by Amy Cross
After a moment, I realize that Sanderson has stopped scribbling, and that he is still staring at me.
“Well?” I ask. “What's the matter, man? Out with it.”
“Well, it's just...”
He hesitates for a moment, looking around at the dead women, before turning to me again.
“There are so few of them,” he adds.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean we have scores of dead bodies, but according to you less than a handful were killed by the real Jack the Ripper.”
“Indeed,” I reply, “that is the case. The rest were murdered by copycats, or simply died in the course of their everyday lives. Finding those who died at the hands of the Ripper is like searching for diamonds in the mud. They are there, but one needs to look carefully. One must have an expert eye for these things.”
“We have never had a killer like this before,” he explains, still seeming more than a little baffled. “Not somebody who carried out such a sustained campaign of murder.”
“Of course you have,” I say with a sigh. “It is merely that this is the first time that you have noticed.”
“How do you mean, Doctor Grazier?”
“The streets of London are filled with killers,” I remind him. “Why, I am sure there must be murders every night, especially in the lowly areas around the docks. But do you investigate those murders fully, Inspector Sanderson?”
“Some are put down to brawls and drunken fights,” he admits, a little reticently.
“Precisely,” I continue. “There are so many murders, one scarcely knows where to begin sorting through them all. But this Jack the Ripper fellow has focused your attention, has he not? He has made you take the whole thing far more seriously.”
“I suppose the letters made us sit up and take notice,” he replies.
“The letters?”
“The letters taunting the police. Most of them are fakes, of course, but we think a couple are from the real killer. On account of information that only he'd know.”
I feel a shudder pass through my chest as I recall Jack's eagerness to pen missive after missive to the investigators. In truth, I rather distracted him from that purpose, but it was the letters that excited his interest when he first came to my home.
“I cannot help you there,” I tell Sanderson. “I would not put too much stock in the letters, if I were you.”
“But they tell us something about the killer,” he explains. “The ones that were really from him, I mean. Some of them went into great detail about specific things that only the murderer could have known.” He sighs. “He must be a madman. Skilled, yes, and educated, but utterly, utterly insane. Some of the fellows here think that we can analyze the handwriting and the structure of the sentences, that sort of thing, and get to understand the killer's mind a little better.”
“Understand his mind?” I reply, furrowing my brow. “Whatever can that mean?”
“There are some new theories coming in from the rest of Europe,” he continues. “Apparently you can tell a lot about a man if you study his mind. There's a word for it, psycho-something. Doesn't make much sense to me, but smarter folk round these parts reckon it might be useful. I think the idea is that people give stuff away about themselves, Sir, without intending to. They sort of let things slip through body language.”
“The whole thing sounds like poppycock,” I say with a sigh. “You can tell a great deal about a man from what he says, and from how he comports himself, but there are limits.”
“But the depths of the mind -”
“The human mind is by its very nature a shallow thing,” I add, interrupting him. “A man says something, and he does something, and that is the end of the matter. If one tries to go rooting around in other aspects, one will surely end up wasting one's time. And that, Inspector Sanderson, is advice that you would do well to take and consider.”
“Tell me, Doctor Grazier... Did you ever see any sign that Doctor Culpepper could be so deranged?”
“I did not,” I reply, and I have to stifle a smile as I think back to Culpepper's quiet, sedate manner. “He showed no hint of it at all. Indeed, the man appeared to be utterly devoid of any particularly strong characteristic. In any direction.”
“He never mentioned murdering people, or anything like that?”
I can scarcely stifle a laugh. “No, Inspector Sanderson,” I manage to say finally, “he did not. That sort of talk, I'd wager, would most certainly have caught my attention. Truly, Doctor Thomas Culpepper was a weak and feeble fellow, the type who'd barely say boo to a goose.”
“He was the most heinous killer in England's history,” Sanderson says darkly, “and I find it difficult to imagine that he shall ever be surpassed.”
“Then you, Sir,” I reply, “should study human nature in a little more depth. Because no matter what you think of this Ripper, I can assure you that there will always be worse people out there, conducting their work in private, until the whole of human civilization comes crashing to the ground. In that regard, Jack the Ripper is surely just the tip of a very nasty iceberg.”
Chapter Eight
Maddie
Today
I don't know how long I've spent sitting in complete silence, staring into the darkness, but it must be at least ten minutes. And so far, there have been no more sounds.
Behind my back, my fingertips are still touching the symbols that I've found carved into the stone pillar. I've managed to make out a square so far, and some kind of triangle, and various lines that don't seem to form any particular shape. Still, I've felt just enough to be sure these are like the symbols I found in other parts of the house. I still don't have any idea what they mean, but it's become increasingly clear that someone was obsessed with carving them all around the place. Doctor Charles Grazier, perhaps? Or was he really so superstitious? Maybe there was somebody else here in the house with him.
It's also becoming clear that Alex and Nick aren't coming down to reveal their prank any time soon. In fact, I'm starting to worry that for once they're being serious. Either that, or they've forgotten me.
I've already given up trying to get the ropes loose. They're tied way too tight, and every time I try to pull one wrist loose, I only end up making the other worse. I've also given up trying to shout for help, because I'm sure nobody would be able to hear me from all the way down here. My only hope right now – sitting in darkness and not even able to see my own knees thanks to the complete absence of any light – is that Matt's going to come back soon with reinforcements. I don't want to rely on him, but he's the only chance I've got. Matt's smart. Matt wouldn't let himself get tricked by Alex and Nick. Matt knows what he's doing.
And then there's the rustling sound.
For the past few minutes, a very subtle rustling sound has begun to pick up, out there in the darkness. I think it's coming from somewhere to my left, far off by the wall near the counters, but it's difficult to be certain. What I can tell is that something seems to be persistently moving about, or maybe the sound is more like a constant low whisper. I keep telling myself that there's probably just a rat down here – not that a rat makes me feel any better – but the sound is starting to make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
There's no such thing as ghosts, I tell myself.
Somehow, though, those words no longer feel quite so reassuring.
A few minutes later, however, the sound fades away.
I don't have a clue how I'm going to get out of here, but one thing's certain: I can't just sit here like a complete idiot, waiting for someone to come and untie me. I start pulling on the ropes again, even though the whole situation feels completely hopeless and despite the chafing burns that are already developing around my wrists. I've tried telling myself that there has to be a way out of here, that there's no such thing as an impossible situation, but I can't quite get myself to believe any of that just yet. If there is a way out, maybe I'm just too dumb to figure it out.
And th
en, suddenly, the whispering sound returns, this time just behind my right shoulder and much, much closer.
“He was a good man,” a voice says. “Such a good man.”
I freeze, certain that I actually heard those words. A moment later I hear the rustling sound again, before the voice returns behind my left shoulder.
“He was the best man, but he became obsessed. He thought he could defeat death itself.”
I turn and look into the darkness, and now my heart is pounding.
“Who's there?” I ask, and I can hear the fear in my own voice. I'm starting to shiver, too, as the temperature seems to plummet all around me. “Who are you?”
I wait, but now there's only silence.
“Alex, is that you?” I continue, although I already know the answer. Alex definitely left the basement, and besides the voice sounded nothing like her. It was older somehow, although definitely female, and it sounded like someone pretty posh. Still, it's the only explanation.
“Alex, this isn't funny!” I hiss, letting my anger through into my voice. “Let me out of here right now!”
I wait a moment longer, and then I turn the other way, staring out into the darkness.
“Alex!” I shout. “You're being -”
“He didn't mean to hurt them,” the voice says suddenly, coming from directly in front of me.
“Who are you?” I yell, pulling back against the pillar. I'm trembling more and more, and I swear the temperature is still dropping. “What do you want?”
“He wasn't thinking properly,” the voice continues, sounding a little quieter now but also a little more sorrowful, almost as if the person is about to burst into tears. “I told him not to let it change him, but he couldn't stop. He couldn't accept defeat. He let the desperation and the bitterness seep into his heart, and then it froze and cracked his goodness.”
“Who are you?” I ask again. “What are you talking about? I can't see you.”
“He believed he could do anything,” the voice says, suddenly coming closer again. At the same time, the air in front of me becomes even colder. I'm shivering so badly, my teeth are starting to chatter. “He let it drive him mad. I tried to stop him but he wouldn't listen, not even after it was too late. And then at the end, what he did to that poor baby...”
I wait, too scared to move an inch.
Finally I open my mouth to ask “Who are you?” again, but at the last moment I stop myself as I realize that I need to try a different approach. Yelling and crying out hasn't helped at all, and I haven't been able to escape, so there's only one other possibility.
“My name's Maddie,” I say cautiously. “Maddie Harper. Can you help me get out of here? I'll do anything you want, anything I can do, but can you please help me?”
I wait, and now the cold air seems to move slightly, as if somebody is so close that I could almost touch them.
“Such a good man,” the voice whispers softly, sounding closer but also weaker. “He never would have done that to the woman and her baby, not unless he'd lost his mind. You have to believe me. And now he won't speak to me. He knows what he did, and he hides in the shadows. He won't even show his face, and I love him so much. Despite everything he did, he's still my Charles...”
The voice fades, and slowly the temperature starts creeping back up to normal.
“Who are you?” I ask for what must be the fifth or sixth time. I look around, but still all I see is absolute pitch darkness. “Come back! Whoever you are, I need to talk to you! I need your help!”
The only answer, however, is silence.
“Can you call someone?” I continue, with tears in my eyes again. “If you can't untie me, can you go and get help?”
I start pulling on the ropes again, but my wrists are still bound far too tight. I'm starting to feel a stronger sense of panic and – although I keep reminding myself that there's no such thing as ghosts – I can't help thinking that the voice didn't belong to anyone who's supposed to be in this house. I even try to persuade myself that I imagined the whole thing, that somehow I've begun to experience aural hallucinations, but I can't quite get that idea to stick. Instead, I start frantically pulling at the ropes, ignoring the pain in my wrists as I tug harder and harder, trying everything I can think of to get myself loose. Finally, as I start to feel beads of blood running down from my wrists and onto the palms of my hand, I let out a sigh as I lean back against the pillar and try to think of another idea.
I have to get out of here.
I don't care what it takes, but I have to find a way.
At the same time, I have no idea what I'm supposed to try next. Tears are welling in my eyes, and I'm starting to worry that Alex and Nick might just leave me down here. What if they take everything they need from the house and just let me starve to death? Then again, they'll need to be able to show people into the place, so I guess they can't just let me rot down here, in which case...
Suddenly I realize that they might be planning something worse, and for a moment the absolute worst case scenario floods into my mind. What if they kill me, to get me out of the way? I try to tell myself that they're not that crazy, but the truth is that I don't really know anything about Nick at all, and I'm worried that he seems to have a lot of influence over Alex. And while I don't want to believe that Alex would get involved with anything truly awful, I can't help thinking back to something she said before she left the basement:
“If you're sitting there thinking your boyfriend'll come back with the cavalry, then think again. While I've been dealing with you, Nick made sure to slow your buddy down.”
What exactly does that mean?
What have they done to Matt?
What -
“What can we do?” a man's voice asks suddenly, somewhere nearby in the darkness. “Can we sedate her?”
I freeze, listening to the silence that has fallen now. I want to believe that the voice was another hallucination, but deep down I already know that it was real. My heart is pounding, and I know that the voice didn't come from Nick. It was too deep, too full, just different in every way.
And then, suddenly, it returns:
“Perhaps we should screw her mouth shut. Or wrap wire around her jaw.”
Chapter Nine
Doctor Charles Grazier
Thursday October 4th, 1888
I cut.
***
Bells ring out from a nearby church as I make my way along the street. Whereas usually I find London to be rather overcrowded, this afternoon I am actually enjoying a perambulation through the fair city. Indeed, for the first time in my life I feel almost as if I am one of Monseiur Baudelaire's people, a flaneur, enjoying the serious work of walking along street after street. Perhaps some inner comfort has afforded me this opportunity.
After leaving Scotland Yard, I make my way along Whitehall and through Trafalgar Square, then up through Soho and further to Fitzrovia. It was not my intention, upon leaving the police offices, to walk for such a long distance, but I find myself lost in thought and unable to even contemplate summoning a ride home. I surprise myself a few minutes later, when I actually stop and go into the Langham, where I spend an hour enjoying the most exquisite afternoon tea. This is not something I would usually do, but somehow I feel today as if I want to be around people. I sit listening to the conversations of everyone around me, although many of them are gossiping about the latest murders. Still, the tea is excellent, and when I finally leave I do something that would usually horrify me: I leave a gratuity for the waiter, as a reward for his fine service.
Once I am underway again, Fitzrovia gives way to Regent's Park, by which point I realize that I am rather straying from the route home. I deviate west and pass by the British Library on my way through to Clerkenwell. I am now not too distant from home, so I take a detour past the market at Spitalfields before noticing that my legs are becoming rather tired. I am an older man, physically, even if my mind remains youthful.
And then, stopping near Brick Lane, I suddenl
y realize that I can hear a whispering voice behind me. I walk on a few paces, determined to shake the fellow off, but the whispering continues and finally I have no choice but to turn and address whoever seems to be dogging my tracks.
Except that there is nobody to be seen.
I look around, but I am quite alone here on the street. Unnerved but determined to enjoy my walk some more, I set off in the direction of Vallance Road. Night is beginning to fall, and in my role as a flaneur I cannot help but note the change in the streets as those who work by day give way to those who work by night. Perhaps once all of this fuss is over, I shall dedicate my remaining years to the task of writing a biography of these streets. While some men strive furiously to write books about people of note, I shall write a book about the streets of London. Each shall be given its own section, and I shall attempt to draw out the individual character of each. Catherine can assist me, and -
Suddenly hearing the whisper again, I turn and look back the way I have come.
There is still no sign of anyone, other than a few passersby who pay me no attention, but then a moment later I spot a woman watching me from the shadowed alley that runs down the side of a butcher's shop. Whoever she is, this woman has her eyes fixed on me completely, and there is something about her stare that makes me feel rather unsettled. Her eyes seem very dark and perhaps even sunken, and her color is distinctly pale. Indeed, I lower my spectacles for a moment, just to be sure that the tinted glass is not deceiving me, and now I see that the woman is indeed somehow set apart from her surroundings. A gentle breeze is blowing along the street, but this woman's dress seems entirely untroubled.
And still she watches me.