I watched Uncle absently twist his mustache while doing his best to carve a path in the carpet. If he kept walking back and forth, I feared he’d wear through the wooden floorboards soon enough.
“Why position the body in such a manner?”
It was the same question he’d been asking himself since arriving from the latest murder over two hours ago. I had no theories to offer him. I was still trying to divorce myself from the abhorrent diagram he’d sketched on the chalkboard earlier.
My attention drifted to the disfigured image he’d created, drawn against my will like a magnet to the unimaginable gore.
I studied the words scrawled above the detailed drawing. Miss Annie Chapman, aged forty-seven. Approximately five feet tall. Blue eyes. Shoulder-length dark brown, wavy hair. An entire life distilled into five basic physical descriptions.
She’d been murdered on Hanbury Street. The very street I’d found myself on late last night. A chill worked its way deep into my bones, settling between my vertebrae like pigeons roosting on a clothesline.
Mere hours separated her untimely end and my dance with danger. Was it possible I’d been so close to the murderer? Nathaniel was right to be worried; I’d practically run into Leather Apron’s all-too-eager arms by sneaking around like a child during the witching hour.
Should anything happen to me, Father would lose what was left of his mind, locking himself away in that study until he finally died of a broken heart.
“What of tossing her intestines about her shoulder?” Uncle paused before the diagram, staring past it at a memory not captured on the board. “Was it a message for the inspectors, or the easiest way to get what organ he sought?”
“Perhaps,” I offered.
Uncle turned to me, astonished, as if he’d forgotten I was there. He shook his head. “Lord knows why I allow you to learn such unseemly things for a girl.”
On occasion, Uncle would mutter such annoyances. I’d learned to ignore them for the most part, knowing he’d forget his hesitations quickly enough. “Because you love me?”
Uncle sighed. “Yes. And a brain such as yours shouldn’t be wasted on frippery and gossip, I suppose.”
My focus found the drawing again. The woman who’d taken my measurements earlier resembled the deceased woman’s description nearly perfectly.
Keeping up the pretense of my whereabouts for Father, I’d stopped by the dressmaker’s shop on the way in, picking out rich fabrics and new styles to be sent to the house. I’d decided on a walking dress made of deep navy with gold and cream stripes.
The bustle was smaller than my others and the hefty material would be perfect for the cooler weather. My absolute favorite was a tea gown I’d chosen, to wear when receiving visitors. It was the color of spun sugar with tiny roses embroidered along its front. A soft pink robe completed the loose-fitting gown, cascading to the floor.
Honestly, I couldn’t wait for them to be ready. Just because I studied cadavers didn’t mean I couldn’t appreciate beautiful garments. My thoughts returned to the matter at hand. Had the seamstress not been reputably employed, she very well could have ended up on the streets and eventually in Uncle’s laboratory, too.
Another cold corpse to slice into.
I crossed the room to where a tiny table stood nestled in the corner; a maid had brought in a tray of tea and a platter of scones with raspberry jam. I poured myself a cup of Earl Grey, adding a sugar cube with ornate silver tongs—the very opulence juxtaposed to our new case was nauseating.
I prepared a second cup for Uncle, leaving the scones untouched. The sanguine color of the preserves was revolting—I feared I’d never be hungry again.
Uncle jerked himself out of his next reverie when I handed him the steaming cup. The sweet herbal scent mixed with bergamot transfixed his attention for a few precious beats before he continued mumbling and pacing.
“Where is that blasted boy?”
He checked the brass—anatomically correct—heart clock mounted on the wall, frustration knotting his brow. It was hard to tell if he was more annoyed by the timepiece itself, or by Mr. Thomas Cresswell.
The clock was a gift from my father, a long-ago kindness he’d shown Uncle upon completing his medical degree. Father used to craft toys and clocks before Mother died, another joy her death had stolen from him.
Whereas I shunned religion for its abandonment, Father shunned his brother and science for their failure to save Mother. When she died, Father claimed Uncle hadn’t tried hard enough.
Conversely, Uncle thought Father relied too heavily on a miracle he couldn’t offer and was a fool to blame him for Mother’s death. I couldn’t imagine ever hating my brother that much and pitied them both for their animosity.
I shifted my focus to the time. Thomas had left over an hour earlier, inquiring after the members of his vigilante group. Uncle hoped one of them might have seen something suspicious because they were posted—like boys playing medieval knights—throughout Whitechapel until four in the morning.
Personally, I wondered why Thomas wouldn’t already know if they’d come across something. That was the whole point of their little group.
When another half hour ticked by and Mr. Cresswell still hadn’t returned, Uncle was practically mad with unrest. It seemed even the corpses and dead things surrounding us held their collective breaths, not wanting to wake the sleeping darkness from within him. I loved and respected Uncle, but his passion often toed the line of madness when he was under pressure.
Ten minutes later the door creaked open, revealing Thomas’s tall, silhouetted form. Uncle practically vaulted across the laboratory, a rabid hunger for knowledge in his eyes. I swear if I had looked closely enough, I’d have seen white foam collecting at the corners of his mouth. When he got like this, it was easy to see why some people thought him odd, my brother included.
“Well, then? What news have you? Who knows what?”
A servant removed Thomas’s long overcoat and hat before disappearing up the narrow staircase. Those uninterested in forensic studies never liked lingering down here for long. Too many dark and hideous things lurked in glass jars and on stone slabs.
Thomas eyed the drawing on the board before answering, purposefully not looking in Uncle’s direction. “No one saw or heard a thing out of the ordinary, I’m afraid.”
I narrowed my eyes. Thomas didn’t sound very upset by this news.
“However,” he added, “I tagged along with the inspectors while they made some inquiries. Paltry as they might be. This one jester pelted me with questions regarding your work, but I didn’t offer much. Said he might call on you later this evening.” He shook his head. “Screws and gears were discarded near the body. And… a few witnesses have stepped forth.”
Uncle inhaled sharply. “And?”
“Unfortunately, the best description we received came from a woman who saw only a man from behind. She stated that the two of them were speaking, but she couldn’t make out more than the deceased agreeing to something. As she was a prostitute, I’m sure you can fill in the lurid details.”
“Thomas!” Uncle shot a glance in my direction; only then did my classmate acknowledge me standing in the room. “There’s a young lady present.”
I rolled my eyes. Leave it to Uncle Jonathan to worry about prostitution being too much for my feminine persuasion, yet think nothing of me seeing a body spliced open before I’d even had my luncheon.
“Sincere apologies, Miss Wadsworth. I hadn’t seen you there.” Thomas was nothing but a filthy liar. He cocked his head, a sly smile tugging at the corners of his lips as if he were privy to my thoughts. “I did not mean to offend you.”
“I am hardly offended, Mr. Cresswell.” I gave him a pointed look. “On the contrary, I am highly perturbed we’re even discussing such fatuous things when another woman has been slain so brutally.” I ticked off each injury on my fingers, accentuating my point. “Gutted with her innards tossed over a shoulder. Posed with her legs up, knees facing outwa
rd. Not to mention… her missing reproductive organs.”
“Yes,” Thomas agreed, nodding, “that was rather unpleasant, now that you mention it.”
“You speak as if you’ve witnessed it firsthand, Mr. Cresswell.”
“Perhaps I have.”
“Thomas, please,” Uncle scolded. “Do not goad her.”
I turned my annoyance on Uncle. “By all means, let’s continue wasting time speaking of my potential discomfort at her occasional profession. What is your issue with prostitutes anyhow? It’s not her fault society is so unjust to women.”
“I—” Uncle Jonathan stepped back, placing a palm to his forehead as if he might be able to rub my tirade out with a few soothing strokes. Thomas had the gall to wink at me over the cup of tea he’d poured himself.
“Very well.” He raised an exaggerated eyebrow at Uncle. “The young lady has made her case, Doctor. From this point forward I shall pretend she’s as capable as a man.”
I glared harder. “Pretend I am as capable as a man? Please, sir, do not value me so little!”
“Also,” he continued before I exploded, setting his teacup down on its matching blue and white Staffordshire saucer, “as we’re now treating each other like equals and peers, I insist on you calling me Thomas, or Cresswell. Silly formalities needn’t apply to equals such as we.” He grinned at me in a way that could be considered a flirtation.
Not to be outdone, I lifted my chin. “If that’s what you want, then, you’re permitted to call me Audrey Rose. Or Wadsworth.”
Uncle stared up at the ceiling rose, sighing heavily. “Back to our murder, then,” he said, removing spectacles from a leather satchel and securing them on his face. “What else have either of you got for me besides the promise of a splitting headache?”
“I have a new theory on why this act was more violent than the last,” I said slowly, a new puzzle piece slipping into place in my mind. “It occurred to me the scenes appear to be tainted with… revenge.”
For once, I held their attention—as if I were a corpse with secrets to divulge.
“During our lesson you said first-time killers most likely start by murdering those they know.” Uncle nodded. “Well, what if the murderer knew Miss Nichols and couldn’t really let himself go as wild as he’d hoped? It’s as if he wanted to exact revenge, but couldn’t bring himself to do it once it came down to it. Miss Nichols was not as viciously mutilated as Miss Annie Chapman had been, leading me to believe Miss Chapman was unknown to our murderer.”
“Interesting theory, Niece.” Uncle absently stroked his mustache. “Perhaps Miss Nichols was murdered by her husband or the man she was living with.”
Thomas took up my uncle’s favorite habit of pacing in a wide circle around the room. With each movement he made, the scent of formalin and bergamot wafted through the air, creating a strange aroma that was both unsettling and comforting.
“Why is he taking their organs, though?” he muttered to himself. I watched silently as the gears twisted and ground their way through the maze of his brain. He was fascinating to study, no matter how much I pretended to detest that fact.
As if a light had illuminated the dark, he snapped his fingers. “He has a deep hatred for women, for what they represent to him, or something from his past. Somewhere along the line, a woman disappointed him greatly.”
“Why attack prostitutes?” I asked, ignoring Uncle as he cringed at my improper word choice.
“First, they’re easy, opportunity-wise. They also follow men into dark places eagerly.” Thomas walked closer, his attention landing on me for the briefest moment before moving on to the cadaver. “Maybe he fears the threat they pose. Or perhaps he’s some sort of religious zealot, ridding the world of whores and harlots.”
Uncle slammed his hands down on the table, causing a specimen jar to slosh onto the wooden surface. “That’s enough! It’s improper enough to be teaching Audrey Rose such things, we needn’t use vulgarity in the process.”
I sighed. I’d never understand the way a man’s mind worked. My gender didn’t handicap me. Yet I was blessed that Uncle was modern enough to allow my apprenticeship with him, and so I would tolerate these minimal annoyances.
“I apologize, sir.” Thomas cleared his throat. “But I believe if your niece can handle dissecting a human, she can handle intelligent conversation without fainting. Her intellect, though nowhere near as vast as mine, may prove useful.”
Thomas cleared his throat again, preparing himself for Uncle’s backlash, but my uncle quietly relented. I couldn’t help staring, open-mouthed, at him. He’d actually defended me. In that annoying, roundabout way of his. But still. Seemed I wasn’t the only one experiencing growing respect.
“Very well. Do go on.”
Thomas glanced at me, then took a deep breath.
“He loathes these creatures of the night. Loathes they’re alive, selling themselves. I wager the one he loves or loved has likely left him. Perhaps he feels betrayed in a way.” Thomas picked his tea back up, taking a careful sip before setting it down again. “I wouldn’t be surprised if his wife or betrothed committed suicide—the ultimate act of leaving him.”
Uncle, returning quickly to his scientific mind-set, nodded. “He also feels he’s entitled to take what he wants. Literally. He paid for it, after all. In his eyes, he’s telling these woman exactly what he’s after, therefore they’re willing participants in his…”
“Murders.” A sick feeling tied bows in my stomach. Someone was running about the streets tricking women into agreeing to be butchered. “Is it possible he’s living out a fantasy?” I asked, thinking aloud. “Perhaps he’s trying to play God.”
Thomas almost fell over from stopping so short. He twisted on his heel and crossed the room in a few short strides. Clutching my elbows, he kissed my cheek, rendering me both speechless and scarlet.
My focus shot to my uncle as I touched my cheek, but he said nothing of this inappropriate behavior; his mind was latched on to murder.
“You’re brilliant, Audrey Rose,” Thomas said, eyes glittering with admiration. He held my gaze a moment too long to be polite. “That’s got to be it! We’re dealing with someone who thinks himself a god of sorts.”
“Well done, both of you.” Uncle’s eyes shone with renewed hope and near certainty. “We’ve secured a possible motive.”
“Which is what?” I asked, not fully following the motive they were talking about. I was having difficulty thinking of anything other than Thomas’s lips on my cheek, and the grotesqueness of our conversation.
Uncle inhaled deeply. “Our murderer is using his religious views to determine these women’s fate. I would be unsurprised if he were some closet crusader or perhaps he’s a failed clergyman, killing in the name of God.”
A new realization sat heavy upon my breast. “Which means there could be more victims.” And a lot more blood before this was through.
Uncle shared a haunted look with Thomas, then me. Words needn’t be said.
Scotland Yard would laugh us into the asylum if we went to them with this theory. And who would blame them? What would we say—“A mad priest or clergyman is on the loose, killing because God ordained it, and all of London won’t be safe until we find a way to stop him”?
My uncle was famous, but people still gossiped behind his back. It wouldn’t take much for him to be seen as a man driven to murder from picking apart the dead like a carrion scavenger. People would cross themselves and say a prayer he lived out his days peacefully in a faraway place, preferably in solitary confinement.
Thomas and I wouldn’t fare much better in the vote of public opinion. Our work was considered a desecration of the dead.
“It’s essential we tell no one of this,” Uncle said at last, removing his spectacles and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Not Nathaniel. Nor friends or classmates. At least not until we can prove ourselves to the police. For now, I want you both to scour the evidence we’ve collected. There has to be some clue we’
re missing, anything at all we can use to identify the perpetrator before he strikes again.”
The murderer truly must be a madman if he thought what he was doing was helpful or righteous. And that thought was more terrifying than any other.
A knock came at the thick wooden door, followed by a servant bobbing a quick curtsy at my uncle. “Mr. Nathaniel Wadsworth is in the parlor, sir. Says it’s urgent he see his sister straightaway.”
SIX
DEN OF SIN
DR. JONATHAN WADSWORTH’S PARLOR,
HIGHGATE
8 SEPTEMBER 1888
Nathaniel was pale as a corpse when I rushed into Uncle’s stuffy parlor.
The dark greens and blue swirls of the wallpaper were meant to inspire a sense of tranquility, but did little to calm my brother. Sweat trickled down his brow, staining a ring around the starched collar of his shirt. His hair was as wild as his eyes; severe dark circles marred his normally flawless complexion. My brother hadn’t slept all night, it seemed, but the sorry state of his hair worried me the most.
I gathered my skirts and collided with him halfway across the room, ignoring the way the boning on my corset dug painfully into my ribs. He wrapped me into an uncomfortably tight embrace, tucking his chin to my neck and breathing deeply.
“You’re all right,” he whispered, half mad. “Thank the heavens, you’re all right.”
I pulled back slightly, peering into his eyes. “Of course, I am, Nathaniel. Why would you assume I wasn’t?”
“Forgive me, Sister. I just learned of the second murder and where it occurred. I knew the victim wasn’t you, but couldn’t shake the sense of foreboding gripping my heart.” He swallowed hard. “Imagine my worry. You haven’t the best history when it comes to sound judgment. I feared you’d been lured away someplace dreadful. The day has already been unkind to our family. I couldn’t help fearing the worst.”
“Why wouldn’t you think of finding me here sooner?” I asked, clutching the last unraveling thread of my patience. How infuriating having to deal with such doubt all the time. If I were a man, Nathaniel certainly wouldn’t be treating me as if I were incapable of looking after myself. “You know I spend most of my time with Uncle. Surely you can’t have been running aimlessly around the streets all afternoon. And what has the day done to our family that’s so horrid?”