by Jill Jones
Jonathan started to return to his notes when his eye caught the gaze of an attractive woman sitting across the aisle from the heckler. She seemed amused at his discomfort. Wishing she’d trade places with him, he struggled to pick up the thread of his presentation
“As I was saying, the third reason Jack the Ripper remains so notorious is simply that he was never caught. Some say he was a Polish Jew from Whitechapel named Kosminski who had a reputation for hating women. Others suspected Michael Ostrog, a Russian doctor and a convict who later was put in an insane asylum as a homicidal maniac. A third favorite was Montague John Druitt, a young doctor from a good family whose body was found in the Thames in December after the murders had ceased.
“Our own favorite mystery author, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, submitted that Jack the Ripper was really Jill the Ripper and put forth the theory that the killings were the work of a mad midwife. And of course, there is the pet theory that the Ripper was Prince Albert Victor Edward, the Duke of Clarence, grandson to Queen Victoria and the future king of England. In the 1980s, a diary surfaced, supposedly written by the Ripper, and the name of James Maybrick, a merchant from Liverpool, was bandied about for a while as the murderer, but the diary is now believed to be a hoax.
“The fact is that, in spite of all investigation and speculation, the identity of Jack the Ripper remains a mystery.”
An hour and a half later, after wading through the details of the murders and the difficulties faced by the police at the time, Jonathan stepped down for a lunch break. From the enthusiastic applause, he gathered he’d at least managed to hold his audience. His relief at being out of the spotlight was short-lived, however, as he was immediately surrounded by members of the audience, all asking eager and surprisingly intelligent questions.
With the exception of the heckler, it would seem he had misjudged these people, Jonathan thought. He’d expected eccentric dilettantes. Instead, he found himself facing educated, erudite thinkers, some of whom knew a great deal about sleuthing. Suddenly, he hoped he hadn’t offended any of them with his rather elementary presentation, and he made a mental note to elevate the tone of his speech after lunch.
He saw Janeece making her way through the crowd, and he gave her a broad smile. Perhaps she would disentangle him from the crush. But she had someone in tow.
“Inspector Blake,” she said in her breathy manner, “I want you to meet someone.” She thrust a small, quite attractive although obviously vexed woman at him. The same woman whose eye he had caught earlier. “This is Victoria Thomas, the FBI profiler I mentioned. Ms. Thomas, may I introduce Detective Inspector Jonathan Blake?”
Victoria Thomas looked nothing like his notion of an FBI agent, certainly not like someone in the seriously gruesome business of criminal profiling. She was petite and feminine, with a delicate bone structure that sculpted her face into lines of classic beauty. A pale silk blouse softened the lines of the expensive-looking claret-colored suit she wore. Her dark brown hair was arranged in a sleek but attractive twist on top of her head, as if in an effort to lend height to her slight but most appealing figure.
Jonathan cleared his throat. The weekend had suddenly become more interesting.
Then he looked into her eyes. They were the color of dark honey, with flecks of emerald embedded in the amber, and they fairly shimmered with irritation. He guessed she didn’t like being herded along by Janeece Fairchild. For that, he couldn’t blame her. He offered his hand. “Ms. Thomas. Welcome to London.” The cool slimness of her hand in his had a surprisingly unsettling effect on him.
“Thank you, Mr. Blake,” she said, withdrawing her hand after a brief but firm handshake. “It was an…interesting presentation.”
It sounded on the surface like a polite compliment, but Jonathan wasn’t sure. He was always suspicious when someone used the word “interesting” as a descriptive adjective. Something could be interesting without being particularly good.
“I appreciate that,” he said, choosing to believe she had meant it in a positive way. “It means a great deal coming from someone with your knowledge and background.”
She gazed up at him, a hint of sardonic humor in her eyes. “I wouldn’t think you’d put much stock in what a profiler thought. I take it from your presentation this morning that you consider scientific method the only valid approach to criminal investigation.”
Her words were softened by a smile, but he heard the challenge behind them. Jonathan was caught off guard by her thinly veiled hostility, and it surprised him. He hadn’t meant to offend her or anyone else. He was only presenting things the way he saw them. He didn’t want to enter into a debate on investigative styles at the moment, but he felt compelled to defend his beliefs.
“Yes, scientific method is the most infallible approach to solving a crime. Facts don’t lie, Ms. Thomas. They are not vulnerable to the mistakes that happen when human emotion gets in the way.”
“Facts are sometimes hard to come by without the use of human emotion. In my work, for example, intuition is invaluable, Mr. Blake. Sometimes facts are only uncovered by following your instincts. Even Sherlock Holmes knew that.”
Jonathan became aware suddenly that the group that surrounded them had grown quiet, and tension was thick in the air. He was actually grateful when Janeece broke in.
“Well, I’m sure you must be famished,” she said to Jonathan. “Lunch is ready, and I’ve made arrangements for Ms. Thomas and Mr. Delaney to join us. You can continue your conversation there. Follow me.”
Only then did Jonathan see the man standing just behind Victoria Thomas. Although taller than she, her date/lover/husband/who-knows-what was not a large man, yet he had the look of hidden strength about him. With dark hair and eyes against a very fair skin, he was both striking and handsome. Well, her date/lover/husband or whatever could have her. Victoria Thomas was wound too tight for him. The incident reminded Jonathan of why he remained a confirmed bachelor.
He had no wish to continue his conversation with the American woman, but he turned and followed the indomitable Janeece to his fate. Just get through the day, he told himself, and try not to piss anyone off.
Chapter Three
King’s College, Cambridge
Ninth May 1883
From this day forward, my life will never be the same. Heretofore I have cowered in the shadow of that great Devil I must call father and have forced myself to pretend affection toward the Whore who is my mother. Together, they have made my life a living hell. No matter what I have achieved here or at Eton, it has never been enough. No matter how hard I have tried to please them, they have made it clear they believe I am not good enough to claim the bloodline of the almighty Stephen family.
But with this remarkable turn of events, they cannot help but acknowledge my merit at last, for today I have been retained to direct the studies of Prince Albert Victor Edward, the future king of England. I, J.K. Stephen, will serve as tutor and mentor to his royal highness, and despite the difficulties of which I have been forewarned, I will not fail. This new trust vindicates me and proves me worthy of my heritage. It is I, not the Devil and not the Whore, who will move freely amongst the royals. It is I who will hold power unlike any that despicable pair has ever known. Bugger the Devil and his undisguised scorn. Bugger them both. Henceforth, my life belongs to the Prince.
In spite of her annoying attraction to Jonathan Blake’s boyish good looks and easy-going style, Victoria had grown increasingly testy during the course of the morning, for it became clear that he was nothing but another by-the-books cop like the one who had botched the investigation of her sister’s murder. She deplored his repeated insistence that strict scientific method was the only valid approach to crime detection. She supposed one could call psychology a science, but Blake wouldn’t agree. According to what she’d heard him say today, if evidence couldn’t be touched, tested, and mechanically analyzed, it did not belong in an investigation.
So she was not happy when after the program, Janeece sou
ght her out and insisted she meet Blake, and now she was being forced into his company for lunch. His speech and condescending attitude toward any non-physical approach to crime detection—her very stock in trade—had put her in a bad mood, and she wasn’t particularly interested in making further conversation with him. But being a good Southern girl, she didn’t want to appear rude, so she took Trey’s arm, and they made their way to where the luncheon had been set up. She hoped Janeece would not seat her next to the Inspector.
“I just know you two will have a lot to talk about,” Janeece said, beaming and indicating they were indeed to sit next to each other. “And Mr. Delaney, it would be my honor if you would take the seat next to me.”
They were at a large round table at the head of the room, but none of the rest of the seats seemed to be reserved. Victoria was startled and not totally thrilled when the gentleman who had made the absurd statement about Jack the Ripper being alive and well and living in Kent asked if he could take the seat next to her.
“Name’s FitzSimmons,” he said cordially, extending his hand. “Reginald Smythe FitzSimmons. Of Kent,” he added with a twinkle in his eye.
His manner put her at ease, and Victoria liked him immediately. She suspected his interruption of Jonathan Blake’s speech had been nothing more than a playful prank on the part of the old man, maybe to bring the cavalier detective down just a notch. “Please, sit down,” she said.
Others joined them, one of whom was obviously a friend of Jonathan Blake. “Good to see you, old boy,” the man said, extending his hand to the Inspector. “Read any good books lately?”
“Hello, Roger,” Jonathan replied, standing to shake his hand. “I didn’t know you were part of this gang of Sherlock Holmes fanatics.” She saw him grimace suddenly and glance her way with an apologetic grin. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend. Now, or earlier,” he added pointedly.
Victoria found it difficult to hold onto her pique, and she wished suddenly she hadn’t been so petulant toward him. The man was entitled to his beliefs, as narrow-minded as they were. And he was, after all, the expert she had come to hear. Why was she being so uptight?
“No offense taken,” she replied, relaxing and giving him a smile. “I am a fanatic.” Damn, she wished he wasn’t so good-looking.
He introduced his friend as Roger Hammersmith, a London dealer in antiquarian books and letters. To her surprise, it appeared that Jonathan Blake was one of his best customers. She would not have pegged him for an intellectual type.
Victoria was dismayed when the young man she’d seen staring at her earlier took a seat directly across the table from her. Maybe it was his build that perturbed her. She’d never been comfortable around overly-muscular men. She wished he’d chosen to sit at another table. But it seemed he had sought her out intentionally.
“Aren’t you Victoria Thomas, the FBI profiler?” His eyes were like blue ice, his accent American.
Victoria shivered. “Yes,” she replied, so put off by him that she was tempted to move to another table. She didn’t know how she could feel this way about a total stranger, but she had long since quit trying to ignore her gut instincts. And they were screaming at her to get away from this man. “How did you know my name?”
He leaned beefy arms on the table and stared at her unblinking. “My name is Billy Ray,” he said slowly in a strong Southern accent. “I’m from Virginia. I saw your picture in the newspaper stories about the Coleman trial. Guess you’re pretty proud of sending him up the river.”
A chill ran down Victoria’s spine at the almost taunting tone of his voice. “Coleman sent himself up the river by murdering those women, Mr. Ray. All I did was see that justice was done.”
“You must be pretty good at getting a judge to believe you. I hear you’ve managed to put away quite a number of guys. When I read you were on Coleman’s case, I knew he didn’t stand a chance.”
Victoria didn’t like it that the man seemed to know so much about her. “How do you know who I’ve helped prosecute?”
“I follow all the big murder trials. It’s…sort of a hobby.” He leaned toward her and added with rather childish enthusiasm, “You’re really famous, you know.”
Damn.
Victoria clenched her hands together beneath the tablecloth. Just what she needed, a groupie. She was suddenly very thankful Trey had come along. She forced a small smile.
“Thank you, Mr. Ray. But I’m on vacation right now and trying to be invisible. Just one of the crowd.” She tried to be polite, but her tone was cold, her words clipped. She might as well have told him to bug off. But if he was offended, he didn’t show it. He just continued to stare at her, as if he were trying to memorize her face.
Suppressing another shudder, she chose to ignore him and turned her attention to the couple who were approaching the table. He was a tall, gaunt man of about sixty years, she shorter, younger, softer, and much rounder. Watching them, Victoria thought with wry amusement that they looked like a walking number 10. They were Alistair Huntley-Ames and his wife, Elizabeth, Lord and Lady Chastain. Distant relations of the Prince of Wales, the man explained, not haughtily, but not without pride either. His wife gave him a fleeting, almost scornful look, but it vanished as she took her seat, and her face assumed a blandness that somehow saddened Victoria.
One chair remained vacant at the round table, between Jonathan and Lord Chastain, and at the last minute, a heavyset woman who appeared to be in her early forties dashed over to the table. “Oh, my, oh, my,” she said, her breath coming in short gasps. “I can’t believe it. Is…is this chair taken?” She looked hopefully and longingly at Jonathan Blake, and Victoria bit the side of her mouth to stifle a snicker. Glancing across the table, she caught Trey’s amused grin.
Jonathan stood and helped the woman into the seat, and Victoria thought the poor thing might swoon. Obviously the detective’s charm had worked on her. “I’m Adele Quigley,” she said after catching her breath a moment. “I’m a librarian.”
“Do I detect an American accent, my dear?” asked FitzSimmons genially, helping himself to two of the cold dinner rolls and butter.
“Pittsburgh,” she replied, never taking her eyes off Jonathan. “Oh, I just can’t believe my luck. That was practically the only seat left in the whole room, right next to our speaker.” She emphasized the last word with a delighted little squeak. “You can’t imagine how much I enjoyed your presentation this morning,” she told him. “But I’m confused by something.”
“And what would that be?” Jonathan asked.
Victoria poured a cup of the hot tea that had been steeping in a little metal pot. Maybe it was just his British manner, she told herself, but damned if Blake’s reply to the woman hadn’t sounded imperious. As if he were offended that she hadn’t clearly understood his sterling presentation.
“You said you were going to tell us the story of Scotland Yard’s most miserable failure,” Adele told him.
Jonathan passed her the plate of rolls, and she took the largest. “Actually, I’m in the middle of that very story,” he replied, awarding her a smile. “You’ll hear the other half this afternoon. The Ripper case was far and away the worst debacle in the history of Scotland Yard, old or new. Everyone from the top down bungled things at every turn. The crime scenes were not secured, so that much evidence was likely overlooked or destroyed. Autopsies were not held in a timely manner, which meant decay had set in, possibly obscuring some important data.” He must have seen Adele Quigley’s face blanch, for he quickly apologized.
“Pardon me. I know we’re about to have lunch, but the truth is, bodies don’t last forever, and they provide primary evidence for forensic studies. I realize that investigative technique was primitive in that era and that they did not have the scientific tools available to them that we have today, but the main problem, as I see it, is that the police allowed emotion to get in the way of fact. They reacted to pressure and panic.”
Victoria felt her hackles rise ever so slightly, but th
is time she held her tongue.
“Could you explain, Inspector Blake?” asked Lord Chastain.
“The Ripper murders raised a huge outcry. Everyone from the Queen on down demanded that this maniac be captured immediately. In my opinion, the police allowed pressure from the media and the hysteria of the people to send them into an unnecessary panic in their search for the murderer. As a consequence, they reacted from emotion, not intellect, and let the Ripper slip through their fingers.”
“Are you saying you would have acted differently given the circumstances?” Victoria couldn’t help it. She had to call him on his self-righteous pronouncement.
“It is hard to say how one would act in such a situation,” the detective admitted. “I know pressure from the outside can drive the police to make mistakes. But I believe if they had adhered to higher professional standards in all areas of the investigation, things might have turned out differently.” Jonathan Blake looked around the table and added with his compelling grin, “Where was Sherlock when we needed him?”
Across the table, the disturbing young man named Billy Ray appeared to listen to Jonathan with interest. But Trey rolled his eyes, and Victoria gave him a slight nod. This man was so full of himself.
Reginald FitzSimmons cleared his throat. “If you are such a scientific investigator,” he said, “with all due respect, you must admit that the letters supposedly sent to the Central News Agency were a hoax and a forgery. Macnaghten indicated in his memoirs that he even knew which bloke from the media sent them in order to stir up more sensation.”
Victoria was impressed by the old man’s knowledge of the case. Sir Melville Macnaghten came late into the investigation, but wrote one of the few first-hand opinions on it early in the century.
“A very good point,” Jonathan replied, unruffled. “Scotland Yard and the press received a number of letters that were pure hoaxes. But the truth of the matter is that two of the letters, or rather the first letter signed ‘Jack the Ripper’ and the bloodstained post card, have never been discounted as being authentic. And then there’s the incident with the kidney.”