Stalking Jack the Ripper

  “How do you know these things?” I demanded, regaining my composure.

  Calming my still racing heart, I sought to apply logic to the situation. This man must surely be a skilled liar; he did some form of research, then made educated guesses, essentially the same principle Thomas used while deducing the obvious.

  Heart-shaped lockets were popular, practically every woman in London owned one. It was an educated guess, nothing more. For all I knew, the necklace was sitting in a forbidden jewelry box, not being used as an expensive bookmark.

  I wouldn’t be surprised if he worked for some despicable newspaper. Perhaps Mr. Doyle had sent him to spy on us, desperate to ferret out another story.

  “Easy there, Wadsworth,” Thomas said, loud enough for only me to hear. “If you shake any harder I’m afraid you might take flight, killing us in the process. While I do not fear death, it might prove a bit tedious after a while. All that heavenly singing would become rather grating, don’t you agree?”

  I drew in a slow, steady breath. He was right. Getting agitated wouldn’t make this situation better. I allowed myself to calm down, before turning my glower back on this liar. He held his hands up, as if he meant no harm—except the harm had already been done.

  “Let me begin again, Miss Wadsworth. I—often forget how odd I must seem to non-seers.” He extended his hand, waiting for mine to meet his. Reluctantly, I allowed him to kiss my gloved knuckles before sticking my hands back at my sides. “My name is Robert James Lees. I am a medium. I communicate with spirits who’ve passed on. I’m also a spiritualist preacher.”

  “Oh, good.” Thomas wiped his brow in a gesture of relief. “And here I thought you were simply insane. This’ll be much more fun.”

  I fought a smile as the spiritualist stuttered over his next words.

  “Y-yes, yes, well, all right, then. As I was saying, I speak with the dearly departed, and the spirit of Miss Eddowes sought me out almost every night this week, starting from the night she was slain,” he said. “My spirit guides told me I’d find someone here who could help stop Jack the Ripper once and for all. I kept getting drawn to you, miss. That’s when your mother came through.”

  I listened with the practiced ear of a skeptic. My mind was very much immersed in science, not religious fads and notions of speaking with the dead.

  Mr. Lees exhaled, nodding to that same unseen force again.

  “So I thought. I’ve got it on good authority you’re unbelieving.” He held his hand up when I opened my mouth to argue. “It’s something I contend with most every day of my life. My path isn’t an easy one, but I’ll not stop my journey. If you’d like to accompany me to my parlor, I’ll do a proper conjuring for you.”

  Part of me wanted to say yes. Sensing my wavering, he continued with his sale.

  “Take what you will from our session, leaving anything which isn’t useful behind. All I ask is a few minutes of your time, Miss Wadsworth,” he said. “Nothing more. Very best, you’ll walk away with information about the killer. At the very least, an entertaining story to share with your friends later.”

  He offered a hard bargain when he put it into those terms.

  “If you have information on Jack the Ripper,” Thomas asked, holding the umbrella steady, “why haven’t you gone straight to Scotland Yard?”

  I studied Thomas. His question certainly seemed genuine. Unless he was displacing suspicion. Mr. Lees smiled ruefully.

  “They’ve declined my services on more than one occasion,” he said. “It’s easier thinking me mad than seriously regarding any clues I might unearth.”

  I tapped my fingers on my arms, contemplating his offer.

  The first part about being a good scientist was remaining open to studying all variables, even ones we don’t necessarily understand. How little my mind would be if I dismissed a possibility without investigating it, simply because it didn’t fit into a preconceived notion.

  No advances would ever be made. Scotland Yard was foolish to turn him away. There was the considerable chance he was a fraud, but even the tiniest percentage he could be right should be enough to at least listen to him.

  I knew the hope of speaking with Mother was entering both my thoughts and heart, clouding my judgment. Internally I fought myself.

  Perhaps one day I’d seek Mr. Lees out when I was ready to confront that emotional mess. Now, with Thomas present, I needed to keep a clear focus.

  I took a deep breath, knowing this might perfectly well be a giant waste of time, but not caring. If I had to wave chicken feet at every raven I saw during the full moon to stop this murderer and avenge all the women who were tortured, I’d do it. Plus, one way or another, maybe it would remove any lingering doubt I had about Thomas.

  “Very well, then,” I said. “Dazzle us with your conjuring arts, Mr. Lees.”

  Thomas threw an impatient glance at me from across the tiny, battered table in Mr. Lees’s séance parlor, his leg bouncing so fast the feather-light table vibrated with his every jitter.

  The pinch-lipped look I returned to him was laced with unspoken threat. I learned something useful from Aunt Amelia after all. Thomas stilled his legs before rapping a jittery beat against his arms. Honestly, he acted as if I were dragging him through the streets across a bed of nails, during a winter storm. The mark of a young man with more secrets or simply a bored one? If Mr. Lees was authentic, I might have an answer shortly.

  I scanned our surroundings, doing my best to retain an impassive façade, but it was hard. Gray light filtered in through musty curtains, lighting on every speck of dust in the small flat, causing my nose to itch.

  Instruments used for speaking with spirits were jumbled in the corners and poked out of cabinets, and dust covered most every surface. A little housecleaning would go a long way. Perhaps Mr. Lees would have more customers if he tidied up a bit.

  I supposed, however, one didn’t have much time for cleaning when one was speaking with the dead at all hours of the day and night. If his abilities were real, I likened it to being stuck at a party twenty-four hours a day. The thought of having to listen to someone speak that long was utterly dreadful.

  My attention snagged on a horn-shaped tube resting atop a rickety-looking cabinet. It was one of the few items in the room that appeared shiny and new.

  “That’s a ‘spirit trumpet,’” Mr. Lees said, jerking his chin toward the contraption. “It amplifies whispers of the spirits. Truthfully, I haven’t had any luck with it, but it’s all the rage these days. Figured I’d give it a whirl. And that’s a spirit slate.”

  The so-called spirit slate was nothing more than two chalkboards tied together with a bit of string. I assumed it was another tool the dead could use for communicating with the living.

  People wanted to be entertained by gadgets and gimmicks, it seemed, as much as they wanted to speak with their loved ones. A haunted atmosphere was ripe for conversation starters amongst the wealthy who knew nothing of poverty.

  Thomas coughed a laugh away, drawing my attention to him. He subtly pointed to my leg, bouncing its own anxious beat against the table, then coughed harder at my dark look. I was glad he was so amused; that made one of us.

  “Right, then.” Mr. Lees situated himself in the middle. “I’ll ask the two of you to place your hands on the table, like so.”

  He demonstrated by placing his large palms facedown, thumbs touching at their tips. “Spread your fingers apart so your pinky fingers touch your neighbor’s on either side. Excellent. That’s perfect. Now close your eyes and clear your minds.”

  It was a good thing the table was so small, else we’d never be able to reach one another’s hands comfortably. Thomas’s pinky kept twitching away from mine, so I quietly shifted my foot under the table and gave him a little kick. Before he could retaliate, Mr. Lees closed his eyes, letting loose a deep sigh. Focus, I scolded myself. If I was going to do this sitting, I’d do it one hundred percent.

  “I ask that my spirit guides step forth, aiding me
on this spiritual journey through the afterlife. Anyone with a connection to either Thomas or Audrey Rose may present themselves now.”

  I peeked through slitted lashes. Thomas was being a good sport, sitting with his eyes closed and his back straight as a walking stick. Mr. Lees looked as if he were sleeping while sitting upright. His eyes fluttered beneath his lids, his whiskers and beard twitching to some rhythmic beat only he could hear.

  I stared at the little lines around his eyes. He couldn’t have been more than forty, but looked as if he’d seen as much as someone twice his age. His hair was gray at the edges, receding like the ocean sweeping away from the shore of his forehead.

  He inhaled deeply, his facial features stilling. “Identify yourself, spirit.”

  I latched my attention onto Thomas again, but he didn’t crack a smile or an eyelid, politely playing along with our ghost-divining host. He certainly wasn’t acting nervous now. I couldn’t stop myself from simultaneously hoping and dreading another encounter with my mother so soon. If his opening in the graveyard were to be believed, that was.

  Mr. Lees nodded. “We welcome you, Miss Eddowes.”

  He paused, giving himself time to think of a fabrication or to “listen” to the spirit, his face twisted in concentration. “Yes, yes, I’ll tell her now.”

  Oh, good. We’ll get right into it, then. How silly. He shifted in his chair, never breaking contact with either of our hands. “Miss Eddowes says you were present the day her body was discovered. She claims you were accompanied by a man with pale hair.”

  My breath caught, hope of hearing from Mother momentarily set aside. Could it be true? Could Miss Catherine Eddowes be speaking through this stout, untidy man? This was all very strange, but I didn’t necessarily believe one second of it.

  Anyone who was at the crime scene that morning would have seen me walking with Superintendent Blackburn. Not knowing proper protocol for this type of situation, I whispered, “That’s true.”

  I glanced at Thomas, but he was still sitting quietly, eyes shut. His mouth, however, was now pressed into a tight line. I turned my attention back on our spiritualist.

  “Uh-huh,” Mr. Lees said, his tone full of understanding. I wasn’t sure if he was addressing me or the supposed spirit hovering about, so I waited with my lips sealed together. “Miss Eddowes says to pass along this message to aid you in believing. She says there’s an identifying mark on her body, and you’ll know straightaway what she’s speaking of.”

  The urge to yank my hands back and leave this den of lies plagued me for a few beats. I knew precisely what she was talking about.

  There was a small tattoo on her left forearm that had the initials TC. That was hardly a secret. Again, anyone could’ve seen her arm in passing. I sighed, disappointed this turned out to be an act of folly. Before I said a word or broke contact with Thomas or Mr. Lees, he hurriedly continued.

  “She said Jack was there that day as well. That he’d seen you.” He closed his mouth, nodding again as if he were an interpreter passing a message along from a foreign speaker. “He got close to you… even spoke with you. You were angry with him…”

  Mr. Lees rocked in his chair, his closed eyes moving like confused pigeons squabbling back and forth in front of a park bench.

  A deep, cold fear wound itself around my limbs, strangling reason from my brain. The only people I’d been angry with were Superintendent Blackburn and my father. Uncle had still been in the asylum and Thomas and I were not speaking.

  If this man was truly communing with the dead, that cleared them of lingering suspicion. But Father and Blackburn…

  Unwilling to hear more, I drew my hand away, but Thomas reached for it, placing it next to his. His encouraging look said we would see this through together, quieting me for the moment.

  Our medium rocked in his seat, his movements coming faster and sharper. The wood creaked a panicked beat, spurring my own pulse into a chaotic rhythm. Mr. Lees stood so abruptly the chair he’d been sitting on crashed to the floor.

  It took several seconds for him to reorient himself, and when his eyes cleared, he stared at me as if I’d transformed into Satan himself.

  “Mr. Lees. Are you going to share what’s troubling you with us,” Thomas said, “or are you keeping what the spirits said to yourself?”

  Mr. Lees trembled, shaking his head to clear away whatever he’d heard and seen. When he finally spoke, his tone was as ominous as his words.

  “Leave London at once, Miss Wadsworth. I was mistaken, I cannot help you. Go!” he bellowed, startling us. He faced Thomas. “You must keep her safe. She’s been marked for death.”

  Thomas narrowed his eyes. “If this is some trick—”

  “Leave! Leave now before it’s too late.” Mr. Lees ushered us to the door, tossing me my coat as if it were on fire. “Jack craves your blood, Miss Wadsworth. God be with you.”

  From Hell Letter, 1888

  TWENTY-FOUR

  FROM HELL

  DR. JONATHAN WADSWORTH’S LIBRARY,

  HIGHGATE

  16 OCTOBER 1888

  “I see you’ve thrown yourself another pity party,” Thomas said, breezing into Uncle’s darkened library. Lifting my head from my book, I noticed his clothing was exceptionally stylish for an afternoon apprenticing with cadavers. His finely stitched jacket fit perfectly to his frame. He caught me inspecting it and grinned. “You’ve yet to send out invitations, Wadsworth. Rather rude, don’t you think?”

  I ignored both him and his remark, though I knew he was trying to make light of our situation. Eight days had come and gone since we’d spoken with Mr. Lees, and it had been even longer since I’d last seen my father.

  While I couldn’t rely on Mr. Lees’s spirit testimony alone, Thomas was moving further down the suspect list every day. He pored over notes and details, day and night. I didn’t think the stress he tried hiding was an act.

  Thomas wanted this case solved as badly as I did. During one particularly troubling evening, I shared my fears regarding my father with him. He’d opened his mouth, then shut it. And that was the end of that. His reaction was less than comforting.

  Staying true to his word, Father didn’t seek me out, remaining indifferent to my whereabouts. It was so unlike him, letting me out of his sight for days on end, but he’d become a stranger to me and I couldn’t predict his next moves.

  I hated thinking or admitting it, but he fit several of Jack the Ripper’s emerging characteristics. He’d been present for each crime, and absent when Jack had seemingly disappeared for those three and a half weeks in September.

  Much as I wanted his opinion, I kept these dark speculations from Nathaniel. Worrying him was unnecessary until I had absolute proof Father was, indeed, Jack.

  I flipped through a medical tome, reading over several new notions regarding human psychology and crimes. Father certainly had grief issues and plenty of reason to want organ transplants to be successful. That would explain the missing organs.

  Though I couldn’t see how it’d help Mother now. Then I remembered his favorite tonic; laudanum might very well explain that delusion.

  “You shouldn’t waste your precious energies on such rubbish, Wadsworth,” Thomas said, reading over my shoulder. “Surely you’re capable of coming up with theories of your own. You are a scientist, are you not? Or are you saving all the brilliant work for me to come up with?”

  Thomas smiled at my eye roll, puffing his chest up and standing with one foot proudly resting on a chair as if posing for a portrait. “I don’t blame you, I am rather attractive. The tall, dark hero of your dreams, swooping in to save you with my vast intellect. You should accept my hand at once.”

  “More like the overconfident monster haunting my nightmares.” I offered him a smirk of my own when he scrunched his nose. He was handsome enough, but he needn’t know I thought so. “Haven’t you got an organ to weigh, people to annoy, or notes to scribble down for Uncle Jonathan? Or perhaps you’ve got another patient to experiment
on.”

  Thomas grinned wider, folding himself onto the crushed velvet sofa directly across from me. A fresh body, having nothing to do with the Whitechapel murders for once, was lying on the mortuary table downstairs, waiting to be inspected. First glance said he’d lost his life to the harsh English elements, not to some crazed murderer. Winter was making a few surprise appearances before its official start date.

  “Dr. Wadsworth was called away on more urgent matters. It’s just the two of us and I’m quite bored of your moping about. We could be taking full advantage of our time together. But no,” he sighed dramatically. “You’re intently reading rubbish.”

  I nestled into my oversize reading chair and flipped to the next page.

  “Studying the psychological states of humans and how they may or may not relate to deeper, psychotic issues is hardly ‘moping about.’ Why don’t you put that big brain to use and read some of these studies with me?”

  “Why don’t you talk to me about what’s really troubling you? What emotional dilemma needs sorting out?” He patted his legs. “Sit here and I’ll rock you gently until you or I or both fall asleep.”

  I tossed the book on the floor at his feet, then immediately cringed. I was about to tell Thomas I was absolutely not struggling with any emotional issues and had shown him differently. One day I’d rein my cursed actions in.

  I sighed. “I cannot stop thinking my father’s the man stalking the night.”

  “The moral dilemma being what, exactly?” Thomas asked. “Whether or not you should turn dear old Father in to authorities?”

  “Of course that’s the moral dilemma!” I exclaimed, incredulous at how obtuse he was when it came to basic human concepts. “How can one turn against their blood? How can I send him to his death? Surely you must realize that’s precisely what would happen if I told authorities.”