Stalking Jack the Ripper

  They’d hang Father. Given who he was, they’d make it as public and brutal as possible. Just because blood might stain his hands did not mean I wanted his on mine. No matter if it was right or wrong.

  “Not to mention,” I added aloud, “it would kill my brother.”

  I covered my face with my hands. I was not saying the most obvious thing. Not turning my father in would result in more women being slain. It was a horrible predicament to be in and I hated Father even more for subjecting me to it.

  Thomas grew very quiet, staring at his own hands. An eternity stood waiting, watching along with me until he banished it from our presence. “What are you hoping to discover between the pages of other men’s theories?”

  “Redemption. Clarity. A cure for the demon infecting my father’s soul.”

  If there was some way for me to address the issues with his brain, perhaps he could be saved. I listened to the silence stretching between us, the ticking of the clock echoing my own heart’s beat.

  I lowered my voice. “If it were your father, wouldn’t you try anything to save him? Especially after already losing one parent? Perhaps it isn’t too late for his salvation.”

  Thomas swallowed hard, casting his attention to my book. “Will you be using a prop such as religion to deliver him from his sins, then? Sprinkle a bit of holy water and burn the devil out of him? I thought that was your eccentric aunt’s domain.”

  I bent down to retrieve the medical journal, turning back to the last section I’d read. The leather chair squeaked as I shifted my weight.

  “I am a scientist, Thomas. Father’s salvation will come in the form of tonics working on his physiology. There are great treatises about the effect of chemicals on the neurological pathways of the brain,” I said, pointing out one of them in the book. “Plus I’ll threaten to imprison him in our home. I’ll keep him in chains, locked in his own study, if he doesn’t agree to have his mind evaluated.”

  Thomas shook his head—we both knew that was a lie. A weak knock came at the door before he could respond. We both stared at the footman standing half in the hall and half inside the library, a flush creeping up his collar. I hoped he hadn’t been lingering there long. If anyone learned of Father’s potential identity as Jack the Ripper or the fact we’d suspected him and hadn’t turned him in, we’d all be in a world of trouble ourselves.

  “Dr. Wadsworth has requested your presence at Scotland Yard immediately, miss.” When Thomas and I shot each other glances, he amended, “Both of you.”

  I didn’t care what I looked like to the men standing around Superintendent Blackburn’s desk, as I covered my mouth with the back of my lace-gloved hand.

  The stench assaulting my senses was almost as bad as what the package contained. Possibly worse. I could deal with most anything gruesome and bloody; rotten meat, however, was something I feared I’d never get used to. No matter how many times I was forced into contact with the foul substance.

  “Most certainly it’s half a human kidney,” Uncle confirmed, though no one had asked. “While it’s impossible to tell for sure, we must put some validity to the letter that came with it. Miss Eddowes was missing a kidney. This is a human kidney. From the state of decay, it was taken around the same time as hers was and it’s from the left side. Same as our victim. I’ll have to examine it further in my laboratory, but from sight alone there seem to be some… similarities.”

  I swallowed my disgust down. Jack was coming undone, it seemed. Thomas passed the newest note from the murderer to me, averting his gaze as he did so. I wondered if he’d tell the police about my father. I wondered if I’d do the same if I were standing in his place. Guilt wrenched itself deep in my gut. Was I allowing sentimentality to stand in the way of justice? That made me as bad as the Ripper.

  Except… what if police had already discovered the identity? I stole a glance at Superintendent Blackburn. I knew nothing of him, really, and remained wary in his presence. Perhaps he’d already seen this organ the night it was removed from its owner. He was rather stone-faced given what my uncle was saying. Which made me wonder if Father committed these acts himself or if he had Blackburn carry out his dark deeds. Was his squeamish reaction at the double event a mere act of deception?

  I shook myself out of spiraling thoughts, relieved no one was paying me any mind. The letter was written in the same taunting red ink as the other two notes Jack had sent. I’d recognize that cursive in my nightmares, I’d gone over it so many times, trying to find similarities to my father’s own hand.

  From Hell.

  Mr. Lusk.

  Sor

  I send you half the Kidne I took from one woman and prasarved it for you tother piece I fried and ate it was very nise. I may send you the bloody knif that took it out if you only wate a whil longer

  Signed

  Catch me when you can

  Mishter Lusk

  George Lusk was my brother’s friend and also happened to be the loudest member of the vigilante group Nathaniel was part of, the Knights of Whitechapel. If Father was indeed Jack the Ripper, sending someone close to our family a piece of evidence was rather brazen. Then again, claiming to have eaten the other half of a human kidney sounded as though insanity had overtaken him.

  Cannibalism was a new low for the Whitechapel murderer.

  I laid the letter back on Blackburn’s cluttered desk. The cursive didn’t look like Father’s, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t taken pains to disguise it. Perhaps whatever evil dwelled inside him had its own handwriting.

  “I wonder,” I said aloud, not meaning to.

  Thomas motioned for me to speak, but I wasn’t quite ready to. Thoughts and theories were taking shape and forming in my mind. Perhaps if I offered something up, I could study Blackburn’s reaction for deceit. A few seconds later, I began again. “Seems a bit odd, don’t you think?”

  “No, Wadsworth,” Thomas said blandly, “sending a kidney through the mail is quite ordinary. I do it at least three times a week to remain fashionable. You ought to try it. Really impress the girls at tea.”

  I made a face at him. “What I mean is, let’s say he’s been killing women and trying to perform an organ transplant, why eat her kidney at all? Wouldn’t that be a waste of a harvested organ?”

  Blackburn’s color drained as if he were about to be sick. His reaction appeared genuine enough, but he’d fooled me before.

  He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s barely two o’clock and I swear I already could use a pint. Is that what you think, Dr. Wadsworth? Jack is using human organs to transplant or sell?”

  Uncle stared at the box, nodding absently. “I have a suspicion I cannot shake.” Uncle took his spectacles off, wiping them on the front of his jacket before securing them back on his face. “I fear he might’ve taken an extra kidney, but realized he didn’t need it, then decided to keep it from going to waste.”

  A shudder wracked my body. If Father was Jack the Ripper, where was he keeping the organs? It’s not as if they could be stored in jars in our icebox without the cooks and maids seeing them. Was that the true reason why he’d never dismissed Martha, our cook? Was she privy to his monstrous secrets? The thought of having slept in the same house where this kind of horror could have been taking shape a few rooms away was too much.

  Blackburn walked around his desk, dropping into the chair behind it and rubbing his eyes. “Perhaps running the estate as my father had wanted isn’t such a bad idea. I can handle a vast amount, but this is a bit much. How horrid can a life of leisure and politics be?”

  Thomas ignored the superintendent, seeking my uncle’s opinion out again. He narrowed his eyes, his angular features sharpening his every thought. “Are you saying he’s finished with the killings, then?”

  Uncle shook his head, and parts of my skin tried crawling away from my body. He had that bleak look in his eye, the one that spoke of worse things to follow. When he started touching his mustache, I wasn’t at all surprised by his next words. “I believe ther
e’s one final thing he’s in need of, then the murders may stop.”

  A police officer walked over to Superintendent Blackburn and handed him a file, whispering some message in his ear before departing as quickly as he’d come. Whatever he said couldn’t have been too important, as Blackburn tossed the paper onto the desk and fixed his gaze back on Uncle. “I’m not sure I want to hear any more, Dr. Wadsworth. But I’m afraid I do not have the luxury of ignorance. Do enlighten us.”

  I don’t know how, but I knew, with more certainty than I had any right to, exactly what Jack the Ripper was missing. It’d be the most impressive organ to transplant or steal. The words nearly gagged me on their way out, but I said them anyway. “A heart. He’ll need a heart before he’s through butchering women.”

  I felt Thomas staring at me, his gaze searing a hole through my conviction to remain silent, but couldn’t meet his eyes for fear I’d confess everything I suspected to the police right then and there. Consequences be damned.

  But the one thread of hope I held fast to was that Uncle hadn’t mentioned a thing about Father to police, either. I’d told him my suspicions last night in the laboratory, and though he was even more skeptical than I was, his face had paled.

  Uncle told me not to worry, that we’d uncover the truth soon enough. That Father was simply unwell and everything mounting up against him only a coincidence.

  Seeing the truth was never easy, especially when it revealed those closest to us could be monsters hidden in plain sight. If Uncle could hang on to a single string of belief, unraveling as quickly as it might be, that Father was innocent, then so could I.

  For now.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  A VIOLET FROM MOTHER’S GRAVE

  DR. JONATHAN WADSWORTH’S RESIDENCE,

  HIGHGATE

  8 NOVEMBER 1888

  I pulled the tattered navy dress from a trunk in Uncle’s attic; its stitches were coming loose at the seams and the smell of must filled the space as I shook it out in the pale moonlight.

  There was no hope of making it fashionable; too much time and not enough care had passed since it was first worn by Miss Emma Elizabeth.

  Uncle had gathered nearly all her belongings from a family no longer wanting to be associated with her, taking pains to leave things as she had, frozen in time as if they were captured in a photograph. Except with a thick covering of dust and a few too many hungry moths having had a fine dining experience over the last several years.

  The dress was a little too old, a little too ragged, a bit too big.

  If I were to wear this ghastly dress out, I’d look as if I belonged in the East End, begging for work to feed my addictions, and Aunt Amelia would surely perish on the spot. I doubted even Liza would be able to make it pretty.

  It was absolutely perfect.

  Thomas leaned against the door frame, arms crossed, watching me in that silent, calculating way that drove me mad.

  “I don’t see sense in what you’re doing, Wadsworth. Why not confront your father and be done with it? Sneaking about like a prostitute is by far the worst idea you’ve ever come up with. Congratulations,” he said, unlatching his arms and clapping slowly. “You’ve achieved something memorable, even if it’s ridiculous.”

  “I’ve almost crossed you off my suspect list.” I shook out another dull dress. Dust tickled my nose as I laid it down. In its day, the deep-green silk must have been grand. “That’s quite an achievement.”

  “Oh, yes,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Another of your fine ideas. As if I’d be messy enough to leave evidence behind. I’m with you practically day and night. Does that not absolve me from being a murderer? Or must we share a bed to prove my innocence? Actually… that might not be a terrible idea.”

  Ignoring him, I removed a pair of brown lace-up boots from the same leather trunk and inspected them closely. They looked to be around my size, so I added them to my costume pile. Thomas had started following me around two hours prior, milling about and offering up his opinions like sacrifices I didn’t care to accept.

  “We’ve done things your way for three solid weeks,” I reminded him. “Earning us nothing but mounds of frustration. Enough is enough, Thomas.”

  We’d tried hiding outside my house on Belgrave Square, camping out at all hours of the night, all times throughout the day, but never succeeded in catching Father coming or going. I’d even gone as far as etching his carriage for identification purposes, should we ever see it rolling about at night.

  It was as if he always knew when he was being watched, sensed it like a wolf being tracked by something mad enough to hunt it.

  Now it was time to test my theory out.

  “For your information,” I said, holding the green dress up, “I am not going as a prostitute. I’m simply blending in.”

  No amount of discussion would dissuade me from the path I’d chosen. If I couldn’t catch Father heading into Whitechapel, I’d plant myself there and wait for him to come to me. It was as fine an idea as any. One way or another, I was determined to figure out if Father was Jack the Ripper.

  Thomas muttered something too quiet for me to hear, then marched to an armoire standing solemnly in the corner of the attic, yanking the doors open and rummaging through it with a vengeance.

  “What in the name of the queen are you doing?” I asked, though he didn’t bother answering. Clothes flew over his shoulders as he tossed them out of his way, searching for something that fit his needs.

  “If you’ll not be reasoned with I shall have to sneak about with you. Clearly, I’ll need an old overcoat and trousers.” He made a sweeping motion over his person. “No one in their right mind will think me an East End resident looking as wonderful as I do. I may even don a wig.”

  “I am not in need of a haughty escort this evening.” I scowled even though he wasn’t looking. “I’m quite capable of taking care of myself.”

  “Oh, yes. How silly of me to overlook that.” Thomas snorted. “I imagine the women who lost their organs thought themselves quite above being slaughtered as well. They were likely saying, ‘It’s Friday. I shall go to the pub, find a bit of food, pay my board, then get murdered by a madman before the night’s through. How lovely.’”

  “He is my father,” I said through clenched teeth. “You honestly believe he’ll harm me? I do not think even he has a heart so black and rotten.”

  Thomas finally stopped flipping through the moth-eaten overcoats, turning his attention on me. His expression was thoughtful for a moment.

  “If Jack the Ripper is your father. You still haven’t found definitive proof. You’re basing all your bravado on the assumption you are, indeed, related to this monster,” he said. “I do not think you incapable, Audrey Rose. But I do know he’s murdered women who were alone. What, exactly, do you think you’ll do if you discover you’re wrong and there’s a knife pressed against your throat?”

  “I’ll—”

  He moved across the room so fast, I barely had time to register the object against the sensitive skin covering my throat. Thomas kissed my cheek, then slowly drew back, our eyes meeting. My heart hammered a panicked beat when his attention fell to my lips and lingered there. I couldn’t tell if I wanted to kiss him or kill him. Finally, he stepped back, letting the candle clatter to the floor, then picked up a crude walking stick as if nothing had happened.

  “Interesting,” he murmured, admiring the stick.

  Kill him, then. I definitely wanted to murder him. I clutched my throat with both hands, breathing hard. “Have you lost your mind? You could’ve killed me!”

  “With a candle?” His brow quirked up. “Honestly, I’m flattered you think me so capable. Alas, I highly doubt I could do much damage with such a weapon.”

  “You know what I mean,” I said. “If it were a knife I’d be dead!”

  “Precisely the point of our little exercise, Wadsworth.”

  He didn’t sound or appear the least bit sorry for scaring the life from me. He crossed his arms over hi
s chest, staring me down. Stubborn mule.

  “Imagine yourself alone in the East End,” he said. “Freezing like that would’ve cost you your life. You must be quick to action, always thinking your way out of any predicament. It all boils down to your blasted emotions clouding your judgment. If I were to do it again, what might you do differently?”

  “Stab you with the heel of my boot.”

  Thomas’s shoulders relaxed. I hadn’t noticed the tension in them until it was gone. “Good. Now you’re using that alluring brain of yours, Wadsworth. Step on the insole of someone’s foot as hard as you can. There are so many nerve endings, it’ll be a decent enough distraction, buying valuable time.”

  His gaze traveled over me swiftly. It was more an assessment of my attire than a flirtation, but my cheeks heated all the same.

  “Now, then. Let’s get you ready for a casual night of street walking and be gone. Oh, you can thank me for preparing you any time now,” he said, struggling to keep the smile off his face. “I wouldn’t protest a kiss on the cheek. You know, return the favor and all.”

  I glared so hard I feared my face would get stuck that way. “If you ever try anything like that again, I will stab you in the foot, Thomas Cresswell.”

  “Ah. There’s something about you saying my name that sounds like a blessed curse,” he said. “If you can work up a good hand gesture to go along with it, that’d be exceptional.”

  I threw a boot across the room, but he’d managed to slip out and close the door before it made contact. I set my jaw, loathing him with each beat of my heart.

  Though, he was right. I needed to be more emotionally prepared for my date with Jack. I walked over to the door, picked up the boot, and began dressing. The clouds were rolling in, covering the last sliver of the moon.

  It was the perfect night to hunt a murderer on the streets of Whitechapel.