Syphilis from one of them." She nods again.

I run my hand through my hair. He didn't love her. He probably never did. I lost my love to a fake, filthy liar. My head feels as though it will explode.

"Were you and your husband intimate after he contracted the disease?" I ask. My concern obvious. 

She says the one word that brings my entire world crashing down. "Yes."